Helen Vardon's confession
“Entirely,” I replied, “excepting the sentence of banishment. Don’t
you think I might just look in on you now and again to see if you want
anything?”
“It is only a fortnight, dearest,” said he, “and we can write as often
as we please. Until we are married we can’t be too careful to avoid
provoking criticism.”
I made no further objections, for I felt that he was right; and,
moreover, I could not but perceive that this rather excessive
primness, like the formalities which he had proposed, was simply an
unconscious expression of chivalrous respect, a protest in advance
against any unfavourable criticisms of me. And in accordance with what
I felt he would consider prudent, I took leave of him comparatively
early, so as to avoid a second meeting with Mr. Weeble, who, I
learned, came in every night between eight and nine to help him to get
to bed.
“I shall write to you every day,” I said, as I drew on my gloves, “and
you must promise that, if there is anything that I can do for you, you
will let me know and never mind about Mrs. Grundy. Is that agreed?”
He gave the required promise, and when I had handed him back his
latch-key, I stooped and kissed him; and as I looked back at him
before closing the iron-bound door, I could not but contrast this
parting with the miserable farewell of less than a month ago.
Chapter XXI.
A Dreadful Inheritance
It has always been, and still is, somewhat of a puzzle to me to
account for the sudden and complete change in my point of view in
regard to my union with Jasper. Lilith would doubtless have explained
it as a case of subconscious reflection, and probably she would have
been right. My impression is that Peggy’s matter-of-fact attitude
towards marriage unsanctioned by law had a more profound effect than I
was aware of; that her words--which I had certainly recalled from time
to time--had remained in my mind subconsciously exercising a
continuous influence. Or it may be that I had found a life of
separation impossible, and had realised it consciously only when I
found myself once more in Jasper’s presence.
But, however it may have happened, the fact remains that I accepted
the new order without a qualm. The conditions that I had scouted as
unthinkable now seemed entirely reasonable and acceptable. The only
twinge of misgiving that I ever had, was produced by the draft of the
declaration that Jasper sent for my approval and criticism. For that
well-meant document, with its half-defiant, half-protesting phrases,
did certainly bring home to me with uncomfortable vividness the fact
that this marriage was not like any other marriage, and that I was not
as other married women were. But I sent it back approved and tried to
forget it, and quietly went on with my preparations for the new life.
Outwardly, however, I made no change in my habits, and even tried to
suppress the gaiety and buoyancy of spirit that I felt, lest the
sudden change from my recent depressed condition should attract
notice. I still lived my life apart, only too happy in my solitude,
and spent most of my time in the workshop conning over Jasper’s
letters, or meditating on the happy days that were drawing so near.
For a time the candlestick was sadly neglected, until I had the sudden
inspiration of finishing it as a wedding-gift to Jasper. And then all
the joy of work revived and blossomed into unsuspected skill. Tracer
and punch seemed to travel along their appointed paths unguided; the
spindle-shanked chasing hammer became a familiar demon and appeared to
develop a volition of its own, and the little enamel furnace roared
with glee.
So the days sped by, each bringing me nearer to the golden gate of my
enchanted garden, and each so filled with quiet happiness that I could
not wish it shorter. About the end of the first week came a letter
from Jasper saying that the bandages had been discarded, and that he
had taken a walk and had appeared quite well and strong. Then, a day
or two later, came another fixing the date and time of our meeting. It
was to be on the following Thursday--only five days ahead--at six
o’clock in the evening. The formalities were to be carried out
immediately on my arrival; we should then dine quietly at the club,
spend the evening at a concert or the theatre, and take the boat train
either to Flushing or Calais, whichever I preferred.
The arrival of this letter, though I had been daily expecting it, came
as quite a shock, and turned my tranquil happiness into feverish
excitement which I had some difficulty in concealing. The fixing of an
actual date and the selection of a definite region in which to spend
the honeymoon (I chose the north of France) gave a reality to this
Great Adventure and brought it out of the undefined future into the
present. For now I had to carry out the final preparations. Lightly as
I might travel, I must take some luggage, and this would entail a
conveyance; and this in its turn involved something in the nature of a
public departure, so that, if I had desired to disappear
secretly--which I did not--the thing would have been impossible. Yet I
was, naturally, loath to say much about my immediate intentions,
preparing to make my explanations by letter after the event; and this
the prevailing good manners of the little community rendered quite
easy. I notified Miss Polton and my more intimate friends that I was
going away on a visit of uncertain duration, and, whatever curiosity
they may have felt, no further particulars were asked for. I went
about my immediate preparations--the packing of those few things that
I must needs take away with me--unnoticed, or at least uncommented on,
and then began unobtrusively to arrange the rest of my possessions for
the final removal.
On Wednesday--the day before that of my departure--a letter arrived
from Mr. Otway. It reached me just after lunch, and I glanced at it
before rising from the table. The subject was the same as that of
previous ones, but it was evident that something in the nature of a
crisis was approaching. The extreme agitation of the writer was shown
not only in the matter and the impassioned, rather incoherent manner,
but even in the handwriting; which was ill-formed and slovenly, in
great contrast to Mr. Otway’s usual business-like neatness.
“My dear Helen,” it began, “I have not troubled you for quite a long
time with my miserable affairs--which are to some extent your affairs
too. But they are going from bad to worse, and now I feel that I am
coming to the limits of endurance. I cannot bear this much longer. My
health is shattered, my peace of mind is wrecked, and my brain
threatens to give way. Death would be a boon, a relief, and I feel
that it is not far off. I cannot go on like this. Those wretches leave
me no peace. Hardly a week passes but I get some new menace; and
now--but I can’t tell you in a letter. It is too horrible. Come to me,
Helen, for the love of God! I am in torment. Have pity on me, even
though you have never forgiven me. I cannot come to you, for I am now
unable to leave my bed. I am a wreck, a ruin. Come to me just this
once, and if you cannot help me, at least give me the comfort of your
sympathy. You will not be troubled by me much longer.
“Your distracted husband,
“Lewis Otway.”
The emotions that this letter aroused were mixed and rather
conflicting. Never had I felt a deeper loathing of Mr. Otway than now
that I was being forced to accept what I knew in my heart to be but a
counterfeit of marriage. I had been robbed of my birthright, and he
had robbed me. Never was I less in a mood to offer him sympathy in the
troubles that he had created for himself and me by his callous
selfishness. And yet I decided to go to him. Whether the decision was
due to some sort of compunction for the blow that I was going to
strike on the morrow; or whether to curiosity, or to a desire to
verify his foreboding of approaching death, I cannot say. Certainly
the last consideration entered into the mixture of motives, and
probably was the determining factor. At any rate, I decided to go.
Dimly, I perceived that I ought to have consulted Jasper, though I was
unaware of the possible legal significance that my visit might
acquire. I formed my decision at once, and early in the afternoon set
forth westward with the letter in my pocket.
I did not go direct to Mr. Otway’s chambers. Promptly as I had made up
my mind, I felt the necessity of thinking over the circumstances and
forecasting the possibilities. On my way westward I made a halt at a
tea-shop, and while I awaited the leisurely service I drew out the
letter and read it through again. Clearly the blackmailers were
becoming more urgent and possibly more definite. It seemed as though
they had adopted some new tactics. But it was not the blackmailers who
interested me. I found my eye travelling again and again to those two
sentences that hinted at the possibility of Mr. Otway’s death.
“I feel that it is not far off.” And again, “You will not be troubled
by me much longer.” Had he any solid grounds for these forebodings? Or
were they merely the offspring of abiding terror, or perchance simply
rhetorical flourishes designed to arouse my sympathy? These were
questions of no small moment to me, for Mr. Otway’s death would set me
free and in an instant unravel the tangled skein of my relations with
Jasper.
As I drank my tea with reflective deliberation I turned these
questions over in my mind, not disguising from myself the cool,
impassive, egoism of my attitude. My feeling in respect of Mr. Otway
was devoid of any trace of sentimentalism. I viewed him as the
insurance director views the generalised “proposer,”--but inversely;
for I was interested in his decease, not in his survival. I loathed
him, but I did not hate him. I did not wish him ill. If I could have
saved him from suffering I would have done so, even at the cost of
some considerable effort. But if he had stood in the peril of instant
death, and I could have averted that peril by moving a finger, I would
not have moved a finger.
That was my position. As I rose from the table and returned the letter
to my pocket, what was in my mind was that Mr. Otway seemed to think
that he was going to die, and I hoped that he was right.
When I reached Lyon’s Inn Chambers the sun was already low and the
gloom of the evening was beginning to settle on the closed-in block of
buildings. I ascended the ill-lit stone stairs to the second floor,
where the light on the landing was so dim that I had difficulty in
deciphering Mr. Otway’s name above the door of his “set”; and as I did
so I noted with surprise that the inscription was faded and obscure,
and had the appearance of having been in existence for many years,
whereas Mr. Otway had, as I believed, but recently entered on his
tenancy.
The door was opened by Mrs. Gregg, who stood in the gloom of the entry
confronting me without a word.
“Good evening, Mrs. Gregg,” I said. “Mr. Otway has asked me to call on
him----”
“Ye need make no excuses,” she interrupted, “for coming to see your
lawful husband.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gregg,” I replied. “Is Mr. Otway disengaged?”
“No,” she answered; “he is expecting a visitor.”
“How very unfortunate,” said I. “He wanted particularly to see me, I
know.”
“Perhaps you could look in some time to-morrow?” she suggested.
“No, I am afraid I can’t. If Mr. Otway is unable to see me this
evening I must write to him. I shall not have another opportunity to
call for some considerable time.”
She reflected for a few moments, and I gathered that she was unwilling
to take the responsibility of cancelling the interview.