Chapter 3

The Covenant

As I sped swiftly along the quiet roads on the outskirts of the town
the confusion and sense of helplessness began to subside under the
influence of action and a definite purpose; by degrees my thoughts
clarified, and I found myself shaping out, with surprising
deliberation and judgment, the course that I intended to pursue. Mr.
Otway’s house was about a mile distant from ours, somewhat farther out
of town, though on a frequented road; a short distance and quickly
covered by my flying feet. Yet, short as it was, and traversed with a
phantom of terror in close pursuit, it gave me time to collect my
faculties, so that, when I opened the gate and walked up the little
drive, I had already to a large extent recovered my self-possession,
though I was still trembling with the fear of what might be happening
elsewhere at this very moment.

The door was opened by a small frail-looking woman of about fifty, who
did not look quite like an ordinary servant, and whose appearance
instantly impressed me disagreeably. She stood with her face slightly
averted, looking at me out of the corners of her eyes, and holding the
door open as she asked, with a slight Scotch accent:

“Who would you be wanting?”

“I wish to see Mr. Otway, if he is at home?” I replied.

“If ye’ll come in and give me your name, I’ll tell him,” said she; and
with this she showed me into a small room that opened out of the hall,
where, when I had told her my name, she left me. In less than a minute
Mr. Otway entered, and having carefully closed the door, shook hands
gravely and offered me a chair.

“This is quite an unexpected pleasure, Miss Vardon,” said he. “Oddly
enough, I was just thinking about you. I called on your father only
this afternoon.”

“I know,” said I. “It was about that that I came to see you.”

“Your father, then,” said Mr. Otway, “has mentioned to you the subject
of our not entirely pleasant interview?”

“No, he has not,” I replied. “Nothing has passed between us on the
subject, and he is not aware that I have come here. The fact is, I
overheard a part of your conversation and made it my business to hear
as much of the rest as I could.”

“Ha! Indeed!” He gave me a quick glance, half enquiring, half
suspicious, and added: “Perhaps, Miss Vardon, you had better tell me
what you heard.”

“There is no need for me to repeat it in detail,” said I; “but, from
what I heard, I gathered that my father had rendered himself liable to
a prosecution. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Otway, “that is unfortunately--most unfortunately--the
case.”

“And that the proceedings will be taken by you, and that you have the
power to stay them if you choose?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, Miss Vardon. That hardly states the
position fairly. Do you know nothing of the circumstances at all? Has
your father not told you anything about this unfortunate affair?”

“He has not spoken a word to me on the subject, and he has no idea
that I know anything about it.”

“H’m,” Mr. Otway grunted, reflectively. “Yes. Well, Miss Vardon, if
you wish to talk the matter over with me, perhaps I had better just
let you know how the land lies, although, really, your father is the
proper person to tell you.”

“I think you had better tell me, if you don’t mind,” said I.

“Very well, Miss Vardon,” he agreed. “Then the position is this: A sum
of money--five thousand pounds, to be exact--was handed to your father
by the trustees of a certain estate, to be invested by him on behalf
of the trust; and the manner of its disposal--into which we need not
enter--was quite clearly specified. But your father, instead of
disposing of the money as directed, chose to make over the whole of it
as a loan to a friend of his who was in temporary difficulties; a
manufacturer, as I understand, who had suffered an unexpected loss and
was on the verge of bankruptcy. There was no proper security, nor
even, as I understand, any satisfactory arrangement as to the payment
of interest. The whole affair was most improper; a gross violation of
trust. In effect, your father converted this money and made use of it
for his own purposes.”

“Is the money lost?” I enquired.

Mr. Otway shrugged his shoulders. “Who can say? It may be recoverable
some day, or it may not. But that is very little to the point. The
position is that it is now demanded of your father and that he can’t
produce it.”

“And so you are going to prosecute him?”

“Oh, please don’t put it that way, Miss Vardon. I am a quite
involuntary agent. My position is that I am instructed to get this
money from your father and dispose of it in a particular way. But I
can’t get it; and when I report that fact, I shall, of course, be
urged--in fact, compelled--to take criminal proceedings. I shall have
no choice. It isn’t my money, you know.”

“But why criminal proceedings?” I asked. “It seems to me that a civil
action to recover the money would be the natural course.”

Again Mr. Otway shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see that it makes
much difference,” said he. “The money has been made away with. Even if
the trustees took no criminal action, there is the Public Prosecutor
and there is the Incorporated Law Society. A prosecution is
inevitable.”

“And supposing my father is convicted?”

“It is hardly necessary to suppose,” said Mr. Otway. “He will be.
There is no defence. As to the sentence, I don’t imagine that the
maximum punishment of seven years penal servitude is likely to be
inflicted. Still, your father is a solicitor, and the law is, quite
properly, very severe in the case of solicitors who misappropriate
their clients’ property. He is almost certain to get a term of
imprisonment.”

To this I made no reply. There was nothing to say. It was only too
clear that every avenue of escape was closed--save one; and realizing
more fully every moment where that one led, I could not bring myself
to make the fateful move. So, for a while, we sat in a hideous silence
through which the ticking of a clock penetrated noisily and seemed to
keep pace with the thumping of my heart.

As I sat, bracing myself for the effort that had to be made, my eyes
travelled, half unconsciously, over the person of my companion. His
appearance was not prepossessing. Huge, unwieldy and shapeless,
although by no means grossly fat, his great size carried no dignity;
nor did his very marked and prominent features impart to his face
anything of distinction or nobility. He was of a distinctly oriental
type, with black and rather curly hair, oiled and combed over a
slightly bald head, a large aquiline nose, a wide mouth, rather full
and fleshy, and very dark eyes, under which were baggy folds of skin
creased by innumerable tiny wrinkles. As I looked at him with growing
distaste, I found myself comparing him to a gigantic spider.

Suddenly it was borne in on me--perhaps by the measured ticking of the
clock--that time was passing: time which might be infinitely precious.
To delay further were mere cowardice. Nevertheless, when I spoke, it
was in a voice so husky that I had to stop and begin again.

“You spoke, Mr. Otway--I heard you mention to my father that--that on
certain conditions, you would--would be prepared to abandon your
intention of prosecuting--or, at least----”

I could get no farther. Fear and shame and loathing of this thing that
I was going to do, overpowered me utterly. It was only by the most
strenuous effort that I choked down the sob that was rising in my
throat. But I had said enough, for Mr. Otway now came to my
assistance.

“I told your father that I was prepared to take over his liabilities,
for the time being, at least, on condition that you became my wife. He
refused, as perhaps you know; refused very definitely, I may say.”

“And rather rudely, I am afraid.”

“He was not at any great pains to wrap his refusal up delicately. But
we may let that pass. Is it in respect of this proposal of mine that
you have done me the very great honour of calling on me, Miss Vardon?”

I felt myself turn scarlet, but nevertheless I answered, resolutely:

“Yes. I came to ask if my father’s very blunt refusal had closed the
matter finally, or whether you were prepared to--to re-open it.”

“We won’t talk about re-opening it. It was never closed, by me. The
proposal that I made to your father I now make to you; and if you
should see your way to accepting it, I believe you would never have
occasion to regret your decision.”

He spoke in a dry, commercial tone, as if he were trying to sell me
something at a rather high price; as, in fact, he was. And meanwhile I
found myself wondering dimly why on earth he wanted to marry me.

“May I ask,” he continued, after a pause, “if you are disposed to
entertain my proposal?”

“I would do anything to save my father,” I replied.

“That,” said he, “is what I thought, judging from my previous
knowledge of you; and it was the knowledge of your devotion to your
father that encouraged me to make the proposal. For it seemed to me
that a young lady of your attractions who could so completely devote
herself to an elderly father might find it possible to devote herself
to an elderly husband.”

His reasoning did not impress me as very sound, seeing that it took no
account of the respective personalities of the father and the proposed
husband. But I made no reply, and, after a further pause, he asked:

“Am I to understand that you--that you regard my proposal favourably?”

“I can’t say that,” I replied. “But I came here to-night prepared to
accept your conditions, and I am ready to accept them now. But, of
course, you understand that I do so under compulsion and not of my own
free choice.”

“I quite realise that,” said he; “but I take it that you will carry
out fairly any covenant into which you may enter.”

“Certainly I shall,” was my reply.

“Then may I take it that you are willing to marry me, on the
conditions that I named?”

“Yes, Mr. Otway. I consent to marry you on those conditions and on
certain others that I will propose.”

“Let us hear the other conditions,” said he.

“The first is that you give me a promise in writing that, in
consideration of my consent to marry you, you will do what is
necessary to get my father out of his present difficulties.”

“That is quite fair, though it is rather unnecessary. I shouldn’t want
a convict for a father-in-law, you know. But, anyhow, I agree, as soon
as the marriage is over, to pay into your father’s bank a cheque for
five thousand pounds, or, if he prefers it, to give him a full
discharge for that amount. And I will give you an undertaking in
writing to that effect before you leave here to-night. Will that do?”

“It will do quite well,” I answered. “But I wish you also to add to
that undertaking a proviso to the effect that, if at any time before
the marriage takes place, any circumstances shall arise by which your
pecuniary help shall become unnecessary, then this agreement between
you and me shall not take effect, and you shall have no claim of any
kind on me.”

Mr. Otway looked at me in some surprise, and, indeed, I was somewhat
surprised myself at the completeness with which my judgment and
self-possession had revived as soon as it came to making terms; though
I had considered the matter very carefully on my way to Mr. Otway’s
house.

“You are a true lawyer’s daughter, Miss Vardon,” said he, with a
somewhat wry smile. “You are not going to give yourself away gratis.
No play, no pay, h’m? However, you are quite right. You agree to marry
me for a certain consideration. If you don’t receive the
consideration, you don’t marry me. Very well. That is a perfectly
business-like proposition, and I agree to it. You think that perhaps
your father may be able to meet his liabilities, after all?”

I do not think anything of the kind. The proviso was introduced by me
in view of a very different contingency. I was making this sacrifice
to save my father’s life. If I failed in that, the sacrifice would be
useless. But I did not think it necessary to mention this to Mr.
Otway. I therefore replied that, as I knew very little about my
father’s affairs, I thought it wise to provide even against the
improbable.

“Quite so, Miss Vardon, quite so,” he agreed. “One should always make
provision for the unexpected. Well, I have said that I accept your
first two conditions. What is the next one?”

“I want you to write my father a letter which shall relieve him of all
present anxieties, and I want you to give me that letter so that it
may be delivered to-night.”

At this Mr. Otway’s countenance fell somewhat. He pursed up his lips
disapprovingly, and, after some moments of reflection, said gravely:

“That, you know, Miss Vardon, really anticipates the fulfilment of the
contract on my side. Such a letter would commit me to a withdrawal of
my demand for immediate payment of this money.”

“But,” said I, “you have my promise, which I am willing to give you in
writing, if you wish me to.”

“Well,” he replied, dubiously, “that would seem to meet the
difficulty, not that I am suspecting you of trying to evade
fulfilment. But, you see, your father has refused his consent and will
probably continue to refuse, so that one would rather not raise the
question. By the way, I suppose you are over twenty-one?”

“I was twenty-three last birthday.”

“Then, of course, his consent is not necessary. Still, one doesn’t
want a fuss; and if you delivered this letter to him, he would be in
possession of the facts, and then there would be trouble.”

“I was not proposing to deliver it to him. I should drop it in the
letter-box and let him think that you had sent or left it. He would
know nothing of my visit to you or of the arrangement we have come
to.”

“I see. That alters the position somewhat. But is it really necessary?
I can understand your wish to relieve his anxiety; but still, it need
be only a day or two. Do you really think it is essential?”

“I do, Mr. Otway. I think it absolutely essential. If I had not, I
should not have come here to-night. My father is in a desperate
position, and one never knows what a desperate man may do.”

Mr. Otway gave me a quick glance, and I could see that he was
considerably startled. The possibility at which I had hinted would
have consequences for him as well as for me, and I saw that he fully
realized this. But he did not answer hastily. Perhaps he saw more in
my suggestion than I did myself. At any rate, he pondered for some
seconds before he finally replied:

“Perhaps you are right, Miss Vardon. I’m sure I shall be very glad to
put an end to his suspense. Yes, I’ll write the letter and give it to
you. Are there any more conditions?”

“No; that is all. So if you will write the letter and the agreement
and draft out what you want me to say, we shall have finished. And
please make as much haste as you can. It is rather late, and I am
anxious to get home before my father if possible.”

My anxiety apparently communicated itself to Mr. Otway, for he
immediately swung his chair round to his desk, and, taking one or two
sheets of paper from the rack, began to write rapidly. In two or three
minutes he turned, and, handing me what he had written, together with
a blank sheet of paper and a pen and ink-bottle, took a fresh sheet
himself, and, without a word, began once more to write. The draft
which he had handed me was simply and concisely worded as follows:--

“I, Helen Vardon, of Stonebury, Maidstone, in the county of Kent,
spinster, hereby promise to marry Lewis Otway, of the Beeches,
Maidstone, in the county of Kent, attorney-at-law, within fourteen
days from this present date, in consideration of his assuming the
present liabilities of my father, William Henry Vardon, in respect of
the estate of James Collis-Hardy deceased, this promise to be subject
to the conditions set forth in a letter written to me by the said
Lewis Otway and dated the 21st of April, 1908.

“(signed) Helen Vardon.

“Maidstone, Kent.
“21st April, 1908.”

I read the draft through carefully, noting that it was not only quite
simple and lucid, but that it embodied the terms of our agreement with
scrupulous fairness and took over my father’s liabilities without any
limit as to time; then I dipped the pen in the ink and made a fair
copy on the blank sheet which I signed, and laid on the corner of the
desk.

By the time I had finished my copy, Mr. Otway had completed the first
of the documents, which he now handed to me; and as I read it, he took
up the paper that I had written, and, having glanced through it,
placed it in a drawer and began once more to write. The paper that he
had given to me was in the form of a letter, and read thus:--

“Dear Miss Vardon,

“At your request I put on record the terms of the arrangement which
has been made between us to-day, and which are:

“1. That in consideration of my taking over your father’s liabilities
in respect of the Collis-Hardy Estate, you agree to marry me within
fourteen days of this present date.

“2. That on the completion of the marriage ceremony, or at such time
thereafter as you may decide upon, I shall pay into your father’s bank
the sum of five thousand pounds, or, if he prefers it, give him a full
discharge of all liabilities in respect of the Collis-Hardy Estate
aforesaid.

“3. Provided that if at any time prior to the said marriage your
father shall discharge the said liabilities, or any circumstances
shall arise by which the said payment or discharge by me shall become
unnecessary, then the agreement between you and me which is herein
recorded shall become void, and neither of us, the contracting
parties, shall have any claim upon the other.

“I am, dear Miss Vardon,
“Your obedient servant,
“Lewis Otway.

“Maidstone, Kent.
“21st April, 1908.”

Mr. Otway glanced up from his desk as I folded the paper and bestowed
it in my purse, and asked:

“Will that do? I think it covers the terms of our arrangement.”

“Thank you,” I answered; “it will do quite well.”

He made no rejoinder, but went on with the letter that he was writing;
and meanwhile I sat and watched him, with a strong distaste of his
appearance, dimly wondering at this strange interview and at my own
curious self-possession and mental alertness. But behind these hazy
reflections was a background of haunting terror that had never quite
faded even when I was putting the utmost strain upon my wits; terror
lest all this bargaining should be useless after all; lest I should
arrive home to find that my help had come too late.

These disquieting thoughts were presently interrupted by Mr. Otway,
who, laying down his pen and swinging round in his revolving chair,
took up the letter that he had just written.

“This is what I have said to your father, Miss Vardon. I think it will
make his mind quite easy for the present, which is all we want.

“‘Dear Vardon,

“‘Since my talk with you this afternoon, I have been thinking over
matters and considering whether it is not possible to give you more
time. On looking into the affairs of the trust more closely, I think
it can be done; in fact, I am sure it can, with some careful
management on my part. So you may take it from me that the demand,
which I felt compelled to make, is withdrawn for the time being. When
you are in a position to surrender the money, you had better notify
me; and in the meantime you have my assurance that no further demand
will be made without reasonable notice.

“‘I hope this will relieve your natural anxiety, concerning which I
have been a little uncomfortable since I left you.

“‘Yours sincerely,
“‘Lewis Otway.

“‘The Beeches.
“‘21st April, 1908.’”

He handed me the letter when he had finished reading, and I glanced
through it quickly before returning it to him.

“I think that ought to relieve him of all anxiety,” said he.

“Yes,” I answered. “It will do admirably. And if you will kindly seal
it and let me have it, I will go at once and drop it in the
letter-box. It is most important that it should be in his hands as
soon as possible.”

“Quite so,” he agreed; “and I won’t detain you further excepting to
point out that, by giving you this letter, I am putting myself
entirely in your hands. You will observe that this amounts to a
surrender of my claim on your father for the time being. He will, of
course, keep the letter, and could produce it in answer to any sudden
demand for the restitution of the money. So I am really carrying out
my part of the agreement in advance.”

“Yes, I see that,” I replied, “and I thank you most sincerely; but,” I
added, rising and holding out my hand for the letter, “you have my
solemn promise to carry out my part. If you were better acquainted
with me, you would consider that enough.”

“But I do, Miss Vardon,” he rejoined, hastily; “I do. If I did not
trust you implicitly, I should not have written this letter. However,
I mustn’t delay you. I will make all the necessary arrangements and
let you know when everything is ready. Will next Thursday be too
soon?”

At the mention of an actual date, and one so near, too, something like
a complete realisation of what I was doing flashed into my mind and
set my heart thumping painfully. But it had to be, so why haggle for
terms? Nor, indeed, since it must be, was there any use in trying to
put off the evil day. The urgent need of the moment was to get this
letter into my father’s hands, if it were not already too late.

“I must leave the arrangement of the affair to you, Mr. Otway,” I
murmured, shakily. “Do as you think best. And now I must really go.”

He shook my hand in a drily courteous fashion and let me out,
accompanying me down the drive to the outer gate, which he opened for
me with a ceremonious bow. I wished him a hurried “good-night,” and,
as soon as I was outside the gate, ran off in the direction of home,
holding the precious letter in the little pocket of my cloak.