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

trembling ran through her. She said nothing, but her cold hands clasped mine closer. I led her to the fire, which I stirred until it blazed brightly. She knelt before it and stretched out her hands for warmth. How pale she looked; how unlike the Philippa of old! But to my eyes how lovely!

      As I looked down at the fair woman kneeling at my feet, with her proud head bent as in shame, I knew intuitively that I should be called upon to keep my oath; and knowing this, I re-registered it in all its entirety.

      At last she raised her face to mine. In her eyes was a sombre fire, which until now I had never seen there. ‘Philippa! Philippa!’ I cried again.

      ‘Fetch a light,’ she whispered. ‘Let me see a friend’s face once more—if you are still my friend.’

      ‘Your friend, your true friend for ever,’ I said, as I hastened to obey her.

      As I placed the lamp on the table Philippa rose from her knees. I could now see that she was in deep mourning. Was the thought that flashed through me, that it might be she was a widow, one of joy or sorrow? I hope—I try to believe it was the latter.

      We stood for some moments in silence. My agitation, my rapture at seeing her once more seemed to have deprived me of speech. I could do little more than gaze at her and tell myself that I was not dreaming; that Philippa was really here; that it was her voice I had heard, her hands I clasped. Philippa it was, but not the Philippa of old!

      The rich warm glowing beauty seemed toned down. Her face had lost its exquisite colour. Moreover, it was as the face of one who has suffered—one who is suffering. To me it looked as if illness had refined it, as it sometimes will refine a face. Yet, if she had been ill, her illness could not have been of long duration. Her figure was as superb, her arms as finely rounded, as ever. She stood firm and erect. Yet I trembled as I gazed at that pale proud face and those dark solemn eyes. I dared not for the while ask her why she sought me.

      She was the first to break silence. ‘You are changed, Basil,’ she said.

      ‘Time changes everyone,’ I answered, forcing a smile.

      ‘Will you believe me,’ she continued, ‘when I say that the memory of your face as I saw it last has haunted even my most joyful moments? Ah me, Basil, had I been true to myself I think I might have learned to love you.’

      She spoke regretfully, and as one who has finished with life and its love. My heart beat rapidly; yet I knew her words were not spoken in order to hear me tell her that I loved her passionately as ever.

      ‘I have heard of you once or twice,’ she said softly. ‘You are rich now, they tell me, but unhappy.’

      ‘I loved you and lost you,’ I answered. ‘How could I be happy?’

      ‘And men can love like this?’ she said sadly. ‘All men are not alike then?’

      ‘Enough of me,’ I said. ‘Tell me of yourself. Tell me how I can aid you. Your husband—’

      She drew a sharp quick breath. The colour rushed back to her cheek. Her eyes glittered strangely. Nevertheless, she spoke calmly and distinctly.

      ‘Husband! I have none,’ she said.

      ‘Is he dead?’

      ‘No’—she spoke with surpassing bitterness—‘No; I should rather say I never was a wife. Tell me, Basil,’ she continued fiercely, ‘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