Helen Vardon's confession

conscious is dormant or in abeyance. But when the conscious self returns or awakens, the subconscious mind continues to work, although unperceived by the conscious mind. If the suggestion refers, as in your case, to some action to be performed at an appointed time, the subconscious keeps account of the passing time and at the appointed moment sets the machinery in motion. The action itself is perceived by the conscious mind, but the train of subconscious thought has been unperceived, though it has really been quite continuous. It is very curious, though not particularly mysterious.” “And it is only in the hypnotic trance that these suggestions take effect?” “That,” replied Lilith, “is not quite clear. It seems that in ordinary sleep suggestions of the kind may sometimes take effect. And for the same reason. In sleep, the conscious self is in abeyance--is out of action; but the subconscious is active, as we see in the case of dreams and still more strikingly in the case of somnambulism. But the postponed effects of suggestions made during normal sleep need more investigation. I believe that sleep produced by drugs is much more like the hypnotic trance than natural sleep.” “Well,” I said, “it is all rather weird and uncanny,” and so the subject dropped. But, as I have said, the influence of these strange experiences remained. My former scepticism of the occult and mystical gave place to a state of mind in which I was prepared to admit the possibility of things that I had once regarded as wildly incredible. Nevertheless, I was but faintly interested in the wonders of psychical research. Indeed, I was not much interested in anything connected with my daily life. I had endeavoured to revive my enthusiasm for my work by setting myself an ambitious task--a silver candlestick of a semi-ecclesiastical design, worked in repoussé with enrichments in enamel. But all the pleasure in the work was gone. The various processes--skilfully enough executed, as I noticed with tepid satisfaction--which should have been a joy, were but the routine of industry; and through them all the never-ending heartache, the sense of loss, of bereavement, the feeling that the light had gone out of my life for ever. The passing time seemed to bring no mitigation. Rather did it seem to me that every day I missed my dear companion more. Perhaps if my loss had been more final--if, for instance, Jasper had been taken from me by Death--I might have striven more determinedly to shape my life anew. But there was a certain inconclusiveness in our separation. Not that I ever, for a moment, considered the possibility of re-opening the question. But still I think there lurked in my mind the feeling that the door was not finally closed. Jasper’s words, “Remember that I am still wanting you, that I am still asking you,” would come to me unbidden, again and yet again, reminding me that the way was still open, that I could end the separation if and when I chose. And then Peggy’s outspoken declaration was not without its effect. For the Titmouse was a very paragon of modesty and maidenly propriety; and when I recalled her robust contempt of conventional points of view I could not help asking myself sometimes if I had not been too prudish. All of which was very disturbing. It left me with my resolution unchanged, and yet without that sense of finality that would have set me reconstructing my scheme of life. So the weeks dragged by till the time for the first monthly letter drew nigh; and the passionate yearning with which I looked forward to it told me that that letter was a mistake. It ought never to have been. The chapter should have been ended and the volume shut irrevocably. As the time for the letter approached, my unrest took me abroad more than usual, and one day, forsaking the sordid east, I took the train to South Kensington and made my way to the Museum, though with no special object in my mind. I had ascended the steps to the main entrance, and was approaching the doorway, when I came face to face with Miss Tallboy-Smith, who was just emerging. At the sight of me she halted with a dramatic gesture of astonishment. “Well!” she exclaimed, “so you are _really_ alive! I thought I was never going to see you again. Where _have_ you been? It’s ages--centuries--since I have seen you. And dear Miss Finch, too; whatever has become of her? Were you going into the Museum? I have just been wallowing in the Salting Collection. Delightful, isn’t it? The very kernel of the Museum. Don’t you think so?” “I don’t think I have ever seen the Salting Collection,” said I. “Never seen the Salting Collection!” she gasped. “My _dear_ Mrs. Otway! How _dreadful!_ And you a connoisseur, too. Why, it’s a Paradise; the collectors’ Heaven. Do you believe that people come back after death and frequent their old haunts? I hope it’s true. If it is, I shall come to the Salting Collection. I shall divide my ghosthood between that and the Wallace. It will really be very jolly. Unlimited leisure, with all eternity at one’s disposal. And no silly restrictions; no closing hours or students’ days. So convenient, too! You just pass in through the closed door or the wall and float up the stairs. Why, you could even get inside the glass cases! I’m afraid you’ll think me an awful, old heathen; but I’m not really. And how are you? And how is Miss Finch? And why haven’t you been to the club for such an age. And isn’t it dreadful about poor Mr. Davenant?” My heart seemed to stand still, and I think I must have turned pale, for Miss Tallboy-Smith said hastily: “I’m afraid I have startled you, Mrs. Otway; but surely--surely--do you mean to tell me that you haven’t even heard about it?” “I have heard nothing,” I said, faintly. “Is he--tell me what has happened.” “I haven’t had very full particulars,” said she, “but it seems that a cart--or was it a wagon? No, I think it was a cart--and yet I’m not quite sure that it wasn’t--but there! I’m not very clear as to the difference between a cart and a wagon. What is the difference?” “It doesn’t matter,” I said impatiently. “Tell me what happened.” “No,” she agreed, “I suppose it doesn’t matter. Well, it seems that this wagon--but I think it was really a cart----yes, I’m sure it was--at least, I think so--but at any rate it appears that the wagon had run away--that is, of course, it was the horse that had run away, but as he was tied to the cart, it comes to the same thing. And he got on to the pavement--it was in the Strand, somewhere near that shop where they sell those absurd--now what _do_ they call those things? I am getting so silly about names, and it’s quite a common name, too----” “Never mind what they are called,” I entreated. “Do tell me what happened to Mr. Davenant.” “Well, what happened was this. When the wagon got on the pavement all the people scattered to get out of the way--all except a messenger boy, and he fell down right in front of the cart. Then Mr. Davenant ran out and tried to drag the boy clear of the wagon; and, in fact, he did drag him out of the way, but he wasn’t quick enough to save himself, for the horse swerved and knocked him down violently on to some stone steps.” “Was he badly hurt?” I demanded, breathlessly. “Hurt!” she repeated. “My dear Mrs. Otway, he was battered--absolutely battered. He fell with his side on the stone steps, and I understand that his ribs were simply smashed to matchwood.” “And where is he now? Is he in a hospital?” “He was. They took him to Charing Cross Hospital, but he wouldn’t stay there. He insisted on going home directly they put on the splints or whatever the things were. And, will you believe me, Mrs. Otway, when I tell you that he has been living alone in those wretched chambers ever since! He wouldn’t even have a nurse. Isn’t that just like a man?” “But who looks after him?” “Nobody. Of course there is the charwoman, or laundress as they call them--though why they should be called laundresses I can’t imagine. They look more like dustwomen--and the man from the office downstairs looks in sometimes. It’s a perfectly scandalous state of affairs. I wish, Mrs. Otway, you would go and see him and make him have a nurse.” “I will certainly go and see him,” said I. “I will go now,” and I held out my hand to bring the interview to an end. “How sweet of you, dear Mrs. Otway!” she explained, keeping a firm hold of my hand, which I endeavoured unobtrusively to withdraw. “I felt sure you would go to the rescue. And you will insist on his having a nurse, won’t you? He will listen to you, but you will have to be firm. Promise me you will, now.” “I will see that he is properly looked after,” I replied. “Yes, but he must have a nurse, you know--a properly trained and certificated nurse. You can get excellent nurses at that place--now, what is its name? Cavendish--Cavendish something. I am getting so silly about names. Let me see, I did have a card in my purse; perhaps it is there still----” Here she released my hand to open her wrist-bag, and I took the opportunity to retreat down the steps. “Don’t trouble, please,” I urged. “I shall manage quite well. Good-bye!” and with this I hurried away, somewhat unceremoniously, across the wide road, and, as soon as I had turned the corner, broke into a run. A couple of minutes later I arrived at the station, breathless, just in time to see a Circle train move out. I could have wept with vexation. It was but a few minutes before the next one would be due, but those minutes dragged like hours. With swift strides I paced up and down the platform in an agony of impatience, turning over and over again Miss Tallboy-Smith’s confused account of the accident and trying to construct by its aid some intelligible picture of Jasper’s condition. Even when I was in the train its progress seemed intolerably slow and the succession of stations interminable. It was an agony to sit still and passively await the leisurely arrival at my destination, and an unspeakable relief when, at last, I reached the Temple Station, to spring from the train, dash up the stairs and hurry along the embankment. My progress on foot might be slower, but I had the physical sensation of speed. At the top of Middle Temple Lane I emerged into Fleet Street, and, crossing the road, entered Clifford’s Inn Passage. I had never been there before, and, though I knew the number of Jasper’s house, I thought it best to enquire as to its whereabouts. As I passed through the archway I saw a somewhat clerical-looking man standing at the door of the porter’s lodge, and from him learned that No. 54 was in the inner court on the east side of the garden; with which direction I hurried on again. Clearly there came back to me the impressions that seemed so dim at the time; a sense of quiet and repose, of aloofness from the bustle of the city, an old-world, dignified shabbiness that was yet homely and pleasant withal. I crossed a little court, passed through a second archway, and came out into a second, larger court, where the gay foliage of plane trees found a foil in the dingy, red brick of the venerable houses. A glance showed me the narrow alley by the garden, and a dozen paces along its roughly-flagged pavement brought me to the entry of No. 54, on the side of which was painted “Mr. J. Davenant, Architect,” and below, in smaller lettering, “Jonathan Weeble, Law Writer.” I stepped into the entry, and tapping on a door which, by its painted description, appeared to appertain to Mr. Weeble’s premises, was bidden to “come in.” Accordingly, I entered and was confronted by a somewhat unkempt young man who was apparently engaged in engrossing a large document which was secured to a sort of evergrown lectern by means of a band of tape.