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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/18883-8.txt b/18883-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ad142ac --- /dev/null +++ b/18883-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12201 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Four Feathers, by A. E. W. Mason + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Four Feathers + + +Author: A. E. W. Mason + + + +Release Date: July 21, 2006 [eBook #18883] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOUR FEATHERS*** + + +E-text prepared by Suzanne Lybarger, Brian Janes, Mary Meehan, and the +Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team +(http://www.pgdp.net/) + + + +THE FOUR FEATHERS + +by + +A. E. W. MASON + +Author of "Miranda of the Balcony," "The Courtship of Morrice Buckler," +Etc. + + + + + + + +New York +The MacMillan Company +London: MacMillan & Co., Ltd. +1903 +All rights reserved +Copyright, 1901, +By A. E. W. Mason. +Copyright, 1902, +By The MacMillan Company. +Set up and electrotyped October, 1902. Reprinted November, +December, 1902; January, 1903; February, March, 1903. +Norwood Press +J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith +Norwood Mass. U.S.A. + + + + +To +MISS ELSPETH ANGELA CAMPBELL +June 19, 1902. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + I. A Crimean Night + + II. Captain Trench and a Telegram + + III. The Last Ride Together + + IV. The Ball at Lennon House + + V. The Pariah + + VI. Harry Feversham's Plan + + VII. The Last Reconnaissance + + VIII. Lieutenant Sutch is tempted to lie + + IX. At Glenalla + + X. The Wells of Obak + + XI. Durrance hears News of Feversham + + XII. Durrance sharpens his Wits + + XIII. Durrance begins to see + + XIV. Captain Willoughby reappears + + XV. The Story of the First Feather + + XVI. Captain Willoughby retires + + XVII. The Musoline Overture + + XVIII. The Answer to the Overture + + XIX. Mrs. Adair interferes + + XX. West and East + + XXI. Ethne makes Another Slip + + XXII. Durrance lets his Cigar go out + + XXIII. Mrs. Adair makes her Apology + + XXIV. On the Nile + + XXV. Lieutenant Sutch comes off the Half-pay List + + XXVI. General Feversham's Portraits are appeased + + XXVII. The House of Stone + + XXVIII. Plans of Escape + + XXIX. Colonel Trench assumes a Knowledge of Chemistry + + XXX. The Last of the Southern Cross + + XXXI. Feversham returns to Ramelton + + XXXII. In the Church at Glenalla + + XXXIII. Ethne again plays the Musoline Overture + + XXXIV. The End + + + + +THE FOUR FEATHERS[1] + +[Footnote 1: The character of Harry Feversham is developed from a short +story by the author, originally printed in the _Illustrated London +News_, and since republished.] + + + + +CHAPTER I + +A CRIMEAN NIGHT + + +Lieutenant Sutch was the first of General Feversham's guests to reach +Broad Place. He arrived about five o'clock on an afternoon of sunshine +in mid June, and the old red-brick house, lodged on a southern slope of +the Surrey hills, was glowing from a dark forest depth of pines with the +warmth of a rare jewel. Lieutenant Sutch limped across the hall, where +the portraits of the Fevershams rose one above the other to the ceiling, +and went out on to the stone-flagged terrace at the back. There he found +his host sitting erect like a boy, and gazing southward toward the +Sussex Downs. + +"How's the leg?" asked General Feversham, as he rose briskly from his +chair. He was a small wiry man, and, in spite of his white hairs, alert. +But the alertness was of the body. A bony face, with a high narrow +forehead and steel-blue inexpressive eyes, suggested a barrenness of +mind. + +"It gave me trouble during the winter," replied Sutch. "But that was to +be expected." General Feversham nodded, and for a little while both men +were silent. From the terrace the ground fell steeply to a wide level +plain of brown earth and emerald fields and dark clumps of trees. From +this plain voices rose through the sunshine, small but very clear. Far +away toward Horsham a coil of white smoke from a train snaked rapidly in +and out amongst the trees; and on the horizon rose the Downs, patched +with white chalk. + +"I thought that I should find you here," said Sutch. + +"It was my wife's favourite corner," answered Feversham in a quite +emotionless voice. "She would sit here by the hour. She had a queer +liking for wide and empty spaces." + +"Yes," said Sutch. "She had imagination. Her thoughts could people +them." + +General Feversham glanced at his companion as though he hardly +understood. But he asked no questions. What he did not understand he +habitually let slip from his mind as not worth comprehension. He spoke +at once upon a different topic. + +"There will be a leaf out of our table to-night." + +"Yes. Collins, Barberton, and Vaughan went this winter. Well, we are +all permanently shelved upon the world's half-pay list as it is. The +obituary column is just the last formality which gazettes us out of the +service altogether," and Sutch stretched out and eased his crippled leg, +which fourteen years ago that day had been crushed and twisted in the +fall of a scaling-ladder. + +"I am glad that you came before the others," continued Feversham. "I +would like to take your opinion. This day is more to me than the +anniversary of our attack upon the Redan. At the very moment when we +were standing under arms in the dark--" + +"To the west of the quarries; I remember," interrupted Sutch, with a +deep breath. "How should one forget?" + +"At that very moment Harry was born in this house. I thought, therefore, +that if you did not object, he might join us to-night. He happens to be +at home. He will, of course, enter the service, and he might learn +something, perhaps, which afterward will be of use--one never knows." + +"By all means," said Sutch, with alacrity. For since his visits to +General Feversham were limited to the occasion of these anniversary +dinners, he had never yet seen Harry Feversham. + +Sutch had for many years been puzzled as to the qualities in General +Feversham which had attracted Muriel Graham, a woman as remarkable for +the refinement of her intellect as for the beauty of her person; and he +could never find an explanation. He had to be content with his knowledge +that for some mysterious reason she had married this man so much older +than herself and so unlike to her in character. Personal courage and an +indomitable self-confidence were the chief, indeed the only, qualities +which sprang to light in General Feversham. Lieutenant Sutch went back +in thought over twenty years, as he sat on his garden-chair, to a time +before he had taken part, as an officer of the Naval Brigade, in that +unsuccessful onslaught on the Redan. He remembered a season in London +to which he had come fresh from the China station; and he was curious to +see Harry Feversham. He did not admit that it was more than the natural +curiosity of a man who, disabled in comparative youth, had made a hobby +out of the study of human nature. He was interested to see whether the +lad took after his mother or his father--that was all. + +So that night Harry Feversham took a place at the dinner-table and +listened to the stories which his elders told, while Lieutenant Sutch +watched him. The stories were all of that dark winter in the Crimea, and +a fresh story was always in the telling before its predecessor was +ended. They were stories of death, of hazardous exploits, of the pinch +of famine, and the chill of snow. But they were told in clipped words +and with a matter-of-fact tone, as though the men who related them were +only conscious of them as far-off things; and there was seldom a comment +more pronounced than a mere "That's curious," or an exclamation more +significant than a laugh. + +But Harry Feversham sat listening as though the incidents thus +carelessly narrated were happening actually at that moment and within +the walls of that room. His dark eyes--the eyes of his mother--turned +with each story from speaker to speaker, and waited, wide open and +fixed, until the last word was spoken. He listened fascinated and +enthralled. And so vividly did the changes of expression shoot and +quiver across his face, that it seemed to Sutch the lad must actually +hear the drone of bullets in the air, actually resist the stunning shock +of a charge, actually ride down in the thick of a squadron to where guns +screeched out a tongue of flame from a fog. Once a major of artillery +spoke of the suspense of the hours between the parading of the troops +before a battle and the first command to advance; and Harry's shoulders +worked under the intolerable strain of those lagging minutes. + +But he did more than work his shoulders. He threw a single furtive, +wavering glance backwards; and Lieutenant Sutch was startled, and indeed +more than startled,--he was pained. For this after all was Muriel +Graham's boy. + +The look was too familiar a one to Sutch. He had seen it on the faces of +recruits during their first experience of a battle too often for him to +misunderstand it. And one picture in particular rose before his +mind,--an advancing square at Inkermann, and a tall big soldier rushing +forward from the line in the eagerness of his attack, and then stopping +suddenly as though he suddenly understood that he was alone, and had to +meet alone the charge of a mounted Cossack. Sutch remembered very +clearly the fatal wavering glance which the big soldier had thrown +backward toward his companions,--a glance accompanied by a queer sickly +smile. He remembered too, with equal vividness, its consequence. For +though the soldier carried a loaded musket and a bayonet locked to the +muzzle, he had without an effort of self-defence received the Cossack's +lance-thrust in his throat. + +Sutch glanced hurriedly about the table, afraid that General Feversham, +or that some one of his guests, should have remarked the same look and +the same smile upon Harry's face. But no one had eyes for the lad; each +visitor was waiting too eagerly for an opportunity to tell a story of +his own. Sutch drew a breath of relief and turned to Harry. But the boy +was sitting with his elbows on the cloth and his head propped between +his hands, lost to the glare of the room and its glitter of silver, +constructing again out of the swift succession of anecdotes a world of +cries and wounds, and maddened riderless chargers and men writhing in a +fog of cannon-smoke. The curtest, least graphic description of the +biting days and nights in the trenches set the lad shivering. Even his +face grew pinched, as though the iron frost of that winter was actually +eating into his bones. Sutch touched him lightly on the elbow. + +"You renew those days for me," said he. "Though the heat is dripping +down the windows, I feel the chill of the Crimea." + +Harry roused himself from his absorption. + +"The stories renew them," said he. + +"No. It is you listening to the stories." + +And before Harry could reply, General Feversham's voice broke sharply in +from the head of the table:-- + +"Harry, look at the clock!" + +At once all eyes were turned upon the lad. The hands of the clock made +the acutest of angles. It was close upon midnight; and from eight, +without so much as a word or a question, he had sat at the dinner-table +listening. Yet even now he rose with reluctance. + +"Must I go, father?" he asked, and the general's guests intervened in +a chorus. The conversation was clear gain to the lad, a first taste of +powder which might stand him in good stead afterwards. + +"Besides, it's the boy's birthday," added the major of artillery. "He +wants to stay; that's plain. You wouldn't find a youngster of fourteen +sit all these hours without a kick of the foot against the table-leg +unless the conversation entertained him. Let him stay, Feversham!" + +For once General Feversham relaxed the iron discipline under which the +boy lived. + +"Very well," said he. "Harry shall have an hour's furlough from his bed. +A single hour won't make much difference." + +Harry's eyes turned toward his father, and just for a moment rested +upon his face with a curious steady gaze. It seemed to Sutch that they +uttered a question, and, rightly or wrongly, he interpreted the question +into words:-- + +"Are you blind?" + +But General Feversham was already talking to his neighbours, and Harry +quietly sat down, and again propping his chin upon his hands, listened +with all his soul. Yet he was not entertained; rather he was enthralled; +he sat quiet under the compulsion of a spell. His face became +unnaturally white, his eyes unnaturally large, while the flames of the +candles shone ever redder and more blurred through a blue haze of +tobacco smoke, and the level of the wine grew steadily lower in the +decanters. + +Thus half of that one hour's furlough was passed; and then General +Feversham, himself jogged by the unlucky mention of a name, suddenly +blurted out in his jerky fashion:-- + +"Lord Wilmington. One of the best names in England, if you please. Did +you ever see his house in Warwickshire? Every inch of the ground you +would think would have a voice to bid him play the man, if only in +remembrance of his fathers.... It seemed incredible and mere camp +rumour, but the rumour grew. If it was whispered at the Alma, it was +spoken aloud at Inkermann, it was shouted at Balaclava. Before +Sebastopol the hideous thing was proved. Wilmington was acting as +galloper to his general. I believe upon my soul the general chose him +for the duty, so that the fellow might set himself right. There were +three hundred yards of bullet-swept flat ground, and a message to be +carried across them. Had Wilmington toppled off his horse on the way, +why, there were the whispers silenced for ever. Had he ridden through +alive he earned distinction besides. But he didn't dare; he refused! +Imagine it if you can! He sat shaking on his horse and declined. You +should have seen the general. His face turned the colour of that +Burgundy. 'No doubt you have a previous engagement,' he said, in the +politest voice you ever heard--just that, not a word of abuse. A +previous engagement on the battlefield! For the life of me, I could +hardly help laughing. But it was a tragic business for Wilmington. He +was broken, of course, and slunk back to London. Every house was closed +to him; he dropped out of his circle like a lead bullet you let slip out +of your hand into the sea. The very women in Piccadilly spat if he spoke +to them; and he blew his brains out in a back bedroom off the Haymarket. +Curious that, eh? He hadn't the pluck to face the bullets when his name +was at stake, yet he could blow his own brains out afterwards." + +Lieutenant Sutch chanced to look at the clock as the story came to an +end. It was now a quarter to one. Harry Feversham had still a quarter of +an hour's furlough, and that quarter of an hour was occupied by a +retired surgeon-general with a great wagging beard, who sat nearly +opposite to the boy. + +"I can tell you an incident still more curious," he said. "The man in +this case had never been under fire before, but he was of my own +profession. Life and death were part of his business. Nor was he really +in any particular danger. The affair happened during a hill campaign in +India. We were encamped in a valley, and a few Pathans used to lie out +on the hillside at night and take long shots into the camp. A bullet +ripped through the canvas of the hospital tent--that was all. The +surgeon crept out to his own quarters, and his orderly discovered him +half-an-hour afterward lying in his blood stone-dead." + +"Hit?" exclaimed the major. + +"Not a bit of it," said the surgeon. "He had quietly opened his +instrument-case in the dark, taken out a lancet, and severed his femoral +artery. Sheer panic, do you see, at the whistle of a bullet." + +Even upon these men, case-hardened to horrors, the incident related in +its bald simplicity wrought its effect. From some there broke a +half-uttered exclamation of disbelief; others moved restlessly in their +chairs with a sort of physical discomfort, because a man had sunk so far +below humanity. Here an officer gulped his wine, there a second shook +his shoulders as though to shake the knowledge off as a dog shakes +water. There was only one in all that company who sat perfectly still in +the silence which followed upon the story. That one was the boy, Harry +Feversham. + +He sat with his hands now clenched upon his knees and leaning forward a +little across the table toward the surgeon, his cheeks white as paper, +his eyes burning, and burning with ferocity. He had the look of a +dangerous animal in the trap. His body was gathered, his muscles taut. +Sutch had a fear that the lad meant to leap across the table and strike +with all his strength in the savagery of despair. He had indeed reached +out a restraining hand when General Feversham's matter-of-fact voice +intervened, and the boy's attitude suddenly relaxed. + +"Queer incomprehensible things happen. Here are two of them. You can +only say they are the truth and pray God you may forget 'em. But you +can't explain, for you can't understand." + +Sutch was moved to lay his hand upon Harry's shoulder. + +"Can you?" he asked, and regretted the question almost before it was +spoken. But it was spoken, and Harry's eyes turned swiftly toward Sutch, +and rested upon his face, not, however, with any betrayal of guilt, but +quietly, inscrutably. Nor did he answer the question, although it was +answered in a fashion by General Feversham. + +"Harry understand!" exclaimed the general, with a snort of indignation. +"How should he? He's a Feversham." + +The question, which Harry's glance had mutely put before, Sutch in the +same mute way repeated. "Are you blind?" his eyes asked of General +Feversham. Never had he heard an untruth so demonstrably untrue. A mere +look at the father and the son proved it so. Harry Feversham wore his +father's name, but he had his mother's dark and haunted eyes, his +mother's breadth of forehead, his mother's delicacy of profile, his +mother's imagination. It needed perhaps a stranger to recognise the +truth. The father had been so long familiar with his son's aspect that +it had no significance to his mind. + +"Look at the clock, Harry." + +The hour's furlough had run out. Harry rose from his chair, and drew a +breath. + +"Good night, sir," he said, and walked to the door. + +The servants had long since gone to bed; and, as Harry opened the door, +the hall gaped black like the mouth of night. For a second or two the +boy hesitated upon the threshold, and seemed almost to shrink back into +the lighted room as though in that dark void peril awaited him. And +peril did--the peril of his thoughts. + +He stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. The decanter +was sent again upon its rounds; there was a popping of soda-water +bottles; the talk revolved again in its accustomed groove. Harry was in +an instant forgotten by all but Sutch. The lieutenant, although he +prided himself upon his impartial and disinterested study of human +nature, was the kindliest of men. He had more kindliness than +observation by a great deal. Moreover, there were special reasons which +caused him to take an interest in Harry Feversham. He sat for a little +while with the air of a man profoundly disturbed. Then, acting upon an +impulse, he went to the door, opened it noiselessly, as noiselessly +passed out, and, without so much as a click of the latch, closed the +door behind him. + +And this is what he saw: Harry Feversham, holding in the centre of the +hall a lighted candle high above his head, and looking up toward the +portraits of the Fevershams as they mounted the walls and were lost in +the darkness of the roof. A muffled sound of voices came from the other +side of the door panels, but the hall itself was silent. Harry stood +remarkably still, and the only thing which moved at all was the yellow +flame of the candle as it flickered apparently in some faint draught. +The light wavered across the portraits, glowing here upon a red coat, +glittering there upon a corselet of steel. For there was not one man's +portrait upon the walls which did not glisten with the colours of a +uniform, and there were the portraits of many men. Father and son, the +Fevershams had been soldiers from the very birth of the family. Father +and son, in lace collars and bucket boots, in Ramillies wigs and steel +breastplates, in velvet coats, with powder on their hair, in shakos and +swallow-tails, in high stocks and frogged coats, they looked down upon +this last Feversham, summoning him to the like service. They were men of +one stamp; no distinction of uniform could obscure their +relationship--lean-faced men, hard as iron, rugged in feature, +thin-lipped, with firm chins and straight, level mouths, narrow +foreheads, and the steel-blue inexpressive eyes; men of courage and +resolution, no doubt, but without subtleties, or nerves, or that +burdensome gift of imagination; sturdy men, a little wanting in +delicacy, hardly conspicuous for intellect; to put it frankly, men +rather stupid--all of them, in a word, first-class fighting men, but +not one of them a first-class soldier. + +But Harry Feversham plainly saw none of their defects. To him they +were one and all portentous and terrible. He stood before them in the +attitude of a criminal before his judges, reading his condemnation in +their cold unchanging eyes. Lieutenant Sutch understood more clearly why +the flame of the candle flickered. There was no draught in the hall, but +the boy's hand shook. And finally, as though he heard the mute voices of +his judges delivering sentence and admitted its justice, he actually +bowed to the portraits on the wall. As he raised his head, he saw +Lieutenant Sutch in the embrasure of the doorway. + +He did not start, he uttered no word; he let his eyes quietly rest upon +Sutch and waited. Of the two it was the man who was embarrassed. + +"Harry," he said, and in spite of his embarrassment he had the tact to +use the tone and the language of one addressing not a boy, but a comrade +equal in years, "we meet for the first time to-night. But I knew your +mother a long time ago. I like to think that I have the right to call +her by that much misused word 'friend.' Have you anything to tell me?" + +"Nothing," said Harry. + +"The mere telling sometimes lightens a trouble." + +"It is kind of you. There is nothing." + +Lieutenant Sutch was rather at a loss. The lad's loneliness made a +strong appeal to him. For lonely the boy could not but be, set apart as +he was, no less unmistakably in mind as in feature, from his father and +his father's fathers. Yet what more could he do? His tact again came to +his aid. He took his card-case from his pocket. + +"You will find my address upon this card. Perhaps some day you will give +me a few days of your company. I can offer you on my side a day or two's +hunting." + +A spasm of pain shook for a fleeting moment the boy's steady inscrutable +face. It passed, however, swiftly as it had come. + +"Thank you, sir," Harry monotonously repeated. "You are very kind." + +"And if ever you want to talk over a difficult question with an older +man, I am at your service." + +He spoke purposely in a formal voice, lest Harry with a boy's +sensitiveness should think he laughed. Harry took the card and repeated +his thanks. Then he went upstairs to bed. + +Lieutenant Sutch waited uncomfortably in the hall until the light of the +candle had diminished and disappeared. Something was amiss, he was very +sure. There were words which he should have spoken to the boy, but he +had not known how to set about the task. He returned to the dining room, +and with a feeling that he was almost repairing his omissions, he filled +his glass and called for silence. + +"Gentlemen," he said, "this is June 15th," and there was great applause +and much rapping on the table. "It is the anniversary of our attack upon +the Redan. It is also Harry Feversham's birthday. For us, our work is +done. I ask you to drink the health of one of the youngsters who are +ousting us. His work lies before him. The traditions of the Feversham +family are very well known to us. May Harry Feversham carry them on! +May he add distinction to a distinguished name!" + +At once all that company was on its feet. + +"Harry Feversham!" + +The name was shouted with so hearty a good-will that the glasses on the +table rang. "Harry Feversham, Harry Feversham," the cry was repeated and +repeated, while old General Feversham sat in his chair with a face +aflush with pride. And a boy a minute afterward in a room high up in the +house heard the muffled words of a chorus-- + + For he's a jolly good fellow, + For he's a jolly good fellow, + For he's a jolly good fellow, + And so say all of us, + +and believed the guests upon this Crimean night were drinking his +father's health. He turned over in his bed and lay shivering. He saw in +his mind a broken officer slinking at night in the shadows of the London +streets. He pushed back the flap of a tent and stooped over a man lying +stone-dead in his blood, with an open lancet clinched in his right hand. +And he saw that the face of the broken officer and the face of the dead +surgeon were one--and that one face, the face of Harry Feversham. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +CAPTAIN TRENCH AND A TELEGRAM + + +Thirteen years later, and in the same month of June, Harry Feversham's +health was drunk again, but after a quieter fashion and in a smaller +company. The company was gathered in a room high up in a shapeless block +of buildings which frowns like a fortress above Westminster. A stranger +crossing St. James's Park southwards, over the suspension bridge, at +night, who chanced to lift his eyes and see suddenly the tiers of +lighted windows towering above him to so precipitous a height, might be +brought to a stop with the fancy that here in the heart of London was a +mountain and the gnomes at work. Upon the tenth floor of this building +Harry had taken a flat during his year's furlough from his regiment in +India; and it was in the dining room of this flat that the simple +ceremony took place. The room was furnished in a dark and restful +fashion; and since the chill of the weather belied the calendar, a +comfortable fire blazed in the hearth. A bay window, over which the +blinds had not been lowered, commanded London. + +There were four men smoking about the dinner-table. Harry Feversham was +unchanged, except for a fair moustache, which contrasted with his dark +hair, and the natural consequences of growth. He was now a man of +middle height, long-limbed, and well-knit like an athlete, but his +features had not altered since that night when they had been so closely +scrutinised by Lieutenant Sutch. Of his companions two were +brother-officers on leave in England, like himself, whom he had that +afternoon picked up at his club,--Captain Trench, a small man, growing +bald, with a small, sharp, resourceful face and black eyes of a +remarkable activity, and Lieutenant Willoughby, an officer of quite a +different stamp. A round forehead, a thick snub nose, and a pair of +vacant and protruding eyes gave to him an aspect of invincible +stupidity. He spoke but seldom, and never to the point, but rather to +some point long forgotten which he had since been laboriously revolving +in his mind; and he continually twisted a moustache, of which the ends +curled up toward his eyes with a ridiculous ferocity,--a man whom one +would dismiss from mind as of no consequence upon a first thought, and +take again into one's consideration upon a second. For he was born +stubborn as well as stupid; and the harm which his stupidity might do, +his stubbornness would hinder him from admitting. He was not a man to be +persuaded; having few ideas, he clung to them. It was no use to argue +with him, for he did not hear the argument, but behind his vacant eyes +all the while he turned over his crippled thoughts and was satisfied. +The fourth at the table was Durrance, a lieutenant of the East Surrey +Regiment, and Feversham's friend, who had come in answer to a telegram. + +This was June of the year 1882, and the thoughts of civilians turned +toward Egypt with anxiety; those of soldiers, with an eager +anticipation. Arabi Pasha, in spite of threats, was steadily +strengthening the fortifications of Alexandria, and already a long +way to the south, the other, the great danger, was swelling like a +thunder-cloud. A year had passed since a young, slight, and tall +Dongolawi, Mohammed Ahmed, had marched through the villages of the White +Nile, preaching with the fire of a Wesley the coming of a Saviour. The +passionate victims of the Turkish tax-gatherer had listened, had heard +the promise repeated in the whispers of the wind in the withered grass, +had found the holy names imprinted even upon the eggs they gathered up. +In 1882 Mohammed had declared himself that Saviour, and had won his +first battles against the Turks. + +"There will be trouble," said Trench, and the sentence was the text on +which three of the four men talked. In a rare interval, however, the +fourth, Harry Feversham, spoke upon a different subject. + +"I am very glad you were all able to dine with me to-night. I +telegraphed to Castleton as well, an officer of ours," he explained to +Durrance, "but he was dining with a big man in the War Office, and +leaves for Scotland afterwards, so that he could not come. I have news +of a sort." + +The three men leaned forward, their minds still full of the dominant +subject. But it was not about the prospect of war that Harry Feversham +had news to speak. + +"I only reached London this morning from Dublin," he said with a shade +of embarrassment. "I have been some weeks in Dublin." + +Durrance lifted his eyes from the tablecloth and looked quietly at his +friend. + +"Yes?" he asked steadily. + +"I have come back engaged to be married." + +Durrance lifted his glass to his lips. + +"Well, here's luck to you, Harry," he said, and that was all. The wish, +indeed, was almost curtly expressed, but there was nothing wanting in it +to Feversham's ears. The friendship between these two men was not one in +which affectionate phrases had any part. There was, in truth, no need of +such. Both men were securely conscious of it; they estimated it at its +true, strong value; it was a helpful instrument, which would not wear +out, put into their hands for a hard, lifelong use; but it was not, and +never had been, spoken of between them. Both men were grateful for it, +as for a rare and undeserved gift; yet both knew that it might entail an +obligation of sacrifice. But the sacrifices, were they needful, would be +made, and they would not be mentioned. It may be, indeed, that the very +knowledge of their friendship's strength constrained them to a +particular reticence in their words to one another. + +"Thank you, Jack!" said Feversham. "I am glad of your good wishes. It +was you who introduced me to Ethne; I cannot forget it." + +Durrance set his glass down without any haste. There followed a moment +of silence, during which he sat with his eyes upon the tablecloth, and +his hands resting on the table edge. + +"Yes," he said in a level voice. "I did you a good turn then." + +He seemed on the point of saying more, and doubtful how to say it. But +Captain Trench's sharp, quick, practical voice, a voice which fitted the +man who spoke, saved him his pains. + +"Will this make any difference?" asked Trench. + +Feversham replaced his cigar between his lips. + +"You mean, shall I leave the service?" he asked slowly. "I don't know;" +and Durrance seized the opportunity to rise from the table and cross to +the window, where he stood with his back to his companions. Feversham +took the abrupt movement for a reproach, and spoke to Durrance's back, +not to Trench. + +"I don't know," he repeated. "It will need thought. There is much to be +said. On the one side, of course, there's my father, my career, such as +it is. On the other hand, there is her father, Dermod Eustace." + +"He wishes you to chuck your commission?" asked Willoughby. + +"He has no doubt the Irishman's objection to constituted authority," +said Trench, with a laugh. "But need you subscribe to it, Feversham?" + +"It is not merely that." It was still to Durrance's back that he +addressed his excuses. "Dermod is old, his estates are going to ruin, +and there are other things. You know, Jack?" The direct appeal he had to +repeat, and even then Durrance answered it absently:-- + +"Yes, I know," and he added, like one quoting a catch-word. "If you want +any whiskey, rap twice on the floor with your foot. The servants +understand." + +"Precisely," said Feversham. He continued, carefully weighing his words, +and still intently looking across the shoulders of his companions to his +friend:-- + +"Besides, there is Ethne herself. Dermod for once did an appropriate +thing when he gave her that name. For she is of her country, and more, +of her county. She has the love of it in her bones. I do not think that +she could be quite happy in India, or indeed in any place which was not +within reach of Donegal, the smell of its peat, its streams, and the +brown friendliness of its hills. One has to consider that." + +He waited for an answer, and getting none went on again. Durrance, +however, had no thought of reproach in his mind. He knew that Feversham +was speaking,--he wished very much that he would continue to speak for a +little while,--but he paid no heed to what was said. He stood looking +steadfastly out of the windows. Over against him was the glare from Pall +Mall striking upward to the sky, and the chains of light banked one +above the other as the town rose northward, and a rumble as of a million +carriages was in his ears. At his feet, very far below, lay St. James's +Park, silent and black, a quiet pool of darkness in the midst of glitter +and noise. Durrance had a great desire to escape out of this room into +its secrecy. But that he could not do without remark. Therefore he kept +his back turned to his companion, and leaned his forehead against the +window, and hoped his friend would continue to talk. For he was face to +face with one of the sacrifices which must not be mentioned, and which +no sign must betray. + +Feversham did continue, and if Durrance did not listen, on the other +hand Captain Trench gave to him his closest attention. But it was +evident that Harry Feversham was giving reasons seriously considered. He +was not making excuses, and in the end Captain Trench was satisfied. + +"Well, I drink to you, Feversham," he said, "with all the proper +sentiments." + +"I too, old man," said Willoughby, obediently following his senior's +lead. + +Thus they drank their comrade's health, and as their empty glasses +rattled on the table, there came a knock upon the door. + +The two officers looked up. Durrance turned about from the window. +Feversham said, "Come in;" and his servant brought in to him a telegram. + +Feversham tore open the envelope carelessly, as carelessly read through +the telegram, and then sat very still, with his eyes upon the slip of +pink paper and his face grown at once extremely grave. Thus he sat for +an appreciable time, not so much stunned as thoughtful. And in the room +there was a complete silence. Feversham's three guests averted their +eyes. Durrance turned again to his window; Willoughby twisted his +moustache and gazed intently upward at the ceiling; Captain Trench +shifted his chair round and stared into the glowing fire, and each man's +attitude expressed a certain suspense. It seemed that sharp upon the +heels of Feversham's good news calamity had come knocking at the door. + +"There is no answer," said Harry, and fell to silence again. Once he +raised his head and looked at Trench as though he had a mind to speak. +But he thought the better of it, and so dropped again to the +consideration of this message. And in a moment or two the silence was +sharply interrupted, but not by any one of the expectant motionless +three men seated within the room. The interruption came from without. + +From the parade ground of Wellington Barracks the drums and fifes +sounding the tattoo shrilled through the open window with a startling +clearness like a sharp summons, and diminished as the band marched away +across the gravel and again grew loud. Feversham did not change his +attitude, but the look upon his face was now that of a man listening, +and listening thoughtfully, just as he had read thoughtfully. In the +years which followed, that moment was to recur again and again to the +recollection of each of Harry's three guests. The lighted room, with the +bright homely fire, the open window overlooking the myriad lamps of +London, Harry Feversham seated with the telegram spread before him, the +drums and fifes calling loudly, and then dwindling to music very small +and pretty--music which beckoned where a moment ago it had commanded: +all these details made up a picture of which the colours were not to +fade by any lapse of time, although its significance was not apprehended +now. + +It was remembered that Feversham rose abruptly from his chair, just +before the tattoo ceased. He crumpled the telegram loosely in his hands, +tossed it into the fire, and then, leaning his back against the +chimney-piece and upon one side of the fireplace, said again:-- + +"I don't know;" as though he had thrust that message, whatever it might +be, from his mind, and was summing up in this indefinite way the +argument which had gone before. Thus that long silence was broken, and a +spell was lifted. But the fire took hold upon the telegram and shook it, +so that it moved like a thing alive and in pain. It twisted, and part of +it unrolled, and for a second lay open and smooth of creases, lit up by +the flame and as yet untouched; so that two or three words sprang, as it +were, out of a yellow glare of fire and were legible. Then the flame +seized upon that smooth part too, and in a moment shrivelled it into +black tatters. But Captain Trench was all this while staring into the +fire. + +"You return to Dublin, I suppose?" said Durrance. He had moved back +again into the room. Like his companions, he was conscious of an +unexplained relief. + +"To Dublin? No; I go to Donegal in three weeks' time. There is to be a +dance. It is hoped you will come." + +"I am not sure that I can manage it. There is just a chance, I believe, +should trouble come in the East, that I may go out on the staff." The +talk thus came round again to the chances of peace and war, and held in +that quarter till the boom of the Westminster clock told that the hour +was eleven. Captain Trench rose from his seat on the last stroke; +Willoughby and Durrance followed his example. + +"I shall see you to-morrow," said Durrance to Feversham. + +"As usual," replied Harry; and his three guests descended from his +rooms and walked across the Park together. At the corner of Pall Mall, +however, they parted company, Durrance mounting St. James's Street, +while Trench and Willoughby crossed the road into St. James's Square. +There Trench slipped his arm through Willoughby's, to Willoughby's +surprise, for Trench was an undemonstrative man. + +"You know Castleton's address?" he asked. + +"Albemarle Street," Willoughby answered, and added the number. + +"He leaves Euston at twelve o'clock. It is now ten minutes past eleven. +Are you curious, Willoughby? I confess to curiosity. I am an inquisitive +methodical person, and when a man gets a telegram bidding him tell +Trench something and he tells Trench nothing, I am curious as a +philosopher to know what that something is! Castleton is the only other +officer of our regiment in London. It is likely, therefore, that the +telegram came from Castleton. Castleton, too, was dining with a big man +from the War Office. I think that if we take a hansom to Albemarle +Street, we shall just catch Castleton upon his door-step." + +Mr. Willoughby, who understood very little of Trench's meaning, +nevertheless cordially agreed to the proposal. + +"I think it would be prudent," said he, and he hailed a passing cab. +A moment later the two men were driving to Albemarle Street. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER + + +Durrance, meanwhile, walked to his lodging alone, remembering a day, now +two years since, when by a curious whim of old Dermod Eustace he had +been fetched against his will to the house by the Lennon River in +Donegal, and there, to his surprise, had been made acquainted with +Dermod's daughter Ethne. For she surprised all who had first held speech +with the father. Durrance had stayed for a night in the house, and +through that evening she had played upon her violin, seated with her +back toward her audience, as was her custom when she played, lest a look +or a gesture should interrupt the concentration of her thoughts. The +melodies which she had played rang in his ears now. For the girl +possessed the gift of music, and the strings of her violin spoke to the +questions of her bow. There was in particular an overture--the Melusine +overture--which had the very sob of the waves. Durrance had listened +wondering, for the violin had spoken to him of many things of which the +girl who played it could know nothing. It had spoken of long perilous +journeys and the faces of strange countries; of the silver way across +moonlit seas; of the beckoning voices from the under edges of the +desert. It had taken a deeper, a more mysterious tone. It had told of +great joys, quite unattainable, and of great griefs too, eternal, and +with a sort of nobility by reason of their greatness; and of many +unformulated longings beyond the reach of words; but with never a single +note of mere complaint. So it had seemed to Durrance that night as he +had sat listening while Ethne's face was turned away. So it seemed to +him now when he knew that her face was still to be turned away for all +his days. He had drawn a thought from her playing which he was at some +pains to keep definite in his mind. The true music cannot complain. + +Therefore it was that as he rode the next morning into the Row his blue +eyes looked out upon the world from his bronzed face with not a jot less +of his usual friendliness. He waited at half-past nine by the clump of +lilacs and laburnums at the end of the sand, but Harry Feversham did not +join him that morning, nor indeed for the next three weeks. Ever since +the two men had graduated from Oxford it had been their custom to meet +at this spot and hour, when both chanced to be in town, and Durrance was +puzzled. It seemed to him that he had lost his friend as well. + +Meanwhile, however, the rumours of war grew to a certainty; and when at +last Feversham kept the tryst, Durrance had news. + +"I told you luck might look my way. Well, she has. I go out to Egypt on +General Graham's staff. There's talk we may run down the Red Sea to +Suakin afterward." + +The exhilaration of his voice brought an unmistakable envy into +Feversham's eyes. It seemed strange to Durrance, even at that moment of +his good luck, that Harry Feversham should envy him--strange and rather +pleasant. But he interpreted the envy in the light of his own ambitions. + +"It is rough on you," he said sympathetically, "that your regiment has +to stay behind." + +Feversham rode by his friend's side in silence. Then, as they came to +the chairs beneath the trees, he said:-- + +"That was expected. The day you dined with me I sent in my papers." + +"That night?" said Durrance, turning in his saddle. "After we had gone?" + +"Yes," said Feversham, accepting the correction. He wondered whether it +had been intended. But Durrance rode silently forward. Again Harry +Feversham was conscious of a reproach in his friend's silence, and again +he was wrong. For Durrance suddenly spoke heartily, and with a laugh. + +"I remember. You gave us your reasons that night. But for the life of me +I can't help wishing that we had been going out together. When do you +leave for Ireland?" + +"To-night." + +"So soon?" + +They turned their horses and rode westward again down the alley of +trees. The morning was still fresh. The limes and chestnuts had lost +nothing of their early green, and since the May was late that year, its +blossoms still hung delicately white like snow upon the branches and +shone red against the dark rhododendrons. The park shimmered in a haze +of sunlight, and the distant roar of the streets was as the tumbling of +river water. + +"It is a long time since we bathed in Sandford Lasher," said Durrance. + +"Or froze in the Easter vacations in the big snow-gully on Great End," +returned Feversham. Both men had the feeling that on this morning a +volume in their book of life was ended; and since the volume had been a +pleasant one to read, and they did not know whether its successors would +sustain its promise, they were looking backward through the leaves +before they put it finally away. + +"You must stay with us, Jack, when you come back," said Feversham. + +Durrance had schooled himself not to wince, and he did not, even at that +anticipatory "us." If his left hand tightened upon the thongs of his +reins, the sign could not be detected by his friend. + +"If I come back," said Durrance. "You know my creed. I could never pity +a man who died on active service. I would very much like to come by that +end myself." + +It was a quite simple creed, consistent with the simplicity of the man +who uttered it. It amounted to no more than this: that to die decently +was worth a good many years of life. So that he uttered it without +melancholy or any sign of foreboding. Even so, however, he had a fear +that perhaps his friend might place another interpretation upon the +words, and he looked quickly into his face. He only saw again, however, +that puzzling look of envy in Feversham's eyes. + +"You see there are worse things which can happen," he continued; +"disablement, for instance. Clever men could make a shift, perhaps, to +put up with it. But what in the world should I do if I had to sit in a +chair all my days? It makes me shiver to think of it," and he shook his +broad shoulders to unsaddle that fear. "Well, this is the last ride. Let +us gallop," and he let out his horse. + +Feversham followed his example, and side by side they went racing down +the sand. At the bottom of the Row they stopped, shook hands, and with +the curtest of nods parted. Feversham rode out of the park, Durrance +turned back and walked his horse up toward the seats beneath the trees. + +Even as a boy in his home at Southpool in Devonshire, upon a wooded +creek of the Salcombe estuary, he had always been conscious of a certain +restlessness, a desire to sail down that creek and out over the levels +of the sea, a dream of queer outlandish countries and peoples beyond the +dark familiar woods. And the restlessness had grown upon him, so that +"Guessens," even when he had inherited it with its farms and lands, had +remained always in his thoughts as a place to come home to rather than +an estate to occupy a life. He purposely exaggerated that restlessness +now, and purposely set against it words which Feversham had spoken and +which he knew to be true. Ethne Eustace would hardly be happy outside +her county of Donegal. Therefore, even had things fallen out +differently, as he phrased it, there might have been a clash. Perhaps it +was as well that Harry Feversham was to marry Ethne--and not another +than Feversham. + +Thus, at all events, he argued as he rode, until the riders vanished +from before his eyes, and the ladies in their coloured frocks beneath +the cool of the trees. The trees themselves dwindled to ragged mimosas, +the brown sand at his feet spread out in a widening circumference and +took the bright colour of honey; and upon the empty sand black stones +began to heap themselves shapelessly like coal, and to flash in the sun +like mirrors. He was deep in his anticipations of the Soudan, when he +heard his name called out softly in a woman's voice, and, looking up, +found himself close by the rails. + +"How do you do, Mrs. Adair?" said he, and he stopped his horse. Mrs. +Adair gave him her hand across the rails. She was Durrance's neighbour +at Southpool, and by a year or two his elder--a tall woman, remarkable +for the many shades of her thick brown hair and the peculiar pallor on +her face. But at this moment the face had brightened, there was a hint +of colour in the cheeks. + +"I have news for you," said Durrance. "Two special items. One, Harry +Feversham is to be married." + +"To whom?" asked the lady, eagerly. + +"You should know. It was in your house in Hill Street that Harry first +met her; and I introduced him. He has been improving the acquaintance in +Dublin." + +But Mrs. Adair already understood; and it was plain that the news was +welcome. + +"Ethne Eustace!" she cried. "They will be married soon?" + +"There is nothing to prevent it." + +"I am glad," and the lady sighed as though with relief. "What is your +second item?" + +"As good as the first. I go out on General Graham's staff." + +Mrs. Adair was silent. There came a look of anxiety into her eyes, and +the colour died out of her face. + +"You are very glad, I suppose," she said slowly. + +Durrance's voice left her in no doubt. + +"I should think I was. I go soon, too, and the sooner the better. I will +come and dine some night, if I may, before I go." + +"My husband will be pleased to see you," said Mrs. Adair, rather coldly. +Durrance did not notice the coldness, however. He had his own reasons +for making the most of the opportunity which had come his way; and he +urged his enthusiasm, and laid it bare in words more for his own benefit +than with any thought of Mrs. Adair. Indeed, he had always rather a +vague impression of the lady. She was handsome in a queer, foreign way +not so uncommon along the coasts of Devonshire and Cornwall, and she had +good hair, and was always well dressed. Moreover, she was friendly. And +at that point Durrance's knowledge of her came to an end. Perhaps her +chief merit in his eyes was that she had made friends with Ethne +Eustace. But he was to become better acquainted with Mrs. Adair. He rode +away from the park with the old regret in his mind that the fortunes of +himself and his friend were this morning finally severed. As a fact he +had that morning set the strands of a new rope a-weaving which was to +bring them together again in a strange and terrible relationship. Mrs. +Adair followed him out of the park, and walked home very thoughtfully. + +Durrance had just one week wherein to provide his equipment and +arrange his estate in Devonshire. It passed in a continuous hurry of +preparation, so that his newspaper lay each day unfolded in his rooms. +The general was to travel overland to Brindisi; and so on an evening of +wind and rain, toward the end of July, Durrance stepped from the Dover +pier into the mail-boat for Calais. In spite of the rain and the gloomy +night, a small crowd had gathered to give the general a send-off. As the +ropes were cast off, a feeble cheer was raised; and before the cheer had +ended, Durrance found himself beset by a strange illusion. He was +leaning upon the bulwarks, idly wondering whether this was his last view +of England, and with a wish that some one of his friends had come down +to see him go, when it seemed to him suddenly that his wish was +answered; for he caught a glimpse of a man standing beneath a gas-lamp, +and that man was of the stature and wore the likeness of Harry +Feversham. Durrance rubbed his eyes and looked again. But the wind made +the tongue of light flicker uncertainly within the glass; the rain, too, +blurred the quay. He could only be certain that a man was standing +there, he could only vaguely distinguish beneath the lamp the whiteness +of a face. It was an illusion, he said to himself. Harry Feversham was +at that moment most likely listening to Ethne playing the violin under a +clear sky in a high garden of Donegal. But even as he was turning from +the bulwarks, there came a lull of the wind, the lights burned bright +and steady on the pier, and the face leaped from the shadows distinct in +feature and expression. Durrance leaned out over the side of the boat. + +"Harry!" he shouted, at the top of a wondering voice. + +But the figure beneath the lamp never stirred. The wind blew the lights +again this way and that, the paddles churned the water, the mail-boat +passed beyond the pier. It was an illusion, he repeated; it was a +coincidence. It was the face of a stranger very like to Harry +Feversham's. It could not be Feversham's, because the face which +Durrance had seen so distinctly for a moment was a haggard, wistful +face--a face stamped with an extraordinary misery; the face of a man +cast out from among his fellows. + +Durrance had been very busy all that week. He had clean forgotten the +arrival of that telegram and the suspense which the long perusal of it +had caused. Moreover, his newspaper had lain unfolded in his rooms. But +his friend Harry Feversham had come to see him off. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +THE BALL AT LENNON HOUSE + + +Yet Feversham had travelled to Dublin by the night mail after his ride +with Durrance in the Row. He had crossed Lough Swilly on the following +fore-noon by a little cargo steamer, which once a week steamed up the +Lennon River as far as Ramelton. On the quay-side Ethne was waiting for +him in her dog-cart; she gave him the hand and the smile of a comrade. + +"You are surprised to see me," said she, noting the look upon his face. + +"I always am," he replied. "For always you exceed my thoughts of you;" +and the smile changed upon her face--it became something more than the +smile of a comrade. + +"I shall drive slowly," she said, as soon as his traps had been packed +into the cart; "I brought no groom on purpose. There will be guests +coming to-morrow. We have only to-day." + +She drove along the wide causeway by the riverside, and turned up the +steep, narrow street. Feversham sat silently by her side. It was his +first visit to Ramelton, and he gazed about him, noting the dark thicket +of tall trees which climbed on the far side of the river, the old grey +bridge, the noise of the water above it as it sang over shallows, and +the drowsy quiet of the town, with a great curiosity and almost a pride +of ownership, since it was here that Ethne lived, and all these things +were part and parcel of her life. + +She was at that time a girl of twenty-one, tall, strong, and supple of +limb, and with a squareness of shoulder proportionate to her height. She +had none of that exaggerated slope which our grandmothers esteemed, yet +she lacked no grace of womanhood on that account, and in her walk she +was light-footed as a deer. Her hair was dark brown, and she wore it +coiled upon the nape of her neck; a bright colour burned in her cheeks, +and her eyes, of a very clear grey, met the eyes of those to whom she +talked with a most engaging frankness. And in character she was the +counterpart of her looks. She was honest; she had a certain simplicity, +the straightforward simplicity of strength which comprises much +gentleness and excludes violence. Of her courage there is a story still +told in Ramelton, which Feversham could never remember without a thrill +of wonder. She had stopped at a door on that steep hill leading down to +the river, and the horse which she was driving took fright at the mere +clatter of a pail and bolted. The reins were lying loose at the moment; +they fell on the ground before Ethne could seize them. She was thus +seated helpless in the dog-cart, and the horse was tearing down to where +the road curves sharply over the bridge. The thing which she did, she +did quite coolly. She climbed over the front of the dog-cart as it +pitched and raced down the hill, and balancing herself along the shafts, +reached the reins at the horse's neck, and brought the horse to a stop +ten yards from the curve. But she had, too, the defects of her +qualities, although Feversham was not yet aware of them. + +Ethne during the first part of this drive was almost as silent as her +companion; and when she spoke, it was with an absent air, as though she +had something of more importance in her thoughts. It was not until she +had left the town and was out upon the straight, undulating road to +Letterkenny that she turned quickly to Feversham and uttered it. + +"I saw this morning that your regiment was ordered from India to Egypt. +You could have gone with it, had I not come in your way. There would +have been chances of distinction. I have hindered you, and I am very +sorry. Of course, you could not know that there was any possibility of +your regiment going, but I can understand it is very hard for you to be +left behind. I blame myself." + +Feversham sat staring in front of him for a moment. Then he said, in a +voice suddenly grown hoarse:-- + +"You need not." + +"How can I help it? I blame myself the more," she continued, "because I +do not see things quite like other women. For instance, supposing that +you had gone to Egypt, and that the worst had happened, I should have +felt very lonely, of course, all my days, but I should have known quite +surely that when those days were over, you and I would see much of one +another." + +She spoke without any impressive lowering of the voice, but in the +steady, level tone of one stating the simplest imaginable fact. +Feversham caught his breath like a man in pain. But the girl's eyes +were upon his face, and he sat still, staring in front of him without so +much as a contraction of the forehead. But it seemed that he could not +trust himself to answer. He kept his lips closed, and Ethne continued:-- + +"You see I can put up with the absence of the people I care about, a +little better perhaps than most people. I do not feel that I have lost +them at all," and she cast about for a while as if her thought was +difficult to express. "You know how things happen," she resumed. "One +goes along in a dull sort of way, and then suddenly a face springs out +from the crowd of one's acquaintances, and you know it at once and +certainly for the face of a friend, or rather you recognise it, though +you have never seen it before. It is almost as though you had come upon +some one long looked for and now gladly recovered. Well, such +friends--they are few, no doubt, but after all only the few really +count--such friends one does not lose, whether they are absent, or +even--dead." + +"Unless," said Feversham, slowly, "one has made a mistake. Suppose the +face in the crowd is a mask, what then? One may make mistakes." + +Ethne shook her head decidedly. + +"Of that kind, no. One may seem to have made mistakes, and perhaps for a +long while. But in the end one would be proved not to have made them." + +And the girl's implicit faith took hold upon the man and tortured him, +so that he could no longer keep silence. + +"Ethne," he cried, "you don't know--" But at that moment Ethne reined +in her horse, laughed, and pointed with her whip. + +They had come to the top of a hill a couple of miles from Ramelton. The +road ran between stone walls enclosing open fields upon the left, and a +wood of oaks and beeches on the right. A scarlet letter-box was built +into the left-hand wall, and at that Ethne's whip was pointed. + +"I wanted to show you that," she interrupted. "It was there I used to +post my letters to you during the anxious times." And so Feversham let +slip his opportunity of speech. + +"The house is behind the trees to the right," she continued. + +"The letter-box is very convenient," said Feversham. + +"Yes," said Ethne, and she drove on and stopped again where the park +wall had crumbled. + +"That's where I used to climb over to post the letters. There's a tree +on the other side of the wall as convenient as the letter-box. I used to +run down the half-mile of avenue at night." + +"There might have been thieves," exclaimed Feversham. + +"There were thorns," said Ethne, and turning through the gates she drove +up to the porch of the long, irregular grey house. "Well, we have still +a day before the dance." + +"I suppose the whole country-side is coming," said Feversham. + +"It daren't do anything else," said Ethne, with a laugh. "My father +would send the police to fetch them if they stayed away, just as he +fetched your friend Mr. Durrance here. By the way, Mr. Durrance has +sent me a present--a Guarnerius violin." + +The door opened, and a thin, lank old man, with a fierce peaked face +like a bird of prey, came out upon the steps. His face softened, +however, into friendliness when he saw Feversham, and a smile played +upon his lips. A stranger might have thought that he winked. But his +left eyelid continually drooped over the eye. + +"How do you do?" he said. "Glad to see you. Must make yourself at home. +If you want any whiskey, stamp twice on the floor with your foot. The +servants understand," and with that he went straightway back into the +house. + + * * * * * + +The biographer of Dermod Eustace would need to bring a wary mind to his +work. For though the old master of Lennon House has not lain twenty +years in his grave, he is already swollen into a legendary character. +Anecdotes have grown upon his memory like barnacles, and any man in +those parts with a knack of invention has only to foist his stories upon +Dermod to ensure a ready credence. There are, however, definite facts. +He practised an ancient and tyrannous hospitality, keeping open house +upon the road to Letterkenny, and forcing bed and board even upon +strangers, as Durrance had once discovered. He was a man of another +century, who looked out with a glowering, angry eye upon a topsy-turvy +world, and would not be reconciled to it except after much alcohol. He +was a sort of intoxicated Coriolanus, believing that the people should +be shepherded with a stick, yet always mindful of his manners, even to +the lowliest of women. It was said of him with pride by the townsfolk +of Ramelton, that even at his worst, when he came galloping down the +steep cobbled streets, mounted on a big white mare of seventeen hands, +with his inseparable collie dog for his companion,--a gaunt, grey-faced, +grey-haired man, with a drooping eye, swaying with drink, yet by a +miracle keeping his saddle,--he had never ridden down any one except a +man. There are two points to be added. He was rather afraid of his +daughter, who wisely kept him doubtful whether she was displeased with +him or not, and he had conceived a great liking for Harry Feversham. + +Harry saw little of him that day, however. Dermod retired into the room +which he was pleased to call his office, while Feversham and Ethne spent +the afternoon fishing for salmon in the Lennon River. It was an +afternoon restful as a Sabbath, and the very birds were still. From the +house the lawns fell steeply, shaded by trees and dappled by the +sunlight, to a valley, at the bottom of which flowed the river swift and +black under overarching boughs. There was a fall, where the water slid +over rocks with a smoothness so unbroken that it looked solid except +just at one point. There a spur stood sharply up, and the river broke +back upon itself in an amber wave through which the sun shone. Opposite +this spur they sat for a long while, talking at times, but for the most +part listening to the roar of the water and watching its perpetual flow. +And at last the sunset came, and the long shadows. They stood up, looked +at each other with a smile, and so walked slowly back to the house. It +was an afternoon which Feversham was long to remember; for the next +night was the night of the dance, and as the band struck up the opening +bars of the fourth waltz, Ethne left her position at the drawing-room +door, and taking Feversham's arm passed out into the hall. + +The hall was empty, and the front door stood open to the cool of the +summer night. From the ballroom came the swaying lilt of the music and +the beat of the dancers' feet. Ethne drew a breath of relief at her +reprieve from her duties, and then dropping her partner's arm, crossed +to a side table. + +"The post is in," she said. "There are letters, one, two, three, for +you, and a little box." + +She held the box out to him as she spoke,--a little white jeweller's +cardboard box,--and was at once struck by its absence of weight. + +"It must be empty," she said. + +Yet it was most carefully sealed and tied. Feversham broke the seals and +unfastened the string. He looked at the address. The box had been +forwarded from his lodgings, and he was not familiar with the +handwriting. + +"There is some mistake," he said as he shook the lid open, and then he +stopped abruptly. Three white feathers fluttered out of the box, swayed +and rocked for a moment in the air, and then, one after another, settled +gently down upon the floor. They lay like flakes of snow upon the dark +polished boards. But they were not whiter than Harry Feversham's cheeks. +He stood and stared at the feathers until he felt a light touch upon his +arm. He looked and saw Ethne's gloved hand upon his sleeve. + +"What does it mean?" she asked. There was some perplexity in her voice, +but nothing more than perplexity. The smile upon her face and the loyal +confidence in her eyes showed she had never a doubt that his first word +would lift it from her. "What does it mean?" + +"That there are things which cannot be hid, I suppose," said Feversham. + +For a little while Ethne did not speak. The languorous music floated +into the hall, and the trees whispered from the garden through the open +door. Then she shook his arm gently, uttered a breathless little laugh, +and spoke as though she were pleading with a child. + +"I don't think you understand, Harry. Here are three white feathers. +They were sent to you in jest? Oh, of course in jest. But it is a cruel +kind of jest--" + +"They were sent in deadly earnest." + +He spoke now, looking her straight in the eyes. Ethne dropped her hand +from his sleeve. + +"Who sent them?" she asked. + +Feversham had not given a thought to that matter. The message was all in +all, the men who had sent it so unimportant. But Ethne reached out her +hand and took the box from him. There were three visiting cards lying at +the bottom, and she took them out and read them aloud. + +"Captain Trench, Mr. Castleton, Mr. Willoughby. Do you know these men?" + +"All three are officers of my old regiment." + +The girl was dazed. She knelt down upon the floor and gathered the +feathers into her hand with a vague thought that merely to touch them +would help her to comprehension. They lay upon the palm of her white +glove, and she blew gently upon them, and they swam up into the air and +hung fluttering and rocking. As they floated downward she caught them +again, and so she slowly felt her way to another question. + +"Were they justly sent?" she asked. + +"Yes," said Harry Feversham. + +He had no thought of denial or evasion. He was only aware that the +dreadful thing for so many years dreadfully anticipated had at last +befallen him. He was known for a coward. The word which had long blazed +upon the wall of his thoughts in letters of fire was now written large +in the public places. He stood as he had once stood before the portraits +of his fathers, mutely accepting condemnation. It was the girl who +denied, as she still kneeled upon the floor. + +"I do not believe that is true," she said. "You could not look me in the +face so steadily were it true. Your eyes would seek the floor, not +mine." + +"Yet it is true." + +"Three little white feathers," she said slowly; and then, with a sob in +her throat, "This afternoon we were under the elms down by the Lennon +River--do you remember, Harry?--just you and I. And then come three +little white feathers, and the world's at an end." + +"Oh, don't!" cried Harry, and his voice broke upon the word. Up till now +he had spoken with a steadiness matching the steadiness of his eyes. But +these last words of hers, the picture which they evoked in his memories, +the pathetic simplicity of her utterance, caught him by the heart. But +Ethne seemed not to hear the appeal. She was listening with her face +turned toward the ballroom. The chatter and laughter of the voices there +grew louder and nearer. She understood that the music had ceased. She +rose quickly to her feet, clenching the feathers in her hand, and opened +a door. It was the door of her sitting room. + +"Come," she said. + +Harry followed her into the room, and she closed the door, shutting out +the noise. + +"Now," she said, "will you tell me, if you please, why the feathers have +been sent?" + +She stood quietly before him; her face was pale, but Feversham could not +gather from her expression any feeling which she might have beyond a +desire and a determination to get at the truth. She spoke, too, with the +same quietude. He answered, as he had answered before, directly and to +the point, without any attempt at mitigation. + +"A telegram came. It was sent by Castleton. It reached me when Captain +Trench and Mr. Willoughby were dining with me. It told me that my +regiment would be ordered on active service in Egypt. Castleton was +dining with a man likely to know, and I did not question the accuracy of +his message. He told me to tell Trench. I did not. I thought the matter +over with the telegram in front of me. Castleton was leaving that night +for Scotland, and he would go straight from Scotland to rejoin the +regiment. He would not, therefore, see Trench for some weeks at the +earliest, and by that time the telegram would very likely be forgotten +or its date confused. I did not tell Trench. I threw the telegram into +the fire, and that night sent in my papers. But Trench found out +somehow. Durrance was at dinner, too,--good God, Durrance!" he suddenly +broke out. "Most likely he knows like the rest." + +It came upon him as something shocking and strangely new that his friend +Durrance, who, as he knew very well, had been wont rather to look up to +him, in all likelihood counted him a thing of scorn. But he heard Ethne +speaking. After all, what did it matter whether Durrance knew, whether +every man knew, from the South Pole to the North, since she, Ethne, +knew? + +"And is this all?" she asked. + +"Surely it is enough," said he. + +"I think not," she answered, and she lowered her voice a little as she +went on. "We agreed, didn't we, that no foolish misunderstandings should +ever come between us? We were to be frank, and to take frankness each +from the other without offence. So be frank with me! Please!" and she +pleaded. "I could, I think, claim it as a right. At all events I ask for +it as I shall never ask for anything else in all my life." + +There was a sort of explanation of his act, Harry Feversham remembered; +but it was so futile when compared with the overwhelming consequence. +Ethne had unclenched her hands; the three feathers lay before his eyes +upon the table. They could not be explained away; he wore "coward" like +a blind man's label; besides, he could never make her understand. +However, she wished for the explanation and had a right to it; she had +been generous in asking for it, with a generosity not very common +amongst women. So Feversham gathered his wits and explained:-- + +"All my life I have been afraid that some day I should play the coward, +and from the very first I knew that I was destined for the army. I kept +my fear to myself. There was no one to whom I could tell it. My mother +was dead, and my father--" he stopped for a moment, with a deep intake +of the breath. He could see his father, that lonely iron man, sitting at +this very moment in his mother's favourite seat upon the terrace, and +looking over the moonlit fields toward the Sussex Downs; he could +imagine him dreaming of honours and distinctions worthy of the +Fevershams to be gained immediately by his son in the Egyptian campaign. +Surely that old man's stern heart would break beneath this blow. The +magnitude of the bad thing which he had done, the misery which it would +spread, were becoming very clear to Harry Feversham. He dropped his head +between his hands and groaned aloud. + +"My father," he resumed, "would, nay, could, never have understood. I +know him. When danger came his way, it found him ready, but he did not +foresee. That was my trouble always,--I foresaw. Any peril to be +encountered, any risk to be run,--I foresaw them. I foresaw something +else besides. My father would talk in his matter-of-fact way of the +hours of waiting before the actual commencement of a battle, after the +troops had been paraded. The mere anticipation of the suspense and the +strain of those hours was a torture to me. I foresaw the possibility of +cowardice. Then one evening, when my father had his old friends about +him on one of his Crimean nights, two dreadful stories were told--one +of an officer, the other of a surgeon, who had both shirked. I was now +confronted with the fact of cowardice. I took those stories up to bed +with me. They never left my memory; they became a part of me. I saw +myself behaving now as one, now as the other, of those two men had +behaved, perhaps in the crisis of a battle bringing ruin upon my +country, certainly dishonouring my father and all the dead men whose +portraits hung ranged in the hall. I tried to get the best of my fears. +I hunted, but with a map of the country-side in my mind. I foresaw every +hedge, every pit, every treacherous bank." + +"Yet you rode straight," interrupted Ethne. "Mr. Durrance told me so." + +"Did I?" said Feversham, vaguely. "Well, perhaps I did, once the hounds +were off. Durrance never knew what the moments of waiting before the +coverts were drawn meant to me! So when this telegram came, I took the +chance it seemed to offer and resigned." + +He ended his explanation. He had spoken warily, having something to +conceal. However earnestly she might ask for frankness, he must at all +costs, for her sake, hide something from her. But at once she suspected +it. + +"Were you afraid, too, of disgracing me? Was I in any way the cause that +you resigned?" + +Feversham looked her in the eyes and lied:-- + +"No." + +"If you had not been engaged to me, you would still have sent in your +papers?" + +"Yes." + +Ethne slowly stripped a glove off her hand. Feversham turned away. + +"I think that I am rather like your father," she said. "I don't +understand;" and in the silence which followed upon her words Feversham +heard something whirr and rattle upon the table. He looked and saw that +she had slipped her engagement ring off her finger. It lay upon the +table, the stones winking at him. + +"And all this--all that you have told to me," she exclaimed suddenly, +with her face very stern, "you would have hidden from me? You would have +married me and hidden it, had not these three feathers come?" + +The words had been on her lips from the beginning, but she had not +uttered them lest by a miracle he should after all have some unimagined +explanation which would reestablish him in her thoughts. She had given +him every chance. Now, however, she struck and laid bare the worst of +his disloyalty. Feversham flinched, and he did not answer but allowed +his silence to consent. Ethne, however, was just; she was in a way +curious too: she wished to know the very bottom of the matter before she +thrust it into the back of her mind. + +"But yesterday," she said, "you were going to tell me something. I +stopped you to point out the letter-box," and she laughed in a queer +empty way. "Was it about the feathers?" + +"Yes," answered Feversham, wearily. What did these persistent questions +matter, since the feathers had come, since her ring lay flickering and +winking on the table? "Yes, I think what you were saying rather +compelled me." + +"I remember," said Ethne, interrupting him rather hastily, "about +seeing much of one another--afterwards. We will not speak of such things +again," and Feversham swayed upon his feet as though he would fall. "I +remember, too, you said one could make mistakes. You were right; I was +wrong. One can do more than seem to make them. Will you, if you please, +take back your ring?" + +Feversham picked up the ring and held it in the palm of his hand, +standing very still. He had never cared for her so much, he had never +recognised her value so thoroughly, as at this moment when he lost her. +She gleamed in the quiet room, wonderful, most wonderful, from the +bright flowers in her hair to the white slipper on her foot. It was +incredible to him that he should ever have won her. Yet he had, and +disloyally had lost her. Then her voice broke in again upon his +reflections. + +"These, too, are yours. Will you take them, please?" + +She was pointing with her fan to the feathers upon the table. Feversham +obediently reached out his hand, and then drew it back in surprise. + +"There are four," he said. + +Ethne did not reply, and looking at her fan Feversham understood. It was +a fan of ivory and white feathers. She had broken off one of those +feathers and added it on her own account to the three. + +The thing which she had done was cruel, no doubt. But she wished to make +an end--a complete, irrevocable end; though her voice was steady and her +face, despite its pallor, calm, she was really tortured with humiliation +and pain. All the details of Harry Feversham's courtship, the +interchange of looks, the letters she had written and received, the +words which had been spoken, tingled and smarted unbearably in her +recollections. Their lips had touched--she recalled it with horror. She +desired never to see Harry Feversham after this night. Therefore she +added her fourth feather to the three. + +Harry Feversham took the feathers as she bade him, without a word of +remonstrance, and indeed with a sort of dignity which even at that +moment surprised her. All the time, too, he had kept his eyes steadily +upon hers, he had answered her questions simply, there had been nothing +abject in his manner; so that Ethne already began to regret this last +thing which she had done. However, it _was_ done. Feversham had taken +the four feathers. + +He held them in his fingers as though he was about to tear them across. +But he checked the action. He looked suddenly towards her, and kept his +eyes upon her face for some little while. Then very carefully he put the +feathers into his breast pocket. Ethne at this time did not consider +why. She only thought that here was the irrevocable end. + +"We should be going back, I think," she said. "We have been some time +away. Will you give me your arm?" In the hall she looked at the clock. +"Only eleven o'clock," she said wearily. "When we dance here, we dance +till daylight. We must show brave faces until daylight." + +And with her hand resting upon his arm, they passed into the ballroom. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE PARIAH + + +Habit assisted them; the irresponsible chatter of the ballroom sprang +automatically to their lips; the appearance of enjoyment never failed +from off their faces; so that no one at Lennon House that night +suspected that any swift cause of severance had come between them. Harry +Feversham watched Ethne laugh and talk as though she had never a care, +and was perpetually surprised, taking no thought that he wore the like +mask of gaiety himself. When she swung past him the light rhythm of her +feet almost persuaded him that her heart was in the dance. It seemed +that she could even command the colour upon her cheeks. Thus they both +wore brave faces as she had bidden. They even danced together. But all +the while Ethne was conscious that she was holding up a great load of +pain and humiliation which would presently crush her, and Feversham felt +those four feathers burning at his breast. It was wonderful to him that +the whole company did not know of them. He never approached a partner +without the notion that she would turn upon him with the contemptuous +name which was his upon her tongue. Yet he felt no fear on that account. +He would not indeed have cared had it happened, had the word been +spoken. He had lost Ethne. He watched her and looked in vain amongst +her guests, as indeed he surely knew he would, for a fit comparison. +There were women, pretty, graceful, even beautiful, but Ethne stood +apart by the particular character of her beauty. The broad forehead, the +perfect curve of the eyebrows, the great steady, clear, grey eyes, the +full red lips which could dimple into tenderness and shut level with +resolution, and the royal grace of her carriage, marked her out to +Feversham's thinking, and would do so in any company. He watched her in +a despairing amazement that he had ever had a chance of owning her. + +Only once did her endurance fail, and then only for a second. She was +dancing with Feversham, and as she looked toward the windows she saw +that the daylight was beginning to show very pale and cold upon the +other side of the blinds. + +"Look!" she said, and Feversham suddenly felt all her weight upon his +arms. Her face lost its colour and grew tired and very grey. Her eyes +shut tightly and then opened again. He thought that she would faint. +"The morning at last!" she exclaimed, and then in a voice as weary as +her face, "I wonder whether it is right that one should suffer so much +pain." + +"Hush!" whispered Feversham. "Courage! A few minutes more--only a very +few!" He stopped and stood in front of her until her strength returned. + +"Thank you!" she said gratefully, and the bright wheel of the dance +caught them in its spokes again. + +It was strange that he should be exhorting her to courage, she thanking +him for help; but the irony of this queer momentary reversal of their +position occurred to neither of them. Ethne was too tried by the strain +of those last hours, and Feversham had learned from that one failure of +her endurance, from the drawn aspect of her face and the depths of pain +in her eyes, how deeply he had wounded her. He no longer said, "I have +lost her," he no longer thought of his loss at all. He heard her words, +"I wonder whether it is right that one should suffer so much pain." He +felt that they would go ringing down the world with him, persistent in +his ears, spoken upon the very accent of her voice. He was sure that he +would hear them at the end above the voices of any who should stand +about him when he died, and hear in them his condemnation. For it was +not right. + +The ball finished shortly afterwards. The last carriage drove away, and +those who were staying in the house sought the smoking-room or went +upstairs to bed according to their sex. Feversham, however, lingered in +the hall with Ethne. She understood why. + +"There is no need," she said, standing with her back to him as she +lighted a candle, "I have told my father. I told him everything." + +Feversham bowed his head in acquiescence. + +"Still, I must wait and see him," he said. + +Ethne did not object, but she turned and looked at him quickly with her +brows drawn in a frown of perplexity. To wait for her father under such +circumstances seemed to argue a certain courage. Indeed, she herself +felt some apprehension as she heard the door of the study open and +Dermod's footsteps on the floor. Dermod walked straight up to Harry +Feversham, looking for once in a way what he was, a very old man, and +stood there staring into Feversham's face with a muddled and bewildered +expression. Twice he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. In +the end he turned to the table and lit his candle and Harry Feversham's. +Then he turned back toward Feversham, and rather quickly, so that Ethne +took a step forward as if to get between them; but he did nothing more +than stare at Feversham again and for a long time. Finally, he took up +his candle. + +"Well--" he said, and stopped. He snuffed the wick with the scissors and +began again. "Well--" he said, and stopped again. Apparently his candle +had not helped him to any suitable expressions. He stared into the flame +now instead of into Feversham's face, and for an equal length of time. +He could think of nothing whatever to say, and yet he was conscious that +something must be said. In the end he said lamely:-- + +"If you want any whiskey, stamp twice on the floor with your foot. The +servants understand." + +Thereupon he walked heavily up the stairs. The old man's forbearance was +perhaps not the least part of Harry Feversham's punishment. + + * * * * * + +It was broad daylight when Ethne was at last alone within her room. She +drew up the blinds and opened the windows wide. The cool fresh air of +the morning was as a draught of spring-water to her. She looked out upon +a world as yet unillumined by colours and found therein an image of her +days to come. The dark, tall trees looked black; the winding paths, a +singular dead white; the very lawns were dull and grey, though the dew +lay upon them like a network of frost. It was a noisy world, however, +for all its aspect of quiet. For the blackbirds were calling from the +branches and the grass, and down beneath the overhanging trees the +Lennon flowed in music between its banks. Ethne drew back from the +window. She had much to do that morning before she slept. For she +designed with her natural thoroughness to make an end at once of all her +associations with Harry Feversham. She wished that from the moment when +next she waked she might never come across a single thing which could +recall him to her memory. And with a sort of stubborn persistence she +went about the work. + +But she changed her mind. In the very process of collecting together the +gifts which he had made to her she changed her mind. For each gift that +she looked upon had its history, and the days before this miserable +night had darkened on her happiness came one by one slowly back to her +as she looked. She determined to keep one thing which had belonged to +Harry Feversham,--a small thing, a thing of no value. At first she chose +a penknife, which he had once lent to her and she had forgotten to +return. But the next instant she dropped it and rather hurriedly. For +she was after all an Irish girl, and though she did not believe in +superstitions, where superstitions were concerned she preferred to be on +the safe side. She selected his photograph in the end and locked it away +in a drawer. + +She gathered the rest of his presents together, packed them carefully in +a box, fastened the box, addressed it and carried it down to the hall, +that the servants might despatch it in the morning. Then coming back to +her room she took his letters, made a little pile of them on the hearth +and set them alight. They took some while to consume, but she waited, +sitting upright in her arm-chair while the flame crept from sheet to +sheet, discolouring the paper, blackening the writing like a stream of +ink, and leaving in the end only flakes of ashes like feathers, and +white flakes like white feathers. The last sparks were barely +extinguished when she heard a cautious step on the gravel beneath her +window. + +It was broad daylight, but her candle was still burning on the table at +her side, and with a quick instinctive movement she reached out her arm +and put the light out. Then she sat very still and rigid, listening. For +a while she heard only the blackbirds calling from the trees in the +garden and the throbbing music of the river. Afterward she heard the +footsteps again, cautiously retreating; and in spite of her will, in +spite of her formal disposal of the letters and the presents, she was +mastered all at once, not by pain or humiliation, but by an overpowering +sense of loneliness. She seemed to be seated high on an empty world of +ruins. She rose quickly from her chair, and her eyes fell upon a violin +case. With a sigh of relief she opened it, and a little while after one +or two of the guests who were sleeping in the house chanced to wake up +and heard floating down the corridors the music of a violin played very +lovingly and low. Ethne was not aware that the violin which she held was +the Guarnerius violin which Durrance had sent to her. She only +understood that she had a companion to share her loneliness. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +HARRY FEVERSHAM'S PLAN + + +It was the night of August 30. A month had passed since the ball at +Lennon House, but the uneventful country-side of Donegal was still busy +with the stimulating topic of Harry Feversham's disappearance. The +townsmen in the climbing street and the gentry at their dinner-tables +gossiped to their hearts' contentment. It was asserted that Harry +Feversham had been seen on the very morning after the dance, and at five +minutes to six--though according to Mrs. Brien O'Brien it was ten +minutes past the hour--still in his dress clothes and with a white +suicide's face, hurrying along the causeway by the Lennon Bridge. It was +suggested that a drag-net would be the only way to solve the mystery. +Mr. Dennis Rafferty, who lived on the road to Rathmullen, indeed, went +so far as to refuse salmon on the plea that he was not a cannibal, and +the saying had a general vogue. Their conjectures as to the cause of the +disappearance were no nearer to the truth. For there were only two who +knew, and those two went steadily about the business of living as though +no catastrophe had befallen them. They held their heads a trifle more +proudly perhaps. Ethne might have become a little more gentle, Dermod a +little more irascible, but these were the only changes. So gossip had +the field to itself. + +But Harry Feversham was in London, as Lieutenant Sutch discovered on the +night of the 30th. All that day the town had been perturbed by rumours +of a great battle fought at Kassassin in the desert east of Ismailia. +Messengers had raced ceaselessly through the streets, shouting tidings +of victory and tidings of disaster. There had been a charge by moonlight +of General Drury-Lowe's Cavalry Brigade, which had rolled up Arabi's +left flank and captured his guns. It was rumoured that an English +general had been killed, that the York and Lancaster Regiment had been +cut up. London was uneasy, and at eleven o'clock at night a great crowd +of people had gathered beneath the gas-lamps in Pall Mall, watching with +pale upturned faces the lighted blinds of the War Office. The crowd was +silent and impressively still. Only if a figure moved for an instant +across the blinds, a thrill of expectation passed from man to man, and +the crowd swayed in a continuous movement from edge to edge. Lieutenant +Sutch, careful of his wounded leg, was standing on the outskirts, with +his back to the parapet of the Junior Carlton Club, when he felt himself +touched upon the arm. He saw Harry Feversham at his side. Feversham's +face was working and extraordinarily white, his eyes were bright like +the eyes of a man in a fever; and Sutch at the first was not sure that +he knew or cared who it was to whom he talked. + +"I might have been out there in Egypt to-night," said Harry, in a quick +troubled voice. "Think of it! I might have been out there, sitting by a +camp-fire in the desert, talking over the battle with Jack Durrance; or +dead perhaps. What would it have mattered? I might have been in Egypt +to-night!" + +Feversham's unexpected appearance, no less than his wandering tongue, +told Sutch that somehow his fortunes had gone seriously wrong. He had +many questions in his mind, but he did not ask a single one of them. He +took Feversham's arm and led him straight out of the throng. + +"I saw you in the crowd," continued Feversham. "I thought that I would +speak to you, because--do you remember, a long time ago you gave me your +card? I have always kept it, because I have always feared that I would +have reason to use it. You said that if one was in trouble, the telling +might help." + +Sutch stopped his companion. + +"We will go in here. We can find a quiet corner in the upper +smoking-room;" and Harry, looking up, saw that he was standing by the +steps of the Army and Navy Club. + +"Good God, not there!" he cried in a sharp low voice, and moved quickly +into the roadway, where no light fell directly on his face. Sutch limped +after him. "Nor to-night. It is late. To-morrow if you will, in some +quiet place, and after nightfall. I do not go out in the daylight." + +Again Lieutenant Sutch asked no questions. + +"I know a quiet restaurant," he said. "If we dine there at nine, we +shall meet no one whom we know. I will meet you just before nine +to-morrow night at the corner of Swallow Street." + +They dined together accordingly on the following evening, at a table in +the corner of the Criterion grill-room. Feversham looked quickly about +him as he entered the room. + +"I dine here often when I am in town," said Sutch. "Listen!" The +throbbing of the engines working the electric light could be distinctly +heard, their vibrations could be felt. + +"It reminds me of a ship," said Sutch, with a smile. "I can almost fancy +myself in the gun-room again. We will have dinner. Then you shall tell me +your story." + +"You have heard nothing of it?" asked Feversham, suspiciously. + +"Not a word;" and Feversham drew a breath of relief. It had seemed to +him that every one must know. He imagined contempt on every face which +passed him in the street. + +Lieutenant Sutch was even more concerned this evening than he had been +the night before. He saw Harry Feversham clearly now in a full light. +Harry's face was thin and haggard with lack of sleep, there were black +hollows beneath his eyes; he drew his breath and made his movements in a +restless feverish fashion, his nerves seemed strung to breaking-point. +Once or twice between the courses he began his story, but Sutch would +not listen until the cloth was cleared. + +"Now," said he, holding out his cigar-case. "Take your time, Harry." + +Thereupon Feversham told him the whole truth, without exaggeration or +omission, forcing himself to a slow, careful, matter-of-fact speech, so +that in the end Sutch almost fell into the illusion that it was just the +story of a stranger which Feversham was recounting merely to pass the +time. He began with the Crimean night at Broad Place, and ended with the +ball at Lennon House. + +"I came back across Lough Swilly early that morning," he said in +conclusion, "and travelled at once to London. Since then I have stayed +in my rooms all day, listening to the bugles calling in the barrack-yard +beneath my windows. At night I prowl about the streets or lie in bed +waiting for the Westminster clock to sound each new quarter of an hour. +On foggy nights, too, I can hear steam-sirens on the river. Do you know +when the ducks start quacking in St. James's Park?" he asked with a +laugh. "At two o'clock to the minute." + +Sutch listened to the story without an interruption. But halfway through +the narrative he changed his attitude, and in a significant way. Up to +the moment when Harry told of his concealment of the telegram, Sutch had +sat with his arms upon the table in front of him, and his eyes upon his +companion. Thereafter he raised a hand to his forehead, and so remained +with his face screened while the rest was told. Feversham had no doubt +of the reason. Lieutenant Sutch wished to conceal the scorn he felt, and +could not trust the muscles of his face. Feversham, however, mitigated +nothing, but continued steadily and truthfully to the end. But even +after the end was reached, Sutch did not remove his hand, nor for some +little while did he speak. When he did speak, his words came upon +Feversham's ears with a shock of surprise. There was no contempt in +them, and though his voice shook, it shook with a great contrition. + +"I am much to blame," he said. "I should have spoken that night at Broad +Place, and I held my tongue. I shall hardly forgive myself." The +knowledge that it was Muriel Graham's son who had thus brought ruin and +disgrace upon himself was uppermost in the lieutenant's mind. He felt +that he had failed in the discharge of an obligation, self-imposed, no +doubt, but a very real obligation none the less. "You see, I +understood," he continued remorsefully. "Your father, I am afraid, never +would." + +"He never will," interrupted Harry. + +"No," Sutch agreed. "Your mother, of course, had she lived, would have +seen clearly; but few women, I think, except your mother. Brute courage! +Women make a god of it. That girl, for instance,"--and again Harry +Feversham interrupted. + +"You must not blame her. I was defrauding her into marriage." + +Sutch took his hand suddenly from his forehead. + +"Suppose that you had never met her, would you still have sent in your +papers?" + +"I think not," said Harry, slowly. "I want to be fair. Disgracing my +name and those dead men in the hall I think I would have risked. I could +not risk disgracing her." + +And Lieutenant Sutch thumped his fist despairingly upon the table. "If +only I had spoken at Broad Place. Harry, why didn't you let me speak? I +might have saved you many unnecessary years of torture. Good heavens! +what a childhood you must have spent with that fear all alone with you. +It makes me shiver to think of it. I might even have saved you from this +last catastrophe. For I understood. I understood." + +Lieutenant Sutch saw more clearly into the dark places of Harry +Feversham's mind than Harry Feversham did himself; and because he saw so +clearly, he could feel no contempt. The long years of childhood, and +boyhood, and youth, lived apart in Broad Place in the presence of the +uncomprehending father and the relentless dead men on the walls, had +done the harm. There had been no one in whom the boy could confide. The +fear of cowardice had sapped incessantly at his heart. He had walked +about with it; he had taken it with him to his bed. It had haunted his +dreams. It had been his perpetual menacing companion. It had kept him +from intimacy with his friends lest an impulsive word should betray him. +Lieutenant Sutch did not wonder that in the end it had brought about +this irretrievable mistake; for Lieutenant Sutch understood. + +"Did you ever read 'Hamlet'?" he asked. + +"Of course," said Harry, in reply. + +"Ah, but did you consider it? The same disability is clear in that +character. The thing which he foresaw, which he thought over, which he +imagined in the act and in the consequence--that he shrank from, +upbraiding himself even as you have done. Yet when the moment of action +comes, sharp and immediate, does he fail? No, he excels, and just by +reason of that foresight. I have seen men in the Crimea, tortured by +their imaginations before the fight--once the fight had begun you must +search amongst the Oriental fanatics for their match. 'Am I a coward?' +Do you remember the lines? + + Am I a coward? + Who calls me villain? Breaks my pate across? + Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face? + +There's the case in a nutshell. If only I had spoken on that night!" + +One or two people passed the table on the way out. Sutch stopped and +looked round the room. It was nearly empty. He glanced at his watch and +saw that the hour was eleven. Some plan of action must be decided upon +that night. It was not enough to hear Harry Feversham's story. There +still remained the question, what was Harry Feversham, disgraced and +ruined, now to do? How was he to re-create his life? How was the secret +of his disgrace to be most easily concealed? + +"You cannot stay in London, hiding by day, slinking about by night," he +said with a shiver. "That's too like--" and he checked himself. +Feversham, however, completed the sentence. + +"That's too like Wilmington," said he, quietly, recalling the story +which his father had told so many years ago, and which he had never +forgotten, even for a single day. "But Wilmington's end will not be +mine. Of that I can assure you. I shall not stay in London." + +He spoke with an air of decision. He had indeed mapped out already the +plan of action concerning which Lieutenant Sutch was so disturbed. +Sutch, however, was occupied with his own thoughts. + +"Who knows of the feathers? How many people?" he asked. "Give me their +names." + +"Trench, Castleton, Willoughby," began Feversham. + +"All three are in Egypt. Besides, for the credit of their regiment they +are likely to hold their tongues when they return. Who else?" + +"Dermod Eustace and--and--Ethne." + +"They will not speak." + +"You, Durrance perhaps, and my father." + +Sutch leaned back in his chair and stared. + +"Your father! You wrote to him?" + +"No; I went into Surrey and told him." + +Again remorse for that occasion, recognised and not used, seized upon +Lieutenant Sutch. + +"Why didn't I speak that night?" he said impotently. "A coward, and you +go quietly down to Surrey and confront your father with that story to +tell to him! You do not even write! You stand up and tell it to him face +to face! Harry, I reckon myself as good as another when it comes to +bravery, but for the life of me I could not have done that." + +"It was not--pleasant," said Feversham, simply; and this was the only +description of the interview between father and son which was vouchsafed +to any one. But Lieutenant Sutch knew the father and knew the son. He +could guess at all which that one adjective implied. Harry Feversham +told the results of his journey into Surrey. + +"My father continues my allowance. I shall need it, every penny of +it--otherwise I should have taken nothing. But I am not to go home +again. I did not mean to go home for a long while in any case, if at +all." + +He drew his pocket-book from his breast, and took from it the four white +feathers. These he laid before him on the table. + +"You have kept them?" exclaimed Sutch. + +"Indeed, I treasure them," said Harry, quietly. "That seems strange to +you. To you they are the symbols of my disgrace. To me they are much +more. They are my opportunities of retrieving it." He looked about the +room, separated three of the feathers, pushed them forward a little on +the tablecloth, and then leaned across toward Sutch. + +"What if I could compel Trench, Castleton, and Willoughby to take back +from me, each in his turn, the feather he sent? I do not say that it is +likely. I do not say even that it is possible. But there is a chance +that it may be possible, and I must wait upon that chance. There will be +few men leading active lives as these three do who will not at some +moment stand in great peril and great need. To be in readiness for that +moment is from now my career. All three are in Egypt. I leave for Egypt +to-morrow." + +Upon the face of Lieutenant Sutch there came a look of great and +unexpected happiness. Here was an issue of which he had never thought; +and it was the only issue, as he knew for certain, once he was aware of +it. This student of human nature disregarded without a scruple the +prudence and the calculation proper to the character which he assumed. +The obstacles in Harry Feversham's way, the possibility that at the last +moment he might shrink again, the improbability that three such +opportunities would occur--these matters he overlooked. His eyes already +shone with pride; the three feathers for him were already taken back. +The prudence was on Harry Feversham's side. + +"There are endless difficulties," he said. "Just to cite one: I am a +civilian, these three are soldiers, surrounded by soldiers; so much the +less opportunity therefore for a civilian." + +"But it is not necessary that the three men should be themselves in +peril," objected Sutch, "for you to convince them that the fault is +retrieved." + +"Oh, no. There may be other ways," agreed Feversham. "The plan came +suddenly into my mind, indeed at the moment when Ethne bade me take up +the feathers, and added the fourth. I was on the point of tearing them +across when this way out of it sprang clearly up in my mind. But I have +thought it over since during these last weeks while I sat listening to +the bugles in the barrack-yard. And I am sure there is no other way. But +it is well worth trying. You see, if the three take back their +feathers,"--he drew a deep breath, and in a very low voice, with his +eyes upon the table so that his face was hidden from Sutch, he +added--"why, then she perhaps might take hers back too." + +"Will she wait, do you think?" asked Sutch; and Harry raised his head +quickly. + +"Oh, no," he exclaimed, "I had no thought of that. She has not even a +suspicion of what I intend to do. Nor do I wish her to have one until +the intention is fulfilled. My thought was different"--and he began to +speak with hesitation for the first time in the course of that evening. +"I find it difficult to tell you--Ethne said something to me the day +before the feathers came--something rather sacred. I think that I will +tell you, because what she said is just what sends me out upon this +errand. But for her words, I would very likely never have thought of it. +I find in them my motive and a great hope. They may seem strange to you, +Mr. Sutch; but I ask you to believe that they are very real to me. She +said--it was when she knew no more than that my regiment was ordered to +Egypt--she was blaming herself because I had resigned my commission, for +which there was no need, because--and these were her words--because had +I fallen, although she would have felt lonely all her life, she would +none the less have surely known that she and I would see much of one +another--afterwards." + +Feversham had spoken his words with difficulty, not looking at his +companion, and he continued with his eyes still averted:-- + +"Do you understand? I have a hope that if--this fault can be +repaired,"--and he pointed to the feathers,--"we might still, perhaps, +see something of one another--afterwards." + +It was a strange proposition, no doubt, to be debated across the soiled +tablecloth of a public restaurant, but neither of them felt it to be +strange or even fanciful. They were dealing with the simple serious +issues, and they had reached a point where they could not be affected by +any incongruity in their surroundings. Lieutenant Sutch did not speak +for some while after Harry Feversham had done, and in the end Harry +looked up at his companion, prepared for almost a word of ridicule; but +he saw Sutch's right hand outstretched towards him. + +"When I come back," said Feversham, and he rose from his chair. He +gathered the feathers together and replaced them in his pocket-book. + +"I have told you everything," he said. "You see, I wait upon chance +opportunities; the three may not come in Egypt. They may never come at +all, and in that case I shall not come back at all. Or they may come +only at the very end and after many years. Therefore I thought that I +would like just one person to know the truth thoroughly in case I do not +come back. If you hear definitely that I never can come back, I would +be glad if you would tell my father." + +"I understand," said Sutch. + +"But don't tell him everything--I mean, not the last part, not what I +have just said about Ethne and my chief motive, for I do not think that +he would understand. Otherwise you will keep silence altogether. +Promise!" + +Lieutenant Sutch promised, but with an absent face, and Feversham +consequently insisted. + +"You will breathe no word of this to man or woman, however hard you may +be pressed, except to my father under the circumstances which I have +explained," said Feversham. + +Lieutenant Sutch promised a second time and without an instant's +hesitation. It was quite natural that Harry should lay some stress upon +the pledge, since any disclosure of his purpose might very well wear the +appearance of a foolish boast, and Sutch himself saw no reason why he +should refuse it. So he gave the promise and fettered his hands. His +thoughts, indeed, were occupied with the limit Harry had set upon the +knowledge which was to be imparted to General Feversham. Even if he died +with his mission unfulfilled, Sutch was to hide from the father that +which was best in the son, at the son's request. And the saddest part of +it, to Sutch's thinking, was that the son was right in so requesting. +For what he said was true--the father could not understand. Lieutenant +Sutch was brought back to the causes of the whole miserable business: +the premature death of the mother, who could have understood; the want +of comprehension in the father, who was left; and his own silence on +the Crimean night at Broad Place. + +"If only I had spoken," he said sadly. He dropped the end of his cigar +into his coffee-cup, and standing up, reached for his hat. "Many things +are irrevocable, Harry," he said, "but one never knows whether they are +irrevocable or not until one has found out. It is always worth while +finding out." + +The next evening Feversham crossed to Calais. It was a night as wild as +that on which Durrance had left England; and, like Durrance, Feversham +had a friend to see him off, for the last thing which his eyes beheld as +the packet swung away from the pier, was the face of Lieutenant Sutch +beneath a gas-lamp. The lieutenant maintained his position after the +boat had passed into the darkness and until the throb of its paddles +could no longer be heard. Then he limped through the rain to his hotel, +aware, and regretfully aware, that he was growing old. It was long since +he had felt regret on that account, and the feeling was very strange to +him. Ever since the Crimea he had been upon the world's half-pay list, +as he had once said to General Feversham, and what with that and the +recollection of a certain magical season before the Crimea, he had +looked forward to old age as an approaching friend. To-night, however, +he prayed that he might live just long enough to welcome back Muriel +Graham's son with his honour redeemed and his great fault atoned. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE LAST RECONNAISSANCE + + +"No one," said Durrance, and he strapped his field-glasses into the +leather case at his side. + +"No one, sir," Captain Mather agreed. + +"We will move forward." + +The scouts went on ahead, the troops resumed their formation, the two +seven-pounder mountain-guns closed up behind, and Durrance's detachment +of the Camel Corps moved down from the gloomy ridge of Khor Gwob, +thirty-five miles southwest of Suakin, into the plateau of Sinkat. It +was the last reconnaissance in strength before the evacuation of the +eastern Soudan. + +All through that morning the camels had jolted slowly up the gulley of +shale between red precipitous rocks, and when the rocks fell back, +between red mountain-heaps all crumbled into a desolation of stones. +Hardly a patch of grass or the ragged branches of a mimosa had broken +the monotony of ruin. And after that arid journey the green bushes of +Sinkat in the valley below comforted the eye with the pleasing aspect of +a park. The troopers sat their saddles with a greater alertness. + +They moved in a diagonal line across the plateau toward the mountains of +Erkoweet, a silent company on a plain still more silent. It was eleven +o'clock. The sun rose toward the centre of a colourless, cloudless sky, +the shadows of the camels shortened upon the sand, and the sand itself +glistened white as a beach of the Scilly Islands. There was no draught +of air that morning to whisper amongst the rich foliage, and the shadows +of the branches lay so distinct and motionless upon the ground that they +might themselves have been branches strewn there on some past day by a +storm. The only sounds that were audible were the sharp clank of +weapons, the soft ceaseless padding of the camels' feet, and at times +the whirr of a flight of pigeons disturbed by the approaching cavalcade. +Yet there was life on the plateau, though of a noiseless kind. For as +the leaders rode along the curves of sand, trim and smooth between the +shrubs like carriage drives, they would see from time to time, far ahead +of them, a herd of gazelle start up from the ground and race silently, a +flash of dappled brown and white, to the enclosing hills. It seemed that +here was a country during this last hour created. + +"Yet this way the caravans passed southwards to Erkoweet and the Khor +Baraka. Here the Suakis built their summer-houses," said Durrance, +answering the thought in his mind. + +"And there Tewfik fought, and died with his four hundred men," said +Mather, pointing forward. + +For three hours the troops marched across the plateau. It was the month +of May, and the sun blazed upon them with an intolerable heat. They had +long since lost their alertness. They rode rocking drowsily in their +saddles and prayed for the evening and the silver shine of stars. For +three hours the camels went mincing on with their queer smirking +motions of the head, and then quite suddenly a hundred yards ahead +Durrance saw a broken wall with window-spaces which let the sky through. + +"The fort," said he. + +Three years had passed since Osman Digna had captured and destroyed it, +but during these three years its roofless ruins had sustained another +siege, and one no less persistent. The quick-growing trees had so +closely girt and encroached upon it to the rear and to the right and to +the left, that the traveller came upon it unexpectedly, as Childe Roland +upon the Dark Tower in the plain. In the front, however, the sand still +stretched open to the wells, where three great Gemeiza trees of dark and +spreading foliage stood spaced like sentinels. + +In the shadow to the right front of the fort, where the bushes fringed +the open sand with the level regularity of a river bank, the soldiers +unsaddled their camels and prepared their food. Durrance and Captain +Mather walked round the fort, and as they came to the southern corner, +Durrance stopped. + +"Hallo!" said he. + +"Some Arab has camped here," said Mather, stopping in his turn. The grey +ashes of a wood fire lay in a little heap upon a blackened stone. + +"And lately," said Durrance. + +Mather walked on, mounted a few rough steps to the crumbled archway of +the entrance, and passed into the unroofed corridors and rooms. Durrance +turned the ashes over with his boot. The stump of a charred and whitened +twig glowed red. Durrance set his foot upon it, and a tiny thread of +smoke spurted into the air. + +"Very lately," he said to himself, and he followed Mather into the +fort. In the corners of the mud walls, in any fissure, in the very +floor, young trees were sprouting. Rearward a steep glacis and a deep +fosse defended the works. Durrance sat himself down upon the parapet of +the wall above the glacis, while the pigeons wheeled and circled +overhead, thinking of the long months during which Tewfik must daily +have strained his eyes from this very spot toward the pass over the +hills from Suakin, looking as that other general far to the south had +done, for the sunlight flashing on the weapons of the help which did not +come. Mather sat by his side and reflected in quite another spirit. + +"Already the Guards are steaming out through the coral reefs toward +Suez. A week and our turn comes," he said. "What a God-forsaken +country!" + +"I come back to it," said Durrance. + +"Why?" + +"I like it. I like the people." + +Mather thought the taste unaccountable, but he knew nevertheless that, +however unaccountable in itself, it accounted for his companion's rapid +promotion and success. Sympathy had stood Durrance in the stead of much +ability. Sympathy had given him patience and the power to understand, so +that during these three years of campaign he had left far quicker and +far abler men behind him, in his knowledge of the sorely harassed tribes +of the eastern Soudan. He liked them; he could enter into their hatred +of the old Turkish rule, he could understand their fanaticism, and their +pretence of fanaticism under the compulsion of Osman Digna's hordes. + +"Yes, I shall come back," he said, "and in three months' time. For one +thing, we know--every Englishman in Egypt, too, knows--that this can't +be the end. I want to be here when the work's taken in hand again. I +hate unfinished things." + +The sun beat relentlessly upon the plateau; the men, stretched in the +shade, slept; the afternoon was as noiseless as the morning; Durrance +and Mather sat for some while compelled to silence by the silence +surrounding them. But Durrance's eyes turned at last from the +amphitheatre of hills; they lost their abstraction, they became intently +fixed upon the shrubbery beyond the glacis. He was no longer +recollecting Tewfik Bey and his heroic defence, or speculating upon the +work to be done in the years ahead. Without turning his head, he saw +that Mather was gazing in the same direction as himself. + +"What are you thinking about?" he asked suddenly of Mather. + +Mather laughed, and answered thoughtfully:-- + +"I was drawing up the menu of the first dinner I will have when I reach +London. I will eat it alone, I think, quite alone, and at Epitaux. It +will begin with a watermelon. And you?" + +"I was wondering why, now that the pigeons have got used to our +presence, they should still be wheeling in and out of one particular +tree. Don't point to it, please! I mean the tree beyond the ditch, and +to the right of two small bushes." + +All about them they could see the pigeons quietly perched upon the +branches, spotting the foliage like a purple fruit. Only above the one +tree they circled and timorously called. + +"We will draw that covert," said Durrance. "Take a dozen men and +surround it quietly." + +He himself remained on the glacis watching the tree and the thick +undergrowth. He saw six soldiers creep round the shrubbery from the +left, six more from the right. But before they could meet and ring the +tree in, he saw the branches violently shaken, and an Arab with a roll +of yellowish dammar wound about his waist, and armed with a flat-headed +spear and a shield of hide, dashed from the shelter and raced out +between the soldiers into the open plain. He ran for a few yards only. +For Mather gave a sharp order to his men, and the Arab, as though he +understood that order, came to a stop before a rifle could be lifted to +a shoulder. He walked quietly back to Mather. He was brought up on to +the glacis, where he stood before Durrance without insolence or +servility. + +He explained in Arabic that he was a man of the Kabbabish tribe named +Abou Fatma, and friendly to the English. He was on his way to Suakin. + +"Why did you hide?" asked Durrance. + +"It was safer. I knew you for my friends. But, my gentleman, did you +know me for yours?" + +Then Durrance said quickly, "You speak English," and Durrance spoke in +English. + +The answer came without hesitation. + +"I know a few words." + +"Where did you learn them?" + +"In Khartum." + +Thereafter he was left alone with Durrance on the glacis, and the two +men talked together for the best part of an hour. At the end of that +time the Arab was seen to descend the glacis, cross the trench, and +proceed toward the hills. Durrance gave the order for the resumption of +the march. + +The water-tanks were filled, the men replenished their zamshyehs, +knowing that of all thirsts in this world the afternoon thirst is the +very worst, saddled their camels, and mounted to the usual groaning and +snarling. The detachment moved northwestward from Sinkat, at an acute +angle to its morning's march. It skirted the hills opposite to the pass +from which it had descended in the morning. The bushes grew sparse. It +came into a black country of stones scantily relieved by yellow +tasselled mimosas. + +Durrance called Mather to his side. + +"That Arab had a strange story to tell me. He was Gordon's servant in +Khartum. At the beginning of 1884, eighteen months ago in fact, Gordon +gave him a letter which he was to take to Berber, whence the contents +were to be telegraphed to Cairo. But Berber had just fallen when the +messenger arrived there. He was seized upon and imprisoned the day after +his arrival. But during the one day which he had free he hid the letter +in the wall of a house, and so far as he knows it has not been +discovered." + +"He would have been questioned if it had been," said Mather. + +"Precisely, and he was not questioned. He escaped from Berber at night, +three weeks ago. The story is curious, eh?" + +"And the letter still remains in the wall? It is curious. Perhaps the +man was telling lies." + +"He had the chain mark on his ankles," said Durrance. + +The cavalcade turned to the left into the hills on the northern side of +the plateau, and climbed again over shale. + +"A letter from Gordon," said Durrance, in a musing voice, "scribbled +perhaps upon the roof-top of his palace, by the side of his great +telescope--a sentence written in haste, and his eye again to the lens, +searching over the palm trees for the smoke of the steamers--and it +comes down the Nile to be buried in a mud wall in Berber. Yes, it's +curious," and he turned his face to the west and the sinking sun. Even +as he looked, the sun dipped behind the hills. The sky above his head +darkened rapidly, to violet; in the west it flamed a glory of colours +rich and iridescent. The colours lost their violence and blended +delicately into one rose hue, the rose lingered for a little, and, +fading in its turn, left a sky of the purest emerald green transfused +with light from beneath rim of the world. + +"If only they had let us go last year westward to the Nile," he said +with a sort of passion. "Before Khartum had fallen, before Berber had +surrendered. But they would not." + +The magic of the sunset was not at all in Durrance's thoughts. The story +of the letter had struck upon a chord of reverence within him. He was +occupied with the history of that honest, great, impracticable soldier, +who, despised by officials and thwarted by intrigues, a man of few ties +and much loneliness, had gone unflaggingly about his work, knowing the +while that the moment his back was turned the work was in an instant all +undone. + +Darkness came upon the troops, the camels quickened their pace, the +cicadas shrilled from every tuft of grass. The detachment moved down +toward the well of Disibil. Durrance lay long awake that night on his +camp bedstead spread out beneath the stars. He forgot the letter in the +mud wall. Southward the Southern Cross hung slanting in the sky, above +him glittered the curve of the Great Bear. In a week he would sail for +England; he lay awake, counting up the years since the packet had cast +off from Dover pier, and he found that the tale of them was good. +Kassassin, Tel-el-Kebir, the rush down the Red Sea, Tokar, Tamai, +Tamanieb--the crowded moments came vividly to his mind. He thrilled even +now at the recollection of the Hadendowas leaping and stabbing through +the breach of McNeil's zareba six miles from Suakin; he recalled the +obdurate defence of the Berkshires, the steadiness of the Marines, the +rallying of the broken troops. The years had been good years, years of +plenty, years which had advanced him to the brevet-rank of +lieutenant-colonel. + +"A week more--only a week," murmured Mather, drowsily. + +"I shall come back," said Durrance, with a laugh. + +"Have you no friends?" + +And there was a pause. + +"Yes, I have friends. I shall have three months wherein to see them." + +Durrance had written no word to Harry Feversham during these years. Not +to write letters was indeed a part of the man. Correspondence was a +difficulty to him. He was thinking now that he would surprise his +friends by a visit to Donegal, or he might find them perhaps in London. +He would ride once again in the Row. But in the end he would come back. +For his friend was married, and to Ethne Eustace, and as for himself his +life's work lay here in the Soudan. He would certainly come back. And +so, turning on his side, he slept dreamlessly while the hosts of the +stars trampled across the heavens above his head. + + * * * * * + +Now, at this moment Abou Fatma of the Kabbabish tribe was sleeping under +a boulder on the Khor Gwob. He rose early and continued along the broad +plains to the white city of Suakin. There he repeated the story which he +had told to Durrance to one Captain Willoughby, who was acting for the +time as deputy-governor. After he had come from the Palace he told his +story again, but this time in the native bazaar. He told it in Arabic, +and it happened that a Greek seated outside a café close at hand +overheard something of what was said. The Greek took Abou Fatma aside, +and with a promise of much merissa, wherewith to intoxicate himself, +induced him to tell it a fourth time and very slowly. + +"Could you find the house again?" asked the Greek. + +Abou Fatma had no doubts upon that score. He proceeded to draw diagrams +in the dust, not knowing that during his imprisonment the town of Berber +had been steadily pulled down by the Mahdists and rebuilt to the north. + +"It will be wise to speak of this to no one except me," said the Greek, +jingling some significant dollars, and for a long while the two men +talked secretly together. The Greek happened to be Harry Feversham whom +Durrance was proposing to visit in Donegal. Captain Willoughby was +Deputy-Governor of Suakin, and after three years of waiting one of Harry +Feversham's opportunities had come. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +LIEUTENANT SUTCH IS TEMPTED TO LIE + + +Durrance reached London one morning in June, and on that afternoon took +the first walk of the exile, into Hyde Park, where he sat beneath the +trees marvelling at the grace of his countrywomen and the delicacy of +their apparel, a solitary figure, sunburnt and stamped already with that +indefinable expression of the eyes and face which marks the men set +apart in the distant corners of the world. Amongst the people who +strolled past him, one, however, smiled, and, as he rose from his chair, +Mrs. Adair came to his side. She looked him over from head to foot with +a quick and almost furtive glance which might have told even Durrance +something of the place which he held in her thoughts. She was comparing +him with the picture which she had of him now three years old. She was +looking for the small marks of change which those three years might have +brought about, and with eyes of apprehension. But Durrance only noticed +that she was dressed in black. She understood the question in his mind +and answered it. + +"My husband died eighteen months ago," she explained in a quiet voice. +"He was thrown from his horse during a run with the Pytchley. He was +killed at once." + +"I had not heard," Durrance answered awkwardly. "I am very sorry." + +Mrs. Adair took a chair beside him and did not reply. She was a woman of +perplexing silences; and her pale and placid face, with its cold correct +outline, gave no clue to the thoughts with which she occupied them. She +sat without stirring. Durrance was embarrassed. He remembered Mr. Adair +as a good-humoured man, whose one chief quality was his evident +affection for his wife, but with what eyes the wife had looked upon him +he had never up till now considered. Mr. Adair indeed had been at the +best a shadowy figure in that small household, and Durrance found it +difficult even to draw upon his recollections for any full expression of +regret. He gave up the attempt and asked:-- + +"Are Harry Feversham and his wife in town?" + +Mrs. Adair was slow to reply. + +"Not yet," she said, after a pause, but immediately she corrected +herself, and said a little hurriedly, "I mean--the marriage never took +place." + +Durrance was not a man easily startled, and even when he was, his +surprise was not expressed in exclamations. + +"I don't think that I understand. Why did it never take place?" he +asked. Mrs. Adair looked sharply at him, as though inquiring for the +reason of his deliberate tones. + +"I don't know why," she said. "Ethne can keep a secret if she wishes," +and Durrance nodded his assent. "The marriage was broken off on the +night of a dance at Lennon House." + +Durrance turned at once to her. + +"Just before I left England three years ago?" + +"Yes. Then you knew?" + +"No. Only you have explained to me something which occurred on the very +night that I left Dover. What has become of Harry?" + +Mrs. Adair shrugged her shoulders. + +"I do not know. I have met no one who does know. I do not think that I +have met any one who has even seen him since that time. He must have +left England." + +Durrance pondered on this mysterious disappearance. It was Harry +Feversham, then, whom he had seen upon the pier as the Channel boat cast +off. The man with the troubled and despairing face was, after all, his +friend. + +"And Miss Eustace?" he asked after a pause, with a queer timidity. "She +has married since?" + +Again Mrs. Adair took her time to reply. + +"No," said she. + +"Then she is still at Ramelton?" + +Mrs. Adair shook her head. + +"There was a fire at Lennon House a year ago. Did you ever hear of a +constable called Bastable?" + +"Indeed, I did. He was the means of introducing me to Miss Eustace and +her father. I was travelling from Londonderry to Letterkenny. I received +a letter from Mr. Eustace, whom I did not know, but who knew from my +friends at Letterkenny that I was coming past his house. He asked me to +stay the night with him. Naturally enough I declined, with the result +that Bastable arrested me on a magistrate's warrant as soon as I landed +from the ferry." + +"That is the man," said Mrs. Adair, and she told Durrance the history +of the fire. It appeared that Bastable's claim to Dermod's friendship +rested upon his skill in preparing a particular brew of toddy, which +needed a single oyster simmering in the saucepan to give it its +perfection of flavour. About two o'clock of a June morning the spirit +lamp on which the saucepan stewed had been overset; neither of the two +confederates in drink had their wits about them at the moment, and the +house was half burnt and the rest of it ruined by water before the fire +could be got under. + +"There were consequences still more distressing than the destruction of +the house," she continued. "The fire was a beacon warning to Dermod's +creditors for one thing, and Dermod, already overpowered with debts, +fell in a day upon complete ruin. He was drenched by the water hoses +besides, and took a chill which nearly killed him, from the effects of +which he has never recovered. You will find him a broken man. The +estates are let, and Ethne is now living with her father in a little +mountain village in Donegal." + +Mrs. Adair had not looked at Durrance while she spoke. She kept her eyes +fixed steadily in front of her, and indeed she spoke without feeling on +one side or the other, but rather like a person constraining herself to +speech because speech was a necessity. Nor did she turn to look at +Durrance when she had done. + +"So she has lost everything?" said Durrance. + +"She still has a home in Donegal," returned Mrs. Adair. + +"And that means a great deal to her," said Durrance, slowly. "Yes, I +think you are right." + +"It means," said Mrs. Adair, "that Ethne with all her ill-luck has +reason to be envied by many other women." + +Durrance did not answer that suggestion directly. He watched the +carriages drive past, he listened to the chatter and the laughter of the +people about him, his eyes were refreshed by the women in their +light-coloured frocks; and all the time his slow mind was working toward +the lame expression of his philosophy. Mrs. Adair turned to him with a +slight impatience in the end. + +"Of what are you thinking?" she asked. + +"That women suffer much more than men when the world goes wrong with +them," he answered, and the answer was rather a question than a definite +assertion. "I know very little, of course. I can only guess. But I think +women gather up into themselves what they have been through much more +than we do. To them what is past becomes a real part of them, as much a +part of them as a limb; to us it's always something external, at the +best the rung of a ladder, at the worst a weight on the heel. Don't you +think so, too? I phrase the thought badly. But put it this way: Women +look backwards, we look ahead; so misfortune hits them harder, eh?" + +Mrs. Adair answered in her own way. She did not expressly agree. But a +certain humility became audible in her voice. + +"The mountain village at which Ethne is living," she said in a low +voice, "is called Glenalla. A track strikes up towards it from the road +halfway between Rathmullen and Ramelton." She rose as she finished the +sentence and held out her hand. "Shall I see you?" + +"You are still in Hill Street?" said Durrance. "I shall be for a time +in London." + +Mrs. Adair raised her eyebrows. She looked always by nature for the +intricate and concealed motive, so that conduct which sprang from a +reason, obvious and simple, was likely to baffle her. She was baffled +now by Durrance's resolve to remain in town. Why did he not travel at +once to Donegal, she asked herself, since thither his thoughts +undoubtedly preceded him. She heard of his continual presence at his +Service Club, and could not understand. She did not even have a +suspicion of his motive when he himself informed her that he had +travelled into Surrey and had spent a day with General Feversham. + +It had been an ineffectual day for Durrance. The general kept him +steadily to the history of the campaign from which he had just returned. +Only once was he able to approach the topic of Harry Feversham's +disappearance, and at the mere mention of his son's name the old +general's face set like plaster. It became void of expression and +inattentive as a mask. + +"We will talk of something else, if you please," said he; and Durrance +returned to London not an inch nearer to Donegal. + +Thereafter he sat under the great tree in the inner courtyard of his +club, talking to this man and to that, and still unsatisfied with the +conversation. All through that June the afternoons and evenings found +him at his post. Never a friend of Feversham's passed by the tree but +Durrance had a word for him, and the word led always to a question. But +the question elicited no answer except a shrug of the shoulders, and a +"Hanged if I know!" + +Harry Feversham's place knew him no more; he had dropped even out of the +speculations of his friends. + +Toward the end of June, however, an old retired naval officer limped +into the courtyard, saw Durrance, hesitated, and began with a remarkable +alacrity to move away. + +Durrance sprang up from his seat. + +"Mr. Sutch," said he. "You have forgotten me?" + +"Colonel Durrance, to be sure," said the embarrassed lieutenant. "It is +some while since we met, but I remember you very well now. I think we +met--let me see--where was it? An old man's memory, Colonel Durrance, is +like a leaky ship. It comes to harbour with its cargo of recollections +swamped." + +Neither the lieutenant's present embarrassment nor his previous +hesitation escaped Durrance's notice. + +"We met at Broad Place," said he. "I wish you to give me news of my +friend Feversham. Why was his engagement with Miss Eustace broken off? +Where is he now?" + +The lieutenant's eyes gleamed for a moment with satisfaction. He had +always been doubtful whether Durrance was aware of Harry's fall into +disgrace. Durrance plainly did not know. + +"There is only one person in the world, I believe," said Sutch, "who can +answer both your questions." + +Durrance was in no way disconcerted. + +"Yes. I have waited here a month for you," he replied. + +Lieutenant Sutch pushed his fingers through his beard, and stared down +at his companion. + +"Well, it is true," he admitted. "I can answer your questions, but I +will not." + +"Harry Feversham is my friend." + +"General Feversham is his father, yet he knows only half the truth. Miss +Eustace was betrothed to him, and she knows no more. I pledged my word +to Harry that I would keep silence." + +"It is not curiosity which makes me ask." + +"I am sure that, on the contrary, it is friendship," said the +lieutenant, cordially. + +"Nor that entirely. There is another aspect of the matter. I will not +ask you to answer my questions, but I will put a third one to you. It is +one harder for me to ask than for you to answer. Would a friend of Harry +Feversham be at all disloyal to that friendship, if"--and Durrance +flushed beneath his sunburn--"if he tried his luck with Miss Eustace?" + +The question startled Lieutenant Sutch. + +"You?" he exclaimed, and he stood considering Durrance, remembering the +rapidity of his promotion, speculating upon his likelihood to take a +woman's fancy. Here was an aspect of the case, indeed, to which he had +not given a thought, and he was no less troubled than startled. For +there had grown up within him a jealousy on behalf of Harry Feversham as +strong as a mother's for a favourite second son. He had nursed with a +most pleasurable anticipation a hope that, in the end, Harry would come +back to all that he once had owned, like a rethroned king. He stared at +Durrance and saw the hope stricken. Durrance looked the man of courage +which his record proved him to be, and Lieutenant Sutch had his theory +of women. "Brute courage--they make a god of it." + +"Well?" asked Durrance. + +Lieutenant Sutch was aware that he must answer. He was sorely tempted to +lie. For he knew enough of the man who questioned him to be certain that +the lie would have its effect. Durrance would go back to the Soudan, and +leave his suit unpressed. + +"Well?" + +Sutch looked up at the sky and down upon the flags. Harry had foreseen +that this complication was likely to occur, he had not wished that Ethne +should wait. Sutch imagined him at this very moment, lost somewhere +under the burning sun, and compared that picture with the one before his +eyes--the successful soldier taking his ease at his club. He felt +inclined to break his promise, to tell the whole truth, to answer both +the questions which Durrance had first asked. And again the pitiless +monosyllable demanded his reply. + +"Well?" + +"No," said Sutch, regretfully. "There would be no disloyalty." + +And on that evening Durrance took the train for Holyhead. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +AT GLENALLA + + +The farm-house stood a mile above the village, in a wild moorland +country. The heather encroached upon its garden, and the bridle-path +ended at its door. On three sides an amphitheatre of hills, which +changed so instantly to the season that it seemed one could distinguish +from day to day a new gradation in their colours, harboured it like a +ship. No trees grew upon those hills, the granite cropped out amidst the +moss and heather; but they had a friendly sheltering look, and Durrance +came almost to believe that they put on their different draperies of +emerald green, and purple, and russet brown consciously to delight the +eyes of the girl they sheltered. The house faced the long slope of +country to the inlet of the Lough. From the windows the eye reached down +over the sparse thickets, the few tilled fields, the whitewashed +cottages, to the tall woods upon the bank, and caught a glimpse of +bright water and the gulls poising and dipping above it. Durrance rode +up the track upon an afternoon and knew the house at once. For as he +approached, the music of a violin floated towards him from the windows +like a welcome. His hand was checked upon the reins, and a particular +strong hope, about which he had allowed his fancies to play, rose up +within him and suspended his breath. + +He tied up his horse and entered in at the gate. A formless barrack +without, the house within was a place of comfort. The room into which he +was shown, with its brasses and its gleaming oak and its wide prospect, +was bright as the afternoon itself. Durrance imagined it, too, with the +blinds drawn upon a winter's night, and the fire red on the hearth, and +the wind skirling about the hills and rapping on the panes. + +Ethne greeted him without the least mark of surprise. + +"I thought that you would come," she said, and a smile shone upon her +face. + +Durrance laughed suddenly as they shook hands, and Ethne wondered why. +She followed the direction of his eyes towards the violin which lay upon +a table at her side. It was pale in colour; there was a mark, too, close +to the bridge, where a morsel of worm-eaten wood had been replaced. + +"It is yours," she said. "You were in Egypt. I could not well send it +back to you there." + +"I have hoped lately, since I knew," returned Durrance, "that, +nevertheless, you would accept it." + +"You see I have," said Ethne, and looking straight into his eyes she +added: "I accepted it some while ago. There was a time when I needed to +be assured that I had sure friends. And a thing tangible helped. I was +very glad to have it." + +Durrance took the instrument from the table, handling it delicately, +like a sacred vessel. + +"You have played upon it? The Musoline overture, perhaps," said he. + +"Do you remember that?" she returned, with a laugh. "Yes, I have played +upon it, but only recently. For a long time I put my violin away. It +talked to me too intimately of many things which I wished to forget," +and these words, like the rest, she spoke without hesitation or any +down-dropping of the eyes. + +Durrance fetched up his luggage from Rathmullen the next day, and stayed +at the farm for a week. But up to the last hour of his visit no further +reference was made to Harry Feversham by either Ethne or Durrance, +although they were thrown much into each other's company. For Dermod was +even more broken than Mrs. Adair's description had led Durrance to +expect. His speech was all dwindled to monosyllables; his frame was +shrunken, and his clothes bagged upon his limbs; his very stature seemed +lessened; even the anger was clouded from his eye; he had become a +stay-at-home, dozing for the most part of the day by a fire, even in +that July weather; his longest walk was to the little grey church which +stood naked upon a mound some quarter of a mile away and within view of +the windows, and even that walk taxed his strength. He was an old man +fallen upon decrepitude, and almost out of recognition, so that his +gestures and the rare tones of his voice struck upon Durrance as +something painful, like the mimicry of a dead man. His collie dog seemed +to age in company, and, to see them side by side, one might have said, +in sympathy. + +Durrance and Ethne were thus thrown much together. By day, in the wet +weather or the fine, they tramped the hills, while she, with the colour +glowing in her face, and her eyes most jealous and eager, showed him +her country and exacted his admiration. In the evenings she would take +her violin, and sitting as of old with an averted face, she would bid +the strings speak of the heights and depths. Durrance sat watching the +sweep of her arm, the absorption of her face, and counting up his +chances. He had not brought with him to Glenalla Lieutenant Sutch's +anticipations that he would succeed. The shadow of Harry Feversham might +well separate them. For another thing, he knew very well that poverty +would fall more lightly upon her than upon most women. He had indeed had +proofs of that. Though the Lennon House was altogether ruined, and its +lands gone from her, Ethne was still amongst her own people. They still +looked eagerly for her visits; she was still the princess of that +country-side. On the other hand, she took a frank pleasure in his +company, and she led him to speak of his three years' service in the +East. No detail was too insignificant for her inquiries, and while he +spoke her eyes continually sounded him, and the smile upon her lips +continually approved. Durrance did not understand what she was after. +Possibly no one could have understood unless he was aware of what had +passed between Harry Feversham and Ethne. Durrance wore the likeness of +a man, and she was anxious to make sure that the spirit of a man +informed it. He was a dark lantern to her. There might be a flame +burning within, or there might be mere vacancy and darkness. She was +pushing back the slide so that she might be sure. + +She led him to speak of Egypt upon the last day of his visit. They were +seated upon the hillside, on the edge of a stream which leaped from +ledge to ledge down a miniature gorge of rock, and flowed over deep +pools between the ledges very swiftly, a torrent of clear black water. + +"I travelled once for four days amongst the mirages," he +said,--"lagoons, still as a mirror and fringed with misty trees. You +could almost walk your camel up to the knees in them, before the lagoon +receded and the sand glared at you. And one cannot imagine that glare. +Every stone within view dances and shakes like a heliograph; you can +see--yes, actually see--the heat flow breast high across the desert +swift as this stream here, only pellucid. So till the sun sets ahead of +you level with your eyes! Imagine the nights which follow--nights of +infinite silence, with a cool friendly wind blowing from horizon to +horizon--and your bed spread for you under the great dome of stars. Oh," +he cried, drawing a deep breath, "but that country grows on you. It's +like the Southern Cross--four overrated stars when first you see them, +but in a week you begin to look for them, and you miss them when you +travel north again." He raised himself upon his elbow and turned +suddenly towards her. "Do you know--I can only speak for myself--but I +never feel alone in those empty spaces. On the contrary, I always feel +very close to the things I care about, and to the few people I care +about too." + +Her eyes shone very brightly upon him, her lips parted in a smile. He +moved nearer to her upon the grass, and sat with his feet gathered under +him upon one side, and leaning upon his arm. + +"I used to imagine you out there," he said. "You would have loved +it--from the start before daybreak, in the dark, to the camp-fire at +night. You would have been at home. I used to think so as I lay awake +wondering how the world went with my friends." + +"And you go back there?" she said. + +Durrance did not immediately answer. The roar of the torrent throbbed +about them. When he did speak, all the enthusiasm had gone from his +voice. He spoke gazing into the stream. + +"To Wadi Halfa. For two years. I suppose so." + +Ethne kneeled upon the grass at his side. + +"I shall miss you," she said. + +She was kneeling just behind him as he sat on the ground, and again +there fell a silence between them. + +"Of what are you thinking?" + +"That you need not miss me," he said, and he was aware that she drew +back and sank down upon her heels. "My appointment at Halfa--I might +shorten its term. I might perhaps avoid it altogether. I have still half +my furlough." + +She did not answer nor did she change her attitude. She remained very +still, and Durrance was alarmed, and all his hopes sank. For a stillness +of attitude he knew to be with her as definite an expression of distress +as a cry of pain with another woman. He turned about towards her. Her +head was bent, but she raised it as he turned, and though her lips +smiled, there was a look of great trouble in her eyes. Durrance was a +man like another. His first thought was whether there was not some +obstacle which would hinder her from compliance, even though she +herself were willing. + +"There is your father," he said. + +"Yes," she answered, "there is my father too. I could not leave him." + +"Nor need you," said he, quickly. "That difficulty can be surmounted. To +tell the truth I was not thinking of your father at the moment." + +"Nor was I," said she. + +Durrance turned away and sat for a little while staring down the rocks +into a wrinkled pool of water just beneath. It was after all the shadow +of Feversham which stretched between himself and her. + +"I know, of course," he said, "that you would never feel trouble, as so +many do, with half your heart. You would neither easily care nor lightly +forget." + +"I remember enough," she returned in a low voice, "to make your words +rather a pain to me. Some day perhaps I may bring myself to tell +everything which happened at that ball three years ago, and then you +will be better able to understand why I am a little distressed. All that +I can tell you now is this: I have a great fear that I was to some +degree the cause of another man's ruin. I do not mean that I was to +blame for it. But if I had not been known to him, his career might +perhaps never have come to so abrupt an end. I am not sure, but I am +afraid. I asked whether it was so, and I was told 'no,' but I think very +likely that generosity dictated that answer. And the fear stays. I am +much distressed by it. I lie awake with it at night. And then you come +whom I greatly value, and you say quietly, 'Will you please spoil my +career too?'" And she struck one hand sharply into the other and cried, +"But that I will not do." + +And again he answered:-- + +"There is no need that you should. Wadi Halfa is not the only place +where a soldier can find work to his hand." + +His voice had taken a new hopefulness. For he had listened intently to +the words which she had spoken, and he had construed them by the +dictionary of his desires. She had not said that friendship bounded all +her thoughts of him. Therefore he need not believe it. Women were given +to a hinting modesty of speech, at all events the best of them. A man +might read a little more emphasis into their tones, and underline their +words and still be short of their meaning, as he argued. A subtle +delicacy graced them in nature. Durrance was near to Benedick's mood. +"One whom I value"; "I shall miss you"; there might be a double meaning +in the phrases. When she said that she needed to be assured that she had +sure friends, did she not mean that she needed their companionship? But +the argument, had he been acute enough to see it, proved how deep he was +sunk in error. For what this girl spoke, she habitually meant, and she +habitually meant no more. Moreover, upon this occasion she had +particularly weighed her words. + +"No doubt," she said, "_a_ soldier can. But can this soldier find work +so suitable? Listen, please, till I have done. I was so very glad to +hear all that you have told me about your work and your journeys. I was +still more glad because of the satisfaction with which you told it. For +it seemed to me, as I listened and as I watched, that you had found the +one true straight channel along which your life could run swift and +smoothly and unharassed. And so few do that--so very few!" And she wrung +her hands and cried, "And now you spoil it all." + +Durrance suddenly faced her. He ceased from argument; he cried in a +voice of passion:-- + +"I am for you, Ethne! There's the true straight channel, and upon my +word I believe you are for me. I thought--I admit it--at one time I +would spend my life out there in the East, and the thought contented me. +But I had schooled myself into contentment, for I believed you married." +Ethne ever so slightly flinched, and he himself recognised that he had +spoken in a voice overloud, so that it had something almost of +brutality. + +"Do I hurt you?" he continued. "I am sorry. But let me speak the whole +truth out, I cannot afford reticence, I want you to know the first and +last of it. I say now that I love you. Yes, but I could have said it +with equal truth five years ago. It is five years since your father +arrested me at the ferry down there on Lough Swilly, because I wished to +press on to Letterkenny and not delay a night by stopping with a +stranger. Five years since I first saw you, first heard the language of +your violin. I remember how you sat with your back towards me. The light +shone on your hair; I could just see your eyelashes and the colour of +your cheeks. I remember the sweep of your arm.... My dear, you are for +me; I am for you." + +But she drew back from his outstretched hands. + +"No," she said very gently, but with a decision he could not mistake. +She saw more clearly into his mind than he did himself. The restlessness +of the born traveller, the craving for the large and lonely spaces in +the outlandish corners of the world, the incurable intermittent fever to +be moving, ever moving amongst strange peoples and under strange +skies--these were deep-rooted qualities of the man. Passion might +obscure them for a while, but they would make their appeal in the end, +and the appeal would torture. The home would become a prison. Desires +would so clash within him, there could be no happiness. That was the +man. For herself, she looked down the slope of the hill across the brown +country. Away on the right waved the woods about Ramelton, at her feet +flashed a strip of the Lough; and this was her country; she was its +child and the sister of its people. + +"No," she repeated, as she rose to her feet. Durrance rose with her. He +was still not so much disheartened as conscious of a blunder. He had put +his case badly; he should never have given her the opportunity to think +that marriage would be an interruption of his career. + +"We will say good-bye here," she said, "in the open. We shall be none +the less good friends because three thousand miles hinder us from +shaking hands." + +They shook hands as she spoke. + +"I shall be in England again in a year's time," said Durrance. "May I +come back?" + +Ethne's eyes and her smile consented. + +"I should be sorry to lose you altogether," she said, "although even if +I did not see you, I should know that I had not lost your friendship." +She added, "I should also be glad to hear news of you and what you are +doing, if ever you have the time to spare." + +"I may write?" he exclaimed eagerly. + +"Yes," she answered, and his eagerness made her linger a little +doubtfully upon the word. "That is, if you think it fair. I mean, it +might be best for you, perhaps, to get rid of me entirely from your +thoughts;" and Durrance laughed and without any bitterness, so that in a +moment Ethne found herself laughing too, though at what she laughed she +would have discovered it difficult to explain. "Very well, write to me +then." And she added drily, "But it will be about--other things." + +And again Durrance read into her words the interpretation he desired; +and again she meant just what she said, and not a word more. + +She stood where he left her, a tall, strong-limbed figure of womanhood, +until he was gone out of sight. Then she climbed down to the house, and +going into her room took one of her violins from its case. But it was +the violin which Durrance had given to her, and before she had touched +the strings with her bow she recognised it and put it suddenly away from +her in its case. She snapped the case to. For a few moments she sat +motionless in her chair, then she quickly crossed the room, and, taking +her keys, unlocked a drawer. At the bottom of the drawer there lay +hidden a photograph, and at this she looked for a long while and very +wistfully. + +Durrance meanwhile walked down to the trap which was waiting for him at +the gates of the house, and saw that Dermod Eustace stood in the road +with his hat upon his head. + +"I will walk a few yards with you, Colonel Durrance," said Dermod. "I +have a word for your ear." + +Durrance suited his stride to the old man's faltering step, and they +walked behind the dog-cart, and in silence. It was not the mere personal +disappointment which weighed upon Durrance's spirit. But he could not +see with Ethne's eyes, and as his gaze took in that quiet corner of +Donegal, he was filled with a great sadness lest all her life should be +passed in this seclusion, her grave dug in the end under the wall of the +tiny church, and her memory linger only in a few white cottages +scattered over the moorland, and for a very little while. He was +recalled by the pressure of Dermod's hand upon his elbow. There was a +gleam of inquiry in the old man's faded eyes, but it seemed that speech +itself was a difficulty. + +"You have news for me?" he asked, after some hesitation. "News of Harry +Feversham? I thought that I would ask you before you went away." + +"None," said Durrance. + +"I am sorry," replied Dermod, wistfully, "though I have no reason for +sorrow. He struck us a cruel blow, Colonel Durrance.--I should have +nothing but curses for him in my mouth and my heart. A black-throated +coward my reason calls him, and yet I would be very glad to hear how the +world goes with him. You were his friend. But you do not know?" + +It was actually of Harry Feversham that Dermod Eustace was speaking, and +Durrance, as he remarked the old man's wistfulness of voice and face, +was seized with a certain remorse that he had allowed Ethne so to +thrust his friend out of his thoughts. He speculated upon the mystery of +Harry Feversham's disappearance at times as he sat in the evening upon +his verandah above the Nile at Wadi Halfa, piecing together the few +hints which he had gathered. "A black-throated coward," Dermod had +called Harry Feversham, and Ethne had said enough to assure him that +something graver than any dispute, something which had destroyed all her +faith in the man, had put an end to their betrothal. But he could not +conjecture at the particular cause, and the only consequence of his +perplexed imaginings was the growth of a very real anger within him +against the man who had been his friend. So the winter passed, and +summer came to the Soudan and the month of May. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE WELLS OF OBAK + + +In that month of May Durrance lifted his eyes from Wadi Halfa and began +eagerly to look homeward. But in the contrary direction, five hundred +miles to the south of his frontier town, on the other side of the great +Nubian desert and the Belly of Stones, the events of real importance to +him were occurring without his knowledge. On the deserted track between +Berber and Suakin the wells of Obak are sunk deep amongst mounds of +shifting sand. Eastward a belt of trees divides the dunes from a hard +stony plain built upon with granite hills; westward the desert stretches +for fifty-eight waterless miles to Mahobey and Berber on the Nile, a +desert so flat that the merest tuft of grass knee-high seems at the +distance of a mile a tree promising shade for a noonday halt, and a pile +of stones no bigger than one might see by the side of any roadway in +repair achieves the stature of a considerable hill. In this particular +May there could be no spot more desolate than the wells of Obak. The sun +blazed upon it from six in the morning with an intolerable heat, and all +night the wind blew across it piercingly cold, and played with the sand +as it would, building pyramids house-high and levelling them, tunnelling +valleys, silting up long slopes, so that the face of the country was +continually changed. The vultures and the sand-grouse held it +undisturbed in a perpetual tenancy. And to make the spot yet more +desolate, there remained scattered here and there the bleached bones and +skeletons of camels to bear evidence that about these wells once the +caravans had crossed and halted; and the remnants of a house built of +branches bent in hoops showed that once Arabs had herded their goats and +made their habitation there. Now the sun rose and set, and the hot sky +pressed upon an empty round of honey-coloured earth. Silence brooded +there like night upon the waters; and the absolute stillness made it a +place of mystery and expectation. + +Yet in this month of May one man sojourned by the wells and sojourned +secretly. Every morning at sunrise he drove two camels, swift +riding-mares of the pure Bisharin breed, from the belt of trees, watered +them, and sat by the well-mouth for the space of three hours. Then he +drove them back again into the shelter of the trees, and fed them +delicately with dhoura upon a cloth; and for the rest of the day he +appeared no more. For five mornings he thus came from his hiding-place +and sat looking toward the sand-dunes and Berber, and no one approached +him. But on the sixth, as he was on the point of returning to his +shelter, he saw the figures of a man and a donkey suddenly outlined +against the sky upon a crest of the sand. The Arab seated by the well +looked first at the donkey, and, remarking its grey colour, half rose to +his feet. But as he rose he looked at the man who drove it, and saw that +while his jellab was drawn forward over his face to protect it from the +sun, his bare legs showed of an ebony blackness against the sand. The +donkey-driver was a negro. The Arab sat down again and waited with an +air of the most complete indifference for the stranger to descend to +him. He did not even move or turn when he heard the negro's feet +treading the sand close behind him. + +"Salam aleikum," said the negro, as he stopped. He carried a long spear +and a short one, and a shield of hide. These he laid upon the ground and +sat by the Arab's side. + +The Arab bowed his head and returned the salutation. + +"Aleikum es salam," said he, and he waited. + +"It is Abou Fatma?" asked the negro. + +The Arab nodded an assent. + +"Two days ago," the other continued, "a man of the Bisharin, Moussa +Fedil, stopped me in the market-place of Berber, and seeing that I was +hungry, gave me food. And when I had eaten he charged me to drive this +donkey to Abou Fatma at the wells of Obak." + +Abou Fatma looked carelessly at the donkey as though now for the first +time he had remarked it. + +"Tayeeb," he said, no less carelessly. "The donkey is mine," and he sat +inattentive and motionless, as though the negro's business were done and +he might go. + +The negro, however, held his ground. + +"I am to meet Moussa Fedil again on the third morning from now, in the +market-place of Berber. Give me a token which I may carry back, so that +he may know I have fulfilled the charge and reward me." + +Abou Fatma took his knife from the small of his back, and picking up a +stick from the ground, notched it thrice at each end. + +"This shall be a sign to Moussa Fedil;" and he handed the stick to his +companion. The negro tied it securely into a corner of his wrap, loosed +his water-skin from the donkey's back, filled it at the well and slung +it about his shoulders. Then he picked up his spears and his shield. +Abou Fatma watched him labour up the slope of loose sand and disappear +again on the further incline of the crest. Then in his turn he rose, and +hastily. When Harry Feversham had set out from Obak six days before to +traverse the fifty-eight miles of barren desert to the Nile, this grey +donkey had carried his water-skins and food. + +Abou Fatma drove the donkey down amongst the trees, and fastening it to +a stem examined its shoulders. In the left shoulder a tiny incision had +been made and the skin neatly stitched up again with fine thread. He cut +the stitches, and pressing open the two edges of the wound, forced out a +tiny package little bigger than a postage stamp. The package was a +goat's bladder, and enclosed within the bladder was a note written in +Arabic and folded very small. Abou Fatma had not been Gordon's +body-servant for nothing; he had been taught during his service to read. +He unfolded the note, and this is what was written:-- + +"The houses which were once Berber are destroyed, and a new town of wide +streets is building. There is no longer any sign by which I may know the +ruins of Yusef's house from the ruins of a hundred houses; nor does +Yusef any longer sell rock-salt in the bazaar. Yet wait for me another +week." + +The Arab of the Bisharin who wrote the letter was Harry Feversham. +Wearing the patched jubbeh of the Dervishes over his stained skin, his +hair frizzed on the crown of his head and falling upon the nape of his +neck in locks matted and gummed into the semblance of seaweed, he went +about his search for Yusef through the wide streets of New Berber with +its gaping pits. To the south, and separated by a mile or so of desert, +lay the old town where Abou Fatma had slept one night and hidden the +letters, a warren of ruined houses facing upon narrow alleys and winding +streets. The front walls had been pulled down, the roofs carried away, +only the bare inner walls were left standing, so that Feversham when he +wandered amongst them vainly at night seemed to have come into long +lanes of five courts, crumbling into decay. And each court was only +distinguishable from its neighbour by a degree of ruin. Already the +foxes made their burrows beneath the walls. + +He had calculated that one night would have been the term of his stay in +Berber. He was to have crept through the gate in the dusk of the +evening, and before the grey light had quenched the stars his face +should be set towards Obak. Now he must go steadily forward amongst the +crowds like a man that has business of moment, dreading conversation +lest his tongue should betray him, listening ever for the name of Yusef +to strike upon his ears. Despair kept him company at times, and fear +always. But from the sharp pangs of these emotions a sort of madness +was begotten in him, a frenzy of obstinacy, a belief fanatical as the +dark religion of those amongst whom he moved, that he could not now fail +and the world go on, that there could be no injustice in the whole +scheme of the universe great enough to lay this heavy burden upon the +one man least fitted to bear it and then callously to destroy him +because he tried. + +Fear had him in its grip on that morning three days after he had left +Abou Fatma at the wells, when coming over a slope he first saw the sand +stretched like a lagoon up to the dark brown walls of the town, and the +overshadowing foliage of the big date palms rising on the Nile bank +beyond. Within those walls were the crowded Dervishes. It was surely the +merest madness for a man to imagine that he could escape detection +there, even for an hour. Was it right, he began to ask, that a man +should even try? The longer he stood, the more insistent did this +question grow. The low mud walls grew strangely sinister; the welcome +green of the waving palms, after so many arid days of sun and sand and +stones, became an ironical invitation to death. He began to wonder +whether he had not already done enough for honour in venturing so near. + +The sun beat upon him; his strength ebbed from him as though his veins +were opened. If he were caught, he thought, as surely he would be--oh, +very surely! He saw the fanatical faces crowding fiercely about him ... +were not mutilations practised?... He looked about him, shivering even +in that strong heat, and the great loneliness of the place smote upon +him, so that his knees shook. He faced about and commenced to run, +leaping in a panic alone and unpursued across the naked desert under the +sun, while from his throat feeble cries broke inarticulately. + +He ran, however, only for a few yards, and it was the very violence of +his flight which stopped him. These four years of anticipation were as +nothing, then? He had schooled himself in the tongue, he had lived in +the bazaars, to no end? He was still the craven who had sent in his +papers? The quiet confidence with which he had revealed his plan to +Lieutenant Sutch over the table in the Criterion grill-room was the mere +vainglory of a man who continually deceived himself? And Ethne?... + +He dropped upon the ground and, drawing his coat over his head, lay, a +brown spot indistinguishable from the sand about him, an irregularity in +the great waste surface of earth. He shut the prospect from his eyes, +and over the thousands of miles of continent and sea he drew Ethne's +face towards him. A little while and he was back again in Donegal. The +summer night whispered through the open doorway in the hall; in a room +near by people danced to music. He saw the three feathers fluttering to +the floor; he read the growing trouble in Ethne's face. If he could do +this thing, and the still harder thing which now he knew to lie beyond, +he might perhaps some day see that face cleared of its trouble. There +were significant words too in his ears, "I should have no doubt that you +and I would see much of one another afterwards." Towards the setting of +the sun he rose from the ground, and walking down towards Berber, passed +between the gates. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +DURRANCE HEARS NEWS OF FEVERSHAM + + +A month later Durrance arrived in London and discovered a letter from +Ethne awaiting him at his club. It told him simply that she was staying +with Mrs. Adair, and would be glad if he would find the time to call; +but there was a black border to the paper and the envelope. Durrance +called at Hill Street the next afternoon and found Ethne alone. + +"I did not write to Wadi Halfa," she explained at once, "for I thought +that you would be on your way home before my letter could arrive. My +father died last month, towards the end of May." + +"I was afraid when I got your letter that you would have this to tell +me," he replied. "I am very sorry. You will miss him." + +"More than I can say," said she, with a quiet depth of feeling. "He died +one morning early--I think I will tell you if you would care to hear," +and she related to him the manner of Dermod's death, of which a chill +was the occasion rather than the cause; for he died of a gradual +dissolution rather than a definite disease. + +It was a curious story which Ethne had to tell, for it seemed that just +before his death Dermod recaptured something of his old masterful +spirit. "We knew that he was dying," Ethne said. "He knew it too, and +at seven o'clock of the afternoon after--" she hesitated for a moment +and resumed, "after he had spoken for a little while to me, he called +his dog by name. The dog sprang at once on to the bed, though his voice +had not risen above a whisper, and crouching quite close, pushed its +muzzle with a whine under my father's hand. Then he told me to leave him +and the dog altogether alone. I was to shut the door upon him. The dog +would tell me when to open it again. I obeyed him and waited outside the +door until one o'clock. Then a loud sudden howl moaned through the +house." She stopped for a while. This pause was the only sign of +distress which she gave, and in a few moments she went on, speaking +quite simply, without any of the affectations of grief. "It was trying +to wait outside that door while the afternoon faded and the night came. +It was night, of course, long before the end. He would have no lamp left +in his room. One imagined him just the other side of that thin +door-panel, lying very still and silent in the great four-poster bed +with his face towards the hills, and the light falling. One imagined the +room slipping away into darkness, and the windows continually looming +into a greater importance, and the dog by his side and no one else, +right to the very end. He would have it that way, but it was rather hard +for me." + +Durrance said nothing in reply, but gave her in full measure what she +most needed, the sympathy of his silence. He imagined those hours in the +passage, six hours of twilight and darkness; he could picture her +standing close by the door, with her ear perhaps to the panel, and her +hand upon her heart to check its loud beating. There was something +rather cruel, he thought, in Dermod's resolve to die alone. It was Ethne +who broke the silence. + +"I said that my father spoke to me just before he told me to leave him. +Of whom do you think he spoke?" + +She was looking directly at Durrance as she put the question. From +neither her eyes nor the level tone of her voice could he gather +anything of the answer, but a sudden throb of hope caught away his +breath. + +"Tell me!" he said, in a sort of suspense, as he leaned forward in his +chair. + +"Of Mr. Feversham," she answered, and he drew back again, and rather +suddenly. It was evident that this was not the name which he had +expected. He took his eyes from hers and stared downwards at the carpet, +so that she might not see his face. + +"My father was always very fond of him," she continued gently, "and I +think that I would like to know if you have any knowledge of what he is +doing or where he is." + +Durrance did not answer nor did he raise his face. He reflected upon the +strange strong hold which Harry Feversham kept upon the affections of +those who had once known him well; so that even the man whom he had +wronged, and upon whose daughter he had brought much suffering, must +remember him with kindliness upon his death-bed. The reflection was not +without its bitterness to Durrance at this moment, and this bitterness +he was afraid that his face and voice might both betray. But he was +compelled to speak, for Ethne insisted. + +"You have never come across him, I suppose?" she asked. + +Durrance rose from his seat and walked to the window before he answered. +He spoke looking out into the street, but though he thus concealed the +expression of his face, a thrill of deep anger sounded through his +words, in spite of his efforts to subdue his tones. + +"No," he said, "I never have," and suddenly his anger had its way with +him; it chose as well as informed his words. "And I never wish to," he +cried. "He was my friend, I know. But I cannot remember that friendship +now. I can only think that if he had been the true man we took him for, +you would not have waited alone in that dark passage during those six +hours." He turned again to the centre of the room and asked abruptly:-- + +"You are going back to Glenalla?" + +"Yes." + +"You will live there alone?" + +"Yes." + +For a little while there was silence between them. Then Durrance walked +round to the back of her chair. + +"You once said that you would perhaps tell me why your engagement was +broken off." + +"But you know," she said. "What you said at the window showed that you +knew." + +"No, I do not. One or two words your father let drop. He asked me for +news of Feversham the last time that I spoke with him. But I know +nothing definite. I should like you to tell me." + +Ethne shook her head and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. +"Not now," she said, and silence again followed her words. Durrance +broke it again. + +"I have only one more year at Halfa. It would be wise to leave Egypt +then, I think. I do not expect much will be done in the Soudan for some +little while. I do not think that I will stay there--in any case. I mean +even if you should decide to remain alone at Glenalla." + +Ethne made no pretence to ignore the suggestion of his words. "We are +neither of us children," she said; "you have all your life to think of. +We should be prudent." + +"Yes," said Durrance, with a sudden exasperation, "but the right kind of +prudence. The prudence which knows that it's worth while to dare a good +deal." + +Ethne did not move. She was leaning forward with her back towards him, +so that he could see nothing of her face, and for a long while she +remained in this attitude, quite silent and very still. She asked a +question at the last, and in a very low and gentle voice. + +"Do you want me so very much?" And before he could answer she turned +quickly towards him. "Try not to," she exclaimed earnestly. "For this +one year try not to. You have much to occupy your thoughts. Try to +forget me altogether;" and there was just sufficient regret in her tone, +the regret at the prospect of losing a valued friend, to take all the +sting from her words, to confirm Durrance in his delusion that but for +her fear that she would spoil his career, she would answer him in very +different words. Mrs. Adair came into the room before he could reply, +and thus he carried away with him his delusion. + +He dined that evening at his club, and sat afterwards smoking his cigar +under the big tree where he had sat so persistently a year before in his +vain quest for news of Harry Feversham. It was much the same sort of +clear night as that on which he had seen Lieutenant Sutch limp into the +courtyard and hesitate at the sight of him. The strip of sky was +cloudless and starry overhead; the air had the pleasant languor of a +summer night in June; the lights flashing from the windows and doorways +gave to the leaves of the trees the fresh green look of spring; and +outside in the roadway the carriages rolled with a thunderous hum like +the sound of the sea. And on this night, too, there came a man into the +courtyard who knew Durrance. But he did not hesitate. He came straight +up to Durrance and sat down upon the seat at his side. Durrance dropped +the paper at which he was glancing and held out his hand. + +"How do you do?" said he. This friend was Captain Mather. + +"I was wondering whether I should meet you when I read the evening +paper. I knew that it was about the time one might expect to find you in +London. You have seen, I suppose?" + +"What?" asked Durrance. + +"Then you haven't," replied Mather. He picked up the newspaper which +Durrance had dropped and turned over the sheets, searching for the piece +of news which he required. "You remember that last reconnaissance we +made from Suakin?" + +"Very well." + +"We halted by the Sinkat fort at midday. There was an Arab hiding in +the trees at the back of the glacis." + +"Yes." + +"Have you forgotten the yarn he told you?" + +"About Gordon's letters and the wall of a house in Berber? No, I have +not forgotten." + +"Then here's something which will interest you," and Captain Mather, +having folded the paper to his satisfaction, handed it to Durrance and +pointed to a paragraph. It was a short paragraph; it gave no details; it +was the merest summary; and Durrance read it through between the puffs +of his cigar. + +"The fellow must have gone back to Berber after all," said he. "A risky +business. Abou Fatma--that was the man's name." + +The paragraph made no mention of Abou Fatma, or indeed of any man except +Captain Willoughby, the Deputy-Governor of Suakin. It merely announced +that certain letters which the Mahdi had sent to Gordon summoning him to +surrender Khartum, and inviting him to become a convert to the Mahdist +religion, together with copies of Gordon's curt replies, had been +recovered from a wall in Berber and brought safely to Captain Willoughby +at Suakin. + +"They were hardly worth risking a life for," said Mather. + +"Perhaps not," replied Durrance, a little doubtfully. "But after all, +one is glad they have been recovered. Perhaps the copies are in Gordon's +own hand. They are, at all events, of an historic interest." + +"In a way, no doubt," said Mather. "But even so, their recovery throws +no light upon the history of the siege. It can make no real difference +to any one, not even to the historian." + +"That is true," Durrance agreed, and there was nothing more untrue. In +the same spot where he had sought for news of Feversham news had now +come to him--only he did not know. He was in the dark; he could not +appreciate that here was news which, however little it might trouble the +historian, touched his life at the springs. He dismissed the paragraph +from his mind, and sat thinking over the conversation which had passed +that afternoon between Ethne and himself, and without discouragement. +Ethne had mentioned Harry Feversham, it was true,--had asked for news of +him. But she might have been--nay, she probably had been--moved to ask +because her father's last words had referred to him. She had spoken his +name in a perfectly steady voice, he remembered; and, indeed, the mere +fact that she had spoken it at all might be taken as a sign that it had +no longer any power with her. There was something hopeful to his mind in +her very request that he should try during this one year to omit her +from his thoughts. For it seemed almost to imply that if he could not, +she might at the end of it, perhaps, give to him the answer for which he +longed. He allowed a few days to pass, and then called again at Mrs. +Adair's house. But he found only Mrs. Adair. Ethne had left London and +returned to Donegal. She had left rather suddenly, Mrs. Adair told him, +and Mrs. Adair had no sure knowledge of the reason of her going. + +Durrance, however, had no doubt as to the reason. Ethne was putting into +practice the policy which she had commended to his thoughts. He was to +try to forget her, and she would help him to success so far as she could +by her absence from his sight. And in attributing this reason to her, +Durrance was right. But one thing Ethne had forgotten. She had not asked +him to cease to write to her, and accordingly in the autumn of that year +the letters began again to come from the Soudan. She was frankly glad to +receive them, but at the same time she was troubled. For in spite of +their careful reticence, every now and then a phrase leaped out--it +might be merely the repetition of some trivial sentence which she had +spoken long ago and long ago forgotten--and she could not but see that +in spite of her prayer she lived perpetually in his thoughts. There was +a strain of hopefulness too, as though he moved in a world painted with +new colours and suddenly grown musical. Ethne had never freed herself +from the haunting fear that one man's life had been spoilt because of +her; she had never faltered from her determination that this should not +happen with a second. Only with Durrance's letters before her she could +not evade a new and perplexing question. By what means was that +possibility to be avoided? There were two ways. By choosing which of +them could she fulfil her determination? She was no longer so sure as +she had been the year before that his career was all in all. The +question recurred to her again and again. She took it out with her on +the hillside with the letters, and pondered and puzzled over it and got +never an inch nearer to a solution. Even her violin failed her in this +strait. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +DURRANCE SHARPENS HIS WITS + + +It was a night of May, and outside the mess-room at Wadi Halfa three +officers were smoking on a grass knoll above the Nile. The moon was at +its full, and the strong light had robbed even the planets of their +lustre. The smaller stars were not visible at all, and the sky washed of +its dark colour, curved overhead, pearly-hued and luminous. The three +officers sat in their lounge chairs and smoked silently, while the +bull-frogs croaked from an island in mid-river. At the bottom of the +small steep cliff on which they sat the Nile, so sluggish was its flow, +shone like a burnished mirror, and from the opposite bank the desert +stretched away to infinite distances, a vast plain with scattered +hummocks, a plain white as a hoar frost on the surface of which the +stones sparkled like jewels. Behind the three officers of the garrison +the roof of the mess-room verandah threw a shadow on the ground; it +seemed a solid piece of blackness. + +One of the three officers struck a match and held it to the end of his +cigar. The flame lit up a troubled and anxious face. + +"I hope that no harm has come to him," he said, as he threw the match +away. "I wish that I could say I believed it." + +The speaker was a man of middle age and the colonel of a Soudanese +battalion. He was answered by a man whose hair had gone grey, it is +true. But grey hair is frequent in the Soudan, and his unlined face +still showed that he was young. He was Lieutenant Calder of the +Engineers. Youth, however, in this instance had no optimism wherewith to +challenge Colonel Dawson. + +"He left Halfa eight weeks ago, eh?" he said gloomily. + +"Eight weeks to-day," replied the colonel. + +It was the third officer, a tall, spare, long-necked major of the Army +Service Corps, who alone hazarded a cheerful prophecy. + +"It's early days to conclude Durrance has got scuppered," said he. "One +knows Durrance. Give him a camp-fire in the desert, and a couple of +sheiks to sit round it with him, and he'll buck to them for a month and +never feel bored at the end. While here there are letters, and there's +an office, and there's a desk in the office and everything he loathes +and can't do with. You'll see Durrance will turn up right enough, though +he won't hurry about it." + +"He is three weeks overdue," objected the colonel, "and he's methodical +after a fashion. I am afraid." + +Major Walters pointed out his arm to the white empty desert across the +river. + +"If he had travelled that way, westward, I might agree," he said. "But +Durrance went east through the mountain country toward Berenice and the +Red Sea. The tribes he went to visit were quiet, even in the worst +times, when Osman Digna lay before Suakin." + +The colonel, however, took no comfort from Walters's confidence. He +tugged at his moustache and repeated, "He is three weeks overdue." + +Lieutenant Calder knocked the ashes from his pipe and refilled it. He +leaned forward in his chair as he pressed the tobacco down with his +thumb, and he said slowly:-- + +"I wonder. It is just possible that some sort of trap was laid for +Durrance. I am not sure. I never mentioned before what I knew, because +until lately I did not suspect that it could have anything to do with +his delay. But now I begin to wonder. You remember the night before he +started?" + +"Yes," said Dawson, and he hitched his chair a little nearer. Calder was +the one man in Wadi Halfa who could claim something like intimacy with +Durrance. Despite their difference in rank there was no great disparity +in age between the two men, and from the first when Calder had come +inexperienced and fresh from England, but with a great ardour to acquire +a comprehensive experience, Durrance in his reticent way had been at +pains to show the newcomer considerable friendship. Calder, therefore, +might be likely to know. + +"I too remember that night," said Walters. "Durrance dined at the mess +and went away early to prepare for his journey." + +"His preparations were made already," said Calder. "He went away early, +as you say. But he did not go to his quarters. He walked along the +river-bank to Tewfikieh." + +Wadi Halfa was the military station, Tewfikieh a little frontier town to +the north separated from Halfa by a mile of river-bank. A few Greeks +kept stores there, a few bare and dirty cafés faced the street between +native cook-shops and tobacconists'; a noisy little town where the negro +from the Dinka country jolted the fellah from the Delta, and the air was +torn with many dialects; a thronged little town, which yet lacked to +European ears one distinctive element of a throng. There was no ring of +footsteps. The crowd walked on sand and for the most part with naked +feet, so that if for a rare moment the sharp high cries and the +perpetual voices ceased, the figures of men and women flitted by +noiseless as ghosts. And even at night, when the streets were most +crowded and the uproar loudest, it seemed that underneath the noise, and +almost appreciable to the ear, there lay a deep and brooding silence, +the silence of deserts and the East. + +"Durrance went down to Tewfikieh at ten o'clock that night," said +Calder. "I went to his quarters at eleven. He had not returned. He was +starting eastward at four in the morning, and there was some detail of +business on which I wished to speak to him before he went. So I waited +for his return. He came in about a quarter of an hour afterwards and +told me at once that I must be quick, since he was expecting a visitor. +He spoke quickly and rather restlessly. He seemed to be labouring under +some excitement. He barely listened to what I had to say, and he +answered me at random. It was quite evident that he was moved, and +rather deeply moved, by some unusual feeling, though at the nature of +the feeling I could not guess. For at one moment it seemed certainly to +be anger, and the next moment he relaxed into a laugh, as though in +spite of himself he was glad. However, he bundled me out, and as I went +I heard him telling his servant to go to bed, because, though he +expected a visitor, he would admit the visitor himself." + +"Well!" said Dawson, "and who was the visitor?" + +"I do not know," answered Calder. "The one thing I do know is that when +Durrance's servant went to call him at four o'clock for his journey, he +found Durrance still sitting on the verandah outside his quarters, as +though he still expected his visitor. The visitor had not come." + +"And Durrance left no message?" + +"No. I was up myself before he started. I thought that he was puzzled +and worried. I thought, too, that he meant to tell me what was the +matter. I still think that he had that in his mind, but that he could +not decide. For even after he had taken his seat upon his saddle and his +camel had risen from the ground, he turned and looked down towards me. +But he thought better of it, or worse, as the case may be. At all +events, he did not speak. He struck the camel on the flank with his +stick, and rode slowly past the post-office and out into the desert, +with his head sunk upon his breast. I wonder whether he rode into a +trap. Who could this visitor have been whom he meets in the street of +Tewfikieh, and who must come so secretly to Wadi Halfa? What can have +been his business with Durrance? Important business, troublesome +business--so much is evident. And he did not come to transact it. Was +the whole thing a lure to which we have not the clue? Like Colonel +Dawson, I am afraid." + +There was a silence after he had finished, which Major Walters was the +first to break. He offered no argument--he simply expressed again his +unalterable cheerfulness. + +"I don't think Durrance has got scuppered," said he, as he rose from his +chair. + +"I know what I shall do," said the colonel. "I shall send out a strong +search party in the morning." + +And the next morning, as they sat at breakfast on the verandah, he at +once proceeded to describe the force which he meant to despatch. Major +Walters, too, it seemed, in spite of his hopeful prophecies, had +pondered during the night over Calder's story, and he leaned across the +table to Calder. + +"Did you never inquire whom Durrance talked with at Tewfikieh on that +night?" he asked. + +"I did, and there's a point that puzzles me," said Calder. He was +sitting with his back to the Nile and his face towards the glass doors +of the mess-room, and he spoke to Walters, who was directly opposite. "I +could not find that he talked to more than one person, and that one +person could not by any likelihood have been the visitor he expected. +Durrance stopped in front of a café where some strolling musicians, who +had somehow wandered up to Tewfikieh, were playing and singing for their +night's lodging. One of them, a Greek I was told, came outside into the +street and took his hat round. Durrance threw a sovereign into the hat, +the man turned to thank him, and they talked for a little time +together;" and as he came to this point he raised his head. A look of +recognition came into his face. He laid his hands upon the table-edge, +and leaned forward with his feet drawn back beneath his chair as though +he was on the point of springing up. But he did not spring up. His look +of recognition became one of bewilderment. He glanced round the table +and saw that Colonel Dawson was helping himself to cocoa, while Major +Walters's eyes were on his plate. There were other officers of the +garrison present, but not one had remarked his movement and its sudden +arrest. Calder leaned back, and staring curiously in front of him and +over the major's shoulder, continued his story. "But I could never hear +that Durrance spoke to any one else. He seemed, except that one knows to +the contrary, merely to have strolled through the village and back again +to Wadi Halfa." + +"That doesn't help us much," said the major. + +"And it's all you know?" asked the colonel. + +"No, not quite all," returned Calder, slowly; "I know, for instance, +that the man we are talking about is staring me straight in the face." + +At once everybody at the table turned towards the mess-room. + +"Durrance!" cried the colonel, springing up. + +"When did you get back?" said the major. + +Durrance, with the dust of his journey still powdered upon his clothes, +and a face burnt to the colour of red brick, was standing in the +doorway, and listening with a remarkable intentness to the voices of his +fellow-officers. It was perhaps noticeable that Calder, who was +Durrance's friend, neither rose from his chair nor offered any greeting. +He still sat watching Durrance; he still remained curious and perplexed; +but as Durrance descended the three steps into the verandah there came +a quick and troubled look of comprehension into his face. + +"We expected you three weeks ago," said Dawson, as he pulled a chair +away from an empty place at the table. + +"The delay could not be helped," replied Durrance. He took the chair and +drew it up. + +"Does my story account for it?" asked Calder. + +"Not a bit. It was the Greek musician I expected that night," he +explained with a laugh. "I was curious to know what stroke of ill-luck +had cast him out to play the zither for a night's lodging in a café at +Tewfikieh. That was all," and he added slowly, in a softer voice, "Yes, +that was all." + +"Meanwhile you are forgetting your breakfast," said Dawson, as he rose. +"What will you have?" + +Calder leaned ever so slightly forward with his eyes quietly resting on +Durrance. Durrance looked round the table, and then called the +mess-waiter. "Moussa, get me something cold," said he, and the waiter +went back into the mess-room. Calder nodded his head with a faint smile, +as though he understood that here was a difficulty rather cleverly +surmounted. + +"There's tea, cocoa, and coffee," he said. "Help yourself, Durrance." + +"Thanks," said Durrance. "I see, but I will get Moussa to bring me a +brandy-and-soda, I think," and again Calder nodded his head. + +Durrance ate his breakfast and drank his brandy-and-soda, and talked the +while of his journey. He had travelled farther eastward than he had +intended. He had found the Ababdeh Arabs quiet amongst their mountains. +If they were not disposed to acknowledge allegiance to Egypt, on the +other hand they paid no tribute to Mahommed Achmet. The weather had been +good, ibex and antelope plentiful. Durrance, on the whole, had reason to +be content with his journey. And Calder sat and watched him, and +disbelieved every word that he said. The other officers went about their +duties; Calder remained behind, and waited until Durrance should finish. +But it seemed that Durrance never would finish. He loitered over his +breakfast, and when that was done he pushed his plate away and sat +talking. There was no end to his questions as to what had passed at Wadi +Halfa during the last eight weeks, no limit to his enthusiasm over the +journey from which he had just returned. Finally, however, he stopped +with a remarkable abruptness, and said, with some suspicion, to his +companion:-- + +"You are taking life easily this morning." + +"I have not eight weeks' arrears of letters to clear off, as you have, +Colonel," Calder returned with a laugh; and he saw Durrance's face cloud +and his forehead contract. + +"True," he said, after a pause. "I had forgotten my letters." And he +rose from his seat at the table, mounted the steps, and passed into the +mess-room. + +Calder immediately sprang up, and with his eyes followed Durrance's +movements. Durrance went to a nail which was fixed in the wall close to +the glass doors and on a level with his head. From that nail he took +down the key of his office, crossed the room, and went out through the +farther door. That door he left open, and Calder could see him walk down +the path between the bushes through the tiny garden in front of the +mess, unlatch the gate, and cross the open space of sand towards his +office. As soon as Durrance had disappeared Calder sat down again, and, +resting his elbows on the table, propped his face between his hands. +Calder was troubled. He was a friend of Durrance; he was the one man in +Wadi Halfa who possessed something of Durrance's confidence; he knew +that there were certain letters in a woman's handwriting waiting for him +in his office. He was very deeply troubled. Durrance had aged during +these eight weeks. There were furrows about his mouth where only faint +lines had been visible when he had started out from Halfa; and it was +not merely desert dust which had discoloured his hair. His hilarity, +too, had an artificial air. He had sat at the table constraining himself +to the semblance of high spirits. Calder lit his pipe, and sat for a +long while by the empty table. + +Then he took his helmet and crossed the sand to Durrance's office. He +lifted the latch noiselessly; as noiselessly he opened the door, and he +looked in. Durrance was sitting at his desk with his head bowed upon his +arms and all his letters unopened at his side. Calder stepped into the +room and closed the door loudly behind him. At once Durrance turned his +face to the door. + +"Well?" said he. + +"I have a paper, Colonel, which requires your signature," said Calder. +"It's the authority for the alterations in C barracks. You remember?" + +"Very well. I will look through it and return it to you, signed, at +lunch-time. Will you give it to me, please?" + +He held out his hand towards Calder. Calder took his pipe from his +mouth, and, standing thus in full view of Durrance, slowly and +deliberately placed it into Durrance's outstretched palm. It was not +until the hot bowl burnt his hand that Durrance snatched his arm away. +The pipe fell and broke upon the floor. Neither of the two men spoke for +a few moments, and then Calder put his arm round Durrance's shoulder, +and asked in a voice gentle as a woman's:-- + +"How did it happen?" + +Durrance buried his face in his hands. The great control which he had +exercised till now he was no longer able to sustain. He did not answer, +nor did he utter any sound, but he sat shivering from head to foot. + +"How did it happen?" Calder asked again, and in a whisper. + +Durrance put another question:-- + +"How did you find out?" + +"You stood in the mess-room doorway listening to discover whose voice +spoke from where. When I raised my head and saw you, though your eyes +rested on my face there was no recognition in them. I suspected then. +When you came down the steps into the verandah I became almost certain. +When you would not help yourself to food, when you reached out your arm +over your shoulder so that Moussa had to put the brandy-and-soda safely +into your palm, I was sure." + +"I was a fool to try and hide it," said Durrance. "Of course I knew all +the time that I couldn't for more than a few hours. But even those few +hours somehow seemed a gain." + +"How did it happen?" + +"There was a high wind," Durrance explained. "It took my helmet off. It +was eight o'clock in the morning. I did not mean to move my camp that +day, and I was standing outside my tent in my shirt-sleeves. So you see +that I had not even the collar of a coat to protect the nape of my neck. +I was fool enough to run after my helmet; and--you must have seen the +same thing happen a hundred times--each time that I stooped to pick it +up it skipped away; each time that I ran after it, it stopped and waited +for me to catch it up. And before one was aware what one was doing, one +had run a quarter of a mile. I went down, I was told, like a log just +when I had the helmet in my hand. How long ago it happened I don't quite +know, for I was ill for a time, and afterwards it was difficult to keep +count, since one couldn't tell the difference between day and night." + +Durrance, in a word, had gone blind. He told the rest of his story. He +had bidden his followers carry him back to Berber, and then, influenced +by the natural wish to hide his calamity as long as he could, he had +enjoined upon them silence. Calder heard the story through to the end, +and then rose at once to his feet. + +"There's a doctor. He is clever, and, for a Syrian, knows a good deal. I +will fetch him here privately, and we will hear what he says. Your +blindness may be merely temporary." + +The Syrian doctor, however, pursed up his lips and shook his head. He +advised an immediate departure to Cairo. It was a case for a specialist. +He himself would hesitate to pronounce an opinion; though, to be sure, +there was always hope of a cure. + +"Have you ever suffered an injury in the head?" he asked. "Were you +ever thrown from your horse? Were you wounded?" + +"No," said Durrance. + +The Syrian did not disguise his conviction that the case was grave; and +after he had departed both men were silent for some time. Calder had a +feeling that any attempt at consolation would be futile in itself, and +might, moreover, in betraying his own fear that the hurt was +irreparable, only discourage his companion. He turned to the pile of +letters and looked them through. + +"There are two letters here, Durrance," he said gently, "which you might +perhaps care to hear. They are written in a woman's hand, and there is +an Irish postmark. Shall I open them?" + +"No," exclaimed Durrance, suddenly, and his hand dropped quickly upon +Calder's arm. "By no means." + +Calder, however, did not put down the letters. He was anxious, for +private reasons of his own, to learn something more of Ethne Eustace +than the outside of her letters could reveal. A few rare references made +in unusual moments of confidence by Durrance had only informed Calder of +her name, and assured him that his friend would be very glad to change +it if he could. He looked at Durrance--a man so trained to vigour and +activity that his very sunburn seemed an essential quality rather than +an accident of the country in which he lived; a man, too, who came to +the wild, uncitied places of the world with the joy of one who comes +into an inheritance; a man to whom these desolate tracts were home, and +the fireside and the hedged fields and made roads merely the other +places; and he understood the magnitude of the calamity which had +befallen him. Therefore he was most anxious to know more of this girl +who wrote to Durrance from Donegal, and to gather from her letters, as +from a mirror in which her image was reflected, some speculation as to +her character. For if she failed, what had this friend of his any longer +left? + +"You would like to hear them, I expect," he insisted. "You have been +away eight weeks." And he was interrupted by a harsh laugh. + +"Do you know what I was thinking when I stopped you?" said Durrance. +"Why, that I would read the letters after you had gone. It takes time to +get used to being blind after your eyes have served you pretty well all +your life." And his voice shook ever so little. "You will have to help +me to answer them, Calder. So read them. Please read them." + +Calder tore open the envelopes and read the letters through and was +satisfied. They gave a record of the simple doings of her mountain +village in Donegal, and in the simplest terms. But the girl's nature +shone out in the telling. Her love of the country-side and of the people +who dwelt there was manifest. She could see the humour and the tragedy +of the small village troubles. There was a warm friendliness for +Durrance moreover expressed, not so much in a sentence as in the whole +spirit of the letters. It was evident that she was most keenly +interested in all that he did; that, in a way, she looked upon his +career as a thing in which she had a share, even if it was only a +friend's share. And when Calder had ended he looked again at Durrance, +but now with a face of relief. It seemed, too, that Durrance was +relieved. + +"After all, one has something to be thankful for," he cried. "Think! +Suppose that I had been engaged to her! She would never have allowed me +to break it off, once I had gone blind. What an escape!" + +"An escape?" exclaimed Calder. + +"You don't understand. But I knew a man who went blind; a good fellow, +too, before--mind that, before! But a year after! You couldn't have +recognised him. He had narrowed down into the most selfish, exacting, +egotistical creature it is possible to imagine. I don't wonder; I hardly +see how he could help it; I don't blame him. But it wouldn't make life +easier for a wife, would it? A helpless husband who can't cross a road +without his wife at his elbow is bad enough. But make him a selfish +beast into the bargain, full of questions, jealous of her power to go +where she will, curious as to every person with whom she speaks--and +what then? My God, I am glad that girl refused me. For that I am most +grateful." + +"She refused you?" asked Calder, and the relief passed from his face and +voice. + +"Twice," said Durrance. "What an escape! You see, Calder, I shall be +more trouble even than the man I told you of. I am not clever. I can't +sit in a chair and amuse myself by thinking, not having any intellect to +buck about. I have lived out of doors and hard, and that's the only sort +of life that suits me. I tell you, Calder, you won't be very anxious for +much of my society in a year's time," and he laughed again and with the +same harshness. + +"Oh, stop that," said Calder; "I will read the rest of your letters to +you." + +He read them, however, without much attention to their contents. His +mind was occupied with the two letters from Ethne Eustace, and he was +wondering whether there was any deeper emotion than mere friendship +hidden beneath the words. Girls refused men for all sorts of queer +reasons which had no sense in them, and very often they were sick and +sorry about it afterwards; and very often they meant to accept the men +all the time. + +"I must answer the letters from Ireland," said Durrance, when he had +finished. "The rest can wait." + +Calder held a sheet of paper upon the desk and told Durrance when he was +writing on a slant and when he was writing on the blotting-pad; and in +this way Durrance wrote to tell Ethne that a sunstroke had deprived him +of his sight. Calder took that letter away. But he took it to the +hospital and asked for the Syrian doctor. The doctor came out to him, +and they walked together under the trees in front of the building. + +"Tell me the truth," said Calder. + +The doctor blinked behind his spectacles. + +"The optic nerve is, I think, destroyed," he replied. + +"Then there is no hope?" + +"None, if my diagnosis is correct." + +Calder turned the letter over and over, as though he could not make up +his mind what in the world to do with it. + +"Can a sunstroke destroy the optic nerve?" he asked at length. + +"A mere sunstroke? No," replied the doctor. "But it may be the +occasion. For the cause one must look deeper." + +Calder came to a stop, and there was a look of horror in his eyes. "You +mean--one must look to the brain?" + +"Yes." + +They walked on for a few paces. A further question was in Calder's mind, +but he had some difficulty in speaking it, and when he had spoken he +waited for the answer in suspense. + +"Then this calamity is not all. There will be more to follow--death +or--" but that other alternative he could not bring himself to utter. +Here, however, the doctor was able to reassure him. + +"No. That does not follow." + +Calder went back to the mess-room and called for a brandy-and-soda. He +was more disturbed by the blow which had fallen upon Durrance than he +would have cared to own; and he put the letter upon the table and +thought of the message of renunciation which it contained, and he could +hardly restrain his fingers from tearing it across. It must be sent, he +knew; its destruction would be of no more than a temporary avail. Yet he +could hardly bring himself to post it. With the passage of every minute +he realised more clearly what blindness meant to Durrance. A man not +very clever, as he himself was ever the first to acknowledge, and always +the inheritor of the other places,--how much more it meant to him than +to the ordinary run of men! Would the girl, he wondered, understand as +clearly? It was very silent that morning on the verandah at Wadi Halfa; +the sunlight blazed upon desert and river; not a breath of wind stirred +the foliage of any bush. Calder drank his brandy-and-soda, and slowly +that question forced itself more and more into the front of his mind. +Would the woman over in Ireland understand? He rose from his chair as he +heard Colonel Dawson's voice in the mess-room, and taking up his letter, +walked away to the post-office. Durrance's letter was despatched, but +somewhere in the Mediterranean it crossed a letter from Ethne, which +Durrance received a fortnight later at Cairo. It was read out to him by +Calder, who had obtained leave to come down from Wadi Halfa with his +friend. Ethne wrote that she had, during the last months, considered all +that he had said when at Glenalla and in London; she had read, too, his +letters and understood that in his thoughts of her there had been no +change, and that there would be none; she therefore went back upon her +old argument that she would, by marriage, be doing him an injury, and +she would marry him upon his return to England. + +"That's rough luck, isn't it?" said Durrance, when Calder had read the +letter through. "For here's the one thing I have always wished for, and +it comes when I can no longer take it." + +"I think you will find it very difficult to refuse to take it," said +Calder. "I do not know Miss Eustace, but I can hazard a guess from the +letters of hers which I have read to you. I do not think that she is a +woman who will say 'yes' one day, and then because bad times come to you +say 'no' the next, or allow you to say 'no' for her, either. I have a +sort of notion that since she cares for you and you for her, you are +doing little less than insulting her if you imagine that she cannot +marry you and still be happy." + +Durrance thought over that aspect of the question, and began to wonder. +Calder might be right. Marriage with a blind man! It might, perhaps, be +possible if upon both sides there was love, and the letter from Ethne +proved--did it not?--that on both sides there _was_ love. Besides, there +were some trivial compensations which might help to make her sacrifice +less burdensome. She could still live in her own country and move in her +own home. For the Lennon house could be rebuilt and the estates cleared +of their debt. + +"Besides," said Calder, "there is always a possibility of a cure." + +"There is no such possibility," said Durrance, with a decision which +quite startled his companion. "You know that as well as I do;" and he +added with a laugh, "You needn't start so guiltily. I haven't overheard +a word of any of your conversations about me." + +"Then what in the world makes you think that there's no chance?" + +"The voice of every doctor who has encouraged me to hope. Their +words--yes--their words tell me to visit specialists in Europe, and not +lose heart, but their voices give the lie to their words. If one cannot +see, one can at all events hear." + +Calder looked thoughtfully at his friend. This was not the only occasion +on which of late Durrance had surprised his friends by an unusual +acuteness. Calder glanced uncomfortably at the letter which he was still +holding in his hand. + +"When was that letter written?" said Durrance, suddenly; and +immediately upon the question he asked another, "What makes you jump?" + +Calder laughed and explained hastily. "Why, I was looking at the letter +at the moment when you asked, and your question came so pat that I could +hardly believe you did not see what I was doing. It was written on the +fifteenth of May." + +"Ah," said Durrance, "the day I returned to Wadi Halfa blind." + +Calder sat in his chair without a movement. He gazed anxiously at his +companion, it seemed almost as though he were afraid; his attitude was +one of suspense. + +"That's a queer coincidence," said Durrance, with a careless laugh; and +Calder had an intuition that he was listening with the utmost intentness +for some movement on his own part, perhaps a relaxation of his attitude, +perhaps a breath of relief. Calder did not move, however; and he drew no +breath of relief. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +DURRANCE BEGINS TO SEE + + +Ethne stood at the drawing-room window of the house in Hill Street. Mrs. +Adair sat in front of her tea-table. Both women were waiting, and they +were both listening for some particular sound to rise up from the street +and penetrate into the room. The window stood open that they might hear +it the more quickly. It was half-past five in the afternoon. June had +come round again with the exhilaration of its sunlight, and London had +sparkled into a city of pleasure and green trees. In the houses +opposite, the windows were gay with flowers; and in the street below, +the carriages rolled easily towards the Park. A jingle of bells rose +upwards suddenly and grew loud. Mrs. Adair raised her head quickly. + +"That's a cab," she said. + +"Yes." + +Ethne leaned forward and looked down. "But it's not stopping here;" and +the jingle grew fainter and died away. + +Mrs. Adair looked at the clock. + +"Colonel Durrance is late," she said, and she turned curiously towards +Ethne. It seemed to her that Ethne had spoken her "yes" with much more +of suspense than eagerness; her attitude as she leaned forward at the +window had been almost one of apprehension; and though Mrs. Adair was +not quite sure, she fancied that she detected relief when the cab passed +by the house and did not stop. "I wonder why you didn't go to the +station and meet Colonel Durrance?" she asked slowly. + +The answer came promptly enough. + +"He might have thought that I had come because I looked upon him as +rather helpless, and I don't wish him to think that. He has his servant +with him." Ethne looked again out of the window, and once or twice she +made a movement as if she was about to speak and then thought silence +the better part. Finally, however, she made up her mind. + +"You remember the telegram I showed to you?" + +"From Lieutenant Calder, saying that Colonel Durrance had gone blind?" + +"Yes. I want you to promise never to mention it. I don't want him to +know that I ever received it." + +Mrs. Adair was puzzled, and she hated to be puzzled. She had been shown +the telegram, but she had not been told that Ethne had written to +Durrance, pledging herself to him immediately upon its receipt. Ethne, +when she showed the telegram, had merely said, "I am engaged to him." +Mrs. Adair at once believed that the engagement had been of some +standing, and she had been allowed to continue in that belief. + +"You will promise?" Ethne insisted. + +"Certainly, my dear, if you like," returned Mrs. Adair, with an +ungracious shrug of the shoulders. "But there is a reason, I suppose. I +don't understand why you exact the promise." + +"Two lives must not be spoilt because of me." + +There was some ground for Mrs. Adair's suspicion that Ethne expected +the blind man to whom she was betrothed, with apprehension. It is true +that she was a little afraid. Just twelve months had passed since, in +this very room, on just such a sunlit afternoon, Ethne had bidden +Durrance try to forget her, and each letter which she had since received +had shown that, whether he tried or not, he had not forgotten. Even that +last one received three weeks ago, the note scrawled in the handwriting +of a child, from Wadi Halfa, with the large unsteady words straggling +unevenly across the page, and the letters running into one another +wherein he had told his calamity and renounced his suit--even that +proved, and perhaps more surely than its hopeful forerunners--that he +had not forgotten. As she waited at the window she understood very +clearly that it was she herself who must buckle to the hard work of +forgetting. Or if that was impossible, she must be careful always that +by no word let slip in a forgetful moment she betrayed that she had not +forgotten. + +"No," she said, "two lives shall not be spoilt because of me," and she +turned towards Mrs. Adair. + +"Are you quite sure, Ethne," said Mrs. Adair, "that the two lives will +not be more surely spoilt by this way of yours--the way of marriage? +Don't you think that you will come to feel Colonel Durrance, in spite of +your will, something of a hindrance and a drag? Isn't it possible that +he may come to feel that too? I wonder. I very much wonder." + +"No," said Ethne, decisively. "I shall not feel it, and he must not." + +The two lives, according to Mrs. Adair, were not the lives of Durrance +and Harry Feversham, but of Durrance and Ethne herself. There she was +wrong; but Ethne did not dispute the point, she was indeed rather glad +that her friend was wrong, and she allowed her to continue in her wrong +belief. + +Ethne resumed her watch at the window, foreseeing her life, planning it +out so that never might she be caught off her guard. The task would be +difficult, no doubt, and it was no wonder that in these minutes while +she waited fear grew upon her lest she should fail. But the end was well +worth the effort, and she set her eyes upon that. Durrance had lost +everything which made life to him worth living the moment he went +blind--everything, except one thing. "What should I do if I were +crippled?" he had said to Harry Feversham on the morning when for the +last time they had ridden together in the Row. "A clever man might put +up with it. But what should I do if I had to sit in a chair all my +days?" Ethne had not heard the words, but she understood the man well +enough without them. He was by birth the inheritor of the other places, +and he had lost his heritage. The things which delighted him, the long +journeys, the faces of strange countries, the camp-fire, a mere spark of +red light amidst black and empty silence, the hours of sleep in the open +under bright stars, the cool night wind of the desert, and the work of +government--all these things he had lost. Only one thing remained to +him--herself, and only, as she knew very well, herself so long as he +could believe she wanted him. And while she was still occupied with her +resolve, the cab for which she waited stopped unnoticed at the door. It +was not until Durrance's servant had actually rung the bell that her +attention was again attracted to the street. + +"He has come!" she said with a start. + +Durrance, it was true, was not particularly acute; he had never been +inquisitive; he took his friends as he found them; he put them under no +microscope. It would have been easy at any time, Ethne reflected, to +quiet his suspicions, should he have ever come to entertain any. But +_now_ it would be easier than ever. There was no reason for +apprehension. Thus she argued, but in spite of the argument she rather +nerved herself to an encounter than went forward to welcome her +betrothed. + +Mrs. Adair slipped out of the room, so that Ethne was alone when +Durrance entered at the door. She did not move immediately; she retained +her attitude and position, expecting that the change in him would for +the first moment shock her. But she was surprised; for the particular +changes which she had expected were noticeable only through their +absence. His face was worn, no doubt, his hair had gone grey, but there +was no air of helplessness or uncertainty, and it was that which for his +own sake she most dreaded. He walked forward into the room as though his +eyes saw; his memory seemed to tell him exactly where each piece of the +furniture stood. The most that he did was once or twice to put out a +hand where he expected a chair. + +Ethne drew silently back into the window rather at a loss with what +words to greet him, and immediately he smiled and came straight towards +her. + +"Ethne," he said. + +"It isn't true, then," she exclaimed. "You have recovered." The words +were forced from her by the readiness of his movement. + +"It is quite true, and I have not recovered," he answered. "But you +moved at the window and so I knew that you were there." + +"How did you know? I made no noise." + +"No, but the window's open. The noise in the street became suddenly +louder, so I knew that some one in front of the window had moved aside. +I guessed that it was you." + +Their words were thus not perhaps the most customary greeting between a +couple meeting on the first occasion after they have become engaged, but +they served to hinder embarrassment. Ethne shrank from any perfunctory +expression of regret, knowing that there was no need for it, and +Durrance had no wish to hear it. For there were many things which these +two understood each other well enough to take as said. They did no more +than shake hands when they had spoken, and Ethne moved back into the +room. + +"I will give you some tea," she said, "then we can talk." + +"Yes, we must have a talk, mustn't we?" Durrance answered seriously. He +threw off his serious air, however, and chatted with good humour about +the details of his journey home. He even found a subject of amusement in +his sense of helplessness during the first days of his blindness; and +Ethne's apprehensions rapidly diminished. They had indeed almost +vanished from her mind when something in his attitude suddenly brought +them back. + +"I wrote to you from Wadi Halfa," he said. "I don't know whether you +could read the letter." + +"Quite well," said Ethne. + +"I got a friend of mine to hold the paper and tell me when I was writing +on it or merely on the blotting-pad," he continued with a laugh. +"Calder--of the Sappers--but you don't know him." + +He shot the name out rather quickly, and it came upon Ethne with a shock +that he had set a trap to catch her. The curious stillness of his face +seemed to tell her that he was listening with an extreme intentness for +some start, perhaps even a checked exclamation, which would betray that +she knew something of Calder of the Sappers. Did he suspect, she asked +herself? Did he know of the telegram? Did he guess that her letter was +sent out of pity? She looked into Durrance's face, and it told her +nothing except that it was very alert. In the old days, a year ago, the +expression of his eyes would have answered her quite certainly, however +close he held his tongue. + +"I could read the letter without difficulty," she answered gently. "It +was the letter you would have written. But I had written to you before, +and of course your bad news could make no difference. I take back no +word of what I wrote." + +Durrance sat with his hands upon his knees, leaning forward a little. +Again Ethne was at a loss. She could not tell from his manner or his +face whether he accepted or questioned her answer; and again she +realised that a year ago while he had his sight she would have been in +no doubt. + +"Yes, I know you. You would take nothing back," he said at length. "But +there is my point of view." + +Ethne looked at him with apprehension. + +"Yes?" she replied, and she strove to speak with unconcern. "Will you +tell me it?" + +Durrance assented, and began in the deliberate voice of a man who has +thought out his subject, knows it by heart, and has decided, moreover, +the order of words by which it will be most lucidly developed. + +"I know what blindness means to all men--a growing, narrowing egotism +unless one is perpetually on one's guard. And will one be perpetually on +one's guard? Blindness means that to all men," he repeated emphatically. +"But it must mean more to me, who am deprived of every occupation. If I +were a writer, I could still dictate. If I were a business man, I could +conduct my business. But I am a soldier, and not a clever soldier. +Jealousy, a continual and irritable curiosity--there is no Paul Pry like +your blind man--a querulous claim upon your attention--these are my +special dangers." And Ethne laughed gently in contradiction of his +argument. + +"Well, perhaps one may hold them off," he acknowledged, "but they are to +be considered. I have considered them. I am not speaking to you without +thought. I have pondered and puzzled over the whole matter night after +night since I got your letter, wondering what I should do. You know how +gladly, with what gratitude, I would have answered you, 'Yes, let the +marriage go on,' if I dared. If I dared! But I think--don't you?--that a +great trouble rather clears one's wits. I used to lie awake at Cairo and +think; and the unimportant trivial considerations gradually dropped +away; and a few straight and simple truths stood out rather vividly. +One felt that one had to cling to them and with all one's might, +because nothing else was left." + +"Yes, that I do understand," Ethne replied in a low voice. She had gone +through just such an experience herself. It might have been herself, and +not Durrance, who was speaking. She looked up at him, and for the first +time began to understand that after all she and he might have much in +common. She repeated over to herself with an even firmer determination, +"Two lives shall not be spoilt because of me." + +"Well?" she asked. + +"Well, here's one of the very straight and simple truths. Marriage +between a man crippled like myself, whose life is done, and a woman like +you, active and young, whose life is in its flower, would be quite wrong +unless each brought to it much more than friendship. It would be quite +wrong if it implied a sacrifice for you." + +"It implies no sacrifice," she answered firmly. + +Durrance nodded. It was evident that the answer contented him, and Ethne +felt that it was the intonation to which he listened rather than the +words. His very attitude of concentration showed her that. She began to +wonder whether it would be so easy after all to quiet his suspicions now +that he was blind; she began to realise that it might possibly on that +very account be all the more difficult. + +"Then do you bring more than friendship?" he asked suddenly. "You will +be very honest, I know. Tell me." + +Ethne was in a quandary. She knew that she must answer, and at once and +without ambiguity. In addition, she must answer honestly. + +"There is nothing," she replied, and as firmly as before, "nothing in +the world which I wish for so earnestly as that you and I should marry." + +It was an honest wish, and it was honestly spoken. She knew nothing of +the conversation which had passed between Harry Feversham and Lieutenant +Sutch in the grill-room of the Criterion Restaurant; she knew nothing of +Harry's plans; she had not heard of the Gordon letters recovered from +the mud-wall of a ruined house in the city of the Dervishes on the Nile +bank. Harry Feversham had, so far as she knew and meant, gone forever +completely out of her life. Therefore her wish was an honest one. But it +was not an exact answer to Durrance's question, and she hoped that again +he would listen to the intonation, rather than to the words. However, he +seemed content with it. + +"Thank you, Ethne," he said, and he took her hand and shook it. His face +smiled at her. He asked no other questions. There was not a doubt, she +thought; his suspicions were quieted; he was quite content. And upon +that Mrs. Adair came with discretion into the room. + +She had the tact to greet Durrance as one who suffered under no +disadvantage, and she spoke as though she had seen him only the week +before. + +"I suppose Ethne has told you of our plan," she said, as she took her +tea from her friend's hand. + +"No, not yet," Ethne answered. + +"What plan?" asked Durrance. + +"It is all arranged," said Mrs. Adair. "You will want to go home to +Guessens in Devonshire. I am your neighbour--a couple of fields separate +us, that's all. So Ethne will stay with me during the interval before +you are married." + +"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Adair," Durrance exclaimed; "because, of +course, there will be an interval." + +"A short one, no doubt," said Mrs. Adair. + +"Well, it's this way. If there's a chance that I may recover my sight, +it would be better that I should seize it at once. Time means a good +deal in these cases." + +"Then there is a chance?" cried Ethne. + +"I am going to see a specialist here to-morrow," Durrance answered. +"And, of course, there's the oculist at Wiesbaden. But it may not be +necessary to go so far. I expect that I shall be able to stay at +Guessens and come up to London when it is necessary. Thank you very +much, Mrs. Adair. It is a good plan." And he added slowly, "From my +point of view there could be no better." + +Ethne watched Durrance drive away with his servant to his old rooms in +St. James's Street, and stood by the window after he had gone, in much +the same attitude and absorption as that which had characterised her +before he had come. Outside in the street the carriages were now coming +back from the park, and there was just one other change. Ethne's +apprehensions had taken a more definite shape. + +She believed that suspicion was quieted in Durrance for to-day, at all +events. She had not heard his conversation with Calder in Cairo. She did +not know that he believed there was no cure which could restore him to +sight. She had no remotest notion that the possibility of a remedy might +be a mere excuse. But none the less she was uneasy. Durrance had grown +more acute. Not only his senses had been sharpened,--that, indeed, was +to be expected,--but trouble and thought had sharpened his mind as well. +It had become more penetrating. She felt that she was entering upon an +encounter of wits, and she had a fear lest she should be worsted. "Two +lives shall not be spoilt because of me," she repeated, but it was a +prayer now, rather than a resolve. For one thing she recognised quite +surely: Durrance saw ever so much more clearly now that he was blind. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +CAPTAIN WILLOUGHBY REAPPEARS + + +During the months of July and August Ethne's apprehensions grew, and +once at all events they found expression on her lips. + +"I am afraid," she said, one morning, as she stood in the sunlight at an +open window of Mrs. Adair's house upon a creek of the Salcombe estuary. +In the room behind her Mrs. Adair smiled quietly. + +"Of what? That some accident happened to Colonel Durrance yesterday in +London?" + +"No," Ethne answered slowly, "not of that. For he is at this moment +crossing the lawn towards us." + +Again Mrs. Adair smiled, but she did not raise her head from the book +which she was reading, so that it might have been some passage in the +book which so amused and pleased her. + +"I thought so," she said, but in so low a voice that the words barely +reached Ethne's ears. They did not penetrate to her mind, for as she +looked across the stone-flagged terrace and down the broad shallow +flight of steps to the lawn, she asked abruptly:-- + +"Do you think he has any hope whatever that he will recover his sight?" + +The question had not occurred to Mrs. Adair before, and she gave to it +now no importance in her thoughts. + +"Would he travel up to town so often to see his oculist if he had +none?" she asked in reply. "Of course he hopes." + +"I am afraid," said Ethne, and she turned with a sudden movement towards +her friend. "Haven't you noticed how quick he has grown and is growing? +Quick to interpret your silences, to infer what you do not say from what +you do, to fill out your sentences, to make your movements the +commentary of your words? Laura, haven't you noticed? At times I think +the very corners of my mind are revealed to him. He reads me like a +child's lesson book." + +"Yes," said Mrs. Adair, "you are at a disadvantage. You no longer have +your face to screen your thoughts." + +"And his eyes no longer tell me anything at all," Ethne added. + +There was truth in both remarks. So long as Durrance had had Ethne's +face with its bright colour and her steady, frank, grey eyes visible +before him, he could hardly weigh her intervals of silence and her +movements against her spoken words with the detachment which was now +possible to him. On the other hand, whereas before she had never been +troubled by a doubt as to what he meant or wished, or intended, now she +was often in the dark. Durrance's blindness, in a word, had produced an +effect entirely opposite to that which might have been expected. It had +reversed their positions. + +Mrs. Adair, however, was more interested in Ethne's unusual burst of +confidence. There was no doubt of it, she reflected. The girl, once +remarkable for a quiet frankness of word and look, was declining into a +creature of shifts and agitation. + +"There is something, then, to be concealed from him?" she asked +quietly. + +"Yes." + +"Something rather important?" + +"Something which at all costs I must conceal," Ethne exclaimed, and was +not sure, even while she spoke, that Durrance had not already found it +out. She stepped over the threshold of the window on to the terrace. In +front of her the lawn stretched to a hedge; on the far side of that +hedge a couple of grass fields lifted and fell in gentle undulations; +and beyond the fields she could see amongst a cluster of trees the smoke +from the chimneys of Colonel Durrance's house. She stood for a little +while hesitating upon the terrace. On the left the lawn ran down to a +line of tall beeches and oaks which fringed the creek. But a broad space +had been cleared to make a gap upon the bank, so that Ethne could see +the sunlight on the water and the wooded slope on the farther side, and +a sailing-boat some way down the creek tacking slowly against the light +wind. Ethne looked about her, as though she was summoning her resources, +and even composing her sentences ready for delivery to the man who was +walking steadily towards her across the lawn. If there was hesitation +upon her part, there was none at all, she noticed, on the part of the +blind man. It seemed that Durrance's eyes took in the path which his +feet trod, and with the stick which he carried in his hand he switched +at the blades of grass like one that carries it from habit rather than +for any use. Ethne descended the steps and advanced to meet him. She +walked slowly, as if to a difficult encounter. + +But there was another who only waited an opportunity to engage in it +with eagerness. For as Ethne descended the steps Mrs. Adair suddenly +dropped the book which she had pretended to resume and ran towards the +window. Hidden by the drapery of the curtain she looked out and watched. +The smile was still upon her lips, but a fierce light had brightened in +her eyes, and her face had the drawn look of hunger. + +"Something which at all costs she must conceal," she said to herself, +and she said it in a voice of exultation. There was contempt too in her +tone, contempt for Ethne Eustace, the woman of the open air who was +afraid, who shrank from marriage with a blind man, and dreaded the +restraint upon her freedom. It was that shrinking which Ethne had to +conceal--Mrs. Adair had no doubt of it. "For my part, I am glad," she +said, and she was--fiercely glad that blindness had disabled Durrance. +For if her opportunity ever came, as it seemed to her now more and more +likely to come, blindness reserved him to her, as no man was ever +reserved to any woman. So jealous was she of his every word and look +that his dependence upon her would be the extreme of pleasure. She +watched Ethne and Durrance meet on the lawn at the foot of the terrace +steps. She saw them turn and walk side by side across the grass towards +the creek. She noticed that Ethne seemed to plead, and in her heart she +longed to overhear. + +And Ethne was pleading. + +"You saw your oculist yesterday?" she asked quickly, as soon as they +met. "Well, what did he say?" + +Durrance shrugged his shoulders. + +"That one must wait. Only time can show whether a cure is possible or +not," he answered, and Ethne bent forward a little and scrutinised his +face as though she doubted that he spoke the truth. + +"But must you and I wait?" she asked. + +"Surely," he returned. "It would be wiser on all counts." And thereupon +he asked her suddenly a question of which she did not see the drift. "It +was Mrs. Adair, I imagine, who proposed this plan that I should come +home to Guessens and that you should stay with her here across the +fields?" + +Ethne was puzzled by the question, but she answered it directly and +truthfully. "I was in great distress when I heard of your accident. I +was so distressed that at the first I could not think what to do. I came +to London and told Laura, since she is my friend, and this was her plan. +Of course I welcomed it with all my heart;" and the note of pleading +rang in her voice. She was asking Durrance to confirm her words, and he +understood that. He turned towards her with a smile. + +"I know that very well, Ethne," he said gently. + +Ethne drew a breath of relief, and the anxiety passed for a little while +from her face. + +"It was kind of Mrs. Adair," he resumed, "but it is rather hard on you, +who would like to be back in your own country. I remember very well a +sentence which Harry Feversham--" He spoke the name quite carelessly, +but paused just for a moment after he had spoken it. No expression upon +his face showed that he had any intention in so pausing, but Ethne +suspected one. He was listening, she suspected, for some movement of +uneasiness, perhaps of pain, into which she might possibly be betrayed. +But she made no movement. "A sentence which Harry Feversham spoke a long +while since," he continued, "in London just before I left London for +Egypt. He was speaking of you, and he said: 'She is of her country and +more of her county. I do not think she could be happy in any place which +was not within reach of Donegal.' And when I remember that, it seems +rather selfish that I should claim to keep you here at so much cost to +you." + +"I was not thinking of that," Ethne exclaimed, "when I asked why we must +wait. That makes me out most selfish. I was merely wondering why you +preferred to wait, why you insist upon it. For, of course, although one +hopes and prays with all one's soul that you will get your sight back, +the fact of a cure can make no difference." + +She spoke slowly, and her voice again had a ring of pleading. This time +Durrance did not confirm her words, and she repeated them with a greater +emphasis, "It can make no difference." + +Durrance started like a man roused from an abstraction. + +"I beg your pardon, Ethne," he said. "I was thinking at the moment of +Harry Feversham. There is something which I want you to tell me. You +said a long time ago at Glenalla that you might one day bring yourself +to tell it me, and I should rather like to know now. You see, Harry +Feversham was my friend. I want you to tell me what happened that night +at Lennon House to break off your engagement, to send him away an +outcast." + +Ethne was silent for a while, and then she said gently: "I would rather +not. It is all over and done with. I don't want you to ask me ever." + +Durrance did not press for an answer in the slightest degree. + +"Very well," he said cheerily, "I won't ask you. It might hurt you to +answer, and I don't want, of course, to cause you pain." + +"It's not on that account that I wish to say nothing," Ethne explained +earnestly. She paused and chose her words. "It isn't that I am afraid of +any pain. But what took place, took place such a long while ago--I look +upon Mr. Feversham as a man whom one has known well, and who is now +dead." + +They were walking toward the wide gap in the line of trees upon the bank +of the creek, and as Ethne spoke she raised her eyes from the ground. +She saw that the little boat which she had noticed tacking up the creek +while she hesitated upon the terrace had run its nose into the shore. +The sail had been lowered, the little pole mast stuck up above the grass +bank of the garden, and upon the bank itself a man was standing and +staring vaguely towards the house as though not very sure of his ground. + +"A stranger has landed from the creek," she said. "He looks as if he had +lost his way. I will go on and put him right." + +She ran forward as she spoke, seizing upon that stranger's presence as a +means of relief, even if the relief was only to last for a minute. Such +relief might be felt, she imagined, by a witness in a court when the +judge rises for his half-hour at luncheon-time. For the close of an +interview with Durrance left her continually with the sense that she had +just stepped down from a witness-box where she had been subjected to a +cross-examination so deft that she could not quite clearly perceive its +tendency, although from the beginning she suspected it. + +The stranger at the same time advanced to her. He was a man of the +middle size, with a short snub nose, a pair of vacuous protruding brown +eyes, and a moustache of some ferocity. He lifted his hat from his head +and disclosed a round forehead which was going bald. + +"I have sailed down from Kingsbridge," he said, "but I have never been +in this part of the world before. Can you tell me if this house is +called The Pool?" + +"Yes; you will find Mrs. Adair if you go up the steps on to the +terrace," said Ethne. + +"I came to see Miss Eustace." + +Ethne turned back to him with surprise. + +"I am Miss Eustace." + +The stranger contemplated her in silence. + +"So I thought." + +He twirled first one moustache and then the other before he spoke again. + +"I have had some trouble to find you, Miss Eustace. I went all the way +to Glenalla--for nothing. Rather hard on a man whose leave is short!" + +"I am very sorry," said Ethne, with a smile; "but why have you been put +to this trouble?" + +Again the stranger curled a moustache. Again his eyes dwelt vacantly +upon her before he spoke. + +"You have forgotten my name, no doubt, by this time." + +"I do not think that I have ever heard it," she answered. + +"Oh, yes, you have, believe me. You heard it five years ago. I am +Captain Willoughby." + +Ethne drew sharply back; the bright colour paled in her cheeks; her lips +set in a firm line, and her eyes grew very hard. She glowered at him +silently. + +Captain Willoughby was not in the least degree discomposed. He took his +time to speak, and when he did it was rather with the air of a man +forgiving a breach of manners, than of one making his excuses. + +"I can quite understand that you do not welcome me, Miss Eustace, but +none of us could foresee that you would be present when the three white +feathers came into Feversham's hands." + +Ethne swept the explanation aside. + +"How do you know that I was present?" she asked. + +"Feversham told me." + +"You have seen him?" + +The cry leaped loudly from her lips. It was just a throb of the heart +made vocal. It startled Ethne as much as it surprised Captain +Willoughby. She had schooled herself to omit Harry Feversham from her +thoughts, and to obliterate him from her affections, and the cry showed +to her how incompletely she had succeeded. Only a few minutes since she +had spoken of him as one whom she looked upon as dead, and she had +believed that she spoke the truth. + +"You have actually seen him?" she repeated in a wondering voice. She +gazed at her stolid companion with envy. "You have spoken to him? And he +to you? When?" + +"A year ago, at Suakin. Else why should I be here?" + +The question came as a shock to Ethne. She did not guess the correct +answer; she was not, indeed, sufficiently mistress of herself to +speculate upon any answer, but she dreaded it, whatever it might be. + +"Yes," she said slowly, and almost reluctantly. "After all, why are you +here?" + +Willoughby took a letter-case from his breast, opened it with +deliberation, and shook out from one of its pockets into the palm of his +hand a tiny, soiled, white feather. He held it out to Ethne. + +"I have come to give you this." + +Ethne did not take it. In fact, she positively shrank from it. + +"Why?" she asked unsteadily. + +"Three white feathers, three separate accusations of cowardice, were +sent to Feversham by three separate men. This is actually one of those +feathers which were forwarded from his lodgings to Ramelton five years +ago. I am one of the three men who sent them. I have come to tell you +that I withdraw my accusation. I take my feather back." + +"And you bring it to me?" + +"He asked me to." + +Ethne took the feather in her palm, a thing in itself so light and +fragile and yet so momentous as a symbol, and the trees and the garden +began to whirl suddenly about her. She was aware that Captain Willoughby +was speaking, but his voice had grown extraordinarily distant and thin; +so that she was annoyed, since she wished very much to hear all that he +had to say. She felt very cold, even upon that August day of sunlight. +But the presence of Captain Willoughby, one of the three men whom she +never would forgive, helped her to command herself. She would give no +exhibition of weakness before any one of the detested three, and with an +effort she recovered herself when she was on the very point of swooning. + +"Come," she said, "I will hear your story. Your news was rather a shock +to me. Even now I do not quite understand." + +She led the way from that open space to a little plot of grass above the +creek. On three sides thick hedges enclosed it, at the back rose the +tall elms and poplars, in front the water flashed and broke in ripples, +and beyond the water the trees rose again and were overtopped by sloping +meadows. A gap in the hedge made an entrance into this enclosure, and a +garden-seat stood in the centre of the grass. + +"Now," said Ethne, and she motioned to Captain Willoughby to take a seat +at her side. "You will take your time, perhaps. You will forget nothing. +Even his words, if you remember them! I shall thank you for his words." +She held that white feather clenched in her hand. Somehow Harry +Feversham had redeemed his honour, somehow she had been unjust to him; +and she was to learn how. She was in no hurry. She did not even feel one +pang of remorse that she had been unjust. Remorse, no doubt, would come +afterwards. At present the mere knowledge that she had been unjust was +too great a happiness to admit of abatement. She opened her hand and +looked at the feather. And as she looked, memories sternly repressed for +so long, regrets which she had thought stifled quite out of life, +longings which had grown strange, filled all her thoughts. The +Devonshire meadows were about her, the salt of the sea was in the air, +but she was back again in the midst of that one season at Dublin during +a spring five years ago, before the feathers came to Ramelton. + +Willoughby began to tell his story, and almost at once even the memory +of that season vanished. + +Ethne was in the most English of counties, the county of Plymouth and +Dartmouth and Brixham and the Start, where the red cliffs of its +coast-line speak perpetually of dead centuries, so that one cannot put +into any harbour without some thought of the Spanish Main and of the +little barques and pinnaces which adventured manfully out on their long +voyages with the tide. Up this very creek the clink of the +ship-builders' hammers had rung, and the soil upon its banks was +vigorous with the memories of British sailors. But Ethne had no thought +for these associations. The country-side was a shifting mist before her +eyes, which now and then let through a glimpse of that strange wide +country in the East, of which Durrance had so often told her. The only +trees which she saw were the stunted mimosas of the desert; the only sea +the great stretches of yellow sand; the only cliffs the sharp-peaked +pyramidal black rocks rising abruptly from its surface. It was part of +the irony of her position that she was able so much more completely to +appreciate the trials which one lover of hers had undergone through the +confidences which had been made to her by the other. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +THE STORY OF THE FIRST FEATHER + + +"I will not interrupt you," said Ethne, as Willoughby took his seat +beside her, and he had barely spoken a score of words before she broke +that promise. + +"I am Deputy-Governor of Suakin," he began. "My chief was on leave in +May. You are fortunate enough not to know Suakin, Miss Eustace, +particularly in May. No white woman can live in that town. It has a +sodden intolerable heat peculiar to itself. The air is heavy with brine; +you can't sleep at night for its oppression. Well, I was sitting in the +verandah on the first floor of the palace about ten o'clock at night, +looking out over the harbour and the distillation works, and wondering +whether it was worth while to go to bed at all, when a servant told me +that a man, who refused to give his name, wished particularly to see me. +The man was Feversham. There was only a lamp burning in the verandah, +and the night was dark, so that I did not recognise him until he was +close to me." + +And at once Ethne interrupted. + +"How did he look?" + +Willoughby wrinkled his forehead and opened his eyes wide. + +"Really, I do not know," he said doubtfully. "Much like other men, I +suppose, who have been a year or two in the Soudan, a trifle overtrained +and that sort of thing." + +"Never mind," said Ethne, with a sigh of disappointment. For five years +she had heard no word of Harry Feversham. She fairly hungered for news +of him, for the sound of his habitual phrases, for the description of +his familiar gestures. She had the woman's anxiety for his bodily +health, she wished to know whether he had changed in face or figure, +and, if so, how and in what measure. But she glanced at the obtuse, +unobservant countenance of Captain Willoughby, and she understood that +however much she craved for these particulars, she must go without. + +"I beg your pardon," she said. "Will you go on?" + +"I asked him what he wanted," Willoughby resumed, "and why he had not +sent in his name. 'You would not have seen me if I had,' he replied, and +he drew a packet of letters out of his pocket. Now, those letters, Miss +Eustace, had been written a long while ago by General Gordon in Khartum. +They had been carried down the Nile as far as Berber. But the day after +they reached Berber, that town surrendered to the Mahdists. Abou Fatma, +the messenger who carried them, hid them in the wall of the house of an +Arab called Yusef, who sold rock-salt in the market-place. Abou was then +thrown into prison on suspicion, and escaped to Suakin. The letters +remained hidden in that wall until Feversham recovered them. I looked +over them and saw that they were of no value, and I asked Feversham +bluntly why he, who had not dared to accompany his regiment on active +service, had risked death and torture to get them back." + +Standing upon that verandah, with the quiet pool of water in front of +him, Feversham had told his story quietly and without exaggeration. He +had related how he had fallen in with Abou Fatma at Suakin, how he had +planned the recovery of the letters, how the two men had travelled +together as far as Obak, and since Abou Fatma dared not go farther, how +he himself, driving his grey donkey, had gone on alone to Berber. He had +not even concealed that access of panic which had loosened his joints +when first he saw the low brown walls of the town and the towering date +palms behind on the bank of the Nile; which had set him running and +leaping across the empty desert in the sunlight, a marrowless thing of +fear. He made, however, one omission. He said nothing of the hours which +he had spent crouching upon the hot sand, with his coat drawn over his +head, while he drew a woman's face toward him across the continents and +seas and nerved himself to endure by the look of sorrow which it wore. + +"He went down into Berber at the setting of the sun," said Captain +Willoughby, and it was all that he had to say. It was enough, however, +for Ethne Eustace. She drew a deep breath of relief, her face softened, +there came a light into her grey eyes, and a smile upon her lips. + +"He went down into Berber," she repeated softly. + +"And found that the old town had been destroyed by the orders of the +Emir, and that a new one was building upon its southern confines," +continued Willoughby. "All the landmarks by which Feversham was to know +the house in which the letters were hidden had gone. The roofs had been +torn off, the houses dismantled, the front walls carried away. Narrow +alleys of crumbling fives-courts--that was how Feversham described the +place--crossing this way and that and gaping to the stars. Here and +there perhaps a broken tower rose up, the remnant of a rich man's house. +But of any sign which could tell a man where the hut of Yusef, who had +once sold rock-salt in the market-place, had stood, there was no hope in +those acres of crumbling mud. The foxes had already made their burrows +there." + +The smile faded from Ethne's face, but she looked again at the white +feather lying in her palm, and she laughed with a great contentment. It +was yellow with the desert dust. It was a proof that in this story there +was to be no word of failure. + +"Go on," she said. + +Willoughby related the despatch of the negro with the donkey to Abou +Fatma at the Wells of Obak. + +"Feversham stayed for a fortnight in Berber," Willoughby continued. "A +week during which he came every morning to the well and waited for the +return of his negro from Obak, and a week during which that negro +searched for Yusef, who had once sold rock-salt in the market-place. I +doubt, Miss Eustace, if you can realise, however hard you try, what that +fortnight must have meant to Feversham--the anxiety, the danger, the +continued expectation that a voice would bid him halt and a hand fall +upon his shoulder, the urgent knowledge that if the hand fell, death +would be the least part of his penalty. I imagine the town--a town of +low houses and broad streets of sand, dug here and there into pits for +mud wherewith to build the houses, and overhead the blistering sun and +a hot shadowless sky. In no corner was there any darkness or +concealment. And all day a crowd jostled and shouted up and down these +streets--for that is the Mahdist policy to crowd the towns so that all +may be watched and every other man may be his neighbour's spy. Feversham +dared not seek the shelter of a roof at night, for he dared not trust +his tongue. He could buy his food each day at the booths, but he was +afraid of any conversation. He slept at night in some corner of the old +deserted town, in the acres of the ruined fives-courts. For the same +reason he must not slink in the by-ways by day lest any should question +him about his business; nor listen on the chance of hearing Yusef's name +in the public places lest other loiterers should joke with him and draw +him into their talk. Nor dare he in the daylight prowl about those +crumbled ruins. From sunrise to sunset he must go quickly up and down +the streets of the town like a man bent upon urgent business which +permits of no delay. And that continued for a fortnight, Miss Eustace! A +weary, trying life, don't you think? I wish I could tell you of it as +vividly as he told me that night upon the balcony of the palace at +Suakin." + +Ethne wished it too with all her heart. Harry Feversham had made his +story very real that night to Captain Willoughby; so that even after the +lapse of fifteen months this unimaginative creature was sensible of a +contrast and a deficiency in his manner of narration. + +"In front of us was the quiet harbour and the Red Sea, above us the +African stars. Feversham spoke in the quietest manner possible, but with +a peculiar deliberation and with his eyes fixed upon my face, as though +he was forcing me to feel with him and to understand. Even when he +lighted his cigar he did not avert his eyes. For by this time I had +given him a cigar and offered him a chair. I had really, I assure you, +Miss Eustace. It was the first time in four years that he had sat with +one of his equals, or indeed with any of his countrymen on a footing of +equality. He told me so. I wish I could remember all that he told me." +Willoughby stopped and cudgelled his brains helplessly. He gave up the +effort in the end. + +"Well," he resumed, "after Feversham had skulked for a fortnight in +Berber, the negro discovered Yusef, no longer selling salt, but tending +a small plantation of dhurra on the river's edge. From Yusef, Feversham +obtained particulars enough to guide him to the house where the letters +were concealed in the inner wall. But Yusef was no longer to be trusted. +Possibly Feversham's accent betrayed him. The more likely conjecture is +that Yusef took Feversham for a spy, and thought it wise to be +beforehand and to confess to Mohammed-el-Kheir, the Emir, his own share +in the concealment of the letters. That, however, is a mere conjecture. +The important fact is this. On the same night Feversham went alone to +old Berber." + +"Alone!" said Ethne. "Yes?" + +"He found the house fronting a narrow alley, and the sixth of the row. +The front wall was destroyed, but the two side walls and the back wall +still stood. Three feet from the floor and two feet from the right-hand +corner the letters were hidden in that inner wall. Feversham dug into +the mud bricks with his knife; he made a hole wherein he could slip his +hand. The wall was thick; he dug deep, stopping now and again to feel +for the packet. At last his fingers clasped and drew it out; as he hid +it in a fold of his jibbeh, the light of a lantern shone upon him from +behind." + +Ethne started as though she had been trapped herself. Those acres of +roofless fives-courts, with here and there a tower showing up against +the sky, the lonely alleys, the dead silence here beneath the stars, the +cries and the beating of drums and the glare of lights from the new +town, Harry Feversham alone with the letters, with, in a word, some +portion of his honour redeemed, and finally, the lantern flashing upon +him in that solitary place,--the scene itself and the progress of the +incidents were so visible to Ethne at that moment that even with the +feather in her open palm she could hardly bring herself to believe that +Harry Feversham had escaped. + +"Well, well?" she asked. + +"He was standing with his face to the wall, the light came from the +alley behind him. He did not turn, but out of the corner of his eye he +could see a fold of a white robe hanging motionless. He carefully +secured the package, with a care indeed and a composure which astonished +him even at that moment. The shock had strung him to a concentration and +lucidity of thought unknown to him till then. His fingers were +trembling, he remarked, as he tied the knots, but it was with +excitement, and an excitement which did not flurry. His mind worked +rapidly, but quite coolly, quite deliberately. He came to a perfectly +definite conclusion as to what he must do. Every faculty which he +possessed was extraordinarily clear, and at the same time +extraordinarily still. He had his knife in his hand, he faced about +suddenly and ran. There were two men waiting. Feversham ran at the man +who held the lantern. He was aware of the point of a spear, he ducked +and beat it aside with his left arm, he leaped forward and struck with +his right. The Arab fell at his feet; the lantern was extinguished. +Feversham sprang across the white-robed body and ran eastward, toward +the open desert. But in no panic; he had never been so collected. He was +followed by the second soldier. He had foreseen that he would be +followed. If he was to escape, it was indeed necessary that he should +be. He turned a corner, crouched behind a wall, and as the Arab came +running by he leaped out upon his shoulders. And again as he leaped he +struck." + +Captain Willoughby stopped at this point of his story and turned towards +Ethne. He had something to say which perplexed and at the same time +impressed him, and he spoke with a desire for an explanation. + +"The strangest feature of those few fierce, short minutes," he said, +"was that Feversham felt no fear. I don't understand that, do you? From +the first moment when the lantern shone upon him from behind, to the +last when he turned his feet eastward, and ran through the ruined alleys +and broken walls toward the desert and the Wells of Obak, he felt no +fear." + +This was the most mysterious part of Harry Feversham's story to Captain +Willoughby. Here was a man who so shrank from the possibilities of +battle, that he must actually send in his papers rather than confront +them; yet when he stood in dire and immediate peril he felt no fear. +Captain Willoughby might well turn to Ethne for an explanation. + +There had been no mystery in it to Harry Feversham, but a great +bitterness of spirit. He had sat on the verandah at Suakin, whittling +away at the edge of Captain Willoughby's table with the very knife which +he had used in Berber to dig out the letters, and which had proved so +handy a weapon when the lantern shone out behind him--the one glimmering +point of light in that vast acreage of ruin. Harry Feversham had kept it +carefully uncleansed of blood; he had treasured it all through his +flight across the two hundred and forty odd miles of desert into Suakin; +it was, next to the white feathers, the thing which he held most +precious of his possessions, and not merely because it would serve as a +corroboration of his story to Captain Willoughby, but because the weapon +enabled him to believe and realise it himself. A brown clotted rust +dulled the whole length of the blade, and often during the first two +days and nights of his flight, when he travelled alone, hiding and +running and hiding again, with the dread of pursuit always at his heels, +he had taken the knife from his breast, and stared at it with +incredulous eyes, and clutched it close to him like a thing of comfort. +He had lost his way amongst the sandhills of Obak on the evening of the +second day, and had wandered vainly, with his small store of dates and +water exhausted, until he had stumbled and lay prone, parched and +famished and enfeebled, with the bitter knowledge that Abou Fatma and +the Wells were somewhere within a mile of the spot on which he lay. But +even at that moment of exhaustion the knife had been a talisman and a +help. He grasped the rough wooden handle, all too small for a Western +hand, and he ran his fingers over the rough rust upon the blade, and the +weapon spoke to him and bade him take heart, since once he had been put +to the test and had not failed. But long before he saw the white houses +of Suakin that feeling of elation vanished, and the knife became an +emblem of the vain tortures of his boyhood and the miserable folly which +culminated in his resignation of his commission. He understood now the +words which Lieutenant Sutch had spoken in the grill-room of the +Criterion Restaurant, when citing Hamlet as his example, "The thing +which he saw, which he thought over, which he imagined in the act and in +the consequence--that he shrank from. Yet when the moment of action +comes sharp and immediate, does he fail?" And remembering the words, +Harry Feversham sat one May night, four years afterwards, in Captain +Willoughby's verandah, whittling away at the table with his knife, and +saying over and over again in a bitter savage voice: "It was an +illusion, but an illusion which has caused a great deal of suffering to +a woman I would have shielded from suffering. But I am well paid for it, +for it has wrecked my life besides." + +Captain Willoughby could not understand, any more than General Feversham +could have understood, or than Ethne had. But Willoughby could at all +events remember and repeat, and Ethne had grown by five years of +unhappiness since the night when Harry Feversham, in the little room +off the hall at Lennon House, had told her of his upbringing, of the +loss of his mother, and the impassable gulf between his father and +himself, and of the fear of disgrace which had haunted his nights and +disfigured the world for him by day. + +"Yes, it was an illusion," she cried. "I understand. I might have +understood a long while since, but I would not. When those feathers came +he told me why they were sent, quite simply, with his eyes on mine. When +my father knew of them, he waited quite steadily and faced my father." + +There was other evidence of the like kind not within Ethne's knowledge. +Harry Feversham had journeyed down to Broad Place in Surrey and made his +confession no less unflinchingly to the old general. But Ethne knew +enough. "It was the possibility of cowardice from which he shrank, not +the possibility of hurt," she exclaimed. "If only one had been a little +older, a little less sure about things, a little less narrow! I should +have listened. I should have understood. At all events, I should not, I +think, have been cruel." + +Not for the first time did remorse for that fourth feather which she had +added to the three, seize upon her. She sat now crushed by it into +silence. Captain Willoughby, however, was a stubborn man, unwilling upon +any occasion to admit an error. He saw that Ethne's remorse by +implication condemned himself, and that he was not prepared to suffer. + +"Yes, but these fine distinctions are a little too elusive for practical +purposes," he said. "You can't run the world on fine distinctions; so I +cannot bring myself to believe that we three men were at all to blame, +and if we were not, you of all people can have no reason for +self-reproach." + +Ethne did not consider what he precisely meant by the last reference to +herself. For as he leaned complacently back in his seat, anger against +him flamed suddenly hot in her. Occupied by his story, she had ceased to +take stock of the story-teller. Now that he had ended, she looked him +over from head to foot. An obstinate stupidity was the mark of the man +to her eye. How dare he sit in judgment upon the meanest of his fellows, +let alone Harry Feversham? she asked, and in the same moment recollected +that she herself had endorsed his judgment. Shame tingled through all +her blood; she sat with her lips set, keeping Willoughby under watch +from the corners of her eyes, and waiting to pounce savagely the moment +he opened his lips. There had been noticeable throughout his narrative a +manner of condescension towards Feversham. "Let him use it again!" +thought Ethne. But Captain Willoughby said nothing at all, and Ethne +herself broke the silence. "Who of you three first thought of sending +the feathers?" she asked aggressively. "Not you?" + +"No; I think it was Trench," he replied. + +"Ah, Trench!" Ethne exclaimed. She struck one clenched hand, the hand +which held the feather, viciously into the palm of the other. "I will +remember that name." + +"But I share his responsibility," Willoughby assured her. "I do not +shrink from it at all. I regret very much that we caused you pain and +annoyance, but I do not acknowledge to any mistake in this matter. I +take my feather back now, and I annul my accusation. But that is your +doing." + +"Mine?" asked Ethne. "What do you mean?" + +Captain Willoughby turned with surprise to his companion. + +"A man may live in the Soudan and even yet not be wholly ignorant of +women and their great quality of forgiveness. You gave the feathers back +to Feversham in order that he might redeem his honour. That is evident." + +Ethne sprang to her feet before Captain Willoughby had come to the end +of his sentence, and stood a little in front of him, with her face +averted, and in an attitude remarkably still. Willoughby in his +ignorance, like many another stupid man before him, had struck with a +shrewdness and a vigour which he could never have compassed by the use +of his wits. He had pointed out abruptly and suddenly to Ethne a way +which she might have taken and had not, and her remorse warned her very +clearly that it was the way which she ought to have taken. But she could +rise to the heights. She did not seek to justify herself in her own +eyes, nor would she allow Willoughby to continue in his misconception. +She recognised that here she had failed in charity and justice, and she +was glad that she had failed, since her failure had been the opportunity +of greatness to Harry Feversham. + +"Will you repeat what you said?" she asked in a low voice; "and ever so +slowly, please." + +"You gave the feathers back into Feversham's hand--" + +"He told you that himself?" + +"Yes;" and Willoughby resumed, "in order that he might by his +subsequent bravery compel the men who sent them to take them back, and +so redeem his honour." + +"He did not tell you that?" + +"No. I guessed it. You see, Feversham's disgrace was, on the face of it, +impossible to retrieve. The opportunity might never have occurred--it +was not likely to occur. As things happened, Feversham still waited for +three years in the bazaar at Suakin before it did. No, Miss Eustace, it +needed a woman's faith to conceive that plan--a woman's encouragement to +keep the man who undertook it to his work." + +Ethne laughed and turned back to him. Her face was tender with pride, +and more than tender. Pride seemed in some strange way to hallow her, to +give an unimagined benignance to her eyes, an unearthly brightness to +the smile upon her lips and the colour upon her cheeks. So that +Willoughby, looking at her, was carried out of himself. + +"Yes," he cried, "you were the woman to plan this redemption." + +Ethne laughed again, and very happily. + +"Did he tell you of a fourth white feather?" she asked. + +"No." + +"I shall tell you the truth," she said, as she resumed her seat. "The +plan was of his devising from first to last. Nor did I encourage him to +its execution. For until to-day I never heard a word of it. Since the +night of that dance in Donegal I have had no message from Mr. Feversham, +and no news of him. I told him to take up those three feathers because +they were his, and I wished to show him that I agreed with the +accusations of which they were the symbols. That seems cruel? But I did +more. I snapped a fourth white feather from my fan and gave him that to +carry away too. It is only fair that you should know. I wanted to make +an end for ever and ever, not only of my acquaintanceship with him, but +of every kindly thought he might keep of me, of every kindly thought I +might keep of him. I wanted to be sure myself, and I wanted him to be +sure, that we should always be strangers now and--and afterwards," and +the last words she spoke in a whisper. Captain Willoughby did not +understand what she meant by them. It is possible that only Lieutenant +Sutch and Harry Feversham himself would have understood. + +"I was sad and sorry enough when I had done it," she resumed. "Indeed, +indeed, I think I have always been sorry since. I think that I have +never at any minute during these five years quite forgotten that fourth +white feather and the quiet air of dignity with which he took it. But +to-day I am glad." And her voice, though low, rang rich with the fulness +of her pride. "Oh, very glad! For this was his thought, his deed. They +are both all his, as I would have them be. I had no share, and of that I +am very proud. He needed no woman's faith, no woman's encouragement." + +"Yet he sent this back to you," said Willoughby, pointing in some +perplexity to the feather which Ethne held. + +"Yes," she said, "yes. He knew that I should be glad to know." And +suddenly she held it close to her breast. Thus she sat for a while with +her eyes shining, until Willoughby rose to his feet and pointed to the +gap in the hedge by which they had entered the enclosure. + +"By Jove! Jack Durrance," he exclaimed. + +Durrance was standing in the gap, which was the only means of entering +or going out. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +CAPTAIN WILLOUGHBY RETIRES + + +Ethne had entirely forgotten even Colonel Durrance's existence. From the +moment when Captain Willoughby had put that little soiled feather which +had once been white, and was now yellow, into her hand, she had had no +thought for any one but Harry Feversham. She had carried Willoughby into +that enclosure, and his story had absorbed her and kept her memory on +the rack, as she filled out with this or that recollected detail of +Harry's gestures, or voice, or looks, the deficiencies in her +companion's narrative. She had been swept away from that August garden +of sunlight and coloured flowers; and those five most weary years, +during which she had held her head high and greeted the world with a +smile of courage, were blotted from her experience. How weary they had +been perhaps she never knew, until she raised her head and saw Durrance +at the entrance in the hedge. + +"Hush!" she said to Willoughby, and her face paled and her eyes shut +tight for a moment with a spasm of pain. But she had no time to spare +for any indulgence of her feelings. Her few minutes' talk with Captain +Willoughby had been a holiday, but the holiday was over. She must take +up again the responsibilities with which those five years had charged +her, and at once. If she could not accomplish that hard task of +forgetting--and she now knew very well that she never would accomplish +it--she must do the next best thing, and give no sign that she had not +forgotten. Durrance must continue to believe that she brought more than +friendship into the marriage account. + +He stood at the very entrance to the enclosure; he advanced into it. He +was so quick to guess, it was not wise that he should meet Captain +Willoughby or even know of his coming. Ethne looked about her for an +escape, knowing very well that she would look in vain. The creek was in +front of them, and three walls of high thick hedge girt them in behind +and at the sides. There was but one entrance to this enclosure, and +Durrance himself barred the path to it. + +"Keep still," she said in a whisper. "You know him?" + +"Of course. We were together for three years at Suakin. I heard that he +had gone blind. I am glad to know that it is not true." This he said, +noticing the freedom of Durrance's gait. + +"Speak lower," returned Ethne. "It is true. He _is_ blind." + +"One would never have thought it. Consolations seem so futile. What can +I say to him?" + +"Say nothing!" + +Durrance was still standing just within the enclosure, and, as it +seemed, looking straight towards the two people seated on the bench. + +"Ethne," he said, rather than called; and the quiet unquestioning voice +made the illusion that he saw extraordinarily complete. + +"It's impossible that he is blind," said Willoughby. "He sees us." + +"He sees nothing." + +Again Durrance called "Ethne," but now in a louder voice, and a voice of +doubt. + +"Do you hear? He is not sure," whispered Ethne. "Keep very still." + +"Why?" + +"He must not know you are here," and lest Willoughby should move, she +caught his arm tight in her hand. Willoughby did not pursue his +inquiries. Ethne's manner constrained him to silence. She sat very +still, still as she wished him to sit, and in a queer huddled attitude; +she was even holding her breath; she was staring at Durrance with a +great fear in her eyes; her face was strained forward, and not a muscle +of it moved, so that Willoughby, as he looked at her, was conscious of a +certain excitement, which grew on him for no reason but her remarkable +apprehension. He began unaccountably himself to fear lest he and she +should be discovered. + +"He is coming towards us," he whispered. + +"Not a word, not a movement." + +"Ethne," Durrance cried again. He advanced farther into the enclosure +and towards the seat. Ethne and Captain Willoughby sat rigid, watching +him with their eyes. He passed in front of the bench, and stopped +actually facing them. Surely, thought Willoughby, he sees. His eyes were +upon them; he stood easily, as though he were about to speak. Even +Ethne, though she very well knew that he did not see, began to doubt her +knowledge. + +"Ethne!" he said again, and this time in the quiet voice which he had +first used. But since again no answer came, he shrugged his shoulders +and turned towards the creek. His back was towards them now, but Ethne's +experience had taught her to appreciate almost indefinable signs in his +bearing, since nowadays his face showed her so little. Something in his +attitude, in the poise of his head, even in the carelessness with which +he swung his stick, told her that he was listening, and listening with +all his might. Her grasp tightened on Willoughby's arm. Thus they +remained for the space of a minute, and then Durrance turned suddenly +and took a quick step towards the seat. Ethne, however, by this time +knew the man and his ingenuities; she was prepared for some such +unexpected movement. She did not stir, there was not audible the merest +rustle of her skirt, and her grip still constrained Willoughby. + +"I wonder where in the world she can be," said Durrance to himself +aloud, and he walked back and out of the enclosure. Ethne did not free +Captain Willoughby's arm until Durrance had disappeared from sight. + +"That was a close shave," Willoughby said, when at last he was allowed +to speak. "Suppose that Durrance had sat down on the top of us?" + +"Why suppose, since he did not?" Ethne asked calmly. "You have told me +everything?" + +"So far as I remember." + +"And all that you have told me happened in the spring?" + +"The spring of last year," said Willoughby. + +"Yes. I want to ask you a question. Why did you not bring this feather +to me last summer?" + +"Last year my leave was short. I spent it in the hills north of Suakin +after ibex." + +"I see," said Ethne, quietly; "I hope you had good sport." + +"It wasn't bad." + +Last summer Ethne had been free. If Willoughby had come home with his +good news instead of shooting ibex on Jebel Araft, it would have made +all the difference in her life, and the cry was loud at her heart, "Why +didn't you come?" But outwardly she gave no sign of the irreparable harm +which Willoughby's delay had brought about. She had the self-command of +a woman who has been sorely tried, and she spoke so unconcernedly that +Willoughby believed her questions prompted by the merest curiosity. + +"You might have written," she suggested. + +"Feversham did not suggest that there was any hurry. It would have been +a long and difficult matter to explain in a letter. He asked me to go to +you when I had an opportunity, and I had no opportunity before. To tell +the truth, I thought it very likely that I might find Feversham had come +back before me." + +"Oh, no," returned Ethne, "there could be no possibility of that. The +other two feathers still remain to be redeemed before he will ask me to +take back mine." + +Willoughby shook his head. "Feversham can never persuade Castleton and +Trench to cancel their accusations as he persuaded me." + +"Why not?" + +"Major Castleton was killed when the square was broken at Tamai." + +"Killed?" cried Ethne, and she laughed in a short and satisfied way. +Willoughby turned and stared at her, disbelieving the evidence of his +ears. But her face showed him quite clearly that she was thoroughly +pleased. Ethne was a Celt, and she had the Celtic feeling that death was +not a very important matter. She could hate, too, and she could be hard +as iron to the men she hated. And these three men she hated exceedingly. +It was true that she had agreed with them, that she had given a feather, +the fourth feather, to Harry Feversham just to show that she agreed, but +she did not trouble her head about that. She was very glad to hear that +Major Castleton was out of the world and done with. + +"And Colonel Trench too?" she said. + +"No," Willoughby answered. "You are disappointed? But he is even worse +off than that. He was captured when engaged on a reconnaissance. He is +now a prisoner in Omdurman." + +"Ah!" said Ethne. + +"I don't think you can have any idea," said Willoughby, severely, "of +what captivity in Omdurman implies. If you had, however much you +disliked the captive, you would feel some pity." + +"Not I," said Ethne, stubbornly. + +"I will tell you something of what it does imply." + +"No. I don't wish to hear of Colonel Trench. Besides, you must go. I +want you to tell me one thing first," said she, as she rose from her +seat. "What became of Mr. Feversham after he had given you that +feather?" + +"I told him that he had done everything which could be reasonably +expected; and he accepted my advice. For he went on board the first +steamer which touched at Suakin on its way to Suez and so left the +Soudan." + +"I must find out where he is. He must come, back. Did he need money?" + +"No. He still drew his allowance from his father. He told me that he had +more than enough." + +"I am glad of that," said Ethne, and she bade Willoughby wait within the +enclosure until she returned, and went out by herself to see that the +way was clear. The garden was quite empty. Durrance had disappeared from +it, and the great stone terrace of the house and the house itself, with +its striped sunblinds, looked a place of sleep. It was getting towards +one o'clock, and the very birds were quiet amongst the trees. Indeed the +quietude of the garden struck upon Ethne's senses as something almost +strange. Only the bees hummed drowsily about the flowerbeds, and the +voice of a lad was heard calling from the slopes of meadow on the far +side of the creek. She returned to Captain Willoughby. + +"You can go now," she said. "I cannot pretend friendship for you, +Captain Willoughby, but it was kind of you to find me out and tell me +your story. You are going back at once to Kingsbridge? I hope so. For I +do not wish Colonel Durrance to know of your visit or anything of what +you have told me." + +"Durrance was a friend of Feversham's--his great friend," Willoughby +objected. + +"He is quite unaware that any feathers were sent to Mr. Feversham, so +there is no need he should be informed that one of them has been taken +back," Ethne answered. "He does not know why my engagement to Mr. +Feversham was broken off. I do not wish him to know. Your story would +enlighten him, and he must not be enlightened." + +"Why?" asked Willoughby. He was obstinate by nature, and he meant to +have the reason for silence before he promised to keep it. Ethne gave it +to him at once very simply. + +"I am engaged to Colonel Durrance," she said. It was her fear that +Durrance already suspected that no stronger feeling than friendship +attached her to him. If once he heard that the fault which broke her +engagement to Harry Feversham had been most bravely atoned, there could +be no doubt as to the course which he would insist upon pursuing. He +would strip himself of her, the one thing left to him, and that she was +stubbornly determined he should not do. She was bound to him in honour, +and it would be a poor way of manifesting her joy that Harry Feversham +had redeemed his honour if she straightway sacrificed her own. + +Captain Willoughby pursed up his lips and whistled. + +"Engaged to Jack Durrance!" he exclaimed. "Then I seem to have wasted my +time in bringing you that feather," and he pointed towards it. She was +holding it in her open hand, and she drew her hand sharply away, as +though she feared for a moment that he meant to rob her of it. + +"I am most grateful for it," she returned. + +"It's a bit of a muddle, isn't it?" Willoughby remarked. "It seems a +little rough on Feversham perhaps. It's a little rough on Jack Durrance, +too, when you come to think of it." Then he looked at Ethne. He noticed +her careful handling of the feather; he remembered something of the +glowing look with which she had listened to his story, something of the +eager tones in which she had put her questions; and he added, "I +shouldn't wonder if it was rather rough on you too, Miss Eustace." + +Ethne did not answer him, and they walked together out of the enclosure +towards the spot where Willoughby had moored his boat. She hurried him +down the bank to the water's edge, intent that he should sail away +unperceived. + +But Ethne had counted without Mrs. Adair, who all that morning had seen +much in Ethne's movements to interest her. From the drawing-room window +she had watched Ethne and Durrance meet at the foot of the +terrace-steps, she had seen them walk together towards the estuary, she +had noticed Willoughby's boat as it ran aground in the wide gap between +the trees, she had seen a man disembark, and Ethne go forward to meet +him. Mrs. Adair was not the woman to leave her post of observation at +such a moment, and from the cover of the curtains she continued to watch +with all the curiosity of a woman in a village who draws down the blind, +that unobserved she may get a better peep at the stranger passing down +the street. Ethne and the man from the boat turned away and disappeared +amongst the trees, leaving Durrance forgotten and alone. Mrs. Adair +thought at once of that enclosure at the water's edge. The conversation +lasted for some while, and since the couple did not promptly reappear, a +question flashed into her mind. "Could the stranger be Harry Feversham?" +Ethne had no friends in this part of the world. The question pressed +upon Mrs. Adair. She longed for an answer, and of course for that +particular answer which would convict Ethne Eustace of duplicity. Her +interest grew into an excitement when she saw Durrance, tired of +waiting, follow upon Ethne's steps. But what came after was to interest +her still more. + +Durrance reappeared, to her surprise alone, and came straight to the +house, up the terrace, into the drawing-room. + +"Have you seen Ethne?" he asked. + +"Is she not in the little garden by the water?" Mrs. Adair asked. + +"No. I went into it and called to her. It was empty." + +"Indeed?" said Mrs. Adair. "Then I don't know where she is. Are you +going?" + +"Yes, home." + +Mrs. Adair made no effort to detain him at that moment. + +"Perhaps you will come in and dine to-night. Eight o'clock." + +"Thanks, very much. I shall be pleased," said Durrance, but he did not +immediately go. He stood by the window idly swinging to and fro the +tassel of the blind. + +"I did not know until to-day that it was your plan that I should come +home and Ethne stay with you until I found out whether a cure was likely +or possible. It was very kind of you, Mrs. Adair, and I am grateful." + +"It was a natural plan to propose as soon as I heard of your ill-luck." + +"And when was that?" he asked unconcernedly. "The day after Calder's +telegram reached her from Wadi Halfa, I suppose." + +Mrs. Adair was not deceived by his attitude of carelessness. She +realised that his expression of gratitude had deliberately led up to +this question. + +"Oh, so you knew of that telegram," she said. "I thought you did not." +For Ethne had asked her not to mention it on the very day when Durrance +returned to England. + +"Of course I knew of it," he returned, and without waiting any longer +for an answer he went out on to the terrace. + +Mrs. Adair dismissed for the moment the mystery of the telegram. She was +occupied by her conjecture that in the little garden by the water's edge +Durrance had stood and called aloud for Ethne, while within twelve yards +of him, perhaps actually within his reach, she and some one else had +kept very still and had given no answer. Her conjecture was soon proved +true. She saw Ethne and her companion come out again on to the open +lawn. Was it Feversham? She must have an answer to that question. She +saw them descend the bank towards the boat, and, stepping from her +window, ran. + +Thus it happened that as Willoughby rose from loosening the painter, he +saw Mrs. Adair's disappointed eyes gazing into his. Mrs. Adair called to +Ethne, who stood by Captain Willoughby, and came down the bank to them. + +"I noticed you cross the lawn from the drawing-room window," she said. + +"Yes?" answered Ethne, and she said no more. Mrs. Adair, however, did +not move away, and an awkward pause followed. Ethne was forced to give +in. + +"I was talking to Captain Willoughby," and she turned to him. "You do +not know Mrs. Adair, I think?" + +"No," he replied, as he raised his hat. "But I know Mrs. Adair very well +by name. I know friends of yours, Mrs. Adair--Durrance, for instance; +and of course I knew--" + +A glance from Ethne brought him abruptly to a stop. He began vigorously +to push the nose of his boat from the sand. + +"Of course, what?" asked Mrs. Adair, with a smile. + +"Of course I knew of you, Mrs. Adair." + +Mrs. Adair was quite clear that this was not what Willoughby had been on +the point of saying when Ethne turned her eyes quietly upon him and cut +him short. He was on the point of adding another name. "Captain +Willoughby," she repeated to herself. Then she said:-- + +"You belong to Colonel Durrance's regiment, perhaps?" + +"No, I belong to the North Surrey," he answered. + +"Ah! Mr. Feversham's old regiment," said Mrs. Adair, pleasantly. Captain +Willoughby had fallen into her little trap with a guilelessness which +provoked in her a desire for a closer acquaintanceship. Whatever +Willoughby knew it would be easy to extract. Ethne, however, had +disconcerting ways which at times left Mrs. Adair at a loss. She looked +now straight into Mrs. Adair's eyes and said calmly:-- + +"Captain Willoughby and I have been talking of Mr. Feversham." At the +same time she held out her hand to the captain. "Good-bye," she said. + +Mrs. Adair hastily interrupted. + +"Colonel Durrance has gone home, but he dines with us to-night. I came +out to tell you that, but I am glad that I came, for it gives me the +opportunity to ask your friend to lunch with us if he will." + +Captain Willoughby, who already had one leg over the bows of his boat, +withdrew it with alacrity. + +"It's awfully good of you, Mrs. Adair," he began. + +"It is very kind indeed," Ethne continued, "but Captain Willoughby has +reminded me that his leave is very short, and we have no right to detain +him. Good-bye." + +Captain Willoughby gazed with a vain appeal upon Miss Eustace. He had +travelled all night from London, he had made the scantiest breakfast at +Kingsbridge, and the notion of lunch appealed to him particularly at +that moment. But her eyes rested on his with a quiet and inexorable +command. He bowed, got ruefully into his boat, and pushed off from the +shore. + +"It's a little bit rough on me too, perhaps, Miss Eustace," he said. +Ethne laughed, and returned to the terrace with Mrs. Adair. Once or +twice she opened the palm of her hand and disclosed to her companion's +view a small white feather, at which she laughed again, and with a clear +and rather low laugh. But she gave no explanation of Captain +Willoughby's errand. Had she been in Mrs. Adair's place she would not +have expected one. It was her business and only hers. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THE MUSOLINE OVERTURE + + +Mrs. Adair, on her side, asked for no explanations. She was naturally, +behind her pale and placid countenance, a woman of a tortuous and +intriguing mind. She preferred to look through a keyhole even when she +could walk straight in at the door; and knowledge which could be gained +by a little maneuvering was always more desirable and precious in her +eyes than any information which a simple question would elicit. She +avoided, indeed, the direct question on a perverted sort of principle, +and she thought a day very well spent if at the close of it she had +outwitted a companion into telling her spontaneously some trivial and +unimportant piece of news which a straightforward request would have at +once secured for her at breakfast-time. + +Therefore, though she was mystified by the little white feather upon +which Ethne seemed to set so much store, and wondered at the good news +of Harry Feversham which Captain Willoughby had brought, and vainly +puzzled her brains in conjecture as to what in the world could have +happened on that night at Ramelton so many years ago, she betrayed +nothing whatever of her perplexity all through lunch; on the contrary, +she plied her guest with conversation upon indifferent topics. Mrs. +Adair could be good company when she chose, and she chose now. But it +was not to any purpose. + +"I don't believe that you hear a single word I am saying!" she +exclaimed. + +Ethne laughed and pleaded guilty. She betook herself to her room as soon +as lunch was finished, and allowed herself an afternoon of solitude. +Sitting at her window, she repeated slowly the story which Willoughby +had told to her that morning, and her heart thrilled to it as to music +divinely played. The regret that he had not come home and told it a year +ago, when she was free, was a small thing in comparison with the story +itself. It could not outweigh the great gladness which that brought to +her--it had, indeed, completely vanished from her thoughts. Her pride, +which had never recovered from the blow which Harry Feversham had dealt +to her in the hall at Lennon House, was now quite restored, and by the +man who had dealt the blow. She was aglow with it, and most grateful to +Harry Feversham for that he had, at so much peril to himself, restored +it. She was conscious of a new exhilaration in the sunlight, of a +quicker pulsation in her blood. Her youth was given back to her upon +that August afternoon. + +Ethne unlocked a drawer in her dressing-case, and took from it the +portrait which alone of all Harry Feversham's presents she had kept. She +rejoiced that she had kept it. It was the portrait of some one who was +dead to her--that she knew very well, for there was no thought of +disloyalty toward Durrance in her breast--but the some one was a friend. +She looked at it with a great happiness and contentment, because Harry +Feversham had needed no expression of faith from her to inspire him, +and no encouragement from her to keep him through the years on the level +of his high inspiration. When she put it back again, she laid the white +feather in the drawer with it and locked the two things up together. + +She came back to her window. Out upon the lawn a light breeze made the +shadows from the high trees dance, the sunlight mellowed and reddened. +But Ethne was of her county, as Harry Feversham had long ago discovered, +and her heart yearned for it at this moment. It was the month of August. +The first of the heather would be out upon the hillsides of Donegal, and +she wished that the good news had been brought to her there. The regret +that it had not was her crumpled rose-leaf. Here she was in a strange +land; there the brown mountains, with their outcroppings of granite and +the voices of the streams, would have shared, she almost thought, in her +new happiness. Great sorrows or great joys had this in common for Ethne +Eustace, they both drew her homewards, since there endurance was more +easy and gladness more complete. + +She had, however, one living tie with Donegal at her side, for Dermod's +old collie dog had become her inseparable companion. To him she made her +confidence, and if at times her voice broke in tears, why, the dog would +not tell. She came to understand much which Willoughby had omitted, and +which Feversham had never told. Those three years of concealment in the +small and crowded city of Suakin, for instance, with the troops marching +out to battle, and returning dust-strewn and bleeding and laurelled with +victory. Harry Feversham had to slink away at their approach, lest some +old friend of his--Durrance, perhaps, or Willoughby, or Trench--should +notice him and penetrate his disguise. The panic which had beset him +when first he saw the dark brown walls of Berber, the night in the +ruined acres, the stumbling search for the well amongst the shifting +sandhills of Obak,--Ethne had vivid pictures of these incidents, and as +she thought of each she asked herself: "Where was I then? What was I +doing?" + +She sat in a golden mist until the lights began to change upon the still +water of the creek, and the rooks wheeled noisily out from the tree-tops +to sort themselves for the night, and warned her of evening. + +She brought to the dinner-table that night a buoyancy of spirit which +surprised her companions. Mrs. Adair had to admit that seldom had her +eyes shone so starrily, or the colour so freshly graced her cheeks. She +was more than ever certain that Captain Willoughby had brought stirring +news; she was more than ever tortured by her vain efforts to guess its +nature. But Mrs. Adair, in spite of her perplexities, took her share in +the talk, and that dinner passed with a freedom from embarrassment +unknown since Durrance had come home to Guessens. For he, too, threw off +a burden of restraint; his spirits rose to match Ethne's; he answered +laugh with laugh, and from his face that habitual look of tension, the +look of a man listening with all his might that his ears might make good +the loss of his eyes, passed altogether away. + +"You will play on your violin to-night, I think," he said with a smile, +as they rose from the table. + +"Yes," she answered, "I will--with all my heart." + +Durrance laughed and held open the door. The violin had remained locked +in its case during these last two months. Durrance had come to look upon +that violin as a gauge and test. If the world was going well with Ethne, +the case was unlocked, the instrument was allowed to speak; if the world +went ill, it was kept silent lest it should say too much, and open old +wounds and lay them bare to other eyes. Ethne herself knew it for an +indiscreet friend. But it was to be brought out to-night. + +Mrs. Adair lingered until Ethne was out of ear-shot. + +"You have noticed the change in her to-night?" she said. + +"Yes. Have I not?" answered Durrance. "One has waited for it, hoped for +it, despaired of it." + +"Are you so glad of the change?" + +Durrance threw back his head. "Do you wonder that I am glad? Kind, +friendly, unselfish--these things she has always been. But there is more +than friendliness evident to-night, and for the first time it's +evident." + +There came a look of pity upon Mrs. Adair's face, and she passed out of +the room without another word. Durrance took all of that great change in +Ethne to himself. Mrs. Adair drew up the blinds of the drawing-room, +opened the window, and let the moonlight in; and then, as she saw Ethne +unlocking the case of her violin, she went out on to the terrace. She +felt that she could not sit patiently in her company. So that when +Durrance entered the drawing-room he found Ethne alone there. She was +seated in the window, and already tightening the strings of her violin. +Durrance took a chair behind her in the shadows. + +"What shall I play to you?" she asked. + +"The Musoline Overture," he answered. "You played it on the first +evening when I came to Ramelton. I remember so well how you played it +then. Play it again to-night. I want to compare." + +"I have played it since." + +"Never to me." + +They were alone in the room; the windows stood open; it was a night of +moonlight. Ethne suddenly crossed to the lamp and put it out. She +resumed her seat, while Durrance remained in the shadow, leaning +forward, with his hands upon his knees, listening--but with an +intentness of which he had given no sign that evening. He was applying, +as he thought, a final test upon which his life and hers should be +decided. Ethne's violin would tell him assuredly whether he was right or +no. Would friendship speak from it or the something more than +friendship? + +Ethne played the overture, and as she played she forgot that Durrance +was in the room behind her. In the garden the air was still and +summer-warm and fragrant; on the creek the moonlight lay like a solid +floor of silver; the trees stood dreaming to the stars; and as the music +floated loud out across the silent lawn, Ethne had a sudden fancy that +it might perhaps travel down the creek and over Salcombe Bar and across +the moonlit seas, and strike small yet wonderfully clear like fairy +music upon the ears of a man sleeping somewhere far away beneath the +brightness of the southern stars with the cool night wind of the desert +blowing upon his face. + +"If he could only hear!" she thought. "If he could only wake and know +that what he heard was a message of friendship!" + +And with this fancy in her mind she played with such skill as she had +never used before; she made of her violin a voice of sympathy. The fancy +grew and changed as she played. The music became a bridge swung in +mid-air across the world, upon which just for these few minutes she and +Harry Feversham might meet and shake hands. They would separate, of +course, forthwith, and each one go upon the allotted way. But these few +minutes would be a help to both along the separate ways. The chords rang +upon silence. It seemed to Ethne that they declaimed the pride which had +come to her that day. Her fancy grew into a belief. It was no longer "If +he should hear," but "He _must_ hear!" And so carried away was she from +the discretion of thought that a strange hope suddenly sprang up and +enthralled her. + +"If he could answer!" + +She lingered upon the last bars, waiting for the answer; and when the +music had died down to silence, she sat with her violin upon her knees, +looking eagerly out across the moonlit garden. + +And an answer did come, but it was not carried up the creek and across +the lawn. It came from the dark shadows of the room behind her, and it +was spoken through the voice of Durrance. + +"Ethne, where do you think I heard that overture last played?" + +Ethne was roused with a start to the consciousness that Durrance was in +the room, and she answered like one shaken suddenly out of sleep. + +"Why, you told me. At Ramelton, when you first came to Lennon House." + +"I have heard it since, though it was not played by you. It was not +really played at all. But a melody of it and not even that really, but a +suggestion of a melody, I heard stumbled out upon a zither, with many +false notes, by a Greek in a bare little whitewashed café, lit by one +glaring lamp, at Wadi Halfa." + +"This overture?" she said. "How strange!" + +"Not so strange after all. For the Greek was Harry Feversham." + +So the answer had come. Ethne had no doubt that it was an answer. She +sat very still in the moonlight; only had any one bent over her with +eyes to see, he would have discovered that her eyelids were closed. +There followed a long silence. She did not consider why Durrance, having +kept this knowledge secret so long, should speak of it now. She did not +ask what Harry Feversham was doing that he must play the zither in a +mean café at Wadi Halfa. But it seemed to her that he had spoken to her +as she to him. The music had, after all, been a bridge. It was not even +strange that he had used Durrance's voice wherewith to speak to her. + +"When was this?" she asked at length. + +"In February of this year. I will tell you about it." + +"Yes, please, tell me." + +And Durrance spoke out of the shadows of the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +THE ANSWER TO THE OVERTURE + + +Ethne did not turn towards Durrance or move at all from her attitude. +She sat with her violin upon her knees, looking across the moonlit +garden to the band of silver in the gap of the trees; and she kept her +position deliberately. For it helped her to believe that Harry Feversham +himself was speaking to her, she was able to forget that he was speaking +through the voice of Durrance. She almost forgot that Durrance was even +in the room. She listened with Durrance's own intentness, and anxious +that the voice should speak very slowly, so that the message might take +a long time in the telling, and she gather it all jealously to her +heart. + +"It was on the night before I started eastward into the desert--for the +last time," said Durrance, and the deep longing and regret with which he +dwelt upon that "last time" for once left Ethne quite untouched. + +"Yes," she said. "That was in February. The middle of the month, wasn't +it? Do you remember the day? I should like to know the exact day if you +can tell me." + +"The fifteenth," said Durrance; and Ethne repeated the date +meditatively. + +"I was at Glenalla all February," she said. "What was I doing on the +fifteenth? It does not matter." + +She had felt a queer sort of surprise all the time while Willoughby was +telling his story that morning, that she had not known, by some +instinct, of these incidents at the actual moment of their occurrence. +The surprise returned to her now. It was strange that she should have +had to wait for this August night and this summer garden of moonlight +and closed flowers before she learned of the meeting between Feversham +and Durrance on February 15 and heard the message. And remorse came to +her because of that delay. "It was my own fault," she said to herself. +"If I had kept my faith in him I should have known at once. I am well +punished." It did not at all occur to her that the message could convey +any but the best of news. It would carry on the good tidings which she +had already heard. It would enlarge and complete, so that this day might +be rounded to perfection. Of this she was quite sure. + +"Well?" she said. "Go on!" + +"I had been busy all that day in my office finishing up my work. I +turned the key in the door at ten o'clock, thinking with relief that for +six weeks I should not open it, and I strolled northward out of Wadi +Halfa along the Nile bank into the little town of Tewfikieh. As I +entered the main street I saw a small crowd--Arabs, negroes, a Greek or +two, and some Egyptian soldiers, standing outside the café, and lit up +by a glare of light from within. As I came nearer I heard the sound of a +violin and a zither, both most vilely played, jingling out a waltz. I +stood at the back of the crowd and looked over the shoulders of the men +in front of me into the room. It was a place of four bare whitewashed +walls; a bar stood in one corner, a wooden bench or two were ranged +against the walls, and a single unshaded paraffin lamp swung and glared +from the ceiling. A troupe of itinerant musicians were playing to that +crowd of negroes and Arabs and Egyptians for a night's lodging and the +price of a meal. There were four of them, and, so far as I could see, +all four were Greeks. Two were evidently man and wife. They were both +old, both slatternly and almost in rags; the man a thin, sallow-faced +fellow, with grey hair and a black moustache; the woman fat, coarse of +face, unwieldy of body. Of the other two, one it seemed must be their +daughter, a girl of seventeen, not good-looking really, but dressed and +turned out with a scrupulous care, which in those sordid and mean +surroundings lent her good looks. The care, indeed, with which she was +dressed assured me she was their daughter, and to tell the truth, I was +rather touched by the thought that the father and mother would go in +rags so that she at all costs might be trim. A clean ribbon bound back +her hair, an untorn frock of some white stuff clothed her tidily; even +her shoes were neat. The fourth was a young man; he was seated in the +window, with his back towards me, bending over his zither. But I could +see that he wore a beard. When I came up the old man was playing the +violin, though playing is not indeed the word. The noise he made was +more like the squeaking of a pencil on a slate; it set one's teeth on +edge; the violin itself seemed to squeal with pain. And while he +fiddled, and the young man hammered at his zither, the old woman and +girl slowly revolved in a waltz. It may sound comic to hear about, but +if you could have seen! ... It fairly plucked at one's heart. I do not +think that I have ever in my life witnessed anything quite so sad. The +little crowd outside, negroes, mind you, laughing at the troupe, passing +from one to the other any sort of low jest at their expense, and inside +the four white people--the old woman, clumsy, heavy-footed, shining with +heat, lumbering round slowly, panting with her exertions; the girl, +lissom and young; the two men with their discordant, torturing music; +and just above you the great planets and stars of an African sky, and +just about you the great silent and spacious dignity of the moonlit +desert. Imagine it! The very ineptness of the entertainment actually +hurt one." + +He paused for a moment, while Ethne pictured to herself the scene which +he had described. She saw Harry Feversham bending over his zither, and +at once she asked herself, "What was he doing with that troupe?" It was +intelligible enough that he would not care to return to England. It was +certain that he would not come back to her, unless she sent for him. And +she knew from what Captain Willoughby had said that he expected no +message from her. He had not left with Willoughby the name of any place +where a letter could reach him. But what was he doing at Wadi Halfa, +masquerading with this itinerant troupe? He had money; so much +Willoughby had told her. + +"You spoke to him?" she asked suddenly. + +"To whom? Oh, to Harry?" returned Durrance. "Yes, afterwards, when I +found out it was he who was playing the zither." + +"Yes, how did you find out?" Ethne asked. + +"The waltz came to an end. The old woman sank exhausted upon the bench +against the whitewashed wall; the young man raised his head from his +zither; the old man scraped a new chord upon his violin, and the girl +stood forward to sing. Her voice had youth and freshness, but no other +quality of music. Her singing was as inept as the rest of the +entertainment. Yet the old man smiled, the mother beat time with her +heavy foot, and nodded at her husband with pride in their daughter's +accomplishment. And again in the throng the ill-conditioned talk, the +untranslatable jests of the Arabs and the negroes went their round. It +was horrible, don't you think?" + +"Yes," answered Ethne, but slowly, in an absent voice. As she had felt +no sympathy for Durrance when he began to speak, so she had none to +spare for these three outcasts of fortune. She was too absorbed in the +mystery of Harry Feversham's presence at Wadi Halfa. She was listening +too closely for the message which he sent to her. Through the open +window the moon threw a broad panel of silver light upon the floor of +the room close to her feet. She sat gazing into it as she listened, as +though it was itself a window through which, if she looked but hard +enough, she might see, very small and far away, that lighted café +blazing upon the street of the little town of Tewfikieh on the frontier +of the Soudan. + +"Well?" she asked. "And after the song was ended?" + +"The young man with his back towards me," Durrance resumed, "began to +fumble out a solo upon the zither. He struck so many false notes, no +tune was to be apprehended at the first. The laughter and noise grew +amongst the crowd, and I was just turning away, rather sick at heart, +when some notes, a succession of notes played correctly by chance, +suddenly arrested me. I listened again, and a sort of haunting melody +began to emerge--a weak thin thing with no soul in it, a ghost of a +melody, and yet familiar. I stood listening in the street of sand, +between the hovels fringed by a row of stunted trees, and I was carried +away out of the East to Ramelton and to a summer night beneath a melting +sky of Donegal, when you sat by the open window as you sit now and +played the Musoline Overture, which you have played again to-night." + +"It was a melody from this overture?" she exclaimed. + +"Yes, and it was Harry Feversham who played the melody. I did not guess +it at once. I was not very quick in those days." + +"But you are now," said Ethne. + +"Quicker, at all events. I should have guessed it now. Then, however, I +was only curious. I wondered how it was that an itinerant Greek came to +pick up the tune. At all events, I determined to reward him for his +diligence. I thought that you would like me to." + +"Yes," said Ethne, in a whisper. + +"So, when he came out from the café, and with his hat in his hand passed +through the jeering crowd, I threw a sovereign into the hat. He turned +to me with a start of surprise. In spite of his beard I knew him. +Besides, before he could check himself, he cried out 'Jack!'" + +"You can have made no mistake, then," said Ethne, in a wondering voice. +"No, the man who strummed upon the zither was--" the Christian name was +upon her lips, but she had the wit to catch it back unuttered--"was Mr. +Feversham. But he knew no music I remember very well." She laughed with +a momentary recollection of Feversham's utter inability to appreciate +any music except that which she herself evoked from her violin. "He had +no ear. You couldn't invent a discord harsh enough even to attract his +attention. He could never have remembered any melody from the Musoline +Overture." + +"Yet it was Harry Feversham," he answered. "Somehow he had remembered. I +can understand it. He would have so little he cared to remember, and +that little he would have striven with all his might to bring clearly +back to mind. Somehow, too, by much practice, I suppose, he had managed +to elicit from his zither some sort of resemblance to what he +remembered. Can't you imagine him working the scrap of music out in his +brain, humming it over, whistling it uncounted times with perpetual +errors and confusions, until some fine day he got it safe and sure and +fixed it in his thoughts? I can. Can't you imagine him, then, picking it +out sedulously and laboriously on the strings? I can. Indeed, I can." + +Thus Ethne got her answer, and Durrance interpreted it to her +understanding. She sat silent and very deeply moved by the story he had +told to her. It was fitting that this overture, her favourite piece of +music, should convey the message that he had not forgotten her, that in +spite of the fourth white feather he thought of her with friendship. +Harry Feversham had not striven so laboriously to learn that melody in +vain. Ethne was stirred as she had thought nothing would ever again have +the power to stir her. She wondered whether Harry, as he sat in the +little bare whitewashed café, and strummed out his music to the negroes +and Greeks and Arabs gathered about the window, had dreamed, as she had +done to-night, that somehow, thin and feeble as it was, some echo of the +melody might reach across the world. She knew now for very certain that, +however much she might in the future pretend to forget Harry Feversham, +it would never be more than a pretence. The vision of the lighted café +in the desert town would never be very far from her thoughts, but she +had no intention of relaxing on that account from her determination to +pretend to forget. The mere knowledge that she had at one time been +unjustly harsh to Harry, made her yet more resolved that Durrance should +not suffer for any fault of hers. + +"I told you last year, Ethne, at Hill Street," Durrance resumed, "that I +never wished to see Feversham again. I was wrong. The reluctance was all +on his side and not at all on mine. For the moment that he realised he +had called out my name he tried to edge backward from me into the crowd, +he began to gabble Greek, but I caught him by the arm, and I would not +let him go. He had done you some great wrong. That I know; that I knew. +But I could not remember it then. I only remembered that years before +Harry Feversham had been my friend, my one great friend; that we had +rowed in the same college boat at Oxford, he at stroke, I at seven; +that the stripes on his jersey during three successive eights had made +my eyes dizzy during those last hundred yards of spurt past the barges. +We had bathed together in Sandford Lasher on summer afternoons. We had +had supper on Kennington Island; we had cut lectures and paddled up the +Cher to Islip. And here he was at Wadi Halfa, herding with that troupe, +an outcast, sunk to such a depth of ill-fortune that he must come to +that squalid little town and play the zither vilely before a crowd of +natives and a few Greek clerks for his night's lodging and the price of +a meal." + +"No," Ethne interrupted suddenly. "It was not for that reason that he +went to Wadi Halfa." + +"Why, then?" asked Durrance. + +"I cannot think. But he was not in any need of money. His father had +continued his allowance, and he had accepted it." + +"You are sure?" + +"Quite sure. I heard it only to-day," said Ethne. + +It was a slip, but Ethne for once was off her guard that night. She did +not even notice that she had made a slip. She was too engrossed in +Durrance's story. Durrance himself, however, was not less preoccupied, +and so the statement passed for the moment unobserved by either. + +"So you never knew what brought Mr. Feversham to Halfa?" she asked. "Did +you not ask him? Why didn't you? Why?" + +She was disappointed, and the bitterness of her disappointment gave +passion to her cry. Here was the last news of Harry Feversham, and it +was brought to her incomplete, like the half sheet of a letter. The +omission might never be repaired. + +"I was a fool," said Durrance. There was almost as much regret in his +voice now as there had been in hers; and because of that regret he did +not remark the passion with which she had spoken. "I shall not easily +forgive myself. He was my friend, you see. I had him by the arm, and I +let him go. I was a fool." And he knocked upon his forehead with his +fist. + +"He tried Arabic," Durrance resumed, "pleading that he and his +companions were just poor peaceable people, that if I had given him too +much money, I should take it back, and all the while he dragged away +from me. But I held him fast. I said, 'Harry Feversham, that won't do,' +and upon that he gave in and spoke in English, whispering it. 'Let me +go, Jack, let me go.' There was the crowd about us. It was evident that +Harry had some reason for secrecy; it might have been shame, for all I +knew, shame at his downfall. I said, 'Come up to my quarters in Halfa as +soon as you are free,' and I let him go. All that night I waited for him +on the verandah, but he did not come. In the morning I had to start +across the desert. I almost spoke of him to a friend who came to see me +start, to Calder, in fact--you know of him--the man who sent you the +telegram," said Durrance, with a laugh. + +"Yes, I remember," Ethne answered. + +It was the second slip she had made that night. The receipt of Calder's +telegram was just one of the things which Durrance was not to know. But +again she was unaware that she had made a slip at all. She did not even +consider how Durrance had come to know or guess that the telegram had +ever been despatched. + +"At the very last moment," Durrance resumed, "when my camel had risen +from the ground, I stooped down to speak to him, to tell him to see to +Feversham. But I did not. You see I knew nothing about his allowance. I +merely thought that he had fallen rather low. It did not seem fair to +him that another should know of it. So I rode on and kept silence." + +Ethne nodded her head. She could not but approve, however poignant her +regret for the lost news. + +"So you never saw Mr. Feversham again?" + +"I was away nine weeks. I came back blind," he answered simply, and the +very simplicity of his words went to Ethne's heart. He was apologising +for his blindness, which had hindered him from inquiring. She began to +wake to the comprehension that it was really Durrance who was speaking +to her, but he continued to speak, and what he said drove her quite out +of all caution. + +"I went at once to Cairo, and Calder came with me. There I told him of +Harry Feversham, and how I had seen him at Tewfikieh. I asked Calder +when he got back to Halfa to make inquiries, to find and help Harry +Feversham if he could; I asked him, too, to let me know the result. I +received a letter from Calder a week ago, and I am troubled by it, very +much troubled." + +"What did he say?" Ethne asked apprehensively, and she turned in her +chair away from the moonlight towards the shadows of the room and +Durrance. She bent forward to see his face, but the darkness hid it. A +sudden fear struck through her and chilled her blood, but out of the +darkness Durrance spoke. + +"That the two women and the old Greek had gone back northward on a +steamer to Assouan." + +"Mr. Feversham remained at Wadi Halfa, then? That is so, isn't it?" she +said eagerly. + +"No," Durrance replied. "Harry Feversham did not remain. He slipped past +Halfa the day after I started toward the east. He went out in the +morning, and to the south." + +"Into the desert?" + +"Yes, but the desert to the south, the enemy's country. He went just as +I saw him, carrying his zither. He was seen. There can be no doubt." + +Ethne was quite silent for a little while. Then she asked:-- + +"You have that letter with you?" + +"Yes." + +"I should like to read it." + +She rose from her chair and walked across to Durrance. He took the +letter from his pocket and gave it to her, and she carried it over to +the window. The moonlight was strong. Ethne stood close by the window, +with a hand pressed upon her heart, and read it through once and again. +The letter was explicit; the Greek who owned the café at which the +troupe had performed admitted that Joseppi, under which name he knew +Feversham, had wandered south, carrying a water-skin and a store of +dates, though why, he either did not know or would not tell. Ethne had a +question to ask, but it was some time before she could trust her lips to +utter it distinctly and without faltering. + +"What will happen to him?" + +"At the best, capture; at the worst, death. Death by starvation, or +thirst, or at the hands of the Dervishes. But there is just a hope it +might be only capture and imprisonment. You see he was white. If caught, +his captors might think him a spy; they would be sure he had knowledge +of our plans and our strength. I think that they would most likely send +him to Omdurman. I have written to Calder. Spies go out and in from Wadi +Halfa. We often hear of things which happen in Omdurman. If Feversham is +taken there, sooner or later I shall know. But he must have gone mad. It +is the only explanation." + +Ethne had another, and she knew hers to be the right one. She was off +her guard, and she spoke it aloud to Durrance. + +"Colonel Trench," said she, "is a prisoner at Omdurman." + +"Oh, yes," answered Durrance. "Feversham will not be quite alone. There +is some comfort in that, and perhaps something may be done. When I hear +from Calder I will tell you. Perhaps something may be done." + +It was evident that Durrance had misconstrued her remark. He at all +events was still in the dark as to the motive which had taken Feversham +southward beyond the Egyptian patrols. And he must remain in the dark. +For Ethne did not even now slacken in her determination still to pretend +to have forgotten. She stood at the window with the letter clenched in +her hand. She must utter no cry, she must not swoon; she must keep very +still and quiet, and speak when needed with a quiet voice, even though +she knew that Harry Feversham had gone southward to join Colonel Trench +at Omdurman. But so much was beyond her strength. For as Colonel +Durrance began to speak again, the desire to escape, to be alone with +this terrible news, became irresistible. The cool quietude of the +garden, the dark shadows of the trees, called to her. + +"Perhaps you will wonder," said Durrance, "why I have told you to-night +what I have up till now kept to myself. I did not dare to tell it you +before. I want to explain why." + +Ethne did not notice the exultation in his voice; she did not consider +what his explanation might be; she only felt that she could not now +endure to listen to it. The mere sound of a human voice had become an +unendurable thing. She hardly knew indeed that Durrance was speaking, +she was only aware that a voice spoke, and that the voice must stop. She +was close by the window; a single silent step, and she was across the +sill and free. Durrance continued to speak out of the darkness, +engrossed in what he said, and Ethne did not listen to a word. She +gathered her skirts carefully, so that they should not rustle, and +stepped from the window. This was the third slip which she made upon +that eventful night. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +MRS. ADAIR INTERFERES + + +Ethne had thought to escape quite unobserved; but Mrs. Adair was sitting +upon the terrace in the shadow of the house and not very far from the +open window of the drawing-room. She saw Ethne lightly cross the terrace +and run down the steps into the garden, and she wondered at the +precipitancy of her movements. Ethne seemed to be taking flight, and in +a sort of desperation. The incident was singular, and remarkably +singular to Mrs. Adair, who from the angle in which she sat commanded a +view of that open window through which the moonlight shone. She had seen +Ethne turn out the lamp, and the swift change in the room from light to +dark, with its suggestion of secrecy and the private talk of lovers, had +been a torture to her. But she had not fled from the torture. She had +sat listening, and the music as it floated out upon the garden with its +thrill of happiness, its accent of yearning, and the low, hushed +conversation which followed upon its cessation in that darkened room, +had struck upon a chord of imagination in Mrs. Adair and had kindled her +jealousy into a scorching flame. Then suddenly Ethne had taken flight. +The possibility of a quarrel Mrs. Adair dismissed from her thoughts. She +knew very well that Ethne was not of the kind which quarrels, nor would +she escape by running away, should she be entangled in a quarrel. But +something still more singular occurred. Durrance continued to speak in +that room from which Ethne had escaped. The sound of his voice reached +Mrs. Adair's ears, though she could not distinguish the words. It was +clear to her that he believed Ethne to be still with him. Mrs. Adair +rose from her seat and, walking silently upon the tips of her toes, came +close to the open window. She heard Durrance laugh light-heartedly, and +she listened to the words he spoke. She could hear them plainly now, +though she could not see the man who spoke them. He sat in the shadows. + +"I began to find out," he was saying, "even on that first afternoon at +Hill Street two months ago, that there was only friendship on your side. +My blindness helped me. With your face and your eyes in view I should +have believed without question just what you wished me to believe. But +you had no longer those defences. I on my side had grown quicker. I +began in a word to see. For the first time in my life I began to see." + +Mrs. Adair did not move. Durrance, upon his side, appeared to expect no +answer or acknowledgment. He spoke with the voice of enjoyment which a +man uses recounting difficulties which have ceased to hamper him, +perplexities which have been long since unravelled. + +"I should have definitely broken off our engagement, I suppose, at once. +For I still believed, and as firmly as ever, that there must be more +than friendship on both sides. But I had grown selfish. I warned you, +Ethne, selfishness was the blind man's particular fault. I waited and +deferred the time of marriage. I made excuses. I led you to believe that +there was a chance of recovery when I knew there was none. For I hoped, +as a man will, that with time your friendship might grow into more than +friendship. So long as there was a chance of that, I--Ethne, I could not +let you go. So, I listened for some new softness in your voice, some new +buoyancy in your laughter, some new deep thrill of the heart in the +music which you played, longing for it--how much! Well, to-night I have +burnt my boats. I have admitted to you that I knew friendship limited +your thoughts of me. I have owned to you that there is no hope my sight +will be restored. I have even dared to-night to tell you what I have +kept secret for so long, my meeting with Harry Feversham and the peril +he has run. And why? Because for the first time I have heard to-night +just those signs for which I waited. The new softness, the new pride, in +your voice, the buoyancy in your laughter--they have been audible to me +all this evening. The restraint and the tension were gone from your +manner. And when you played, it was as though some one with just your +skill and knowledge played, but some one who let her heart speak +resonantly through the music as until to-night you have never done. +Ethne, Ethne!" + +But at that moment Ethne was in the little enclosed garden whither she +had led Captain Willoughby that morning. Here she was private; her +collie dog had joined her; she had reached the solitude and the silence +which had become necessities to her. A few more words from Durrance and +her prudence would have broken beneath the strain. All that pretence of +affection which during these last months she had so sedulously built up +about him like a wall which he was never to look over, would have been +struck down and levelled to the ground. Durrance, indeed, had already +looked over the wall, was looking over it with amazed eyes at this +instant, but that Ethne did not know, and to hinder him from knowing it +she had fled. The moonlight slept in silver upon the creek; the tall +trees stood dreaming to the stars; the lapping of the tide against the +bank was no louder than the music of a river. She sat down upon the +bench and strove to gather some of the quietude of that summer night +into her heart, and to learn from the growing things of nature about her +something of their patience and their extraordinary perseverance. + +But the occurrences of the day had overtaxed her, and she could not. +Only this morning, and in this very garden, the good news had come and +she had regained Harry Feversham. For in that way she thought of +Willoughby's message. This morning she had regained him, and this +evening the bad news had come and she had lost him, and most likely +right to the very end of mortal life. Harry Feversham meant to pay for +his fault to the uttermost scruple, and Ethne cried out against his +thoroughness, which he had learned from no other than herself. "Surely," +she thought, "he might have been content. In redeeming his honour in the +eyes of one of the three he has done enough, he has redeemed it in the +eyes of all." + +But he had gone south to join Colonel Trench in Omdurman. Of that +squalid and shadowless town, of its hideous barbarities, of the horrors +of its prison-house, Ethne knew nothing at all. But Captain Willoughby +had hinted enough to fill her imagination with terrors. He had offered +to explain to her what captivity in Omdurman implied, and she wrung her +hands, as she remembered that she had refused to listen. What cruelties +might not be practised? Even now, at that very hour perhaps, on this +night of summer--but she dared not let her thoughts wander that way.... + +The lapping of the tide against the banks was like the music of a river. +It brought to Ethne's mind one particular river which had sung and +babbled in her ears when five years ago she had watched out another +summer night till dawn. Never had she so hungered for her own country +and the companionship of its brown hills and streams. No, not even this +afternoon, when she had sat at her window and watched the lights change +upon the creek. Donegal had a sanctity for her, it seemed when she +dwelled in it to set her in a way apart from and above earthly taints; +and as her heart went out in a great longing towards it now, a sudden +fierce loathing for the concealments, the shifts and maneuvers which +she had practised, and still must practise, sprang up within her. A +great weariness came upon her, too. But she did not change from her +fixed resolve. Two lives were not to be spoilt because she lived in the +world. To-morrow she could gather up her strength and begin again. For +Durrance must never know that there was another whom she placed before +him in her thoughts. Meanwhile, however, Durrance within the +drawing-room brought his confession to an end. + +"So you see," he said, "I could not speak of Harry Feversham until +to-night. For I was afraid that what I had to tell you would hurt you +very much. I was afraid that you still remembered him, in spite of those +five years. I knew, of course, that you were my friend. But I doubted +whether in your heart you were not more than that to him. To-night, +however, I could tell you without fear." + +Now at all events he expected an answer. Mrs. Adair, still standing by +the window, heard him move in the shadows. + +"Ethne!" he said, with some surprise in his voice; and since again no +answer came, he rose, and walked towards the chair in which Ethne had +sat. Mrs. Adair could see him now. His hands felt for and grasped the +back of the chair. He bent over it, as though he thought Ethne was +leaning forward with her hands upon her knees. + +"Ethne," he said again, and there was in this iteration of her name more +trouble and doubt than surprise. It seemed to Mrs. Adair that he dreaded +to find her silently weeping. He was beginning to speculate whether +after all he had been right in his inference from Ethne's recapture of +her youth to-night, whether the shadow of Feversham did not after all +fall between them. He leaned farther forward, feeling with his hand, and +suddenly a string of Ethne's violin twanged loud. She had left it lying +on the chair, and his fingers had touched it. + +Durrance drew himself up straight and stood quite motionless and silent, +like a man who had suffered a shock and is bewildered. He passed his +hand across his forehead once or twice, and then, without calling upon +Ethne again, he advanced to the open window. + +Mrs. Adair did not move, and she held her breath. There was just the +width of the sill between them. The moonlight struck full upon Durrance, +and she saw a comprehension gradually dawn in his face that some one was +standing close to him. + +"Ethne," he said a third time, and now he appealed. + +He stretched out a hand timidly and touched her dress. + +"It is not Ethne," he said with a start. + +"No, it is not Ethne," Mrs. Adair answered quickly. Durrance drew back a +step from the window, and for a little while was silent. + +"Where has she gone?" he asked at length. + +"Into the garden. She ran across the terrace and down the steps very +quickly and silently. I saw her from my chair. Then I heard you speaking +alone." + +"Can you see her now in the garden?" + +"No; she went across the lawn towards the trees and their great shadows. +There is only the moonlight in the garden now." + +Durrance stepped across the window sill and stood by the side of Mrs. +Adair. The last slip which Ethne had made betrayed her inevitably to the +man who had grown quick. There could be only one reason for her sudden +unexplained and secret flight. He had told her that Feversham had +wandered south from Wadi Halfa into the savage country; he had spoken +out his fears as to Feversham's fate without reserve, thinking that she +had forgotten him, and indeed rather inclined to blame her for the +callous indifference with which she received the news. The callousness +was a mere mask, and she had fled because she no longer had the strength +to hold it up before her face. His first suspicions had been right. +Feversham still stood between Ethne and himself and held them at arm's +length. + +"She ran as though she was in great trouble and hardly knew what she was +doing," Mrs. Adair continued. "Did you cause that trouble?" + +"Yes." + +"I thought so, from what I heard you say." + +Mrs. Adair wanted to hurt, and in spite of Durrance's impenetrable face, +she felt that she had succeeded. It was a small sort of compensation for +the weeks of mortification which she had endured. There is something +which might be said for Mrs. Adair; extenuations might be pleaded, even +if no defence was made. For she like Ethne was overtaxed that night. +That calm pale face of hers hid the quick passions of the South, and she +had been racked by them to the limits of endurance. There had been +something grotesque, something rather horrible, in that outbreak and +confession by Durrance, after Ethne had fled from the room. He was +speaking out his heart to an empty chair. She herself had stood without +the window with a bitter longing that he had spoken so to her and a +bitter knowledge that he never would. She was sunk deep in humiliation. +The irony of the position tortured her; it was like a jest of grim +selfish gods played off upon ineffectual mortals to their hurt. And at +the bottom of all the thoughts rankled that memory of the extinguished +lamp, and the low, hushed voices speaking one to the other in darkness. +Therefore she spoke to give pain and was glad that she gave it, even +though it was to the man whom she coveted. + +"There's one thing which I don't understand," said Durrance. "I mean the +change which we both noticed in Ethne to-night. I mistook the cause of +it, that's evident. I was a fool. But there must have been a cause. The +gift of laughter had been restored to her. Her gravity, her air of +calculation, had vanished. She became just what she was five years ago." + +"Exactly," Mrs. Adair answered. "Just what she was before Mr. Feversham +disappeared from Ramelton. You are so quick, Colonel Durrance. Ethne had +good news of Mr. Feversham this morning." + +Durrance turned quickly towards her, and Mrs. Adair felt a pleasure at +his abrupt movement. She had provoked the display of some emotion, and +the display of emotion was preferable to his composure. + +"Are you quite sure?" he asked. + +"As sure as that you gave her the worst of news to-night," she replied. + +But Durrance did not need the answer. Ethne had made another slip that +evening, and though unnoticed at the time, it came back to Durrance's +memory now. She had declared that Feversham still drew an allowance from +his father. "I heard it only to-day," she had said. + +"Yes, Ethne heard news of Feversham to-day," he said slowly. "Did she +make a mistake five years ago? There was some wrong thing Harry +Feversham was supposed to have done. But was there really more +misunderstanding than wrong? Did she misjudge him? Has she to-day +learnt that she misjudged him?" + +"I will tell you what I know. It is not very much. But I think it is +fair that you should know it." + +"Wait a moment, please, Mrs. Adair," said Durrance, sharply. He had put +his questions rather to himself than to his companion, and he was not +sure that he wished her to answer them. He walked abruptly away from her +and leaned upon the balustrade with his face towards the garden. + +It seemed to him rather treacherous to allow Mrs. Adair to disclose what +Ethne herself evidently intended to conceal. But he knew why Ethne +wished to conceal it. She wished him never to suspect that she retained +any love for Harry Feversham. On the other hand, however, he did not +falter from his own belief. Marriage between a man crippled like himself +and a woman active and vigorous like Ethne could never be right unless +both brought more than friendship. He turned back to Mrs. Adair. + +"I am no casuist," he said. "But here disloyalty seems the truest +loyalty of all. Tell me what you know, Mrs. Adair. Something might be +done perhaps for Feversham. From Assouan or Suakin something might be +done. This news--this good news came, I suppose, this afternoon when I +was at home." + +"No, this morning when you were here. It was brought by a Captain +Willoughby, who was once an officer in Mr. Feversham's regiment." + +"He is now Deputy-Governor of Suakin," said Durrance. "I know the man. +For three years we were together in that town. Well?" + +"He sailed down from Kingsbridge. You and Ethne were walking across the +lawn when he landed from the creek. Ethne left you and went forward to +meet him. I saw them meet, because I happened to be looking out of this +window at the moment." + +"Yes, Ethne went forward. There was a stranger whom she did not know. I +remember." + +"They spoke for a few moments, and then Ethne led him towards the trees, +at once, without looking back--as though she had forgotten," said Mrs. +Adair. That little stab she had not been able to deny herself, but it +evoked no sign of pain. + +"As though she had forgotten me, you mean," said Durrance, quietly +completing her sentence. "No doubt she had." + +"They went together into the little enclosed garden on the bank," and +Durrance started as she spoke. "Yes, you followed them," continued Mrs. +Adair, curiously. She had been puzzled as to how Durrance had missed +them. + +"They were there then," he said slowly, "on that seat, in the enclosure, +all the while." + +Mrs. Adair waited for a more definite explanation of the mystery, but +she got none. + +"Well?" he asked. + +"They stayed there for a long while. You had gone home across the fields +before they came outside into the open. I was in the garden, and indeed +happened to be actually upon the bank." + +"So you saw Captain Willoughby. Perhaps you spoke to him?" + +"Yes. Ethne introduced him, but she would not let him stay. She hurried +him into his boat and back to Kingsbridge at once." + +"Then how do you know Captain Willoughby brought good news of Harry +Feversham?" + +"Ethne told me that they had been talking of him. Her manner and her +laugh showed me no less clearly that the news was good." + +"Yes," said Durrance, and he nodded his head in assent. Captain +Willoughby's tidings had begotten that new pride and buoyancy in Ethne +which he had so readily taken to himself. Signs of the necessary +something more than friendship--so he had accounted them, and he was +right so far. But it was not he who had inspired them. His very +penetration and insight had led him astray. He was silent for a few +minutes, and Mrs. Adair searched his face in the moonlight for some +evidence that he resented Ethne's secrecy. But she searched in vain. + +"And that is all?" said Durrance. + +"Not quite. Captain Willoughby brought a token from Mr. Feversham. Ethne +carried it back to the house in her hand. Her eyes were upon it all the +way, her lips smiled at it. I do not think there is anything half so +precious to her in all the world." + +"A token?" + +"A little white feather," said Mrs. Adair, "all soiled and speckled with +dust. Can you read the riddle of that feather?" + +"Not yet," Durrance replied. He walked once or twice along the terrace +and back, lost in thought. Then he went into the house and fetched his +cap from the hall. He came back to Mrs. Adair. + +"It was kind of you to tell me this," he said. "I want you to add to +your kindness. When I was in the drawing-room alone and you came to the +window, how much did you hear? What were the first words?" + +Mrs. Adair's answer relieved him of a fear. Ethne had heard nothing +whatever of his confession. + +"Yes," he said, "she moved to the window to read a letter by the +moonlight. She must have escaped from the room the moment she had read +it. Consequently she did not hear that I had no longer any hope of +recovering my sight, and that I merely used the pretence of a hope in +order to delay our marriage. I am glad of that, very glad." He shook +hands with Mrs. Adair, and said good-night. "You see," he added +absently, "if I hear that Harry Feversham is in Omdurman, something +might perhaps be done--from Suakin or Assouan, something might be done. +Which way did Ethne go?" + +"Over to the water." + +"She had her dog with her, I hope." + +"The dog followed her," said Mrs. Adair. + +"I am glad," said Durrance. He knew quite well what comfort the dog +would be to Ethne in this bad hour, and perhaps he rather envied the +dog. Mrs. Adair wondered that at a moment of such distress to him he +could still spare a thought for so small an alleviation of Ethne's +trouble. She watched him cross the garden to the stile in the hedge. He +walked steadily forward upon the path like a man who sees. There was +nothing in his gait or bearing to reveal that the one thing left to him +had that evening been taken away. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +WEST AND EAST + + +Durrance found his body-servant waiting up for him when he had come +across the fields to his own house of "Guessens." + +"You can turn the lights out and go to bed," said Durrance, and he +walked through the hall into his study. The name hardly described the +room, for it had always been more of a gun-room than a study. + +He sat for some while in his chair and then began to walk gently about +the room in the dark. There were many cups and goblets scattered about +the room, which Durrance had won in his past days. He knew them each one +by their shape and position, and he drew a kind of comfort from the feel +of them. He took them up one by one and touched them and fondled them, +wondering whether, now that he was blind, they were kept as clean and +bright as they used to be. This one, a thin-stemmed goblet, he had won +in a regimental steeple-chase at Colchester; he could remember the day +with its clouds and grey sky and the dull look of the ploughed fields +between the hedges. That pewter, which stood upon his writing table and +which had formed a convenient holder for his pens, when pens had been of +use, he had acquired very long ago in his college "fours," when he was a +freshman at Oxford. The hoof of a favourite horse mounted in silver +made an ornament upon the mantelpiece. His trophies made the room a +gigantic diary; he fingered his records of good days gone by and came at +last to his guns and rifles. + +He took them down from their racks. They were to him much what Ethne's +violin was to her and had stories for his ear alone. He sat with a +Remington across his knee and lived over again one long hot day in the +hills to the west of Berenice, during which he had stalked a lion across +stony, open country, and killed him at three hundred yards just before +sunset. Another talked to him, too, of his first ibex shot in the Khor +Baraka, and of antelope stalked in the mountains northward of Suakin. +There was a little Greener gun which he had used upon midwinter nights +in a boat upon this very creek of the Salcombe estuary. He had brought +down his first mallard with that, and he lifted it and slid his left +hand along the under side of the barrel and felt the butt settle +comfortably into the hollow of his shoulder. But his weapons began to +talk over loudly in his ears, even as Ethne's violin, in the earlier +days after Harry Feversham was gone and she was left alone, had spoken +with too penetrating a note to her. As he handled the locks, and was +aware that he could no longer see the sights, the sum of his losses was +presented to him in a very definite and incontestable way. + +He put his guns away, and was seized suddenly with a desire to disregard +his blindness, to pretend that it was no hindrance and to pretend so +hard that it should prove not to be one. The desire grew and shook him +like a passion and carried him winged out of the countries of dim stars +straight to the East. The smell of the East and its noises and the +domes of its mosques, the hot sun, the rabble in its streets, and the +steel-blue sky overhead, caught at him till he was plucked from his +chair and set pacing restlessly about his room. + +He dreamed himself to Port Said, and was marshalled in the long +procession of steamers down the waterway of the canal. The song of the +Arabs coaling the ship was in his ears, and so loud that he could see +them as they went at night-time up and down the planks between the +barges and the deck, an endless chain of naked figures monotonously +chanting and lurid in the red glare of the braziers. He travelled out of +the canal, past the red headlands of the Sinaitic Peninsula, into the +chills of the Gulf of Suez. He zigzagged down the Red Sea while the +Great Bear swung northward low down in the sky above the rail of the +quarterdeck, and the Southern Cross began to blaze in the south; he +touched at Tor and at Yambo; he saw the tall white houses of Yeddah lift +themselves out of the sea, and admired the dark brine-withered woodwork +of their carved casements; he walked through the dusk of its roofed +bazaars with the joy of the homesick after long years come home; and +from Yeddah he crossed between the narrowing coral-reefs into the +land-locked harbour of Suakin. + +Westward from Suakin stretched the desert, with all that it meant to +this man whom it had smitten and cast out--the quiet padding of the +camels' feet in sand; the great rock-cones rising sheer and abrupt as +from a rippleless ocean, towards which you march all day and get no +nearer; the gorgeous momentary blaze of sunset colours in the west; the +rustle of the wind through the short twilight when the west is a pure +pale green and the east the darkest blue; and the downward swoop of the +planets out of nothing to the earth. The inheritor of the other places +dreamed himself back into his inheritance as he tramped to and fro, +forgetful of his blindness and parched with desire as with a +fever--until unexpectedly he heard the blackbirds and the swallows +bustling and piping in the garden, and knew that outside his windows the +world was white with dawn. + +He waked from his dream at the homely sound. There were to be no more +journeys for him; affliction had caged him and soldered a chain about +his leg. He felt his way by the balustrade up the stairs to his bed. He +fell asleep as the sun rose. + + * * * * * + +But at Dongola, on the great curve of the Nile southwards of Wadi Halfa, +the sun was already blazing and its inhabitants were awake. There was +sport prepared for them this morning under the few palm trees before the +house of the Emir Wad El Nejoumi. A white prisoner captured a week +before close to the wells of El Agia on the great Arbain road, by a +party of Arabs, had been brought in during the night and now waited his +fate at the Emir's hands. The news spread quick as a spark through the +town; already crowds of men and women and children flocked to this rare +and pleasant spectacle. In front of the palm trees an open space +stretched to the gateway of the Emir's house; behind them a slope of +sand descended flat and bare to the river. + +Harry Feversham was standing under the trees, guarded by four of the +Ansar soldiery. His clothes had been stripped from him; he wore only a +torn and ragged jibbeh upon his body and a twist of cotton on his head +to shield him from the sun. His bare shoulders and arms were scorched +and blistered. His ankles were fettered, his wrists were bound with a +rope of palm fibre, an iron collar was locked about his neck, to which a +chain was attached, and this chain one of the soldiers held. He stood +and smiled at the mocking crowd about him and seemed well pleased, like +a lunatic. + +That was the character which he had assumed. If he could sustain it, if +he could baffle his captors, so that they were at a loss whether he was +a man really daft or an agent with promises of help and arms to the +disaffected tribes of Kordofan--then there was a chance that they might +fear to dispose of him themselves and send him forward to Omdurman. But +it was hard work. Inside the house the Emir and his counsellors were +debating his destiny; on the river-bank and within his view a high +gallows stood out black and most sinister against the yellow sand. Harry +Feversham was very glad of the chain about his neck and the fetters on +his legs. They helped him to betray no panic, by assuring him of its +futility. + +These hours of waiting, while the sun rose higher and higher and no one +came from the gateway, were the worst he had ever as yet endured. All +through that fortnight in Berber a hope of escape had sustained him, and +when that lantern shone upon him from behind in the ruined acres, what +had to be done must be done so quickly there was no time for fear or +thought. Here there was time and too much of it. + +He had time to anticipate and foresee. He felt his heart sinking till +he was faint, just as in those distant days when he had heard the hounds +scuffling and whining in a covert and he himself had sat shaking upon +his horse. He glanced furtively towards the gallows, and foresaw the +vultures perched upon his shoulders, fluttering about his eyes. But the +man had grown during his years of probation. The fear of physical +suffering was not uppermost in his mind, nor even the fear that he would +walk unmanfully to the high gallows, but a greater dread that if he died +now, here, at Dongola, Ethne would never take back that fourth feather, +and his strong hope of the "afterwards" would never come to its +fulfilment. He was very glad of the collar about his neck and the +fetters on his legs. He summoned his wits together and standing there +alone, without a companion to share his miseries, laughed and scraped +and grimaced at his tormentors. + +An old hag danced and gesticulated before him, singing the while a +monotonous song. The gestures were pantomimic and menaced him with +abominable mutilations; the words described in simple and unexpurgated +language the grievous death agonies which immediately awaited him, and +the eternity of torture in hell which he would subsequently suffer. +Feversham understood and inwardly shuddered, but he only imitated her +gestures and nodded and mowed at her as though she was singing to him of +Paradise. Others, taking their war-trumpets, placed the mouths against +the prisoner's ears and blew with all their might. + +"Do you hear, Kaffir?" cried a child, dancing with delight before him. +"Do you hear our ombeyehs? Blow louder! Blow louder!" + +But the prisoner only clapped his hands, and cried out that the music +was good. + +Finally there came to the group a tall warrior with a long, heavy spear. +A cry was raised at his approach, and a space was cleared. He stood +before the captive and poised his spear, swinging it backward and +forward, to make his arm supple before he thrust, like a bowler before +he delivers a ball at a cricket match. Feversham glanced wildly about +him, and seeing no escape, suddenly flung out his breast to meet the +blow. But the spear never reached him. For as the warrior lunged from +the shoulder, one of the four guards jerked the neck chain violently +from behind, and the prisoner was flung, half throttled, upon his back. +Three times, and each time to a roar of delight, this pastime was +repeated, and then a soldier appeared in the gateway of Nejoumi's house. + +"Bring him in!" he cried; and followed by the curses and threats of the +crowd, the prisoner was dragged under the arch across a courtyard into a +dark room. + +For a few moments Feversham could see nothing. Then his eyes began to +adapt themselves to the gloom, and he distinguished a tall, bearded man, +who sat upon an angareb, the native bedstead of the Soudan, and two +others, who squatted beside him on the ground. The man on the angareb +was the Emir. + +"You are a spy of the Government from Wadi Halfa," he said. + +"No, I am a musician," returned the prisoner, and he laughed happily, +like a man that has made a jest. + +Nejoumi made a sign, and an instrument with many broken strings was +handed to the captive. Feversham seated himself upon the ground, and +with slow, fumbling fingers, breathing hard as he bent over the zither, +he began to elicit a wavering melody. It was the melody to which +Durrance had listened in the street of Tewfikieh on the eve of his last +journey into the desert; and which Ethne Eustace had played only the +night before in the quiet drawing-room at Southpool. It was the only +melody which Feversham knew. When he had done Nejoumi began again. + +"You are a spy." + +"I have told you the truth," answered Feversham, stubbornly, and Nejoumi +took a different tone. He called for food, and the raw liver of a camel, +covered with salt and red pepper, was placed before Feversham. Seldom +has a man had smaller inclination to eat, but Feversham ate, none the +less, even of that unattractive dish, knowing well that reluctance would +be construed as fear, and that the signs of fear might condemn him to +death. And, while he ate, Nejoumi questioned him, in the silkiest voice, +about the fortifications of Cairo and the strength of the garrison at +Assouan, and the rumours of dissension between the Khedive and the +Sirdar. + +But to each question Feversham replied:-- + +"How should a Greek know of these matters?" + +Nejoumi rose from his angareb and roughly gave an order. The soldiers +seized upon Feversham and dragged him out again into the sunlight. They +poured water upon the palm-rope which bound his wrists, so that the +thongs swelled and bit into his flesh. + +"Speak, Kaffir. You carry promises to Kordofan." + +Feversham was silent. He clung doggedly to the plan over which he had +so long and so carefully pondered. He could not improve upon it, he was +sure, by any alteration suggested by fear, at a moment when he could not +think clearly. A rope was flung about his neck, and he was pushed and +driven beneath the gallows. + +"Speak, Kaffir," said Nejoumi; "so shall you escape death." + +Feversham smiled and grimaced, and shook his head loosely from side to +side. It was astonishing to him that he could do it, that he did not +fall down upon his knees and beg for mercy. It was still more +astonishing to him that he felt no temptation so to demean himself. He +wondered whether the oft repeated story was true, that criminals in +English prisons went quietly and with dignity to the scaffold, because +they had been drugged. For without drugs he seemed to be behaving with +no less dignity himself. His heart was beating very fast, but it was +with a sort of excitement. He did not even think of Ethne at that +moment; and certainly the great dread that his strong hope would never +be fulfilled did not trouble him at all. He had his allotted part to +play, and he just played it; and that was all. + +Nejoumi looked at him sourly for a moment. He turned to the men who +stood ready to draw away from Feversham the angareb on which he was +placed:-- + +"To-morrow," said he, "the Kaffir shall go to Omdurman." + +Feversham began to feel then that the rope of palm fibre tortured his +wrists. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +ETHNE MAKES ANOTHER SLIP + + +Mrs. Adair speculated with some uneasiness upon the consequences of the +disclosures which she had made to Durrance. She was in doubt as to the +course which he would take. It seemed possible that he might frankly +tell Ethne of the mistake which he had made. He might admit that he had +discovered the unreality of her affection for him, and the reality of +her love for Feversham; and if he made that admission, however carefully +he tried to conceal her share in his discovery, he would hardly succeed. +She would have to face Ethne, and she dreaded the moment when her +companion's frank eyes would rest quietly upon hers and her lips demand +an explanation. It was consequently a relief to her at first that no +outward change was visible in the relations of Ethne and Durrance. They +met and spoke as though that day on which Willoughby had landed at the +garden, and the evening when Ethne had played the Musoline Overture upon +the violin, had been blotted from their experience. Mrs. Adair was +relieved at first, but when the sense of personal danger passed from +her, and she saw that her interference had been apparently without +effect, she began to be puzzled. A little while, and she was both angry +and disappointed. + +Durrance, indeed, quickly made up his mind. Ethne wished him not to +know; it was some consolation to her in her distress to believe that she +had brought happiness to this one man whose friend she genuinely was. +And of that consolation Durrance was aware. He saw no reason to destroy +it--for the present. He must know certainly whether a misunderstanding +or an irreparable breach separated Ethne from Feversham before he took +the steps he had in mind. He must have sure knowledge, too, of Harry +Feversham's fate. Therefore he pretended to know nothing; he abandoned +even his habit of attention and scrutiny, since for these there was no +longer any need; he forced himself to a display of contentment; he made +light of his misfortune, and professed to find in Ethne's company more +than its compensation. + +"You see," he said to her, "one can get used to blindness and take it as +the natural thing. But one does not get used to you, Ethne. Each time +one meets you, one discovers something new and fresh to delight one. +Besides, there is always the possibility of a cure." + +He had his reward, for Ethne understood that he had laid aside his +suspicions, and she was able to set off his indefatigable cheerfulness +against her own misery. And her misery was great. If for one day she had +recaptured the lightness of heart which had been hers before the three +white feathers came to Ramelton, she had now recaptured something of the +grief which followed upon their coming. A difference there was, of +course. Her pride was restored, and she had a faint hope born of +Durrance's words that Harry after all might perhaps be rescued. But she +knew again the long and sleepless nights and the dull hot misery of the +head as she waited for the grey of the morning. For she could no longer +pretend to herself that she looked upon Harry Feversham as a friend who +was dead. He was living, and in what straits she dreaded to think, and +yet thirsted to know. At rare times, indeed, her impatience got the +better of her will. + +"I suppose that escape is possible from Omdurman," she said one day, +constraining her voice to an accent of indifference. + +"Possible? Yes, I think so," Durrance answered cheerfully. "Of course it +is difficult and would in any case take time. Attempts, for instance, +have been made to get Trench out and others, but the attempts have not +yet succeeded. The difficulty is the go-between." + +Ethne looked quickly at Durrance. + +"The go-between?" she asked, and then she said, "I think I begin to +understand," and pulled herself up abruptly. "You mean the Arab who can +come and go between Omdurman and the Egyptian frontier?" + +"Yes. He is usually some Dervish pedlar or merchant trading with the +tribes of the Soudan, who slips into Wadi Halfa or Assouan or Suakin and +undertakes the work. Of course his risk is great. He would have short +shrift in Omdurman if his business were detected. So it is not to be +wondered at that he shirks the danger at the last moment. As often as +not, too, he is a rogue. You make your arrangements with him in Egypt, +and hand him over the necessary money. In six months or a year he comes +back alone, with a story of excuses. It was summer, and the season +unfavourable for an escape. Or the prisoners were more strictly guarded. +Or he himself was suspected. And he needs more money. His tale may be +true, and you give him more money; and he comes back again, and again he +comes back alone." + +Ethne nodded her head. + +"Exactly." + +Durrance had unconsciously explained to her a point which till now she +had not understood. She was quite sure that Harry Feversham aimed in +some way at bringing help to Colonel Trench, but in what way his own +capture was to serve that aim she could not determine. Now she +understood: he was to be his own go-between, and her hopes drew strength +from this piece of new knowledge. For it was likely that he had laid his +plans with care. He would be very anxious that the second feather should +come back to her, and if he could fetch Trench safely out of Omdurman, +he would not himself remain behind. + +Ethne was silent for a little while. They were sitting on the terrace, +and the sunset was red upon the water of the creek. + +"Life would not be easy, I suppose, in the prison of Omdurman," she +said, and again she forced herself to indifference. + +"Easy!" exclaimed Durrance; "no, it would not be easy. A hovel crowded +with Arabs, without light or air, and the roof perhaps two feet above +your head, into which you were locked up from sundown to morning; very +likely the prisoners would have to stand all night in that foul den, so +closely packed would they be. Imagine it, even here in England, on an +evening like this! Think what it would be on an August night in the +Soudan! Especially if you had memories, say, of a place like this, to +make the torture worse." + +Ethne looked out across that cool garden. At this very moment Harry +Feversham might be struggling for breath in that dark and noisome hovel, +dry of throat and fevered with the heat, with a vision before his eyes +of the grass slopes of Ramelton and with the music of the Lennon River +liquid in his ears. + +"One would pray for death," said Ethne, slowly, "unless--" She was on +the point of adding "unless one went there deliberately with a fixed +thing to do," but she cut the sentence short. Durrance carried it on:-- + +"Unless there was a chance of escape," he said. "And there is a +chance--if Feversham is in Omdurman." + +He was afraid that he had allowed himself to say too much about the +horrors of the prison in Omdurman, and he added: "Of course, what I have +described to you is mere hearsay and not to be trusted. We have no +knowledge. Prisoners may not have such bad times as we think;" and +thereupon he let the subject drop. Nor did Ethne mention it again. It +occurred to her at times to wonder in what way Durrance had understood +her abrupt disappearance from the drawing-room on the night when he had +told her of his meeting with Harry Feversham. But he never referred to +it himself, and she thought it wise to imitate his example. The +noticeable change in his manner, the absence of that caution which had +so distressed her, allayed her fears. It seemed that he had found for +himself some perfectly simple and natural explanation. At times, too, +she asked herself why Durrance had told her of that meeting in Wadi +Halfa, and of Feversham's subsequent departure to the south. But for +that she found an explanation--a strange explanation, perhaps, but it +was simple enough and satisfactory to her. She believed that the news +was a message of which Durrance was only the instrument. It was meant +for her ears, and for her comprehension alone, and Durrance was bound to +convey it to her by the will of a power above him. His real reason she +had not stayed to hear. + +During the month of September, then, they kept up the pretence. Every +morning when Durrance was in Devonshire he would come across the fields +to Ethne at The Pool, and Mrs. Adair, watching them as they talked and +laughed without a shadow of embarrassment or estrangement, grew more +angry, and found it more difficult to hold her peace and let the +pretence go on. It was a month of strain and tension to all three, and +not one of them but experienced a great relief when Durrance visited his +oculist in London. And those visits increased in number, and lengthened +in duration. Even Ethne was grateful for them. She could throw off the +mask for a little while; she had an opportunity to be tired; she had +solitude wherein to gain strength to resume her high spirits upon +Durrance's return. There came hours when despair seized hold of her. +"Shall I be able to keep up the pretence when we are married, when we +are always together?" she asked herself. But she thrust the question +back unanswered; she dared not look forward, lest even now her strength +should fail her. + +After the third visit Durrance said to her:-- + +"Do you remember that I once mentioned a famous oculist at Wiesbaden? It +seems advisable that I should go to him." + +"You are recommended to go?" + +"Yes, and to go alone." + +Ethne looked up at him with a shrewd, quick glance. + +"You think that I should be dull at Wiesbaden," she said. "There is no +fear of that. I can rout out some relative to go with me." + +"No; it is on my own account," answered Durrance. "I shall perhaps have +to go into a home. It is better to be quite quiet and to see no one for +a time." + +"You are sure?" Ethne asked. "It would hurt me if I thought you proposed +this plan because you felt I would be happier at Glenalla." + +"No, that is not the reason," Durrance answered, and he answered quite +truthfully. He felt it necessary for both of them that they should +separate. He, no less than Ethne, suffered under the tyranny of +perpetual simulation. It was only because he knew how much store she set +upon carrying out her resolve that two lives should not be spoilt +because of her, that he was able to hinder himself from crying out that +he knew the truth. + +"I am returning to London next week," he added, "and when I come back I +shall be in a position to tell you whether I am to go to Wiesbaden or +not." + +Durrance had reason to be glad that he had mentioned his plan before the +arrival of Calder's telegram from Wadi Halfa. Ethne was unable to +connect his departure from her with the receipt of any news about +Feversham. The telegram came one afternoon, and Durrance took it across +to The Pool in the evening and showed it to Ethne. There were only four +words to the telegram:-- + +"Feversham imprisoned at Omdurman." + +Durrance, with one of the new instincts of delicacy which had been born +in him lately by reason of his sufferings and the habit of thought, had +moved away from Ethne's side as soon as he had given it to her, and had +joined Mrs. Adair, who was reading a book in the drawing-room. He had +folded up the telegram, besides, so that by the time Ethne had unfolded +it and saw the words, she was alone upon the terrace. She remembered +what Durrance had said to her about the prison, and her imagination +enlarged upon his words. The quiet of a September evening was upon the +fields, a light mist rose from the creek and crept over the garden bank +across the lawn. Already the prison doors were shut in that hot country +at the junction of the Niles. "He is to pay for his fault ten times +over, then," she cried, in revolt against the disproportion. "And the +fault was his father's and mine too more than his own. For neither of us +understood." + +She blamed herself for the gift of that fourth feather. She leaned upon +the stone balustrade with her eyes shut, wondering whether Harry would +outlive this night, whether he was still alive to outlive it. The very +coolness of the stones on which her hands pressed became the bitterest +of reproaches. + +"Something can now be done." + +Durrance was coming from the window of the drawing-room, and spoke as he +came, to warn her of his approach. "He was and is my friend; I cannot +leave him there. I shall write to-night to Calder. Money will not be +spared. He is my friend, Ethne. You will see. From Suakin or from +Assouan something will be done." + +He put all the help to be offered to the credit of his own friendship. +Ethne was not to believe that he imagined she had any further interest +in Harry Feversham. + +She turned to him suddenly, almost interrupting him. + +"Major Castleton is dead?" she said. + +"Castleton?" he exclaimed. "There was a Castleton in Feversham's +regiment. Is that the man?" + +"Yes. He is dead?" + +"He was killed at Tamai." + +"You are sure--quite sure?" + +"He was within the square of the Second Brigade on the edge of the great +gulley when Osman Digna's men sprang out of the earth and broke through. +I was in that square, too. I saw Castleton killed." + +"I am glad," said Ethne. + +She spoke quite simply and distinctly. The first feather had been +brought back by Captain Willoughby. It was just possible that Colonel +Trench might bring back the second. Harry Feversham had succeeded once +under great difficulties, in the face of great peril. The peril was +greater now, the difficulties more arduous to overcome; that she clearly +understood. But she took the one success as an augury that another +might follow it. Feversham would have laid his plans with care; he had +money wherewith to carry them out; and, besides, she was a woman of +strong faith. But she was relieved to know that the sender of the third +feather could never be approached. Moreover, she hated him, and there +was an end of the matter. + +Durrance was startled. He was a soldier of a type not so rare as the +makers of war stories wish their readers to believe. Hector of Troy was +his ancestor; he was neither hysterical in his language nor vindictive +in his acts; he was not an elderly schoolboy with a taste for loud talk, +but a quiet man who did his work without noise, who could be stern when +occasion needed and of an unflinching severity, but whose nature was +gentle and compassionate. And this barbaric utterance of Ethne Eustace +he did not understand. + +"You disliked Major Castleton so much?" he exclaimed. + +"I never knew him." + +"Yet you are glad that he is dead?" + +"I am quite glad," said Ethne, stubbornly. + +She made another slip when she spoke thus of Major Castleton, and +Durrance did not pass it by unnoticed. He remembered it, and thought it +over in his gun-room at Guessens. It added something to the explanation +which he was building up of Harry Feversham's disgrace and +disappearance. The story was gradually becoming clear to his sharpened +wits. Captain Willoughby's visit and the token he had brought had given +him the clue. A white feather could mean nothing but an accusation of +cowardice. Durrance could not remember that he had ever detected any +signs of cowardice in Harry Feversham, and the charge startled him +perpetually into incredulity. + +But the fact remained. Something had happened on the night of the ball +at Lennon House, and from that date Harry had been an outcast. Suppose +that a white feather had been forwarded to Lennon House, and had been +opened in Ethne's presence? Or more than one white feather? Ethne had +come back from her long talk with Willoughby holding that white feather +as though there was nothing so precious in all the world. + +So much Mrs. Adair had told him. + +It followed, then, that the cowardice was atoned, or in one particular +atoned. Ethne's recapture of her youth pointed inevitably to that +conclusion. She treasured the feather because it was no longer a symbol +of cowardice but a symbol of cowardice atoned. + +But Harry Feversham had not returned, he still slunk in the world's +by-ways. Willoughby, then, was not the only man who had brought the +accusation; there were others--two others. One of the two Durrance had +long since identified. When Durrance had suggested that Harry might be +taken to Omdurman, Ethne had at once replied, "Colonel Trench is in +Omdurman." She needed no explanation of Harry's disappearance from Wadi +Halfa into the southern Soudan. It was deliberate; he had gone out to be +captured, to be taken to Omdurman. Moreover, Ethne had spoken of the +untrustworthiness of the go-between, and there again had helped Durrance +in his conjectures. There was some obligation upon Feversham to come to +Trench's help. Suppose that Feversham had laid his plans of rescue, and +had ventured out into the desert that he might be his own go-between. It +followed that a second feather had been sent to Ramelton, and that +Trench had sent it. + +To-night Durrance was able to join Major Castleton to Trench and +Willoughby. Ethne's satisfaction at the death of a man whom she did not +know could mean but the one thing. There would be the same obligation +resting upon Feversham with regard to Major Castleton if he lived. It +seemed likely that a third feather had come to Lennon House, and that +Major Castleton had sent it. + +Durrance pondered over the solution of the problem, and more and more he +found it plausible. There was one man who could have told him the truth +and who had refused to tell it, who would no doubt still refuse to tell +it. But that one man's help Durrance intended to enlist, and to this end +he must come with the story pat upon his lips and no request for +information. + +"Yes," he said, "I think that after my next visit to London I can pay a +visit to Lieutenant Sutch." + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +DURRANCE LETS HIS CIGAR GO OUT + + +Captain Willoughby was known at his club for a bore. He was a determined +raconteur of pointless stories about people with whom not one of his +audience was acquainted. And there was no deterring him, for he did not +listen, he only talked. He took the most savage snub with a vacant and +amicable face; and, wrapped in his own dull thoughts, he continued his +copious monologue. In the smoking-room or at the supper-table he crushed +conversation flat as a steam-roller crushes a road. He was quite +irresistible. Trite anecdotes were sandwiched between aphorisms of the +copybook; and whether anecdote or aphorism, all was delivered with the +air of a man surprised by his own profundity. If you waited long enough, +you had no longer the will power to run away, you sat caught in a web of +sheer dulness. Only those, however, who did not know him waited long +enough; the rest of his fellow-members at his appearance straightway +rose and fled. + +It happened, therefore, that within half an hour of his entrance to his +club, he usually had one large corner of the room entirely to himself; +and that particular corner up to the moment of his entrance had been the +most frequented. For he made it a rule to choose the largest group as +his audience. He was sitting in this solitary state one afternoon early +in October, when the waiter approached him and handed to him a card. + +Captain Willoughby took it with alacrity, for he desired company, and +his acquaintances had all left the club to fulfil the most pressing and +imperative engagements. But as he read the card his countenance fell. +"Colonel Durrance!" he said, and scratched his head thoughtfully. +Durrance had never in his life paid him a friendly visit before, and why +should he go out of his way to do so now? It looked as if Durrance had +somehow got wind of his journey to Kingsbridge. + +"Does Colonel Durrance know that I am in the club?" he asked. + +"Yes, sir," replied the waiter. + +"Very well. Show him in." + +Durrance had, no doubt come to ask questions, and diplomacy would be +needed to elude them. Captain Willoughby had no mind to meddle any +further in the affairs of Miss Ethne Eustace. Feversham and Durrance +must fight their battle without his intervention. He did not distrust +his powers of diplomacy, but he was not anxious to exert them in this +particular case, and he looked suspiciously at Durrance as he entered +the room. Durrance, however, had apparently no questions to ask. +Willoughby rose from his chair, and crossing the room, guided his +visitor over to his deserted corner. + +"Will you smoke?" he said, and checked himself. "I beg your pardon." + +"Oh, I'll smoke," Durrance answered. "It's not quite true that a man +can't enjoy his tobacco without seeing the smoke of it. If I let my +cigar out, I should know at once. But you will see, I shall not let it +out." He lighted his cigar with deliberation and leaned back in his +chair. + +"I am lucky to find you, Willoughby," he continued, "for I am only in +town for to-day. I come up every now and then from Devonshire to see my +oculist, and I was very anxious to meet you if I could. On my last visit +Mather told me that you were away in the country. You remember Mather, I +suppose? He was with us in Suakin." + +"Of course, I remember him quite well," said Willoughby, heartily. He +was more than willing to talk about Mather; he had a hope that in +talking about Mather, Durrance might forget that other matter which +caused him anxiety. + +"We are both of us curious," Durrance continued, "and you can clear up +the point we are curious about. Did you ever come across an Arab called +Abou Fatma?" + +"Abou Fatma," said Willoughby, slowly, "one of the Hadendoas?" + +"No, a man of the Kabbabish tribe." + +"Abou Fatma?" Willoughby repeated, as though for the first time he had +heard the name. "No, I never came across him;" and then he stopped. It +occurred to Durrance that it was not a natural place at which to stop; +Willoughby might have been expected to add, "Why do you ask me?" or some +question of the kind. But he kept silent. As a matter of fact, he was +wondering how in the world Durrance had ever come to hear of Abou Fatma, +whose name he himself had heard for the first and last time a year ago +upon the verandah of the Palace at Suakin. For he had spoken the truth. +He never had come across Abou Fatma, although Feversham had spoken of +him. + +"That makes me still more curious," Durrance continued. "Mather and I +were together on the last reconnaissance in '84, and we found Abou Fatma +hiding in the bushes by the Sinkat fort. He told us about the Gordon +letters which he had hidden in Berber. Ah! you remember his name now." + +"I was merely getting my pipe out of my pocket," said Willoughby. "But I +do remember the name now that you mention the letters." + +"They were brought to you in Suakin fifteen months or so back. Mather +showed me the paragraph in the _Evening Standard_. And I am curious as +to whether Abou Fatma returned to Berber and recovered them. But since +you have never come across him, it follows that he was not the man." + +Captain Willoughby began to feel sorry that he had been in such haste to +deny all acquaintance with Abou Fatma of the Kabbabish tribe. + +"No; it was not Abou Fatma," he said, with an awkward sort of +hesitation. He dreaded the next question which Durrance would put to +him. He filled his pipe, pondering what answer he should make to it. But +Durrance put no question at all for the moment. + +"I wondered," he said slowly. "I thought that Abou Fatma would hardly +return to Berber. For, indeed, whoever undertook the job undertook it at +the risk of his life, and, since Gordon was dead, for no very obvious +reason." + +"Quite so," said Willoughby, in a voice of relief. It seemed that +Durrance's curiosity was satisfied with the knowledge that Abou Fatma +had not recovered the letters. "Quite so. Since Gordon was dead, for no +reason." + +"For no obvious reason, I think I said," Durrance remarked +imperturbably. Willoughby turned and glanced suspiciously at his +companion, wondering whether, after all, Durrance knew of his visit to +Kingsbridge and its motive. Durrance, however, smoked his cigar, leaning +back in his chair with his face tilted up towards the ceiling. He +seemed, now that his curiosity was satisfied, to have lost interest in +the history of the Gordon letters. At all events, he put no more +questions upon that subject to embarrass Captain Willoughby, and indeed +there was no need that he should. Thinking over the possible way by +which Harry Feversham might have redeemed himself in Willoughby's eyes +from the charge of cowardice, Durrance could only hit upon this recovery +of the letters from the ruined wall in Berber. There had been no +personal danger to the inhabitants of Suakin since the days of that last +reconnaissance. The great troop-ships had steamed between the coral +reefs towards Suez, and no cry for help had ever summoned them back. +Willoughby risked only his health in that white palace on the Red Sea. +There could not have been a moment when Feversham was in a position to +say, "Your life was forfeit but for me, whom you call coward." And +Durrance, turning over in his mind all the news and gossip which had +come to him at Wadi Halfa or during his furloughs, had been brought to +conjecture whether that fugitive from Khartum, who had told him his +story in the glacis of the silent ruined fort of Sinkat during one +drowsy afternoon of May, had not told it again at Suakin within +Feversham's hearing. He was convinced now that his conjecture was +correct. + +Willoughby's reticence was in itself a sufficient confirmation. +Willoughby, without doubt, had been instructed by Ethne to keep his +tongue in a leash. Colonel Durrance was prepared for reticence, he +looked to reticence as the answer to his conjecture. His trained ear, +besides, had warned him that Willoughby was uneasy at his visit and +careful in his speech. There had been pauses, during which Durrance was +as sure as though he had eyes wherewith to see, that his companion was +staring at him suspiciously and wondering how much he knew, or how +little. There had been an accent of wariness and caution in his voice, +which was hatefully familiar to Durrance's ears, for just with that +accent Ethne had been wont to speak. Moreover, Durrance had set +traps,--that remark of his "for no obvious reason, I think I said," had +been one,--and a little start here, or a quick turn there, showed him +that Willoughby had tumbled into them. + +He had no wish, however, that Willoughby should write off to Ethne and +warn her that Durrance was making inquiries. That was a possibility, he +recognised, and he set himself to guard against it. + +"I want to tell you why I was anxious to meet you," he said. "It was +because of Harry Feversham;" and Captain Willoughby, who was +congratulating himself that he was well out of an awkward position, +fairly jumped in his seat. It was not Durrance's policy, however, to +notice his companion's agitation, and he went on quickly: "Something +happened to Feversham. It's more than five years ago now. He did +something, I suppose, or left something undone,--the secret, at all +events, has been closely kept,--and he dropped out, and his place knew +him no more. Now you are going back to the Soudan, Willoughby?" + +"Yes," Willoughby answered, "in a week's time." + +"Well, Harry Feversham is in the Soudan," said Durrance, leaning towards +his companion. + +"You know that?" exclaimed Willoughby. + +"Yes, for I came across him this Spring at Wadi Halfa," Durrance +continued. "He had fallen rather low," and he told Willoughby of their +meeting outside of the café of Tewfikieh. "It's strange, isn't it?--a +man whom one knew very well going under like that in a second, +disappearing before your eyes as it were, dropping plumb out of sight as +though down an oubliette in an old French castle. I want you to look out +for him, Willoughby, and do what you can to set him on his legs again. +Let me know if you chance on him. Harry Feversham was a friend of +mine--one of my few real friends." + +"All right," said Willoughby, cheerfully. Durrance knew at once from the +tone of his voice that suspicion was quieted in him. "I will look out +for Feversham. I remember he was a great friend of yours." + +He stretched out his hand towards the matches upon the table beside him. +Durrance heard the scrape of the phosphorus and the flare of the match. +Willoughby was lighting his pipe. It was a well-seasoned piece of briar, +and needed a cleaning; it bubbled as he held the match to the tobacco +and sucked at the mouthpiece. + +"Yes, a great friend," said Durrance. "You and I dined with him in his +flat high up above St. James's Park just before we left England." + +And at that chance utterance Willoughby's briar pipe ceased suddenly to +bubble. A moment's silence followed, then Willoughby swore violently, +and a second later he stamped upon the carpet. Durrance's imagination +was kindled by this simple sequence of events, and he straightway made +up a little picture in his mind. In one chair himself smoking his cigar, +a round table holding a match-stand on his left hand, and on the other +side of the table Captain Willoughby in another chair. But Captain +Willoughby lighting his pipe and suddenly arrested in the act by a +sentence spoken without significance, Captain Willoughby staring +suspiciously in his slow-witted way at the blind man's face, until the +lighted match, which he had forgotten, burnt down to his fingers, and he +swore and dropped it and stamped it out upon the floor. Durrance had +never given a thought to that dinner till this moment. It was possible +it might deserve much thought. + +"There were you and I and Feversham present," he went on. "Feversham had +asked us there to tell us of his engagement to Miss Eustace. He had just +come back from Dublin. That was almost the last we saw of him." He took +a pull at his cigar and added, "By the way, there was a third man +present." + +"Was there?" asked Willoughby. "It's so long ago." + +"Yes--Trench." + +"To be sure, Trench was present. It will be a long time, I am afraid, +before we dine at the same table with poor old Trench again." + +The carelessness of his voice was well assumed; he leaned forwards and +struck another match and lighted his pipe. As he did so, Durrance laid +down his cigar upon the table edge. + +"And we shall never dine with Castleton again," he said slowly. + +"Castleton wasn't there," Willoughby exclaimed, and quickly enough to +betray that, however long the interval since that little dinner in +Feversham's rooms, it was at all events still distinct in his +recollections. + +"No, but he was expected," said Durrance. + +"No, not even expected," corrected Willoughby. "He was dining elsewhere. +He sent the telegram, you remember." + +"Ah, yes, a telegram came," said Durrance. + +That dinner party certainly deserved consideration. Willoughby, Trench, +Castleton--these three men were the cause of Harry Feversham's disgrace +and disappearance. Durrance tried to recollect all the details of the +evening; but he had been occupied himself on that occasion. He +remembered leaning against the window above St. James's Park; he +remembered hearing the tattoo from the parade-ground of Wellington +Barracks--and a telegram had come. + +Durrance made up another picture in his mind. Harry Feversham at the +table reading and re-reading his telegram, Trench and Willoughby waiting +silently, perhaps expectantly, and himself paying no heed, but staring +out from the bright room into the quiet and cool of the park. + +"Castleton was dining with a big man from the War Office that night," +Durrance said, and a little movement at his side warned him that he was +getting hot in his search. He sat for a while longer talking about the +prospects of the Soudan, and then rose up from his chair. + +"Well, I can rely on you, Willoughby, to help Feversham if ever you find +him. Draw on me for money." + +"I will do my best," said Willoughby. "You are going? I could have won a +bet off you this afternoon." + +"How?" + +"You said that you did not let your cigars go out. This one's stone +cold." + +"I forgot about it; I was thinking of Feversham. Good-bye." + +He took a cab and drove away from the club door. Willoughby was glad to +see the last of him, but he was fairly satisfied with his own exhibition +of diplomacy. It would have been strange, after all, he thought, if he +had not been able to hoodwink poor old Durrance; and he returned to the +smoking-room and refreshed himself with a whiskey and potass. + +Durrance, however, had not been hoodwinked. The last perplexing question +had been answered for him that afternoon. He remembered now that no +mention had been made at the dinner which could identify the sender of +the telegram. Feversham had read it without a word, and without a word +had crumpled it up and tossed it into the fire. But to-day Willoughby +had told him that it had come from Castleton, and Castleton had been +dining with a high official of the War Office. The particular act of +cowardice which had brought the three white feathers to Ramelton was +easy to discern. Almost the next day Feversham had told Durrance in the +Row that he had resigned his commission, and Durrance knew that he had +not resigned it when the telegram came. That telegram could have brought +only one piece of news, that Feversham's regiment was ordered on active +service. The more Durrance reflected, the more certain he felt that he +had at last hit upon the truth. Nothing could be more natural than that +Castleton should telegraph his good news in confidence to his friends. +Durrance had the story now complete, or rather, the sequence of facts +complete. For why Feversham should have been seized with panic, why he +should have played the coward the moment after he was engaged to Ethne +Eustace--at a time, in a word, when every manly quality he possessed +should have been at its strongest and truest, remained for Durrance, and +indeed, was always to remain, an inexplicable problem. But he put that +question aside, classing it among the considerations which he had learnt +to estimate as small and unimportant. The simple and true thing--the +thing of real importance--emerged definite and clear: Harry Feversham +was atoning for his one act of cowardice with a full and an overflowing +measure of atonement. + +"I shall astonish old Sutch," he thought, with a chuckle. He took the +night mail into Devonshire the same evening, and reached his home before +midday. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +MRS. ADAIR MAKES HER APOLOGY + + +Within the drawing-room at The Pool, Durrance said good-bye to Ethne. He +had so arranged it that there should be little time for that +leave-taking, and already the carriage stood at the steps of Guessens, +with his luggage strapped upon the roof and his servant waiting at the +door. + +Ethne came out with him on to the terrace, where Mrs. Adair stood at the +top of the flight of steps. Durrance held out his hand to her, but she +turned to Ethne and said:-- + +"I want to speak to Colonel Durrance before he goes." + +"Very well," said Ethne. "Then we will say good-bye here," she added to +Durrance. "You will write from Wiesbaden? Soon, please!" + +"The moment I arrive," answered Durrance. He descended the steps with +Mrs. Adair, and left Ethne standing upon the terrace. The last scene of +pretence had been acted out, the months of tension and surveillance had +come to an end, and both were thankful for their release. Durrance +showed that he was glad even in the briskness of his walk, as he crossed +the lawn at Mrs. Adair's side. She, however, lagged, and when she spoke +it was in a despondent voice. + +"So you are going," she said. "In two days' time you will be at +Wiesbaden and Ethne at Glenalla. We shall all be scattered. It will be +lonely here." + +She had had her way; she had separated Ethne and Durrance for a time at +all events; she was no longer to be tortured by the sight of them and +the sound of their voices; but somehow her interference had brought her +little satisfaction. "The house will seem very empty after you are all +gone," she said; and she turned at Durrance's side and walked down with +him into the garden. + +"We shall come back, no doubt," said Durrance, reassuringly. + +Mrs. Adair looked about her garden. The flowers were gone, and the +sunlight; clouds stretched across the sky overhead, the green of the +grass underfoot was dull, the stream ran grey in the gap between the +trees, and the leaves from the branches were blown russet and yellow +about the lawns. + +"How long shall you stay at Wiesbaden?" she asked. + +"I can hardly tell. But as long as it's advisable," he answered. + +"That tells me nothing at all. I suppose it was meant not to tell me +anything." + +Durrance did not answer her, and she resented his silence. She knew +nothing whatever of his plans; she was unaware whether he meant to break +his engagement with Ethne or to hold her to it, and curiosity consumed +her. It might be a very long time before she saw him again, and all that +long time she must remain tortured with doubts. + +"You distrust me?" she said defiantly, and with a note of anger in her +voice. + +Durrance answered her quite gently:-- + +"Have I no reason to distrust you? Why did you tell me of Captain +Willoughby's coming? Why did you interfere?" + +"I thought you ought to know." + +"But Ethne wished the secret kept. I am glad to know, very glad. But, +after all, you told me, and you were Ethne's friend." + +"Yours, too, I hope," Mrs. Adair answered, and she exclaimed: "How could +I go on keeping silence? Don't you understand?" + +"No." + +Durrance might have understood, but he had never given much thought to +Mrs. Adair, and she knew it. The knowledge rankled within her, and his +simple "no" stung her beyond bearing. + +"I spoke brutally, didn't I?" she said. "I told you the truth as +brutally as I could. Doesn't that help you to understand?" + +Again Durrance said "No," and the monosyllable exasperated her out of +all prudence, and all at once she found herself speaking incoherently +the things which she had thought. And once she had begun, she could not +stop. She stood, as it were, outside of herself, and saw that her speech +was madness; yet she went on with it. + +"I told you the truth brutally on purpose. I was so stung because you +would not see what was so visible had you only the mind to see. I wanted +to hurt you. I am a bad, bad woman, I suppose. There were you and she in +the room talking together in the darkness; there was I alone upon the +terrace. It was the same again to-day. You and Ethne in the room, I +alone upon the terrace. I wonder whether it will always be so. But you +will not say--you will not say." She struck her hands together with a +gesture of despair, but Durrance had no words for her. He walked +silently along the garden path towards the stile, and he quickened his +pace a little, so that Mrs. Adair had to walk fast to keep up with him. +That quickening of the pace was a sort of answer, but Mrs. Adair was not +deterred by it. Her madness had taken hold of her. + +"I do not think I would have minded so much," she continued, "if Ethne +had really cared for you; but she never cared more than as a friend +cares, just a mere friend. And what's friendship worth?" she asked +scornfully. + +"Something, surely," said Durrance. + +"It does not prevent Ethne from shrinking from her friend," cried Mrs. +Adair. "She shrinks from you. Shall I tell you why? Because you are +blind. She is afraid. While I--I will tell you the truth--I am glad. +When the news first came from Wadi Halfa that you were blind, I was +glad; when I saw you in Hill Street, I was glad; ever since, I have been +glad--quite glad. Because I saw that she shrank. From the beginning she +shrank, thinking how her life would be hampered and fettered," and the +scorn of Mrs. Adair's voice increased, though her voice itself was sunk +to a whisper. "I am not afraid," she said, and she repeated the words +passionately again and again. "I am not afraid. I am not afraid." + +To Durrance it seemed that in all his experience nothing so horrible had +ever occurred as this outburst by the woman who was Ethne's friend, +nothing so unforeseen. + +"Ethne wrote to you at Wadi Halfa out of pity," she went on, "that was +all. She wrote out of pity; and, having written, she was afraid of what +she had done; and being afraid, she had not courage to tell you she was +afraid. You would not have blamed her, if she had frankly admitted it; +you would have remained her friend. But she had not the courage." + +Durrance knew that there was another explanation of Ethne's hesitations +and timidities. He knew, too, that the other explanation was the true +one. But to-morrow he himself would be gone from the Salcombe estuary, +and Ethne would be on her way to the Irish Channel and Donegal. It was +not worth while to argue against Mrs. Adair's slanders. Besides, he was +close upon the stile which separated the garden of The Pool from the +fields. Once across that stile, he would be free of Mrs. Adair. He +contented himself with saying quietly:-- + +"You are not just to Ethne." + +At that simple utterance the madness of Mrs. Adair went from her. She +recognised the futility of all that she had said, of her boastings of +courage, of her detractions of Ethne. Her words might be true or not, +they could achieve nothing. Durrance was always in the room with Ethne, +never upon the terrace with Mrs. Adair. She became conscious of her +degradation, and she fell to excuses. + +"I am a bad woman, I suppose. But after all, I have not had the happiest +of lives. Perhaps there is something to be said for me." It sounded +pitiful and weak, even in her ears; but they had reached the stile, and +Durrance had turned towards her. She saw that his face lost something of +its sternness. He was standing quietly, prepared now to listen to what +she might wish to say. He remembered that in the old days when he could +see, he had always associated her with a dignity of carriage and a +reticence of speech. It seemed hardly possible that it was the same +woman who spoke to him now, and the violence of the contrast made him +ready to believe that there must be perhaps something to be said on her +behalf. + +"Will you tell me?" he said gently. + +"I was married almost straight from school. I was the merest girl. I +knew nothing, and I was married to a man of whom I knew nothing. It was +my mother's doing, and no doubt she thought that she was acting for the +very best. She was securing for me a position of a kind, and comfort and +release from any danger of poverty. I accepted what she said blindly, +ignorantly. I could hardly have refused, indeed, for my mother was an +imperious woman, and I was accustomed to obedience. I did as she told me +and married dutifully the man whom she chose. The case is common enough, +no doubt, but its frequency does not make it easier of endurance." + +"But Mr. Adair?" said Durrance. "After all, I knew him. He was older, no +doubt, than you, but he was kind. I think, too, he cared for you." + +"Yes. He was kindness itself, and he cared for me. Both things are true. +The knowledge that he did care for me was the one link, if you +understand. At the beginning I was contented, I suppose. I had a house +in town and another here. But it was dull," and she stretched out her +arms. "Oh, how dull it was! Do you know the little back streets in a +manufacturing town? Rows of small houses, side by side, with nothing to +relieve them of their ugly regularity, each with the self-same windows, +the self-same door, the self-same door-step. Overhead a drift of smoke, +and every little green thing down to the plants in the window dirty and +black. The sort of street whence any crazy religious charlatan who can +promise a little colour to their grey lives can get as many votaries as +he wants. Well, when I thought over my life, one of those little streets +always came into my mind. There are women, heaps of them, no doubt, to +whom the management of a big house, the season in London, the ordinary +round of visits, are sufficient. I, worse luck, was not one of them. +Dull! You, with your hundred thousand things to do, cannot conceive how +oppressively dull my life was. And that was not all!" She hesitated, but +she could not stop midway, and it was far too late for her to recover +her ground. She went on to the end. + +"I married, as I say, knowing nothing of the important things. I +believed at the first that mine was just the allotted life of all women. +But I began soon to have my doubts. I got to know that there was +something more to be won out of existence than mere dulness; at least, +that there was something more for others, though not for me. One could +not help learning that. One passed a man and a woman riding together, +and one chanced to look into the woman's face as one passed; or one saw, +perhaps, the woman alone and talked with her for a little while, and +from the happiness of her looks and voice one knew with absolute +certainty that there was ever so much more. Only the chance of that +ever so much more my mother had denied to me." + +All the sternness had now gone from Durrance's face, and Mrs. Adair was +speaking with a great simplicity. Of the violence which she had used +before there was no longer any trace. She did not appeal for pity, she +was not even excusing herself; she was just telling her story quietly +and gently. + +"And then you came," she continued. "I met you, and met you again. You +went away upon your duties and you returned; and I learnt now, not that +there was ever so much more, but just what that ever so much more was. +But it was still, of course, denied to me. However, in spite of that I +felt happier. I thought that I should be quite content to have you for a +friend, to watch your progress, and to feel pride in it. But you +see--Ethne came, too, and you turned to her. At once--oh, at once! If +you had only been a little less quick to turn to her! In a very short +while I was sad and sorry that you had ever come into my life." + +"I knew nothing of this," said Durrance. "I never suspected. I am +sorry." + +"I took care you should not suspect," said Mrs. Adair. "But I tried to +keep you; with all my wits I tried. No match-maker in the world ever +worked so hard to bring two people together as I did to bring together +Ethne and Mr. Feversham, and I succeeded." + +The statement came upon Durrance with a shock. He leaned back against +the stile and could have laughed. Here was the origin of the whole sad +business. From what small beginnings it had grown! It is a trite +reflection, but the personal application of it is apt to take away the +breath. It was so with Durrance as he thought himself backwards into +those days when he had walked on his own path, heedless of the people +with whom he came in touch, never dreaming that they were at that moment +influencing his life right up to his dying day. Feversham's disgrace and +ruin, Ethne's years of unhappiness, the wearying pretences of the last +few months, all had their origin years ago when Mrs. Adair, to keep +Durrance to herself, threw Feversham and Ethne into each other's +company. + +"I succeeded," continued Mrs. Adair. "You told me that I had succeeded +one morning in the Row. How glad I was! You did not notice it, I am +sure. The next moment you took all my gladness from me by telling me you +were starting for the Soudan. You were away three years. They were not +happy years for me. You came back. My husband was dead, but Ethne was +free. Ethne refused you, but you went blind and she claimed you. You can +see what ups and downs have fallen to me. But these months here have +been the worst." + +"I am very sorry," said Durrance. Mrs. Adair was quite right, he +thought. There was indeed something to be said on her behalf. The world +had gone rather hardly with her. He was able to realise what she had +suffered, since he was suffering in much the same way himself. It was +quite intelligible to him why she had betrayed Ethne's secret that night +upon the terrace, and he could not but be gentle with her. + +"I am very sorry, Mrs. Adair," he repeated lamely. There was nothing +more which he could find to say, and he held out his hand to her. + +"Good-bye," she said, and Durrance climbed over the stile and crossed +the fields to his house. + +Mrs. Adair stood by that stile for a long while after he had gone. She +had shot her bolt and hit no one but herself and the man for whom she +cared. + +She realised that distinctly. She looked forward a little, too, and she +understood that if Durrance did not, after all, keep Ethne to her +promise and marry her and go with her to her country, he would come back +to Guessens. That reflection showed Mrs. Adair yet more clearly the +folly of her outcry. If she had only kept silence, she would have had a +very true and constant friend for her neighbour, and that would have +been something. It would have been a good deal. But, since she had +spoken, they could never meet without embarrassment, and, practise +cordiality as they might, there would always remain in their minds the +recollection of what she had said and he had listened to on the +afternoon when he left for Wiesbaden. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +ON THE NILE + + +It was a callous country inhabited by a callous race, thought Calder, as +he travelled down the Nile from Wadi Halfa to Assouan on his three +months' furlough. He leaned over the rail of the upper deck of the +steamer and looked down upon the barge lashed alongside. On the lower +deck of the barge among the native passengers stood an angareb,[2] +whereon was stretched the motionless figure of a human being shrouded in +a black veil. The angareb and its burden had been carried on board early +that morning at Korosko by two Arabs, who now sat laughing and +chattering in the stern of the barge. It might have been a dead man or a +dead woman who lay still and stretched out upon the bedstead, so little +heed did they give to it. Calder lifted his eyes and looked to his right +and his left across glaring sand and barren rocks shaped roughly into +the hard forms of pyramids. The narrow meagre strip of green close by +the water's edge upon each bank was the only response which the Soudan +made to Spring and Summer and the beneficent rain. A callous country +inhabited by a callous people. + +[Footnote 2: The native bedstead of matting woven across a four-legged +frame.] + +Calder looked downwards again to the angareb upon the barge's deck and +the figure lying upon it. Whether it was man or woman he could not +tell. The black veil lay close about the face, outlining the nose, the +hollows of the eyes and the mouth; but whether the lips wore a moustache +and the chin a beard, it did not reveal. + +The slanting sunlight crept nearer and nearer to the angareb. The +natives seated close to it moved into the shadow of the upper deck, but +no one moved the angareb, and the two men laughing in the stern gave no +thought to their charge. Calder watched the blaze of yellow light creep +over the black recumbent figure from the feet upwards. It burnt at last +bright and pitiless upon the face. Yet the living creature beneath the +veil never stirred. The veil never fluttered above the lips, the legs +remained stretched out straight, the arms lay close against the side. + +Calder shouted to the two men in the stern. + +"Move the angareb into the shadow," he cried, "and be quick!" + +The Arabs rose reluctantly and obeyed him. + +"Is it a man or woman?" asked Calder. + +"A man. We are taking him to the hospital at Assouan, but we do not +think that he will live. He fell from a palm tree three weeks ago." + +"You give him nothing to eat or drink?" + +"He is too ill." + +It was a common story and the logical outcome of the belief that life +and death are written and will inevitably befall after the manner of the +writing. That man lying so quiet beneath the black covering had probably +at the beginning suffered nothing more serious than a bruise, which a +few simple remedies would have cured within a week. But he had been +allowed to lie, even as he lay upon the angareb, at the mercy of the +sun and the flies, unwashed, unfed, and with his thirst unslaked. The +bruise had become a sore, the sore had gangrened, and when all remedies +were too late, the Egyptian Mudir of Korosko had discovered the accident +and sent the man on the steamer down to Assouan. But, familiar though +the story was, Calder could not dismiss it from his thoughts. The +immobility of the sick man upon the native bedstead in a way fascinated +him, and when towards sunset a strong wind sprang up and blew against +the stream, he felt an actual comfort in the knowledge that the sick man +would gain some relief from it. And when his neighbour that evening at +the dinner table spoke to him with a German accent, he suddenly asked +upon an impulse:-- + +"You are not a doctor by any chance?" + +"Not a doctor," said the German, "but a student of medicine at Bonn. I +came from Cairo to see the Second Cataract, but was not allowed to go +farther than Wadi Halfa." + +Calder interrupted him at once. "Then I will trespass upon your holiday +and claim your professional assistance." + +"For yourself? With pleasure, though I should never have guessed you +were ill," said the student, smiling good-naturedly behind his +eyeglasses. + +"Nor am I. It is an Arab for whom I ask your help." + +"The man on the bedstead?" + +"Yes, if you will be so good. I will warn you--he was hurt three weeks +ago, and I know these people. No one will have touched him since he was +hurt. The sight will not be pretty. This is not a nice country for +untended wounds." + +The German student shrugged his shoulders. "All experience is good," +said he, and the two men rose from the table and went out on to the +upper deck. + +The wind had freshened during the dinner, and, blowing up stream, had +raised waves so that the steamer and its barge tossed and the water +broke on board. + +"He was below there," said the student, as he leaned over the rail and +peered downwards to the lower deck of the barge alongside. It was night, +and the night was dark. Above that lower deck only one lamp, swung from +the centre of the upper deck, glimmered and threw uncertain lights and +uncertain shadows over a small circle. Beyond the circle all was black +darkness, except at the bows, where the water breaking on board flung a +white sheet of spray. It could be seen like a sprinkle of snow driven by +the wind, it could be heard striking the deck like the lash of a whip. + +"He has been moved," said the German. "No doubt he has been moved. There +is no one in the bows." + +Calder bent his head downwards and stared into the darkness for a little +while without speaking. + +"I believe the angareb is there," he said at length. "I believe it is." + +Followed by the German, he hurried down the stairway to the lower deck +of the steamer and went to the side. He could make certain now. The +angareb stood in a wash of water on the very spot to which at Calder's +order it had been moved that morning. And on the angareb the figure +beneath the black covering lay as motionless as ever, as inexpressive of +life and feeling, though the cold spray broke continually upon its face. + +"I thought it would be so," said Calder. He got a lantern and with the +German student climbed across the bulwarks on to the barge. He summoned +the two Arabs. + +"Move the angareb from the bows," he said; and when they had obeyed, +"Now take that covering off. I wish my friend who is a doctor to see the +wound." + +The two men hesitated, and then one of them with an air of insolence +objected. "There are doctors in Assouan, whither we are taking him." + +Calder raised the lantern and himself drew the veil away from off the +wounded man. "Now if you please," he said to his companion. The German +student made his examination of the wounded thigh, while Calder held the +lantern above his head. As Calder had predicted, it was not a pleasant +business; for the wound crawled. The German student was glad to cover it +up again. + +"I can do nothing," he said. "Perhaps, in a hospital, with baths and +dressings--! Relief will be given at all events; but more? I do not +know. Here I could not even begin to do anything at all. Do these two +men understand English?" + +"No," answered Calder. + +"Then I can tell you something. He did not get the hurt by falling out +of any palm tree. That is a lie. The injury was done by the blade of a +spear or some weapon of the kind." + +"Are you sure?" + +"Yes." + +Calder bent down suddenly towards the Arab on the angareb. Although he +never moved, the man was conscious. Calder had been looking steadily at +him, and he saw that his eyes followed the spoken words. + +"You understand English?" said Calder. + +The Arab could not answer with his lips, but a look of comprehension +came into his face. + +"Where do you come from?" asked Calder. + +The lips tried to move, but not so much as a whisper escaped from them. +Yet his eyes spoke, but spoke vainly. For the most which they could tell +was a great eagerness to answer. Calder dropped upon his knee close by +the man's head and, holding the lantern close, enunciated the towns. + +"From Dongola?" + +No gleam in the Arab's eyes responded to that name. + +"From Metemneh? From Berber? From Omdurman? Ah!" + +The Arab answered to that word. He closed his eyelids. Calder went on +still more eagerly. + +"You were wounded there? No. Where then? At Berber? Yes. You were in +prison at Omdurman and escaped? No. Yet you were wounded." + +Calder sank back upon his knee and reflected. His reflections roused in +him some excitement. He bent down to the Arab's ear and spoke in a lower +key. + +"You were helping some one to escape? Yes. Who? El Kaimakam Trench? No." +He mentioned the names of other white captives in Omdurman, and to each +name the Arab's eyes answered "No." "It was Effendi Feversham, then?" +he said, and the eyes assented as clearly as though the lips had spoken. + +But this was all the information which Calder could secure. "I too am +pledged to help Effendi Feversham," he said, but in vain. The Arab could +not speak, he could not so much as tell his name, and his companions +would not. Whatever those two men knew or suspected, they had no mind to +meddle in the matter themselves, and they clung consistently to a story +which absolved them from responsibility. Kinsmen of theirs in Korosko, +hearing that they were travelling to Assouan, had asked them to take +charge of the wounded man, who was a stranger to them, and they had +consented. Calder could get nothing more explicit from them than this +statement, however closely he questioned them. He had under his hand the +information which he desired, the news of Harry Feversham for which +Durrance asked by every mail, but it was hidden from him in a locked +book. He stood beside the helpless man upon the angareb. There he was, +eager enough to speak, but the extremity of weakness to which he had +sunk laid a finger upon his lips. All that Calder could do was to see +him safely bestowed within the hospital at Assouan. "Will he recover?" +Calder asked, and the doctors shook their heads in doubt. There was a +chance perhaps, a very slight chance; but at the best, recovery would be +slow. + +Calder continued upon his journey to Cairo and Europe. An opportunity of +helping Harry Feversham had slipped away; for the Arab who could not +even speak his name was Abou Fatma of the Kabbabish tribe, and his +presence wounded and helpless upon the Nile steamer between Korosko and +Assouan meant that Harry Feversham's carefully laid plan for the rescue +of Colonel Trench had failed. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +LIEUTENANT SUTCH COMES OFF THE HALF-PAY LIST + + +At the time when Calder, disappointed at his failure to obtain news of +Feversham from the one man who possessed it, stepped into a carriage of +the train at Assouan, Lieutenant Sutch was driving along a high white +road of Hampshire across a common of heather and gorse; and he too was +troubled on Harry Feversham's account. Like many a man who lives much +alone, Lieutenant Sutch had fallen into the habit of speaking his +thoughts aloud. And as he drove slowly and reluctantly forward, more +than once he said to himself: "I foresaw there would be trouble. From +the beginning I foresaw there would be trouble." + +The ridge of hill along which he drove dipped suddenly to a hollow. +Sutch saw the road run steeply down in front of him between forests of +pines to a little railway station. The sight of the rails gleaming +bright in the afternoon sunlight, and the telegraph poles running away +in a straight line until they seemed to huddle together in the distance, +increased Sutch's discomposure. He reined his pony in, and sat staring +with a frown at the red-tiled roof of the station building. + +"I promised Harry to say nothing," he said; and drawing some makeshift +of comfort from the words, repeated them, "I promised faithfully in the +Criterion grill-room." + +The whistle of an engine a long way off sounded clear and shrill. It +roused Lieutenant Sutch from his gloomy meditations. He saw the white +smoke of an approaching train stretch out like a riband in the distance. + +"I wonder what brings him," he said doubtfully; and then with an effort +at courage, "Well, it's no use shirking." He flicked the pony with his +whip and drove briskly down the hill. He reached the station as the +train drew up at the platform. Only two passengers descended from the +train. They were Durrance and his servant, and they came out at once on +to the road. Lieutenant Sutch hailed Durrance, who walked to the side of +the trap. + +"You received my telegram in time, then?" said Durrance. + +"Luckily it found me at home." + +"I have brought a bag. May I trespass upon you for a night's lodging?" + +"By all means," said Sutch, but the tone of his voice quite clearly to +Durrance's ears belied the heartiness of the words. Durrance, however, +was prepared for a reluctant welcome, and he had purposely sent his +telegram at the last moment. Had he given an address, he suspected that +he might have received a refusal of his visit. And his suspicion was +accurate enough. The telegram, it is true, had merely announced +Durrance's visit, it had stated nothing of his object; but its despatch +was sufficient to warn Sutch that something grave had happened, +something untoward in the relations of Ethne Eustace and Durrance. +Durrance had come, no doubt, to renew his inquiries about Harry +Feversham, those inquiries which Sutch was on no account to answer, +which he must parry all this afternoon and night. But he saw Durrance +feeling about with his raised foot for the step of the trap, and the +fact of his visitor's blindness was brought home to him. He reached out +a hand, and catching Durrance by the arm, helped him up. After all, he +thought, it would not be difficult to hoodwink a blind man. Ethne +herself had had the same thought and felt much the same relief as Sutch +felt now. The lieutenant, indeed, was so relieved that he found room for +an impulse of pity. + +"I was very sorry, Durrance, to hear of your bad luck," he said, as he +drove off up the hill. "I know what it is myself to be suddenly stopped +and put aside just when one is making way and the world is smoothing +itself out, though my wound in the leg is nothing in comparison to your +blindness. I don't talk to you about compensations and patience. That's +the gabble of people who are comfortable and haven't suffered. _We_ know +that for a man who is young and active, and who is doing well in a +career where activity is a necessity, there are no compensations if his +career's suddenly cut short through no fault of his." + +"Through no fault of his," repeated Durrance. "I agree with you. It is +only the man whose career is cut short through his own fault who gets +compensations." + +Sutch glanced sharply at his companion. Durrance had spoken slowly and +very thoughtfully. Did he mean to refer to Harry Feversham, Sutch +wondered. Did he know enough to be able so to refer to him? Or was it +merely by chance that his words were so strikingly apposite? + +"Compensations of what kind?" Sutch asked uneasily. + +"The chance of knowing himself for one thing, for the chief thing. He is +brought up short, stopped in his career, perhaps disgraced." Sutch +started a little at the word. "Yes, perhaps--disgraced," Durrance +repeated. "Well, the shock of the disgrace is, after all, his +opportunity. Don't you see that? It's his opportunity to know himself at +last. Up to the moment of disgrace his life has all been sham and +illusion; the man he believed himself to be, he never was, and now at +the last he knows it. Once he knows it, he can set about to retrieve his +disgrace. Oh, there are compensations for such a man. You and I know a +case in point." + +Sutch no longer doubted that Durrance was deliberately referring to +Harry Feversham. He had some knowledge, though how he had gained it +Sutch could not guess. But the knowledge was not to Sutch's idea quite +accurate, and the inaccuracy did Harry Feversham some injustice. It was +on that account chiefly that Sutch did not affect any ignorance as to +Durrance's allusion. The passage of the years had not diminished his +great regard for Harry; he cared for him indeed with a woman's +concentration of love, and he could not endure that his memory should be +slighted. + +"The case you and I know of is not quite in point," he argued. "You are +speaking of Harry Feversham." + +"Who believed himself a coward, and was not one. He commits the fault +which stops his career, he finds out his mistake, he sets himself to the +work of retrieving his disgrace. Surely it's a case quite in point." + +"Yes, I see," Sutch agreed. "There is another view, a wrong view as I +know, but I thought for the moment it was your view--that Harry fancied +himself to be a brave man and was suddenly brought up short by +discovering that he was a coward. But how did you find out? No one knew +the whole truth except myself." + +"I am engaged to Miss Eustace," said Durrance. + +"She did not know everything. She knew of the disgrace, but she did not +know of the determination to retrieve it." + +"She knows now," said Durrance; and he added sharply, "You are glad of +that--very glad." + +Sutch was not aware that by any movement or exclamation he had betrayed +his pleasure. His face, no doubt, showed it clearly enough, but Durrance +could not see his face. Lieutenant Sutch was puzzled, but he did not +deny the imputation. + +"It is true," he said stoutly. "I am very glad that she knows. I can +quite see that from your point of view it would be better if she did not +know. But I cannot help it. I am very glad." + +Durrance laughed, and not at all unpleasantly. "I like you the better +for being glad," he said. + +"But how does Miss Eustace know?" asked Sutch. "Who told her? I did not, +and there is no one else who could tell her." + +"You are wrong. There is Captain Willoughby. He came to Devonshire six +weeks ago. He brought with him a white feather which he gave to Miss +Eustace, as a proof that he withdrew his charge of cowardice against +Harry Feversham." + +Sutch stopped the pony in the middle of the road. He no longer troubled +to conceal the joy which this good news caused him. Indeed, he forgot +altogether Durrance's presence at his side. He sat quite silent and +still, with a glow of happiness upon him, such as he had never known in +all his life. He was an old man now, well on in his sixties; he had +reached an age when the blood runs slow, and the pleasures are of a grey +sober kind, and joy has lost its fevers. But there welled up in his +heart a gladness of such buoyancy as only falls to the lot of youth. +Five years ago on the pier of Dover he had watched a mail packet steam +away into darkness and rain, and had prayed that he might live until +this great moment should come. And he had lived and it had come. His +heart was lifted up in gratitude. It seemed to him that there was a +great burst of sunlight across the world, and that the world itself had +suddenly grown many-coloured and a place of joys. Ever since the night +when he had stood outside the War Office in Pall Mall, and Harry +Feversham had touched him on the arm and had spoken out his despair, +Lieutenant Sutch had been oppressed with a sense of guilt. Harry was +Muriel Feversham's boy, and Sutch just for that reason should have +watched him and mothered him in his boyhood since his mother was dead, +and fathered him in his youth since his father did not understand. But +he had failed. He had failed in a sacred trust, and he had imagined +Muriel Feversham's eyes looking at him with reproach from the barrier of +the skies. He had heard her voice in his dreams saying to him gently, +ever so gently: "Since I was dead, since I was taken away to where I +could only see and not help, surely you might have helped. Just for my +sake you might have helped,--you whose work in the world was at an end." +And the long tale of his inactive years had stood up to accuse him. Now, +however, the guilt was lifted from his shoulders, and by Harry +Feversham's own act. The news was not altogether unexpected, but the +lightness of spirit which he felt showed him how much he had counted +upon its coming. + +"I knew," he exclaimed, "I knew he wouldn't fail. Oh, I am glad you came +to-day, Colonel Durrance. It was partly my fault, you see, that Harry +Feversham ever incurred that charge of cowardice. I could have +spoken--there was an opportunity on one of the Crimean nights at Broad +Place, and a word might have been of value--and I held my tongue. I have +never ceased to blame myself. I am grateful for your news. You have the +particulars? Captain Willoughby was in peril, and Harry came to his +aid?" + +"No, it was not that exactly." + +"Tell me! Tell me!" + +He feared to miss a word. Durrance related the story of the Gordon +letters, and their recovery by Feversham. It was all too short for +Lieutenant Sutch. + +"Oh, but I am glad you came," he cried. + +"You understand at all events," said Durrance, "that I have not come to +repeat to you the questions I asked in the courtyard of my club. I am +able, on the contrary, to give you information." + +Sutch spoke to the pony and drove on. He had said nothing which could +reveal to Durrance his fear that to renew those questions was the +object of his visit; and he was a little perplexed at the accuracy of +Durrance's conjecture. But the great news to which he had listened +hindered him from giving thought to that perplexity. + +"So Miss Eustace told you the story," he said, "and showed you the +feather?" + +"No, indeed," replied Durrance. "She said not a word about it, she never +showed me the feather, she even forbade Willoughby to hint of it, she +sent him away from Devonshire before I knew that he had come. You are +disappointed at that," he added quickly. + +Lieutenant Sutch was startled. It was true he was disappointed; he was +jealous of Durrance, he wished Harry Feversham to stand first in the +girl's thoughts. It was for her sake that Harry had set about his +difficult and perilous work. Sutch wished her to remember him as he +remembered her. Therefore he was disappointed that she did not at once +come with her news to Durrance and break off their engagement. It would +be hard for Durrance, no doubt, but that could not be helped. + +"Then how did you learn the story?" asked Sutch. + +"Some one else told me. I was told that Willoughby had come, and that he +had brought a white feather, and that Ethne had taken it from him. Never +mind by whom. That gave me a clue. I lay in wait for Willoughby in +London. He is not very clever; he tried to obey Ethne's command of +silence, but I managed to extract the information I wanted. The rest of +the story I was able to put together by myself. Ethne now and then was +off her guard. You are surprised that I was clever enough to find out +the truth by the exercise of my own wits?" said Durrance, with a laugh. + +Lieutenant Sutch jumped in his seat. It was mere chance, of course, that +Durrance continually guessed with so singular an accuracy; still it was +uncomfortable. + +"I have said nothing which could in any way suggest that I was +surprised," he said testily. + +"That is quite true, but you are none the less surprised," continued +Durrance. "I don't blame you. You could not know that it is only since I +have been blind that I have begun to see. Shall I give you an instance? +This is the first time that I have ever come into this neighbourhood or +got out at your station. Well, I can tell you that you have driven me up +a hill between forests of pines, and are now driving me across open +country of heather." + +Sutch turned quickly towards Durrance. + +"The hill, of course, you would notice. But the pines?" + +"The air was close. I knew there were trees. I guessed they were pines." + +"And the open country?" + +"The wind blows clear across it. There's a dry stiff rustle besides. I +have never heard quite that sound except when the wind blows across +heather." + +He turned the conversation back to Harry Feversham and his +disappearance, and the cause of his disappearance. He made no mention, +Sutch remarked, of the fourth white feather which Ethne herself had +added to the three. But the history of the three which had come by the +post to Ramelton he knew to its last letter. + +"I was acquainted with the men who sent them," he said, "Trench, +Castleton, Willoughby. I met them daily in Suakin, just ordinary +officers, one rather shrewd, the second quite commonplace, the third +distinctly stupid. I saw them going quietly about the routine of their +work. It seems quite strange to me now. There should have been some mark +set upon them, setting them apart as the particular messengers of fate. +But there was nothing of the kind. They were just ordinary prosaic +regimental officers. Doesn't it seem strange to you, too? Here were men +who could deal out misery and estrangement and years of suffering, +without so much as a single word spoken, and they went about their +business, and you never knew them from other men until a long while +afterwards some consequence of what they did, and very likely have +forgotten, rises up and strikes you down." + +"Yes," said Sutch. "That thought has occurred to me." He fell to +wondering again what object had brought Durrance into Hampshire, since +he did not come for information; but Durrance did not immediately +enlighten him. They reached the lieutenant's house. It stood alone by +the roadside looking across a wide country of downs. Sutch took Durrance +over his stable and showed him his horses, he explained to him the +arrangement of his garden and the grouping of his flowers. Still +Durrance said nothing about the reason of his visit; he ceased to talk +of Harry Feversham and assumed a great interest in the lieutenant's +garden. But indeed the interest was not all pretence. These two men had +something in common, as Sutch had pointed out at the moment of their +meeting--the abrupt termination of a promising career. One of the two +was old, the other comparatively young, and the younger man was most +curious to discover how his elder had managed to live through the +dragging profitless years alone. The same sort of lonely life lay +stretched out before Durrance, and he was anxious to learn what +alleviations could be practised, what small interests could be +discovered, how best it could be got through. + +"You don't live within sight of the sea," he said at last as they stood +together, after making the round of the garden, at the door. + +"No, I dare not," said Sutch, and Durrance nodded his head in complete +sympathy and comprehension. + +"I understand. You care for it too much. You would have the full +knowledge of your loss presented to your eyes each moment." + +They went into the house. Still Durrance did not refer to the object of +his visit. They dined together and sat over their wine alone. Still +Durrance did not speak. It fell to Lieutenant Sutch to recur to the +subject of Harry Feversham. A thought had been gaining strength in his +mind all that afternoon, and since Durrance would not lead up to its +utterance, he spoke it out himself. + +"Harry Feversham must come back to England. He has done enough to redeem +his honour." + +Harry Feversham's return might be a little awkward for Durrance, and +Lieutenant Sutch with that notion in his mind blurted out his sentences +awkwardly, but to his surprise Durrance answered him at once. + +"I was waiting for you to say that. I wanted you to realise without any +suggestion of mine that Harry must return. It was with that object that +I came." + +Lieutenant Sutch's relief was great. He had been prepared for an +objection, at the best he only expected a reluctant acquiescence, and in +the greatness of his relief he spoke again:-- + +"His return will not really trouble you or your wife, since Miss Eustace +has forgotten him." + +Durrance shook his head. + +"She has not forgotten him." + +"But she kept silence, even after Willoughby had brought the feather +back. You told me so this afternoon. She said not a word to you. She +forbade Willoughby to tell you." + +"She is very true, very loyal," returned Durrance. "She has pledged +herself to me, and nothing in the world, no promise of happiness, no +thought of Harry, would induce her to break her pledge. I know her. But +I know too that she only plighted herself to me out of pity, because I +was blind. I know that she has not forgotten Harry." + +Lieutenant Sutch leaned back in his chair and smiled. He could have +laughed outright. He asked for no details, he did not doubt Durrance's +words. He was overwhelmed with pride in that Harry Feversham, in spite +of his disgrace and his long absence,--Harry Feversham, his favourite, +had retained this girl's love. No doubt she was very true, very loyal. +Sutch endowed her on the instant with all the good qualities possible to +a human being. The nobler she was, the greater was his pride that Harry +Feversham still retained her heart. Lieutenant Sutch fairly revelled in +this new knowledge. It was not to be wondered at after all, he thought; +there was nothing astonishing in the girl's fidelity to any one who was +really acquainted with Harry Feversham, it was only an occasion of great +gladness. Durrance would have to get out of the way, of course, but then +he should never have crossed Harry Feversham's path. Sutch was cruel +with the perfect cruelty of which love alone is capable. + +"You are very glad of that," said Durrance, quietly. "Very glad that +Ethne has not forgotten him. It is a little hard on me, perhaps, who +have not much left. It would have been less hard if two years ago you +had told me the whole truth, when I asked it of you that summer evening +in the courtyard of the club." + +Compunction seized upon Lieutenant Sutch. The gentleness with which +Durrance had spoken, and the quiet accent of weariness in his voice, +brought home to him something of the cruelty of his great joy and pride. +After all, what Durrance said was true. If he had broken his word that +night at the club, if he had related Feversham's story, Durrance would +have been spared a great deal. + +"I couldn't!" he exclaimed. "I promised Harry in the most solemn way +that I would tell no one until he came back himself. I was sorely +tempted to tell you, but I had given my word. Even if Harry never came +back, if I obtained sure knowledge that he was dead, even then I was +only to tell his father, and even his father not all that could be told +on his behalf." + +He pushed back his chair and went to the window. "It is hot in here," +he said. "Do you mind?" and without waiting for an answer he loosed the +catch and raised the sash. For some little while he stood by the open +window, silent, undecided. Durrance plainly did not know of the fourth +feather broken off from Ethne's fan, he had not heard the conversation +between himself and Feversham in the grill-room of the Criterion +Restaurant. There were certain words spoken by Harry upon that occasion +which it seemed fair Durrance should now hear. Compunction and pity bade +Sutch repeat them, his love of Harry Feversham enjoined him to hold his +tongue. He could plead again that Harry had forbidden him speech, but +the plea would be an excuse and nothing more. He knew very well that +were Harry present, Harry would repeat them, and Lieutenant Sutch knew +what harm silence had already done. He mastered his love in the end and +came back to the table. + +"There is something which it is fair you should know," he said. "When +Harry went away to redeem his honour, if the opportunity should come, he +had no hope, indeed he had no wish, that Miss Eustace should wait for +him. She was the spur to urge him, but she did not know even that. He +did not wish her to know. He had no claim upon her. There was not even a +hope in his mind that she might at some time be his friend--in this +life, at all events. When he went away from Ramelton, he parted from +her, according to his thought, for all his mortal life. It is fair that +you should know that. Miss Eustace, you tell me, is not the woman to +withdraw from her pledged word. Well, what I said to you that evening +at the club I now repeat. There will be no disloyalty to friendship if +you marry Miss Eustace." + +It was a difficult speech for Lieutenant Sutch to utter, and he was very +glad when he had uttered it. Whatever answer he received, it was right +that the words should be spoken, and he knew that, had he refrained from +speech, he would always have suffered remorse for his silence. None the +less, however, he waited in suspense for the answer. + +"It is kind of you to tell me that," said Durrance, and he smiled at the +lieutenant with a great friendliness. "For I can guess what the words +cost you. But you have done Harry Feversham no harm by speaking them. +For, as I told you, Ethne has not forgotten him; and I have my point of +view. Marriage between a man blind like myself and any woman, let alone +Ethne, could not be fair or right unless upon both sides there was more +than friendship. Harry must return to England. He must return to Ethne, +too. You must go to Egypt and do what you can to bring him back." + +Sutch was relieved of his suspense. He had obeyed his conscience and yet +done Harry Feversham no disservice. + +"I will start to-morrow," he said. "Harry is still in the Soudan?" + +"Of course." + +"Why of course?" asked Sutch. "Willoughby withdrew his accusation; +Castleton is dead--he was killed at Tamai; and Trench--I know, for I +have followed all these three men's careers--Trench is a prisoner in +Omdurman." + +"So is Harry Feversham." + +Sutch stared at his visitor. For a moment he did not understand, the +shock had been too sudden and abrupt. Then after comprehension dawned +upon him, he refused to believe. The folly of that refusal in its turn +became apparent. He sat down in his chair opposite to Durrance, awed +into silence. And the silence lasted for a long while. + +"What am I to do?" he said at length. + +"I have thought it out," returned Durrance. "You must go to Suakin. I +will give you a letter to Willoughby, who is Deputy-Governor, and +another to a Greek merchant there whom I know, and on whom you can draw +for as much money as you require." + +"That's good of you, Durrance, upon my word," Sutch interrupted; and +forgetting that he was talking to a blind man he held out his hand +across the table. "I would not take a penny if I could help it; but I am +a poor man. Upon my soul it's good of you." + +"Just listen to me, please," said Durrance. He could not see the +outstretched hand, but his voice showed that he would hardly have taken +it if he had. He was striking the final blow at his chance of happiness. +But he did not wish to be thanked for it. "At Suakin you must take the +Greek merchant's advice and organise a rescue as best you can. It will +be a long business, and you will have many disappointments before you +succeed. But you must stick to it until you do." + +Upon that the two men fell to a discussion of the details of the length +of time which it would take for a message from Suakin to be carried +into Omdurman, of the untrustworthiness of some Arab spies, and of the +risks which the trustworthy ran. Sutch's house was searched for maps, +the various routes by which the prisoners might escape were described by +Durrance--the great forty days' road from Kordofan on the west, the +straight track from Omdurman to Berber and from Berber to Suakin, and +the desert journey across the Belly of Stones by the wells of Murat to +Korosko. It was late before Durrance had told all that he thought +necessary and Sutch had exhausted his questions. + +"You will stay at Suakin as your base of operations," said Durrance, as +he closed up the maps. + +"Yes," answered Sutch, and he rose from his chair. "I will start as soon +as you give me the letters." + +"I have them already written." + +"Then I will start to-morrow. You may be sure I will let both you and +Miss Eustace know how the attempt progresses." + +"Let me know," said Durrance, "but not a whisper of it to Ethne. She +knows nothing of my plan, and she must know nothing until Feversham +comes back himself. She has her point of view, as I have mine. Two lives +shall not be spoilt because of her. That's her resolve. She believes +that to some degree she was herself the cause of Harry Feversham's +disgrace--that but for her he would not have resigned his commission." + +"Yes." + +"You agree with that? At all events she believes it. So there's one life +spoilt because of her. Suppose now I go to her and say: 'I know that you +pretend out of your charity and kindness to care for me, but in your +heart you are no more than my friend,' why, I hurt her, and cruelly. For +there's all that's left of the second life spoilt too. But bring back +Feversham! Then I can speak--then I can say freely: 'Since you are just +my friend, I would rather be your friend and nothing more. So neither +life will be spoilt at all.'" + +"I understand," said Sutch. "It's the way a man should speak. So till +Feversham comes back the pretence remains. She pretends to care for you, +you pretend you do not know she thinks of Harry. While I go eastwards to +bring him home, you go back to her." + +"No," said Durrance, "I can't go back. The strain of keeping up the +pretence was telling too much on both of us. I go to Wiesbaden. An +oculist lives there who serves me for an excuse. I shall wait at +Wiesbaden until you bring Harry home." + +Sutch opened the door, and the two men went out into the hall. The +servants had long since gone to bed. A couple of candlesticks stood upon +a table beside a lamp. More than once Lieutenant Sutch had forgotten +that his visitor was blind, and he forgot the fact again. He lighted +both candles and held out one to his companion. Durrance knew from the +noise of Sutch's movements what he was doing. + +"I have no need of a candle," he said with a smile. The light fell full +upon his face, and Sutch suddenly remarked how tired it looked and old. +There were deep lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth, and +furrows in the cheeks. His hair was grey as an old man's hair. Durrance +had himself made so little of his misfortune this evening that Sutch had +rather come to rate it as a small thing in the sum of human calamities, +but he read his mistake now in Durrance's face. Just above the flame of +the candle, framed in the darkness of the hall, it showed white and +drawn and haggard--the face of an old worn man set upon the stalwart +shoulders of a man in the prime of his years. + +"I have said very little to you in the way of sympathy," said Sutch. "I +did not know that you would welcome it. But I am sorry. I am very +sorry." + +"Thanks," said Durrance, simply. He stood for a moment or two silently +in front of his host. "When I was in the Soudan, travelling through the +deserts, I used to pass the white skeletons of camels lying by the side +of the track. Do you know the camel's way? He is an unfriendly, +graceless beast, but he marches to within an hour of his death. He drops +and dies with the load upon his back. It seemed to me, even in those +days, the right and enviable way to finish. You can imagine how I must +envy them that advantage of theirs now. Good night." + +He felt for the bannister and walked up the stairs to his room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +GENERAL FEVERSHAM'S PORTRAITS ARE APPEASED + + +Lieutenant Sutch, though he went late to bed, was early astir in the +morning. He roused the household, packed and repacked his clothes, and +made such a bustle and confusion that everything to be done took twice +its ordinary time in the doing. There never had been so much noise and +flurry in the house during all the thirty years of Lieutenant Sutch's +residence. His servants could not satisfy him, however quickly they +scuttled about the passages in search of this or that forgotten article +of his old travelling outfit. Sutch, indeed, was in a boyish fever of +excitement. It was not to be wondered at, perhaps. For thirty years he +had lived inactive--on the world's half-pay list, to quote his own +phrase; and at the end of all that long time, miraculously, something +had fallen to him to do--something important, something which needed +energy and tact and decision. Lieutenant Sutch, in a word, was to be +employed again. He was feverish to begin his employment. He dreaded the +short interval before he could begin, lest some hindrance should +unexpectedly occur and relegate him again to inactivity. + +"I shall be ready this afternoon," he said briskly to Durrance as they +breakfasted. "I shall catch the night mail to the Continent. We might +go up to London together; for London is on your way to Wiesbaden." + +"No," said Durrance, "I have just one more visit to pay in England. I +did not think of it until I was in bed last night. You put it into my +head." + +"Oh," observed Sutch, "and whom do you propose to visit?" + +"General Feversham," replied Durrance. + +Sutch laid down his knife and fork and looked with surprise at his +companion. "Why in the world do you wish to see him?" he asked. + +"I want to tell him how Harry has redeemed his honour, how he is still +redeeming it. You said last night that you were bound by a promise not +to tell him anything of his son's intention, or even of his son's +success until the son returned himself. But I am bound by no promise. I +think such a promise bears hardly on the general. There is nothing in +the world which could pain him so much as the proof that his son was a +coward. Harry might have robbed and murdered. The old man would have +preferred him to have committed both these crimes. I shall cross into +Surrey this morning and tell him that Harry never was a coward." + +Sutch shook his head. + +"He will not be able to understand. He will be very grateful to you, of +course. He will be very glad that Harry has atoned his disgrace, but he +will never understand why he incurred it. And, after all, he will only +be glad because the family honour is restored." + +"I don't agree," said Durrance. "I believe the old man is rather fond of +his son, though to be sure he would never admit it. I rather like +General Feversham." + +Lieutenant Sutch had seen very little of General Feversham during the +last five years. He could not forgive him for his share in the +responsibility of Harry Feversham's ruin. Had the general been capable +of sympathy with and comprehension of the boy's nature, the white +feathers would never have been sent to Ramelton. Sutch pictured the old +man sitting sternly on his terrace at Broad Place, quite unaware that he +was himself at all to blame, and on the contrary, rather inclined to +pose as a martyr, in that his son had turned out a shame and disgrace to +all the dead Fevershams whose portraits hung darkly on the high walls of +the hall. Sutch felt that he could never endure to talk patiently with +General Feversham, and he was sure that no argument would turn that +stubborn man from his convictions. He had not troubled at all to +consider whether the news which Durrance had brought should be handed on +to Broad Place. + +"You are very thoughtful for others," he said to Durrance. + +"It's not to my credit. I practise thoughtfulness for others out of an +instinct of self-preservation, that's all," said Durrance. "Selfishness +is the natural and encroaching fault of the blind. I know that, so I am +careful to guard against it." + +He travelled accordingly that morning by branch lines from Hampshire +into Surrey, and came to Broad Place in the glow of the afternoon. +General Feversham was now within a few months of his eightieth year, and +though his back was as stiff and his figure as erect as on that night +now so many years ago when he first presented Harry to his Crimean +friends, he was shrunken in stature, and his face seemed to have grown +small. Durrance had walked with the general upon his terrace only two +years ago, and blind though he was, he noticed a change within this +interval of time. Old Feversham walked with a heavier step, and there +had come a note of puerility into his voice. + +"You have joined the veterans before your time, Durrance," he said. "I +read of it in a newspaper. I would have written had I known where to +write." + +If he had any suspicion of Durrance's visit, he gave no sign of it. He +rang the bell, and tea was brought into the great hall where the +portraits hung. He asked after this and that officer in the Soudan with +whom he was acquainted, he discussed the iniquities of the War Office, +and feared that the country was going to the deuce. + +"Everything through ill-luck or bad management is going to the devil, +sir," he exclaimed irritably. "Even you, Durrance, you are not the same +man who walked with me on my terrace two years ago." + +The general had never been remarkable for tact, and the solitary life he +led had certainly brought no improvement. Durrance could have countered +with a _tu quoque_, but he refrained. + +"But I come upon the same business," he said. + +Feversham sat up stiffly in his chair. + +"And I give you the same answer. I have nothing to say about Harry +Feversham. I will not discuss him." + +He spoke in his usual hard and emotionless voice. He might have been +speaking of a stranger. Even the name was uttered without the slightest +hint of sorrow. Durrance began to wonder whether the fountains of +affection had not been altogether dried up in General Feversham's heart. + +"It would not please you, then, to know where Harry Feversham has been, +and how he has lived during the last five years?" + +There was a pause--not a long pause, but still a pause--before General +Feversham answered:-- + +"Not in the least, Colonel Durrance." + +The answer was uncompromising, but Durrance relied upon the pause which +preceded it. + +"Nor on what business he has been engaged?" he continued. + +"I am not interested in the smallest degree. I do not wish him to +starve, and my solicitor tells me that he draws his allowance. I am +content with that knowledge, Colonel Durrance." + +"I will risk your anger, General," said Durrance. "There are times when +it is wise to disobey one's superior officer. This is one of the times. +Of course you can turn me out of the house. Otherwise I shall relate to +you the history of your son and my friend since he disappeared from +England." + +General Feversham laughed. + +"Of course, I can't turn you out of the house," he said; and he added +severely, "But I warn you that you are taking an improper advantage of +your position as my guest." + +"Yes, there is no doubt of that," Durrance answered calmly; and he told +his story--the recovery of the Gordon letters from Berber, his own +meeting with Harry Feversham at Wadi Halfa, and Harry's imprisonment at +Omdurman. He brought it down to that very day, for he ended with the +news of Lieutenant Sutch's departure for Suakin. General Feversham heard +the whole account without an interruption, without even stirring in his +chair. Durrance could not tell in what spirit he listened, but he drew +some comfort from the fact that he did listen and without argument. + +For some while after Durrance had finished, the general sat silent. He +raised his hand to his forehead and shaded his eyes as though the man +who had spoken could see, and thus he remained. Even when he did speak, +he did not take his hand away. Pride forbade him to show to those +portraits on the walls that he was capable even of so natural a weakness +as joy at the reconquest of honour by his son. + +"What I don't understand," he said slowly, "is why Harry ever resigned +his commission. I could not understand it before; I understand it even +less now since you have told me of his great bravery. It is one of the +queer inexplicable things. They happen, and there's all that can be +said. But I am very glad that you compelled me to listen to you, +Durrance." + +"I did it with a definite object. It is for you to say, of course, but +for my part I do not see why Harry should not come home and enter in +again to all that he lost." + +"He cannot regain everything," said Feversham. "It is not right that he +should. He committed the sin, and he must pay. He cannot regain his +career for one thing." + +"No, that is true; but he can find another. He is not yet so old but +that he can find another. And that is all that he will have lost." + +General Feversham now took his hand away and moved in his chair. He +looked quickly at Durrance; he opened his mouth to ask a question, but +changed his mind. + +"Well," he said briskly, and as though the matter were of no particular +importance, "if Sutch can manage Harry's escape from Omdurman, I see no +reason, either, why he should not come home." + +Durrance rose from his chair. "Thank you, General. If you can have me +driven to the station, I can catch a train to town. There's one at six." + +"But you will stay the night, surely," cried General Feversham. + +"It is impossible. I start for Wiesbaden early to-morrow." + +Feversham rang the bell and gave the order for a carriage. "I should +have been very glad if you could have stayed," he said, turning to +Durrance. "I see very few people nowadays. To tell the truth I have no +great desire to see many. One grows old and a creature of customs." + +"But you have your Crimean nights," said Durrance, cheerfully. + +Feversham shook his head. "There have been none since Harry went away. I +had no heart for them," he said slowly. For a second the mask was lifted +and his stern features softened. He had suffered much during these five +lonely years of his old age, though not one of his acquaintances up to +this moment had ever detected a look upon his face or heard a sentence +from his lips which could lead them so to think. He had shown a +stubborn front to the world; he had made it a matter of pride that no +one should be able to point a finger at him and say, "There's a man +struck down." But on this one occasion and in these few words he +revealed to Durrance the depth of his grief. Durrance understood how +unendurable the chatter of his friends about the old days of war in the +snowy trenches would have been. An anecdote recalling some particular +act of courage would hurt as keenly as a story of cowardice. The whole +history of his lonely life at Broad Place was laid bare in that simple +statement that there had been no Crimean nights for he had no heart for +them. + +The wheels of the carriage rattled on the gravel. + +"Good-bye," said Durrance, and he held out his hand. + +"By the way," said Feversham, "to organise this escape from Omdurman +will cost a great deal of money. Sutch is a poor man. Who is paying?" + +"I am." + +Feversham shook Durrance's hand in a firm clasp. + +"It is my right, of course," he said. + +"Certainly. I will let you know what it costs." + +"Thank you." + +General Feversham accompanied his visitor to the door. There was a +question which he had it in his mind to ask, but the question was +delicate. He stood uneasily on the steps of the house. + +"Didn't I hear, Durrance," he said with an air of carelessness, "that +you were engaged to Miss Eustace?" + +"I think I said that Harry would regain all that he had lost except his +career," said Durrance. + +He stepped into the carriage and drove off to the station. His work was +ended. There was nothing more for him now to do, except to wait at +Wiesbaden and pray that Sutch might succeed. He had devised the plan, it +remained for those who had eyes wherewith to see to execute it. + +General Feversham stood upon the steps looking after the carriage until +it disappeared among the pines. Then he walked slowly back into the +hall. "There is no reason why he should not come back," he said. He +looked up at the pictures. The dead Fevershams in their uniforms would +not be disgraced. "No reason in the world," he said. "And, please God, +he will come back soon." The dangers of an escape from the Dervish city +remote among the sands began to loom very large on his mind. He owned to +himself that he felt very tired and old, and many times that night he +repeated his prayer, "Please God, Harry will come back soon," as he sat +erect upon the bench which had once been his wife's favourite seat, and +gazed out across the moonlit country to the Sussex Downs. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +THE HOUSE OF STONE + + +These were the days before the great mud wall was built about the House +of Stone in Omdurman. Only a thorn zareeba as yet enclosed that noisome +prison and the space about it. It stood upon the eastern border of the +town, surely the most squalid capital of any empire since the world +began. Not a flower bloomed in a single corner. There was no grass nor +the green shade of any tree. A brown and stony plain, burnt by the sun, +and, built upon it a straggling narrow city of hovels crawling with +vermin and poisoned with disease. + +Between the prison and the Nile no houses stood, and at this time the +prisoners were allowed, so long as daylight lasted, to stumble in their +chains down the half-mile of broken sloping earth to the Nile bank, so +that they might draw water for their use and perform their ablutions. +For the native or the negro, then, escape was not so difficult. For +along that bank the dhows were moored and they were numerous; the river +traffic, such as there was of it, had its harbour there, and the wide +foreshore made a convenient market-place. Thus the open space between +the river and the House of Stone was thronged and clamorous all day, +captives rubbed elbows with their friends, concerted plans of escape, or +then and there slipped into the thickest of the crowd and made their +way to the first blacksmith, with whom the price of iron outweighed any +risk he took. But even on their way to the blacksmith's shop, their +fetters called for no notice in Omdurman. Slaves wore them as a daily +habit, and hardly a street in all that long brown treeless squalid city +was ever free from the clink of a man who walked in chains. + +But for the European escape was another matter. There were not so many +white prisoners but that each was a marked man. Besides relays of camels +stationed through the desert, much money, long preparations, and above +all, devoted natives who would risk their lives, were the first +necessities for their evasion. The camels might be procured and +stationed, but it did not follow that their drivers would remain at the +stations; the long preparations might be made and the whip of the gaoler +overset them at the end by flogging the captive within an inch of his +life, on a suspicion that he had money; the devoted servant might shrink +at the last moment. Colonel Trench began to lose all hope. His friends +were working for him, he knew. For at times the boy who brought his food +into the prison would bid him be ready; at times, too, when at some +parade of the Khalifa's troops he was shown in triumph as an emblem of +the destiny of all the Turks, a man perhaps would jostle against his +camel and whisper encouragements. But nothing ever came of the +encouragements. He saw the sun rise daily beyond the bend of the river +behind the tall palm trees of Khartum and burn across the sky, and the +months dragged one after the other. + +On an evening towards the end of August, in that year when Durrance +came home blind from the Soudan, he sat in a corner of the enclosure +watching the sun drop westwards towards the plain with an agony of +anticipation. For however intolerable the heat and burden of the day, it +was as nothing compared with the horrors which each night renewed. The +moment of twilight came and with it Idris es Saier, the great negro of +the Gawaamah tribe, and his fellow-gaolers. + +"Into the House of Stone!" he cried. + +Praying and cursing, with the sound of the pitiless whips falling +perpetually upon the backs of the hindmost, the prisoners jostled and +struggled at the narrow entrance to the prison house. Already it was +occupied by some thirty captives, lying upon the swamped mud floor or +supported against the wall in the last extremities of weakness and +disease. Two hundred more were driven in at night and penned there till +morning. The room was perhaps thirty feet square, of which four feet +were occupied by a solid pillar supporting the roof. There was no window +in the building; a few small apertures near the roof made a pretence of +giving air, and into this foul and pestilent hovel the prisoners were +packed, screaming and fighting. The door was closed upon them, utter +darkness replaced the twilight, so that a man could not distinguish even +the outlines of the heads of the neighbours who wedged him in. + +Colonel Trench fought like the rest. There was a corner near the door +which he coveted at that moment with a greater fierceness of desire than +he had ever felt in the days when he had been free. Once in that corner, +he would have some shelter from the blows, the stamping feet, the +bruises of his neighbour's shackles; he would have, too, a support +against which to lean his back during the ten interminable hours of +suffocation. + +"If I were to fall! If I were to fall!" + +That fear was always with him when he was driven in at night. It worked +in him like a drug producing madness. For if a man once went down amid +that yelling, struggling throng, he never got up again--he was trampled +out of shape. Trench had seen such victims dragged from the prison each +morning; and he was a small man. Therefore he fought for his corner in a +frenzy like a wild beast, kicking with his fetters, thrusting with his +elbows, diving under this big man's arm, burrowing between two others, +tearing at their clothes, using his nails, his fists, and even striking +at heads with the chain which dangled from the iron ring about his neck. +He reached the corner in the end, streaming with heat and gasping for +breath; the rest of the night he would spend in holding it against all +comers. + +"If I were to fall!" he gasped. "O God, if I were to fall!" and he +shouted aloud to his neighbour--for in that clamour nothing less than a +shout was audible--"Is it you, Ibrahim?" and a like shout answered him, +"Yes, Effendi." + +Trench felt some relief. Between Ibrahim, a great tall Arab of the +Hadendoas, and Trench, a friendship born of their common necessities had +sprung up. There were no prison rations at Omdurman; each captive was +dependent upon his own money or the charity of his friends outside. To +Trench from time to time there came money from his friends, brought +secretly into the prison by a native who had come up from Assouan or +Suakin; but there were long periods during which no help came to him, +and he lived upon the charity of the Greeks who had sworn conversion to +the Mahdist faith, or starved with such patience as he could. There were +times, too, when Ibrahim had no friend to send him his meal into the +prison. And thus each man helped the other in his need. They stood side +by side against the wall at night. + +"Yes, Effendi, I am here," and groping with his hand in the black +darkness, he steadied Trench against the wall. + +A fight of even more than common violence was raging in an extreme +corner of the prison, and so closely packed were the prisoners that with +each advance of one combatant and retreat of the other, the whole +jostled crowd swayed in a sort of rhythm, from end to end, from side to +side. But they swayed, fighting to keep their feet, fighting even with +their teeth, and above the din and noise of their hard breathing, the +clank of their chains, and their imprecations, there rose now and then a +wild sobbing cry for mercy, or an inhuman shriek, stifled as soon as +uttered, which showed that a man had gone down beneath the stamping +feet. Missiles, too, were flung across the prison, even to the foul +earth gathered from the floor, and since none knew from what quarter +they were flung, heads were battered against heads in the effort to +avoid them. And all these things happened in the blackest darkness. + +For two hours Trench stood in that black prison ringing with noise, rank +with heat, and there were eight hours to follow before the door would be +opened and he could stumble into the clean air and fall asleep in the +zareeba. He stood upon tiptoe that he might lift his head above his +fellows, but even so he could barely breathe, and the air he breathed +was moist and sour. His throat was parched, his tongue was swollen in +his mouth and stringy like a dried fig. It seemed to him that the +imagination of God could devise no worse hell than the House of Stone on +an August night in Omdurman. It could add fire, he thought, but only +fire. + +"If I were to fall!" he cried, and as he spoke his hell was made +perfect, for the door was opened. Idris es Saier appeared in the +opening. + +"Make room," he cried, "make room," and he threw fire among the +prisoners to drive them from the door. Lighted tufts of dried grass +blazed in the darkness and fell upon the bodies of the prisoners. The +captives were so crowded they could not avoid the missiles; in places, +even, they could not lift their hands to dislodge them from their +shoulders or their heads. + +"Make room," cried Idris. The whips of his fellow-gaolers enforced his +command, the lashes fell upon all within reach, and a little space was +cleared within the door. Into that space a man was flung and the door +closed again. + +Trench was standing close to the door; in the dim twilight which came +through the doorway he had caught a glimpse of the new prisoner, a man +heavily ironed, slight of figure, and bent with suffering. + +"He will fall," he said, "he will fall to-night. God! if I were to!" and +suddenly the crowd swayed against him, and the curses rose louder and +shriller than before. + +The new prisoner was the cause. He clung to the door with his face +against the panels, through the chinks of which actual air might come. +Those behind plucked him from his vantage, jostled him, pressed him +backwards that they might take his place. He was driven as a wedge is +driven by a hammer, between this prisoner and that, until at last he was +flung against Colonel Trench. + +The ordinary instincts of kindness could not live in the nightmare of +that prison house. In the daytime, outside, the prisoners were often +drawn together by their bond of a common misery; the faithful as often +as not helped the infidel. But to fight for life during the hours of +darkness without pity or cessation was the one creed and practice of the +House of Stone. Colonel Trench was like the rest. The need to live, if +only long enough to drink one drop of water in the morning and draw one +clean mouthful of fresh air, was more than uppermost in his mind. It was +the only thought he had. + +"Back!" he cried violently, "back, or I strike!"--and, as he wrestled to +lift his arm above his head that he might strike the better, he heard +the man who had been flung against him incoherently babbling English. + +"Don't fall," cried Trench, and he caught his fellow-captive by the arm. +"Ibrahim, help! God, if he were to fall!" and while the crowd swayed +again and the shrill cries and curses rose again, deafening the ears, +piercing the brain, Trench supported his companion, and bending down his +head caught again after so many months the accent of his own tongue. And +the sound of it civilised him like the friendship of a woman. + +He could not hear what was said; the din was too loud. But he caught, +as it were, shadows of words which had once been familiar to him, which +had been spoken to him, which he had spoken to others--as a matter of +course. In the House of Stone they sounded most wonderful. They had a +magic, too. Meadows of grass, cool skies, and limpid rivers rose in grey +quiet pictures before his mind. For a moment he was insensible to his +parched throat, to the stench of that prison house, to the oppressive +blackness. But he felt the man whom he supported totter and slip, and +again he cried to Ibrahim:-- + +"If he were to fall!" + +Ibrahim helped as only he could. Together they fought and wrestled until +those about them yielded, crying:-- + +"Shaitan! They are mad!" + +They cleared a space in that corner and, setting the Englishman down +upon the ground, they stood in front of him lest he should be trampled. +And behind him upon the ground Trench heard every now and then in a lull +of the noise the babble of English. + +"He will die before morning," he cried to Ibrahim, "he is in a fever!" + +"Sit beside him," said the Hadendoa. "I can keep them back." + +Trench stooped and squatted in the corner, Ibrahim set his legs well +apart and guarded Trench and his new friend. + +Bending his head, Trench could now hear the words. They were the words +of a man in delirium, spoken in a voice of great pleading. He was +telling some tale of the sea, it seemed. + +"I saw the riding lights of the yachts--and the reflections shortening +and lengthening as the water rippled--there was a band, too, as we +passed the pier-head. What was it playing? Not the overture--and I don't +think that I remember any other tune...." And he laughed with a crazy +chuckle. "I was always pretty bad at appreciating music, wasn't I? +except when you played," and again he came back to the sea. "There was +the line of hills upon the right as the boat steamed out of the bay--you +remember there were woods on the hillside--perhaps you have forgotten. +Then came Bray, a little fairyland of lights close down by the water at +the point of the ridge ... you remember Bray, we lunched there once or +twice, just you and I, before everything was settled ... it seemed +strange to be steaming out of Dublin Bay and leaving you a long way off +to the north among the hills ... strange and somehow not quite right ... +for that was the word you used when the morning came behind the +blinds--it is not right that one should suffer so much pain ... the +engines didn't stop, though, they just kept throbbing and revolving and +clanking as though nothing had happened whatever ... one felt a little +angry about that ... the fairyland was already only a sort of golden +blot behind ... and then nothing but sea and the salt wind ... and the +things to be done." + +The man in his delirium suddenly lifted himself upon an elbow, and with +the other hand fumbled in his breast as though he searched for +something. "Yes, the things to be done," he repeated in a mumbling +voice, and he sank to unintelligible whisperings, with his head fallen +upon his breast. + +Trench put an arm about him and raised him up. But he could do nothing +more, and even to him, crouched as he was close to the ground, the +noisome heat was almost beyond endurance. In front, the din of shrill +voices, the screams for pity, the swaying and struggling, went on in +that appalling darkness. In one corner there were men singing in a mad +frenzy, in another a few danced in their fetters, or rather tried to +dance; in front of Trench Ibrahim maintained his guard; and beside +Trench there lay in the House of Stone, in the town beyond the world, a +man who one night had sailed out of Dublin Bay, past the riding lanterns +of the yachts, and had seen Bray, that fairyland of lights, dwindle to a +golden blot. To think of the sea and the salt wind, the sparkle of light +as the water split at the ship's bows, the illuminated deck, perhaps the +sound of a bell telling the hour, and the cool dim night about and +above, so wrought upon Trench that, practical unimaginative creature as +he was, for very yearning he could have wept. But the stranger at his +side began to speak again. + +"It is funny that those three faces were always the same ... the man in +the tent with the lancet in his hand, and the man in the back room off +Piccadilly ... and mine. Funny and not quite right. No, I don't think +that was quite right either. They get quite big, too, just when you are +going to sleep in the dark--quite big, and they come very close to you +and won't go away ... they rather frighten one...." And he suddenly +clung to Trench with a close, nervous grip, like a boy in an extremity +of fear. And it was in the tone of reassurance that a man might use to a +boy that Trench replied, "It's all right, old man, it's all right." + +But Trench's companion was already relieved of his fear. He had come +out of his boyhood, and was rehearsing some interview which was to take +place in the future. + +"Will you take it back?" he asked, with a great deal of hesitation and +timidity. "Really? The others have, all except the man who died at +Tamai. And you will too!" He spoke as though he could hardly believe +some piece of great good fortune which had befallen him. Then his voice +changed to that of a man belittling his misfortunes. "Oh, it hasn't been +the best of times, of course. But then one didn't expect the best of +times. And at the worst, one had always the afterwards to look forward +to ... supposing one didn't run.... I'm not sure that when the whole +thing's balanced, it won't come out that you have really had the worst +time. I know you ... it would hurt you through and through, pride and +heart and everything, and for a long time just as much as it hurt that +morning when the daylight came through the blinds. And you couldn't do +anything! And you hadn't the afterwards to help you--you weren't looking +forward to it all the time as I was ... it was all over and done with +for you ..." and he lapsed again into mutterings. + +Colonel Trench's delight in the sound of his native tongue had now given +place to a great curiosity as to the man who spoke and what he said. +Trench had described himself a long while ago as he stood opposite the +cab-stand in the southwest corner of St. James's Square: "I am an +inquisitive, methodical person," he had said, and he had not described +himself amiss. Here was a life history, it seemed, being unfolded to his +ears, and not the happiest of histories, perhaps, indeed, with +something of tragedy at the heart of it. Trench began to speculate upon +the meaning of that word "afterwards," which came and went among the +words like the _motif_ in a piece of music and very likely was the life +_motif_ of the man who spoke them. + +In the prison the heat became stifling, the darkness more oppressive, +but the cries and shouts were dying down; their volume was less great, +their intonation less shrill; stupor and fatigue and exhaustion were +having their effect. Trench bent his head again to his companion and now +heard more clearly. + +"I saw your light that morning ... you put it out suddenly ... did you +hear my step on the gravel?... I thought you did, it hurt rather," and +then he broke out into an emphatic protest. "No, no, I had no idea that +you would wait. I had no wish that you should. Afterwards, perhaps, I +thought, but nothing more, upon my word. Sutch was quite wrong.... Of +course there was always the chance that one might come to grief +oneself--get killed, you know, or fall ill and die--before one asked you +to take your feather back; and then there wouldn't even have been a +chance of the afterwards. But that is the risk one had to take." + +The allusion was not direct enough for Colonel Trench's comprehension. +He heard the word "feather," but he could not connect it as yet with any +action of his own. He was more curious than ever about that +"afterwards"; he began to have a glimmering of its meaning, and he was +struck with wonderment at the thought of how many men there were going +about the world with a calm and commonplace demeanour beneath which +were hidden quaint fancies and poetic beliefs, never to be so much as +suspected, until illness deprived the brain of its control. + +"No, one of the reasons why I never said anything that night to you +about what I intended was, I think, that I did not wish you to wait or +have any suspicion of what I was going to attempt." And then +expostulation ceased, and he began to speak in a tone of interest. "Do +you know, it has only occurred to me since I came to the Soudan, but I +believe that Durrance cared." + +The name came with something of a shock upon Trench's ears. This man +knew Durrance! He was not merely a stranger of Trench's blood, but he +knew Durrance even as Trench knew him. There was a link between them, +they had a friend in common. He knew Durrance, had fought in the same +square with him, perhaps, at Tokar, or Tamai, or Tamanieb, just as Trench +had done! And so Trench's curiosity as to the life history in its turn +gave place to a curiosity as to the identity of the man. He tried to +see, knowing that in that black and noisome hovel sight was impossible. +He might hear, though, enough to be assured. For if the stranger knew +Durrance, it might be that he knew Trench as well. Trench listened; the +sound of the voice, high pitched and rambling, told him nothing. He +waited for the words, and the words came. + +"Durrance stood at the window, after I had told them about you, Ethne," +and Trench repeated the name to himself. It was to a woman, then, that +his new-found compatriot, this friend of Durrance, in his delirium +imagined himself to be speaking--a woman named Ethne. Trench could +recall no such name; but the voice in the dark went on. + +"All the time when I was proposing to send in my papers, after the +telegram had come, he stood at the window of my rooms with his back to +me, looking out across the park. I fancied he blamed me. But I think now +he was making up his mind to lose you.... I wonder." + +Trench uttered so startled an exclamation that Ibrahim turned round. + +"Is he dead?" + +"No, he lives, he lives." + +It was impossible, Trench argued. He remembered quite clearly Durrance +standing by a window with his back to the room. He remembered a telegram +coming which took a long while in the reading--which diffused among all +except Durrance an inexplicable suspense. He remembered, too, a man who +spoke of his betrothal and of sending in his papers. But surely this +could not be the man. Was the woman's name Ethne? A woman of +Donegal--yes; and this man had spoken of sailing out of Dublin Bay--he +had spoken, too, of a feather. + +"Good God!" whispered Trench. "Was the name Ethne? Was it? Was it?" + +But for a while he received no answer. He heard only talk of a +mud-walled city, and an intolerable sun burning upon a wide round of +desert, and a man who lay there all the day with his linen robe drawn +over his head, and slowly drew one face towards him across three +thousand miles, until at sunset it was near, and he took courage and +went down into the gate. And after that, four words stabbed Trench. + +"Three little white feathers," were the words. Trench leaned back +against the wall. It was he who had devised that message. "Three little +white feathers," the voice repeated. "This afternoon we were under the +elms down by the Lennon River--do you remember, Harry?--just you and I. +And then came three little white feathers; and the world's at an end." + +Trench had no longer any doubts. The man was quoting words, and words, +no doubt, spoken by this girl Ethne on the night when the three feathers +came. "Harry," she had said. "Do you remember, Harry?" Trench was +certain. + +"Feversham!" he cried. "Feversham!" And he shook the man whom he held +in his arms and called to him again. "Under the elms by the Lennon +River--" Visions of green shade touched with gold, and of the sunlight +flickering between the leaves, caught at Trench and drew him like a +mirage in that desert of which Feversham had spoken. Feversham had been +under the elms of the Lennon River on that afternoon before the feathers +came, and he was in the House of Stone at Omdurman. But why? Trench asked +himself the question and was not spared the answer. + +"Willoughby took his feather back"--and upon that Feversham broke off. +His voice rambled. He seemed to be running somewhere amid sandhills +which continually shifted and danced about him as he ran, so that he +could not tell which way he went. He was in the last stage of fatigue, +too, so that his voice in his delirium became querulous and weak. "Abou +Fatma!" he cried, and the cry was the cry of a man whose throat is +parched, and whose limbs fail beneath him. "Abou Fatma! Abou Fatma!" He +stumbled as he ran, picked himself up, ran and stumbled again; and about +him the deep soft sand piled itself into pyramids, built itself into +long slopes and ridges, and levelled itself flat with an extraordinary +and a malicious rapidity. "Abou Fatma!" cried Feversham, and he began to +argue in a weak obstinate voice. "I know the wells are here--close +by--within half a mile. I know they are--I know they are." + +The clue to that speech Trench had not got. He knew nothing of +Feversham's adventure at Berber; he could not tell that the wells were +the Wells of Obak, or that Feversham, tired with the hurry of his +travelling, and after a long day's march without water, had lost his way +among the shifting sandhills. But he did know that Willoughby had taken +back his feather, and he made a guess as to the motive which had brought +Feversham now to the House of Stone. Even on that point, however, he was +not to remain in doubt; for in a while he heard his own name upon +Feversham's lips. + +Remorse seized upon Colonel Trench. The sending of the feathers had been +his invention and his alone. He could not thrust the responsibility of +his invention upon either Willoughby or Castleton; it was just his +doing. He had thought it rather a shrewd and clever stroke, he +remembered at the time--a vengeance eminently just. Eminently just, no +doubt, it was, but he had not thought of the woman. He had not imagined +that she might be present when the feathers came. He had indeed almost +forgotten the episode, he had never speculated upon the consequences, +and now they rose up and smote the smiter. + +And his remorse was to grow. For the night was not nearly at its end. +All through the dark slow hours he supported Feversham and heard him +talk. Now Feversham was lurking in the bazaar at Suakin and during the +siege. + +"During the siege," thought Trench. "While we were there, then, he was +herding with the camel-drivers in the bazaar learning their tongues, +watching for his chance. Three years of it!" + +At another moment Feversham was slinking up the Nile to Wadi Halfa with +a zither, in the company of some itinerant musicians, hiding from any +who might remember him and accuse him with his name. Trench heard of a +man slipping out from Wadi Halfa, crossing the Nile and wandering with +the assumed manner of a lunatic southwards, starving and waterless, +until one day he was snapped up by a Mahdist caravan and dragged to +Dongola as a spy. And at Dongola things had happened of which the mere +mention made Trench shake. He heard of leather cords which had been +bound about the prisoner's wrists, and upon which water had been poured +until the cords swelled and the wrists burst, but this was among the +minor brutalities. Trench waited for the morning as he listened, +wondering whether indeed it would ever come. + +He heard the bolts dragged back at the last; he saw the door open and +the good daylight. He stood up and with Ibrahim's help protected this +new comrade until the eager rush was past. Then he supported him out +into the zareeba. Worn, wasted in body and face, with a rough beard +straggled upon his chin, and his eyes all sunk and very bright, it was +still Harry Feversham. Trench laid him down in a corner of the zareeba +where there would be shade; and in a few hours shade would be needed. +Then with the rest he scrambled to the Nile for water and brought it +back. As he poured it down Feversham's throat, Feversham seemed for a +moment to recognise him. But it was only for a moment, and the +incoherent tale of his adventures began again. Thus, after five years, +and for the first time since Trench had dined as Feversham's guest in +the high rooms overlooking St. James's Park, the two men met in the +House of Stone. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +PLANS OF ESCAPE + + +For three days Feversham rambled and wandered in his talk, and for three +days Trench fetched him water from the Nile, shared his food with him, +and ministered to his wants; for three nights, too, he stood with +Ibrahim and fought in front of Feversham in the House of Stone. But on +the fourth morning Feversham waked to his senses and, looking up, with +his own eyes saw bending over him the face of Trench. At first the face +seemed part of his delirium. It was one of those nightmare faces which +had used to grow big and had come so horribly close to him in the dark +nights of his boyhood as he lay in bed. He put out a weak arm and thrust +it aside. But he gazed about him. He was lying in the shadow of the +prison house, and the hard blue sky above him, the brown bare trampled +soil on which he lay, and the figures of his fellow-prisoners dragging +their chains or lying prone upon the ground in some extremity of +sickness gradually conveyed their meaning to him. He turned to Trench, +caught at him as if he feared the next moment would snatch him out of +reach, and then he smiled. + +"I am in the prison at Omdurman," he said, "actually in the prison! This +is Umm Hagar, the House of Stone. It seems too good to be true." + +He leaned back against the wall with an air of extreme relief. To +Trench the words, the tone of satisfaction in which they were uttered, +sounded like some sardonic piece of irony. A man who plumed himself upon +indifference to pain and pleasure--who posed as a being of so much +experience that joy and trouble could no longer stir a pulse or cause a +frown, and who carried his pose to perfection--such a man, thought +Trench, might have uttered Feversham's words in Feversham's voice. But +Feversham was not that man; his delirium had proved it. The +satisfaction, then, was genuine, the words sincere. The peril of Dongola +was past, he had found Trench, he was in Omdurman. That prison house was +his longed-for goal, and he had reached it. He might have been dangling +on a gibbet hundreds of miles away down the stream of the Nile with the +vultures perched upon his shoulders, the purpose for which he lived +quite unfulfilled. But he was in the enclosure of the House of Stone in +Omdurman. + +"You have been here a long while," he said. + +"Three years." + +Feversham looked round the zareeba. "Three years of it," he murmured. "I +was afraid that I might not find you alive." + +Trench nodded. + +"The nights are the worst, the nights in there. It's a wonder any man +lives through a week of them, yet I have lived through a thousand +nights." And even to him who had endured them his endurance seemed +incredible. "A thousand nights of the House of Stone!" he exclaimed. + +"But we may go down to the Nile by daytime," said Feversham, and he +started up with alarm as he gazed at the thorn zareeba. "Surely we are +allowed so much liberty. I was told so. An Arab at Wadi Halfa told me." + +"And it's true," returned Trench. "Look!" He pointed to the earthen bowl +of water at his side. "I filled that at the Nile this morning." + +"I must go," said Feversham, and he lifted himself up from the ground. +"I must go this morning," and since he spoke with a raised voice and a +manner of excitement, Trench whispered to him:-- + +"Hush. There are many prisoners here, and among them many tale-bearers." + +Feversham sank back on to the ground as much from weakness as in +obedience to Trench's warning. + +"But they cannot understand what we say," he objected in a voice from +which the excitement had suddenly gone. + +"They can see that we talk together and earnestly. Idris would know of +it within the hour, the Khalifa before sunset. There would be heavier +fetters and the courbatch if we spoke at all. Lie still. You are weak, +and I too am very tired. We will sleep, and later in the day we will go +together down to the Nile." + +Trench lay down beside Feversham and in a moment was asleep. Feversham +watched him, and saw, now that his features were relaxed, the marks of +those three years very plainly in his face. It was towards noon before +he awoke. + +"There is no one to bring you food?" he asked, and Feversham answered:-- + +"Yes. A boy should come. He should bring news as well." + +They waited until the gate of the zareeba was opened and the friends or +wives of the prisoners entered. At once that enclosure became a cage of +wild beasts. The gaolers took their dole at the outset. Little more of +the "aseeda"--that moist and pounded cake of dhurra which was the staple +diet of the town--than was sufficient to support life was allowed to +reach the prisoners, and even for that the strong fought with the weak, +and the group of four did battle with the group of three. From every +corner men gaunt and thin as skeletons hopped and leaped as quickly as +the weight of their chains would allow them towards the entrance. Here +one weak with starvation tripped and fell, and once fallen lay prone in +a stolid despair, knowing that for him there would be no meal that day. +Others seized upon the messengers who brought the food, and tore it from +their hands, though the whips of the gaolers laid their backs open. +There were thirty gaolers to guard that enclosure, each armed with his +rhinoceros-hide courbatch, but this was the one moment in each day when +the courbatch was neither feared, nor, as it seemed, felt. + +Among the food-bearers a boy sheltered himself behind the rest and gazed +irresolutely about the zareeba. It was not long, however, before he was +detected. He was knocked down, and his food snatched from his hands; but +the boy had his lungs, and his screams brought Idris-es-Saier himself +upon the three men who had attacked him. + +"For whom do you come?" asked Idris, as he thrust the prisoners aside. + +"For Joseppi, the Greek," answered the boy, and Idris pointed to the +corner where Feversham lay. The boy advanced, holding out his empty +hands as though explaining how it was that he brought no food. But he +came quite close, and squatting at Feversham's side continued to explain +with words. And as he spoke he loosed a gazelle skin which was fastened +about his waist beneath his jibbeh, and he let it fall by Feversham's +side. The gazelle skin contained a chicken, and upon that Feversham and +Trench breakfasted and dined and supped. An hour later they were allowed +to pass out of the zareeba and make their way to the Nile. They walked +slowly and with many halts, and during one of these Trench said:-- + +"We can talk here." + +Below them, at the water's edge, some of the prisoners were unloading +dhows, others were paddling knee-deep in the muddy water. The shore was +crowded with men screaming and shouting and excited for no reason +whatever. The gaolers were within view, but not within ear-shot. + +"Yes, we can talk here. Why have you come?" + +"I was captured in the desert, on the Arbain road," said Feversham, +slowly. + +"Yes, masquerading as a lunatic musician who had wandered out of Wadi +Halfa with a zither. I know. But you were captured by your own +deliberate wish. You came to join me in Omdurman. I know." + +"How do you know?" + +"You told me. During the last three days you have told me much," and +Feversham looked about him suddenly in alarm, "Very much," continued +Trench. "You came to join me because five years ago I sent you a white +feather." + +"And was that all I told you?" asked Feversham, anxiously. + +"No," Trench replied, and he dragged out the word. He sat up while +Feversham lay on his side, and he looked towards the Nile in front of +him, holding his head between his hands, so that he could not see or be +seen by Feversham. "No, that was not all--you spoke of a girl, the same +girl of whom you spoke when Willoughby and Durrance and I dined with you +in London a long while ago. I know her name now--her Christian name. She +was with you when the feathers came. I had not thought of that +possibility. She gave you a fourth feather to add to our three. I am +sorry." + +There was a silence of some length, and then Feversham replied slowly:-- + +"For my part I am not sorry. I mean I am not sorry that she was present +when the feathers came. I think, on the whole, that I am rather glad. +She gave me the fourth feather, it is true, but I am glad of that as +well. For without her presence, without that fourth feather snapped from +her fan, I might have given up there and then. Who knows? I doubt if I +could have stood up to the three long years in Suakin. I used to see you +and Durrance and Willoughby and many men who had once been my friends, +and you were all going about the work which I was used to. You can't +think how the mere routine of a regiment to which one had become +accustomed, and which one cursed heartily enough when one had to put up +with it, appealed as something very desirable. I could so easily have +run away. I could so easily have slipped on to a boat and gone back to +Suez. And the chance for which I waited never came--for three years." + +"You saw us?" said Trench. "And you gave no sign?" + +"How would you have taken it if I had?" And Trench was silent. "No, I +saw you, but I was careful that you should not see me. I doubt if I +could have endured it without the recollection of that night at +Ramelton, without the feel of the fourth feather to keep the +recollection actual and recent in my thoughts. I should never have gone +down from Obak into Berber. I should certainly never have joined you in +Omdurman." + +Trench turned quickly towards his companion. + +"She would be glad to hear you say that," he said. "I have no doubt she +is sorry about her fourth feather, sorry as I am about the other three." + +"There is no reason that she should be, or that you either should be +sorry. I don't blame you, or her," and in his turn Feversham was silent +and looked towards the river. The air was shrill with cries, the shore +was thronged with a motley of Arabs and negroes, dressed in their long +robes of blue and yellow and dirty brown; the work of unloading the +dhows went busily on; across the river and beyond its fork the palm +trees of Khartum stood up against the cloudless sky; and the sun behind +them was moving down to the west. In a few hours would come the horrors +of the House of Stone. But they were both thinking of the elms by the +Lennon River and a hall of which the door stood open to the cool night +and which echoed softly to the music of a waltz, while a girl and a man +stood with three white feathers fallen upon the floor between them; the +one man recollected, the other imagined, the picture, and to both of +them it was equally vivid. Feversham smiled at last. + +"Perhaps she has now seen Willoughby; perhaps she has now taken his +feather." + +Trench held out his hand to his companion. + +"I will take mine back now." + +Feversham shook his head. + +"No, not yet," and Trench's face suddenly lighted up. A hope which had +struggled up in his hopeless breast during the three days and nights of +his watch, a hope which he had striven to repress for very fear lest it +might prove false, sprang to life. + +"Not yet,--then you _have_ a plan for our escape," and the anxiety +returned to Feversham's face. + +"I said nothing of it," he pleaded, "tell me that! When I was delirious +in the prison there, I said nothing of it, I breathed no word of it? I +told you of the four feathers, I told you of Ethne, but of the plan for +your escape I said nothing." + +"Not a single word. So that I myself was in doubt, and did not dare to +believe," and Feversham's anxiety died away. He had spoken with his hand +trembling upon Trench's arm, and his voice itself had trembled with +alarm. + +"You see if I spoke of that in the House of Stone," he exclaimed, "I +might have spoken of it in Dongola. For in Dongola as well as in +Omdurman I was delirious. But I didn't, you say--not here, at all +events. So perhaps not there either. I was afraid that I should--how I +was afraid! There was a woman in Dongola who spoke some English--very +little, but enough. She had been in the 'Kauneesa' of Khartum when +Gordon ruled there. She was sent to question me. I had unhappy times in +Dongola." + +Trench interrupted him in a low voice. "I know. You told me things which +made me shiver," and he caught hold of Feversham's arm and thrust the +loose sleeve back. Feversham's scarred wrists confirmed the tale. + +"Well, I felt myself getting light-headed there," he went on. "I made up +my mind that of your escape I must let no hint slip. So I tried to think +of something else with all my might, when I was going off my head." And +he laughed a little to himself. + +"That was why you heard me talk of Ethne," he explained. + +Trench sat nursing his knees and looking straight in front of him. He +had paid no heed to Feversham's last words. He had dared now to give his +hopes their way. + +"So it's true," he said in a quiet wondering voice. "There will be a +morning when we shall not drag ourselves out of the House of Stone. +There will be nights when we shall sleep in beds, actually in beds. +There will be--" He stopped with a sort of shy air like a man upon the +brink of a confession. "There will be--something more," he said lamely, +and then he got up on to his feet. + +"We have sat here too long. Let us go forward." + +They moved a hundred yards nearer to the river and sat down again. + +"You have more than a hope. You have a plan of escape?" Trench asked +eagerly. + +"More than a plan," returned Feversham. "The preparations are made. +There are camels waiting in the desert ten miles west of Omdurman." + +"Now?" exclaimed Trench. "Now?" + +"Yes, man, now. There are rifles and ammunition buried near the camels, +provisions and water kept in readiness. We travel by Metemneh, where +fresh camels wait, from Metemneh to Berber. There we cross the Nile; +camels are waiting for us five miles from Berber. From Berber we ride in +over the Kokreb pass to Suakin." + +"When?" exclaimed Trench. "Oh, when, when?" + +"When I have strength enough to sit a horse for ten miles, and a camel +for a week," answered Feversham. "How soon will that be? Not long, +Trench, I promise you not long," and he rose up from the ground. + +"As you get up," he continued, "glance round. You will see a man in a +blue linen dress, loitering between us and the gaol. As we came past +him, he made me a sign. I did not return it. I shall return it on the +day when we escape." + +"He will wait?" + +"For a month. We must manage on one night during that month to escape +from the House of Stone. We can signal him to bring help. A passage +might be made in one night through that wall; the stones are loosely +built." + +They walked a little farther and came to the water's edge. There amid +the crowd they spoke again of their escape, but with the air of men +amused at what went on about them. + +"There is a better way than breaking through the wall," said Trench, and +he uttered a laugh as he spoke and pointed to a prisoner with a great +load upon his back who had fallen upon his face in the water, and +encumbered by his fetters, pressed down by his load, was vainly +struggling to lift himself again. "There is a better way. You have +money?" + +"Ai, ai!" shouted Feversham, roaring with laughter, as the prisoner half +rose and soused again. "I have some concealed on me. Idris took what I +did not conceal." + +"Good!" said Trench. "Idris will come to you to-day or to-morrow. He +will talk to you of the goodness of Allah who has brought you out of the +wickedness of the world to the holy city of Omdurman. He will tell you +at great length of the peril of your soul and of the only means of +averting it, and he will wind up with a few significant sentences about +his starving family. If you come to the aid of his starving family and +bid him keep for himself fifteen dollars out of the amount he took from +you, you may get permission to sleep in the zareeba outside the prison. +Be content with that for a night or two. Then he will come to you again, +and again you will assist his starving family, and this time you will +ask for permission for me to sleep in the open too. Come! There's Idris +shepherding us home." + +It fell out as Trench had predicted. Idris read Feversham an abnormally +long lecture that afternoon. Feversham learned that now God loved him; +and how Hicks Pasha's army had been destroyed. The holy angels had done +that, not a single shot was fired, not a single spear thrown by the +Mahdi's soldiers. The spears flew from their hands by the angels' +guidance and pierced the unbelievers. Feversham heard for the first +time of a most convenient spirit, Nebbi Khiddr, who was the Khalifa's +eyes and ears and reported to him all that went on in the gaol. It was +pointed out to Feversham that if Nebbi Khiddr reported against him, he +would have heavier shackles riveted upon his feet, and many unpleasant +things would happen. At last came the exordium about the starving +children, and Feversham begged Idris to take fifteen dollars. + +Trench's plan succeeded. That night Feversham slept in the open, and two +nights later Trench lay down beside him. Overhead was a clear sky and +the blazing stars. + +"Only three more days," said Feversham, and he heard his companion draw +in a long breath. For a while they lay side by side in silence, +breathing the cool night air, and then Trench said:-- + +"Are you awake?" + +"Yes." + +"Well," and with some hesitation he made that confidence which he had +repressed on the day when they sat upon the foreshore of the Nile. "Each +man has his particular weak spot of sentiment, I suppose. I have mine. I +am not a marrying man, so it's not sentiment of that kind. Perhaps you +will laugh at it. It isn't merely that I loathe this squalid, shadeless, +vile town of Omdurman, or the horrors of its prison. It isn't merely +that I hate the emptiness of those desert wastes. It isn't merely that I +am sick of the palm trees of Khartum, or these chains or the whips of +the gaolers. But there's something more. I want to die at home, and I +have been desperately afraid so often that I should die here. I want to +die at home--not merely in my own country, but in my own village, and be +buried there under the trees I know, in the sight of the church and the +houses I know, and the trout stream where I fished when I was a boy. +You'll laugh, no doubt." + +Feversham was not laughing. The words had a queer ring of familiarity to +him, and he knew why. They never had actually been spoken to him, but +they might have been and by Ethne Eustace. + +"No, I am not laughing," he answered. "I understand." And he spoke with +a warmth of tone which rather surprised Trench. And indeed an actual +friendship sprang up between the two men, and it dated from that night. + +It was a fit moment for confidences. Lying side by side in that +enclosure, they made them one to the other in low voices. The shouts and +yells came muffled from within the House of Stone, and gave to them both +a feeling that they were well off. They could breathe; they could see; +no low roof oppressed them; they were in the cool of the night air. That +night air would be very cold before morning and wake them to shiver in +their rags and huddle together in their corner. But at present they lay +comfortably upon their backs with their hands clasped behind their heads +and watched the great stars and planets burn in the blue dome of sky. + +"It will be strange to find them dim and small again," said Trench. + +"There will be compensations," answered Feversham, with a laugh; and +they fell to making plans of what they would do when they had crossed +the desert and the Mediterranean and the continent of Europe, and had +come to their own country of dim small stars. Fascinated and enthralled +by the pictures which the simplest sentence, the most commonplace +phrase, through the magic of its associations was able to evoke in their +minds, they let the hours slip by unnoticed. They were no longer +prisoners in that barbarous town which lay a murky stain upon the +solitary wide spaces of sand; they were in their own land, following +their old pursuits. They were standing outside clumps of trees, guns in +their hands, while the sharp cry, "Mark! Mark!" came to their ears. +Trench heard again the unmistakable rattle of the reel of his +fishing-rod as he wound in his line upon the bank of his trout stream. +They talked of theatres in London, and the last plays which they had +seen, the last books which they had read six years ago. + +"There goes the Great Bear," said Trench, suddenly. "It is late." The +tail of the constellation was dipping behind the thorn hedge of the +zareeba. They turned over on their sides. + +"Three more days," said Trench. + +"Only three more days," Feversham replied. And in a minute they were +neither in England nor the Soudan; the stars marched to the morning +unnoticed above their heads. They were lost in the pleasant countries of +sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +COLONEL TRENCH ASSUMES A KNOWLEDGE OF CHEMISTRY + + +"Three more days." Both men fell asleep with these words upon their +lips. But the next morning Trench waked up and complained of a fever; +and the fever rapidly gained upon him, so that before the afternoon had +come he was light-headed, and those services which he had performed for +Feversham, Feversham had now to perform for him. The thousand nights of +the House of Stone had done their work. But it was no mere coincidence +that Trench should suddenly be struck down by them at the very moment +when the door of his prison was opening. The great revulsion of joy +which had come to him so unexpectedly had been too much for his +exhausted body. The actual prospect of escape had been the crowning +trial which he could not endure. + +"In a few days he will be well," said Feversham. "It is nothing." + +"It is _Umm Sabbah_," answered Ibrahim, shaking his head, the terrible +typhus fever which had struck down so many in that infected gaol and +carried them off upon the seventh day. + +Feversham refused to believe. "It is nothing," he repeated in a sort of +passionate obstinacy; but in his mind there ran another question, "Will +the men with the camels wait?" Each day as he went to the Nile he saw +Abou Fatma in the blue robe at his post; each day the man made his sign, +and each day Feversham gave no answer. Meanwhile with Ibrahim's help he +nursed Trench. The boy came daily to the prison with food; he was sent +out to buy tamarinds, dates, and roots, out of which Ibrahim brewed +cooling draughts. Together they carried Trench from shade to shade as +the sun moved across the zareeba. Some further assistance was provided +for the starving family of Idris, and the forty-pound chains which +Trench wore were consequently removed. He was given vegetable marrow +soaked in salt water, his mouth was packed with butter, his body +anointed and wrapped close in camel-cloths. The fever took its course, +and on the seventh day Ibrahim said:-- + +"This is the last. To-night he will die." + +"No," replied Feversham, "that is impossible. 'In his own parish,' he +said, 'beneath the trees he knew.' Not here, no." And he spoke again +with a passionate obstinacy. He was no longer thinking of the man in the +blue robe outside the prison walls, or of the chances of escape. The +fear that the third feather would never be brought back to Ethne, that +she would never have the opportunity to take back the fourth of her own +free will, no longer troubled him. Even that great hope of "the +afterwards" was for the moment banished from his mind. He thought only +of Trench and the few awkward words he had spoken in the corner of the +zareeba on the first night when they lay side by side under the sky. +"No," he repeated, "he must not die here." And through all that day and +night he watched by Trench's side the long hard battle between life and +death. At one moment it seemed that the three years of the House of +Stone must win the victory, at another that Trench's strong constitution +and wiry frame would get the better of the three years. + +For that night, at all events, they did, and the struggle was prolonged. +The dangerous seventh day was passed. Even Ibrahim began to gain hope; +and on the thirteenth day Trench slept and did not ramble during his +sleep, and when he waked it was with a clear head. He found himself +alone, and so swathed in camel-cloths that he could not stir; but the +heat of the day was past, and the shadow of the House of Stone lay black +upon the sand of the zareeba. He had not any wish to stir, and he lay +wondering idly how long he had been ill. While he wondered he heard the +shouts of the gaolers, the cries of the prisoners outside the zareeba +and in the direction of the river. The gate was opened, and the +prisoners flocked in. Feversham was among them, and he walked straight +to Trench's corner. + +"Thank God!" he cried. "I would not have left you, but I was compelled. +We have been unloading boats all day." And he dropped in fatigue by +Trench's side. + +"How long have I lain ill?" asked Trench. + +"Thirteen days." + +"It will be a month before I can travel. You must go, Feversham. You +must leave me here, and go while you still can. Perhaps when you come to +Assouan you can do something for me. I could not move at present. You +will go to-morrow?" + +"No, I should not go without you in any case," answered Feversham. "As +it is, it is too late." + +"Too late?" Trench repeated. He took in the meaning of the words but +slowly; he was almost reluctant to be disturbed by their mere sound; he +wished just to lie idle for a long time in the cool of the sunset. But +gradually the import of what Feversham had said forced itself into his +mind. + +"Too late? Then the man in the blue gown has gone?" + +"Yes. He spoke to me yesterday by the river. The camel men would wait no +longer. They were afraid of detection, and meant to return whether we +went with them or not." + +"You should have gone with them," said Trench. For himself he did not at +that moment care whether he was to live in the prison all his life, so +long as he was allowed quietly to lie where he was for a long time; and +it was without any expression of despair that he added, "So our one +chance is lost." + +"No, deferred," replied Feversham. "The man who watched by the river in +the blue gown brought me paper, a pen, and some wood-soot mixed with +water. He was able to drop them by my side as I lay upon the ground. I +hid them beneath my jibbeh, and last night--there was a moon last +night--I wrote to a Greek merchant who keeps a _café_ at Wadi Halfa. I +gave him the letter this afternoon, and he has gone. He will deliver it +and receive money. In six months, in a year at the latest, he will be +back in Omdurman." + +"Very likely," said Trench. "He will ask for another letter, so that he +may receive more money, and again he will say that in six months or a +year he will be back in Omdurman. I know these people." + +"You do not know Abou Fatma. He was Gordon's servant over there before +Khartum fell; he has been mine since. He came with me to Obak, and +waited there while I went down to Berber. He risked his life in coming +to Omdurman at all. Within six months he will be back, you may be very +sure." + +Trench did not continue the argument. He let his eyes wander about the +enclosure, and they settled at last upon a pile of newly turned earth +which lay in one corner. + +"What are they digging?" he asked. + +"A well," answered Feversham. + +"A well?" said Trench, fretfully, "and so close to the Nile! Why? What's +the object?" + +"I don't know," said Feversham. Indeed he did not know, but he +suspected. With a great fear at his heart he suspected the reason why +the well was being dug in the enclosure of the prison. He would not, +however, reveal his suspicion until his companion was strong enough to +bear the disappointment which belief in it would entail. But within a +few days his suspicion was proved true. It was openly announced that a +high wall was to be built about the House of Stone. Too many prisoners +had escaped in their fetters along the Nile bank. Henceforward they were +to be kept from year's beginning to year's end within the wall. The +prisoners built it themselves of mud-bricks dried in the sun. Feversham +took his share in the work, and Trench, as soon almost as he could +stand, was joined with him. + +"Here's our last hope gone," he said; and though Feversham did not +openly agree, in spite of himself his heart began to consent. + +They piled the bricks one upon the other and mortised them. Each day the +wall rose a foot. With their own hands they closed themselves in. Twelve +feet high the wall stood when they had finished it--twelve feet high, +and smooth and strong. There was never a projection from its surface on +which a foot could rest; it could not be broken through in a night. +Trench and Feversham contemplated it in despair. The very palm trees of +Khartum were now hidden from their eyes. A square of bright blue by day, +a square of dark blue by night, jewelled with points of silver and +flashing gold, limited their world. Trench covered his face with his +hands. + +"I daren't look at it," he said in a broken voice. "We have been +building our own coffin, Feversham, that's the truth of it." And then he +cast up his arms and cried aloud: "Will they never come up the Nile, the +gunboats and the soldiers? Have they forgotten us in England? Good God! +have they forgotten us?" + +"Hush!" replied Feversham. "We shall find a way of escape, never fear. +We must wait six months. Well, we have both of us waited years. Six +months,--what are they?" + +But, though he spoke stoutly for his comrade's sake, his own heart sank +within him. + +The details of their life during the six months are not to be dwelt +upon. In that pestilent enclosure only the myriad vermin lived lives of +comfort. No news filtered in from the world outside. They fed upon +their own thoughts, so that the sight of a lizard upon the wall became +an occasion for excitement. They were stung by scorpions at night; they +were at times flogged by their gaolers by day. They lived at the mercy +of the whims of Idris-es-Saier and that peculiar spirit Nebbi Khiddr, +who always reported against them to the Khalifa just at the moment when +Idris was most in need of money for his starving family. Religious men +were sent by the Khalifa to convert them to the only true religion; and +indeed the long theological disputations in the enclosure became events +to which both men looked forward with eagerness. At one time they would +be freed from the heavier shackles and allowed to sleep in the open; at +another, without reason, those privileges would be withdrawn, and they +struggled for their lives within the House of Stone. + +The six months came to an end. The seventh began; a fortnight of it +passed, and the boy who brought Feversham food could never cheer their +hearts with word that Abou Fatma had come back. + +"He will never come," said Trench, in despair. + +"Surely he will--if he is alive," said Feversham. "But is he alive?" + +The seventh month passed, and one morning at the beginning of the eighth +there came two of the Khalifa's bodyguard to the prison, who talked with +Idris. Idris advanced to the two prisoners. + +"Verily God is good to you, you men from the bad world," he said. "You +are to look upon the countenance of the Khalifa. How happy you should +be!" + +Trench and Feversham rose up from the ground in no very happy frame of +mind. "What does he want with us? Is this the end?" The questions +started up clear in both their minds. They followed the two guards out +through the door and up the street towards the Khalifa's house. + +"Does it mean death?" said Feversham. + +Trench shrugged his shoulders and laughed sourly. "It is on the cards +that Nebbi Khiddr has suggested something of the kind," he said. + +They were led into the great parade-ground before the mosque, and thence +into the Khalifa's house, where another white man sat in attendance upon +the threshold. Within the Khalifa was seated upon an angareb, and a +grey-bearded Greek stood beside him. The Khalifa remarked to them that +they were both to be employed upon the manufacture of gunpowder, with +which the armies of the Turks were shortly to be overwhelmed. + +Feversham was on the point of disclaiming any knowledge of the process, +but before he could open his lips he heard Trench declaring in fluent +Arabic that there was nothing connected with gunpowder which he did not +know about; and upon his words they were both told they were to be +employed at the powder factory under the supervision of the Greek. + +For that Greek both prisoners will entertain a regard to their dying +day. There was in the world a true Samaritan. It was out of sheer pity, +knowing the two men to be herded in the House of Stone, that he +suggested to the Khalifa their employment, and the same pity taught him +to cover the deficiencies of their knowledge. + +"I know nothing whatever about the making of gunpowder except that +crystals are used," said Trench. "But we shall leave the prison each +day, and that is something, though we return each night. Who knows when +a chance of escape may come?" + +The powder factory lay in the northward part of the town, and on the +bank of the Nile just beyond the limits of the great mud wall and at the +back of the slave market. Every morning the two prisoners were let out +from the prison door, they tramped along the river-bank on the outside +of the town wall, and came into the powder factory past the storehouses +of the Khalifa's bodyguard. Every evening they went back by the same +road to the House of Stone. No guard was sent with them, since flight +seemed impossible, and each journey that they made they looked anxiously +for the man in the blue robe. But the months passed, and May brought +with it the summer. + +"Something has happened to Abou Fatma," said Feversham. "He has been +caught at Berber perhaps. In some way he has been delayed." + +"He will not come," said Trench. + +Feversham could no longer pretend to hope that he would. He did not know +of a sword-thrust received by Abou Fatma, as he fled through Berber on +his return from Omdurman. He had been recognised by one of his old +gaolers in that town, and had got cheaply off with the one thrust in his +thigh. From that wound he had through the greater part of this year been +slowly recovering in the hospital at Assouan. But though Feversham heard +nothing of Abou Fatma, towards the end of May he received news that +others were working for his escape. As Trench and he passed in the dusk +of one evening between the storehouses and the town wall, a man in the +shadow of one of the narrow alleys which opened from the storehouses +whispered to them to stop. Trench knelt down upon the ground and +examined his foot as though a stone had cut it, and as he kneeled the +man walked past them and dropped a slip of paper at their feet. He was a +Suakin merchant, who had a booth in the grain market of Omdurman. Trench +picked up the paper, hid it in his hand and limped on, with Feversham at +his side. There was no address or name upon the outside, and as soon as +they had left the houses behind, and had only the wall upon their right +and the Nile upon their left, Trench sat down again. There was a crowd +about the water's edge, men passed up and down between the crowd and +them. Trench took his foot into his lap and examined the sole. But at +the same time he unfolded the paper in the hollow of his hand and read +the contents aloud. He could hardly read them, his voice so trembled. +Feversham could hardly hear them, the blood so sang in his ears. + +"A man will bring to you a box of matches. When he comes trust +him.--Sutch." And he asked, "Who is Sutch?" + +"A great friend of mine," said Feversham. "He is in Egypt, then! Does he +say where?" + +"No; but since Mohammed Ali, the grain merchant, dropped the paper, we +may be sure he is at Suakin. A man with a box of matches! Think, we may +meet him to-night!" + +But it was a month later when, in the evening, an Arab pushed past them +on the river-bank and said: "I am the man with the matches. To-morrow by +the storehouse at this hour." And as he walked past them he dropped a +box of coloured matches on the ground. Feversham stooped instantly. + +"Don't touch them," said Trench, and he pressed the box into the ground +with his foot and walked on. + +"Sutch!" exclaimed Feversham. "So he comes to our help! How did he know +that I was here?" + +Trench fairly shook with excitement as he walked. He did not speak of +the great new hope which so suddenly came to them, for he dared not. He +tried even to pretend to himself that no message at all had come. He was +afraid to let his mind dwell upon the subject. Both men slept brokenly +that night, and every time they waked it was with a dim consciousness +that something great and wonderful had happened. Feversham, as he lay +upon his back and gazed upwards at the stars, had a fancy that he had +fallen asleep in the garden of Broad Place, on the Surrey hills, and +that he had but to raise his head to see the dark pines upon his right +hand and his left, and but to look behind to see the gables of the house +against the sky. He fell asleep towards dawn, and within an hour was +waked up by a violent shaking. He saw Trench bending over him with a +great fear on his face. + +"Suppose they keep us in the prison to-day," he whispered in a shaking +voice, plucking at Feversham. "It has just occurred to me! Suppose they +did that!" + +"Why should they?" answered Feversham; but the same fear caught hold of +him, and they sat dreading the appearance of Idris, lest he should have +some such new order to deliver. But Idris crossed the yard and unbolted +the prison door without a look at them. Fighting, screaming, jammed +together in the entrance, pulled back, thrust forwards, the captives +struggled out into the air, and among them was one who ran, foaming at +the mouth, and dashed his head against the wall. + +"He is mad!" said Trench, as the gaolers secured him; and since Trench +was unmanned that morning he began to speak rapidly and almost with +incoherence. "That's what I have feared, Feversham, that I should go +mad. To die, even here, one could put up with that without overmuch +regret; but to go mad!" and he shivered. "If this man with the matches +proves false to us, Feversham, I shall be near to it--very near to it. A +man one day, a raving, foaming idiot the next--a thing to be put away +out of sight, out of hearing. God, but that's horrible!" and he dropped +his head between his hands, and dared not look up until Idris crossed to +them and bade them go about their work. What work they did in the +factory that day neither knew. They were only aware that the hours +passed with an extraordinary slowness, but the evening came at last. + +"Among the storehouses," said Trench. They dived into the first alley +which they passed, and turning a corner saw the man who had brought the +matches. + +"I am Abdul Kader," he began at once. "I have come to arrange for your +escape. But at present flight is impossible;" and Trench swayed upon his +feet as he heard the word. + +"Impossible?" asked Feversham. + +"Yes. I brought three camels to Omdurman, of which two have died. The +Effendi at Suakin gave me money, but not enough. I could not arrange +for relays, but if you will give me a letter to the Effendi telling him +to give me two hundred pounds, then I will have everything ready and +come again within three months." + +Trench turned his back so that his companion might not see his face. All +his spirit had gone from him at this last stroke of fortune. The truth +was clear to him, appallingly clear. Abdul Kader was not going to risk +his life; he would be the shuttle going backwards and forwards between +Omdurman and Suakin as long as Feversham cared to write letters and +Sutch to pay money. But the shuttle would do no weaving. + +"I have nothing with which to write," said Feversham, and Abdul Kader +produced them. + +"Be quick," he said. "Write quickly, lest we be discovered." And +Feversham wrote; but though he wrote as Abdul suggested, the futility of +his writing was as clear to him as to Trench. + +"There is the letter," he said, and he handed it to Abdul, and, taking +Trench by the arm, walked without another word away. + +They passed out of the alley and came again to the great mud wall. It +was sunset. To their left the river gleamed with changing lights--here +it ran the colour of an olive, there rose pink, and here again a +brilliant green; above their heads the stars were coming out, in the +east it was already dusk; and behind them in the town, drums were +beginning to beat with their barbaric monotone. Both men walked with +their chins sunk upon their breasts, their eyes upon the ground. They +had come to the end of hope, they were possessed with a lethargy of +despair. Feversham thought not at all of the pine trees on the Surrey +hills, nor did Trench have any dread that something in his head would +snap and that which made him man be reft from him. They walked slowly, +as though their fetters had grown ten times their weight, and without a +word. So stricken, indeed, were they that an Arab turned and kept pace +beside them, and neither noticed his presence. In a few moments the Arab +spoke:-- + +"The camels are ready in the desert, ten miles to the west." + +But he spoke in so low a voice, and those to whom he spoke were so +absorbed in misery, that the words passed unheard. He repeated them, and +Feversham looked up. Quite slowly their meaning broke in on Feversham's +mind; quite slowly he recognised the man who uttered them. + +"Abou Fatma!" he said. + +"Hoosh!" returned Abou Fatma, "the camels are ready." + +"Now?" + +"Now." + +Trench leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, and the face of a +sick man. It seemed that he would swoon, and Feversham took him by the +arm. + +"Is it true?" Trench asked faintly; and before Feversham could answer +Abou Fatma went on:-- + +"Walk forwards very slowly. Before you reach the end of the wall it will +be dusk. Draw your cloaks over your heads, wrap these rags about your +chains, so that they do not rattle. Then turn and come back, go close to +the water beyond the storehouses. I will be there with a man to remove +your chains. But keep your faces well covered and do not stop. He will +think you slaves." + +With that he passed some rags to them, holding his hands behind his +back, while they stood close to him. Then he turned and hurried back. +Very slowly Feversham and Trench walked forwards in the direction of the +prison; the dusk crept across the river, mounted the long slope of sand, +enveloped them. They sat down and quickly wrapped the rags about their +chains and secured them there. From the west the colours of the sunset +had altogether faded, the darkness gathered quickly about them. They +turned and walked back along the road they had come. The drums were more +numerous now, and above the wall there rose a glare of light. By the +time they had reached the water's edge opposite the storehouses it was +dark. Abou Fatma was already waiting with his blacksmith. The chains +were knocked off without a word spoken. + +"Come," said Abou. "There will be no moon to-night. How long before they +discover you are gone?" + +"Who knows? Perhaps already Idris has missed us. Perhaps he will not +till morning. There are many prisoners." + +They ran up the slope of sand, between the quarters of the tribes, +across the narrow width of the city, through the cemetery. On the far +side of the cemetery stood a disused house; a man rose up in the doorway +as they approached, and went in. + +"Wait here," said Abou Fatma, and he too went into the house. In a +moment both men came back, and each one led a camel and made it kneel. + +"Mount," said Abou Fatma. "Bring its head round and hold it as you +mount." + +"I know the trick," said Trench. + +Feversham climbed up behind him, the two Arabs mounted the second camel. + +"Ten miles to the west," said Abou Fatma, and he struck the camel on the +flanks. + +Behind them the glare of the lights dwindled, the tapping of the drums +diminished. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +THE LAST OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS + + +The wind blew keen and cold from the north. The camels, freshened by it, +trotted out at their fastest pace. + +"Quicker," said Trench, between his teeth. "Already Idris may have +missed us." + +"Even if he has," replied Feversham, "it will take time to get men +together for a pursuit, and those men must fetch their camels, and +already it is dark." + +But although he spoke hopefully, he turned his head again and again +towards the glare of light above Omdurman. He could no longer hear the +tapping of the drums, that was some consolation. But he was in a country +of silence, where men could journey swiftly and yet make no noise. There +would be no sound of galloping horses to warn him that pursuit was at +his heels. Even at that moment the Ansar soldiers might be riding within +thirty paces of them, and Feversham strained his eyes backwards into the +darkness and expected the glimmer of a white turban. Trench, however, +never turned his head. He rode with his teeth set, looking forwards. Yet +fear was no less strong in him than in Feversham. Indeed, it was +stronger, for he did not look back towards Omdurman because he did not +dare; and though his eyes were fixed directly in front of him, the +things which he really saw were the long narrow streets of the town +behind him, the dotted fires at the corners of the streets, and men +running hither and thither among the houses, making their quick search +for the two prisoners escaped from the House of Stone. + +Once his attention was diverted by a word from Feversham, and he +answered without turning his head:-- + +"What is it?" + +"I no longer see the fires of Omdurman." + +"The golden blot, eh, very low down?" Trench answered in an abstracted +voice. Feversham did not ask him to explain what his allusion meant, nor +could Trench have disclosed why he had spoken it; the words had come +back to him suddenly with a feeling that it was somehow appropriate that +the vision which was the last thing to meet Feversham's eyes as he set +out upon his mission he should see again now that that mission was +accomplished. They spoke no more until two figures rose out of the +darkness in front of them, at the very feet of their camels, and Abou +Fatma cried in a low voice:-- + +"Instanna!" + +They halted their camels and made them kneel. + +"The new camels are here?" asked Abou Fatma, and two of the men +disappeared for a few minutes and brought four camels up. Meanwhile the +saddles were unfastened and removed from the camels Trench and his +companion had ridden out of Omdurman. + +"They are good camels?" asked Feversham, as he helped to fix the saddles +upon the fresh ones. + +"Of the Anafi breed," answered Abou Fatma. "Quick! Quick!" and he +looked anxiously to the east and listened. + +"The arms?" said Trench. "You have them? Where are they?" and he bent +his body and searched the ground for them. + +"In a moment," said Abou Fatma, but it seemed that Trench could hardly +wait for that moment to arrive. He showed even more anxiety to handle +the weapons than he had shown fear that he would be overtaken. + +"There is ammunition?" he asked feverishly. + +"Yes, yes," replied Abou Fatma, "ammunition and rifles and revolvers." +He led the way to a spot about twenty yards from the camels, where some +long desert grass rustled about their legs. He stooped and dug into the +soft sand with his hands. + +"Here," he said. + +Trench flung himself upon the ground beside him and scooped with both +hands, making all the while an inhuman whimpering sound with his mouth, +like the noise a foxhound makes at a cover. There was something rather +horrible to Feversham in his attitude as he scraped at the ground on his +knees, at the action of his hands, quick like the movements of a dog's +paws, and in the whine of his voice. He was sunk for the time into an +animal. In a moment or two Trench's fingers touched the lock and trigger +of a rifle, and he became man again. He stood up quietly with the rifle +in his hands. The other arms were unearthed, the ammunition shared. + +"Now," said Trench, and he laughed with a great thrill of joy in the +laugh. "Now I don't mind. Let them follow from Omdurman! One thing is +certain now: I shall never go back there; no, not even if they overtake +us," and he fondled the rifle which he held and spoke to it as though it +lived. + +Two of the Arabs mounted the old camels and rode slowly away to +Omdurman. Abou Fatma and the other remained with the fugitives. They +mounted and trotted northeastwards. No more than a quarter of an hour +had elapsed since they had first halted at Abou Fatma's word. + +All that night they rode through halfa grass and mimosa trees and went +but slowly, but they came about sunrise on to flat bare ground broken +with small hillocks. + +"Are the Effendi tired?" asked Abou Fatma. "Will they stop and eat? +There is food upon the saddle of each camel." + +"No; we can eat as we go." + +Dates and bread and a draught of water from a zamsheyeh made up their +meal, and they ate it as they sat their camels. These, indeed, now that +they were free of the long desert grass, trotted at their quickest pace. +And at sunset that evening they stopped and rested for an hour. All +through that night they rode and the next day, straining their own +endurance and that of the beasts they were mounted on, now ascending on +to high and rocky ground, now traversing a valley, and now trotting fast +across plains of honey-coloured sand. Yet to each man the pace seemed +always as slow as a funeral. A mountain would lift itself above the rim +of the horizon at sunrise, and for the whole livelong day it stood +before their eyes, and was never a foot higher or an inch nearer. At +times, some men tilling a scanty patch of sorghum would send the +fugitives' hearts leaping in their throats, and they must make a wide +detour; or again a caravan would be sighted in the far distance by the +keen eyes of Abou Fatma, and they made their camels kneel and lay +crouched behind a rock, with their loaded rifles in their hands. Ten +miles from Abu Klea a relay of fresh camels awaited them, and upon these +they travelled, keeping a day's march westward of the Nile. Thence they +passed through the desert country of the Ababdeh, and came in sight of a +broad grey tract stretching across their path. + +"The road from Berber to Merowi," said Abou Fatma. "North of it we turn +east to the river. We cross that road to-night; and if God wills, +to-morrow evening we shall have crossed the Nile." + +"If God wills," said Trench. "If only He wills," and he glanced about +him in a fear which only increased the nearer they drew towards safety. +They were in a country traversed by the caravans; it was no longer safe +to travel by day. They dismounted, and all that day they lay hidden +behind a belt of shrubs upon some high ground and watched the road and +the people like specks moving along it. They came down and crossed it in +the darkness, and for the rest of that night travelled hard towards the +river. As the day broke Abou Fatma again bade them halt. They were in a +desolate open country, whereon the smallest protection was magnified by +the surrounding flatness. Feversham and Trench gazed eagerly to their +right. Somewhere in that direction and within the range of their +eyesight flowed the Nile, but they could not see it. + +"We must build a circle of stones," said Abou Fatma, "and you must lie +close to the ground within it. I will go forward to the river, and see +that the boat is ready and that our friends are prepared for us. I shall +come back after dark." + +They gathered the stones quickly and made a low wall about a foot high; +within this wall Feversham and Trench laid themselves down upon the +ground with a water-skin and their rifles at their sides. + +"You have dates, too," said Abou Fatma. + +"Yes." + +"Then do not stir from the hiding-place till I come back. I will take +your camels, and bring you back fresh ones in the evening." And in +company with his fellow-Arab he rode off towards the river. + +Trench and Feversham dug out the sand within the stones and lay down, +watching the horizon between the interstices. For both of them this +perhaps was the longest day of their lives. They were so near to safety +and yet not safe. To Trench's thinking it was longer than a night in the +House of Stone, and to Feversham longer than even one of those days six +years back when he had sat in his rooms above St. James's Park and +waited for the night to fall before he dared venture out into the +streets. They were so near to Berber, and the pursuit must needs be +close behind. Feversham lay wondering how he had ever found the courage +to venture himself in Berber. They had no shade to protect them; all day +the sun burnt pitilessly upon their backs, and within the narrow circle +of stones they had no room wherein to move. They spoke hardly at all. +The sunset, however, came at the last, the friendly darkness gathered +about them, and a cool wind rustled through the darkness across the +desert. + +"Listen!" said Trench; and both men as they strained their ears heard +the soft padding of camels very near at hand. A moment later a low +whistle brought them out of their shelter. + +"We are here," said Feversham, quietly. + +"God be thanked!" said Abou Fatma. "I have good news for you, and bad +news too. The boat is ready, our friends are waiting for us, camels are +prepared for you on the caravan track by the river-bank to Abu Hamed. +But your escape is known, and the roads and the ferries are closely +watched. Before sunrise we must have struck inland from the eastern bank +of the Nile." + +They crossed the river cautiously about one o'clock of the morning, and +sank the boat upon the far side of the stream. The camels were waiting +for them, and they travelled inland and more slowly than suited the +anxiety of the fugitives. For the ground was thickly covered with +boulders, and the camels could seldom proceed at any pace faster than a +walk. And all through the next day they lay hidden again within a ring +of stones while the camels were removed to some high ground where they +could graze. During the next night, however, they made good progress, +and, coming to the groves of Abu Hamed in two days, rested for twelve +hours there and mounted upon a fresh relay. From Abu Hamed their road +lay across the great Nubian Desert. + +Nowadays the traveller may journey through the two hundred and forty +miles of that waterless plain of coal-black rocks and yellow sand, and +sleep in his berth upon the way. The morning will show to him, perhaps, +a tent, a great pile of coal, a water tank, and a number painted on a +white signboard, and the stoppage of the train will inform him that he +has come to a station. Let him put his head from the window, he will see +the long line of telegraph poles reaching from the sky's rim behind him +to the sky's rim in front, and huddling together, as it seems, with less +and less space between them the farther they are away. Twelve hours will +enclose the beginning and the end of his journey, unless the engine +break down or the rail be blocked. But in the days when Feversham and +Trench escaped from Omdurman progression was not so easy a matter. They +kept eastward of the present railway and along the line of wells among +the hills. And on the second night of this stage of their journey Trench +shook Feversham by the shoulders and waked him up. + +"Look," he said, and he pointed to the south. "To-night there's no +Southern Cross." His voice broke with emotion. "For six years, for every +night of six years, until this night, I have seen the Southern Cross. +How often have I lain awake watching it, wondering whether the night +would ever come when I should not see those four slanting stars! I tell +you, Feversham, this is the first moment when I have really dared to +think that we should escape." + +Both men sat up and watched the southern sky with prayers of +thankfulness in their hearts; and when they fell asleep it was only to +wake up again and again with a fear that they would after all still see +that constellation blazing low down towards the earth, and to fall +asleep again confident of the issue of their desert ride. At the end of +seven days they came to Shof-el-Ain, a tiny well set in a barren valley +between featureless ridges, and by the side of that well they camped. +They were in the country of the Amrab Arabs, and had come to an end of +their peril. + +"We are safe," cried Abou Fatma. "God is good. Northwards to Assouan, +westwards to Wadi Halfa, we are safe!" And spreading a cloth upon the +ground in front of the kneeling camels, he heaped dhurra before them. He +even went so far in his gratitude as to pat one of the animals upon the +neck, and it immediately turned upon him and snarled. + +Trench reached out his hand to Feversham. + +"Thank you," he said simply. + +"No need of thanks," answered Feversham, and he did not take the hand. +"I served myself from first to last." + +"You have learned the churlishness of a camel," cried Trench. "A camel +will carry you where you want to go, will carry you till it drops dead, +and yet if you show your gratitude it resents and bites. Hang it all, +Feversham, there's my hand." + +Feversham untied a knot in the breast of his jibbeh and took out three +white feathers, two small, the feathers of a heron, the other large, an +ostrich feather broken from a fan. + +"Will you take yours back?" + +"Yes." + +"You know what to do with it." + +"Yes. There shall be no delay." + +Feversham wrapped the remaining feathers carefully away in a corner of +his ragged jibbeh and tied them safe. + +"We shake hands, then," said he; and as their hands met he added, +"To-morrow morning we part company." + +"Part company, you and I--after the year in Omdurman, the weeks of +flight?" exclaimed Trench. "Why? There's no more to be done. Castleton's +dead. You keep the feather which he sent, but he is dead. You can do +nothing with it. You must come home." + +"Yes," answered Feversham, "but after you, certainly not with you. You +go on to Assouan and Cairo. At each place you will find friends to +welcome you. I shall not go with you." + +Trench was silent for a while. He understood Feversham's reluctance, he +saw that it would be easier for Feversham if he were to tell his story +first to Ethne Eustace, and without Feversham's presence. + +"I ought to tell you no one knows why you resigned your commission, or +of the feathers we sent. We never spoke of it. We agreed never to speak, +for the honour of the regiment. I can't tell you how glad I am that we +all agreed and kept to the agreement," he said. + +"Perhaps you will see Durrance," said Feversham; "if you do, give him a +message from me. Tell him that the next time he asks me to come and see +him, whether it is in England or Wadi Halfa, I will accept the +invitation." + +"Which way will you go?" + +"To Wadi Halfa," said Feversham, pointing westwards over his shoulder. +"I shall take Abou Fatma with me and travel slowly and quietly down the +Nile. The other Arab will guide you into Assouan." + +They slept that night in security beside the well, and the next morning +they parted company. Trench was the first to ride off, and as his camel +rose to its feet, ready for the start, he bent down towards Feversham, +who passed him the nose rein. + +"Ramelton, that was the name? I shall not forget." + +"Yes, Ramelton," said Feversham; "there's a ferry across Lough Swilly to +Rathmullen. You must drive the twelve miles to Ramelton. But you may not +find her there." + +"If not there, I shall find her somewhere else. Make no mistake, +Feversham, I shall find her." + +And Trench rode forward, alone with his Arab guide. More than once he +turned his head and saw Feversham still standing by the well; more than +once he was strongly drawn to stop and ride back to that solitary +figure, but he contented himself with waving his hand, and even that +salute was not returned. + +Feversham, indeed, had neither thought nor eyes for the companion of his +flight. His six years of hard probation had come this morning to an end, +and yet he was more sensible of a certain loss and vacancy than of any +joy. For six years, through many trials, through many falterings, his +mission had strengthened and sustained him. It seemed to him now that +there was nothing more wherewith to occupy his life. Ethne? No doubt she +was long since married ... and there came upon him all at once a great +bitterness of despair for that futile, unnecessary mistake made by him +six years ago. He saw again the room in London overlooking the quiet +trees and lawns of St. James's Park, he heard the knock upon the door, +he took the telegram from his servant's hand. + +He roused himself finally with the recollection that, after all, the +work was not quite done. There was his father, who just at this moment +was very likely reading his _Times_ after breakfast upon the terrace of +Broad Place among the pine trees upon the Surrey hills. He must visit +his father, he must take that fourth feather back to Ramelton. There was +a telegram, too, which must be sent to Lieutenant Sutch at Suakin. + +He mounted his camel and rode slowly with Abou Fatma westwards towards +Wadi Halfa. But the sense of loss did not pass from him that day, nor +his anger at the act of folly which had brought about his downfall. The +wooded slopes of Ramelton were very visible to him across the shimmer of +the desert air. In the greatness of his depression Harry Feversham upon +this day for the first time doubted his faith in the "afterwards." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +FEVERSHAM RETURNS TO RAMELTON + + +On an August morning of the same year Harry Feversham rode across the +Lennon bridge into Ramelton. The fierce suns of the Soudan had tanned +his face, the years of his probation had left their marks; he rode up +the narrow street of the town unrecognised. At the top of the hill he +turned into the broad highway which, descending valleys and climbing +hills, runs in one straight line to Letterkenny. He rode rather quickly +in a company of ghosts. + +The intervening years had gradually been dropping from his thoughts all +through his journey across Egypt and the Continent. They were no more +than visionary now. Nor was he occupied with any dream of the things +which might have been but for his great fault. The things which had +been, here, in this small town of Ireland, were too definite. Here he +had been most happy, here he had known the uttermost of his misery; here +his presence had brought pleasure, here too he had done his worst harm. +Once he stopped when he was opposite to the church, set high above the +road upon his right hand, and wondered whether Ethne was still at +Ramelton--whether old Dermod was alive, and what kind of welcome he +would receive. But he waked in a moment to the knowledge that he was +sitting upon his horse in the empty road and in the quiet of an August +morning. There were larks singing in the pale blue above his head; a +landrail sent up its harsh cry from the meadow on the left; the crow of +a cock rose clear from the valley. He looked about him, and rode briskly +on down the incline in front of him and up the ascent beyond. He rode +again with his company of ghosts--phantoms of people with whom upon this +road he had walked and ridden and laughed, ghosts of old thoughts and +recollected words. He came to a thick grove of trees, a broken fence, a +gateway with no gate. Inattentive to these evidences of desertion, he +turned in at the gate and rode along a weedy and neglected drive. At the +end of it he came to an open space before a ruined house. The aspect of +the tumbling walls and unroofed rooms roused him at last completely from +his absorption. He dismounted, and, tying his horse to the branch of a +tree, ran quickly into the house and called aloud. No voice answered +him. He ran from deserted room to deserted room. He descended into the +garden, but no one came to meet him; and he understood now from the +uncut grass upon the lawn, the tangled disorder of the flowerbeds, that +no one would come. He mounted his horse again, and rode back at a sharp +trot. In Ramelton he stopped at the inn, gave his horse to the ostler, +and ordered lunch for himself. He said to the landlady who waited upon +him:-- + +"So Lennon House has been burned down? When was that?" + +"Five years ago," the landlady returned, "just five years ago this +summer." And she proceeded, without further invitation, to give a +voluminous account of the conflagration and the cause of it, the ruin of +the Eustace family, the inebriety of Bastable, and the death of Dermod +Eustace at Glenalla. "But we hope to see the house rebuilt. It's likely +to be, we hear, when Miss Eustace is married," she said, in a voice +which suggested that she was full of interesting information upon the +subject of Miss Eustace's marriage. Her guest, however, did not respond +to the invitation. + +"And where does Miss Eustace live now?" + +"At Glenalla," she replied. "Halfway on the road to Rathmullen there's a +track leads up to your left. It's a poor mountain village is Glenalla, +and no place for Miss Eustace, at all, at all. Perhaps you will be +wanting to see her?" + +"Yes. I shall be glad if you will order my horse to be brought round to +the door," said the man; and he rose from the table to put an end to the +interview. + +The landlady, however, was not so easily dismissed. She stood at the +door and remarked:-- + +"Well, that's curious--that's most curious. For only a fortnight ago a +gentleman burnt just as black as yourself stayed a night here on the +same errand. He asked for Miss Eustace's address and drove up to +Glenalla. Perhaps you have business with her?" + +"Yes, I have business with Miss Eustace," the stranger returned. "Will +you be good enough to give orders about my horse?" + +While he was waiting for his horse he looked through the leaves of the +hotel book, and saw under a date towards the end of July the name of +Colonel Trench. + +"You will come back, sir, to-night?" said the landlady, as he mounted. + +"No," he answered, "I do not think I shall come again to Ramelton." And +he rode down the hill, and once more that day crossed the Lennon bridge. +Four miles on he came to the track opposite a little bay of the Lough, +and, turning into it, he rode past a few white cottages up to the purple +hollow of the hills. It was about five o'clock when he came to the long, +straggling village. It seemed very quiet and deserted, and built without +any plan. A few cottages stood together, then came a gap of fields, +beyond that a small plantation of larches and a house which stood by +itself. Beyond the house was another gap, through which he could see +straight down to the water of the Lough, shining in the afternoon sun, +and the white gulls poising and swooping above it. And after passing +that gap he came to a small grey church, standing bare to the winds upon +its tiny plateau. A pathway of white shell-dust led from the door of the +church to the little wooden gate. As he came level with the gate a +collie dog barked at him from behind it. + +The rider looked at the dog, which was very grey about the muzzle. He +noticed its marking, and stopped his horse altogether. He glanced +towards the church, and saw that the door stood open. At once he +dismounted; he fastened his horse to the fence, and entered the +churchyard. The collie thrust its muzzle into the back of his knee, +sniffed once or twice doubtfully, and suddenly broke into an exuberant +welcome. The collie dog had a better memory than the landlady of the +inn. He barked, wagged his tail, crouched and sprang at the stranger's +shoulders, whirled round and round in front of him, burst into sharp, +excited screams of pleasure, ran up to the church door and barked +furiously there, then ran back and jumped again upon his friend. The man +caught the dog as it stood up with its forepaws upon his chest, patted +it, and laughed. Suddenly he ceased laughing, and stood stock-still with +his eyes towards the open door of the church. In the doorway Ethne +Eustace was standing. He put the dog down and slowly walked up the path +towards her. She waited on the threshold without moving, without +speaking. She waited, watching him, until he came close to her. Then she +said simply:-- + +"Harry." + +She was silent after that; nor did he speak. All the ghosts and phantoms +of old thoughts in whose company he had travelled the whole of that day +vanished away from his mind at her simple utterance of his name. Six +years had passed since his feet crushed the gravel on the dawn of a June +morning beneath her window. And they looked at one another, remarking +the changes which those six years had brought. And the changes, +unnoticed and almost imperceptible to those who had lived daily in their +company, sprang very distinct to the eyes of these two. Feversham was +thin, his face was wasted. The strain of life in the House of Stone had +left its signs about his sunken eyes and in the look of age beyond his +years. But these were not the only changes, as Ethne noticed; they were +not, indeed, the most important ones. Her heart, although she stood so +still and silent, went out to him in grief for the great troubles which +he had endured; but she saw, too, that he came back without a thought of +anger towards her for that fourth feather snapped from her fan. But she +was clear-eyed even at this moment. She saw much more. She understood +that the man who stood quietly before her now was not the same man whom +she had last seen in the hall of Ramelton. There had been a timidity in +his manner in those days, a peculiar diffidence, a continual expectation +of other men's contempt, which had gone from him. He was now quietly +self-possessed; not arrogant; on the other hand, not diffident. He had +put himself to a long, hard test; and he knew that he had not failed. +All that she saw; and her face lightened as she said:-- + +"It is not all harm which has come of these years. They were not +wasted." + +But Feversham thought of her lonely years in this village of +Glenalla--and thought with a man's thought, unaware that nowhere else +would she have chosen to live. He looked into her face, and saw the +marks of the years upon it. It was not that she had aged so much. Her +big grey eyes shone as clearly as before, the colour was still as bright +upon her cheeks. But there was more of character. She had suffered; she +had eaten of the tree of knowledge. + +"I am sorry," he said. "I did you a great wrong six years ago, and I +need not." + +She held out her hand to him. + +"Will you give it me, please?" + +And for a moment he did not understand. + +"That fourth feather," she said. + +He drew his letter-case from his coat, and shook two feathers out into +the palm of his hand. The larger one, the ostrich feather, he held out +to her. But she said:-- + +"Both." + +There was no reason why he should keep Castleton's feather any longer. +He handed them both to her, since she asked for them, and she clasped +them, and with a smile treasured them against her breast. + +"I have the four feathers now," she said. + +"Yes," answered Feversham; "all four. What will you do with them?" + +Ethne's smile became a laugh. + +"Do with them!" she cried in scorn. "I shall do nothing with them. I +shall keep them. I am very proud to have them to keep." + +She kept them, as she had once kept Harry Feversham's portrait. There +was something perhaps in Durrance's contention that women so much more +than men gather up their experiences and live upon them, looking +backwards. Feversham, at all events, would now have dropped the feathers +then and there and crushed them into the dust of the path with his heel; +they had done their work. They could no longer reproach, they were no +longer needed to encourage, they were dead things. Ethne, however, held +them tight in her hand; to her they were not dead. + +"Colonel Trench was here a fortnight ago," she said. "He told me you +were bringing it back to me." + +"But he did not know of the fourth feather," said Feversham. "I never +told any man that I had it." + +"Yes. You told Colonel Trench on your first night in the House of Stone +at Omdurman. He told me. I no longer hate him," she added, but without a +smile and quite seriously, as though it was an important statement which +needed careful recognition. + +"I am glad of that," said Feversham. "He is a great friend of mine." + +Ethne was silent for a moment or two. Then she said:-- + +"I wonder whether you have forgotten our drive from Ramelton to our +house when I came to fetch you from the quay? We were alone in the +dog-cart, and we spoke--" + +"Of the friends whom one knows for friends the first moment, and whom +one seems to recognise even though one has never seen them before," +interrupted Feversham. "Indeed I remember." + +"And whom one never loses whether absent or dead," continued Ethne. "I +said that one could always be sure of such friends, and you answered--" + +"I answered that one could make mistakes," again Feversham interrupted. + +"Yes, and I disagreed. I said that one might seem to make mistakes, and +perhaps think so for a long while, but that in the end one would be +proved not to have made them. I have often thought of those words. I +remembered them very clearly when Captain Willoughby brought to me the +first feather, and with a great deal of remorse. I remember them again +very clearly to-day, although I have no room in my thoughts for remorse. +I was right, you see, and I should have clung firmly to my faith. But I +did not." Her voice shook a little, and pleaded as she went on: "I was +young. I knew very little. I was unaware how little. I judged hastily; +but to-day I understand." + +She opened her hand and gazed for a while at the white feathers. Then +she turned and went inside the church. Feversham followed her. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +IN THE CHURCH AT GLENALLA + + +Ethne sat down in the corner of a pew next to the aisle, and Feversham +took his stand beside her. It was very quiet and peaceful within that +tiny church. The afternoon sun shone through the upper windows and made +a golden haze about the roof. The natural murmurs of the summer floated +pleasantly through the open door. + +"I am glad that you remembered our drive and what we said," she +continued. "It is rather important to me that you should remember. +Because, although I have got you back, I am going to send you away from +me again. You will be one of the absent friends whom I shall not lose +because you are absent." + +She spoke slowly, looking straight in front of her without faltering. It +was a difficult speech for her to deliver, but she had thought over it +night and day during this last fortnight, and the words were ready to +her lips. At the first sight of Harry Feversham, recovered to her after +so many years, so much suspense, so much suffering, it had seemed to her +that she never would be able to speak them, however necessary it was +that they should be spoken. But as they stood over against one another +she had forced herself to remember that necessity until she actually +recognised and felt it. Then she had gone back into the church and taken +a seat, and gathered up her strength. + +It would be easier for both of them, she thought, if she should give no +sign of what so quick a separation cost her. He would know surely +enough, and she wished him to know; she wished him to understand that +not one moment of his six years, so far as she was concerned, had been +spent in vain. But that could be understood without the signs of +emotion. So she spoke her speech looking steadily straight forward and +speaking in an even voice. + +"I know that you will mind very much, just as I do. But there is no help +for it," she resumed. "At all events you are at home again, with the +right to be at home. It is a great comfort to me to know that. But there +are other, much greater reasons from which we can both take comfort. +Colonel Trench told me enough of your captivity to convince me that we +both see with the same eyes. We both understand that this second +parting, hard as it is, is still a very slight, small thing compared +with the other, our first parting over at the house six years ago. I +felt very lonely after that, as I shall not feel lonely now. There was a +great barrier between us then separating us forever. We should never +have met again here or afterwards. I am quite sure of that. But you have +broken the barrier down by all your pain and bravery during these last +years. I am no less sure of that. I am absolutely confident about it, +and I believe you are too. So that although we shall not see one another +here and as long as we live, the afterwards is quite sure for us both. +And we can wait for that. You can. You have waited with so much strength +all these years since we parted. And I can too, for I get strength from +your victory." + +She stopped, and for a while there was silence in that church. To +Feversham her words were gracious as rain upon dry land. To hear her +speak them uplifted him so that those six years of trial, of slinking +into corners out of the sight of his fellows, of lonely endurance, of +many heart-sinkings and much bodily pain, dwindled away into +insignificance. They had indeed borne their fruit to him. For Ethne had +spoken in a gentle voice just what his ears had so often longed to hear +as he lay awake at night in the bazaar at Suakin, in the Nile villages, +in the dim wide spaces of the desert, and what he had hardly dared to +hope she ever would speak. He stood quite silently by her side, still +hearing her voice though the voice had ceased. Long ago there were +certain bitter words which she had spoken, and he had told Sutch, so +closely had they clung and stung, that he believed in his dying moments +he would hear them again and so go to his grave with her reproaches +ringing in his ears. He remembered that prediction of his now and knew +that it was false. The words he would hear would be those which she had +just uttered. + +For Ethne's proposal that they should separate he was not unprepared. He +had heard already that she was engaged, and he did not argue against her +wish. But he understood that she had more to say to him. And she had. +But she was slow to speak it. This was the last time she was to see +Harry Feversham; she meant resolutely to send him away. When once he +had passed through that church door, through which the sunlight and the +summer murmurs came, and his shadow gone from the threshold, she would +never talk with him or set her eyes on him until her life was ended. So +she deferred the moment of his going by silences and slow speech. It +might be so very long before that end came. She had, she thought, the +right to protract this one interview. She rather hoped that he would +speak of his travels, his dangers; she was prepared to discuss at length +with him even the politics of the Soudan. But he waited for her. + +"I am going to be married," she said at length, "and immediately. I am +to marry a friend of yours, Colonel Durrance." + +There was hardly a pause before Feversham answered:-- + +"He has cared for you a long while. I was not aware of it until I went +away, but, thinking over everything, I thought it likely, and in a very +little time I became sure." + +"He is blind." + +"Blind!" exclaimed Feversham. "He, of all men, blind!" + +"Exactly," said Ethne. "He--of all men. His blindness explains +everything--why I marry him, why I send you away. It was after he went +blind that I became engaged to him. It was before Captain Willoughby +came to me with the first feather. It was between those two events. You +see, after you went away one thought over things rather carefully. I +used to lie awake and think, and I resolved that two men's lives should +not be spoilt because of me." + +"Mine was not," Feversham interrupted. "Please believe that." + +"Partly it was," she returned, "I know very well. You would not own it +for my sake, but it was. I was determined that a second should not be. +And so when Colonel Durrance went blind--you know the man he was, you +can understand what blindness meant to him, the loss of everything he +cared for--" + +"Except you." + +"Yes," Ethne answered quietly, "except me. So I became engaged to him. +But he has grown very quick--you cannot guess how quick. And he sees so +very clearly. A hint tells him the whole hidden truth. At present he +knows nothing of the four feathers." + +"Are you sure?" suddenly exclaimed Feversham. + +"Yes. Why?" asked Ethne, turning her face towards him for the first time +since she had sat down. + +"Lieutenant Sutch was at Suakin while I was at Omdurman. He knew that I +was a prisoner there. He sent messages to me, he tried to organise my +escape." + +Ethne was startled. + +"Oh," she said, "Colonel Durrance certainly knew that you were in +Omdurman. He saw you in Wadi Halfa, and he heard that you had gone south +into the desert. He was distressed about it; he asked a friend to get +news of you, and the friend got news that you were in Omdurman. He told +me so himself, and--yes, he told me that he would try to arrange for +your escape. No doubt he has done that through Lieutenant Sutch. He has +been at Wiesbaden with an oculist; he only returned a week ago. +Otherwise he would have told me about it. Very likely he was the reason +why Lieutenant Sutch was at Suakin, but he knows nothing of the four +feathers. He only knows that our engagement was abruptly broken off; he +believes that I have no longer any thought of you at all. But if you +come back, if you and I saw anything of each other, however calmly we +met, however indifferently we spoke, he would guess. He is so quick he +would be sure to guess." She paused for a moment, and added in a +whisper, "And he would guess right." + +Feversham saw the blood flush her forehead and deepen the colour of her +cheeks. He did not move from his position, he did not bend towards her, +or even in voice give any sign which would make this leave-taking yet +more difficult to carry through. + +"Yes, I see," he said. "And he must not guess." + +"No, he must not," returned Ethne. "I am so glad you see that too, +Harry. The straight and simple thing is the only thing for us to do. He +must never guess, for, as you said, he has nothing left but me." + +"Is Durrance here?" asked Feversham. + +"He is staying at the vicarage." + +"Very well," he said. "It is only fair that I should tell you I had no +thought that you would wait. I had no wish that you should; I had no +right to such a wish. When you gave me that fourth feather in the little +room at Ramelton, with the music coming faintly through the door, I +understood your meaning. There was to be a complete, an irrevocable end. +We were not to be the merest acquaintances. So I said nothing to you of +the plan which came clear and definite into my mind at the very time +when you gave me the feathers. You see, I might never have succeeded. I +might have died trying to succeed. I might even perhaps have shirked the +attempt. It would be time enough for me to speak if I came back. So I +never formed any wish that you should wait." + +"That was what Colonel Trench told me." + +"I told him that too?" + +"On your first night in the House of Stone." + +"Well, it's just the truth. The most I hoped for--and I did hope for +that every hour of every day--was that, if I did come home, you would +take back your feather, and that we might--not renew our friendship +here, but see something of one another afterwards." + +"Yes," said Ethne. "Then there will be no parting." + +Ethne spoke very simply, without even a sigh, but she looked at Harry +Feversham as she spoke and smiled. The look and the smile told him what +the cost of the separation would be to her. And, understanding what it +meant now, he understood, with an infinitely greater completeness than +he had ever reached in his lonely communings, what it must have meant +six years ago when she was left with her pride stricken as sorely as her +heart. + +"What trouble you must have gone through!" he cried, and she turned and +looked him over. + +"Not I alone," she said gently. "I passed no nights in the House of +Stone." + +"But it was my fault. Do you remember what you said when the morning +came through the blinds? 'It's not right that one should suffer so much +pain.' It was not right." + +"I had forgotten the words--oh, a long time since--until Colonel Trench +reminded me. I should never have spoken them. When I did I was not +thinking they would live so in your thoughts. I am sorry that I spoke +them." + +"Oh, they were just enough. I never blamed you for them," said +Feversham, with a laugh. "I used to think that they would be the last +words I should hear when I turned my face to the wall. But you have +given me others to-day wherewith to replace them." + +"Thank you," she said quietly. + +There was nothing more to be said, and Feversham wondered why Ethne did +not rise from her seat in the pew. It did not occur to him to talk of +his travels or adventures. The occasion seemed too serious, too vital. +They were together to decide the most solemn issue in their lives. Once +the decision was made, as now it had been made, he felt that they could +hardly talk on other topics. Ethne, however, still kept him at her side. +Though she sat so calmly and still, though her face was quiet in its +look of gravity, her heart ached with longing. Just for a little longer, +she pleaded to herself. The sunlight was withdrawing from the walls of +the church. She measured out a space upon the walls where it still +glowed bright. When all that space was cold grey stone, she would send +Harry Feversham away. + +"I am glad that you escaped from Omdurman without the help of Lieutenant +Sutch or Colonel Durrance. I wanted so much that everything should be +done by you alone without anybody's help or interference," she said, and +after she had spoken there followed a silence. Once or twice she looked +towards the wall, and each time she saw the space of golden light +narrowed, and knew that her minutes were running out. "You suffered +horribly at Dongola," she said in a low voice. "Colonel Trench told me." + +"What does it matter now?" Feversham answered. "That time seems rather +far away to me." + +"Had you anything of mine with you?" + +"I had your white feather." + +"But anything else? Any little thing which I had given you in the other +days?" + +"Nothing." + +"I had your photograph," she said. "I kept it." + +Feversham suddenly leaned down towards her. + +"You did!" + +Ethne nodded her head. + +"Yes. The moment I went upstairs that night I packed up your presents +and addressed them to your rooms." + +"Yes, I got them in London." + +"But I put your photograph aside first of all to keep. I burnt all your +letters after I had addressed the parcel and taken it down to the hall +to be sent away. I had just finished burning your letters when I heard +your step upon the gravel in the early morning underneath my windows. +But I had already put your photograph aside. I have it now. I shall keep +it and the feathers together." She added after a moment:-- + +"I rather wish that you had had something of mine with you all the +time." + +"I had no right to anything," said Feversham. + +There was still a narrow slip of gold upon the grey space of stone. + +"What will you do now?" she asked. + +"I shall go home first and see my father. It will depend upon the way we +meet." + +"You will let Colonel Durrance know. I would like to hear about it." + +"Yes, I will write to Durrance." + +The slip of gold was gone, the clear light of a summer evening filled +the church, a light without radiance or any colour. + +"I shall not see you for a long while," said Ethne, and for the first +time her voice broke in a sob. "I shall not have a letter from you +again." + +She leaned a little forward and bent her head, for the tears had +gathered in her eyes. But she rose up bravely from her seat, and +together they went out of the church side by side. She leaned towards +him as they walked so that they touched. + +Feversham untied his horse and mounted it. As his foot touched the +stirrup Ethne caught her dog close to her. + +"Good-bye," she said. She did not now even try to smile, she held out +her hand to him. He took it and bent down from his saddle close to her. +She kept her eyes steadily upon him though the tears brimmed in them. + +"Good-bye," he said. He held her hand just for a little while, and then +releasing it, rode down the hill. He rode for a hundred yards, stopped +and looked back. Ethne had stopped, too, and with this space between +them and their faces towards one another they remained. Ethne made no +sign of recognition or farewell. She just stood and looked. Then she +turned away and went up the village street towards her house alone and +very slowly. Feversham watched her till she went in at the gate, but she +became dim and blurred to his vision before even she had reached it. He +was able to see, however, that she did not look back again. + +He rode down the hill. The bad thing which he had done so long ago was +not even by his six years of labour to be destroyed. It was still to +live, its consequence was to be sorrow till the end of life for another +than himself. That she took the sorrow bravely and without complaint, +doing the straight and simple thing as her loyal nature bade her, did +not diminish Harry Feversham's remorse. On the contrary it taught him +yet more clearly that she least of all deserved unhappiness. The harm +was irreparable. Other women might have forgotten, but not she. For +Ethne was of those who neither lightly feel nor lightly forget, and if +they love cannot love with half a heart. She would be alone now, he +knew, in spite of her marriage, alone up to the very end and at the +actual moment of death. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +ETHNE AGAIN PLAYS THE MUSOLINE OVERTURE + + +The incredible words were spoken that evening. Ethne went into her +farm-house and sat down in the parlour. She felt cold that summer +evening and had the fire lighted. She sat gazing into the bright coals +with that stillness of attitude which was a sure sign with her of tense +emotion. The moment so eagerly looked for had come, and it was over. She +was alone now in her remote little village, out of the world in the +hills, and more alone than she had been since Willoughby sailed on that +August morning down the Salcombe estuary. From the time of Willoughby's +coming she had looked forward night and day to the one half-hour during +which Harry Feversham would be with her. The half-hour had come and +passed. She knew now how she had counted upon its coming, how she had +lived for it. She felt lonely in a rather empty world. But it was part +of her nature that she had foreseen this sense of loneliness; she had +known that there would be a bad hour for her after she had sent Harry +Feversham away, that all her heart and soul would clamour to her to call +him back. And she forced herself, as she sat shivering by the fire, to +remember that she had always foreseen and had always looked beyond it. +To-morrow she would know again that they had not parted forever, +to-morrow she would compare the parting of to-day with the parting on +the night of the ball at Lennon House, and recognise what a small thing +this was to that. She fell to wondering what Harry Feversham would do +now that he had returned, and while she was building up for him a future +of great distinction she felt Dermod's old collie dog nuzzling at her +hand with his sure instinct that his mistress was in distress. Ethne +rose from her chair and took the dog's head between her hands and kissed +it. He was very old, she thought; he would die soon and leave her, and +then there would be years and years, perhaps, before she lay down in her +bed and knew the great moment was at hand. + +There came a knock upon the door, and a servant told her that Colonel +Durrance was waiting. + +"Yes," she said, and as he entered the room she went forward to meet +him. She did not shirk the part which she had allotted to herself. She +stepped out from the secret chamber of her grief as soon as she was +summoned. + +She talked with her visitor as though no unusual thing had happened an +hour before, she even talked of their marriage and the rebuilding of +Lennon House. It was difficult, but she had grown used to difficulties. +Only that night Durrance made her path a little harder to tread. He +asked her, after the maid had brought in the tea, to play to him the +Musoline Overture upon her violin. + +"Not to-night," said Ethne. "I am rather tired." And she had hardly +spoken before she changed her mind. Ethne was determined that in the +small things as well as in the great she must not shirk. The small +things with their daily happenings were just those about which she must +be most careful. "Still I think that I can play the overture," she said +with a smile, and she took down her violin. She played the overture +through from the beginning to the end. Durrance stood at the window with +his back towards her until she had ended. Then he walked to her side. + +"I was rather a brute," he said quietly, "to ask you to play that +overture to-night." + +"I wasn't anxious to play," she answered as she laid the violin aside. + +"I know. But I was anxious to find out something, and I knew no other +way of finding it out." + +Ethne turned up to him a startled face. + +"What do you mean?" she asked in a voice of suspense. + +"You are so seldom off your guard. Only indeed at rare times when you +play. Once before when you played that overture you were off your guard. +I thought that if I could get you to play it again to-night--the +overture which was once strummed out in a dingy café at Wadi +Halfa--to-night again I should find you off your guard." + +His words took her breath away and the colour from her cheeks. She got +up slowly from her chair and stared at him wide-eyed. He could not know. +It was impossible. He did not know. + +But Durrance went quietly on. + +"Well? Did you take back your feather? The fourth one?" + +These to Ethne were the incredible words. Durrance spoke them with a +smile upon his face. It took her a long time to understand that he had +actually spoken them. She was not sure at the first that her +overstrained senses were not playing her tricks; but he repeated his +question, and she could no longer disbelieve or misunderstand. + +"Who told you of any fourth feather?" she asked. + +"Trench," he answered. "I met him at Dover. But he only told me of the +fourth feather," said Durrance. "I knew of the three before. Trench +would never have told me of the fourth had I not known of the three. For +I should not have met him as he landed from the steamer at Dover. I +should not have asked him, 'Where is Harry Feversham?' And for me to +know of the three was enough." + +"How do you know?" she cried in a kind of despair, and coming close to +her he took gently hold of her arm. + +"But since I know," he protested, "what does it matter how I know? I +have known a long while, ever since Captain Willoughby came to The Pool +with the first feather. I waited to tell you that I knew until Harry +Feversham came back, and he came to-day." + +Ethne sat down in her chair again. She was stunned by Durrance's +unexpected disclosure. She had so carefully guarded her secret, that to +realise that for a year it had been no secret came as a shock to her. +But, even in the midst of her confusion, she understood that she must +have time to gather up her faculties again under command. So she spoke +of the unimportant thing to gain the time. + +"You were in the church, then? Or you heard us upon the steps? Or you +met--him as he rode away?" + +"Not one of the conjectures is right," said Durrance, with a smile. +Ethne had hit upon the right subject to delay the statement of the +decision to which she knew very well that he had come. Durrance had his +vanities like others; and in particular one vanity which had sprung up +within him since he had become blind. He prided himself upon the +quickness of his perception. It was a delight to him to make discoveries +which no one expected a man who had lost his sight to make, and to +announce them unexpectedly. It was an additional pleasure to relate to +his puzzled audience the steps by which he had reached his discovery. +"Not one of your conjectures is right, Ethne," he said, and he +practically asked her to question him. + +"Then how did you find out?" she asked. + +"I knew from Trench that Harry Feversham would come some day, and soon. +I passed the church this afternoon. Your collie dog barked at me. So I +knew you were inside. But a saddled horse was tied up beside the gate. +So some one else was with you, and not any one from the village. Then I +got you to play, and that told me who it was who rode the horse." + +"Yes," said Ethne, vaguely. She had barely listened to his words. "Yes, +I see." Then in a definite voice, which showed that she had regained all +her self-control, she said:-- + +"You went away to Wiesbaden for a year. You went away just after Captain +Willoughby came. Was that the reason why you went away?" + +"I went because neither you nor I could have kept up the game of +pretences we were playing. You were pretending that you had no thought +for Harry Feversham, that you hardly cared whether he was alive or dead. +I was pretending not to have found out that beyond everything in the +world you cared for him. Some day or other we should have failed, each +one in turn. I dared not fail, nor dared you. I could not let you, who +had said 'Two lives must not be spoilt because of me,' live through a +year thinking that two lives had been spoilt. You on your side dared not +let me, who had said 'Marriage between a blind man and a woman is only +possible when there is more than friendship on both sides,' know that +upon one side there was only friendship, and we were so near to failing. +So I went away." + +"You did not fail," said Ethne, quietly; "it was only I who failed." + +She blamed herself most bitterly. She had set herself, as the one thing +worth doing, and incumbent on her to do, to guard this man from +knowledge which would set the crown on his calamities, and she had +failed. He had set himself to protect her from the comprehension that +she had failed, and he had succeeded. It was not any mere sense of +humiliation, due to the fact that the man whom she had thought to +hoodwink had hoodwinked her, which troubled her. But she felt that she +ought to have succeeded, since by failure she had robbed him of his last +chance of happiness. There lay the sting for her. + +"But it was not your fault," he said. "Once or twice, as I said, you +were off your guard, but the convincing facts were not revealed to me in +that way. When you played the Musoline Overture before, on the night of +the day when Willoughby brought you such good news, I took to myself +that happiness of yours which inspired your playing. You must not blame +yourself. On the contrary, you should be glad that I have found out." + +"Glad!" she exclaimed. + +"Yes, for my sake, glad." And as she looked at him in wonderment he went +on: "Two lives should not be spoilt because of you. Had you had your +way, had I not found out, not two but three lives would have been spoilt +because of you--because of your loyalty." + +"Three?" + +"Yours. Yes--yes, yours, Feversham's, and mine. It was hard enough to +keep the pretence during the few weeks we were in Devonshire. Own to it, +Ethne! When I went to London to see my oculist it was a relief; it gave +you a pause, a rest wherein to drop pretence and be yourself. It could +not have lasted long even in Devonshire. But what when we came to live +under the same roof, and there were no visits to the oculist, when we +saw each other every hour of every day? Sooner or later the truth must +have come to me. It might have come gradually, a suspicion added to a +suspicion and another to that until no doubt was left. Or it might have +flashed out in one terrible moment. But it would have been made clear. +And then, Ethne? What then? You aimed at a compensation; you wanted to +make up to me for the loss of what I love--my career, the army, the +special service in the strange quarters of the world. A fine +compensation to sit in front of you knowing you had married a cripple +out of pity, and that in so doing you had crippled yourself and foregone +the happiness which is yours by right. Whereas now--" + +"Whereas now?" she repeated. + +"I remain your friend, which I would rather be than your unloved +husband," he said very gently. + +Ethne made no rejoinder. The decision had been taken out of her hands. + +"You sent Harry away this afternoon," said Durrance. "You said good-bye +to him twice." + +At the "twice" Ethne raised her head, but before she could speak +Durrance explained:-- + +"Once in the church, again upon your violin," and he took up the +instrument from the chair on which she had laid it. "It has been a very +good friend, your violin," he said. "A good friend to me, to us all. You +will understand that, Ethne, very soon. I stood at the window while you +played it. I had never heard anything in my life half so sad as your +farewell to Harry Feversham, and yet it was nobly sad. It was true +music, it did not complain." He laid the violin down upon the chair +again. + +"I am going to send a messenger to Rathmullen. Harry cannot cross Lough +Swilly to-night. The messenger will bring him back to-morrow." + +It had been a day of many emotions and surprises for Ethne. As Durrance +bent down towards her, he became aware that she was crying silently. For +once tears had their way with her. He took his cap and walked +noiselessly to the door of the room. As he opened it, Ethne got up. + +"Don't go for a moment," she said, and she left the fireplace and came +to the centre of the room. + +"The oculist at Wiesbaden?" she asked. "He gave you a hope?" + +Durrance stood meditating whether he should lie or speak the truth. + +"No," he said at length. "There is no hope. But I am not so helpless as +at one time I was afraid that I should be. I can get about, can't I? +Perhaps one of these days I shall go on a journey, one of the long +journeys amongst the strange people in the East." + +He went from the house upon his errand. He had learned his lesson a long +time since, and the violin had taught it him. It had spoken again that +afternoon, and though with a different voice, had offered to him the +same message. The true music cannot complain. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +THE END + + +In the early summer of next year two old men sat reading their +newspapers after breakfast upon the terrace of Broad Place. The elder of +the two turned over a sheet. + +"I see Osman Digna's back at Suakin," said he. "There's likely to be +some fighting." + +"Oh," said the other, "he will not do much harm." And he laid down his +paper. The quiet English country-side vanished from before his eyes. He +saw only the white city by the Red Sea shimmering in the heat, the brown +plains about it with their tangle of halfa grass, and in the distance +the hills towards Khor Gwob. + +"A stuffy place Suakin, eh, Sutch?" said General Feversham. + +"Appallingly stuffy. I heard of an officer who went down on parade at +six o'clock of the morning there, sunstruck in the temples right through +a regulation helmet. Yes, a town of dank heat! But I was glad to be +there--very glad," he said with some feeling. + +"Yes," said Feversham, briskly; "ibex, eh?" + +"No," replied Sutch. "All the ibex had been shot off by the English +garrison for miles round." + +"No? Something to do, then. That's it?" + +"Yes, that's it, Feversham. Something to do." + +And both men busied themselves again over their papers. But in a little +while a footman brought to each a small pile of letters. General +Feversham ran over his envelopes with a quick eye, selected one letter, +and gave a grunt of satisfaction. He took a pair of spectacles from a +case and placed them upon his nose. + +"From Ramelton?" asked Sutch, dropping his newspaper on to the terrace. + +"From Ramelton," answered Feversham. "I'll light a cigar first." + +He laid the letter down on the garden table which stood between his +companion and himself, drew a cigar-case from his pocket, and in spite +of the impatience of Lieutenant Sutch, proceeded to cut and light it +with the utmost deliberation. The old man had become an epicure in this +respect. A letter from Ramelton was a luxury to be enjoyed with all the +accessories of comfort which could be obtained. He made himself +comfortable in his chair, stretched out his legs, and smoked enough of +his cigar to assure himself that it was drawing well. Then he took up +his letter again and opened it. + +"From him?" asked Sutch. + +"No; from her." + +"Ah!" + +General Feversham read the letter through slowly, while Lieutenant Sutch +tried not to peep at it across the table. When the general had finished +he turned back to the first page, and began it again. + +"Any news?" said Sutch, with a casual air. + +"They are very pleased with the house now that it's rebuilt." + +"Anything more?" + +"Yes. Harry's finished the sixth chapter of his history of the war." + +"Good!" said Sutch. "You'll see, he'll do that well. He has imagination, +he knows the ground, he was present while the war went on. Moreover, he +was in the bazaars, he saw the under side of it." + +"Yes. But you and I won't read it, Sutch," said Feversham. "No; I am +wrong. You may, for you can give me a good many years." + +He turned back to his letter and again Sutch asked:-- + +"Anything more?" + +"Yes. They are coming here in a fortnight." + +"Good," said Sutch. "I shall stay." + +He took a turn along the terrace and came back. He saw Feversham sitting +with the letter upon his knees and a frown of great perplexity upon his +face. + +"You know, Sutch, I never understood," he said. "Did you?" + +"Yes, I think I did." + +Sutch did not try to explain. It was as well, he thought, that Feversham +never would understand. For he could not understand without much +self-reproach. + +"Do you ever see Durrance?" asked the general, suddenly. + +"Yes, I see a good deal of Durrance. He is abroad just now." + +Feversham turned towards his friend. + +"He came to Broad Place when you went to Suakin, and talked to me for +half an hour. He was Harry's best man. Well, that too I never +understood. Did you?" + +"Yes, I understood that as well." + +"Oh!" said General Feversham. He asked for no explanations, but, as he +had always done, he took the questions which he did not understand and +put them aside out of his thoughts. But he did not turn to his other +letters. He sat smoking his cigar, and looked out across the summer +country and listened to the sounds rising distinctly from the fields. +Sutch had read through all of his correspondence before Feversham spoke +again. + +"I have been thinking," he said. "Have you noticed the date of the +month, Sutch?" and Sutch looked up quickly. + +"Yes," said he, "this day next week will be the anniversary of our +attack upon the Redan, and Harry's birthday." + +"Exactly," replied Feversham. "Why shouldn't we start the Crimean nights +again?" + +Sutch jumped up from his chair. + +"Splendid!" he cried. "Can we muster a tableful, do you think?" + +"Let's see," said Feversham, and ringing a handbell upon the table, sent +the servant for the Army List. Bending over that Army List the two +veterans may be left. + +But of one other figure in this story a final word must be said. That +night, when the invitations had been sent out from Broad Place, and no +longer a light gleamed from any window of the house, a man leaned over +the rail of a steamer anchored at Port Said and listened to the song of +the Arab coolies as they tramped up and down the planks with their coal +baskets between the barges and the ship's side. The clamour of the +streets of the town came across the water to his ears. He pictured to +himself the flare of braziers upon the quays, the lighted port-holes, +and dark funnels ahead and behind in the procession of the anchored +ships. Attended by a servant, he had come back to the East again. Early +the next morning the steamer moved through the canal, and towards the +time of sunset passed out into the chills of the Gulf of Suez. Kassassin, +Tel-el-Kebir, Tamai, Tamanieb, the attack upon McNeil's +zareeba--Durrance lived again through the good years of his activity, +the years of plenty. Within that country on the west the long +preparations were going steadily forward which would one day roll up the +Dervish Empire and crush it into dust. Upon the glacis of the ruined +fort of Sinkat, Durrance had promised himself to take a hand in that +great work, but the desert which he loved had smitten and cast him out. +But at all events the boat steamed southwards into the Red Sea. Three +nights more, and though he would not see it, the Southern Cross would +lift slantwise into the sky. + + + + + * * * * * + + +By A. E. W. Mason + +THE COURTSHIP OF MAURICE BUCKLER + +_A ROMANCE_ + + +Being a record of the growth of an English Gentleman, during the years +of 1685-1687, under strange and difficult circumstances, written some +while afterward in his own hand, and now edited by A. E. W. MASON + + +Philadelphia Evening Bulletin: In spirit and color it reminds us of the +very remarkable books of Mr. Conon Doyle. The author has measurably +caught the fascinating diction of the seventeenth century, and the +strange adventures with which the story is filled are of a sufficiently +perilous order to entertain the most Homeric mind. + +Boston Courier: In this elaborately ingenious narrative the adventures +recorded are various and exciting enough to suit the most exacting +reader. The incidents recited are of extreme interest, and are not drawn +out into noticeable tenuity. + +The Outlook: "The Courtship of Maurice Buckler" is not only full of +action and stimulating to curiosity, but tells a quite original plot in +a clever way. Perhaps in its literary kinship it approaches more closely +to "The Prisoner of Zenda" than to any other recent novel, but there is +no evidence of imitation; the resemblance is in the spirit and dash of +the narrative. The merit of this story is not solely in its grasp on the +reader's attention and its exciting situations; it is written in +excellent English, the dialogue is natural and brisk, the individual +characters stand out clearly, and the flavor of the time is well +preserved. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOUR FEATHERS*** + + +******* This file should be named 18883-8.txt or 18883-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/8/8/18883 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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E. W. Mason</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + + table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;} + + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .linenum {position: absolute; top: auto; left: 4%;} /* poetry number */ + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; left: 92%; font-size: smaller; text-align: right;} /* page numbers */ + .sidenote {width: 20%; padding-bottom: .5em; padding-top: .5em; + padding-left: .5em; padding-right: .5em; margin-left: 1em; + float: right; clear: right; margin-top: 1em; + font-size: smaller; background: #eeeeee; border: dashed 1px;} + + .bb {border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + .bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + .br {border-right: solid 2px;} + .bbox {border: solid 2px;} + + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .u {text-decoration: underline;} + + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + .figleft {float: left; clear: left; margin-left: 0; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-top: + 1em; margin-right: 1em; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .figright {float: right; clear: right; margin-left: 1em; margin-bottom: 1em; + margin-top: 1em; margin-right: 0; padding: 0; text-align: center;} + + .footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + .footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + .footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + .fnanchor {vertical-align: super; font-size: .8em; text-decoration: none;} + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em;} + .poem span.i16 {display: block; margin-left: 16em;} + hr.full { width: 100%; } + pre {font-size: 75%;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1>The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Four Feathers, by A. E. W. Mason</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: The Four Feathers</p> +<p>Author: A. E. W. Mason</p> +<p>Release Date: July 21, 2006 [eBook #18883]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOUR FEATHERS***</p> +<p> </p> +<h3>E-text prepared by Suzanne Lybarger, Brian Janes, Mary Meehan,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (http://www.pgdp.net/)</h3> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<a href="images/cover.jpg"><img src="images/cover.jpg" alt=""/></a> +</div> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h1>THE FOUR FEATHERS</h1> + +<h2>BY A. E. W. MASON</h2> + +<h3>AUTHOR OF "MIRANDA OF THE BALCONY," "THE COURTSHIP OF MORRICE BUCKLER," +ETC.</h3> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> + +<h4>New York<br /> +THE MACMILLAN COMPANY<br /> +LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.<br /> +1903</h4> + + +<h4><i>All rights reserved</i></h4> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Copyright</span>, 1901,<br /> +<span class="smcap">By</span> A. E. W. MASON.</h4> + +<h4><span class="smcap">Copyright</span>, 1902,<br /> +<span class="smcap">By</span> THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.</h4> + +<h4>Set up and electrotyped October, 1902. Reprinted November, +December, 1902; January, 1903; February, March, 1903.</h4> + +<h4>Norwood Press<br /> +J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith<br /> +Norwood Mass. U.S.A.</h4> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h3>To<br /> +MISS ELSPETH ANGELA CAMPBELL<br /> +<span class="smcap">June</span> 19, 1902.</h3> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<!-- Autogenerated TOC. Modify or delete as required. --> +<p> +<a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I. <span class="smcap">A Crimean Night</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II. <span class="smcap">Captain Trench and a Telegram</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III. <span class="smcap">The Last Ride Together</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV. <span class="smcap">The Ball at Lennon House</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V. <span class="smcap">The Pariah</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI. <span class="smcap">Harry Feversham's Plan</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII. <span class="smcap">The Last Reconnaissance</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII. <span class="smcap">Lieutenant Sutch is tempted to lie</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX. <span class="smcap">At Glenalla</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X. <span class="smcap">The Wells of Obak</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI. <span class="smcap">Durrance hears News of Feversham</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII. <span class="smcap">Durrance sharpens his Wits</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII. <span class="smcap">Durrance begins to see</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV. <span class="smcap">Captain Willoughby reappears</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV. <span class="smcap">The Story of the First Feather</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI. <span class="smcap">Captain Willoughby retires</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII. <span class="smcap">The Musoline Overture</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII. <span class="smcap">The Answer to the Overture</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX. <span class="smcap">Mrs. Adair interferes</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX. <span class="smcap">West and East</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI. <span class="smcap">Ethne makes Another Slip</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII. <span class="smcap">Durrance lets his Cigar go out</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII. <span class="smcap">Mrs. Adair makes her Apology</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV. <span class="smcap">On the Nile</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV. <span class="smcap">Lieutenant Sutch comes off the Half-pay List</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI. <span class="smcap">General Feversham's Portraits are appeased</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII. <span class="smcap">The House of Stone</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII. <span class="smcap">Plans of Escape</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX. <span class="smcap">Colonel Trench assumes a Knowledge of Chemistry</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX. <span class="smcap">The Last of the Southern Cross</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI. <span class="smcap">Feversham returns to Ramelton</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII. <span class="smcap">In the Church at Glenalla</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">CHAPTER XXXIII. <span class="smcap">Ethne again plays the Musoline Overture</span></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">CHAPTER XXXIV. <span class="smcap">The End</span></a><br /><br /> +<a href="#By_A._E._Mason">Other Books By A. E. W. Mason</a> +</p> +<!-- End Autogenerated TOC. --> + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="THE_FOUR_FEATHERS1" id="THE_FOUR_FEATHERS1"></a>THE FOUR FEATHERS<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></h2> + + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<h3>A CRIMEAN NIGHT</h3> + + +<p>Lieutenant Sutch was the first of General Feversham's guests to reach +Broad Place. He arrived about five o'clock on an afternoon of sunshine +in mid June, and the old red-brick house, lodged on a southern slope of +the Surrey hills, was glowing from a dark forest depth of pines with the +warmth of a rare jewel. Lieutenant Sutch limped across the hall, where +the portraits of the Fevershams rose one above the other to the ceiling, +and went out on to the stone-flagged terrace at the back. There he found +his host sitting erect like a boy, and gazing southward toward the +Sussex Downs.</p> + +<p>"How's the leg?" asked General Feversham, as he rose briskly from his +chair. He was a small wiry man, and, in spite of his white hairs, alert. +But the alertness was of the body. A bony face, with a high narrow +forehead and steel-blue inexpressive eyes, suggested a barrenness of +mind.</p> + +<p>"It gave me trouble during the winter," replied Sutch. "But that was to +be expected." General Feversham nodded, and for a little while both men +were silent. From the terrace the ground fell steeply to a wide level +plain of brown earth and emerald fields and dark clumps of trees. From +this plain voices rose through the sunshine, small but very clear. Far +away toward Horsham a coil of white smoke from a train snaked rapidly in +and out amongst the trees; and on the horizon rose the Downs, patched +with white chalk.</p> + +<p>"I thought that I should find you here," said Sutch.</p> + +<p>"It was my wife's favourite corner," answered Feversham in a quite +emotionless voice. "She would sit here by the hour. She had a queer +liking for wide and empty spaces."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Sutch. "She had imagination. Her thoughts could people +them."</p> + +<p>General Feversham glanced at his companion as though he hardly +understood. But he asked no questions. What he did not understand he +habitually let slip from his mind as not worth comprehension. He spoke +at once upon a different topic.</p> + +<p>"There will be a leaf out of our table to-night."</p> + +<p>"Yes. Collins, Barberton, and Vaughan went this winter. Well, we are +all permanently shelved upon the world's half-pay list as it is. The +obituary column is just the last formality which gazettes us out of the +service altogether," and Sutch stretched out and eased his crippled leg, +which fourteen years ago that day had been crushed and twisted in the +fall of a scaling-ladder.</p> + +<p>"I am glad that you came before the others," continued Feversham. "I +would like to take your opinion. This day is more to me than the +anniversary of our attack upon the Redan. At the very moment when we +were standing under arms in the dark—"</p> + +<p>"To the west of the quarries; I remember," interrupted Sutch, with a +deep breath. "How should one forget?"</p> + +<p>"At that very moment Harry was born in this house. I thought, therefore, +that if you did not object, he might join us to-night. He happens to be +at home. He will, of course, enter the service, and he might learn +something, perhaps, which afterward will be of use—one never knows."</p> + +<p>"By all means," said Sutch, with alacrity. For since his visits to +General Feversham were limited to the occasion of these anniversary +dinners, he had never yet seen Harry Feversham.</p> + +<p>Sutch had for many years been puzzled as to the qualities in General +Feversham which had attracted Muriel Graham, a woman as remarkable for +the refinement of her intellect as for the beauty of her person; and he +could never find an explanation. He had to be content with his knowledge +that for some mysterious reason she had married this man so much older +than herself and so unlike to her in character. Personal courage and an +indomitable self-confidence were the chief, indeed the only, qualities +which sprang to light in General Feversham. Lieutenant Sutch went back +in thought over twenty years, as he sat on his garden-chair, to a time +before he had taken part, as an officer of the Naval Brigade, in that +unsuccessful onslaught on the Redan. He remembered a season in London +to which he had come fresh from the China station; and he was curious to +see Harry Feversham. He did not admit that it was more than the natural +curiosity of a man who, disabled in comparative youth, had made a hobby +out of the study of human nature. He was interested to see whether the +lad took after his mother or his father—that was all.</p> + +<p>So that night Harry Feversham took a place at the dinner-table and +listened to the stories which his elders told, while Lieutenant Sutch +watched him. The stories were all of that dark winter in the Crimea, and +a fresh story was always in the telling before its predecessor was +ended. They were stories of death, of hazardous exploits, of the pinch +of famine, and the chill of snow. But they were told in clipped words +and with a matter-of-fact tone, as though the men who related them were +only conscious of them as far-off things; and there was seldom a comment +more pronounced than a mere "That's curious," or an exclamation more +significant than a laugh.</p> + +<p>But Harry Feversham sat listening as though the incidents thus +carelessly narrated were happening actually at that moment and within +the walls of that room. His dark eyes—the eyes of his mother—turned +with each story from speaker to speaker, and waited, wide open and +fixed, until the last word was spoken. He listened fascinated and +enthralled. And so vividly did the changes of expression shoot and +quiver across his face, that it seemed to Sutch the lad must actually +hear the drone of bullets in the air, actually resist the stunning shock +of a charge, actually ride down in the thick of a squadron to where guns +screeched out a tongue of flame from a fog. Once a major of artillery +spoke of the suspense of the hours between the parading of the troops +before a battle and the first command to advance; and Harry's shoulders +worked under the intolerable strain of those lagging minutes.</p> + +<p>But he did more than work his shoulders. He threw a single furtive, +wavering glance backwards; and Lieutenant Sutch was startled, and indeed +more than startled,—he was pained. For this after all was Muriel +Graham's boy.</p> + +<p>The look was too familiar a one to Sutch. He had seen it on the faces of +recruits during their first experience of a battle too often for him to +misunderstand it. And one picture in particular rose before his +mind,—an advancing square at Inkermann, and a tall big soldier rushing +forward from the line in the eagerness of his attack, and then stopping +suddenly as though he suddenly understood that he was alone, and had to +meet alone the charge of a mounted Cossack. Sutch remembered very +clearly the fatal wavering glance which the big soldier had thrown +backward toward his companions,—a glance accompanied by a queer sickly +smile. He remembered too, with equal vividness, its consequence. For +though the soldier carried a loaded musket and a bayonet locked to the +muzzle, he had without an effort of self-defence received the Cossack's +lance-thrust in his throat.</p> + +<p>Sutch glanced hurriedly about the table, afraid that General Feversham, +or that some one of his guests, should have remarked the same look and +the same smile upon Harry's face. But no one had eyes for the lad; each +visitor was waiting too eagerly for an opportunity to tell a story of +his own. Sutch drew a breath of relief and turned to Harry. But the boy +was sitting with his elbows on the cloth and his head propped between +his hands, lost to the glare of the room and its glitter of silver, +constructing again out of the swift succession of anecdotes a world of +cries and wounds, and maddened riderless chargers and men writhing in a +fog of cannon-smoke. The curtest, least graphic description of the +biting days and nights in the trenches set the lad shivering. Even his +face grew pinched, as though the iron frost of that winter was actually +eating into his bones. Sutch touched him lightly on the elbow.</p> + +<p>"You renew those days for me," said he. "Though the heat is dripping +down the windows, I feel the chill of the Crimea."</p> + +<p>Harry roused himself from his absorption.</p> + +<p>"The stories renew them," said he.</p> + +<p>"No. It is you listening to the stories."</p> + +<p>And before Harry could reply, General Feversham's voice broke sharply in +from the head of the table:—</p> + +<p>"Harry, look at the clock!"</p> + +<p>At once all eyes were turned upon the lad. The hands of the clock made +the acutest of angles. It was close upon midnight; and from eight, +without so much as a word or a question, he had sat at the dinner-table +listening. Yet even now he rose with reluctance.</p> + +<p>"Must I go, father?" he asked, and the general's guests intervened in +a chorus. The conversation was clear gain to the lad, a first taste of +powder which might stand him in good stead afterwards.</p> + +<p>"Besides, it's the boy's birthday," added the major of artillery. "He +wants to stay; that's plain. You wouldn't find a youngster of fourteen +sit all these hours without a kick of the foot against the table-leg +unless the conversation entertained him. Let him stay, Feversham!"</p> + +<p>For once General Feversham relaxed the iron discipline under which the +boy lived.</p> + +<p>"Very well," said he. "Harry shall have an hour's furlough from his bed. +A single hour won't make much difference."</p> + +<p>Harry's eyes turned toward his father, and just for a moment rested +upon his face with a curious steady gaze. It seemed to Sutch that they +uttered a question, and, rightly or wrongly, he interpreted the question +into words:—</p> + +<p>"Are you blind?"</p> + +<p>But General Feversham was already talking to his neighbours, and Harry +quietly sat down, and again propping his chin upon his hands, listened +with all his soul. Yet he was not entertained; rather he was enthralled; +he sat quiet under the compulsion of a spell. His face became +unnaturally white, his eyes unnaturally large, while the flames of the +candles shone ever redder and more blurred through a blue haze of +tobacco smoke, and the level of the wine grew steadily lower in the +decanters.</p> + +<p>Thus half of that one hour's furlough was passed; and then General +Feversham, himself jogged by the unlucky mention of a name, suddenly +blurted out in his jerky fashion:—</p> + +<p>"Lord Wilmington. One of the best names in England, if you please. Did +you ever see his house in Warwickshire? Every inch of the ground you +would think would have a voice to bid him play the man, if only in +remembrance of his fathers.... It seemed incredible and mere camp +rumour, but the rumour grew. If it was whispered at the Alma, it was +spoken aloud at Inkermann, it was shouted at Balaclava. Before +Sebastopol the hideous thing was proved. Wilmington was acting as +galloper to his general. I believe upon my soul the general chose him +for the duty, so that the fellow might set himself right. There were +three hundred yards of bullet-swept flat ground, and a message to be +carried across them. Had Wilmington toppled off his horse on the way, +why, there were the whispers silenced for ever. Had he ridden through +alive he earned distinction besides. But he didn't dare; he refused! +Imagine it if you can! He sat shaking on his horse and declined. You +should have seen the general. His face turned the colour of that +Burgundy. 'No doubt you have a previous engagement,' he said, in the +politest voice you ever heard—just that, not a word of abuse. A +previous engagement on the battlefield! For the life of me, I could +hardly help laughing. But it was a tragic business for Wilmington. He +was broken, of course, and slunk back to London. Every house was closed +to him; he dropped out of his circle like a lead bullet you let slip out +of your hand into the sea. The very women in Piccadilly spat if he spoke +to them; and he blew his brains out in a back bedroom off the Haymarket. +Curious that, eh? He hadn't the pluck to face the bullets when his name +was at stake, yet he could blow his own brains out afterwards."</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Sutch chanced to look at the clock as the story came to an +end. It was now a quarter to one. Harry Feversham had still a quarter of +an hour's furlough, and that quarter of an hour was occupied by a +retired surgeon-general with a great wagging beard, who sat nearly +opposite to the boy.</p> + +<p>"I can tell you an incident still more curious," he said. "The man in +this case had never been under fire before, but he was of my own +profession. Life and death were part of his business. Nor was he really +in any particular danger. The affair happened during a hill campaign in +India. We were encamped in a valley, and a few Pathans used to lie out +on the hillside at night and take long shots into the camp. A bullet +ripped through the canvas of the hospital tent—that was all. The +surgeon crept out to his own quarters, and his orderly discovered him +half-an-hour afterward lying in his blood stone-dead."</p> + +<p>"Hit?" exclaimed the major.</p> + +<p>"Not a bit of it," said the surgeon. "He had quietly opened his +instrument-case in the dark, taken out a lancet, and severed his femoral +artery. Sheer panic, do you see, at the whistle of a bullet."</p> + +<p>Even upon these men, case-hardened to horrors, the incident related in +its bald simplicity wrought its effect. From some there broke a +half-uttered exclamation of disbelief; others moved restlessly in their +chairs with a sort of physical discomfort, because a man had sunk so far +below humanity. Here an officer gulped his wine, there a second shook +his shoulders as though to shake the knowledge off as a dog shakes +water. There was only one in all that company who sat perfectly still in +the silence which followed upon the story. That one was the boy, Harry +Feversham.</p> + +<p>He sat with his hands now clenched upon his knees and leaning forward a +little across the table toward the surgeon, his cheeks white as paper, +his eyes burning, and burning with ferocity. He had the look of a +dangerous animal in the trap. His body was gathered, his muscles taut. +Sutch had a fear that the lad meant to leap across the table and strike +with all his strength in the savagery of despair. He had indeed reached +out a restraining hand when General Feversham's matter-of-fact voice +intervened, and the boy's attitude suddenly relaxed.</p> + +<p>"Queer incomprehensible things happen. Here are two of them. You can +only say they are the truth and pray God you may forget 'em. But you +can't explain, for you can't understand."</p> + +<p>Sutch was moved to lay his hand upon Harry's shoulder.</p> + +<p>"Can you?" he asked, and regretted the question almost before it was +spoken. But it was spoken, and Harry's eyes turned swiftly toward Sutch, +and rested upon his face, not, however, with any betrayal of guilt, but +quietly, inscrutably. Nor did he answer the question, although it was +answered in a fashion by General Feversham.</p> + +<p>"Harry understand!" exclaimed the general, with a snort of indignation. +"How should he? He's a Feversham."</p> + +<p>The question, which Harry's glance had mutely put before, Sutch in the +same mute way repeated. "Are you blind?" his eyes asked of General +Feversham. Never had he heard an untruth so demonstrably untrue. A mere +look at the father and the son proved it so. Harry Feversham wore his +father's name, but he had his mother's dark and haunted eyes, his +mother's breadth of forehead, his mother's delicacy of profile, his +mother's imagination. It needed perhaps a stranger to recognise the +truth. The father had been so long familiar with his son's aspect that +it had no significance to his mind.</p> + +<p>"Look at the clock, Harry."</p> + +<p>The hour's furlough had run out. Harry rose from his chair, and drew a +breath.</p> + +<p>"Good night, sir," he said, and walked to the door.</p> + +<p>The servants had long since gone to bed; and, as Harry opened the door, +the hall gaped black like the mouth of night. For a second or two the +boy hesitated upon the threshold, and seemed almost to shrink back into +the lighted room as though in that dark void peril awaited him. And +peril did—the peril of his thoughts.</p> + +<p>He stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. The decanter +was sent again upon its rounds; there was a popping of soda-water +bottles; the talk revolved again in its accustomed groove. Harry was in +an instant forgotten by all but Sutch. The lieutenant, although he +prided himself upon his impartial and disinterested study of human +nature, was the kindliest of men. He had more kindliness than +observation by a great deal. Moreover, there were special reasons which +caused him to take an interest in Harry Feversham. He sat for a little +while with the air of a man profoundly disturbed. Then, acting upon an +impulse, he went to the door, opened it noiselessly, as noiselessly +passed out, and, without so much as a click of the latch, closed the +door behind him.</p> + +<p>And this is what he saw: Harry Feversham, holding in the centre of the +hall a lighted candle high above his head, and looking up toward the +portraits of the Fevershams as they mounted the walls and were lost in +the darkness of the roof. A muffled sound of voices came from the other +side of the door panels, but the hall itself was silent. Harry stood +remarkably still, and the only thing which moved at all was the yellow +flame of the candle as it flickered apparently in some faint draught. +The light wavered across the portraits, glowing here upon a red coat, +glittering there upon a corselet of steel. For there was not one man's +portrait upon the walls which did not glisten with the colours of a +uniform, and there were the portraits of many men. Father and son, the +Fevershams had been soldiers from the very birth of the family. Father +and son, in lace collars and bucket boots, in Ramillies wigs and steel +breastplates, in velvet coats, with powder on their hair, in shakos and +swallow-tails, in high stocks and frogged coats, they looked down upon +this last Feversham, summoning him to the like service. They were men of +one stamp; no distinction of uniform could obscure their +relationship—lean-faced men, hard as iron, rugged in feature, +thin-lipped, with firm chins and straight, level mouths, narrow +foreheads, and the steel-blue inexpressive eyes; men of courage and +resolution, no doubt, but without subtleties, or nerves, or that +burdensome gift of imagination; sturdy men, a little wanting in +delicacy, hardly conspicuous for intellect; to put it frankly, men +rather stupid—all of them, in a word, first-class fighting men, but +not one of them a first-class soldier.</p> + +<p>But Harry Feversham plainly saw none of their defects. To him they +were one and all portentous and terrible. He stood before them in the +attitude of a criminal before his judges, reading his condemnation in +their cold unchanging eyes. Lieutenant Sutch understood more clearly why +the flame of the candle flickered. There was no draught in the hall, but +the boy's hand shook. And finally, as though he heard the mute voices of +his judges delivering sentence and admitted its justice, he actually +bowed to the portraits on the wall. As he raised his head, he saw +Lieutenant Sutch in the embrasure of the doorway.</p> + +<p>He did not start, he uttered no word; he let his eyes quietly rest upon +Sutch and waited. Of the two it was the man who was embarrassed.</p> + +<p>"Harry," he said, and in spite of his embarrassment he had the tact to +use the tone and the language of one addressing not a boy, but a comrade +equal in years, "we meet for the first time to-night. But I knew your +mother a long time ago. I like to think that I have the right to call +her by that much misused word 'friend.' Have you anything to tell me?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing," said Harry.</p> + +<p>"The mere telling sometimes lightens a trouble."</p> + +<p>"It is kind of you. There is nothing."</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Sutch was rather at a loss. The lad's loneliness made a +strong appeal to him. For lonely the boy could not but be, set apart as +he was, no less unmistakably in mind as in feature, from his father and +his father's fathers. Yet what more could he do? His tact again came to +his aid. He took his card-case from his pocket.</p> + +<p>"You will find my address upon this card. Perhaps some day you will give +me a few days of your company. I can offer you on my side a day or two's +hunting."</p> + +<p>A spasm of pain shook for a fleeting moment the boy's steady inscrutable +face. It passed, however, swiftly as it had come.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, sir," Harry monotonously repeated. "You are very kind."</p> + +<p>"And if ever you want to talk over a difficult question with an older +man, I am at your service."</p> + +<p>He spoke purposely in a formal voice, lest Harry with a boy's +sensitiveness should think he laughed. Harry took the card and repeated +his thanks. Then he went upstairs to bed.</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Sutch waited uncomfortably in the hall until the light of the +candle had diminished and disappeared. Something was amiss, he was very +sure. There were words which he should have spoken to the boy, but he +had not known how to set about the task. He returned to the dining room, +and with a feeling that he was almost repairing his omissions, he filled +his glass and called for silence.</p> + +<p>"Gentlemen," he said, "this is June 15th," and there was great applause +and much rapping on the table. "It is the anniversary of our attack upon +the Redan. It is also Harry Feversham's birthday. For us, our work is +done. I ask you to drink the health of one of the youngsters who are +ousting us. His work lies before him. The traditions of the Feversham +family are very well known to us. May Harry Feversham carry them on! +May he add distinction to a distinguished name!"</p> + +<p>At once all that company was on its feet.</p> + +<p>"Harry Feversham!"</p> + +<p>The name was shouted with so hearty a good-will that the glasses on the +table rang. "Harry Feversham, Harry Feversham," the cry was repeated and +repeated, while old General Feversham sat in his chair with a face +aflush with pride. And a boy a minute afterward in a room high up in the +house heard the muffled words of a chorus—</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">For he's a jolly good fellow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For he's a jolly good fellow,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">For he's a jolly good fellow,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">And so say all of us,<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>and believed the guests upon this Crimean night were drinking his +father's health. He turned over in his bed and lay shivering. He saw in +his mind a broken officer slinking at night in the shadows of the London +streets. He pushed back the flap of a tent and stooped over a man lying +stone-dead in his blood, with an open lancet clinched in his right hand. +And he saw that the face of the broken officer and the face of the dead +surgeon were one—and that one face, the face of Harry Feversham.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<h3>CAPTAIN TRENCH AND A TELEGRAM</h3> + + +<p>Thirteen years later, and in the same month of June, Harry Feversham's +health was drunk again, but after a quieter fashion and in a smaller +company. The company was gathered in a room high up in a shapeless block +of buildings which frowns like a fortress above Westminster. A stranger +crossing St. James's Park southwards, over the suspension bridge, at +night, who chanced to lift his eyes and see suddenly the tiers of +lighted windows towering above him to so precipitous a height, might be +brought to a stop with the fancy that here in the heart of London was a +mountain and the gnomes at work. Upon the tenth floor of this building +Harry had taken a flat during his year's furlough from his regiment in +India; and it was in the dining room of this flat that the simple +ceremony took place. The room was furnished in a dark and restful +fashion; and since the chill of the weather belied the calendar, a +comfortable fire blazed in the hearth. A bay window, over which the +blinds had not been lowered, commanded London.</p> + +<p>There were four men smoking about the dinner-table. Harry Feversham was +unchanged, except for a fair moustache, which contrasted with his dark +hair, and the natural consequences of growth. He was now a man of +middle height, long-limbed, and well-knit like an athlete, but his +features had not altered since that night when they had been so closely +scrutinised by Lieutenant Sutch. Of his companions two were +brother-officers on leave in England, like himself, whom he had that +afternoon picked up at his club,—Captain Trench, a small man, growing +bald, with a small, sharp, resourceful face and black eyes of a +remarkable activity, and Lieutenant Willoughby, an officer of quite a +different stamp. A round forehead, a thick snub nose, and a pair of +vacant and protruding eyes gave to him an aspect of invincible +stupidity. He spoke but seldom, and never to the point, but rather to +some point long forgotten which he had since been laboriously revolving +in his mind; and he continually twisted a moustache, of which the ends +curled up toward his eyes with a ridiculous ferocity,—a man whom one +would dismiss from mind as of no consequence upon a first thought, and +take again into one's consideration upon a second. For he was born +stubborn as well as stupid; and the harm which his stupidity might do, +his stubbornness would hinder him from admitting. He was not a man to be +persuaded; having few ideas, he clung to them. It was no use to argue +with him, for he did not hear the argument, but behind his vacant eyes +all the while he turned over his crippled thoughts and was satisfied. +The fourth at the table was Durrance, a lieutenant of the East Surrey +Regiment, and Feversham's friend, who had come in answer to a telegram.</p> + +<p>This was June of the year 1882, and the thoughts of civilians turned +toward Egypt with anxiety; those of soldiers, with an eager +anticipation. Arabi Pasha, in spite of threats, was steadily +strengthening the fortifications of Alexandria, and already a long +way to the south, the other, the great danger, was swelling like a +thunder-cloud. A year had passed since a young, slight, and tall +Dongolawi, Mohammed Ahmed, had marched through the villages of the White +Nile, preaching with the fire of a Wesley the coming of a Saviour. The +passionate victims of the Turkish tax-gatherer had listened, had heard +the promise repeated in the whispers of the wind in the withered grass, +had found the holy names imprinted even upon the eggs they gathered up. +In 1882 Mohammed had declared himself that Saviour, and had won his +first battles against the Turks.</p> + +<p>"There will be trouble," said Trench, and the sentence was the text on +which three of the four men talked. In a rare interval, however, the +fourth, Harry Feversham, spoke upon a different subject.</p> + +<p>"I am very glad you were all able to dine with me to-night. I +telegraphed to Castleton as well, an officer of ours," he explained to +Durrance, "but he was dining with a big man in the War Office, and +leaves for Scotland afterwards, so that he could not come. I have news +of a sort."</p> + +<p>The three men leaned forward, their minds still full of the dominant +subject. But it was not about the prospect of war that Harry Feversham +had news to speak.</p> + +<p>"I only reached London this morning from Dublin," he said with a shade +of embarrassment. "I have been some weeks in Dublin."</p> + +<p>Durrance lifted his eyes from the tablecloth and looked quietly at his +friend.</p> + +<p>"Yes?" he asked steadily.</p> + +<p>"I have come back engaged to be married."</p> + +<p>Durrance lifted his glass to his lips.</p> + +<p>"Well, here's luck to you, Harry," he said, and that was all. The wish, +indeed, was almost curtly expressed, but there was nothing wanting in it +to Feversham's ears. The friendship between these two men was not one in +which affectionate phrases had any part. There was, in truth, no need of +such. Both men were securely conscious of it; they estimated it at its +true, strong value; it was a helpful instrument, which would not wear +out, put into their hands for a hard, lifelong use; but it was not, and +never had been, spoken of between them. Both men were grateful for it, +as for a rare and undeserved gift; yet both knew that it might entail an +obligation of sacrifice. But the sacrifices, were they needful, would be +made, and they would not be mentioned. It may be, indeed, that the very +knowledge of their friendship's strength constrained them to a +particular reticence in their words to one another.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Jack!" said Feversham. "I am glad of your good wishes. It +was you who introduced me to Ethne; I cannot forget it."</p> + +<p>Durrance set his glass down without any haste. There followed a moment +of silence, during which he sat with his eyes upon the tablecloth, and +his hands resting on the table edge.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said in a level voice. "I did you a good turn then."</p> + +<p>He seemed on the point of saying more, and doubtful how to say it. But +Captain Trench's sharp, quick, practical voice, a voice which fitted the +man who spoke, saved him his pains.</p> + +<p>"Will this make any difference?" asked Trench.</p> + +<p>Feversham replaced his cigar between his lips.</p> + +<p>"You mean, shall I leave the service?" he asked slowly. "I don't know;" +and Durrance seized the opportunity to rise from the table and cross to +the window, where he stood with his back to his companions. Feversham +took the abrupt movement for a reproach, and spoke to Durrance's back, +not to Trench.</p> + +<p>"I don't know," he repeated. "It will need thought. There is much to be +said. On the one side, of course, there's my father, my career, such as +it is. On the other hand, there is her father, Dermod Eustace."</p> + +<p>"He wishes you to chuck your commission?" asked Willoughby.</p> + +<p>"He has no doubt the Irishman's objection to constituted authority," +said Trench, with a laugh. "But need you subscribe to it, Feversham?"</p> + +<p>"It is not merely that." It was still to Durrance's back that he +addressed his excuses. "Dermod is old, his estates are going to ruin, +and there are other things. You know, Jack?" The direct appeal he had to +repeat, and even then Durrance answered it absently:—</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know," and he added, like one quoting a catch-word. "If you want +any whiskey, rap twice on the floor with your foot. The servants +understand."</p> + +<p>"Precisely," said Feversham. He continued, carefully weighing his words, +and still intently looking across the shoulders of his companions to his +friend:—</p> + +<p>"Besides, there is Ethne herself. Dermod for once did an appropriate +thing when he gave her that name. For she is of her country, and more, +of her county. She has the love of it in her bones. I do not think that +she could be quite happy in India, or indeed in any place which was not +within reach of Donegal, the smell of its peat, its streams, and the +brown friendliness of its hills. One has to consider that."</p> + +<p>He waited for an answer, and getting none went on again. Durrance, +however, had no thought of reproach in his mind. He knew that Feversham +was speaking,—he wished very much that he would continue to speak for a +little while,—but he paid no heed to what was said. He stood looking +steadfastly out of the windows. Over against him was the glare from Pall +Mall striking upward to the sky, and the chains of light banked one +above the other as the town rose northward, and a rumble as of a million +carriages was in his ears. At his feet, very far below, lay St. James's +Park, silent and black, a quiet pool of darkness in the midst of glitter +and noise. Durrance had a great desire to escape out of this room into +its secrecy. But that he could not do without remark. Therefore he kept +his back turned to his companion, and leaned his forehead against the +window, and hoped his friend would continue to talk. For he was face to +face with one of the sacrifices which must not be mentioned, and which +no sign must betray.</p> + +<p>Feversham did continue, and if Durrance did not listen, on the other +hand Captain Trench gave to him his closest attention. But it was +evident that Harry Feversham was giving reasons seriously considered. He +was not making excuses, and in the end Captain Trench was satisfied.</p> + +<p>"Well, I drink to you, Feversham," he said, "with all the proper +sentiments."</p> + +<p>"I too, old man," said Willoughby, obediently following his senior's +lead.</p> + +<p>Thus they drank their comrade's health, and as their empty glasses +rattled on the table, there came a knock upon the door.</p> + +<p>The two officers looked up. Durrance turned about from the window. +Feversham said, "Come in;" and his servant brought in to him a telegram.</p> + +<p>Feversham tore open the envelope carelessly, as carelessly read through +the telegram, and then sat very still, with his eyes upon the slip of +pink paper and his face grown at once extremely grave. Thus he sat for +an appreciable time, not so much stunned as thoughtful. And in the room +there was a complete silence. Feversham's three guests averted their +eyes. Durrance turned again to his window; Willoughby twisted his +moustache and gazed intently upward at the ceiling; Captain Trench +shifted his chair round and stared into the glowing fire, and each man's +attitude expressed a certain suspense. It seemed that sharp upon the +heels of Feversham's good news calamity had come knocking at the door.</p> + +<p>"There is no answer," said Harry, and fell to silence again. Once he +raised his head and looked at Trench as though he had a mind to speak. +But he thought the better of it, and so dropped again to the +consideration of this message. And in a moment or two the silence was +sharply interrupted, but not by any one of the expectant motionless +three men seated within the room. The interruption came from without.</p> + +<p>From the parade ground of Wellington Barracks the drums and fifes +sounding the tattoo shrilled through the open window with a startling +clearness like a sharp summons, and diminished as the band marched away +across the gravel and again grew loud. Feversham did not change his +attitude, but the look upon his face was now that of a man listening, +and listening thoughtfully, just as he had read thoughtfully. In the +years which followed, that moment was to recur again and again to the +recollection of each of Harry's three guests. The lighted room, with the +bright homely fire, the open window overlooking the myriad lamps of +London, Harry Feversham seated with the telegram spread before him, the +drums and fifes calling loudly, and then dwindling to music very small +and pretty—music which beckoned where a moment ago it had commanded: +all these details made up a picture of which the colours were not to +fade by any lapse of time, although its significance was not apprehended +now.</p> + +<p>It was remembered that Feversham rose abruptly from his chair, just +before the tattoo ceased. He crumpled the telegram loosely in his hands, +tossed it into the fire, and then, leaning his back against the +chimney-piece and upon one side of the fireplace, said again:—</p> + +<p>"I don't know;" as though he had thrust that message, whatever it might +be, from his mind, and was summing up in this indefinite way the +argument which had gone before. Thus that long silence was broken, and a +spell was lifted. But the fire took hold upon the telegram and shook it, +so that it moved like a thing alive and in pain. It twisted, and part of +it unrolled, and for a second lay open and smooth of creases, lit up by +the flame and as yet untouched; so that two or three words sprang, as it +were, out of a yellow glare of fire and were legible. Then the flame +seized upon that smooth part too, and in a moment shrivelled it into +black tatters. But Captain Trench was all this while staring into the +fire.</p> + +<p>"You return to Dublin, I suppose?" said Durrance. He had moved back +again into the room. Like his companions, he was conscious of an +unexplained relief.</p> + +<p>"To Dublin? No; I go to Donegal in three weeks' time. There is to be a +dance. It is hoped you will come."</p> + +<p>"I am not sure that I can manage it. There is just a chance, I believe, +should trouble come in the East, that I may go out on the staff." The +talk thus came round again to the chances of peace and war, and held in +that quarter till the boom of the Westminster clock told that the hour +was eleven. Captain Trench rose from his seat on the last stroke; +Willoughby and Durrance followed his example.</p> + +<p>"I shall see you to-morrow," said Durrance to Feversham.</p> + +<p>"As usual," replied Harry; and his three guests descended from his +rooms and walked across the Park together. At the corner of Pall Mall, +however, they parted company, Durrance mounting St. James's Street, +while Trench and Willoughby crossed the road into St. James's Square. +There Trench slipped his arm through Willoughby's, to Willoughby's +surprise, for Trench was an undemonstrative man.</p> + +<p>"You know Castleton's address?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Albemarle Street," Willoughby answered, and added the number.</p> + +<p>"He leaves Euston at twelve o'clock. It is now ten minutes past eleven. +Are you curious, Willoughby? I confess to curiosity. I am an inquisitive +methodical person, and when a man gets a telegram bidding him tell +Trench something and he tells Trench nothing, I am curious as a +philosopher to know what that something is! Castleton is the only other +officer of our regiment in London. It is likely, therefore, that the +telegram came from Castleton. Castleton, too, was dining with a big man +from the War Office. I think that if we take a hansom to Albemarle +Street, we shall just catch Castleton upon his door-step."</p> + +<p>Mr. Willoughby, who understood very little of Trench's meaning, +nevertheless cordially agreed to the proposal.</p> + +<p>"I think it would be prudent," said he, and he hailed a passing cab. +A moment later the two men were driving to Albemarle Street.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<h3>THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER</h3> + + +<p>Durrance, meanwhile, walked to his lodging alone, remembering a day, now +two years since, when by a curious whim of old Dermod Eustace he had +been fetched against his will to the house by the Lennon River in +Donegal, and there, to his surprise, had been made acquainted with +Dermod's daughter Ethne. For she surprised all who had first held speech +with the father. Durrance had stayed for a night in the house, and +through that evening she had played upon her violin, seated with her +back toward her audience, as was her custom when she played, lest a look +or a gesture should interrupt the concentration of her thoughts. The +melodies which she had played rang in his ears now. For the girl +possessed the gift of music, and the strings of her violin spoke to the +questions of her bow. There was in particular an overture—the Melusine +overture—which had the very sob of the waves. Durrance had listened +wondering, for the violin had spoken to him of many things of which the +girl who played it could know nothing. It had spoken of long perilous +journeys and the faces of strange countries; of the silver way across +moonlit seas; of the beckoning voices from the under edges of the +desert. It had taken a deeper, a more mysterious tone. It had told of +great joys, quite unattainable, and of great griefs too, eternal, and +with a sort of nobility by reason of their greatness; and of many +unformulated longings beyond the reach of words; but with never a single +note of mere complaint. So it had seemed to Durrance that night as he +had sat listening while Ethne's face was turned away. So it seemed to +him now when he knew that her face was still to be turned away for all +his days. He had drawn a thought from her playing which he was at some +pains to keep definite in his mind. The true music cannot complain.</p> + +<p>Therefore it was that as he rode the next morning into the Row his blue +eyes looked out upon the world from his bronzed face with not a jot less +of his usual friendliness. He waited at half-past nine by the clump of +lilacs and laburnums at the end of the sand, but Harry Feversham did not +join him that morning, nor indeed for the next three weeks. Ever since +the two men had graduated from Oxford it had been their custom to meet +at this spot and hour, when both chanced to be in town, and Durrance was +puzzled. It seemed to him that he had lost his friend as well.</p> + +<p>Meanwhile, however, the rumours of war grew to a certainty; and when at +last Feversham kept the tryst, Durrance had news.</p> + +<p>"I told you luck might look my way. Well, she has. I go out to Egypt on +General Graham's staff. There's talk we may run down the Red Sea to +Suakin afterward."</p> + +<p>The exhilaration of his voice brought an unmistakable envy into +Feversham's eyes. It seemed strange to Durrance, even at that moment of +his good luck, that Harry Feversham should envy him—strange and rather +pleasant. But he interpreted the envy in the light of his own ambitions.</p> + +<p>"It is rough on you," he said sympathetically, "that your regiment has +to stay behind."</p> + +<p>Feversham rode by his friend's side in silence. Then, as they came to +the chairs beneath the trees, he said:—</p> + +<p>"That was expected. The day you dined with me I sent in my papers."</p> + +<p>"That night?" said Durrance, turning in his saddle. "After we had gone?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Feversham, accepting the correction. He wondered whether it +had been intended. But Durrance rode silently forward. Again Harry +Feversham was conscious of a reproach in his friend's silence, and again +he was wrong. For Durrance suddenly spoke heartily, and with a laugh.</p> + +<p>"I remember. You gave us your reasons that night. But for the life of me +I can't help wishing that we had been going out together. When do you +leave for Ireland?"</p> + +<p>"To-night."</p> + +<p>"So soon?"</p> + +<p>They turned their horses and rode westward again down the alley of +trees. The morning was still fresh. The limes and chestnuts had lost +nothing of their early green, and since the May was late that year, its +blossoms still hung delicately white like snow upon the branches and +shone red against the dark rhododendrons. The park shimmered in a haze +of sunlight, and the distant roar of the streets was as the tumbling of +river water.</p> + +<p>"It is a long time since we bathed in Sandford Lasher," said Durrance.</p> + +<p>"Or froze in the Easter vacations in the big snow-gully on Great End," +returned Feversham. Both men had the feeling that on this morning a +volume in their book of life was ended; and since the volume had been a +pleasant one to read, and they did not know whether its successors would +sustain its promise, they were looking backward through the leaves +before they put it finally away.</p> + +<p>"You must stay with us, Jack, when you come back," said Feversham.</p> + +<p>Durrance had schooled himself not to wince, and he did not, even at that +anticipatory "us." If his left hand tightened upon the thongs of his +reins, the sign could not be detected by his friend.</p> + +<p>"If I come back," said Durrance. "You know my creed. I could never pity +a man who died on active service. I would very much like to come by that +end myself."</p> + +<p>It was a quite simple creed, consistent with the simplicity of the man +who uttered it. It amounted to no more than this: that to die decently +was worth a good many years of life. So that he uttered it without +melancholy or any sign of foreboding. Even so, however, he had a fear +that perhaps his friend might place another interpretation upon the +words, and he looked quickly into his face. He only saw again, however, +that puzzling look of envy in Feversham's eyes.</p> + +<p>"You see there are worse things which can happen," he continued; +"disablement, for instance. Clever men could make a shift, perhaps, to +put up with it. But what in the world should I do if I had to sit in a +chair all my days? It makes me shiver to think of it," and he shook his +broad shoulders to unsaddle that fear. "Well, this is the last ride. Let +us gallop," and he let out his horse.</p> + +<p>Feversham followed his example, and side by side they went racing down +the sand. At the bottom of the Row they stopped, shook hands, and with +the curtest of nods parted. Feversham rode out of the park, Durrance +turned back and walked his horse up toward the seats beneath the trees.</p> + +<p>Even as a boy in his home at Southpool in Devonshire, upon a wooded +creek of the Salcombe estuary, he had always been conscious of a certain +restlessness, a desire to sail down that creek and out over the levels +of the sea, a dream of queer outlandish countries and peoples beyond the +dark familiar woods. And the restlessness had grown upon him, so that +"Guessens," even when he had inherited it with its farms and lands, had +remained always in his thoughts as a place to come home to rather than +an estate to occupy a life. He purposely exaggerated that restlessness +now, and purposely set against it words which Feversham had spoken and +which he knew to be true. Ethne Eustace would hardly be happy outside +her county of Donegal. Therefore, even had things fallen out +differently, as he phrased it, there might have been a clash. Perhaps it +was as well that Harry Feversham was to marry Ethne—and not another +than Feversham.</p> + +<p>Thus, at all events, he argued as he rode, until the riders vanished +from before his eyes, and the ladies in their coloured frocks beneath +the cool of the trees. The trees themselves dwindled to ragged mimosas, +the brown sand at his feet spread out in a widening circumference and +took the bright colour of honey; and upon the empty sand black stones +began to heap themselves shapelessly like coal, and to flash in the sun +like mirrors. He was deep in his anticipations of the Soudan, when he +heard his name called out softly in a woman's voice, and, looking up, +found himself close by the rails.</p> + +<p>"How do you do, Mrs. Adair?" said he, and he stopped his horse. Mrs. +Adair gave him her hand across the rails. She was Durrance's neighbour +at Southpool, and by a year or two his elder—a tall woman, remarkable +for the many shades of her thick brown hair and the peculiar pallor on +her face. But at this moment the face had brightened, there was a hint +of colour in the cheeks.</p> + +<p>"I have news for you," said Durrance. "Two special items. One, Harry +Feversham is to be married."</p> + +<p>"To whom?" asked the lady, eagerly.</p> + +<p>"You should know. It was in your house in Hill Street that Harry first +met her; and I introduced him. He has been improving the acquaintance in +Dublin."</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Adair already understood; and it was plain that the news was +welcome.</p> + +<p>"Ethne Eustace!" she cried. "They will be married soon?"</p> + +<p>"There is nothing to prevent it."</p> + +<p>"I am glad," and the lady sighed as though with relief. "What is your +second item?"</p> + +<p>"As good as the first. I go out on General Graham's staff."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair was silent. There came a look of anxiety into her eyes, and +the colour died out of her face.</p> + +<p>"You are very glad, I suppose," she said slowly.</p> + +<p>Durrance's voice left her in no doubt.</p> + +<p>"I should think I was. I go soon, too, and the sooner the better. I will +come and dine some night, if I may, before I go."</p> + +<p>"My husband will be pleased to see you," said Mrs. Adair, rather coldly. +Durrance did not notice the coldness, however. He had his own reasons +for making the most of the opportunity which had come his way; and he +urged his enthusiasm, and laid it bare in words more for his own benefit +than with any thought of Mrs. Adair. Indeed, he had always rather a +vague impression of the lady. She was handsome in a queer, foreign way +not so uncommon along the coasts of Devonshire and Cornwall, and she had +good hair, and was always well dressed. Moreover, she was friendly. And +at that point Durrance's knowledge of her came to an end. Perhaps her +chief merit in his eyes was that she had made friends with Ethne +Eustace. But he was to become better acquainted with Mrs. Adair. He rode +away from the park with the old regret in his mind that the fortunes of +himself and his friend were this morning finally severed. As a fact he +had that morning set the strands of a new rope a-weaving which was to +bring them together again in a strange and terrible relationship. Mrs. +Adair followed him out of the park, and walked home very thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>Durrance had just one week wherein to provide his equipment and +arrange his estate in Devonshire. It passed in a continuous hurry of +preparation, so that his newspaper lay each day unfolded in his rooms. +The general was to travel overland to Brindisi; and so on an evening of +wind and rain, toward the end of July, Durrance stepped from the Dover +pier into the mail-boat for Calais. In spite of the rain and the gloomy +night, a small crowd had gathered to give the general a send-off. As the +ropes were cast off, a feeble cheer was raised; and before the cheer had +ended, Durrance found himself beset by a strange illusion. He was +leaning upon the bulwarks, idly wondering whether this was his last view +of England, and with a wish that some one of his friends had come down +to see him go, when it seemed to him suddenly that his wish was +answered; for he caught a glimpse of a man standing beneath a gas-lamp, +and that man was of the stature and wore the likeness of Harry +Feversham. Durrance rubbed his eyes and looked again. But the wind made +the tongue of light flicker uncertainly within the glass; the rain, too, +blurred the quay. He could only be certain that a man was standing +there, he could only vaguely distinguish beneath the lamp the whiteness +of a face. It was an illusion, he said to himself. Harry Feversham was +at that moment most likely listening to Ethne playing the violin under a +clear sky in a high garden of Donegal. But even as he was turning from +the bulwarks, there came a lull of the wind, the lights burned bright +and steady on the pier, and the face leaped from the shadows distinct in +feature and expression. Durrance leaned out over the side of the boat.</p> + +<p>"Harry!" he shouted, at the top of a wondering voice.</p> + +<p>But the figure beneath the lamp never stirred. The wind blew the lights +again this way and that, the paddles churned the water, the mail-boat +passed beyond the pier. It was an illusion, he repeated; it was a +coincidence. It was the face of a stranger very like to Harry +Feversham's. It could not be Feversham's, because the face which +Durrance had seen so distinctly for a moment was a haggard, wistful +face—a face stamped with an extraordinary misery; the face of a man +cast out from among his fellows.</p> + +<p>Durrance had been very busy all that week. He had clean forgotten the +arrival of that telegram and the suspense which the long perusal of it +had caused. Moreover, his newspaper had lain unfolded in his rooms. But +his friend Harry Feversham had come to see him off.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<h3>THE BALL AT LENNON HOUSE</h3> + + +<p>Yet Feversham had travelled to Dublin by the night mail after his ride +with Durrance in the Row. He had crossed Lough Swilly on the following +fore-noon by a little cargo steamer, which once a week steamed up the +Lennon River as far as Ramelton. On the quay-side Ethne was waiting for +him in her dog-cart; she gave him the hand and the smile of a comrade.</p> + +<p>"You are surprised to see me," said she, noting the look upon his face.</p> + +<p>"I always am," he replied. "For always you exceed my thoughts of you;" +and the smile changed upon her face—it became something more than the +smile of a comrade.</p> + +<p>"I shall drive slowly," she said, as soon as his traps had been packed +into the cart; "I brought no groom on purpose. There will be guests +coming to-morrow. We have only to-day."</p> + +<p>She drove along the wide causeway by the riverside, and turned up the +steep, narrow street. Feversham sat silently by her side. It was his +first visit to Ramelton, and he gazed about him, noting the dark thicket +of tall trees which climbed on the far side of the river, the old grey +bridge, the noise of the water above it as it sang over shallows, and +the drowsy quiet of the town, with a great curiosity and almost a pride +of ownership, since it was here that Ethne lived, and all these things +were part and parcel of her life.</p> + +<p>She was at that time a girl of twenty-one, tall, strong, and supple of +limb, and with a squareness of shoulder proportionate to her height. She +had none of that exaggerated slope which our grandmothers esteemed, yet +she lacked no grace of womanhood on that account, and in her walk she +was light-footed as a deer. Her hair was dark brown, and she wore it +coiled upon the nape of her neck; a bright colour burned in her cheeks, +and her eyes, of a very clear grey, met the eyes of those to whom she +talked with a most engaging frankness. And in character she was the +counterpart of her looks. She was honest; she had a certain simplicity, +the straightforward simplicity of strength which comprises much +gentleness and excludes violence. Of her courage there is a story still +told in Ramelton, which Feversham could never remember without a thrill +of wonder. She had stopped at a door on that steep hill leading down to +the river, and the horse which she was driving took fright at the mere +clatter of a pail and bolted. The reins were lying loose at the moment; +they fell on the ground before Ethne could seize them. She was thus +seated helpless in the dog-cart, and the horse was tearing down to where +the road curves sharply over the bridge. The thing which she did, she +did quite coolly. She climbed over the front of the dog-cart as it +pitched and raced down the hill, and balancing herself along the shafts, +reached the reins at the horse's neck, and brought the horse to a stop +ten yards from the curve. But she had, too, the defects of her +qualities, although Feversham was not yet aware of them.</p> + +<p>Ethne during the first part of this drive was almost as silent as her +companion; and when she spoke, it was with an absent air, as though she +had something of more importance in her thoughts. It was not until she +had left the town and was out upon the straight, undulating road to +Letterkenny that she turned quickly to Feversham and uttered it.</p> + +<p>"I saw this morning that your regiment was ordered from India to Egypt. +You could have gone with it, had I not come in your way. There would +have been chances of distinction. I have hindered you, and I am very +sorry. Of course, you could not know that there was any possibility of +your regiment going, but I can understand it is very hard for you to be +left behind. I blame myself."</p> + +<p>Feversham sat staring in front of him for a moment. Then he said, in a +voice suddenly grown hoarse:—</p> + +<p>"You need not."</p> + +<p>"How can I help it? I blame myself the more," she continued, "because I +do not see things quite like other women. For instance, supposing that +you had gone to Egypt, and that the worst had happened, I should have +felt very lonely, of course, all my days, but I should have known quite +surely that when those days were over, you and I would see much of one +another."</p> + +<p>She spoke without any impressive lowering of the voice, but in the +steady, level tone of one stating the simplest imaginable fact. +Feversham caught his breath like a man in pain. But the girl's eyes +were upon his face, and he sat still, staring in front of him without so +much as a contraction of the forehead. But it seemed that he could not +trust himself to answer. He kept his lips closed, and Ethne continued:—</p> + +<p>"You see I can put up with the absence of the people I care about, a +little better perhaps than most people. I do not feel that I have lost +them at all," and she cast about for a while as if her thought was +difficult to express. "You know how things happen," she resumed. "One +goes along in a dull sort of way, and then suddenly a face springs out +from the crowd of one's acquaintances, and you know it at once and +certainly for the face of a friend, or rather you recognise it, though +you have never seen it before. It is almost as though you had come upon +some one long looked for and now gladly recovered. Well, such +friends—they are few, no doubt, but after all only the few really +count—such friends one does not lose, whether they are absent, or +even—dead."</p> + +<p>"Unless," said Feversham, slowly, "one has made a mistake. Suppose the +face in the crowd is a mask, what then? One may make mistakes."</p> + +<p>Ethne shook her head decidedly.</p> + +<p>"Of that kind, no. One may seem to have made mistakes, and perhaps for a +long while. But in the end one would be proved not to have made them."</p> + +<p>And the girl's implicit faith took hold upon the man and tortured him, +so that he could no longer keep silence.</p> + +<p>"Ethne," he cried, "you don't know—" But at that moment Ethne reined +in her horse, laughed, and pointed with her whip.</p> + +<p>They had come to the top of a hill a couple of miles from Ramelton. The +road ran between stone walls enclosing open fields upon the left, and a +wood of oaks and beeches on the right. A scarlet letter-box was built +into the left-hand wall, and at that Ethne's whip was pointed.</p> + +<p>"I wanted to show you that," she interrupted. "It was there I used to +post my letters to you during the anxious times." And so Feversham let +slip his opportunity of speech.</p> + +<p>"The house is behind the trees to the right," she continued.</p> + +<p>"The letter-box is very convenient," said Feversham.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Ethne, and she drove on and stopped again where the park +wall had crumbled.</p> + +<p>"That's where I used to climb over to post the letters. There's a tree +on the other side of the wall as convenient as the letter-box. I used to +run down the half-mile of avenue at night."</p> + +<p>"There might have been thieves," exclaimed Feversham.</p> + +<p>"There were thorns," said Ethne, and turning through the gates she drove +up to the porch of the long, irregular grey house. "Well, we have still +a day before the dance."</p> + +<p>"I suppose the whole country-side is coming," said Feversham.</p> + +<p>"It daren't do anything else," said Ethne, with a laugh. "My father +would send the police to fetch them if they stayed away, just as he +fetched your friend Mr. Durrance here. By the way, Mr. Durrance has +sent me a present—a Guarnerius violin."</p> + +<p>The door opened, and a thin, lank old man, with a fierce peaked face +like a bird of prey, came out upon the steps. His face softened, +however, into friendliness when he saw Feversham, and a smile played +upon his lips. A stranger might have thought that he winked. But his +left eyelid continually drooped over the eye.</p> + +<p>"How do you do?" he said. "Glad to see you. Must make yourself at home. +If you want any whiskey, stamp twice on the floor with your foot. The +servants understand," and with that he went straightway back into the +house.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The biographer of Dermod Eustace would need to bring a wary mind to his +work. For though the old master of Lennon House has not lain twenty +years in his grave, he is already swollen into a legendary character. +Anecdotes have grown upon his memory like barnacles, and any man in +those parts with a knack of invention has only to foist his stories upon +Dermod to ensure a ready credence. There are, however, definite facts. +He practised an ancient and tyrannous hospitality, keeping open house +upon the road to Letterkenny, and forcing bed and board even upon +strangers, as Durrance had once discovered. He was a man of another +century, who looked out with a glowering, angry eye upon a topsy-turvy +world, and would not be reconciled to it except after much alcohol. He +was a sort of intoxicated Coriolanus, believing that the people should +be shepherded with a stick, yet always mindful of his manners, even to +the lowliest of women. It was said of him with pride by the townsfolk +of Ramelton, that even at his worst, when he came galloping down the +steep cobbled streets, mounted on a big white mare of seventeen hands, +with his inseparable collie dog for his companion,—a gaunt, grey-faced, +grey-haired man, with a drooping eye, swaying with drink, yet by a +miracle keeping his saddle,—he had never ridden down any one except a +man. There are two points to be added. He was rather afraid of his +daughter, who wisely kept him doubtful whether she was displeased with +him or not, and he had conceived a great liking for Harry Feversham.</p> + +<p>Harry saw little of him that day, however. Dermod retired into the room +which he was pleased to call his office, while Feversham and Ethne spent +the afternoon fishing for salmon in the Lennon River. It was an +afternoon restful as a Sabbath, and the very birds were still. From the +house the lawns fell steeply, shaded by trees and dappled by the +sunlight, to a valley, at the bottom of which flowed the river swift and +black under overarching boughs. There was a fall, where the water slid +over rocks with a smoothness so unbroken that it looked solid except +just at one point. There a spur stood sharply up, and the river broke +back upon itself in an amber wave through which the sun shone. Opposite +this spur they sat for a long while, talking at times, but for the most +part listening to the roar of the water and watching its perpetual flow. +And at last the sunset came, and the long shadows. They stood up, looked +at each other with a smile, and so walked slowly back to the house. It +was an afternoon which Feversham was long to remember; for the next +night was the night of the dance, and as the band struck up the opening +bars of the fourth waltz, Ethne left her position at the drawing-room +door, and taking Feversham's arm passed out into the hall.</p> + +<p>The hall was empty, and the front door stood open to the cool of the +summer night. From the ballroom came the swaying lilt of the music and +the beat of the dancers' feet. Ethne drew a breath of relief at her +reprieve from her duties, and then dropping her partner's arm, crossed +to a side table.</p> + +<p>"The post is in," she said. "There are letters, one, two, three, for +you, and a little box."</p> + +<p>She held the box out to him as she spoke,—a little white jeweller's +cardboard box,—and was at once struck by its absence of weight.</p> + +<p>"It must be empty," she said.</p> + +<p>Yet it was most carefully sealed and tied. Feversham broke the seals and +unfastened the string. He looked at the address. The box had been +forwarded from his lodgings, and he was not familiar with the +handwriting.</p> + +<p>"There is some mistake," he said as he shook the lid open, and then he +stopped abruptly. Three white feathers fluttered out of the box, swayed +and rocked for a moment in the air, and then, one after another, settled +gently down upon the floor. They lay like flakes of snow upon the dark +polished boards. But they were not whiter than Harry Feversham's cheeks. +He stood and stared at the feathers until he felt a light touch upon his +arm. He looked and saw Ethne's gloved hand upon his sleeve.</p> + +<p>"What does it mean?" she asked. There was some perplexity in her voice, +but nothing more than perplexity. The smile upon her face and the loyal +confidence in her eyes showed she had never a doubt that his first word +would lift it from her. "What does it mean?"</p> + +<p>"That there are things which cannot be hid, I suppose," said Feversham.</p> + +<p>For a little while Ethne did not speak. The languorous music floated +into the hall, and the trees whispered from the garden through the open +door. Then she shook his arm gently, uttered a breathless little laugh, +and spoke as though she were pleading with a child.</p> + +<p>"I don't think you understand, Harry. Here are three white feathers. +They were sent to you in jest? Oh, of course in jest. But it is a cruel +kind of jest—"</p> + +<p>"They were sent in deadly earnest."</p> + +<p>He spoke now, looking her straight in the eyes. Ethne dropped her hand +from his sleeve.</p> + +<p>"Who sent them?" she asked.</p> + +<p>Feversham had not given a thought to that matter. The message was all in +all, the men who had sent it so unimportant. But Ethne reached out her +hand and took the box from him. There were three visiting cards lying at +the bottom, and she took them out and read them aloud.</p> + +<p>"Captain Trench, Mr. Castleton, Mr. Willoughby. Do you know these men?"</p> + +<p>"All three are officers of my old regiment."</p> + +<p>The girl was dazed. She knelt down upon the floor and gathered the +feathers into her hand with a vague thought that merely to touch them +would help her to comprehension. They lay upon the palm of her white +glove, and she blew gently upon them, and they swam up into the air and +hung fluttering and rocking. As they floated downward she caught them +again, and so she slowly felt her way to another question.</p> + +<p>"Were they justly sent?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Harry Feversham.</p> + +<p>He had no thought of denial or evasion. He was only aware that the +dreadful thing for so many years dreadfully anticipated had at last +befallen him. He was known for a coward. The word which had long blazed +upon the wall of his thoughts in letters of fire was now written large +in the public places. He stood as he had once stood before the portraits +of his fathers, mutely accepting condemnation. It was the girl who +denied, as she still kneeled upon the floor.</p> + +<p>"I do not believe that is true," she said. "You could not look me in the +face so steadily were it true. Your eyes would seek the floor, not +mine."</p> + +<p>"Yet it is true."</p> + +<p>"Three little white feathers," she said slowly; and then, with a sob in +her throat, "This afternoon we were under the elms down by the Lennon +River—do you remember, Harry?—just you and I. And then come three +little white feathers, and the world's at an end."</p> + +<p>"Oh, don't!" cried Harry, and his voice broke upon the word. Up till now +he had spoken with a steadiness matching the steadiness of his eyes. But +these last words of hers, the picture which they evoked in his memories, +the pathetic simplicity of her utterance, caught him by the heart. But +Ethne seemed not to hear the appeal. She was listening with her face +turned toward the ballroom. The chatter and laughter of the voices there +grew louder and nearer. She understood that the music had ceased. She +rose quickly to her feet, clenching the feathers in her hand, and opened +a door. It was the door of her sitting room.</p> + +<p>"Come," she said.</p> + +<p>Harry followed her into the room, and she closed the door, shutting out +the noise.</p> + +<p>"Now," she said, "will you tell me, if you please, why the feathers have +been sent?"</p> + +<p>She stood quietly before him; her face was pale, but Feversham could not +gather from her expression any feeling which she might have beyond a +desire and a determination to get at the truth. She spoke, too, with the +same quietude. He answered, as he had answered before, directly and to +the point, without any attempt at mitigation.</p> + +<p>"A telegram came. It was sent by Castleton. It reached me when Captain +Trench and Mr. Willoughby were dining with me. It told me that my +regiment would be ordered on active service in Egypt. Castleton was +dining with a man likely to know, and I did not question the accuracy of +his message. He told me to tell Trench. I did not. I thought the matter +over with the telegram in front of me. Castleton was leaving that night +for Scotland, and he would go straight from Scotland to rejoin the +regiment. He would not, therefore, see Trench for some weeks at the +earliest, and by that time the telegram would very likely be forgotten +or its date confused. I did not tell Trench. I threw the telegram into +the fire, and that night sent in my papers. But Trench found out +somehow. Durrance was at dinner, too,—good God, Durrance!" he suddenly +broke out. "Most likely he knows like the rest."</p> + +<p>It came upon him as something shocking and strangely new that his friend +Durrance, who, as he knew very well, had been wont rather to look up to +him, in all likelihood counted him a thing of scorn. But he heard Ethne +speaking. After all, what did it matter whether Durrance knew, whether +every man knew, from the South Pole to the North, since she, Ethne, +knew?</p> + +<p>"And is this all?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Surely it is enough," said he.</p> + +<p>"I think not," she answered, and she lowered her voice a little as she +went on. "We agreed, didn't we, that no foolish misunderstandings should +ever come between us? We were to be frank, and to take frankness each +from the other without offence. So be frank with me! Please!" and she +pleaded. "I could, I think, claim it as a right. At all events I ask for +it as I shall never ask for anything else in all my life."</p> + +<p>There was a sort of explanation of his act, Harry Feversham remembered; +but it was so futile when compared with the overwhelming consequence. +Ethne had unclenched her hands; the three feathers lay before his eyes +upon the table. They could not be explained away; he wore "coward" like +a blind man's label; besides, he could never make her understand. +However, she wished for the explanation and had a right to it; she had +been generous in asking for it, with a generosity not very common +amongst women. So Feversham gathered his wits and explained:—</p> + +<p>"All my life I have been afraid that some day I should play the coward, +and from the very first I knew that I was destined for the army. I kept +my fear to myself. There was no one to whom I could tell it. My mother +was dead, and my father—" he stopped for a moment, with a deep intake +of the breath. He could see his father, that lonely iron man, sitting at +this very moment in his mother's favourite seat upon the terrace, and +looking over the moonlit fields toward the Sussex Downs; he could +imagine him dreaming of honours and distinctions worthy of the +Fevershams to be gained immediately by his son in the Egyptian campaign. +Surely that old man's stern heart would break beneath this blow. The +magnitude of the bad thing which he had done, the misery which it would +spread, were becoming very clear to Harry Feversham. He dropped his head +between his hands and groaned aloud.</p> + +<p>"My father," he resumed, "would, nay, could, never have understood. I +know him. When danger came his way, it found him ready, but he did not +foresee. That was my trouble always,—I foresaw. Any peril to be +encountered, any risk to be run,—I foresaw them. I foresaw something +else besides. My father would talk in his matter-of-fact way of the +hours of waiting before the actual commencement of a battle, after the +troops had been paraded. The mere anticipation of the suspense and the +strain of those hours was a torture to me. I foresaw the possibility of +cowardice. Then one evening, when my father had his old friends about +him on one of his Crimean nights, two dreadful stories were told—one +of an officer, the other of a surgeon, who had both shirked. I was now +confronted with the fact of cowardice. I took those stories up to bed +with me. They never left my memory; they became a part of me. I saw +myself behaving now as one, now as the other, of those two men had +behaved, perhaps in the crisis of a battle bringing ruin upon my +country, certainly dishonouring my father and all the dead men whose +portraits hung ranged in the hall. I tried to get the best of my fears. +I hunted, but with a map of the country-side in my mind. I foresaw every +hedge, every pit, every treacherous bank."</p> + +<p>"Yet you rode straight," interrupted Ethne. "Mr. Durrance told me so."</p> + +<p>"Did I?" said Feversham, vaguely. "Well, perhaps I did, once the hounds +were off. Durrance never knew what the moments of waiting before the +coverts were drawn meant to me! So when this telegram came, I took the +chance it seemed to offer and resigned."</p> + +<p>He ended his explanation. He had spoken warily, having something to +conceal. However earnestly she might ask for frankness, he must at all +costs, for her sake, hide something from her. But at once she suspected +it.</p> + +<p>"Were you afraid, too, of disgracing me? Was I in any way the cause that +you resigned?"</p> + +<p>Feversham looked her in the eyes and lied:—</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"If you had not been engaged to me, you would still have sent in your +papers?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>Ethne slowly stripped a glove off her hand. Feversham turned away.</p> + +<p>"I think that I am rather like your father," she said. "I don't +understand;" and in the silence which followed upon her words Feversham +heard something whirr and rattle upon the table. He looked and saw that +she had slipped her engagement ring off her finger. It lay upon the +table, the stones winking at him.</p> + +<p>"And all this—all that you have told to me," she exclaimed suddenly, +with her face very stern, "you would have hidden from me? You would have +married me and hidden it, had not these three feathers come?"</p> + +<p>The words had been on her lips from the beginning, but she had not +uttered them lest by a miracle he should after all have some unimagined +explanation which would reestablish him in her thoughts. She had given +him every chance. Now, however, she struck and laid bare the worst of +his disloyalty. Feversham flinched, and he did not answer but allowed +his silence to consent. Ethne, however, was just; she was in a way +curious too: she wished to know the very bottom of the matter before she +thrust it into the back of her mind.</p> + +<p>"But yesterday," she said, "you were going to tell me something. I +stopped you to point out the letter-box," and she laughed in a queer +empty way. "Was it about the feathers?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Feversham, wearily. What did these persistent questions +matter, since the feathers had come, since her ring lay flickering and +winking on the table? "Yes, I think what you were saying rather +compelled me."</p> + +<p>"I remember," said Ethne, interrupting him rather hastily, "about +seeing much of one another—afterwards. We will not speak of such things +again," and Feversham swayed upon his feet as though he would fall. "I +remember, too, you said one could make mistakes. You were right; I was +wrong. One can do more than seem to make them. Will you, if you please, +take back your ring?"</p> + +<p>Feversham picked up the ring and held it in the palm of his hand, +standing very still. He had never cared for her so much, he had never +recognised her value so thoroughly, as at this moment when he lost her. +She gleamed in the quiet room, wonderful, most wonderful, from the +bright flowers in her hair to the white slipper on her foot. It was +incredible to him that he should ever have won her. Yet he had, and +disloyally had lost her. Then her voice broke in again upon his +reflections.</p> + +<p>"These, too, are yours. Will you take them, please?"</p> + +<p>She was pointing with her fan to the feathers upon the table. Feversham +obediently reached out his hand, and then drew it back in surprise.</p> + +<p>"There are four," he said.</p> + +<p>Ethne did not reply, and looking at her fan Feversham understood. It was +a fan of ivory and white feathers. She had broken off one of those +feathers and added it on her own account to the three.</p> + +<p>The thing which she had done was cruel, no doubt. But she wished to make +an end—a complete, irrevocable end; though her voice was steady and her +face, despite its pallor, calm, she was really tortured with humiliation +and pain. All the details of Harry Feversham's courtship, the +interchange of looks, the letters she had written and received, the +words which had been spoken, tingled and smarted unbearably in her +recollections. Their lips had touched—she recalled it with horror. She +desired never to see Harry Feversham after this night. Therefore she +added her fourth feather to the three.</p> + +<p>Harry Feversham took the feathers as she bade him, without a word of +remonstrance, and indeed with a sort of dignity which even at that +moment surprised her. All the time, too, he had kept his eyes steadily +upon hers, he had answered her questions simply, there had been nothing +abject in his manner; so that Ethne already began to regret this last +thing which she had done. However, it <i>was</i> done. Feversham had taken +the four feathers.</p> + +<p>He held them in his fingers as though he was about to tear them across. +But he checked the action. He looked suddenly towards her, and kept his +eyes upon her face for some little while. Then very carefully he put the +feathers into his breast pocket. Ethne at this time did not consider +why. She only thought that here was the irrevocable end.</p> + +<p>"We should be going back, I think," she said. "We have been some time +away. Will you give me your arm?" In the hall she looked at the clock. +"Only eleven o'clock," she said wearily. "When we dance here, we dance +till daylight. We must show brave faces until daylight."</p> + +<p>And with her hand resting upon his arm, they passed into the ballroom.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<h3>THE PARIAH</h3> + + +<p>Habit assisted them; the irresponsible chatter of the ballroom sprang +automatically to their lips; the appearance of enjoyment never failed +from off their faces; so that no one at Lennon House that night +suspected that any swift cause of severance had come between them. Harry +Feversham watched Ethne laugh and talk as though she had never a care, +and was perpetually surprised, taking no thought that he wore the like +mask of gaiety himself. When she swung past him the light rhythm of her +feet almost persuaded him that her heart was in the dance. It seemed +that she could even command the colour upon her cheeks. Thus they both +wore brave faces as she had bidden. They even danced together. But all +the while Ethne was conscious that she was holding up a great load of +pain and humiliation which would presently crush her, and Feversham felt +those four feathers burning at his breast. It was wonderful to him that +the whole company did not know of them. He never approached a partner +without the notion that she would turn upon him with the contemptuous +name which was his upon her tongue. Yet he felt no fear on that account. +He would not indeed have cared had it happened, had the word been +spoken. He had lost Ethne. He watched her and looked in vain amongst +her guests, as indeed he surely knew he would, for a fit comparison. +There were women, pretty, graceful, even beautiful, but Ethne stood +apart by the particular character of her beauty. The broad forehead, the +perfect curve of the eyebrows, the great steady, clear, grey eyes, the +full red lips which could dimple into tenderness and shut level with +resolution, and the royal grace of her carriage, marked her out to +Feversham's thinking, and would do so in any company. He watched her in +a despairing amazement that he had ever had a chance of owning her.</p> + +<p>Only once did her endurance fail, and then only for a second. She was +dancing with Feversham, and as she looked toward the windows she saw +that the daylight was beginning to show very pale and cold upon the +other side of the blinds.</p> + +<p>"Look!" she said, and Feversham suddenly felt all her weight upon his +arms. Her face lost its colour and grew tired and very grey. Her eyes +shut tightly and then opened again. He thought that she would faint. +"The morning at last!" she exclaimed, and then in a voice as weary as +her face, "I wonder whether it is right that one should suffer so much +pain."</p> + +<p>"Hush!" whispered Feversham. "Courage! A few minutes more—only a very +few!" He stopped and stood in front of her until her strength returned.</p> + +<p>"Thank you!" she said gratefully, and the bright wheel of the dance +caught them in its spokes again.</p> + +<p>It was strange that he should be exhorting her to courage, she thanking +him for help; but the irony of this queer momentary reversal of their +position occurred to neither of them. Ethne was too tried by the strain +of those last hours, and Feversham had learned from that one failure of +her endurance, from the drawn aspect of her face and the depths of pain +in her eyes, how deeply he had wounded her. He no longer said, "I have +lost her," he no longer thought of his loss at all. He heard her words, +"I wonder whether it is right that one should suffer so much pain." He +felt that they would go ringing down the world with him, persistent in +his ears, spoken upon the very accent of her voice. He was sure that he +would hear them at the end above the voices of any who should stand +about him when he died, and hear in them his condemnation. For it was +not right.</p> + +<p>The ball finished shortly afterwards. The last carriage drove away, and +those who were staying in the house sought the smoking-room or went +upstairs to bed according to their sex. Feversham, however, lingered in +the hall with Ethne. She understood why.</p> + +<p>"There is no need," she said, standing with her back to him as she +lighted a candle, "I have told my father. I told him everything."</p> + +<p>Feversham bowed his head in acquiescence.</p> + +<p>"Still, I must wait and see him," he said.</p> + +<p>Ethne did not object, but she turned and looked at him quickly with her +brows drawn in a frown of perplexity. To wait for her father under such +circumstances seemed to argue a certain courage. Indeed, she herself +felt some apprehension as she heard the door of the study open and +Dermod's footsteps on the floor. Dermod walked straight up to Harry +Feversham, looking for once in a way what he was, a very old man, and +stood there staring into Feversham's face with a muddled and bewildered +expression. Twice he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. In +the end he turned to the table and lit his candle and Harry Feversham's. +Then he turned back toward Feversham, and rather quickly, so that Ethne +took a step forward as if to get between them; but he did nothing more +than stare at Feversham again and for a long time. Finally, he took up +his candle.</p> + +<p>"Well—" he said, and stopped. He snuffed the wick with the scissors and +began again. "Well—" he said, and stopped again. Apparently his candle +had not helped him to any suitable expressions. He stared into the flame +now instead of into Feversham's face, and for an equal length of time. +He could think of nothing whatever to say, and yet he was conscious that +something must be said. In the end he said lamely:—</p> + +<p>"If you want any whiskey, stamp twice on the floor with your foot. The +servants understand."</p> + +<p>Thereupon he walked heavily up the stairs. The old man's forbearance was +perhaps not the least part of Harry Feversham's punishment.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>It was broad daylight when Ethne was at last alone within her room. She +drew up the blinds and opened the windows wide. The cool fresh air of +the morning was as a draught of spring-water to her. She looked out upon +a world as yet unillumined by colours and found therein an image of her +days to come. The dark, tall trees looked black; the winding paths, a +singular dead white; the very lawns were dull and grey, though the dew +lay upon them like a network of frost. It was a noisy world, however, +for all its aspect of quiet. For the blackbirds were calling from the +branches and the grass, and down beneath the overhanging trees the +Lennon flowed in music between its banks. Ethne drew back from the +window. She had much to do that morning before she slept. For she +designed with her natural thoroughness to make an end at once of all her +associations with Harry Feversham. She wished that from the moment when +next she waked she might never come across a single thing which could +recall him to her memory. And with a sort of stubborn persistence she +went about the work.</p> + +<p>But she changed her mind. In the very process of collecting together the +gifts which he had made to her she changed her mind. For each gift that +she looked upon had its history, and the days before this miserable +night had darkened on her happiness came one by one slowly back to her +as she looked. She determined to keep one thing which had belonged to +Harry Feversham,—a small thing, a thing of no value. At first she chose +a penknife, which he had once lent to her and she had forgotten to +return. But the next instant she dropped it and rather hurriedly. For +she was after all an Irish girl, and though she did not believe in +superstitions, where superstitions were concerned she preferred to be on +the safe side. She selected his photograph in the end and locked it away +in a drawer.</p> + +<p>She gathered the rest of his presents together, packed them carefully in +a box, fastened the box, addressed it and carried it down to the hall, +that the servants might despatch it in the morning. Then coming back to +her room she took his letters, made a little pile of them on the hearth +and set them alight. They took some while to consume, but she waited, +sitting upright in her arm-chair while the flame crept from sheet to +sheet, discolouring the paper, blackening the writing like a stream of +ink, and leaving in the end only flakes of ashes like feathers, and +white flakes like white feathers. The last sparks were barely +extinguished when she heard a cautious step on the gravel beneath her +window.</p> + +<p>It was broad daylight, but her candle was still burning on the table at +her side, and with a quick instinctive movement she reached out her arm +and put the light out. Then she sat very still and rigid, listening. For +a while she heard only the blackbirds calling from the trees in the +garden and the throbbing music of the river. Afterward she heard the +footsteps again, cautiously retreating; and in spite of her will, in +spite of her formal disposal of the letters and the presents, she was +mastered all at once, not by pain or humiliation, but by an overpowering +sense of loneliness. She seemed to be seated high on an empty world of +ruins. She rose quickly from her chair, and her eyes fell upon a violin +case. With a sigh of relief she opened it, and a little while after one +or two of the guests who were sleeping in the house chanced to wake up +and heard floating down the corridors the music of a violin played very +lovingly and low. Ethne was not aware that the violin which she held was +the Guarnerius violin which Durrance had sent to her. She only +understood that she had a companion to share her loneliness.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<h3>HARRY FEVERSHAM'S PLAN</h3> + + +<p>It was the night of August 30. A month had passed since the ball at +Lennon House, but the uneventful country-side of Donegal was still busy +with the stimulating topic of Harry Feversham's disappearance. The +townsmen in the climbing street and the gentry at their dinner-tables +gossiped to their hearts' contentment. It was asserted that Harry +Feversham had been seen on the very morning after the dance, and at five +minutes to six—though according to Mrs. Brien O'Brien it was ten +minutes past the hour—still in his dress clothes and with a white +suicide's face, hurrying along the causeway by the Lennon Bridge. It was +suggested that a drag-net would be the only way to solve the mystery. +Mr. Dennis Rafferty, who lived on the road to Rathmullen, indeed, went +so far as to refuse salmon on the plea that he was not a cannibal, and +the saying had a general vogue. Their conjectures as to the cause of the +disappearance were no nearer to the truth. For there were only two who +knew, and those two went steadily about the business of living as though +no catastrophe had befallen them. They held their heads a trifle more +proudly perhaps. Ethne might have become a little more gentle, Dermod a +little more irascible, but these were the only changes. So gossip had +the field to itself.</p> + +<p>But Harry Feversham was in London, as Lieutenant Sutch discovered on the +night of the 30th. All that day the town had been perturbed by rumours +of a great battle fought at Kassassin in the desert east of Ismailia. +Messengers had raced ceaselessly through the streets, shouting tidings +of victory and tidings of disaster. There had been a charge by moonlight +of General Drury-Lowe's Cavalry Brigade, which had rolled up Arabi's +left flank and captured his guns. It was rumoured that an English +general had been killed, that the York and Lancaster Regiment had been +cut up. London was uneasy, and at eleven o'clock at night a great crowd +of people had gathered beneath the gas-lamps in Pall Mall, watching with +pale upturned faces the lighted blinds of the War Office. The crowd was +silent and impressively still. Only if a figure moved for an instant +across the blinds, a thrill of expectation passed from man to man, and +the crowd swayed in a continuous movement from edge to edge. Lieutenant +Sutch, careful of his wounded leg, was standing on the outskirts, with +his back to the parapet of the Junior Carlton Club, when he felt himself +touched upon the arm. He saw Harry Feversham at his side. Feversham's +face was working and extraordinarily white, his eyes were bright like +the eyes of a man in a fever; and Sutch at the first was not sure that +he knew or cared who it was to whom he talked.</p> + +<p>"I might have been out there in Egypt to-night," said Harry, in a quick +troubled voice. "Think of it! I might have been out there, sitting by a +camp-fire in the desert, talking over the battle with Jack Durrance; or +dead perhaps. What would it have mattered? I might have been in Egypt +to-night!"</p> + +<p>Feversham's unexpected appearance, no less than his wandering tongue, +told Sutch that somehow his fortunes had gone seriously wrong. He had +many questions in his mind, but he did not ask a single one of them. He +took Feversham's arm and led him straight out of the throng.</p> + +<p>"I saw you in the crowd," continued Feversham. "I thought that I would +speak to you, because—do you remember, a long time ago you gave me your +card? I have always kept it, because I have always feared that I would +have reason to use it. You said that if one was in trouble, the telling +might help."</p> + +<p>Sutch stopped his companion.</p> + +<p>"We will go in here. We can find a quiet corner in the upper +smoking-room;" and Harry, looking up, saw that he was standing by the +steps of the Army and Navy Club.</p> + +<p>"Good God, not there!" he cried in a sharp low voice, and moved quickly +into the roadway, where no light fell directly on his face. Sutch limped +after him. "Nor to-night. It is late. To-morrow if you will, in some +quiet place, and after nightfall. I do not go out in the daylight."</p> + +<p>Again Lieutenant Sutch asked no questions.</p> + +<p>"I know a quiet restaurant," he said. "If we dine there at nine, we +shall meet no one whom we know. I will meet you just before nine +to-morrow night at the corner of Swallow Street."</p> + +<p>They dined together accordingly on the following evening, at a table in +the corner of the Criterion grill-room. Feversham looked quickly about +him as he entered the room.</p> + +<p>"I dine here often when I am in town," said Sutch. "Listen!" The +throbbing of the engines working the electric light could be distinctly +heard, their vibrations could be felt.</p> + +<p>"It reminds me of a ship," said Sutch, with a smile. "I can almost fancy +myself in the gun-room again. We will have dinner. Then you shall tell me +your story."</p> + +<p>"You have heard nothing of it?" asked Feversham, suspiciously.</p> + +<p>"Not a word;" and Feversham drew a breath of relief. It had seemed to +him that every one must know. He imagined contempt on every face which +passed him in the street.</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Sutch was even more concerned this evening than he had been +the night before. He saw Harry Feversham clearly now in a full light. +Harry's face was thin and haggard with lack of sleep, there were black +hollows beneath his eyes; he drew his breath and made his movements in a +restless feverish fashion, his nerves seemed strung to breaking-point. +Once or twice between the courses he began his story, but Sutch would +not listen until the cloth was cleared.</p> + +<p>"Now," said he, holding out his cigar-case. "Take your time, Harry."</p> + +<p>Thereupon Feversham told him the whole truth, without exaggeration or +omission, forcing himself to a slow, careful, matter-of-fact speech, so +that in the end Sutch almost fell into the illusion that it was just the +story of a stranger which Feversham was recounting merely to pass the +time. He began with the Crimean night at Broad Place, and ended with the +ball at Lennon House.</p> + +<p>"I came back across Lough Swilly early that morning," he said in +conclusion, "and travelled at once to London. Since then I have stayed +in my rooms all day, listening to the bugles calling in the barrack-yard +beneath my windows. At night I prowl about the streets or lie in bed +waiting for the Westminster clock to sound each new quarter of an hour. +On foggy nights, too, I can hear steam-sirens on the river. Do you know +when the ducks start quacking in St. James's Park?" he asked with a +laugh. "At two o'clock to the minute."</p> + +<p>Sutch listened to the story without an interruption. But halfway through +the narrative he changed his attitude, and in a significant way. Up to +the moment when Harry told of his concealment of the telegram, Sutch had +sat with his arms upon the table in front of him, and his eyes upon his +companion. Thereafter he raised a hand to his forehead, and so remained +with his face screened while the rest was told. Feversham had no doubt +of the reason. Lieutenant Sutch wished to conceal the scorn he felt, and +could not trust the muscles of his face. Feversham, however, mitigated +nothing, but continued steadily and truthfully to the end. But even +after the end was reached, Sutch did not remove his hand, nor for some +little while did he speak. When he did speak, his words came upon +Feversham's ears with a shock of surprise. There was no contempt in +them, and though his voice shook, it shook with a great contrition.</p> + +<p>"I am much to blame," he said. "I should have spoken that night at Broad +Place, and I held my tongue. I shall hardly forgive myself." The +knowledge that it was Muriel Graham's son who had thus brought ruin and +disgrace upon himself was uppermost in the lieutenant's mind. He felt +that he had failed in the discharge of an obligation, self-imposed, no +doubt, but a very real obligation none the less. "You see, I +understood," he continued remorsefully. "Your father, I am afraid, never +would."</p> + +<p>"He never will," interrupted Harry.</p> + +<p>"No," Sutch agreed. "Your mother, of course, had she lived, would have +seen clearly; but few women, I think, except your mother. Brute courage! +Women make a god of it. That girl, for instance,"—and again Harry +Feversham interrupted.</p> + +<p>"You must not blame her. I was defrauding her into marriage."</p> + +<p>Sutch took his hand suddenly from his forehead.</p> + +<p>"Suppose that you had never met her, would you still have sent in your +papers?"</p> + +<p>"I think not," said Harry, slowly. "I want to be fair. Disgracing my +name and those dead men in the hall I think I would have risked. I could +not risk disgracing her."</p> + +<p>And Lieutenant Sutch thumped his fist despairingly upon the table. "If +only I had spoken at Broad Place. Harry, why didn't you let me speak? I +might have saved you many unnecessary years of torture. Good heavens! +what a childhood you must have spent with that fear all alone with you. +It makes me shiver to think of it. I might even have saved you from this +last catastrophe. For I understood. I understood."</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Sutch saw more clearly into the dark places of Harry +Feversham's mind than Harry Feversham did himself; and because he saw so +clearly, he could feel no contempt. The long years of childhood, and +boyhood, and youth, lived apart in Broad Place in the presence of the +uncomprehending father and the relentless dead men on the walls, had +done the harm. There had been no one in whom the boy could confide. The +fear of cowardice had sapped incessantly at his heart. He had walked +about with it; he had taken it with him to his bed. It had haunted his +dreams. It had been his perpetual menacing companion. It had kept him +from intimacy with his friends lest an impulsive word should betray him. +Lieutenant Sutch did not wonder that in the end it had brought about +this irretrievable mistake; for Lieutenant Sutch understood.</p> + +<p>"Did you ever read 'Hamlet'?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Of course," said Harry, in reply.</p> + +<p>"Ah, but did you consider it? The same disability is clear in that +character. The thing which he foresaw, which he thought over, which he +imagined in the act and in the consequence—that he shrank from, +upbraiding himself even as you have done. Yet when the moment of action +comes, sharp and immediate, does he fail? No, he excels, and just by +reason of that foresight. I have seen men in the Crimea, tortured by +their imaginations before the fight—once the fight had begun you must +search amongst the Oriental fanatics for their match. 'Am I a coward?' +Do you remember the lines?</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i16">Am I a coward?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Who calls me villain? Breaks my pate across?<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face?<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>There's the case in a nutshell. If only I had spoken on that night!"</p> + +<p>One or two people passed the table on the way out. Sutch stopped and +looked round the room. It was nearly empty. He glanced at his watch and +saw that the hour was eleven. Some plan of action must be decided upon +that night. It was not enough to hear Harry Feversham's story. There +still remained the question, what was Harry Feversham, disgraced and +ruined, now to do? How was he to re-create his life? How was the secret +of his disgrace to be most easily concealed?</p> + +<p>"You cannot stay in London, hiding by day, slinking about by night," he +said with a shiver. "That's too like—" and he checked himself. +Feversham, however, completed the sentence.</p> + +<p>"That's too like Wilmington," said he, quietly, recalling the story +which his father had told so many years ago, and which he had never +forgotten, even for a single day. "But Wilmington's end will not be +mine. Of that I can assure you. I shall not stay in London."</p> + +<p>He spoke with an air of decision. He had indeed mapped out already the +plan of action concerning which Lieutenant Sutch was so disturbed. +Sutch, however, was occupied with his own thoughts.</p> + +<p>"Who knows of the feathers? How many people?" he asked. "Give me their +names."</p> + +<p>"Trench, Castleton, Willoughby," began Feversham.</p> + +<p>"All three are in Egypt. Besides, for the credit of their regiment they +are likely to hold their tongues when they return. Who else?"</p> + +<p>"Dermod Eustace and—and—Ethne."</p> + +<p>"They will not speak."</p> + +<p>"You, Durrance perhaps, and my father."</p> + +<p>Sutch leaned back in his chair and stared.</p> + +<p>"Your father! You wrote to him?"</p> + +<p>"No; I went into Surrey and told him."</p> + +<p>Again remorse for that occasion, recognised and not used, seized upon +Lieutenant Sutch.</p> + +<p>"Why didn't I speak that night?" he said impotently. "A coward, and you +go quietly down to Surrey and confront your father with that story to +tell to him! You do not even write! You stand up and tell it to him face +to face! Harry, I reckon myself as good as another when it comes to +bravery, but for the life of me I could not have done that."</p> + +<p>"It was not—pleasant," said Feversham, simply; and this was the only +description of the interview between father and son which was vouchsafed +to any one. But Lieutenant Sutch knew the father and knew the son. He +could guess at all which that one adjective implied. Harry Feversham +told the results of his journey into Surrey.</p> + +<p>"My father continues my allowance. I shall need it, every penny of +it—otherwise I should have taken nothing. But I am not to go home +again. I did not mean to go home for a long while in any case, if at +all."</p> + +<p>He drew his pocket-book from his breast, and took from it the four white +feathers. These he laid before him on the table.</p> + +<p>"You have kept them?" exclaimed Sutch.</p> + +<p>"Indeed, I treasure them," said Harry, quietly. "That seems strange to +you. To you they are the symbols of my disgrace. To me they are much +more. They are my opportunities of retrieving it." He looked about the +room, separated three of the feathers, pushed them forward a little on +the tablecloth, and then leaned across toward Sutch.</p> + +<p>"What if I could compel Trench, Castleton, and Willoughby to take back +from me, each in his turn, the feather he sent? I do not say that it is +likely. I do not say even that it is possible. But there is a chance +that it may be possible, and I must wait upon that chance. There will be +few men leading active lives as these three do who will not at some +moment stand in great peril and great need. To be in readiness for that +moment is from now my career. All three are in Egypt. I leave for Egypt +to-morrow."</p> + +<p>Upon the face of Lieutenant Sutch there came a look of great and +unexpected happiness. Here was an issue of which he had never thought; +and it was the only issue, as he knew for certain, once he was aware of +it. This student of human nature disregarded without a scruple the +prudence and the calculation proper to the character which he assumed. +The obstacles in Harry Feversham's way, the possibility that at the last +moment he might shrink again, the improbability that three such +opportunities would occur—these matters he overlooked. His eyes already +shone with pride; the three feathers for him were already taken back. +The prudence was on Harry Feversham's side.</p> + +<p>"There are endless difficulties," he said. "Just to cite one: I am a +civilian, these three are soldiers, surrounded by soldiers; so much the +less opportunity therefore for a civilian."</p> + +<p>"But it is not necessary that the three men should be themselves in +peril," objected Sutch, "for you to convince them that the fault is +retrieved."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no. There may be other ways," agreed Feversham. "The plan came +suddenly into my mind, indeed at the moment when Ethne bade me take up +the feathers, and added the fourth. I was on the point of tearing them +across when this way out of it sprang clearly up in my mind. But I have +thought it over since during these last weeks while I sat listening to +the bugles in the barrack-yard. And I am sure there is no other way. But +it is well worth trying. You see, if the three take back their +feathers,"—he drew a deep breath, and in a very low voice, with his +eyes upon the table so that his face was hidden from Sutch, he +added—"why, then she perhaps might take hers back too."</p> + +<p>"Will she wait, do you think?" asked Sutch; and Harry raised his head +quickly.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," he exclaimed, "I had no thought of that. She has not even a +suspicion of what I intend to do. Nor do I wish her to have one until +the intention is fulfilled. My thought was different"—and he began to +speak with hesitation for the first time in the course of that evening. +"I find it difficult to tell you—Ethne said something to me the day +before the feathers came—something rather sacred. I think that I will +tell you, because what she said is just what sends me out upon this +errand. But for her words, I would very likely never have thought of it. +I find in them my motive and a great hope. They may seem strange to you, +Mr. Sutch; but I ask you to believe that they are very real to me. She +said—it was when she knew no more than that my regiment was ordered to +Egypt—she was blaming herself because I had resigned my commission, for +which there was no need, because—and these were her words—because had +I fallen, although she would have felt lonely all her life, she would +none the less have surely known that she and I would see much of one +another—afterwards."</p> + +<p>Feversham had spoken his words with difficulty, not looking at his +companion, and he continued with his eyes still averted:—</p> + +<p>"Do you understand? I have a hope that if—this fault can be +repaired,"—and he pointed to the feathers,—"we might still, perhaps, +see something of one another—afterwards."</p> + +<p>It was a strange proposition, no doubt, to be debated across the soiled +tablecloth of a public restaurant, but neither of them felt it to be +strange or even fanciful. They were dealing with the simple serious +issues, and they had reached a point where they could not be affected by +any incongruity in their surroundings. Lieutenant Sutch did not speak +for some while after Harry Feversham had done, and in the end Harry +looked up at his companion, prepared for almost a word of ridicule; but +he saw Sutch's right hand outstretched towards him.</p> + +<p>"When I come back," said Feversham, and he rose from his chair. He +gathered the feathers together and replaced them in his pocket-book.</p> + +<p>"I have told you everything," he said. "You see, I wait upon chance +opportunities; the three may not come in Egypt. They may never come at +all, and in that case I shall not come back at all. Or they may come +only at the very end and after many years. Therefore I thought that I +would like just one person to know the truth thoroughly in case I do not +come back. If you hear definitely that I never can come back, I would +be glad if you would tell my father."</p> + +<p>"I understand," said Sutch.</p> + +<p>"But don't tell him everything—I mean, not the last part, not what I +have just said about Ethne and my chief motive, for I do not think that +he would understand. Otherwise you will keep silence altogether. +Promise!"</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Sutch promised, but with an absent face, and Feversham +consequently insisted.</p> + +<p>"You will breathe no word of this to man or woman, however hard you may +be pressed, except to my father under the circumstances which I have +explained," said Feversham.</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Sutch promised a second time and without an instant's +hesitation. It was quite natural that Harry should lay some stress upon +the pledge, since any disclosure of his purpose might very well wear the +appearance of a foolish boast, and Sutch himself saw no reason why he +should refuse it. So he gave the promise and fettered his hands. His +thoughts, indeed, were occupied with the limit Harry had set upon the +knowledge which was to be imparted to General Feversham. Even if he died +with his mission unfulfilled, Sutch was to hide from the father that +which was best in the son, at the son's request. And the saddest part of +it, to Sutch's thinking, was that the son was right in so requesting. +For what he said was true—the father could not understand. Lieutenant +Sutch was brought back to the causes of the whole miserable business: +the premature death of the mother, who could have understood; the want +of comprehension in the father, who was left; and his own silence on +the Crimean night at Broad Place.</p> + +<p>"If only I had spoken," he said sadly. He dropped the end of his cigar +into his coffee-cup, and standing up, reached for his hat. "Many things +are irrevocable, Harry," he said, "but one never knows whether they are +irrevocable or not until one has found out. It is always worth while +finding out."</p> + +<p>The next evening Feversham crossed to Calais. It was a night as wild as +that on which Durrance had left England; and, like Durrance, Feversham +had a friend to see him off, for the last thing which his eyes beheld as +the packet swung away from the pier, was the face of Lieutenant Sutch +beneath a gas-lamp. The lieutenant maintained his position after the +boat had passed into the darkness and until the throb of its paddles +could no longer be heard. Then he limped through the rain to his hotel, +aware, and regretfully aware, that he was growing old. It was long since +he had felt regret on that account, and the feeling was very strange to +him. Ever since the Crimea he had been upon the world's half-pay list, +as he had once said to General Feversham, and what with that and the +recollection of a certain magical season before the Crimea, he had +looked forward to old age as an approaching friend. To-night, however, +he prayed that he might live just long enough to welcome back Muriel +Graham's son with his honour redeemed and his great fault atoned.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<h3>THE LAST RECONNAISSANCE</h3> + + +<p>"No one," said Durrance, and he strapped his field-glasses into the +leather case at his side.</p> + +<p>"No one, sir," Captain Mather agreed.</p> + +<p>"We will move forward."</p> + +<p>The scouts went on ahead, the troops resumed their formation, the two +seven-pounder mountain-guns closed up behind, and Durrance's detachment +of the Camel Corps moved down from the gloomy ridge of Khor Gwob, +thirty-five miles southwest of Suakin, into the plateau of Sinkat. It +was the last reconnaissance in strength before the evacuation of the +eastern Soudan.</p> + +<p>All through that morning the camels had jolted slowly up the gulley of +shale between red precipitous rocks, and when the rocks fell back, +between red mountain-heaps all crumbled into a desolation of stones. +Hardly a patch of grass or the ragged branches of a mimosa had broken +the monotony of ruin. And after that arid journey the green bushes of +Sinkat in the valley below comforted the eye with the pleasing aspect of +a park. The troopers sat their saddles with a greater alertness.</p> + +<p>They moved in a diagonal line across the plateau toward the mountains of +Erkoweet, a silent company on a plain still more silent. It was eleven +o'clock. The sun rose toward the centre of a colourless, cloudless sky, +the shadows of the camels shortened upon the sand, and the sand itself +glistened white as a beach of the Scilly Islands. There was no draught +of air that morning to whisper amongst the rich foliage, and the shadows +of the branches lay so distinct and motionless upon the ground that they +might themselves have been branches strewn there on some past day by a +storm. The only sounds that were audible were the sharp clank of +weapons, the soft ceaseless padding of the camels' feet, and at times +the whirr of a flight of pigeons disturbed by the approaching cavalcade. +Yet there was life on the plateau, though of a noiseless kind. For as +the leaders rode along the curves of sand, trim and smooth between the +shrubs like carriage drives, they would see from time to time, far ahead +of them, a herd of gazelle start up from the ground and race silently, a +flash of dappled brown and white, to the enclosing hills. It seemed that +here was a country during this last hour created.</p> + +<p>"Yet this way the caravans passed southwards to Erkoweet and the Khor +Baraka. Here the Suakis built their summer-houses," said Durrance, +answering the thought in his mind.</p> + +<p>"And there Tewfik fought, and died with his four hundred men," said +Mather, pointing forward.</p> + +<p>For three hours the troops marched across the plateau. It was the month +of May, and the sun blazed upon them with an intolerable heat. They had +long since lost their alertness. They rode rocking drowsily in their +saddles and prayed for the evening and the silver shine of stars. For +three hours the camels went mincing on with their queer smirking +motions of the head, and then quite suddenly a hundred yards ahead +Durrance saw a broken wall with window-spaces which let the sky through.</p> + +<p>"The fort," said he.</p> + +<p>Three years had passed since Osman Digna had captured and destroyed it, +but during these three years its roofless ruins had sustained another +siege, and one no less persistent. The quick-growing trees had so +closely girt and encroached upon it to the rear and to the right and to +the left, that the traveller came upon it unexpectedly, as Childe Roland +upon the Dark Tower in the plain. In the front, however, the sand still +stretched open to the wells, where three great Gemeiza trees of dark and +spreading foliage stood spaced like sentinels.</p> + +<p>In the shadow to the right front of the fort, where the bushes fringed +the open sand with the level regularity of a river bank, the soldiers +unsaddled their camels and prepared their food. Durrance and Captain +Mather walked round the fort, and as they came to the southern corner, +Durrance stopped.</p> + +<p>"Hallo!" said he.</p> + +<p>"Some Arab has camped here," said Mather, stopping in his turn. The grey +ashes of a wood fire lay in a little heap upon a blackened stone.</p> + +<p>"And lately," said Durrance.</p> + +<p>Mather walked on, mounted a few rough steps to the crumbled archway of +the entrance, and passed into the unroofed corridors and rooms. Durrance +turned the ashes over with his boot. The stump of a charred and whitened +twig glowed red. Durrance set his foot upon it, and a tiny thread of +smoke spurted into the air.</p> + +<p>"Very lately," he said to himself, and he followed Mather into the +fort. In the corners of the mud walls, in any fissure, in the very +floor, young trees were sprouting. Rearward a steep glacis and a deep +fosse defended the works. Durrance sat himself down upon the parapet of +the wall above the glacis, while the pigeons wheeled and circled +overhead, thinking of the long months during which Tewfik must daily +have strained his eyes from this very spot toward the pass over the +hills from Suakin, looking as that other general far to the south had +done, for the sunlight flashing on the weapons of the help which did not +come. Mather sat by his side and reflected in quite another spirit.</p> + +<p>"Already the Guards are steaming out through the coral reefs toward +Suez. A week and our turn comes," he said. "What a God-forsaken +country!"</p> + +<p>"I come back to it," said Durrance.</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"I like it. I like the people."</p> + +<p>Mather thought the taste unaccountable, but he knew nevertheless that, +however unaccountable in itself, it accounted for his companion's rapid +promotion and success. Sympathy had stood Durrance in the stead of much +ability. Sympathy had given him patience and the power to understand, so +that during these three years of campaign he had left far quicker and +far abler men behind him, in his knowledge of the sorely harassed tribes +of the eastern Soudan. He liked them; he could enter into their hatred +of the old Turkish rule, he could understand their fanaticism, and their +pretence of fanaticism under the compulsion of Osman Digna's hordes.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I shall come back," he said, "and in three months' time. For one +thing, we know—every Englishman in Egypt, too, knows—that this can't +be the end. I want to be here when the work's taken in hand again. I +hate unfinished things."</p> + +<p>The sun beat relentlessly upon the plateau; the men, stretched in the +shade, slept; the afternoon was as noiseless as the morning; Durrance +and Mather sat for some while compelled to silence by the silence +surrounding them. But Durrance's eyes turned at last from the +amphitheatre of hills; they lost their abstraction, they became intently +fixed upon the shrubbery beyond the glacis. He was no longer +recollecting Tewfik Bey and his heroic defence, or speculating upon the +work to be done in the years ahead. Without turning his head, he saw +that Mather was gazing in the same direction as himself.</p> + +<p>"What are you thinking about?" he asked suddenly of Mather.</p> + +<p>Mather laughed, and answered thoughtfully:—</p> + +<p>"I was drawing up the menu of the first dinner I will have when I reach +London. I will eat it alone, I think, quite alone, and at Epitaux. It +will begin with a watermelon. And you?"</p> + +<p>"I was wondering why, now that the pigeons have got used to our +presence, they should still be wheeling in and out of one particular +tree. Don't point to it, please! I mean the tree beyond the ditch, and +to the right of two small bushes."</p> + +<p>All about them they could see the pigeons quietly perched upon the +branches, spotting the foliage like a purple fruit. Only above the one +tree they circled and timorously called.</p> + +<p>"We will draw that covert," said Durrance. "Take a dozen men and +surround it quietly."</p> + +<p>He himself remained on the glacis watching the tree and the thick +undergrowth. He saw six soldiers creep round the shrubbery from the +left, six more from the right. But before they could meet and ring the +tree in, he saw the branches violently shaken, and an Arab with a roll +of yellowish dammar wound about his waist, and armed with a flat-headed +spear and a shield of hide, dashed from the shelter and raced out +between the soldiers into the open plain. He ran for a few yards only. +For Mather gave a sharp order to his men, and the Arab, as though he +understood that order, came to a stop before a rifle could be lifted to +a shoulder. He walked quietly back to Mather. He was brought up on to +the glacis, where he stood before Durrance without insolence or +servility.</p> + +<p>He explained in Arabic that he was a man of the Kabbabish tribe named +Abou Fatma, and friendly to the English. He was on his way to Suakin.</p> + +<p>"Why did you hide?" asked Durrance.</p> + +<p>"It was safer. I knew you for my friends. But, my gentleman, did you +know me for yours?"</p> + +<p>Then Durrance said quickly, "You speak English," and Durrance spoke in +English.</p> + +<p>The answer came without hesitation.</p> + +<p>"I know a few words."</p> + +<p>"Where did you learn them?"</p> + +<p>"In Khartum."</p> + +<p>Thereafter he was left alone with Durrance on the glacis, and the two +men talked together for the best part of an hour. At the end of that +time the Arab was seen to descend the glacis, cross the trench, and +proceed toward the hills. Durrance gave the order for the resumption of +the march.</p> + +<p>The water-tanks were filled, the men replenished their zamshyehs, +knowing that of all thirsts in this world the afternoon thirst is the +very worst, saddled their camels, and mounted to the usual groaning and +snarling. The detachment moved northwestward from Sinkat, at an acute +angle to its morning's march. It skirted the hills opposite to the pass +from which it had descended in the morning. The bushes grew sparse. It +came into a black country of stones scantily relieved by yellow +tasselled mimosas.</p> + +<p>Durrance called Mather to his side.</p> + +<p>"That Arab had a strange story to tell me. He was Gordon's servant in +Khartum. At the beginning of 1884, eighteen months ago in fact, Gordon +gave him a letter which he was to take to Berber, whence the contents +were to be telegraphed to Cairo. But Berber had just fallen when the +messenger arrived there. He was seized upon and imprisoned the day after +his arrival. But during the one day which he had free he hid the letter +in the wall of a house, and so far as he knows it has not been +discovered."</p> + +<p>"He would have been questioned if it had been," said Mather.</p> + +<p>"Precisely, and he was not questioned. He escaped from Berber at night, +three weeks ago. The story is curious, eh?"</p> + +<p>"And the letter still remains in the wall? It is curious. Perhaps the +man was telling lies."</p> + +<p>"He had the chain mark on his ankles," said Durrance.</p> + +<p>The cavalcade turned to the left into the hills on the northern side of +the plateau, and climbed again over shale.</p> + +<p>"A letter from Gordon," said Durrance, in a musing voice, "scribbled +perhaps upon the roof-top of his palace, by the side of his great +telescope—a sentence written in haste, and his eye again to the lens, +searching over the palm trees for the smoke of the steamers—and it +comes down the Nile to be buried in a mud wall in Berber. Yes, it's +curious," and he turned his face to the west and the sinking sun. Even +as he looked, the sun dipped behind the hills. The sky above his head +darkened rapidly, to violet; in the west it flamed a glory of colours +rich and iridescent. The colours lost their violence and blended +delicately into one rose hue, the rose lingered for a little, and, +fading in its turn, left a sky of the purest emerald green transfused +with light from beneath rim of the world.</p> + +<p>"If only they had let us go last year westward to the Nile," he said +with a sort of passion. "Before Khartum had fallen, before Berber had +surrendered. But they would not."</p> + +<p>The magic of the sunset was not at all in Durrance's thoughts. The story +of the letter had struck upon a chord of reverence within him. He was +occupied with the history of that honest, great, impracticable soldier, +who, despised by officials and thwarted by intrigues, a man of few ties +and much loneliness, had gone unflaggingly about his work, knowing the +while that the moment his back was turned the work was in an instant all +undone.</p> + +<p>Darkness came upon the troops, the camels quickened their pace, the +cicadas shrilled from every tuft of grass. The detachment moved down +toward the well of Disibil. Durrance lay long awake that night on his +camp bedstead spread out beneath the stars. He forgot the letter in the +mud wall. Southward the Southern Cross hung slanting in the sky, above +him glittered the curve of the Great Bear. In a week he would sail for +England; he lay awake, counting up the years since the packet had cast +off from Dover pier, and he found that the tale of them was good. +Kassassin, Tel-el-Kebir, the rush down the Red Sea, Tokar, Tamai, +Tamanieb—the crowded moments came vividly to his mind. He thrilled even +now at the recollection of the Hadendowas leaping and stabbing through +the breach of McNeil's zareba six miles from Suakin; he recalled the +obdurate defence of the Berkshires, the steadiness of the Marines, the +rallying of the broken troops. The years had been good years, years of +plenty, years which had advanced him to the brevet-rank of +lieutenant-colonel.</p> + +<p>"A week more—only a week," murmured Mather, drowsily.</p> + +<p>"I shall come back," said Durrance, with a laugh.</p> + +<p>"Have you no friends?"</p> + +<p>And there was a pause.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I have friends. I shall have three months wherein to see them."</p> + +<p>Durrance had written no word to Harry Feversham during these years. Not +to write letters was indeed a part of the man. Correspondence was a +difficulty to him. He was thinking now that he would surprise his +friends by a visit to Donegal, or he might find them perhaps in London. +He would ride once again in the Row. But in the end he would come back. +For his friend was married, and to Ethne Eustace, and as for himself his +life's work lay here in the Soudan. He would certainly come back. And +so, turning on his side, he slept dreamlessly while the hosts of the +stars trampled across the heavens above his head.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Now, at this moment Abou Fatma of the Kabbabish tribe was sleeping under +a boulder on the Khor Gwob. He rose early and continued along the broad +plains to the white city of Suakin. There he repeated the story which he +had told to Durrance to one Captain Willoughby, who was acting for the +time as deputy-governor. After he had come from the Palace he told his +story again, but this time in the native bazaar. He told it in Arabic, +and it happened that a Greek seated outside a café close at hand +overheard something of what was said. The Greek took Abou Fatma aside, +and with a promise of much merissa, wherewith to intoxicate himself, +induced him to tell it a fourth time and very slowly.</p> + +<p>"Could you find the house again?" asked the Greek.</p> + +<p>Abou Fatma had no doubts upon that score. He proceeded to draw diagrams +in the dust, not knowing that during his imprisonment the town of Berber +had been steadily pulled down by the Mahdists and rebuilt to the north.</p> + +<p>"It will be wise to speak of this to no one except me," said the Greek, +jingling some significant dollars, and for a long while the two men +talked secretly together. The Greek happened to be Harry Feversham whom +Durrance was proposing to visit in Donegal. Captain Willoughby was +Deputy-Governor of Suakin, and after three years of waiting one of Harry +Feversham's opportunities had come.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<h3>LIEUTENANT SUTCH IS TEMPTED TO LIE</h3> + + +<p>Durrance reached London one morning in June, and on that afternoon took +the first walk of the exile, into Hyde Park, where he sat beneath the +trees marvelling at the grace of his countrywomen and the delicacy of +their apparel, a solitary figure, sunburnt and stamped already with that +indefinable expression of the eyes and face which marks the men set +apart in the distant corners of the world. Amongst the people who +strolled past him, one, however, smiled, and, as he rose from his chair, +Mrs. Adair came to his side. She looked him over from head to foot with +a quick and almost furtive glance which might have told even Durrance +something of the place which he held in her thoughts. She was comparing +him with the picture which she had of him now three years old. She was +looking for the small marks of change which those three years might have +brought about, and with eyes of apprehension. But Durrance only noticed +that she was dressed in black. She understood the question in his mind +and answered it.</p> + +<p>"My husband died eighteen months ago," she explained in a quiet voice. +"He was thrown from his horse during a run with the Pytchley. He was +killed at once."</p> + +<p>"I had not heard," Durrance answered awkwardly. "I am very sorry."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair took a chair beside him and did not reply. She was a woman of +perplexing silences; and her pale and placid face, with its cold correct +outline, gave no clue to the thoughts with which she occupied them. She +sat without stirring. Durrance was embarrassed. He remembered Mr. Adair +as a good-humoured man, whose one chief quality was his evident +affection for his wife, but with what eyes the wife had looked upon him +he had never up till now considered. Mr. Adair indeed had been at the +best a shadowy figure in that small household, and Durrance found it +difficult even to draw upon his recollections for any full expression of +regret. He gave up the attempt and asked:—</p> + +<p>"Are Harry Feversham and his wife in town?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair was slow to reply.</p> + +<p>"Not yet," she said, after a pause, but immediately she corrected +herself, and said a little hurriedly, "I mean—the marriage never took +place."</p> + +<p>Durrance was not a man easily startled, and even when he was, his +surprise was not expressed in exclamations.</p> + +<p>"I don't think that I understand. Why did it never take place?" he +asked. Mrs. Adair looked sharply at him, as though inquiring for the +reason of his deliberate tones.</p> + +<p>"I don't know why," she said. "Ethne can keep a secret if she wishes," +and Durrance nodded his assent. "The marriage was broken off on the +night of a dance at Lennon House."</p> + +<p>Durrance turned at once to her.</p> + +<p>"Just before I left England three years ago?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Then you knew?"</p> + +<p>"No. Only you have explained to me something which occurred on the very +night that I left Dover. What has become of Harry?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair shrugged her shoulders.</p> + +<p>"I do not know. I have met no one who does know. I do not think that I +have met any one who has even seen him since that time. He must have +left England."</p> + +<p>Durrance pondered on this mysterious disappearance. It was Harry +Feversham, then, whom he had seen upon the pier as the Channel boat cast +off. The man with the troubled and despairing face was, after all, his +friend.</p> + +<p>"And Miss Eustace?" he asked after a pause, with a queer timidity. "She +has married since?"</p> + +<p>Again Mrs. Adair took her time to reply.</p> + +<p>"No," said she.</p> + +<p>"Then she is still at Ramelton?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair shook her head.</p> + +<p>"There was a fire at Lennon House a year ago. Did you ever hear of a +constable called Bastable?"</p> + +<p>"Indeed, I did. He was the means of introducing me to Miss Eustace and +her father. I was travelling from Londonderry to Letterkenny. I received +a letter from Mr. Eustace, whom I did not know, but who knew from my +friends at Letterkenny that I was coming past his house. He asked me to +stay the night with him. Naturally enough I declined, with the result +that Bastable arrested me on a magistrate's warrant as soon as I landed +from the ferry."</p> + +<p>"That is the man," said Mrs. Adair, and she told Durrance the history +of the fire. It appeared that Bastable's claim to Dermod's friendship +rested upon his skill in preparing a particular brew of toddy, which +needed a single oyster simmering in the saucepan to give it its +perfection of flavour. About two o'clock of a June morning the spirit +lamp on which the saucepan stewed had been overset; neither of the two +confederates in drink had their wits about them at the moment, and the +house was half burnt and the rest of it ruined by water before the fire +could be got under.</p> + +<p>"There were consequences still more distressing than the destruction of +the house," she continued. "The fire was a beacon warning to Dermod's +creditors for one thing, and Dermod, already overpowered with debts, +fell in a day upon complete ruin. He was drenched by the water hoses +besides, and took a chill which nearly killed him, from the effects of +which he has never recovered. You will find him a broken man. The +estates are let, and Ethne is now living with her father in a little +mountain village in Donegal."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair had not looked at Durrance while she spoke. She kept her eyes +fixed steadily in front of her, and indeed she spoke without feeling on +one side or the other, but rather like a person constraining herself to +speech because speech was a necessity. Nor did she turn to look at +Durrance when she had done.</p> + +<p>"So she has lost everything?" said Durrance.</p> + +<p>"She still has a home in Donegal," returned Mrs. Adair.</p> + +<p>"And that means a great deal to her," said Durrance, slowly. "Yes, I +think you are right."</p> + +<p>"It means," said Mrs. Adair, "that Ethne with all her ill-luck has +reason to be envied by many other women."</p> + +<p>Durrance did not answer that suggestion directly. He watched the +carriages drive past, he listened to the chatter and the laughter of the +people about him, his eyes were refreshed by the women in their +light-coloured frocks; and all the time his slow mind was working toward +the lame expression of his philosophy. Mrs. Adair turned to him with a +slight impatience in the end.</p> + +<p>"Of what are you thinking?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"That women suffer much more than men when the world goes wrong with +them," he answered, and the answer was rather a question than a definite +assertion. "I know very little, of course. I can only guess. But I think +women gather up into themselves what they have been through much more +than we do. To them what is past becomes a real part of them, as much a +part of them as a limb; to us it's always something external, at the +best the rung of a ladder, at the worst a weight on the heel. Don't you +think so, too? I phrase the thought badly. But put it this way: Women +look backwards, we look ahead; so misfortune hits them harder, eh?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair answered in her own way. She did not expressly agree. But a +certain humility became audible in her voice.</p> + +<p>"The mountain village at which Ethne is living," she said in a low +voice, "is called Glenalla. A track strikes up towards it from the road +halfway between Rathmullen and Ramelton." She rose as she finished the +sentence and held out her hand. "Shall I see you?"</p> + +<p>"You are still in Hill Street?" said Durrance. "I shall be for a time +in London."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair raised her eyebrows. She looked always by nature for the +intricate and concealed motive, so that conduct which sprang from a +reason, obvious and simple, was likely to baffle her. She was baffled +now by Durrance's resolve to remain in town. Why did he not travel at +once to Donegal, she asked herself, since thither his thoughts +undoubtedly preceded him. She heard of his continual presence at his +Service Club, and could not understand. She did not even have a +suspicion of his motive when he himself informed her that he had +travelled into Surrey and had spent a day with General Feversham.</p> + +<p>It had been an ineffectual day for Durrance. The general kept him +steadily to the history of the campaign from which he had just returned. +Only once was he able to approach the topic of Harry Feversham's +disappearance, and at the mere mention of his son's name the old +general's face set like plaster. It became void of expression and +inattentive as a mask.</p> + +<p>"We will talk of something else, if you please," said he; and Durrance +returned to London not an inch nearer to Donegal.</p> + +<p>Thereafter he sat under the great tree in the inner courtyard of his +club, talking to this man and to that, and still unsatisfied with the +conversation. All through that June the afternoons and evenings found +him at his post. Never a friend of Feversham's passed by the tree but +Durrance had a word for him, and the word led always to a question. But +the question elicited no answer except a shrug of the shoulders, and a +"Hanged if I know!"</p> + +<p>Harry Feversham's place knew him no more; he had dropped even out of the +speculations of his friends.</p> + +<p>Toward the end of June, however, an old retired naval officer limped +into the courtyard, saw Durrance, hesitated, and began with a remarkable +alacrity to move away.</p> + +<p>Durrance sprang up from his seat.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Sutch," said he. "You have forgotten me?"</p> + +<p>"Colonel Durrance, to be sure," said the embarrassed lieutenant. "It is +some while since we met, but I remember you very well now. I think we +met—let me see—where was it? An old man's memory, Colonel Durrance, is +like a leaky ship. It comes to harbour with its cargo of recollections +swamped."</p> + +<p>Neither the lieutenant's present embarrassment nor his previous +hesitation escaped Durrance's notice.</p> + +<p>"We met at Broad Place," said he. "I wish you to give me news of my +friend Feversham. Why was his engagement with Miss Eustace broken off? +Where is he now?"</p> + +<p>The lieutenant's eyes gleamed for a moment with satisfaction. He had +always been doubtful whether Durrance was aware of Harry's fall into +disgrace. Durrance plainly did not know.</p> + +<p>"There is only one person in the world, I believe," said Sutch, "who can +answer both your questions."</p> + +<p>Durrance was in no way disconcerted.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I have waited here a month for you," he replied.</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Sutch pushed his fingers through his beard, and stared down +at his companion.</p> + +<p>"Well, it is true," he admitted. "I can answer your questions, but I +will not."</p> + +<p>"Harry Feversham is my friend."</p> + +<p>"General Feversham is his father, yet he knows only half the truth. Miss +Eustace was betrothed to him, and she knows no more. I pledged my word +to Harry that I would keep silence."</p> + +<p>"It is not curiosity which makes me ask."</p> + +<p>"I am sure that, on the contrary, it is friendship," said the +lieutenant, cordially.</p> + +<p>"Nor that entirely. There is another aspect of the matter. I will not +ask you to answer my questions, but I will put a third one to you. It is +one harder for me to ask than for you to answer. Would a friend of Harry +Feversham be at all disloyal to that friendship, if"—and Durrance +flushed beneath his sunburn—"if he tried his luck with Miss Eustace?"</p> + +<p>The question startled Lieutenant Sutch.</p> + +<p>"You?" he exclaimed, and he stood considering Durrance, remembering the +rapidity of his promotion, speculating upon his likelihood to take a +woman's fancy. Here was an aspect of the case, indeed, to which he had +not given a thought, and he was no less troubled than startled. For +there had grown up within him a jealousy on behalf of Harry Feversham as +strong as a mother's for a favourite second son. He had nursed with a +most pleasurable anticipation a hope that, in the end, Harry would come +back to all that he once had owned, like a rethroned king. He stared at +Durrance and saw the hope stricken. Durrance looked the man of courage +which his record proved him to be, and Lieutenant Sutch had his theory +of women. "Brute courage—they make a god of it."</p> + +<p>"Well?" asked Durrance.</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Sutch was aware that he must answer. He was sorely tempted to +lie. For he knew enough of the man who questioned him to be certain that +the lie would have its effect. Durrance would go back to the Soudan, and +leave his suit unpressed.</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>Sutch looked up at the sky and down upon the flags. Harry had foreseen +that this complication was likely to occur, he had not wished that Ethne +should wait. Sutch imagined him at this very moment, lost somewhere +under the burning sun, and compared that picture with the one before his +eyes—the successful soldier taking his ease at his club. He felt +inclined to break his promise, to tell the whole truth, to answer both +the questions which Durrance had first asked. And again the pitiless +monosyllable demanded his reply.</p> + +<p>"Well?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Sutch, regretfully. "There would be no disloyalty."</p> + +<p>And on that evening Durrance took the train for Holyhead.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<h3>AT GLENALLA</h3> + + +<p>The farm-house stood a mile above the village, in a wild moorland +country. The heather encroached upon its garden, and the bridle-path +ended at its door. On three sides an amphitheatre of hills, which +changed so instantly to the season that it seemed one could distinguish +from day to day a new gradation in their colours, harboured it like a +ship. No trees grew upon those hills, the granite cropped out amidst the +moss and heather; but they had a friendly sheltering look, and Durrance +came almost to believe that they put on their different draperies of +emerald green, and purple, and russet brown consciously to delight the +eyes of the girl they sheltered. The house faced the long slope of +country to the inlet of the Lough. From the windows the eye reached down +over the sparse thickets, the few tilled fields, the whitewashed +cottages, to the tall woods upon the bank, and caught a glimpse of +bright water and the gulls poising and dipping above it. Durrance rode +up the track upon an afternoon and knew the house at once. For as he +approached, the music of a violin floated towards him from the windows +like a welcome. His hand was checked upon the reins, and a particular +strong hope, about which he had allowed his fancies to play, rose up +within him and suspended his breath.</p> + +<p>He tied up his horse and entered in at the gate. A formless barrack +without, the house within was a place of comfort. The room into which he +was shown, with its brasses and its gleaming oak and its wide prospect, +was bright as the afternoon itself. Durrance imagined it, too, with the +blinds drawn upon a winter's night, and the fire red on the hearth, and +the wind skirling about the hills and rapping on the panes.</p> + +<p>Ethne greeted him without the least mark of surprise.</p> + +<p>"I thought that you would come," she said, and a smile shone upon her +face.</p> + +<p>Durrance laughed suddenly as they shook hands, and Ethne wondered why. +She followed the direction of his eyes towards the violin which lay upon +a table at her side. It was pale in colour; there was a mark, too, close +to the bridge, where a morsel of worm-eaten wood had been replaced.</p> + +<p>"It is yours," she said. "You were in Egypt. I could not well send it +back to you there."</p> + +<p>"I have hoped lately, since I knew," returned Durrance, "that, +nevertheless, you would accept it."</p> + +<p>"You see I have," said Ethne, and looking straight into his eyes she +added: "I accepted it some while ago. There was a time when I needed to +be assured that I had sure friends. And a thing tangible helped. I was +very glad to have it."</p> + +<p>Durrance took the instrument from the table, handling it delicately, +like a sacred vessel.</p> + +<p>"You have played upon it? The Musoline overture, perhaps," said he.</p> + +<p>"Do you remember that?" she returned, with a laugh. "Yes, I have played +upon it, but only recently. For a long time I put my violin away. It +talked to me too intimately of many things which I wished to forget," +and these words, like the rest, she spoke without hesitation or any +down-dropping of the eyes.</p> + +<p>Durrance fetched up his luggage from Rathmullen the next day, and stayed +at the farm for a week. But up to the last hour of his visit no further +reference was made to Harry Feversham by either Ethne or Durrance, +although they were thrown much into each other's company. For Dermod was +even more broken than Mrs. Adair's description had led Durrance to +expect. His speech was all dwindled to monosyllables; his frame was +shrunken, and his clothes bagged upon his limbs; his very stature seemed +lessened; even the anger was clouded from his eye; he had become a +stay-at-home, dozing for the most part of the day by a fire, even in +that July weather; his longest walk was to the little grey church which +stood naked upon a mound some quarter of a mile away and within view of +the windows, and even that walk taxed his strength. He was an old man +fallen upon decrepitude, and almost out of recognition, so that his +gestures and the rare tones of his voice struck upon Durrance as +something painful, like the mimicry of a dead man. His collie dog seemed +to age in company, and, to see them side by side, one might have said, +in sympathy.</p> + +<p>Durrance and Ethne were thus thrown much together. By day, in the wet +weather or the fine, they tramped the hills, while she, with the colour +glowing in her face, and her eyes most jealous and eager, showed him +her country and exacted his admiration. In the evenings she would take +her violin, and sitting as of old with an averted face, she would bid +the strings speak of the heights and depths. Durrance sat watching the +sweep of her arm, the absorption of her face, and counting up his +chances. He had not brought with him to Glenalla Lieutenant Sutch's +anticipations that he would succeed. The shadow of Harry Feversham might +well separate them. For another thing, he knew very well that poverty +would fall more lightly upon her than upon most women. He had indeed had +proofs of that. Though the Lennon House was altogether ruined, and its +lands gone from her, Ethne was still amongst her own people. They still +looked eagerly for her visits; she was still the princess of that +country-side. On the other hand, she took a frank pleasure in his +company, and she led him to speak of his three years' service in the +East. No detail was too insignificant for her inquiries, and while he +spoke her eyes continually sounded him, and the smile upon her lips +continually approved. Durrance did not understand what she was after. +Possibly no one could have understood unless he was aware of what had +passed between Harry Feversham and Ethne. Durrance wore the likeness of +a man, and she was anxious to make sure that the spirit of a man +informed it. He was a dark lantern to her. There might be a flame +burning within, or there might be mere vacancy and darkness. She was +pushing back the slide so that she might be sure.</p> + +<p>She led him to speak of Egypt upon the last day of his visit. They were +seated upon the hillside, on the edge of a stream which leaped from +ledge to ledge down a miniature gorge of rock, and flowed over deep +pools between the ledges very swiftly, a torrent of clear black water.</p> + +<p>"I travelled once for four days amongst the mirages," he +said,—"lagoons, still as a mirror and fringed with misty trees. You +could almost walk your camel up to the knees in them, before the lagoon +receded and the sand glared at you. And one cannot imagine that glare. +Every stone within view dances and shakes like a heliograph; you can +see—yes, actually see—the heat flow breast high across the desert +swift as this stream here, only pellucid. So till the sun sets ahead of +you level with your eyes! Imagine the nights which follow—nights of +infinite silence, with a cool friendly wind blowing from horizon to +horizon—and your bed spread for you under the great dome of stars. Oh," +he cried, drawing a deep breath, "but that country grows on you. It's +like the Southern Cross—four overrated stars when first you see them, +but in a week you begin to look for them, and you miss them when you +travel north again." He raised himself upon his elbow and turned +suddenly towards her. "Do you know—I can only speak for myself—but I +never feel alone in those empty spaces. On the contrary, I always feel +very close to the things I care about, and to the few people I care +about too."</p> + +<p>Her eyes shone very brightly upon him, her lips parted in a smile. He +moved nearer to her upon the grass, and sat with his feet gathered under +him upon one side, and leaning upon his arm.</p> + +<p>"I used to imagine you out there," he said. "You would have loved +it—from the start before daybreak, in the dark, to the camp-fire at +night. You would have been at home. I used to think so as I lay awake +wondering how the world went with my friends."</p> + +<p>"And you go back there?" she said.</p> + +<p>Durrance did not immediately answer. The roar of the torrent throbbed +about them. When he did speak, all the enthusiasm had gone from his +voice. He spoke gazing into the stream.</p> + +<p>"To Wadi Halfa. For two years. I suppose so."</p> + +<p>Ethne kneeled upon the grass at his side.</p> + +<p>"I shall miss you," she said.</p> + +<p>She was kneeling just behind him as he sat on the ground, and again +there fell a silence between them.</p> + +<p>"Of what are you thinking?"</p> + +<p>"That you need not miss me," he said, and he was aware that she drew +back and sank down upon her heels. "My appointment at Halfa—I might +shorten its term. I might perhaps avoid it altogether. I have still half +my furlough."</p> + +<p>She did not answer nor did she change her attitude. She remained very +still, and Durrance was alarmed, and all his hopes sank. For a stillness +of attitude he knew to be with her as definite an expression of distress +as a cry of pain with another woman. He turned about towards her. Her +head was bent, but she raised it as he turned, and though her lips +smiled, there was a look of great trouble in her eyes. Durrance was a +man like another. His first thought was whether there was not some +obstacle which would hinder her from compliance, even though she +herself were willing.</p> + +<p>"There is your father," he said.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered, "there is my father too. I could not leave him."</p> + +<p>"Nor need you," said he, quickly. "That difficulty can be surmounted. To +tell the truth I was not thinking of your father at the moment."</p> + +<p>"Nor was I," said she.</p> + +<p>Durrance turned away and sat for a little while staring down the rocks +into a wrinkled pool of water just beneath. It was after all the shadow +of Feversham which stretched between himself and her.</p> + +<p>"I know, of course," he said, "that you would never feel trouble, as so +many do, with half your heart. You would neither easily care nor lightly +forget."</p> + +<p>"I remember enough," she returned in a low voice, "to make your words +rather a pain to me. Some day perhaps I may bring myself to tell +everything which happened at that ball three years ago, and then you +will be better able to understand why I am a little distressed. All that +I can tell you now is this: I have a great fear that I was to some +degree the cause of another man's ruin. I do not mean that I was to +blame for it. But if I had not been known to him, his career might +perhaps never have come to so abrupt an end. I am not sure, but I am +afraid. I asked whether it was so, and I was told 'no,' but I think very +likely that generosity dictated that answer. And the fear stays. I am +much distressed by it. I lie awake with it at night. And then you come +whom I greatly value, and you say quietly, 'Will you please spoil my +career too?'" And she struck one hand sharply into the other and cried, +"But that I will not do."</p> + +<p>And again he answered:—</p> + +<p>"There is no need that you should. Wadi Halfa is not the only place +where a soldier can find work to his hand."</p> + +<p>His voice had taken a new hopefulness. For he had listened intently to +the words which she had spoken, and he had construed them by the +dictionary of his desires. She had not said that friendship bounded all +her thoughts of him. Therefore he need not believe it. Women were given +to a hinting modesty of speech, at all events the best of them. A man +might read a little more emphasis into their tones, and underline their +words and still be short of their meaning, as he argued. A subtle +delicacy graced them in nature. Durrance was near to Benedick's mood. +"One whom I value"; "I shall miss you"; there might be a double meaning +in the phrases. When she said that she needed to be assured that she had +sure friends, did she not mean that she needed their companionship? But +the argument, had he been acute enough to see it, proved how deep he was +sunk in error. For what this girl spoke, she habitually meant, and she +habitually meant no more. Moreover, upon this occasion she had +particularly weighed her words.</p> + +<p>"No doubt," she said, "<i>a</i> soldier can. But can this soldier find work +so suitable? Listen, please, till I have done. I was so very glad to +hear all that you have told me about your work and your journeys. I was +still more glad because of the satisfaction with which you told it. For +it seemed to me, as I listened and as I watched, that you had found the +one true straight channel along which your life could run swift and +smoothly and unharassed. And so few do that—so very few!" And she wrung +her hands and cried, "And now you spoil it all."</p> + +<p>Durrance suddenly faced her. He ceased from argument; he cried in a +voice of passion:—</p> + +<p>"I am for you, Ethne! There's the true straight channel, and upon my +word I believe you are for me. I thought—I admit it—at one time I +would spend my life out there in the East, and the thought contented me. +But I had schooled myself into contentment, for I believed you married." +Ethne ever so slightly flinched, and he himself recognised that he had +spoken in a voice overloud, so that it had something almost of +brutality.</p> + +<p>"Do I hurt you?" he continued. "I am sorry. But let me speak the whole +truth out, I cannot afford reticence, I want you to know the first and +last of it. I say now that I love you. Yes, but I could have said it +with equal truth five years ago. It is five years since your father +arrested me at the ferry down there on Lough Swilly, because I wished to +press on to Letterkenny and not delay a night by stopping with a +stranger. Five years since I first saw you, first heard the language of +your violin. I remember how you sat with your back towards me. The light +shone on your hair; I could just see your eyelashes and the colour of +your cheeks. I remember the sweep of your arm.... My dear, you are for +me; I am for you."</p> + +<p>But she drew back from his outstretched hands.</p> + +<p>"No," she said very gently, but with a decision he could not mistake. +She saw more clearly into his mind than he did himself. The restlessness +of the born traveller, the craving for the large and lonely spaces in +the outlandish corners of the world, the incurable intermittent fever to +be moving, ever moving amongst strange peoples and under strange +skies—these were deep-rooted qualities of the man. Passion might +obscure them for a while, but they would make their appeal in the end, +and the appeal would torture. The home would become a prison. Desires +would so clash within him, there could be no happiness. That was the +man. For herself, she looked down the slope of the hill across the brown +country. Away on the right waved the woods about Ramelton, at her feet +flashed a strip of the Lough; and this was her country; she was its +child and the sister of its people.</p> + +<p>"No," she repeated, as she rose to her feet. Durrance rose with her. He +was still not so much disheartened as conscious of a blunder. He had put +his case badly; he should never have given her the opportunity to think +that marriage would be an interruption of his career.</p> + +<p>"We will say good-bye here," she said, "in the open. We shall be none +the less good friends because three thousand miles hinder us from +shaking hands."</p> + +<p>They shook hands as she spoke.</p> + +<p>"I shall be in England again in a year's time," said Durrance. "May I +come back?"</p> + +<p>Ethne's eyes and her smile consented.</p> + +<p>"I should be sorry to lose you altogether," she said, "although even if +I did not see you, I should know that I had not lost your friendship." +She added, "I should also be glad to hear news of you and what you are +doing, if ever you have the time to spare."</p> + +<p>"I may write?" he exclaimed eagerly.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered, and his eagerness made her linger a little +doubtfully upon the word. "That is, if you think it fair. I mean, it +might be best for you, perhaps, to get rid of me entirely from your +thoughts;" and Durrance laughed and without any bitterness, so that in a +moment Ethne found herself laughing too, though at what she laughed she +would have discovered it difficult to explain. "Very well, write to me +then." And she added drily, "But it will be about—other things."</p> + +<p>And again Durrance read into her words the interpretation he desired; +and again she meant just what she said, and not a word more.</p> + +<p>She stood where he left her, a tall, strong-limbed figure of womanhood, +until he was gone out of sight. Then she climbed down to the house, and +going into her room took one of her violins from its case. But it was +the violin which Durrance had given to her, and before she had touched +the strings with her bow she recognised it and put it suddenly away from +her in its case. She snapped the case to. For a few moments she sat +motionless in her chair, then she quickly crossed the room, and, taking +her keys, unlocked a drawer. At the bottom of the drawer there lay +hidden a photograph, and at this she looked for a long while and very +wistfully.</p> + +<p>Durrance meanwhile walked down to the trap which was waiting for him at +the gates of the house, and saw that Dermod Eustace stood in the road +with his hat upon his head.</p> + +<p>"I will walk a few yards with you, Colonel Durrance," said Dermod. "I +have a word for your ear."</p> + +<p>Durrance suited his stride to the old man's faltering step, and they +walked behind the dog-cart, and in silence. It was not the mere personal +disappointment which weighed upon Durrance's spirit. But he could not +see with Ethne's eyes, and as his gaze took in that quiet corner of +Donegal, he was filled with a great sadness lest all her life should be +passed in this seclusion, her grave dug in the end under the wall of the +tiny church, and her memory linger only in a few white cottages +scattered over the moorland, and for a very little while. He was +recalled by the pressure of Dermod's hand upon his elbow. There was a +gleam of inquiry in the old man's faded eyes, but it seemed that speech +itself was a difficulty.</p> + +<p>"You have news for me?" he asked, after some hesitation. "News of Harry +Feversham? I thought that I would ask you before you went away."</p> + +<p>"None," said Durrance.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry," replied Dermod, wistfully, "though I have no reason for +sorrow. He struck us a cruel blow, Colonel Durrance.—I should have +nothing but curses for him in my mouth and my heart. A black-throated +coward my reason calls him, and yet I would be very glad to hear how the +world goes with him. You were his friend. But you do not know?"</p> + +<p>It was actually of Harry Feversham that Dermod Eustace was speaking, and +Durrance, as he remarked the old man's wistfulness of voice and face, +was seized with a certain remorse that he had allowed Ethne so to +thrust his friend out of his thoughts. He speculated upon the mystery of +Harry Feversham's disappearance at times as he sat in the evening upon +his verandah above the Nile at Wadi Halfa, piecing together the few +hints which he had gathered. "A black-throated coward," Dermod had +called Harry Feversham, and Ethne had said enough to assure him that +something graver than any dispute, something which had destroyed all her +faith in the man, had put an end to their betrothal. But he could not +conjecture at the particular cause, and the only consequence of his +perplexed imaginings was the growth of a very real anger within him +against the man who had been his friend. So the winter passed, and +summer came to the Soudan and the month of May.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<h3>THE WELLS OF OBAK</h3> + + +<p>In that month of May Durrance lifted his eyes from Wadi Halfa and began +eagerly to look homeward. But in the contrary direction, five hundred +miles to the south of his frontier town, on the other side of the great +Nubian desert and the Belly of Stones, the events of real importance to +him were occurring without his knowledge. On the deserted track between +Berber and Suakin the wells of Obak are sunk deep amongst mounds of +shifting sand. Eastward a belt of trees divides the dunes from a hard +stony plain built upon with granite hills; westward the desert stretches +for fifty-eight waterless miles to Mahobey and Berber on the Nile, a +desert so flat that the merest tuft of grass knee-high seems at the +distance of a mile a tree promising shade for a noonday halt, and a pile +of stones no bigger than one might see by the side of any roadway in +repair achieves the stature of a considerable hill. In this particular +May there could be no spot more desolate than the wells of Obak. The sun +blazed upon it from six in the morning with an intolerable heat, and all +night the wind blew across it piercingly cold, and played with the sand +as it would, building pyramids house-high and levelling them, tunnelling +valleys, silting up long slopes, so that the face of the country was +continually changed. The vultures and the sand-grouse held it +undisturbed in a perpetual tenancy. And to make the spot yet more +desolate, there remained scattered here and there the bleached bones and +skeletons of camels to bear evidence that about these wells once the +caravans had crossed and halted; and the remnants of a house built of +branches bent in hoops showed that once Arabs had herded their goats and +made their habitation there. Now the sun rose and set, and the hot sky +pressed upon an empty round of honey-coloured earth. Silence brooded +there like night upon the waters; and the absolute stillness made it a +place of mystery and expectation.</p> + +<p>Yet in this month of May one man sojourned by the wells and sojourned +secretly. Every morning at sunrise he drove two camels, swift +riding-mares of the pure Bisharin breed, from the belt of trees, watered +them, and sat by the well-mouth for the space of three hours. Then he +drove them back again into the shelter of the trees, and fed them +delicately with dhoura upon a cloth; and for the rest of the day he +appeared no more. For five mornings he thus came from his hiding-place +and sat looking toward the sand-dunes and Berber, and no one approached +him. But on the sixth, as he was on the point of returning to his +shelter, he saw the figures of a man and a donkey suddenly outlined +against the sky upon a crest of the sand. The Arab seated by the well +looked first at the donkey, and, remarking its grey colour, half rose to +his feet. But as he rose he looked at the man who drove it, and saw that +while his jellab was drawn forward over his face to protect it from the +sun, his bare legs showed of an ebony blackness against the sand. The +donkey-driver was a negro. The Arab sat down again and waited with an +air of the most complete indifference for the stranger to descend to +him. He did not even move or turn when he heard the negro's feet +treading the sand close behind him.</p> + +<p>"Salam aleikum," said the negro, as he stopped. He carried a long spear +and a short one, and a shield of hide. These he laid upon the ground and +sat by the Arab's side.</p> + +<p>The Arab bowed his head and returned the salutation.</p> + +<p>"Aleikum es salam," said he, and he waited.</p> + +<p>"It is Abou Fatma?" asked the negro.</p> + +<p>The Arab nodded an assent.</p> + +<p>"Two days ago," the other continued, "a man of the Bisharin, Moussa +Fedil, stopped me in the market-place of Berber, and seeing that I was +hungry, gave me food. And when I had eaten he charged me to drive this +donkey to Abou Fatma at the wells of Obak."</p> + +<p>Abou Fatma looked carelessly at the donkey as though now for the first +time he had remarked it.</p> + +<p>"Tayeeb," he said, no less carelessly. "The donkey is mine," and he sat +inattentive and motionless, as though the negro's business were done and +he might go.</p> + +<p>The negro, however, held his ground.</p> + +<p>"I am to meet Moussa Fedil again on the third morning from now, in the +market-place of Berber. Give me a token which I may carry back, so that +he may know I have fulfilled the charge and reward me."</p> + +<p>Abou Fatma took his knife from the small of his back, and picking up a +stick from the ground, notched it thrice at each end.</p> + +<p>"This shall be a sign to Moussa Fedil;" and he handed the stick to his +companion. The negro tied it securely into a corner of his wrap, loosed +his water-skin from the donkey's back, filled it at the well and slung +it about his shoulders. Then he picked up his spears and his shield. +Abou Fatma watched him labour up the slope of loose sand and disappear +again on the further incline of the crest. Then in his turn he rose, and +hastily. When Harry Feversham had set out from Obak six days before to +traverse the fifty-eight miles of barren desert to the Nile, this grey +donkey had carried his water-skins and food.</p> + +<p>Abou Fatma drove the donkey down amongst the trees, and fastening it to +a stem examined its shoulders. In the left shoulder a tiny incision had +been made and the skin neatly stitched up again with fine thread. He cut +the stitches, and pressing open the two edges of the wound, forced out a +tiny package little bigger than a postage stamp. The package was a +goat's bladder, and enclosed within the bladder was a note written in +Arabic and folded very small. Abou Fatma had not been Gordon's +body-servant for nothing; he had been taught during his service to read. +He unfolded the note, and this is what was written:—</p> + +<p>"The houses which were once Berber are destroyed, and a new town of wide +streets is building. There is no longer any sign by which I may know the +ruins of Yusef's house from the ruins of a hundred houses; nor does +Yusef any longer sell rock-salt in the bazaar. Yet wait for me another +week."</p> + +<p>The Arab of the Bisharin who wrote the letter was Harry Feversham. +Wearing the patched jubbeh of the Dervishes over his stained skin, his +hair frizzed on the crown of his head and falling upon the nape of his +neck in locks matted and gummed into the semblance of seaweed, he went +about his search for Yusef through the wide streets of New Berber with +its gaping pits. To the south, and separated by a mile or so of desert, +lay the old town where Abou Fatma had slept one night and hidden the +letters, a warren of ruined houses facing upon narrow alleys and winding +streets. The front walls had been pulled down, the roofs carried away, +only the bare inner walls were left standing, so that Feversham when he +wandered amongst them vainly at night seemed to have come into long +lanes of five courts, crumbling into decay. And each court was only +distinguishable from its neighbour by a degree of ruin. Already the +foxes made their burrows beneath the walls.</p> + +<p>He had calculated that one night would have been the term of his stay in +Berber. He was to have crept through the gate in the dusk of the +evening, and before the grey light had quenched the stars his face +should be set towards Obak. Now he must go steadily forward amongst the +crowds like a man that has business of moment, dreading conversation +lest his tongue should betray him, listening ever for the name of Yusef +to strike upon his ears. Despair kept him company at times, and fear +always. But from the sharp pangs of these emotions a sort of madness +was begotten in him, a frenzy of obstinacy, a belief fanatical as the +dark religion of those amongst whom he moved, that he could not now fail +and the world go on, that there could be no injustice in the whole +scheme of the universe great enough to lay this heavy burden upon the +one man least fitted to bear it and then callously to destroy him +because he tried.</p> + +<p>Fear had him in its grip on that morning three days after he had left +Abou Fatma at the wells, when coming over a slope he first saw the sand +stretched like a lagoon up to the dark brown walls of the town, and the +overshadowing foliage of the big date palms rising on the Nile bank +beyond. Within those walls were the crowded Dervishes. It was surely the +merest madness for a man to imagine that he could escape detection +there, even for an hour. Was it right, he began to ask, that a man +should even try? The longer he stood, the more insistent did this +question grow. The low mud walls grew strangely sinister; the welcome +green of the waving palms, after so many arid days of sun and sand and +stones, became an ironical invitation to death. He began to wonder +whether he had not already done enough for honour in venturing so near.</p> + +<p>The sun beat upon him; his strength ebbed from him as though his veins +were opened. If he were caught, he thought, as surely he would be—oh, +very surely! He saw the fanatical faces crowding fiercely about him ... +were not mutilations practised?... He looked about him, shivering even +in that strong heat, and the great loneliness of the place smote upon +him, so that his knees shook. He faced about and commenced to run, +leaping in a panic alone and unpursued across the naked desert under the +sun, while from his throat feeble cries broke inarticulately.</p> + +<p>He ran, however, only for a few yards, and it was the very violence of +his flight which stopped him. These four years of anticipation were as +nothing, then? He had schooled himself in the tongue, he had lived in +the bazaars, to no end? He was still the craven who had sent in his +papers? The quiet confidence with which he had revealed his plan to +Lieutenant Sutch over the table in the Criterion grill-room was the mere +vainglory of a man who continually deceived himself? And Ethne?...</p> + +<p>He dropped upon the ground and, drawing his coat over his head, lay, a +brown spot indistinguishable from the sand about him, an irregularity in +the great waste surface of earth. He shut the prospect from his eyes, +and over the thousands of miles of continent and sea he drew Ethne's +face towards him. A little while and he was back again in Donegal. The +summer night whispered through the open doorway in the hall; in a room +near by people danced to music. He saw the three feathers fluttering to +the floor; he read the growing trouble in Ethne's face. If he could do +this thing, and the still harder thing which now he knew to lie beyond, +he might perhaps some day see that face cleared of its trouble. There +were significant words too in his ears, "I should have no doubt that you +and I would see much of one another afterwards." Towards the setting of +the sun he rose from the ground, and walking down towards Berber, passed +between the gates.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<h3>DURRANCE HEARS NEWS OF FEVERSHAM</h3> + + +<p>A month later Durrance arrived in London and discovered a letter from +Ethne awaiting him at his club. It told him simply that she was staying +with Mrs. Adair, and would be glad if he would find the time to call; +but there was a black border to the paper and the envelope. Durrance +called at Hill Street the next afternoon and found Ethne alone.</p> + +<p>"I did not write to Wadi Halfa," she explained at once, "for I thought +that you would be on your way home before my letter could arrive. My +father died last month, towards the end of May."</p> + +<p>"I was afraid when I got your letter that you would have this to tell +me," he replied. "I am very sorry. You will miss him."</p> + +<p>"More than I can say," said she, with a quiet depth of feeling. "He died +one morning early—I think I will tell you if you would care to hear," +and she related to him the manner of Dermod's death, of which a chill +was the occasion rather than the cause; for he died of a gradual +dissolution rather than a definite disease.</p> + +<p>It was a curious story which Ethne had to tell, for it seemed that just +before his death Dermod recaptured something of his old masterful +spirit. "We knew that he was dying," Ethne said. "He knew it too, and +at seven o'clock of the afternoon after—" she hesitated for a moment +and resumed, "after he had spoken for a little while to me, he called +his dog by name. The dog sprang at once on to the bed, though his voice +had not risen above a whisper, and crouching quite close, pushed its +muzzle with a whine under my father's hand. Then he told me to leave him +and the dog altogether alone. I was to shut the door upon him. The dog +would tell me when to open it again. I obeyed him and waited outside the +door until one o'clock. Then a loud sudden howl moaned through the +house." She stopped for a while. This pause was the only sign of +distress which she gave, and in a few moments she went on, speaking +quite simply, without any of the affectations of grief. "It was trying +to wait outside that door while the afternoon faded and the night came. +It was night, of course, long before the end. He would have no lamp left +in his room. One imagined him just the other side of that thin +door-panel, lying very still and silent in the great four-poster bed +with his face towards the hills, and the light falling. One imagined the +room slipping away into darkness, and the windows continually looming +into a greater importance, and the dog by his side and no one else, +right to the very end. He would have it that way, but it was rather hard +for me."</p> + +<p>Durrance said nothing in reply, but gave her in full measure what she +most needed, the sympathy of his silence. He imagined those hours in the +passage, six hours of twilight and darkness; he could picture her +standing close by the door, with her ear perhaps to the panel, and her +hand upon her heart to check its loud beating. There was something +rather cruel, he thought, in Dermod's resolve to die alone. It was Ethne +who broke the silence.</p> + +<p>"I said that my father spoke to me just before he told me to leave him. +Of whom do you think he spoke?"</p> + +<p>She was looking directly at Durrance as she put the question. From +neither her eyes nor the level tone of her voice could he gather +anything of the answer, but a sudden throb of hope caught away his +breath.</p> + +<p>"Tell me!" he said, in a sort of suspense, as he leaned forward in his +chair.</p> + +<p>"Of Mr. Feversham," she answered, and he drew back again, and rather +suddenly. It was evident that this was not the name which he had +expected. He took his eyes from hers and stared downwards at the carpet, +so that she might not see his face.</p> + +<p>"My father was always very fond of him," she continued gently, "and I +think that I would like to know if you have any knowledge of what he is +doing or where he is."</p> + +<p>Durrance did not answer nor did he raise his face. He reflected upon the +strange strong hold which Harry Feversham kept upon the affections of +those who had once known him well; so that even the man whom he had +wronged, and upon whose daughter he had brought much suffering, must +remember him with kindliness upon his death-bed. The reflection was not +without its bitterness to Durrance at this moment, and this bitterness +he was afraid that his face and voice might both betray. But he was +compelled to speak, for Ethne insisted.</p> + +<p>"You have never come across him, I suppose?" she asked.</p> + +<p>Durrance rose from his seat and walked to the window before he answered. +He spoke looking out into the street, but though he thus concealed the +expression of his face, a thrill of deep anger sounded through his +words, in spite of his efforts to subdue his tones.</p> + +<p>"No," he said, "I never have," and suddenly his anger had its way with +him; it chose as well as informed his words. "And I never wish to," he +cried. "He was my friend, I know. But I cannot remember that friendship +now. I can only think that if he had been the true man we took him for, +you would not have waited alone in that dark passage during those six +hours." He turned again to the centre of the room and asked abruptly:—</p> + +<p>"You are going back to Glenalla?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You will live there alone?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>For a little while there was silence between them. Then Durrance walked +round to the back of her chair.</p> + +<p>"You once said that you would perhaps tell me why your engagement was +broken off."</p> + +<p>"But you know," she said. "What you said at the window showed that you +knew."</p> + +<p>"No, I do not. One or two words your father let drop. He asked me for +news of Feversham the last time that I spoke with him. But I know +nothing definite. I should like you to tell me."</p> + +<p>Ethne shook her head and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. +"Not now," she said, and silence again followed her words. Durrance +broke it again.</p> + +<p>"I have only one more year at Halfa. It would be wise to leave Egypt +then, I think. I do not expect much will be done in the Soudan for some +little while. I do not think that I will stay there—in any case. I mean +even if you should decide to remain alone at Glenalla."</p> + +<p>Ethne made no pretence to ignore the suggestion of his words. "We are +neither of us children," she said; "you have all your life to think of. +We should be prudent."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Durrance, with a sudden exasperation, "but the right kind of +prudence. The prudence which knows that it's worth while to dare a good +deal."</p> + +<p>Ethne did not move. She was leaning forward with her back towards him, +so that he could see nothing of her face, and for a long while she +remained in this attitude, quite silent and very still. She asked a +question at the last, and in a very low and gentle voice.</p> + +<p>"Do you want me so very much?" And before he could answer she turned +quickly towards him. "Try not to," she exclaimed earnestly. "For this +one year try not to. You have much to occupy your thoughts. Try to +forget me altogether;" and there was just sufficient regret in her tone, +the regret at the prospect of losing a valued friend, to take all the +sting from her words, to confirm Durrance in his delusion that but for +her fear that she would spoil his career, she would answer him in very +different words. Mrs. Adair came into the room before he could reply, +and thus he carried away with him his delusion.</p> + +<p>He dined that evening at his club, and sat afterwards smoking his cigar +under the big tree where he had sat so persistently a year before in his +vain quest for news of Harry Feversham. It was much the same sort of +clear night as that on which he had seen Lieutenant Sutch limp into the +courtyard and hesitate at the sight of him. The strip of sky was +cloudless and starry overhead; the air had the pleasant languor of a +summer night in June; the lights flashing from the windows and doorways +gave to the leaves of the trees the fresh green look of spring; and +outside in the roadway the carriages rolled with a thunderous hum like +the sound of the sea. And on this night, too, there came a man into the +courtyard who knew Durrance. But he did not hesitate. He came straight +up to Durrance and sat down upon the seat at his side. Durrance dropped +the paper at which he was glancing and held out his hand.</p> + +<p>"How do you do?" said he. This friend was Captain Mather.</p> + +<p>"I was wondering whether I should meet you when I read the evening +paper. I knew that it was about the time one might expect to find you in +London. You have seen, I suppose?"</p> + +<p>"What?" asked Durrance.</p> + +<p>"Then you haven't," replied Mather. He picked up the newspaper which +Durrance had dropped and turned over the sheets, searching for the piece +of news which he required. "You remember that last reconnaissance we +made from Suakin?"</p> + +<p>"Very well."</p> + +<p>"We halted by the Sinkat fort at midday. There was an Arab hiding in +the trees at the back of the glacis."</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Have you forgotten the yarn he told you?"</p> + +<p>"About Gordon's letters and the wall of a house in Berber? No, I have +not forgotten."</p> + +<p>"Then here's something which will interest you," and Captain Mather, +having folded the paper to his satisfaction, handed it to Durrance and +pointed to a paragraph. It was a short paragraph; it gave no details; it +was the merest summary; and Durrance read it through between the puffs +of his cigar.</p> + +<p>"The fellow must have gone back to Berber after all," said he. "A risky +business. Abou Fatma—that was the man's name."</p> + +<p>The paragraph made no mention of Abou Fatma, or indeed of any man except +Captain Willoughby, the Deputy-Governor of Suakin. It merely announced +that certain letters which the Mahdi had sent to Gordon summoning him to +surrender Khartum, and inviting him to become a convert to the Mahdist +religion, together with copies of Gordon's curt replies, had been +recovered from a wall in Berber and brought safely to Captain Willoughby +at Suakin.</p> + +<p>"They were hardly worth risking a life for," said Mather.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps not," replied Durrance, a little doubtfully. "But after all, +one is glad they have been recovered. Perhaps the copies are in Gordon's +own hand. They are, at all events, of an historic interest."</p> + +<p>"In a way, no doubt," said Mather. "But even so, their recovery throws +no light upon the history of the siege. It can make no real difference +to any one, not even to the historian."</p> + +<p>"That is true," Durrance agreed, and there was nothing more untrue. In +the same spot where he had sought for news of Feversham news had now +come to him—only he did not know. He was in the dark; he could not +appreciate that here was news which, however little it might trouble the +historian, touched his life at the springs. He dismissed the paragraph +from his mind, and sat thinking over the conversation which had passed +that afternoon between Ethne and himself, and without discouragement. +Ethne had mentioned Harry Feversham, it was true,—had asked for news of +him. But she might have been—nay, she probably had been—moved to ask +because her father's last words had referred to him. She had spoken his +name in a perfectly steady voice, he remembered; and, indeed, the mere +fact that she had spoken it at all might be taken as a sign that it had +no longer any power with her. There was something hopeful to his mind in +her very request that he should try during this one year to omit her +from his thoughts. For it seemed almost to imply that if he could not, +she might at the end of it, perhaps, give to him the answer for which he +longed. He allowed a few days to pass, and then called again at Mrs. +Adair's house. But he found only Mrs. Adair. Ethne had left London and +returned to Donegal. She had left rather suddenly, Mrs. Adair told him, +and Mrs. Adair had no sure knowledge of the reason of her going.</p> + +<p>Durrance, however, had no doubt as to the reason. Ethne was putting into +practice the policy which she had commended to his thoughts. He was to +try to forget her, and she would help him to success so far as she could +by her absence from his sight. And in attributing this reason to her, +Durrance was right. But one thing Ethne had forgotten. She had not asked +him to cease to write to her, and accordingly in the autumn of that year +the letters began again to come from the Soudan. She was frankly glad to +receive them, but at the same time she was troubled. For in spite of +their careful reticence, every now and then a phrase leaped out—it +might be merely the repetition of some trivial sentence which she had +spoken long ago and long ago forgotten—and she could not but see that +in spite of her prayer she lived perpetually in his thoughts. There was +a strain of hopefulness too, as though he moved in a world painted with +new colours and suddenly grown musical. Ethne had never freed herself +from the haunting fear that one man's life had been spoilt because of +her; she had never faltered from her determination that this should not +happen with a second. Only with Durrance's letters before her she could +not evade a new and perplexing question. By what means was that +possibility to be avoided? There were two ways. By choosing which of +them could she fulfil her determination? She was no longer so sure as +she had been the year before that his career was all in all. The +question recurred to her again and again. She took it out with her on +the hillside with the letters, and pondered and puzzled over it and got +never an inch nearer to a solution. Even her violin failed her in this +strait.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2> + +<h3>DURRANCE SHARPENS HIS WITS</h3> + + +<p>It was a night of May, and outside the mess-room at Wadi Halfa three +officers were smoking on a grass knoll above the Nile. The moon was at +its full, and the strong light had robbed even the planets of their +lustre. The smaller stars were not visible at all, and the sky washed of +its dark colour, curved overhead, pearly-hued and luminous. The three +officers sat in their lounge chairs and smoked silently, while the +bull-frogs croaked from an island in mid-river. At the bottom of the +small steep cliff on which they sat the Nile, so sluggish was its flow, +shone like a burnished mirror, and from the opposite bank the desert +stretched away to infinite distances, a vast plain with scattered +hummocks, a plain white as a hoar frost on the surface of which the +stones sparkled like jewels. Behind the three officers of the garrison +the roof of the mess-room verandah threw a shadow on the ground; it +seemed a solid piece of blackness.</p> + +<p>One of the three officers struck a match and held it to the end of his +cigar. The flame lit up a troubled and anxious face.</p> + +<p>"I hope that no harm has come to him," he said, as he threw the match +away. "I wish that I could say I believed it."</p> + +<p>The speaker was a man of middle age and the colonel of a Soudanese +battalion. He was answered by a man whose hair had gone grey, it is +true. But grey hair is frequent in the Soudan, and his unlined face +still showed that he was young. He was Lieutenant Calder of the +Engineers. Youth, however, in this instance had no optimism wherewith to +challenge Colonel Dawson.</p> + +<p>"He left Halfa eight weeks ago, eh?" he said gloomily.</p> + +<p>"Eight weeks to-day," replied the colonel.</p> + +<p>It was the third officer, a tall, spare, long-necked major of the Army +Service Corps, who alone hazarded a cheerful prophecy.</p> + +<p>"It's early days to conclude Durrance has got scuppered," said he. "One +knows Durrance. Give him a camp-fire in the desert, and a couple of +sheiks to sit round it with him, and he'll buck to them for a month and +never feel bored at the end. While here there are letters, and there's +an office, and there's a desk in the office and everything he loathes +and can't do with. You'll see Durrance will turn up right enough, though +he won't hurry about it."</p> + +<p>"He is three weeks overdue," objected the colonel, "and he's methodical +after a fashion. I am afraid."</p> + +<p>Major Walters pointed out his arm to the white empty desert across the +river.</p> + +<p>"If he had travelled that way, westward, I might agree," he said. "But +Durrance went east through the mountain country toward Berenice and the +Red Sea. The tribes he went to visit were quiet, even in the worst +times, when Osman Digna lay before Suakin."</p> + +<p>The colonel, however, took no comfort from Walters's confidence. He +tugged at his moustache and repeated, "He is three weeks overdue."</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Calder knocked the ashes from his pipe and refilled it. He +leaned forward in his chair as he pressed the tobacco down with his +thumb, and he said slowly:—</p> + +<p>"I wonder. It is just possible that some sort of trap was laid for +Durrance. I am not sure. I never mentioned before what I knew, because +until lately I did not suspect that it could have anything to do with +his delay. But now I begin to wonder. You remember the night before he +started?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Dawson, and he hitched his chair a little nearer. Calder was +the one man in Wadi Halfa who could claim something like intimacy with +Durrance. Despite their difference in rank there was no great disparity +in age between the two men, and from the first when Calder had come +inexperienced and fresh from England, but with a great ardour to acquire +a comprehensive experience, Durrance in his reticent way had been at +pains to show the newcomer considerable friendship. Calder, therefore, +might be likely to know.</p> + +<p>"I too remember that night," said Walters. "Durrance dined at the mess +and went away early to prepare for his journey."</p> + +<p>"His preparations were made already," said Calder. "He went away early, +as you say. But he did not go to his quarters. He walked along the +river-bank to Tewfikieh."</p> + +<p>Wadi Halfa was the military station, Tewfikieh a little frontier town to +the north separated from Halfa by a mile of river-bank. A few Greeks +kept stores there, a few bare and dirty cafés faced the street between +native cook-shops and tobacconists'; a noisy little town where the negro +from the Dinka country jolted the fellah from the Delta, and the air was +torn with many dialects; a thronged little town, which yet lacked to +European ears one distinctive element of a throng. There was no ring of +footsteps. The crowd walked on sand and for the most part with naked +feet, so that if for a rare moment the sharp high cries and the +perpetual voices ceased, the figures of men and women flitted by +noiseless as ghosts. And even at night, when the streets were most +crowded and the uproar loudest, it seemed that underneath the noise, and +almost appreciable to the ear, there lay a deep and brooding silence, +the silence of deserts and the East.</p> + +<p>"Durrance went down to Tewfikieh at ten o'clock that night," said +Calder. "I went to his quarters at eleven. He had not returned. He was +starting eastward at four in the morning, and there was some detail of +business on which I wished to speak to him before he went. So I waited +for his return. He came in about a quarter of an hour afterwards and +told me at once that I must be quick, since he was expecting a visitor. +He spoke quickly and rather restlessly. He seemed to be labouring under +some excitement. He barely listened to what I had to say, and he +answered me at random. It was quite evident that he was moved, and +rather deeply moved, by some unusual feeling, though at the nature of +the feeling I could not guess. For at one moment it seemed certainly to +be anger, and the next moment he relaxed into a laugh, as though in +spite of himself he was glad. However, he bundled me out, and as I went +I heard him telling his servant to go to bed, because, though he +expected a visitor, he would admit the visitor himself."</p> + +<p>"Well!" said Dawson, "and who was the visitor?"</p> + +<p>"I do not know," answered Calder. "The one thing I do know is that when +Durrance's servant went to call him at four o'clock for his journey, he +found Durrance still sitting on the verandah outside his quarters, as +though he still expected his visitor. The visitor had not come."</p> + +<p>"And Durrance left no message?"</p> + +<p>"No. I was up myself before he started. I thought that he was puzzled +and worried. I thought, too, that he meant to tell me what was the +matter. I still think that he had that in his mind, but that he could +not decide. For even after he had taken his seat upon his saddle and his +camel had risen from the ground, he turned and looked down towards me. +But he thought better of it, or worse, as the case may be. At all +events, he did not speak. He struck the camel on the flank with his +stick, and rode slowly past the post-office and out into the desert, +with his head sunk upon his breast. I wonder whether he rode into a +trap. Who could this visitor have been whom he meets in the street of +Tewfikieh, and who must come so secretly to Wadi Halfa? What can have +been his business with Durrance? Important business, troublesome +business—so much is evident. And he did not come to transact it. Was +the whole thing a lure to which we have not the clue? Like Colonel +Dawson, I am afraid."</p> + +<p>There was a silence after he had finished, which Major Walters was the +first to break. He offered no argument—he simply expressed again his +unalterable cheerfulness.</p> + +<p>"I don't think Durrance has got scuppered," said he, as he rose from his +chair.</p> + +<p>"I know what I shall do," said the colonel. "I shall send out a strong +search party in the morning."</p> + +<p>And the next morning, as they sat at breakfast on the verandah, he at +once proceeded to describe the force which he meant to despatch. Major +Walters, too, it seemed, in spite of his hopeful prophecies, had +pondered during the night over Calder's story, and he leaned across the +table to Calder.</p> + +<p>"Did you never inquire whom Durrance talked with at Tewfikieh on that +night?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"I did, and there's a point that puzzles me," said Calder. He was +sitting with his back to the Nile and his face towards the glass doors +of the mess-room, and he spoke to Walters, who was directly opposite. "I +could not find that he talked to more than one person, and that one +person could not by any likelihood have been the visitor he expected. +Durrance stopped in front of a café where some strolling musicians, who +had somehow wandered up to Tewfikieh, were playing and singing for their +night's lodging. One of them, a Greek I was told, came outside into the +street and took his hat round. Durrance threw a sovereign into the hat, +the man turned to thank him, and they talked for a little time +together;" and as he came to this point he raised his head. A look of +recognition came into his face. He laid his hands upon the table-edge, +and leaned forward with his feet drawn back beneath his chair as though +he was on the point of springing up. But he did not spring up. His look +of recognition became one of bewilderment. He glanced round the table +and saw that Colonel Dawson was helping himself to cocoa, while Major +Walters's eyes were on his plate. There were other officers of the +garrison present, but not one had remarked his movement and its sudden +arrest. Calder leaned back, and staring curiously in front of him and +over the major's shoulder, continued his story. "But I could never hear +that Durrance spoke to any one else. He seemed, except that one knows to +the contrary, merely to have strolled through the village and back again +to Wadi Halfa."</p> + +<p>"That doesn't help us much," said the major.</p> + +<p>"And it's all you know?" asked the colonel.</p> + +<p>"No, not quite all," returned Calder, slowly; "I know, for instance, +that the man we are talking about is staring me straight in the face."</p> + +<p>At once everybody at the table turned towards the mess-room.</p> + +<p>"Durrance!" cried the colonel, springing up.</p> + +<p>"When did you get back?" said the major.</p> + +<p>Durrance, with the dust of his journey still powdered upon his clothes, +and a face burnt to the colour of red brick, was standing in the +doorway, and listening with a remarkable intentness to the voices of his +fellow-officers. It was perhaps noticeable that Calder, who was +Durrance's friend, neither rose from his chair nor offered any greeting. +He still sat watching Durrance; he still remained curious and perplexed; +but as Durrance descended the three steps into the verandah there came +a quick and troubled look of comprehension into his face.</p> + +<p>"We expected you three weeks ago," said Dawson, as he pulled a chair +away from an empty place at the table.</p> + +<p>"The delay could not be helped," replied Durrance. He took the chair and +drew it up.</p> + +<p>"Does my story account for it?" asked Calder.</p> + +<p>"Not a bit. It was the Greek musician I expected that night," he +explained with a laugh. "I was curious to know what stroke of ill-luck +had cast him out to play the zither for a night's lodging in a café at +Tewfikieh. That was all," and he added slowly, in a softer voice, "Yes, +that was all."</p> + +<p>"Meanwhile you are forgetting your breakfast," said Dawson, as he rose. +"What will you have?"</p> + +<p>Calder leaned ever so slightly forward with his eyes quietly resting on +Durrance. Durrance looked round the table, and then called the +mess-waiter. "Moussa, get me something cold," said he, and the waiter +went back into the mess-room. Calder nodded his head with a faint smile, +as though he understood that here was a difficulty rather cleverly +surmounted.</p> + +<p>"There's tea, cocoa, and coffee," he said. "Help yourself, Durrance."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," said Durrance. "I see, but I will get Moussa to bring me a +brandy-and-soda, I think," and again Calder nodded his head.</p> + +<p>Durrance ate his breakfast and drank his brandy-and-soda, and talked the +while of his journey. He had travelled farther eastward than he had +intended. He had found the Ababdeh Arabs quiet amongst their mountains. +If they were not disposed to acknowledge allegiance to Egypt, on the +other hand they paid no tribute to Mahommed Achmet. The weather had been +good, ibex and antelope plentiful. Durrance, on the whole, had reason to +be content with his journey. And Calder sat and watched him, and +disbelieved every word that he said. The other officers went about their +duties; Calder remained behind, and waited until Durrance should finish. +But it seemed that Durrance never would finish. He loitered over his +breakfast, and when that was done he pushed his plate away and sat +talking. There was no end to his questions as to what had passed at Wadi +Halfa during the last eight weeks, no limit to his enthusiasm over the +journey from which he had just returned. Finally, however, he stopped +with a remarkable abruptness, and said, with some suspicion, to his +companion:—</p> + +<p>"You are taking life easily this morning."</p> + +<p>"I have not eight weeks' arrears of letters to clear off, as you have, +Colonel," Calder returned with a laugh; and he saw Durrance's face cloud +and his forehead contract.</p> + +<p>"True," he said, after a pause. "I had forgotten my letters." And he +rose from his seat at the table, mounted the steps, and passed into the +mess-room.</p> + +<p>Calder immediately sprang up, and with his eyes followed Durrance's +movements. Durrance went to a nail which was fixed in the wall close to +the glass doors and on a level with his head. From that nail he took +down the key of his office, crossed the room, and went out through the +farther door. That door he left open, and Calder could see him walk down +the path between the bushes through the tiny garden in front of the +mess, unlatch the gate, and cross the open space of sand towards his +office. As soon as Durrance had disappeared Calder sat down again, and, +resting his elbows on the table, propped his face between his hands. +Calder was troubled. He was a friend of Durrance; he was the one man in +Wadi Halfa who possessed something of Durrance's confidence; he knew +that there were certain letters in a woman's handwriting waiting for him +in his office. He was very deeply troubled. Durrance had aged during +these eight weeks. There were furrows about his mouth where only faint +lines had been visible when he had started out from Halfa; and it was +not merely desert dust which had discoloured his hair. His hilarity, +too, had an artificial air. He had sat at the table constraining himself +to the semblance of high spirits. Calder lit his pipe, and sat for a +long while by the empty table.</p> + +<p>Then he took his helmet and crossed the sand to Durrance's office. He +lifted the latch noiselessly; as noiselessly he opened the door, and he +looked in. Durrance was sitting at his desk with his head bowed upon his +arms and all his letters unopened at his side. Calder stepped into the +room and closed the door loudly behind him. At once Durrance turned his +face to the door.</p> + +<p>"Well?" said he.</p> + +<p>"I have a paper, Colonel, which requires your signature," said Calder. +"It's the authority for the alterations in C barracks. You remember?"</p> + +<p>"Very well. I will look through it and return it to you, signed, at +lunch-time. Will you give it to me, please?"</p> + +<p>He held out his hand towards Calder. Calder took his pipe from his +mouth, and, standing thus in full view of Durrance, slowly and +deliberately placed it into Durrance's outstretched palm. It was not +until the hot bowl burnt his hand that Durrance snatched his arm away. +The pipe fell and broke upon the floor. Neither of the two men spoke for +a few moments, and then Calder put his arm round Durrance's shoulder, +and asked in a voice gentle as a woman's:—</p> + +<p>"How did it happen?"</p> + +<p>Durrance buried his face in his hands. The great control which he had +exercised till now he was no longer able to sustain. He did not answer, +nor did he utter any sound, but he sat shivering from head to foot.</p> + +<p>"How did it happen?" Calder asked again, and in a whisper.</p> + +<p>Durrance put another question:—</p> + +<p>"How did you find out?"</p> + +<p>"You stood in the mess-room doorway listening to discover whose voice +spoke from where. When I raised my head and saw you, though your eyes +rested on my face there was no recognition in them. I suspected then. +When you came down the steps into the verandah I became almost certain. +When you would not help yourself to food, when you reached out your arm +over your shoulder so that Moussa had to put the brandy-and-soda safely +into your palm, I was sure."</p> + +<p>"I was a fool to try and hide it," said Durrance. "Of course I knew all +the time that I couldn't for more than a few hours. But even those few +hours somehow seemed a gain."</p> + +<p>"How did it happen?"</p> + +<p>"There was a high wind," Durrance explained. "It took my helmet off. It +was eight o'clock in the morning. I did not mean to move my camp that +day, and I was standing outside my tent in my shirt-sleeves. So you see +that I had not even the collar of a coat to protect the nape of my neck. +I was fool enough to run after my helmet; and—you must have seen the +same thing happen a hundred times—each time that I stooped to pick it +up it skipped away; each time that I ran after it, it stopped and waited +for me to catch it up. And before one was aware what one was doing, one +had run a quarter of a mile. I went down, I was told, like a log just +when I had the helmet in my hand. How long ago it happened I don't quite +know, for I was ill for a time, and afterwards it was difficult to keep +count, since one couldn't tell the difference between day and night."</p> + +<p>Durrance, in a word, had gone blind. He told the rest of his story. He +had bidden his followers carry him back to Berber, and then, influenced +by the natural wish to hide his calamity as long as he could, he had +enjoined upon them silence. Calder heard the story through to the end, +and then rose at once to his feet.</p> + +<p>"There's a doctor. He is clever, and, for a Syrian, knows a good deal. I +will fetch him here privately, and we will hear what he says. Your +blindness may be merely temporary."</p> + +<p>The Syrian doctor, however, pursed up his lips and shook his head. He +advised an immediate departure to Cairo. It was a case for a specialist. +He himself would hesitate to pronounce an opinion; though, to be sure, +there was always hope of a cure.</p> + +<p>"Have you ever suffered an injury in the head?" he asked. "Were you +ever thrown from your horse? Were you wounded?"</p> + +<p>"No," said Durrance.</p> + +<p>The Syrian did not disguise his conviction that the case was grave; and +after he had departed both men were silent for some time. Calder had a +feeling that any attempt at consolation would be futile in itself, and +might, moreover, in betraying his own fear that the hurt was +irreparable, only discourage his companion. He turned to the pile of +letters and looked them through.</p> + +<p>"There are two letters here, Durrance," he said gently, "which you might +perhaps care to hear. They are written in a woman's hand, and there is +an Irish postmark. Shall I open them?"</p> + +<p>"No," exclaimed Durrance, suddenly, and his hand dropped quickly upon +Calder's arm. "By no means."</p> + +<p>Calder, however, did not put down the letters. He was anxious, for +private reasons of his own, to learn something more of Ethne Eustace +than the outside of her letters could reveal. A few rare references made +in unusual moments of confidence by Durrance had only informed Calder of +her name, and assured him that his friend would be very glad to change +it if he could. He looked at Durrance—a man so trained to vigour and +activity that his very sunburn seemed an essential quality rather than +an accident of the country in which he lived; a man, too, who came to +the wild, uncitied places of the world with the joy of one who comes +into an inheritance; a man to whom these desolate tracts were home, and +the fireside and the hedged fields and made roads merely the other +places; and he understood the magnitude of the calamity which had +befallen him. Therefore he was most anxious to know more of this girl +who wrote to Durrance from Donegal, and to gather from her letters, as +from a mirror in which her image was reflected, some speculation as to +her character. For if she failed, what had this friend of his any longer +left?</p> + +<p>"You would like to hear them, I expect," he insisted. "You have been +away eight weeks." And he was interrupted by a harsh laugh.</p> + +<p>"Do you know what I was thinking when I stopped you?" said Durrance. +"Why, that I would read the letters after you had gone. It takes time to +get used to being blind after your eyes have served you pretty well all +your life." And his voice shook ever so little. "You will have to help +me to answer them, Calder. So read them. Please read them."</p> + +<p>Calder tore open the envelopes and read the letters through and was +satisfied. They gave a record of the simple doings of her mountain +village in Donegal, and in the simplest terms. But the girl's nature +shone out in the telling. Her love of the country-side and of the people +who dwelt there was manifest. She could see the humour and the tragedy +of the small village troubles. There was a warm friendliness for +Durrance moreover expressed, not so much in a sentence as in the whole +spirit of the letters. It was evident that she was most keenly +interested in all that he did; that, in a way, she looked upon his +career as a thing in which she had a share, even if it was only a +friend's share. And when Calder had ended he looked again at Durrance, +but now with a face of relief. It seemed, too, that Durrance was +relieved.</p> + +<p>"After all, one has something to be thankful for," he cried. "Think! +Suppose that I had been engaged to her! She would never have allowed me +to break it off, once I had gone blind. What an escape!"</p> + +<p>"An escape?" exclaimed Calder.</p> + +<p>"You don't understand. But I knew a man who went blind; a good fellow, +too, before—mind that, before! But a year after! You couldn't have +recognised him. He had narrowed down into the most selfish, exacting, +egotistical creature it is possible to imagine. I don't wonder; I hardly +see how he could help it; I don't blame him. But it wouldn't make life +easier for a wife, would it? A helpless husband who can't cross a road +without his wife at his elbow is bad enough. But make him a selfish +beast into the bargain, full of questions, jealous of her power to go +where she will, curious as to every person with whom she speaks—and +what then? My God, I am glad that girl refused me. For that I am most +grateful."</p> + +<p>"She refused you?" asked Calder, and the relief passed from his face and +voice.</p> + +<p>"Twice," said Durrance. "What an escape! You see, Calder, I shall be +more trouble even than the man I told you of. I am not clever. I can't +sit in a chair and amuse myself by thinking, not having any intellect to +buck about. I have lived out of doors and hard, and that's the only sort +of life that suits me. I tell you, Calder, you won't be very anxious for +much of my society in a year's time," and he laughed again and with the +same harshness.</p> + +<p>"Oh, stop that," said Calder; "I will read the rest of your letters to +you."</p> + +<p>He read them, however, without much attention to their contents. His +mind was occupied with the two letters from Ethne Eustace, and he was +wondering whether there was any deeper emotion than mere friendship +hidden beneath the words. Girls refused men for all sorts of queer +reasons which had no sense in them, and very often they were sick and +sorry about it afterwards; and very often they meant to accept the men +all the time.</p> + +<p>"I must answer the letters from Ireland," said Durrance, when he had +finished. "The rest can wait."</p> + +<p>Calder held a sheet of paper upon the desk and told Durrance when he was +writing on a slant and when he was writing on the blotting-pad; and in +this way Durrance wrote to tell Ethne that a sunstroke had deprived him +of his sight. Calder took that letter away. But he took it to the +hospital and asked for the Syrian doctor. The doctor came out to him, +and they walked together under the trees in front of the building.</p> + +<p>"Tell me the truth," said Calder.</p> + +<p>The doctor blinked behind his spectacles.</p> + +<p>"The optic nerve is, I think, destroyed," he replied.</p> + +<p>"Then there is no hope?"</p> + +<p>"None, if my diagnosis is correct."</p> + +<p>Calder turned the letter over and over, as though he could not make up +his mind what in the world to do with it.</p> + +<p>"Can a sunstroke destroy the optic nerve?" he asked at length.</p> + +<p>"A mere sunstroke? No," replied the doctor. "But it may be the +occasion. For the cause one must look deeper."</p> + +<p>Calder came to a stop, and there was a look of horror in his eyes. "You +mean—one must look to the brain?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>They walked on for a few paces. A further question was in Calder's mind, +but he had some difficulty in speaking it, and when he had spoken he +waited for the answer in suspense.</p> + +<p>"Then this calamity is not all. There will be more to follow—death +or—" but that other alternative he could not bring himself to utter. +Here, however, the doctor was able to reassure him.</p> + +<p>"No. That does not follow."</p> + +<p>Calder went back to the mess-room and called for a brandy-and-soda. He +was more disturbed by the blow which had fallen upon Durrance than he +would have cared to own; and he put the letter upon the table and +thought of the message of renunciation which it contained, and he could +hardly restrain his fingers from tearing it across. It must be sent, he +knew; its destruction would be of no more than a temporary avail. Yet he +could hardly bring himself to post it. With the passage of every minute +he realised more clearly what blindness meant to Durrance. A man not +very clever, as he himself was ever the first to acknowledge, and always +the inheritor of the other places,—how much more it meant to him than +to the ordinary run of men! Would the girl, he wondered, understand as +clearly? It was very silent that morning on the verandah at Wadi Halfa; +the sunlight blazed upon desert and river; not a breath of wind stirred +the foliage of any bush. Calder drank his brandy-and-soda, and slowly +that question forced itself more and more into the front of his mind. +Would the woman over in Ireland understand? He rose from his chair as he +heard Colonel Dawson's voice in the mess-room, and taking up his letter, +walked away to the post-office. Durrance's letter was despatched, but +somewhere in the Mediterranean it crossed a letter from Ethne, which +Durrance received a fortnight later at Cairo. It was read out to him by +Calder, who had obtained leave to come down from Wadi Halfa with his +friend. Ethne wrote that she had, during the last months, considered all +that he had said when at Glenalla and in London; she had read, too, his +letters and understood that in his thoughts of her there had been no +change, and that there would be none; she therefore went back upon her +old argument that she would, by marriage, be doing him an injury, and +she would marry him upon his return to England.</p> + +<p>"That's rough luck, isn't it?" said Durrance, when Calder had read the +letter through. "For here's the one thing I have always wished for, and +it comes when I can no longer take it."</p> + +<p>"I think you will find it very difficult to refuse to take it," said +Calder. "I do not know Miss Eustace, but I can hazard a guess from the +letters of hers which I have read to you. I do not think that she is a +woman who will say 'yes' one day, and then because bad times come to you +say 'no' the next, or allow you to say 'no' for her, either. I have a +sort of notion that since she cares for you and you for her, you are +doing little less than insulting her if you imagine that she cannot +marry you and still be happy."</p> + +<p>Durrance thought over that aspect of the question, and began to wonder. +Calder might be right. Marriage with a blind man! It might, perhaps, be +possible if upon both sides there was love, and the letter from Ethne +proved—did it not?—that on both sides there <i>was</i> love. Besides, there +were some trivial compensations which might help to make her sacrifice +less burdensome. She could still live in her own country and move in her +own home. For the Lennon house could be rebuilt and the estates cleared +of their debt.</p> + +<p>"Besides," said Calder, "there is always a possibility of a cure."</p> + +<p>"There is no such possibility," said Durrance, with a decision which +quite startled his companion. "You know that as well as I do;" and he +added with a laugh, "You needn't start so guiltily. I haven't overheard +a word of any of your conversations about me."</p> + +<p>"Then what in the world makes you think that there's no chance?"</p> + +<p>"The voice of every doctor who has encouraged me to hope. Their +words—yes—their words tell me to visit specialists in Europe, and not +lose heart, but their voices give the lie to their words. If one cannot +see, one can at all events hear."</p> + +<p>Calder looked thoughtfully at his friend. This was not the only occasion +on which of late Durrance had surprised his friends by an unusual +acuteness. Calder glanced uncomfortably at the letter which he was still +holding in his hand.</p> + +<p>"When was that letter written?" said Durrance, suddenly; and +immediately upon the question he asked another, "What makes you jump?"</p> + +<p>Calder laughed and explained hastily. "Why, I was looking at the letter +at the moment when you asked, and your question came so pat that I could +hardly believe you did not see what I was doing. It was written on the +fifteenth of May."</p> + +<p>"Ah," said Durrance, "the day I returned to Wadi Halfa blind."</p> + +<p>Calder sat in his chair without a movement. He gazed anxiously at his +companion, it seemed almost as though he were afraid; his attitude was +one of suspense.</p> + +<p>"That's a queer coincidence," said Durrance, with a careless laugh; and +Calder had an intuition that he was listening with the utmost intentness +for some movement on his own part, perhaps a relaxation of his attitude, +perhaps a breath of relief. Calder did not move, however; and he drew no +breath of relief.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + +<h3>DURRANCE BEGINS TO SEE</h3> + + +<p>Ethne stood at the drawing-room window of the house in Hill Street. Mrs. +Adair sat in front of her tea-table. Both women were waiting, and they +were both listening for some particular sound to rise up from the street +and penetrate into the room. The window stood open that they might hear +it the more quickly. It was half-past five in the afternoon. June had +come round again with the exhilaration of its sunlight, and London had +sparkled into a city of pleasure and green trees. In the houses +opposite, the windows were gay with flowers; and in the street below, +the carriages rolled easily towards the Park. A jingle of bells rose +upwards suddenly and grew loud. Mrs. Adair raised her head quickly.</p> + +<p>"That's a cab," she said.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>Ethne leaned forward and looked down. "But it's not stopping here;" and +the jingle grew fainter and died away.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair looked at the clock.</p> + +<p>"Colonel Durrance is late," she said, and she turned curiously towards +Ethne. It seemed to her that Ethne had spoken her "yes" with much more +of suspense than eagerness; her attitude as she leaned forward at the +window had been almost one of apprehension; and though Mrs. Adair was +not quite sure, she fancied that she detected relief when the cab passed +by the house and did not stop. "I wonder why you didn't go to the +station and meet Colonel Durrance?" she asked slowly.</p> + +<p>The answer came promptly enough.</p> + +<p>"He might have thought that I had come because I looked upon him as +rather helpless, and I don't wish him to think that. He has his servant +with him." Ethne looked again out of the window, and once or twice she +made a movement as if she was about to speak and then thought silence +the better part. Finally, however, she made up her mind.</p> + +<p>"You remember the telegram I showed to you?"</p> + +<p>"From Lieutenant Calder, saying that Colonel Durrance had gone blind?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I want you to promise never to mention it. I don't want him to +know that I ever received it."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair was puzzled, and she hated to be puzzled. She had been shown +the telegram, but she had not been told that Ethne had written to +Durrance, pledging herself to him immediately upon its receipt. Ethne, +when she showed the telegram, had merely said, "I am engaged to him." +Mrs. Adair at once believed that the engagement had been of some +standing, and she had been allowed to continue in that belief.</p> + +<p>"You will promise?" Ethne insisted.</p> + +<p>"Certainly, my dear, if you like," returned Mrs. Adair, with an +ungracious shrug of the shoulders. "But there is a reason, I suppose. I +don't understand why you exact the promise."</p> + +<p>"Two lives must not be spoilt because of me."</p> + +<p>There was some ground for Mrs. Adair's suspicion that Ethne expected +the blind man to whom she was betrothed, with apprehension. It is true +that she was a little afraid. Just twelve months had passed since, in +this very room, on just such a sunlit afternoon, Ethne had bidden +Durrance try to forget her, and each letter which she had since received +had shown that, whether he tried or not, he had not forgotten. Even that +last one received three weeks ago, the note scrawled in the handwriting +of a child, from Wadi Halfa, with the large unsteady words straggling +unevenly across the page, and the letters running into one another +wherein he had told his calamity and renounced his suit—even that +proved, and perhaps more surely than its hopeful forerunners—that he +had not forgotten. As she waited at the window she understood very +clearly that it was she herself who must buckle to the hard work of +forgetting. Or if that was impossible, she must be careful always that +by no word let slip in a forgetful moment she betrayed that she had not +forgotten.</p> + +<p>"No," she said, "two lives shall not be spoilt because of me," and she +turned towards Mrs. Adair.</p> + +<p>"Are you quite sure, Ethne," said Mrs. Adair, "that the two lives will +not be more surely spoilt by this way of yours—the way of marriage? +Don't you think that you will come to feel Colonel Durrance, in spite of +your will, something of a hindrance and a drag? Isn't it possible that +he may come to feel that too? I wonder. I very much wonder."</p> + +<p>"No," said Ethne, decisively. "I shall not feel it, and he must not."</p> + +<p>The two lives, according to Mrs. Adair, were not the lives of Durrance +and Harry Feversham, but of Durrance and Ethne herself. There she was +wrong; but Ethne did not dispute the point, she was indeed rather glad +that her friend was wrong, and she allowed her to continue in her wrong +belief.</p> + +<p>Ethne resumed her watch at the window, foreseeing her life, planning it +out so that never might she be caught off her guard. The task would be +difficult, no doubt, and it was no wonder that in these minutes while +she waited fear grew upon her lest she should fail. But the end was well +worth the effort, and she set her eyes upon that. Durrance had lost +everything which made life to him worth living the moment he went +blind—everything, except one thing. "What should I do if I were +crippled?" he had said to Harry Feversham on the morning when for the +last time they had ridden together in the Row. "A clever man might put +up with it. But what should I do if I had to sit in a chair all my +days?" Ethne had not heard the words, but she understood the man well +enough without them. He was by birth the inheritor of the other places, +and he had lost his heritage. The things which delighted him, the long +journeys, the faces of strange countries, the camp-fire, a mere spark of +red light amidst black and empty silence, the hours of sleep in the open +under bright stars, the cool night wind of the desert, and the work of +government—all these things he had lost. Only one thing remained to +him—herself, and only, as she knew very well, herself so long as he +could believe she wanted him. And while she was still occupied with her +resolve, the cab for which she waited stopped unnoticed at the door. It +was not until Durrance's servant had actually rung the bell that her +attention was again attracted to the street.</p> + +<p>"He has come!" she said with a start.</p> + +<p>Durrance, it was true, was not particularly acute; he had never been +inquisitive; he took his friends as he found them; he put them under no +microscope. It would have been easy at any time, Ethne reflected, to +quiet his suspicions, should he have ever come to entertain any. But +<i>now</i> it would be easier than ever. There was no reason for +apprehension. Thus she argued, but in spite of the argument she rather +nerved herself to an encounter than went forward to welcome her +betrothed.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair slipped out of the room, so that Ethne was alone when +Durrance entered at the door. She did not move immediately; she retained +her attitude and position, expecting that the change in him would for +the first moment shock her. But she was surprised; for the particular +changes which she had expected were noticeable only through their +absence. His face was worn, no doubt, his hair had gone grey, but there +was no air of helplessness or uncertainty, and it was that which for his +own sake she most dreaded. He walked forward into the room as though his +eyes saw; his memory seemed to tell him exactly where each piece of the +furniture stood. The most that he did was once or twice to put out a +hand where he expected a chair.</p> + +<p>Ethne drew silently back into the window rather at a loss with what +words to greet him, and immediately he smiled and came straight towards +her.</p> + +<p>"Ethne," he said.</p> + +<p>"It isn't true, then," she exclaimed. "You have recovered." The words +were forced from her by the readiness of his movement.</p> + +<p>"It is quite true, and I have not recovered," he answered. "But you +moved at the window and so I knew that you were there."</p> + +<p>"How did you know? I made no noise."</p> + +<p>"No, but the window's open. The noise in the street became suddenly +louder, so I knew that some one in front of the window had moved aside. +I guessed that it was you."</p> + +<p>Their words were thus not perhaps the most customary greeting between a +couple meeting on the first occasion after they have become engaged, but +they served to hinder embarrassment. Ethne shrank from any perfunctory +expression of regret, knowing that there was no need for it, and +Durrance had no wish to hear it. For there were many things which these +two understood each other well enough to take as said. They did no more +than shake hands when they had spoken, and Ethne moved back into the +room.</p> + +<p>"I will give you some tea," she said, "then we can talk."</p> + +<p>"Yes, we must have a talk, mustn't we?" Durrance answered seriously. He +threw off his serious air, however, and chatted with good humour about +the details of his journey home. He even found a subject of amusement in +his sense of helplessness during the first days of his blindness; and +Ethne's apprehensions rapidly diminished. They had indeed almost +vanished from her mind when something in his attitude suddenly brought +them back.</p> + +<p>"I wrote to you from Wadi Halfa," he said. "I don't know whether you +could read the letter."</p> + +<p>"Quite well," said Ethne.</p> + +<p>"I got a friend of mine to hold the paper and tell me when I was writing +on it or merely on the blotting-pad," he continued with a laugh. +"Calder—of the Sappers—but you don't know him."</p> + +<p>He shot the name out rather quickly, and it came upon Ethne with a shock +that he had set a trap to catch her. The curious stillness of his face +seemed to tell her that he was listening with an extreme intentness for +some start, perhaps even a checked exclamation, which would betray that +she knew something of Calder of the Sappers. Did he suspect, she asked +herself? Did he know of the telegram? Did he guess that her letter was +sent out of pity? She looked into Durrance's face, and it told her +nothing except that it was very alert. In the old days, a year ago, the +expression of his eyes would have answered her quite certainly, however +close he held his tongue.</p> + +<p>"I could read the letter without difficulty," she answered gently. "It +was the letter you would have written. But I had written to you before, +and of course your bad news could make no difference. I take back no +word of what I wrote."</p> + +<p>Durrance sat with his hands upon his knees, leaning forward a little. +Again Ethne was at a loss. She could not tell from his manner or his +face whether he accepted or questioned her answer; and again she +realised that a year ago while he had his sight she would have been in +no doubt.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know you. You would take nothing back," he said at length. "But +there is my point of view."</p> + +<p>Ethne looked at him with apprehension.</p> + +<p>"Yes?" she replied, and she strove to speak with unconcern. "Will you +tell me it?"</p> + +<p>Durrance assented, and began in the deliberate voice of a man who has +thought out his subject, knows it by heart, and has decided, moreover, +the order of words by which it will be most lucidly developed.</p> + +<p>"I know what blindness means to all men—a growing, narrowing egotism +unless one is perpetually on one's guard. And will one be perpetually on +one's guard? Blindness means that to all men," he repeated emphatically. +"But it must mean more to me, who am deprived of every occupation. If I +were a writer, I could still dictate. If I were a business man, I could +conduct my business. But I am a soldier, and not a clever soldier. +Jealousy, a continual and irritable curiosity—there is no Paul Pry like +your blind man—a querulous claim upon your attention—these are my +special dangers." And Ethne laughed gently in contradiction of his +argument.</p> + +<p>"Well, perhaps one may hold them off," he acknowledged, "but they are to +be considered. I have considered them. I am not speaking to you without +thought. I have pondered and puzzled over the whole matter night after +night since I got your letter, wondering what I should do. You know how +gladly, with what gratitude, I would have answered you, 'Yes, let the +marriage go on,' if I dared. If I dared! But I think—don't you?—that a +great trouble rather clears one's wits. I used to lie awake at Cairo and +think; and the unimportant trivial considerations gradually dropped +away; and a few straight and simple truths stood out rather vividly. +One felt that one had to cling to them and with all one's might, +because nothing else was left."</p> + +<p>"Yes, that I do understand," Ethne replied in a low voice. She had gone +through just such an experience herself. It might have been herself, and +not Durrance, who was speaking. She looked up at him, and for the first +time began to understand that after all she and he might have much in +common. She repeated over to herself with an even firmer determination, +"Two lives shall not be spoilt because of me."</p> + +<p>"Well?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Well, here's one of the very straight and simple truths. Marriage +between a man crippled like myself, whose life is done, and a woman like +you, active and young, whose life is in its flower, would be quite wrong +unless each brought to it much more than friendship. It would be quite +wrong if it implied a sacrifice for you."</p> + +<p>"It implies no sacrifice," she answered firmly.</p> + +<p>Durrance nodded. It was evident that the answer contented him, and Ethne +felt that it was the intonation to which he listened rather than the +words. His very attitude of concentration showed her that. She began to +wonder whether it would be so easy after all to quiet his suspicions now +that he was blind; she began to realise that it might possibly on that +very account be all the more difficult.</p> + +<p>"Then do you bring more than friendship?" he asked suddenly. "You will +be very honest, I know. Tell me."</p> + +<p>Ethne was in a quandary. She knew that she must answer, and at once and +without ambiguity. In addition, she must answer honestly.</p> + +<p>"There is nothing," she replied, and as firmly as before, "nothing in +the world which I wish for so earnestly as that you and I should marry."</p> + +<p>It was an honest wish, and it was honestly spoken. She knew nothing of +the conversation which had passed between Harry Feversham and Lieutenant +Sutch in the grill-room of the Criterion Restaurant; she knew nothing of +Harry's plans; she had not heard of the Gordon letters recovered from +the mud-wall of a ruined house in the city of the Dervishes on the Nile +bank. Harry Feversham had, so far as she knew and meant, gone forever +completely out of her life. Therefore her wish was an honest one. But it +was not an exact answer to Durrance's question, and she hoped that again +he would listen to the intonation, rather than to the words. However, he +seemed content with it.</p> + +<p>"Thank you, Ethne," he said, and he took her hand and shook it. His face +smiled at her. He asked no other questions. There was not a doubt, she +thought; his suspicions were quieted; he was quite content. And upon +that Mrs. Adair came with discretion into the room.</p> + +<p>She had the tact to greet Durrance as one who suffered under no +disadvantage, and she spoke as though she had seen him only the week +before.</p> + +<p>"I suppose Ethne has told you of our plan," she said, as she took her +tea from her friend's hand.</p> + +<p>"No, not yet," Ethne answered.</p> + +<p>"What plan?" asked Durrance.</p> + +<p>"It is all arranged," said Mrs. Adair. "You will want to go home to +Guessens in Devonshire. I am your neighbour—a couple of fields separate +us, that's all. So Ethne will stay with me during the interval before +you are married."</p> + +<p>"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Adair," Durrance exclaimed; "because, of +course, there will be an interval."</p> + +<p>"A short one, no doubt," said Mrs. Adair.</p> + +<p>"Well, it's this way. If there's a chance that I may recover my sight, +it would be better that I should seize it at once. Time means a good +deal in these cases."</p> + +<p>"Then there is a chance?" cried Ethne.</p> + +<p>"I am going to see a specialist here to-morrow," Durrance answered. +"And, of course, there's the oculist at Wiesbaden. But it may not be +necessary to go so far. I expect that I shall be able to stay at +Guessens and come up to London when it is necessary. Thank you very +much, Mrs. Adair. It is a good plan." And he added slowly, "From my +point of view there could be no better."</p> + +<p>Ethne watched Durrance drive away with his servant to his old rooms in +St. James's Street, and stood by the window after he had gone, in much +the same attitude and absorption as that which had characterised her +before he had come. Outside in the street the carriages were now coming +back from the park, and there was just one other change. Ethne's +apprehensions had taken a more definite shape.</p> + +<p>She believed that suspicion was quieted in Durrance for to-day, at all +events. She had not heard his conversation with Calder in Cairo. She did +not know that he believed there was no cure which could restore him to +sight. She had no remotest notion that the possibility of a remedy might +be a mere excuse. But none the less she was uneasy. Durrance had grown +more acute. Not only his senses had been sharpened,—that, indeed, was +to be expected,—but trouble and thought had sharpened his mind as well. +It had become more penetrating. She felt that she was entering upon an +encounter of wits, and she had a fear lest she should be worsted. "Two +lives shall not be spoilt because of me," she repeated, but it was a +prayer now, rather than a resolve. For one thing she recognised quite +surely: Durrance saw ever so much more clearly now that he was blind.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + +<h3>CAPTAIN WILLOUGHBY REAPPEARS</h3> + + +<p>During the months of July and August Ethne's apprehensions grew, and +once at all events they found expression on her lips.</p> + +<p>"I am afraid," she said, one morning, as she stood in the sunlight at an +open window of Mrs. Adair's house upon a creek of the Salcombe estuary. +In the room behind her Mrs. Adair smiled quietly.</p> + +<p>"Of what? That some accident happened to Colonel Durrance yesterday in +London?"</p> + +<p>"No," Ethne answered slowly, "not of that. For he is at this moment +crossing the lawn towards us."</p> + +<p>Again Mrs. Adair smiled, but she did not raise her head from the book +which she was reading, so that it might have been some passage in the +book which so amused and pleased her.</p> + +<p>"I thought so," she said, but in so low a voice that the words barely +reached Ethne's ears. They did not penetrate to her mind, for as she +looked across the stone-flagged terrace and down the broad shallow +flight of steps to the lawn, she asked abruptly:—</p> + +<p>"Do you think he has any hope whatever that he will recover his sight?"</p> + +<p>The question had not occurred to Mrs. Adair before, and she gave to it +now no importance in her thoughts.</p> + +<p>"Would he travel up to town so often to see his oculist if he had +none?" she asked in reply. "Of course he hopes."</p> + +<p>"I am afraid," said Ethne, and she turned with a sudden movement towards +her friend. "Haven't you noticed how quick he has grown and is growing? +Quick to interpret your silences, to infer what you do not say from what +you do, to fill out your sentences, to make your movements the +commentary of your words? Laura, haven't you noticed? At times I think +the very corners of my mind are revealed to him. He reads me like a +child's lesson book."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Mrs. Adair, "you are at a disadvantage. You no longer have +your face to screen your thoughts."</p> + +<p>"And his eyes no longer tell me anything at all," Ethne added.</p> + +<p>There was truth in both remarks. So long as Durrance had had Ethne's +face with its bright colour and her steady, frank, grey eyes visible +before him, he could hardly weigh her intervals of silence and her +movements against her spoken words with the detachment which was now +possible to him. On the other hand, whereas before she had never been +troubled by a doubt as to what he meant or wished, or intended, now she +was often in the dark. Durrance's blindness, in a word, had produced an +effect entirely opposite to that which might have been expected. It had +reversed their positions.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair, however, was more interested in Ethne's unusual burst of +confidence. There was no doubt of it, she reflected. The girl, once +remarkable for a quiet frankness of word and look, was declining into a +creature of shifts and agitation.</p> + +<p>"There is something, then, to be concealed from him?" she asked +quietly.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Something rather important?"</p> + +<p>"Something which at all costs I must conceal," Ethne exclaimed, and was +not sure, even while she spoke, that Durrance had not already found it +out. She stepped over the threshold of the window on to the terrace. In +front of her the lawn stretched to a hedge; on the far side of that +hedge a couple of grass fields lifted and fell in gentle undulations; +and beyond the fields she could see amongst a cluster of trees the smoke +from the chimneys of Colonel Durrance's house. She stood for a little +while hesitating upon the terrace. On the left the lawn ran down to a +line of tall beeches and oaks which fringed the creek. But a broad space +had been cleared to make a gap upon the bank, so that Ethne could see +the sunlight on the water and the wooded slope on the farther side, and +a sailing-boat some way down the creek tacking slowly against the light +wind. Ethne looked about her, as though she was summoning her resources, +and even composing her sentences ready for delivery to the man who was +walking steadily towards her across the lawn. If there was hesitation +upon her part, there was none at all, she noticed, on the part of the +blind man. It seemed that Durrance's eyes took in the path which his +feet trod, and with the stick which he carried in his hand he switched +at the blades of grass like one that carries it from habit rather than +for any use. Ethne descended the steps and advanced to meet him. She +walked slowly, as if to a difficult encounter.</p> + +<p>But there was another who only waited an opportunity to engage in it +with eagerness. For as Ethne descended the steps Mrs. Adair suddenly +dropped the book which she had pretended to resume and ran towards the +window. Hidden by the drapery of the curtain she looked out and watched. +The smile was still upon her lips, but a fierce light had brightened in +her eyes, and her face had the drawn look of hunger.</p> + +<p>"Something which at all costs she must conceal," she said to herself, +and she said it in a voice of exultation. There was contempt too in her +tone, contempt for Ethne Eustace, the woman of the open air who was +afraid, who shrank from marriage with a blind man, and dreaded the +restraint upon her freedom. It was that shrinking which Ethne had to +conceal—Mrs. Adair had no doubt of it. "For my part, I am glad," she +said, and she was—fiercely glad that blindness had disabled Durrance. +For if her opportunity ever came, as it seemed to her now more and more +likely to come, blindness reserved him to her, as no man was ever +reserved to any woman. So jealous was she of his every word and look +that his dependence upon her would be the extreme of pleasure. She +watched Ethne and Durrance meet on the lawn at the foot of the terrace +steps. She saw them turn and walk side by side across the grass towards +the creek. She noticed that Ethne seemed to plead, and in her heart she +longed to overhear.</p> + +<p>And Ethne was pleading.</p> + +<p>"You saw your oculist yesterday?" she asked quickly, as soon as they +met. "Well, what did he say?"</p> + +<p>Durrance shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"That one must wait. Only time can show whether a cure is possible or +not," he answered, and Ethne bent forward a little and scrutinised his +face as though she doubted that he spoke the truth.</p> + +<p>"But must you and I wait?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Surely," he returned. "It would be wiser on all counts." And thereupon +he asked her suddenly a question of which she did not see the drift. "It +was Mrs. Adair, I imagine, who proposed this plan that I should come +home to Guessens and that you should stay with her here across the +fields?"</p> + +<p>Ethne was puzzled by the question, but she answered it directly and +truthfully. "I was in great distress when I heard of your accident. I +was so distressed that at the first I could not think what to do. I came +to London and told Laura, since she is my friend, and this was her plan. +Of course I welcomed it with all my heart;" and the note of pleading +rang in her voice. She was asking Durrance to confirm her words, and he +understood that. He turned towards her with a smile.</p> + +<p>"I know that very well, Ethne," he said gently.</p> + +<p>Ethne drew a breath of relief, and the anxiety passed for a little while +from her face.</p> + +<p>"It was kind of Mrs. Adair," he resumed, "but it is rather hard on you, +who would like to be back in your own country. I remember very well a +sentence which Harry Feversham—" He spoke the name quite carelessly, +but paused just for a moment after he had spoken it. No expression upon +his face showed that he had any intention in so pausing, but Ethne +suspected one. He was listening, she suspected, for some movement of +uneasiness, perhaps of pain, into which she might possibly be betrayed. +But she made no movement. "A sentence which Harry Feversham spoke a long +while since," he continued, "in London just before I left London for +Egypt. He was speaking of you, and he said: 'She is of her country and +more of her county. I do not think she could be happy in any place which +was not within reach of Donegal.' And when I remember that, it seems +rather selfish that I should claim to keep you here at so much cost to +you."</p> + +<p>"I was not thinking of that," Ethne exclaimed, "when I asked why we must +wait. That makes me out most selfish. I was merely wondering why you +preferred to wait, why you insist upon it. For, of course, although one +hopes and prays with all one's soul that you will get your sight back, +the fact of a cure can make no difference."</p> + +<p>She spoke slowly, and her voice again had a ring of pleading. This time +Durrance did not confirm her words, and she repeated them with a greater +emphasis, "It can make no difference."</p> + +<p>Durrance started like a man roused from an abstraction.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon, Ethne," he said. "I was thinking at the moment of +Harry Feversham. There is something which I want you to tell me. You +said a long time ago at Glenalla that you might one day bring yourself +to tell it me, and I should rather like to know now. You see, Harry +Feversham was my friend. I want you to tell me what happened that night +at Lennon House to break off your engagement, to send him away an +outcast."</p> + +<p>Ethne was silent for a while, and then she said gently: "I would rather +not. It is all over and done with. I don't want you to ask me ever."</p> + +<p>Durrance did not press for an answer in the slightest degree.</p> + +<p>"Very well," he said cheerily, "I won't ask you. It might hurt you to +answer, and I don't want, of course, to cause you pain."</p> + +<p>"It's not on that account that I wish to say nothing," Ethne explained +earnestly. She paused and chose her words. "It isn't that I am afraid of +any pain. But what took place, took place such a long while ago—I look +upon Mr. Feversham as a man whom one has known well, and who is now +dead."</p> + +<p>They were walking toward the wide gap in the line of trees upon the bank +of the creek, and as Ethne spoke she raised her eyes from the ground. +She saw that the little boat which she had noticed tacking up the creek +while she hesitated upon the terrace had run its nose into the shore. +The sail had been lowered, the little pole mast stuck up above the grass +bank of the garden, and upon the bank itself a man was standing and +staring vaguely towards the house as though not very sure of his ground.</p> + +<p>"A stranger has landed from the creek," she said. "He looks as if he had +lost his way. I will go on and put him right."</p> + +<p>She ran forward as she spoke, seizing upon that stranger's presence as a +means of relief, even if the relief was only to last for a minute. Such +relief might be felt, she imagined, by a witness in a court when the +judge rises for his half-hour at luncheon-time. For the close of an +interview with Durrance left her continually with the sense that she had +just stepped down from a witness-box where she had been subjected to a +cross-examination so deft that she could not quite clearly perceive its +tendency, although from the beginning she suspected it.</p> + +<p>The stranger at the same time advanced to her. He was a man of the +middle size, with a short snub nose, a pair of vacuous protruding brown +eyes, and a moustache of some ferocity. He lifted his hat from his head +and disclosed a round forehead which was going bald.</p> + +<p>"I have sailed down from Kingsbridge," he said, "but I have never been +in this part of the world before. Can you tell me if this house is +called The Pool?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; you will find Mrs. Adair if you go up the steps on to the +terrace," said Ethne.</p> + +<p>"I came to see Miss Eustace."</p> + +<p>Ethne turned back to him with surprise.</p> + +<p>"I am Miss Eustace."</p> + +<p>The stranger contemplated her in silence.</p> + +<p>"So I thought."</p> + +<p>He twirled first one moustache and then the other before he spoke again.</p> + +<p>"I have had some trouble to find you, Miss Eustace. I went all the way +to Glenalla—for nothing. Rather hard on a man whose leave is short!"</p> + +<p>"I am very sorry," said Ethne, with a smile; "but why have you been put +to this trouble?"</p> + +<p>Again the stranger curled a moustache. Again his eyes dwelt vacantly +upon her before he spoke.</p> + +<p>"You have forgotten my name, no doubt, by this time."</p> + +<p>"I do not think that I have ever heard it," she answered.</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, you have, believe me. You heard it five years ago. I am +Captain Willoughby."</p> + +<p>Ethne drew sharply back; the bright colour paled in her cheeks; her lips +set in a firm line, and her eyes grew very hard. She glowered at him +silently.</p> + +<p>Captain Willoughby was not in the least degree discomposed. He took his +time to speak, and when he did it was rather with the air of a man +forgiving a breach of manners, than of one making his excuses.</p> + +<p>"I can quite understand that you do not welcome me, Miss Eustace, but +none of us could foresee that you would be present when the three white +feathers came into Feversham's hands."</p> + +<p>Ethne swept the explanation aside.</p> + +<p>"How do you know that I was present?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Feversham told me."</p> + +<p>"You have seen him?"</p> + +<p>The cry leaped loudly from her lips. It was just a throb of the heart +made vocal. It startled Ethne as much as it surprised Captain +Willoughby. She had schooled herself to omit Harry Feversham from her +thoughts, and to obliterate him from her affections, and the cry showed +to her how incompletely she had succeeded. Only a few minutes since she +had spoken of him as one whom she looked upon as dead, and she had +believed that she spoke the truth.</p> + +<p>"You have actually seen him?" she repeated in a wondering voice. She +gazed at her stolid companion with envy. "You have spoken to him? And he +to you? When?"</p> + +<p>"A year ago, at Suakin. Else why should I be here?"</p> + +<p>The question came as a shock to Ethne. She did not guess the correct +answer; she was not, indeed, sufficiently mistress of herself to +speculate upon any answer, but she dreaded it, whatever it might be.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said slowly, and almost reluctantly. "After all, why are you +here?"</p> + +<p>Willoughby took a letter-case from his breast, opened it with +deliberation, and shook out from one of its pockets into the palm of his +hand a tiny, soiled, white feather. He held it out to Ethne.</p> + +<p>"I have come to give you this."</p> + +<p>Ethne did not take it. In fact, she positively shrank from it.</p> + +<p>"Why?" she asked unsteadily.</p> + +<p>"Three white feathers, three separate accusations of cowardice, were +sent to Feversham by three separate men. This is actually one of those +feathers which were forwarded from his lodgings to Ramelton five years +ago. I am one of the three men who sent them. I have come to tell you +that I withdraw my accusation. I take my feather back."</p> + +<p>"And you bring it to me?"</p> + +<p>"He asked me to."</p> + +<p>Ethne took the feather in her palm, a thing in itself so light and +fragile and yet so momentous as a symbol, and the trees and the garden +began to whirl suddenly about her. She was aware that Captain Willoughby +was speaking, but his voice had grown extraordinarily distant and thin; +so that she was annoyed, since she wished very much to hear all that he +had to say. She felt very cold, even upon that August day of sunlight. +But the presence of Captain Willoughby, one of the three men whom she +never would forgive, helped her to command herself. She would give no +exhibition of weakness before any one of the detested three, and with an +effort she recovered herself when she was on the very point of swooning.</p> + +<p>"Come," she said, "I will hear your story. Your news was rather a shock +to me. Even now I do not quite understand."</p> + +<p>She led the way from that open space to a little plot of grass above the +creek. On three sides thick hedges enclosed it, at the back rose the +tall elms and poplars, in front the water flashed and broke in ripples, +and beyond the water the trees rose again and were overtopped by sloping +meadows. A gap in the hedge made an entrance into this enclosure, and a +garden-seat stood in the centre of the grass.</p> + +<p>"Now," said Ethne, and she motioned to Captain Willoughby to take a seat +at her side. "You will take your time, perhaps. You will forget nothing. +Even his words, if you remember them! I shall thank you for his words." +She held that white feather clenched in her hand. Somehow Harry +Feversham had redeemed his honour, somehow she had been unjust to him; +and she was to learn how. She was in no hurry. She did not even feel one +pang of remorse that she had been unjust. Remorse, no doubt, would come +afterwards. At present the mere knowledge that she had been unjust was +too great a happiness to admit of abatement. She opened her hand and +looked at the feather. And as she looked, memories sternly repressed for +so long, regrets which she had thought stifled quite out of life, +longings which had grown strange, filled all her thoughts. The +Devonshire meadows were about her, the salt of the sea was in the air, +but she was back again in the midst of that one season at Dublin during +a spring five years ago, before the feathers came to Ramelton.</p> + +<p>Willoughby began to tell his story, and almost at once even the memory +of that season vanished.</p> + +<p>Ethne was in the most English of counties, the county of Plymouth and +Dartmouth and Brixham and the Start, where the red cliffs of its +coast-line speak perpetually of dead centuries, so that one cannot put +into any harbour without some thought of the Spanish Main and of the +little barques and pinnaces which adventured manfully out on their long +voyages with the tide. Up this very creek the clink of the +ship-builders' hammers had rung, and the soil upon its banks was +vigorous with the memories of British sailors. But Ethne had no thought +for these associations. The country-side was a shifting mist before her +eyes, which now and then let through a glimpse of that strange wide +country in the East, of which Durrance had so often told her. The only +trees which she saw were the stunted mimosas of the desert; the only sea +the great stretches of yellow sand; the only cliffs the sharp-peaked +pyramidal black rocks rising abruptly from its surface. It was part of +the irony of her position that she was able so much more completely to +appreciate the trials which one lover of hers had undergone through the +confidences which had been made to her by the other.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV</h2> + +<h3>THE STORY OF THE FIRST FEATHER</h3> + + +<p>"I will not interrupt you," said Ethne, as Willoughby took his seat +beside her, and he had barely spoken a score of words before she broke +that promise.</p> + +<p>"I am Deputy-Governor of Suakin," he began. "My chief was on leave in +May. You are fortunate enough not to know Suakin, Miss Eustace, +particularly in May. No white woman can live in that town. It has a +sodden intolerable heat peculiar to itself. The air is heavy with brine; +you can't sleep at night for its oppression. Well, I was sitting in the +verandah on the first floor of the palace about ten o'clock at night, +looking out over the harbour and the distillation works, and wondering +whether it was worth while to go to bed at all, when a servant told me +that a man, who refused to give his name, wished particularly to see me. +The man was Feversham. There was only a lamp burning in the verandah, +and the night was dark, so that I did not recognise him until he was +close to me."</p> + +<p>And at once Ethne interrupted.</p> + +<p>"How did he look?"</p> + +<p>Willoughby wrinkled his forehead and opened his eyes wide.</p> + +<p>"Really, I do not know," he said doubtfully. "Much like other men, I +suppose, who have been a year or two in the Soudan, a trifle overtrained +and that sort of thing."</p> + +<p>"Never mind," said Ethne, with a sigh of disappointment. For five years +she had heard no word of Harry Feversham. She fairly hungered for news +of him, for the sound of his habitual phrases, for the description of +his familiar gestures. She had the woman's anxiety for his bodily +health, she wished to know whether he had changed in face or figure, +and, if so, how and in what measure. But she glanced at the obtuse, +unobservant countenance of Captain Willoughby, and she understood that +however much she craved for these particulars, she must go without.</p> + +<p>"I beg your pardon," she said. "Will you go on?"</p> + +<p>"I asked him what he wanted," Willoughby resumed, "and why he had not +sent in his name. 'You would not have seen me if I had,' he replied, and +he drew a packet of letters out of his pocket. Now, those letters, Miss +Eustace, had been written a long while ago by General Gordon in Khartum. +They had been carried down the Nile as far as Berber. But the day after +they reached Berber, that town surrendered to the Mahdists. Abou Fatma, +the messenger who carried them, hid them in the wall of the house of an +Arab called Yusef, who sold rock-salt in the market-place. Abou was then +thrown into prison on suspicion, and escaped to Suakin. The letters +remained hidden in that wall until Feversham recovered them. I looked +over them and saw that they were of no value, and I asked Feversham +bluntly why he, who had not dared to accompany his regiment on active +service, had risked death and torture to get them back."</p> + +<p>Standing upon that verandah, with the quiet pool of water in front of +him, Feversham had told his story quietly and without exaggeration. He +had related how he had fallen in with Abou Fatma at Suakin, how he had +planned the recovery of the letters, how the two men had travelled +together as far as Obak, and since Abou Fatma dared not go farther, how +he himself, driving his grey donkey, had gone on alone to Berber. He had +not even concealed that access of panic which had loosened his joints +when first he saw the low brown walls of the town and the towering date +palms behind on the bank of the Nile; which had set him running and +leaping across the empty desert in the sunlight, a marrowless thing of +fear. He made, however, one omission. He said nothing of the hours which +he had spent crouching upon the hot sand, with his coat drawn over his +head, while he drew a woman's face toward him across the continents and +seas and nerved himself to endure by the look of sorrow which it wore.</p> + +<p>"He went down into Berber at the setting of the sun," said Captain +Willoughby, and it was all that he had to say. It was enough, however, +for Ethne Eustace. She drew a deep breath of relief, her face softened, +there came a light into her grey eyes, and a smile upon her lips.</p> + +<p>"He went down into Berber," she repeated softly.</p> + +<p>"And found that the old town had been destroyed by the orders of the +Emir, and that a new one was building upon its southern confines," +continued Willoughby. "All the landmarks by which Feversham was to know +the house in which the letters were hidden had gone. The roofs had been +torn off, the houses dismantled, the front walls carried away. Narrow +alleys of crumbling fives-courts—that was how Feversham described the +place—crossing this way and that and gaping to the stars. Here and +there perhaps a broken tower rose up, the remnant of a rich man's house. +But of any sign which could tell a man where the hut of Yusef, who had +once sold rock-salt in the market-place, had stood, there was no hope in +those acres of crumbling mud. The foxes had already made their burrows +there."</p> + +<p>The smile faded from Ethne's face, but she looked again at the white +feather lying in her palm, and she laughed with a great contentment. It +was yellow with the desert dust. It was a proof that in this story there +was to be no word of failure.</p> + +<p>"Go on," she said.</p> + +<p>Willoughby related the despatch of the negro with the donkey to Abou +Fatma at the Wells of Obak.</p> + +<p>"Feversham stayed for a fortnight in Berber," Willoughby continued. "A +week during which he came every morning to the well and waited for the +return of his negro from Obak, and a week during which that negro +searched for Yusef, who had once sold rock-salt in the market-place. I +doubt, Miss Eustace, if you can realise, however hard you try, what that +fortnight must have meant to Feversham—the anxiety, the danger, the +continued expectation that a voice would bid him halt and a hand fall +upon his shoulder, the urgent knowledge that if the hand fell, death +would be the least part of his penalty. I imagine the town—a town of +low houses and broad streets of sand, dug here and there into pits for +mud wherewith to build the houses, and overhead the blistering sun and +a hot shadowless sky. In no corner was there any darkness or +concealment. And all day a crowd jostled and shouted up and down these +streets—for that is the Mahdist policy to crowd the towns so that all +may be watched and every other man may be his neighbour's spy. Feversham +dared not seek the shelter of a roof at night, for he dared not trust +his tongue. He could buy his food each day at the booths, but he was +afraid of any conversation. He slept at night in some corner of the old +deserted town, in the acres of the ruined fives-courts. For the same +reason he must not slink in the by-ways by day lest any should question +him about his business; nor listen on the chance of hearing Yusef's name +in the public places lest other loiterers should joke with him and draw +him into their talk. Nor dare he in the daylight prowl about those +crumbled ruins. From sunrise to sunset he must go quickly up and down +the streets of the town like a man bent upon urgent business which +permits of no delay. And that continued for a fortnight, Miss Eustace! A +weary, trying life, don't you think? I wish I could tell you of it as +vividly as he told me that night upon the balcony of the palace at +Suakin."</p> + +<p>Ethne wished it too with all her heart. Harry Feversham had made his +story very real that night to Captain Willoughby; so that even after the +lapse of fifteen months this unimaginative creature was sensible of a +contrast and a deficiency in his manner of narration.</p> + +<p>"In front of us was the quiet harbour and the Red Sea, above us the +African stars. Feversham spoke in the quietest manner possible, but with +a peculiar deliberation and with his eyes fixed upon my face, as though +he was forcing me to feel with him and to understand. Even when he +lighted his cigar he did not avert his eyes. For by this time I had +given him a cigar and offered him a chair. I had really, I assure you, +Miss Eustace. It was the first time in four years that he had sat with +one of his equals, or indeed with any of his countrymen on a footing of +equality. He told me so. I wish I could remember all that he told me." +Willoughby stopped and cudgelled his brains helplessly. He gave up the +effort in the end.</p> + +<p>"Well," he resumed, "after Feversham had skulked for a fortnight in +Berber, the negro discovered Yusef, no longer selling salt, but tending +a small plantation of dhurra on the river's edge. From Yusef, Feversham +obtained particulars enough to guide him to the house where the letters +were concealed in the inner wall. But Yusef was no longer to be trusted. +Possibly Feversham's accent betrayed him. The more likely conjecture is +that Yusef took Feversham for a spy, and thought it wise to be +beforehand and to confess to Mohammed-el-Kheir, the Emir, his own share +in the concealment of the letters. That, however, is a mere conjecture. +The important fact is this. On the same night Feversham went alone to +old Berber."</p> + +<p>"Alone!" said Ethne. "Yes?"</p> + +<p>"He found the house fronting a narrow alley, and the sixth of the row. +The front wall was destroyed, but the two side walls and the back wall +still stood. Three feet from the floor and two feet from the right-hand +corner the letters were hidden in that inner wall. Feversham dug into +the mud bricks with his knife; he made a hole wherein he could slip his +hand. The wall was thick; he dug deep, stopping now and again to feel +for the packet. At last his fingers clasped and drew it out; as he hid +it in a fold of his jibbeh, the light of a lantern shone upon him from +behind."</p> + +<p>Ethne started as though she had been trapped herself. Those acres of +roofless fives-courts, with here and there a tower showing up against +the sky, the lonely alleys, the dead silence here beneath the stars, the +cries and the beating of drums and the glare of lights from the new +town, Harry Feversham alone with the letters, with, in a word, some +portion of his honour redeemed, and finally, the lantern flashing upon +him in that solitary place,—the scene itself and the progress of the +incidents were so visible to Ethne at that moment that even with the +feather in her open palm she could hardly bring herself to believe that +Harry Feversham had escaped.</p> + +<p>"Well, well?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"He was standing with his face to the wall, the light came from the +alley behind him. He did not turn, but out of the corner of his eye he +could see a fold of a white robe hanging motionless. He carefully +secured the package, with a care indeed and a composure which astonished +him even at that moment. The shock had strung him to a concentration and +lucidity of thought unknown to him till then. His fingers were +trembling, he remarked, as he tied the knots, but it was with +excitement, and an excitement which did not flurry. His mind worked +rapidly, but quite coolly, quite deliberately. He came to a perfectly +definite conclusion as to what he must do. Every faculty which he +possessed was extraordinarily clear, and at the same time +extraordinarily still. He had his knife in his hand, he faced about +suddenly and ran. There were two men waiting. Feversham ran at the man +who held the lantern. He was aware of the point of a spear, he ducked +and beat it aside with his left arm, he leaped forward and struck with +his right. The Arab fell at his feet; the lantern was extinguished. +Feversham sprang across the white-robed body and ran eastward, toward +the open desert. But in no panic; he had never been so collected. He was +followed by the second soldier. He had foreseen that he would be +followed. If he was to escape, it was indeed necessary that he should +be. He turned a corner, crouched behind a wall, and as the Arab came +running by he leaped out upon his shoulders. And again as he leaped he +struck."</p> + +<p>Captain Willoughby stopped at this point of his story and turned towards +Ethne. He had something to say which perplexed and at the same time +impressed him, and he spoke with a desire for an explanation.</p> + +<p>"The strangest feature of those few fierce, short minutes," he said, +"was that Feversham felt no fear. I don't understand that, do you? From +the first moment when the lantern shone upon him from behind, to the +last when he turned his feet eastward, and ran through the ruined alleys +and broken walls toward the desert and the Wells of Obak, he felt no +fear."</p> + +<p>This was the most mysterious part of Harry Feversham's story to Captain +Willoughby. Here was a man who so shrank from the possibilities of +battle, that he must actually send in his papers rather than confront +them; yet when he stood in dire and immediate peril he felt no fear. +Captain Willoughby might well turn to Ethne for an explanation.</p> + +<p>There had been no mystery in it to Harry Feversham, but a great +bitterness of spirit. He had sat on the verandah at Suakin, whittling +away at the edge of Captain Willoughby's table with the very knife which +he had used in Berber to dig out the letters, and which had proved so +handy a weapon when the lantern shone out behind him—the one glimmering +point of light in that vast acreage of ruin. Harry Feversham had kept it +carefully uncleansed of blood; he had treasured it all through his +flight across the two hundred and forty odd miles of desert into Suakin; +it was, next to the white feathers, the thing which he held most +precious of his possessions, and not merely because it would serve as a +corroboration of his story to Captain Willoughby, but because the weapon +enabled him to believe and realise it himself. A brown clotted rust +dulled the whole length of the blade, and often during the first two +days and nights of his flight, when he travelled alone, hiding and +running and hiding again, with the dread of pursuit always at his heels, +he had taken the knife from his breast, and stared at it with +incredulous eyes, and clutched it close to him like a thing of comfort. +He had lost his way amongst the sandhills of Obak on the evening of the +second day, and had wandered vainly, with his small store of dates and +water exhausted, until he had stumbled and lay prone, parched and +famished and enfeebled, with the bitter knowledge that Abou Fatma and +the Wells were somewhere within a mile of the spot on which he lay. But +even at that moment of exhaustion the knife had been a talisman and a +help. He grasped the rough wooden handle, all too small for a Western +hand, and he ran his fingers over the rough rust upon the blade, and the +weapon spoke to him and bade him take heart, since once he had been put +to the test and had not failed. But long before he saw the white houses +of Suakin that feeling of elation vanished, and the knife became an +emblem of the vain tortures of his boyhood and the miserable folly which +culminated in his resignation of his commission. He understood now the +words which Lieutenant Sutch had spoken in the grill-room of the +Criterion Restaurant, when citing Hamlet as his example, "The thing +which he saw, which he thought over, which he imagined in the act and in +the consequence—that he shrank from. Yet when the moment of action +comes sharp and immediate, does he fail?" And remembering the words, +Harry Feversham sat one May night, four years afterwards, in Captain +Willoughby's verandah, whittling away at the table with his knife, and +saying over and over again in a bitter savage voice: "It was an +illusion, but an illusion which has caused a great deal of suffering to +a woman I would have shielded from suffering. But I am well paid for it, +for it has wrecked my life besides."</p> + +<p>Captain Willoughby could not understand, any more than General Feversham +could have understood, or than Ethne had. But Willoughby could at all +events remember and repeat, and Ethne had grown by five years of +unhappiness since the night when Harry Feversham, in the little room +off the hall at Lennon House, had told her of his upbringing, of the +loss of his mother, and the impassable gulf between his father and +himself, and of the fear of disgrace which had haunted his nights and +disfigured the world for him by day.</p> + +<p>"Yes, it was an illusion," she cried. "I understand. I might have +understood a long while since, but I would not. When those feathers came +he told me why they were sent, quite simply, with his eyes on mine. When +my father knew of them, he waited quite steadily and faced my father."</p> + +<p>There was other evidence of the like kind not within Ethne's knowledge. +Harry Feversham had journeyed down to Broad Place in Surrey and made his +confession no less unflinchingly to the old general. But Ethne knew +enough. "It was the possibility of cowardice from which he shrank, not +the possibility of hurt," she exclaimed. "If only one had been a little +older, a little less sure about things, a little less narrow! I should +have listened. I should have understood. At all events, I should not, I +think, have been cruel."</p> + +<p>Not for the first time did remorse for that fourth feather which she had +added to the three, seize upon her. She sat now crushed by it into +silence. Captain Willoughby, however, was a stubborn man, unwilling upon +any occasion to admit an error. He saw that Ethne's remorse by +implication condemned himself, and that he was not prepared to suffer.</p> + +<p>"Yes, but these fine distinctions are a little too elusive for practical +purposes," he said. "You can't run the world on fine distinctions; so I +cannot bring myself to believe that we three men were at all to blame, +and if we were not, you of all people can have no reason for +self-reproach."</p> + +<p>Ethne did not consider what he precisely meant by the last reference to +herself. For as he leaned complacently back in his seat, anger against +him flamed suddenly hot in her. Occupied by his story, she had ceased to +take stock of the story-teller. Now that he had ended, she looked him +over from head to foot. An obstinate stupidity was the mark of the man +to her eye. How dare he sit in judgment upon the meanest of his fellows, +let alone Harry Feversham? she asked, and in the same moment recollected +that she herself had endorsed his judgment. Shame tingled through all +her blood; she sat with her lips set, keeping Willoughby under watch +from the corners of her eyes, and waiting to pounce savagely the moment +he opened his lips. There had been noticeable throughout his narrative a +manner of condescension towards Feversham. "Let him use it again!" +thought Ethne. But Captain Willoughby said nothing at all, and Ethne +herself broke the silence. "Who of you three first thought of sending +the feathers?" she asked aggressively. "Not you?"</p> + +<p>"No; I think it was Trench," he replied.</p> + +<p>"Ah, Trench!" Ethne exclaimed. She struck one clenched hand, the hand +which held the feather, viciously into the palm of the other. "I will +remember that name."</p> + +<p>"But I share his responsibility," Willoughby assured her. "I do not +shrink from it at all. I regret very much that we caused you pain and +annoyance, but I do not acknowledge to any mistake in this matter. I +take my feather back now, and I annul my accusation. But that is your +doing."</p> + +<p>"Mine?" asked Ethne. "What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>Captain Willoughby turned with surprise to his companion.</p> + +<p>"A man may live in the Soudan and even yet not be wholly ignorant of +women and their great quality of forgiveness. You gave the feathers back +to Feversham in order that he might redeem his honour. That is evident."</p> + +<p>Ethne sprang to her feet before Captain Willoughby had come to the end +of his sentence, and stood a little in front of him, with her face +averted, and in an attitude remarkably still. Willoughby in his +ignorance, like many another stupid man before him, had struck with a +shrewdness and a vigour which he could never have compassed by the use +of his wits. He had pointed out abruptly and suddenly to Ethne a way +which she might have taken and had not, and her remorse warned her very +clearly that it was the way which she ought to have taken. But she could +rise to the heights. She did not seek to justify herself in her own +eyes, nor would she allow Willoughby to continue in his misconception. +She recognised that here she had failed in charity and justice, and she +was glad that she had failed, since her failure had been the opportunity +of greatness to Harry Feversham.</p> + +<p>"Will you repeat what you said?" she asked in a low voice; "and ever so +slowly, please."</p> + +<p>"You gave the feathers back into Feversham's hand—"</p> + +<p>"He told you that himself?"</p> + +<p>"Yes;" and Willoughby resumed, "in order that he might by his +subsequent bravery compel the men who sent them to take them back, and +so redeem his honour."</p> + +<p>"He did not tell you that?"</p> + +<p>"No. I guessed it. You see, Feversham's disgrace was, on the face of it, +impossible to retrieve. The opportunity might never have occurred—it +was not likely to occur. As things happened, Feversham still waited for +three years in the bazaar at Suakin before it did. No, Miss Eustace, it +needed a woman's faith to conceive that plan—a woman's encouragement to +keep the man who undertook it to his work."</p> + +<p>Ethne laughed and turned back to him. Her face was tender with pride, +and more than tender. Pride seemed in some strange way to hallow her, to +give an unimagined benignance to her eyes, an unearthly brightness to +the smile upon her lips and the colour upon her cheeks. So that +Willoughby, looking at her, was carried out of himself.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he cried, "you were the woman to plan this redemption."</p> + +<p>Ethne laughed again, and very happily.</p> + +<p>"Did he tell you of a fourth white feather?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"I shall tell you the truth," she said, as she resumed her seat. "The +plan was of his devising from first to last. Nor did I encourage him to +its execution. For until to-day I never heard a word of it. Since the +night of that dance in Donegal I have had no message from Mr. Feversham, +and no news of him. I told him to take up those three feathers because +they were his, and I wished to show him that I agreed with the +accusations of which they were the symbols. That seems cruel? But I did +more. I snapped a fourth white feather from my fan and gave him that to +carry away too. It is only fair that you should know. I wanted to make +an end for ever and ever, not only of my acquaintanceship with him, but +of every kindly thought he might keep of me, of every kindly thought I +might keep of him. I wanted to be sure myself, and I wanted him to be +sure, that we should always be strangers now and—and afterwards," and +the last words she spoke in a whisper. Captain Willoughby did not +understand what she meant by them. It is possible that only Lieutenant +Sutch and Harry Feversham himself would have understood.</p> + +<p>"I was sad and sorry enough when I had done it," she resumed. "Indeed, +indeed, I think I have always been sorry since. I think that I have +never at any minute during these five years quite forgotten that fourth +white feather and the quiet air of dignity with which he took it. But +to-day I am glad." And her voice, though low, rang rich with the fulness +of her pride. "Oh, very glad! For this was his thought, his deed. They +are both all his, as I would have them be. I had no share, and of that I +am very proud. He needed no woman's faith, no woman's encouragement."</p> + +<p>"Yet he sent this back to you," said Willoughby, pointing in some +perplexity to the feather which Ethne held.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, "yes. He knew that I should be glad to know." And +suddenly she held it close to her breast. Thus she sat for a while with +her eyes shining, until Willoughby rose to his feet and pointed to the +gap in the hedge by which they had entered the enclosure.</p> + +<p>"By Jove! Jack Durrance," he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>Durrance was standing in the gap, which was the only means of entering +or going out.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h2> + +<h3>CAPTAIN WILLOUGHBY RETIRES</h3> + + +<p>Ethne had entirely forgotten even Colonel Durrance's existence. From the +moment when Captain Willoughby had put that little soiled feather which +had once been white, and was now yellow, into her hand, she had had no +thought for any one but Harry Feversham. She had carried Willoughby into +that enclosure, and his story had absorbed her and kept her memory on +the rack, as she filled out with this or that recollected detail of +Harry's gestures, or voice, or looks, the deficiencies in her +companion's narrative. She had been swept away from that August garden +of sunlight and coloured flowers; and those five most weary years, +during which she had held her head high and greeted the world with a +smile of courage, were blotted from her experience. How weary they had +been perhaps she never knew, until she raised her head and saw Durrance +at the entrance in the hedge.</p> + +<p>"Hush!" she said to Willoughby, and her face paled and her eyes shut +tight for a moment with a spasm of pain. But she had no time to spare +for any indulgence of her feelings. Her few minutes' talk with Captain +Willoughby had been a holiday, but the holiday was over. She must take +up again the responsibilities with which those five years had charged +her, and at once. If she could not accomplish that hard task of +forgetting—and she now knew very well that she never would accomplish +it—she must do the next best thing, and give no sign that she had not +forgotten. Durrance must continue to believe that she brought more than +friendship into the marriage account.</p> + +<p>He stood at the very entrance to the enclosure; he advanced into it. He +was so quick to guess, it was not wise that he should meet Captain +Willoughby or even know of his coming. Ethne looked about her for an +escape, knowing very well that she would look in vain. The creek was in +front of them, and three walls of high thick hedge girt them in behind +and at the sides. There was but one entrance to this enclosure, and +Durrance himself barred the path to it.</p> + +<p>"Keep still," she said in a whisper. "You know him?"</p> + +<p>"Of course. We were together for three years at Suakin. I heard that he +had gone blind. I am glad to know that it is not true." This he said, +noticing the freedom of Durrance's gait.</p> + +<p>"Speak lower," returned Ethne. "It is true. He <i>is</i> blind."</p> + +<p>"One would never have thought it. Consolations seem so futile. What can +I say to him?"</p> + +<p>"Say nothing!"</p> + +<p>Durrance was still standing just within the enclosure, and, as it +seemed, looking straight towards the two people seated on the bench.</p> + +<p>"Ethne," he said, rather than called; and the quiet unquestioning voice +made the illusion that he saw extraordinarily complete.</p> + +<p>"It's impossible that he is blind," said Willoughby. "He sees us."</p> + +<p>"He sees nothing."</p> + +<p>Again Durrance called "Ethne," but now in a louder voice, and a voice of +doubt.</p> + +<p>"Do you hear? He is not sure," whispered Ethne. "Keep very still."</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"He must not know you are here," and lest Willoughby should move, she +caught his arm tight in her hand. Willoughby did not pursue his +inquiries. Ethne's manner constrained him to silence. She sat very +still, still as she wished him to sit, and in a queer huddled attitude; +she was even holding her breath; she was staring at Durrance with a +great fear in her eyes; her face was strained forward, and not a muscle +of it moved, so that Willoughby, as he looked at her, was conscious of a +certain excitement, which grew on him for no reason but her remarkable +apprehension. He began unaccountably himself to fear lest he and she +should be discovered.</p> + +<p>"He is coming towards us," he whispered.</p> + +<p>"Not a word, not a movement."</p> + +<p>"Ethne," Durrance cried again. He advanced farther into the enclosure +and towards the seat. Ethne and Captain Willoughby sat rigid, watching +him with their eyes. He passed in front of the bench, and stopped +actually facing them. Surely, thought Willoughby, he sees. His eyes were +upon them; he stood easily, as though he were about to speak. Even +Ethne, though she very well knew that he did not see, began to doubt her +knowledge.</p> + +<p>"Ethne!" he said again, and this time in the quiet voice which he had +first used. But since again no answer came, he shrugged his shoulders +and turned towards the creek. His back was towards them now, but Ethne's +experience had taught her to appreciate almost indefinable signs in his +bearing, since nowadays his face showed her so little. Something in his +attitude, in the poise of his head, even in the carelessness with which +he swung his stick, told her that he was listening, and listening with +all his might. Her grasp tightened on Willoughby's arm. Thus they +remained for the space of a minute, and then Durrance turned suddenly +and took a quick step towards the seat. Ethne, however, by this time +knew the man and his ingenuities; she was prepared for some such +unexpected movement. She did not stir, there was not audible the merest +rustle of her skirt, and her grip still constrained Willoughby.</p> + +<p>"I wonder where in the world she can be," said Durrance to himself +aloud, and he walked back and out of the enclosure. Ethne did not free +Captain Willoughby's arm until Durrance had disappeared from sight.</p> + +<p>"That was a close shave," Willoughby said, when at last he was allowed +to speak. "Suppose that Durrance had sat down on the top of us?"</p> + +<p>"Why suppose, since he did not?" Ethne asked calmly. "You have told me +everything?"</p> + +<p>"So far as I remember."</p> + +<p>"And all that you have told me happened in the spring?"</p> + +<p>"The spring of last year," said Willoughby.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I want to ask you a question. Why did you not bring this feather +to me last summer?"</p> + +<p>"Last year my leave was short. I spent it in the hills north of Suakin +after ibex."</p> + +<p>"I see," said Ethne, quietly; "I hope you had good sport."</p> + +<p>"It wasn't bad."</p> + +<p>Last summer Ethne had been free. If Willoughby had come home with his +good news instead of shooting ibex on Jebel Araft, it would have made +all the difference in her life, and the cry was loud at her heart, "Why +didn't you come?" But outwardly she gave no sign of the irreparable harm +which Willoughby's delay had brought about. She had the self-command of +a woman who has been sorely tried, and she spoke so unconcernedly that +Willoughby believed her questions prompted by the merest curiosity.</p> + +<p>"You might have written," she suggested.</p> + +<p>"Feversham did not suggest that there was any hurry. It would have been +a long and difficult matter to explain in a letter. He asked me to go to +you when I had an opportunity, and I had no opportunity before. To tell +the truth, I thought it very likely that I might find Feversham had come +back before me."</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," returned Ethne, "there could be no possibility of that. The +other two feathers still remain to be redeemed before he will ask me to +take back mine."</p> + +<p>Willoughby shook his head. "Feversham can never persuade Castleton and +Trench to cancel their accusations as he persuaded me."</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"Major Castleton was killed when the square was broken at Tamai."</p> + +<p>"Killed?" cried Ethne, and she laughed in a short and satisfied way. +Willoughby turned and stared at her, disbelieving the evidence of his +ears. But her face showed him quite clearly that she was thoroughly +pleased. Ethne was a Celt, and she had the Celtic feeling that death was +not a very important matter. She could hate, too, and she could be hard +as iron to the men she hated. And these three men she hated exceedingly. +It was true that she had agreed with them, that she had given a feather, +the fourth feather, to Harry Feversham just to show that she agreed, but +she did not trouble her head about that. She was very glad to hear that +Major Castleton was out of the world and done with.</p> + +<p>"And Colonel Trench too?" she said.</p> + +<p>"No," Willoughby answered. "You are disappointed? But he is even worse +off than that. He was captured when engaged on a reconnaissance. He is +now a prisoner in Omdurman."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" said Ethne.</p> + +<p>"I don't think you can have any idea," said Willoughby, severely, "of +what captivity in Omdurman implies. If you had, however much you +disliked the captive, you would feel some pity."</p> + +<p>"Not I," said Ethne, stubbornly.</p> + +<p>"I will tell you something of what it does imply."</p> + +<p>"No. I don't wish to hear of Colonel Trench. Besides, you must go. I +want you to tell me one thing first," said she, as she rose from her +seat. "What became of Mr. Feversham after he had given you that +feather?"</p> + +<p>"I told him that he had done everything which could be reasonably +expected; and he accepted my advice. For he went on board the first +steamer which touched at Suakin on its way to Suez and so left the +Soudan."</p> + +<p>"I must find out where he is. He must come, back. Did he need money?"</p> + +<p>"No. He still drew his allowance from his father. He told me that he had +more than enough."</p> + +<p>"I am glad of that," said Ethne, and she bade Willoughby wait within the +enclosure until she returned, and went out by herself to see that the +way was clear. The garden was quite empty. Durrance had disappeared from +it, and the great stone terrace of the house and the house itself, with +its striped sunblinds, looked a place of sleep. It was getting towards +one o'clock, and the very birds were quiet amongst the trees. Indeed the +quietude of the garden struck upon Ethne's senses as something almost +strange. Only the bees hummed drowsily about the flowerbeds, and the +voice of a lad was heard calling from the slopes of meadow on the far +side of the creek. She returned to Captain Willoughby.</p> + +<p>"You can go now," she said. "I cannot pretend friendship for you, +Captain Willoughby, but it was kind of you to find me out and tell me +your story. You are going back at once to Kingsbridge? I hope so. For I +do not wish Colonel Durrance to know of your visit or anything of what +you have told me."</p> + +<p>"Durrance was a friend of Feversham's—his great friend," Willoughby +objected.</p> + +<p>"He is quite unaware that any feathers were sent to Mr. Feversham, so +there is no need he should be informed that one of them has been taken +back," Ethne answered. "He does not know why my engagement to Mr. +Feversham was broken off. I do not wish him to know. Your story would +enlighten him, and he must not be enlightened."</p> + +<p>"Why?" asked Willoughby. He was obstinate by nature, and he meant to +have the reason for silence before he promised to keep it. Ethne gave it +to him at once very simply.</p> + +<p>"I am engaged to Colonel Durrance," she said. It was her fear that +Durrance already suspected that no stronger feeling than friendship +attached her to him. If once he heard that the fault which broke her +engagement to Harry Feversham had been most bravely atoned, there could +be no doubt as to the course which he would insist upon pursuing. He +would strip himself of her, the one thing left to him, and that she was +stubbornly determined he should not do. She was bound to him in honour, +and it would be a poor way of manifesting her joy that Harry Feversham +had redeemed his honour if she straightway sacrificed her own.</p> + +<p>Captain Willoughby pursed up his lips and whistled.</p> + +<p>"Engaged to Jack Durrance!" he exclaimed. "Then I seem to have wasted my +time in bringing you that feather," and he pointed towards it. She was +holding it in her open hand, and she drew her hand sharply away, as +though she feared for a moment that he meant to rob her of it.</p> + +<p>"I am most grateful for it," she returned.</p> + +<p>"It's a bit of a muddle, isn't it?" Willoughby remarked. "It seems a +little rough on Feversham perhaps. It's a little rough on Jack Durrance, +too, when you come to think of it." Then he looked at Ethne. He noticed +her careful handling of the feather; he remembered something of the +glowing look with which she had listened to his story, something of the +eager tones in which she had put her questions; and he added, "I +shouldn't wonder if it was rather rough on you too, Miss Eustace."</p> + +<p>Ethne did not answer him, and they walked together out of the enclosure +towards the spot where Willoughby had moored his boat. She hurried him +down the bank to the water's edge, intent that he should sail away +unperceived.</p> + +<p>But Ethne had counted without Mrs. Adair, who all that morning had seen +much in Ethne's movements to interest her. From the drawing-room window +she had watched Ethne and Durrance meet at the foot of the +terrace-steps, she had seen them walk together towards the estuary, she +had noticed Willoughby's boat as it ran aground in the wide gap between +the trees, she had seen a man disembark, and Ethne go forward to meet +him. Mrs. Adair was not the woman to leave her post of observation at +such a moment, and from the cover of the curtains she continued to watch +with all the curiosity of a woman in a village who draws down the blind, +that unobserved she may get a better peep at the stranger passing down +the street. Ethne and the man from the boat turned away and disappeared +amongst the trees, leaving Durrance forgotten and alone. Mrs. Adair +thought at once of that enclosure at the water's edge. The conversation +lasted for some while, and since the couple did not promptly reappear, a +question flashed into her mind. "Could the stranger be Harry Feversham?" +Ethne had no friends in this part of the world. The question pressed +upon Mrs. Adair. She longed for an answer, and of course for that +particular answer which would convict Ethne Eustace of duplicity. Her +interest grew into an excitement when she saw Durrance, tired of +waiting, follow upon Ethne's steps. But what came after was to interest +her still more.</p> + +<p>Durrance reappeared, to her surprise alone, and came straight to the +house, up the terrace, into the drawing-room.</p> + +<p>"Have you seen Ethne?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Is she not in the little garden by the water?" Mrs. Adair asked.</p> + +<p>"No. I went into it and called to her. It was empty."</p> + +<p>"Indeed?" said Mrs. Adair. "Then I don't know where she is. Are you +going?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, home."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair made no effort to detain him at that moment.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you will come in and dine to-night. Eight o'clock."</p> + +<p>"Thanks, very much. I shall be pleased," said Durrance, but he did not +immediately go. He stood by the window idly swinging to and fro the +tassel of the blind.</p> + +<p>"I did not know until to-day that it was your plan that I should come +home and Ethne stay with you until I found out whether a cure was likely +or possible. It was very kind of you, Mrs. Adair, and I am grateful."</p> + +<p>"It was a natural plan to propose as soon as I heard of your ill-luck."</p> + +<p>"And when was that?" he asked unconcernedly. "The day after Calder's +telegram reached her from Wadi Halfa, I suppose."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair was not deceived by his attitude of carelessness. She +realised that his expression of gratitude had deliberately led up to +this question.</p> + +<p>"Oh, so you knew of that telegram," she said. "I thought you did not." +For Ethne had asked her not to mention it on the very day when Durrance +returned to England.</p> + +<p>"Of course I knew of it," he returned, and without waiting any longer +for an answer he went out on to the terrace.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair dismissed for the moment the mystery of the telegram. She was +occupied by her conjecture that in the little garden by the water's edge +Durrance had stood and called aloud for Ethne, while within twelve yards +of him, perhaps actually within his reach, she and some one else had +kept very still and had given no answer. Her conjecture was soon proved +true. She saw Ethne and her companion come out again on to the open +lawn. Was it Feversham? She must have an answer to that question. She +saw them descend the bank towards the boat, and, stepping from her +window, ran.</p> + +<p>Thus it happened that as Willoughby rose from loosening the painter, he +saw Mrs. Adair's disappointed eyes gazing into his. Mrs. Adair called to +Ethne, who stood by Captain Willoughby, and came down the bank to them.</p> + +<p>"I noticed you cross the lawn from the drawing-room window," she said.</p> + +<p>"Yes?" answered Ethne, and she said no more. Mrs. Adair, however, did +not move away, and an awkward pause followed. Ethne was forced to give +in.</p> + +<p>"I was talking to Captain Willoughby," and she turned to him. "You do +not know Mrs. Adair, I think?"</p> + +<p>"No," he replied, as he raised his hat. "But I know Mrs. Adair very well +by name. I know friends of yours, Mrs. Adair—Durrance, for instance; +and of course I knew—"</p> + +<p>A glance from Ethne brought him abruptly to a stop. He began vigorously +to push the nose of his boat from the sand.</p> + +<p>"Of course, what?" asked Mrs. Adair, with a smile.</p> + +<p>"Of course I knew of you, Mrs. Adair."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair was quite clear that this was not what Willoughby had been on +the point of saying when Ethne turned her eyes quietly upon him and cut +him short. He was on the point of adding another name. "Captain +Willoughby," she repeated to herself. Then she said:—</p> + +<p>"You belong to Colonel Durrance's regiment, perhaps?"</p> + +<p>"No, I belong to the North Surrey," he answered.</p> + +<p>"Ah! Mr. Feversham's old regiment," said Mrs. Adair, pleasantly. Captain +Willoughby had fallen into her little trap with a guilelessness which +provoked in her a desire for a closer acquaintanceship. Whatever +Willoughby knew it would be easy to extract. Ethne, however, had +disconcerting ways which at times left Mrs. Adair at a loss. She looked +now straight into Mrs. Adair's eyes and said calmly:—</p> + +<p>"Captain Willoughby and I have been talking of Mr. Feversham." At the +same time she held out her hand to the captain. "Good-bye," she said.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair hastily interrupted.</p> + +<p>"Colonel Durrance has gone home, but he dines with us to-night. I came +out to tell you that, but I am glad that I came, for it gives me the +opportunity to ask your friend to lunch with us if he will."</p> + +<p>Captain Willoughby, who already had one leg over the bows of his boat, +withdrew it with alacrity.</p> + +<p>"It's awfully good of you, Mrs. Adair," he began.</p> + +<p>"It is very kind indeed," Ethne continued, "but Captain Willoughby has +reminded me that his leave is very short, and we have no right to detain +him. Good-bye."</p> + +<p>Captain Willoughby gazed with a vain appeal upon Miss Eustace. He had +travelled all night from London, he had made the scantiest breakfast at +Kingsbridge, and the notion of lunch appealed to him particularly at +that moment. But her eyes rested on his with a quiet and inexorable +command. He bowed, got ruefully into his boat, and pushed off from the +shore.</p> + +<p>"It's a little bit rough on me too, perhaps, Miss Eustace," he said. +Ethne laughed, and returned to the terrace with Mrs. Adair. Once or +twice she opened the palm of her hand and disclosed to her companion's +view a small white feather, at which she laughed again, and with a clear +and rather low laugh. But she gave no explanation of Captain +Willoughby's errand. Had she been in Mrs. Adair's place she would not +have expected one. It was her business and only hers.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII</h2> + +<h3>THE MUSOLINE OVERTURE</h3> + + +<p>Mrs. Adair, on her side, asked for no explanations. She was naturally, +behind her pale and placid countenance, a woman of a tortuous and +intriguing mind. She preferred to look through a keyhole even when she +could walk straight in at the door; and knowledge which could be gained +by a little maneuvering was always more desirable and precious in her +eyes than any information which a simple question would elicit. She +avoided, indeed, the direct question on a perverted sort of principle, +and she thought a day very well spent if at the close of it she had +outwitted a companion into telling her spontaneously some trivial and +unimportant piece of news which a straightforward request would have at +once secured for her at breakfast-time.</p> + +<p>Therefore, though she was mystified by the little white feather upon +which Ethne seemed to set so much store, and wondered at the good news +of Harry Feversham which Captain Willoughby had brought, and vainly +puzzled her brains in conjecture as to what in the world could have +happened on that night at Ramelton so many years ago, she betrayed +nothing whatever of her perplexity all through lunch; on the contrary, +she plied her guest with conversation upon indifferent topics. Mrs. +Adair could be good company when she chose, and she chose now. But it +was not to any purpose.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe that you hear a single word I am saying!" she +exclaimed.</p> + +<p>Ethne laughed and pleaded guilty. She betook herself to her room as soon +as lunch was finished, and allowed herself an afternoon of solitude. +Sitting at her window, she repeated slowly the story which Willoughby +had told to her that morning, and her heart thrilled to it as to music +divinely played. The regret that he had not come home and told it a year +ago, when she was free, was a small thing in comparison with the story +itself. It could not outweigh the great gladness which that brought to +her—it had, indeed, completely vanished from her thoughts. Her pride, +which had never recovered from the blow which Harry Feversham had dealt +to her in the hall at Lennon House, was now quite restored, and by the +man who had dealt the blow. She was aglow with it, and most grateful to +Harry Feversham for that he had, at so much peril to himself, restored +it. She was conscious of a new exhilaration in the sunlight, of a +quicker pulsation in her blood. Her youth was given back to her upon +that August afternoon.</p> + +<p>Ethne unlocked a drawer in her dressing-case, and took from it the +portrait which alone of all Harry Feversham's presents she had kept. She +rejoiced that she had kept it. It was the portrait of some one who was +dead to her—that she knew very well, for there was no thought of +disloyalty toward Durrance in her breast—but the some one was a friend. +She looked at it with a great happiness and contentment, because Harry +Feversham had needed no expression of faith from her to inspire him, +and no encouragement from her to keep him through the years on the level +of his high inspiration. When she put it back again, she laid the white +feather in the drawer with it and locked the two things up together.</p> + +<p>She came back to her window. Out upon the lawn a light breeze made the +shadows from the high trees dance, the sunlight mellowed and reddened. +But Ethne was of her county, as Harry Feversham had long ago discovered, +and her heart yearned for it at this moment. It was the month of August. +The first of the heather would be out upon the hillsides of Donegal, and +she wished that the good news had been brought to her there. The regret +that it had not was her crumpled rose-leaf. Here she was in a strange +land; there the brown mountains, with their outcroppings of granite and +the voices of the streams, would have shared, she almost thought, in her +new happiness. Great sorrows or great joys had this in common for Ethne +Eustace, they both drew her homewards, since there endurance was more +easy and gladness more complete.</p> + +<p>She had, however, one living tie with Donegal at her side, for Dermod's +old collie dog had become her inseparable companion. To him she made her +confidence, and if at times her voice broke in tears, why, the dog would +not tell. She came to understand much which Willoughby had omitted, and +which Feversham had never told. Those three years of concealment in the +small and crowded city of Suakin, for instance, with the troops marching +out to battle, and returning dust-strewn and bleeding and laurelled with +victory. Harry Feversham had to slink away at their approach, lest some +old friend of his—Durrance, perhaps, or Willoughby, or Trench—should +notice him and penetrate his disguise. The panic which had beset him +when first he saw the dark brown walls of Berber, the night in the +ruined acres, the stumbling search for the well amongst the shifting +sandhills of Obak,—Ethne had vivid pictures of these incidents, and as +she thought of each she asked herself: "Where was I then? What was I +doing?"</p> + +<p>She sat in a golden mist until the lights began to change upon the still +water of the creek, and the rooks wheeled noisily out from the tree-tops +to sort themselves for the night, and warned her of evening.</p> + +<p>She brought to the dinner-table that night a buoyancy of spirit which +surprised her companions. Mrs. Adair had to admit that seldom had her +eyes shone so starrily, or the colour so freshly graced her cheeks. She +was more than ever certain that Captain Willoughby had brought stirring +news; she was more than ever tortured by her vain efforts to guess its +nature. But Mrs. Adair, in spite of her perplexities, took her share in +the talk, and that dinner passed with a freedom from embarrassment +unknown since Durrance had come home to Guessens. For he, too, threw off +a burden of restraint; his spirits rose to match Ethne's; he answered +laugh with laugh, and from his face that habitual look of tension, the +look of a man listening with all his might that his ears might make good +the loss of his eyes, passed altogether away.</p> + +<p>"You will play on your violin to-night, I think," he said with a smile, +as they rose from the table.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she answered, "I will—with all my heart."</p> + +<p>Durrance laughed and held open the door. The violin had remained locked +in its case during these last two months. Durrance had come to look upon +that violin as a gauge and test. If the world was going well with Ethne, +the case was unlocked, the instrument was allowed to speak; if the world +went ill, it was kept silent lest it should say too much, and open old +wounds and lay them bare to other eyes. Ethne herself knew it for an +indiscreet friend. But it was to be brought out to-night.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair lingered until Ethne was out of ear-shot.</p> + +<p>"You have noticed the change in her to-night?" she said.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Have I not?" answered Durrance. "One has waited for it, hoped for +it, despaired of it."</p> + +<p>"Are you so glad of the change?"</p> + +<p>Durrance threw back his head. "Do you wonder that I am glad? Kind, +friendly, unselfish—these things she has always been. But there is more +than friendliness evident to-night, and for the first time it's +evident."</p> + +<p>There came a look of pity upon Mrs. Adair's face, and she passed out of +the room without another word. Durrance took all of that great change in +Ethne to himself. Mrs. Adair drew up the blinds of the drawing-room, +opened the window, and let the moonlight in; and then, as she saw Ethne +unlocking the case of her violin, she went out on to the terrace. She +felt that she could not sit patiently in her company. So that when +Durrance entered the drawing-room he found Ethne alone there. She was +seated in the window, and already tightening the strings of her violin. +Durrance took a chair behind her in the shadows.</p> + +<p>"What shall I play to you?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"The Musoline Overture," he answered. "You played it on the first +evening when I came to Ramelton. I remember so well how you played it +then. Play it again to-night. I want to compare."</p> + +<p>"I have played it since."</p> + +<p>"Never to me."</p> + +<p>They were alone in the room; the windows stood open; it was a night of +moonlight. Ethne suddenly crossed to the lamp and put it out. She +resumed her seat, while Durrance remained in the shadow, leaning +forward, with his hands upon his knees, listening—but with an +intentness of which he had given no sign that evening. He was applying, +as he thought, a final test upon which his life and hers should be +decided. Ethne's violin would tell him assuredly whether he was right or +no. Would friendship speak from it or the something more than +friendship?</p> + +<p>Ethne played the overture, and as she played she forgot that Durrance +was in the room behind her. In the garden the air was still and +summer-warm and fragrant; on the creek the moonlight lay like a solid +floor of silver; the trees stood dreaming to the stars; and as the music +floated loud out across the silent lawn, Ethne had a sudden fancy that +it might perhaps travel down the creek and over Salcombe Bar and across +the moonlit seas, and strike small yet wonderfully clear like fairy +music upon the ears of a man sleeping somewhere far away beneath the +brightness of the southern stars with the cool night wind of the desert +blowing upon his face.</p> + +<p>"If he could only hear!" she thought. "If he could only wake and know +that what he heard was a message of friendship!"</p> + +<p>And with this fancy in her mind she played with such skill as she had +never used before; she made of her violin a voice of sympathy. The fancy +grew and changed as she played. The music became a bridge swung in +mid-air across the world, upon which just for these few minutes she and +Harry Feversham might meet and shake hands. They would separate, of +course, forthwith, and each one go upon the allotted way. But these few +minutes would be a help to both along the separate ways. The chords rang +upon silence. It seemed to Ethne that they declaimed the pride which had +come to her that day. Her fancy grew into a belief. It was no longer "If +he should hear," but "He <i>must</i> hear!" And so carried away was she from +the discretion of thought that a strange hope suddenly sprang up and +enthralled her.</p> + +<p>"If he could answer!"</p> + +<p>She lingered upon the last bars, waiting for the answer; and when the +music had died down to silence, she sat with her violin upon her knees, +looking eagerly out across the moonlit garden.</p> + +<p>And an answer did come, but it was not carried up the creek and across +the lawn. It came from the dark shadows of the room behind her, and it +was spoken through the voice of Durrance.</p> + +<p>"Ethne, where do you think I heard that overture last played?"</p> + +<p>Ethne was roused with a start to the consciousness that Durrance was in +the room, and she answered like one shaken suddenly out of sleep.</p> + +<p>"Why, you told me. At Ramelton, when you first came to Lennon House."</p> + +<p>"I have heard it since, though it was not played by you. It was not +really played at all. But a melody of it and not even that really, but a +suggestion of a melody, I heard stumbled out upon a zither, with many +false notes, by a Greek in a bare little whitewashed café, lit by one +glaring lamp, at Wadi Halfa."</p> + +<p>"This overture?" she said. "How strange!"</p> + +<p>"Not so strange after all. For the Greek was Harry Feversham."</p> + +<p>So the answer had come. Ethne had no doubt that it was an answer. She +sat very still in the moonlight; only had any one bent over her with +eyes to see, he would have discovered that her eyelids were closed. +There followed a long silence. She did not consider why Durrance, having +kept this knowledge secret so long, should speak of it now. She did not +ask what Harry Feversham was doing that he must play the zither in a +mean café at Wadi Halfa. But it seemed to her that he had spoken to her +as she to him. The music had, after all, been a bridge. It was not even +strange that he had used Durrance's voice wherewith to speak to her.</p> + +<p>"When was this?" she asked at length.</p> + +<p>"In February of this year. I will tell you about it."</p> + +<p>"Yes, please, tell me."</p> + +<p>And Durrance spoke out of the shadows of the room.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> + +<h3>THE ANSWER TO THE OVERTURE</h3> + + +<p>Ethne did not turn towards Durrance or move at all from her attitude. +She sat with her violin upon her knees, looking across the moonlit +garden to the band of silver in the gap of the trees; and she kept her +position deliberately. For it helped her to believe that Harry Feversham +himself was speaking to her, she was able to forget that he was speaking +through the voice of Durrance. She almost forgot that Durrance was even +in the room. She listened with Durrance's own intentness, and anxious +that the voice should speak very slowly, so that the message might take +a long time in the telling, and she gather it all jealously to her +heart.</p> + +<p>"It was on the night before I started eastward into the desert—for the +last time," said Durrance, and the deep longing and regret with which he +dwelt upon that "last time" for once left Ethne quite untouched.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said. "That was in February. The middle of the month, wasn't +it? Do you remember the day? I should like to know the exact day if you +can tell me."</p> + +<p>"The fifteenth," said Durrance; and Ethne repeated the date +meditatively.</p> + +<p>"I was at Glenalla all February," she said. "What was I doing on the +fifteenth? It does not matter."</p> + +<p>She had felt a queer sort of surprise all the time while Willoughby was +telling his story that morning, that she had not known, by some +instinct, of these incidents at the actual moment of their occurrence. +The surprise returned to her now. It was strange that she should have +had to wait for this August night and this summer garden of moonlight +and closed flowers before she learned of the meeting between Feversham +and Durrance on February 15 and heard the message. And remorse came to +her because of that delay. "It was my own fault," she said to herself. +"If I had kept my faith in him I should have known at once. I am well +punished." It did not at all occur to her that the message could convey +any but the best of news. It would carry on the good tidings which she +had already heard. It would enlarge and complete, so that this day might +be rounded to perfection. Of this she was quite sure.</p> + +<p>"Well?" she said. "Go on!"</p> + +<p>"I had been busy all that day in my office finishing up my work. I +turned the key in the door at ten o'clock, thinking with relief that for +six weeks I should not open it, and I strolled northward out of Wadi +Halfa along the Nile bank into the little town of Tewfikieh. As I +entered the main street I saw a small crowd—Arabs, negroes, a Greek or +two, and some Egyptian soldiers, standing outside the café, and lit up +by a glare of light from within. As I came nearer I heard the sound of a +violin and a zither, both most vilely played, jingling out a waltz. I +stood at the back of the crowd and looked over the shoulders of the men +in front of me into the room. It was a place of four bare whitewashed +walls; a bar stood in one corner, a wooden bench or two were ranged +against the walls, and a single unshaded paraffin lamp swung and glared +from the ceiling. A troupe of itinerant musicians were playing to that +crowd of negroes and Arabs and Egyptians for a night's lodging and the +price of a meal. There were four of them, and, so far as I could see, +all four were Greeks. Two were evidently man and wife. They were both +old, both slatternly and almost in rags; the man a thin, sallow-faced +fellow, with grey hair and a black moustache; the woman fat, coarse of +face, unwieldy of body. Of the other two, one it seemed must be their +daughter, a girl of seventeen, not good-looking really, but dressed and +turned out with a scrupulous care, which in those sordid and mean +surroundings lent her good looks. The care, indeed, with which she was +dressed assured me she was their daughter, and to tell the truth, I was +rather touched by the thought that the father and mother would go in +rags so that she at all costs might be trim. A clean ribbon bound back +her hair, an untorn frock of some white stuff clothed her tidily; even +her shoes were neat. The fourth was a young man; he was seated in the +window, with his back towards me, bending over his zither. But I could +see that he wore a beard. When I came up the old man was playing the +violin, though playing is not indeed the word. The noise he made was +more like the squeaking of a pencil on a slate; it set one's teeth on +edge; the violin itself seemed to squeal with pain. And while he +fiddled, and the young man hammered at his zither, the old woman and +girl slowly revolved in a waltz. It may sound comic to hear about, but +if you could have seen! ... It fairly plucked at one's heart. I do not +think that I have ever in my life witnessed anything quite so sad. The +little crowd outside, negroes, mind you, laughing at the troupe, passing +from one to the other any sort of low jest at their expense, and inside +the four white people—the old woman, clumsy, heavy-footed, shining with +heat, lumbering round slowly, panting with her exertions; the girl, +lissom and young; the two men with their discordant, torturing music; +and just above you the great planets and stars of an African sky, and +just about you the great silent and spacious dignity of the moonlit +desert. Imagine it! The very ineptness of the entertainment actually +hurt one."</p> + +<p>He paused for a moment, while Ethne pictured to herself the scene which +he had described. She saw Harry Feversham bending over his zither, and +at once she asked herself, "What was he doing with that troupe?" It was +intelligible enough that he would not care to return to England. It was +certain that he would not come back to her, unless she sent for him. And +she knew from what Captain Willoughby had said that he expected no +message from her. He had not left with Willoughby the name of any place +where a letter could reach him. But what was he doing at Wadi Halfa, +masquerading with this itinerant troupe? He had money; so much +Willoughby had told her.</p> + +<p>"You spoke to him?" she asked suddenly.</p> + +<p>"To whom? Oh, to Harry?" returned Durrance. "Yes, afterwards, when I +found out it was he who was playing the zither."</p> + +<p>"Yes, how did you find out?" Ethne asked.</p> + +<p>"The waltz came to an end. The old woman sank exhausted upon the bench +against the whitewashed wall; the young man raised his head from his +zither; the old man scraped a new chord upon his violin, and the girl +stood forward to sing. Her voice had youth and freshness, but no other +quality of music. Her singing was as inept as the rest of the +entertainment. Yet the old man smiled, the mother beat time with her +heavy foot, and nodded at her husband with pride in their daughter's +accomplishment. And again in the throng the ill-conditioned talk, the +untranslatable jests of the Arabs and the negroes went their round. It +was horrible, don't you think?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Ethne, but slowly, in an absent voice. As she had felt +no sympathy for Durrance when he began to speak, so she had none to +spare for these three outcasts of fortune. She was too absorbed in the +mystery of Harry Feversham's presence at Wadi Halfa. She was listening +too closely for the message which he sent to her. Through the open +window the moon threw a broad panel of silver light upon the floor of +the room close to her feet. She sat gazing into it as she listened, as +though it was itself a window through which, if she looked but hard +enough, she might see, very small and far away, that lighted café +blazing upon the street of the little town of Tewfikieh on the frontier +of the Soudan.</p> + +<p>"Well?" she asked. "And after the song was ended?"</p> + +<p>"The young man with his back towards me," Durrance resumed, "began to +fumble out a solo upon the zither. He struck so many false notes, no +tune was to be apprehended at the first. The laughter and noise grew +amongst the crowd, and I was just turning away, rather sick at heart, +when some notes, a succession of notes played correctly by chance, +suddenly arrested me. I listened again, and a sort of haunting melody +began to emerge—a weak thin thing with no soul in it, a ghost of a +melody, and yet familiar. I stood listening in the street of sand, +between the hovels fringed by a row of stunted trees, and I was carried +away out of the East to Ramelton and to a summer night beneath a melting +sky of Donegal, when you sat by the open window as you sit now and +played the Musoline Overture, which you have played again to-night."</p> + +<p>"It was a melody from this overture?" she exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"Yes, and it was Harry Feversham who played the melody. I did not guess +it at once. I was not very quick in those days."</p> + +<p>"But you are now," said Ethne.</p> + +<p>"Quicker, at all events. I should have guessed it now. Then, however, I +was only curious. I wondered how it was that an itinerant Greek came to +pick up the tune. At all events, I determined to reward him for his +diligence. I thought that you would like me to."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Ethne, in a whisper.</p> + +<p>"So, when he came out from the café, and with his hat in his hand passed +through the jeering crowd, I threw a sovereign into the hat. He turned +to me with a start of surprise. In spite of his beard I knew him. +Besides, before he could check himself, he cried out 'Jack!'"</p> + +<p>"You can have made no mistake, then," said Ethne, in a wondering voice. +"No, the man who strummed upon the zither was—" the Christian name was +upon her lips, but she had the wit to catch it back unuttered—"was Mr. +Feversham. But he knew no music I remember very well." She laughed with +a momentary recollection of Feversham's utter inability to appreciate +any music except that which she herself evoked from her violin. "He had +no ear. You couldn't invent a discord harsh enough even to attract his +attention. He could never have remembered any melody from the Musoline +Overture."</p> + +<p>"Yet it was Harry Feversham," he answered. "Somehow he had remembered. I +can understand it. He would have so little he cared to remember, and +that little he would have striven with all his might to bring clearly +back to mind. Somehow, too, by much practice, I suppose, he had managed +to elicit from his zither some sort of resemblance to what he +remembered. Can't you imagine him working the scrap of music out in his +brain, humming it over, whistling it uncounted times with perpetual +errors and confusions, until some fine day he got it safe and sure and +fixed it in his thoughts? I can. Can't you imagine him, then, picking it +out sedulously and laboriously on the strings? I can. Indeed, I can."</p> + +<p>Thus Ethne got her answer, and Durrance interpreted it to her +understanding. She sat silent and very deeply moved by the story he had +told to her. It was fitting that this overture, her favourite piece of +music, should convey the message that he had not forgotten her, that in +spite of the fourth white feather he thought of her with friendship. +Harry Feversham had not striven so laboriously to learn that melody in +vain. Ethne was stirred as she had thought nothing would ever again have +the power to stir her. She wondered whether Harry, as he sat in the +little bare whitewashed café, and strummed out his music to the negroes +and Greeks and Arabs gathered about the window, had dreamed, as she had +done to-night, that somehow, thin and feeble as it was, some echo of the +melody might reach across the world. She knew now for very certain that, +however much she might in the future pretend to forget Harry Feversham, +it would never be more than a pretence. The vision of the lighted café +in the desert town would never be very far from her thoughts, but she +had no intention of relaxing on that account from her determination to +pretend to forget. The mere knowledge that she had at one time been +unjustly harsh to Harry, made her yet more resolved that Durrance should +not suffer for any fault of hers.</p> + +<p>"I told you last year, Ethne, at Hill Street," Durrance resumed, "that I +never wished to see Feversham again. I was wrong. The reluctance was all +on his side and not at all on mine. For the moment that he realised he +had called out my name he tried to edge backward from me into the crowd, +he began to gabble Greek, but I caught him by the arm, and I would not +let him go. He had done you some great wrong. That I know; that I knew. +But I could not remember it then. I only remembered that years before +Harry Feversham had been my friend, my one great friend; that we had +rowed in the same college boat at Oxford, he at stroke, I at seven; +that the stripes on his jersey during three successive eights had made +my eyes dizzy during those last hundred yards of spurt past the barges. +We had bathed together in Sandford Lasher on summer afternoons. We had +had supper on Kennington Island; we had cut lectures and paddled up the +Cher to Islip. And here he was at Wadi Halfa, herding with that troupe, +an outcast, sunk to such a depth of ill-fortune that he must come to +that squalid little town and play the zither vilely before a crowd of +natives and a few Greek clerks for his night's lodging and the price of +a meal."</p> + +<p>"No," Ethne interrupted suddenly. "It was not for that reason that he +went to Wadi Halfa."</p> + +<p>"Why, then?" asked Durrance.</p> + +<p>"I cannot think. But he was not in any need of money. His father had +continued his allowance, and he had accepted it."</p> + +<p>"You are sure?"</p> + +<p>"Quite sure. I heard it only to-day," said Ethne.</p> + +<p>It was a slip, but Ethne for once was off her guard that night. She did +not even notice that she had made a slip. She was too engrossed in +Durrance's story. Durrance himself, however, was not less preoccupied, +and so the statement passed for the moment unobserved by either.</p> + +<p>"So you never knew what brought Mr. Feversham to Halfa?" she asked. "Did +you not ask him? Why didn't you? Why?"</p> + +<p>She was disappointed, and the bitterness of her disappointment gave +passion to her cry. Here was the last news of Harry Feversham, and it +was brought to her incomplete, like the half sheet of a letter. The +omission might never be repaired.</p> + +<p>"I was a fool," said Durrance. There was almost as much regret in his +voice now as there had been in hers; and because of that regret he did +not remark the passion with which she had spoken. "I shall not easily +forgive myself. He was my friend, you see. I had him by the arm, and I +let him go. I was a fool." And he knocked upon his forehead with his +fist.</p> + +<p>"He tried Arabic," Durrance resumed, "pleading that he and his +companions were just poor peaceable people, that if I had given him too +much money, I should take it back, and all the while he dragged away +from me. But I held him fast. I said, 'Harry Feversham, that won't do,' +and upon that he gave in and spoke in English, whispering it. 'Let me +go, Jack, let me go.' There was the crowd about us. It was evident that +Harry had some reason for secrecy; it might have been shame, for all I +knew, shame at his downfall. I said, 'Come up to my quarters in Halfa as +soon as you are free,' and I let him go. All that night I waited for him +on the verandah, but he did not come. In the morning I had to start +across the desert. I almost spoke of him to a friend who came to see me +start, to Calder, in fact—you know of him—the man who sent you the +telegram," said Durrance, with a laugh.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I remember," Ethne answered.</p> + +<p>It was the second slip she had made that night. The receipt of Calder's +telegram was just one of the things which Durrance was not to know. But +again she was unaware that she had made a slip at all. She did not even +consider how Durrance had come to know or guess that the telegram had +ever been despatched.</p> + +<p>"At the very last moment," Durrance resumed, "when my camel had risen +from the ground, I stooped down to speak to him, to tell him to see to +Feversham. But I did not. You see I knew nothing about his allowance. I +merely thought that he had fallen rather low. It did not seem fair to +him that another should know of it. So I rode on and kept silence."</p> + +<p>Ethne nodded her head. She could not but approve, however poignant her +regret for the lost news.</p> + +<p>"So you never saw Mr. Feversham again?"</p> + +<p>"I was away nine weeks. I came back blind," he answered simply, and the +very simplicity of his words went to Ethne's heart. He was apologising +for his blindness, which had hindered him from inquiring. She began to +wake to the comprehension that it was really Durrance who was speaking +to her, but he continued to speak, and what he said drove her quite out +of all caution.</p> + +<p>"I went at once to Cairo, and Calder came with me. There I told him of +Harry Feversham, and how I had seen him at Tewfikieh. I asked Calder +when he got back to Halfa to make inquiries, to find and help Harry +Feversham if he could; I asked him, too, to let me know the result. I +received a letter from Calder a week ago, and I am troubled by it, very +much troubled."</p> + +<p>"What did he say?" Ethne asked apprehensively, and she turned in her +chair away from the moonlight towards the shadows of the room and +Durrance. She bent forward to see his face, but the darkness hid it. A +sudden fear struck through her and chilled her blood, but out of the +darkness Durrance spoke.</p> + +<p>"That the two women and the old Greek had gone back northward on a +steamer to Assouan."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Feversham remained at Wadi Halfa, then? That is so, isn't it?" she +said eagerly.</p> + +<p>"No," Durrance replied. "Harry Feversham did not remain. He slipped past +Halfa the day after I started toward the east. He went out in the +morning, and to the south."</p> + +<p>"Into the desert?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but the desert to the south, the enemy's country. He went just as +I saw him, carrying his zither. He was seen. There can be no doubt."</p> + +<p>Ethne was quite silent for a little while. Then she asked:—</p> + +<p>"You have that letter with you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"I should like to read it."</p> + +<p>She rose from her chair and walked across to Durrance. He took the +letter from his pocket and gave it to her, and she carried it over to +the window. The moonlight was strong. Ethne stood close by the window, +with a hand pressed upon her heart, and read it through once and again. +The letter was explicit; the Greek who owned the café at which the +troupe had performed admitted that Joseppi, under which name he knew +Feversham, had wandered south, carrying a water-skin and a store of +dates, though why, he either did not know or would not tell. Ethne had a +question to ask, but it was some time before she could trust her lips to +utter it distinctly and without faltering.</p> + +<p>"What will happen to him?"</p> + +<p>"At the best, capture; at the worst, death. Death by starvation, or +thirst, or at the hands of the Dervishes. But there is just a hope it +might be only capture and imprisonment. You see he was white. If caught, +his captors might think him a spy; they would be sure he had knowledge +of our plans and our strength. I think that they would most likely send +him to Omdurman. I have written to Calder. Spies go out and in from Wadi +Halfa. We often hear of things which happen in Omdurman. If Feversham is +taken there, sooner or later I shall know. But he must have gone mad. It +is the only explanation."</p> + +<p>Ethne had another, and she knew hers to be the right one. She was off +her guard, and she spoke it aloud to Durrance.</p> + +<p>"Colonel Trench," said she, "is a prisoner at Omdurman."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," answered Durrance. "Feversham will not be quite alone. There +is some comfort in that, and perhaps something may be done. When I hear +from Calder I will tell you. Perhaps something may be done."</p> + +<p>It was evident that Durrance had misconstrued her remark. He at all +events was still in the dark as to the motive which had taken Feversham +southward beyond the Egyptian patrols. And he must remain in the dark. +For Ethne did not even now slacken in her determination still to pretend +to have forgotten. She stood at the window with the letter clenched in +her hand. She must utter no cry, she must not swoon; she must keep very +still and quiet, and speak when needed with a quiet voice, even though +she knew that Harry Feversham had gone southward to join Colonel Trench +at Omdurman. But so much was beyond her strength. For as Colonel +Durrance began to speak again, the desire to escape, to be alone with +this terrible news, became irresistible. The cool quietude of the +garden, the dark shadows of the trees, called to her.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you will wonder," said Durrance, "why I have told you to-night +what I have up till now kept to myself. I did not dare to tell it you +before. I want to explain why."</p> + +<p>Ethne did not notice the exultation in his voice; she did not consider +what his explanation might be; she only felt that she could not now +endure to listen to it. The mere sound of a human voice had become an +unendurable thing. She hardly knew indeed that Durrance was speaking, +she was only aware that a voice spoke, and that the voice must stop. She +was close by the window; a single silent step, and she was across the +sill and free. Durrance continued to speak out of the darkness, +engrossed in what he said, and Ethne did not listen to a word. She +gathered her skirts carefully, so that they should not rustle, and +stepped from the window. This was the third slip which she made upon +that eventful night.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX</h2> + +<h3>MRS. ADAIR INTERFERES</h3> + + +<p>Ethne had thought to escape quite unobserved; but Mrs. Adair was sitting +upon the terrace in the shadow of the house and not very far from the +open window of the drawing-room. She saw Ethne lightly cross the terrace +and run down the steps into the garden, and she wondered at the +precipitancy of her movements. Ethne seemed to be taking flight, and in +a sort of desperation. The incident was singular, and remarkably +singular to Mrs. Adair, who from the angle in which she sat commanded a +view of that open window through which the moonlight shone. She had seen +Ethne turn out the lamp, and the swift change in the room from light to +dark, with its suggestion of secrecy and the private talk of lovers, had +been a torture to her. But she had not fled from the torture. She had +sat listening, and the music as it floated out upon the garden with its +thrill of happiness, its accent of yearning, and the low, hushed +conversation which followed upon its cessation in that darkened room, +had struck upon a chord of imagination in Mrs. Adair and had kindled her +jealousy into a scorching flame. Then suddenly Ethne had taken flight. +The possibility of a quarrel Mrs. Adair dismissed from her thoughts. She +knew very well that Ethne was not of the kind which quarrels, nor would +she escape by running away, should she be entangled in a quarrel. But +something still more singular occurred. Durrance continued to speak in +that room from which Ethne had escaped. The sound of his voice reached +Mrs. Adair's ears, though she could not distinguish the words. It was +clear to her that he believed Ethne to be still with him. Mrs. Adair +rose from her seat and, walking silently upon the tips of her toes, came +close to the open window. She heard Durrance laugh light-heartedly, and +she listened to the words he spoke. She could hear them plainly now, +though she could not see the man who spoke them. He sat in the shadows.</p> + +<p>"I began to find out," he was saying, "even on that first afternoon at +Hill Street two months ago, that there was only friendship on your side. +My blindness helped me. With your face and your eyes in view I should +have believed without question just what you wished me to believe. But +you had no longer those defences. I on my side had grown quicker. I +began in a word to see. For the first time in my life I began to see."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair did not move. Durrance, upon his side, appeared to expect no +answer or acknowledgment. He spoke with the voice of enjoyment which a +man uses recounting difficulties which have ceased to hamper him, +perplexities which have been long since unravelled.</p> + +<p>"I should have definitely broken off our engagement, I suppose, at once. +For I still believed, and as firmly as ever, that there must be more +than friendship on both sides. But I had grown selfish. I warned you, +Ethne, selfishness was the blind man's particular fault. I waited and +deferred the time of marriage. I made excuses. I led you to believe that +there was a chance of recovery when I knew there was none. For I hoped, +as a man will, that with time your friendship might grow into more than +friendship. So long as there was a chance of that, I—Ethne, I could not +let you go. So, I listened for some new softness in your voice, some new +buoyancy in your laughter, some new deep thrill of the heart in the +music which you played, longing for it—how much! Well, to-night I have +burnt my boats. I have admitted to you that I knew friendship limited +your thoughts of me. I have owned to you that there is no hope my sight +will be restored. I have even dared to-night to tell you what I have +kept secret for so long, my meeting with Harry Feversham and the peril +he has run. And why? Because for the first time I have heard to-night +just those signs for which I waited. The new softness, the new pride, in +your voice, the buoyancy in your laughter—they have been audible to me +all this evening. The restraint and the tension were gone from your +manner. And when you played, it was as though some one with just your +skill and knowledge played, but some one who let her heart speak +resonantly through the music as until to-night you have never done. +Ethne, Ethne!"</p> + +<p>But at that moment Ethne was in the little enclosed garden whither she +had led Captain Willoughby that morning. Here she was private; her +collie dog had joined her; she had reached the solitude and the silence +which had become necessities to her. A few more words from Durrance and +her prudence would have broken beneath the strain. All that pretence of +affection which during these last months she had so sedulously built up +about him like a wall which he was never to look over, would have been +struck down and levelled to the ground. Durrance, indeed, had already +looked over the wall, was looking over it with amazed eyes at this +instant, but that Ethne did not know, and to hinder him from knowing it +she had fled. The moonlight slept in silver upon the creek; the tall +trees stood dreaming to the stars; the lapping of the tide against the +bank was no louder than the music of a river. She sat down upon the +bench and strove to gather some of the quietude of that summer night +into her heart, and to learn from the growing things of nature about her +something of their patience and their extraordinary perseverance.</p> + +<p>But the occurrences of the day had overtaxed her, and she could not. +Only this morning, and in this very garden, the good news had come and +she had regained Harry Feversham. For in that way she thought of +Willoughby's message. This morning she had regained him, and this +evening the bad news had come and she had lost him, and most likely +right to the very end of mortal life. Harry Feversham meant to pay for +his fault to the uttermost scruple, and Ethne cried out against his +thoroughness, which he had learned from no other than herself. "Surely," +she thought, "he might have been content. In redeeming his honour in the +eyes of one of the three he has done enough, he has redeemed it in the +eyes of all."</p> + +<p>But he had gone south to join Colonel Trench in Omdurman. Of that +squalid and shadowless town, of its hideous barbarities, of the horrors +of its prison-house, Ethne knew nothing at all. But Captain Willoughby +had hinted enough to fill her imagination with terrors. He had offered +to explain to her what captivity in Omdurman implied, and she wrung her +hands, as she remembered that she had refused to listen. What cruelties +might not be practised? Even now, at that very hour perhaps, on this +night of summer—but she dared not let her thoughts wander that way....</p> + +<p>The lapping of the tide against the banks was like the music of a river. +It brought to Ethne's mind one particular river which had sung and +babbled in her ears when five years ago she had watched out another +summer night till dawn. Never had she so hungered for her own country +and the companionship of its brown hills and streams. No, not even this +afternoon, when she had sat at her window and watched the lights change +upon the creek. Donegal had a sanctity for her, it seemed when she +dwelled in it to set her in a way apart from and above earthly taints; +and as her heart went out in a great longing towards it now, a sudden +fierce loathing for the concealments, the shifts and maneuvers which +she had practised, and still must practise, sprang up within her. A +great weariness came upon her, too. But she did not change from her +fixed resolve. Two lives were not to be spoilt because she lived in the +world. To-morrow she could gather up her strength and begin again. For +Durrance must never know that there was another whom she placed before +him in her thoughts. Meanwhile, however, Durrance within the +drawing-room brought his confession to an end.</p> + +<p>"So you see," he said, "I could not speak of Harry Feversham until +to-night. For I was afraid that what I had to tell you would hurt you +very much. I was afraid that you still remembered him, in spite of those +five years. I knew, of course, that you were my friend. But I doubted +whether in your heart you were not more than that to him. To-night, +however, I could tell you without fear."</p> + +<p>Now at all events he expected an answer. Mrs. Adair, still standing by +the window, heard him move in the shadows.</p> + +<p>"Ethne!" he said, with some surprise in his voice; and since again no +answer came, he rose, and walked towards the chair in which Ethne had +sat. Mrs. Adair could see him now. His hands felt for and grasped the +back of the chair. He bent over it, as though he thought Ethne was +leaning forward with her hands upon her knees.</p> + +<p>"Ethne," he said again, and there was in this iteration of her name more +trouble and doubt than surprise. It seemed to Mrs. Adair that he dreaded +to find her silently weeping. He was beginning to speculate whether +after all he had been right in his inference from Ethne's recapture of +her youth to-night, whether the shadow of Feversham did not after all +fall between them. He leaned farther forward, feeling with his hand, and +suddenly a string of Ethne's violin twanged loud. She had left it lying +on the chair, and his fingers had touched it.</p> + +<p>Durrance drew himself up straight and stood quite motionless and silent, +like a man who had suffered a shock and is bewildered. He passed his +hand across his forehead once or twice, and then, without calling upon +Ethne again, he advanced to the open window.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair did not move, and she held her breath. There was just the +width of the sill between them. The moonlight struck full upon Durrance, +and she saw a comprehension gradually dawn in his face that some one was +standing close to him.</p> + +<p>"Ethne," he said a third time, and now he appealed.</p> + +<p>He stretched out a hand timidly and touched her dress.</p> + +<p>"It is not Ethne," he said with a start.</p> + +<p>"No, it is not Ethne," Mrs. Adair answered quickly. Durrance drew back a +step from the window, and for a little while was silent.</p> + +<p>"Where has she gone?" he asked at length.</p> + +<p>"Into the garden. She ran across the terrace and down the steps very +quickly and silently. I saw her from my chair. Then I heard you speaking +alone."</p> + +<p>"Can you see her now in the garden?"</p> + +<p>"No; she went across the lawn towards the trees and their great shadows. +There is only the moonlight in the garden now."</p> + +<p>Durrance stepped across the window sill and stood by the side of Mrs. +Adair. The last slip which Ethne had made betrayed her inevitably to the +man who had grown quick. There could be only one reason for her sudden +unexplained and secret flight. He had told her that Feversham had +wandered south from Wadi Halfa into the savage country; he had spoken +out his fears as to Feversham's fate without reserve, thinking that she +had forgotten him, and indeed rather inclined to blame her for the +callous indifference with which she received the news. The callousness +was a mere mask, and she had fled because she no longer had the strength +to hold it up before her face. His first suspicions had been right. +Feversham still stood between Ethne and himself and held them at arm's +length.</p> + +<p>"She ran as though she was in great trouble and hardly knew what she was +doing," Mrs. Adair continued. "Did you cause that trouble?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"I thought so, from what I heard you say."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair wanted to hurt, and in spite of Durrance's impenetrable face, +she felt that she had succeeded. It was a small sort of compensation for +the weeks of mortification which she had endured. There is something +which might be said for Mrs. Adair; extenuations might be pleaded, even +if no defence was made. For she like Ethne was overtaxed that night. +That calm pale face of hers hid the quick passions of the South, and she +had been racked by them to the limits of endurance. There had been +something grotesque, something rather horrible, in that outbreak and +confession by Durrance, after Ethne had fled from the room. He was +speaking out his heart to an empty chair. She herself had stood without +the window with a bitter longing that he had spoken so to her and a +bitter knowledge that he never would. She was sunk deep in humiliation. +The irony of the position tortured her; it was like a jest of grim +selfish gods played off upon ineffectual mortals to their hurt. And at +the bottom of all the thoughts rankled that memory of the extinguished +lamp, and the low, hushed voices speaking one to the other in darkness. +Therefore she spoke to give pain and was glad that she gave it, even +though it was to the man whom she coveted.</p> + +<p>"There's one thing which I don't understand," said Durrance. "I mean the +change which we both noticed in Ethne to-night. I mistook the cause of +it, that's evident. I was a fool. But there must have been a cause. The +gift of laughter had been restored to her. Her gravity, her air of +calculation, had vanished. She became just what she was five years ago."</p> + +<p>"Exactly," Mrs. Adair answered. "Just what she was before Mr. Feversham +disappeared from Ramelton. You are so quick, Colonel Durrance. Ethne had +good news of Mr. Feversham this morning."</p> + +<p>Durrance turned quickly towards her, and Mrs. Adair felt a pleasure at +his abrupt movement. She had provoked the display of some emotion, and +the display of emotion was preferable to his composure.</p> + +<p>"Are you quite sure?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"As sure as that you gave her the worst of news to-night," she replied.</p> + +<p>But Durrance did not need the answer. Ethne had made another slip that +evening, and though unnoticed at the time, it came back to Durrance's +memory now. She had declared that Feversham still drew an allowance from +his father. "I heard it only to-day," she had said.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Ethne heard news of Feversham to-day," he said slowly. "Did she +make a mistake five years ago? There was some wrong thing Harry +Feversham was supposed to have done. But was there really more +misunderstanding than wrong? Did she misjudge him? Has she to-day +learnt that she misjudged him?"</p> + +<p>"I will tell you what I know. It is not very much. But I think it is +fair that you should know it."</p> + +<p>"Wait a moment, please, Mrs. Adair," said Durrance, sharply. He had put +his questions rather to himself than to his companion, and he was not +sure that he wished her to answer them. He walked abruptly away from her +and leaned upon the balustrade with his face towards the garden.</p> + +<p>It seemed to him rather treacherous to allow Mrs. Adair to disclose what +Ethne herself evidently intended to conceal. But he knew why Ethne +wished to conceal it. She wished him never to suspect that she retained +any love for Harry Feversham. On the other hand, however, he did not +falter from his own belief. Marriage between a man crippled like himself +and a woman active and vigorous like Ethne could never be right unless +both brought more than friendship. He turned back to Mrs. Adair.</p> + +<p>"I am no casuist," he said. "But here disloyalty seems the truest +loyalty of all. Tell me what you know, Mrs. Adair. Something might be +done perhaps for Feversham. From Assouan or Suakin something might be +done. This news—this good news came, I suppose, this afternoon when I +was at home."</p> + +<p>"No, this morning when you were here. It was brought by a Captain +Willoughby, who was once an officer in Mr. Feversham's regiment."</p> + +<p>"He is now Deputy-Governor of Suakin," said Durrance. "I know the man. +For three years we were together in that town. Well?"</p> + +<p>"He sailed down from Kingsbridge. You and Ethne were walking across the +lawn when he landed from the creek. Ethne left you and went forward to +meet him. I saw them meet, because I happened to be looking out of this +window at the moment."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Ethne went forward. There was a stranger whom she did not know. I +remember."</p> + +<p>"They spoke for a few moments, and then Ethne led him towards the trees, +at once, without looking back—as though she had forgotten," said Mrs. +Adair. That little stab she had not been able to deny herself, but it +evoked no sign of pain.</p> + +<p>"As though she had forgotten me, you mean," said Durrance, quietly +completing her sentence. "No doubt she had."</p> + +<p>"They went together into the little enclosed garden on the bank," and +Durrance started as she spoke. "Yes, you followed them," continued Mrs. +Adair, curiously. She had been puzzled as to how Durrance had missed +them.</p> + +<p>"They were there then," he said slowly, "on that seat, in the enclosure, +all the while."</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair waited for a more definite explanation of the mystery, but +she got none.</p> + +<p>"Well?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"They stayed there for a long while. You had gone home across the fields +before they came outside into the open. I was in the garden, and indeed +happened to be actually upon the bank."</p> + +<p>"So you saw Captain Willoughby. Perhaps you spoke to him?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Ethne introduced him, but she would not let him stay. She hurried +him into his boat and back to Kingsbridge at once."</p> + +<p>"Then how do you know Captain Willoughby brought good news of Harry +Feversham?"</p> + +<p>"Ethne told me that they had been talking of him. Her manner and her +laugh showed me no less clearly that the news was good."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Durrance, and he nodded his head in assent. Captain +Willoughby's tidings had begotten that new pride and buoyancy in Ethne +which he had so readily taken to himself. Signs of the necessary +something more than friendship—so he had accounted them, and he was +right so far. But it was not he who had inspired them. His very +penetration and insight had led him astray. He was silent for a few +minutes, and Mrs. Adair searched his face in the moonlight for some +evidence that he resented Ethne's secrecy. But she searched in vain.</p> + +<p>"And that is all?" said Durrance.</p> + +<p>"Not quite. Captain Willoughby brought a token from Mr. Feversham. Ethne +carried it back to the house in her hand. Her eyes were upon it all the +way, her lips smiled at it. I do not think there is anything half so +precious to her in all the world."</p> + +<p>"A token?"</p> + +<p>"A little white feather," said Mrs. Adair, "all soiled and speckled with +dust. Can you read the riddle of that feather?"</p> + +<p>"Not yet," Durrance replied. He walked once or twice along the terrace +and back, lost in thought. Then he went into the house and fetched his +cap from the hall. He came back to Mrs. Adair.</p> + +<p>"It was kind of you to tell me this," he said. "I want you to add to +your kindness. When I was in the drawing-room alone and you came to the +window, how much did you hear? What were the first words?"</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair's answer relieved him of a fear. Ethne had heard nothing +whatever of his confession.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, "she moved to the window to read a letter by the +moonlight. She must have escaped from the room the moment she had read +it. Consequently she did not hear that I had no longer any hope of +recovering my sight, and that I merely used the pretence of a hope in +order to delay our marriage. I am glad of that, very glad." He shook +hands with Mrs. Adair, and said good-night. "You see," he added +absently, "if I hear that Harry Feversham is in Omdurman, something +might perhaps be done—from Suakin or Assouan, something might be done. +Which way did Ethne go?"</p> + +<p>"Over to the water."</p> + +<p>"She had her dog with her, I hope."</p> + +<p>"The dog followed her," said Mrs. Adair.</p> + +<p>"I am glad," said Durrance. He knew quite well what comfort the dog +would be to Ethne in this bad hour, and perhaps he rather envied the +dog. Mrs. Adair wondered that at a moment of such distress to him he +could still spare a thought for so small an alleviation of Ethne's +trouble. She watched him cross the garden to the stile in the hedge. He +walked steadily forward upon the path like a man who sees. There was +nothing in his gait or bearing to reveal that the one thing left to him +had that evening been taken away.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX</h2> + +<h3>WEST AND EAST</h3> + + +<p>Durrance found his body-servant waiting up for him when he had come +across the fields to his own house of "Guessens."</p> + +<p>"You can turn the lights out and go to bed," said Durrance, and he +walked through the hall into his study. The name hardly described the +room, for it had always been more of a gun-room than a study.</p> + +<p>He sat for some while in his chair and then began to walk gently about +the room in the dark. There were many cups and goblets scattered about +the room, which Durrance had won in his past days. He knew them each one +by their shape and position, and he drew a kind of comfort from the feel +of them. He took them up one by one and touched them and fondled them, +wondering whether, now that he was blind, they were kept as clean and +bright as they used to be. This one, a thin-stemmed goblet, he had won +in a regimental steeple-chase at Colchester; he could remember the day +with its clouds and grey sky and the dull look of the ploughed fields +between the hedges. That pewter, which stood upon his writing table and +which had formed a convenient holder for his pens, when pens had been of +use, he had acquired very long ago in his college "fours," when he was a +freshman at Oxford. The hoof of a favourite horse mounted in silver +made an ornament upon the mantelpiece. His trophies made the room a +gigantic diary; he fingered his records of good days gone by and came at +last to his guns and rifles.</p> + +<p>He took them down from their racks. They were to him much what Ethne's +violin was to her and had stories for his ear alone. He sat with a +Remington across his knee and lived over again one long hot day in the +hills to the west of Berenice, during which he had stalked a lion across +stony, open country, and killed him at three hundred yards just before +sunset. Another talked to him, too, of his first ibex shot in the Khor +Baraka, and of antelope stalked in the mountains northward of Suakin. +There was a little Greener gun which he had used upon midwinter nights +in a boat upon this very creek of the Salcombe estuary. He had brought +down his first mallard with that, and he lifted it and slid his left +hand along the under side of the barrel and felt the butt settle +comfortably into the hollow of his shoulder. But his weapons began to +talk over loudly in his ears, even as Ethne's violin, in the earlier +days after Harry Feversham was gone and she was left alone, had spoken +with too penetrating a note to her. As he handled the locks, and was +aware that he could no longer see the sights, the sum of his losses was +presented to him in a very definite and incontestable way.</p> + +<p>He put his guns away, and was seized suddenly with a desire to disregard +his blindness, to pretend that it was no hindrance and to pretend so +hard that it should prove not to be one. The desire grew and shook him +like a passion and carried him winged out of the countries of dim stars +straight to the East. The smell of the East and its noises and the +domes of its mosques, the hot sun, the rabble in its streets, and the +steel-blue sky overhead, caught at him till he was plucked from his +chair and set pacing restlessly about his room.</p> + +<p>He dreamed himself to Port Said, and was marshalled in the long +procession of steamers down the waterway of the canal. The song of the +Arabs coaling the ship was in his ears, and so loud that he could see +them as they went at night-time up and down the planks between the +barges and the deck, an endless chain of naked figures monotonously +chanting and lurid in the red glare of the braziers. He travelled out of +the canal, past the red headlands of the Sinaitic Peninsula, into the +chills of the Gulf of Suez. He zigzagged down the Red Sea while the +Great Bear swung northward low down in the sky above the rail of the +quarterdeck, and the Southern Cross began to blaze in the south; he +touched at Tor and at Yambo; he saw the tall white houses of Yeddah lift +themselves out of the sea, and admired the dark brine-withered woodwork +of their carved casements; he walked through the dusk of its roofed +bazaars with the joy of the homesick after long years come home; and +from Yeddah he crossed between the narrowing coral-reefs into the +land-locked harbour of Suakin.</p> + +<p>Westward from Suakin stretched the desert, with all that it meant to +this man whom it had smitten and cast out—the quiet padding of the +camels' feet in sand; the great rock-cones rising sheer and abrupt as +from a rippleless ocean, towards which you march all day and get no +nearer; the gorgeous momentary blaze of sunset colours in the west; the +rustle of the wind through the short twilight when the west is a pure +pale green and the east the darkest blue; and the downward swoop of the +planets out of nothing to the earth. The inheritor of the other places +dreamed himself back into his inheritance as he tramped to and fro, +forgetful of his blindness and parched with desire as with a +fever—until unexpectedly he heard the blackbirds and the swallows +bustling and piping in the garden, and knew that outside his windows the +world was white with dawn.</p> + +<p>He waked from his dream at the homely sound. There were to be no more +journeys for him; affliction had caged him and soldered a chain about +his leg. He felt his way by the balustrade up the stairs to his bed. He +fell asleep as the sun rose.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>But at Dongola, on the great curve of the Nile southwards of Wadi Halfa, +the sun was already blazing and its inhabitants were awake. There was +sport prepared for them this morning under the few palm trees before the +house of the Emir Wad El Nejoumi. A white prisoner captured a week +before close to the wells of El Agia on the great Arbain road, by a +party of Arabs, had been brought in during the night and now waited his +fate at the Emir's hands. The news spread quick as a spark through the +town; already crowds of men and women and children flocked to this rare +and pleasant spectacle. In front of the palm trees an open space +stretched to the gateway of the Emir's house; behind them a slope of +sand descended flat and bare to the river.</p> + +<p>Harry Feversham was standing under the trees, guarded by four of the +Ansar soldiery. His clothes had been stripped from him; he wore only a +torn and ragged jibbeh upon his body and a twist of cotton on his head +to shield him from the sun. His bare shoulders and arms were scorched +and blistered. His ankles were fettered, his wrists were bound with a +rope of palm fibre, an iron collar was locked about his neck, to which a +chain was attached, and this chain one of the soldiers held. He stood +and smiled at the mocking crowd about him and seemed well pleased, like +a lunatic.</p> + +<p>That was the character which he had assumed. If he could sustain it, if +he could baffle his captors, so that they were at a loss whether he was +a man really daft or an agent with promises of help and arms to the +disaffected tribes of Kordofan—then there was a chance that they might +fear to dispose of him themselves and send him forward to Omdurman. But +it was hard work. Inside the house the Emir and his counsellors were +debating his destiny; on the river-bank and within his view a high +gallows stood out black and most sinister against the yellow sand. Harry +Feversham was very glad of the chain about his neck and the fetters on +his legs. They helped him to betray no panic, by assuring him of its +futility.</p> + +<p>These hours of waiting, while the sun rose higher and higher and no one +came from the gateway, were the worst he had ever as yet endured. All +through that fortnight in Berber a hope of escape had sustained him, and +when that lantern shone upon him from behind in the ruined acres, what +had to be done must be done so quickly there was no time for fear or +thought. Here there was time and too much of it.</p> + +<p>He had time to anticipate and foresee. He felt his heart sinking till +he was faint, just as in those distant days when he had heard the hounds +scuffling and whining in a covert and he himself had sat shaking upon +his horse. He glanced furtively towards the gallows, and foresaw the +vultures perched upon his shoulders, fluttering about his eyes. But the +man had grown during his years of probation. The fear of physical +suffering was not uppermost in his mind, nor even the fear that he would +walk unmanfully to the high gallows, but a greater dread that if he died +now, here, at Dongola, Ethne would never take back that fourth feather, +and his strong hope of the "afterwards" would never come to its +fulfilment. He was very glad of the collar about his neck and the +fetters on his legs. He summoned his wits together and standing there +alone, without a companion to share his miseries, laughed and scraped +and grimaced at his tormentors.</p> + +<p>An old hag danced and gesticulated before him, singing the while a +monotonous song. The gestures were pantomimic and menaced him with +abominable mutilations; the words described in simple and unexpurgated +language the grievous death agonies which immediately awaited him, and +the eternity of torture in hell which he would subsequently suffer. +Feversham understood and inwardly shuddered, but he only imitated her +gestures and nodded and mowed at her as though she was singing to him of +Paradise. Others, taking their war-trumpets, placed the mouths against +the prisoner's ears and blew with all their might.</p> + +<p>"Do you hear, Kaffir?" cried a child, dancing with delight before him. +"Do you hear our ombeyehs? Blow louder! Blow louder!"</p> + +<p>But the prisoner only clapped his hands, and cried out that the music +was good.</p> + +<p>Finally there came to the group a tall warrior with a long, heavy spear. +A cry was raised at his approach, and a space was cleared. He stood +before the captive and poised his spear, swinging it backward and +forward, to make his arm supple before he thrust, like a bowler before +he delivers a ball at a cricket match. Feversham glanced wildly about +him, and seeing no escape, suddenly flung out his breast to meet the +blow. But the spear never reached him. For as the warrior lunged from +the shoulder, one of the four guards jerked the neck chain violently +from behind, and the prisoner was flung, half throttled, upon his back. +Three times, and each time to a roar of delight, this pastime was +repeated, and then a soldier appeared in the gateway of Nejoumi's house.</p> + +<p>"Bring him in!" he cried; and followed by the curses and threats of the +crowd, the prisoner was dragged under the arch across a courtyard into a +dark room.</p> + +<p>For a few moments Feversham could see nothing. Then his eyes began to +adapt themselves to the gloom, and he distinguished a tall, bearded man, +who sat upon an angareb, the native bedstead of the Soudan, and two +others, who squatted beside him on the ground. The man on the angareb +was the Emir.</p> + +<p>"You are a spy of the Government from Wadi Halfa," he said.</p> + +<p>"No, I am a musician," returned the prisoner, and he laughed happily, +like a man that has made a jest.</p> + +<p>Nejoumi made a sign, and an instrument with many broken strings was +handed to the captive. Feversham seated himself upon the ground, and +with slow, fumbling fingers, breathing hard as he bent over the zither, +he began to elicit a wavering melody. It was the melody to which +Durrance had listened in the street of Tewfikieh on the eve of his last +journey into the desert; and which Ethne Eustace had played only the +night before in the quiet drawing-room at Southpool. It was the only +melody which Feversham knew. When he had done Nejoumi began again.</p> + +<p>"You are a spy."</p> + +<p>"I have told you the truth," answered Feversham, stubbornly, and Nejoumi +took a different tone. He called for food, and the raw liver of a camel, +covered with salt and red pepper, was placed before Feversham. Seldom +has a man had smaller inclination to eat, but Feversham ate, none the +less, even of that unattractive dish, knowing well that reluctance would +be construed as fear, and that the signs of fear might condemn him to +death. And, while he ate, Nejoumi questioned him, in the silkiest voice, +about the fortifications of Cairo and the strength of the garrison at +Assouan, and the rumours of dissension between the Khedive and the +Sirdar.</p> + +<p>But to each question Feversham replied:—</p> + +<p>"How should a Greek know of these matters?"</p> + +<p>Nejoumi rose from his angareb and roughly gave an order. The soldiers +seized upon Feversham and dragged him out again into the sunlight. They +poured water upon the palm-rope which bound his wrists, so that the +thongs swelled and bit into his flesh.</p> + +<p>"Speak, Kaffir. You carry promises to Kordofan."</p> + +<p>Feversham was silent. He clung doggedly to the plan over which he had +so long and so carefully pondered. He could not improve upon it, he was +sure, by any alteration suggested by fear, at a moment when he could not +think clearly. A rope was flung about his neck, and he was pushed and +driven beneath the gallows.</p> + +<p>"Speak, Kaffir," said Nejoumi; "so shall you escape death."</p> + +<p>Feversham smiled and grimaced, and shook his head loosely from side to +side. It was astonishing to him that he could do it, that he did not +fall down upon his knees and beg for mercy. It was still more +astonishing to him that he felt no temptation so to demean himself. He +wondered whether the oft repeated story was true, that criminals in +English prisons went quietly and with dignity to the scaffold, because +they had been drugged. For without drugs he seemed to be behaving with +no less dignity himself. His heart was beating very fast, but it was +with a sort of excitement. He did not even think of Ethne at that +moment; and certainly the great dread that his strong hope would never +be fulfilled did not trouble him at all. He had his allotted part to +play, and he just played it; and that was all.</p> + +<p>Nejoumi looked at him sourly for a moment. He turned to the men who +stood ready to draw away from Feversham the angareb on which he was +placed:—</p> + +<p>"To-morrow," said he, "the Kaffir shall go to Omdurman."</p> + +<p>Feversham began to feel then that the rope of palm fibre tortured his +wrists.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI</h2> + +<h3>ETHNE MAKES ANOTHER SLIP</h3> + + +<p>Mrs. Adair speculated with some uneasiness upon the consequences of the +disclosures which she had made to Durrance. She was in doubt as to the +course which he would take. It seemed possible that he might frankly +tell Ethne of the mistake which he had made. He might admit that he had +discovered the unreality of her affection for him, and the reality of +her love for Feversham; and if he made that admission, however carefully +he tried to conceal her share in his discovery, he would hardly succeed. +She would have to face Ethne, and she dreaded the moment when her +companion's frank eyes would rest quietly upon hers and her lips demand +an explanation. It was consequently a relief to her at first that no +outward change was visible in the relations of Ethne and Durrance. They +met and spoke as though that day on which Willoughby had landed at the +garden, and the evening when Ethne had played the Musoline Overture upon +the violin, had been blotted from their experience. Mrs. Adair was +relieved at first, but when the sense of personal danger passed from +her, and she saw that her interference had been apparently without +effect, she began to be puzzled. A little while, and she was both angry +and disappointed.</p> + +<p>Durrance, indeed, quickly made up his mind. Ethne wished him not to +know; it was some consolation to her in her distress to believe that she +had brought happiness to this one man whose friend she genuinely was. +And of that consolation Durrance was aware. He saw no reason to destroy +it—for the present. He must know certainly whether a misunderstanding +or an irreparable breach separated Ethne from Feversham before he took +the steps he had in mind. He must have sure knowledge, too, of Harry +Feversham's fate. Therefore he pretended to know nothing; he abandoned +even his habit of attention and scrutiny, since for these there was no +longer any need; he forced himself to a display of contentment; he made +light of his misfortune, and professed to find in Ethne's company more +than its compensation.</p> + +<p>"You see," he said to her, "one can get used to blindness and take it as +the natural thing. But one does not get used to you, Ethne. Each time +one meets you, one discovers something new and fresh to delight one. +Besides, there is always the possibility of a cure."</p> + +<p>He had his reward, for Ethne understood that he had laid aside his +suspicions, and she was able to set off his indefatigable cheerfulness +against her own misery. And her misery was great. If for one day she had +recaptured the lightness of heart which had been hers before the three +white feathers came to Ramelton, she had now recaptured something of the +grief which followed upon their coming. A difference there was, of +course. Her pride was restored, and she had a faint hope born of +Durrance's words that Harry after all might perhaps be rescued. But she +knew again the long and sleepless nights and the dull hot misery of the +head as she waited for the grey of the morning. For she could no longer +pretend to herself that she looked upon Harry Feversham as a friend who +was dead. He was living, and in what straits she dreaded to think, and +yet thirsted to know. At rare times, indeed, her impatience got the +better of her will.</p> + +<p>"I suppose that escape is possible from Omdurman," she said one day, +constraining her voice to an accent of indifference.</p> + +<p>"Possible? Yes, I think so," Durrance answered cheerfully. "Of course it +is difficult and would in any case take time. Attempts, for instance, +have been made to get Trench out and others, but the attempts have not +yet succeeded. The difficulty is the go-between."</p> + +<p>Ethne looked quickly at Durrance.</p> + +<p>"The go-between?" she asked, and then she said, "I think I begin to +understand," and pulled herself up abruptly. "You mean the Arab who can +come and go between Omdurman and the Egyptian frontier?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. He is usually some Dervish pedlar or merchant trading with the +tribes of the Soudan, who slips into Wadi Halfa or Assouan or Suakin and +undertakes the work. Of course his risk is great. He would have short +shrift in Omdurman if his business were detected. So it is not to be +wondered at that he shirks the danger at the last moment. As often as +not, too, he is a rogue. You make your arrangements with him in Egypt, +and hand him over the necessary money. In six months or a year he comes +back alone, with a story of excuses. It was summer, and the season +unfavourable for an escape. Or the prisoners were more strictly guarded. +Or he himself was suspected. And he needs more money. His tale may be +true, and you give him more money; and he comes back again, and again he +comes back alone."</p> + +<p>Ethne nodded her head.</p> + +<p>"Exactly."</p> + +<p>Durrance had unconsciously explained to her a point which till now she +had not understood. She was quite sure that Harry Feversham aimed in +some way at bringing help to Colonel Trench, but in what way his own +capture was to serve that aim she could not determine. Now she +understood: he was to be his own go-between, and her hopes drew strength +from this piece of new knowledge. For it was likely that he had laid his +plans with care. He would be very anxious that the second feather should +come back to her, and if he could fetch Trench safely out of Omdurman, +he would not himself remain behind.</p> + +<p>Ethne was silent for a little while. They were sitting on the terrace, +and the sunset was red upon the water of the creek.</p> + +<p>"Life would not be easy, I suppose, in the prison of Omdurman," she +said, and again she forced herself to indifference.</p> + +<p>"Easy!" exclaimed Durrance; "no, it would not be easy. A hovel crowded +with Arabs, without light or air, and the roof perhaps two feet above +your head, into which you were locked up from sundown to morning; very +likely the prisoners would have to stand all night in that foul den, so +closely packed would they be. Imagine it, even here in England, on an +evening like this! Think what it would be on an August night in the +Soudan! Especially if you had memories, say, of a place like this, to +make the torture worse."</p> + +<p>Ethne looked out across that cool garden. At this very moment Harry +Feversham might be struggling for breath in that dark and noisome hovel, +dry of throat and fevered with the heat, with a vision before his eyes +of the grass slopes of Ramelton and with the music of the Lennon River +liquid in his ears.</p> + +<p>"One would pray for death," said Ethne, slowly, "unless—" She was on +the point of adding "unless one went there deliberately with a fixed +thing to do," but she cut the sentence short. Durrance carried it on:—</p> + +<p>"Unless there was a chance of escape," he said. "And there is a +chance—if Feversham is in Omdurman."</p> + +<p>He was afraid that he had allowed himself to say too much about the +horrors of the prison in Omdurman, and he added: "Of course, what I have +described to you is mere hearsay and not to be trusted. We have no +knowledge. Prisoners may not have such bad times as we think;" and +thereupon he let the subject drop. Nor did Ethne mention it again. It +occurred to her at times to wonder in what way Durrance had understood +her abrupt disappearance from the drawing-room on the night when he had +told her of his meeting with Harry Feversham. But he never referred to +it himself, and she thought it wise to imitate his example. The +noticeable change in his manner, the absence of that caution which had +so distressed her, allayed her fears. It seemed that he had found for +himself some perfectly simple and natural explanation. At times, too, +she asked herself why Durrance had told her of that meeting in Wadi +Halfa, and of Feversham's subsequent departure to the south. But for +that she found an explanation—a strange explanation, perhaps, but it +was simple enough and satisfactory to her. She believed that the news +was a message of which Durrance was only the instrument. It was meant +for her ears, and for her comprehension alone, and Durrance was bound to +convey it to her by the will of a power above him. His real reason she +had not stayed to hear.</p> + +<p>During the month of September, then, they kept up the pretence. Every +morning when Durrance was in Devonshire he would come across the fields +to Ethne at The Pool, and Mrs. Adair, watching them as they talked and +laughed without a shadow of embarrassment or estrangement, grew more +angry, and found it more difficult to hold her peace and let the +pretence go on. It was a month of strain and tension to all three, and +not one of them but experienced a great relief when Durrance visited his +oculist in London. And those visits increased in number, and lengthened +in duration. Even Ethne was grateful for them. She could throw off the +mask for a little while; she had an opportunity to be tired; she had +solitude wherein to gain strength to resume her high spirits upon +Durrance's return. There came hours when despair seized hold of her. +"Shall I be able to keep up the pretence when we are married, when we +are always together?" she asked herself. But she thrust the question +back unanswered; she dared not look forward, lest even now her strength +should fail her.</p> + +<p>After the third visit Durrance said to her:—</p> + +<p>"Do you remember that I once mentioned a famous oculist at Wiesbaden? It +seems advisable that I should go to him."</p> + +<p>"You are recommended to go?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, and to go alone."</p> + +<p>Ethne looked up at him with a shrewd, quick glance.</p> + +<p>"You think that I should be dull at Wiesbaden," she said. "There is no +fear of that. I can rout out some relative to go with me."</p> + +<p>"No; it is on my own account," answered Durrance. "I shall perhaps have +to go into a home. It is better to be quite quiet and to see no one for +a time."</p> + +<p>"You are sure?" Ethne asked. "It would hurt me if I thought you proposed +this plan because you felt I would be happier at Glenalla."</p> + +<p>"No, that is not the reason," Durrance answered, and he answered quite +truthfully. He felt it necessary for both of them that they should +separate. He, no less than Ethne, suffered under the tyranny of +perpetual simulation. It was only because he knew how much store she set +upon carrying out her resolve that two lives should not be spoilt +because of her, that he was able to hinder himself from crying out that +he knew the truth.</p> + +<p>"I am returning to London next week," he added, "and when I come back I +shall be in a position to tell you whether I am to go to Wiesbaden or +not."</p> + +<p>Durrance had reason to be glad that he had mentioned his plan before the +arrival of Calder's telegram from Wadi Halfa. Ethne was unable to +connect his departure from her with the receipt of any news about +Feversham. The telegram came one afternoon, and Durrance took it across +to The Pool in the evening and showed it to Ethne. There were only four +words to the telegram:—</p> + +<p>"Feversham imprisoned at Omdurman."</p> + +<p>Durrance, with one of the new instincts of delicacy which had been born +in him lately by reason of his sufferings and the habit of thought, had +moved away from Ethne's side as soon as he had given it to her, and had +joined Mrs. Adair, who was reading a book in the drawing-room. He had +folded up the telegram, besides, so that by the time Ethne had unfolded +it and saw the words, she was alone upon the terrace. She remembered +what Durrance had said to her about the prison, and her imagination +enlarged upon his words. The quiet of a September evening was upon the +fields, a light mist rose from the creek and crept over the garden bank +across the lawn. Already the prison doors were shut in that hot country +at the junction of the Niles. "He is to pay for his fault ten times +over, then," she cried, in revolt against the disproportion. "And the +fault was his father's and mine too more than his own. For neither of us +understood."</p> + +<p>She blamed herself for the gift of that fourth feather. She leaned upon +the stone balustrade with her eyes shut, wondering whether Harry would +outlive this night, whether he was still alive to outlive it. The very +coolness of the stones on which her hands pressed became the bitterest +of reproaches.</p> + +<p>"Something can now be done."</p> + +<p>Durrance was coming from the window of the drawing-room, and spoke as he +came, to warn her of his approach. "He was and is my friend; I cannot +leave him there. I shall write to-night to Calder. Money will not be +spared. He is my friend, Ethne. You will see. From Suakin or from +Assouan something will be done."</p> + +<p>He put all the help to be offered to the credit of his own friendship. +Ethne was not to believe that he imagined she had any further interest +in Harry Feversham.</p> + +<p>She turned to him suddenly, almost interrupting him.</p> + +<p>"Major Castleton is dead?" she said.</p> + +<p>"Castleton?" he exclaimed. "There was a Castleton in Feversham's +regiment. Is that the man?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. He is dead?"</p> + +<p>"He was killed at Tamai."</p> + +<p>"You are sure—quite sure?"</p> + +<p>"He was within the square of the Second Brigade on the edge of the great +gulley when Osman Digna's men sprang out of the earth and broke through. +I was in that square, too. I saw Castleton killed."</p> + +<p>"I am glad," said Ethne.</p> + +<p>She spoke quite simply and distinctly. The first feather had been +brought back by Captain Willoughby. It was just possible that Colonel +Trench might bring back the second. Harry Feversham had succeeded once +under great difficulties, in the face of great peril. The peril was +greater now, the difficulties more arduous to overcome; that she clearly +understood. But she took the one success as an augury that another +might follow it. Feversham would have laid his plans with care; he had +money wherewith to carry them out; and, besides, she was a woman of +strong faith. But she was relieved to know that the sender of the third +feather could never be approached. Moreover, she hated him, and there +was an end of the matter.</p> + +<p>Durrance was startled. He was a soldier of a type not so rare as the +makers of war stories wish their readers to believe. Hector of Troy was +his ancestor; he was neither hysterical in his language nor vindictive +in his acts; he was not an elderly schoolboy with a taste for loud talk, +but a quiet man who did his work without noise, who could be stern when +occasion needed and of an unflinching severity, but whose nature was +gentle and compassionate. And this barbaric utterance of Ethne Eustace +he did not understand.</p> + +<p>"You disliked Major Castleton so much?" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"I never knew him."</p> + +<p>"Yet you are glad that he is dead?"</p> + +<p>"I am quite glad," said Ethne, stubbornly.</p> + +<p>She made another slip when she spoke thus of Major Castleton, and +Durrance did not pass it by unnoticed. He remembered it, and thought it +over in his gun-room at Guessens. It added something to the explanation +which he was building up of Harry Feversham's disgrace and +disappearance. The story was gradually becoming clear to his sharpened +wits. Captain Willoughby's visit and the token he had brought had given +him the clue. A white feather could mean nothing but an accusation of +cowardice. Durrance could not remember that he had ever detected any +signs of cowardice in Harry Feversham, and the charge startled him +perpetually into incredulity.</p> + +<p>But the fact remained. Something had happened on the night of the ball +at Lennon House, and from that date Harry had been an outcast. Suppose +that a white feather had been forwarded to Lennon House, and had been +opened in Ethne's presence? Or more than one white feather? Ethne had +come back from her long talk with Willoughby holding that white feather +as though there was nothing so precious in all the world.</p> + +<p>So much Mrs. Adair had told him.</p> + +<p>It followed, then, that the cowardice was atoned, or in one particular +atoned. Ethne's recapture of her youth pointed inevitably to that +conclusion. She treasured the feather because it was no longer a symbol +of cowardice but a symbol of cowardice atoned.</p> + +<p>But Harry Feversham had not returned, he still slunk in the world's +by-ways. Willoughby, then, was not the only man who had brought the +accusation; there were others—two others. One of the two Durrance had +long since identified. When Durrance had suggested that Harry might be +taken to Omdurman, Ethne had at once replied, "Colonel Trench is in +Omdurman." She needed no explanation of Harry's disappearance from Wadi +Halfa into the southern Soudan. It was deliberate; he had gone out to be +captured, to be taken to Omdurman. Moreover, Ethne had spoken of the +untrustworthiness of the go-between, and there again had helped Durrance +in his conjectures. There was some obligation upon Feversham to come to +Trench's help. Suppose that Feversham had laid his plans of rescue, and +had ventured out into the desert that he might be his own go-between. It +followed that a second feather had been sent to Ramelton, and that +Trench had sent it.</p> + +<p>To-night Durrance was able to join Major Castleton to Trench and +Willoughby. Ethne's satisfaction at the death of a man whom she did not +know could mean but the one thing. There would be the same obligation +resting upon Feversham with regard to Major Castleton if he lived. It +seemed likely that a third feather had come to Lennon House, and that +Major Castleton had sent it.</p> + +<p>Durrance pondered over the solution of the problem, and more and more he +found it plausible. There was one man who could have told him the truth +and who had refused to tell it, who would no doubt still refuse to tell +it. But that one man's help Durrance intended to enlist, and to this end +he must come with the story pat upon his lips and no request for +information.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he said, "I think that after my next visit to London I can pay a +visit to Lieutenant Sutch."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII</h2> + +<h3>DURRANCE LETS HIS CIGAR GO OUT</h3> + + +<p>Captain Willoughby was known at his club for a bore. He was a determined +raconteur of pointless stories about people with whom not one of his +audience was acquainted. And there was no deterring him, for he did not +listen, he only talked. He took the most savage snub with a vacant and +amicable face; and, wrapped in his own dull thoughts, he continued his +copious monologue. In the smoking-room or at the supper-table he crushed +conversation flat as a steam-roller crushes a road. He was quite +irresistible. Trite anecdotes were sandwiched between aphorisms of the +copybook; and whether anecdote or aphorism, all was delivered with the +air of a man surprised by his own profundity. If you waited long enough, +you had no longer the will power to run away, you sat caught in a web of +sheer dulness. Only those, however, who did not know him waited long +enough; the rest of his fellow-members at his appearance straightway +rose and fled.</p> + +<p>It happened, therefore, that within half an hour of his entrance to his +club, he usually had one large corner of the room entirely to himself; +and that particular corner up to the moment of his entrance had been the +most frequented. For he made it a rule to choose the largest group as +his audience. He was sitting in this solitary state one afternoon early +in October, when the waiter approached him and handed to him a card.</p> + +<p>Captain Willoughby took it with alacrity, for he desired company, and +his acquaintances had all left the club to fulfil the most pressing and +imperative engagements. But as he read the card his countenance fell. +"Colonel Durrance!" he said, and scratched his head thoughtfully. +Durrance had never in his life paid him a friendly visit before, and why +should he go out of his way to do so now? It looked as if Durrance had +somehow got wind of his journey to Kingsbridge.</p> + +<p>"Does Colonel Durrance know that I am in the club?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir," replied the waiter.</p> + +<p>"Very well. Show him in."</p> + +<p>Durrance had, no doubt come to ask questions, and diplomacy would be +needed to elude them. Captain Willoughby had no mind to meddle any +further in the affairs of Miss Ethne Eustace. Feversham and Durrance +must fight their battle without his intervention. He did not distrust +his powers of diplomacy, but he was not anxious to exert them in this +particular case, and he looked suspiciously at Durrance as he entered +the room. Durrance, however, had apparently no questions to ask. +Willoughby rose from his chair, and crossing the room, guided his +visitor over to his deserted corner.</p> + +<p>"Will you smoke?" he said, and checked himself. "I beg your pardon."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'll smoke," Durrance answered. "It's not quite true that a man +can't enjoy his tobacco without seeing the smoke of it. If I let my +cigar out, I should know at once. But you will see, I shall not let it +out." He lighted his cigar with deliberation and leaned back in his +chair.</p> + +<p>"I am lucky to find you, Willoughby," he continued, "for I am only in +town for to-day. I come up every now and then from Devonshire to see my +oculist, and I was very anxious to meet you if I could. On my last visit +Mather told me that you were away in the country. You remember Mather, I +suppose? He was with us in Suakin."</p> + +<p>"Of course, I remember him quite well," said Willoughby, heartily. He +was more than willing to talk about Mather; he had a hope that in +talking about Mather, Durrance might forget that other matter which +caused him anxiety.</p> + +<p>"We are both of us curious," Durrance continued, "and you can clear up +the point we are curious about. Did you ever come across an Arab called +Abou Fatma?"</p> + +<p>"Abou Fatma," said Willoughby, slowly, "one of the Hadendoas?"</p> + +<p>"No, a man of the Kabbabish tribe."</p> + +<p>"Abou Fatma?" Willoughby repeated, as though for the first time he had +heard the name. "No, I never came across him;" and then he stopped. It +occurred to Durrance that it was not a natural place at which to stop; +Willoughby might have been expected to add, "Why do you ask me?" or some +question of the kind. But he kept silent. As a matter of fact, he was +wondering how in the world Durrance had ever come to hear of Abou Fatma, +whose name he himself had heard for the first and last time a year ago +upon the verandah of the Palace at Suakin. For he had spoken the truth. +He never had come across Abou Fatma, although Feversham had spoken of +him.</p> + +<p>"That makes me still more curious," Durrance continued. "Mather and I +were together on the last reconnaissance in '84, and we found Abou Fatma +hiding in the bushes by the Sinkat fort. He told us about the Gordon +letters which he had hidden in Berber. Ah! you remember his name now."</p> + +<p>"I was merely getting my pipe out of my pocket," said Willoughby. "But I +do remember the name now that you mention the letters."</p> + +<p>"They were brought to you in Suakin fifteen months or so back. Mather +showed me the paragraph in the <i>Evening Standard</i>. And I am curious as +to whether Abou Fatma returned to Berber and recovered them. But since +you have never come across him, it follows that he was not the man."</p> + +<p>Captain Willoughby began to feel sorry that he had been in such haste to +deny all acquaintance with Abou Fatma of the Kabbabish tribe.</p> + +<p>"No; it was not Abou Fatma," he said, with an awkward sort of +hesitation. He dreaded the next question which Durrance would put to +him. He filled his pipe, pondering what answer he should make to it. But +Durrance put no question at all for the moment.</p> + +<p>"I wondered," he said slowly. "I thought that Abou Fatma would hardly +return to Berber. For, indeed, whoever undertook the job undertook it at +the risk of his life, and, since Gordon was dead, for no very obvious +reason."</p> + +<p>"Quite so," said Willoughby, in a voice of relief. It seemed that +Durrance's curiosity was satisfied with the knowledge that Abou Fatma +had not recovered the letters. "Quite so. Since Gordon was dead, for no +reason."</p> + +<p>"For no obvious reason, I think I said," Durrance remarked +imperturbably. Willoughby turned and glanced suspiciously at his +companion, wondering whether, after all, Durrance knew of his visit to +Kingsbridge and its motive. Durrance, however, smoked his cigar, leaning +back in his chair with his face tilted up towards the ceiling. He +seemed, now that his curiosity was satisfied, to have lost interest in +the history of the Gordon letters. At all events, he put no more +questions upon that subject to embarrass Captain Willoughby, and indeed +there was no need that he should. Thinking over the possible way by +which Harry Feversham might have redeemed himself in Willoughby's eyes +from the charge of cowardice, Durrance could only hit upon this recovery +of the letters from the ruined wall in Berber. There had been no +personal danger to the inhabitants of Suakin since the days of that last +reconnaissance. The great troop-ships had steamed between the coral +reefs towards Suez, and no cry for help had ever summoned them back. +Willoughby risked only his health in that white palace on the Red Sea. +There could not have been a moment when Feversham was in a position to +say, "Your life was forfeit but for me, whom you call coward." And +Durrance, turning over in his mind all the news and gossip which had +come to him at Wadi Halfa or during his furloughs, had been brought to +conjecture whether that fugitive from Khartum, who had told him his +story in the glacis of the silent ruined fort of Sinkat during one +drowsy afternoon of May, had not told it again at Suakin within +Feversham's hearing. He was convinced now that his conjecture was +correct.</p> + +<p>Willoughby's reticence was in itself a sufficient confirmation. +Willoughby, without doubt, had been instructed by Ethne to keep his +tongue in a leash. Colonel Durrance was prepared for reticence, he +looked to reticence as the answer to his conjecture. His trained ear, +besides, had warned him that Willoughby was uneasy at his visit and +careful in his speech. There had been pauses, during which Durrance was +as sure as though he had eyes wherewith to see, that his companion was +staring at him suspiciously and wondering how much he knew, or how +little. There had been an accent of wariness and caution in his voice, +which was hatefully familiar to Durrance's ears, for just with that +accent Ethne had been wont to speak. Moreover, Durrance had set +traps,—that remark of his "for no obvious reason, I think I said," had +been one,—and a little start here, or a quick turn there, showed him +that Willoughby had tumbled into them.</p> + +<p>He had no wish, however, that Willoughby should write off to Ethne and +warn her that Durrance was making inquiries. That was a possibility, he +recognised, and he set himself to guard against it.</p> + +<p>"I want to tell you why I was anxious to meet you," he said. "It was +because of Harry Feversham;" and Captain Willoughby, who was +congratulating himself that he was well out of an awkward position, +fairly jumped in his seat. It was not Durrance's policy, however, to +notice his companion's agitation, and he went on quickly: "Something +happened to Feversham. It's more than five years ago now. He did +something, I suppose, or left something undone,—the secret, at all +events, has been closely kept,—and he dropped out, and his place knew +him no more. Now you are going back to the Soudan, Willoughby?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," Willoughby answered, "in a week's time."</p> + +<p>"Well, Harry Feversham is in the Soudan," said Durrance, leaning towards +his companion.</p> + +<p>"You know that?" exclaimed Willoughby.</p> + +<p>"Yes, for I came across him this Spring at Wadi Halfa," Durrance +continued. "He had fallen rather low," and he told Willoughby of their +meeting outside of the café of Tewfikieh. "It's strange, isn't it?—a +man whom one knew very well going under like that in a second, +disappearing before your eyes as it were, dropping plumb out of sight as +though down an oubliette in an old French castle. I want you to look out +for him, Willoughby, and do what you can to set him on his legs again. +Let me know if you chance on him. Harry Feversham was a friend of +mine—one of my few real friends."</p> + +<p>"All right," said Willoughby, cheerfully. Durrance knew at once from the +tone of his voice that suspicion was quieted in him. "I will look out +for Feversham. I remember he was a great friend of yours."</p> + +<p>He stretched out his hand towards the matches upon the table beside him. +Durrance heard the scrape of the phosphorus and the flare of the match. +Willoughby was lighting his pipe. It was a well-seasoned piece of briar, +and needed a cleaning; it bubbled as he held the match to the tobacco +and sucked at the mouthpiece.</p> + +<p>"Yes, a great friend," said Durrance. "You and I dined with him in his +flat high up above St. James's Park just before we left England."</p> + +<p>And at that chance utterance Willoughby's briar pipe ceased suddenly to +bubble. A moment's silence followed, then Willoughby swore violently, +and a second later he stamped upon the carpet. Durrance's imagination +was kindled by this simple sequence of events, and he straightway made +up a little picture in his mind. In one chair himself smoking his cigar, +a round table holding a match-stand on his left hand, and on the other +side of the table Captain Willoughby in another chair. But Captain +Willoughby lighting his pipe and suddenly arrested in the act by a +sentence spoken without significance, Captain Willoughby staring +suspiciously in his slow-witted way at the blind man's face, until the +lighted match, which he had forgotten, burnt down to his fingers, and he +swore and dropped it and stamped it out upon the floor. Durrance had +never given a thought to that dinner till this moment. It was possible +it might deserve much thought.</p> + +<p>"There were you and I and Feversham present," he went on. "Feversham had +asked us there to tell us of his engagement to Miss Eustace. He had just +come back from Dublin. That was almost the last we saw of him." He took +a pull at his cigar and added, "By the way, there was a third man +present."</p> + +<p>"Was there?" asked Willoughby. "It's so long ago."</p> + +<p>"Yes—Trench."</p> + +<p>"To be sure, Trench was present. It will be a long time, I am afraid, +before we dine at the same table with poor old Trench again."</p> + +<p>The carelessness of his voice was well assumed; he leaned forwards and +struck another match and lighted his pipe. As he did so, Durrance laid +down his cigar upon the table edge.</p> + +<p>"And we shall never dine with Castleton again," he said slowly.</p> + +<p>"Castleton wasn't there," Willoughby exclaimed, and quickly enough to +betray that, however long the interval since that little dinner in +Feversham's rooms, it was at all events still distinct in his +recollections.</p> + +<p>"No, but he was expected," said Durrance.</p> + +<p>"No, not even expected," corrected Willoughby. "He was dining elsewhere. +He sent the telegram, you remember."</p> + +<p>"Ah, yes, a telegram came," said Durrance.</p> + +<p>That dinner party certainly deserved consideration. Willoughby, Trench, +Castleton—these three men were the cause of Harry Feversham's disgrace +and disappearance. Durrance tried to recollect all the details of the +evening; but he had been occupied himself on that occasion. He +remembered leaning against the window above St. James's Park; he +remembered hearing the tattoo from the parade-ground of Wellington +Barracks—and a telegram had come.</p> + +<p>Durrance made up another picture in his mind. Harry Feversham at the +table reading and re-reading his telegram, Trench and Willoughby waiting +silently, perhaps expectantly, and himself paying no heed, but staring +out from the bright room into the quiet and cool of the park.</p> + +<p>"Castleton was dining with a big man from the War Office that night," +Durrance said, and a little movement at his side warned him that he was +getting hot in his search. He sat for a while longer talking about the +prospects of the Soudan, and then rose up from his chair.</p> + +<p>"Well, I can rely on you, Willoughby, to help Feversham if ever you find +him. Draw on me for money."</p> + +<p>"I will do my best," said Willoughby. "You are going? I could have won a +bet off you this afternoon."</p> + +<p>"How?"</p> + +<p>"You said that you did not let your cigars go out. This one's stone +cold."</p> + +<p>"I forgot about it; I was thinking of Feversham. Good-bye."</p> + +<p>He took a cab and drove away from the club door. Willoughby was glad to +see the last of him, but he was fairly satisfied with his own exhibition +of diplomacy. It would have been strange, after all, he thought, if he +had not been able to hoodwink poor old Durrance; and he returned to the +smoking-room and refreshed himself with a whiskey and potass.</p> + +<p>Durrance, however, had not been hoodwinked. The last perplexing question +had been answered for him that afternoon. He remembered now that no +mention had been made at the dinner which could identify the sender of +the telegram. Feversham had read it without a word, and without a word +had crumpled it up and tossed it into the fire. But to-day Willoughby +had told him that it had come from Castleton, and Castleton had been +dining with a high official of the War Office. The particular act of +cowardice which had brought the three white feathers to Ramelton was +easy to discern. Almost the next day Feversham had told Durrance in the +Row that he had resigned his commission, and Durrance knew that he had +not resigned it when the telegram came. That telegram could have brought +only one piece of news, that Feversham's regiment was ordered on active +service. The more Durrance reflected, the more certain he felt that he +had at last hit upon the truth. Nothing could be more natural than that +Castleton should telegraph his good news in confidence to his friends. +Durrance had the story now complete, or rather, the sequence of facts +complete. For why Feversham should have been seized with panic, why he +should have played the coward the moment after he was engaged to Ethne +Eustace—at a time, in a word, when every manly quality he possessed +should have been at its strongest and truest, remained for Durrance, and +indeed, was always to remain, an inexplicable problem. But he put that +question aside, classing it among the considerations which he had learnt +to estimate as small and unimportant. The simple and true thing—the +thing of real importance—emerged definite and clear: Harry Feversham +was atoning for his one act of cowardice with a full and an overflowing +measure of atonement.</p> + +<p>"I shall astonish old Sutch," he thought, with a chuckle. He took the +night mail into Devonshire the same evening, and reached his home before +midday.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> + +<h3>MRS. ADAIR MAKES HER APOLOGY</h3> + + +<p>Within the drawing-room at The Pool, Durrance said good-bye to Ethne. He +had so arranged it that there should be little time for that +leave-taking, and already the carriage stood at the steps of Guessens, +with his luggage strapped upon the roof and his servant waiting at the +door.</p> + +<p>Ethne came out with him on to the terrace, where Mrs. Adair stood at the +top of the flight of steps. Durrance held out his hand to her, but she +turned to Ethne and said:—</p> + +<p>"I want to speak to Colonel Durrance before he goes."</p> + +<p>"Very well," said Ethne. "Then we will say good-bye here," she added to +Durrance. "You will write from Wiesbaden? Soon, please!"</p> + +<p>"The moment I arrive," answered Durrance. He descended the steps with +Mrs. Adair, and left Ethne standing upon the terrace. The last scene of +pretence had been acted out, the months of tension and surveillance had +come to an end, and both were thankful for their release. Durrance +showed that he was glad even in the briskness of his walk, as he crossed +the lawn at Mrs. Adair's side. She, however, lagged, and when she spoke +it was in a despondent voice.</p> + +<p>"So you are going," she said. "In two days' time you will be at +Wiesbaden and Ethne at Glenalla. We shall all be scattered. It will be +lonely here."</p> + +<p>She had had her way; she had separated Ethne and Durrance for a time at +all events; she was no longer to be tortured by the sight of them and +the sound of their voices; but somehow her interference had brought her +little satisfaction. "The house will seem very empty after you are all +gone," she said; and she turned at Durrance's side and walked down with +him into the garden.</p> + +<p>"We shall come back, no doubt," said Durrance, reassuringly.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair looked about her garden. The flowers were gone, and the +sunlight; clouds stretched across the sky overhead, the green of the +grass underfoot was dull, the stream ran grey in the gap between the +trees, and the leaves from the branches were blown russet and yellow +about the lawns.</p> + +<p>"How long shall you stay at Wiesbaden?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"I can hardly tell. But as long as it's advisable," he answered.</p> + +<p>"That tells me nothing at all. I suppose it was meant not to tell me +anything."</p> + +<p>Durrance did not answer her, and she resented his silence. She knew +nothing whatever of his plans; she was unaware whether he meant to break +his engagement with Ethne or to hold her to it, and curiosity consumed +her. It might be a very long time before she saw him again, and all that +long time she must remain tortured with doubts.</p> + +<p>"You distrust me?" she said defiantly, and with a note of anger in her +voice.</p> + +<p>Durrance answered her quite gently:—</p> + +<p>"Have I no reason to distrust you? Why did you tell me of Captain +Willoughby's coming? Why did you interfere?"</p> + +<p>"I thought you ought to know."</p> + +<p>"But Ethne wished the secret kept. I am glad to know, very glad. But, +after all, you told me, and you were Ethne's friend."</p> + +<p>"Yours, too, I hope," Mrs. Adair answered, and she exclaimed: "How could +I go on keeping silence? Don't you understand?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>Durrance might have understood, but he had never given much thought to +Mrs. Adair, and she knew it. The knowledge rankled within her, and his +simple "no" stung her beyond bearing.</p> + +<p>"I spoke brutally, didn't I?" she said. "I told you the truth as +brutally as I could. Doesn't that help you to understand?"</p> + +<p>Again Durrance said "No," and the monosyllable exasperated her out of +all prudence, and all at once she found herself speaking incoherently +the things which she had thought. And once she had begun, she could not +stop. She stood, as it were, outside of herself, and saw that her speech +was madness; yet she went on with it.</p> + +<p>"I told you the truth brutally on purpose. I was so stung because you +would not see what was so visible had you only the mind to see. I wanted +to hurt you. I am a bad, bad woman, I suppose. There were you and she in +the room talking together in the darkness; there was I alone upon the +terrace. It was the same again to-day. You and Ethne in the room, I +alone upon the terrace. I wonder whether it will always be so. But you +will not say—you will not say." She struck her hands together with a +gesture of despair, but Durrance had no words for her. He walked +silently along the garden path towards the stile, and he quickened his +pace a little, so that Mrs. Adair had to walk fast to keep up with him. +That quickening of the pace was a sort of answer, but Mrs. Adair was not +deterred by it. Her madness had taken hold of her.</p> + +<p>"I do not think I would have minded so much," she continued, "if Ethne +had really cared for you; but she never cared more than as a friend +cares, just a mere friend. And what's friendship worth?" she asked +scornfully.</p> + +<p>"Something, surely," said Durrance.</p> + +<p>"It does not prevent Ethne from shrinking from her friend," cried Mrs. +Adair. "She shrinks from you. Shall I tell you why? Because you are +blind. She is afraid. While I—I will tell you the truth—I am glad. +When the news first came from Wadi Halfa that you were blind, I was +glad; when I saw you in Hill Street, I was glad; ever since, I have been +glad—quite glad. Because I saw that she shrank. From the beginning she +shrank, thinking how her life would be hampered and fettered," and the +scorn of Mrs. Adair's voice increased, though her voice itself was sunk +to a whisper. "I am not afraid," she said, and she repeated the words +passionately again and again. "I am not afraid. I am not afraid."</p> + +<p>To Durrance it seemed that in all his experience nothing so horrible had +ever occurred as this outburst by the woman who was Ethne's friend, +nothing so unforeseen.</p> + +<p>"Ethne wrote to you at Wadi Halfa out of pity," she went on, "that was +all. She wrote out of pity; and, having written, she was afraid of what +she had done; and being afraid, she had not courage to tell you she was +afraid. You would not have blamed her, if she had frankly admitted it; +you would have remained her friend. But she had not the courage."</p> + +<p>Durrance knew that there was another explanation of Ethne's hesitations +and timidities. He knew, too, that the other explanation was the true +one. But to-morrow he himself would be gone from the Salcombe estuary, +and Ethne would be on her way to the Irish Channel and Donegal. It was +not worth while to argue against Mrs. Adair's slanders. Besides, he was +close upon the stile which separated the garden of The Pool from the +fields. Once across that stile, he would be free of Mrs. Adair. He +contented himself with saying quietly:—</p> + +<p>"You are not just to Ethne."</p> + +<p>At that simple utterance the madness of Mrs. Adair went from her. She +recognised the futility of all that she had said, of her boastings of +courage, of her detractions of Ethne. Her words might be true or not, +they could achieve nothing. Durrance was always in the room with Ethne, +never upon the terrace with Mrs. Adair. She became conscious of her +degradation, and she fell to excuses.</p> + +<p>"I am a bad woman, I suppose. But after all, I have not had the happiest +of lives. Perhaps there is something to be said for me." It sounded +pitiful and weak, even in her ears; but they had reached the stile, and +Durrance had turned towards her. She saw that his face lost something of +its sternness. He was standing quietly, prepared now to listen to what +she might wish to say. He remembered that in the old days when he could +see, he had always associated her with a dignity of carriage and a +reticence of speech. It seemed hardly possible that it was the same +woman who spoke to him now, and the violence of the contrast made him +ready to believe that there must be perhaps something to be said on her +behalf.</p> + +<p>"Will you tell me?" he said gently.</p> + +<p>"I was married almost straight from school. I was the merest girl. I +knew nothing, and I was married to a man of whom I knew nothing. It was +my mother's doing, and no doubt she thought that she was acting for the +very best. She was securing for me a position of a kind, and comfort and +release from any danger of poverty. I accepted what she said blindly, +ignorantly. I could hardly have refused, indeed, for my mother was an +imperious woman, and I was accustomed to obedience. I did as she told me +and married dutifully the man whom she chose. The case is common enough, +no doubt, but its frequency does not make it easier of endurance."</p> + +<p>"But Mr. Adair?" said Durrance. "After all, I knew him. He was older, no +doubt, than you, but he was kind. I think, too, he cared for you."</p> + +<p>"Yes. He was kindness itself, and he cared for me. Both things are true. +The knowledge that he did care for me was the one link, if you +understand. At the beginning I was contented, I suppose. I had a house +in town and another here. But it was dull," and she stretched out her +arms. "Oh, how dull it was! Do you know the little back streets in a +manufacturing town? Rows of small houses, side by side, with nothing to +relieve them of their ugly regularity, each with the self-same windows, +the self-same door, the self-same door-step. Overhead a drift of smoke, +and every little green thing down to the plants in the window dirty and +black. The sort of street whence any crazy religious charlatan who can +promise a little colour to their grey lives can get as many votaries as +he wants. Well, when I thought over my life, one of those little streets +always came into my mind. There are women, heaps of them, no doubt, to +whom the management of a big house, the season in London, the ordinary +round of visits, are sufficient. I, worse luck, was not one of them. +Dull! You, with your hundred thousand things to do, cannot conceive how +oppressively dull my life was. And that was not all!" She hesitated, but +she could not stop midway, and it was far too late for her to recover +her ground. She went on to the end.</p> + +<p>"I married, as I say, knowing nothing of the important things. I +believed at the first that mine was just the allotted life of all women. +But I began soon to have my doubts. I got to know that there was +something more to be won out of existence than mere dulness; at least, +that there was something more for others, though not for me. One could +not help learning that. One passed a man and a woman riding together, +and one chanced to look into the woman's face as one passed; or one saw, +perhaps, the woman alone and talked with her for a little while, and +from the happiness of her looks and voice one knew with absolute +certainty that there was ever so much more. Only the chance of that +ever so much more my mother had denied to me."</p> + +<p>All the sternness had now gone from Durrance's face, and Mrs. Adair was +speaking with a great simplicity. Of the violence which she had used +before there was no longer any trace. She did not appeal for pity, she +was not even excusing herself; she was just telling her story quietly +and gently.</p> + +<p>"And then you came," she continued. "I met you, and met you again. You +went away upon your duties and you returned; and I learnt now, not that +there was ever so much more, but just what that ever so much more was. +But it was still, of course, denied to me. However, in spite of that I +felt happier. I thought that I should be quite content to have you for a +friend, to watch your progress, and to feel pride in it. But you +see—Ethne came, too, and you turned to her. At once—oh, at once! If +you had only been a little less quick to turn to her! In a very short +while I was sad and sorry that you had ever come into my life."</p> + +<p>"I knew nothing of this," said Durrance. "I never suspected. I am +sorry."</p> + +<p>"I took care you should not suspect," said Mrs. Adair. "But I tried to +keep you; with all my wits I tried. No match-maker in the world ever +worked so hard to bring two people together as I did to bring together +Ethne and Mr. Feversham, and I succeeded."</p> + +<p>The statement came upon Durrance with a shock. He leaned back against +the stile and could have laughed. Here was the origin of the whole sad +business. From what small beginnings it had grown! It is a trite +reflection, but the personal application of it is apt to take away the +breath. It was so with Durrance as he thought himself backwards into +those days when he had walked on his own path, heedless of the people +with whom he came in touch, never dreaming that they were at that moment +influencing his life right up to his dying day. Feversham's disgrace and +ruin, Ethne's years of unhappiness, the wearying pretences of the last +few months, all had their origin years ago when Mrs. Adair, to keep +Durrance to herself, threw Feversham and Ethne into each other's +company.</p> + +<p>"I succeeded," continued Mrs. Adair. "You told me that I had succeeded +one morning in the Row. How glad I was! You did not notice it, I am +sure. The next moment you took all my gladness from me by telling me you +were starting for the Soudan. You were away three years. They were not +happy years for me. You came back. My husband was dead, but Ethne was +free. Ethne refused you, but you went blind and she claimed you. You can +see what ups and downs have fallen to me. But these months here have +been the worst."</p> + +<p>"I am very sorry," said Durrance. Mrs. Adair was quite right, he +thought. There was indeed something to be said on her behalf. The world +had gone rather hardly with her. He was able to realise what she had +suffered, since he was suffering in much the same way himself. It was +quite intelligible to him why she had betrayed Ethne's secret that night +upon the terrace, and he could not but be gentle with her.</p> + +<p>"I am very sorry, Mrs. Adair," he repeated lamely. There was nothing +more which he could find to say, and he held out his hand to her.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," she said, and Durrance climbed over the stile and crossed +the fields to his house.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Adair stood by that stile for a long while after he had gone. She +had shot her bolt and hit no one but herself and the man for whom she +cared.</p> + +<p>She realised that distinctly. She looked forward a little, too, and she +understood that if Durrance did not, after all, keep Ethne to her +promise and marry her and go with her to her country, he would come back +to Guessens. That reflection showed Mrs. Adair yet more clearly the +folly of her outcry. If she had only kept silence, she would have had a +very true and constant friend for her neighbour, and that would have +been something. It would have been a good deal. But, since she had +spoken, they could never meet without embarrassment, and, practise +cordiality as they might, there would always remain in their minds the +recollection of what she had said and he had listened to on the +afternoon when he left for Wiesbaden.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> + +<h3>ON THE NILE</h3> + + +<p>It was a callous country inhabited by a callous race, thought Calder, as +he travelled down the Nile from Wadi Halfa to Assouan on his three +months' furlough. He leaned over the rail of the upper deck of the +steamer and looked down upon the barge lashed alongside. On the lower +deck of the barge among the native passengers stood an angareb,<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> +whereon was stretched the motionless figure of a human being shrouded in +a black veil. The angareb and its burden had been carried on board early +that morning at Korosko by two Arabs, who now sat laughing and +chattering in the stern of the barge. It might have been a dead man or a +dead woman who lay still and stretched out upon the bedstead, so little +heed did they give to it. Calder lifted his eyes and looked to his right +and his left across glaring sand and barren rocks shaped roughly into +the hard forms of pyramids. The narrow meagre strip of green close by +the water's edge upon each bank was the only response which the Soudan +made to Spring and Summer and the beneficent rain. A callous country +inhabited by a callous people.</p> + + + +<p>Calder looked downwards again to the angareb upon the barge's deck and +the figure lying upon it. Whether it was man or woman he could not +tell. The black veil lay close about the face, outlining the nose, the +hollows of the eyes and the mouth; but whether the lips wore a moustache +and the chin a beard, it did not reveal.</p> + +<p>The slanting sunlight crept nearer and nearer to the angareb. The +natives seated close to it moved into the shadow of the upper deck, but +no one moved the angareb, and the two men laughing in the stern gave no +thought to their charge. Calder watched the blaze of yellow light creep +over the black recumbent figure from the feet upwards. It burnt at last +bright and pitiless upon the face. Yet the living creature beneath the +veil never stirred. The veil never fluttered above the lips, the legs +remained stretched out straight, the arms lay close against the side.</p> + +<p>Calder shouted to the two men in the stern.</p> + +<p>"Move the angareb into the shadow," he cried, "and be quick!"</p> + +<p>The Arabs rose reluctantly and obeyed him.</p> + +<p>"Is it a man or woman?" asked Calder.</p> + +<p>"A man. We are taking him to the hospital at Assouan, but we do not +think that he will live. He fell from a palm tree three weeks ago."</p> + +<p>"You give him nothing to eat or drink?"</p> + +<p>"He is too ill."</p> + +<p>It was a common story and the logical outcome of the belief that life +and death are written and will inevitably befall after the manner of the +writing. That man lying so quiet beneath the black covering had probably +at the beginning suffered nothing more serious than a bruise, which a +few simple remedies would have cured within a week. But he had been +allowed to lie, even as he lay upon the angareb, at the mercy of the +sun and the flies, unwashed, unfed, and with his thirst unslaked. The +bruise had become a sore, the sore had gangrened, and when all remedies +were too late, the Egyptian Mudir of Korosko had discovered the accident +and sent the man on the steamer down to Assouan. But, familiar though +the story was, Calder could not dismiss it from his thoughts. The +immobility of the sick man upon the native bedstead in a way fascinated +him, and when towards sunset a strong wind sprang up and blew against +the stream, he felt an actual comfort in the knowledge that the sick man +would gain some relief from it. And when his neighbour that evening at +the dinner table spoke to him with a German accent, he suddenly asked +upon an impulse:—</p> + +<p>"You are not a doctor by any chance?"</p> + +<p>"Not a doctor," said the German, "but a student of medicine at Bonn. I +came from Cairo to see the Second Cataract, but was not allowed to go +farther than Wadi Halfa."</p> + +<p>Calder interrupted him at once. "Then I will trespass upon your holiday +and claim your professional assistance."</p> + +<p>"For yourself? With pleasure, though I should never have guessed you +were ill," said the student, smiling good-naturedly behind his +eyeglasses.</p> + +<p>"Nor am I. It is an Arab for whom I ask your help."</p> + +<p>"The man on the bedstead?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, if you will be so good. I will warn you—he was hurt three weeks +ago, and I know these people. No one will have touched him since he was +hurt. The sight will not be pretty. This is not a nice country for +untended wounds."</p> + +<p>The German student shrugged his shoulders. "All experience is good," +said he, and the two men rose from the table and went out on to the +upper deck.</p> + +<p>The wind had freshened during the dinner, and, blowing up stream, had +raised waves so that the steamer and its barge tossed and the water +broke on board.</p> + +<p>"He was below there," said the student, as he leaned over the rail and +peered downwards to the lower deck of the barge alongside. It was night, +and the night was dark. Above that lower deck only one lamp, swung from +the centre of the upper deck, glimmered and threw uncertain lights and +uncertain shadows over a small circle. Beyond the circle all was black +darkness, except at the bows, where the water breaking on board flung a +white sheet of spray. It could be seen like a sprinkle of snow driven by +the wind, it could be heard striking the deck like the lash of a whip.</p> + +<p>"He has been moved," said the German. "No doubt he has been moved. There +is no one in the bows."</p> + +<p>Calder bent his head downwards and stared into the darkness for a little +while without speaking.</p> + +<p>"I believe the angareb is there," he said at length. "I believe it is."</p> + +<p>Followed by the German, he hurried down the stairway to the lower deck +of the steamer and went to the side. He could make certain now. The +angareb stood in a wash of water on the very spot to which at Calder's +order it had been moved that morning. And on the angareb the figure +beneath the black covering lay as motionless as ever, as inexpressive of +life and feeling, though the cold spray broke continually upon its face.</p> + +<p>"I thought it would be so," said Calder. He got a lantern and with the +German student climbed across the bulwarks on to the barge. He summoned +the two Arabs.</p> + +<p>"Move the angareb from the bows," he said; and when they had obeyed, +"Now take that covering off. I wish my friend who is a doctor to see the +wound."</p> + +<p>The two men hesitated, and then one of them with an air of insolence +objected. "There are doctors in Assouan, whither we are taking him."</p> + +<p>Calder raised the lantern and himself drew the veil away from off the +wounded man. "Now if you please," he said to his companion. The German +student made his examination of the wounded thigh, while Calder held the +lantern above his head. As Calder had predicted, it was not a pleasant +business; for the wound crawled. The German student was glad to cover it +up again.</p> + +<p>"I can do nothing," he said. "Perhaps, in a hospital, with baths and +dressings—! Relief will be given at all events; but more? I do not +know. Here I could not even begin to do anything at all. Do these two +men understand English?"</p> + +<p>"No," answered Calder.</p> + +<p>"Then I can tell you something. He did not get the hurt by falling out +of any palm tree. That is a lie. The injury was done by the blade of a +spear or some weapon of the kind."</p> + +<p>"Are you sure?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>Calder bent down suddenly towards the Arab on the angareb. Although he +never moved, the man was conscious. Calder had been looking steadily at +him, and he saw that his eyes followed the spoken words.</p> + +<p>"You understand English?" said Calder.</p> + +<p>The Arab could not answer with his lips, but a look of comprehension +came into his face.</p> + +<p>"Where do you come from?" asked Calder.</p> + +<p>The lips tried to move, but not so much as a whisper escaped from them. +Yet his eyes spoke, but spoke vainly. For the most which they could tell +was a great eagerness to answer. Calder dropped upon his knee close by +the man's head and, holding the lantern close, enunciated the towns.</p> + +<p>"From Dongola?"</p> + +<p>No gleam in the Arab's eyes responded to that name.</p> + +<p>"From Metemneh? From Berber? From Omdurman? Ah!"</p> + +<p>The Arab answered to that word. He closed his eyelids. Calder went on +still more eagerly.</p> + +<p>"You were wounded there? No. Where then? At Berber? Yes. You were in +prison at Omdurman and escaped? No. Yet you were wounded."</p> + +<p>Calder sank back upon his knee and reflected. His reflections roused in +him some excitement. He bent down to the Arab's ear and spoke in a lower +key.</p> + +<p>"You were helping some one to escape? Yes. Who? El Kaimakam Trench? No." +He mentioned the names of other white captives in Omdurman, and to each +name the Arab's eyes answered "No." "It was Effendi Feversham, then?" +he said, and the eyes assented as clearly as though the lips had spoken.</p> + +<p>But this was all the information which Calder could secure. "I too am +pledged to help Effendi Feversham," he said, but in vain. The Arab could +not speak, he could not so much as tell his name, and his companions +would not. Whatever those two men knew or suspected, they had no mind to +meddle in the matter themselves, and they clung consistently to a story +which absolved them from responsibility. Kinsmen of theirs in Korosko, +hearing that they were travelling to Assouan, had asked them to take +charge of the wounded man, who was a stranger to them, and they had +consented. Calder could get nothing more explicit from them than this +statement, however closely he questioned them. He had under his hand the +information which he desired, the news of Harry Feversham for which +Durrance asked by every mail, but it was hidden from him in a locked +book. He stood beside the helpless man upon the angareb. There he was, +eager enough to speak, but the extremity of weakness to which he had +sunk laid a finger upon his lips. All that Calder could do was to see +him safely bestowed within the hospital at Assouan. "Will he recover?" +Calder asked, and the doctors shook their heads in doubt. There was a +chance perhaps, a very slight chance; but at the best, recovery would be +slow.</p> + +<p>Calder continued upon his journey to Cairo and Europe. An opportunity of +helping Harry Feversham had slipped away; for the Arab who could not +even speak his name was Abou Fatma of the Kabbabish tribe, and his +presence wounded and helpless upon the Nile steamer between Korosko and +Assouan meant that Harry Feversham's carefully laid plan for the rescue +of Colonel Trench had failed.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV</h2> + +<h3>LIEUTENANT SUTCH COMES OFF THE HALF-PAY LIST</h3> + + +<p>At the time when Calder, disappointed at his failure to obtain news of +Feversham from the one man who possessed it, stepped into a carriage of +the train at Assouan, Lieutenant Sutch was driving along a high white +road of Hampshire across a common of heather and gorse; and he too was +troubled on Harry Feversham's account. Like many a man who lives much +alone, Lieutenant Sutch had fallen into the habit of speaking his +thoughts aloud. And as he drove slowly and reluctantly forward, more +than once he said to himself: "I foresaw there would be trouble. From +the beginning I foresaw there would be trouble."</p> + +<p>The ridge of hill along which he drove dipped suddenly to a hollow. +Sutch saw the road run steeply down in front of him between forests of +pines to a little railway station. The sight of the rails gleaming +bright in the afternoon sunlight, and the telegraph poles running away +in a straight line until they seemed to huddle together in the distance, +increased Sutch's discomposure. He reined his pony in, and sat staring +with a frown at the red-tiled roof of the station building.</p> + +<p>"I promised Harry to say nothing," he said; and drawing some makeshift +of comfort from the words, repeated them, "I promised faithfully in the +Criterion grill-room."</p> + +<p>The whistle of an engine a long way off sounded clear and shrill. It +roused Lieutenant Sutch from his gloomy meditations. He saw the white +smoke of an approaching train stretch out like a riband in the distance.</p> + +<p>"I wonder what brings him," he said doubtfully; and then with an effort +at courage, "Well, it's no use shirking." He flicked the pony with his +whip and drove briskly down the hill. He reached the station as the +train drew up at the platform. Only two passengers descended from the +train. They were Durrance and his servant, and they came out at once on +to the road. Lieutenant Sutch hailed Durrance, who walked to the side of +the trap.</p> + +<p>"You received my telegram in time, then?" said Durrance.</p> + +<p>"Luckily it found me at home."</p> + +<p>"I have brought a bag. May I trespass upon you for a night's lodging?"</p> + +<p>"By all means," said Sutch, but the tone of his voice quite clearly to +Durrance's ears belied the heartiness of the words. Durrance, however, +was prepared for a reluctant welcome, and he had purposely sent his +telegram at the last moment. Had he given an address, he suspected that +he might have received a refusal of his visit. And his suspicion was +accurate enough. The telegram, it is true, had merely announced +Durrance's visit, it had stated nothing of his object; but its despatch +was sufficient to warn Sutch that something grave had happened, +something untoward in the relations of Ethne Eustace and Durrance. +Durrance had come, no doubt, to renew his inquiries about Harry +Feversham, those inquiries which Sutch was on no account to answer, +which he must parry all this afternoon and night. But he saw Durrance +feeling about with his raised foot for the step of the trap, and the +fact of his visitor's blindness was brought home to him. He reached out +a hand, and catching Durrance by the arm, helped him up. After all, he +thought, it would not be difficult to hoodwink a blind man. Ethne +herself had had the same thought and felt much the same relief as Sutch +felt now. The lieutenant, indeed, was so relieved that he found room for +an impulse of pity.</p> + +<p>"I was very sorry, Durrance, to hear of your bad luck," he said, as he +drove off up the hill. "I know what it is myself to be suddenly stopped +and put aside just when one is making way and the world is smoothing +itself out, though my wound in the leg is nothing in comparison to your +blindness. I don't talk to you about compensations and patience. That's +the gabble of people who are comfortable and haven't suffered. <i>We</i> know +that for a man who is young and active, and who is doing well in a +career where activity is a necessity, there are no compensations if his +career's suddenly cut short through no fault of his."</p> + +<p>"Through no fault of his," repeated Durrance. "I agree with you. It is +only the man whose career is cut short through his own fault who gets +compensations."</p> + +<p>Sutch glanced sharply at his companion. Durrance had spoken slowly and +very thoughtfully. Did he mean to refer to Harry Feversham, Sutch +wondered. Did he know enough to be able so to refer to him? Or was it +merely by chance that his words were so strikingly apposite?</p> + +<p>"Compensations of what kind?" Sutch asked uneasily.</p> + +<p>"The chance of knowing himself for one thing, for the chief thing. He is +brought up short, stopped in his career, perhaps disgraced." Sutch +started a little at the word. "Yes, perhaps—disgraced," Durrance +repeated. "Well, the shock of the disgrace is, after all, his +opportunity. Don't you see that? It's his opportunity to know himself at +last. Up to the moment of disgrace his life has all been sham and +illusion; the man he believed himself to be, he never was, and now at +the last he knows it. Once he knows it, he can set about to retrieve his +disgrace. Oh, there are compensations for such a man. You and I know a +case in point."</p> + +<p>Sutch no longer doubted that Durrance was deliberately referring to +Harry Feversham. He had some knowledge, though how he had gained it +Sutch could not guess. But the knowledge was not to Sutch's idea quite +accurate, and the inaccuracy did Harry Feversham some injustice. It was +on that account chiefly that Sutch did not affect any ignorance as to +Durrance's allusion. The passage of the years had not diminished his +great regard for Harry; he cared for him indeed with a woman's +concentration of love, and he could not endure that his memory should be +slighted.</p> + +<p>"The case you and I know of is not quite in point," he argued. "You are +speaking of Harry Feversham."</p> + +<p>"Who believed himself a coward, and was not one. He commits the fault +which stops his career, he finds out his mistake, he sets himself to the +work of retrieving his disgrace. Surely it's a case quite in point."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I see," Sutch agreed. "There is another view, a wrong view as I +know, but I thought for the moment it was your view—that Harry fancied +himself to be a brave man and was suddenly brought up short by +discovering that he was a coward. But how did you find out? No one knew +the whole truth except myself."</p> + +<p>"I am engaged to Miss Eustace," said Durrance.</p> + +<p>"She did not know everything. She knew of the disgrace, but she did not +know of the determination to retrieve it."</p> + +<p>"She knows now," said Durrance; and he added sharply, "You are glad of +that—very glad."</p> + +<p>Sutch was not aware that by any movement or exclamation he had betrayed +his pleasure. His face, no doubt, showed it clearly enough, but Durrance +could not see his face. Lieutenant Sutch was puzzled, but he did not +deny the imputation.</p> + +<p>"It is true," he said stoutly. "I am very glad that she knows. I can +quite see that from your point of view it would be better if she did not +know. But I cannot help it. I am very glad."</p> + +<p>Durrance laughed, and not at all unpleasantly. "I like you the better +for being glad," he said.</p> + +<p>"But how does Miss Eustace know?" asked Sutch. "Who told her? I did not, +and there is no one else who could tell her."</p> + +<p>"You are wrong. There is Captain Willoughby. He came to Devonshire six +weeks ago. He brought with him a white feather which he gave to Miss +Eustace, as a proof that he withdrew his charge of cowardice against +Harry Feversham."</p> + +<p>Sutch stopped the pony in the middle of the road. He no longer troubled +to conceal the joy which this good news caused him. Indeed, he forgot +altogether Durrance's presence at his side. He sat quite silent and +still, with a glow of happiness upon him, such as he had never known in +all his life. He was an old man now, well on in his sixties; he had +reached an age when the blood runs slow, and the pleasures are of a grey +sober kind, and joy has lost its fevers. But there welled up in his +heart a gladness of such buoyancy as only falls to the lot of youth. +Five years ago on the pier of Dover he had watched a mail packet steam +away into darkness and rain, and had prayed that he might live until +this great moment should come. And he had lived and it had come. His +heart was lifted up in gratitude. It seemed to him that there was a +great burst of sunlight across the world, and that the world itself had +suddenly grown many-coloured and a place of joys. Ever since the night +when he had stood outside the War Office in Pall Mall, and Harry +Feversham had touched him on the arm and had spoken out his despair, +Lieutenant Sutch had been oppressed with a sense of guilt. Harry was +Muriel Feversham's boy, and Sutch just for that reason should have +watched him and mothered him in his boyhood since his mother was dead, +and fathered him in his youth since his father did not understand. But +he had failed. He had failed in a sacred trust, and he had imagined +Muriel Feversham's eyes looking at him with reproach from the barrier of +the skies. He had heard her voice in his dreams saying to him gently, +ever so gently: "Since I was dead, since I was taken away to where I +could only see and not help, surely you might have helped. Just for my +sake you might have helped,—you whose work in the world was at an end." +And the long tale of his inactive years had stood up to accuse him. Now, +however, the guilt was lifted from his shoulders, and by Harry +Feversham's own act. The news was not altogether unexpected, but the +lightness of spirit which he felt showed him how much he had counted +upon its coming.</p> + +<p>"I knew," he exclaimed, "I knew he wouldn't fail. Oh, I am glad you came +to-day, Colonel Durrance. It was partly my fault, you see, that Harry +Feversham ever incurred that charge of cowardice. I could have +spoken—there was an opportunity on one of the Crimean nights at Broad +Place, and a word might have been of value—and I held my tongue. I have +never ceased to blame myself. I am grateful for your news. You have the +particulars? Captain Willoughby was in peril, and Harry came to his +aid?"</p> + +<p>"No, it was not that exactly."</p> + +<p>"Tell me! Tell me!"</p> + +<p>He feared to miss a word. Durrance related the story of the Gordon +letters, and their recovery by Feversham. It was all too short for +Lieutenant Sutch.</p> + +<p>"Oh, but I am glad you came," he cried.</p> + +<p>"You understand at all events," said Durrance, "that I have not come to +repeat to you the questions I asked in the courtyard of my club. I am +able, on the contrary, to give you information."</p> + +<p>Sutch spoke to the pony and drove on. He had said nothing which could +reveal to Durrance his fear that to renew those questions was the +object of his visit; and he was a little perplexed at the accuracy of +Durrance's conjecture. But the great news to which he had listened +hindered him from giving thought to that perplexity.</p> + +<p>"So Miss Eustace told you the story," he said, "and showed you the +feather?"</p> + +<p>"No, indeed," replied Durrance. "She said not a word about it, she never +showed me the feather, she even forbade Willoughby to hint of it, she +sent him away from Devonshire before I knew that he had come. You are +disappointed at that," he added quickly.</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Sutch was startled. It was true he was disappointed; he was +jealous of Durrance, he wished Harry Feversham to stand first in the +girl's thoughts. It was for her sake that Harry had set about his +difficult and perilous work. Sutch wished her to remember him as he +remembered her. Therefore he was disappointed that she did not at once +come with her news to Durrance and break off their engagement. It would +be hard for Durrance, no doubt, but that could not be helped.</p> + +<p>"Then how did you learn the story?" asked Sutch.</p> + +<p>"Some one else told me. I was told that Willoughby had come, and that he +had brought a white feather, and that Ethne had taken it from him. Never +mind by whom. That gave me a clue. I lay in wait for Willoughby in +London. He is not very clever; he tried to obey Ethne's command of +silence, but I managed to extract the information I wanted. The rest of +the story I was able to put together by myself. Ethne now and then was +off her guard. You are surprised that I was clever enough to find out +the truth by the exercise of my own wits?" said Durrance, with a laugh.</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Sutch jumped in his seat. It was mere chance, of course, that +Durrance continually guessed with so singular an accuracy; still it was +uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>"I have said nothing which could in any way suggest that I was +surprised," he said testily.</p> + +<p>"That is quite true, but you are none the less surprised," continued +Durrance. "I don't blame you. You could not know that it is only since I +have been blind that I have begun to see. Shall I give you an instance? +This is the first time that I have ever come into this neighbourhood or +got out at your station. Well, I can tell you that you have driven me up +a hill between forests of pines, and are now driving me across open +country of heather."</p> + +<p>Sutch turned quickly towards Durrance.</p> + +<p>"The hill, of course, you would notice. But the pines?"</p> + +<p>"The air was close. I knew there were trees. I guessed they were pines."</p> + +<p>"And the open country?"</p> + +<p>"The wind blows clear across it. There's a dry stiff rustle besides. I +have never heard quite that sound except when the wind blows across +heather."</p> + +<p>He turned the conversation back to Harry Feversham and his +disappearance, and the cause of his disappearance. He made no mention, +Sutch remarked, of the fourth white feather which Ethne herself had +added to the three. But the history of the three which had come by the +post to Ramelton he knew to its last letter.</p> + +<p>"I was acquainted with the men who sent them," he said, "Trench, +Castleton, Willoughby. I met them daily in Suakin, just ordinary +officers, one rather shrewd, the second quite commonplace, the third +distinctly stupid. I saw them going quietly about the routine of their +work. It seems quite strange to me now. There should have been some mark +set upon them, setting them apart as the particular messengers of fate. +But there was nothing of the kind. They were just ordinary prosaic +regimental officers. Doesn't it seem strange to you, too? Here were men +who could deal out misery and estrangement and years of suffering, +without so much as a single word spoken, and they went about their +business, and you never knew them from other men until a long while +afterwards some consequence of what they did, and very likely have +forgotten, rises up and strikes you down."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Sutch. "That thought has occurred to me." He fell to +wondering again what object had brought Durrance into Hampshire, since +he did not come for information; but Durrance did not immediately +enlighten him. They reached the lieutenant's house. It stood alone by +the roadside looking across a wide country of downs. Sutch took Durrance +over his stable and showed him his horses, he explained to him the +arrangement of his garden and the grouping of his flowers. Still +Durrance said nothing about the reason of his visit; he ceased to talk +of Harry Feversham and assumed a great interest in the lieutenant's +garden. But indeed the interest was not all pretence. These two men had +something in common, as Sutch had pointed out at the moment of their +meeting—the abrupt termination of a promising career. One of the two +was old, the other comparatively young, and the younger man was most +curious to discover how his elder had managed to live through the +dragging profitless years alone. The same sort of lonely life lay +stretched out before Durrance, and he was anxious to learn what +alleviations could be practised, what small interests could be +discovered, how best it could be got through.</p> + +<p>"You don't live within sight of the sea," he said at last as they stood +together, after making the round of the garden, at the door.</p> + +<p>"No, I dare not," said Sutch, and Durrance nodded his head in complete +sympathy and comprehension.</p> + +<p>"I understand. You care for it too much. You would have the full +knowledge of your loss presented to your eyes each moment."</p> + +<p>They went into the house. Still Durrance did not refer to the object of +his visit. They dined together and sat over their wine alone. Still +Durrance did not speak. It fell to Lieutenant Sutch to recur to the +subject of Harry Feversham. A thought had been gaining strength in his +mind all that afternoon, and since Durrance would not lead up to its +utterance, he spoke it out himself.</p> + +<p>"Harry Feversham must come back to England. He has done enough to redeem +his honour."</p> + +<p>Harry Feversham's return might be a little awkward for Durrance, and +Lieutenant Sutch with that notion in his mind blurted out his sentences +awkwardly, but to his surprise Durrance answered him at once.</p> + +<p>"I was waiting for you to say that. I wanted you to realise without any +suggestion of mine that Harry must return. It was with that object that +I came."</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Sutch's relief was great. He had been prepared for an +objection, at the best he only expected a reluctant acquiescence, and in +the greatness of his relief he spoke again:—</p> + +<p>"His return will not really trouble you or your wife, since Miss Eustace +has forgotten him."</p> + +<p>Durrance shook his head.</p> + +<p>"She has not forgotten him."</p> + +<p>"But she kept silence, even after Willoughby had brought the feather +back. You told me so this afternoon. She said not a word to you. She +forbade Willoughby to tell you."</p> + +<p>"She is very true, very loyal," returned Durrance. "She has pledged +herself to me, and nothing in the world, no promise of happiness, no +thought of Harry, would induce her to break her pledge. I know her. But +I know too that she only plighted herself to me out of pity, because I +was blind. I know that she has not forgotten Harry."</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Sutch leaned back in his chair and smiled. He could have +laughed outright. He asked for no details, he did not doubt Durrance's +words. He was overwhelmed with pride in that Harry Feversham, in spite +of his disgrace and his long absence,—Harry Feversham, his favourite, +had retained this girl's love. No doubt she was very true, very loyal. +Sutch endowed her on the instant with all the good qualities possible to +a human being. The nobler she was, the greater was his pride that Harry +Feversham still retained her heart. Lieutenant Sutch fairly revelled in +this new knowledge. It was not to be wondered at after all, he thought; +there was nothing astonishing in the girl's fidelity to any one who was +really acquainted with Harry Feversham, it was only an occasion of great +gladness. Durrance would have to get out of the way, of course, but then +he should never have crossed Harry Feversham's path. Sutch was cruel +with the perfect cruelty of which love alone is capable.</p> + +<p>"You are very glad of that," said Durrance, quietly. "Very glad that +Ethne has not forgotten him. It is a little hard on me, perhaps, who +have not much left. It would have been less hard if two years ago you +had told me the whole truth, when I asked it of you that summer evening +in the courtyard of the club."</p> + +<p>Compunction seized upon Lieutenant Sutch. The gentleness with which +Durrance had spoken, and the quiet accent of weariness in his voice, +brought home to him something of the cruelty of his great joy and pride. +After all, what Durrance said was true. If he had broken his word that +night at the club, if he had related Feversham's story, Durrance would +have been spared a great deal.</p> + +<p>"I couldn't!" he exclaimed. "I promised Harry in the most solemn way +that I would tell no one until he came back himself. I was sorely +tempted to tell you, but I had given my word. Even if Harry never came +back, if I obtained sure knowledge that he was dead, even then I was +only to tell his father, and even his father not all that could be told +on his behalf."</p> + +<p>He pushed back his chair and went to the window. "It is hot in here," +he said. "Do you mind?" and without waiting for an answer he loosed the +catch and raised the sash. For some little while he stood by the open +window, silent, undecided. Durrance plainly did not know of the fourth +feather broken off from Ethne's fan, he had not heard the conversation +between himself and Feversham in the grill-room of the Criterion +Restaurant. There were certain words spoken by Harry upon that occasion +which it seemed fair Durrance should now hear. Compunction and pity bade +Sutch repeat them, his love of Harry Feversham enjoined him to hold his +tongue. He could plead again that Harry had forbidden him speech, but +the plea would be an excuse and nothing more. He knew very well that +were Harry present, Harry would repeat them, and Lieutenant Sutch knew +what harm silence had already done. He mastered his love in the end and +came back to the table.</p> + +<p>"There is something which it is fair you should know," he said. "When +Harry went away to redeem his honour, if the opportunity should come, he +had no hope, indeed he had no wish, that Miss Eustace should wait for +him. She was the spur to urge him, but she did not know even that. He +did not wish her to know. He had no claim upon her. There was not even a +hope in his mind that she might at some time be his friend—in this +life, at all events. When he went away from Ramelton, he parted from +her, according to his thought, for all his mortal life. It is fair that +you should know that. Miss Eustace, you tell me, is not the woman to +withdraw from her pledged word. Well, what I said to you that evening +at the club I now repeat. There will be no disloyalty to friendship if +you marry Miss Eustace."</p> + +<p>It was a difficult speech for Lieutenant Sutch to utter, and he was very +glad when he had uttered it. Whatever answer he received, it was right +that the words should be spoken, and he knew that, had he refrained from +speech, he would always have suffered remorse for his silence. None the +less, however, he waited in suspense for the answer.</p> + +<p>"It is kind of you to tell me that," said Durrance, and he smiled at the +lieutenant with a great friendliness. "For I can guess what the words +cost you. But you have done Harry Feversham no harm by speaking them. +For, as I told you, Ethne has not forgotten him; and I have my point of +view. Marriage between a man blind like myself and any woman, let alone +Ethne, could not be fair or right unless upon both sides there was more +than friendship. Harry must return to England. He must return to Ethne, +too. You must go to Egypt and do what you can to bring him back."</p> + +<p>Sutch was relieved of his suspense. He had obeyed his conscience and yet +done Harry Feversham no disservice.</p> + +<p>"I will start to-morrow," he said. "Harry is still in the Soudan?"</p> + +<p>"Of course."</p> + +<p>"Why of course?" asked Sutch. "Willoughby withdrew his accusation; +Castleton is dead—he was killed at Tamai; and Trench—I know, for I +have followed all these three men's careers—Trench is a prisoner in +Omdurman."</p> + +<p>"So is Harry Feversham."</p> + +<p>Sutch stared at his visitor. For a moment he did not understand, the +shock had been too sudden and abrupt. Then after comprehension dawned +upon him, he refused to believe. The folly of that refusal in its turn +became apparent. He sat down in his chair opposite to Durrance, awed +into silence. And the silence lasted for a long while.</p> + +<p>"What am I to do?" he said at length.</p> + +<p>"I have thought it out," returned Durrance. "You must go to Suakin. I +will give you a letter to Willoughby, who is Deputy-Governor, and +another to a Greek merchant there whom I know, and on whom you can draw +for as much money as you require."</p> + +<p>"That's good of you, Durrance, upon my word," Sutch interrupted; and +forgetting that he was talking to a blind man he held out his hand +across the table. "I would not take a penny if I could help it; but I am +a poor man. Upon my soul it's good of you."</p> + +<p>"Just listen to me, please," said Durrance. He could not see the +outstretched hand, but his voice showed that he would hardly have taken +it if he had. He was striking the final blow at his chance of happiness. +But he did not wish to be thanked for it. "At Suakin you must take the +Greek merchant's advice and organise a rescue as best you can. It will +be a long business, and you will have many disappointments before you +succeed. But you must stick to it until you do."</p> + +<p>Upon that the two men fell to a discussion of the details of the length +of time which it would take for a message from Suakin to be carried +into Omdurman, of the untrustworthiness of some Arab spies, and of the +risks which the trustworthy ran. Sutch's house was searched for maps, +the various routes by which the prisoners might escape were described by +Durrance—the great forty days' road from Kordofan on the west, the +straight track from Omdurman to Berber and from Berber to Suakin, and +the desert journey across the Belly of Stones by the wells of Murat to +Korosko. It was late before Durrance had told all that he thought +necessary and Sutch had exhausted his questions.</p> + +<p>"You will stay at Suakin as your base of operations," said Durrance, as +he closed up the maps.</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Sutch, and he rose from his chair. "I will start as soon +as you give me the letters."</p> + +<p>"I have them already written."</p> + +<p>"Then I will start to-morrow. You may be sure I will let both you and +Miss Eustace know how the attempt progresses."</p> + +<p>"Let me know," said Durrance, "but not a whisper of it to Ethne. She +knows nothing of my plan, and she must know nothing until Feversham +comes back himself. She has her point of view, as I have mine. Two lives +shall not be spoilt because of her. That's her resolve. She believes +that to some degree she was herself the cause of Harry Feversham's +disgrace—that but for her he would not have resigned his commission."</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You agree with that? At all events she believes it. So there's one life +spoilt because of her. Suppose now I go to her and say: 'I know that you +pretend out of your charity and kindness to care for me, but in your +heart you are no more than my friend,' why, I hurt her, and cruelly. For +there's all that's left of the second life spoilt too. But bring back +Feversham! Then I can speak—then I can say freely: 'Since you are just +my friend, I would rather be your friend and nothing more. So neither +life will be spoilt at all.'"</p> + +<p>"I understand," said Sutch. "It's the way a man should speak. So till +Feversham comes back the pretence remains. She pretends to care for you, +you pretend you do not know she thinks of Harry. While I go eastwards to +bring him home, you go back to her."</p> + +<p>"No," said Durrance, "I can't go back. The strain of keeping up the +pretence was telling too much on both of us. I go to Wiesbaden. An +oculist lives there who serves me for an excuse. I shall wait at +Wiesbaden until you bring Harry home."</p> + +<p>Sutch opened the door, and the two men went out into the hall. The +servants had long since gone to bed. A couple of candlesticks stood upon +a table beside a lamp. More than once Lieutenant Sutch had forgotten +that his visitor was blind, and he forgot the fact again. He lighted +both candles and held out one to his companion. Durrance knew from the +noise of Sutch's movements what he was doing.</p> + +<p>"I have no need of a candle," he said with a smile. The light fell full +upon his face, and Sutch suddenly remarked how tired it looked and old. +There were deep lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth, and +furrows in the cheeks. His hair was grey as an old man's hair. Durrance +had himself made so little of his misfortune this evening that Sutch had +rather come to rate it as a small thing in the sum of human calamities, +but he read his mistake now in Durrance's face. Just above the flame of +the candle, framed in the darkness of the hall, it showed white and +drawn and haggard—the face of an old worn man set upon the stalwart +shoulders of a man in the prime of his years.</p> + +<p>"I have said very little to you in the way of sympathy," said Sutch. "I +did not know that you would welcome it. But I am sorry. I am very +sorry."</p> + +<p>"Thanks," said Durrance, simply. He stood for a moment or two silently +in front of his host. "When I was in the Soudan, travelling through the +deserts, I used to pass the white skeletons of camels lying by the side +of the track. Do you know the camel's way? He is an unfriendly, +graceless beast, but he marches to within an hour of his death. He drops +and dies with the load upon his back. It seemed to me, even in those +days, the right and enviable way to finish. You can imagine how I must +envy them that advantage of theirs now. Good night."</p> + +<p>He felt for the bannister and walked up the stairs to his room.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI</h2> + +<h3>GENERAL FEVERSHAM'S PORTRAITS ARE APPEASED</h3> + + +<p>Lieutenant Sutch, though he went late to bed, was early astir in the +morning. He roused the household, packed and repacked his clothes, and +made such a bustle and confusion that everything to be done took twice +its ordinary time in the doing. There never had been so much noise and +flurry in the house during all the thirty years of Lieutenant Sutch's +residence. His servants could not satisfy him, however quickly they +scuttled about the passages in search of this or that forgotten article +of his old travelling outfit. Sutch, indeed, was in a boyish fever of +excitement. It was not to be wondered at, perhaps. For thirty years he +had lived inactive—on the world's half-pay list, to quote his own +phrase; and at the end of all that long time, miraculously, something +had fallen to him to do—something important, something which needed +energy and tact and decision. Lieutenant Sutch, in a word, was to be +employed again. He was feverish to begin his employment. He dreaded the +short interval before he could begin, lest some hindrance should +unexpectedly occur and relegate him again to inactivity.</p> + +<p>"I shall be ready this afternoon," he said briskly to Durrance as they +breakfasted. "I shall catch the night mail to the Continent. We might +go up to London together; for London is on your way to Wiesbaden."</p> + +<p>"No," said Durrance, "I have just one more visit to pay in England. I +did not think of it until I was in bed last night. You put it into my +head."</p> + +<p>"Oh," observed Sutch, "and whom do you propose to visit?"</p> + +<p>"General Feversham," replied Durrance.</p> + +<p>Sutch laid down his knife and fork and looked with surprise at his +companion. "Why in the world do you wish to see him?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"I want to tell him how Harry has redeemed his honour, how he is still +redeeming it. You said last night that you were bound by a promise not +to tell him anything of his son's intention, or even of his son's +success until the son returned himself. But I am bound by no promise. I +think such a promise bears hardly on the general. There is nothing in +the world which could pain him so much as the proof that his son was a +coward. Harry might have robbed and murdered. The old man would have +preferred him to have committed both these crimes. I shall cross into +Surrey this morning and tell him that Harry never was a coward."</p> + +<p>Sutch shook his head.</p> + +<p>"He will not be able to understand. He will be very grateful to you, of +course. He will be very glad that Harry has atoned his disgrace, but he +will never understand why he incurred it. And, after all, he will only +be glad because the family honour is restored."</p> + +<p>"I don't agree," said Durrance. "I believe the old man is rather fond of +his son, though to be sure he would never admit it. I rather like +General Feversham."</p> + +<p>Lieutenant Sutch had seen very little of General Feversham during the +last five years. He could not forgive him for his share in the +responsibility of Harry Feversham's ruin. Had the general been capable +of sympathy with and comprehension of the boy's nature, the white +feathers would never have been sent to Ramelton. Sutch pictured the old +man sitting sternly on his terrace at Broad Place, quite unaware that he +was himself at all to blame, and on the contrary, rather inclined to +pose as a martyr, in that his son had turned out a shame and disgrace to +all the dead Fevershams whose portraits hung darkly on the high walls of +the hall. Sutch felt that he could never endure to talk patiently with +General Feversham, and he was sure that no argument would turn that +stubborn man from his convictions. He had not troubled at all to +consider whether the news which Durrance had brought should be handed on +to Broad Place.</p> + +<p>"You are very thoughtful for others," he said to Durrance.</p> + +<p>"It's not to my credit. I practise thoughtfulness for others out of an +instinct of self-preservation, that's all," said Durrance. "Selfishness +is the natural and encroaching fault of the blind. I know that, so I am +careful to guard against it."</p> + +<p>He travelled accordingly that morning by branch lines from Hampshire +into Surrey, and came to Broad Place in the glow of the afternoon. +General Feversham was now within a few months of his eightieth year, and +though his back was as stiff and his figure as erect as on that night +now so many years ago when he first presented Harry to his Crimean +friends, he was shrunken in stature, and his face seemed to have grown +small. Durrance had walked with the general upon his terrace only two +years ago, and blind though he was, he noticed a change within this +interval of time. Old Feversham walked with a heavier step, and there +had come a note of puerility into his voice.</p> + +<p>"You have joined the veterans before your time, Durrance," he said. "I +read of it in a newspaper. I would have written had I known where to +write."</p> + +<p>If he had any suspicion of Durrance's visit, he gave no sign of it. He +rang the bell, and tea was brought into the great hall where the +portraits hung. He asked after this and that officer in the Soudan with +whom he was acquainted, he discussed the iniquities of the War Office, +and feared that the country was going to the deuce.</p> + +<p>"Everything through ill-luck or bad management is going to the devil, +sir," he exclaimed irritably. "Even you, Durrance, you are not the same +man who walked with me on my terrace two years ago."</p> + +<p>The general had never been remarkable for tact, and the solitary life he +led had certainly brought no improvement. Durrance could have countered +with a <i>tu quoque</i>, but he refrained.</p> + +<p>"But I come upon the same business," he said.</p> + +<p>Feversham sat up stiffly in his chair.</p> + +<p>"And I give you the same answer. I have nothing to say about Harry +Feversham. I will not discuss him."</p> + +<p>He spoke in his usual hard and emotionless voice. He might have been +speaking of a stranger. Even the name was uttered without the slightest +hint of sorrow. Durrance began to wonder whether the fountains of +affection had not been altogether dried up in General Feversham's heart.</p> + +<p>"It would not please you, then, to know where Harry Feversham has been, +and how he has lived during the last five years?"</p> + +<p>There was a pause—not a long pause, but still a pause—before General +Feversham answered:—</p> + +<p>"Not in the least, Colonel Durrance."</p> + +<p>The answer was uncompromising, but Durrance relied upon the pause which +preceded it.</p> + +<p>"Nor on what business he has been engaged?" he continued.</p> + +<p>"I am not interested in the smallest degree. I do not wish him to +starve, and my solicitor tells me that he draws his allowance. I am +content with that knowledge, Colonel Durrance."</p> + +<p>"I will risk your anger, General," said Durrance. "There are times when +it is wise to disobey one's superior officer. This is one of the times. +Of course you can turn me out of the house. Otherwise I shall relate to +you the history of your son and my friend since he disappeared from +England."</p> + +<p>General Feversham laughed.</p> + +<p>"Of course, I can't turn you out of the house," he said; and he added +severely, "But I warn you that you are taking an improper advantage of +your position as my guest."</p> + +<p>"Yes, there is no doubt of that," Durrance answered calmly; and he told +his story—the recovery of the Gordon letters from Berber, his own +meeting with Harry Feversham at Wadi Halfa, and Harry's imprisonment at +Omdurman. He brought it down to that very day, for he ended with the +news of Lieutenant Sutch's departure for Suakin. General Feversham heard +the whole account without an interruption, without even stirring in his +chair. Durrance could not tell in what spirit he listened, but he drew +some comfort from the fact that he did listen and without argument.</p> + +<p>For some while after Durrance had finished, the general sat silent. He +raised his hand to his forehead and shaded his eyes as though the man +who had spoken could see, and thus he remained. Even when he did speak, +he did not take his hand away. Pride forbade him to show to those +portraits on the walls that he was capable even of so natural a weakness +as joy at the reconquest of honour by his son.</p> + +<p>"What I don't understand," he said slowly, "is why Harry ever resigned +his commission. I could not understand it before; I understand it even +less now since you have told me of his great bravery. It is one of the +queer inexplicable things. They happen, and there's all that can be +said. But I am very glad that you compelled me to listen to you, +Durrance."</p> + +<p>"I did it with a definite object. It is for you to say, of course, but +for my part I do not see why Harry should not come home and enter in +again to all that he lost."</p> + +<p>"He cannot regain everything," said Feversham. "It is not right that he +should. He committed the sin, and he must pay. He cannot regain his +career for one thing."</p> + +<p>"No, that is true; but he can find another. He is not yet so old but +that he can find another. And that is all that he will have lost."</p> + +<p>General Feversham now took his hand away and moved in his chair. He +looked quickly at Durrance; he opened his mouth to ask a question, but +changed his mind.</p> + +<p>"Well," he said briskly, and as though the matter were of no particular +importance, "if Sutch can manage Harry's escape from Omdurman, I see no +reason, either, why he should not come home."</p> + +<p>Durrance rose from his chair. "Thank you, General. If you can have me +driven to the station, I can catch a train to town. There's one at six."</p> + +<p>"But you will stay the night, surely," cried General Feversham.</p> + +<p>"It is impossible. I start for Wiesbaden early to-morrow."</p> + +<p>Feversham rang the bell and gave the order for a carriage. "I should +have been very glad if you could have stayed," he said, turning to +Durrance. "I see very few people nowadays. To tell the truth I have no +great desire to see many. One grows old and a creature of customs."</p> + +<p>"But you have your Crimean nights," said Durrance, cheerfully.</p> + +<p>Feversham shook his head. "There have been none since Harry went away. I +had no heart for them," he said slowly. For a second the mask was lifted +and his stern features softened. He had suffered much during these five +lonely years of his old age, though not one of his acquaintances up to +this moment had ever detected a look upon his face or heard a sentence +from his lips which could lead them so to think. He had shown a +stubborn front to the world; he had made it a matter of pride that no +one should be able to point a finger at him and say, "There's a man +struck down." But on this one occasion and in these few words he +revealed to Durrance the depth of his grief. Durrance understood how +unendurable the chatter of his friends about the old days of war in the +snowy trenches would have been. An anecdote recalling some particular +act of courage would hurt as keenly as a story of cowardice. The whole +history of his lonely life at Broad Place was laid bare in that simple +statement that there had been no Crimean nights for he had no heart for +them.</p> + +<p>The wheels of the carriage rattled on the gravel.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," said Durrance, and he held out his hand.</p> + +<p>"By the way," said Feversham, "to organise this escape from Omdurman +will cost a great deal of money. Sutch is a poor man. Who is paying?"</p> + +<p>"I am."</p> + +<p>Feversham shook Durrance's hand in a firm clasp.</p> + +<p>"It is my right, of course," he said.</p> + +<p>"Certainly. I will let you know what it costs."</p> + +<p>"Thank you."</p> + +<p>General Feversham accompanied his visitor to the door. There was a +question which he had it in his mind to ask, but the question was +delicate. He stood uneasily on the steps of the house.</p> + +<p>"Didn't I hear, Durrance," he said with an air of carelessness, "that +you were engaged to Miss Eustace?"</p> + +<p>"I think I said that Harry would regain all that he had lost except his +career," said Durrance.</p> + +<p>He stepped into the carriage and drove off to the station. His work was +ended. There was nothing more for him now to do, except to wait at +Wiesbaden and pray that Sutch might succeed. He had devised the plan, it +remained for those who had eyes wherewith to see to execute it.</p> + +<p>General Feversham stood upon the steps looking after the carriage until +it disappeared among the pines. Then he walked slowly back into the +hall. "There is no reason why he should not come back," he said. He +looked up at the pictures. The dead Fevershams in their uniforms would +not be disgraced. "No reason in the world," he said. "And, please God, +he will come back soon." The dangers of an escape from the Dervish city +remote among the sands began to loom very large on his mind. He owned to +himself that he felt very tired and old, and many times that night he +repeated his prayer, "Please God, Harry will come back soon," as he sat +erect upon the bench which had once been his wife's favourite seat, and +gazed out across the moonlit country to the Sussex Downs.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII</h2> + +<h3>THE HOUSE OF STONE</h3> + + +<p>These were the days before the great mud wall was built about the House +of Stone in Omdurman. Only a thorn zareeba as yet enclosed that noisome +prison and the space about it. It stood upon the eastern border of the +town, surely the most squalid capital of any empire since the world +began. Not a flower bloomed in a single corner. There was no grass nor +the green shade of any tree. A brown and stony plain, burnt by the sun, +and, built upon it a straggling narrow city of hovels crawling with +vermin and poisoned with disease.</p> + +<p>Between the prison and the Nile no houses stood, and at this time the +prisoners were allowed, so long as daylight lasted, to stumble in their +chains down the half-mile of broken sloping earth to the Nile bank, so +that they might draw water for their use and perform their ablutions. +For the native or the negro, then, escape was not so difficult. For +along that bank the dhows were moored and they were numerous; the river +traffic, such as there was of it, had its harbour there, and the wide +foreshore made a convenient market-place. Thus the open space between +the river and the House of Stone was thronged and clamorous all day, +captives rubbed elbows with their friends, concerted plans of escape, or +then and there slipped into the thickest of the crowd and made their +way to the first blacksmith, with whom the price of iron outweighed any +risk he took. But even on their way to the blacksmith's shop, their +fetters called for no notice in Omdurman. Slaves wore them as a daily +habit, and hardly a street in all that long brown treeless squalid city +was ever free from the clink of a man who walked in chains.</p> + +<p>But for the European escape was another matter. There were not so many +white prisoners but that each was a marked man. Besides relays of camels +stationed through the desert, much money, long preparations, and above +all, devoted natives who would risk their lives, were the first +necessities for their evasion. The camels might be procured and +stationed, but it did not follow that their drivers would remain at the +stations; the long preparations might be made and the whip of the gaoler +overset them at the end by flogging the captive within an inch of his +life, on a suspicion that he had money; the devoted servant might shrink +at the last moment. Colonel Trench began to lose all hope. His friends +were working for him, he knew. For at times the boy who brought his food +into the prison would bid him be ready; at times, too, when at some +parade of the Khalifa's troops he was shown in triumph as an emblem of +the destiny of all the Turks, a man perhaps would jostle against his +camel and whisper encouragements. But nothing ever came of the +encouragements. He saw the sun rise daily beyond the bend of the river +behind the tall palm trees of Khartum and burn across the sky, and the +months dragged one after the other.</p> + +<p>On an evening towards the end of August, in that year when Durrance +came home blind from the Soudan, he sat in a corner of the enclosure +watching the sun drop westwards towards the plain with an agony of +anticipation. For however intolerable the heat and burden of the day, it +was as nothing compared with the horrors which each night renewed. The +moment of twilight came and with it Idris es Saier, the great negro of +the Gawaamah tribe, and his fellow-gaolers.</p> + +<p>"Into the House of Stone!" he cried.</p> + +<p>Praying and cursing, with the sound of the pitiless whips falling +perpetually upon the backs of the hindmost, the prisoners jostled and +struggled at the narrow entrance to the prison house. Already it was +occupied by some thirty captives, lying upon the swamped mud floor or +supported against the wall in the last extremities of weakness and +disease. Two hundred more were driven in at night and penned there till +morning. The room was perhaps thirty feet square, of which four feet +were occupied by a solid pillar supporting the roof. There was no window +in the building; a few small apertures near the roof made a pretence of +giving air, and into this foul and pestilent hovel the prisoners were +packed, screaming and fighting. The door was closed upon them, utter +darkness replaced the twilight, so that a man could not distinguish even +the outlines of the heads of the neighbours who wedged him in.</p> + +<p>Colonel Trench fought like the rest. There was a corner near the door +which he coveted at that moment with a greater fierceness of desire than +he had ever felt in the days when he had been free. Once in that corner, +he would have some shelter from the blows, the stamping feet, the +bruises of his neighbour's shackles; he would have, too, a support +against which to lean his back during the ten interminable hours of +suffocation.</p> + +<p>"If I were to fall! If I were to fall!"</p> + +<p>That fear was always with him when he was driven in at night. It worked +in him like a drug producing madness. For if a man once went down amid +that yelling, struggling throng, he never got up again—he was trampled +out of shape. Trench had seen such victims dragged from the prison each +morning; and he was a small man. Therefore he fought for his corner in a +frenzy like a wild beast, kicking with his fetters, thrusting with his +elbows, diving under this big man's arm, burrowing between two others, +tearing at their clothes, using his nails, his fists, and even striking +at heads with the chain which dangled from the iron ring about his neck. +He reached the corner in the end, streaming with heat and gasping for +breath; the rest of the night he would spend in holding it against all +comers.</p> + +<p>"If I were to fall!" he gasped. "O God, if I were to fall!" and he +shouted aloud to his neighbour—for in that clamour nothing less than a +shout was audible—"Is it you, Ibrahim?" and a like shout answered him, +"Yes, Effendi."</p> + +<p>Trench felt some relief. Between Ibrahim, a great tall Arab of the +Hadendoas, and Trench, a friendship born of their common necessities had +sprung up. There were no prison rations at Omdurman; each captive was +dependent upon his own money or the charity of his friends outside. To +Trench from time to time there came money from his friends, brought +secretly into the prison by a native who had come up from Assouan or +Suakin; but there were long periods during which no help came to him, +and he lived upon the charity of the Greeks who had sworn conversion to +the Mahdist faith, or starved with such patience as he could. There were +times, too, when Ibrahim had no friend to send him his meal into the +prison. And thus each man helped the other in his need. They stood side +by side against the wall at night.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Effendi, I am here," and groping with his hand in the black +darkness, he steadied Trench against the wall.</p> + +<p>A fight of even more than common violence was raging in an extreme +corner of the prison, and so closely packed were the prisoners that with +each advance of one combatant and retreat of the other, the whole +jostled crowd swayed in a sort of rhythm, from end to end, from side to +side. But they swayed, fighting to keep their feet, fighting even with +their teeth, and above the din and noise of their hard breathing, the +clank of their chains, and their imprecations, there rose now and then a +wild sobbing cry for mercy, or an inhuman shriek, stifled as soon as +uttered, which showed that a man had gone down beneath the stamping +feet. Missiles, too, were flung across the prison, even to the foul +earth gathered from the floor, and since none knew from what quarter +they were flung, heads were battered against heads in the effort to +avoid them. And all these things happened in the blackest darkness.</p> + +<p>For two hours Trench stood in that black prison ringing with noise, rank +with heat, and there were eight hours to follow before the door would be +opened and he could stumble into the clean air and fall asleep in the +zareeba. He stood upon tiptoe that he might lift his head above his +fellows, but even so he could barely breathe, and the air he breathed +was moist and sour. His throat was parched, his tongue was swollen in +his mouth and stringy like a dried fig. It seemed to him that the +imagination of God could devise no worse hell than the House of Stone on +an August night in Omdurman. It could add fire, he thought, but only +fire.</p> + +<p>"If I were to fall!" he cried, and as he spoke his hell was made +perfect, for the door was opened. Idris es Saier appeared in the +opening.</p> + +<p>"Make room," he cried, "make room," and he threw fire among the +prisoners to drive them from the door. Lighted tufts of dried grass +blazed in the darkness and fell upon the bodies of the prisoners. The +captives were so crowded they could not avoid the missiles; in places, +even, they could not lift their hands to dislodge them from their +shoulders or their heads.</p> + +<p>"Make room," cried Idris. The whips of his fellow-gaolers enforced his +command, the lashes fell upon all within reach, and a little space was +cleared within the door. Into that space a man was flung and the door +closed again.</p> + +<p>Trench was standing close to the door; in the dim twilight which came +through the doorway he had caught a glimpse of the new prisoner, a man +heavily ironed, slight of figure, and bent with suffering.</p> + +<p>"He will fall," he said, "he will fall to-night. God! if I were to!" and +suddenly the crowd swayed against him, and the curses rose louder and +shriller than before.</p> + +<p>The new prisoner was the cause. He clung to the door with his face +against the panels, through the chinks of which actual air might come. +Those behind plucked him from his vantage, jostled him, pressed him +backwards that they might take his place. He was driven as a wedge is +driven by a hammer, between this prisoner and that, until at last he was +flung against Colonel Trench.</p> + +<p>The ordinary instincts of kindness could not live in the nightmare of +that prison house. In the daytime, outside, the prisoners were often +drawn together by their bond of a common misery; the faithful as often +as not helped the infidel. But to fight for life during the hours of +darkness without pity or cessation was the one creed and practice of the +House of Stone. Colonel Trench was like the rest. The need to live, if +only long enough to drink one drop of water in the morning and draw one +clean mouthful of fresh air, was more than uppermost in his mind. It was +the only thought he had.</p> + +<p>"Back!" he cried violently, "back, or I strike!"—and, as he wrestled to +lift his arm above his head that he might strike the better, he heard +the man who had been flung against him incoherently babbling English.</p> + +<p>"Don't fall," cried Trench, and he caught his fellow-captive by the arm. +"Ibrahim, help! God, if he were to fall!" and while the crowd swayed +again and the shrill cries and curses rose again, deafening the ears, +piercing the brain, Trench supported his companion, and bending down his +head caught again after so many months the accent of his own tongue. And +the sound of it civilised him like the friendship of a woman.</p> + +<p>He could not hear what was said; the din was too loud. But he caught, +as it were, shadows of words which had once been familiar to him, which +had been spoken to him, which he had spoken to others—as a matter of +course. In the House of Stone they sounded most wonderful. They had a +magic, too. Meadows of grass, cool skies, and limpid rivers rose in grey +quiet pictures before his mind. For a moment he was insensible to his +parched throat, to the stench of that prison house, to the oppressive +blackness. But he felt the man whom he supported totter and slip, and +again he cried to Ibrahim:—</p> + +<p>"If he were to fall!"</p> + +<p>Ibrahim helped as only he could. Together they fought and wrestled until +those about them yielded, crying:—</p> + +<p>"Shaitan! They are mad!"</p> + +<p>They cleared a space in that corner and, setting the Englishman down +upon the ground, they stood in front of him lest he should be trampled. +And behind him upon the ground Trench heard every now and then in a lull +of the noise the babble of English.</p> + +<p>"He will die before morning," he cried to Ibrahim, "he is in a fever!"</p> + +<p>"Sit beside him," said the Hadendoa. "I can keep them back."</p> + +<p>Trench stooped and squatted in the corner, Ibrahim set his legs well +apart and guarded Trench and his new friend.</p> + +<p>Bending his head, Trench could now hear the words. They were the words +of a man in delirium, spoken in a voice of great pleading. He was +telling some tale of the sea, it seemed.</p> + +<p>"I saw the riding lights of the yachts—and the reflections shortening +and lengthening as the water rippled—there was a band, too, as we +passed the pier-head. What was it playing? Not the overture—and I don't +think that I remember any other tune...." And he laughed with a crazy +chuckle. "I was always pretty bad at appreciating music, wasn't I? +except when you played," and again he came back to the sea. "There was +the line of hills upon the right as the boat steamed out of the bay—you +remember there were woods on the hillside—perhaps you have forgotten. +Then came Bray, a little fairyland of lights close down by the water at +the point of the ridge ... you remember Bray, we lunched there once or +twice, just you and I, before everything was settled ... it seemed +strange to be steaming out of Dublin Bay and leaving you a long way off +to the north among the hills ... strange and somehow not quite right ... +for that was the word you used when the morning came behind the +blinds—it is not right that one should suffer so much pain ... the +engines didn't stop, though, they just kept throbbing and revolving and +clanking as though nothing had happened whatever ... one felt a little +angry about that ... the fairyland was already only a sort of golden +blot behind ... and then nothing but sea and the salt wind ... and the +things to be done."</p> + +<p>The man in his delirium suddenly lifted himself upon an elbow, and with +the other hand fumbled in his breast as though he searched for +something. "Yes, the things to be done," he repeated in a mumbling +voice, and he sank to unintelligible whisperings, with his head fallen +upon his breast.</p> + +<p>Trench put an arm about him and raised him up. But he could do nothing +more, and even to him, crouched as he was close to the ground, the +noisome heat was almost beyond endurance. In front, the din of shrill +voices, the screams for pity, the swaying and struggling, went on in +that appalling darkness. In one corner there were men singing in a mad +frenzy, in another a few danced in their fetters, or rather tried to +dance; in front of Trench Ibrahim maintained his guard; and beside +Trench there lay in the House of Stone, in the town beyond the world, a +man who one night had sailed out of Dublin Bay, past the riding lanterns +of the yachts, and had seen Bray, that fairyland of lights, dwindle to a +golden blot. To think of the sea and the salt wind, the sparkle of light +as the water split at the ship's bows, the illuminated deck, perhaps the +sound of a bell telling the hour, and the cool dim night about and +above, so wrought upon Trench that, practical unimaginative creature as +he was, for very yearning he could have wept. But the stranger at his +side began to speak again.</p> + +<p>"It is funny that those three faces were always the same ... the man in +the tent with the lancet in his hand, and the man in the back room off +Piccadilly ... and mine. Funny and not quite right. No, I don't think +that was quite right either. They get quite big, too, just when you are +going to sleep in the dark—quite big, and they come very close to you +and won't go away ... they rather frighten one...." And he suddenly +clung to Trench with a close, nervous grip, like a boy in an extremity +of fear. And it was in the tone of reassurance that a man might use to a +boy that Trench replied, "It's all right, old man, it's all right."</p> + +<p>But Trench's companion was already relieved of his fear. He had come +out of his boyhood, and was rehearsing some interview which was to take +place in the future.</p> + +<p>"Will you take it back?" he asked, with a great deal of hesitation and +timidity. "Really? The others have, all except the man who died at +Tamai. And you will too!" He spoke as though he could hardly believe +some piece of great good fortune which had befallen him. Then his voice +changed to that of a man belittling his misfortunes. "Oh, it hasn't been +the best of times, of course. But then one didn't expect the best of +times. And at the worst, one had always the afterwards to look forward +to ... supposing one didn't run.... I'm not sure that when the whole +thing's balanced, it won't come out that you have really had the worst +time. I know you ... it would hurt you through and through, pride and +heart and everything, and for a long time just as much as it hurt that +morning when the daylight came through the blinds. And you couldn't do +anything! And you hadn't the afterwards to help you—you weren't looking +forward to it all the time as I was ... it was all over and done with +for you ..." and he lapsed again into mutterings.</p> + +<p>Colonel Trench's delight in the sound of his native tongue had now given +place to a great curiosity as to the man who spoke and what he said. +Trench had described himself a long while ago as he stood opposite the +cab-stand in the southwest corner of St. James's Square: "I am an +inquisitive, methodical person," he had said, and he had not described +himself amiss. Here was a life history, it seemed, being unfolded to his +ears, and not the happiest of histories, perhaps, indeed, with +something of tragedy at the heart of it. Trench began to speculate upon +the meaning of that word "afterwards," which came and went among the +words like the <i>motif</i> in a piece of music and very likely was the life +<i>motif</i> of the man who spoke them.</p> + +<p>In the prison the heat became stifling, the darkness more oppressive, +but the cries and shouts were dying down; their volume was less great, +their intonation less shrill; stupor and fatigue and exhaustion were +having their effect. Trench bent his head again to his companion and now +heard more clearly.</p> + +<p>"I saw your light that morning ... you put it out suddenly ... did you +hear my step on the gravel?... I thought you did, it hurt rather," and +then he broke out into an emphatic protest. "No, no, I had no idea that +you would wait. I had no wish that you should. Afterwards, perhaps, I +thought, but nothing more, upon my word. Sutch was quite wrong.... Of +course there was always the chance that one might come to grief +oneself—get killed, you know, or fall ill and die—before one asked you +to take your feather back; and then there wouldn't even have been a +chance of the afterwards. But that is the risk one had to take."</p> + +<p>The allusion was not direct enough for Colonel Trench's comprehension. +He heard the word "feather," but he could not connect it as yet with any +action of his own. He was more curious than ever about that +"afterwards"; he began to have a glimmering of its meaning, and he was +struck with wonderment at the thought of how many men there were going +about the world with a calm and commonplace demeanour beneath which +were hidden quaint fancies and poetic beliefs, never to be so much as +suspected, until illness deprived the brain of its control.</p> + +<p>"No, one of the reasons why I never said anything that night to you +about what I intended was, I think, that I did not wish you to wait or +have any suspicion of what I was going to attempt." And then +expostulation ceased, and he began to speak in a tone of interest. "Do +you know, it has only occurred to me since I came to the Soudan, but I +believe that Durrance cared."</p> + +<p>The name came with something of a shock upon Trench's ears. This man +knew Durrance! He was not merely a stranger of Trench's blood, but he +knew Durrance even as Trench knew him. There was a link between them, +they had a friend in common. He knew Durrance, had fought in the same +square with him, perhaps, at Tokar, or Tamai, or Tamanieb, just as Trench +had done! And so Trench's curiosity as to the life history in its turn +gave place to a curiosity as to the identity of the man. He tried to +see, knowing that in that black and noisome hovel sight was impossible. +He might hear, though, enough to be assured. For if the stranger knew +Durrance, it might be that he knew Trench as well. Trench listened; the +sound of the voice, high pitched and rambling, told him nothing. He +waited for the words, and the words came.</p> + +<p>"Durrance stood at the window, after I had told them about you, Ethne," +and Trench repeated the name to himself. It was to a woman, then, that +his new-found compatriot, this friend of Durrance, in his delirium +imagined himself to be speaking—a woman named Ethne. Trench could +recall no such name; but the voice in the dark went on.</p> + +<p>"All the time when I was proposing to send in my papers, after the +telegram had come, he stood at the window of my rooms with his back to +me, looking out across the park. I fancied he blamed me. But I think now +he was making up his mind to lose you.... I wonder."</p> + +<p>Trench uttered so startled an exclamation that Ibrahim turned round.</p> + +<p>"Is he dead?"</p> + +<p>"No, he lives, he lives."</p> + +<p>It was impossible, Trench argued. He remembered quite clearly Durrance +standing by a window with his back to the room. He remembered a telegram +coming which took a long while in the reading—which diffused among all +except Durrance an inexplicable suspense. He remembered, too, a man who +spoke of his betrothal and of sending in his papers. But surely this +could not be the man. Was the woman's name Ethne? A woman of +Donegal—yes; and this man had spoken of sailing out of Dublin Bay—he +had spoken, too, of a feather.</p> + +<p>"Good God!" whispered Trench. "Was the name Ethne? Was it? Was it?"</p> + +<p>But for a while he received no answer. He heard only talk of a +mud-walled city, and an intolerable sun burning upon a wide round of +desert, and a man who lay there all the day with his linen robe drawn +over his head, and slowly drew one face towards him across three +thousand miles, until at sunset it was near, and he took courage and +went down into the gate. And after that, four words stabbed Trench.</p> + +<p>"Three little white feathers," were the words. Trench leaned back +against the wall. It was he who had devised that message. "Three little +white feathers," the voice repeated. "This afternoon we were under the +elms down by the Lennon River—do you remember, Harry?—just you and I. +And then came three little white feathers; and the world's at an end."</p> + +<p>Trench had no longer any doubts. The man was quoting words, and words, +no doubt, spoken by this girl Ethne on the night when the three feathers +came. "Harry," she had said. "Do you remember, Harry?" Trench was +certain.</p> + +<p>"Feversham!" he cried. "Feversham!" And he shook the man whom he held +in his arms and called to him again. "Under the elms by the Lennon +River—" Visions of green shade touched with gold, and of the sunlight +flickering between the leaves, caught at Trench and drew him like a +mirage in that desert of which Feversham had spoken. Feversham had been +under the elms of the Lennon River on that afternoon before the feathers +came, and he was in the House of Stone at Omdurman. But why? Trench asked +himself the question and was not spared the answer.</p> + +<p>"Willoughby took his feather back"—and upon that Feversham broke off. +His voice rambled. He seemed to be running somewhere amid sandhills +which continually shifted and danced about him as he ran, so that he +could not tell which way he went. He was in the last stage of fatigue, +too, so that his voice in his delirium became querulous and weak. "Abou +Fatma!" he cried, and the cry was the cry of a man whose throat is +parched, and whose limbs fail beneath him. "Abou Fatma! Abou Fatma!" He +stumbled as he ran, picked himself up, ran and stumbled again; and about +him the deep soft sand piled itself into pyramids, built itself into +long slopes and ridges, and levelled itself flat with an extraordinary +and a malicious rapidity. "Abou Fatma!" cried Feversham, and he began to +argue in a weak obstinate voice. "I know the wells are here—close +by—within half a mile. I know they are—I know they are."</p> + +<p>The clue to that speech Trench had not got. He knew nothing of +Feversham's adventure at Berber; he could not tell that the wells were +the Wells of Obak, or that Feversham, tired with the hurry of his +travelling, and after a long day's march without water, had lost his way +among the shifting sandhills. But he did know that Willoughby had taken +back his feather, and he made a guess as to the motive which had brought +Feversham now to the House of Stone. Even on that point, however, he was +not to remain in doubt; for in a while he heard his own name upon +Feversham's lips.</p> + +<p>Remorse seized upon Colonel Trench. The sending of the feathers had been +his invention and his alone. He could not thrust the responsibility of +his invention upon either Willoughby or Castleton; it was just his +doing. He had thought it rather a shrewd and clever stroke, he +remembered at the time—a vengeance eminently just. Eminently just, no +doubt, it was, but he had not thought of the woman. He had not imagined +that she might be present when the feathers came. He had indeed almost +forgotten the episode, he had never speculated upon the consequences, +and now they rose up and smote the smiter.</p> + +<p>And his remorse was to grow. For the night was not nearly at its end. +All through the dark slow hours he supported Feversham and heard him +talk. Now Feversham was lurking in the bazaar at Suakin and during the +siege.</p> + +<p>"During the siege," thought Trench. "While we were there, then, he was +herding with the camel-drivers in the bazaar learning their tongues, +watching for his chance. Three years of it!"</p> + +<p>At another moment Feversham was slinking up the Nile to Wadi Halfa with +a zither, in the company of some itinerant musicians, hiding from any +who might remember him and accuse him with his name. Trench heard of a +man slipping out from Wadi Halfa, crossing the Nile and wandering with +the assumed manner of a lunatic southwards, starving and waterless, +until one day he was snapped up by a Mahdist caravan and dragged to +Dongola as a spy. And at Dongola things had happened of which the mere +mention made Trench shake. He heard of leather cords which had been +bound about the prisoner's wrists, and upon which water had been poured +until the cords swelled and the wrists burst, but this was among the +minor brutalities. Trench waited for the morning as he listened, +wondering whether indeed it would ever come.</p> + +<p>He heard the bolts dragged back at the last; he saw the door open and +the good daylight. He stood up and with Ibrahim's help protected this +new comrade until the eager rush was past. Then he supported him out +into the zareeba. Worn, wasted in body and face, with a rough beard +straggled upon his chin, and his eyes all sunk and very bright, it was +still Harry Feversham. Trench laid him down in a corner of the zareeba +where there would be shade; and in a few hours shade would be needed. +Then with the rest he scrambled to the Nile for water and brought it +back. As he poured it down Feversham's throat, Feversham seemed for a +moment to recognise him. But it was only for a moment, and the +incoherent tale of his adventures began again. Thus, after five years, +and for the first time since Trench had dined as Feversham's guest in +the high rooms overlooking St. James's Park, the two men met in the +House of Stone.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> + +<h3>PLANS OF ESCAPE</h3> + + +<p>For three days Feversham rambled and wandered in his talk, and for three +days Trench fetched him water from the Nile, shared his food with him, +and ministered to his wants; for three nights, too, he stood with +Ibrahim and fought in front of Feversham in the House of Stone. But on +the fourth morning Feversham waked to his senses and, looking up, with +his own eyes saw bending over him the face of Trench. At first the face +seemed part of his delirium. It was one of those nightmare faces which +had used to grow big and had come so horribly close to him in the dark +nights of his boyhood as he lay in bed. He put out a weak arm and thrust +it aside. But he gazed about him. He was lying in the shadow of the +prison house, and the hard blue sky above him, the brown bare trampled +soil on which he lay, and the figures of his fellow-prisoners dragging +their chains or lying prone upon the ground in some extremity of +sickness gradually conveyed their meaning to him. He turned to Trench, +caught at him as if he feared the next moment would snatch him out of +reach, and then he smiled.</p> + +<p>"I am in the prison at Omdurman," he said, "actually in the prison! This +is Umm Hagar, the House of Stone. It seems too good to be true."</p> + +<p>He leaned back against the wall with an air of extreme relief. To +Trench the words, the tone of satisfaction in which they were uttered, +sounded like some sardonic piece of irony. A man who plumed himself upon +indifference to pain and pleasure—who posed as a being of so much +experience that joy and trouble could no longer stir a pulse or cause a +frown, and who carried his pose to perfection—such a man, thought +Trench, might have uttered Feversham's words in Feversham's voice. But +Feversham was not that man; his delirium had proved it. The +satisfaction, then, was genuine, the words sincere. The peril of Dongola +was past, he had found Trench, he was in Omdurman. That prison house was +his longed-for goal, and he had reached it. He might have been dangling +on a gibbet hundreds of miles away down the stream of the Nile with the +vultures perched upon his shoulders, the purpose for which he lived +quite unfulfilled. But he was in the enclosure of the House of Stone in +Omdurman.</p> + +<p>"You have been here a long while," he said.</p> + +<p>"Three years."</p> + +<p>Feversham looked round the zareeba. "Three years of it," he murmured. "I +was afraid that I might not find you alive."</p> + +<p>Trench nodded.</p> + +<p>"The nights are the worst, the nights in there. It's a wonder any man +lives through a week of them, yet I have lived through a thousand +nights." And even to him who had endured them his endurance seemed +incredible. "A thousand nights of the House of Stone!" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"But we may go down to the Nile by daytime," said Feversham, and he +started up with alarm as he gazed at the thorn zareeba. "Surely we are +allowed so much liberty. I was told so. An Arab at Wadi Halfa told me."</p> + +<p>"And it's true," returned Trench. "Look!" He pointed to the earthen bowl +of water at his side. "I filled that at the Nile this morning."</p> + +<p>"I must go," said Feversham, and he lifted himself up from the ground. +"I must go this morning," and since he spoke with a raised voice and a +manner of excitement, Trench whispered to him:—</p> + +<p>"Hush. There are many prisoners here, and among them many tale-bearers."</p> + +<p>Feversham sank back on to the ground as much from weakness as in +obedience to Trench's warning.</p> + +<p>"But they cannot understand what we say," he objected in a voice from +which the excitement had suddenly gone.</p> + +<p>"They can see that we talk together and earnestly. Idris would know of +it within the hour, the Khalifa before sunset. There would be heavier +fetters and the courbatch if we spoke at all. Lie still. You are weak, +and I too am very tired. We will sleep, and later in the day we will go +together down to the Nile."</p> + +<p>Trench lay down beside Feversham and in a moment was asleep. Feversham +watched him, and saw, now that his features were relaxed, the marks of +those three years very plainly in his face. It was towards noon before +he awoke.</p> + +<p>"There is no one to bring you food?" he asked, and Feversham answered:—</p> + +<p>"Yes. A boy should come. He should bring news as well."</p> + +<p>They waited until the gate of the zareeba was opened and the friends or +wives of the prisoners entered. At once that enclosure became a cage of +wild beasts. The gaolers took their dole at the outset. Little more of +the "aseeda"—that moist and pounded cake of dhurra which was the staple +diet of the town—than was sufficient to support life was allowed to +reach the prisoners, and even for that the strong fought with the weak, +and the group of four did battle with the group of three. From every +corner men gaunt and thin as skeletons hopped and leaped as quickly as +the weight of their chains would allow them towards the entrance. Here +one weak with starvation tripped and fell, and once fallen lay prone in +a stolid despair, knowing that for him there would be no meal that day. +Others seized upon the messengers who brought the food, and tore it from +their hands, though the whips of the gaolers laid their backs open. +There were thirty gaolers to guard that enclosure, each armed with his +rhinoceros-hide courbatch, but this was the one moment in each day when +the courbatch was neither feared, nor, as it seemed, felt.</p> + +<p>Among the food-bearers a boy sheltered himself behind the rest and gazed +irresolutely about the zareeba. It was not long, however, before he was +detected. He was knocked down, and his food snatched from his hands; but +the boy had his lungs, and his screams brought Idris-es-Saier himself +upon the three men who had attacked him.</p> + +<p>"For whom do you come?" asked Idris, as he thrust the prisoners aside.</p> + +<p>"For Joseppi, the Greek," answered the boy, and Idris pointed to the +corner where Feversham lay. The boy advanced, holding out his empty +hands as though explaining how it was that he brought no food. But he +came quite close, and squatting at Feversham's side continued to explain +with words. And as he spoke he loosed a gazelle skin which was fastened +about his waist beneath his jibbeh, and he let it fall by Feversham's +side. The gazelle skin contained a chicken, and upon that Feversham and +Trench breakfasted and dined and supped. An hour later they were allowed +to pass out of the zareeba and make their way to the Nile. They walked +slowly and with many halts, and during one of these Trench said:—</p> + +<p>"We can talk here."</p> + +<p>Below them, at the water's edge, some of the prisoners were unloading +dhows, others were paddling knee-deep in the muddy water. The shore was +crowded with men screaming and shouting and excited for no reason +whatever. The gaolers were within view, but not within ear-shot.</p> + +<p>"Yes, we can talk here. Why have you come?"</p> + +<p>"I was captured in the desert, on the Arbain road," said Feversham, +slowly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, masquerading as a lunatic musician who had wandered out of Wadi +Halfa with a zither. I know. But you were captured by your own +deliberate wish. You came to join me in Omdurman. I know."</p> + +<p>"How do you know?"</p> + +<p>"You told me. During the last three days you have told me much," and +Feversham looked about him suddenly in alarm, "Very much," continued +Trench. "You came to join me because five years ago I sent you a white +feather."</p> + +<p>"And was that all I told you?" asked Feversham, anxiously.</p> + +<p>"No," Trench replied, and he dragged out the word. He sat up while +Feversham lay on his side, and he looked towards the Nile in front of +him, holding his head between his hands, so that he could not see or be +seen by Feversham. "No, that was not all—you spoke of a girl, the same +girl of whom you spoke when Willoughby and Durrance and I dined with you +in London a long while ago. I know her name now—her Christian name. She +was with you when the feathers came. I had not thought of that +possibility. She gave you a fourth feather to add to our three. I am +sorry."</p> + +<p>There was a silence of some length, and then Feversham replied slowly:—</p> + +<p>"For my part I am not sorry. I mean I am not sorry that she was present +when the feathers came. I think, on the whole, that I am rather glad. +She gave me the fourth feather, it is true, but I am glad of that as +well. For without her presence, without that fourth feather snapped from +her fan, I might have given up there and then. Who knows? I doubt if I +could have stood up to the three long years in Suakin. I used to see you +and Durrance and Willoughby and many men who had once been my friends, +and you were all going about the work which I was used to. You can't +think how the mere routine of a regiment to which one had become +accustomed, and which one cursed heartily enough when one had to put up +with it, appealed as something very desirable. I could so easily have +run away. I could so easily have slipped on to a boat and gone back to +Suez. And the chance for which I waited never came—for three years."</p> + +<p>"You saw us?" said Trench. "And you gave no sign?"</p> + +<p>"How would you have taken it if I had?" And Trench was silent. "No, I +saw you, but I was careful that you should not see me. I doubt if I +could have endured it without the recollection of that night at +Ramelton, without the feel of the fourth feather to keep the +recollection actual and recent in my thoughts. I should never have gone +down from Obak into Berber. I should certainly never have joined you in +Omdurman."</p> + +<p>Trench turned quickly towards his companion.</p> + +<p>"She would be glad to hear you say that," he said. "I have no doubt she +is sorry about her fourth feather, sorry as I am about the other three."</p> + +<p>"There is no reason that she should be, or that you either should be +sorry. I don't blame you, or her," and in his turn Feversham was silent +and looked towards the river. The air was shrill with cries, the shore +was thronged with a motley of Arabs and negroes, dressed in their long +robes of blue and yellow and dirty brown; the work of unloading the +dhows went busily on; across the river and beyond its fork the palm +trees of Khartum stood up against the cloudless sky; and the sun behind +them was moving down to the west. In a few hours would come the horrors +of the House of Stone. But they were both thinking of the elms by the +Lennon River and a hall of which the door stood open to the cool night +and which echoed softly to the music of a waltz, while a girl and a man +stood with three white feathers fallen upon the floor between them; the +one man recollected, the other imagined, the picture, and to both of +them it was equally vivid. Feversham smiled at last.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps she has now seen Willoughby; perhaps she has now taken his +feather."</p> + +<p>Trench held out his hand to his companion.</p> + +<p>"I will take mine back now."</p> + +<p>Feversham shook his head.</p> + +<p>"No, not yet," and Trench's face suddenly lighted up. A hope which had +struggled up in his hopeless breast during the three days and nights of +his watch, a hope which he had striven to repress for very fear lest it +might prove false, sprang to life.</p> + +<p>"Not yet,—then you <i>have</i> a plan for our escape," and the anxiety +returned to Feversham's face.</p> + +<p>"I said nothing of it," he pleaded, "tell me that! When I was delirious +in the prison there, I said nothing of it, I breathed no word of it? I +told you of the four feathers, I told you of Ethne, but of the plan for +your escape I said nothing."</p> + +<p>"Not a single word. So that I myself was in doubt, and did not dare to +believe," and Feversham's anxiety died away. He had spoken with his hand +trembling upon Trench's arm, and his voice itself had trembled with +alarm.</p> + +<p>"You see if I spoke of that in the House of Stone," he exclaimed, "I +might have spoken of it in Dongola. For in Dongola as well as in +Omdurman I was delirious. But I didn't, you say—not here, at all +events. So perhaps not there either. I was afraid that I should—how I +was afraid! There was a woman in Dongola who spoke some English—very +little, but enough. She had been in the 'Kauneesa' of Khartum when +Gordon ruled there. She was sent to question me. I had unhappy times in +Dongola."</p> + +<p>Trench interrupted him in a low voice. "I know. You told me things which +made me shiver," and he caught hold of Feversham's arm and thrust the +loose sleeve back. Feversham's scarred wrists confirmed the tale.</p> + +<p>"Well, I felt myself getting light-headed there," he went on. "I made up +my mind that of your escape I must let no hint slip. So I tried to think +of something else with all my might, when I was going off my head." And +he laughed a little to himself.</p> + +<p>"That was why you heard me talk of Ethne," he explained.</p> + +<p>Trench sat nursing his knees and looking straight in front of him. He +had paid no heed to Feversham's last words. He had dared now to give his +hopes their way.</p> + +<p>"So it's true," he said in a quiet wondering voice. "There will be a +morning when we shall not drag ourselves out of the House of Stone. +There will be nights when we shall sleep in beds, actually in beds. +There will be—" He stopped with a sort of shy air like a man upon the +brink of a confession. "There will be—something more," he said lamely, +and then he got up on to his feet.</p> + +<p>"We have sat here too long. Let us go forward."</p> + +<p>They moved a hundred yards nearer to the river and sat down again.</p> + +<p>"You have more than a hope. You have a plan of escape?" Trench asked +eagerly.</p> + +<p>"More than a plan," returned Feversham. "The preparations are made. +There are camels waiting in the desert ten miles west of Omdurman."</p> + +<p>"Now?" exclaimed Trench. "Now?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, man, now. There are rifles and ammunition buried near the camels, +provisions and water kept in readiness. We travel by Metemneh, where +fresh camels wait, from Metemneh to Berber. There we cross the Nile; +camels are waiting for us five miles from Berber. From Berber we ride in +over the Kokreb pass to Suakin."</p> + +<p>"When?" exclaimed Trench. "Oh, when, when?"</p> + +<p>"When I have strength enough to sit a horse for ten miles, and a camel +for a week," answered Feversham. "How soon will that be? Not long, +Trench, I promise you not long," and he rose up from the ground.</p> + +<p>"As you get up," he continued, "glance round. You will see a man in a +blue linen dress, loitering between us and the gaol. As we came past +him, he made me a sign. I did not return it. I shall return it on the +day when we escape."</p> + +<p>"He will wait?"</p> + +<p>"For a month. We must manage on one night during that month to escape +from the House of Stone. We can signal him to bring help. A passage +might be made in one night through that wall; the stones are loosely +built."</p> + +<p>They walked a little farther and came to the water's edge. There amid +the crowd they spoke again of their escape, but with the air of men +amused at what went on about them.</p> + +<p>"There is a better way than breaking through the wall," said Trench, and +he uttered a laugh as he spoke and pointed to a prisoner with a great +load upon his back who had fallen upon his face in the water, and +encumbered by his fetters, pressed down by his load, was vainly +struggling to lift himself again. "There is a better way. You have +money?"</p> + +<p>"Ai, ai!" shouted Feversham, roaring with laughter, as the prisoner half +rose and soused again. "I have some concealed on me. Idris took what I +did not conceal."</p> + +<p>"Good!" said Trench. "Idris will come to you to-day or to-morrow. He +will talk to you of the goodness of Allah who has brought you out of the +wickedness of the world to the holy city of Omdurman. He will tell you +at great length of the peril of your soul and of the only means of +averting it, and he will wind up with a few significant sentences about +his starving family. If you come to the aid of his starving family and +bid him keep for himself fifteen dollars out of the amount he took from +you, you may get permission to sleep in the zareeba outside the prison. +Be content with that for a night or two. Then he will come to you again, +and again you will assist his starving family, and this time you will +ask for permission for me to sleep in the open too. Come! There's Idris +shepherding us home."</p> + +<p>It fell out as Trench had predicted. Idris read Feversham an abnormally +long lecture that afternoon. Feversham learned that now God loved him; +and how Hicks Pasha's army had been destroyed. The holy angels had done +that, not a single shot was fired, not a single spear thrown by the +Mahdi's soldiers. The spears flew from their hands by the angels' +guidance and pierced the unbelievers. Feversham heard for the first +time of a most convenient spirit, Nebbi Khiddr, who was the Khalifa's +eyes and ears and reported to him all that went on in the gaol. It was +pointed out to Feversham that if Nebbi Khiddr reported against him, he +would have heavier shackles riveted upon his feet, and many unpleasant +things would happen. At last came the exordium about the starving +children, and Feversham begged Idris to take fifteen dollars.</p> + +<p>Trench's plan succeeded. That night Feversham slept in the open, and two +nights later Trench lay down beside him. Overhead was a clear sky and +the blazing stars.</p> + +<p>"Only three more days," said Feversham, and he heard his companion draw +in a long breath. For a while they lay side by side in silence, +breathing the cool night air, and then Trench said:—</p> + +<p>"Are you awake?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Well," and with some hesitation he made that confidence which he had +repressed on the day when they sat upon the foreshore of the Nile. "Each +man has his particular weak spot of sentiment, I suppose. I have mine. I +am not a marrying man, so it's not sentiment of that kind. Perhaps you +will laugh at it. It isn't merely that I loathe this squalid, shadeless, +vile town of Omdurman, or the horrors of its prison. It isn't merely +that I hate the emptiness of those desert wastes. It isn't merely that I +am sick of the palm trees of Khartum, or these chains or the whips of +the gaolers. But there's something more. I want to die at home, and I +have been desperately afraid so often that I should die here. I want to +die at home—not merely in my own country, but in my own village, and be +buried there under the trees I know, in the sight of the church and the +houses I know, and the trout stream where I fished when I was a boy. +You'll laugh, no doubt."</p> + +<p>Feversham was not laughing. The words had a queer ring of familiarity to +him, and he knew why. They never had actually been spoken to him, but +they might have been and by Ethne Eustace.</p> + +<p>"No, I am not laughing," he answered. "I understand." And he spoke with +a warmth of tone which rather surprised Trench. And indeed an actual +friendship sprang up between the two men, and it dated from that night.</p> + +<p>It was a fit moment for confidences. Lying side by side in that +enclosure, they made them one to the other in low voices. The shouts and +yells came muffled from within the House of Stone, and gave to them both +a feeling that they were well off. They could breathe; they could see; +no low roof oppressed them; they were in the cool of the night air. That +night air would be very cold before morning and wake them to shiver in +their rags and huddle together in their corner. But at present they lay +comfortably upon their backs with their hands clasped behind their heads +and watched the great stars and planets burn in the blue dome of sky.</p> + +<p>"It will be strange to find them dim and small again," said Trench.</p> + +<p>"There will be compensations," answered Feversham, with a laugh; and +they fell to making plans of what they would do when they had crossed +the desert and the Mediterranean and the continent of Europe, and had +come to their own country of dim small stars. Fascinated and enthralled +by the pictures which the simplest sentence, the most commonplace +phrase, through the magic of its associations was able to evoke in their +minds, they let the hours slip by unnoticed. They were no longer +prisoners in that barbarous town which lay a murky stain upon the +solitary wide spaces of sand; they were in their own land, following +their old pursuits. They were standing outside clumps of trees, guns in +their hands, while the sharp cry, "Mark! Mark!" came to their ears. +Trench heard again the unmistakable rattle of the reel of his +fishing-rod as he wound in his line upon the bank of his trout stream. +They talked of theatres in London, and the last plays which they had +seen, the last books which they had read six years ago.</p> + +<p>"There goes the Great Bear," said Trench, suddenly. "It is late." The +tail of the constellation was dipping behind the thorn hedge of the +zareeba. They turned over on their sides.</p> + +<p>"Three more days," said Trench.</p> + +<p>"Only three more days," Feversham replied. And in a minute they were +neither in England nor the Soudan; the stars marched to the morning +unnoticed above their heads. They were lost in the pleasant countries of +sleep.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX</h2> + +<h3>COLONEL TRENCH ASSUMES A KNOWLEDGE OF CHEMISTRY</h3> + + +<p>"Three more days." Both men fell asleep with these words upon their +lips. But the next morning Trench waked up and complained of a fever; +and the fever rapidly gained upon him, so that before the afternoon had +come he was light-headed, and those services which he had performed for +Feversham, Feversham had now to perform for him. The thousand nights of +the House of Stone had done their work. But it was no mere coincidence +that Trench should suddenly be struck down by them at the very moment +when the door of his prison was opening. The great revulsion of joy +which had come to him so unexpectedly had been too much for his +exhausted body. The actual prospect of escape had been the crowning +trial which he could not endure.</p> + +<p>"In a few days he will be well," said Feversham. "It is nothing."</p> + +<p>"It is <i>Umm Sabbah</i>," answered Ibrahim, shaking his head, the terrible +typhus fever which had struck down so many in that infected gaol and +carried them off upon the seventh day.</p> + +<p>Feversham refused to believe. "It is nothing," he repeated in a sort of +passionate obstinacy; but in his mind there ran another question, "Will +the men with the camels wait?" Each day as he went to the Nile he saw +Abou Fatma in the blue robe at his post; each day the man made his sign, +and each day Feversham gave no answer. Meanwhile with Ibrahim's help he +nursed Trench. The boy came daily to the prison with food; he was sent +out to buy tamarinds, dates, and roots, out of which Ibrahim brewed +cooling draughts. Together they carried Trench from shade to shade as +the sun moved across the zareeba. Some further assistance was provided +for the starving family of Idris, and the forty-pound chains which +Trench wore were consequently removed. He was given vegetable marrow +soaked in salt water, his mouth was packed with butter, his body +anointed and wrapped close in camel-cloths. The fever took its course, +and on the seventh day Ibrahim said:—</p> + +<p>"This is the last. To-night he will die."</p> + +<p>"No," replied Feversham, "that is impossible. 'In his own parish,' he +said, 'beneath the trees he knew.' Not here, no." And he spoke again +with a passionate obstinacy. He was no longer thinking of the man in the +blue robe outside the prison walls, or of the chances of escape. The +fear that the third feather would never be brought back to Ethne, that +she would never have the opportunity to take back the fourth of her own +free will, no longer troubled him. Even that great hope of "the +afterwards" was for the moment banished from his mind. He thought only +of Trench and the few awkward words he had spoken in the corner of the +zareeba on the first night when they lay side by side under the sky. +"No," he repeated, "he must not die here." And through all that day and +night he watched by Trench's side the long hard battle between life and +death. At one moment it seemed that the three years of the House of +Stone must win the victory, at another that Trench's strong constitution +and wiry frame would get the better of the three years.</p> + +<p>For that night, at all events, they did, and the struggle was prolonged. +The dangerous seventh day was passed. Even Ibrahim began to gain hope; +and on the thirteenth day Trench slept and did not ramble during his +sleep, and when he waked it was with a clear head. He found himself +alone, and so swathed in camel-cloths that he could not stir; but the +heat of the day was past, and the shadow of the House of Stone lay black +upon the sand of the zareeba. He had not any wish to stir, and he lay +wondering idly how long he had been ill. While he wondered he heard the +shouts of the gaolers, the cries of the prisoners outside the zareeba +and in the direction of the river. The gate was opened, and the +prisoners flocked in. Feversham was among them, and he walked straight +to Trench's corner.</p> + +<p>"Thank God!" he cried. "I would not have left you, but I was compelled. +We have been unloading boats all day." And he dropped in fatigue by +Trench's side.</p> + +<p>"How long have I lain ill?" asked Trench.</p> + +<p>"Thirteen days."</p> + +<p>"It will be a month before I can travel. You must go, Feversham. You +must leave me here, and go while you still can. Perhaps when you come to +Assouan you can do something for me. I could not move at present. You +will go to-morrow?"</p> + +<p>"No, I should not go without you in any case," answered Feversham. "As +it is, it is too late."</p> + +<p>"Too late?" Trench repeated. He took in the meaning of the words but +slowly; he was almost reluctant to be disturbed by their mere sound; he +wished just to lie idle for a long time in the cool of the sunset. But +gradually the import of what Feversham had said forced itself into his +mind.</p> + +<p>"Too late? Then the man in the blue gown has gone?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. He spoke to me yesterday by the river. The camel men would wait no +longer. They were afraid of detection, and meant to return whether we +went with them or not."</p> + +<p>"You should have gone with them," said Trench. For himself he did not at +that moment care whether he was to live in the prison all his life, so +long as he was allowed quietly to lie where he was for a long time; and +it was without any expression of despair that he added, "So our one +chance is lost."</p> + +<p>"No, deferred," replied Feversham. "The man who watched by the river in +the blue gown brought me paper, a pen, and some wood-soot mixed with +water. He was able to drop them by my side as I lay upon the ground. I +hid them beneath my jibbeh, and last night—there was a moon last +night—I wrote to a Greek merchant who keeps a <i>café</i> at Wadi Halfa. I +gave him the letter this afternoon, and he has gone. He will deliver it +and receive money. In six months, in a year at the latest, he will be +back in Omdurman."</p> + +<p>"Very likely," said Trench. "He will ask for another letter, so that he +may receive more money, and again he will say that in six months or a +year he will be back in Omdurman. I know these people."</p> + +<p>"You do not know Abou Fatma. He was Gordon's servant over there before +Khartum fell; he has been mine since. He came with me to Obak, and +waited there while I went down to Berber. He risked his life in coming +to Omdurman at all. Within six months he will be back, you may be very +sure."</p> + +<p>Trench did not continue the argument. He let his eyes wander about the +enclosure, and they settled at last upon a pile of newly turned earth +which lay in one corner.</p> + +<p>"What are they digging?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"A well," answered Feversham.</p> + +<p>"A well?" said Trench, fretfully, "and so close to the Nile! Why? What's +the object?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," said Feversham. Indeed he did not know, but he +suspected. With a great fear at his heart he suspected the reason why +the well was being dug in the enclosure of the prison. He would not, +however, reveal his suspicion until his companion was strong enough to +bear the disappointment which belief in it would entail. But within a +few days his suspicion was proved true. It was openly announced that a +high wall was to be built about the House of Stone. Too many prisoners +had escaped in their fetters along the Nile bank. Henceforward they were +to be kept from year's beginning to year's end within the wall. The +prisoners built it themselves of mud-bricks dried in the sun. Feversham +took his share in the work, and Trench, as soon almost as he could +stand, was joined with him.</p> + +<p>"Here's our last hope gone," he said; and though Feversham did not +openly agree, in spite of himself his heart began to consent.</p> + +<p>They piled the bricks one upon the other and mortised them. Each day the +wall rose a foot. With their own hands they closed themselves in. Twelve +feet high the wall stood when they had finished it—twelve feet high, +and smooth and strong. There was never a projection from its surface on +which a foot could rest; it could not be broken through in a night. +Trench and Feversham contemplated it in despair. The very palm trees of +Khartum were now hidden from their eyes. A square of bright blue by day, +a square of dark blue by night, jewelled with points of silver and +flashing gold, limited their world. Trench covered his face with his +hands.</p> + +<p>"I daren't look at it," he said in a broken voice. "We have been +building our own coffin, Feversham, that's the truth of it." And then he +cast up his arms and cried aloud: "Will they never come up the Nile, the +gunboats and the soldiers? Have they forgotten us in England? Good God! +have they forgotten us?"</p> + +<p>"Hush!" replied Feversham. "We shall find a way of escape, never fear. +We must wait six months. Well, we have both of us waited years. Six +months,—what are they?"</p> + +<p>But, though he spoke stoutly for his comrade's sake, his own heart sank +within him.</p> + +<p>The details of their life during the six months are not to be dwelt +upon. In that pestilent enclosure only the myriad vermin lived lives of +comfort. No news filtered in from the world outside. They fed upon +their own thoughts, so that the sight of a lizard upon the wall became +an occasion for excitement. They were stung by scorpions at night; they +were at times flogged by their gaolers by day. They lived at the mercy +of the whims of Idris-es-Saier and that peculiar spirit Nebbi Khiddr, +who always reported against them to the Khalifa just at the moment when +Idris was most in need of money for his starving family. Religious men +were sent by the Khalifa to convert them to the only true religion; and +indeed the long theological disputations in the enclosure became events +to which both men looked forward with eagerness. At one time they would +be freed from the heavier shackles and allowed to sleep in the open; at +another, without reason, those privileges would be withdrawn, and they +struggled for their lives within the House of Stone.</p> + +<p>The six months came to an end. The seventh began; a fortnight of it +passed, and the boy who brought Feversham food could never cheer their +hearts with word that Abou Fatma had come back.</p> + +<p>"He will never come," said Trench, in despair.</p> + +<p>"Surely he will—if he is alive," said Feversham. "But is he alive?"</p> + +<p>The seventh month passed, and one morning at the beginning of the eighth +there came two of the Khalifa's bodyguard to the prison, who talked with +Idris. Idris advanced to the two prisoners.</p> + +<p>"Verily God is good to you, you men from the bad world," he said. "You +are to look upon the countenance of the Khalifa. How happy you should +be!"</p> + +<p>Trench and Feversham rose up from the ground in no very happy frame of +mind. "What does he want with us? Is this the end?" The questions +started up clear in both their minds. They followed the two guards out +through the door and up the street towards the Khalifa's house.</p> + +<p>"Does it mean death?" said Feversham.</p> + +<p>Trench shrugged his shoulders and laughed sourly. "It is on the cards +that Nebbi Khiddr has suggested something of the kind," he said.</p> + +<p>They were led into the great parade-ground before the mosque, and thence +into the Khalifa's house, where another white man sat in attendance upon +the threshold. Within the Khalifa was seated upon an angareb, and a +grey-bearded Greek stood beside him. The Khalifa remarked to them that +they were both to be employed upon the manufacture of gunpowder, with +which the armies of the Turks were shortly to be overwhelmed.</p> + +<p>Feversham was on the point of disclaiming any knowledge of the process, +but before he could open his lips he heard Trench declaring in fluent +Arabic that there was nothing connected with gunpowder which he did not +know about; and upon his words they were both told they were to be +employed at the powder factory under the supervision of the Greek.</p> + +<p>For that Greek both prisoners will entertain a regard to their dying +day. There was in the world a true Samaritan. It was out of sheer pity, +knowing the two men to be herded in the House of Stone, that he +suggested to the Khalifa their employment, and the same pity taught him +to cover the deficiencies of their knowledge.</p> + +<p>"I know nothing whatever about the making of gunpowder except that +crystals are used," said Trench. "But we shall leave the prison each +day, and that is something, though we return each night. Who knows when +a chance of escape may come?"</p> + +<p>The powder factory lay in the northward part of the town, and on the +bank of the Nile just beyond the limits of the great mud wall and at the +back of the slave market. Every morning the two prisoners were let out +from the prison door, they tramped along the river-bank on the outside +of the town wall, and came into the powder factory past the storehouses +of the Khalifa's bodyguard. Every evening they went back by the same +road to the House of Stone. No guard was sent with them, since flight +seemed impossible, and each journey that they made they looked anxiously +for the man in the blue robe. But the months passed, and May brought +with it the summer.</p> + +<p>"Something has happened to Abou Fatma," said Feversham. "He has been +caught at Berber perhaps. In some way he has been delayed."</p> + +<p>"He will not come," said Trench.</p> + +<p>Feversham could no longer pretend to hope that he would. He did not know +of a sword-thrust received by Abou Fatma, as he fled through Berber on +his return from Omdurman. He had been recognised by one of his old +gaolers in that town, and had got cheaply off with the one thrust in his +thigh. From that wound he had through the greater part of this year been +slowly recovering in the hospital at Assouan. But though Feversham heard +nothing of Abou Fatma, towards the end of May he received news that +others were working for his escape. As Trench and he passed in the dusk +of one evening between the storehouses and the town wall, a man in the +shadow of one of the narrow alleys which opened from the storehouses +whispered to them to stop. Trench knelt down upon the ground and +examined his foot as though a stone had cut it, and as he kneeled the +man walked past them and dropped a slip of paper at their feet. He was a +Suakin merchant, who had a booth in the grain market of Omdurman. Trench +picked up the paper, hid it in his hand and limped on, with Feversham at +his side. There was no address or name upon the outside, and as soon as +they had left the houses behind, and had only the wall upon their right +and the Nile upon their left, Trench sat down again. There was a crowd +about the water's edge, men passed up and down between the crowd and +them. Trench took his foot into his lap and examined the sole. But at +the same time he unfolded the paper in the hollow of his hand and read +the contents aloud. He could hardly read them, his voice so trembled. +Feversham could hardly hear them, the blood so sang in his ears.</p> + +<p>"A man will bring to you a box of matches. When he comes trust +him.—Sutch." And he asked, "Who is Sutch?"</p> + +<p>"A great friend of mine," said Feversham. "He is in Egypt, then! Does he +say where?"</p> + +<p>"No; but since Mohammed Ali, the grain merchant, dropped the paper, we +may be sure he is at Suakin. A man with a box of matches! Think, we may +meet him to-night!"</p> + +<p>But it was a month later when, in the evening, an Arab pushed past them +on the river-bank and said: "I am the man with the matches. To-morrow by +the storehouse at this hour." And as he walked past them he dropped a +box of coloured matches on the ground. Feversham stooped instantly.</p> + +<p>"Don't touch them," said Trench, and he pressed the box into the ground +with his foot and walked on.</p> + +<p>"Sutch!" exclaimed Feversham. "So he comes to our help! How did he know +that I was here?"</p> + +<p>Trench fairly shook with excitement as he walked. He did not speak of +the great new hope which so suddenly came to them, for he dared not. He +tried even to pretend to himself that no message at all had come. He was +afraid to let his mind dwell upon the subject. Both men slept brokenly +that night, and every time they waked it was with a dim consciousness +that something great and wonderful had happened. Feversham, as he lay +upon his back and gazed upwards at the stars, had a fancy that he had +fallen asleep in the garden of Broad Place, on the Surrey hills, and +that he had but to raise his head to see the dark pines upon his right +hand and his left, and but to look behind to see the gables of the house +against the sky. He fell asleep towards dawn, and within an hour was +waked up by a violent shaking. He saw Trench bending over him with a +great fear on his face.</p> + +<p>"Suppose they keep us in the prison to-day," he whispered in a shaking +voice, plucking at Feversham. "It has just occurred to me! Suppose they +did that!"</p> + +<p>"Why should they?" answered Feversham; but the same fear caught hold of +him, and they sat dreading the appearance of Idris, lest he should have +some such new order to deliver. But Idris crossed the yard and unbolted +the prison door without a look at them. Fighting, screaming, jammed +together in the entrance, pulled back, thrust forwards, the captives +struggled out into the air, and among them was one who ran, foaming at +the mouth, and dashed his head against the wall.</p> + +<p>"He is mad!" said Trench, as the gaolers secured him; and since Trench +was unmanned that morning he began to speak rapidly and almost with +incoherence. "That's what I have feared, Feversham, that I should go +mad. To die, even here, one could put up with that without overmuch +regret; but to go mad!" and he shivered. "If this man with the matches +proves false to us, Feversham, I shall be near to it—very near to it. A +man one day, a raving, foaming idiot the next—a thing to be put away +out of sight, out of hearing. God, but that's horrible!" and he dropped +his head between his hands, and dared not look up until Idris crossed to +them and bade them go about their work. What work they did in the +factory that day neither knew. They were only aware that the hours +passed with an extraordinary slowness, but the evening came at last.</p> + +<p>"Among the storehouses," said Trench. They dived into the first alley +which they passed, and turning a corner saw the man who had brought the +matches.</p> + +<p>"I am Abdul Kader," he began at once. "I have come to arrange for your +escape. But at present flight is impossible;" and Trench swayed upon his +feet as he heard the word.</p> + +<p>"Impossible?" asked Feversham.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I brought three camels to Omdurman, of which two have died. The +Effendi at Suakin gave me money, but not enough. I could not arrange +for relays, but if you will give me a letter to the Effendi telling him +to give me two hundred pounds, then I will have everything ready and +come again within three months."</p> + +<p>Trench turned his back so that his companion might not see his face. All +his spirit had gone from him at this last stroke of fortune. The truth +was clear to him, appallingly clear. Abdul Kader was not going to risk +his life; he would be the shuttle going backwards and forwards between +Omdurman and Suakin as long as Feversham cared to write letters and +Sutch to pay money. But the shuttle would do no weaving.</p> + +<p>"I have nothing with which to write," said Feversham, and Abdul Kader +produced them.</p> + +<p>"Be quick," he said. "Write quickly, lest we be discovered." And +Feversham wrote; but though he wrote as Abdul suggested, the futility of +his writing was as clear to him as to Trench.</p> + +<p>"There is the letter," he said, and he handed it to Abdul, and, taking +Trench by the arm, walked without another word away.</p> + +<p>They passed out of the alley and came again to the great mud wall. It +was sunset. To their left the river gleamed with changing lights—here +it ran the colour of an olive, there rose pink, and here again a +brilliant green; above their heads the stars were coming out, in the +east it was already dusk; and behind them in the town, drums were +beginning to beat with their barbaric monotone. Both men walked with +their chins sunk upon their breasts, their eyes upon the ground. They +had come to the end of hope, they were possessed with a lethargy of +despair. Feversham thought not at all of the pine trees on the Surrey +hills, nor did Trench have any dread that something in his head would +snap and that which made him man be reft from him. They walked slowly, +as though their fetters had grown ten times their weight, and without a +word. So stricken, indeed, were they that an Arab turned and kept pace +beside them, and neither noticed his presence. In a few moments the Arab +spoke:—</p> + +<p>"The camels are ready in the desert, ten miles to the west."</p> + +<p>But he spoke in so low a voice, and those to whom he spoke were so +absorbed in misery, that the words passed unheard. He repeated them, and +Feversham looked up. Quite slowly their meaning broke in on Feversham's +mind; quite slowly he recognised the man who uttered them.</p> + +<p>"Abou Fatma!" he said.</p> + +<p>"Hoosh!" returned Abou Fatma, "the camels are ready."</p> + +<p>"Now?"</p> + +<p>"Now."</p> + +<p>Trench leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, and the face of a +sick man. It seemed that he would swoon, and Feversham took him by the +arm.</p> + +<p>"Is it true?" Trench asked faintly; and before Feversham could answer +Abou Fatma went on:—</p> + +<p>"Walk forwards very slowly. Before you reach the end of the wall it will +be dusk. Draw your cloaks over your heads, wrap these rags about your +chains, so that they do not rattle. Then turn and come back, go close to +the water beyond the storehouses. I will be there with a man to remove +your chains. But keep your faces well covered and do not stop. He will +think you slaves."</p> + +<p>With that he passed some rags to them, holding his hands behind his +back, while they stood close to him. Then he turned and hurried back. +Very slowly Feversham and Trench walked forwards in the direction of the +prison; the dusk crept across the river, mounted the long slope of sand, +enveloped them. They sat down and quickly wrapped the rags about their +chains and secured them there. From the west the colours of the sunset +had altogether faded, the darkness gathered quickly about them. They +turned and walked back along the road they had come. The drums were more +numerous now, and above the wall there rose a glare of light. By the +time they had reached the water's edge opposite the storehouses it was +dark. Abou Fatma was already waiting with his blacksmith. The chains +were knocked off without a word spoken.</p> + +<p>"Come," said Abou. "There will be no moon to-night. How long before they +discover you are gone?"</p> + +<p>"Who knows? Perhaps already Idris has missed us. Perhaps he will not +till morning. There are many prisoners."</p> + +<p>They ran up the slope of sand, between the quarters of the tribes, +across the narrow width of the city, through the cemetery. On the far +side of the cemetery stood a disused house; a man rose up in the doorway +as they approached, and went in.</p> + +<p>"Wait here," said Abou Fatma, and he too went into the house. In a +moment both men came back, and each one led a camel and made it kneel.</p> + +<p>"Mount," said Abou Fatma. "Bring its head round and hold it as you +mount."</p> + +<p>"I know the trick," said Trench.</p> + +<p>Feversham climbed up behind him, the two Arabs mounted the second camel.</p> + +<p>"Ten miles to the west," said Abou Fatma, and he struck the camel on the +flanks.</p> + +<p>Behind them the glare of the lights dwindled, the tapping of the drums +diminished.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX</h2> + +<h3>THE LAST OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS</h3> + + +<p>The wind blew keen and cold from the north. The camels, freshened by it, +trotted out at their fastest pace.</p> + +<p>"Quicker," said Trench, between his teeth. "Already Idris may have +missed us."</p> + +<p>"Even if he has," replied Feversham, "it will take time to get men +together for a pursuit, and those men must fetch their camels, and +already it is dark."</p> + +<p>But although he spoke hopefully, he turned his head again and again +towards the glare of light above Omdurman. He could no longer hear the +tapping of the drums, that was some consolation. But he was in a country +of silence, where men could journey swiftly and yet make no noise. There +would be no sound of galloping horses to warn him that pursuit was at +his heels. Even at that moment the Ansar soldiers might be riding within +thirty paces of them, and Feversham strained his eyes backwards into the +darkness and expected the glimmer of a white turban. Trench, however, +never turned his head. He rode with his teeth set, looking forwards. Yet +fear was no less strong in him than in Feversham. Indeed, it was +stronger, for he did not look back towards Omdurman because he did not +dare; and though his eyes were fixed directly in front of him, the +things which he really saw were the long narrow streets of the town +behind him, the dotted fires at the corners of the streets, and men +running hither and thither among the houses, making their quick search +for the two prisoners escaped from the House of Stone.</p> + +<p>Once his attention was diverted by a word from Feversham, and he +answered without turning his head:—</p> + +<p>"What is it?"</p> + +<p>"I no longer see the fires of Omdurman."</p> + +<p>"The golden blot, eh, very low down?" Trench answered in an abstracted +voice. Feversham did not ask him to explain what his allusion meant, nor +could Trench have disclosed why he had spoken it; the words had come +back to him suddenly with a feeling that it was somehow appropriate that +the vision which was the last thing to meet Feversham's eyes as he set +out upon his mission he should see again now that that mission was +accomplished. They spoke no more until two figures rose out of the +darkness in front of them, at the very feet of their camels, and Abou +Fatma cried in a low voice:—</p> + +<p>"Instanna!"</p> + +<p>They halted their camels and made them kneel.</p> + +<p>"The new camels are here?" asked Abou Fatma, and two of the men +disappeared for a few minutes and brought four camels up. Meanwhile the +saddles were unfastened and removed from the camels Trench and his +companion had ridden out of Omdurman.</p> + +<p>"They are good camels?" asked Feversham, as he helped to fix the saddles +upon the fresh ones.</p> + +<p>"Of the Anafi breed," answered Abou Fatma. "Quick! Quick!" and he +looked anxiously to the east and listened.</p> + +<p>"The arms?" said Trench. "You have them? Where are they?" and he bent +his body and searched the ground for them.</p> + +<p>"In a moment," said Abou Fatma, but it seemed that Trench could hardly +wait for that moment to arrive. He showed even more anxiety to handle +the weapons than he had shown fear that he would be overtaken.</p> + +<p>"There is ammunition?" he asked feverishly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes," replied Abou Fatma, "ammunition and rifles and revolvers." +He led the way to a spot about twenty yards from the camels, where some +long desert grass rustled about their legs. He stooped and dug into the +soft sand with his hands.</p> + +<p>"Here," he said.</p> + +<p>Trench flung himself upon the ground beside him and scooped with both +hands, making all the while an inhuman whimpering sound with his mouth, +like the noise a foxhound makes at a cover. There was something rather +horrible to Feversham in his attitude as he scraped at the ground on his +knees, at the action of his hands, quick like the movements of a dog's +paws, and in the whine of his voice. He was sunk for the time into an +animal. In a moment or two Trench's fingers touched the lock and trigger +of a rifle, and he became man again. He stood up quietly with the rifle +in his hands. The other arms were unearthed, the ammunition shared.</p> + +<p>"Now," said Trench, and he laughed with a great thrill of joy in the +laugh. "Now I don't mind. Let them follow from Omdurman! One thing is +certain now: I shall never go back there; no, not even if they overtake +us," and he fondled the rifle which he held and spoke to it as though it +lived.</p> + +<p>Two of the Arabs mounted the old camels and rode slowly away to +Omdurman. Abou Fatma and the other remained with the fugitives. They +mounted and trotted northeastwards. No more than a quarter of an hour +had elapsed since they had first halted at Abou Fatma's word.</p> + +<p>All that night they rode through halfa grass and mimosa trees and went +but slowly, but they came about sunrise on to flat bare ground broken +with small hillocks.</p> + +<p>"Are the Effendi tired?" asked Abou Fatma. "Will they stop and eat? +There is food upon the saddle of each camel."</p> + +<p>"No; we can eat as we go."</p> + +<p>Dates and bread and a draught of water from a zamsheyeh made up their +meal, and they ate it as they sat their camels. These, indeed, now that +they were free of the long desert grass, trotted at their quickest pace. +And at sunset that evening they stopped and rested for an hour. All +through that night they rode and the next day, straining their own +endurance and that of the beasts they were mounted on, now ascending on +to high and rocky ground, now traversing a valley, and now trotting fast +across plains of honey-coloured sand. Yet to each man the pace seemed +always as slow as a funeral. A mountain would lift itself above the rim +of the horizon at sunrise, and for the whole livelong day it stood +before their eyes, and was never a foot higher or an inch nearer. At +times, some men tilling a scanty patch of sorghum would send the +fugitives' hearts leaping in their throats, and they must make a wide +detour; or again a caravan would be sighted in the far distance by the +keen eyes of Abou Fatma, and they made their camels kneel and lay +crouched behind a rock, with their loaded rifles in their hands. Ten +miles from Abu Klea a relay of fresh camels awaited them, and upon these +they travelled, keeping a day's march westward of the Nile. Thence they +passed through the desert country of the Ababdeh, and came in sight of a +broad grey tract stretching across their path.</p> + +<p>"The road from Berber to Merowi," said Abou Fatma. "North of it we turn +east to the river. We cross that road to-night; and if God wills, +to-morrow evening we shall have crossed the Nile."</p> + +<p>"If God wills," said Trench. "If only He wills," and he glanced about +him in a fear which only increased the nearer they drew towards safety. +They were in a country traversed by the caravans; it was no longer safe +to travel by day. They dismounted, and all that day they lay hidden +behind a belt of shrubs upon some high ground and watched the road and +the people like specks moving along it. They came down and crossed it in +the darkness, and for the rest of that night travelled hard towards the +river. As the day broke Abou Fatma again bade them halt. They were in a +desolate open country, whereon the smallest protection was magnified by +the surrounding flatness. Feversham and Trench gazed eagerly to their +right. Somewhere in that direction and within the range of their +eyesight flowed the Nile, but they could not see it.</p> + +<p>"We must build a circle of stones," said Abou Fatma, "and you must lie +close to the ground within it. I will go forward to the river, and see +that the boat is ready and that our friends are prepared for us. I shall +come back after dark."</p> + +<p>They gathered the stones quickly and made a low wall about a foot high; +within this wall Feversham and Trench laid themselves down upon the +ground with a water-skin and their rifles at their sides.</p> + +<p>"You have dates, too," said Abou Fatma.</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Then do not stir from the hiding-place till I come back. I will take +your camels, and bring you back fresh ones in the evening." And in +company with his fellow-Arab he rode off towards the river.</p> + +<p>Trench and Feversham dug out the sand within the stones and lay down, +watching the horizon between the interstices. For both of them this +perhaps was the longest day of their lives. They were so near to safety +and yet not safe. To Trench's thinking it was longer than a night in the +House of Stone, and to Feversham longer than even one of those days six +years back when he had sat in his rooms above St. James's Park and +waited for the night to fall before he dared venture out into the +streets. They were so near to Berber, and the pursuit must needs be +close behind. Feversham lay wondering how he had ever found the courage +to venture himself in Berber. They had no shade to protect them; all day +the sun burnt pitilessly upon their backs, and within the narrow circle +of stones they had no room wherein to move. They spoke hardly at all. +The sunset, however, came at the last, the friendly darkness gathered +about them, and a cool wind rustled through the darkness across the +desert.</p> + +<p>"Listen!" said Trench; and both men as they strained their ears heard +the soft padding of camels very near at hand. A moment later a low +whistle brought them out of their shelter.</p> + +<p>"We are here," said Feversham, quietly.</p> + +<p>"God be thanked!" said Abou Fatma. "I have good news for you, and bad +news too. The boat is ready, our friends are waiting for us, camels are +prepared for you on the caravan track by the river-bank to Abu Hamed. +But your escape is known, and the roads and the ferries are closely +watched. Before sunrise we must have struck inland from the eastern bank +of the Nile."</p> + +<p>They crossed the river cautiously about one o'clock of the morning, and +sank the boat upon the far side of the stream. The camels were waiting +for them, and they travelled inland and more slowly than suited the +anxiety of the fugitives. For the ground was thickly covered with +boulders, and the camels could seldom proceed at any pace faster than a +walk. And all through the next day they lay hidden again within a ring +of stones while the camels were removed to some high ground where they +could graze. During the next night, however, they made good progress, +and, coming to the groves of Abu Hamed in two days, rested for twelve +hours there and mounted upon a fresh relay. From Abu Hamed their road +lay across the great Nubian Desert.</p> + +<p>Nowadays the traveller may journey through the two hundred and forty +miles of that waterless plain of coal-black rocks and yellow sand, and +sleep in his berth upon the way. The morning will show to him, perhaps, +a tent, a great pile of coal, a water tank, and a number painted on a +white signboard, and the stoppage of the train will inform him that he +has come to a station. Let him put his head from the window, he will see +the long line of telegraph poles reaching from the sky's rim behind him +to the sky's rim in front, and huddling together, as it seems, with less +and less space between them the farther they are away. Twelve hours will +enclose the beginning and the end of his journey, unless the engine +break down or the rail be blocked. But in the days when Feversham and +Trench escaped from Omdurman progression was not so easy a matter. They +kept eastward of the present railway and along the line of wells among +the hills. And on the second night of this stage of their journey Trench +shook Feversham by the shoulders and waked him up.</p> + +<p>"Look," he said, and he pointed to the south. "To-night there's no +Southern Cross." His voice broke with emotion. "For six years, for every +night of six years, until this night, I have seen the Southern Cross. +How often have I lain awake watching it, wondering whether the night +would ever come when I should not see those four slanting stars! I tell +you, Feversham, this is the first moment when I have really dared to +think that we should escape."</p> + +<p>Both men sat up and watched the southern sky with prayers of +thankfulness in their hearts; and when they fell asleep it was only to +wake up again and again with a fear that they would after all still see +that constellation blazing low down towards the earth, and to fall +asleep again confident of the issue of their desert ride. At the end of +seven days they came to Shof-el-Ain, a tiny well set in a barren valley +between featureless ridges, and by the side of that well they camped. +They were in the country of the Amrab Arabs, and had come to an end of +their peril.</p> + +<p>"We are safe," cried Abou Fatma. "God is good. Northwards to Assouan, +westwards to Wadi Halfa, we are safe!" And spreading a cloth upon the +ground in front of the kneeling camels, he heaped dhurra before them. He +even went so far in his gratitude as to pat one of the animals upon the +neck, and it immediately turned upon him and snarled.</p> + +<p>Trench reached out his hand to Feversham.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," he said simply.</p> + +<p>"No need of thanks," answered Feversham, and he did not take the hand. +"I served myself from first to last."</p> + +<p>"You have learned the churlishness of a camel," cried Trench. "A camel +will carry you where you want to go, will carry you till it drops dead, +and yet if you show your gratitude it resents and bites. Hang it all, +Feversham, there's my hand."</p> + +<p>Feversham untied a knot in the breast of his jibbeh and took out three +white feathers, two small, the feathers of a heron, the other large, an +ostrich feather broken from a fan.</p> + +<p>"Will you take yours back?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You know what to do with it."</p> + +<p>"Yes. There shall be no delay."</p> + +<p>Feversham wrapped the remaining feathers carefully away in a corner of +his ragged jibbeh and tied them safe.</p> + +<p>"We shake hands, then," said he; and as their hands met he added, +"To-morrow morning we part company."</p> + +<p>"Part company, you and I—after the year in Omdurman, the weeks of +flight?" exclaimed Trench. "Why? There's no more to be done. Castleton's +dead. You keep the feather which he sent, but he is dead. You can do +nothing with it. You must come home."</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Feversham, "but after you, certainly not with you. You +go on to Assouan and Cairo. At each place you will find friends to +welcome you. I shall not go with you."</p> + +<p>Trench was silent for a while. He understood Feversham's reluctance, he +saw that it would be easier for Feversham if he were to tell his story +first to Ethne Eustace, and without Feversham's presence.</p> + +<p>"I ought to tell you no one knows why you resigned your commission, or +of the feathers we sent. We never spoke of it. We agreed never to speak, +for the honour of the regiment. I can't tell you how glad I am that we +all agreed and kept to the agreement," he said.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you will see Durrance," said Feversham; "if you do, give him a +message from me. Tell him that the next time he asks me to come and see +him, whether it is in England or Wadi Halfa, I will accept the +invitation."</p> + +<p>"Which way will you go?"</p> + +<p>"To Wadi Halfa," said Feversham, pointing westwards over his shoulder. +"I shall take Abou Fatma with me and travel slowly and quietly down the +Nile. The other Arab will guide you into Assouan."</p> + +<p>They slept that night in security beside the well, and the next morning +they parted company. Trench was the first to ride off, and as his camel +rose to its feet, ready for the start, he bent down towards Feversham, +who passed him the nose rein.</p> + +<p>"Ramelton, that was the name? I shall not forget."</p> + +<p>"Yes, Ramelton," said Feversham; "there's a ferry across Lough Swilly to +Rathmullen. You must drive the twelve miles to Ramelton. But you may not +find her there."</p> + +<p>"If not there, I shall find her somewhere else. Make no mistake, +Feversham, I shall find her."</p> + +<p>And Trench rode forward, alone with his Arab guide. More than once he +turned his head and saw Feversham still standing by the well; more than +once he was strongly drawn to stop and ride back to that solitary +figure, but he contented himself with waving his hand, and even that +salute was not returned.</p> + +<p>Feversham, indeed, had neither thought nor eyes for the companion of his +flight. His six years of hard probation had come this morning to an end, +and yet he was more sensible of a certain loss and vacancy than of any +joy. For six years, through many trials, through many falterings, his +mission had strengthened and sustained him. It seemed to him now that +there was nothing more wherewith to occupy his life. Ethne? No doubt she +was long since married ... and there came upon him all at once a great +bitterness of despair for that futile, unnecessary mistake made by him +six years ago. He saw again the room in London overlooking the quiet +trees and lawns of St. James's Park, he heard the knock upon the door, +he took the telegram from his servant's hand.</p> + +<p>He roused himself finally with the recollection that, after all, the +work was not quite done. There was his father, who just at this moment +was very likely reading his <i>Times</i> after breakfast upon the terrace of +Broad Place among the pine trees upon the Surrey hills. He must visit +his father, he must take that fourth feather back to Ramelton. There was +a telegram, too, which must be sent to Lieutenant Sutch at Suakin.</p> + +<p>He mounted his camel and rode slowly with Abou Fatma westwards towards +Wadi Halfa. But the sense of loss did not pass from him that day, nor +his anger at the act of folly which had brought about his downfall. The +wooded slopes of Ramelton were very visible to him across the shimmer of +the desert air. In the greatness of his depression Harry Feversham upon +this day for the first time doubted his faith in the "afterwards."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI</h2> + +<h3>FEVERSHAM RETURNS TO RAMELTON</h3> + + +<p>On an August morning of the same year Harry Feversham rode across the +Lennon bridge into Ramelton. The fierce suns of the Soudan had tanned +his face, the years of his probation had left their marks; he rode up +the narrow street of the town unrecognised. At the top of the hill he +turned into the broad highway which, descending valleys and climbing +hills, runs in one straight line to Letterkenny. He rode rather quickly +in a company of ghosts.</p> + +<p>The intervening years had gradually been dropping from his thoughts all +through his journey across Egypt and the Continent. They were no more +than visionary now. Nor was he occupied with any dream of the things +which might have been but for his great fault. The things which had +been, here, in this small town of Ireland, were too definite. Here he +had been most happy, here he had known the uttermost of his misery; here +his presence had brought pleasure, here too he had done his worst harm. +Once he stopped when he was opposite to the church, set high above the +road upon his right hand, and wondered whether Ethne was still at +Ramelton—whether old Dermod was alive, and what kind of welcome he +would receive. But he waked in a moment to the knowledge that he was +sitting upon his horse in the empty road and in the quiet of an August +morning. There were larks singing in the pale blue above his head; a +landrail sent up its harsh cry from the meadow on the left; the crow of +a cock rose clear from the valley. He looked about him, and rode briskly +on down the incline in front of him and up the ascent beyond. He rode +again with his company of ghosts—phantoms of people with whom upon this +road he had walked and ridden and laughed, ghosts of old thoughts and +recollected words. He came to a thick grove of trees, a broken fence, a +gateway with no gate. Inattentive to these evidences of desertion, he +turned in at the gate and rode along a weedy and neglected drive. At the +end of it he came to an open space before a ruined house. The aspect of +the tumbling walls and unroofed rooms roused him at last completely from +his absorption. He dismounted, and, tying his horse to the branch of a +tree, ran quickly into the house and called aloud. No voice answered +him. He ran from deserted room to deserted room. He descended into the +garden, but no one came to meet him; and he understood now from the +uncut grass upon the lawn, the tangled disorder of the flowerbeds, that +no one would come. He mounted his horse again, and rode back at a sharp +trot. In Ramelton he stopped at the inn, gave his horse to the ostler, +and ordered lunch for himself. He said to the landlady who waited upon +him:—</p> + +<p>"So Lennon House has been burned down? When was that?"</p> + +<p>"Five years ago," the landlady returned, "just five years ago this +summer." And she proceeded, without further invitation, to give a +voluminous account of the conflagration and the cause of it, the ruin of +the Eustace family, the inebriety of Bastable, and the death of Dermod +Eustace at Glenalla. "But we hope to see the house rebuilt. It's likely +to be, we hear, when Miss Eustace is married," she said, in a voice +which suggested that she was full of interesting information upon the +subject of Miss Eustace's marriage. Her guest, however, did not respond +to the invitation.</p> + +<p>"And where does Miss Eustace live now?"</p> + +<p>"At Glenalla," she replied. "Halfway on the road to Rathmullen there's a +track leads up to your left. It's a poor mountain village is Glenalla, +and no place for Miss Eustace, at all, at all. Perhaps you will be +wanting to see her?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I shall be glad if you will order my horse to be brought round to +the door," said the man; and he rose from the table to put an end to the +interview.</p> + +<p>The landlady, however, was not so easily dismissed. She stood at the +door and remarked:—</p> + +<p>"Well, that's curious—that's most curious. For only a fortnight ago a +gentleman burnt just as black as yourself stayed a night here on the +same errand. He asked for Miss Eustace's address and drove up to +Glenalla. Perhaps you have business with her?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I have business with Miss Eustace," the stranger returned. "Will +you be good enough to give orders about my horse?"</p> + +<p>While he was waiting for his horse he looked through the leaves of the +hotel book, and saw under a date towards the end of July the name of +Colonel Trench.</p> + +<p>"You will come back, sir, to-night?" said the landlady, as he mounted.</p> + +<p>"No," he answered, "I do not think I shall come again to Ramelton." And +he rode down the hill, and once more that day crossed the Lennon bridge. +Four miles on he came to the track opposite a little bay of the Lough, +and, turning into it, he rode past a few white cottages up to the purple +hollow of the hills. It was about five o'clock when he came to the long, +straggling village. It seemed very quiet and deserted, and built without +any plan. A few cottages stood together, then came a gap of fields, +beyond that a small plantation of larches and a house which stood by +itself. Beyond the house was another gap, through which he could see +straight down to the water of the Lough, shining in the afternoon sun, +and the white gulls poising and swooping above it. And after passing +that gap he came to a small grey church, standing bare to the winds upon +its tiny plateau. A pathway of white shell-dust led from the door of the +church to the little wooden gate. As he came level with the gate a +collie dog barked at him from behind it.</p> + +<p>The rider looked at the dog, which was very grey about the muzzle. He +noticed its marking, and stopped his horse altogether. He glanced +towards the church, and saw that the door stood open. At once he +dismounted; he fastened his horse to the fence, and entered the +churchyard. The collie thrust its muzzle into the back of his knee, +sniffed once or twice doubtfully, and suddenly broke into an exuberant +welcome. The collie dog had a better memory than the landlady of the +inn. He barked, wagged his tail, crouched and sprang at the stranger's +shoulders, whirled round and round in front of him, burst into sharp, +excited screams of pleasure, ran up to the church door and barked +furiously there, then ran back and jumped again upon his friend. The man +caught the dog as it stood up with its forepaws upon his chest, patted +it, and laughed. Suddenly he ceased laughing, and stood stock-still with +his eyes towards the open door of the church. In the doorway Ethne +Eustace was standing. He put the dog down and slowly walked up the path +towards her. She waited on the threshold without moving, without +speaking. She waited, watching him, until he came close to her. Then she +said simply:—</p> + +<p>"Harry."</p> + +<p>She was silent after that; nor did he speak. All the ghosts and phantoms +of old thoughts in whose company he had travelled the whole of that day +vanished away from his mind at her simple utterance of his name. Six +years had passed since his feet crushed the gravel on the dawn of a June +morning beneath her window. And they looked at one another, remarking +the changes which those six years had brought. And the changes, +unnoticed and almost imperceptible to those who had lived daily in their +company, sprang very distinct to the eyes of these two. Feversham was +thin, his face was wasted. The strain of life in the House of Stone had +left its signs about his sunken eyes and in the look of age beyond his +years. But these were not the only changes, as Ethne noticed; they were +not, indeed, the most important ones. Her heart, although she stood so +still and silent, went out to him in grief for the great troubles which +he had endured; but she saw, too, that he came back without a thought of +anger towards her for that fourth feather snapped from her fan. But she +was clear-eyed even at this moment. She saw much more. She understood +that the man who stood quietly before her now was not the same man whom +she had last seen in the hall of Ramelton. There had been a timidity in +his manner in those days, a peculiar diffidence, a continual expectation +of other men's contempt, which had gone from him. He was now quietly +self-possessed; not arrogant; on the other hand, not diffident. He had +put himself to a long, hard test; and he knew that he had not failed. +All that she saw; and her face lightened as she said:—</p> + +<p>"It is not all harm which has come of these years. They were not +wasted."</p> + +<p>But Feversham thought of her lonely years in this village of +Glenalla—and thought with a man's thought, unaware that nowhere else +would she have chosen to live. He looked into her face, and saw the +marks of the years upon it. It was not that she had aged so much. Her +big grey eyes shone as clearly as before, the colour was still as bright +upon her cheeks. But there was more of character. She had suffered; she +had eaten of the tree of knowledge.</p> + +<p>"I am sorry," he said. "I did you a great wrong six years ago, and I +need not."</p> + +<p>She held out her hand to him.</p> + +<p>"Will you give it me, please?"</p> + +<p>And for a moment he did not understand.</p> + +<p>"That fourth feather," she said.</p> + +<p>He drew his letter-case from his coat, and shook two feathers out into +the palm of his hand. The larger one, the ostrich feather, he held out +to her. But she said:—</p> + +<p>"Both."</p> + +<p>There was no reason why he should keep Castleton's feather any longer. +He handed them both to her, since she asked for them, and she clasped +them, and with a smile treasured them against her breast.</p> + +<p>"I have the four feathers now," she said.</p> + +<p>"Yes," answered Feversham; "all four. What will you do with them?"</p> + +<p>Ethne's smile became a laugh.</p> + +<p>"Do with them!" she cried in scorn. "I shall do nothing with them. I +shall keep them. I am very proud to have them to keep."</p> + +<p>She kept them, as she had once kept Harry Feversham's portrait. There +was something perhaps in Durrance's contention that women so much more +than men gather up their experiences and live upon them, looking +backwards. Feversham, at all events, would now have dropped the feathers +then and there and crushed them into the dust of the path with his heel; +they had done their work. They could no longer reproach, they were no +longer needed to encourage, they were dead things. Ethne, however, held +them tight in her hand; to her they were not dead.</p> + +<p>"Colonel Trench was here a fortnight ago," she said. "He told me you +were bringing it back to me."</p> + +<p>"But he did not know of the fourth feather," said Feversham. "I never +told any man that I had it."</p> + +<p>"Yes. You told Colonel Trench on your first night in the House of Stone +at Omdurman. He told me. I no longer hate him," she added, but without a +smile and quite seriously, as though it was an important statement which +needed careful recognition.</p> + +<p>"I am glad of that," said Feversham. "He is a great friend of mine."</p> + +<p>Ethne was silent for a moment or two. Then she said:—</p> + +<p>"I wonder whether you have forgotten our drive from Ramelton to our +house when I came to fetch you from the quay? We were alone in the +dog-cart, and we spoke—"</p> + +<p>"Of the friends whom one knows for friends the first moment, and whom +one seems to recognise even though one has never seen them before," +interrupted Feversham. "Indeed I remember."</p> + +<p>"And whom one never loses whether absent or dead," continued Ethne. "I +said that one could always be sure of such friends, and you answered—"</p> + +<p>"I answered that one could make mistakes," again Feversham interrupted.</p> + +<p>"Yes, and I disagreed. I said that one might seem to make mistakes, and +perhaps think so for a long while, but that in the end one would be +proved not to have made them. I have often thought of those words. I +remembered them very clearly when Captain Willoughby brought to me the +first feather, and with a great deal of remorse. I remember them again +very clearly to-day, although I have no room in my thoughts for remorse. +I was right, you see, and I should have clung firmly to my faith. But I +did not." Her voice shook a little, and pleaded as she went on: "I was +young. I knew very little. I was unaware how little. I judged hastily; +but to-day I understand."</p> + +<p>She opened her hand and gazed for a while at the white feathers. Then +she turned and went inside the church. Feversham followed her.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII</h2> + +<h3>IN THE CHURCH AT GLENALLA</h3> + + +<p>Ethne sat down in the corner of a pew next to the aisle, and Feversham +took his stand beside her. It was very quiet and peaceful within that +tiny church. The afternoon sun shone through the upper windows and made +a golden haze about the roof. The natural murmurs of the summer floated +pleasantly through the open door.</p> + +<p>"I am glad that you remembered our drive and what we said," she +continued. "It is rather important to me that you should remember. +Because, although I have got you back, I am going to send you away from +me again. You will be one of the absent friends whom I shall not lose +because you are absent."</p> + +<p>She spoke slowly, looking straight in front of her without faltering. It +was a difficult speech for her to deliver, but she had thought over it +night and day during this last fortnight, and the words were ready to +her lips. At the first sight of Harry Feversham, recovered to her after +so many years, so much suspense, so much suffering, it had seemed to her +that she never would be able to speak them, however necessary it was +that they should be spoken. But as they stood over against one another +she had forced herself to remember that necessity until she actually +recognised and felt it. Then she had gone back into the church and taken +a seat, and gathered up her strength.</p> + +<p>It would be easier for both of them, she thought, if she should give no +sign of what so quick a separation cost her. He would know surely +enough, and she wished him to know; she wished him to understand that +not one moment of his six years, so far as she was concerned, had been +spent in vain. But that could be understood without the signs of +emotion. So she spoke her speech looking steadily straight forward and +speaking in an even voice.</p> + +<p>"I know that you will mind very much, just as I do. But there is no help +for it," she resumed. "At all events you are at home again, with the +right to be at home. It is a great comfort to me to know that. But there +are other, much greater reasons from which we can both take comfort. +Colonel Trench told me enough of your captivity to convince me that we +both see with the same eyes. We both understand that this second +parting, hard as it is, is still a very slight, small thing compared +with the other, our first parting over at the house six years ago. I +felt very lonely after that, as I shall not feel lonely now. There was a +great barrier between us then separating us forever. We should never +have met again here or afterwards. I am quite sure of that. But you have +broken the barrier down by all your pain and bravery during these last +years. I am no less sure of that. I am absolutely confident about it, +and I believe you are too. So that although we shall not see one another +here and as long as we live, the afterwards is quite sure for us both. +And we can wait for that. You can. You have waited with so much strength +all these years since we parted. And I can too, for I get strength from +your victory."</p> + +<p>She stopped, and for a while there was silence in that church. To +Feversham her words were gracious as rain upon dry land. To hear her +speak them uplifted him so that those six years of trial, of slinking +into corners out of the sight of his fellows, of lonely endurance, of +many heart-sinkings and much bodily pain, dwindled away into +insignificance. They had indeed borne their fruit to him. For Ethne had +spoken in a gentle voice just what his ears had so often longed to hear +as he lay awake at night in the bazaar at Suakin, in the Nile villages, +in the dim wide spaces of the desert, and what he had hardly dared to +hope she ever would speak. He stood quite silently by her side, still +hearing her voice though the voice had ceased. Long ago there were +certain bitter words which she had spoken, and he had told Sutch, so +closely had they clung and stung, that he believed in his dying moments +he would hear them again and so go to his grave with her reproaches +ringing in his ears. He remembered that prediction of his now and knew +that it was false. The words he would hear would be those which she had +just uttered.</p> + +<p>For Ethne's proposal that they should separate he was not unprepared. He +had heard already that she was engaged, and he did not argue against her +wish. But he understood that she had more to say to him. And she had. +But she was slow to speak it. This was the last time she was to see +Harry Feversham; she meant resolutely to send him away. When once he +had passed through that church door, through which the sunlight and the +summer murmurs came, and his shadow gone from the threshold, she would +never talk with him or set her eyes on him until her life was ended. So +she deferred the moment of his going by silences and slow speech. It +might be so very long before that end came. She had, she thought, the +right to protract this one interview. She rather hoped that he would +speak of his travels, his dangers; she was prepared to discuss at length +with him even the politics of the Soudan. But he waited for her.</p> + +<p>"I am going to be married," she said at length, "and immediately. I am +to marry a friend of yours, Colonel Durrance."</p> + +<p>There was hardly a pause before Feversham answered:—</p> + +<p>"He has cared for you a long while. I was not aware of it until I went +away, but, thinking over everything, I thought it likely, and in a very +little time I became sure."</p> + +<p>"He is blind."</p> + +<p>"Blind!" exclaimed Feversham. "He, of all men, blind!"</p> + +<p>"Exactly," said Ethne. "He—of all men. His blindness explains +everything—why I marry him, why I send you away. It was after he went +blind that I became engaged to him. It was before Captain Willoughby +came to me with the first feather. It was between those two events. You +see, after you went away one thought over things rather carefully. I +used to lie awake and think, and I resolved that two men's lives should +not be spoilt because of me."</p> + +<p>"Mine was not," Feversham interrupted. "Please believe that."</p> + +<p>"Partly it was," she returned, "I know very well. You would not own it +for my sake, but it was. I was determined that a second should not be. +And so when Colonel Durrance went blind—you know the man he was, you +can understand what blindness meant to him, the loss of everything he +cared for—"</p> + +<p>"Except you."</p> + +<p>"Yes," Ethne answered quietly, "except me. So I became engaged to him. +But he has grown very quick—you cannot guess how quick. And he sees so +very clearly. A hint tells him the whole hidden truth. At present he +knows nothing of the four feathers."</p> + +<p>"Are you sure?" suddenly exclaimed Feversham.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Why?" asked Ethne, turning her face towards him for the first time +since she had sat down.</p> + +<p>"Lieutenant Sutch was at Suakin while I was at Omdurman. He knew that I +was a prisoner there. He sent messages to me, he tried to organise my +escape."</p> + +<p>Ethne was startled.</p> + +<p>"Oh," she said, "Colonel Durrance certainly knew that you were in +Omdurman. He saw you in Wadi Halfa, and he heard that you had gone south +into the desert. He was distressed about it; he asked a friend to get +news of you, and the friend got news that you were in Omdurman. He told +me so himself, and—yes, he told me that he would try to arrange for +your escape. No doubt he has done that through Lieutenant Sutch. He has +been at Wiesbaden with an oculist; he only returned a week ago. +Otherwise he would have told me about it. Very likely he was the reason +why Lieutenant Sutch was at Suakin, but he knows nothing of the four +feathers. He only knows that our engagement was abruptly broken off; he +believes that I have no longer any thought of you at all. But if you +come back, if you and I saw anything of each other, however calmly we +met, however indifferently we spoke, he would guess. He is so quick he +would be sure to guess." She paused for a moment, and added in a +whisper, "And he would guess right."</p> + +<p>Feversham saw the blood flush her forehead and deepen the colour of her +cheeks. He did not move from his position, he did not bend towards her, +or even in voice give any sign which would make this leave-taking yet +more difficult to carry through.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I see," he said. "And he must not guess."</p> + +<p>"No, he must not," returned Ethne. "I am so glad you see that too, +Harry. The straight and simple thing is the only thing for us to do. He +must never guess, for, as you said, he has nothing left but me."</p> + +<p>"Is Durrance here?" asked Feversham.</p> + +<p>"He is staying at the vicarage."</p> + +<p>"Very well," he said. "It is only fair that I should tell you I had no +thought that you would wait. I had no wish that you should; I had no +right to such a wish. When you gave me that fourth feather in the little +room at Ramelton, with the music coming faintly through the door, I +understood your meaning. There was to be a complete, an irrevocable end. +We were not to be the merest acquaintances. So I said nothing to you of +the plan which came clear and definite into my mind at the very time +when you gave me the feathers. You see, I might never have succeeded. I +might have died trying to succeed. I might even perhaps have shirked the +attempt. It would be time enough for me to speak if I came back. So I +never formed any wish that you should wait."</p> + +<p>"That was what Colonel Trench told me."</p> + +<p>"I told him that too?"</p> + +<p>"On your first night in the House of Stone."</p> + +<p>"Well, it's just the truth. The most I hoped for—and I did hope for +that every hour of every day—was that, if I did come home, you would +take back your feather, and that we might—not renew our friendship +here, but see something of one another afterwards."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Ethne. "Then there will be no parting."</p> + +<p>Ethne spoke very simply, without even a sigh, but she looked at Harry +Feversham as she spoke and smiled. The look and the smile told him what +the cost of the separation would be to her. And, understanding what it +meant now, he understood, with an infinitely greater completeness than +he had ever reached in his lonely communings, what it must have meant +six years ago when she was left with her pride stricken as sorely as her +heart.</p> + +<p>"What trouble you must have gone through!" he cried, and she turned and +looked him over.</p> + +<p>"Not I alone," she said gently. "I passed no nights in the House of +Stone."</p> + +<p>"But it was my fault. Do you remember what you said when the morning +came through the blinds? 'It's not right that one should suffer so much +pain.' It was not right."</p> + +<p>"I had forgotten the words—oh, a long time since—until Colonel Trench +reminded me. I should never have spoken them. When I did I was not +thinking they would live so in your thoughts. I am sorry that I spoke +them."</p> + +<p>"Oh, they were just enough. I never blamed you for them," said +Feversham, with a laugh. "I used to think that they would be the last +words I should hear when I turned my face to the wall. But you have +given me others to-day wherewith to replace them."</p> + +<p>"Thank you," she said quietly.</p> + +<p>There was nothing more to be said, and Feversham wondered why Ethne did +not rise from her seat in the pew. It did not occur to him to talk of +his travels or adventures. The occasion seemed too serious, too vital. +They were together to decide the most solemn issue in their lives. Once +the decision was made, as now it had been made, he felt that they could +hardly talk on other topics. Ethne, however, still kept him at her side. +Though she sat so calmly and still, though her face was quiet in its +look of gravity, her heart ached with longing. Just for a little longer, +she pleaded to herself. The sunlight was withdrawing from the walls of +the church. She measured out a space upon the walls where it still +glowed bright. When all that space was cold grey stone, she would send +Harry Feversham away.</p> + +<p>"I am glad that you escaped from Omdurman without the help of Lieutenant +Sutch or Colonel Durrance. I wanted so much that everything should be +done by you alone without anybody's help or interference," she said, and +after she had spoken there followed a silence. Once or twice she looked +towards the wall, and each time she saw the space of golden light +narrowed, and knew that her minutes were running out. "You suffered +horribly at Dongola," she said in a low voice. "Colonel Trench told me."</p> + +<p>"What does it matter now?" Feversham answered. "That time seems rather +far away to me."</p> + +<p>"Had you anything of mine with you?"</p> + +<p>"I had your white feather."</p> + +<p>"But anything else? Any little thing which I had given you in the other +days?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing."</p> + +<p>"I had your photograph," she said. "I kept it."</p> + +<p>Feversham suddenly leaned down towards her.</p> + +<p>"You did!"</p> + +<p>Ethne nodded her head.</p> + +<p>"Yes. The moment I went upstairs that night I packed up your presents +and addressed them to your rooms."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I got them in London."</p> + +<p>"But I put your photograph aside first of all to keep. I burnt all your +letters after I had addressed the parcel and taken it down to the hall +to be sent away. I had just finished burning your letters when I heard +your step upon the gravel in the early morning underneath my windows. +But I had already put your photograph aside. I have it now. I shall keep +it and the feathers together." She added after a moment:—</p> + +<p>"I rather wish that you had had something of mine with you all the +time."</p> + +<p>"I had no right to anything," said Feversham.</p> + +<p>There was still a narrow slip of gold upon the grey space of stone.</p> + +<p>"What will you do now?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"I shall go home first and see my father. It will depend upon the way we +meet."</p> + +<p>"You will let Colonel Durrance know. I would like to hear about it."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I will write to Durrance."</p> + +<p>The slip of gold was gone, the clear light of a summer evening filled +the church, a light without radiance or any colour.</p> + +<p>"I shall not see you for a long while," said Ethne, and for the first +time her voice broke in a sob. "I shall not have a letter from you +again."</p> + +<p>She leaned a little forward and bent her head, for the tears had +gathered in her eyes. But she rose up bravely from her seat, and +together they went out of the church side by side. She leaned towards +him as they walked so that they touched.</p> + +<p>Feversham untied his horse and mounted it. As his foot touched the +stirrup Ethne caught her dog close to her.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," she said. She did not now even try to smile, she held out +her hand to him. He took it and bent down from his saddle close to her. +She kept her eyes steadily upon him though the tears brimmed in them.</p> + +<p>"Good-bye," he said. He held her hand just for a little while, and then +releasing it, rode down the hill. He rode for a hundred yards, stopped +and looked back. Ethne had stopped, too, and with this space between +them and their faces towards one another they remained. Ethne made no +sign of recognition or farewell. She just stood and looked. Then she +turned away and went up the village street towards her house alone and +very slowly. Feversham watched her till she went in at the gate, but she +became dim and blurred to his vision before even she had reached it. He +was able to see, however, that she did not look back again.</p> + +<p>He rode down the hill. The bad thing which he had done so long ago was +not even by his six years of labour to be destroyed. It was still to +live, its consequence was to be sorrow till the end of life for another +than himself. That she took the sorrow bravely and without complaint, +doing the straight and simple thing as her loyal nature bade her, did +not diminish Harry Feversham's remorse. On the contrary it taught him +yet more clearly that she least of all deserved unhappiness. The harm +was irreparable. Other women might have forgotten, but not she. For +Ethne was of those who neither lightly feel nor lightly forget, and if +they love cannot love with half a heart. She would be alone now, he +knew, in spite of her marriage, alone up to the very end and at the +actual moment of death.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII</h2> + +<h3>ETHNE AGAIN PLAYS THE MUSOLINE OVERTURE</h3> + + +<p>The incredible words were spoken that evening. Ethne went into her +farm-house and sat down in the parlour. She felt cold that summer +evening and had the fire lighted. She sat gazing into the bright coals +with that stillness of attitude which was a sure sign with her of tense +emotion. The moment so eagerly looked for had come, and it was over. She +was alone now in her remote little village, out of the world in the +hills, and more alone than she had been since Willoughby sailed on that +August morning down the Salcombe estuary. From the time of Willoughby's +coming she had looked forward night and day to the one half-hour during +which Harry Feversham would be with her. The half-hour had come and +passed. She knew now how she had counted upon its coming, how she had +lived for it. She felt lonely in a rather empty world. But it was part +of her nature that she had foreseen this sense of loneliness; she had +known that there would be a bad hour for her after she had sent Harry +Feversham away, that all her heart and soul would clamour to her to call +him back. And she forced herself, as she sat shivering by the fire, to +remember that she had always foreseen and had always looked beyond it. +To-morrow she would know again that they had not parted forever, +to-morrow she would compare the parting of to-day with the parting on +the night of the ball at Lennon House, and recognise what a small thing +this was to that. She fell to wondering what Harry Feversham would do +now that he had returned, and while she was building up for him a future +of great distinction she felt Dermod's old collie dog nuzzling at her +hand with his sure instinct that his mistress was in distress. Ethne +rose from her chair and took the dog's head between her hands and kissed +it. He was very old, she thought; he would die soon and leave her, and +then there would be years and years, perhaps, before she lay down in her +bed and knew the great moment was at hand.</p> + +<p>There came a knock upon the door, and a servant told her that Colonel +Durrance was waiting.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, and as he entered the room she went forward to meet +him. She did not shirk the part which she had allotted to herself. She +stepped out from the secret chamber of her grief as soon as she was +summoned.</p> + +<p>She talked with her visitor as though no unusual thing had happened an +hour before, she even talked of their marriage and the rebuilding of +Lennon House. It was difficult, but she had grown used to difficulties. +Only that night Durrance made her path a little harder to tread. He +asked her, after the maid had brought in the tea, to play to him the +Musoline Overture upon her violin.</p> + +<p>"Not to-night," said Ethne. "I am rather tired." And she had hardly +spoken before she changed her mind. Ethne was determined that in the +small things as well as in the great she must not shirk. The small +things with their daily happenings were just those about which she must +be most careful. "Still I think that I can play the overture," she said +with a smile, and she took down her violin. She played the overture +through from the beginning to the end. Durrance stood at the window with +his back towards her until she had ended. Then he walked to her side.</p> + +<p>"I was rather a brute," he said quietly, "to ask you to play that +overture to-night."</p> + +<p>"I wasn't anxious to play," she answered as she laid the violin aside.</p> + +<p>"I know. But I was anxious to find out something, and I knew no other +way of finding it out."</p> + +<p>Ethne turned up to him a startled face.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" she asked in a voice of suspense.</p> + +<p>"You are so seldom off your guard. Only indeed at rare times when you +play. Once before when you played that overture you were off your guard. +I thought that if I could get you to play it again to-night—the +overture which was once strummed out in a dingy café at Wadi +Halfa—to-night again I should find you off your guard."</p> + +<p>His words took her breath away and the colour from her cheeks. She got +up slowly from her chair and stared at him wide-eyed. He could not know. +It was impossible. He did not know.</p> + +<p>But Durrance went quietly on.</p> + +<p>"Well? Did you take back your feather? The fourth one?"</p> + +<p>These to Ethne were the incredible words. Durrance spoke them with a +smile upon his face. It took her a long time to understand that he had +actually spoken them. She was not sure at the first that her +overstrained senses were not playing her tricks; but he repeated his +question, and she could no longer disbelieve or misunderstand.</p> + +<p>"Who told you of any fourth feather?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"Trench," he answered. "I met him at Dover. But he only told me of the +fourth feather," said Durrance. "I knew of the three before. Trench +would never have told me of the fourth had I not known of the three. For +I should not have met him as he landed from the steamer at Dover. I +should not have asked him, 'Where is Harry Feversham?' And for me to +know of the three was enough."</p> + +<p>"How do you know?" she cried in a kind of despair, and coming close to +her he took gently hold of her arm.</p> + +<p>"But since I know," he protested, "what does it matter how I know? I +have known a long while, ever since Captain Willoughby came to The Pool +with the first feather. I waited to tell you that I knew until Harry +Feversham came back, and he came to-day."</p> + +<p>Ethne sat down in her chair again. She was stunned by Durrance's +unexpected disclosure. She had so carefully guarded her secret, that to +realise that for a year it had been no secret came as a shock to her. +But, even in the midst of her confusion, she understood that she must +have time to gather up her faculties again under command. So she spoke +of the unimportant thing to gain the time.</p> + +<p>"You were in the church, then? Or you heard us upon the steps? Or you +met—him as he rode away?"</p> + +<p>"Not one of the conjectures is right," said Durrance, with a smile. +Ethne had hit upon the right subject to delay the statement of the +decision to which she knew very well that he had come. Durrance had his +vanities like others; and in particular one vanity which had sprung up +within him since he had become blind. He prided himself upon the +quickness of his perception. It was a delight to him to make discoveries +which no one expected a man who had lost his sight to make, and to +announce them unexpectedly. It was an additional pleasure to relate to +his puzzled audience the steps by which he had reached his discovery. +"Not one of your conjectures is right, Ethne," he said, and he +practically asked her to question him.</p> + +<p>"Then how did you find out?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"I knew from Trench that Harry Feversham would come some day, and soon. +I passed the church this afternoon. Your collie dog barked at me. So I +knew you were inside. But a saddled horse was tied up beside the gate. +So some one else was with you, and not any one from the village. Then I +got you to play, and that told me who it was who rode the horse."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Ethne, vaguely. She had barely listened to his words. "Yes, +I see." Then in a definite voice, which showed that she had regained all +her self-control, she said:—</p> + +<p>"You went away to Wiesbaden for a year. You went away just after Captain +Willoughby came. Was that the reason why you went away?"</p> + +<p>"I went because neither you nor I could have kept up the game of +pretences we were playing. You were pretending that you had no thought +for Harry Feversham, that you hardly cared whether he was alive or dead. +I was pretending not to have found out that beyond everything in the +world you cared for him. Some day or other we should have failed, each +one in turn. I dared not fail, nor dared you. I could not let you, who +had said 'Two lives must not be spoilt because of me,' live through a +year thinking that two lives had been spoilt. You on your side dared not +let me, who had said 'Marriage between a blind man and a woman is only +possible when there is more than friendship on both sides,' know that +upon one side there was only friendship, and we were so near to failing. +So I went away."</p> + +<p>"You did not fail," said Ethne, quietly; "it was only I who failed."</p> + +<p>She blamed herself most bitterly. She had set herself, as the one thing +worth doing, and incumbent on her to do, to guard this man from +knowledge which would set the crown on his calamities, and she had +failed. He had set himself to protect her from the comprehension that +she had failed, and he had succeeded. It was not any mere sense of +humiliation, due to the fact that the man whom she had thought to +hoodwink had hoodwinked her, which troubled her. But she felt that she +ought to have succeeded, since by failure she had robbed him of his last +chance of happiness. There lay the sting for her.</p> + +<p>"But it was not your fault," he said. "Once or twice, as I said, you +were off your guard, but the convincing facts were not revealed to me in +that way. When you played the Musoline Overture before, on the night of +the day when Willoughby brought you such good news, I took to myself +that happiness of yours which inspired your playing. You must not blame +yourself. On the contrary, you should be glad that I have found out."</p> + +<p>"Glad!" she exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"Yes, for my sake, glad." And as she looked at him in wonderment he went +on: "Two lives should not be spoilt because of you. Had you had your +way, had I not found out, not two but three lives would have been spoilt +because of you—because of your loyalty."</p> + +<p>"Three?"</p> + +<p>"Yours. Yes—yes, yours, Feversham's, and mine. It was hard enough to +keep the pretence during the few weeks we were in Devonshire. Own to it, +Ethne! When I went to London to see my oculist it was a relief; it gave +you a pause, a rest wherein to drop pretence and be yourself. It could +not have lasted long even in Devonshire. But what when we came to live +under the same roof, and there were no visits to the oculist, when we +saw each other every hour of every day? Sooner or later the truth must +have come to me. It might have come gradually, a suspicion added to a +suspicion and another to that until no doubt was left. Or it might have +flashed out in one terrible moment. But it would have been made clear. +And then, Ethne? What then? You aimed at a compensation; you wanted to +make up to me for the loss of what I love—my career, the army, the +special service in the strange quarters of the world. A fine +compensation to sit in front of you knowing you had married a cripple +out of pity, and that in so doing you had crippled yourself and foregone +the happiness which is yours by right. Whereas now—"</p> + +<p>"Whereas now?" she repeated.</p> + +<p>"I remain your friend, which I would rather be than your unloved +husband," he said very gently.</p> + +<p>Ethne made no rejoinder. The decision had been taken out of her hands.</p> + +<p>"You sent Harry away this afternoon," said Durrance. "You said good-bye +to him twice."</p> + +<p>At the "twice" Ethne raised her head, but before she could speak +Durrance explained:—</p> + +<p>"Once in the church, again upon your violin," and he took up the +instrument from the chair on which she had laid it. "It has been a very +good friend, your violin," he said. "A good friend to me, to us all. You +will understand that, Ethne, very soon. I stood at the window while you +played it. I had never heard anything in my life half so sad as your +farewell to Harry Feversham, and yet it was nobly sad. It was true +music, it did not complain." He laid the violin down upon the chair +again.</p> + +<p>"I am going to send a messenger to Rathmullen. Harry cannot cross Lough +Swilly to-night. The messenger will bring him back to-morrow."</p> + +<p>It had been a day of many emotions and surprises for Ethne. As Durrance +bent down towards her, he became aware that she was crying silently. For +once tears had their way with her. He took his cap and walked +noiselessly to the door of the room. As he opened it, Ethne got up.</p> + +<p>"Don't go for a moment," she said, and she left the fireplace and came +to the centre of the room.</p> + +<p>"The oculist at Wiesbaden?" she asked. "He gave you a hope?"</p> + +<p>Durrance stood meditating whether he should lie or speak the truth.</p> + +<p>"No," he said at length. "There is no hope. But I am not so helpless as +at one time I was afraid that I should be. I can get about, can't I? +Perhaps one of these days I shall go on a journey, one of the long +journeys amongst the strange people in the East."</p> + +<p>He went from the house upon his errand. He had learned his lesson a long +time since, and the violin had taught it him. It had spoken again that +afternoon, and though with a different voice, had offered to him the +same message. The true music cannot complain.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV</h2> + +<h3>THE END</h3> + + +<p>In the early summer of next year two old men sat reading their +newspapers after breakfast upon the terrace of Broad Place. The elder of +the two turned over a sheet.</p> + +<p>"I see Osman Digna's back at Suakin," said he. "There's likely to be +some fighting."</p> + +<p>"Oh," said the other, "he will not do much harm." And he laid down his +paper. The quiet English country-side vanished from before his eyes. He +saw only the white city by the Red Sea shimmering in the heat, the brown +plains about it with their tangle of halfa grass, and in the distance +the hills towards Khor Gwob.</p> + +<p>"A stuffy place Suakin, eh, Sutch?" said General Feversham.</p> + +<p>"Appallingly stuffy. I heard of an officer who went down on parade at +six o'clock of the morning there, sunstruck in the temples right through +a regulation helmet. Yes, a town of dank heat! But I was glad to be +there—very glad," he said with some feeling.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Feversham, briskly; "ibex, eh?"</p> + +<p>"No," replied Sutch. "All the ibex had been shot off by the English +garrison for miles round."</p> + +<p>"No? Something to do, then. That's it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, that's it, Feversham. Something to do."</p> + +<p>And both men busied themselves again over their papers. But in a little +while a footman brought to each a small pile of letters. General +Feversham ran over his envelopes with a quick eye, selected one letter, +and gave a grunt of satisfaction. He took a pair of spectacles from a +case and placed them upon his nose.</p> + +<p>"From Ramelton?" asked Sutch, dropping his newspaper on to the terrace.</p> + +<p>"From Ramelton," answered Feversham. "I'll light a cigar first."</p> + +<p>He laid the letter down on the garden table which stood between his +companion and himself, drew a cigar-case from his pocket, and in spite +of the impatience of Lieutenant Sutch, proceeded to cut and light it +with the utmost deliberation. The old man had become an epicure in this +respect. A letter from Ramelton was a luxury to be enjoyed with all the +accessories of comfort which could be obtained. He made himself +comfortable in his chair, stretched out his legs, and smoked enough of +his cigar to assure himself that it was drawing well. Then he took up +his letter again and opened it.</p> + +<p>"From him?" asked Sutch.</p> + +<p>"No; from her."</p> + +<p>"Ah!"</p> + +<p>General Feversham read the letter through slowly, while Lieutenant Sutch +tried not to peep at it across the table. When the general had finished +he turned back to the first page, and began it again.</p> + +<p>"Any news?" said Sutch, with a casual air.</p> + +<p>"They are very pleased with the house now that it's rebuilt."</p> + +<p>"Anything more?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Harry's finished the sixth chapter of his history of the war."</p> + +<p>"Good!" said Sutch. "You'll see, he'll do that well. He has imagination, +he knows the ground, he was present while the war went on. Moreover, he +was in the bazaars, he saw the under side of it."</p> + +<p>"Yes. But you and I won't read it, Sutch," said Feversham. "No; I am +wrong. You may, for you can give me a good many years."</p> + +<p>He turned back to his letter and again Sutch asked:—</p> + +<p>"Anything more?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. They are coming here in a fortnight."</p> + +<p>"Good," said Sutch. "I shall stay."</p> + +<p>He took a turn along the terrace and came back. He saw Feversham sitting +with the letter upon his knees and a frown of great perplexity upon his +face.</p> + +<p>"You know, Sutch, I never understood," he said. "Did you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I think I did."</p> + +<p>Sutch did not try to explain. It was as well, he thought, that Feversham +never would understand. For he could not understand without much +self-reproach.</p> + +<p>"Do you ever see Durrance?" asked the general, suddenly.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I see a good deal of Durrance. He is abroad just now."</p> + +<p>Feversham turned towards his friend.</p> + +<p>"He came to Broad Place when you went to Suakin, and talked to me for +half an hour. He was Harry's best man. Well, that too I never +understood. Did you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I understood that as well."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" said General Feversham. He asked for no explanations, but, as he +had always done, he took the questions which he did not understand and +put them aside out of his thoughts. But he did not turn to his other +letters. He sat smoking his cigar, and looked out across the summer +country and listened to the sounds rising distinctly from the fields. +Sutch had read through all of his correspondence before Feversham spoke +again.</p> + +<p>"I have been thinking," he said. "Have you noticed the date of the +month, Sutch?" and Sutch looked up quickly.</p> + +<p>"Yes," said he, "this day next week will be the anniversary of our +attack upon the Redan, and Harry's birthday."</p> + +<p>"Exactly," replied Feversham. "Why shouldn't we start the Crimean nights +again?"</p> + +<p>Sutch jumped up from his chair.</p> + +<p>"Splendid!" he cried. "Can we muster a tableful, do you think?"</p> + +<p>"Let's see," said Feversham, and ringing a handbell upon the table, sent +the servant for the Army List. Bending over that Army List the two +veterans may be left.</p> + +<p>But of one other figure in this story a final word must be said. That +night, when the invitations had been sent out from Broad Place, and no +longer a light gleamed from any window of the house, a man leaned over +the rail of a steamer anchored at Port Said and listened to the song of +the Arab coolies as they tramped up and down the planks with their coal +baskets between the barges and the ship's side. The clamour of the +streets of the town came across the water to his ears. He pictured to +himself the flare of braziers upon the quays, the lighted port-holes, +and dark funnels ahead and behind in the procession of the anchored +ships. Attended by a servant, he had come back to the East again. Early +the next morning the steamer moved through the canal, and towards the +time of sunset passed out into the chills of the Gulf of Suez. Kassassin, +Tel-el-Kebir, Tamai, Tamanieb, the attack upon McNeil's +zareeba—Durrance lived again through the good years of his activity, +the years of plenty. Within that country on the west the long +preparations were going steadily forward which would one day roll up the +Dervish Empire and crush it into dust. Upon the glacis of the ruined +fort of Sinkat, Durrance had promised himself to take a hand in that +great work, but the desert which he loved had smitten and cast him out. +But at all events the boat steamed southwards into the Red Sea. Three +nights more, and though he would not see it, the Southern Cross would +lift slantwise into the sky.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The character of Harry Feversham is developed from a short +story by the author, originally printed in the <i>Illustrated London +News</i>, and since republished.</p></div> + +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> The native bedstead of matting woven across a four-legged +frame.</p></div> + + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<h2><a name="By_A._E._Mason" id="By_A._E._Mason"></a>Other Books By A. E. W. Mason</h2> + + + +<h3>THE COURTSHIP OF MAURICE BUCKLER</h3> + +<h4><i>A ROMANCE</i></h4> + + +<p>Being a record of the growth of an English Gentleman, during the years +of 1685-1687, under strange and difficult circumstances, written some +while afterward in his own hand, and now edited by A. E. W. MASON</p> + + +<p><i>Philadelphia Evening Bulletin</i>: In spirit and color it reminds us of the +very remarkable books of Mr. Conon Doyle. The author has measurably +caught the fascinating diction of the seventeenth century, and the +strange adventures with which the story is filled are of a sufficiently +perilous order to entertain the most Homeric mind.</p> + +<p><i>Boston Courier</i>: In this elaborately ingenious narrative the adventures +recorded are various and exciting enough to suit the most exacting +reader. The incidents recited are of extreme interest, and are not drawn +out into noticeable tenuity.</p> + +<p><i>The Outlook</i>: "The Courtship of Maurice Buckler" is not only full of +action and stimulating to curiosity, but tells a quite original plot in +a clever way. Perhaps in its literary kinship it approaches more closely +to "The Prisoner of Zenda" than to any other recent novel, but there is +no evidence of imitation; the resemblance is in the spirit and dash of +the narrative. The merit of this story is not solely in its grasp on the +reader's attention and its exciting situations; it is written in +excellent English, the dialogue is natural and brisk, the individual +characters stand out clearly, and the flavor of the time is well +preserved.</p> + + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOUR FEATHERS***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 18883-h.txt or 18883-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/8/8/18883">http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/8/8/18883</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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For +example an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at: + +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/0/2/3/10234 + +or filename 24689 would be found at: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/6/8/24689 + +An alternative method of locating eBooks: +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/GUTINDEX.ALL">http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/GUTINDEX.ALL</a> + +*** END: FULL LICENSE *** +</pre> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/18883-h/images/cover.jpg b/18883-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..99ad5e6 --- /dev/null +++ b/18883-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/18883.txt b/18883.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ec8e071 --- /dev/null +++ b/18883.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12201 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Four Feathers, by A. E. W. Mason + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Four Feathers + + +Author: A. E. W. Mason + + + +Release Date: July 21, 2006 [eBook #18883] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOUR FEATHERS*** + + +E-text prepared by Suzanne Lybarger, Brian Janes, Mary Meehan, and the +Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team +(http://www.pgdp.net/) + + + +THE FOUR FEATHERS + +by + +A. E. W. MASON + +Author of "Miranda of the Balcony," "The Courtship of Morrice Buckler," +Etc. + + + + + + + +New York +The MacMillan Company +London: MacMillan & Co., Ltd. +1903 +All rights reserved +Copyright, 1901, +By A. E. W. Mason. +Copyright, 1902, +By The MacMillan Company. +Set up and electrotyped October, 1902. Reprinted November, +December, 1902; January, 1903; February, March, 1903. +Norwood Press +J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith +Norwood Mass. U.S.A. + + + + +To +MISS ELSPETH ANGELA CAMPBELL +June 19, 1902. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + I. A Crimean Night + + II. Captain Trench and a Telegram + + III. The Last Ride Together + + IV. The Ball at Lennon House + + V. The Pariah + + VI. Harry Feversham's Plan + + VII. The Last Reconnaissance + + VIII. Lieutenant Sutch is tempted to lie + + IX. At Glenalla + + X. The Wells of Obak + + XI. Durrance hears News of Feversham + + XII. Durrance sharpens his Wits + + XIII. Durrance begins to see + + XIV. Captain Willoughby reappears + + XV. The Story of the First Feather + + XVI. Captain Willoughby retires + + XVII. The Musoline Overture + + XVIII. The Answer to the Overture + + XIX. Mrs. Adair interferes + + XX. West and East + + XXI. Ethne makes Another Slip + + XXII. Durrance lets his Cigar go out + + XXIII. Mrs. Adair makes her Apology + + XXIV. On the Nile + + XXV. Lieutenant Sutch comes off the Half-pay List + + XXVI. General Feversham's Portraits are appeased + + XXVII. The House of Stone + + XXVIII. Plans of Escape + + XXIX. Colonel Trench assumes a Knowledge of Chemistry + + XXX. The Last of the Southern Cross + + XXXI. Feversham returns to Ramelton + + XXXII. In the Church at Glenalla + + XXXIII. Ethne again plays the Musoline Overture + + XXXIV. The End + + + + +THE FOUR FEATHERS[1] + +[Footnote 1: The character of Harry Feversham is developed from a short +story by the author, originally printed in the _Illustrated London +News_, and since republished.] + + + + +CHAPTER I + +A CRIMEAN NIGHT + + +Lieutenant Sutch was the first of General Feversham's guests to reach +Broad Place. He arrived about five o'clock on an afternoon of sunshine +in mid June, and the old red-brick house, lodged on a southern slope of +the Surrey hills, was glowing from a dark forest depth of pines with the +warmth of a rare jewel. Lieutenant Sutch limped across the hall, where +the portraits of the Fevershams rose one above the other to the ceiling, +and went out on to the stone-flagged terrace at the back. There he found +his host sitting erect like a boy, and gazing southward toward the +Sussex Downs. + +"How's the leg?" asked General Feversham, as he rose briskly from his +chair. He was a small wiry man, and, in spite of his white hairs, alert. +But the alertness was of the body. A bony face, with a high narrow +forehead and steel-blue inexpressive eyes, suggested a barrenness of +mind. + +"It gave me trouble during the winter," replied Sutch. "But that was to +be expected." General Feversham nodded, and for a little while both men +were silent. From the terrace the ground fell steeply to a wide level +plain of brown earth and emerald fields and dark clumps of trees. From +this plain voices rose through the sunshine, small but very clear. Far +away toward Horsham a coil of white smoke from a train snaked rapidly in +and out amongst the trees; and on the horizon rose the Downs, patched +with white chalk. + +"I thought that I should find you here," said Sutch. + +"It was my wife's favourite corner," answered Feversham in a quite +emotionless voice. "She would sit here by the hour. She had a queer +liking for wide and empty spaces." + +"Yes," said Sutch. "She had imagination. Her thoughts could people +them." + +General Feversham glanced at his companion as though he hardly +understood. But he asked no questions. What he did not understand he +habitually let slip from his mind as not worth comprehension. He spoke +at once upon a different topic. + +"There will be a leaf out of our table to-night." + +"Yes. Collins, Barberton, and Vaughan went this winter. Well, we are +all permanently shelved upon the world's half-pay list as it is. The +obituary column is just the last formality which gazettes us out of the +service altogether," and Sutch stretched out and eased his crippled leg, +which fourteen years ago that day had been crushed and twisted in the +fall of a scaling-ladder. + +"I am glad that you came before the others," continued Feversham. "I +would like to take your opinion. This day is more to me than the +anniversary of our attack upon the Redan. At the very moment when we +were standing under arms in the dark--" + +"To the west of the quarries; I remember," interrupted Sutch, with a +deep breath. "How should one forget?" + +"At that very moment Harry was born in this house. I thought, therefore, +that if you did not object, he might join us to-night. He happens to be +at home. He will, of course, enter the service, and he might learn +something, perhaps, which afterward will be of use--one never knows." + +"By all means," said Sutch, with alacrity. For since his visits to +General Feversham were limited to the occasion of these anniversary +dinners, he had never yet seen Harry Feversham. + +Sutch had for many years been puzzled as to the qualities in General +Feversham which had attracted Muriel Graham, a woman as remarkable for +the refinement of her intellect as for the beauty of her person; and he +could never find an explanation. He had to be content with his knowledge +that for some mysterious reason she had married this man so much older +than herself and so unlike to her in character. Personal courage and an +indomitable self-confidence were the chief, indeed the only, qualities +which sprang to light in General Feversham. Lieutenant Sutch went back +in thought over twenty years, as he sat on his garden-chair, to a time +before he had taken part, as an officer of the Naval Brigade, in that +unsuccessful onslaught on the Redan. He remembered a season in London +to which he had come fresh from the China station; and he was curious to +see Harry Feversham. He did not admit that it was more than the natural +curiosity of a man who, disabled in comparative youth, had made a hobby +out of the study of human nature. He was interested to see whether the +lad took after his mother or his father--that was all. + +So that night Harry Feversham took a place at the dinner-table and +listened to the stories which his elders told, while Lieutenant Sutch +watched him. The stories were all of that dark winter in the Crimea, and +a fresh story was always in the telling before its predecessor was +ended. They were stories of death, of hazardous exploits, of the pinch +of famine, and the chill of snow. But they were told in clipped words +and with a matter-of-fact tone, as though the men who related them were +only conscious of them as far-off things; and there was seldom a comment +more pronounced than a mere "That's curious," or an exclamation more +significant than a laugh. + +But Harry Feversham sat listening as though the incidents thus +carelessly narrated were happening actually at that moment and within +the walls of that room. His dark eyes--the eyes of his mother--turned +with each story from speaker to speaker, and waited, wide open and +fixed, until the last word was spoken. He listened fascinated and +enthralled. And so vividly did the changes of expression shoot and +quiver across his face, that it seemed to Sutch the lad must actually +hear the drone of bullets in the air, actually resist the stunning shock +of a charge, actually ride down in the thick of a squadron to where guns +screeched out a tongue of flame from a fog. Once a major of artillery +spoke of the suspense of the hours between the parading of the troops +before a battle and the first command to advance; and Harry's shoulders +worked under the intolerable strain of those lagging minutes. + +But he did more than work his shoulders. He threw a single furtive, +wavering glance backwards; and Lieutenant Sutch was startled, and indeed +more than startled,--he was pained. For this after all was Muriel +Graham's boy. + +The look was too familiar a one to Sutch. He had seen it on the faces of +recruits during their first experience of a battle too often for him to +misunderstand it. And one picture in particular rose before his +mind,--an advancing square at Inkermann, and a tall big soldier rushing +forward from the line in the eagerness of his attack, and then stopping +suddenly as though he suddenly understood that he was alone, and had to +meet alone the charge of a mounted Cossack. Sutch remembered very +clearly the fatal wavering glance which the big soldier had thrown +backward toward his companions,--a glance accompanied by a queer sickly +smile. He remembered too, with equal vividness, its consequence. For +though the soldier carried a loaded musket and a bayonet locked to the +muzzle, he had without an effort of self-defence received the Cossack's +lance-thrust in his throat. + +Sutch glanced hurriedly about the table, afraid that General Feversham, +or that some one of his guests, should have remarked the same look and +the same smile upon Harry's face. But no one had eyes for the lad; each +visitor was waiting too eagerly for an opportunity to tell a story of +his own. Sutch drew a breath of relief and turned to Harry. But the boy +was sitting with his elbows on the cloth and his head propped between +his hands, lost to the glare of the room and its glitter of silver, +constructing again out of the swift succession of anecdotes a world of +cries and wounds, and maddened riderless chargers and men writhing in a +fog of cannon-smoke. The curtest, least graphic description of the +biting days and nights in the trenches set the lad shivering. Even his +face grew pinched, as though the iron frost of that winter was actually +eating into his bones. Sutch touched him lightly on the elbow. + +"You renew those days for me," said he. "Though the heat is dripping +down the windows, I feel the chill of the Crimea." + +Harry roused himself from his absorption. + +"The stories renew them," said he. + +"No. It is you listening to the stories." + +And before Harry could reply, General Feversham's voice broke sharply in +from the head of the table:-- + +"Harry, look at the clock!" + +At once all eyes were turned upon the lad. The hands of the clock made +the acutest of angles. It was close upon midnight; and from eight, +without so much as a word or a question, he had sat at the dinner-table +listening. Yet even now he rose with reluctance. + +"Must I go, father?" he asked, and the general's guests intervened in +a chorus. The conversation was clear gain to the lad, a first taste of +powder which might stand him in good stead afterwards. + +"Besides, it's the boy's birthday," added the major of artillery. "He +wants to stay; that's plain. You wouldn't find a youngster of fourteen +sit all these hours without a kick of the foot against the table-leg +unless the conversation entertained him. Let him stay, Feversham!" + +For once General Feversham relaxed the iron discipline under which the +boy lived. + +"Very well," said he. "Harry shall have an hour's furlough from his bed. +A single hour won't make much difference." + +Harry's eyes turned toward his father, and just for a moment rested +upon his face with a curious steady gaze. It seemed to Sutch that they +uttered a question, and, rightly or wrongly, he interpreted the question +into words:-- + +"Are you blind?" + +But General Feversham was already talking to his neighbours, and Harry +quietly sat down, and again propping his chin upon his hands, listened +with all his soul. Yet he was not entertained; rather he was enthralled; +he sat quiet under the compulsion of a spell. His face became +unnaturally white, his eyes unnaturally large, while the flames of the +candles shone ever redder and more blurred through a blue haze of +tobacco smoke, and the level of the wine grew steadily lower in the +decanters. + +Thus half of that one hour's furlough was passed; and then General +Feversham, himself jogged by the unlucky mention of a name, suddenly +blurted out in his jerky fashion:-- + +"Lord Wilmington. One of the best names in England, if you please. Did +you ever see his house in Warwickshire? Every inch of the ground you +would think would have a voice to bid him play the man, if only in +remembrance of his fathers.... It seemed incredible and mere camp +rumour, but the rumour grew. If it was whispered at the Alma, it was +spoken aloud at Inkermann, it was shouted at Balaclava. Before +Sebastopol the hideous thing was proved. Wilmington was acting as +galloper to his general. I believe upon my soul the general chose him +for the duty, so that the fellow might set himself right. There were +three hundred yards of bullet-swept flat ground, and a message to be +carried across them. Had Wilmington toppled off his horse on the way, +why, there were the whispers silenced for ever. Had he ridden through +alive he earned distinction besides. But he didn't dare; he refused! +Imagine it if you can! He sat shaking on his horse and declined. You +should have seen the general. His face turned the colour of that +Burgundy. 'No doubt you have a previous engagement,' he said, in the +politest voice you ever heard--just that, not a word of abuse. A +previous engagement on the battlefield! For the life of me, I could +hardly help laughing. But it was a tragic business for Wilmington. He +was broken, of course, and slunk back to London. Every house was closed +to him; he dropped out of his circle like a lead bullet you let slip out +of your hand into the sea. The very women in Piccadilly spat if he spoke +to them; and he blew his brains out in a back bedroom off the Haymarket. +Curious that, eh? He hadn't the pluck to face the bullets when his name +was at stake, yet he could blow his own brains out afterwards." + +Lieutenant Sutch chanced to look at the clock as the story came to an +end. It was now a quarter to one. Harry Feversham had still a quarter of +an hour's furlough, and that quarter of an hour was occupied by a +retired surgeon-general with a great wagging beard, who sat nearly +opposite to the boy. + +"I can tell you an incident still more curious," he said. "The man in +this case had never been under fire before, but he was of my own +profession. Life and death were part of his business. Nor was he really +in any particular danger. The affair happened during a hill campaign in +India. We were encamped in a valley, and a few Pathans used to lie out +on the hillside at night and take long shots into the camp. A bullet +ripped through the canvas of the hospital tent--that was all. The +surgeon crept out to his own quarters, and his orderly discovered him +half-an-hour afterward lying in his blood stone-dead." + +"Hit?" exclaimed the major. + +"Not a bit of it," said the surgeon. "He had quietly opened his +instrument-case in the dark, taken out a lancet, and severed his femoral +artery. Sheer panic, do you see, at the whistle of a bullet." + +Even upon these men, case-hardened to horrors, the incident related in +its bald simplicity wrought its effect. From some there broke a +half-uttered exclamation of disbelief; others moved restlessly in their +chairs with a sort of physical discomfort, because a man had sunk so far +below humanity. Here an officer gulped his wine, there a second shook +his shoulders as though to shake the knowledge off as a dog shakes +water. There was only one in all that company who sat perfectly still in +the silence which followed upon the story. That one was the boy, Harry +Feversham. + +He sat with his hands now clenched upon his knees and leaning forward a +little across the table toward the surgeon, his cheeks white as paper, +his eyes burning, and burning with ferocity. He had the look of a +dangerous animal in the trap. His body was gathered, his muscles taut. +Sutch had a fear that the lad meant to leap across the table and strike +with all his strength in the savagery of despair. He had indeed reached +out a restraining hand when General Feversham's matter-of-fact voice +intervened, and the boy's attitude suddenly relaxed. + +"Queer incomprehensible things happen. Here are two of them. You can +only say they are the truth and pray God you may forget 'em. But you +can't explain, for you can't understand." + +Sutch was moved to lay his hand upon Harry's shoulder. + +"Can you?" he asked, and regretted the question almost before it was +spoken. But it was spoken, and Harry's eyes turned swiftly toward Sutch, +and rested upon his face, not, however, with any betrayal of guilt, but +quietly, inscrutably. Nor did he answer the question, although it was +answered in a fashion by General Feversham. + +"Harry understand!" exclaimed the general, with a snort of indignation. +"How should he? He's a Feversham." + +The question, which Harry's glance had mutely put before, Sutch in the +same mute way repeated. "Are you blind?" his eyes asked of General +Feversham. Never had he heard an untruth so demonstrably untrue. A mere +look at the father and the son proved it so. Harry Feversham wore his +father's name, but he had his mother's dark and haunted eyes, his +mother's breadth of forehead, his mother's delicacy of profile, his +mother's imagination. It needed perhaps a stranger to recognise the +truth. The father had been so long familiar with his son's aspect that +it had no significance to his mind. + +"Look at the clock, Harry." + +The hour's furlough had run out. Harry rose from his chair, and drew a +breath. + +"Good night, sir," he said, and walked to the door. + +The servants had long since gone to bed; and, as Harry opened the door, +the hall gaped black like the mouth of night. For a second or two the +boy hesitated upon the threshold, and seemed almost to shrink back into +the lighted room as though in that dark void peril awaited him. And +peril did--the peril of his thoughts. + +He stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. The decanter +was sent again upon its rounds; there was a popping of soda-water +bottles; the talk revolved again in its accustomed groove. Harry was in +an instant forgotten by all but Sutch. The lieutenant, although he +prided himself upon his impartial and disinterested study of human +nature, was the kindliest of men. He had more kindliness than +observation by a great deal. Moreover, there were special reasons which +caused him to take an interest in Harry Feversham. He sat for a little +while with the air of a man profoundly disturbed. Then, acting upon an +impulse, he went to the door, opened it noiselessly, as noiselessly +passed out, and, without so much as a click of the latch, closed the +door behind him. + +And this is what he saw: Harry Feversham, holding in the centre of the +hall a lighted candle high above his head, and looking up toward the +portraits of the Fevershams as they mounted the walls and were lost in +the darkness of the roof. A muffled sound of voices came from the other +side of the door panels, but the hall itself was silent. Harry stood +remarkably still, and the only thing which moved at all was the yellow +flame of the candle as it flickered apparently in some faint draught. +The light wavered across the portraits, glowing here upon a red coat, +glittering there upon a corselet of steel. For there was not one man's +portrait upon the walls which did not glisten with the colours of a +uniform, and there were the portraits of many men. Father and son, the +Fevershams had been soldiers from the very birth of the family. Father +and son, in lace collars and bucket boots, in Ramillies wigs and steel +breastplates, in velvet coats, with powder on their hair, in shakos and +swallow-tails, in high stocks and frogged coats, they looked down upon +this last Feversham, summoning him to the like service. They were men of +one stamp; no distinction of uniform could obscure their +relationship--lean-faced men, hard as iron, rugged in feature, +thin-lipped, with firm chins and straight, level mouths, narrow +foreheads, and the steel-blue inexpressive eyes; men of courage and +resolution, no doubt, but without subtleties, or nerves, or that +burdensome gift of imagination; sturdy men, a little wanting in +delicacy, hardly conspicuous for intellect; to put it frankly, men +rather stupid--all of them, in a word, first-class fighting men, but +not one of them a first-class soldier. + +But Harry Feversham plainly saw none of their defects. To him they +were one and all portentous and terrible. He stood before them in the +attitude of a criminal before his judges, reading his condemnation in +their cold unchanging eyes. Lieutenant Sutch understood more clearly why +the flame of the candle flickered. There was no draught in the hall, but +the boy's hand shook. And finally, as though he heard the mute voices of +his judges delivering sentence and admitted its justice, he actually +bowed to the portraits on the wall. As he raised his head, he saw +Lieutenant Sutch in the embrasure of the doorway. + +He did not start, he uttered no word; he let his eyes quietly rest upon +Sutch and waited. Of the two it was the man who was embarrassed. + +"Harry," he said, and in spite of his embarrassment he had the tact to +use the tone and the language of one addressing not a boy, but a comrade +equal in years, "we meet for the first time to-night. But I knew your +mother a long time ago. I like to think that I have the right to call +her by that much misused word 'friend.' Have you anything to tell me?" + +"Nothing," said Harry. + +"The mere telling sometimes lightens a trouble." + +"It is kind of you. There is nothing." + +Lieutenant Sutch was rather at a loss. The lad's loneliness made a +strong appeal to him. For lonely the boy could not but be, set apart as +he was, no less unmistakably in mind as in feature, from his father and +his father's fathers. Yet what more could he do? His tact again came to +his aid. He took his card-case from his pocket. + +"You will find my address upon this card. Perhaps some day you will give +me a few days of your company. I can offer you on my side a day or two's +hunting." + +A spasm of pain shook for a fleeting moment the boy's steady inscrutable +face. It passed, however, swiftly as it had come. + +"Thank you, sir," Harry monotonously repeated. "You are very kind." + +"And if ever you want to talk over a difficult question with an older +man, I am at your service." + +He spoke purposely in a formal voice, lest Harry with a boy's +sensitiveness should think he laughed. Harry took the card and repeated +his thanks. Then he went upstairs to bed. + +Lieutenant Sutch waited uncomfortably in the hall until the light of the +candle had diminished and disappeared. Something was amiss, he was very +sure. There were words which he should have spoken to the boy, but he +had not known how to set about the task. He returned to the dining room, +and with a feeling that he was almost repairing his omissions, he filled +his glass and called for silence. + +"Gentlemen," he said, "this is June 15th," and there was great applause +and much rapping on the table. "It is the anniversary of our attack upon +the Redan. It is also Harry Feversham's birthday. For us, our work is +done. I ask you to drink the health of one of the youngsters who are +ousting us. His work lies before him. The traditions of the Feversham +family are very well known to us. May Harry Feversham carry them on! +May he add distinction to a distinguished name!" + +At once all that company was on its feet. + +"Harry Feversham!" + +The name was shouted with so hearty a good-will that the glasses on the +table rang. "Harry Feversham, Harry Feversham," the cry was repeated and +repeated, while old General Feversham sat in his chair with a face +aflush with pride. And a boy a minute afterward in a room high up in the +house heard the muffled words of a chorus-- + + For he's a jolly good fellow, + For he's a jolly good fellow, + For he's a jolly good fellow, + And so say all of us, + +and believed the guests upon this Crimean night were drinking his +father's health. He turned over in his bed and lay shivering. He saw in +his mind a broken officer slinking at night in the shadows of the London +streets. He pushed back the flap of a tent and stooped over a man lying +stone-dead in his blood, with an open lancet clinched in his right hand. +And he saw that the face of the broken officer and the face of the dead +surgeon were one--and that one face, the face of Harry Feversham. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +CAPTAIN TRENCH AND A TELEGRAM + + +Thirteen years later, and in the same month of June, Harry Feversham's +health was drunk again, but after a quieter fashion and in a smaller +company. The company was gathered in a room high up in a shapeless block +of buildings which frowns like a fortress above Westminster. A stranger +crossing St. James's Park southwards, over the suspension bridge, at +night, who chanced to lift his eyes and see suddenly the tiers of +lighted windows towering above him to so precipitous a height, might be +brought to a stop with the fancy that here in the heart of London was a +mountain and the gnomes at work. Upon the tenth floor of this building +Harry had taken a flat during his year's furlough from his regiment in +India; and it was in the dining room of this flat that the simple +ceremony took place. The room was furnished in a dark and restful +fashion; and since the chill of the weather belied the calendar, a +comfortable fire blazed in the hearth. A bay window, over which the +blinds had not been lowered, commanded London. + +There were four men smoking about the dinner-table. Harry Feversham was +unchanged, except for a fair moustache, which contrasted with his dark +hair, and the natural consequences of growth. He was now a man of +middle height, long-limbed, and well-knit like an athlete, but his +features had not altered since that night when they had been so closely +scrutinised by Lieutenant Sutch. Of his companions two were +brother-officers on leave in England, like himself, whom he had that +afternoon picked up at his club,--Captain Trench, a small man, growing +bald, with a small, sharp, resourceful face and black eyes of a +remarkable activity, and Lieutenant Willoughby, an officer of quite a +different stamp. A round forehead, a thick snub nose, and a pair of +vacant and protruding eyes gave to him an aspect of invincible +stupidity. He spoke but seldom, and never to the point, but rather to +some point long forgotten which he had since been laboriously revolving +in his mind; and he continually twisted a moustache, of which the ends +curled up toward his eyes with a ridiculous ferocity,--a man whom one +would dismiss from mind as of no consequence upon a first thought, and +take again into one's consideration upon a second. For he was born +stubborn as well as stupid; and the harm which his stupidity might do, +his stubbornness would hinder him from admitting. He was not a man to be +persuaded; having few ideas, he clung to them. It was no use to argue +with him, for he did not hear the argument, but behind his vacant eyes +all the while he turned over his crippled thoughts and was satisfied. +The fourth at the table was Durrance, a lieutenant of the East Surrey +Regiment, and Feversham's friend, who had come in answer to a telegram. + +This was June of the year 1882, and the thoughts of civilians turned +toward Egypt with anxiety; those of soldiers, with an eager +anticipation. Arabi Pasha, in spite of threats, was steadily +strengthening the fortifications of Alexandria, and already a long +way to the south, the other, the great danger, was swelling like a +thunder-cloud. A year had passed since a young, slight, and tall +Dongolawi, Mohammed Ahmed, had marched through the villages of the White +Nile, preaching with the fire of a Wesley the coming of a Saviour. The +passionate victims of the Turkish tax-gatherer had listened, had heard +the promise repeated in the whispers of the wind in the withered grass, +had found the holy names imprinted even upon the eggs they gathered up. +In 1882 Mohammed had declared himself that Saviour, and had won his +first battles against the Turks. + +"There will be trouble," said Trench, and the sentence was the text on +which three of the four men talked. In a rare interval, however, the +fourth, Harry Feversham, spoke upon a different subject. + +"I am very glad you were all able to dine with me to-night. I +telegraphed to Castleton as well, an officer of ours," he explained to +Durrance, "but he was dining with a big man in the War Office, and +leaves for Scotland afterwards, so that he could not come. I have news +of a sort." + +The three men leaned forward, their minds still full of the dominant +subject. But it was not about the prospect of war that Harry Feversham +had news to speak. + +"I only reached London this morning from Dublin," he said with a shade +of embarrassment. "I have been some weeks in Dublin." + +Durrance lifted his eyes from the tablecloth and looked quietly at his +friend. + +"Yes?" he asked steadily. + +"I have come back engaged to be married." + +Durrance lifted his glass to his lips. + +"Well, here's luck to you, Harry," he said, and that was all. The wish, +indeed, was almost curtly expressed, but there was nothing wanting in it +to Feversham's ears. The friendship between these two men was not one in +which affectionate phrases had any part. There was, in truth, no need of +such. Both men were securely conscious of it; they estimated it at its +true, strong value; it was a helpful instrument, which would not wear +out, put into their hands for a hard, lifelong use; but it was not, and +never had been, spoken of between them. Both men were grateful for it, +as for a rare and undeserved gift; yet both knew that it might entail an +obligation of sacrifice. But the sacrifices, were they needful, would be +made, and they would not be mentioned. It may be, indeed, that the very +knowledge of their friendship's strength constrained them to a +particular reticence in their words to one another. + +"Thank you, Jack!" said Feversham. "I am glad of your good wishes. It +was you who introduced me to Ethne; I cannot forget it." + +Durrance set his glass down without any haste. There followed a moment +of silence, during which he sat with his eyes upon the tablecloth, and +his hands resting on the table edge. + +"Yes," he said in a level voice. "I did you a good turn then." + +He seemed on the point of saying more, and doubtful how to say it. But +Captain Trench's sharp, quick, practical voice, a voice which fitted the +man who spoke, saved him his pains. + +"Will this make any difference?" asked Trench. + +Feversham replaced his cigar between his lips. + +"You mean, shall I leave the service?" he asked slowly. "I don't know;" +and Durrance seized the opportunity to rise from the table and cross to +the window, where he stood with his back to his companions. Feversham +took the abrupt movement for a reproach, and spoke to Durrance's back, +not to Trench. + +"I don't know," he repeated. "It will need thought. There is much to be +said. On the one side, of course, there's my father, my career, such as +it is. On the other hand, there is her father, Dermod Eustace." + +"He wishes you to chuck your commission?" asked Willoughby. + +"He has no doubt the Irishman's objection to constituted authority," +said Trench, with a laugh. "But need you subscribe to it, Feversham?" + +"It is not merely that." It was still to Durrance's back that he +addressed his excuses. "Dermod is old, his estates are going to ruin, +and there are other things. You know, Jack?" The direct appeal he had to +repeat, and even then Durrance answered it absently:-- + +"Yes, I know," and he added, like one quoting a catch-word. "If you want +any whiskey, rap twice on the floor with your foot. The servants +understand." + +"Precisely," said Feversham. He continued, carefully weighing his words, +and still intently looking across the shoulders of his companions to his +friend:-- + +"Besides, there is Ethne herself. Dermod for once did an appropriate +thing when he gave her that name. For she is of her country, and more, +of her county. She has the love of it in her bones. I do not think that +she could be quite happy in India, or indeed in any place which was not +within reach of Donegal, the smell of its peat, its streams, and the +brown friendliness of its hills. One has to consider that." + +He waited for an answer, and getting none went on again. Durrance, +however, had no thought of reproach in his mind. He knew that Feversham +was speaking,--he wished very much that he would continue to speak for a +little while,--but he paid no heed to what was said. He stood looking +steadfastly out of the windows. Over against him was the glare from Pall +Mall striking upward to the sky, and the chains of light banked one +above the other as the town rose northward, and a rumble as of a million +carriages was in his ears. At his feet, very far below, lay St. James's +Park, silent and black, a quiet pool of darkness in the midst of glitter +and noise. Durrance had a great desire to escape out of this room into +its secrecy. But that he could not do without remark. Therefore he kept +his back turned to his companion, and leaned his forehead against the +window, and hoped his friend would continue to talk. For he was face to +face with one of the sacrifices which must not be mentioned, and which +no sign must betray. + +Feversham did continue, and if Durrance did not listen, on the other +hand Captain Trench gave to him his closest attention. But it was +evident that Harry Feversham was giving reasons seriously considered. He +was not making excuses, and in the end Captain Trench was satisfied. + +"Well, I drink to you, Feversham," he said, "with all the proper +sentiments." + +"I too, old man," said Willoughby, obediently following his senior's +lead. + +Thus they drank their comrade's health, and as their empty glasses +rattled on the table, there came a knock upon the door. + +The two officers looked up. Durrance turned about from the window. +Feversham said, "Come in;" and his servant brought in to him a telegram. + +Feversham tore open the envelope carelessly, as carelessly read through +the telegram, and then sat very still, with his eyes upon the slip of +pink paper and his face grown at once extremely grave. Thus he sat for +an appreciable time, not so much stunned as thoughtful. And in the room +there was a complete silence. Feversham's three guests averted their +eyes. Durrance turned again to his window; Willoughby twisted his +moustache and gazed intently upward at the ceiling; Captain Trench +shifted his chair round and stared into the glowing fire, and each man's +attitude expressed a certain suspense. It seemed that sharp upon the +heels of Feversham's good news calamity had come knocking at the door. + +"There is no answer," said Harry, and fell to silence again. Once he +raised his head and looked at Trench as though he had a mind to speak. +But he thought the better of it, and so dropped again to the +consideration of this message. And in a moment or two the silence was +sharply interrupted, but not by any one of the expectant motionless +three men seated within the room. The interruption came from without. + +From the parade ground of Wellington Barracks the drums and fifes +sounding the tattoo shrilled through the open window with a startling +clearness like a sharp summons, and diminished as the band marched away +across the gravel and again grew loud. Feversham did not change his +attitude, but the look upon his face was now that of a man listening, +and listening thoughtfully, just as he had read thoughtfully. In the +years which followed, that moment was to recur again and again to the +recollection of each of Harry's three guests. The lighted room, with the +bright homely fire, the open window overlooking the myriad lamps of +London, Harry Feversham seated with the telegram spread before him, the +drums and fifes calling loudly, and then dwindling to music very small +and pretty--music which beckoned where a moment ago it had commanded: +all these details made up a picture of which the colours were not to +fade by any lapse of time, although its significance was not apprehended +now. + +It was remembered that Feversham rose abruptly from his chair, just +before the tattoo ceased. He crumpled the telegram loosely in his hands, +tossed it into the fire, and then, leaning his back against the +chimney-piece and upon one side of the fireplace, said again:-- + +"I don't know;" as though he had thrust that message, whatever it might +be, from his mind, and was summing up in this indefinite way the +argument which had gone before. Thus that long silence was broken, and a +spell was lifted. But the fire took hold upon the telegram and shook it, +so that it moved like a thing alive and in pain. It twisted, and part of +it unrolled, and for a second lay open and smooth of creases, lit up by +the flame and as yet untouched; so that two or three words sprang, as it +were, out of a yellow glare of fire and were legible. Then the flame +seized upon that smooth part too, and in a moment shrivelled it into +black tatters. But Captain Trench was all this while staring into the +fire. + +"You return to Dublin, I suppose?" said Durrance. He had moved back +again into the room. Like his companions, he was conscious of an +unexplained relief. + +"To Dublin? No; I go to Donegal in three weeks' time. There is to be a +dance. It is hoped you will come." + +"I am not sure that I can manage it. There is just a chance, I believe, +should trouble come in the East, that I may go out on the staff." The +talk thus came round again to the chances of peace and war, and held in +that quarter till the boom of the Westminster clock told that the hour +was eleven. Captain Trench rose from his seat on the last stroke; +Willoughby and Durrance followed his example. + +"I shall see you to-morrow," said Durrance to Feversham. + +"As usual," replied Harry; and his three guests descended from his +rooms and walked across the Park together. At the corner of Pall Mall, +however, they parted company, Durrance mounting St. James's Street, +while Trench and Willoughby crossed the road into St. James's Square. +There Trench slipped his arm through Willoughby's, to Willoughby's +surprise, for Trench was an undemonstrative man. + +"You know Castleton's address?" he asked. + +"Albemarle Street," Willoughby answered, and added the number. + +"He leaves Euston at twelve o'clock. It is now ten minutes past eleven. +Are you curious, Willoughby? I confess to curiosity. I am an inquisitive +methodical person, and when a man gets a telegram bidding him tell +Trench something and he tells Trench nothing, I am curious as a +philosopher to know what that something is! Castleton is the only other +officer of our regiment in London. It is likely, therefore, that the +telegram came from Castleton. Castleton, too, was dining with a big man +from the War Office. I think that if we take a hansom to Albemarle +Street, we shall just catch Castleton upon his door-step." + +Mr. Willoughby, who understood very little of Trench's meaning, +nevertheless cordially agreed to the proposal. + +"I think it would be prudent," said he, and he hailed a passing cab. +A moment later the two men were driving to Albemarle Street. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER + + +Durrance, meanwhile, walked to his lodging alone, remembering a day, now +two years since, when by a curious whim of old Dermod Eustace he had +been fetched against his will to the house by the Lennon River in +Donegal, and there, to his surprise, had been made acquainted with +Dermod's daughter Ethne. For she surprised all who had first held speech +with the father. Durrance had stayed for a night in the house, and +through that evening she had played upon her violin, seated with her +back toward her audience, as was her custom when she played, lest a look +or a gesture should interrupt the concentration of her thoughts. The +melodies which she had played rang in his ears now. For the girl +possessed the gift of music, and the strings of her violin spoke to the +questions of her bow. There was in particular an overture--the Melusine +overture--which had the very sob of the waves. Durrance had listened +wondering, for the violin had spoken to him of many things of which the +girl who played it could know nothing. It had spoken of long perilous +journeys and the faces of strange countries; of the silver way across +moonlit seas; of the beckoning voices from the under edges of the +desert. It had taken a deeper, a more mysterious tone. It had told of +great joys, quite unattainable, and of great griefs too, eternal, and +with a sort of nobility by reason of their greatness; and of many +unformulated longings beyond the reach of words; but with never a single +note of mere complaint. So it had seemed to Durrance that night as he +had sat listening while Ethne's face was turned away. So it seemed to +him now when he knew that her face was still to be turned away for all +his days. He had drawn a thought from her playing which he was at some +pains to keep definite in his mind. The true music cannot complain. + +Therefore it was that as he rode the next morning into the Row his blue +eyes looked out upon the world from his bronzed face with not a jot less +of his usual friendliness. He waited at half-past nine by the clump of +lilacs and laburnums at the end of the sand, but Harry Feversham did not +join him that morning, nor indeed for the next three weeks. Ever since +the two men had graduated from Oxford it had been their custom to meet +at this spot and hour, when both chanced to be in town, and Durrance was +puzzled. It seemed to him that he had lost his friend as well. + +Meanwhile, however, the rumours of war grew to a certainty; and when at +last Feversham kept the tryst, Durrance had news. + +"I told you luck might look my way. Well, she has. I go out to Egypt on +General Graham's staff. There's talk we may run down the Red Sea to +Suakin afterward." + +The exhilaration of his voice brought an unmistakable envy into +Feversham's eyes. It seemed strange to Durrance, even at that moment of +his good luck, that Harry Feversham should envy him--strange and rather +pleasant. But he interpreted the envy in the light of his own ambitions. + +"It is rough on you," he said sympathetically, "that your regiment has +to stay behind." + +Feversham rode by his friend's side in silence. Then, as they came to +the chairs beneath the trees, he said:-- + +"That was expected. The day you dined with me I sent in my papers." + +"That night?" said Durrance, turning in his saddle. "After we had gone?" + +"Yes," said Feversham, accepting the correction. He wondered whether it +had been intended. But Durrance rode silently forward. Again Harry +Feversham was conscious of a reproach in his friend's silence, and again +he was wrong. For Durrance suddenly spoke heartily, and with a laugh. + +"I remember. You gave us your reasons that night. But for the life of me +I can't help wishing that we had been going out together. When do you +leave for Ireland?" + +"To-night." + +"So soon?" + +They turned their horses and rode westward again down the alley of +trees. The morning was still fresh. The limes and chestnuts had lost +nothing of their early green, and since the May was late that year, its +blossoms still hung delicately white like snow upon the branches and +shone red against the dark rhododendrons. The park shimmered in a haze +of sunlight, and the distant roar of the streets was as the tumbling of +river water. + +"It is a long time since we bathed in Sandford Lasher," said Durrance. + +"Or froze in the Easter vacations in the big snow-gully on Great End," +returned Feversham. Both men had the feeling that on this morning a +volume in their book of life was ended; and since the volume had been a +pleasant one to read, and they did not know whether its successors would +sustain its promise, they were looking backward through the leaves +before they put it finally away. + +"You must stay with us, Jack, when you come back," said Feversham. + +Durrance had schooled himself not to wince, and he did not, even at that +anticipatory "us." If his left hand tightened upon the thongs of his +reins, the sign could not be detected by his friend. + +"If I come back," said Durrance. "You know my creed. I could never pity +a man who died on active service. I would very much like to come by that +end myself." + +It was a quite simple creed, consistent with the simplicity of the man +who uttered it. It amounted to no more than this: that to die decently +was worth a good many years of life. So that he uttered it without +melancholy or any sign of foreboding. Even so, however, he had a fear +that perhaps his friend might place another interpretation upon the +words, and he looked quickly into his face. He only saw again, however, +that puzzling look of envy in Feversham's eyes. + +"You see there are worse things which can happen," he continued; +"disablement, for instance. Clever men could make a shift, perhaps, to +put up with it. But what in the world should I do if I had to sit in a +chair all my days? It makes me shiver to think of it," and he shook his +broad shoulders to unsaddle that fear. "Well, this is the last ride. Let +us gallop," and he let out his horse. + +Feversham followed his example, and side by side they went racing down +the sand. At the bottom of the Row they stopped, shook hands, and with +the curtest of nods parted. Feversham rode out of the park, Durrance +turned back and walked his horse up toward the seats beneath the trees. + +Even as a boy in his home at Southpool in Devonshire, upon a wooded +creek of the Salcombe estuary, he had always been conscious of a certain +restlessness, a desire to sail down that creek and out over the levels +of the sea, a dream of queer outlandish countries and peoples beyond the +dark familiar woods. And the restlessness had grown upon him, so that +"Guessens," even when he had inherited it with its farms and lands, had +remained always in his thoughts as a place to come home to rather than +an estate to occupy a life. He purposely exaggerated that restlessness +now, and purposely set against it words which Feversham had spoken and +which he knew to be true. Ethne Eustace would hardly be happy outside +her county of Donegal. Therefore, even had things fallen out +differently, as he phrased it, there might have been a clash. Perhaps it +was as well that Harry Feversham was to marry Ethne--and not another +than Feversham. + +Thus, at all events, he argued as he rode, until the riders vanished +from before his eyes, and the ladies in their coloured frocks beneath +the cool of the trees. The trees themselves dwindled to ragged mimosas, +the brown sand at his feet spread out in a widening circumference and +took the bright colour of honey; and upon the empty sand black stones +began to heap themselves shapelessly like coal, and to flash in the sun +like mirrors. He was deep in his anticipations of the Soudan, when he +heard his name called out softly in a woman's voice, and, looking up, +found himself close by the rails. + +"How do you do, Mrs. Adair?" said he, and he stopped his horse. Mrs. +Adair gave him her hand across the rails. She was Durrance's neighbour +at Southpool, and by a year or two his elder--a tall woman, remarkable +for the many shades of her thick brown hair and the peculiar pallor on +her face. But at this moment the face had brightened, there was a hint +of colour in the cheeks. + +"I have news for you," said Durrance. "Two special items. One, Harry +Feversham is to be married." + +"To whom?" asked the lady, eagerly. + +"You should know. It was in your house in Hill Street that Harry first +met her; and I introduced him. He has been improving the acquaintance in +Dublin." + +But Mrs. Adair already understood; and it was plain that the news was +welcome. + +"Ethne Eustace!" she cried. "They will be married soon?" + +"There is nothing to prevent it." + +"I am glad," and the lady sighed as though with relief. "What is your +second item?" + +"As good as the first. I go out on General Graham's staff." + +Mrs. Adair was silent. There came a look of anxiety into her eyes, and +the colour died out of her face. + +"You are very glad, I suppose," she said slowly. + +Durrance's voice left her in no doubt. + +"I should think I was. I go soon, too, and the sooner the better. I will +come and dine some night, if I may, before I go." + +"My husband will be pleased to see you," said Mrs. Adair, rather coldly. +Durrance did not notice the coldness, however. He had his own reasons +for making the most of the opportunity which had come his way; and he +urged his enthusiasm, and laid it bare in words more for his own benefit +than with any thought of Mrs. Adair. Indeed, he had always rather a +vague impression of the lady. She was handsome in a queer, foreign way +not so uncommon along the coasts of Devonshire and Cornwall, and she had +good hair, and was always well dressed. Moreover, she was friendly. And +at that point Durrance's knowledge of her came to an end. Perhaps her +chief merit in his eyes was that she had made friends with Ethne +Eustace. But he was to become better acquainted with Mrs. Adair. He rode +away from the park with the old regret in his mind that the fortunes of +himself and his friend were this morning finally severed. As a fact he +had that morning set the strands of a new rope a-weaving which was to +bring them together again in a strange and terrible relationship. Mrs. +Adair followed him out of the park, and walked home very thoughtfully. + +Durrance had just one week wherein to provide his equipment and +arrange his estate in Devonshire. It passed in a continuous hurry of +preparation, so that his newspaper lay each day unfolded in his rooms. +The general was to travel overland to Brindisi; and so on an evening of +wind and rain, toward the end of July, Durrance stepped from the Dover +pier into the mail-boat for Calais. In spite of the rain and the gloomy +night, a small crowd had gathered to give the general a send-off. As the +ropes were cast off, a feeble cheer was raised; and before the cheer had +ended, Durrance found himself beset by a strange illusion. He was +leaning upon the bulwarks, idly wondering whether this was his last view +of England, and with a wish that some one of his friends had come down +to see him go, when it seemed to him suddenly that his wish was +answered; for he caught a glimpse of a man standing beneath a gas-lamp, +and that man was of the stature and wore the likeness of Harry +Feversham. Durrance rubbed his eyes and looked again. But the wind made +the tongue of light flicker uncertainly within the glass; the rain, too, +blurred the quay. He could only be certain that a man was standing +there, he could only vaguely distinguish beneath the lamp the whiteness +of a face. It was an illusion, he said to himself. Harry Feversham was +at that moment most likely listening to Ethne playing the violin under a +clear sky in a high garden of Donegal. But even as he was turning from +the bulwarks, there came a lull of the wind, the lights burned bright +and steady on the pier, and the face leaped from the shadows distinct in +feature and expression. Durrance leaned out over the side of the boat. + +"Harry!" he shouted, at the top of a wondering voice. + +But the figure beneath the lamp never stirred. The wind blew the lights +again this way and that, the paddles churned the water, the mail-boat +passed beyond the pier. It was an illusion, he repeated; it was a +coincidence. It was the face of a stranger very like to Harry +Feversham's. It could not be Feversham's, because the face which +Durrance had seen so distinctly for a moment was a haggard, wistful +face--a face stamped with an extraordinary misery; the face of a man +cast out from among his fellows. + +Durrance had been very busy all that week. He had clean forgotten the +arrival of that telegram and the suspense which the long perusal of it +had caused. Moreover, his newspaper had lain unfolded in his rooms. But +his friend Harry Feversham had come to see him off. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +THE BALL AT LENNON HOUSE + + +Yet Feversham had travelled to Dublin by the night mail after his ride +with Durrance in the Row. He had crossed Lough Swilly on the following +fore-noon by a little cargo steamer, which once a week steamed up the +Lennon River as far as Ramelton. On the quay-side Ethne was waiting for +him in her dog-cart; she gave him the hand and the smile of a comrade. + +"You are surprised to see me," said she, noting the look upon his face. + +"I always am," he replied. "For always you exceed my thoughts of you;" +and the smile changed upon her face--it became something more than the +smile of a comrade. + +"I shall drive slowly," she said, as soon as his traps had been packed +into the cart; "I brought no groom on purpose. There will be guests +coming to-morrow. We have only to-day." + +She drove along the wide causeway by the riverside, and turned up the +steep, narrow street. Feversham sat silently by her side. It was his +first visit to Ramelton, and he gazed about him, noting the dark thicket +of tall trees which climbed on the far side of the river, the old grey +bridge, the noise of the water above it as it sang over shallows, and +the drowsy quiet of the town, with a great curiosity and almost a pride +of ownership, since it was here that Ethne lived, and all these things +were part and parcel of her life. + +She was at that time a girl of twenty-one, tall, strong, and supple of +limb, and with a squareness of shoulder proportionate to her height. She +had none of that exaggerated slope which our grandmothers esteemed, yet +she lacked no grace of womanhood on that account, and in her walk she +was light-footed as a deer. Her hair was dark brown, and she wore it +coiled upon the nape of her neck; a bright colour burned in her cheeks, +and her eyes, of a very clear grey, met the eyes of those to whom she +talked with a most engaging frankness. And in character she was the +counterpart of her looks. She was honest; she had a certain simplicity, +the straightforward simplicity of strength which comprises much +gentleness and excludes violence. Of her courage there is a story still +told in Ramelton, which Feversham could never remember without a thrill +of wonder. She had stopped at a door on that steep hill leading down to +the river, and the horse which she was driving took fright at the mere +clatter of a pail and bolted. The reins were lying loose at the moment; +they fell on the ground before Ethne could seize them. She was thus +seated helpless in the dog-cart, and the horse was tearing down to where +the road curves sharply over the bridge. The thing which she did, she +did quite coolly. She climbed over the front of the dog-cart as it +pitched and raced down the hill, and balancing herself along the shafts, +reached the reins at the horse's neck, and brought the horse to a stop +ten yards from the curve. But she had, too, the defects of her +qualities, although Feversham was not yet aware of them. + +Ethne during the first part of this drive was almost as silent as her +companion; and when she spoke, it was with an absent air, as though she +had something of more importance in her thoughts. It was not until she +had left the town and was out upon the straight, undulating road to +Letterkenny that she turned quickly to Feversham and uttered it. + +"I saw this morning that your regiment was ordered from India to Egypt. +You could have gone with it, had I not come in your way. There would +have been chances of distinction. I have hindered you, and I am very +sorry. Of course, you could not know that there was any possibility of +your regiment going, but I can understand it is very hard for you to be +left behind. I blame myself." + +Feversham sat staring in front of him for a moment. Then he said, in a +voice suddenly grown hoarse:-- + +"You need not." + +"How can I help it? I blame myself the more," she continued, "because I +do not see things quite like other women. For instance, supposing that +you had gone to Egypt, and that the worst had happened, I should have +felt very lonely, of course, all my days, but I should have known quite +surely that when those days were over, you and I would see much of one +another." + +She spoke without any impressive lowering of the voice, but in the +steady, level tone of one stating the simplest imaginable fact. +Feversham caught his breath like a man in pain. But the girl's eyes +were upon his face, and he sat still, staring in front of him without so +much as a contraction of the forehead. But it seemed that he could not +trust himself to answer. He kept his lips closed, and Ethne continued:-- + +"You see I can put up with the absence of the people I care about, a +little better perhaps than most people. I do not feel that I have lost +them at all," and she cast about for a while as if her thought was +difficult to express. "You know how things happen," she resumed. "One +goes along in a dull sort of way, and then suddenly a face springs out +from the crowd of one's acquaintances, and you know it at once and +certainly for the face of a friend, or rather you recognise it, though +you have never seen it before. It is almost as though you had come upon +some one long looked for and now gladly recovered. Well, such +friends--they are few, no doubt, but after all only the few really +count--such friends one does not lose, whether they are absent, or +even--dead." + +"Unless," said Feversham, slowly, "one has made a mistake. Suppose the +face in the crowd is a mask, what then? One may make mistakes." + +Ethne shook her head decidedly. + +"Of that kind, no. One may seem to have made mistakes, and perhaps for a +long while. But in the end one would be proved not to have made them." + +And the girl's implicit faith took hold upon the man and tortured him, +so that he could no longer keep silence. + +"Ethne," he cried, "you don't know--" But at that moment Ethne reined +in her horse, laughed, and pointed with her whip. + +They had come to the top of a hill a couple of miles from Ramelton. The +road ran between stone walls enclosing open fields upon the left, and a +wood of oaks and beeches on the right. A scarlet letter-box was built +into the left-hand wall, and at that Ethne's whip was pointed. + +"I wanted to show you that," she interrupted. "It was there I used to +post my letters to you during the anxious times." And so Feversham let +slip his opportunity of speech. + +"The house is behind the trees to the right," she continued. + +"The letter-box is very convenient," said Feversham. + +"Yes," said Ethne, and she drove on and stopped again where the park +wall had crumbled. + +"That's where I used to climb over to post the letters. There's a tree +on the other side of the wall as convenient as the letter-box. I used to +run down the half-mile of avenue at night." + +"There might have been thieves," exclaimed Feversham. + +"There were thorns," said Ethne, and turning through the gates she drove +up to the porch of the long, irregular grey house. "Well, we have still +a day before the dance." + +"I suppose the whole country-side is coming," said Feversham. + +"It daren't do anything else," said Ethne, with a laugh. "My father +would send the police to fetch them if they stayed away, just as he +fetched your friend Mr. Durrance here. By the way, Mr. Durrance has +sent me a present--a Guarnerius violin." + +The door opened, and a thin, lank old man, with a fierce peaked face +like a bird of prey, came out upon the steps. His face softened, +however, into friendliness when he saw Feversham, and a smile played +upon his lips. A stranger might have thought that he winked. But his +left eyelid continually drooped over the eye. + +"How do you do?" he said. "Glad to see you. Must make yourself at home. +If you want any whiskey, stamp twice on the floor with your foot. The +servants understand," and with that he went straightway back into the +house. + + * * * * * + +The biographer of Dermod Eustace would need to bring a wary mind to his +work. For though the old master of Lennon House has not lain twenty +years in his grave, he is already swollen into a legendary character. +Anecdotes have grown upon his memory like barnacles, and any man in +those parts with a knack of invention has only to foist his stories upon +Dermod to ensure a ready credence. There are, however, definite facts. +He practised an ancient and tyrannous hospitality, keeping open house +upon the road to Letterkenny, and forcing bed and board even upon +strangers, as Durrance had once discovered. He was a man of another +century, who looked out with a glowering, angry eye upon a topsy-turvy +world, and would not be reconciled to it except after much alcohol. He +was a sort of intoxicated Coriolanus, believing that the people should +be shepherded with a stick, yet always mindful of his manners, even to +the lowliest of women. It was said of him with pride by the townsfolk +of Ramelton, that even at his worst, when he came galloping down the +steep cobbled streets, mounted on a big white mare of seventeen hands, +with his inseparable collie dog for his companion,--a gaunt, grey-faced, +grey-haired man, with a drooping eye, swaying with drink, yet by a +miracle keeping his saddle,--he had never ridden down any one except a +man. There are two points to be added. He was rather afraid of his +daughter, who wisely kept him doubtful whether she was displeased with +him or not, and he had conceived a great liking for Harry Feversham. + +Harry saw little of him that day, however. Dermod retired into the room +which he was pleased to call his office, while Feversham and Ethne spent +the afternoon fishing for salmon in the Lennon River. It was an +afternoon restful as a Sabbath, and the very birds were still. From the +house the lawns fell steeply, shaded by trees and dappled by the +sunlight, to a valley, at the bottom of which flowed the river swift and +black under overarching boughs. There was a fall, where the water slid +over rocks with a smoothness so unbroken that it looked solid except +just at one point. There a spur stood sharply up, and the river broke +back upon itself in an amber wave through which the sun shone. Opposite +this spur they sat for a long while, talking at times, but for the most +part listening to the roar of the water and watching its perpetual flow. +And at last the sunset came, and the long shadows. They stood up, looked +at each other with a smile, and so walked slowly back to the house. It +was an afternoon which Feversham was long to remember; for the next +night was the night of the dance, and as the band struck up the opening +bars of the fourth waltz, Ethne left her position at the drawing-room +door, and taking Feversham's arm passed out into the hall. + +The hall was empty, and the front door stood open to the cool of the +summer night. From the ballroom came the swaying lilt of the music and +the beat of the dancers' feet. Ethne drew a breath of relief at her +reprieve from her duties, and then dropping her partner's arm, crossed +to a side table. + +"The post is in," she said. "There are letters, one, two, three, for +you, and a little box." + +She held the box out to him as she spoke,--a little white jeweller's +cardboard box,--and was at once struck by its absence of weight. + +"It must be empty," she said. + +Yet it was most carefully sealed and tied. Feversham broke the seals and +unfastened the string. He looked at the address. The box had been +forwarded from his lodgings, and he was not familiar with the +handwriting. + +"There is some mistake," he said as he shook the lid open, and then he +stopped abruptly. Three white feathers fluttered out of the box, swayed +and rocked for a moment in the air, and then, one after another, settled +gently down upon the floor. They lay like flakes of snow upon the dark +polished boards. But they were not whiter than Harry Feversham's cheeks. +He stood and stared at the feathers until he felt a light touch upon his +arm. He looked and saw Ethne's gloved hand upon his sleeve. + +"What does it mean?" she asked. There was some perplexity in her voice, +but nothing more than perplexity. The smile upon her face and the loyal +confidence in her eyes showed she had never a doubt that his first word +would lift it from her. "What does it mean?" + +"That there are things which cannot be hid, I suppose," said Feversham. + +For a little while Ethne did not speak. The languorous music floated +into the hall, and the trees whispered from the garden through the open +door. Then she shook his arm gently, uttered a breathless little laugh, +and spoke as though she were pleading with a child. + +"I don't think you understand, Harry. Here are three white feathers. +They were sent to you in jest? Oh, of course in jest. But it is a cruel +kind of jest--" + +"They were sent in deadly earnest." + +He spoke now, looking her straight in the eyes. Ethne dropped her hand +from his sleeve. + +"Who sent them?" she asked. + +Feversham had not given a thought to that matter. The message was all in +all, the men who had sent it so unimportant. But Ethne reached out her +hand and took the box from him. There were three visiting cards lying at +the bottom, and she took them out and read them aloud. + +"Captain Trench, Mr. Castleton, Mr. Willoughby. Do you know these men?" + +"All three are officers of my old regiment." + +The girl was dazed. She knelt down upon the floor and gathered the +feathers into her hand with a vague thought that merely to touch them +would help her to comprehension. They lay upon the palm of her white +glove, and she blew gently upon them, and they swam up into the air and +hung fluttering and rocking. As they floated downward she caught them +again, and so she slowly felt her way to another question. + +"Were they justly sent?" she asked. + +"Yes," said Harry Feversham. + +He had no thought of denial or evasion. He was only aware that the +dreadful thing for so many years dreadfully anticipated had at last +befallen him. He was known for a coward. The word which had long blazed +upon the wall of his thoughts in letters of fire was now written large +in the public places. He stood as he had once stood before the portraits +of his fathers, mutely accepting condemnation. It was the girl who +denied, as she still kneeled upon the floor. + +"I do not believe that is true," she said. "You could not look me in the +face so steadily were it true. Your eyes would seek the floor, not +mine." + +"Yet it is true." + +"Three little white feathers," she said slowly; and then, with a sob in +her throat, "This afternoon we were under the elms down by the Lennon +River--do you remember, Harry?--just you and I. And then come three +little white feathers, and the world's at an end." + +"Oh, don't!" cried Harry, and his voice broke upon the word. Up till now +he had spoken with a steadiness matching the steadiness of his eyes. But +these last words of hers, the picture which they evoked in his memories, +the pathetic simplicity of her utterance, caught him by the heart. But +Ethne seemed not to hear the appeal. She was listening with her face +turned toward the ballroom. The chatter and laughter of the voices there +grew louder and nearer. She understood that the music had ceased. She +rose quickly to her feet, clenching the feathers in her hand, and opened +a door. It was the door of her sitting room. + +"Come," she said. + +Harry followed her into the room, and she closed the door, shutting out +the noise. + +"Now," she said, "will you tell me, if you please, why the feathers have +been sent?" + +She stood quietly before him; her face was pale, but Feversham could not +gather from her expression any feeling which she might have beyond a +desire and a determination to get at the truth. She spoke, too, with the +same quietude. He answered, as he had answered before, directly and to +the point, without any attempt at mitigation. + +"A telegram came. It was sent by Castleton. It reached me when Captain +Trench and Mr. Willoughby were dining with me. It told me that my +regiment would be ordered on active service in Egypt. Castleton was +dining with a man likely to know, and I did not question the accuracy of +his message. He told me to tell Trench. I did not. I thought the matter +over with the telegram in front of me. Castleton was leaving that night +for Scotland, and he would go straight from Scotland to rejoin the +regiment. He would not, therefore, see Trench for some weeks at the +earliest, and by that time the telegram would very likely be forgotten +or its date confused. I did not tell Trench. I threw the telegram into +the fire, and that night sent in my papers. But Trench found out +somehow. Durrance was at dinner, too,--good God, Durrance!" he suddenly +broke out. "Most likely he knows like the rest." + +It came upon him as something shocking and strangely new that his friend +Durrance, who, as he knew very well, had been wont rather to look up to +him, in all likelihood counted him a thing of scorn. But he heard Ethne +speaking. After all, what did it matter whether Durrance knew, whether +every man knew, from the South Pole to the North, since she, Ethne, +knew? + +"And is this all?" she asked. + +"Surely it is enough," said he. + +"I think not," she answered, and she lowered her voice a little as she +went on. "We agreed, didn't we, that no foolish misunderstandings should +ever come between us? We were to be frank, and to take frankness each +from the other without offence. So be frank with me! Please!" and she +pleaded. "I could, I think, claim it as a right. At all events I ask for +it as I shall never ask for anything else in all my life." + +There was a sort of explanation of his act, Harry Feversham remembered; +but it was so futile when compared with the overwhelming consequence. +Ethne had unclenched her hands; the three feathers lay before his eyes +upon the table. They could not be explained away; he wore "coward" like +a blind man's label; besides, he could never make her understand. +However, she wished for the explanation and had a right to it; she had +been generous in asking for it, with a generosity not very common +amongst women. So Feversham gathered his wits and explained:-- + +"All my life I have been afraid that some day I should play the coward, +and from the very first I knew that I was destined for the army. I kept +my fear to myself. There was no one to whom I could tell it. My mother +was dead, and my father--" he stopped for a moment, with a deep intake +of the breath. He could see his father, that lonely iron man, sitting at +this very moment in his mother's favourite seat upon the terrace, and +looking over the moonlit fields toward the Sussex Downs; he could +imagine him dreaming of honours and distinctions worthy of the +Fevershams to be gained immediately by his son in the Egyptian campaign. +Surely that old man's stern heart would break beneath this blow. The +magnitude of the bad thing which he had done, the misery which it would +spread, were becoming very clear to Harry Feversham. He dropped his head +between his hands and groaned aloud. + +"My father," he resumed, "would, nay, could, never have understood. I +know him. When danger came his way, it found him ready, but he did not +foresee. That was my trouble always,--I foresaw. Any peril to be +encountered, any risk to be run,--I foresaw them. I foresaw something +else besides. My father would talk in his matter-of-fact way of the +hours of waiting before the actual commencement of a battle, after the +troops had been paraded. The mere anticipation of the suspense and the +strain of those hours was a torture to me. I foresaw the possibility of +cowardice. Then one evening, when my father had his old friends about +him on one of his Crimean nights, two dreadful stories were told--one +of an officer, the other of a surgeon, who had both shirked. I was now +confronted with the fact of cowardice. I took those stories up to bed +with me. They never left my memory; they became a part of me. I saw +myself behaving now as one, now as the other, of those two men had +behaved, perhaps in the crisis of a battle bringing ruin upon my +country, certainly dishonouring my father and all the dead men whose +portraits hung ranged in the hall. I tried to get the best of my fears. +I hunted, but with a map of the country-side in my mind. I foresaw every +hedge, every pit, every treacherous bank." + +"Yet you rode straight," interrupted Ethne. "Mr. Durrance told me so." + +"Did I?" said Feversham, vaguely. "Well, perhaps I did, once the hounds +were off. Durrance never knew what the moments of waiting before the +coverts were drawn meant to me! So when this telegram came, I took the +chance it seemed to offer and resigned." + +He ended his explanation. He had spoken warily, having something to +conceal. However earnestly she might ask for frankness, he must at all +costs, for her sake, hide something from her. But at once she suspected +it. + +"Were you afraid, too, of disgracing me? Was I in any way the cause that +you resigned?" + +Feversham looked her in the eyes and lied:-- + +"No." + +"If you had not been engaged to me, you would still have sent in your +papers?" + +"Yes." + +Ethne slowly stripped a glove off her hand. Feversham turned away. + +"I think that I am rather like your father," she said. "I don't +understand;" and in the silence which followed upon her words Feversham +heard something whirr and rattle upon the table. He looked and saw that +she had slipped her engagement ring off her finger. It lay upon the +table, the stones winking at him. + +"And all this--all that you have told to me," she exclaimed suddenly, +with her face very stern, "you would have hidden from me? You would have +married me and hidden it, had not these three feathers come?" + +The words had been on her lips from the beginning, but she had not +uttered them lest by a miracle he should after all have some unimagined +explanation which would reestablish him in her thoughts. She had given +him every chance. Now, however, she struck and laid bare the worst of +his disloyalty. Feversham flinched, and he did not answer but allowed +his silence to consent. Ethne, however, was just; she was in a way +curious too: she wished to know the very bottom of the matter before she +thrust it into the back of her mind. + +"But yesterday," she said, "you were going to tell me something. I +stopped you to point out the letter-box," and she laughed in a queer +empty way. "Was it about the feathers?" + +"Yes," answered Feversham, wearily. What did these persistent questions +matter, since the feathers had come, since her ring lay flickering and +winking on the table? "Yes, I think what you were saying rather +compelled me." + +"I remember," said Ethne, interrupting him rather hastily, "about +seeing much of one another--afterwards. We will not speak of such things +again," and Feversham swayed upon his feet as though he would fall. "I +remember, too, you said one could make mistakes. You were right; I was +wrong. One can do more than seem to make them. Will you, if you please, +take back your ring?" + +Feversham picked up the ring and held it in the palm of his hand, +standing very still. He had never cared for her so much, he had never +recognised her value so thoroughly, as at this moment when he lost her. +She gleamed in the quiet room, wonderful, most wonderful, from the +bright flowers in her hair to the white slipper on her foot. It was +incredible to him that he should ever have won her. Yet he had, and +disloyally had lost her. Then her voice broke in again upon his +reflections. + +"These, too, are yours. Will you take them, please?" + +She was pointing with her fan to the feathers upon the table. Feversham +obediently reached out his hand, and then drew it back in surprise. + +"There are four," he said. + +Ethne did not reply, and looking at her fan Feversham understood. It was +a fan of ivory and white feathers. She had broken off one of those +feathers and added it on her own account to the three. + +The thing which she had done was cruel, no doubt. But she wished to make +an end--a complete, irrevocable end; though her voice was steady and her +face, despite its pallor, calm, she was really tortured with humiliation +and pain. All the details of Harry Feversham's courtship, the +interchange of looks, the letters she had written and received, the +words which had been spoken, tingled and smarted unbearably in her +recollections. Their lips had touched--she recalled it with horror. She +desired never to see Harry Feversham after this night. Therefore she +added her fourth feather to the three. + +Harry Feversham took the feathers as she bade him, without a word of +remonstrance, and indeed with a sort of dignity which even at that +moment surprised her. All the time, too, he had kept his eyes steadily +upon hers, he had answered her questions simply, there had been nothing +abject in his manner; so that Ethne already began to regret this last +thing which she had done. However, it _was_ done. Feversham had taken +the four feathers. + +He held them in his fingers as though he was about to tear them across. +But he checked the action. He looked suddenly towards her, and kept his +eyes upon her face for some little while. Then very carefully he put the +feathers into his breast pocket. Ethne at this time did not consider +why. She only thought that here was the irrevocable end. + +"We should be going back, I think," she said. "We have been some time +away. Will you give me your arm?" In the hall she looked at the clock. +"Only eleven o'clock," she said wearily. "When we dance here, we dance +till daylight. We must show brave faces until daylight." + +And with her hand resting upon his arm, they passed into the ballroom. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE PARIAH + + +Habit assisted them; the irresponsible chatter of the ballroom sprang +automatically to their lips; the appearance of enjoyment never failed +from off their faces; so that no one at Lennon House that night +suspected that any swift cause of severance had come between them. Harry +Feversham watched Ethne laugh and talk as though she had never a care, +and was perpetually surprised, taking no thought that he wore the like +mask of gaiety himself. When she swung past him the light rhythm of her +feet almost persuaded him that her heart was in the dance. It seemed +that she could even command the colour upon her cheeks. Thus they both +wore brave faces as she had bidden. They even danced together. But all +the while Ethne was conscious that she was holding up a great load of +pain and humiliation which would presently crush her, and Feversham felt +those four feathers burning at his breast. It was wonderful to him that +the whole company did not know of them. He never approached a partner +without the notion that she would turn upon him with the contemptuous +name which was his upon her tongue. Yet he felt no fear on that account. +He would not indeed have cared had it happened, had the word been +spoken. He had lost Ethne. He watched her and looked in vain amongst +her guests, as indeed he surely knew he would, for a fit comparison. +There were women, pretty, graceful, even beautiful, but Ethne stood +apart by the particular character of her beauty. The broad forehead, the +perfect curve of the eyebrows, the great steady, clear, grey eyes, the +full red lips which could dimple into tenderness and shut level with +resolution, and the royal grace of her carriage, marked her out to +Feversham's thinking, and would do so in any company. He watched her in +a despairing amazement that he had ever had a chance of owning her. + +Only once did her endurance fail, and then only for a second. She was +dancing with Feversham, and as she looked toward the windows she saw +that the daylight was beginning to show very pale and cold upon the +other side of the blinds. + +"Look!" she said, and Feversham suddenly felt all her weight upon his +arms. Her face lost its colour and grew tired and very grey. Her eyes +shut tightly and then opened again. He thought that she would faint. +"The morning at last!" she exclaimed, and then in a voice as weary as +her face, "I wonder whether it is right that one should suffer so much +pain." + +"Hush!" whispered Feversham. "Courage! A few minutes more--only a very +few!" He stopped and stood in front of her until her strength returned. + +"Thank you!" she said gratefully, and the bright wheel of the dance +caught them in its spokes again. + +It was strange that he should be exhorting her to courage, she thanking +him for help; but the irony of this queer momentary reversal of their +position occurred to neither of them. Ethne was too tried by the strain +of those last hours, and Feversham had learned from that one failure of +her endurance, from the drawn aspect of her face and the depths of pain +in her eyes, how deeply he had wounded her. He no longer said, "I have +lost her," he no longer thought of his loss at all. He heard her words, +"I wonder whether it is right that one should suffer so much pain." He +felt that they would go ringing down the world with him, persistent in +his ears, spoken upon the very accent of her voice. He was sure that he +would hear them at the end above the voices of any who should stand +about him when he died, and hear in them his condemnation. For it was +not right. + +The ball finished shortly afterwards. The last carriage drove away, and +those who were staying in the house sought the smoking-room or went +upstairs to bed according to their sex. Feversham, however, lingered in +the hall with Ethne. She understood why. + +"There is no need," she said, standing with her back to him as she +lighted a candle, "I have told my father. I told him everything." + +Feversham bowed his head in acquiescence. + +"Still, I must wait and see him," he said. + +Ethne did not object, but she turned and looked at him quickly with her +brows drawn in a frown of perplexity. To wait for her father under such +circumstances seemed to argue a certain courage. Indeed, she herself +felt some apprehension as she heard the door of the study open and +Dermod's footsteps on the floor. Dermod walked straight up to Harry +Feversham, looking for once in a way what he was, a very old man, and +stood there staring into Feversham's face with a muddled and bewildered +expression. Twice he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. In +the end he turned to the table and lit his candle and Harry Feversham's. +Then he turned back toward Feversham, and rather quickly, so that Ethne +took a step forward as if to get between them; but he did nothing more +than stare at Feversham again and for a long time. Finally, he took up +his candle. + +"Well--" he said, and stopped. He snuffed the wick with the scissors and +began again. "Well--" he said, and stopped again. Apparently his candle +had not helped him to any suitable expressions. He stared into the flame +now instead of into Feversham's face, and for an equal length of time. +He could think of nothing whatever to say, and yet he was conscious that +something must be said. In the end he said lamely:-- + +"If you want any whiskey, stamp twice on the floor with your foot. The +servants understand." + +Thereupon he walked heavily up the stairs. The old man's forbearance was +perhaps not the least part of Harry Feversham's punishment. + + * * * * * + +It was broad daylight when Ethne was at last alone within her room. She +drew up the blinds and opened the windows wide. The cool fresh air of +the morning was as a draught of spring-water to her. She looked out upon +a world as yet unillumined by colours and found therein an image of her +days to come. The dark, tall trees looked black; the winding paths, a +singular dead white; the very lawns were dull and grey, though the dew +lay upon them like a network of frost. It was a noisy world, however, +for all its aspect of quiet. For the blackbirds were calling from the +branches and the grass, and down beneath the overhanging trees the +Lennon flowed in music between its banks. Ethne drew back from the +window. She had much to do that morning before she slept. For she +designed with her natural thoroughness to make an end at once of all her +associations with Harry Feversham. She wished that from the moment when +next she waked she might never come across a single thing which could +recall him to her memory. And with a sort of stubborn persistence she +went about the work. + +But she changed her mind. In the very process of collecting together the +gifts which he had made to her she changed her mind. For each gift that +she looked upon had its history, and the days before this miserable +night had darkened on her happiness came one by one slowly back to her +as she looked. She determined to keep one thing which had belonged to +Harry Feversham,--a small thing, a thing of no value. At first she chose +a penknife, which he had once lent to her and she had forgotten to +return. But the next instant she dropped it and rather hurriedly. For +she was after all an Irish girl, and though she did not believe in +superstitions, where superstitions were concerned she preferred to be on +the safe side. She selected his photograph in the end and locked it away +in a drawer. + +She gathered the rest of his presents together, packed them carefully in +a box, fastened the box, addressed it and carried it down to the hall, +that the servants might despatch it in the morning. Then coming back to +her room she took his letters, made a little pile of them on the hearth +and set them alight. They took some while to consume, but she waited, +sitting upright in her arm-chair while the flame crept from sheet to +sheet, discolouring the paper, blackening the writing like a stream of +ink, and leaving in the end only flakes of ashes like feathers, and +white flakes like white feathers. The last sparks were barely +extinguished when she heard a cautious step on the gravel beneath her +window. + +It was broad daylight, but her candle was still burning on the table at +her side, and with a quick instinctive movement she reached out her arm +and put the light out. Then she sat very still and rigid, listening. For +a while she heard only the blackbirds calling from the trees in the +garden and the throbbing music of the river. Afterward she heard the +footsteps again, cautiously retreating; and in spite of her will, in +spite of her formal disposal of the letters and the presents, she was +mastered all at once, not by pain or humiliation, but by an overpowering +sense of loneliness. She seemed to be seated high on an empty world of +ruins. She rose quickly from her chair, and her eyes fell upon a violin +case. With a sigh of relief she opened it, and a little while after one +or two of the guests who were sleeping in the house chanced to wake up +and heard floating down the corridors the music of a violin played very +lovingly and low. Ethne was not aware that the violin which she held was +the Guarnerius violin which Durrance had sent to her. She only +understood that she had a companion to share her loneliness. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +HARRY FEVERSHAM'S PLAN + + +It was the night of August 30. A month had passed since the ball at +Lennon House, but the uneventful country-side of Donegal was still busy +with the stimulating topic of Harry Feversham's disappearance. The +townsmen in the climbing street and the gentry at their dinner-tables +gossiped to their hearts' contentment. It was asserted that Harry +Feversham had been seen on the very morning after the dance, and at five +minutes to six--though according to Mrs. Brien O'Brien it was ten +minutes past the hour--still in his dress clothes and with a white +suicide's face, hurrying along the causeway by the Lennon Bridge. It was +suggested that a drag-net would be the only way to solve the mystery. +Mr. Dennis Rafferty, who lived on the road to Rathmullen, indeed, went +so far as to refuse salmon on the plea that he was not a cannibal, and +the saying had a general vogue. Their conjectures as to the cause of the +disappearance were no nearer to the truth. For there were only two who +knew, and those two went steadily about the business of living as though +no catastrophe had befallen them. They held their heads a trifle more +proudly perhaps. Ethne might have become a little more gentle, Dermod a +little more irascible, but these were the only changes. So gossip had +the field to itself. + +But Harry Feversham was in London, as Lieutenant Sutch discovered on the +night of the 30th. All that day the town had been perturbed by rumours +of a great battle fought at Kassassin in the desert east of Ismailia. +Messengers had raced ceaselessly through the streets, shouting tidings +of victory and tidings of disaster. There had been a charge by moonlight +of General Drury-Lowe's Cavalry Brigade, which had rolled up Arabi's +left flank and captured his guns. It was rumoured that an English +general had been killed, that the York and Lancaster Regiment had been +cut up. London was uneasy, and at eleven o'clock at night a great crowd +of people had gathered beneath the gas-lamps in Pall Mall, watching with +pale upturned faces the lighted blinds of the War Office. The crowd was +silent and impressively still. Only if a figure moved for an instant +across the blinds, a thrill of expectation passed from man to man, and +the crowd swayed in a continuous movement from edge to edge. Lieutenant +Sutch, careful of his wounded leg, was standing on the outskirts, with +his back to the parapet of the Junior Carlton Club, when he felt himself +touched upon the arm. He saw Harry Feversham at his side. Feversham's +face was working and extraordinarily white, his eyes were bright like +the eyes of a man in a fever; and Sutch at the first was not sure that +he knew or cared who it was to whom he talked. + +"I might have been out there in Egypt to-night," said Harry, in a quick +troubled voice. "Think of it! I might have been out there, sitting by a +camp-fire in the desert, talking over the battle with Jack Durrance; or +dead perhaps. What would it have mattered? I might have been in Egypt +to-night!" + +Feversham's unexpected appearance, no less than his wandering tongue, +told Sutch that somehow his fortunes had gone seriously wrong. He had +many questions in his mind, but he did not ask a single one of them. He +took Feversham's arm and led him straight out of the throng. + +"I saw you in the crowd," continued Feversham. "I thought that I would +speak to you, because--do you remember, a long time ago you gave me your +card? I have always kept it, because I have always feared that I would +have reason to use it. You said that if one was in trouble, the telling +might help." + +Sutch stopped his companion. + +"We will go in here. We can find a quiet corner in the upper +smoking-room;" and Harry, looking up, saw that he was standing by the +steps of the Army and Navy Club. + +"Good God, not there!" he cried in a sharp low voice, and moved quickly +into the roadway, where no light fell directly on his face. Sutch limped +after him. "Nor to-night. It is late. To-morrow if you will, in some +quiet place, and after nightfall. I do not go out in the daylight." + +Again Lieutenant Sutch asked no questions. + +"I know a quiet restaurant," he said. "If we dine there at nine, we +shall meet no one whom we know. I will meet you just before nine +to-morrow night at the corner of Swallow Street." + +They dined together accordingly on the following evening, at a table in +the corner of the Criterion grill-room. Feversham looked quickly about +him as he entered the room. + +"I dine here often when I am in town," said Sutch. "Listen!" The +throbbing of the engines working the electric light could be distinctly +heard, their vibrations could be felt. + +"It reminds me of a ship," said Sutch, with a smile. "I can almost fancy +myself in the gun-room again. We will have dinner. Then you shall tell me +your story." + +"You have heard nothing of it?" asked Feversham, suspiciously. + +"Not a word;" and Feversham drew a breath of relief. It had seemed to +him that every one must know. He imagined contempt on every face which +passed him in the street. + +Lieutenant Sutch was even more concerned this evening than he had been +the night before. He saw Harry Feversham clearly now in a full light. +Harry's face was thin and haggard with lack of sleep, there were black +hollows beneath his eyes; he drew his breath and made his movements in a +restless feverish fashion, his nerves seemed strung to breaking-point. +Once or twice between the courses he began his story, but Sutch would +not listen until the cloth was cleared. + +"Now," said he, holding out his cigar-case. "Take your time, Harry." + +Thereupon Feversham told him the whole truth, without exaggeration or +omission, forcing himself to a slow, careful, matter-of-fact speech, so +that in the end Sutch almost fell into the illusion that it was just the +story of a stranger which Feversham was recounting merely to pass the +time. He began with the Crimean night at Broad Place, and ended with the +ball at Lennon House. + +"I came back across Lough Swilly early that morning," he said in +conclusion, "and travelled at once to London. Since then I have stayed +in my rooms all day, listening to the bugles calling in the barrack-yard +beneath my windows. At night I prowl about the streets or lie in bed +waiting for the Westminster clock to sound each new quarter of an hour. +On foggy nights, too, I can hear steam-sirens on the river. Do you know +when the ducks start quacking in St. James's Park?" he asked with a +laugh. "At two o'clock to the minute." + +Sutch listened to the story without an interruption. But halfway through +the narrative he changed his attitude, and in a significant way. Up to +the moment when Harry told of his concealment of the telegram, Sutch had +sat with his arms upon the table in front of him, and his eyes upon his +companion. Thereafter he raised a hand to his forehead, and so remained +with his face screened while the rest was told. Feversham had no doubt +of the reason. Lieutenant Sutch wished to conceal the scorn he felt, and +could not trust the muscles of his face. Feversham, however, mitigated +nothing, but continued steadily and truthfully to the end. But even +after the end was reached, Sutch did not remove his hand, nor for some +little while did he speak. When he did speak, his words came upon +Feversham's ears with a shock of surprise. There was no contempt in +them, and though his voice shook, it shook with a great contrition. + +"I am much to blame," he said. "I should have spoken that night at Broad +Place, and I held my tongue. I shall hardly forgive myself." The +knowledge that it was Muriel Graham's son who had thus brought ruin and +disgrace upon himself was uppermost in the lieutenant's mind. He felt +that he had failed in the discharge of an obligation, self-imposed, no +doubt, but a very real obligation none the less. "You see, I +understood," he continued remorsefully. "Your father, I am afraid, never +would." + +"He never will," interrupted Harry. + +"No," Sutch agreed. "Your mother, of course, had she lived, would have +seen clearly; but few women, I think, except your mother. Brute courage! +Women make a god of it. That girl, for instance,"--and again Harry +Feversham interrupted. + +"You must not blame her. I was defrauding her into marriage." + +Sutch took his hand suddenly from his forehead. + +"Suppose that you had never met her, would you still have sent in your +papers?" + +"I think not," said Harry, slowly. "I want to be fair. Disgracing my +name and those dead men in the hall I think I would have risked. I could +not risk disgracing her." + +And Lieutenant Sutch thumped his fist despairingly upon the table. "If +only I had spoken at Broad Place. Harry, why didn't you let me speak? I +might have saved you many unnecessary years of torture. Good heavens! +what a childhood you must have spent with that fear all alone with you. +It makes me shiver to think of it. I might even have saved you from this +last catastrophe. For I understood. I understood." + +Lieutenant Sutch saw more clearly into the dark places of Harry +Feversham's mind than Harry Feversham did himself; and because he saw so +clearly, he could feel no contempt. The long years of childhood, and +boyhood, and youth, lived apart in Broad Place in the presence of the +uncomprehending father and the relentless dead men on the walls, had +done the harm. There had been no one in whom the boy could confide. The +fear of cowardice had sapped incessantly at his heart. He had walked +about with it; he had taken it with him to his bed. It had haunted his +dreams. It had been his perpetual menacing companion. It had kept him +from intimacy with his friends lest an impulsive word should betray him. +Lieutenant Sutch did not wonder that in the end it had brought about +this irretrievable mistake; for Lieutenant Sutch understood. + +"Did you ever read 'Hamlet'?" he asked. + +"Of course," said Harry, in reply. + +"Ah, but did you consider it? The same disability is clear in that +character. The thing which he foresaw, which he thought over, which he +imagined in the act and in the consequence--that he shrank from, +upbraiding himself even as you have done. Yet when the moment of action +comes, sharp and immediate, does he fail? No, he excels, and just by +reason of that foresight. I have seen men in the Crimea, tortured by +their imaginations before the fight--once the fight had begun you must +search amongst the Oriental fanatics for their match. 'Am I a coward?' +Do you remember the lines? + + Am I a coward? + Who calls me villain? Breaks my pate across? + Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face? + +There's the case in a nutshell. If only I had spoken on that night!" + +One or two people passed the table on the way out. Sutch stopped and +looked round the room. It was nearly empty. He glanced at his watch and +saw that the hour was eleven. Some plan of action must be decided upon +that night. It was not enough to hear Harry Feversham's story. There +still remained the question, what was Harry Feversham, disgraced and +ruined, now to do? How was he to re-create his life? How was the secret +of his disgrace to be most easily concealed? + +"You cannot stay in London, hiding by day, slinking about by night," he +said with a shiver. "That's too like--" and he checked himself. +Feversham, however, completed the sentence. + +"That's too like Wilmington," said he, quietly, recalling the story +which his father had told so many years ago, and which he had never +forgotten, even for a single day. "But Wilmington's end will not be +mine. Of that I can assure you. I shall not stay in London." + +He spoke with an air of decision. He had indeed mapped out already the +plan of action concerning which Lieutenant Sutch was so disturbed. +Sutch, however, was occupied with his own thoughts. + +"Who knows of the feathers? How many people?" he asked. "Give me their +names." + +"Trench, Castleton, Willoughby," began Feversham. + +"All three are in Egypt. Besides, for the credit of their regiment they +are likely to hold their tongues when they return. Who else?" + +"Dermod Eustace and--and--Ethne." + +"They will not speak." + +"You, Durrance perhaps, and my father." + +Sutch leaned back in his chair and stared. + +"Your father! You wrote to him?" + +"No; I went into Surrey and told him." + +Again remorse for that occasion, recognised and not used, seized upon +Lieutenant Sutch. + +"Why didn't I speak that night?" he said impotently. "A coward, and you +go quietly down to Surrey and confront your father with that story to +tell to him! You do not even write! You stand up and tell it to him face +to face! Harry, I reckon myself as good as another when it comes to +bravery, but for the life of me I could not have done that." + +"It was not--pleasant," said Feversham, simply; and this was the only +description of the interview between father and son which was vouchsafed +to any one. But Lieutenant Sutch knew the father and knew the son. He +could guess at all which that one adjective implied. Harry Feversham +told the results of his journey into Surrey. + +"My father continues my allowance. I shall need it, every penny of +it--otherwise I should have taken nothing. But I am not to go home +again. I did not mean to go home for a long while in any case, if at +all." + +He drew his pocket-book from his breast, and took from it the four white +feathers. These he laid before him on the table. + +"You have kept them?" exclaimed Sutch. + +"Indeed, I treasure them," said Harry, quietly. "That seems strange to +you. To you they are the symbols of my disgrace. To me they are much +more. They are my opportunities of retrieving it." He looked about the +room, separated three of the feathers, pushed them forward a little on +the tablecloth, and then leaned across toward Sutch. + +"What if I could compel Trench, Castleton, and Willoughby to take back +from me, each in his turn, the feather he sent? I do not say that it is +likely. I do not say even that it is possible. But there is a chance +that it may be possible, and I must wait upon that chance. There will be +few men leading active lives as these three do who will not at some +moment stand in great peril and great need. To be in readiness for that +moment is from now my career. All three are in Egypt. I leave for Egypt +to-morrow." + +Upon the face of Lieutenant Sutch there came a look of great and +unexpected happiness. Here was an issue of which he had never thought; +and it was the only issue, as he knew for certain, once he was aware of +it. This student of human nature disregarded without a scruple the +prudence and the calculation proper to the character which he assumed. +The obstacles in Harry Feversham's way, the possibility that at the last +moment he might shrink again, the improbability that three such +opportunities would occur--these matters he overlooked. His eyes already +shone with pride; the three feathers for him were already taken back. +The prudence was on Harry Feversham's side. + +"There are endless difficulties," he said. "Just to cite one: I am a +civilian, these three are soldiers, surrounded by soldiers; so much the +less opportunity therefore for a civilian." + +"But it is not necessary that the three men should be themselves in +peril," objected Sutch, "for you to convince them that the fault is +retrieved." + +"Oh, no. There may be other ways," agreed Feversham. "The plan came +suddenly into my mind, indeed at the moment when Ethne bade me take up +the feathers, and added the fourth. I was on the point of tearing them +across when this way out of it sprang clearly up in my mind. But I have +thought it over since during these last weeks while I sat listening to +the bugles in the barrack-yard. And I am sure there is no other way. But +it is well worth trying. You see, if the three take back their +feathers,"--he drew a deep breath, and in a very low voice, with his +eyes upon the table so that his face was hidden from Sutch, he +added--"why, then she perhaps might take hers back too." + +"Will she wait, do you think?" asked Sutch; and Harry raised his head +quickly. + +"Oh, no," he exclaimed, "I had no thought of that. She has not even a +suspicion of what I intend to do. Nor do I wish her to have one until +the intention is fulfilled. My thought was different"--and he began to +speak with hesitation for the first time in the course of that evening. +"I find it difficult to tell you--Ethne said something to me the day +before the feathers came--something rather sacred. I think that I will +tell you, because what she said is just what sends me out upon this +errand. But for her words, I would very likely never have thought of it. +I find in them my motive and a great hope. They may seem strange to you, +Mr. Sutch; but I ask you to believe that they are very real to me. She +said--it was when she knew no more than that my regiment was ordered to +Egypt--she was blaming herself because I had resigned my commission, for +which there was no need, because--and these were her words--because had +I fallen, although she would have felt lonely all her life, she would +none the less have surely known that she and I would see much of one +another--afterwards." + +Feversham had spoken his words with difficulty, not looking at his +companion, and he continued with his eyes still averted:-- + +"Do you understand? I have a hope that if--this fault can be +repaired,"--and he pointed to the feathers,--"we might still, perhaps, +see something of one another--afterwards." + +It was a strange proposition, no doubt, to be debated across the soiled +tablecloth of a public restaurant, but neither of them felt it to be +strange or even fanciful. They were dealing with the simple serious +issues, and they had reached a point where they could not be affected by +any incongruity in their surroundings. Lieutenant Sutch did not speak +for some while after Harry Feversham had done, and in the end Harry +looked up at his companion, prepared for almost a word of ridicule; but +he saw Sutch's right hand outstretched towards him. + +"When I come back," said Feversham, and he rose from his chair. He +gathered the feathers together and replaced them in his pocket-book. + +"I have told you everything," he said. "You see, I wait upon chance +opportunities; the three may not come in Egypt. They may never come at +all, and in that case I shall not come back at all. Or they may come +only at the very end and after many years. Therefore I thought that I +would like just one person to know the truth thoroughly in case I do not +come back. If you hear definitely that I never can come back, I would +be glad if you would tell my father." + +"I understand," said Sutch. + +"But don't tell him everything--I mean, not the last part, not what I +have just said about Ethne and my chief motive, for I do not think that +he would understand. Otherwise you will keep silence altogether. +Promise!" + +Lieutenant Sutch promised, but with an absent face, and Feversham +consequently insisted. + +"You will breathe no word of this to man or woman, however hard you may +be pressed, except to my father under the circumstances which I have +explained," said Feversham. + +Lieutenant Sutch promised a second time and without an instant's +hesitation. It was quite natural that Harry should lay some stress upon +the pledge, since any disclosure of his purpose might very well wear the +appearance of a foolish boast, and Sutch himself saw no reason why he +should refuse it. So he gave the promise and fettered his hands. His +thoughts, indeed, were occupied with the limit Harry had set upon the +knowledge which was to be imparted to General Feversham. Even if he died +with his mission unfulfilled, Sutch was to hide from the father that +which was best in the son, at the son's request. And the saddest part of +it, to Sutch's thinking, was that the son was right in so requesting. +For what he said was true--the father could not understand. Lieutenant +Sutch was brought back to the causes of the whole miserable business: +the premature death of the mother, who could have understood; the want +of comprehension in the father, who was left; and his own silence on +the Crimean night at Broad Place. + +"If only I had spoken," he said sadly. He dropped the end of his cigar +into his coffee-cup, and standing up, reached for his hat. "Many things +are irrevocable, Harry," he said, "but one never knows whether they are +irrevocable or not until one has found out. It is always worth while +finding out." + +The next evening Feversham crossed to Calais. It was a night as wild as +that on which Durrance had left England; and, like Durrance, Feversham +had a friend to see him off, for the last thing which his eyes beheld as +the packet swung away from the pier, was the face of Lieutenant Sutch +beneath a gas-lamp. The lieutenant maintained his position after the +boat had passed into the darkness and until the throb of its paddles +could no longer be heard. Then he limped through the rain to his hotel, +aware, and regretfully aware, that he was growing old. It was long since +he had felt regret on that account, and the feeling was very strange to +him. Ever since the Crimea he had been upon the world's half-pay list, +as he had once said to General Feversham, and what with that and the +recollection of a certain magical season before the Crimea, he had +looked forward to old age as an approaching friend. To-night, however, +he prayed that he might live just long enough to welcome back Muriel +Graham's son with his honour redeemed and his great fault atoned. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE LAST RECONNAISSANCE + + +"No one," said Durrance, and he strapped his field-glasses into the +leather case at his side. + +"No one, sir," Captain Mather agreed. + +"We will move forward." + +The scouts went on ahead, the troops resumed their formation, the two +seven-pounder mountain-guns closed up behind, and Durrance's detachment +of the Camel Corps moved down from the gloomy ridge of Khor Gwob, +thirty-five miles southwest of Suakin, into the plateau of Sinkat. It +was the last reconnaissance in strength before the evacuation of the +eastern Soudan. + +All through that morning the camels had jolted slowly up the gulley of +shale between red precipitous rocks, and when the rocks fell back, +between red mountain-heaps all crumbled into a desolation of stones. +Hardly a patch of grass or the ragged branches of a mimosa had broken +the monotony of ruin. And after that arid journey the green bushes of +Sinkat in the valley below comforted the eye with the pleasing aspect of +a park. The troopers sat their saddles with a greater alertness. + +They moved in a diagonal line across the plateau toward the mountains of +Erkoweet, a silent company on a plain still more silent. It was eleven +o'clock. The sun rose toward the centre of a colourless, cloudless sky, +the shadows of the camels shortened upon the sand, and the sand itself +glistened white as a beach of the Scilly Islands. There was no draught +of air that morning to whisper amongst the rich foliage, and the shadows +of the branches lay so distinct and motionless upon the ground that they +might themselves have been branches strewn there on some past day by a +storm. The only sounds that were audible were the sharp clank of +weapons, the soft ceaseless padding of the camels' feet, and at times +the whirr of a flight of pigeons disturbed by the approaching cavalcade. +Yet there was life on the plateau, though of a noiseless kind. For as +the leaders rode along the curves of sand, trim and smooth between the +shrubs like carriage drives, they would see from time to time, far ahead +of them, a herd of gazelle start up from the ground and race silently, a +flash of dappled brown and white, to the enclosing hills. It seemed that +here was a country during this last hour created. + +"Yet this way the caravans passed southwards to Erkoweet and the Khor +Baraka. Here the Suakis built their summer-houses," said Durrance, +answering the thought in his mind. + +"And there Tewfik fought, and died with his four hundred men," said +Mather, pointing forward. + +For three hours the troops marched across the plateau. It was the month +of May, and the sun blazed upon them with an intolerable heat. They had +long since lost their alertness. They rode rocking drowsily in their +saddles and prayed for the evening and the silver shine of stars. For +three hours the camels went mincing on with their queer smirking +motions of the head, and then quite suddenly a hundred yards ahead +Durrance saw a broken wall with window-spaces which let the sky through. + +"The fort," said he. + +Three years had passed since Osman Digna had captured and destroyed it, +but during these three years its roofless ruins had sustained another +siege, and one no less persistent. The quick-growing trees had so +closely girt and encroached upon it to the rear and to the right and to +the left, that the traveller came upon it unexpectedly, as Childe Roland +upon the Dark Tower in the plain. In the front, however, the sand still +stretched open to the wells, where three great Gemeiza trees of dark and +spreading foliage stood spaced like sentinels. + +In the shadow to the right front of the fort, where the bushes fringed +the open sand with the level regularity of a river bank, the soldiers +unsaddled their camels and prepared their food. Durrance and Captain +Mather walked round the fort, and as they came to the southern corner, +Durrance stopped. + +"Hallo!" said he. + +"Some Arab has camped here," said Mather, stopping in his turn. The grey +ashes of a wood fire lay in a little heap upon a blackened stone. + +"And lately," said Durrance. + +Mather walked on, mounted a few rough steps to the crumbled archway of +the entrance, and passed into the unroofed corridors and rooms. Durrance +turned the ashes over with his boot. The stump of a charred and whitened +twig glowed red. Durrance set his foot upon it, and a tiny thread of +smoke spurted into the air. + +"Very lately," he said to himself, and he followed Mather into the +fort. In the corners of the mud walls, in any fissure, in the very +floor, young trees were sprouting. Rearward a steep glacis and a deep +fosse defended the works. Durrance sat himself down upon the parapet of +the wall above the glacis, while the pigeons wheeled and circled +overhead, thinking of the long months during which Tewfik must daily +have strained his eyes from this very spot toward the pass over the +hills from Suakin, looking as that other general far to the south had +done, for the sunlight flashing on the weapons of the help which did not +come. Mather sat by his side and reflected in quite another spirit. + +"Already the Guards are steaming out through the coral reefs toward +Suez. A week and our turn comes," he said. "What a God-forsaken +country!" + +"I come back to it," said Durrance. + +"Why?" + +"I like it. I like the people." + +Mather thought the taste unaccountable, but he knew nevertheless that, +however unaccountable in itself, it accounted for his companion's rapid +promotion and success. Sympathy had stood Durrance in the stead of much +ability. Sympathy had given him patience and the power to understand, so +that during these three years of campaign he had left far quicker and +far abler men behind him, in his knowledge of the sorely harassed tribes +of the eastern Soudan. He liked them; he could enter into their hatred +of the old Turkish rule, he could understand their fanaticism, and their +pretence of fanaticism under the compulsion of Osman Digna's hordes. + +"Yes, I shall come back," he said, "and in three months' time. For one +thing, we know--every Englishman in Egypt, too, knows--that this can't +be the end. I want to be here when the work's taken in hand again. I +hate unfinished things." + +The sun beat relentlessly upon the plateau; the men, stretched in the +shade, slept; the afternoon was as noiseless as the morning; Durrance +and Mather sat for some while compelled to silence by the silence +surrounding them. But Durrance's eyes turned at last from the +amphitheatre of hills; they lost their abstraction, they became intently +fixed upon the shrubbery beyond the glacis. He was no longer +recollecting Tewfik Bey and his heroic defence, or speculating upon the +work to be done in the years ahead. Without turning his head, he saw +that Mather was gazing in the same direction as himself. + +"What are you thinking about?" he asked suddenly of Mather. + +Mather laughed, and answered thoughtfully:-- + +"I was drawing up the menu of the first dinner I will have when I reach +London. I will eat it alone, I think, quite alone, and at Epitaux. It +will begin with a watermelon. And you?" + +"I was wondering why, now that the pigeons have got used to our +presence, they should still be wheeling in and out of one particular +tree. Don't point to it, please! I mean the tree beyond the ditch, and +to the right of two small bushes." + +All about them they could see the pigeons quietly perched upon the +branches, spotting the foliage like a purple fruit. Only above the one +tree they circled and timorously called. + +"We will draw that covert," said Durrance. "Take a dozen men and +surround it quietly." + +He himself remained on the glacis watching the tree and the thick +undergrowth. He saw six soldiers creep round the shrubbery from the +left, six more from the right. But before they could meet and ring the +tree in, he saw the branches violently shaken, and an Arab with a roll +of yellowish dammar wound about his waist, and armed with a flat-headed +spear and a shield of hide, dashed from the shelter and raced out +between the soldiers into the open plain. He ran for a few yards only. +For Mather gave a sharp order to his men, and the Arab, as though he +understood that order, came to a stop before a rifle could be lifted to +a shoulder. He walked quietly back to Mather. He was brought up on to +the glacis, where he stood before Durrance without insolence or +servility. + +He explained in Arabic that he was a man of the Kabbabish tribe named +Abou Fatma, and friendly to the English. He was on his way to Suakin. + +"Why did you hide?" asked Durrance. + +"It was safer. I knew you for my friends. But, my gentleman, did you +know me for yours?" + +Then Durrance said quickly, "You speak English," and Durrance spoke in +English. + +The answer came without hesitation. + +"I know a few words." + +"Where did you learn them?" + +"In Khartum." + +Thereafter he was left alone with Durrance on the glacis, and the two +men talked together for the best part of an hour. At the end of that +time the Arab was seen to descend the glacis, cross the trench, and +proceed toward the hills. Durrance gave the order for the resumption of +the march. + +The water-tanks were filled, the men replenished their zamshyehs, +knowing that of all thirsts in this world the afternoon thirst is the +very worst, saddled their camels, and mounted to the usual groaning and +snarling. The detachment moved northwestward from Sinkat, at an acute +angle to its morning's march. It skirted the hills opposite to the pass +from which it had descended in the morning. The bushes grew sparse. It +came into a black country of stones scantily relieved by yellow +tasselled mimosas. + +Durrance called Mather to his side. + +"That Arab had a strange story to tell me. He was Gordon's servant in +Khartum. At the beginning of 1884, eighteen months ago in fact, Gordon +gave him a letter which he was to take to Berber, whence the contents +were to be telegraphed to Cairo. But Berber had just fallen when the +messenger arrived there. He was seized upon and imprisoned the day after +his arrival. But during the one day which he had free he hid the letter +in the wall of a house, and so far as he knows it has not been +discovered." + +"He would have been questioned if it had been," said Mather. + +"Precisely, and he was not questioned. He escaped from Berber at night, +three weeks ago. The story is curious, eh?" + +"And the letter still remains in the wall? It is curious. Perhaps the +man was telling lies." + +"He had the chain mark on his ankles," said Durrance. + +The cavalcade turned to the left into the hills on the northern side of +the plateau, and climbed again over shale. + +"A letter from Gordon," said Durrance, in a musing voice, "scribbled +perhaps upon the roof-top of his palace, by the side of his great +telescope--a sentence written in haste, and his eye again to the lens, +searching over the palm trees for the smoke of the steamers--and it +comes down the Nile to be buried in a mud wall in Berber. Yes, it's +curious," and he turned his face to the west and the sinking sun. Even +as he looked, the sun dipped behind the hills. The sky above his head +darkened rapidly, to violet; in the west it flamed a glory of colours +rich and iridescent. The colours lost their violence and blended +delicately into one rose hue, the rose lingered for a little, and, +fading in its turn, left a sky of the purest emerald green transfused +with light from beneath rim of the world. + +"If only they had let us go last year westward to the Nile," he said +with a sort of passion. "Before Khartum had fallen, before Berber had +surrendered. But they would not." + +The magic of the sunset was not at all in Durrance's thoughts. The story +of the letter had struck upon a chord of reverence within him. He was +occupied with the history of that honest, great, impracticable soldier, +who, despised by officials and thwarted by intrigues, a man of few ties +and much loneliness, had gone unflaggingly about his work, knowing the +while that the moment his back was turned the work was in an instant all +undone. + +Darkness came upon the troops, the camels quickened their pace, the +cicadas shrilled from every tuft of grass. The detachment moved down +toward the well of Disibil. Durrance lay long awake that night on his +camp bedstead spread out beneath the stars. He forgot the letter in the +mud wall. Southward the Southern Cross hung slanting in the sky, above +him glittered the curve of the Great Bear. In a week he would sail for +England; he lay awake, counting up the years since the packet had cast +off from Dover pier, and he found that the tale of them was good. +Kassassin, Tel-el-Kebir, the rush down the Red Sea, Tokar, Tamai, +Tamanieb--the crowded moments came vividly to his mind. He thrilled even +now at the recollection of the Hadendowas leaping and stabbing through +the breach of McNeil's zareba six miles from Suakin; he recalled the +obdurate defence of the Berkshires, the steadiness of the Marines, the +rallying of the broken troops. The years had been good years, years of +plenty, years which had advanced him to the brevet-rank of +lieutenant-colonel. + +"A week more--only a week," murmured Mather, drowsily. + +"I shall come back," said Durrance, with a laugh. + +"Have you no friends?" + +And there was a pause. + +"Yes, I have friends. I shall have three months wherein to see them." + +Durrance had written no word to Harry Feversham during these years. Not +to write letters was indeed a part of the man. Correspondence was a +difficulty to him. He was thinking now that he would surprise his +friends by a visit to Donegal, or he might find them perhaps in London. +He would ride once again in the Row. But in the end he would come back. +For his friend was married, and to Ethne Eustace, and as for himself his +life's work lay here in the Soudan. He would certainly come back. And +so, turning on his side, he slept dreamlessly while the hosts of the +stars trampled across the heavens above his head. + + * * * * * + +Now, at this moment Abou Fatma of the Kabbabish tribe was sleeping under +a boulder on the Khor Gwob. He rose early and continued along the broad +plains to the white city of Suakin. There he repeated the story which he +had told to Durrance to one Captain Willoughby, who was acting for the +time as deputy-governor. After he had come from the Palace he told his +story again, but this time in the native bazaar. He told it in Arabic, +and it happened that a Greek seated outside a cafe close at hand +overheard something of what was said. The Greek took Abou Fatma aside, +and with a promise of much merissa, wherewith to intoxicate himself, +induced him to tell it a fourth time and very slowly. + +"Could you find the house again?" asked the Greek. + +Abou Fatma had no doubts upon that score. He proceeded to draw diagrams +in the dust, not knowing that during his imprisonment the town of Berber +had been steadily pulled down by the Mahdists and rebuilt to the north. + +"It will be wise to speak of this to no one except me," said the Greek, +jingling some significant dollars, and for a long while the two men +talked secretly together. The Greek happened to be Harry Feversham whom +Durrance was proposing to visit in Donegal. Captain Willoughby was +Deputy-Governor of Suakin, and after three years of waiting one of Harry +Feversham's opportunities had come. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +LIEUTENANT SUTCH IS TEMPTED TO LIE + + +Durrance reached London one morning in June, and on that afternoon took +the first walk of the exile, into Hyde Park, where he sat beneath the +trees marvelling at the grace of his countrywomen and the delicacy of +their apparel, a solitary figure, sunburnt and stamped already with that +indefinable expression of the eyes and face which marks the men set +apart in the distant corners of the world. Amongst the people who +strolled past him, one, however, smiled, and, as he rose from his chair, +Mrs. Adair came to his side. She looked him over from head to foot with +a quick and almost furtive glance which might have told even Durrance +something of the place which he held in her thoughts. She was comparing +him with the picture which she had of him now three years old. She was +looking for the small marks of change which those three years might have +brought about, and with eyes of apprehension. But Durrance only noticed +that she was dressed in black. She understood the question in his mind +and answered it. + +"My husband died eighteen months ago," she explained in a quiet voice. +"He was thrown from his horse during a run with the Pytchley. He was +killed at once." + +"I had not heard," Durrance answered awkwardly. "I am very sorry." + +Mrs. Adair took a chair beside him and did not reply. She was a woman of +perplexing silences; and her pale and placid face, with its cold correct +outline, gave no clue to the thoughts with which she occupied them. She +sat without stirring. Durrance was embarrassed. He remembered Mr. Adair +as a good-humoured man, whose one chief quality was his evident +affection for his wife, but with what eyes the wife had looked upon him +he had never up till now considered. Mr. Adair indeed had been at the +best a shadowy figure in that small household, and Durrance found it +difficult even to draw upon his recollections for any full expression of +regret. He gave up the attempt and asked:-- + +"Are Harry Feversham and his wife in town?" + +Mrs. Adair was slow to reply. + +"Not yet," she said, after a pause, but immediately she corrected +herself, and said a little hurriedly, "I mean--the marriage never took +place." + +Durrance was not a man easily startled, and even when he was, his +surprise was not expressed in exclamations. + +"I don't think that I understand. Why did it never take place?" he +asked. Mrs. Adair looked sharply at him, as though inquiring for the +reason of his deliberate tones. + +"I don't know why," she said. "Ethne can keep a secret if she wishes," +and Durrance nodded his assent. "The marriage was broken off on the +night of a dance at Lennon House." + +Durrance turned at once to her. + +"Just before I left England three years ago?" + +"Yes. Then you knew?" + +"No. Only you have explained to me something which occurred on the very +night that I left Dover. What has become of Harry?" + +Mrs. Adair shrugged her shoulders. + +"I do not know. I have met no one who does know. I do not think that I +have met any one who has even seen him since that time. He must have +left England." + +Durrance pondered on this mysterious disappearance. It was Harry +Feversham, then, whom he had seen upon the pier as the Channel boat cast +off. The man with the troubled and despairing face was, after all, his +friend. + +"And Miss Eustace?" he asked after a pause, with a queer timidity. "She +has married since?" + +Again Mrs. Adair took her time to reply. + +"No," said she. + +"Then she is still at Ramelton?" + +Mrs. Adair shook her head. + +"There was a fire at Lennon House a year ago. Did you ever hear of a +constable called Bastable?" + +"Indeed, I did. He was the means of introducing me to Miss Eustace and +her father. I was travelling from Londonderry to Letterkenny. I received +a letter from Mr. Eustace, whom I did not know, but who knew from my +friends at Letterkenny that I was coming past his house. He asked me to +stay the night with him. Naturally enough I declined, with the result +that Bastable arrested me on a magistrate's warrant as soon as I landed +from the ferry." + +"That is the man," said Mrs. Adair, and she told Durrance the history +of the fire. It appeared that Bastable's claim to Dermod's friendship +rested upon his skill in preparing a particular brew of toddy, which +needed a single oyster simmering in the saucepan to give it its +perfection of flavour. About two o'clock of a June morning the spirit +lamp on which the saucepan stewed had been overset; neither of the two +confederates in drink had their wits about them at the moment, and the +house was half burnt and the rest of it ruined by water before the fire +could be got under. + +"There were consequences still more distressing than the destruction of +the house," she continued. "The fire was a beacon warning to Dermod's +creditors for one thing, and Dermod, already overpowered with debts, +fell in a day upon complete ruin. He was drenched by the water hoses +besides, and took a chill which nearly killed him, from the effects of +which he has never recovered. You will find him a broken man. The +estates are let, and Ethne is now living with her father in a little +mountain village in Donegal." + +Mrs. Adair had not looked at Durrance while she spoke. She kept her eyes +fixed steadily in front of her, and indeed she spoke without feeling on +one side or the other, but rather like a person constraining herself to +speech because speech was a necessity. Nor did she turn to look at +Durrance when she had done. + +"So she has lost everything?" said Durrance. + +"She still has a home in Donegal," returned Mrs. Adair. + +"And that means a great deal to her," said Durrance, slowly. "Yes, I +think you are right." + +"It means," said Mrs. Adair, "that Ethne with all her ill-luck has +reason to be envied by many other women." + +Durrance did not answer that suggestion directly. He watched the +carriages drive past, he listened to the chatter and the laughter of the +people about him, his eyes were refreshed by the women in their +light-coloured frocks; and all the time his slow mind was working toward +the lame expression of his philosophy. Mrs. Adair turned to him with a +slight impatience in the end. + +"Of what are you thinking?" she asked. + +"That women suffer much more than men when the world goes wrong with +them," he answered, and the answer was rather a question than a definite +assertion. "I know very little, of course. I can only guess. But I think +women gather up into themselves what they have been through much more +than we do. To them what is past becomes a real part of them, as much a +part of them as a limb; to us it's always something external, at the +best the rung of a ladder, at the worst a weight on the heel. Don't you +think so, too? I phrase the thought badly. But put it this way: Women +look backwards, we look ahead; so misfortune hits them harder, eh?" + +Mrs. Adair answered in her own way. She did not expressly agree. But a +certain humility became audible in her voice. + +"The mountain village at which Ethne is living," she said in a low +voice, "is called Glenalla. A track strikes up towards it from the road +halfway between Rathmullen and Ramelton." She rose as she finished the +sentence and held out her hand. "Shall I see you?" + +"You are still in Hill Street?" said Durrance. "I shall be for a time +in London." + +Mrs. Adair raised her eyebrows. She looked always by nature for the +intricate and concealed motive, so that conduct which sprang from a +reason, obvious and simple, was likely to baffle her. She was baffled +now by Durrance's resolve to remain in town. Why did he not travel at +once to Donegal, she asked herself, since thither his thoughts +undoubtedly preceded him. She heard of his continual presence at his +Service Club, and could not understand. She did not even have a +suspicion of his motive when he himself informed her that he had +travelled into Surrey and had spent a day with General Feversham. + +It had been an ineffectual day for Durrance. The general kept him +steadily to the history of the campaign from which he had just returned. +Only once was he able to approach the topic of Harry Feversham's +disappearance, and at the mere mention of his son's name the old +general's face set like plaster. It became void of expression and +inattentive as a mask. + +"We will talk of something else, if you please," said he; and Durrance +returned to London not an inch nearer to Donegal. + +Thereafter he sat under the great tree in the inner courtyard of his +club, talking to this man and to that, and still unsatisfied with the +conversation. All through that June the afternoons and evenings found +him at his post. Never a friend of Feversham's passed by the tree but +Durrance had a word for him, and the word led always to a question. But +the question elicited no answer except a shrug of the shoulders, and a +"Hanged if I know!" + +Harry Feversham's place knew him no more; he had dropped even out of the +speculations of his friends. + +Toward the end of June, however, an old retired naval officer limped +into the courtyard, saw Durrance, hesitated, and began with a remarkable +alacrity to move away. + +Durrance sprang up from his seat. + +"Mr. Sutch," said he. "You have forgotten me?" + +"Colonel Durrance, to be sure," said the embarrassed lieutenant. "It is +some while since we met, but I remember you very well now. I think we +met--let me see--where was it? An old man's memory, Colonel Durrance, is +like a leaky ship. It comes to harbour with its cargo of recollections +swamped." + +Neither the lieutenant's present embarrassment nor his previous +hesitation escaped Durrance's notice. + +"We met at Broad Place," said he. "I wish you to give me news of my +friend Feversham. Why was his engagement with Miss Eustace broken off? +Where is he now?" + +The lieutenant's eyes gleamed for a moment with satisfaction. He had +always been doubtful whether Durrance was aware of Harry's fall into +disgrace. Durrance plainly did not know. + +"There is only one person in the world, I believe," said Sutch, "who can +answer both your questions." + +Durrance was in no way disconcerted. + +"Yes. I have waited here a month for you," he replied. + +Lieutenant Sutch pushed his fingers through his beard, and stared down +at his companion. + +"Well, it is true," he admitted. "I can answer your questions, but I +will not." + +"Harry Feversham is my friend." + +"General Feversham is his father, yet he knows only half the truth. Miss +Eustace was betrothed to him, and she knows no more. I pledged my word +to Harry that I would keep silence." + +"It is not curiosity which makes me ask." + +"I am sure that, on the contrary, it is friendship," said the +lieutenant, cordially. + +"Nor that entirely. There is another aspect of the matter. I will not +ask you to answer my questions, but I will put a third one to you. It is +one harder for me to ask than for you to answer. Would a friend of Harry +Feversham be at all disloyal to that friendship, if"--and Durrance +flushed beneath his sunburn--"if he tried his luck with Miss Eustace?" + +The question startled Lieutenant Sutch. + +"You?" he exclaimed, and he stood considering Durrance, remembering the +rapidity of his promotion, speculating upon his likelihood to take a +woman's fancy. Here was an aspect of the case, indeed, to which he had +not given a thought, and he was no less troubled than startled. For +there had grown up within him a jealousy on behalf of Harry Feversham as +strong as a mother's for a favourite second son. He had nursed with a +most pleasurable anticipation a hope that, in the end, Harry would come +back to all that he once had owned, like a rethroned king. He stared at +Durrance and saw the hope stricken. Durrance looked the man of courage +which his record proved him to be, and Lieutenant Sutch had his theory +of women. "Brute courage--they make a god of it." + +"Well?" asked Durrance. + +Lieutenant Sutch was aware that he must answer. He was sorely tempted to +lie. For he knew enough of the man who questioned him to be certain that +the lie would have its effect. Durrance would go back to the Soudan, and +leave his suit unpressed. + +"Well?" + +Sutch looked up at the sky and down upon the flags. Harry had foreseen +that this complication was likely to occur, he had not wished that Ethne +should wait. Sutch imagined him at this very moment, lost somewhere +under the burning sun, and compared that picture with the one before his +eyes--the successful soldier taking his ease at his club. He felt +inclined to break his promise, to tell the whole truth, to answer both +the questions which Durrance had first asked. And again the pitiless +monosyllable demanded his reply. + +"Well?" + +"No," said Sutch, regretfully. "There would be no disloyalty." + +And on that evening Durrance took the train for Holyhead. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +AT GLENALLA + + +The farm-house stood a mile above the village, in a wild moorland +country. The heather encroached upon its garden, and the bridle-path +ended at its door. On three sides an amphitheatre of hills, which +changed so instantly to the season that it seemed one could distinguish +from day to day a new gradation in their colours, harboured it like a +ship. No trees grew upon those hills, the granite cropped out amidst the +moss and heather; but they had a friendly sheltering look, and Durrance +came almost to believe that they put on their different draperies of +emerald green, and purple, and russet brown consciously to delight the +eyes of the girl they sheltered. The house faced the long slope of +country to the inlet of the Lough. From the windows the eye reached down +over the sparse thickets, the few tilled fields, the whitewashed +cottages, to the tall woods upon the bank, and caught a glimpse of +bright water and the gulls poising and dipping above it. Durrance rode +up the track upon an afternoon and knew the house at once. For as he +approached, the music of a violin floated towards him from the windows +like a welcome. His hand was checked upon the reins, and a particular +strong hope, about which he had allowed his fancies to play, rose up +within him and suspended his breath. + +He tied up his horse and entered in at the gate. A formless barrack +without, the house within was a place of comfort. The room into which he +was shown, with its brasses and its gleaming oak and its wide prospect, +was bright as the afternoon itself. Durrance imagined it, too, with the +blinds drawn upon a winter's night, and the fire red on the hearth, and +the wind skirling about the hills and rapping on the panes. + +Ethne greeted him without the least mark of surprise. + +"I thought that you would come," she said, and a smile shone upon her +face. + +Durrance laughed suddenly as they shook hands, and Ethne wondered why. +She followed the direction of his eyes towards the violin which lay upon +a table at her side. It was pale in colour; there was a mark, too, close +to the bridge, where a morsel of worm-eaten wood had been replaced. + +"It is yours," she said. "You were in Egypt. I could not well send it +back to you there." + +"I have hoped lately, since I knew," returned Durrance, "that, +nevertheless, you would accept it." + +"You see I have," said Ethne, and looking straight into his eyes she +added: "I accepted it some while ago. There was a time when I needed to +be assured that I had sure friends. And a thing tangible helped. I was +very glad to have it." + +Durrance took the instrument from the table, handling it delicately, +like a sacred vessel. + +"You have played upon it? The Musoline overture, perhaps," said he. + +"Do you remember that?" she returned, with a laugh. "Yes, I have played +upon it, but only recently. For a long time I put my violin away. It +talked to me too intimately of many things which I wished to forget," +and these words, like the rest, she spoke without hesitation or any +down-dropping of the eyes. + +Durrance fetched up his luggage from Rathmullen the next day, and stayed +at the farm for a week. But up to the last hour of his visit no further +reference was made to Harry Feversham by either Ethne or Durrance, +although they were thrown much into each other's company. For Dermod was +even more broken than Mrs. Adair's description had led Durrance to +expect. His speech was all dwindled to monosyllables; his frame was +shrunken, and his clothes bagged upon his limbs; his very stature seemed +lessened; even the anger was clouded from his eye; he had become a +stay-at-home, dozing for the most part of the day by a fire, even in +that July weather; his longest walk was to the little grey church which +stood naked upon a mound some quarter of a mile away and within view of +the windows, and even that walk taxed his strength. He was an old man +fallen upon decrepitude, and almost out of recognition, so that his +gestures and the rare tones of his voice struck upon Durrance as +something painful, like the mimicry of a dead man. His collie dog seemed +to age in company, and, to see them side by side, one might have said, +in sympathy. + +Durrance and Ethne were thus thrown much together. By day, in the wet +weather or the fine, they tramped the hills, while she, with the colour +glowing in her face, and her eyes most jealous and eager, showed him +her country and exacted his admiration. In the evenings she would take +her violin, and sitting as of old with an averted face, she would bid +the strings speak of the heights and depths. Durrance sat watching the +sweep of her arm, the absorption of her face, and counting up his +chances. He had not brought with him to Glenalla Lieutenant Sutch's +anticipations that he would succeed. The shadow of Harry Feversham might +well separate them. For another thing, he knew very well that poverty +would fall more lightly upon her than upon most women. He had indeed had +proofs of that. Though the Lennon House was altogether ruined, and its +lands gone from her, Ethne was still amongst her own people. They still +looked eagerly for her visits; she was still the princess of that +country-side. On the other hand, she took a frank pleasure in his +company, and she led him to speak of his three years' service in the +East. No detail was too insignificant for her inquiries, and while he +spoke her eyes continually sounded him, and the smile upon her lips +continually approved. Durrance did not understand what she was after. +Possibly no one could have understood unless he was aware of what had +passed between Harry Feversham and Ethne. Durrance wore the likeness of +a man, and she was anxious to make sure that the spirit of a man +informed it. He was a dark lantern to her. There might be a flame +burning within, or there might be mere vacancy and darkness. She was +pushing back the slide so that she might be sure. + +She led him to speak of Egypt upon the last day of his visit. They were +seated upon the hillside, on the edge of a stream which leaped from +ledge to ledge down a miniature gorge of rock, and flowed over deep +pools between the ledges very swiftly, a torrent of clear black water. + +"I travelled once for four days amongst the mirages," he +said,--"lagoons, still as a mirror and fringed with misty trees. You +could almost walk your camel up to the knees in them, before the lagoon +receded and the sand glared at you. And one cannot imagine that glare. +Every stone within view dances and shakes like a heliograph; you can +see--yes, actually see--the heat flow breast high across the desert +swift as this stream here, only pellucid. So till the sun sets ahead of +you level with your eyes! Imagine the nights which follow--nights of +infinite silence, with a cool friendly wind blowing from horizon to +horizon--and your bed spread for you under the great dome of stars. Oh," +he cried, drawing a deep breath, "but that country grows on you. It's +like the Southern Cross--four overrated stars when first you see them, +but in a week you begin to look for them, and you miss them when you +travel north again." He raised himself upon his elbow and turned +suddenly towards her. "Do you know--I can only speak for myself--but I +never feel alone in those empty spaces. On the contrary, I always feel +very close to the things I care about, and to the few people I care +about too." + +Her eyes shone very brightly upon him, her lips parted in a smile. He +moved nearer to her upon the grass, and sat with his feet gathered under +him upon one side, and leaning upon his arm. + +"I used to imagine you out there," he said. "You would have loved +it--from the start before daybreak, in the dark, to the camp-fire at +night. You would have been at home. I used to think so as I lay awake +wondering how the world went with my friends." + +"And you go back there?" she said. + +Durrance did not immediately answer. The roar of the torrent throbbed +about them. When he did speak, all the enthusiasm had gone from his +voice. He spoke gazing into the stream. + +"To Wadi Halfa. For two years. I suppose so." + +Ethne kneeled upon the grass at his side. + +"I shall miss you," she said. + +She was kneeling just behind him as he sat on the ground, and again +there fell a silence between them. + +"Of what are you thinking?" + +"That you need not miss me," he said, and he was aware that she drew +back and sank down upon her heels. "My appointment at Halfa--I might +shorten its term. I might perhaps avoid it altogether. I have still half +my furlough." + +She did not answer nor did she change her attitude. She remained very +still, and Durrance was alarmed, and all his hopes sank. For a stillness +of attitude he knew to be with her as definite an expression of distress +as a cry of pain with another woman. He turned about towards her. Her +head was bent, but she raised it as he turned, and though her lips +smiled, there was a look of great trouble in her eyes. Durrance was a +man like another. His first thought was whether there was not some +obstacle which would hinder her from compliance, even though she +herself were willing. + +"There is your father," he said. + +"Yes," she answered, "there is my father too. I could not leave him." + +"Nor need you," said he, quickly. "That difficulty can be surmounted. To +tell the truth I was not thinking of your father at the moment." + +"Nor was I," said she. + +Durrance turned away and sat for a little while staring down the rocks +into a wrinkled pool of water just beneath. It was after all the shadow +of Feversham which stretched between himself and her. + +"I know, of course," he said, "that you would never feel trouble, as so +many do, with half your heart. You would neither easily care nor lightly +forget." + +"I remember enough," she returned in a low voice, "to make your words +rather a pain to me. Some day perhaps I may bring myself to tell +everything which happened at that ball three years ago, and then you +will be better able to understand why I am a little distressed. All that +I can tell you now is this: I have a great fear that I was to some +degree the cause of another man's ruin. I do not mean that I was to +blame for it. But if I had not been known to him, his career might +perhaps never have come to so abrupt an end. I am not sure, but I am +afraid. I asked whether it was so, and I was told 'no,' but I think very +likely that generosity dictated that answer. And the fear stays. I am +much distressed by it. I lie awake with it at night. And then you come +whom I greatly value, and you say quietly, 'Will you please spoil my +career too?'" And she struck one hand sharply into the other and cried, +"But that I will not do." + +And again he answered:-- + +"There is no need that you should. Wadi Halfa is not the only place +where a soldier can find work to his hand." + +His voice had taken a new hopefulness. For he had listened intently to +the words which she had spoken, and he had construed them by the +dictionary of his desires. She had not said that friendship bounded all +her thoughts of him. Therefore he need not believe it. Women were given +to a hinting modesty of speech, at all events the best of them. A man +might read a little more emphasis into their tones, and underline their +words and still be short of their meaning, as he argued. A subtle +delicacy graced them in nature. Durrance was near to Benedick's mood. +"One whom I value"; "I shall miss you"; there might be a double meaning +in the phrases. When she said that she needed to be assured that she had +sure friends, did she not mean that she needed their companionship? But +the argument, had he been acute enough to see it, proved how deep he was +sunk in error. For what this girl spoke, she habitually meant, and she +habitually meant no more. Moreover, upon this occasion she had +particularly weighed her words. + +"No doubt," she said, "_a_ soldier can. But can this soldier find work +so suitable? Listen, please, till I have done. I was so very glad to +hear all that you have told me about your work and your journeys. I was +still more glad because of the satisfaction with which you told it. For +it seemed to me, as I listened and as I watched, that you had found the +one true straight channel along which your life could run swift and +smoothly and unharassed. And so few do that--so very few!" And she wrung +her hands and cried, "And now you spoil it all." + +Durrance suddenly faced her. He ceased from argument; he cried in a +voice of passion:-- + +"I am for you, Ethne! There's the true straight channel, and upon my +word I believe you are for me. I thought--I admit it--at one time I +would spend my life out there in the East, and the thought contented me. +But I had schooled myself into contentment, for I believed you married." +Ethne ever so slightly flinched, and he himself recognised that he had +spoken in a voice overloud, so that it had something almost of +brutality. + +"Do I hurt you?" he continued. "I am sorry. But let me speak the whole +truth out, I cannot afford reticence, I want you to know the first and +last of it. I say now that I love you. Yes, but I could have said it +with equal truth five years ago. It is five years since your father +arrested me at the ferry down there on Lough Swilly, because I wished to +press on to Letterkenny and not delay a night by stopping with a +stranger. Five years since I first saw you, first heard the language of +your violin. I remember how you sat with your back towards me. The light +shone on your hair; I could just see your eyelashes and the colour of +your cheeks. I remember the sweep of your arm.... My dear, you are for +me; I am for you." + +But she drew back from his outstretched hands. + +"No," she said very gently, but with a decision he could not mistake. +She saw more clearly into his mind than he did himself. The restlessness +of the born traveller, the craving for the large and lonely spaces in +the outlandish corners of the world, the incurable intermittent fever to +be moving, ever moving amongst strange peoples and under strange +skies--these were deep-rooted qualities of the man. Passion might +obscure them for a while, but they would make their appeal in the end, +and the appeal would torture. The home would become a prison. Desires +would so clash within him, there could be no happiness. That was the +man. For herself, she looked down the slope of the hill across the brown +country. Away on the right waved the woods about Ramelton, at her feet +flashed a strip of the Lough; and this was her country; she was its +child and the sister of its people. + +"No," she repeated, as she rose to her feet. Durrance rose with her. He +was still not so much disheartened as conscious of a blunder. He had put +his case badly; he should never have given her the opportunity to think +that marriage would be an interruption of his career. + +"We will say good-bye here," she said, "in the open. We shall be none +the less good friends because three thousand miles hinder us from +shaking hands." + +They shook hands as she spoke. + +"I shall be in England again in a year's time," said Durrance. "May I +come back?" + +Ethne's eyes and her smile consented. + +"I should be sorry to lose you altogether," she said, "although even if +I did not see you, I should know that I had not lost your friendship." +She added, "I should also be glad to hear news of you and what you are +doing, if ever you have the time to spare." + +"I may write?" he exclaimed eagerly. + +"Yes," she answered, and his eagerness made her linger a little +doubtfully upon the word. "That is, if you think it fair. I mean, it +might be best for you, perhaps, to get rid of me entirely from your +thoughts;" and Durrance laughed and without any bitterness, so that in a +moment Ethne found herself laughing too, though at what she laughed she +would have discovered it difficult to explain. "Very well, write to me +then." And she added drily, "But it will be about--other things." + +And again Durrance read into her words the interpretation he desired; +and again she meant just what she said, and not a word more. + +She stood where he left her, a tall, strong-limbed figure of womanhood, +until he was gone out of sight. Then she climbed down to the house, and +going into her room took one of her violins from its case. But it was +the violin which Durrance had given to her, and before she had touched +the strings with her bow she recognised it and put it suddenly away from +her in its case. She snapped the case to. For a few moments she sat +motionless in her chair, then she quickly crossed the room, and, taking +her keys, unlocked a drawer. At the bottom of the drawer there lay +hidden a photograph, and at this she looked for a long while and very +wistfully. + +Durrance meanwhile walked down to the trap which was waiting for him at +the gates of the house, and saw that Dermod Eustace stood in the road +with his hat upon his head. + +"I will walk a few yards with you, Colonel Durrance," said Dermod. "I +have a word for your ear." + +Durrance suited his stride to the old man's faltering step, and they +walked behind the dog-cart, and in silence. It was not the mere personal +disappointment which weighed upon Durrance's spirit. But he could not +see with Ethne's eyes, and as his gaze took in that quiet corner of +Donegal, he was filled with a great sadness lest all her life should be +passed in this seclusion, her grave dug in the end under the wall of the +tiny church, and her memory linger only in a few white cottages +scattered over the moorland, and for a very little while. He was +recalled by the pressure of Dermod's hand upon his elbow. There was a +gleam of inquiry in the old man's faded eyes, but it seemed that speech +itself was a difficulty. + +"You have news for me?" he asked, after some hesitation. "News of Harry +Feversham? I thought that I would ask you before you went away." + +"None," said Durrance. + +"I am sorry," replied Dermod, wistfully, "though I have no reason for +sorrow. He struck us a cruel blow, Colonel Durrance.--I should have +nothing but curses for him in my mouth and my heart. A black-throated +coward my reason calls him, and yet I would be very glad to hear how the +world goes with him. You were his friend. But you do not know?" + +It was actually of Harry Feversham that Dermod Eustace was speaking, and +Durrance, as he remarked the old man's wistfulness of voice and face, +was seized with a certain remorse that he had allowed Ethne so to +thrust his friend out of his thoughts. He speculated upon the mystery of +Harry Feversham's disappearance at times as he sat in the evening upon +his verandah above the Nile at Wadi Halfa, piecing together the few +hints which he had gathered. "A black-throated coward," Dermod had +called Harry Feversham, and Ethne had said enough to assure him that +something graver than any dispute, something which had destroyed all her +faith in the man, had put an end to their betrothal. But he could not +conjecture at the particular cause, and the only consequence of his +perplexed imaginings was the growth of a very real anger within him +against the man who had been his friend. So the winter passed, and +summer came to the Soudan and the month of May. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE WELLS OF OBAK + + +In that month of May Durrance lifted his eyes from Wadi Halfa and began +eagerly to look homeward. But in the contrary direction, five hundred +miles to the south of his frontier town, on the other side of the great +Nubian desert and the Belly of Stones, the events of real importance to +him were occurring without his knowledge. On the deserted track between +Berber and Suakin the wells of Obak are sunk deep amongst mounds of +shifting sand. Eastward a belt of trees divides the dunes from a hard +stony plain built upon with granite hills; westward the desert stretches +for fifty-eight waterless miles to Mahobey and Berber on the Nile, a +desert so flat that the merest tuft of grass knee-high seems at the +distance of a mile a tree promising shade for a noonday halt, and a pile +of stones no bigger than one might see by the side of any roadway in +repair achieves the stature of a considerable hill. In this particular +May there could be no spot more desolate than the wells of Obak. The sun +blazed upon it from six in the morning with an intolerable heat, and all +night the wind blew across it piercingly cold, and played with the sand +as it would, building pyramids house-high and levelling them, tunnelling +valleys, silting up long slopes, so that the face of the country was +continually changed. The vultures and the sand-grouse held it +undisturbed in a perpetual tenancy. And to make the spot yet more +desolate, there remained scattered here and there the bleached bones and +skeletons of camels to bear evidence that about these wells once the +caravans had crossed and halted; and the remnants of a house built of +branches bent in hoops showed that once Arabs had herded their goats and +made their habitation there. Now the sun rose and set, and the hot sky +pressed upon an empty round of honey-coloured earth. Silence brooded +there like night upon the waters; and the absolute stillness made it a +place of mystery and expectation. + +Yet in this month of May one man sojourned by the wells and sojourned +secretly. Every morning at sunrise he drove two camels, swift +riding-mares of the pure Bisharin breed, from the belt of trees, watered +them, and sat by the well-mouth for the space of three hours. Then he +drove them back again into the shelter of the trees, and fed them +delicately with dhoura upon a cloth; and for the rest of the day he +appeared no more. For five mornings he thus came from his hiding-place +and sat looking toward the sand-dunes and Berber, and no one approached +him. But on the sixth, as he was on the point of returning to his +shelter, he saw the figures of a man and a donkey suddenly outlined +against the sky upon a crest of the sand. The Arab seated by the well +looked first at the donkey, and, remarking its grey colour, half rose to +his feet. But as he rose he looked at the man who drove it, and saw that +while his jellab was drawn forward over his face to protect it from the +sun, his bare legs showed of an ebony blackness against the sand. The +donkey-driver was a negro. The Arab sat down again and waited with an +air of the most complete indifference for the stranger to descend to +him. He did not even move or turn when he heard the negro's feet +treading the sand close behind him. + +"Salam aleikum," said the negro, as he stopped. He carried a long spear +and a short one, and a shield of hide. These he laid upon the ground and +sat by the Arab's side. + +The Arab bowed his head and returned the salutation. + +"Aleikum es salam," said he, and he waited. + +"It is Abou Fatma?" asked the negro. + +The Arab nodded an assent. + +"Two days ago," the other continued, "a man of the Bisharin, Moussa +Fedil, stopped me in the market-place of Berber, and seeing that I was +hungry, gave me food. And when I had eaten he charged me to drive this +donkey to Abou Fatma at the wells of Obak." + +Abou Fatma looked carelessly at the donkey as though now for the first +time he had remarked it. + +"Tayeeb," he said, no less carelessly. "The donkey is mine," and he sat +inattentive and motionless, as though the negro's business were done and +he might go. + +The negro, however, held his ground. + +"I am to meet Moussa Fedil again on the third morning from now, in the +market-place of Berber. Give me a token which I may carry back, so that +he may know I have fulfilled the charge and reward me." + +Abou Fatma took his knife from the small of his back, and picking up a +stick from the ground, notched it thrice at each end. + +"This shall be a sign to Moussa Fedil;" and he handed the stick to his +companion. The negro tied it securely into a corner of his wrap, loosed +his water-skin from the donkey's back, filled it at the well and slung +it about his shoulders. Then he picked up his spears and his shield. +Abou Fatma watched him labour up the slope of loose sand and disappear +again on the further incline of the crest. Then in his turn he rose, and +hastily. When Harry Feversham had set out from Obak six days before to +traverse the fifty-eight miles of barren desert to the Nile, this grey +donkey had carried his water-skins and food. + +Abou Fatma drove the donkey down amongst the trees, and fastening it to +a stem examined its shoulders. In the left shoulder a tiny incision had +been made and the skin neatly stitched up again with fine thread. He cut +the stitches, and pressing open the two edges of the wound, forced out a +tiny package little bigger than a postage stamp. The package was a +goat's bladder, and enclosed within the bladder was a note written in +Arabic and folded very small. Abou Fatma had not been Gordon's +body-servant for nothing; he had been taught during his service to read. +He unfolded the note, and this is what was written:-- + +"The houses which were once Berber are destroyed, and a new town of wide +streets is building. There is no longer any sign by which I may know the +ruins of Yusef's house from the ruins of a hundred houses; nor does +Yusef any longer sell rock-salt in the bazaar. Yet wait for me another +week." + +The Arab of the Bisharin who wrote the letter was Harry Feversham. +Wearing the patched jubbeh of the Dervishes over his stained skin, his +hair frizzed on the crown of his head and falling upon the nape of his +neck in locks matted and gummed into the semblance of seaweed, he went +about his search for Yusef through the wide streets of New Berber with +its gaping pits. To the south, and separated by a mile or so of desert, +lay the old town where Abou Fatma had slept one night and hidden the +letters, a warren of ruined houses facing upon narrow alleys and winding +streets. The front walls had been pulled down, the roofs carried away, +only the bare inner walls were left standing, so that Feversham when he +wandered amongst them vainly at night seemed to have come into long +lanes of five courts, crumbling into decay. And each court was only +distinguishable from its neighbour by a degree of ruin. Already the +foxes made their burrows beneath the walls. + +He had calculated that one night would have been the term of his stay in +Berber. He was to have crept through the gate in the dusk of the +evening, and before the grey light had quenched the stars his face +should be set towards Obak. Now he must go steadily forward amongst the +crowds like a man that has business of moment, dreading conversation +lest his tongue should betray him, listening ever for the name of Yusef +to strike upon his ears. Despair kept him company at times, and fear +always. But from the sharp pangs of these emotions a sort of madness +was begotten in him, a frenzy of obstinacy, a belief fanatical as the +dark religion of those amongst whom he moved, that he could not now fail +and the world go on, that there could be no injustice in the whole +scheme of the universe great enough to lay this heavy burden upon the +one man least fitted to bear it and then callously to destroy him +because he tried. + +Fear had him in its grip on that morning three days after he had left +Abou Fatma at the wells, when coming over a slope he first saw the sand +stretched like a lagoon up to the dark brown walls of the town, and the +overshadowing foliage of the big date palms rising on the Nile bank +beyond. Within those walls were the crowded Dervishes. It was surely the +merest madness for a man to imagine that he could escape detection +there, even for an hour. Was it right, he began to ask, that a man +should even try? The longer he stood, the more insistent did this +question grow. The low mud walls grew strangely sinister; the welcome +green of the waving palms, after so many arid days of sun and sand and +stones, became an ironical invitation to death. He began to wonder +whether he had not already done enough for honour in venturing so near. + +The sun beat upon him; his strength ebbed from him as though his veins +were opened. If he were caught, he thought, as surely he would be--oh, +very surely! He saw the fanatical faces crowding fiercely about him ... +were not mutilations practised?... He looked about him, shivering even +in that strong heat, and the great loneliness of the place smote upon +him, so that his knees shook. He faced about and commenced to run, +leaping in a panic alone and unpursued across the naked desert under the +sun, while from his throat feeble cries broke inarticulately. + +He ran, however, only for a few yards, and it was the very violence of +his flight which stopped him. These four years of anticipation were as +nothing, then? He had schooled himself in the tongue, he had lived in +the bazaars, to no end? He was still the craven who had sent in his +papers? The quiet confidence with which he had revealed his plan to +Lieutenant Sutch over the table in the Criterion grill-room was the mere +vainglory of a man who continually deceived himself? And Ethne?... + +He dropped upon the ground and, drawing his coat over his head, lay, a +brown spot indistinguishable from the sand about him, an irregularity in +the great waste surface of earth. He shut the prospect from his eyes, +and over the thousands of miles of continent and sea he drew Ethne's +face towards him. A little while and he was back again in Donegal. The +summer night whispered through the open doorway in the hall; in a room +near by people danced to music. He saw the three feathers fluttering to +the floor; he read the growing trouble in Ethne's face. If he could do +this thing, and the still harder thing which now he knew to lie beyond, +he might perhaps some day see that face cleared of its trouble. There +were significant words too in his ears, "I should have no doubt that you +and I would see much of one another afterwards." Towards the setting of +the sun he rose from the ground, and walking down towards Berber, passed +between the gates. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +DURRANCE HEARS NEWS OF FEVERSHAM + + +A month later Durrance arrived in London and discovered a letter from +Ethne awaiting him at his club. It told him simply that she was staying +with Mrs. Adair, and would be glad if he would find the time to call; +but there was a black border to the paper and the envelope. Durrance +called at Hill Street the next afternoon and found Ethne alone. + +"I did not write to Wadi Halfa," she explained at once, "for I thought +that you would be on your way home before my letter could arrive. My +father died last month, towards the end of May." + +"I was afraid when I got your letter that you would have this to tell +me," he replied. "I am very sorry. You will miss him." + +"More than I can say," said she, with a quiet depth of feeling. "He died +one morning early--I think I will tell you if you would care to hear," +and she related to him the manner of Dermod's death, of which a chill +was the occasion rather than the cause; for he died of a gradual +dissolution rather than a definite disease. + +It was a curious story which Ethne had to tell, for it seemed that just +before his death Dermod recaptured something of his old masterful +spirit. "We knew that he was dying," Ethne said. "He knew it too, and +at seven o'clock of the afternoon after--" she hesitated for a moment +and resumed, "after he had spoken for a little while to me, he called +his dog by name. The dog sprang at once on to the bed, though his voice +had not risen above a whisper, and crouching quite close, pushed its +muzzle with a whine under my father's hand. Then he told me to leave him +and the dog altogether alone. I was to shut the door upon him. The dog +would tell me when to open it again. I obeyed him and waited outside the +door until one o'clock. Then a loud sudden howl moaned through the +house." She stopped for a while. This pause was the only sign of +distress which she gave, and in a few moments she went on, speaking +quite simply, without any of the affectations of grief. "It was trying +to wait outside that door while the afternoon faded and the night came. +It was night, of course, long before the end. He would have no lamp left +in his room. One imagined him just the other side of that thin +door-panel, lying very still and silent in the great four-poster bed +with his face towards the hills, and the light falling. One imagined the +room slipping away into darkness, and the windows continually looming +into a greater importance, and the dog by his side and no one else, +right to the very end. He would have it that way, but it was rather hard +for me." + +Durrance said nothing in reply, but gave her in full measure what she +most needed, the sympathy of his silence. He imagined those hours in the +passage, six hours of twilight and darkness; he could picture her +standing close by the door, with her ear perhaps to the panel, and her +hand upon her heart to check its loud beating. There was something +rather cruel, he thought, in Dermod's resolve to die alone. It was Ethne +who broke the silence. + +"I said that my father spoke to me just before he told me to leave him. +Of whom do you think he spoke?" + +She was looking directly at Durrance as she put the question. From +neither her eyes nor the level tone of her voice could he gather +anything of the answer, but a sudden throb of hope caught away his +breath. + +"Tell me!" he said, in a sort of suspense, as he leaned forward in his +chair. + +"Of Mr. Feversham," she answered, and he drew back again, and rather +suddenly. It was evident that this was not the name which he had +expected. He took his eyes from hers and stared downwards at the carpet, +so that she might not see his face. + +"My father was always very fond of him," she continued gently, "and I +think that I would like to know if you have any knowledge of what he is +doing or where he is." + +Durrance did not answer nor did he raise his face. He reflected upon the +strange strong hold which Harry Feversham kept upon the affections of +those who had once known him well; so that even the man whom he had +wronged, and upon whose daughter he had brought much suffering, must +remember him with kindliness upon his death-bed. The reflection was not +without its bitterness to Durrance at this moment, and this bitterness +he was afraid that his face and voice might both betray. But he was +compelled to speak, for Ethne insisted. + +"You have never come across him, I suppose?" she asked. + +Durrance rose from his seat and walked to the window before he answered. +He spoke looking out into the street, but though he thus concealed the +expression of his face, a thrill of deep anger sounded through his +words, in spite of his efforts to subdue his tones. + +"No," he said, "I never have," and suddenly his anger had its way with +him; it chose as well as informed his words. "And I never wish to," he +cried. "He was my friend, I know. But I cannot remember that friendship +now. I can only think that if he had been the true man we took him for, +you would not have waited alone in that dark passage during those six +hours." He turned again to the centre of the room and asked abruptly:-- + +"You are going back to Glenalla?" + +"Yes." + +"You will live there alone?" + +"Yes." + +For a little while there was silence between them. Then Durrance walked +round to the back of her chair. + +"You once said that you would perhaps tell me why your engagement was +broken off." + +"But you know," she said. "What you said at the window showed that you +knew." + +"No, I do not. One or two words your father let drop. He asked me for +news of Feversham the last time that I spoke with him. But I know +nothing definite. I should like you to tell me." + +Ethne shook her head and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. +"Not now," she said, and silence again followed her words. Durrance +broke it again. + +"I have only one more year at Halfa. It would be wise to leave Egypt +then, I think. I do not expect much will be done in the Soudan for some +little while. I do not think that I will stay there--in any case. I mean +even if you should decide to remain alone at Glenalla." + +Ethne made no pretence to ignore the suggestion of his words. "We are +neither of us children," she said; "you have all your life to think of. +We should be prudent." + +"Yes," said Durrance, with a sudden exasperation, "but the right kind of +prudence. The prudence which knows that it's worth while to dare a good +deal." + +Ethne did not move. She was leaning forward with her back towards him, +so that he could see nothing of her face, and for a long while she +remained in this attitude, quite silent and very still. She asked a +question at the last, and in a very low and gentle voice. + +"Do you want me so very much?" And before he could answer she turned +quickly towards him. "Try not to," she exclaimed earnestly. "For this +one year try not to. You have much to occupy your thoughts. Try to +forget me altogether;" and there was just sufficient regret in her tone, +the regret at the prospect of losing a valued friend, to take all the +sting from her words, to confirm Durrance in his delusion that but for +her fear that she would spoil his career, she would answer him in very +different words. Mrs. Adair came into the room before he could reply, +and thus he carried away with him his delusion. + +He dined that evening at his club, and sat afterwards smoking his cigar +under the big tree where he had sat so persistently a year before in his +vain quest for news of Harry Feversham. It was much the same sort of +clear night as that on which he had seen Lieutenant Sutch limp into the +courtyard and hesitate at the sight of him. The strip of sky was +cloudless and starry overhead; the air had the pleasant languor of a +summer night in June; the lights flashing from the windows and doorways +gave to the leaves of the trees the fresh green look of spring; and +outside in the roadway the carriages rolled with a thunderous hum like +the sound of the sea. And on this night, too, there came a man into the +courtyard who knew Durrance. But he did not hesitate. He came straight +up to Durrance and sat down upon the seat at his side. Durrance dropped +the paper at which he was glancing and held out his hand. + +"How do you do?" said he. This friend was Captain Mather. + +"I was wondering whether I should meet you when I read the evening +paper. I knew that it was about the time one might expect to find you in +London. You have seen, I suppose?" + +"What?" asked Durrance. + +"Then you haven't," replied Mather. He picked up the newspaper which +Durrance had dropped and turned over the sheets, searching for the piece +of news which he required. "You remember that last reconnaissance we +made from Suakin?" + +"Very well." + +"We halted by the Sinkat fort at midday. There was an Arab hiding in +the trees at the back of the glacis." + +"Yes." + +"Have you forgotten the yarn he told you?" + +"About Gordon's letters and the wall of a house in Berber? No, I have +not forgotten." + +"Then here's something which will interest you," and Captain Mather, +having folded the paper to his satisfaction, handed it to Durrance and +pointed to a paragraph. It was a short paragraph; it gave no details; it +was the merest summary; and Durrance read it through between the puffs +of his cigar. + +"The fellow must have gone back to Berber after all," said he. "A risky +business. Abou Fatma--that was the man's name." + +The paragraph made no mention of Abou Fatma, or indeed of any man except +Captain Willoughby, the Deputy-Governor of Suakin. It merely announced +that certain letters which the Mahdi had sent to Gordon summoning him to +surrender Khartum, and inviting him to become a convert to the Mahdist +religion, together with copies of Gordon's curt replies, had been +recovered from a wall in Berber and brought safely to Captain Willoughby +at Suakin. + +"They were hardly worth risking a life for," said Mather. + +"Perhaps not," replied Durrance, a little doubtfully. "But after all, +one is glad they have been recovered. Perhaps the copies are in Gordon's +own hand. They are, at all events, of an historic interest." + +"In a way, no doubt," said Mather. "But even so, their recovery throws +no light upon the history of the siege. It can make no real difference +to any one, not even to the historian." + +"That is true," Durrance agreed, and there was nothing more untrue. In +the same spot where he had sought for news of Feversham news had now +come to him--only he did not know. He was in the dark; he could not +appreciate that here was news which, however little it might trouble the +historian, touched his life at the springs. He dismissed the paragraph +from his mind, and sat thinking over the conversation which had passed +that afternoon between Ethne and himself, and without discouragement. +Ethne had mentioned Harry Feversham, it was true,--had asked for news of +him. But she might have been--nay, she probably had been--moved to ask +because her father's last words had referred to him. She had spoken his +name in a perfectly steady voice, he remembered; and, indeed, the mere +fact that she had spoken it at all might be taken as a sign that it had +no longer any power with her. There was something hopeful to his mind in +her very request that he should try during this one year to omit her +from his thoughts. For it seemed almost to imply that if he could not, +she might at the end of it, perhaps, give to him the answer for which he +longed. He allowed a few days to pass, and then called again at Mrs. +Adair's house. But he found only Mrs. Adair. Ethne had left London and +returned to Donegal. She had left rather suddenly, Mrs. Adair told him, +and Mrs. Adair had no sure knowledge of the reason of her going. + +Durrance, however, had no doubt as to the reason. Ethne was putting into +practice the policy which she had commended to his thoughts. He was to +try to forget her, and she would help him to success so far as she could +by her absence from his sight. And in attributing this reason to her, +Durrance was right. But one thing Ethne had forgotten. She had not asked +him to cease to write to her, and accordingly in the autumn of that year +the letters began again to come from the Soudan. She was frankly glad to +receive them, but at the same time she was troubled. For in spite of +their careful reticence, every now and then a phrase leaped out--it +might be merely the repetition of some trivial sentence which she had +spoken long ago and long ago forgotten--and she could not but see that +in spite of her prayer she lived perpetually in his thoughts. There was +a strain of hopefulness too, as though he moved in a world painted with +new colours and suddenly grown musical. Ethne had never freed herself +from the haunting fear that one man's life had been spoilt because of +her; she had never faltered from her determination that this should not +happen with a second. Only with Durrance's letters before her she could +not evade a new and perplexing question. By what means was that +possibility to be avoided? There were two ways. By choosing which of +them could she fulfil her determination? She was no longer so sure as +she had been the year before that his career was all in all. The +question recurred to her again and again. She took it out with her on +the hillside with the letters, and pondered and puzzled over it and got +never an inch nearer to a solution. Even her violin failed her in this +strait. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + +DURRANCE SHARPENS HIS WITS + + +It was a night of May, and outside the mess-room at Wadi Halfa three +officers were smoking on a grass knoll above the Nile. The moon was at +its full, and the strong light had robbed even the planets of their +lustre. The smaller stars were not visible at all, and the sky washed of +its dark colour, curved overhead, pearly-hued and luminous. The three +officers sat in their lounge chairs and smoked silently, while the +bull-frogs croaked from an island in mid-river. At the bottom of the +small steep cliff on which they sat the Nile, so sluggish was its flow, +shone like a burnished mirror, and from the opposite bank the desert +stretched away to infinite distances, a vast plain with scattered +hummocks, a plain white as a hoar frost on the surface of which the +stones sparkled like jewels. Behind the three officers of the garrison +the roof of the mess-room verandah threw a shadow on the ground; it +seemed a solid piece of blackness. + +One of the three officers struck a match and held it to the end of his +cigar. The flame lit up a troubled and anxious face. + +"I hope that no harm has come to him," he said, as he threw the match +away. "I wish that I could say I believed it." + +The speaker was a man of middle age and the colonel of a Soudanese +battalion. He was answered by a man whose hair had gone grey, it is +true. But grey hair is frequent in the Soudan, and his unlined face +still showed that he was young. He was Lieutenant Calder of the +Engineers. Youth, however, in this instance had no optimism wherewith to +challenge Colonel Dawson. + +"He left Halfa eight weeks ago, eh?" he said gloomily. + +"Eight weeks to-day," replied the colonel. + +It was the third officer, a tall, spare, long-necked major of the Army +Service Corps, who alone hazarded a cheerful prophecy. + +"It's early days to conclude Durrance has got scuppered," said he. "One +knows Durrance. Give him a camp-fire in the desert, and a couple of +sheiks to sit round it with him, and he'll buck to them for a month and +never feel bored at the end. While here there are letters, and there's +an office, and there's a desk in the office and everything he loathes +and can't do with. You'll see Durrance will turn up right enough, though +he won't hurry about it." + +"He is three weeks overdue," objected the colonel, "and he's methodical +after a fashion. I am afraid." + +Major Walters pointed out his arm to the white empty desert across the +river. + +"If he had travelled that way, westward, I might agree," he said. "But +Durrance went east through the mountain country toward Berenice and the +Red Sea. The tribes he went to visit were quiet, even in the worst +times, when Osman Digna lay before Suakin." + +The colonel, however, took no comfort from Walters's confidence. He +tugged at his moustache and repeated, "He is three weeks overdue." + +Lieutenant Calder knocked the ashes from his pipe and refilled it. He +leaned forward in his chair as he pressed the tobacco down with his +thumb, and he said slowly:-- + +"I wonder. It is just possible that some sort of trap was laid for +Durrance. I am not sure. I never mentioned before what I knew, because +until lately I did not suspect that it could have anything to do with +his delay. But now I begin to wonder. You remember the night before he +started?" + +"Yes," said Dawson, and he hitched his chair a little nearer. Calder was +the one man in Wadi Halfa who could claim something like intimacy with +Durrance. Despite their difference in rank there was no great disparity +in age between the two men, and from the first when Calder had come +inexperienced and fresh from England, but with a great ardour to acquire +a comprehensive experience, Durrance in his reticent way had been at +pains to show the newcomer considerable friendship. Calder, therefore, +might be likely to know. + +"I too remember that night," said Walters. "Durrance dined at the mess +and went away early to prepare for his journey." + +"His preparations were made already," said Calder. "He went away early, +as you say. But he did not go to his quarters. He walked along the +river-bank to Tewfikieh." + +Wadi Halfa was the military station, Tewfikieh a little frontier town to +the north separated from Halfa by a mile of river-bank. A few Greeks +kept stores there, a few bare and dirty cafes faced the street between +native cook-shops and tobacconists'; a noisy little town where the negro +from the Dinka country jolted the fellah from the Delta, and the air was +torn with many dialects; a thronged little town, which yet lacked to +European ears one distinctive element of a throng. There was no ring of +footsteps. The crowd walked on sand and for the most part with naked +feet, so that if for a rare moment the sharp high cries and the +perpetual voices ceased, the figures of men and women flitted by +noiseless as ghosts. And even at night, when the streets were most +crowded and the uproar loudest, it seemed that underneath the noise, and +almost appreciable to the ear, there lay a deep and brooding silence, +the silence of deserts and the East. + +"Durrance went down to Tewfikieh at ten o'clock that night," said +Calder. "I went to his quarters at eleven. He had not returned. He was +starting eastward at four in the morning, and there was some detail of +business on which I wished to speak to him before he went. So I waited +for his return. He came in about a quarter of an hour afterwards and +told me at once that I must be quick, since he was expecting a visitor. +He spoke quickly and rather restlessly. He seemed to be labouring under +some excitement. He barely listened to what I had to say, and he +answered me at random. It was quite evident that he was moved, and +rather deeply moved, by some unusual feeling, though at the nature of +the feeling I could not guess. For at one moment it seemed certainly to +be anger, and the next moment he relaxed into a laugh, as though in +spite of himself he was glad. However, he bundled me out, and as I went +I heard him telling his servant to go to bed, because, though he +expected a visitor, he would admit the visitor himself." + +"Well!" said Dawson, "and who was the visitor?" + +"I do not know," answered Calder. "The one thing I do know is that when +Durrance's servant went to call him at four o'clock for his journey, he +found Durrance still sitting on the verandah outside his quarters, as +though he still expected his visitor. The visitor had not come." + +"And Durrance left no message?" + +"No. I was up myself before he started. I thought that he was puzzled +and worried. I thought, too, that he meant to tell me what was the +matter. I still think that he had that in his mind, but that he could +not decide. For even after he had taken his seat upon his saddle and his +camel had risen from the ground, he turned and looked down towards me. +But he thought better of it, or worse, as the case may be. At all +events, he did not speak. He struck the camel on the flank with his +stick, and rode slowly past the post-office and out into the desert, +with his head sunk upon his breast. I wonder whether he rode into a +trap. Who could this visitor have been whom he meets in the street of +Tewfikieh, and who must come so secretly to Wadi Halfa? What can have +been his business with Durrance? Important business, troublesome +business--so much is evident. And he did not come to transact it. Was +the whole thing a lure to which we have not the clue? Like Colonel +Dawson, I am afraid." + +There was a silence after he had finished, which Major Walters was the +first to break. He offered no argument--he simply expressed again his +unalterable cheerfulness. + +"I don't think Durrance has got scuppered," said he, as he rose from his +chair. + +"I know what I shall do," said the colonel. "I shall send out a strong +search party in the morning." + +And the next morning, as they sat at breakfast on the verandah, he at +once proceeded to describe the force which he meant to despatch. Major +Walters, too, it seemed, in spite of his hopeful prophecies, had +pondered during the night over Calder's story, and he leaned across the +table to Calder. + +"Did you never inquire whom Durrance talked with at Tewfikieh on that +night?" he asked. + +"I did, and there's a point that puzzles me," said Calder. He was +sitting with his back to the Nile and his face towards the glass doors +of the mess-room, and he spoke to Walters, who was directly opposite. "I +could not find that he talked to more than one person, and that one +person could not by any likelihood have been the visitor he expected. +Durrance stopped in front of a cafe where some strolling musicians, who +had somehow wandered up to Tewfikieh, were playing and singing for their +night's lodging. One of them, a Greek I was told, came outside into the +street and took his hat round. Durrance threw a sovereign into the hat, +the man turned to thank him, and they talked for a little time +together;" and as he came to this point he raised his head. A look of +recognition came into his face. He laid his hands upon the table-edge, +and leaned forward with his feet drawn back beneath his chair as though +he was on the point of springing up. But he did not spring up. His look +of recognition became one of bewilderment. He glanced round the table +and saw that Colonel Dawson was helping himself to cocoa, while Major +Walters's eyes were on his plate. There were other officers of the +garrison present, but not one had remarked his movement and its sudden +arrest. Calder leaned back, and staring curiously in front of him and +over the major's shoulder, continued his story. "But I could never hear +that Durrance spoke to any one else. He seemed, except that one knows to +the contrary, merely to have strolled through the village and back again +to Wadi Halfa." + +"That doesn't help us much," said the major. + +"And it's all you know?" asked the colonel. + +"No, not quite all," returned Calder, slowly; "I know, for instance, +that the man we are talking about is staring me straight in the face." + +At once everybody at the table turned towards the mess-room. + +"Durrance!" cried the colonel, springing up. + +"When did you get back?" said the major. + +Durrance, with the dust of his journey still powdered upon his clothes, +and a face burnt to the colour of red brick, was standing in the +doorway, and listening with a remarkable intentness to the voices of his +fellow-officers. It was perhaps noticeable that Calder, who was +Durrance's friend, neither rose from his chair nor offered any greeting. +He still sat watching Durrance; he still remained curious and perplexed; +but as Durrance descended the three steps into the verandah there came +a quick and troubled look of comprehension into his face. + +"We expected you three weeks ago," said Dawson, as he pulled a chair +away from an empty place at the table. + +"The delay could not be helped," replied Durrance. He took the chair and +drew it up. + +"Does my story account for it?" asked Calder. + +"Not a bit. It was the Greek musician I expected that night," he +explained with a laugh. "I was curious to know what stroke of ill-luck +had cast him out to play the zither for a night's lodging in a cafe at +Tewfikieh. That was all," and he added slowly, in a softer voice, "Yes, +that was all." + +"Meanwhile you are forgetting your breakfast," said Dawson, as he rose. +"What will you have?" + +Calder leaned ever so slightly forward with his eyes quietly resting on +Durrance. Durrance looked round the table, and then called the +mess-waiter. "Moussa, get me something cold," said he, and the waiter +went back into the mess-room. Calder nodded his head with a faint smile, +as though he understood that here was a difficulty rather cleverly +surmounted. + +"There's tea, cocoa, and coffee," he said. "Help yourself, Durrance." + +"Thanks," said Durrance. "I see, but I will get Moussa to bring me a +brandy-and-soda, I think," and again Calder nodded his head. + +Durrance ate his breakfast and drank his brandy-and-soda, and talked the +while of his journey. He had travelled farther eastward than he had +intended. He had found the Ababdeh Arabs quiet amongst their mountains. +If they were not disposed to acknowledge allegiance to Egypt, on the +other hand they paid no tribute to Mahommed Achmet. The weather had been +good, ibex and antelope plentiful. Durrance, on the whole, had reason to +be content with his journey. And Calder sat and watched him, and +disbelieved every word that he said. The other officers went about their +duties; Calder remained behind, and waited until Durrance should finish. +But it seemed that Durrance never would finish. He loitered over his +breakfast, and when that was done he pushed his plate away and sat +talking. There was no end to his questions as to what had passed at Wadi +Halfa during the last eight weeks, no limit to his enthusiasm over the +journey from which he had just returned. Finally, however, he stopped +with a remarkable abruptness, and said, with some suspicion, to his +companion:-- + +"You are taking life easily this morning." + +"I have not eight weeks' arrears of letters to clear off, as you have, +Colonel," Calder returned with a laugh; and he saw Durrance's face cloud +and his forehead contract. + +"True," he said, after a pause. "I had forgotten my letters." And he +rose from his seat at the table, mounted the steps, and passed into the +mess-room. + +Calder immediately sprang up, and with his eyes followed Durrance's +movements. Durrance went to a nail which was fixed in the wall close to +the glass doors and on a level with his head. From that nail he took +down the key of his office, crossed the room, and went out through the +farther door. That door he left open, and Calder could see him walk down +the path between the bushes through the tiny garden in front of the +mess, unlatch the gate, and cross the open space of sand towards his +office. As soon as Durrance had disappeared Calder sat down again, and, +resting his elbows on the table, propped his face between his hands. +Calder was troubled. He was a friend of Durrance; he was the one man in +Wadi Halfa who possessed something of Durrance's confidence; he knew +that there were certain letters in a woman's handwriting waiting for him +in his office. He was very deeply troubled. Durrance had aged during +these eight weeks. There were furrows about his mouth where only faint +lines had been visible when he had started out from Halfa; and it was +not merely desert dust which had discoloured his hair. His hilarity, +too, had an artificial air. He had sat at the table constraining himself +to the semblance of high spirits. Calder lit his pipe, and sat for a +long while by the empty table. + +Then he took his helmet and crossed the sand to Durrance's office. He +lifted the latch noiselessly; as noiselessly he opened the door, and he +looked in. Durrance was sitting at his desk with his head bowed upon his +arms and all his letters unopened at his side. Calder stepped into the +room and closed the door loudly behind him. At once Durrance turned his +face to the door. + +"Well?" said he. + +"I have a paper, Colonel, which requires your signature," said Calder. +"It's the authority for the alterations in C barracks. You remember?" + +"Very well. I will look through it and return it to you, signed, at +lunch-time. Will you give it to me, please?" + +He held out his hand towards Calder. Calder took his pipe from his +mouth, and, standing thus in full view of Durrance, slowly and +deliberately placed it into Durrance's outstretched palm. It was not +until the hot bowl burnt his hand that Durrance snatched his arm away. +The pipe fell and broke upon the floor. Neither of the two men spoke for +a few moments, and then Calder put his arm round Durrance's shoulder, +and asked in a voice gentle as a woman's:-- + +"How did it happen?" + +Durrance buried his face in his hands. The great control which he had +exercised till now he was no longer able to sustain. He did not answer, +nor did he utter any sound, but he sat shivering from head to foot. + +"How did it happen?" Calder asked again, and in a whisper. + +Durrance put another question:-- + +"How did you find out?" + +"You stood in the mess-room doorway listening to discover whose voice +spoke from where. When I raised my head and saw you, though your eyes +rested on my face there was no recognition in them. I suspected then. +When you came down the steps into the verandah I became almost certain. +When you would not help yourself to food, when you reached out your arm +over your shoulder so that Moussa had to put the brandy-and-soda safely +into your palm, I was sure." + +"I was a fool to try and hide it," said Durrance. "Of course I knew all +the time that I couldn't for more than a few hours. But even those few +hours somehow seemed a gain." + +"How did it happen?" + +"There was a high wind," Durrance explained. "It took my helmet off. It +was eight o'clock in the morning. I did not mean to move my camp that +day, and I was standing outside my tent in my shirt-sleeves. So you see +that I had not even the collar of a coat to protect the nape of my neck. +I was fool enough to run after my helmet; and--you must have seen the +same thing happen a hundred times--each time that I stooped to pick it +up it skipped away; each time that I ran after it, it stopped and waited +for me to catch it up. And before one was aware what one was doing, one +had run a quarter of a mile. I went down, I was told, like a log just +when I had the helmet in my hand. How long ago it happened I don't quite +know, for I was ill for a time, and afterwards it was difficult to keep +count, since one couldn't tell the difference between day and night." + +Durrance, in a word, had gone blind. He told the rest of his story. He +had bidden his followers carry him back to Berber, and then, influenced +by the natural wish to hide his calamity as long as he could, he had +enjoined upon them silence. Calder heard the story through to the end, +and then rose at once to his feet. + +"There's a doctor. He is clever, and, for a Syrian, knows a good deal. I +will fetch him here privately, and we will hear what he says. Your +blindness may be merely temporary." + +The Syrian doctor, however, pursed up his lips and shook his head. He +advised an immediate departure to Cairo. It was a case for a specialist. +He himself would hesitate to pronounce an opinion; though, to be sure, +there was always hope of a cure. + +"Have you ever suffered an injury in the head?" he asked. "Were you +ever thrown from your horse? Were you wounded?" + +"No," said Durrance. + +The Syrian did not disguise his conviction that the case was grave; and +after he had departed both men were silent for some time. Calder had a +feeling that any attempt at consolation would be futile in itself, and +might, moreover, in betraying his own fear that the hurt was +irreparable, only discourage his companion. He turned to the pile of +letters and looked them through. + +"There are two letters here, Durrance," he said gently, "which you might +perhaps care to hear. They are written in a woman's hand, and there is +an Irish postmark. Shall I open them?" + +"No," exclaimed Durrance, suddenly, and his hand dropped quickly upon +Calder's arm. "By no means." + +Calder, however, did not put down the letters. He was anxious, for +private reasons of his own, to learn something more of Ethne Eustace +than the outside of her letters could reveal. A few rare references made +in unusual moments of confidence by Durrance had only informed Calder of +her name, and assured him that his friend would be very glad to change +it if he could. He looked at Durrance--a man so trained to vigour and +activity that his very sunburn seemed an essential quality rather than +an accident of the country in which he lived; a man, too, who came to +the wild, uncitied places of the world with the joy of one who comes +into an inheritance; a man to whom these desolate tracts were home, and +the fireside and the hedged fields and made roads merely the other +places; and he understood the magnitude of the calamity which had +befallen him. Therefore he was most anxious to know more of this girl +who wrote to Durrance from Donegal, and to gather from her letters, as +from a mirror in which her image was reflected, some speculation as to +her character. For if she failed, what had this friend of his any longer +left? + +"You would like to hear them, I expect," he insisted. "You have been +away eight weeks." And he was interrupted by a harsh laugh. + +"Do you know what I was thinking when I stopped you?" said Durrance. +"Why, that I would read the letters after you had gone. It takes time to +get used to being blind after your eyes have served you pretty well all +your life." And his voice shook ever so little. "You will have to help +me to answer them, Calder. So read them. Please read them." + +Calder tore open the envelopes and read the letters through and was +satisfied. They gave a record of the simple doings of her mountain +village in Donegal, and in the simplest terms. But the girl's nature +shone out in the telling. Her love of the country-side and of the people +who dwelt there was manifest. She could see the humour and the tragedy +of the small village troubles. There was a warm friendliness for +Durrance moreover expressed, not so much in a sentence as in the whole +spirit of the letters. It was evident that she was most keenly +interested in all that he did; that, in a way, she looked upon his +career as a thing in which she had a share, even if it was only a +friend's share. And when Calder had ended he looked again at Durrance, +but now with a face of relief. It seemed, too, that Durrance was +relieved. + +"After all, one has something to be thankful for," he cried. "Think! +Suppose that I had been engaged to her! She would never have allowed me +to break it off, once I had gone blind. What an escape!" + +"An escape?" exclaimed Calder. + +"You don't understand. But I knew a man who went blind; a good fellow, +too, before--mind that, before! But a year after! You couldn't have +recognised him. He had narrowed down into the most selfish, exacting, +egotistical creature it is possible to imagine. I don't wonder; I hardly +see how he could help it; I don't blame him. But it wouldn't make life +easier for a wife, would it? A helpless husband who can't cross a road +without his wife at his elbow is bad enough. But make him a selfish +beast into the bargain, full of questions, jealous of her power to go +where she will, curious as to every person with whom she speaks--and +what then? My God, I am glad that girl refused me. For that I am most +grateful." + +"She refused you?" asked Calder, and the relief passed from his face and +voice. + +"Twice," said Durrance. "What an escape! You see, Calder, I shall be +more trouble even than the man I told you of. I am not clever. I can't +sit in a chair and amuse myself by thinking, not having any intellect to +buck about. I have lived out of doors and hard, and that's the only sort +of life that suits me. I tell you, Calder, you won't be very anxious for +much of my society in a year's time," and he laughed again and with the +same harshness. + +"Oh, stop that," said Calder; "I will read the rest of your letters to +you." + +He read them, however, without much attention to their contents. His +mind was occupied with the two letters from Ethne Eustace, and he was +wondering whether there was any deeper emotion than mere friendship +hidden beneath the words. Girls refused men for all sorts of queer +reasons which had no sense in them, and very often they were sick and +sorry about it afterwards; and very often they meant to accept the men +all the time. + +"I must answer the letters from Ireland," said Durrance, when he had +finished. "The rest can wait." + +Calder held a sheet of paper upon the desk and told Durrance when he was +writing on a slant and when he was writing on the blotting-pad; and in +this way Durrance wrote to tell Ethne that a sunstroke had deprived him +of his sight. Calder took that letter away. But he took it to the +hospital and asked for the Syrian doctor. The doctor came out to him, +and they walked together under the trees in front of the building. + +"Tell me the truth," said Calder. + +The doctor blinked behind his spectacles. + +"The optic nerve is, I think, destroyed," he replied. + +"Then there is no hope?" + +"None, if my diagnosis is correct." + +Calder turned the letter over and over, as though he could not make up +his mind what in the world to do with it. + +"Can a sunstroke destroy the optic nerve?" he asked at length. + +"A mere sunstroke? No," replied the doctor. "But it may be the +occasion. For the cause one must look deeper." + +Calder came to a stop, and there was a look of horror in his eyes. "You +mean--one must look to the brain?" + +"Yes." + +They walked on for a few paces. A further question was in Calder's mind, +but he had some difficulty in speaking it, and when he had spoken he +waited for the answer in suspense. + +"Then this calamity is not all. There will be more to follow--death +or--" but that other alternative he could not bring himself to utter. +Here, however, the doctor was able to reassure him. + +"No. That does not follow." + +Calder went back to the mess-room and called for a brandy-and-soda. He +was more disturbed by the blow which had fallen upon Durrance than he +would have cared to own; and he put the letter upon the table and +thought of the message of renunciation which it contained, and he could +hardly restrain his fingers from tearing it across. It must be sent, he +knew; its destruction would be of no more than a temporary avail. Yet he +could hardly bring himself to post it. With the passage of every minute +he realised more clearly what blindness meant to Durrance. A man not +very clever, as he himself was ever the first to acknowledge, and always +the inheritor of the other places,--how much more it meant to him than +to the ordinary run of men! Would the girl, he wondered, understand as +clearly? It was very silent that morning on the verandah at Wadi Halfa; +the sunlight blazed upon desert and river; not a breath of wind stirred +the foliage of any bush. Calder drank his brandy-and-soda, and slowly +that question forced itself more and more into the front of his mind. +Would the woman over in Ireland understand? He rose from his chair as he +heard Colonel Dawson's voice in the mess-room, and taking up his letter, +walked away to the post-office. Durrance's letter was despatched, but +somewhere in the Mediterranean it crossed a letter from Ethne, which +Durrance received a fortnight later at Cairo. It was read out to him by +Calder, who had obtained leave to come down from Wadi Halfa with his +friend. Ethne wrote that she had, during the last months, considered all +that he had said when at Glenalla and in London; she had read, too, his +letters and understood that in his thoughts of her there had been no +change, and that there would be none; she therefore went back upon her +old argument that she would, by marriage, be doing him an injury, and +she would marry him upon his return to England. + +"That's rough luck, isn't it?" said Durrance, when Calder had read the +letter through. "For here's the one thing I have always wished for, and +it comes when I can no longer take it." + +"I think you will find it very difficult to refuse to take it," said +Calder. "I do not know Miss Eustace, but I can hazard a guess from the +letters of hers which I have read to you. I do not think that she is a +woman who will say 'yes' one day, and then because bad times come to you +say 'no' the next, or allow you to say 'no' for her, either. I have a +sort of notion that since she cares for you and you for her, you are +doing little less than insulting her if you imagine that she cannot +marry you and still be happy." + +Durrance thought over that aspect of the question, and began to wonder. +Calder might be right. Marriage with a blind man! It might, perhaps, be +possible if upon both sides there was love, and the letter from Ethne +proved--did it not?--that on both sides there _was_ love. Besides, there +were some trivial compensations which might help to make her sacrifice +less burdensome. She could still live in her own country and move in her +own home. For the Lennon house could be rebuilt and the estates cleared +of their debt. + +"Besides," said Calder, "there is always a possibility of a cure." + +"There is no such possibility," said Durrance, with a decision which +quite startled his companion. "You know that as well as I do;" and he +added with a laugh, "You needn't start so guiltily. I haven't overheard +a word of any of your conversations about me." + +"Then what in the world makes you think that there's no chance?" + +"The voice of every doctor who has encouraged me to hope. Their +words--yes--their words tell me to visit specialists in Europe, and not +lose heart, but their voices give the lie to their words. If one cannot +see, one can at all events hear." + +Calder looked thoughtfully at his friend. This was not the only occasion +on which of late Durrance had surprised his friends by an unusual +acuteness. Calder glanced uncomfortably at the letter which he was still +holding in his hand. + +"When was that letter written?" said Durrance, suddenly; and +immediately upon the question he asked another, "What makes you jump?" + +Calder laughed and explained hastily. "Why, I was looking at the letter +at the moment when you asked, and your question came so pat that I could +hardly believe you did not see what I was doing. It was written on the +fifteenth of May." + +"Ah," said Durrance, "the day I returned to Wadi Halfa blind." + +Calder sat in his chair without a movement. He gazed anxiously at his +companion, it seemed almost as though he were afraid; his attitude was +one of suspense. + +"That's a queer coincidence," said Durrance, with a careless laugh; and +Calder had an intuition that he was listening with the utmost intentness +for some movement on his own part, perhaps a relaxation of his attitude, +perhaps a breath of relief. Calder did not move, however; and he drew no +breath of relief. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +DURRANCE BEGINS TO SEE + + +Ethne stood at the drawing-room window of the house in Hill Street. Mrs. +Adair sat in front of her tea-table. Both women were waiting, and they +were both listening for some particular sound to rise up from the street +and penetrate into the room. The window stood open that they might hear +it the more quickly. It was half-past five in the afternoon. June had +come round again with the exhilaration of its sunlight, and London had +sparkled into a city of pleasure and green trees. In the houses +opposite, the windows were gay with flowers; and in the street below, +the carriages rolled easily towards the Park. A jingle of bells rose +upwards suddenly and grew loud. Mrs. Adair raised her head quickly. + +"That's a cab," she said. + +"Yes." + +Ethne leaned forward and looked down. "But it's not stopping here;" and +the jingle grew fainter and died away. + +Mrs. Adair looked at the clock. + +"Colonel Durrance is late," she said, and she turned curiously towards +Ethne. It seemed to her that Ethne had spoken her "yes" with much more +of suspense than eagerness; her attitude as she leaned forward at the +window had been almost one of apprehension; and though Mrs. Adair was +not quite sure, she fancied that she detected relief when the cab passed +by the house and did not stop. "I wonder why you didn't go to the +station and meet Colonel Durrance?" she asked slowly. + +The answer came promptly enough. + +"He might have thought that I had come because I looked upon him as +rather helpless, and I don't wish him to think that. He has his servant +with him." Ethne looked again out of the window, and once or twice she +made a movement as if she was about to speak and then thought silence +the better part. Finally, however, she made up her mind. + +"You remember the telegram I showed to you?" + +"From Lieutenant Calder, saying that Colonel Durrance had gone blind?" + +"Yes. I want you to promise never to mention it. I don't want him to +know that I ever received it." + +Mrs. Adair was puzzled, and she hated to be puzzled. She had been shown +the telegram, but she had not been told that Ethne had written to +Durrance, pledging herself to him immediately upon its receipt. Ethne, +when she showed the telegram, had merely said, "I am engaged to him." +Mrs. Adair at once believed that the engagement had been of some +standing, and she had been allowed to continue in that belief. + +"You will promise?" Ethne insisted. + +"Certainly, my dear, if you like," returned Mrs. Adair, with an +ungracious shrug of the shoulders. "But there is a reason, I suppose. I +don't understand why you exact the promise." + +"Two lives must not be spoilt because of me." + +There was some ground for Mrs. Adair's suspicion that Ethne expected +the blind man to whom she was betrothed, with apprehension. It is true +that she was a little afraid. Just twelve months had passed since, in +this very room, on just such a sunlit afternoon, Ethne had bidden +Durrance try to forget her, and each letter which she had since received +had shown that, whether he tried or not, he had not forgotten. Even that +last one received three weeks ago, the note scrawled in the handwriting +of a child, from Wadi Halfa, with the large unsteady words straggling +unevenly across the page, and the letters running into one another +wherein he had told his calamity and renounced his suit--even that +proved, and perhaps more surely than its hopeful forerunners--that he +had not forgotten. As she waited at the window she understood very +clearly that it was she herself who must buckle to the hard work of +forgetting. Or if that was impossible, she must be careful always that +by no word let slip in a forgetful moment she betrayed that she had not +forgotten. + +"No," she said, "two lives shall not be spoilt because of me," and she +turned towards Mrs. Adair. + +"Are you quite sure, Ethne," said Mrs. Adair, "that the two lives will +not be more surely spoilt by this way of yours--the way of marriage? +Don't you think that you will come to feel Colonel Durrance, in spite of +your will, something of a hindrance and a drag? Isn't it possible that +he may come to feel that too? I wonder. I very much wonder." + +"No," said Ethne, decisively. "I shall not feel it, and he must not." + +The two lives, according to Mrs. Adair, were not the lives of Durrance +and Harry Feversham, but of Durrance and Ethne herself. There she was +wrong; but Ethne did not dispute the point, she was indeed rather glad +that her friend was wrong, and she allowed her to continue in her wrong +belief. + +Ethne resumed her watch at the window, foreseeing her life, planning it +out so that never might she be caught off her guard. The task would be +difficult, no doubt, and it was no wonder that in these minutes while +she waited fear grew upon her lest she should fail. But the end was well +worth the effort, and she set her eyes upon that. Durrance had lost +everything which made life to him worth living the moment he went +blind--everything, except one thing. "What should I do if I were +crippled?" he had said to Harry Feversham on the morning when for the +last time they had ridden together in the Row. "A clever man might put +up with it. But what should I do if I had to sit in a chair all my +days?" Ethne had not heard the words, but she understood the man well +enough without them. He was by birth the inheritor of the other places, +and he had lost his heritage. The things which delighted him, the long +journeys, the faces of strange countries, the camp-fire, a mere spark of +red light amidst black and empty silence, the hours of sleep in the open +under bright stars, the cool night wind of the desert, and the work of +government--all these things he had lost. Only one thing remained to +him--herself, and only, as she knew very well, herself so long as he +could believe she wanted him. And while she was still occupied with her +resolve, the cab for which she waited stopped unnoticed at the door. It +was not until Durrance's servant had actually rung the bell that her +attention was again attracted to the street. + +"He has come!" she said with a start. + +Durrance, it was true, was not particularly acute; he had never been +inquisitive; he took his friends as he found them; he put them under no +microscope. It would have been easy at any time, Ethne reflected, to +quiet his suspicions, should he have ever come to entertain any. But +_now_ it would be easier than ever. There was no reason for +apprehension. Thus she argued, but in spite of the argument she rather +nerved herself to an encounter than went forward to welcome her +betrothed. + +Mrs. Adair slipped out of the room, so that Ethne was alone when +Durrance entered at the door. She did not move immediately; she retained +her attitude and position, expecting that the change in him would for +the first moment shock her. But she was surprised; for the particular +changes which she had expected were noticeable only through their +absence. His face was worn, no doubt, his hair had gone grey, but there +was no air of helplessness or uncertainty, and it was that which for his +own sake she most dreaded. He walked forward into the room as though his +eyes saw; his memory seemed to tell him exactly where each piece of the +furniture stood. The most that he did was once or twice to put out a +hand where he expected a chair. + +Ethne drew silently back into the window rather at a loss with what +words to greet him, and immediately he smiled and came straight towards +her. + +"Ethne," he said. + +"It isn't true, then," she exclaimed. "You have recovered." The words +were forced from her by the readiness of his movement. + +"It is quite true, and I have not recovered," he answered. "But you +moved at the window and so I knew that you were there." + +"How did you know? I made no noise." + +"No, but the window's open. The noise in the street became suddenly +louder, so I knew that some one in front of the window had moved aside. +I guessed that it was you." + +Their words were thus not perhaps the most customary greeting between a +couple meeting on the first occasion after they have become engaged, but +they served to hinder embarrassment. Ethne shrank from any perfunctory +expression of regret, knowing that there was no need for it, and +Durrance had no wish to hear it. For there were many things which these +two understood each other well enough to take as said. They did no more +than shake hands when they had spoken, and Ethne moved back into the +room. + +"I will give you some tea," she said, "then we can talk." + +"Yes, we must have a talk, mustn't we?" Durrance answered seriously. He +threw off his serious air, however, and chatted with good humour about +the details of his journey home. He even found a subject of amusement in +his sense of helplessness during the first days of his blindness; and +Ethne's apprehensions rapidly diminished. They had indeed almost +vanished from her mind when something in his attitude suddenly brought +them back. + +"I wrote to you from Wadi Halfa," he said. "I don't know whether you +could read the letter." + +"Quite well," said Ethne. + +"I got a friend of mine to hold the paper and tell me when I was writing +on it or merely on the blotting-pad," he continued with a laugh. +"Calder--of the Sappers--but you don't know him." + +He shot the name out rather quickly, and it came upon Ethne with a shock +that he had set a trap to catch her. The curious stillness of his face +seemed to tell her that he was listening with an extreme intentness for +some start, perhaps even a checked exclamation, which would betray that +she knew something of Calder of the Sappers. Did he suspect, she asked +herself? Did he know of the telegram? Did he guess that her letter was +sent out of pity? She looked into Durrance's face, and it told her +nothing except that it was very alert. In the old days, a year ago, the +expression of his eyes would have answered her quite certainly, however +close he held his tongue. + +"I could read the letter without difficulty," she answered gently. "It +was the letter you would have written. But I had written to you before, +and of course your bad news could make no difference. I take back no +word of what I wrote." + +Durrance sat with his hands upon his knees, leaning forward a little. +Again Ethne was at a loss. She could not tell from his manner or his +face whether he accepted or questioned her answer; and again she +realised that a year ago while he had his sight she would have been in +no doubt. + +"Yes, I know you. You would take nothing back," he said at length. "But +there is my point of view." + +Ethne looked at him with apprehension. + +"Yes?" she replied, and she strove to speak with unconcern. "Will you +tell me it?" + +Durrance assented, and began in the deliberate voice of a man who has +thought out his subject, knows it by heart, and has decided, moreover, +the order of words by which it will be most lucidly developed. + +"I know what blindness means to all men--a growing, narrowing egotism +unless one is perpetually on one's guard. And will one be perpetually on +one's guard? Blindness means that to all men," he repeated emphatically. +"But it must mean more to me, who am deprived of every occupation. If I +were a writer, I could still dictate. If I were a business man, I could +conduct my business. But I am a soldier, and not a clever soldier. +Jealousy, a continual and irritable curiosity--there is no Paul Pry like +your blind man--a querulous claim upon your attention--these are my +special dangers." And Ethne laughed gently in contradiction of his +argument. + +"Well, perhaps one may hold them off," he acknowledged, "but they are to +be considered. I have considered them. I am not speaking to you without +thought. I have pondered and puzzled over the whole matter night after +night since I got your letter, wondering what I should do. You know how +gladly, with what gratitude, I would have answered you, 'Yes, let the +marriage go on,' if I dared. If I dared! But I think--don't you?--that a +great trouble rather clears one's wits. I used to lie awake at Cairo and +think; and the unimportant trivial considerations gradually dropped +away; and a few straight and simple truths stood out rather vividly. +One felt that one had to cling to them and with all one's might, +because nothing else was left." + +"Yes, that I do understand," Ethne replied in a low voice. She had gone +through just such an experience herself. It might have been herself, and +not Durrance, who was speaking. She looked up at him, and for the first +time began to understand that after all she and he might have much in +common. She repeated over to herself with an even firmer determination, +"Two lives shall not be spoilt because of me." + +"Well?" she asked. + +"Well, here's one of the very straight and simple truths. Marriage +between a man crippled like myself, whose life is done, and a woman like +you, active and young, whose life is in its flower, would be quite wrong +unless each brought to it much more than friendship. It would be quite +wrong if it implied a sacrifice for you." + +"It implies no sacrifice," she answered firmly. + +Durrance nodded. It was evident that the answer contented him, and Ethne +felt that it was the intonation to which he listened rather than the +words. His very attitude of concentration showed her that. She began to +wonder whether it would be so easy after all to quiet his suspicions now +that he was blind; she began to realise that it might possibly on that +very account be all the more difficult. + +"Then do you bring more than friendship?" he asked suddenly. "You will +be very honest, I know. Tell me." + +Ethne was in a quandary. She knew that she must answer, and at once and +without ambiguity. In addition, she must answer honestly. + +"There is nothing," she replied, and as firmly as before, "nothing in +the world which I wish for so earnestly as that you and I should marry." + +It was an honest wish, and it was honestly spoken. She knew nothing of +the conversation which had passed between Harry Feversham and Lieutenant +Sutch in the grill-room of the Criterion Restaurant; she knew nothing of +Harry's plans; she had not heard of the Gordon letters recovered from +the mud-wall of a ruined house in the city of the Dervishes on the Nile +bank. Harry Feversham had, so far as she knew and meant, gone forever +completely out of her life. Therefore her wish was an honest one. But it +was not an exact answer to Durrance's question, and she hoped that again +he would listen to the intonation, rather than to the words. However, he +seemed content with it. + +"Thank you, Ethne," he said, and he took her hand and shook it. His face +smiled at her. He asked no other questions. There was not a doubt, she +thought; his suspicions were quieted; he was quite content. And upon +that Mrs. Adair came with discretion into the room. + +She had the tact to greet Durrance as one who suffered under no +disadvantage, and she spoke as though she had seen him only the week +before. + +"I suppose Ethne has told you of our plan," she said, as she took her +tea from her friend's hand. + +"No, not yet," Ethne answered. + +"What plan?" asked Durrance. + +"It is all arranged," said Mrs. Adair. "You will want to go home to +Guessens in Devonshire. I am your neighbour--a couple of fields separate +us, that's all. So Ethne will stay with me during the interval before +you are married." + +"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Adair," Durrance exclaimed; "because, of +course, there will be an interval." + +"A short one, no doubt," said Mrs. Adair. + +"Well, it's this way. If there's a chance that I may recover my sight, +it would be better that I should seize it at once. Time means a good +deal in these cases." + +"Then there is a chance?" cried Ethne. + +"I am going to see a specialist here to-morrow," Durrance answered. +"And, of course, there's the oculist at Wiesbaden. But it may not be +necessary to go so far. I expect that I shall be able to stay at +Guessens and come up to London when it is necessary. Thank you very +much, Mrs. Adair. It is a good plan." And he added slowly, "From my +point of view there could be no better." + +Ethne watched Durrance drive away with his servant to his old rooms in +St. James's Street, and stood by the window after he had gone, in much +the same attitude and absorption as that which had characterised her +before he had come. Outside in the street the carriages were now coming +back from the park, and there was just one other change. Ethne's +apprehensions had taken a more definite shape. + +She believed that suspicion was quieted in Durrance for to-day, at all +events. She had not heard his conversation with Calder in Cairo. She did +not know that he believed there was no cure which could restore him to +sight. She had no remotest notion that the possibility of a remedy might +be a mere excuse. But none the less she was uneasy. Durrance had grown +more acute. Not only his senses had been sharpened,--that, indeed, was +to be expected,--but trouble and thought had sharpened his mind as well. +It had become more penetrating. She felt that she was entering upon an +encounter of wits, and she had a fear lest she should be worsted. "Two +lives shall not be spoilt because of me," she repeated, but it was a +prayer now, rather than a resolve. For one thing she recognised quite +surely: Durrance saw ever so much more clearly now that he was blind. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +CAPTAIN WILLOUGHBY REAPPEARS + + +During the months of July and August Ethne's apprehensions grew, and +once at all events they found expression on her lips. + +"I am afraid," she said, one morning, as she stood in the sunlight at an +open window of Mrs. Adair's house upon a creek of the Salcombe estuary. +In the room behind her Mrs. Adair smiled quietly. + +"Of what? That some accident happened to Colonel Durrance yesterday in +London?" + +"No," Ethne answered slowly, "not of that. For he is at this moment +crossing the lawn towards us." + +Again Mrs. Adair smiled, but she did not raise her head from the book +which she was reading, so that it might have been some passage in the +book which so amused and pleased her. + +"I thought so," she said, but in so low a voice that the words barely +reached Ethne's ears. They did not penetrate to her mind, for as she +looked across the stone-flagged terrace and down the broad shallow +flight of steps to the lawn, she asked abruptly:-- + +"Do you think he has any hope whatever that he will recover his sight?" + +The question had not occurred to Mrs. Adair before, and she gave to it +now no importance in her thoughts. + +"Would he travel up to town so often to see his oculist if he had +none?" she asked in reply. "Of course he hopes." + +"I am afraid," said Ethne, and she turned with a sudden movement towards +her friend. "Haven't you noticed how quick he has grown and is growing? +Quick to interpret your silences, to infer what you do not say from what +you do, to fill out your sentences, to make your movements the +commentary of your words? Laura, haven't you noticed? At times I think +the very corners of my mind are revealed to him. He reads me like a +child's lesson book." + +"Yes," said Mrs. Adair, "you are at a disadvantage. You no longer have +your face to screen your thoughts." + +"And his eyes no longer tell me anything at all," Ethne added. + +There was truth in both remarks. So long as Durrance had had Ethne's +face with its bright colour and her steady, frank, grey eyes visible +before him, he could hardly weigh her intervals of silence and her +movements against her spoken words with the detachment which was now +possible to him. On the other hand, whereas before she had never been +troubled by a doubt as to what he meant or wished, or intended, now she +was often in the dark. Durrance's blindness, in a word, had produced an +effect entirely opposite to that which might have been expected. It had +reversed their positions. + +Mrs. Adair, however, was more interested in Ethne's unusual burst of +confidence. There was no doubt of it, she reflected. The girl, once +remarkable for a quiet frankness of word and look, was declining into a +creature of shifts and agitation. + +"There is something, then, to be concealed from him?" she asked +quietly. + +"Yes." + +"Something rather important?" + +"Something which at all costs I must conceal," Ethne exclaimed, and was +not sure, even while she spoke, that Durrance had not already found it +out. She stepped over the threshold of the window on to the terrace. In +front of her the lawn stretched to a hedge; on the far side of that +hedge a couple of grass fields lifted and fell in gentle undulations; +and beyond the fields she could see amongst a cluster of trees the smoke +from the chimneys of Colonel Durrance's house. She stood for a little +while hesitating upon the terrace. On the left the lawn ran down to a +line of tall beeches and oaks which fringed the creek. But a broad space +had been cleared to make a gap upon the bank, so that Ethne could see +the sunlight on the water and the wooded slope on the farther side, and +a sailing-boat some way down the creek tacking slowly against the light +wind. Ethne looked about her, as though she was summoning her resources, +and even composing her sentences ready for delivery to the man who was +walking steadily towards her across the lawn. If there was hesitation +upon her part, there was none at all, she noticed, on the part of the +blind man. It seemed that Durrance's eyes took in the path which his +feet trod, and with the stick which he carried in his hand he switched +at the blades of grass like one that carries it from habit rather than +for any use. Ethne descended the steps and advanced to meet him. She +walked slowly, as if to a difficult encounter. + +But there was another who only waited an opportunity to engage in it +with eagerness. For as Ethne descended the steps Mrs. Adair suddenly +dropped the book which she had pretended to resume and ran towards the +window. Hidden by the drapery of the curtain she looked out and watched. +The smile was still upon her lips, but a fierce light had brightened in +her eyes, and her face had the drawn look of hunger. + +"Something which at all costs she must conceal," she said to herself, +and she said it in a voice of exultation. There was contempt too in her +tone, contempt for Ethne Eustace, the woman of the open air who was +afraid, who shrank from marriage with a blind man, and dreaded the +restraint upon her freedom. It was that shrinking which Ethne had to +conceal--Mrs. Adair had no doubt of it. "For my part, I am glad," she +said, and she was--fiercely glad that blindness had disabled Durrance. +For if her opportunity ever came, as it seemed to her now more and more +likely to come, blindness reserved him to her, as no man was ever +reserved to any woman. So jealous was she of his every word and look +that his dependence upon her would be the extreme of pleasure. She +watched Ethne and Durrance meet on the lawn at the foot of the terrace +steps. She saw them turn and walk side by side across the grass towards +the creek. She noticed that Ethne seemed to plead, and in her heart she +longed to overhear. + +And Ethne was pleading. + +"You saw your oculist yesterday?" she asked quickly, as soon as they +met. "Well, what did he say?" + +Durrance shrugged his shoulders. + +"That one must wait. Only time can show whether a cure is possible or +not," he answered, and Ethne bent forward a little and scrutinised his +face as though she doubted that he spoke the truth. + +"But must you and I wait?" she asked. + +"Surely," he returned. "It would be wiser on all counts." And thereupon +he asked her suddenly a question of which she did not see the drift. "It +was Mrs. Adair, I imagine, who proposed this plan that I should come +home to Guessens and that you should stay with her here across the +fields?" + +Ethne was puzzled by the question, but she answered it directly and +truthfully. "I was in great distress when I heard of your accident. I +was so distressed that at the first I could not think what to do. I came +to London and told Laura, since she is my friend, and this was her plan. +Of course I welcomed it with all my heart;" and the note of pleading +rang in her voice. She was asking Durrance to confirm her words, and he +understood that. He turned towards her with a smile. + +"I know that very well, Ethne," he said gently. + +Ethne drew a breath of relief, and the anxiety passed for a little while +from her face. + +"It was kind of Mrs. Adair," he resumed, "but it is rather hard on you, +who would like to be back in your own country. I remember very well a +sentence which Harry Feversham--" He spoke the name quite carelessly, +but paused just for a moment after he had spoken it. No expression upon +his face showed that he had any intention in so pausing, but Ethne +suspected one. He was listening, she suspected, for some movement of +uneasiness, perhaps of pain, into which she might possibly be betrayed. +But she made no movement. "A sentence which Harry Feversham spoke a long +while since," he continued, "in London just before I left London for +Egypt. He was speaking of you, and he said: 'She is of her country and +more of her county. I do not think she could be happy in any place which +was not within reach of Donegal.' And when I remember that, it seems +rather selfish that I should claim to keep you here at so much cost to +you." + +"I was not thinking of that," Ethne exclaimed, "when I asked why we must +wait. That makes me out most selfish. I was merely wondering why you +preferred to wait, why you insist upon it. For, of course, although one +hopes and prays with all one's soul that you will get your sight back, +the fact of a cure can make no difference." + +She spoke slowly, and her voice again had a ring of pleading. This time +Durrance did not confirm her words, and she repeated them with a greater +emphasis, "It can make no difference." + +Durrance started like a man roused from an abstraction. + +"I beg your pardon, Ethne," he said. "I was thinking at the moment of +Harry Feversham. There is something which I want you to tell me. You +said a long time ago at Glenalla that you might one day bring yourself +to tell it me, and I should rather like to know now. You see, Harry +Feversham was my friend. I want you to tell me what happened that night +at Lennon House to break off your engagement, to send him away an +outcast." + +Ethne was silent for a while, and then she said gently: "I would rather +not. It is all over and done with. I don't want you to ask me ever." + +Durrance did not press for an answer in the slightest degree. + +"Very well," he said cheerily, "I won't ask you. It might hurt you to +answer, and I don't want, of course, to cause you pain." + +"It's not on that account that I wish to say nothing," Ethne explained +earnestly. She paused and chose her words. "It isn't that I am afraid of +any pain. But what took place, took place such a long while ago--I look +upon Mr. Feversham as a man whom one has known well, and who is now +dead." + +They were walking toward the wide gap in the line of trees upon the bank +of the creek, and as Ethne spoke she raised her eyes from the ground. +She saw that the little boat which she had noticed tacking up the creek +while she hesitated upon the terrace had run its nose into the shore. +The sail had been lowered, the little pole mast stuck up above the grass +bank of the garden, and upon the bank itself a man was standing and +staring vaguely towards the house as though not very sure of his ground. + +"A stranger has landed from the creek," she said. "He looks as if he had +lost his way. I will go on and put him right." + +She ran forward as she spoke, seizing upon that stranger's presence as a +means of relief, even if the relief was only to last for a minute. Such +relief might be felt, she imagined, by a witness in a court when the +judge rises for his half-hour at luncheon-time. For the close of an +interview with Durrance left her continually with the sense that she had +just stepped down from a witness-box where she had been subjected to a +cross-examination so deft that she could not quite clearly perceive its +tendency, although from the beginning she suspected it. + +The stranger at the same time advanced to her. He was a man of the +middle size, with a short snub nose, a pair of vacuous protruding brown +eyes, and a moustache of some ferocity. He lifted his hat from his head +and disclosed a round forehead which was going bald. + +"I have sailed down from Kingsbridge," he said, "but I have never been +in this part of the world before. Can you tell me if this house is +called The Pool?" + +"Yes; you will find Mrs. Adair if you go up the steps on to the +terrace," said Ethne. + +"I came to see Miss Eustace." + +Ethne turned back to him with surprise. + +"I am Miss Eustace." + +The stranger contemplated her in silence. + +"So I thought." + +He twirled first one moustache and then the other before he spoke again. + +"I have had some trouble to find you, Miss Eustace. I went all the way +to Glenalla--for nothing. Rather hard on a man whose leave is short!" + +"I am very sorry," said Ethne, with a smile; "but why have you been put +to this trouble?" + +Again the stranger curled a moustache. Again his eyes dwelt vacantly +upon her before he spoke. + +"You have forgotten my name, no doubt, by this time." + +"I do not think that I have ever heard it," she answered. + +"Oh, yes, you have, believe me. You heard it five years ago. I am +Captain Willoughby." + +Ethne drew sharply back; the bright colour paled in her cheeks; her lips +set in a firm line, and her eyes grew very hard. She glowered at him +silently. + +Captain Willoughby was not in the least degree discomposed. He took his +time to speak, and when he did it was rather with the air of a man +forgiving a breach of manners, than of one making his excuses. + +"I can quite understand that you do not welcome me, Miss Eustace, but +none of us could foresee that you would be present when the three white +feathers came into Feversham's hands." + +Ethne swept the explanation aside. + +"How do you know that I was present?" she asked. + +"Feversham told me." + +"You have seen him?" + +The cry leaped loudly from her lips. It was just a throb of the heart +made vocal. It startled Ethne as much as it surprised Captain +Willoughby. She had schooled herself to omit Harry Feversham from her +thoughts, and to obliterate him from her affections, and the cry showed +to her how incompletely she had succeeded. Only a few minutes since she +had spoken of him as one whom she looked upon as dead, and she had +believed that she spoke the truth. + +"You have actually seen him?" she repeated in a wondering voice. She +gazed at her stolid companion with envy. "You have spoken to him? And he +to you? When?" + +"A year ago, at Suakin. Else why should I be here?" + +The question came as a shock to Ethne. She did not guess the correct +answer; she was not, indeed, sufficiently mistress of herself to +speculate upon any answer, but she dreaded it, whatever it might be. + +"Yes," she said slowly, and almost reluctantly. "After all, why are you +here?" + +Willoughby took a letter-case from his breast, opened it with +deliberation, and shook out from one of its pockets into the palm of his +hand a tiny, soiled, white feather. He held it out to Ethne. + +"I have come to give you this." + +Ethne did not take it. In fact, she positively shrank from it. + +"Why?" she asked unsteadily. + +"Three white feathers, three separate accusations of cowardice, were +sent to Feversham by three separate men. This is actually one of those +feathers which were forwarded from his lodgings to Ramelton five years +ago. I am one of the three men who sent them. I have come to tell you +that I withdraw my accusation. I take my feather back." + +"And you bring it to me?" + +"He asked me to." + +Ethne took the feather in her palm, a thing in itself so light and +fragile and yet so momentous as a symbol, and the trees and the garden +began to whirl suddenly about her. She was aware that Captain Willoughby +was speaking, but his voice had grown extraordinarily distant and thin; +so that she was annoyed, since she wished very much to hear all that he +had to say. She felt very cold, even upon that August day of sunlight. +But the presence of Captain Willoughby, one of the three men whom she +never would forgive, helped her to command herself. She would give no +exhibition of weakness before any one of the detested three, and with an +effort she recovered herself when she was on the very point of swooning. + +"Come," she said, "I will hear your story. Your news was rather a shock +to me. Even now I do not quite understand." + +She led the way from that open space to a little plot of grass above the +creek. On three sides thick hedges enclosed it, at the back rose the +tall elms and poplars, in front the water flashed and broke in ripples, +and beyond the water the trees rose again and were overtopped by sloping +meadows. A gap in the hedge made an entrance into this enclosure, and a +garden-seat stood in the centre of the grass. + +"Now," said Ethne, and she motioned to Captain Willoughby to take a seat +at her side. "You will take your time, perhaps. You will forget nothing. +Even his words, if you remember them! I shall thank you for his words." +She held that white feather clenched in her hand. Somehow Harry +Feversham had redeemed his honour, somehow she had been unjust to him; +and she was to learn how. She was in no hurry. She did not even feel one +pang of remorse that she had been unjust. Remorse, no doubt, would come +afterwards. At present the mere knowledge that she had been unjust was +too great a happiness to admit of abatement. She opened her hand and +looked at the feather. And as she looked, memories sternly repressed for +so long, regrets which she had thought stifled quite out of life, +longings which had grown strange, filled all her thoughts. The +Devonshire meadows were about her, the salt of the sea was in the air, +but she was back again in the midst of that one season at Dublin during +a spring five years ago, before the feathers came to Ramelton. + +Willoughby began to tell his story, and almost at once even the memory +of that season vanished. + +Ethne was in the most English of counties, the county of Plymouth and +Dartmouth and Brixham and the Start, where the red cliffs of its +coast-line speak perpetually of dead centuries, so that one cannot put +into any harbour without some thought of the Spanish Main and of the +little barques and pinnaces which adventured manfully out on their long +voyages with the tide. Up this very creek the clink of the +ship-builders' hammers had rung, and the soil upon its banks was +vigorous with the memories of British sailors. But Ethne had no thought +for these associations. The country-side was a shifting mist before her +eyes, which now and then let through a glimpse of that strange wide +country in the East, of which Durrance had so often told her. The only +trees which she saw were the stunted mimosas of the desert; the only sea +the great stretches of yellow sand; the only cliffs the sharp-peaked +pyramidal black rocks rising abruptly from its surface. It was part of +the irony of her position that she was able so much more completely to +appreciate the trials which one lover of hers had undergone through the +confidences which had been made to her by the other. + + + + +CHAPTER XV + +THE STORY OF THE FIRST FEATHER + + +"I will not interrupt you," said Ethne, as Willoughby took his seat +beside her, and he had barely spoken a score of words before she broke +that promise. + +"I am Deputy-Governor of Suakin," he began. "My chief was on leave in +May. You are fortunate enough not to know Suakin, Miss Eustace, +particularly in May. No white woman can live in that town. It has a +sodden intolerable heat peculiar to itself. The air is heavy with brine; +you can't sleep at night for its oppression. Well, I was sitting in the +verandah on the first floor of the palace about ten o'clock at night, +looking out over the harbour and the distillation works, and wondering +whether it was worth while to go to bed at all, when a servant told me +that a man, who refused to give his name, wished particularly to see me. +The man was Feversham. There was only a lamp burning in the verandah, +and the night was dark, so that I did not recognise him until he was +close to me." + +And at once Ethne interrupted. + +"How did he look?" + +Willoughby wrinkled his forehead and opened his eyes wide. + +"Really, I do not know," he said doubtfully. "Much like other men, I +suppose, who have been a year or two in the Soudan, a trifle overtrained +and that sort of thing." + +"Never mind," said Ethne, with a sigh of disappointment. For five years +she had heard no word of Harry Feversham. She fairly hungered for news +of him, for the sound of his habitual phrases, for the description of +his familiar gestures. She had the woman's anxiety for his bodily +health, she wished to know whether he had changed in face or figure, +and, if so, how and in what measure. But she glanced at the obtuse, +unobservant countenance of Captain Willoughby, and she understood that +however much she craved for these particulars, she must go without. + +"I beg your pardon," she said. "Will you go on?" + +"I asked him what he wanted," Willoughby resumed, "and why he had not +sent in his name. 'You would not have seen me if I had,' he replied, and +he drew a packet of letters out of his pocket. Now, those letters, Miss +Eustace, had been written a long while ago by General Gordon in Khartum. +They had been carried down the Nile as far as Berber. But the day after +they reached Berber, that town surrendered to the Mahdists. Abou Fatma, +the messenger who carried them, hid them in the wall of the house of an +Arab called Yusef, who sold rock-salt in the market-place. Abou was then +thrown into prison on suspicion, and escaped to Suakin. The letters +remained hidden in that wall until Feversham recovered them. I looked +over them and saw that they were of no value, and I asked Feversham +bluntly why he, who had not dared to accompany his regiment on active +service, had risked death and torture to get them back." + +Standing upon that verandah, with the quiet pool of water in front of +him, Feversham had told his story quietly and without exaggeration. He +had related how he had fallen in with Abou Fatma at Suakin, how he had +planned the recovery of the letters, how the two men had travelled +together as far as Obak, and since Abou Fatma dared not go farther, how +he himself, driving his grey donkey, had gone on alone to Berber. He had +not even concealed that access of panic which had loosened his joints +when first he saw the low brown walls of the town and the towering date +palms behind on the bank of the Nile; which had set him running and +leaping across the empty desert in the sunlight, a marrowless thing of +fear. He made, however, one omission. He said nothing of the hours which +he had spent crouching upon the hot sand, with his coat drawn over his +head, while he drew a woman's face toward him across the continents and +seas and nerved himself to endure by the look of sorrow which it wore. + +"He went down into Berber at the setting of the sun," said Captain +Willoughby, and it was all that he had to say. It was enough, however, +for Ethne Eustace. She drew a deep breath of relief, her face softened, +there came a light into her grey eyes, and a smile upon her lips. + +"He went down into Berber," she repeated softly. + +"And found that the old town had been destroyed by the orders of the +Emir, and that a new one was building upon its southern confines," +continued Willoughby. "All the landmarks by which Feversham was to know +the house in which the letters were hidden had gone. The roofs had been +torn off, the houses dismantled, the front walls carried away. Narrow +alleys of crumbling fives-courts--that was how Feversham described the +place--crossing this way and that and gaping to the stars. Here and +there perhaps a broken tower rose up, the remnant of a rich man's house. +But of any sign which could tell a man where the hut of Yusef, who had +once sold rock-salt in the market-place, had stood, there was no hope in +those acres of crumbling mud. The foxes had already made their burrows +there." + +The smile faded from Ethne's face, but she looked again at the white +feather lying in her palm, and she laughed with a great contentment. It +was yellow with the desert dust. It was a proof that in this story there +was to be no word of failure. + +"Go on," she said. + +Willoughby related the despatch of the negro with the donkey to Abou +Fatma at the Wells of Obak. + +"Feversham stayed for a fortnight in Berber," Willoughby continued. "A +week during which he came every morning to the well and waited for the +return of his negro from Obak, and a week during which that negro +searched for Yusef, who had once sold rock-salt in the market-place. I +doubt, Miss Eustace, if you can realise, however hard you try, what that +fortnight must have meant to Feversham--the anxiety, the danger, the +continued expectation that a voice would bid him halt and a hand fall +upon his shoulder, the urgent knowledge that if the hand fell, death +would be the least part of his penalty. I imagine the town--a town of +low houses and broad streets of sand, dug here and there into pits for +mud wherewith to build the houses, and overhead the blistering sun and +a hot shadowless sky. In no corner was there any darkness or +concealment. And all day a crowd jostled and shouted up and down these +streets--for that is the Mahdist policy to crowd the towns so that all +may be watched and every other man may be his neighbour's spy. Feversham +dared not seek the shelter of a roof at night, for he dared not trust +his tongue. He could buy his food each day at the booths, but he was +afraid of any conversation. He slept at night in some corner of the old +deserted town, in the acres of the ruined fives-courts. For the same +reason he must not slink in the by-ways by day lest any should question +him about his business; nor listen on the chance of hearing Yusef's name +in the public places lest other loiterers should joke with him and draw +him into their talk. Nor dare he in the daylight prowl about those +crumbled ruins. From sunrise to sunset he must go quickly up and down +the streets of the town like a man bent upon urgent business which +permits of no delay. And that continued for a fortnight, Miss Eustace! A +weary, trying life, don't you think? I wish I could tell you of it as +vividly as he told me that night upon the balcony of the palace at +Suakin." + +Ethne wished it too with all her heart. Harry Feversham had made his +story very real that night to Captain Willoughby; so that even after the +lapse of fifteen months this unimaginative creature was sensible of a +contrast and a deficiency in his manner of narration. + +"In front of us was the quiet harbour and the Red Sea, above us the +African stars. Feversham spoke in the quietest manner possible, but with +a peculiar deliberation and with his eyes fixed upon my face, as though +he was forcing me to feel with him and to understand. Even when he +lighted his cigar he did not avert his eyes. For by this time I had +given him a cigar and offered him a chair. I had really, I assure you, +Miss Eustace. It was the first time in four years that he had sat with +one of his equals, or indeed with any of his countrymen on a footing of +equality. He told me so. I wish I could remember all that he told me." +Willoughby stopped and cudgelled his brains helplessly. He gave up the +effort in the end. + +"Well," he resumed, "after Feversham had skulked for a fortnight in +Berber, the negro discovered Yusef, no longer selling salt, but tending +a small plantation of dhurra on the river's edge. From Yusef, Feversham +obtained particulars enough to guide him to the house where the letters +were concealed in the inner wall. But Yusef was no longer to be trusted. +Possibly Feversham's accent betrayed him. The more likely conjecture is +that Yusef took Feversham for a spy, and thought it wise to be +beforehand and to confess to Mohammed-el-Kheir, the Emir, his own share +in the concealment of the letters. That, however, is a mere conjecture. +The important fact is this. On the same night Feversham went alone to +old Berber." + +"Alone!" said Ethne. "Yes?" + +"He found the house fronting a narrow alley, and the sixth of the row. +The front wall was destroyed, but the two side walls and the back wall +still stood. Three feet from the floor and two feet from the right-hand +corner the letters were hidden in that inner wall. Feversham dug into +the mud bricks with his knife; he made a hole wherein he could slip his +hand. The wall was thick; he dug deep, stopping now and again to feel +for the packet. At last his fingers clasped and drew it out; as he hid +it in a fold of his jibbeh, the light of a lantern shone upon him from +behind." + +Ethne started as though she had been trapped herself. Those acres of +roofless fives-courts, with here and there a tower showing up against +the sky, the lonely alleys, the dead silence here beneath the stars, the +cries and the beating of drums and the glare of lights from the new +town, Harry Feversham alone with the letters, with, in a word, some +portion of his honour redeemed, and finally, the lantern flashing upon +him in that solitary place,--the scene itself and the progress of the +incidents were so visible to Ethne at that moment that even with the +feather in her open palm she could hardly bring herself to believe that +Harry Feversham had escaped. + +"Well, well?" she asked. + +"He was standing with his face to the wall, the light came from the +alley behind him. He did not turn, but out of the corner of his eye he +could see a fold of a white robe hanging motionless. He carefully +secured the package, with a care indeed and a composure which astonished +him even at that moment. The shock had strung him to a concentration and +lucidity of thought unknown to him till then. His fingers were +trembling, he remarked, as he tied the knots, but it was with +excitement, and an excitement which did not flurry. His mind worked +rapidly, but quite coolly, quite deliberately. He came to a perfectly +definite conclusion as to what he must do. Every faculty which he +possessed was extraordinarily clear, and at the same time +extraordinarily still. He had his knife in his hand, he faced about +suddenly and ran. There were two men waiting. Feversham ran at the man +who held the lantern. He was aware of the point of a spear, he ducked +and beat it aside with his left arm, he leaped forward and struck with +his right. The Arab fell at his feet; the lantern was extinguished. +Feversham sprang across the white-robed body and ran eastward, toward +the open desert. But in no panic; he had never been so collected. He was +followed by the second soldier. He had foreseen that he would be +followed. If he was to escape, it was indeed necessary that he should +be. He turned a corner, crouched behind a wall, and as the Arab came +running by he leaped out upon his shoulders. And again as he leaped he +struck." + +Captain Willoughby stopped at this point of his story and turned towards +Ethne. He had something to say which perplexed and at the same time +impressed him, and he spoke with a desire for an explanation. + +"The strangest feature of those few fierce, short minutes," he said, +"was that Feversham felt no fear. I don't understand that, do you? From +the first moment when the lantern shone upon him from behind, to the +last when he turned his feet eastward, and ran through the ruined alleys +and broken walls toward the desert and the Wells of Obak, he felt no +fear." + +This was the most mysterious part of Harry Feversham's story to Captain +Willoughby. Here was a man who so shrank from the possibilities of +battle, that he must actually send in his papers rather than confront +them; yet when he stood in dire and immediate peril he felt no fear. +Captain Willoughby might well turn to Ethne for an explanation. + +There had been no mystery in it to Harry Feversham, but a great +bitterness of spirit. He had sat on the verandah at Suakin, whittling +away at the edge of Captain Willoughby's table with the very knife which +he had used in Berber to dig out the letters, and which had proved so +handy a weapon when the lantern shone out behind him--the one glimmering +point of light in that vast acreage of ruin. Harry Feversham had kept it +carefully uncleansed of blood; he had treasured it all through his +flight across the two hundred and forty odd miles of desert into Suakin; +it was, next to the white feathers, the thing which he held most +precious of his possessions, and not merely because it would serve as a +corroboration of his story to Captain Willoughby, but because the weapon +enabled him to believe and realise it himself. A brown clotted rust +dulled the whole length of the blade, and often during the first two +days and nights of his flight, when he travelled alone, hiding and +running and hiding again, with the dread of pursuit always at his heels, +he had taken the knife from his breast, and stared at it with +incredulous eyes, and clutched it close to him like a thing of comfort. +He had lost his way amongst the sandhills of Obak on the evening of the +second day, and had wandered vainly, with his small store of dates and +water exhausted, until he had stumbled and lay prone, parched and +famished and enfeebled, with the bitter knowledge that Abou Fatma and +the Wells were somewhere within a mile of the spot on which he lay. But +even at that moment of exhaustion the knife had been a talisman and a +help. He grasped the rough wooden handle, all too small for a Western +hand, and he ran his fingers over the rough rust upon the blade, and the +weapon spoke to him and bade him take heart, since once he had been put +to the test and had not failed. But long before he saw the white houses +of Suakin that feeling of elation vanished, and the knife became an +emblem of the vain tortures of his boyhood and the miserable folly which +culminated in his resignation of his commission. He understood now the +words which Lieutenant Sutch had spoken in the grill-room of the +Criterion Restaurant, when citing Hamlet as his example, "The thing +which he saw, which he thought over, which he imagined in the act and in +the consequence--that he shrank from. Yet when the moment of action +comes sharp and immediate, does he fail?" And remembering the words, +Harry Feversham sat one May night, four years afterwards, in Captain +Willoughby's verandah, whittling away at the table with his knife, and +saying over and over again in a bitter savage voice: "It was an +illusion, but an illusion which has caused a great deal of suffering to +a woman I would have shielded from suffering. But I am well paid for it, +for it has wrecked my life besides." + +Captain Willoughby could not understand, any more than General Feversham +could have understood, or than Ethne had. But Willoughby could at all +events remember and repeat, and Ethne had grown by five years of +unhappiness since the night when Harry Feversham, in the little room +off the hall at Lennon House, had told her of his upbringing, of the +loss of his mother, and the impassable gulf between his father and +himself, and of the fear of disgrace which had haunted his nights and +disfigured the world for him by day. + +"Yes, it was an illusion," she cried. "I understand. I might have +understood a long while since, but I would not. When those feathers came +he told me why they were sent, quite simply, with his eyes on mine. When +my father knew of them, he waited quite steadily and faced my father." + +There was other evidence of the like kind not within Ethne's knowledge. +Harry Feversham had journeyed down to Broad Place in Surrey and made his +confession no less unflinchingly to the old general. But Ethne knew +enough. "It was the possibility of cowardice from which he shrank, not +the possibility of hurt," she exclaimed. "If only one had been a little +older, a little less sure about things, a little less narrow! I should +have listened. I should have understood. At all events, I should not, I +think, have been cruel." + +Not for the first time did remorse for that fourth feather which she had +added to the three, seize upon her. She sat now crushed by it into +silence. Captain Willoughby, however, was a stubborn man, unwilling upon +any occasion to admit an error. He saw that Ethne's remorse by +implication condemned himself, and that he was not prepared to suffer. + +"Yes, but these fine distinctions are a little too elusive for practical +purposes," he said. "You can't run the world on fine distinctions; so I +cannot bring myself to believe that we three men were at all to blame, +and if we were not, you of all people can have no reason for +self-reproach." + +Ethne did not consider what he precisely meant by the last reference to +herself. For as he leaned complacently back in his seat, anger against +him flamed suddenly hot in her. Occupied by his story, she had ceased to +take stock of the story-teller. Now that he had ended, she looked him +over from head to foot. An obstinate stupidity was the mark of the man +to her eye. How dare he sit in judgment upon the meanest of his fellows, +let alone Harry Feversham? she asked, and in the same moment recollected +that she herself had endorsed his judgment. Shame tingled through all +her blood; she sat with her lips set, keeping Willoughby under watch +from the corners of her eyes, and waiting to pounce savagely the moment +he opened his lips. There had been noticeable throughout his narrative a +manner of condescension towards Feversham. "Let him use it again!" +thought Ethne. But Captain Willoughby said nothing at all, and Ethne +herself broke the silence. "Who of you three first thought of sending +the feathers?" she asked aggressively. "Not you?" + +"No; I think it was Trench," he replied. + +"Ah, Trench!" Ethne exclaimed. She struck one clenched hand, the hand +which held the feather, viciously into the palm of the other. "I will +remember that name." + +"But I share his responsibility," Willoughby assured her. "I do not +shrink from it at all. I regret very much that we caused you pain and +annoyance, but I do not acknowledge to any mistake in this matter. I +take my feather back now, and I annul my accusation. But that is your +doing." + +"Mine?" asked Ethne. "What do you mean?" + +Captain Willoughby turned with surprise to his companion. + +"A man may live in the Soudan and even yet not be wholly ignorant of +women and their great quality of forgiveness. You gave the feathers back +to Feversham in order that he might redeem his honour. That is evident." + +Ethne sprang to her feet before Captain Willoughby had come to the end +of his sentence, and stood a little in front of him, with her face +averted, and in an attitude remarkably still. Willoughby in his +ignorance, like many another stupid man before him, had struck with a +shrewdness and a vigour which he could never have compassed by the use +of his wits. He had pointed out abruptly and suddenly to Ethne a way +which she might have taken and had not, and her remorse warned her very +clearly that it was the way which she ought to have taken. But she could +rise to the heights. She did not seek to justify herself in her own +eyes, nor would she allow Willoughby to continue in his misconception. +She recognised that here she had failed in charity and justice, and she +was glad that she had failed, since her failure had been the opportunity +of greatness to Harry Feversham. + +"Will you repeat what you said?" she asked in a low voice; "and ever so +slowly, please." + +"You gave the feathers back into Feversham's hand--" + +"He told you that himself?" + +"Yes;" and Willoughby resumed, "in order that he might by his +subsequent bravery compel the men who sent them to take them back, and +so redeem his honour." + +"He did not tell you that?" + +"No. I guessed it. You see, Feversham's disgrace was, on the face of it, +impossible to retrieve. The opportunity might never have occurred--it +was not likely to occur. As things happened, Feversham still waited for +three years in the bazaar at Suakin before it did. No, Miss Eustace, it +needed a woman's faith to conceive that plan--a woman's encouragement to +keep the man who undertook it to his work." + +Ethne laughed and turned back to him. Her face was tender with pride, +and more than tender. Pride seemed in some strange way to hallow her, to +give an unimagined benignance to her eyes, an unearthly brightness to +the smile upon her lips and the colour upon her cheeks. So that +Willoughby, looking at her, was carried out of himself. + +"Yes," he cried, "you were the woman to plan this redemption." + +Ethne laughed again, and very happily. + +"Did he tell you of a fourth white feather?" she asked. + +"No." + +"I shall tell you the truth," she said, as she resumed her seat. "The +plan was of his devising from first to last. Nor did I encourage him to +its execution. For until to-day I never heard a word of it. Since the +night of that dance in Donegal I have had no message from Mr. Feversham, +and no news of him. I told him to take up those three feathers because +they were his, and I wished to show him that I agreed with the +accusations of which they were the symbols. That seems cruel? But I did +more. I snapped a fourth white feather from my fan and gave him that to +carry away too. It is only fair that you should know. I wanted to make +an end for ever and ever, not only of my acquaintanceship with him, but +of every kindly thought he might keep of me, of every kindly thought I +might keep of him. I wanted to be sure myself, and I wanted him to be +sure, that we should always be strangers now and--and afterwards," and +the last words she spoke in a whisper. Captain Willoughby did not +understand what she meant by them. It is possible that only Lieutenant +Sutch and Harry Feversham himself would have understood. + +"I was sad and sorry enough when I had done it," she resumed. "Indeed, +indeed, I think I have always been sorry since. I think that I have +never at any minute during these five years quite forgotten that fourth +white feather and the quiet air of dignity with which he took it. But +to-day I am glad." And her voice, though low, rang rich with the fulness +of her pride. "Oh, very glad! For this was his thought, his deed. They +are both all his, as I would have them be. I had no share, and of that I +am very proud. He needed no woman's faith, no woman's encouragement." + +"Yet he sent this back to you," said Willoughby, pointing in some +perplexity to the feather which Ethne held. + +"Yes," she said, "yes. He knew that I should be glad to know." And +suddenly she held it close to her breast. Thus she sat for a while with +her eyes shining, until Willoughby rose to his feet and pointed to the +gap in the hedge by which they had entered the enclosure. + +"By Jove! Jack Durrance," he exclaimed. + +Durrance was standing in the gap, which was the only means of entering +or going out. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +CAPTAIN WILLOUGHBY RETIRES + + +Ethne had entirely forgotten even Colonel Durrance's existence. From the +moment when Captain Willoughby had put that little soiled feather which +had once been white, and was now yellow, into her hand, she had had no +thought for any one but Harry Feversham. She had carried Willoughby into +that enclosure, and his story had absorbed her and kept her memory on +the rack, as she filled out with this or that recollected detail of +Harry's gestures, or voice, or looks, the deficiencies in her +companion's narrative. She had been swept away from that August garden +of sunlight and coloured flowers; and those five most weary years, +during which she had held her head high and greeted the world with a +smile of courage, were blotted from her experience. How weary they had +been perhaps she never knew, until she raised her head and saw Durrance +at the entrance in the hedge. + +"Hush!" she said to Willoughby, and her face paled and her eyes shut +tight for a moment with a spasm of pain. But she had no time to spare +for any indulgence of her feelings. Her few minutes' talk with Captain +Willoughby had been a holiday, but the holiday was over. She must take +up again the responsibilities with which those five years had charged +her, and at once. If she could not accomplish that hard task of +forgetting--and she now knew very well that she never would accomplish +it--she must do the next best thing, and give no sign that she had not +forgotten. Durrance must continue to believe that she brought more than +friendship into the marriage account. + +He stood at the very entrance to the enclosure; he advanced into it. He +was so quick to guess, it was not wise that he should meet Captain +Willoughby or even know of his coming. Ethne looked about her for an +escape, knowing very well that she would look in vain. The creek was in +front of them, and three walls of high thick hedge girt them in behind +and at the sides. There was but one entrance to this enclosure, and +Durrance himself barred the path to it. + +"Keep still," she said in a whisper. "You know him?" + +"Of course. We were together for three years at Suakin. I heard that he +had gone blind. I am glad to know that it is not true." This he said, +noticing the freedom of Durrance's gait. + +"Speak lower," returned Ethne. "It is true. He _is_ blind." + +"One would never have thought it. Consolations seem so futile. What can +I say to him?" + +"Say nothing!" + +Durrance was still standing just within the enclosure, and, as it +seemed, looking straight towards the two people seated on the bench. + +"Ethne," he said, rather than called; and the quiet unquestioning voice +made the illusion that he saw extraordinarily complete. + +"It's impossible that he is blind," said Willoughby. "He sees us." + +"He sees nothing." + +Again Durrance called "Ethne," but now in a louder voice, and a voice of +doubt. + +"Do you hear? He is not sure," whispered Ethne. "Keep very still." + +"Why?" + +"He must not know you are here," and lest Willoughby should move, she +caught his arm tight in her hand. Willoughby did not pursue his +inquiries. Ethne's manner constrained him to silence. She sat very +still, still as she wished him to sit, and in a queer huddled attitude; +she was even holding her breath; she was staring at Durrance with a +great fear in her eyes; her face was strained forward, and not a muscle +of it moved, so that Willoughby, as he looked at her, was conscious of a +certain excitement, which grew on him for no reason but her remarkable +apprehension. He began unaccountably himself to fear lest he and she +should be discovered. + +"He is coming towards us," he whispered. + +"Not a word, not a movement." + +"Ethne," Durrance cried again. He advanced farther into the enclosure +and towards the seat. Ethne and Captain Willoughby sat rigid, watching +him with their eyes. He passed in front of the bench, and stopped +actually facing them. Surely, thought Willoughby, he sees. His eyes were +upon them; he stood easily, as though he were about to speak. Even +Ethne, though she very well knew that he did not see, began to doubt her +knowledge. + +"Ethne!" he said again, and this time in the quiet voice which he had +first used. But since again no answer came, he shrugged his shoulders +and turned towards the creek. His back was towards them now, but Ethne's +experience had taught her to appreciate almost indefinable signs in his +bearing, since nowadays his face showed her so little. Something in his +attitude, in the poise of his head, even in the carelessness with which +he swung his stick, told her that he was listening, and listening with +all his might. Her grasp tightened on Willoughby's arm. Thus they +remained for the space of a minute, and then Durrance turned suddenly +and took a quick step towards the seat. Ethne, however, by this time +knew the man and his ingenuities; she was prepared for some such +unexpected movement. She did not stir, there was not audible the merest +rustle of her skirt, and her grip still constrained Willoughby. + +"I wonder where in the world she can be," said Durrance to himself +aloud, and he walked back and out of the enclosure. Ethne did not free +Captain Willoughby's arm until Durrance had disappeared from sight. + +"That was a close shave," Willoughby said, when at last he was allowed +to speak. "Suppose that Durrance had sat down on the top of us?" + +"Why suppose, since he did not?" Ethne asked calmly. "You have told me +everything?" + +"So far as I remember." + +"And all that you have told me happened in the spring?" + +"The spring of last year," said Willoughby. + +"Yes. I want to ask you a question. Why did you not bring this feather +to me last summer?" + +"Last year my leave was short. I spent it in the hills north of Suakin +after ibex." + +"I see," said Ethne, quietly; "I hope you had good sport." + +"It wasn't bad." + +Last summer Ethne had been free. If Willoughby had come home with his +good news instead of shooting ibex on Jebel Araft, it would have made +all the difference in her life, and the cry was loud at her heart, "Why +didn't you come?" But outwardly she gave no sign of the irreparable harm +which Willoughby's delay had brought about. She had the self-command of +a woman who has been sorely tried, and she spoke so unconcernedly that +Willoughby believed her questions prompted by the merest curiosity. + +"You might have written," she suggested. + +"Feversham did not suggest that there was any hurry. It would have been +a long and difficult matter to explain in a letter. He asked me to go to +you when I had an opportunity, and I had no opportunity before. To tell +the truth, I thought it very likely that I might find Feversham had come +back before me." + +"Oh, no," returned Ethne, "there could be no possibility of that. The +other two feathers still remain to be redeemed before he will ask me to +take back mine." + +Willoughby shook his head. "Feversham can never persuade Castleton and +Trench to cancel their accusations as he persuaded me." + +"Why not?" + +"Major Castleton was killed when the square was broken at Tamai." + +"Killed?" cried Ethne, and she laughed in a short and satisfied way. +Willoughby turned and stared at her, disbelieving the evidence of his +ears. But her face showed him quite clearly that she was thoroughly +pleased. Ethne was a Celt, and she had the Celtic feeling that death was +not a very important matter. She could hate, too, and she could be hard +as iron to the men she hated. And these three men she hated exceedingly. +It was true that she had agreed with them, that she had given a feather, +the fourth feather, to Harry Feversham just to show that she agreed, but +she did not trouble her head about that. She was very glad to hear that +Major Castleton was out of the world and done with. + +"And Colonel Trench too?" she said. + +"No," Willoughby answered. "You are disappointed? But he is even worse +off than that. He was captured when engaged on a reconnaissance. He is +now a prisoner in Omdurman." + +"Ah!" said Ethne. + +"I don't think you can have any idea," said Willoughby, severely, "of +what captivity in Omdurman implies. If you had, however much you +disliked the captive, you would feel some pity." + +"Not I," said Ethne, stubbornly. + +"I will tell you something of what it does imply." + +"No. I don't wish to hear of Colonel Trench. Besides, you must go. I +want you to tell me one thing first," said she, as she rose from her +seat. "What became of Mr. Feversham after he had given you that +feather?" + +"I told him that he had done everything which could be reasonably +expected; and he accepted my advice. For he went on board the first +steamer which touched at Suakin on its way to Suez and so left the +Soudan." + +"I must find out where he is. He must come, back. Did he need money?" + +"No. He still drew his allowance from his father. He told me that he had +more than enough." + +"I am glad of that," said Ethne, and she bade Willoughby wait within the +enclosure until she returned, and went out by herself to see that the +way was clear. The garden was quite empty. Durrance had disappeared from +it, and the great stone terrace of the house and the house itself, with +its striped sunblinds, looked a place of sleep. It was getting towards +one o'clock, and the very birds were quiet amongst the trees. Indeed the +quietude of the garden struck upon Ethne's senses as something almost +strange. Only the bees hummed drowsily about the flowerbeds, and the +voice of a lad was heard calling from the slopes of meadow on the far +side of the creek. She returned to Captain Willoughby. + +"You can go now," she said. "I cannot pretend friendship for you, +Captain Willoughby, but it was kind of you to find me out and tell me +your story. You are going back at once to Kingsbridge? I hope so. For I +do not wish Colonel Durrance to know of your visit or anything of what +you have told me." + +"Durrance was a friend of Feversham's--his great friend," Willoughby +objected. + +"He is quite unaware that any feathers were sent to Mr. Feversham, so +there is no need he should be informed that one of them has been taken +back," Ethne answered. "He does not know why my engagement to Mr. +Feversham was broken off. I do not wish him to know. Your story would +enlighten him, and he must not be enlightened." + +"Why?" asked Willoughby. He was obstinate by nature, and he meant to +have the reason for silence before he promised to keep it. Ethne gave it +to him at once very simply. + +"I am engaged to Colonel Durrance," she said. It was her fear that +Durrance already suspected that no stronger feeling than friendship +attached her to him. If once he heard that the fault which broke her +engagement to Harry Feversham had been most bravely atoned, there could +be no doubt as to the course which he would insist upon pursuing. He +would strip himself of her, the one thing left to him, and that she was +stubbornly determined he should not do. She was bound to him in honour, +and it would be a poor way of manifesting her joy that Harry Feversham +had redeemed his honour if she straightway sacrificed her own. + +Captain Willoughby pursed up his lips and whistled. + +"Engaged to Jack Durrance!" he exclaimed. "Then I seem to have wasted my +time in bringing you that feather," and he pointed towards it. She was +holding it in her open hand, and she drew her hand sharply away, as +though she feared for a moment that he meant to rob her of it. + +"I am most grateful for it," she returned. + +"It's a bit of a muddle, isn't it?" Willoughby remarked. "It seems a +little rough on Feversham perhaps. It's a little rough on Jack Durrance, +too, when you come to think of it." Then he looked at Ethne. He noticed +her careful handling of the feather; he remembered something of the +glowing look with which she had listened to his story, something of the +eager tones in which she had put her questions; and he added, "I +shouldn't wonder if it was rather rough on you too, Miss Eustace." + +Ethne did not answer him, and they walked together out of the enclosure +towards the spot where Willoughby had moored his boat. She hurried him +down the bank to the water's edge, intent that he should sail away +unperceived. + +But Ethne had counted without Mrs. Adair, who all that morning had seen +much in Ethne's movements to interest her. From the drawing-room window +she had watched Ethne and Durrance meet at the foot of the +terrace-steps, she had seen them walk together towards the estuary, she +had noticed Willoughby's boat as it ran aground in the wide gap between +the trees, she had seen a man disembark, and Ethne go forward to meet +him. Mrs. Adair was not the woman to leave her post of observation at +such a moment, and from the cover of the curtains she continued to watch +with all the curiosity of a woman in a village who draws down the blind, +that unobserved she may get a better peep at the stranger passing down +the street. Ethne and the man from the boat turned away and disappeared +amongst the trees, leaving Durrance forgotten and alone. Mrs. Adair +thought at once of that enclosure at the water's edge. The conversation +lasted for some while, and since the couple did not promptly reappear, a +question flashed into her mind. "Could the stranger be Harry Feversham?" +Ethne had no friends in this part of the world. The question pressed +upon Mrs. Adair. She longed for an answer, and of course for that +particular answer which would convict Ethne Eustace of duplicity. Her +interest grew into an excitement when she saw Durrance, tired of +waiting, follow upon Ethne's steps. But what came after was to interest +her still more. + +Durrance reappeared, to her surprise alone, and came straight to the +house, up the terrace, into the drawing-room. + +"Have you seen Ethne?" he asked. + +"Is she not in the little garden by the water?" Mrs. Adair asked. + +"No. I went into it and called to her. It was empty." + +"Indeed?" said Mrs. Adair. "Then I don't know where she is. Are you +going?" + +"Yes, home." + +Mrs. Adair made no effort to detain him at that moment. + +"Perhaps you will come in and dine to-night. Eight o'clock." + +"Thanks, very much. I shall be pleased," said Durrance, but he did not +immediately go. He stood by the window idly swinging to and fro the +tassel of the blind. + +"I did not know until to-day that it was your plan that I should come +home and Ethne stay with you until I found out whether a cure was likely +or possible. It was very kind of you, Mrs. Adair, and I am grateful." + +"It was a natural plan to propose as soon as I heard of your ill-luck." + +"And when was that?" he asked unconcernedly. "The day after Calder's +telegram reached her from Wadi Halfa, I suppose." + +Mrs. Adair was not deceived by his attitude of carelessness. She +realised that his expression of gratitude had deliberately led up to +this question. + +"Oh, so you knew of that telegram," she said. "I thought you did not." +For Ethne had asked her not to mention it on the very day when Durrance +returned to England. + +"Of course I knew of it," he returned, and without waiting any longer +for an answer he went out on to the terrace. + +Mrs. Adair dismissed for the moment the mystery of the telegram. She was +occupied by her conjecture that in the little garden by the water's edge +Durrance had stood and called aloud for Ethne, while within twelve yards +of him, perhaps actually within his reach, she and some one else had +kept very still and had given no answer. Her conjecture was soon proved +true. She saw Ethne and her companion come out again on to the open +lawn. Was it Feversham? She must have an answer to that question. She +saw them descend the bank towards the boat, and, stepping from her +window, ran. + +Thus it happened that as Willoughby rose from loosening the painter, he +saw Mrs. Adair's disappointed eyes gazing into his. Mrs. Adair called to +Ethne, who stood by Captain Willoughby, and came down the bank to them. + +"I noticed you cross the lawn from the drawing-room window," she said. + +"Yes?" answered Ethne, and she said no more. Mrs. Adair, however, did +not move away, and an awkward pause followed. Ethne was forced to give +in. + +"I was talking to Captain Willoughby," and she turned to him. "You do +not know Mrs. Adair, I think?" + +"No," he replied, as he raised his hat. "But I know Mrs. Adair very well +by name. I know friends of yours, Mrs. Adair--Durrance, for instance; +and of course I knew--" + +A glance from Ethne brought him abruptly to a stop. He began vigorously +to push the nose of his boat from the sand. + +"Of course, what?" asked Mrs. Adair, with a smile. + +"Of course I knew of you, Mrs. Adair." + +Mrs. Adair was quite clear that this was not what Willoughby had been on +the point of saying when Ethne turned her eyes quietly upon him and cut +him short. He was on the point of adding another name. "Captain +Willoughby," she repeated to herself. Then she said:-- + +"You belong to Colonel Durrance's regiment, perhaps?" + +"No, I belong to the North Surrey," he answered. + +"Ah! Mr. Feversham's old regiment," said Mrs. Adair, pleasantly. Captain +Willoughby had fallen into her little trap with a guilelessness which +provoked in her a desire for a closer acquaintanceship. Whatever +Willoughby knew it would be easy to extract. Ethne, however, had +disconcerting ways which at times left Mrs. Adair at a loss. She looked +now straight into Mrs. Adair's eyes and said calmly:-- + +"Captain Willoughby and I have been talking of Mr. Feversham." At the +same time she held out her hand to the captain. "Good-bye," she said. + +Mrs. Adair hastily interrupted. + +"Colonel Durrance has gone home, but he dines with us to-night. I came +out to tell you that, but I am glad that I came, for it gives me the +opportunity to ask your friend to lunch with us if he will." + +Captain Willoughby, who already had one leg over the bows of his boat, +withdrew it with alacrity. + +"It's awfully good of you, Mrs. Adair," he began. + +"It is very kind indeed," Ethne continued, "but Captain Willoughby has +reminded me that his leave is very short, and we have no right to detain +him. Good-bye." + +Captain Willoughby gazed with a vain appeal upon Miss Eustace. He had +travelled all night from London, he had made the scantiest breakfast at +Kingsbridge, and the notion of lunch appealed to him particularly at +that moment. But her eyes rested on his with a quiet and inexorable +command. He bowed, got ruefully into his boat, and pushed off from the +shore. + +"It's a little bit rough on me too, perhaps, Miss Eustace," he said. +Ethne laughed, and returned to the terrace with Mrs. Adair. Once or +twice she opened the palm of her hand and disclosed to her companion's +view a small white feather, at which she laughed again, and with a clear +and rather low laugh. But she gave no explanation of Captain +Willoughby's errand. Had she been in Mrs. Adair's place she would not +have expected one. It was her business and only hers. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +THE MUSOLINE OVERTURE + + +Mrs. Adair, on her side, asked for no explanations. She was naturally, +behind her pale and placid countenance, a woman of a tortuous and +intriguing mind. She preferred to look through a keyhole even when she +could walk straight in at the door; and knowledge which could be gained +by a little maneuvering was always more desirable and precious in her +eyes than any information which a simple question would elicit. She +avoided, indeed, the direct question on a perverted sort of principle, +and she thought a day very well spent if at the close of it she had +outwitted a companion into telling her spontaneously some trivial and +unimportant piece of news which a straightforward request would have at +once secured for her at breakfast-time. + +Therefore, though she was mystified by the little white feather upon +which Ethne seemed to set so much store, and wondered at the good news +of Harry Feversham which Captain Willoughby had brought, and vainly +puzzled her brains in conjecture as to what in the world could have +happened on that night at Ramelton so many years ago, she betrayed +nothing whatever of her perplexity all through lunch; on the contrary, +she plied her guest with conversation upon indifferent topics. Mrs. +Adair could be good company when she chose, and she chose now. But it +was not to any purpose. + +"I don't believe that you hear a single word I am saying!" she +exclaimed. + +Ethne laughed and pleaded guilty. She betook herself to her room as soon +as lunch was finished, and allowed herself an afternoon of solitude. +Sitting at her window, she repeated slowly the story which Willoughby +had told to her that morning, and her heart thrilled to it as to music +divinely played. The regret that he had not come home and told it a year +ago, when she was free, was a small thing in comparison with the story +itself. It could not outweigh the great gladness which that brought to +her--it had, indeed, completely vanished from her thoughts. Her pride, +which had never recovered from the blow which Harry Feversham had dealt +to her in the hall at Lennon House, was now quite restored, and by the +man who had dealt the blow. She was aglow with it, and most grateful to +Harry Feversham for that he had, at so much peril to himself, restored +it. She was conscious of a new exhilaration in the sunlight, of a +quicker pulsation in her blood. Her youth was given back to her upon +that August afternoon. + +Ethne unlocked a drawer in her dressing-case, and took from it the +portrait which alone of all Harry Feversham's presents she had kept. She +rejoiced that she had kept it. It was the portrait of some one who was +dead to her--that she knew very well, for there was no thought of +disloyalty toward Durrance in her breast--but the some one was a friend. +She looked at it with a great happiness and contentment, because Harry +Feversham had needed no expression of faith from her to inspire him, +and no encouragement from her to keep him through the years on the level +of his high inspiration. When she put it back again, she laid the white +feather in the drawer with it and locked the two things up together. + +She came back to her window. Out upon the lawn a light breeze made the +shadows from the high trees dance, the sunlight mellowed and reddened. +But Ethne was of her county, as Harry Feversham had long ago discovered, +and her heart yearned for it at this moment. It was the month of August. +The first of the heather would be out upon the hillsides of Donegal, and +she wished that the good news had been brought to her there. The regret +that it had not was her crumpled rose-leaf. Here she was in a strange +land; there the brown mountains, with their outcroppings of granite and +the voices of the streams, would have shared, she almost thought, in her +new happiness. Great sorrows or great joys had this in common for Ethne +Eustace, they both drew her homewards, since there endurance was more +easy and gladness more complete. + +She had, however, one living tie with Donegal at her side, for Dermod's +old collie dog had become her inseparable companion. To him she made her +confidence, and if at times her voice broke in tears, why, the dog would +not tell. She came to understand much which Willoughby had omitted, and +which Feversham had never told. Those three years of concealment in the +small and crowded city of Suakin, for instance, with the troops marching +out to battle, and returning dust-strewn and bleeding and laurelled with +victory. Harry Feversham had to slink away at their approach, lest some +old friend of his--Durrance, perhaps, or Willoughby, or Trench--should +notice him and penetrate his disguise. The panic which had beset him +when first he saw the dark brown walls of Berber, the night in the +ruined acres, the stumbling search for the well amongst the shifting +sandhills of Obak,--Ethne had vivid pictures of these incidents, and as +she thought of each she asked herself: "Where was I then? What was I +doing?" + +She sat in a golden mist until the lights began to change upon the still +water of the creek, and the rooks wheeled noisily out from the tree-tops +to sort themselves for the night, and warned her of evening. + +She brought to the dinner-table that night a buoyancy of spirit which +surprised her companions. Mrs. Adair had to admit that seldom had her +eyes shone so starrily, or the colour so freshly graced her cheeks. She +was more than ever certain that Captain Willoughby had brought stirring +news; she was more than ever tortured by her vain efforts to guess its +nature. But Mrs. Adair, in spite of her perplexities, took her share in +the talk, and that dinner passed with a freedom from embarrassment +unknown since Durrance had come home to Guessens. For he, too, threw off +a burden of restraint; his spirits rose to match Ethne's; he answered +laugh with laugh, and from his face that habitual look of tension, the +look of a man listening with all his might that his ears might make good +the loss of his eyes, passed altogether away. + +"You will play on your violin to-night, I think," he said with a smile, +as they rose from the table. + +"Yes," she answered, "I will--with all my heart." + +Durrance laughed and held open the door. The violin had remained locked +in its case during these last two months. Durrance had come to look upon +that violin as a gauge and test. If the world was going well with Ethne, +the case was unlocked, the instrument was allowed to speak; if the world +went ill, it was kept silent lest it should say too much, and open old +wounds and lay them bare to other eyes. Ethne herself knew it for an +indiscreet friend. But it was to be brought out to-night. + +Mrs. Adair lingered until Ethne was out of ear-shot. + +"You have noticed the change in her to-night?" she said. + +"Yes. Have I not?" answered Durrance. "One has waited for it, hoped for +it, despaired of it." + +"Are you so glad of the change?" + +Durrance threw back his head. "Do you wonder that I am glad? Kind, +friendly, unselfish--these things she has always been. But there is more +than friendliness evident to-night, and for the first time it's +evident." + +There came a look of pity upon Mrs. Adair's face, and she passed out of +the room without another word. Durrance took all of that great change in +Ethne to himself. Mrs. Adair drew up the blinds of the drawing-room, +opened the window, and let the moonlight in; and then, as she saw Ethne +unlocking the case of her violin, she went out on to the terrace. She +felt that she could not sit patiently in her company. So that when +Durrance entered the drawing-room he found Ethne alone there. She was +seated in the window, and already tightening the strings of her violin. +Durrance took a chair behind her in the shadows. + +"What shall I play to you?" she asked. + +"The Musoline Overture," he answered. "You played it on the first +evening when I came to Ramelton. I remember so well how you played it +then. Play it again to-night. I want to compare." + +"I have played it since." + +"Never to me." + +They were alone in the room; the windows stood open; it was a night of +moonlight. Ethne suddenly crossed to the lamp and put it out. She +resumed her seat, while Durrance remained in the shadow, leaning +forward, with his hands upon his knees, listening--but with an +intentness of which he had given no sign that evening. He was applying, +as he thought, a final test upon which his life and hers should be +decided. Ethne's violin would tell him assuredly whether he was right or +no. Would friendship speak from it or the something more than +friendship? + +Ethne played the overture, and as she played she forgot that Durrance +was in the room behind her. In the garden the air was still and +summer-warm and fragrant; on the creek the moonlight lay like a solid +floor of silver; the trees stood dreaming to the stars; and as the music +floated loud out across the silent lawn, Ethne had a sudden fancy that +it might perhaps travel down the creek and over Salcombe Bar and across +the moonlit seas, and strike small yet wonderfully clear like fairy +music upon the ears of a man sleeping somewhere far away beneath the +brightness of the southern stars with the cool night wind of the desert +blowing upon his face. + +"If he could only hear!" she thought. "If he could only wake and know +that what he heard was a message of friendship!" + +And with this fancy in her mind she played with such skill as she had +never used before; she made of her violin a voice of sympathy. The fancy +grew and changed as she played. The music became a bridge swung in +mid-air across the world, upon which just for these few minutes she and +Harry Feversham might meet and shake hands. They would separate, of +course, forthwith, and each one go upon the allotted way. But these few +minutes would be a help to both along the separate ways. The chords rang +upon silence. It seemed to Ethne that they declaimed the pride which had +come to her that day. Her fancy grew into a belief. It was no longer "If +he should hear," but "He _must_ hear!" And so carried away was she from +the discretion of thought that a strange hope suddenly sprang up and +enthralled her. + +"If he could answer!" + +She lingered upon the last bars, waiting for the answer; and when the +music had died down to silence, she sat with her violin upon her knees, +looking eagerly out across the moonlit garden. + +And an answer did come, but it was not carried up the creek and across +the lawn. It came from the dark shadows of the room behind her, and it +was spoken through the voice of Durrance. + +"Ethne, where do you think I heard that overture last played?" + +Ethne was roused with a start to the consciousness that Durrance was in +the room, and she answered like one shaken suddenly out of sleep. + +"Why, you told me. At Ramelton, when you first came to Lennon House." + +"I have heard it since, though it was not played by you. It was not +really played at all. But a melody of it and not even that really, but a +suggestion of a melody, I heard stumbled out upon a zither, with many +false notes, by a Greek in a bare little whitewashed cafe, lit by one +glaring lamp, at Wadi Halfa." + +"This overture?" she said. "How strange!" + +"Not so strange after all. For the Greek was Harry Feversham." + +So the answer had come. Ethne had no doubt that it was an answer. She +sat very still in the moonlight; only had any one bent over her with +eyes to see, he would have discovered that her eyelids were closed. +There followed a long silence. She did not consider why Durrance, having +kept this knowledge secret so long, should speak of it now. She did not +ask what Harry Feversham was doing that he must play the zither in a +mean cafe at Wadi Halfa. But it seemed to her that he had spoken to her +as she to him. The music had, after all, been a bridge. It was not even +strange that he had used Durrance's voice wherewith to speak to her. + +"When was this?" she asked at length. + +"In February of this year. I will tell you about it." + +"Yes, please, tell me." + +And Durrance spoke out of the shadows of the room. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +THE ANSWER TO THE OVERTURE + + +Ethne did not turn towards Durrance or move at all from her attitude. +She sat with her violin upon her knees, looking across the moonlit +garden to the band of silver in the gap of the trees; and she kept her +position deliberately. For it helped her to believe that Harry Feversham +himself was speaking to her, she was able to forget that he was speaking +through the voice of Durrance. She almost forgot that Durrance was even +in the room. She listened with Durrance's own intentness, and anxious +that the voice should speak very slowly, so that the message might take +a long time in the telling, and she gather it all jealously to her +heart. + +"It was on the night before I started eastward into the desert--for the +last time," said Durrance, and the deep longing and regret with which he +dwelt upon that "last time" for once left Ethne quite untouched. + +"Yes," she said. "That was in February. The middle of the month, wasn't +it? Do you remember the day? I should like to know the exact day if you +can tell me." + +"The fifteenth," said Durrance; and Ethne repeated the date +meditatively. + +"I was at Glenalla all February," she said. "What was I doing on the +fifteenth? It does not matter." + +She had felt a queer sort of surprise all the time while Willoughby was +telling his story that morning, that she had not known, by some +instinct, of these incidents at the actual moment of their occurrence. +The surprise returned to her now. It was strange that she should have +had to wait for this August night and this summer garden of moonlight +and closed flowers before she learned of the meeting between Feversham +and Durrance on February 15 and heard the message. And remorse came to +her because of that delay. "It was my own fault," she said to herself. +"If I had kept my faith in him I should have known at once. I am well +punished." It did not at all occur to her that the message could convey +any but the best of news. It would carry on the good tidings which she +had already heard. It would enlarge and complete, so that this day might +be rounded to perfection. Of this she was quite sure. + +"Well?" she said. "Go on!" + +"I had been busy all that day in my office finishing up my work. I +turned the key in the door at ten o'clock, thinking with relief that for +six weeks I should not open it, and I strolled northward out of Wadi +Halfa along the Nile bank into the little town of Tewfikieh. As I +entered the main street I saw a small crowd--Arabs, negroes, a Greek or +two, and some Egyptian soldiers, standing outside the cafe, and lit up +by a glare of light from within. As I came nearer I heard the sound of a +violin and a zither, both most vilely played, jingling out a waltz. I +stood at the back of the crowd and looked over the shoulders of the men +in front of me into the room. It was a place of four bare whitewashed +walls; a bar stood in one corner, a wooden bench or two were ranged +against the walls, and a single unshaded paraffin lamp swung and glared +from the ceiling. A troupe of itinerant musicians were playing to that +crowd of negroes and Arabs and Egyptians for a night's lodging and the +price of a meal. There were four of them, and, so far as I could see, +all four were Greeks. Two were evidently man and wife. They were both +old, both slatternly and almost in rags; the man a thin, sallow-faced +fellow, with grey hair and a black moustache; the woman fat, coarse of +face, unwieldy of body. Of the other two, one it seemed must be their +daughter, a girl of seventeen, not good-looking really, but dressed and +turned out with a scrupulous care, which in those sordid and mean +surroundings lent her good looks. The care, indeed, with which she was +dressed assured me she was their daughter, and to tell the truth, I was +rather touched by the thought that the father and mother would go in +rags so that she at all costs might be trim. A clean ribbon bound back +her hair, an untorn frock of some white stuff clothed her tidily; even +her shoes were neat. The fourth was a young man; he was seated in the +window, with his back towards me, bending over his zither. But I could +see that he wore a beard. When I came up the old man was playing the +violin, though playing is not indeed the word. The noise he made was +more like the squeaking of a pencil on a slate; it set one's teeth on +edge; the violin itself seemed to squeal with pain. And while he +fiddled, and the young man hammered at his zither, the old woman and +girl slowly revolved in a waltz. It may sound comic to hear about, but +if you could have seen! ... It fairly plucked at one's heart. I do not +think that I have ever in my life witnessed anything quite so sad. The +little crowd outside, negroes, mind you, laughing at the troupe, passing +from one to the other any sort of low jest at their expense, and inside +the four white people--the old woman, clumsy, heavy-footed, shining with +heat, lumbering round slowly, panting with her exertions; the girl, +lissom and young; the two men with their discordant, torturing music; +and just above you the great planets and stars of an African sky, and +just about you the great silent and spacious dignity of the moonlit +desert. Imagine it! The very ineptness of the entertainment actually +hurt one." + +He paused for a moment, while Ethne pictured to herself the scene which +he had described. She saw Harry Feversham bending over his zither, and +at once she asked herself, "What was he doing with that troupe?" It was +intelligible enough that he would not care to return to England. It was +certain that he would not come back to her, unless she sent for him. And +she knew from what Captain Willoughby had said that he expected no +message from her. He had not left with Willoughby the name of any place +where a letter could reach him. But what was he doing at Wadi Halfa, +masquerading with this itinerant troupe? He had money; so much +Willoughby had told her. + +"You spoke to him?" she asked suddenly. + +"To whom? Oh, to Harry?" returned Durrance. "Yes, afterwards, when I +found out it was he who was playing the zither." + +"Yes, how did you find out?" Ethne asked. + +"The waltz came to an end. The old woman sank exhausted upon the bench +against the whitewashed wall; the young man raised his head from his +zither; the old man scraped a new chord upon his violin, and the girl +stood forward to sing. Her voice had youth and freshness, but no other +quality of music. Her singing was as inept as the rest of the +entertainment. Yet the old man smiled, the mother beat time with her +heavy foot, and nodded at her husband with pride in their daughter's +accomplishment. And again in the throng the ill-conditioned talk, the +untranslatable jests of the Arabs and the negroes went their round. It +was horrible, don't you think?" + +"Yes," answered Ethne, but slowly, in an absent voice. As she had felt +no sympathy for Durrance when he began to speak, so she had none to +spare for these three outcasts of fortune. She was too absorbed in the +mystery of Harry Feversham's presence at Wadi Halfa. She was listening +too closely for the message which he sent to her. Through the open +window the moon threw a broad panel of silver light upon the floor of +the room close to her feet. She sat gazing into it as she listened, as +though it was itself a window through which, if she looked but hard +enough, she might see, very small and far away, that lighted cafe +blazing upon the street of the little town of Tewfikieh on the frontier +of the Soudan. + +"Well?" she asked. "And after the song was ended?" + +"The young man with his back towards me," Durrance resumed, "began to +fumble out a solo upon the zither. He struck so many false notes, no +tune was to be apprehended at the first. The laughter and noise grew +amongst the crowd, and I was just turning away, rather sick at heart, +when some notes, a succession of notes played correctly by chance, +suddenly arrested me. I listened again, and a sort of haunting melody +began to emerge--a weak thin thing with no soul in it, a ghost of a +melody, and yet familiar. I stood listening in the street of sand, +between the hovels fringed by a row of stunted trees, and I was carried +away out of the East to Ramelton and to a summer night beneath a melting +sky of Donegal, when you sat by the open window as you sit now and +played the Musoline Overture, which you have played again to-night." + +"It was a melody from this overture?" she exclaimed. + +"Yes, and it was Harry Feversham who played the melody. I did not guess +it at once. I was not very quick in those days." + +"But you are now," said Ethne. + +"Quicker, at all events. I should have guessed it now. Then, however, I +was only curious. I wondered how it was that an itinerant Greek came to +pick up the tune. At all events, I determined to reward him for his +diligence. I thought that you would like me to." + +"Yes," said Ethne, in a whisper. + +"So, when he came out from the cafe, and with his hat in his hand passed +through the jeering crowd, I threw a sovereign into the hat. He turned +to me with a start of surprise. In spite of his beard I knew him. +Besides, before he could check himself, he cried out 'Jack!'" + +"You can have made no mistake, then," said Ethne, in a wondering voice. +"No, the man who strummed upon the zither was--" the Christian name was +upon her lips, but she had the wit to catch it back unuttered--"was Mr. +Feversham. But he knew no music I remember very well." She laughed with +a momentary recollection of Feversham's utter inability to appreciate +any music except that which she herself evoked from her violin. "He had +no ear. You couldn't invent a discord harsh enough even to attract his +attention. He could never have remembered any melody from the Musoline +Overture." + +"Yet it was Harry Feversham," he answered. "Somehow he had remembered. I +can understand it. He would have so little he cared to remember, and +that little he would have striven with all his might to bring clearly +back to mind. Somehow, too, by much practice, I suppose, he had managed +to elicit from his zither some sort of resemblance to what he +remembered. Can't you imagine him working the scrap of music out in his +brain, humming it over, whistling it uncounted times with perpetual +errors and confusions, until some fine day he got it safe and sure and +fixed it in his thoughts? I can. Can't you imagine him, then, picking it +out sedulously and laboriously on the strings? I can. Indeed, I can." + +Thus Ethne got her answer, and Durrance interpreted it to her +understanding. She sat silent and very deeply moved by the story he had +told to her. It was fitting that this overture, her favourite piece of +music, should convey the message that he had not forgotten her, that in +spite of the fourth white feather he thought of her with friendship. +Harry Feversham had not striven so laboriously to learn that melody in +vain. Ethne was stirred as she had thought nothing would ever again have +the power to stir her. She wondered whether Harry, as he sat in the +little bare whitewashed cafe, and strummed out his music to the negroes +and Greeks and Arabs gathered about the window, had dreamed, as she had +done to-night, that somehow, thin and feeble as it was, some echo of the +melody might reach across the world. She knew now for very certain that, +however much she might in the future pretend to forget Harry Feversham, +it would never be more than a pretence. The vision of the lighted cafe +in the desert town would never be very far from her thoughts, but she +had no intention of relaxing on that account from her determination to +pretend to forget. The mere knowledge that she had at one time been +unjustly harsh to Harry, made her yet more resolved that Durrance should +not suffer for any fault of hers. + +"I told you last year, Ethne, at Hill Street," Durrance resumed, "that I +never wished to see Feversham again. I was wrong. The reluctance was all +on his side and not at all on mine. For the moment that he realised he +had called out my name he tried to edge backward from me into the crowd, +he began to gabble Greek, but I caught him by the arm, and I would not +let him go. He had done you some great wrong. That I know; that I knew. +But I could not remember it then. I only remembered that years before +Harry Feversham had been my friend, my one great friend; that we had +rowed in the same college boat at Oxford, he at stroke, I at seven; +that the stripes on his jersey during three successive eights had made +my eyes dizzy during those last hundred yards of spurt past the barges. +We had bathed together in Sandford Lasher on summer afternoons. We had +had supper on Kennington Island; we had cut lectures and paddled up the +Cher to Islip. And here he was at Wadi Halfa, herding with that troupe, +an outcast, sunk to such a depth of ill-fortune that he must come to +that squalid little town and play the zither vilely before a crowd of +natives and a few Greek clerks for his night's lodging and the price of +a meal." + +"No," Ethne interrupted suddenly. "It was not for that reason that he +went to Wadi Halfa." + +"Why, then?" asked Durrance. + +"I cannot think. But he was not in any need of money. His father had +continued his allowance, and he had accepted it." + +"You are sure?" + +"Quite sure. I heard it only to-day," said Ethne. + +It was a slip, but Ethne for once was off her guard that night. She did +not even notice that she had made a slip. She was too engrossed in +Durrance's story. Durrance himself, however, was not less preoccupied, +and so the statement passed for the moment unobserved by either. + +"So you never knew what brought Mr. Feversham to Halfa?" she asked. "Did +you not ask him? Why didn't you? Why?" + +She was disappointed, and the bitterness of her disappointment gave +passion to her cry. Here was the last news of Harry Feversham, and it +was brought to her incomplete, like the half sheet of a letter. The +omission might never be repaired. + +"I was a fool," said Durrance. There was almost as much regret in his +voice now as there had been in hers; and because of that regret he did +not remark the passion with which she had spoken. "I shall not easily +forgive myself. He was my friend, you see. I had him by the arm, and I +let him go. I was a fool." And he knocked upon his forehead with his +fist. + +"He tried Arabic," Durrance resumed, "pleading that he and his +companions were just poor peaceable people, that if I had given him too +much money, I should take it back, and all the while he dragged away +from me. But I held him fast. I said, 'Harry Feversham, that won't do,' +and upon that he gave in and spoke in English, whispering it. 'Let me +go, Jack, let me go.' There was the crowd about us. It was evident that +Harry had some reason for secrecy; it might have been shame, for all I +knew, shame at his downfall. I said, 'Come up to my quarters in Halfa as +soon as you are free,' and I let him go. All that night I waited for him +on the verandah, but he did not come. In the morning I had to start +across the desert. I almost spoke of him to a friend who came to see me +start, to Calder, in fact--you know of him--the man who sent you the +telegram," said Durrance, with a laugh. + +"Yes, I remember," Ethne answered. + +It was the second slip she had made that night. The receipt of Calder's +telegram was just one of the things which Durrance was not to know. But +again she was unaware that she had made a slip at all. She did not even +consider how Durrance had come to know or guess that the telegram had +ever been despatched. + +"At the very last moment," Durrance resumed, "when my camel had risen +from the ground, I stooped down to speak to him, to tell him to see to +Feversham. But I did not. You see I knew nothing about his allowance. I +merely thought that he had fallen rather low. It did not seem fair to +him that another should know of it. So I rode on and kept silence." + +Ethne nodded her head. She could not but approve, however poignant her +regret for the lost news. + +"So you never saw Mr. Feversham again?" + +"I was away nine weeks. I came back blind," he answered simply, and the +very simplicity of his words went to Ethne's heart. He was apologising +for his blindness, which had hindered him from inquiring. She began to +wake to the comprehension that it was really Durrance who was speaking +to her, but he continued to speak, and what he said drove her quite out +of all caution. + +"I went at once to Cairo, and Calder came with me. There I told him of +Harry Feversham, and how I had seen him at Tewfikieh. I asked Calder +when he got back to Halfa to make inquiries, to find and help Harry +Feversham if he could; I asked him, too, to let me know the result. I +received a letter from Calder a week ago, and I am troubled by it, very +much troubled." + +"What did he say?" Ethne asked apprehensively, and she turned in her +chair away from the moonlight towards the shadows of the room and +Durrance. She bent forward to see his face, but the darkness hid it. A +sudden fear struck through her and chilled her blood, but out of the +darkness Durrance spoke. + +"That the two women and the old Greek had gone back northward on a +steamer to Assouan." + +"Mr. Feversham remained at Wadi Halfa, then? That is so, isn't it?" she +said eagerly. + +"No," Durrance replied. "Harry Feversham did not remain. He slipped past +Halfa the day after I started toward the east. He went out in the +morning, and to the south." + +"Into the desert?" + +"Yes, but the desert to the south, the enemy's country. He went just as +I saw him, carrying his zither. He was seen. There can be no doubt." + +Ethne was quite silent for a little while. Then she asked:-- + +"You have that letter with you?" + +"Yes." + +"I should like to read it." + +She rose from her chair and walked across to Durrance. He took the +letter from his pocket and gave it to her, and she carried it over to +the window. The moonlight was strong. Ethne stood close by the window, +with a hand pressed upon her heart, and read it through once and again. +The letter was explicit; the Greek who owned the cafe at which the +troupe had performed admitted that Joseppi, under which name he knew +Feversham, had wandered south, carrying a water-skin and a store of +dates, though why, he either did not know or would not tell. Ethne had a +question to ask, but it was some time before she could trust her lips to +utter it distinctly and without faltering. + +"What will happen to him?" + +"At the best, capture; at the worst, death. Death by starvation, or +thirst, or at the hands of the Dervishes. But there is just a hope it +might be only capture and imprisonment. You see he was white. If caught, +his captors might think him a spy; they would be sure he had knowledge +of our plans and our strength. I think that they would most likely send +him to Omdurman. I have written to Calder. Spies go out and in from Wadi +Halfa. We often hear of things which happen in Omdurman. If Feversham is +taken there, sooner or later I shall know. But he must have gone mad. It +is the only explanation." + +Ethne had another, and she knew hers to be the right one. She was off +her guard, and she spoke it aloud to Durrance. + +"Colonel Trench," said she, "is a prisoner at Omdurman." + +"Oh, yes," answered Durrance. "Feversham will not be quite alone. There +is some comfort in that, and perhaps something may be done. When I hear +from Calder I will tell you. Perhaps something may be done." + +It was evident that Durrance had misconstrued her remark. He at all +events was still in the dark as to the motive which had taken Feversham +southward beyond the Egyptian patrols. And he must remain in the dark. +For Ethne did not even now slacken in her determination still to pretend +to have forgotten. She stood at the window with the letter clenched in +her hand. She must utter no cry, she must not swoon; she must keep very +still and quiet, and speak when needed with a quiet voice, even though +she knew that Harry Feversham had gone southward to join Colonel Trench +at Omdurman. But so much was beyond her strength. For as Colonel +Durrance began to speak again, the desire to escape, to be alone with +this terrible news, became irresistible. The cool quietude of the +garden, the dark shadows of the trees, called to her. + +"Perhaps you will wonder," said Durrance, "why I have told you to-night +what I have up till now kept to myself. I did not dare to tell it you +before. I want to explain why." + +Ethne did not notice the exultation in his voice; she did not consider +what his explanation might be; she only felt that she could not now +endure to listen to it. The mere sound of a human voice had become an +unendurable thing. She hardly knew indeed that Durrance was speaking, +she was only aware that a voice spoke, and that the voice must stop. She +was close by the window; a single silent step, and she was across the +sill and free. Durrance continued to speak out of the darkness, +engrossed in what he said, and Ethne did not listen to a word. She +gathered her skirts carefully, so that they should not rustle, and +stepped from the window. This was the third slip which she made upon +that eventful night. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +MRS. ADAIR INTERFERES + + +Ethne had thought to escape quite unobserved; but Mrs. Adair was sitting +upon the terrace in the shadow of the house and not very far from the +open window of the drawing-room. She saw Ethne lightly cross the terrace +and run down the steps into the garden, and she wondered at the +precipitancy of her movements. Ethne seemed to be taking flight, and in +a sort of desperation. The incident was singular, and remarkably +singular to Mrs. Adair, who from the angle in which she sat commanded a +view of that open window through which the moonlight shone. She had seen +Ethne turn out the lamp, and the swift change in the room from light to +dark, with its suggestion of secrecy and the private talk of lovers, had +been a torture to her. But she had not fled from the torture. She had +sat listening, and the music as it floated out upon the garden with its +thrill of happiness, its accent of yearning, and the low, hushed +conversation which followed upon its cessation in that darkened room, +had struck upon a chord of imagination in Mrs. Adair and had kindled her +jealousy into a scorching flame. Then suddenly Ethne had taken flight. +The possibility of a quarrel Mrs. Adair dismissed from her thoughts. She +knew very well that Ethne was not of the kind which quarrels, nor would +she escape by running away, should she be entangled in a quarrel. But +something still more singular occurred. Durrance continued to speak in +that room from which Ethne had escaped. The sound of his voice reached +Mrs. Adair's ears, though she could not distinguish the words. It was +clear to her that he believed Ethne to be still with him. Mrs. Adair +rose from her seat and, walking silently upon the tips of her toes, came +close to the open window. She heard Durrance laugh light-heartedly, and +she listened to the words he spoke. She could hear them plainly now, +though she could not see the man who spoke them. He sat in the shadows. + +"I began to find out," he was saying, "even on that first afternoon at +Hill Street two months ago, that there was only friendship on your side. +My blindness helped me. With your face and your eyes in view I should +have believed without question just what you wished me to believe. But +you had no longer those defences. I on my side had grown quicker. I +began in a word to see. For the first time in my life I began to see." + +Mrs. Adair did not move. Durrance, upon his side, appeared to expect no +answer or acknowledgment. He spoke with the voice of enjoyment which a +man uses recounting difficulties which have ceased to hamper him, +perplexities which have been long since unravelled. + +"I should have definitely broken off our engagement, I suppose, at once. +For I still believed, and as firmly as ever, that there must be more +than friendship on both sides. But I had grown selfish. I warned you, +Ethne, selfishness was the blind man's particular fault. I waited and +deferred the time of marriage. I made excuses. I led you to believe that +there was a chance of recovery when I knew there was none. For I hoped, +as a man will, that with time your friendship might grow into more than +friendship. So long as there was a chance of that, I--Ethne, I could not +let you go. So, I listened for some new softness in your voice, some new +buoyancy in your laughter, some new deep thrill of the heart in the +music which you played, longing for it--how much! Well, to-night I have +burnt my boats. I have admitted to you that I knew friendship limited +your thoughts of me. I have owned to you that there is no hope my sight +will be restored. I have even dared to-night to tell you what I have +kept secret for so long, my meeting with Harry Feversham and the peril +he has run. And why? Because for the first time I have heard to-night +just those signs for which I waited. The new softness, the new pride, in +your voice, the buoyancy in your laughter--they have been audible to me +all this evening. The restraint and the tension were gone from your +manner. And when you played, it was as though some one with just your +skill and knowledge played, but some one who let her heart speak +resonantly through the music as until to-night you have never done. +Ethne, Ethne!" + +But at that moment Ethne was in the little enclosed garden whither she +had led Captain Willoughby that morning. Here she was private; her +collie dog had joined her; she had reached the solitude and the silence +which had become necessities to her. A few more words from Durrance and +her prudence would have broken beneath the strain. All that pretence of +affection which during these last months she had so sedulously built up +about him like a wall which he was never to look over, would have been +struck down and levelled to the ground. Durrance, indeed, had already +looked over the wall, was looking over it with amazed eyes at this +instant, but that Ethne did not know, and to hinder him from knowing it +she had fled. The moonlight slept in silver upon the creek; the tall +trees stood dreaming to the stars; the lapping of the tide against the +bank was no louder than the music of a river. She sat down upon the +bench and strove to gather some of the quietude of that summer night +into her heart, and to learn from the growing things of nature about her +something of their patience and their extraordinary perseverance. + +But the occurrences of the day had overtaxed her, and she could not. +Only this morning, and in this very garden, the good news had come and +she had regained Harry Feversham. For in that way she thought of +Willoughby's message. This morning she had regained him, and this +evening the bad news had come and she had lost him, and most likely +right to the very end of mortal life. Harry Feversham meant to pay for +his fault to the uttermost scruple, and Ethne cried out against his +thoroughness, which he had learned from no other than herself. "Surely," +she thought, "he might have been content. In redeeming his honour in the +eyes of one of the three he has done enough, he has redeemed it in the +eyes of all." + +But he had gone south to join Colonel Trench in Omdurman. Of that +squalid and shadowless town, of its hideous barbarities, of the horrors +of its prison-house, Ethne knew nothing at all. But Captain Willoughby +had hinted enough to fill her imagination with terrors. He had offered +to explain to her what captivity in Omdurman implied, and she wrung her +hands, as she remembered that she had refused to listen. What cruelties +might not be practised? Even now, at that very hour perhaps, on this +night of summer--but she dared not let her thoughts wander that way.... + +The lapping of the tide against the banks was like the music of a river. +It brought to Ethne's mind one particular river which had sung and +babbled in her ears when five years ago she had watched out another +summer night till dawn. Never had she so hungered for her own country +and the companionship of its brown hills and streams. No, not even this +afternoon, when she had sat at her window and watched the lights change +upon the creek. Donegal had a sanctity for her, it seemed when she +dwelled in it to set her in a way apart from and above earthly taints; +and as her heart went out in a great longing towards it now, a sudden +fierce loathing for the concealments, the shifts and maneuvers which +she had practised, and still must practise, sprang up within her. A +great weariness came upon her, too. But she did not change from her +fixed resolve. Two lives were not to be spoilt because she lived in the +world. To-morrow she could gather up her strength and begin again. For +Durrance must never know that there was another whom she placed before +him in her thoughts. Meanwhile, however, Durrance within the +drawing-room brought his confession to an end. + +"So you see," he said, "I could not speak of Harry Feversham until +to-night. For I was afraid that what I had to tell you would hurt you +very much. I was afraid that you still remembered him, in spite of those +five years. I knew, of course, that you were my friend. But I doubted +whether in your heart you were not more than that to him. To-night, +however, I could tell you without fear." + +Now at all events he expected an answer. Mrs. Adair, still standing by +the window, heard him move in the shadows. + +"Ethne!" he said, with some surprise in his voice; and since again no +answer came, he rose, and walked towards the chair in which Ethne had +sat. Mrs. Adair could see him now. His hands felt for and grasped the +back of the chair. He bent over it, as though he thought Ethne was +leaning forward with her hands upon her knees. + +"Ethne," he said again, and there was in this iteration of her name more +trouble and doubt than surprise. It seemed to Mrs. Adair that he dreaded +to find her silently weeping. He was beginning to speculate whether +after all he had been right in his inference from Ethne's recapture of +her youth to-night, whether the shadow of Feversham did not after all +fall between them. He leaned farther forward, feeling with his hand, and +suddenly a string of Ethne's violin twanged loud. She had left it lying +on the chair, and his fingers had touched it. + +Durrance drew himself up straight and stood quite motionless and silent, +like a man who had suffered a shock and is bewildered. He passed his +hand across his forehead once or twice, and then, without calling upon +Ethne again, he advanced to the open window. + +Mrs. Adair did not move, and she held her breath. There was just the +width of the sill between them. The moonlight struck full upon Durrance, +and she saw a comprehension gradually dawn in his face that some one was +standing close to him. + +"Ethne," he said a third time, and now he appealed. + +He stretched out a hand timidly and touched her dress. + +"It is not Ethne," he said with a start. + +"No, it is not Ethne," Mrs. Adair answered quickly. Durrance drew back a +step from the window, and for a little while was silent. + +"Where has she gone?" he asked at length. + +"Into the garden. She ran across the terrace and down the steps very +quickly and silently. I saw her from my chair. Then I heard you speaking +alone." + +"Can you see her now in the garden?" + +"No; she went across the lawn towards the trees and their great shadows. +There is only the moonlight in the garden now." + +Durrance stepped across the window sill and stood by the side of Mrs. +Adair. The last slip which Ethne had made betrayed her inevitably to the +man who had grown quick. There could be only one reason for her sudden +unexplained and secret flight. He had told her that Feversham had +wandered south from Wadi Halfa into the savage country; he had spoken +out his fears as to Feversham's fate without reserve, thinking that she +had forgotten him, and indeed rather inclined to blame her for the +callous indifference with which she received the news. The callousness +was a mere mask, and she had fled because she no longer had the strength +to hold it up before her face. His first suspicions had been right. +Feversham still stood between Ethne and himself and held them at arm's +length. + +"She ran as though she was in great trouble and hardly knew what she was +doing," Mrs. Adair continued. "Did you cause that trouble?" + +"Yes." + +"I thought so, from what I heard you say." + +Mrs. Adair wanted to hurt, and in spite of Durrance's impenetrable face, +she felt that she had succeeded. It was a small sort of compensation for +the weeks of mortification which she had endured. There is something +which might be said for Mrs. Adair; extenuations might be pleaded, even +if no defence was made. For she like Ethne was overtaxed that night. +That calm pale face of hers hid the quick passions of the South, and she +had been racked by them to the limits of endurance. There had been +something grotesque, something rather horrible, in that outbreak and +confession by Durrance, after Ethne had fled from the room. He was +speaking out his heart to an empty chair. She herself had stood without +the window with a bitter longing that he had spoken so to her and a +bitter knowledge that he never would. She was sunk deep in humiliation. +The irony of the position tortured her; it was like a jest of grim +selfish gods played off upon ineffectual mortals to their hurt. And at +the bottom of all the thoughts rankled that memory of the extinguished +lamp, and the low, hushed voices speaking one to the other in darkness. +Therefore she spoke to give pain and was glad that she gave it, even +though it was to the man whom she coveted. + +"There's one thing which I don't understand," said Durrance. "I mean the +change which we both noticed in Ethne to-night. I mistook the cause of +it, that's evident. I was a fool. But there must have been a cause. The +gift of laughter had been restored to her. Her gravity, her air of +calculation, had vanished. She became just what she was five years ago." + +"Exactly," Mrs. Adair answered. "Just what she was before Mr. Feversham +disappeared from Ramelton. You are so quick, Colonel Durrance. Ethne had +good news of Mr. Feversham this morning." + +Durrance turned quickly towards her, and Mrs. Adair felt a pleasure at +his abrupt movement. She had provoked the display of some emotion, and +the display of emotion was preferable to his composure. + +"Are you quite sure?" he asked. + +"As sure as that you gave her the worst of news to-night," she replied. + +But Durrance did not need the answer. Ethne had made another slip that +evening, and though unnoticed at the time, it came back to Durrance's +memory now. She had declared that Feversham still drew an allowance from +his father. "I heard it only to-day," she had said. + +"Yes, Ethne heard news of Feversham to-day," he said slowly. "Did she +make a mistake five years ago? There was some wrong thing Harry +Feversham was supposed to have done. But was there really more +misunderstanding than wrong? Did she misjudge him? Has she to-day +learnt that she misjudged him?" + +"I will tell you what I know. It is not very much. But I think it is +fair that you should know it." + +"Wait a moment, please, Mrs. Adair," said Durrance, sharply. He had put +his questions rather to himself than to his companion, and he was not +sure that he wished her to answer them. He walked abruptly away from her +and leaned upon the balustrade with his face towards the garden. + +It seemed to him rather treacherous to allow Mrs. Adair to disclose what +Ethne herself evidently intended to conceal. But he knew why Ethne +wished to conceal it. She wished him never to suspect that she retained +any love for Harry Feversham. On the other hand, however, he did not +falter from his own belief. Marriage between a man crippled like himself +and a woman active and vigorous like Ethne could never be right unless +both brought more than friendship. He turned back to Mrs. Adair. + +"I am no casuist," he said. "But here disloyalty seems the truest +loyalty of all. Tell me what you know, Mrs. Adair. Something might be +done perhaps for Feversham. From Assouan or Suakin something might be +done. This news--this good news came, I suppose, this afternoon when I +was at home." + +"No, this morning when you were here. It was brought by a Captain +Willoughby, who was once an officer in Mr. Feversham's regiment." + +"He is now Deputy-Governor of Suakin," said Durrance. "I know the man. +For three years we were together in that town. Well?" + +"He sailed down from Kingsbridge. You and Ethne were walking across the +lawn when he landed from the creek. Ethne left you and went forward to +meet him. I saw them meet, because I happened to be looking out of this +window at the moment." + +"Yes, Ethne went forward. There was a stranger whom she did not know. I +remember." + +"They spoke for a few moments, and then Ethne led him towards the trees, +at once, without looking back--as though she had forgotten," said Mrs. +Adair. That little stab she had not been able to deny herself, but it +evoked no sign of pain. + +"As though she had forgotten me, you mean," said Durrance, quietly +completing her sentence. "No doubt she had." + +"They went together into the little enclosed garden on the bank," and +Durrance started as she spoke. "Yes, you followed them," continued Mrs. +Adair, curiously. She had been puzzled as to how Durrance had missed +them. + +"They were there then," he said slowly, "on that seat, in the enclosure, +all the while." + +Mrs. Adair waited for a more definite explanation of the mystery, but +she got none. + +"Well?" he asked. + +"They stayed there for a long while. You had gone home across the fields +before they came outside into the open. I was in the garden, and indeed +happened to be actually upon the bank." + +"So you saw Captain Willoughby. Perhaps you spoke to him?" + +"Yes. Ethne introduced him, but she would not let him stay. She hurried +him into his boat and back to Kingsbridge at once." + +"Then how do you know Captain Willoughby brought good news of Harry +Feversham?" + +"Ethne told me that they had been talking of him. Her manner and her +laugh showed me no less clearly that the news was good." + +"Yes," said Durrance, and he nodded his head in assent. Captain +Willoughby's tidings had begotten that new pride and buoyancy in Ethne +which he had so readily taken to himself. Signs of the necessary +something more than friendship--so he had accounted them, and he was +right so far. But it was not he who had inspired them. His very +penetration and insight had led him astray. He was silent for a few +minutes, and Mrs. Adair searched his face in the moonlight for some +evidence that he resented Ethne's secrecy. But she searched in vain. + +"And that is all?" said Durrance. + +"Not quite. Captain Willoughby brought a token from Mr. Feversham. Ethne +carried it back to the house in her hand. Her eyes were upon it all the +way, her lips smiled at it. I do not think there is anything half so +precious to her in all the world." + +"A token?" + +"A little white feather," said Mrs. Adair, "all soiled and speckled with +dust. Can you read the riddle of that feather?" + +"Not yet," Durrance replied. He walked once or twice along the terrace +and back, lost in thought. Then he went into the house and fetched his +cap from the hall. He came back to Mrs. Adair. + +"It was kind of you to tell me this," he said. "I want you to add to +your kindness. When I was in the drawing-room alone and you came to the +window, how much did you hear? What were the first words?" + +Mrs. Adair's answer relieved him of a fear. Ethne had heard nothing +whatever of his confession. + +"Yes," he said, "she moved to the window to read a letter by the +moonlight. She must have escaped from the room the moment she had read +it. Consequently she did not hear that I had no longer any hope of +recovering my sight, and that I merely used the pretence of a hope in +order to delay our marriage. I am glad of that, very glad." He shook +hands with Mrs. Adair, and said good-night. "You see," he added +absently, "if I hear that Harry Feversham is in Omdurman, something +might perhaps be done--from Suakin or Assouan, something might be done. +Which way did Ethne go?" + +"Over to the water." + +"She had her dog with her, I hope." + +"The dog followed her," said Mrs. Adair. + +"I am glad," said Durrance. He knew quite well what comfort the dog +would be to Ethne in this bad hour, and perhaps he rather envied the +dog. Mrs. Adair wondered that at a moment of such distress to him he +could still spare a thought for so small an alleviation of Ethne's +trouble. She watched him cross the garden to the stile in the hedge. He +walked steadily forward upon the path like a man who sees. There was +nothing in his gait or bearing to reveal that the one thing left to him +had that evening been taken away. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + +WEST AND EAST + + +Durrance found his body-servant waiting up for him when he had come +across the fields to his own house of "Guessens." + +"You can turn the lights out and go to bed," said Durrance, and he +walked through the hall into his study. The name hardly described the +room, for it had always been more of a gun-room than a study. + +He sat for some while in his chair and then began to walk gently about +the room in the dark. There were many cups and goblets scattered about +the room, which Durrance had won in his past days. He knew them each one +by their shape and position, and he drew a kind of comfort from the feel +of them. He took them up one by one and touched them and fondled them, +wondering whether, now that he was blind, they were kept as clean and +bright as they used to be. This one, a thin-stemmed goblet, he had won +in a regimental steeple-chase at Colchester; he could remember the day +with its clouds and grey sky and the dull look of the ploughed fields +between the hedges. That pewter, which stood upon his writing table and +which had formed a convenient holder for his pens, when pens had been of +use, he had acquired very long ago in his college "fours," when he was a +freshman at Oxford. The hoof of a favourite horse mounted in silver +made an ornament upon the mantelpiece. His trophies made the room a +gigantic diary; he fingered his records of good days gone by and came at +last to his guns and rifles. + +He took them down from their racks. They were to him much what Ethne's +violin was to her and had stories for his ear alone. He sat with a +Remington across his knee and lived over again one long hot day in the +hills to the west of Berenice, during which he had stalked a lion across +stony, open country, and killed him at three hundred yards just before +sunset. Another talked to him, too, of his first ibex shot in the Khor +Baraka, and of antelope stalked in the mountains northward of Suakin. +There was a little Greener gun which he had used upon midwinter nights +in a boat upon this very creek of the Salcombe estuary. He had brought +down his first mallard with that, and he lifted it and slid his left +hand along the under side of the barrel and felt the butt settle +comfortably into the hollow of his shoulder. But his weapons began to +talk over loudly in his ears, even as Ethne's violin, in the earlier +days after Harry Feversham was gone and she was left alone, had spoken +with too penetrating a note to her. As he handled the locks, and was +aware that he could no longer see the sights, the sum of his losses was +presented to him in a very definite and incontestable way. + +He put his guns away, and was seized suddenly with a desire to disregard +his blindness, to pretend that it was no hindrance and to pretend so +hard that it should prove not to be one. The desire grew and shook him +like a passion and carried him winged out of the countries of dim stars +straight to the East. The smell of the East and its noises and the +domes of its mosques, the hot sun, the rabble in its streets, and the +steel-blue sky overhead, caught at him till he was plucked from his +chair and set pacing restlessly about his room. + +He dreamed himself to Port Said, and was marshalled in the long +procession of steamers down the waterway of the canal. The song of the +Arabs coaling the ship was in his ears, and so loud that he could see +them as they went at night-time up and down the planks between the +barges and the deck, an endless chain of naked figures monotonously +chanting and lurid in the red glare of the braziers. He travelled out of +the canal, past the red headlands of the Sinaitic Peninsula, into the +chills of the Gulf of Suez. He zigzagged down the Red Sea while the +Great Bear swung northward low down in the sky above the rail of the +quarterdeck, and the Southern Cross began to blaze in the south; he +touched at Tor and at Yambo; he saw the tall white houses of Yeddah lift +themselves out of the sea, and admired the dark brine-withered woodwork +of their carved casements; he walked through the dusk of its roofed +bazaars with the joy of the homesick after long years come home; and +from Yeddah he crossed between the narrowing coral-reefs into the +land-locked harbour of Suakin. + +Westward from Suakin stretched the desert, with all that it meant to +this man whom it had smitten and cast out--the quiet padding of the +camels' feet in sand; the great rock-cones rising sheer and abrupt as +from a rippleless ocean, towards which you march all day and get no +nearer; the gorgeous momentary blaze of sunset colours in the west; the +rustle of the wind through the short twilight when the west is a pure +pale green and the east the darkest blue; and the downward swoop of the +planets out of nothing to the earth. The inheritor of the other places +dreamed himself back into his inheritance as he tramped to and fro, +forgetful of his blindness and parched with desire as with a +fever--until unexpectedly he heard the blackbirds and the swallows +bustling and piping in the garden, and knew that outside his windows the +world was white with dawn. + +He waked from his dream at the homely sound. There were to be no more +journeys for him; affliction had caged him and soldered a chain about +his leg. He felt his way by the balustrade up the stairs to his bed. He +fell asleep as the sun rose. + + * * * * * + +But at Dongola, on the great curve of the Nile southwards of Wadi Halfa, +the sun was already blazing and its inhabitants were awake. There was +sport prepared for them this morning under the few palm trees before the +house of the Emir Wad El Nejoumi. A white prisoner captured a week +before close to the wells of El Agia on the great Arbain road, by a +party of Arabs, had been brought in during the night and now waited his +fate at the Emir's hands. The news spread quick as a spark through the +town; already crowds of men and women and children flocked to this rare +and pleasant spectacle. In front of the palm trees an open space +stretched to the gateway of the Emir's house; behind them a slope of +sand descended flat and bare to the river. + +Harry Feversham was standing under the trees, guarded by four of the +Ansar soldiery. His clothes had been stripped from him; he wore only a +torn and ragged jibbeh upon his body and a twist of cotton on his head +to shield him from the sun. His bare shoulders and arms were scorched +and blistered. His ankles were fettered, his wrists were bound with a +rope of palm fibre, an iron collar was locked about his neck, to which a +chain was attached, and this chain one of the soldiers held. He stood +and smiled at the mocking crowd about him and seemed well pleased, like +a lunatic. + +That was the character which he had assumed. If he could sustain it, if +he could baffle his captors, so that they were at a loss whether he was +a man really daft or an agent with promises of help and arms to the +disaffected tribes of Kordofan--then there was a chance that they might +fear to dispose of him themselves and send him forward to Omdurman. But +it was hard work. Inside the house the Emir and his counsellors were +debating his destiny; on the river-bank and within his view a high +gallows stood out black and most sinister against the yellow sand. Harry +Feversham was very glad of the chain about his neck and the fetters on +his legs. They helped him to betray no panic, by assuring him of its +futility. + +These hours of waiting, while the sun rose higher and higher and no one +came from the gateway, were the worst he had ever as yet endured. All +through that fortnight in Berber a hope of escape had sustained him, and +when that lantern shone upon him from behind in the ruined acres, what +had to be done must be done so quickly there was no time for fear or +thought. Here there was time and too much of it. + +He had time to anticipate and foresee. He felt his heart sinking till +he was faint, just as in those distant days when he had heard the hounds +scuffling and whining in a covert and he himself had sat shaking upon +his horse. He glanced furtively towards the gallows, and foresaw the +vultures perched upon his shoulders, fluttering about his eyes. But the +man had grown during his years of probation. The fear of physical +suffering was not uppermost in his mind, nor even the fear that he would +walk unmanfully to the high gallows, but a greater dread that if he died +now, here, at Dongola, Ethne would never take back that fourth feather, +and his strong hope of the "afterwards" would never come to its +fulfilment. He was very glad of the collar about his neck and the +fetters on his legs. He summoned his wits together and standing there +alone, without a companion to share his miseries, laughed and scraped +and grimaced at his tormentors. + +An old hag danced and gesticulated before him, singing the while a +monotonous song. The gestures were pantomimic and menaced him with +abominable mutilations; the words described in simple and unexpurgated +language the grievous death agonies which immediately awaited him, and +the eternity of torture in hell which he would subsequently suffer. +Feversham understood and inwardly shuddered, but he only imitated her +gestures and nodded and mowed at her as though she was singing to him of +Paradise. Others, taking their war-trumpets, placed the mouths against +the prisoner's ears and blew with all their might. + +"Do you hear, Kaffir?" cried a child, dancing with delight before him. +"Do you hear our ombeyehs? Blow louder! Blow louder!" + +But the prisoner only clapped his hands, and cried out that the music +was good. + +Finally there came to the group a tall warrior with a long, heavy spear. +A cry was raised at his approach, and a space was cleared. He stood +before the captive and poised his spear, swinging it backward and +forward, to make his arm supple before he thrust, like a bowler before +he delivers a ball at a cricket match. Feversham glanced wildly about +him, and seeing no escape, suddenly flung out his breast to meet the +blow. But the spear never reached him. For as the warrior lunged from +the shoulder, one of the four guards jerked the neck chain violently +from behind, and the prisoner was flung, half throttled, upon his back. +Three times, and each time to a roar of delight, this pastime was +repeated, and then a soldier appeared in the gateway of Nejoumi's house. + +"Bring him in!" he cried; and followed by the curses and threats of the +crowd, the prisoner was dragged under the arch across a courtyard into a +dark room. + +For a few moments Feversham could see nothing. Then his eyes began to +adapt themselves to the gloom, and he distinguished a tall, bearded man, +who sat upon an angareb, the native bedstead of the Soudan, and two +others, who squatted beside him on the ground. The man on the angareb +was the Emir. + +"You are a spy of the Government from Wadi Halfa," he said. + +"No, I am a musician," returned the prisoner, and he laughed happily, +like a man that has made a jest. + +Nejoumi made a sign, and an instrument with many broken strings was +handed to the captive. Feversham seated himself upon the ground, and +with slow, fumbling fingers, breathing hard as he bent over the zither, +he began to elicit a wavering melody. It was the melody to which +Durrance had listened in the street of Tewfikieh on the eve of his last +journey into the desert; and which Ethne Eustace had played only the +night before in the quiet drawing-room at Southpool. It was the only +melody which Feversham knew. When he had done Nejoumi began again. + +"You are a spy." + +"I have told you the truth," answered Feversham, stubbornly, and Nejoumi +took a different tone. He called for food, and the raw liver of a camel, +covered with salt and red pepper, was placed before Feversham. Seldom +has a man had smaller inclination to eat, but Feversham ate, none the +less, even of that unattractive dish, knowing well that reluctance would +be construed as fear, and that the signs of fear might condemn him to +death. And, while he ate, Nejoumi questioned him, in the silkiest voice, +about the fortifications of Cairo and the strength of the garrison at +Assouan, and the rumours of dissension between the Khedive and the +Sirdar. + +But to each question Feversham replied:-- + +"How should a Greek know of these matters?" + +Nejoumi rose from his angareb and roughly gave an order. The soldiers +seized upon Feversham and dragged him out again into the sunlight. They +poured water upon the palm-rope which bound his wrists, so that the +thongs swelled and bit into his flesh. + +"Speak, Kaffir. You carry promises to Kordofan." + +Feversham was silent. He clung doggedly to the plan over which he had +so long and so carefully pondered. He could not improve upon it, he was +sure, by any alteration suggested by fear, at a moment when he could not +think clearly. A rope was flung about his neck, and he was pushed and +driven beneath the gallows. + +"Speak, Kaffir," said Nejoumi; "so shall you escape death." + +Feversham smiled and grimaced, and shook his head loosely from side to +side. It was astonishing to him that he could do it, that he did not +fall down upon his knees and beg for mercy. It was still more +astonishing to him that he felt no temptation so to demean himself. He +wondered whether the oft repeated story was true, that criminals in +English prisons went quietly and with dignity to the scaffold, because +they had been drugged. For without drugs he seemed to be behaving with +no less dignity himself. His heart was beating very fast, but it was +with a sort of excitement. He did not even think of Ethne at that +moment; and certainly the great dread that his strong hope would never +be fulfilled did not trouble him at all. He had his allotted part to +play, and he just played it; and that was all. + +Nejoumi looked at him sourly for a moment. He turned to the men who +stood ready to draw away from Feversham the angareb on which he was +placed:-- + +"To-morrow," said he, "the Kaffir shall go to Omdurman." + +Feversham began to feel then that the rope of palm fibre tortured his +wrists. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +ETHNE MAKES ANOTHER SLIP + + +Mrs. Adair speculated with some uneasiness upon the consequences of the +disclosures which she had made to Durrance. She was in doubt as to the +course which he would take. It seemed possible that he might frankly +tell Ethne of the mistake which he had made. He might admit that he had +discovered the unreality of her affection for him, and the reality of +her love for Feversham; and if he made that admission, however carefully +he tried to conceal her share in his discovery, he would hardly succeed. +She would have to face Ethne, and she dreaded the moment when her +companion's frank eyes would rest quietly upon hers and her lips demand +an explanation. It was consequently a relief to her at first that no +outward change was visible in the relations of Ethne and Durrance. They +met and spoke as though that day on which Willoughby had landed at the +garden, and the evening when Ethne had played the Musoline Overture upon +the violin, had been blotted from their experience. Mrs. Adair was +relieved at first, but when the sense of personal danger passed from +her, and she saw that her interference had been apparently without +effect, she began to be puzzled. A little while, and she was both angry +and disappointed. + +Durrance, indeed, quickly made up his mind. Ethne wished him not to +know; it was some consolation to her in her distress to believe that she +had brought happiness to this one man whose friend she genuinely was. +And of that consolation Durrance was aware. He saw no reason to destroy +it--for the present. He must know certainly whether a misunderstanding +or an irreparable breach separated Ethne from Feversham before he took +the steps he had in mind. He must have sure knowledge, too, of Harry +Feversham's fate. Therefore he pretended to know nothing; he abandoned +even his habit of attention and scrutiny, since for these there was no +longer any need; he forced himself to a display of contentment; he made +light of his misfortune, and professed to find in Ethne's company more +than its compensation. + +"You see," he said to her, "one can get used to blindness and take it as +the natural thing. But one does not get used to you, Ethne. Each time +one meets you, one discovers something new and fresh to delight one. +Besides, there is always the possibility of a cure." + +He had his reward, for Ethne understood that he had laid aside his +suspicions, and she was able to set off his indefatigable cheerfulness +against her own misery. And her misery was great. If for one day she had +recaptured the lightness of heart which had been hers before the three +white feathers came to Ramelton, she had now recaptured something of the +grief which followed upon their coming. A difference there was, of +course. Her pride was restored, and she had a faint hope born of +Durrance's words that Harry after all might perhaps be rescued. But she +knew again the long and sleepless nights and the dull hot misery of the +head as she waited for the grey of the morning. For she could no longer +pretend to herself that she looked upon Harry Feversham as a friend who +was dead. He was living, and in what straits she dreaded to think, and +yet thirsted to know. At rare times, indeed, her impatience got the +better of her will. + +"I suppose that escape is possible from Omdurman," she said one day, +constraining her voice to an accent of indifference. + +"Possible? Yes, I think so," Durrance answered cheerfully. "Of course it +is difficult and would in any case take time. Attempts, for instance, +have been made to get Trench out and others, but the attempts have not +yet succeeded. The difficulty is the go-between." + +Ethne looked quickly at Durrance. + +"The go-between?" she asked, and then she said, "I think I begin to +understand," and pulled herself up abruptly. "You mean the Arab who can +come and go between Omdurman and the Egyptian frontier?" + +"Yes. He is usually some Dervish pedlar or merchant trading with the +tribes of the Soudan, who slips into Wadi Halfa or Assouan or Suakin and +undertakes the work. Of course his risk is great. He would have short +shrift in Omdurman if his business were detected. So it is not to be +wondered at that he shirks the danger at the last moment. As often as +not, too, he is a rogue. You make your arrangements with him in Egypt, +and hand him over the necessary money. In six months or a year he comes +back alone, with a story of excuses. It was summer, and the season +unfavourable for an escape. Or the prisoners were more strictly guarded. +Or he himself was suspected. And he needs more money. His tale may be +true, and you give him more money; and he comes back again, and again he +comes back alone." + +Ethne nodded her head. + +"Exactly." + +Durrance had unconsciously explained to her a point which till now she +had not understood. She was quite sure that Harry Feversham aimed in +some way at bringing help to Colonel Trench, but in what way his own +capture was to serve that aim she could not determine. Now she +understood: he was to be his own go-between, and her hopes drew strength +from this piece of new knowledge. For it was likely that he had laid his +plans with care. He would be very anxious that the second feather should +come back to her, and if he could fetch Trench safely out of Omdurman, +he would not himself remain behind. + +Ethne was silent for a little while. They were sitting on the terrace, +and the sunset was red upon the water of the creek. + +"Life would not be easy, I suppose, in the prison of Omdurman," she +said, and again she forced herself to indifference. + +"Easy!" exclaimed Durrance; "no, it would not be easy. A hovel crowded +with Arabs, without light or air, and the roof perhaps two feet above +your head, into which you were locked up from sundown to morning; very +likely the prisoners would have to stand all night in that foul den, so +closely packed would they be. Imagine it, even here in England, on an +evening like this! Think what it would be on an August night in the +Soudan! Especially if you had memories, say, of a place like this, to +make the torture worse." + +Ethne looked out across that cool garden. At this very moment Harry +Feversham might be struggling for breath in that dark and noisome hovel, +dry of throat and fevered with the heat, with a vision before his eyes +of the grass slopes of Ramelton and with the music of the Lennon River +liquid in his ears. + +"One would pray for death," said Ethne, slowly, "unless--" She was on +the point of adding "unless one went there deliberately with a fixed +thing to do," but she cut the sentence short. Durrance carried it on:-- + +"Unless there was a chance of escape," he said. "And there is a +chance--if Feversham is in Omdurman." + +He was afraid that he had allowed himself to say too much about the +horrors of the prison in Omdurman, and he added: "Of course, what I have +described to you is mere hearsay and not to be trusted. We have no +knowledge. Prisoners may not have such bad times as we think;" and +thereupon he let the subject drop. Nor did Ethne mention it again. It +occurred to her at times to wonder in what way Durrance had understood +her abrupt disappearance from the drawing-room on the night when he had +told her of his meeting with Harry Feversham. But he never referred to +it himself, and she thought it wise to imitate his example. The +noticeable change in his manner, the absence of that caution which had +so distressed her, allayed her fears. It seemed that he had found for +himself some perfectly simple and natural explanation. At times, too, +she asked herself why Durrance had told her of that meeting in Wadi +Halfa, and of Feversham's subsequent departure to the south. But for +that she found an explanation--a strange explanation, perhaps, but it +was simple enough and satisfactory to her. She believed that the news +was a message of which Durrance was only the instrument. It was meant +for her ears, and for her comprehension alone, and Durrance was bound to +convey it to her by the will of a power above him. His real reason she +had not stayed to hear. + +During the month of September, then, they kept up the pretence. Every +morning when Durrance was in Devonshire he would come across the fields +to Ethne at The Pool, and Mrs. Adair, watching them as they talked and +laughed without a shadow of embarrassment or estrangement, grew more +angry, and found it more difficult to hold her peace and let the +pretence go on. It was a month of strain and tension to all three, and +not one of them but experienced a great relief when Durrance visited his +oculist in London. And those visits increased in number, and lengthened +in duration. Even Ethne was grateful for them. She could throw off the +mask for a little while; she had an opportunity to be tired; she had +solitude wherein to gain strength to resume her high spirits upon +Durrance's return. There came hours when despair seized hold of her. +"Shall I be able to keep up the pretence when we are married, when we +are always together?" she asked herself. But she thrust the question +back unanswered; she dared not look forward, lest even now her strength +should fail her. + +After the third visit Durrance said to her:-- + +"Do you remember that I once mentioned a famous oculist at Wiesbaden? It +seems advisable that I should go to him." + +"You are recommended to go?" + +"Yes, and to go alone." + +Ethne looked up at him with a shrewd, quick glance. + +"You think that I should be dull at Wiesbaden," she said. "There is no +fear of that. I can rout out some relative to go with me." + +"No; it is on my own account," answered Durrance. "I shall perhaps have +to go into a home. It is better to be quite quiet and to see no one for +a time." + +"You are sure?" Ethne asked. "It would hurt me if I thought you proposed +this plan because you felt I would be happier at Glenalla." + +"No, that is not the reason," Durrance answered, and he answered quite +truthfully. He felt it necessary for both of them that they should +separate. He, no less than Ethne, suffered under the tyranny of +perpetual simulation. It was only because he knew how much store she set +upon carrying out her resolve that two lives should not be spoilt +because of her, that he was able to hinder himself from crying out that +he knew the truth. + +"I am returning to London next week," he added, "and when I come back I +shall be in a position to tell you whether I am to go to Wiesbaden or +not." + +Durrance had reason to be glad that he had mentioned his plan before the +arrival of Calder's telegram from Wadi Halfa. Ethne was unable to +connect his departure from her with the receipt of any news about +Feversham. The telegram came one afternoon, and Durrance took it across +to The Pool in the evening and showed it to Ethne. There were only four +words to the telegram:-- + +"Feversham imprisoned at Omdurman." + +Durrance, with one of the new instincts of delicacy which had been born +in him lately by reason of his sufferings and the habit of thought, had +moved away from Ethne's side as soon as he had given it to her, and had +joined Mrs. Adair, who was reading a book in the drawing-room. He had +folded up the telegram, besides, so that by the time Ethne had unfolded +it and saw the words, she was alone upon the terrace. She remembered +what Durrance had said to her about the prison, and her imagination +enlarged upon his words. The quiet of a September evening was upon the +fields, a light mist rose from the creek and crept over the garden bank +across the lawn. Already the prison doors were shut in that hot country +at the junction of the Niles. "He is to pay for his fault ten times +over, then," she cried, in revolt against the disproportion. "And the +fault was his father's and mine too more than his own. For neither of us +understood." + +She blamed herself for the gift of that fourth feather. She leaned upon +the stone balustrade with her eyes shut, wondering whether Harry would +outlive this night, whether he was still alive to outlive it. The very +coolness of the stones on which her hands pressed became the bitterest +of reproaches. + +"Something can now be done." + +Durrance was coming from the window of the drawing-room, and spoke as he +came, to warn her of his approach. "He was and is my friend; I cannot +leave him there. I shall write to-night to Calder. Money will not be +spared. He is my friend, Ethne. You will see. From Suakin or from +Assouan something will be done." + +He put all the help to be offered to the credit of his own friendship. +Ethne was not to believe that he imagined she had any further interest +in Harry Feversham. + +She turned to him suddenly, almost interrupting him. + +"Major Castleton is dead?" she said. + +"Castleton?" he exclaimed. "There was a Castleton in Feversham's +regiment. Is that the man?" + +"Yes. He is dead?" + +"He was killed at Tamai." + +"You are sure--quite sure?" + +"He was within the square of the Second Brigade on the edge of the great +gulley when Osman Digna's men sprang out of the earth and broke through. +I was in that square, too. I saw Castleton killed." + +"I am glad," said Ethne. + +She spoke quite simply and distinctly. The first feather had been +brought back by Captain Willoughby. It was just possible that Colonel +Trench might bring back the second. Harry Feversham had succeeded once +under great difficulties, in the face of great peril. The peril was +greater now, the difficulties more arduous to overcome; that she clearly +understood. But she took the one success as an augury that another +might follow it. Feversham would have laid his plans with care; he had +money wherewith to carry them out; and, besides, she was a woman of +strong faith. But she was relieved to know that the sender of the third +feather could never be approached. Moreover, she hated him, and there +was an end of the matter. + +Durrance was startled. He was a soldier of a type not so rare as the +makers of war stories wish their readers to believe. Hector of Troy was +his ancestor; he was neither hysterical in his language nor vindictive +in his acts; he was not an elderly schoolboy with a taste for loud talk, +but a quiet man who did his work without noise, who could be stern when +occasion needed and of an unflinching severity, but whose nature was +gentle and compassionate. And this barbaric utterance of Ethne Eustace +he did not understand. + +"You disliked Major Castleton so much?" he exclaimed. + +"I never knew him." + +"Yet you are glad that he is dead?" + +"I am quite glad," said Ethne, stubbornly. + +She made another slip when she spoke thus of Major Castleton, and +Durrance did not pass it by unnoticed. He remembered it, and thought it +over in his gun-room at Guessens. It added something to the explanation +which he was building up of Harry Feversham's disgrace and +disappearance. The story was gradually becoming clear to his sharpened +wits. Captain Willoughby's visit and the token he had brought had given +him the clue. A white feather could mean nothing but an accusation of +cowardice. Durrance could not remember that he had ever detected any +signs of cowardice in Harry Feversham, and the charge startled him +perpetually into incredulity. + +But the fact remained. Something had happened on the night of the ball +at Lennon House, and from that date Harry had been an outcast. Suppose +that a white feather had been forwarded to Lennon House, and had been +opened in Ethne's presence? Or more than one white feather? Ethne had +come back from her long talk with Willoughby holding that white feather +as though there was nothing so precious in all the world. + +So much Mrs. Adair had told him. + +It followed, then, that the cowardice was atoned, or in one particular +atoned. Ethne's recapture of her youth pointed inevitably to that +conclusion. She treasured the feather because it was no longer a symbol +of cowardice but a symbol of cowardice atoned. + +But Harry Feversham had not returned, he still slunk in the world's +by-ways. Willoughby, then, was not the only man who had brought the +accusation; there were others--two others. One of the two Durrance had +long since identified. When Durrance had suggested that Harry might be +taken to Omdurman, Ethne had at once replied, "Colonel Trench is in +Omdurman." She needed no explanation of Harry's disappearance from Wadi +Halfa into the southern Soudan. It was deliberate; he had gone out to be +captured, to be taken to Omdurman. Moreover, Ethne had spoken of the +untrustworthiness of the go-between, and there again had helped Durrance +in his conjectures. There was some obligation upon Feversham to come to +Trench's help. Suppose that Feversham had laid his plans of rescue, and +had ventured out into the desert that he might be his own go-between. It +followed that a second feather had been sent to Ramelton, and that +Trench had sent it. + +To-night Durrance was able to join Major Castleton to Trench and +Willoughby. Ethne's satisfaction at the death of a man whom she did not +know could mean but the one thing. There would be the same obligation +resting upon Feversham with regard to Major Castleton if he lived. It +seemed likely that a third feather had come to Lennon House, and that +Major Castleton had sent it. + +Durrance pondered over the solution of the problem, and more and more he +found it plausible. There was one man who could have told him the truth +and who had refused to tell it, who would no doubt still refuse to tell +it. But that one man's help Durrance intended to enlist, and to this end +he must come with the story pat upon his lips and no request for +information. + +"Yes," he said, "I think that after my next visit to London I can pay a +visit to Lieutenant Sutch." + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +DURRANCE LETS HIS CIGAR GO OUT + + +Captain Willoughby was known at his club for a bore. He was a determined +raconteur of pointless stories about people with whom not one of his +audience was acquainted. And there was no deterring him, for he did not +listen, he only talked. He took the most savage snub with a vacant and +amicable face; and, wrapped in his own dull thoughts, he continued his +copious monologue. In the smoking-room or at the supper-table he crushed +conversation flat as a steam-roller crushes a road. He was quite +irresistible. Trite anecdotes were sandwiched between aphorisms of the +copybook; and whether anecdote or aphorism, all was delivered with the +air of a man surprised by his own profundity. If you waited long enough, +you had no longer the will power to run away, you sat caught in a web of +sheer dulness. Only those, however, who did not know him waited long +enough; the rest of his fellow-members at his appearance straightway +rose and fled. + +It happened, therefore, that within half an hour of his entrance to his +club, he usually had one large corner of the room entirely to himself; +and that particular corner up to the moment of his entrance had been the +most frequented. For he made it a rule to choose the largest group as +his audience. He was sitting in this solitary state one afternoon early +in October, when the waiter approached him and handed to him a card. + +Captain Willoughby took it with alacrity, for he desired company, and +his acquaintances had all left the club to fulfil the most pressing and +imperative engagements. But as he read the card his countenance fell. +"Colonel Durrance!" he said, and scratched his head thoughtfully. +Durrance had never in his life paid him a friendly visit before, and why +should he go out of his way to do so now? It looked as if Durrance had +somehow got wind of his journey to Kingsbridge. + +"Does Colonel Durrance know that I am in the club?" he asked. + +"Yes, sir," replied the waiter. + +"Very well. Show him in." + +Durrance had, no doubt come to ask questions, and diplomacy would be +needed to elude them. Captain Willoughby had no mind to meddle any +further in the affairs of Miss Ethne Eustace. Feversham and Durrance +must fight their battle without his intervention. He did not distrust +his powers of diplomacy, but he was not anxious to exert them in this +particular case, and he looked suspiciously at Durrance as he entered +the room. Durrance, however, had apparently no questions to ask. +Willoughby rose from his chair, and crossing the room, guided his +visitor over to his deserted corner. + +"Will you smoke?" he said, and checked himself. "I beg your pardon." + +"Oh, I'll smoke," Durrance answered. "It's not quite true that a man +can't enjoy his tobacco without seeing the smoke of it. If I let my +cigar out, I should know at once. But you will see, I shall not let it +out." He lighted his cigar with deliberation and leaned back in his +chair. + +"I am lucky to find you, Willoughby," he continued, "for I am only in +town for to-day. I come up every now and then from Devonshire to see my +oculist, and I was very anxious to meet you if I could. On my last visit +Mather told me that you were away in the country. You remember Mather, I +suppose? He was with us in Suakin." + +"Of course, I remember him quite well," said Willoughby, heartily. He +was more than willing to talk about Mather; he had a hope that in +talking about Mather, Durrance might forget that other matter which +caused him anxiety. + +"We are both of us curious," Durrance continued, "and you can clear up +the point we are curious about. Did you ever come across an Arab called +Abou Fatma?" + +"Abou Fatma," said Willoughby, slowly, "one of the Hadendoas?" + +"No, a man of the Kabbabish tribe." + +"Abou Fatma?" Willoughby repeated, as though for the first time he had +heard the name. "No, I never came across him;" and then he stopped. It +occurred to Durrance that it was not a natural place at which to stop; +Willoughby might have been expected to add, "Why do you ask me?" or some +question of the kind. But he kept silent. As a matter of fact, he was +wondering how in the world Durrance had ever come to hear of Abou Fatma, +whose name he himself had heard for the first and last time a year ago +upon the verandah of the Palace at Suakin. For he had spoken the truth. +He never had come across Abou Fatma, although Feversham had spoken of +him. + +"That makes me still more curious," Durrance continued. "Mather and I +were together on the last reconnaissance in '84, and we found Abou Fatma +hiding in the bushes by the Sinkat fort. He told us about the Gordon +letters which he had hidden in Berber. Ah! you remember his name now." + +"I was merely getting my pipe out of my pocket," said Willoughby. "But I +do remember the name now that you mention the letters." + +"They were brought to you in Suakin fifteen months or so back. Mather +showed me the paragraph in the _Evening Standard_. And I am curious as +to whether Abou Fatma returned to Berber and recovered them. But since +you have never come across him, it follows that he was not the man." + +Captain Willoughby began to feel sorry that he had been in such haste to +deny all acquaintance with Abou Fatma of the Kabbabish tribe. + +"No; it was not Abou Fatma," he said, with an awkward sort of +hesitation. He dreaded the next question which Durrance would put to +him. He filled his pipe, pondering what answer he should make to it. But +Durrance put no question at all for the moment. + +"I wondered," he said slowly. "I thought that Abou Fatma would hardly +return to Berber. For, indeed, whoever undertook the job undertook it at +the risk of his life, and, since Gordon was dead, for no very obvious +reason." + +"Quite so," said Willoughby, in a voice of relief. It seemed that +Durrance's curiosity was satisfied with the knowledge that Abou Fatma +had not recovered the letters. "Quite so. Since Gordon was dead, for no +reason." + +"For no obvious reason, I think I said," Durrance remarked +imperturbably. Willoughby turned and glanced suspiciously at his +companion, wondering whether, after all, Durrance knew of his visit to +Kingsbridge and its motive. Durrance, however, smoked his cigar, leaning +back in his chair with his face tilted up towards the ceiling. He +seemed, now that his curiosity was satisfied, to have lost interest in +the history of the Gordon letters. At all events, he put no more +questions upon that subject to embarrass Captain Willoughby, and indeed +there was no need that he should. Thinking over the possible way by +which Harry Feversham might have redeemed himself in Willoughby's eyes +from the charge of cowardice, Durrance could only hit upon this recovery +of the letters from the ruined wall in Berber. There had been no +personal danger to the inhabitants of Suakin since the days of that last +reconnaissance. The great troop-ships had steamed between the coral +reefs towards Suez, and no cry for help had ever summoned them back. +Willoughby risked only his health in that white palace on the Red Sea. +There could not have been a moment when Feversham was in a position to +say, "Your life was forfeit but for me, whom you call coward." And +Durrance, turning over in his mind all the news and gossip which had +come to him at Wadi Halfa or during his furloughs, had been brought to +conjecture whether that fugitive from Khartum, who had told him his +story in the glacis of the silent ruined fort of Sinkat during one +drowsy afternoon of May, had not told it again at Suakin within +Feversham's hearing. He was convinced now that his conjecture was +correct. + +Willoughby's reticence was in itself a sufficient confirmation. +Willoughby, without doubt, had been instructed by Ethne to keep his +tongue in a leash. Colonel Durrance was prepared for reticence, he +looked to reticence as the answer to his conjecture. His trained ear, +besides, had warned him that Willoughby was uneasy at his visit and +careful in his speech. There had been pauses, during which Durrance was +as sure as though he had eyes wherewith to see, that his companion was +staring at him suspiciously and wondering how much he knew, or how +little. There had been an accent of wariness and caution in his voice, +which was hatefully familiar to Durrance's ears, for just with that +accent Ethne had been wont to speak. Moreover, Durrance had set +traps,--that remark of his "for no obvious reason, I think I said," had +been one,--and a little start here, or a quick turn there, showed him +that Willoughby had tumbled into them. + +He had no wish, however, that Willoughby should write off to Ethne and +warn her that Durrance was making inquiries. That was a possibility, he +recognised, and he set himself to guard against it. + +"I want to tell you why I was anxious to meet you," he said. "It was +because of Harry Feversham;" and Captain Willoughby, who was +congratulating himself that he was well out of an awkward position, +fairly jumped in his seat. It was not Durrance's policy, however, to +notice his companion's agitation, and he went on quickly: "Something +happened to Feversham. It's more than five years ago now. He did +something, I suppose, or left something undone,--the secret, at all +events, has been closely kept,--and he dropped out, and his place knew +him no more. Now you are going back to the Soudan, Willoughby?" + +"Yes," Willoughby answered, "in a week's time." + +"Well, Harry Feversham is in the Soudan," said Durrance, leaning towards +his companion. + +"You know that?" exclaimed Willoughby. + +"Yes, for I came across him this Spring at Wadi Halfa," Durrance +continued. "He had fallen rather low," and he told Willoughby of their +meeting outside of the cafe of Tewfikieh. "It's strange, isn't it?--a +man whom one knew very well going under like that in a second, +disappearing before your eyes as it were, dropping plumb out of sight as +though down an oubliette in an old French castle. I want you to look out +for him, Willoughby, and do what you can to set him on his legs again. +Let me know if you chance on him. Harry Feversham was a friend of +mine--one of my few real friends." + +"All right," said Willoughby, cheerfully. Durrance knew at once from the +tone of his voice that suspicion was quieted in him. "I will look out +for Feversham. I remember he was a great friend of yours." + +He stretched out his hand towards the matches upon the table beside him. +Durrance heard the scrape of the phosphorus and the flare of the match. +Willoughby was lighting his pipe. It was a well-seasoned piece of briar, +and needed a cleaning; it bubbled as he held the match to the tobacco +and sucked at the mouthpiece. + +"Yes, a great friend," said Durrance. "You and I dined with him in his +flat high up above St. James's Park just before we left England." + +And at that chance utterance Willoughby's briar pipe ceased suddenly to +bubble. A moment's silence followed, then Willoughby swore violently, +and a second later he stamped upon the carpet. Durrance's imagination +was kindled by this simple sequence of events, and he straightway made +up a little picture in his mind. In one chair himself smoking his cigar, +a round table holding a match-stand on his left hand, and on the other +side of the table Captain Willoughby in another chair. But Captain +Willoughby lighting his pipe and suddenly arrested in the act by a +sentence spoken without significance, Captain Willoughby staring +suspiciously in his slow-witted way at the blind man's face, until the +lighted match, which he had forgotten, burnt down to his fingers, and he +swore and dropped it and stamped it out upon the floor. Durrance had +never given a thought to that dinner till this moment. It was possible +it might deserve much thought. + +"There were you and I and Feversham present," he went on. "Feversham had +asked us there to tell us of his engagement to Miss Eustace. He had just +come back from Dublin. That was almost the last we saw of him." He took +a pull at his cigar and added, "By the way, there was a third man +present." + +"Was there?" asked Willoughby. "It's so long ago." + +"Yes--Trench." + +"To be sure, Trench was present. It will be a long time, I am afraid, +before we dine at the same table with poor old Trench again." + +The carelessness of his voice was well assumed; he leaned forwards and +struck another match and lighted his pipe. As he did so, Durrance laid +down his cigar upon the table edge. + +"And we shall never dine with Castleton again," he said slowly. + +"Castleton wasn't there," Willoughby exclaimed, and quickly enough to +betray that, however long the interval since that little dinner in +Feversham's rooms, it was at all events still distinct in his +recollections. + +"No, but he was expected," said Durrance. + +"No, not even expected," corrected Willoughby. "He was dining elsewhere. +He sent the telegram, you remember." + +"Ah, yes, a telegram came," said Durrance. + +That dinner party certainly deserved consideration. Willoughby, Trench, +Castleton--these three men were the cause of Harry Feversham's disgrace +and disappearance. Durrance tried to recollect all the details of the +evening; but he had been occupied himself on that occasion. He +remembered leaning against the window above St. James's Park; he +remembered hearing the tattoo from the parade-ground of Wellington +Barracks--and a telegram had come. + +Durrance made up another picture in his mind. Harry Feversham at the +table reading and re-reading his telegram, Trench and Willoughby waiting +silently, perhaps expectantly, and himself paying no heed, but staring +out from the bright room into the quiet and cool of the park. + +"Castleton was dining with a big man from the War Office that night," +Durrance said, and a little movement at his side warned him that he was +getting hot in his search. He sat for a while longer talking about the +prospects of the Soudan, and then rose up from his chair. + +"Well, I can rely on you, Willoughby, to help Feversham if ever you find +him. Draw on me for money." + +"I will do my best," said Willoughby. "You are going? I could have won a +bet off you this afternoon." + +"How?" + +"You said that you did not let your cigars go out. This one's stone +cold." + +"I forgot about it; I was thinking of Feversham. Good-bye." + +He took a cab and drove away from the club door. Willoughby was glad to +see the last of him, but he was fairly satisfied with his own exhibition +of diplomacy. It would have been strange, after all, he thought, if he +had not been able to hoodwink poor old Durrance; and he returned to the +smoking-room and refreshed himself with a whiskey and potass. + +Durrance, however, had not been hoodwinked. The last perplexing question +had been answered for him that afternoon. He remembered now that no +mention had been made at the dinner which could identify the sender of +the telegram. Feversham had read it without a word, and without a word +had crumpled it up and tossed it into the fire. But to-day Willoughby +had told him that it had come from Castleton, and Castleton had been +dining with a high official of the War Office. The particular act of +cowardice which had brought the three white feathers to Ramelton was +easy to discern. Almost the next day Feversham had told Durrance in the +Row that he had resigned his commission, and Durrance knew that he had +not resigned it when the telegram came. That telegram could have brought +only one piece of news, that Feversham's regiment was ordered on active +service. The more Durrance reflected, the more certain he felt that he +had at last hit upon the truth. Nothing could be more natural than that +Castleton should telegraph his good news in confidence to his friends. +Durrance had the story now complete, or rather, the sequence of facts +complete. For why Feversham should have been seized with panic, why he +should have played the coward the moment after he was engaged to Ethne +Eustace--at a time, in a word, when every manly quality he possessed +should have been at its strongest and truest, remained for Durrance, and +indeed, was always to remain, an inexplicable problem. But he put that +question aside, classing it among the considerations which he had learnt +to estimate as small and unimportant. The simple and true thing--the +thing of real importance--emerged definite and clear: Harry Feversham +was atoning for his one act of cowardice with a full and an overflowing +measure of atonement. + +"I shall astonish old Sutch," he thought, with a chuckle. He took the +night mail into Devonshire the same evening, and reached his home before +midday. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +MRS. ADAIR MAKES HER APOLOGY + + +Within the drawing-room at The Pool, Durrance said good-bye to Ethne. He +had so arranged it that there should be little time for that +leave-taking, and already the carriage stood at the steps of Guessens, +with his luggage strapped upon the roof and his servant waiting at the +door. + +Ethne came out with him on to the terrace, where Mrs. Adair stood at the +top of the flight of steps. Durrance held out his hand to her, but she +turned to Ethne and said:-- + +"I want to speak to Colonel Durrance before he goes." + +"Very well," said Ethne. "Then we will say good-bye here," she added to +Durrance. "You will write from Wiesbaden? Soon, please!" + +"The moment I arrive," answered Durrance. He descended the steps with +Mrs. Adair, and left Ethne standing upon the terrace. The last scene of +pretence had been acted out, the months of tension and surveillance had +come to an end, and both were thankful for their release. Durrance +showed that he was glad even in the briskness of his walk, as he crossed +the lawn at Mrs. Adair's side. She, however, lagged, and when she spoke +it was in a despondent voice. + +"So you are going," she said. "In two days' time you will be at +Wiesbaden and Ethne at Glenalla. We shall all be scattered. It will be +lonely here." + +She had had her way; she had separated Ethne and Durrance for a time at +all events; she was no longer to be tortured by the sight of them and +the sound of their voices; but somehow her interference had brought her +little satisfaction. "The house will seem very empty after you are all +gone," she said; and she turned at Durrance's side and walked down with +him into the garden. + +"We shall come back, no doubt," said Durrance, reassuringly. + +Mrs. Adair looked about her garden. The flowers were gone, and the +sunlight; clouds stretched across the sky overhead, the green of the +grass underfoot was dull, the stream ran grey in the gap between the +trees, and the leaves from the branches were blown russet and yellow +about the lawns. + +"How long shall you stay at Wiesbaden?" she asked. + +"I can hardly tell. But as long as it's advisable," he answered. + +"That tells me nothing at all. I suppose it was meant not to tell me +anything." + +Durrance did not answer her, and she resented his silence. She knew +nothing whatever of his plans; she was unaware whether he meant to break +his engagement with Ethne or to hold her to it, and curiosity consumed +her. It might be a very long time before she saw him again, and all that +long time she must remain tortured with doubts. + +"You distrust me?" she said defiantly, and with a note of anger in her +voice. + +Durrance answered her quite gently:-- + +"Have I no reason to distrust you? Why did you tell me of Captain +Willoughby's coming? Why did you interfere?" + +"I thought you ought to know." + +"But Ethne wished the secret kept. I am glad to know, very glad. But, +after all, you told me, and you were Ethne's friend." + +"Yours, too, I hope," Mrs. Adair answered, and she exclaimed: "How could +I go on keeping silence? Don't you understand?" + +"No." + +Durrance might have understood, but he had never given much thought to +Mrs. Adair, and she knew it. The knowledge rankled within her, and his +simple "no" stung her beyond bearing. + +"I spoke brutally, didn't I?" she said. "I told you the truth as +brutally as I could. Doesn't that help you to understand?" + +Again Durrance said "No," and the monosyllable exasperated her out of +all prudence, and all at once she found herself speaking incoherently +the things which she had thought. And once she had begun, she could not +stop. She stood, as it were, outside of herself, and saw that her speech +was madness; yet she went on with it. + +"I told you the truth brutally on purpose. I was so stung because you +would not see what was so visible had you only the mind to see. I wanted +to hurt you. I am a bad, bad woman, I suppose. There were you and she in +the room talking together in the darkness; there was I alone upon the +terrace. It was the same again to-day. You and Ethne in the room, I +alone upon the terrace. I wonder whether it will always be so. But you +will not say--you will not say." She struck her hands together with a +gesture of despair, but Durrance had no words for her. He walked +silently along the garden path towards the stile, and he quickened his +pace a little, so that Mrs. Adair had to walk fast to keep up with him. +That quickening of the pace was a sort of answer, but Mrs. Adair was not +deterred by it. Her madness had taken hold of her. + +"I do not think I would have minded so much," she continued, "if Ethne +had really cared for you; but she never cared more than as a friend +cares, just a mere friend. And what's friendship worth?" she asked +scornfully. + +"Something, surely," said Durrance. + +"It does not prevent Ethne from shrinking from her friend," cried Mrs. +Adair. "She shrinks from you. Shall I tell you why? Because you are +blind. She is afraid. While I--I will tell you the truth--I am glad. +When the news first came from Wadi Halfa that you were blind, I was +glad; when I saw you in Hill Street, I was glad; ever since, I have been +glad--quite glad. Because I saw that she shrank. From the beginning she +shrank, thinking how her life would be hampered and fettered," and the +scorn of Mrs. Adair's voice increased, though her voice itself was sunk +to a whisper. "I am not afraid," she said, and she repeated the words +passionately again and again. "I am not afraid. I am not afraid." + +To Durrance it seemed that in all his experience nothing so horrible had +ever occurred as this outburst by the woman who was Ethne's friend, +nothing so unforeseen. + +"Ethne wrote to you at Wadi Halfa out of pity," she went on, "that was +all. She wrote out of pity; and, having written, she was afraid of what +she had done; and being afraid, she had not courage to tell you she was +afraid. You would not have blamed her, if she had frankly admitted it; +you would have remained her friend. But she had not the courage." + +Durrance knew that there was another explanation of Ethne's hesitations +and timidities. He knew, too, that the other explanation was the true +one. But to-morrow he himself would be gone from the Salcombe estuary, +and Ethne would be on her way to the Irish Channel and Donegal. It was +not worth while to argue against Mrs. Adair's slanders. Besides, he was +close upon the stile which separated the garden of The Pool from the +fields. Once across that stile, he would be free of Mrs. Adair. He +contented himself with saying quietly:-- + +"You are not just to Ethne." + +At that simple utterance the madness of Mrs. Adair went from her. She +recognised the futility of all that she had said, of her boastings of +courage, of her detractions of Ethne. Her words might be true or not, +they could achieve nothing. Durrance was always in the room with Ethne, +never upon the terrace with Mrs. Adair. She became conscious of her +degradation, and she fell to excuses. + +"I am a bad woman, I suppose. But after all, I have not had the happiest +of lives. Perhaps there is something to be said for me." It sounded +pitiful and weak, even in her ears; but they had reached the stile, and +Durrance had turned towards her. She saw that his face lost something of +its sternness. He was standing quietly, prepared now to listen to what +she might wish to say. He remembered that in the old days when he could +see, he had always associated her with a dignity of carriage and a +reticence of speech. It seemed hardly possible that it was the same +woman who spoke to him now, and the violence of the contrast made him +ready to believe that there must be perhaps something to be said on her +behalf. + +"Will you tell me?" he said gently. + +"I was married almost straight from school. I was the merest girl. I +knew nothing, and I was married to a man of whom I knew nothing. It was +my mother's doing, and no doubt she thought that she was acting for the +very best. She was securing for me a position of a kind, and comfort and +release from any danger of poverty. I accepted what she said blindly, +ignorantly. I could hardly have refused, indeed, for my mother was an +imperious woman, and I was accustomed to obedience. I did as she told me +and married dutifully the man whom she chose. The case is common enough, +no doubt, but its frequency does not make it easier of endurance." + +"But Mr. Adair?" said Durrance. "After all, I knew him. He was older, no +doubt, than you, but he was kind. I think, too, he cared for you." + +"Yes. He was kindness itself, and he cared for me. Both things are true. +The knowledge that he did care for me was the one link, if you +understand. At the beginning I was contented, I suppose. I had a house +in town and another here. But it was dull," and she stretched out her +arms. "Oh, how dull it was! Do you know the little back streets in a +manufacturing town? Rows of small houses, side by side, with nothing to +relieve them of their ugly regularity, each with the self-same windows, +the self-same door, the self-same door-step. Overhead a drift of smoke, +and every little green thing down to the plants in the window dirty and +black. The sort of street whence any crazy religious charlatan who can +promise a little colour to their grey lives can get as many votaries as +he wants. Well, when I thought over my life, one of those little streets +always came into my mind. There are women, heaps of them, no doubt, to +whom the management of a big house, the season in London, the ordinary +round of visits, are sufficient. I, worse luck, was not one of them. +Dull! You, with your hundred thousand things to do, cannot conceive how +oppressively dull my life was. And that was not all!" She hesitated, but +she could not stop midway, and it was far too late for her to recover +her ground. She went on to the end. + +"I married, as I say, knowing nothing of the important things. I +believed at the first that mine was just the allotted life of all women. +But I began soon to have my doubts. I got to know that there was +something more to be won out of existence than mere dulness; at least, +that there was something more for others, though not for me. One could +not help learning that. One passed a man and a woman riding together, +and one chanced to look into the woman's face as one passed; or one saw, +perhaps, the woman alone and talked with her for a little while, and +from the happiness of her looks and voice one knew with absolute +certainty that there was ever so much more. Only the chance of that +ever so much more my mother had denied to me." + +All the sternness had now gone from Durrance's face, and Mrs. Adair was +speaking with a great simplicity. Of the violence which she had used +before there was no longer any trace. She did not appeal for pity, she +was not even excusing herself; she was just telling her story quietly +and gently. + +"And then you came," she continued. "I met you, and met you again. You +went away upon your duties and you returned; and I learnt now, not that +there was ever so much more, but just what that ever so much more was. +But it was still, of course, denied to me. However, in spite of that I +felt happier. I thought that I should be quite content to have you for a +friend, to watch your progress, and to feel pride in it. But you +see--Ethne came, too, and you turned to her. At once--oh, at once! If +you had only been a little less quick to turn to her! In a very short +while I was sad and sorry that you had ever come into my life." + +"I knew nothing of this," said Durrance. "I never suspected. I am +sorry." + +"I took care you should not suspect," said Mrs. Adair. "But I tried to +keep you; with all my wits I tried. No match-maker in the world ever +worked so hard to bring two people together as I did to bring together +Ethne and Mr. Feversham, and I succeeded." + +The statement came upon Durrance with a shock. He leaned back against +the stile and could have laughed. Here was the origin of the whole sad +business. From what small beginnings it had grown! It is a trite +reflection, but the personal application of it is apt to take away the +breath. It was so with Durrance as he thought himself backwards into +those days when he had walked on his own path, heedless of the people +with whom he came in touch, never dreaming that they were at that moment +influencing his life right up to his dying day. Feversham's disgrace and +ruin, Ethne's years of unhappiness, the wearying pretences of the last +few months, all had their origin years ago when Mrs. Adair, to keep +Durrance to herself, threw Feversham and Ethne into each other's +company. + +"I succeeded," continued Mrs. Adair. "You told me that I had succeeded +one morning in the Row. How glad I was! You did not notice it, I am +sure. The next moment you took all my gladness from me by telling me you +were starting for the Soudan. You were away three years. They were not +happy years for me. You came back. My husband was dead, but Ethne was +free. Ethne refused you, but you went blind and she claimed you. You can +see what ups and downs have fallen to me. But these months here have +been the worst." + +"I am very sorry," said Durrance. Mrs. Adair was quite right, he +thought. There was indeed something to be said on her behalf. The world +had gone rather hardly with her. He was able to realise what she had +suffered, since he was suffering in much the same way himself. It was +quite intelligible to him why she had betrayed Ethne's secret that night +upon the terrace, and he could not but be gentle with her. + +"I am very sorry, Mrs. Adair," he repeated lamely. There was nothing +more which he could find to say, and he held out his hand to her. + +"Good-bye," she said, and Durrance climbed over the stile and crossed +the fields to his house. + +Mrs. Adair stood by that stile for a long while after he had gone. She +had shot her bolt and hit no one but herself and the man for whom she +cared. + +She realised that distinctly. She looked forward a little, too, and she +understood that if Durrance did not, after all, keep Ethne to her +promise and marry her and go with her to her country, he would come back +to Guessens. That reflection showed Mrs. Adair yet more clearly the +folly of her outcry. If she had only kept silence, she would have had a +very true and constant friend for her neighbour, and that would have +been something. It would have been a good deal. But, since she had +spoken, they could never meet without embarrassment, and, practise +cordiality as they might, there would always remain in their minds the +recollection of what she had said and he had listened to on the +afternoon when he left for Wiesbaden. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +ON THE NILE + + +It was a callous country inhabited by a callous race, thought Calder, as +he travelled down the Nile from Wadi Halfa to Assouan on his three +months' furlough. He leaned over the rail of the upper deck of the +steamer and looked down upon the barge lashed alongside. On the lower +deck of the barge among the native passengers stood an angareb,[2] +whereon was stretched the motionless figure of a human being shrouded in +a black veil. The angareb and its burden had been carried on board early +that morning at Korosko by two Arabs, who now sat laughing and +chattering in the stern of the barge. It might have been a dead man or a +dead woman who lay still and stretched out upon the bedstead, so little +heed did they give to it. Calder lifted his eyes and looked to his right +and his left across glaring sand and barren rocks shaped roughly into +the hard forms of pyramids. The narrow meagre strip of green close by +the water's edge upon each bank was the only response which the Soudan +made to Spring and Summer and the beneficent rain. A callous country +inhabited by a callous people. + +[Footnote 2: The native bedstead of matting woven across a four-legged +frame.] + +Calder looked downwards again to the angareb upon the barge's deck and +the figure lying upon it. Whether it was man or woman he could not +tell. The black veil lay close about the face, outlining the nose, the +hollows of the eyes and the mouth; but whether the lips wore a moustache +and the chin a beard, it did not reveal. + +The slanting sunlight crept nearer and nearer to the angareb. The +natives seated close to it moved into the shadow of the upper deck, but +no one moved the angareb, and the two men laughing in the stern gave no +thought to their charge. Calder watched the blaze of yellow light creep +over the black recumbent figure from the feet upwards. It burnt at last +bright and pitiless upon the face. Yet the living creature beneath the +veil never stirred. The veil never fluttered above the lips, the legs +remained stretched out straight, the arms lay close against the side. + +Calder shouted to the two men in the stern. + +"Move the angareb into the shadow," he cried, "and be quick!" + +The Arabs rose reluctantly and obeyed him. + +"Is it a man or woman?" asked Calder. + +"A man. We are taking him to the hospital at Assouan, but we do not +think that he will live. He fell from a palm tree three weeks ago." + +"You give him nothing to eat or drink?" + +"He is too ill." + +It was a common story and the logical outcome of the belief that life +and death are written and will inevitably befall after the manner of the +writing. That man lying so quiet beneath the black covering had probably +at the beginning suffered nothing more serious than a bruise, which a +few simple remedies would have cured within a week. But he had been +allowed to lie, even as he lay upon the angareb, at the mercy of the +sun and the flies, unwashed, unfed, and with his thirst unslaked. The +bruise had become a sore, the sore had gangrened, and when all remedies +were too late, the Egyptian Mudir of Korosko had discovered the accident +and sent the man on the steamer down to Assouan. But, familiar though +the story was, Calder could not dismiss it from his thoughts. The +immobility of the sick man upon the native bedstead in a way fascinated +him, and when towards sunset a strong wind sprang up and blew against +the stream, he felt an actual comfort in the knowledge that the sick man +would gain some relief from it. And when his neighbour that evening at +the dinner table spoke to him with a German accent, he suddenly asked +upon an impulse:-- + +"You are not a doctor by any chance?" + +"Not a doctor," said the German, "but a student of medicine at Bonn. I +came from Cairo to see the Second Cataract, but was not allowed to go +farther than Wadi Halfa." + +Calder interrupted him at once. "Then I will trespass upon your holiday +and claim your professional assistance." + +"For yourself? With pleasure, though I should never have guessed you +were ill," said the student, smiling good-naturedly behind his +eyeglasses. + +"Nor am I. It is an Arab for whom I ask your help." + +"The man on the bedstead?" + +"Yes, if you will be so good. I will warn you--he was hurt three weeks +ago, and I know these people. No one will have touched him since he was +hurt. The sight will not be pretty. This is not a nice country for +untended wounds." + +The German student shrugged his shoulders. "All experience is good," +said he, and the two men rose from the table and went out on to the +upper deck. + +The wind had freshened during the dinner, and, blowing up stream, had +raised waves so that the steamer and its barge tossed and the water +broke on board. + +"He was below there," said the student, as he leaned over the rail and +peered downwards to the lower deck of the barge alongside. It was night, +and the night was dark. Above that lower deck only one lamp, swung from +the centre of the upper deck, glimmered and threw uncertain lights and +uncertain shadows over a small circle. Beyond the circle all was black +darkness, except at the bows, where the water breaking on board flung a +white sheet of spray. It could be seen like a sprinkle of snow driven by +the wind, it could be heard striking the deck like the lash of a whip. + +"He has been moved," said the German. "No doubt he has been moved. There +is no one in the bows." + +Calder bent his head downwards and stared into the darkness for a little +while without speaking. + +"I believe the angareb is there," he said at length. "I believe it is." + +Followed by the German, he hurried down the stairway to the lower deck +of the steamer and went to the side. He could make certain now. The +angareb stood in a wash of water on the very spot to which at Calder's +order it had been moved that morning. And on the angareb the figure +beneath the black covering lay as motionless as ever, as inexpressive of +life and feeling, though the cold spray broke continually upon its face. + +"I thought it would be so," said Calder. He got a lantern and with the +German student climbed across the bulwarks on to the barge. He summoned +the two Arabs. + +"Move the angareb from the bows," he said; and when they had obeyed, +"Now take that covering off. I wish my friend who is a doctor to see the +wound." + +The two men hesitated, and then one of them with an air of insolence +objected. "There are doctors in Assouan, whither we are taking him." + +Calder raised the lantern and himself drew the veil away from off the +wounded man. "Now if you please," he said to his companion. The German +student made his examination of the wounded thigh, while Calder held the +lantern above his head. As Calder had predicted, it was not a pleasant +business; for the wound crawled. The German student was glad to cover it +up again. + +"I can do nothing," he said. "Perhaps, in a hospital, with baths and +dressings--! Relief will be given at all events; but more? I do not +know. Here I could not even begin to do anything at all. Do these two +men understand English?" + +"No," answered Calder. + +"Then I can tell you something. He did not get the hurt by falling out +of any palm tree. That is a lie. The injury was done by the blade of a +spear or some weapon of the kind." + +"Are you sure?" + +"Yes." + +Calder bent down suddenly towards the Arab on the angareb. Although he +never moved, the man was conscious. Calder had been looking steadily at +him, and he saw that his eyes followed the spoken words. + +"You understand English?" said Calder. + +The Arab could not answer with his lips, but a look of comprehension +came into his face. + +"Where do you come from?" asked Calder. + +The lips tried to move, but not so much as a whisper escaped from them. +Yet his eyes spoke, but spoke vainly. For the most which they could tell +was a great eagerness to answer. Calder dropped upon his knee close by +the man's head and, holding the lantern close, enunciated the towns. + +"From Dongola?" + +No gleam in the Arab's eyes responded to that name. + +"From Metemneh? From Berber? From Omdurman? Ah!" + +The Arab answered to that word. He closed his eyelids. Calder went on +still more eagerly. + +"You were wounded there? No. Where then? At Berber? Yes. You were in +prison at Omdurman and escaped? No. Yet you were wounded." + +Calder sank back upon his knee and reflected. His reflections roused in +him some excitement. He bent down to the Arab's ear and spoke in a lower +key. + +"You were helping some one to escape? Yes. Who? El Kaimakam Trench? No." +He mentioned the names of other white captives in Omdurman, and to each +name the Arab's eyes answered "No." "It was Effendi Feversham, then?" +he said, and the eyes assented as clearly as though the lips had spoken. + +But this was all the information which Calder could secure. "I too am +pledged to help Effendi Feversham," he said, but in vain. The Arab could +not speak, he could not so much as tell his name, and his companions +would not. Whatever those two men knew or suspected, they had no mind to +meddle in the matter themselves, and they clung consistently to a story +which absolved them from responsibility. Kinsmen of theirs in Korosko, +hearing that they were travelling to Assouan, had asked them to take +charge of the wounded man, who was a stranger to them, and they had +consented. Calder could get nothing more explicit from them than this +statement, however closely he questioned them. He had under his hand the +information which he desired, the news of Harry Feversham for which +Durrance asked by every mail, but it was hidden from him in a locked +book. He stood beside the helpless man upon the angareb. There he was, +eager enough to speak, but the extremity of weakness to which he had +sunk laid a finger upon his lips. All that Calder could do was to see +him safely bestowed within the hospital at Assouan. "Will he recover?" +Calder asked, and the doctors shook their heads in doubt. There was a +chance perhaps, a very slight chance; but at the best, recovery would be +slow. + +Calder continued upon his journey to Cairo and Europe. An opportunity of +helping Harry Feversham had slipped away; for the Arab who could not +even speak his name was Abou Fatma of the Kabbabish tribe, and his +presence wounded and helpless upon the Nile steamer between Korosko and +Assouan meant that Harry Feversham's carefully laid plan for the rescue +of Colonel Trench had failed. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +LIEUTENANT SUTCH COMES OFF THE HALF-PAY LIST + + +At the time when Calder, disappointed at his failure to obtain news of +Feversham from the one man who possessed it, stepped into a carriage of +the train at Assouan, Lieutenant Sutch was driving along a high white +road of Hampshire across a common of heather and gorse; and he too was +troubled on Harry Feversham's account. Like many a man who lives much +alone, Lieutenant Sutch had fallen into the habit of speaking his +thoughts aloud. And as he drove slowly and reluctantly forward, more +than once he said to himself: "I foresaw there would be trouble. From +the beginning I foresaw there would be trouble." + +The ridge of hill along which he drove dipped suddenly to a hollow. +Sutch saw the road run steeply down in front of him between forests of +pines to a little railway station. The sight of the rails gleaming +bright in the afternoon sunlight, and the telegraph poles running away +in a straight line until they seemed to huddle together in the distance, +increased Sutch's discomposure. He reined his pony in, and sat staring +with a frown at the red-tiled roof of the station building. + +"I promised Harry to say nothing," he said; and drawing some makeshift +of comfort from the words, repeated them, "I promised faithfully in the +Criterion grill-room." + +The whistle of an engine a long way off sounded clear and shrill. It +roused Lieutenant Sutch from his gloomy meditations. He saw the white +smoke of an approaching train stretch out like a riband in the distance. + +"I wonder what brings him," he said doubtfully; and then with an effort +at courage, "Well, it's no use shirking." He flicked the pony with his +whip and drove briskly down the hill. He reached the station as the +train drew up at the platform. Only two passengers descended from the +train. They were Durrance and his servant, and they came out at once on +to the road. Lieutenant Sutch hailed Durrance, who walked to the side of +the trap. + +"You received my telegram in time, then?" said Durrance. + +"Luckily it found me at home." + +"I have brought a bag. May I trespass upon you for a night's lodging?" + +"By all means," said Sutch, but the tone of his voice quite clearly to +Durrance's ears belied the heartiness of the words. Durrance, however, +was prepared for a reluctant welcome, and he had purposely sent his +telegram at the last moment. Had he given an address, he suspected that +he might have received a refusal of his visit. And his suspicion was +accurate enough. The telegram, it is true, had merely announced +Durrance's visit, it had stated nothing of his object; but its despatch +was sufficient to warn Sutch that something grave had happened, +something untoward in the relations of Ethne Eustace and Durrance. +Durrance had come, no doubt, to renew his inquiries about Harry +Feversham, those inquiries which Sutch was on no account to answer, +which he must parry all this afternoon and night. But he saw Durrance +feeling about with his raised foot for the step of the trap, and the +fact of his visitor's blindness was brought home to him. He reached out +a hand, and catching Durrance by the arm, helped him up. After all, he +thought, it would not be difficult to hoodwink a blind man. Ethne +herself had had the same thought and felt much the same relief as Sutch +felt now. The lieutenant, indeed, was so relieved that he found room for +an impulse of pity. + +"I was very sorry, Durrance, to hear of your bad luck," he said, as he +drove off up the hill. "I know what it is myself to be suddenly stopped +and put aside just when one is making way and the world is smoothing +itself out, though my wound in the leg is nothing in comparison to your +blindness. I don't talk to you about compensations and patience. That's +the gabble of people who are comfortable and haven't suffered. _We_ know +that for a man who is young and active, and who is doing well in a +career where activity is a necessity, there are no compensations if his +career's suddenly cut short through no fault of his." + +"Through no fault of his," repeated Durrance. "I agree with you. It is +only the man whose career is cut short through his own fault who gets +compensations." + +Sutch glanced sharply at his companion. Durrance had spoken slowly and +very thoughtfully. Did he mean to refer to Harry Feversham, Sutch +wondered. Did he know enough to be able so to refer to him? Or was it +merely by chance that his words were so strikingly apposite? + +"Compensations of what kind?" Sutch asked uneasily. + +"The chance of knowing himself for one thing, for the chief thing. He is +brought up short, stopped in his career, perhaps disgraced." Sutch +started a little at the word. "Yes, perhaps--disgraced," Durrance +repeated. "Well, the shock of the disgrace is, after all, his +opportunity. Don't you see that? It's his opportunity to know himself at +last. Up to the moment of disgrace his life has all been sham and +illusion; the man he believed himself to be, he never was, and now at +the last he knows it. Once he knows it, he can set about to retrieve his +disgrace. Oh, there are compensations for such a man. You and I know a +case in point." + +Sutch no longer doubted that Durrance was deliberately referring to +Harry Feversham. He had some knowledge, though how he had gained it +Sutch could not guess. But the knowledge was not to Sutch's idea quite +accurate, and the inaccuracy did Harry Feversham some injustice. It was +on that account chiefly that Sutch did not affect any ignorance as to +Durrance's allusion. The passage of the years had not diminished his +great regard for Harry; he cared for him indeed with a woman's +concentration of love, and he could not endure that his memory should be +slighted. + +"The case you and I know of is not quite in point," he argued. "You are +speaking of Harry Feversham." + +"Who believed himself a coward, and was not one. He commits the fault +which stops his career, he finds out his mistake, he sets himself to the +work of retrieving his disgrace. Surely it's a case quite in point." + +"Yes, I see," Sutch agreed. "There is another view, a wrong view as I +know, but I thought for the moment it was your view--that Harry fancied +himself to be a brave man and was suddenly brought up short by +discovering that he was a coward. But how did you find out? No one knew +the whole truth except myself." + +"I am engaged to Miss Eustace," said Durrance. + +"She did not know everything. She knew of the disgrace, but she did not +know of the determination to retrieve it." + +"She knows now," said Durrance; and he added sharply, "You are glad of +that--very glad." + +Sutch was not aware that by any movement or exclamation he had betrayed +his pleasure. His face, no doubt, showed it clearly enough, but Durrance +could not see his face. Lieutenant Sutch was puzzled, but he did not +deny the imputation. + +"It is true," he said stoutly. "I am very glad that she knows. I can +quite see that from your point of view it would be better if she did not +know. But I cannot help it. I am very glad." + +Durrance laughed, and not at all unpleasantly. "I like you the better +for being glad," he said. + +"But how does Miss Eustace know?" asked Sutch. "Who told her? I did not, +and there is no one else who could tell her." + +"You are wrong. There is Captain Willoughby. He came to Devonshire six +weeks ago. He brought with him a white feather which he gave to Miss +Eustace, as a proof that he withdrew his charge of cowardice against +Harry Feversham." + +Sutch stopped the pony in the middle of the road. He no longer troubled +to conceal the joy which this good news caused him. Indeed, he forgot +altogether Durrance's presence at his side. He sat quite silent and +still, with a glow of happiness upon him, such as he had never known in +all his life. He was an old man now, well on in his sixties; he had +reached an age when the blood runs slow, and the pleasures are of a grey +sober kind, and joy has lost its fevers. But there welled up in his +heart a gladness of such buoyancy as only falls to the lot of youth. +Five years ago on the pier of Dover he had watched a mail packet steam +away into darkness and rain, and had prayed that he might live until +this great moment should come. And he had lived and it had come. His +heart was lifted up in gratitude. It seemed to him that there was a +great burst of sunlight across the world, and that the world itself had +suddenly grown many-coloured and a place of joys. Ever since the night +when he had stood outside the War Office in Pall Mall, and Harry +Feversham had touched him on the arm and had spoken out his despair, +Lieutenant Sutch had been oppressed with a sense of guilt. Harry was +Muriel Feversham's boy, and Sutch just for that reason should have +watched him and mothered him in his boyhood since his mother was dead, +and fathered him in his youth since his father did not understand. But +he had failed. He had failed in a sacred trust, and he had imagined +Muriel Feversham's eyes looking at him with reproach from the barrier of +the skies. He had heard her voice in his dreams saying to him gently, +ever so gently: "Since I was dead, since I was taken away to where I +could only see and not help, surely you might have helped. Just for my +sake you might have helped,--you whose work in the world was at an end." +And the long tale of his inactive years had stood up to accuse him. Now, +however, the guilt was lifted from his shoulders, and by Harry +Feversham's own act. The news was not altogether unexpected, but the +lightness of spirit which he felt showed him how much he had counted +upon its coming. + +"I knew," he exclaimed, "I knew he wouldn't fail. Oh, I am glad you came +to-day, Colonel Durrance. It was partly my fault, you see, that Harry +Feversham ever incurred that charge of cowardice. I could have +spoken--there was an opportunity on one of the Crimean nights at Broad +Place, and a word might have been of value--and I held my tongue. I have +never ceased to blame myself. I am grateful for your news. You have the +particulars? Captain Willoughby was in peril, and Harry came to his +aid?" + +"No, it was not that exactly." + +"Tell me! Tell me!" + +He feared to miss a word. Durrance related the story of the Gordon +letters, and their recovery by Feversham. It was all too short for +Lieutenant Sutch. + +"Oh, but I am glad you came," he cried. + +"You understand at all events," said Durrance, "that I have not come to +repeat to you the questions I asked in the courtyard of my club. I am +able, on the contrary, to give you information." + +Sutch spoke to the pony and drove on. He had said nothing which could +reveal to Durrance his fear that to renew those questions was the +object of his visit; and he was a little perplexed at the accuracy of +Durrance's conjecture. But the great news to which he had listened +hindered him from giving thought to that perplexity. + +"So Miss Eustace told you the story," he said, "and showed you the +feather?" + +"No, indeed," replied Durrance. "She said not a word about it, she never +showed me the feather, she even forbade Willoughby to hint of it, she +sent him away from Devonshire before I knew that he had come. You are +disappointed at that," he added quickly. + +Lieutenant Sutch was startled. It was true he was disappointed; he was +jealous of Durrance, he wished Harry Feversham to stand first in the +girl's thoughts. It was for her sake that Harry had set about his +difficult and perilous work. Sutch wished her to remember him as he +remembered her. Therefore he was disappointed that she did not at once +come with her news to Durrance and break off their engagement. It would +be hard for Durrance, no doubt, but that could not be helped. + +"Then how did you learn the story?" asked Sutch. + +"Some one else told me. I was told that Willoughby had come, and that he +had brought a white feather, and that Ethne had taken it from him. Never +mind by whom. That gave me a clue. I lay in wait for Willoughby in +London. He is not very clever; he tried to obey Ethne's command of +silence, but I managed to extract the information I wanted. The rest of +the story I was able to put together by myself. Ethne now and then was +off her guard. You are surprised that I was clever enough to find out +the truth by the exercise of my own wits?" said Durrance, with a laugh. + +Lieutenant Sutch jumped in his seat. It was mere chance, of course, that +Durrance continually guessed with so singular an accuracy; still it was +uncomfortable. + +"I have said nothing which could in any way suggest that I was +surprised," he said testily. + +"That is quite true, but you are none the less surprised," continued +Durrance. "I don't blame you. You could not know that it is only since I +have been blind that I have begun to see. Shall I give you an instance? +This is the first time that I have ever come into this neighbourhood or +got out at your station. Well, I can tell you that you have driven me up +a hill between forests of pines, and are now driving me across open +country of heather." + +Sutch turned quickly towards Durrance. + +"The hill, of course, you would notice. But the pines?" + +"The air was close. I knew there were trees. I guessed they were pines." + +"And the open country?" + +"The wind blows clear across it. There's a dry stiff rustle besides. I +have never heard quite that sound except when the wind blows across +heather." + +He turned the conversation back to Harry Feversham and his +disappearance, and the cause of his disappearance. He made no mention, +Sutch remarked, of the fourth white feather which Ethne herself had +added to the three. But the history of the three which had come by the +post to Ramelton he knew to its last letter. + +"I was acquainted with the men who sent them," he said, "Trench, +Castleton, Willoughby. I met them daily in Suakin, just ordinary +officers, one rather shrewd, the second quite commonplace, the third +distinctly stupid. I saw them going quietly about the routine of their +work. It seems quite strange to me now. There should have been some mark +set upon them, setting them apart as the particular messengers of fate. +But there was nothing of the kind. They were just ordinary prosaic +regimental officers. Doesn't it seem strange to you, too? Here were men +who could deal out misery and estrangement and years of suffering, +without so much as a single word spoken, and they went about their +business, and you never knew them from other men until a long while +afterwards some consequence of what they did, and very likely have +forgotten, rises up and strikes you down." + +"Yes," said Sutch. "That thought has occurred to me." He fell to +wondering again what object had brought Durrance into Hampshire, since +he did not come for information; but Durrance did not immediately +enlighten him. They reached the lieutenant's house. It stood alone by +the roadside looking across a wide country of downs. Sutch took Durrance +over his stable and showed him his horses, he explained to him the +arrangement of his garden and the grouping of his flowers. Still +Durrance said nothing about the reason of his visit; he ceased to talk +of Harry Feversham and assumed a great interest in the lieutenant's +garden. But indeed the interest was not all pretence. These two men had +something in common, as Sutch had pointed out at the moment of their +meeting--the abrupt termination of a promising career. One of the two +was old, the other comparatively young, and the younger man was most +curious to discover how his elder had managed to live through the +dragging profitless years alone. The same sort of lonely life lay +stretched out before Durrance, and he was anxious to learn what +alleviations could be practised, what small interests could be +discovered, how best it could be got through. + +"You don't live within sight of the sea," he said at last as they stood +together, after making the round of the garden, at the door. + +"No, I dare not," said Sutch, and Durrance nodded his head in complete +sympathy and comprehension. + +"I understand. You care for it too much. You would have the full +knowledge of your loss presented to your eyes each moment." + +They went into the house. Still Durrance did not refer to the object of +his visit. They dined together and sat over their wine alone. Still +Durrance did not speak. It fell to Lieutenant Sutch to recur to the +subject of Harry Feversham. A thought had been gaining strength in his +mind all that afternoon, and since Durrance would not lead up to its +utterance, he spoke it out himself. + +"Harry Feversham must come back to England. He has done enough to redeem +his honour." + +Harry Feversham's return might be a little awkward for Durrance, and +Lieutenant Sutch with that notion in his mind blurted out his sentences +awkwardly, but to his surprise Durrance answered him at once. + +"I was waiting for you to say that. I wanted you to realise without any +suggestion of mine that Harry must return. It was with that object that +I came." + +Lieutenant Sutch's relief was great. He had been prepared for an +objection, at the best he only expected a reluctant acquiescence, and in +the greatness of his relief he spoke again:-- + +"His return will not really trouble you or your wife, since Miss Eustace +has forgotten him." + +Durrance shook his head. + +"She has not forgotten him." + +"But she kept silence, even after Willoughby had brought the feather +back. You told me so this afternoon. She said not a word to you. She +forbade Willoughby to tell you." + +"She is very true, very loyal," returned Durrance. "She has pledged +herself to me, and nothing in the world, no promise of happiness, no +thought of Harry, would induce her to break her pledge. I know her. But +I know too that she only plighted herself to me out of pity, because I +was blind. I know that she has not forgotten Harry." + +Lieutenant Sutch leaned back in his chair and smiled. He could have +laughed outright. He asked for no details, he did not doubt Durrance's +words. He was overwhelmed with pride in that Harry Feversham, in spite +of his disgrace and his long absence,--Harry Feversham, his favourite, +had retained this girl's love. No doubt she was very true, very loyal. +Sutch endowed her on the instant with all the good qualities possible to +a human being. The nobler she was, the greater was his pride that Harry +Feversham still retained her heart. Lieutenant Sutch fairly revelled in +this new knowledge. It was not to be wondered at after all, he thought; +there was nothing astonishing in the girl's fidelity to any one who was +really acquainted with Harry Feversham, it was only an occasion of great +gladness. Durrance would have to get out of the way, of course, but then +he should never have crossed Harry Feversham's path. Sutch was cruel +with the perfect cruelty of which love alone is capable. + +"You are very glad of that," said Durrance, quietly. "Very glad that +Ethne has not forgotten him. It is a little hard on me, perhaps, who +have not much left. It would have been less hard if two years ago you +had told me the whole truth, when I asked it of you that summer evening +in the courtyard of the club." + +Compunction seized upon Lieutenant Sutch. The gentleness with which +Durrance had spoken, and the quiet accent of weariness in his voice, +brought home to him something of the cruelty of his great joy and pride. +After all, what Durrance said was true. If he had broken his word that +night at the club, if he had related Feversham's story, Durrance would +have been spared a great deal. + +"I couldn't!" he exclaimed. "I promised Harry in the most solemn way +that I would tell no one until he came back himself. I was sorely +tempted to tell you, but I had given my word. Even if Harry never came +back, if I obtained sure knowledge that he was dead, even then I was +only to tell his father, and even his father not all that could be told +on his behalf." + +He pushed back his chair and went to the window. "It is hot in here," +he said. "Do you mind?" and without waiting for an answer he loosed the +catch and raised the sash. For some little while he stood by the open +window, silent, undecided. Durrance plainly did not know of the fourth +feather broken off from Ethne's fan, he had not heard the conversation +between himself and Feversham in the grill-room of the Criterion +Restaurant. There were certain words spoken by Harry upon that occasion +which it seemed fair Durrance should now hear. Compunction and pity bade +Sutch repeat them, his love of Harry Feversham enjoined him to hold his +tongue. He could plead again that Harry had forbidden him speech, but +the plea would be an excuse and nothing more. He knew very well that +were Harry present, Harry would repeat them, and Lieutenant Sutch knew +what harm silence had already done. He mastered his love in the end and +came back to the table. + +"There is something which it is fair you should know," he said. "When +Harry went away to redeem his honour, if the opportunity should come, he +had no hope, indeed he had no wish, that Miss Eustace should wait for +him. She was the spur to urge him, but she did not know even that. He +did not wish her to know. He had no claim upon her. There was not even a +hope in his mind that she might at some time be his friend--in this +life, at all events. When he went away from Ramelton, he parted from +her, according to his thought, for all his mortal life. It is fair that +you should know that. Miss Eustace, you tell me, is not the woman to +withdraw from her pledged word. Well, what I said to you that evening +at the club I now repeat. There will be no disloyalty to friendship if +you marry Miss Eustace." + +It was a difficult speech for Lieutenant Sutch to utter, and he was very +glad when he had uttered it. Whatever answer he received, it was right +that the words should be spoken, and he knew that, had he refrained from +speech, he would always have suffered remorse for his silence. None the +less, however, he waited in suspense for the answer. + +"It is kind of you to tell me that," said Durrance, and he smiled at the +lieutenant with a great friendliness. "For I can guess what the words +cost you. But you have done Harry Feversham no harm by speaking them. +For, as I told you, Ethne has not forgotten him; and I have my point of +view. Marriage between a man blind like myself and any woman, let alone +Ethne, could not be fair or right unless upon both sides there was more +than friendship. Harry must return to England. He must return to Ethne, +too. You must go to Egypt and do what you can to bring him back." + +Sutch was relieved of his suspense. He had obeyed his conscience and yet +done Harry Feversham no disservice. + +"I will start to-morrow," he said. "Harry is still in the Soudan?" + +"Of course." + +"Why of course?" asked Sutch. "Willoughby withdrew his accusation; +Castleton is dead--he was killed at Tamai; and Trench--I know, for I +have followed all these three men's careers--Trench is a prisoner in +Omdurman." + +"So is Harry Feversham." + +Sutch stared at his visitor. For a moment he did not understand, the +shock had been too sudden and abrupt. Then after comprehension dawned +upon him, he refused to believe. The folly of that refusal in its turn +became apparent. He sat down in his chair opposite to Durrance, awed +into silence. And the silence lasted for a long while. + +"What am I to do?" he said at length. + +"I have thought it out," returned Durrance. "You must go to Suakin. I +will give you a letter to Willoughby, who is Deputy-Governor, and +another to a Greek merchant there whom I know, and on whom you can draw +for as much money as you require." + +"That's good of you, Durrance, upon my word," Sutch interrupted; and +forgetting that he was talking to a blind man he held out his hand +across the table. "I would not take a penny if I could help it; but I am +a poor man. Upon my soul it's good of you." + +"Just listen to me, please," said Durrance. He could not see the +outstretched hand, but his voice showed that he would hardly have taken +it if he had. He was striking the final blow at his chance of happiness. +But he did not wish to be thanked for it. "At Suakin you must take the +Greek merchant's advice and organise a rescue as best you can. It will +be a long business, and you will have many disappointments before you +succeed. But you must stick to it until you do." + +Upon that the two men fell to a discussion of the details of the length +of time which it would take for a message from Suakin to be carried +into Omdurman, of the untrustworthiness of some Arab spies, and of the +risks which the trustworthy ran. Sutch's house was searched for maps, +the various routes by which the prisoners might escape were described by +Durrance--the great forty days' road from Kordofan on the west, the +straight track from Omdurman to Berber and from Berber to Suakin, and +the desert journey across the Belly of Stones by the wells of Murat to +Korosko. It was late before Durrance had told all that he thought +necessary and Sutch had exhausted his questions. + +"You will stay at Suakin as your base of operations," said Durrance, as +he closed up the maps. + +"Yes," answered Sutch, and he rose from his chair. "I will start as soon +as you give me the letters." + +"I have them already written." + +"Then I will start to-morrow. You may be sure I will let both you and +Miss Eustace know how the attempt progresses." + +"Let me know," said Durrance, "but not a whisper of it to Ethne. She +knows nothing of my plan, and she must know nothing until Feversham +comes back himself. She has her point of view, as I have mine. Two lives +shall not be spoilt because of her. That's her resolve. She believes +that to some degree she was herself the cause of Harry Feversham's +disgrace--that but for her he would not have resigned his commission." + +"Yes." + +"You agree with that? At all events she believes it. So there's one life +spoilt because of her. Suppose now I go to her and say: 'I know that you +pretend out of your charity and kindness to care for me, but in your +heart you are no more than my friend,' why, I hurt her, and cruelly. For +there's all that's left of the second life spoilt too. But bring back +Feversham! Then I can speak--then I can say freely: 'Since you are just +my friend, I would rather be your friend and nothing more. So neither +life will be spoilt at all.'" + +"I understand," said Sutch. "It's the way a man should speak. So till +Feversham comes back the pretence remains. She pretends to care for you, +you pretend you do not know she thinks of Harry. While I go eastwards to +bring him home, you go back to her." + +"No," said Durrance, "I can't go back. The strain of keeping up the +pretence was telling too much on both of us. I go to Wiesbaden. An +oculist lives there who serves me for an excuse. I shall wait at +Wiesbaden until you bring Harry home." + +Sutch opened the door, and the two men went out into the hall. The +servants had long since gone to bed. A couple of candlesticks stood upon +a table beside a lamp. More than once Lieutenant Sutch had forgotten +that his visitor was blind, and he forgot the fact again. He lighted +both candles and held out one to his companion. Durrance knew from the +noise of Sutch's movements what he was doing. + +"I have no need of a candle," he said with a smile. The light fell full +upon his face, and Sutch suddenly remarked how tired it looked and old. +There were deep lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth, and +furrows in the cheeks. His hair was grey as an old man's hair. Durrance +had himself made so little of his misfortune this evening that Sutch had +rather come to rate it as a small thing in the sum of human calamities, +but he read his mistake now in Durrance's face. Just above the flame of +the candle, framed in the darkness of the hall, it showed white and +drawn and haggard--the face of an old worn man set upon the stalwart +shoulders of a man in the prime of his years. + +"I have said very little to you in the way of sympathy," said Sutch. "I +did not know that you would welcome it. But I am sorry. I am very +sorry." + +"Thanks," said Durrance, simply. He stood for a moment or two silently +in front of his host. "When I was in the Soudan, travelling through the +deserts, I used to pass the white skeletons of camels lying by the side +of the track. Do you know the camel's way? He is an unfriendly, +graceless beast, but he marches to within an hour of his death. He drops +and dies with the load upon his back. It seemed to me, even in those +days, the right and enviable way to finish. You can imagine how I must +envy them that advantage of theirs now. Good night." + +He felt for the bannister and walked up the stairs to his room. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +GENERAL FEVERSHAM'S PORTRAITS ARE APPEASED + + +Lieutenant Sutch, though he went late to bed, was early astir in the +morning. He roused the household, packed and repacked his clothes, and +made such a bustle and confusion that everything to be done took twice +its ordinary time in the doing. There never had been so much noise and +flurry in the house during all the thirty years of Lieutenant Sutch's +residence. His servants could not satisfy him, however quickly they +scuttled about the passages in search of this or that forgotten article +of his old travelling outfit. Sutch, indeed, was in a boyish fever of +excitement. It was not to be wondered at, perhaps. For thirty years he +had lived inactive--on the world's half-pay list, to quote his own +phrase; and at the end of all that long time, miraculously, something +had fallen to him to do--something important, something which needed +energy and tact and decision. Lieutenant Sutch, in a word, was to be +employed again. He was feverish to begin his employment. He dreaded the +short interval before he could begin, lest some hindrance should +unexpectedly occur and relegate him again to inactivity. + +"I shall be ready this afternoon," he said briskly to Durrance as they +breakfasted. "I shall catch the night mail to the Continent. We might +go up to London together; for London is on your way to Wiesbaden." + +"No," said Durrance, "I have just one more visit to pay in England. I +did not think of it until I was in bed last night. You put it into my +head." + +"Oh," observed Sutch, "and whom do you propose to visit?" + +"General Feversham," replied Durrance. + +Sutch laid down his knife and fork and looked with surprise at his +companion. "Why in the world do you wish to see him?" he asked. + +"I want to tell him how Harry has redeemed his honour, how he is still +redeeming it. You said last night that you were bound by a promise not +to tell him anything of his son's intention, or even of his son's +success until the son returned himself. But I am bound by no promise. I +think such a promise bears hardly on the general. There is nothing in +the world which could pain him so much as the proof that his son was a +coward. Harry might have robbed and murdered. The old man would have +preferred him to have committed both these crimes. I shall cross into +Surrey this morning and tell him that Harry never was a coward." + +Sutch shook his head. + +"He will not be able to understand. He will be very grateful to you, of +course. He will be very glad that Harry has atoned his disgrace, but he +will never understand why he incurred it. And, after all, he will only +be glad because the family honour is restored." + +"I don't agree," said Durrance. "I believe the old man is rather fond of +his son, though to be sure he would never admit it. I rather like +General Feversham." + +Lieutenant Sutch had seen very little of General Feversham during the +last five years. He could not forgive him for his share in the +responsibility of Harry Feversham's ruin. Had the general been capable +of sympathy with and comprehension of the boy's nature, the white +feathers would never have been sent to Ramelton. Sutch pictured the old +man sitting sternly on his terrace at Broad Place, quite unaware that he +was himself at all to blame, and on the contrary, rather inclined to +pose as a martyr, in that his son had turned out a shame and disgrace to +all the dead Fevershams whose portraits hung darkly on the high walls of +the hall. Sutch felt that he could never endure to talk patiently with +General Feversham, and he was sure that no argument would turn that +stubborn man from his convictions. He had not troubled at all to +consider whether the news which Durrance had brought should be handed on +to Broad Place. + +"You are very thoughtful for others," he said to Durrance. + +"It's not to my credit. I practise thoughtfulness for others out of an +instinct of self-preservation, that's all," said Durrance. "Selfishness +is the natural and encroaching fault of the blind. I know that, so I am +careful to guard against it." + +He travelled accordingly that morning by branch lines from Hampshire +into Surrey, and came to Broad Place in the glow of the afternoon. +General Feversham was now within a few months of his eightieth year, and +though his back was as stiff and his figure as erect as on that night +now so many years ago when he first presented Harry to his Crimean +friends, he was shrunken in stature, and his face seemed to have grown +small. Durrance had walked with the general upon his terrace only two +years ago, and blind though he was, he noticed a change within this +interval of time. Old Feversham walked with a heavier step, and there +had come a note of puerility into his voice. + +"You have joined the veterans before your time, Durrance," he said. "I +read of it in a newspaper. I would have written had I known where to +write." + +If he had any suspicion of Durrance's visit, he gave no sign of it. He +rang the bell, and tea was brought into the great hall where the +portraits hung. He asked after this and that officer in the Soudan with +whom he was acquainted, he discussed the iniquities of the War Office, +and feared that the country was going to the deuce. + +"Everything through ill-luck or bad management is going to the devil, +sir," he exclaimed irritably. "Even you, Durrance, you are not the same +man who walked with me on my terrace two years ago." + +The general had never been remarkable for tact, and the solitary life he +led had certainly brought no improvement. Durrance could have countered +with a _tu quoque_, but he refrained. + +"But I come upon the same business," he said. + +Feversham sat up stiffly in his chair. + +"And I give you the same answer. I have nothing to say about Harry +Feversham. I will not discuss him." + +He spoke in his usual hard and emotionless voice. He might have been +speaking of a stranger. Even the name was uttered without the slightest +hint of sorrow. Durrance began to wonder whether the fountains of +affection had not been altogether dried up in General Feversham's heart. + +"It would not please you, then, to know where Harry Feversham has been, +and how he has lived during the last five years?" + +There was a pause--not a long pause, but still a pause--before General +Feversham answered:-- + +"Not in the least, Colonel Durrance." + +The answer was uncompromising, but Durrance relied upon the pause which +preceded it. + +"Nor on what business he has been engaged?" he continued. + +"I am not interested in the smallest degree. I do not wish him to +starve, and my solicitor tells me that he draws his allowance. I am +content with that knowledge, Colonel Durrance." + +"I will risk your anger, General," said Durrance. "There are times when +it is wise to disobey one's superior officer. This is one of the times. +Of course you can turn me out of the house. Otherwise I shall relate to +you the history of your son and my friend since he disappeared from +England." + +General Feversham laughed. + +"Of course, I can't turn you out of the house," he said; and he added +severely, "But I warn you that you are taking an improper advantage of +your position as my guest." + +"Yes, there is no doubt of that," Durrance answered calmly; and he told +his story--the recovery of the Gordon letters from Berber, his own +meeting with Harry Feversham at Wadi Halfa, and Harry's imprisonment at +Omdurman. He brought it down to that very day, for he ended with the +news of Lieutenant Sutch's departure for Suakin. General Feversham heard +the whole account without an interruption, without even stirring in his +chair. Durrance could not tell in what spirit he listened, but he drew +some comfort from the fact that he did listen and without argument. + +For some while after Durrance had finished, the general sat silent. He +raised his hand to his forehead and shaded his eyes as though the man +who had spoken could see, and thus he remained. Even when he did speak, +he did not take his hand away. Pride forbade him to show to those +portraits on the walls that he was capable even of so natural a weakness +as joy at the reconquest of honour by his son. + +"What I don't understand," he said slowly, "is why Harry ever resigned +his commission. I could not understand it before; I understand it even +less now since you have told me of his great bravery. It is one of the +queer inexplicable things. They happen, and there's all that can be +said. But I am very glad that you compelled me to listen to you, +Durrance." + +"I did it with a definite object. It is for you to say, of course, but +for my part I do not see why Harry should not come home and enter in +again to all that he lost." + +"He cannot regain everything," said Feversham. "It is not right that he +should. He committed the sin, and he must pay. He cannot regain his +career for one thing." + +"No, that is true; but he can find another. He is not yet so old but +that he can find another. And that is all that he will have lost." + +General Feversham now took his hand away and moved in his chair. He +looked quickly at Durrance; he opened his mouth to ask a question, but +changed his mind. + +"Well," he said briskly, and as though the matter were of no particular +importance, "if Sutch can manage Harry's escape from Omdurman, I see no +reason, either, why he should not come home." + +Durrance rose from his chair. "Thank you, General. If you can have me +driven to the station, I can catch a train to town. There's one at six." + +"But you will stay the night, surely," cried General Feversham. + +"It is impossible. I start for Wiesbaden early to-morrow." + +Feversham rang the bell and gave the order for a carriage. "I should +have been very glad if you could have stayed," he said, turning to +Durrance. "I see very few people nowadays. To tell the truth I have no +great desire to see many. One grows old and a creature of customs." + +"But you have your Crimean nights," said Durrance, cheerfully. + +Feversham shook his head. "There have been none since Harry went away. I +had no heart for them," he said slowly. For a second the mask was lifted +and his stern features softened. He had suffered much during these five +lonely years of his old age, though not one of his acquaintances up to +this moment had ever detected a look upon his face or heard a sentence +from his lips which could lead them so to think. He had shown a +stubborn front to the world; he had made it a matter of pride that no +one should be able to point a finger at him and say, "There's a man +struck down." But on this one occasion and in these few words he +revealed to Durrance the depth of his grief. Durrance understood how +unendurable the chatter of his friends about the old days of war in the +snowy trenches would have been. An anecdote recalling some particular +act of courage would hurt as keenly as a story of cowardice. The whole +history of his lonely life at Broad Place was laid bare in that simple +statement that there had been no Crimean nights for he had no heart for +them. + +The wheels of the carriage rattled on the gravel. + +"Good-bye," said Durrance, and he held out his hand. + +"By the way," said Feversham, "to organise this escape from Omdurman +will cost a great deal of money. Sutch is a poor man. Who is paying?" + +"I am." + +Feversham shook Durrance's hand in a firm clasp. + +"It is my right, of course," he said. + +"Certainly. I will let you know what it costs." + +"Thank you." + +General Feversham accompanied his visitor to the door. There was a +question which he had it in his mind to ask, but the question was +delicate. He stood uneasily on the steps of the house. + +"Didn't I hear, Durrance," he said with an air of carelessness, "that +you were engaged to Miss Eustace?" + +"I think I said that Harry would regain all that he had lost except his +career," said Durrance. + +He stepped into the carriage and drove off to the station. His work was +ended. There was nothing more for him now to do, except to wait at +Wiesbaden and pray that Sutch might succeed. He had devised the plan, it +remained for those who had eyes wherewith to see to execute it. + +General Feversham stood upon the steps looking after the carriage until +it disappeared among the pines. Then he walked slowly back into the +hall. "There is no reason why he should not come back," he said. He +looked up at the pictures. The dead Fevershams in their uniforms would +not be disgraced. "No reason in the world," he said. "And, please God, +he will come back soon." The dangers of an escape from the Dervish city +remote among the sands began to loom very large on his mind. He owned to +himself that he felt very tired and old, and many times that night he +repeated his prayer, "Please God, Harry will come back soon," as he sat +erect upon the bench which had once been his wife's favourite seat, and +gazed out across the moonlit country to the Sussex Downs. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +THE HOUSE OF STONE + + +These were the days before the great mud wall was built about the House +of Stone in Omdurman. Only a thorn zareeba as yet enclosed that noisome +prison and the space about it. It stood upon the eastern border of the +town, surely the most squalid capital of any empire since the world +began. Not a flower bloomed in a single corner. There was no grass nor +the green shade of any tree. A brown and stony plain, burnt by the sun, +and, built upon it a straggling narrow city of hovels crawling with +vermin and poisoned with disease. + +Between the prison and the Nile no houses stood, and at this time the +prisoners were allowed, so long as daylight lasted, to stumble in their +chains down the half-mile of broken sloping earth to the Nile bank, so +that they might draw water for their use and perform their ablutions. +For the native or the negro, then, escape was not so difficult. For +along that bank the dhows were moored and they were numerous; the river +traffic, such as there was of it, had its harbour there, and the wide +foreshore made a convenient market-place. Thus the open space between +the river and the House of Stone was thronged and clamorous all day, +captives rubbed elbows with their friends, concerted plans of escape, or +then and there slipped into the thickest of the crowd and made their +way to the first blacksmith, with whom the price of iron outweighed any +risk he took. But even on their way to the blacksmith's shop, their +fetters called for no notice in Omdurman. Slaves wore them as a daily +habit, and hardly a street in all that long brown treeless squalid city +was ever free from the clink of a man who walked in chains. + +But for the European escape was another matter. There were not so many +white prisoners but that each was a marked man. Besides relays of camels +stationed through the desert, much money, long preparations, and above +all, devoted natives who would risk their lives, were the first +necessities for their evasion. The camels might be procured and +stationed, but it did not follow that their drivers would remain at the +stations; the long preparations might be made and the whip of the gaoler +overset them at the end by flogging the captive within an inch of his +life, on a suspicion that he had money; the devoted servant might shrink +at the last moment. Colonel Trench began to lose all hope. His friends +were working for him, he knew. For at times the boy who brought his food +into the prison would bid him be ready; at times, too, when at some +parade of the Khalifa's troops he was shown in triumph as an emblem of +the destiny of all the Turks, a man perhaps would jostle against his +camel and whisper encouragements. But nothing ever came of the +encouragements. He saw the sun rise daily beyond the bend of the river +behind the tall palm trees of Khartum and burn across the sky, and the +months dragged one after the other. + +On an evening towards the end of August, in that year when Durrance +came home blind from the Soudan, he sat in a corner of the enclosure +watching the sun drop westwards towards the plain with an agony of +anticipation. For however intolerable the heat and burden of the day, it +was as nothing compared with the horrors which each night renewed. The +moment of twilight came and with it Idris es Saier, the great negro of +the Gawaamah tribe, and his fellow-gaolers. + +"Into the House of Stone!" he cried. + +Praying and cursing, with the sound of the pitiless whips falling +perpetually upon the backs of the hindmost, the prisoners jostled and +struggled at the narrow entrance to the prison house. Already it was +occupied by some thirty captives, lying upon the swamped mud floor or +supported against the wall in the last extremities of weakness and +disease. Two hundred more were driven in at night and penned there till +morning. The room was perhaps thirty feet square, of which four feet +were occupied by a solid pillar supporting the roof. There was no window +in the building; a few small apertures near the roof made a pretence of +giving air, and into this foul and pestilent hovel the prisoners were +packed, screaming and fighting. The door was closed upon them, utter +darkness replaced the twilight, so that a man could not distinguish even +the outlines of the heads of the neighbours who wedged him in. + +Colonel Trench fought like the rest. There was a corner near the door +which he coveted at that moment with a greater fierceness of desire than +he had ever felt in the days when he had been free. Once in that corner, +he would have some shelter from the blows, the stamping feet, the +bruises of his neighbour's shackles; he would have, too, a support +against which to lean his back during the ten interminable hours of +suffocation. + +"If I were to fall! If I were to fall!" + +That fear was always with him when he was driven in at night. It worked +in him like a drug producing madness. For if a man once went down amid +that yelling, struggling throng, he never got up again--he was trampled +out of shape. Trench had seen such victims dragged from the prison each +morning; and he was a small man. Therefore he fought for his corner in a +frenzy like a wild beast, kicking with his fetters, thrusting with his +elbows, diving under this big man's arm, burrowing between two others, +tearing at their clothes, using his nails, his fists, and even striking +at heads with the chain which dangled from the iron ring about his neck. +He reached the corner in the end, streaming with heat and gasping for +breath; the rest of the night he would spend in holding it against all +comers. + +"If I were to fall!" he gasped. "O God, if I were to fall!" and he +shouted aloud to his neighbour--for in that clamour nothing less than a +shout was audible--"Is it you, Ibrahim?" and a like shout answered him, +"Yes, Effendi." + +Trench felt some relief. Between Ibrahim, a great tall Arab of the +Hadendoas, and Trench, a friendship born of their common necessities had +sprung up. There were no prison rations at Omdurman; each captive was +dependent upon his own money or the charity of his friends outside. To +Trench from time to time there came money from his friends, brought +secretly into the prison by a native who had come up from Assouan or +Suakin; but there were long periods during which no help came to him, +and he lived upon the charity of the Greeks who had sworn conversion to +the Mahdist faith, or starved with such patience as he could. There were +times, too, when Ibrahim had no friend to send him his meal into the +prison. And thus each man helped the other in his need. They stood side +by side against the wall at night. + +"Yes, Effendi, I am here," and groping with his hand in the black +darkness, he steadied Trench against the wall. + +A fight of even more than common violence was raging in an extreme +corner of the prison, and so closely packed were the prisoners that with +each advance of one combatant and retreat of the other, the whole +jostled crowd swayed in a sort of rhythm, from end to end, from side to +side. But they swayed, fighting to keep their feet, fighting even with +their teeth, and above the din and noise of their hard breathing, the +clank of their chains, and their imprecations, there rose now and then a +wild sobbing cry for mercy, or an inhuman shriek, stifled as soon as +uttered, which showed that a man had gone down beneath the stamping +feet. Missiles, too, were flung across the prison, even to the foul +earth gathered from the floor, and since none knew from what quarter +they were flung, heads were battered against heads in the effort to +avoid them. And all these things happened in the blackest darkness. + +For two hours Trench stood in that black prison ringing with noise, rank +with heat, and there were eight hours to follow before the door would be +opened and he could stumble into the clean air and fall asleep in the +zareeba. He stood upon tiptoe that he might lift his head above his +fellows, but even so he could barely breathe, and the air he breathed +was moist and sour. His throat was parched, his tongue was swollen in +his mouth and stringy like a dried fig. It seemed to him that the +imagination of God could devise no worse hell than the House of Stone on +an August night in Omdurman. It could add fire, he thought, but only +fire. + +"If I were to fall!" he cried, and as he spoke his hell was made +perfect, for the door was opened. Idris es Saier appeared in the +opening. + +"Make room," he cried, "make room," and he threw fire among the +prisoners to drive them from the door. Lighted tufts of dried grass +blazed in the darkness and fell upon the bodies of the prisoners. The +captives were so crowded they could not avoid the missiles; in places, +even, they could not lift their hands to dislodge them from their +shoulders or their heads. + +"Make room," cried Idris. The whips of his fellow-gaolers enforced his +command, the lashes fell upon all within reach, and a little space was +cleared within the door. Into that space a man was flung and the door +closed again. + +Trench was standing close to the door; in the dim twilight which came +through the doorway he had caught a glimpse of the new prisoner, a man +heavily ironed, slight of figure, and bent with suffering. + +"He will fall," he said, "he will fall to-night. God! if I were to!" and +suddenly the crowd swayed against him, and the curses rose louder and +shriller than before. + +The new prisoner was the cause. He clung to the door with his face +against the panels, through the chinks of which actual air might come. +Those behind plucked him from his vantage, jostled him, pressed him +backwards that they might take his place. He was driven as a wedge is +driven by a hammer, between this prisoner and that, until at last he was +flung against Colonel Trench. + +The ordinary instincts of kindness could not live in the nightmare of +that prison house. In the daytime, outside, the prisoners were often +drawn together by their bond of a common misery; the faithful as often +as not helped the infidel. But to fight for life during the hours of +darkness without pity or cessation was the one creed and practice of the +House of Stone. Colonel Trench was like the rest. The need to live, if +only long enough to drink one drop of water in the morning and draw one +clean mouthful of fresh air, was more than uppermost in his mind. It was +the only thought he had. + +"Back!" he cried violently, "back, or I strike!"--and, as he wrestled to +lift his arm above his head that he might strike the better, he heard +the man who had been flung against him incoherently babbling English. + +"Don't fall," cried Trench, and he caught his fellow-captive by the arm. +"Ibrahim, help! God, if he were to fall!" and while the crowd swayed +again and the shrill cries and curses rose again, deafening the ears, +piercing the brain, Trench supported his companion, and bending down his +head caught again after so many months the accent of his own tongue. And +the sound of it civilised him like the friendship of a woman. + +He could not hear what was said; the din was too loud. But he caught, +as it were, shadows of words which had once been familiar to him, which +had been spoken to him, which he had spoken to others--as a matter of +course. In the House of Stone they sounded most wonderful. They had a +magic, too. Meadows of grass, cool skies, and limpid rivers rose in grey +quiet pictures before his mind. For a moment he was insensible to his +parched throat, to the stench of that prison house, to the oppressive +blackness. But he felt the man whom he supported totter and slip, and +again he cried to Ibrahim:-- + +"If he were to fall!" + +Ibrahim helped as only he could. Together they fought and wrestled until +those about them yielded, crying:-- + +"Shaitan! They are mad!" + +They cleared a space in that corner and, setting the Englishman down +upon the ground, they stood in front of him lest he should be trampled. +And behind him upon the ground Trench heard every now and then in a lull +of the noise the babble of English. + +"He will die before morning," he cried to Ibrahim, "he is in a fever!" + +"Sit beside him," said the Hadendoa. "I can keep them back." + +Trench stooped and squatted in the corner, Ibrahim set his legs well +apart and guarded Trench and his new friend. + +Bending his head, Trench could now hear the words. They were the words +of a man in delirium, spoken in a voice of great pleading. He was +telling some tale of the sea, it seemed. + +"I saw the riding lights of the yachts--and the reflections shortening +and lengthening as the water rippled--there was a band, too, as we +passed the pier-head. What was it playing? Not the overture--and I don't +think that I remember any other tune...." And he laughed with a crazy +chuckle. "I was always pretty bad at appreciating music, wasn't I? +except when you played," and again he came back to the sea. "There was +the line of hills upon the right as the boat steamed out of the bay--you +remember there were woods on the hillside--perhaps you have forgotten. +Then came Bray, a little fairyland of lights close down by the water at +the point of the ridge ... you remember Bray, we lunched there once or +twice, just you and I, before everything was settled ... it seemed +strange to be steaming out of Dublin Bay and leaving you a long way off +to the north among the hills ... strange and somehow not quite right ... +for that was the word you used when the morning came behind the +blinds--it is not right that one should suffer so much pain ... the +engines didn't stop, though, they just kept throbbing and revolving and +clanking as though nothing had happened whatever ... one felt a little +angry about that ... the fairyland was already only a sort of golden +blot behind ... and then nothing but sea and the salt wind ... and the +things to be done." + +The man in his delirium suddenly lifted himself upon an elbow, and with +the other hand fumbled in his breast as though he searched for +something. "Yes, the things to be done," he repeated in a mumbling +voice, and he sank to unintelligible whisperings, with his head fallen +upon his breast. + +Trench put an arm about him and raised him up. But he could do nothing +more, and even to him, crouched as he was close to the ground, the +noisome heat was almost beyond endurance. In front, the din of shrill +voices, the screams for pity, the swaying and struggling, went on in +that appalling darkness. In one corner there were men singing in a mad +frenzy, in another a few danced in their fetters, or rather tried to +dance; in front of Trench Ibrahim maintained his guard; and beside +Trench there lay in the House of Stone, in the town beyond the world, a +man who one night had sailed out of Dublin Bay, past the riding lanterns +of the yachts, and had seen Bray, that fairyland of lights, dwindle to a +golden blot. To think of the sea and the salt wind, the sparkle of light +as the water split at the ship's bows, the illuminated deck, perhaps the +sound of a bell telling the hour, and the cool dim night about and +above, so wrought upon Trench that, practical unimaginative creature as +he was, for very yearning he could have wept. But the stranger at his +side began to speak again. + +"It is funny that those three faces were always the same ... the man in +the tent with the lancet in his hand, and the man in the back room off +Piccadilly ... and mine. Funny and not quite right. No, I don't think +that was quite right either. They get quite big, too, just when you are +going to sleep in the dark--quite big, and they come very close to you +and won't go away ... they rather frighten one...." And he suddenly +clung to Trench with a close, nervous grip, like a boy in an extremity +of fear. And it was in the tone of reassurance that a man might use to a +boy that Trench replied, "It's all right, old man, it's all right." + +But Trench's companion was already relieved of his fear. He had come +out of his boyhood, and was rehearsing some interview which was to take +place in the future. + +"Will you take it back?" he asked, with a great deal of hesitation and +timidity. "Really? The others have, all except the man who died at +Tamai. And you will too!" He spoke as though he could hardly believe +some piece of great good fortune which had befallen him. Then his voice +changed to that of a man belittling his misfortunes. "Oh, it hasn't been +the best of times, of course. But then one didn't expect the best of +times. And at the worst, one had always the afterwards to look forward +to ... supposing one didn't run.... I'm not sure that when the whole +thing's balanced, it won't come out that you have really had the worst +time. I know you ... it would hurt you through and through, pride and +heart and everything, and for a long time just as much as it hurt that +morning when the daylight came through the blinds. And you couldn't do +anything! And you hadn't the afterwards to help you--you weren't looking +forward to it all the time as I was ... it was all over and done with +for you ..." and he lapsed again into mutterings. + +Colonel Trench's delight in the sound of his native tongue had now given +place to a great curiosity as to the man who spoke and what he said. +Trench had described himself a long while ago as he stood opposite the +cab-stand in the southwest corner of St. James's Square: "I am an +inquisitive, methodical person," he had said, and he had not described +himself amiss. Here was a life history, it seemed, being unfolded to his +ears, and not the happiest of histories, perhaps, indeed, with +something of tragedy at the heart of it. Trench began to speculate upon +the meaning of that word "afterwards," which came and went among the +words like the _motif_ in a piece of music and very likely was the life +_motif_ of the man who spoke them. + +In the prison the heat became stifling, the darkness more oppressive, +but the cries and shouts were dying down; their volume was less great, +their intonation less shrill; stupor and fatigue and exhaustion were +having their effect. Trench bent his head again to his companion and now +heard more clearly. + +"I saw your light that morning ... you put it out suddenly ... did you +hear my step on the gravel?... I thought you did, it hurt rather," and +then he broke out into an emphatic protest. "No, no, I had no idea that +you would wait. I had no wish that you should. Afterwards, perhaps, I +thought, but nothing more, upon my word. Sutch was quite wrong.... Of +course there was always the chance that one might come to grief +oneself--get killed, you know, or fall ill and die--before one asked you +to take your feather back; and then there wouldn't even have been a +chance of the afterwards. But that is the risk one had to take." + +The allusion was not direct enough for Colonel Trench's comprehension. +He heard the word "feather," but he could not connect it as yet with any +action of his own. He was more curious than ever about that +"afterwards"; he began to have a glimmering of its meaning, and he was +struck with wonderment at the thought of how many men there were going +about the world with a calm and commonplace demeanour beneath which +were hidden quaint fancies and poetic beliefs, never to be so much as +suspected, until illness deprived the brain of its control. + +"No, one of the reasons why I never said anything that night to you +about what I intended was, I think, that I did not wish you to wait or +have any suspicion of what I was going to attempt." And then +expostulation ceased, and he began to speak in a tone of interest. "Do +you know, it has only occurred to me since I came to the Soudan, but I +believe that Durrance cared." + +The name came with something of a shock upon Trench's ears. This man +knew Durrance! He was not merely a stranger of Trench's blood, but he +knew Durrance even as Trench knew him. There was a link between them, +they had a friend in common. He knew Durrance, had fought in the same +square with him, perhaps, at Tokar, or Tamai, or Tamanieb, just as Trench +had done! And so Trench's curiosity as to the life history in its turn +gave place to a curiosity as to the identity of the man. He tried to +see, knowing that in that black and noisome hovel sight was impossible. +He might hear, though, enough to be assured. For if the stranger knew +Durrance, it might be that he knew Trench as well. Trench listened; the +sound of the voice, high pitched and rambling, told him nothing. He +waited for the words, and the words came. + +"Durrance stood at the window, after I had told them about you, Ethne," +and Trench repeated the name to himself. It was to a woman, then, that +his new-found compatriot, this friend of Durrance, in his delirium +imagined himself to be speaking--a woman named Ethne. Trench could +recall no such name; but the voice in the dark went on. + +"All the time when I was proposing to send in my papers, after the +telegram had come, he stood at the window of my rooms with his back to +me, looking out across the park. I fancied he blamed me. But I think now +he was making up his mind to lose you.... I wonder." + +Trench uttered so startled an exclamation that Ibrahim turned round. + +"Is he dead?" + +"No, he lives, he lives." + +It was impossible, Trench argued. He remembered quite clearly Durrance +standing by a window with his back to the room. He remembered a telegram +coming which took a long while in the reading--which diffused among all +except Durrance an inexplicable suspense. He remembered, too, a man who +spoke of his betrothal and of sending in his papers. But surely this +could not be the man. Was the woman's name Ethne? A woman of +Donegal--yes; and this man had spoken of sailing out of Dublin Bay--he +had spoken, too, of a feather. + +"Good God!" whispered Trench. "Was the name Ethne? Was it? Was it?" + +But for a while he received no answer. He heard only talk of a +mud-walled city, and an intolerable sun burning upon a wide round of +desert, and a man who lay there all the day with his linen robe drawn +over his head, and slowly drew one face towards him across three +thousand miles, until at sunset it was near, and he took courage and +went down into the gate. And after that, four words stabbed Trench. + +"Three little white feathers," were the words. Trench leaned back +against the wall. It was he who had devised that message. "Three little +white feathers," the voice repeated. "This afternoon we were under the +elms down by the Lennon River--do you remember, Harry?--just you and I. +And then came three little white feathers; and the world's at an end." + +Trench had no longer any doubts. The man was quoting words, and words, +no doubt, spoken by this girl Ethne on the night when the three feathers +came. "Harry," she had said. "Do you remember, Harry?" Trench was +certain. + +"Feversham!" he cried. "Feversham!" And he shook the man whom he held +in his arms and called to him again. "Under the elms by the Lennon +River--" Visions of green shade touched with gold, and of the sunlight +flickering between the leaves, caught at Trench and drew him like a +mirage in that desert of which Feversham had spoken. Feversham had been +under the elms of the Lennon River on that afternoon before the feathers +came, and he was in the House of Stone at Omdurman. But why? Trench asked +himself the question and was not spared the answer. + +"Willoughby took his feather back"--and upon that Feversham broke off. +His voice rambled. He seemed to be running somewhere amid sandhills +which continually shifted and danced about him as he ran, so that he +could not tell which way he went. He was in the last stage of fatigue, +too, so that his voice in his delirium became querulous and weak. "Abou +Fatma!" he cried, and the cry was the cry of a man whose throat is +parched, and whose limbs fail beneath him. "Abou Fatma! Abou Fatma!" He +stumbled as he ran, picked himself up, ran and stumbled again; and about +him the deep soft sand piled itself into pyramids, built itself into +long slopes and ridges, and levelled itself flat with an extraordinary +and a malicious rapidity. "Abou Fatma!" cried Feversham, and he began to +argue in a weak obstinate voice. "I know the wells are here--close +by--within half a mile. I know they are--I know they are." + +The clue to that speech Trench had not got. He knew nothing of +Feversham's adventure at Berber; he could not tell that the wells were +the Wells of Obak, or that Feversham, tired with the hurry of his +travelling, and after a long day's march without water, had lost his way +among the shifting sandhills. But he did know that Willoughby had taken +back his feather, and he made a guess as to the motive which had brought +Feversham now to the House of Stone. Even on that point, however, he was +not to remain in doubt; for in a while he heard his own name upon +Feversham's lips. + +Remorse seized upon Colonel Trench. The sending of the feathers had been +his invention and his alone. He could not thrust the responsibility of +his invention upon either Willoughby or Castleton; it was just his +doing. He had thought it rather a shrewd and clever stroke, he +remembered at the time--a vengeance eminently just. Eminently just, no +doubt, it was, but he had not thought of the woman. He had not imagined +that she might be present when the feathers came. He had indeed almost +forgotten the episode, he had never speculated upon the consequences, +and now they rose up and smote the smiter. + +And his remorse was to grow. For the night was not nearly at its end. +All through the dark slow hours he supported Feversham and heard him +talk. Now Feversham was lurking in the bazaar at Suakin and during the +siege. + +"During the siege," thought Trench. "While we were there, then, he was +herding with the camel-drivers in the bazaar learning their tongues, +watching for his chance. Three years of it!" + +At another moment Feversham was slinking up the Nile to Wadi Halfa with +a zither, in the company of some itinerant musicians, hiding from any +who might remember him and accuse him with his name. Trench heard of a +man slipping out from Wadi Halfa, crossing the Nile and wandering with +the assumed manner of a lunatic southwards, starving and waterless, +until one day he was snapped up by a Mahdist caravan and dragged to +Dongola as a spy. And at Dongola things had happened of which the mere +mention made Trench shake. He heard of leather cords which had been +bound about the prisoner's wrists, and upon which water had been poured +until the cords swelled and the wrists burst, but this was among the +minor brutalities. Trench waited for the morning as he listened, +wondering whether indeed it would ever come. + +He heard the bolts dragged back at the last; he saw the door open and +the good daylight. He stood up and with Ibrahim's help protected this +new comrade until the eager rush was past. Then he supported him out +into the zareeba. Worn, wasted in body and face, with a rough beard +straggled upon his chin, and his eyes all sunk and very bright, it was +still Harry Feversham. Trench laid him down in a corner of the zareeba +where there would be shade; and in a few hours shade would be needed. +Then with the rest he scrambled to the Nile for water and brought it +back. As he poured it down Feversham's throat, Feversham seemed for a +moment to recognise him. But it was only for a moment, and the +incoherent tale of his adventures began again. Thus, after five years, +and for the first time since Trench had dined as Feversham's guest in +the high rooms overlooking St. James's Park, the two men met in the +House of Stone. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +PLANS OF ESCAPE + + +For three days Feversham rambled and wandered in his talk, and for three +days Trench fetched him water from the Nile, shared his food with him, +and ministered to his wants; for three nights, too, he stood with +Ibrahim and fought in front of Feversham in the House of Stone. But on +the fourth morning Feversham waked to his senses and, looking up, with +his own eyes saw bending over him the face of Trench. At first the face +seemed part of his delirium. It was one of those nightmare faces which +had used to grow big and had come so horribly close to him in the dark +nights of his boyhood as he lay in bed. He put out a weak arm and thrust +it aside. But he gazed about him. He was lying in the shadow of the +prison house, and the hard blue sky above him, the brown bare trampled +soil on which he lay, and the figures of his fellow-prisoners dragging +their chains or lying prone upon the ground in some extremity of +sickness gradually conveyed their meaning to him. He turned to Trench, +caught at him as if he feared the next moment would snatch him out of +reach, and then he smiled. + +"I am in the prison at Omdurman," he said, "actually in the prison! This +is Umm Hagar, the House of Stone. It seems too good to be true." + +He leaned back against the wall with an air of extreme relief. To +Trench the words, the tone of satisfaction in which they were uttered, +sounded like some sardonic piece of irony. A man who plumed himself upon +indifference to pain and pleasure--who posed as a being of so much +experience that joy and trouble could no longer stir a pulse or cause a +frown, and who carried his pose to perfection--such a man, thought +Trench, might have uttered Feversham's words in Feversham's voice. But +Feversham was not that man; his delirium had proved it. The +satisfaction, then, was genuine, the words sincere. The peril of Dongola +was past, he had found Trench, he was in Omdurman. That prison house was +his longed-for goal, and he had reached it. He might have been dangling +on a gibbet hundreds of miles away down the stream of the Nile with the +vultures perched upon his shoulders, the purpose for which he lived +quite unfulfilled. But he was in the enclosure of the House of Stone in +Omdurman. + +"You have been here a long while," he said. + +"Three years." + +Feversham looked round the zareeba. "Three years of it," he murmured. "I +was afraid that I might not find you alive." + +Trench nodded. + +"The nights are the worst, the nights in there. It's a wonder any man +lives through a week of them, yet I have lived through a thousand +nights." And even to him who had endured them his endurance seemed +incredible. "A thousand nights of the House of Stone!" he exclaimed. + +"But we may go down to the Nile by daytime," said Feversham, and he +started up with alarm as he gazed at the thorn zareeba. "Surely we are +allowed so much liberty. I was told so. An Arab at Wadi Halfa told me." + +"And it's true," returned Trench. "Look!" He pointed to the earthen bowl +of water at his side. "I filled that at the Nile this morning." + +"I must go," said Feversham, and he lifted himself up from the ground. +"I must go this morning," and since he spoke with a raised voice and a +manner of excitement, Trench whispered to him:-- + +"Hush. There are many prisoners here, and among them many tale-bearers." + +Feversham sank back on to the ground as much from weakness as in +obedience to Trench's warning. + +"But they cannot understand what we say," he objected in a voice from +which the excitement had suddenly gone. + +"They can see that we talk together and earnestly. Idris would know of +it within the hour, the Khalifa before sunset. There would be heavier +fetters and the courbatch if we spoke at all. Lie still. You are weak, +and I too am very tired. We will sleep, and later in the day we will go +together down to the Nile." + +Trench lay down beside Feversham and in a moment was asleep. Feversham +watched him, and saw, now that his features were relaxed, the marks of +those three years very plainly in his face. It was towards noon before +he awoke. + +"There is no one to bring you food?" he asked, and Feversham answered:-- + +"Yes. A boy should come. He should bring news as well." + +They waited until the gate of the zareeba was opened and the friends or +wives of the prisoners entered. At once that enclosure became a cage of +wild beasts. The gaolers took their dole at the outset. Little more of +the "aseeda"--that moist and pounded cake of dhurra which was the staple +diet of the town--than was sufficient to support life was allowed to +reach the prisoners, and even for that the strong fought with the weak, +and the group of four did battle with the group of three. From every +corner men gaunt and thin as skeletons hopped and leaped as quickly as +the weight of their chains would allow them towards the entrance. Here +one weak with starvation tripped and fell, and once fallen lay prone in +a stolid despair, knowing that for him there would be no meal that day. +Others seized upon the messengers who brought the food, and tore it from +their hands, though the whips of the gaolers laid their backs open. +There were thirty gaolers to guard that enclosure, each armed with his +rhinoceros-hide courbatch, but this was the one moment in each day when +the courbatch was neither feared, nor, as it seemed, felt. + +Among the food-bearers a boy sheltered himself behind the rest and gazed +irresolutely about the zareeba. It was not long, however, before he was +detected. He was knocked down, and his food snatched from his hands; but +the boy had his lungs, and his screams brought Idris-es-Saier himself +upon the three men who had attacked him. + +"For whom do you come?" asked Idris, as he thrust the prisoners aside. + +"For Joseppi, the Greek," answered the boy, and Idris pointed to the +corner where Feversham lay. The boy advanced, holding out his empty +hands as though explaining how it was that he brought no food. But he +came quite close, and squatting at Feversham's side continued to explain +with words. And as he spoke he loosed a gazelle skin which was fastened +about his waist beneath his jibbeh, and he let it fall by Feversham's +side. The gazelle skin contained a chicken, and upon that Feversham and +Trench breakfasted and dined and supped. An hour later they were allowed +to pass out of the zareeba and make their way to the Nile. They walked +slowly and with many halts, and during one of these Trench said:-- + +"We can talk here." + +Below them, at the water's edge, some of the prisoners were unloading +dhows, others were paddling knee-deep in the muddy water. The shore was +crowded with men screaming and shouting and excited for no reason +whatever. The gaolers were within view, but not within ear-shot. + +"Yes, we can talk here. Why have you come?" + +"I was captured in the desert, on the Arbain road," said Feversham, +slowly. + +"Yes, masquerading as a lunatic musician who had wandered out of Wadi +Halfa with a zither. I know. But you were captured by your own +deliberate wish. You came to join me in Omdurman. I know." + +"How do you know?" + +"You told me. During the last three days you have told me much," and +Feversham looked about him suddenly in alarm, "Very much," continued +Trench. "You came to join me because five years ago I sent you a white +feather." + +"And was that all I told you?" asked Feversham, anxiously. + +"No," Trench replied, and he dragged out the word. He sat up while +Feversham lay on his side, and he looked towards the Nile in front of +him, holding his head between his hands, so that he could not see or be +seen by Feversham. "No, that was not all--you spoke of a girl, the same +girl of whom you spoke when Willoughby and Durrance and I dined with you +in London a long while ago. I know her name now--her Christian name. She +was with you when the feathers came. I had not thought of that +possibility. She gave you a fourth feather to add to our three. I am +sorry." + +There was a silence of some length, and then Feversham replied slowly:-- + +"For my part I am not sorry. I mean I am not sorry that she was present +when the feathers came. I think, on the whole, that I am rather glad. +She gave me the fourth feather, it is true, but I am glad of that as +well. For without her presence, without that fourth feather snapped from +her fan, I might have given up there and then. Who knows? I doubt if I +could have stood up to the three long years in Suakin. I used to see you +and Durrance and Willoughby and many men who had once been my friends, +and you were all going about the work which I was used to. You can't +think how the mere routine of a regiment to which one had become +accustomed, and which one cursed heartily enough when one had to put up +with it, appealed as something very desirable. I could so easily have +run away. I could so easily have slipped on to a boat and gone back to +Suez. And the chance for which I waited never came--for three years." + +"You saw us?" said Trench. "And you gave no sign?" + +"How would you have taken it if I had?" And Trench was silent. "No, I +saw you, but I was careful that you should not see me. I doubt if I +could have endured it without the recollection of that night at +Ramelton, without the feel of the fourth feather to keep the +recollection actual and recent in my thoughts. I should never have gone +down from Obak into Berber. I should certainly never have joined you in +Omdurman." + +Trench turned quickly towards his companion. + +"She would be glad to hear you say that," he said. "I have no doubt she +is sorry about her fourth feather, sorry as I am about the other three." + +"There is no reason that she should be, or that you either should be +sorry. I don't blame you, or her," and in his turn Feversham was silent +and looked towards the river. The air was shrill with cries, the shore +was thronged with a motley of Arabs and negroes, dressed in their long +robes of blue and yellow and dirty brown; the work of unloading the +dhows went busily on; across the river and beyond its fork the palm +trees of Khartum stood up against the cloudless sky; and the sun behind +them was moving down to the west. In a few hours would come the horrors +of the House of Stone. But they were both thinking of the elms by the +Lennon River and a hall of which the door stood open to the cool night +and which echoed softly to the music of a waltz, while a girl and a man +stood with three white feathers fallen upon the floor between them; the +one man recollected, the other imagined, the picture, and to both of +them it was equally vivid. Feversham smiled at last. + +"Perhaps she has now seen Willoughby; perhaps she has now taken his +feather." + +Trench held out his hand to his companion. + +"I will take mine back now." + +Feversham shook his head. + +"No, not yet," and Trench's face suddenly lighted up. A hope which had +struggled up in his hopeless breast during the three days and nights of +his watch, a hope which he had striven to repress for very fear lest it +might prove false, sprang to life. + +"Not yet,--then you _have_ a plan for our escape," and the anxiety +returned to Feversham's face. + +"I said nothing of it," he pleaded, "tell me that! When I was delirious +in the prison there, I said nothing of it, I breathed no word of it? I +told you of the four feathers, I told you of Ethne, but of the plan for +your escape I said nothing." + +"Not a single word. So that I myself was in doubt, and did not dare to +believe," and Feversham's anxiety died away. He had spoken with his hand +trembling upon Trench's arm, and his voice itself had trembled with +alarm. + +"You see if I spoke of that in the House of Stone," he exclaimed, "I +might have spoken of it in Dongola. For in Dongola as well as in +Omdurman I was delirious. But I didn't, you say--not here, at all +events. So perhaps not there either. I was afraid that I should--how I +was afraid! There was a woman in Dongola who spoke some English--very +little, but enough. She had been in the 'Kauneesa' of Khartum when +Gordon ruled there. She was sent to question me. I had unhappy times in +Dongola." + +Trench interrupted him in a low voice. "I know. You told me things which +made me shiver," and he caught hold of Feversham's arm and thrust the +loose sleeve back. Feversham's scarred wrists confirmed the tale. + +"Well, I felt myself getting light-headed there," he went on. "I made up +my mind that of your escape I must let no hint slip. So I tried to think +of something else with all my might, when I was going off my head." And +he laughed a little to himself. + +"That was why you heard me talk of Ethne," he explained. + +Trench sat nursing his knees and looking straight in front of him. He +had paid no heed to Feversham's last words. He had dared now to give his +hopes their way. + +"So it's true," he said in a quiet wondering voice. "There will be a +morning when we shall not drag ourselves out of the House of Stone. +There will be nights when we shall sleep in beds, actually in beds. +There will be--" He stopped with a sort of shy air like a man upon the +brink of a confession. "There will be--something more," he said lamely, +and then he got up on to his feet. + +"We have sat here too long. Let us go forward." + +They moved a hundred yards nearer to the river and sat down again. + +"You have more than a hope. You have a plan of escape?" Trench asked +eagerly. + +"More than a plan," returned Feversham. "The preparations are made. +There are camels waiting in the desert ten miles west of Omdurman." + +"Now?" exclaimed Trench. "Now?" + +"Yes, man, now. There are rifles and ammunition buried near the camels, +provisions and water kept in readiness. We travel by Metemneh, where +fresh camels wait, from Metemneh to Berber. There we cross the Nile; +camels are waiting for us five miles from Berber. From Berber we ride in +over the Kokreb pass to Suakin." + +"When?" exclaimed Trench. "Oh, when, when?" + +"When I have strength enough to sit a horse for ten miles, and a camel +for a week," answered Feversham. "How soon will that be? Not long, +Trench, I promise you not long," and he rose up from the ground. + +"As you get up," he continued, "glance round. You will see a man in a +blue linen dress, loitering between us and the gaol. As we came past +him, he made me a sign. I did not return it. I shall return it on the +day when we escape." + +"He will wait?" + +"For a month. We must manage on one night during that month to escape +from the House of Stone. We can signal him to bring help. A passage +might be made in one night through that wall; the stones are loosely +built." + +They walked a little farther and came to the water's edge. There amid +the crowd they spoke again of their escape, but with the air of men +amused at what went on about them. + +"There is a better way than breaking through the wall," said Trench, and +he uttered a laugh as he spoke and pointed to a prisoner with a great +load upon his back who had fallen upon his face in the water, and +encumbered by his fetters, pressed down by his load, was vainly +struggling to lift himself again. "There is a better way. You have +money?" + +"Ai, ai!" shouted Feversham, roaring with laughter, as the prisoner half +rose and soused again. "I have some concealed on me. Idris took what I +did not conceal." + +"Good!" said Trench. "Idris will come to you to-day or to-morrow. He +will talk to you of the goodness of Allah who has brought you out of the +wickedness of the world to the holy city of Omdurman. He will tell you +at great length of the peril of your soul and of the only means of +averting it, and he will wind up with a few significant sentences about +his starving family. If you come to the aid of his starving family and +bid him keep for himself fifteen dollars out of the amount he took from +you, you may get permission to sleep in the zareeba outside the prison. +Be content with that for a night or two. Then he will come to you again, +and again you will assist his starving family, and this time you will +ask for permission for me to sleep in the open too. Come! There's Idris +shepherding us home." + +It fell out as Trench had predicted. Idris read Feversham an abnormally +long lecture that afternoon. Feversham learned that now God loved him; +and how Hicks Pasha's army had been destroyed. The holy angels had done +that, not a single shot was fired, not a single spear thrown by the +Mahdi's soldiers. The spears flew from their hands by the angels' +guidance and pierced the unbelievers. Feversham heard for the first +time of a most convenient spirit, Nebbi Khiddr, who was the Khalifa's +eyes and ears and reported to him all that went on in the gaol. It was +pointed out to Feversham that if Nebbi Khiddr reported against him, he +would have heavier shackles riveted upon his feet, and many unpleasant +things would happen. At last came the exordium about the starving +children, and Feversham begged Idris to take fifteen dollars. + +Trench's plan succeeded. That night Feversham slept in the open, and two +nights later Trench lay down beside him. Overhead was a clear sky and +the blazing stars. + +"Only three more days," said Feversham, and he heard his companion draw +in a long breath. For a while they lay side by side in silence, +breathing the cool night air, and then Trench said:-- + +"Are you awake?" + +"Yes." + +"Well," and with some hesitation he made that confidence which he had +repressed on the day when they sat upon the foreshore of the Nile. "Each +man has his particular weak spot of sentiment, I suppose. I have mine. I +am not a marrying man, so it's not sentiment of that kind. Perhaps you +will laugh at it. It isn't merely that I loathe this squalid, shadeless, +vile town of Omdurman, or the horrors of its prison. It isn't merely +that I hate the emptiness of those desert wastes. It isn't merely that I +am sick of the palm trees of Khartum, or these chains or the whips of +the gaolers. But there's something more. I want to die at home, and I +have been desperately afraid so often that I should die here. I want to +die at home--not merely in my own country, but in my own village, and be +buried there under the trees I know, in the sight of the church and the +houses I know, and the trout stream where I fished when I was a boy. +You'll laugh, no doubt." + +Feversham was not laughing. The words had a queer ring of familiarity to +him, and he knew why. They never had actually been spoken to him, but +they might have been and by Ethne Eustace. + +"No, I am not laughing," he answered. "I understand." And he spoke with +a warmth of tone which rather surprised Trench. And indeed an actual +friendship sprang up between the two men, and it dated from that night. + +It was a fit moment for confidences. Lying side by side in that +enclosure, they made them one to the other in low voices. The shouts and +yells came muffled from within the House of Stone, and gave to them both +a feeling that they were well off. They could breathe; they could see; +no low roof oppressed them; they were in the cool of the night air. That +night air would be very cold before morning and wake them to shiver in +their rags and huddle together in their corner. But at present they lay +comfortably upon their backs with their hands clasped behind their heads +and watched the great stars and planets burn in the blue dome of sky. + +"It will be strange to find them dim and small again," said Trench. + +"There will be compensations," answered Feversham, with a laugh; and +they fell to making plans of what they would do when they had crossed +the desert and the Mediterranean and the continent of Europe, and had +come to their own country of dim small stars. Fascinated and enthralled +by the pictures which the simplest sentence, the most commonplace +phrase, through the magic of its associations was able to evoke in their +minds, they let the hours slip by unnoticed. They were no longer +prisoners in that barbarous town which lay a murky stain upon the +solitary wide spaces of sand; they were in their own land, following +their old pursuits. They were standing outside clumps of trees, guns in +their hands, while the sharp cry, "Mark! Mark!" came to their ears. +Trench heard again the unmistakable rattle of the reel of his +fishing-rod as he wound in his line upon the bank of his trout stream. +They talked of theatres in London, and the last plays which they had +seen, the last books which they had read six years ago. + +"There goes the Great Bear," said Trench, suddenly. "It is late." The +tail of the constellation was dipping behind the thorn hedge of the +zareeba. They turned over on their sides. + +"Three more days," said Trench. + +"Only three more days," Feversham replied. And in a minute they were +neither in England nor the Soudan; the stars marched to the morning +unnoticed above their heads. They were lost in the pleasant countries of +sleep. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +COLONEL TRENCH ASSUMES A KNOWLEDGE OF CHEMISTRY + + +"Three more days." Both men fell asleep with these words upon their +lips. But the next morning Trench waked up and complained of a fever; +and the fever rapidly gained upon him, so that before the afternoon had +come he was light-headed, and those services which he had performed for +Feversham, Feversham had now to perform for him. The thousand nights of +the House of Stone had done their work. But it was no mere coincidence +that Trench should suddenly be struck down by them at the very moment +when the door of his prison was opening. The great revulsion of joy +which had come to him so unexpectedly had been too much for his +exhausted body. The actual prospect of escape had been the crowning +trial which he could not endure. + +"In a few days he will be well," said Feversham. "It is nothing." + +"It is _Umm Sabbah_," answered Ibrahim, shaking his head, the terrible +typhus fever which had struck down so many in that infected gaol and +carried them off upon the seventh day. + +Feversham refused to believe. "It is nothing," he repeated in a sort of +passionate obstinacy; but in his mind there ran another question, "Will +the men with the camels wait?" Each day as he went to the Nile he saw +Abou Fatma in the blue robe at his post; each day the man made his sign, +and each day Feversham gave no answer. Meanwhile with Ibrahim's help he +nursed Trench. The boy came daily to the prison with food; he was sent +out to buy tamarinds, dates, and roots, out of which Ibrahim brewed +cooling draughts. Together they carried Trench from shade to shade as +the sun moved across the zareeba. Some further assistance was provided +for the starving family of Idris, and the forty-pound chains which +Trench wore were consequently removed. He was given vegetable marrow +soaked in salt water, his mouth was packed with butter, his body +anointed and wrapped close in camel-cloths. The fever took its course, +and on the seventh day Ibrahim said:-- + +"This is the last. To-night he will die." + +"No," replied Feversham, "that is impossible. 'In his own parish,' he +said, 'beneath the trees he knew.' Not here, no." And he spoke again +with a passionate obstinacy. He was no longer thinking of the man in the +blue robe outside the prison walls, or of the chances of escape. The +fear that the third feather would never be brought back to Ethne, that +she would never have the opportunity to take back the fourth of her own +free will, no longer troubled him. Even that great hope of "the +afterwards" was for the moment banished from his mind. He thought only +of Trench and the few awkward words he had spoken in the corner of the +zareeba on the first night when they lay side by side under the sky. +"No," he repeated, "he must not die here." And through all that day and +night he watched by Trench's side the long hard battle between life and +death. At one moment it seemed that the three years of the House of +Stone must win the victory, at another that Trench's strong constitution +and wiry frame would get the better of the three years. + +For that night, at all events, they did, and the struggle was prolonged. +The dangerous seventh day was passed. Even Ibrahim began to gain hope; +and on the thirteenth day Trench slept and did not ramble during his +sleep, and when he waked it was with a clear head. He found himself +alone, and so swathed in camel-cloths that he could not stir; but the +heat of the day was past, and the shadow of the House of Stone lay black +upon the sand of the zareeba. He had not any wish to stir, and he lay +wondering idly how long he had been ill. While he wondered he heard the +shouts of the gaolers, the cries of the prisoners outside the zareeba +and in the direction of the river. The gate was opened, and the +prisoners flocked in. Feversham was among them, and he walked straight +to Trench's corner. + +"Thank God!" he cried. "I would not have left you, but I was compelled. +We have been unloading boats all day." And he dropped in fatigue by +Trench's side. + +"How long have I lain ill?" asked Trench. + +"Thirteen days." + +"It will be a month before I can travel. You must go, Feversham. You +must leave me here, and go while you still can. Perhaps when you come to +Assouan you can do something for me. I could not move at present. You +will go to-morrow?" + +"No, I should not go without you in any case," answered Feversham. "As +it is, it is too late." + +"Too late?" Trench repeated. He took in the meaning of the words but +slowly; he was almost reluctant to be disturbed by their mere sound; he +wished just to lie idle for a long time in the cool of the sunset. But +gradually the import of what Feversham had said forced itself into his +mind. + +"Too late? Then the man in the blue gown has gone?" + +"Yes. He spoke to me yesterday by the river. The camel men would wait no +longer. They were afraid of detection, and meant to return whether we +went with them or not." + +"You should have gone with them," said Trench. For himself he did not at +that moment care whether he was to live in the prison all his life, so +long as he was allowed quietly to lie where he was for a long time; and +it was without any expression of despair that he added, "So our one +chance is lost." + +"No, deferred," replied Feversham. "The man who watched by the river in +the blue gown brought me paper, a pen, and some wood-soot mixed with +water. He was able to drop them by my side as I lay upon the ground. I +hid them beneath my jibbeh, and last night--there was a moon last +night--I wrote to a Greek merchant who keeps a _cafe_ at Wadi Halfa. I +gave him the letter this afternoon, and he has gone. He will deliver it +and receive money. In six months, in a year at the latest, he will be +back in Omdurman." + +"Very likely," said Trench. "He will ask for another letter, so that he +may receive more money, and again he will say that in six months or a +year he will be back in Omdurman. I know these people." + +"You do not know Abou Fatma. He was Gordon's servant over there before +Khartum fell; he has been mine since. He came with me to Obak, and +waited there while I went down to Berber. He risked his life in coming +to Omdurman at all. Within six months he will be back, you may be very +sure." + +Trench did not continue the argument. He let his eyes wander about the +enclosure, and they settled at last upon a pile of newly turned earth +which lay in one corner. + +"What are they digging?" he asked. + +"A well," answered Feversham. + +"A well?" said Trench, fretfully, "and so close to the Nile! Why? What's +the object?" + +"I don't know," said Feversham. Indeed he did not know, but he +suspected. With a great fear at his heart he suspected the reason why +the well was being dug in the enclosure of the prison. He would not, +however, reveal his suspicion until his companion was strong enough to +bear the disappointment which belief in it would entail. But within a +few days his suspicion was proved true. It was openly announced that a +high wall was to be built about the House of Stone. Too many prisoners +had escaped in their fetters along the Nile bank. Henceforward they were +to be kept from year's beginning to year's end within the wall. The +prisoners built it themselves of mud-bricks dried in the sun. Feversham +took his share in the work, and Trench, as soon almost as he could +stand, was joined with him. + +"Here's our last hope gone," he said; and though Feversham did not +openly agree, in spite of himself his heart began to consent. + +They piled the bricks one upon the other and mortised them. Each day the +wall rose a foot. With their own hands they closed themselves in. Twelve +feet high the wall stood when they had finished it--twelve feet high, +and smooth and strong. There was never a projection from its surface on +which a foot could rest; it could not be broken through in a night. +Trench and Feversham contemplated it in despair. The very palm trees of +Khartum were now hidden from their eyes. A square of bright blue by day, +a square of dark blue by night, jewelled with points of silver and +flashing gold, limited their world. Trench covered his face with his +hands. + +"I daren't look at it," he said in a broken voice. "We have been +building our own coffin, Feversham, that's the truth of it." And then he +cast up his arms and cried aloud: "Will they never come up the Nile, the +gunboats and the soldiers? Have they forgotten us in England? Good God! +have they forgotten us?" + +"Hush!" replied Feversham. "We shall find a way of escape, never fear. +We must wait six months. Well, we have both of us waited years. Six +months,--what are they?" + +But, though he spoke stoutly for his comrade's sake, his own heart sank +within him. + +The details of their life during the six months are not to be dwelt +upon. In that pestilent enclosure only the myriad vermin lived lives of +comfort. No news filtered in from the world outside. They fed upon +their own thoughts, so that the sight of a lizard upon the wall became +an occasion for excitement. They were stung by scorpions at night; they +were at times flogged by their gaolers by day. They lived at the mercy +of the whims of Idris-es-Saier and that peculiar spirit Nebbi Khiddr, +who always reported against them to the Khalifa just at the moment when +Idris was most in need of money for his starving family. Religious men +were sent by the Khalifa to convert them to the only true religion; and +indeed the long theological disputations in the enclosure became events +to which both men looked forward with eagerness. At one time they would +be freed from the heavier shackles and allowed to sleep in the open; at +another, without reason, those privileges would be withdrawn, and they +struggled for their lives within the House of Stone. + +The six months came to an end. The seventh began; a fortnight of it +passed, and the boy who brought Feversham food could never cheer their +hearts with word that Abou Fatma had come back. + +"He will never come," said Trench, in despair. + +"Surely he will--if he is alive," said Feversham. "But is he alive?" + +The seventh month passed, and one morning at the beginning of the eighth +there came two of the Khalifa's bodyguard to the prison, who talked with +Idris. Idris advanced to the two prisoners. + +"Verily God is good to you, you men from the bad world," he said. "You +are to look upon the countenance of the Khalifa. How happy you should +be!" + +Trench and Feversham rose up from the ground in no very happy frame of +mind. "What does he want with us? Is this the end?" The questions +started up clear in both their minds. They followed the two guards out +through the door and up the street towards the Khalifa's house. + +"Does it mean death?" said Feversham. + +Trench shrugged his shoulders and laughed sourly. "It is on the cards +that Nebbi Khiddr has suggested something of the kind," he said. + +They were led into the great parade-ground before the mosque, and thence +into the Khalifa's house, where another white man sat in attendance upon +the threshold. Within the Khalifa was seated upon an angareb, and a +grey-bearded Greek stood beside him. The Khalifa remarked to them that +they were both to be employed upon the manufacture of gunpowder, with +which the armies of the Turks were shortly to be overwhelmed. + +Feversham was on the point of disclaiming any knowledge of the process, +but before he could open his lips he heard Trench declaring in fluent +Arabic that there was nothing connected with gunpowder which he did not +know about; and upon his words they were both told they were to be +employed at the powder factory under the supervision of the Greek. + +For that Greek both prisoners will entertain a regard to their dying +day. There was in the world a true Samaritan. It was out of sheer pity, +knowing the two men to be herded in the House of Stone, that he +suggested to the Khalifa their employment, and the same pity taught him +to cover the deficiencies of their knowledge. + +"I know nothing whatever about the making of gunpowder except that +crystals are used," said Trench. "But we shall leave the prison each +day, and that is something, though we return each night. Who knows when +a chance of escape may come?" + +The powder factory lay in the northward part of the town, and on the +bank of the Nile just beyond the limits of the great mud wall and at the +back of the slave market. Every morning the two prisoners were let out +from the prison door, they tramped along the river-bank on the outside +of the town wall, and came into the powder factory past the storehouses +of the Khalifa's bodyguard. Every evening they went back by the same +road to the House of Stone. No guard was sent with them, since flight +seemed impossible, and each journey that they made they looked anxiously +for the man in the blue robe. But the months passed, and May brought +with it the summer. + +"Something has happened to Abou Fatma," said Feversham. "He has been +caught at Berber perhaps. In some way he has been delayed." + +"He will not come," said Trench. + +Feversham could no longer pretend to hope that he would. He did not know +of a sword-thrust received by Abou Fatma, as he fled through Berber on +his return from Omdurman. He had been recognised by one of his old +gaolers in that town, and had got cheaply off with the one thrust in his +thigh. From that wound he had through the greater part of this year been +slowly recovering in the hospital at Assouan. But though Feversham heard +nothing of Abou Fatma, towards the end of May he received news that +others were working for his escape. As Trench and he passed in the dusk +of one evening between the storehouses and the town wall, a man in the +shadow of one of the narrow alleys which opened from the storehouses +whispered to them to stop. Trench knelt down upon the ground and +examined his foot as though a stone had cut it, and as he kneeled the +man walked past them and dropped a slip of paper at their feet. He was a +Suakin merchant, who had a booth in the grain market of Omdurman. Trench +picked up the paper, hid it in his hand and limped on, with Feversham at +his side. There was no address or name upon the outside, and as soon as +they had left the houses behind, and had only the wall upon their right +and the Nile upon their left, Trench sat down again. There was a crowd +about the water's edge, men passed up and down between the crowd and +them. Trench took his foot into his lap and examined the sole. But at +the same time he unfolded the paper in the hollow of his hand and read +the contents aloud. He could hardly read them, his voice so trembled. +Feversham could hardly hear them, the blood so sang in his ears. + +"A man will bring to you a box of matches. When he comes trust +him.--Sutch." And he asked, "Who is Sutch?" + +"A great friend of mine," said Feversham. "He is in Egypt, then! Does he +say where?" + +"No; but since Mohammed Ali, the grain merchant, dropped the paper, we +may be sure he is at Suakin. A man with a box of matches! Think, we may +meet him to-night!" + +But it was a month later when, in the evening, an Arab pushed past them +on the river-bank and said: "I am the man with the matches. To-morrow by +the storehouse at this hour." And as he walked past them he dropped a +box of coloured matches on the ground. Feversham stooped instantly. + +"Don't touch them," said Trench, and he pressed the box into the ground +with his foot and walked on. + +"Sutch!" exclaimed Feversham. "So he comes to our help! How did he know +that I was here?" + +Trench fairly shook with excitement as he walked. He did not speak of +the great new hope which so suddenly came to them, for he dared not. He +tried even to pretend to himself that no message at all had come. He was +afraid to let his mind dwell upon the subject. Both men slept brokenly +that night, and every time they waked it was with a dim consciousness +that something great and wonderful had happened. Feversham, as he lay +upon his back and gazed upwards at the stars, had a fancy that he had +fallen asleep in the garden of Broad Place, on the Surrey hills, and +that he had but to raise his head to see the dark pines upon his right +hand and his left, and but to look behind to see the gables of the house +against the sky. He fell asleep towards dawn, and within an hour was +waked up by a violent shaking. He saw Trench bending over him with a +great fear on his face. + +"Suppose they keep us in the prison to-day," he whispered in a shaking +voice, plucking at Feversham. "It has just occurred to me! Suppose they +did that!" + +"Why should they?" answered Feversham; but the same fear caught hold of +him, and they sat dreading the appearance of Idris, lest he should have +some such new order to deliver. But Idris crossed the yard and unbolted +the prison door without a look at them. Fighting, screaming, jammed +together in the entrance, pulled back, thrust forwards, the captives +struggled out into the air, and among them was one who ran, foaming at +the mouth, and dashed his head against the wall. + +"He is mad!" said Trench, as the gaolers secured him; and since Trench +was unmanned that morning he began to speak rapidly and almost with +incoherence. "That's what I have feared, Feversham, that I should go +mad. To die, even here, one could put up with that without overmuch +regret; but to go mad!" and he shivered. "If this man with the matches +proves false to us, Feversham, I shall be near to it--very near to it. A +man one day, a raving, foaming idiot the next--a thing to be put away +out of sight, out of hearing. God, but that's horrible!" and he dropped +his head between his hands, and dared not look up until Idris crossed to +them and bade them go about their work. What work they did in the +factory that day neither knew. They were only aware that the hours +passed with an extraordinary slowness, but the evening came at last. + +"Among the storehouses," said Trench. They dived into the first alley +which they passed, and turning a corner saw the man who had brought the +matches. + +"I am Abdul Kader," he began at once. "I have come to arrange for your +escape. But at present flight is impossible;" and Trench swayed upon his +feet as he heard the word. + +"Impossible?" asked Feversham. + +"Yes. I brought three camels to Omdurman, of which two have died. The +Effendi at Suakin gave me money, but not enough. I could not arrange +for relays, but if you will give me a letter to the Effendi telling him +to give me two hundred pounds, then I will have everything ready and +come again within three months." + +Trench turned his back so that his companion might not see his face. All +his spirit had gone from him at this last stroke of fortune. The truth +was clear to him, appallingly clear. Abdul Kader was not going to risk +his life; he would be the shuttle going backwards and forwards between +Omdurman and Suakin as long as Feversham cared to write letters and +Sutch to pay money. But the shuttle would do no weaving. + +"I have nothing with which to write," said Feversham, and Abdul Kader +produced them. + +"Be quick," he said. "Write quickly, lest we be discovered." And +Feversham wrote; but though he wrote as Abdul suggested, the futility of +his writing was as clear to him as to Trench. + +"There is the letter," he said, and he handed it to Abdul, and, taking +Trench by the arm, walked without another word away. + +They passed out of the alley and came again to the great mud wall. It +was sunset. To their left the river gleamed with changing lights--here +it ran the colour of an olive, there rose pink, and here again a +brilliant green; above their heads the stars were coming out, in the +east it was already dusk; and behind them in the town, drums were +beginning to beat with their barbaric monotone. Both men walked with +their chins sunk upon their breasts, their eyes upon the ground. They +had come to the end of hope, they were possessed with a lethargy of +despair. Feversham thought not at all of the pine trees on the Surrey +hills, nor did Trench have any dread that something in his head would +snap and that which made him man be reft from him. They walked slowly, +as though their fetters had grown ten times their weight, and without a +word. So stricken, indeed, were they that an Arab turned and kept pace +beside them, and neither noticed his presence. In a few moments the Arab +spoke:-- + +"The camels are ready in the desert, ten miles to the west." + +But he spoke in so low a voice, and those to whom he spoke were so +absorbed in misery, that the words passed unheard. He repeated them, and +Feversham looked up. Quite slowly their meaning broke in on Feversham's +mind; quite slowly he recognised the man who uttered them. + +"Abou Fatma!" he said. + +"Hoosh!" returned Abou Fatma, "the camels are ready." + +"Now?" + +"Now." + +Trench leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, and the face of a +sick man. It seemed that he would swoon, and Feversham took him by the +arm. + +"Is it true?" Trench asked faintly; and before Feversham could answer +Abou Fatma went on:-- + +"Walk forwards very slowly. Before you reach the end of the wall it will +be dusk. Draw your cloaks over your heads, wrap these rags about your +chains, so that they do not rattle. Then turn and come back, go close to +the water beyond the storehouses. I will be there with a man to remove +your chains. But keep your faces well covered and do not stop. He will +think you slaves." + +With that he passed some rags to them, holding his hands behind his +back, while they stood close to him. Then he turned and hurried back. +Very slowly Feversham and Trench walked forwards in the direction of the +prison; the dusk crept across the river, mounted the long slope of sand, +enveloped them. They sat down and quickly wrapped the rags about their +chains and secured them there. From the west the colours of the sunset +had altogether faded, the darkness gathered quickly about them. They +turned and walked back along the road they had come. The drums were more +numerous now, and above the wall there rose a glare of light. By the +time they had reached the water's edge opposite the storehouses it was +dark. Abou Fatma was already waiting with his blacksmith. The chains +were knocked off without a word spoken. + +"Come," said Abou. "There will be no moon to-night. How long before they +discover you are gone?" + +"Who knows? Perhaps already Idris has missed us. Perhaps he will not +till morning. There are many prisoners." + +They ran up the slope of sand, between the quarters of the tribes, +across the narrow width of the city, through the cemetery. On the far +side of the cemetery stood a disused house; a man rose up in the doorway +as they approached, and went in. + +"Wait here," said Abou Fatma, and he too went into the house. In a +moment both men came back, and each one led a camel and made it kneel. + +"Mount," said Abou Fatma. "Bring its head round and hold it as you +mount." + +"I know the trick," said Trench. + +Feversham climbed up behind him, the two Arabs mounted the second camel. + +"Ten miles to the west," said Abou Fatma, and he struck the camel on the +flanks. + +Behind them the glare of the lights dwindled, the tapping of the drums +diminished. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +THE LAST OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS + + +The wind blew keen and cold from the north. The camels, freshened by it, +trotted out at their fastest pace. + +"Quicker," said Trench, between his teeth. "Already Idris may have +missed us." + +"Even if he has," replied Feversham, "it will take time to get men +together for a pursuit, and those men must fetch their camels, and +already it is dark." + +But although he spoke hopefully, he turned his head again and again +towards the glare of light above Omdurman. He could no longer hear the +tapping of the drums, that was some consolation. But he was in a country +of silence, where men could journey swiftly and yet make no noise. There +would be no sound of galloping horses to warn him that pursuit was at +his heels. Even at that moment the Ansar soldiers might be riding within +thirty paces of them, and Feversham strained his eyes backwards into the +darkness and expected the glimmer of a white turban. Trench, however, +never turned his head. He rode with his teeth set, looking forwards. Yet +fear was no less strong in him than in Feversham. Indeed, it was +stronger, for he did not look back towards Omdurman because he did not +dare; and though his eyes were fixed directly in front of him, the +things which he really saw were the long narrow streets of the town +behind him, the dotted fires at the corners of the streets, and men +running hither and thither among the houses, making their quick search +for the two prisoners escaped from the House of Stone. + +Once his attention was diverted by a word from Feversham, and he +answered without turning his head:-- + +"What is it?" + +"I no longer see the fires of Omdurman." + +"The golden blot, eh, very low down?" Trench answered in an abstracted +voice. Feversham did not ask him to explain what his allusion meant, nor +could Trench have disclosed why he had spoken it; the words had come +back to him suddenly with a feeling that it was somehow appropriate that +the vision which was the last thing to meet Feversham's eyes as he set +out upon his mission he should see again now that that mission was +accomplished. They spoke no more until two figures rose out of the +darkness in front of them, at the very feet of their camels, and Abou +Fatma cried in a low voice:-- + +"Instanna!" + +They halted their camels and made them kneel. + +"The new camels are here?" asked Abou Fatma, and two of the men +disappeared for a few minutes and brought four camels up. Meanwhile the +saddles were unfastened and removed from the camels Trench and his +companion had ridden out of Omdurman. + +"They are good camels?" asked Feversham, as he helped to fix the saddles +upon the fresh ones. + +"Of the Anafi breed," answered Abou Fatma. "Quick! Quick!" and he +looked anxiously to the east and listened. + +"The arms?" said Trench. "You have them? Where are they?" and he bent +his body and searched the ground for them. + +"In a moment," said Abou Fatma, but it seemed that Trench could hardly +wait for that moment to arrive. He showed even more anxiety to handle +the weapons than he had shown fear that he would be overtaken. + +"There is ammunition?" he asked feverishly. + +"Yes, yes," replied Abou Fatma, "ammunition and rifles and revolvers." +He led the way to a spot about twenty yards from the camels, where some +long desert grass rustled about their legs. He stooped and dug into the +soft sand with his hands. + +"Here," he said. + +Trench flung himself upon the ground beside him and scooped with both +hands, making all the while an inhuman whimpering sound with his mouth, +like the noise a foxhound makes at a cover. There was something rather +horrible to Feversham in his attitude as he scraped at the ground on his +knees, at the action of his hands, quick like the movements of a dog's +paws, and in the whine of his voice. He was sunk for the time into an +animal. In a moment or two Trench's fingers touched the lock and trigger +of a rifle, and he became man again. He stood up quietly with the rifle +in his hands. The other arms were unearthed, the ammunition shared. + +"Now," said Trench, and he laughed with a great thrill of joy in the +laugh. "Now I don't mind. Let them follow from Omdurman! One thing is +certain now: I shall never go back there; no, not even if they overtake +us," and he fondled the rifle which he held and spoke to it as though it +lived. + +Two of the Arabs mounted the old camels and rode slowly away to +Omdurman. Abou Fatma and the other remained with the fugitives. They +mounted and trotted northeastwards. No more than a quarter of an hour +had elapsed since they had first halted at Abou Fatma's word. + +All that night they rode through halfa grass and mimosa trees and went +but slowly, but they came about sunrise on to flat bare ground broken +with small hillocks. + +"Are the Effendi tired?" asked Abou Fatma. "Will they stop and eat? +There is food upon the saddle of each camel." + +"No; we can eat as we go." + +Dates and bread and a draught of water from a zamsheyeh made up their +meal, and they ate it as they sat their camels. These, indeed, now that +they were free of the long desert grass, trotted at their quickest pace. +And at sunset that evening they stopped and rested for an hour. All +through that night they rode and the next day, straining their own +endurance and that of the beasts they were mounted on, now ascending on +to high and rocky ground, now traversing a valley, and now trotting fast +across plains of honey-coloured sand. Yet to each man the pace seemed +always as slow as a funeral. A mountain would lift itself above the rim +of the horizon at sunrise, and for the whole livelong day it stood +before their eyes, and was never a foot higher or an inch nearer. At +times, some men tilling a scanty patch of sorghum would send the +fugitives' hearts leaping in their throats, and they must make a wide +detour; or again a caravan would be sighted in the far distance by the +keen eyes of Abou Fatma, and they made their camels kneel and lay +crouched behind a rock, with their loaded rifles in their hands. Ten +miles from Abu Klea a relay of fresh camels awaited them, and upon these +they travelled, keeping a day's march westward of the Nile. Thence they +passed through the desert country of the Ababdeh, and came in sight of a +broad grey tract stretching across their path. + +"The road from Berber to Merowi," said Abou Fatma. "North of it we turn +east to the river. We cross that road to-night; and if God wills, +to-morrow evening we shall have crossed the Nile." + +"If God wills," said Trench. "If only He wills," and he glanced about +him in a fear which only increased the nearer they drew towards safety. +They were in a country traversed by the caravans; it was no longer safe +to travel by day. They dismounted, and all that day they lay hidden +behind a belt of shrubs upon some high ground and watched the road and +the people like specks moving along it. They came down and crossed it in +the darkness, and for the rest of that night travelled hard towards the +river. As the day broke Abou Fatma again bade them halt. They were in a +desolate open country, whereon the smallest protection was magnified by +the surrounding flatness. Feversham and Trench gazed eagerly to their +right. Somewhere in that direction and within the range of their +eyesight flowed the Nile, but they could not see it. + +"We must build a circle of stones," said Abou Fatma, "and you must lie +close to the ground within it. I will go forward to the river, and see +that the boat is ready and that our friends are prepared for us. I shall +come back after dark." + +They gathered the stones quickly and made a low wall about a foot high; +within this wall Feversham and Trench laid themselves down upon the +ground with a water-skin and their rifles at their sides. + +"You have dates, too," said Abou Fatma. + +"Yes." + +"Then do not stir from the hiding-place till I come back. I will take +your camels, and bring you back fresh ones in the evening." And in +company with his fellow-Arab he rode off towards the river. + +Trench and Feversham dug out the sand within the stones and lay down, +watching the horizon between the interstices. For both of them this +perhaps was the longest day of their lives. They were so near to safety +and yet not safe. To Trench's thinking it was longer than a night in the +House of Stone, and to Feversham longer than even one of those days six +years back when he had sat in his rooms above St. James's Park and +waited for the night to fall before he dared venture out into the +streets. They were so near to Berber, and the pursuit must needs be +close behind. Feversham lay wondering how he had ever found the courage +to venture himself in Berber. They had no shade to protect them; all day +the sun burnt pitilessly upon their backs, and within the narrow circle +of stones they had no room wherein to move. They spoke hardly at all. +The sunset, however, came at the last, the friendly darkness gathered +about them, and a cool wind rustled through the darkness across the +desert. + +"Listen!" said Trench; and both men as they strained their ears heard +the soft padding of camels very near at hand. A moment later a low +whistle brought them out of their shelter. + +"We are here," said Feversham, quietly. + +"God be thanked!" said Abou Fatma. "I have good news for you, and bad +news too. The boat is ready, our friends are waiting for us, camels are +prepared for you on the caravan track by the river-bank to Abu Hamed. +But your escape is known, and the roads and the ferries are closely +watched. Before sunrise we must have struck inland from the eastern bank +of the Nile." + +They crossed the river cautiously about one o'clock of the morning, and +sank the boat upon the far side of the stream. The camels were waiting +for them, and they travelled inland and more slowly than suited the +anxiety of the fugitives. For the ground was thickly covered with +boulders, and the camels could seldom proceed at any pace faster than a +walk. And all through the next day they lay hidden again within a ring +of stones while the camels were removed to some high ground where they +could graze. During the next night, however, they made good progress, +and, coming to the groves of Abu Hamed in two days, rested for twelve +hours there and mounted upon a fresh relay. From Abu Hamed their road +lay across the great Nubian Desert. + +Nowadays the traveller may journey through the two hundred and forty +miles of that waterless plain of coal-black rocks and yellow sand, and +sleep in his berth upon the way. The morning will show to him, perhaps, +a tent, a great pile of coal, a water tank, and a number painted on a +white signboard, and the stoppage of the train will inform him that he +has come to a station. Let him put his head from the window, he will see +the long line of telegraph poles reaching from the sky's rim behind him +to the sky's rim in front, and huddling together, as it seems, with less +and less space between them the farther they are away. Twelve hours will +enclose the beginning and the end of his journey, unless the engine +break down or the rail be blocked. But in the days when Feversham and +Trench escaped from Omdurman progression was not so easy a matter. They +kept eastward of the present railway and along the line of wells among +the hills. And on the second night of this stage of their journey Trench +shook Feversham by the shoulders and waked him up. + +"Look," he said, and he pointed to the south. "To-night there's no +Southern Cross." His voice broke with emotion. "For six years, for every +night of six years, until this night, I have seen the Southern Cross. +How often have I lain awake watching it, wondering whether the night +would ever come when I should not see those four slanting stars! I tell +you, Feversham, this is the first moment when I have really dared to +think that we should escape." + +Both men sat up and watched the southern sky with prayers of +thankfulness in their hearts; and when they fell asleep it was only to +wake up again and again with a fear that they would after all still see +that constellation blazing low down towards the earth, and to fall +asleep again confident of the issue of their desert ride. At the end of +seven days they came to Shof-el-Ain, a tiny well set in a barren valley +between featureless ridges, and by the side of that well they camped. +They were in the country of the Amrab Arabs, and had come to an end of +their peril. + +"We are safe," cried Abou Fatma. "God is good. Northwards to Assouan, +westwards to Wadi Halfa, we are safe!" And spreading a cloth upon the +ground in front of the kneeling camels, he heaped dhurra before them. He +even went so far in his gratitude as to pat one of the animals upon the +neck, and it immediately turned upon him and snarled. + +Trench reached out his hand to Feversham. + +"Thank you," he said simply. + +"No need of thanks," answered Feversham, and he did not take the hand. +"I served myself from first to last." + +"You have learned the churlishness of a camel," cried Trench. "A camel +will carry you where you want to go, will carry you till it drops dead, +and yet if you show your gratitude it resents and bites. Hang it all, +Feversham, there's my hand." + +Feversham untied a knot in the breast of his jibbeh and took out three +white feathers, two small, the feathers of a heron, the other large, an +ostrich feather broken from a fan. + +"Will you take yours back?" + +"Yes." + +"You know what to do with it." + +"Yes. There shall be no delay." + +Feversham wrapped the remaining feathers carefully away in a corner of +his ragged jibbeh and tied them safe. + +"We shake hands, then," said he; and as their hands met he added, +"To-morrow morning we part company." + +"Part company, you and I--after the year in Omdurman, the weeks of +flight?" exclaimed Trench. "Why? There's no more to be done. Castleton's +dead. You keep the feather which he sent, but he is dead. You can do +nothing with it. You must come home." + +"Yes," answered Feversham, "but after you, certainly not with you. You +go on to Assouan and Cairo. At each place you will find friends to +welcome you. I shall not go with you." + +Trench was silent for a while. He understood Feversham's reluctance, he +saw that it would be easier for Feversham if he were to tell his story +first to Ethne Eustace, and without Feversham's presence. + +"I ought to tell you no one knows why you resigned your commission, or +of the feathers we sent. We never spoke of it. We agreed never to speak, +for the honour of the regiment. I can't tell you how glad I am that we +all agreed and kept to the agreement," he said. + +"Perhaps you will see Durrance," said Feversham; "if you do, give him a +message from me. Tell him that the next time he asks me to come and see +him, whether it is in England or Wadi Halfa, I will accept the +invitation." + +"Which way will you go?" + +"To Wadi Halfa," said Feversham, pointing westwards over his shoulder. +"I shall take Abou Fatma with me and travel slowly and quietly down the +Nile. The other Arab will guide you into Assouan." + +They slept that night in security beside the well, and the next morning +they parted company. Trench was the first to ride off, and as his camel +rose to its feet, ready for the start, he bent down towards Feversham, +who passed him the nose rein. + +"Ramelton, that was the name? I shall not forget." + +"Yes, Ramelton," said Feversham; "there's a ferry across Lough Swilly to +Rathmullen. You must drive the twelve miles to Ramelton. But you may not +find her there." + +"If not there, I shall find her somewhere else. Make no mistake, +Feversham, I shall find her." + +And Trench rode forward, alone with his Arab guide. More than once he +turned his head and saw Feversham still standing by the well; more than +once he was strongly drawn to stop and ride back to that solitary +figure, but he contented himself with waving his hand, and even that +salute was not returned. + +Feversham, indeed, had neither thought nor eyes for the companion of his +flight. His six years of hard probation had come this morning to an end, +and yet he was more sensible of a certain loss and vacancy than of any +joy. For six years, through many trials, through many falterings, his +mission had strengthened and sustained him. It seemed to him now that +there was nothing more wherewith to occupy his life. Ethne? No doubt she +was long since married ... and there came upon him all at once a great +bitterness of despair for that futile, unnecessary mistake made by him +six years ago. He saw again the room in London overlooking the quiet +trees and lawns of St. James's Park, he heard the knock upon the door, +he took the telegram from his servant's hand. + +He roused himself finally with the recollection that, after all, the +work was not quite done. There was his father, who just at this moment +was very likely reading his _Times_ after breakfast upon the terrace of +Broad Place among the pine trees upon the Surrey hills. He must visit +his father, he must take that fourth feather back to Ramelton. There was +a telegram, too, which must be sent to Lieutenant Sutch at Suakin. + +He mounted his camel and rode slowly with Abou Fatma westwards towards +Wadi Halfa. But the sense of loss did not pass from him that day, nor +his anger at the act of folly which had brought about his downfall. The +wooded slopes of Ramelton were very visible to him across the shimmer of +the desert air. In the greatness of his depression Harry Feversham upon +this day for the first time doubted his faith in the "afterwards." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +FEVERSHAM RETURNS TO RAMELTON + + +On an August morning of the same year Harry Feversham rode across the +Lennon bridge into Ramelton. The fierce suns of the Soudan had tanned +his face, the years of his probation had left their marks; he rode up +the narrow street of the town unrecognised. At the top of the hill he +turned into the broad highway which, descending valleys and climbing +hills, runs in one straight line to Letterkenny. He rode rather quickly +in a company of ghosts. + +The intervening years had gradually been dropping from his thoughts all +through his journey across Egypt and the Continent. They were no more +than visionary now. Nor was he occupied with any dream of the things +which might have been but for his great fault. The things which had +been, here, in this small town of Ireland, were too definite. Here he +had been most happy, here he had known the uttermost of his misery; here +his presence had brought pleasure, here too he had done his worst harm. +Once he stopped when he was opposite to the church, set high above the +road upon his right hand, and wondered whether Ethne was still at +Ramelton--whether old Dermod was alive, and what kind of welcome he +would receive. But he waked in a moment to the knowledge that he was +sitting upon his horse in the empty road and in the quiet of an August +morning. There were larks singing in the pale blue above his head; a +landrail sent up its harsh cry from the meadow on the left; the crow of +a cock rose clear from the valley. He looked about him, and rode briskly +on down the incline in front of him and up the ascent beyond. He rode +again with his company of ghosts--phantoms of people with whom upon this +road he had walked and ridden and laughed, ghosts of old thoughts and +recollected words. He came to a thick grove of trees, a broken fence, a +gateway with no gate. Inattentive to these evidences of desertion, he +turned in at the gate and rode along a weedy and neglected drive. At the +end of it he came to an open space before a ruined house. The aspect of +the tumbling walls and unroofed rooms roused him at last completely from +his absorption. He dismounted, and, tying his horse to the branch of a +tree, ran quickly into the house and called aloud. No voice answered +him. He ran from deserted room to deserted room. He descended into the +garden, but no one came to meet him; and he understood now from the +uncut grass upon the lawn, the tangled disorder of the flowerbeds, that +no one would come. He mounted his horse again, and rode back at a sharp +trot. In Ramelton he stopped at the inn, gave his horse to the ostler, +and ordered lunch for himself. He said to the landlady who waited upon +him:-- + +"So Lennon House has been burned down? When was that?" + +"Five years ago," the landlady returned, "just five years ago this +summer." And she proceeded, without further invitation, to give a +voluminous account of the conflagration and the cause of it, the ruin of +the Eustace family, the inebriety of Bastable, and the death of Dermod +Eustace at Glenalla. "But we hope to see the house rebuilt. It's likely +to be, we hear, when Miss Eustace is married," she said, in a voice +which suggested that she was full of interesting information upon the +subject of Miss Eustace's marriage. Her guest, however, did not respond +to the invitation. + +"And where does Miss Eustace live now?" + +"At Glenalla," she replied. "Halfway on the road to Rathmullen there's a +track leads up to your left. It's a poor mountain village is Glenalla, +and no place for Miss Eustace, at all, at all. Perhaps you will be +wanting to see her?" + +"Yes. I shall be glad if you will order my horse to be brought round to +the door," said the man; and he rose from the table to put an end to the +interview. + +The landlady, however, was not so easily dismissed. She stood at the +door and remarked:-- + +"Well, that's curious--that's most curious. For only a fortnight ago a +gentleman burnt just as black as yourself stayed a night here on the +same errand. He asked for Miss Eustace's address and drove up to +Glenalla. Perhaps you have business with her?" + +"Yes, I have business with Miss Eustace," the stranger returned. "Will +you be good enough to give orders about my horse?" + +While he was waiting for his horse he looked through the leaves of the +hotel book, and saw under a date towards the end of July the name of +Colonel Trench. + +"You will come back, sir, to-night?" said the landlady, as he mounted. + +"No," he answered, "I do not think I shall come again to Ramelton." And +he rode down the hill, and once more that day crossed the Lennon bridge. +Four miles on he came to the track opposite a little bay of the Lough, +and, turning into it, he rode past a few white cottages up to the purple +hollow of the hills. It was about five o'clock when he came to the long, +straggling village. It seemed very quiet and deserted, and built without +any plan. A few cottages stood together, then came a gap of fields, +beyond that a small plantation of larches and a house which stood by +itself. Beyond the house was another gap, through which he could see +straight down to the water of the Lough, shining in the afternoon sun, +and the white gulls poising and swooping above it. And after passing +that gap he came to a small grey church, standing bare to the winds upon +its tiny plateau. A pathway of white shell-dust led from the door of the +church to the little wooden gate. As he came level with the gate a +collie dog barked at him from behind it. + +The rider looked at the dog, which was very grey about the muzzle. He +noticed its marking, and stopped his horse altogether. He glanced +towards the church, and saw that the door stood open. At once he +dismounted; he fastened his horse to the fence, and entered the +churchyard. The collie thrust its muzzle into the back of his knee, +sniffed once or twice doubtfully, and suddenly broke into an exuberant +welcome. The collie dog had a better memory than the landlady of the +inn. He barked, wagged his tail, crouched and sprang at the stranger's +shoulders, whirled round and round in front of him, burst into sharp, +excited screams of pleasure, ran up to the church door and barked +furiously there, then ran back and jumped again upon his friend. The man +caught the dog as it stood up with its forepaws upon his chest, patted +it, and laughed. Suddenly he ceased laughing, and stood stock-still with +his eyes towards the open door of the church. In the doorway Ethne +Eustace was standing. He put the dog down and slowly walked up the path +towards her. She waited on the threshold without moving, without +speaking. She waited, watching him, until he came close to her. Then she +said simply:-- + +"Harry." + +She was silent after that; nor did he speak. All the ghosts and phantoms +of old thoughts in whose company he had travelled the whole of that day +vanished away from his mind at her simple utterance of his name. Six +years had passed since his feet crushed the gravel on the dawn of a June +morning beneath her window. And they looked at one another, remarking +the changes which those six years had brought. And the changes, +unnoticed and almost imperceptible to those who had lived daily in their +company, sprang very distinct to the eyes of these two. Feversham was +thin, his face was wasted. The strain of life in the House of Stone had +left its signs about his sunken eyes and in the look of age beyond his +years. But these were not the only changes, as Ethne noticed; they were +not, indeed, the most important ones. Her heart, although she stood so +still and silent, went out to him in grief for the great troubles which +he had endured; but she saw, too, that he came back without a thought of +anger towards her for that fourth feather snapped from her fan. But she +was clear-eyed even at this moment. She saw much more. She understood +that the man who stood quietly before her now was not the same man whom +she had last seen in the hall of Ramelton. There had been a timidity in +his manner in those days, a peculiar diffidence, a continual expectation +of other men's contempt, which had gone from him. He was now quietly +self-possessed; not arrogant; on the other hand, not diffident. He had +put himself to a long, hard test; and he knew that he had not failed. +All that she saw; and her face lightened as she said:-- + +"It is not all harm which has come of these years. They were not +wasted." + +But Feversham thought of her lonely years in this village of +Glenalla--and thought with a man's thought, unaware that nowhere else +would she have chosen to live. He looked into her face, and saw the +marks of the years upon it. It was not that she had aged so much. Her +big grey eyes shone as clearly as before, the colour was still as bright +upon her cheeks. But there was more of character. She had suffered; she +had eaten of the tree of knowledge. + +"I am sorry," he said. "I did you a great wrong six years ago, and I +need not." + +She held out her hand to him. + +"Will you give it me, please?" + +And for a moment he did not understand. + +"That fourth feather," she said. + +He drew his letter-case from his coat, and shook two feathers out into +the palm of his hand. The larger one, the ostrich feather, he held out +to her. But she said:-- + +"Both." + +There was no reason why he should keep Castleton's feather any longer. +He handed them both to her, since she asked for them, and she clasped +them, and with a smile treasured them against her breast. + +"I have the four feathers now," she said. + +"Yes," answered Feversham; "all four. What will you do with them?" + +Ethne's smile became a laugh. + +"Do with them!" she cried in scorn. "I shall do nothing with them. I +shall keep them. I am very proud to have them to keep." + +She kept them, as she had once kept Harry Feversham's portrait. There +was something perhaps in Durrance's contention that women so much more +than men gather up their experiences and live upon them, looking +backwards. Feversham, at all events, would now have dropped the feathers +then and there and crushed them into the dust of the path with his heel; +they had done their work. They could no longer reproach, they were no +longer needed to encourage, they were dead things. Ethne, however, held +them tight in her hand; to her they were not dead. + +"Colonel Trench was here a fortnight ago," she said. "He told me you +were bringing it back to me." + +"But he did not know of the fourth feather," said Feversham. "I never +told any man that I had it." + +"Yes. You told Colonel Trench on your first night in the House of Stone +at Omdurman. He told me. I no longer hate him," she added, but without a +smile and quite seriously, as though it was an important statement which +needed careful recognition. + +"I am glad of that," said Feversham. "He is a great friend of mine." + +Ethne was silent for a moment or two. Then she said:-- + +"I wonder whether you have forgotten our drive from Ramelton to our +house when I came to fetch you from the quay? We were alone in the +dog-cart, and we spoke--" + +"Of the friends whom one knows for friends the first moment, and whom +one seems to recognise even though one has never seen them before," +interrupted Feversham. "Indeed I remember." + +"And whom one never loses whether absent or dead," continued Ethne. "I +said that one could always be sure of such friends, and you answered--" + +"I answered that one could make mistakes," again Feversham interrupted. + +"Yes, and I disagreed. I said that one might seem to make mistakes, and +perhaps think so for a long while, but that in the end one would be +proved not to have made them. I have often thought of those words. I +remembered them very clearly when Captain Willoughby brought to me the +first feather, and with a great deal of remorse. I remember them again +very clearly to-day, although I have no room in my thoughts for remorse. +I was right, you see, and I should have clung firmly to my faith. But I +did not." Her voice shook a little, and pleaded as she went on: "I was +young. I knew very little. I was unaware how little. I judged hastily; +but to-day I understand." + +She opened her hand and gazed for a while at the white feathers. Then +she turned and went inside the church. Feversham followed her. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +IN THE CHURCH AT GLENALLA + + +Ethne sat down in the corner of a pew next to the aisle, and Feversham +took his stand beside her. It was very quiet and peaceful within that +tiny church. The afternoon sun shone through the upper windows and made +a golden haze about the roof. The natural murmurs of the summer floated +pleasantly through the open door. + +"I am glad that you remembered our drive and what we said," she +continued. "It is rather important to me that you should remember. +Because, although I have got you back, I am going to send you away from +me again. You will be one of the absent friends whom I shall not lose +because you are absent." + +She spoke slowly, looking straight in front of her without faltering. It +was a difficult speech for her to deliver, but she had thought over it +night and day during this last fortnight, and the words were ready to +her lips. At the first sight of Harry Feversham, recovered to her after +so many years, so much suspense, so much suffering, it had seemed to her +that she never would be able to speak them, however necessary it was +that they should be spoken. But as they stood over against one another +she had forced herself to remember that necessity until she actually +recognised and felt it. Then she had gone back into the church and taken +a seat, and gathered up her strength. + +It would be easier for both of them, she thought, if she should give no +sign of what so quick a separation cost her. He would know surely +enough, and she wished him to know; she wished him to understand that +not one moment of his six years, so far as she was concerned, had been +spent in vain. But that could be understood without the signs of +emotion. So she spoke her speech looking steadily straight forward and +speaking in an even voice. + +"I know that you will mind very much, just as I do. But there is no help +for it," she resumed. "At all events you are at home again, with the +right to be at home. It is a great comfort to me to know that. But there +are other, much greater reasons from which we can both take comfort. +Colonel Trench told me enough of your captivity to convince me that we +both see with the same eyes. We both understand that this second +parting, hard as it is, is still a very slight, small thing compared +with the other, our first parting over at the house six years ago. I +felt very lonely after that, as I shall not feel lonely now. There was a +great barrier between us then separating us forever. We should never +have met again here or afterwards. I am quite sure of that. But you have +broken the barrier down by all your pain and bravery during these last +years. I am no less sure of that. I am absolutely confident about it, +and I believe you are too. So that although we shall not see one another +here and as long as we live, the afterwards is quite sure for us both. +And we can wait for that. You can. You have waited with so much strength +all these years since we parted. And I can too, for I get strength from +your victory." + +She stopped, and for a while there was silence in that church. To +Feversham her words were gracious as rain upon dry land. To hear her +speak them uplifted him so that those six years of trial, of slinking +into corners out of the sight of his fellows, of lonely endurance, of +many heart-sinkings and much bodily pain, dwindled away into +insignificance. They had indeed borne their fruit to him. For Ethne had +spoken in a gentle voice just what his ears had so often longed to hear +as he lay awake at night in the bazaar at Suakin, in the Nile villages, +in the dim wide spaces of the desert, and what he had hardly dared to +hope she ever would speak. He stood quite silently by her side, still +hearing her voice though the voice had ceased. Long ago there were +certain bitter words which she had spoken, and he had told Sutch, so +closely had they clung and stung, that he believed in his dying moments +he would hear them again and so go to his grave with her reproaches +ringing in his ears. He remembered that prediction of his now and knew +that it was false. The words he would hear would be those which she had +just uttered. + +For Ethne's proposal that they should separate he was not unprepared. He +had heard already that she was engaged, and he did not argue against her +wish. But he understood that she had more to say to him. And she had. +But she was slow to speak it. This was the last time she was to see +Harry Feversham; she meant resolutely to send him away. When once he +had passed through that church door, through which the sunlight and the +summer murmurs came, and his shadow gone from the threshold, she would +never talk with him or set her eyes on him until her life was ended. So +she deferred the moment of his going by silences and slow speech. It +might be so very long before that end came. She had, she thought, the +right to protract this one interview. She rather hoped that he would +speak of his travels, his dangers; she was prepared to discuss at length +with him even the politics of the Soudan. But he waited for her. + +"I am going to be married," she said at length, "and immediately. I am +to marry a friend of yours, Colonel Durrance." + +There was hardly a pause before Feversham answered:-- + +"He has cared for you a long while. I was not aware of it until I went +away, but, thinking over everything, I thought it likely, and in a very +little time I became sure." + +"He is blind." + +"Blind!" exclaimed Feversham. "He, of all men, blind!" + +"Exactly," said Ethne. "He--of all men. His blindness explains +everything--why I marry him, why I send you away. It was after he went +blind that I became engaged to him. It was before Captain Willoughby +came to me with the first feather. It was between those two events. You +see, after you went away one thought over things rather carefully. I +used to lie awake and think, and I resolved that two men's lives should +not be spoilt because of me." + +"Mine was not," Feversham interrupted. "Please believe that." + +"Partly it was," she returned, "I know very well. You would not own it +for my sake, but it was. I was determined that a second should not be. +And so when Colonel Durrance went blind--you know the man he was, you +can understand what blindness meant to him, the loss of everything he +cared for--" + +"Except you." + +"Yes," Ethne answered quietly, "except me. So I became engaged to him. +But he has grown very quick--you cannot guess how quick. And he sees so +very clearly. A hint tells him the whole hidden truth. At present he +knows nothing of the four feathers." + +"Are you sure?" suddenly exclaimed Feversham. + +"Yes. Why?" asked Ethne, turning her face towards him for the first time +since she had sat down. + +"Lieutenant Sutch was at Suakin while I was at Omdurman. He knew that I +was a prisoner there. He sent messages to me, he tried to organise my +escape." + +Ethne was startled. + +"Oh," she said, "Colonel Durrance certainly knew that you were in +Omdurman. He saw you in Wadi Halfa, and he heard that you had gone south +into the desert. He was distressed about it; he asked a friend to get +news of you, and the friend got news that you were in Omdurman. He told +me so himself, and--yes, he told me that he would try to arrange for +your escape. No doubt he has done that through Lieutenant Sutch. He has +been at Wiesbaden with an oculist; he only returned a week ago. +Otherwise he would have told me about it. Very likely he was the reason +why Lieutenant Sutch was at Suakin, but he knows nothing of the four +feathers. He only knows that our engagement was abruptly broken off; he +believes that I have no longer any thought of you at all. But if you +come back, if you and I saw anything of each other, however calmly we +met, however indifferently we spoke, he would guess. He is so quick he +would be sure to guess." She paused for a moment, and added in a +whisper, "And he would guess right." + +Feversham saw the blood flush her forehead and deepen the colour of her +cheeks. He did not move from his position, he did not bend towards her, +or even in voice give any sign which would make this leave-taking yet +more difficult to carry through. + +"Yes, I see," he said. "And he must not guess." + +"No, he must not," returned Ethne. "I am so glad you see that too, +Harry. The straight and simple thing is the only thing for us to do. He +must never guess, for, as you said, he has nothing left but me." + +"Is Durrance here?" asked Feversham. + +"He is staying at the vicarage." + +"Very well," he said. "It is only fair that I should tell you I had no +thought that you would wait. I had no wish that you should; I had no +right to such a wish. When you gave me that fourth feather in the little +room at Ramelton, with the music coming faintly through the door, I +understood your meaning. There was to be a complete, an irrevocable end. +We were not to be the merest acquaintances. So I said nothing to you of +the plan which came clear and definite into my mind at the very time +when you gave me the feathers. You see, I might never have succeeded. I +might have died trying to succeed. I might even perhaps have shirked the +attempt. It would be time enough for me to speak if I came back. So I +never formed any wish that you should wait." + +"That was what Colonel Trench told me." + +"I told him that too?" + +"On your first night in the House of Stone." + +"Well, it's just the truth. The most I hoped for--and I did hope for +that every hour of every day--was that, if I did come home, you would +take back your feather, and that we might--not renew our friendship +here, but see something of one another afterwards." + +"Yes," said Ethne. "Then there will be no parting." + +Ethne spoke very simply, without even a sigh, but she looked at Harry +Feversham as she spoke and smiled. The look and the smile told him what +the cost of the separation would be to her. And, understanding what it +meant now, he understood, with an infinitely greater completeness than +he had ever reached in his lonely communings, what it must have meant +six years ago when she was left with her pride stricken as sorely as her +heart. + +"What trouble you must have gone through!" he cried, and she turned and +looked him over. + +"Not I alone," she said gently. "I passed no nights in the House of +Stone." + +"But it was my fault. Do you remember what you said when the morning +came through the blinds? 'It's not right that one should suffer so much +pain.' It was not right." + +"I had forgotten the words--oh, a long time since--until Colonel Trench +reminded me. I should never have spoken them. When I did I was not +thinking they would live so in your thoughts. I am sorry that I spoke +them." + +"Oh, they were just enough. I never blamed you for them," said +Feversham, with a laugh. "I used to think that they would be the last +words I should hear when I turned my face to the wall. But you have +given me others to-day wherewith to replace them." + +"Thank you," she said quietly. + +There was nothing more to be said, and Feversham wondered why Ethne did +not rise from her seat in the pew. It did not occur to him to talk of +his travels or adventures. The occasion seemed too serious, too vital. +They were together to decide the most solemn issue in their lives. Once +the decision was made, as now it had been made, he felt that they could +hardly talk on other topics. Ethne, however, still kept him at her side. +Though she sat so calmly and still, though her face was quiet in its +look of gravity, her heart ached with longing. Just for a little longer, +she pleaded to herself. The sunlight was withdrawing from the walls of +the church. She measured out a space upon the walls where it still +glowed bright. When all that space was cold grey stone, she would send +Harry Feversham away. + +"I am glad that you escaped from Omdurman without the help of Lieutenant +Sutch or Colonel Durrance. I wanted so much that everything should be +done by you alone without anybody's help or interference," she said, and +after she had spoken there followed a silence. Once or twice she looked +towards the wall, and each time she saw the space of golden light +narrowed, and knew that her minutes were running out. "You suffered +horribly at Dongola," she said in a low voice. "Colonel Trench told me." + +"What does it matter now?" Feversham answered. "That time seems rather +far away to me." + +"Had you anything of mine with you?" + +"I had your white feather." + +"But anything else? Any little thing which I had given you in the other +days?" + +"Nothing." + +"I had your photograph," she said. "I kept it." + +Feversham suddenly leaned down towards her. + +"You did!" + +Ethne nodded her head. + +"Yes. The moment I went upstairs that night I packed up your presents +and addressed them to your rooms." + +"Yes, I got them in London." + +"But I put your photograph aside first of all to keep. I burnt all your +letters after I had addressed the parcel and taken it down to the hall +to be sent away. I had just finished burning your letters when I heard +your step upon the gravel in the early morning underneath my windows. +But I had already put your photograph aside. I have it now. I shall keep +it and the feathers together." She added after a moment:-- + +"I rather wish that you had had something of mine with you all the +time." + +"I had no right to anything," said Feversham. + +There was still a narrow slip of gold upon the grey space of stone. + +"What will you do now?" she asked. + +"I shall go home first and see my father. It will depend upon the way we +meet." + +"You will let Colonel Durrance know. I would like to hear about it." + +"Yes, I will write to Durrance." + +The slip of gold was gone, the clear light of a summer evening filled +the church, a light without radiance or any colour. + +"I shall not see you for a long while," said Ethne, and for the first +time her voice broke in a sob. "I shall not have a letter from you +again." + +She leaned a little forward and bent her head, for the tears had +gathered in her eyes. But she rose up bravely from her seat, and +together they went out of the church side by side. She leaned towards +him as they walked so that they touched. + +Feversham untied his horse and mounted it. As his foot touched the +stirrup Ethne caught her dog close to her. + +"Good-bye," she said. She did not now even try to smile, she held out +her hand to him. He took it and bent down from his saddle close to her. +She kept her eyes steadily upon him though the tears brimmed in them. + +"Good-bye," he said. He held her hand just for a little while, and then +releasing it, rode down the hill. He rode for a hundred yards, stopped +and looked back. Ethne had stopped, too, and with this space between +them and their faces towards one another they remained. Ethne made no +sign of recognition or farewell. She just stood and looked. Then she +turned away and went up the village street towards her house alone and +very slowly. Feversham watched her till she went in at the gate, but she +became dim and blurred to his vision before even she had reached it. He +was able to see, however, that she did not look back again. + +He rode down the hill. The bad thing which he had done so long ago was +not even by his six years of labour to be destroyed. It was still to +live, its consequence was to be sorrow till the end of life for another +than himself. That she took the sorrow bravely and without complaint, +doing the straight and simple thing as her loyal nature bade her, did +not diminish Harry Feversham's remorse. On the contrary it taught him +yet more clearly that she least of all deserved unhappiness. The harm +was irreparable. Other women might have forgotten, but not she. For +Ethne was of those who neither lightly feel nor lightly forget, and if +they love cannot love with half a heart. She would be alone now, he +knew, in spite of her marriage, alone up to the very end and at the +actual moment of death. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +ETHNE AGAIN PLAYS THE MUSOLINE OVERTURE + + +The incredible words were spoken that evening. Ethne went into her +farm-house and sat down in the parlour. She felt cold that summer +evening and had the fire lighted. She sat gazing into the bright coals +with that stillness of attitude which was a sure sign with her of tense +emotion. The moment so eagerly looked for had come, and it was over. She +was alone now in her remote little village, out of the world in the +hills, and more alone than she had been since Willoughby sailed on that +August morning down the Salcombe estuary. From the time of Willoughby's +coming she had looked forward night and day to the one half-hour during +which Harry Feversham would be with her. The half-hour had come and +passed. She knew now how she had counted upon its coming, how she had +lived for it. She felt lonely in a rather empty world. But it was part +of her nature that she had foreseen this sense of loneliness; she had +known that there would be a bad hour for her after she had sent Harry +Feversham away, that all her heart and soul would clamour to her to call +him back. And she forced herself, as she sat shivering by the fire, to +remember that she had always foreseen and had always looked beyond it. +To-morrow she would know again that they had not parted forever, +to-morrow she would compare the parting of to-day with the parting on +the night of the ball at Lennon House, and recognise what a small thing +this was to that. She fell to wondering what Harry Feversham would do +now that he had returned, and while she was building up for him a future +of great distinction she felt Dermod's old collie dog nuzzling at her +hand with his sure instinct that his mistress was in distress. Ethne +rose from her chair and took the dog's head between her hands and kissed +it. He was very old, she thought; he would die soon and leave her, and +then there would be years and years, perhaps, before she lay down in her +bed and knew the great moment was at hand. + +There came a knock upon the door, and a servant told her that Colonel +Durrance was waiting. + +"Yes," she said, and as he entered the room she went forward to meet +him. She did not shirk the part which she had allotted to herself. She +stepped out from the secret chamber of her grief as soon as she was +summoned. + +She talked with her visitor as though no unusual thing had happened an +hour before, she even talked of their marriage and the rebuilding of +Lennon House. It was difficult, but she had grown used to difficulties. +Only that night Durrance made her path a little harder to tread. He +asked her, after the maid had brought in the tea, to play to him the +Musoline Overture upon her violin. + +"Not to-night," said Ethne. "I am rather tired." And she had hardly +spoken before she changed her mind. Ethne was determined that in the +small things as well as in the great she must not shirk. The small +things with their daily happenings were just those about which she must +be most careful. "Still I think that I can play the overture," she said +with a smile, and she took down her violin. She played the overture +through from the beginning to the end. Durrance stood at the window with +his back towards her until she had ended. Then he walked to her side. + +"I was rather a brute," he said quietly, "to ask you to play that +overture to-night." + +"I wasn't anxious to play," she answered as she laid the violin aside. + +"I know. But I was anxious to find out something, and I knew no other +way of finding it out." + +Ethne turned up to him a startled face. + +"What do you mean?" she asked in a voice of suspense. + +"You are so seldom off your guard. Only indeed at rare times when you +play. Once before when you played that overture you were off your guard. +I thought that if I could get you to play it again to-night--the +overture which was once strummed out in a dingy cafe at Wadi +Halfa--to-night again I should find you off your guard." + +His words took her breath away and the colour from her cheeks. She got +up slowly from her chair and stared at him wide-eyed. He could not know. +It was impossible. He did not know. + +But Durrance went quietly on. + +"Well? Did you take back your feather? The fourth one?" + +These to Ethne were the incredible words. Durrance spoke them with a +smile upon his face. It took her a long time to understand that he had +actually spoken them. She was not sure at the first that her +overstrained senses were not playing her tricks; but he repeated his +question, and she could no longer disbelieve or misunderstand. + +"Who told you of any fourth feather?" she asked. + +"Trench," he answered. "I met him at Dover. But he only told me of the +fourth feather," said Durrance. "I knew of the three before. Trench +would never have told me of the fourth had I not known of the three. For +I should not have met him as he landed from the steamer at Dover. I +should not have asked him, 'Where is Harry Feversham?' And for me to +know of the three was enough." + +"How do you know?" she cried in a kind of despair, and coming close to +her he took gently hold of her arm. + +"But since I know," he protested, "what does it matter how I know? I +have known a long while, ever since Captain Willoughby came to The Pool +with the first feather. I waited to tell you that I knew until Harry +Feversham came back, and he came to-day." + +Ethne sat down in her chair again. She was stunned by Durrance's +unexpected disclosure. She had so carefully guarded her secret, that to +realise that for a year it had been no secret came as a shock to her. +But, even in the midst of her confusion, she understood that she must +have time to gather up her faculties again under command. So she spoke +of the unimportant thing to gain the time. + +"You were in the church, then? Or you heard us upon the steps? Or you +met--him as he rode away?" + +"Not one of the conjectures is right," said Durrance, with a smile. +Ethne had hit upon the right subject to delay the statement of the +decision to which she knew very well that he had come. Durrance had his +vanities like others; and in particular one vanity which had sprung up +within him since he had become blind. He prided himself upon the +quickness of his perception. It was a delight to him to make discoveries +which no one expected a man who had lost his sight to make, and to +announce them unexpectedly. It was an additional pleasure to relate to +his puzzled audience the steps by which he had reached his discovery. +"Not one of your conjectures is right, Ethne," he said, and he +practically asked her to question him. + +"Then how did you find out?" she asked. + +"I knew from Trench that Harry Feversham would come some day, and soon. +I passed the church this afternoon. Your collie dog barked at me. So I +knew you were inside. But a saddled horse was tied up beside the gate. +So some one else was with you, and not any one from the village. Then I +got you to play, and that told me who it was who rode the horse." + +"Yes," said Ethne, vaguely. She had barely listened to his words. "Yes, +I see." Then in a definite voice, which showed that she had regained all +her self-control, she said:-- + +"You went away to Wiesbaden for a year. You went away just after Captain +Willoughby came. Was that the reason why you went away?" + +"I went because neither you nor I could have kept up the game of +pretences we were playing. You were pretending that you had no thought +for Harry Feversham, that you hardly cared whether he was alive or dead. +I was pretending not to have found out that beyond everything in the +world you cared for him. Some day or other we should have failed, each +one in turn. I dared not fail, nor dared you. I could not let you, who +had said 'Two lives must not be spoilt because of me,' live through a +year thinking that two lives had been spoilt. You on your side dared not +let me, who had said 'Marriage between a blind man and a woman is only +possible when there is more than friendship on both sides,' know that +upon one side there was only friendship, and we were so near to failing. +So I went away." + +"You did not fail," said Ethne, quietly; "it was only I who failed." + +She blamed herself most bitterly. She had set herself, as the one thing +worth doing, and incumbent on her to do, to guard this man from +knowledge which would set the crown on his calamities, and she had +failed. He had set himself to protect her from the comprehension that +she had failed, and he had succeeded. It was not any mere sense of +humiliation, due to the fact that the man whom she had thought to +hoodwink had hoodwinked her, which troubled her. But she felt that she +ought to have succeeded, since by failure she had robbed him of his last +chance of happiness. There lay the sting for her. + +"But it was not your fault," he said. "Once or twice, as I said, you +were off your guard, but the convincing facts were not revealed to me in +that way. When you played the Musoline Overture before, on the night of +the day when Willoughby brought you such good news, I took to myself +that happiness of yours which inspired your playing. You must not blame +yourself. On the contrary, you should be glad that I have found out." + +"Glad!" she exclaimed. + +"Yes, for my sake, glad." And as she looked at him in wonderment he went +on: "Two lives should not be spoilt because of you. Had you had your +way, had I not found out, not two but three lives would have been spoilt +because of you--because of your loyalty." + +"Three?" + +"Yours. Yes--yes, yours, Feversham's, and mine. It was hard enough to +keep the pretence during the few weeks we were in Devonshire. Own to it, +Ethne! When I went to London to see my oculist it was a relief; it gave +you a pause, a rest wherein to drop pretence and be yourself. It could +not have lasted long even in Devonshire. But what when we came to live +under the same roof, and there were no visits to the oculist, when we +saw each other every hour of every day? Sooner or later the truth must +have come to me. It might have come gradually, a suspicion added to a +suspicion and another to that until no doubt was left. Or it might have +flashed out in one terrible moment. But it would have been made clear. +And then, Ethne? What then? You aimed at a compensation; you wanted to +make up to me for the loss of what I love--my career, the army, the +special service in the strange quarters of the world. A fine +compensation to sit in front of you knowing you had married a cripple +out of pity, and that in so doing you had crippled yourself and foregone +the happiness which is yours by right. Whereas now--" + +"Whereas now?" she repeated. + +"I remain your friend, which I would rather be than your unloved +husband," he said very gently. + +Ethne made no rejoinder. The decision had been taken out of her hands. + +"You sent Harry away this afternoon," said Durrance. "You said good-bye +to him twice." + +At the "twice" Ethne raised her head, but before she could speak +Durrance explained:-- + +"Once in the church, again upon your violin," and he took up the +instrument from the chair on which she had laid it. "It has been a very +good friend, your violin," he said. "A good friend to me, to us all. You +will understand that, Ethne, very soon. I stood at the window while you +played it. I had never heard anything in my life half so sad as your +farewell to Harry Feversham, and yet it was nobly sad. It was true +music, it did not complain." He laid the violin down upon the chair +again. + +"I am going to send a messenger to Rathmullen. Harry cannot cross Lough +Swilly to-night. The messenger will bring him back to-morrow." + +It had been a day of many emotions and surprises for Ethne. As Durrance +bent down towards her, he became aware that she was crying silently. For +once tears had their way with her. He took his cap and walked +noiselessly to the door of the room. As he opened it, Ethne got up. + +"Don't go for a moment," she said, and she left the fireplace and came +to the centre of the room. + +"The oculist at Wiesbaden?" she asked. "He gave you a hope?" + +Durrance stood meditating whether he should lie or speak the truth. + +"No," he said at length. "There is no hope. But I am not so helpless as +at one time I was afraid that I should be. I can get about, can't I? +Perhaps one of these days I shall go on a journey, one of the long +journeys amongst the strange people in the East." + +He went from the house upon his errand. He had learned his lesson a long +time since, and the violin had taught it him. It had spoken again that +afternoon, and though with a different voice, had offered to him the +same message. The true music cannot complain. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +THE END + + +In the early summer of next year two old men sat reading their +newspapers after breakfast upon the terrace of Broad Place. The elder of +the two turned over a sheet. + +"I see Osman Digna's back at Suakin," said he. "There's likely to be +some fighting." + +"Oh," said the other, "he will not do much harm." And he laid down his +paper. The quiet English country-side vanished from before his eyes. He +saw only the white city by the Red Sea shimmering in the heat, the brown +plains about it with their tangle of halfa grass, and in the distance +the hills towards Khor Gwob. + +"A stuffy place Suakin, eh, Sutch?" said General Feversham. + +"Appallingly stuffy. I heard of an officer who went down on parade at +six o'clock of the morning there, sunstruck in the temples right through +a regulation helmet. Yes, a town of dank heat! But I was glad to be +there--very glad," he said with some feeling. + +"Yes," said Feversham, briskly; "ibex, eh?" + +"No," replied Sutch. "All the ibex had been shot off by the English +garrison for miles round." + +"No? Something to do, then. That's it?" + +"Yes, that's it, Feversham. Something to do." + +And both men busied themselves again over their papers. But in a little +while a footman brought to each a small pile of letters. General +Feversham ran over his envelopes with a quick eye, selected one letter, +and gave a grunt of satisfaction. He took a pair of spectacles from a +case and placed them upon his nose. + +"From Ramelton?" asked Sutch, dropping his newspaper on to the terrace. + +"From Ramelton," answered Feversham. "I'll light a cigar first." + +He laid the letter down on the garden table which stood between his +companion and himself, drew a cigar-case from his pocket, and in spite +of the impatience of Lieutenant Sutch, proceeded to cut and light it +with the utmost deliberation. The old man had become an epicure in this +respect. A letter from Ramelton was a luxury to be enjoyed with all the +accessories of comfort which could be obtained. He made himself +comfortable in his chair, stretched out his legs, and smoked enough of +his cigar to assure himself that it was drawing well. Then he took up +his letter again and opened it. + +"From him?" asked Sutch. + +"No; from her." + +"Ah!" + +General Feversham read the letter through slowly, while Lieutenant Sutch +tried not to peep at it across the table. When the general had finished +he turned back to the first page, and began it again. + +"Any news?" said Sutch, with a casual air. + +"They are very pleased with the house now that it's rebuilt." + +"Anything more?" + +"Yes. Harry's finished the sixth chapter of his history of the war." + +"Good!" said Sutch. "You'll see, he'll do that well. He has imagination, +he knows the ground, he was present while the war went on. Moreover, he +was in the bazaars, he saw the under side of it." + +"Yes. But you and I won't read it, Sutch," said Feversham. "No; I am +wrong. You may, for you can give me a good many years." + +He turned back to his letter and again Sutch asked:-- + +"Anything more?" + +"Yes. They are coming here in a fortnight." + +"Good," said Sutch. "I shall stay." + +He took a turn along the terrace and came back. He saw Feversham sitting +with the letter upon his knees and a frown of great perplexity upon his +face. + +"You know, Sutch, I never understood," he said. "Did you?" + +"Yes, I think I did." + +Sutch did not try to explain. It was as well, he thought, that Feversham +never would understand. For he could not understand without much +self-reproach. + +"Do you ever see Durrance?" asked the general, suddenly. + +"Yes, I see a good deal of Durrance. He is abroad just now." + +Feversham turned towards his friend. + +"He came to Broad Place when you went to Suakin, and talked to me for +half an hour. He was Harry's best man. Well, that too I never +understood. Did you?" + +"Yes, I understood that as well." + +"Oh!" said General Feversham. He asked for no explanations, but, as he +had always done, he took the questions which he did not understand and +put them aside out of his thoughts. But he did not turn to his other +letters. He sat smoking his cigar, and looked out across the summer +country and listened to the sounds rising distinctly from the fields. +Sutch had read through all of his correspondence before Feversham spoke +again. + +"I have been thinking," he said. "Have you noticed the date of the +month, Sutch?" and Sutch looked up quickly. + +"Yes," said he, "this day next week will be the anniversary of our +attack upon the Redan, and Harry's birthday." + +"Exactly," replied Feversham. "Why shouldn't we start the Crimean nights +again?" + +Sutch jumped up from his chair. + +"Splendid!" he cried. "Can we muster a tableful, do you think?" + +"Let's see," said Feversham, and ringing a handbell upon the table, sent +the servant for the Army List. Bending over that Army List the two +veterans may be left. + +But of one other figure in this story a final word must be said. That +night, when the invitations had been sent out from Broad Place, and no +longer a light gleamed from any window of the house, a man leaned over +the rail of a steamer anchored at Port Said and listened to the song of +the Arab coolies as they tramped up and down the planks with their coal +baskets between the barges and the ship's side. The clamour of the +streets of the town came across the water to his ears. He pictured to +himself the flare of braziers upon the quays, the lighted port-holes, +and dark funnels ahead and behind in the procession of the anchored +ships. Attended by a servant, he had come back to the East again. Early +the next morning the steamer moved through the canal, and towards the +time of sunset passed out into the chills of the Gulf of Suez. Kassassin, +Tel-el-Kebir, Tamai, Tamanieb, the attack upon McNeil's +zareeba--Durrance lived again through the good years of his activity, +the years of plenty. Within that country on the west the long +preparations were going steadily forward which would one day roll up the +Dervish Empire and crush it into dust. Upon the glacis of the ruined +fort of Sinkat, Durrance had promised himself to take a hand in that +great work, but the desert which he loved had smitten and cast him out. +But at all events the boat steamed southwards into the Red Sea. Three +nights more, and though he would not see it, the Southern Cross would +lift slantwise into the sky. + + + + + * * * * * + + +By A. E. W. Mason + +THE COURTSHIP OF MAURICE BUCKLER + +_A ROMANCE_ + + +Being a record of the growth of an English Gentleman, during the years +of 1685-1687, under strange and difficult circumstances, written some +while afterward in his own hand, and now edited by A. E. W. MASON + + +Philadelphia Evening Bulletin: In spirit and color it reminds us of the +very remarkable books of Mr. Conon Doyle. The author has measurably +caught the fascinating diction of the seventeenth century, and the +strange adventures with which the story is filled are of a sufficiently +perilous order to entertain the most Homeric mind. + +Boston Courier: In this elaborately ingenious narrative the adventures +recorded are various and exciting enough to suit the most exacting +reader. The incidents recited are of extreme interest, and are not drawn +out into noticeable tenuity. + +The Outlook: "The Courtship of Maurice Buckler" is not only full of +action and stimulating to curiosity, but tells a quite original plot in +a clever way. Perhaps in its literary kinship it approaches more closely +to "The Prisoner of Zenda" than to any other recent novel, but there is +no evidence of imitation; the resemblance is in the spirit and dash of +the narrative. The merit of this story is not solely in its grasp on the +reader's attention and its exciting situations; it is written in +excellent English, the dialogue is natural and brisk, the individual +characters stand out clearly, and the flavor of the time is well +preserved. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FOUR FEATHERS*** + + +******* This file should be named 18883.txt or 18883.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/8/8/18883 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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