“If the marriage cannot be set aside, I suppose a separation would be the next best thing. Do I understand that you are willing to agree to a separation?”
“Yes,” he replied; “on certain conditions I am willing to agree to a separation—a temporary separation, you know.”
“What are your conditions?” I asked.
He cleared his throat once or twice, as if in doubt how best to put the matter. Then, avoiding my eye, he began, hesitatingly, but with an obsequiously persuasive manner.
“The exact circumstances of your father’s most lamentable death, Helen, are known to you and to me and to no one else. As I have told you, and I am convinced that you believe, the heart attack which killed him came as we were struggling for possession of his stick. It was due to the excitement and the violent exertion. Perhaps the blow on the head from the corner of the mantelpiece may have had something to do with it, for the fainting attack came on almost directly afterwards. He relaxed his hold on the stick and fell, leaving it in my hands. There was no violence on my part. I never struck him or did anything that could in any way make me responsible for his death. That is the truth, Helen, and I am convinced that you believe it, in spite of what you have said.”
“I have only your word that it is the truth,” said I.
“Exactly,” he agreed. “But you believe me. You know what your father’s state of health was, and you know that he was liable, on occasions, to be—er—somewhat violent. So you believe me. But others, who have not the knowledge that you have—ah—might—ah—might not believe me.”
“I haven’t said that I do,” I interposed. “However, we will let that pass. Go on, please.”
He paused to wipe his face with his handkerchief, and then proceeded:
“You said just now that when you entered the room you saw me standing over your father with a weapon in my hand.”
“So I did.”
“I know you did, Helen. You saw me holding your father’s loaded stick. It is quite true. But—it would—ah—greatly simplify matters if—well, if that circumstance were not communicated to—ah—to anyone else.”
“You mean to say,” said I, “that you want me to suppress the fact that I saw you standing over my father’s dead body holding a loaded stick?”
“I wouldn’t use the word ‘suppress,’ Helen,” he replied, passing his handkerchief once more over his haggard face. “I only ask you to refrain—in the interests of justice and—ah—of common humanity—from mentioning a circumstance that—ah—mentioned, might mislead the hearers, and might, conceivably, lead them to quite erroneous conclusions. It is a reasonable thing to ask. No doubt you blame me; you look upon me as the cause of this dreadful trouble—which, in a certain sense, I admit I am. But you would not be vindictive, Helen, or unjust. You would not wish to see me placed in the dock—perhaps even convicted—think of that, Helen! Convicted and sentenced when I am absolutely innocent! My God! It would be an awful thing! You wouldn’t wish to have such a frightful miscarriage of justice as that on your conscience, I am sure.”
“It wouldn’t be on my conscience,” I replied, coldly. “The verdict would not be mine; and besides, I have only your word that you are innocent. You have made the statement to me, and you could make it to others, who would take it for what it is worth.”
He clasped his hands passionately and leaned forward towards me with an imploring gesture.
“Helen!” he exclaimed. “Don’t be so hard, so cold! Have you no pity for me? Think of my awful position—an innocent man, but yet with appearances so horribly against me. And the whole issue is in your hands. You were not present when—when it happened. You have only to say so and to refrain from making any unnecessary additions to that statement, and no miscarriage of justice can occur. I am not asking you to say anything that is not true; I am only asking you to keep irrelevant and misleading matter out of the inquiry. Do this, Helen, and I promise to execute a deed surrendering all claims on you—at least for a time.”
I made no immediate answer. Mr. Otway was perfectly right on one point. I did not believe that he had killed my father. I think I only half believed it, even, at the awful moment of the discovery; for the alarming appearance that my father had presented as he strode up the garden path, with his wild eyes and his strange, blotchy colour, had made me fear a catastrophe; and when the catastrophe had almost immediately followed, it was natural that my mind should refer it to a cause already considered rather than to one totally unexpected. Moreover, Mr. Otway’s account of the tragedy was intrinsically probable; it fitted the facts that were known to me; whereas the supposition that he had killed my father was wildly improbable.
It is not to be supposed, however, that, in my present agitated state, I reasoned the matter out consciously in this methodical fashion. But unconsciously, and perhaps vaguely, my mind had worked along these lines to a conclusion; and that conclusion was that Mr. Otway’s account of what had happened was substantially correct. Nevertheless, I was not prepared to admit this at the moment; indeed, my whole desire was to be rid of the man’s irksome presence—to be alone with my grief.
“I can’t give you an answer now, Mr. Otway,” I said. “I am not in a condition to discuss anything. I want to go home and be quiet.”
He acquiesced with surprising readiness, no doubt encouraged by my tacit abandonment of the accusation.
“Of course you do,” he agreed. “It has been a fearful shock for you. Go home and keep yourself quiet. I shall hear from Dr. Bury, in the course of the day, what the coroner intends to do, and I will call and let you know. And I will bring a draft of the deed for you to look at. The sooner we arrive at a settlement, the better. And, Helen, let me beg you not to say anything to anyone about—anything that might complicate matters. You understand what I mean.”
I nodded wearily and moved towards the door. I was still wearing my outdoor clothes, so I had no preparations to make. Mr. Otway opened the door for me and I passed out into the hall; but before leaving the house, I turned back into the darkened drawing-room, and, raising the cover from my father’s face, kissed his already cold cheek.
“Good-bye, dearest! Good-bye!” I whispered, passionately; and then, feeling the tears rushing to my eyes, I kissed him again, and, replacing the cover, hurried from the room. Mr. Otway was standing at the hall door to let me out, and timidly offered his hand; but I walked quickly past him, and, running down the steps, made my way out through the gate that had admitted me to my ruin and my father to his death.
Chapter VIII.
“Whom God Hath Joined——”
Our states of mind in certain unforeseen circumstances are sometimes surprising, even, to ourselves. As I walked away from Mr. Otway’s house, I think I was dimly surprised at my own self-possession. The worst had happened. The calamity which I had feared, and which I had made such sacrifices to avert, had befallen; and yet I was comparatively calm. My heart ached, it is true, with a grief such as I had never known before; with a sense of irreparable loss and a feeling of utter loneliness and desolation; but yet, under it all was a certain indefinable peace.
Looking back with more natural knowledge and experience, this state of mind is not difficult to understand. My father’s sudden death was a crushing calamity; but, in the very moment of its happening, the incubus of my relation to Mr. Otway was lifted. For, though I was not at the time conscious of the fact, I now see clearly that, even as I passed out of the house of the man whom the law regarded as my husband, my mind was made up that I had done with Mr. Otway.
Moreover, my new trouble was in other ways more easy to bear than the misery of the last few days. My marriage had seemed, in a manner, to put an end to my life. It had offered nothing but an unending vista of wretchedness, an unending submission to a state of things that was intolerable even to think of. But this new catastrophe was sudden and final. The blow had fallen, once for all; shattering, indeed, my present, but calling upon me instantly to make provision for the future. And in action, the necessity of which forced itself upon me even before I reached home, I found, if not relief from my sorrow, at least some temporary distraction.
As I let myself in with my latch-key, our housemaid met me in the hall to announce that lunch had been waiting for some time, and to ask me if I knew at what time my father would come in.
“My father is dead, Jessie,” I replied. “He died suddenly at Mr. Otway’s house about an hour ago. I can’t tell you any more just now.”
I walked past her and ascended the stairs to my room, leaving her standing in the hall as if petrified; but, before I reached the landing, I heard her rush away towards the kitchen, making the house resound with her hysterical shrieks and lamentations. It was very dreadful and distressing, but yet it had a steadying effect on me, reminding me of my isolated position and of the need for firmness and self-control. In a few minutes I came down, and disregarding Jessie’s sobs and tears, sat out the simple formalities of lunch as a matter of discipline and example, and even compelled myself to take a certain amount of food.
As I sat at my silent and solitary meal, my thoughts were busy with the many things that had to be done. Not willingly, indeed; for I longed to be quiet and nurse my grief—to forget everything but my sorrow and my great bereavement. But that was impossible. I was practically alone in the world, for I had no near relatives, and all that had to be done must be done, or at least directed, by me. There was my father’s funeral to be arranged, the business to be transferred or wound up, the property to be realised—and there was Mr. Otway.
Naturally enough, my thoughts constantly came back to him. As to his moral claim on me, it was null and void. Whether he had, as I suspected, seen my father’s letter and deliberately left it unopened, or whether he had simply neglected to look for it, made no difference. It had been delivered to him, and thereupon our agreement had ceased to exist. But if he had no moral claim, he had, apparently, a legal hold on me which would have to be considered. If he could be induced to surrender that, the position would be greatly simplified. And he was ready to surrender it on a certain condition.
To Mr. Otway’s proposal my thoughts came back again and again. The condition that he had made was not an unreasonable one, or, at least, it did not appear so to me. My father had died when they were alone together: they had admittedly been quarrelling; my father bore the mark of a heavy blow; and Mr. Otway had been found standing over the body with a loaded stick in his hand. The appearances suggested that he had killed my father. And yet I was convinced that he had not. Profoundly loathing him as the cause of all my misfortunes, I still felt that he was, in this respect, an innocent man; and common justice demanded that he should not be made to suffer for a crime that he had not committed.
Now what was my position in the affair? Practically I held the scales of justice. The one absolutely damning fact was in my sole possession; and I alone, in all probability, would appreciate the misleading appearances which that fact created. That was my dilemma. I could make known the fact itself to those who should judge him, but could I make them understand how little it was worth? It seemed very doubtful. I had trembled for my father’s safety and had seen him come in at the gate, already in a dangerous condition. They had not. They might easily fail to weigh his state of health against that one, apparently, sinister fact of the loaded stick. In short, it came to this: that if I mentioned what I had seen, Mr. Otway ran a serious risk of being punished for a crime which he had not committed, whereas if I refrained from mentioning it, justice would take its proper course.
That, I think, is, in effect, how I argued. Neither the logician nor the jurist will commend me. But women have their own ways of looking at things, and one of those ways is somewhat to confuse conviction with knowledge. A thing firmly believed is apt to present itself as a thing known. I had come to the conclusion that Mr. Otway was innocent of my father’s death, and having done so, had unconsciously treated his innocence as a fact that was within my knowledge.
After lunch, I telephoned to the office, asking Mr. Jackson, my father’s managing clerk, to come and see me; and while I was waiting for him, I took down from the study shelves a treatise of the Law of Husband and Wife, and turned over those of its unsavoury pages which dealt with suits for nullity. Apparently Mr. Otway was right. So far as I could make out, the circumstances of our marriage afforded no grounds for such a suit. I was married irrevocably. My complete freedom was gone beyond recall; I should have to be content with such incomplete freedom as is conferred by a deed of separation.
I had just returned the book to the shelf when Mr. Jackson arrived and entered the room looking very flurried and uncomfortable.
“What a dreadful thing this is, Miss Vardon!” he exclaimed. “Shocking! Shocking! So unexpected! I need not say how much we all sympathize with you.”
“It is very kind of you,” I said, offering him a chair.
“Not at all,” he rejoined. “It is a terrible misfortune for all of us. Would it distress you very much to tell me how it happened?”
“It was for that purpose that I sent for you, Mr. Jackson; to tell you exactly what has happened and to ask your advice”; and here I gave him a brief account of the events of the morning.
At the mention of my marriage he looked profoundly surprised, but also, I thought, distinctly relieved; but he did not make any comment until I had finished the whole tragic story, when he remarked:
“I am very glad to hear that you are married, Miss Vardon—or rather, I should say, Mrs. Otway—to a man of such very substantial means, if I am rightly informed.”
“Why are you glad?” I asked.
“Because,” he replied, “it disposes of rather a difficulty. Your father was a man of great abilities and an excellent lawyer, but he was somewhat inattentive to the financial side of his profession. I am afraid you would have been left rather badly provided for.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said I, “because I am not proposing to live with Mr. Otway. I have asked him to agree to a separation.”
Mr. Jackson raised his eyebrows. “May I ask why?” he enquired.
“I don’t want to go into details just now,” I answered, “but I may say that the marriage was an affair of accommodation; I supposed my father to be in a position of embarrassment, and I made the arrangement with Mr. Otway without his knowledge. It turns out that I was mistaken. He was not embarrassed. When the marriage took place, I was under a misapprehension and I was misled by Mr. Otway. Accordingly, I have asked to have a separation deed drawn up.”
“Does he agree to the separation?”
“He has not yet, but I think he will; so I shall have to consider my resources, after all.”
“But,” Mr Jackson objected, “he will have to make you an allowance.”
“That,” I said, “is impossible. If I repudiate the marriage, I could not, of course, allow him to support me.”
“Why not?” demanded Mr. Jackson. “He is legally bound to. You are his wife. While the marriage stands, you can’t marry anybody else. Besides, he is not likely to raise any objection. He is a lawyer, you know.”
“I am not thinking of him: I am thinking of myself. I wish to be under no obligations to Mr. Otway, and I shall not accept any assistance from him.”
“I am sorry to hear you say that,” Mr. Jackson said, gloomily; “because I am afraid you will be rather badly off. The business is a very personal one, and is worth practically nothing to sell. If I were a qualified solicitor, I might be able to carry it on. But I’m not; and I doubt if anyone would care to buy the good-will at any price. Still, I’ll see what can be done. As to your father’s will, I happen to know that you are the residuary legatee—practically the sole legatee—but what that amounts to, I shouldn’t like to say. Mighty little, I fear. However, it’s of no use to worry you with these matters now. If you will authorize me to look into your father’s affairs, I will let you know exactly how things stand; and if I could be of service to you in any way, I hope you’ll let me know. There’s the funeral, for instance——”
He paused suddenly, and ran an uncomfortable eye along the rows of law books on the shelves.
“You are very kind, Mr. Jackson,” I said, “and your help will be invaluable. As my father’s friend, I should like you to take charge of the funeral arrangements, if you would be so good.”
The rest of our conversation was concerned with the various things which had to be done during the next day or two, and it left with a feeling of the warmest gratitude to this quiet and rather dry man of business, whose sympathy took such a practical and acceptable form.
It was past six o’clock when the red-eyed Jessie came to the study to announce that Mr. Otway was waiting in the drawing-room; and there I found him wandering restlessly round by the walls and making a show of examining the pictures. He was still very pale and looked haggard and weary, but yet he held out his hand to me with a certain confidence.
“I think, Helen,” said he, “that you will be a little relieved at my news. I have seen Dr. Bury, and he tells me that the coroner will be satisfied with his evidence and Dr. Sharpe’s.”
“Do you mean that there is to be no inquest?” I demanded, with sudden suspicion.
“No, no,” he replied. “Of course, there will be an inquest. But the coroner thinks that the circumstances do not call for a post-mortem. I thought you would be glad to know that. The—er—body will remain where it is until the jury have viewed it, and then it can be brought here for the—ah—the funeral.”
I nodded but made no comment on this statement, and he continued after a brief pause:
“I suppose, Helen, you would like me to act for you in regard to the funeral arrangements.”
“Thank you, Mr. Otway,” I replied, “but Mr. Jackson has very kindly undertaken that for me.”
He looked somewhat crestfallen at this, and said, deprecatingly:
“I am sorry you did not leave the arrangements to me. It would have looked better.” Which it undeniably would—from his point of view.
As I made no rejoinder, there followed a slightly uncomfortable pause, during which he was evidently bracing himself up for what was the real object of his visit. At length he began nervously:
“Have you been able to give any more consideration to my proposal, Helen?”
“Yes,” I answered; “I have thought about it a good deal. Perhaps we had better go into the study, which is more out of the way of the servants than this.”
We crossed the hall, and, when we had entered the study and closed the door, I resumed:
“I may as well say, Mr. Otway, that I am prepared to accept your statement. On reflection, I believe that your account of what happened is true.”
“Thank God for that!” he ejaculated. “I felt sure you believed me, Helen; but it is an unspeakable relief to hear you say so. And I am sure you will agree with me that the—the apparently incriminating circumstance need not be mentioned.”
“I might even agree to that,” I replied; “but there must be a clear understanding. I am not going to say anything that is not strictly true.”
“Oh, certainly not!” he agreed. “All that I ask is that you refrain from volunteering a perfectly unnecessary and misleading statement. Will you promise to do that?”
“I am not sure that I have any right to make such a promise, Mr. Otway; but still, on the conditions that you mentioned, I am prepared to do so.”
His relief was really pathetic. Its intensity made me understand what torments of terror he had been suffering. He flung out his hands as if he would have embraced me, but drew back, as I said, coldly:
“You are prepared on your side, Mr. Otway, to carry out your part? You agree to execute a deed of separation, as I asked?”
“If you insist,” he replied. “It’s a hard bargain, but if you hold me to it, I have no choice. Would not a short, informal separation do?”
“No, Mr. Otway,” I replied firmly, “it would not. I am acting somewhat against my conscience in agreeing to suppress this fact, and I want full compensation for doing so. I must have a legally-valid deed of separation.”
“Very well, Helen,” said he; “if it must be, it must. I hope that, later, you will take a kinder view of our relations, but meanwhile I will do exactly as you wish. I have drafted out a deed, in a simple form, with as little legal verbiage as possible. If its terms satisfy you, I will copy it out and sign it.”
He handed me a sheet of paper on which the deed was drafted, and I read it through carefully. Like the other documents that he had drawn up, it was lucid, simple and concise, and set forth quite fairly the conditions to which he had agreed, with one exception. It determined automatically at the end of three months.
“I can’t agree to that,” I said. “There must be no specified time; it is to be just a separation.”
“But,” he exclaimed, “you don’t propose that the separation should last for ever, do you?”
That was precisely what I did propose, but I thought it politic not to express myself too definitely.
“It is impossible,” I replied, “to say what may happen in the future; but if you make the separation determinable by mutual consent, that will provide for all eventualities.”
He agreed, with a somewhat wry smile, that this was so, and then asked how soon I should like to have the deed executed.
“As it must be signed before I give my evidence,” I replied, “it had better be done now. If you will make two copies, I will go and fetch the maids to witness the signatures.”
“Dear me, Helen!” he exclaimed. “What an extraordinarily business-like young lady you are! But I suppose you are right; only I would suggest that you do not acquaint the witnesses with the nature of the document. We don’t want to take the world into our confidence, especially just now.”
This was reasonable enough, though it would obviously be impossible to keep the world in the dark as to our position, particularly after what I had said to Mr. Jackson. However, I agreed to maintain a discreet reticence, and when he had made the two copies—which I carefully read through—I went out and called Jessie and the cook.
“I want you,” said I, “to witness my signature and Mr. Otway’s to a couple of documents. You have just to see us sign our names and then sign your own underneath.”
The two women came into the study with an air of mystery and awe, gazing furtively from me to Mr. Otway. The two documents lay on the table, each with a sheet of blotting paper spread over it, exposing only the blank spaces which were to receive the signatures, on each of which a red wafer seal had been stuck. Mr. Otway signed first, and then, indicating to the cook the place where she was to write her name, placed the pen in her hand.
“That’s right,” said he, when she had painfully and with protruded tongue, executed the signature of “Ivy Stokes.” “Now you will do the same with the other paper as soon as Mrs. Otway has signed.”
The cook gazed curiously at me as I signed the second document, and then, in the same strained and laborious fashion, traced the scrawling characters over the name that I had lightly pencilled in for her guidance. Having watched with feverish interest while I marked the next space, she drew back and made way for Jessie, who, by watching her colleague, had learned what was required of her.
When the formalities were completed and the two maids dismissed—to discuss these strange proceedings, doubtless, in the kitchen—Mr. Otway handed me the copy, bearing his signature, and, taking the other, rose to depart.
“Before I go, Helen,” he said, “there is one matter to settle. In the document I thought it best to say nothing about an allowance——”
“You were quite right,” I interrupted. “Of course, I should not ask for, or accept, any allowance under the circumstances.”
“You won’t need one at present,” said he. “We know there are five thousand pounds lying to your father’s credit at his bank——”
“That money was not his,” I said, “and it is not mine. As soon as the will is proved it will be paid to you on behalf of your clients.”
“But that is quite unnecessary, Helen,” said he. “The use, for an unspecified time, of that sum of money was the consideration in respect of which you agreed to marry me. As the marriage has taken place, it is only fair and reasonable that you should receive the consideration. In effect, that five thousand is yours by the terms of our agreement.”
I was on the point of replying that our agreement was null and void, and that I had no intention of carrying out its conditions; but prudence whispered that I had better keep my intentions to myself, at least as to my ultimate conduct. Besides which, Mr. Otway’s statement was not entirely correct, as I proceeded to point out.
“The use of this money,” I said, “was to relieve my father, who was assumed to be insolvent. But it appears that he was not insolvent; and it is my intention that all his debts shall be paid, in so far as there are funds to meet them. It is certainly what he would have wished.”
“But,” Mr. Otway protested, “supposing the payment of these debts should consume all the available assets? How are you going to live?”
“I suppose I shall do as other women do when they have no independent means. I shall work for my living. But it is premature to discuss that until I have had Mr. Jackson’s report. I don’t suppose I shall be absolutely penniless.”
He shook his head gloomily. “You are Quixotic, Helen, and wrong-headed, too. There is no reason why you should work for your living. As a married woman, you are entitled to maintenance, and I am willing, and even anxious, to maintain you. But I won’t press the matter now. If you want money, you know that you can have it, not as a favour but as a right. And now there is just one other matter that I want to speak about. In the deed of separation I said nothing about our relations other than was actually necessary. I made no stipulation as to your keeping me informed of your whereabouts; but I ask you now, if you should be leaving Maidstone, to let me have your address and to allow me to keep up communication with you. It is a reasonable request, Helen, and I am sure you will not hesitate to accede to it.”
I did hesitate, however, for some time. In truth, I was not at all willing to agree to this proposal. My wish was to sponge Mr. Otway, once and for all, out of my life and to make a fresh start. Still, the request was a reasonable one, and could, I suspected, have been enforced as a demand; and, in the end, though very reluctantly, I yielded.
“Thank you, Helen,” said he, holding out his hand; “then I won’t worry you any more just now. It is understood that I am not to lose sight of you, and that if you should want help, pecuniary or other, you will let me know. And I may rely on you to say no more at the inquest than is actually necessary?”
I gave him the required assurance on this point, and, having somewhat frigidly shaken his hand, accompanied him to the hall door and let him out.
As I stood in the open doorway, watching him walk away up the street in his heavy, elephantine fashion, a man entered at the gate, and, approaching with a deferential and rather uncomfortable air, took off his hat and offered me a small, blue envelope, which bore the superscription “Mrs. Lewis Otway.” I took it from him, and, closing the door, went back to the study, where I opened the envelope and extracted the little slip of blue paper that it enclosed; which turned out, as I had expected, to be the subpœna to the inquest. I glanced through the peremptory phrases of the summons, and, laying the slip of paper on the table, went up to my own room to be quiet and think upon all that lay before me.
But thought—orderly, useful thought—was impossible. Everything around me spoke of the life that had been so tragically broken off, rather than of the future that loomed so vague and empty before me. The open book on the reading-stand, the hastily scribbled notes upon the writing-block, the unanswered letters and a little pile of rough drawings on the table, all seemed to call to me to take up afresh the thread that had been dropped; seemed to interpose the unfinished past before the uncommenced future. Restlessly I wandered down to the workshop—where the coal scuttle still stood on the bench, a mute but eloquent memorial of that tragic final evening—only to gather a fresh sense of loss and desolation. And so, for the rest of the day, I haunted the house like some unquiet spirit, watched with pity, not unmixed with fear, by the awe-stricken servants, tearless and outwardly calm, but inwardly torn by grief and a sense of bereavement that seemed to intensify moment by moment.
And yet, when, in the silence of the night, the tears came at last, and my sorrow, no longer mute, voiced itself in sobs and moans of pain, still, under the feeling of utter bereavement and desolation, was a half-felt sense of peace, of respite, and reprieve.
Chapter IX.
Testimony and Counsel
Those who are apt to refer in contemptuous terms to the artificiality of the plots of the novelist must have failed to observe the orderly way in which events arrange themselves in real life; how the circumstances of the vital and essential happenings of our lives may, if attentively considered, be separated out in a coherent group of causes and effects as closely knit and inevitably connected as the parts of the story-teller’s plot.
The reflection is suggested to me by the distressing experiences of the inquest on my father’s death. Clearly enough, indeed, did I realise at the time that this would never have been but for those fateful words so calamitously overheard by me, and for my ill-considered, though well-meant, efforts to avert the apparently impending catastrophe. But I realised not at all—as, indeed, how should I?—that this day of sorrow, of shame and humiliation, was not only the harvest of the irrevocable past but the seed-time of an even more momentous future.
As I approached the school-house in which the inquest was to be held, I observed Mr. Otway pacing slowly up and down the little court-yard. He was pale and haggard, and though he preserved his usual ponderously reposeful manner, it was not difficult to see that he was in a state of intense, nervous excitement and suppressed anxiety.
He was evidently waiting for me, and turned to meet me as I entered the gate.
“I thought we had better go in together, Helen,” he said, as we exchanged a formal greeting. “They know that we are married, and, of course, they don’t know that our—ah—our arrangements are in—ah—in suspense. And it would perhaps be as well if no reference were made to—ah—to those—ahem—temporary modifications which—ah—in short, to our provisional agreement.”
He looked at me deprecatingly and I nodded. There would be quite enough painful detail to be dragged into the light of day without this sordid addition. Besides, any reference to the deed of separation would start enquiries which neither of us desired, as was plainly evident to Mr. Otway; for he continued in a husky undertone, as we approached the schoolroom door:
“And you will fulfil your part of our covenant faithfully, Helen, I am sure.”
“Most undoubtedly I shall,” I replied. “But you will remember that our covenant does not include false evidence. I shall say as little as is possible, but if I am asked a direct question I must answer it, and answer it truthfully.”
“Of course you must,” he agreed: “but it is often possible to ward off an inconvenient question which may lead to others still more inconvenient.”
“You make take it,” I said, “that I shall carry out my part of our bargain in the spirit as well as in the letter.”
With this assurance he appeared to be satisfied, and we now moved slowly towards the door of the school-house. While we had been talking, a party of men—the coroner and his jury—had filed past us and entered; and when we followed a minute later, we found them already in their places and the proceedings about to begin. We seated ourselves on the two chairs placed for us, which were next to those of the two medical witnesses, and as I glanced round the Court, I observed Mr. Jackson sitting near the coroner, and by his side a gentleman whose face I seemed to recognise, but to whom I could not give a name. Some dim recollection connected the quiet, strong, intellectual face with my father and the happy past, but not until near the close of the inquiry was I able to bring my memory to a clear focus.
The attitude of the coroner and jury alike—they were all local men and most of them known to me—made my difficult task as easy as was possible. They were all anxious to spare me to the utmost and to make the best of what the coroner described as “a grievous and terrible calamity.” Moreover, they restrained in the most delicate manner their evident curiosity as to the relations of Mr. Otway and myself. But, of course, the facts had to be given, and very distressing and humiliating it was to me to have to confess to what must have looked like a mere sordid intrigue with the uncouth creature at my side.
As the only person present when the death occurred, Mr. Otway was necessarily the first witness; and a very nervous, hesitating witness he was; and very fortunate was it for him that he had so sympathetic a court. As he stammered out his evidence I noted, again and again, the searching, grey eye of the strange gentleman fixed upon him, not indeed with any obvious distrust, but with the most concentrated attention.
“Do we understand,” asked the coroner, “that Mr. Vardon was angry and excited when he arrived at your house?”
“Yes, furiously angry.”
“Do you know why he was angry and excited?”
Yes, the witness did know. And as he proceeded to relate, in husky, uncertain tones, the circumstances of the secret marriage, more than one of the jurymen glanced from him to me with hardly-concealed astonishment; and I felt my face burning and my eyes filling with humiliation.
“Was there any reason for this secrecy?” the coroner asked.
“Yes. The deceased had already refused his consent to the marriage.”
“But that is hardly a reason for secrecy in the case of an adult. Could he have prevented the marriage from taking place?”
“No. But it seemed better to—ah—to avoid discussion and unpleasantness.”
The coroner looked dissatisfied. He considered a few moments, and then asked: “Do you know why the deceased objected to the marriage?”
“I think he considered that the—ah—the inequality of age was undesirable,” Mr. Otway replied.
Still the coroner looked dissatisfied, and as he paused to reflect, and the jurymen looked at him expectantly, Mr. Otway furtively wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. Evidently, he was profoundly disturbed, as well he might be; for if this line of inquiry were pursued much farther, it must inevitably lay bare the real nature of the transaction.
At length the coroner turned to the jury. “Well, gentlemen,” said he, “I suppose the question is not very material. It is clear that the deceased was extremely excited and angry. The ultimate cause of his anger is, perhaps, not very relevant to the subject of our inquiry.”
To this the foreman of the jury readily agreed, and I could almost see the sigh of relief with which Mr. Otway hailed the passing of this perilous incident—a relief in which I participated to no small extent.
The narrative was now resumed, and as it proceeded, Mr. Otway’s voice became more and more husky and his speech more hesitating. He had a difficult course to steer, and his nerves were at their utmost tension. He had to tell a consistent story without telling the whole truth, and he had to bear in mind that my evidence was yet to be given. It was a position that might have shattered the nerve of a much bolder man than Mr. Otway.
“You tell us that the deceased was violent and threatening in his manner. Do you mean that he was physically violent?”
“Yes—at least he threatened to use physical violence.”
“He did not actually assault you?”
“Not actually. The blow that he aimed—at least that he was about to aim—ah—did not—er—did not take effect.”
The coroner’s brows puckered into a puzzled frown. “This is not quite clear,” said he. “Did he or did he not aim a blow at you?”
“He did—at least, that is to say, he appeared——”—here Mr. Otway mopped his streaming forehead—“well, I think he actually raised his—ah—his—ah—his clenched fist——”
“Did you have to restrain him?”
“No,” replied Mr. Otway, with rather unnecessary emphasis. “No, I did not. I stepped back, and—ah—the incident—ah—passed. In fact, it was at this moment that the fatal attack occurred.”
“Tell us exactly what happened then.”
“He suddenly turned very pale,” said Mr. Otway, speaking now with more fluency as he got back to the narration of the actual events, “and seemed to stand unsteadily. Then he staggered backwards and fell, striking his head on the corner of the mantelpiece.”
“Did he appear to have fainted before he struck his head?”
“I should say, yes, but—ah—I would not—ah—I was very agitated and alarmed—and—ah——”
“Naturally. But you would say that the fainting attack preceded the blow on the head?”
“There was no blow,” Mr. Otway exclaimed quickly; and then, perceiving his mistake, he added, hastily, “that is to say, you are referring to his striking the corner of the mantelpiece?”
“That is what you were telling us about.”
“Yes. I should say that he struck—or rather that he fainted and staggered and that he struck his head in falling.”
Once more the coroner paused and seemed to reflect; and in the intense silence and stillness that enveloped the court, my eye travelled from the huge, ungainly figure of the witness to the face of the tall stranger by Mr. Jackson’s side. And a very striking face it was: a handsome, symmetrical face, but strangely—almost unhumanly—reposeful and impassive. Yet, though it was as immobile as a mask of stone, it conveyed an impression of intense attention—almost of watchfulness; and the clear, grey eyes never moved from the face of the witness. To me there was something a little uncanny and disturbing in that immovable mask and that steady, unrelaxing gaze. I found myself hoping that those searching grey eyes would not be fixed on me in that relentless observation when my turn came to give my evidence. And even as this thought flitted through my mind, I remembered who this stranger was. He was a Dr. Thorndyke, an old, though not very intimate, friend of my father’s, a famous criminal lawyer and a great authority on medical jurisprudence. I had met him only once, when he had dined, many years ago, at our house; but I had often heard my father speak of him in terms of the highest admiration.
When the coroner resumed his interrogation, it seemed that the crisis was past, so far as Mr. Otway was concerned, for his first question was: “What did you do when the deceased fell down?”
“For a moment or two,” was the reply, “I was too bewildered to do anything. Then his daughter—my wife—came into the room, and, as he appeared to be dying or dead, I went off to fetch a doctor.”
This virtually concluded his evidence, and the next name called was my own, which, in its new form—Helen Otway—I heard with a start of surprise and something like disgust. As I rose to approach the table, I caught an instantaneous glance—a terrified, imploring glance—from Mr. Otway; and as my eye lighted immediately afterwards on Dr. Thorndyke’s face, I felt that this momentary look, too, had been noted by that inexorably attentive grey eye. But I was relieved to observe that he did not look at me, but, as I gave my evidence, fixed a steady, introspective gaze upon a spot upon the opposite wall.
My task turned out to be easier than I had hoped, though perhaps it might have been less easy if I had had more time to reflect on the significance of the questions. The coroner began by expressing the sympathy of the court with my bereavement and apologizing for imposing on me the painful duty of attending the inquiry. Then he asked: “You have heard the evidence of Mr. Otway with reference to your marriage and your father’s attitude in regard to it. Do you confirm what he has said?”
“I do,” I replied.
“You were not present at the interview of Mr. Otway with the deceased?”
“No, I was not. When I entered the room my father was lying on the floor and appeared to be already dead.”
“Had you seen your father since the solemnization of the marriage?”
“I saw him from the window as he entered Mr. Otway’s garden.”
“Did you notice anything unusual in his appearance?”
“Yes; his appearance alarmed me very much. He seemed excessively excited, and his face was deeply flushed and of a strange, purplish colour.”
“Had you any special reason to be alarmed?”
“Yes. I knew that his doctor had warned him to avoid all excitement and exertion on account of the weak state of his heart.”
“You did not hear what passed between your father and Mr. Otway?”
“I heard my father ask where I was, and I heard Mr. Otway tell him that the marriage had taken place.”
“Did you hear anything more?”
“My father then called Mr. Otway a scoundrel, and was still speaking loudly and angrily when the study door closed and I heard no more.”
“What made you go to the study?”
“I heard and felt the shock when my father fell.”
“Would you mind telling us again in what condition you found your father?”
“He appeared to be dead. His face was at first a livid grey, but it faded to marble whiteness as I looked at him. There was a small wound on the right side of his forehead and a drop of blood had run down on to his cheek and on his temple.”
The coroner glanced at the jurymen. “I think, gentlemen,” he said, “that is all we need ask Mrs. Otway?” And when the foreman had acquiesced, and he had thanked me for “the very clear and lucid manner” in which I had given my evidence, I was permitted to resume my seat.
“I can never thank you enough, Helen,” whispered Mr. Otway, as I sat down. “You managed admirably—admirably.”
To this I made no reply; for now that the ordeal was over I began to be assailed by certain doubts as to whether I had been quite candid. I had told all that was really material to the inquiry; but—however, at this point Dr. Sharpe approached the table and picked up the Testament.
His evidence practically settled the verdict. He testified that my father had suffered for some years from a dilated heart and arterial degeneration. “I warned him frequently to avoid excitement and undue exertion, for he was inclined to be careless and take liberties with himself.”
“You considered his state of health precarious?”
“I thought he might fall down dead at any moment.”
“You have heard the evidence of the two previous witnesses. Does that evidence contain any suggestion to you as to the cause of death?”
“It suggests to me that the deceased hurried to Mr. Otway’s house in a towering rage, and that, during the interview, he worked himself up into a fury. I should say that the combined exertion and excitement brought on a fatal attack of syncope.”
“You think that death was caused by heart failure?”
“I have no doubt of it.”
Dr. Bury’s evidence was much to the same effect, though less positive.
“The deceased had apparently been dead about half an hour when I arrived. The cause of death was not obvious, but the appearances were consistent with the account given by Mr. Otway. There was a small, contused wound at the junction of the forehead and right temple, apparently caused by the violent impact of some hard and blunt body. Judging by the small amount of bleeding, the wound had been sustained immediately before death. A single drop of blood had trickled down on to the cheek, and one or two drops on to the temple.”
“You have heard Mr. Otway’s account of the way in which that wound was occasioned. Do you consider that the appearances are in agreement with that account?”
“There is no disagreement. The appearance of the wound was consistent with its production in the manner described.”
“Would you say that it was probably so produced?”
“That,” replied Dr. Bury, “is a question for the jury. It might have been. I can’t go beyond the appearances.”
“No, of course you can’t. And is that all that you have to tell us?”
“That is all,” was the reply; and this virtually brought the inquiry to an end. After a brief summing-up by the coroner, the jury held an equally brief consultation and then unanimously returned a verdict of “Death from natural causes.”
On the announcement of the verdict everyone rose, including myself and Mr. Otway, and the latter, turning to me, said in a low voice:
“I think I won’t wait. I want to get home and be quiet; but I shall call on you to-morrow, if I may, to make—ah—any—ah—arrangements that—ah—in fact, to speak to you about the—ah—the funeral.”
“Very well,” I said, reluctantly—for, deeply as I loathed him, I could not exclude him even from that sacred ceremony without creating an open scandal. “You had better come early in the forenoon”; and with this I dismissed him with a stiff bow, and made my way to where Mr. Jackson and Dr. Thorndyke were standing. As I held out my hand to the latter and recalled to him our meeting years ago, Mr. Jackson said: “Dr. Thorndyke happened to be in Maidstone to-day and to call at our office, so I prevailed on him to come here and watch the proceedings on our behalf in case any complications should arise. But everything has gone off quite smoothly.”
“Very smoothly indeed,” Dr. Thorndyke agreed, with, as it seemed to me, a certain degree of emphasis.
“Both the coroner and the jury were most considerate,” pursued Mr. Jackson.
“Most considerate,” assented Dr. Thorndyke; and again I seemed to detect a note of emphasis, as also, I think, did Mr. Jackson, for he glanced quickly at our companion, though he made no remark.
“I wonder,” said I, “if you two gentlemen would care to come and take a cup of tea with me?”
Mr. Jackson had an engagement at the office, and as Dr. Thorndyke appeared to hesitate, I added quickly: “I should be very glad if you could, though I don’t wish to take up your time if you are busy.”
“My time is my own for the next three hours,” said Dr. Thorndyke, “and if I should really not be an inopportune visitor, I should like very much to have tea with you.”
“Let us go, then,” said I. “Mr. Jackson will accompany us as far as Gabriel’s Hill, won’t you?” And as my old friend assented with a prim, little bow, we set forth.
“I have offered no condolences, Mrs. Otway,” said Dr. Thorndyke. “I knew your father, I saw you and him together, and I realize what this loss must mean to you. There is nothing to say except that you have my most real sympathy.”
“Thank you,” I said, and for a time we walked on in silence. And as we walked I found myself recalling, with a strong, speculative interest, that curious, subtle emphasis which Dr. Thorndyke had conveyed into his agreement with Mr. Jackson. At length, when we had dropped the latter near the Town Hall, I summoned up courage to raise the question.
“I have an impression, Dr. Thorndyke, which may be quite a mistaken one, that you were not completely satisfied with the way in which the inquest was conducted. Am I mistaken?”
“Well,” he replied, slowly, “the coroner’s methods were not what one would call rigorous.”
“I suppose they were not. But in what respect are you disposed to find fault with them?”
“Principally,” he replied, “in his failure to elicit a really conclusive verdict. The verdict of the jury was based upon Dr. Sharpe’s opinion as to the cause of death. That opinion was probably correct, but it was based upon reasoning which was not sound. His position was this: If certain circumstances—excitement or exertion—should arise, there would be a great probability of their causing sudden death. But those circumstances had actually arisen and sudden death had actually followed. Therefore the death was due to the factors of the said circumstances. But this conclusion is fallacious. It does not prove a fact: it merely indicates a probability.”
“But are not all verdicts statements of probability?”
“Too often they are. But it is a coroner’s business to bring the conclusions of his court, as far as possible, into the region of ascertained fact. The immediate cause of death can usually be demonstrated by scientific methods, and the inquiry can then be built up on a foundation of certainty. Opinion should never be accepted where knowledge is obtainable.”
“Do you think, then, that the verdict was not a proper one?”
“I am not criticizing the verdict,” he replied, “but the methods by which it was arrived at. I think that the cause of death should have been established beyond all doubt before any contributary circumstances were inquired into.”
“But otherwise; apart from that one point?”
“I thought the examination of the witnesses rather easy-going. No doubt it elicited all the relevant facts. But that is impossible to decide on. One cannot judge of the relevancy of a fact until one has got the fact. I think, for instance, that most counsel would have pressed your husband a good deal more closely. The coroner appeared to decide that the matter was not relevant without being quite clear as to what matter he was dealing with.”
This, I must confess, had been my own impression, but I had been so relieved at the easy manner in which the difficult passages had been allowed to pass that I had been little disposed to criticise the considerate and sympathetic coroner. Nor did it seem quite safe to pursue the present discussion much farther, for it was tending in a rather dangerous direction. My own reservations began to weigh on me somewhat—and Dr. Thorndyke was not quite the same type of listener as the coroner. Nevertheless, the conversation pleased me, though I could not but be struck by the oddity of this detached discussion of a matter which was of such vital moment to me. But that very oddity was itself an element of gratification; for a woman is naturally flattered when an intellectual man appears to credit her with the power of impartial judgment of her own conduct and affairs—that faculty not being one by which our sex is peculiarly distinguished.
But at this point, our discussion was brought naturally to an end by our arrival at my house—as I must now call it; and here a quick glance of surprised recognition on my companion’s part gave me a new note of warning and prepared me for the inevitable question.
“You are living at your father’s house, I see.”
“I am, for the present. Mr. Otway remains in his own house.”
“Yes. I suppose it will be more convenient to settle everything up here before joining your husband.”
I was on the point of temporising by a vague assent; but my lips refused to frame the implied falsehood. It may have been my natural dislike of secrecy and concealment, it may be that my womanly pride resented the very idea of association with that unwieldy human spider. At any rate, an irresistible impulse drove me to say:
“I am not going to join my husband at all, Dr. Thorndyke. I am not going to live with Mr. Otway.”
I did not look at Dr. Thorndyke as I made this statement, and he made no comment beyond a matter-of-fact “Indeed.” But I had the feeling that, in the silence that followed, he was fitting this new fact into its place in some ordered scheme; that he was docketting it as an appendix to Mr. Otway’s evidence.
Nothing more was said until we had entered the house and I had given instructions for tea to be brought to the study. But in that interval I was aware of a growing impulse to have done with this miserable secrecy—this sordid fencing and dodging, which must come, in the end, to downright lying—and tell this strong, wise man the whole wretched story. Besides, I wanted counsel and guidance: and who was so fit to give them as he?
Accordingly, when the tray had been laid on the study table, I re-opened the subject.
“I did not mention this matter in my evidence,” I said. “It had no bearing on the inquiry.”
“I am not clear,” he replied, “that you were entitled to make any reservations. A witness’s duty is to state the whole truth. The question of relevancy is for the court to consider.”
“But unfortunately there were other reservations that had to be made. Dr. Thorndyke, I want to tell you the whole story—in confidence—and to ask your advice.”
“I counsel you to make no confidences,” he said, gravely, “unless you really wish to consult me in my professional capacity.”
“That is what I wish to do,” I said.
“Very well,” said he. “That places us in the secure relation of lawyer and client; and I need not say that your father’s daughter is very welcome to any help or advice that I can give.”
With this encouragement, I poured forth the story that I have told in these pages and in almost as much detail. But still I held back one fact. I said nothing of my having found Mr. Otway grasping my father’s loaded stick. That single reservation had to be. Not only was I bound by a solemn promise; my silence on that point was the price of my release. The letter of the covenant, indeed, had reference only to my evidence at the inquest; but its spirit sealed my lips even in this my most intimate confidence.
And so, once again, a secret guarded from a friendly eye remained, like a seed dropped in a summer’s drought, to germinate and bring forth its fruit in its season.
Chapter X.
The Turning of the Page
Dr. Thorndyke listened to my recital of the history of the tragedy, not only with patience, but with close attention and apparently keen interest, interrupting me only at rare intervals to ask a question or elucidate some point that was not quite clear. When I had come to an end I was disposed to be apologetic, for I had told the story in the fullest detail, with only the single reservation that I have noted.
“I am afraid,” I said, “that I have been rather victimizing you and trespassing on your very great patience.”
“By no means,” he replied. “Men and men’s actions and motives are my merchandise. If I could listen to a story like yours without the deepest interest I should not be in my present profession. But, now that I have heard it, I think I can guess the subject on which you wish to consult me. You would like to annul your marriage with Mr. Otway.”
“Yes; if it is possible.”
“It is very natural that you should wish to recover your freedom. I sympathize with you entirely, and I wish I could give you some encouragement. But I fear that you have no remedy.”
“It seems rather hard,” I said, “that I should be bound for life to this man whom I detest and who has done me such grievous injuries.”
“It is very hard,” he agreed, “and, humanly speaking, there ought to be some remedy. But the law provides none; nor is it really possible for the law to make provision for every imaginable contingency. Yours is a very exceptional case.”
“Yes, I see that; but it seems unreasonable to compel two people to maintain a relationship which is not only unsuitable but quite unreal.”
“It does,” he admitted. “But the law takes a very unsentimental view of these matters. It regards marriage as an institution concerned with the establishment of families and the orderly devolution of property, and its interference is, in the main, limited to circumstances connected with that assumed function. Of the human aspects of marriage it takes little account. In a purely legal sense—which is what we are considering—your position is this: You were competent to contract a marriage and you did contract one, of your own free will, without any compulsion or misrepresentation that the law would recognise. The circumstances that appeared to exist before the marriage still appear to exist. No new facts have come to light which would affect the competence of either party. It is a case in which one of the parties has disregarded the old legal maxim, Caveat emptor—buyer beware! You bought, at a high price, something which turns out to be of no value. You agreed to marry Mr. Otway for a consideration—the release of your father from his embarrassments—which seemed to be valuable enough to justify the great sacrifice that you contemplated. But it turned out that your father needed no release; and the consideration thereupon ceased to have any value. As far as the law is concerned, you have simply made a very bad bargain.”
“Does the law attach no importance to fraud?” I demanded.
“But has there been fraud?” he objected. “No representations, true or false, were made to you by Mr. Otway. You acted on knowledge which you assumed that you possessed. You laid down the conditions; he accepted them. You demanded a certain consideration; he furnished the consideration demanded. Even with regard to the letter from your father, we may—and do—suspect that he knew that it was in the box, and probably guessed at its contents. But we have no proof. Moreover, if he did know that it was there—even if he had opened it and read it, he was under no obligation to communicate its contents to you. Your agreement made no such provision. It laid down specific conditions, and with these Mr. Otway had fully complied. On the plea of fraud, I am afraid you would have no case.”
“Apparently not,” I agreed. “You are most horribly convincing, Dr. Thorndyke.”
“I am putting the case as a lawyer, and very much against my own feeling as a man. But my present office is rather like that of a Devil’s Advocate in a theological council. I think that this marriage ought to be annulled, but I am sure that, in point of law, it is not voidable.
“But there is yet another aspect of the case, and you must forgive me if I put it rather bluntly. There are not many women to whom I should have spoken in as downright a fashion as I have to you, and I shall continue to pay you this rather unpleasant compliment. Mrs. Otway, even if, legally speaking, you had a case, you could not take it into court.”
“Why not?” I asked, more than a little startled.
“Because of the incidents of the inquest. You have spoken of certain reservations in your evidence. But in the case of Mr. Otway there was more than reservation. There was deliberate mis-statement, and that, too, in respect of a question that was highly material to the inquiry. He was asked the reason of your father’s resentment of this marriage, and he stated it to be the disparity of age. But that was not the reason, and he knew it was not. Your father would have raised no obstacle if you had really wished to marry Mr. Otway. He resented the marriage because it had been brought about by means which he regarded as—morally speaking—fraudulent. Mr. Otway’s evidence was false evidence, and it was deliberately given with the intention of misleading the jury.”
“But it was a small point and of no importance. Besides, Mr. Otway’s evidence is no concern of mine.”
“Pardon me,” Dr. Thorndyke objected, gravely, “the point was of very great importance. It would have started a train of entirely new issues. And Mr. Otway’s evidence is very much your concern. You heard it given, you were asked if you confirmed it, and you did confirm it. Thereupon, Mr. Otway’s evidence became your evidence.
“Now, if you were to embark on a suit for the annulment of your marriage, the plea of fraud, on which you would base your claim, would have to be supported by evidence which would conflict with that given by you at the inquest. Your position would be a very uncomfortable one, and it would be made more so by the fact that your evidence was in agreement with Mr. Otway’s. When two witnesses agree in a departure from the actual facts known to them, a suspicion of collusion is apt to be raised; and collusion again suggests purpose and motive. I am afraid, Mrs. Otway, that the Devil’s Advocate is making out a diabolically complete case. But that, you know, is his business. The conclusion is that a malignant fate has woven around you a mesh of circumstances from which there is no escape, and that the less you struggle the less irksome will be your bonds.”
To this conclusion, unsatisfactory as it was, I assented with a readiness born not only of conviction but of a certain amount of alarm. I had heard my father speak with admiration of Dr. Thorndyke’s amazing power of analysing evidence and extracting its essentials, and I now began to wonder how much of the actual truth he had extracted from the evidence at the inquest, elucidated by my narrative. His warning as to a possible suspicion of collusion with “a purpose and a motive” in the background, set me speculating as to whether he, himself, entertained such a suspicion; and his next question was by no means reassuring on this point.
“You spoke,” said he, “of having decided not to live with Mr. Otway, and of having communicated your intention to him. Do I understand that he assents to a separation?”
“Yes. He sees that the position would be quite impossible.”
“Is your arrangement with him merely a verbal one or has it been placed on a regular footing by a document of some kind?”
“Mr. Otway has executed a deed of separation, which I think is quite regular. But I had better let you see it.”
With some trepidation, I produced the deed and nervously watched him as he read it through, which he did with an inscrutable expression, and—as it seemed to me—a horrible appearance of seeing through it to the rather questionable circumstances that had brought it into existence.
“Yes,” he said, as he handed it back to me; “it is quite regular. You may congratulate yourself on finding Mr. Otway so compliant. It is more than one would have expected of him.”
“He could hardly have done otherwise,” I answered hastily. “We couldn’t possibly have lived together after what had happened. Still, I am glad he took the reasonable view. It leaves me free to make my own arrangements for my future.”
“And what arrangements do you propose—if your legal adviser is not too inquisitive.”
“Not at all. I was going to ask you to advise me. I don’t think there will be enough to support me, and, of course, I can’t accept any help from Mr. Otway. I shall have to earn my living in some way.”
“You could compel Mr. Otway to support you, but I appreciate your unwillingness to accept an allowance and thereby recognise the relationship. Have you any means of livelihood in your mind?”
I hesitated a little shyly. For I had; but my plan might sound rather an odd one, at least to a stranger.
“I thought,” said I, at length, “of trying to get a living by doing what I have been accustomed to do as a hobby—by making simple jewellery and small, ornamental metal objects. I am afraid you will look on it as rather a wild scheme.”
“No,” he answered. “It is an unconventional scheme, but not in any way a wild one. I think we often appreciate insufficiently the wisdom of the artist’s choice of his profession. In choosing a means of livelihood we are choosing the way in which we shall spend the greater part of our lives. We have something to sell—the bulk of our waking lives; and we are apt to think too much of its selling price—its value to the purchaser—and not enough of its value to ourselves. A man, such as a navvy, a miner, a bank-clerk or a factory hand, barters for the means of subsistence so many hours a day spent in doing something that he does not want to do. He sells the best part of his life. But the artist or craftsman makes a much better bargain, for he contrives to obtain a subsistence by doing what he enjoys doing and what he would elect to do for his own satisfaction. He sells only the by-products of his life; the whole of that life he retains for his own use, to be spent as he would, in any case, wish to spend it. But there is an inevitable proviso; his acceptable occupation must really yield a subsistence. His wares must be of value to the purchaser, and he must be able to find a market. Do you think you could satisfy those conditions?”
“I think I could make the things pretty well, but, as to selling them, that is a different matter. I have to find that out. May I show you some of my work?”
“I should like very much to see some of it,” he replied.
“I will fetch a few pieces. And meanwhile, that clock on the mantelpiece is partly my work. My father made the clock, itself; but I made the dial, the hands and the case.”
Dr. Thorndyke rose, and, stepping over to the mantelpiece, looked at the work with keen interest. It was a little bracket-clock with a bronze dial, a silver circle for the figures, silver-gilt hands and a simple wooden case decorated with gesso. Leaving my visitor to inspect it, I went away and collected a few samples of my work in metal; a bronze candlestick, an enamelled silver belt-buckle, a gold pendant set with opals, and one or two silver spoons; all of which Dr. Thorndyke examined with that friendly interest—unmistakeable to the artist or craftsman—that evinces some knowledge of and liking for the thing examined.
“Well,” he said, as he laid down the last of the spoons, “these things answer the first question. They are quite workmanlike, and they are attractive and tastefully designed. The next question is the economic one. Could you sell them? and if so, would they realize a price that would furnish a reasonable livelihood? You would have to compete with commercial products made in large numbers by cheap processes. Your hammered, embossed and chased work would compete with work stamped from steel dies or with comparatively rough castings. Of course, your work is infinitely better value; but this is a commercial age, and buyers are bad judges. And then you would have to sell to dealers who would demand not less than fifty per cent. profit, which, I am afraid, would leave you a pitiable, small return for your labour and skill.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “That is all quite true. But still, I think I will try. The work would be interesting and pleasant, and, as you implied just now, an artist cannot expect to be paid as much for doing what he likes doing as another man receives for doing what he dislikes. Pleasant work is, to some extent at least, its own reward; and if my work doesn’t yield enough to live on, I shall have to try something else. But I don’t suppose I shall be absolutely without means when my father’s estate has been wound up.”
“Do you think of continuing to live here?” Dr. Thorndyke asked.
“No. As soon as everything is settled, I propose to go to London. It will be much easier—or, at least, less difficult—to dispose of my work there.”
“Undoubtedly. And have you any definite arrangements in your mind—where and how you are going to live, for instance?”