The Detective Club: Dark Days & Much Darker Days

by Hugh Conway

  This was the temptation with which I wrestled during those long hours. Again and again I was on the point of yielding. Once or twice I rose to my feet with the fixed determination of destroying that paper, and letting things take their own course. Once or twice I even forced my steps some distance in the direction of home, but each time I turned, went back to the sheltered spot, threw myself again on the ground, and fought the battle anew.

  No, I could not do this thing. I was a gentleman and a man of honour. Paltry as the price was when compared with what it might buy, I could not pay it. Although my whole soul was merged in Philippa’s welfare, I could not, even for her sake, suffer an innocent man to be done unjustly to death. The crime was too black, too base, too contemptible! I felt sure that, with the man’s blood morally on my head, the supremest joys which life could give would not lull my conscience to rest. I knew it would not be long before remorse and shame drove me to commit suicide.

  Let the preachers say that sin is easy; that wrong is more alluring than right. There may be some sins which are easily committed, but I dare to say that there are others which the average man, educated by the code of honour, and dreading shame and cowardice, finds it far easier to avoid than to bring himself to commit. No, every sin is not easy!

  But all the same my struggle was a mortal one. At times I fancy—it may be but fancy—that even now my mind bears some traces of that conflict; a conflict in which my victory meant ruin to my nearest and dearest. Was I not right when I said that my temptation was an all but unparalleled one? Yet in reasserting this let me humbly disclaim all credit for not having yielded. I strove to yield, but could not.

  It was only when I had conquered, and put the temptation from me, that I was able to see how utterly useless such a crime as that urged upon me would have been. Doubtless Philippa, sooner or later, would have learnt that Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s supposed murderer had paid the penalty of the crime. How would it have fared with us then—then, when reparation was placed out of the question? Knowing as I did every thought of my wife’s, every turn of her impulsive, sensitive nature, I was fain to tell myself that such news would be simply her death-blow.

  But what was to be done? Finding that I could not compass the treachery which I dared to meditate, I cast about for another loop-hole of escape. What if I were to return to England, and accuse myself of the crime? To ensure Philippa’s safety I would right willingly give away my own life. It showed the state to which my mind was reduced when I say that I considered this scheme in all its bearings, and for a while thought it furnished a solution to my difficulties! I wonder if my brain was wandering?

  I laughed in bitter merriment as the absurdity of my new plan forced itself upon me. I had forgotten Philippa, and what the effect of such a sacrifice would be upon her. I had forgotten that she loved me, even as I loved her; that my dying for her sake—for the sake of saving her from the consequences of that gruesome night—would make an expiation, if any were due from her, the most fearful which human or diabolical ingenuity could devise.

  No! Neither by sinning against my fellow-man nor by a voluntary sacrifice of my own life could I save her. After all my protracted mental struggles, all my lonely hours of anguish and wild scheming, I was forced to return to the point from which I started. Philippa must surrender herself, and free this innocent man. There was, indeed, no alternative!

  And a day gone, or all but gone! The trial on the twentieth! To reach England—to reach Tewnham in time to stop that trial, we must travel day and night. Day and night across sunny or starlit Spain—across pleasant France—we must speed on, until we reached our own native land, now lying in all the rich calm of the early autumn. I must lead my wife, my love, to her doom!

  I rose from the ground. I felt weary, and as if I had been cudgelled in every limb. I dragged myself slowly back to my home. ‘She must be told; she must be told. But how to tell her?’ I muttered as I went along. My appearance must have been wretched; for I received the impression that several grave-looking Sevillaños turned and looked after me as I passed by. Even as a cowardly felon who drags himself slowly to the scaffold, I dragged myself to the gate of our pleasant home, and on tottering feet passed into that fragrant space in which the happiest hours of my life had been spent.

  As I entered, the remembrance of some tale which once I had read flashed through my mind—a tale of the ferocity of a bygone age. It was of a prisoner who was forced by his captors to strike a dagger into the heart of the woman he loved. I know not where the tale is to be found or when I read it.

  But it seemed to me that mine was a parallel case.

  Pity me!

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE LAST HOPE

  THEY were sitting in the courtyard, my mother and my wife. They looked the embodiment of serene happiness. Their large fans—the use of the fan came like an inspiration to Philippa, my mother acquired it after much practice—were languidly waving to and fro. Philippa’s rounded arm was outstretched; her fair left hand was in the clear water which fell from the fountain and filled a white marble basin, in which the gold carp darted about in erratic tacks. She was moving her fingers gently backwards and forwards, startling the timid fish, and half smiling at their terror. It seemed to me that my mother was remonstrating at the uproar she was creating in the brilliant-coated republic.

  That picture is still in my mind. That picture! I can sit now in my chair, lay down my pen, and call up every picture of that time. Nothing, save the grief, has ever, or ever will, fade from my memory.

  It was well for both of us that I had fought out the battle with myself in solitude, where no eye could see me, where I could see no one. Even as it was, knowing what a change my news must work, I paused, and a ghost of the day’s temptation rose before me. But it rose too late. The die was cast. Philippa had seen me, and my mother’s eyes followed hers. I braced myself up, and went towards them with as jaunty a manner as I could assume. My mother began a mock tirade on my shameful desertion of Philippa and herself. Her words carried no meaning to my ears. My eyes met those of my wife.

  With her I made no attempt at concealment. Where was the good? The worst, the very worst, had come. My eyes must have told her the truth.

  I saw her sweet face catch fire with alarm. I saw her lips quiver. I saw the look of anguish flash into her eyes; yet I knew that I was helpless, utterly helpless.

  She rose. I made some conventional excuse, and went to my room. In a moment Philippa was at my side.

  ‘Basil, husband, love,’ she whispered, ‘it has come!’

  I laid my head on the table and sobbed aloud. Philippa’s arms were wreathed around my neck.

  ‘Dearest, I knew it must come. I have known it ever so long. Basil, do not weep. Once more I tell you I am not worth such love as yours.’

  I covered her dear face with kisses. I strained her to my heart. I lavished words of love upon her. She smiled faintly, then sighed hopelessly—a sigh which almost broke my heart.

  ‘Tell me all, my love,’ she said calmly. ‘Let me know the very worst.’

  I could not speak; for the life of me the words would not come. With trembling hands I drew out the newspaper, and pointed to the fatal lines. She read them with a calm which almost alarmed me.

  ‘I knew it must be,’ was all she said.

  I threw myself on my knees before her. I embraced her. I was half distraught. Save for my wild ejaculations of undying love, there was silence for many minutes between us.

  Presently, with gentle force, she raised my head and looked at me with her sweet and sorrowful eyes.

  ‘Basil, my dearest, you have been wrong. The right is right, the wrong is wrong. See what you have done! Had you not striven to save me, only I should have had to answer for this. Now it is you and me, and perhaps a third—an innocent, stainless life, that will be wrecked.’

  ‘Spare me! Spare me!’ I said. ‘As you love me, spare me!’

  She kissed me. ‘Dearest, forgive me. I should not blame you. Only I
am to blame.’ Then, with a sudden change in her voice, ‘When do we start for England, Basil?’

  Although I expected this question, I trembled and shuddered as I heard it. Too well I knew what England meant. It meant Philippa’s standing in open court, in a prisoner’s dock, the centre of a gaping crowd, self-accused of the murder of her husband! And as I pictured this, once more, and for the last time, the temptation shook me.

  I spoke, but I averted my eyes from hers. I could not meet them. My voice was husky and strange; it sounded like the voice of another man. A sort of undercurrent of thought ran through me, that if Philippa would but share it, I could bear any burden, any dishonour.

  ‘Listen!’ I said, in quick accents. ‘We are far away; safe. We love each other. We can be happy. Let the man take his chance. What does anything matter, so long as we love and are together?’

  I felt that her eyes were seeking mine. I felt a change in the clasp of her hand. I knew that she was nobler and better than I.

  ‘Basil,’ she said softly, and speaking like one in a dream, ‘it was not my husband, not the man I love, who said that. I forgive you for the sake of your great love, for the sake of all you have done, or tried to do, for me. Tell me now, when do we start for England?’

  Her words brought back my senses. Never in the wildest height of my passion had I loved Philippa as I loved her at that moment. I besought her pardon. She gave it, and once more repeated her question.

  With the calm of settled despair I consulted the railway-guide, and found that if we left Seville tomorrow morning by the first train, we might, by travelling day and night, early on the morning of the twentieth reach the town in which the trial was to be held. I made the result of my researches known to my wife; and upon my assuring her that we should have time to spare, she left all the arrangement of the journey to me.

  After this, another painful question arose. Was my mother to be told? Philippa, who may, perhaps, in her secret heart have craved for a woman’s support and sympathy in her approaching trial, at first insisted that my mother should be taken into our confidence—a confidence which, alas, in a few days’ time would be gossip to the world. I besought her to waive the point, to spare my mother’s feelings until the very last moment. We could not take her with us on our hurried journey. We were young; she was old. The fatigue, combined with the grief, would be more than her frame could endure. I could not bear to think of her waiting lonely in Seville for the bad news which she knew must come in a day or two from England. Let us say nothing respecting the wretched errand on which we are bound. Let us depart in secret, and leave some plausible explanation behind us.

  To my relief, Philippa at last consented to this. Then, after a long, tearful embrace, we steeled ourselves to join my mother at the evening meal, and to bear ourselves so that she should suspect nothing of the tempest within our hearts. We did not for very long subject ourselves to this strain upon our nerves. It seemed to me now that every moment spent otherwise than alone with my wife was a precious treasure wasted, a loss which I should for ever regret. So very early we pleaded fatigue, and retired to our rest. Such rest!

  Philippa bade my mother good-night with an embrace so long and passionate that I feared it would awaken alarm, especially when it was succeeded by my own veiled, but scarcely less emotional, adieu. For who could say that we should ever meet again? I do not believe it struck Philippa that in accompanying her I was running the slightest risk. Had she thought so, she would have insisted upon going alone. But I knew that the part I had played in that night’s work would probably bring a severe punishment upon my own head. What did I care for that?

  Silently and sadly in the retirement of our room we made our preparations for the journey, which began with the morn. There was no need to cumber ourselves with much luggage. We should rest in no bed until the trial was over. What resting-place might then be Philippa’s, heaven only knew! So our packing was soon completed.

  Then I wrote a letter, to be given to or found by my mother in the morning. I told her that an important matter took me post-haste to England; that Philippa had determined to accompany me; that I would write as soon as we reached London. I gave no further explanation. I hoped she would attribute my sudden flight to the erratic nature which she often averred I possessed.

  After all, the deception mattered little. In a week’s time nothing would matter. Grief, overwhelming grief, would be my portion; a portion which, by her affection for me and for Philippa, my poor mother would be forced to share.

  All being now ready for our start, we strove to win some hours of sleep. Our efforts were mocked to scorn. Through that, the last night we might spend alone together, I believe neither my wife nor myself closed an eyelid. Let me draw a veil over my wild distress and Philippa’s calm acquiescence in her fate. Some grief is too sacred to describe.

  Morning! Bright, broad, clear, cool, odorous morning! Our sleeplessness had at least spared us the anguish of awaking, and, whilst for a moment glorying in the beauty of the world, to remember what this morning meant to us. Giving ourselves ample time to reach the railway-station, we crept from our room, and, with eyes full of blinding tears, crossed the pleasant patio. I paused in the centre, and plucking a lovely spray from the great orange tree, kissed it and gave it to my wife. Without a word she placed it in the bosom of her dress. As she drew her mantle aside to do so, for the first time I noticed that she wore the very dress which clad her on that fatal night. Although it was utterly unsuited to the almost tropical heat through which we should have to travel, I dared not remonstrate with her. Now, of all times, her slightest wish should be my law.

  Noiselessly I undid the massive studded wooden gate, which at night-time closed the entrance to the patio. Unseen, we stepped into the shady, narrow street. Our luggage was light. I could carry it with ease to the station, which was not a great distance off. We were there only too soon.

  We had to wait some time ere the train, which, following the example of the true Spaniard, declines on any consideration to be hurried, made its appearance. We took our seats in silence. At last the dignified train condescended to move onwards. We sat side by side, and gazed and gazed in the direction of the beautiful city from which we were flying; gazed until we saw the very last of it, until even the great towering Giralda was lost to view. Then, and only then, I think we fully realised to what end we were speeding.

  The next three days and nights seem now little more to me than a whirling dream. On and on we went to work out our fate; over the same ground which I had traversed, with scarcely less agitated feelings, some months ago. I ground my teeth when I thought how little my strenuous and seemingly successful efforts had availed. Now, not from any omission of precaution; not because the law compelled: not by the exercise of force; but simply on account of the great dictum of right and wrong, we were, of our own accord retracing our steps to face the danger from which we had fled. Oh, bitter irony of destiny!

  What was money to me now? Nothing but so much dross! It could do one thing, only one, that gold which I lavished so freely on that journey. It could assure that Philippa and I might travel alone. It could give us privacy for the time that journey lasted, that was all!

  Yet, although alone, we spoke but little. Our thoughts were not such as can be expressed by words. Her hand in mine, her head on my shoulder—sleeping when we could sleep, waking and looking into each other’s faces—knowing that every mile of sunny or starlit country over which we passed brought us nearer to the end. Ah! I understood then how it is that lovers who are menaced by some great sorrow can kill themselves, and die smiling in each other’s arms! We might have done so; but our deaths would have left to perish that stranger whom we were speeding to save.

  So, as in a dream, the hours, the days, the nights, went by. We might have been travelling through the fairest scenery in the world, or through the most arid desert. I scarcely troubled to glance out of the carriage window. The world for me was inside.

  It was after we left Paris
—Paris, which today seemed all but within a stone’s-throw of London—that I aroused myself, and braced my energies to discuss finally with Philippa our proper plan of action. I felt that my right course would be to go straight to some solicitor, tell the tale, and ask him to put matters in train. But I could not bring myself to do this. Our secret was as yet our own. Moreover, through the misery of those hours, one ray of hope had broken upon me. If Philippa could be brought to yield to my guidance, to follow my instructions, it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that we might be saved, and saved with clean hands.

  ‘Dearest,’ I whispered, ‘tonight we shall be in London.’

  Her fingers tightened on mine. ‘And at Tewnham?’ she said. ‘We shall be in time?’

  ‘In ample time. But, Philippa, listen—’

  ‘Basil, as you love me, not one word to tempt, to dissuade me!’

  ‘Not one; but listen. Sweetest, if you will be guided by me, even now all may go well. This man—’

  ‘The poor man who is standing in my place?’

  ‘Yes; listen. Heaven forbid that I should tempt you. Think; he is, no doubt, a man of a lowly station in life. Philippa, I am rich, very rich.’

  ‘I do not understand you,’ she said, pressing her hand to her brow.

  ‘Money will compensate for anything. Let him stand his trial. He is innocent. If there is justice in the land, he may, he must be found not guilty.’

  ‘But the agony of mind he must pass through!’

  ‘For that I will pay him over and over again. He may be but a country boor, to whom a thousand pounds would be inexhaustible wealth. But, whatever his station, the compensation sent to him by an unknown hand shall make him bless the day which laid him under the false accusation. Reflect, look at the matter in every light. I swear to you that in my opinion we may, with a clear conscience, await the result of the trial.’