Doctor Dormann had behaved very strangely.

He was the first person who made the terrible discovery of the death.

When he came to the house, on his evening visit to his patient, Mr.

Keller was in the room. Half an hour before, Mrs. Wagner had spoken to

him. Seeing a slight movement of her lips, he had bent over her, and had

just succeeded in hearing her few last words, "Be kind to Jack." Her

eyelids dropped wearily, after the struggle to speak. Mr. Keller and the

servant in attendance both supposed that she had fallen asleep. The

doctor's examination was not only prolonged beyond all customary limits

of time in such cases--it was the examination (judging by certain

expressions which escaped him) of a man who seemed to be unwilling to

trust his own experience. The new nurse arrived, before he had definitely

expressed his opinion; and the servant was instructed to keep her waiting

downstairs. In expectation of the doctor's report, Mr. Keller remained in

the bedroom. Doctor Dormann might not have noticed this circumstance, or

might not have cared to conceal what was passing in his mind. In either

case, when he spoke at last, he expressed himself in these extraordinary

terms:--

"The second suspicious illness in this house! And the second

incomprehensible end to it!"

Mr. Keller at once stepped forward, and showed himself.

"Did you mean me to hear what you have just said?" he asked.

The doctor looked at him gravely and sadly. "I must speak to you

privately, Mr. Keller. Before we leave the room, permit me to send for

the nurse. You may safely trust her to perform the last sad duties."

Mr. Keller started. "Good God!" he exclaimed, "is Mrs. Wagner dead?"

"To my astonishment, she is dead." He laid a strong emphasis on the first

part of his reply.

The nurse having received her instructions, Mr. Keller led the way to his

private room. "In my responsible position," he said, "I may not

unreasonably expect that you will explain yourself without reserve."

"On such a serious matter as this," Doctor Dormann answered, "it is my

duty to speak without reserve. The person whom you employ to direct the

funeral will ask you for the customary certificate. I refuse to give it."

This startling declaration roused a feeling of anger, rather than of

alarm, in a man of Mr. Keller's resolute character. "For what reason do

you refuse?" he asked sternly.

"I am not satisfied, sir, that Mrs. Wagner has died a natural death. My

experience entirely fails to account for the suddenly fatal termination

of the disease, in the case of a patient of her healthy constitution, and

at her comparatively early age."

"Doctor Dormann, do you suspect there is a poisoner in my house?"

"In plain words, I do."

"In plain words on my side, I ask why?"

"I have already given you my reason."

"Is your experience infallible? Have you never made a mistake?"

"I made a mistake, Mr. Keller (as it appeared at the time), in regard to

your own illness."

"What! you suspected foul play in my case too?"

"Yes; and, by way of giving you another reason, I will own that the

suspicion is still in my mind. After what I have seen this evening--and

only after that, observe--I say the circumstances of your recovery are

suspicious circumstances in themselves. Remember, if you please, that

neither I nor my colleague really understood what was the matter with

you; and that you were cured by a remedy, not prescribed by either of us.

You were rapidly sinking; and your regular physician had left you. I had

to choose between the certainty of your death, and the risk of letting

you try a remedy, with the nature of which (though I did my best to

analyze it) I was imperfectly acquainted. I ran the risk. The result has

justified me--and up to this day, I have kept my misgivings to myself. I

now find them renewed by Mrs. Wagner's death--and I speak."

Mr. Keller's manner began to change. His tone was sensibly subdued. He

understood the respect which was due to the doctor's motives at last.

"May I ask if the symptoms of my illness resembled the symptoms of Mrs.

Wagner's illness?" he said.

"Far from it. Excepting the nervous derangement, in both cases, there was

no other resemblance in the symptoms. The conclusion, to my mind, is not

altered by this circumstance. It simply leads me to the inference that

more than one poison may have been used. I don't attempt to solve the

mystery. I have no idea why your life has been saved, and Mrs. Wagner's

life sacrificed--or what motives have been at work in the dark. Ask

yourself--don't ask me--in what direction suspicion points. I refuse to

sign the certificate of death; and I have told you why."

"Give me a moment," said Mr. Keller, "I don't shrink from my

responsibility; I only ask for time to compose myself."

It was the pride of his life to lean on nobody for help. He walked to the

window; hiding all outward betrayal of the consternation that shook him

to the soul. When he returned to his chair, he scrupulously avoided even

the appearance of asking Doctor Dormann for advice.

"My course is plain," he said quietly. "I must communicate your decision

to the authorities; and I must afford every assistance in my power to the

investigation that will follow. It shall be done, when the magistrates

meet to-morrow morning."

"We will go together to the town-hall, Mr. Keller. It is my duty to

inform the burgomaster that this is a case for the special safeguards,

sanctioned by the city regulations. I must also guarantee that there is

no danger to the public health, in the removal of the body from your

house."

"The immediate removal?" Mr. Keller asked.

"No! The removal twenty-four hours after death."

"To what place?"

"To the Deadhouse."

CHAPTER XVI

Acting on the doctor's information, the burgomaster issued his order. At

eight o'clock in the evening, on the third of January, the remains of

Mrs. Wagner were to be removed to the cemetery-building, outside the

Friedberg Gate of Frankfort.

Long before the present century, the dread of premature

interment--excited by traditions of persons accidentally buried

alive--was a widely-spread feeling among the people of Germany. In other

cities besides Frankfort, the municipal authorities devised laws, the

object of which was to make this frightful catastrophe impossible. In the

early part of the present century, these laws were re-enacted and revised

by the City of Frankfort. The Deadhouse was attached to the cemetery,

with a double purpose. First, to afford a decent resting-place for the

corpse, when death occurred among the crowded residences of the poorer

class of the population. Secondly, to provide as perfect a safeguard as

possible against the chances of premature burial. The use of the

Deadhouse (strictly confined to the Christian portion of the inhabitants)

was left to the free choice of surviving relatives or

representatives--excepting only those cases in which a doctor's

certificate justified the magistrate in pronouncing an absolute decision.

Even in the event of valid objections to the Deadhouse as a last

resting-place on the way to the grave, the doctor in attendance on the

deceased person was subjected to certain restrictions in issuing his

certificate. He was allowed to certify the death informally, for the

purpose of facilitating the funeral arrangements. But he was absolutely

forbidden to give his written authority for the burial, before the

expiration of three nights from the time of the death; and he was further

bound to certify that the signs of decomposition had actually begun to

show themselves. Have these multiplied precautions, patiently applied in

many German cities, through a long lapse of years, ever yet detected a

case in which Death has failed to complete its unintelligible work? Let

the answer be found in the cells of the dead. Pass, with the mourners,

through the iron gates--hear and see!

On the evening of the third, as the time approached for the arrival of

the hearse, the melancholy stillness in the house was only broken by Mr.

Keller's servants, below-stairs. Collecting together in one room, they

talked confidentially, in low voices. An instinctive horror of silence,

in moments of domestic distress, is, in all civilized nations, one of the

marked characteristics of their class.

"In ten minutes," said Joseph, "the men from the cemetery will be here to

take her away. It will be no easy matter to carry her downstairs on the

couch."

"Why is she not put in her coffin, like other dead people?" the housemaid

asked.

"Because the crazy creature she brought with her from London is allowed

to have his own way in the house," Joseph answered irritably. "If I had

been brought to the door drunk last night, I should have been sent away

this morning. If I had been mad enough to screech out, 'She isn't dead;

not one of you shall put her in a coffin!'--I should have richly deserved

a place in the town asylum, and I should have got my deserts. Nothing of

the sort for Master Jack. Mr. Keller only tells him to be quiet, and

looks distressed. The doctor takes him away, and speaks to him in another

room--and actually comes back converted to Jack's opinion!"

"You don't mean to tell us," exclaimed the cook, "that the doctor said

she wasn't dead?"

"Of course not. It was he who first found out that she _was_ dead--I only

mean that he let Jack have his own way. He asked me for a foot rule, and

he measured the little couch in the bedroom. 'It's no longer than the

coffin' (he says); 'and I see no objection to the body being laid on it,

till the time comes for the burial.' Those were his own words; and when

the nurse objected to it, what do you think he said?--'Hold your tongue!

A couch is a pleasanter thing all the world over than a coffin.'"

"Blasphemous!" said the cook--"that's what I call it."

"Ah, well, well!" the housemaid remarked, "couch or coffin, she looks

beautiful, poor soul, in her black velvet robe, with the winter flowers

in her pretty white hands. Who got the flowers? Madame Fontaine, do you

think?"

"Bah! Madame Fontaine, indeed! Little Crazybrains went out (instead of

eating the good dinner I cooked for him), and got the flowers. He

wouldn't let anybody put them into her hands but himself--at least, so

the nurse said. Has anybody seen Madame Housekeeper? Was she downstairs

at dinner to-day, Joseph?"

"Not she! You mark my words," said Joseph, "there's some very serious

reason for her keeping her room, on pretense of being ill."

"Can you give any guess what it is?"

"You shall judge for yourself," Joseph answered. "Did I tell you what

happened yesterday evening, before Jack was brought home by the nurse's

brother? I answered a ring at the door-bell--and there was Mr. Fritz in a

towering passion, with Miss Minna on his arm looking ready to drop with

fatigue. They rang for some wine; and I heard what he said to his father.

It seems that Madame Fontaine had gone out walking in the dark and the

cold (and her daughter with her), without rhyme or reason. Mr. Fritz met

them, and insisted on taking Miss Minna home. Her mother didn't seem to

care what he said or did. She went on walking by herself, as hard as she

could lay her feet to the ground. And what do you suppose her excuse was?

Her nerves were out of order! Mr. Fritz's notion is that there is

something weighing on her mind. An hour afterwards she came back to the

house--and I found reason to agree with Mr. Fritz."

"Tell us all about it, Joseph! What did she do?"

"You shall hear. It happened, just after I had seen crazy Jack safe in

his bed. When I heard the bell, I was on my way downstairs, with a

certain bottle in my hand. One of you saw the nurse's brother give it to

me, I think? How he and Crazybrains came into possession of it, mind you,

is more than I know."

"It looked just like the big medicine-bottle that cured Mr. Keller," said

the cook.

"It _was_ the bottle; and, what is more, it smelt of wine, instead of

medicine, and it was empty. Well, I opened the door to Madame

Housekeeper, with the bottle in my hand. The instant she set eyes on it,

she snatched it away from me. She looked--I give you my word of honor,

she looked as if she could have cut my throat. "You wretch!"--nice

language to use to a respectable servant, eh?--"You wretch" (she says),

"how did you come by this?" I made her a low bow. I said, "Civility costs

nothing, ma'am; and sometimes buys a great deal" (severe, eh?). I told

her exactly what had happened, and exactly what Schwartz had said. And

then I ended with another hard hit. "The next time anything of yours is

put into my hands," I said, "I shall leave it to take care of itself." I

don't know whether she heard me; she was holding the bottle up to the

light. When she saw it was empty--well! I can't tell you, of course, what

was passing in her mind. But this I can swear; she shivered and shuddered

as if she had got a fit of the ague; and pale as she was when I let her

into the house, I do assure you she turned paler still. I thought I

should have to take _her_ upstairs next. My good creatures, she's made of

iron! Upstairs she went. I followed her as far as the first landing, and

saw Mr. Keller waiting--to tell her the news of Mrs. Wagner's death, I

suppose. What passed between them I can't say. Mr. Fritz tells me she has

never left her room since; and his father has not even sent a message to

know how she is. What do you think of that?"

"I think Mr. Fritz was mistaken, when he told you she had never left her

room," said the housemaid. "I am next to certain I heard her whispering,

early this morning, with crazy Jack. Do you think she will follow the

hearse to the Deadhouse, with Mr. Keller and the doctor?"

"Hush!" said Joseph. As he spoke, the heavy wheels of the hearse were

heard in the street. He led the way to the top of the kitchen stairs.

"Wait here," he whispered, "while I answer the door--and you will see."

Upstairs, in the drawing-room, Fritz and Minna were alone. Madame

Fontaine's door, closed to everyone, was a closed door even to her

daughter.

Fritz had refused to let Minna ask a second time to be let in. "It will

soon be your husband's privilege, my darling, to take care of you and

comfort you," he said. "At this dreadful time, there must be no

separation between you and me."

His arm was round her; her head rested on his shoulder. She looked up at

him timidly.

"Are you not going with them to the cemetery?" she asked.

"I am going to stay with you, Minna."

"You were angry yesterday, Fritz, when you met me with my mother. Don't

think the worse of her, because she is ill and troubled in her mind. You

will make allowances for her as I do--won't you?"

"My sweet girl, there is nothing I won't do to please you! Kiss me,

Minna. Again! again!"

On the higher floor of the house, Mr. Keller and the doctor were waiting

in the chamber of death.

Jack kept his silent watch by the side of the couch, on which the one

human creature who had befriended him lay hushed in the last earthly

repose. Still, from time to time, he whispered to himself the sad

senseless words, "No, no, no--not dead, Mistress! Not dead yet!"

There was a soft knock at the door. The doctor opened it. Madame Fontaine

stood before him. She spoke in dull monotonous tones--standing in the

doorway; refusing, when she was invited by a gesture, to enter the room.

"The hearse has stopped at the door," she said. "The men wish to ask you

if they can come in."

It was Joseph's duty to make this announcement. Her motive for

forestalling him showed itself dimly in her eyes. They were not on Mr.

Keller; not on the doctor; not on the couch. From the moment when the

door had been opened to her, she fixed her steady look on Jack. It never

moved until the bearers of the dead hid him from her when they entered

the room.

The procession passed out. Jack, at Mr. Keller's command, followed last.

Standing back at the doorway, Madame Fontaine caught him by the arm as he

came out.

"You were half asleep this morning," she whispered. "You are not half

asleep now. How did you get the blue-glass bottle? I insist on knowing."

"I won't tell you!"

Madame Fontaine altered her tone.

"Will you tell me who emptied the bottle? I have always been kind to

you--it isn't much to ask. Who emptied it?"

His variable temper changed; he lifted his head proudly. Absolutely sure

of his mistress's recovery, he now claimed the merit that was his due.

_"I_ emptied it!"

"How did you empty it?" she asked faintly. "Did you throw away what was

in it? Did you give it to anybody?"

He seized her in his turn--and dragged her to the railing of the

corridor. "Look there!" he cried, pointing to the bearers, slowly

carrying their burden down the stairs. "Do you see her, resting on her

little sofa till she recovers? I gave it to her!"

He left her, and descended the stairs. She staggered back against the

wall of the corridor. Her sight seemed to be affected. She groped for the

stair-rail, and held by it. The air was wafted up through the open

street-door. It helped her to rally her energies. She went down steadily,

step by step, to the first landing--paused, and went down again. Arrived

in the hall, she advanced to Mr. Keller, and spoke to him.

"Are you going to see the body laid in the Deadhouse?"

"Yes."

"Is there any objection to my seeing it too?"

"The authorities have no objection to admitting friends of the deceased

person," Mr. Keller answered. He looked at her searchingly, and added,

"Do _you_ go as a friend?"

It was rashly said; and he knew it. The magistrates had decided that the

first inquiries should be conducted with the greatest secrecy. For that

day, at least, the inmates of the house were to enjoy their usual liberty

of action (under private superintendence), so that no suspicion might be

excited in the mind of the guilty person. Conscious of having trifled

with the serious necessity of keeping a guard over his tongue, Mr. Keller

waited anxiously for Madame Fontaine's reply.

Not a word fell from her lips. There was a slight hardening of her face,

and no more. In ominous silence, she turned about and ascended the stairs

again.

CHAPTER XVII

The departure from the house was interrupted by an unforeseen cause of

delay.

Jack refused to follow the hearse with Doctor Dormann and Mr. Keller. "I

won't lose sight of her!" he cried--"no! not for a moment! Of all living

creatures, I must be the first to see her when she wakes."

Mr. Keller turned to the doctor. "What does he mean?"

The doctor, standing back in the shadow of the house, seemed to have some

reason for not answering otherwise than by gesture. He touched his

forehead significantly; and, stepping out into the road, took Jack by the

hand. The canopy of the hearse, closed at the sides, was open at either

end. From the driver's seat, the couch became easily visible on looking

round. With inexhaustible patience the doctor quieted the rising

excitement in Jack, and gained him permission to take his place by the

driver's side. Always grateful for kindness, he thanked Doctor Dormann,

with the tears falling fast over his cheeks. "I'm not crying for _her,"_

said the poor little man; "she will soon be herself again. But it's so

dreadful, sir, to go out driving with her in such a carriage as this!"

The hearse moved away.

Doctor Dormann, walking with Mr. Keller, felt his arm touched, and,

looking round, saw the dimly-outlined figure of a woman beckoning to him.

He drew back, after a word of apology to his companion, who continued to

follow the hearse. The woman met him half way. He recognized Madame

Fontaine.

"You are a learned man," she began abruptly. "Do you understand writing

in cipher?"

"Sometimes."

"If you have half an hour to spare this evening, look at that--and do me

the favor of telling me what it means."

She offered something to him, which appeared in the dim light to be only

a sheet of paper. He hesitated to take it from her. She tried to press it

on him.

"I found it among my husband's papers," she said. "He was a great

chemist, as you know. It might be interesting to you."

He still hesitated.

"Are _you_ acquainted with chemical science?" he asked.

"I am perfectly ignorant of chemical science."

"Then what interest can you have in interpreting the cipher?"

"I have a very serious interest. There may be something dangerous in it,

if it fell into unscrupulous hands. I want to know if I ought to destroy

it."

He suddenly took the paper from her. It felt stiff, like a sheet of

cartridge-paper.

"You shall hear," he said. "In case of necessity, I will destroy it

myself. Anything more?"

"One thing more. Does Jack go to the cemetery with you and Mr. Keller?"

"Yes."

Walking away rapidly to overtake Mr. Keller, he looked behind him once or

twice. The street was dimly lit, in those days, by a few oil lamps. He

might be mistaken--but he thought that Madame Fontaine was following him.

On leaving the city, the lanterns were lit to guide the hearse along the

road that led to the cemetery. The overseer met the bearers at the gates.

They passed, under a Doric portico, into a central hall. At its

right-hand extremity, an open door revealed a room for the accommodation

of mourners. Beyond this there was a courtyard; and, farther still, the

range of apartments devoted to the residence of the cemetery-overseer.

Turning from the right-hand division of the building, the bearers led the

way to the opposite extremity of the hall; passed through a second room

for mourners; crossed a second courtyard beyond it; and, turning into a

narrow passage, knocked at a closed door.

The door was opened by a watchman. He admitted them into a long room,

situated between the courtyard at one end, and the cemetery at the other,

and having ten side recesses which opened out of it. The long room was

the Watchman's Chamber. The recesses were the cells which held the dead.

The couch was set down in the Watchman's Chamber. It was a novelty in the

Deadhouse; and the overseer asked for an explanation. Doctor Dormann

informed him that the change had been made, with his full approval, to

satisfy a surviving friend, and that the coffin would be provided before

the certificate was granted for the burial.

While the persons present were all gathered round the doctor and the

overseer, Madame Fontaine softly pushed open the door from the courtyard.

After a look at the recesses--situated, five on either side of the length

of the room, and closed by black curtains--she parted the curtains of the

nearest recess to her, on her left hand; and stepped in without being

noticed by anyone.

"You take the responsibility of the couch, doctor, if the authorities

raise any objection?" said the overseer.

This condition being complied with, he addressed himself to the watchman.

"The cells are all empty to-night, Duntzer, are they not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Are you off duty, early or late this evening?"

"I am off duty in half an hour, sir."

The overseer pointed to the couch. "You can attend to this," he said.

"Take the cell that is the nearest to you, where the watchman's chair is

placed--Number Five."

He referred to the fifth recess, at the upper end of the room on the

right, counting from the courtyard door. The watchman looped up the black

curtains, while the bearers placed the couch in the cell. This done, the

bearers were dismissed.

Doctor Dormann pointed through the parted curtains to the lofty cell,

ventilated from the top, and warmed (like the Watchman's Chamber) by an

apparatus under the flooring. In the middle of the cell was a stand,

placed there to support the coffin. Above the stand a horizontal bar

projected, which was fixed over the doorway. It was furnished with a

pulley, through which passed a long thin string hanging loosely downward

at one end, and attached at the other to a small alarm-bell, placed over

the door on the outer side--that is to say, on the side of the Watchman's

Chamber.

"All the cells are equal in size," said the doctor to Mr. Keller, "and

are equally clean, and well warmed. The hot bath, in another room, is

always ready; and a cabinet, filled with restorative applications, is

close by. Now look at the watchman, and mark the care that is taken--in

the event, for instance, of a cataleptic trance, and of a revival

following it."

Duntzer led the way into the cell. He took the loose end of the string,

hanging from above, and attached to it two shorter and lighter strings,

each of which terminated in five loose ends.

From these ten ends hung ten little thimble-shaped objects, made of

brass.

First slightly altering the position of the couch on the stand, Duntzer

lifted the dead hands--fitted the ten brass thimbles to the fingers and

the thumbs--and gently laid the hands back on the breast of the corpse.

When he had looked up, and had satisfied himself of the exact connection

between the hands and the line communicating with the alarm-bell outside,

his duty was done. He left the cell; and, seating himself in his chair,

waited the arrival of the night-watchman who was to relieve him.

Mr. Keller came out into the chamber, and spoke to the overseer.

"Is all done now?"

"All is done."

"I should like, while I am here, to speak to you about the grave."

The overseer bowed. "You can see the plan of the cemetery," he said, "in

my office on the other side of the building."

Mr. Keller looked back into the cell. Jack had taken his place in it,

when the couch had been carried in; and Doctor Dormann was quietly

observing him. Mr. Keller beckoned to Jack. "I am waiting for you," he

said. "Come!"

"And leave Mistress?" Jack answered. "Never!"

Mr. Keller was on the point of stepping into the cell, when Doctor

Dormann took his arm, and led him away out of hearing.

"I want to ask you a question," said the doctor. "Was that poor

creature's madness violent madness, when Mrs. Wagner took him out of the

London asylum?"

"I have heard her say so."

"Be careful what you do with him. Mrs. Wagner's death has tried his weak

brain seriously. I am afraid of a relapse into that violent

madness--leave him to me."

Mr. Keller left the room with the overseer. Doctor Dormann returned to

the cell.

"Listen to me, Jack," he said. "If your mistress revives (as you think),

I want you to see for yourself how she will tell it to the man who is on

the watch." He turned, and spoke to Duntzer. "Is the alarm-bell set?"

"Yes, sir."

The doctor addressed himself once more to Jack.

"Now look, and listen!" he said.

He delicately touched one of the brass thimbles, fitted to the fingers of

the corpse. The bell rang instantly in the Watchman's Chamber.

"The moment the man hears that," he resumed, "he will make the signal,

which calls the overseer and the nurses to help your mistress back to

life. At the same time, a messenger will be sent to Mr. Keller's house to

tell you what has happened. You see how well she is taken care of--and

you will behave sensibly, I am sure? I am going away. Come with me."

Jack answered as he had answered Mr. Keller.

"Never!" he said.

He flung himself on the floor, and clasped his arms round one of the

pillars supporting the stand on which the couch was placed. "Tear my arms

out of their sockets," he cried--"you won't get me away till you've done

that!"

Before the doctor could answer, footsteps were heard in the Watchman's

Chamber. A jolly voice asked a question. "Any report for the night,

Duntzer?"

Jack seemed to recognize the voice. He looked round eagerly.

"A corpse in Number Five," Duntzer answered. "And strangers in the cell.

Contrary to the order for the night, as you know. I have reported them;

it's your duty to send them away. Good night."

A red-nosed old man looked in at the doorway of the cell. Jack started to

his feet. "Here's Schwartz!" he cried--"leave me with Schwartz!"

CHAPTER XVIII

The discovery of Jack agreeably surprised Schwartz, without in the least

perplexing him.

His little friend (as he reasoned) had, no doubt, remembered the

invitation to the Deadhouse, and had obtained admission through the

interference of the strange gentleman who was with him. But who was the

gentleman? The deputy night-watchman (though he might carry messages for

his relative the nurse) was not personally acquainted with his sister's

medical patrons in Frankfort. He looked at the doctor with an expression

of considerable doubt.

"I beg your pardon, sir," he ventured to say, "you're not a member of the

city council, are you?"

"I have nothing to do with the city council."

"And nothing to do with managing the Deadhouse?"

"Nothing. I am Doctor Dormann."

Schwartz snapped his clumsy fingers, as an appropriate expression of

relief. "All right, sir! Leave the little man with me--I'll take care of

him."

"Do you know this person?" asked the doctor, turning to Jack.

"Yes! yes! leave me here with him," Jack answered eagerly. "Good-night,

sir--good-night!"

Doctor Dormann looked again at Jack's friend.

"I thought strangers were not allowed here at night," he said.

"It's against the rules," Schwartz admitted. "But, Lord love you, sir,

think of the dullness of this place! Besides, I'm only a deputy. In three

nights more, the regular man will come on duty again. It's an awful job,

doctor, watching alone here, all night. One of the men actually went mad,

and hanged himself. To be sure he was a poet in his way, which makes it

less remarkable. I'm not a poet myself--I'm only a sociable creature.

Leave little Jack with me! I'll send him home safe and sound--I feel like

a father to him."

The doctor hesitated. What was he to do? Jack had already returned to the

cell in which his mistress lay. To remove him by the brutal exercise of

main force was a proceeding from which Doctor Dormann's delicacy of

feeling naturally recoiled--to say nothing of the danger of provoking

that outbreak of madness against which the doctor had himself warned Mr.

Keller. Persuasion he had already tried in vain. Delegated authority to

control Jack had not been conferred on him. There seemed to be no other

course than to yield.

"If you persist in your obstinacy," he said to Jack, "I must return alone

to Mr. Keller's house, and tell him that I have left you here with your

friend."

Jack was already absorbed in his own thoughts. He only repeated vacantly,

"Good-night."

Doctor Dormann left the room. Schwartz looked in at his guest. "Wait

there for the present," he said. "The porter will be here directly: I

don't want him to see you."

The porter came in after an interval. "All right for the night?" he

asked.

"All right," Schwartz answered.

The porter withdrew in silence. The night-watchman's reply was his

authority for closing the gates of the Deadhouse until the next morning.

Schwartz returned to Jack--still watching patiently by the side of the

couch. "Was she a relation of yours?" he asked.

"All the relations in the world to me!" Jack burst out passionately.

"Father and mother--and brother and sister and wife."

"Aye, aye? Five relations in one is what I call an economical family,"

said Schwartz. "Come out here, to the table. You stood treat last

time--my turn now. I've got the wine handy. Yes, yes--she was a fine

woman in her time, I dare say. Why haven't you put her into a coffin like

other people?"

"Why?" Jack repeated indignantly. "I couldn't prevent them from bringing

her here; but I could have burnt the house down over their heads, if they

had dared to put her into a coffin! Are you stupid enough to suppose that

Mistress is dead? Don't you know that I'm watching and waiting here till

she wakes? Ah! I beg your pardon--you don't know. The rest of them would

have let her die. I saved her life. Come here, and I'll tell you how."

He dragged Schwartz into the cell. As the watchman disappeared from view,

the wild white face of Madame Fontaine appeared between the curtains of

her hiding-place, listening to Jack's narrative of the opening of the

cupboard, and the discovery that had followed.

Schwartz humored his little friend (evidently, as he now concluded, his

crazy little friend), by listening in respectful silence. Instead of

making any remark at the end, he mentioned once more that the wine was

handy. "Come!" he reiterated; "come to the table!"

Madame Fontaine drew back again behind the curtains. Jack remained

obstinately in the cell. "I mean to see it," he said, "the moment she

moves."

"Do you think your eyes will tell you?" Schwartz remonstrated. "You look

dead-beat already; your eyes will get tired. Trust the bell here, over

the door. Brass and steel don't get tired; brass and steel don't fall

asleep; brass and steel will ring, and call you to her. Take a rest and a

drink."

These words reminded Jack of the doctor's experiment with the alarm-bell.

He could not disguise from himself the stealthily-growing sense of

fatigue in his head and his limbs. "I'm afraid you're right," he said

sadly. "I wish I was a stronger man." He joined Schwartz at the table,

and dropped wearily into the watchman's chair.

His head sank on his breast, his eyes closed. He started up again. "She

may want help when she wakes!" he cried, with a look of terror. "What

must we do? Can we carry her home between us? Oh! Schwartz, I was so

confident in myself a little while since--and it seems all to have left

me now!"

"Don't worry that weary little head of yours about nothing," Schwartz

answered, with rough good-nature. "Come along with me, and I'll show you

where help's to be got when help's wanted. No! no! you won't be out of

hearing of the bell--if it rings. We'll leave the door open. It's only on

the other side of the passage here."

He lighted a lantern, and led Jack out.

Leaving the courtyard and the waiting-room on their left hand, he

advanced along the right-hand side of the passage, and opened the door of

a bed-chamber, always kept ready for use. A second door in the

bed-chamber led to a bath-room. Here, opposite the bath, stood the

cabinet in which the restorative applications were kept, under the care

of the overseer.

When the two men had gone out, Madame Fontaine ventured into the

Watchman's Chamber. Her eyes turned towards the one terrible cell, at the

farther end of the row of black curtains. She advanced towards it; and

stopped, lifting her hands to her head in the desperate effort to compose

herself.

The terror of impending discovery had never left her, since Jack had

owned the use to which he had put the contents of the blue-glass bottle.

Animated by that all-mastering dread, she had thrown away every poison in

the medicine-chest--had broken the bottles into fragments--and had taken

those fragments out with her, when she left the house to follow Doctor

Dormann. On the way to the cemetery, she had scattered the morsels of

broken glass and torn paper on the dark road outside the city gate.

Nothing now remained but the empty medicine-chest, and the writing in

cipher, once rolled round the poison called the "Looking-Glass Drops."

Under these altered circumstances, she had risked asking Doctor Dormann

to interpret the mysterious characters, on the bare chance of their

containing some warning by which she might profit, in her present

ignorance of the results which Jack's ignorant interference might

produce.

Acting under the same vague terror of that possible revival, to which

Jack looked forward with such certain hope, she had followed him to the

Deadhouse, and had waited, hidden in the cells, to hear what dangerous

confidences he might repose in the doctor or in Mr. Keller, and to combat

on the spot the suspicion which he might ignorantly rouse in their minds.

Still in the same agony of doubt, she now stood, with her eyes on the

cell, trying to summon the resolution to judge for herself. One look at

the dead woman, while the solitude in the room gave her the chance--one

look might assure her of the livid pallor of death, or warn her of the

terrible possibilities of awakening life. She hurried headlong over the

intervening space, and looked in.

There, grand and still, lay her murderous work! There, ghostly white on

the ground of the black robe, were the rigid hands, topped by the hideous

machinery which was to betray them, if they trembled under the mysterious

return of life!

In the instant when she saw it, the sight overwhelmed her with horror.

She turned distractedly, and fled through the open door. She crossed the

courtyard, like a deeper shadow creeping swiftly through the darkness of

the winter night. On the threshold of the solitary waiting-room,

exhausted nature claimed its rest. She wavered--groped with her hands at

the empty air--and sank insensible on the floor.

In the meantime, Schwartz revealed the purpose of his visit to the

bath-room.

The glass doors which protected the upper division of the cabinet were

locked; the key being in the possession of the overseer. The cupboard in

the lower division, containing towels and flannel wrappers, was left

unsecured. Opening the door, the watchman drew out a bottle and an old

traveling flask, concealed behind the bath-linen. "I call this my

cellar," he explained. "Cheer up, Jacky; we'll have a jolly night of it

yet."

"I don't want to see your cellar!" said Jack impatiently. "I want to be

of use to Mistress--show me the place where we call for help."

"Call?" repeated Schwartz, with a roar of laughter. "Do you think they

can hear us at the overseer's, through a courtyard, and a waiting-room,

and a grand hall, and another courtyard, and another waiting-room beyond?

Not if we were twenty men all bawling together till we were hoarse! I'll

show you how we can make the master hear us--if that miraculous revival

of yours happens," he added facetiously in a whisper to himself.

He led the way back into the passage, and held up his lantern so as to

show the cornice. A row of fire-buckets was suspended there by books.

Midway between them, a stout rope hung through a metal-lined hole in the

roof.

"Do you see that?" said Schwartz. "You have only to pull, and there's an

iron tongue in the belfry above that will speak loud enough to be heard

at the city gate. The overseer will come tumbling in, with his bunch of

keys, as if the devil was at his heels, and the two women-servants after

him--old and ugly, Jack!--they attend to the bath, you know, when a woman

wants it. Wait a bit! Take the light into the bedroom, and get a chair

for yourself--we haven't much accommodation for evening visitors. Got it?

that's right. Would you like to see where the mad watchman hung himself?

On the last hook at the end of the row there. We've got a song he made

about the Deadhouse. I think it's in the drawer of the table. A gentleman

had it printed and sold, for the benefit of the widow and children. Wait

till we are well warmed with our liquor, and I'll tell you what I'll

do--I'll sing you the mad watchman's song; and Jacky, my man, you shall

sing the chorus! Tow-row-rub-a-dub-boom--that's the tune. Pretty, isn't

it? Come along back to our snuggery." He led the way to the Watchman's

Chamber.

CHAPTER XIX

Jack looked eagerly into the cell again. There was no change--not a sign

of that happy waking in which he so firmly believed.

Schwartz opened the drawer of the table. Tobacco and pipes; two or three

small drinking-glasses; a dirty pack of playing-cards; the mad watchman's

song, with a woodcut illustration of the suicide--all lay huddled

together. He took from the drawer the song, and two of the

drinking-glasses, and called to his little guest to come out of the cell.

"There;" he said, filling the glasses, "you never tasted such wine as

that in all your life. Off with it!"

Jack turned away with a look of disgust. "What did you say of wine, when

I drank with you the other night?" he asked reproachfully. "You said it

would warm my heart, and make a man of me. And what did it do? I couldn't

stand on my legs. I couldn't hold up my head--I was so sleepy and stupid

that Joseph had to take me upstairs to bed. I hate your wine! Your wine's

a liar, who promises and doesn't perform! I'm weary enough, and wretched

enough in my mind, as it is. No more wine for me!"

"Wrong!" remarked Schwartz, emptying his glass, and smacking his lips

after it.

"You made a serious mistake the other night--you didn't drink half

enough. Give the good liquor a fair chance, my son. No, you won't? Must I

try a little gentle persuasion before you will come back to your chair?"

Suiting the action to the word, he put his arm round Jack. "What's this I

feel under my hand?" he asked. "A bottle?" He took it out of Jack's

breast-pocket. "Lord help us!" he exclaimed; "it looks like physic!"

Jack snatched it away from him, with a cry of delight. "The very thing

for me--and I never thought of it!"

It was the phial which Madame Fontaine had repentantly kept to herself,

after having expressly filled it for him with the fatal dose of

"Alexander's Wine"--the phial which he had found, when he first opened

the "Pink-Room Cupboard." In the astonishment and delight of finding the

blue-glass bottle immediately afterwards, he had entirely forgotten it.

Nothing had since happened to remind him that it was in his pocket, until

Schwartz had stumbled on the discovery.

"It cures you when you are tired or troubled in your mind," Jack

announced in his grandest manner, repeating Madame Fontaine's own words.

"Is there any water here?"

"Not a drop, thank Heaven!" said Schwartz, devoutly.

"Give me my glass, then. I once tried the remedy by itself, and it stung

me as it went down. The wine won't hurt me, with this splendid stuff in

it. I'll take it in the wine."

"Who told you to take it?" Schwartz asked, holding back the glass.

"Mrs. Housekeeper told me."

"A woman!" growled Schwartz, in a tone of sovereign contempt. "How dare

you let a woman physic you, when you've got me for a doctor? Jack! I'm

ashamed of you."

Jack defended his manhood. "Oh, I don't care what she says! I despise

her--she's mad. You don't suppose she made this? I wouldn't touch it, if

she had. No, no; her husband made it--a wonderful man! the greatest man

in Germany!"

He reached across the table and secured his glass of wine. Before it was

possible to interfere, he had emptied the contents of the phial into it,

and had raised it to his lips. At that moment, Schwartz's restraining

hand found its way to his wrist. The deputy watchman had far too sincere

a regard for good wine to permit it to be drunk, in combination with

physic, at his own table.

"Put it down!" he said gruffly. "You're my visitor, ain't you? Do you

think I'm going to let housekeeper's cat-lap be drunk at my table? Look

here!"

He held up his traveling-flask, with the metal drinking-cup taken off, so

as to show the liquor through the glass. The rich amber color of it

fascinated Jack. He put his wine-glass back on the table. "What is it?"

he asked eagerly.

"Drinkable gold, Jack! _My_ physic. Brandy!"

He poured out a dram into the metal cup. "Try that," he said, "and don't

let me hear any more about the housekeeper's physic."

Jack tasted it. The water came into his eyes--he put his hands on his

throat. "Fire!" he gasped faintly.

"Wait!" said Schwartz.

Jack waited. The fiery grip of the brandy relaxed; the genial warmth of

it was wafted through him persuasively from head to foot. He took another

sip. His eyes began to glitter. "What divine being made this?" he asked.

Without waiting to be answered, he tried it again, and emptied the cup.

"More!" he cried. "I never felt so big, I never felt so strong, I never

felt so clever, as I feel now!"

Schwartz, drinking freely from his own bottle, recovered, and more than

recovered, his Bacchanalian good humor. He clapped Jack on the shoulder.

"Who's the right doctor now?" he asked cheerfully. "A drab of a

housekeeper? or Father Schwartz? Your health, my jolly boy! When the

bottle's empty, I'll help you to finish the flask. Drink away! and the

devil take all heel-taps!"

The next dose of brandy fired Jack's excitable brain with a new idea. He

fell on his knees at the table, and clasped his hands in a sudden fervor

of devotion. "Silence!" he commanded sternly. "Your wine's only a poor

devil. Your drinkable gold is a god. Take your cap off, Schwartz--I'm

worshipping drinkable gold!"

Schwartz, highly diverted, threw his cap up to the ceiling. "Drinkable

gold, ora pro nobis!" he shouted, profanely adapting himself to Jack's

humor. "You shall be Pope, my boy--and I'll be the Pope's butler. Allow

me to help your sacred majesty back to your chair."

Jack's answer betrayed another change in him. His tones were lofty; his

manner was distant. "I prefer the floor," he said; "hand me down my mug."

As he reached up to take it, the alarm-bell over the door caught his eye.

Debased as he was by the fiery strength of the drink, his ineradicable

love for his mistress made its noble influence felt through the coarse

fumes that were mounting to his brain. "Stop!" he cried. "I must be where

I can see the bell--I must be ready for her, the instant it rings."

He crawled across the floor, and seated himself with his back against the

wall of one of the empty cells, on the left-hand side of the room.

Schwartz, shaking his fat sides with laughter, handed down the cup to his

guest. Jack took no notice of it. His eyes, reddened already by the

brandy, were fixed on the bell opposite to him. "I want to know about

it," he said. "What's that steel thing there, under the brass cover?"

"What's the use of asking?" Schwartz replied, returning to his bottle.

"I want to know!"

"Patience, Jack--patience. Follow my fore-finger. My hand seems to shake

a little; but it's as honest a hand as ever was. That steel thing there,

is the bell hammer, you know. And, bless your heart, the hammer's

everything. Cost, Lord knows how much. Another toast, my son. Good luck

to the bell!"

Jack changed again; he began to cry. "She's sleeping too long on that

sofa, in there," he said sadly. "I want her to speak to me; I want to

hear her scold me for drinking in this horrid place. My heart's all cold

again. Where's the mug?" He found it, as he spoke; the fire of the brandy

went down his throat once more, and lashed him into frantic high spirits.

"I'm up in the clouds!" he shouted; "I'm riding on a whirlwind. Sing,

Schwartz! Ha! there are the stars twinkling through the skylight! Sing

the stars down from heaven!"

Schwartz emptied his bottle, without the ceremony of using the glass.

"Now we are primed!" he said--"now for the mad watchman's song!" He

snatched up the paper from the table, and roared out hoarsely the first

verse:

The moon was shining, cold and bright,

In the Frankfort Deadhouse, on New Year's night

And I was the watchman, left alone,

While the rest to feast and dance were gone;

I envied their lot, and cursed my own--

Poor me!

"Chorus, Jack! 'I envied their lot and cursed my own'----"

The last words of the verse were lost in a yell of drunken terror.

Schwartz started out of his chair, and pointed, panic-stricken, to the

lower end of the room. "A ghost!" he screamed. "A ghost in black, at the

door!"

Jack looked round, and burst out laughing. "Sit down again, you old

fool," he said. "It's only Mrs. Housekeeper. We are singing, Mrs.

Housekeeper! You haven't heard my voice yet--I'm the finest singer in

Germany."

Madame Fontaine approached him humbly. "You have a kind heart, Jack--I am

sure you will help me," she said. "Show me how to get out of this

frightful place."

"The devil take you!" growled Schwartz, recovering himself. "How did you

get in?"

"She's a witch!" shouted Jack. "She rode in on a broomstick--she crept in

through the keyhole. Where's the fire? Let's take her downstairs, and

burn her!"

Schwartz applied himself to the brandy-flask, and began to laugh again.

"There never was such good company as Jack," he said, in his oiliest

tones. "You can't get out to-night, Mrs. Witch. The gates are locked--and

they don't trust me with the key. Walk in, ma'am. Plenty of accommodation

for you, on that side of the room where Jack sits. We are slack of guests

for the grave, to-night. Walk in."

She renewed her entreaties. "I'll give you all the money I have about me!

Who can I go to for the key? Jack! Jack! speak for me!"

"Go on with the song!" cried Jack.

She appealed again in her despair to Schwartz. "Oh, sir, have mercy on

me! I fainted, out there--and, when I came to myself, I tried to open the

gates--and I called, and called, and nobody heard me."

Schwartz's sense of humor was tickled by this. "If you could bellow like

a bull," he said, "nobody would hear you. Take a seat, ma'am."

"Go on with the song!" Jack reiterated. "I'm tired of waiting."

Madame Fontaine looked wildly from one to the other of them. "Oh, God,

I'm locked in with an idiot and a drunkard!" The thought of it maddened

her as it crossed her mind. Once more, she fled from the room. Again, and

again, in the outer darkness, she shrieked for help.

Schwartz advanced staggering towards the door, with Jack's empty chair in

his hand. "Perhaps you'll be able to pipe a little higher, ma'am, if you

come back, and sit down? Now for the song, Jack!"

He burst out with the second verse:

Backwards and forwards, with silent tread,

I walked on my watch by the doors of the dead.

And I said, It's hard, on this New Year,

While the rest are dancing to leave me here,

Alone with death and cold and fear--

Poor me!

"Chorus, Jack! Chorus, Mrs. Housekeeper! Ho! ho! look at her! She can't

resist the music--she has come back to us already. What can we do for

you, ma'am? The flask's not quite drained yet. Come and have a drink."

She had returned, recoiling from the outer darkness and silence, giddy

with the sickening sense of faintness which was creeping over her again.

When Schwartz spoke she advanced with tottering steps. "Water!" she

exclaimed, gasping for breath. "I'm faint--water! water!"

"Not a drop in the place, ma'am! Brandy, if you like?"

"I forbid it!" cried Jack, with a peremptory sign of the hand. "Drinkable

gold is for us--not for her!"

The glass of wine which Schwartz had prevented him from drinking caught

his notice. To give Madame Fontaine her own "remedy," stolen from her own

room, was just the sort of trick to please Jack in his present humor. He

pointed to the glass, and winked at the watchman. After a momentary

hesitation, Schwartz's muddled brain absorbed the new idea. "Here's a

drop of wine left, ma'am," he said. "Suppose you try it?"

She leaned one hand on the table to support herself. Her heart sank lower

and lower; a cold perspiration bedewed her face. "Quick! quick!" she

murmured faintly. She seized the glass, and emptied it eagerly to the

last drop.

Schwartz and Jack eyed her with malicious curiosity. The idea of getting

away was still in her mind. "I think I can walk now," she said. "For

God's sake, let me out!"

"Haven't I told you already? I can't get out myself."

At that brutal answer, she shrank back. Slowly and feebly she made her

way to the chair, and dropped on it.

"Cheer up, ma'am!" said Schwartz. "You shall have more music to help

you--you shall hear how the mad watchman lost his wits. Another drop of

the drinkable gold, Jack. A dram for you and a dram for me--and here

goes!" He roared out the last verses of the song:--

Any company's better than none, I said:

If I can't have the living, I'd like the dead.

In one terrific moment more,

The corpse-bell rang at each cell door,

The moonlight shivered on the floor--

Poor me!

The curtains gaped; there stood a ghost,

On every threshold, as white as frost,

You called us, they shrieked, and we gathered soon;

Dance with your guests by the New Year's moon!

I danced till I dropped in a deadly swoon--

Poor me!

And since that night I've lost my wits,

And I shake with ceaseless ague-fits:

For the ghosts they turned me cold as stone,

On that New Year's night when the white moon shone,

And I walked on my watch, all, all alone--

Poor me!

And, oh, when I lie in my coffin-bed,

Heap thick the earth above my head!

Or I shall come back, and dance once more,

With frantic feet on the Deadhouse floor,

And a ghost for a partner at every door--

Poor me!

The night had cleared. While Schwartz was singing, the moon shone in at

the skylight. At the last verse of the song, a ray of the cold yellow

light streamed across Jack's face. The fire of the brandy leapt into

flame--the madness broke out in him, with a burst of its by-gone fury. He

sprang, screaming, to his feet.

"The moon!" he shouted--"the mad watchman's moon! The mad watchman

himself is coming back. There he is, sliding down on the slanting light!

Do you see the brown earth of the grave dropping from him, and the rope

round his neck? Ha! how he skips, and twists, and twirls! He's dancing

again with the dead ones. Make way there! I mean to dance with them too.

Come on, mad watchman--come on! I'm as mad as you are!"

He whirled round and round with the fancied ghost for a partner in the

dance. The coarse laughter of Schwartz burst out again at the terrible

sight. He called, with drunken triumph, to Madame Fontaine. "Look at

Jacky, ma'am. There's a dancer for you! There's good company for a dull

winter night!" She neither looked nor moved--she sat crouched on the

chair, spellbound with terror. Jack threw up his arms, turned giddily

once or twice, and sank exhausted on the floor. "The cold of him creeps

up my hands," he said, still possessed by the vision of the watchman. "He

cools my eyes, he calms my heart, he stuns my head. I'm dying, dying,

dying--going back with him to the grave. Poor me! poor me!"

He lay hushed in a strange repose; his eyes wide open, staring up at the

moon. Schwartz drained the last drop of brandy out of the flask. "Jack's

name ought to be Solomon," he pronounced with drowsy solemnity; "Solomon

was wise; and Jack's wise. Jack goes to sleep, when the liquor's done.

Take away the bottle, before the overseer comes in. If any man says I am

not sober, that man lies. The Rhine wine has a way of humming in one's

head. That's all, Mr. Overseer--that's all. Do I see the sun rising, up

there in the skylight? I wish you good-night; I wish--you--good--night."

He laid his heavy arms on the table; his head dropped on them--he slept.

The time passed. No sound broke the silence but the lumpish snoring of

Schwartz. No change appeared in Jack; there he lay, staring up at the

moon.

Somewhere in the building (unheard thus far in the uproar) a clock struck

the first hour of the morning.

Madame Fontaine started. The sound shook her with a new fear--a fear that

expressed itself in a furtive look at the cell in which the dead woman

lay. If the corpse-bell rang, would the stroke of it be like the single

stroke of the clock?

"Jack!" she whispered. "Do you hear the clock? Oh, Jack, the stillness is

dreadful--speak to me."

He slowly raised himself. Perhaps the striking of the clock--perhaps some

inner prompting--had roused him. He neither answered Madame Fontaine, nor

looked at her. With his arms clasped round his knees, he sat on the floor

in the attitude of a savage. His eyes, which had stared at the moon, now

stared with the same rigid, glassy look at the alarm-bell over the

cell-door.

The time went on. Again the oppression of silence became more than Madame

Fontaine could endure. Again she tried to make Jack speak to her.

"What are you looking at?" she asked. "What are you waiting for? Is

it----?" The rest of the sentence died away on her lips: the words that

would finish it were words too terrible to be spoken.

The sound of her voice produced no visible impression on Jack. Had it

influenced him, in some unseen way? Something did certainly disturb the

strange torpor that held him. He spoke. The tones were slow and

mechanical--the tones of a man searching his memory with pain and

difficulty; repeating his recollections, one by one, as he recovered

them, to himself.

"When she moves," he muttered, "her hands pull the string. Her hands send

a message up: up and up to the bell." He paused, and pointed to the

cell-door.

The action had a horrible suggestiveness to the guilty wretch who was

watching him.

"Don't do that!" she cried. "Don't point _there!"_

His hand never moved; he pursued his newly-found recollections of what

the doctor had shown to him.

"Up and up to the bell," he repeated. "And the bell feels it. The steel

thing moves. The bell speaks. Good bell! Faithful bell!"

The clock struck the half-hour past one. Madame Fontaine shrieked at the

sound--her senses knew no distinction between the clock and the bell.

She saw his pointing hand drop back, and clasp itself with the other

hand, round his knees. He spoke--softly and tenderly now--he was speaking

to the dead. "Rise Mistress, rise! Dear soul, the time is long; and poor

Jack is waiting for you!"

She thought the closed curtains moved: the delusion was reality to her.

She tried to rouse Schwartz.

"Watchman! watchman! Wake up!"

He slept on as heavily as ever.

She half rose from her chair. She was almost on her feet--when she sank

back again. Jack had moved. He got up on his knees. "Mistress hears me!"

he said. The light of vivid expression showed itself in his eyes. Their

vacancy was gone: they looked longingly at the door of the cell. He got

on his feet--he pressed both hands over his bosom. "Come!" he said. "Oh,

Mistress, come!"

There was a sound--a faint premonitory rustling sound--over the door.

The steel hammer moved--rose--struck the metal globe. The bell rang.

He stood rooted to the floor, sobbing hysterically. The iron grasp of

suspense held him.

Not a cry, not a movement escaped Madame Fontaine. The life seemed to

have been struck out of her by the stroke of the bell. It woke Schwartz.

Except that he looked up, he too never moved: he too was like a living

creature turned to stone.

A minute passed.

The curtains swayed gently. Tremulous fingers crept out, parting them.

Slowly, over the black surface of the curtain, a fair naked arm showed

itself, widening the gap.

The figure appeared, in its velvet pall. On the pale face the stillness

of repose was barely ruffled yet. The eyes alone were conscious of

returning life. They looked out on the room, softly surprised and

perplexed--no more. They looked downwards: the lips trembled sweetly into

a smile. She saw Jack, kneeling in ecstasy at her feet.

And now again, there was stillness in the room. Unutterable happiness

rejoiced, unutterable dread suffered, in the same silence.

The first sound heard came suddenly from the lonely outer hall. Hurrying

footsteps swept over the courtyard. The flash of lights flew along the

dark passage. Voices of men and women, mingled together, poured into the

Watchman's Chamber.

POSTSCRIPT

MR. DAVID GLENNEY RETURNS TO FRANKFORT, AND CLOSES THE STORY

I

On the twelfth of December, I received a letter from Mrs. Wagner,

informing me that the marriage of Fritz and Minna had been deferred until

the thirteenth of January. Shortly afterwards I left London, on my way to

Frankfort.

My departure was hurried, to afford me time to transact business with

some of our correspondents in France and in Northern Germany. Our

head-clerk, Mr. Hartrey (directing the London house in Mrs. Wagner's

absence), had his own old-fashioned notions of doing nothing in a hurry.

He insisted on allowing me a far larger margin of time, for treating with

our correspondents, than I was likely to require. The good man little

suspected to what motive my ready submission to him was due. I was eager

to see my aunt and the charming Minna once more. Without neglecting any

of my duties (and with the occasional sacrifice of traveling by night), I

contrived to reach Frankfort a week before I was expected--that is to

say, in the forenoon of the fourth of January.

II

Joseph's face, when he opened the door, at once informed me that

something extraordinary was going on in the house.

"Anything wrong?" I asked.

Joseph looked at me in a state of bewilderment. "You had better speak to

the doctor," he said.

"The doctor! Who is ill? My aunt? Mr. Keller? Who is it?" In my

impatience, I took him by the collar of his coat, and shook him. I shook

out nothing but the former answer, a little abridged:--

"Speak to the doctor."

The office-door was close by me. I asked one of the clerks if Mr. Keller

was in his room. The clerk informed me that Mr. Keller was upstairs with

the doctor. In the extremity of my suspense, I inquired again if my aunt

was ill. The man opened his eyes. "Is it possible you haven't heard?" he

said.

"Is she dead or alive?" I burst out, losing all patience.

"Both," answered the clerk.

I began--not unnaturally, I think--to wonder whether I was in Mr.

Keller's house, or in an asylum for idiots. Returning to the hall, I

collared Joseph for the second time. "Take me up to the doctor

instantly!" I said.

Joseph led the way upstairs--not on my aunt's side of the house, to my

infinite relief. On the first landing, he made a mysterious

communication. "Mr. David, I have given notice to leave," he said. "There

are some things that no servant can put up with. While a person lives, I

expect a person to live. When a person dies, I expect a person to die.

There must be no confusion on such a serious subject as life and death. I

blame nobody--I understand nothing--I merely go. Follow me, if you

please, sir."

Had he been drinking? He led the way up the next flight of stairs,

steadily and quietly. He knocked discreetly at Madame Fontaine's door.

"Mr. David Glenney," he announced, "to see Doctor Dormann."

Mr. Keller came out first, closing the door behind him. He embraced me,

with a demonstrative affection far from characteristic of him at other

times. His face was disturbed; his voice faltered, as he spoke his first

words to me.

"Welcome back, David--more welcome than ever!"

"My aunt is well, I hope?"

He clasped his hands fervently. "God is merciful," he said. "Thank God!"

"Is Madame Fontaine ill?"

Before he could answer, the door was opened again. Doctor Dormann came

out.

"The very man I want!" he exclaimed. "You could not possibly have arrived

at a better time." He turned to Mr. Keller. "Where can I find

writing-materials? In the drawing-room? Come down, Mr. Glenney. Come

down, Mr. Keller."

In the drawing-room, he wrote a few lines rapidly. "See us sign our

names," he said. He handed the pen to Mr. Keller after he had signed

himself--and then gave me the paper to read.

To my unspeakable amazement, the writing certified that, "the suspended

vital forces in Mrs. Wagner had recovered their action, in the Deadhouse

of Frankfort, at half-past one o'clock on the morning of the fourth of

January; that he had professionally superintended the restoration to

life; and that he thereby relieved the magistrates from any further

necessity for pursuing a private inquiry, the motive for which no longer

existed." To this statement there was a line added, declaring that Mr.

Keller withdrew his application to the magistrates; authenticated by Mr.

Keller's signature.

I stood with the paper in my hand, looking from one to the other of them,

as completely bewildered as Joseph himself.

"I can't leave Madame Fontaine," said the doctor; "I am professionally

interested in watching the case. Otherwise, I would have made my

statement in person. Mr. Keller has been terribly shaken, and stands in

urgent need of rest and quiet. You will do us both a service if you will

take that paper to the town-hall, and declare before the magistrates that

you know us personally, and have seen us sign our names. On your return,

you shall have every explanation that I can give; and you shall see for

yourself that you need feel no uneasiness on the subject of your aunt."

Having arrived at the town-hall, I made the personal statement to which

the doctor had referred. Among the questions put to me, I was asked if I

had any direct interest in the matter--either as regarded Mrs. Wagner or

any other person. Having answered that I was Mrs. Wagner's nephew, I was

instructed to declare in writing, that I approved (as Mrs. Wagner's

representative) of the doctor's statement and of Mr. Keller's withdrawal

of his application.

With this, the formal proceedings terminated, and I was free to return to

the house.

III

Joseph had his orders, this time. He spoke like a reasonable being--he

said the doctor was waiting for me, in Madame Fontaine's room. The place

of the appointment rather surprised me.

The doctor opened the door--but paused before he admitted me.

"I think you were the first person," he said, "who saw Mr. Keller, on the

morning when he was taken ill?"

"After the late Mr. Engelman," I answered, "I was the first person.

"Come in, then. I want you to look at Madame Fontaine."

He led me to the bedside. The instant I looked at her, I saw Mr. Keller's

illness reproduced, in every symptom. There she lay, in the same apathy;

with the same wan look on her face, and the same intermittent trembling

of her hands. When I recovered the first shock of the discovery, I was

able to notice poor Minna, kneeling at the opposite side of the bed,

weeping bitterly. "Oh, my dear one!" she cried, in a passion of grief,

"look at me! speak to me!"

The mother opened her eyes for a moment--looked at Minna--and closed them

again wearily. "Leave me quiet," she said, in tones of fretful entreaty.

Minna rose and bent over the pillow tenderly. "Your poor lips look so

parched," she said; "let me give you some lemonade?" Madame Fontaine only

repeated the words, "Leave me quiet." The same reluctance to raise her

heavy eyelids, the same entreaty to be left undisturbed, which had

alarmed me on the memorable morning when I had entered Mr. Keller's room!

Doctor Dormann signed to me to follow him out. As he opened the door, the

nurse inquired if he had any further instructions for her. "Send for me,

the moment you see a change," he answered; "I shall be in the

drawing-room, with Mr. Glenney." I silently pressed poor Minna's hand,

before I left her. Who could have presumed, at that moment, to express

sympathy in words?

The doctor and I descended the stairs together. "Does her illness remind

you of anything?" he asked.

"Of Mr. Keller's illness," I answered, "exactly as I remember it."

He made no further remark. We entered the drawing-room. I inquired if I

could see my aunt.

"You must wait a little," he said. "Mrs. Wagner is asleep. The longer she

sleeps the more complete her recovery will be. My main anxiety is about

Jack. He is quiet enough now, keeping watch outside her door; but he has

given me some trouble. I wish I knew more of his early history. From all

I can learn, he was only what is called "half-witted," when they received

him at the asylum in London. The cruel repressive treatment in that place

aggravated his imbecility into violent madness--and such madness has a

tendency to recur. Mrs. Wagner's influence, which has already done so

much, is my main hope for the future. Sit down, and let me explain the

strange position in which you find us here, as well as I can."

IV

"Do you remember how Mr. Keller's illness was cured?" the doctor began.

Those words instantly reminded me, not only of Doctor Dormann's

mysterious suspicions at the time of the illness, but of Jack's

extraordinary question to me, on the morning when I left Frankfort. The

doctor saw that I answered him with some little embarrassment.

"Let us open our minds to each other, without reserve," he said. "I have

set you thinking of something. What is it?"

I replied, concealing nothing. Doctor Dormann was equally candid on his

side. He spoke to me, exactly as he is reported to have spoken to Mr.

Keller, in the Second Part of this narrative.

"You now know," he proceeded, "what I thought of Mr. Keller's

extraordinary recovery, and what I feared when I found Mrs. Wagner (as I

then firmly believed) dead. My suspicions of poisoning pointed to the

poisoner. Madame Fontaine's wonderful cure of Mr. Keller, by means of her

own mysterious remedy, made me suspect Madame Fontaine. My motive, in

refusing to give the burial certificate, was to provoke the legal

inquiry, which I knew that Mr. Keller would institute, on the mere

expression of a doubt, on my part, whether your aunt had died a natural

death. At that time, I had not the slightest anticipation of the event

that has actually occurred. Before, however, we had removed the remains

to the Deadhouse, I must own I was a little startled--prepare yourself

for a surprise--by a private communication, addressed to me by Jack."

He repeated Jack's narrative of the opening of the Pink-Room cupboard,

and the administration of the antidote to Mrs. Wagner.

"You will understand," he went on, "that I was too well aware of the

marked difference between Mr. Keller's illness and Mrs. Wagner's illness

to suppose for a moment that the same poison had been given to both of

them. I was, therefore, far from sharing Jack's blind confidence in the

efficacy of the blue-glass bottle, in the case of his mistress. But I

tell you, honestly, my mind was disturbed about it. Towards night, my

thoughts were again directed to the subject, under mysterious

circumstances. Mr. Keller and I accompanied the hearse to the Deadhouse.

On our way through the streets, I was followed and stopped by Madame

Fontaine. She had something to give me. Here it is."

He laid on the table a sheet of thick paper, closely covered with writing

in cipher.

V

"Whose writing is this?" I asked.

"The writing of Madame Fontaine's late husband."

"And she put it into your hands!"

"Yes--and asked me to interpret the cipher for her."

"It's simply incomprehensible."

"Not in the least. She knew the use to which Jack had put her antidote,

and (in her ignorance of chemistry) she was eager to be prepared for any

consequences which might follow. Can you guess on what chance I

calculated, when I consented to interpret the cipher?"

"On the chance that it might tell you what poison she had given to Mrs.

Wagner?"

"Well guessed, Mr. Glenney!"

"And you have actually discovered the meaning of these hieroglyphics?"

He laid a second sheet of paper on the table.

"There is but one cipher that defies interpretation," he said. "If you

and your correspondent privately arrange to consult the same edition of

the same book, and if your cipher, or his, refers to a given page and to

certain lines on that page, no ingenuity can discover you, unaided by a

previous discovery of the book. All other ciphers, so far as I know, are

at the mercy of skill and patience. In this case I began (to save time

and trouble) by trying the rule for interpreting the most simple, and

most elementary, of all ciphers--that is to say, the use of the ordinary

language of correspondence, concealed under arbitrary signs. The right

way to read these signs can be described in two words. On examination of

the cipher, you will find that some signs will be more often repeated

than others. Count the separate signs, and ascertain, by simple addition,

which especial sign occurs oftenest--which follows next in point of

number--and so on. These comparisons established, ask yourself what vowel

occurs oftenest, and what consonant occurs oftenest, in the language in

which you suppose the cipher to be written. The result is merely a

question of time and patience."

"And this is the result?" I said, pointing to the second sheet of paper.

"Read it," he answered; "and judge for yourself."

The opening sentence of the interpreted cipher appeared to be intended by

Doctor Fontaine to serve the purpose of a memorandum; repeating privately

the instructions already attached by labels to the poison called

"Alexander's Wine," and to its antidote.

The paragraphs that followed were of a far more interesting kind. They

alluded to the second poison, called "The Looking-Glass Drops;" and they

related the result of one of the Professor's most remarkable experiments

in the following words:--

VI

"The Looking-Glass Drops. Fatal Dose, as discovered by experiments on

animals, the same as in the case of Alexander's Wine. But the effect, in

producing death, more rapid, and more indistinguishable, in respect of

presenting traces on post-mortem examination.

"After many patient trials, I can discover no trustworthy antidote to

this infernal poison. Under these circumstances, I dare not attempt to

modify it for medical use. I would throw it away--but I don't like to be

beaten. If I live a little longer, I will try once more, with my mind

refreshed by other studies.

"A month after writing these lines (which I have repeated in plain

characters, on the bottle, for fear of accidents), I tried again--and

failed again. Annoyed by this new disappointment, I did something

unworthy of me as a scientific man.

"After first poisoning an animal with the Looking-Glass Drops, I

administered a dose from the blue bottle, containing the antidote to

Alexander's Wine--knowing perfectly well the different nature of the two

poisons; expecting nothing of any scientific importance to follow; and

yet trusting stupidly to chance to help me.

"The result was startling in the last degree. It was nothing less than

the complete suspension of all the signs of life (as we know them) for a

day, and a night, and part of another day. I only knew that the animal

was not really dead, by observing, on the morning of the second day, that

no signs of decomposition had set in--the season being summer, and the

laboratory badly ventilated.

"An hour after the first symptoms of revival had astonished me, the

creature was as lively again as usual, and ate with a good appetite.

After a lapse of ten days, it is still in perfect health. This

extraordinary example of the action and reaction of the ingredients of

the poison and the ingredients of the antidote on each other, and on the

sources of life, deserves, and shall have, the most careful

investigation. May I live to carry the inquiry through to some good use,

and to record it on another page!"

There was no other page, and no further record. The Professor's last

scientific aspiration had not been fulfilled.

VII

"It was past midnight," said the doctor, "when I made the discovery, with

which you are now acquainted. I went at once to Mr. Keller. He had

fortunately not gone to bed; and he accompanied me to the Deadhouse.

Knowing the overseer's private door, at the side of the building, I was

able to rouse him with very little delay. In the excitement that

possessed me, I spoke of the revival as a possible thing in the hearing

of the servants. The whole household accompanied us to the Deadhouse, at

the opposite extremity of the building. What we saw there, I am utterly

incapable of describing to you. I was in time to take the necessary

measures for keeping Mrs. Wagner composed, and for removing her without

injury to Mr. Keller's house. Having successfully accomplished this, I

presumed that my anxieties were at an end. I was completely mistaken."

"You refer to Madame Fontaine, I suppose?"

"No; I refer to Jack. The poor wretch's ignorant faith had unquestionably

saved his mistress's life. I should never have ventured (even if I had

been acquainted with the result of the Professor's experiment, at an

earlier hour) to run the desperate risk, which Jack confronted without

hesitation. The events of the night (aggravated by the brandy that

Schwartz had given to him) had completely overthrown the balance of his

feeble brain. He was as mad, for the time being, as ever he could have

been in Bedlam. With some difficulty, I prevailed on him to take a

composing mixture. He objected irritably to trust me; and, even when the

mixture had begun to quiet him, he was ungrateful enough to speak

contemptuously of what I had done for him. 'I had a much better remedy

than yours,' he said, 'made by a man who was worth a hundred of you.

Schwartz and I were fools enough to give it to Mrs. Housekeeper, last

night.' I thought nothing of this--it was one of the eccentricities which

were to be expected from him, in his condition. I left him quietly

asleep; and I was about to go home, and get a little rest myself--when

Mr. Keller's son stopped me in the hall. 'Do go and see Madame Fontaine,'

he said; 'Minna is alarmed about her mother.' I went upstairs again

directly."

"Had you noticed anything remarkable in Madame Fontaine," I asked,

"before Fritz spoke to you?"

"I noticed, at the Deadhouse, that she looked frightened out of her

senses; and I was a little surprised--holding the opinion I did of

her--that such a woman should show so much sensibility. Mr. Keller took

charge of her, on our way back to the house. I was quite unprepared for

what I saw afterwards, when I went to her room at Fritz's request.

"Did you discover the resemblance to Mr. Keller's illness?"

"No--not till afterwards. She sent her daughter out of the room; and I

thought she looked at me strangely, when we were alone. 'I want the paper

that I gave you in the street, last night,' she said. I asked her why she

wanted it. She seemed not to know how to reply; she became excited and

confused. 'To destroy it, to be sure!' she burst out suddenly. 'Every

bottle my husband left is destroyed--strewed here, there, and everywhere,

from the Gate to the Deadhouse. Oh, I know what you think of me--I defy

you!' She seemed to forget what she had said, the moment she had said

it--she turned away, and opened a drawer, and took out a book closed by

metal clasps. My presence in the room appeared to be a lost perception in

her mind. The clasps of the book, as well as I could make it out, opened

by touching some spring. I noticed that her hands trembled as they tried

to find the spring. I attributed the trembling to the terrors of the

night, and offered to help her. 'Let my secrets alone,' she said--and

pushed the book under the pillow of her bed. It was my professional duty

to assist her, if I could. Though I attached no sort of importance to

what Jack had said, I thought it desirable, before I prescribed for her,

to discover whether she had really taken some medicine of her own or not.

She staggered back from me, on my repeating what I had heard from Jack,

as if I had terrified her. 'What remedy does he mean? I drank nothing but

a glass of wine. Send for him directly--I must, and will speak to him!' I

told her this was impossible; I could not permit his sleep to be

disturbed. 'The watchman!' she cried; 'the drunken brute! send for him.'

By this time I began to conclude that there was really something wrong. I

called in her daughter to look after her while I was away, and then left

the room to consult with Fritz. The only hope of finding Schwartz (the

night-watch at the Deadhouse being over by that time) was to apply to his

sister the nurse. I knew where she lived; and Fritz most kindly offered

to go to her. By the time Schwartz was found, and brought to the house,

Madame Fontaine was just able to understand what he said, and no more. I

began to recognize the symptoms of Mr. Keller's illness. The apathy which

you remember was showing itself already. 'Leave me to die,' she said

quietly; 'I deserve it.' The last effort of the distracted mind, rousing

for a moment the sinking body, was made almost immediately afterwards.

She raised herself on the pillow, and seized my arm. 'Mind!' she said,

'Minna is to be married on the thirteenth!' Her eyes rested steadily on

me, while she spoke. At the last word, she sank back, and relapsed into

the condition in which you have just seen her."

"Can you do nothing for her?"

"Nothing. Our modern science is absolutely ignorant of the poisons which

Professor Fontaine's fatal ingenuity revived. Slow poisoning by

reiterated doses, in small quantities, we understand. But slow poisoning

by one dose is so entirely beyond our experience, that medical men in

general refuse to believe in it."

"Are you sure that she is poisoned?" I asked.

"After what Jack told me this morning when he woke, I have no doubt she

is poisoned by 'Alexander's Wine.' She appears to have treacherously

offered it to him as a remedy--and to have hesitated, at the last moment,

to let him have it. As a remedy, Jack's ignorant faith gave it to her by

the hands of Schwartz. When we have more time before us, you shall hear

the details. In the meanwhile, I can only tell you that the retribution

is complete. Madame Fontaine might even now be saved, if Jack had not

given all that remained of the antidote to Mrs. Wagner.

"Is there any objection to my asking Jack for the particulars?"

"The strongest possible objection. It is of the utmost importance to

discourage him from touching on the subject, in the future. He has

already told Mrs. Wagner that he has saved her life; and, just before you

came in, I found him comforting Minna. 'Your mamma has taken her own good

medicine, Missy; she will soon get well.' I have been obliged--God

forgive me!--to tell your aunt and Minna that he is misled by insane

delusions, and that they are not to believe one word of what he has said

to them."

"No doubt your motive justifies you," I said--not penetrating his motive

at the moment.

"You will understand me directly," he answered. "I trust to your honor

under any circumstances. Why have I taken you into my confidence, under

_these_ circumstances? For a very serious reason, Mr. David. You are

likely to be closely associated, in the time to come, with your aunt and

Minna--and I look to you to help the good work which I have begun. Mrs.

Wagner's future life must not be darkened by a horrible recollection.

That sweet girl must enjoy the happy years that are in store for her,

unembittered by the knowledge of her mother's guilt. Do you understand,

now, why I am compelled to speak unjustly of poor Jack?"

As a proof that I understood him, I promised the secrecy which he had

every right to expect from me.

The entrance of the nurse closed our conference. She reported Madame

Fontaine's malady to be already altering for the worse.

The doctor watched the case. At intervals, I too saw her again.

Although it happened long ago, I cannot prevail upon myself to dwell on

the deliberate progress of the hellish Borgia poison, in undermining the

forces of life. The nervous shudderings reached their climax, and then

declined as gradually as they had arisen. For hours afterwards, she lay

in a state of complete prostration. Not a last word, not a last look,

rewarded the devoted girl, watching faithfully at the bedside. No more of

it--no more! Late in the afternoon of the next day, Doctor Dormann,

gently, most gently, removed Minna from the room. Mr. Keller and I looked

at each other in silence. We knew that Madame Fontaine was dead.

VIII

I had not forgotten the clasped book that she had tried vainly to open,

in Doctor Dormann's presence. Taking it myself from under the pillow, I

left Mr. Keller and the doctor to say if I should give it, unopened, to

Minna.

"Certainly not!" said the doctor.

"Why not?"

"Because it will tell her what she must never know. I believe that book

to be a Diary. Open it, and see."

I found the spring and opened the clasps. It _was_ a Diary.

"You judged, I suppose, from the appearance of the book?" I said.

"Not at all. I judged from my own experience, at the time when I was

Medical Officer at the prison here. An educated criminal is almost

invariably an inveterate egotist. We are all interesting to

ourselves--but the more vile we are, the more intensely we are absorbed

in ourselves. The very people who have, logically speaking, the most

indisputable interest in concealing their crimes, are also the very

people who, almost without exception, yield to the temptation of looking

at themselves in the pages of a Diary."

"I don't doubt your experience, doctor. But your results puzzle me."

"Think a little, Mr. David, and you will not find the riddle so very hard

to read. The better we are, the more unselfishly we are interested in

others. The worse we are, the more inveterately our interest is

concentrated on ourselves. Look at your aunt as an example of what I say.

This morning there were some letters waiting for her, on the subject of

those reforms in the treatment of mad people, which she is as resolute as

ever to promote--in this country as well as in England. It was with the

greatest difficulty that I prevailed on her not to answer those letters

just yet: in other words, not to excite her brain and nervous system,

after such an ordeal as she has just passed through. Do you think a

wicked woman--with letters relating merely to the interests of other

people waiting for her--would have stood in any need of my interference?

Not she! The wicked woman would have thought only of herself, and would

have been far too much interested in her own recovery to run the risk of

a relapse. Open that book of Madame Fontaine's at any of the later

entries. You will find the miserable woman self-betrayed in every page."

It was true! Every record of Madame Fontaine's most secret moments,

presented in this narrative, was first found in her Diary.

As an example:--Her Diary records, in the fullest detail, the infernal

ingenuity of the stratagem by which she usurped her title to Mr. Keller's

confidence, as the preserver of his life. "I have only to give him the

Alexander's Wine," she writes, "to make sure, by means of the antidote,

of curing the illness which I have myself produced. After that, Minna's

mother becomes Mr. Keller's guardian angel, and Minna's marriage is a

certainty."

On a later page, she is similarly self described--in Mrs. Wagner's

case--as acting from an exactly opposite motive, in choosing the

Looking-Glass Drops. "They not only kill soonest, and most surely defy

detection," she proceeds, "but I have it on the authority of the label,

that my husband has tried to find the antidote to these Drops, and has

tried in vain. If my heart fails me, when the deed is done, there can be

no reprieve for the woman whose tongue I must silence for ever--or, after

all I have sacrificed, my child's future is ruined."

There is little doubt that she intended to destroy these compromising

pages, on her return to Mr. Keller's house--and that she would have

carried out her intention, but for those first symptoms of the poison,

which showed themselves in the wandering of her mind, and the helpless

trembling of her hands.

The final entry in the Diary has an interest of its own, which I think

justifies the presentation of it in this place. It shows the purifying

influence of the maternal instinct in a wicked nature, surviving to the

last. Even Madame Fontaine's nature preserved, in this way, a softer

side. On the memorable occasion of her meeting with Mr. Keller in the

hall, she had acted as imprudently as if she had been the most foolish

woman living, in her eagerness to plead Minna's cause with the man on

whom Minna's marriage depended. She had shrunk from poisoning harmless

Jack, even for her own protection. She would not even seduce Minna into

telling a lie, when a lie would have served them both at the most

critical moment of their lives.

Are such redeeming features unnatural in an otherwise wicked woman? Think

of your own "inconsistencies." Read these last words of a sinner--and

thank God that you were not tempted as she was:

"... Sent Minna out of my room, and hurt my sensitive girl cruelly. I

am afraid of her! This last crime seems to separate me from that pure

creature--all the more, because it has been committed in her dearest

interests, and for her sweet sake. Every time she looks at me, I am

afraid she may see what I have done for her, in my face. Oh, how I long

to take her in my arms, and devour her with kisses! I daren't do it--I

daren't do it."

Lord, have mercy on her--miserable sinner!

IX

The night is getting on; and the lamp I am writing by grows dim.

My mind wanders away from Frankfort, and from all that once happened

there. The picture now in my memory presents an English scene.

I am at the house of business in London. Two friends are waiting for me.

One of them is Fritz. The other is the most popular person in the

neighborhood; a happy, harmless creature, known to everyone by the

undignified nickname of Jack Straw. Thanks to my aunt's influence, and to

the change of scene, no return of the relapse at Frankfort has shown

itself. We are easy about the future of our little friend.

As to the past, we have made no romantic discoveries, relating to the

earlier years of Jack's life. Who were his parents; whether they died or

whether they deserted him; how he lived, and what he suffered, before he

drifted into the service of the chemistry-professor at Wurzburg--these,

and other questions like them, remain unanswered. Jack himself feels no

sort of interest in our inquiries. He either will not or cannot rouse his

feeble memory to help us. "What does it matter now?" he says. "I began to

live when Mistress first came to see me. I don't remember, and won't

remember, anything before that."

So the memoirs of Jack remain unwritten, for want of materials--like the

memoirs of many another foundling, in real life.

While I am speaking of Jack, I am keeping my two friends waiting in the

reception-room. I dress myself in my best clothes and join them. Fritz is

silent and nervous; unreasonably impatient for the arrival of the

carriage at the door. Jack promenades the room, with a superb nosegay in

the button-hole of a glorious blue coat. He has a watch; he carries a

cane; he wears white gloves, and tight nankeen pantaloons. He struts out

before us, when the carriage comes at last. "I don't deny that Fritz is a

figure in the festival," he says, when we drive away; "but I positively

assert that the thing is not complete without Me. If my dress fails in

any respect to do me justice, for Heaven's sake mention it, one of you,

before we pass the tailor's door!" I answer Jack, by telling him that he

is in all respects perfect. And Jack answers me, "David, you have your

faults; but your taste is invariably correct. Give me a little more room;

I can't face Mistress with crumpled coat-tails."

We reach a little village in the neighborhood of London, and stop at the

gate of the old church.

We walk up to the altar-rails, and wait there. All the women in the place

are waiting also. They merely glance at Fritz and at me--their whole

attention is concentrated on Jack. They take him for the bridegroom. Jack

discovers it; and is better pleased with himself than ever.

The organist plays a wedding-march. The bride, simply and unpretendingly

dressed, just fluttered enough to make her eyes irresistible, and her

complexion lovely, enters the church, leaning on Mr. Keller's arm.

Our good partner looks younger than usual. At his own earnest request,

the business in Frankfort has been sold; the head-partner first

stipulating for the employment of a given number of reputable young women

in the office. Removed from associations which are inexpressibly

repellent to him, Mr. Keller is building a house, near Mrs. Wagner's

pretty cottage, on the hill above the village. Here he proposes to pass

the rest of his days peacefully, with his two married children.

On their way to the altar, Mr. Keller and Minna are followed by Doctor

Dormann (taking his annual holiday, this year, in England). The doctor

gives his arm to the woman of all women whom Jack worships and loves. My

kind and dear aunt--with the old bright charm in her face; the firm

friend of all friendless creatures--why does my calmness desert me, when

I try to draw my little portrait of her; Minna's second mother, standing

by Minna's side, on the greatest day of her life?

I can't even see the paper. Nearly fifty years have passed, since that

wedding-day. Oh, my coevals, who have outlived your dearest friends, like

me, _you_ know what is the matter with my eyes! I must take out my

handkerchief, and put down my pen--and leave some of you younger ones to

finish the story of the marriage for yourself.