Helen Vardon's confession
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.