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

‘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.

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 names; 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.