Dark days

By Hugh Conway

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Title: Dark days

Author: Hugh Conway


        
Release date: September 16, 2026 [eBook #79594]

Language: English

Original publication: Chicago: M. A. Donohue & Co., 1901

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DARK DAYS ***




  Dark Days

  BY
  HUGH CONWAY

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  M. A. DONOHUE & CO.
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  DARK DAYS

  BY
  HUGH CONWAY

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DARK DAYS




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER I. A PRAYER AND A VOW.
  CHAPTER II. A VILLAIN’S BLOW.
  CHAPTER III. “THE WAGES OF SIN.”
  CHAPTER IV. AT ALL COST, SLEEP?
  CHAPTER V. A WHITE TOMB.
  CHAPTER VI. THE SECRET KEPT.
  CHAPTER VII. THE MELTING OF THE SNOW.
  CHAPTER VIII. FLIGHT.
  CHAPTER IX. SAFE--AND LOVED.
  CHAPTER X. THE SWORD FALLS.
  CHAPTER XI. SPECIAL PLEADING.
  CHAPTER XII. TEMPTED TO DISHONOR.
  CHAPTER XIII. THE LAST HOPE.
  CHAPTER XIV. THE CRIMINAL COURT.
  CHAPTER XV. THE BLACK CAP.
  CHAPTER XVI. “WHERE ARE THE SNOWS THAT FELL LAST YEAR?”
  CHAPTER XVII. CLEAR SKIES.




CHAPTER I.

A PRAYER AND A VOW.


When this story of my life, or of such portions of my life 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 the law of the land. In excuse I can 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 early 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 learned to count the
cost of every rash step; when the transient and fitful flames of the
boy have settled down to a steady, glowing fire which will burn until
only ashes are left; when the strength, the nerve, the intellect, is
or should be at its height; when, in short, one’s years number thirty.

Yet what was I then? A soured, morose, disappointed man; without
ambition, without care for the morrow; without a goal or object in
life. Breathing, eating, drinking, as by instinct. Rising in the
morning, and wishing the day were over; lying down at night, 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 retrospect with triumph. You may go back to the day
when, after having passed my examination with high honors, 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 toward relieving the
sufferings of my fellow-creatures. You may say as I said then, as I say
now, “A noble career; a life full 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 her rich dark beauty! How
different from the pink-white and yellow dolls whom I have seen exalted
as the types of perfection! Warm Southern blood ran through her
veins and tinged her clear brown cheek with color. 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 the father, whom she had
never known; 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,
that for me life and her love meant one and the same thing. Till that
moment there was no woman in the world the sight of whom would have
quickened my pulse by a beat. 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 that
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 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 ability.

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 conscience bound to indorse 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 action 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
comparative poverty. And Philippa! Ah! I would have wrapped Philippa 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 cruelest I have spoken, or
shall speak, against you. Forgive them!)

We were friends--great friends. Such friendship 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 friendship 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 neighborhood, then went to London for a
while. I 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 away the dream from my life.
Alas! I strove in vain. To love Philippa was to love her forever!

One morning a letter came from her. I tore it open. The news it
contained was grievous. Her mother had died suddenly. Philippa was
alone in the world. So far as I knew, she had not a relation left; and
I believed, perhaps hoped, that, save myself, she had no friend.

I needed no time for consideration. That afternoon I was in London.
If I could not comfort her in her great sorrow, I could at least
sympathize 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 or 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 I
cannot recall, but I 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 me she loved me not.

Then, remembering her present helpless condition, 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.

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, respectable street near Regent’s
Park. She expressed her intention of staying on here for a while.

“But alone!” I exclaimed.

“Why not? have I to fear? Still, I am open to reason, if you can
suggest another plan.”

I could suggest no other. Philippa was past twenty-one and would at
once succeed to whatever 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
thought 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 conquered. 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 her for her love so soon after her mother’s death. Let her
recover from the shock, then I will try again. Three months was the
time which 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!

Toward the end of my self-imposed term of 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!” I 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 Philippa, drawing 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 another! In that moment hope
and all the sweetness 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 like 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 me 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 inquiry.

“Doctor North, an old friend of my mother’s and mine,” she said with
composure. “Mr. Farmer,” she 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
stooped to a clandestine union? What manner of man was he who had won
her? Heavens! he must be hard to please if he cared not to show his
conquest to the light of day. Cur! sneak! coward! villain! Stay; he may
have his own reasons for concealment--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 find. 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 beginning 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 gayety to drive remembrance away. Futile
effort! 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 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 Mervyn 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.”

And this was her husband--Philippa’s husband!

I clinched 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? Moreover, I felt that she had
revealed her secret to me in confidence. If there were good reasons for
the concealment, I might do her irretrievable harm by letting this man
know that I was aware of his true position in society. No, I could not
call him to account. But I must do something, or in time to come my
grief may be rendered doubly deep by self-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 destination 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 honor and
happiness might be the lot of her I loved; I swore that were she
wronged I would with my own hand take vengeance on the man who wronged
her.

For myself I prayed nothing--not even forgetfulness, I loved Philippa:
I had lost her forever! The past, the present, the future were all
summed up in these words!




CHAPTER II.

A VILLAIN’S BLOW.


They 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 Philippa 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 profession 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 unwelcome to
me. 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 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 would 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 inquiries 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 while 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 slightest
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! Alas! all things in this life come too late.

Now that I was no longer forced to mingle with men in order to gain the
means of living, I absolutely 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 was little
more than a cottage--some five miles away from the tiny town of Roding.
Here I was utterly unknown, and could live exactly 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 Sphinx; 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 usually relegated to female servants.

Looking back upon that time of seclusion, as a medical man, I wonder
what 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 at last have affected
my brain; that sooner or later I must have developed symptoms of
melancholia. Professionally speaking, the probabilities 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 in 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, ask myself to what
end was I directing my studies. The accumulation of knowledge? Tush!
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 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 understand my mental state.
Whether you sympathize with me or not depends entirely on 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 she married for the second time. My
stepfather 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 proposed 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 thought 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.

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 see the stars. They shone so
peacefully, so calmly, so coldly; they seemed so unlike 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 had darkened; moreover, I noticed that feathery flakes of
snow were accumulating in the corner of each pane. I went close to the
window and peered out into the 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--was a
woman; and that woman was Philippa, my 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 felt 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 mine; they were as 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 kneeled 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!

As I looked down at the fair woman kneeling at 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-registered it in all its
entirety.

At last she raised her face to mine. In her eyes was a sombre fire,
which until now I had never seen there. “Philippa! 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 forever,” 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 that 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 to gaze at her and tell myself that I was not
dreaming; that Philippa was really here; that it was her voice that 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 color. Moreover, it was 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 finely rounded, as ever. She stood firm and erect. Yet I
trembled as I gazed at that pale proud face and those dark solemn eyes.
I dared not for the while ask her why she sought me.

She was the first to break silence. “You are changed, Basil,” she said.

“Time changes every one,” 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 passionately as ever.

“I have heard of you once or twice,” she said softly. “You are rich
now, they tell me, but unhappy.”

“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 color 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 surprising 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?

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 neighborhood?”

“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 indescribable.

“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! Before we
parted he struck me. Struck--me! He cursed me and struck me! 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!” 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 learned it.”

She threw a letter toward me--threw it with a gesture of loathing, as
one throws a nauseous reptile from one’s hand. I opened it mechanically.

“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 the 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! I have fallen low; but not so
low as you thought.”

She buried her face in her hands while 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 ceremony 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 thing 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; I would rather walk.”

The letter was unsigned. My blood boiled as I read it; yet, in spite
of my rage, I felt a grim humor as I realized the exquisite cynicism
possessed by the writer. Here was a man striking a foul and recreant
blow at a woman whom he once loved--a blow that must crush her to
the earth. His own words confess him a rogue, a bigamist; and yet he
can speak 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 keeping 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 ground my
teeth, and felt that there was 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
event? No black after to-morrow.”

Her mood had once more become excited. As before, her words came with
feverish rapidity. I took her hands in mine; they were now burning.

“Philippa, dearest, be calm. 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, my
brother, you will take me far away--far away?”

“Where you wish. Every land is one as 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 objection 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 toward her home.

I asked her with whom she was staying. She told me with a widow
lady and two children, named Wilson. She went to them at Sir Mervyn
Ferrand’s command. Mrs. Wilson, he told her, was a distant connection
of his own, and he had made 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. O Basil! Basil! why are such men allowed
to live?”

For the first time Philippa 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 endeavored 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 see this lady
with whom you are staying. I shall tell her I am your brother; that for
some time I have known how shamefully your husband has neglected you;
and that now, with your full consent, I mean to take you away. Whether
this woman believes 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 assenting 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 will 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. Something
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 head
a little, and gave a sigh of relief as she felt the keen air on her
temples. Poor girl! 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.

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 determined 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 the 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 woman’s charms might once have been,
she could now boast of very few.

There were lines around her mouth and on her brow which told of
suffering; and, as I judged it, the calm, resigned suffering, which
often leaves a sweet if sad expression on the face; but fierce,
rebellious, 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 apologized
for the lateness of my call; then hastened to tell her its object.
She listened with polite impassibility. She made no comment when
I repeatedly spoke of my so-styled sister as Lady Ferrand. It was
clear that, as Philippa had said, Mrs. Wilson was convinced as to the
valid nature of the marriage. I inveighed roundly 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 unfortunate 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 anything. “We are
connections,” she said carelessly.

“You must have been surprised at his sending his wife away at such a
time?”

“I am not in the habit of feeling surprised 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, exaltation, and, it may be, hope,
were strangely and inextricably mingled.




CHAPTER III.

“THE WAGES OF SIN.”


Morning! 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 devotion, 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! what should
I care for the world or its sneers? To whom, save myself, should I
be answerable? 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 furnished one. Not that I should have
troubled, when I went into my seclusion, about such a superfluity as
a guest-chamber; but as it happened I had bought the house and the
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. William
manifested 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, but handy way to get
Philippa’s room in trim. As soon as this was done, and the neglected
chamber made cosey and warm-looking, I told him to borrow a horse and
cart somewhere, and fetch the luggage from Mrs. Wilson’s. He was to
mention no names; simply to say that 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.
I wished that I had an enchanter’s wand to turn the 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-place; for I remembered how passionately she loved flowers.
Alas! I had not seen a flower for months.

Then I drew out Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s letter, read it again and again,
and cursed the writer in my heart.

William was away about two hours; then he made his appearance with
some boxes. I was delighted to see these tangible signs that Philippa
meant to keep her promise. Till that moment 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 labors 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 gayly, and in his worldly cynicism certain of cajoling, buying
off, or in some other way silencing the woman who had in an evil day
trusted to his honor 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! He would meet this man, and be called to account.

Stern and sinister as were my thoughts--freely and unreservedly as I
record them: as indeed I endeavor 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 honor, was due from the man who had
ruthlessly betrayed a woman. Well I knew that it was probable he would
laugh at me--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--Philippa--myself? We did not even know where this wife
of whom he had spoken lived, or where she died. There were a hundred
ways in which he might escape from justice, but whether he was punished
for his sin or allowed to go scot-free, Philippa’s name and wrongs must
be bruited about, her shame 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 I 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. I grew restless and uneasy as
the dusk began to make the road, up which I gazed almost continually,
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. I blamed myself for
having yielded so lightly to Philippa’s wish--her command rather--that
I should on no account fetch her. But then, whenever 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 the world. The day had been fine and
frosty, but I knew that the wind had changed since the sun went 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 clouds were 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 irregular 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
I started to execute my other task. Why does she not come? Time,
precious time, is slipping by! In the hope of meeting her, I walked for
some distance up the road. “Why does she delay?” I groaned. Even now I
should be on my way to Roding, or I may miss my prey. Heavens! can 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 thing.

I could bear the suspense no longer. For the hundredth time I glanced
at my watch. 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 were not there to receive 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!

So I tortured myself until my state of mind grew unbearable. At all
hazard, I must prevent Ferrand from meeting Philippa. Oh, why had she
not come as she promised? Could it be she was detained against her
will? In spite of her uninterested manner, I distrusted the woman I had
seen last night. It is now past seven o’clock. Philippa’s house, from
which I had reckoned my time, was nearly three miles away. I must give
up my scheme of vengeance. I must go in search of Philippa. If I do not
meet her I must call at Mrs. Wilson’s, find out what detains her, and
if needful bear her away by force.

By this time my steps had brought me back to my own house. I called
William, and told him I was going to walk up the road 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’ll 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 humor him I put it into my pocket.

I ran at the top of my speed 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 inquired 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 passed 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--loth as I was to allow myself to be convinced, I was
bound to decide that she must have taken the path to 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 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 meet 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 had something to
do before she came to me. 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! Never
again shall their eyes meet! Never again shall the touch of even his
finger contaminate her! Let 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 with promises. She will listen; hesitate; perhaps yield, and
find herself once more deceived. Then she will be lost to me forever.
Now she is, in my eyes, pure as when first we met. Let me haste on,
overtake, pass her; meet her betrayer, and, if 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 me that, even in the
few minutes which I had spent in considering what to do, the heavy
clouds had ranked 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 had provided me, 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 quick, I felt
the blinding snow on my face. The wind moaned through the leafless
branches on either side of the road. The snow-flakes whirled madly here
and there. Even in my excitement I was able to realize 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 I 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 farther.”

I kept a sharp lookout--if, indeed, it can be called a lookout; for
the whirling snow made everything, save what was 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. My dread was that Philippa, utterly unable to
fight against the white tempest, might be crouching under one of the
banks, and if so I might pass without seeing her or even attracting her
attention. 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 I recalled the utter
bitterness of her accent last night when she turned to me and said,
“Basil, did you ever hate a man?” No, she could not love him!

These thoughts brought my craving for vengeance back to my mind. Where
was Ferrand? By all my calculations, taking into account the time
wasted at starting, I 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 mind, would have suited me better than to have met him
on this lonely road, in the midst of this wild storm. If Philippa were
only safe!

Still no sign of her. I began to waver in my mind. What if my first
supposition, that I had passed her on the road, was correct? She
might be now at my cottage, wondering what had become of me. Should
I go farther 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
which 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!

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 gray figure.
It swept past me like the wind; but as it passed me I knew that my
quest was ended--that Philippa was found!

She vanished in a second, before the terror which rooted me to the spot
had passed away. Then I turned and, fast as I could run, followed her,
crying as I went, “Philippa! Philippa!”

I soon overtook her; but so dark was the night that I was almost
touching her before I saw her shadowy, ghost-like 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 I should 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 came like bullets from a mitrailleuse. Through the night I
could see her face gleaming whiter than the snow on her hood. I could
see her great, fixed, dark eyes full of nameless horror.

“Dearest, be calm,” I said, and strove to take her hands in mine.

As I tried to gain possession of her right hand something fell from it,
and, although the road was now coated with snow, a metallic sound rang
out as it touched the ground. Mechanically I stooped and picked up the
fallen object.

As I did so Philippa with a wild cry wrested herself from the one hand
whose numbed grasp still sought to retain her, and with a frenzied
reiteration of the words, “The wages of sin!” fled from me, and was
lost in the night.

Even as I rushed in pursuit I shuddered as the sense of feeling told
me what thing it was I had picked up from the snowy ground. It was a
small pistol! Cold as the touch of the metal must have been, it seemed
to burn me like a coal of fire. Impulsively, thoughtlessly, as I ran I
hurled the weapon from me, far, far away. Why should it have been in
Philippa’s hand this night?

I ran madly on, but not for long. My foot caught in a stone, and I
fell, half stunned and quite breathless, to the ground. It was some
minutes before I recovered myself sufficiently to once more stand
erect. Philippa must have obtained a start which, coupled with her
frenzied speed, almost precluded the possibility of my overtaking her.

Moreover, a strange, uncontrollable impulse swayed me. The touch of
that deadly weapon still burned my hand. Philippa’s words still rang in
my ears. “On, on, on, up the road yet awhile!” she had cried. What did
she mean? What had been done to-night?

I must retrace my steps. I must see! I must know! Philippa is flying
through the cold, dark, deadly night; but her frame is but the frame of
a woman. She must soon grow exhausted, perhaps sink senseless on the
road. Nevertheless, the dreadful fears which are growing in my mind
must be set at rest; then I can resume the pursuit. At all cost I must
know what has happened!

Once more I turned and faced the storm. Heavens! anything might happen
on such a night as this! I went on and on, flashing my lantern as I
went on the centre and each side of the road. I went some distance past
that spot where I judged that Philippa had swept by me. Then suddenly,
with a cry of horror, I stopped short. At my very feet, in the middle
of the highway, illumined by the disk of light cast by my lantern, lay
a whitened mass, and as my eye fell upon it I knew only too well the
meaning of Philippa’s wild exclamation, “The wages of sin! The wages of
sin!”




CHAPTER IV.

AT ALL COST, SLEEP?


Dead! Before I kneeled beside him, and, after unbuttoning his
coat, laid my hand on his breast, I knew the man was dead. Before
I turned the lantern on his white face I knew who the man was. Sir
Mervyn Ferrand had paid for his sin with his life! It needed little
professional skill to determine the cause of his death. A bullet fired,
it seemed to me, at close quarters had passed absolutely through the
heart. He must have fallen without a moan. Killed, I knew, by the hand
of the woman he had wronged.

A sneering smile yet lingered on his set features. I could even imagine
the words which had accompanied it, when swift and sudden, without one
moment’s grace for repentance or confession, death had been meted out
to him. At one moment he stood erect and full of life, mocking, it may
be, her who had trusted him and had been betrayed; at the next, before
the sentence he was speaking was completed, he lay lifeless at her
feet, with the snow-flakes beginning to form his winding-sheet!

Oh, it was vengeance! swift, deadly vengeance! But why, oh, why had
she wreaked it? Philippa, my peerless Philippa, a murderess! Oh, it
was too fearful, too horrible! I must be dreaming. All my own thoughts
of revenge left me. It was for the time pity, sheer pity, I felt for
the man, cut off in the prime of his life. While I knew he was alive
I could look forward to and picture the minute when we should stand
coolly seeking to kill one another; but now that he was dead, I hated
him no longer. Ah! death is a sacred thing. Dead! Sir Mervyn Ferrand
dead, and slain by Philippa!

It could not be true! It should not be true! Yet I shuddered as I
remembered the passion she had thrown into those words, “Basil, did you
ever hate a man?” I gave a low cry of anguish as I remembered how I had
hurled from me the pistol she had let fall--the very weapon which had
done the dreadful deed.

Killed by Philippa! Not in a sudden burst of uncontrollable passion,
but with deliberate intent. She must have gone armed to meet him. She
must have shot him through the heart; must have seen him fall. Then,
only then, the horrible deed which she had wrought must have been fully
realized! Then she had turned and fled from the spot in a frenzy. Oh,
my poor girl! my poor girl!

Utterly bewildered by my anguish, I rose from my knees and stood for
a while beside the corpse. It was in that moment I learned how much I
really loved the woman who had done this thing. Over all my grief and
horror this love rose paramount. At all cost I must save her--save her
from the hands of justice; save her from the fierce elements which her
tender frame was even at this moment braving. And as I recalled how
she had sought me yesterday with the tale of her wrong--how she had
wildly fled from me, a few minutes ago, madly, blindly into the night;
as I thought of the injuries she had suffered, and which had led her to
shed this man’s blood; as I contrasted her in her present position with
what she was when first I knew her and loved her, pity began to fade
from my heart; my thoughts toward the lifeless form at my feet grew
stern and sombre, and I found myself beginning, by the old code of an
eye for an eye, to justify, although I regretted, Philippa’s fearful
act. Right or wrong, she was the woman I loved; and I swore I would
save her from the consequences of her crime, even--heaven help me!--if
the accusation, when made, must fall upon my shoulders.

Yet it was not the beginning of any scheme to evade justice which
induced me to raise the dead body and bear it to the side of the road,
where I placed it under the low bank on which the hedge grew. It was
the reverence which one pays to death made me do this. I could not
leave the poor wretch lying in the very middle of the highway, for the
first passer-by to stumble against. To-morrow he would, of course, be
found. To-morrow the hue and cry would be out! To-morrow Philippa, my
Philippa, would--Oh, heavens! never, never, never!

So I laid what was left of Sir Mervyn Ferrand reverentially by the
side of the lonely road. I even tried to close his glassy eyes, and I
covered his face with his own handkerchief. Then with heart holding
fear and anguish enough for a lifetime, I turned and went in search of
the poor unhappy girl.

Where should I seek her? Who knew what her remorse may have urged her
to do? Who knew whither her horror may have driven her? It needs but
to find Philippa lifeless on the road to complete the heaviest tale of
grief which can be exacted from one man in one short night! I clenched
my teeth and rushed on.

I had the road all to myself. No one was abroad in such weather.
Indeed, few persons were seen at night in any weather in this lonely
part of the country. I made straight for my own house. The dismal
thought came to me, that unless Philippa kept to the road she was lost
to me forever. If she strayed to the right or to the left, how on such
a night could I possibly find her? My one hope was, that she would
go straight to my cottage; so thither I made the best of my way. If
she had not arrived, I must get what assistance I could, and seek for
her in the fields to the right and left of the road. It was a dreary
comfort to remember that all the ponds and spaces of water were frozen
six inches thick!

I hesitated a moment when I reached her late residence. Should I
inquire if she had returned thither? No; when morning revealed the
ghastly event of the night, my having done so would awake suspicion.
Let me first go home.

Home at last! In a moment I shall know the worst. I opened the slide
of my lantern, which was still alight, and threw the rays on the path
which led to my door. My heart gave a great bound of thankfulness.
There on the snow, not yet obliterated by more recent flakes, were the
prints of a small foot. Philippa, as I prayed but scarcely dared to
hope she might, had come straight to my house.

My man opened the door for me. It was well I had seen those footprints,
as my knowledge of Philippa’s arrival enabled me to assume a natural
air.

“My sister has come?” I asked.

“Yes, sir; about a quarter of an hour ago.”

“We missed each other on the road. What a night!” I said, throwing off
my snow-covered coat.

“Where is she now?” I asked.

“In the sitting-room, sir.” Then, lowering his voice, William added,
“She seemed just about in a tantrum when she found you weren’t at home.
I expect we shall find her a hard lady to please.”

William, in spite of his stolidity, occasionally ventured upon some
liberty when addressing me.

His words greatly surprised me. I forced myself to make some laughing
rejoinder; then I turned the handle of the door and entered the room in
which Philippa had taken refuge.

Oh, how my heart throbbed! What would she say to me? What could I,
fresh from that dreadful scene, say to her? Would she excuse or
palliate, would she simply confess or boldly justify her crime? Would
she plead her wrongs in extenuation? Would she assert that in a moment
of ungovernable rage she had done the deed? No matter what she said;
she was still Philippa, and even at the cost of my own life and honor I
would save her.

Yet as I advanced into the room a shudder ran through me. Fresh to my
mind came the remembrance of that white face, that still form, lying as
I had left it, with the pure white snow falling thickly around it.

Philippa was sitting in front of the fire. Her hat was removed; her
dark hair dishevelled and gleaming wet with the snow which had melted
in it. She must have heard me enter and close the door, but she took
no notice. As I approached her she turned her shoulder upon me in a
pettish way, and as one who by the action means to signify displeasure.
I came to her side and stood over her, waiting for her to look up and
speak first. She must speak first! What can I say, after all that has
happened to-night?

But she kept a stony silence--kept her eyes still turned from mine. At
last I called her by her name, and bending down, looked into her face.

Its expression was one of sullen anger, and, moreover, anger which
seemed to deepen as she heard my voice. She made a kind of contemptuous
gesture, as if waving me aside.

“Philippa,” I said, as sternly as I could, “speak to me!”

I laid my hand upon her arm. She shook it off fiercely, and then
started to her feet.

“You ask me to speak to you,” she said; “you, who have treated me like
this! Oh, it is shameful! shameful! shameful! I come through storm and
snow--come to you, who were to welcome me as a brother! Where are you?
Away, your wretched servant tells me. Why are you away? I trusted you!
Oh, you are a pretty brother! If you had cared for me or respected me,
you would have been here to greet me. No! you are all in a league--all
in a league to ruin me! Now I am here, what will you do? Poison me,
of course! kill me, and make away with me, even as that other doctor
killed and made away with my poor child! He did! I say he did! I saw
him do it! ‘A child of shame,’ he said; so he killed it! All, all,
all,--even you--you, whom I trusted--leagued against me!”

She was trembling with excitement. Her words ran one into the other.
It was as much as I could do to follow them; yet the above is but a
brief condensation of what she said. With unchecked volubility she
continued to heap reproaches and accusations, many of which were of
the most extravagant and frivolous nature, on my head. At last she was
silent, and reseated herself in her former attitude; and the sullen,
discontented, ill-used look again settled on her face.

And yet, although I, who loved her above all the world, was the object
of her fierce reproaches, no words I had as yet listened to came more
sweetly to my ear than these. A great joy swept through me; a tide
of relief bore me to comparative happiness. Whatever dreadful deed
the poor girl had that night accomplished, she was morally innocent.
Philippa was not accountable for her actions!

As a doctor, I read the truth at once. The rapid flow of words, the
changing moods, the vehement excitement, the sullen air, the groundless
suspicions--one and all carried conviction, and told me what was wrong.
Mrs. Wilson’s words of yesterday, which warned me that Philippa’s
health should be inquired into, added absolute certainty.

My professional brethren who may happen to read this will understand
me when I say that, although it is long since I have practised as a
doctor, I am sorely tempted, as I reach this stage of my story, to give
in detail the particulars which induced me to arrive at such a belief.
No physician, no surgeon, lives who does not feel it his duty as well
as his pleasure to give an accurate account of any out-of-the-common
case which has come under his notice. But I am not writing these pages
for the benefit of science; and having no wish to make my tale assume
the authority of a hospital report, shall restrain myself, and on
technical points be as brief as possible.

In short, then, Philippa had fallen a victim to that mania which
not uncommonly shows itself after the birth of a child--that dread,
mysterious disease which may, at the moment when everything seems
going well, turn a house of joy into a house of mourning; a disease
the source of which I have no hesitation in saying has not yet been
properly traced and investigated. So far as I know, there is no
monograph on the subject, or certainly there was none at that time.

Still, it is admitted by all the authorities that this species of
insanity is not unfrequently produced by a severe mental shock,
especially when that shock is accompanied by an overwhelming sense of
shame. Statistics show us that unmarried women who are mothers, and
feel the degradation of such a position acutely, are peculiarly liable
to be attacked by the mysterious malady. Esquirol was, I believe,
the first to notice this fact, and the correctness of his view has
subsequently been confirmed by many others.

Such being the case, it is small wonder that Philippa, waking
yesterday morning to receive the intelligence that her marriage with
Sir Mervyn Ferrand had been a farce, should have been thrown into a
state extremely susceptible to the attack of the disease. Her careless
exposure of herself to the wintry air, when last night she sought me
and claimed my aid, most probably hastened the attack of the foe. Mrs.
Wilson had noticed her strange manner. I myself have remarked upon her
rapid changes from calmness to excitability. It was clear to me that
even when she visited me last night the mischief had begun to develop
itself. I blamed my blindness bitterly. I ought to have seen what was
wrong. Considering her agitated state, I ought to have been warned, and
have taken precautions; but I had attributed those fitful changes, the
meaning of which was now only too plain to me, to the natural agitation
experienced by a passionate yet pure-minded woman, who found herself
betrayed and brought to shame. Oh, had I but guessed the real cause,
or rather the way in which her grief had affected her, all the dark
work of that night might have been left undone!

Although in many ways it added to the difficulties and dangers which
surrounded us, the discovery of the truth was an unspeakable relief to
me. No right-minded man could now call the poor girl guilty of crime.
The man’s blood was indeed on her hands; yet she had shed it, not
knowing what she did. Her frenzy must then have been at its height.
The idea of his coming that night must in some way have occurred to
her. The desire to see him must have driven her to go and meet him.
Her wrongs--perhaps the dread she now felt of him may have induced her
to arm herself; perhaps she carried the weapon for self-protection.
Any way, she was mad when she started; she was mad when she drew the
trigger; she was mad when she broke from my grasp; she was mad now as
she sat by my fire, eying me with morose, suspicious glances. She was
mad--and innocent!

Her manner toward me troubled me but little. It is a well-known
peculiarity of the disease that the patient turns with hatred from
those who were the nearest and dearest to her. Fits of sullen, stubborn
silence, alternating with fierce outbursts of vituperation, are the
most common characteristics of the mania. Hideous, startling as it is
to see the change wrought in the sufferer, the malady is by no means of
such an alarming nature as it seems. In fact the majority of cases are
treated with perfect success.

But all this is professional talk. Again I say that the discovery of
Philippa’s state of mind was an immense relief to me. My conscience
was cleared of a weight which was pressing upon it. I felt braced up
to use every effort, and thoroughly justified in following whatever
course I thought best. Moreover, a new relationship was now established
between Philippa and myself. For a while every feeling save one must be
banished. We were now doctor and patient.

After much persuasion, I induced her to let me feel her pulse. As I
expected, I found it up nearly to 120. This did not alarm me much, as
in the course of my practice I had seen several of these cases. The
preliminary treatment was simple as A B C; at all cost sleep must be
obtained.

Fortunately, I had a well-stocked medicine-chest. In a few minutes I
had prepared the strongest dose of opium which I dared to administer.
In such a case as the present I knew that no driblets would avail; so I
measured out no less than sixty drops of laudanum. Sleep the girl must
have. That poor seething, boiling brain must by artificial means be
forced to rest for hours. After that rest I should be able to say what
chance there was of saving life and reason.

But preparing a dose of medicine, and making a patient like this take
it, are two different things. I tried every art, every persuasion.
I implored and commanded. I threatened and insisted. Philippa was
obdurate. Poor soul! she knew I meant to poison her. On my part, I knew
that unless she swallowed that narcotic to-night, her case was all but
hopeless.

I rested for a while; then I sent for lukewarm water. After some
resistance she suffered me to bathe her throbbing temples. The
refreshing coolness which followed the operation was so grateful to her
that she let me repeat the action again and again. A softer and more
contented look settled on her beautiful face.

I seized the moment. Once more I pressed the potion upon her. This time
successfully. My heart trembled with joy as I saw her swallow the drug.
Now she might be saved!

I still continued the comforting laving of her temples, and waited
until the drug took its due effect. By and by that moment came. The
large dark eyes closed, the weary head sank heavily on my shoulder, and
I knew that Philippa had entered upon a term of merciful oblivion.

I waited until her sleep was sound as the sleep of death; then I
summoned my man. I had already told him that my sister was very
ill. Between us we bore her to her room and laid her on the bed. I
loosened her dress, cut the wet boots from her cold feet; did all I
could to promote warmth and such comfort as was possible under the
circumstances. Then I left her, sleeping that heavy sleep which I
prayed might last unbroken for hours, and hours, and hours.




CHAPTER V.

A WHITE TOMB.


From the moment when the true state of Philippa’s mind flashed upon
me, to the moment when I left her sleeping that heavy sleep, I had
little time to think of anything else than the best means of saving
her life, and, if possible, her reason. True, throughout the whole of
my operations to effect this end, a dim sort of horror pervaded me--a
recollection of the ghastly object which lay on the roadside, some
three miles from us; but it was not until I turned from my patient’s
door that the terrible situation in which she was placed presented
itself to me in all its dread entirety. Half broken-hearted, I threw
myself wearily into my chair, and covered my face with my hands.

What was to be done? What was to be done? To-morrow morning the body
would be found. I felt certain that when inquiry was made suspicion
would at once point toward Philippa. Mrs. Wilson knew of her starting
from home in the evening, alone and on foot. She knew, moreover, that
Sir Mervyn Ferrand was her husband; that he had ill-used her. She would
most certainly know to whom Philippa had fled. It did not follow that
because I was ignorant as to who were my neighbors they knew nothing
about me. At any rate, William, my man, would know the truth. So far as
I could see, to-morrow or, by the latest, the next day Philippa would
be arrested for the crime. Most probably, I should also be included in
the arrest. For that I seemed to care nothing; except that it might
hinder me from helping my poor girl.

Any hope of removing Philippa--there, put it in plain words--any hope
of flight, for days, even weeks, was vain. Let everything go as well
as can be in such cases, the girl must be kept in seclusion and quiet
for at least a fortnight or three weeks. I groaned as I thought of
what would happen if Philippa was arrested and carried before the
magistrates, accused of the awful crime. From that moment until the day
of her death she would be insane.

Yet, what help was there for it? The moment the deed is known--the
moment Mrs. Wilson learns that Sir Mervyn Ferrand has been found shot
through the heart, she will let it be known that Lady Ferrand is at
hand; and Lady Ferrand, who has been passing under the name of Mrs.
Farmer, will be sought and found. And then--and then?

Even if she did not die at once--even if she recovered--oh, the shame
of the trial! No jury could or would convict her: but for Philippa,
my queen, to stand in the dock, to plead for her life; to know that,
whether convicted or acquitted, the deed was done by her; to know that
all England is talking of her wrongs and her vengeance--horrible!
horrible! It shall never be. Rather will I give her a draught of opium
heavy enough to close her eyes forever. There will be plenty more of
the drug left for me!

Fool that I was! Why did I do things by halves? Why, for her sake,
did I not hide the dead man where none would find him? Why did I not
rifle his pockets, so that suspicion should have pointed to a vulgar
murderer; some one who had killed him for mere plunder? Why did I
not, at least, destroy any letters or papers which were about him?
Identification might then have been rendered difficult, and perhaps
been delayed for weeks. In that time I might have saved her.

Why do I not do this now? I started to my feet; then sank back into my
chair. No; not even for Philippa’s sake could I go again to that spot.
If I did so, I should return as mad as she is now.

Not being able to bring myself to adopt the gruesome alternative, I
could do nothing save wait events--nothing, at least, to avert the
consequences of her delirious act.

But for her something must be done. How could she, in her frenzied
state, be left here--her only companions two men? Nurses must be at
once procured. I summoned William, and told him he must go to London by
the first train in the morning.

William would have received my instructions to go to the Antipodes
with imperturbability. He merely expressed a doubt as to whether any
one would be able to get to London to-morrow on account of the snow. I
walked to the window and looked out.

The night was still one mad whirl of snow-flakes. The window-panes
were half covered by such as managed to find a resting-place there.
As I watched what I could see of the wild white dance, I found myself
thinking that by now that dead man on the road must be covered an
inch--must have lost shape and outline. I shivered as I turned away.

“They are sure to keep the line to town open,” I said. “If you can get
to Roding, you can get to London.”

“Oh, I can get to Roding right enough!” said William.

Then I told him what he was to do. He was to take a letter to one of
the Nursing Institutions, and bring back two nurses with him. No matter
what the weather was when they reached Roding, they were to come to
my house at once, even if they had to hire twenty horses to drag them
there. He was also to get me a few drugs which I might want.

William said no more. He nodded, to show that he understood me; and I
knew that if it were possible to do my bidding it would be done.

Of his own accord he then brought me food. I ate, for I knew that I
should want all my strength to support the anxieties of the next day or
two.

I stayed up the whole night. Oh, that awful night! shall I ever forget
it? The solitude--the raging snow-storm outside--the poor creature to
whose side I crept noiselessly every half an hour. She lay there with
a face like marble, calm and beautiful. The long, dark lashes swept
her pale cheek. The only movement was the regular rise and fall of the
bosom. Oh, happy oblivion! Oh, dreaded wakening! As I looked at her,
in spite of the love I bore her, I believe that, had I thought such a
prayer would be answered, I should for her sake have prayed that those
lashes might never again be lifted.

Morning at last broke on my dreary vigil. Philippa still slept. I
returned to the sitting-room and drew back the curtains from the
window. Yes; it was morning--such a morning as leaden, wintry skies can
give. It was still snowing as heavily as, if not more heavily than, it
had snowed last night. For twelve hours the flakes had fallen without
intermission.

There was little wind now; it had dropped, I knew, about an hour ago.
The world, so far as I could see, was clad in white: but the snow lay
unevenly. The wind had blown it into drifts. On my garden path its
depth might be counted by inches; against my garden wall by feet.

William now made his appearance. He prepared some breakfast for
himself, and then, having done justice to it, started for Roding. It
occurred to me that he might be the first to find the object which lay
on the roadside.

Except that so doing might delay him and cause him to miss his train,
this mattered little. I was now calmly awaiting the inevitable. Some
one must make the discovery. However, as I wanted the nurses, I said to
him:

“Remember this is life and death. Nothing must stop you.” He touched
his hat in a reassuring manner, and tramped off through the snow.

I returned to my patient’s bedside and sat watching her, and waiting
for her to awake. She had now slept for nearly eleven hours, and I knew
that return to life might take place at any moment. I longed for, and
yet I dreaded, her awakening. When the effects of the opiate were gone,
how should I find her? Alas! I knew that the chances were a thousand
to one that her brain would still be full of strange delusions; that
she would turn from me, as she turned last night, with loathing and
anger. But my greatest fear was that she would, upon coming to herself,
or rather to her poor insane self, be conscious of the act she had
accomplished. It was the fear of this which made me wish that the opium
would hold her in its drowsy grasp for hours longer.

This wish was granted. Hour after hour I sat by her motionless form.
Now and again I glanced from the beautiful, senseless face, and looking
out of the window saw the snow still falling. Would my messenger ever
be able to reach town; if he did so, would he be able to return? I was
bound to have a woman’s aid. The presence of the roughest daughter of
the plough would be welcome to me when Philippa awoke. And it was now
time she did so.

Although I felt her pulse almost every other minute, and could find no
reason for alarm, I am bound to say that her long sleep, protracted
far beyond any I had in my experience seen produced by the exhibition
of narcotics, rendered me very uneasy. I shall, I am sure, scarcely be
credited when I say that Philippa’s unconsciousness lasted for sixteen
hours--from half-past nine at night to half-past one on the following
afternoon. I began then to think the duration abnormal, and determined
to take some steps toward arousing her.

But I was spared the responsibility. She stirred on the couch. Her
head turned languidly on the pillow. Her dark eyes opened, closed, and
opened again. She looked at me in a dazed manner, not at first seeming
to know me, or to understand why I was near her, or where she was. A
prey to the wildest anxiety, I leaned over her, and waited until she
spoke.

Little by little her bewilderment seemed to leave her. Her eyes rested
with curious inquiry upon mine. “Basil,” she said, faintly, but in a
tone of surprise, “you here! Where am I?”

“Under my roof--your brother’s roof,” I said.

“Ah! I remember,” she said, with a deep sigh. Then she closed her eyes,
and once more seemed to sleep.

What did she remember? It seemed to me too great a mercy to expect
that those hours of oblivion had effected a cure, but my hope was that
she did not remember what had happened when she met Sir Mervyn Ferrand
on the road. I was almost trembling with excitement. I was longing to
really know in what state her mind was. Besides, I thought she had
slept as long as was good for her. I took her hands and called her by
name.

Once more she opened her eyes. They expressed no fear of me, no dislike
to me. They conveyed no reproach. They were calm, sad, weary, but gave
no evidence of any mental disorder.

“Have I been ill long, Basil?” she asked.

“Not very long. You are going to get better soon.”

“I came to your house, did I not?”

“Yes; and here I mean to keep you. Do you feel weak?”

“Very weak. Basil, I have dreamed such horrible things.”

“You have been feverish and delirious. People like that always fancy
strange things.”

She was indeed as weak as a child; but for the time, at least, she was
perfectly sane. I could have cried for joy as I heard her faint but
collected words. I ventured to hope that I had before me one of those
very rare cases--such as I had seen described, but had not as yet met
with--where the patient awakes from the long, artificially produced
sleep perfectly free from all maniacal symptoms. If this were so with
Philippa, if the return of reason were to be permanent, I knew that a
few weeks’ careful nursing and judicious treatment might quite restore
her to health. Even as this comforting thought came to me, I remembered
the peril in which she stood. To-morrow--ay, even to-day--the thing
which I dreaded might happen, and sweep away all the good the narcotic
had done her.

She was now fully awake, and perfectly quiet. I gave her some
refreshment; then seeing she was lying in peaceful silence, I thought
it better to leave her. As I quitted her room I drew down the blind,
fearing that the whirling snow might bring recollections which it was
my one wish to keep from invading her mind.

The long dreary day wore away. The light faded, and another night
began. Philippa still lay calm, silent, and almost apathetic. I did
nothing to rouse her. I went to her side as seldom as possible. I
feared that her seeing me might recall the events of the last night,
and that recollections so awakened might destroy all the good which
I felt sure had been accomplished by the long hours of oblivion and
quiet. Could I have deputed the task to another, I would not have even
shown myself to my patient. Most anxiously, as evening came, I awaited
the appearance of my faithful William and the nurses.

Would they be able to reach us in such weather? It was still snowing
fiercely. For more than twenty-four hours the mad white revel had
continued without intermission. Indeed, that storm which burst upon
the world as I turned from Philippa’s house on the preceding night is
now historical; it was the beginning of the heaviest and the longest
fall which the record of fifty years can show. For two nights and a
day the snow came down in what may almost be called drifting masses.
During that dismal day I saw from the window the heaps against the wall
grow deeper and deeper, and even in my preoccupied state of mind found
myself marvelling at the sustained fury of the storm.

At eleven o’clock at night I sadly gave up all hope of the much-needed
assistance arriving. After all, it seemed that William had found it
impossible to light against the weather; so I made my preparations
for another night of solitary watchfulness. I was all but worn out
with fatigue; yet I dared not sleep. If the mania returned, what might
happen, 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, offered
such a magnificent 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 triumphantly 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 you manage to get to Roding all right this morning?” I asked with
assumed carelessness.

“I managed all right, sir,” said William, cheerfully.

“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 described as beginning
to form in a 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. Bear it! I could bear it, and be happy;
for something told me that, could I but save her from the peril which
menaced her, Philippa 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 out 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 weeks, for months,
forever! Save my love and me!




CHAPTER VI.

THE SECRET KEPT.


It 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.
I guessed at once that a hard black frost had succeeded the snow. I
ran downstairs and glanced at my 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
hide the secret of the dreadful 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 to find 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. I 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 restoration 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, Philippa must fly from the scene of 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 I 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 England
save with me?

I dared not urge upon her my true reason for 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 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 quitted the house since that night. Yet one day a kind
of morbid fascination had led me to walk along the road toward 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.
I was 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 removed.”

“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?”

“Certainly I do. It was for that reason my sister left you.”

Mrs. Wilson looked at me thoughtfully. “She will 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.”

I 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
suspicion 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 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. 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
prayer would be granted.

Philippa was 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 neighborhood. 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 days dawned; for--I say it advisedly,
and at risk of censure--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 Ferrand, she knew it not. Her wrongs had goaded her to madness,
and her madness was responsible for the act, not she herself.

The 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 straight from Mrs. Wilson’s, I suppose. 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 fill
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 inquirers should
learn that I had gone to London with my sister, and that the time of
our return was uncertain. By 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.

Philippa acquiesced in all my arrangements. She was quite willing to
accompany me to town. She trusted me with childish simplicity. “But,
Basil, afterward--what afterward?” 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 that my love would
solve the question of the future.

“I have a surprise for you 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 miserable; 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
roadside objects and landmarks should awaken recollection, and my heart
beat violently as we neared the white heap by the hedge, that heap
which I believed held our secret. I felt that I grew deadly 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 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 you 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 her
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 London, I drove straight to the hotel at which my mother
was staying. It was one of those high-priced respectable private
hotels in Jermyn 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 her arms, and ere half an hour was over I had
told her Philippa’s story, and my 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 society. 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 me, 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 word 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 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 leaped at the
expression in her tearful eyes. “Basil, my brother, 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 truest,
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 forever hold its ghastly secret!




CHAPTER VII.

THE MELTING OF THE SNOW.


The first stage of our flight toward safety accomplished, I sat down
to once more review the situation, and to take such counsel as I
could give myself. I endeavored 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 he was so
much attached to me that, 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 had 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 clew 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 may also
say my only hope of safety--was rapid flight. We must gain some land
in which we could dwell without 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
supposititious case, managed to acquire a good deal of information
respecting the dealings of one nation with another, so far as fugitives
were concerned.

I found that although, with the two exceptions above named, there
was no settled international 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 Mervyn 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 northerly nations. Anyway, 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 the subject of foreign travel to my
mother. Although so short a time had passed since they first met, I
was overjoyed to see the terms upon which she and Philippa stood. The
girl seemed to cling to her as to a natural protector--seemed ready to
install 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 that 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 favor 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,” I 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 bright sunshine. Let us go to Spain.”

“Spain! why Spain? Besides, surely Philippa is not fit for a long
journey!”

“It will do her good. Her recollections of this country are but sad
ones.”

“Well, in a week or two I will see about it.”

“No, at once. Let us start to-morrow or the next day. Mother, I ask it
as a favor.”

“Give me some good reason, Basil, and I will do as you wish.”

“Look at me, and you will see the reason. Cannot you see that I am ill,
worn out, nervous? I must have a change, and at once.”

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 beautiful; 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 which I had so often noticed.
“Basil,” she said, “you are doing this for my sake.”

“And my own, I fear.”

“I threw away your love--I spoiled your life. I came to you 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 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 I 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 gray 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 snowdrift, 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. When it really came to making preparations
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 she
liked travelling in comfort, and objected very much to being hurried.
So it was that, in spite of the pressing need for immediate flight, we
were still in London.

The dangerous delay made me nervous, excitable, and ill-tempered. This
state of mind was not without benefit to our cause, as my manner as
well as my 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 effort 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! 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 laborer 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. Inevitable as it was that the
discovery should be made, the shock seemed scarcely lightened by the
foreknowledge; the danger seemed no less terrible. Oh, that we had
started yesterday--were even to start to-day! What might not happen
before to-morrow morning! My first impulse was to go to my mother and
beg her to hasten our departure; but reflection 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 semblance of dream,
to which, fortunately, she could as yet give no coherence. Let her
learn that Sir Mervyn Ferrand had ever since that night been lying
dead where she met him, the fearful truth must come to her. No! not
a word to excite her suspicion. My task was a two-fold 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 nothing which
could awaken memories of those mercifully absent hours.

I tore the paper to pieces and burned it. I think of all my dark
days that one was the one I would be 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 me, throw my tale aside.
Heaven knows it is a sombre one! I 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 check, and while 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 pleasantest weather in the world for a
journey; but I wrapped my charges up warmly, and did all I could
to mitigate the hardships of the voyage, undertaken ostensibly for
the sake of my health. My mother, who was by now an experienced and
seasoned traveller, settled herself down 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 I 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. Only let me be able to show her that life could
still promise a pleasant future, and the moody memories of the past
months might be banished forever.

I am sure that no one who could have seen us that morning would have
dreamed 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
find them in Spain, we will cross over to Africa, and, if needful, go
down to the Equator.”

“Then you 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 her eyes; but a
tell-tale blush was on her cheek. I knew that the 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
communication. 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
tenor of its contents, 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
rigors 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 the 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. I know how he
met with the death he deserved.

“Ah! she is braver than I am. She has done what years ago I swore I
would do; and yet 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 sealed to the death; and for the sake of her brave act tell her
this:

“Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s first wife _died on the 18th of June_, 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. She 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 she would die, and that he would marry
me. She died too late for the hope to be realized. 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 Roding that night was, to endeavor to
wring the information 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 name, title, and what wealth she can claim. Fear
nothing from me; I will be silent as death.”




CHAPTER VIII.

FLIGHT.


I 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
predominant 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 happiness 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 contemptible 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 of 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 date 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 toward
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 time
should come when I could place proofs in her hands that she was a
wife--that she could, if she chose, bear her worthless 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
characterizes the best of her sex.

Yet when should I be able to tell her? Whenever 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 this might mean. Surely its dramatic surroundings must suggest
something to her mind--must bring back the night and its horrors; must,
in fact, tell her what she had done in her 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 make 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 death. I
cursed the wretch’s memory as I thought of him.

The sending of Philippa to live under the charge of one of his own
discarded mistresses was but another proof of the man’s revolting
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 herself 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 indefinitely. 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 harbor. I went in search of my companions, 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 brightly 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 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 beauty. 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 does 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
appellation.

“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 almost 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 present comfortable quarters, we should
have driven to the Orleans Railway, and taken the first train to the
south? How little she knew--how little, I trusted, Philippa knew--from
what we were flying!

I felt I must give my mother some reason for 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. “Some one whom
she ought not to meet was here a short time ago.”

I blamed myself for the deception; but what 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, wearisome 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 express train pounded along after the well-known
style of French railways. Orleans, Blois, Tours, Poictiers, Angoulême,
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 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
insistence 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 understand 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. Anyway, now that we were within a few hours’ journey of
the frontier and of safety, I would leave no more than I could help to
chance.

So, in the early morning, I got my party together and before it was
light led them to the 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
blush which crossed her cheek when I caught those glances--was not
sufficient to reward me for my anxiety.

A slow, a painfully slow train. Innumerable stoppages. A country which
under the circumstances would have given me no interest even if we
had been in summer instead of winter; and then, after nearly five
hours’ slow travelling, Bayonne at last. Bayonne, with its strong
fortifications. 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 it.

We have passed Biarritz, the merry bright 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 scrutinized. 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--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
color; 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 forever in bright, sunny, glowing lands. Who
cares for dull, dark, dismal England? Have we not youth, wealth, and
oh, blessed word! love? Before my love and me lie years and years of
sweetness and joy. Shake 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 solemn-looking Spanish railway officials,
and drew pictures of the doleful fate of imaginary nobly-born hidalgos
whom poverty forced to descend to such employment. 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 much-maligned French trains. Time was nothing to me now. Was
there not a lifetime stretching before me--and Philippa? My gayety
was contagions. 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-dropped 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 pretended 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 Philippa, 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!




CHAPTER IX.

SAFE--AND LOVED.


Now that we are safe in Spain, now that Philippa’s arrest is a matter
of impossibility, 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 suspicion 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 characterized 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 felt it would be the height of inconsistency, after forcing my
companions to accompany me in the search of warmth, to make any stay
in the Spanish capital. Right glad I was to leave it, and turn my face
southward. Philippa was by now in apparently good health, both bodily
and mental; but while 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 blowing straight from
the Guadarrama mountains; insidious blasts in which lurk the seeds of
consumption and death.

So at our leisure we went southward, 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
ourselves 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 the 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 beautiful city of Seville; brilliant,
romantic Seville, with its flower-bedecked houses, its groves of
orange 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, warmth, color, 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.

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
it. By common consent we arranged to stay our course for an indefinite
time. Perhaps by now we all thought that 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 gayly-colored awning
which is sometimes spread over it; a space fragrant to the four corners
with the perfume of orange and other sweet-smelling blossoms, bright
with glowing oleanders, 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 fairyland--a fairyland which, for many months of the year, is
almost the only part of the house used in their waking hours by the
Sevillaños. Add to this a garden, not large but exquisite, full of the
rarest and choicest blooms, and if you are not hopelessly bigoted, and
enamored of English fogs, you must long for such a home in courtly,
beautiful Seville!

With such surroundings--almost those of a Sybarite--who can blame me
for being lulled into security, if not forgetfulness, and for telling
myself 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 Philippa’s beautiful face,
and now and again meeting her dark eyes, and sometimes surprising in
those thoughtful depths a look which thrilled my 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 my 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 I think
we found in the ordinary sights, which were at our very door, as much
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 Sevillañas; I, moreover, noted that
the most graceful of these figures could not be compared to Philippa’s
own. We 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 intense
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; although at times her eyes sought mine with that
troubled, inquiring look; although I trembled as to what might be the
question which I seemed to see her lips about to form; I did not, could
not believe 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 forever!

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 victim of a scoundrelly man of the world. I have nothing in
common with 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 killed the man who
so cruelly wronged her, I have but this to say. My tale, although I
give it to the world, is not written for the purpose of fiction. It is
the story of myself--a story which seemed to me worth telling--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 act, but, nevertheless, I would have pleaded for her
love as fervently and reverently as I now was 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 bye,
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 leaned making as it were a suitable
foil to the warm color 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 my arm round her waist and
drew her to me. I whispered words of passionate love in her ear--words,
the 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 I 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. That, 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. “We 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.”

“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
other’s eyes.

“Basil,” she said softly, “all this must be forgotten. 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 honored 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 concerned, 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! Have I been true
to you, Philippa?”

“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! I will not wrong the man I love. Basil, farewell
forever!”

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 fingers interlaced; her
eyes cast on the ground.

“Mother,” I said, “I have to-day asked Philippa to be my wife. I have
told her that all my happiness 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 to marry
me. And why? Because she fears to bring shame on an honorable name. You
know her story; you are my mother. You, of all people in the world,
should be the most jealous as to the honor 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, while 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 insure
privacy, out of the iron gate, into the narrow street. I watched the
lounging, dignified-looking men and the dark-eyed women who went
by; I looked at the merry urchins at play; and after what seemed an
interminable 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 wife. 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 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!




CHAPTER X.

THE SWORD FALLS.


Once conquered--once convinced that the obstacles which her solicitude
for my welfare raised against my wish were not insuperable--Philippa
offered no further resistance; while as for me, every day that might
be counted before I called her my wife seemed a day spoiled, if not
entirely wasted. With my mother’s arguments to back my own fervent
persuasion, I had no difficulty 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 fixed it was at my
instance changed, and the ceremony 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 reasons 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 consideration I determined
to sacrifice my own inclinations, 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.

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 England--to Liverpool--as fast as I could. I 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 story. 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 Ferrand’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
carelessness, 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
Philippa 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 presence 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 suspicion as to the author of that night’s work had in any way been
directed to Philippa, I, the partner of her flight, could not hope 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 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 same I did not care to let it be known that I was now in
England.

While engaged upon raking up evidence on Philippa’s behalf, I did not
neglect to make such inquiries 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 pounds reward offered by Government, it seemed that Sir
Mervyn 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
had 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 investigations and inquiries 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! Married; and a few months
ago I sat lonely, miserable, and heart-broken, deeming that the one I
loved was lost to me forever! 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 inquiries 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 bestow 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 although 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 stayed several days at the Hotel de Paris. We
liked the white-walled town, rising and shining above the dark-blue
sea, like, as I have somewhere seen it described, a white pearl in a
crown of sapphires; or, as the Gaditanos call it, _tazita de 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 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
passed, 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 forever. 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 forever, 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 concerning 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 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 connected 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 awhile 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 peculiarity, and the
authorities which I had studied during Philippa’s illness mention it as
an indisputable 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 interesting river, we thought travelling
by steamer would be a pleasant change from the journeys in the hot,
stuffy, slow trains, full from end to end with the odor of garlic and
tobacco; so early one morning we left Cadiz, and were soon steaming
up the sluggish, dull, turbid river, with the great flat stretches of
swampy land on either hand.

There were not many passengers 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 the river flows passed 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.

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 unfavorable comments on the scenery, or lack of scenery,
it was clear that they took us for natives, before whom they could
speak without 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 neighbors 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,” said the second tourist,
laughing; “out of the pale of civilization 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 moment 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 would 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 color 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. I 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 realized! Then with a low moan she sank, white and senseless, on
my shoulder.

Though in a whirl of despair, I believe that I assumed a kind of
mechanical calm. I seem to remember that the two English tourists
offered their assistance; that, as we bore Philippa to an extemporized
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
believe I bore myself bravely.

In spite of such restoratives as we could administer, 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 my gaze; she 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 while the wretched steamboat
ploughed its way up the broad muddy stream I sat beside her, trying to
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 had 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 endeavor 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 remembrance 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 shrunk
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 deprive me 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
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 toward 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?”




CHAPTER XI.

SPECIAL PLEADING.


It was over! She knew! The hope which may have buoyed my spirits, that
Philippa’s agitation at learning of Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s death was but
due to the fact that once she loved the man entirely vanished. I could
see no loophole 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, dearest Basil, tell me, if you can, that I dreamed
it!”

Her voice sank into accents of piteous entreaty. She looked at me
yearningly.

“Dearest, it must have been a dream,” I said.

She threw out her arms wildly. “No, no! It was no dream. Even now I
can see myself standing in the night over that motionless form. I can
feel the cold air on my cheek. I can see myself flying through the
snow. Basil, I hated that man, and I killed him!”

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 me.

“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 me! 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 waiting for
the first shock of her newly-born knowledge to pass away, in order
to reason with her, and show her that by every moral 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.

“He was found shot through the heart,” I answered reluctantly.

“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 impulse 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 the dead man by
the roadside; how I had rushed home, and found her, Philippa, waiting
for me, and in the full height of temporary insanity. I told her all
this, and I swore that from the moment I discovered that her senses
had gone astray I held her, although she had done so dreadful a deed,
as innocent of crime as when she slept, a babe, 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 finished speaking she covered her
face 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 while 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 endearing 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 forever buried in oblivion,
how right I had been! Had the hands of Justice grasped my sweet wife,
although she might no doubt have been found guiltless, the trial,
the exposure, would have killed her. Thank heaven she was safe, and
amenable only to the tribunal of her own sensitive conscience!

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 indisposition. 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 leaned over and kissed her passionately. Between
sleeping 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 I could but persuade
her she was unaccountable for what she had done, some remnant 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
could not reach you.”

She started. “And it was for this you hurried to Spain? To save me from
a felon’s death?”

“To save you from what, in your state at the time, you could not bear.
I say again you are innocent, but I dare not risk the 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 boldly; but as I spoke a thought shot through me--a thought
which blanched my cheek and brought the beads of perspiration to my
brow. 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
insanity. 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 myself 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 learned that the dream which had haunted her was
reality--that her hand had unknowingly avenged her supposed and
premeditated wrong. Let me but say that the mental anguish into which
the knowledge plunged her 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 former self, she was able
to leave her bed. My mother was tenderness 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 Philippa knew all she had done, I thought it better to tell
her that, although he had no intention of so doing, Sir Mervyn Ferrand,
in causing a mock marriage to be celebrated, had by a strange chance
really made her his wife. This gave her little comfort. “It makes
my crime the greater,” she said bitterly. “I have killed my husband
instead of my seducer! I am not fit to live!”

Weeks went by. Philippa gradually 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 that morally she was innocent, and I believed my
words were bearing fruit. Her fits of mental anguish and self-reproach
grew of less frequent occurrence. She did not, whenever we were alone,
continually harp upon her crime. Calm seemed to settle upon us once
more, and I ventured to hope that the great physician, Time, would one
day bring to my wife’s heart something that might be called sorrowful
happiness; but I knew I must wait years and years for this.

She was changed, greatly changed. Her lips seldom smiled: her eyes
never brightened, unless 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 the
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 forgotten 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 come 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 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 ease on the matter, I wrote and ordered that _The Times_ should
be posted to me every day.




CHAPTER XII.

TEMPTED TO DISHONOR.


I hate looking back and re-reading words which I have written while
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 endeavored 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 any one
to condemn my actions more strongly than, it may be, they now condemn
them. My wish has been to show myself 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 honor. 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, perforce, fail. The language
rich and powerful enough to serve my needs has yet to be invented. The
writer who could in any fitting way reproduce my thoughts has yet to be
born.

And yet the chapter will be a short one. It will be but the record of
a few hours; but such hours! Hours during which I struggled against
a temptation to commit, not only crime, but base, cowardly crime; a
temptation stronger, I dare to think, than poor human nature has as yet
been subjected to. My words sound bold; but listen.

Oh, that one morning! How well I can remember it! Our breakfast was
just over. The quaint-shaped little table, with its snowy cloth
throwing into relief the deep colors of the luscious fruit upon it,
still stood in the awning-roofed _patio_. I was alone, my mother
and Philippa having retired in-doors to see about some domestic
economy. I lounged lazily and at my ease. I rolled and lighted a
cigarette, blaming myself as I did so for my barbarity in profaning the
blossom-scented air with tobacco-smoke. Then I took from my pocket the
London _Times_, which had arrived by the last post, and listlessly set
to work to skim its lengthy columns.

I had no fear as to what the paper might contain. It was not from
newspaper reports that I apprehended danger. I had, however, noticed
that Philippa, when she saw me with a newspaper in my hand, eyed me
anxiously and inquiringly; so that generally I contrived to glance
through it when she was absent. I never permitted her to touch it until
I had read it; but my only reason for this prohibition was, that I
feared lest some chance allusion to the mysterious and undiscovered
crime might distress her. Her own far-fetched fancy that another might
be accused of it gave me not a moment’s uneasiness.

So I turned and doubled back the broad sheets. I ran down the topics
of the day. I skimmed the leading articles. I glanced at the foreign
news; paid scant attention to law reports, and disregarded altogether
the money-market intelligence. At last I turned my attention to the
provincial news column. A name caught my eye; a cold shiver of dread
ran through me. My cigarette fell on the marble pavement, and lay there
unheeded, as, with agitation which no words can describe, I read a
short paragraph placed under the heading of the principal town of the
county in which Roding was situated. Read!

  “William Evans, the man accused of the murder of Sir Mervyn Ferrand,
  Bart., in January last, will be tried at these Assizes, which open on
  the twentieth. The case, which excites considerable interest, will be
  taken on the first day. It is reported that although fresh evidence
  against the prisoner will be forthcoming, it will be of a purely
  circumstantial nature.”

Every word of that accursed paragraph seemed like a blow falling
upon my head. For some minutes I sat as one stunned. I felt my teeth
chattering. I knew that my cheek was blanched. Philippa’s fanciful
dread had come to pass! Another--an innocent man--was bearing the blame
of her own mad act! Dazed, stupid, scarcely able to comprehend what
must be the full effect of what I had just read, I sat motionless, with
my eyes fixed upon that fatal sheet.

The sound of my mother’s pleasant voice calling to Philippa at last
awoke me from my stupor. They were coming. I could not face them. I
doubled up the newspaper, thrust it into my pocket, and rushed out into
the street. As yet I had not dared to imagine what this intelligence
might mean to us. I must have long hours of solitude, in order to
decide what course should be adopted to face this, the last, the worst
peril.

I passed swiftly through the iron gate. I went up the narrow street
at a pace which must have made all who saw me think me mad. Whither
did I go? I scarcely remember. I think it must have been to one of the
public gardens; but in that hour all sense of locality left me. I went
instinctively in search of solitude. I found, I know not how or where,
some shady deserted spot. There, in the anguish of my heart, amid the
wreck of my sand-founded happiness, I threw myself on the ground, and
dug my finger-nails into the dry soil.

At first I thought I was going or had gone mad. The thoughts which
rushed through my mind were disjointed, and wanted coherence. An
innocent man accused of the crime! To be tried on the twentieth! The
twentieth! and now it is the sixteenth! Fresh evidence forthcoming! The
fools--the utter fools! This the boasted detective skill! To arrest on
suspicion, to bring to trial a man who must be ignorant of everything
connected with the murder! What is to be done? What can be done? Oh, my
wife! my poor darling wife!

Then, I believe, I cried like a child. It seemed to me that all was
lost. There was but one thing to be done--one course to be taken. My
darling must give herself up to justice, and by her confession free
this luckless wretch who now stands in peril of his life. She must bear
the shame of the trial, and trust to human justice and the mercy which
she had a right to expect. Oh, it was pitiful, pitiful! For a long
while no alternative course suggested itself to me.

Human justice! What is justice? See how it can err! It can arrest, try,
and--oh, horrible thought!--perhaps condemn to death an innocent man!
How then would it fare with Philippa? Who, now that marriage has sealed
my lips, was there to prove her madness when she slew that man? I raged
at the thought. It seemed to me that we were hard and fast in the
toils. I might, it is true, call William, my servant, to swear that her
manner was strange and wild upon that night. I might call the nurses to
prove that when first they saw her she was recovering from an attack
of mania. But would they be credited? Would not a clever lawyer soon
convince twelve ordinary men that it was not her madness which prompted
the crime, but the crime which produced the madness? We were indeed
meshed and bound; hemmed in on every side; helpless and, it seemed,
hopeless!

And Philippa must be told this! I must tell her! How could I nerve
myself to make the truth known to her--now, of all times, when her
health was all but restored; when a kind of sad but placid acquiescence
in what fate had wrought seemed to be gradually coming over her; now,
when I was once more building up hopes of happiness for her as well
as for me! For I knew--ah! think of this, and pity me--that before
another half year should pass there might be given to my wife and me a
gift which would go far toward sweeping away the memories of gloom and
horror which had of late spread over our lives. I even dared to hope,
to feel certain, that as she gazed into baby eyes, as she pressed a
tiny head to her bosom, some, nay, much of the lost sweetness and glory
of life might return to my love.

Think of this, and picture me lying on the ground that day, with the
damning intelligence fresh on my mind! Think that in a few hours I must
return to my home, and tell my wife that the bolt had fallen! There
was no alternative!

No alternative? Stay, there is an alternative! The blood seemed to
course wildly through my veins, my heart beat fiercely, my lips grew
dry, and a choking sensation came over me, as for the first time the
simple yet certain way of cutting the knot of my difficulties flashed
across my mind. So simple, so easy it at first appeared, that I laughed
at my stupidity in not having seen it at once.

Tear that accursed paper to pieces, Basil North! Scatter those pieces
to the winds. Forget what you have read. Go back to your luxurious,
flower-bedecked home. Meet the one you love with a smile upon your
face: you have forced smiles before now! Greet her as usual. Say
nothing of this morning’s news. Keep your own counsel; bury all you
have learned in your secret heart. Do this, and be happy forever more!

But the man--the man who in a few days’ time is to be tried for
another’s act? Well, what of him? The fool will doubtless be acquitted.
Fool! Yes, it is the right term for one who can bring himself under
suspicion. But if Justice runs on the wrong track until the end--if
that man dies?

What then? What is this miserable life, what are a hundred lives when
weighed against Philippa’s happiness? What is conscience? What is right
and wrong? What is the phantom which men call honor? What, after all,
is crime? Be silent, and forget. You are asked to do no more. You have
riches, youth, health, and strong will. The fairest woman on the earth
adores you. Why hesitate? Why let one boor’s life weigh in the scale?

Argue the matter in another way. Are not thousands of men slain every
year by the whim of a monarch or a statesman? The thought of their
death troubles not those who send them forth to fight. Men kill each
other for revenge, for money, for a point of honor, and the killer
lives on like other men live! Trust this man to the vaunted array of
Justice. He is innocent, and will come from the ordeal unscathed. If
found guilty, let him die. He will not be the first innocent man who
has died, nor will he be the last to die. It is but one life! He is
nothing to you; think of him no more. Come what may, you will always
have your sunny home and the woman you love. Her children will grow up
around you. Why hesitate? A life’s happiness is to be won by simply
sealing your lips. Its cost is but, supposing Justice blunders, to bear
the burden of one man’s death. A paltry price!

This was the temptation with which I wrestled during those long hours.
Again and again I was on the point of yielding. Once or twice I rose
to my feet with the fixed determination of destroying that paper, and
letting things take their own course. Once or twice I even forced my
steps some distance in the direction of home, but each time I turned,
went back to the sheltered spot, threw myself again on the ground, and
fought the battle anew.

No, I could not do this thing. I was a gentleman and a man of honor.
Paltry as the price was when compared with what it might buy, I could
not pay it. Although my whole soul was merged in Philippa’s welfare,
I could not, even for her sake, suffer an innocent man to be done
unjustly to death. The crime was too black, too base, too contemptible!
I felt sure that, with the man’s blood morally on my head, the
supremest joys which life could give would not lull my conscience to
rest. I knew it would not be long before remorse and shame drove me to
commit suicide.

Let the preachers say that sin is easy; that wrong is more alluring
than right. There may be some sins which are easily committed, but
I dare to say that there are others which the average man, educated
by the code of honor, and dreading shame and cowardice, finds it far
easier to avoid than to bring himself to commit. No, every sin is not
easy!

But all the same my struggle was a mortal one. At times I fancy--it
may be but fancy--that even now my mind bears some traces of that
conflict; a conflict in which my victory meant ruin to my nearest and
dearest. Was I not right when I said that my temptation was an all but
unparalleled one? Yet in reasserting this let me humbly disclaim all
credit for not having yielded. I strove to yield, but could not.

It was only when I had conquered, and put the temptation from me,
that I was able to see how utterly useless such a crime as that urged
upon me would have been. Doubtless Philippa, sooner or later, would
have learned that Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s supposed murderer had paid the
penalty of the crime. How would it have fared with us then--then, when
reparation was placed out of the question? Knowing as I did every
thought of my wife’s, every turn of her impulsive, sensitive nature, I
was fain to tell myself that such news would be simply her death-blow.

But what was to be done? Finding that I could not compass the treachery
which I dared to meditate, I cast about for another loophole of escape.
What if I were to return to England, and accuse myself of the crime?
To insure Philippa’s safety I would right willingly give away my own
life. It showed the state to which my mind was reduced when I say that
I considered this scheme in all its bearings, and for a while thought
it furnished a solution to my difficulties! I wonder if my brain was
wandering?

I laughed in bitter merriment as the absurdity of my new plan forced
itself upon me. I had forgotten Philippa, and what the effect of such
a sacrifice would be upon her. I had forgotten that she loved me, even
as I loved her; that my dying for her sake--for the sake of saving her
from the consequences of that gruesome night--would make an expiation,
if any were due from her, the most fearful which human or diabolical
ingenuity could devise.

No! Neither by sinning against my fellow-man nor by a voluntary
sacrifice of my own life could I save her. After all my protracted
mental struggles, all my lonely hours of anguish and wild scheming, I
was forced to return to the point from which I started. Philippa must
surrender herself, and free this innocent man. There was, indeed, no
alternative!

And a day gone, or all but gone! The trial on the twentieth! To reach
England--to reach Tewnham in time to stop that trial, we must travel
day and night. Day and night, across sunny or starlit Spain--across
pleasant France--we must speed on, until we reached our own native
land, now lying in all the rich calm of the early autumn. I must lead
my wife, my love, to her doom!

I rose from the ground. I felt weary, and as if I had been cudgelled in
every limb. I dragged myself slowly back to my home. “She must be told;
she must be told. But how to tell her?” I muttered as I went along. My
appearance must have been wretched; for I received the impression that
several grave-looking Sevillaños turned and looked after me as I passed
by. Even as a cowardly felon who drags himself slowly to the scaffold,
I dragged myself to the gate of our pleasant home, and on tottering
feet passed into that fragrant space in which the happiest hours of my
life had been spent.

As I entered, the remembrance of some tale which once I had read
flashed through my mind--a tale of the ferocity of a by-gone age. It
was of a prisoner who was forced by his captors to strike a dagger into
the heart of the woman he loved. I know not where the tale is to be
found or when I read it.

But it seemed to me that mine was a parallel case.

Pity me!




CHAPTER XIII.

THE LAST HOPE.


They were sitting in the courtyard, my mother and my wife. They looked
the embodiment of serene happiness. Their large fans--the use of the
fan came like an inspiration to Philippa, my mother acquired it after
much practice--were languidly waving to and fro. Philippa’s rounded arm
was outstretched; her fair left hand was in the clear water which fell
from the fountain and filled a white marble basin, in which the gold
carp darted about in erratic tacks. She was moving her fingers gently
backward and forward, startling the timid fish, and half smiling at
their terror. It seemed to me that my mother was remonstrating at the
uproar she was creating in the brilliant-coated republic.

That picture is still in my mind. That picture! I can sit now in
my chair, lay down my pen, and call up every picture of that time.
Nothing, save the grief, has ever faded, or ever will fade, from my
memory.

It was well for both of us that I had fought out the battle with myself
in solitude, where no eye could see me, where I could see no one. Even
as it was, knowing what a change my news must work, I paused, and a
ghost of the day’s temptation rose before me. But it rose too late. The
die was cast. Philippa had seen me, and my mother’s eyes followed hers.
I braced myself up, and went toward them with as jaunty a manner as I
could assume. My mother began a mock tirade on my shameful desertion of
Philippa and herself. Her words carried no meaning to my ears. My eyes
met those of my wife.

With her I made no attempt at concealment. Where was the good? The
worst, the very worst had come. My eyes must have told her the truth.

I saw her sweet face catch fire with alarm. I saw her lips quiver. I
saw the look of anguish flash into her eyes; yet I knew that I was
helpless, utterly helpless.

She rose. I made some conventional excuse and went to my room. In a
moment Philippa was at my side.

“Basil, husband, love,” she whispered, “it has come!”

I laid my head on the table and sobbed aloud. Philippa’s arms were
wreathed around my neck.

“Dearest, I knew it must come. I have known it ever so long. Basil, do
not weep. Once more, I tell you I am not worth such love as yours.”

I covered her dear face with kisses. I strained her to my heart. I
lavished words of love upon her. She smiled faintly, then sighed
hopelessly--a sigh which almost broke my heart.

“Tell me all, my love,” she said, calmly. “Let me know the very worst.”

I could not speak; for the life of me the words would not come. With
trembling hands I drew out the newspaper, and pointed to the fatal
lines. She read them with a calm which almost alarmed me.

“I knew it must be,” was all she said.

I threw myself on my knees before her. I embraced her, I was half
distraught. Save for my wild ejaculations of undying love, there was
silence for many minutes between us.

Presently, with great force, she raised my head, and looked at me with
her sweet and sorrowful eyes.

“Basil, my dearest, you have been wrong. The right is right, the wrong
is wrong. See what you have done! Had you not striven to save me, only
I should have had to answer for this. Now it is you and me, and perhaps
a third--an innocent, stainless life, that will be wrecked.”

“Spare me! Spare me!” I said. “As you love me, spare me!”

She kissed me. “Dearest, forgive me. I should not blame you. Only I am
to blame.” Then, with a sudden change in her voice, “When do we start
for England, Basil?”

Although I expected this question, I trembled and shuddered as I heard
it. Too well I knew what England meant. It meant Philippa’s standing
in open court, in a prisoner’s dock, the center of a gaping crowd,
self-accused of the murder of her husband! And as I pictured this, once
more, and for the last time, the temptation shook me.

I spoke, but I averted my eyes from hers. I could not meet them. My
voice was husky and strange; it sounded like the voice of another man.
A sort of undercurrent of thought ran through me, that if Philippa
would but share it, I could bear any burden, any dishonor.

“Listen!” I said, in quick accents. “We are far away; safe. We love
each other. We can be happy. Let the man take his chance. What does
anything matter, so long as we love and are together?”

I felt that her eyes were seeking mine. I felt a change in the clasp of
her hand. I knew that she was nobler and better than I.

“Basil,” she said softly, and speaking like one in a dream, “it was not
my husband, not the man I love, who said that. I forgive you for the
sake of your great love, for the sake of all you have done, or tried to
do, for me. Tell me now, when do we start for England?”

Her words brought back my senses. Never in the wildest height of my
passion had I loved Philippa as I loved her at that moment. I besought
her pardon. She gave it, and once more repeated her question.

With the calm of settled despair I consulted the railway-guide, and
found that if we left Seville to-morrow morning by the first train,
we might, by travelling day and night, early on the morning of the
twentieth reach the town in which the trial was to be held. I made the
result of my researches known to my wife; and upon my assuring her
that we should have time to spare, she left all the arrangement of the
journey to me.

After this, another painful question arose. Was my mother to be
told? Philippa, who may, perhaps, in her secret heart have craved
for a woman’s support and sympathy in her approaching trial, at
first insisted that my mother should be taken into our confidence--a
confidence which, alas! in a few days’ time would be gossip to the
world. I besought her to waive the point, to spare my mother’s feelings
until the very last moment. We could not take her with us on our
hurried journey. We were young; she was old. The fatigue, combined
with the grief, would be more than her frame could endure. I could not
bear to think of her waiting lonely in Seville for the bad news which
she knew must come in a day or two from England. Let us say nothing
respecting the wretched errand on which we are bound. Let us depart in
secret, and leave some plausible explanation behind us.

To my relief, Philippa at last consented to this. Then, after a long,
tearful embrace, we steeled ourselves to join my mother at the evening
meal, and to bear ourselves so that she should suspect nothing of the
tempest within our hearts. We did not very long subject ourselves to
this strain upon our nerves. It seemed to me now that every moment
spent otherwise than alone with my wife was a precious treasure wasted,
a loss which I should forever regret. So very early we pleaded fatigue,
and retired to our rest. Such rest!

Philippa bade my mother good-night with an embrace so long and
passionate that I feared it would awaken alarm, especially when it was
succeeded by my own veiled, but scarcely less emotional, adieu. For who
could say that we should ever meet again? I do not believe it struck
Philippa that in accompanying her I was running the slightest risk. Had
she thought so, she would have insisted upon going alone. But I knew
that the part I had played in that night’s work would probably bring a
severe punishment upon my own head. What did I care for that?

Silently and sadly in the retirement of our room we made our
preparations for the journey, which began with the morn. There was no
need to cumber ourselves with much luggage. We should rest in no bed
until the trial was over. What resting-place might then be Philippa’s,
Heaven only knew! So our packing was soon completed.

Then I wrote a letter, to be given to or found by my mother in the
morning. I told her that an important matter took me post-haste to
England; that Philippa had determined to accompany me; that I would
write as soon as we reached London. I gave no further explanation. I
hoped she would attribute my sudden flight to the erratic nature which
she often averred I possessed.

After all, the deception mattered little. In a week’s time nothing
would matter. Grief, overwhelming grief, would be my portion; a portion
which, by her affection for me and for Philippa, my poor mother would
be forced to share.

All being now ready for our start, we strove to win some hours of
sleep. Our efforts were mocked to scorn. Through that, the last
night we might spend alone together, I believe neither my wife nor
myself closed an eyelid. Let me draw a veil over my wild distress and
Philippa’s calm acquiescence in her fate. Some grief is too sacred to
describe.

Morning! Bright, broad, clear, cool, odorous morning! Our sleeplessness
had at least spared us the anguish of awaking, and, while for a moment
glorying in the beauty of the world, to remember what this morning
meant to us. Giving ourselves ample time to reach the railway-station,
we crept from our room, and, with eyes full of blinding tears, crossed
the pleasant _patio_. I paused in the centre, and plucking a lovely
spray from the great orange-tree, kissed it and gave it to my wife.
Without a 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, I dared not remonstrate with her. Now, of all times, her
slightest wish should be my law.

Noiselessly I 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. I could carry it with
ease to the station, which was not a great distance off. We were there
only too soon.

We had to wait some time ere the train, 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 dignified
train condescended to move onward. We sat side by side, and gazed and
gazed in the direction of the beautiful city from which we were flying;
gazed until we saw the very last of it, until even the great towering
Giralda was lost to view. Then, and only then, I think we fully
realized to what end we were speeding.

The next three days and nights seem now little more to me than a
whirling dream. On and on we went to work out our fate; over the same
ground which I had traversed, with scarcely less agitated feelings,
some months ago. I ground my teeth when I thought how little my
strenuous and seemingly successful efforts had availed. Now, not from
any omission of precaution; not because the law compelled; not by the
exercise of force; but simply on account of the great dictum of right
and wrong, we were, of our own accord, retracing our steps to face the
danger from which we had fled. Oh, bitter irony of destiny!

What was money to me now? Nothing but so much dross! It could do one
thing, only one, that gold which I lavished so freely on that journey.
It could assure that Philippa and I might travel alone. It could give
us privacy for the time that journey lasted, that was all.

Yet although alone, we spoke but little. Our thoughts were not such
as can be expressed by words. Her hand in mine, her head on my
shoulder--sleeping when we could sleep, waking and looking into each
other’s faces--knowing that every mile of sunny or starlit country over
which we passed brought us nearer to the end. Ah! I understood then
how it is that lovers who are menaced by some great sorrow can kill
themselves, and die smiling in each other’s 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 a dream, the hours, the days, the nights, went by. We might
have been travelling through the fairest scenery in the world, or
through the most arid desert. I scarcely troubled to glance out of the
carriage window. The world for me was inside.

It was after we left Paris--Paris, which to-day seemed all but within
stone’s-throw of London--that I aroused myself, and braced my energies
to discuss finally with Philippa our proper plan of action. I 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 I 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 Philippa could
be brought to yield to my guidance, to follow my instructions, it was
not beyond the bounds of possibility that we might be saved, and saved
with clean hands.

“Dearest,” I whispered, “to-night we shall be in London.”

Her fingers tightened on mine. “And at Tewnham?” she said. “We shall be
in time?”

“In ample time. But, 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 that I should tempt you. Think; he is, no
doubt, a man of a lowly station in life. Philippa, I am rich, very
rich.”

“I 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 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 unconscious act, but that I, her husband, must pay the penalty due
from an accessory 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 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
proclaim 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 afterward.”

“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 I
shall be there, and for your sake I will do as you wish.”

It was the best concession I could get. I promised. I concealed the
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 probabilities were she would be summarily ejected. This made no
difference. Let Philippa be silent; let the man be found not guilty,
and the next train could bear us back to Seville.

Yes, even now there was hope!




CHAPTER XIV.

THE CRIMINAL COURT.


We 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 endeavor
to snatch an hour’s sleep. She refused firmly. Much of that calm
which had characterized 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 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 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 gray 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 forever?

While at the hotel I tried to obtain the file of the _Times_. I wanted
to look back and see if I could find the account of magisterial
proceedings 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 the
case against him. But the file was not forthcoming. Perhaps it did not
exist; perhaps the sleepy-eyed Teutonic waiter did not understand what
I wanted; so, still in the dark as to why suspicion should 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 see; but I knew it was as pale 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!

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 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 any one 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 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 around 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,” I said, seeing that he expected an introduction. He
raised his hat, and made some courteous and pleasant 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.

“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 some one 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 see 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-by. “You will have to atone for it by a handsome gratuity.”

We followed our guide. Philippa, although walking with a firm step,
leaned heavily upon my arm. I scarcely know by what door we entered
that palace of justice. The stalwart policeman led us through stone
corridors and passages, which re-echoed with the tread of our feet, and
at last we 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 venial 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 accommodation 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. Philippa, with her thick veil
falling down to her chin, and so defying recognition, 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 under 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 somnolency, and Philippa’s grave dark eyes looking with calm
everlasting love into my own. I should wake and find 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 plains. Or I should even wake and find myself nodding over my
fire in my lonely cottage, the stolid William the only human creature
within hail; Philippa’s return, the snow-storm, 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
gray 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, colorless place! Let me wake and find
myself amid the flowers, orange trees, the fair sights and surroundings
of our Spanish home.

No! 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!

See, the clock under the balcony marks half-past nine. The all but
deserted court begins to assume the appearance of preparing for
business. Policemen 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 fill those front seats.
Some one, 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,
maybe, we 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
this 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 have gained
admission, as I heard, by favor of the 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 hate on these
sensation-seekers. I hate them even more when I think that their morbid
craving for excitement may be satisfied with such food as they little
expect; and I clinch my teeth as I picture the scene at that moment
when Philippa, in pursuance of her immovable resolution, rises, and
makes her effort to proclaim her own guilt and the convicted man’s
innocence. Although I strive to force the picture from my mind, by
telling 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 neighborhood 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 our neighbors, 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 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?




CHAPTER XV.

THE BLACK CAP.


There is silence, or all but silence, in the court. The buzz of
suppressed conversation sinks almost to nothing--absolutely to nothing
as the judge’s marshal rises, and after gabbling through the mysterious
proclamation which begins “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!” declares the court open.

Philippa, still closely veiled, sits like a statue. Her hand, which
ever grasps mine, scarcely responds to the pressure by which again and
again I endeavor 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
suggest 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, with such
horrible responsibility resting on him, a judge can ever really be a
happy man?

These thoughts seem trivial; but my mind is by now in a strange state;
it is, indeed, so sensitive that every slight incident, every small
ceremonial, of to-day seems to be impressed forever upon it.

A bewigged gentleman--the clerk of assize, the man next me tells his
neighbor--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, placing
the tips of his long white fingers together, addresses--charges, I
am told, is the right term--the grand jury in a pleasant, colloquial
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
suspicion.

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. The 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 are 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 to simply
decide whether there is or is not sufficient evidence for the cases to
go to trial.

The grand jury files out of court to conduct its solemn deliberations
in the place appointed. The judge addresses a few smiling words to the
sheriff and other magnates who, by right or favor, occupy seats on the
bench; then he returns to the perusal of his papers.

For the first time since we entered the court Philippa 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, twelve 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 the grand jury, you return a true bill against William
Evans for murder?”

“We do,” answers the foreman with shy solemnity.

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! we shall soon know.

The clerk turns, and, addressing no one in particular, 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--toward 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 policeman 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 intense
curiosity, endeavoring to determine the 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 at elbows. I rejoice at his
poverty-stricken appearance. Judging from it, money will be welcome to
him. Let the jury but assert his innocence, and I feel certain that the
liberal pecuniary compensation which it is my intention to mete out
will repay him a hundred times for the ordeal which he is undergoing.

Ordeal! Yes, it is the right word. It is easy to see it is a terrible
ordeal to the poor fellow. No 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 in 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 demeanor. Although I had, as it were, torn my very
heart out by the roots to insure 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 behavior took
away much of the sympathy which I should otherwise have felt for him in
his unmerited predicament. 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 fellow’s plight, consciousness of my own innocence would give
me strength enough to raise my head, and face boldly all the judges,
juries, and prosecuting counsel in the world. I was willing to make
every allowance for the nervousness natural to such a position; but I
groaned inwardly as I gazed upon that miserable, limp, half-standing,
half-reclining form.

Why does he not stand upright? 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 understood by Philippa,
and adds to the scruples which she feels at following my advice and
awaiting the result of the trial. Every agonized movement of the
prisoner in the dock seems to be faintly reproduced 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
toward 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! 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 I 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
must do this.”

“I can not. 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 every one in that court knows what the answer will be, there
is a silence so profound that a pin might be heard drop. Every one
seemed desirous of hearing the prisoner’s voice. Even I, myself, lean
forward, and strain every nerve to hear his plea.

There is a long, dread pause. It may be that the prisoner does not
understand that he is expected 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 further 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. While 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 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 favors us. It may be, when a momentary disturbance subsides,
and the perpetrator does not seem bent upon repeating it, that 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-natured and easy-going.
Any way, our friendly policeman does not carry out his instructions,
and the court resumes its business.

But 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 toward the bench. Once more the solemn
question, “Are you guilty or not guilty?” is asked.

A short excited pause. The prisoner answers. Well, I know what he says,
although he speaks 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 seat, 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 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 be 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 through 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 withhold 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; women’s eyes are distended. The
sensation-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 own confession, of an
atrocious, cold-blooded murder, the motive for which is known but to
yourself 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 night 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 endured such grief and
anguish!




CHAPTER XVI.

“WHERE ARE THE SNOWS THAT FELL LAST YEAR?”


Although, while engaged in the labor of writing this story, I have many
times regretted 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 chapter. 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 every thing 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 condemn a fellow-creature
to death--I carried my fainting wife from the crowded, reeking court.
The momentary sense of rapture passed away; bewilderment, 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 mechanically given care, I myself should
have fallen senseless 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 corridor I kept repeating to myself, “Innocent,
my love is innocent; that man is guilty.” I suppose this continual
reiteration was an endeavor 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
consciousness returned; she strove to speak.

My presence of mind was fast returning. “Dearest,” 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
obedience 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 another 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-up feelings.

It would be absurd for me to attempt to reproduce 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! Think of us now! The
curse laid upon us by that awful night removed forever! Our secret
kept, or secrecy, if still advisable, no longer absolutely needful.
Philippa, in spite of 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
exclamations 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 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 forgive 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 which the trial was held. I ascertained the name
of the convict’s solicitor, and as soon as I found him at leisure
requested the favor 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 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 pawnbroker,
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 clew and brought the criminal to justice. Although I was
not 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 button for the man himself; but I confess I was
annoyed at seeing my case all knocked to pieces by 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.”

“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 every one 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 wash my hands of the fellow, of course,” continued Mr. Crisp; “but
I did take the trouble to inquire 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.

“Is 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. “I want you to see 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 particulars
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, sharp little man. He
seemed to me trustworthy; 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 the 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
had awakened from their August silence, 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 had borne had fallen from my back forever!

Ah! here is the spot--the very spot where 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 until
Philippa’s health and strength returned! It did so, and saved us!

“Where are the snows that fell last year?” Ah! should I not rather
sing, “Where is the grief of yesterday?” Gone like the snow. Other snow
may fall, other grief may come, but last year’s snow and yesterday’s
grief are gone forever!

Nevertheless, that spot was too suggestive of horrible reminiscences
for me to linger long over it. I turned away, and in my great happiness
could whisper to myself that I forgave the dead man for the ill he had
wrought. May his bones rest in peace! I walked along the road, right
on until I came to the cottage in which, like a coward who could not
face his troubles, I had spent those aimless, miserable months. It was
untenanted. Half defaced auction bills were in the windows and on the
doorposts; for some months ago the furniture had been sold. I paused
and looked at the window by which Philippa had entered, and felt that
since that night I had passed through more grief, passion, fear, hope,
and joy than would fill an ordinary lifetime. Then I turned and shook
the dust off my feet. Never again would I come within twenty miles of
this place.

On the road back, to my annoyance, I encountered Mrs. Wilson. I tried
to pass without sign of recognition, but she was too quick for me. She
stood in front of me, and I was bound to stop.

She was more haggard, more drawn, more aquiline-looking than ever. Her
eyes alone looked young. They at least had spirit and vitality in them.
They positively blazed upon me.

“She did not do it, after all!” she said fiercely.

At first I thought of affecting surprise, and asking her what she
meant; but I felt that any attempt at equivoque would be but vain.

“She did not,” I answered shortly.

“Fool that I was!” she cried. “Fool, to be led away by an impulse! Why
did I tell her? I swear to you Dr. North, that had I not felt sure it
was her act, she should never have known. She should have gone to her
grave a shamed woman, as I shall go!”

Her look was venom itself.

“Remember,” I said sternly, “Lady Ferrand is now my wife. I will not
hear her name coupled with yours.”

She laughed scornfully. “Your wife! She soon forgot her first love. Why
did I speak? I wish my hand had withered before I wrote that letter. Do
you know why I wrote it?”

“No; nor do I care.”

“I wrote it for vengeance. She had, I thought, served that man as I
ought to have served him; but I hated her for it, for I loved him
still. So I thought it would be so sweet for her to know that she
had killed her husband, and for you, her lover--I knew you were her
lover--to know that I could at any moment give her up to justice! I was
a fool. Why did that man plead guilty? When I saw your wife rise in
court I laughed. I knew what was coming. Now, instead of harming her, I
have done her good.”

“You have,” I said curtly, and turned upon my heel. The malignity of
this woman was so intense that I felt thankful she could in no way work
Philippa harm.

A quarter of a mile up the road I turned. Mrs. Wilson, a black spot
on a fair scene, was standing gazing after me. I hurried on until a
bend in the path hid her from sight. I hurried on back to Philippa and
happiness!




CHAPTER XVII.

CLEAR SKIES.


Although England was now to me and to my wife a land very different
from the one we quitted some eight months ago, we were anxious to get
back to Seville, if only to set at rest my mother’s fears. She, poor
woman, as a letter showed, was much exercised as to what manner of
business could have made us leave her in so unceremonious a way. The
moment the glad truth had become known to me, I had telegraphed, saying
that all was well with us, and that we should soon join her. Two things
only detained us.

The first was that we wanted the convict’s confession. Although
Philippa said little on the subject, I knew that until it arrived she
would not be quite happy. There was with her a haunting dread that the
man, in the hopes of mitigating his sentence, had pleaded guilty to a
crime of which he was innocent. Even the accurate account which I gave
her of my interview with the solicitor did not quite satisfy her. So we
waited impatiently for the full explanation, which might or might not
come.

The second thing which kept us in London was this. I determined that
before I left I would have the fact that when I married Philippa
I married Lady Ferrand fully acknowledged. I found my way to the
gentlemen who were winding up the dead man’s affairs, and stated my
case to their incredulous ears. At first they treated me as an impostor.

But not for long. Indeed, my task was half done. They had already,
without any assistance from Mrs. Wilson, ferreted out the date and
particulars of the death of the first Lady Ferrand. They had but to
assure themselves that the marriage-certificate which I laid before
them was no forgery, and surrender at discretion.

It was a poor estate, the administrators told me. Sir Mervyn had died
intestate. He had during his lifetime made away with nearly all he
could alienate. Still, there was some personal property, of which my
wife could claim a share, and a certain amount of real property, on
which she was entitled to dower. But it was a very poor estate.

I cut them very short. I told them that, let the deceased’s wealth
be great or little, not one penny-piece of it should soil my wife’s
fingers. If Sir Mervyn Ferrand’s heir was in want of the money, it
should, provided he was a different stamp of man from his immediate
predecessor, be given to him a free gift. If not, some hospital should
be benefited by it. All I wanted was, that it should be clearly
understood that Sir Mervyn Ferrand left a widow.

The administrators, one of whom was, by the bye, the heir, evidently
looked upon me as a most eccentric personage. Perhaps it was for this
reason, or--as I do not wish to cast unmerited blame--perhaps it was
because the estate wound up to nothing--well, any way, even to this
day we have received no communication, much less remittance, from the
administrators; nor, to tell the truth, have I troubled them again.
Philippa’s marriage admitted, I washed my hands of all the Ferrand
brood.

The confession did not arrive; but I persuaded Philippa to leave
England. Mr. Crisp could send whatever he had to send to Seville just
as well as to London. So once more, and this time in all but perfect
happiness, we took that long journey which was by now quite familiar to
us.

The joy, the wild joy, with which Philippa threw herself into my
mother’s arms checked all the upbraidings and reproach which we
apparently merited. Our return was like the return of a prodigal son
and daughter. Laughter, tears, and happiness!

Although I told my mother nothing as to the object of our mysterious
journey; although she asked me nothing; although no word evidencing her
knowledge of what had passed has ever crossed her lips, I know that
all has been revealed to her; that Philippa has sobbed out the whole
strange tale on her breast. I know it by this, that since the day of
our return my mother’s deep love for my wife has shown itself even
tenderer, sweeter, and deeper. Yes, I was spared the telling of the
tale. My mother’s eyes the next day showed me that Philippa had given
her the history, as I have given it here, from beginning to end.

No, not quite the end. Sit by me once more, as I asked you at the
beginning of my story to sit by me; but this time, not by the side of
a smouldering fire, but out in the fair, gay _patio_ of our Andalusian
home. Philippa and I are side by side. The post has just come in, and
brought me a bulky packet, on which, in a clerkly hand, is written my
name and address. I tear the wrapper open with eagerness. I know what
it contains; Philippa knows. I wish to read it first alone, but the
appealing look in her eyes turns me from my purpose. After all, there
is nothing to fear, there can be nothing which she should not know.
So, with our cheeks all but touching, we read together. Sit by us, lean
over my shoulder, and read with us.

  “The confession of William Evans, now lying in Tewnham jail under
  sentence of death:

  “On the fifth of January, this year, I returned from New Zealand.
  I worked my passage home. When I reached London I had but a few
  shillings in my pocket. I had no articles of value which I could
  sell. All I owned, except my clothes and the little bit of money was
  a pistol which a man on board the ship had given me. It was a pistol
  of his own invention. He had several with him, and said he wanted to
  get the sort known. Why he gave it to me God knows; but he did, and a
  couple of cartridges.

  “I spent my money--all but a shilling or two. I tried to get work,
  but none was to be had. Then I remembered that I once had a friend
  who lived near Roding. I went there by train. I had just enough money
  to pay my fare. I found that the man I knew had left the place two
  years ago. I walked back to the town penniless and desperate.

  “The first thing I did was to go to the pawnbroker’s, and try and
  sell the pistol. The man wouldn’t buy it at any price. He said his
  shop was full of pistols. I went away, and walked to the railway
  station to try and earn a few pence somehow. I was in despair--all
  but starving.

  “About seven o’clock the train from London came in. A tall gentleman
  came out of the door of the station. I asked him if he had any
  luggage I could carry for him. He told me to be off. Then I asked
  him, for pity’s sake, to give me a shilling to buy some food. He
  cursed me, and I began to hate him.

  “He stood under the gas-lamp and drew out a great gold watch and
  looked at the time. Then he asked a man near which road he must take
  to get to a village named Cherwell. The man told him. I saw him walk
  away, and I knew where he was going.

  “I shall be hanged next week; there is no hope for me. But I tell
  the truth when I say that, bad fellow as I have been, I had never
  committed such a crime as the one which at that moment entered my
  head. That tall man had money, jewelry, and good clothing; I had
  nothing. I was starving. So I ran on, got before him, went miles
  up the road, and sat down in the bitter cold on a heap of stones,
  waiting for him to come, and making up my mind to kill and rob him. I
  knew I must kill him, because he was so much stronger and bigger than
  I was. My pistol was loaded.

  “He came. I saw him in the moonlight. I stood up as he came near and,
  God forgive me, pulled the trigger, and shot him through the heart.
  He fell like a stone, and I knew I was a murderer.

  “Oh, if I could I would have undone the deed! I stood for a long time
  before I dared to go to the body and steal the things for which I had
  committed the crime. Then I nerved myself and went to take the price
  for which, unless God is merciful, I had sold my soul.

  “I never took a farthing. Just as I was about to begin I heard the
  sound of feet. I looked up, and saw a woman or a spirit coming to
  me. I dropped the pistol in terror. I felt sure she saw me. I looked
  at her under the moon. Her face was white, her lips were moving, her
  hair was all flying about. She came straight to where the dead man
  lay, then stopped and wrung her hands. I fled away in deadly fear. I
  ran across several fields. I dared not stop. I thought that spirit or
  ghost was following me.

  “I ran on until the snow began. I must have died in that snow-storm
  if I had not found a half-roofed cowshed. I crept into this, and lay
  all the night and part of the next day. I was the most wretched being
  in the world.

  “Hunger at last drove me out. I got through the snow somehow, and
  reached a house, where the people saved me from dying of starvation.
  But nothing could make me go again to the spot where I had done the
  murder. My life since then has been one of agony. Even now that I am
  going to be hanged I am happier than I have felt for months. May God
  forgive my crime!

  “I pleaded guilty at the trial because I turned round in the dock,
  and saw the woman who I thought was a spirit standing up and ready to
  denounce me to the judge. I knew that she saw me that night, and I
  was bound to be found guilty.

  “I have confessed all. Every word of this is truth. As I hope for
  mercy, it is all true!

                                                   “WILLIAM EVANS.

  “P.S.--I took the above confession down from the prisoner’s
  dictation. It should be all you want. The man seems thoroughly
  penitent, but I do not trouble you with his expressions of remorse
  and regret.

                          “I remain, dear sir, yours faithfully,
                                                  “STEPHEN CRISP.”

We read the last lines; the paper fluttered down from our hands; we
turned to each other. Tears of deep thankfulness were in my wife’s
sweet eyes. Down to the smallest detail, the wretched man’s confession
made everything clear. Nothing was left unexplained, except, perhaps,
the motive which induced Philippa to go that night to meet her would-be
betrayer once more. This we shall never know, but her temporary madness
may amply account for it. We need seek no further, the faintest doubt
as to her own perfect innocence is removed from my wife’s mind. Hand
in hand, heart to heart, lip to lip, we can stand, and feel that our
troubles are at last over.

Our troubles over! Shall those words be the last I write? No, one scene
more--the scene that lies before me even now.

An English home. Outside, green shaven lawns, trim paths, and fine old
trees. Inside, the comfort and the peace which make an English home the
sweetest in the world. For when the need was gone; when sunny Spain
no longer was for us the one safe land, its charms diminished, and we
pined to see once more England’s fair fields and ruddy honest faces. So
back we came, and made ourselves a home, far, far away from every spot
the sight of which might wake sad thoughts. And here we live, and shall
live till that hour when one of us must kiss the other’s clay-cold
brow, and know that death has parted those whom naught but death could
part.

Look out; look through this shaded window. There she sits, my wife; a
tall son at her side, fair daughters near her. Years, many years have
passed, but left no lines upon her brow; brought no white threads to
streak that raven hair. The rich bright beauty of the girl is still her
own. To me, now as of yore, the sweetest, fairest woman in the world!

The children see me as I gaze with thoughtful happy eyes upon that
group beneath the trees. They call and beckon me. My wife looks up; her
eyes meet mine, just raised from these sad pages. Ah! love, sweet love,
in those dear eyes what was it once my fate to read? Shame, sorrow,
dread, despair, and love. All these, save love, have vanished long ago;
and as I turn to pen these lines--the last--that look of calm, assured,
unclouded joy keeps with me, telling me that from her life has passed
even the very memory of those dark, dark days!


THE END.




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Transcriber’s Notes:


Italics are represented with _underscores_, bold text with =equal
signs=.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

This edition was published as no. 159 in the _Modern Authors’ Library_
series.

Table of contents has been added and placed into the public domain by
the transcriber.

Some inconsistent hyphenation (loophole vs. loop-hole) was retained
from the original.






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