Staunton vindicator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1860-1896, 1885-03-20

ing tears, crossed the pleasant patio. /
pau~ed in the centre, and plucking a lovely
spray from the great orange tree kissed it
and gave it to my wife. Without word
she placed it in the bosom of her dress. As
she drew her mantle aside to do so, for the
first time I noticed that she Wore the very
dress which clad her on that fatal night.
Although it was utterly unsuited to the
almost tropical heat through which we
should have to travel, dared not relnon-
strate with her. Now, Of all times, her
slightest wish should be my law.
Noiselessly | undid the massive studded
wooden gate, which at night time closed the
entrance to the patio. Unseen, we stepped
INTO the shady, narrow street. Our luggage
was light. | could carry it with ease to the
station, which was only short distance eff.
We were there only too soon.
We had to wait some time ere thu tre;c,
which, following the example of the true
Spaniard, declines on any consideration to
be hurried, made its appearance. We took
our seats in silence At last the dignitied
train condescended to move onward. We
sat side by side, and gazed and gaz ID in the
direction of the beautiful city from which
we We're flying; gazed until we saw the very
last OF 1t, until even the great towering
GlraIda was lost to view Then, and only
then, L think We Iully realized to what end
we we're speeding.
The next three days and nights seem now
little more to me than q whirling dream.
On and on we went to work out our fate,
over the same ground which had traversed,
with scarcely less agitated feelings, some
months ago. l. ground my teeth when
thought how little my strenuous and SEEM
mgly successful efforts had awaited. Now,
not from any omission OF precaution; not
because the law compelled; not by the exer-
else OF force; but simply on account OF the
great d1ctum of right and wrong, we were,
of our own accord, retracing our STEPS to
lace the danger from which we had fled
Oh, bitter irony of destiny!
What was money to me now? Nothing
but SO much dross! 1t could do one thing,
only one, that gold which I lavished so
freely on that journey. 1t could assure that
Philippa and l might travel alone. 1t could
give US privacy for the time that journey
lasted, that was ALL
Yet although alone, we spoke but little.
Our thoughts we're not such as can be ex-
pressed by words. Her hand in mine, her
head on my shoulder-sleeping when we
others faces-knowing that every mile of
sunny or starlit country over which we
passed brought us nearer to the end. All! l
understood then how it is that lovers who
are menaced by some great sorrow can kill
themselves, and die smiling in each others
arms! We might have done so; but our
deaths would have left to perish that
stranger whom we were speeding to save.
So, as In dream, the hours, the days, the
nights, went by. We might have been trav-
elling through the fairest scenery in the
world or through tie most arid desert. l
scarcely troubled to glance out of the car
rage window. The world tor me was in
side.
1t was after we left Paris-Paris, which
today seemed almost within stones throw
Of London-that / aroused myself and
brace1 my energies to discuss finally with
Philippe our proper plan of action l felt
that my right course would be to go straight
to some solicitor. tell the tale, and ask him
to put matters in train. But l could not
bring myself to do this. Our secret was as
yet our own. Moreover, through the misery
of those hours, one ray of hope had broken
upon me- If Philippe could be brought to
yield to my guidance, to follow my instruc-
tons, it was not beyond the bounds of pos
sibility that we might be saved, and saved
with clean hands
Dearest I whispered, tonight we
shall be in London"
Her fingers frightened on mine. 'And at
Tewnham?" she said. "We shall be in
time?'
''In ample time But, Philippa, listen"
sBasil, as you love me, not one word to
tempt, to dissaude me!'
''Not one; but listen. Sweetest, if you
will be guided by ME, even now all may go
well. This man"
''The POI man who is standing in my
place?"
tempt you. Think; he is, no doubt a man
of a lowly station in life Philippe, l am
rich, very rich"
81 do not understand you," she said.
pressing her hand to her brow.
money will compensate for anything.
Let him stand his trial. He is innocent. If
there is justice in the land, he may, he must
no MOI
But the agony of mind he must pass
throughln
''For that l will pay him over and over
again. He may be but a country boor, to
whom thousand pounds would be mex
haustible wealth. But, whatever his sta
unknown hand shall make him bless the day
which laid him under the false accusation.
Reflect, look at the matter in every light l
swear to you that, in my opinion, we may,
with clear conscience, await the result of
the trial"
She sig he'd, but made no answer Her
silence was joy to me. 1t told me that my
specious argument carried weight l took
her hands and kissed them. | told her again
and again that loved her; that my life as
we'll as hers depended on her yielding:
TWAS long before she yielded. The thought
of fellow-creature lying in prison, perhaps
for months, and tomorrow to stand in
shame before his judges, on account of a
deed which she hersel' had done, was anguish
to her noble nature Then, growing desperate
at seeing the only plank which could save
us from wreck spurned for the sake Of what
in my present mood, l was able to believe
too finely strained scruple, used my last
argument. l told her that it would be not
only she who would suffer for that uncon-
scious act but that /, her husband must pay
the penalty due from an accessory after the
crime.
He ven forgive me for the anguish my
words caused that loving heart! Philippa,
on whom the intelligence of my danger fell
like thunderbolt, sank back in her seat,
pale and trembling. Had I ever doubted
that nv wife's heart-whole love was my own
that look would have dispelled the doubt
She aged and besought me to leave her
at the mkt station; to let her finish the jour
ney and make her avowal alone My reply
was Short | ut sufficiently long to put all
hope of my consenting to such 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"
81 must be in the court, Basil. 1 must
hear the trial. If the worst happen, there
must not be the delay of moment; then
and there [ must proclaim the truth"
"You shall be at hand-close at hand.
will be present
mol I must be there. | must hear and
see all. If the man is found guilty, l 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 PLACED Nothing could
atone for his anguish at hearing himself
condemned to death for crime he knows
nothing Of l must be there. Promise me
shall hr there, and for your sake will do as
you wish"
1t was the best concession could get.
promised ! concealed the fact that if, when
sentence was pronounced, woman rose in
the body of the court and asserted the pris-
oner's innocence and her own guilt, the
proba bilities were she would be summarily
eiecte l. This made no difference. Let
Philippa be silent; let the man be found not
guilty, and the next train could bear Eus
back to Seville.
Yes. even now there was hope!
CHAPTER XIV.