Springfield globe-republic. (Springfield, Ohio) 1884-1887, 1885-02-15
CHAPTER VI.
THE SECRET KEPT.

THE SECRET KEPT.
1t 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
nv window and look at the skies. My
spirits rose; 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 hide the secret
of the dreadful night.
found, moreover, that Philippa's condi-
ton was all that could, under the circum-
stances, be hoped for. Since she had awak-
ened 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 quiet and collect
ed. She spoke but little, and the few words
which she did speak had no bearing on for
hidden 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 woke to find the wind still
blowing from the east, the skies clear and
showing every evidence of long spell Of
hard weather. A presentiment that we
should be saved was now firmly established
1
ed to be shielding US and working for US.
Day by day Philippa grew better and
stronger. As soon as it became certainty
that all danger to life or reason was at an
end, began to consider what course to
adopt. The moment she was well enough
to risk the journey, or even, if thaw set
in, before then, Philippa must fly from the
scene of the tragedy in which she had play
l II irrasnonribIa n
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 the right to
put the woman l loved in such an equiyocal
position?
No! thousand times nc! And yet knew
| there was no safety for her in England; and
J with whom could she leave England save
| with me?
| dared not urge upon her my true reason
| for flight. 1t was my greatest hope that the
| events of that night had left her mind when
the madness lett her, never to be recalled.
| And now time was pressing; ten days had
passed by. The glorious frost still kept ouI
counsel, but it could not last forever. The
| time must come when the white heaps Of
snow 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.
Ihad scarcely quilted the house since that
| night. Yet one day kind of morbid fasci-
nation had led me to walk along the road
toward Roding. and to halt at what judged
to be the spot where | laid the dead man by
the side of the road. fancied | could single
out the very drift under which that awful
thing lay, and dreary temptation to probe
the white heap with my stick, and make
sure, assailed me. resisted it, and turned
away from the spot.
There was certain amount Of traffic on
the road. By now the snow had been beaten
down by cart-whees and peoples feet, so
that it was quite possible to walk from one
place to another. As l reached the house
from which Philippa fed TO seek refuge
with me, encountered Mrs. Wilson. was
going to pass without any sign Of recosni-
ton, but she stopped me.
Il thought you We're going to take your
sister away?' she said.
Lady Ferrand was unfortunately taken
very i'll when she left you. She is now hard
ly well enough to be removed"
Has she heard from Sir Mervynw asked
Mrs. Wilson, abruptly.
Not to my knowledge" replied.
1T is strange. You know, l suppose, that
he was expected at my house that night?'
Certainly do. 1t was for that reason
my sister left you"
Mrs. Wilson looked at me thoughtfully.
''She will not meet him again?''
Never" l said, thinking as l spoke that
my words bore meaning only known to
myself.
Does she hate him?" she asked suddenly.
''She has been cruelty wronged," said,
evasively.
She laid her hand on my arm. 'Listen,"
she said. IF thought she hated him, l
would see her before she leaves, and tell her
something. II thought he hated her, l
would tell him. will wait and see.n
She turned away and walked on, leaving
me to make the best of her enigmatical
words. She was evidently strange wo-
man, and felt more sure than ever was in
some way mixed up with Sir Mervyn Fer
ran6's early life. 1 had . great mind to fol-
low her and demand an explanation, but
caution told me that the less said to her
the better. 1t was from this woman's knowl-
edge 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 few PAGES, Mrs. Wilson
turned and came back to me. "Give me an |
address" she said; Il may want to write to |
you"
l hesitated; then told her that any let
tiers sent to my bankers in London would |
reach me sooner or later. 1t was too soon |
to excite suspicion by concealment Of ones |
1t was after had gazed at that white |
tomb by the roadside that my impatience to
remove Philippa grew fiercer and fiercer.
Moreover, had at last made up my mind |
what to do with my precious charge. As
soon as she Is well enough to bear the jour
ney, resolved to take her to London, and
place her in the hands of one of the truest,
nOblest tenderest women in the world, my
mother.
She was in London, waiting for me to Join
her. had written, telling her that the
serious illness of friend prevented me
from leaving my home for some days. Now
resolved to 90 to her, and tell her all
Philippa's sad tale-all save the one dark
chapter Of which she herself, hoped, knew
uuthiilSs Noulu IdhC litI W LlN ulOlntT. i |
would tell my mother how loved her; 1
would appeal to her love for me, and ask
her to take my poor stricken girl to her
heart, even as she would take daughter:
and dared to hope that, if only for my
sake, my prayer would be granted.
Philippa was by now thoroughly GONZALES
lent. As lay down my pen for moment
Ind think Of that time, with its fears and
.roubles, it is a marvel to me that l could
nave dared to wait SO long before removing
her from the neighborhood. can only at
ribute my lingering to the sense of fatality
hat all would go right,or to the professional
instinct which forbade me urging a patient
o do anything which might retard recovery:
,ut the time had at last come.
Save for her quiet and subdued manner,
ny love was almost her old self again. Her
words and manner to me. were tender, af.
ectionate and sisteriy. need hardly say
hat during that time no word crossed INV
ips which would have recalled. Love, Il
S,f fsrr--tI ri,t Q . 4 IL !