Helen Vardon's confession 16 – Freeman · Verses Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Helen Vardon's confession 16Romance · The Magic Pendulum
18
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Helen Vardon's confession 16
Romance · The Magic Pendulum
FreemanEnglish
The weighty question whether my handicraft would yield me a livelihood was answered on the following morning by the arrival of a letter from Mr. Campbell; and it was answered, though not very emphatically, in the affirmative. The prices that he offered, provisionally--and advised me not to accept--were appallingly low; very little above those of mere commercial goods. But even so, it would be possible, by hard work and spare living, to eke out a bare subsistence. And it was fair to assume that Mr. Campbell’s offer was, as indeed he explicitly stated, a minimum, on which an advance might be expected. Accordingly, I declined the offer and decided to await the results of actual sales to his customers.
I was turning these matters over at the breakfast table, when Lilith came and took a vacant chair by my side.
“Well, Sibyl,” she said, in a low voice, “how did you fare yesterday? Did you have any success?”
“Yes. I came back with an empty bag.”
“And a full purse?”
“Ah! That is another matter. The tide of handicraft doesn’t seem exactly to lead on to fortune.”
“I want to hear all about it,” said Lilith. “But we can’t discuss it here. Let us have a quiet talk up in my room after breakfast. If you will run up when you’ve finished, I will join you in a few minutes.”
I assented gladly, for Lilith, apart from what the irreverent Titmouse characterised as her “crystal-gazing tosh,” was a sound adviser on business affairs; and a few minutes later I betook myself upstairs to her studio. I had scarcely seen this room before, for there was an unwritten law, sternly enforced by Miss Polton, forbidding the boarders to enter one another’s workrooms except by invitation and on specific business, and I now looked about me with a good deal of curiosity.
It was a queer room. The two sides of Lilith’s personality, like two separate persons, seemed to have parcelled it out into two distinct territories. There was the working territory, neat, precise, business-like, strangely free from the usual muddle and disorder of a woman-artist’s studio; the big water-colour easel, the orderly painting cabinet, the papier-maché lay figure, quaintly arrayed in a walking costume such as might have been seen in a Regent Street shop window (miraculously built up, as I observed, of draperies, pinned, tied or lightly stitched together), the charcoal studies from the figure, pinned up on the wall for reference, with careful pencil drawings of heads, hands and feet, and one or two casts of faces and hands. The working department was a model of matter-of-fact efficiency.
In curious contrast to this was the domain of Lilith, the mystic. In a well-lighted corner stood a small table supporting a black velvet cushion on which reposed a crystal globe of the size of a cricket ball. Above the table a couple of book-shelves exhibited a collection of volumes treating of Spiritualism, Telepathy, Apparitions, Psychical Research, and other occult subjects. On the upper shelf stood a bowl filled with the letters of a dissected alphabet; while, hanging on the wall, was a small heart-shaped object with tiny castors, which I assumed to be Planchette, and by its side a single Egyptian bead suspended at the end of a silken thread.
Yet these two aspects of this strange girl’s character were not without a connecting link. On the walls were several framed paintings signed “Winifred Blake,” mystical figure subjects, recalling, but not imitating, the works of Burne Jones and Rossetti, exquisitely drawn and delicately painted in water-colour. The work on the easel was a similar drawing of a frieze-like character, the figures nude but with lightly indicated draperies; and one of the nude figures had been traced on to a fashion-plate board and was already partly clothed in the walking costume.
My survey of the room and its contents was interrupted by the arrival of its occupant, who having seated me in the easy chair, perched herself on her painting-stool and opened the examination.
“Now,” said she, “I don’t want to be inquisitive, but I do want to know just how you got on. Did you carry out the methods that I proposed?”
“I did--at least as far as the silent willing was concerned--though not very thoroughly. I don’t think I did much in the way of suggestion.”
“And did you sell your work?”
“Yes, I think I may say I did,” and here I gave her an account of Mr. Campbell’s two alternative offers.
“You have done admirably, Sibyl,” she said enthusiastically. “Your first essay has been a perfect success. And now, tell me: are you convinced?”
As I could not truthfully say that I was, I took refuge in polite evasion, which, however, Lilith brushed aside with some impatience.
“I can never understand this kind of scepticism,” said she. “You have the cause and effect before your eyes, but yet you refuse to recognise the connection. You take your work to this man. Outside the shop you will that he shall buy it. You go in and he does buy it. What more could you want?”
“But he might have bought the things if I hadn’t willed, you know.”
“Yes,” she agreed; “he might. But that is not the way we reason about material things. I strike a match and apply it to a laid fire, and the fire burns. It might have burned if I had not applied the lighted match, but no one doubts the connection between the lighted match and the lighted fire. Physical causes and effects are accepted with unquestioning faith, but as soon as we come to spiritual or psychical phenomena, this extraordinary scepticism springs up--this curious refusal to admit and accept the obvious.”
“I am not asserting that there was no connection between the silent willing and the purchase of my work,” said I. “All I say is that I don’t regard the connection as proved. I can’t decide for or against because there doesn’t seem to be enough evidence either way.”
“Yes; I suppose you are right,” she admitted, reluctantly. “But I should like to convince you, because I am sure you have very unusual powers.”
She was silent for a short space, and then, suddenly, she asked:
“Have you ever been to a séance, Sibyl?”
“Never,” I replied.
“Well,” said she, “you ought to go to one--not to any of those silly public shows conducted by mere mountebanks, but to a private séance, carried out by really earnest people who are seeking to extend our knowledge. Would you care to come to one with me?”
“It would be rather interesting,” I replied, without much enthusiasm.
“It would,” said she. “You were speaking of evidence just now. Well, at a genuine séance you would obtain evidence that I think would convince you of the reality of psychical phenomena. I have a friend--a Mr. Quecks--who has given me some most remarkable demonstrations, and I have no doubt that he would be very pleased for you to accompany me to one of them.”
“Is Mr. Quecks a medium?” I asked.
“No; I shouldn’t describe him as a medium, though he is very sensitive and has most extraordinary powers. But he is a profound student of super-normal phenomena and deeply interested in psychical research. May I ask him to show you some of his experiments?”
“Thank you, Lilith; and I hope you will find me less disappointing than you have to-day. I am really quite curious about these things, although I admit a rather sceptical frame of mind. I was wondering, before you came up, what you do with that bead on the string.”
“That,” replied Lilith, all agog at the question, “is the pendule explorateur--the magic pendulum. It is an instrument of the kind known in psychical science as an autoscope--an appliance for, as it were, bringing the subconscious into view.”
“But how does it work?”
“It works by the influence of the subconscious mind upon the muscles. Let me show you--but you shall try it yourself because you are an unbeliever.”
She removed the crystal ball and its cushion from the table, and taking the bowl of loose letters, turned out its contents and rapidly arranged the letters in a circle, forming a clock-wise alphabet. Then she took the pendulum down from its hook.
“Now,” said she, “what you have to do is this: you rest your elbow on the table to steady your hand, and you hold the string with the thumb and finger, letting the bead hang just clear of the table in the centre of the circle; and you must keep your hand perfectly still and steady.”
“But if I do, the bead will remain still, too.”
“No, it won’t, excepting just at first. Presently it will begin to swing, apparently of its own accord, but really in accordance with your mental state. For instance, if you let it hang inside a glass and you will that it shall strike the hour, it will strike the hour. If you will--or I hold your other hand and will--that it shall swing round in a circle to the right or left, it will swing round in the direction willed. But that is an exercise of the conscious will. In the experiment that we are making now we tap the subconscious. If there is any thing or person occupying your subconscious mind, the pendulum will spell out the name of that thing or person by swinging towards the letters. Let me put the chair comfortably for you, so that you can keep quite still.”
As I listened to Lilith’s explanation I began to wish heartily that I had never embarked on this experiment. Of course, I did not believe for a moment that this absurd pendulum would develop the occult powers that Lilith claimed for it; but yet her confidence shook mine. And I had a very strong feeling that, on this day of all days, I should prefer to keep my subconscious mind to myself. However, there was no escape; so I seated myself and proceeded to carry out Lilith’s directions.
For nearly half a minute the bead hung quite motionless from my steady hand. Then it began almost imperceptibly to oscillate. My eye had already taken in the positions of the letters which might be incriminating, and now I observed with uneasy surprise that the faint oscillations of the pendulum were taking a direction towards the letter J. I could detect no movement in my hand, but, nevertheless, the oscillations grew wider and wider until the bead, as if possessed by a private demon, swung briskly half-way across the circle.
“That is pretty definite,” said Lilith. “It is swinging towards U--or is it J? The circle ought to have been bigger, so that the letters need not have been opposite to one another. But I’ll write down both; U or J.”
The swing of the pendulum now began to shorten; and then, almost abruptly, it changed its direction to one at right angles, and I observed with astonishment that it was pointing direct to A.
“It’s either A or P,” said Lilith. “I’ll put them both down.”
Once again the pendulum changed the direction of its swing, and Lilith noted down E or S; and so, to my growing consternation, it continued to take up quite distinct changes of direction until six variations had occurred, when the pendulum became stationary and then began to swing round in a circle.
“It has finished,” said Lilith--whereupon I instantly dropped the pendulum. “It is a word of six letters: U or J, A or P, E or S, A or P, E or S, F or R. Let us see if we can make out what the word is. It is a pity the letters were opposite; it muddles it up so. They ought to be in a half-circle, but then they would be too close. But let us try a few combinations. U-P-E-A-S-F; it can’t be that. U-P-S-A-S-F; it can’t be that. We’ll try it with J J-A-E-P-E-F; that isn’t it. J-A-S-E-S-F; that can’t be the word. Do the letters suggest anything to you, Sibyl? Is there any name that might be lurking in your subconscious mind, beginning with U or J? Try to think. What did you do in town yesterday?”
“Oh, various things. I went to the dealer, of course; and then I went to a private show of pottery and antiques.”
“Pottery,” mused Lilith, scanning the letters that she had written down. “Let me see: Upchurch? No, that won’t do.” She looked the letters through again and then asked eagerly: “There wasn’t any Wedgwood there I suppose?”
Now it happened that while Mr. Hawkesley was talking to us I had noticed an old gentleman tenderly placing a very fine green Wedgwood cup and saucer in the show case. So I could, and did, answer truthfully.
“Yes, there was; a beautiful green Jasper-ware cup and saucer.”
“There!” Lilith exclaimed triumphantly. “Jasper! That is the word! And yet I don’t suppose you have given that cup and saucer a thought since you saw it.”
“I had forgotten its existence until you spoke of Wedgwood.”
“Exactly,” said Lilith. “And that is the mysterious peculiarity of the subconscious. You see a thing or a person perhaps only for a moment, and straightway forget it. It seems to be gone for ever. But it is not. It has sunk into the subconscious, to remain there unnoticed possibly for years until some chance association, or perhaps a dream, brings it to the surface. But all the time it has been there. And at any moment it can be brought into view by the use of some kind of autoscope such as the pendulum or the crystal.”
“The crystal is an autoscope, too, is it?” I asked.
“Yes; but of quite a different kind. The pendulum acts by the effects of the subconscious mind upon the muscles; the crystal by the effects of the subconscious mind on the centres of visual perception.”
“That sounds very learned; but tell me exactly what you do with the crystal.”
“As to me, personally,” replied Lilith, “I do very little with it. Crystal vision--or ‘scrying,’ to use the technical term--is a rather rare faculty. I am a very poor scryer. But in the case of a really gifted observer, the most astonishing results are obtained. The method of using the instrument is this: The scryer sits in a restful position with the crystal before her (all the best scryers, I think, are women) and gazes steadily at the bright lights in it, keeping the conscious mind in a passive state--thinking of nothing, in fact. After a time the lights in the crystal grow dim; a kind of cloud or mist seems to float before it, and in this cloud, and gradually taking its place, the picture or vision appears; sometimes dim and vague, but often quite clear and bright, like the little pictures that you see in a convex mirror or a silver ball.”
“And what is this picture? I mean what is its subject?”
“That varies. It may be a scene from the past that had been forgotten by the conscious memory, or something that never happened at all--just a jumble of bits of memory like a dream. Or it may be the picture of some event that is going to take place in the near future.”
“But,” I objected, “how can an event which has not yet occurred be in your subconscious mind?”
“I know,” said Lilith. “The whole subject of precognition is a very difficult one. But there seems to be no doubt that prophetic visions do really occur. And then there is clairvoyance--seeing across space and through obstacles. A really gifted scryer, by concentrating her thought on a particular person or place as she looks into the crystal, can see that person or place, no matter how great the distance may be; can see exactly what the person is doing or what is happening at the place.”
“Really!” I exclaimed. “That sounds like rather an undesirable faculty. Doesn’t it strike you, Lilith, as a very great intrusion on the privacy and liberty of the subject to scry a person without his or her consent? Supposing the scryer should happen to discover the scryed one in the act of taking her--or his--morning tub. Wouldn’t it be rather a liberty?”
Lilith laughed (but I could see that the idea was new to her): “You are dreadfully matter-of-fact, Sibyl. But, of course, you are quite right. We shouldn’t misuse our powers. As for me, I have very little power of the kind to misuse, for I have never seen anything more than a sort of vague picture of unrecognisable figures in undistinguishable surroundings. But I think you might do better, for I am still convinced that you have special gifts. Would you like to try the crystal, Sibyl?”
“Not now, thank you, Lilith. We ought to get to work after all this gossip. And that reminds me that, before you came up, I was looking at your exquisite paintings and wondering if you are not, to some extent, wasting your great talents.”
“In what way?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said, “these designs would make magnificent tapestries or wall decorations. But if you can’t get a wall, you might condescend to a smaller surface. Have you ever tried designing and painting a fan?”
“No,” she replied.
“I wish you would,” said I. “You would do it splendidly with your power of design and your delicate technique. And Phillibar could make the sticks and carve the guards, or I could do you a pair in silver repoussé, and a jewelled pin and loop. Will you think over the proposal?”
Lilith picked up the crystal on its cushion and, smiling at me, said:
“I will make a bargain with you. If you will take the crystal to your room and give it a thorough trial whenever you have time, I will get out a design for a fan. Do you agree?”
I held out my hand for the crystal. Primarily, my desire was to introduce Lilith to Fame and Fortune through the medium of the Magpies Club; but the startling success of the magic pendulum had aroused my curiosity in regard to the other “autoscope,” though I have to confess that, when I had borne it to my room, I concealed it guiltily in a locked drawer, where it should be secure from the prying eyes of the servant-maid, and above all from the observation of the sarcastic and sceptical Titmouse.
But there were other matters than crystals and magic pendulums to be thought of. There was, for instance, the set of twelve spoons which Mr. Campbell had asked me to make and to which he had again referred in his letter. I knew now that I should be paid for them at a reasonably remunerative rate, and this, and the congenial nature of the task, encouraged me to get to work. But before I could begin there was the motive of the design to be considered; and since the apostles were ruled out as obsolete, I had to find some other group of twelve related objects. After a whole day’s anxious thought, I fixed upon the Signs of the Zodiac as furnishing a picturesque and manageable motive, and with this scheme in my mind, I fell to work in earnest, first with the pencil and then with the wax and metal.
But busy as I was, and happy in the interest of my work, I was yet aware of a change, of a something new that had come into my life. From the little workshop which had been my world, I found my thoughts straying out into the larger world, and particularly that part of it which is adjacent to Temple Bar; and if at times I viewed this change with some misgivings, I was more often conscious of a sense of exhilaration such as one feels when embarking on some new adventure.
In due course I received notice of my election as a member of the Magpies Club, and by the same post a letter from Mr. Davenant asking me to celebrate the event by lunching with him there; and, as I had occasion to go into town to replenish my silver and some other materials, I accepted his invitation, intending to return to Wellclose Square in the afternoon. But it appeared that a loan collection of antique silver was being exhibited at the South Kensington Museum, and that he had hoped to have the pleasure of inspecting it under my expert guidance. Now, to a craftsman (or craftswoman) of small experience, there is no technical education to compare with the study of admitted masterpieces. I felt that strongly, and I felt that I needed that technical education; furthermore, I felt that the attempt to explain the merits of the old work to an attentive and sympathetic listener would help me to concentrate my own attention. And perhaps it did. At any rate, I spent a long and pleasant afternoon at the museum, and we subsequently discussed the exhibits (and various other matters) very companionably over the dinner table at the club.
“It has been a jolly day for me, Mrs. Otway,” said Mr. Davenant, as he wished me “good-bye” at the Underground Station. “I’ve learned no end about silver--you are a perfect encyclopædia of knowledge in regard to goldsmith’s work. And the delightful thing to think of is that we’ve only scratched the surface of the museum. The place is inexhaustible. Do you think I may hope for the pleasure of another visit there with you before long?”
I gave what I intended to be an ambiguous answer. But it was not ambiguous to me; and I suspect that Mr. Davenant went on his way with a feeling that a precedent had been created.
When I arrived home, I found a letter awaiting me from Mr. Otway. It was not entirely unexpected, for I had felt pretty certain that he would presently hear further from his mysterious correspondent. It now appeared that he had received one or two short letters, ostensibly of the nature of warnings, but actually threatening, though in vague, indefinite terms, and one more recently of a more explicitly menacing character. These he wished me to see and discuss with him, and he asked me to make an appointment, at my convenience, to meet him for that purpose. I replied, suggesting, as before, the Tower Wharf; and there, a couple of evenings later, I met him.
In appearance he had by no means improved. His pale face had a strained, wild expression, his eye-lids were puffy and covered with curious, minute wrinkles. His hands were markedly tremulous, and his fingers bore the deep stains that mark the inveterate cigarette smoker. His dress was noticeably less neat than it had used to be; indeed, he presented a distinctly shabby and neglected appearance. Oddly enough, too, he seemed to have grown somewhat stouter.
I should have been less than human if these plain indications of sustained misery had awakened in me no feeling of pity. That his sufferings were the indirect result of his indifference to the happiness or misery of others, could not entirely stifle compassion, and I found myself speaking to him in a tone almost sympathetic.
“I am afraid, Mr. Otway,” said I, “you are letting these nonsensical letters worry you quite unnecessarily. You are not looking at all well.”
“I am not at all well, Helen,” he replied, dejectedly.
“And I think you are smoking too much.”
“I am. And I am drinking too much--I, who have been a temperate man all my life. And I have to take drugs to get a decent night’s rest. This worry is breaking me up.”
“Oh, come, Mr. Otway,” I protested, “you mustn’t give way in this manner. What is it all about, after all? Just a wretched blackmailer whom you know to be an imposter, whose threats you know to be mere empty vapourings.”
“That is not quite true, Helen. The man is an impostor, no doubt. He doesn’t really know anything. There is nothing for him to know. But he could create a great deal of trouble. He could, in fact, cause the--ah--the inquiry to be re-opened and--ah----”
“Exactly. And if it were re-opened? There would be unpleasant comment on the fact that a detail of the evidence had been withheld at the inquest. But that is the worst that could happen.”
Mr. Otway looked at me with a sort of dumb gratitude that was quite pathetic, but his gloom was in nowise dispelled by my optimism.
“It is very good of you, Helen,” said he, “to speak in this cheerful, confident tone. But I assure you, you minimize the danger. There is no saying what construction might be put upon the suppression of that detail; what considerations of motive might be read into it--especially as there was what they would call collusion between us to suppress it. But let me show you the last letter--the others are of no consequence.”
He produced his wallet, and, after some awkward fumbling, drew out the letter, which he held out to me with a hand that shook so that the paper rattled. Like the last, it was typewritten unskilfully, and characterized by the same semi-illiterate confusion in the wording, which ran thus:
“Mr. Lewis Otway,
“The writer of this warns you once more to look out for trouble. The person that I spoke of knows that something was held back at the inquest at least they say so and that they know why your wife won’t live with you and that she knows all about it too and that someone knows more than you think anybody knows. This is a friendly warning.
“From a Well Wisher.”
I returned the letter to Mr. Otway after reading it through twice, and I must confess that my confidence was somewhat shaken. If the writer was merely guessing, he seemed to have an uncanny aptitude for guessing right. As to his claim to possess some further knowledge, I did not see how that could be possible. When the fatal interview took place between my father and Mr. Otway, there were--to the best of my belief--only three persons in the house. Of those actually present at the interview there was only a single survivor--Mr. Otway himself--and he alone knew with certainty what occurred. The claim was therefore almost certainly false. And yet, even as I dismissed it, there crept into my mind once again a vague discomfort, a doubt whether there might not be something that I was unaware of, and that Mr. Otway knew; some dreadful secret that I, of all persons in the world, had been instrumental in guarding from discovery. And as I glanced at Mr. Otway--haggard, wild, trembling, and terrified out of all proportion to the danger, so far as it was known to me--the horrid doubts seemed to deepen into something like suspicion.
“Of course,” said he, when he had returned the letter to the wallet, “I realize that you are right; that there is nothing to be done but to wait for this person to show his hand more plainly. It would be madness to apply to the police. They would immediately ask if there had been any evidence withheld and why you were not living with me. And if they succeeded in getting hold of the writer of this letter, we should have more to fear from them than from the writer himself. He may be, as you believe, a mere blackmailer who is preparing to extort money, but if he were brought to bay he would try to justify his threats.”
With this I could not but agree. The implied allegations in this letter were, in point of fact, true; and any attempt to obtain help from the police would probably result in their truth being made manifest.
“Have you no idea whatever,” I asked, “who might be the writer of this letter? He can hardly be a complete stranger. Have you no suspicion? Can you think of no one who might have written it?”
He looked at me furtively and cleared his throat once or twice before replying; and when he did answer, his manner was hesitating and even evasive.
“Suspicions,” he said, “are--er--not very--ah--helpful. I have no facts. The mere--ah--conjecture that this person or that might possibly be concerned--if a motive could be supplied--and--ah--if one can think of no motive----”
He left the sentence uncompleted, giving me the vague impression that he was reserving something that he did not wish to discuss.
We were silent for some time, and I was beginning to consider bringing the interview to an end when he suddenly turned to me with a gesture of appeal.
“Helen,” he said earnestly, “is it not possible for me to prevail on you to--ah--to reconsider your decision and--ah--to--to--to terminate this--er--this unhappy separation. Consider my loneliness, Helen, my broken health and this trouble--which is our joint trouble--and--ah----”
“Mr. Otway,” I answered, “it is not possible. I assure you it is not. I am deeply distressed to think of your unhappiness and to see you looking so ill, but I could not entertain what you suggest. You must remember that we are strangers. We have never been otherwise than separated. As we are, so we must continue.”
“You don’t mean that we must always remain apart?” he exclaimed. “It was only meant to be a temporary separation.”
“At any rate,” I rejoined, “the time has not come to consider a change. But I shall be glad to hear how things go with you and to give you any help that I can.”
I rose and held out my hand, which he took reluctantly (though it was the first time that I had ever offered to shake hands with him).
“I am driving you away, Helen,” he said.
“No, indeed,” I replied. “I had to go. You will write to me if anything fresh happens?”
He promised readily, and we turned and walked away in opposite directions. When I had gone a little way, I paused to look back at him; and as I noted his dejected droop and his air of something approaching physical decrepitude, I felt a pang--not of remorse, but of regret that I could not in some way lighten the burden of his evident misery. It is true that his unhappiness was of his own making, and that in wrecking his own life he had wrecked mine and my father’s. But vindictiveness is a character alien to the civilized and developed mind. For what he had done I still loathed him; but it pained me to think of the haunting dread, the abiding fear that was his companion night and day.
