Much Darker Days | Page 5

a small chill
object.
It was a latch-key! I thrust it in my pocket with my other keys.
Then a thought occurred to me, and I chucked it over the hedge, to
serve as circumstantial evidence. Next I turned and went up the road,
springing my rattle and flashing my bull's-eye lantern on every side,
like Mr. Pickwick when he alarmed the scientific gentleman.
Suddenly, with a cry of horror, I stopped short. At my very feet, in the
little circle of concentrated light thrown by the lantern, lay a white

crushed, cylindrical mass.
That mass I had seen before in the warm summer weather--that mass,
once a white hat, had adorned the brows of that masher!
It was Sir Runan's topper!
CHAPTER IV.
--As A Hatter!
YES, the white hat, lying there all battered and crushed on the white
snow, must be the hat of Sir Runan! Who else but the tigerish aristocrat
that disdained the homely four-wheeler and preferred to walk five miles
to his victim on this night of dread--who else would wear the gay
gossamer of July in stormy December?
In that hat, thanks doubtless to its airy insouciant grace, he had won
Philippa; in that hat he would have bearded her, defied her, and cast her
off! The cruelty of man! The larger and bulkier crumpled heap which
lay on the road a little beyond the hat, that heap with all its outlines
already blurred by snow, that heap must be the baronet himself!
Oh, but this was vengeance, swift, deadly vengeance!
But how, but how had she wreaked it? She, already my heart whispered
she!
Was my peerless Philippa then a murderess?
Oh, say not so; call hers (ye would do so an she had been an Irish felon)
'the wild justice of revenge,' or the speedy execution of the outraged
creditor.
Killed by Philippa!
Yes, and why? The answer was only too obvious. She must have gone
forth to meet him, and to wring from him, by what means she might,

that quarter's salary which the dastard had left unpaid. Then my
thoughts flew to the door-key, the cause of that fierce family hatred
which burned between Philippa and her betrayer. That latch-key she
had wrested from him, it had fallen from her hand, and I--I had pitched
it into space!
Overcome with emotion, I staggered in the direction of the 'pike. All
the way, in the blinding, whirling snow, I traced the unobliterated prints
of a small fairy foot.
This was a dreary comfort! Philippa had gone before me; the prints of
the one small foot were hers. She must, then, have hopped all the way!
Could such a mode of progression be consistent with a feeling of guilt?
Could remorse step so gaily?
My man William, the Sphynx, opened the door to me. Assuming a
natural air, I observed:--
'Miss South is at home?'
'Yes, sir. Just come in, sir.'
'Where is she now?'
'Well, sir, she just is on the rampage. "I'll make 'is fur fly," she up and
sez, sez she, when she heard as you was hout. Not a nice young lady for
a small tea-party, sir,' he added, lowering his voice; 'a regular
out-and-outer your sister is, to be sure.'
The Sphynx, in spite of his stolidity, occasionally ventured upon some
slight liberty when addressing me.
I made a gay rejoinder, reflecting on the character of his own unmarried
female relations, and entered the room.
Philippa was sitting on the lofty, dark oak chimney-piece, with her feet
dangling unconventionally over the fireplace. The snow, melting from
her little boots and her hair, had made a large puddle on the floor.

I came up and stood waiting for her to speak, but she kept pettishly
swinging her small feet, as one who, by the action, means to signify
displeasure.
'Philippa,' I said sternly, 'speak to me.'
'Well, here's a gay old flare-up!' cried Philippa, leaping from the
chimney-piece, and folding her arms fiercely akimbo.
'Who are you? Where's the baby? You a brother; you're a pretty brother!
Is this the way you keep 'pointments with a poor girl? Who killed the
baby? You did--you all did it.'
Her words ran one into the other, as with an eloquence, which I cannot
hope to reproduce (and indeed my excellent publisher would not permit
it for a moment), she continued to dance derisively at me, and to heap
reproaches of the most vexatious and frivolous nature on my head.
'Philippa,' I remarked at last, 'you frivol too much.'
A sullen look settled on her face, and, with the aid of a chair, she
reseated herself in her former listless, drooping attitude upon the
chimney-piece.
On beholding these symptoms, on hearing these reproaches, a great
wave of joy swept over my heart. Manifestly, Philippa