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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. 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