M I ii m lifornia ional Bility i 3^ LIBKARY UWVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RiVERSiOE Ex Libris ISAAC FOOT CO 1^ *^ ^ o -^ (J) us O LU CO (f) Q < 05 CO LU CO CC Q ■♦A CO • ^ ^::^ liiill MAY\K REII> writes :—" The whole world owes the i)e(roi7 J'ree Press a Ijif? delit of gratitude, nut "Illy for lii;art-(.lieerfiilnf8» hut uiiml li'arliing I cannot see how the lif trait Fret }'rfs:< i;oulcl do otlierwlBC than proaijar in L:ii4,'land, for certainly no Kn^llsh journal, Lit. IT metro). c.iiiau or pro\1nclal, contains halt the matter it does both in quality and quantity." W. (X'iRK RCHMEH. author of "Wreck of tlio Grosvenor." dec, Ac, Ac, writes, June 5th, 1884:—" 1 have enjoyed many a hearty laugh over the Detroit Free ITess." AlIOI'R, lu the Spcr/iH(;iv/ir, wrltee :—" I consider the iy«(roi< J^rce Press the very best pennyworth of printed paper ever Issued." FROM EGYPT. — Sir Deaachamp Seymour (Lord Alccster) aiid " The Detroit Free Press." X " Amongst the iiowspaiiora received by me at Ismalla was a copy of the Detroit Free Press. It Is impossilde to say through how many hands It li^is parsed, and with what pleasure it has ijoen perused. The f;ime of tliat paper has spread, and I am solicited fiom all sides for tlie loan of it. The other day the tranJiport officer came or. board, and, after devouring the contents, he lu:inod It for the express purpose of glvlns; Admiral lleauchamp Seymour a treat. I liiit him tbe paper on the express condition that It was returned to me within twenty-four hours, to wljitn ne tcriously pledged >ils word, and kept it. To you It may seem a trivial matter to I'Xtract a serious promise on such an occasion, but I can assure you that copy of tlie Detroit Free Press is not done with yet. I shall be giateful if you send more." ■■ E. BENNINGTON, .Master, s.s. Amethyst, Transport No. 61.' FREE PRESS FLASHES —'Xma.s number of the Detroit Free Press is one of the best 'Xmas numbers isstied. Last year, and the year before also, it ran through two large editions within 10 days of publication. Full of capital reading aud illus- trations, with Preientation Plate, price Fourpcnce. Order early. 7 ^JD^J CONTENTS, Chap. P'^Se- I. A Prayer and a Vow i II. A Villain's Blow 13 III. "The Wages of Sin" 30 IV. At all Cost, Sleep! 42 V. A White Tomb 52 VI. The Secret Kept 62 VII. The Melting of the Snow 72 VIII. Flight 84 IX. Safe — and Loved ! 93 X. The Sword Falls 104 XI. Special Pleading 115 XII. Tempted to Dishonour 123 XIII. The Last Hope 132 XIV. The Criminal Court 142 XV. The Black Cap 152 XVI. "Where are the Snows that fell last year?" 1O2 XVII. Clear Skies 172 SEE THAT THE PATENTEE'S NAME IS ON THE LAMP. MOSCOW EXHIBITION, 1872. iBt AWARD-FIRST GRAND SILVER MEDAL to SAMUEL CLARKE,^ London, for his PATENT PYRAMID NIGHT LAMP FOOD WARMER. Snd AWARD-FIRST GRAND SILVER MEDAL to SAMUEL CLARKE, London, for his PATENT PYRAMID NIGHT LIGHTS. SAMUEL CLARKE'S Pyramid Nursery Lamp Food Warmers. o ^ CO -^J t^ d 00 o «— I tfi « •iH ci 1 a ^ k^ m ni" (U fii etf ^ •TS +a <1> tl 1^ ,0 di 4^ • #-« Ol ;-( 0) OS PM No. 1. Holds Half-pint Food, besides Water No. 2. " Ihree-quarters Pint Food " No. 3. " One Pint Food Clarke's Hot-Water Lamps Pyramid Night Lamps .. Patent Pyramid Night Lights.. Price 38. 6d. each. " 6s. Od. •' " 68. Od. " " 28. 6d. " Is. per bnx Patent Pyramid Nig-ht Light Works, CHILD'S HILL, LON DON, N.W. WHOLESALE DEPOT IN THE UNITED STATES: 25 & 27 CHANGE ALL EY, WARD ST. , NEWARK, NEW JERSEY, See that the Patentee's Name is on the Lamp. DARK DAYS. CHAPTER I. A PRAYER AND A VOW. 'HEN this story of my life, or of such portions of my Hfe as present any out-of- the-common features, is read, it will be found that I have committed errors of judgment — that I have sinned not only socially, but also against tlie law of the land. In excuse I cm plead but two things — the strength of love; the weakness of human nature. If these carry no weight with you, throw the book aside. You are too good for me ; I am too human for you. We cannot be friends. Read no further. I need say nothing about my childhood; nothing about my boyhood. Let me hurry on to^arly manhood ; to that time when the wonderful dreams of youth begin to leave one ; when the impulse which can drive sober reason aside must be, indeed, a strong one ; when one has learnt to count the cost of every rash step ; when tlio transient and fitful flames of the boy have settled down to a steady, glowing fire which will burn until only ashes arc left; when the strcngtli, tlie nrrve, the intellect, is or should be at its height; when, in short, one's years number thirty. 2 2 DARK DAYS. Yet, what was I then ? A soured, morose, dis- appointed man ; without ambition, without care lor tlie morrow ; without a goal or objecfl in life. Breathing, eating, drinking, as by instinct. Rising in the morning, and wishing the day was over ; lying down at niglit, and caring little whether the listless eyes I closed might open again or not. And why ? Ah ! to know why you must sit with me as I sit lonely over my glowing fire one winter night. You must read my thoughts ; the pictures of my past must rise before you as they rise before me. My sorrow, my hate, my love must be yours. You must, indeed, be my very self. You may begin this retrospecfl with triumph. You may go back to the day when, after having passed my examination with high honours, I, Basil North, was duly entitled to write M.D. after my name, and to set to work to win fame and fortune by doing my best towards relieving the sufferings of my fellow-creatures. You may say as I said then, as I say now, "A noble career; a life fuH of interest and usefulness." You may see me full of hope and courage, and ready for any amount of hard work ; settling down in a large provincial town, resolved to beat out a practice for myself. You may see how, after the usual- initiatory struggles, my footing gradually grew firmer; how my name became familiar; how, at last, I seemed to be in a fair way of winning success. You may see how for a while a dream brightened my life ; how that dream faded, and left gloom in its place. You may see the woman I loved. No, I am wrong. Her you cannot see. Only I myself can see Philippa as I saw her then — as I see her now. Heavens ! how fair she was ! How glorious DARK DAYS. 3 her rich dark beauty ! How different from the pink-white and yellow dolls whom I have seen exalted as the types of perfection ! Warm South- ern blood ran through her veins and tinged her clear brown cheek with colour. Her mother was an Englishwoman ; but it was Spain that gave her daughter that exquisite grace, those wondrous dark eyes and long curled lashes, that mass of soft black hair, that passionate impulsive nature, and, perhaps, that queen-like carriage and dignity. The English mother may have given the girl many good gifts, but her beauty came from tlie father, whom she had never knov/n ; the Andalusian, who died while she was but a child in arms. Yet, in spite of her foreign grace, Philippa was English. Her Spanish origin was to her but a tradition. Her foot had never touched her father's native land. Its language was strange to her. She was born in England, and her father, the nature of whose occupation I have not been able to ascertain, seems to have spent most of his time in this country. When did I learn to love her ? Ask me rather, when did we first meet? Even then as my eyes, fell upon the girl, I knew, as by revelation, tliat for me life and her love meant one and the same tiling. Till that moment there was no woman in the world the sight of whom would have quickened my pulse by a l^eat. I had read and heard of such love as this. I had laughed at it. There seemed no room for such an engrossing passion in my busy life. Yet all at once I loved as man has never loved before ; and as I sit to-night and gaze into the fire I tell myself tliat the objectless life I am leading is the only one possible for the man who loved but failed to win Philippa. Our first meeting was brought about in a most prosaic way. Her mother, who suffered from a 4 DARK DAYS, chronic disease, consulted me professionally. My visits, at first those of a doctor, soon became those of a friend, and I was free to woo the girl to the best of my abilit}'. Philippa and her mother lived in a small house on the outskirts of the town. They were not rich people, but had enough to keep the pinch of poverty from their lives. The mother was a sweet, quiet, lady-like woman, who bore her sufferings with resignation. Her health was, indeed, wretched. The only thing which seemed likely to benefit her was continual change of air and scene. After attending her for about six months, I was in con- science bound to endorse the opinion of her former medical advisers, and tell her it would be well for her to try another change. My heart was heavy as I gave this advice. If adopted, it meant that Philippa and I must part. But why, during those six months, had I not, passionately in love as I was, won the girl's heart ? Why did she not leave me as my affianced bride ? Why did I let her leave me at all ? The answer is short. She loved me not. Not that she had ever told me so in words. I had never asked her in words for her love. But she must have known — she must have known ! When I was with her, every look, every a(5lion of mine must have told her the truth. Women are not fools or blind. A man who, loving as I did, can conceal the true state of his feelings must be more than mortal. I had not spoken ; I dared not speak. Better uncertainty with hope, than certainty with despair. The day on which Philippa refused my love would be as the day of death to me. Besides, what had I to offer her ? Although succeeding fairly well for a beginner, at present I could only ask the woman I made my wife to share DARK DAYS. 5 comparative poverty. And Philippa ! Ah! 1 would have wrapped Phihppa in luxury ! All that wealth could buy ought to be hers. Had you seen her in the glory of her fresh young beauty, you would have smiled at the presumption of the man who could expect such a being to become the wife of a hard-working and as yet ill-paid doctor. You would have felt that she should have had the world at her feet. Had I thought that she loved me, I might perhaps have dared to hope she would even then have been happy as my wife. But she did not love me. Moreover, she was ambitious. She knew — small blame to her — how beautiful she was. Do I wrong her when I say that in those days she looked for the gifts of rank and riches from the man who loved her ? She knew that she was a queen among women, and expected a queen's dues. (Sweetest, are my words cruel ? They are the cruellest I have spolren, or shall speak, against you. Forgive thcni !) We were friends — great friends. Such friend- ship is love's bane. It buoys false hopes; it lulls to security ; it leads astray ; it is a staff which breaks suddenly, and wounds the hand which leans upon it. So little it seems to need to make friend- ship grow into love ; and yet how seldom that little is added ! The love which begins with hate or dislike is often luckier than that which begins with friendship. Lovers cannot be friends. Philippa and her mother left my neighbourhood. Then went to London for a while. 1 heard from them occasionally, and once or twice, when in town, called upon them. Time went by. I worked hard at my profession the while, striving, by sheer toil, to drive the dream from my life. Alas ! I strove in vain. To love Philippa was to love her for ever I 6 DARK DAYS. One morning a letter came from her. I tore it open. Tlie news it contained was grievous. Her mother had died suddenly. Philippa was alone in the Avorld. So far as I knew, she had not a rela- tion left; and I believed, perhaps hoped, that, save myself, she had no friend. I needed no time for consideration. That after- noon I was in London, If I could not comfort her in her great sorrow, I could at least sympathise with her; could undertake the management of the many business details which are attendant upon a death. Poor Philippa ! She was glad to see me. Through her tears she flashed me a look of gratitude. I did all I could for her, and stayed in town until the funeral was over. Then I was obliged to think of going home. What was to become of the girl ? Kith oi kin she had none, nor did she mention the name of any friend who would be willing to receive her. As I suspected, she was absolutely alone in the world. As soon as my back was turned she would have no one on whom she could count for sympathy or help.- It must have been her utter loneliness which urged me, in spite of my better judgment, in spite of the grief which still oppressed her, to throw myself at her feet and declare the desire of my heart. My words 1 cannot recall, but 1 think — I know I pleaded eloquently. Such passion as mine gives power and intensity to the most unpractised speaker. Yet long before my appeal was ended I knew that I pleaded in vain. Her eyes, her manner, told m . she loved me not. Then, remembering her present helpless con- dition, I checked myself I begged her to forget the words I had spoken; not to answer them now; to let me say them again in some months' time. Let me still be her friend, and render her such service as I could. DARK DAYS. 7 She shook her head ; she held out her hand. The first action meant the refusal of my love ; the second, the acceptance of my friendship. I schooled myself to calmness, and we discussed her plans for the future. She was lodging in a house in a quiet, respect- able street near Regent's Park. She expressed her intention of staying on here for a while. " But alone !" I exclaimed. " Why not ? What have I to fear ? Still, I am open to reason, if you can suggest a better plan." I could suggest no other. Philippa was past twenty-one, and would at once succeed to what- ever money had been her mother's. This was enough to live upon. She had no friends, and must live somewhere. Why should she not stay on at her present lodgings ? Nevertheless, I trembled as I tliought of this beautiful girl all alone in London. Why could she not love me ? Why could she not be my wife ? It needed all my self-restraint to keep me from breaking afresh into passionate appeals. As she would not give me the right to dispose of her future, I could do nothing more. I bade her a sad farewell, then went back to my home to conquer my unhappy love, or to suffer from its fresh inroads. Conquer it ! Such love as mine is never con- quered. It is a man's life. Philippa was never absent from my thoughts. Let my frame of mind be gay or grave Philippa was always present. Now and then she wrote to me, but her letters told me little as to her mode of life ; they were short friendly epistles, and gave me little hope. Yet I was not quite hopeless. I felt that I had been too hasty in asking for her love so soon afler her mother's death. Let her recover from the shock, then I will try again. Three months was 8 DARK DAYS. the time wliich in my own mind I resolved should elapse before I again approached her with words of love. Three months ! How wearily they dragged themselves away ! Towards the end of my self-imposed term ot probation I fancied that a brighter, gayer tone manifested itself in Philippa's letters. Fool that I was ! I augured well from this. Telling myself that such love as mine must win in the end, I went to London, and once more saw Philippa. She received me kindly. Although her garb was still that of deep mourning, never, I thought, had she looked more beautiful. Not long after our first greeting did I wait before I began to plead again. She stopped me at the outset. " Hush," she said; " I have forgotten your former words ; let us still be friends." " Never ! " 1 cried passionately. *' Philippa, answer me once for all, tell me you can love me !" She looked at me compassionately. " How can I best answer you ? " she said, musingly. " The sharpest remedy is perhaps the kindest. Basil, will you understand me when I say it is too late ?" " Too late ! What can you mean ? Has another " The words died on my lips as PhiHppa, draw- ing a ring from the fourth finger of her left hand, showed me that it concealed a plain gold circlet. Her eyes met mine imploringly. " I should have told you before," she said softly, and bending her proud head ; " but there were reasons — even now I am pledged to tell no one. Basil, I only show you this, because I know you will take no other answer." I rose without a word. The room seemed whirling around me. The only thing which was clear to my sight was that cursed gold band on the fair white hand — that symbol of possession by DARK DAYS. 9 another ! In that moment hope and all the sweet- ness of life seemed swept away from me. Something in my face must have told her how her news affected me. She came to me and laid her hand upon my arm. I trembled iike a leaf beneath her touch. She looked beseechingly into my face. " Oh, not like that ! " she cried. " Basil, I am not worth it. I should not have made you happy. You will forget — you will find another. If I have wronged or misled you, say you forgive me. Let me hear you, my true friend, wish m^ happiness." I strove to force my dry lips to frame some conventional phrase. In vain ! words would not come. I sank into a chair and covered my face with my hands. - The door opened suddenly, and a man entered. He may have been about forty years of age. He was tall and remarkably handsome. He was dressed with scrupulous care ; but there was something written on his face which told me it was not the face of a good man. As I rose from my chair he glanced from me to Philippa with an air of suspicious enquiry. " Doctor North, an old friend of my mother's and mine," she said with composure. " Mr. Farmer," slie added ; and a rosy blush crept round her neck as she indicated the new comer by the name which I felt sure was now also her own. I bowed mechanically. I made a few disjointed remarks about the weather and kindred topics ; then I shook hands with Philippa and left the house, the most miserable man in England. Philippa married, and married secretly ! How could her pride have stoopefl to a clandestine union ? What manner of man was he who had won her ? Heavens I he must be hard to please if he cared not to show his conquest to the light of 10 DARK DAYS. day. Cur ! sneak ! coward ! villain ! Stay ; he may have his own reasons for conceahncnt — reasons known to Philippa and approved of by her. Not a word against her. She is still my queen ; the one woman in the world to me. What she has done is right ! I passed a sleepless night. In the morning I wrote to Philippa. I wished her all happiness — I could command my pen, if not my tongue. I said no word about the secrecy of the wedding, or the evils so often consequent to such concealment. But, with a foreboding of evil to come, I begged her to remember that we were friends ; that, although I could see her no more, whenever she wanted a friend's aid, a word would bring me to her side. I used no word of blame. I risked no expression of love or regret. No thought of my grief should jar upon the happiness which she doubtless expected to fmd. Farewell the one dream of my life ! Farewell Philippa ! Such a passion as mine may, in these matter-of- fact, unromantic days, seem an anachronism. No matter, whether to sympathy or ridicule, I am but laying bare my true thoughts and feelings. I would not return to my home at once. I shrank from going back to my lonely hearth and beginnmg to eat my heart out. I had made arrangements to stay in town for some days ; so I stayed, trying by a course of what is termed gaiety to drive remembrance away Futile effort 1 How many have tried the same reputed remedy without success ! Four days after my interview with Philippa, I was walking with a friend who knew every one in town. As we passed the door of one of the most exclusive of the clubs, I saw, standing on the steps talking to other men, the man whom I knew was Philippa's husband. His face was turned from DARK DAYS. II me, so I was able to direct my friend's attention to him. ^ " Who is that man ? " I asked. "That man with the gardenia in his coat is Sir Merv3'n Ferrand." " Who is he ? What is he ? What kind of a man is he ? " "A baronet. Not very rich. Just about the usual kind of man you see on those steps. Very popular with the ladies, they tell me." " Is he married ? " " Heaven knows ! I don't. I never heard of a Lady Ferrand, although there must be several who are morally entitled to use the designation." Arid this was her husband — Philippa's husband ! I clenched my teeth. Why had he married under a false name ? Or if she knew that name by which she introduced him to me was false, why was it assumed ? Why had the marriage been clandestine? Not only Sir Mervyn Ferrand, but the noblest in the land should be proud of winning Philippa ! The more I thought of the matter, the more wretched I grew. The dread that she had been in some way deceived almost drove me mad. The thought of my proud, beautiful queen some day finding herself humbled to the dust by a scoundrel's deceit was anguish. What could I do ? My first impulse was to demand an explanation, then and there, from Sir Mervyn Ferrand. Yet I had no right or authority so to do. What was I to Philippa save an unsuccessful suitor ? More- over, I felt that she had revealed her secret to nic in confidence. If there were good reasons for the concealment, I might do her irretrievable harm by letting this man kncjw that I was aware of his true position in society. No, I could not call him to account. But 1 must do something, or in time 12 DARK DAYS. to come my grief may be rendered doubly deep by sc]f- reproach. The next day I called upon Philippa. She would at least tell me if the name under which the man married her was the true or the false one. Alas ! I found she had left her home the day before — left it to return no more! The landlady had no idea whither she was gone, but believed it was her intention to leave England. After this I threw prudence to the winds. With some trouble I found Sir Mervyn Ferrand's town address. The next day I called on him. He also, I was informed, had just left England. His desti- nation was also unknown. I turned away moodily. All chance of doing good was at an end. Let the marriage be true or false, Philippa had departed, accompanied by the man who, for purposes of his own, passed under the name of Farmer, but who was really Sir Mervyn Ferrand. I went back to my home, and amid the wreck of my life's happiness murmured a prayer and registered an oath. I prayed that honour and happiness might be the lot of her I loved ; I swore that were she wronged I Avould with my own hand take vengeance on the man who wronged her. For myself I prayed nothing — not even forget- fulness. I loved Philippa : I had lost her for ever ! The past, the present, the future were all summed up in these words ! DARK DAYS. I3 CHAPTER II. A VILLAIN'S BLOW. 'HEY tell me there are natures stern enough to be able to crush love out of their lives. Ah ! not such love as mine ! Time, they say, can heal every wound. Not such a wound as mine ! My whole existence underwent a change when PhiHppa showed me the wedding- ring on her finger. No wonder it did. Hope was eliminated from it. From that moment I was a changed man. Life was no longer worth living. The spur of ambition was blunted; the desire for fame gone; the interest which I had hitherto felt in my profes- sion vanished. All the spring, the elasticity, seemed taken out of my being. For months and months I did my work in a perfunctory manner. It gave me no satisfaction that my practice grew larger. I worked, but I cared nothing for my work. Success gave me no pleasure. An increase to the number of my patients was positively un- welcome to mc. So long as I made money enough to supply my daily needs, what did it matter ? Of what use was wealth to me ? It could not buy me the one thing for which I craved. Of what use was life? No wonder that such friends as I had once possessed all but forsook me. My mood at that time was none of the sweetest. I wanted no friends. I was alone in the world ; I should be always alone. So things went on for more than a year. I grew 14 DARK DAYS. worse instead of better. My gloom deepened ; my cynicism grew more confirmed ; my life became more and more aimless. These are not lovers' rhapsodies, I wotild spare you them if I could ; but it is necessary that you should know the exact state of my mind in order to understand my subsequent conduct. Even now it seems to me that I am writing this description with my heart's blood. Not a word came from Philippa. I made no enquiries about her, took no steps to trace her. I dared not. Not for one moment did I forget her, and through all those weary months tried to think of her as happy and to be envied ; yet, in spite of myself, I shuddered as I pictured her lot as it might really be. But all the v/hile I knew that the day would come when I should learn whether I was to be thankful that my prayer had been answered, or to be prepared to keep my vow, In my misanthropical state of mind I heard without the sliglitest feeling of joy or elation that a distant relative of mine, a man from whom I expected nothing, had died and left me the bulk of his large property. I cared nothing for this unexpected wealth, except for the fact that it enabled me to free myself from a round of toil in which by now I took not the slightest interest. Had it but come two or three years before 1 Alas 1 all things in this lifa come too late. Now that I was no longer forced to mingle with men in order to gain the means of living, I abso- lutely shunned my kind. The wish of my youth, to travel in far countries, no longer existed with me. I disposed of my practice — or rather I simply handed it over to the first comer. I left the town of my adoption, and bought a small house — it v/as little more than a cottage — som.e DARK DAYS, 15 five miles away from the tiny town of Roding. Here I was utterly unknown, and could live rxactly as I chose ; and for months it was my choice to live almost like a hermit. My needs were ministered to by a man who had been for some years in my employment. He was a handy, faithful fellow ; honest as the day, stolid as the Sphynx; and, for some reason or other, so much attached to me that he was willing to perform on my behalf the duties of housekeeping which are usuall}' relegated to female servant;-;. Looking back upon that time of seclusion, as a medical man, I wonder v/hat would eventually have been -my fate if events had not occurred which once more forced me into the world of men ? I firmly believe that brooding in solitude over my grief would r.t last have affected my brain , that sooner or later I piust have developed symptoms of melancholia. Professionally speaking, the proba- bilities are I should have committed suicide. Even in the depth of my degradation I must have known the dangers of the path which I was treading ; for, after having passed six dreary months i.T my lonely cottage, I was trying to brace myself to seek a change of scene. I shrank from leaving my quiet abode ; but every day formed afresh the resolve to do so. Yet the days, each the same as its forerunner, went by, and I was still there. I had books, of course. I read for days together ; then I would throw the volumes aside, and, with a bitter smile, a'^k myself to what end was 1 directing my studies. The accumulation of knowledge ? Tush 1 I would give all the learning I had acquired, all that a lifetime of research could acquire, to hold Philippa for one brief moment to my heart, and hear her say . she loved me! If in the whirl of men, in the midst of hard work, I found it impossible to l6 DARK DAYS. conquer my hopeless passion, how could I expect to do so living as I at present lived ? There ! my egotistical descriptions are almost over. Now you know why I said that you must sit by the fire and think with me ; must enter, as it were, into my inner self before you can under- stand my mental state. Whether you sympathise with me or not depends entirely upon your own organization. If you are so constructed that the love of one woman, and one only, can pervade your very being, fill your every thought, direct your every action, make life to you a blessing or a curse — if love comes to you in this guise, you will be able to understand me. That night, when I first presented myself to you, my wounds seemed less likely than ever to heal ; forgetfulness seemed farther and farther away. Somehow, as my thoughts took the well-worn road to the past, every event seemed recent as yesterday, every scene vivid as if I had just left it. Hour after hour I sat gazing at the glowing embers, but seeing only Philippa's beloved face. How had life fared with her ? Where was she at this moment ? The resolve to quit my seclusion was made anew by me. I would go into the world and find her — not for any selfish motive. I would learn from her own lips that she was happy. If unhappy, she should have from me such comfort as the love of a true friend can give. Yes, I would leave this wretched life to-morrow. My cheek flushed as I contrasted what I was with what I ought to be. No man has a right to ruin his life or hide his talents for the sake of a woman. I had another inducement which urged me to make a change in my mode of life. I am ashamed that I have not spoken of it. That morning I had received a letter from my mother. I had not seen her for six years. Just as I entered man's estate DARK DAYS. I7 she married for the second time. My step-father was an American, and with many tears my mother left me for her new home. Some months ago her husband died. I should have gone to her, but she forbade me. She had no children by her second husband ; and now that his affairs were practically wound up she purposed returning to England. Her letter told me that she would be in London in three days' time, and suggested that I should meet her there. Although of late years we had drifted apart, she was dear, very dear to me. I hated the thouglit of her seeing me, her only child, reduced to such a wreck of my former self; yet for her sake I again renewed my resolve of leaving my seclusion. Yet I knew that to-morrow I should forswear myself, and sink back into my apathy and aimless existence. Ah ! I knew not what events were to crowd into the morrow 1 But now back to the night. It was mid- winter, and bitterly cold out of doors. My lamp was not yet lighted ; the glow of my fire alone broke the darkness of the room. I had not even drawn the curtains or shut the shutters. At times I liked to look out and sec the stars. They shone so peacefully, so calmly, so coldly; they seemed so unlika the world, with its strife and fierce passions and disappointments. I rose languidly from my chair and walked to the window, to see what sort of a night it was. As I approached the casement I could see that the skies bad darkened ; moreover, I noticed that feathery flakes of snow v/ere accumulating in the corner of each pane. I went close to the window and peered out into tlic night. Standing within a yard of me, gazing into my dimly-lit room — her face stern and pale as death, her dark eyes now riveted on my own — 3 tS D7\rk days. was a woman ; and that woman was Philippa, ni}'' love ! For several seconds I stood, spellbound, gazing at her. That I saw more than a phantom of my imagination did not at once enter into my head. In dreams I had seen the one I loved again and again, but this was the first time my waking thoughts had conjured up such a vision. Vision, dream, reality ! I trembled as I looked ; for the form was that of Philippa in dire distress. It was seeing the hood which covered her head grow whiter and whiter with the fast-falling snow which aroused me to my senses, and made every fibre thrill with the thought that Philippa, in flesh and blood, stood before me. With a low cry of rapture I tore asunder the fastening of the French casement, threw the sashes apart, and without a word my love passed from the cold, bleak night into my room. She was wrapped from head to foot in a rich dark fur-trimmed cloak. As she swept by me I fell she was damp with partially-thawed snow. I closed the window ; then, with a throbbing heart, turned to greet my visitor. She stood in the centre of the room. Her mantle had fallen to the ground, and through the dusk I could see her white face, hands, and neck. I took her hands in niine ; they were cold as icicles. "Philippa! Philippa! why are you here?" I whispered. " Welcome, thrice welcome, whether you bring me joy or sorrow." A trembling ran through her. She said nothing, but her cold hands clasped mine closer. I led her to the fire, which I stirred until it blazed brightly. She knelt before it and stretched out her hands for warmth. How pale she looked ; how unlike the Philippa of old ! But to my eyes how lovely 1 As I looked down at the fair woman kneeling at PARK DAYS. ig my feet, with her proud head bent as in shame, I knew intuitively that I should be called upon to keep my oath ; and knowing this, I re-registcred it in all its entirety. At last she raised her face to mine. Tn her eyes was a sombre fire, which until now I had never seen there. " Philippa 1 Philippa ! " I cried again. " Fetch a light," she whispered. " Let me see a friend's face once more — if you are still my friend." " Your friend, your true friend for ever," I said, as I hastened to obey her. As I placed the lamp on the table Philippa rose from her knees. I could now see that she was in deep mourning. Was the thought that flashed through me, that it might be she was a widow, one of joy or sorrow ? I hope — I try to believe it was the latter. We stood for some moments in silence. My agitation, my rapture at seeing her once more seemed to have deprived me of speech. I could do little more than gaze at her and tell myself that 1 was not dreaming ; that Philippa was really here ; that it was her voice I had heard, her hands I clasped. Philippa it was, but not the Philippa of old ! The rich warm glowing beauty seemed toned down. Her face had lost its exquisite colour. Moreover, it was as the face of one who has suffered — one who is suffering. To me it looked as if illness had refined it, as it sometimes will refine a face. Yet, if she had been ill, her illness could not have been of long duration. Her figure was as superb, her arms as hnely rounded, as ever. She stood firm and erect. Yet 1 trembled as I gazed at that p.ile proud face and tlujse dark solemn eyes. I dared not for the while ask her why she sought me. 3" 20 DARK DAYS. She was the tiist to break silence. " You are changed, Basil," she said. " Time changes everyone," I answered, forcing a smile. " Will you believe me," she continued, " when I say that the memory of your face as I saw it last has haunted even my most joyful moments ? Ah me, Basil, had I been true to myself I think I might have learned to love you." She spoke regretfully, and as one who has finished with life and its love. My heart beat rapidly ; yet I knew her words were not spoken in order to hear me tell her that I loved her passion- ately as ever. " I have heard of you once or twice," she said softly. " You are rich now, they tell me, but un- happy." " I loved you and lost you," I answered. " How could I be happy ? " "And men can love like this?" she said sadly. "All men are not alike then ? " " Enough of me," I said. " Tell me of yourself. Tell me how I can aid you. Your husband" She drew a sharp quick breath. , The colour rushed back to her cheek. Her eyes glittered strangely. Nevertheless, she spoke calmly and distinctly. " Husband ! I have none," she said. "Is he dead?" " No" — she spoke with surpassing bitterness— " No ; I should rather say I never was a wife. Tell me, Basil," she continued fiercely, "did you ever hate a man ? " " Yes," I answered emphatically and truly. Hate a man ! From the moment I saw the wretch with whom Philippa fled I hated him. Now that my worst suspicions were true, what were my feelings ? DARK DAYS. 21 I felt that my lips compressed themselves. I knew that when I spoke my voice was as stern and bitter as Philippa's. "Sit down," I said, " and tell me all. Tell me how you knew I was here — where you have come from." Let me but learn whence she came, and I felt sure the knowledge would enable me to lay my hand on the man I wanted. Ah ! life now held something worth living for ! " I have been here some months," said Philippa. " Here ! In this neighbourhood ? " " Yes. I have seen you several times. I have been living at a house about three miles away. I felt happier in knowing that in case of need I had one friend near me." I pressed her hands. "Go on," I said, hoarsely. " He sent me here. He had grown weary of me. I was about to have a child. I was in his way — a trouble to him." Her scornful accent as she spoke was inde- scribable. " Philippa ! Philippa ! " I groaned, " had you sunk so low as to do his bidding ?" She laid her hand on my arm. " More," she said. " Listen 1 Before we parted he struck me. Struck — me 1 He cursed me and struck me 1 Basil, did you ever hate a man?" I threw out my arms. My heart was full of rage and bitterness. " And you became this man's mistress rather than my wife 1 " I gasped. Neither my love nor her sorrow could stop this one reproach from passing my lips. She sprang to her feet. "You !" she cried. "Do you — think — do you imagine Read ! Only this morning I learnt it." She threw a letter towards me — threw it with a gesture of loathing, as one throws a nauseous reptilf from one's hand. I opened it mechanically. 22 DARK DAYS. " Yes," she said, " you were right in thinking I had fallen low. So low that I went where he chose to send me. So low that I would have forgiven the ill treatment of months — the blow, even. Why ? Because until this morning he was my husband. Read t'he letter. Basil, did you ever hate a man ?" Before I read I glanced at her in alarm. She spoke with almost feverish excitement. Her words followed one another with headlong rapidity. But who could wonder at this mood with a woman who had such a wrong to declare ? She grew calm beneath my glance, " Read," she said, beseechingly. " Ah, God 1 I have fallen low; but not so low as you thought." She buried her face in her hands whilst I opened and read the letter. It was dated from Paris, and ran so : "As it seems to me that we can't exactly hit it off together, I think the farce had better end. The simplest way to make my meaning clear is to tell you that when I married you I had a wife alive. She has died since then ; and I dare say, had we managed to get on better together, I should have asked you to go through the marriage cere- mony once more. However, as things are now, so they had better stop. You have the satisfaction of knowing that morally you are blameless. " If, like a sensible girl, you are ready to accept the situation, I am prepared to act generously, and do the right tiling in money matters. As I hate to have anything hanging over me unsettled, and do not care to trust delicate negotiations to a third party, I shall run across to England and see you. I shall reach Roding on Wednesday evening. Do not send to the station to meet me j I would rather walk." DARK DAYS. 23 The letter was unsigned. My blood boiled as I read it ; yet, in spite of my rage, I felt a grim humour as I realised the exquisite cynicism possessed by the writer. Here was a man striking a foul and recreant blov/ at a woman whom he once loved — a blow that must crush her to the earth. His own v/ords confess him a rogue, a bigamist ; and yet he can speaJc coolly about money arrangements ; can even enter into petty details concerning his approaching visit ! He must be without shame, without remorse ; a villain, absolutely heartless ! I folded the letter and placed it in my breast. I wished to keep it, that I might read it again and again during the next twenty-four hours. Long hours they would be. This letter would aid me to make them pass. Philippa made no objection to my kce})ing it. She sat motionless, gazing gloomily into the fire. " You knew the man's right name and title ? " I asked. " Yes, from the first. Ah ! there I wronged myself, Basil! The rank, the riches perhaps, tempted me ; and — Basil, I loved him then." Oh, the piteous regret breathed in that last sentence I I ground my teeth, and felt that there v/as a stronger passion than even love. " That man and I meet to-morrow," I told myself softly. " But you spoke of a child ?" I said, turning to Philippa. "It is dead — dead — dead!" she cried, with a wild laugh. " A fortnight ago it died. Dead ! My grief then; my joy to-day! See! I am in mourning; to-morrow I shall put that mourning off. Why mourn for what is a happy cycnt ? No black after to-morrow." Her mood had once more become excited. As 24 DARK DAYS. before, her words came with feverish rapidity. I took her hands in mine ; they were now burning. " Phihppa, dearest, be cahn. You will see that man no more ? " " I will see him no more. It is to save myself from seeing him that I come to you. Little right have I to ask aid from you ; but your words came back to me in my need. There was one friend to turn to. Help me, Basil ! I come to you as a sister may come to a brother." " As a sister to a brother," I echoed. " I accept the trust," I added, laying my lips reverentially on her white forehead, and vowing mentally to devote my life to her. " You will stay here now ? " I asked. " No, I must go back. To-morrow I will come —to-morrow. Basil, mj'^ brother, you will take me far away — far away ? " " Where you wish. Every land is as one to me now." She had given me the right, a brother's right, to stand between her and the villain who had wronged her. To-morrow that man would be here ! How I longed for the moment which would bring us face to face ! Philippa rose. " I must go," she said. I pressed food and wine upon her : she would take nothing. She made, however, no obje(5lion to my accompanying her to her home. We left the house by the casement by which she entered. Together we stepped out on the snow-whitened road. She took my arm, and we walked towards her home. I asked her with whom she was staying. She told me Avith a widow -lady and two children, named Wilson. She went to them at Sir Mervyn Ferrand's command. Mrs. Wilson, he told her, was & distant connection of his own, and he had made DARK DAYS. 25 arrangements for her to look after Philippa during her illness. It was. but another proof of the man's revolting cynicism. To send the woman who falsely believed herself to be his wife to one of his own relations ! Oh, I would have a full reckoning with him ! " What name do they know you by ? " I asked. " He said I was to call myself by the false name, which, for purposes of his own, he chose to pass under. But I felt myself absolved from my promise of secrecy. Why should I stay in a strange house with strange people by Sir Mervyn Ferrand's request, unless I could show good cause for doing so ? So I told Mrs. Wilson everything." " She believed you ? " " She was bound to believe me. I would have no doubt cast upon my word. I showed her the certificate of my marriage. Whatever she may have thought at first, she saw then that I was his wife. No one else knows it except her. To her I am Lady Ferrand. Like me, she never dreamed to what man's villainy can reach. Oh, Basil, Basil ! why arc such men allowed to live ? " For the first time Pliilippa seemed to break down. Till now the chief characteristics of her mood had been scorn and anger. Now, sheer grief for the time appeared to sweep away every other emotion. Sob after sob broke from her. I endeavoured to calm her — to comfort her. Alas ! how little I could say or do to these ends ! She leaned heavily and despondingly on my arm, and for a long while we walked in silence. At last she told me her home was close at hand. " Listen, Philippa," I said ; " I shall come in with you and sec this lady with whom you are staying. I sluill tell her I am your brother; that for some time I have known how shamefully your husband has neglected you ; and that now, with 26 DARK DAYS. your full consent, I mean to take you away. Whether this v.'oman beheves in our relationship or not, matters nothing. I suppose she knows that man is coming to-morrow. After his heartless desertion, she cannot be surprised at your wish to avoid meeting him." I paused. Philippa bent her head as if assent- ing to my plan, " To-morrow," I continued, " long before that wretch comes here to poison the very air we breathe, I shall come and fetch you. Early in the morning I will send my servant for your luggage. Mrs. Wilson may know me and my man by sight. That makes no difference. There need be no concealment. You are free to come and go. You have no one to fear. On Thursday morning we v/ill leave this place." " Yes," said Philippa, dreamily, " to-morrow I will leave — I will come to you. But I will come alone. In the evening most likely, when no one will know where I have gone." " But how much better that I should take you away openly and in broad daylight, as a brother would take a sister ! " " No ; I will come to you. You will not mind waiting, Basil. There is something I must do first. Something to be done to-morrow. Some- thing to be said ; some one to be seen. What is it ? who is it ? I cannot recollect." She placed her disengaged hand on her brow. She pushed back her hood a little, and gave a sigh of relief as she felt the keen air oh her temples. Poor girl 1 after what she had that day gone through, no wonder her mind refused to recall trivial details and petty arrangements to be made before she joined me. Sleep and the certainty of my sympathy and protection would no doubt restore her wandering memory. DARK DAYS. 27 However, although I again and again urged her to change her mind, she was firm in her resolve to come to me alone. At last, very reluctantly, I was obliged to give way on this point ; but I was deter- mined to see this Mrs. Wilson to-night ;- so when we reached the house I entered with Philippa. I told her there was no occasion for her to be present at my interview with her hostess. She looked frightfully weary, and at my suggestion went straight to her room to retire for the night. I sat down and awaited the advent of Mrs. Wilson. She soon appeared. A woman of about five and thirty ; well but plainly dressed. As I glanced at her with some curiosity, I decided that when young she must, after a certain type of beauty, have been extremely good-looking. Unfortunately hers was one of those faces cast in an aquiline mould — faces which, as soon as the bloom of youth is lost or the owners thereof turn to thinness, become, as a rule, sharp, strained, hungry and severe-looking. Whatever the v/oman's charms might once have been, she could now boast of very few. There were lines round her mouth and on her brow which told of suffering ; and, as I judged it, not the calm, resigned suffering, which often leaves a sweet if sad expression on the face ; but fierce, rebeHious, constrained suffering, such as turns a young heart into an old one long before its time. As she entered the room and bowed to me her face expressed undisguised surprise at seeing a visitor who was a stranger to her. I apologised for the lateness of my call ; then hastened to tell her its object. She listened with polite impassa- bility. She made no comment when I repeatedly spoke of my so-stylcd sister as Lady Ferrand. it was clear that, as Philippa had said. Mrs. Wilson 28 DARK DAYS. was convinced as to the valid nature of the mar- riage. I inveighed roundJy against Sir Mervyn Ferrand's heartless conduct and scandalous neglect of his wife. My hearer shrugged her shoulders, and the meaning conveyed by the action was that, although she regretted family jars, they were no concern of hers. She seemed quite without interest in the matter ; yet a suspicion that she was acting, indeed rather over-acting, a part, crossed my mind once or twice. When I told her it was Lady Ferrand's intention to place herself to-morrow under my protection, she simply bowed. When I said that most likely we should leave England, and for a while travel on the continent, she said that my sister's health would no doubt be much benefited by the change. " I may mention," she added, for the first time taking any real part in the talk, " that your sister's state is not quite all it should be. For the last day or two I have been thinking of sending for the medical man who attended her during her unfor- tunate confinement. He has not seen her for quite a week. I mentioned it to her this afternoon ; but she appears to have taken an unaccountable dislike to him, and utterly refused to see him. I do not wish to alarm you — I merely mention this ; no doubt you, her brother, will see to it." The peculiar stress she laid on the word * brother ' told me that I was right in thinking the woman was acting, and that not for one moment did my assumed fraternity deceive her. This was of no consequence. •• I am myself a doctor. Her health will be my care," I said. Then I rose. " You are related to Sir Mervyn Ferrand, I believe, Mrs. Wilson ?" I asked. She gave me a quick look which might mean DARK DAYS. 29 anything. •* We are connections," she said carelessly. " You rilust have been surprised at his sending his wife away at such a time ?" " I am not in the habit of feeling surprise at Sir Mervyn's actions. He wrote to me and told me that, knowing my circumstances were straitened, he had recommended a lady to come and live with me for a few months. When I found this lady was his wife, I own I was, for once, surprised." From the emphasis which she laid on certain words, I knew it was but the fact of Philippa's being married to the scoundrel that surprised her, nothing else. I could see that Mrs. Wilson knew Sir Mervyn Ferrand thoroughly, and something told me that her relations with him were of a nature which might not bear investigation. I bade her good-night, and walked back to my cottage with a heart in which sorrow, pity, love, hatred, exultation, and, it may be, hope, were strangely and inextricably mingled. 30 DARK DAYS. CHAPTER III. "THE WAGES OF SIN." ORNING! 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. Farewell to my aimless, selfish existence. Henceforward I should have something worth living for — worth dying for, if needs be ! Philippa 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 devo- tion, homage, worship, and respect can in her own eyes reinstate my queen, I shall some day see the bloom come back to her cheek, the bright smile play once more round her mouth, the dark eyes again eloquent with happy thoughts. And then — ■ and then 1 what should I care for the world or its sneers ? To whom, save myself, should I be answer- able? 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, I had a thousand preparations to make for her comfort. Fortunately I had a spare room, and, moreover, a furn: hed one. Not that I should have troubled, when I went into my seclu- sion, about such a superfluity as a guest-chamber; but as it happened I had bought the house and the DARK DAYS, 3I furniture complete ; so could offer my welcome guest fair accommodation for the night. I summoned my stolid 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. WiUiam mani- fested 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, methodical, hut 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 from somewhere, and fetch the luggage from Mrs. Wilson's. He was to mention no names ; simply to say 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. 1 wished that I had an enchanter's wand to turn tlie humble garniture of the chamber into surroundings meet for my queenly Philippa. I wished that I had, at least, flowers with which I could deck her resting-jjlace ; for I remembered how passionately she loved flowers. Alas ! I had not seen a flower for months. Then I drew out Sir Mervyn Fcrrand's letter, read it again and again, and cursed tlie writer in my heart. VViUiam was away about two hours ; then he made liis appearance with some boxes. I was delighted to see these tangible signs that Pliilippa meaut to keep her promise. Till tliat uioment 32 DARK DAYS. 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 be a certainty. Nevertheless, William brought no message ; so there was nothing for me to do but wait patiently until she chose to cross my threshold. Although my pleasing labours 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 performed. 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 he could come ; there was but one way from Roding to the house at which Philippa had been staying. He meant to walk, his letter said ; this might be in order to escape observation. The train was due at Roding at seven 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 arrives, and I should probably meet him about half-way on his journey. It would be dark, but I should know him. I should know him among a thousand. There on the open lonely road Sir Mervyn Ferrand, coming gaily, and in his worldly cynicism certain of cajoling, buying off, or in some other way silencing the v/oman who had in an evil day trusted to his honour 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 He would meet this man, and be called to account. DARK DAYS. 33 Stern and sinister as were my thoughts — freely and unreservedly as I record them : as indeed 1 endeavour in this tale to record everything — I 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 at some time or another this man's life ; but at least no thought of taking any advantage of an unarmed or unsuspecting man entered into my scheme of vengeance. I designed no murderous attack. But it was my intention to stop the man on his path ; to confront him and tell him that his villainy was known to me ; 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 honour, was due from the man who had ruthlessly betrayed a woman. Well I knew that it was probable he would laugh at mc — tell me that the days of duelling were over, and refuse 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 places. A wild scheme for these prosaic law-abiding days; yet the only one that was feasible. It may be said that I should have taken steps to have caused the miscreant to be arrested for bigamy. But what proof of his crime had we as yet, save his own unsigned confession ? Who was to move in the matter — riiilippa — myself? We did not even know where this wife of whom he had spoken lived, or where she dirfj. There were a himdred ways in which he might escape from justice, but whether he was punished for his sin or allowed to go scolfree, Philii'pa's name and wrongs must be 4 34 DARK DAYS. bruited about, her sliame 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 1 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. 1 grew restless and uneasy as the dusk began to make the road, up which I gazed almost continu- ally, dim and indistinct. When the short winter's day was over, and the long dark night had fairly begun, my restlessness turned into fear, I walked out of my house and paced my garden to and fro. 1 blamed myself for having yielded so lightly to Philippa's wish — her command rather — that I should on no account fetch her. But then, when- ever did I resist a wish, much less a command, 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 tlie world The day had been fine and frosty, but I knew that the wind had changed since the sun wont down. It was warmer, a change which I felt sure presaged a heavy downfall of snow or rain. There was a moon, a fitful moon ; for cloud.'? vv-ere flying across it, dark clouds, which I guessed would soon gather coherence and volume, and veil entirely that bright face, which now only showed itself at irregiilar intervals. The minutes were passing away, I grew nervous and excited. Why does she not come ? My hope had been to see my poor girl safely housed before 1 started to execute my other task. Why does she not come ? Time, precious time, is slipping by ! In the hope of meeting her, 1 walked for some distance up the road. " Why does she delay ?" I groaned. Even now I should be on my way to Kodmg, or I may miss my prey. Heavens! can Dark days. 35 it be that she is waiting to see this man once more ? Never ! never ! Perish the thought ! But, all the same, every fibre in my body quivered at the bare supposition of such a ihing. I could bear the suspense no longer. ~ For the hundredth time I glanced at my vvatch. It wanted but ten minutes to seven o'clock, and at that hour I had resolved to start from Mrs. 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 re- ceive and welcome her ? Five more precious moments gone ! I stamped in my rage. After all, I can only do one half of my task ; the sweet, but not the stern half. Shall I, indeed, do either ? 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 his words ; for did he not once love her ? He must have loved her ! After all, he broke the laws for the sake of possessing her, and — cursed thought ! — she loved him then ; and she is but a woman I So I tortured myself until my state of mind grew unbearable. At all hazard I must prevent Fer- rand from meeting Philippa. Oh, why had slie not come as she promised ? Could it be she was de- tained against her will ? In spite of her uninterested manner, I distrusted the woman 1 had seen last night. It is now past seven o'clock. Philippa's '.lOuse, from which I had reckoned my time, was nearly three miles away. I must give iij) my scheme <)f vengeance. I must go in searcii of Philippa. If I do not meet her I mu.';t call at Mrs. Wilson's, find out what detains her, and if needful bear her away by force. By this time my steps liad Iirouglit nic Ij.u k to lu) own house. I called William, and told him I 4 • 36 DARK DAYS. was going to wallc up the ro.id and meet my expected guest. If by any chance I should miss her, he was to welcome her on my behalf, and tell her the reason for my absence. " Best take a lantern, sir," said William ; " moon '11 soon be hidden, and them roads is precious rough." " I can 't be bothered with that great horn affair," I said, rather testily. "Take the little one — the bull's-eye — that's better than nothing," said William. To humour him I put it into my pocket. I ran at the top of my sjieed to the house at which I had last night left Philippa. It took me nearly half an hour getting there. I rang the bell impetuously. The door was opened by a maid- servant. I enquired 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 to cause me to blame my haste. I must have missed her; no doubt })assed her on the road. No; such a thing was impossible. The way was a narrow one. The moon still gave some light. If I had met Philippa, I must have seen her. She must have seen me, and would then have stopped me. She could not have gone the way I came. But where was she ? In what direction was I to seek her? Argue the matter as I would — loath as I was to allow myself to be convinced, I was bound to decide that she must have taken the path td Roding. There was no other. She had gone, even as I was going, to meet Ferrand. She may have started, intending to come to me; but at the DARK DA\S. 37 last moment a desire to see the man once more — I fondly hoped for the purpose of heaping reproaches on his head — had mastered her. Yes, whatever her object might be, she had gone to aieet 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 assertion that she liad something to do before she came to mo. That, as I now read it, could be but one thing — to meet this man ! Never again, if I can help it, shall his voice strike on her ear ! Ne^•er again shall their eyes meet ! Never again shall the touch of even his finger contaminate her ! I.et 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 loves her; he will bait his hook witli promises. She will listen; hesitate; perhaps yield, and find herself once more deceived. Then she will be lost to me for ever. Now she is, in my eyes, pure as when first we mc t. Let me haste on, overtake, pass her; meet her betrayer, and, il needful, strike him to the ground. As I turned from the house I became aware that a great and sudden change had come over the night. It seemed to mc that, even in the few minutes which I had spent in considering what to do, the heavy cloutls 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 hatl provided mc, 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 and fjuick, I felt the blinding snow on my face. The wind moaned through the leafless 38 DARK DAYS. branches on either side of the road. The snow- flakes whirled madly here and there. Even in my excitement I was able to rcahse the fact that never before had I seen in England so fierce a snow- storm, or one which came on so suddenly. And, like myself, 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 1 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." 1 kept a sharp look-out — if, indeed, it can be called a look-out; for the whirling snow made everything, save what v/as within a few feet of me, invisible. I strained my ears to catch the faintest cry or other sound. I went on, flashing my lantern first on one and then on the other side of the road. r\Iy dread was, that Philippa, utterly unable to fight against the white tempest, might be crouch- ing under one of the banks, and if so I might pass without seeing her or even attracting her atten- tion. My doing so on such a night as this might mean her death. 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 happened, she could not, dared not love him. And for a dreary comfort 1 recalled the utter bitterness of her accent last night when she turned to me and said, " Basil, did 5'ou ever hate a man ? " No, she could not loye him I These thoughts brought my craving for ven- geance back to my mind. Where was Ferrand ? By all my calculations, taking into account the DARK DAYS. 39 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 had decided to stay at Roding for the night. I raged at the thought ! If only I knew that Philippa was" safely housed, nothing, in my present frame of rnind, would have suited me better than to have met him on this lonely road, in the midst of this wild storm. If Philipi->a were only safe ! Still no sign of her. I began to waver in my mind. What if my first supposition, that 1 had passed her on the road, was correct ? She might be now at my cottage, wondering what had become of me. Should I go 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 ? I halted, irresolute, in the centre of the road. Instinctively I beat my hands together to promote circulation. I had left my home hurriedly, and had made no provision for the undergoing of such an ordeal as this terrible, unprecedented snow- storm inflicted. In spite of the speed at whicb I had travelled, my hands and feet were growing numbed, my face smarted with the cold. Heaven help me to decide aright, whether to go on or turn back 1 The decision was not left to me. Suddenly, close 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 grey figure. It swept past me like the wind ; but as it passed me I knew '.hat my quest was ended — that Philippa was found ! She vanished in a second, before the terror which rooted me to the spot had passc.d away. Then I turned and, fast as I could run, followed her.cryinj^ as I went, " Philippa ! Philippa 1 " ^O DARK DAYS. I soon overtook her ; but so dark was the night ihat I was ahnost touching her before I saw her shadowy, ghost-Hke form. I threw my arms round her and held her. She struggled 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 1 sliould rather say she ceased to struggle. " 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 cf solitary watch- fulness. I was all but worn out with faligue ; yet I dared not sleep. If the mania returned, what 6o DARK DAYS. mifcni riappcn, were I not at hand to restrain Philippa's actions? My hope that the madness had really left my patient, not, if she were properly 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 respectable women from one of the best of the London Nursing Institutions were within my walls. The train had, of course, been late, very late. At one or two places on the line it had almost given up the battle, and settled 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, ofi'ered such a mag- nificent bribe that he soon found an enterprising carriage proprietor who was willing to make the attempt to force two horses and a carriage over the six miles of road between Roding and my house. The attempt was successful, although the rate of progression was slow ; and William trium- phantly ushered his charges into my presence. After giving them time for rest and refreshment, 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 poor 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 yon manage to get to Roding all right this warning ? " I asked with assumed carelessness. DARK DAYS. 6i " I managed all right, sir," said William, cheer- fully. " Snow deep on the road ? " "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 remembered how I had placed 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 de- scribed as beginning to form his winding-sheet, had hidden and buried him ? That a pure white shapeless 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 burden it would be, but one which I might easily find strength enough to bear. Dear it ! I could bear it, and be happy; for something told me that, could I but save her from the peril which menaced her, I'hilippa 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 ovit 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 wceliis, for months, for ever ! Save my love and me! 62 DARK DAYS. CHAPTER VI. THE SECRET KEPT. fT is needless to say that when I awoke the next morning my first thought was of Philippa : but my first action was to go to my window and look at the skies. My heart sank within me as I saw that the snow had ceased falling, and the wintry sun was shining. I threw up the sash ; the cold air cut me like a knife. I gathered up a handful of snow from the window-sill. It crumbled in my fingers like tooth-powder. 1 guessed at once that a hard black frost had suc- ceeded the snow. I ran down-stairs and glanced at the thermometer outside my sitting-room window. It registered twelve degrees of frost. My spirits rose ; I felt that Philippa would be saved. The wind was due east : so long as it stayed there the frost would last, and that white tomb on the roadside iiide the secret of the dread- ful night. I found, moreover, that Philippa's condition was all that could, under the circumstances, be hoped for. Since she had awakened from that long sleep into which the opiate had plunged her there had been no recurrence of the delusions ; no symptoms which gave me any alarm. She was, of course, weak in body, but quite quiet and collected. She spoke but little, and the few words which she did speak had no bearing on forbidden or disturbing subjects. Day after day went by, and still the brave black frost held the world in its iron grip, and kept the secret of the night. Morning after morning I woke DARK DAY''. 63 to fuid the wind still blowing from the east, the skies clear and showing every evidence of a long spell of hard weather. A presentiment that we should be saved was now firmly established in my mind. The heavens themselves seemed to be shielding us and working for us. I have not given the year in which these things occurred ; but many who can remember that mighty fall of snow, and the time which the frost kept it on the earth, will be able to fix the date. Since that year there has been no weather like it. Day by day Philippa grew better and stronger. 1 spare you, as I promised to, all description which is not absolutely necessary of my treatment of my patient, and all technical summary of the case ; but before many days had gone by I knew that, as I hoped, I had to deal with one of those rare instances in which the balance of the mind is restored by forced sleep, and the complete restora- tion of health is but a matter of time and care. As soon as it became a certainty that all danger to life or reason was at an end, I began to consider what course to adopt. The moment she was well enough to risk the journey, or even, if a thaw set in, before then, Pliilippa must fly from tlic scene ol the tragedy in which she had played so terrible, yet morally irresponsible, a part. We must put lands and seas between ourselves and the fatal spot. But how to persuade her that such flight was absolutely necessary ? Brother and sister as we now termed ourselves, would she ever consent to accompany me abroad .'' Had 1 the right to put the woman I loved in such an equivocal position ? No ! a thousand times no ! And yet I knew there was no safety for her in England ; and with whom could she leave Enr^Iand save with me ? I dared not urge upon her my true reason lor 64 DARK DAYS. flight. It was my greatest hope that the events of that night had left her mind when the madness left her, never to be recalled. And now time was pressing ; ten days had passed by. The glorious frost still kept our counsel, but it could not last for ever. The time must come when the white heaps of snovs^ would melt and vanish away, and then Sir Mervyn Ferrand's cold dead face would appear, and tell the tale of his death to the first passer by. I had scarcely quitted the house since that night. Yet one day a kind of morbid fascination had led me to walk along the road towards Roding, and to halt at what I judged to be the spot where I laid the dead man by the side of the road. I fancied I could single out the very drift under which that awful thing lay, and a dreary temptation to probe the white heap with my stick, and make sure, assailed me. I resisted it, and turned away from the spot. There was a certain amount of traffic on the road. By now the snow had been beaten down by cart-wheels and people's feet, so that it was quite possible to walk from one place to another. As I reached the house from which Philippa fled to seek refuge with me, I encountered Mrs. Wilson. kwas going to pass without any sign of recognition, but she stopped me^ " I thought you were going to take your sister away ? " she said. "Lady Ferrand was unfortunately taken very ill when she left you. She is now hardly well enough to be moved." " Has she heard from Sir Mervyn ? " asked Mrs. Wilson, abruptly. •' Not to my knowledge," I replied. " It is strange. You know, I suppose, that he was expected at my house that night ? " DARK DAYS. 65 " Certainly I do. It was for that reason my sister left you." Mrs. Wilson looked at me thoughtfully. " She ^vill not meet him again ? " " Never," I said, thinking as I spoke that my words bore a meaning only known to myself. " Does she hate him ? " she asked, suddenly. " She has been cruelly wronged," I said, evasively. She laid her hand on my arm. " Listen," she said. " If I thought she hated him, I would see her before she leaves, and tell her something. If I thought he hated her, I would tell him. I will wait and see." She turned away and walked on, leaving me to make the best of her enigmatical words. She was evidently a strange woman, and I felt more sure than ever was in some way mixed up with Sir Mervyn Ferrand's early life. I had a great mind to follow her and demand an explanation, but caution told me that the less I said to her the better. It was from this woman's knowledge of the relationship between Philippa and the dead man that, when the secret of the night was laid bare, the greatest danger must arise. After walking a few paces, Mrs. Wilson turned and came back to me. " Give me an address," she said ; " I may want to write to you." 1 hesitated ; then I told her that any letters sent to my bankers in London would reach me sooner or later. It was too soon to excite sus- picion by concealment of one's movements. It was after I had gazed at that white tomb by the roadside that my impatience to remove Philippa grew fiercer and fiercer. Moreover, I had at last made up my mind what to do with my precious charge. As soon as she was well enough to bear the journey, I resolved to take her to C 66 DARK DAY?. London, and place her in the hands of one of tliG truest, noblest, tenderest women in the world, my mother. She was in London, waiting for me to join her. I had written, telling her that the serious illness of a friend prevented me from leaving my home for some days. Now I resolved to go to her, and tell her all Philippa's sad tale — all save the one dark chapter of which she herself, I hoped, knew nothing. I would take her to my mother. I would tell my mother how I loved her ; I would appeal to her love for me, and ask her to take my poor stricken girl to her heart, even as she would take a daughter ; and I dared to hope that, if only for my sake, my pra5^er would be granted. Philippawas by now thoroughly convalescent. As I lay down my pen for a moment and think of that time, with its fears and troubles, it is a marvel to me that I could have dared to wait so long before moving her from the neighbourhood. I can only attribute my lingering to the sense of fatality that all would go right, or to the professional instinct which forbade me urging a patient to do anything which might retard recovery ; but the time had at last come. Save for her quiet and subdued manner, my love was almost her old self again. Her words and manner to me were tender, affectionate and sisterly. I need hardly say that during that time no word crossed my lips which I would have recalled. Love, if not the thought of it, I had laid aside until happier da3'S dawned ; for — I say it advisedly, and at risk of censure — Philippa was to me pure and innocent as on the daj' when first we met. If her hands were stained with the blood of Sir Mervyn Ferrand, she knew it not. Her wrongs had goaded her to mad- ness, and her madness was responsible for the. act, not she herself. DARK DAYS. 67 Tlie man's name never crossed her lips. For all she spoke of him he might never have existed, or, at the most, been but a part of a forgotten dream. As soon as she was well enough to rise- from her bed, and I could for hours enjoy her society, we talked of many things ; but never of Sir Mervyn Ferrand and the immediate past. But, nevertheless, there were times when her look distressed me. Now and again I found her gazing at me with anxious, troubled eyes, as if trying to read something which I was hiding from her. Once she asked me how she came to my house that night. " Out of the whirling snow," I said as lightly as I could. *' You came in a high state of fever and delirium." " Where had I been ? What had I been doing ? " " You came straiglit from Mrs. Wilson's, I sup- pose. I know no more." Then she sighed, and turned her head away ; but I soon found her troubled dark eyes again fixed on my own. I could do nothing but meet their gaze bravely, and pray that my poor love might never, never be able to (ill those hours which were at present a blank to her. At last, exactly a fortnight from the fatal day, we left my home. I was now what is legally termed an accessory after the act, and was making every effort to save the poor girl from justice. In order to avert suspicion, I decided it was better not to shut up my house ; so I left the faithful William to take care of it, and await my instructions. At present it was advisable that any enquirers should learn that I had gone to London with my sister, and thnt the time of our return was uncertain. I3y-and-by, if all went well, I could get rid of my cottage in an ordinary way. I, for one, should never wish to visit the place again. 6* 68 DARK DAYS. Philippa acquiesced in all my arrangements. She was quite willing to accompany me to town. She trusted me with childish simplicity. " But, Basil, afterwards — what afterwards?" she asked. Even in the midst of the menacing peril it was all I could do to refrain from kneeling at her feet and telling her tliat my love would solve the question of the future. " I have a surprise for 3^011 in London," I said, as cheerfully as I could. "Trust yourself to me; you will not regret it." She took my hand. "Whom else have I to trust?" she said simply. "Basil, you have been very good to me. I have made your life mise- rable ; it is too late to atone ; but I shall never forget these days." Her eyes were full of tears. I kissed her hand reverently, and told her that when I saw the old smile back upon her lips, all I had done would be a thousand times repaid ; but as I spoke I trembled at the thought of what might be in store for both of us. We drove to Roding, and were perforce obliged to take the road which passed by Mrs. Wilson's house. Philippa half rose from her seat, and seemed to be on the point of asking me some question ; but she changed her mind, and relapsed into silence. I felt a horrible dread lest the road- side objects and landmarks should awaken re- collection, and my heart beat violently as we neared the white heap by the hedge, that heap which I Relieved held our secret. I felt that I grew dfotdly pale. I was forced to turn my head away and look out of the opposite window. My state of mind was not made easier by knowing that Philippa was gazing at me with that troubled look in her eyes. Altogether I felt that the strain was becoming too much for me, and I began to DARK DAYS. 69 wonder if my life would ever again know a happy or secure moment. After a long silence Philippa spoke. " Tell me, Basil, have you heard from that man ? ", I shook my head. " Where is he ? He was coming that night. Did he come ? " •' I suppose not. Why do j^ou ask ? " " Basil, a kind of horrible dream haunts me. There was something I dreamed of that fearful night, something I dream of now. Tell me what it was." The perspiration rose to my brow. " Dearest," I said, "no wonder you dream. You are well now, but that night you were quite out of your senses. Your fancies are but the remains of that delirium. Think no more of that wretch ; he is probably living in Paris, after the manner of his kind. Think only that life is going to be calm and happy." Anything to keep the knowledge of her fatal act from her ! I forced myself to talk in a light, cheerful manner. I jested at the appearance of the few muffled-up country people whom we passed on the road. I pointed out the beauty of the trees on the wayside, each branch of which bore foliage of glistening snow. I did all I could to turn lier thoughts into other channels — to drive that strange questioning look from her eyes. Right glad I felt when we were at last in the train, and the first stage of our flight an accomplished fact. > Upon reaching I^ondon, I drove straight to the hotel at which my mother was staying. It was one of those high-priced respectable private hotels in Jcrmyn Street. I engaged rooms for my sister and myself. I sent Philippa to her room to rest, and then went to find my mother. In another minute I was in lur arms, and ere half an hour was over I had told her Philippa's story, and my 70 DARK DAYS. love for the woman on whose behalf I besought her protection. Yes, I had done right to trust to her. I knew her noble nature ; her utter freedom from the petty trammels of societ3\ I knew the love she bore her son. Let me here thank her once more for what she did for me that day. She heard all my outpourings in silence. I told her all, save two things — the name of the man who had wronged my love,, and the fate which had overtaken him. I told her, as I have told you, how I had loved — how I loved Philippa ; how I now dared to hope that in time to come my love would be rewarded. I prayed her to take my poor girl to her heart, and by treating her as a daughter restore, if it were possible, her self-respect. My mother heard me. Her sweet face grew a shade paler. Her lips quivered, and the tears stood in her eyes. I knew all that was passing through her mind. I knew how proud she was of mc, and what great things she had hoped I should do in the world. She was a woman, and, woman-like, had counted upon her son's bettering himself by marriage ; but, in spite of all this, I knew I was right in counting upon her aid. Once again, my sweet mother, I thank you. She rose. " Let me see the woman you love. Where is she ? I will go to her." " She is here, in this house. Ah, mother, I knew you would do this for me." She kissed my forehead. *» Bring her to me," she said. I went out, and sent v/ord to Philippa that I wanted her. She soon came to me. She had removed the stains of travel, and, although pale, looked the perfection of graceful beauty. I led her to my mother's room. She stopped short as she DARK DAYS. 71 saw it was tenanted by a lady. A quick blush crossed her cheek. " Philippa, dearest," I said, " this is my mother. I have told her all, and she is waiting to welcome you." Still she stood motionless, save that her head bent down and her bosom heaved. My mother came to her side, and, placing her kind arms round her, whispered some words which I neither heard nor tried to hear. Philippa broke into a storm of sobs, and for some moments wept on my mother's shoulder. Then she raised her head and looked at me, and my heart leapt at the expression in her tearful eyes. " Basil, my brolher, you are too good to me ! " she ejaculated. My mother led her to the sofa, and, with her arms still round her, sat down by her side. I left them, knowing that my love had now the trues:, noblest heart to sob against ; the quickest, most sympathetic ear to listen to the tale of her wrongs ; and the softest, kindest voice to soothe and console her. Ah! how happy I should have felt, could that one night's dark work have been undone — could that white tomb for ever hold its ghastly secret I 72 DARK DAYS. CHAPTER VII. THE MELTING OF THE S K l\r. 'HE first stage of our flight towards safety accomplished, I sat down to once more review the situation, and to take such counsel as I could give myself. I endea- voured to foreshadow the consequences of the inevitable discovery of Sir Mervyn Ferrand's death. I tried calmly to ascertain in what quarter the danger of discovery was situated, and how best to guard against or turn aside the peril. Undoubtedly the chief person to fear was Mrs. Wilson. She alone knew that the man intended to reach Roding that night. She alone knew in what relation, or supposed relation, he stood to Philippa. The very night of his death would be fixed by the snow-storm ; and I felt sure that as soon as the dead man was identified Mrs. Wilson could not fail to associate her guest's sudden departure and subsequent illness with the terrible event. The moment she revealed what she knew or suspected, suspicion must point to the right person, and pursuit must at once follow. My heart grew sick, as, think how I would, I could see no loop-hole by which to escape from this danger. About secondary things I troubled but little. Upon calm reconsideration, I did not believe that my stolid William would for a moment jump at the right conclusion. If he were led to suspect either of us, it would be me, not Philippa ; and I well knew that lie v.as so much attached to me that, DARK DAYS. 73 although he felt certain I had done the deed, he would feel equally certain that I had good and proper reasons for doing it, and no word to my detriment would pass his reticent lips. No, there was little to fear from William. I blamed myself deeply for the impulse which had urged me to hurl the fatal weapon away. Why did I not keep it and bury it fathoms deep ? If that pistol were found, it would possibly furnish a clue which might be followed up, and undo everything. My only hope was that I had thrown it to some spot where it might lie for years undiscovered, until all association between it and the murder had disappeared. To sum up briefly, I was bound to decide that the damning circumstantial evidence which could be furnished by Mrs. Wilson drove me back to my original idea. There was no chance of my poor Philippa's remaining unaccused or unsuspected of the deed she had unwittingly done ; so her only hope of safety — indeed, considering all, I ma}- also say my only hope of safety — was rapid flight. We must gain some land in which we could dwell with- out fear of being arrested. What land was there ? Many a one. The date of my story is before 1873, when nearly all the extradition treaties were made. At that time such treaties existed with only two foreign countries, France and the United States; so that our choice of a resting-place was not so limited as those who are flying from the clutches of the law find it to-day. However, in order to make certain, I paid a visit to a legal friend of mine; and, by quoting a supjiositiouscase, managed to acquire a good deal of information respecting the dealings of one nation with another, so far as fugitives were concerned. 1 found that although, witli the two exceptions above- napi'^d. there was no settled i:itcrr:nti6naJ 74 DARK DAYS. law on the subject, there was a kind of unwritten substitute, which was known by the name of the Comity of Nations. Under this code of courtesy, a notorious criminal, who had sought refuge in the arms of another country was not uncommonly, although there was no law under which he could be arrested, given up to his pursuers, by being simply driven across the frontier of the country in which he had hoped to find security. However, I gathered that this so-called comity was scarcely expected to be exercised by the most friendly state, unless the fugitive had fled almost red-handed, and so placed his guilt beyond doubt. No one exactly knew how far this obliging expulsion might be counted upon. It was generally supposed to be decided by the amount of influence or persuasion which one government exercised on the other. This information rather upset my preconceived ideas as to the ease with which safety might be obtained ; but reflection told me I had little to fear. The case against Philippa could be nothing more than one of suspicion. No one, not even I myself, had seen the deed done. A warrant would, no doubt, be issued for her arrest ; but if our flight precluded its execution, I did not believe that any government would put itself out of the way to aid the English law. There was no one, save myself, who could positively swear that Sir Mervyu Ferrand had been killed by Philippa. I learned that Spain was then, even as it is now, the land safest against English law. Perhaps the reason is that the grave, yet at times hot-blooded, Spaniard reckons human life at a lower value than more northernly nations. Any way, it was to Spain that I turned my eyes; Spain that I resolved to reach without an hour's unenforced delay. The very next day I broached tlie subject of foreign travel to my mother. Although so short a DARK DAYS. 75 time had passed since they first met, I was over- joyed to see the terms upon which she and Phihppa stood. The girl seemed to cHng to her as to a natural protector — seemed ready to instal her in the place of the mother she had lost. After all, the love of her own sex is indispensable to a woman's happiness. It did my heart good to see the two together. Philippa talked to my mother as she had never yet talked to me ; and I knew tliat when the day came upon which I should ask for the only reward I wanted, my mother's kindness to the forsaken and shame- stricken girl would be an advocate that pleaded strongly in favour of my suit. But, could it ever be ? Could we know happiness in the face of that dark night's work ? Ah me ! my heart sank as I thought that any day might bring the crushing blow. Let there be no delay. Let me not blame myself hereafter for any negligence or false security. Let us away from the peril. " Mother," 1 said, " will you come abroad with Philippa and me? " «' Abroad, Basil ! I have only just come home." " No matter ; come with us at once. Let us go to some place where there is warmth and briglit sunshine. Let us go to Sjiain." " Spain ! why Spain ? Besides, surely Philippa is not fit for a long journey 1 " " It will do her good. Her recollections of this country arc but sad ones." " Well, in a week or two I will sec about il." " No, at once. Let us start to-morrow or the next day. Mother, I ask it as a favour." "Give me some good reason, Basil, and I will do as 3'ou wish." " Look at me, and you will see the reason. Can- not you see that I am ill, worn out, nervous? I must have a change, and at once." 76 DARK DAYS. She gazed at me with solicitude. " Yes, I know you are not well ; but why Spain ? " " A whim — a sick man's fancy. Perhaps because it is Philippa's father's country put it into my head. Mother, tell me, how do you like her ? " " She is the woman you love ; she is very beauti- ful; she has been cruelly treated; she is blameless; to say more after so short an acquaintance would be exaggeration." " You will come to Spain with me — with her ? " She kissed me and gave in to my whim. Then I sought Philippa. " My mother is going to take us abroad," I said with a smile, which was forced, as all my smiles now were. " She will see to everything for you." "She is kind — she is sweet," said Philippa, clasping her hands. " Basil, I am beginning to worship your mother. But why are we going abroad ? " " To get away from sad thoughts, for one thing ; for another, because I feel ill." She gave me a quick look of apprehension which brought the flush to my cheek. " Oh, let us go at once ! " she cried. " Let us leave this land of ice, and I will nurse you and make you well. Where are we going ? When are we going ? " " To Spain — to-morrow or the next day." She looked at me with the troubled gaze whicli I had so often noticed. " Basil," she said, " you are doing this for my sake." " And my own, 1 fear." " I threw away your love — I spoilt your life. I came to ycu a shamed woman. You saved me ! You did not scorn me. You brought me to your mother's arms. Basil, may God requite you : I never can." She burst into tears, and left the room hastily. It was well I settled the matter of the foreign DARK DAYS. 'J'J journey then. That afternoon the wind changed and a thaw set in — a thaw that slowly but surely drew away the thick white veil which covered the whole of England. That night 1 had little sleep. I could do nothing but lie awake and picture that white tomb slowly melting away, until the white face beneath peered out of it and made the dread secret known to all. Who would be the first to discover it ? Doubtless some country man or woman passing that way in the grey of the morning. I drew pictures of the discoverer's horror — the shriek of terror he or she would give. I scarcely dared to close my eyes ; for I knew that if I dreamed, my dreams would take me to stand over the snow- drift, and force me to watch it melting away ! It seemed to me that until Philippa was out of the range of pursuit I should not sleep again. Faster and faster, now it had once begun, the thaw went on. Warm wind, heavy rain the next day, helped it. That tremendous fall of snow had, indeed, been the last effort of the winter. I dreaded what I might see in the morning's papers. For it was the third day from that on which I spoke about going abroad ; yet we were still in London. W hen it really came to making prc- [)arations for the projected trip, there were a thousand and one things to be done. There was the needful passport to be obtained ; my mother had many purchases to make for both Philippa and herself. She was now fully contented with the prospect of a long sojourn on the continent ; but slie liked travelling in comfort, and objected very much to being hurried. So it was that, in spite of the pressing need for immediate (light, we were still in London. The dangerous d« lay made nie nervous, excit- able and ill-tempered. 'I his state of mind was not yS DARK DAYS. witliout benefit to our cause, as my manner as well as ni}' looks fully convinced my mother that my own health was the sole object of the journey. So, like a good creature, she set to work in thorough earnest to get everything ready for our departure. To-morrow morning we were to start. I prayed heaven that it might not be too late ; that the next twenty-four hours might pass without what I dreaded taking place. For I knew that by now that ghastly object on the roadside must be lying with the light of day on its pale face! With an efibrt I opened the morning's paper, and ran hastily up and down the columns. What cared I for politics, foreign news, or money-market intelligence ? Here was the one paragraph which riveted all my attention. The white tomb had given up its secret ! Read I To me those words were written in letters of fire ! " Horrible Discovery near Roding. — The melting of the snow has brought to light what to all appearances is a fearful crime. Yesterday afternoon a labourer walking on the highway discovered the body of a gentleman lying by the roadside. His death had been caused by a pistol- shot. It is supposed that it must have occurred on the night of the great snow-storm, and that the body has lain ever since under the snow, which had drifted to the depth of some feet. The facts that death must have been instantaneous, and that no weapon can be found near the spot, do away with the theory of suicide. Letters and papers found upon the corpse tend to show it to be that of Sir Mervyn Ferrand, Bart. The unfortunate gentleman's friends have been communicated with, and the inquest will be opened to-morrow." For some minutes I sat like one stunned. In- evitable as it was that tlie discovery should be made, the shock seemed scarcely lightened by the DARK DAYS. 79 foreknowledge ; the danger seemed no less terrible. Oh, that we liad started yesterday— were even to start to-day ! What might not happen before to- morrow morning ! I\Iy first impulse was to go to my mother and beg lier to hasten our departure ; but rcricction showed me how unwise this course would be. I should alarm her — alarm Philippa ! I could give no reason. My one longing was to keep the news from my poor love. Let her read that paragraph, and who could answer for the consequences ? Looking as a medical man at her case, I knew that there was something about that night which troubled her ; some dream, or sem- blance of dream, to which, fortunately, she could as yet give no coherence. Let her learn that Sir Mcrvyn Ferrand had ever since that night been lying dead where she met him, the fearful truth must come to her. No 1 not a word to excite her suspicion. My task v/as a twofold one. I had to save her not only from what I suppose I must call justice, but also from herself. It seemed to me that the latter was the hardest part of my work ; but I would do it — I swore I would do it. I would keep watch and ward, to see that nothing reached her — that she heard notliing which could awaken memories of those mercifully absent hours. I tore the paper to jiicces and burnt it. I think of all my dark days that one was the one I would l)e least willing to pass again. I trembled at every footstep on the stairs. Any man who paused for a moment outside our windows sent a cold chill over me. And in the midst of my misery I had to wear a cheerful face, and talk to Philippa and my mother about the pleasures of our projected journey! Ah ! if we only reached the end of it in safety, the pleasure would not be altogether imaginary. Once again I say, If you cannot feel with mc, 8o DARK DAYS. throw my tale aside. Heaven knows it is a sombre one ! 1 was breaking the law ; concealing what the law calls a crime ; doing all I could to save the criminal. But the criminal was Philippa, and I loved her ! I myself would have stood face to face with Sir Mervyn Ferrand, and have freely given my own life if I could have assured his dying like the dog he was. Why then should I blame Philippa, who had done in her temporary madness what I would have done in cold blood ? Yet why trouble to extenuate ? I loved her ! Those words sum up everything. The morning dawned. No fatal messenger had arrived. I glanced hastily at the papers, which, however, contained no more information about the tragedy. Shortly after ten o'clock we started to drive to Charing Cross. The rattle of wheels over the stones seemed to send fresh life through my veins. We were off on the road to safety. We started in plenty of time, as I wished to call at my bankers on the way. It was my intention to take with me a large sum in gold. Notes of any kind could be traced, but the bright sovereigns would tell no tale. I changed my cheque, and whilst doing so asked if there were any letters for me. Several persons addressed letters to me at my bankers. The spruce cashier sent to inquire, and, with my bag of gold, passed under the brass- wire railing a letter with a woman's handwriting on the envelope. I thrust it into my pocket, to read at my leisure. We travelled by the tidal train for Paris, via Folkestone and Boulogne. It was not the pleasant- est weather in the world for a journey ; but I wrapped my charges up warmly, and did all I could lo mitigate the hardships of the voyage, undertaken ostensibly for the sake of my health. My mother, who was by now an experienced and seasoned DARK DAYS. 8 1 traveller, settled herself clown to the^ journey, although she little guessed how short the rest I meant to give her until we reached our destination. She laughingly protested against the cruelty of dragging an old woman like herself away from England just as she had returned to it ; but there was that in her voice and manner which told me she would for my sake make a far greater sacrifice of comfort than this. I thought that Philippa's spirits, like mine, rose as we left London behind us. She smiled at my sallies and feeble attempts at making merry, which, now that we were fairly on our road to safety, were not quite so forced as they had been during the last few days. She listened with interest to the pictures 1 drew — imaginary ones, of course — of the beauties of the south ; and I was glad to believe that the thought of visiting what might almost be called her native land was beginning to awaken her interest. Onh- let me be able to show her that life could stil- promise a pleasant future, and the moody memories of the past months might be banished for ever. I am sure that no one who could have seen us that morning would have dreaiut that out of that party of three, consisting of a comfortable pleasant- looking English matron, a strangely beautiful girl, and myself, two were flying from the hands of justice. Our appearance was certainly such as to disarm all suspicion. " But where are we going?" asked my mother. " I object to go wandering about without knowing where our pilgrimage is to end." " We are going to Paris first, then to Spain — to wherever we can find the warmth and sunshine which is necessary to my existence. If we can't fnd them in Sjinin, we will crossover to Afiica, and, ii needful, go down to the Equator." 7 82 DARK DAYS. " Then j-ou young people will have to go alone. I draw the line of my good nature at Europe." I glanced at Philippa. Her long curved lashes hid iier eyes; but a tell tale blush was on her cheek. I knew that tlie day was not so very distant when she would answer my appeal as I wished. I knew that, could I but sweep away the record of that one night, all might yet be well with her. Oh that she may never recall what I alone know ! As we were nearing Folkestone I remembered the letter which had been given me at the bank. I drew it from my breast, intending to read it ; but the sight of the Roding post-mark on the outside made me change my intention. I remembered Mrs. Wilson's half-promise to send me some communica- tion. I longed and yet I dreaded to break the seal. I felt it would be better for me to read that letter alone. Whatever might be the tenour of its con- tents, I was sure it had some bearing on Philippa's relations with Sir Mervyn Ferrand. We were soon on board the steamer and under weigh. Although the Arctic rigours of the last three weeks had departed, the air on the sea was too keen to make the channel passage an enjoyable one. I persuaded my mother and Philippa to take refuge in the saloon ; and then I found a quiet spot where I was able to read my letter without fear of interruption, or of betraying myself by the emotion its contents might cause. It was well I did so, for tlie first words blanched my cheek. The letter began abruptly, so : — " I know or guess all. I know why Sir Mervyn Ferrand did not reach my house that night. I know the reason for her strange excited state. I know why she left my home before you came to seek her. 1 know how he met with the death he deserved. *« Ah 1 she is braver than I am. She has done DARK DAYS. 83 what years ago I swore I would do ; and 3'et I had not the courage. I was base enough to forego revenge for the sake of the beggarly maintenance he offered me — for the sake, perhaps, of my children. I sank low enough to become his tool — to do as he bade me, even to taking under my roof the woman who thought herself his wife. Yes, she has been braver than I. But her wrongs were greater than mine ; for I had but myself to blame for being in such a degraded position that he could throw me aside like an old glove. He never married me. " Fear nothing for your sister, if she be your sister. Tell her my lips are scaled to the death ; and for the sake of her brave act tell her this : — " Sir Mervyn Ferrand's first w'dedied on the i8ih of Jtiue, 186 — , three months before the day on which he married your sister. She died at Liverpool, at No. 5 Silver-street. She was buried in the cemetery, under the name of Lucy Ferrand. Slie has friends alive ; it will be easy to prove that she was the woman whom he married. Her maiden name was King. He hated her. They parted. He gave her a sum of money on condition that she never called herself his wife. He lost sight of her. I never did. For years I hoped slie would die, and that he would marry me. She died too late for the hope to be realised. I told him of her death ; but I changed the date. I would not tell him where she died. Part of his object in coming to Koding that night was, to endeavour to wring the informa- tion from me. He would never have had it. No other woman should have been his wife so long as I could stop it. " Now that he is dead, you can tell your brave sister that she may, if she likes, take the nnnK-, tit!o, and wliat wfalth slir can r l.iim. icar nothing from Oie ; 1 Will be silent as death." /• 84 DARK DAYS. CHAPTER VIII. FLIGHT. READ the woman's letter again and again — read it with feelings in which joy and disgust were strangely mingled ; but the former was the predominate sensation. In the first place, if Mrs. Wilson kept her promise of secrecy, it seemed to me that all danger of suspicion falling upon Philippa was removed. There would be no one else to make known the fact, that upon the night of Sir Mervyn's death a wronged, distracted woman left her home — a woman whose life's happi- ness had been clouded by the villain's treacherous act — a woman of strong passions, who in her temporary delirium might easily be turned to take such vengeance for which I, at least, held her quite unaccountable. If I could but feel sure of the silence of the one person whom I dreaded, we might even return to London, and fear nothing. I wavered. After all there is something contempt- ible in flight. Should I trust to Mrs. Wilson's promise, and return with my companions by the next boat from Boulogne ? No, a thousand times no ! Philippa's welfare is far too precious to me to be trusted in the hands of one excitable woman — a woman, moreover, who has wrongs of her own calling for vengeance. To- morrow her mind may change, and instead 01 furthering our safety, she may be urging on the pursuit. Let me trust no one save myself. For my love's sake, I was overjoyed to hear that, supposing the woman's statement and dates DARK DAYS. 85 were correct, Philippa was the dead man's lawful wife. Not that this fact for one moment palliated the guilt of his intention, or lessened the contempt and hatred I bore towards him ; not that it changed in my eyes by one iota my love's position. Married or unmarried, to me she was all that a woman could be. Though a blackguard's craft had wrought what would be her shame in the eyes of the world ; though her hands were unconsciously red with a man's blood, to me she was pure as a vestal, innocent as a child. Yet for her sake the news gladdened me. I knew that if ever the tinie should come when I could place proofs in her hands that she was a wife—that she could, if she chose, bear her worth- less husband's name, and face the world without fear of scorn, the restoration of her self-respect would bring with it a joy which only a woman can rightly comprehend. And Philippa, with all her pride and passion, was a true woman, full of the softness and delicate dread of shame which characterises the best of her sex. Yet when should I be able to tell her ? When- ever I did so I must also reveal the fact of her husband's being dead, and my doing so must bring the whole story of his death to her knowledge. I trembled as I thought what tliis might mean. Surely its dramatic surroundings nuist suggest something to her mind — must bring back the night and its liorrors ; must, in fact, tell her what she liad done in lier madness ! Rather than risk this, I must let her continue to bear the cruel weight of what she thought her shame. My aim must be to ninke her believe that Sir Mervyn Ferrand is still alive, and troubling nothing as to what has become of the woman whom he once falsely swore to love and cherish until drnth. I cursed the wretch's memory as 1 thought of him. 86 - DARK DAYS. The sending of Philippa to live under the charge of one of his own discarded mistresses was but another proof of the man's revoking cynicism. Mrs. Wilson's acceptance of the charge showed me to what a level a woman could sink. It told me, moreover, that in spite of her letter she was not to be trusted. A woman who could lend her- self to her former lover's purposes in such a way as this must have parted with every atom of pride. It seemed to me that the woman and the man were well matched in baseness. Still her letter lifted a load from my mind. I felt that for a while there could be no pursuit ; yet I resolved to risk nothing, but hurry on with all possible speed. Only when we crossed the frontier of Spain should I sleep in peace. All researches, with a view to obtaining evidence of the first Lady Ferrand's death, I postponed in- definitely. Some day, if all went well, I would return to England and procure the documents necessary to prove the validity of Philippa's marriage. There was no pressing hurry. As to any money which should be hers, never with my consent should she touch a penny which had belonged to the dead man. Protracted as my meditations seem on paper, they were in reality much longer ; indeed, they were not at an end when the boat steamed in Boulogne harbour. I went in search of my com- panions, who, I was glad to find, had borne the voyage well. We were soon in the train, and, without any event occurring worth recording, at eight o'clock stood on the Gare du Nord, Paris. We drove through the brij^htly lit streets to the Hotel du Louvre. The stains of travel washed away, my mother gave a sigh of satisfaction as she seated herself at the dinner -table. Like a sensible woman, she was no despiser of the good DARK DAYS. 87 things of this life. There were other late diners in the great coffee-room, and many a head was turned to look at the beautiful girl who sat on my right hand ; for every day which brought her new health and strength, brought also to my love an instalment of her former rich beaut3\ In a very short time she would be to all appearances the Philippa of old. " How long shall we stay in Paris, Basil ? " asked my mother. " It is now half-past nine ; our train starts at 8.45 in the morning. Calculate the time." " Oh, nonsense ! It is years since I have been in Paris. I want to look at the shops. So docs Philippa, I am sure." " My dear mother, the man, much more the woman, who lingers in Paris is lost. If you are going elsewhere, the only way is to go straight through, or else you get no further. I have proved this, and mean to run no risk." "But remember we are only weak women. This poor child is far from strong," She smiled at Philippa, whose eyes thanked her for the affectionate ajjjx llation. "Don't be merciless, Basil," she continued; "give us at least one day." " Not one. I am just going to look after a courier, so that you may travel in all possible: comfort." My mother seemed ahnost annoyed, and again said I was merciless. What would she have said had she known that, unless I had received that letter, instead of going to our i)resent comfortable quarters, we should have driven to the Orleans Railway, and taken the first train to the south? How Httle she knew- how little, I trusted, I 'liiHpiia knew— fiorn what wc were flying I I felt I must give my mother some reason iox 88 DARK DAYS. my haste; so, before going in quest of my courier, I took her aside. " It is not well for Philippa to stay in Paris," I said. " Someone whom she ought not to meet was here a short time ago." I blamed myself for the deception ; but wliat could I do ? Alas ! it seemed to me that my life, which once was fearlessly open to the inspection of all, was now full of little else save deceptions. Should I ever again be my true self? My mother raised no further objection. I found a courier — a bearded gentleman of commanding; presence, who spoke every European language with impartial imperfection. I gave him instructions to see to everything the next morning ; to collect our luggage, save the small quantity we carried with us, and to register it through to Burgos. I had no particular reason for choosing Burgos, but it seemed a convenient place at which to take our first thorough rest. The next day's journey was a dull, dreary, weari- some affair. My companions had not shaken off the fatigue of the previous day, and now that I felt Philippa's safety was, comparatively speaking, assured, a reaction set in with me. No wonder ! I shudder now as I think of the strain to which both body and mind had been subjected during the last fortnight. I was moody and listless. The air was full of fog and mist. The so-called ex- press train pounded along after the well-known style of French railways. Orleans, Blois, Tours, Poictiers, Angouleme, Coutras, and other stations passed me as one in a dream. The dull day crept on until dark evening was upon us, and we were all thoroughly glad when our day's journey ended at Bordeaux. My mother, who was rather great at guide- books, had beguiled part of the journey by a DARK DAYS. 89 Murray, which somehow made its appearance from her travelling bag. As she knew we were to sleep at Bordeaux she had been laying down the law as to what we were to look at. We were to see the curious high wooden fifteenth-century houses of the old town ; the cathedral, with its fine towers; the very old churches of St. Croix and St. Seurin, and a variety of other interesting objects. It needed all the assurance I possessed, all the invalid's querulousness and insistance I could assume, to induce her to consent to resume our journey the first thing in the morning. Even Philippa pleaded for delay, and gave me to under- stand that she thought I was using my mother unfairly. But I was firm. If I could I would have hurried on by the midnight train. Any way, now that we were within a few hours journey of the frontier and of safety, I would leave no more than 1 could help to chance. So, in the early morning, I got my party to- gether and before it Was light led them to tlie train. I believe that by now my mother looked upon me as rather out of my senses. She frankly owned she could not see the necessity for making such a toil out of what might be a pleasure. She little knew that nothing could have made that journey a pleasure to me ; that even finding Philippa's eyes now and again fixed on my face with what I almost dared to think was tender interest — that even the l)lusli which crossed her check when I caught those glances — was not suffi- cient to reward me for my anxiety. A slow, a painfully slow train. Innumerable stoppages. A country which under the circum- stances would have given me no interest even if we had been in summer instead nf winter; and then, after nearly five hours' slow travelling, Bayonnc at labt. Bayonnc, with its strong forli- go DARK DAYS. fications. Bayonne, with the welcome Pyrenees towering above it. In less than two hours we should be in Spain. A curious dread seized me — a presentiment so strong that ever since then I have lost faith in presentiments. Something seemed to tell me that all my efforts had been in vain ; that at the frontier there would be certain intelligence received which would lead to our arrest ; that Philippa, with one foot, as it were, in the land of refuge, would be seized and carried back to face the horrors and the shame of a trial for murder. It was, as events showed, an absurd fancy, and only the increasing tension of my nerves can account for the hold it gained upon me. I grew so pale, trembled so in every limb, that my companions were thoroughly alarmed. We had brandy with us, which was duly administered to me. After awhile I recovered, and although the fear was still with me, sat with the stoicism of an Indian at the stake, awaiting what might happen at the frontier. I had done all I could. If, at the last moment, disaster overtook us, I had at least striven by every means within my power to avert i'. We have passed Biarritz, the merry bri, i watering-place. We have passed Hendaye, the French frontier station. We leave the towering Pyrenees on our left. We are at Irun, where all baggage must be jealously scrutinised. We are in Spain ! Nobody has troubled us. No suspicious- looking stranger has watched us. The stoppage has been long, for the custom-house officers are annoyingly particular in the discharge of their duty ; but our noble-looking courier has saved us all personal trouble. He has done us yeoman's service. At last we are in another train, a train which runs on a line of another gauge. The very time of day has changed. We have lost or gained DARK DAYS. Ql • — I forget which — some twenty minutes. We now count by Madrid time. We are fairly on Spanish ground, and I have saved my love. Saved her from others — now to save her from herself. Never, never shall she know the secret of that dark night. We will speed away to the south — to the sun ; the colour ; the brightness ; the flowers. All shall be forgotten. The dark remembrance shall be swept from my mind. I will call it a dream. I will win Philippa's love — the love that I dare to believe is already almost mine. We will live for ever in bright, sunny, glowing lands. Who cares for dull, dark, dismal England ? Have we not youth, wealth, and, ch blessed word ! love ? Before my love and me lie years and years of sweetness and joy. Sliake off black gloom and be merry, Basil North. You have conquered fate ! We have passed St. Sebastian. The sluggish train is wearily winding up the valley of the Urumea. We are in wild and glorious scenery. The railway is carried at a great elevation, from which we get now and again peeps of far-away valleys. Yes, I could now find time to admire the wonderful scenery which lasted until we passed Miranda. My mood changed with the country. I laughed ; I jested. Each of the many stations at which we stopped furnished materials for my new-born merriment. I laughed at the solenm-looking Spanish railway officials, and drew pictures of the doleful fate of imaginary nobly-born hidalgos whom poverty forced to descend to such employ- ment. I grumbled not at the slowness of the train, although an ordinary traveller might well, when on a Spanish line, sigh for the comparatively lightning speed of the nmch-maligned French trains. Time was nothing to me now. W.is there liot a lifetime stretching before me — and i'hilippa ? 92 DARK DAYS. My gaiety was contagious.* My mother laughed until the tears came, and Philippa smiled as I had not seen her smile since we picked up under such sad circumstances that long-dropt thread of friendship. Those who have travelled in Spain will scarcely credit me when I say we had the compartment to ourselves. We were troubled by no cloaked Spaniard who, as is the wont of his kind, insisted upon smoking like a furnace and keeping both windows shut. Our noble courier had been given his instructions. His arguments were venal, and had I troubled about money I should have found them costly. But they carried the point, and no one intruded on our privacy. The hours went by. My mother slept, or pre- tended to sleep. I seated myself near Philippa, and whispered words of thinly-veiled love. She answered them not — I expected no answer — • but her eyes were downcast and her cheek was blushing. She sighed. A sad smile played around her sweet mouth ; a smile that spoke of a world of regret. That sigh, that smile, told me that she understood me, but told me also that, ah ! it could never be. The past never forgives ! But all the same she let her hand rest in mine ; and although, considering what had happened, I scarcely dare to say so, for once, for many, many months, I was all but happy. For me that journey ended only too soon. At night we reached Burgos, the capital of the old Castilian kingdom, and I laid my head on my pillow and enjoyed sleep such as I had not known since the night before that one, when Philipjia, with the snow-flakes falling around her, stood outside the window of my cottage and gave me something to live for — something to hope for ! DARK DAYS. 93 CHAPTER IX. SAFE-AND LOVED I OW that we are safe in Spain; now that Philippa's arrest is a matter of impossi- bility, and her expulsion from a country so lax in its observance of international obligations highly improbable, when her guilt can at the utmost be only suspected, if indeed sus- picion ever points to her, I may pass rapidly over the events of the next two months ; the more so as my record of them would differ very little from the description of an ordinary tour in Spain. To me, after the feverish anxiety, the horrible dread as to what any hour might bring forth, which had characterised our flight from England, it seemed something very much like bathos my dropping at once into the position of the every-day tourist taking a couple of ladies on a round of travel ; but for the time I was outwardly neither more nor less. From Burgos we went to Valladolid ; from Valladolid to Madrid— Madrid, the high-perched city, with its arid, uninteresting surroundings and abominable climate. Not long did we linger here. Bad and trying as the English winter may be, the cold of Madrid is a poor exchange for it. I had almost thrown aside the assumed character of an invalid; but I fflt it would be the height of incon- sistency, after forcing my companions to accom- pany nic in the search of w irmth, to make any Stay in the Spanish capital. Right glad I was to 94 DARK DAYS. leave it, and turn my face southwards. Philippa was b}' now in apparently good health, both bodily and mental ; but whilst at Madrid I trembled for her, as I should tremble for any one I loved who made that city a resting-place — a city swept from end to end by crafty, treacherous, icy winds blow- ing straight from the Guadarrama mountains ; insidious blasts in which lurk the seeds of con- sumption and death. So at our leisure we went southwards, halting at such places and seeing such sights as we thought fit ; lingering here and there just so long as it suited us ; travelling by easy stages, and in such comfort as we could command. At Malaga we spent weeks, revelling in the balmy, delicious air ; at Granada we were days and days before we could tear our- selves from the interesting, absorbing glories of the departed Moor. We were in a new world — a world which I had always longed to see. At last — it was just at the end of April, when the land was full of roses, when vegetation was breaking into that rich luxuriance unknown in northern lands — we turned our steps to the city which I had in my own mind fixed upon as the end of our wanderings, the half Spanish, half Moorish, but wholly beauti- ful city of Seville ; brilliant, romantic Seville, with its flower-bedecked houses, its groves of orange and and olive trees, its luxuriant gardens, its crooked narrow streets, its Moorish walls, its numerous towers, all of which sink into insignificance under the shadow of the lofty Giralda. All I wanted seemed to be here. Here was everything for the sake of seeking which I had professed to leave foggy England — sun, warmih, colour, brightness. Here, I thought, if in any place in the world, will the one I love forget what she knows of the cruel past. Here, it may be, our new life shall begin. DARK DAYS. 95 Glorious, wonderful Seville ! The magic charm of the place fell on my companions as it fell upon me, as indeed it falls upon all who visit i-t. By common consent we arranged to stay our course for an indefinite time. Perhaps by now we all thought tint we had endured enough of hotel life, and wanted some place which might bear the name of home ; so, although such things are not very easy to find, I hired a furnished house. Such a house ! From the narrow street — the need of shade makes narrow streets indispensable to Seville — pass through a light open-work iron gate into a spacious white marble-lined courtyard or, as the Spaniards call it, patio ; a courtyard open to the sky, save for the gaily-coloured awning which is sometimes spread over it ; a space fragrant to the four corners with the perfume'of orange and otlier sweet-smelling blossoms, bright with glowing ole- anders, and musical with the murmur of fountains. Around the walls statues, some of the fair works of art, paintings and mirrors. Every sitting-room in the house opening on to this cool central fairy- land — a fairyland which, for many months of the yjar, is almost tlic only part of the house used in their waking hours by the Sevillanos. Add to this a garden, not large but exquisite, full of the rarest and choicest blooms, and if you arc not hopelessly bigoted, and enamoured of English fogs, you nnist li>ng for such a home in courtly, beautiful Seville! \Vith such surroundings — almost those of a S^ baritc — who can blame me fur being lulled into security, if not forget fulness, and for telling mysclt that my troubles were nearly at an end ? Who can wonder at the castles I built as hour after hour I lounged in the patio, with its fragrant, soothing atmosphere, and gazed at Philipj^a's beautiful face, and now and again meeting her 96 DARK DAYS. dark ej'es, and sometimes surprising in those thoughtful depths a look which thrilled niry heart — a look which I told myself was one of love ? True, that often and often in my sleep I saw the white, dead face, with the snow-heap forming over it. True, that often and often Philippa's wild cry, "The wages of sin — on, on, on!" rang through ni}' dreams, and I awoke trembling in every limb ; but in the day-time, in the midst of the sweet shaded repose, I could almost banish every memory, every thought which strove to lead me back to grief and horror. The days, each one sweeter than its forerunner, passed by. Each day was passed with Philippa. We wandered for hours through the marvellous gardens of the Alcazar ; we drove under the shading trees of Las Delicias; we made excursions to Italica and other places, which the guide-book tells you every visitor to Seville should see ; but 1 think we found in the ordinary sights, which were at our very door, as nmch pleasure as in any of the stock shows. We loved to watch the people. We delighted in the picturesque, ragged-looking, black-eyed Andalusian boy-rascals who played and romped at every .street corner. We noted the exquisitely graceful figures of the Sevillahas ; I, moreover, noted that the most graceful of these figures could not be compared to Philippa's own. \Ve strolled up the awning-roofed Calle de las Sierpes, and laughed at the curious windowless little shops. Everything was so strange, so bright, so teeming with old-world tradition, so full of in- tense interest, that no wonder I could for the time send painful memories to the background. And Philippa ? Although there were times when her face grew sad with sad remembrances ; al- though at times her eyes sought mine with that troubled, enquiring look ; although I trembled as DARK DAYS. 97 to what might be the question which I seemed to see her Hps about to form ; I did not, could not beheve she was entirely unhappy. The smile — a quiet, thoughtful one, yet a smile — was oftener seen on her face. It came now of its own accord. More and more certain I grew that, if nothing recalled the past, or I should say, if nothing filled the blank, so mercifully left, of that one night, the hour was not far distant when my love would call herself happy. Oh, to keep that fatal knowledge from her for ever ! Such was my life. So, in calm, peace, all but happiness, the days passed by, until the hour came when for the third time I dared to tell Philippa that I loved her — to tell her so with the certainty of hearing her re-echo my words. Yes, certainty. Had I not for many days seen her eyes grow brighter, the grave, thoughtful look leave her face, her whole manner change when I drew near? Such signs as these told me that the crowning moment of my life was at hand. Here for one moment I pause. I scorn to excuse myself for wishing to marry a woman who had been, or supposed herself to have been, the innocent vicflim of a scoundrelly man of the world. I have nothing in common witli those who think such an excuse is needed. Mrs. Wilson's statement that the marriage was valid might be true or false. It gave me the impression that it was true, and I believed that Philippa could lay claim to bear the man's accursed name. But whether she was Lady Ferrand, or a trusting woman betrayed, for my own sake I cared little. She was Philippa! As to my intention of marrying, my one wish to marry a woman who, in her temporary and fully- accounted for delirium, had killid the man who so cruelly wronged her, I have but this to say. My Idle, although I give it to the world, is not written 8 §8 DARK DAYS for the purpose of fiction. It is the story of myself — a story which seemed to me worth teUing — of a man who loved one woman passionately, blindly, and without consideration. Such was my great love for Philippa that I feel no shame in telling the truth, and saying that had I seen her, in full possession of her senses, level that pistol and shoot her betrayer through his black heart, I should have held that only justice had been done. I should have regretted the acft, but, nevertheless, I would have pleaded for her love as fervently and reverently as I was now about to plead for it. Once more I say, if you condemn me throw the book aside. Philippa, with her eyes half closed, was, as was usual at that hour, sitting in the patio. In her hand she held a sprig of orange blossom, and ever and anon inhaled its delicious perfume ; an action, by-the-by, scarcely needful, as the whole air was redolent of the fragrance thrown from the great tree in the centre of the marble space. She was, or fancied she was, alone, as some little time before I had left the court to obtain a fresh supply of cigarettes; and my mother, who could never quite adapt herself to the semi-open-air life, was taking a siesta in the drawing-room. As I saw Philippa in all her glowing beauty, the white marble against which she leant making as it were a suitable foil to the warm colour of her cheek — the long curved black downcast lashes — the bosom rising and falling gently — like an inspiration the thought came to me that in a minute my fate would be decided. Heavens ! how could I have waited so long to hear the words which I knew she would say ? I crept noiselessly to her side. I passed niy arm round her waist and drew her to me. I whispered words of passionate love in her ear — words, the DARK DAYS. QQ confidence of which startled me ; but then this time I knew that my love of years was to be rewarded. She did not shrink away ; she did not struggle to free herself, but she trembled like a leaf in my embrace. She sighed deeply, even hopelessly, and 1 saw the tears welling in her dark eyes. Closer and firmer I held her, and kissed her cheek again and again. Had that moment been my last I should have said I had not lived in vain. " Philippa," I whispered, " my queen, my love, tell me you love me at last." She was silent. The tears broke from her eyes and ran down her cheeks. I kissed the signs of sorrow away. " Dearest," I said, " it is answer enough that you suffer these kisses, but I have waited so long — been so unhappy ; look at me and satisfy me ; let me hear you say, ' I love you ! ' " She turned her tearful eyes to mine, but not for long. She cast her looks upon the ground and was still silent. Yet she lay unresisting in my arms. Tiiat, after all, was the true answer. But I must have it from her lips. •' Tell me, dearest — tell me once," I prayed. Her lips quivered ; her bosom rose and fell. The blush spread from her cheek and stole down her white neck. " Yes," she murmured, " now that it is too late, I love you." I laughed a wild laugh. I clasped Philippa to my breast. " Too late !" I cried. " \Vc may have fifty years of happiness." " It is too late," she answered. " For your sake I have told you that I love you, Basil. My love, I will kiss you once — then loose me, and let us say farewell." 100 DARK DAYS. ** When death closes the eyes of one of us we will say farewell — not until then," I said, as my lips met hers in a long and rapturous kiss. Then with a sigh she gently but firmly freed herself from my arms. She rose, we stood on the marble floor, face to face, gazing in each others eyes. " Basil," she said softly, " all this must be for- gotten. Say farewell ; to-morrow we must part." " Dearest, our lives henceforth are one." " It cannot be. Spare me, Basil! You have been kind to me. It cannot be." " Why ? Tell me why." '* Why ! need you ask ? You bear an honoured and respected name ; and I, you know what I am — a shamed woman." " A wronged woman, it may be, not a shamed one." " Ah ! Basil, in this world, when a woman is con- cerned, wronged and shamed mean the same thing. You have been as a brother to me. I came to you in my trouble ; you saved my life — my reason. Be kinder still, and spare me the pain of paining you." By look, by word, by gesture, she seemed to beseech me. Oh, how I longed to tell her that I firmly believed she was the dead man's wife ! I had much difficulty in checking the words which were forming on my lips. But I dared not speak. Telling her that the marriage was a valid one meant that I must tell her of her husband's death, and, it might be, how he died. " Philippa," I said, " the whole happiness of my life, my every desire, is centred upon making you my wife. Think, dearest, how when I had no right to demand this gift my life was made desolate ; think what it will be when I know you love me and yet refuse to be mine 1 Have I been true to you, Philippa ?" DARK DAYS. lOI " Heaven knows you have." " Then why, now that you love me, refuse me my reward ?" " Oh, spare me ! — I cannot, I will not give it. Basil, dear Basil, why with your talents should you marry the cast-off — mistress — of Sir Mervyn Ferrand ? Why should you blush to show your wife to the world ?" " Blush ! The world ! What is my world save you? You are all to me, sweetest. You love me — what more do I want ? Before this time next week we will be married." *' Never, never 1 I will not wrong the man I love. Basil, farewell for ever ! " She clasped her hands and fled wildly across the court. I caught her at the door, which she had reached and half opened. " Promise me one thing," I said; "promise you will wait here until my return. I shall not be five minutes. It is not much to ask, Philippa." Philippa bent her head as in assent. I passed through the door, and in a few minutes returned to the patio, accompanied by my mother, who glanced from Philippa to me in a surprised way. "What is the matter?" she asked, with her cheerful smile. " Have you two young people been quarrelling ?" Philippa made no answer. .She stood with her fmgers interlaced ; her eyes cast on the ground. "Mother,"! said," I have to-day asked Philip]ia to be my wife. I have told her that all my happi- ness depends upon her consent to this. I have loved her for years ; and at last she loves me. Yes, she loves me." My mother gave a little cry of pleasure, and stepped forward. I checked her. " I love her, and she loves me," I continued. " But she refuses lo marry inc. And why ? 102 DARK DAYS. Because slie fears to bring shame on an honourable name. You know her story ; j^ou are my mother. You, of all people in the world, should be the most jealous as to the honour of my name. You should know whom you would choose for my wife. Tell her" I said no more. My mother advanced with outstretched arms, and in a moment my poor girl was weeping in her embrace, whilst words which I could not hear, but whose purport I could well guess, were being whispered to her. I had indeed been right in trusting to my mother's noble nature. " Leave us for a little while, Basil," she said, as Philippa still sobbed upon her shoulder. " Come back in a quarter of an hour's time." I turned away, went past the screen which is sometimes put up to ensure privacy, out of the iron gate, into the narrow street. I watched the loung- ing, dignified -looking men and the dark -eyed Avomen who went by ; I looked at the merry urchins at play ; and after what seemed an inter- minable quarter of an hour, returned to learn how my gentle counsel had succeeded with my suit. My mother and Philippa were sitting with their arms around each other. Philippa, as I entered the patio, raised her eyes to mine with a look of shy happiness. My mother rose and took the girl by the hand. " Basil," she said, " I have at last been able to persuade her that you and I, at least, rise above the conventionalities of what is called the world. I have told her that, knowing all I know, I see nothing to prevent her from being your wite. I have told her that simply for her own sweet sake I would rather see you marry her than any woman in the world. And, Basil, I fancy I have made her believe me." With her soft eyes full of maternal love, my DARK DAYS. I03 mother kissed me and left the court. I opened my arms to close them round the fairest woman in the world ; and all the earth seemed bright and glorious to me. My great love had conquered ! And yet, even in that moment of bliss, my thoughts involuntarily flew away to a snow-heaped road in England — to a white drift, under which for days and days a ghastly object had once been lying. A dream ! a dream ! It must have been a fearful dream ! Forget it, Basil North, and be happy in the happiness you have at last won ! 104 DARK DAYS. CHAPTER X. THE SWORD FALLS. NCE conquered — once convinced that tlie obstacles which her sohcitude for my welfare raised against my wish were not insuperable — Philippa offered no further resistance ; whilst as for me, every day that might be counted before I called her my wife seemed a day spoilt, if not entirely wasted. With my mother's arguments to back my own fervent persuasion, I had no diffi- culty 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 lixed, it was at my instance changed, and the cere- mony postponed for a while. My reason for deferring my crowning happiness was this. 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 which for some time Sir Mervyn Ferrand, for rea- sons best known to himself, had made her assume ; or under that name which, supposing Mrs. Wilson had spoken the truth, she was legally entitled to bear? So anxious, so resolved was I that there should be no shadow of doubt as to the validity of her second and happier marriage, that after due con- sideration I determined to sacrifice my own in- clinations, 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. DARK DAYS. I05 I made the excuse that I found many matters of business connected with my property must be attended to before I could be married. I travelled to Enf^land — to Liverpool — as fast as I could. 1 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, had died on a certain date, and been buried under the name of Lucy Ferrand. The information I acquired as to her antecedents is of no consequence to my stor}'. 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 Fer- rand'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 care- lessness, 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 I'hilippa chose to claim the rights appertaining 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 j^rcsr-nce 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 susi)icion as to the author of that night's work liad in any way been directed to Philippa, I, the partner of her flight, could not hojic to escape free. However, I comforted myself by thinking that if danger menaced us I should have heard something about it, as after our first hurried start I had made no attempt to conceal I06 DARK DAYS. our whereabouts. It would have been useless. My mother had friends in England, with whom she exchanged letters. 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 samel did not care to let it be known that I was now in England. Whilst engaged upon raking up evidence on Philippa'i behalf, I did not neglect to make such enquiries as I could respecting the event which had happened that night near Roding. I found that, so far as the general public knew, the crime was still veiled in mystery. No one had been arrested ; no one had been accused ; no reason for the deed had been discovered, and as yet suspicion pointed to no one. Indeed, in spite of the hundred ])Ounds reward offered by Government, it seemed that Sir IMcrvyn Ferrand's murder 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 hnl been turned from the thrilling affair; now that Philippa seemed as far or farther than ever from giving any token which suggested the awakening of recollection of what her wrong, her frenzy, had prompted her hand to do unknowingly, I dared to hope that any chance which remained of a revelation of the truth was reduced to a minimum. These results of my in- vestigations and enquiries gave me immense relief, and my heart was all but gay as, armed with the proofs of the first 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 ! DARK DAYS. I07 Married ; and a few months ago I sat loncl\% miser- able and heart-broken, deeming that the one I loved was lost to me for ever ! 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 enquiries in Liverpool. I had no difficulty in persuading Philippa, who in some 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 bcstc>w 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 althougl) I had by now in many ways conformed to the Spanish mode of life, we were still English enough to look upon going away somewhere for a honeymoon as indispensable. It would be but a short trip; and as my mother in our absence would be left at Seville alone, or with 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 capital opportunity for so doing. To Cadiz we went, and stas-cd several days at the Hotel de Paris. We liked the white-walled town, rising and shining above the da(Tk-l)lue sea, like, as I have somewhere seen it described, a white pearl in a crown of sapphires ; or, as the Gaditanos call it, tazita dc plata, a silver cup. We liked the rows of tall terrace-topped houses. We liked the movement and bustle on the quays and in the port. We liked the walks on the broad granite ramparts, and the lovely views of the busy bay and country beyond it ; but all the same we agreed that Cadiz Io8 DARK DAYS. bore no comparison to our beautiful Seville, and the sooner we returned to that gay city the better. Now that I had gained my desire, was I happy ? After all that had past, could 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 for ever. In so much I was happy, thrice happy. Could I have lived but for the present, my bliss would have known no alloy. But there was the past ! I could not altogether 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 be always a secret ? Yes, and there was the future. Behind the happiness which was mine at present lurked a dread as to what 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 Mervyn Ferrand's name pass between my wife and me. Not once did she ask me for any further particulars concern- ing the events of that night upon which, in the height of her short-lived mania, she reached my cottage. True that upon becoming my wife, and beginning a new and happier stage of life, it might be but natural for her to wish to consign to oblivion the wrong, the shame, the suffering wrought by a DARK DA VS. irg villain's craft ; yet I was so mixed up in the catastrophe that silence on the subject seemed strange. Her reticence alarmed me. I fancied it must be caused by some vague uneasiness con- nected with that night — some doubt which she dared not seek to set at rest. It is, I know, not unusual for women, after their recovery from that mysterious disease which had for a while driven my poor girl distraught, to be able to recall and accurately describe the delusions which had afflicted them during those wandering hours. I myself had in one or two cases noticed this pecu- liarity, and the authorities which I had studied during Philippa's illness mention it as an indisput- able 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 mention 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 interest- ing river, we tliouglit travelling by steamer would be a pleasant change from the journeys in the hot, stuffy, slow trains, full from end to end with the odour of garlic and tobacco ; so early one morning we left Cadiz, and were soon steaming up the sluggish, dull, turbid river, with tlie great Hat stretches of swampy land on either hand. There were not many j)asscngers on board 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 tlie river flows past 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. no DARK DAYS. Of 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 some of their unfavourable comments on the scenery, or lack of scenery, it was clear that they took us for natives, before whom they could speak wuthout 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 nationality. The young fellows chatted on, quite oblivious to the 'fact that two of their neighbours 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 monotonous 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 and opened my eyes. Philippa's head was stretched forward as if she was intent upon catching some expected words spoken by another. " Sir Mervyn Ferrand," I heard one of our fellow- voyagers repeat. "Yes, I remember him; tall, good- looking man. Where is he now ? He was a bad lot." " Surely you read or heard about it ? " said his companion in a tone of surprise. 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 where you have been for months," DARK DAYS. Ill said the second tourist, laughing; " out of the pale of civilisation and newspapers. Well-, Ferrand was murdered — shot dead ! " ♦' 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 mo- ment I had so long dreaded had come. If I dragged her away by force — if I interrupted the speakers — what good could it do ? She had heard enough. She w^ould force me to tell her the rest. I could only pray that she would not in any way associate herself with the man's death. " Murdered ! Poor fellow ! Who murdered 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 winter began. It seems almost incredible, but the snow drifted over him, and until it melted the crime was not discovered. 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 was not looking at the speakers. I was noting every change in my wife's face. I saw the colour fly from her cheek. I saw her lips and throat working convulsively, as though she was trying to articulate. I saw her dark brows contract as in anguish. 1 knew that she was clasping her hands together, as was her way when agitated. Suddenly she turned her eyes to mine, and in her eyes was a look of horror which told me that the very worst had come to pass — that the dread which had haunted me was realised ! Then with a low moan she sank, white and senseless, on my shoulder. Though in a whirl of despair, I believe that 1 112 DARK DAYS. assumed a kind of mechanical calm. I seem to remember that the two EngHsh tourists offered their assistance ; tliat, as we bore PhiHppa to an extemporised couch in the shadiest and coolest 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 had, perhaps, wrecked the happiness of two lives. My heart was full of grief and fear, but I beheve I bore myself bravely. In spite of such restoratives as we could ad- minister, 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 suddenly invaded her brain. Could such a thing have been possible, I would almost 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 and 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 ni}^ gaze ; slie even seemed 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 curious glances from fellow-passengers ; heedless 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 whilst the wretched steamboat ploughed its way up the broad muddy stream I sat beside her, trying to DARK DAYS. II3 find some way out of our sorrow. Alas ! every road was stopped by the impassable obstacle of Philippa's knowledge of what she had done. For she knew it, I was certain. That look in her eyes liad told me so much. The duration of her insanity had been so short that I could gather no comfort from the fact that by some merciful arrangement maniacs who recover their erring senses are troubled little by the deeds they have done in their moments of madness. I felt that in my wife's case my only hope was to endeavour 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, impulsive nature could ever be induced to take this view of her act. I doubted, had she not been the woman I loved with a passionate love, if I could have quite absolved her from the crime, with the remem- brance of her words, " Basil, did you ever hate a man ?" 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 shrank from the one who, even in her madness, was urged to take such fearful vengeance. I smiled bitterly as I thought how a chance breath of wind had tumbled my house of cards to the ground. I smiled almost triumphantly as I told myself that, come what might — misery — shame — death — I had won and held for a week the one desire of my life. Nothing could doprivo mo 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 y 114 DARK DAYS. 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 reciprocal 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 careful little evidences of the hearty welcome which was waiting us. Philippa noticed nothing. I closed the door and turned towards my wife. She looked at me with those wondrous dark eyes, which seemed to search my very soul. " Basil," she said, in a low, solemn voice, " tell me — tell me the truth. What had I done that night?" DARK DAYS. Il5 CHAPTER XI. SPECIAL PLEADING. ^Y^T was over ! She knew ! The hope which may l^ll have buoyed my spirits, that Phihppa's agita- 2&. tion at learning of Sir Mervyn Ferrand's death was but due to the fact that once she loved tlie man, entirely vanished. I could see no loop- hole of escape, no possibility of persuading her that she was fancying horrors which had never taken place. Moreover, although I would have given my life to have saved her from the knowledge of this thing, I could not meet the eyes of her I loved, and lie to her. I did indeed, if but for the sake of gaining time, attempt to stammer out some evasive answer ; but she interrupted me before I had spoken five words. " Why do I ask ? " she echoed. " I knew it all — all — all! In dreams it has come to me — the whitened road — the dull dead face — the whirling snow ! In dreams I have stood over him, and said to myself, ' He is dead ! ' But, Basil, my love, my husband, I thought it was but a dream. I drove it away. I said, ' It must be a dream. I hated him, and so I dreamed that I killed him.' Basil, dear- est Basil, tell me, if you can, that I dreamed it ! " Her voice sank into accents of piteous entreaty. Slie looked at me yearningly. " Dearey.t, it must have been a dream," I said. She thr^/w out her arms wildly. "No, no! It was no dream. Even now I can see myself stand- ing in the night over that motionless form. I can feel the cold air on my cheek. I can sec myself flying through the snow. Basil, I hated that man, and 1 killed him!" Il6 DARK DAYS. The tears were streaming down my cheeks. I seized her hands, and strove to draw her to me. She tore herself from my grasp, and, throwing herself wildly on the bed, broke into a paroxysm of sobs. As I approached her she turned her head from mc, " I killed him ! killed him ! " she whispered in awe-struck tones. " Oh, that fearful night ! It has haunted me ever since. I knew not why. Now I know ! He wronged me, and I killed him ! killed him ! " I placed my arm around her neck, and my cheek against hers. As she felt my touch she started up wildly. " No, no ! " she cried. " Touch me not ! Shun me ! Shrink from me ! Basil, do you hear ? Do you understand ? I have murdered a man ! " Once more she threw herself on the bed, her whole frame quivering with anguish. "A shamed — a ruined woman!" she muttered. " A villain's forsaken toy, and now a murderess ! You have chosen your wife well, Basil ! " " Sweetest, I love you," I whispered. " Love me ! How can you love me ? Such love is not holy. If you love me, aid me to die, Basil ! Give me something that will kill mc ! Why did you save my life ? " " Because I loved you then, as I love you now." She was silent, and I hoped was growing calmer. I was but v/aiting for the first shock of her newly- born knowledge to pass away, in order to reason with her, and show her that by every mora! law she was guiltless of the fearful crime. Suddenly she turned to me. "How did I kill him ? " she said, with a shudder. " Dearest, rest. We will talk again presently." "How did I kill him?" she repeated with vehemence. DARK DAYS. II7 " He was found shot through the heart," I an- swered, rekictantly. "Shot through his heart — his wicked heart! Shot by me ! How could I have shot him ? With what ? Basil, tell me all, or I shall go mad ! I will not have the smallest thing concealed. I will know all ! " " He was shot with a pistol." "A pistol! a pistol! How did I come by it? Where is it ? " *' I threw it away." " You ! Then you knew ! " I bowed my head. I felt that concealment was useless. She must know all. I told her everything. I told her how she had promised to come for me ; how, as she did not keep that promise, I went in search of her. I told her how she had swept past me in the snow-storm ; how I had overtaken her. I repeated her wild words, and told her how the fatal weapon had fallen at my feet, and how I had, on the iinjMilse of the moment, hurled it away into the night ; how she had broken away from me, and fled down the lonely road ; how, excited and terrified by her words, I had gone on to learn their meaning ; how I had found the body of Sir Mervyn Ferrand ; how, without thought of concealing the deed, I had laid tlic dead man l)y the roadside; how I had rushed home, and found her, Philijjpa, waiting for me, and in the full height of temporary insanity. I told her all this, and I swore that from the mo- ment I discovered that her senses had gone astray I held her, althougli she had done so dreadful a dr-ed, as innocent of crime as when she slept, a baby, on her mother's breast. She listened to me with fixed dilated eyes. She interrupted me neither by word nor gesture; but when I had fmished speaking she covered her face Il8 DARK DAYS with her hands, and great tears trickled through her fingers. " No hope ! No hope ! " she cried. " Oh, Basil, I dared to hope that something you would tell me would show me it was not my hand which did this thing ! My love, my own love, we have been so happy whilst I could persuade myself all this was a dream ! We shall be happy no more, Basil ! " Although she still shrank from me, by force I drew her to me, and laid that poor head on my shoulder. I stroked the smooth black silky hair, I kissed the white forehead, and used every endear- ing and soothing expression that love such as mine could suggest. In vain ! The moment I loosened my hold my wife fled from my side. "Basil," she cried, "you knew it! You knew the blood of a man was on my hands ! Again I say such love is not holy ! " "Dearest, again I tell you that in my eyes — if the truth were known, in the eyes of all — you are innocent as a babe." She shook her head hopelessly. I saw that nothing at present could move her. Perhaps it was more than I had a right to expect. So for the time I gave up arguing. I begged her for my sake to retire to rest. I gave her a soothing-draught. I sat by her for hours, and held her hand, until at last, her eyelids fell, and worn out by grief, she slept. Oh, how right I had been in choosing flight ! Although a cursed chance had revealed what I fondly hoped would be for ever buried in oblivion, how right I had been 1 Had the hands of Justice grasped my sweet wife, although she might no doubt have been found guiltless, the trial, the ex- posure, would have killed her. Thank heaven, slie was safe, and amenable only to the tribunal of her own sensitive conscience I DARK DAYS. IIQ When I heard her breathing grow regular, and knew that she was in a deep sleep, I pressed my lips gently to her fair cheek, and left her. I went in search of my mother, and made the best tale I could think of to account for Philippa's indis- position. I forced myself to wear a smiling face, and to listen with a show of interest to the account my mother gave me of certain difficulties which had during my absence arisen with some of the native servants. But there was nothing which could really interest me when I thought of my poor love lying there sleeping, to awake, alas ! to sorrow and remorse. No wonder that, as soon as I had spent with my mother the smallest portion of time which filial duty and gratitude exacted, I flew back to Philippa's bedside. I watched beside her until she awoke — until her splendid dark eyes unveiled themselves. I leant over and kissed her passionately. Between sleep- ing and waking, while consciousness was yet in abeyance, she returned my caresses. Then came back memory and its terrors. " Leave me," she said ; " I am a murderess ! " Once more I denied it ; once more I told her she was innocent. My only hope was, that by continued argument I might in time ease her mind. She listened almost apathetically. I grew eloquent and passionate. Was I not pleading for my own sake as well as hers ? If 1 could but persuade her she was unaccountable for what she had done, some renmant of the happiness which a few days ago I had promised myself might even now be left. " Basil," she whispered, " I have been dreaming horrible things. Will they try me — and hang me?" "We are in Spain, dearest. Even if you were guilty, the English law would not reach you." She started. " And it was for this you hurried to Spain ? To save me from a felon's death ? " 120 DARK DAYS. " To save you from what, in your state at tlie time, you could not bear. I say again you arc innocent, but I dare not risk tlie trial." She was silent for some minutes ; then she spoke. " I am proud, passionate, wicked," she said ; " but I could never have meant to do this. I was mad ! I must have been mad ! Basil, you could tell them I was mad. They would believe you, and forgive me." She looked at me imploringly. " I could stand up," I said, "and state on oath that you were at the time in a raging delirium. I could pledge my professional reputation that your actions were the result of madness. Fear nothing on that score, my wife." I spoke boldl}' ; but as I spoke a thought shot through me — a thought which blanclied my check and brought the beads of perspiration to my broAv. I knew enough of law to be aware that a husband could not in a criminal case give evidence for or against his wife. My marriage with Philippa had deprived her of the benefit of my testimony as to her insanit}\ I trembled like a leaf as I pictured what might happen in the event of her being tried for the murder of Sir Mervyn Ferrand. The very nurses had but seen her sane. No one but my- self and perhaps my servant had seen her in her madness. My dismay was such that I was bound to leave the room, in order to recover my presence of mind. Again and again I thanked heaven that we were on foreign soil. The thought that my unreasoning love might have destroyed her I loved was almost more than I could bear. I fancy I have lingered long enough over that terrible time, when my wife first learnt that the dream which ha 1 'haimted her was reality— that her hand had ur- cnowingly avenged her supposed DARK DAYS. 121 and premeditated \vront;-. Let mc but say that the mental anguish into wh^-h the knOAvledge plunged h.er was not unattended by physical evil. In fact, for many days my poor girl was ill, very ill. My mother and I nursed her with every care, and by- and-by youth and a splendid constitution reasserted themselves, and, a shadow of her forne; self, she was able to leave her bed. My mother was tender- ness itself to her daughter. She knew nothing of the true cause of her illness ; indeed, she blamed me roundly for not having taken proper care of my beautiful bride, and vowed laughingly that for the future nothing should induce her to trust Philippa out of her sight. Now that Diilipj^a knew all she had done, I thought it better to tell her that, although he had no intention of so doing, Sir IMervjm Ferrand, in causing a mock marriage to be celebrated, had by a strange chance really made her his wife. This gave her little comf(jrt. " It makes my crime the greater," she said bitterly. " I have killed my hus- band instead of my seducer ! I am not fit to live ! " Weeks went by. Philippagradually grew stronger, and, what was even more a cause of joy to me, calmer and more reasonable on a certain subject. With all the power I could bring to bear, I had never ceased to impress upon her tliat morally she was innocent, and I believed my words were bearing fruit. Her fits of mental anguish and self-reproach grcwofless frequent occurrence. She did ii(jl,wh(n- everwc were alone, continually harji ujion her crime. Calm seemed to settle upon us once more, and I ventured to hope that the great jihysician. Time, would one day bring to my wife's heart something that might be called sorrowful liajipiness; but 1 knew I must wait vears and years for this. She was clianged, greatly changed. Her lips seldom smiled ; her eyes never brightened, unless 122 DARK DAYS. when she saw me drawing near. She seemed older and graver. But I knew, in spite of all, she loved me with a deathless love. Although at last we had ceased to discuss the sorrow of our life, I suspected it was seldom absent from her mind. Sometimes as I lay beside her I heard her moaning and talking in her troubled dreams, and too well I knew the cause. As my arm stole round her, and assured her of the safety and certainty of my great love, in my heart I cursed tlie dead man whose evil deed had brought such lasting woe on the fair head pillowed on my bosom. Ah me ! what life might have been for us two, now that love reigned between us ! Once — it was shortly after Philippa began to creep, a weak invalid, about the fragrant patio — she said to me, with evident meaning in her voice, *' Basil, do you see the London papers ? " "Sometimes — not always. I have almost for- gotten England." " Promise me you will see them every day." " I will, if you wish ; but why ? " Her voice sank. " Can you not guess ? Basil, listen. I have consented to be guided by you. I am praying that the day may ome when I shall think as you think. But what if an innocent person were accused of the crime I have committed ? Then there is but one course ; you could urge nothing against it. Promise me you will see the paper of every day as soon as it reaches here. I shall have no peace unless you do." I promised fearlessly. Justice does sometimes make mistakes, but not such a mistake as the one hinted at by Philippa. No; Sir Mervyn Ferrand's death was a mystery never to be solved. So, to set my poor wife at case on the matter, I wrote and ordered that The Times should be posted to me every day. DARK DAYS. I23 CHAPTER XII. TEMPTED TO DISHONOUR. fHATE looking back and re-reading words which I have written whilst the impulse was upon me ; but I fancy I have somewhere called this tale a confession ; if not, I should have done so. It claims no more to be ranked as a work of art than as a work of imagination. How could it? It holds only two characters — a man and a woman. It treats but of their love and of a few months of their lives. Nevertheless, in telling it I have endeavoured to conceal nothing. I have tried to describe my thoughts, my hopes, my fears, my sorrows and my joys, as they really were. I have, I believe, suppressed nothing which could lead anyone to condemn my actions more strongly than, it may be, they now condemn them. IMy wish has been to show mysflf as I was then — no doubt am now — a weak, selfish man; yet, for the love which he bore a woman, one willing to risk fortune, life, even honour. If I have failed in my attempt to represent myself as such a one, believe it is not from intention, but from sheer inability. But whether I have so far succeeded or failed in my purpose I know not ; but I know that in this chapter I must, i)crforce, fail. The language rich and powerful enough to serve my needs has yet to be inventfut, Philippa, listen " " Basil, as you love me, not one word to tempt, to dissuade 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 thrit I should tempt you. Think; he is, no doubt, a mai\ of a lowly station in life. Philippa, I am rich, very rich." " I do not understand you," she said, pressing licr hand to her brow. 140 DARK DAYS. "Money will compensate for anything. Let him stand his trial. He is innocent. If there is justice in the land, he may, he must be found not guilty." " But the agony of mind he must pass through ! " " For that I will pay him over and over again. He may be but a country boor, to whom a thousand pounds would be inexhaustible wealth. But, whatever his station, the compensation sent to him by an unknown hand shall make him bless the day which laid him under the false accusation. Reflect, look at the matter in every light. I swear to you that in my opinion we may, with a clear conscience, await the result of the trial." She sighed, but made no answer. Her silence was a joy to me. It told me that my specious argument carried weight. I took her hands and kissed them. I told her again and again that I loved her ; that my life as well as hers depended on her yielding. It was long before she yielded. The thought of a fellow-creature lying in prison, perhaps for months, and to-morrow to stand in shame before his judges, on account of a deed which she herself had done, was anguish to her noble nature. Then, growing desperate at seeing the only plank which could save us from the 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 and, as I rightly judged, my most powerful argument I told her that it would be not only she who would suffer for that tmconscious act, but that I, her husband, must pay the penalty due from an acces- sory 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 thunderbolt, sank back in her seat, pale and trembling. Had DARK DAYS. I4I I ever doubted that my wife's heart-whole 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 journey 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 one condition — one only," she said. " Be guided by me 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 pro- claim 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 his 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 1 shall be there, and for your sake I will do as you wish." It was the best concession I could get. I prom- ised. I concealed tiie fact that if, when sentence was pronounced, a woman rose in the body of the court, and asserted the prisoner's innocence and her own guilt, the probaI)ilities were slic would be summarily ejected. This made no difference. Let Philippa be silent ; let the man be found not guilty, and the ne.xt train could bear us back to Seville. Yes, even now there was hope 1 142 DARK DAYS, CHAPTER XIV. THE CRIMINAL COURT. 'E reached Charing Cross at four o'clock on the morning of September 20th. The first train by which we could get to Tewnham was timed to leave Liverpool Street at seven, so that we had an hour or two to spare for such refreshment as we cared to take, such rest as we dared to allow ourselves. What with the fatigue of continuous travel, and the dread of what this day was to bring forth, it may be easily believed that we were thoroughly worn out. We were, indeed, more fitted to go to bed and sleep for a week, than to proceed upon the last stage of our dismal journey. But there was no help for it. If we meant to be in time, we must go on by the early morning train. I begged my wife to lie down, and endeavour to snatch an hour's sleep. She refused firmly. Much of that calm which had characterised her since the moment when I broke the fatal news to her had vanished. Its place was now taken by an excitement, suppressed, but nevertheless clearly manifest to my eyes. The fear that we should not reach Tewnham in time for the trial seemed to haunt her unceasingly. It was for this reason she so peremptorily refused to lie down and court sleep. She feared lest, our eyes once closed, we should from sheer exhaustion, sleep for hours, and so miss the morning train. She was ever picturing the horror of that poor unknown man's being led from DARK DAYS, I43 the dock, with the death sentence ringing in his ears. So the time which elapsed before we started for Tewnham we spent in the hotel. I bespoke rooms by telegram, sent when we reached Folkestone. We made an apology for a meal; in fact, what we could get at that time of night was of itself little more than an apology. We sat all but silent, watching the hands of the clock, which told us how fast the precious moments were passing away. We saw the grey morning struggle with, and at last conquer, the yellow gas-light. We heard the hum of traffic growing louder and louder in the streets below us. Then we turned to make what may be rightly called our last adieus. Who could say that to-day my wife and I might not be parted for ever? Whilst at the hotel I tried to obtain the file of the Tunes. I wanted to look back and see if I could find the account of magisterial proceed- ings against this unlucky William Evans. He must, of course, have appeared before the lesser tribunal, and could I see the account of his appearance, I should be able to judge as to the strength of tlie case against him. But the file was not forthcoming. Perhaps it did not exist ; perhaps the sleepy-eyed Teutonic waiter did not under- stand what I wanted; so, still in the dark as to why suspicion slioukl have fallen upon this innocent man, we left the hotel and drove to Liverpool Street Station. At nine o'clock our journey was ended. We stood on the platform of Tewnham railway-station. My poor wife wore a thick black veil, so her face I could not sec; but I knew it was as jialc as death. Now and again her hand, which rested on my arm, pressed it convulsively. I think we were the most unhappy pair on the earth I 144 DARK DAYS. We were even denied the time for any more farewells or expressed regrets. The hour was chiming from the old cathedral tower. The business of the Courts, I knew, always began at ten o'clock, and, considering the crowd which would most surely be attracted by so interesting a case as this trial for a murder committed so many months ago, I felt sure that unless we proceeded at once to the Shirehall, our chance of gaining entrance would be but a small one. I hailed one of the close cabs which were waiting outside the station. As I did so I felt a heavy hand laid upon my shoulder, and heard a rich, pleasant-sounding, and not unfamiliar voice exclaim, " Basil North, as I'm a sinner!" That anyone should at this moment address Basil North in a merry way seemed a positive incongruity. I turned round almost angrily, and found myself face to face with an old friend. He was a barrister named Grant ; a man four or five years my senior, but one with whom, before I forswore the society of my fellow-men, I had been on intimate terms. I had not seen him for a considerable time; but had heard, casually, that he was making great strides in his forensic career. In spite of my distress, I returned his greeting, and grasped his hand warmly. After all it seemed a relief to find that I had a friend left in the world. " What brings you here? " I asked. " The only thing that could bring me to such a place — circuit work. I have an important case on to-day. That 's the worst of a place so near London as this one. One is tempted to spend the nights in town, which means getting up at an unholy hour in the morning. But you! Why are DARK DAYS. 145 you here? I heard you were as rich as Midas, and living abroad in luxury." " I have been abroad for some time. I hope to go back again very soon." " Happy man!" he ejaculated. I could scarcely keep the bitter smile from my lips, as I thought how ill-applied were his words. As he spoke he glanced at Philippa, whose grace and beauty of form defied the concealment attempted by thick veil and sombre garments. " But what brings you to this sleepy old town?" continued Grant. I hesitated for a moment. Then, thinking that truth, or at least half-truth, was the best, told him I had come down to witness the trial for murder. " I should doubt your getting into court," he said. " The morbid interest excited round about here is, I am told, very great. The sheriff is besieged by applications for tickets." " Couldn't you help me ? The fact is, I have a particular reason, not mere curiosity, for wishing to be present at this trial." " I don't think I can," said Grant. " Does your — the lady wish to go with you?" " My cousin — yes," 1 said, seeing that he ex- pected an introduction. He raised his hat, and made some courteous and i)lcasant remark, to which Philippa, to my surprise, replied in a calm and fitting way. Grant knew I had no sister. I called her cousin because I had a wild hope that, if the worst happened, I might be able to conceal the true relationship in which we stood, and so be permitted to give evidence on her behalf. I trusted my wife would guess that I had a good reason for this deception. " Try and manage this for me. Grant," I said so earnestly that my friend made no further demur. U 1^6 DARK DAYS. " Take me in your cab, and I will see what I can do." During our drive to the Shirehall I asked Grant what he knew about the impending trial. '• Nothing," he said frankly. " I hate murder cases — hate even to read about them. Of course I know that Sir Mervyn Ferrand was killed, and hidden in the snow for days and days. But I know no more." " Who is the accused ?" " I don't know. I thought, from your anxiety, you must know him." " Will he be found guilty ? " " I don't know. Stay, I heard someone who ought to be well informed say yesterday that the case for the prosecution was most feeble. He seemed to doubt if the grand jury would return a true bill." As I heard this I pressed Philippa's hand secretly. I felt that she was trembling. The drive to the Shirehall occupied only a few minutes. We did not go to the public entrance, in front of which I could sec a crowd of people nearly blocking up the street. We stopped at another door, and Grant, after looking round, caught sight of what appeared to be an inspector of police. He entered into a little conversation with him, the result of which was that we were given into his care. " This is a breach of the law," whispered my friend as he bade me good-bye. " You will have to atone for it by a handsome gratuity." We followed our guide. Philippa, although walking with a firm step, leant heavily upon my arm. I scarcely know by what door we entered that palace of justice. The stalwart pohceman led us through stone corridors and passages, which re- echoed with the tread of our feet, and at last we DARK DAYS, I47 found ourselves before a double swinging plain oak door, over which in old English letters was written " Criminal Court." I felt Philippa shudder, and knew that the sight of those words brought the horror of the situation fully home to her. Mechanically I pressed a sovereign in the hand of the venal inspector, or whatever he was ; then, holding my wife's hand, I passed through the noiseless swinging door into the all but empty court. A few policemen and other officials were lounging about. Two or three people, who had no doubt gained admittance in the same way as we had done, were seated in various coigns of vantage. I led Philippa up the broad steps, and pointed to one of the hard wooden benches provided for the accom- modation of the general public. These benches were raised step by step, one above another. We chose our position about half-way up, on the right- hand side of the court. Philii)pa, with her thick veil falling down to her chin, and so defying recog- nition, sank wearily into her seat. I placed myself beside her ; my hand crept under the cloak she wore and held her hand. Surely it was all a dream — a dreadful realistic dream ! I should wake and find myself imder the great orange tree in that courtyard in gay Seville, my half-smoked cigar and the book which I had been lazily reading lying at my feet ; my mother opposite me, laughing at my sonuioluncy, and Philippa's grave dark eyes looking with calm ever- lasting love into my own. I should wake and fnui the cool of the evening had succeeded to the glare of the afternoon. We should walk through the merry streets, lounge in the Alameda, wander through the glowing Alcazar gardens, or drive out miles and miles over the fertile smiling jilnins. Or 1 should even wake and find myself nodding over 148 DARK DAYS. my fire in my lonely cottage, the stolid William the only human creature within hail; Philippa's return, the snowstorm, the dreadful discovery, the flight, Seville, the marriage, all, all a dream ! In a kind of stupor^the temporary reaction, I suppose, consequent upon such fatigue and trouble, ■ — I gazed round me, and wondered where I was. What is this great empty building, lit from one side by large clerestory windows of ecclesiastical design ? What are these dull grey vacant walls ; that lofty ceiling, crossed and cut into small squares by dark rafters ; this leaded floor, on which feet fall all but noiselessly ? What are those raised boxes on either side of the building — those small railed platforms all but adjoining them, and all but adjoining that panelled oak structure at the end facing me ? What is that rectangular box-shaped erection with overhanging carved cornice? Let us away from this dismal colourless place ! Let me wake and find myself amid the flowers, orange trees, the fair sights and surroundings of our Spanish home. No 1 I have but to turn my dazed eyes to the centre of space in which we sat, to know that I am dreaming no dream ; that we must wait here and learn our fates. That oblong wooden enclosure with high sides, topped by a light iron railing, brings reality back to me. It is the prisoner's dock. In an hour's time a man will stand there. He will be brought up those stone steps which lead to it from below, the topmost flag of which I can just see. He will stand there for hours. As he leaves the dock, declared innocent or guilty, so will our lives be declared happy or miserable. My hand holds my wife's yet closer ; for the last minutes which may be ours to spend together are slipping by so fast, so very fast I See, the clock under the balcony marks half-past DARK DAYS. 149 nine. The all but deserted court begins to assume the appearance of preparing for business. Police- men and other officials pass to and_ fro, some arranging papers, some replenishing ink-bottles, and placing quill pens ready for the barristers and solicitors who will soon till those front seats. Someone, with what seems to me bitter irony, places a magnificent bouquet of flowers on either hand of the judge's vacant chair. What have flowers in common with such a scene as this ? Flowers, too, which are beautiful enough to recall to my mind the fair Spanish home which, may be, Ave shall see no more. Flowers in this den of sorrow ! Rather should every seat, every beam, be draped in black. Now the doors on each side of the court open, and remain open, I hear a shuffling of many feet. People, in a continuous stream, pass through the entrance, and wend their way to the portion of the court allotted to the general public. So fast, so thick they come, that in ten minutes tliis space is thronged almost to suffocation. Philippa and I are pressed closer and closer to each other, as every inch of the bench on which we are seated is appropriated. The court is full. Crowded by respectable-looking, well-dressed people, who liave gained admission, as I heard, by favour of llie Sheriff. Yet, respectable as they are, each man, each woman, rushes in eagerly and strives for the best available seat. And for what reason ? To see and hear a poor wretch tried for his life! In my bitter mood I look with liate on these sensation-seekers. I hate them even more when I think that their morbid craving for excite- ment may be satisfied with such food as they little expect; and I clench my teeth as 1 picture the scene at that moment when Pliilipj")a, in pur- suance of her immovable resolution, rises, and makes her effort to proclaim her own guilt and the 150 DARK DAYS. convicted man's innocence. Although I strive to force the picture from my mind, by teUing myself that justice cannot err, that the man will be acquitted, yet again and again the dread of the worst seizes me, and I hate every face in that crowd, which may by-and-by be gaping, with looks of wonder and curiosity, at the woman I love! As in a haze, I see some faces which are familiar to me. A number of gentlemen enter, and seat themselves on the benches which counsel usually occupy. Some few of these I knew by sight. They are country gentlemen from the neighbour- hood of Roding, who are now called to serve on the grand jury. I see also the thin-faced, hawkish looking woman who calls herself Mrs. Wilson. I am thankful that she takes a seat in front of us and does not see us. She, like ourselves, must know that an innocent man is this day about to be tried. So for half an hour I sit, gazing now at the crowd of people, now at the empty dock and vacant bench in front of me; listening to the hum of conversation which rises from the packed court; longing for the moment to come when this dreadful suspense may end; yet all the same dreading and willing to put off that moment. And all the while Philippa, in her black garb, close to me and, unseen by onr neighbours, holding my hand. Hush ! The door at the back of the bench opens, and at ten o'clock to the minute the red- robed judge appears. He bows to the court, seats himself, and by his action signifies that he is ready to begin the business of the day. No trembling prisoner in the dock ever scanned a judge's face with more anxiety than I scan his lordship's at this present moment. An old man, too old, it seems to me, for such DARK DAYS. Ijl a responsible post; an amiable, pleasant-looking man — not, I venture to think, one who can bear the reputation of being a " hanging judge." I breathe a prayer that he may this day be able to direct aright the course of justice. Hush ! Hush ! Silence in the court ! Oh, my poor, sweet wife, let me grasp that hand yet closer, for the moment which for days and nights has never been absent from our minds has come! What will it bring us? ^53 DARK DAYS. CHAPTER XV. THE BLACK CAP. ^HERE is silence, or all but silence, in the court. The buzz of suppressed conversa- tion sinks almost to nothing — absolutely to nothing as the judge's marshall rises, and after gabbling through the mysterious proclama- tion which begins " Oyez! 03'ez! Oyez!" declares the court open. Philippa, still closely veiled, sits like a statue. Her hand, which ever grasps mine, scarcely re- sponds to the pressure by which again and again I endeavour to bid her hope for the best. I would give much if even now I could get her to consent to my leading her away. I dare not sug- gest this. I know that doing so would be waste of words. The court is open. The red judge is perusing letters and papers which lie in front of him as calmly and unconcernedly as if the life's happiness of, at least, one man and woman, did not greatly depend upon the view he takes of the case about to be tried. He raises one of his bouquets and inhales the perfume of the flowers. How can one in his position behave like an ordinary mortal? Were we not here, he might condemn an innocent man to a shameful death ! I wonder if, Avith such horrible responsibility resting on him, a judge can ever really be a happy man ? These thoughts seem trivial ; but my mind is by DARK DAYS. 153 now in a strange state ; it is, indeed, so sensitive that every slight incident, every small ceremonial of to-day seems to he impressed for ever upon it. A bewigged gentleman — the clerk of assize, the man next me tells his neighbour — rises and calls name after name, until he has fixed upon the twenty-three gentlemen needed to form the grand jury. They stand up in their places, and, in batches of four, are rapidly sworn. The absurd proclamation against vice and immorality is read ; much good may it do every one present ! Then the clerk sits down, and the judge, forsaking his papers, begins his work. He arranges his robes to his satisfaction, leans forward, and, i)lacing the tips of his long while fingers together, addresses — charges, I am told, is the right term — the grand jury in a jileasant col- loquial manner. I strain every aural nerve to catch the purport of his glib words. He is sure to say something about this important murder case. I shall, perhaps, be able to learn how it was that the man fell under susj)icion. Alas! the judge is one who by dint of years of practice has acquired the knack of using his voice only just so much as is absolutely necessary, 'i'he grand jury is close to him, and can, no doubt, hear him ; but to those who, like ourselves, are far away in the background of the court, his remarks arc inaudible. All I can catch is a closing caution to the grand jury, to bear in mind that it is not within its province to determine the innocence or guilt of the prisoners, but simply to decide whether there is or is not sufficient evidence for the cases to go to trial. The grand jury files out of court to condurt its solemn deliberations in the place appointed. 'J"he judge addresses a few smiling words to the sheriff and other magnates who, by right or favour, occupy 154 DARK DAYS. seats on the bench ; then he returns to the perusal of his papers. For the first time since we entered the court Phihppa speaks to me. " Are they trying him now ? " she asks in a low awed whisper, yet in a voice so changed that I know what the suspense is costing her. Briefly I explain the procedure of the law, so far as I know it. She sighs, and says no more. More monotonous calling of many names, to which summons, however, another class of men respond. The common jurymen are now being called. Probably, to save time, tAvelve men are sent into the box, where they sit, some appearing to enjoy the dignity of the position, some with stolid indifference, others with acute unhappiness plainly manifested. I look at these men with scarcely less interest than I look at the judge. On them, or on some of them, our fate rests as much, perhaps more, than it rests on him. Those men are trying us — not only the man who will by-and- by stand in that rail-topped enclosure into which we look down. Twenty long weary minutes pass by. All eyes turn to a wooden gallery in the right-hand corner of the court. A door in the wall opens. The members of the grand jury emerge and fill the gallery. The foreman arms himself with a gigantic fishing-rod, to which he attaches a paper, which is conveyed by this clumsy method to that busy gentleman, the clerk of assize. What idiotic foolery all this seems to me ! The clerk detaches the document, glances at it, and looks up at the gallery. " Gentlemen of tlic grand jury, you return a true bill against William Evans for murder ? " " We do," answered the foreman with shy solemnity. DARK DAYS. I55 I grind my teeth. Fools ! If men of culture and standing err like this, what can be expected from a common jury? It is well for me that I heard the caution just now given by the judge. I take such comfort as I can by thinking they have tried the evidence, not the man. What can the evidence be ? Ah 1 we shall soon know. The clerk turns, and, addressing no one in par- ticular, says, '• Bring up the prisoner." Once more I set my teeth. I feel my wife's arm tremble ; her hand grows cold. I hear a buzz, as of expectation, run through the crowded court. Every eye turns in one direction — towards the empty dock. For a moment a species of dizziness comes over me; objects swim before my eyes. The sensation passes away. I recover myself. The dock is no longer untenanted. In the centre, with a stalwart police- man on either side of him, stands the accused! The man who, if needs be, must be saved by such a sacrifice ! From my place, far back in the public gallery, I can, of course, see nothing more of the prisoner than his back. I gaze at this with intc^nsc curi- osity, endeavouring to determine tlie station of the man who is now about to be tried for his life. I can but gather this much: He is tall and slight. His dress is of a semi-respectable nature, but seems to have seen much service. He might be anything from a broken-down clerk to a gentleman's servant out of elbows. I rejoice at his poverty-stricken appearance. Judging from it, UKMiey will be wel- come to him. Let the jury but assert his innocence, and I feel certain that the liberal pecuniary com- pensation wlii( h it is iny intention to mete out will repay him a hundred limes for the ordeal which he is imdergoing. Ordeal ! Yes, it is the right \\'u\i\. It is easy to see it is a terrible ordeal to the poor fellow. No 155 DARK DAYS. need to look at his face to be told that much. Even as he emerged from the cells below he seemed to quake with fear. Now he absolutely falls forward m the dock, supporting himself by grasping the iron railing which runs round the top. I notice that his fingers, as they cling to the iron bars, open and close convulsively. Every movement of his back and shoulders betrays fear and anguish of mind. His state is pitiable, so pitiable that one of his custodians places his hand under the wretched man's arm, and gives him the physical support which he so sorely needs. He bends his head as in shame, and I know that could I see his face, it would be white as my own or my wife's. In spite of the strain upon my mind, I was able to wonder at the prisoner's hopeless demeanour. Although I had, as it were, torn my very heart out by the roots to ensure this man's safety in the event of things going wrong with him ; although I did not even now regret the course I had taken, I am bound to say that his cowardly behaviour took away much of the sympathy which I should otherwise have felt for him in his unmerited pre- dicament. It is, of course, very easy to say what one would do if in another's place. I certainly felt sure that, were I in that poor fcllnw "s plight, the consciousness of my own innocence would give me strength enough to raise ni}'- head, and lace boldly all the judges, juries, and prosecuting coun- sel in the world. I was Avilling to make every allowance for the nervousness natural to sucii a }")Osition ; but I groaned inwardly as I gazed upon that miserable, limp, half-standing, half-recHning form. \Miy does he not stand u]Might? Too well I know that another is watching that abject wretch with interest even more intense than mine. I know that every attitude of shame or fear is under- DARK DAYS. I57 Stood by Philippa, and adds to the scruples which she feels at following my advice and awaiting the result of the trial. Every agonised movement of the prisoner in the dock seems to be faintly repro- duced by the hand within my own. Every pang he suffers runs through the frame of the woman who knows that he is suffering for her deed. The clerk reads over the indictment : " That he, William Evans, did feloniously, wilfully, and of malice aforethought kill and murder Sir Mervyn Ferrand, Baronet." As the reading proceeds Philippa draws me towards her. " Basil," she says in a low whisper, "this is more dreadful than I dreamed of. I cannot bear it longer. Think of that poor man's anguish 1 Basil, he also may have a wife who loves him ; she may be in the court. Think of her ! Oh ! what can I do ? What can 1 do?" "Nothing — nothing but wait and hope," I answer. "Could you not go down and speak to him, or send a message in some way ? Tell him not to be so wretched ; that even at the last moment he will be saved ; that the real murderer will confess and free him. Basil, you nmst do this." " I cannot. I dare not. It would ruin us. Hush, dearest ; be calm, and listen." The reading of the indictment is now over. The clerk turns to the prisoner. " Are you guilty, or not guilty ? " he asks in a clear voice. Although everyone in that court knows what the answer will be, there is a silence so profound that a pin might be heard drop. Everyone seemed desirous of liearing the prisoner's voice. Even I, myself, lean forward, and strain every nerve to hear his plea. There is a long, dead pause. It may be that the prisoner docs not understand that he is ex- 158 DARK DAYS. pected to reply. It may be that his collapsed state deprives him of the power of speech. I notice that one of the policemen touches him on the shoulder, and whispers to him. Still for a moment there is silence. It is broken, but not by the prisoner. Philippa gives a low, soft wail, heard only, I think, by me. " I can bear it no longer," she whispers. She snatches her hand from mine. She throws back her thick, dark veil, and stands erect in the body of the court. I cast one glance at her pale but determined-looking face, then bow my head upon my hands, and wish that death might at that moment smite us both. All is over ! I am conquered ! Even as I hide my face I see every eye in that thronged court turning to the tall, majestic, dark- robed figure which rises in the midst of that motley throng. Then, clear and loud, I hear her beloved voice ring out. " My lord," I hear her say. I raise my head at the sound. The eyes of bench, bar, jury, and public are fixed upon her. The very prisoner turns in the dock and gazes straight at her. She gets no farther than those two words. " Order in the court ! Order in the court ! " is shouted so sternly and fiercely that she all but loses her presence of mind. She falters, she hesitates, and glances helplessly around. I seize the moment. By sheer force I drag her back to her seat. I pray her by the love she bears me to wait in silence. I draw the veil over her face, to hide it from the hundreds of curious eyes which are turned upon it. Whilst so doing, I hear the sharp mandate, " Turn that person out of court." Had any serious attempt been made to put the order in force, I believe that Philippa would have resisted, and once more attempted to assert the DARK DAYS. I59 prisoner's innocence and her own guilt^-if it was guilt. Fortunately the policeman who draws near us to carry out the order is my friend of the morning who had accepted my gold. It may be on this account he favours us. It may be, when a momentary disturbance subsides, and the perpe- trator does not seem bent upon repeating it, tliat the expulsion is not insisted upon. It may be that Philippa's accosting the judge was looked upon as a solecism brought about by the excitement of a weak woman who was in some way connected with the prisoner. I suppose such a scene does sometimes occur ; and perhaps, if its repetition is guarded against, a humanely- minded judge will not deny the offender the sorry comfort of seeing her friend's trial to the end. Perhaps the judge who this day presides is unusually good- naturcd and easy-going. Any way, our friendly {)oliceman does not carry out his instructions, and the court resumes its business. liut many curious looks are cast at the veiled woman by my side. I notice that the hawk-faced Mrs. Wilson turns in her seat, and looks always at us; and, strange to say, I notice that the prisoner in the dock is still staring fixedly in our direction. The policemen take him by the arms ; face him round towards the bench. Once more the solcMiin question, "Are you guilty, or not guilty? "is asked. A short excited pause. The j)risoner answers. Well I know what he says, althou^^di he sjieaks so faintly that I do not hear his voice. Strange to say, his answer seems to create considerable agitation. People who are near to him look back and whisper to those in the rear. A barrister turns in his se.it, and stares in a dumbfounded way at a gentleman behind him. This gentleman rises up fussily, and bustles round to the dock, where for a minute he seems to be engaged in earnest conversation with iGo DARK DAYS. the prisoner. The latter shakes his head sullenly and hopelessly. In an apparently highly-excited state, the gentleman, whom I rightly judge to be solicitor for the defence, hurries back, whispers to the barrister, and seems by his gesture to bo washing his hands of some responsibility. What does it all mean ? Why do they not go on with the trial ? The suspense is growing more than I can bear. Hush! the judge speaks. The excitement is spreading tlirough the court. In spite of the warning looks of the authorities, people are whispering to each other. The judge is speaking earnestly to the prisoner. He seems to be explaining something, counselling something. Still the man shakes his head sullenly. What does it all mean ? Mean ! The next solemn action, the next solemn words of the red-robed judge answer my question, and tell me that a thing has come to pass which never entered within the range of probability. Or have I been asleep ? Has the trial been gone through, and the worst, the very worst, happened? No; five minutes ago I pulled Philippa back to her seat, and forced her to with- hold her damning words. Even now my grasp is on her to prevent her from rising. Ha ! Look ! The judge places a square of black silk upon his head. The prisoner cowers down. He would fall, were it not for the arms which support him on either side. A rustle of intense feeling runs through the court. Men catch their breath ; vv^omen's eyes are distended. The sensa- tion-seekers are rewarded. Hark! The judge speaks. I can hear him plainly now, although there is deep emotion in his voice. " Prisoner at the bar, you are guilty, by your ov/n confession, of an atrocious, cold-blooded murder, the motive for which is known but to DARK DAYS. l6l 5'ourself and your God. For me only the painful duty remains " Guilty ! On his own confession ! The man guilty ! The man to save whom we have travelled ni.qht and day — he the criminal ! Philippa, my peerless Philippa ! my wife ! my love ! Innocent ! Innocent ! This — this revulsion of feeling is more than human nature can bear ! "Order in the court! Order in the court!" What is it ? Who is it ? Only a woman in a dead faint. She is borne out tenderly, lovingly, proudly, by a man who clasps his precious burden to a heart full of such rapture as few of his fellow- creatures can ever have known. But let it also be hoped that few have ever en- dured such grief and anguish I 1? l62 DARK DAYS. CHAPTER XVI. "WHERE ARE THE SNOWS THAT FELL LAST YEAR?" 'LTHOUGH, whilst engaged in the labour of writing this story, I have many times re- ' SIL gretted that I am nothing more than a plain narrator of facts and incidents, not a master of fiction, I think I have not yet felt the regret so strongly as at the moment when I begin this chap- ter. The sombre acts of the life drama in which Philippa and I played parts so painful, so full of grief, and even if brightened by a ray of joy, of joy fallacious and of uncertain tenure — these acts I have found little difficulty in describing ; I had simply to throw my mind back to the pictures of the past and reproduce them in words. The task, whether well or ill done, was not a hard one. But now, , when in one moment and as if by magic, everything changed ; when sorrow seemed to be simply swept out of our lives ; when that poor abject wretch's confession of guilt, forced from him in some mysterious way, not only left our whole future bright and cloudless, but consigned to rest all the ghosts of the past, whose shadowy forms had hitherto dogged our steps and denied us the happiness rightly due to those who love as we loved ; now it is that I feel my shortcomings acutely, and wish my pen was more powerful than it is. And yet a word will describe the state of my own mind as, when the last solemn words were spoken by the judge — spoken in a voice which showed emotion and distress at being compelled to con- DARK DAYS. 163 demn a fellow-creature to death — I carried my fainting wife from the crowded, reeking court. The momentary sense of rapture passed away ; bewil- derment, sheer bewilderment, is the word for what was left. I could not think. All my reasoning faculties had left me. In fact, I believe that had Philippa not swooned, and so needed my mechani- cally given care, I myself should have fallen sense- less on that threshold which an hour before we crossed, thinking we were going to endless ^misery. I remember this much. As I laid Philippa on one of the hard wooden benches in the stone cor- ridor I kept repeating to myself, " Innocent, my love is innocent ; that man is guilty." I suppose this continual reiteration was an endeavour to impress the tremendous fact upon my brain, which for a time was incredulous, and refused to entertain it. I threw up my wife's veil and bathed her face with water, which was brought me by a kindly policeman. Presently her eyes opened, and con- sciousness returned ; she strove to speak. My presence of mind was fast returning. " Dear- est," I whispered, "as you love me, not a word in this place. In a minute we will leave it." She was obedient ; but I knew from the wild look of joy in her eyes that cbcdionce tasked her to the utmost. She was soon able to rise, and then we walked from the court, pushed our way through the crowd who waited in the street, busily discussing the sudden termination to the trial, threw ourselves into a cab, and in .mother moment were alternately weeping and laughing in each other's arms. It was, however, but for a moment. The inn to which we drove was close at hand. There we were shown into a room, and were at last free to give the fullest vent to our pent '.ip feelings. It would be absurd for me to attempt to reproduce 164 DARK DAYS. our words, our disjointed exclamations. It would be sacrilege for me to describe the tears we shed, the embraces, the loving caresses we lavished on each other. Think of us an hour, one short hour ago 1 Think of us now ! The curse laid upon us by that awful night removed for ever ! Our secret kept, or secrecy, if still advisable, no longer abso- lutely needful. Phihppa, in spite all I had seen, in spite of all she had told me on that night when I found her, a wild distracted woman, in a storm the wildest that years have known, guiltless of her husband's death! Innocent, not only as she had in my eyes always been, but also, what was far more, innocent in her own eyes ! Small wonder that for nearly an hour we sat with our arms twined around each other, and used few words which were more than rapturous exclama- tions of love and joy. There ! I cannot, will not describe the scene more fully. I will say no more, except this : when at last we grew calmer, Philippa turned to me, and once more I saw terror gathering in her eyes. " Basil," she said, "it is true — it must be true?" "True! of course it is." " That man, the prisoner, could not have pleaded guilty when he was innocent." " Why should he ? It meant death to him, poor wretch." " But why did he confess ? " " Who can tell ? Remorse may have urged him to do so." Philippa rose, and her next words were spoken quickly and with excitement. " No, I did not do it. The thought, the dream haunted me, but I did not believe it until I heard those men talk of the way he died. Then it all came back to me. The mad storm, the dead man over whom I stood ; even then I don't think I DARK DAYS. 165 actually believed it. It was when you told me how you found me, that I lost all hope." " Dearest, forgive me. I should have believed in the impossibility of the act even in your delirium, even if I had seen it done. Philippa, say you for- give me." She threw her arms around me. " Basil, my husband," she whispered, " you have done much for me, do one thing more ; find out the whole truth — find out why this man killed him, how he killed him ; find out, satisfy me that his confession was a true one ; then, Basil, such happiness as I have never even dreamed of will be mine ! " "And mine," I echoed. I promised to do as she wished. Indeed, the moment I had recovered my senses, I resolved to learn everything that could be learned. Once and for all I would clear away every cloud of doubt, although that cloud might be no bigger than a man's hand. But Philippa must not stop in Tewnham. Her strange conduct during the trial, her fainting-fit after it, were bound to have attracted the attention of those present. No doubt she was looked upon as a friend of the prisoner, who was overpowered by the sudden and awful ending to the case. Still, she must not stay at Tewnham, We went to London by an afternoon train. The next morning I again ran down to the place at whicli the trial was held. I ascertained the name of the convict's solicitor, and as soon as I found him at leisure requested the favour of an interview. I found him apparently a worthy, respectable man, but of a nature inclined to be choleric. I told him I called on him because I was much interested in the case of the convict William Evans. Mr. Crisp, that was his name, frowned r66 DARK DAYS. and fidgeted about with some papers which were in front of him. " I would rather not talk about the case," he said sharply. " Nothing for many years has so much annoyed me." " Why ? Your client only met with his deserts." " True — true. But I am a lawyer, sir. Our province is not to think so much of deserts as of what we can do for a client. It is hard to try and serve a fool." " No doubt ; but I scarcely understand your meaning." " Meaning ! I could have saved that man. There was no evidence to speak of against him. What did it amount to ? A pistol of a peculiar make found in a field half a mile away from the scene of the murder ; one man who could swear that the pistol was my client's property — a pawn- broker, to whom he wanted to sell it. Positively, sir, that was the whole case for the Crown. Never so disgusted in my life — never ! " The excitable little man's looks showed that his disgust was not assumed. So the pistol which I had thoughtlessly hurled away had, after all, furnished the clue and brought the criminal to justice. Although I was now quite satisfied that the right person was to suffer for the dark crime, I resolved to get all the additional information I could. " But why did he plead guilty ? " I asked. ** Because he was a fool," rapped out Mr. Crisp. ." It was like committing suicide. I don't care a putton for the man himself; but I confess I was annoyed at seeing my case all knocked to pieces py his obstinacy. I went to him ; if you were in court, you no doubt saw me. I begged him to "withdraw his plea. I told him I could save him. |Yet the fool insisted." ^^ DARK DAYS. 1 67 " Did penitence or remorse urge him ?" " I don't know. He could have had more time for penitence and remorse if he had let me save him from the gallows. No ; he says, ' It 's no good — not a bit of good. You don't know all I know. There 's some one in court who knows all about it — saw it all done. She 's come to hang me.' I have no idea what he meant." I started. I knew what the man meant. He, in common with everyone else in that court, had turned and looked at Philippa as she rose from her seat and addressed the judge. It was the sight of Philippa that had taken away the wretch's last hope of escape. " I washed my hands of the fellow, of course," continued Mr. Crisp ; " but I did take the trouble to enquire if any witnesses for the prosecution had been allowed to enter the court. I am assured they were all kept in waiting outside." I sat for some moments in deep thought. The solicitor looked at me, as if he fancied I had already taken up as much of his valuable time as he could spare. " Js there any way of gaining access to the condemned man?" I said. "Could you, for instance, get an order to see him?" " No doubt I could ; but I have no object in seeing him." " I will give you an object," I said. " 1 want you to sec that man, and, if possible, get a written, or at least dictated, confession from him — not of the bald fact that he is guilty, but of all jxirticulars connected with the murder." Mr. Crisp looked surprised, and expressed his opinion that it was all but impossible to obtain what I wanted. I had taken rather a fancy to the brisk-spoken, sliarp little man. He seemed to mc (rustworili)- ; l68 DARK DAYS. SO that, after consideration, I determined to confide to him my reason for making this request. Under the assurance of professional secrecy, I told him briefly so much as I thought fit of Philippa's and my own connection with the events of that night. He listened with an interest which augured well for the reception which awaits the sombre tale I now give to the world. His curiosity seemed excited, and he promised to see the convict, and, if possible, learn all I wanted to know. I left my address, and bade him good-day. I did not care to linger at Tewnham ; so I walked down to the railway-station, intending to return to town by the next train. As I waited on the platform a down-train came in. A sudden impulse seized me. The day was still young. I had time to spare. I crossed tlie bridge, entered the train, and in a quarter of an hour was at Roding. I went there because I was impelled by a desire to once more visit the actual scene of the beginning of all these troubles. I walked that road which Sir Mervyn Ferrand had walked that dark night. But oh, how changed everything was ! Yet not more changed than our own lives. It was a glorious afternoon in September. The rain of the preceding day had left the earth moist and fresh. The fields, on either side of the road, were gleaming with that bright, pure emerald which they wear after the ruthless scythe has swept away the ripe grass and the marguerites and other flowers which grow among it ; or else they were filled from hedge to hedge with a golden sea of waving corn, or sheaves waiting to be garnered ; for the harvest that year was not early. The wild roses were long over, but fragrant honeysuckle and other wild flowers still made gay the hedgerows and banks. The birds bnd awakened from their August silence, DARK DAYS. l6g and were singing once more. The great sleepy cows lay under the shade of the trees. The large mows of new hay stood side by side with their dingy-looking, but more valuable, elder brothers. The whole land seemed wrapped in happy autumnal repose. The scene was calm, peaceful, and thoroughly typical of England. So beautiful it was, so full I now felt of love for my native land, that had these pages been then written, I should, upon my return home, have erased all my glowing description of Seville. A breath of soft but fresh air came blowing from the far-away downs. I drew in a deep draught ; I threw back my shoulders and stood erect. I laughed aloud in my great happiness as a comical picture, familiar to my childhood, of Christian losing his burden, rose before my mind, and seemed to be the exact thing wanted to illustrate my own case. Yes, the burden I iiad borne had fallen from my back for ever ! Ah ! here is the spot — the very si)ot wh re Sir Mervyn fell. It was here, just under that cluster of ragged-robins, I must have placed his corpse, little thinking that the kind white snow would hide it, and save my love and me. Oh, how I prayed in those days that the bitter weather might last ; that its iron grip would hold the world fast •.mtil Philippa's health and strength returned ! It did so, and saved ns 1 "Where are the snows that fell last year?" Ah ! should I not rather sing, " Where is the griil<-»t powlMe last*.*— CH._Ail Albums are sen! free bv i an .is post. No extra charge for postage to any part of th.' Uiiite.l Kingdom, New I'.'.m liptivc I'ri.-.^ List of Postage .Stamj.s, hJtamp Albums, ic, &c., gratis and post free All Stamps sold by us are n-arranled j/enmne. Kele.lions of Stamps sent on approval. V/HITFIELD, KING & Co., Lacey Street, IPSWICH. EstablishiiJ ]»;;i. THATCHEH ^ PRESENTS College Green, Bristol. The best House in the World for all kinds of Etnticncrr. Zlrms, Greet, an? /Iftonociram Bfce. 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