“None whatever, at present.”
“I ask because I happen to know of a place where you could put up, at least temporarily; where you would be comfortably lodged, well fed and cared for, and where you could pursue your labours under good working conditions and at small expense. There is only one drawback, but you may consider that a fatal one. It is in the immediate neighbourhood of Ratcliff Highway—or, as it has been renamed, St. George’s Street.”
“Is that a very dreadful place?”
“It is far from being an aristocratic locality. But let me describe the establishment. It is conducted by a Miss Polton, who is the sister of my laboratory assistant—a most expert and talented mechanician. Miss Polton was at one time a nurse; but when her brother entered my employment, he was able to help her to set up in Wellclose Square, Ratcliff, a boarding-house for mercantile marine officers. At the same time, she, being like her brother, a highly-capable, ingenious person, got herself a hand-loom and took up weaving as a hobby. But since then times have changed. Sailing ships have to a great extent disappeared, and Miss Polton’s clients with them, while the hobby of making excellent cloth has turned out quite a profitable one. So Miss Polton plies her shuttle industriously, and, in the place of the merchant seamen, has collected a little family of women who also work at handicrafts for their living. I believe they form quite a happy little community, and, of course, they are able to assist one another in disposing of their wares. So that is the position. I know that Miss Polton has room for another boarder, for it is quite a large house—Wellclose Square was once the abode of well-to-do shipowners and retired sea-captains—and I am sure she would welcome another novice to her community. The drawback, as I have said, is the neighbourhood, which is—to put it bluntly—just a trifle squalid.”
“I don’t see that the neighbourhood matters,” said I; “and in every other respect it sounds like the very thing I want.”
“I think you would be quite well-advised to give it a trial. You would be among friends and fellow-workers, and, if you found that the neighbourhood was too much for you, you would be in London and could seek a new residence at your leisure. I will write the address on one of my cards, and if on reflection you decide to give Ratcliff a trial, you can write to Miss Polton and me at the same time.”
He wrote the address, and, handing me the card, stood up and glanced at his watch.
“How long will it take me to walk to the station?” he asked.
“Less than twenty minutes.”
“I have half an hour, so I can walk easily. Good-bye, Mrs. Otway. I wish I could have given you a better account of your position. But I can only advise you to make the best of a bad bargain and keep your own counsel.”
“You have been most kind, Dr. Thorndyke,” I said, earnestly, “in giving me so much time and patient attention. I don’t know how I can thank you.”
“I will tell you,” said he. “By keeping a good heart and letting me know how your affairs progress.”
He shook my hand heartily, and, when I had let him out, strode down the garden path, the very personification of manly dignity, alertness and vigour. At the gate he turned to raise his hat, with a smile of friendly farewell; and I closed the door and turned back into the house, feeling, for the first time since my father’s death, that I was not alone in the world, but that, if the need should arise, the strength of this strong, commanding man was at my call.
The short remainder of my life at Maidstone I shall pass over briefly. It comes back to me in scenes like those of a play, separate but related. I see the interior of the parish church, noble, spacious, cathedral-like; I hear the voice of the clergyman reciting reverently those flowers of ancient poetry rendered into perfect English speech that usher the departed into the realms of silence with so gracious a dignity; I see the flower-strewn coffin sink into the grave wherein sleeps my unremembered mother, while the russet-sailed barges glide past the churchyard on the placid river below towards the mills at Tovil. And so farewell for ever to the best of fathers and the kindest, most lovable of friends.
These closing weeks, in which I wound up my old life and made ready for the new, were full of bustle and unrest. I had written to Miss Polton and Dr. Thorndyke, and from the former had received a kindly letter assuring me of the warmest welcome: and now I was busily collecting my tools and workshop appliances and packing them into travelling boxes to be dispatched with my heavier luggage. There was the furniture to be stored or set aside for sale, the servants to be placed in new situations, and various business to be transacted with Mr. Jackson, who, indeed, relieved me of all that lay within his powers.
Then there was Mr. Otway, from whom I received an abject letter and with whom I must needs have a rather distressing interview. He was really horrified at my proposed mode of life (I suspect he had never done a stroke of manual work in his life), and even more so at my proposed place of residence; and was, I believe, sincerely distressed at my firm refusal to permit him to make me an allowance. Indeed, the devotion which he professed for me, little as I wanted it, seemed to be as real as was possible in the case of a man so self-centred and so callously egoistic. But the very sight of him hardened my heart and lighted up afresh my indignation at the havoc that he had wrought in my life. What I had agreed to do, I did; but I made no hair’s breadth of concession. I gave him my future address, and agreed to his addressing letters there; but I refused resolutely to receive any visits from him, or even to enter into any correspondence other than that which circumstances might render necessary.
And now the last day has come; the day of final parting. I see myself wandering through the empty house, stripped of all but the barest necessaries and filled with new and strange echoes; the van drawn up at the gate to take away the last of the furniture, and the tearful Jessie carrying my two little portmanteaux down the path to the porter’s barrow. I see her return, wiping her eyes and gazing at me in dumb appeal, and, with a sudden impulse of tenderness, I kiss her and stroke her hair; whereupon she bursts into tears and throws herself sobbing on to my breast.
It was hard to close the old life, which had been so sweet and peaceful, so full and satisfying; to bid farewell to the beautiful old town which was the only place I had known and which I had loved so well. As I took my way through the streets, attaché-case in hand, all my old friends seemed to look on me reproachfully and call on me to stay. The quaint plaster-fronted house in Week Street, the venerable medieval pile at the corner of Gabriel’s Hill, the grinning masks on the corbels of the old house-fronts of Middle Row; all the old familiar landmarks, had suddenly grown dear and precious, and each exacted its twinge of regret as I looked my last on it. On the bridge I halted to survey the upper river, with the church and the Old Palace, both embowered in trees and brooding over the quiet water. Often as I had looked upon that view, it had never seemed to me so pleasant and desirable as now. And with this last impression—to be recalled how often in the troubled future!—I turned away and headed resolutely for the station.
BOOK II—ROMANCE
Chapter XI.
A Harbour of Refuge
It was the cabman who first made it clear to me that my town address was somewhat out of the common. He had stowed my two portmanteaux on the roof (it was a four-wheeled cab), and, descending to hold the door open for me to enter, shut it after me with a bang and waited while I stated my destination.
“I beg your pardon, Miss,” he said, incredulously; “did you say Wellclose Square?”
“Yes. Number sixty-nine.”
Again he regarded me with wrinkled brows. “That won’t be Wellclose Square down by the Docks?” he suggested.
“I don’t know if it’s near the Docks,” I replied, “but it isn’t far from Ratcliff Highway.”
“That’s the place, sure enough,” said he. “Number sixty-nine. Well, I’m jiggered.” With this he turned and slowly climbed to the box, looking in at me through the front window as he mounted; and even when he had taken his seat and gathered up the reins, he took yet another confirmatory glance over his shoulder before starting.
These mysterious proceedings occasioned me some surprise, not entirely unmixed with anxiety. Dr. Thorndyke had admitted that the neighbourhood was squalid, and the question arose, How squalid was it? The first part of the journey, through Eastcheap and Great Tower Street, was rather reassuring; and as we crossed Tower Hill and the grey pile of ancient buildings loomed up above the trees, I was quite pleasantly impressed. But then came a change for the worse. Long streets of characterless houses, all of a dingy, grey colour—the colour of all-pervading dirt—and growing greyer and dingier as we proceeded; populated by men and women, and especially children, of the same cobwebby tint, with something foreign and unfamiliar in their aspect and manners—a deficiency of artificial head-covering with a remarkable profusion of the natural, and a tendency to sit about on doorsteps; these, with a general outbreak on the shop signs of Wowskys, Minskys, Steins and Popoffs, were the features of the neighbourhood that chiefly attracted my attention as the cab rattled eastward. But there was not much time for extended observation, for I had barely noted these appearances when we turned into a short side-street and emerged into a square, the dingyness of which was somewhat relieved by a group of faded trees in the central enclosure.
Round the square the cab trundled slowly until it drew up opposite a tall house of the Georgian type, with white window frames and a green door. As the cab stopped, the green door opened and a small elderly lady came forth, while three younger women lurked in the background. Escaping from the cab, I advanced to meet the elderly lady, who received me with a singularly pleasant smile and a few quietly-spoken words of welcome; a proceeding that was observed with furtive interest by the cabman as he transferred my portmanteaux from the cab-roof to the pavement and thence to the hall; nor did his curious observation of me cease until it was brought to an end by actual invisibility, for, as the cab moved out of the square, I saw his face still turned towards me over the roof, with the same expression of puzzled surprise.
“You would like to see your room, I expect,” said the elderly lady whom I had correctly assumed to be Miss Polton; “then we will have tea and talk over your arrangements.” She moved towards the stairs (up which I had just seen one of the young women hopping with surprising agility, with one of my portmanteaux in either hand), and conducted me to a room on the second floor, where the portmanteaux had been duly deposited, though the bearer had vanished.
“It’s rather bare,” said Miss Polton, “but you can have some pictures and ornaments if you like. My young ladies usually prefer to have their own things and arrange them in their own way. Your workroom is downstairs. I consulted my brother about it, and he said he thought you would like a room with a stone floor if you were going to do hammered work and use a furnace. So, as I had one with quite a good light, I have kept it for you—that is, of course, if you like it.”
“I expect I shall,” I replied. “A wooden floor is dreadfully noisy when one is hammering on a stake, and not very safe when there are red-hot crucibles about.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “and you can have a mat for your feet when you are sitting at the bench. And now I will leave you and go and see about the tea.”
Left to myself, I looked around at my new home. The room, though spacious, was undeniably bare, but yet it gave me an impression of comfort. For its bareness was due merely to the absence of superfluities. The empty walls, distempered a pale cream colour, were severe to baldness; but how much better than the usual boarding-house walls, covered with staring flowered paper and disfigured with horrible prints or illuminated texts! They, like the empty book-shelves, were ready to receive the personal touches and to become friendly and sympathetic. Of actual necessaries there were more than in many an over-furnished room; a small wardrobe, a good-sized, firm table, a chest of drawers with a looking-glass on it, a small writing chair, a comfortable folding arm-chair, a washing-stand and a sponge bath, besides the book-shelves aforesaid, and a daintily-furnished bed, gave me a foundation of material comfort and convenience on which it would be easy to build and make additions. As I concluded my survey and refreshed myself with a wash, I decided that, whatever the surroundings of the house might be like, its interior seemed to have the makings of a home.
Nor was I less favourably impressed when I went downstairs. The dining-room, in which I found the ladies assembled, was pervaded by an air of spotless cleanliness with a severity approaching bareness. The absence of superfluous furniture and useless ornaments and bric-a-brac struck me, indeed, as rather odd in a household composed—so far as I knew—entirely of women.
“I must introduce you to the family,” said Miss Polton, with a pleasant wrinkly smile, “at least those who are at home. There are three more who will come in to dinner. This is Miss Blake, and these ladies are Miss Barnard and Miss Finch.”
I shook hands with my new comrades—the last being the little lady who had skipped up the stairs so actively with my luggage—and then we sat down to the table, at the head of which Miss Polton presided, and made the tea in a delightful Delft teapot from a brass kettle on which I cast an expert and somewhat disapproving eye, for it was of a blatantly commercial type and quite unworthy of the teapot.
At first, conversation was spasmodic and punctuated by considerable pauses. Miss Polton was evidently a silent, self-contained woman, though genial in a quiet, restful way. Miss Finch, too, who sat by me, was quiet and a little shy, speaking rarely but silently plying me with food. Miss Blake, on the other hand, had a restless manner, and, though she spoke little at first, was undisguisedly interested in me, for whenever I looked at her I caught her wide-open, blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that was almost embarrassing. She was a rather remarkable-looking girl, with a wealth of red-gold hair, a white and pink complexion, and a profile which, with its sharp, projecting chin and retroussé nose, might have been taken direct from one of Burne-Jones’s allegories; indeed, my first glance at her had made me think of the “Briar Rose” and the “Golden Stairs.” And now, as I caught her intense gaze again and again, I had the feeling that she was wanting to say something to me; and the more so since I thought I detected a certain expectancy in the expression of her neighbour, Miss Barnard. Nor was I mistaken; for, after one of the periodic pauses in the conversation, she leaned over the table towards me and said in low, portentous tones:
“Mrs. Otway, I want to ask you a question, if you won’t think me too inquisitive.” Here she paused—and Miss Barnard also paused in the conveyance to her mouth of a large piece of bread and marmalade.
“I don’t suppose your question would be too inquisitive,” I said, guardedly.
“It isn’t really,” said she. “You know, I have been looking at your face, and I’ve been wondering—it’s an extraordinary psychic face, do you know?”
“Is it?” said I, noting that Miss Barnard had broken out into a slow smile, which she was trying to obliterate with the lump of bread and marmalade.
“Oh, very. Intensely so. It is a face, you know, in which the workings of the subconscious appear, as it were, like an undercurrent moving beneath the surface of the conscious. I have been watching it with deep interest, and I have been wondering if you are, as I am, a dweller in the larger world beyond that inhabited by the conscious self, beyond the mere material universe. Is it not so, Mrs. Otway?”
Now this was a “facer.” As my dear father would have expressed it in his playful fashion, it “knocked me sideways.” I cast a bewildered glance round the table, and was aware of a very extensive outbreak of the subconscious, Miss Polton was blandly indulgent, her face transformed into a network of amiable wrinkles; Miss Finch was engaged in an intense scrutiny of the bowl of a jam spoon; while Miss Barnard’s feats, with the bread and marmalade, were becoming positively dangerous.
“I am not sure that I quite understand your question,” said I.
“You generally don’t,” murmured Miss Finch, as Miss Polton explained that “Miss Blake was somewhat of a mystic.”
“Like her famous namesake,” said I.
“And ancestor,” Miss Blake added, eagerly.
“Really!” I exclaimed, clutching at this straw; “you are actually a descendant of William Blake? And I daresay you are a great admirer of his works?”
“I should think she is!” exclaimed Miss Barnard. “You should just see her fashion plates.”
Recalling Blake’s usual rendering of the human figure and its unadaptability to the conditions of our climate, I secretly resolved to take an early opportunity of examining those fashion plates. Meanwhile, I remarked, “I was thinking of his poems rather than the drawings.”
“Yes,” said Miss Blake; “though the drawings are very spiritual, too. But to return to my question. You see, I had been looking at your intensely psychical face, and hoping that, at last, I had met with a kindred spirit. And I do hope—I feel convinced—that I have. Perhaps I did not put my question very clearly—it is difficult to be very definite when one is speaking of the psychic life; but I was wondering if you had ever had experiences that had made you aware of that larger world beyond the world of mere matter and sense-perception; if you had sometimes felt the thoughts of other minds stealing into your own without the aid of speech or bodily presence and even, perhaps, held converse with those dear to you who, while they have passed out of this little, material world, still share with you the greater world in which soul speaks to soul unhampered by the limitations——”
The humorous wrinkles had suddenly faded from Miss Polton’s face, leaving it grave and quiet; and now, in a quiet, grave voice, she interposed:
“I think, Lilith, dear, that Mrs. Otway’s griefs are too new and too real——”
“I know!” Miss Blake exclaimed, impulsively. “I am an egotistical wretch. It was horrid of me to be so wrapped up in my own interests. I am so sorry; so very, very sorry. Please forgive me, dear Mrs. Otway! Let us talk of something else.”
“I don’t think we must talk of anything much longer,” said Miss Polton. “We have finished tea and we ought to get on with our work. Besides, Mrs. Otway will want to unpack her things and set her room in order.”
On this there was a general up-rising. Miss Finch immediately fell to work gathering up the débris and returning the cups and saucers to the tray, while Miss Blake renewed her apologies and expressions of sympathy. Then Miss Polton took possession of me, and, having shown me my workshop—a smallish, well-lighted room, with a paved floor and a large window looking on an unexpectedly pleasant garden—took me upstairs to a box-room in which my personal luggage had been deposited.
“Supper is at eight o’clock,” said she. “We have made it rather late so that everyone may have a good, long day’s work and all the wanderers may have come home. It is the social event of the day. And now I will leave you to your unpacking.”
She tripped away up a narrow flight of stairs that opened from the landing, towards what I took to be the attics; from whence presently came a rhythmical “click-clack” that I associated with the loom of which Dr. Thorndyke had spoken. Meanwhile, I fell to work on my trunks, with a view to transferring their contents to my room; but I had hardly got them open when Miss Finch appeared at the open door.
“Can I help you?” she asked. “If I carry some of the things down you won’t have so many journeys.”
“But aren’t you busy?” I asked in return.
“Do I look like it? No, I’m lazy this afternoon, but I should like to help you, if you will let me.”
Of course I was only too glad, and forthwith loaded her with an armful of books, following her with a second consignment. For some time we continued our journeys up and down the stairs with very little said on either side, and gradually my room began to lose its emptiness and severity, and to take on the friendly aspect of an inhabited apartment.
“It doesn’t look so bad,” said Miss Finch, surveying it critically. “Looks as if someone lived in it. Do you like the wash-stand?”
“I’ve been admiring it. It’s so simple and so tasteful and unusual.”
“Yes; and yet it is only stained deal, with a few touches of gesso. Phillibar made it—Phyllis Barton, you know. You’ll meet her at supper.”
“Is she a carpenter?”
“No; she makes frames for mirrors and pictures; wooden frames decorated with gesso, or compo, or else carved. But she’s very thorough. Does it all herself. Makes up the frames from the plank, makes the compo and the moulds and does the gilding. And she is quite a good wood-worker and carves beautifully.”
“And does she make a pretty good living?” I asked, bearing Dr. Thorndyke’s observations in mind.
“She does quite well now, though she had a hard struggle at first. But now she works direct for the artists and gets as much as she can do. You will often see her frames in the exhibitions. The floor-cloth is rather nice, too, isn’t it, though it is only stencilled sacking. You’d be surprised to see how durable it is. The more it is worn, the better it looks—if it is properly done. This is stencilled with a stain. Lilith did it.”
“Lilith? Is that Miss Blake?”
“Yes. Her name is really Winifred, but we call her Lilith because she looks as if she had come out of a stained-glass window. You might think that she was a little—well, a little barmy. But she’s awfully clever.”
“She does fashion-plates, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, poor Lilith! She hates them, but she does them rippingly all the same. She would rather paint pictures or mural decorations or design tapestries, but you’ve got to do what you can sell, you know, if you want to make a living; and Lilith has a little brother whom she keeps at school—an awfully nice little kiddie. She’s a really good sort, you know, though frightfully spooky—planchette, crystal ball and all that sort of tosh; and she thinks she has found a fellow-spook, so you will have to look out.”
As Miss Finch paused to take another survey, her eye and mine fell upon the wash-stand, or rather on what it supported.
“I think,” I remarked, “that I shall have to treat myself to some new crockery. That jug and basin are hardly worthy of Miss Barton’s masterpiece.”
“No; they’re horrid, aren’t they? Regular Whitechapel china-shop stuff. But I believe I’ve got some—I’ll just run up and see.”
She tripped away up the stairs and presently returned, bearing a basin and pitcher of simple, reddish-buff earthenware glazed internally with a fine green glaze.
“They are frightfully crude and coarse,” she said apologetically (and with cheeks several shades redder than the ware), “but they aren’t vulgar. Would you like to have them until you can get something better?”
“I shall have them a long time, then,” said I. “They are charming—delightful, and they suit the wash-stand perfectly. What a house this is for pottery! I noticed the teapot and the beautiful cups and plates, all so interesting and uncommon. And now you produce these wonderful things like some benevolent enchantress. How do you do it? Do you keep a crystal ball, too?”
Miss Finch laughed and blushed very prettily. “We all do our little bit towards making the home presentable and saving expense. Miss Polton distempered these walls, and Joan Allen painted the woodwork—you’ll like Joan, I think; she paints portraits when she can get them, and fills in her time by doing magazine covers and book-wrappers. We shall expect a diploma work from you, too. You’re a goldsmith, aren’t you?”
It was my turn to laugh and blush as this magnificent title was applied to me. “Not exactly a goldsmith,” I protested. “Say, rather, a very elementary jeweller and metal-worker, or perhaps a coppersmith. And, as we have finished with this room for the present, I had better begin to get my workshop in going order.”
“And you’ll let me help you with that, too, won’t you?” said Miss Finch, with a wheedling air; and as I gladly accepted her help, she linked her arm in mine and we descended together to the scene of my future labours.
My experience of various workers has led me to observe that manual skill is a much more generalized quality than is commonly realized. The old saw of the “Jack of all trades and master of none” is entirely misleading; for manual skill acquired in the practice of one art is largely transferable to others. The acquirement of a particular kind of skill results in the establishment of a generally increased manual faculty, so that a person who has completely learned one handicraft is already more than half-way towards the attainment of skill in any other. This fact was impressed upon me as I watched little Miss Finch and noted her extraordinary handiness with probably unfamiliar appliances and her instant comprehension of the uses of things that she had probably never seen before. My two benches—the jeweller’s and the general bench—had fortunately been made in a portable form, and now had to be joined up with their screw-bolts. But my little assistant took this in at a glance, and, before I had half finished unpacking the tool cases, she had the bench-tops up-ended, had sorted out the legs, struts and the appropriate bolts, and was hard at work with the spanner. Yet, as she worked, she kept an alert and interested eye on the tools and appliances that came forth from the cases.
“What a jolly little muffie!” she exclaimed, as I deposited the small enamel furnace on the floor, pending the erection of its stand; “but won’t it eat up the gas. You’ll have to have your own meter—and watch it, too, to see that your earnings don’t all go to the gas company. And what a little duck of an anvil! But what on earth are those things?” pointing to a bundle of body-tools and snarling-irons.
I explained the use of these mysterious appliances and of sundry others; and so, with a good deal of gossip, partly personal and partly technical, we worked on until the sound of the first supper-bell sent us to our rooms to make ourselves presentable; by which time the fitting out of the workshop was so far advanced as to make it possible for me to begin work on the morrow.
The great social function of supper introduced me to the rest of my comrades; Phyllis Barton, who turned out, to my surprise, to be a tiny, frail-looking middle-aged woman of meek aspect—I had pictured her as a large, muscular, boisterous young woman; Joan Allen, who really corresponded somewhat to this description, and whom I detected more than once in the act of inspecting me with one eye closed; and a tall, rather shy girl, by name Edith Palgrave, a scrivener and calligrapher, who, I learned from Miss Finch, wrote, by choice, Church service books and illuminated addresses, but, by necessity, gained her principal livelihood by writing shop-tickets.
It was a pleasant genial gathering: homely, informal, and yet quite regardful of the indispensable social amenities. What the social class of my companions might have been I could hardly guess. They were all educated women, of good intelligence and pleasant manners, all keenly interested in one another’s doings, but each fully occupied with her own activities. The agreeable impression was conveyed that, in this little human hive, the companionship arising from the community of domestic life tended in no way to hinder a self-contained person like myself from living her own life and pursuing her own interests and satisfactions.
And so, when, somewhat early, I retired to my room to spend an hour with my books before going to bed, my thoughts turned gratefully to Dr. Thorndyke, and I congratulated myself not a little on having found this quiet anchorage in which to rest after the stormy passages of my troubled life.
Chapter XII.
The Hidden Hand
I had been settled in my new home about a month when I received a letter from Mr. Jackson. It was principally devoted to a report on business matters concerned with the disposal of my father’s practice and the sale of the surplus furniture and effects, but it contained one passage that gave me considerable food for thought. The passage in question had been added as a postscript, and ran thus:
“You have probably heard that Mr. Otway has left Maidstone. I fancy things had become rather uncomfortable for him. From what transpired at the inquest, an impression got abroad that he was, to a great extent, responsible for your father’s death, and there was consequently a rather strong feeling against him. I don’t know where he has gone, but rumour has it that he has migrated to London.”
This was, in more than one respect, somewhat disquieting news. I turned it over again and again as I sat at my bench and tried to estimate its significance. The inquest had “gone off quite smoothly,” as Mr. Jackson had expressed it, but it was clear that some, at least, of the persons present had read a meaning into the evidence which the coroner and his jury seemed to have missed. Dr. Thorndyke was one of these; but, as no rumour could be traceable to him, there were evidently others. What did this portend? To Mr. Jackson it meant no more than a local prejudice. To me, conscious of a secret covenant which I had not dared to confide even to Dr. Thorndyke, it conveyed an uneasy feeling that suspicion was abroad, that it might become cumulative, and that, even yet, that covenant might be dragged into the light of day which it would bear so ill. Ever since my talk with Dr. Thorndyke, my conscience had been somewhat ill at ease. I felt that, as a witness giving testimony on oath, I had been at least uncandid, if not positively untruthful; and the word “collusion” had acquired an unpleasantly personal quality.
And then, what of Mr. Otway? Had he slipped away out of my life to hide himself where suspicion would not reach him? Or had he really migrated to London, and would his sinister shadow presently fall upon my new life as it had done upon the old? My hopes pictured him driven by his fears—for he was a timorous man—far afield, perhaps beyond the seas; but a presentiment whispered that I had not heard or seen the last of him.
And the presentiment was right. Less than a week after the arrival of Mr. Jackson’s letter came one from Mr. Otway; and its contents were even more disquieting than those of the former. It was headed “Lyon’s Inn Chambers, W.C.,” and its contents were as follows:—
“My dear Helen,
“As you will see by the above address, I have moved to London. You will, no doubt, easily understand that, after the late distressing events, the neighbourhood of Maidstone was intolerable to me, and I am writing this to give you my new address. But, also, I have two other matters on which I want to speak to you. One is to recommend to you a dealer to whom I think you may be able to dispose of your work, which you might otherwise have to sell at a great disadvantage. His name is Campbell, and his premises are in Wardour Street, near the Oxford Street end on the west side. Mr. Campbell deals in pictures and works of ancient and modern art, jewellery, goldsmith’s work, etc.; and, as he is personally known to me, I have taken the liberty of writing to him to the effect that you may possibly call on him, and describing you as a relative of mine without mentioning the nature of the relationship.
“And now I come to a rather difficult matter, which I hope you will not misunderstand. I am going to ask you to meet me, either here or in any other place that you may choose, to talk over something that has happened recently. I have, in fact, received a letter the contents of which have greatly disturbed me. I will not go into details now, but when I say that the matter is of importance to you as well as to me, I think you will understand what I mean and what the letter refers to. I beg you very earnestly not to refuse this request. The letter in question has caused me deep anxiety, and, in fact, some alarm, and I think you ought to be put into possession of its contents.
“Trusting that you will not withhold your help and support in these new and harassing circumstances.
“Believe me,
“Your devoted husband,
“Lewis Otway.”
It would have been wiser of Mr. Otway to adopt some other mode of ending his letter. The disgust and repulsion the phrase “your devoted husband” occasioned me had nearly determined my refusal. But on reflection, not only reason, charity and a certain reluctantly admitted sense of duty, but curiosity, not unmixed with anxiety, counselled compliance. His letter was vague enough, yet it made pretty clear to me that trouble of some kind was brewing, and I was not in the position of a disinterested spectator; that, in short, my forebodings of the last few days were, perhaps, already receiving some justification.
Accordingly, I decided to agree to the meeting, and the question arose, where was it to take place? His own rooms were out of the question; for the fact of my having visited him there would greatly weaken my position if I should have to resist a claim to end the separation. Finally, I selected the Tower Wharf as a place sufficiently public and yet unfrequented enough to allow of a confidential talk secure from eavesdroppers. It had, of late, become a favourite resort of mine, for it was a pleasant place, with the trees and the old Tower on one side and the broad river on the other, and was but ten minutes’ walk from Wellclose Square. I wrote by return, naming six o’clock on the following evening; and at half-past five on that evening I set forth by way of Ship Alley and Upper East Smithfield.
Although I had walked slowly, it wanted yet ten minutes to six when I passed under the side span of the Tower Bridge and came out on to the gravelled walk overlooking the river. But already Mr. Otway was there, pacing up and down a sort of bay at the east end, with his hands behind him grasping a stout cane; and though he made a pretence of inspecting the old guns that, on their side, make a pretence of defending the fortress, he was evidently watchful and expectant, for he saw me almost as soon as I saw him, and quickened his pace to meet me.
His appearance impressed me deeply, even before we met. When I had seen him last he had been looking anxious and worried. But now he was positively haggard, and he had a furtive, hunted look that, little as I was disposed to be sympathetic, made me glad that I had not refused to meet him.
“This is really very good of you, Helen,” he exclaimed, with obvious sincerity. “But I felt sure that you would—er—respond to my appeal. It is strange,” he added, “considering what our relations are and what your feelings are towards me, that I seem to look to you, and to you alone, for support and counsel in this—er—this unexpected trouble.”
“I don’t suppose,” said I, “that any counsel of mine will be of much value to a man of your experience. But perhaps you had better tell me what the trouble is—Shall we sit down here? You spoke of having received a letter.”
“Yes,” he replied, as we sat down on a seat near the bridge. “It is an anonymous letter, and its purport is—ah—very singular, and is—ah—to the effect that—er—in fact——”
“Is there any objection to your repeating the actual wording of the letter?” I asked.
“Well, no. Certainly not. Perhaps it would be better. You are really remarkably business-like and clear-headed. I suppose it is your up-bringing and being so much with your father. No, there is no objection. In fact”—here he produced from his pocket, with evident reluctance, a leather wallet, from which he extracted a folded paper—“in fact, you may as well see the letter for yourself.”
I took the paper from him, and opening it found it to be a quite short letter, typewritten upon ordinary typist’s paper, without any address or other heading, and undated save for Mr. Otway’s written and signed endorsement. There was no signature, but in place of one was written in typed characters, “A Well Wisher”; and this is what it said:
“Mr. Lewis Otway,
“The undersigned is writing to put you on your guard because Somebody knows something about how Mr. Vardon came by his death, and that somebody is not a friend, so you had better keep a sharp look out for your enemy and see what they mean to do. I can’t tell you any more at present.
“A Well Wisher.”
I read it through twice, noting, the second time, the peculiar construction, the faulty grammar and punctuation, and especially the confusion in the pronouns which is so characteristic of the writing of an uneducated person. Of course, these peculiarities might have been assumed as a disguise; but they established a probability that the writer was a person of indifferent education; to which class, indeed, the bulk of anonymous letter-writers belong.
I handed the document back to Mr. Otway, and asked:
“Does this letter convey anything to you?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “Absolutely nothing. It speaks of somebody knowing something. But that is impossible. There was no one in the house but you and I and—er—your father. Besides, there is nothing to know—excepting what you know.”
“Have you any idea or suspicion as to who the writer of this letter may be?”
“None whatever. I have not the faintest clue. You see, there is nobody in the world who has any—er—any special knowledge of the—ah—the exact circumstances but yourself.” He paused for a few moments, and then, in a lower tone, asked hesitatingly: “I suppose, Helen, you cannot—er—guess or—ah—surmise who might have——”
I looked up quickly and caught a furtive glance which was instantly averted; and in a moment it was borne in on me that he suspected me of either being the writer or concerned in the writing of this letter.
“Mr. Otway,” said I, speaking slowly and quietly, the better to command my temper, “if you have any idea that I know anything of this wretched production, dismiss it. If you have any idea that there lurks in my mind any suspicion that your account of my father’s death was untrue, dismiss that, too. If I had known, or even had the smallest grounds for suspecting, that my father met with foul play, you would not have had to wait till now to hear from me; nor would my communication have reached you in this form or through these channels.”
As I said this, looking at him, I do not doubt, sternly and forbiddingly enough, he turned horribly pale and seemed to shrink visibly. He was completely cowed; so much so that, cordially as I detested him, I felt really sorry for him.
“You mistake me, Helen. You misjudge me,” he protested, huskily; “you do, indeed. I had no intention—I never, for one moment, suspected—but why do I say this? Of course, you must know I did not. I merely thought it possible that you might be able to guess—that you might know of some person——”
“I do not, Mr. Otway,” said I. “No one connected with me has any knowledge that is not public knowledge. Nor do I believe that anyone else has. I should say that this person—apparently a person of the lower class—is just a common blackmailer, who was present at, or has read the report of, the inquest, and is trying to make you believe that some suspicion attaches to you.”
Mr. Otway drew a deep breath and reflected gloomily. Perhaps my suggestion was not a very comforting one, for a blackmailer is a rather formidable enemy to a man who is concealing an incriminating fact.
“Probably you are right, Helen. But you notice that there is no threat—no direct threat, at least—and that there is no suggestion of any attempt to obtain money from me.”
“Perhaps that will come later,” said I.
Again he drew a long breath and cast a furtive glance at me. “Perhaps it will,” he agreed. “This may be the preliminary move, the laying of ground-bait, so to speak. It’s a harassing business, Helen. What do you think I had better do? You see, I rely on you for counsel, although I am so much older. But you have your father’s gift of clear judgment and perfect coolness in emergencies.”
It was rather a tactless observation, for it recalled vividly my dear father’s coolness in that last, fatal emergency; his composure and unruffled cheerfulness when the menace of ruin and disgrace—set up by Mr. Otway—had seemed poised over his head, ready to fall at any moment; and the recollection did not tend to increase my present sympathy.
“For my part,” I said, coldly, “I should do nothing at present. I should ignore this letter and wait for the writer to show his hand more clearly. If he should make any threats or demands for hush-money, I should at once put the matter in the hands of the police.”
I could see that this advice—particularly the latter part of it—did not greatly commend itself to Mr. Otway. Nor did it to me. But circumstances offered no choice. Any risk is better than that of life-long subjection to a blackmailer.
“It would be very unsafe,” said Mr. Otway, “to have any dealings with the police. They are pretty severe on blackmailers, but they are naturally ready to listen to anyone who professes to have information to give them. And a blackmailer may be very dangerous if he is brought to bay. We couldn’t afford to have any enquiries made that might seem to establish what they would call collusion to suppress evidence. We know that the facts that we withheld were not material. Other people would not.”
I could not but admire the adroitness with which Mr. Otway made me a participator in his own difficulties and secured me as an ally against his unseen enemy. And the uncomfortable aspect of the case was that he was right. We were partners in an unlawful act. That, I had already recognised; and the different significance of that act in our respective cases did not so very much affect our position in the present circumstances. I had nothing further to say, but to repeat that I should ignore the letter; and for a time we sat silent, looking out on the river.
“Well,” said Mr. Otway, at length, “so be it. We will wait and see what happens. And now let us put this miserable affair away and talk about your future. I have seen some of your work, and I am sure that you could get good prices for it if it were placed in the proper quarter. But the ordinary shops would be of no use to you. The common retailer does not know or care anything about individual work. He just buys from the wholesaler or the manufacturer, and sells to the public. He would probably not look at your work, or if he were willing to buy it, he would pay no more than he pays to the manufacturer who rattles off his goods by the thousand, with the aid of cheap labour and machinery. But there are people who know the difference between artists’ works and manufactured goods, and are willing to pay for the better things. And there are dealers who supply them. Mr. Campbell is one. I have known him for many years, and I can assure you that he is an excellent judge of works of art and very anxious to get the best for his customers, who are mostly good judges, too. He is well known in artistic circles, and, as he is able to dispose of things of real value, he can afford to pay the artist a fair price. I strongly advise you to give him a trial. Of course, I would infinitely rather that you accepted an allowance from me, but, if you really——”
“It is very good of you, Mr. Otway, but I assure you that it is out of the question.”
“Very well, then. If you are quite resolved, I can only advise you to make the most profitable use of your talents. Go to Mr. Campbell, and I am sure that you will be treated fairly.”
I thanked him for his advice and promised to act on it; and very shortly after this I brought the interview to an end.
As I took my way slowly back to Wellclose Square, I reflected on the new developments that my meeting with Mr. Otway had disclosed. That some mischief was brewing there could hardly be a doubt. The disguise of the “Well Wisher” was too thin to create any illusion. As to the somebody who knew something, he was an obvious myth, for, as Mr. Otway had said, the circumstances did not admit of anyone knowing even what was known to me. My own explanation was that some person, who had been present at the inquest, had observed Mr. Otway’s excessive nervousness and had marked him as a likely subject for blackmailing operations. It was a chance shot and nothing more.
But Mr. Otway’s evident alarm was not difficult to account for. He was a naturally timorous man; he had been subjected to a great and prolonged strain, and he had an incriminating secret. His position was, in fact, one of appreciable danger, as he fully realized. If the details of my father’s death had been fully disclosed at the inquest, Mr. Otway’s statement and explanation would probably have been accepted without demur. But the suppression of certain material facts put a different complexion on the matter. If the inquiry were now revived, he would have to explain, not only the original circumstances, but his motives for suppressing them. He had very good reason for alarm.
And yet his abject terror produced an uncomfortable impression on me. I could not disguise from myself that the whole tragedy of my father’s death was due to an error of judgment on my part. The secret marriage was the outcome of a mistake. Woman-like, I had acted on a strong conviction; and that conviction had been wrong. What if I had once again acted on an erroneous belief? I had assumed that Mr. Otway’s account of my dear father’s death was correct. There had seemed to be excellent reasons for the assumption. But what if I had been wrong, after all? If I had actually misled a Court of Justice to shield the murderer of my dearly loved father? It was undeniably possible. I had formed my opinion on mere probabilities, backed by a statement that, however plausible, was manifestly worthless as evidence. And that opinion might have been utterly wrong. It was a dreadful thought. So dreadful that, though I tried to put it away and remind myself that I did not entertain and never had entertained it, it haunted me during the whole of my walk home, even to the exclusion of the menace to myself that lurked in this blackmailer’s letter.
Chapter XIII.
A Crystal-Gazer and Other Matters
The cheerful atmosphere of the old house in Wellclose Square soon dissipated my gloomy thoughts. It was nearing supper-time when I arrived, and an agreeable clink of china proceeded from the dining-room, accompanied by a faint aroma suggestive of curry. On my landing I found Lilith and Miss Finch engaged in earnest discussion, and both greeted me as if I had returned after a long absence.
“We have been wondering,” said the former, “what had become of our Sibyl” (she had bestowed this title on me, presumably, by reason of my peculiarly “psychic” cast of countenance). “As for the poor Titmouse” (this was Miss Finch’s pet name), “she has been wandering about like a cat that has lost its kitten.”
“Or like a kitten that has lost its cat,” I suggested, bestowing an affectionate pinch on my little comrade’s ear. “Well, I haven’t been far afield, but I have done quite an important stroke of business.”
“You don’t mean to say you’ve sold something!” the Titmouse exclaimed, incredulously.
“Not actually sold. But I have discovered a market. I have tidings of a benevolent person—of the Scottish persuasion, I believe—who traffics in works of art and other productions of the human hand.”
“A Scotchman!” exclaimed Miss Finch. “I thought all art dealers were Jews. When are you going to call on the Laird?”
“It is hardly worth while to call on him until I have a fair collection of work to show him,” said I.
“I don’t agree with you, Sibyl,” said Lilith. “The first thing to do is to catch your dealer. To do that, you must find out what he wants. He is sure to have his own personal fancies, and he knows what he can sell most easily. Take him all that you have ready. He will be able to see from that what you can do, and he will tell you what kind of work he will take from you. And don’t lose any time. I should go to-morrow if I were you.”
“Does an artist have to work to order, then, like salaried journeymen?” I asked.
“Practically, yes,” replied Lilith. “And why not? He makes things that he wants people to buy. Surely it is only reasonable that he should consider the needs and the wishes of the buyers. And all good craftsmen do. Chippendale’s chairs were not only good to look at; they were comfortable to sit on and serviceable in use. The only difference between an artist craftsman and a commercial producer is that the artist always does his best, for his own satisfaction apart from the question of payment; whereas the commercial producer thinks of the profit only, and turns out the worst stuff that the buyer will put up with.”
“But surely an artist may choose what he will make,” said I.
“Of course he may,” replied Lilith, “if he is willing to keep the thing when he has made it. Not if he is going to ask someone to pay him money for it.”
I was inwardly somewhat taken aback by this exhibition of hard-headed reasonableness on the part of the mystical Lilith; so much so that, when she had gone to her room, I remarked on it to Miss Finch.
“Yes,” she agreed; “Lilith is an extraordinary girl. In fact, there seem to be two Liliths; one is as cranky as a March hare, and the other is perfectly sane and really very shrewd. I sometimes wonder whether she really believes in all that crystal-gazing tosh and telepathic bunkum. But she practices what she has just been preaching. She does her fashion-plates according to orders—but ever so much better than she need—and does other work to please herself and is content to keep it. You should look in at her studio and see her at work; then you’d understand.”
“And you think I had better take her advice?”
“I do. First catch your dealer; and if he wants to keep you turning out the same things over and over again, try to catch another dealer who wants something different. The great thing is to get a market. It’s frightfully disheartening to keep on doing good work and having it all left on your hands.”
Impressed by this wise counsel, I betook myself after supper to my workshop and reviewed my stock. A month’s work had produced no great accumulation, for I was still a slow worker, though the continuous practice was improving that. On the other hand, I had brought with me a certain number of unfinished pieces as well as some of my finished work; so that I had enough to give Mr. Campbell the means of judging my capabilities. When I had looked over the collection and withdrawn one or two pieces that were not up to my present standard, I packed the approved specimens in a hand-bag which I took up with me in readiness for the morrow. I was just opening the door of my room when Lilith came running up the stairs.
“You see,” I said, holding up the hand-bag. “I am acting on your advice. I have packed up a selection from my stock to take to the dealer to-morrow morning.”
“I am glad of that,” said she. “The business side of art is tedious and disagreeable, but you have got to sell if you are to live by your work. Would you mind giving me a private view of your masterpieces?”
“I shall be proud to show them to you,” I replied, conducting her into my room and placing the arm-chair by the table, “Let us put out the whole collection.”
I emptied the bag of its contents, which I set out on the table to the best advantage, and she examined the pieces one by one.
“They are charming,” she exclaimed, enthusiastically. “I can’t judge the work, though it looks most expert to my inexpert eye, but the design is delightful. They are all so individual and full of character, and so simple and restrained. You have a fine colour-sense, too. I think your use of enamel quite masterly, and I like your employment of bronze in place of the precious metals. It is fortunate that your dealer is a Scotchman, for the Jews, from Solomon downwards, have always had a leaning towards gold.”
“Yes,” said I; “bronze is my favourite material, even for personal ornaments. And it is capable of great variety in the patina, especially if one uses the Japanese methods of surface treatment. I wish it took the enamel better.”
“You seem to have overcome the difficulties pretty completely,” said Lilith. “This pendant, for instance, is beautiful, and so is the belt-clasp. Do you know, Sibyl, I think we might collaborate. Some of my designs might very well include metal ornaments—clasps, buckles, and buttons forming part of the decorative scheme. We must talk it over. And now, my dear Sibyl, I want to say something to you—something quite serious—and I want you to listen without prejudice.”
I looked at her, and was instantly aware of a change that had come over her. The shrewd, business-like, capable Lilith had suddenly become transformed into the mystic—wide-eyed, dreamy, yet intense.
“I have avoided talking to you about the things that are to me the great things of life,” she said in low, earnest tones. “I have wished to, but I have been fearful of intruding on your strongly individual, self-contained personality. But I have felt that you have great gifts—great psychic gifts. You are a woman of power. The common herd live their little lives locked up in the prison of the visible and the conscious. If they would convey their thoughts to other minds they must use the unwieldy means of speech and visible signs. What they know of their fellow-immortals reaches them crudely through the organs of sense; and through those primitive and inadequate media they must needs communicate with others, bound by the limitations of time and space and mere material contact—at least, so long as they are prisoned within a material body. But there are others for whom no such limitations exist; specially gifted souls who can see without mere material eyes, who can hear without ears, who can speak their thoughts across the gulfs of time and space; who can look into the remote past, and even into the future; who can make their will-power operate at limitless distances and without the aid of gross bodily action. And you are one of these, Sibyl. I am convinced that you are endowed with these powers. But they are latent, unsuspected, because you have never tried to exercise them; because you have never sought to bring the subconscious within the domain of the conscious, or rather to make a contact between the two.”
To this strange and rather wild harangue (which the matter-of-fact Titmouse would have called “barmy”) I listened with grave attention, though with little enough conviction—for I could not but recall my ignorance and my mistaken judgment in the greatest crisis of my life—noting how like a prophetess the picturesque Lilith looked, with her golden aureole of auburn hair and her great, blue eyes and parted lips. But I made no reply—there was, indeed, nothing to say—and after a short pause she continued:
“Don’t think I am saying this with any impertinent intention of trying to force my own views on you. I have a definite practical purpose. You are going to-morrow to make your first essay in a vitally important branch of an artist’s calling. On your success depends the possibility of your following art as a profession—that is, if you have not enough to live without work.”
“I have not,” said I.
“Then artistic success is not sufficient. You must achieve industrial success; you must get a livelihood out of your work. As far as the creation of beautiful things is concerned you are quite competent and will become more so with more practice. Now you have to learn how to dispose of those works profitably; how to make people buy them.”
“But surely that will be decided by the suitability of the things themselves.”
“Partly, no doubt. But you mustn’t leave it at that. You must learn to exercise the power of silent willing combined with suggestion.”
“I don’t think I quite understand,” said I.
“We must talk about this more fully some other time,” said Lilith, “and go into the theory and the results of experiments. For the present you must try to take my word for the fact that silent willing and suggestion are real powers. I don’t ask you to believe it without proof—I will give you the proof later—but I do beg you, dear Sibyl, to give the method a trial. If it fails in your hands you will be none the worse; but it won’t fail if you make up your mind to succeed.”
“What do you want me to do, Lilith?” I asked, not a little bit bewildered by her mysterious and rather vague expressions.
“I will tell you what I do myself,” she replied. “When I take a batch of drawings to a publisher, I stand outside the office for five minutes and silently will that he shall accept them. Sometimes I write on a piece of paper a command to the publisher to accept my work, and while I am waiting for the interview I keep my eyes fixed on the writing and mentally endorse the command. The writing, you see, helps me to concentrate my will-power. Then, at the interview, I use the method of suggestion. Whatever the editor or publisher may say, whatever objections he may make to my work, I continue steadily to impress on him that he is going to accept it, that, in fact, he has accepted it. If he refuses it, I ignore the refusal and go on talking as if he had accepted it—not rudely, of course; one must do these things tactfully—and all the time that he is talking, I continue silently to concentrate my will-power on him.”
“And what is the result?” I asked.
“The result, my dear Sibyl, is that I sell all the drawings that I offer for sale.”
This sounded convincing enough, and would have been more so if I had not happened to know that Lilith’s drawings were of the very best of their kind, and that she submitted them to the most rigorous criticism before letting anyone see them. Still, the fact that she sold her work was undeniable, and it was impossible to say how many excellent drawings had failed to gain acceptance. Certainly every capable artist is not a successful one.
“And what is it exactly that you want me to do?” I asked.
“I want you,” she replied, “to do just what I do, myself. I want you to stand outside the shop for five minutes and silently will that this dealer shall buy your work. It would probably help you if you were to write down the command and keep your eyes fixed on the writing while you are willing; but if the dealer himself should happen to be visible, it would be well to fix your eyes on him so as to direct the will-force with more precision. And when you go into the shop, keep on willing with the greatest concentration that you can command, and when you are talking to the dealer, talk as if he had bought your work; keep on impressing on him that he has bought it, and don’t take any notice of contrary statements on his part. If he seems to think that he has refused it, you must correct his mistake and guide his thoughts into the proper channels.”
I suppose I must have looked somewhat dismayed at this rather startling programme, for Lilith continued, eagerly: “Now, don’t raise objections, Sibyl, dear. It will be quite easy if you will only make up your mind. You have abundant will-power, and I am certain that you have the gift of projecting your mental states into the minds of others. And I am so anxious that you should succeed and that your great gifts should not be wasted. Say you will try, Sibyl, if only to please your friend.”
What could I do? Utterly as my mind refused to accept the connection between the alleged cause and effect, I could not say that no such connection existed. I was completely unconvinced; but my unconviction might conceivably be less rational than Lilith’s whole-hearted belief. For she declared herself able to support her belief with proof, whereas I had to admit that my scepticism was largely a matter of temperament. And she was so eager, and it was so sweet of her to be so full of anxiety on my behalf, that it would have seemed ungracious to make difficulties. The end of it was that I agreed to carry out her plan of conquest, on which she further inducted me into the arts of silent willing and suggestion and even supervised me while I wrote out, at her dictation, a peremptory command to the dealer, which I promised to use, as directed, for the reinforcement of my will-power at the appropriate time.
On the following morning, after a careful study of my father’s atlas of London, which I had brought with me from Maidstone, I set forth, hand-bag in hand and encouraged by the good wishes of my comrades and of Lilith in particular. Entering the Underground Railway at Mark Lane, I came to the surface at Charing Cross Station and bore away northwards across Leicester Square. During the journey, I had turned over in my mind the plan of attack to which I stood committed, with increasing distaste, I must admit, as the time for its execution drew nearer. And as my dislike grew, so also did my scepticism. I found myself recalling the fact that Lilith, successful as she claimed to be, was yet a fashion-plate artist very much against her own wishes, and reflecting that, if her silent willing were as efficacious as she believed it to be, she might surely compel the purchase of the kind of work that she enjoyed doing, instead of being herself compelled to follow a distasteful occupation. However, it was useless to think about it now. I had promised to give the method a trial and must carry out my promise.
These reflections brought me to the bottom of Wardour Street, and my attention was now fully occupied by the search for Mr. Campbell’s shop. Mr. Otway had omitted to give me the number of the house, but I remembered his saying that it was on the west side near the Oxford Street end; so I walked slowly up the east side and scanned the shop-fronts across the road. Near the top of the street my eye lighted on a smallish shop, above the window of which was inscribed in faded gold lettering “Donald Campbell,” and I immediately crossed the road, becoming aware as I did so of a sudden access of nervousness. For this was a new experience to me. Hitherto all my transactions with shopkeepers had been in the character of a purchaser; and my transformation into a vendor was accompanied by a diffidence and shyness that I had not expected or foreseen. Indeed, in the course of that short journey across the road, my bashfulness increased so much that I had nearly forgotten my promise to Lilith and was on the point of entering the shop when it flashed into my mind.
But even when I recalled Lilith’s instructions, they were not easy to carry out. I swerved from the shop door to the side of the window and stood there trying to concentrate my will-power. But it would not be concentrated. In the window was displayed a fascinating array of base metal spoons which instantly rivetted my attention; particularly a set, of the late seventeenth century, wrought in a fine-coloured latten, and exhibiting in a most charming manner the combined effect of delicate workmanship, with the patina of age and the softening of outlines from use and wear. Unconsciously, I had begun to compare them with my own cruder productions before I realized that my will-power had escaped control. Then I jerked myself back from the spoons to my present task, and, hastily drawing the paper from my pocket, fixed my eyes on the written command and struggled to concentrate my thoughts on it and to suppress a growing consciousness of the absurdity of the whole proceeding. Presently I raised my eyes from the paper, and as they sought to dodge the spoons, they encountered another object equally disturbing. “It was only a face at the window,” as the ridiculous song has it, but it instantly engrossed my attention and transported me in spirit, not to any Highland glen, but straight away to the banks of the Jordan; a fattish face, framed with glossy, black hair that broke out at the temples into rows of little crisp curls like a barrister’s wig; a face with small, grey eyes, full under the lids, and surmounted by strong, black eyebrows, with full, red lips and a rather sketchy nose of the general form of a William pear with the stalk uppermost. It was clearly not Mr. Campbell’s face, but it appertained to the establishment; and, recalling Lilith’s instructions to direct my will-power with more precision by fixing my eyes on the dealer, I directed a stony stare at the face and willed silently. But here I was countered again; for the owner of the face was also apparently possessed of psychic gifts, and fixes on me a gaze of such intensity that I was covered with confusion. On this I straightway forgot all about will-power, and, hastily pocketing the paper, walked nervously and guiltily into the shop.
The proprietor of the face confronted me impassively across the counter; and such was my trepidation that, although he obviously was not Mr. Campbell, I could think of nothing better than to ask him if he was; whereupon he completed my discomfiture by replying in the affirmative.
“I am Mrs. Otway,” said I; at which he suddenly grew keenly attentive, and I continued: “I understand that Mr. Otway—Mr. Lewis Otway—has written to you about me. I had a letter from him to that effect.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Campbell, “he has; and, if I remember rightly, he suggested that I might be able to dispose of some of your work. I think he said you did some repoussé or something of the kind.”
Apparently Mr. Campbell was preparing to treat me as an amateur, and my work as the product of a hobby. This would not do at all. Before saying anything further, I opened my bag and handed out the pieces one by one, setting them on the counter before him.
“Oh!” said he. “Yes; ha—hum; this isn’t exactly what I expected.” He picked up a teaspoon, turned it over between his fingers, closely examined the joining of the shank and bowl and the little bust that formed the knob, and then held it at arm’s length with his head on one side. There was something in the action and the facial expression that accompanied it which encouraged me even before he spoke.
“Nithe thpoon that,” was his comment as he laid it down (I observed that he tended to develop a lisp when preoccupied or off his guard); “well made, well designed; quite original, too. Spoons are my fancy—you saw that set in the window. If I could afford it, I would specialize in them more than I do. Not but what I’m fond of all goldsmith’s work if it’s good—or any other art work, for that matter; but I do love a good spoon.”
This was pleasant hearing, for I had a weakness for spoons myself. They are useful objects, they admit of infinite variety in design, and their small size adapted them peculiarly to my rather limited resources.
“But there is one thing that you must bear in mind,” continued Mr. Campbell. “Single spoons are not very saleable unless they are antique or collectors’ pieces. Modern spoons are bought for use as well as ornament, and buyers like them in sets; not all alike, of course, but with a general design running through the set. Twelve spoons, all different, but all brothers; that’s what they want.”
“Like the apostle sets,” said I.
“Yes,” he replied, “but we don’t want any more apostles. Too many on the market already. The apostles are done. They’re a back number. Everybody does them because they can’t think of anything else connected with the number twelve. But there is an opening for something original. If you can do me a set with a good striking design, I think I know where I can place them at a liberal price.”
I made a note of this proposal, and Mr. Campbell proceeded with his examination of my samples, accompanying the process with shrewd comments and useful hints. “Now, I’m rather doubtful about this,” said he, picking up a bronze paper-weight on which was a little figure with an open book; “it’s pretty and might take the fancy of a bookish man, but I question whether you’ll get paid for the work that you’ve put into it. People don’t always realize the value of a bronze casting. You must have done this by the cire perdue process.”
“I did.”
“Well, I should save that for more important pieces. Simple modelling and sand-casting is good enough for paper-weights. And you are too lavish with your silver. Just feel this candlestick. You could have done it with half the silver and got paid just as much. The extra cost of the unnecessary silver will have to come off the workmanship—at least, that is the tendency although it is nominally sold by weight.”
As Mr. Campbell was speaking, a woman came out of an inner room and advanced to the counter. I glanced at her casually and then looked again more attentively, for I had instantly the feeling of having seen her before, though I could not recollect where. She was a Jewess of the dark and sallow type, about my own age, and of a sombre and rather forbidding aspect; and the glance that she cast on my samples, though impassive, was faintly disparaging.
“This is Mrs. Otway, me dear,” said Mr. Campbell. “You remember the letter I showed you about her. And these pretty things are her work.”
Mrs. Campbell—as I assumed her to be—raised her eyes and bestowed on me a quietly insolent stare, but made no remark. Then she cast another disparaging glance at my wares and said coldly:
“They are all right of their kind; but you don’t want to fill the place up with modern stuff.”
Disagreeable as the remark was, its matter impressed me less than its manner. For again I was sensible of a certain vague familiarity in the voice, the intonation and the accent. She gave me, however, no opportunity for studying either, for, with the curt observation that “she supposed he knew his own business,” she retired to the inner room without taking any further notice of me.
“Well,” said Mr. Campbell, “there’s some truth in what my wife says. I can’t afford to lock up my capital in things that I can’t sell. But I like your work. It is good work, and you’ll improve. I am willing to buy this lot of pieces—at a price. But it will have to be a low price, because I don’t know how they will go. If you take my advice, you’ll leave them with me and let me try the market with them. When I have sold one or two I shall know what I can do with them, and then I can offer you a fair price based on what they fetch. How will that thoot you?”