Dark Days
BY
HUGH CONWAY
[Illustration]
M. A. DONOHUE & CO.
CHICAGO
FOR THE
_VEST
POCKET_
ALWAYS _Ask For The_ DONOHUE
Complete Editions--The best for least money
DONOHUE’S
VEST POCKET
DICTIONARY
AND COMPLETE MANUAL OF PARLIAMENTARY PRACTICE
Containing 192 pages; size, 5¾ x 2¾. It contains more words, more
miscellaneous matter, and embraces more pages than any other Vest
Pocket Dictionary on the market, and yet it is so admirably made
that it does not bulk in the pocket. Besides the dictionary of the
English language it contains a dictionary of Latin words and phrases,
French words and phrases, Italian words and phrases, Spanish words and
phrases, and complete manual of parliamentary practice. Type clear,
paper good and binding excellent. It is made in the following styles:
Bound in binders’ Bound in cloth, Bound in full
cloth, red edges, red edges, leather, full
without with gilt edges,
index =25c= index =35c= indexed =50c=
LEGAL RIGHTS OF CITIZENS
Police powers and duties defined. The law of the citizen alphabetically
arranged. Full explanation of the laws of arrest, with 125 citations of
court decisions. A =Vest Pocket= compilation for the innocent citizen
to know his rights in time of trouble.
Cloth, =25c= Leather, =50c=
COMPLETE Civil Service Manual
HOW TO PREPARE FOR EXAMINATIONS
HOW TO OBTAIN POSITIONS
Contains also Sample Questions for Examinations, embracing all the
public offices and positions in the National, City, County and State
Governments. Giving full details of the history, aims, opportunities,
rules, regulations and requirements of the Civil Service. By =Prof.
C. M. Stevens, Ph. D.= 114 pages. Vest Pocket size, bound in flexible
cloth.
Price. Cloth, =25c= Leather, gilt edges, =50c=
For sale by all book and newsdealers or sent postpaid to any address in
the United States, Canada or Mexico upon receipt of price in currency,
postal or express money order.
M. A. DONOHUE & CO.
701-727 S. Dearborn Street CHICAGO
DARK DAYS
BY
HUGH CONWAY
Author of “Bound by a Spell,” “Called Back,” Etc.
[Illustration]
CHICAGO
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY
Try Murine Eye Remedy
[Illustration:
MURINE
FOR YOUR EYES
AN
EYE
TONIC
]
To Refresh, Cleanse
and Strengthen
the Eye.
To Stimulate the
Circulation of the Blood
Supply which
Nourishes the Eye, and
Restore a Healthful
Tone to Eyes Enfeebled
by Exposure to
Strong Winds, Dust,
Reflected Sunlight
and Eye Strain.
To Quickly Relieve
Redness, Swelling
and Inflamed
Conditions.
Murine is compounded in the Laboratory of the Murine Eye Remedy Co.,
Chicago, by Oculists, as used for years in Private Practice, and is
Safe and Pleasant in its Application to the most Sensitive Eye, or to
the Eyes of a nursing Infant. Doesn’t Smart.
Murine is a Reliable Relief for All Eyes that Need Care.
Your Druggist sells Murine Eye Remedies. Our Books mailed Free, tell
you all about them and how to use them.
May be sent by mail at following prices.
Murine Eye Remedy 25c., 50c., $1.00
DeLuxe Toilet Edition--For the Dressing Table 1.25
Tourist--Autoist--in Leather Case 1.25
Murine Eye Salve in Aseptic Tubes 25c., 1.00
Granuline--For Chronic Sore Eyes and Trachoma 1.50
MURINE EYE REMEDY CO.
Michigan Avenue and Randolph Street, CHICAGO, U. S. A.
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!