Helen Vardon's confession
keep on impressing on him that he _has_ bought it, and don’t take any
notice of contrary statements on his part. If he seems to think that
he has refused it, you must correct his mistake and guide his thoughts
into the proper channels.”
I suppose I must have looked somewhat dismayed at this rather
startling programme, for Lilith continued, eagerly: “Now, don’t raise
objections, Sibyl, dear. It will be quite easy if you will only make
up your mind. You have abundant will-power, and I am certain that you
have the gift of projecting your mental states into the minds of
others. And I am so anxious that you should succeed and that your
great gifts should not be wasted. Say you will try, Sibyl, if only to
please your friend.”
What could I do? Utterly as my mind refused to accept the connection
between the alleged cause and effect, I could not say that no such
connection existed. I was completely unconvinced; but my unconviction
might conceivably be less rational than Lilith’s whole-hearted belief.
For she declared herself able to support her belief with proof,
whereas I had to admit that my scepticism was largely a matter of
temperament. And she was so eager, and it was so sweet of her to be so
full of anxiety on my behalf, that it would have seemed ungracious to
make difficulties. The end of it was that I agreed to carry out her
plan of conquest, on which she further inducted me into the arts of
silent willing and suggestion and even supervised me while I wrote
out, at her dictation, a peremptory command to the dealer, which I
promised to use, as directed, for the reinforcement of my will-power
at the appropriate time.
On the following morning, after a careful study of my father’s atlas
of London, which I had brought with me from Maidstone, I set forth,
hand-bag in hand and encouraged by the good wishes of my comrades and
of Lilith in particular. Entering the Underground Railway at Mark
Lane, I came to the surface at Charing Cross Station and bore away
northwards across Leicester Square. During the journey, I had turned
over in my mind the plan of attack to which I stood committed, with
increasing distaste, I must admit, as the time for its execution drew
nearer. And as my dislike grew, so also did my scepticism. I found
myself recalling the fact that Lilith, successful as she claimed to
be, was yet a fashion-plate artist very much against her own wishes,
and reflecting that, if her silent willing were as efficacious as she
believed it to be, she might surely compel the purchase of the kind of
work that she enjoyed doing, instead of being herself compelled to
follow a distasteful occupation. However, it was useless to think
about it now. I had promised to give the method a trial and must carry
out my promise.
These reflections brought me to the bottom of Wardour Street, and my
attention was now fully occupied by the search for Mr. Campbell’s
shop. Mr. Otway had omitted to give me the number of the house, but I
remembered his saying that it was on the west side near the Oxford
Street end; so I walked slowly up the east side and scanned the
shop-fronts across the road. Near the top of the street my eye lighted
on a smallish shop, above the window of which was inscribed in faded
gold lettering “Donald Campbell,” and I immediately crossed the road,
becoming aware as I did so of a sudden access of nervousness. For this
was a new experience to me. Hitherto all my transactions with
shopkeepers had been in the character of a purchaser; and my
transformation into a vendor was accompanied by a diffidence and
shyness that I had not expected or foreseen. Indeed, in the course of
that short journey across the road, my bashfulness increased so much
that I had nearly forgotten my promise to Lilith and was on the point
of entering the shop when it flashed into my mind.
But even when I recalled Lilith’s instructions, they were not easy to
carry out. I swerved from the shop door to the side of the window and
stood there trying to concentrate my will-power. But it would not be
concentrated. In the window was displayed a fascinating array of base
metal spoons which instantly rivetted my attention; particularly a
set, of the late seventeenth century, wrought in a fine-coloured
latten, and exhibiting in a most charming manner the combined effect
of delicate workmanship, with the patina of age and the softening of
outlines from use and wear. Unconsciously, I had begun to compare them
with my own cruder productions before I realized that my will-power
had escaped control. Then I jerked myself back from the spoons to my
present task, and, hastily drawing the paper from my pocket, fixed my
eyes on the written command and struggled to concentrate my thoughts
on it and to suppress a growing consciousness of the absurdity of the
whole proceeding. Presently I raised my eyes from the paper, and as
they sought to dodge the spoons, they encountered another object
equally disturbing. “It was only a face at the window,” as the
ridiculous song has it, but it instantly engrossed my attention and
transported me in spirit, not to any Highland glen, but straight away
to the banks of the Jordan; a fattish face, framed with glossy, black
hair that broke out at the temples into rows of little crisp curls
like a barrister’s wig; a face with small, grey eyes, full under the
lids, and surmounted by strong, black eyebrows, with full, red lips
and a rather sketchy nose of the general form of a William pear with
the stalk uppermost. It was clearly not Mr. Campbell’s face, but it
appertained to the establishment; and, recalling Lilith’s instructions
to direct my will-power with more precision by fixing my eyes on the
dealer, I directed a stony stare at the face and willed silently. But
here I was countered again; for the owner of the face was also
apparently possessed of psychic gifts, and fixes on me a gaze of such
intensity that I was covered with confusion. On this I straightway
forgot all about will-power, and, hastily pocketing the paper, walked
nervously and guiltily into the shop.
The proprietor of the face confronted me impassively across the
counter; and such was my trepidation that, although he obviously was
not Mr. Campbell, I could think of nothing better than to ask him if
he was; whereupon he completed my discomfiture by replying in the
affirmative.
“I am Mrs. Otway,” said I; at which he suddenly grew keenly attentive,
and I continued: “I understand that Mr. Otway--Mr. Lewis Otway--has
written to you about me. I had a letter from him to that effect.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Campbell, “he has; and, if I remember rightly, he
suggested that I might be able to dispose of some of your work. I
think he said you did some repoussé or something of the kind.”
Apparently Mr. Campbell was preparing to treat me as an amateur, and
my work as the product of a hobby. This would not do at all. Before
saying anything further, I opened my bag and handed out the pieces one
by one, setting them on the counter before him.
“Oh!” said he. “Yes; ha--hum; this isn’t exactly what I expected.” He
picked up a teaspoon, turned it over between his fingers, closely
examined the joining of the shank and bowl and the little bust that
formed the knob, and then held it at arm’s length with his head on one
side. There was something in the action and the facial expression that
accompanied it which encouraged me even before he spoke.
“Nithe thpoon that,” was his comment as he laid it down (I observed
that he tended to develop a lisp when preoccupied or off his guard);
“well made, well designed; quite original, too. Spoons are my
fancy--you saw that set in the window. If I could afford it, I would
specialize in them more than I do. Not but what I’m fond of all
goldsmith’s work if it’s good--or any other art work, for that matter;
but I do love a good spoon.”
This was pleasant hearing, for I had a weakness for spoons myself.
They are useful objects, they admit of infinite variety in design, and
their small size adapted them peculiarly to my rather limited
resources.
“But there is one thing that you must bear in mind,” continued Mr.
Campbell. “Single spoons are not very saleable unless they are antique
or collectors’ pieces. Modern spoons are bought for use as well as
ornament, and buyers like them in sets; not all alike, of course, but
with a general design running through the set. Twelve spoons, all
different, but all brothers; that’s what they want.”
“Like the apostle sets,” said I.
“Yes,” he replied, “but we don’t want any more apostles. Too many on
the market already. The apostles are done. They’re a back number.
Everybody does them because they can’t think of anything else
connected with the number twelve. But there is an opening for
something original. If you can do me a set with a good striking
design, I think I know where I can place them at a liberal price.”
I made a note of this proposal, and Mr. Campbell proceeded with his
examination of my samples, accompanying the process with shrewd
comments and useful hints. “Now, I’m rather doubtful about this,” said
he, picking up a bronze paper-weight on which was a little figure with
an open book; “it’s pretty and might take the fancy of a bookish man,
but I question whether you’ll get paid for the work that you’ve put
into it. People don’t always realize the value of a bronze casting.
You must have done this by the _cire perdue_ process.”
“I did.”
“Well, I should save that for more important pieces. Simple modelling
and sand-casting is good enough for paper-weights. And you are too
lavish with your silver. Just feel this candlestick. You could have
done it with half the silver and got paid just as much. The extra cost
of the unnecessary silver will have to come off the workmanship--at
least, that is the tendency although it is nominally sold by weight.”
As Mr. Campbell was speaking, a woman came out of an inner room and
advanced to the counter. I glanced at her casually and then looked
again more attentively, for I had instantly the feeling of having seen
her before, though I could not recollect where. She was a Jewess of
the dark and sallow type, about my own age, and of a sombre and rather
forbidding aspect; and the glance that she cast on my samples, though
impassive, was faintly disparaging.
“This is Mrs. Otway, me dear,” said Mr. Campbell. “You remember the
letter I showed you about her. And these pretty things are her work.”
Mrs. Campbell--as I assumed her to be--raised her eyes and bestowed on
me a quietly insolent stare, but made no remark. Then she cast another
disparaging glance at my wares and said coldly:
“They are all right of their kind; but you don’t want to fill the
place up with modern stuff.”
Disagreeable as the remark was, its matter impressed me less than its
manner. For again I was sensible of a certain vague familiarity in the
voice, the intonation and the accent. She gave me, however, no
opportunity for studying either, for, with the curt observation that
“she supposed he knew his own business,” she retired to the inner room
without taking any further notice of me.
“Well,” said Mr. Campbell, “there’s some truth in what my wife says. I
can’t afford to lock up my capital in things that I can’t sell. But I
like your work. It is good work, and you’ll improve. I am willing to
buy this lot of pieces--at a price. But it will have to be a low
price, because I don’t know how they will go. If you take my advice,
you’ll leave them with me and let me try the market with them. When I
have sold one or two I shall know what I can do with them, and then I
can offer you a fair price based on what they fetch. How will that
thoot you?”
It seemed, on the whole, the most satisfactory arrangement, though I
should have liked to have some definite idea as to the value of my