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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.] Home Items and Topics. —“All your own fault. If you remain sick when you can Get hop bitters that never—Fail. —The weakest woman, smallest child and sickest invalid can use hop bitters with safety aud great good. —Old men tottering around from Rheuma tism, kidney trouble or any weakness will be made almost new by using hop bitters. 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