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DY nUOII CONWAY.
Author of "Calkd J5ucfc."
A TKATEIl AND A VOW
' When this story of my life, orof such por
tions of my life as present any outof-the-comnion
features Is read, it will be found
that I have committed errors of judgment
I have sinned not only socially, hut also
acainst the law of the land. In excuse I can
plead but two things the strength of loro;
the weakness of human nature.
If these carry no weight with you, throw
the paper aside. You are too good for me;
I am too human for you. Wo cannot bo
friends. Head no further.
I need say nothing about my chlldlnod;
nothing about my bojhood. Let me hurry
on to early manhood; to that tune when the
wonderful dreams of vouth begin to leavo
one; when the inipuiso which can drive
sober reason a-ide must be. Indeed, a strong
one; when one has learned to countthe cost
of every rash step; when the transient and
fitful flames of the b'ij have settleddown to
steady, glowing firo which will burn until
only ashes are left; when the strength, the
nerve, the intellect, is or should beat its
height; when, in short, one's years number
Yet, what was I then? A soured, morose,
disappointed man; without ambition, with
out care for the morrow; without a goal or
object in life. Ureathing, eating, drinking,
as by instinct. BUing in the morninc, and
wishing the day was over; lying down at
night, and caring little whether the listless
eyes I closed might open again or not.
Andwhj? Ah! to know why you must
sit with me as I sit lonely over my plowing
fire one winter night. You mut read my
thoughts; the pictures of my past must rise
before you as they rise before mc. Jly sor
row, my hate, my love must be yours. You
must. Indeed, be my very self.
You may begin this retrospect with tri
umph. You may go back to the day w hen,
after having passed my examination with
high honors, I, Basil North, was duly en
titled to write JL D. after my name, and 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 usuil initiatory
struggles, mj footlnggraduallygrewfrmcr;
how my name became familiar; how, at
last, I seemed to be in a fair way of w inning
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.
Ho, I am wrong. Her you cannot see.
Only I myself can see Fhilippa as I saw her
then as I see her now.
Heavens I how fair she was 1 How glori
ous ber rich dark beauty I How different
from the pink-white and yellow dolls whom
I have seen exalted as the types of perfec
tion! Warm Southern blood ran through
her veins and tinged her clear brown cheek
with color. Her mother was an Englishw o
man; but it was Spain that gave her daugh
ter 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 car
riage 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 occupa
tion I have not been able to ascertain, seems
to have spent most of his time in tills coun
try. When did I learn to love her? Ask me
rather, when did we first meet? Een then
as my eyes fell upon the girl, I knew, as by
revelation, that for mo life and her lovi
' 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 engross
ing 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 whe
loved but failed to win Philippa.
Our first meeting was brought about in a
most prosaic way. Her mother, who suffer
ed from a chronic disease, consulted me
professionally. Jly visits, first those of a
doctor, soon became those of a friend, and 1
was free to woo the girl to the best of my
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, ladylike
woman, who bore her sufferings with resig
nation. Her health was, indeed, wretched.
Theonlj thing which seemed likelyto bene
fit her was a continual change of air and
scene. After attending her for about ix
months, I was in conscience bound to in
dorse the opinion of her former medical ad
visers, and tell her it would be well for her
to try another change.
Jly heart was heavy as I gave this advice.
If adopted, it meant that Philippa and I
But why, during those six months, had 1
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
knownl 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
I had not spoken; I dared not speak. Bet
ter uncertainty with hop, than certainty
with despair. The day on which Philippa
refu-ed my love would be as the day of
death to me.
Besides, what had I to offer her? Al
though succeeding fairly well for a begin
ner, at present I could only ask the woman
I made my wife to share comparative pover
ty. And Philippa! Ah! I would have wrap
ped 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 w ife of a hard-working and
as yet ill-paid doctor. You w ould have felt
that she should have had the world at her
Had I thought that she loved me, I might
perhaps have dared to hope she would even
then hav e been happy as my w if e. But she
did not love mc. Moreover, she was ambi
tious. She knew small blame to her how beau
tiful 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 exected a queen's dues.
(Sweete-t are my words cruel? They are
the cruelest I have spoken, or shall speak,
against you. Fonrive 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 uron it. So
little it seems to need to make friendship
grow into love; and jet how seldom that lit
tle is added! The hue which begins with
hate or dislike is often luckier than that
which begins with friendship. Lovers can
not be friends.
Philippa and her mother left my neigh
borhood. They went to London for awhile.
I beard from them occasionally, and once
or twice, when In town, called upon them.
Time went by. I worked hard at my pro
fession the while, striving, by sheer toll, to
drive away the dream from my life. Alas !
I strove in vam. ro love rniiiw. was tp
love her forever!
One morning a letter camo froui her. I
tore it open. The news it contained was
Grievous. Her mother bad died suddenly.
Fhilippa was aloiie In the "world: So far.
I knew, she had not a relative left; and 1
believed, lyrhaps hoied, that, save jnjself,
she had no friend. . "" .
I needed no time for cons'deratlon. That
afternoon I was In London. lfI could not
comfort her In her great sorrow, I could at
least sympathize with her; could undertake
. the'management of the many buslness.de
talls which are attendant upon a death.
PoorPiiillppa! She was glad to sen rue.
Through her tears she flashed me a look of
gratitude. I did all 1 could for her, ami
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 sho
mention the nameof any friend who would
be willing to receive her. As I suspected,
she was absolutely alone in tho world. As
soon as my back was turned she would have
no one on whom she could count forsymp.v
thy or help.
it must have been her utter loneliness
which urged me. in spite of my better judg
ment. In spite of the grief which still op
pressed her, to throw myself at her feet and
declare the desire of my heart Jly words
I cannot recall, but I think I know I plead
ed eloquently. Such passion as mine gives
power and intensity to the mostunpracticed
speaker. Yet long before my appeal was
ended I knew that I pleaded In vain. Her
eves, 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 an
swer them now; to let me say them again
in some months' time. Let me still be her
friend, and render her such service at I
She shook her head; she held out her
hand. The hrst 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 re
sjectable street near Regent's Park. She
expressed her intention of staying on here
"But alonel" I exclaimed.
"Why not? What have 1 to fear? Still.
I am open to reason, if you can suggest an
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. Sho had no
friends, and must live somewhere. Why
should she not stay on at her present lodg
ings? 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 in
to passionate appeals.
As she would not give me the right to dis
pose 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 mino 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
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 1 How wearily they
dragged themselves away!
Toward the end of my self-imposed terra
of probation I fancied that a brighter, gayer
tone manifested itself in Phlllppa's letters
Fool that 1 was! 1 augured well from this.
Telling myself that such love as mlno
must win in the end, I went to London, and
once more saw Philippa. She received me
kindly. Although h?r garb was still that of
deep mournirg, never, I thought had she
looked more beautiful. Not long after our
first greeting did I wait before I began Ui
plead again. She stopped me at the outset
"Hush," she said; "I have forgotten your
former words; let us still be friends."
"Neverl" I cried passionately. "Philippa,
answer me once for ill, tell me you can love
She looked at me compassionately. "How
can I best answer you?"' she said, musingly.
"The sharpest remedy Is perhaps the kind-e-t
Basil, will you understand me when I
say It U too late?"
"Too late! What can you mean? Has
The words died on my lips as Philippa,
drawing a ring from the fourth finger of her
left hand, showed mo that it concealed
plain gold circlet Her eyes met mine im
"I should have told you before," she said
softly, and bending her rroud 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 an
swer." I rose without a wonl. 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 I In that moment
hope and all the sweetness of life seemed
swept away from me.
Something in my face must have told her
how lier 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, 1
am not worth it I should not have made
J ou happy. You will forget you will find
another. If I have wronged or misled you,
say you forgive me. Let me hear ou, my
true friend, wish me happiness"
I strove to force mydrylips to frame some
conventional phrase. In vain I words would
not come. I sank into a chair and covered
my face with my hands.
The door opened suddenly, and a man en
tered. He may haw been about forty j ears
of age. He was till and remarkably hand
some. 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
"Dr. North, an old friend of my mother's
and mine," she said with composure. "Jfr.
Fanner," sho 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 bow ed mechanically. I made a few dis
jointed remarks about the weather and
kindred topics; then 1 shook hands with
Philippa and left the house, the most miser
able 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! Stiy; he may
have his own reasons for concealment
reasons known to Philippa and approved of
by her. Not a word against her. Sho is
still my queen; the one woman in the world
to me. What she has done is right I
1 passed a sleepless night. In the morn
ing I wrote to Philippa. 1 wished her all
happiness I could command my pen, if not
my tongue. 1 said no word about the stcre
cy of the wedding, or the evils so often con
sequent to such concealment. But with a
foreboding of evil to come. I begged her to
remember that we were friends; that, al
though 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 ofhe or
regret. No thought of my grief should jar
upon the happiness which she doubtless ex
acted to find. Farewell to the one dream
of my Iife!FaiewelI, Philippa!
Such a pass.on as mine may, in these matter-of-fact,
uiirom.intlc dajs, seem an a
nachronisin. No matter, whether to sym
pathy or ridicule, 1 am but laying bare my
true thoughts and feelings.
I would not return to my home at once. 1
shrank from going back to my lonely hearth
and beginning to eat my heirtout I had
made arraiizements to stay in town for
somedas;so I stayed, trying by a course
of v hat is termed gayity to drive remem
brance away. Futile effort! How many
have tried the same reputed remedy with
out sum-ass I
THE GLOBE REPUBLIO. STXNPAY MOBNIISTG, EEBRXJARY 8 1886.
Four days after my interview with Philip
pa, I wag 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 Phlllppa's
husband. His face was turned from me, so
I was able to dliect my friend's attention to
"Who U that man?" I asked.
"That man with the gardenia In his coat
is Sir Slervyn Ferrand."
"Who Is he? What Is he? What kind of
1 uian.l he?"
"A baronet Not very rich. Just about
.he usual kind of mau jou see on those
iteps. Very popular with the ladles, they
"It he married?"
"Heaven knows! I don't I never heard
of a Lady Ferraud, although there must be
several who are morally entitled to use the
Ami this was her husband Phlllppa's
I clinched my teeth. Why had he married
under a false name? Or If sho know that
namo by which she introduced him to me
was false, why was It assumed? Why had
the marriage been clandestine? Not only
Sir Jiervyu Ferrand, but the noblest in the
laud should bo proud of wlnnlug Philippa?
The more I thought of tho matter, the more
wretched I grew. The dread that sho had
been In some way deceived almost drove me
mad. The thought of my proud, beautiful
queen soma day rinding herself humbled to
the dust by a scoundrel's deceit was anguish.
What could I do?
My first Impulse was to demand an ex
planation, 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
he had repealed her secret to me in confi
dence. 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 solf-re-proacb.
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. AlasI I found she had left
her home the day before left it to returu
no more! The landlady had no idea whither
she was gone, but believed it was her Inten
tion to leave England.
After this I threw prudence to the winds.
With some trouble I found Sir Mervyn Fer
rand's town address. The next day I called
on him. He also, I was informed, had Juit
left England. Ills destination was also
I turned away moodily. All chance of
doing good was at aa and. Let the marriage
be true or false, Philippa bad departed, ac
companied by the mau who, for purposes
of bU own, passed under the name of
Farmer, but who waa really Sir Mervyn
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; 1 swore thatwere she wrong
ed I would with my own hand take veu
geance on the man who wronged her.
For myself 1 prayed nothing not even
forgetfu!nes. 1 loved Philippa; I had lost
her forever! The past, the present, the
future were all summed up In these words!
A VILLAIN'S BLOW.
They tell me there are natures stru
enough to be able to crush love out of their
lire. Ah I not such love as mine I Time,
they say, can heal every wound. Not such
a wound as minel My whole existence un
derwent a change when Philippa showed
me the weddiug-ringon her finger. No won
dei 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 tiken out of my be
ing. For months and months I did my work
in a perfunctory manner. It gave me no
satisfaction that my practice grew larger. 1
worked, but I cared nothing for my work.
Success gave mo no pleasure. An increase
to the number of my patients was positive
ly unwelcome to uie. So long as I made
money enough to supply my dally needs,
what did It matter? Of what Use was wealth
to me? It could not buy me tho one thing
for which I craved. Of what use was life?
No wonder that such friends as 1 had once
jiossessed all but forsook me. My mood at
that time was none of the sweetest 1
was alone in the world; I should be always
So tilings went on for more than a year. I
grew worse Instead of better. My gloom
deepened; my cynicism grew more confirm
ed; my life became more and more aimless.
These are not lov en' rhapsodies. 1 would
spare you them if I could; but It Is neces
sary that you should know the exact state
of my mind in order to understand my sub
sequent conduct Even now It seems to me
that I am writing this description with my
Not a word came from Philippa. I made
no Inquiries about her, took no steps to
trace her. I dared not Not for one mo
ment did I forget her, and through all those
weary months tried to think of her as hap
py and to be envied; yet, in spite of myself,
I shuddered as I pictured her lot as It might
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
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 prop
erty. I cared nothing for this unexpected
wealth except for the fact that It enabled
me to free myself from a round of toll In
which by now I took not the slightest Inter
est Had it but come two or three ) ears be
fore! Alas! all things in this life come too
Now that I was no longer forced to mingle
with men in order to gutn the means of liv
ing, 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 hrst 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 Boding.
Here I was utterly unknown, and could live
exactly as I chose; and for months ft was
my choice to live almost like a hermit
My needs were ministered to by a man
who had been for some years in myemploy
ment 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
Hour after hour I sat gazlne at the glow
ing embers, but seeing only Phlllppa's be
loved face. How had life fared with her?
Where was she at tills moment? The re
solve to quite my seclusion was finally
made. 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 contrastiil
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.
Iliad another Inducement which urged
me to make a change In my mode of life. I
am ashamed that 1 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 enteied man's estate she
married fur the second time. My step-father
was an American, and with many tears
my mother lift 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 njs 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.
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 alono broke the darkness of the room.
Iliad not even drawn the curtains or shut
the shutters. At times I liked to look out
and see the stars. They shone so ieaceful
ly, so calmly, so coldly; they seemed so un
like the world, with its strife and fierco
passions and dissappointments.
I rose languidly from my chair and walk
ed to the window, to see what sort of anight
It was. As I approached the casement I
could see that tho skies had darkened;
moreover, I noticed that feathery fl ikes 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 ejes now riveted on my
awn was a woman; and that woman was
Philippa, my love I
For several seconds I stood, spellbound,
fazing at her. That 1 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 trombled as I looked; for the
form was that of Philippa In dire distress.
It was seeing the hood whicii covered her
head grow whiter and whiter with tho fast
falling snow which aroused me to my senses,
and made every fiber thrill with the thought
that Philippa, In flesh and blood, stood be
fore me. With a low cry of rapture 1 tore
asunder the fastenings of the French case
ment threw the sashes apart, and without
a word my love passed from the cold, bleak
night Into my joom.
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 intheccntcrof 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;
thev were as cold as icicles.
"Philippa I 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 unllko the
Philippa of old! But to my eyes how love
As I looked down at the fair woman kneel
ing at my feet with her proud head bent as
in shame, I knew intuitu ely that I should
be called upon to keep my oath; and know
ing this, I re-reglstered It in all its entirety.
At last she raised her face to mine. In
her eyes was a somber fire, which until now
I had never seen there. "Philippal Philip
pa J" 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 ou the table Philip
pa 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
orsorrowl I hope I try to believe it was
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 toll 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 thePhllip
pa of old I
The rich, warm, glowing beauty seemed
toned down, ner face had lost itsexquisite
color. Moreover, It was tho 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 III, her illness could not have been
of long duration. Her ficurewas 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 1 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 1 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,
"now could I be happj?"
"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
She drew a sharp, quick breath. Thecolot
rushed back to her cheek. Her eyes glitter
ed strangely. Nevertheless, she spoke calm
ly and distinctly.
"Husband! I have none," sho said.
"Is he dead?"'
"No" she spoke with surprising bitter
ness "no; I should rather say I never wa
a wife. Tell me, Basil," she continued
fiercely, "did you ever hate a man?"
"Yes," I answered emphatically and truly.
Hate a mau! From the moment 1 saw th
wretch with whom Philippa fled 1 hated
him. Now that my worst suspicions weri
true, what were ray feelings?
I felt that my lips compressed themselves.
I knew that when I spoke ray voice was as
stern and bitter as Phlllppa's. "Sit down,"
1 said, "and tell me all. Tell me how yon
knew I was here where you have come
Let me but learn whence she came, and 1
felt sure the knowledge would enable me to
lay my hand on the man I wanted. Alii
life now held something worth living for!
"I have been here some months," said
"Here! In this neighborhood?"
"Yes. I have seen you several times. 1
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,
"He sent me here. He had grown weary
of me. 1 was about to have a child. I was
In his way a trouble to him."
Her scornful accent as she spoko was In
describable. "Philippa I Philippa!" I groaned, "had
you sunk so low as to do his bidding?"
She laid her hand on my arm. "Jlore,"
she said. "Listen ! Beforw we parted he
struck me. Struck me! He cursed me and
struck me I Basil, did jou 1 ver hate a man?"
I threw out my arms. Jly heart was full
of rage and bitterness. "And jou became
this man's mistress rather than my wife!"
I gasped. Neither my love nor her sorrow
could stop tills one reproach from passing
She sprung to her feet. "You!" she cried.
"Do you think do jou imagine Bead!
Only this morning I learned it."
She threw a letter toward me threw It
with a gesture of loathing, as 0110 throws a
nauseous reptile from one's hand. I open
ed it mechanically.
"Yes," she said, "you are right In think
ing 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. Win? Because
until this morning ho was my husband.
Read the letter. Basil, did you ever hate a
Before I read I g'anced at her in alarm.
She spoke with a most feverish excitement
Her words followed one another with head
long rapidity. But who could wonder at
this mood with a woman who had such a
wrong to declare? She grew calm beneath
"Bead," she said, beseechingly, "Ah,
Godl I have fallen low; but not so low as
She burial her face In her hands while I
opened ana reaa tne letter. It was dated
from Paris, and ran to;
"As it seems to me that we can't exactly
hit it off tocether, I think the farce had bet
ter end. The simplest way to nnke un
meaning clear is to tell you that when I
married jou 1 had a wife alive. She has
died since then; and I dure say. had we
managed to get on Letter together, I should
have asked you to go through the marriage
ceremony once more. However, as things
are now, so tbey had belter stop. You have
the satisfaction of knowing that morally
j-ou are blameless.
"If, like a nenslble girl, you are ready to
accept the situation, I am prepared to act
generously, and do the right thing In money
matters. As 1 hate to have anything bank
ing over me unsettled, and do not care 10
trust delicate negotiations to a third party, I
shall run across to England and see jou. 1
shall reach Boding ou Wednesday evening.
Do not send to the station to meet me; I
would rather walk."
The letter was unsigned. My blood boil
ed as I read It; yet. In spite of my rage, 1
felt a grim humor as I realized the exquisite
cynicism possessed by the writer. Here
was a mau 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 ho can speak coolly about 111 mey ar
rangements; can even enter into petty de
tails concerning his approaching visit! Hu
must be without shame, without remorse;
a villain, absolutely heartless I
I folded the letter and placed it in my
breast I wished to keep it that I might
read it again and agalu during the next
twenty-four hours. Long hours they wouic
be. This letter would aid iuj to make then
'pass. Philippa made no objection to ni)
keeping It Sho sat motionless, gazmj
gloomily Into the fire.
"You knew the man's right name am
title?" I asked.
"Yes, from the first Ah I there I wrong
cd myself, Basil ! The rank, the riches, per
haps, tempted me; and Basil, I loved hin
Oh, the piteous regret breathed In that
last sentence! I ground my teeth, and fell
that there was a stronger passion than vet
love. "That man and I meet to-m jrrow," )
told myself softly.
"But -ou spoke of a child?" 1 said, turn
ing 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 cimu with feverish
rapidity. I took her hands lu mine; thej
were now burning.
"Philippa, dearest, bo calm. You will se
that man no mors?"
"I will see him no more. It is to save my
self from seeing him that I come to you.
Little right have I to ak aid from you; but
your words came back to me In my need.
There was one friend to turn to. Help me,
Basil ! 1 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 whlt forehead, and
vowing mentally to devote my lifo to her.
"You w ill stay here now'."' I asked.
"No, I must go back. To-morruw I will
come to-morrow. Basil, my brother, jou
will take me far away far away?"
"Where you wish. Every land is as one
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 I How I longed for the
nirment 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 accompanjlng her toher
home. We left the house by the casement
by which she entered. Together we step
ped out on the snow-whitened road. She
took my arm and we walked toward her
I asked her with whom sho was stayimr.
She told me with a widow lady and two
children, named Wilson. She went to them
at Sir Jfervjn Ferrand's command. Jfrs.
Wilson, he told her, was a distant connec
tion of his own, and he had made arrange
ments for her to look after Philippa during
"What namo do they know you by?" I
"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 ab
solved from my promise of secrecy. Why
should I stay in a strange house w ith strange
people by Sir Mervyn Ferrand's request
unless I could show good cause for doing
so? So I told Jlrs. Wilson everything."
"She believed you?"
"She was bound to believe me. I would
have no doubt cast upon my word. I show
ed her the certificate of my marriage. What
ever she may have thought at first she saw
then that I was his wife. No oneelse knows
it except her. To her I am Lady Ferraud.
Like me, she never dreamed to what man's
villainy can reach. Oh, Basil! Basil I why
are such men allowed to live!"
For the first time Philippa seemed to
break down. Till now the chief character
istics of her mood had been scorn
and anger. Now, sheer grief for the time
appeared to sweep away every other emo
tion. Sob after sob broke from her. I en
deavored to calm her tocomforthtr. AlasI
how little I could say or do to these ends I
She leaned heavily and despondingly on my
arm, and for a long while we walked In si
lence. 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
jou ate staying. I shall tell her I am your
brother; that for some time I have known
how shamefully your husband has neglected
you; and tiiat now, with your full consent
I mean to take you away. Whether this wo
man believes in our relationship or not
matters nothing. I suppose she knows tha.
man is coming to-morrow. After his heart
less 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 ser
vant for your luggage. Mr. Wilson may
know me and my man by sight That makes
no difference. There need be no conceal
ment You are free to come and go. You
have no one to fear. On Thursday morn
ing we will leave this place."
"Yes," said Philippa, dreamily, "to-morrow
I will leave I will como to you. But
I will come alone. In the evening, most
likely, when no one will know wherel have
"But how much better that I should take
you away openly and In broad daylight as
a brother would take a sister!"
"No; 1 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 recol
lect" 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 sho
joined me. Sleep and the certainty of my
sjfnpathy 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 uiealoue. Atlast
very reluctantly, I was obliged to give way
on this point; but I was de"ermined to see
tills Jlrs. Wilson to-night; so when we
readied 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 wearj'. and
at my suggestion went straight to her room
to retire for the night. I sat down and
awaited tho advent of Mrs. Wilson. She
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 tjpj of
beauty, have been extremely good-looking.
Unfortunately hers was one of those faces
cast in an aquiline mold faces which, as
soon as the bloom ef 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.
As she entered tha room and bowed to me
her face expressed undisguised surprise at
seeing a visitor who was a stranger to her.
1 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 Ladv Ferrand. It
was clear that as Philippa had said, Mrs.
Wilson was convinced as to the valid nature
of the marriage.
When I told her It was Lady Ferrand's In
tention 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 forquite
a week. I mentioned It to her this after
noon ; but she appears to have taken an un
accountable dislike to him, and utterly re
fined to see him. I do not wish to alarm
you I merely mention this; no doubt you,
her brother, will see to it."
"I am myself a doctor. Her health will
be my care," I said. Then 1 rose.
"You are related to Sir Mervyn Ferrand,
I believe, Jlrs. Wilson?" I asked.
She gave me a quick look which might
mean anything. "Wo are connections," she
"You must have been surprised at his
sending his wife away at such a time?"
"I am not in tin habrtof feellngsurprised
at Sir Mervyn's act.ons. He wrote to me
and told me that knowing my circumstances
were straitened, tm 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 cer
tain words, I knew it was but the fact of
Phlllppa's being married to the scoundrel
that surprised her, nothing else. I could see
that Mrs. Wiion knew Sir Mervyn Ferrand
thoroughly, and something told me that hei
relations with him were of a nature whicii
might not bear Investigation.
I bade her good-night and walked back to
my cottage with a heart In which sorrow,
pity, hatred.exultation.and. It may be, hope,
were strangely and inextricably mingled.
"THE wages of six."
Morningl No books; no idle, HsUess
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 uiy aimless, selfish existence.
Henceforward I should have something
worth living for worth dying for, if needs
be! Philippa was coming tome to-day;
coming in grief. It Is true; coming as a sis
ter comes to a brother. Ah I after all the
weary, weary waiting, I shall see her to-day
to-morrow, every day!
Although Philippa would grace my poor
cottage for one night only, I had athnusand
preparations to make forher comfort For
tuuatoly I had a spare room, and, moreover,
a furnished one. Not that 1 should have
troubled, when I went into my seclusion,
about such superfluity as a guest-chamber;
but as It happened 1 had bought the house
and the furniture complete; so I could offer
my welcome guest fair accommodation for
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 un
til I returned or sent him Instructions what
to do with It William manifested no sur
prise. Had I told him to make preparations
for the coming of my wife and five children,
he would have considered it all apart of the
day's work, and would have done his best to
meet my requirement?.
He set to work in his imperturbable,
methodical, but handy way to get Phillppa's
room In trim. As soon as this was done,
and the neglected chamber made cosy 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.
William was away about two hours; then
he made bis 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 mes
sage; so there was nothing for me to do but
wait patiently until she chose to cross my
Although my pleasing labors of love were
ended, I was not left idle. There was an
other task to be done to-day. 1 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 faco with
that black-hearted scoundrel known as Sir
I consulted the time table. His letter
named no particular hour: but I saw that If
he carried out his expressed intention of be
ing here to-night there was but one train
by which he could come; there was but one
way from Boding 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 Rodlng at seven o'clock. The weather
was cold; a man would naturally walk fast
Jlrs. 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 cr J sworn
that a wrong to Philippa s! be more
than a wrong to himself I He wu.ild meet
this man and be called to account.
1 designed no murderous stock. But It
was my Intention to stop the man on his
path; to confront htm 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
1 knew that it was probable he would laugt
at me tell me that thedajsof duellngwere
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
tills failed, I would follow him abroad, cane
him and spit upon him in public places.
Truly, as I said, I had now plenty to live
The hours went by, yet Philippa came
not I grew restless and uneasy as the dusk
began to make the road, ap 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 light
ly to Phlllppa's wish her command rather
that I should on no account fetch her.
But then, whenever did I resist a wish,
much Ies3 a command, of hers? Ob, 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 1 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 fljlng 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
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 dis
tance up the road. "Why does she delay?"
I groaned. Even now I should be on my
war to Rodlnc or I mav miss mr nrev.
Heavens I can it be that she is waiting M
see this man once more? Neverl neverl
Perish the thought I
But all the same, overy fiber In my body
quivered at the bare supposition of such a
I could bear the suspense no longer. For
the hundredth time I glanced at my wateh.
It wanted but ten minutes to seven o'clock,
and that hour I had resolved to start from
Mrs. Wilson's, on my way to Boding. Tet
now I dared not leave my own house-
moment ml 'lit bring Philippa. Wnai
site think If I was not there to recel
Five more precious minutes gone
stamped in my raze. After all, 1 can
do one-half of my task; the sweet but
the stern half. Shall I, indeed, do el
The train must now be close to Itodlngi
an hour even thin.; may be lost The
will see her before she leaves the house.
w ill persuade her. She w 111 listen V
words; fordid he not once love her?
must have loved her! After all, he t,
the laws for the sake of possessing her.
cursed thought! he loved him then;'
she is but a woman I
Sol tortund myself until my sta
mind grew unbearable. At all haza;
must prevent Ferraud from meeting I!
pa. Oh, why had she not come as
nromised? Could It be she was de:
azainst her will? In spite of her unl
ested manner, I distrusted the woman I
seen last night It is now past seVen o'cl!
Philippa s house, from which I had re
ed my time, was nearly three miles aw;
must give up my scheme of vengeane
must go in search of Philippa. If I dc
meet her I mut call at Jlrs. Wilson's,
out what deta.ns her, and if needful
her away by force.
By this time my steps had brought
back to my own house. I called V il
and told him 1 was going to walk up
road and meet my expected guest If
any chance I should miss her, he was
welcome her on my behalf, and tell her
reason for my absence.
"Best take a lantern, sir, said William;
"inoon'II be hidden, and them roads Is pre
"I can't be bothered with that great horn
affair," I said, rather testily.
Take the little one-the bull's eye-that'
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 tho bell Impetuously. The door was
opened by a maidservant. 1 inquired foi
Mrs. Farmer, knowing that Philippa had
passed under this name to all except het
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 heron the road.
No; such a thing was impossible. The way
was a narrow one. The moon still gave
some light If I had met Philippe, I must
have seen her. She must have seen me, and
would theu have stopped me. She could not
have gone tho way I came.
As I turned from the housa I became
aware that a great and sudden change bad
come over the night It seemed to me that
even in the few minutis which I had spent
In considering what to do, the heavy clouds
hail banked and massed together. It was
all tut pitch-dark; so dark that I paused,
and drawing from ray pocket the lantern
with which William's foreskht had Drovid-,
ed me, managed after several trials to light V;
It Then, impatient at the delay, 1 sped up
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 eltliT 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 mail 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," X
said, as I battled along, "she cannot have
gone much further."
I kept a sharp look-out if, indeed. It can
be called a look-out; 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 at
tracting her attention. Jly 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 notdared not love him.
And for a dreary comfort I recalled the trte
ter bitterness of her accent last night whe
she turned to me and said, "Basil, did you
ever hate a man?" No, she could not love
I halted. Irresolute, in the center of the
road. Instinctively I beat my hands to
gether to promote circulation. I had left
mj- home hurriedly, and had made no pro
vision for tho undergoing of such an ordeal
as this terrible, unprecedented snow-storm
Inflicted. In spite of the speed at which 1
had traveled, my hands and feet were grow
ing 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. Sudden
ly, 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 post me like the wind; but as it pass
ed me I knew that my quest was ended
that Philippa was found!
She vanished in a second, before the ter
ror which rooted me to the spot had passed
away. Then I turned and, fast as 1 could
run, followed her, crying as I went,"Pullip
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 souml of my voice seemed to calm
her, or I should rather say she ceased to-e
"Thank Heaven, I have found yon V
said. "Let us get back as soon as possible.
"Back ! No ! Go on, go on !" she exclaim
ed. "On, ou, on, up the road yet awhile
on through the storm, through thesnow on
till you see what I have left behind me! On
till jou see tho wages of sin the wages of
Her words came like bullets from a mitral-
leuse. Through the night I could see her
fape gleaming whiter than the snow on her
hood. I could s. e her great fixed, dark
eyes full of nameless horror.
"Dearest bd 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 me
tallic sound rang out as it touched the
ground. Jieclianically I stooped and pick
ed up the fallen object.
As I did so Pnilippa 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 thi) snowy
ground. It was a small pistol! Cold as the ,
touch of the metal must have been, it seem- '
ed to burn me like a coal of fire. Impulsive
ly, thoughtlessly, as I ran I hurled tho wea
pon from me, far, far away. Why should
it have been in Phillppa's hand this night?
I ran madly on, but not for long. Jly 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 Philip
pa must have obtainedastartwhlch,coupled
with her frenzied speed, almost precluded
the possibility of my overtaking her.
to bs co-vtixced.