Jezebel's Daughter. Wilkie Collins
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set to work on the hat; perfectly happy while my aunt was looking at him. The lawyer was the unlucky person who produced a change for the worse. Having hitherto remained passive, this worthy gentleman seemed to think it was due to his own importance to take a prominent part in the proceedings. "My professional experience will come in well here," he said; "I mean to treat him as an unwilling witness; you will see we shall get something out of him in that way. Jack!"
The unwilling witness went on impenetrably with his work. The lawyer (keeping well out of reach of the range of the chain) raised his voice. "Hullo, there!" he cried, "you're not deaf, are you?"
Jack looked up, with an impish expression of mischief in his eyes. A man with a modest opinion of himself would have taken warning, and would have said no more. The lawyer persisted.
"Now, my man! let us have a little talk. 'Jack Straw' can't be your proper name. What is your name?"
"Anything you like," said Jack. "What's yours?"
"Oh, come! that won't do. You must have had a father and mother."
"Not that I know of."
"Where were you born?"
"In the gutter."
"How were you brought up?"
"Sometimes with a cuff on the head."
"And at other times?"
"At other times with a kick. Do be quiet, and let me finish my hat."
The discomfited lawyer tried a bribe as a last resource. He held up a shilling. "Do you see this?"
"No, I don't. I see nothing but my hat."
This reply brought the examination to an end. The lawyer looked at the superintendent, and said, "A hopeless case, sir." The superintendent looked at the lawyer, and answered, "Perfectly hopeless."
Jack finished his hat, and gave it to my aunt. "Do you like it, now it's done?" he asked.
"I like it very much," she answered: "and one of these days I shall trim it with ribbons, and wear it for your sake."
She appealed to the superintendent, holding out the hat to him.
"Look," she said. "There is not a false turn anywhere in all this intricate plaiting. Poor Jack is sane enough to fix his attention to this subtle work. Do you give him up as incurable, when he can do that?"
The superintendent waved away the question with his hand. "Purely mechanical," he replied. "It means nothing."
Jack touched my aunt. "I want to whisper," he said. She bent down to him, and listened.
I saw her smile, and asked, after we had left the asylum, what he had said. Jack had stated his opinion of the principal officer of Bethlehem Hospital in these words: "Don't you listen to him, Mistress; he's a poor half-witted creature. And short, too—not above six inches taller than I am!"
But my aunt had not done with Jack's enemy yet.
"I am sorry to trouble you, sir," she resumed—"I have something more to say before I go, and I wish to say it privately. Can you spare me a few minutes?"
The amiable superintendent declared that he was entirely at her service. She turned to Jack to say good-bye. The sudden discovery that she was about to leave him was more than he could sustain; he lost his self-control.
"Stay with me!" cried the poor wretch, seizing her by both hands. "Oh, be merciful, and stay with me!"
She preserved her presence of mind—she would permit no interference to protect her. Without starting back, without even attempting to release herself, she spoke to him quietly.
"Let us shake hands for to-day," she said; "you have kept your promise, Jack—you have been quiet and good. I must leave you for a while. Let me go."
He obstinately shook his head, and still held her.
"Look at me," she persisted, without showing any fear of him. "I want to tell you something. You are no longer a friendless creature, Jack. You have a friend in me. Look up."
Her clear firm tones had their effect on him; he looked up. Their eyes met.
"Now, let me go, as I told you."
He dropped her hand, and threw himself back in his corner and burst out crying.
"I shall never see her again," he moaned to himself. "Never, never, never again!"
"You shall see me to-morrow," she said.
He looked at her through his tears, and looked away again with an abrupt change to distrust. "She doesn't mean it," he muttered, still speaking to himself; "she only says it to pacify me."
"You shall see me to-morrow," my aunt reiterated; "I promise it."
He was cowed, but not convinced; he crawled to the full length of his chain, and lay down at her feet like a dog. She considered for a moment—and found her way to his confidence at last.
"Shall I leave you something to keep for me until I see you again?"
The idea struck him like a revelation: he lifted his head, and eyed her with breathless interest. She gave him a little ornamental handbag, in which she was accustomed to carry her handkerchief, and purse, and smelling-bottle.
"I trust it entirely to you, Jack: you shall give it back to me when we meet to-morrow."
Those simple words more than reconciled him to her departure—they subtly flattered his self-esteem.
"You will find your bag torn to pieces, to-morrow," the superintendent whispered, as the door was opened for us to go out.
"Pardon me, sir," my aunt replied; "I believe I shall find it quite safe."
The last we saw of poor Jack, before the door closed on him, he was hugging the bag in both arms, and kissing it.
CHAPTER VI
On our return to home, I found Fritz Keller smoking his pipe in the walled garden at the back of the house.
In those days, it may not be amiss to remark that merchants of the old-fashioned sort still lived over their counting-houses in the city. The late Mr. Wagner's place of business included two spacious houses standing together, with internal means of communication. One of these buildings was devoted to the offices and warehouses. The other (having the garden at the back) was the private residence.
Fritz advanced to meet me, and stopped, with a sudden change in his manner. "Something has happened," he said—"I see it in your face! Has the madman anything to do with it?"
"Yes. Shall I tell you what has happened, Fritz?"
"Not for the world. My ears are closed to all dreadful and distressing narratives. I will imagine the madman—let us talk of something else."
"You will probably see him, Fritz, in a few weeks' time."
"You don't mean to tell me he is coming into this house?"
"I am afraid it's likely, to say the least of it."
Fritz looked at me like a man thunderstruck. "There are some disclosures," he said, in his quaint way, "which are too overwhelming to be received on one's legs. Let us sit down."
He led the way to a summer-house at the end of the garden. On the wooden table, I observed a bottle of the English beer which my friend prized so highly, with glasses on either side of it.
"I had a presentiment that we should want a consoling something of this sort," said Fritz. "Fill your glass, David, and let out the worst of it at once, before we get to the end of the bottle."
I let out the best of it first—that is to say, I told him what I have related in the preceding pages. Fritz was deeply interested: full of compassion for Jack