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DARK DAYS
BY HUGH CONWAY.
Author of "Called Back."
CHAPTER 111.
“THE WAGES OF BUT."
» ' x
“Go on, go on ! till you see the wages of
sin—"
Morning! No books: no Idle, listless hours
for me to-day. Plenty to do, plenty to think
about; all sorts of arrangements to make.
Farewell to my moody, sullen life. Fare
well to my aimless, selfish existence. Hence
forward I should have something worth liv
ing so dying for, if needs be! Phil
ippa was coming to me to-day: coming in
grief, it is true; coming as a sister comes to
a brother. Ah! after all the weary, weary
waiting, I shall see her to-day—to-morrow,
every day! If a man’s devotion, homage,
worship and respect can in her own eyes
reinstate my queen, I shall some day see the
bloom come 1 ack to her cheek, the bright
smile play once more round her mouth, the
dark eyes again eloquent with happy
thoughts. And then —and then! what
should I care for the world or its sneers! To
whom, save myself, should I be answerable!
Then I might whisper in her ear: “Sweet,
let the past vanish from our lives as a
dream. Let happiness date from to-day."
Although Philippa would grace my poor
cottage for one night only, 1 had a thousand
preparations to make for her comfort. For
tunately I had a spare room, and, moreover,
a furnished one. Not that I should have
troubled, when I went into my seclusion,
about such a superfluity as a guest-chamber;
but as it happened I had bought the house
and furniture complete, so could offer my
welcome guest fair accommodation for the
night.
I summoned my solid man. I told him
that my sister was coming on a visit to me,
that she would sleep here to-night, but that
most likely we should go away to-morrow.
He could stay and look after the house until
I returned or sent him instructions what to
do with it. William manifested no surprise.
Had I told him to make preparations for
the coming of my wife and five children he
would have considered it all a part of the
day’s work, and would have done his best to
meet my requirements.
He set to work in his imperturbable, me
thodical, but handy way to get Philippa’s
room in trim. As soon as this was done,
and the neglected chamber made cosy and
warm-looking, I told him to borrow a horse
and cart somewhere, and fetch the luggage
from Mrs. Wilson’s. He was to mention no
names; simply to say that he had come for
the luggage, and to ask if the lady had any
message to send.
Then I sat down in the room which my
love would occupy and mused upon the
strange but unhappy chance which was
bringing her beneath my roof. I wished
that I had an enchanter’s wand to turn the
► humble garniture of the chamber into sur
’ roundings meet for my queenly Philippa.
I wished that 1 had, at least, flowers with
which I could deck her resting place; for I
remembered how passionately she loved
flowers. Alas! I had not seen a flower for
months.
Then I drew cut Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s
letter, read it again and again, and cursed
the writer in my heart.
William was away about two hours; then
he made his appearance with some boxes.
I was delighted to see these tangible signs
that Philippa meant to keep her promise.
Till that moment I had been troubled by
something like the doubt that after all she
might, upon calm reflection, rescind the
resolution formed in her excitement. Now
her coming seemed to a certainty.
Nevertheless, William brought no mes
sage; so there was nothing for me to do but
wait patiently until she chose to cross my
threshold.
Although my pleasing labors of love were
ended, I was not left idle. There was
another task to be done to-day. I set my
teeth and sat down, thinking quietly as to
the way in which it might be best per
formed. To-night I meant to stand face to
face with that black-hearted scoundrel
known as Sir Mervyn Ferrand!
I consulted the time table. His letter
named no particular hour; but I saw that if
he carried out his expressed intention of
being here to-night, there was but one train
by which lie could come; there was but one
way from Roding to the house at which
Philippa had ben staying. He meant to
walk, his letter said; this might be in order
escape observation. The train was due
at Roding at 7 o’clock. The weather was
cold; a man would naturally walk fast.
Mrs. Wilson’s house must be four miles from
the station. Let me start from there just
before the train arr’ves, and I should prob
ably meet him about half way on his jour
ney. It would be dark, but I should know
him. I should know him among a thousand.
There on the open lonely road Sir Mervyn
Fermid, coming gaylv, and in his worldly
cynicism certain of cajoling, buying off, or
in some other way silencing the woman who
had in an evil day trusted to his honor and
love, would meet, not her, but the man who
from the first had sworn that a wrong to
Philippa should be more than a wrong to
himself 1 H'would meet this man and be
called to account.
Stern and sinister as were my thoughts—
freely and unreservedly as I record them,
as indeed I endeavor in this tale to record
everything—l do not wish to be misjudged.
It is true-that in my present mood I was
bent upon avenging Philippa with my own
hand; true that I meant, if possible, to take
R some time or another this man’s life; but
L least no thought of taking any advantage
p an unarmed or unsuspecting man entered
my scheme of vengeanc . I designed
Ino murderous attack. Byt it was my inten-
THE SAVANNAH DAILY TIMES, SUNDAY, DECEMBER 28, 1884.
■ tion to stop the man on bis path; to confront
. him and tell him t’ at his villainy was
’ known tome; that Philippa had fled to me
for aid; that she was now in my custody;
and that I, who stood in the position of her
brother, demanded the so-called satisfaction
which, by the old-fashioned code of honor,
was duo from the man who had ruthlessly
betrayed a woman. Well I knew that it
was probable he would laugh at me—tell me
that the days of duelling wore over, and re
fuse to grant my request. Then I meant to
see if insults could warm his noble blood; if
my hand on his cheek could bring about the
result which I desired. If this failed I
would follow him abroad, cane him and spit
upon him in public pl*ces.
A wild scheme for these prosaic, law-abid
ing days; yet the only one that was feasible.
It may be said that I should have taken
steps to have caused the recreant to be ar
rested for bigamy. But what proof of his
crime had we as yet, save his own, unsigned
confession? Who was to move in the mat
ter—Philippa—myself? We did not even
know where this wife of whom he had
spoken lived, or where she died. There were
a hundred ways in which he might escape
from justice, but whether he was punished
for his sin, or allowed to go scot-free,
Philippa’s name and wrongs must be
bruited about, her shame made public. No;
there was but one course to take, and but
one person to take it. It rested with me
to avenge the wrongs of the woman I loved
by the good old-fashioned way of a life
against a life.
Truly, as I said, I had now plenty to live
for!
The hours went by, yet Philippa came not.
I grew restless and uneasy as the dusk be
i gan to make the road, up which I gazed al •
most continually, dim and indistinct. When
, the short winter’s day was over, and the
long dark night had fairly begun, my rest
lessness turned into fear. I walked out of
my house and paced my garden to and fro.
I blamed myself for having yiel led so light
ly to Philippa’s wish—her comman I. rather
—that I should on no account fetch her.
But then, whenever did I resist a wish,
‘ much less a c immand, of hers? Oh, that I
had been firm this once!
The snow-storm of the previous evening
had not lasted long—not long enough to
’ thoroughly whiten the world. The 'lay had
* been fine and frosty, but I knew that the
wind had changed since the sun went down.
' It was warmer, a change which I felt sure
presage I a heavy downfall of snow or rain.
There was a moon, a fitful moon; for clouds
' wer-‘ flying across it, dark clouds, which 1
I guessed would soon gather coherence and
volume, and veil entirely that bright face,
' which now only showed itself at irregular
intervals.
The minutes were passing away. I grew
nervous and excited. Why does she no*
come? My hope had been to see my poo?
girl safely housed before I started to execute
my other task. Why does she not come!
Time, precious time, is slipping by I In the
hope of meet’ng her, I walked for some dis
' tanco up the road. “Why does she delay?’
I groaned. Even now I should be on my
( way to Roding, or I may miss my prey.
Heavens! can it be that she is waiting to see
t this man once more? Never! never I Perish
the thought!
’ But, all the same, every fibre in my body
quivered at the bare supposition of such a
[ thing.
) I could bear the suspense no longer. For
the hundredth time I glanced at my watch.
It wanted but ten minutes to seven o’clock,
* and at that hour I had resolved to start from
‘ Mr. Wilson’s on my way to Roding. Yet
* now I dared not leave my own house. Any
moment might bring Philippa. What would
she think if I was not there to receive and
welcome her?
Five more precious moments gone! J
stamped in my rage. After all, I can only
s do one-half of my task; the sweet, but not
' the stern half. Shall I, indeed, do either!
1 The train must now be close to Roding. In
an hour everything may be lost. The man
will see her before she leaves the house. He
will persuade her. She will listen to hi;
words; for did he not once love her? He
( must have loved her! After all, he brok
the laws for the sake of possessing her, and
—cursed thought!—she loved him then; and
‘ she is but a woman!
So I tortured myself until my state of
mind grew unbearable. At all hazards 1
must prevent Ferrand from meeting Philip
pa. Oh, why had she not come as she prom
ised? Could it be she was detained against
’ her will? In spite o: her uninterested man
ner I distrusted the woman I had seen last
night It is now past seven o’clock. Phil
ippa’s house, from which I had reckoned my
time, Was nearly three miles away. I must
give up iny scheme of vengeance. I must
go in search of Philippa. If I do not meet
her I must call at Mrs. Wilson’s, find ou;
what detains her, and if needful bear her
away by force.
By this time my steps had brought me
back to my own house. I called William,
and told him I was going to walk up the
road and meet my expected guest. If by any
chance I should miss her he was to welcom
ber on my behalf, and tell her the reason foi
my absence.
“Best take a lantern, sir,” said William
“moon’ll be hidden, and them roads is pre
cious rough.”
“I can’t be bothered with that great horn
affair,” I said, rather testily.
“Take the little one—the bull’s eye —that’
better than nothing,” said William. To hu
mor him I put it mto my pocket.
I ran at the top of my speed to the house
at which I had last night left Philippa. I
took me nearly half an hour getting there.
I rang the bell impetuously. The door was
opened by a maid servant. I inquired for
Mrs. Farmer, knowing that Philippa had
passed under this name to all except her
hostess. To my surprise I was told that she
had left the house, on foot and alone, some
little while ago. The maid believed she was
not going to return, as her luggage had that
morning been sent for.
The first effect of this intelligence was tc
cause me to blame my haste. I must have
missed her; no doubt passed her on the road.
No; such a thing was impossible. T e way
was a narrow one. The moon still gavi
■ome light. If I had met Philippa I must
have seen he •. She must have seen me, and
would then have stopped me. She could not
have gone the way I came.
But where vas she? In what direction
was I to seek her? Argue the matter as 1
would—loath as I was to allow myself to be
convinced, I was bound to decide that she
must have taken the path to Roding. There
was no other. She had gone, even as 1 was
going, to meet Ferrand. She may have
started, intending to come to me; but at the
last moment a desire to see the man once
more—l fondly hoped for the purpose of
heaping reproaches on his head—had mas
tered her. Yes, whatever her object might
be, she had gone to meet him. And my
heart sank as conviction was carried to it
by the remembrance that coupled with her
refusal to permit me to fetch her was an as
sertion that she had something to do before
she came to me. That, as I now read it,
could be but one thing—to meet this man I
■ Never again, if I can help it, shall hit
i voice strike on her ear! Never again shall
, their eyes meet! Never again shall the
touch of oven his finger contaminate her!
Let me follow, and stand between her and
the scoundrel. If they meet he will wound
her to the heart. Her pride will rise; she
will threaten. Then the coward will try
another line. He will plead for mercy; he
will swear he still love* her; he will bait his
hook with promises. She will listen; hesi
tate; perhaps yield, and find herself once
more deceived. Then she will be lost to me
forever. Now she is, in my eyes, pure as
when first we met me haste on, over
take, pass her; meet her betrayer, and, if
needful, strike him to the ground.
As 1 turned from the house 1 became
aware that a great and sudden change had
come over the night. It seemed to me that,
even in the few minutes which I had spent
in considering what to do, the heavy clouds
had banked and massed together. It was
all but pitch-dark; so dark that I paused,
and drawing from my pocket the lantern
with which William’s foresight had provid
ed me, managed after several trials to light
it. Then, impatient at the delay, I sped up
the road.
I was now almost facing the wind. All at
once, sharp an 1 quick, I felt the blinding
snow on my face. The wind moaned through
the leafless branches on either side of the
road. The snow fliikes whirlei madly here
and there. Even in my excitement I was
able to realizj the fact that never before
had I seen in England so fierce a snow
storm, or one which came on so suddenly.
And. like mys If, Philippa was abroad, and
exposed to its full fury. Heavens! she
might lose her way, and wander about all
night.
This fear quickened my steps. I forced
my way on through the mad storm. For the
time all thought of Sir Mervyn Ferrand and
vengeance left my heart. All I now wanted
was to find Philippa; to lead her home, and
see her safe beneath my roof. “Surely,” I
said, as I battled along, “she cannot have
gone much further.”
I kept a sharp lookout—if, indeed, it can
be called a lookout; for the whirling snow
made everything, save what was within a
few feet of me, invisible. I strained my
ears to catch the faintest cry or other sound.
i I went on, flashing my lantern first on one
and then on the other side of road. My
dread was that Philippa, utterly unable to
fight against the white tempest, might be
crouching under one of the banks, and if sc
I 1 might pass without seeing her or even at
tracting her attentick). My doing so on
such a night as this might mean her d?ath.
Oh, why had she not come as promised ?
Why had she gone to meet the man who had
so foully wronged her? After what had
i happened, she could not, dared not love him.
; And for a dreary comfort I recalled the
• utter bitterness of her accent last night
when sh • turned to me and said, “ Basil, did
you ever hate a man?” No, she could not
i love him!
i These thoughts brought my craving for
vengeance back to my mind. Where was
! Ferrand? By all my calculations, taking
. into account the time wasted at starting, 1
should by now have met him. Perhaps he
, had not come, after all. Perhaps the look
of the weather had frightened him, and he
, bad decided to stay at Roding or the night.
! I raged at the thought! If only I knew that
Philippa was safely housed, nothing, in my
r present frame of mind, would have suited
me better than to have met him on this
lonely road, in the midst of this wild storm.
’ If Philippa were only safe 1
I Still no sign of her. I began to waver in
my mind. What if my first supposition,
I that I had passed her on the road, was cor
[ rect? She might be now at my cottage,
wondering what had become of me. Should
I Igo further or turn back? But what would
be my feelings if I did the latter and found
when I arrived home that she had not made
her appearance ?
, 1 halted, irresolute, in the centre of the
road. Instinctively I beat my hands to
gether to promote circulation. I had left
my home hurriedly, and had made no pro
vision for the undergoing of such an ordeal
as this terrible, unprecedented snowstorm
; inflicted. In spite of the speed at which I
had traveled, my hands and feet were grow
ing numbed, my face smarted with the cold.
Heaven help me to decide aright, whether tc
go on or turn back!
The decision was not left tome. Suddenly,
clcse at hand, I heard a wild peal, a scream
of laughter which made my blood run cold.
Swift from the whirling, tossing, drifting
snow emerged a tall gray figure. It swept
past pie like the wind; but as it passed me I
knew that my quest was ended—that Philip
pa was found!
She vanished in a second, before the ter
ror which rooted me to the spot had passed
away. Then I turned and, fast as I could
run, followed her, crying as I went, “Phil
ippa! Philippa!”
I soon overtook her; but so dark was the
night that I was almost touching her before
I saw her shadowy, ghost-like form. I threw
my arms round her and held her. She strug
gled violently in my grasp.
“Philippa, dearest! it is I, Basil,” I said,
bending close to her ear.
The sound of my voice seemed to calm her,
or I should rather say she ceased to strug
gle.
“Thank heaven, I have found you!” I said.
“Let us get back as soon as possible.”
“Back! No! Go on, go on!” she exclaimed.
“On, on, on, up the road yet awhile—on
through the storm, through the snow—on
till you see what I have left behind me!
On till you see the wages of sin—the wages
of sin!”
Her words came like bullets from a mit
railleuse. Through rhe night I could see
her face gleaming whiter than the snow on
her hood. I could see her great, fixed, dark
eyes full of nameless horror.
“Dearest, be calm,” I said, and strove to
take her hands in mine.
As I tried to gain possession of her right
hand something fell from it, and, although
the road was now coated with snow, a me
tallic sound ran out as it touched the
ground. Mechanically I stooped and picked
up the fallen object.
As I did so, Philippa, with a wild cry,
wrested herself from the one hand whose
numbed grasp still sought to retain her, and
with a frenzied reiteration of the words,
“The wages of sin!” fled from me, and was
lost in the night.
Even as I rushed in pursuit I shuddered
as the sense of feeling told me what thing it
was I had picked up from the snowy ground.
It was a small pistol! Cold as tiie touch of
the metal mus have b-en, it seemed to burn
me like a coal of fire. Impulsively, thought
lessly, as I ran I hurled the weapon from me,
far, far away. Why should it have been in
Philippa’s hand this night?
1 ran madly on, but not for long. My
foot caught in a stone, and I fell, half stun
ned and quite breathless, to the ground. It
was some minutes before I recovered myself
sufficiently to once more stand erect. Phil
ippa must have obtained a start which, cou
pled with her frenzied speed, almost pre
cluded the possibility of my overtaking her.
Moreover, a strange, uncontrollabla im
pulse swayed me. The touch of that deadly
weapon still burned my band. Philippa’s
words still rang in my ears. “On, on, on,
up t,»e road yet awhile!” she had cried.
What did she mean? What ha 1 been dune
to-night?
I must retrace my steps. I must see! I
must know ! Philippa is flying through the
cold, dark, deadly night; but her frame is
but the frame of a woman. She must soon
grow exhausted, perhaps sink senseless on
the road. Nevertheless, the dreadful fears
which are growing in my mind must be set
at rest; then I can resume the pursuit At
all cost I must know what has happened!
Once more I turned and faced the storm.
Heavens! anything might happen on such a
night as this! I went on andon, flashing
my lantern as I went on the centre and each
side of the road. I went some distance past
that spot where I judged that Philippa had
swept by me. Then suddenly with a cry of
horror I stopped short. At my very feet, in
the middle of the highway, illumined by the
disk of light caat by my lantern, lay a
whitened mass, and as my eye fell upon it
I knew only too well the meaning of Phil
ippa’s wild exclamation, “The wages of sin!
The wages of sin?”
[TO BE CONTINUED IN OUR NEXT.]
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rieneed Druggists.
I’eas. I?eas.
Just Received, Fresh and Reliable.
NEW CROP
BLACK EYED MARROWFAT,
PHILADELPHIA EXTRA EARLY. '
Also a full line of FRESH GARDEN SEEDS,
FOR SALE BY
Me A. BARIE,
Druggist and Seedsman, I .
Southeast cor. West Broad and Bryan streets. I
BAJRJK aIiOYT -
Not that barque which spreads its sails to
the favoring gale and with every canvas
drawing taut, sails tlie 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, I
Corner Broughton and Habersham streets I
Christmas Music
This is the time of the yeai
when we blossom out with musi
cal novelties suitable for Christ
mas Presents for musical cranks
of high or low degree. We are
on hand this year with a million,
more or less, of appropriate
and valuable
MUSICAL GIFTS.
——
CAST YOUR OPTICS ON THIS LIST :
MUSIC BOXES.
The sweatest music in the world. Equals
the chink of gold dollars. 50 styles from
SI each to SIOO. Special bargains.
CHILDREN’S PIANOS.
Dprights and Squares. The cutest things '
you ever saw. Children can learn on
them as well as on large Pianos. From
SI 50 to S2oeach.
Automaiic Musical Instruments.
Orguinettes only SO, with 5 tunes. En-1
phomas only $7 50, with 4 tunes. Musi-1
cal Caskets SB. Celesteons Sls. Prices on
these wonderful mechanical instru
ments reduced one-half. Children can I
play them.
JIETALLAPHONES,
With Steel and Wooden Bars. A large
variety, from sc. each to *5.
MUSIC FOLIOS.
Illuminated Covers, very handsome
from SI to So each.
PIANO COVERS.
Richest patterns ever produced. Prices
very low. Ladies, look at these. They
are beautiful and cheap.
Toy Cornets, Toy Trombones, Toy Banjos,
Toy Violins, Guitars, Flutes, Accor
doe. s, Concertinas, Harmoni
cas, Fifes, Tamborines.
Toy Drunu, Toy Drums. I
Mm Si him Md Houss.
;|
MISS MARY E. GAlLßAßD,Barnard’street ! I
1,1 Savannah, says: I used Brown's Iron ; I
Bitters for fever with beneficial results. It
Imparted great strength.
Favorite Cigarettes will sooth your troubl
ee below.
HAMILTON’S
CHRISTMAS
COLUMN.
IF YOU WANT A FINE
Diamond Ring,
Lace Pin,
Ear Drops,
Studs,
Sleeve Buttons,
Bracelets,
FOR CHRISTMAS!
GO TO
HAMILTON’S.
IF YOU WANT A
Ladies’, Gent’s
OR
BOY’S
WATCH!
FOR CHRISBIA !
<1
GO TO
HAMILTON’S
IF YOU WANT AN ARTICLE OF
{Solid SilwfWirs Im Ghristna:!
I ——GO TO——
HAMILTONS
IF YOU WANT THE
Utssi Styles of Jewelry
FOR CHRISTMAS!
—6O TO—i
HAMILTON’S
IF YOU WANT A FINE
French Clock !
FOR CHRISTMAS!
GO TO
HAMILTON’S
-IF YOU WANT ANY ARTICLE OF-
Fancy Goo ds!
FOR CHRISTMAS!
GO TO—
HAMILTONS
IF YOU WANT
First Class Goods!
IN ANY OF THE ABOVE
LINES FOR CHRISTMAS
GO TO
SAMUEL I. HAMira'S,
Cor. Bull and Broughton Sts.
7