East of the Shadows

by Mrs. Hubert Barclay

Philippa read the letters with a shrinking at her heart, and yet it was absolutely necessary that she should learn all there was to know as to the relations in which these two had stood, the one to the other—not before the public, but in their intimate revealings. Those of the man were closely written and long—outpourings of an affection which carried all before it. The earlier ones—for Philippa placed them in consecutive order—were full, brimful, of joy, of triumph and satisfaction; but in the later ones, while affection was in no way lessened, there was something of appeal—or so it seemed to her as she studied them. An undercurrent as it were of longing, a desire to make the recipient understand the depth of love—to get below the surface, to obtain some deeper expression of confidence in return.

This was particularly evident in one letter. The writer commenced by imploring pardon for some offence which had been unintentional. He dwelt upon the strength of his love—of his desire for her happiness. Would she ever understand what she was to him—what his love meant? and so on, and so on. A deep sincerity burnt in every line. And Philippa turned to the other packet, to find, if she could, the answer; for it was such a letter as must have drawn a reply in the same strain from the woman to whom it was addressed. It was an appeal from the heart, such as no woman with any love for the writer could withstand.

By comparing the dates she found it. It was a hurried scrawl, and read as follows—

"DEAREST FRANCIS,

"I have just had your letter. I never knew such an old boy as you are to worry your head about nothing. Of course I love you. Why do you want me to go on repeating it? But I can't stand heroics, or see any sense in them. I am having a jolly time here. We went to the Milchester races yesterday, and had a very good day. Forest has got a young chestnut that jumps like a stag, I wish you had been there to see it. It would make a first-class hunter, after you'd handled it a bit, and I could do with another if we are going to be at Bessacre next season.

"I shall see you on Friday. Post just going.

"Best love.
"PHIL."

Philippa wondered whether the heart of the man had taken comfort from the phrase, "I wish you had been there to see." It was rather like giving a crumb to one who demanded bread; but after all, she told herself, she had not known the writer, and many people have no aptitude for expressing their feelings on paper; and although the woman's letters were not particularly affectionate and showed a want of deep feeling, still, there was a certain insouciance, a gaiety about them which was far from unpleasing. It was only that as love-letters they were hardly satisfactory.

It also struck Philippa, as she thought them carefully over, that if her aunt had not felt for Francis the true love of a lover, that high essential essence which turns all to pure gold, she might easily have missed the appeal in them—might even have been frankly bored by them. To one whose heart could not respond to their very evident sincerity they might easily have appeared 'high-falutin'. She herself did not find them so, far from it—she found them inexpressibly touching; but then she knew the story of the man who had waited, and could not fail to be influenced by it.

On the whole, what she gleaned from the perusal of these records out of the past tended, she thought, to make her task the easier, for Phil had clearly disliked and discouraged any very demonstrative affection, and as to the rest she felt no anxiety. She was ready and able, she knew, to give Francis all he could need of cheerful companionship, to make the days pass happily, to minister to him in his weakness. She had some experience of sick people and their needs, a natural aptitude for nursing, and an instinct as to the right thing to say and do in response to their demands. Also there were the services of the trained nurse to fall back on, and on her would rest the actual responsibility of the case.