East of the Shadows

by Mrs. Hubert Barclay

"Yes; I knew him, but not so well as I knew your aunt. I was a good deal away after my boyhood, and my holidays later on did not always coincide with his visits here, but I met him several times."

"He never spoke to me of his sister."

"That I can understand. It is only what I should have expected. I happened to see your father, Miss Harford, as he left this house when he came here after the accident. He had seen his sister, he had failed in his efforts to persuade her, all his arguments had been of no avail, and his distress was beyond all words. He had loved Francis Heathcote—he was his most intimate friend—and he had adored his sister. Up to that time I think he had firmly believed that she could do no wrong. And then, to find that under stress of trouble she had failed so grievously nearly broke his heart. And yet"—the doctor spoke slowly and thoughtfully—"yet—I think still as I thought then, and as I told him that day, that she should not be too greatly blamed."

"But of course she was to blame," cried Philippa hotly. "Her behaviour was inhuman."

"So it seems to us," he replied. "But we must remember what she was—a spoilt child—a butterfly. Your father himself spoilt her absolutely. She had never been crossed—had never known a moment's anxiety—never even been obliged to do anything she did not like—to do anything except please herself. She was beautiful—most beautiful; and if she was shallow, well, then the very shallowness only made her more attractive. She fascinated us all." The man's voice took on a softer tone as he spoke. "Francis loved her—madly—passionately. His overwhelming joy in their betrothal was a thing never to be forgotten by those who saw it. And yet—thinking it over, as I have thought it over so often—was there ever a single action of hers—a single spontaneously unselfish action on her part—which should have led us to suppose, to expect that she would rise high in any crisis? We were all at her feet. We never noticed that she was utterly self-centred, because we, with all the world, were ready to satisfy her lightest wish. No, no, it was we who were wrong—wrong in our estimate of her. We expected too much—we expected more than she was able to give—more than a woman of her character was able to give. She simply acted as she had acted all her life—doing what she liked best—refraining from doing what was uncongenial—what did not amuse her. Poor, beautiful butterfly! she was broken sadly at the finish. By all accounts her married life was very unhappy. She did not live long."

"You are very charitable," said Philippa reflectively.

"No," he replied in his abrupt way, "I'm not. I'm merely wise after the event, which is an easy thing enough. Ah, well, if Francis had married her the chances are she would have failed him—if not in one way, then in another. He endowed her with a half-angelic personality which in truth was not hers at all. He placed her on a high pedestal from which she must have fallen at the first buffet of life, and life gives plenty of buffets, although perhaps you are too young to know the truth of that at present." He rose as he spoke. "You are not so like her as I thought you were when I first saw you," he went on, standing and looking intently at the girl. "When I first saw you to-day I thought you were just the very living image of your aunt, but you are not. If you will forgive my plain speaking, I should like to say that you are not so beautiful, but that you have more soul in your face—more strength of character And it is what I see written there that makes me dare to hope that you will see that we are in your hands. But there, we won't say any more about that now. It isn't fair to urge you, although God knows I wish to. Let me know your decision in a day or two, and I will do my best to keep him quiet until then. When does the Major return?"

Philippa hastily told him of Dickie's illness and the sudden departure of his anxious parents, and also of the telegram she had received.

The doctor pulled at his beard.

"It is unfortunate," he muttered. "I have been writing to him to tell him the state of affairs here, and I am sure he will come if he can. Let us hope their worry about the boy will soon be over. The little chap has a splendid constitution. I shall be over to-morrow morning. Don't hesitate to send for me if you want me, and don't go into Francis Heathcote's room until I have prepared him for your visit—not unless there is any crisis and you are obliged to do so. But I think he will be quiet enough. Go to bed, my dear young lady, and get a good rest; you must need it. And forgive me having detained you for so long."