Newspaper Page Text
thousand times And „ I knew
No! a no! yet
there was no safety for her in England; and
with whom could she leave England sav«
w ith me!
1 dared not urge upon her my true reason
for fight. It was my greatest hope that the
events of that night had left her mind w hen
the madness left her, never to be recalled.
And now time was pressing; ten days had
passed by. The glorious frost still kept oui
counsel, but it could not last forever. The
time must come when the white heaps ol
snow would melt and vanish away, and then
Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s cold dead face would
appear, and tell the tale of his death to the
first passer by.
I had scarcely quitted the house since that
night. Yet one day a kind of morbid fas
cination li id led me to walk along the road
toward Roding, and to halt at what 1
ju Iged to be the spot where I laid the dead
man by the side of the road. I fancied 1
could single out the very drift under which
that awful thing lay, and a dreary tempta
tion to probe the white heap with my stick,
and make sure, assailed me. I resisted i fc,
and turned away from the spot.
There was a certain amount of traffic on
the road. By now the snow had been
beaten down by cart whe ds an l people’s
f >ek so that it was quite possible to walk
from one place to another. As I reached
the house from which Philippa fled to seek
rafuge with me, I encountered Mrs. Wilson.
was going to pass without any sign ol
recognition, but she stopped me.
“1 thought you were going to take your
ghster away?” she sai l.
“Lady Ferrand was unfortunately taken
very ill when she left you. She is now hard¬
ly well enough to be removed.”
“Has she lizard from Sir Mervyn?” asked
Mrs. Wilson, abruptly.
“Not to my knowledge,” I replied.
“If is strange. You know, I suppose, thal
he was expected at my house that nigh: ?”
“Certiinlv Ido. lc was for that reason
my sist »r left you.”
Mrs. Wilson looked at me thoughtfully.
“She wi.l not meet him again?'’
“Never,” I said, thinking as I spoke that
my words bore a meaning only known tc
myself.
“Does she hate him?” she asked, su 1
d -niy.
“She has been cruelly wronged,” I said,
evasively.
Hue laid her hand o:i my arm. “Listen, ’
she said. “If I thought she hated him I
wv.uld see her before sPe leaves, an l tell her
something. If I thought he hated h-r 1
would tell him. I will wait and see.”
She t in ned away and w alked on, leaving m<
to make the bast of her enigmatical words.
Bhe was evidently a strange woman, an l I
felt mere sure than ever was in some way
mixed up with Sir Mervvn Ferrand’s early
life. .•» had a great mind to follow her ai> J
Tmand an explanation, but cauti m told me
that the l©3i I sai 1 to h ?r t!i > I) *tter. It was
from this woman’s ki w - lx* of the rela¬
tionship between 1’ and the dead
man that, when tae tad night was
lai 1 bare, the great.-*. ...uger must arise.
After walking a few paces Mrs. W i.son
turned and came back to me. “Wive me an
addr ss” she said, “I may want t ) write tc
yon.” . let¬
1 hesitated; then I told her that any
ters sent to my bankers in London would
reach m3 sooner or later. It was tt>o soon to
excite suspicion by concealment of one’s
movement la.
It was after I had gaz^d at that white
tomb by the roadside that my impatience :o
remove Philippi grew fiercer an l fiercer,
Moreover, 1 ha 1 at last n>ide up. my mi.id
what to d j with my precious charge. A c
'//Ml
_ I ^
-—• .
' f -
- .
- - tm p I
;- - Ui :■ 1
W
i
& 'L X 7/ re
V
•Jt«? I
vL-f J j. , * /
ljjjj|i jP i v ll
'nYf liX'v A % \
r..
IT" ! J
\nTrV **; *
c*.
“Has she heard from Sir Mervyn ?” asked
Mr*. Wilson.
soon as she would be well enough to bear the
journey, I resolved to take her to Ijondon
and place her iu the halide of one of the
truest, noblest, tenderest women in the
world—my mother. join
She was in London, waiting for me to
her. I had written, telling her that the se¬
rous illness of a friend prevented me from
leaving my homo for soma dav.i. Now 1 iv
s< •, ed to go to her, a id tell * *r all Ph lip
p Ts sad tale—all save tha one dirk chapter
of which she herself, I hoped, knew notlcn.g.
I would take her to my mo'her. 1 would toll
my mother how 1 loved her; 1 would appeal
to her love for me, ami ask her to take my
poor stricken girl to her heart, even us she
would take a.daughter; and 1 dared tohope
that, if only for my sake, my prayer would
l:e granted.
Philippa was now thoroughly convales
cent. As I lay down niy pen for a moment
and think o mi that tirn% with its fears an l
troubles, it is a marvel to me that I could
have dared to wait so long before removing
her from the neighborhood. I can
tribute my lingering to the sense of fatality
that all would go right, or to the professional
instinct which forbade me urging a patient
to do anything w hich might retard recovery;
but the time had at last come.
Fava for her quiet and sub-due 1 manmr,
my love was almost her old self again. Her
words an l manner to me were tender, affec
tioaate and sisterly. I need hardly say that
during that time no word croase l my lijis
which I would have recalled. Love, if not
the thought of it, 1 had laid asi le until hap
pier days dawned; for I say it advisedly,
and at risk of censure—Philippa was to me
pU re and innocent as on the day when flrd
WH m j t - her hands were stain 3d with the
blood of Sir Mervyn Terrand, she knew it
not. Her wrongs ha 1 goade l her to mad
ness, and her madness was res]>onsible for
the act, not she herself.
The man’s mm * never crossed her li s.
For all she spoka of him he might never have
existed, or. at the mo-t. beau but a part of a
fo-goiten dream. As soon ts s'.*» was well
eu- u;h to rise* Iro n her b*d, an 1 I could for
hours enjoy her society, we ta k *•! of mm/
tilings; but never of Sir Mervyn Terrain!
M id immediate
But, nevertheless there were times when
her look distressed m\ Now and again 1
found her gazing at me with anxious,
troubled eves, as if trying to real some#
thing which I was hiding from her. One.*
she asked me how she came to my bouse
that night. I said
“Out of the whirling snow,” os
lightly as 1 could. “You came in a high
state of fever and delirium.”
“Where had I been? What had I been
doing 1”
“You came straight from Mrs. Wilson’s, I
suppose. I know no more,”
Then she sighed and turned her head
away; but I soon found her troubled dark
eyes again fired on my own. I could do
nothing but meet their ga bo bravely, and
pray that my poor love might never, never
be able to fill those hours which were at
present a blank to her.
At last, exac'ly a fortnight from the fatal
day, we left my homo. 1 was now what is
legally termed an accessory after the act,
and was making ©very effort to save the
poor girl from justice. In order to avert
suspicion, I decided it was bettor not to shut
up my house; so I left the faithful William
to take care of it, and await my instruc¬
tions. At present it was advisable that anv
inquirers should learn that 1 had gone to
London with my sister, ami that the time
of our return was uncertain. By and by,
if all went well, I could get rid of my cot¬
tage in an ordinary way. I, for one, should
never wish to visit the place again.
Philippa acquiesced in all my arrange¬
ments. She was quits willing to accompany
no to town. She trusted me with childish
simplicity. “But., Basil, afterward—what
afterward!” she aske I.
Even in the midst of the menacing peril it
was all 1 could do to refrain from kneeling
at her feet and telling her that my love
would solve the question of the future.
“ l have a surprise for you in lioudon,” l
said, as cheerfully a< 1 could. “ Trust
yours df to me; you will not regret it.”
Bhe took my hand. “Whom else have 1
to trust?” she said simply. “ Basil, you
have been very good to me. 1 have mad**
your life miserable: it is too lute lo atoeie;
but I shall never forget, these da vs ”
Her eyes were full of tears. 1 kissed her
hand reverently, ^uul told her that, when I
saw the old smile back up m her lips, all 1
ha l done would lie a thousand times repaid ;
hut as I spoke 1 trembled at the thought of
what might be in store for both of us.
We drove to Roding. and were perforce
obliged to take the road which passed by
Mrs. Wilson’s house. Philippa half ro>ss
from her seat, and seemed to l>e on the
point of asking me some question; but she
changed her mind, and relapse:! iutosilenec.
I felt a horrible dread lest the roadside ob
jeots and landmarks should awaken recol
lection, and my heart beat violently as we
neared the white heap by the hedge, that
heap which I believed held our secret. I felt
that I grewdeadly pale. 1 was forced to turn
my head away and look out of the opposite
window. My state of mind was not made
easier by knowing that Philippa was gafcin -*
at me with that troubled look in her rye*.
Altogethe I felt that the *?~im was beeoin
ing too much for me, and I besran to wonder
my would ever again know a happy
or »< cure m jiuent.
» After a long silence Philippa spoke.
“T-J1 me, Basil, have you hear i from that
man?’
I shook ntv head.
“\Vh**re is he? lie w as coining that night.
Did he com--T'
“1 suppose not. Why do you ask?”
“Basil, a kind < f h<>: rible dream haunts
me. Theie v.as soiiieth'ug 1 div ined of