Helen Vardons Confession | Page 4

for he was not a
strong man. And for me?
Here, of a sudden, there came back to me the rather enigmatical speech
of my father's, which I had heard without at the moment fully
comprehending, but which I now recalled with a shock of alarm.
"Please bear in mind, Otway, that I am not a convict yet, and possibly
may never be one. There are certain conceivable alternatives, you
know."
The cryptic utterance had evidently puzzled Mr. Otway, who had
clearly misunderstood it as referring to some unknown resources. To
me, no such misunderstanding was possible. More than once my father
had discussed with me the ethics of suicide, on which subject he held
somewhat unorthodox opinions; and I now recalled with terrible
distinction the very definite statement that he had made on the occasion
of our last talks "For my part," he had said, "if I should ever find
myself in such a position that the continuance of life was less desirable
than its termination, I should not hesitate to take the appropriate
measures for exchanging the less desirable state for the more
desirable."
In the face of such a statement, made, as I felt sure, in all sincerity and
with sober judgment, how could I entertain any doubt as to the
interpretation of that reference to "certain conceivable alternatives"? To
a man of culture and some position and none too robust in health, what
would be the aspect of life with its immediate future occupied by a

criminal prosecution ending in an inevitable conviction and a term of
penal servitude? Could the continuance of such a life be conceived as
desirable? Assuredly not.
And then imagination began to torture me by filling in with hideous
ingenuity the dreadful details. Now it was a pistol shot, heard in the
night, and a group of terrified servants huddled together in the corridor.
But no; that was not like my poor father. Such crude and bloody
methods appertain rather to the terror-stricken fugitive than to one who
is executing a considered and orderly retreat. Then I saw myself, in the
grey of the morning, tapping at his bedroom door:
tapping--tapping--and at last opening the door, or perhaps bursting it
open. I saw the dim room Ñ Oh! How horribly plain and vivid it was!
With the cold light of the dawn glimmering through the blind, the
curtained bed, the half-seen figure, still and silent in the shadow.
Horrible! Horrible!
And then, in instant, the scene changed. I saw a man in our hall a man
in uniform; a railway porter or inspector. I heard him tell, in a hushed,
embarrassed voice, of a strange and dreadful accident down on the
line... And yet again this awful phantasmagoria shifted the scene and
showed me a new picture: a search party, prowling with lantern around
a chalk pit; and anon a group of four men, treading softly and carrying
something on a hurdle.
"Dear God!" I gasped, with my hands pressed to my forehead, "must it
be-- this awful thing! Is there no other way?
And with that there fell on me a great calm. A chilly calm, bringing no
comfort, and yet, in a manner, a relief. For, perhaps, after all, there was
another way. It was true that my father had rejected Mr. Otway's
proposal, and such was my habit of implicit obedience that, with his
definite rejection of it, the alternative had, for me, ceased to exist. But
now, with the horror of this dreadful menace upon me, I recalled the
words that had been spoken, and asked myself if that avenue of escape
were really closed. As to my father, I had no doubt; he would never
consent; and even to raise the question might only be to precipitate the
catastrophe. But with regard to Mr. Otway the manner in which my

father had met and rejected his proposal seemed to close the subject
finally. He had called him a blackmailing scoundrel and used other
injurious expressions, which might make it difficult or, at least,
uncomfortable to reopen the question. Still that was a small matter.
When one is walking to the gallows, one does not boggle at an
uncomfortable shoe.
As to my own inclinations, they were beside the mark. My father's life
and good name must be saved if it were possible; and it seemed that it
might be possible--at a price. Whether it were possible or not depended
on Mr. Otway.
I recalled what I knew of this man who had thus in a moment become
the arbiter of my father's fate and mine. My acquaintance with him was
but slight, though I had met him pretty frequently and had sometimes
wondered what his profession was, if he had any. I had assumed, from
his evident acquaintance