East of the Shadows

by Mrs. Hubert Barclay

THREADS

"Of little threads our life is spun,
And he spins ill who misses one."

Philippa's first feeling when she gained the open moor and saw the low bushes which had been their last meeting-place, was one of acute disappointment, for Isabella was not there. She had confidently expected to find her waiting and had not paused to consider whether her hope was reasonable or not. For a moment she fancied that perhaps she had mistaken the place; but no, all around the grass was trampled down, and some shreds of torn paper proved to her that she was right.

She mounted a little hillock and scanned the road as far as she could see, but no one was in sight. There was evidently nothing for it but to make her way to the cottage. It was a long walk, but after all that did not matter as it was still early, and she had the whole day before her; so she retraced her steps to the road and walked briskly along.

As she did so her mind continued in the same train of thought with which it had been previously occupied—Isabella and her connection with Francis; and then, quite suddenly, a light broke upon her. The explanation seemed so obvious that she could only marvel that she had not thought of it at once. Little by little she recalled all the evidence to strengthen her conclusion. Isabella's dear memory of the past—the words lightly spoken by the person whose good opinion was more to her than the whole world—her eager, questioning gaze as though longing and yet not daring to frame a question—and, most certain proof of all, the silence with regard to Francis.

If he had been to her no more than a valued friend she would surely have spoken of him, just as she had spoken of Philippa's father. She had loved Francis; and he?—well—— He had, it would seem, been fond of her in a friendly, careless way. The sandy cat! Was it of his welfare she was so anxious to hear? Was it the necessity of being somewhere near him that had drawn her to take up her abode in this lonely if lovely spot?

And yet surely she could have obtained news of him, thought the girl. Isabella had said that she did not know either Major Heathcote or his wife, but even so, Marion was no ogress. Why had not Isabella gone boldly to the door and asked for tidings of him for the sake of old friendship? It would have been a very simple course to take. Or there was the doctor. Surely if Francis and the first Philippa had known him so well, Isabella must have known him too.

Well, to-day, if she had the opportunity, she would break the silence—she would speak of Francis and tell Isabella of his marvellous recovery. And then she realised that her own position might be a little difficult to explain. It would not be an easy story to tell to this woman if she loved him; but if Philippa was correct in her surmise, and she had now little doubt on that score, surely Isabella had a right to know the truth.

How different things would have been if Francis had loved Isabella; for most certainly she would never have been a fair-weather friend. But first she must have proof, and that should not be hard to obtain. There would be some sign when his name was spoken—some intonation in the woman's voice, even if she did not speak openly, which would reveal her secret now that Philippa was ready to notice and to understand.

The girl came at last to the turning which led to the little green, and then she saw Isabella approaching. She was walking, just as she had walked on that first afternoon, with her eyes on the ground, lost in thought, and it was not until she was within a few yards of Philippa that she glanced up and saw her. And then there was no doubt that absence had done much the same for them both, for when they met, they met as friends. The look of welcome, even of affection, was unmistakable on the older woman's face.