BOOK II--ROMANCE

HELEN VARDON’S

CONFESSION

BY

R. AUSTIN FREEMAN

AUTHOR OF

“THE EYE OF OSIRIS,”

“THE RED THUMB MARK,”

ETC.

HODDER AND STOUGHTON

LIMITED LONDON

Contents

PROLOGUE

BOOK I. TRAGEDY

I. THE CRACK OF DOOM

II. ATRA CURA

III. THE COVENANT

IV. THE ELEVENTH HOUR

V. ON THE BRINK

VI. A MEETING AND A PARTING

VII. THE TERMS OF RELEASE

VIII. “WHOM GOD HATH JOINED----”

IX. TESTIMONY AND COUNSEL

X. THE TURNING OF THE PAGE

BOOK II. ROMANCE

XI. A HARBOUR OF REFUGE

XII. THE HIDDEN HAND

XIII. A CRYSTAL-GAZER AND OTHER MATTERS

XIV. JASPER DAVENANT

XV. THE MAGIC PENDULUM

XVI. THE SWEATED ARTIST

XVII. THE APOTHEOSIS OF THE TITMOUSE

XVIII. AMONG THE BREAKERS

XIX. ILLUSIONS AND DISILLUSIONS

XX. CLOUD AND SUNSHINE

XXI. A DREADFUL INHERITANCE

XXII. THE CATASTROPHE

BOOK III. CRIME

XXIII. THE DEAD HAND

XXIV. THE GATHERING CLOUDS

XXV. SUSPENSE: AND A DISCOVERY

XXVI. THE ADJOURNED INQUIRY

XXVII. THE INDICTMENT

XXVIII. THE VERDICT

EPILOGUE

Prologue

To every woman there comes a day (and that all too soon) when she

receives the first hint that Time, the harvester, has not passed her

by unnoticed. The waning of actual youth may have passed with but the

faintest regret, if any; regret for the lost bud being merged in the

triumph at the glory of the opening blossom. But the waning of

womanhood is another matter. Old age has no compensations to offer for

those delights that it steals away. At least, that is what I

understand from those who know, for I must still speak on the subject

from hearsay, having received from Father Time but the very faintest

and most delicate hint on the subject.

I was sitting at my dressing-table brushing out my hair, which is of a

docile habit, though a thought bulky, when amidst the black

tress--blacker than it used to be when I was a girl--I noticed a

single white hair. It was the first that I had seen, and I looked at

it dubiously, picking it out from its fellows to see if it were all

white, and noticing how like it was to a thread of glass. Should I

pluck it out and pretend that it was never there? Or should I, more

thriftily--for a hair is a hair after all, and enough of them will

make a wig--should I dye it and hush up its treason?

I smiled at the foolish thought. What a to-do about a single white

hair! I have seen girls in their twenties with snow-white hair and

looking as sweet as lavender. As to this one, I would think of it as a

souvenir from the troubled past rather than a harbinger of approaching

age; and with this I swept my brush over it and buried it even as I

had buried those sorrows and those dreadful experiences which might

have left me white-headed years before.

But that glassy thread, buried once more amid the black, left a legacy

of suggestion. Those hideous days were long past now. I could look

back on them unmoved--nay, with a certain serene interest. Suppose I

should write the history of them? Why not? To write is not necessarily

to publish. And if, perchance, no eye but mine shall see these lines

until the little taper of my life has burned down into its socket,

then what matters it to me whether praise or blame, sympathy or

condemnation, be my portion. Posterity has no gifts to offer that I

need court its suffrages.

BOOK I--TRAGEDY

Chapter I.

The Crack of Doom

There is no difficulty whatever in deciding upon the exact moment at

which to open this history. Into some lives the fateful and

significant creep by degrees, unnoticed till by the development of

their consequences the mind is aroused and memory is set, like a

sleuth-hound, to retrace the course of events and track the present to

its origin in the past. Not so has it been with mine. Serene,

eventless, its quiet years had slipped away unnumbered, from childhood

to youth, from youth to womanhood, when, at the appointed moment, the

voice of Destiny rang out, trumpet-tongued; and behold! in the

twinkling of an eye all was changed.

“Happy,” it has been said, “is the nation which has no history!” And

surely the same may be said with equal truth of individuals. So, at

any rate, experience teaches me; for the very moment wherein I may be

said to have begun to have a history saw a life-long peace shattered

into a chaos of misery and disaster.

How well I remember the day--yea, and the very moment--when the blow

fell, like a thunderbolt crashing down out of a cloudless sky. I had

been sitting in my little room upstairs, reading very studiously and

pausing now and again to think over what I had read. The book was

Lecky’s “History of England in the Eighteenth Century,” and the period

on which I was engaged was that of Queen Anne. And here, coming

presently upon a footnote containing a short quotation from “The

Spectator,” it occurred to me that I should like to look over the

original letter. Accordingly, laying aside my book, I began to descend

the stairs--very softly, because I knew that my father had a

visitor--possibly a client--with him in his study. And when I came to

the turn of the stair and saw that the study door was ajar, I stepped

more lightly still, though I stole down quickly lest I should overhear

what was being said.

The library, or book-room as we called it, was next to the study, and

to reach it I had to pass the half-opened door, which I did swiftly on

tip-toe, without hearing more than the vague murmur of conversation

from within. “The Spectators” stood on a shelf close to the door; a

goodly row clothed in rusty calf to which the worn gilt tooling

imparted a certain sumptuousness that had always seemed very pleasant

to my eye. My hand was on the third volume when I heard my father say:

“So that’s how the matter stands.”

I plucked the volume from the shelf, and, tucking it under my arm,

stole out of the book-room, intending to dart up the stairs before

there should be time for anything more to be said; but I had hardly

crossed the threshold, and was, in fact, exactly opposite the study

door, when a voice said very distinctly, though not at all loudly:

“Do you realise, Vardon, that this renders you liable to seven years’

penal servitude?”

At those terrible words I stopped as though I had been, in a moment,

turned into stone: stopped with my lips parted, my very breathing

arrested, clutching at the book under my arm, with no sign of life or

movement save the tumultuous thumping of my heart. There was what

seemed an interminable pause, and then my father replied:

“Hardly, I think, Otway. Technically, perhaps, it amounts to a

misdemeanour----”

“Technically!” repeated Mr. Otway.

“Yes, technically. The absence of any intent to defraud modifies the

position considerably. Still, for the purpose of argument, we may

admit that it amounts to a misdemeanour.”

“And,” said Mr. Otway, “the maximum punishment of that misdemeanour is

seven years’ penal servitude. As to your plea of absence of fraudulent

intent, you, as a lawyer of experience, must know well that judges are

not apt to be very sympathetic with trustees who misappropriate

property placed in their custody.”

“Misappropriate!” my father exclaimed.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Otway, “I say misappropriate. What other word could

you apply? Here is a sum of money which has been placed in your

custody. I come to you with authority to receive that money from you

on behalf of the trustees, and you tell me that you haven’t got it.

You are not only unable to produce it, but you are unable to give any

date on which you could produce it. And meanwhile it seems that you

have applied it to your own uses.”

“I haven’t spent it,” my father objected. “The money is locked up for

the present, but it isn’t lost.”

“What is the use of saying that?” demanded Mr. Otway. “You haven’t got

the money, and you can’t give any satisfactory account of it. The

plain English of it is that you have used this trust money for your

own private purposes, and that when the trustors ask to have it

restored to them, you are unable to produce it.”

To this my father made no immediate reply; and in the silence that

ensued I could hear my heart throbbing and the blood humming in the

veins of my neck. At length my father asked:

“Well, Otway, what are you going to do?”

“Do!” repeated Mr. Otway. “What can I do? As a trustee, it is my duty

to get this money from you. I have to protect the interests of those

whom I represent. And if you have misapplied these funds--well, you

must see for yourself that I have no choice.”

“You mean that you’ll prosecute?”

“What else can I do? I can’t introduce personal considerations into

the business of a trust; and even if I should decline to move in the

matter, the trustors themselves would undoubtedly take action.”

Here there followed a silence which seemed to me of endless duration;

then Mr. Otway said, in a somewhat different tone:

“There is just one way for you out of this mess, Vardon.”

“Indeed!” said my father.

“Yes. I am going to make you a proposal, and I may as well put it

quite bluntly. It is this. I am prepared to take over your

liabilities, for the time being, on condition that I marry your

daughter. If you agree, then on the day on which the marriage takes

place, I pay into your bank the sum of five thousand pounds, you

giving me an undertaking to repay the loan if and when you can.”

“Have you any reason to suppose that my daughter wishes to marry you?”

my father asked.

“Not the slightest,” replied Mr. Otway; “but I think it probable that,

if the case were put to her----”

“It is not going to be,” my father interrupted. “I would rather go to

gaol than connive at the sacrifice of my daughter’s happiness.”

“You might have thought of her happiness a little sooner, Vardon,” Mr.

Otway remarked. “We are not quite of an age, but she might easily find

it more agreeable to be the wife of an elderly man than the daughter

of a convict. At any rate, it would be only fair to give her the

choice.”

“It would be entirely unfair,” my father retorted. “In effect, it

would be asking her to make the sacrifice, and she might be fool

enough to consent. And please bear in mind, Otway, that I am not a

convict yet, and possibly may never be one. There are certain

conceivable alternatives, you know.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Otway, “if you have resources that you have not

mentioned, that is quite another matter. I understood that you had

none. And as to sacrifice, there is no need to harp on that string so

persistently. Your daughter might be happy enough as my wife.”

“What infernal nonsense you are talking!” my father exclaimed,

impatiently. “Do you suppose that Helen is a fool?”

“No, I certainly do not,” Mr. Otway replied.

“Very well, then: what do you mean by her being happy as your wife?

Here am I, standing over a mine----”

“Of your own laying,” interrupted Mr. Otway.

“Quite so; of my own laying. And here you come with a lighted match

and say to my daughter, in effect: ‘My dear young lady, I am your

devoted lover. Be my wife--consent this very instant or I fire this

mine and blow you and your father to smithereens.’ And then, you

think, she would settle down with you and live happy ever after. By

the Lord, Otway, you must be a devilish poor judge of character.”

“I am quite willing to take the risk,” said Mr. Otway.

“So you may be,” my father retorted angrily, “but I’m not. I would

rather see the poor girl in her grave than know that she was chained

for life to a cold-blooded, blackmailing scoundrel----”

“Softly, Vardon!” Mr. Otway interrupted. “There is no need for that

sort of language. And perhaps we had better shut the door.”

Here, as I drew back hastily into the book-room, quick footsteps

crossed the study floor and I heard the door close. The interruption

brought me back to some sense of my position; though, to be sure, what

I had overheard concerned me as much as it concerned anyone. Quickly

slipping the book back on the shelf, I ran on tip-toe past the study

door and up the stairs; and even then I was none too soon; for, as I

halted on the threshold of my room, the study door opened again and

the two men strode across the hall.

“You are taking a ridiculously wrong-headed view of the whole affair,”

I heard Mr. Otway declare.

“Possibly,” my father replied, stiffly. “And if I do, I am prepared to

take the consequences.”

“Only the consequences won’t fall on you alone,” said Mr. Otway.

“Good afternoon,” was the dry and final response. Then the hall door

slammed, and I heard my father walk slowly back to the study.

Chapter II.

Atra Cura

As the study door closed, I sank into my easy chair with a sudden

feeling of faintness and bodily exhaustion. The momentary shock of

horror and amazement had passed, giving place to a numb and chilly

dread that made me feel sick and weak. Scraps of the astounding

conversation that I had heard came back to me, incoherently and yet

with hideous distinctness, like the whisperings of some malignant

spirit. Disjointed words and phrases repeated themselves again and

again, almost meaninglessly, but still with a vague undertone of

menace.

And then, by degrees, as I sat gazing at the blurred pages of the book

that still lay open on the reading-stand, my thoughts grew less

chaotic; the words of that dreadful dialogue arranged themselves anew,

and I began with more distinctness to gather their meaning.

“Seven years penal servitude!”

That was the dreadful refrain of this song of doom that was being

chanted in my ear by the Spirit of Misfortune. And ruin--black,

hideous ruin--for my father and me was the burden of that refrain; no

mere loss, no paltry plunge into endurable poverty, but a descent into

the bottomless pit of social degradation, from which there could be no

hope of resurrection.

Nor was this the worst. For, gradually, as my thoughts began to

arrange themselves into a coherent sequence, I realised that it was

not the implied poverty and social disgrace that gave to that sentence

its dreadful import. Poverty might be overcome, and disgrace could be

endured; but when I thought of my father dragged away from me to be

cast into gaol; when, in my mind’s eye, I saw him clothed in the

horrible livery of shame, wearing out his life within the prison walls

and behind the fast-bolted prison doors; the thought and the imagined

sight were unendurable. It was death--for him at least; for he was not

a strong man. And for me?

Here, of a sudden, there came back to me the rather enigmatical speech

of my father’s, which I had heard without at the moment fully

comprehending, but which I now recalled with a shock of alarm.

“Please bear in mind, Otway, that I am not a convict yet, and possibly

may never be one. There are certain conceivable alternatives, you

know.”

The cryptic utterance had evidently puzzled Mr. Otway, who had clearly

misunderstood it as referring to some unknown resources. To me, no

such misunderstanding was possible. More than once my father had

discussed with me the ethics of suicide, on which subject he held

somewhat unorthodox opinions; and I now recalled with terrible

distinctness the very definite statement that he had made on the

occasion of our last talk. “For my part,” he had said, “if I should

ever find myself in such a position that the continuance of life was

less desirable than its termination, I should not hesitate to take the

appropriate measures for exchanging the less desirable state for the

more desirable.”

In the face of such a statement, made, as I felt sure, in all

sincerity and with sober judgment, how could I entertain any doubt as

to the interpretation of that reference to “certain conceivable

alternatives”? To a man of culture and some position and none too

robust in health, what would be the aspect of life with its immediate

future occupied by a criminal prosecution ending in an inevitable

conviction and a term of penal servitude? Could the continuance of

such a life be conceived as desirable? Assuredly not.

And then imagination began to torture me by filling in with hideous

ingenuity the dreadful details. Now it was a pistol shot, heard in the

night, and a group of terrified servants huddled together in the

corridor. But no; that was not like my poor father. Such crude and

bloody methods appertain rather to the terror-stricken fugitive than

to one who is executing a considered and orderly retreat. Then I saw

myself, in the grey of the morning, tapping at his bedroom door:

tapping--tapping--and at last opening the door, or perhaps bursting it

open. I saw the dim room---- Oh! How horribly plain and vivid it was!

With the cold light of the dawn glimmering through the blind, the

curtained bed, the half-seen figure, still and silent in the shadow.

Horrible! Horrible!

And then, in an instant, the scene changed. I saw a man in our hall. A

man in uniform; a railway porter or inspector. I heard him tell, in a

hushed, embarrassed voice, of a strange and dreadful accident down on

the line.… And yet again this awful phantasmagoria shifted the scene

and showed me a new picture: a search party, prowling with lantern

around a chalk pit; and anon a group of four men, treading softly and

carrying something on a hurdle.

“Dear God!” I gasped, with my hands pressed to my forehead, “must it

be--this awful thing! Is there no other way?”

And with that there fell on me a great calm. A chilly calm, bringing

no comfort, and yet, in a manner, a relief. For, perhaps, after all,

there _was_ another way. It was true that my father had rejected Mr.

Otway’s proposal, and such was my habit of implicit obedience that,

with his definite rejection of it, the alternative had, for me, ceased

to exist. But now, with the horror of this dreadful menace upon me, I

recalled the words that had been spoken, and asked myself if that

avenue of escape were really closed. As to my father, I had no doubt;

he would never consent; and even to raise the question might only be

to precipitate the catastrophe. But with regard to Mr. Otway. The

manner in which my father had met and rejected his proposal seemed to

close the subject finally. He had called him a blackmailing scoundrel

and used other injurious expressions, which might make it difficult

or, at least, uncomfortable to re-open the question. Still that was a

small matter. When one is walking to the gallows, one does not boggle

at an uncomfortable shoe.

As to my own inclinations, they were beside the mark. My father’s life

and good name must be saved if it were possible; and it seemed that it

might be possible--at a price. Whether it were possible or not

depended on Mr. Otway.

I recalled what I knew of this man who had thus in a moment become the

arbiter of my father’s fate and mine. My acquaintance with him was but

slight, though I had met him pretty frequently and had sometimes

wondered what his profession was, if he had any. I had assumed, from

his evident acquaintance with legal matters, that he was a lawyer. But

he was not in ordinary practice; and his business, whatever it was,

seemed to involve a good deal of travelling. That was all I knew about

him. As to his appearance, he was a huge, unwieldy man of a somewhat

Jewish cast of face, some years older, I should think, than my father;

pleasant spoken and genial in a somewhat heavy fashion, but quite

uninteresting. Hitherto I had neither liked nor disliked him. Now, it

need hardly be said, I regarded him with decided aversion; for if he

were not, as my father had said, “a blackmailing scoundrel,” he had,

at any rate, taken the meanest, the most ungenerous advantage of my

father’s difficulties, to say nothing of the callous, cynical

indifference that he had shown in regard to me and my wishes and

interests.

It may seem a little odd that I found myself attaching no blame to my

father. Yet so it was. To me he appeared merely as the victim of

circumstances. No doubt he had done something indiscreet--perhaps

incorrect. But discretion and correctness are not qualities that

appeal strongly to a woman: whereas generosity--and my father was

generous almost to a fault--makes the most powerful appeal to feminine

sympathies. As to his honesty and good faith, I never doubted them for

an instant; besides, he had plainly said that no fraudulent intent

could be ascribed to him. What he had done I had not the least idea.

Nor did I particularly care. It was not the act, but its consequences

with which I was concerned.

My meditations were interrupted at length by an apologetic tap at the

door, followed by the appearance of our housemaid.

“If you please, Miss Helen, shall I take Mr. Vardon’s tea to the

study, or is he going to have it with you?”

The question brought me back from the region of tragedy and disaster

in which my thoughts had been straying, to the homely commonplaces of

everyday life.

“I’ll just run down and ask him, Jessie,” I answered; “and you needn’t

wait. I’ll come and tell you what he says.”

I ran quickly down the stairs, but at the study door I paused with a

sudden revival of those terrors that had so lately assailed me.

Suppose he should open the subject and have something dreadful to tell

me? Or suppose that, even now, already----

At the half-formed thought, I raised a trembling hand, and, tapping

lightly at the door, opened it and entered. He was sitting at the

table with a small pile of sealed and stamped letters before him, and,

as I stood, steadying my hand on the door knob, he looked up with his

customary smile of friendly welcome.

“Hail! O Dame of the azure hosen,” said he, swinging round on his

revolving chair, “and how fares it with our liege lady, Queen Anne?”

“She is quite well, thank you,” I replied.

“The Lord be praised!” he rejoined. “I seemed to have heard some

rumour of her untimely decease. A mere canard, it would seem; a

fiction of these confounded newspaper men. Or perchance I have been

misled by the jocose and boisterous Lecky.”

The whimsical playfulness of speech, habitual as it was to him,

impressed me--perhaps for that very reason--with a vague uneasiness.

It was not what I had expected after that terrible conversation. The

anti-climax to my own tragic thoughts was too sudden; the descent to

the ordinary too uncomfortably steep. I perched myself on his knee, as

I often did, despite my rather excessive size and passed my hand over

his thin, grey hair.

“Do you know,” I said, clinging desperately to the common-place, “that

you are going bald? I can see the skin of your head quite plainly.”

“And why not?” he demanded. “Did you think my hair grew out of my

cranium? But you won’t see it long. I’ve heard of an infallible

hair-restorer.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, indeed! Guaranteed to grow a crop of ringlets on a bladder of

lard. We’ll get a bottle and try it on the carpet broom; and if the

result is satisfactory--well, we’ll just put Esau in his place in the

second row.”

“You are a very frivolous old person, Mr. Pater,” said I. “Do you know

that?”

“I hope so,” he replied. “And again I say, why not? When a man is too

old to play the fool, it is time to carry him to the bone-yard. Am I

going to have any tea?”

“Of course you are. Will you have it here alone or shall we have tea

together?”

“What a question!” he exclaimed. “Am I in my dotage? Should I drink

tea in musty solitude when I might bask in the smiles of a lovely

maiden? Avaunt! No, I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Jimmy. I’ll just

telephone down to the office and see if there is any silly nonsense

there that may distract me from serious pursuits, and, if there isn’t,

we’ll have tea in the workroom and then we’ll polish off that

coal-scuttle.”

“Finish it! But there’s quite a lot to do.”

“Then we’ll do the lot.”

“But why this hurry? There’s no particular reason for getting it

finished to-night, is there?”

“I don’t know that there is; but we’ve had the thing hanging about

long enough. Better get it finished and start on something else. Now

you trot off and see about tea while I ring up Jackson.”

As he turned to the telephone, I hurried away to give instructions to

the maid and to set the workshop in order so that we might start

without delay on our evening’s task, concerning which a few words of

explanation would seem to be called for.

My father was by nature designed to be a craftsman. He was never so

happy as when he was making something or in some way working with his

hands; and remarkably skilful hands they were, with an inborn capacity

for the dexterous manipulation of every kind of material, tool or

appliance. And to his natural skill he had added a vast amount of

knowledge of methods and processes. He was an excellent woodworker, an

admirable mechanic, and a quite passable potter. Our house abounded in

the products of his industry; stools, cupboards, clocks, fenders,

earthenware jars; even our bicycles had been built, or, at least,

“assembled” by him, and a bronze knocker on our door had been finished

by him from castings made in our workshop. If his powers of design had

been equal to his manual skill, he would have been a first-class art

craftsman. Unfortunately they were not. Left to himself, his tendency

was to aim at a neat trade finish, at smooth surfaces and mechanical

precision. But he knew his limitations, and had been at great pains to

have me instructed in the arts of design; and, as I apparently had

some natural aptitude in that direction, I was able to help him by

making sketches and working drawings and by criticising the work as it

progressed. But my duties did not stop at that. In our happy, united

life, I was his apprentice, his journeyman, his assistant--or foreman,

as he pleased to call me--and his constant companion, in the house, in

the workshop, and in our walks abroad.

As our maid, Jessie, laid the tea-tray on a vacant corner of the

work-bench, I examined our latest joint-production, a bronze

coal-scuttle, the design of which was based on a Roman helmet that I

had seen in the British Museum. There was a good deal more than an

ordinary evening’s work to be done before it could be finished. A

portion of the embossed ornament on the foot required touching up, the

foot itself had to be brazed to the body and the handle had to be

rivetted to the lugs, to say nothing of the “pickling,” scouring, and

oxidizing. It was a colossal evening’s work.

But it was not the magnitude of the task that troubled me, for I

shared my father’s love of manual work. What had instantly impressed

me with a vague discomfort was the urgency of my father’s desire to

get this piece of work finished and done with. That was not like him

at all. Not only had he the genuine craftsman’s inexhaustible

patience, but he had a habit of keeping an apparently finished work on

hand, that he might tinker at it lovingly, smooth and polish it, and

bring it to a state of even greater completeness and finish.

Why, then, this strange urgency and impatience? And, as I asked myself

the question, all my fears came crowding back on me. Again there came

that dreadful sinking at the heart, that strangling terror of the

storm-cloud that hung over us, unseen but ready to burst and overwhelm

us in ruin at any moment.

But I had little time for these gloomy and disquieting thoughts. The

tinkling of the telephone bell in the study told me that my father had

finished his talk with his managing clerk, and a few moments later he

strode into the workshop and began taking off his coat.

“Where’s your apron, Jimmy?” he asked (the pet name “Jimmy” had been

evolved out of an ancient fiction that my name was Jemima).

“There’s no hurry, Pater, dear,” said I. “Let a person have her tea in

peace. And do sit down like a Christian man.”

He obediently perched himself on a stool as I handed him his tea, but

in less than a minute he was on his feet again, prowling, cup in hand,

around the end of the bench where the work lay.

“Wonder if I’d better anneal it a bit,” he mused, picking up the

bronze foot and examining the unfinished space. “Mustn’t make it too

soft. Think I will, though. We can hammer it up a little on the stake

after it’s brazed on. That will harden it enough.”

He laid the foot down, but only that he might apply a match to the

great gas blowpipe; and I watched him with a sinking heart as he stood

with his teacup in one hand, while with the other he held the foot,

gripped in a pair of tongs, in the roaring purple flame. What did it

mean, this strange, restless haste to finish what was, after all, but

a work of pleasure? Did it portend some change that he saw more

clearly than I? Was he, impelled by the craftsman’s instinct, turning

in this fashion a page of the book of life? Or was it---- Oh! dreadful

thought!--was it that he was deliberately writing “Finis” before

closing the volume?

But whatever was in his secret mind, he chatted cheerfully as he

worked, and submitted to be fed with scraps of bread and butter and to

have cups of tea administered at intervals; yet still I noted that the

chasing hammer flew at unwonted speed, and the depth of the

punch-marks on the work that rested on the sand-bag told of an unusual

weight in the blows.

“What a pity it is,” he remarked, “that social prejudices prevent a

middle-class man from earning a livelihood with his hands. Now, here I

am, a third-rate solicitor perforce, whereas, if I followed my bent, I

should be a first-rate coppersmith. Shouldn’t I?”

“Quite first-rate,” I replied.

“Or even a silversmith,” he continued, “if I could have my mate, Jim,

to do the art with a capital A while I did the work with a capital W.

Hm?”

He looked up at me with a twinkle, and I took the opportunity to pop a

piece of bread and butter into his mouth, which occasioned a pause in

the conversation.

I had entertained faint--very faint--hopes that he might say something

to me about his difficulties. Not that I was inquisitive on the

subject; but, in view of a resolution that was slowly forming in my

mind, I should have liked to have some idea what his position really

was. It seemed pretty plain, however, that he did not intend to take

me into his confidence; notwithstanding which I decided in a tentative

way to give him an opening.

“Wasn’t that Mr. Otway who was with you this afternoon?” I asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “How did you know?”

“I heard his voice in the hall as you let him out,” I answered, with

something of a gulp at the implied untruth.

The chasing hammer was arrested for a moment in mid-air, and, as my

father’s eye fixed itself reflectively on the punch that he held, I

could see that he was trying to remember what Mr. Otway had said in

the hall.

“Yes,” he replied, after a brief pause, “it was Mr. Otway. I should

hardly have thought you would have known his voice. Queer fellow,

Otway. No brains to speak of, but yet an excellent man of business in

his way.”

“What does he do--by way of profession, I mean?”

“The Lord knows. He was originally a solicitor, but he hasn’t

practised for years. Now he is what is called a financier, which is a

little vague, but apparently profitable. And I think he does something

in the way of precious stones.”

“Do you mean that he deals in them?”

“Yes, occasionally; at least, so I have heard. I know that he is

something of a connoisseur in stones, and that he had a collection,

which he sold some time ago. I have also heard--and I believe it is a

fact--that his name was originally Levy, and that he is one of the

Chosen. But why he changed his name I have no notion, unless it was an

undesirable one to present to the financial world.”

I was half disposed to pursue my enquiries further, but as he finished

speaking, he once more began to ply the hammer with such furious

energy that I became quite uneasy.

“You mustn’t exert yourself so much, Pater,” I remarked. “Remember

what Dr. Sharpe said.”

“Bah!” he replied. “Sharpe is an old woman. My heart is sound enough.

At any rate, it will last as long as the rest of me. An old fellow

like me cannot expect to go in for sprinting or high jumping, but

there’s no need for him to live in splints and cotton wool.”

“Nor to endanger his health by perfectly unnecessary exertion. Why on

earth are you in such a fever to get this thing finished?”

“I’m not in a fever, my dear,” he answered; “I’m only tired of seeing

this thing lying about unfinished. You see, as it stands, it is only

so many pounds of old bronze, whereas a couple of hours’ work turns it

into a valuable piece of furniture, fit to take a dignified place in

the catalogue when we are sold up. Just consider how finely it would

read: ‘Handsome bronze scuttle, in form of Roman helmet, the work of

the late owner and his charming and talented daughter, capable of

serving either as a convenient receptacle for coal or as a becoming

head-dress for a person with a suitable cranium.’ Don’t you think that

would sound rather alluring?”

“Very,” I replied; “but as we are not going to be sold up----”

The rest of my sentence was drowned in the din of the beaten metal as

my father returned to his hammering, and I only watched in mute

discomfort until this part of the work was done and the great brazing

jet was once more set a-roaring.

The work progressed apace, for my father was not only skilful and

neat, but could be very quick on occasion; and as I watched the

completion of stage after stage, I was conscious of a growing

uneasiness, a vague fear of seeing the work actually finished; as if

this mere toy--for it was little more--held some deep and tragic

symbolism. I felt like one looking on at the slow wasting of one of

those waxen effigies which the sorceresses of old prepared with

magical rites for the destruction of some victim, whose life should

slowly wane and flicker away with the wasting of the wax.

And meanwhile, above the roar of the blowpipe flame, my father’s voice

sounded, now in a cheerful stave of song, and now in lively jest or

playful badinage. But yet he did not deceive me. Behind all this show

of high spirits was a sombre background that was never quite hidden.

For the eye of love is very keen and can see plainly, despite quip or

joke or jovial carol, when “Black Care rides behind the horseman.”

What a miserable affair it was, this pitiful acting of two poor,

leaden-hearted mortals, each hiding from each the desperate resolve

with smiles and jests that were more bitter than tears! For I, too,

had now my secret, and must needs preserve it with such a show of

gaiety as I could muster by sheer effort of will. The resolution of

which I have spoken was growing--growing, even as the toy that we were

making was growing towards completion, and as I seemed to see, as if

symbolized by it, the sands of destiny trickling out before my eyes.

So I, too, had my part to play in this harrowing comedy.

Works which have consumed much time in the doing have a way of coming

to an end with disconcerting suddenness. When I mixed the acid for the

“pickle” in the great earthenware pan, it seemed that a great deal

still remained to be done, in spite of my father’s feverish energy and

swift dexterity. And then, but a few minutes later, as it appeared to

me, behold the finished piece standing on the bench, its embossed

ornament telling boldly against the sulphur-browned background, and my

father stretching himself and wiping the blackened oil from his hands;

and it was borne in on me that, with the final touch, his interest in

the thing had fallen dead.

“Nunc dimittis!” he murmured. “It’s finished at last. ‘Now lettest

Thou Thy servant depart in peace.’ And that reminds me, Jim; don’t the

shops keep open late to-night?”

“Some of them do,” I replied.

“Good,” said he. “Tell Jessie to bring up the supper while I’m

washing. I’ve got to make a business call to-night, and I want to get

some things, so we won’t make it a ceremonious meal. Not that I want

to put you on short allowance, for I expect you are hungry after your

Titanic labours. You mustn’t take any notice of me.”

As he hurried away, I rang the bell, and, when I had given the

necessary instructions, I went up to my bedroom to remove the traces

of the evening’s work and make myself presentable.

At the supper table my father preserved the same quiet gaiety of

manner--his usual manner, in fact; for he was always cheerful and

companionable--though, on this occasion, the speed with which he

disposed of his food gave little opportunity for conversation. After a

very hurried meal, he rose, and, pushing back his chair, glanced at

his watch.

“You mustn’t mind my running away,” said he. “Time, tide and the

shopkeeper wait for no man.”

He moved away toward the door, but before he reached it he paused and

then came back and stood beside my chair.

“You need’nt sit up for me,” he said. “I may possibly be rather late.

So I’d better say ‘good-night’ now.” He took my head in his hands,

and, looking earnestly into my eyes, murmured: “Dear little Jim; best

and most loyal of apprentices.” Then he kissed me very tenderly and

passed his hands over my hair.

“Good-night, sweetheart,” said he. “Don’t sit up reading, but go to

bed early like a sensible girlie--if you will pardon my dropping into

Weggish poetry without notice.”

He turned away and walked quickly to the door, where he stood for a

moment to wave his hand. I heard him go to the study, and sat stiffly

in my chair listening. In a few moments he came out and stepped

quietly across the hall; there was a brief pause, and then the outer

door closed.

He was gone.

At the sound of the closing door, I sprang to my feet with all my

terrors revived. Whither had he gone? It was unusual for him to leave

his home at night. What was it that had taken him abroad on this night

of all others? And what was it that he wanted to buy? And wanted so

urgently that he could not wait until the morrow? And why had he

wished me “good-night” with such tender earnestness? A foolish

question, this, for he was a loving father, and never sought to veil

his affection. But to-night I was unstrung; haunted by nameless fears

that gave a dreadful significance to every passing incident. And as

the chill of mortal terror crept round my heart, the resolution that

had been growing--growing, came to its final completion.

It had to be. Horrible, loathsome as, even then, I felt it to be, it

was the only alternative to that other nameless and unthinkable. The

sacrifice must be made by us both for both our sakes--if it were not

too late already!

Too late? Even as the dreadful thought smote like a hammer on my

heart, I ran from the room and sped up the stairs on the wings of

terror. With trembling fingers I took my hat and cloak from the

wardrobe and hurried downstairs, putting them on as I went. At the

dining-room door I called out a hasty message to the maid, and then,

snatching up my gloves from the hall table, I opened the door and ran

out into darkness.

Chapter III.

The Covenant

As I sped swiftly along the quiet roads on the outskirts of the town

the confusion and sense of helplessness began to subside under the

influence of action and a definite purpose; by degrees my thoughts

clarified, and I found myself shaping out, with surprising

deliberation and judgment, the course that I intended to pursue. Mr.

Otway’s house was about a mile distant from ours, somewhat farther out

of town, though on a frequented road; a short distance and quickly

covered by my flying feet. Yet, short as it was, and traversed with a

phantom of terror in close pursuit, it gave me time to collect my

faculties, so that, when I opened the gate and walked up the little

drive, I had already to a large extent recovered my self-possession,

though I was still trembling with the fear of what might be happening

elsewhere at this very moment.

The door was opened by a small frail-looking woman of about fifty, who

did not look quite like an ordinary servant, and whose appearance

instantly impressed me disagreeably. She stood with her face slightly

averted, looking at me out of the corners of her eyes, and holding the

door open as she asked, with a slight Scotch accent:

“Who would you be wanting?”

“I wish to see Mr. Otway, if he is at home?” I replied.

“If ye’ll come in and give me your name, I’ll tell him,” said she; and

with this she showed me into a small room that opened out of the hall,

where, when I had told her my name, she left me. In less than a minute

Mr. Otway entered, and having carefully closed the door, shook hands

gravely and offered me a chair.

“This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Miss Vardon,” said he. “Oddly

enough, I was just thinking about you. I called on your father only

this afternoon.”

“I know,” said I. “It was about that that I came to see you.”

“Your father, then,” said Mr. Otway, “has mentioned to you the subject

of our not entirely pleasant interview?”

“No, he has not,” I replied. “Nothing has passed between us on the

subject, and he is not aware that I have come here. The fact is, I

overheard a part of your conversation and made it my business to hear

as much of the rest as I could.”

“Ha! Indeed!” He gave me a quick glance, half enquiring, half

suspicious, and added: “Perhaps, Miss Vardon, you had better tell me

what you heard.”

“There is no need for me to repeat it in detail,” said I; “but, from

what I heard, I gathered that my father had rendered himself liable to

a prosecution. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Otway, “that is unfortunately--most unfortunately--the

case.”

“And that the proceedings will be taken by you, and that you have the

power to stay them if you choose?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, Miss Vardon. That hardly states the

position fairly. Do you know nothing of the circumstances at all? Has

your father not told you anything about this unfortunate affair?”

“He has not spoken a word to me on the subject, and he has no idea

that I know anything about it.”

“H’m,” Mr. Otway grunted, reflectively. “Yes. Well, Miss Vardon, if

you wish to talk the matter over with me, perhaps I had better just

let you know how the land lies, although, really, your father is the

proper person to tell you.”

“I think you had better tell me, if you don’t mind,” said I.

“Very well, Miss Vardon,” he agreed. “Then the position is this: A sum

of money--five thousand pounds, to be exact--was handed to your father

by the trustees of a certain estate, to be invested by him on behalf

of the trust; and the manner of its disposal--into which we need not

enter--was quite clearly specified. But your father, instead of

disposing of the money as directed, chose to make over the whole of it

as a loan to a friend of his who was in temporary difficulties; a

manufacturer, as I understand, who had suffered an unexpected loss and

was on the verge of bankruptcy. There was no proper security, nor

even, as I understand, any satisfactory arrangement as to the payment

of interest. The whole affair was most improper; a gross violation of

trust. In effect, your father converted this money and made use of it

for his own purposes.”

“Is the money lost?” I enquired.

Mr. Otway shrugged his shoulders. “Who can say? It may be recoverable

some day, or it may not. But that is very little to the point. The

position is that it is now demanded of your father and that he can’t

produce it.”

“And so you are going to prosecute him?”

“Oh, please don’t put it that way, Miss Vardon. I am a quite

involuntary agent. My position is that I am instructed to get this

money from your father and dispose of it in a particular way. But I

can’t get it; and when I report that fact, I shall, of course, be

urged--in fact, compelled--to take criminal proceedings. I shall have

no choice. It isn’t my money, you know.”

“But why criminal proceedings?” I asked. “It seems to me that a civil

action to recover the money would be the natural course.”

Again Mr. Otway shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see that it makes

much difference,” said he. “The money has been made away with. Even if

the trustees took no criminal action, there is the Public Prosecutor

and there is the Incorporated Law Society. A prosecution is

inevitable.”

“And supposing my father is convicted?”

“It is hardly necessary to suppose,” said Mr. Otway. “He will be.

There is no defence. As to the sentence, I don’t imagine that the

maximum punishment of seven years penal servitude is likely to be

inflicted. Still, your father is a solicitor, and the law is, quite

properly, very severe in the case of solicitors who misappropriate

their clients’ property. He is almost certain to get a term of

imprisonment.”

To this I made no reply. There was nothing to say. It was only too

clear that every avenue of escape was closed--save one; and realizing

more fully every moment where that one led, I could not bring myself

to make the fateful move. So, for a while, we sat in a hideous silence

through which the ticking of a clock penetrated noisily and seemed to

keep pace with the thumping of my heart.

As I sat, bracing myself for the effort that had to be made, my eyes

travelled, half unconsciously, over the person of my companion. His

appearance was not prepossessing. Huge, unwieldy and shapeless,

although by no means grossly fat, his great size carried no dignity;

nor did his very marked and prominent features impart to his face

anything of distinction or nobility. He was of a distinctly oriental

type, with black and rather curly hair, oiled and combed over a

slightly bald head, a large aquiline nose, a wide mouth, rather full

and fleshy, and very dark eyes, under which were baggy folds of skin

creased by innumerable tiny wrinkles. As I looked at him with growing

distaste, I found myself comparing him to a gigantic spider.

Suddenly it was borne in on me--perhaps by the measured ticking of the

clock--that time was passing: time which might be infinitely precious.

To delay further were mere cowardice. Nevertheless, when I spoke, it

was in a voice so husky that I had to stop and begin again.

“You spoke, Mr. Otway--I heard you mention to my father that--that on

certain conditions, you would--would be prepared to abandon your

intention of prosecuting--or, at least----”

I could get no farther. Fear and shame and loathing of this thing that

I was going to do, overpowered me utterly. It was only by the most

strenuous effort that I choked down the sob that was rising in my

throat. But I had said enough, for Mr. Otway now came to my

assistance.

“I told your father that I was prepared to take over his liabilities,

for the time being, at least, on condition that you became my wife. He

refused, as perhaps you know; refused very definitely, I may say.”

“And rather rudely, I am afraid.”

“He was not at any great pains to wrap his refusal up delicately. But

we may let that pass. Is it in respect of this proposal of mine that

you have done me the very great honour of calling on me, Miss Vardon?”

I felt myself turn scarlet, but nevertheless I answered, resolutely:

“Yes. I came to ask if my father’s very blunt refusal had closed the

matter finally, or whether you were prepared to--to re-open it.”

“We won’t talk about re-opening it. It was never closed, by me. The

proposal that I made to your father I now make to you; and if you

should see your way to accepting it, I believe you would never have

occasion to regret your decision.”

He spoke in a dry, commercial tone, as if he were trying to sell me

something at a rather high price; as, in fact, he was. And meanwhile I

found myself wondering dimly why on earth he wanted to marry me.

“May I ask,” he continued, after a pause, “if you are disposed to

entertain my proposal?”

“I would do anything to save my father,” I replied.

“That,” said he, “is what I thought, judging from my previous

knowledge of you; and it was the knowledge of your devotion to your

father that encouraged me to make the proposal. For it seemed to me

that a young lady of your attractions who could so completely devote

herself to an elderly father might find it possible to devote herself

to an elderly husband.”

His reasoning did not impress me as very sound, seeing that it took no

account of the respective personalities of the father and the proposed

husband. But I made no reply, and, after a further pause, he asked:

“Am I to understand that you--that you regard my proposal favourably?”

“I can’t say that,” I replied. “But I came here to-night prepared to

accept your conditions, and I am ready to accept them now. But, of

course, you understand that I do so under compulsion and not of my own

free choice.”

“I quite realise that,” said he; “but I take it that you will carry

out fairly any covenant into which you may enter.”

“Certainly I shall,” was my reply.

“Then may I take it that you are willing to marry me, on the

conditions that I named?”

“Yes, Mr. Otway. I consent to marry you on those conditions and on

certain others that I will propose.”

“Let us hear the other conditions,” said he.

“The first is that you give me a promise in writing that, in

consideration of my consent to marry you, you will do what is

necessary to get my father out of his present difficulties.”

“That is quite fair, though it is rather unnecessary. I shouldn’t want

a convict for a father-in-law, you know. But, anyhow, I agree, as soon

as the marriage is over, to pay into your father’s bank a cheque for

five thousand pounds, or, if he prefers it, to give him a full

discharge for that amount. And I will give you an undertaking in

writing to that effect before you leave here to-night. Will that do?”

“It will do quite well,” I answered. “But I wish you also to add to

that undertaking a proviso to the effect that, if at any time before

the marriage takes place, any circumstances shall arise by which your

pecuniary help shall become unnecessary, then this agreement between

you and me shall not take effect, and you shall have no claim of any

kind on me.”

Mr. Otway looked at me in some surprise, and, indeed, I was somewhat

surprised myself at the completeness with which my judgment and

self-possession had revived as soon as it came to making terms; though

I had considered the matter very carefully on my way to Mr. Otway’s

house.

“You are a true lawyer’s daughter, Miss Vardon,” said he, with a

somewhat wry smile. “You are not going to give yourself away gratis.

No play, no pay, h’m? However, you are quite right. You agree to marry

me for a certain consideration. If you don’t receive the

consideration, you don’t marry me. Very well. That is a perfectly

business-like proposition, and I agree to it. You think that perhaps

your father may be able to meet his liabilities, after all?”

I do not think anything of the kind. The proviso was introduced by me

in view of a very different contingency. I was making this sacrifice

to save my father’s life. If I failed in that, the sacrifice would be

useless. But I did not think it necessary to mention this to Mr.

Otway. I therefore replied that, as I knew very little about my

father’s affairs, I thought it wise to provide even against the

improbable.

“Quite so, Miss Vardon, quite so,” he agreed. “One should always make

provision for the unexpected. Well, I have said that I accept your

first two conditions. What is the next one?”

“I want you to write my father a letter which shall relieve him of all

present anxieties, and I want you to give me that letter so that it

may be delivered to-night.”

At this Mr. Otway’s countenance fell somewhat. He pursed up his lips

disapprovingly, and, after some moments of reflection, said gravely:

“That, you know, Miss Vardon, really anticipates the fulfilment of the

contract on my side. Such a letter would commit me to a withdrawal of

my demand for immediate payment of this money.”

“But,” said I, “you have my promise, which I am willing to give you in

writing, if you wish me to.”

“Well,” he replied, dubiously, “that would seem to meet the

difficulty, not that I am suspecting you of trying to evade

fulfilment. But, you see, your father has refused his consent and will

probably continue to refuse, so that one would rather not raise the

question. By the way, I suppose you are over twenty-one?”

“I was twenty-three last birthday.”

“Then, of course, his consent is not necessary. Still, one doesn’t

want a fuss; and if you delivered this letter to him, he would be in

possession of the facts, and then there would be trouble.”

“I was not proposing to deliver it to him. I should drop it in the

letter-box and let him think that you had sent or left it. He would

know nothing of my visit to you or of the arrangement we have come

to.”

“I see. That alters the position somewhat. But is it really necessary?

I can understand your wish to relieve his anxiety; but still, it need

be only a day or two. Do you really think it is essential?”

“I do, Mr. Otway. I think it absolutely essential. If I had not, I

should not have come here to-night. My father is in a desperate

position, and one never knows what a desperate man may do.”

Mr. Otway gave me a quick glance, and I could see that he was

considerably startled. The possibility at which I had hinted would

have consequences for him as well as for me, and I saw that he fully

realized this. But he did not answer hastily. Perhaps he saw more in

my suggestion than I did myself. At any rate, he pondered for some

seconds before he finally replied:

“Perhaps you are right, Miss Vardon. I’m sure I shall be very glad to

put an end to his suspense. Yes, I’ll write the letter and give it to

you. Are there any more conditions?”

“No; that is all. So if you will write the letter and the agreement

and draft out what you want me to say, we shall have finished. And

please make as much haste as you can. It is rather late, and I am

anxious to get home before my father if possible.”

My anxiety apparently communicated itself to Mr. Otway, for he

immediately swung his chair round to his desk, and, taking one or two

sheets of paper from the rack, began to write rapidly. In two or three

minutes he turned, and, handing me what he had written, together with

a blank sheet of paper and a pen and ink-bottle, took a fresh sheet

himself, and, without a word, began once more to write. The draft

which he had handed me was simply and concisely worded as follows:--

“I, Helen Vardon, of Stonebury, Maidstone, in the county of Kent,

spinster, hereby promise to marry Lewis Otway, of the Beeches,

Maidstone, in the county of Kent, attorney-at-law, within fourteen

days from this present date, in consideration of his assuming the

present liabilities of my father, William Henry Vardon, in respect of

the estate of James Collis-Hardy deceased, this promise to be subject

to the conditions set forth in a letter written to me by the said

Lewis Otway and dated the 21st of April, 1908.

“(signed) Helen Vardon.

“Maidstone, Kent.

“21st April, 1908.”

I read the draft through carefully, noting that it was not only quite

simple and lucid, but that it embodied the terms of our agreement with

scrupulous fairness and took over my father’s liabilities without any

limit as to time; then I dipped the pen in the ink and made a fair

copy on the blank sheet which I signed, and laid on the corner of the

desk.

By the time I had finished my copy, Mr. Otway had completed the first

of the documents, which he now handed to me; and as I read it, he took

up the paper that I had written, and, having glanced through it,

placed it in a drawer and began once more to write. The paper that he

had given to me was in the form of a letter, and read thus:--

“Dear Miss Vardon,

“At your request I put on record the terms of the arrangement which

has been made between us to-day, and which are:

“1. That in consideration of my taking over your father’s liabilities

in respect of the Collis-Hardy Estate, you agree to marry me within

fourteen days of this present date.

“2. That on the completion of the marriage ceremony, or at such time

thereafter as you may decide upon, I shall pay into your father’s bank

the sum of five thousand pounds, or, if he prefers it, give him a full

discharge of all liabilities in respect of the Collis-Hardy Estate

aforesaid.

“3. Provided that if at any time prior to the said marriage your

father shall discharge the said liabilities, or any circumstances

shall arise by which the said payment or discharge by me shall become

unnecessary, then the agreement between you and me which is herein

recorded shall become void, and neither of us, the contracting

parties, shall have any claim upon the other.

“I am, dear Miss Vardon,

“Your obedient servant,

“Lewis Otway.

“Maidstone, Kent.

“21st April, 1908.”

Mr. Otway glanced up from his desk as I folded the paper and bestowed

it in my purse, and asked:

“Will that do? I think it covers the terms of our arrangement.”

“Thank you,” I answered; “it will do quite well.”

He made no rejoinder, but went on with the letter that he was writing;

and meanwhile I sat and watched him, with a strong distaste of his

appearance, dimly wondering at this strange interview and at my own

curious self-possession and mental alertness. But behind these hazy

reflections was a background of haunting terror that had never quite

faded even when I was putting the utmost strain upon my wits; terror

lest all this bargaining should be useless after all; lest I should

arrive home to find that my help had come too late.

These disquieting thoughts were presently interrupted by Mr. Otway,

who, laying down his pen and swinging round in his revolving chair,

took up the letter that he had just written.

“This is what I have said to your father, Miss Vardon. I think it will

make his mind quite easy for the present, which is all we want.

“‘Dear Vardon,

“‘Since my talk with you this afternoon, I have been thinking over

matters and considering whether it is not possible to give you more

time. On looking into the affairs of the trust more closely, I think

it can be done; in fact, I am sure it can, with some careful

management on my part. So you may take it from me that the demand,

which I felt compelled to make, is withdrawn for the time being. When

you are in a position to surrender the money, you had better notify

me; and in the meantime you have my assurance that no further demand

will be made without reasonable notice.

“‘I hope this will relieve your natural anxiety, concerning which I

have been a little uncomfortable since I left you.

“‘Yours sincerely,

“‘Lewis Otway.

“‘The Beeches.

“‘21st April, 1908.’”

He handed me the letter when he had finished reading, and I glanced

through it quickly before returning it to him.

“I think that ought to relieve him of all anxiety,” said he.

“Yes,” I answered. “It will do admirably. And if you will kindly seal

it and let me have it, I will go at once and drop it in the

letter-box. It is most important that it should be in his hands as

soon as possible.”

“Quite so,” he agreed; “and I won’t detain you further excepting to

point out that, by giving you this letter, I am putting myself

entirely in your hands. You will observe that this amounts to a

surrender of my claim on your father for the time being. He will, of

course, keep the letter, and could produce it in answer to any sudden

demand for the restitution of the money. So I am really carrying out

my part of the agreement in advance.”

“Yes, I see that,” I replied, “and I thank you most sincerely; but,” I

added, rising and holding out my hand for the letter, “you have my

solemn promise to carry out my part. If you were better acquainted

with me, you would consider that enough.”

“But I do, Miss Vardon,” he rejoined, hastily; “I do. If I did not

trust you implicitly, I should not have written this letter. However,

I mustn’t delay you. I will make all the necessary arrangements and

let you know when everything is ready. Will next Thursday be too

soon?”

At the mention of an actual date, and one so near, too, something like

a complete realisation of what I was doing flashed into my mind and

set my heart thumping painfully. But it had to be, so why haggle for

terms? Nor, indeed, since it must be, was there any use in trying to

put off the evil day. The urgent need of the moment was to get this

letter into my father’s hands, if it were not already too late.

“I must leave the arrangement of the affair to you, Mr. Otway,” I

murmured, shakily. “Do as you think best. And now I must really go.”

He shook my hand in a drily courteous fashion and let me out,

accompanying me down the drive to the outer gate, which he opened for

me with a ceremonious bow. I wished him a hurried “good-night,” and,

as soon as I was outside the gate, ran off in the direction of home,

holding the precious letter in the little pocket of my cloak.

Chapter IV.

The Eleventh Hour

As I drew near the neighbourhood of our house my fears grew so that

I was compelled by sheer breathlessness and the trembling of my limbs

to slacken my pace. I was sick with terror. In my mind, pictures,

vague and nebulous but unspeakably dreadful, rose like the visions of

a nightmare. I clutched the precious order of release in my pocket and

set my teeth, trying not to think of what I might find at my journey’s

end.

At last I came in sight of the house. It was all dark save two of the

upper windows--those of the servants’ bedrooms. The servants, then,

were going to bed as usual, for ours was an early household. This

seemed re-assuring, but only to a slight degree; for even if----

I opened the gate softly--I do not know why, but somehow I

instinctively avoided noise of any kind--and running up the garden

path, let myself in quietly with my latch-key. With one quick and

fearful glance around the darkened hall, I stole up to the hat-stand.

Apparently my father had not yet come home, for his stick was not in

the stand, and one of his hats was missing. I looked at the tall clock

and noted that it was not yet half-past ten; I peered out through the

open doorway, down the dark road, and listened awhile for the sound of

footsteps; then, slipping the letter into the letter-box--which I

could see contained no other missives--I lit one of the candles from

the hall table, and, having peeped into the study, the book-room and

the workshop, stole silently up the stairs.

First, I went to my father’s bedroom, and, by the glimmer of gas that

the maid had left burning, and the light of my candle, inspected it

narrowly. I looked over the trifles on the mantelpiece and on the

dressing-table, and even opened the little medicine-cupboard to run my

eye over the collection of bottles and boxes, pausing from time to

time that I might listen for footsteps, strange or familiar, as Fate

might decree. But pry as I would, there was nothing unusual, nothing

on which the most eager suspicion might fasten. All the details of

that room were familiar to me, for it had been my daily task since my

girlhood to look them over and see that my father’s orderly

arrangements were not disturbed by the servants; and everything was in

its place, and nothing new or strange or sinister had made its

appearance.

When I had finished my inspection, I stole softly along the corridor

to my own bedroom, which was at the head of the stairs, and, turning

up the gas, but leaving the door ajar, began slowly to undress,

listening intently the while for any sounds that might confirm or

dispel my fears. The house was very quiet and still; so quiet that the

tinkle of the water, as I poured it out from the ewer, struck with

disturbing harshness on my ear, and even the ticking of the little

clock and my own slippered footfalls seemed an impertinent intrusion

into that expectant silence.

It was a few minutes past eleven when the sound of a latch-key and the

gentle closing of the hall door sent the blood tingling to my very

finger-tips. No footsteps had been audible on the garden path, but

this, in itself, was characteristic; for my father and I were alike in

that we both disliked noise and habitually moved about softly,

avoiding the slamming of doors or the production in any way of jarring

sounds.

I crept on tip-toe to the door and listened. A stick was carefully put

down in the hall-stand, and then I thought--but was not quite

sure--that I heard my father unlock the letter-box. A few seconds

later I caught a faint creak, which I recognised as proceeding from

the study door, and, after a short interval, the creak was repeated

and the door closed. Then the hall gas was turned out and soft

footfalls began to ascend the stairs.

“Is that you, Pater, dear?” I asked.

“Is it I, indeed, O! wicked and disobedient child and likewise minx!”

was the welcome answer. “Didn’t I tell you to go to bed?”

“Yes, you did; and I am going. But I thought I would like to see you

safely home from your roysterings.”

“_Mures ratti!_” he exclaimed, as he came into the light from my open

door. “It is poor old Queen Anne who has been keeping you out of your

little nest. I know you.”

Here he gave a gentle tug at one of the tails into which I had plaited

my hair, and, having kissed me on the tip of my nose, continued:

“And you look as tired as the proverbial dog--which is the only kind

of dog that ever does get tired. Now go to bed and sleep like a young

dormouse. Good-night, Jimmy, dear.”

With the aid of the convenient tail, he drew my face to his and kissed

me again; then he went off along the corridor singing very softly, but

just audibly to me:

“Her father he makes cabbage nets

And in the streets does cry ’em;

Her mother she sells laces long----”

Here a rapid diminuendo indicated the closing of the door, and the

silence that had been so agreeably broken once again settled down upon

the house. Still, I stood at the open door, looking out into the

darkness. Had my father seen the letter? He had seemed very cheerful.

But then, he would have seemed very cheerful if he had been walking to

the scaffold or the stake. That was his nature. Yet his gaiety had

appeared to me more genuine than that which he had exhibited earlier

in the evening. However, there was no need to speculate; the question

could easily be set at rest. Taking the match-box from my candlestick,

I stole silently down the stairs, steadying myself by the hand-rail,

and groped my way across the hall until I reached the door. Then I

struck a match, and by its light, peered through the wire grating into

the letter-box.

It was empty. The letter had been taken out.

I blew out the match, and, having dropped it into the salver on the

table, crept back up the stairs to my room. Closing the door silently,

I made my final preparations, turned out the light and crept into bed,

feeling in the sudden ecstasy of relief that I could now shake off all

care and bury the anxieties and alarms of this dreadful day in

slumber.

My father was saved! No haunting fear of imminent tragedy, no dread of

impending ruin and disgrace, remained to murder sleep or mingle it

with frightful visions. My father was saved. At the eleventh hour I

had made my bid for his life and liberty; and the eleventh hour had

not been too late.

But it was long--very long before sleep came to shut out for a time

the realities of life. The blessed feeling of escape from this

appalling peril, the sense of restored security, was presently

followed by the chill of reaction. For the end was not yet. I had bid

for my father’s life and had bought it in; but the price remained to

be paid. And only now, when I could consider it undisturbed by terror

for my father’s safety, did I begin to realise fully how bitter a

price it was. Not that I would have gone back on my bargain, for I had

made it with my eyes open; and would have made it over again if the

need had been. But it was a terrible price. I had sold my

birth-right--my precious woman’s birth-right to choose my own

mate--for a mess of pottage. It was a price that I should have to pay,

and go on paying as long as life lasted.

Hour after hour did I lie, gazing wide-eyed into the darkness, letting

my thoughts flit hither and thither, now into the quiet, untroubled

past, now into the dim and desolate future, whence they would come

hurrying back affrighted. But always, whithersoever they wandered,

behind them rose, now vague and remote, now horribly distinct, that

unwieldy figure with the impassive oriental face; even, as to the eyes

of the fisherman in the Arabian tale, the smoke from the magic jar

shaped itself into the menacing form of the gigantic Jinn.

I tried to consider dispassionately the character of Mr. Otway. It was

very difficult. For had he not come into our life like some malignant

spirit, to dispel with a word and in the twinkling of an eye, all the

peace and happiness of our quiet home? To snap off short my serene

companionship with my father? To turn into dust and ashes all the

vaguely-sweet dreams of my maidenhood? To shut out the warm and hazy

sunshine from my future and fill the firmament with unrelieved, leaden

greyness? Still, I tried to consider him fairly. Callously, cynically,

he had driven his Juggernaut car over my father and me, his eyes fixed

upon his own desires and seeing nothing else. He was an absolute

egoist. That was undeniable. For some reason, he wished to marry me;

and to achieve that wish he had been willing to put us both on the

rack, and, with passionless composure, to turn the screw until we

yielded. It was not a pleasant thing to think of.

On the other hand, he seemed, in his way, to be a just man. By no

hair’s breadth had he sought to modify the terms that he had first

proposed; indeed, in his letter to me he had treated the loan to my

father as an almost unconditional gift, and the other details of our

agreement he had expressed in writing fully and fairly, with no

attempt at evasion. Nor was he niggardly. Five thousand pounds is a

large sum to pay for the privilege of marrying an unwilling bride.

Under other circumstances I might have appreciated the implied

compliment. Now, I could only admit that, according to his lights, he

seemed not ungenerous.

But when I considered him as the companion with whom I must share the

remainder of my life--or, at least, that part of it which

mattered--the thought was almost unendurable. To live, day after day

and year after year, under the same roof with this huge, dull,

uncomely man; to sit at table with him, to walk abroad by his side, to

spend interminable evenings alone with him: it was appalling. I could

hardly bear to think of it. And yet the horrible reality would be upon

me in the course of a few swiftly-passing days.

Nor was it a question of mere companionship--but from this aspect I

hurriedly averted my thoughts in sheer cowardice. I dared not let

myself think even for a moment of what marriage actually meant. Under

normal conditions it may be permitted to the modesty of an unwedded

girl to cast an occasional glance, half-shy and not wholly

unpleasurable, at the more intimate relations of married life: but to

me, if the thought would rise unbidden, it could call up nought but

the quick flush of shame and loathing whereat I would bury my face in

the pillow with a moan of shuddering disgust.

It was a relief to turn from the distressful present and the

unthinkable future to the past, or even to the future that might have

been. For, like most other girls, I had had my day-dreams. The

companionship with my father had been happy and full of interest; but

it had never seemed final. I had looked on it as no more than the

prologue to the real life, which lay, for the moment, hidden behind

the near horizon of my maidenhood. And as to that reality, though it

offered but a vague picture, yet it had a certain definiteness. To

many modern girls, ambition seems to connect itself with the academy

and the laboratory, with the platform and the forum. They appear to

hanker after fame, or even mere notoriety, and would contend with

men--who have nothing better to do--for the high places in politics,

in science or in literature. I had read the impassioned demands of

some of these women for political and economic equality with men, and

had looked at them with a certain dim surprise to see them so eager to

gather this Dead Sea fruit and turn their backs upon the Tree of Life,

with its golden burden of love and blessed motherhood. Ambition of

that kind had no message for me. So far my mind was perfectly clear.

As to the terms in which I conceived the final realities, the blossom

and fructification of a woman’s life, I am less clear. A home of my

own like the pleasant, peaceful home that my father had made; a man of

my own, in whom I could feel pride and by whom I could be linked to

the greater world outside; and a sweet brood of little people in whom

my youth could be renewed and for whom I could even cherish wider

ambitions: this was probably what my rambling thoughts would have

pictured if they could have been gathered up and brought to a definite

focus. But they never had been. The necessary refracting medium had

been absent. For what the burning-glass is to the sunbeam, the actual

love of some particular man is to the opening mind of a young girl,

bringing the scattered rays of thought to a single bright spot in

which the wished-for future becomes sharp and distinct. And this

influence, in its completeness, had never come into my life. The

undoubted liking that I had for the society of men was due, chiefly,

to their larger interests and wider knowledge. Of experiences

sentimental or romantic there had been none.

And yet the little god had not entirely forgotten me. Indeed, his

winged shaft had missed me so narrowly that I could hardly yet be

certain that I had passed quite unscathed. That little episode--tame

enough in all conscience--had occurred two years ago, when a Mr.

Davenant had come from Oxford with a small party of

fellow-undergraduates, to spend a more or less studious vacation in

our neighbourhood. I had met him, in all, three times on the footing

of a casual acquaintance, and we had talked “high philosophy” with the

eager interest of the very young. That was all. He had been a bird of

passage, alighting for a moment on the very outskirts of my life, only

to soar away into the unknown and vanish for ever.

It seemed an insignificant affair. A score of other men had come and

gone in the same way. But there was a difference--to me. Those other

men, too, had talked “high philosophy,” but I had forgotten utterly

what it was that they had said. Not so had it been in the case of Mr.

Davenant. Again and again had I found myself thinking over his talks

with me, not, I suspect, for the sake of the matter--which, to speak

the truth, was neither weighty nor brilliantly original--but rather

because I had enjoyed talking to him. And sometimes I had been

surprised to notice how clearly I remembered those talks, even to the

very words that he had used and the tones of his pleasant, manly

voice. Two years had passed since then--a long time in a girl’s life;

but still Mr. Davenant--his name, by the way, was Jasper, a

pleasant-sounding name I had thought it--remained the one figure that

had separated itself from the nebulous mass of humanity that had

peopled my short existence. And to-night--on this night of misery and

despair, when all that was worth living for seemed to be passing away,

as I lay staring up into the darkness, the memory of him came back to

me again. Once more I heard his voice--how strangely familiar it

sounded!--framing those quaintly-abstruse sentences; I recalled the

look in his eyes--clear, hazel eyes, they were, that sparkled with

vivacity and the fresh interest of youth--and his smile, as he uttered

some mild joke--a queer, humorous smile that drew his mouth just a

little to one side and seemed to give an added piquancy to the jest by

its own trifling oddity. I remembered it all, clearly, vividly, with

the freshness of yesterday; the words of wisdom, the humorous turn of

speech, the earnest, almost eager tone, the easy manner, friendly yet

deferential--all came back to me as it had done a hundred times

before, though it was two years ago.

He had been but a stranger--a mere passing stranger who had come and

gone--who had sailed across the rim of my horizon and vanished. But

even in that swift passage some virtue had exhaled from him by which

it had been given to me to look beyond the present into a world

hitherto invisible to me. He was my one little romance; a very little

one, but all that I had; and, to me, he stood for all those things

that might have been and now could never be. And so it happened that,

on this night, when I seemed to be bidding farewell to my youth and

all its dimly-cherished hopes, the memory of him lingered in my

thoughts and was with me still when, at last, sleep--the sleep of

utter weariness and exhaustion--closed my eyelids and shut out for a

time the realities of that life on which I would have been well

content never to look again.

Chapter V.

On the Brink

Of the four days that followed, I do not, even now, like to think.

The dreadful change that was coming into my life loomed up every

moment more distinct, more threatening, more terrible. The hideous

realities of what was about to happen to me refused to be ignored.

They thrust themselves upon me and filled my thoughts every instant of

the day and haunted my dreams at night. There were times when I turned

a wistful eye upon that solution of the hopeless difficulties of life

at which my father had hinted; but alas! even that was no solution as

matters stood. Death, which would have released me from this bondage

into which I had sold myself, would have left my father unemancipated;

and to attain it by my own act would have been a grossly dishonest

evasion of the covenant into which I had entered with Mr. Otway.

Expediency and honour both demanded that I should carry out the terms

of my agreement.

But it was a terrible burden that I bore during those four days, and

bore, of necessity, with a cheerful face and as little change as might

be from my usual manner. That was the most difficult part of all. To

keep up the appearance of quiet gaiety, which was the tone of our

house; to smile, to jest, to discuss projected work and to talk over

the history which I was supposed still to be reading; and all the time

to feel the day of doom creeping upon me, nearer and nearer with every

beat of my aching heart. That was the hardest part. But it had to be

done and done with thoroughness; for my father’s watchful and

sympathetic eye would have detected at once the smallest flutter of a

signal of distress. And it was imperative that he should be kept in

the dark.

And that, perhaps, was the bitterest drop in this bitter potion. For

the first time in my life I had a secret from my father. I was

systematically deceiving him. And the secret that I withheld from him

and shared with a mere stranger--with an enemy, in fact--was one that

concerned him profoundly. And yet that, too, had to be. It was of the

essence of the transaction. For, if he had suspected, for one instant,

what I proposed to do, he would certainly have interfered; and I knew

him well enough to feel sure that his interference would not have

taken the form of mere persuasion. He was a quiet man, suave and

gentle in manner; even-tempered, patient, forebearing--up to a certain

point; but when that point was passed, a change occurred which was apt

to surprise those who knew him but slightly. Like a heavy body, he was

difficult to move and difficult to stop when moved. If he had

suspected Mr. Otway of putting unfair pressure on me--which he would

certainly have done--then I would not have answered for the

consequences to Mr. Otway.

But strive as I would to keep my secret, the intolerable strain of

those days of misery must have made itself visible in some change in

my appearance. Once or twice I caught my father looking at me narrowly

with something of anxiety in his expression, and hastened to put on a

little extra spurt of gaiety and to divert his attention from myself.

Still, he was not entirely deceived by my assumed cheerfulness, though

he made no remark until the very last evening, when, I suppose, my

efforts to conceal the grief and wretchedness that were gnawing at my

heart were less successful than usual. Then it was that he took me

quite seriously to task.

“I wonder what is the matter with my little girl,” he said, looking at

me reflectively as we sat at the supper table. “She has been getting a

little pale of late, and looks tired and worn. Is it too much Queen

Anne and not enough sleep, think you?”

“I am feeling quite well,” I replied.

“That is an evasion, my dear, and a tarradiddle to boot, I suspect.

You are looking quite well. What is it, Jimmy?”

“I don’t think it is anything, Pater, dear,” I answered, not without a

qualm of conscience at the direct untruth. “I haven’t been sleeping so

very well lately, but that is not due to my sitting up reading.

Perhaps it’s the weather.”

“H’m!” he grunted; “perhaps it is--and perhaps it isn’t. Are you sure

there is nothing troubling you? No--what shall we say? Well, to put it

bluntly, no young man, for instance, competing with the good Queen

Anne for your attention?”

I laughed a little, bitterly. If only there had been!

But, alas! I was only too well secured against any troubles of that

sort. So I was able to reply with a moderately clear conscience.

“No, of course there isn’t. You know that perfectly well. How could

there be when you keep me so securely in my little hutch?”

“That’s true, Jimmy,” he answered. “I certainly haven’t noticed any

buck rabbit sniffing around. But perhaps it is the hutch itself that

is the trouble. It is a dull life for a girl, to be shut up with an

old fellow like me. Coal-scuttles and such-like are all very well for

an ancient fossil who has sucked all the juice out of life and must

needs content himself with a modest nibble at the rind that’s left.

But it’s not the sort of thing for a girl. Your orange is still

unsucked, Jimmy, dear, and we mustn’t leave it to get over-ripe.”

“I’ve always been very happy with you, dear old Pater,” I said; and a

lump rose in my throat as I spoke. How happy I had been! And oh, how

thankfully would I have gone on with that serene, peaceful life and

never asked for anything different, if only it might have been so!

“I know you have, my dear,” he rejoined; “always contented and

cheerful and kind to your old father. But still--well, we mustn’t get

too groovy. We must have a little change now and again. I have been

rather preoccupied these last few days, but I shall be more free now.

What do you say to a few days in London? It’s quite a long time since

we’ve been to town. Shall we take a week off and dissipate a little?

Just spread a thin wash of carmine--quite a thin and delicate

one--over the metropolis, and incidentally see for ourselves if the

population of the great world doesn’t still contain a few presentable

human males. What do you say?”

I don’t know what I said, or how I controlled the almost irresistible

impulse to fling myself on his neck and sob my secret into his ear. It

was terrible to listen to him making these plans for one of those

blissful little holidays that we had enjoyed together from time to

time, and to know that the morrow would see my own life spoiled

irrevocably and his home made desolate. Some vague answer I murmured,

and then managed to lead the conversation into a less distressing

channel. But once or twice during the evening he reverted to the

subject, and when, at a rather early hour, I wished him “good-night,”

he said, as he held my hands and looked me over-critically:

“Yes; the blossom is undoubtedly a little faded. We must see to it,

Jimmy. Think over my proposal and consider whether there is any

particular kind of jaunt that you would like; whether, for instance,

you would rather go to the sea than to London.”

“Very well, Pater, dear,” I replied; “I’ll think about it,” and with

this only too easily fulfilled promise I turned away and went

upstairs.

It was my last night at home; the last night of my girlhood and of

freedom. Virtually and to all intents, I had said farewell to my

father for ever; for though, hereafter, we should meet, I should be

his daughter, in the old sense--no more. I should be the chattel of

another man, and that man no friend of his.

For long after I went to my room I sat thinking these thoughts and

gazing with scared, bewildered eyes into the dark future on whose

threshold I already stood. What that future held for me, beyond the

certainty of misery and degradation, who could tell? I dared not try

to pierce that dread obscurity. From what might lie beyond that

threshold my thoughts shrank back, appalled. The whole thing seemed

like some hideous dream from which I should presently awaken,

trembling, but with a sigh of relief. And yet it was not. Unbelievable

as was this awful thing that had descended upon me in a moment, it was

yet but too real for any hope of awakening.

And what of my father? For him, too, the old pleasant life was at an

end. The quiet gaiety, the serene happiness of his home was gone for

ever. Henceforth he would be a lonely man, mourning the loss of his

companion and cherishing a bitter resentment against the man who had

stolen her away. But what would he feel about this shipwreck of my

life--for so he would certainly regard it? What portion of the

wretchedness and degradation into which I had sold myself would have

to be borne by him? It was a question which I had hardly asked myself

before; but now, when I thought of his devotion to me, of his sympathy

with me and his self-forgetfulness, a sudden misgiving crept into my

mind. Was it worth while, after all? If my father and I were both to

be made wretched for life, what good had I done by this sacrifice?

I thought of him as he had been this evening and for the last day or

two. All his light-heartedness had come back. He was quite himself

again. Since I had delivered Mr. Otway’s letter, all signs of care had

vanished. That letter had apparently put him entirely at his ease;

naturally enough, since it had put an end to his immediate

difficulties, and since he knew nothing of the price at which it had

been purchased. And though I knew better, yet his ease and confidence

were not without their effect on me. Under the clear sky and in the

sunshine, it was hard to believe that the thunderbolt was still ready

to fall. And so it was that, more than once on that night, I found

myself asking if it were possible that I had done the wrong thing? Had

been too precipitate.

But it was of no use to think of that now. The bargain had been made,

and payment accepted in advance. Nor if it had been possible for me to

go back on a promise voluntarily given--which it obviously was

not--could Mr. Otway have been held to his. The original situation

would have been created afresh.

Before undressing, I sat down at my little bureau and wrote a letter

to my father in case there should be no time on the morrow. For the

arrangements--which Mr. Otway had communicated to me in a letter

addressed in a feminine handwriting--were necessarily of a somewhat

clandestine character. Mr. Otway had obtained a special license and

had given notice to the clergyman of a small church on the outskirts

of the town, and on the by-road leading to the church I was to meet

him on Thursday morning as near as possible to eleven o’clock. There

was not likely to be any difficulty in carrying out my part of the

arrangement, but nevertheless, it was as well to leave nothing to be

done on the morrow.

The letter that I wrote to my father was quite short. There was no

need for a long one, since the facts to be communicated were of the

simplest and I should probably see him in the course of the day. What

I wrote was as follows:

“My dearest Father,

“I am writing to tell you that I am about to do a thing of which I

fear you will disapprove. I am going to marry Mr. Otway; and by the

time you get this, the marriage will have taken place.

“You will understand why I have done this when I tell you that I

accidentally became aware of your difficulties and of the claim which

he had on you, and you will understand, too, why I have kept my

intention secret from you. It was the only way out for us; and you are

not to think that I have done it for you only. I was equally

concerned, and have acted in my own interests as well as yours.

“Please, dearest, try to forgive me for taking this step without your

sanction. You would never have consented, and yet it had to be.

“Your loving daughter,

“Helen.”

I sealed the letter, and, having addressed it, placed it in my bureau

in readiness for the morning. Then I made various little arrangements

of my possessions, tidying up my bureau and wardrobe, tearing up

letters that had been answered and packing a small trunk with

necessary articles of dress, to be sent for on the morrow; and all

this I did with a curious stony calm and the sense of setting my

affairs in order as if preparing to bid farewell to life. And this

calm--a calm like that which persons of character often exhibit in the

face of unavoidable death, or on the eve of a dangerous operation,

continued even after I went to bed, so that, in contrast to the

perturbed nights that I had passed since my interview with Mr. Otway,

I presently fell into a sound sleep and slept late into the morning.

Chapter VI.

A Meeting and a Parting

It turned out to be easier than I had expected to keep my

appointment with Mr. Otway, for my father had business that took him

abroad early, and, when I came down to breakfast, he had already left

the house; which was a profound relief to me, since it saved me the

added misery of a last farewell and the necessity of further

deception.

It was half-past ten when, after placing my letter in the salver on

the hall table, I set forth from the house. The most direct way to the

church was across the town, but the fear of meeting my father or any

of my acquaintances led me to take the roads that led out from the

environs towards the country, and thus skirt the circumference of the

town. I walked at a good pace, unconsciously threading my way through

the rather complicated maze of by-roads, and still pervaded by the

curious, half-dreamy calm that had possessed me on the preceding

evening.

As I approached the vicinity of the little church--which was a kind of

mission-chapel, in charge of a supernumerary curate--I glanced at my

watch and saw that it was five minutes to eleven; and almost at the

same moment, on turning a corner, I came in sight of a figure the very

first glance at which so completely shattered my self-possession that

I felt ready to sink down upon the pavement. There was no mistaking

it, though the back was towards me; a huge, ponderous figure that

walked away from me with the peculiar gait of the heavy and unathletic

man; a silent, deliberate gait that recalls the action of the hind

legs of an elephant.

I followed him breathlessly up the rather sordid-looking street,

noting that, from time to time, a thin cloud of blue smoke floated

over his shoulder. At length, at the corner of an intersecting road,

he turned and saw me; upon which he flung away a cigar, and, retracing

his steps towards me, saluted me with a flourish of his hat and held

out his hand.

“This is good of you, Miss Vardon,” he said, “to be so punctual. I

hardly hoped that you would be able to be here so--er--so punctually.”

I took his hand limply, but made no reply. The shock of the sudden

encounter was slowly passing off and giving place to a sort of

benumbed indifference mingled with vague curiosity. I felt as if I had

been drugged or were walking abroad in a hypnotic trance, half

conscious and waiting with dull expectancy to see what would happen

next. I walked at Mr. Otway’s side up the mean little street with a

feeling somewhat like that with which one would walk in a dream beside

some historical or mythical personage, accepting the incongruous

situation from mere mental inertia.

Mr. Otway, too, seemed subdued by the strangeness of the position, or

perhaps he was embarrassed by my silence. At any rate, although he

occasionally cleared his throat as if about to make a remark, he did

not actually speak again until we turned a corner, when there

appeared, embedded in a row of mean houses, a small brick building

which, in general shape and design, resembled a large dog-kennel.

“That,” said he, “is the church, Miss Vardon--or perhaps I should say,

Helen. It is a little difficult to--ah--get used to these--these

intimacies, I may say, at so short a notice. No doubt you find it so?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“I am sure you do. Naturally. My own name, you may remember, is Lewis.

My Christian name, I mean,” he added, shying slightly at the word

“Christian.”

“I remember,” said I.

“Quite so. I had no doubt you would. Ahem.” He cleared his throat once

or twice in an embarrassed manner, and then, as we crossed over

towards the church, he continued: “I think we shall find the doors

open. The law, I believe, requires it. And we shall find my

housekeeper, Mrs. Gregg, inside. She will be one of the witnesses, you

know. The other will be the sexton.”

The outer door was on the latch, as he had said, and, when he had

admitted me, he closed and relatched it. From the dark vestibule, I

stepped into the bare, comfortless building, from the white-washed

wall of which a great, emblazoned text grinned at me, as if in

derision, with the words: “I was glad when they said unto me, ‘Let us

go into the House of the Lord.’”

Near the door, on one of the deal benches, the little, frail-looking

woman whom I had seen at Mr. Otway’s house was seated, conversing with

a very bald and rather seedy elderly man; but, as we entered, the man

hurried away towards the vestry and the woman rose and came forward a

few paces to meet us.

“This is Miss Vardon, Mrs. Gregg,” said Mr. Otway, introducing me in a

heavy, embarrassed manner.

Mrs. Gregg stared at me with undisguised curiosity and something of

hostility in her expression, as she replied:

“Ah’ve seen her before.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Otway, “I believe you have. Yes. To be sure. Of

course. And I--er--hope--in fact, I may say that I--ah----”

What he was going to say I have no idea, and I suspect that he was not

very clear himself; but at this moment the man--who was apparently the

sexton--emerged from the vestry in company with a young clergyman,

vested already in his surplice and carrying a book in his hand.

Apparently everything had been explained and arranged beforehand by

Mr. Otway, for, as we advanced up the nave, the curate took his place

before the communion table and opened his book. I noticed that he gave

me one quick and intense look, full of surprise and curiosity, and

thereafter seemed, as far as possible, to avoid even glancing in my

direction.

The ceremony began abruptly and without preamble. With dim surprise, I

became aware that the clergyman was speaking, or rather reading aloud,

in a rapid and indistinct undertone. I listened with but slight

attention, and failed, for the most part, to distinguish the words

which, I think, was what the curate intended; his half-apologetic

mumble being, I believe, designed to mitigate the effect of those

coarsely-phrased impertinences with which the service is besprinkled,

and which have survived so inappropriately into this age of decent and

reticent speech. I tried to fix my thoughts on the ceremony in which I

was taking part, but found them constantly wandering away to my

father, busying themselves with his present whereabouts and

occupation. Was he still at his office? Or had he perchance called in

at our house, as he sometimes did, and already seen my letter?

I was brought back to the happenings of the moment by a question

addressed to me by name in more distinct tones, and followed by the

murmured instruction: “Say I will.” I obeyed the gently-spoken

command, and then, with my right hand enveloped in a large and flabby

grasp, I heard Mr. Otway repeat after the curate the solemn form of

words that should mean so much and that was, as now spoken, so empty a

mockery; of which the phrase “to have and to hold from this day

forward” seemed to separate itself as the only part truly applicable.

Still passive, and conscious only of a certain, dull discomfort and

surprise at the incongruity of the whole affair, I permitted our hands

to be separated and re-joined, and obediently repeated the form of

words as the curate dictated.

“I, Helen Vardon, take thee, Lewis Otway, to my wedded husband, to

have and to hold from this day forward, for richer for poorer, in

sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us

do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my

troth.”

It was amazing! These burning words, so charged with love, with utter

devotion and self-abandonment I was actually addressing to a mere

stranger, to a man who, even now, was but a name attached to an

unfamiliar, ungracious personality; upon whose corpse, if he had

fallen dead at my feet in the very moment of my speaking, I could have

looked with no emotion but relief.

It was an astounding situation. The wonder, the incredibility of it

filled my mind to the exclusion of all else until, as Mr. Otway began

once more to speak at the curate’s dictation, and I became aware that

a ring had been slipped on my finger, I realised dimly that the

ceremony was complete and that the irrevocable change had occurred.

But even then my thoughts quickly flitted away from this significant

scene to others that seemed more deeply to concern me. As I knelt at

Mr. Otway’s side and the monotonous mumble recommenced, I began once

more to wonder where my father was and what he was doing. Had he come

in and seen my letter, or had the maid noticed it and taken it to the

office? And would he be angry or only grieved? Would he think that I

had acted rightly? Or would he condemn my action as ill-considered or

even unnecessary? And lastly, was it just barely possible that I had

done the wrong thing? Had I sacrificed myself--and him--without

sufficient cause?

Thus my thoughts wandered to and fro to the mumbled accompaniment of

the interminable prayers and exhortations that rolled past me in an

unheeded stream. At last the ceremony came to an end. Rising from our

knees, we trooped after the curate to the vestry, where, as I signed

the familiar name in the register, the first clear realization of my

changed condition came upon me. But even then the vivid flash of

perception was but transient. Hardly had I shaken hands with the

clergyman and passed out into the street, when my thoughts sped away

once more to my home--my real home--and my father.

For some time after leaving the church Mr. Otway and I walked in

silence. He hemmed once or twice and seemed on the point of speaking,

but either he could find nothing appropriate to say or he found some

difficulty in opening the subject of his thoughts. And meanwhile I

pursued my own reflections. At length, however, after one or two

preliminary hems, he managed to make a beginning.

“I am afraid, Helen, you may think that I have put rather unfair

pressure on you to marry me.”

I roused myself to consider what he had said, and replied, after a

slight pause:

“Whatever I may think, I am not complaining. I don’t forget that I

accepted your proposal of my own free will; and I intend to try to

carry out honestly my part of the bargain.”

“I am glad to hear you say that, Helen,” he said eagerly. “I was

afraid you might feel resentful--might think I had driven a rather

hard bargain.”

“Perhaps I do,” I replied. “But that doesn’t affect the terms of the

bargain. My feelings towards you were no part of the agreement.”

“No; that’s true,” he agreed hastily; but he was visibly crestfallen,

and walked by my side for some time without speaking. My thoughts

began to wander again; and then, suddenly, there occurred to me a

question that I had already asked myself over and over again without

finding any answer. Now, moved by a fresh impulse of curiosity, I put

it into words.

“Would you mind telling me, Mr. Otway, why you wished to marry me?”

He looked at me in some surprise and a little confusion.

“Why, my dear Helen,” he replied hesitatingly, “there is nothing

remarkable about it, is there? I wished to marry you for the same

reason that any other man would; because you are a handsome girl--a

beautiful girl, I may say--and clever and bright, and, as far as I

could judge from your manner to your father, a good, affectionate

girl. I have admired you ever since I first met you, a year and a half

ago.”

I suppose I looked surprised--I certainly felt so, seeing that he had

made no effort to cultivate our acquaintance--for he continued:

“Yes, Helen, I admired you; but as I had nothing to offer in the way

of personal attractions, and I did not suppose that my means would be

a sufficient set-off for my--ah--personal disadvantages, I kept my

admiration to myself. In fact, I suppose, if it had not been for this

lucky chance--lucky for me, I mean--a little unfortunate perhaps for

you--though not so unfortunate as it might--er--at least I venture to

hope that things may turn out----”

He paused awkwardly, as if expecting me to help him. But I made no

comment. My momentary curiosity was satisfied. I had heard his

explanation, and a very insufficient one it seemed to be. So the

sentence remained unfinished, and, in the silence that ensued, my

thoughts went back once more to my father.

When would he get my letter? And what would be his feelings when he

realized that his daughter--his companion and playmate, his beloved

apprentice--was lost to him for ever? And what would be his attitude

to Mr. Otway? Deeply resentful, beyond a doubt. His scornful rejection

of the proposal had shown that clearly enough. Yes, he would be

angry--furiously angry; for quiet and gentle as his manners were, he

was a passionate man. He could even be violent, as I knew from one or

two experiences. And our doctor, Dr. Sharpe, knew it, too, and had

warned him to be careful, had cautioned him not only to avoid

over-exertion, but excessive excitement of any kind. The doctor’s

words came back to me now with a qualm of uneasiness. I had not

thought of that before. His distress, his grief, his anger against the

man who had exacted this price from me--all that I had thought of and

fretted over. But the actual physical shock that my letter would

inflict on him, utterly unprepared as he was--that I had somehow

overlooked. And yet it was palpable enough. He would come home

expecting to find me waiting for him as usual; and then, without an

instant’s warning, in the very twinkling of an eye, he would learn

that I had been spirited away out of his life for ever. It would be a

terrible blow.

The more I thought of it the more uneasy I became. Supposing he should

become seriously ill on receiving my letter. It was quite possible; it

was even very probable. And if he should have got my letter already!

If he should be, at this very moment, lying, prostrated by the shock,

with none but the servants to tend him! As I thought of this dreadful

possibility, my anxiety grew, moment by moment; and I was beginning to

consider how soon I could contrive to escape to him, to satisfy myself

that all was well, when the voice of Mr. Otway broke in on my

thoughts. I did not at first gather clearly what he was saying until,

by an effort, I detached my attention from the agitating subject of my

reflections.

“Of course,” he was saying as I endeavoured to catch up the thread of

his remarks, “it answered my purpose as a solitary bachelor; but it

won’t do now. We shall have to get quite a different class of house.

And we shall want some other servants. I shall keep Mrs. Gregg, if you

don’t object, as she has been with me so long and knows my ways, but

we shall want a couple of maids in addition, I suppose.”

“Is Mrs. Gregg your only servant?” I asked, rather absently.

“Yes,” he replied; “that is to say, the only resident servant. She has

a girl to help her in the mornings with the housework and to mind the

place when she goes out shopping. That is how she was able to attend

at the church this morning.”

As he was speaking, we turned into the quiet, countrified road in

which he lived, and a few more steps brought us to the house. Mrs.

Gregg, who had apparently hurried on in advance by a different route,

was standing at the open door talking to a girl of about sixteen, and,

as we ascended the steps, she addressed Mr. Otway.

“I’ve got to see to some things in the town. D’ye want Lizzie to stay

or will ye open the door yourself if anyone comes?”

“Oh, she needn’t stay, Mrs. Gregg,” was the reply. “I shan’t be going

out. But don’t be any longer than you can help.”

On this Mrs. Gregg dismissed the girl, and followed her out, shutting

the door after her. Mr. Otway hung his hat on a peg in the hall, and

placing his umbrella in the stand, remarked apologetically:

“Mrs. Gregg’s manner is not all that might be desired in a servant;

but she is a capable woman and absolutely trustworthy. She comes from

the North, you know, where manners run a little more blunt than with

us. Shall I show you your room?”

Without waiting for a reply, he preceded me up the stairs to the first

floor, where he ushered me into a bedroom and stood by the door with

an embarrassed and rather deprecating air, casting a glance of obvious

disparagement over its somewhat meagre appointments.

“It’s a poor place to bring you to, Helen,” he remarked, “but that can

be mended. It was good enough for a bachelor. You’ll find the wardrobe

and chest of drawers empty when you send for your things. Mine are in

the dressing-room--that little room to the right. And now I’ll leave

you in possession for the present.”

With this he went out, closing the door behind him, and I heard his

soft, heavy tread descending the stairs.

For some time after he had gone I stood looking about me in absolute

dismay. The room was mean almost to sordidness--surprisingly mean for

the habitation of an admittedly wealthy man. But it was not that which

filled me with consternation. Delicately as I had been brought up, the

mere surroundings of life were of no great consideration to me. What

appalled me utterly was the feeling, now brought home to me with

overwhelming force, that I was no more my own; that I had surrendered

myself to the possession of another person, a strange man, towards

whom I felt a growing repugnance. This was not my room: it was our

room. No longer had I any rights of privacy or of personal reticence.

I was his, “to have and to hold from this day forward,” with no power

of escape or protest against the most repulsive familiarities. I had

voluntarily surrendered, not only my liberty, but even the appearance

of security from the most outrageous intrusions.

Of course I had known all this before. But in the hurry and rush, the

alarms and agitations of the events that had forced me to my hasty

decision, perception had been partly obscured. I had known what I was

doing, but had only dimly realized. It had needed the sight of that

mean room, with its significant contents and the presence of that man

who stood at my side as joint occupier, to light up the vague

perception into realization of the most horrid vividness.

Presently I began, with the dull curiosity of a prisoner introduced to

a new cell, to explore the room, opening the empty wardrobe and

pulling out the ill-fitting drawers of the plain pine chest. Then I

peeped into the dressing-room--a bare little closet, furnished with a

wash-stand, a dressing-table and a chest of drawers--and even stepped

in to glance over the half-blind down into the garden and street

beyond. I was about to turn away when I noticed a man approaching the

house at a rapid pace; and in an instant my heart leaped with mingled

joy and alarm.

It was my father.

I watched him nervously as he strode towards the house, and my fears

rose with each step that he took. Every movement was expressive of

excitement and anger; the swift stride, the forward-thrust chin, the

very set of the shoulders; the way in which he grasped his stick by

the middle, as if aiming a blow, was full of menace. As he drew nearer

I shrank behind the curtain, but still watched him; watched him with

growing alarm, for now I could see that his eyes were wild under the

frowning brows, his mouth was set and his face was of a strange,

blotchy, purple colour. He looked as if he had been drinking, but I

knew he had not.

As he reached the gate, he wrenched it open violently, and, entering,

slammed it behind him; a thing I had never before known him to do. He

strode up the path, without a glance upwards, and disappeared from my

sight, and a moment later there came a wild jangling of the bell,

followed by a thundering knock at the door.

I hesitated, undecided what I should do. Should I go down and meet him

with appeasing words, or should I wait until the first explosion of

his wrath had subsided? I crept out of the bedroom to the landing and

stood with my hand on the baluster rail, listening. I heard Mr. Otway

walk along the hall, softly and rather slowly. I heard him open the

door, and then my father’s voice rose, loud and fierce.

“Where is my daughter, Otway? Is she here?”

“Yes,” Mr. Otway replied; “she is upstairs. We have just returned from

the church.”

“Do you mean to say,” my father demanded, “that the marriage has

actually taken place?”

“Yes,” Mr. Otway answered. “We were married half an hour ago.”

“What!” roared my father. “After my letter! Did you tell her about

that letter? You didn’t, you damned scoundrel! You’ve tricked her!

You’ve swindled her!”

“As to your letter, Mr. Vardon,” I heard Mr. Otway reply, “I haven’t

seen it myself, yet. The morning’s correspondence is still----”

Here a door closed, and his voice became inaudible. They had gone into

one of the rooms. I staggered back into the bedroom and sank on to a

chair, trembling from head to foot. In the name of God, what did my

father mean? Tricked! Swindled! Could it be true? Was it actually

possible that I had been lured into the arms of this ungainly lout by

a false pretence? It was incredible. And yet----

As the first shock of this amazing statement began to pass off, a

storm of anger and indignation arose in my breast; and I was on the

point of rising to go down and confront Mr. Otway, when the house

shook to a heavy concussion. I sprang from the chair, and flying on

the wings of terror down the stairs, opened the first door that I came

to.

Years have rolled by since that unforgettable moment, but even now, as

I write, the tableau that met my eyes as I opened the door rises

before me vivid and distinct as the dreadful reality. I saw it even

then but for a single instant, as I darted into the room; but it has

remained with me and will remain till my dying day.

My father lay motionless on the floor near the fire-place; his face an

awful, livid grey, his eyes staring fixedly at the ceiling; and from a

small wound on the right side of his forehead a few drops of dark

blood trickled down his temple. Beside him, and stooping over him,

stood Mr. Otway, with ashen face and dropped jaw, the very picture of

horror and mortal fear; and in Mr. Otway’s right hand was grasped my

father’s stick, a stout Malacca, with a heavily-loaded silver knob.

I flew past him and sank on my knees by my father’s side; and in that

moment I knew that my father was dead. I had never seen a dead person

before. But it was unmistakable. I spoke to him; I called to him in an

agonised whisper; I patted his head and touched his face. But all the

while I knew that he was dead; that he was gone from me for ever. Even

as I looked at him, the livid grey of his face faded to a dead white;

the staring eyes relaxed and seemed to sink into their sockets; and

the mouth slowly fell open. It was death. I knew it. Dazed, stricken,

almost bereft of consciousness and the power of thought, I knew it,

with the dull certainty of despair.

As I had entered the room, Mr. Otway had started up with a look of

terror, and when I sank at my father’s side, I had heard him move away

softly towards the writing-table. He was now back and once more

stooping over my father’s body. I felt that he was there, although my

eyes were fixed on that pallid face that gave back no answering

glance. Presently he spoke, in a hushed, awe-stricken whisper.

“This is terrible, Helen! Can’t we do anything?”

I looked up at him with a sudden flush of loathing and detestation;

and as I looked, I noticed that he no longer held the stick. I rose

slowly to my feet and faced him.

“No,” I answered. “He is dead. He is dead. Mr. Otway, you have killed

my father.”

As I faced him, he shrank away from me, staring at me as if I had been

some horrid apparition. His face, blanched to a horrible white and

shiny with sweat, was dreadful to look upon; the face of abject,

mortal terror.

“Helen!” he gasped. “Helen! For God’s sake don’t look at me like that!

It was not I who killed him. I swear to God it was not. He fainted. I

was trying to take the stick from him--I had to, or he would have

killed me--and his head struck the mantelpiece. Then he fainted and

fell. I am telling you the truth, Helen. I am, before God!”

To this I made no reply. Whether I believed him or not, I cannot say.

Stunned as I was by this frightful thing that had befallen, I could

only look at him with utter loathing as the cause of it all.

“Helen!” he continued, imploringly, “say you believe me! I swear I

never touched him. And don’t look at me like that! Helen! Why do you

look at me in that awful way?”

He clasped his hands, and, casting a fearful glance at my poor

father’s corpse, moaned: “My God! my God! but this is horrible!

Horrible! Do you think he is really dead? Don’t you think--can’t we do

anything? If a doctor were here--if we only had someone to send----

Shall I go and fetch a doctor, Helen?”

“Yes,” I answered, “you had better.”

“I will,” he said. “But you do believe me, don’t you? I swear----”

“You had better go at once, Mr. Otway,” I interrupted.

He gave me one pitiful glance of appeal, and then, with a despairing

moan, turned and left the room. I heard him hurry along the hall and a

moment later the outer door closed.

Once more I sank on my knees beside my father, and, taking the passive

hand in mine, looked into the pallid face, dimly surprised to find

something new and unfamiliar creeping into it. I did not weep. The

blow was too crushing, too overwhelming to call forth common emotion.

Nor did I think coherently; but knelt, looking dumbly into the face

that was my father’s, and yet was not, wrapped in a sort of dreadful

trance, conscious only of bitter pain and a sense of unutterable loss.

After a time--I do not know how long--I became aware of sounds of

movement in the house, and presently soft footsteps approached the

room. The door, which Mr. Otway had left ajar, opened with a faint

creak, and the voice of Mrs. Gregg ejaculated: “Sakes! What’s this?”

She stole on tip-toe into the room until she stood beside me, looking

down with a scared expression as my father’s corpse.

“Why!” she exclaimed, “the man’s dead! Who is he?”

“He is my father, Mrs. Gregg,” I replied.

She stood for some time in silence, apparently considering the import

of my answer. Then she walked round and looked down curiously at the

wound on the forehead.

“Where is Mr. Otway?” she asked.

“He has gone to fetch a doctor,” I answered.

“A doctor!” she repeated. “And what might be the good of a doctor when

the man is dead? D’ye know how it happened?”

Before I had time to reply to her question, there came the sound of a

latch-key inserted into the hall door. She turned quickly and made as

if she would leave the room, but, as she reached the threshold, Mr.

Otway entered, followed by the doctor, and she fell back to let them

pass. I rose to my feet, and the doctor--a hard-faced, middle-aged man

whom I knew by sight--knelt down in my place. He lifted the limp hand

and laid his finger on the wrist; he raised the eyelid and touched the

glazing eyeball; then drawing out his stethoscope he listened for some

time at the chest over the region of the heart. And meanwhile we all

stood watching him in a profound silence through which the ticking of

the clock broke noisily, as it had done on that fateful night when I

had sat in this very room unconsciously preparing the elements of this

tragedy.

At length the doctor rose, and, folding his stethoscope, deliberately

slipped it into his pocket and turned to Mr. Otway.

“I am sorry to say that it is as you feared,” said he. “He is quite

dead. From what you have told me, I should say it was a case of heart

failure from over-excitement. Have there been any previous attacks?”

“No,” I answered. “But I think Dr. Sharpe considered that his heart

was weak.”

“Ah! He did, did he? Well, I had better call on Dr. Sharpe and hear

what he knows about the case.” He walked round, and, stooping down,

examined the wound attentively. Then, without looking at Mr. Otway, he

asked: “You say he struck his head against the corner of the

mantelpiece? This corner, I suppose?”

He touched the right hand corner of the marble shelf, and, as Mr.

Otway assented, I saw him place his shoulder against it as if to

measure its height.

“Was that when he was in the act of falling?” he asked, with his eyes

fixed on the wound.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Otway. “At least, I think so--I should say yes,

certainly--that is, to the best of my belief. Of course, Dr. Bury, you

will understand that I am a little confused in my recollection.

The--ah--the circumstances were very agitating and--ah--confusing. Is

the point of any importance?”

“Well, you see,” the doctor replied a little drily, “when a man dies

suddenly and only one person is present--as I understand was the case

in this instance--every point is of importance.”

“Yes, of course. It would be, naturally.”

Mr. Otway spoke these words in a low, husky voice, and, as I looked at

him, I saw that he had turned as pale as death and that his face had

again broken out into a greasy sweat. Nor was I the only observer.

Mrs. Gregg, who had been standing in the corner by the door, quietly

attentive to all that passed, was now watching her employer narrowly

and with a very curious expression. There was a brief interval of

silence, and then Mr. Otway having cleared his throat once or twice,

asked, in the same husky, unsteady voice:

“I suppose, when you have talked the matter over with Dr. Sharpe, you

will be able to certify the death in the usual way?”

“In the usual way?” Dr. Bury repeated. “Yes: in the way that is usual

in cases of sudden death. Of course, I shan’t be able to give an

ordinary certificate. I shall write to the coroner, giving him the

facts, and he will decide whether an inquest is necessary or whether

he can issue a certificate on my statement.”

“I see,” said Mr. Otway. “You will report the facts--and, I suppose,

you will state what your own views on the case are?”

“I shall make any comments that seem to be called for, but, of course,

the facts are what the coroner wants.”

“And would you consider that, in a case like this, an inquiry is

necessary?”

“I don’t know that I should,” was the reply; “but it doesn’t rest with

me. Would you like me to help you to move him? You can’t leave him

lying here, and you can hardly have him carried to his own house by

daylight.”

“No,” Mr. Otway agreed, “we could not. If you will kindly help me to

carry him to the drawing-room, we can lay him on the sofa.”

The two men raised my poor father, and, while I supported his head,

they carried him to the drawing-room and laid him on the sofa, when

Dr. Bury, having taken an embroidered cover from a table and spread it

over him, drew down the blinds.

“Perhaps,” said he, “you had better leave him here until we know what

the coroner intends to do. In case he should decide----”

Here he glanced a little uncomfortably at me, and I realised that he

would rather speak of the grim details unembarrassed by my presence.

Accordingly, I stole from the room and returned to the one from which

we had just come. The door was open as we had left it, and, as I came

opposite to it, treading softly, as was my habit, I saw Mrs. Gregg

standing by the roll-top table with my father’s stick in her hand,

apparently testing the weight of the heavy lead loading that the

silver knob concealed. She started as she suddenly became aware of my

presence, but, quickly recovering her self-possession, asked:

“Will this be your father’s stick?”

I answered that it was, whereupon she remarked, as she stood it in the

corner behind the writing-table, whence, I suppose, she had taken it:

“I thought ’twas a stranger to me. A fine stick it is, too, and a

trusty companion ’twould be on a dark night and a lonely road.”

To this I made no reply; and when she had glanced at the clock and

peered curiously into my father’s hat, which stood on the table, she

turned abruptly and left the room.

Chapter VII.

The Terms of Release

When Mrs. Gregg had gone, I shut the door, and, sinking on to the

chair by the writing-table, tried to collect my thoughts. But though I

was vaguely conscious that this dreadful disaster vitally affected my

position, and must in some way affect my actions, overwhelming grief

and a sense of irreparable loss rendered coherent thought impossible.

My father was dead. That was all I could think of. My one perfect

friend, who had absorbed all my affection and given me all of his, had

gone out of my life. Henceforward I was alone in the world.

Presently I heard Dr. Bury leave the house, and then the door opened

and Mr. Otway came into the room, looking like a man who had risen

prematurely after a severe illness. He dropped limply on a chair, and

sat, with his hands on his knees, looking at me with a pitiable

expression of misery and consternation.

“This is a terrible affair, Helen,” he said in a broken voice.

“Terrible! Terrible!”

I made no reply, but looked at him, half-curiously and resentfully. In

the extremity of my grief, I had no pity to spare for him who was the

cause of this dreadful calamity.

“Won’t you speak to me, Helen?” he said, imploringly. “Won’t you try

to give me some comfort? Think of the awful position I am in.”

At his miserable egotism, my grief blazed up into sudden wrath.

“You!” I exclaimed, scornfully. “And what of me? You have robbed me of

my father--of all that matters to me in life--and now you ask me to

comfort you!”

He stretched out his hands to me with a gesture of entreaty.

“Don’t say that, Helen!” he implored. “Don’t say I robbed you of him.

It was an accident that no one could foresee. And after all, you know,

Helen,” he added, persuasively, “if you have lost a father, you have

gained a devoted husband.”

At these words I gazed at him in utter amazement; and quite suddenly

the confusion of my thoughts began to clear up. I began to realise

that some action was called for, though what that action was I could

not clearly see at the moment. But what I did see quite clearly was

that the thing he was suggesting was utterly unthinkable.

“Do you suppose, Mr. Otway,” I demanded, “that I could possibly live

with you as your wife after what has happened?”

“But you are my wife, Helen,” he protested.

“I agreed to marry you, Mr. Otway, in order to save my father. My

father has not been saved.”

“That was, no doubt, your motive, Helen,” he answered. “I don’t deny

that. But, actually, you agreed to be my wife on certain specific

conditions, which I carried out--or, at least, was prepared----”

He hesitated with sudden embarrassment; and the embarrassment, with

the statement, in the midst of which he had broken off, gave me my

cue.

“Mr. Otway,” I said, “you had a letter from my father. What was in

that letter?”

At this question his self-possession broke down completely.

“I have had no letter,” he stammered; “at least, that is to say, I

haven’t seen--he spoke of a letter, but--but the fact is, in my

excitement this morning I forgot to look at my correspondence. If

there was a letter, it must be in the box still.”

“Let us go and see if it is there,” said I. My confusion of mind was

fast clearing up, and as my wits returned, I found myself shaping a

definite course of action. I rose and accompanied him to the hall door

and stood by while he unlocked the letter-box. As he opened the trap,

I perceived that the box contained a single letter; and even in that

agitating moment, the significance of the fact struck me. It was

strange, indeed, that the morning’s delivery should bring to a man of

business no more than a single letter.

He picked the missive out, and, having glanced at it, handed it to me.

I looked at it, and, perceiving that it was in my father’s

handwriting, tore open the envelope and drew out the letter, which I

read aloud. It ran thus:--

“Stonebury, Maidstone.

“25th April, 1908.

“Dear Otway,

“You will, no doubt, be glad to learn that our little difficulty is at

an end. The unexpected has happened. My friend has been able to raise

the wherewith to repay the loan that I made to him, and has sent a

cheque for the full amount. I have paid it into my bank, but, as a

measure of security, in view of the magnitude of the sum, I am waiting

until the cheque is cleared before sending you mine. However, you may

expect to receive payment in full in the course of three clear days

from this date.

“With many thanks for your forbearance,

“I am, yours very truly,

“W.H. Vardon.”

As I finished reading, I looked Mr. Otway sternly in the face.

“You realize,” I said, “that this letter makes our agreement void?”

He did not reply immediately, but stood with his eyes averted from me

and his fingers working nervously.

“Do you realize that?” I demanded.

“Well, in a way, yes,” he replied, hesitatingly. “If it had reached me

sooner--that is to say, if I had seen it----”

“If you had seen it!” I interrupted, angrily. “What has that to do

with the question? The letter was delivered to you, as the post-mark

shows, before you left the house. It came by the first post. If you

chose to leave it unopened, that is your affair. When you met me this

morning, the agreement was already at an end.”

He glanced nervously along the hall towards the kitchen stairs.

“We needn’t stand here,” he said. “Let us go into the study and talk

this affair over quietly.”

He led the way back to the room we had left, and, having shut the

door, turned to me deprecatingly.

“It’s an unfortunate business, Helen,” he said. “Very unfortunate. Of

course, I ought to have looked over the morning’s post, but, in my

natural excitement, I overlooked it; and now I don’t see that there is

anything for us to do but make the best of it.”

I looked at him in amazement. “But,” I exclaimed, “you don’t seem to

realize that our agreement was at an end before the marriage took

place.”

“No, I don’t,” he replied. “You see this letter is only a

notification--a conditional promise to pay. It doesn’t discharge the

debt.”

At this my patience gave out completely. “Let us have no evasions or

quibbles, Mr. Otway,” I said. “Our agreement was at an end before the

marriage took place, and I have no doubt that you knew it. You

obtained my consent by fraud.”

“I don’t admit that,” said he. “But even if it were so, what would you

propose?”

“I propose to have the marriage annulled,” I replied.

He shook his head. “That is impossible, Helen,” he said. “The marriage

is not voidable. An action for nullity can be sustained only on

certain conditions, none of which exist in our case.”

“But,” I exclaimed, “my consent was obtained on a fraudulent pretence!

Surely that is a sufficient ground for claiming to have the marriage

annulled!”

“I deny the fraud,” he replied, doggedly. “But in any case it is not

material. The marriage was perfectly regular, you are of full adult

age, you gave your consent without compulsion, and there are none of

those impediments which the law recognises. I assure you, Helen, that

our marriage is not voidable--that it cannot be annulled by ordinary

process.”

Little as I trusted to his truth or honour, I suspected that what he

was now saying was true. But yet the position was unthinkable.

“Do you mean to tell me,” I demanded, “that the law would uphold a

marriage between a woman and the murderer of her father?”

He winced as if I had struck him a blow, and his face grew sensibly

paler.

“For the love of God, Helen,” he entreated, “don’t talk like that! You

don’t believe it. I can see you don’t. You know I did not kill your

father.”

“I know nothing,” I replied, “but this: that when I came into the room

my father was lying dead with a wound on his forehead and that you

were standing over him with a formidable weapon in your hand.”

I thought he would have fainted. He sank into a chair with a gasp that

was almost a sob, and the sweat streamed down his pallid face. He was

a pitiable spectacle; but yet I felt no pity for him. I was bent only

on escaping from the net in which he had caught me.

“I swear I never touched him, Helen,” he protested, breathlessly. “I

swear it. But you know I did not. You are only saying this to torture

me. You don’t believe it. I know you don’t.”

“It is of little importance what I believe, Mr. Otway,” I replied,

coldly. “The decision will not rest with me. You will be judged by

others on the facts which I have stated.”

He made no immediate reply. He seemed absolutely paralysed by terror,

and sat, breathing quickly and staring at me, as if he expected me to

kill him then and there. At length he spoke in a husky, indistinct

voice.

“Helen. What is it you want of me?”

“I want this marriage set aside,” I answered.

“But,” he protested, “I have told you that is impossible. It cannot be

annulled in the ordinary sense. Be reasonable, Helen. Let us talk the

matter over and see if we can’t come to terms.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, persuasively, “I should like to meet your wishes if I

can. I am not unreasonable. I can see that, as things are, you would

not wish to live with me as my wife. We can’t get the marriage

annulled, but we can arrange a separation--a temporary separation,

say, without prejudice to any future arrangements--by mutual consent.

What do you say to that?”

“If the marriage cannot be set aside, I suppose a separation would be

the next best thing. Do I understand that you are willing to agree to

a separation?”

“Yes,” he replied; “on certain conditions I am willing to agree to a

separation--a temporary separation, you know.”

“What are your conditions?” I asked.

He cleared his throat once or twice, as if in doubt how best to put

the matter. Then, avoiding my eye, he began, hesitatingly, but with an

obsequiously persuasive manner.

“The exact circumstances of your father’s most lamentable death,

Helen, are known to you and to me and to no one else. As I have told

you, and I am convinced that you believe, the heart attack which

killed him came as we were struggling for possession of his stick. It

was due to the excitement and the violent exertion. Perhaps the blow

on the head from the corner of the mantelpiece may have had something

to do with it, for the fainting attack came on almost directly

afterwards. He relaxed his hold on the stick and fell, leaving it in

my hands. There was no violence on my part. I never struck him or did

anything that could in any way make me responsible for his death. That

is the truth, Helen, and I am convinced that you believe it, in spite

of what you have said.”

“I have only your word that it is the truth,” said I.

“Exactly,” he agreed. “But you believe me. You know what your father’s

state of health was, and you know that he was liable, on occasions, to

be--er--somewhat violent. So you believe me. But others, who have not

the knowledge that you have--ah--might--ah--might not believe me.”

“I haven’t said that I do,” I interposed. “However, we will let that

pass. Go on, please.”

He paused to wipe his face with his handkerchief, and then proceeded:

“You said just now that when you entered the room you saw me standing

over your father with a weapon in my hand.”

“So I did.”

“I know you did, Helen. You saw me holding your father’s loaded stick.

It is quite true. But--it would--ah--greatly simplify matters

if--well, if that circumstance were not communicated to--ah--to anyone

else.”

“You mean to say,” said I, “that you want me to suppress the fact that

I saw you standing over my father’s dead body holding a loaded stick?”

“I wouldn’t use the word ‘suppress,’ Helen,” he replied, passing his

handkerchief once more over his haggard face. “I only ask you to

refrain--in the interests of justice and--ah--of common humanity--from

mentioning a circumstance that--ah--mentioned, might mislead the

hearers, and might, conceivably, lead them to quite erroneous

conclusions. It is a reasonable thing to ask. No doubt you blame me;

you look upon me as the cause of this dreadful trouble--which, in a

certain sense, I admit I am. But you would not be vindictive, Helen,

or unjust. You would not wish to see me placed in the dock--perhaps

even convicted--think of that, Helen! Convicted and sentenced when I

am absolutely innocent! My God! It would be an awful thing! You

wouldn’t wish to have such a frightful miscarriage of justice as that

on your conscience, I am sure.”

“It wouldn’t be on my conscience,” I replied, coldly. “The verdict

would not be mine; and besides, I have only your word that you are

innocent. You have made the statement to me, and you could make it to

others, who would take it for what it is worth.”

He clasped his hands passionately and leaned forward towards me with

an imploring gesture.

“Helen!” he exclaimed. “Don’t be so hard, so cold! Have you no pity

for me? Think of my awful position--an innocent man, but yet with

appearances so horribly against me. And the whole issue is in your

hands. You were not present when--when it happened. You have only to

say so and to refrain from making any unnecessary additions to that

statement, and no miscarriage of justice can occur. I am not asking

you to say anything that is not true; I am only asking you to keep

irrelevant and misleading matter out of the inquiry. Do this, Helen,

and I promise to execute a deed surrendering all claims on you--at

least for a time.”

I made no immediate answer. Mr. Otway was perfectly right on one

point. I did not believe that he had killed my father. I think I only

half believed it, even, at the awful moment of the discovery; for the

alarming appearance that my father had presented as he strode up the

garden path, with his wild eyes and his strange, blotchy colour, had

made me fear a catastrophe; and when the catastrophe had almost

immediately followed, it was natural that my mind should refer it to a

cause already considered rather than to one totally unexpected.

Moreover, Mr. Otway’s account of the tragedy was intrinsically

probable; it fitted the facts that were known to me; whereas the

supposition that he had killed my father was wildly improbable.

It is not to be supposed, however, that, in my present agitated state,

I reasoned the matter out consciously in this methodical fashion. But

unconsciously, and perhaps vaguely, my mind had worked along these

lines to a conclusion; and that conclusion was that Mr. Otway’s

account of what had happened was substantially correct. Nevertheless,

I was not prepared to admit this at the moment; indeed, my whole

desire was to be rid of the man’s irksome presence--to be alone with

my grief.

“I can’t give you an answer now, Mr. Otway,” I said. “I am not in a

condition to discuss anything. I want to go home and be quiet.”

He acquiesced with surprising readiness, no doubt encouraged by my

tacit abandonment of the accusation.

“Of course you do,” he agreed. “It has been a fearful shock for you.

Go home and keep yourself quiet. I shall hear from Dr. Bury, in the

course of the day, what the coroner intends to do, and I will call and

let you know. And I will bring a draft of the deed for you to look at.

The sooner we arrive at a settlement, the better. And, Helen, let me

beg you not to say anything to anyone about--anything that might

complicate matters. You understand what I mean.”

I nodded wearily and moved towards the door. I was still wearing my

outdoor clothes, so I had no preparations to make. Mr. Otway opened

the door for me and I passed out into the hall; but before leaving the

house, I turned back into the darkened drawing-room, and, raising the

cover from my father’s face, kissed his already cold cheek.

“Good-bye, dearest! Good-bye!” I whispered, passionately; and then,

feeling the tears rushing to my eyes, I kissed him again, and,

replacing the cover, hurried from the room. Mr. Otway was standing at

the hall door to let me out, and timidly offered his hand; but I

walked quickly past him, and, running down the steps, made my way out

through the gate that had admitted me to my ruin and my father to his

death.

Chapter VIII.

“Whom God Hath Joined----”

Our states of mind in certain unforeseen circumstances are sometimes

surprising, even, to ourselves. As I walked away from Mr. Otway’s

house, I think I was dimly surprised at my own self-possession. The

worst had happened. The calamity which I had feared, and which I had

made such sacrifices to avert, had befallen; and yet I was

comparatively calm. My heart ached, it is true, with a grief such as

I had never known before; with a sense of irreparable loss and a

feeling of utter loneliness and desolation; but yet, under it all was

a certain indefinable peace.

Looking back with more natural knowledge and experience, this state of

mind is not difficult to understand. My father’s sudden death was a

crushing calamity; but, in the very moment of its happening, the

incubus of my relation to Mr. Otway was lifted. For, though I was not

at the time conscious of the fact, I now see clearly that, even as I

passed out of the house of the man whom the law regarded as my

husband, my mind was made up that I had done with Mr. Otway.

Moreover, my new trouble was in other ways more easy to bear than the

misery of the last few days. My marriage had seemed, in a manner, to

put an end to my life. It had offered nothing but an unending vista of

wretchedness, an unending submission to a state of things that was

intolerable even to think of. But this new catastrophe was sudden and

final. The blow had fallen, once for all; shattering, indeed, my

present, but calling upon me instantly to make provision for the

future. And in action, the necessity of which forced itself upon me

even before I reached home, I found, if not relief from my sorrow, at

least some temporary distraction.

As I let myself in with my latch-key, our housemaid met me in the hall

to announce that lunch had been waiting for some time, and to ask me

if I knew at what time my father would come in.

“My father is dead, Jessie,” I replied. “He died suddenly at Mr.

Otway’s house about an hour ago. I can’t tell you any more just now.”

I walked past her and ascended the stairs to my room, leaving her

standing in the hall as if petrified; but, before I reached the

landing, I heard her rush away towards the kitchen, making the house

resound with her hysterical shrieks and lamentations. It was very

dreadful and distressing, but yet it had a steadying effect on me,

reminding me of my isolated position and of the need for firmness and

self-control. In a few minutes I came down, and disregarding Jessie’s

sobs and tears, sat out the simple formalities of lunch as a matter of

discipline and example, and even compelled myself to take a certain

amount of food.

As I sat at my silent and solitary meal, my thoughts were busy with

the many things that had to be done. Not willingly, indeed; for I

longed to be quiet and nurse my grief--to forget everything but my

sorrow and my great bereavement. But that was impossible. I was

practically alone in the world, for I had no near relatives, and all

that had to be done must be done, or at least directed, by me. There

was my father’s funeral to be arranged, the business to be transferred

or wound up, the property to be realised--and there was Mr. Otway.

Naturally enough, my thoughts constantly came back to him. As to his

moral claim on me, it was null and void. Whether he had, as I

suspected, seen my father’s letter and deliberately left it unopened,

or whether he had simply neglected to look for it, made no difference.

It had been delivered to him, and thereupon our agreement had ceased

to exist. But if he had no moral claim, he had, apparently, a legal

hold on me which would have to be considered. If he could be induced

to surrender that, the position would be greatly simplified. And he

was ready to surrender it on a certain condition.

To Mr. Otway’s proposal my thoughts came back again and again. The

condition that he had made was not an unreasonable one, or, at least,

it did not appear so to me. My father had died when they were alone

together: they had admittedly been quarrelling; my father bore the

mark of a heavy blow; and Mr. Otway had been found standing over the

body with a loaded stick in his hand. The appearances suggested that

he had killed my father. And yet I was convinced that he had not.

Profoundly loathing him as the cause of all my misfortunes, I still

felt that he was, in this respect, an innocent man; and common justice

demanded that he should not be made to suffer for a crime that he had

not committed.

Now what was my position in the affair? Practically I held the scales

of justice. The one absolutely damning fact was in my sole possession;

and I alone, in all probability, would appreciate the misleading

appearances which that fact created. That was my dilemma. I could make

known the fact itself to those who should judge him, but could I make

them understand how little it was worth? It seemed very doubtful. _I_

had trembled for my father’s safety and had seen him come in at the

gate, already in a dangerous condition. _They_ had not. They might

easily fail to weigh his state of health against that one, apparently,

sinister fact of the loaded stick. In short, it came to this: that if

I mentioned what I had seen, Mr. Otway ran a serious risk of being

punished for a crime which he had not committed, whereas if I

refrained from mentioning it, justice would take its proper course.

That, I think, is, in effect, how I argued. Neither the logician nor

the jurist will commend me. But women have their own ways of looking

at things, and one of those ways is somewhat to confuse conviction

with knowledge. A thing firmly believed is apt to present itself as a

thing known. I had come to the conclusion that Mr. Otway was innocent

of my father’s death, and having done so, had unconsciously treated

his innocence as a fact that was within my knowledge.

After lunch, I telephoned to the office, asking Mr. Jackson, my

father’s managing clerk, to come and see me; and while I was waiting

for him, I took down from the study shelves a treatise of the Law of

Husband and Wife, and turned over those of its unsavoury pages which

dealt with suits for nullity. Apparently Mr. Otway was right. So far

as I could make out, the circumstances of our marriage afforded no

grounds for such a suit. I was married irrevocably. My complete

freedom was gone beyond recall; I should have to be content with such

incomplete freedom as is conferred by a deed of separation.

I had just returned the book to the shelf when Mr. Jackson arrived and

entered the room looking very flurried and uncomfortable.

“What a dreadful thing this is, Miss Vardon!” he exclaimed. “Shocking!

Shocking! So unexpected! I need not say how much we all sympathize

with you.”

“It is very kind of you,” I said, offering him a chair.

“Not at all,” he rejoined. “It is a terrible misfortune for all of us.

Would it distress you very much to tell me how it happened?”

“It was for that purpose that I sent for you, Mr. Jackson; to tell you

exactly what has happened and to ask your advice”; and here I gave him

a brief account of the events of the morning.

At the mention of my marriage he looked profoundly surprised, but

also, I thought, distinctly relieved; but he did not make any comment

until I had finished the whole tragic story, when he remarked:

“I am very glad to hear that you are married, Miss Vardon--or rather,

I should say, Mrs. Otway--to a man of such very substantial means, if

I am rightly informed.”

“Why are you glad?” I asked.

“Because,” he replied, “it disposes of rather a difficulty. Your

father was a man of great abilities and an excellent lawyer, but he

was somewhat inattentive to the financial side of his profession. I am

afraid you would have been left rather badly provided for.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” said I, “because I am not proposing to live

with Mr. Otway. I have asked him to agree to a separation.”

Mr. Jackson raised his eyebrows. “May I ask why?” he enquired.

“I don’t want to go into details just now,” I answered, “but I may say

that the marriage was an affair of accommodation; I supposed my father

to be in a position of embarrassment, and I made the arrangement with

Mr. Otway without his knowledge. It turns out that I was mistaken. He

was not embarrassed. When the marriage took place, I was under a

misapprehension and I was misled by Mr. Otway. Accordingly, I have

asked to have a separation deed drawn up.”

“Does he agree to the separation?”

“He has not yet, but I think he will; so I shall have to consider my

resources, after all.”

“But,” Mr Jackson objected, “he will have to make you an allowance.”

“That,” I said, “is impossible. If I repudiate the marriage, I could

not, of course, allow him to support me.”

“Why not?” demanded Mr. Jackson. “He is legally bound to. You are his

wife. While the marriage stands, you can’t marry anybody else.

Besides, he is not likely to raise any objection. He is a lawyer, you

know.”

“I am not thinking of him: I am thinking of myself. I wish to be under

no obligations to Mr. Otway, and I shall not accept any assistance

from him.”

“I am sorry to hear you say that,” Mr. Jackson said, gloomily;

“because I am afraid you will be rather badly off. The business is a

very personal one, and is worth practically nothing to sell. If I were

a qualified solicitor, I might be able to carry it on. But I’m not;

and I doubt if anyone would care to buy the good-will at any price.

Still, I’ll see what can be done. As to your father’s will, I happen

to know that you are the residuary legatee--practically the sole

legatee--but what that amounts to, I shouldn’t like to say. Mighty

little, I fear. However, it’s of no use to worry you with these

matters now. If you will authorize me to look into your father’s

affairs, I will let you know exactly how things stand; and if I could

be of service to you in any way, I hope you’ll let me know. There’s

the funeral, for instance----”

He paused suddenly, and ran an uncomfortable eye along the rows of law

books on the shelves.

“You are very kind, Mr. Jackson,” I said, “and your help will be

invaluable. As my father’s friend, I should like you to take charge of

the funeral arrangements, if you would be so good.”

The rest of our conversation was concerned with the various things

which had to be done during the next day or two, and it left with a

feeling of the warmest gratitude to this quiet and rather dry man of

business, whose sympathy took such a practical and acceptable form.

It was past six o’clock when the red-eyed Jessie came to the study to

announce that Mr. Otway was waiting in the drawing-room; and there I

found him wandering restlessly round by the walls and making a show of

examining the pictures. He was still very pale and looked haggard and

weary, but yet he held out his hand to me with a certain confidence.

“I think, Helen,” said he, “that you will be a little relieved at my

news. I have seen Dr. Bury, and he tells me that the coroner will be

satisfied with his evidence and Dr. Sharpe’s.”

“Do you mean that there is to be no inquest?” I demanded, with sudden

suspicion.

“No, no,” he replied. “Of course, there will be an inquest. But the

coroner thinks that the circumstances do not call for a _post-mortem_.

I thought you would be glad to know that. The--er--body will remain

where it is until the jury have viewed it, and then it can be brought

here for the--ah--the funeral.”

I nodded but made no comment on this statement, and he continued after

a brief pause:

“I suppose, Helen, you would like me to act for you in regard to the

funeral arrangements.”

“Thank you, Mr. Otway,” I replied, “but Mr. Jackson has very kindly

undertaken that for me.”

He looked somewhat crestfallen at this, and said, deprecatingly:

“I am sorry you did not leave the arrangements to me. It would have

looked better.” Which it undeniably would--from his point of view.

As I made no rejoinder, there followed a slightly uncomfortable pause,

during which he was evidently bracing himself up for what was the real

object of his visit. At length he began nervously:

“Have you been able to give any more consideration to my proposal,

Helen?”

“Yes,” I answered; “I have thought about it a good deal. Perhaps we

had better go into the study, which is more out of the way of the

servants than this.”

We crossed the hall, and, when we had entered the study and closed the

door, I resumed:

“I may as well say, Mr. Otway, that I am prepared to accept your

statement. On reflection, I believe that your account of what happened

is true.”

“Thank God for that!” he ejaculated. “I felt sure you believed me,

Helen; but it is an unspeakable relief to hear you say so. And I am

sure you will agree with me that the--the apparently incriminating

circumstance need not be mentioned.”

“I might even agree to that,” I replied; “but there must be a clear

understanding. I am not going to say anything that is not strictly

true.”

“Oh, certainly not!” he agreed. “All that I ask is that you refrain

from volunteering a perfectly unnecessary and misleading statement.

Will you promise to do that?”

“I am not sure that I have any right to make such a promise, Mr.

Otway; but still, on the conditions that you mentioned, I am prepared

to do so.”

His relief was really pathetic. Its intensity made me understand what

torments of terror he had been suffering. He flung out his hands as if

he would have embraced me, but drew back, as I said, coldly:

“You are prepared on your side, Mr. Otway, to carry out your part? You

agree to execute a deed of separation, as I asked?”

“If you insist,” he replied. “It’s a hard bargain, but if you hold me

to it, I have no choice. Would not a short, informal separation do?”

“No, Mr. Otway,” I replied firmly, “it would not. I am acting somewhat

against my conscience in agreeing to suppress this fact, and I want

full compensation for doing so. I must have a legally-valid deed of

separation.”

“Very well, Helen,” said he; “if it must be, it must. I hope that,

later, you will take a kinder view of our relations, but meanwhile I

will do exactly as you wish. I have drafted out a deed, in a simple

form, with as little legal verbiage as possible. If its terms satisfy

you, I will copy it out and sign it.”

He handed me a sheet of paper on which the deed was drafted, and I

read it through carefully. Like the other documents that he had drawn

up, it was lucid, simple and concise, and set forth quite fairly the

conditions to which he had agreed, with one exception. It determined

automatically at the end of three months.

“I can’t agree to that,” I said. “There must be no specified time; it

is to be just a separation.”

“But,” he exclaimed, “you don’t propose that the separation should

last for ever, do you?”

That was precisely what I did propose, but I thought it politic not to

express myself too definitely.

“It is impossible,” I replied, “to say what may happen in the future;

but if you make the separation determinable by mutual consent, that

will provide for all eventualities.”

He agreed, with a somewhat wry smile, that this was so, and then asked

how soon I should like to have the deed executed.

“As it must be signed before I give my evidence,” I replied, “it had

better be done now. If you will make two copies, I will go and fetch

the maids to witness the signatures.”

“Dear me, Helen!” he exclaimed. “What an extraordinarily business-like

young lady you are! But I suppose you are right; only I would suggest

that you do not acquaint the witnesses with the nature of the

document. We don’t want to take the world into our confidence,

especially just now.”

This was reasonable enough, though it would obviously be impossible to

keep the world in the dark as to our position, particularly after what

I had said to Mr. Jackson. However, I agreed to maintain a discreet

reticence, and when he had made the two copies--which I carefully read

through--I went out and called Jessie and the cook.

“I want you,” said I, “to witness my signature and Mr. Otway’s to a

couple of documents. You have just to see us sign our names and then

sign your own underneath.”

The two women came into the study with an air of mystery and awe,

gazing furtively from me to Mr. Otway. The two documents lay on the

table, each with a sheet of blotting paper spread over it, exposing

only the blank spaces which were to receive the signatures, on each of

which a red wafer seal had been stuck. Mr. Otway signed first, and

then, indicating to the cook the place where she was to write her

name, placed the pen in her hand.

“That’s right,” said he, when she had painfully and with protruded

tongue, executed the signature of “Ivy Stokes.” “Now you will do the

same with the other paper as soon as Mrs. Otway has signed.”

The cook gazed curiously at me as I signed the second document, and

then, in the same strained and laborious fashion, traced the scrawling

characters over the name that I had lightly pencilled in for her

guidance. Having watched with feverish interest while I marked the

next space, she drew back and made way for Jessie, who, by watching

her colleague, had learned what was required of her.

When the formalities were completed and the two maids dismissed--to

discuss these strange proceedings, doubtless, in the kitchen--Mr.

Otway handed me the copy, bearing his signature, and, taking the

other, rose to depart.

“Before I go, Helen,” he said, “there is one matter to settle. In the

document I thought it best to say nothing about an allowance----”

“You were quite right,” I interrupted. “Of course, I should not ask

for, or accept, any allowance under the circumstances.”

“You won’t need one at present,” said he. “We know there are five

thousand pounds lying to your father’s credit at his bank----”

“That money was not his,” I said, “and it is not mine. As soon as the

will is proved it will be paid to you on behalf of your clients.”

“But that is quite unnecessary, Helen,” said he. “The use, for an

unspecified time, of that sum of money was the consideration in

respect of which you agreed to marry me. As the marriage has taken

place, it is only fair and reasonable that you should receive the

consideration. In effect, that five thousand is yours by the terms of

our agreement.”

I was on the point of replying that our agreement was null and void,

and that I had no intention of carrying out its conditions; but

prudence whispered that I had better keep my intentions to myself, at

least as to my ultimate conduct. Besides which, Mr. Otway’s statement

was not entirely correct, as I proceeded to point out.

“The use of this money,” I said, “was to relieve my father, who was

assumed to be insolvent. But it appears that he was not insolvent; and

it is my intention that all his debts shall be paid, in so far as

there are funds to meet them. It is certainly what he would have

wished.”

“But,” Mr. Otway protested, “supposing the payment of these debts

should consume all the available assets? How are you going to live?”

“I suppose I shall do as other women do when they have no independent

means. I shall work for my living. But it is premature to discuss that

until I have had Mr. Jackson’s report. I don’t suppose I shall be

absolutely penniless.”

He shook his head gloomily. “You are Quixotic, Helen, and

wrong-headed, too. There is no reason why you should work for your

living. As a married woman, you are entitled to maintenance, and I am

willing, and even anxious, to maintain you. But I won’t press the

matter now. If you want money, you know that you can have it, not as a

favour but as a right. And now there is just one other matter that I

want to speak about. In the deed of separation I said nothing about

our relations other than was actually necessary. I made no stipulation

as to your keeping me informed of your whereabouts; but I ask you now,

if you should be leaving Maidstone, to let me have your address and to

allow me to keep up communication with you. It is a reasonable

request, Helen, and I am sure you will not hesitate to accede to it.”

I did hesitate, however, for some time. In truth, I was not at all

willing to agree to this proposal. My wish was to sponge Mr. Otway,

once and for all, out of my life and to make a fresh start. Still, the

request was a reasonable one, and could, I suspected, have been

enforced as a demand; and, in the end, though very reluctantly, I

yielded.

“Thank you, Helen,” said he, holding out his hand; “then I won’t worry

you any more just now. It is understood that I am not to lose sight of

you, and that if you should want help, pecuniary or other, you will

let me know. And I may rely on you to say no more at the inquest than

is actually necessary?”

I gave him the required assurance on this point, and, having somewhat

frigidly shaken his hand, accompanied him to the hall door and let him

out.

As I stood in the open doorway, watching him walk away up the street

in his heavy, elephantine fashion, a man entered at the gate, and,

approaching with a deferential and rather uncomfortable air, took off

his hat and offered me a small, blue envelope, which bore the

superscription “Mrs. Lewis Otway.” I took it from him, and, closing

the door, went back to the study, where I opened the envelope and

extracted the little slip of blue paper that it enclosed; which turned

out, as I had expected, to be the subpœna to the inquest. I glanced

through the peremptory phrases of the summons, and, laying the slip of

paper on the table, went up to my own room to be quiet and think upon

all that lay before me.

But thought--orderly, useful thought--was impossible. Everything

around me spoke of the life that had been so tragically broken off,

rather than of the future that loomed so vague and empty before me.

The open book on the reading-stand, the hastily scribbled notes upon

the writing-block, the unanswered letters and a little pile of rough

drawings on the table, all seemed to call to me to take up afresh the

thread that had been dropped; seemed to interpose the unfinished past

before the uncommenced future. Restlessly I wandered down to the

workshop--where the coal scuttle still stood on the bench, a mute but

eloquent memorial of that tragic final evening--only to gather a fresh

sense of loss and desolation. And so, for the rest of the day, I

haunted the house like some unquiet spirit, watched with pity, not

unmixed with fear, by the awe-stricken servants, tearless and

outwardly calm, but inwardly torn by grief and a sense of bereavement

that seemed to intensify moment by moment.

And yet, when, in the silence of the night, the tears came at last,

and my sorrow, no longer mute, voiced itself in sobs and moans of

pain, still, under the feeling of utter bereavement and desolation,

was a half-felt sense of peace, of respite, and reprieve.

Chapter IX.

Testimony and Counsel

Those who are apt to refer in contemptuous terms to the

artificiality of the plots of the novelist must have failed to observe

the orderly way in which events arrange themselves in real life; how

the circumstances of the vital and essential happenings of our lives

may, if attentively considered, be separated out in a coherent group

of causes and effects as closely knit and inevitably connected as the

parts of the story-teller’s plot.

The reflection is suggested to me by the distressing experiences of

the inquest on my father’s death. Clearly enough, indeed, did I

realise at the time that this would never have been but for those

fateful words so calamitously overheard by me, and for my

ill-considered, though well-meant, efforts to avert the apparently

impending catastrophe. But I realised not at all--as, indeed, how

should I?--that this day of sorrow, of shame and humiliation, was not

only the harvest of the irrevocable past but the seed-time of an even

more momentous future.

As I approached the school-house in which the inquest was to be held,

I observed Mr. Otway pacing slowly up and down the little court-yard.

He was pale and haggard, and though he preserved his usual ponderously

reposeful manner, it was not difficult to see that he was in a state

of intense, nervous excitement and suppressed anxiety.

He was evidently waiting for me, and turned to meet me as I entered

the gate.

“I thought we had better go in together, Helen,” he said, as we

exchanged a formal greeting. “They know that we are married, and, of

course, they don’t know that our--ah--our arrangements are in--ah--in

suspense. And it would perhaps be as well if no reference were made

to--ah--to those--ahem--temporary modifications which--ah--in short,

to our provisional agreement.”

He looked at me deprecatingly and I nodded. There would be quite

enough painful detail to be dragged into the light of day without this

sordid addition. Besides, any reference to the deed of separation

would start enquiries which neither of us desired, as was plainly

evident to Mr. Otway; for he continued in a husky undertone, as we

approached the schoolroom door:

“And you will fulfil your part of our covenant faithfully, Helen, I am

sure.”

“Most undoubtedly I shall,” I replied. “But you will remember that our

covenant does not include false evidence. I shall say as little as is

possible, but if I am asked a direct question I must answer it, and

answer it truthfully.”

“Of course you must,” he agreed: “but it is often possible to ward off

an inconvenient question which may lead to others still more

inconvenient.”

“You make take it,” I said, “that I shall carry out my part of our

bargain in the spirit as well as in the letter.”

With this assurance he appeared to be satisfied, and we now moved

slowly towards the door of the school-house. While we had been

talking, a party of men--the coroner and his jury--had filed past us

and entered; and when we followed a minute later, we found them

already in their places and the proceedings about to begin. We seated

ourselves on the two chairs placed for us, which were next to those of

the two medical witnesses, and as I glanced round the Court, I

observed Mr. Jackson sitting near the coroner, and by his side a

gentleman whose face I seemed to recognise, but to whom I could not

give a name. Some dim recollection connected the quiet, strong,

intellectual face with my father and the happy past, but not until

near the close of the inquiry was I able to bring my memory to a clear

focus.

The attitude of the coroner and jury alike--they were all local men

and most of them known to me--made my difficult task as easy as was

possible. They were all anxious to spare me to the utmost and to make

the best of what the coroner described as “a grievous and terrible

calamity.” Moreover, they restrained in the most delicate manner their

evident curiosity as to the relations of Mr. Otway and myself. But, of

course, the facts had to be given, and very distressing and

humiliating it was to me to have to confess to what must have looked

like a mere sordid intrigue with the uncouth creature at my side.

As the only person present when the death occurred, Mr. Otway was

necessarily the first witness; and a very nervous, hesitating witness

he was; and very fortunate was it for him that he had so sympathetic a

court. As he stammered out his evidence I noted, again and again, the

searching, grey eye of the strange gentleman fixed upon him, not

indeed with any obvious distrust, but with the most concentrated

attention.

“Do we understand,” asked the coroner, “that Mr. Vardon was angry and

excited when he arrived at your house?”

“Yes, furiously angry.”

“Do you know why he was angry and excited?”

Yes, the witness did know. And as he proceeded to relate, in husky,

uncertain tones, the circumstances of the secret marriage, more than

one of the jurymen glanced from him to me with hardly-concealed

astonishment; and I felt my face burning and my eyes filling with

humiliation.

“Was there any reason for this secrecy?” the coroner asked.

“Yes. The deceased had already refused his consent to the marriage.”

“But that is hardly a reason for secrecy in the case of an adult.

Could he have prevented the marriage from taking place?”

“No. But it seemed better to--ah--to avoid discussion and

unpleasantness.”

The coroner looked dissatisfied. He considered a few moments, and then

asked: “Do you know why the deceased objected to the marriage?”

“I think he considered that the--ah--the inequality of age was

undesirable,” Mr. Otway replied.

Still the coroner looked dissatisfied, and as he paused to reflect,

and the jurymen looked at him expectantly, Mr. Otway furtively wiped

his forehead with his handkerchief. Evidently, he was profoundly

disturbed, as well he might be; for if this line of inquiry were

pursued much farther, it must inevitably lay bare the real nature of

the transaction.

At length the coroner turned to the jury. “Well, gentlemen,” said he,

“I suppose the question is not very material. It is clear that the

deceased was extremely excited and angry. The ultimate cause of his

anger is, perhaps, not very relevant to the subject of our inquiry.”

To this the foreman of the jury readily agreed, and I could almost see

the sigh of relief with which Mr. Otway hailed the passing of this

perilous incident--a relief in which I participated to no small

extent.

The narrative was now resumed, and as it proceeded, Mr. Otway’s voice

became more and more husky and his speech more hesitating. He had a

difficult course to steer, and his nerves were at their utmost

tension. He had to tell a consistent story without telling the whole

truth, and he had to bear in mind that my evidence was yet to be

given. It was a position that might have shattered the nerve of a much

bolder man than Mr. Otway.

“You tell us that the deceased was violent and threatening in his

manner. Do you mean that he was physically violent?”

“Yes--at least he threatened to use physical violence.”

“He did not actually assault you?”

“Not actually. The blow that he aimed--at least that he was about to

aim--ah--did not--er--did not take effect.”

The coroner’s brows puckered into a puzzled frown. “This is not quite

clear,” said he. “Did he or did he not aim a blow at you?”

“He did--at least, that is to say, he appeared----”--here Mr. Otway

mopped his streaming forehead--“well, I think he actually raised

his--ah--his--ah--his clenched fist----”

“Did you have to restrain him?”

“No,” replied Mr. Otway, with rather unnecessary emphasis. “No, I did

not. I stepped back, and--ah--the incident--ah--passed. In fact, it

was at this moment that the fatal attack occurred.”

“Tell us exactly what happened then.”

“He suddenly turned very pale,” said Mr. Otway, speaking now with more

fluency as he got back to the narration of the actual events, “and

seemed to stand unsteadily. Then he staggered backwards and fell,

striking his head on the corner of the mantelpiece.”

“Did he appear to have fainted before he struck his head?”

“I should say, yes, but--ah--I would not--ah--I was very agitated and

alarmed--and--ah----”

“Naturally. But you would say that the fainting attack preceded the

blow on the head?”

“There was no blow,” Mr. Otway exclaimed quickly; and then, perceiving

his mistake, he added, hastily, “that is to say, you are referring to

his striking the corner of the mantelpiece?”

“That is what you were telling us about.”

“Yes. I should say that he struck--or rather that he fainted and

staggered and that he struck his head in falling.”

Once more the coroner paused and seemed to reflect; and in the intense

silence and stillness that enveloped the court, my eye travelled from

the huge, ungainly figure of the witness to the face of the tall

stranger by Mr. Jackson’s side. And a very striking face it was: a

handsome, symmetrical face, but strangely--almost unhumanly--reposeful

and impassive. Yet, though it was as immobile as a mask of stone, it

conveyed an impression of intense attention--almost of watchfulness;

and the clear, grey eyes never moved from the face of the witness. To

me there was something a little uncanny and disturbing in that

immovable mask and that steady, unrelaxing gaze. I found myself hoping

that those searching grey eyes would not be fixed on me in that

relentless observation when my turn came to give my evidence. And even

as this thought flitted through my mind, I remembered who this

stranger was. He was a Dr. Thorndyke, an old, though not very

intimate, friend of my father’s, a famous criminal lawyer and a great

authority on medical jurisprudence. I had met him only once, when he

had dined, many years ago, at our house; but I had often heard my

father speak of him in terms of the highest admiration.

When the coroner resumed his interrogation, it seemed that the crisis

was past, so far as Mr. Otway was concerned, for his first question

was: “What did you do when the deceased fell down?”

“For a moment or two,” was the reply, “I was too bewildered to do

anything. Then his daughter--my wife--came into the room, and, as he

appeared to be dying or dead, I went off to fetch a doctor.”

This virtually concluded his evidence, and the next name called was my

own, which, in its new form--Helen Otway--I heard with a start of

surprise and something like disgust. As I rose to approach the table,

I caught an instantaneous glance--a terrified, imploring glance--from

Mr. Otway; and as my eye lighted immediately afterwards on Dr.

Thorndyke’s face, I felt that this momentary look, too, had been noted

by that inexorably attentive grey eye. But I was relieved to observe

that he did not look at me, but, as I gave my evidence, fixed a

steady, introspective gaze upon a spot upon the opposite wall.

My task turned out to be easier than I had hoped, though perhaps it

might have been less easy if I had had more time to reflect on the

significance of the questions. The coroner began by expressing the

sympathy of the court with my bereavement and apologizing for imposing

on me the painful duty of attending the inquiry. Then he asked: “You

have heard the evidence of Mr. Otway with reference to your marriage

and your father’s attitude in regard to it. Do you confirm what he has

said?”

“I do,” I replied.

“You were not present at the interview of Mr. Otway with the

deceased?”

“No, I was not. When I entered the room my father was lying on the

floor and appeared to be already dead.”

“Had you seen your father since the solemnization of the marriage?”

“I saw him from the window as he entered Mr. Otway’s garden.”

“Did you notice anything unusual in his appearance?”

“Yes; his appearance alarmed me very much. He seemed excessively

excited, and his face was deeply flushed and of a strange, purplish

colour.”

“Had you any special reason to be alarmed?”

“Yes. I knew that his doctor had warned him to avoid all excitement

and exertion on account of the weak state of his heart.”

“You did not hear what passed between your father and Mr. Otway?”

“I heard my father ask where I was, and I heard Mr. Otway tell him

that the marriage had taken place.”

“Did you hear anything more?”

“My father then called Mr. Otway a scoundrel, and was still speaking

loudly and angrily when the study door closed and I heard no more.”

“What made you go to the study?”

“I heard and felt the shock when my father fell.”

“Would you mind telling us again in what condition you found your

father?”

“He appeared to be dead. His face was at first a livid grey, but it

faded to marble whiteness as I looked at him. There was a small wound

on the right side of his forehead and a drop of blood had run down on

to his cheek and on his temple.”

The coroner glanced at the jurymen. “I think, gentlemen,” he said,

“that is all we need ask Mrs. Otway?” And when the foreman had

acquiesced, and he had thanked me for “the very clear and lucid

manner” in which I had given my evidence, I was permitted to resume my

seat.

“I can never thank you enough, Helen,” whispered Mr. Otway, as I sat

down. “You managed admirably--admirably.”

To this I made no reply; for now that the ordeal was over I began to

be assailed by certain doubts as to whether I had been quite candid. I

had told all that was really material to the inquiry; but--however, at

this point Dr. Sharpe approached the table and picked up the

Testament.

His evidence practically settled the verdict. He testified that my

father had suffered for some years from a dilated heart and arterial

degeneration. “I warned him frequently to avoid excitement and undue

exertion, for he was inclined to be careless and take liberties with

himself.”

“You considered his state of health precarious?”

“I thought he might fall down dead at any moment.”

“You have heard the evidence of the two previous witnesses. Does that

evidence contain any suggestion to you as to the cause of death?”

“It suggests to me that the deceased hurried to Mr. Otway’s house in a

towering rage, and that, during the interview, he worked himself up

into a fury. I should say that the combined exertion and excitement

brought on a fatal attack of syncope.”

“You think that death was caused by heart failure?”

“I have no doubt of it.”

Dr. Bury’s evidence was much to the same effect, though less positive.

“The deceased had apparently been dead about half an hour when I

arrived. The cause of death was not obvious, but the appearances were

consistent with the account given by Mr. Otway. There was a small,

contused wound at the junction of the forehead and right temple,

apparently caused by the violent impact of some hard and blunt body.

Judging by the small amount of bleeding, the wound had been sustained

immediately before death. A single drop of blood had trickled down on

to the cheek, and one or two drops on to the temple.”

“You have heard Mr. Otway’s account of the way in which that wound was

occasioned. Do you consider that the appearances are in agreement with

that account?”

“There is no disagreement. The appearance of the wound was consistent

with its production in the manner described.”

“Would you say that it was probably so produced?”

“That,” replied Dr. Bury, “is a question for the jury. It might have

been. I can’t go beyond the appearances.”

“No, of course you can’t. And is that all that you have to tell us?”

“That is all,” was the reply; and this virtually brought the inquiry

to an end. After a brief summing-up by the coroner, the jury held an

equally brief consultation and then unanimously returned a verdict of

“Death from natural causes.”

On the announcement of the verdict everyone rose, including myself and

Mr. Otway, and the latter, turning to me, said in a low voice:

“I think I won’t wait. I want to get home and be quiet; but I shall

call on you to-morrow, if I may, to make--ah--any--ah--arrangements

that--ah--in fact, to speak to you about the--ah--the funeral.”

“Very well,” I said, reluctantly--for, deeply as I loathed him, I

could not exclude him even from that sacred ceremony without creating

an open scandal. “You had better come early in the forenoon”; and with

this I dismissed him with a stiff bow, and made my way to where Mr.

Jackson and Dr. Thorndyke were standing. As I held out my hand to the

latter and recalled to him our meeting years ago, Mr. Jackson said:

“Dr. Thorndyke happened to be in Maidstone to-day and to call at our

office, so I prevailed on him to come here and watch the proceedings

on our behalf in case any complications should arise. But everything

has gone off quite smoothly.”

“Very smoothly indeed,” Dr. Thorndyke agreed, with, as it seemed to

me, a certain degree of emphasis.

“Both the coroner and the jury were most considerate,” pursued Mr.

Jackson.

“Most considerate,” assented Dr. Thorndyke; and again I seemed to

detect a note of emphasis, as also, I think, did Mr. Jackson, for he

glanced quickly at our companion, though he made no remark.

“I wonder,” said I, “if you two gentlemen would care to come and take

a cup of tea with me?”

Mr. Jackson had an engagement at the office, and as Dr. Thorndyke

appeared to hesitate, I added quickly: “I should be very glad if you

could, though I don’t wish to take up your time if you are busy.”

“My time is my own for the next three hours,” said Dr. Thorndyke, “and

if I should really not be an inopportune visitor, I should like very

much to have tea with you.”

“Let us go, then,” said I. “Mr. Jackson will accompany us as far as

Gabriel’s Hill, won’t you?” And as my old friend assented with a prim,

little bow, we set forth.

“I have offered no condolences, Mrs. Otway,” said Dr. Thorndyke. “I

knew your father, I saw you and him together, and I realize what this

loss must mean to you. There is nothing to say except that you have my

most real sympathy.”

“Thank you,” I said, and for a time we walked on in silence. And as we

walked I found myself recalling, with a strong, speculative interest,

that curious, subtle emphasis which Dr. Thorndyke had conveyed into

his agreement with Mr. Jackson. At length, when we had dropped the

latter near the Town Hall, I summoned up courage to raise the

question.

“I have an impression, Dr. Thorndyke, which may be quite a mistaken

one, that you were not completely satisfied with the way in which the

inquest was conducted. Am I mistaken?”

“Well,” he replied, slowly, “the coroner’s methods were not what one

would call rigorous.”

“I suppose they were not. But in what respect are you disposed to find

fault with them?”

“Principally,” he replied, “in his failure to elicit a really

conclusive verdict. The verdict of the jury was based upon Dr.

Sharpe’s opinion as to the cause of death. That opinion was probably

correct, but it was based upon reasoning which was not sound. His

position was this: If certain circumstances--excitement or

exertion--should arise, there would be a great probability of their

causing sudden death. But those circumstances had actually arisen and

sudden death had actually followed. Therefore the death was due to the

factors of the said circumstances. But this conclusion is fallacious.

It does not prove a fact: it merely indicates a probability.”

“But are not all verdicts statements of probability?”

“Too often they are. But it is a coroner’s business to bring the

conclusions of his court, as far as possible, into the region of

ascertained fact. The immediate cause of death can usually be

demonstrated by scientific methods, and the inquiry can then be built

up on a foundation of certainty. Opinion should never be accepted

where knowledge is obtainable.”

“Do you think, then, that the verdict was not a proper one?”

“I am not criticizing the verdict,” he replied, “but the methods by

which it was arrived at. I think that the cause of death should have

been established beyond all doubt before any contributary

circumstances were inquired into.”

“But otherwise; apart from that one point?”

“I thought the examination of the witnesses rather easy-going. No

doubt it elicited all the relevant facts. But that is impossible to

decide on. One cannot judge of the relevancy of a fact until one has

got the fact. I think, for instance, that most counsel would have

pressed your husband a good deal more closely. The coroner appeared to

decide that the matter was not relevant without being quite clear as

to what matter he was dealing with.”

This, I must confess, had been my own impression, but I had been so

relieved at the easy manner in which the difficult passages had been

allowed to pass that I had been little disposed to criticise the

considerate and sympathetic coroner. Nor did it seem quite safe to

pursue the present discussion much farther, for it was tending in a

rather dangerous direction. My own reservations began to weigh on me

somewhat--and Dr. Thorndyke was not quite the same type of listener as

the coroner. Nevertheless, the conversation pleased me, though I could

not but be struck by the oddity of this detached discussion of a

matter which was of such vital moment to me. But that very oddity was

itself an element of gratification; for a woman is naturally flattered

when an intellectual man appears to credit her with the power of

impartial judgment of her own conduct and affairs--that faculty not

being one by which our sex is peculiarly distinguished.

But at this point, our discussion was brought naturally to an end by

our arrival at my house--as I must now call it; and here a quick

glance of surprised recognition on my companion’s part gave me a new

note of warning and prepared me for the inevitable question.

“You are living at your father’s house, I see.”

“_I_ am, for the present. Mr. Otway remains in his own house.”

“Yes. I suppose it will be more convenient to settle everything up

here before joining your husband.”

I was on the point of temporising by a vague assent; but my lips

refused to frame the implied falsehood. It may have been my natural

dislike of secrecy and concealment, it may be that my womanly pride

resented the very idea of association with that unwieldy human spider.

At any rate, an irresistible impulse drove me to say:

“I am not going to join my husband at all, Dr. Thorndyke. I am not

going to live with Mr. Otway.”

I did not look at Dr. Thorndyke as I made this statement, and he made

no comment beyond a matter-of-fact “Indeed.” But I had the feeling

that, in the silence that followed, he was fitting this new fact into

its place in some ordered scheme; that he was docketting it as an

appendix to Mr. Otway’s evidence.

Nothing more was said until we had entered the house and I had given

instructions for tea to be brought to the study. But in that interval

I was aware of a growing impulse to have done with this miserable

secrecy--this sordid fencing and dodging, which must come, in the end,

to downright lying--and tell this strong, wise man the whole wretched

story. Besides, I wanted counsel and guidance: and who was so fit to

give them as he?

Accordingly, when the tray had been laid on the study table, I

re-opened the subject.

“I did not mention this matter in my evidence,” I said. “It had no

bearing on the inquiry.”

“I am not clear,” he replied, “that you were entitled to make any

reservations. A witness’s duty is to state the whole truth. The

question of relevancy is for the court to consider.”

“But unfortunately there were other reservations that had to be made.

Dr. Thorndyke, I want to tell you the whole story--in confidence--and

to ask your advice.”

“I counsel you to make no confidences,” he said, gravely, “unless you

really wish to consult me in my professional capacity.”

“That is what I wish to do,” I said.

“Very well,” said he. “That places us in the secure relation of lawyer

and client; and I need not say that your father’s daughter is very

welcome to any help or advice that I can give.”

With this encouragement, I poured forth the story that I have told in

these pages and in almost as much detail. But still I held back one

fact. I said nothing of my having found Mr. Otway grasping my father’s

loaded stick. That single reservation had to be. Not only was I bound

by a solemn promise; my silence on that point was the price of my

release. The letter of the covenant, indeed, had reference only to my

evidence at the inquest; but its spirit sealed my lips even in this my

most intimate confidence.

And so, once again, a secret guarded from a friendly eye remained,

like a seed dropped in a summer’s drought, to germinate and bring

forth its fruit in its season.

Chapter X.

The Turning of the Page

Dr. Thorndyke listened to my recital of the history of the tragedy,

not only with patience, but with close attention and apparently keen

interest, interrupting me only at rare intervals to ask a question or

elucidate some point that was not quite clear. When I had come to an

end I was disposed to be apologetic, for I had told the story in the

fullest detail, with only the single reservation that I have noted.

“I am afraid,” I said, “that I have been rather victimizing you and

trespassing on your very great patience.”

“By no means,” he replied. “Men and men’s actions and motives are my

merchandise. If I could listen to a story like yours without the

deepest interest I should not be in my present profession. But, now

that I have heard it, I think I can guess the subject on which you

wish to consult me. You would like to annul your marriage with Mr.

Otway.”

“Yes; if it is possible.”

“It is very natural that you should wish to recover your freedom. I

sympathize with you entirely, and I wish I could give you some

encouragement. But I fear that you have no remedy.”

“It seems rather hard,” I said, “that I should be bound for life to

this man whom I detest and who has done me such grievous injuries.”

“It is very hard,” he agreed, “and, humanly speaking, there ought to

be some remedy. But the law provides none; nor is it really possible

for the law to make provision for every imaginable contingency. Yours

is a very exceptional case.”

“Yes, I see that; but it seems unreasonable to compel two people to

maintain a relationship which is not only unsuitable but quite

unreal.”

“It does,” he admitted. “But the law takes a very unsentimental view

of these matters. It regards marriage as an institution concerned with

the establishment of families and the orderly devolution of property,

and its interference is, in the main, limited to circumstances

connected with that assumed function. Of the human aspects of marriage

it takes little account. In a purely legal sense--which is what we are

considering--your position is this: You were competent to contract a

marriage and you did contract one, of your own free will, without any

compulsion or misrepresentation that the law would recognise. The

circumstances that appeared to exist before the marriage still appear

to exist. No new facts have come to light which would affect the

competence of either party. It is a case in which one of the parties

has disregarded the old legal maxim, _Caveat emptor_--buyer beware!

You bought, at a high price, something which turns out to be of no

value. You agreed to marry Mr. Otway for a consideration--the release

of your father from his embarrassments--which seemed to be valuable

enough to justify the great sacrifice that you contemplated. But it

turned out that your father needed no release; and the consideration

thereupon ceased to have any value. As far as the law is concerned,

you have simply made a very bad bargain.”

“Does the law attach no importance to fraud?” I demanded.

“But has there been fraud?” he objected. “No representations, true or

false, were made to you by Mr. Otway. You acted on knowledge which you

assumed that you possessed. You laid down the conditions; he accepted

them. You demanded a certain consideration; he furnished the

consideration demanded. Even with regard to the letter from your

father, we may--and do--suspect that he knew that it was in the box,

and probably guessed at its contents. But we have no proof. Moreover,

if he did know that it was there--even if he had opened it and read

it, he was under no obligation to communicate its contents to you.

Your agreement made no such provision. It laid down specific

conditions, and with these Mr. Otway had fully complied. On the plea

of fraud, I am afraid you would have no case.”

“Apparently not,” I agreed. “You are most horribly convincing, Dr.

Thorndyke.”

“I am putting the case as a lawyer, and very much against my own

feeling as a man. But my present office is rather like that of a

Devil’s Advocate in a theological council. I think that this marriage

ought to be annulled, but I am sure that, in point of law, it is not

voidable.

“But there is yet another aspect of the case, and you must forgive me

if I put it rather bluntly. There are not many women to whom I should

have spoken in as downright a fashion as I have to you, and I shall

continue to pay you this rather unpleasant compliment. Mrs. Otway,

even if, legally speaking, you had a case, you could not take it into

court.”

“Why not?” I asked, more than a little startled.

“Because of the incidents of the inquest. You have spoken of certain

reservations in your evidence. But in the case of Mr. Otway there was

more than reservation. There was deliberate mis-statement, and that,

too, in respect of a question that was highly material to the inquiry.

He was asked the reason of your father’s resentment of this marriage,

and he stated it to be the disparity of age. But that was not the

reason, and he knew it was not. Your father would have raised no

obstacle if you had really wished to marry Mr. Otway. He resented the

marriage because it had been brought about by means which he regarded

as--morally speaking--fraudulent. Mr. Otway’s evidence was false

evidence, and it was deliberately given with the intention of

misleading the jury.”

“But it was a small point and of no importance. Besides, Mr. Otway’s

evidence is no concern of mine.”

“Pardon me,” Dr. Thorndyke objected, gravely, “the point was of very

great importance. It would have started a train of entirely new

issues. And Mr. Otway’s evidence is very much your concern. You heard

it given, you were asked if you confirmed it, and you did confirm it.

Thereupon, Mr. Otway’s evidence became your evidence.

“Now, if you were to embark on a suit for the annulment of your

marriage, the plea of fraud, on which you would base your claim, would

have to be supported by evidence which would conflict with that given

by you at the inquest. Your position would be a very uncomfortable

one, and it would be made more so by the fact that your evidence was

in agreement with Mr. Otway’s. When two witnesses agree in a departure

from the actual facts known to them, a suspicion of collusion is apt

to be raised; and collusion again suggests purpose and motive. I am

afraid, Mrs. Otway, that the Devil’s Advocate is making out a

diabolically complete case. But that, you know, is his business. The

conclusion is that a malignant fate has woven around you a mesh of

circumstances from which there is no escape, and that the less you

struggle the less irksome will be your bonds.”

To this conclusion, unsatisfactory as it was, I assented with a

readiness born not only of conviction but of a certain amount of

alarm. I had heard my father speak with admiration of Dr. Thorndyke’s

amazing power of analysing evidence and extracting its essentials, and

I now began to wonder how much of the actual truth he had extracted

from the evidence at the inquest, elucidated by my narrative. His

warning as to a possible suspicion of collusion with “a purpose and a

motive” in the background, set me speculating as to whether he,

himself, entertained such a suspicion; and his next question was by no

means reassuring on this point.

“You spoke,” said he, “of having decided not to live with Mr. Otway,

and of having communicated your intention to him. Do I understand that

he assents to a separation?”

“Yes. He sees that the position would be quite impossible.”

“Is your arrangement with him merely a verbal one or has it been

placed on a regular footing by a document of some kind?”

“Mr. Otway has executed a deed of separation, which I think is quite

regular. But I had better let you see it.”

With some trepidation, I produced the deed and nervously watched him

as he read it through, which he did with an inscrutable expression,

and--as it seemed to me--a horrible appearance of seeing through it to

the rather questionable circumstances that had brought it into

existence.

“Yes,” he said, as he handed it back to me; “it is quite regular. You

may congratulate yourself on finding Mr. Otway so compliant. It is

more than one would have expected of him.”

“He could hardly have done otherwise,” I answered hastily. “We

couldn’t possibly have lived together after what had happened. Still,

I am glad he took the reasonable view. It leaves me free to make my

own arrangements for my future.”

“And what arrangements do you propose--if your legal adviser is not

too inquisitive.”

“Not at all. I was going to ask you to advise me. I don’t think there

will be enough to support me, and, of course, I can’t accept any help

from Mr. Otway. I shall have to earn my living in some way.”

“You could compel Mr. Otway to support you, but I appreciate your

unwillingness to accept an allowance and thereby recognise the

relationship. Have you any means of livelihood in your mind?”

I hesitated a little shyly. For I had; but my plan might sound rather

an odd one, at least to a stranger.

“I thought,” said I, at length, “of trying to get a living by doing

what I have been accustomed to do as a hobby--by making simple

jewellery and small, ornamental metal objects. I am afraid you will

look on it as rather a wild scheme.”

“No,” he answered. “It is an unconventional scheme, but not in any way

a wild one. I think we often appreciate insufficiently the wisdom of

the artist’s choice of his profession. In choosing a means of

livelihood we are choosing the way in which we shall spend the greater

part of our lives. We have something to sell--the bulk of our waking

lives; and we are apt to think too much of its selling price--its

value to the purchaser--and not enough of its value to ourselves. A

man, such as a navvy, a miner, a bank-clerk or a factory hand, barters

for the means of subsistence so many hours a day spent in doing

something that he does not want to do. He sells the best part of his

life. But the artist or craftsman makes a much better bargain, for he

contrives to obtain a subsistence by doing what he enjoys doing and

what he would elect to do for his own satisfaction. He sells only the

by-products of his life; the whole of that life he retains for his own

use, to be spent as he would, in any case, wish to spend it. But there

is an inevitable proviso; his acceptable occupation must really yield

a subsistence. His wares must be of value to the purchaser, and he

must be able to find a market. Do you think you could satisfy those

conditions?”

“I think I could make the things pretty well, but, as to selling them,

that is a different matter. I have to find that out. May I show you

some of my work?”

“I should like very much to see some of it,” he replied.

“I will fetch a few pieces. And meanwhile, that clock on the

mantelpiece is partly my work. My father made the clock, itself; but I

made the dial, the hands and the case.”

Dr. Thorndyke rose, and, stepping over to the mantelpiece, looked at

the work with keen interest. It was a little bracket-clock with a

bronze dial, a silver circle for the figures, silver-gilt hands and a

simple wooden case decorated with gesso. Leaving my visitor to inspect

it, I went away and collected a few samples of my work in metal; a

bronze candlestick, an enamelled silver belt-buckle, a gold pendant

set with opals, and one or two silver spoons; all of which Dr.

Thorndyke examined with that friendly interest--unmistakeable to the

artist or craftsman--that evinces some knowledge of and liking for the

thing examined.

“Well,” he said, as he laid down the last of the spoons, “these things

answer the first question. They are quite workmanlike, and they are

attractive and tastefully designed. The next question is the economic

one. Could you sell them? and if so, would they realize a price that

would furnish a reasonable livelihood? You would have to compete with

commercial products made in large numbers by cheap processes. Your

hammered, embossed and chased work would compete with work stamped

from steel dies or with comparatively rough castings. Of course, your

work is infinitely better value; but this is a commercial age, and

buyers are bad judges. And then you would have to sell to dealers who

would demand not less than fifty per cent. profit, which, I am afraid,

would leave you a pitiable, small return for your labour and skill.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “That is all quite true. But still, I think I will

try. The work would be interesting and pleasant, and, as you implied

just now, an artist cannot expect to be paid as much for doing what he

likes doing as another man receives for doing what he dislikes.

Pleasant work is, to some extent at least, its own reward; and if my

work doesn’t yield enough to live on, I shall have to try something

else. But I don’t suppose I shall be absolutely without means when my

father’s estate has been wound up.”

“Do you think of continuing to live here?” Dr. Thorndyke asked.

“No. As soon as everything is settled, I propose to go to London. It

will be much easier--or, at least, less difficult--to dispose of my

work there.”

“Undoubtedly. And have you any definite arrangements in your

mind--where and how you are going to live, for instance?”

“None whatever, at present.”

“I ask because I happen to know of a place where you could put up, at

least temporarily; where you would be comfortably lodged, well fed and

cared for, and where you could pursue your labours under good working

conditions and at small expense. There is only one drawback, but you

may consider that a fatal one. It is in the immediate neighbourhood of

Ratcliff Highway--or, as it has been renamed, St. George’s Street.”

“Is that a very dreadful place?”

“It is far from being an aristocratic locality. But let me describe

the establishment. It is conducted by a Miss Polton, who is the sister

of my laboratory assistant--a most expert and talented mechanician.

Miss Polton was at one time a nurse; but when her brother entered my

employment, he was able to help her to set up in Wellclose Square,

Ratcliff, a boarding-house for mercantile marine officers. At the same

time, she, being like her brother, a highly-capable, ingenious person,

got herself a hand-loom and took up weaving as a hobby. But since then

times have changed. Sailing ships have to a great extent disappeared,

and Miss Polton’s clients with them, while the hobby of making

excellent cloth has turned out quite a profitable one. So Miss Polton

plies her shuttle industriously, and, in the place of the merchant

seamen, has collected a little family of women who also work at

handicrafts for their living. I believe they form quite a happy little

community, and, of course, they are able to assist one another in

disposing of their wares. So that is the position. I know that Miss

Polton has room for another boarder, for it is quite a large

house--Wellclose Square was once the abode of well-to-do shipowners

and retired sea-captains--and I am sure she would welcome another

novice to her community. The drawback, as I have said, is the

neighbourhood, which is--to put it bluntly--just a trifle squalid.”

“I don’t see that the neighbourhood matters,” said I; “and in every

other respect it sounds like the very thing I want.”

“I think you would be quite well-advised to give it a trial. You would

be among friends and fellow-workers, and, if you found that the

neighbourhood was too much for you, you would be in London and could

seek a new residence at your leisure. I will write the address on one

of my cards, and if on reflection you decide to give Ratcliff a trial,

you can write to Miss Polton and me at the same time.”

He wrote the address, and, handing me the card, stood up and glanced

at his watch.

“How long will it take me to walk to the station?” he asked.

“Less than twenty minutes.”

“I have half an hour, so I can walk easily. Good-bye, Mrs. Otway. I

wish I could have given you a better account of your position. But I

can only advise you to make the best of a bad bargain and keep your

own counsel.”

“You have been most kind, Dr. Thorndyke,” I said, earnestly, “in

giving me so much time and patient attention. I don’t know how I can

thank you.”

“I will tell you,” said he. “By keeping a good heart and letting me

know how your affairs progress.”

He shook my hand heartily, and, when I had let him out, strode down

the garden path, the very personification of manly dignity, alertness

and vigour. At the gate he turned to raise his hat, with a smile of

friendly farewell; and I closed the door and turned back into the

house, feeling, for the first time since my father’s death, that I was

not alone in the world, but that, if the need should arise, the

strength of this strong, commanding man was at my call.

The short remainder of my life at Maidstone I shall pass over briefly.

It comes back to me in scenes like those of a play, separate but

related. I see the interior of the parish church, noble, spacious,

cathedral-like; I hear the voice of the clergyman reciting reverently

those flowers of ancient poetry rendered into perfect English speech

that usher the departed into the realms of silence with so gracious a

dignity; I see the flower-strewn coffin sink into the grave wherein

sleeps my unremembered mother, while the russet-sailed barges glide

past the churchyard on the placid river below towards the mills at

Tovil. And so farewell for ever to the best of fathers and the

kindest, most lovable of friends.

These closing weeks, in which I wound up my old life and made ready

for the new, were full of bustle and unrest. I had written to Miss

Polton and Dr. Thorndyke, and from the former had received a kindly

letter assuring me of the warmest welcome: and now I was busily

collecting my tools and workshop appliances and packing them into

travelling boxes to be dispatched with my heavier luggage. There was

the furniture to be stored or set aside for sale, the servants to be

placed in new situations, and various business to be transacted with

Mr. Jackson, who, indeed, relieved me of all that lay within his

powers.

Then there was Mr. Otway, from whom I received an abject letter and

with whom I must needs have a rather distressing interview. He was

really horrified at my proposed mode of life (I suspect he had never

done a stroke of manual work in his life), and even more so at my

proposed place of residence; and was, I believe, sincerely distressed

at my firm refusal to permit him to make me an allowance. Indeed, the

devotion which he professed for me, little as I wanted it, seemed to

be as real as was possible in the case of a man so self-centred and so

callously egoistic. But the very sight of him hardened my heart and

lighted up afresh my indignation at the havoc that he had wrought in

my life. What I had agreed to do, I did; but I made no hair’s breadth

of concession. I gave him my future address, and agreed to his

addressing letters there; but I refused resolutely to receive any

visits from him, or even to enter into any correspondence other than

that which circumstances might render necessary.

And now the last day has come; the day of final parting. I see myself

wandering through the empty house, stripped of all but the barest

necessaries and filled with new and strange echoes; the van drawn up

at the gate to take away the last of the furniture, and the tearful

Jessie carrying my two little portmanteaux down the path to the

porter’s barrow. I see her return, wiping her eyes and gazing at me in

dumb appeal, and, with a sudden impulse of tenderness, I kiss her and

stroke her hair; whereupon she bursts into tears and throws herself

sobbing on to my breast.

It was hard to close the old life, which had been so sweet and

peaceful, so full and satisfying; to bid farewell to the beautiful old

town which was the only place I had known and which I had loved so

well. As I took my way through the streets, attaché-case in hand, all

my old friends seemed to look on me reproachfully and call on me to

stay. The quaint plaster-fronted house in Week Street, the venerable

medieval pile at the corner of Gabriel’s Hill, the grinning masks on

the corbels of the old house-fronts of Middle Row; all the old

familiar landmarks, had suddenly grown dear and precious, and each

exacted its twinge of regret as I looked my last on it. On the bridge

I halted to survey the upper river, with the church and the Old

Palace, both embowered in trees and brooding over the quiet water.

Often as I had looked upon that view, it had never seemed to me so

pleasant and desirable as now. And with this last impression--to be

recalled how often in the troubled future!--I turned away and headed

resolutely for the station.

BOOK II--ROMANCE