Helen Vardon's confession
perfect suitability was evident at a glance--provided that it could be
detached without ringing the bell. But the necessity for cutting it
rather than pulling it down would be obvious, even to a suicide.
The means, then, were all ready to hand. And there was the man,
charged with this self-destructive tendency, sleeping in the very
posture calculated to start it into action.
I sat still, watching him with absorbing interest, and as these
thoughts shaped themselves with more and more distinctness, an impulse
of which I was barely conscious formed itself and steadily grew in
intensity. At length I leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.
“Mr. Otway, you should not lie in that position.”
There was no answer, and he made no sign. The heavy breathing went on
with uninterrupted regularity, the eyes remained closed. Again I
spoke, this time more loudly, clearly and distinctly.
“Mr. Otway, can you hear me? If you lie as you are lying, you will
probably dream. You may have bad, dangerous dreams. You may dream of
your mother and your brother. You may dream that the peg on the wall
is beckoning to you. And then you may wake in a panic and think that
the peg is still beckoning. And then----”
I stopped suddenly. What was this that I was doing? Was it a warning
to avert disaster? So the words were framed. But I knew it was nothing
of the kind. It was suggestion, pure and almost undisguised. The
dreadful truth struck me like a blow and seemed to turn me into stone.
I sat rigid as a statue, still leaning forward with my lips parted as
if to complete that awful sentence, every moment more appalled by this
frightful thing that I had done. There came to me in a flash a vision
of my own automatism after the séance; I heard Lilith telling me how
the sleep of the drugged resembles the hypnotic trance; and again it
came to me how I had been sitting looking at that terrible peg on the
wall and--without conscious intention--creating by my will the awful
shape beneath it.
How long I should have sat, bent forward as if frozen into rigid
immobility by the horror of this hideous thing, it is impossible to
say. The realization of what I had done, that had fallen on me like a
thunderbolt, had petrified me in a posture of arrested action. It
seemed to have deprived me of the power of movement.
The place was intensely silent. The monotonous breathing of the
sleeping man--the snoring intake alternating with the soft, blowing
expiration--made no impression on the profound quiet, and the rapid
ticking of the little carriage clock on the table seemed only to make
it more intense.
Suddenly something stirred in the outer room. I sprang to my feet with
a gasp that had almost been a shriek. Probably it was only Mrs. Gregg,
but in my overwrought state the sound was vaguely alarming. I stood
for a few moments, my heart thumping and my breath coming short and
fast; then I stole on tip-toe across the room and softly opening the
door, peered into the outer room. It was in darkness except that a
bright beam of moonlight poured in at the window; but this gave enough
light to show that there was nobody in the room.
Still fearful of I knew not what, I stepped softly through the doorway
and looked about me suspiciously. The moonlight struck on a large
cupboard or wardrobe, which instantly suggested the lurking-place of
some eavesdropper and at the same time aroused horrible associations
connected with Mr. Otway’s brother; so that, in spite of my alarm, I
was impelled to pluck at the handle to satisfy myself that no figure
was hidden within. But the cupboard was locked, or, at any rate, would
not open.
Then I looked under the table and peered into the darker corners of
the room, growing--naturally--more and more nervous every moment, and
pausing from time to time to listen, or to look back through the
doorway into the bedroom, where I could see Mr. Otway lying motionless
like a sepulchral effigy.
Suddenly something stirred softly quite near to me--the sound seemed
to come from the cupboard. I could have screamed with terror. The last
vestige of my self-possession was gone, and in sheer panic I fled
across the room and down the corridor to the entrance lobby. This
place was in utter darkness, and as I frantically groped for the
latch, I felt my skin creep and break out into a chilly sweat. At last
I found the latch, dragged the door open and darted out; and as the
clang of the closing door filled the building with hollow echoes, I
ran swiftly down the stairs.
Once out in the inhabited streets, my alarm subsided somewhat; but
still the image of that motionless figure in the bedroom, the
sinister-looking peg on the wall and the recollection of those
dreadful words that I had spoken into the sleeper’s ears pursued me
with an abiding horror. I walked quickly out into the Strand, and I
was in the act of hailing a cab when I remembered that I had left my
wrist-bag hanging on the chair-back by Mr. Otway’s bedside. My purse
was in that bag. But if it had contained my entire worldly possessions
I could not have summoned up courage enough to go back for it.
The cab drew up by the kerb. I hesitated a moment, but reflecting that
it was yet hardly ten o’clock, and that someone would be waiting up
from whom I could borrow the fare, I gave the cabman the address, with
the necessary explanations, entered the cab and shut the door. But as
the crazy vehicle--it was an ancient four-wheeler--rattled over the
uneven roadways of the side streets, the scene in that warm and stuffy
bedroom was re-enacted again and again. And yet again I looked on that
ill-omened cupboard in the ghostly moonlight; speculated on the
mysterious sounds in the living-room; wondered uncomfortably if there
had been a watcher or a listener, and if so, whether that eavesdropper
knew the meaning of silent willing and suggestion.
Chapter XXII.
The Catastrophe
Viewed by the cheerful light of the morning sun as it streamed in
through my bedroom window, the phantoms of the previous night dwindled
to mere scare-crows. On the panic-stricken state in which I had fled
from Mr. Otway’s chambers I was now disposed to look back with faint
amusement. Even the words which I had spoken into Mr. Otway’s ears as
he slept had no longer any terrifying significance, though I had to
admit that they were not susceptible of any satisfactory
interpretation. They had been spoken under the influence of an impulse
which I could not account for, and did not care to examine too
closely, but which I vaguely connected with my excursions into
psychical research--a subject which I decided to avoid as far as
possible in the future.
As to Mr. Otway, if his account of his family was correct, it seemed
quite probable that, sooner or later, he would make away with himself,
though, seeing that he was now well past middle life, the propensity
could hardly be as strong as he had represented it. On the other hand,
he was now being subjected to a very excessive nervous strain, and was
undoubtedly letting his mind run on the subject of suicide. If the
blackmailers continued to keep up an increasing pressure, as they
seemed inclined to do, the breaking-point might be reached quite soon.
And I could not disguise from myself that the catastrophe, if and when
it occurred, would not present itself to me as a personal misfortune.
With this I dismissed Mr. Otway and his affairs, and let my thoughts
roam into more attractive regions. For this was the day of days. In a
matter of a few hours my separation from Jasper would be at an end. We
should be united, never again to part.
As I rose and dressed, this was the burden of my thoughts. The weeks
of separation and loneliness were gone, and the hours that lay between
the present and that final meeting were running out apace like the
grains of sand in an hourglass that is nearly spent. I hurried over
breakfast that I might the sooner escape to be alone with my
happiness; and most of the morning I spent in the workshop, arranging
my apparatus so that it might easily be packed, in case I should not
come back to superintend the removal myself. The candlestick, which
was finished and successful beyond my expectations, I took upstairs to
place in my trunk that I might give it to Jasper this very day. And
then I paid a visit to my friend Peggy, whom I found in her workshop
chirruping gaily and very busy making a complicated set of plaster
moulds from the dissected wax model of her masterpiece. But I did not
stay long with her, for the making of piece-moulds is an engrossing
occupation and one better followed in solitude.
As I entered the house from the garden I encountered our little
housemaid with a telegram in her hand.
“This has just come for you, ma’am,” said she, holding it out towards
me. “The boy is waiting to see if there is any answer.”
I suppose that to most persons unaccustomed to receiving telegrams,
the appearance of the peremptory, orange-tinted envelope is a little
portentous. Especially so was it to me at that moment, with the crisis
of my life so near at hand; and my heart beat tumultuously as I tore
open the envelope and unfolded the flimsy paper. It bore but a brief
message; but when I had read that message, the joy of life, the
half-timorous happiness that had come to me with the morning sunlight,
went out in a moment, like a wind-blown taper, and left me desolate.
“Cancel appointment for to-day and do not come to the club. Letter
follows. Jasper.”
That was all. There was really nothing very alarming in it. But to me
it came as a dreadful anti-climax, strung up, as I was, to the highest
pitch of nervous tension. With a trembling hand I refolded the paper,
and, having told the maid that there was no answer, ran up to my room
and bolted myself in.
It was a terrible blow. Only now, by the bitterness of the
disappointment, did I realise the heart-hunger that I had endured, the
intense yearning for the moment in which my beloved companion would be
restored to me. And then, beyond this sudden collapse of my happiness,
almost in the moment of its realisation, was the mystery, the
suspense, the uncertainty. What could it be that had happened? Had
Jasper’s condition suddenly grown worse? That could hardly be, for he
was practically well--at least, he had so regarded himself--and
moreover there was that cryptic reference to the club. Why must I not
go to the club?
There was something very mysterious in that prohibition.
The more I reflected on the matter the more puzzling did it appear. On
the other hand, the very mystery in which the affair was shrouded was
itself a relief. For, of course, I never for one moment had the
faintest doubt of Jasper’s loyalty, nor could I entertain the
possibility of his having changed his views on the subject of our
marriage. Something had occurred to hinder it; but Jasper was my own
and I was his, and that being so, the hindrance, whatever it might be,
could be but temporary.
So I comforted myself and made believe that all was well, though when
by chance my eye lighted on the trunk, packed and even provided with a
blank label, I could hardly keep back the tears. At lunch I let Miss
Polton know that my visit was postponed, and immediately after the
meal I prepared to go out and seek relief in a long, sharp walk. By
the time I returned, the letter from Jasper would probably have
arrived and I should know how matters stood.
I had put on my outdoor clothes and was just about to start, when,
opening the drawer in which I kept my wrist-bag, I suddenly remembered
my loss of the night before. The bag contained, not only my purse, but
my card-case and one or two other things I could not conveniently do
without. The prohibition to go to the club could hardly, I reflected,