Produced by David Widger MUCH DARKER DAYS by Andrew Lang [AKA A. Huge Longway] 1884 PREFACE A belief that modern Christmas fiction is too cheerful in tone, too artistic in construction, and too original in motive, has inspired the author of this tale of middle-class life. He trusts that he has escaped, at least, the errors he deplores, and has set an example of a more seasonable and sensational style of narrative. Contents: CHAPTER I.—The Curse (Registered). CHAPTER II.—A Villain’s By-Blow. CHAPTER III.—Mes Gages! Mes Gages! CHAPTER IV.—As A Hatter! CHAPTER V.—The White Groom. CHAPTER VI.—Hard As Nails. CHAPTER VII.—Rescue And Retire! CHAPTER VIII.—Local Colour. CHAPTER IX.—Saved! Saved! CHAPTER X.—Not Too Mad, But Just Mad Enough. CHAPTER XI.—A Terrible Temptation. CHAPTER XII.—Judge Juggins. CHAPTER XIII.—Cleared Up. (From The ‘Green Park Gazette.’) MUCH DARKER DAYS. CHAPTER I.--The Curse (Registered). WHEN this story of my life, or of such parts of it as are not deemed wholly unfit for publication, is read (and, no doubt, a public which devoured ‘Scrawled Black’ will stand almost anything), it will be found that I have sometimes acted without prim cautiousness--that I have, in fact, wallowed in crime. Stillicide and Mayhem I (rare old crimes!) are child’s play to _me_, who have been an ‘accessory after the fact!’ In excuse, I can but plead two things-the excellence of the opportunity to do so, and the weakness of the resistance which my victim offered. If you cannot allow for these, throw the book out of the railway-carriage window! You have paid your money, and to the verdict of your pale morality or absurd sense of art in fiction I am therefore absolutely indifferent. You are too angelic for me; I am too fiendish for you. Let us agree to differ. I say nothing about my boyhood. Twenty-five years ago a poor boy-but no matter. _I_ was that boy! I hurry on to the soaring period of manhood, ‘when the strength, the nerve, the intellect is or should be at its height,’ or _are_ or should be at _their_ height, if you _must_ have grammar in a Christmas Annual. _My_ nerve was at its height: I was thirty. Yet, what was I then? A miserable moonstruck mortal, duly entitled to write M.D. (of Tarrytown College, Alaska) after my name--for the title of Doctor is useful in the profession--but with no other source of enjoyment or emotional recreation in a cold, casual world. Often and often have I written M.D. after my name, till the glowing pleasure palled, and I have sunk back asking, ‘Has life, then, no more than this to offer?’ Bear with me if I write like this for ever so many pages; bear with me, it is such easy writing, and only thus can I hope to make you understand my subsequent and slightly peculiar conduct. How rare was hers, the loveliness of the woman I lost--of her whose loss brought me down to the condition I attempt to depict!