The Detective Club: Dark Days & Much Darker Days

by Hugh Conway

  ‘Listen, Philippa,’ I said; ‘I shall come in with you and see this lady with whom you are staying. I shall tell her I am your brother; that for some time I have known how shamefully your husband has neglected you; and that now, with your full consent, I mean to take you away. Whether this woman believes in our relationship or not, matters nothing. I suppose she knows that man is coming tomorrow. After his heartless desertion, she cannot be surprised at your wish to avoid meeting him.’

  I paused. Philippa bent her head as if assenting to my plan.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I continued, ‘long before that wretch comes here to poison the very air we breathe, I shall come and fetch you. Early in the morning I will send my servant for your luggage. Mrs Wilson may know me and my man by sight. That makes no difference. There need be no concealment. You are free to come and go. You have no one to fear. On Thursday morning we will leave this place.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Philippa, dreamily, ‘tomorrow I will leave—I will come to you. But I will come alone. In the evening most likely, when no one will know where I have gone.’

  ‘But how much better that I should take you away openly and in broad daylight, as a brother would take a sister!’

  ‘No; I will come to you. You will not mind waiting, Basil. There is something I must do first. Something to be done tomorrow. Something to be said; someone to be seen. What is it? Who is it? I cannot recollect.’

  She placed her disengaged hand on her brow. She pushed back her hood a little, and gave a sigh of relief as she felt the keen air on her temples. Poor girl! After what she had that day gone through, no wonder her mind refused to recall trivial details and petty arrangements to be made before she joined me. Sleep and the certainty of my sympathy and protection would no doubt restore her wandering memory.

  However, although I again and again urged her to change her mind, she was firm in her resolve to come to me alone. At last, very reluctantly, I was obliged to give way on this point; but I was determined to see this Mrs Wilson tonight; so when we reached the house I entered with Philippa.

  I told her there was no occasion for her to be present at my interview with her hostess. She looked frightfully weary, and at my suggestion went straight to her room to retire for the night. I sat down and awaited the advent of Mrs Wilson. She soon appeared.

  A woman of about five and thirty; well but plainly dressed. As I glanced at her with some curiosity, I decided that when young she must, after a certain type of beauty, have been extremely good-looking. Unfortunately hers was one of those faces cast in an aquiline mould—faces which, as soon as the bloom of youth is lost or the owners thereof turn to thinness, become, as a rule, sharp, strained, hungry and severe-looking. Whatever the woman’s charms might once have been, she could now boast of very few.

  There were lines round her mouth and on her brow which told of suffering; and, as I judged it, not the calm, resigned suffering, which often leaves a sweet if sad expression on the face; but fierce, rebellious, constrained suffering, such as turns a young heart into an old one long before its time.

  As she entered the room and bowed to me her face expressed undisguised surprise at seeing a visitor who was a stranger to her. I apologised for the lateness of my call; then hastened to tell her its object. She listened with polite impassability. She made no comment when I repeatedly spoke of my so-styled sister as Lady Ferrand. It was clear that, as Philippa had said, Mrs Wilson was convinced as to the valid nature of the marriage. I inveighed roundly against Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s heartless conduct and scandalous neglect of his wife. My hearer shrugged her shoulders, and the meaning conveyed by the action was that, although she regretted family jars, they were no concern of hers. She seemed quite without interest in the matter; yet a suspicion that she was acting, indeed rather over-acting, a part, crossed my mind once or twice.

  When I told her it was Lady Ferrand’s intention to place herself tomorrow under my protection, she simply bowed. When I said that most likely we should leave England, and for a while travel on the continent, she said that my sister’s health would no doubt be much benefited by the change.

  ‘I may mention,’ she added, for the first time taking any real part in the talk, ‘that your sister’s state is not quite all it should be. For the last day or two I have been thinking of sending for the medical man who attended her during her unfortunate confinement. He has not seen her for quite a week. I mentioned it to her this afternoon; but she appears to have taken an unaccountable dislike to him, and utterly refused to see him. I do not wish to alarm you—I merely mention this; no doubt you, her brother, will see to it.’

  The peculiar stress she laid on the word ‘brother’ told me that I was right in thinking the woman was acting, and that not for one moment did my assumed fraternity deceive her. This was of no consequence.

  ‘I am myself a doctor. Her health will be my care,’ I said. Then I rose.

  ‘You are related to Sir Mervyn Ferrand, I believe, Mrs Wilson?’ I asked.

  She gave me a quick look which might mean anything. ‘We are connections,’ she said carelessly.

  ‘You must have been surprised at his sending his wife away at such a time?’

  ‘I am not in the habit of feeling surprise at Sir Mervyn’s actions. He wrote to me and told me that, knowing my circumstances were straitened, he had recommended a lady to come and live with me for a few months. When I found this lady was his wife, I own I was, for once, surprised.’

  From the emphasis which she laid on certain words, I knew it was but the fact of Philippa’s being married to the scoundrel that surprised her, nothing else. I could see that Mrs Wilson knew Sir Mervyn Ferrand thoroughly, and something told me that her relations with him were of a nature which might not bear investigation.

  I bade her good-night, and walked back to my cottage with a heart in which sorrow, pity, love, hatred, exultation, and, it may be, hope, were strangely and inextricably mingled.

  CHAPTER III

  ‘THE WAGES OF SIN’

  MORNING! No books; no idle listless hours for me today. Plenty to do, plenty to think about; all sorts of arrangements to make. Farewell to my moody, sullen life. Farewell to my aimless, selfish existence. Henceforward I should have something worth living for—worth dying for, if needs be! Philippa was coming to me today; coming in grief, it is true; coming as a sister comes to a brother. Ah! After all the weary, weary waiting, I shall see her today—tomorrow—every day! If a man’s devotion, homage, worship, and respect can in her own eyes reinstate my queen, I shall someday see the bloom come back to her cheek, the bright smile play once more round her mouth, the dark eyes again eloquent with happy thoughts. And then—and then! What should I care for the world or its sneers? To whom, save myself, should I be answerable? Then I might whisper in her ear, ‘Sweet, let the past vanish from our lives as a dream. Let happiness date from today.’

  Although Philippa would grace my poor cottage for one night only, I had a thousand preparations to make for her comfort. Fortunately I had a spare room, and, moreover, a furnished one. Not that I should have troubled, when I went into my seclusion, about such a superfluity as a guest-chamber; but as it happened I had bought the house and the furniture complete; so could offer my welcome guest fair accommodation for the night.

  I summoned my stolid man. I told him that my sister was coming on a visit to me; that she would sleep here tonight, but that most likely we should go away tomorrow. He could stay and look after the house until I returned or sent him instructions what to do with it. William manifested no surprise. Had I told him to make preparations for the coming of my wife and five children, he would have considered it all a part of the day’s work, and would have done his best to meet my requirements.

  He set to work in his imperturbable, methodical, but handy way to get Philippa’s room in trim. As soon as this was done, and the neglected chamber made cosy and warm-looking, I told him to borrow a horse and cart from somewhere, and fetch the luggage from Mrs Wilson’s. He was to mention no n
ames; simply to say he had come for the luggage, and to ask if the lady had any message to send.

  Then I sat down in the room which my love would occupy, and mused upon the strange but unhappy chance which was bringing her beneath my roof. I wished that I had an enchanter’s wand to turn the humble garniture of the chamber into surroundings meet for my queenly Philippa. I wished that I had, at least, flowers with which I could deck her resting-place; for I remembered how passionately she loved flowers. Alas! I had not seen a flower for months.

  Then I drew out Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s letter, read it again and again, and cursed the writer in my heart.

  William was away about two hours; then he made his appearance with some boxes. I was delighted to see these tangible signs that Philippa meant to keep her promise. Till that moment I had been troubled by something like the doubt, that after all she might, upon calm reflection, rescind the resolution formed in her excitement. Now her coming seemed to be a certainty.

  Nevertheless, William brought no message; so there was nothing for me to do but wait patiently until she chose to cross my threshold.

  Although my pleasing labours of love were ended, I was not left idle. There was another task to be done today. I set my teeth and sat down, thinking quietly as to the way in which it might be best performed. Tonight I meant to stand face to face with that black-hearted scoundrel known as Sir Mervyn Ferrand!

  I consulted the time-table. His letter named no particular hour; but I saw that if he carried out his expressed intention of being here tonight, there was but one train by which he could come; there was but one way from Roding to the house at which Philippa had been staying. He meant to walk, his letter said; this might be in order to escape observation. The train was due at Roding at seven o’clock. The weather was cold; a man would naturally walk fast. Mrs Wilson’s house must be four miles from the station. Let me start from there just before the train arrives, and I should probably meet him about half-way on his journey. It would be dark, but I should know him. I should know him among a thousand. There on the open lonely road Sir Mervyn Ferrand, coming gaily, and in his worldly cynicism certain of cajoling, buying off, or in some other way silencing the woman who had in an evil day trusted to his honour and love, would meet, not her, but the man who from the first had sworn that a wrong to Philippa should be more than a wrong to himself! He would meet this man, and be called to account.

  Stern and sinister as were my thoughts—freely and unreservedly as I record them: as indeed I endeavour in this tale to record everything—I do not wish to be misjudged. It is true that in my present mood I was bent upon avenging Philippa with my own hand; true that I meant, if possible, to take at some time or another this man’s life; but at least no thought of taking any advantage of an unarmed or unsuspecting man entered into my scheme of vengeance. I designed no murderous attack. But it was my intention to stop the man on his path; to confront him and tell him that his villainy was known to me; that Philippa had fled to me for aid; that she was now in my custody; and that I, who stood in the position of her brother, demanded the so-called satisfaction which, by the old-fashioned code of honour, was due from the man who had ruthlessly betrayed a woman. Well I knew that it was probable he would laugh at me—tell me that the days of duelling were over, and refuse to grant my request. Then I meant to see if insults could warm his noble blood; if my hand on his cheek could bring about the result which I desired. If this failed, I would follow him abroad, cane him and spit upon him in public places.

  A wild scheme for these prosaic law-abiding days; yet the only one that was feasible. It may be said that I should have taken steps to have caused the miscreant to be arrested for bigamy. But what proof of his crime had we as yet, save his own unsigned confession? Who was to move in the matter—Philippa—myself? We did not even know where this wife of whom he had spoken lived, or where she died. There were a hundred ways in which he might escape from justice, but whether he was punished for his sin or allowed to go scot-free, Philippa’s name and wrongs must be bruited about, her shame made public. No; there was but one course to take, and but one person to take it. It rested with me to avenge the wrongs of the woman I loved by the good old-fashioned way of a life against a life.

  Truly, as I said, I had now plenty to live for!

  The hours went by, yet Philippa came not. I grew restless and uneasy as the dusk began to make the road, up which I gazed almost continually, dim and indistinct. When the short winter’s day was over, and the long dark night had fairly begun, my restlessness turned into fear. I walked out of my house and paced my garden to and fro. I blamed myself for having yielded so lightly to Philippa’s wish—her command rather—that I should on no account fetch her. But then, whenever did I resist a wish, much less a command, of hers? Oh, that I had been firm this once!

  The snow-storm of the previous evening had not lasted long—not long enough to thoroughly whiten the world. The day had been fine and frosty, but I knew that the wind had changed since the sun went down. It was warmer, a change which I felt sure presaged a heavy downfall of snow or rain. There was a moon, a fitful moon; for clouds were flying across it, dark clouds, which I guessed would soon gather coherence and volume, and veil entirely that bright face, which now only showed itself at irregular intervals.

  The minutes were passing away. I grew nervous and excited. Why does she not come? My hope had been to see my poor girl safely housed before I started to execute my other task. Why does she not come? Time, precious time, is slipping by! In the hope of meeting her, I walked for some distance up the road. ‘Why does she delay?’ I groaned. Even now I should be on my way to Roding, or I may miss my prey. Heavens! Can it be that she is waiting to see this man once more? Never! Never! Perish the thought!

  But, all the same, every fibre in my body quivered at the bare supposition of such a thing,

  I could bear the suspense no longer. For the hundredth time I glanced at my watch. It wanted but ten minutes to seven o’clock, and at that hour I had resolved to start from Mrs Wilson’s, on my way to Roding. Yet now I dared not leave my own house. Any moment might bring Philippa. What would she think if I was not there to receive and welcome her?

  Five more precious moments gone! I stamped in my rage. After all, I can only do one half of my task; the sweet, but not the stern half. Shall I, indeed, do either? The train must now be close to Roding. In an hour everything may be lost. The man will see her before she leaves the house. He will persuade her. She will listen to his words; for did he not once love her? He must have loved her! After all, he broke the laws for the sake of possessing her, and—cursed thought!—she loved him then; and she is but a woman!

  So I tortured myself until my state of mind grew unbearable. At all hazard I must prevent Ferrand from meeting Philippa. Oh, why had she not come as she promised? Could it be she was detained against her will? In spite of her uninterested manner, I distrusted the woman I had seen last night. It is now past seven o’clock. Philippa’s house, from which I had reckoned my time, was nearly three miles away. I must give up my scheme of vengeance. I must go in search of Philippa. If I do not meet her I must call at Mrs Wilson’s, find out what detains her, and if needful bear her away by force.

  By this time my steps had brought me back to my own house. I called William, and told him I was going to walk up the road and meet my expected guest. If by any chance I should miss her, he was to welcome her on my behalf, and tell her the reason for my absence.

  ‘Best take a lantern, sir,’ said William; ‘moon’ll soon be hidden, and them roads is precious rough.’

  ‘I can’t be bothered with that great horn affair,’ I said, rather testily.

  ‘Take the little one—the bull’s-eye—that’s better than nothing,’ said William. To humour him I put it into my pocket.

  I ran at the top of my speed to the house at which I had last night left Philippa. It took me nearly half an hour getting there. I rang the bell impetuously. The door was opened by a maidservant. I enquired for Mrs F
armer, knowing that Philippa had passed under this name to all except her hostess. To my surprise I was told that she had left the house, on foot and alone, some little while ago. The maid believed she was not going to return, as her luggage had that morning been sent for.

  The first effect of this intelligence was to cause me to blame my haste. I must have missed her; no doubt passed her on the road. No; such a thing was impossible. The way was a narrow one. The moon still gave some light. If I had met Philippa, I must have seen her. She must have seen me, and would then have stopped me. She could not have gone the way I came.

  But where was she? In what direction was I to seek her? Argue the matter as I would—loath as I was to allow myself to be convinced, I was bound to decide that she must have taken the path to Roding. There was no other. She had gone, even as I was going, to meet Ferrand. She may have started, intending to come to me; but at the last moment a desire to see the man once more—I fondly hoped for the purpose of heaping reproaches on his head—had mastered her. Yes, whatever her object might be, she had gone to meet him. And my heart sank as conviction was carried to it by the remembrance that coupled with her refusal to permit me to fetch her was an assertion that she had something to do before she came to me. That, as I now read it, could be but one thing—to meet this man!

  Never again, if I can help it, shall his voice strike on her ear! Never again shall their eyes meet! Never again shall the touch of even his finger contaminate her! Let me follow, and stand between her and the scoundrel. If they meet he will wound her to the heart. Her pride will rise; she will threaten. Then the coward will try another line. He will plead for mercy; he will swear he still loves her; he will bait his hook with promises. She will listen; hesitate; perhaps yield, and find herself once more deceived. Then she will be lost to me for ever. Now she is, in my eyes, pure as when first we met. Let me haste on, overtake, pass her; meet her betrayer, and, if needful, strike him to the ground.