The Detective Club: Dark Days & Much Darker Days

by Hugh Conway

  Here was everything for the sake of seeking which I had professed to leave foggy England—sun, warmth, colour, brightness. Here, I thought, if in any place in the world, will the one I love forget what she knows of the cruel past. Here, it may be, our new life shall begin!

  Glorious, wonderful Seville! The magic charm of the place fell on my companions as it fell upon me, as indeed it falls upon all who visit it. By common consent we arranged to stay our course for an indefinite time. Perhaps by now we all thought that we had endured enough of hotel life, and wanted some place which might bear the name of home; so, although such things are not very easy to find, I hired a furnished house. Such a house!

  From the narrow street—the need of shade makes narrow streets indispensable to Seville—pass through a light open-work iron gate into a spacious white marble-lined courtyard or, as the Spaniards call it, patio; a courtyard open to the sky, save for the gaily-coloured awning which is sometimes spread over it; a space fragrant to the four corners with the perfume of orange and other sweet-smelling blossoms, bright with glowing oleanders, and musical with the murmur of fountains. Around the walls statues, some of the fair works of art, paintings and mirrors. Every sitting-room in the house opening on to this cool central fairyland—a fairyland which, for many months of the year, is almost the only part of the house used in their waking hours by the Sevillaños. Add to this a garden, not large but exquisite, full of the rarest and choicest blooms, and if you are not hopelessly bigoted, and enamoured of English fogs, you must long for such a home in courtly, beautiful Seville!

  With such surroundings—almost those of a Sybarite—who can blame me for being lulled into security, if not forgetfulness, and for telling myself that my troubles were nearly at an end? Who can wonder at the castles I built as hour after hour I lounged in the patio, with its fragrant, soothing atmosphere, and gazed at Philippa’s beautiful face, and now and again meeting her dark eyes, and sometimes surprising in those thoughtful depths a look which thrilled my heart—a look which I told myself was one of love?

  True, that often and often in my sleep I saw the white, dead face, with the snow-heap forming over it. True, that often and often Philippa’s wild cry, ‘The wages of sin—on, on, on!’ rang through my dreams, and I awoke trembling in every limb; but in the day-time, in the midst of the sweet shaded repose, I could almost banish every memory, every thought which strove to lead me back to grief and horror.

  The days, each one sweeter than its forerunner, passed by. Each day was passed with Philippa. We wandered for hours through the marvellous gardens of the Alcazar; we drove under the shading trees of Las Delicias; we made excursions to Italica and other places, which the guide-book tells you every visitor to Seville should see; but I think we found in the ordinary sights, which were at our very door, as much pleasure as in any of the stock shows. We loved to watch the people. We delighted in the picturesque, ragged-looking, black-eyed Andalusian boy-rascals who played and romped at every street corner. We noted the exquisitely graceful figures of the Sevillañas; I, moreover, noted that the most graceful of these figures could not be compared to Philippa’s own. We strolled up the awning-roofed Calle de las Sierpes, and laughed at the curious windowless little shops. Everything was so strange, so bright, so teeming with old-world tradition, so full of intense interest, that no wonder I could for the time send painful memories to the background.

  And Philippa? Although there were times when her face grew sad with sad remembrances; although at times her eyes sought mine with that troubled, enquiring look; although I trembled as to what might be the question which I seemed to see her lips about to form; I did not, could not believe she was entirely unhappy. The smile—a quiet, thoughtful one, yet a smile—was oftener seen on her face. It came now of its own accord. More and more certain I grew that, if nothing recalled the past, or I should say, if nothing filled the blank, so mercifully left, of that one night, the hour was not far distant when my love would call herself happy. Oh, to keep that fatal knowledge from her for ever!

  Such was my life. So, in calm, peace, all but happiness, the days passed by, until the hour came when for the third time I dared to tell Philippa that I loved her—to tell her so with the certainty of hearing her re-echo my words. Yes, certainty. Had I not for many days seen her eyes grow brighter, the grave, thoughtful look leave her face, her whole manner change when I drew near? Such signs as these told me that the crowning moment of my life was at hand.

  Here for one moment I pause. I scorn to excuse myself for wishing to marry a woman who had been, or supposed herself to have been, the innocent victim of a scoundrelly man of the world; I have nothing in common with those who think such an excuse is needed. Mrs Wilson’s statement that the marriage was valid might be true or false. It gave me the impression that it was true, and I believed that Philippa could lay claim to bear the man’s accursed name. But whether she was Lady Ferrand or a trusting woman betrayed, for my own sake I cared little. She was Philippa!

  As to my intention of marrying, my one wish to marry a woman who, in her temporary and fully accounted for delirium, had killed the man who so cruelly wronged her, I have but this to say. My tale, although I give it to the world, is not written for the purpose of fiction. It is the story of myself—a story which seemed to me worth telling—of a man who loved one woman passionately, blindly, and without consideration. Such was my great love for Philippa that I feel no shame in telling the truth, and saying that had I seen her, in full possession of her senses, level that pistol and shoot her betrayer through his black heart, I should have held that only justice had been done, I should have regretted the act, but, nevertheless, I would have pleaded for her love as fervently and reverently as I was now about to plead for it.

  Once more I say, if you condemn me throw the book aside.

  Philippa, with her eyes half closed, was, as was usual at that hour, sitting in the patio. In her hand she held a sprig of orange blossom, and ever and anon inhaled its delicious perfume; an action, by-the-by, scarcely needful, as the whole air was redolent of the fragrance thrown from the great tree in the centre of the marble space. She was, or fancied she was, alone, as some little time before I had left the court to obtain a fresh supply of cigarettes; and my mother, who could never quite adapt herself to the semi-open-air life, was taking a siesta in the drawing-room. As I saw Philippa in all her glowing beauty, the white marble against which she leant making as it were a suitable foil to the warm colour of her cheek—the long curved black downcast lashes—the bosom rising and falling gently—like an inspiration the thought came to me that in a minute my fate would be decided. Heavens! How could I have waited so long to hear the words which I knew she would say?

  I crept noiselessly to her side. I placed my arm round her waist and drew her to me. I whispered words of passionate love in her ear—words the confidence of which startled me; but then this time I knew that my love of years was to be rewarded.

  She did not shrink away; she did not struggle to free herself, but she trembled like a leaf in my embrace. She sighed deeply, even hopelessly, and I saw the tears welling in her dark eyes. Closer and firmer I held her, and kissed her cheek again and again. Had that moment been my last I should have said I had not lived in vain.

  ‘Philippa,’ I whispered, ‘my queen, my love, tell me you love me at last.’

  She was silent. The tears broke from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. I kissed the signs of sorrow away.

  ‘Dearest,’ I said, ‘it is answer enough that you suffer these kisses, but I have waited so long—been so unhappy; look at me and satisfy me; let me hear you say, “I love you!”’

  She turned her tearful eyes to mine, but not for long. She cast her looks upon the ground and was still, silent. Yet she lay unresisting in my arms. That, after all, was the true answer.

  But I must have it from her lips. ‘Tell me, dearest—tell me once,’ I prayed.

  Her lips quivered; her bosom rose and fell. The blush spread from her cheek and stole
down her white neck.

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured; ‘now that it is too late, I love you.’

  I laughed a wild laugh. I clasped Philippa to my breast.

  ‘Too late!’ I cried. ‘We may have fifty years of happiness.’

  ‘It is too late,’ she answered. ‘For your sake I have told you that I love you, Basil. My love, I will kiss you once—then loose me, and let us say farewell.’

  ‘When death closes the eyes of one of us we will say farewell—not until then,’ I said, as my lips met hers in a long and rapturous kiss.

  Then with a sigh she gently but firmly freed herself from my arms. She rose, we stood on the marble floor, face to face, gazing in each other’s eyes.

  ‘Basil,’ she said softly, ‘all this must be forgotten. Say farewell; tomorrow we must part.’

  ‘Dearest, our lives henceforth are one.’

  ‘It cannot be. Spare me, Basil! You have been kind to me. It cannot be.’

  ‘Why? Tell me why.’

  ‘Why! Need you ask? You bear an honoured and respected name; and I, you know what I am—a shamed woman.’

  ‘A wronged woman, it may be, not a shamed one.’

  ‘Ah! Basil, in this world, when a woman is concerned, wronged and shamed mean the same thing. You have been as a brother to me. I came to you in my trouble; you saved my life—my reason. Be kinder still, and spare me the pain of paining you.’

  By look, by word, by gesture, she seemed to beseech me. Oh, how I longed to tell her that I firmly believed she was the dead man’s wife! I had much difficulty in checking the words which were forming on my lips. But I dared not speak. Telling her that the marriage was a valid one meant that I must tell her of her husband’s death, and, it might be, how he died.

  ‘Philippa,’ I said, ‘the whole happiness of my life, my every desire, is centred upon making you my wife. Think, dearest, how when I had no right to demand this gift my life was made desolate; think what it will be when I know you love me and yet refuse to be mine! Have I been true to you, Philippa?’

  ‘Heaven knows you have.’

  ‘Then why, now that you love me, refuse me my reward?’

  ‘Oh, spare me!—I cannot, I will not give it. Basil, dear Basil, why with your talents should you marry the cast-off—mistress—of Sir Mervyn Ferrand? Why should you blush to show your wife to the world?’

  ‘Blush! The world! What is my world save you? You are all to me, sweetest. You love me—what more do I want? Before this time next week we will be married.’

  ‘Never, never! I will not wrong the man I love. Basil, farewell for ever!’

  She clasped her hands and fled wildly across the court. I caught her at the door, which she had reached and half opened. ‘Promise me one thing,’ I said; ‘promise you will wait here until my return. I shall not be five minutes. It is not much to ask, Philippa.’

  Philippa bent her head as in assent. I passed through the door, and in a few minutes returned to the patio, accompanied by my mother, who glanced from Philippa to me in a surprised way.

  ‘What is the matter?’ she asked, with her cheerful smile. ‘Have you two young people been quarrelling?’

  Philippa made no answer. She stood with her fingers interlaced; her eyes cast on the ground.

  ‘Mother,’ I said, ‘I have today asked Philippa to be my wife. I have told her that all my happiness depends upon her consent to this. I have loved her for years; and at last she loves me. Yes, she loves me.’

  My mother gave a little cry of pleasure, and stepped forward. I checked her.

  ‘I love her, and she loves me,’ I continued. ‘But she refuses to marry me. And why? Because she fears to bring shame on an honourable name. You know her story; you are my mother. You, of all people in the world, should be the most jealous as to the honour of my name. You should know whom you would choose for my wife. Tell her—’

  I said no more. My mother advanced with outstretched arms, and in a moment my poor girl was weeping in her embrace, whilst words which I could not hear, but whose purport I could well guess, were being whispered to her. I had indeed been right in trusting to my mother’s noble nature.

  ‘Leave us for a little while, Basil,’ she said, as Philippa still sobbed upon her shoulder. ‘Come back in a quarter of an hour’s time.’

  I turned away, went past the screen which is sometimes put up to ensure privacy, out of the iron gate, into the narrow street. I watched the lounging, dignified-looking men and the dark-eyed women who went by; I looked at the merry urchins at play; and after what seemed an interminable quarter of an hour, returned to learn how my gentle counsel had succeeded with my suit.

  My mother and Philippa were sitting with their arms around each other. Philippa, as I entered the patio, raised her eyes to mine with a look of shy happiness. My mother rose and took the girl by the hand.

  ‘Basil,’ she said, ‘I have at last been able to persuade her that you and I, at least, rise above the conventionalities of what is called the world. I have told her that, knowing all I know, I see nothing to prevent her from being your wife. I have told her that simply for her own sweet sake I would rather see you marry her than any woman in the world. And, Basil, I fancy I have made her believe me.’

  With her soft eyes full of maternal love, my mother kissed me and left the court, I opened my arms to close them round the fairest woman in the world; and all the earth seemed bright and glorious to me. My great love had conquered! And yet, even in that moment of bliss, my thoughts involuntarily flew away to a snow-heaped road in England—to a white drift, under which for days and days a ghastly object had once been lying. A dream! A dream! It must have been a fearful dream! Forget it, Basil North, and be happy in the happiness you have at last won!

  CHAPTER X

  THE SWORD FALLS

  ONCE conquered—once convinced that the obstacles which her solicitude for my welfare raised against my wish were not insuperable—Philippa offered no further resistance; whilst as for me, every day that might be counted before I called her my wife seemed a day spoilt, if not entirely wasted. With my mother’s arguments to back my own fervent persuasion, I had no difficulty in winning Philippa’s consent to our marriage taking place as soon as the needful formalities could be complied with. And yet, although the day was fixed, it was at my instance changed, and the ceremony postponed for a while.

  My reason for deferring my crowning happiness was this. Knowing all that I knew, the question arose; under what name was Philippa to be married? Under her own maiden name; under the false name which for some time Sir Mervyn Ferrand, for reasons best known to himself, had made her assume; or under that name which, supposing Mrs Wilson had spoken the truth, she was legally entitled to bear? So anxious, so resolved was I that there should be no shadow of doubt as to the validity of her second and happier marriage, that after due consideration I determined to sacrifice my own inclinations, and postpone our wedding long enough to give me time to pay a flying visit to England, where I could do my best to obtain such evidence as would show that Philippa was the dead man’s widow.

  I made the excuse that I found many matters of business connected with my property that must be attended to before I could be married. I travelled to England—to Liverpool—as fast as I could. I stayed there for a week, and during that time made full researches into the life and death of a woman who, as Mrs Wilson said, had died on a certain date, and been buried under the name of Lucy Ferrand.

  The information I acquired as to her antecedents is of no consequence to my story. Whatever her faults may have been, her history was a sad one; indeed it seemed to me that the history of any woman who had been cursed by Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s love was a sad one. However, the result of my investigations was, in short, this: Ferrand had married the woman many years ago. They had parted by mutual consent. With his cynical carelessness, he had troubled no more about her; and, stranger still, she had not troubled him. She died on the date given by my informant. The question of identity could be easily settled
; so that if ever Philippa chose to claim the rights appertaining to Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s widow, she would have no difficulty in making that claim good. But I trusted that years might pass before she learned that the man was dead.

  I made my presence in England known to no one; in fact, I felt that in returning to my native country I ran a certain amount of risk. For all I knew to the contrary, there might be a warrant out against me. If suspicion as to the author of that night’s work had in any way been directed to Philippa, I, the partner of her flight, could not hope to escape free. However, I comforted myself by thinking that if danger menaced us I should have heard something about it, as after our first hurried start I had made no attempt to conceal our whereabouts. It would have been useless. My mother had friends in England, with whom she exchanged letters. I had an agent and lawyers, with whom, if only for financial reasons, I was bound to correspond. I had been obliged to write to my stolid William, and instruct him to get rid of the cottage as best he could, and to look out for a fresh place for himself. But all the same I did not care to let it be known that I was now in England.

  Whilst engaged upon raking up evidence on Philippa’s behalf, I did not neglect to make such enquiries as I could respecting the event which had happened that night near Roding. I found that, so far as the general public knew, the crime was still veiled in mystery. No one had been arrested; no one had been accused; no reason for the deed had been discovered, and as yet suspicion pointed to no one. Indeed, in spite of the hundred pounds reward offered by Government, it seemed that Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s murder was relegated to swell the list of undiscovered crimes. By this I knew that Mrs Wilson had kept her promise of silence; and now that months had gone by; now that public attention had been turned from the thrilling affair; now that Philippa seemed as far or farther than ever from giving any token, which suggested the awakening of recollection of what her wrong, her frenzy, had prompted her hand to do unknowingly, I dared to hope that any chance which remained of a revelation of the truth was reduced to a minimum. These results of my investigations and enquiries gave me immense relief, and my heart was all but gay as, armed with the proofs of the first Lady Ferrand’s death, I hurried back to Seville, Philippa, and the happiness which I vowed should be mine.