Chapter XX.

Cloud and Sunshine

Reviewing on the morrow my experiences at Mr. Quecks’ house, I was

conscious of a rather definite change of outlook. Those experiences

had made a very deep impression. The vision that I had seen was

something outside ordinary, normal experience, and it still haunted

me. And then, even more uncanny, there was that strange automatic

action which I had carried out with such perfect unconsciousness and

yet so exactly and punctually. It was all very well for Peggy to put

it aside with the easy explanation that it was merely post-hypnotic

suggestion, and that the doctors knew all about it. That explanation

explained nothing. The fact remained that I had suddenly become aware

that things which I had been accustomed to dismiss as delusions--as

the mere superstitions of credulous people--were actual realities. And

this discovery created for me a new standard of possibility and truth.

Even Miss Morgan’s visions, though I knew them to be a rank imposture,

had left an impression that was not to be completely effaced. The

shock of amazement that they had produced at the time left a vague

after-effect, due, no doubt, to the more real and equally mysterious

experiences.

Concerning these latter I was somewhat puzzled. It was not quite clear

to me how I had come to be hypnotized at all, and I took an early

opportunity of questioning Lilith on the subject.

“There is no mystery about that,” she replied. “The orthodox method of

producing the hypnotic trance is to cause the ‘subject’ to gaze

steadily at some bright object--a metal button, a crystal, or even a

small piece of white paper. He is told to gaze fixedly at this object,

to concentrate his attention on it, and to think of nothing else. The

purpose of this is to get rid, as far as possible, of the conscious

self and to allow the subconscious self to act without disturbance.

When this state of mental abstraction has been established, the

‘subject’ is ready to receive suggestions. If the operator suggests to

him that he is drowsy, he becomes somnolent; and at the same time he

becomes much more susceptible to suggestion. Now, if the operator

suggests to him that he feels certain sensations, he feels those

sensations. If it is suggested that he performs certain actions, he

performs them. This is what happened to you. Mr. Quecks induced you to

gaze steadily at the crystal, and when you were in the proper state of

mental abstraction, he suggested the hypnotic trance. Then he

suggested that you would see a vision of some scene that you had

looked on shortly before the funeral, and I understand that you did

see such a vision.”

“Yes, I did; and most astonishingly vivid it was. But, Lilith, when I

lit that candle in my room I was not in the hypnotic trance.”

“No; that was a post-hypnotic phenomenon, and really a most

interesting one. To understand it you must think of the two

personalities, the conscious self and the subconscious, or subliminal

self. Now the suggestions are made to the subconscious self, while the

conscious is dormant or in abeyance. But when the conscious self

returns or awakens, the subconscious mind continues to work, although

unperceived by the conscious mind. If the suggestion refers, as in

your case, to some action to be performed at an appointed time, the

subconscious keeps account of the passing time and at the appointed

moment sets the machinery in motion. The action itself is perceived by

the conscious mind, but the train of subconscious thought has been

unperceived, though it has really been quite continuous. It is very

curious, though not particularly mysterious.”

“And it is only in the hypnotic trance that these suggestions take

effect?”

“That,” replied Lilith, “is not quite clear. It seems that in ordinary

sleep suggestions of the kind may sometimes take effect. And for the

same reason. In sleep, the conscious self is in abeyance--is out of

action; but the subconscious is active, as we see in the case of

dreams and still more strikingly in the case of somnambulism. But the

postponed effects of suggestions made during normal sleep need more

investigation. I believe that sleep produced by drugs is much more

like the hypnotic trance than natural sleep.”

“Well,” I said, “it is all rather weird and uncanny,” and so the

subject dropped. But, as I have said, the influence of these strange

experiences remained. My former scepticism of the occult and mystical

gave place to a state of mind in which I was prepared to admit the

possibility of things that I had once regarded as wildly incredible.

Nevertheless, I was but faintly interested in the wonders of psychical

research. Indeed, I was not much interested in anything connected with

my daily life. I had endeavoured to revive my enthusiasm for my work

by setting myself an ambitious task--a silver candlestick of a

semi-ecclesiastical design, worked in repoussé with enrichments in

enamel. But all the pleasure in the work was gone. The various

processes--skilfully enough executed, as I noticed with tepid

satisfaction--which should have been a joy, were but the routine of

industry; and through them all the never-ending heartache, the sense

of loss, of bereavement, the feeling that the light had gone out of my

life for ever. The passing time seemed to bring no mitigation. Rather

did it seem to me that every day I missed my dear companion more.

Perhaps if my loss had been more final--if, for instance, Jasper had

been taken from me by Death--I might have striven more determinedly to

shape my life anew. But there was a certain inconclusiveness in our

separation. Not that I ever, for a moment, considered the possibility

of re-opening the question. But still I think there lurked in my mind

the feeling that the door was not finally closed. Jasper’s words,

“Remember that I am still wanting you, that I am still asking you,”

would come to me unbidden, again and yet again, reminding me that the

way was still open, that I could end the separation if and when I

chose. And then Peggy’s outspoken declaration was not without its

effect. For the Titmouse was a very paragon of modesty and maidenly

propriety; and when I recalled her robust contempt of conventional

points of view I could not help asking myself sometimes if I had not

been too prudish. All of which was very disturbing. It left me with my

resolution unchanged, and yet without that sense of finality that

would have set me reconstructing my scheme of life.

So the weeks dragged by till the time for the first monthly letter

drew nigh; and the passionate yearning with which I looked forward to

it told me that that letter was a mistake. It ought never to have

been. The chapter should have been ended and the volume shut

irrevocably.

As the time for the letter approached, my unrest took me abroad more

than usual, and one day, forsaking the sordid east, I took the train

to South Kensington and made my way to the Museum, though with no

special object in my mind. I had ascended the steps to the main

entrance, and was approaching the doorway, when I came face to face

with Miss Tallboy-Smith, who was just emerging. At the sight of me she

halted with a dramatic gesture of astonishment.

“Well!” she exclaimed, “so you are _really_ alive! I thought I was

never going to see you again. Where _have_ you been? It’s

ages--centuries--since I have seen you. And dear Miss Finch, too;

whatever has become of her? Were you going into the Museum? I have

just been wallowing in the Salting Collection. Delightful, isn’t it?

The very kernel of the Museum. Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t think I have ever seen the Salting Collection,” said I.

“Never seen the Salting Collection!” she gasped. “My _dear_ Mrs.

Otway! How _dreadful!_ And you a connoisseur, too. Why, it’s a

Paradise; the collectors’ Heaven. Do you believe that people come back

after death and frequent their old haunts? I hope it’s true. If it is,

I shall come to the Salting Collection. I shall divide my ghosthood

between that and the Wallace. It will really be very jolly. Unlimited

leisure, with all eternity at one’s disposal. And no silly

restrictions; no closing hours or students’ days. So convenient, too!

You just pass in through the closed door or the wall and float up the

stairs. Why, you could even get inside the glass cases! I’m afraid

you’ll think me an awful, old heathen; but I’m not really. And how are

you? And how is Miss Finch? And why haven’t you been to the club for

such an age. And isn’t it dreadful about poor Mr. Davenant?”

My heart seemed to stand still, and I think I must have turned pale,

for Miss Tallboy-Smith said hastily: “I’m afraid I have startled you,

Mrs. Otway; but surely--surely--do you mean to tell me that you

haven’t even heard about it?”

“I have heard nothing,” I said, faintly. “Is he--tell me what has

happened.”

“I haven’t had very full particulars,” said she, “but it seems that a

cart--or was it a wagon? No, I think it was a cart--and yet I’m not

quite sure that it wasn’t--but there! I’m not very clear as to the

difference between a cart and a wagon. What is the difference?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said impatiently. “Tell me what happened.”

“No,” she agreed, “I suppose it doesn’t matter. Well, it seems that

this wagon--but I think it was really a cart----yes, I’m sure it

was--at least, I think so--but at any rate it appears that the wagon

had run away--that is, of course, it was the horse that had run away,

but as he was tied to the cart, it comes to the same thing. And he got

on to the pavement--it was in the Strand, somewhere near that shop

where they sell those absurd--now what _do_ they call those things? I

am getting so silly about names, and it’s quite a common name,

too----”

“Never mind what they are called,” I entreated. “Do tell me what

happened to Mr. Davenant.”

“Well, what happened was this. When the wagon got on the pavement all

the people scattered to get out of the way--all except a messenger

boy, and he fell down right in front of the cart. Then Mr. Davenant

ran out and tried to drag the boy clear of the wagon; and, in fact, he

did drag him out of the way, but he wasn’t quick enough to save

himself, for the horse swerved and knocked him down violently on to

some stone steps.”

“Was he badly hurt?” I demanded, breathlessly.

“Hurt!” she repeated. “My dear Mrs. Otway, he was battered--absolutely

battered. He fell with his side on the stone steps, and I understand

that his ribs were simply smashed to matchwood.”

“And where is he now? Is he in a hospital?”

“He was. They took him to Charing Cross Hospital, but he wouldn’t stay

there. He insisted on going home directly they put on the splints or

whatever the things were. And, will you believe me, Mrs. Otway, when I

tell you that he has been living alone in those wretched chambers ever

since! He wouldn’t even have a nurse. Isn’t that just like a man?”

“But who looks after him?”

“Nobody. Of course there is the charwoman, or laundress as they call

them--though why they should be called laundresses I can’t imagine.

They look more like dustwomen--and the man from the office downstairs

looks in sometimes. It’s a perfectly scandalous state of affairs. I

wish, Mrs. Otway, you would go and see him and make him have a nurse.”

“I will certainly go and see him,” said I. “I will go now,” and I held

out my hand to bring the interview to an end.

“How sweet of you, dear Mrs. Otway!” she explained, keeping a firm

hold of my hand, which I endeavoured unobtrusively to withdraw. “I

felt sure you would go to the rescue. And you will insist on his

having a nurse, won’t you? He will listen to you, but you will have to

be firm. Promise me you will, now.”

“I will see that he is properly looked after,” I replied.

“Yes, but he must have a nurse, you know--a properly trained and

certificated nurse. You can get excellent nurses at that place--now,

what is its name? Cavendish--Cavendish something. I am getting so

silly about names. Let me see, I did have a card in my purse; perhaps

it is there still----” Here she released my hand to open her

wrist-bag, and I took the opportunity to retreat down the steps.

“Don’t trouble, please,” I urged. “I shall manage quite well.

Good-bye!” and with this I hurried away, somewhat unceremoniously,

across the wide road, and, as soon as I had turned the corner, broke

into a run. A couple of minutes later I arrived at the station,

breathless, just in time to see a Circle train move out. I could have

wept with vexation. It was but a few minutes before the next one would

be due, but those minutes dragged like hours. With swift strides I

paced up and down the platform in an agony of impatience, turning over

and over again Miss Tallboy-Smith’s confused account of the accident

and trying to construct by its aid some intelligible picture of

Jasper’s condition.

Even when I was in the train its progress seemed intolerably slow and

the succession of stations interminable. It was an agony to sit still

and passively await the leisurely arrival at my destination, and an

unspeakable relief when, at last, I reached the Temple Station, to

spring from the train, dash up the stairs and hurry along the

embankment. My progress on foot might be slower, but I had the

physical sensation of speed.

At the top of Middle Temple Lane I emerged into Fleet Street, and,

crossing the road, entered Clifford’s Inn Passage. I had never been

there before, and, though I knew the number of Jasper’s house, I

thought it best to enquire as to its whereabouts. As I passed through

the archway I saw a somewhat clerical-looking man standing at the door

of the porter’s lodge, and from him learned that No. 54 was in the

inner court on the east side of the garden; with which direction I

hurried on again. Clearly there came back to me the impressions that

seemed so dim at the time; a sense of quiet and repose, of aloofness

from the bustle of the city, an old-world, dignified shabbiness that

was yet homely and pleasant withal. I crossed a little court, passed

through a second archway, and came out into a second, larger court,

where the gay foliage of plane trees found a foil in the dingy, red

brick of the venerable houses. A glance showed me the narrow alley by

the garden, and a dozen paces along its roughly-flagged pavement

brought me to the entry of No. 54, on the side of which was painted

“Mr. J. Davenant, Architect,” and below, in smaller lettering,

“Jonathan Weeble, Law Writer.”

I stepped into the entry, and tapping on a door which, by its painted

description, appeared to appertain to Mr. Weeble’s premises, was

bidden to “come in.” Accordingly, I entered and was confronted by a

somewhat unkempt young man who was apparently engaged in engrossing a

large document which was secured to a sort of evergrown lectern by

means of a band of tape.

“I have called,” I said, “to enquire about Mr. Davenant. Is he in a

very serious condition?”

“He wasn’t when I saw him about an hour ago,” was the reply.

“Do you think he would be well enough to see me?”

The young man, whom I assumed to be Mr. Weeble, inspected me

critically, and then replied:

“I should say most emphatically that he would. But we needn’t leave it

at that. I can soon find out. Won’t you sit down?”

He rose briskly and hurried out of the office, and it was only when I

heard him ascending the uncovered stairs, two or three at a time, that

I remembered that I had given no name.

Mr. Weeble’s confident manner had lifted a load of anxiety from my

mind, but my agitation was little abated. My fears were relieved,

indeed, for evidently Jasper’s condition was not such as to occasion

alarm; but, as my anxiety subsided, other emotions made themselves

felt. I was actually going to see him. Within a couple of minutes we

should be together. The intolerable separation would be at an end. And

the ecstasy of this thought--the almost painful joy of

anticipation--brought home to me the intensity of my yearning to look

on him again.

The sound of Mr. Weeble’s footsteps descending the stairs set my heart

throbbing, and as he bustled into the office I stood up, trembling

with excitement.

“It’s all right,” said he. “Mr. Davenant will see you, if you’ll go

up. First floor, right hand side of the landing. I’ve left the door

open, and you’ll see his name above it.”

I did not go up the stairs at Mr. Weeble’s pace, but I went as rapidly

as the trembling of my knees would let me. On the first floor I saw a

forbidding, iron-bound door standing ajar, and above it the

well-beloved name, painted in white letters. I drew back the heavy

door, disclosing a lighter one, also ajar, which I pushed open as I

closed the massive “oak” after me. For a moment I stood on the

threshold looking into the quaint, old-world room, with its panelled

walls and the soft green light from the plane trees shimmering through

the windows. He was reclining by the fire on a low, wooden settle, and

held a book in his hand; and even in that instantaneous glance I could

see how changed he was--how pale and thin and weary-looking. But as I

stepped out from the shadow, the worn face lighted up; the book fell

to the floor, and he flung his arms out towards me.

“Helen!”

“Jasper!”

In a moment I was on my knees by his side. His arms were around me and

my cheek lay against his. And so for a while we rested with never a

word spoken and no sound in the room but the ticking of the clock and

the soft rustle of a swaying branch on the window panes. And so I

could have rested for ever; for at last my heart was at peace.

“Jasper, dear,” I said, at length, “how is it with you? Are you badly

hurt?”

“Not a bit,” he replied. “It is just a matter of a cracked rib and a

few bruises; and I’ve nearly recovered from those.”

“But why did you never send me a word? That wasn’t friendly of you,

Jasper.”

“How could I, dearest?” he protested. “A bargain is a bargain. The

month wasn’t up.”

“Jasper!” I exclaimed; “how could you be so silly? Of course you ought

to have sent me a message, and I would have come to you instantly.”

“I am sure you would, Helen,” said he, “which was an additional reason

for my keeping to our covenant. It would have seemed a shabby thing to

do; for, badly as I wanted you, I was never really in any danger. By

the way, how did you hear of my little mishap?”

I told him of my meeting with Miss Tallboy-Smith, and he chuckled

softly. “She was an old goose to frighten you with those lurid

stories, but I’m very grateful to her, all the same. I _have_ wanted

you, Helen.”

He drew me closer to him and stroked my hair fondly; and again we were

silent for a while. The clock ticked on impassively, the plane tree

rustled gently on the window, and I was filled with a quiet, restful

happiness that I was unwilling to interrupt even by speaking.

Presently Jasper bent down to my ear and whispered:

“Helen, darling, you haven’t anything to tell me, have you?”

I knew what he meant, of course; and the strange thing is that, though

the question came unexpectedly, and though I had not consciously given

the subject a moment’s thought, I found my mind completely and finally

made up.

“Yes,” I replied, “I have. Jasper, dear, I am your own. I can’t live

without you. The world must say what it will. I can do without the

world, but I can’t exist without you.”

He drew me yet closer to him and kissed me reverently.

“Dear heart,” he said softly, “sweet wife, I would try to thank you if

words could tell you what your precious gift means to me. But life is

before us, and mine shall be one long thanksgiving. You have given me

my heart’s desire; if love and worship and faithful service can in any

degree repay you, they shall be yours as long as our lives endure.”

Thus in a few moments were the long weeks of misery and despair

blotted out. We were reinstated, and, indeed, much more than

reinstated; we were admitted and accepted lovers. And, just as my mind

had, so to speak, made itself up without conscious thought on my part,

so now that I had entered into this new covenant it seemed quite

inevitable and satisfying. Its nonconformity with social conventions

left me completely undisturbed.

Presently Jasper made me draw up a low, rush-bottomed chair that I

might sit comfortably by his side while we talked. But, in fact, we

talked little; for there is a sort of telepathy born of perfect

sympathy that makes speech superfluous. We were both very happy and

very deeply moved; and it seemed more companionable to sit, hand

clasped in hand, and let our thoughts run on undisturbed by speech,

knowing that the thoughts of each were but a reflection of the

other’s.

Anon came Mr. Weeble, stamping slowly up the stairs like an infirm

coal-porter and making such a prolonged to-do about inserting the

latch-key into the outer door that we both laughed. A very discreet

man was Mr. Weeble.

“I’ve just come to see if I can do anything,” said he, when Jasper had

introduced me. “I generally make his tea and straighten out his

bandages. Shall I make the tea now or are you taking charge, Mrs.

Otway?”

“I will make the tea,” said I, “but while you are tidying up the

bandages I will run out and get some fresh cakes.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Weeble, “that would be a good idea. Our stock is

rather low and a trifle old and fruity. And talking of cakes, that

reminds me that an old rooster called a day or two ago and left one. I

put it in a spare deed-box and forgot all about it. I’ll go and fetch

it up.”

“A rooster, you say, Weeble,” said Jasper. “May we assume that you are

speaking figuratively?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Weeble. “Elderly party with an automatic smile and

the rummiest name I ever heard. Now what was her name? Something

double-barrelled--Bigboy-Jones, was it?”

“Tallboy-Smith, I expect,” said Jasper.

“That was it. I sent her a letter of thanks the same day in your

handwriting and signed it with your name. Are you starting now, Mrs.

Otway? You’ll find a very good cake-shop in Fetter Lane near the top

on the left-hand side.”

I took a brief bag of Jasper’s and his latchkey and sallied forth into

Fetter Lane by the postern gate; and as I walked up the quaint, old

street I found myself looking into the homely shops and inspecting the

ancient timber houses with a queer sort of proprietary air, as if I

belonged to the neighbourhood. I found the cake-shop--it was really an

old-fashioned baker’s shop, such as one might find in a country

town--and as I made a selection of the wares, based on experience of

Jasper’s tastes, I found myself almost unconsciously considering the

merits of the establishment as a source of supply for a family of two.

If the change in my mental state was sudden, it was certainly

complete; as I sauntered back down Fetter Lane with my bag of

provisions, care-free and filled with a delightful sense of

emancipation, loitering to look into shop windows or to peer up

strange courts and alleys that I might not return prematurely; I could

not but contrast my condition with that in which I had set forth in

the morning, hopeless, heart-weary, despondent.

When I arrived at Jasper’s chambers, Mr. Weeble had already gone; but

he had filled the kettle and set it to boil on the gas-stove in the

kitchen, where I found it murmuring placidly and breathing out little

clouds of steam. That kitchen was a delightful absurdity. About the

magnitude of a good-sized china cupboard, it suggested, with its

ranges of shelves and little chemical sink, a doctor’s dispensary or

a chemist’s laboratory. Yet it was very orderly and quite convenient,

and it had the advantage that, while I was engaged in the preparations

for the meal, my heart singing in unison with the kettle’s song, I

could look out of a tiny window on the moss-grown garden, or through

the open door see Jasper watching me with a smile of ecstasy, and

receive his instructions as to where the various articles were to be

found. It was all very pleasant and intimate, and every little, homely

detail helped to bring home to me the reality of my happiness.

During the very leisurely tea we gradually approached the subject of

our future arrangements, which had evidently been very carefully

thought out by Jasper.

“I’m not quite such a graven image as I look,” said he. “I don’t

believe it’s necessary for me to keep so immovable. But that is the

doctor’s business. I just do as I’m told. However, my bandages are

coming off in a few days, and I understand that I shall be practically

well in a fortnight. Until I am well, we had better let things remain

as they are; and I think it would be better for you not to come and

see me again in the interval.”

“Do you mean that I am to leave you, a helpless invalid, all alone and

no one to look after you?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Of course, I shall want you dreadfully, but as to

my being alone and helpless, that is merely a sentimental view of the

case. You can see for yourself that I am quite comfortable and well

cared-for. Weeble never forgets me for an instant. And I think it most

necessary that, until we are definitely married, we should have the

most scrupulous regard for the conventions. We can’t get the sanction

either of the Law or the Church to our marriage; therefore, it is the

more necessary for us to treat it ourselves with the utmost respect

and seriousness. We are not going to enter into a casual and

irresponsible relationship. We are going to contract a marriage; and

I propose that we do so publicly and with proper formalities suited to

the dignity and importance of the transaction.”

“But,” I asked, “what formalities are possible?”

“My proposal,” he replied, “is this: we shall appoint a day and a time

to meet here, and have two witnesses in attendance. Weeble could be

one and the Inn porter, Mr. Duskin, the other. In the presence of

those witnesses we shall formally agree to take one another as husband

and wife. Each of us shall make a written declaration to the same

effect, reciting the circumstances which render the unusual procedure

necessary, and, in your case, denouncing and repudiating your marriage

with Otway. These declarations we shall respectively read to the

witnesses--who will also read them--and we shall each sign our

declaration in the presence of the witnesses. I am not quite clear

whether it would be legal for them to counter-sign as witnesses. If

not, we shall add a note stating that the signatures were made in

their presence. Then we shall exchange declarations and we shall

notify Mr. Otway and whosoever else may be concerned, or whom we wish

to inform, of what has taken place. Does that meet with your approval,

Helen?”

“Entirely,” I replied, “excepting the sentence of banishment. Don’t

you think I might just look in on you now and again to see if you want

anything?”

“It is only a fortnight, dearest,” said he, “and we can write as often

as we please. Until we are married we can’t be too careful to avoid

provoking criticism.”

I made no further objections, for I felt that he was right; and,

moreover, I could not but perceive that this rather excessive

primness, like the formalities which he had proposed, was simply an

unconscious expression of chivalrous respect, a protest in advance

against any unfavourable criticisms of me. And in accordance with what

I felt he would consider prudent, I took leave of him comparatively

early, so as to avoid a second meeting with Mr. Weeble, who, I

learned, came in every night between eight and nine to help him to get

to bed.

“I shall write to you every day,” I said, as I drew on my gloves, “and

you must promise that, if there is anything that I can do for you, you

will let me know and never mind about Mrs. Grundy. Is that agreed?”

He gave the required promise, and when I had handed him back his

latch-key, I stooped and kissed him; and as I looked back at him

before closing the iron-bound door, I could not but contrast this

parting with the miserable farewell of less than a month ago.