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DARK DAYS
BY HUGH CONWAY.
Author of “Called Back."
CHAPTER V.
A WHITE TOMB.
From the moment when the true state of
Philippa’s mind flashed upon me, to the mo
ment when I left her sleeping that heavy
Bleep, 1 had little time to think of anything
else than the best means of saving her life,
and, if possible, her reason. True, through
out the whole of my operations to effect this
end, a dim sort of horror pervaded me—-a
recollection of the ghastly object which lay
on the roadside, some three miles trom us;
but it was not until I turned from my pa
tient’s door that the terrible situation in
which she was placed presented itself to me
in all its dread entirety. Half broken
hearted, I threw myself wearily into my
chair, and covered my face with my hands.
What was to be done! What was to be
done? To-morrow morning the body would
be found. I felt certain that when inquiry
was made suspicion would at once point to
ward Philippa. Mrs. Wilsen knew of her
starting from home in the evening, alone
and on foot. She knew, moreover, that Sir
Mervyn Ferrand was her hnsband; that he
had ill-used her. She would most certainly
know to whom Philippa had fled. It did
not follow that because I was ignorant as to
who were my neighbors they knew nothing
about me. At any rate, William, my man,
would know the truth. So far as I could
see, to-morrow, or by the latest, the next
day Philippa would be arrested for the
crime. Most probably I should also be in
cluded in the arrest. For that I seemed to
care nothing; except that it might hinder
file from helping my poor girl.
Any hope of removing Philippa—there,
put it in plain words—any hope of flight;
for days, even weeks, wag vain. Let every
filing go as well as can be in such cases, the
►irl must be kept in seclusion and quiet for
it least a fortnight or three weeks. 1 groaned
is I thought of what would happin if Phil
ippa was arrested and carried before the
magistrates, accused of the awful crime.
From that moment until the day of her
death she would be insane.
Yet, what help was there for it? The mo
ment the deed is known—the moment Mrs.
Wilson learns that Sir Mervyn Ferrand has
been found shot through the heart, she will
let it be known that Lady Ferrand is at
hand; and Lady Ferrand, who has been
oassing under the name of Mrs. Farmer, will
be sought and found. And then —and then!
Even if she did not die at once—even if
she recovered—oh, the shame of the trial!
No jury could or would convict her; but for
Philippa, my queen, to stand in the dock,
to plead for her life. To know that,
whether convicted or acquitted, the deed
was done by her. To know that all Eng
land is talking of her wrongs and her venge
ance. Horrible! Horrible! It shall never
be. Rather will I give her a draught of
opium heavy enough to close her eyes for
ever. There will be plenty more of the
irug left for me 1
Fool that I was I Why did Ido things
by halves? Why, for her sake, did I
not hide the dead man where none would
And him? Why did I not rifle his pockets,
so that suspicion should have pointed to a
vulgar murderer—some one who had killed
him for mere plunder? Why did I not, at
least, destroy any letters or papers which
were about him? Identification might then
have been rendered difficult, and perhaps
been delayed for weeks. In that time I
tnight have saved her.
Why do I not do this now? I started to
my feet; then sank back into my chair.
No; not even for Phillipa’s sake could I go
jo again to that spot. If I did so, I should
return as mad as she is now.
Not being able to bring myself to adopt
the grewsome alternative, I could do noth
ing save wait events—nothing, at least, to
avert the consequences of her delirious act.
But for her something must be done. How
could she, in her frenzied state, be left here
—her only companions two men? Nurses
must at once be procured. I summoned
William and told him he must go to London
by the first train in the morning.
William would have received my instruc
tions to go to the Antipodes with impertur
bability. He merely expressed a doubt as
to whether any one would be able to get to
London to-morrow on account of the snow.
I walked to the window and looked ou'..
The night was still one mad whirl of snow
flakes. The window-panes were half covered
by such as managed to find a resting place
there. As I watched what I could see of
the wild white dance, I found myself think
ing that by now that dead man on the road
must be covered an inch —must have lost
shape and outline. I shivered as I turned
aVvay.
“They are sure to keep the line to town
open,” I said. “If you can get to Roding,
you can get to London.”
“Oh, loan get to Roding right enough!”
said William.
Then I told him what ho was to do. He was
to take a letter to one of the Nursing Institu
tions, and bring back two nurses with him.
No matter what the weather was when they
reached Roding, they were to come to my
houss at once, even if they had to hire twenty
horses to drag them there. He was also to
get me a few drugs that I might want.
William said no more. He nodded, to
show that ho understood me; and I knew if
it were possible to do my bidding it would
be done. .
Os his own accord he then brought me
fool. I ate, for I knew that I should want
all ray strength to support the anxiety of the
next day or two.
uVj
j iT- / / \
(rsifeßr i\\ a
I The poor creature, to whose side I crept
every half-hour—
THE SAVANNAH DAILY TIMES, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 30, 1884.
I stayed up the whole night. Oh, that aw
ful night! shall lever forgot it? The soli
tude—ihe raging snow storm outside—the
poor creature, to whose side I crept noise
lessly every half an hour. She lay there
with a face like marble, calm and beautiful.
The long, dark lashes swept her pale cheek.
The only movement was the regular rise nnd
fall of the bosom. Oh, happy oblivion! Oli,
dreaded wakening! As I looked at her, in
spite of the love I bore her, I believe that, had
I thought such a prayer would be answered,
I should for her sake have prayed that those
lashes might never again be lifted.
Morning at last broke on my dreary vigil.
Philippa still slept. I returned to the sitting
room and drew back the curtains from the
window. Yes; it was morning—such a
morning as leaden, wintry skies can give.
It was still snowing as heavily, if not more
heavily, than it had snowed last night. For
twelve hours the flakes had fallen without
intermission.
There was little wind now; it had dropped,
I knew, about an hour ago. The world, so
far as I could see, was clad in white: butthe
snow lay unevenly. The wind had blown it
into drifts. On my garden path its depth
might be counted by inches; against my gar
den wall by feet.
William now made his appearance. He
prepared some breakfast for himself, and
then, having done justice to it, started for
Roding. It occurred to me that he might
be the first to find the object which lay on
the roadside.
Except that so doing might delay him and
cause him to miss the train, this mattered
little. I was now calmly awaiting the in
evitable. Some one must make the dis
covery. However, as I wanted the nurses, I
said to him:
“Remember this is life and death. Noth
ing muststop you.” He touched his hat in a
reassuring manner, and tramped off through
the snow.
1 returned to my patient’s bedside and sat
watching her, and waiting for hertoawake.
She had now slept for nearly eleven hours,
and I knew that return to life might take
place at any moment. I longed for, and yet
I dreaded, her awakening. When the effects
of the opiate were gone, how should I find
her? Alas! I knew' that the chances were a
thousand to one that her brain would still
be full of strange delusions; that she would
turn from me, as she turned last night, with
loathing and anger. But my greatest fear
was that she would, upon coming to herself,
or rather to her poor insane ielf, be conscious
of the act she had accomplished. It was ths
fear of this which made me wish that the
opium would hold her in its drowsy grasp
for hours longer.
This wish was granted. Hour after hour
I sat by her motionless form. Now and
again I glanced from the beautiful, sense
less face, and looking out of the window
saw the snow still falling. Would my mes
senger ever be able to reach town; it he did
so, would he be able to return? I was bound
to have a woman’s aid. The presence of the
roughest daughter of the plow would b=
welcome to me when Philippa awoke. And
it was now time she did so.
Although I felt her pulse almost every
other minute, an l could find no reason for
alarm, I am bound to say that her long
sleep, protracted far beyond any I had in
my experience seen produce ! by the exhibi
tion of narcotics, rendered me very uneasy.
I shall, I am sure, scarcely be credit'd when
I say that Philippa’s unconsciousness lasted
for 10 hours—trom 9.30 at night to 1.30 on
the following afternoon. I began then to
think the duration abnormal, and deter
mined to take some steps towards arousing
her.
But I was spared the responsibility. She
stirred on the couch. Her turned languidly
on the pillow. Her dark eyes opened,
closed, ansi opened again. She looked at
me in a daze I manner, not at first seeming
to know me, or to understand why I was
near her, or w here she was. A prey to the
wildest anxiety, I leaned over her and waited
until she spoke.
Little by little her bewilderment seemed
to leave her. Her eyes rested with curious
inquiry upon mine. “Basil,” she said faintly,
but in a tone of surprise, “you here? Where
am I?”
“Under my roof—your brother’s roof,” I
said.
“Ah! I remember,” she said, with a deep
sigh. Then she closed her eyes, and once
more seemed to sleep.
What did she remember? It seemed to
me too great a mercy to expect that those
hours of obliviqn had effected a cure, but
my hope was that she did not remember
what had happened when she met Sir Mer
vyn Ferrand on the road. I was almost
trembling with excitement. I was longing
to really know in what state her mind was.
Besides, I thought she had slept as long as
was good for her. I took her hands and
called her by name.
Once more she opened her eyes. They
expressed no fear of me, no dislike to me.
They conveyed no reproach. They were
calm, sad, weary, but gave no evidence oi
any mental disorder.
“Have I been ill long, Basil?” she asked.
“Not very long. You are going to get
better soon.”
“I came to your house, did I not?”
“Yes; and here I mean to keep you. Do
you feel weak?”
“Very weak. Basil, I have dreamed such
horrible things.”
“You have been feverish and delirious.
People like that always fancy strange
things.”
She was, indeed, as weak hs a child; but
for the time, at least, she was perfectly
sane. I could have cried for joy as I heard
her faint but collected words. I ventured
to hope that I had before me one of those
very rare cases—such as I had’ seen de
scribed, but had not as yet met with—where
the patient awakes from a long, artificially
produced sleep perfectly free from all
maniacal symptoms. If this were so with
Philippa, if the return of reason were to be
permanent, I knew, that a few weeks’ care
ful nursing apd judicious treatment might
quite restore her to health. Even as this
comforting thought came to me, I remem
bered the peril in which she stood. Tor
morrow—aye, even to-day—the thing which
I dreaded might happen, and sweep away
all the good the narcotie had done her.
She was now tully awake, and perfectly
quiet. I gave her some refreshment; then
Seeing she was lying in peaceful silence, I
thought it better toiieave -her. As I quitted
her room IdreVdov. u the blind, fearing:
that the whirling snow might bring recol
lections which it was ray one wish to keep
from invading her mind.
The long, dreary day wore array. The i
light faded,,and another night began. Phi
lippa Stili lay calm, silent, and almost apa
thetic. I did nothing to rouse her. I went ■
to. her side,-9S- seldom as possible. I feared
that her seeing me might recall the events
of the last night, ; and that recollections so
awakened might destroy all the good which
I felt sure had been accomplished by the
long hours of oblivion and quiet. Could I
have deputed my task to another, I would
not have even shown myself to my patient.
Most anxiously, as evening came, ! awaited
tne appearance of my faithful William and
the nurses.
Would they be able to reach us in such
weather? It was still snowing fiercely. For
more than twenty-four hours the mad white
revel had continued without intermission.
Indeed, that storm which burst upon the
world as I turned from Philippa’s house on
the preceding night is now historical; it was
the beginning of the heaviest and longest
fall which the record of fifty years can show.
For two nights and a day the snow came
down in what may almost be called drifting
masses. During that dismal day I saw from
the window the heaps against the wall grow
deeper and deeper, and even in my preoccu
pied state of mind found myself marvelling
at the sustained fury of the storm.
At 11 o’clock at night I sadly gave up all
hope of the much needed assistance arriving.
After all, it seemed that William had found
it impossible to fight against the weather;
so I made my preparations for another night
of solitary watchfulness. I was all but worn
out with fatigue; yet I dared not sleep. If
the mania returned, what might happen
were I not at hand to restrain Philippa’s
actions? My hope that the madness had
really left my patient, not, if she were prop
erly treated, to return, was a growing one,
but not yet strong enough to allow me to
leave her for any length of time.
My delight then may be imagined when,
looking for the hundredth time up the road,
I saw close at hand two flashing lights, and
knew that William, the faithful, had done
my bidding. In a few minutes two respect
able women from one of the best of the
London nursing institutions were within my
walls.
The train had. of course, b-en late, very
late. At one or two places on the line
it had almost given up the' battle, and set
tied down quietly until dug out; but steam
and iron had conquered, and at last it did
get to Roding. There William, knowing
my dire necessity, offered such a magnificent
bribe that he soon found an enterprising
carriage proprietor who was willing to make
the attempt to force two horses and a car
riage over six miles of road '»'tween Roding
and my house. The attempt was successful,
although the rate of progression was slow;
and William triumphantly ushered his
charges into my presence.
After giving them time for rest and re
freshment, I explained the nature of the
case, set out the treatment I wished to be
adopted, and then led them to Philippa. I
left the pool - girl in their charge for the
night, then went to take the sleep of which
I stood so much in need.
But before going to bed I saw William. I
dreaded to hear him say what gruesome
sight he had seen that morning; yet I was
bound to learn if the deed had yet been
made public.
“Did you manage to get to Roding all
dgbt this morning?” I asked with assumed
sarelessness.
“I managed all right, sir,” said William,
cheerfully.
“Snow deep on the roadF
“Not so deep as I fancied ’twould be. All
drifted and blown up to one side, like. I
never seen such a thing. Drift must have
been feet deep this morning. What must it
be now, I wonder? Something like the Arctic
regions, I should think, sir?”
For the first time for hours and hours a
ray of hope flashed across me. William had
walked that lonely road this morning, and
noticed nothing except the drifted snow! I
remem leer id how I pldced the dead man in the
little hollow at the bottom of the bank.
Could it be that the kindly, merciful snow,
which I have already described as beginning
to form in a winding-sheet, had hidden and
buried him? That a pure white, shape
less heap, which told no tales, concealed for
a while the dark deed from the world? Oh
that Philippa were well enough to leave this
place to-morrow! We might fly and leave
no trace behind us. She might never know
what she had done in her madness. The
fearful secret would be mine alone. A bur
den it would be, but one which I might
easily find strength enough to bear. Bear
it! I could bear it, and be happy; for some
thing told me that, could I but save her from
the peril which menaced her, Philippa and I
would part no more in this world until death,
the only conqueror of such love as mine,
swept us asunder.
Once more I looked out into the night
Still the snow-flakes whirled down. Oh,
brave, kind snow! Fall, fall, fall! Pile the
masses on the dead wretch. Hide him deep
in your bosom. Fall for weeks, for months,
forever! Save my love an 1 me!
[TO BE CONTINUED IN OUB NEXT.]
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We began handling B. B. B. from its first exist
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Wholesale Druggists.
Office of JACOB’S PHARMACY. )
Atlanta, June 13, 1884.}
Six months ago we had no demand for B. B. 8.,
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Per Fre.lß. Palmer, M. D.
Atlanta, June 12, 1884.
We have been handling B. B B. only a few
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Druggists.
SCHUMANN,S PHARMACY, 1
A i. n a, June 16,1884. j
Since I have begun handling the B. B 8., which
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During the past few months I have given B B.
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Atlanta, June 12, 1881.
W'e find the sale of R B. B. largely on the in
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Christinas Musis
This is the time of the year
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METALLAPHONES,
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MUSIC FOLIOS.
Illuminated Covers, very handsome
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piano COVERS.
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Toy Cornets, Toy Trombones, Toy Banjos,
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HAMILTON’S
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DRUGS AND MEDICINES.
WEHAVE
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“COUGH AND LUNG BALSAM.’’
It is the best medicine ever presented for
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J. c. c. c. c.
I
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' Usosoldby L. C. Strong and E. A. Knapp
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Prepared only by
DAVID PORTER, Druggist,
Corner Broughton and Habersham streets.
R- w. W. CARTER, Savannah, saysl
I have used Brown's Irou Bitters with
great benefit and I shall ever recommend it;
and ry jfrtabusi.
Savannah Club, Livery & Board Stages,
i
Corner]Drayton, McDonough and Hull sts.
A. W. HARMON, Prop’r.
Headquarters for fine Turn-Outs. Personal
attention given to Boarding Horses. Tele
phone N o. 20a.
TO TIIE ri IJLIC.
Owing tojthe present occupant’s lease not
expiring until January Ist, 1885, I will not
take possession of PULASKI HOUSE STA-
BLES until that date.
E. C. GLEASON.
lIR. W. J. O'BRIEN, 25 West Broad street,
1,1 Savannah, says: I was troubled with
weakness, ateompauied by dizziness and
general weakness. Brown’s Iron Bitters gave
me complete relief.
ClikkE T OK PILES.
; < of Piles is
I t#;ing at after getting w:ij®7
■ flpleasant sensation is
>yed by an applicatioE of I»rt
Tie Remedy. Piles in all forms, Itch, Sait
lheuin and Ringworm can be perraauently
lured by the use of this great remedy. Price
k’ cents. Manufactured by The Dr. Mcsssiij
Medicine Co., P? ■; ua. .Q Sold by
Osceola Butler and E. J. Kieffer.
MRS. M. A. E. KIRKSEY, 59 Whitaker
•dl street, Savannah, says: Brown's Iron
Bitters did me much good when troubled
with dyspepsia. I found It to be all that is
claimed, for It,
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