Lewiston teller. [volume] (Lewiston, North Idaho) 1878-1900, 1891-10-01
DARK DAYS.
by HUGH CONWAY.
CHAPTER VI.

| I. is needless to say that when awok
the next morning my first thought was o
Philippe; but my first action was to go t.
my window and look at the skies. NJ,
spirits rose; felt that Philippe would b.
saved. The wind was due east; so long a.
1t stayed there the frost would last, and tina
white tomb on the roadside hide the secre
| of the dreadful night.
found, moreover, that Philippa's condi
| ton was all that could, under the crcum
| stances, be hoped for. Since she had awak
| ened from that long sleep into which thu
opiate had plunged her, there had been ne
| recurrence of the delusions; no symptom.
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
In my mind. The heavens themselves seem.
ed to be shielding us and working for us.
Day by day Philippe grew better and
stronger. As soon rs 1t 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, IL thaw set
IN, before then, Philippe must fly from the
scene of the tragedy in which she had play
ed so terrible, yet morally irresponsible, 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 rs we now
termed ourselves, would she ever consent to
accompany me abroad? Had the right to
put the woman loved in such an equivocal
position?
No! thousand times no! And yet knew
there was no safety for her In England: and
with whom could she leave T. lgand save
with me?
dared not urge upon her my true reason
for fight. 1t 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 1t 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.
I had scarcely quilted the house since that
night. Yet one day kind of morbid fasci-
nation had led me TO walk along the road
toward R0ding. 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 1t, 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-wheels and peoples feet, SO
that 1t was quite possible to walk from one
place to another. As l reached the house
from which Philippe fed to seek refuge
with me, encountered Mrs. Wilson. was
going to pass without any sign of recogni-
ton, but she stopped me.
II thought you were 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"
''llas she heard from Sir Mervyn?" asked
Mrs. Wilson, abruptly.
mot 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" said, thinking as spoke that
my words bore meaning only known to
myself.
docs she hate him"' she asked, suddenly.
she has been cruelty wronged," l said,
evasively.
she said. IF thought she hated him,
would see her before she leaves, and tell her
something. II / thought he hated her, |
would tell him. 1 will wait and see.''
She turned away and walked OH, leaving
words. She was evidently strange wo-
man, and felt more sure than ever was in
some way mixed up with Sir Mervyn Fer
rand's early life. l had great mind to fol-
low her and demand an explanation, but
caution told me that the less l said to her
the better. 1t was from this woman's knowl-
edge Of the relationship between Philippe
and the dead man that, when the secret Of
sAc u'SuS wa Aotu udlC, Tic SICNtcSt uOIIScI
must arise.
After walking few PAGES, Mrs. Wilson
turned and came back to me. Give me an
address" she said; II may want to write to
YOU"
Ihesitated; then told her that any let
ters sent to my bankers in London would
reach me sooner or later. II was too soon
to excite suspicion BY concealment of ones
II was after ! had gazed at that white
tomb by the roadside that my impatience to
remove Philippe grew fercer and iercer.
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 go to her, and tell her all
Philippa's sad tale-all save the one dark
chapter of which she herself, hoped, knew
nothing. would take her to my mother.
would tell my mother how loved her; /
would appeal to her love for me. and ask