Chapter 2

Atra Cura

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.