Helen Vardon's confession
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