Dark Days and Much Darker Days: A Detective Story Club Christmas Annual. David Brawn

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СКАЧАТЬ ‘did you ever hate a man?’

      ‘Yes,’ I answered emphatically and truly. Hate a man! From the moment I saw the wretch with whom Philippa fled I hated him. Now that my worst suspicions were true, what were my feelings?

      I felt that my lips compressed themselves. I knew that when I spoke my voice was as stern and bitter as Philippa’s. ‘Sit down,’ I said, ‘and tell me all. Tell me how you knew I was here—where you have come from.’

      Let me but learn whence she came, and I felt sure the knowledge would enable me to lay my hand on the man I wanted. Ah! Life now held something worth living for!

      ‘I have been here some months,’ said Philippa.

      ‘Here! In this neighbourhood?’

      ‘Yes. I have seen you several times. I have been living at a house about three miles away. I felt happier in knowing that in case of need I had one friend near me.’

      I pressed her hands. ‘Go on,’ I said, hoarsely.

      ‘He sent me here. He had grown weary of me. I was about to have a child. I was in his way—a trouble to him.’

      Her scornful accent as she spoke was indescribable.

      ‘Philippa! Philippa!’ I groaned. ‘Had you sunk so low as to do his bidding?’

      She laid her hand on my arm. ‘More,’ she said. ‘Listen! Before we parted he struck me. Struck—me! He cursed me and struck me! Basil, did you ever hate a man?’

      I threw out my arms. My heart was full of rage and bitterness. ‘And you became this man’s mistress rather than my wife!’ I gasped. Neither my love nor her sorrow could stop this one reproach from passing my lips.

      She sprang to her feet. ‘You!’ she cried. ‘Do you—think—do you imagine—? Read! Only this morning I learnt it.’

      She threw a letter towards me—threw it with a gesture of loathing, as one throws a nauseous reptile from one’s hand. I opened it mechanically.

      ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you were right in thinking I had fallen low. So low that I went where he chose to send me. So low that I would have forgiven the ill treatment of months—the blow, even. Why? Because until this morning he was my husband. Read the letter. Basil, did you ever hate a man?’

      Before I read I glanced at her in alarm. She spoke with almost feverish excitement. Her words followed one another with headlong rapidity. But who could wonder at this mood with a woman who had such a wrong to declare? She grew calm beneath my glance.

      ‘Read,’ she said, beseechingly. ‘Ah, God! I have fallen low; but not so low as you thought.’

      She buried her face in her hands whilst I opened and read the letter. It was dated from Paris, and ran so:

      ‘As it seems to me that we can’t exactly hit it off together, I think the farce had better end. The simplest way to make my meaning clear is to tell you that when I married you I had a wife alive. She has died since then; and I dare say, had we managed to get on better together, I should have asked you to go through the marriage ceremony once more. However, as things are now, so they had better stop. You have the satisfaction of knowing that morally you are blameless.

      ‘If, like a sensible girl, you are ready to accept the situation, I am prepared to act generously, and do the right thing in money matters. As I hate to have anything hanging over me unsettled, and do not care to trust delicate negotiations to a third party, I shall run across to England and see you. I shall reach Roding on Wednesday evening. Do not send to the station to meet me; I would rather walk.’

      The letter was unsigned. My blood boiled as I read it; yet, in spite of my rage, I felt a grim humour as I realised the exquisite cynicism possessed by the writer. Here was a man striking a foul and recreant blow at a woman whom he once loved—a blow that must crush her to the earth. His own words confess him a rogue, a bigamist; and yet he can speak coolly about money arrangements; can even enter into petty details concerning his approaching visit! He must be without shame, without remorse; a villain, absolutely heartless!

      I folded the letter and placed it in my breast. I wished to keep it, that I might read it again and again during the next twenty-four hours. Long hours they would be. This letter would aid me to make them pass. Philippa made no objection to my keeping it. She sat motionless, gazing gloomily into the fire.

      ‘You knew the man’s right name and title?’ I asked.

      ‘Yes, from the first. Ah! There I wronged myself, Basil! The rank, the riches perhaps, tempted me; and—Basil, I loved him then.’

      Oh, the piteous regret breathed in that last sentence! I ground my teeth, and felt that there was a stronger passion than even love. ‘That man and I meet tomorrow,’ I told myself softly.

      ‘But you spoke of a child?’ I said, turning to Philippa.

      ‘It is dead—dead—dead!’ she cried, with a wild laugh. ‘A fortnight ago it died. Dead! My grief then; my joy today! See! I am in mourning; tomorrow I shall put that mourning off. Why mourn for what is a happy event? No black after tomorrow.’

      Her mood had once more become excited. As before, her words came with feverish rapidity. I took her hands in mine; they were now burning.

      ‘Philippa, dearest, be calm. You will see that man no more?’

      ‘I will see him no more. It is to save myself from seeing him that I come to you. Little right have I to ask aid from you; but your words came back to me in my need. There was one friend to turn to. Help me, Basil! I come to you as a sister may come to a brother.’

      ‘As a sister to a brother,’ I echoed. ‘I accept the trust,’ I added, laying my lips reverentially on her white forehead, and vowing mentally to devote my life to her.

      ‘You will stay here now?’ I asked.

      ‘No, I must go back. Tomorrow I will come—tomorrow. Basil, my brother, you will take me far away—far away?’

      ‘Where you wish. Every land is as one to me now.’

      She had given me the right, a brother’s right, to stand between her and the villain who had wronged her. Tomorrow that man would be here! How I longed for the moment which would bring us face to face!

      Philippa rose. ‘I must go,’ she said.

      I pressed food and wine upon her: she would take nothing. She made, however, no objection to my accompanying her to her home. We left the house by the casement by which she entered. Together we stepped out on the snow-whitened road. She took my arm, and we walked towards her home.

      I asked her with whom she was staying. She told me with a widow-lady and two children, named Wilson. She went to them at Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s command. Mrs Wilson, he told her, was a distant connection of his own, and he had made arrangements for her to look after Philippa during her illness.

      It was but another proof of the man’s revolting cynicism. To send the woman who falsely believed herself to be his wife to one of his own relations! Oh, I would have a full reckoning with him!

      ‘What name do they know you by?’ I asked.

      ‘He СКАЧАТЬ