Helen Vardon's confession
woman whom I had seen at Mr. Otway’s house was seated, conversing with
a very bald and rather seedy elderly man; but, as we entered, the man
hurried away towards the vestry and the woman rose and came forward a
few paces to meet us.
“This is Miss Vardon, Mrs. Gregg,” said Mr. Otway, introducing me in a
heavy, embarrassed manner.
Mrs. Gregg stared at me with undisguised curiosity and something of
hostility in her expression, as she replied:
“Ah’ve seen her before.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Otway, “I believe you have. Yes. To be sure. Of
course. And I--er--hope--in fact, I may say that I--ah----”
What he was going to say I have no idea, and I suspect that he was not
very clear himself; but at this moment the man--who was apparently the
sexton--emerged from the vestry in company with a young clergyman,
vested already in his surplice and carrying a book in his hand.
Apparently everything had been explained and arranged beforehand by
Mr. Otway, for, as we advanced up the nave, the curate took his place
before the communion table and opened his book. I noticed that he gave
me one quick and intense look, full of surprise and curiosity, and
thereafter seemed, as far as possible, to avoid even glancing in my
direction.
The ceremony began abruptly and without preamble. With dim surprise, I
became aware that the clergyman was speaking, or rather reading aloud,
in a rapid and indistinct undertone. I listened with but slight
attention, and failed, for the most part, to distinguish the words
which, I think, was what the curate intended; his half-apologetic
mumble being, I believe, designed to mitigate the effect of those
coarsely-phrased impertinences with which the service is besprinkled,
and which have survived so inappropriately into this age of decent and
reticent speech. I tried to fix my thoughts on the ceremony in which I
was taking part, but found them constantly wandering away to my
father, busying themselves with his present whereabouts and
occupation. Was he still at his office? Or had he perchance called in
at our house, as he sometimes did, and already seen my letter?
I was brought back to the happenings of the moment by a question
addressed to me by name in more distinct tones, and followed by the
murmured instruction: “Say I will.” I obeyed the gently-spoken
command, and then, with my right hand enveloped in a large and flabby
grasp, I heard Mr. Otway repeat after the curate the solemn form of
words that should mean so much and that was, as now spoken, so empty a
mockery; of which the phrase “to have and to hold from this day
forward” seemed to separate itself as the only part truly applicable.
Still passive, and conscious only of a certain, dull discomfort and
surprise at the incongruity of the whole affair, I permitted our hands
to be separated and re-joined, and obediently repeated the form of
words as the curate dictated.
“I, Helen Vardon, take thee, Lewis Otway, to my wedded husband, to
have and to hold from this day forward, for richer for poorer, in
sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us
do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my
troth.”
It was amazing! These burning words, so charged with love, with utter
devotion and self-abandonment I was actually addressing to a mere
stranger, to a man who, even now, was but a name attached to an
unfamiliar, ungracious personality; upon whose corpse, if he had
fallen dead at my feet in the very moment of my speaking, I could have
looked with no emotion but relief.
It was an astounding situation. The wonder, the incredibility of it
filled my mind to the exclusion of all else until, as Mr. Otway began
once more to speak at the curate’s dictation, and I became aware that
a ring had been slipped on my finger, I realised dimly that the
ceremony was complete and that the irrevocable change had occurred.
But even then my thoughts quickly flitted away from this significant
scene to others that seemed more deeply to concern me. As I knelt at
Mr. Otway’s side and the monotonous mumble recommenced, I began once
more to wonder where my father was and what he was doing. Had he come
in and seen my letter, or had the maid noticed it and taken it to the
office? And would he be angry or only grieved? Would he think that I
had acted rightly? Or would he condemn my action as ill-considered or
even unnecessary? And lastly, was it just barely possible that I had
done the wrong thing? Had I sacrificed myself--and him--without
sufficient cause?
Thus my thoughts wandered to and fro to the mumbled accompaniment of
the interminable prayers and exhortations that rolled past me in an
unheeded stream. At last the ceremony came to an end. Rising from our
knees, we trooped after the curate to the vestry, where, as I signed
the familiar name in the register, the first clear realization of my
changed condition came upon me. But even then the vivid flash of
perception was but transient. Hardly had I shaken hands with the
clergyman and passed out into the street, when my thoughts sped away
once more to my home--my real home--and my father.
For some time after leaving the church Mr. Otway and I walked in
silence. He hemmed once or twice and seemed on the point of speaking,
but either he could find nothing appropriate to say or he found some
difficulty in opening the subject of his thoughts. And meanwhile I
pursued my own reflections. At length, however, after one or two
preliminary hems, he managed to make a beginning.
“I am afraid, Helen, you may think that I have put rather unfair
pressure on you to marry me.”
I roused myself to consider what he had said, and replied, after a
slight pause:
“Whatever I may think, I am not complaining. I don’t forget that I
accepted your proposal of my own free will; and I intend to try to
carry out honestly my part of the bargain.”
“I am glad to hear you say that, Helen,” he said eagerly. “I was
afraid you might feel resentful--might think I had driven a rather
hard bargain.”
“Perhaps I do,” I replied. “But that doesn’t affect the terms of the
bargain. My feelings towards you were no part of the agreement.”
“No; that’s true,” he agreed hastily; but he was visibly crestfallen,
and walked by my side for some time without speaking. My thoughts
began to wander again; and then, suddenly, there occurred to me a
question that I had already asked myself over and over again without
finding any answer. Now, moved by a fresh impulse of curiosity, I put
it into words.
“Would you mind telling me, Mr. Otway, why you wished to marry me?”
He looked at me in some surprise and a little confusion.
“Why, my dear Helen,” he replied hesitatingly, “there is nothing
remarkable about it, is there? I wished to marry you for the same
reason that any other man would; because you are a handsome girl--a
beautiful girl, I may say--and clever and bright, and, as far as I
could judge from your manner to your father, a good, affectionate
girl. I have admired you ever since I first met you, a year and a half
ago.”
I suppose I looked surprised--I certainly felt so, seeing that he had
made no effort to cultivate our acquaintance--for he continued:
“Yes, Helen, I admired you; but as I had nothing to offer in the way
of personal attractions, and I did not suppose that my means would be
a sufficient set-off for my--ah--personal disadvantages, I kept my
admiration to myself. In fact, I suppose, if it had not been for this
lucky chance--lucky for me, I mean--a little unfortunate perhaps for
you--though not so unfortunate as it might--er--at least I venture to
hope that things may turn out----”
He paused awkwardly, as if expecting me to help him. But I made no
comment. My momentary curiosity was satisfied. I had heard his
explanation, and a very insufficient one it seemed to be. So the
sentence remained unfinished, and, in the silence that ensued, my
thoughts went back once more to my father.
When would he get my letter? And what would be his feelings when he
realized that his daughter--his companion and playmate, his beloved
apprentice--was lost to him for ever? And what would be his attitude
to Mr. Otway? Deeply resentful, beyond a doubt. His scornful rejection
of the proposal had shown that clearly enough. Yes, he would be
angry--furiously angry; for quiet and gentle as his manners were, he
was a passionate man. He could even be violent, as I knew from one or
two experiences. And our doctor, Dr. Sharpe, knew it, too, and had
warned him to be careful, had cautioned him not only to avoid
over-exertion, but excessive excitement of any kind. The doctor’s
words came back to me now with a qualm of uneasiness. I had not
thought of that before. His distress, his grief, his anger against the
man who had exacted this price from me--all that I had thought of and
fretted over. But the actual physical shock that my letter would
inflict on him, utterly unprepared as he was--that I had somehow
overlooked. And yet it was palpable enough. He would come home
expecting to find me waiting for him as usual; and then, without an
instant’s warning, in the very twinkling of an eye, he would learn
that I had been spirited away out of his life for ever. It would be a
terrible blow.
The more I thought of it the more uneasy I became. Supposing he should
become seriously ill on receiving my letter. It was quite possible; it
was even very probable. And if he should have got my letter already!
If he should be, at this very moment, lying, prostrated by the shock,
with none but the servants to tend him! As I thought of this dreadful
possibility, my anxiety grew, moment by moment; and I was beginning to
consider how soon I could contrive to escape to him, to satisfy myself
that all was well, when the voice of Mr. Otway broke in on my
thoughts. I did not at first gather clearly what he was saying until,
by an effort, I detached my attention from the agitating subject of my
reflections.
“Of course,” he was saying as I endeavoured to catch up the thread of
his remarks, “it answered my purpose as a solitary bachelor; but it
won’t do now. We shall have to get quite a different class of house.
And we shall want some other servants. I shall keep Mrs. Gregg, if you
don’t object, as she has been with me so long and knows my ways, but
we shall want a couple of maids in addition, I suppose.”
“Is Mrs. Gregg your only servant?” I asked, rather absently.
“Yes,” he replied; “that is to say, the only resident servant. She has
a girl to help her in the mornings with the housework and to mind the
place when she goes out shopping. That is how she was able to attend
at the church this morning.”
As he was speaking, we turned into the quiet, countrified road in
which he lived, and a few more steps brought us to the house. Mrs.
Gregg, who had apparently hurried on in advance by a different route,
was standing at the open door talking to a girl of about sixteen, and,
as we ascended the steps, she addressed Mr. Otway.
“I’ve got to see to some things in the town. D’ye want Lizzie to stay
or will ye open the door yourself if anyone comes?”
“Oh, she needn’t stay, Mrs. Gregg,” was the reply. “I shan’t be going
out. But don’t be any longer than you can help.”
On this Mrs. Gregg dismissed the girl, and followed her out, shutting
the door after her. Mr. Otway hung his hat on a peg in the hall, and
placing his umbrella in the stand, remarked apologetically:
“Mrs. Gregg’s manner is not all that might be desired in a servant;
but she is a capable woman and absolutely trustworthy. She comes from
the North, you know, where manners run a little more blunt than with
us. Shall I show you your room?”
Without waiting for a reply, he preceded me up the stairs to the first