The Detective Club: Dark Days & Much Darker Days

by Hugh Conway

  No, I am wrong. Her you cannot see. Only I myself can see Philippa as I saw her then—as I see her now.

  Heavens! How fair she was! How glorious her rich dark beauty! How different from the pink-white and yellow dolls whom I have seen exalted as the types of perfection! Warm Southern blood ran through her veins and tinged her clear brown cheek with colour. Her mother was an Englishwoman; but it was Spain that gave her daughter that exquisite grace, those wondrous dark eyes and long curled lashes, that mass of soft black hair, that passionate impulsive nature, and, perhaps, that queen-like carriage and dignity. The English mother may have given the girl many good gifts, but her beauty came from the father, whom she had never known; the Andalusian, who died while she was but a child in arms.

  Yet, in spite of her foreign grace, Philippa was English. Her Spanish origin was to her but a tradition. Her foot had never touched her father’s native land. Its language was strange to her. She was born in England, and her father, the nature of whose occupation I have not been able to ascertain, seems to have spent most of his time in this country.

  When did I learn to love her? Ask me rather, when did we first meet? Even then as my eyes fell upon the girl, I knew, as by revelation, that for me life and her love meant one and the same thing. Till that moment there was no woman in the world the sight of whom would have quickened my pulse by a beat. I had read and heard of such love as this. I had laughed at it. There seemed no room for such an engrossing passion in my busy life. Yet all at once I loved as man has never loved before; and as I sit tonight and gaze into the fire I tell myself that the objectless life I am leading is the only one possible for the man who loved but failed to win Philippa.

  Our first meeting was brought about in a most prosaic way. Her mother, who suffered from a chronic disease, consulted me professionally. My visits, at first those of a doctor, soon became those of a friend, and I was free to woo the girl to the best of my ability.

  Philippa and her mother lived in a small house on the outskirts of the town. They were not rich people, but had enough to keep the pinch of poverty from their lives. The mother was a sweet, quiet, lady-like woman, who bore her sufferings with resignation. Her health was, indeed, wretched. The only thing which seemed likely to benefit her was continual change of air and scene. After attending her for about six months, I was in conscience bound to endorse the opinion of her former medical advisers, and tell her it would be well for her to try another change.

  My heart was heavy as I gave this advice. If adopted, it meant that Philippa and I must part.

  But why, during those six months, had I not, passionately in love as I was, won the girl’s heart? Why did she not leave me as my affianced bride? Why did I let her leave me at all?

  The answer is short. She loved me not.

  Not that she had ever told me so in words. I had never asked her in words for her love. But she must have known—she must have known! When I was with her, every look, every action of mine must have told her the truth. Women are not fools or blind. A man who, loving as I did, can conceal the true state of his feelings must be more than mortal.

  I had not spoken; I dared not speak. Better uncertainty with hope than certainty with despair. The day on which Philippa refused my love would be as the day of death to me.

  Besides, what had I to offer her? Although succeeding fairly well for a beginner, at present I could only ask the woman I made my wife to share comparative poverty. And Philippa! Ah! I would have wrapped Philippa in luxury! All that wealth could buy ought to be hers. Had you seen her in the glory of her fresh young beauty, you would have smiled at the presumption of the man who could expect such a being to become the wife of a hard-working and as yet ill-paid doctor. You would have felt that she should have had the world at her feet.

  Had I thought that she loved me, I might perhaps have dared to hope she would even then have been happy as my wife. But she did not love me. Moreover, she was ambitious.

  She knew—small blame to her—how beautiful she was. Do I wrong her when I say that in those days she looked for the gifts of rank and riches from the man who loved her? She knew that she was a queen among women, and expected a queen’s dues.

  (Sweetest, are my words cruel? They are the cruellest I have spoken, or shall speak, against you. Forgive them!)

  We were friends—great friends. Such friendship is love’s bane. It buoys false hopes; it lulls to security; it leads astray; it is a staff which breaks suddenly, and wounds the hand which leans upon it. So little it seems to need to make friendship grow into love; and yet how seldom that little is added! The love which begins with hate or dislike is often luckier than that which begins with friendship. Lovers cannot be friends.

  Philippa and her mother left my neighbourhood. Then went to London for a while. I heard from them occasionally, and once or twice, when in town, called upon them. Time went by. I worked hard at my profession the while, striving, by sheer toil, to drive the dream from my life. Alas! I strove in vain. To love Philippa was to love her for ever!

  One morning a letter came from her. I tore it open. The news it contained was grievous. Her mother had died suddenly. Philippa was alone in the world. So far as I knew, she had not a relation left; and I believed, perhaps hoped, that, save myself, she had no friend.

  I needed no time for consideration. That afternoon I was in London. If I could not comfort her in her great sorrow, I could at least sympathise with her; could undertake the management of the many business details which are attendant upon a death.

  Poor Philippa! She was glad to see me. Through her tears she flashed me a look of gratitude. I did all I could for her, and stayed in town until the funeral was over. Then I was obliged to think of going home. What was to become of the girl?

  Kith or kin she had none, nor did she mention the name of any friend who would be willing to receive her. As I suspected, she was absolutely alone in the world. As soon as my back was turned she would have no one on whom she could count for sympathy or help.

  It must have been her utter loneliness which urged me, in spite of my better judgment, in spite of the grief which still oppressed her, to throw myself at her feet and declare the desire of my heart. My words I cannot recall, but I think—I know I pleaded eloquently. Such passion as mine gives power and intensity to the most unpractised speaker. Yet long before my appeal was ended I knew that I pleaded in vain. Her eyes, her manner, told me she loved me not.

  Then, remembering her present helpless condition, I checked myself. I begged her to forget the words I had spoken; not to answer them now; to let me say them again in some months’ time. Let me still be her friend, and render her such service as I could.

  She shook her head; she held out her hand. The first action meant the refusal of my love; the second, the acceptance of my friendship. I schooled myself to calmness, and we discussed her plans for the future.

  She was lodging in a house in a quiet, respectable street near Regent’s Park. She expressed her intention of staying on here for a while.

  ‘But alone!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Why not? What have I to fear? Still, I am open to reason, if you can suggest a better plan.’

  I could suggest no other. Philippa was past twenty-one, and would at once succeed to whatever money had been her mother’s. This was enough to live upon. She had no friends, and must live somewhere. Why should she not stay on at her present lodgings? Nevertheless, I trembled as I thought of this beautiful girl all alone in London. Why could she not love me? Why could she not be my wife? It needed all my self-restraint to keep me from breaking afresh into passionate appeals.

  As she would not give me the right to dispose of her future, I could do nothing more. I bade her a sad farewell, then went back to my home to conquer my unhappy love, or to suffer from its fresh inroads.

  Conquer it! Such love as mine is never conquered. It is a man’s life. Philippa was never absent from my thoughts. Let my frame of mind be gay or grave Philippa was always present.

  No
w and then she wrote to me, but her letters told me little as to her mode of life; they were short friendly epistles, and gave me little hope.

  Yet I was not quite hopeless. I felt that I had been too hasty in asking for her love so soon after her mother’s death. Let her recover from the shock, then I will try again. Three months was the time which in my own mind I resolved should elapse before I again approached her with words of love. Three months! How wearily they dragged themselves away!

  Towards the end of my self-imposed term of probation I fancied that a brighter, gayer tone manifested itself in Philippa’s letters. Fool that I was! I augured well from this.

  Telling myself that such love as mine must win in the end, I went to London, and once more saw Philippa. She received me kindly. Although her garb was still that of deep mourning, never, I thought, had she looked more beautiful. Not long after our first greeting did I wait before I began to plead again. She stopped me at the outset.

  ‘Hush,’ she said; ‘I have forgotten your former words; let us still be friends.’

  ‘Never!’ I cried passionately. ‘Philippa, answer me once for all, tell me you can love me!’

  She looked at me compassionately. ‘How can I best answer you?’ she said, musingly. ‘The sharpest remedy is perhaps the kindest. Basil, will you understand me when I say it is too late?’

  ‘Too late! What can you mean? Has another—?’

  The words died on my lips as Philippa, drawing a ring from the fourth finger of her left hand, showed me that it concealed a plain gold circlet. Her eyes met mine imploringly.

  ‘I should have told you before,’ she said softly, and bending her proud head; ‘but there were reasons—even now I am pledged to tell no one. Basil, I only show you this, because I know you will take no other answer.’

  I rose without a word. The room seemed whirling around me. The only thing which was clear to my sight was that cursed gold band on the fair white hand—that symbol of possession by another! In that moment hope and all the sweetness of life seemed swept away from me.

  Something in my face must have told her how her news affected me. She came to me and laid her hand upon my arm. I trembled like a leaf beneath her touch. She looked beseechingly into my face.

  ‘Oh, not like that!’ she cried. ‘Basil, I am not worth it. I should not have made you happy. You will forget—you will find another. If I have wronged or misled you, say you forgive me. Let me hear you, my true friend, wish me happiness.’

  I strove to force my dry lips to frame some conventional phrase. In vain! Words would not come. I sank into a chair and covered my face with my hands.

  The door opened suddenly, and a man entered. He may have been about forty years of age. He was tall and remarkably handsome. He was dressed with scrupulous care; but there was something written on his face which told me it was not the face of a good man. As I rose from my chair he glanced from me to Philippa with an air of suspicious enquiry.

  ‘Doctor North, an old friend of my mother’s and mine,’ she said with composure. ‘Mr Farmer,’ she added; and a rosy blush crept round her neck as she indicated the newcomer by the name which I felt sure was now also her own.

  I bowed mechanically. I made a few disjointed remarks about the weather and kindred topics; then I shook hands with Philippa and left the house, the most miserable man in England.

  Philippa married, and married secretly! How could her pride have stooped to a clandestine union? What manner of man was he who had won her? Heavens! He must be hard to please if he cared not to show his conquest to the light of day. Cur! Sneak! Coward! Villain! Stay; he may have his own reasons for concealment—reasons known to Philippa and approved of by her. Not a word against her. She is still my queen; the one woman in the world to me. What she has done is right!

  I passed a sleepless night. In the morning I wrote to Philippa. I wished her all happiness—I could command my pen, if not my tongue. I said no word about the secrecy of the wedding, or the evils so often consequent to such concealment. But, with a foreboding of evil to come, I begged her to remember that we were friends; that, although I could see her no more, whenever she wanted a friend’s aid, a word would bring me to her side. I used no word of blame. I risked no expression of love or regret. No thought of my grief should jar upon the happiness which she doubtless expected to find. Farewell the one dream of my life! Farewell Philippa!

  Such a passion as mine may, in these matter-of-fact, unromantic days, seem an anachronism. No matter, whether to sympathy or ridicule, I am but laying bare my true thoughts and feelings.

  I would not return to my home at once. I shrank from going back to my lonely hearth and beginning to eat my heart out. I had made arrangements to stay in town for some days; so I stayed, trying by a course of what is termed gaiety to drive remembrance away. Futile effort! How many have tried the same reputed remedy without success!

  Four days after my interview with Philippa, I was walking with a friend who knew everyone in town. As we passed the door of one of the most exclusive of the clubs, I saw, standing on the steps talking to other men, the man whom I knew was Philippa’s husband. His face was turned from me, so I was able to direct my friend’s attention to him.

  ‘Who is that man? ‘I asked.

  ‘That man with the gardenia in his coat is Sir Mervyn Ferrand.’

  ‘Who is he? What is he? What kind of a man is he?’

  ‘A baronet. Not very rich. Just about the usual kind of man you see on those steps. Very popular with the ladies, they tell me.’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Heaven knows! I don’t. I never heard of a Lady Ferrand, although there must be several who are morally entitled to use the designation.’

  And this was her husband—Philippa’s husband!

  I clenched my teeth. Why had he married under a false name? Or if she knew that name by which she introduced him to me was false, why was it assumed? Why had the marriage been clandestine? Not only Sir Mervyn Ferrand, but the noblest in the land should be proud of winning Philippa! The more I thought of the matter, the more wretched I grew. The dread that she had been in some way deceived almost drove me mad. The thought of my proud, beautiful queen some day finding herself humbled to the dust by a scoundrel’s deceit was anguish. What could I do?

  My first impulse was to demand an explanation, then and there, from Sir Mervyn Ferrand. Yet I had no right or authority so to do. What was I to Philippa save an unsuccessful suitor? Moreover, I felt that she had revealed her secret to me in confidence. If there were good reasons for the concealment, I might do her irretrievable harm by letting this man know that I was aware of his true position in society. No, I could not call him to account. But I must do something, or in time to come my grief may be rendered doubly deep by self-reproach.

  The next day I called upon Philippa. She would at least tell me if the name under which the man married her was the true or the false one. Alas! I found she had left her home the day before—left it to return no more! The landlady had no idea whither she was gone, but believed it was her intention to leave England.

  After this I threw prudence to the winds. With some trouble I found Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s town address. The next day I called on him. He also, I was informed, had just left England. His destination was also unknown.

  I turned away moodily. All chance of doing good was at an end. Let the marriage be true or false, Philippa had departed, accompanied by the man who, for purposes of his own, passed under the name of Farmer, but who was really Sir Mervyn Ferrand.

  I went back to my home, and amid the wreck of my life’s happiness murmured a prayer and registered an oath. I prayed that honour and happiness might be the lot of her I loved; I swore that were she wronged I would with my own hand take vengeance on the man who wronged her.

  For myself I prayed nothing—not even forgetfulness. I loved Philippa: I had lost her for ever! The past, the present, the future were all summed up in these words!

  CHAPTER II

  A VILL
AIN’S BLOW

  THEY tell me there are natures stern enough to be able to crush love out of their lives. Ah! Not such love as mine! Time, they say, can heal every wound. Not such a wound as mine! My whole existence underwent a change when Philippa showed me the wedding-ring on her finger. No wonder it did. Hope was eliminated from it. From that moment I was a changed man.

  Life was no longer worth living. The spur of ambition was blunted; the desire for fame gone; the interest which I had hitherto felt in my profession vanished. All the spring, the elasticity, seemed taken out of my being. For months and months I did my work in a perfunctory manner. It gave me no satisfaction that my practice grew larger. I worked, but I cared nothing for my work. Success gave me no pleasure. An increase to the number of my patients was positively unwelcome to me. So long as I made money enough to supply my daily needs, what did it matter? Of what use was wealth to me? It could not buy me the one thing for which I craved. Of what use was life? No wonder that such friends as I had once possessed all but forsook me. My mood at that time was none of the sweetest. I wanted no friends. I was alone in the world; I should be always alone.

  So things went on for more than a year. I grew worse instead of better. My gloom deepened; my cynicism grew more confirmed; my life became more and more aimless.

  These are not lovers’ rhapsodies. I would spare you them if I could; but it is necessary that you should know the exact state of my mind in order to understand my subsequent conduct. Even now it seems to me that I am writing this description with my heart’s blood.

  Not a word came from Philippa. I made no enquiries about her, took no steps to trace her. I dared not. Not for one moment did I forget her, and through all those weary months tried to think of her as happy and to be envied; yet, in spite of myself, I shuddered as I pictured her lot as it might really be.

  But all the while I knew that the day would come when I should learn whether I was to be thankful that my prayer had been answered, or to be prepared to keep my vow.