Vilas County news. [volume] (Eagle River, Vilas County, Wis.) 1896-1927, 1896-12-21
DARK DAYS
BY HUGH CONWAY.
CHAPTER VI.-(Continued.)
THE SECRET KEPT.

| that night. Yet one day a kind OF NOR
| bid fascination 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 a
| dreary temptation to probe the white
heap with my stick and make sure as
sailed me. / resisted it, and turned away
| from the spot.
There was q certain amount of traffic
on the road. By now the snow had
been beaten down by cart-wheels and peo-
pies feet, so that it was quite possible to
walk from one place to another. AS /
reached the house from which Philippe
fed to seek refuge with me, [ encoun-
tered Mrs. Wilson. | was going to pass
without any sign Of recognition, but she
| stopped me.
II thought you were going to take your
| sister away? she said
| Lady Ferrand was unfortunately tax
en- very i'll when she left you. She is now
| hardly well enough to be removed"
HAS she heard from Sir Meryyn?'
asked Mrs. Wilson, abruptly.
"Not to my knowledge" | replied.
ut is strange. You know, [ suppose
that he was expected at my house that
night?''
"Certainly l do. 1t was for that rea-
son my sister left you.''
Mrs. Wilson looked at me thought
| fully. "She will not meet him againY
Never" | said, thinking, as [ spoke,
| that my words bore meaning only
known to myself.
Does she hate him?' she asked, sud
denly.
"She has been cruelty wronged," l
said, evasively.
She laid her hand on IN YARN. Lis
ten she said. IF / thought she hated
him, | would see her before she leaves,
and tell her something. If [ thought he
hated her, | would tell him. I will wait
and see."
She turned away and walked on Ieav-
| ing me to make the best of her enigmati-
cal words. She was evidently a strange
woman, and / felt more sure than ever
was in some way mixed up with Sir
| Mervyn herrand'S early life. | had q
| great mind to follow her and demand an
explanation, but caution told me that the
less | said to her the better 1t was
| from this woman's knowledge of the re-
lationship 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 PAGES, Mrs Will
son turned and came back to me. ''Give
me an address," she said; 81 may want
to write to you
| hesitated then [ told her that any
| letters sent to my bankers in London
would reach me sooner or later. 1t was
too soon to excite suspicion by conceal
ment of ones movements
1t was after | had gaZed at that white
tomb by the roadside that my impatience
to remove Philippa grew fercer and
hercer. Moreover | had at last made
up my mind what to do with my pre-
clous charge. AS soon as she was well
enough to bear the journey, I resolevd to
take her to London, and place her in the
hands OF one of the truest, noblest, ten
derest 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 Philippians sad tale-all
/ save the one dark chapter of
which she herself, 1 hoped. knew
nothing. [ would take her to my mother.
| would tell my mother how [ loved her:
l would appeal to her love for me, and
ask ner to take my poor stricken girl to
her heart. even as she would take a
| daughter; and | dared to hope that, if
only Tor my sake, my prayer would be
| granted.
Philippa was now thoroughly conva-
lescent AS | lay down my pen for a
moment and think of that time with it's
fears and troubles, it is a marvel to me
| that could have dared to wait SO long
| before moving her from the neighbor-
hood. can only attribute my lingering
to the sense of fatality that all would 20
right, or to the professional instinct
which forbade me urging patient to do
anything which might retard recovery
| but the time had at last come
Save for her quiet and subdued man
ner. my love was almost her old self
again. Her words and manner to me
were tender, affectionate and sisterly |
need hardly say that during that time
no word crossed my lips which l would
have recalled. Love, if not the thought
Of it, had laid aside until happier days
dawned; for-I say it advisedly, and at
the risk of -Philippa was to me
| pure and innocent as on the day when
| first we met. If her hands were stained
with the blood OF Sir Mervyn, Ferrand1,
she knew it not. Her wrongs had goad-
ed her to madness, and her madness was
responsible for the act, not she herself
| Inc mans name never crossed her
| lips. For all she spoke of him he might
never have existed, or, at the most, been
but part of forgotten dream. AS
! soon as she was well enough to rise from
her bed, and [ 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 | found her gazing at me with anx-
| ious, troubled eyes, as if trying to read
something which [ 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 | could. "You came in high
state of fever and delirium."
Where had [ been? What had l been
doing?"
you came straight from Mrs Will
| sons | suppose. [ know no more"
| Then she sighed and turned her head
away; but | 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 fill those
| hours which were at present blank to
| her.
AT last, exactly fortnight from the
| fatal day, we left my home. [ was now
| what is legally termed an accessory af-
| ter the act, and was making every eff
nrt 10 thn III ti1n