Helen Vardon's confession
and it was borne in on me that, with the final touch, his interest in
the thing had fallen dead.
“Nunc dimittis!” he murmured. “It’s finished at last. ‘Now lettest
Thou Thy servant depart in peace.’ And that reminds me, Jim; don’t the
shops keep open late to-night?”
“Some of them do,” I replied.
“Good,” said he. “Tell Jessie to bring up the supper while I’m
washing. I’ve got to make a business call to-night, and I want to get
some things, so we won’t make it a ceremonious meal. Not that I want
to put you on short allowance, for I expect you are hungry after your
Titanic labours. You mustn’t take any notice of me.”
As he hurried away, I rang the bell, and, when I had given the
necessary instructions, I went up to my bedroom to remove the traces
of the evening’s work and make myself presentable.
At the supper table my father preserved the same quiet gaiety of
manner--his usual manner, in fact; for he was always cheerful and
companionable--though, on this occasion, the speed with which he
disposed of his food gave little opportunity for conversation. After a
very hurried meal, he rose, and, pushing back his chair, glanced at
his watch.
“You mustn’t mind my running away,” said he. “Time, tide and the
shopkeeper wait for no man.”
He moved away toward the door, but before he reached it he paused and
then came back and stood beside my chair.
“You need’nt sit up for me,” he said. “I may possibly be rather late.
So I’d better say ‘good-night’ now.” He took my head in his hands,
and, looking earnestly into my eyes, murmured: “Dear little Jim; best
and most loyal of apprentices.” Then he kissed me very tenderly and
passed his hands over my hair.
“Good-night, sweetheart,” said he. “Don’t sit up reading, but go to
bed early like a sensible girlie--if you will pardon my dropping into
Weggish poetry without notice.”
He turned away and walked quickly to the door, where he stood for a
moment to wave his hand. I heard him go to the study, and sat stiffly
in my chair listening. In a few moments he came out and stepped
quietly across the hall; there was a brief pause, and then the outer
door closed.
He was gone.
At the sound of the closing door, I sprang to my feet with all my
terrors revived. Whither had he gone? It was unusual for him to leave
his home at night. What was it that had taken him abroad on this night
of all others? And what was it that he wanted to buy? And wanted so
urgently that he could not wait until the morrow? And why had he
wished me “good-night” with such tender earnestness? A foolish
question, this, for he was a loving father, and never sought to veil
his affection. But to-night I was unstrung; haunted by nameless fears
that gave a dreadful significance to every passing incident. And as
the chill of mortal terror crept round my heart, the resolution that
had been growing--growing, came to its final completion.
It had to be. Horrible, loathsome as, even then, I felt it to be, it
was the only alternative to that other nameless and unthinkable. The
sacrifice must be made by us both for both our sakes--if it were not
too late already!
Too late? Even as the dreadful thought smote like a hammer on my
heart, I ran from the room and sped up the stairs on the wings of
terror. With trembling fingers I took my hat and cloak from the
wardrobe and hurried downstairs, putting them on as I went. At the
dining-room door I called out a hasty message to the maid, and then,
snatching up my gloves from the hall table, I opened the door and ran
out into darkness.
Chapter III.
The Covenant
As I sped swiftly along the quiet roads on the outskirts of the town
the confusion and sense of helplessness began to subside under the
influence of action and a definite purpose; by degrees my thoughts
clarified, and I found myself shaping out, with surprising
deliberation and judgment, the course that I intended to pursue. Mr.
Otway’s house was about a mile distant from ours, somewhat farther out
of town, though on a frequented road; a short distance and quickly
covered by my flying feet. Yet, short as it was, and traversed with a
phantom of terror in close pursuit, it gave me time to collect my
faculties, so that, when I opened the gate and walked up the little
drive, I had already to a large extent recovered my self-possession,
though I was still trembling with the fear of what might be happening
elsewhere at this very moment.
The door was opened by a small frail-looking woman of about fifty, who
did not look quite like an ordinary servant, and whose appearance
instantly impressed me disagreeably. She stood with her face slightly
averted, looking at me out of the corners of her eyes, and holding the
door open as she asked, with a slight Scotch accent:
“Who would you be wanting?”
“I wish to see Mr. Otway, if he is at home?” I replied.
“If ye’ll come in and give me your name, I’ll tell him,” said she; and
with this she showed me into a small room that opened out of the hall,
where, when I had told her my name, she left me. In less than a minute
Mr. Otway entered, and having carefully closed the door, shook hands
gravely and offered me a chair.
“This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Miss Vardon,” said he. “Oddly
enough, I was just thinking about you. I called on your father only
this afternoon.”
“I know,” said I. “It was about that that I came to see you.”
“Your father, then,” said Mr. Otway, “has mentioned to you the subject
of our not entirely pleasant interview?”
“No, he has not,” I replied. “Nothing has passed between us on the
subject, and he is not aware that I have come here. The fact is, I
overheard a part of your conversation and made it my business to hear
as much of the rest as I could.”
“Ha! Indeed!” He gave me a quick glance, half enquiring, half
suspicious, and added: “Perhaps, Miss Vardon, you had better tell me
what you heard.”
“There is no need for me to repeat it in detail,” said I; “but, from
what I heard, I gathered that my father had rendered himself liable to
a prosecution. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Otway, “that is unfortunately--most unfortunately--the
case.”
“And that the proceedings will be taken by you, and that you have the
power to stay them if you choose?”
“I wouldn’t put it that way, Miss Vardon. That hardly states the
position fairly. Do you know nothing of the circumstances at all? Has
your father not told you anything about this unfortunate affair?”
“He has not spoken a word to me on the subject, and he has no idea
that I know anything about it.”
“H’m,” Mr. Otway grunted, reflectively. “Yes. Well, Miss Vardon, if
you wish to talk the matter over with me, perhaps I had better just
let you know how the land lies, although, really, your father is the
proper person to tell you.”
“I think you had better tell me, if you don’t mind,” said I.
“Very well, Miss Vardon,” he agreed. “Then the position is this: A sum
of money--five thousand pounds, to be exact--was handed to your father
by the trustees of a certain estate, to be invested by him on behalf
of the trust; and the manner of its disposal--into which we need not
enter--was quite clearly specified. But your father, instead of
disposing of the money as directed, chose to make over the whole of it
as a loan to a friend of his who was in temporary difficulties; a
manufacturer, as I understand, who had suffered an unexpected loss and
was on the verge of bankruptcy. There was no proper security, nor
even, as I understand, any satisfactory arrangement as to the payment
of interest. The whole affair was most improper; a gross violation of
trust. In effect, your father converted this money and made use of it
for his own purposes.”
“Is the money lost?” I enquired.
Mr. Otway shrugged his shoulders. “Who can say? It may be recoverable
some day, or it may not. But that is very little to the point. The
position is that it is now demanded of your father and that he can’t
produce it.”
“And so you are going to prosecute him?”
“Oh, please don’t put it that way, Miss Vardon. I am a quite
involuntary agent. My position is that I am instructed to get this
money from your father and dispose of it in a particular way. But I
can’t get it; and when I report that fact, I shall, of course, be
urged--in fact, compelled--to take criminal proceedings. I shall have
no choice. It isn’t my money, you know.”
“But why criminal proceedings?” I asked. “It seems to me that a civil
action to recover the money would be the natural course.”
Again Mr. Otway shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see that it makes
much difference,” said he. “The money has been made away with. Even if
the trustees took no criminal action, there is the Public Prosecutor
and there is the Incorporated Law Society. A prosecution is
inevitable.”
“And supposing my father is convicted?”
“It is hardly necessary to suppose,” said Mr. Otway. “He will be.
There is no defence. As to the sentence, I don’t imagine that the
maximum punishment of seven years penal servitude is likely to be
inflicted. Still, your father is a solicitor, and the law is, quite
properly, very severe in the case of solicitors who misappropriate
their clients’ property. He is almost certain to get a term of
imprisonment.”
To this I made no reply. There was nothing to say. It was only too
clear that every avenue of escape was closed--save one; and realizing
more fully every moment where that one led, I could not bring myself
to make the fateful move. So, for a while, we sat in a hideous silence
through which the ticking of a clock penetrated noisily and seemed to
keep pace with the thumping of my heart.
As I sat, bracing myself for the effort that had to be made, my eyes
travelled, half unconsciously, over the person of my companion. His
appearance was not prepossessing. Huge, unwieldy and shapeless,
although by no means grossly fat, his great size carried no dignity;
nor did his very marked and prominent features impart to his face
anything of distinction or nobility. He was of a distinctly oriental
type, with black and rather curly hair, oiled and combed over a
slightly bald head, a large aquiline nose, a wide mouth, rather full
and fleshy, and very dark eyes, under which were baggy folds of skin
creased by innumerable tiny wrinkles. As I looked at him with growing
distaste, I found myself comparing him to a gigantic spider.
Suddenly it was borne in on me--perhaps by the measured ticking of the
clock--that time was passing: time which might be infinitely precious.
To delay further were mere cowardice. Nevertheless, when I spoke, it
was in a voice so husky that I had to stop and begin again.
“You spoke, Mr. Otway--I heard you mention to my father that--that on
certain conditions, you would--would be prepared to abandon your
intention of prosecuting--or, at least----”
I could get no farther. Fear and shame and loathing of this thing that
I was going to do, overpowered me utterly. It was only by the most
strenuous effort that I choked down the sob that was rising in my
throat. But I had said enough, for Mr. Otway now came to my
assistance.
“I told your father that I was prepared to take over his liabilities,
for the time being, at least, on condition that you became my wife. He
refused, as perhaps you know; refused very definitely, I may say.”
“And rather rudely, I am afraid.”
“He was not at any great pains to wrap his refusal up delicately. But
we may let that pass. Is it in respect of this proposal of mine that
you have done me the very great honour of calling on me, Miss Vardon?”
I felt myself turn scarlet, but nevertheless I answered, resolutely:
“Yes. I came to ask if my father’s very blunt refusal had closed the
matter finally, or whether you were prepared to--to re-open it.”