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DARK DAYS
BY HUGH CONWAY.
r
Author of “Called Back."
CHAPTER L
A PRATER AND A VOW.
When this story of rny life, or of such por
tions of my life as present any out-of-the-
Common features, is read, it will be found
that I have committed errors of judgment—
that I have sinned not only socially, but also
against the law of the land. In excuse I can
plead but two things—the strength of love,
the weakness of human nature.
If these carry no weight with you, throw
the book aside. You are too good for me; I
am too human for you. We cannot be
friends. Read no further.
I need say nothing about my childhood;
noth'ng about my boyhood. Let me hurry
on to early manhood—-to that time when the
wonderful dreams of youth begin to leave
one; when tho impulse which can drive so
ber 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 settled down to
a steady, glowing fire which will burn until
only ashes are left; when the strength, the
nerve, the intellect, is or should be nt its
height; when, in short, one’s years number
thirty.
Yet. what was I then! A soured, morose,
disappointed mgn; without ambition, with
out care for the morrow; without a goal or
object in life. Breathing, eating, drinking, as
by instinct. Rising in the morning, and
wishing the day was over; lying down at
night, and caring little whether the listless
eyes I closed might open again or not.
And why? Ah! to know why you must si,t
with me as I sit lonely over my glowing fire
onb winter night You must read my
thoughts; the pictures of my past must rise
before you as they rise before me. My sor
row, my hate, my love must be yours. You
must, indeed, be my very self.
You m;y begin this retrospect with tri
umph. You may go back to the day when,
after having passed my examination with
high honors, I, Basil North, was duly en
titled to write M. D. after my name, and set
to work to win fame and fortune by
doing my best toward relieving the suffer
ings of my fellow creatures. You may say,
as 1 said then, as I say now, “A noble
career; a life full of interest and useful
ness. ”
You may see me full of hope and courage,
and ready for any amount of hard work;
settling down in a large provincial town,
resolved to beat out a practice for myself.
You may see how, after the usual initiatory
struggles, my footing gradually grew
firmer; how my name became familiar; how
at last I seemed to be in a fairway of win
ning success.
You may see how for a while a dream
brightene I my life; how that dream faded
and left gloom in its place. You may see
the woman I loved.
No, I am wrong. Her you cannot see.
Only I myself can see Philippa as I saw her
then—as I see her now.
Philippa as I saw her then—as I see her now.
Heavens! how fair she was! How glorious
her rich, dark beauty! How different from
the pink-white and yellow dolls whom I have
seen exalted as the types of perfection!
Warm Southern blood ran through her
veins and tinged her clear brown cheek
with color. Her mother was an English
woman; but it was Spain that gave her
daughter that exquisite grace, those won
drous dark eyes and long, curled lashes, that
mass of soft black hair, that passionate,
impulsive nature, and perhaps that queen
like carriage and dignity. The English
mother may have given the girl many good
gifts, but her beauty camo from the father,'
whom she 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 foot had never
touched her father’s native land. Its lan
guage was strange to her. She was born
in England, and her father, the nature of
whose occupation I have not been able to
ascertain, seems to have spent most of his
time in this country.
When did I learn to love her? Ask me,
rather, when did we first meet? Even then,
as my eyes fell upon the girl, I knew, as by
revelation, that foratne life and her love
meant one and the same thing. Till that
moment there was no woman in the world
the sight of whom would have quickened
my pulse by a beat. I had read and heard
of such love as this. I had 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
' as I 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 the
most prosaic way. Her mother, who suf
fered from a chronic disease, consulted me
professionally. My visits, first 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 tho town. They .
wjp ere not rich people, but bad enough to keep i
fthe pinch of poverty from their lives. The
I mother was a sweet, quiet, ladylike ,
f woman, who bore her sufferings -
with resignation. Her health was,
indeed, wretched. The only thing
Which seemed likely to benefit her was a
continual change of air and scene. After
attending her for about six months, I was
in conscience bound to indorse the opinion
of her former medical advisers, and tell her (
it would be well for her to try arioth ar
- change.
fl My heart was heavy as I gave this al
f vice. If adopted, it meant that Philippa
[ and I must part.
THE SAVANNAH DAILY TIMES, WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1884.
DU" way, during those six months, had I
not, passionately in love as I was, won the
young girl’s heart? Why did she not leave
ms as my alllanced bride! Why did 1 let
her leave me at all?
The answer is short She loved me not
Not that she had ever told me so in word*
had never asked bar 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, loving as I did,{who can conceal the
true state of his feelings must be more than
mortal.
I had not spoken; 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 Ito offer her! Although
succeeding fairly well for a beginner, at
present I could only ask the woman I made
my wife to share comparative poverty. And
Philippa! Ah! 1 would have wrapped Phil
ippa in luxury! All that wealth 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
the wife of a hard working and as yet ill
paid doctor. You would have felt that she
should have had the world at her feet.
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 to her—how beau
tiful she was. Do I wrong her when I say
that in those days she looked for the gift 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 words cruel? They are
the cruelest I have spoken, or shall speak,
against you. Forgive them!)
We were friends—great frie ids. 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 that little is
added! The love which begins with hate or
dislike is often luckier than that which
begins with friendship. Lovers cannot be
friends.
Philippa and her mother left my neigh
borhood. They went to London for awhile.
I heard from them occasionally, and once or
twice, when in town, called upon them.
Time went by. I worked hard at my pro
fession the While, striving, by sheer toil, to
drive away the dream from my life. Alas!
I strove in vain. To love Philippa was to
love her forever!
One morning a letter came from her. I
tore it open. The news it contained was
grievous. Her mother had died suddenly.
Philippa was alone in the world. So far as
I knew, she had not a relative left; and I be
lieved, perhaps hoped, that, save myself,
she had no friend.
1 needed no time for consideration. That
afternoon I was in London. If I could not
comfort her in her great sorrow I 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 flashed me a look of
gratitude. I did all I could for her, and
stayed in town urtil the funeral was over.
Then I was obliged: to think of going home.
What was to become of the girl?
Kith or kin she had none, nor did she
mention the name of any friend who would
be willing to receive her. As I suspected,
she was absolutely alone in the world. As
soon as my back was turned she would have
no one on whom she could count for sym
pathy or help.
It must have been her utter loneliness
which urged me, in spite of my better judg
ment, in spite of the grief which still oppress
ed her, to throw myself at her feet and de
clare the desire of my heart. My words I
cannot recall, but I think—l know I pleaded
eloquently. Such passion as mine gives
power and intensity to the most unpracticed
speaker. Yet long before my appeal was
ended I knew that I pleaded in vain. Her
eyes, her manner, told me she loved me not.
Then, remembering her present helpless
condition, I checked myself. I begged her
to forget the words I had spoken; not to
answer them now; to let me say them again
in some months’ time. Let me stilitbe her
friend, and render her such service as I
could.
She shook her head; she held out her hand.
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 quiet, re
spectable street near Regent’s Park. She
expressed her intention of staying on here
for awhile.
“But alone!” I exclaimed.
“Why not? What have Ito fear? Still,
I am open to reason if you can suggest
another plan."
I could suggest no other. Philippa was
past twenty-one and 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
restraint to keep me from breaking afresh
into passionate ap;>eals.
As she would not give me the right to dis
pose of her future I could do nothing more.
I bade her a sad farewell, then went back
to my home to conquer my unhappy love,
or to suffer from its tresh inroads.
Conquer it! Such love as mine is never
conquered. It is a man’s life. Philippa
was never absent from my thoughts. Let
my frame of mind be gay or grave, Philip
pa was always present.
Now and then she wrote to me, but her
letters told me little as to her mode of life;
they were short friendly epistles, and gave
mo little hope.
Yet I was not quite hopeless. I felt that
I had been too 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 I How wearily they
dragged themselves awayl
Toward the end of my self-imposed term
of 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
kindly. Although her garb was still that of
deep mourning, never, I thought, had she
looked more beautiful. Not long after our
first greeting did 1 wait before I began to I
plead again. She stopped me at the outset. I
“Hush,” she said; “I have forgotten your j
former words: let us still
-■never r i cried passionately. “Philippa,
i answer me once for all, tell me you can love
i me!”
' She looked at me compassionately. “How
can I best answer you?” she said musingly.
“The sharpest remedy is perhaps the kind
est. Basil, will you understand me when I
say it is too late?"
“Too late! What can you mean! Has
another—”
The words died on my lips as Philippa,
drawing a ring Irian the fourth fingerof her
loft hand, showed me that it concealed a
plain gold <(> Ast Her eya-1 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, 1 only show you thii
because I know you will take no other an
swer."
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’ Too late! What can you mean? Hasan
other ■”
■ I rose without a word. The rooni seemed
> whirling around me. The only thing which
. was clear to my sight was that cursed gold
. band on the fair white hand—that symbol of
t possession by another! In that moment hope
( and all the sweetness of life seemed swept
away from me.
Something in my face must have told her
how her news affected me. She camo tc
. me and laid her hand upon my arm. I
trembled like a leaf beneath her touch.
’ She looked beseechingly into my lace.
j “Oh, not like tha <!” she cried. “Basil, I
I am not worth it. I should not have made
j you happy. You will forget—you will find
another. If I have wronged or misled you,
[ say you forgive me. Lot me hoar you, my
, true friend, wish me happiness.”
I strove to force my dry lips to frame
( some conventional phrase. In vain! words
would not come. I sank into a chair and
covered my face with my hands.
The door opened suddenly and a man en
tered. He may have been about forty years
of age. He was tall and remarkably hand
some. He was dressed with scrupulous
’ care; but there was something written on
' his face which told me it was not the face
of a good man. As I rose from my chair he
glanced from me to Philippa with an air of
suspicious inquiry.
“Dr. North, an old friend of my piother’s
and mine,” she said, with composure. “Mr.
Farmer,” she added; and a rosy blush crept
round her neck a« she indicated the new
comer by the name which I felt sure was
now also her own.
I bowed mechanically. I made a few dis
jointed remarks about the weather and kin
dred topics; then I shook hands with
Philippa and left the house, the most miser
able man in England.
Philippa married, and married secretly!
How could her pride have stooped to a clan
destine union? What 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!
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 has done is right!
I passed a sleepless night. In the morning
1 wrote to Philippa. I wished her all happi
ness—l could command my pen, if not my
tongue. I said no word about the secrecy
of the wedding, or the evils so often conse
quent to such concealment. But, with a fore
boding of evil to come, I begged her to remem
ber that we were friends; that, although
I 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 blame.
I risked no expression of love or regret. No
thought of my grief should jar upon the
happiness which she doubtless expected to
find. Farewell to the one dream of my life!
Farewell, Philippa!
Such a passion as mine may, in these
matter-of-fact, un roman tic days, seem an
anachronism. No matter whether to sym
pathy or ridicule, I am 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.
I had made arrangements to stay in town
for some days, so I stayed, trying by a
course of what is termed gayety to drive
remembrance away. Futile effort! How
many have tried the same reputed remedy
without success!
! 1 I
-v ■ J
thrill ■
And this u her husband—Philippa's hus- :
band? •
Four days after my interview with Phil- '
ippa I was walking with a friend who knew ■
every ono in town. As wo passed the door
of one of the most exclusive of the clubs 1
! saw, standing on the steps talking to other ,
i men, the man whom I knew was Philippa’s
husband. His taco was turned from me, so
‘ 1
I was able to direct my friend’s attention to
him.
“Who is that man?” I asked.
“That man with the gardenia in his coat
is Sir Mervyn Ferrand.”
“Who is he! What is he? What kind of
a man is lie?”
“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! I don’t I never heard
of a Lady Ferrand, although there must be
several who are morally entitled to use the
designation. ”
And this was her husband—Philippa’s
husband!
I clinched my teeth. Why had he mar
ried under a false name? Or if she knew
that name by which she introduced him to
me was false, why was it assumed? Why
bad the marriage been clandestine! Not
only Sir Mervyn Ferrand, bat the noblest in
the land should be proud of winning Philip
pa! The more I thought of the matter the
more wretched I grew. The drea 1 that she
had been in some way deceived almost drove
me mad. The thought of my proud, beauti
ful queen some day finding herself humbled
to the dust by a scoundrel’s deceit was an
guish. What could I do?
My first impulse was to demand an expla
nation, then and there, from Sir Mervyn
Ferrand. Yet I had no right or authority
so to do. What wasl to 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, I 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 come my grief
may be rendered doubly deep by self-re
proach.
The next day I called upon Philippa. She
would at least tell me if the name under
which the man married her was the true or
the false one. Alas! I found that she had
lett her home the day before—left it to re
turn no more! The landlady had no idea
whither she had gone, but believed it was
her intention to leave England
After this I 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. His destination was also un
known.
I turned away moodily. All chance of
doing good was at an end. Letth- marriage
bo true or false, Philippa had departed, ac
companied by the man who, for purposes of
his own, passed under the name of Farmer,
but who was really Sir Mervyn Ferrand.
I went back to my homo, 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 1 loved; 1 swore that were she wronged
I would with my own hand take vengeance
on the man who wronged her.
For myself I prayed nothing—not even
forgetfulness. I loved Philippa; I had lost
her forever! The past, the present, the fu
ture were all summoned up in these words!
[TO BE CONTINUED IN OUR NEXT.]
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WELD & HARTSHORNE,
; For latest style fancy percale and Feecauf
! I Mita L. Fried’s is the place.
DRUGS AND MEDICINES.
WE HAVE
Our usual HANDSOME ASSORTMENT OF
NOVELTIES
Suitable for GIFTS, WEDDING. CHRIST
MAS and NEW YEAR PRESENTS.
, -k-.. . ’■i7. . I ■ ■
Odor Caskets, Cases, Sets and Stands,
FANCY BOTTLES,
Toilet Sets, Vases,
FINE SOAPS AND PERFUMERY,
Ivory and Celluloid Hair Brushes,
FRENCH AND AMERICAN PLATE HAND
MIRROBS and other Toilet
Requisites.
G. M. HEIDT & CO.,
druggists,
Corner Congress and Whitaker streets.
Shuptrine’s
IXeNv Pharmacy,
Bolton and Montgomery streets.
PURE DRIGS
Dispensed by Careful and Expe
rienced Druggists,
j.
iJjpjljjjj Cm
CLEANS CLOTHES,
Removes all Grease, Paints, Oils, Varnish,
Tar, Dirt or Soils from any fabric
without injury.
FOR SALE BY
J. 11. Haltiwang-er,
Cor Broughton and Drayton streets.
Also sold by L. C. Strong aud E. A. Knapp
To Clean Your Last Winter’s Suit or
Anything Else Use
“Household Cleaning Fluid.”
It removes grease spots, stains, dirt, etc.,
from woolen, cotton, silk and laces, without
injuring the most delicate fabric.
Prepared only by
DAVID PORTER, Druggist,
Corner Broughton and Habersham streets.
Peas. Peas.
Just Received, Fresh and Reliable.
NEW CROP
BLACK EYED MARROWFAT,
PHILADELPHIA EXTRA EARLY.
Also a full line of FRESH GARDEN SEEDS,
FOB SALE BY
31. V. BARIE,
Druggist and Seedsman,
Southeast cor. West Broad aud Bryan streets.
13 /Vlll< Xll O Y!~
Not that barque which spreads Its sails to
the favoring gale and with every canvas
drawing taut, sails the sea, a thing of life and
beauty, but that bark which comes from a
cold and hastens the traveler to that port
from whence there Is uo return. For this
bark use
“COUGH AND LUNG BALSAM.”
It is the best medicine ever presented for
coughs, colds and hoarseness, and for four
seasons has given entire satisfaction. Price
25 cents. Prepared only by
DAVID PORTER, Druggist,
Corner Broughton and Habersham streets.
Al.
Wholesale and Retail Dealer
IN ALL KINDS OF
Oak, Pine & Lightwood
SAWED AND IN STICK.
Yard, Canal and W. Boundary Sts.,
Foo of William Street,
AV ANNAS, GEORGIA.
«j-PROMPT attention paid to orders aud
measurements guaranteed.*®*
Telephone Call 279.
HO 1 2 !
Swift’s Specific has cured my cancer, which
was very bad. lam now In fine health; nev
er better. Have gained 25 pounds since I be
gan taking Swift’s Specific
It. S. Bradford, Tiptonville, Tenn.
CANCER FOR MANY YEARS.—A servant
has been afflicted for many years with a can
cer on her nose, which resisted all sorts of
treatment. She was cured entirely with
Swift’s Specific.
John Hill, Druggist, Thomson, Ga.
NOSE EATEN OFF.-A young man near this
town had an eatlngcancerounis face which
had destroyed his nose and was eating to
ward his eyes. As a last resort I put him on
Swift’s Specific, and It has cured him sound
aud well
M. F. Crumley, M. D., Oglethorpe, Ga.
I have seen remarkable results from the use
of Swift’s Specific In cancer. It has cured
several cases under my own eyes.
Rev. J. H. Campbell, Columbus, Ga.
Swift's Specific is entirely vegetable, aud
seems to cure cancers by forcing out the Im
purities from the blood. Treatise on Blood
and Skin Diseaes mailed free. The Swift
Specific Co., Drawer 3, Atlanta', Ga., or 159
W. 23rd street, New York.
TV! R - ISA.AC MCINTOSH, Savannffl >. s', ys:
For years I have suffered from dy—
pepsla, trying everything with the of
obtaining relief. Brown’s Iron Bitters cured
me aud I heartily recommend it.
Favorite Cigarettes will sooth your treub e<
here below.
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