East of the Shadows

by Mrs. Hubert Barclay

"I do not know. He certainly remembers something of the past. I mentioned your name to him the other day, and he replied quite naturally and quite calmly, 'Dear old Isabella! she was always a good friend.' So you see he does remember."

A painful flush rose in Isabella's sallow cheeks, but she said no word. Was this the message she had waited for so long? Casual words repeated with a cruelty that was quite unconscious on Philippa's part.

She too was thinking only of Francis, and not at all of this woman who had loved him in silence for so long. But with the wound comfort came to Isabella in the knowledge of the meed of praise the words contained. It was something to know that Francis remembered her, and more to know that he recalled her as a good friend. What more could she expect? Then, taking her love and her longing with both hands, she laid them a sacrifice before the welfare of the man she loved, and made the renunciation of her one hope without a quiver in her voice.

"I think you are perfectly right," she said. "It is most important that he should not see—any one—he knew in the old days. It would only disturb and perplex him, and if you take him abroad you will be able to guard him from every danger of this kind."

"Yes," said Philippa eagerly, "that is what I feel. I shall try and explain it to Marion, but I am afraid it will not be easy to make her understand. If he sees the Major I am sure he will begin to wonder, and Marion and the child would puzzle him dreadfully. But right away in Italy, or somewhere he has never been before, there would be no danger of anything of the kind. He can start a fresh life altogether.

"I did not really want him to live, Isabella," she continued presently. "I thought it would be better for him to go out of it all, out of all the bewilderment and trouble; but that was before—I knew—I loved him. And now, you cannot wonder that I want him to live. My life shall be devoted to taking care of him. Oh, how I wish you could see him, Isabella! You would see that what I say is true. He is so happy, so light-hearted. I think he must be just what he used to be when he was a boy.

"I had a long talk with poor old Goodie last night. She is in the seventh heaven of delight because the nurse is leaving. She has been so jealous of her, poor old soul. You can hardly wonder at it, can you? She told me exactly what she and Keen had arranged. He is going to sleep in the next room because, as she said, much as she would like to be next to Francis, she did not wake as easily as she used to, and she might not hear him if he called; but she is to take in his early cup of tea so as to have a look at him before any one else. 'I know just how he likes it,' she assured me. 'Two lumps of sugar and a dash of cream.' Her devotion is quite pathetic, and she nearly made me cry last night when she invited me into her room and showed me all her most precious possessions. They had all to do with Francis. His first pair of gloves, such tiny things with fingers about an inch long, his baby shoes, his favourite playthings, beginning with a worsted rabbit and ending with his last tennis racquet. She had a cupboard full of them. And she was so proud of all his presents to her, particularly of a blue china mug which she told me he had bought for her with his own money when he was seven years old. The dear old woman couldn't stop talking of him, and I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. She showed me letters she had from him when he first went to school. The first one he wrote began 'Darling Goodie,' and ended up 'Your loving little Boy.' Well, it appears that she did not think this was a suitable way for him to address her, so she wrote and told him that he was not to write like that again, but to remember his position, and that God had made him her superior. He wrote back 'Darling Goodie,' and ended up 'Your loving little superior Boy.' I saw the letter written in a sprawling childish hand with a line of crosses for kisses at the bottom of the page. It was rather sweet, wasn't it?

"You never heard such stories as she told me. How he once dressed up in the coachman's livery and took the brougham to fetch his mother from Renwick. It was quite dark, and she got into the carriage without noticing anything. He drove home at a fearful pace, and galloped the horses right up the drive, and pulled up at the hall door with a tremendous jerk. His mother quite thought the coachman was drunk, and as she got out she said very sternly, 'You will come to me in the library immediately, Williams.' 'Yes, darling,' said Francis, and jumped off the box and gave her a great hug. It must have been very funny."

"You would think it particularly funny if you had known Lady Louisa," assented Isabella. But she said nothing of a girl who had crouched behind the gatepost, shivering with cold and excitement, to watch the success of the plot which had been hatched by two playmates in the fragrant fastness of the hayloft, which had been always their favourite hiding-place. To this day the scent of hay gave Isabella a delicious tremor, a thrill of the old joyful dread of discovery, which had been the charm of the innocent conspiracies of those far-off days. That it had been her fellow-conspirator who usually undertook the carrying out of the deeds of derring-do, and that upon her had fallen the humbler task of keeping guard against any possible surprise—covering his tracks—averting suspicion—even occasionally taking the blame, though this was without his knowledge,—made no difference to her intense enjoyment. The axiom that one must lead and the other must follow had been early instilled into her by her masculine comrade, and she for her part had been only too content to follow so long as it was he who led. She had forgotten nothing. If it came to stories about Francis as a boy, she could, had she so wished, have recounted as many as old Goodie, but she listened to the recital with a calmness that gave Philippa no hint of her real feelings.

"She showed me a lot of his drawings, too," Philippa said presently. "It seems rather curious that he has never spoken of that, for I think he had been painting the first day I saw him. Dr. Gale told me it was one of his occupations during all the years he was ill. Perhaps he will take it up later on—it will be an interest for him."