Much Darker Days | Page 2

was a sea cook on board a Peninsular and Oriental
steamer. His profession thus prevented him from being a permanent
resident in this, or indeed in any other country.
Our first meeting was brought about in a most prosaic way. Her mother
consulted me professionally about Philippa's prospects. We did not at
that time come to terms. I thought I might conclude a more
advantageous arrangement if Philippa's heart was touched, if she would
be mine. But she did not love me. Moreover, she was ambitious; she
knew, small blame to her, how unique she was.
'The fact is,' she would observe when I pressed my suit, 'the fact is I
look higher than a mere showman, even if he can write M.D. after his
name.' Philippa soon left the circuit 'to better herself.'
In a short time a telegram from her apprised me that she was an orphan.
I flew to where she lodged, in a quiet, respectable street, near Ratcliff
Highway. She expressed her intention of staying here for some time.
'But alone, Philippa?'
(She was but eight-and-thirty).

'Not so much alone as you suppose,' she replied archly.
This should have warned me, but again I passionately urged my plea. I
offered most attractive inducements. A line to herself in the bills!
Everything found!
'Basil,' she observed, blushing in her usual partial manner, 'you are a
day after the fair.'
'But there are plenty of fairs,' I cried, 'all of which we attend regularly.
What can you mean? Has another----'
'He hev,' said Philippa, demurely but decidedly.
'You are engaged?' She raised her lovely hand, and was showing me a
gold wedding circlet, when the door opened, and a strikingly handsome
man of some forty summers entered.
There was something written in his face (a dark contusion, in fact,
under the left eye) which told me that he could not be a pure and
high-souled Christian gentleman.
'Basil South, M.D.' said Philippa, introducing us. 'Mr. Baby Farmer'
(obviously a name of endearment), and again a rosy blush crept round
her neck in the usual partial manner, which made one of her most
peculiar charms.
I bowed mechanically, and, amid a few dishevelled remarks on the
weather, left the house the most disappointed showman in England.
'Cur, sneak, coward, villain!' I hissed when I felt sure I was well out of
hearing. 'Farewell, farewell, Philippa!'
To drown remembrance and regret, I remained in town, striving in a
course of what moralists call 'gaiety' to forget what I had lost.
How many try the same prescription, and seem rather to like it! I often
met my fellow-patients.

One day, on the steps of the Aquarium, I saw the man whom I
suspected of not being Philippa's husband.
'Who is that cove?' I asked.
'Him with the gardenia?' replied a friend, idiomatically. 'That is Sir
Runan Errand, the amateur showman--him that runs the Live Mermaid,
the Missing Link, and Koot Hoomi, the Mahatma of the Mountain.'
'What kind of man is he?'
'Just about the usual kind of man you see generally here. Just about as
hot as they make them. Mad about having a show of his own; crazed on
two-headed calves.'
'Is he married?'
'If every lady who calls herself Lady Errand had a legal title to do so,
the "Baronetage" would have to be extended to several supplementary
volumes.'
And this was Philippa's husband!
What was she among so many?
My impulse was to demand an explanation from the baronet, but for
reasons not wholly unconnected with my height and fighting weight, I
abstained.
I did better. I went to my hotel, called for the hotel book, and registered
an oath, which is, therefore, copyright. I swore that in twenty-five years
I would be even with him I hated. I prayed, rather inconsistently, that
honour and happiness might be the lot of her I had lost. After that I felt
better.
CHAPTER II.
--A Villain's By-Blow.

PHILIPPA was another's! Life was no longer worth living. Hope was
evaluated; ambition was blunted. The interest which I had hitherto felt
in my profession vanished. All the spring, the elasticity seemed taken
out of my two Bounding Brothers from the Gutta Percha coast. For
months I did my work in a perfunctory manner. I added a Tattooed
Man to my exhibition and a Two-headed Snake, also a White-eyed
Botocudo, who played the guitar, and a pair of Siamese Twins, who
were fired out of a double-barrelled cannon, and then did the lofty
trapeze business. They drew, but success gave me no pleasure. So long
as I made money enough for my daily needs (and whisky was cheap),
what recked I? My mood was none of the sweetest. My friends fell off
from me; ay, they fell like nine-pins whenever I could get within reach