Chapter VII.

The Terms of Release

When Mrs. Gregg had gone, I shut the door, and, sinking on to the

chair by the writing-table, tried to collect my thoughts. But though I

was vaguely conscious that this dreadful disaster vitally affected my

position, and must in some way affect my actions, overwhelming grief

and a sense of irreparable loss rendered coherent thought impossible.

My father was dead. That was all I could think of. My one perfect

friend, who had absorbed all my affection and given me all of his, had

gone out of my life. Henceforward I was alone in the world.

Presently I heard Dr. Bury leave the house, and then the door opened

and Mr. Otway came into the room, looking like a man who had risen

prematurely after a severe illness. He dropped limply on a chair, and

sat, with his hands on his knees, looking at me with a pitiable

expression of misery and consternation.

“This is a terrible affair, Helen,” he said in a broken voice.

“Terrible! Terrible!”

I made no reply, but looked at him, half-curiously and resentfully. In

the extremity of my grief, I had no pity to spare for him who was the

cause of this dreadful calamity.

“Won’t you speak to me, Helen?” he said, imploringly. “Won’t you try

to give me some comfort? Think of the awful position I am in.”

At his miserable egotism, my grief blazed up into sudden wrath.

“You!” I exclaimed, scornfully. “And what of me? You have robbed me of

my father--of all that matters to me in life--and now you ask me to

comfort you!”

He stretched out his hands to me with a gesture of entreaty.

“Don’t say that, Helen!” he implored. “Don’t say I robbed you of him.

It was an accident that no one could foresee. And after all, you know,

Helen,” he added, persuasively, “if you have lost a father, you have

gained a devoted husband.”

At these words I gazed at him in utter amazement; and quite suddenly

the confusion of my thoughts began to clear up. I began to realise

that some action was called for, though what that action was I could

not clearly see at the moment. But what I did see quite clearly was

that the thing he was suggesting was utterly unthinkable.

“Do you suppose, Mr. Otway,” I demanded, “that I could possibly live

with you as your wife after what has happened?”

“But you are my wife, Helen,” he protested.

“I agreed to marry you, Mr. Otway, in order to save my father. My

father has not been saved.”

“That was, no doubt, your motive, Helen,” he answered. “I don’t deny

that. But, actually, you agreed to be my wife on certain specific

conditions, which I carried out--or, at least, was prepared----”

He hesitated with sudden embarrassment; and the embarrassment, with

the statement, in the midst of which he had broken off, gave me my

cue.

“Mr. Otway,” I said, “you had a letter from my father. What was in

that letter?”

At this question his self-possession broke down completely.

“I have had no letter,” he stammered; “at least, that is to say, I

haven’t seen--he spoke of a letter, but--but the fact is, in my

excitement this morning I forgot to look at my correspondence. If

there was a letter, it must be in the box still.”

“Let us go and see if it is there,” said I. My confusion of mind was

fast clearing up, and as my wits returned, I found myself shaping a

definite course of action. I rose and accompanied him to the hall door

and stood by while he unlocked the letter-box. As he opened the trap,

I perceived that the box contained a single letter; and even in that

agitating moment, the significance of the fact struck me. It was

strange, indeed, that the morning’s delivery should bring to a man of

business no more than a single letter.

He picked the missive out, and, having glanced at it, handed it to me.

I looked at it, and, perceiving that it was in my father’s

handwriting, tore open the envelope and drew out the letter, which I

read aloud. It ran thus:--

“Stonebury, Maidstone.

“25th April, 1908.

“Dear Otway,

“You will, no doubt, be glad to learn that our little difficulty is at

an end. The unexpected has happened. My friend has been able to raise

the wherewith to repay the loan that I made to him, and has sent a

cheque for the full amount. I have paid it into my bank, but, as a

measure of security, in view of the magnitude of the sum, I am waiting

until the cheque is cleared before sending you mine. However, you may

expect to receive payment in full in the course of three clear days

from this date.

“With many thanks for your forbearance,

“I am, yours very truly,

“W.H. Vardon.”

As I finished reading, I looked Mr. Otway sternly in the face.

“You realize,” I said, “that this letter makes our agreement void?”

He did not reply immediately, but stood with his eyes averted from me

and his fingers working nervously.

“Do you realize that?” I demanded.

“Well, in a way, yes,” he replied, hesitatingly. “If it had reached me

sooner--that is to say, if I had seen it----”

“If you had seen it!” I interrupted, angrily. “What has that to do

with the question? The letter was delivered to you, as the post-mark

shows, before you left the house. It came by the first post. If you

chose to leave it unopened, that is your affair. When you met me this

morning, the agreement was already at an end.”

He glanced nervously along the hall towards the kitchen stairs.

“We needn’t stand here,” he said. “Let us go into the study and talk

this affair over quietly.”

He led the way back to the room we had left, and, having shut the

door, turned to me deprecatingly.

“It’s an unfortunate business, Helen,” he said. “Very unfortunate. Of

course, I ought to have looked over the morning’s post, but, in my

natural excitement, I overlooked it; and now I don’t see that there is

anything for us to do but make the best of it.”

I looked at him in amazement. “But,” I exclaimed, “you don’t seem to

realize that our agreement was at an end before the marriage took

place.”

“No, I don’t,” he replied. “You see this letter is only a

notification--a conditional promise to pay. It doesn’t discharge the

debt.”

At this my patience gave out completely. “Let us have no evasions or

quibbles, Mr. Otway,” I said. “Our agreement was at an end before the

marriage took place, and I have no doubt that you knew it. You

obtained my consent by fraud.”

“I don’t admit that,” said he. “But even if it were so, what would you

propose?”

“I propose to have the marriage annulled,” I replied.

He shook his head. “That is impossible, Helen,” he said. “The marriage

is not voidable. An action for nullity can be sustained only on

certain conditions, none of which exist in our case.”

“But,” I exclaimed, “my consent was obtained on a fraudulent pretence!

Surely that is a sufficient ground for claiming to have the marriage

annulled!”

“I deny the fraud,” he replied, doggedly. “But in any case it is not

material. The marriage was perfectly regular, you are of full adult

age, you gave your consent without compulsion, and there are none of

those impediments which the law recognises. I assure you, Helen, that

our marriage is not voidable--that it cannot be annulled by ordinary

process.”

Little as I trusted to his truth or honour, I suspected that what he

was now saying was true. But yet the position was unthinkable.

“Do you mean to tell me,” I demanded, “that the law would uphold a

marriage between a woman and the murderer of her father?”

He winced as if I had struck him a blow, and his face grew sensibly

paler.

“For the love of God, Helen,” he entreated, “don’t talk like that! You

don’t believe it. I can see you don’t. You know I did not kill your

father.”

“I know nothing,” I replied, “but this: that when I came into the room

my father was lying dead with a wound on his forehead and that you

were standing over him with a formidable weapon in your hand.”

I thought he would have fainted. He sank into a chair with a gasp that

was almost a sob, and the sweat streamed down his pallid face. He was

a pitiable spectacle; but yet I felt no pity for him. I was bent only

on escaping from the net in which he had caught me.

“I swear I never touched him, Helen,” he protested, breathlessly. “I

swear it. But you know I did not. You are only saying this to torture

me. You don’t believe it. I know you don’t.”

“It is of little importance what I believe, Mr. Otway,” I replied,

coldly. “The decision will not rest with me. You will be judged by

others on the facts which I have stated.”

He made no immediate reply. He seemed absolutely paralysed by terror,

and sat, breathing quickly and staring at me, as if he expected me to

kill him then and there. At length he spoke in a husky, indistinct

voice.

“Helen. What is it you want of me?”

“I want this marriage set aside,” I answered.

“But,” he protested, “I have told you that is impossible. It cannot be

annulled in the ordinary sense. Be reasonable, Helen. Let us talk the

matter over and see if we can’t come to terms.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, persuasively, “I should like to meet your wishes if I

can. I am not unreasonable. I can see that, as things are, you would

not wish to live with me as my wife. We can’t get the marriage

annulled, but we can arrange a separation--a temporary separation,

say, without prejudice to any future arrangements--by mutual consent.

What do you say to that?”

“If the marriage cannot be set aside, I suppose a separation would be

the next best thing. Do I understand that you are willing to agree to

a separation?”

“Yes,” he replied; “on certain conditions I am willing to agree to a

separation--a temporary separation, you know.”

“What are your conditions?” I asked.

He cleared his throat once or twice, as if in doubt how best to put

the matter. Then, avoiding my eye, he began, hesitatingly, but with an

obsequiously persuasive manner.

“The exact circumstances of your father’s most lamentable death,

Helen, are known to you and to me and to no one else. As I have told

you, and I am convinced that you believe, the heart attack which

killed him came as we were struggling for possession of his stick. It

was due to the excitement and the violent exertion. Perhaps the blow

on the head from the corner of the mantelpiece may have had something

to do with it, for the fainting attack came on almost directly

afterwards. He relaxed his hold on the stick and fell, leaving it in

my hands. There was no violence on my part. I never struck him or did

anything that could in any way make me responsible for his death. That

is the truth, Helen, and I am convinced that you believe it, in spite

of what you have said.”

“I have only your word that it is the truth,” said I.

“Exactly,” he agreed. “But you believe me. You know what your father’s

state of health was, and you know that he was liable, on occasions, to

be--er--somewhat violent. So you believe me. But others, who have not

the knowledge that you have--ah--might--ah--might not believe me.”

“I haven’t said that I do,” I interposed. “However, we will let that

pass. Go on, please.”

He paused to wipe his face with his handkerchief, and then proceeded:

“You said just now that when you entered the room you saw me standing

over your father with a weapon in my hand.”

“So I did.”

“I know you did, Helen. You saw me holding your father’s loaded stick.

It is quite true. But--it would--ah--greatly simplify matters

if--well, if that circumstance were not communicated to--ah--to anyone

else.”

“You mean to say,” said I, “that you want me to suppress the fact that

I saw you standing over my father’s dead body holding a loaded stick?”

“I wouldn’t use the word ‘suppress,’ Helen,” he replied, passing his

handkerchief once more over his haggard face. “I only ask you to

refrain--in the interests of justice and--ah--of common humanity--from

mentioning a circumstance that--ah--mentioned, might mislead the

hearers, and might, conceivably, lead them to quite erroneous

conclusions. It is a reasonable thing to ask. No doubt you blame me;

you look upon me as the cause of this dreadful trouble--which, in a

certain sense, I admit I am. But you would not be vindictive, Helen,

or unjust. You would not wish to see me placed in the dock--perhaps

even convicted--think of that, Helen! Convicted and sentenced when I

am absolutely innocent! My God! It would be an awful thing! You

wouldn’t wish to have such a frightful miscarriage of justice as that

on your conscience, I am sure.”

“It wouldn’t be on my conscience,” I replied, coldly. “The verdict

would not be mine; and besides, I have only your word that you are

innocent. You have made the statement to me, and you could make it to

others, who would take it for what it is worth.”

He clasped his hands passionately and leaned forward towards me with

an imploring gesture.

“Helen!” he exclaimed. “Don’t be so hard, so cold! Have you no pity

for me? Think of my awful position--an innocent man, but yet with

appearances so horribly against me. And the whole issue is in your

hands. You were not present when--when it happened. You have only to

say so and to refrain from making any unnecessary additions to that

statement, and no miscarriage of justice can occur. I am not asking

you to say anything that is not true; I am only asking you to keep

irrelevant and misleading matter out of the inquiry. Do this, Helen,

and I promise to execute a deed surrendering all claims on you--at

least for a time.”

I made no immediate answer. Mr. Otway was perfectly right on one

point. I did not believe that he had killed my father. I think I only

half believed it, even, at the awful moment of the discovery; for the

alarming appearance that my father had presented as he strode up the

garden path, with his wild eyes and his strange, blotchy colour, had

made me fear a catastrophe; and when the catastrophe had almost

immediately followed, it was natural that my mind should refer it to a

cause already considered rather than to one totally unexpected.

Moreover, Mr. Otway’s account of the tragedy was intrinsically

probable; it fitted the facts that were known to me; whereas the

supposition that he had killed my father was wildly improbable.

It is not to be supposed, however, that, in my present agitated state,

I reasoned the matter out consciously in this methodical fashion. But

unconsciously, and perhaps vaguely, my mind had worked along these

lines to a conclusion; and that conclusion was that Mr. Otway’s

account of what had happened was substantially correct. Nevertheless,

I was not prepared to admit this at the moment; indeed, my whole

desire was to be rid of the man’s irksome presence--to be alone with

my grief.

“I can’t give you an answer now, Mr. Otway,” I said. “I am not in a

condition to discuss anything. I want to go home and be quiet.”

He acquiesced with surprising readiness, no doubt encouraged by my

tacit abandonment of the accusation.

“Of course you do,” he agreed. “It has been a fearful shock for you.

Go home and keep yourself quiet. I shall hear from Dr. Bury, in the

course of the day, what the coroner intends to do, and I will call and

let you know. And I will bring a draft of the deed for you to look at.

The sooner we arrive at a settlement, the better. And, Helen, let me

beg you not to say anything to anyone about--anything that might

complicate matters. You understand what I mean.”

I nodded wearily and moved towards the door. I was still wearing my

outdoor clothes, so I had no preparations to make. Mr. Otway opened

the door for me and I passed out into the hall; but before leaving the

house, I turned back into the darkened drawing-room, and, raising the

cover from my father’s face, kissed his already cold cheek.

“Good-bye, dearest! Good-bye!” I whispered, passionately; and then,

feeling the tears rushing to my eyes, I kissed him again, and,

replacing the cover, hurried from the room. Mr. Otway was standing at

the hall door to let me out, and timidly offered his hand; but I

walked quickly past him, and, running down the steps, made my way out

through the gate that had admitted me to my ruin and my father to his

death.