Chapter XV.

The Magic Pendulum

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.