Helen Vardon's confession 3 – Freeman · Verses Across
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Helen Vardon's confession 3Tragedy · Atra Cura
18
Literature · Crime, Thrillers & Mystery
Helen Vardon's confession 3
Tragedy · Atra Cura
FreemanEnglish
As the study door closed, I sank into my easy chair with a sudden feeling of faintness and bodily exhaustion. The momentary shock of horror and amazement had passed, giving place to a numb and chilly dread that made me feel sick and weak. Scraps of the astounding conversation that I had heard came back to me, incoherently and yet with hideous distinctness, like the whisperings of some malignant spirit. Disjointed words and phrases repeated themselves again and again, almost meaninglessly, but still with a vague undertone of menace.
And then, by degrees, as I sat gazing at the blurred pages of the book that still lay open on the reading-stand, my thoughts grew less chaotic; the words of that dreadful dialogue arranged themselves anew, and I began with more distinctness to gather their meaning.
“Seven years penal servitude!”
That was the dreadful refrain of this song of doom that was being chanted in my ear by the Spirit of Misfortune. And ruin--black, hideous ruin--for my father and me was the burden of that refrain; no mere loss, no paltry plunge into endurable poverty, but a descent into the bottomless pit of social degradation, from which there could be no hope of resurrection.
Nor was this the worst. For, gradually, as my thoughts began to arrange themselves into a coherent sequence, I realised that it was not the implied poverty and social disgrace that gave to that sentence its dreadful import. Poverty might be overcome, and disgrace could be endured; but when I thought of my father dragged away from me to be cast into gaol; when, in my mind’s eye, I saw him clothed in the horrible livery of shame, wearing out his life within the prison walls and behind the fast-bolted prison doors; the thought and the imagined sight were unendurable. It was death--for him at least; for he was not a strong man. And for me?
Here, of a sudden, there came back to me the rather enigmatical speech of my father’s, which I had heard without at the moment fully comprehending, but which I now recalled with a shock of alarm.
“Please bear in mind, Otway, that I am not a convict yet, and possibly may never be one. There are certain conceivable alternatives, you know.”
The cryptic utterance had evidently puzzled Mr. Otway, who had clearly misunderstood it as referring to some unknown resources. To me, no such misunderstanding was possible. More than once my father had discussed with me the ethics of suicide, on which subject he held somewhat unorthodox opinions; and I now recalled with terrible distinctness the very definite statement that he had made on the occasion of our last talk. “For my part,” he had said, “if I should ever find myself in such a position that the continuance of life was less desirable than its termination, I should not hesitate to take the appropriate measures for exchanging the less desirable state for the more desirable.”
In the face of such a statement, made, as I felt sure, in all sincerity and with sober judgment, how could I entertain any doubt as to the interpretation of that reference to “certain conceivable alternatives”? To a man of culture and some position and none too robust in health, what would be the aspect of life with its immediate future occupied by a criminal prosecution ending in an inevitable conviction and a term of penal servitude? Could the continuance of such a life be conceived as desirable? Assuredly not.
And then imagination began to torture me by filling in with hideous ingenuity the dreadful details. Now it was a pistol shot, heard in the night, and a group of terrified servants huddled together in the corridor. But no; that was not like my poor father. Such crude and bloody methods appertain rather to the terror-stricken fugitive than to one who is executing a considered and orderly retreat. Then I saw myself, in the grey of the morning, tapping at his bedroom door: tapping--tapping--and at last opening the door, or perhaps bursting it open. I saw the dim room---- Oh! How horribly plain and vivid it was! With the cold light of the dawn glimmering through the blind, the curtained bed, the half-seen figure, still and silent in the shadow. Horrible! Horrible!
And then, in an instant, the scene changed. I saw a man in our hall. A man in uniform; a railway porter or inspector. I heard him tell, in a hushed, embarrassed voice, of a strange and dreadful accident down on the line.… And yet again this awful phantasmagoria shifted the scene and showed me a new picture: a search party, prowling with lantern around a chalk pit; and anon a group of four men, treading softly and carrying something on a hurdle.
“Dear God!” I gasped, with my hands pressed to my forehead, “must it be--this awful thing! Is there no other way?”
And with that there fell on me a great calm. A chilly calm, bringing no comfort, and yet, in a manner, a relief. For, perhaps, after all, there was another way. It was true that my father had rejected Mr. Otway’s proposal, and such was my habit of implicit obedience that, with his definite rejection of it, the alternative had, for me, ceased to exist. But now, with the horror of this dreadful menace upon me, I recalled the words that had been spoken, and asked myself if that avenue of escape were really closed. As to my father, I had no doubt; he would never consent; and even to raise the question might only be to precipitate the catastrophe. But with regard to Mr. Otway. The manner in which my father had met and rejected his proposal seemed to close the subject finally. He had called him a blackmailing scoundrel and used other injurious expressions, which might make it difficult or, at least, uncomfortable to re-open the question. Still that was a small matter. When one is walking to the gallows, one does not boggle at an uncomfortable shoe.
As to my own inclinations, they were beside the mark. My father’s life and good name must be saved if it were possible; and it seemed that it might be possible--at a price. Whether it were possible or not depended on Mr. Otway.
I recalled what I knew of this man who had thus in a moment become the arbiter of my father’s fate and mine. My acquaintance with him was but slight, though I had met him pretty frequently and had sometimes wondered what his profession was, if he had any. I had assumed, from his evident acquaintance with legal matters, that he was a lawyer. But he was not in ordinary practice; and his business, whatever it was, seemed to involve a good deal of travelling. That was all I knew about him. As to his appearance, he was a huge, unwieldy man of a somewhat Jewish cast of face, some years older, I should think, than my father; pleasant spoken and genial in a somewhat heavy fashion, but quite uninteresting. Hitherto I had neither liked nor disliked him. Now, it need hardly be said, I regarded him with decided aversion; for if he were not, as my father had said, “a blackmailing scoundrel,” he had, at any rate, taken the meanest, the most ungenerous advantage of my father’s difficulties, to say nothing of the callous, cynical indifference that he had shown in regard to me and my wishes and interests.
It may seem a little odd that I found myself attaching no blame to my father. Yet so it was. To me he appeared merely as the victim of circumstances. No doubt he had done something indiscreet--perhaps incorrect. But discretion and correctness are not qualities that appeal strongly to a woman: whereas generosity--and my father was generous almost to a fault--makes the most powerful appeal to feminine sympathies. As to his honesty and good faith, I never doubted them for an instant; besides, he had plainly said that no fraudulent intent could be ascribed to him. What he had done I had not the least idea. Nor did I particularly care. It was not the act, but its consequences with which I was concerned.
My meditations were interrupted at length by an apologetic tap at the door, followed by the appearance of our housemaid.
“If you please, Miss Helen, shall I take Mr. Vardon’s tea to the study, or is he going to have it with you?”
The question brought me back from the region of tragedy and disaster in which my thoughts had been straying, to the homely commonplaces of everyday life.
“I’ll just run down and ask him, Jessie,” I answered; “and you needn’t wait. I’ll come and tell you what he says.”
I ran quickly down the stairs, but at the study door I paused with a sudden revival of those terrors that had so lately assailed me. Suppose he should open the subject and have something dreadful to tell me? Or suppose that, even now, already----
At the half-formed thought, I raised a trembling hand, and, tapping lightly at the door, opened it and entered. He was sitting at the table with a small pile of sealed and stamped letters before him, and, as I stood, steadying my hand on the door knob, he looked up with his customary smile of friendly welcome.
“Hail! O Dame of the azure hosen,” said he, swinging round on his revolving chair, “and how fares it with our liege lady, Queen Anne?”
“She is quite well, thank you,” I replied.
“The Lord be praised!” he rejoined. “I seemed to have heard some rumour of her untimely decease. A mere canard, it would seem; a fiction of these confounded newspaper men. Or perchance I have been misled by the jocose and boisterous Lecky.”
The whimsical playfulness of speech, habitual as it was to him, impressed me--perhaps for that very reason--with a vague uneasiness. It was not what I had expected after that terrible conversation. The anti-climax to my own tragic thoughts was too sudden; the descent to the ordinary too uncomfortably steep. I perched myself on his knee, as I often did, despite my rather excessive size and passed my hand over his thin, grey hair.
“Do you know,” I said, clinging desperately to the common-place, “that you are going bald? I can see the skin of your head quite plainly.”
“And why not?” he demanded. “Did you think my hair grew out of my cranium? But you won’t see it long. I’ve heard of an infallible hair-restorer.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, indeed! Guaranteed to grow a crop of ringlets on a bladder of lard. We’ll get a bottle and try it on the carpet broom; and if the result is satisfactory--well, we’ll just put Esau in his place in the second row.”
“You are a very frivolous old person, Mr. Pater,” said I. “Do you know that?”
“I hope so,” he replied. “And again I say, why not? When a man is too old to play the fool, it is time to carry him to the bone-yard. Am I going to have any tea?”
“Of course you are. Will you have it here alone or shall we have tea together?”
“What a question!” he exclaimed. “Am I in my dotage? Should I drink tea in musty solitude when I might bask in the smiles of a lovely maiden? Avaunt! No, I’ll tell you what we’ll do, Jimmy. I’ll just telephone down to the office and see if there is any silly nonsense there that may distract me from serious pursuits, and, if there isn’t, we’ll have tea in the workroom and then we’ll polish off that coal-scuttle.”
“Finish it! But there’s quite a lot to do.”
“Then we’ll do the lot.”
“But why this hurry? There’s no particular reason for getting it finished to-night, is there?”
“I don’t know that there is; but we’ve had the thing hanging about long enough. Better get it finished and start on something else. Now you trot off and see about tea while I ring up Jackson.”
As he turned to the telephone, I hurried away to give instructions to the maid and to set the workshop in order so that we might start without delay on our evening’s task, concerning which a few words of explanation would seem to be called for.
My father was by nature designed to be a craftsman. He was never so happy as when he was making something or in some way working with his hands; and remarkably skilful hands they were, with an inborn capacity for the dexterous manipulation of every kind of material, tool or appliance. And to his natural skill he had added a vast amount of knowledge of methods and processes. He was an excellent woodworker, an admirable mechanic, and a quite passable potter. Our house abounded in the products of his industry; stools, cupboards, clocks, fenders, earthenware jars; even our bicycles had been built, or, at least, “assembled” by him, and a bronze knocker on our door had been finished by him from castings made in our workshop. If his powers of design had been equal to his manual skill, he would have been a first-class art craftsman. Unfortunately they were not. Left to himself, his tendency was to aim at a neat trade finish, at smooth surfaces and mechanical precision. But he knew his limitations, and had been at great pains to have me instructed in the arts of design; and, as I apparently had some natural aptitude in that direction, I was able to help him by making sketches and working drawings and by criticising the work as it progressed. But my duties did not stop at that. In our happy, united life, I was his apprentice, his journeyman, his assistant--or foreman, as he pleased to call me--and his constant companion, in the house, in the workshop, and in our walks abroad.
As our maid, Jessie, laid the tea-tray on a vacant corner of the work-bench, I examined our latest joint-production, a bronze coal-scuttle, the design of which was based on a Roman helmet that I had seen in the British Museum. There was a good deal more than an ordinary evening’s work to be done before it could be finished. A portion of the embossed ornament on the foot required touching up, the foot itself had to be brazed to the body and the handle had to be rivetted to the lugs, to say nothing of the “pickling,” scouring, and oxidizing. It was a colossal evening’s work.
But it was not the magnitude of the task that troubled me, for I shared my father’s love of manual work. What had instantly impressed me with a vague discomfort was the urgency of my father’s desire to get this piece of work finished and done with. That was not like him at all. Not only had he the genuine craftsman’s inexhaustible patience, but he had a habit of keeping an apparently finished work on hand, that he might tinker at it lovingly, smooth and polish it, and bring it to a state of even greater completeness and finish.
Why, then, this strange urgency and impatience? And, as I asked myself the question, all my fears came crowding back on me. Again there came that dreadful sinking at the heart, that strangling terror of the storm-cloud that hung over us, unseen but ready to burst and overwhelm us in ruin at any moment.
But I had little time for these gloomy and disquieting thoughts. The tinkling of the telephone bell in the study told me that my father had finished his talk with his managing clerk, and a few moments later he strode into the workshop and began taking off his coat.
“Where’s your apron, Jimmy?” he asked (the pet name “Jimmy” had been evolved out of an ancient fiction that my name was Jemima).
“There’s no hurry, Pater, dear,” said I. “Let a person have her tea in peace. And do sit down like a Christian man.”
He obediently perched himself on a stool as I handed him his tea, but in less than a minute he was on his feet again, prowling, cup in hand, around the end of the bench where the work lay.
“Wonder if I’d better anneal it a bit,” he mused, picking up the bronze foot and examining the unfinished space. “Mustn’t make it too soft. Think I will, though. We can hammer it up a little on the stake after it’s brazed on. That will harden it enough.”
He laid the foot down, but only that he might apply a match to the great gas blowpipe; and I watched him with a sinking heart as he stood with his teacup in one hand, while with the other he held the foot, gripped in a pair of tongs, in the roaring purple flame. What did it mean, this strange, restless haste to finish what was, after all, but a work of pleasure? Did it portend some change that he saw more clearly than I? Was he, impelled by the craftsman’s instinct, turning in this fashion a page of the book of life? Or was it---- Oh! dreadful thought!--was it that he was deliberately writing “Finis” before closing the volume?
But whatever was in his secret mind, he chatted cheerfully as he worked, and submitted to be fed with scraps of bread and butter and to have cups of tea administered at intervals; yet still I noted that the chasing hammer flew at unwonted speed, and the depth of the punch-marks on the work that rested on the sand-bag told of an unusual weight in the blows.
“What a pity it is,” he remarked, “that social prejudices prevent a middle-class man from earning a livelihood with his hands. Now, here I am, a third-rate solicitor perforce, whereas, if I followed my bent, I should be a first-rate coppersmith. Shouldn’t I?”
“Quite first-rate,” I replied.
“Or even a silversmith,” he continued, “if I could have my mate, Jim, to do the art with a capital A while I did the work with a capital W. Hm?”
He looked up at me with a twinkle, and I took the opportunity to pop a piece of bread and butter into his mouth, which occasioned a pause in the conversation.
I had entertained faint--very faint--hopes that he might say something to me about his difficulties. Not that I was inquisitive on the subject; but, in view of a resolution that was slowly forming in my mind, I should have liked to have some idea what his position really was. It seemed pretty plain, however, that he did not intend to take me into his confidence; notwithstanding which I decided in a tentative way to give him an opening.
“Wasn’t that Mr. Otway who was with you this afternoon?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “How did you know?”
“I heard his voice in the hall as you let him out,” I answered, with something of a gulp at the implied untruth.
The chasing hammer was arrested for a moment in mid-air, and, as my father’s eye fixed itself reflectively on the punch that he held, I could see that he was trying to remember what Mr. Otway had said in the hall.
“Yes,” he replied, after a brief pause, “it was Mr. Otway. I should hardly have thought you would have known his voice. Queer fellow, Otway. No brains to speak of, but yet an excellent man of business in his way.”
“What does he do--by way of profession, I mean?”
“The Lord knows. He was originally a solicitor, but he hasn’t practised for years. Now he is what is called a financier, which is a little vague, but apparently profitable. And I think he does something in the way of precious stones.”
“Do you mean that he deals in them?”
“Yes, occasionally; at least, so I have heard. I know that he is something of a connoisseur in stones, and that he had a collection, which he sold some time ago. I have also heard--and I believe it is a fact--that his name was originally Levy, and that he is one of the Chosen. But why he changed his name I have no notion, unless it was an undesirable one to present to the financial world.”
I was half disposed to pursue my enquiries further, but as he finished speaking, he once more began to ply the hammer with such furious energy that I became quite uneasy.
“You mustn’t exert yourself so much, Pater,” I remarked. “Remember what Dr. Sharpe said.”
“Bah!” he replied. “Sharpe is an old woman. My heart is sound enough. At any rate, it will last as long as the rest of me. An old fellow like me cannot expect to go in for sprinting or high jumping, but there’s no need for him to live in splints and cotton wool.”
“Nor to endanger his health by perfectly unnecessary exertion. Why on earth are you in such a fever to get this thing finished?”
“I’m not in a fever, my dear,” he answered; “I’m only tired of seeing this thing lying about unfinished. You see, as it stands, it is only so many pounds of old bronze, whereas a couple of hours’ work turns it into a valuable piece of furniture, fit to take a dignified place in the catalogue when we are sold up. Just consider how finely it would read: ‘Handsome bronze scuttle, in form of Roman helmet, the work of the late owner and his charming and talented daughter, capable of serving either as a convenient receptacle for coal or as a becoming head-dress for a person with a suitable cranium.’ Don’t you think that would sound rather alluring?”
“Very,” I replied; “but as we are not going to be sold up----”
The rest of my sentence was drowned in the din of the beaten metal as my father returned to his hammering, and I only watched in mute discomfort until this part of the work was done and the great brazing jet was once more set a-roaring.
The work progressed apace, for my father was not only skilful and neat, but could be very quick on occasion; and as I watched the completion of stage after stage, I was conscious of a growing uneasiness, a vague fear of seeing the work actually finished; as if this mere toy--for it was little more--held some deep and tragic symbolism. I felt like one looking on at the slow wasting of one of those waxen effigies which the sorceresses of old prepared with magical rites for the destruction of some victim, whose life should slowly wane and flicker away with the wasting of the wax.
And meanwhile, above the roar of the blowpipe flame, my father’s voice sounded, now in a cheerful stave of song, and now in lively jest or playful badinage. But yet he did not deceive me. Behind all this show of high spirits was a sombre background that was never quite hidden. For the eye of love is very keen and can see plainly, despite quip or joke or jovial carol, when “Black Care rides behind the horseman.”
What a miserable affair it was, this pitiful acting of two poor, leaden-hearted mortals, each hiding from each the desperate resolve with smiles and jests that were more bitter than tears! For I, too, had now my secret, and must needs preserve it with such a show of gaiety as I could muster by sheer effort of will. The resolution of which I have spoken was growing--growing, even as the toy that we were making was growing towards completion, and as I seemed to see, as if symbolized by it, the sands of destiny trickling out before my eyes. So I, too, had my part to play in this harrowing comedy.
Works which have consumed much time in the doing have a way of coming to an end with disconcerting suddenness. When I mixed the acid for the “pickle” in the great earthenware pan, it seemed that a great deal still remained to be done, in spite of my father’s feverish energy and swift dexterity. And then, but a few minutes later, as it appeared to me, behold the finished piece standing on the bench, its embossed ornament telling boldly against the sulphur-browned background, and my father stretching himself and wiping the blackened oil from his hands; and it was borne in on me that, with the final touch, his interest in the thing had fallen dead.
“Nunc dimittis!” he murmured. “It’s finished at last. ‘Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace.’ And that reminds me, Jim; don’t the shops keep open late to-night?”
“Some of them do,” I replied.
“Good,” said he. “Tell Jessie to bring up the supper while I’m washing. I’ve got to make a business call to-night, and I want to get some things, so we won’t make it a ceremonious meal. Not that I want to put you on short allowance, for I expect you are hungry after your Titanic labours. You mustn’t take any notice of me.”
As he hurried away, I rang the bell, and, when I had given the necessary instructions, I went up to my bedroom to remove the traces of the evening’s work and make myself presentable.
At the supper table my father preserved the same quiet gaiety of manner--his usual manner, in fact; for he was always cheerful and companionable--though, on this occasion, the speed with which he disposed of his food gave little opportunity for conversation. After a very hurried meal, he rose, and, pushing back his chair, glanced at his watch.
“You mustn’t mind my running away,” said he. “Time, tide and the shopkeeper wait for no man.”
He moved away toward the door, but before he reached it he paused and then came back and stood beside my chair.
“You need’nt sit up for me,” he said. “I may possibly be rather late. So I’d better say ‘good-night’ now.” He took my head in his hands, and, looking earnestly into my eyes, murmured: “Dear little Jim; best and most loyal of apprentices.” Then he kissed me very tenderly and passed his hands over my hair.
“Good-night, sweetheart,” said he. “Don’t sit up reading, but go to bed early like a sensible girlie--if you will pardon my dropping into Weggish poetry without notice.”
He turned away and walked quickly to the door, where he stood for a moment to wave his hand. I heard him go to the study, and sat stiffly in my chair listening. In a few moments he came out and stepped quietly across the hall; there was a brief pause, and then the outer door closed.
He was gone.
At the sound of the closing door, I sprang to my feet with all my terrors revived. Whither had he gone? It was unusual for him to leave his home at night. What was it that had taken him abroad on this night of all others? And what was it that he wanted to buy? And wanted so urgently that he could not wait until the morrow? And why had he wished me “good-night” with such tender earnestness? A foolish question, this, for he was a loving father, and never sought to veil his affection. But to-night I was unstrung; haunted by nameless fears that gave a dreadful significance to every passing incident. And as the chill of mortal terror crept round my heart, the resolution that had been growing--growing, came to its final completion.
It had to be. Horrible, loathsome as, even then, I felt it to be, it was the only alternative to that other nameless and unthinkable. The sacrifice must be made by us both for both our sakes--if it were not too late already!
Too late? Even as the dreadful thought smote like a hammer on my heart, I ran from the room and sped up the stairs on the wings of terror. With trembling fingers I took my hat and cloak from the wardrobe and hurried downstairs, putting them on as I went. At the dining-room door I called out a hasty message to the maid, and then, snatching up my gloves from the hall table, I opened the door and ran out into darkness.
