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DARK DAYS
BY HUGH CONWAY.
Author of “Called Back.”
CHAPTER IL
A villain’s blow.
They tell me there are natures stern enough
to.be able to crush love out of their lives. Ahl
not such love as mine! Timo, they say, can
heal every wound. Not such a wound as
mine! My whole existence underwent a
change when Philippa showed me the wed
ding-ring on her finger. No wonder 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 hith
erto felt in my profession vanished. AH the
spring, the elasticity, seemed taken out of
my being. For months and months I did
my work in a perfunctory manner. It gave
me no satisfaction that my practice grew
larger. I worked, but I cared nothing for
my work. Success gave me no pleasure. An
increase to the number of my patients was
positively unwelcome tome. So long as I
made money enough to supply my daily
needs, what did it matter? Os what use
was wealth to me? It could not buy me the
one thing for which I craved. Os what use
was life? No wonder that such friends as I
had once possessed all but forsook me. My
mood at that time was none of the sweetest.
I wanted no friends. I was alone in the
world; I should be always alone.
So things went on for more than a year. I
grew worse instead of better. My gloom
deepened; my cynicism grew more con
firmed; my life became more and more
aimless.
These are not lovers’ rhapsodies. I would
spare you them if I could; but it is necessary
that you should know the exact state of my
mind in order to understand my subsequent
conduct. Even now it seems to me that I
am writing this description with my heart’s
blood.
Not a word came from Philippa. I made
no inquiries about her, took no steps to trace
her. 1 dared not. Not for one moment did I
forget her, and through all those weary
months tried to think of her as happy and to
be envied; yet, in spite of myself, I shud
dered as I pictured her lot as it might
really be.
But all the while I knew that the day
would come when I 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 I expected nothing, had
died and left me the bulk of his large prop
erty. I cared nothing for this unexpected
wealth, except for the fact that it enabled
me to free myself from a round of toil in
which by now I took not the slightest inter
est. Had it but come two or three years
before. -Alas I all the things in this life come
too late.
Now that I was no longer forced to min
gle with men in order to gain the means of
living. I absolutely shunned my kind. The
wish of my youth, to travel in far countries,
no longer existed with me. I disposed of
my practice—or rather I simply handed it
over to the first comer. I left the 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 Roding.
Here I was utterly unknown, and could live
exactly as I chose; and for months it was
my choice to live almost like a hermit.
My needs were ministered to by a man
who had been for some years in my em
ployment. He was a handy, faithful fel
low; honest as the day, stolid as the Sphinx;
and, for some reason or other, so much at
tached to me that he was willing to perform
on my behalf the duties of housekeeping
which are usually relegated to female ser
vants.
Looking back upon that time of 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.
Even in the depth of my degradation I
must have known the dangers of the path
which I was treading; for, after having
passed six dreary months in ray lonely cot
tage, I was trying to brace myself to seek a
change of scene. I shrank from leaving
my quiet abode; but every day formed
afresh the resolve to do so.
Yet the days, each the same as its fore
runner, went by, and I was still there. I
had books, of course. I read for days to
gether; then I would throw the volumes
aside, and, with a bitter smile, ask myself
to what end was I directing my studies.
The accumulation of knowledge? Tush ! I
would give all the learning I had acquired,
all that a lifetime of research could acquire,
to hold Philippa for one brief moment to
my heart, and hear her say she loved me I
If in the whirl of men, in the midst of hard
work, I found it impossible to conquer my
hopeless passion, how could I expect to do
so living as I at present lived ?
There! my egotistical descriptions are al
most over. Now you know why I said that
you must sit by the fire and think with me:
must enter, as it were, into my inner self
before you can understand my mental state.
Whether you sympathize with me or not
depends entirely on your own organization.
If you are so constructed that the love of
one woman, and one only, can pervade your
very being, fill your every thought, direct
your every action, make life to you a bless
ing or a curse—if love comes to you in this
guise, you will be able to understand me.
That night, when I first presented myself
to you, my wounds seemed less likely than
ever to heal; forgetfulness seemed further
and further away. Somehow as my thoughts
took the well-worn road to the past, every
event seemed recent as yesterday, every
scene vivid as if I had just left it. Hour
after hour I sat gazing at the glowing em
bers, but seeing only Philippa’s beloved
face. How hud life fared with her? Where
was she at this moment? The resolve to
quit my seclusion was made anew by me.
I would go into the world and find her—not
for any selfish motive. I would learn from
her own lips that she was happy. If unhappy,
she should have from me such comfort as
the love of a true friend can give. Yes, I
would leave this wretched life to-morrow.
My cheek flushed as I contrasted what I was
with what 1 ought to be. No man has a
right to ruin bis life or hide his talents for
the sake of a woman.
I had another inducement which urged
me to make a change in my mode of life.
I am ashamed that I have not spoken of it
THE SAVANNAH DAILY TIMES, FRIDAY, DECEMBER 26, 1884.
That morning I had received a letter from
my mother. I had not seen her for six
I years. Jnst as I entered man’s estate she
married for the second time. My stepfather
was an American, and with many tears my
mother left me for her new home. Some
months ago her husband died. I should
have gone to her, but she forbade me. She
had no children by her second husband, and
now that his affairs were practically wound
up she proposed returning to England. Her
letter told me that she would be in London
in three days’ time, and suggested that I
should meet her there.
Although of late years we had drifted
apart, she was dear, very dear to me. I
hated the thought of her seeing me, her
only child, reduced to such a wreck of my
former self; yet for her sake I again re
newed my resolve of leaving my seclu
sion.
Yet I knew that to-morrow I should for
swear myself, and sink back into my apathy
and aimless existence. Ah! I knew not
what events were to crowd into the morrow!
But now back to the night. It was mid
winter, and bitterly cold out of doors. My
lamp was not yet lighted; the glow of my
fire 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 peacefully,
i so calmly, so coldly; they seemed so unlike
the world, with its strife and fierce passions
and disappointments.
1 rose languidly from my chair and walked
to the window, to see what sort of a night it
i was. As I approached the casement I could
see that the skies had darkened; moreover, I
noticed that feathery flakes of snow were
accumulating in the corner of each pane. I
i went close to the window and peered out
into the night.
Standing within a yard of me, gazing into
i my dimly lit room her face stern and pale
as death, her dark eyes now riveted on my
i own, was a woman; and that woman was
Philippa, my love!
For several minutes 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
her I loved again and again, but this was
i the first time my waking thoughts had con
jured up such a vision. Vision, dream,
i reality! I trembled as I looked; for the form
i was that of Philippa in dire distress.
It was seeing the hood which covered her
bead grow whiter and whiter with the fast
i falling snow which aroused me to my senses,
and made every fiber thrill with the thought
, that Philippa, in flesh and blood, stoo l be
fore me. IVith a low cry of rapture I 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 I felt she was damp with partially
thawed snow. I closed the window; then,
with a throbbing heart, turned to greet my
visitor. She stood in the centre of the room.
Her mantle had fallen to the ground, and
through the dusk I could see her white face,
hands and neck. I took her hands in mine;
they were as cold as icicles.
i “Philippa! Philippa! why areyouhere?” I
, whispered. “Welcome, thrice welcome,
whether you bring me joy or sorrow.”
A trembling run through her. She said
’ nothing, but her cold hands clasped mine
, closer. I led her to the fire, 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 Phil-
■ ippa of old! But to my eyes how lovely!
As I looked down at the fair woman kneel
i ing at my feet, with her proud head bent as
in shame, I knew' intuitively that I should
, be called upon to keep my oath; and know
i ing this, I re-registeral it in all its entirety.
At last she raised her face to mine. In
i her eyes was a sombre fire, which until now
I had never seen there. “Philippa! Philip
pa 1” I cried again.
“Fetch a light,” she whispered. “Let me
see a friend’s face once more—if you are still
i my friend.”
■ “Your friend, your true friend forever,” I
- said, as I hastened to obey her.
As I placed the lamp on the table Philippa
arose from her knees. I could now see that
I she was in deep mourning. Was the thought
I that flashed through me, that it might be
i that she was a widow, one of joy or sorrow?
I hope—l try to believe it was the latter.
; We stood for some moments jn silence.
My agitation, my rapture at seeing her once
' more seemed to have deprived me of speech.
I could de little more than to gaze at her
and tell myself that I was not dreaming;
that Philippa was really here: that it was
her voice that I had heard, her hands I clasp
ed. Philippa it was, but not the Philippa of
old!
The rich, warm, glowing beauty seemed
toned down. Her face had lost its exquisite
color. Moreover, it was the face of one who
has suffered—one who is suffering. To me it
looked as if illness had refined it, as it some
times will refine a face. Yet, 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. She
stood firm and erect. Yet I trembled as I
gazed at that pale, proud face and those
dark, solemn eyes. I dared not for the while
ask her why she sought me.
She was the first to break the silence.
“You are changed, Basil,” she said.
“Time changes every one,” 1 answered,
forcing a smile.
“Will you believe me,” she continued,
“when I say that the memory of your face
as I saw it last has haunted even my most
joyful moments? Ah! me, Basil, had I been
true to myself I 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
me, but unhappy.”
“I loved you and lost you,” I answered,
i “How could Ibe happy?"
■ “And men can love like this?" she said
, ladly. “All men are not alike, then?”
“Enough of me,” I said. “Tell me of your
, ielf. Tell me how I can aid you. Your
husband—”
She drew a sharp, quick breath. The
. color rushed back to her cheek. Her ayes
glittered strangely. Nevertheless, she spoke
calmly and distinctly.
’ “Husband! I have none,” she said.
, “Is he dead ?”
“No”—she spoke with surprising bittor-
■ aess—“no; I should rather say I never was
' i wife. Tell me, Balil,” she continued
fiercely, “did you ever hate a man!”
“Yes,” I answered emphatically and
truly. Hate a man! From the moment I
saw the wretch with whom Philippa i id I
I hated him. Now that my worst suspicions
were true, what were my feelings?
I felt that my lips compressed themselves.
I knew that when I spoke my voire was as
stern and bitter as Philippa’s. “Si . down,”
I said, “ and tell me all. Tell me how you
knew I was here—where you have come
from.”
Let me but learn whence she came, and I
felt sure the knowledge would enable me to
lay my hand on the man I wanted Ah!
life now hold something worth living for !
“ I have been here some, months,” said
Philippa.
“Here! In this neighborhoodf’
“Yes. I have seen you several times. I
have been living at a house about three
miles away. I felt happier in knowing that
in case of need I had one friend near me.”
I pressed her hands. “Go on,” I said,
hoarsely.
“He sent me here. He had grown weary
of me. 1 was about to have a child I was
in his way—a trouble to him.”
Her scornful accent as she spoke was in
describable.
“Philippa! Philippa!” I 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 he
struck me. Struck—me! He cursed me
and struck me! Basil, did you ever hate a
man?”
I threw out my arms. My heart was full
of rage and bitterness. “And you became
this man’s mistress rather than my wife!” I
gasped. Neither my love nor her sorrow
could stop this one reproach from passing
my lips.
She sprang to her feet. “You!” she cried.
Did you—think—do you imagine Read!
Only this morning I learned it.”
She threw a letter toward me—threw it
with a gesture of loathing, as one throws a
nauseous reptile from one’s hand. I opened
it mechanically.
“Yes,” she said, “you are right in think
ing I had fallen low. So low that I went
where he chose to send me. So low that I
would have forgiven the ill-treatment of
months—the blow, even. Why? Because
' until this morning he was my husban 1.
' Read the letter. Basil, did you ever hate a
man?”
Before I read I glanced at 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 a woman who had such a
1 wrong to declare? She grew calm beneath
1 my glance.
“Read,” she said, beseechingly. “Ah,
God! I have fallen low; but not so low as
1 you thought.”
She buried her face in her hands while I
opened and real the letter. It was dated
from Paris, and ran thus:
“As it seems to me that we can’t exactly
1 hit it off together, I think the farce had bet
ter end. The simplest way to make my
1 meaning clear is to tell you that when I
married you I had a wife alive. She has died
since then; and I dare say, had we managed
to get on better together, I should have
aske.l you to go through the marriage cere
i mony once more. However, as things are
now, so they had better stop. You have th 3
satisfaction of knowing that morally you
are blameless.
“If, like a sensible girl, you are ready to
accept the situation, I am prepare'! to act
generously, and do the right thin; in money
matters. As I hate to have anything hang
' ing over me unsettled, and do not care to
trust delicate negotiations to a third party,
I shall run across to England and see you.
I shall reach Roding on Wednesday evening.
Do not send to the station to meet me; I
would rather walk.”
’ The letter was unsigned. My blood boiled
as I road it; yet, in spite of my rage, I felt a
’ grim humor as 1 realized the exquisite cyni
cism possessed by the writer. Here was a
man striking a foul and recreant blow’ at a
woman whom he once loved—a blow that
must crush her to the earth. His own words
’ confess him a rogue, a bigamist; and yet he
can speak coolly about money arrangements;
can even enter into petty details concerning
his approacliing visit! He must be without
shame, w ithout remorse; a villain, absolute
ly heartless!
h/Mi.
|! f ////' I ’-k •; ;
gl»
‘‘Help me, Basil! I come to you as a sis
ter ”
I folded the letter and placed it in my
breast. I wished to keep it, that I might
read it again and again during the next
twenty-four hours. Long hours they would
be. This letter would aid me to make them
pass. Philippa made no objection to my
keeping it. She sat motionless, gazing
gloomily into the fire.
“You knew the man’s right name and
title?” I asked.
“Yes, from the first. All! there I wronged
myself, Basil! The rank, the riches, perhaps,
tempted me; and—Basil, I loved him then!”
Oh. the piteous regret breathed in that
last sentence! I ground my teeth, and felt
that there was a stronger passion thau even
love. “That man and I meet to-morrow,” 1
told myself softly.
“But you spoke of a child?” 1 said, turning
to Philippa.
‘ ‘lt is dead —dead—dead!” she cried, with
a wild laugh. A fortnight ago it died. Dead!
My grief then; my joy to-day! See! lam
in mourning; to-morrow I shall put that
mourning off. Why mourn for what is a
happy event? No black after to-morrow.”
Her mood had once more become excited.
As before, her words came with feverish
rapidity. I took her hands ia mine; they
were now burning.
“Philippa, dearest, be calm. You will see
that man no more?”
“I will see him no more. It is to save my
self from seeing him that I come to you.
Little right have Ito ask aid from you; but
your word: came back to me in my need.
There was one friend to turn to. Help me,
Basil I I come to you as a sister may come
to a brother.”
“As a sister to a brother,” 1 echoed. “1
accept the trust," I added, laying my lips
reverentially 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—to-morrow, Basil, my brother, you
will take ma far away—far away?”
“Where you wish. Every land is as one
to me now.”
She had given me the right, a brother’s
right, to stand between her and the villain
who had wronged her. To-morrow that man
would be here I Ho w I long for the moment
which would bring us face to face!
Philippa arose. “I must go," she said.
I pressed food and wine upon her; she
would take nothing. She made, however,
no objection to my accompanying her to
her home. We left the house by the case
ment by which she entered. Together we
stepped out on the snow-whitened road.
She took my arm and we walked toward
her home.
I asked her with whom she was staying.
She told me with a widow lady aud two
children, named Wilson. She went to them
at Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s command. Mrs.
Wilson, he 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.
It was but another proof of the man’s re
volting cynicism. To send the woman who
falsely believed herself to be his wife to one
of his own relatiove! Oh, I would have a
full reckoning with himl
“What name do they know you by?” I
asked.
“He said I was to call myself by the false
name, which, for purposes of bis own, he
chose to pass under. But I felt myself ab
solved from my promise of secrecy. Why
should I stay in a strange house, with
with strange people, by Sir Mervyn Fer
rand’s request, unless I could show good
cause for doing so? So I told Mrs, Wilson
everything.
“She believed you?”
“She was bound to believe me. I would
have no doubt cast upon my word. I showed
her the certificate of my marriage. What
ever she may have thought at first, she saw
then that I was his wife. No one else knows
it except her. To her I am Lady Ferrand.
Like me, she never dreamed of what man’s
villainy can reach. Oh, Basil! Basil! why
are such men allowed to live?”
For the first time Philippa seemed to break
down. Till now the chief characteristics of
her mood had been scorn and anger. Now,
sheer grief for the time appeared to sweep
away every other emotion. Sob after sob
broke from her. I endeavored to calm her
—to comfort her. Alas! how little I could
say or do to these ends! She leaned heavily
and despondingly on my arm, and for a long
while we walked in silence. At last she told
me 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. I shall toll her lam your
brother; that for some time I have known
how shamefully your husband has neglected
you; and that now, with your full consent,
I mean to take you away. Whether this
woman believes in our relationship or not
matters nothing. I suppose she knows that
man is coming to-morrow. After his heart
less desertion, she cannot be surprised at
your wish to avoid meeting him.”
I paused. Philippa bent her head as if as
senting to my plan.
“Tomorrow," I continued, “long before
that wretch conies here to poison the very
air we breathe, I shall come and fetch you.
Early in the morning I will send my servant
for your luggage. Mrs. Wilson may know
me an Imy man by sight. That makes no
difference. There need be no concealment.
I You are free to come and go. You have no
one to fear. On Thursday morning wu will
leave this place.”
“Yes," said Philippa, dreamily, “to-mor
row I will leave —I 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 taka
■ you away openly and in broad daylight, as
■ a brother would take away a sister!”
“No; I will come to you. You will not
mind waiting, Basil. There is something I
must do first. Something to be done to
morrow. Something to be said; some one
to be seen. What is it? who is it? 1 cannot
recollect.”
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 be made before
she joined in •• Sleep and the certainty of
my sympathy and protection would no
doubt restore her wandering memory.
However, although I again and again
urged her to change her mind, she was firm
in her resolve to come to me alo io. At last,
very reluctantly, I was obliged to give way
on this point; but 1 was determined to see
this Mrs. Wilson to-night; so when we
reached the house I entered with Philippa.
I told her there was no occasion for her to
be present at my interview with rhe hostess.
She looked frightfully weary, and at my
suggestion wen t straight to hei room to re
tire for the night. I sat down and awaited
the advent of Mrs. Wilson. She soon ap
peared.
A vyoman of about five and thirty; well
but plainly dressed. As I glanced at her
with some curiosity I decided that when
young she must, after a certain type of
beauty, been exceedingly good looking. Un
fortunately here was one of those faces east
in an aquiline mold—faces which, as soon
as the bloom of youth is lost or the owners
thereof turn to thinness, become, as a rule,
sharp, strained, hungry and severe looking.
Whatever the woman’s charms might once
have been she could now boast of very few.
There were Unas around her mouth and
on her brow which told of suffering; and,
as I judged it, not the calm, resigned suffer
ing which often leaves a sweet if sad ex
pression on tlie lace, but fierce, rebellious,
constrained suffering, such us turns a young
heart into an old one long before its time.
As she entered the room and bowed to me
her face expressed unlisguised surprise at
seeing a visitor who was a stranger to her.
i apologized for the lateness of my call, then
hastened to tell her its object. She listened
with polite impassibility. She made no
comment when I repeatedly spoke of my so
styled sister as Lady Ferrand. It was clear
that, as Philippa had said, Mrs. Wilson was
convinced as to the valid nature of the mar
riage. I inveigned roundly against Sir
Mervyn Ferrand’s heartless conduct and
scandalous neglect of his wife. My hearer
shrugged her shoulders, and the meaning
conveyed by the action was that, although
she regretted family jars, they were no con
cern of hers. She seemed quite without in
terest in the matter; yet a suspicion that she
was acting, indeed rather over-acting, a
part, crossed my mind once or twice.
When I told her it was Lady Ferrand’s
intention to place herself to morrow under
my protection, she simply bowed. When I
said that most likely we should leave Eng
land, and for a while travel on thecontinent,
she said that my sister’s health would no
doubt be much benefited by the change. .
“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 I have been
thinking of sending for the medical man
who attended her during her unfortunate
i confinement. He has not seen her for quite
i a week. I mentioned it to her this afternoon,
i but she appears to have taken au unaccount-
• able dislike to him, and utterly refused to
see him. Ido not wish to alarm you— l
merely mention this; no doubt you, her
> brother, will see to it.”
The peculiar stress she laid upon the word
> “brother" told me that 1 was right in think-
• ing the woman was acting, and that not for
> one moment did my assumed fraternity de
ceive her. This was of no consequence.
I “I am myself a doctor. Her health will
be my care,” I said. Then I arose.
“You are related to Sir Mervyn Ferrand,
1 I believe, Mrs. Wilson?” I asked
She gave me a quick look which might
mean anything.
“We are connections," she said, care
lessly.
“You must have been surprised at his
sending his wife away at suoh a time?"
“I am not in the habit of feeling surprised
1 at Sir Mervyn’s actions. He wrote to me
1 and told me that, knowing my circum-
• stances were straitened, he had recom
mended a lady t» come and live with me for
. a few months. When I found this lady was
his wife, I own I was, for once, surprised"
i From the emphasis which she laid on cer
i tain words I knew it was but the fact of
• Philippa’s being married to the scoundrel
■ that surprised her, nothing else. I could
i see that Sirs. Wilson knew Sir Mervyn Fer
rand thoroughly, and something told me
I that her relations with him were of a nature
i which might not bear invostigation.
1 bade her good-night, and walked back to
my cottage with a heart in which sorrow,
pity, love, hatred, exultation, and, it may
I be, hope, were strangely and inextricably
mingled.
[TO UK CONTINUED IN OUR NEXT.]
drugs;an» medicines.
WE HAVE
Our usual .HANDSOME ASSORTMENT OF
NOVELTIES
Suitable for GIFTS, WEDDING, CHRIST
MAS and NEW YEAR PRESENTS.
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
MIRRORS and other Toilet
Requisites.
G. M. HEIDT & CO.,
DUUGGISTS,
Corner Congress and Whitaker streets.
I
Shuptrine’s
New Pharmacy,
Bolton and Montgomery streets.
I*lllll2 DUUGS
Dispensed by Careful and Expe
rienced Druggists.
J. C.-GC. c.
jJapinm Mug ta
CLEANS CLOTHES,
j Removes all Grease, Paints, Oils, Varnish,
Tar, Dirt or Soils from any fabric
without injury.
FOR SALE BY
J. R. Haitiwang-er,
i Cor Broughton and Drayton streets.
Also sold by L. C. Strong and 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.
I’eits. Peas.
Just Received, Fresh and Reliable.
NEW CROP
BLACK EYED MARROWFAT,
PHILADELPHIA EXTRA EARLY.
Also a full line of FRESH GARDEN SEEDS,
FOB SALK BY
M. BARIE,
Druggist and Seedsman,
Southeast cor. West Broad and Bryan streets.
13 A m£AHOY!~
Not that barque which spreads its sails to
the favoring gale and with every canvas
i 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 no 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.
a..
Wholesale aud Retail Dealer
IN ALL KINDS OF
Oak, Pine & Lightwood
SAWED AND IN STICK.
Yard, Canal and W. Boundary Sts.,
Foo of William Street,
AVANNAH, GEORGIA.
attention paid to orders and
measurements guaranteed.
Te’ephone Call 278.
HAMILTON’S
CHRISTMAS
COLUMN.
IF YOU WANT A FINE
Diamond Ring,
Lace Pin,
Ear Drops,
Studs,
Sleeve Buttons,
OR
Bracelets,
'FOR CHRISTMAS!
GO TO
HAMILTON’S.
IF YOU WANT A
Ladies’, Gent’s
OR
BOY’S
WATCH!
FOR CHRISTMA !
GO TO
HAMILTON’S
IF YOU WANT AN ARTICLE OF
StJt Silverware hr Chrisimas!
GO TO
HAMILTONS
IF YOU WANT THE
Latest Styles of Jgwelry
1 FOR CHRISTMAS!
GO TO
HAMILTON’S
IF YOU WANT A FINE
French Clock !
FOR CHRISTMAS!
GO TO
HAMILTON’S
j -IF YOU WANT ANY ARTICLE OF
Fancy Good s!
FOR CHRISTMAS!
GO TO
HAMILTON’S
IF YOU WANT
I
First Class Goods!
IN ANY OF THE ABOVE
LINES FOR CHRISTMAS
GO TO
SAMUEL P. HAMILWS,
Cor. Bull and Broughton Sts.
7