Helen Vardon's confession
work. I mentioned this, pointing out that I wanted to know if it would
be worth my while to continue this kind of occupation.
“Well,” said Mr. Campbell, “you leave the things with me, and I will
look them over carefully and weigh the silver. Then I will make you
the best offer I can for the lot, and you can either accept it or
refuse it, or wait and see what the things fetch. Give me your address
and I will write you out a receipt for what you leave. Will that do?”
I replied that it would do admirably, whereupon he supplied me with a
slip of paper and pen and ink, and retired to the desk with my
collection to write out the receipt. I had taken off my glove and was
beginning to write when somebody entered the shop with a quick, light
step, suggesting a young and active man. Just behind me the footsteps
shopped short, and a pleasant, masculine voice addressed the dealer.
“All right, Mr. Campbell; don’t let me disturb you. I’m in no hurry.”
“I’m afraid, sir, your things are not quite ready, but if you don’t
mind waiting a moment I’ll make sure.”
“I suspected,” the voice rejoined, “that I might be a little
over-punctual. However, you finish what you are doing, while I browse
round the museum.”
At the first sound of the voice my pen stopped short; and it seemed as
if my heart stopped, too--though it soon began to make up for lost
time. I was disconcerted and vaguely annoyed that a small surprise
should set up such a disproportionate disturbance. Perhaps, too, I was
a little startled to find a voice so long unheard elicit such instant
and undoubting recognition. But I recovered immediately and resumed my
writing, though, to be sure, the pen-point no longer traced the firm
and steady lines of the first-written words. Meanwhile, Mr. Campbell
had completed his receipt, and we now exchanged our documents, I
checking his list of my sample works, and he scanning my address with
apparent surprise.
“Wellclose Square,” he read out. “There is a Wellclose Square
somewhere down Wapping way. It won’t be that one?”
“Yes. But I think it is actually in Ratcliff. When shall I hear from
you?”
“I will write and post the letter this evening.”
“Thank you, Mr. Campbell. Good morning.”
As we exchanged bows, I turned and met the newcomer approaching the
counter. He glanced at me, at first without recognition; then he
looked again.
“Why, surely it is Miss Vardon!” he exclaimed.
“Wrong, Mr. Davenant,” said I. “It is Mrs. Otway. But that is a mere
quibble. I am the person whom you knew as Miss Vardon.”
“Well, well,” said he, “what a piece of luck to meet you--and here of
all places!”
“Is this a peculiarly unlikely place, then?” I asked.
“Well, I suppose it isn’t, really; at any rate, I mustn’t let Mr.
Campbell hear me say that it is. Do you mind waiting a moment while I
settle my little business with him? I want to hear all your news.”
His little business amounted to no more than an arrangement that he
should call in about three days for his “things,” whatever they were,
and when this had been settled, we left the shop together.
“Which way are you walking?” he asked.
“I really don’t know,” I answered. “I think I had some dim idea of
seeing the town and taking a look at the shops.”
“Then,” said he, “as you are a country mouse, whereas I am a town
sparrow of the deepest dye, perhaps I may be permitted to act as
conductor and expositor of the wonders of the Metropolis, while you
give me the news from Maidstone.”
“There is little to tell you excepting that I have lost my father. He
died quite suddenly, about two months ago, from heart failure.”
“Ah!” said Mr. Davenant, “I had a presentiment that it was so. Seeing
you in mourning, I was afraid to ask after him; and I need not tell
you how deeply I sympathize with you. I remember how much you were to
one another. What a mercy it is that you were married!”
To this I made no reply, and for a time we walked on slowly without
speaking. But though nothing was said, much was thought, at least by
me. For I had to make up my mind now, and once for all, on a point
that I felt to be of vital importance. Should I tell him how things
were with me? Or should I let him think that all was well, and that I
was a normal married woman? Something--I did not ask myself
what--urged me to tell him everything. But caution, prudence,
whispered--and that none too softly--that it were better not. The
sudden wave of emotion that had surged over me at the sound of his
voice was still a vivid and startling memory; and it counselled
reticence.
Thus two opposing forces contended; on the one hand, an emotional
impulse, on the other the admonitions of reason; and it is needless to
say that reason played losing game. Swiftly I argued out the issues.
Sooner or later, the inevitable question must come, and with it the
choice of an evasion or a straightforward answer. If it was to be
evasion, then must I put Jasper Davenant out of my life at once and
for ever, for the evasion could never be maintained; must shut out
this gleam of sunshine that came to me from the old, happy days as if
to light up my sombre, lonely life, and wend on my pilgrimage without
a friend save the companions of my working days.
And reason whispered again that it were better so.
Chapter XIV.
Jasper Davenant
The silence that had fallen between me and my companion remained
unbroken (with one exception, when he briefly drew my attention to the
old stone name-tablet, inscribed “Wardour Streete 1686”) until we came
opposite a church, standing back from the road, and distinguished by a
sort of tumour--containing a clock--on its spire. Here Mr. Davenant
halted, and looking up at the tower, remarked:
“A quaint-looking church, this; odd and ugly, but yet not without a
certain character and picturesqueness. Quite an aristocratic church,
too, for it is the burial place of a king.”
“Indeed,” said I. “Which of the kings is buried there?”
“He was but a shabby little king--Theodore of Corsica--and he has the
shabbiest little moralizing monument. But he was a somewhat original
monarch in his way, for, being in acute financial difficulties, he
conceived the brilliant idea of making over his kingdom to his
creditors. Would you care to see the monument?”
I assented, without enthusiasm, and we mounted the steps to the grimy
churchyard, where presently, against the wall of the church, we found
the monument. And still, as we deciphered the weathered inscription, I
debated the question whether I should or should not tell him; and
still I reached no conclusion.
“By the way,” my companion said, suddenly, “I am acting the showman on
the assumption that you are the complete and perfect country bumpkin.
But perhaps you are, by now, a fully acclimatized Londoner. How long
have you been living in town?”
“About a month.”
“Then the hay-seed is still in your hair, so to speak. I still address
a country cousin, and have not presumed unduly; though, no doubt, you
are beginning to learn the rudiments. I heard Mr. Campbell speak of
Wellclose Square, for instance, as a region known to you.”
“Yes. That is where I live.”
As I caught his look of astonishment my heart began to race; for I
knew that the inevitable question was coming.
“I suppose your husband is connected with the docks?”
“No,” I replied. “And he doesn’t live at Wellclose Square. I am not
living with my husband, Mr. Davenant. I never have lived with him, and
it is not my intention ever to live with him.”
The deed was done. The murder was out. And though I knew that I had
taken the wrong course, I drew a deep breath of relief. As to Mr.
Davenant, he was, for a few moments, too much taken aback to make any
comment. At length he said, somewhat gloomily:
“I am sorry to hear this, Mrs. Otway. Very sorry. It sounds as if your
domestic affairs were not very comfortable.”
“They are not,” I answered. “But, as I have told you so much, I should
like to tell you what the position really is. Would you mind?”
“Mind!” he exclaimed. “Of course I want to know, if you are willing to
tell me. Aren’t we old friends? I am most concerned about you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Davenant. I _should_ like to tell you how this
extraordinary position has come about. Shall we sit down? This place
is quieter than the street.”
He dusted the wooden bench with his handkerchief, and we sat down just
below the shabby monument of the poor, little, bankrupt king. And
there I told once again that tragic story of cross-purposes and
well-meant blundering. I had intended to give him but a bare outline
of the catastrophe; but it could not be. For the bald fact was that I
had sold myself to Mr. Otway for money; and my womanly pride and
self-respect would not be satisfied with anything short of a complete
justification such as might be accepted by a scrupulous, high-minded
man. And as I poured out my miserable history, glancing at him from
time to time, I was surprised and almost alarmed at the change that
came over him. He was a sunny-natured man, buoyant, high-spirited,
playful and humorous, though all in a quiet way. But now, as he
listened to my story, the genial face grew rigid, the humorous mouth
set hard and stern, and the short, sharp questions that he put from
time to time, came in a voice that was strange to me.
“So now,” said I, when I had come to the end of my recital, “you will
understand why I refuse to recognize this marriage; and why I elect to
live the life of a spinster, though without a spinster’s privileges.”
In a moment his face softened, and his clear, hazel eyes looked into
mine with grave tenderness.
“Yes,” he said; “I understand. I wish I could say more. I wish I could
tell you adequately how I grieve for you--for all the sorrow that you
have had to endure and for the maimed life that lies before you. But
words are poor instruments.” He laid his hand on mine for an instant,
and added: “Yet I hope you will feel what I want to express in these
threadbare phrases.”
I thanked him for the sympathy, which he had indeed made very clearly
evident, and for a time neither of us spoke. Nevertheless, I could see
that he was cogitating something. Once or twice he seemed about to
speak, for he looked at me, but then again bent his gaze reflectively
on the ground. At length, with some hesitation, he said:
“I hope you won’t think me inquisitive or impertinent, but I feel
rather anxious as to--as to how you are placed. I gather that this man
Otway does not--er--contribute----”
“He is quite willing to. But I can’t allow him to maintain me if I
repudiate the marriage.”
“No; at least I think you are quite wise not to. But--you don’t mind
my asking, do you? Are you properly provided for? I’m really not----”
“Of course, you’re not,” I interrupted, smiling at his diffidence. “As
to my means--well, I don’t quite know what they will be eventually,
but at present I am living in a reasonable state of comfort. I am not
anxious about the future.”
My answer did not seem to satisfy him completely, for he continued to
cogitate rather uneasily. But, now that I had the key, I could read
pretty clearly, without the aid of any magic crystal, what was passing
in his mind. He knew that I lived in a squalid east-end neighbourhood.
He had seen me at the dealers, and evidently surmised that I was not
there as a buyer; that I was in straitened circumstances--perhaps in a
state of actual poverty--and that I was disposing of my jewellery and
valuables to enable me to live. That, I had no doubt, was what he
suspected; and the question that he was debating so earnestly was
whether he could, without impertinence, extract any further
information and whether our friendship was intimate enough to allow of
his making any kind of offer of help.