Much Darker Days | Page 3

of them. I was alone in the world.
You will not be surprised to hear it; the wretched have no friends. So
things went on for a year. I became worse instead of better. My gloom
deepened, my liver grew more and more confirmed in its morbid
inaction. These are not lover's rhapsodies, they merely show the state of
my body and mind, and explain what purists may condemn. In this
condition I heard without hypocritical regret that a distant relative (a
long-lost uncle) had conveniently left me his vast property. I cared only
because it enabled me to withdraw from the profession. I disposed of
my exhibition, or rather I let it go for a song. I simply handed over the
Tattooed Man, the Artillery Twins, and the Double-headed Serpent to
the first-comer, who happened to be a rural dean. Far in the deeps of
the country, near the little town of Roding, on a lonely highway, where
no man ever came, I took a 'pike. Here I dwelt like a hermit, refusing to
give change to the rare passers-by in carts and gigs, and attended by a
handy fellow, William Evans, stolid as the Sphynx, which word, for
reasons that may or may not appear later in this narrative, I prefer to
spell with a y, contrary to the best authorities and usual custom.
It was midwinter, and midnight. My room lay in darkness. Heavy snow
was falling. I went to the window and flattened my nose against the
pane.
'What,' I asked myself, 'is most like a cat looking out of a window?'

'A cat looking in at a window,' answered a silvery voice from the
darkness.
Flattened against the self-same pane was another nose, a woman's. It
was the lovely organ of mixed architecture belonging to Philippa! With
a low cry of amazement, I broke the pane: it was no idle vision, no case
of the 'horrors;' the cold, cold nose of my Philippa encountered my own.
The ice was now broken; she swept into my chamber, lovelier than ever
in her strange unearthly beauty, and a new sealskin coat. Then she
seated herself with careless grace, tilting back her chair, and resting her
feet on the chimney-piece.
'Dear Philippa,' I exclaimed politely, 'how is your husband?'
'Husband! I have none,' she hissed. 'Tell me, Basil, did you ever hate a
fellow no end?'
'Yes,' I answered, truly; for, like Mr. Carlyle, I just detested most
people, and him who had robbed me of Philippa most of all.
'Do you know what he did, Basil? He insisted on having a latch-key!
Did you ever hate a man?'
I threw out my arms. My heart was full of bitterness.
'He did more! He has refused to pay my last quarter's salary. Basil,
didn't you ever hate a man?'
My brain reeled at these repeated outrages.
'And where are you staying at present, Philippa? I hope you are pretty
comfortable?' I inquired, anxiously.
Philippa went on: 'My husband as was has chucked me. I was about to
have a baby. I bored him. I was in the way--in the family-way. Basil,
did you ever hate a fellow? If not, read this letter.'
She threw a letter towards me. She chucked it with all her old gracious
dexterity. It was dated from Monte Carlo, and ran thus:--

'As we don't seem quite to hit it off, I think I may as well finish this
business of our marriage. The shortest way to make things clear to your
very limited intelligence is to assure you that you are not my wife at all.
Before I married you I was the husband of the Live Mermaid. She has
died since then, and I might have married you over and over again; but
I was not quite so infatuated. I shall just run across and settle up about
this little affair on Wednesday. As you are five miles from the station,
as the weather is perfectly awful, as moreover I am a luxurious,
self-indulgent baronet and as this story would never get on unless I
walked, don't send to meet me. I would rather walk.'
Here was a pretty letter from a fond husband. 'But, ha! proud noble,' I
whispered to my heart, 'you and me shall meet to-morrow.'
'And where are you staying, Philippa?' I repeated, to lead the
conversation into a more agreeable channel.
'With a Mrs. Thompson,' she replied; 'a lady connected with Sir Runan.'
'Very well, let me call for your things tomorrow. I can pass myself off
as your brother, you know.'
'My half-brother,' said Philippa, blushing, 'on the mother's side.'
The brave girl thought of everything. The child of white parents, I
should have in vain pretended to be Philippa's full brother. They would
not have believed me