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DARK DAYS.
B Y H UGH CONW AY.
Author of “Called Back,”
CHAPTER XIII.
THE LAST HOPE.
They were sitting in the courtyard, my
mother and my wife. They looked the em
bodiment of serene happiness. Their large
fans—the use of the fan camo like an inspi
ration to Philippa, my mother acquired it
after much practice—were languidly waving
to and fro. Philippa’s rounded arm was
outstretched; her lair left hand was in the
clear water which fell from the fountain
and filled a white marble basin, in which
the gold carp darted about in erratic tacks.
She was moving her fingers gently backward
and forward, startling the timid fish, and
half smiling at their terror. It seemed to
me that my mother was remonstrating at
the uproar she was creating in the brilliant
coated republic.
That picture is still in my mind. That
picture 11 ca.i sit now in my chair, lay down
my pen, and call up every picture of that
time. Nothing save the grief has ever, or
ever will, fade from my memory.
It was well for both of us that I had
fought out the battle with myself in soli
tude, where no eye could see me, whore I
could see no one. Even as it was, knowing
what a change my news must work, I
paused, and a ghost of the day’s temptation
rose before me. But it rose too iate. The
die was cast. Philippa had seen me, and
my mother’s eyes followed hers. I braced
myself up and went towards them with as
jaunty a manner as 1 could assume. My
mother began a mock tirade on my shame
ful desertion of Philippa and herself. Her
words carried no meaning to my ears. My
eyes met those of my wife.
With her I made no attempt at conceal
ment. Where was the good f The worst,
the very worst, had come. My eyes must
have told her the truth.
I saw her sweet face catch fire with alarm.
I saw her lips quiver. I saw the look of
anguish flash into her eyes: yet I knew
that I was helpless, utterly helpless.
She rose. I made some conventional ex
cuse and went to my room. In a moment
Philippa was at my side.
‘•Basil, husband, love,” she whispered, “it
has cornel”
I laid my head on the table and sobbed
aloud. Philippa’s arms were wreathed
around my neck.
“Dearest, 1 knew it must come. I ba vs
known it ever so long. Basil, do not weep.
Once more. 1 tell you I am not worth such
love as yours.”
I)// / i
-
"Basil, do not weep. Once more, 1 tell you,
I am not worth such love as yours."
I covered her dear face with kisses. I
strained her to my heart. I lavished words
of love upon her. She smiled faintly, then
sighed hopelessly—a sigh which almost broke
my heart.
“Tell me all, my love,” she said calmly.
“Let me know the very worst.”
I could not speak; for the life of me the
words would not come. With trembling
hands I drew out the newspaper and pointed
to the fatal lines. She read them with a
calm which almost alarmed me.
“I knew it must be,’’ was all she said.
1 threw myself on my knees before her. I
embraced her. I was half distraught. Save
for my wild ejaculations of undying loVe
there was silence for many minutes between
us.
Presently, with great force, she raised my
head and looked at me with her sweet and
sorrowful eyes.
“Basil, my dearest, you have been wrong.
The right is right, the wrong is wrong. See
what you have done! Had you not striven
to save me, only I should have had to answer
for this. Now it is you and me, and per
haps a third—an innocent, stainless life, that
will be wrecked!”
“Spare me! Spare me!” I said. “As you
love me, spare me?”
She kissed me. “Dearest, forgive me. I
should not blame you. Only I ain to blame.”
Then, with a sudden change in her voice,
“When do we start for England, Basil?”
Although I exoocted this question, I trem
bled and shuddered as I heard it. Too well
I knew what England meant. It meant
Philippa’s standing in open court, in a pris
oner’s dock, the centre of a gaping crowd,
self-accused of the murder of her husband!
And as I pictured this once more, and for
the last time, the temptation shook me.
I spoke, but I averted my eyes from hers.
I could not meet them. My voice was husky
and strange; it sounded like the voice of
another man. A sort of undercurrent of
thought ran through me, that if Philippa
would but share it, I could bear any burden,
any dishonor.
“Listen!” I said, in quick accents. “We
are far away, safe. We love each other.
We can be happy. Let the man take his
chance. What does anything matter, so
long as we love and are together?”
I felt that her eyes were” seeking mine. I
felt a change in the clasn of her hand. I
knew that she was nobl r and better than I.
“Basil,” she said, softly, nn I speaking
like one in a dream, “it was no my hus
band, not the man I love, who said that. I
forgive you for the sake of your great love,
for the sake of all you have done, or tried
to do, for me. Tell me now, when do We
start for England?”
Her words brought back my senses. Nover
in the wildest height of my passion had I
loved Philippa as I loved her at that mo
ment. 1 besought her pardon. She gave
it, and once more repeated her question.
With the calm or settled despair 1 con
sulted the railway-guide, and found that if
we left Seville to-morrow morning by the
first train, we might, by travelling day and
night, early on the morning of the twenti
eth reach the town in which the trial was to
be held. I made the result of my researches
known to my wife; and upon my assuring
her that we should have time to spare, she
left all the arrangements of the journey to
me.
After this, another painful question arose.
Was my mother to be told? Philippa, who
may, perhaps, in her secret heart have
craved for a woman’s support and sympa
thy in her approaching trial, at first insisted
that my mother should be taken into our
confidence—a confidence which, alas! in a
few days’ time would be gossip to the world.
I besought her to waive the point, to spare
my mother’s feelings until the \ ry last mo
ment. We could not take her with us on our
hurried journey. We wore young; she was
61d. The fatigue, combined with the grief,
would be more than her frame could endure.
I could not bear to think of her waiting
lonely in Seville for the bad news which sh«
THE SAVAN
knew' must come in a day or two from Eng
land. Let us say nothing respecting the
wretched errand on which we are bound.
Let: us depart in secret, and leave some
plausible explanation behind us.
To my relief Philippa at last consented to
this. Thin, at:er a long, tearful embrace,
we steeled ourselves to join my.mother nt
the evening meal, and to bear ours Iv.-s so
that she should inspect nothing of the tem
pest within our hearts. Wo did not very
long sub jet ourselves to this strain upon
our nerves. It seemed to mo now that every
moment spent otherwise than alone with my
wife was a precious treasure wasted, a loss
which I should forev r regret. So very
early we pleaded fatigue, and retired to our
rest.' Such rest!
Philippa bade my mother goo i night with
an embrace so long and passio .ate that 1
feared it would awoken alarm, especially
when it was succeeds I by my own veiled,
but scarcely less emotional, adieu. For who
could say that we should ever meet again?
I do not lielieve it struck Philippa that in
accompanying her I was running the slight
est risk. Had she thought so, she would
have insist d upon going alone. But I
knew that the part I had played in that
night’s work would probably bring a revere
punishment upon my own head. What did
I care for that ?
Silently and sadly in the retirement of
our room we made our preparations for the
journey, which began with the morn. There
was no need to cumber ourselves with much
luggage. We should rest in no bed until
the trial was over. What resting place
might then be Philippa’s, Heaven only
knew! So our package was soon com
pleted.
Then I wrote a letter, to be given to or
found by my mother in the morning. 1 told
her that an important matter took me post
haste to England; that Philippa had deter
mined to accompany me; that I would write
as soon as we reached London. I gave no
further explanation. I hoped she would at
tribute my sudden flight to the erratic na
ture which she often averred I possessed.
After all, the deception mattered little.
In a week’s time nothing would matter.
Grief, overwhelming grief, would bo my
portion; a portion which, by her affection
for me and for Philippa, my poor mother
would be forced to share.
All being now ready for our start, we
strove to win some horn’s of sleep. Our
efforts were mocked to scorn. Through
that, the last night we could spend together.
I believe neither my wife nor myself closed
an eyelid. Let me draw a veil over my wild
distress and Philippa’s calm acquiescence in
her fate. Some grief is too sacred to de
scribe.
Morning! Bright, broad, clear, cool,
odorous morning! Our sleeplessness had at
elast spared us the anguish of awaking, and,
while for a moment glorying in the beauty
of the world, to remember what this morn
ing meant to us. Giving ourselves ample
time to reach the railway station, we crept
from our room, and. with eyes full of blind
ing tears, crossed the pleasant patio. 1
paused in the centre, and plucking a lovely
spray from the great orange tree, kissed it
and gave it to my vife' Without a word
she placed it in the bo. om of her dress. As
she drew her mantle aside to do so, for the
first time I noticed that she wore the very
dress which clad her on that fatal night.
Although it was utterly unsuited to the
almost tropical heat through which we
should have to travel, I dared not remon
strate with her. Now, of ail times, her
slightest wish should be my law.
Noiselessly 1 undid the massive studded
wooden gate, which at night time closed the
entrance to the patio. Unseen, we stepped
into the shady, narrow street. Our luggage
was light. I could carry it with ease to the
station, which was only a short distance off.
We were there only too soon.
We had to wait some time ere the train,
which, following the example of the true
Spaniard, declines on any consideration to
be hurried, made its appearance. We took
our seats in silence. At last the dignified
train condescended to move onward. We
sat side by side, and gazed and gaz?d in the
direction of the beautiful city from which
we were flying; gazed until we saw the very
last of it, until even the great towering
Giralda was lost to view. Then, and only
then, I think we fully realized to what end
we were speeding.
The next three days and nights seem now
little more to me than a whirling dream.
On and on we went to work out our fate,
over the same ground which I had traversed,
with scarcely less agitated feelings, some
months ago. I ground my teeth when I
thought how little my strenuous and seem
ingly successful efforts had availed. Now,
not from any omission of precaution; not
because the law compelled; not by the exer
cise of force; but simply on account of the
great dictum of right and wrong, we were,
of our own accord, retracing our steps to
face the danger from which we had fled.
Oh, bitter irony of destiny!
What was money to me now? Nothing
tut so much dross! It could do one thing,
only one, that gold which I lavished so
freely on that journey. It could assure that
Philippa and 1 might travel alone. It could
give us privacy for the time that journey
lasted, that was all!
Yet although alone, we spoke but little.
Our thoughts were not such as can be ex
pressed by words. Her hand in mine, her
head on my shoulder—sleeping when we
could sleep, waking and looking into each
other’s faces—knowing that every mile of
sunny or starlit country over which we
oassed brought us nearer to the end. Ah! I
understood then how it is that lovers who
are menaced by some great sorrow can kill
themselves, and die smiling in each other’s
arms! We might have done so; but our
leaths would have left to perish that
stranger whom we were speeding to save.
So, as in a dream, the hours, the days, the
nights, went by. We might have been trav
elling through the fairest scenery in the
world, or th l ough the most arid desert. I
scarcely troubled to glance out of the car
riage window. The world for me was in
side.
It was. after we left Paris —Paris, which
to-day seemed almost within stone’s throw
of London—that I aroused myself and
braced my energies to discuss finally with
Philippa our projier plan of action. I felt
that my right course would be to go straight
to some solicitor, fell the tale, and ask him
to put matters in train. But I could not
bring myself to do this. Our secret was as
yet our own. Moreover, through the misery
of those hours, one ray of hope had broken
upon me. If Philippa could be brought to
yield to my guidance, to follow my instruc
tions, it was not beyond the,bounds of pos
sibility that we might bu saved, and saved
with clean bands.
“Dearest,” I whispered, “to-night we
shall be in London.”
Her fingers tightened on mine. “And at
Tewnham?” she said. “We shall be in
time?”
“In ample time. But, Philippa, listen ”
“Basil, as you love me, not one word to
tempt, to dissaude me!”
“Not one; but listen. Sweetest, if you
will be guided by me. even now all may go
well. This man ”
“The poor man who is standing in my
place?”
“Yes; listen. Heaven forbid that I should
tempt you. Think; he is, no doubt, a nan
of a lowly station in life. Philippa, I am
rich, very rich.”
“I do not understand you,” she said,
pressing her hand to her brow.
“Money will compensate for anything.
Let him stand his trial. He is innocent. If
there is justice in the land, he may, be must
be found not guilty.”
“But the agony of mind he must pass
through! ’
“For that 1 will pay him over and over
again. He may be but a country boor, to
whom a thousand pounds would be inex
haustible wealth. But, whatever his sta
tion, the compensation sent to him by an
unknown hand tfhall make him bless the day
which laid him under the false accusation.
Reflect, look at the. matter in every light. I
All DAILY TIMES, THURSDAY. JANUARY S, 1885.
swear to you that, in my opinion, we may,
with a clear conscience, await the result of
the trial."
She sighed, lut made no answer. Her
silence was a joy to me. It told mo that my I
spacious argument carried weight. I took
her hands and kissed them. I told her again j
and again that I loved her; that my life as
well as hers depended on her yielding.
It« us long before she yielded. The thought
of a fellow -creature lying in prison, perhaps
for months, and to-morrow to stand in
shame be fore his judges, on account of a
deed which she hensell had done, was anguish
to her noble nature. Then,growing desperate
at seeing the only plank which could save
us from wreck spurned for the sake of what,
in my present mood, I was able to believe
too finely strained a scruple, I used my last 1
and, ns I rightly judged, my most powerful
argument. I told her that it would be not
only she who would suffer fi r that uncon
scious act, but. that I, her husband, must pay
the penalty due from an accessory after the
crime.
Heaven forgive me for the anguish my
words caused that loving heart! Philippa,
on whom the intelligence of my danger fell
like a thun terholt, sank back in her seat,
pale and trembling. Had I ever doubted
that my wife’s heart-whol# love was my own
that look would have dispelled the doubt.
She prayed and besought me to leave her
at the next station; to let her finish the jour
ney and make her avowal alone. My reply
was short, but sufficiently long to put all
hope of my consenting to such a course out
of her head. Then, for my sake, she yielded.
“On ( no condition—one only,” she said.
“Be I lild. dbymo in this. In all else you
shall do as you like.”
“I must be in the court, Basil. I must
hear the trial. If the worst happen, there
must not be the delay of a moment; then
and there I must proclaim the truth.”
“You shall be at hand—close at hand. I
will be present.
“No! I must be there. I must hear and
see all. If the man is found guilty, I must,
before his horrible sentence is pronounced,
stand up and declare bis innocence.”
“All that could be done afterwards.”
“No; it must be done then. Basil, fancy
put yourself in his place! Nothing could
atone for his anguish at hearing himself
condemned to death for a crime he knows
nothing of. I must be there. Promise me I
shall bo there, and for your sake I will do as
you wish.”
It was the best concession I could get. I
promised. I concealed the fact that if, when
sentence was pronounced, a woman rose in
the body of the court, and asserted the pris
oner’s innocence and her own guilt, the
probabilities were she would be summarily
ejected. This made no difference. Let
Philippa bo silent; let the man be found not
guilty, and the next train could bear {us
back to Seville.
Yes. even now there was hope!
[TO BE CONTINUED IN OUK NEXT.]
“ Oh, might I kiss those eyesol fire.
Ten thousand scarce would quench desire;
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss.”
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Saved Her Life!
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Texas LandClai iib.
To Heirs and Legal Representatives of Sol
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Soldiers wbo served in the army of Texas
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Manufacturer of
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t
{ IF YOU WANT AN ARTICLE OF
1
Mii fcw hi Hnu!
; —go io—
HAMILTONS
J IF YOU WANT THE
: Latest Styles of Jewelry
I GO TO
■ HAMILTON’S
IF YOU WANT A FINE
, French Clock!
0
GO TO
Hamiltons
-IF YOU WANT ANY ARTICLE OF-
' Fancy Goods!
> GO TO
HAMILTON’S
I
IF YOU WANT
First Class Goods!
IN ANY OF THE ABOVE
LINES
GO TO
I
’ Cor. Bull and Broughton Sts.
7
DRUGS AND MEDICINES.
Shuptrine’s
2Y ew
Bolton and Montgomery streets.
JPURJE I>UUOS
Dispensed by Careful and Expe
rienced Druggists.
13 ATTIC A.HOY 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 this
bark use
“COUGH AND LUNG BALSAM.”
It Is the best medicine ever presented for
coughs, colds and hoarseness, aud for four
seasons has given entire satisfaction. Price
25 cents. Prepared only by
DAVID PORTER, Druggist,
Corner Broughton and Habersham streets.
J. c.
Jjpjj Qeug Urtio
CLEANS CLOTHES,
Removes all Grease, Paints, Oils, Varnish
Tar, Dirt or Soils from any fabric
without injury.
FOR SALE BY
J. R. Haltiwang-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 and laces, without
injuring the most delicate fabric.
Prepared only by
DAVID PORTER, Druggist,
Corner Broughton and Habersham streets.
Oucattottal.
hhl c! htual !
Phonography,
Typewriting-,
Telegraphing,
Bookkeeping,
—AND—
Penmanship.
No. 137 Bay st reet, Savannah, Ga.
Mr. and Mrs. C. S. RICHMOND.
Principals.
and itablrs.
K e NS o V je i> .
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 Club, Livery & Beard SUbies.
Jr
Corner Drayton, McDonough and Hull sts.
A. W. HARMON, Prop’r.
Headquarters for fine Turn-Outs. Personal
attention given to Boarding Horses. Tele
phonei No. 20a,
DUMBER AND TIMBER.
baconT johnsonTSl
PLANING MILL,
LUMBER
AND
WOOD YARD.
LARGE STOCK OF
DRESSED AND ROUGH LUMBER
AT LOW PRICES!
itSr-Goo'l Lot of Wood Just Received.
J. J. McDonough. T. B. Thompson.
Ed. Burdett.
McDonough & co.,
Office : 116 J Bryan street
Yellow Pine Lumber.
Lumber Yard and Planing Mill: Opposite
3., F. <fc W. Railway Depot,
Savannah, Ga.
3aw j>fills: Surrency, Ga., No. 6, Macon t-nd
Brunswick Railroad.
D. C. Bacon, Wm. B. 83 ill well.
H. P. Smabt.
O. C. 13& 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 pur<b:.sss else
where, as the price and quality of . < cs sells
IteeU.