East of the Shadows

by Mrs. Hubert Barclay

The words were almost past her lips when she stifled them, for the next instant she knew she could never speak them. Out of the wreckage of his life—of all that he held dear—only one thing was left to him, and that was his love for Phil, his faith in her. Could she, who loved him so, destroy the one thing he still possessed simply in the hope to gain what she herself longed for? Could she deal him another blow, and that the hardest, bitterest of all—undermine what had been the very keystone of his life, the one really flawless element in the whole sad story? Her love—the strength of which she boasted—had been sullied by jealousy, dimmed by reservations, a paltry thing beside his; and yet, be that as it might, she knew it was all she had to give. She had given him her whole heart, irrevocably. Let her prove it by her silence now.

He must live out his days, sad as they must be, without the added burden of disillusionment; and for the rest, it was in higher Hands than hers. She resumed her seat presently very quietly and sat watching him.

He lay quite still, evidently thinking deeply; he was, outwardly at least, perfectly calm and composed, but all the vitality, all the animation which had been so marked in his expression a few short hours before, had gone from his face, leaving it set and stern. The years which had passed unheeded in their going took toll of him now, and set their seal upon his features, altering them strangely.

The slow minutes passed, taking with them all the tattered remnants of her hope; and little by little it seemed to her in her pain that unseen hands were pushing her farther and farther from him, building a barrier between them—a tangible thing which she had only to stretch out her hands to feel, setting her outside his ken.

The man she loved was going from her, leaving in his place a stranger she had never known. Francis had been so near to her in their love, had never glanced at her except with tenderness and welcome; for her his voice had ever taken a deeply tender tone. Who was this stern, aged man who looked at her with veiled eyes, and spoke in a voice she did not know, and which bore little resemblance to the one which had thrilled her to passionate devotion?

Never again would she know the rapture of his kiss, the exquisite security of his enfolding arm. The To-come was before her—bleak, grey and bereft; the roseate hues of love's delight lay all in the Gone-by. Her love was of no avail. It had fluttered back to her, a wounded, helpless thing.

The striking of the clock roused her at last. It was the hour at which she usually bade him good-night, and she rose from her chair. Following her habit she crossed the room and rang the bell. When she turned again Francis too had risen, and he took a few steps towards her.

"My dear," he said gently, "if I have been selfish in my great sorrow, will you forgive me? Believe me I am not ungrateful for your care and devotion, but it seems to me it would have been a more real kindness to have told me the truth. Perhaps I am wrong—I cannot think clearly to-night—I am very tired, and everything is very dark—perhaps to-morrow will bring light."

He held her hand for a moment and then released it. His eyes wandered to the picture which stood on the easel in its accustomed place. He moved towards it and stood looking down at it in silence.

And so she left him.