East of the Shadows

by Mrs. Hubert Barclay

"And so," continued the other, "like the fool I was, instead of proving that I was something more than a hearthrug ornament, I shut up at that remark, and retired still further into my shell. I stayed there for a long time. The years passed, and youth with them, and then, one day, when I had learned quite a few lessons, I realised that the years which rob us so in passing throw us a few compensations in return for all the wealth they steal, and that although the pattern had all gone wrong, still, there was no sense in leaving my particular square of the patchwork with the edges all frayed. So I took my brains off the shelf and dusted them, with a very fair result on the whole. If I had been a man in a novel I should of course have gone to the New Forest, and lived the simple life in sandals and few clothes, subsisting mainly on nuts; but as I was a woman in real life, with an honest contempt for what some one has called the widowhood of the unsatisfied, I settled down here. For reasons of my own I wanted to be in this part of the world. To me there is ever a healing strength in wide spaces, and Bessmoor has been my best friend. And if the leaves of memory make a rustling at times, I am glad of it. I do not want to forget. By this I do not mean I spend my time in weaving withered wreaths for the past—I don't; but I do not forget. And I sit here, writing very busily, secure in the sheltering personality of the mythical Ian Verity, firing broadsides at a patient public, giving them the truth as I see it, whether they want it or not. They don't want it, but most of the things we don't want are good for us, which is one of the disagreeable axioms of nursery days. I disguise it sometimes, just as my old nurse wrapped the powder in a spoonful of raspberry jam out of the pot which was kept for the purpose on the right-hand corner of the mantelpiece in the night nursery—I can see it now. But sometimes they have got to swallow it pur et simple, just as it is."

"It is very difficult to know what is the truth," said Philippa slowly; "the truth as regards our own actions, I mean. We cannot always judge of the truth of them ourselves."

"It is very difficult. And after all, though we sit here glibly talking of it, what is truth? It is not easy to define. Dictionaries will tell you that it is the agreement of our notions with the reality of things, but that is hardly an answer, for what is the reality of things? Who can arrive at it? Ten people may witness some occurrence—a fire, an accident, what you will—and yet, if questioned, not more than two at most will give the same account of the happening. Their versions will probably be entirely contradictory in detail, and yet they may each be under the impression that they are speaking the truth, giving each an honest description of their notion of the reality of things. Of course this is a very different matter to deliberately stating what you know to be untrue; and yet, do you know, I can easily imagine circumstances where even that would be the only possible course. You have probably heard the story of the soldier who was court-martialed for cowardice on the field of battle. I think it was in the Peninsular War, but I have forgotten. Anyway, the man was accused of having hidden himself in some safe place until all danger was over. He turned to his officer after hotly denying the accusation, and said, 'You know I was in the thick of it, sir. Why, I shouted to you and you answered me. You must remember.' Well, the officer had absolutely no recollection of it, and yet it was quite possible that the man's story was true and that he had forgotten. Think of the excitement of the moment. Memory plays strange tricks at such a time. Everything depended on his answer, for the man would undoubtedly be shot if he could not prove his innocence, and the officer lied unhesitatingly. 'I remember perfectly,' he said. 'You were there.' What would you have done?"

"I should have done the same," said Philippa quickly.

"So should I," agreed Isabella. "I am absolutely certain of it. But I don't know that that proves the morality of it. Ours is a woman's point of view, and I am not at all sure that there isn't some foundation for the statement that a woman's idea of honour is easier than a man's. It is a humiliating reflection. And yet, notwithstanding that, I still feel that if such a thing as a human life depended on my lying I should lie. And I don't think I should have any fear of the slate of the recording angel either. I am afraid you will be shocked at these unorthodox opinions, and consider me a dangerous acquaintance, but I can assure you that I am generally considered a truthful person Fortunately these stern tests to my veracity do not occur every day."

Philippa laughed. "I am not afraid," she said.

At this moment Mrs. Palling reappeared. "Didn't I say that were true?" she announced triumphantly. "That poor little thing's gone. Milsom's Jimmy jus' come up to tell me. You haven't got such a thing as a bit o' crape about you, have you, miss? I'm sorry to trouble you, but I haven't a scrap left."

"I am afraid I haven't," replied Isabella. "Does Mrs. Milsom want crape?"

"Why no, ma'm. Crape ain't for her as would be more likely to be wantin' bread-an'-butter; but I did think I'd like just to take a bit to them bees. 'Tis real important to let them know when there's a death about, and I always like just to tie a bit o' crape on the hives, if you would be so good."

Isabella preserved a solemnity of manner suitable to the occasion, but her mouth twitched with hardly suppressed laughter as she regretted her inability to comply with the request, but suggested that a piece of black ribbon which she happened to possess would perhaps do as well.