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VOL. XIV.
ON THE BOSTON STREET CARS.
Drearily dawn<*d the heavy day
A ad the h<*ur* crept wearily by.
And the raw miki wind from the dismal bay
O’erckmqpf the dub tray sky.
But the summer of h|>pe shone in bis face.
For the lioy ,a *rMtv>rav and yotlnjr.
And the day crept by at a funeral pace.
And the imaging words were rung.
An and the old days went and the new days came.
And the weeks wc|K limping past;
Old time was spavined, eternity lame.
But the end must come at last.
JP© wrinkled, and blind and white as snow.
When life** long race was riln.
He reached the place where he started to go
WhcuhishmuT talk* Journey begun.
Oj, woe hi the man In Boston town
W bo clixube on (he eahs to ride.
For lie'll think that the town, when he gettoth
down.
!• lour kuDdrM tkoiiaaml mil.* wMr.
Dark Days.
BY HUGH CONWAY.
Author f “Called Back”
CHAPTER I.
A MAYER AXI> A VOW
When this story of iny life, or of such por
tions of my life as present any out-of-the
eonnnon features, is read, it will be found
that I have committed errors of judgment—
I have sinned not only socially, but also
aeaitiNt the law of the land. In excuse I can
plead hut two things—the strength of love;
the weakness of human nature.
If these carry uo weight with you, throw
the paper aside. You are ton good for me;
lam too human for you. We cannot be
friends. Head no further.
I need say nothing about my childhood;
nothing about my boyhood. Ict me hurry
on to early manhood; to that time when the
wonderful dreams of youth beg In to leave
one; when the Impulse which can drive
sober reason aside must be, indeed, a strong
one; when one has learned to count the cost
of every rash step; when the transient and
fitful flames of the boy have sett led down to
a steady, glowing tire which will burn until
only ashes are left; when the strength, the
nerve, the Intellect, is or should be at Its
height; when, In short, one’s years number
thirty.
let, what was l then? A soured, morose,
■disappointed Yuan; without ambition, with
out rare for the morrow; without a goal or
objeet in life. Breathing, eating, drinking,
any instinct. Hiring in the morning, and
wishing the day was *vcr: lying down at
night, and earing little whether the listless
■eves I c osed might open again or not.
Anti why? Ah! to know why you must
• rlt with me as I sit lonely over my glowing
fire one winter night. You must'read my
thoughts; the pictures of my past must rise
before you as they rise before mo. My sor
row. my hate, my love must yours. You
must. Indeed, be my very self.
You may b *gin this retrospect with trl
sunph. You may go back to the day when,
nfter having passed my examination with
high honor*. I. Bari! North, was duly en
tif led to write M. I). after my name, and set
to work to win fame and fortune bv doing
fny bust toward relieving the sufferings of
■mv fellow-creatures. You may *av as I said
then, as I say now. *A noble career; a life
full of inter**#! and usefulness”
\ ou may see ine full of hope nndeournge,
and ready for any amount of hard work
settling down In a large provincial town]
T“olred to beat out a practice for mvseif]
You may see !mw. after the n-nal initiatory
snuggles. m% fooiinggradtiaiiy grew firmer;
liow my name became familiar; how, at
last. I seemed to Ik* in a fair way of winning
*n cress.
You may sec how for a while a dream
brightened my life; how that dream faded
asui left gloom in its place. You may see
the woman i loved.
No, lam wrong. Her you cannot see.
Duly i m vsclf can se* Philippa as I saw her
then—as I see her now.
Heavens! how fair she was! How glori
ous her rich dark beauty! How different
from the pink-wldte and yellow dolls whom
I have seen exalted as the types of perfec
tion! Warm Sonthern blood ran through
her veins and tinged her elear bmwr. cheek
with color. Her mother was an Englishwo
maii; but it was Spain that gave her daugh
ter tiiat exquisite grace, those wondrous
■dark eyes and long curled lashes, that mass
■of soft black hair, that passionate impulsive
nature, and. perhaps, that queen-like car
nage and dignity. The English mother may
Imve given the girl many good gifts, but her
beauty came from the father, whom she had
never known; the Andalusian, who died
while she was but a child in arms.
Yet in spite of her foreign grace. Philippa
was English. Her Spanish origin was to her
but a tradition. Her font had never touched
her father’s native land. Its language was
strange to her. She was born in England,
and her father, the nature of whose occupa
tion I have not been able to ascertain, seems
to have spent uio*t of his time in this coun
try.
When did I learn to love her? Ask me
rather, when and it we first meet? Even then
as my eyes fell upon the girl, I knew, as by
revelation, that for me life and her love
meant one ami the same thing. Till that
moment there was no woman In the world
the siglit of whom would have quickened
my pulse by a beat. 1 had read and heard
of such love as this. I hail laughed at it
There seemed no room for such an engross
ing passion in my busy life. Yet all at once
I loved as man has never loved before; and
1 sit to-night and gaze into the fire I tell
myself that the objectless life I am leading
is the only one possible for the man who
loved but failed to win Philippa.
Our first meeting was brought about in a
most prosaic way. Iler mother, who suffer
ed from a chronic disease, consulted ine
professionally. My visits, Jlrsfc those of a
doctor, soon became those of a friend, and I
was free to woo the girl to the best of my
ability.
Philippa and her mother lived in a small
house on the outskirts of the town. They
were not rich people, but had enough to
keep the pinch of poverty from their lives.
The mother was a sweet, qdlet, ladylike
woman, who bore her sufferings with resig
nation. Her health was indeed, wretched.
The onlv thing which seemed likely to bene
fit her was a continual change of air and
scene. After attending her for about six
months I was in conscience bound to in
dorse the opinion of her former medical ad
visers. and tell her it would he well for her
to try another change.
My heart was heavy as I gave this advice.
If adopted, it meant that Philippa and I
must part.
But why. during those six months, had 1
wot, passionately in love as I was won the
girl’s heart? Why did she not leave me as
my affianced bride? Why did I let her leave
me at all?
The answer is short. She loved me not.
Not that she had ever told me so in words.
1 had never a-ked her in words for her love.
But she must have known—she must have .
known! When I was with her, every look,
every action of mine must have told her the
truth. Women are not fools or blind. A
man who, loving as l did, can conceal the
true state of his feelings must be more than
mortal.
I hail not sjiokpii; I dared not speak. Bet
ter uncertainty with hope, than certainty
with despair. The day on which Philippa
refused my love would be as the day of
death to me.
Besides, what had 1 to offer her? Al
though succeeding fairly well for a begin
ner. at present f could only ask the woman
I made mv wife to share comparative pover-
ty. And Philippa! Ah! I would bare wrap
ped Philippa in luxury! All that wealth
j could buy ought to be hers. Had you seen
her in the glory of her fresh young beauty,
you would have smiled at the presumption
of the man who could expect such a being
to become tlie wife of a hard-working and
as yet 111-paid doctor. You would have felt
that she should have had the world at her
feet.
j Had I thought that she loved me, I might
perhaps have dared to hope she would even
then have been happy as my wife. But she
did not love me. Moreover, she was ambi
tious.
She knew—small blame toiler—how beau
tiful she was. Do I wrong her when I say
that in those days she looked for the gifts
of rank and riches from the man who loved
her? She knew that she was a queen among
women, and expected a queen s dues.
(Sweetest, are my wonts cnieJ7 They are
t the crudest I have spoken, or shall speak,
against you. Forgive them!)
We were friends—great friend*. Such
friendship is love’s bane. It buoys false
hopes; it lulls to security; it leads astray;
it is a staff which breaks suddenly, and
wounds the hand which leans upon it. So
little it seems to need to make friendship
grow into love; and yet how seldom thatlit
tie Is added! The love which begins with
hate or dislike is often luckier than that
which begins with friendship. Lovers can
not be friends.
Philippa ami her mother loft my neigh
borhood. They went to London for awhile.
1 heard from them occasionally, and once
or twice, when in town, called Mpou them.
Time went by. I worked hard at my pro
! fessfon the while, striving, by sheer toil, to
1 drive away the dream from my life. Alas!
j I strove In vain. To love Pnilippa was to
j love her forever!
One morning a letter came from her. I
tore it open. The news it contained was
i grievous. Her mother hail died suddenly.
| Philippa was alone in the world. So far as
; I knew, she had not a relative left; and I
believed, perhajwi hoped, that, save myself,
she had no friend.
I needed no time for consideration. That
afternoon I was in London. If 1 could not
Comfort her in her great sorrow, l could at
least sympathize with her; could undertake
the management of the many business de
tails which are attendant upon a death.
Poor Philippa! She was glad to see me.
Through her tears she (lashed me a look of
gratitude. 1 did all 1 could for her, ami
stayed in town until the funeral was over.
Then I was obliged to think of going home.
W hat was to become of the girl?
Kith or kin she had none, nor did she
j mention the name of any friend who would
i be willing to receive he£. As I suspected,
j she was absoluteh ojotie in the world. As
j soon as my hack was turned she would have
no one on whom she could count forsympa-
I thy or help.
It must have been her niter loneliness
, which urged me. hi spite of my better Jtidg
| ment, in spile of the grief which still op
! pressed her. to throw myself at her feet and
declare the desire <>/ my heart. Mv words
| 1 cannot recall, hut 1 think—l know l plead
j ed eloquently. Such passion as mine gives
power and intensity to the most unpracticed
speaker. Yet long before my appeal was
j ended l knew that I pleaded in vain. Her
eyes, her manner, told me she loved me not.
Then, remembering her present helpless
i condition, T checked myself. 1 begged her
I to forget the words I had spoken; not to an
| swer them now; to let me say them again
in some months’ time. Let me still he her
friend, and render her such service a# I
could.
She shook her head; she held out her
baud. The first action meant the refusal of
my love; the second, the acceptance of my
friendship. I schooled myself to calmness,
and we discussed her plans for the future.
She was lodging in a house in a (pilot, re
spectable street near lleUmt’s Park. She
expressed her intention of staying on here
for awhile.
‘Tint alone!" I exclaimed.
‘ Why not? What have Ito fenr? Still,
I am open to reason, if you can suggest an
other plan.”
I could suggest no other. Philippa was
past twenty-one ami would at once succeed
to whatever money had been her mother's.
This was enough to live upon. She had no
friends, and must live somewhere. Why
should she not stay on at her present lodg
ings? Nevertheless, I trembled as I thought
of this beautiful girl all alone in London.
Why could she not love me? Why could she
not be my wife? It needed all my self-re
straint to keep me from breaking kfresh in
to passionate appeals.
As she would not give me the right to dis
pose of her future, I could do nothing more.
1 bade her a sad farewell, then went back
to my home to conquer my unhappy love,
or to suffer from its fresh inroads.
Conquer it! Such love as mine is never
conquered. It is a man’s life. Philippa was
never absent from my thoughts. L;t my
frame of mind be gay or grave Philippa was
always present.
Now and then she wrote to me, but ber
letters told me little as to her mode of life;
they were short iric-ndly epistles, and gave
me little hope.
Yet I was not quite hopeless. I felt that
I had been ton hasty in asking her for her
love so soon after her mother’s death. Let
her recover from the shock, then i will try
again. Three months was the time which
in my own mind I resolved should elapse
before I again approached her with words*
of love. Three months! How wearily they
dragged themselves away!
Toward the end of my self-imposed term
■>f probation I fancied that a brighter, gayer
tone manifested itself in Philippa’s* letters.
Fool that I was! I augured well from this.
Telling myself that such love as mine
must win In the end, I went to London, and
once more saw Philippa. She received me
■clndly. Although her garb was still that of
deep mourning, never, I thought, had she
looked more beautiful. Not long after our
first greeting did I wait before I began to
□lead again. She stopped me at the outset.
"Hush.” she said; "I have forgotten your
former words; let us still be friends.”
"Never!” I cried passionately. “Philippa,
answer me once for all, tell me you can Jove
Be!”
She looked at me compassionately, “liow
;an I best answer you?” she said, musingly.
The sharpest remedy is perhaps the kiud
-5-t. Basil, will you understand me when I
;ay it is too late?”
"Too late! What can you mean? Has
mother”
'Die words died on my lips as Philippa,
Irawing a ring from the fourth finger of her
Jeft hand, showed me that it concealed a
plain gold circlet. Her eyes met mine im
ploringly.
"I should have told you before,” she said
softly, and bending her proud head; "but
there were reasons' —even now I am pledged
to tell no one. Basil. I only show you this,
because I know you will take no other an
wer.”
I rose without a word. The room seemed
whirling around me. The only tiling which
was clear to my sight was tiiat cursed gold
band on the fair white hand—that symbol
of possession by another! In that moment
hope and all tiie sweetness of life seemed
swept away from me. •
Something in iny face must have told her
how her news affected ine. She came to ine
and laid her hand upon my arm. I trembled
like a leaf beneath her touch. She looked
beseechingly into my face.
“011, not like that!” she cried. “Basil. I
am not worth it. I should not have made
you happy. You will forget—you will find
another. If 1 have wronged or misled you,
say you forgive me, me hear you, my
true friend, wish me happiness.”
I strove to force iny dry lips to frame some
conventional plirav. In vain! words would
no! com.'. I sank into a chair and covered
THOMSON. GEORGIA, WEBNESDAYvAPRIL 83, 1885.
my tace with my hands.
The door opened suddenly, ami a man en
tered. He may have been about forty years
of age. He was tall ami remarkably hand
some. He was dressed with scrupulous
care; but thcio was something written on
his face wjiieh told me it was not the face
of a good man. As I rose from my chair he
piano *d from me to Philippa with an air of
Suspicions inquiry.
"Dr. North, an old friend of my mother’s
and mine,” she said with composure. “Mr.
Farmer,” she added: ami a rosy blush crept
round her heck as she indicated tho new
coiner by the name which 1 felt sure was
now also her own.
I bowed mechanically. I made a few dis
jointed remarks about the weather and
kindred topics; then 1 shook hands with
Philippa and left the house, the most miser
able man 1n F.ugland.
Philippa married, and married secretly!
liow could her pride have stooped to a
clandestine up ion? Wlqit manner of man
was he who had won her? Heavens! he
must be hard to please if he cared not to
show his conquest to the light of day. Cur!
sneak 1 coward! villain! Stay; he may
have his own reasons for concealment
reasons known to Philippa and approved of
by her. Not a word against her. She is
still my queen; the one. woman in the world
to me. What she Ims done is right I
1 passed a sleepless night. In the morn
ing 1 wrote to Philippa. 1 wished her all
happiness—l could command my pen, if not
my tongue. 1 said no word about the secre
cy of the wedding, or the evils so often con
sequent to such concealment. But, with a
foreboding of evil to come, I begged her to
; remember that we were friends; that, al
though 1 could see her no more, whenever
she wanted a friend’s aid, a word would
bring me to her side. I used no word of
I blame. I risked no expression of love or
regret. No.ilmught of my grief should jar
upon the happiness which she doubtless ex
pected to find. Farewell to the one dream
of my life! Farewell, Philippa!
Such a passion as mine may, in these mat
ter-of-fact, unromantic days, seem an a
nachronistn. No matter, whether to sym
pathy or ridicule, lam but laying bare my
true thoughts and feelings.
I would not return to my home at once. I
shrank from going back to my lonely hearth
and beginning to eat my heart out. 1 had
made arrangements to stay in town for
some days; so 1 stayed, trying by a course
of what is termed gayetv to drive remem
brance away. Futile effort! How many
have tried the same reputed remedy with
out success!
Four days after my Interview with Philip
pa, l was walking with a friend who knew
every one in town. As we pasled the door
of one of the most cxe urivu of tie* clubs, I
saw, standing on the steps talking to other
men, the nmn w hom 1 knew was Philippa’s
husband. 11 is face was turned from me, so
I wns able to direct my friend's attention to
him.
‘ Who is that man?” I asked.
"Thatman with the gardenia in his coat
is Sir Mervyn Fe.rrand.”
"Who is lie? What Is he? What kind of
a man is he?”
"A baronet. Not very rich. Just about
the usual kind of man you see on those
steps. Very popular with the ladies, they
tell me.”
"Is he married?”
“Heaven knows! 1 don’t. I never heard
of a Lady Ferrand, although there must bo
several wlm are morally entitled to use the
designation.”
Aml this was her husband—Philippa’s
husband!
i clinched my teeth. Why had lie married
under a false name? Or if she knew that
naim* by which she introduced him to ino
was false, why was it assmu d? Why had
the marriage been clandestine? Not only
S r Mervyn Ferrand, but the noblest in tlm
land should be proud of winning Philippa?
The more I thought of the matter, the more
wretched I grew. The dread that she had
been in some way deceived almost drove me
niad. The thought of my proud, benutilui
queen some day finding herself humbled to
the dust by a scoundrel's deceit was anguish.
What could I do?
My first impulse was to demand an ex
planation, then and there, front Sir Mervyn
Ferrand. Yet 1 had no right or authority
so to do. What was Ito Philippa save an
unsuccessful suitor? Moreover, I felt that
she had revealed her secret to me in confi
dence. if there were good reasons for the
concealment,! might do her irretrievable
harm by letting this man know that I was
aware of his true position in society. No, I
could not call him to account. But I must
do something, or in time to conic my grief
may be rendered doubly deep by seif-re
proach.
The next day I called noon Philippa. She
would at least tell me if the name under
which the man married her was the true or
tiie false one. Alas! 1 found she had left
her home the day before—left it to re urn
no more! The landlady had no idea whither
she was gone, but believed it was her inten
tion to leave England.
After this 1 threw prudence to the winds.
With some trouble I found Sir Mervyn Fer
rand’s town address. The next day I called
on him. He also, I was informed, had just
left England, llis destination was also
in known.
I turned away moodily. AH chance of
f'oing good was at an end. Let the marriage
be true or false. Pnilippa had departed, ac
companied by the man who, for purposes
/*f his own, passed under the name of
Farmer, but who was really Sir Mervyn
Ferrand.
I went back* to my home, and amid the
wreck of my life’s happiness murmured a
prayer and registered an oath. I prayed
that honor and happiness might be the lot
of her I loved: 1 swore that were she wrong
ed 1 would witu my own hand take ven
geance on the man who wronged her.
For myself i prayed nothing— not even
forgetfulness. I loved Philippa; I lind lost
her forever! The past, the present, the
future were all summed up in these words I
CHAPTER rr.
A vim.aix’s IU.OW.
They tell me there are natures stem
enough to be able to crush love out of their
lives. Ah! not such love asinine! Time,
they say, can heal every wound. Not such
a wound as mine! My whole existence un
derwent a change when Philippa showed
me the wedding-ring on her finger. No won
der it did. Hope was eliminated from it.
From that moment I was a changed man.
Life was no longer worth living. The spur
of ambition was blunted; the desire for fame
gone; the interest which I had hitherto felt
In my profession vanished. All the spring,
the elasticity, seemed taken out of my be
ing. For months and months I did my work
in a perfunctory manner. It gate me no
satisfaction that iny practice grew larger. I
worked, but I cared nothing for my work.
Success gave me no pleasure. An increase
to tiie number of my patient* was positive
ly unwelcome to me. So long as I made
money enough to supply my daily needs,
what did it matter? Of what use was wealth
tome? It could not buy me the one thing
for which I craved. Of what use was life?
No wonder that such friend* as X had once
possessed all but forsook me. My mood at
that time was none of the sweetest. X
was alone in the world; I should be always
alone.
,*>o tilings went on ror more tnan a year, i
grew worse instead of belter. My gloom
deepened: iny cynicism grew more confirm
ed; uiy life became more and more aimless.
These a*e not lovers’ rhapsodies. 1 would
spare you them If I could; but it is neces
sary that you should know the exact suite
of my mind in order to understand my sub
sequent conduct. Even now it seems to mo
that I am writing tnis description with my
heart’s blood.
Not a word came from Philippa. I made
no inquiries about her, took no steps to
trace her. I dared not. Not for one mo*
meut did I forget her, and through all those
weary months tried to think of her ns hap
py and to be envied; yet, in spite of myself,
I shuddered as I pictured her lotas it might
really be.
But all the while I knew that the day
would come when 1 should learn whether I
was to be thankful that my prayer had been
answered, or to be prepared to keep my
vow.
In my misanthropical state of mind I
heard without the slightest feeling of Joy
or elation that a distant relative of mine, a
man from whom 1 expected nothing, had
died and left me the bulk of his large prop
erty. I eared nothing for this unexpected
wealth except for the fact that It enabled
me to free myself from a rounV’wf toll in
which by now I took not the slightest inter
est. Had it but come two or throe years be
fore! Alas! all things in this life come too
late.
Now that I was no longer forced to in ingle
with men in order to gain tho means of liv
ing, I absolutely shunned my kind. Tho
wish of my youth, to travel In far countries,
no longer existed with me. I disposed of
my practice—or rather X simply handed it
over to the first comer. I left tho town of
my adoption, and bought a small house—it
was little more than a cottage—some five
miles away from the tiny town of Boding.
Here 1 was utterly unknown, and could live
exactly ns I chose; and for months it was
my choice to live almost like a hermit.
My needs were ministered to by a man
w ho had been for some years hi my employ
ment. He was a handy, faithful fellow;
honest as the day, stolid as the Sphinx; and,
for some reason or other, so much attached
to me that he was willing to perform on my
behalf the duties of housekeeping which
are usually relegated to female servants.
Looking back upon that tinieof seclusion,
as a medical man, 1 wonder what Would
eventually have been my fate if events had
not occurred which once more forced me
into the world of men? I firmly believe that
brooding in solitude over my grief would at
last have affected my brain; that sooner or
later I must have developed symptoms of
melancholia. Professionally speaking, the
probabilities are I should have committed
suicide.
Hour after hour l sat gazing nt the glow
ing embers, but seeing only Philippa’s be
loved fac *. liow bad life fared with her?
Where was she at this moment? The re
solve to quite my seclusion wns finally
made. I would go Into the world and find
her—not for any selfish motive. I would
learn from her own lips that she wnshnppv.
If unhappy, she should have from me such
comfort ns the love of a true friend can give.
Yes, I would leave this wretched life t -
morrow. Mv cheek Hushed as I contrasted
wlmt I was with what 1 ought to he. No
man has a right to ruin his life or hide his
talents for the sake of n woman.
I had another inducement which urged
me to make a ehang •In my mode of life, 1
am ashamed thnt 1 have not. spoken of it.
That morning* I had received a letter from
my mother. 1 hud not seen her for s x
yea's. Just ns 1 entered man’s estate she
inaryied for the second time. Mv step-fath
er was an American, and with many t*ars
my mother It ft ine for her new home. Some
month# ago Jhpr husband •died** L should
have gone to her, but she forbad" nr*. She
had no children by her second nit-hand; and
now that his affairs were pra**M vdly wound
tip she proposed returning Efigmud. 11 *r
letter told m? that she would In* in London
in three days’time, and suggested tiiat I
should meet her there.
But now buck to the night. It was mid
winter, and bitterly cold out of doors. My
lamp was not yet lighted; the glow of my
flie alone broke the darkness of the room.
I had not even drawn the curtains or shut
the shutters. At times I liked to look out
and see the stars. They shone so peaceful
ly, so calmly, so coldly; they seemed so un
like the world, with its strife and fierce
passions and disappointment*.
I rope languid y in in my chair and walk
ed to the window, to see what sort of anight
it was. As l approaclu-d the casement I
could see that the nicies hail darkened;
moreover, I noticed that feathery II ikes of
mow were,iaccumulating in the corner of
mc!i pane. I went close to the window and
peered out into the night.
Standing within a yard of me, gazing lute
tty dimly-lit room her face stern and pal#
i* death, her dark eyes now riveted on my
>wn—was a woman; and that woman was
Philippa, my lore I
For several seconds I stood, spellbound,
gazing at her. That I saw more than a
phantom of my imagination did not at once
enter into my head. In dreams I had seen
• the one I loved again and again, but this
was the first time my waking thoughts had
conjured up such a vision. Visirtu, dream,
reality! I trembled as l looked; for the
form was that ot Philippa in dire distress.
It was seeing the hood which covered her
head grow whiter and whiter with the fast
falling snow which aroused me to my senses,
and made every fiber thrill with the thought
that Philippa, in flesh and blood, stood be
fore me. With a low cry of rapture l tore
asunder the fastenings of the French case
ment, threw the sashes apart, and without
a word my love passed from the cold, bleak
night into my room.
She was wrapped from head to foot In a
rich dark fur-trimmed cloak. As she swept
by me 1 felt she was damp with partially
thawed snow. 1 closed the window; then
with a throbbing heart, turned to greet my
visitor. She stood in the center of the room.
Her mantle had fallen to the ground, and
through the dusk 1 could see her white face,
hands, and neck. I took her hands in mine;
they were as cold as ic'cles.
“Philippa! Philippa I why are yon beret”
I whispered. “Welcome, thrice welcome,
whether you bring me Joy or sorrow.”
A trembling ran through her. She said
nothing, hut her cold hands clgaped mine
closer. I led her to the lire, which I stirred
until it blazed brightly. She kneeled before
it and stretched out her hands for warmth.
How pale she looked; how unlike the
Philippa of old! Hut to my eyes how love
ly!
As I looked down at the fair woman kneel*
t ing at my foot, with her proud head bent as
in shame, 1 knew intuitively that 1 should
he called upon to keep my oath; and know
ing this, I re-registered it in all its entirety.
At last she raised her face to mine. In
her eyes was a somber lire, w hich until now
1 had never seen there. “Philippa! Philip
pa!” I cried again.
“Fetch a light,” site whispered. “Let me
see p friend's face once more—if you are
still my friend.”
“Your friend, your true friend forever,” I
said, as I hastened to obey her.
As l placed the lamp on the table Philip
pa rose from her knees. I could now see
that she was in deep mourning. Was the
thought that flashed through me, that it
might be that site was a widow, one of joy
or sotrowl I hope—l try to belidvc it was
the latter.
We stood for some moments In silence.
My agitation, my rapture at seeing her once
more seemed to have deprived me of speech.
I could do little more than to gaze at her
and tell myself that I was not dreaming;
that Philippa was really here; tlutb it was
her voice that I had heard, her hands I
clasped. Philippa it was, but not the Philip
pa of old!
Tiie rich, warm, glowing beauty seemed
toned down. Her face lmd lost its exquisite
color. Moreover, it was the face of one who
lias suffered—one who is suffering. To mo
it looked as if Illness had refined it, as it
sometimes will refine a face. Vet, if she
had been ill, her illness could not have been
of long duration. Her figure was as superb,
her arms as finely rounded, as ever. Sue
stood firm and erect. Yet I trembled as 'I
gazed at that pate promt race and those dark
solemn eyes. I dared not for the while ask
her why she sought me.
She was tho first to break silence. "You
arc changed, Basil,” she said.
"Time changes every one,” I answered,
forcing a smile.
“Will you believe me,” she continued,
“when 1 say that the memory of your face
as 1 saw it last has haunted even my most
Joyful moments? Ah me, Basil, had I been
true to myself 1 think I might have learned
to love you.”
She spoke regretfully, and as one who has
finished with life and its love. My heart
beat rapidly; yet 1 knew her words were
not spoken in order to hear me tell her that
I loved her passionately as ever.
“I have heard of you once or twice,” she
said softly. "You are rich now, they tell
mo. but unhappy.”
“1 loved you and lost you,” I answered.
“How could 1 be happy?"
"And men cm love like this?” she said
aadlv. "All men are not alike, then?”
"Enough of me,” 1 said. "Tell me of
yourself. Tell me how 1 cau aid you. Your
husband ”
She drew a sharp, quick breath. The color
rushed back to her cheek. Her eyes glitter
ed strangely. Nevertheless, she spoke calm
ly and distinctly.
“Husband! I have none,” she said.
“Is he dead? ’
“No”— she spoke with surprising bitter
ness—“no; I should rather say I never was
a wife. Tell me, Basil,” she continued
fiercely, “did you ever hate a man?”
es,” I answered emphatically and truly.
; Hate a man! From tlu* moment 1 saw the
! wretch with whom Philippa tied 1 hated
j him. Now that mv worst suspicions wer*
; true, what were my feelings?
I felt that my lips compressed themselves.
I knew that when I sink imy voice was as
stem and bitter as Philippa’s. “.Sit down,”
J I said, “and tell me all. Toll me liow you
knew l was here—where you have comp
from.”
Let me but learn whence she came, and I
; felt sure the knowledge would enable me to
lay mv hand on the man I wanted. Ah!
j life now held something worth living for!
I ‘1 have been here some months,” said
I Philippa.
"Here! In tills neighborhood?”
“V os. 1 have seen you several tlm n s. I
have been living at a house about three miles
away. I felt happier in knowing that, in
case of need X had one friend near me.”
1 pressed her hands. "Go ou,” I said,
hoarsely.
“He sent me here, lie had grown weary
of m*. 1 was about to have a child. 1 was
in his way-a trouble to him.”
Her scornful accent as she spoke was In
describable.
“Pnilippa 1 Philippa J groaned, “had
you sunk so low as to do his bidding?”
She laid her hand on my arm. "More,”
she said. "Listen! Before we parted In*
struck me. .Struck m•! He cursed mo and
strucK me! Basil, diet you ever hate a man?”
I threw out my arms. Mv heart was luM
of rage and bitterness. "And you became
tfljs man’s mistress rather than my wife!”
I gasped. Neither mv love nor her sorrow
efiiild stop tnis one reproach from passing
mv lips.
She sprung to her feet. “You!” she cried.
“Do you—think—do you Imagine—— Bead!
Only this in ruing l learned it.”
She threw* a letter toward me—threw it
with n ge-ture of loathing, as one throws a
nauseous reptile from one’s hand. 1 open
ed it in *rlianieally.
"Yes,” sin* said, “you are right In think
ing I had fallen low. So low that I went
where he ehoNe to send me. So low* that I
would hnv * forgiven the ill-treatment of
months—the blow, even. Why? Because
until this morning he was my husband.
Henri the letter. Basil, did you ev.r hate a
m m?”
Before I rend I g’aneod nt her In alarm.
She spoke with almost feverish excitement.
Her words followed one another with head
long rapidity. But who could wonder at
this mood with n woman who had such a
wrong to declare? She grew calm beneath
mv glance.
“Head,” sin* said, .beseechingly. “Ah,
God! I have fallen low; but not so low as
you thought.”
She buried her face in her hands while I
opened and read the letter. It was dated
from Paris, and ran so;
"As it seems to me that we can’t exactly
hit it off together, 1 think the farce bail bet
tor end. The simplest way to make mv
Dimming clear is to tell you that when 1
married you 1 had a wire alive. She has
• tied since then; and I dare say, had we
managed to get on l etter together, I should
have asked you to go through the marriage
ceremony once more. 11 wever, *s things
are now, so they mid bolter stop. You have
the satisfaction of knowing that morally
you are blameless.
“If, like a sensible girl, you are ready to
accept tiie situation, lain prepared to act
generously, and do tiie right tiling in money
matters. As I hate to have! anything hang
ing over in*, unsettled, and <to not rare to
trust delicate negotiations to a third party, X
shall run across to England and see you. I
shall reach Boding on Wednesday evening.
Do not send to the station to meet m *;X
would rather walk.”
The letter was unsigned. My blood boil
ed as I read it; yet, in spite of mv rage, 1
felt a grim humor us I realized the exquisite
cynicism possessed by the wr ier. Il<*re
was a man striking a foul and recreant blow
at a woman whom lie once loved—a blow
that must crush her to the earth. I!s own
words confess him a rogue, a bigamist; and
yet in* can speak coolly about nt mey ar
-nng( inonts; can even enter into petty de
ad!* concerning his approaching visit! Fie
nust he without sham *, without remorse*
i villain, absolutely heartless!
1 folded the letter and pined It In my
♦least. I wished to keep it, that 1 m.glit
'cad it again and again during the i-ext
twenty-four hours. Long hours they would
be. This letter would aid m: to make them
pass. Pnilippa made no objection to my
keeping Jr. .She sat motionless, gazing
gloomily into the lire.
“You knew the man’s right name and
title;” I asked.
“Yes, from the first. Ah! there I wrong
! od myself, liasil! The rai k, the riches, per
j haps, tempted m •; and—Basil, 1 loved him
then.”
, Oh, the piteous regret breathed in that
last sentence! 1 ground my teeth, and felt
that there was a stronger passion than even
love. “That man and I meet to-morrow,” I
told myself softly.
“But you spoke of a child?” 1 said, turn
in'/ to Phliippn.
“It is dead—dead—dead!’’ she cried, with
a wild laugh. “A fortnight ago it died.
Head! My grief then; my joy to-day! See J
I am in mourning; to-morrow 1 shall put
thin mourning off. Why m tirn for what is,
a happy event? No black after to-morrow.”
H r mood had once more become excited.
As before, her words caino with feverish
rapidity. I took her hands in mine; they
wen* now burning.
“Philippa, dearest, be calm. You will see
tluu man no more?”
“1 will see hint no more. It is to save my
seJf from seeing him that Iconic to yu.
L ttle right have I to ask aid lr< in you; Out
your words cam ; back to me in my need.
There was one friend to turn to. Help me,
Basil! 1 coin's to you as a sister may come
to a brother.”
“Asa sister to a brother,” I echoed. “I
accept the trust,” I added, laying my lips
r< veiontially on her white forehead, and
vowing mentally to devote my life to her.
“You will stay here now?” I asked.
“No, I must go back. To-morrow I will
come—he in', now, Basil, my brother, you
will take hi .* far away—far away?”
“Where you wish. Every Jand is as one
to me now.”
I She had given me the right, a brothel’s
right, 1o stand between her ami the villain
who had wronged her. To-morrow that
man would be here! How 1 longed for the
moment which would bring us face to face!
Pnilippa rose. "I must go,” she said.
I pressed food and wine upon her; she
would taka nothing. She made, however,
no objection to my accompanying her toiler
home. We left the house by the cast ment
by which she entered. Together we stri
ped out on the snow-whitened road. She
took my atm and wo walked toward her
home.
I asked her with whom she was staying.
She told me with a widow lady and two
children, named Wilson. She went to them
at Sir Mervyn XVrrand’s command. Mrs.
Wilson, ho told her, was a distant connec
tion of his own, and he had made arrange
ments for her to look after Philippa during
her illness.
“What name do they know you by?” I
asked. .
"He said I was to call myself by tho false
name, which, for purposes of his own, he
chose to pass under. But 1 felt myself ab
solved from m\ pr mise of secrecy. Why
should I stay in a a range house with strange
people by Sir Mervyn Farrand’s request,
unless I could show good cause for doing
so? So 1 told Mrs. Wilson everything.”
".She believed you?”
“She was bound to believe me. J would
have no doubt cast upon my word. I show
ed her the certificate of m v marriage. What
ever she may have thought at first, she saw
then that I was his wife. No one else knows
it except her. Toiler lam Luly Ferrand.
Like me, she never dreamed to what man’s
villainy can reach. Oh, Basil! Basil 1 why
are such men allowed to live?’
For the first time Philippa seemed to
breakdown. Till now the chief character
istics of iter mood had been scorn
and anger. Now, sheer grief fori lifetime
appeared to sweep away every other emo
tion. Sob after sob broke from her. I en
deavored to calm her—to comfort her. Alasi
bow little 1 could say or do to these end.** I
She leaned heavily and despondingly ou my
arm, and lor a long while we walked in si
lence. At last she told mo her home was
close at hand.
“Listen. Philippa,” I said; "I shall come
in with you and see this lady with whom
you are staying. X shall tell her Xam your
brother; that lor sonn* time 1 have known
liow shamefully your husband Ims neglected
you; and that now, with your full consent,
1 mean to take you away. Whether this wo
man believes in our relationship or not,
matters noth 1 tig. i suppose she knows that
man is coming to-morrow. After his heart
less desertion, she cannot be surprised at
your wish to avbid meeting him.”
1 paused. Philippa bent her head as If
assenting to my plan.
"To-morrow,” 1 continued, “long before
that wretch comes here to poison the very
air we breathe, 1 shall come and fetch you.
Early in the morning 1 will send my ser
vant for your luggage. Mrs. Wilson may
know me and my man by sight. That makes
no difference. There need be no conceal
ment. You are free to come and go. You
have no one to fear. On Thursday morn
tug we will leave this place.”
“Yes,” said Philippa, dreamily, "to-mor
row 1 will leave—l will come to you. But
I will come alone. In the evening, most
likely, when no one will know where 1 have
gone.”
“But how much better that I should take
you away openly and in broad daylight, as
a br- tlier would take a sister!”
"No; 1 will come to you. You will not
mind waiting, Basil. There is something I
must do first. Something to be done to-mor- i
row. Something to be said; someone to be
seen. What is it? who is it? 1 cannot recol
lect.”
She placed her disengaged hand on her
brow. She pushed back her head a little,
and gave a sigh of relief as she felt the keen
air on her temples. Poor girl! after what
she had that day gone through, no wonder
her mind refused to recall trivial details and
petty arrangements to lie made before she
joined me. Sleep and tiie certainty of mv
sympathy and protection would no doubt
restore her wandering memory.
However, although l again and again
urged her to change her mind, she was firm
in her resolve to come to ine alone. At last,
very reluctantly, l was obliged to give way
on this point: but I was determined to see
this Mrs. Wilson to-night; so when we
reached the house I entered with Philippa.
I told her then* was no occasion for her
to be present at my Interview with tho
hostess. She looked frightfully weary, and
nt my suggestion went straight to her room
to retire for the night. 1 sat down and
awaited the advent of Mrs. Wilson. She
soon appeared.
A woman of about five and thirty; well
but plainly dressed. As I glanced at her
withoonie curiosity. 1 decided that when
young she must, after a certain type of
beauty, have been extremely good-looking.
Unfortunately hers was one of those faces
cast in an aquiline mold—faces which, as
soon ns the bloom of youth is lost or tiie
owners thereof turn to thinness, become, as
a rule, sharp, strained, hungry, and severe
iooking. Whatever the woman’s charms
might once have been, she could now boast
of very few.
As she entered the room and bowed to me
her lace expressed undisguised surprise at
seeing a visitor who was a stranger to her.
1 apologized for the lateness of my call;
then hastened to tell her its object. She
listened with polite impossibility. She
made no comment when I repeatedly spoke
of my so-styled sister as Lady Ferrand. It
was ejenr thnt, as Pnilippa had said, Mrs.
Wilson was convinced as to the valid nature
of the marriage.
When i told her it was Lady Ferrand’# in-
tention to place herself to-morrow under my
protection, she simply bowed. When 1 said
tiiat most likely we should leave England,
and for a while travel on the continent, she
said that my sister’s health would no doubt
be much benefited by tlieelumge.
"I may mention,” she added, for the first
time taking any real part In the talk, “that
your sister’s state Is not quite all it should
be. For the last day or two 1 have been
thinking of sending for the medical man
who attended her during her unfortunate
confinement. He lias not seen her for quite
a week. I mentioned it to her this after
noon; but she appears to have taken an un
accountable dislike to him, and utterly re
fused to see him. I do not wish to alarm
you—l merely mention this; no doubt you,
her brother, will see to it.”
Tam myself a doctor. Her health will
bo my cirr,” I said. Then I rose.
“You are reh't<*d to Sir Mervyn Ferrand,
I believe, Mrs. Wi'son?” X asked.
She gave me a quick look which might
moan anything. ”\Vo are connections,” she
said carel(fS*ly.
"Yon mu*, have been surprised at his
sending his wife away at such a time?”
"I am not in the habitof feeling surprised
at Sir Mervyn * actions. lie wrote to me
and told me that, knowing my circiims:nuces
were straitened,he had recommended a lady
to come and live with me for a few months.
Wm-’H I found ihi* lady was his wife, I own
1 was, for once, surprised.”
. From the emphasis which she laid on cci>
tain words, I knew it was but tiie fact of
Philippi*# being married to the scoundrel
that surprised her, nothing else. I could see
that Mrs. Wilson knew Sir Mervyn Ferrand
thoroughly, and something told me that her
relations with him were of a nature which,
might not bear investigation.
I bade hi r good-night, and walked hack to
mv cottage w.th a heart in which sorrow,
piiy, hatred,exultation,and, It maybe, hope,
were strangely and inextricably mingled.
[To bo Continued.]
Oeorffo Eliot's biography ha* already
brought in to its publisher $40,0.0.
JSTO. 16.
I do not ask thee, Fate, to bake
For me so very largo a cake ;
Choose thou tho size—but I entreat
That though but small, it shall be sweet.
Let those who liko it have it. I
Feel no desiro,for sawdust pie.
I have no wail for all the years
Pvo lived on crusts washed down with tears.
If I must drain tho bitter cup
As heretofore, why—fill it up.
But when my cake, if ever, comes,
Vouchsafe it to me full of plums.
Beware of Progress.
“While dis am de aige of progress.”
said Brother < Jardner, as ho rose up
with a force of 080 pounds to tho square
inch, “do not progress too fast. Dar
am inch a thing as puttin' too much
sugar in a sweotouke.
“Frinstance, progress has car'fed us
past de pint whar’ we kin stuff ole hats
an’ coats in de winders in place of
broken panes, but doau’ jump to de
conclushun dat you has got to run in
debt fur lace curtains to keep up wid
de times.
“IVogress has car 1 tad us past do pint,
whar 1 men believe in ghosts an’ gob
lins, but (loan 1 emagiue dat you am
called upon to show yer smartness by
ridiculin’ any of de onsartin passage*
in de Bible.
“Progress lias car 1 fed us past de pint
whar’ religun forbids a man to enjoy
hisself, but (loan 1 feel called upon lo
w’ar yer hoofs off in dancin’, or to get
so used to a pack of kcerd.s dat you
shuffle yer kuife an 1 fork as soon as you
sot down at do tabic.
I “Progress has car'iod us past do pint
of biHn’ ’talers wid do hides on, but
dey has got to be paid for all de same,
an’ you musn’t judge of a man's char
acter by h’arin’ him order Saratoga
chips.
“Progress no longer permits our sons
to w’ar out our ole cloze, but when you
ketch a young man iioein 1 co’n with
broadcloth on his legs an’ a paste dia
mond in his Idled shirt you kin make
up yer mind dat Injun meal am gwine
to take a raise of fifty cents on a hun
dred.
“Progress demands dat our chill’en
be eddecated, but bekase yer boys can
figger cube root an 1 yer gals chatter
French, doan 1 miss do chances to Tarn
de fust a good trade, an’ de second do
art of bakin’ bread an’ cookin’ bacon.”
— Detroit Free Press.
m ■ ♦
A Specimen Sponjfc.
A curiosity is a man seen at tiie
white house every Saturday afternoon
and at evening card receptions given
by ladies in society. He made his debut
here, so to speak, a year ago, as Mr.
Blank Blank, of England. He is quite
English in physique, and affects the
English accent perfectly when speak
ing. He Is rather line-looking, and,
with his good figure and iron-grav side
whiskers. might be mistaken for an En
glish lord. He insists on his double
name, Mr. Blank Blank, and pleading
ly protests when anybody parts his
’name in the middle by addressing him
as “Mr. Blank.” Ho is to be seen
everywhere, and always at tiie front,
taking ladies into supper or with them
on his arm for a promenade. At one
house, where the hostess looked with
anxious face when asked: “(’an you
fell me the name of that gentleman?”
a lady guest said, helplessly: “Ho
comes to mv house, but 1 do not know
his name.’ The wife of a cabinet
minister said, after discussing the man:
“He comes to our receptions without
an invitation. We don’t know him, and
have never invited him to come, but he
makes himself as much at home as if a
friend of ray family, and I hear tiiat he
has also been to the Z ’s evening
parties without being invited. If the
man is from England it is some time,
ago, as iie really hails from a western
state, where he had a career of dissipa
tion and his family labored hard to re
form him. They succeeded in making
a sober man of him. and to keep him
reformed. His sister works in a de
partment here and furnishes him with
pocket money, as well as the visible
means of support. In the meantime
he is everywhere in society, going to
the best houses uninvited as ‘Mr. Blank
Blank, of England, 1 and playing his
part with an assurance that woflld, to
use an inelegant expression, bring a
blush to the face of a government
mule.”— Washington Capital .
Wliat Water Will Cure.
Uncle Zaek Baker, of Benton county,
is interested in a mineral spring. lie
has not attempted to introduce a bill
offering the spring as an amendment fo
the constitution, a piece of legislation,
though, which may bo expected of
him:
“What is the water good for?” asked
tho Speaker of the. House.
“Good for everything. It will cure
any case of yaller j a riders in the world.
Tell you what's a fact. A feller came
along some time ago with a yaller dog.
He was tiie yallerist dog I ever saw,
but he fell in that spring, and when he
came out lie was as white as a sheet.”
“How is it for rheumatism?”
“I’ll tell you what’s a fact. Do you
know young Alf Wilson?”
“I think so.”
“Well, Alf had tho rhmunatiz so bad
that ho had to carry one leg on hi*
shoulder. He drank that water for
three weeks and cau now jump a ten
rail fence.”
“Will it cure lying.”
“Will it? Tell you what’s a fact. A
Little Hock newspaper man came up
there some time ago, and now can al
most believe half of what he says.”—
Arkanaaw Traveler.
John Dan forth, known as “Major
John,*” was a character of whom tho
Connecticut papers are now tolling an
ecdotes, Dan forth being under the sod.
llis chief oddity whs Ins spread-eagle
patriotism, copied from that of Jona
than Brooks, who, clad in red clothes
of continental cut, used to mount Gor
ton's heights. New London, and de
liver an oration to wondering urchins
and grazing cows. One day when there
was a real meeting at tho grove, Dan
fortli got up to make an address. Soon
after lie had begun the quick-witted
president of the day sprang to his feet
and shouted: “Three cheers for Maj.
Danforth, who has just finished his
great speech!” The major stood be
wildered amidst a cannonade of np
plauso and finally sat down like a man
in the mazes of a dream.
Tho Grandson of an ex-Govornor of
Kentucky, says tho Louisville Time ...
hns just been plscoil in the penitentiary,
the (■rumtson of another ex-Governor
is in jail awaiting tho penitentiary anil
the grnntlson of one greater than any
of our Governors was reoeutly killeit
in a bar-room brawl. Great qualities
appear to wear out before they reach
'ho thinl generation.