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 trave
ling 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!"