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DARK AYS.
BY HUGH CONWAY.
Author of "Called Book."
CHAPTER X.
THE SWORD FALLS.
XOnce conquered—once convinced that
the obstacles which her solicitude for my
welfare raised against my wish were not
insuperable—Philippa offered no further re
sistance; while as for me, every day that
might be counted before I called her my
wife seemed a day spoiled, if not entirely
wasted. With my mother’s arguments to
back my own fervent persuasion, I had no
difficulty in winning Philippa’s consent to
our marriage taking place as soon as the
needful formalities could be complied with.
And yet, although the day was fixed, it
was at my instance changed, and the cere
mony postponed for awhile.
My reason for deferring my crowning
happiness was thia Knowing all that I
knew-, the question arose, under what name
was Philippa to be married! Under her
own maiden name; under the false name
wh’ch for some time Sir Mervyn Ferrand,
tor reasons best known to himself, had
made her assume; or under that nams
which, supposing Mrs. Wilson had spoken
the truth, she was legally entitled to bear!
So ahxious, so resolved was I that there
should be no shadow of doubt as to the
validity of her second and happier mar
riage, that after due consideration I deter
mined to sacrifice my own inclination, and
postpone our wedding long enough to give
me time to pay a flying visit to England,
where I could do my best to obtain such
evidence as would show that Philippa was
the dead man’s widow.
I made the excuse that I found many mat
ters of business connected with my property
must be attended to before I could be mar
ried. 1 travelled to England—to Liverpool—
as fast as 1 could. I stayed there for a week,
and during that time made full researches
into the life and death of a woman who, as
Mrs. Wilson said, hal died ’on a certain
date, and been buried under the name of
Lucy Ferrand.
The information I acquired as to her ante
cedents is of no consequence to my story.
Whatever her faults may have been, her
history- was a sad one; Indeed it seemed to
me that the history of any woman who had
been cursed by Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s love
was a sad one. However, the result of my
investigations was, in short, this: Ferrand
had married the woman many years ago.
They had parted by mutual consent. With
his cynical carelessness he had troubled no
more about her; and, stranger still, she had
not troubled him. She .died on the date
given by my informant. The question of
identity could be easily settled; so that if
ever Philippa chose to claim the rights ap
pertaining to Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s widow,
she would have no difficulty in making that
claim good. But I trusted that years might
pass before she learned that the man was
dead.
I made my presence in England known to
no one; in fact, I felt that in returning to
my native country I ran a certain amount
of risk. For all I knew to the contrary,
there might be a warrant out against me.
If suspicion as to the author of that night’s
work had in any way been directed to Phil
ippa, I, the partner of her flight, could not
hope to escape free. However, I comforted
myself by thinking that if danger men iced
us I should have heard something about it,
as after our first hurried start I had made no
attemp tto conceal our whereabouts. It would
have been useless. My mother had friends
in England with whom she exchanged let
ters. I had an agent and lawyers with
whom, if only for financial reasons, I was
bound to correspond. I had been obliged to
write to my stolid William, and instruct
him to get rid of the cottage as best he could,
and to look out for a fresh-place for himself.
But all the same I did not care to let it
be known that I was now in England.
While engaged upon raking up evidence
on Philippa’s behalf, I did not neglect to
make such inquiries as I could respecting
the event which had happened that night
near Boding. I found that, so far as the
general public knew, the crime was still
veiled in mystery. No one had been arrest
ed; no one had been accused; no reason for
the deed had been discovered, an 1 as yet
suspicion pointed to no one. Indeed, in spite
of the hundred pounds reward offered by
government, it seemed that Sir Mervyn
Ferrand’s murdsr was relegated to swell the
list of undiscovered crimes. By this I knew
that Mrs. Wilson had kept her promise of
silence; and now that months had gone by;
now that public attention had been turned
from the thrilling affair; now that Philippa
seemed as far or farther than ever from giv
ing any token which suggested the awaken
ing of recollection of what her wrong, he.
frenzy, had prompted her hand to do un
knowingly, I dared to hope that any chance
which remained of a revelation of the truth
was reduced to a minimum. These result:
of my investigations and inquiries gave me
immense relief, and my heart was all bu*
gay as, armed with the proofs of the firs:
Lady Ferrand’s death, I hurried back to
Seville, Philippa, and the happiness which I
vowed should be mine.
We were married. Philippa and I were
married! Married; and a few months ago I
sat lonely, miserable and heart-broken,
deeming that the one I loved was lost to me
forever! What matters the things which
have filled those months, and made them
the most painful of my life! To-day we are
man and wife, joined together till death us
do part!
I said no word as to the result of my in
quiries in Liverpool. I had no'difficulty in
persuading Philippa, who in soma things
was as simple and trusting as a child, that
it was necessary, or at least advisable, she
should be married under the name which
her first .certificate of marriage affected to
bestow upon .her. She signed her name for
the last it may, for aught I know, have also
been the first time, as Philippa Ferrand;
and I noticed that she shuddered as she
formed the letters;
Although my bride was by birth half a
Spaniard, and although I had by now in
many ways Conformal to the Spanish mode
of life, wo were still English enough to look
upon going away somewhere for a honey
moon as indispensable. It would be but a
short trip; and as my mother in our absence
would be left at Seville alone, or with the
servants only, we did not care to go very
far away. It so happened that, although
so close to Cadiz, we had not yet paid that
town a visit, and thought the present a cap
ital opportunity for so doing.
To Cadiz we went, and stayed several
days at the Hotel do Paris We liked the
white walled town, rising and shining above
the dark blue sea, like, as I have somewhere
seen it described,a white pearl in a crown of
sapphires; or, as the Gaditanos call it,
tazita de plata, a silver cup. We liked the
rows of tall terrace topped houses. We
liked the movement an I bustle on the quays
and in the port. We liked the walks on the
THE SAVANNAH DAILY TIMES, MONDAY, JANUARY 5, 1885.
broad granite ramparts, and the lovely
view of the busy bay and country beyond
it; but all the same Jwe agreed that Cadiz
bore no comparison to our beautiful Saville,
and the sooner wo returned to that gay city
the better.
Now that I had gained my desire, was I
happy? After all that had passed, cou’d I
have been happy during those early days of
our wedded life! As I look back upon them
I sit and muse, trying in vain to answer the
question to my own satisfaction. Philippa
loved me—she was my wife; come good,come
evil, she was mine forever. In so much 1
was happy, thrice happy. Could I have
lived but for the present my bliss - would
have known no alloy.
But there was the pastl I ooul 1 not alto
gether forget the path which had led to such
happiness as now was mine. I could be
thankful that I alone knew all the horrors
and dangers with which that path was
studded. I alone knew the secret of that
one night. Although I could keep it for
ever, would it Ire always a secret?
Yes, and there was the future. Behind
the happiness which was mine at present
lurked a dread as to w-hat the future had in
store for me—for us. It was a dread which
day by day grew stronger. The greater my
happiness the more dreadful the thought of
its being wrecked. The feeling that my
house of joy was built upon sand was always
obtruding on my most blissful hours, and
not, I knew, without good reasons.
Philippa’s very avoidance of speaking of
her past life lent some justification to my
gloomy forebodings. Not once did Sir Mer
vyn Ferran i’s name pass between my wife
and me. Not once did she ask me for any
further particulars concerning the events of
that night upon which, in the height o' her
short lived mania, she reached my cottage.
True that upon becoming my wife, and lie
ginning a new and happier stage of life, it
might be but natural for her to wish to con
sign to oblivion the wrong, the shame, the
suffering wrought by a villain’s craft; yet 1
was so mixed up in the catastrophe that
silence on the subject seamed strange. Her
reticence alarmed me. I fancied it must be
caused by some vague uneasiness connected
with that night—some doubt-which she dared
not seek to set at rest. It is, I know, not un
usual for women, after their recovery from
that mysterious disease which had for awhile
driven my poor girl distraught, to be able to
recall and accurately describe the delusions
which had afflicted them during those wan
dering hours. I myself had in one or two
cases noticed this peculiarity, and the author
ities which 1 had studied during Philippa’s
illness mention it as an indisputable fact.
My great dread was that at some moment,
perhaps when our happiness was as perfect
as it could be, some simple chance, some
allusion to certain events, even the bare men
tion of a name, might supply the missing
link, and the fearful truth would be revealed
to my wife.
Our return journey to Seville was made
by water. Although the Guadalquiver is
not a very interesting river, we thought
travelling by steamer would be a pleasant
change from the journeys in the hot, stuffy,
slow trains, full from end to end with the
odor of garlic and tobacco; so early one
morning we left Cadiz, and were soon
steaming up the dull, sluggish, turbid river,
with the great flat stretches of swamp land
on either hand.
There were not many passengers on hoard
the steamer. The boat itself was a wretched
affair, and before an hour was over we
wished we had chosen the train as a mode of
transit. Mile after mile of the level deserted
land through which the river flows passed
by, and presented no objects of interest
greater than herds of cattle or flights of
aquatic birds. Save that Philippa was by
my side, it was the dullest journey I ever
made.
Os course there were English tourists on
board; no spot is complete without them.
Two of them, young men, and apparently
gentlemen, had seated themselves near us;
and after the usual admiring glances at my
beautiful Philippa, commenced a desultory
talk with each other.
From the unrestrained way In which they
spoke, and from the strength of soma of
their comments on the scenery,
or lack of scenery, it was clear that they
took us for natives, before whom they could
speak without being understood. Philippa
of course looked a thorough Spaniard, and
my own face had become so tanned by the
sun that I might have been of any nation
ality.
The young fellows chatted on, quite obliv
ious to the fact that two of their neighbors
understood every word they spoke. For
some time I listened with great amusement;
then the lulling motion of the steamer, the
sluggish muddy flow of the stream, the mo
notonous banks past which we stole, exercised
a soporific effect upon me, and I began to
doze and dream.
Through my dreams I heard a name, a
hated name, spoken clearly and distinctly.
I started ani opened my eyes. Philippa’s
head was stretched forward as if she was in
tent upon catching some expected words
spoken by another.
•‘Sir Mervyn Ferrand," I hoard one of our
fellow-voyagers repeat. “Yes, I remember
him—tall, good-looking man. jjWhere is he
now? He was a bad lot.’’
“Surely you read or heard about itP said
his companion in a tone of surprise.
I touched my wife’s arm. “Come away,
Philippa,” I said.
I touched my wife's arm. "Come away,
Philippa,''' I said.
She made a motion of dissent Again I
urged her. She shook her head pettishly.
"Ah! I forgot whore you have been for
months,” said the second tourist, laughing;
“out of the pale of civilization an 1 news
papers. Well, Ferrand was murdered—shot
dead 1”
“Philippa, dearest, come, I implore you,"
I whispered.
It was too late! The look on her face told
me that nothing would now move her—
nothing. She would hear the dreadful
truth, told perhaps with distorted details.
I groaned inwardly. The moment I had so
long dreaded had come. If I dragged her
away by force—if I interrupted the speak
ers—what good could it do! She hud heard
enough. She would force me to tell her the
rest. I could only pray that she would in
no way associate herself with the man’s
death.
“Murdered! Poor fellow! W’ho murder
ed him!” I heard the first speaker say.
“No one knows. He was shot dead on a
country roadside just as that fearful snow
storm of last wintar began. It seems almost
incredible, but the snow drifted over him,
and until it molted the crime was not dis
covered. In the interval the murderer had,
of course, got clean away."
“Poor devil! I never heard any good of
him; but what an end I”
I was not looking at the speakers. I was
noting every change in my wife’s face. I
saw the color fly from her cheek. I saw her
lips and throat working convulsively, as
though she was trying to articulate. 1 saw
her dark brows contract as in anguish. I
knew that she was clasping her hands to
gether, as was her way when agitated. Sud
denly she turned her eyes to mine,
and in her eyes was a look of horror
whiqh told mo that the very wont had
come to pass—that the dread which had
haunted me was realized! Then, with a low
moan, she sank white and senseless on my
shoulder.
Though in a whirl of despair, I believe
that I assumed a kind of mechanical calm.
I seem to remember that the two English
tourists offered their assistance; that, as we
bore Philippa to an extemporized couch in
the shadiest and cooless place we could find,
I smiled, and attributed my wife’s fainting
fit to the heat of the sun, the smell of engines,
or something of that kind. Little did those
young men guess what their chance words
had wrought. Little could they think that
in speaking of Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s death
they h.*d, perhaps, wrecked the happiness
of two lives. My heart was full of grief and
fear, but I believe'! bore myself braveiy.
In spite of such restoratives as we could
administer, Philippa’s swoon lasted for a
considerable time. I troubled little about
that fact. Indeed, to me it seemed well that
syncope should have supervened, and, for a
time, banished the dreadful memories which
had so sudeeniy invaded her brain. Could
such a thing have been poss ble, I would al
most have wished that her insensibility would
continue until we reached Seville. But it
was not to be so. By and by she sighed
deeply, and her eyes opened. Consciousness
ana all its dreaded sequence was hers once
more.
I spoke to her, but she made no reply. She
turned her eyes from mine; she shunned my
gaze; she even soemed to shrink from the
touch of my hand. During the remainder
of that dreary journey not one word passed
her lips. She lay with her face turned to
the side of the vessel, heedless of the curious
glances from fellow-passengers, houdiess of
my whispered words of love; heedless of all
save her own thoughts—thoughts which led
her, I trembled to picture whither.
Through all those long sultry hours, while
the wretched steamboat plowed its way up
the broad muddy stream, I sat beside her,
trying to find some way out of our sorrow.
Alas! every road was stopped by the im
passable obstacle of Philippa’s knowledge of
what she had done. For she knew' it, I was
certain. That look in her eyes had told me
so much. The duration of her insanity had
been so short that I could gather no comfort
from the fact that bv some merciful ar
rangement maniacs who recover their err
ing senses are troubled little by the deeds
they have done in their moments of mad
ness. I felt that in my wife’s case my on ly
hope was to endeavor by argument to bring
her to my own way of thinking: that is, to
consider herself unaccountable by any law.
human or divine, for her actions at the
time. But I doubted if her sensitive, im
pulsive nature could ever be induced to take
this view of her act. I doubted, had she
not been the woman I loved with a pas
sionate love, if I could have quite absorbed
her from the crime, with the remembrance
of her words, “Basil, did you ever hate a
manF still with me.
Yet, strange anomaly, I would, in fair
fight, of course, have shot that man through
the heart and have gloried in the deed. But
then Philippa was a woman, and had she
not been the woman I loved I might have
shrunk from the one who, even in her mad
ness, was urged to taxe such fearful ven
geance.
I smiled bittorlv as I thought how a chance
breath of wind nad tumbled my house of
cards to the ground. I muled almost trium
phantly as I told myself that, come what
might—misery—shame—death—I had won
ana h ’ld for a week the one desire of my
life. Nothing could deprive me of that
memory.
Home at last! Still silent, or answering
my questions by monosyllables, Philippa was
brought by me to our once happy home in
Seville. My mother with arch smiles of
welcome on her comely face, was at the gate
of the patio ready to receive us. As she saw
her a kind of shiver ran through my poor
love’s frame. She let my mother embrace
and caress her without any display of re
ciprocal affection. «
"Philippa is ill,” I said, In explanation.
“I will take her to her room.”
I led her to the apartment which my
mother had in our absence fitted up for us.
It was gay and beautiful with flowers, and
there were many other care r ul little evi
dences of the hearty welcome which was
waiting UR. Philippa noticed nothing. I
closed the door and turned toward my wife.
She looked at me with those wondrous
dark eves, which seemed to search my very
soul. “Basil,” she said, in a low, solemn
voic\ “toll me—tell me the truth. What
had I done that night!”
[TO BE CONTINUED IN OUR NEXT.]
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IF YOU WANT A FINE
French Clock!
FOR CHRISTMAS!
GO TO
HAMILTON’S
-IF YOU WANT ANY ARTICLE OF-
Fancy Goo d s!
FOR CHRISTMAS!
GO TO
HAMILTON’S
IF YOU WANT
First Class Goods!
IN ANY OF THE ABOVE
LINES FOR CHRISTMAS
GO TO
SAMUEL P. HAMILTON’S,
Cor. Bull and Broughton Sts.
DRUGS AND MEDICINES.
Shuptrine’s
New Pharmacy,
Bolton and Montgomery streets,
PURE DRUGS
Dispensed by Careful and Expe
rienced Druggists.
barkahoy I
Not that barque which spreads Its sails to
the favoring gale and with every canvas
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 thia
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.
J. c. c.
Jjpjj taitg [fjjji
CLEANS CLOTHES,
Removes all Grease, Paints, Oils, Varnish
Tar, Dirt or Soils from any fabric
without injury.
FOR SALE BY
I J. R. Haiti wang-er,
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 aud laces, without
injuring the most delicate fabric.
Prepared only by
DAVID PORTER, Druggist,
Corner Broughton aud Habersham streets.
Ourattoual.
Schi il Mui Wisigs!
E*lioxiogra/pliy,
Typewriting-,
Telegraphing,
Bookkeeping,
—AND—
Penmanship.
No. 137 Bay street. Savannah, Ga.
Mb. and Mbs. C. S. RICHMOND.
Principals.
and gfivery
REMOVED.
I have removed my entire livery establish
ment from York street to the
Pulaski House Stables
where I may hereafter be found. All orders
for carriages and buggies promptly attended
to. Fine Saddle Horses for hire.
E. C. GLEASON,
Proprietor Pulaski House Stables.
Savannah Ci, Livery & Board Stables.
Corner Drayton, McDonough and Hull sta.
A. W. HARMON, Prop’r.
Headquarters for fine Turn-Outs. Personal
attention given to Boarding Horses. Tele
phone No. 205.
LUMBER AND TIMBER.
BACON, JOHNSON & 00.
PLANING MILL,
LUMBER
AND
WOOD YARD.
LARGE;STOCK OF
DRESSED AND ROUGH LUMBER
AT LOW PRICES!
43-Good Lot of Wood Just Received.
J. J. McDonough. T. B. Thompson.
Ed. Bubdett.
McDonough & co.,
Office : 116 J Bryan street.
Yellow Pine Lumber.
Lumber Yard and Planing Mill: Opposite
8., F. & W. Bailway Depot,
Savannah, Ga.
Saw Mills; Surrency. Ga., No. 6, Macon and
Brunswick Railroad.
D, C. Bacon, _Wm. B. Stillwell.
H. P. Smabt.
13. C. BACON & CO
PITCH PINE
AND—
Cypress Lumber & Timber
BY THE CARGO.
Savannah and Brunswick, Ga.
P. O. SAVANNAH, GA.
To be convinced call around and see L.
Fried’s before making your purchases else
where, as the price and quality or joods sells
Iteel'.
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