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.

##