East of the Shadows. Mrs. Hubert Barclay
freshness in the air, and the curious one-sided appearance of the wind-swept trees, made her aware of the nearness of the sea—then presently she saw it—just a line of deeper blue against the azure of the sky, with the square tower of Renwick Church girdled with clustering red roofs clearly visible in the middle distance.
In a few moments the train stopped, and she alighted at the station to find a carriage drawn by a fine pair of horses awaiting her.
The long drive in the cool of the waning sunlight was to her pure delight. The road led first through beautiful beechwoods, out into the open country where low banks, bright with wild flowers—scabious, willow-herb and yellow ragwort—divided the corn-fields, now golden and ready for harvest; up on to a wide heath where the bell heather flooded the landscape with glowing purple light—through pine-woods dim and fragrant—and so on until the carriage turned through a gateway, past a low lodge of mellow ancient brickwork, and entered a well-kept carriage drive.
A few minutes more and Philippa was being assisted out by her host, and warmly welcomed by Marion, to the accompaniment of the cheerful if noisy greetings of two West Highland terriers who squirmed and yapped in exuberant hospitality.
"At last," said Marion, embracing her fondly. "I expect you are very tired."
"Oh no," replied Philippa quickly, "I thoroughly enjoyed the journey—every moment of it."
"Come in and have some tea," said Major Heathcote.
"Isn't it too late for tea?"
"Never too late for tea with your sex, is it?" he returned, laughing. "I thought ladies always wanted tea!"
"Perhaps ours won't suit you," said Marion as they entered the hall. "Don't you like yours made in a samovar and flavoured with lemon?"
"Not a bit of it," rejoined Philippa. "Nice English tea with plenty of cream, please."
"I can promise you that. Just sit down here. Now, Bill, give her a cushion and hand her the scones. They are freshly made and hot. Try some honey with them, real heather honey from Bessmoor. Don't ask her any questions. Let her have her tea in peace, and then you can ask as many as you like."
CHAPTER II
"PHIL!"
"The atmosphere
Breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers
Seem full of welcomes."—LONGFELLOW.
"Where is Dick?" asked Philippa presently. "I do so want to see him."
"Dickie is away, I am sorry to say," answered his mother mournfully. "We have all been staying with my sister in Yorkshire. Bill and I came home yesterday, but she persuaded me to let him stay for another week."
"It is so good for the little chap to be with other boys," said Major Heathcote. "He has no companions of his own age here. This neighbourhood is curiously short of boys."
"When will he be going to school?" inquired Philippa.
"Oh; not for two years at least," replied Marion quickly. "Don't let us talk of it; I dread the very idea of it."
"Poor little hen with one chick," her husband laughed good-humouredly. "You will hardly recognise Dick, Miss Harford. He has grown enormously since you last saw him. Let me see—that was three years ago, wasn't it?"
"Very nearly three years ago, in Gibraltar," assented Philippa.
"I began to think that Fate had a plot against us, and that we were never going to meet again," said Marion. "It is delightful to feel that you are here at last. I have so much to tell you that I hardly know where to begin."
"We must show you all round the old place to-morrow," said her husband, rising as he spoke. "But if we are going to dine to-night we ought to begin to think about dressing. Dinner is at a quarter to eight. We keep old-fashioned hours in these parts."
"Come along," said Marion, taking her friend's arm as they moved towards the wide staircase.
"What a lovely house, Marion!" exclaimed Philippa, turning to survey the hall in which they had been sitting.
This apartment had formed part of the original house built in Tudor times, and had remained unaltered, untouched, save for the hand of Time, which had darkened the oak panelling and the beams of the high timbered roof, in the dim recesses of which hung tattered banners—spots of colour in the gloom overhead.
Above the huge stone fireplace, which was large enough to have roasted the historic ox of mediaeval festivities, hung a portrait of the royal lady whose visit had given the house its name—Queen Elizabeth, represented in her famous gown, embroidered with eyes and ears—seeing all, hearing all!
Marion laughed as she pointed to it. "It is all very well to say that Good Queen Bess could never have visited half the places or slept in half the rooms which boast of her occupation, but she really did stay here. I'll show you her room to-morrow, and tell you all about it. I don't think you would care to sleep in her bed, although you may if you like. I wouldn't for worlds. It is too much like a catafalque. Now, here you are arrived at last."
"I don't believe I shall ever find my way down," said Philippa. "I never saw such passages. We seem to have walked for miles!"
"Oh! we haven't really. It is quite easy. You'll soon get used to it. You must turn twice to the right, that is all. But I'll come and fetch you, so as to make sure that you don't get lost. Are you certain that you have everything you want?"
"I am certain of it, in this charming room, and—— Oh, my dear! Violets! How do you manage to have violets at this time of year?"
Philippa buried her face in a fragrant bunch which stood in a vase on the dressing-table. "My favourite flower of all!"
"We always have them. There is a pitiful story attached to violets at Bessacre, but that again must wait until to-morrow. Now I must fly. I have only got twenty minutes to dress in, and Bill will be raging."
Philippa's maid had already unpacked, and she now quickly and deftly assisted her to dress. The girl's clothes had been a constant cause of irritation to her mother, whose taste for frills and fripperies did not agree with her daughter's preference for simplicity, but she had been reluctantly compelled to acknowledge that Philippa's style of dressing was becoming, even if it did not follow strictly the ever-varying dictates of fashion. Nothing could have suited her better than the picturesque gown of pale yellow chiffon which she now put on. It was very simply made, but the perfection of its simplicity, the draping of the fichu of old lace on the bodice, and the graceful lines of the soft material from waist to hem, betrayed its Parisian origin in every fold.
Round her neck Philippa fastened a narrow band of black velvet, and her only ornament was a small brooch of pearls set in the form of a heart. This trinket she had found in a dispatch-box belonging to her father, while going through some papers after his death, and it was one she frequently wore.
At the last moment, unable to resist the charm of her favourite flower, she secured the bunch of violets in the laces at her breast.
Then Marion's voice was heard outside the door, and telling her maid that she would not require her services again that night, that she need not wait up for her, Philippa hurried to meet her friend.
"Dear thing! How nice you look," was Marion's comment. "What a lovely frock."
"I am so glad you like it. Poor mamma! She said it was too Early Victorian for anything. She despairs over my frocks."
"It is perfect," said Marion decidedly. "Thank goodness you know what suits you, and haven't got your skirt tied in at the ankles so that you shuffle like a Japanese."
"Or hop