THE FOUR FEATHERS

by

A. E. W. MASON

Author of "Miranda of the Balcony, " "The Courtship of Morrice Buckler, "Etc. 

New YorkThe MacMillan CompanyLondon: MacMillan & Co. , Ltd. 1903All rights reservedCopyright, 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 PressJ. S. Cushing & Co. --Berwick & SmithNorwood Mass. U. S. A. 

ToMISS ELSPETH ANGELA CAMPBELLJune 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 shortstory by the author, originally printed in the _Illustrated LondonNews_, and since republished. ]

CHAPTER I

A CRIMEAN NIGHT

Lieutenant Sutch was the first of General Feversham's guests to reachBroad Place. He arrived about five o'clock on an afternoon of sunshinein mid June, and the old red-brick house, lodged on a southern slope ofthe Surrey hills, was glowing from a dark forest depth of pines with thewarmth of a rare jewel. Lieutenant Sutch limped across the hall, wherethe 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 foundhis host sitting erect like a boy, and gazing southward toward theSussex Downs. 

"How's the leg?" asked General Feversham, as he rose briskly from hischair. 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 narrowforehead and steel-blue inexpressive eyes, suggested a barrenness ofmind. 

"It gave me trouble during the winter, " replied Sutch. "But that was tobe expected. " General Feversham nodded, and for a little while both menwere silent. From the terrace the ground fell steeply to a wide levelplain of brown earth and emerald fields and dark clumps of trees. Fromthis plain voices rose through the sunshine, small but very clear. Faraway toward Horsham a coil of white smoke from a train snaked rapidly inand out amongst the trees; and on the horizon rose the Downs, patchedwith white chalk. 

"I thought that I should find you here, " said Sutch. 

"It was my wife's favourite corner, " answered Feversham in a quiteemotionless voice. "She would sit here by the hour. She had a queerliking for wide and empty spaces. "

"Yes, " said Sutch. "She had imagination. Her thoughts could peoplethem. "

General Feversham glanced at his companion as though he hardlyunderstood. But he asked no questions. What he did not understand hehabitually let slip from his mind as not worth comprehension. He spokeat 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 areall permanently shelved upon the world's half-pay list as it is. Theobituary column is just the last formality which gazettes us out of theservice altogether, " and Sutch stretched out and eased his crippled leg, which fourteen years ago that day had been crushed and twisted in thefall of a scaling-ladder. 

"I am glad that you came before the others, " continued Feversham. "Iwould like to take your opinion. This day is more to me than theanniversary of our attack upon the Redan. At the very moment when wewere standing under arms in the dark--"

"To the west of the quarries; I remember, " interrupted Sutch, with adeep 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 beat home. He will, of course, enter the service, and he might learnsomething, perhaps, which afterward will be of use--one never knows. "

"By all means, " said Sutch, with alacrity. For since his visits toGeneral Feversham were limited to the occasion of these anniversarydinners, he had never yet seen Harry Feversham. 

Sutch had for many years been puzzled as to the qualities in GeneralFeversham which had attracted Muriel Graham, a woman as remarkable forthe refinement of her intellect as for the beauty of her person; and hecould never find an explanation. He had to be content with his knowledgethat for some mysterious reason she had married this man so much olderthan herself and so unlike to her in character. Personal courage and anindomitable self-confidence were the chief, indeed the only, qualitieswhich sprang to light in General Feversham. Lieutenant Sutch went backin thought over twenty years, as he sat on his garden-chair, to a timebefore he had taken part, as an officer of the Naval Brigade, in thatunsuccessful onslaught on the Redan. He remembered a season in Londonto which he had come fresh from the China station; and he was curious tosee Harry Feversham. He did not admit that it was more than the naturalcuriosity of a man who, disabled in comparative youth, had made a hobbyout of the study of human nature. He was interested to see whether thelad took after his mother or his father--that was all. 

So that night Harry Feversham took a place at the dinner-table andlistened to the stories which his elders told, while Lieutenant Sutchwatched him. The stories were all of that dark winter in the Crimea, anda fresh story was always in the telling before its predecessor wasended. They were stories of death, of hazardous exploits, of the pinchof famine, and the chill of snow. But they were told in clipped wordsand with a matter-of-fact tone, as though the men who related them wereonly conscious of them as far-off things; and there was seldom a commentmore pronounced than a mere "That's curious, " or an exclamation moresignificant than a laugh. 

But Harry Feversham sat listening as though the incidents thuscarelessly narrated were happening actually at that moment and withinthe walls of that room. His dark eyes--the eyes of his mother--turnedwith each story from speaker to speaker, and waited, wide open andfixed, until the last word was spoken. He listened fascinated andenthralled. And so vividly did the changes of expression shoot andquiver across his face, that it seemed to Sutch the lad must actuallyhear the drone of bullets in the air, actually resist the stunning shockof a charge, actually ride down in the thick of a squadron to where gunsscreeched out a tongue of flame from a fog. Once a major of artilleryspoke of the suspense of the hours between the parading of the troopsbefore a battle and the first command to advance; and Harry's shouldersworked 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 indeedmore than startled, --he was pained. For this after all was MurielGraham's boy. 

The look was too familiar a one to Sutch. He had seen it on the faces ofrecruits during their first experience of a battle too often for him tomisunderstand it. And one picture in particular rose before hismind, --an advancing square at Inkermann, and a tall big soldier rushingforward from the line in the eagerness of his attack, and then stoppingsuddenly as though he suddenly understood that he was alone, and had tomeet alone the charge of a mounted Cossack. Sutch remembered veryclearly the fatal wavering glance which the big soldier had thrownbackward toward his companions, --a glance accompanied by a queer sicklysmile. He remembered too, with equal vividness, its consequence. Forthough the soldier carried a loaded musket and a bayonet locked to themuzzle, he had without an effort of self-defence received the Cossack'slance-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 andthe same smile upon Harry's face. But no one had eyes for the lad; eachvisitor was waiting too eagerly for an opportunity to tell a story ofhis own. Sutch drew a breath of relief and turned to Harry. But the boywas sitting with his elbows on the cloth and his head propped betweenhis hands, lost to the glare of the room and its glitter of silver, constructing again out of the swift succession of anecdotes a world ofcries and wounds, and maddened riderless chargers and men writhing in afog of cannon-smoke. The curtest, least graphic description of thebiting days and nights in the trenches set the lad shivering. Even hisface grew pinched, as though the iron frost of that winter was actuallyeating into his bones. Sutch touched him lightly on the elbow. 

"You renew those days for me, " said he. "Though the heat is drippingdown 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 infrom the head of the table:--

"Harry, look at the clock!"

At once all eyes were turned upon the lad. The hands of the clock madethe 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-tablelistening. Yet even now he rose with reluctance. 

"Must I go, father?" he asked, and the general's guests intervened ina chorus. The conversation was clear gain to the lad, a first taste ofpowder which might stand him in good stead afterwards. 

"Besides, it's the boy's birthday, " added the major of artillery. "Hewants to stay; that's plain. You wouldn't find a youngster of fourteensit all these hours without a kick of the foot against the table-legunless the conversation entertained him. Let him stay, Feversham!"

For once General Feversham relaxed the iron discipline under which theboy 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 restedupon his face with a curious steady gaze. It seemed to Sutch that theyuttered a question, and, rightly or wrongly, he interpreted the questioninto words:--

"Are you blind?"

But General Feversham was already talking to his neighbours, and Harryquietly sat down, and again propping his chin upon his hands, listenedwith all his soul. Yet he was not entertained; rather he was enthralled;he sat quiet under the compulsion of a spell. His face becameunnaturally white, his eyes unnaturally large, while the flames of thecandles shone ever redder and more blurred through a blue haze oftobacco smoke, and the level of the wine grew steadily lower in thedecanters. 

Thus half of that one hour's furlough was passed; and then GeneralFeversham, himself jogged by the unlucky mention of a name, suddenlyblurted out in his jerky fashion:--

"Lord Wilmington. One of the best names in England, if you please. Didyou ever see his house in Warwickshire? Every inch of the ground youwould think would have a voice to bid him play the man, if only inremembrance of his fathers.... It seemed incredible and mere camprumour, but the rumour grew. If it was whispered at the Alma, it wasspoken aloud at Inkermann, it was shouted at Balaclava. BeforeSebastopol the hideous thing was proved. Wilmington was acting asgalloper to his general. I believe upon my soul the general chose himfor the duty, so that the fellow might set himself right. There werethree hundred yards of bullet-swept flat ground, and a message to becarried across them. Had Wilmington toppled off his horse on the way, why, there were the whispers silenced for ever. Had he ridden throughalive he earned distinction besides. But he didn't dare; he refused!Imagine it if you can! He sat shaking on his horse and declined. Youshould have seen the general. His face turned the colour of thatBurgundy. 'No doubt you have a previous engagement, ' he said, in thepolitest voice you ever heard--just that, not a word of abuse. Aprevious engagement on the battlefield! For the life of me, I couldhardly help laughing. But it was a tragic business for Wilmington. Hewas broken, of course, and slunk back to London. Every house was closedto him; he dropped out of his circle like a lead bullet you let slip outof your hand into the sea. The very women in Piccadilly spat if he spoketo 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 namewas at stake, yet he could blow his own brains out afterwards. "

Lieutenant Sutch chanced to look at the clock as the story came to anend. It was now a quarter to one. Harry Feversham had still a quarter ofan hour's furlough, and that quarter of an hour was occupied by aretired surgeon-general with a great wagging beard, who sat nearlyopposite to the boy. 

"I can tell you an incident still more curious, " he said. "The man inthis case had never been under fire before, but he was of my ownprofession. Life and death were part of his business. Nor was he reallyin any particular danger. The affair happened during a hill campaign inIndia. We were encamped in a valley, and a few Pathans used to lie outon the hillside at night and take long shots into the camp. A bulletripped through the canvas of the hospital tent--that was all. Thesurgeon crept out to his own quarters, and his orderly discovered himhalf-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 hisinstrument-case in the dark, taken out a lancet, and severed his femoralartery. Sheer panic, do you see, at the whistle of a bullet. "

Even upon these men, case-hardened to horrors, the incident related inits bald simplicity wrought its effect. From some there broke ahalf-uttered exclamation of disbelief; others moved restlessly in theirchairs with a sort of physical discomfort, because a man had sunk so farbelow humanity. Here an officer gulped his wine, there a second shookhis shoulders as though to shake the knowledge off as a dog shakeswater. There was only one in all that company who sat perfectly still inthe silence which followed upon the story. That one was the boy, HarryFeversham. 

He sat with his hands now clenched upon his knees and leaning forward alittle across the table toward the surgeon, his cheeks white as paper, his eyes burning, and burning with ferocity. He had the look of adangerous 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 strikewith all his strength in the savagery of despair. He had indeed reachedout a restraining hand when General Feversham's matter-of-fact voiceintervened, and the boy's attitude suddenly relaxed. 

"Queer incomprehensible things happen. Here are two of them. You canonly say they are the truth and pray God you may forget 'em. But youcan'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 wasspoken. But it was spoken, and Harry's eyes turned swiftly toward Sutch, and rested upon his face, not, however, with any betrayal of guilt, butquietly, inscrutably. Nor did he answer the question, although it wasanswered 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 thesame mute way repeated. "Are you blind?" his eyes asked of GeneralFeversham. Never had he heard an untruth so demonstrably untrue. A merelook at the father and the son proved it so. Harry Feversham wore hisfather's name, but he had his mother's dark and haunted eyes, hismother's breadth of forehead, his mother's delicacy of profile, hismother's imagination. It needed perhaps a stranger to recognise thetruth. The father had been so long familiar with his son's aspect thatit 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 abreath. 

"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 theboy hesitated upon the threshold, and seemed almost to shrink back intothe lighted room as though in that dark void peril awaited him. Andperil did--the peril of his thoughts. 

He stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. The decanterwas sent again upon its rounds; there was a popping of soda-waterbottles; the talk revolved again in its accustomed groove. Harry was inan instant forgotten by all but Sutch. The lieutenant, although heprided himself upon his impartial and disinterested study of humannature, was the kindliest of men. He had more kindliness thanobservation by a great deal. Moreover, there were special reasons whichcaused him to take an interest in Harry Feversham. He sat for a littlewhile with the air of a man profoundly disturbed. Then, acting upon animpulse, he went to the door, opened it noiselessly, as noiselesslypassed out, and, without so much as a click of the latch, closed thedoor behind him. 

And this is what he saw: Harry Feversham, holding in the centre of thehall a lighted candle high above his head, and looking up toward theportraits of the Fevershams as they mounted the walls and were lost inthe darkness of the roof. A muffled sound of voices came from the otherside of the door panels, but the hall itself was silent. Harry stoodremarkably still, and the only thing which moved at all was the yellowflame 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'sportrait upon the walls which did not glisten with the colours of auniform, and there were the portraits of many men. Father and son, theFevershams had been soldiers from the very birth of the family. Fatherand son, in lace collars and bucket boots, in Ramillies wigs and steelbreastplates, in velvet coats, with powder on their hair, in shakos andswallow-tails, in high stocks and frogged coats, they looked down uponthis last Feversham, summoning him to the like service. They were men ofone stamp; no distinction of uniform could obscure theirrelationship--lean-faced men, hard as iron, rugged in feature, thin-lipped, with firm chins and straight, level mouths, narrowforeheads, and the steel-blue inexpressive eyes; men of courage andresolution, no doubt, but without subtleties, or nerves, or thatburdensome gift of imagination; sturdy men, a little wanting indelicacy, hardly conspicuous for intellect; to put it frankly, menrather stupid--all of them, in a word, first-class fighting men, butnot one of them a first-class soldier. 

But Harry Feversham plainly saw none of their defects. To him theywere one and all portentous and terrible. He stood before them in theattitude of a criminal before his judges, reading his condemnation intheir cold unchanging eyes. Lieutenant Sutch understood more clearly whythe flame of the candle flickered. There was no draught in the hall, butthe boy's hand shook. And finally, as though he heard the mute voices ofhis judges delivering sentence and admitted its justice, he actuallybowed to the portraits on the wall. As he raised his head, he sawLieutenant Sutch in the embrasure of the doorway. 

He did not start, he uttered no word; he let his eyes quietly rest uponSutch 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 touse the tone and the language of one addressing not a boy, but a comradeequal in years, "we meet for the first time to-night. But I knew yourmother a long time ago. I like to think that I have the right to callher 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 astrong appeal to him. For lonely the boy could not but be, set apart ashe was, no less unmistakably in mind as in feature, from his father andhis father's fathers. Yet what more could he do? His tact again came tohis aid. He took his card-case from his pocket. 

"You will find my address upon this card. Perhaps some day you will giveme a few days of your company. I can offer you on my side a day or two'shunting. "

A spasm of pain shook for a fleeting moment the boy's steady inscrutableface. 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 olderman, I am at your service. "

He spoke purposely in a formal voice, lest Harry with a boy'ssensitiveness should think he laughed. Harry took the card and repeatedhis thanks. Then he went upstairs to bed. 

Lieutenant Sutch waited uncomfortably in the hall until the light of thecandle had diminished and disappeared. Something was amiss, he was verysure. There were words which he should have spoken to the boy, but hehad 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 filledhis glass and called for silence. 

"Gentlemen, " he said, "this is June 15th, " and there was great applauseand much rapping on the table. "It is the anniversary of our attack uponthe Redan. It is also Harry Feversham's birthday. For us, our work isdone. I ask you to drink the health of one of the youngsters who areousting us. His work lies before him. The traditions of the Fevershamfamily 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 thetable rang. "Harry Feversham, Harry Feversham, " the cry was repeated andrepeated, while old General Feversham sat in his chair with a faceaflush with pride. And a boy a minute afterward in a room high up in thehouse 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 hisfather's health. He turned over in his bed and lay shivering. He saw inhis mind a broken officer slinking at night in the shadows of the Londonstreets. He pushed back the flap of a tent and stooped over a man lyingstone-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 deadsurgeon 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'shealth was drunk again, but after a quieter fashion and in a smallercompany. The company was gathered in a room high up in a shapeless blockof buildings which frowns like a fortress above Westminster. A strangercrossing St. James's Park southwards, over the suspension bridge, atnight, who chanced to lift his eyes and see suddenly the tiers oflighted windows towering above him to so precipitous a height, might bebrought to a stop with the fancy that here in the heart of London was amountain and the gnomes at work. Upon the tenth floor of this buildingHarry had taken a flat during his year's furlough from his regiment inIndia; and it was in the dining room of this flat that the simpleceremony took place. The room was furnished in a dark and restfulfashion; and since the chill of the weather belied the calendar, acomfortable fire blazed in the hearth. A bay window, over which theblinds had not been lowered, commanded London. 

There were four men smoking about the dinner-table. Harry Feversham wasunchanged, except for a fair moustache, which contrasted with his darkhair, and the natural consequences of growth. He was now a man ofmiddle height, long-limbed, and well-knit like an athlete, but hisfeatures had not altered since that night when they had been so closelyscrutinised by Lieutenant Sutch. Of his companions two werebrother-officers on leave in England, like himself, whom he had thatafternoon picked up at his club, --Captain Trench, a small man, growingbald, with a small, sharp, resourceful face and black eyes of aremarkable activity, and Lieutenant Willoughby, an officer of quite adifferent stamp. A round forehead, a thick snub nose, and a pair ofvacant and protruding eyes gave to him an aspect of invinciblestupidity. He spoke but seldom, and never to the point, but rather tosome point long forgotten which he had since been laboriously revolvingin his mind; and he continually twisted a moustache, of which the endscurled up toward his eyes with a ridiculous ferocity, --a man whom onewould dismiss from mind as of no consequence upon a first thought, andtake again into one's consideration upon a second. For he was bornstubborn 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 bepersuaded; having few ideas, he clung to them. It was no use to arguewith him, for he did not hear the argument, but behind his vacant eyesall the while he turned over his crippled thoughts and was satisfied. The fourth at the table was Durrance, a lieutenant of the East SurreyRegiment, and Feversham's friend, who had come in answer to a telegram. 

This was June of the year 1882, and the thoughts of civilians turnedtoward Egypt with anxiety; those of soldiers, with an eageranticipation. Arabi Pasha, in spite of threats, was steadilystrengthening the fortifications of Alexandria, and already a longway to the south, the other, the great danger, was swelling like athunder-cloud. A year had passed since a young, slight, and tallDongolawi, Mohammed Ahmed, had marched through the villages of the WhiteNile, preaching with the fire of a Wesley the coming of a Saviour. Thepassionate victims of the Turkish tax-gatherer had listened, had heardthe 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 hisfirst battles against the Turks. 

"There will be trouble, " said Trench, and the sentence was the text onwhich three of the four men talked. In a rare interval, however, thefourth, Harry Feversham, spoke upon a different subject. 

"I am very glad you were all able to dine with me to-night. Itelegraphed to Castleton as well, an officer of ours, " he explained toDurrance, "but he was dining with a big man in the War Office, andleaves for Scotland afterwards, so that he could not come. I have newsof a sort. "

The three men leaned forward, their minds still full of the dominantsubject. But it was not about the prospect of war that Harry Fevershamhad news to speak. 

"I only reached London this morning from Dublin, " he said with a shadeof embarrassment. "I have been some weeks in Dublin. "

Durrance lifted his eyes from the tablecloth and looked quietly at hisfriend. 

"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 itto Feversham's ears. The friendship between these two men was not one inwhich affectionate phrases had any part. There was, in truth, no need ofsuch. Both men were securely conscious of it; they estimated it at itstrue, strong value; it was a helpful instrument, which would not wearout, put into their hands for a hard, lifelong use; but it was not, andnever 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 anobligation of sacrifice. But the sacrifices, were they needful, would bemade, and they would not be mentioned. It may be, indeed, that the veryknowledge of their friendship's strength constrained them to aparticular reticence in their words to one another. 

"Thank you, Jack!" said Feversham. "I am glad of your good wishes. Itwas you who introduced me to Ethne; I cannot forget it. "

Durrance set his glass down without any haste. There followed a momentof silence, during which he sat with his eyes upon the tablecloth, andhis 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. ButCaptain Trench's sharp, quick, practical voice, a voice which fitted theman 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 tothe window, where he stood with his back to his companions. Fevershamtook 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 besaid. On the one side, of course, there's my father, my career, such asit 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 headdressed his excuses. "Dermod is old, his estates are going to ruin, and there are other things. You know, Jack?" The direct appeal he had torepeat, and even then Durrance answered it absently:--

"Yes, I know, " and he added, like one quoting a catch-word. "If you wantany whiskey, rap twice on the floor with your foot. The servantsunderstand. "

"Precisely, " said Feversham. He continued, carefully weighing his words, and still intently looking across the shoulders of his companions to hisfriend:--

"Besides, there is Ethne herself. Dermod for once did an appropriatething 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 thatshe could be quite happy in India, or indeed in any place which was notwithin reach of Donegal, the smell of its peat, its streams, and thebrown 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 Fevershamwas speaking, --he wished very much that he would continue to speak for alittle while, --but he paid no heed to what was said. He stood lookingsteadfastly out of the windows. Over against him was the glare from PallMall striking upward to the sky, and the chains of light banked oneabove the other as the town rose northward, and a rumble as of a millioncarriages was in his ears. At his feet, very far below, lay St. James'sPark, silent and black, a quiet pool of darkness in the midst of glitterand noise. Durrance had a great desire to escape out of this room intoits secrecy. But that he could not do without remark. Therefore he kepthis back turned to his companion, and leaned his forehead against thewindow, and hoped his friend would continue to talk. For he was face toface with one of the sacrifices which must not be mentioned, and whichno sign must betray. 

Feversham did continue, and if Durrance did not listen, on the otherhand Captain Trench gave to him his closest attention. But it wasevident that Harry Feversham was giving reasons seriously considered. Hewas not making excuses, and in the end Captain Trench was satisfied. 

"Well, I drink to you, Feversham, " he said, "with all the propersentiments. "

"I too, old man, " said Willoughby, obediently following his senior'slead. 

Thus they drank their comrade's health, and as their empty glassesrattled 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 throughthe telegram, and then sat very still, with his eyes upon the slip ofpink paper and his face grown at once extremely grave. Thus he sat foran appreciable time, not so much stunned as thoughtful. And in the roomthere was a complete silence. Feversham's three guests averted theireyes. Durrance turned again to his window; Willoughby twisted hismoustache and gazed intently upward at the ceiling; Captain Trenchshifted his chair round and stared into the glowing fire, and each man'sattitude expressed a certain suspense. It seemed that sharp upon theheels of Feversham's good news calamity had come knocking at the door. 

"There is no answer, " said Harry, and fell to silence again. Once heraised 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 theconsideration of this message. And in a moment or two the silence wassharply interrupted, but not by any one of the expectant motionlessthree men seated within the room. The interruption came from without. 

From the parade ground of Wellington Barracks the drums and fifessounding the tattoo shrilled through the open window with a startlingclearness like a sharp summons, and diminished as the band marched awayacross the gravel and again grew loud. Feversham did not change hisattitude, but the look upon his face was now that of a man listening, and listening thoughtfully, just as he had read thoughtfully. In theyears which followed, that moment was to recur again and again to therecollection of each of Harry's three guests. The lighted room, with thebright homely fire, the open window overlooking the myriad lamps ofLondon, Harry Feversham seated with the telegram spread before him, thedrums and fifes calling loudly, and then dwindling to music very smalland pretty--music which beckoned where a moment ago it had commanded:all these details made up a picture of which the colours were not tofade by any lapse of time, although its significance was not apprehendednow. 

It was remembered that Feversham rose abruptly from his chair, justbefore the tattoo ceased. He crumpled the telegram loosely in his hands, tossed it into the fire, and then, leaning his back against thechimney-piece and upon one side of the fireplace, said again:--

"I don't know;" as though he had thrust that message, whatever it mightbe, from his mind, and was summing up in this indefinite way theargument which had gone before. Thus that long silence was broken, and aspell 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 ofit unrolled, and for a second lay open and smooth of creases, lit up bythe flame and as yet untouched; so that two or three words sprang, as itwere, out of a yellow glare of fire and were legible. Then the flameseized upon that smooth part too, and in a moment shrivelled it intoblack tatters. But Captain Trench was all this while staring into thefire. 

"You return to Dublin, I suppose?" said Durrance. He had moved backagain into the room. Like his companions, he was conscious of anunexplained relief. 

"To Dublin? No; I go to Donegal in three weeks' time. There is to be adance. 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. " Thetalk thus came round again to the chances of peace and war, and held inthat quarter till the boom of the Westminster clock told that the hourwas 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 hisrooms 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'ssurprise, 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 inquisitivemethodical person, and when a man gets a telegram bidding him tellTrench something and he tells Trench nothing, I am curious as aphilosopher to know what that something is! Castleton is the only otherofficer of our regiment in London. It is likely, therefore, that thetelegram came from Castleton. Castleton, too, was dining with a big manfrom the War Office. I think that if we take a hansom to AlbemarleStreet, 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, nowtwo years since, when by a curious whim of old Dermod Eustace he hadbeen fetched against his will to the house by the Lennon River inDonegal, and there, to his surprise, had been made acquainted withDermod's daughter Ethne. For she surprised all who had first held speechwith the father. Durrance had stayed for a night in the house, andthrough that evening she had played upon her violin, seated with herback toward her audience, as was her custom when she played, lest a lookor a gesture should interrupt the concentration of her thoughts. Themelodies which she had played rang in his ears now. For the girlpossessed the gift of music, and the strings of her violin spoke to thequestions of her bow. There was in particular an overture--the Melusineoverture--which had the very sob of the waves. Durrance had listenedwondering, for the violin had spoken to him of many things of which thegirl who played it could know nothing. It had spoken of long perilousjourneys and the faces of strange countries; of the silver way acrossmoonlit seas; of the beckoning voices from the under edges of thedesert. It had taken a deeper, a more mysterious tone. It had told ofgreat joys, quite unattainable, and of great griefs too, eternal, andwith a sort of nobility by reason of their greatness; and of manyunformulated longings beyond the reach of words; but with never a singlenote of mere complaint. So it had seemed to Durrance that night as hehad sat listening while Ethne's face was turned away. So it seemed tohim now when he knew that her face was still to be turned away for allhis days. He had drawn a thought from her playing which he was at somepains 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 blueeyes looked out upon the world from his bronzed face with not a jot lessof his usual friendliness. He waited at half-past nine by the clump oflilacs and laburnums at the end of the sand, but Harry Feversham did notjoin him that morning, nor indeed for the next three weeks. Ever sincethe two men had graduated from Oxford it had been their custom to meetat this spot and hour, when both chanced to be in town, and Durrance waspuzzled. It seemed to him that he had lost his friend as well. 

Meanwhile, however, the rumours of war grew to a certainty; and when atlast Feversham kept the tryst, Durrance had news. 

"I told you luck might look my way. Well, she has. I go out to Egypt onGeneral Graham's staff. There's talk we may run down the Red Sea toSuakin afterward. "

The exhilaration of his voice brought an unmistakable envy intoFeversham's eyes. It seemed strange to Durrance, even at that moment ofhis good luck, that Harry Feversham should envy him--strange and ratherpleasant. But he interpreted the envy in the light of his own ambitions. 

"It is rough on you, " he said sympathetically, "that your regiment hasto stay behind. "

Feversham rode by his friend's side in silence. Then, as they came tothe 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 ithad been intended. But Durrance rode silently forward. Again HarryFeversham was conscious of a reproach in his friend's silence, and againhe 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 meI can't help wishing that we had been going out together. When do youleave for Ireland?"

"To-night. "

"So soon?"

They turned their horses and rode westward again down the alley oftrees. The morning was still fresh. The limes and chestnuts had lostnothing of their early green, and since the May was late that year, itsblossoms still hung delicately white like snow upon the branches andshone red against the dark rhododendrons. The park shimmered in a hazeof sunlight, and the distant roar of the streets was as the tumbling ofriver 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 avolume in their book of life was ended; and since the volume had been apleasant one to read, and they did not know whether its successors wouldsustain its promise, they were looking backward through the leavesbefore 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 thatanticipatory "us. " If his left hand tightened upon the thongs of hisreins, the sign could not be detected by his friend. 

"If I come back, " said Durrance. "You know my creed. I could never pitya man who died on active service. I would very much like to come by thatend myself. "

It was a quite simple creed, consistent with the simplicity of the manwho uttered it. It amounted to no more than this: that to die decentlywas worth a good many years of life. So that he uttered it withoutmelancholy or any sign of foreboding. Even so, however, he had a fearthat perhaps his friend might place another interpretation upon thewords, 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, toput up with it. But what in the world should I do if I had to sit in achair all my days? It makes me shiver to think of it, " and he shook hisbroad shoulders to unsaddle that fear. "Well, this is the last ride. Letus gallop, " and he let out his horse. 

Feversham followed his example, and side by side they went racing downthe sand. At the bottom of the Row they stopped, shook hands, and withthe curtest of nods parted. Feversham rode out of the park, Durranceturned 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 woodedcreek of the Salcombe estuary, he had always been conscious of a certainrestlessness, a desire to sail down that creek and out over the levelsof the sea, a dream of queer outlandish countries and peoples beyond thedark familiar woods. And the restlessness had grown upon him, so that"Guessens, " even when he had inherited it with its farms and lands, hadremained always in his thoughts as a place to come home to rather thanan estate to occupy a life. He purposely exaggerated that restlessnessnow, and purposely set against it words which Feversham had spoken andwhich he knew to be true. Ethne Eustace would hardly be happy outsideher county of Donegal. Therefore, even had things fallen outdifferently, as he phrased it, there might have been a clash. Perhaps itwas as well that Harry Feversham was to marry Ethne--and not anotherthan Feversham. 

Thus, at all events, he argued as he rode, until the riders vanishedfrom before his eyes, and the ladies in their coloured frocks beneaththe cool of the trees. The trees themselves dwindled to ragged mimosas, the brown sand at his feet spread out in a widening circumference andtook the bright colour of honey; and upon the empty sand black stonesbegan to heap themselves shapelessly like coal, and to flash in the sunlike mirrors. He was deep in his anticipations of the Soudan, when heheard 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 neighbourat Southpool, and by a year or two his elder--a tall woman, remarkablefor the many shades of her thick brown hair and the peculiar pallor onher face. But at this moment the face had brightened, there was a hintof colour in the cheeks. 

"I have news for you, " said Durrance. "Two special items. One, HarryFeversham is to be married. "

"To whom?" asked the lady, eagerly. 

"You should know. It was in your house in Hill Street that Harry firstmet her; and I introduced him. He has been improving the acquaintance inDublin. "

But Mrs. Adair already understood; and it was plain that the news waswelcome. 

"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 yoursecond 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, andthe 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 willcome 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 reasonsfor making the most of the opportunity which had come his way; and heurged his enthusiasm, and laid it bare in words more for his own benefitthan with any thought of Mrs. Adair. Indeed, he had always rather avague impression of the lady. She was handsome in a queer, foreign waynot so uncommon along the coasts of Devonshire and Cornwall, and she hadgood hair, and was always well dressed. Moreover, she was friendly. Andat that point Durrance's knowledge of her came to an end. Perhaps herchief merit in his eyes was that she had made friends with EthneEustace. But he was to become better acquainted with Mrs. Adair. He rodeaway from the park with the old regret in his mind that the fortunes ofhimself and his friend were this morning finally severed. As a fact hehad that morning set the strands of a new rope a-weaving which was tobring 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 andarrange his estate in Devonshire. It passed in a continuous hurry ofpreparation, so that his newspaper lay each day unfolded in his rooms. The general was to travel overland to Brindisi; and so on an evening ofwind and rain, toward the end of July, Durrance stepped from the Doverpier into the mail-boat for Calais. In spite of the rain and the gloomynight, a small crowd had gathered to give the general a send-off. As theropes were cast off, a feeble cheer was raised; and before the cheer hadended, Durrance found himself beset by a strange illusion. He wasleaning upon the bulwarks, idly wondering whether this was his last viewof England, and with a wish that some one of his friends had come downto see him go, when it seemed to him suddenly that his wish wasanswered; 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 HarryFeversham. Durrance rubbed his eyes and looked again. But the wind madethe tongue of light flicker uncertainly within the glass; the rain, too, blurred the quay. He could only be certain that a man was standingthere, he could only vaguely distinguish beneath the lamp the whitenessof a face. It was an illusion, he said to himself. Harry Feversham wasat that moment most likely listening to Ethne playing the violin under aclear sky in a high garden of Donegal. But even as he was turning fromthe bulwarks, there came a lull of the wind, the lights burned brightand steady on the pier, and the face leaped from the shadows distinct infeature 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 lightsagain this way and that, the paddles churned the water, the mail-boatpassed beyond the pier. It was an illusion, he repeated; it was acoincidence. It was the face of a stranger very like to HarryFeversham's. It could not be Feversham's, because the face whichDurrance had seen so distinctly for a moment was a haggard, wistfulface--a face stamped with an extraordinary misery; the face of a mancast out from among his fellows. 

Durrance had been very busy all that week. He had clean forgotten thearrival of that telegram and the suspense which the long perusal of ithad caused. Moreover, his newspaper had lain unfolded in his rooms. Buthis 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 ridewith Durrance in the Row. He had crossed Lough Swilly on the followingfore-noon by a little cargo steamer, which once a week steamed up theLennon River as far as Ramelton. On the quay-side Ethne was waiting forhim 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 thesmile of a comrade. 

"I shall drive slowly, " she said, as soon as his traps had been packedinto the cart; "I brought no groom on purpose. There will be guestscoming to-morrow. We have only to-day. "

She drove along the wide causeway by the riverside, and turned up thesteep, narrow street. Feversham sat silently by her side. It was hisfirst visit to Ramelton, and he gazed about him, noting the dark thicketof tall trees which climbed on the far side of the river, the old greybridge, the noise of the water above it as it sang over shallows, andthe drowsy quiet of the town, with a great curiosity and almost a prideof ownership, since it was here that Ethne lived, and all these thingswere part and parcel of her life. 

She was at that time a girl of twenty-one, tall, strong, and supple oflimb, and with a squareness of shoulder proportionate to her height. Shehad none of that exaggerated slope which our grandmothers esteemed, yetshe lacked no grace of womanhood on that account, and in her walk shewas light-footed as a deer. Her hair was dark brown, and she wore itcoiled 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 shetalked with a most engaging frankness. And in character she was thecounterpart of her looks. She was honest; she had a certain simplicity, the straightforward simplicity of strength which comprises muchgentleness and excludes violence. Of her courage there is a story stilltold in Ramelton, which Feversham could never remember without a thrillof wonder. She had stopped at a door on that steep hill leading down tothe river, and the horse which she was driving took fright at the mereclatter 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 thusseated helpless in the dog-cart, and the horse was tearing down to wherethe road curves sharply over the bridge. The thing which she did, shedid quite coolly. She climbed over the front of the dog-cart as itpitched 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 stopten yards from the curve. But she had, too, the defects of herqualities, although Feversham was not yet aware of them. 

Ethne during the first part of this drive was almost as silent as hercompanion; and when she spoke, it was with an absent air, as though shehad something of more importance in her thoughts. It was not until shehad left the town and was out upon the straight, undulating road toLetterkenny 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 wouldhave been chances of distinction. I have hindered you, and I am verysorry. Of course, you could not know that there was any possibility ofyour regiment going, but I can understand it is very hard for you to beleft behind. I blame myself. "

Feversham sat staring in front of him for a moment. Then he said, in avoice suddenly grown hoarse:--

"You need not. "

"How can I help it? I blame myself the more, " she continued, "because Ido not see things quite like other women. For instance, supposing thatyou had gone to Egypt, and that the worst had happened, I should havefelt very lonely, of course, all my days, but I should have known quitesurely that when those days were over, you and I would see much of oneanother. "

She spoke without any impressive lowering of the voice, but in thesteady, level tone of one stating the simplest imaginable fact. Feversham caught his breath like a man in pain. But the girl's eyeswere upon his face, and he sat still, staring in front of him without somuch as a contraction of the forehead. But it seemed that he could nottrust 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, alittle better perhaps than most people. I do not feel that I have lostthem at all, " and she cast about for a while as if her thought wasdifficult to express. "You know how things happen, " she resumed. "Onegoes along in a dull sort of way, and then suddenly a face springs outfrom the crowd of one's acquaintances, and you know it at once andcertainly for the face of a friend, or rather you recognise it, thoughyou have never seen it before. It is almost as though you had come uponsome one long looked for and now gladly recovered. Well, suchfriends--they are few, no doubt, but after all only the few reallycount--such friends one does not lose, whether they are absent, oreven--dead. "

"Unless, " said Feversham, slowly, "one has made a mistake. Suppose theface 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 along 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 reinedin her horse, laughed, and pointed with her whip. 

They had come to the top of a hill a couple of miles from Ramelton. Theroad ran between stone walls enclosing open fields upon the left, and awood of oaks and beeches on the right. A scarlet letter-box was builtinto 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 topost my letters to you during the anxious times. " And so Feversham letslip 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 parkwall had crumbled. 

"That's where I used to climb over to post the letters. There's a treeon the other side of the wall as convenient as the letter-box. I used torun 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 droveup to the porch of the long, irregular grey house. "Well, we have stilla 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 fatherwould send the police to fetch them if they stayed away, just as hefetched your friend Mr. Durrance here. By the way, Mr. Durrance hassent me a present--a Guarnerius violin. "

The door opened, and a thin, lank old man, with a fierce peaked facelike a bird of prey, came out upon the steps. His face softened, however, into friendliness when he saw Feversham, and a smile playedupon his lips. A stranger might have thought that he winked. But hisleft 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. Theservants understand, " and with that he went straightway back into thehouse. 

 * * * * *

The biographer of Dermod Eustace would need to bring a wary mind to hiswork. For though the old master of Lennon House has not lain twentyyears in his grave, he is already swollen into a legendary character. Anecdotes have grown upon his memory like barnacles, and any man inthose parts with a knack of invention has only to foist his stories uponDermod to ensure a ready credence. There are, however, definite facts. He practised an ancient and tyrannous hospitality, keeping open houseupon the road to Letterkenny, and forcing bed and board even uponstrangers, as Durrance had once discovered. He was a man of anothercentury, who looked out with a glowering, angry eye upon a topsy-turvyworld, and would not be reconciled to it except after much alcohol. Hewas a sort of intoxicated Coriolanus, believing that the people shouldbe shepherded with a stick, yet always mindful of his manners, even tothe lowliest of women. It was said of him with pride by the townsfolkof Ramelton, that even at his worst, when he came galloping down thesteep 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 amiracle keeping his saddle, --he had never ridden down any one except aman. There are two points to be added. He was rather afraid of hisdaughter, who wisely kept him doubtful whether she was displeased withhim or not, and he had conceived a great liking for Harry Feversham. 

Harry saw little of him that day, however. Dermod retired into the roomwhich he was pleased to call his office, while Feversham and Ethne spentthe afternoon fishing for salmon in the Lennon River. It was anafternoon restful as a Sabbath, and the very birds were still. From thehouse the lawns fell steeply, shaded by trees and dappled by thesunlight, to a valley, at the bottom of which flowed the river swift andblack under overarching boughs. There was a fall, where the water slidover rocks with a smoothness so unbroken that it looked solid exceptjust at one point. There a spur stood sharply up, and the river brokeback upon itself in an amber wave through which the sun shone. Oppositethis spur they sat for a long while, talking at times, but for the mostpart 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, lookedat each other with a smile, and so walked slowly back to the house. Itwas an afternoon which Feversham was long to remember; for the nextnight was the night of the dance, and as the band struck up the openingbars of the fourth waltz, Ethne left her position at the drawing-roomdoor, and taking Feversham's arm passed out into the hall. 

The hall was empty, and the front door stood open to the cool of thesummer night. From the ballroom came the swaying lilt of the music andthe beat of the dancers' feet. Ethne drew a breath of relief at herreprieve from her duties, and then dropping her partner's arm, crossedto a side table. 

"The post is in, " she said. "There are letters, one, two, three, foryou, and a little box. "

She held the box out to him as she spoke, --a little white jeweller'scardboard 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 andunfastened the string. He looked at the address. The box had beenforwarded from his lodgings, and he was not familiar with thehandwriting. 

"There is some mistake, " he said as he shook the lid open, and then hestopped abruptly. Three white feathers fluttered out of the box, swayedand rocked for a moment in the air, and then, one after another, settledgently down upon the floor. They lay like flakes of snow upon the darkpolished 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 hisarm. 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 loyalconfidence in her eyes showed she had never a doubt that his first wordwould 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 floatedinto the hall, and the trees whispered from the garden through the opendoor. 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 cruelkind of jest--"

"They were sent in deadly earnest. "

He spoke now, looking her straight in the eyes. Ethne dropped her handfrom his sleeve. 

"Who sent them?" she asked. 

Feversham had not given a thought to that matter. The message was all inall, the men who had sent it so unimportant. But Ethne reached out herhand and took the box from him. There were three visiting cards lying atthe 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 thefeathers into her hand with a vague thought that merely to touch themwould help her to comprehension. They lay upon the palm of her whiteglove, and she blew gently upon them, and they swam up into the air andhung fluttering and rocking. As they floated downward she caught themagain, 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 thedreadful thing for so many years dreadfully anticipated had at lastbefallen him. He was known for a coward. The word which had long blazedupon the wall of his thoughts in letters of fire was now written largein the public places. He stood as he had once stood before the portraitsof his fathers, mutely accepting condemnation. It was the girl whodenied, as she still kneeled upon the floor. 

"I do not believe that is true, " she said. "You could not look me in theface so steadily were it true. Your eyes would seek the floor, notmine. "

"Yet it is true. "

"Three little white feathers, " she said slowly; and then, with a sob inher throat, "This afternoon we were under the elms down by the LennonRiver--do you remember, Harry?--just you and I. And then come threelittle white feathers, and the world's at an end. "

"Oh, don't!" cried Harry, and his voice broke upon the word. Up till nowhe had spoken with a steadiness matching the steadiness of his eyes. Butthese last words of hers, the picture which they evoked in his memories, the pathetic simplicity of her utterance, caught him by the heart. ButEthne seemed not to hear the appeal. She was listening with her faceturned toward the ballroom. The chatter and laughter of the voices theregrew louder and nearer. She understood that the music had ceased. Sherose quickly to her feet, clenching the feathers in her hand, and openeda door. It was the door of her sitting room. 

"Come, " she said. 

Harry followed her into the room, and she closed the door, shutting outthe noise. 

"Now, " she said, "will you tell me, if you please, why the feathers havebeen sent?"

She stood quietly before him; her face was pale, but Feversham could notgather from her expression any feeling which she might have beyond adesire and a determination to get at the truth. She spoke, too, with thesame quietude. He answered, as he had answered before, directly and tothe point, without any attempt at mitigation. 

"A telegram came. It was sent by Castleton. It reached me when CaptainTrench and Mr. Willoughby were dining with me. It told me that myregiment would be ordered on active service in Egypt. Castleton wasdining with a man likely to know, and I did not question the accuracy ofhis message. He told me to tell Trench. I did not. I thought the matterover with the telegram in front of me. Castleton was leaving that nightfor Scotland, and he would go straight from Scotland to rejoin theregiment. He would not, therefore, see Trench for some weeks at theearliest, and by that time the telegram would very likely be forgottenor its date confused. I did not tell Trench. I threw the telegram intothe fire, and that night sent in my papers. But Trench found outsomehow. Durrance was at dinner, too, --good God, Durrance!" he suddenlybroke out. "Most likely he knows like the rest. "

It came upon him as something shocking and strangely new that his friendDurrance, who, as he knew very well, had been wont rather to look up tohim, in all likelihood counted him a thing of scorn. But he heard Ethnespeaking. After all, what did it matter whether Durrance knew, whetherevery 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 shewent on. "We agreed, didn't we, that no foolish misunderstandings shouldever come between us? We were to be frank, and to take frankness eachfrom the other without offence. So be frank with me! Please!" and shepleaded. "I could, I think, claim it as a right. At all events I ask forit 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 eyesupon the table. They could not be explained away; he wore "coward" likea blind man's label; besides, he could never make her understand. However, she wished for the explanation and had a right to it; she hadbeen generous in asking for it, with a generosity not very commonamongst 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 keptmy fear to myself. There was no one to whom I could tell it. My motherwas dead, and my father--" he stopped for a moment, with a deep intakeof the breath. He could see his father, that lonely iron man, sitting atthis very moment in his mother's favourite seat upon the terrace, andlooking over the moonlit fields toward the Sussex Downs; he couldimagine him dreaming of honours and distinctions worthy of theFevershams to be gained immediately by his son in the Egyptian campaign. Surely that old man's stern heart would break beneath this blow. Themagnitude of the bad thing which he had done, the misery which it wouldspread, were becoming very clear to Harry Feversham. He dropped his headbetween his hands and groaned aloud. 

"My father, " he resumed, "would, nay, could, never have understood. Iknow him. When danger came his way, it found him ready, but he did notforesee. That was my trouble always, --I foresaw. Any peril to beencountered, any risk to be run, --I foresaw them. I foresaw somethingelse besides. My father would talk in his matter-of-fact way of thehours of waiting before the actual commencement of a battle, after thetroops had been paraded. The mere anticipation of the suspense and thestrain of those hours was a torture to me. I foresaw the possibility ofcowardice. Then one evening, when my father had his old friends abouthim on one of his Crimean nights, two dreadful stories were told--oneof an officer, the other of a surgeon, who had both shirked. I was nowconfronted with the fact of cowardice. I took those stories up to bedwith me. They never left my memory; they became a part of me. I sawmyself behaving now as one, now as the other, of those two men hadbehaved, perhaps in the crisis of a battle bringing ruin upon mycountry, certainly dishonouring my father and all the dead men whoseportraits 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 everyhedge, 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 houndswere off. Durrance never knew what the moments of waiting before thecoverts were drawn meant to me! So when this telegram came, I took thechance it seemed to offer and resigned. "

He ended his explanation. He had spoken warily, having something toconceal. However earnestly she might ask for frankness, he must at allcosts, for her sake, hide something from her. But at once she suspectedit. 

"Were you afraid, too, of disgracing me? Was I in any way the cause thatyou resigned?"

Feversham looked her in the eyes and lied:--

"No. "

"If you had not been engaged to me, you would still have sent in yourpapers?"

"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'tunderstand;" and in the silence which followed upon her words Fevershamheard something whirr and rattle upon the table. He looked and saw thatshe had slipped her engagement ring off her finger. It lay upon thetable, 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 havemarried me and hidden it, had not these three feathers come?"

The words had been on her lips from the beginning, but she had notuttered them lest by a miracle he should after all have some unimaginedexplanation which would reestablish him in her thoughts. She had givenhim every chance. Now, however, she struck and laid bare the worst ofhis disloyalty. Feversham flinched, and he did not answer but allowedhis silence to consent. Ethne, however, was just; she was in a waycurious too: she wished to know the very bottom of the matter before shethrust it into the back of her mind. 

"But yesterday, " she said, "you were going to tell me something. Istopped you to point out the letter-box, " and she laughed in a queerempty way. "Was it about the feathers?"

"Yes, " answered Feversham, wearily. What did these persistent questionsmatter, since the feathers had come, since her ring lay flickering andwinking on the table? "Yes, I think what you were saying rathercompelled me. "

"I remember, " said Ethne, interrupting him rather hastily, "aboutseeing much of one another--afterwards. We will not speak of such thingsagain, " and Feversham swayed upon his feet as though he would fall. "Iremember, too, you said one could make mistakes. You were right; I waswrong. 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 neverrecognised her value so thoroughly, as at this moment when he lost her. She gleamed in the quiet room, wonderful, most wonderful, from thebright flowers in her hair to the white slipper on her foot. It wasincredible to him that he should ever have won her. Yet he had, anddisloyally had lost her. Then her voice broke in again upon hisreflections. 

"These, too, are yours. Will you take them, please?"

She was pointing with her fan to the feathers upon the table. Fevershamobediently 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 wasa fan of ivory and white feathers. She had broken off one of thosefeathers and added it on her own account to the three. 

The thing which she had done was cruel, no doubt. But she wished to makean end--a complete, irrevocable end; though her voice was steady and herface, despite its pallor, calm, she was really tortured with humiliationand pain. All the details of Harry Feversham's courtship, theinterchange of looks, the letters she had written and received, thewords which had been spoken, tingled and smarted unbearably in herrecollections. Their lips had touched--she recalled it with horror. Shedesired never to see Harry Feversham after this night. Therefore sheadded her fourth feather to the three. 

Harry Feversham took the feathers as she bade him, without a word ofremonstrance, and indeed with a sort of dignity which even at thatmoment surprised her. All the time, too, he had kept his eyes steadilyupon hers, he had answered her questions simply, there had been nothingabject in his manner; so that Ethne already began to regret this lastthing which she had done. However, it _was_ done. Feversham had takenthe 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 hiseyes upon her face for some little while. Then very carefully he put thefeathers into his breast pocket. Ethne at this time did not considerwhy. She only thought that here was the irrevocable end. 

"We should be going back, I think, " she said. "We have been some timeaway. 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 dancetill 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 sprangautomatically to their lips; the appearance of enjoyment never failedfrom off their faces; so that no one at Lennon House that nightsuspected that any swift cause of severance had come between them. HarryFeversham watched Ethne laugh and talk as though she had never a care, and was perpetually surprised, taking no thought that he wore the likemask of gaiety himself. When she swung past him the light rhythm of herfeet almost persuaded him that her heart was in the dance. It seemedthat she could even command the colour upon her cheeks. Thus they bothwore brave faces as she had bidden. They even danced together. But allthe while Ethne was conscious that she was holding up a great load ofpain and humiliation which would presently crush her, and Feversham feltthose four feathers burning at his breast. It was wonderful to him thatthe whole company did not know of them. He never approached a partnerwithout the notion that she would turn upon him with the contemptuousname 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 beenspoken. He had lost Ethne. He watched her and looked in vain amongsther guests, as indeed he surely knew he would, for a fit comparison. There were women, pretty, graceful, even beautiful, but Ethne stoodapart by the particular character of her beauty. The broad forehead, theperfect curve of the eyebrows, the great steady, clear, grey eyes, thefull red lips which could dimple into tenderness and shut level withresolution, and the royal grace of her carriage, marked her out toFeversham's thinking, and would do so in any company. He watched her ina 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 wasdancing with Feversham, and as she looked toward the windows she sawthat the daylight was beginning to show very pale and cold upon theother side of the blinds. 

"Look!" she said, and Feversham suddenly felt all her weight upon hisarms. Her face lost its colour and grew tired and very grey. Her eyesshut tightly and then opened again. He thought that she would faint. "The morning at last!" she exclaimed, and then in a voice as weary asher face, "I wonder whether it is right that one should suffer so muchpain. "

"Hush!" whispered Feversham. "Courage! A few minutes more--only a veryfew!" He stopped and stood in front of her until her strength returned. 

"Thank you!" she said gratefully, and the bright wheel of the dancecaught them in its spokes again. 

It was strange that he should be exhorting her to courage, she thankinghim for help; but the irony of this queer momentary reversal of theirposition occurred to neither of them. Ethne was too tried by the strainof those last hours, and Feversham had learned from that one failure ofher endurance, from the drawn aspect of her face and the depths of painin her eyes, how deeply he had wounded her. He no longer said, "I havelost 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. " Hefelt that they would go ringing down the world with him, persistent inhis ears, spoken upon the very accent of her voice. He was sure that hewould hear them at the end above the voices of any who should standabout him when he died, and hear in them his condemnation. For it wasnot right. 

The ball finished shortly afterwards. The last carriage drove away, andthose who were staying in the house sought the smoking-room or wentupstairs to bed according to their sex. Feversham, however, lingered inthe hall with Ethne. She understood why. 

"There is no need, " she said, standing with her back to him as shelighted 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 herbrows drawn in a frown of perplexity. To wait for her father under suchcircumstances seemed to argue a certain courage. Indeed, she herselffelt some apprehension as she heard the door of the study open andDermod's footsteps on the floor. Dermod walked straight up to HarryFeversham, looking for once in a way what he was, a very old man, andstood there staring into Feversham's face with a muddled and bewilderedexpression. Twice he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Inthe 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 Ethnetook a step forward as if to get between them; but he did nothing morethan stare at Feversham again and for a long time. Finally, he took uphis candle. 

"Well--" he said, and stopped. He snuffed the wick with the scissors andbegan again. "Well--" he said, and stopped again. Apparently his candlehad not helped him to any suitable expressions. He stared into the flamenow 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 thatsomething must be said. In the end he said lamely:--

"If you want any whiskey, stamp twice on the floor with your foot. Theservants understand. "

Thereupon he walked heavily up the stairs. The old man's forbearance wasperhaps not the least part of Harry Feversham's punishment. 

 * * * * *

It was broad daylight when Ethne was at last alone within her room. Shedrew up the blinds and opened the windows wide. The cool fresh air ofthe morning was as a draught of spring-water to her. She looked out upona world as yet unillumined by colours and found therein an image of herdays to come. The dark, tall trees looked black; the winding paths, asingular dead white; the very lawns were dull and grey, though the dewlay 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 thebranches and the grass, and down beneath the overhanging trees theLennon flowed in music between its banks. Ethne drew back from thewindow. She had much to do that morning before she slept. For shedesigned with her natural thoroughness to make an end at once of all herassociations with Harry Feversham. She wished that from the moment whennext she waked she might never come across a single thing which couldrecall him to her memory. And with a sort of stubborn persistence shewent about the work. 

But she changed her mind. In the very process of collecting together thegifts which he had made to her she changed her mind. For each gift thatshe looked upon had its history, and the days before this miserablenight had darkened on her happiness came one by one slowly back to heras she looked. She determined to keep one thing which had belonged toHarry Feversham, --a small thing, a thing of no value. At first she chosea penknife, which he had once lent to her and she had forgotten toreturn. But the next instant she dropped it and rather hurriedly. Forshe was after all an Irish girl, and though she did not believe insuperstitions, where superstitions were concerned she preferred to be onthe safe side. She selected his photograph in the end and locked it awayin a drawer. 

She gathered the rest of his presents together, packed them carefully ina 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 toher room she took his letters, made a little pile of them on the hearthand set them alight. They took some while to consume, but she waited, sitting upright in her arm-chair while the flame crept from sheet tosheet, discolouring the paper, blackening the writing like a stream ofink, and leaving in the end only flakes of ashes like feathers, andwhite flakes like white feathers. The last sparks were barelyextinguished when she heard a cautious step on the gravel beneath herwindow. 

It was broad daylight, but her candle was still burning on the table ather side, and with a quick instinctive movement she reached out her armand put the light out. Then she sat very still and rigid, listening. Fora while she heard only the blackbirds calling from the trees in thegarden and the throbbing music of the river. Afterward she heard thefootsteps again, cautiously retreating; and in spite of her will, inspite of her formal disposal of the letters and the presents, she wasmastered all at once, not by pain or humiliation, but by an overpoweringsense of loneliness. She seemed to be seated high on an empty world ofruins. She rose quickly from her chair, and her eyes fell upon a violincase. With a sigh of relief she opened it, and a little while after oneor two of the guests who were sleeping in the house chanced to wake upand heard floating down the corridors the music of a violin played verylovingly and low. Ethne was not aware that the violin which she held wasthe Guarnerius violin which Durrance had sent to her. She onlyunderstood 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 atLennon House, but the uneventful country-side of Donegal was still busywith the stimulating topic of Harry Feversham's disappearance. Thetownsmen in the climbing street and the gentry at their dinner-tablesgossiped to their hearts' contentment. It was asserted that HarryFeversham had been seen on the very morning after the dance, and at fiveminutes to six--though according to Mrs. Brien O'Brien it was tenminutes past the hour--still in his dress clothes and with a whitesuicide's face, hurrying along the causeway by the Lennon Bridge. It wassuggested that a drag-net would be the only way to solve the mystery. Mr. Dennis Rafferty, who lived on the road to Rathmullen, indeed, wentso far as to refuse salmon on the plea that he was not a cannibal, andthe saying had a general vogue. Their conjectures as to the cause of thedisappearance were no nearer to the truth. For there were only two whoknew, and those two went steadily about the business of living as thoughno catastrophe had befallen them. They held their heads a trifle moreproudly perhaps. Ethne might have become a little more gentle, Dermod alittle more irascible, but these were the only changes. So gossip hadthe field to itself. 

But Harry Feversham was in London, as Lieutenant Sutch discovered on thenight of the 30th. All that day the town had been perturbed by rumoursof a great battle fought at Kassassin in the desert east of Ismailia. Messengers had raced ceaselessly through the streets, shouting tidingsof victory and tidings of disaster. There had been a charge by moonlightof General Drury-Lowe's Cavalry Brigade, which had rolled up Arabi'sleft flank and captured his guns. It was rumoured that an Englishgeneral had been killed, that the York and Lancaster Regiment had beencut up. London was uneasy, and at eleven o'clock at night a great crowdof people had gathered beneath the gas-lamps in Pall Mall, watching withpale upturned faces the lighted blinds of the War Office. The crowd wassilent and impressively still. Only if a figure moved for an instantacross the blinds, a thrill of expectation passed from man to man, andthe crowd swayed in a continuous movement from edge to edge. LieutenantSutch, careful of his wounded leg, was standing on the outskirts, withhis back to the parapet of the Junior Carlton Club, when he felt himselftouched upon the arm. He saw Harry Feversham at his side. Feversham'sface was working and extraordinarily white, his eyes were bright likethe eyes of a man in a fever; and Sutch at the first was not sure thathe knew or cared who it was to whom he talked. 

"I might have been out there in Egypt to-night, " said Harry, in a quicktroubled voice. "Think of it! I might have been out there, sitting by acamp-fire in the desert, talking over the battle with Jack Durrance; ordead perhaps. What would it have mattered? I might have been in Egyptto-night!"

Feversham's unexpected appearance, no less than his wandering tongue, told Sutch that somehow his fortunes had gone seriously wrong. He hadmany questions in his mind, but he did not ask a single one of them. Hetook Feversham's arm and led him straight out of the throng. 

"I saw you in the crowd, " continued Feversham. "I thought that I wouldspeak to you, because--do you remember, a long time ago you gave me yourcard? I have always kept it, because I have always feared that I wouldhave reason to use it. You said that if one was in trouble, the tellingmight help. "

Sutch stopped his companion. 

"We will go in here. We can find a quiet corner in the uppersmoking-room;" and Harry, looking up, saw that he was standing by thesteps of the Army and Navy Club. 

"Good God, not there!" he cried in a sharp low voice, and moved quicklyinto the roadway, where no light fell directly on his face. Sutch limpedafter him. "Nor to-night. It is late. To-morrow if you will, in somequiet 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, weshall meet no one whom we know. I will meet you just before nineto-morrow night at the corner of Swallow Street. "

They dined together accordingly on the following evening, at a table inthe corner of the Criterion grill-room. Feversham looked quickly abouthim as he entered the room. 

"I dine here often when I am in town, " said Sutch. "Listen!" Thethrobbing of the engines working the electric light could be distinctlyheard, their vibrations could be felt. 

"It reminds me of a ship, " said Sutch, with a smile. "I can almost fancymyself in the gun-room again. We will have dinner. Then you shall tell meyour story. "

"You have heard nothing of it?" asked Feversham, suspiciously. 

"Not a word;" and Feversham drew a breath of relief. It had seemed tohim that every one must know. He imagined contempt on every face whichpassed him in the street. 

Lieutenant Sutch was even more concerned this evening than he had beenthe 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 blackhollows beneath his eyes; he drew his breath and made his movements in arestless feverish fashion, his nerves seemed strung to breaking-point. Once or twice between the courses he began his story, but Sutch wouldnot 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 oromission, forcing himself to a slow, careful, matter-of-fact speech, sothat in the end Sutch almost fell into the illusion that it was just thestory of a stranger which Feversham was recounting merely to pass thetime. He began with the Crimean night at Broad Place, and ended with theball at Lennon House. 

"I came back across Lough Swilly early that morning, " he said inconclusion, "and travelled at once to London. Since then I have stayedin my rooms all day, listening to the bugles calling in the barrack-yardbeneath my windows. At night I prowl about the streets or lie in bedwaiting 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 knowwhen the ducks start quacking in St. James's Park?" he asked with alaugh. "At two o'clock to the minute. "

Sutch listened to the story without an interruption. But halfway throughthe narrative he changed his attitude, and in a significant way. Up tothe moment when Harry told of his concealment of the telegram, Sutch hadsat with his arms upon the table in front of him, and his eyes upon hiscompanion. Thereafter he raised a hand to his forehead, and so remainedwith his face screened while the rest was told. Feversham had no doubtof the reason. Lieutenant Sutch wished to conceal the scorn he felt, andcould not trust the muscles of his face. Feversham, however, mitigatednothing, but continued steadily and truthfully to the end. But evenafter the end was reached, Sutch did not remove his hand, nor for somelittle while did he speak. When he did speak, his words came uponFeversham's ears with a shock of surprise. There was no contempt inthem, 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 BroadPlace, and I held my tongue. I shall hardly forgive myself. " Theknowledge that it was Muriel Graham's son who had thus brought ruin anddisgrace upon himself was uppermost in the lieutenant's mind. He feltthat he had failed in the discharge of an obligation, self-imposed, nodoubt, but a very real obligation none the less. "You see, Iunderstood, " he continued remorsefully. "Your father, I am afraid, neverwould. "

"He never will, " interrupted Harry. 

"No, " Sutch agreed. "Your mother, of course, had she lived, would haveseen clearly; but few women, I think, except your mother. Brute courage!Women make a god of it. That girl, for instance, "--and again HarryFeversham 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 yourpapers?"

"I think not, " said Harry, slowly. "I want to be fair. Disgracing myname and those dead men in the hall I think I would have risked. I couldnot risk disgracing her. "

And Lieutenant Sutch thumped his fist despairingly upon the table. "Ifonly I had spoken at Broad Place. Harry, why didn't you let me speak? Imight 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 thislast catastrophe. For I understood. I understood. "

Lieutenant Sutch saw more clearly into the dark places of HarryFeversham's mind than Harry Feversham did himself; and because he saw soclearly, he could feel no contempt. The long years of childhood, andboyhood, and youth, lived apart in Broad Place in the presence of theuncomprehending father and the relentless dead men on the walls, haddone the harm. There had been no one in whom the boy could confide. Thefear of cowardice had sapped incessantly at his heart. He had walkedabout with it; he had taken it with him to his bed. It had haunted hisdreams. It had been his perpetual menacing companion. It had kept himfrom intimacy with his friends lest an impulsive word should betray him. Lieutenant Sutch did not wonder that in the end it had brought aboutthis 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 thatcharacter. The thing which he foresaw, which he thought over, which heimagined in the act and in the consequence--that he shrank from, upbraiding himself even as you have done. Yet when the moment of actioncomes, sharp and immediate, does he fail? No, he excels, and just byreason of that foresight. I have seen men in the Crimea, tortured bytheir imaginations before the fight--once the fight had begun you mustsearch 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 andlooked round the room. It was nearly empty. He glanced at his watch andsaw that the hour was eleven. Some plan of action must be decided uponthat night. It was not enough to hear Harry Feversham's story. Therestill remained the question, what was Harry Feversham, disgraced andruined, now to do? How was he to re-create his life? How was the secretof his disgrace to be most easily concealed?

"You cannot stay in London, hiding by day, slinking about by night, " hesaid 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 storywhich his father had told so many years ago, and which he had neverforgotten, even for a single day. "But Wilmington's end will not bemine. 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 theplan 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 theirnames. "

"Trench, Castleton, Willoughby, " began Feversham. 

"All three are in Egypt. Besides, for the credit of their regiment theyare 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 uponLieutenant Sutch. 

"Why didn't I speak that night?" he said impotently. "A coward, and yougo quietly down to Surrey and confront your father with that story totell to him! You do not even write! You stand up and tell it to him faceto face! Harry, I reckon myself as good as another when it comes tobravery, but for the life of me I could not have done that. "

"It was not--pleasant, " said Feversham, simply; and this was the onlydescription of the interview between father and son which was vouchsafedto any one. But Lieutenant Sutch knew the father and knew the son. Hecould guess at all which that one adjective implied. Harry Fevershamtold the results of his journey into Surrey. 

"My father continues my allowance. I shall need it, every penny ofit--otherwise I should have taken nothing. But I am not to go homeagain. I did not mean to go home for a long while in any case, if atall. "

He drew his pocket-book from his breast, and took from it the four whitefeathers. These he laid before him on the table. 

"You have kept them?" exclaimed Sutch. 

"Indeed, I treasure them, " said Harry, quietly. "That seems strange toyou. To you they are the symbols of my disgrace. To me they are muchmore. They are my opportunities of retrieving it. " He looked about theroom, separated three of the feathers, pushed them forward a little onthe tablecloth, and then leaned across toward Sutch. 

"What if I could compel Trench, Castleton, and Willoughby to take backfrom me, each in his turn, the feather he sent? I do not say that it islikely. I do not say even that it is possible. But there is a chancethat it may be possible, and I must wait upon that chance. There will befew men leading active lives as these three do who will not at somemoment stand in great peril and great need. To be in readiness for thatmoment is from now my career. All three are in Egypt. I leave for Egyptto-morrow. "

Upon the face of Lieutenant Sutch there came a look of great andunexpected 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 ofit. This student of human nature disregarded without a scruple theprudence and the calculation proper to the character which he assumed. The obstacles in Harry Feversham's way, the possibility that at the lastmoment he might shrink again, the improbability that three suchopportunities would occur--these matters he overlooked. His eyes alreadyshone 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 acivilian, these three are soldiers, surrounded by soldiers; so much theless opportunity therefore for a civilian. "

"But it is not necessary that the three men should be themselves inperil, " objected Sutch, "for you to convince them that the fault isretrieved. "

"Oh, no. There may be other ways, " agreed Feversham. "The plan camesuddenly into my mind, indeed at the moment when Ethne bade me take upthe feathers, and added the fourth. I was on the point of tearing themacross when this way out of it sprang clearly up in my mind. But I havethought it over since during these last weeks while I sat listening tothe bugles in the barrack-yard. And I am sure there is no other way. Butit is well worth trying. You see, if the three take back theirfeathers, "--he drew a deep breath, and in a very low voice, with hiseyes upon the table so that his face was hidden from Sutch, headded--"why, then she perhaps might take hers back too. "

"Will she wait, do you think?" asked Sutch; and Harry raised his headquickly. 

"Oh, no, " he exclaimed, "I had no thought of that. She has not even asuspicion of what I intend to do. Nor do I wish her to have one untilthe intention is fulfilled. My thought was different"--and he began tospeak 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 daybefore the feathers came--something rather sacred. I think that I willtell you, because what she said is just what sends me out upon thiserrand. 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. Shesaid--it was when she knew no more than that my regiment was ordered toEgypt--she was blaming herself because I had resigned my commission, forwhich there was no need, because--and these were her words--because hadI fallen, although she would have felt lonely all her life, she wouldnone the less have surely known that she and I would see much of oneanother--afterwards. "

Feversham had spoken his words with difficulty, not looking at hiscompanion, and he continued with his eyes still averted:--

"Do you understand? I have a hope that if--this fault can berepaired, "--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 soiledtablecloth of a public restaurant, but neither of them felt it to bestrange or even fanciful. They were dealing with the simple seriousissues, and they had reached a point where they could not be affected byany incongruity in their surroundings. Lieutenant Sutch did not speakfor some while after Harry Feversham had done, and in the end Harrylooked up at his companion, prepared for almost a word of ridicule; buthe saw Sutch's right hand outstretched towards him. 

"When I come back, " said Feversham, and he rose from his chair. Hegathered the feathers together and replaced them in his pocket-book. 

"I have told you everything, " he said. "You see, I wait upon chanceopportunities; the three may not come in Egypt. They may never come atall, and in that case I shall not come back at all. Or they may comeonly at the very end and after many years. Therefore I thought that Iwould like just one person to know the truth thoroughly in case I do notcome back. If you hear definitely that I never can come back, I wouldbe 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 Ihave just said about Ethne and my chief motive, for I do not think thathe would understand. Otherwise you will keep silence altogether. Promise!"

Lieutenant Sutch promised, but with an absent face, and Fevershamconsequently insisted. 

"You will breathe no word of this to man or woman, however hard you maybe pressed, except to my father under the circumstances which I haveexplained, " said Feversham. 

Lieutenant Sutch promised a second time and without an instant'shesitation. It was quite natural that Harry should lay some stress uponthe pledge, since any disclosure of his purpose might very well wear theappearance of a foolish boast, and Sutch himself saw no reason why heshould refuse it. So he gave the promise and fettered his hands. Histhoughts, indeed, were occupied with the limit Harry had set upon theknowledge which was to be imparted to General Feversham. Even if he diedwith his mission unfulfilled, Sutch was to hide from the father thatwhich was best in the son, at the son's request. And the saddest part ofit, to Sutch's thinking, was that the son was right in so requesting. For what he said was true--the father could not understand. LieutenantSutch was brought back to the causes of the whole miserable business:the premature death of the mother, who could have understood; the wantof comprehension in the father, who was left; and his own silence onthe Crimean night at Broad Place. 

"If only I had spoken, " he said sadly. He dropped the end of his cigarinto his coffee-cup, and standing up, reached for his hat. "Many thingsare irrevocable, Harry, " he said, "but one never knows whether they areirrevocable or not until one has found out. It is always worth whilefinding out. "

The next evening Feversham crossed to Calais. It was a night as wild asthat on which Durrance had left England; and, like Durrance, Fevershamhad a friend to see him off, for the last thing which his eyes beheld asthe packet swung away from the pier, was the face of Lieutenant Sutchbeneath a gas-lamp. The lieutenant maintained his position after theboat had passed into the darkness and until the throb of its paddlescould 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 sincehe had felt regret on that account, and the feeling was very strange tohim. 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 therecollection of a certain magical season before the Crimea, he hadlooked forward to old age as an approaching friend. To-night, however, he prayed that he might live just long enough to welcome back MurielGraham'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 theleather 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 twoseven-pounder mountain-guns closed up behind, and Durrance's detachmentof the Camel Corps moved down from the gloomy ridge of Khor Gwob, thirty-five miles southwest of Suakin, into the plateau of Sinkat. Itwas the last reconnaissance in strength before the evacuation of theeastern Soudan. 

All through that morning the camels had jolted slowly up the gulley ofshale 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 brokenthe monotony of ruin. And after that arid journey the green bushes ofSinkat in the valley below comforted the eye with the pleasing aspect ofa park. The troopers sat their saddles with a greater alertness. 

They moved in a diagonal line across the plateau toward the mountains ofErkoweet, a silent company on a plain still more silent. It was eleveno'clock. The sun rose toward the centre of a colourless, cloudless sky, the shadows of the camels shortened upon the sand, and the sand itselfglistened white as a beach of the Scilly Islands. There was no draughtof air that morning to whisper amongst the rich foliage, and the shadowsof the branches lay so distinct and motionless upon the ground that theymight themselves have been branches strewn there on some past day by astorm. The only sounds that were audible were the sharp clank ofweapons, the soft ceaseless padding of the camels' feet, and at timesthe whirr of a flight of pigeons disturbed by the approaching cavalcade. Yet there was life on the plateau, though of a noiseless kind. For asthe leaders rode along the curves of sand, trim and smooth between theshrubs like carriage drives, they would see from time to time, far aheadof them, a herd of gazelle start up from the ground and race silently, aflash of dappled brown and white, to the enclosing hills. It seemed thathere was a country during this last hour created. 

"Yet this way the caravans passed southwards to Erkoweet and the KhorBaraka. 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, " saidMather, pointing forward. 

For three hours the troops marched across the plateau. It was the monthof May, and the sun blazed upon them with an intolerable heat. They hadlong since lost their alertness. They rode rocking drowsily in theirsaddles and prayed for the evening and the silver shine of stars. Forthree hours the camels went mincing on with their queer smirkingmotions of the head, and then quite suddenly a hundred yards aheadDurrance 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 anothersiege, and one no less persistent. The quick-growing trees had soclosely girt and encroached upon it to the rear and to the right and tothe left, that the traveller came upon it unexpectedly, as Childe Rolandupon the Dark Tower in the plain. In the front, however, the sand stillstretched open to the wells, where three great Gemeiza trees of dark andspreading foliage stood spaced like sentinels. 

In the shadow to the right front of the fort, where the bushes fringedthe open sand with the level regularity of a river bank, the soldiersunsaddled their camels and prepared their food. Durrance and CaptainMather 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 greyashes 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 ofthe entrance, and passed into the unroofed corridors and rooms. Durranceturned the ashes over with his boot. The stump of a charred and whitenedtwig glowed red. Durrance set his foot upon it, and a tiny thread ofsmoke spurted into the air. 

"Very lately, " he said to himself, and he followed Mather into thefort. In the corners of the mud walls, in any fissure, in the veryfloor, young trees were sprouting. Rearward a steep glacis and a deepfosse defended the works. Durrance sat himself down upon the parapet ofthe wall above the glacis, while the pigeons wheeled and circledoverhead, thinking of the long months during which Tewfik must dailyhave strained his eyes from this very spot toward the pass over thehills from Suakin, looking as that other general far to the south haddone, for the sunlight flashing on the weapons of the help which did notcome. Mather sat by his side and reflected in quite another spirit. 

"Already the Guards are steaming out through the coral reefs towardSuez. A week and our turn comes, " he said. "What a God-forsakencountry!"

"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 rapidpromotion and success. Sympathy had stood Durrance in the stead of muchability. Sympathy had given him patience and the power to understand, sothat during these three years of campaign he had left far quicker andfar abler men behind him, in his knowledge of the sorely harassed tribesof the eastern Soudan. He liked them; he could enter into their hatredof the old Turkish rule, he could understand their fanaticism, and theirpretence of fanaticism under the compulsion of Osman Digna's hordes. 

"Yes, I shall come back, " he said, "and in three months' time. For onething, we know--every Englishman in Egypt, too, knows--that this can'tbe the end. I want to be here when the work's taken in hand again. Ihate unfinished things. "

The sun beat relentlessly upon the plateau; the men, stretched in theshade, slept; the afternoon was as noiseless as the morning; Durranceand Mather sat for some while compelled to silence by the silencesurrounding them. But Durrance's eyes turned at last from theamphitheatre of hills; they lost their abstraction, they became intentlyfixed upon the shrubbery beyond the glacis. He was no longerrecollecting Tewfik Bey and his heroic defence, or speculating upon thework to be done in the years ahead. Without turning his head, he sawthat 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 reachLondon. I will eat it alone, I think, quite alone, and at Epitaux. Itwill begin with a watermelon. And you?"

"I was wondering why, now that the pigeons have got used to ourpresence, they should still be wheeling in and out of one particulartree. Don't point to it, please! I mean the tree beyond the ditch, andto the right of two small bushes. "

All about them they could see the pigeons quietly perched upon thebranches, spotting the foliage like a purple fruit. Only above the onetree they circled and timorously called. 

"We will draw that covert, " said Durrance. "Take a dozen men andsurround it quietly. "

He himself remained on the glacis watching the tree and the thickundergrowth. He saw six soldiers creep round the shrubbery from theleft, six more from the right. But before they could meet and ring thetree in, he saw the branches violently shaken, and an Arab with a rollof yellowish dammar wound about his waist, and armed with a flat-headedspear and a shield of hide, dashed from the shelter and raced outbetween 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 heunderstood that order, came to a stop before a rifle could be lifted toa shoulder. He walked quietly back to Mather. He was brought up on tothe glacis, where he stood before Durrance without insolence orservility. 

He explained in Arabic that he was a man of the Kabbabish tribe namedAbou 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 youknow me for yours?"

Then Durrance said quickly, "You speak English, " and Durrance spoke inEnglish. 

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 twomen talked together for the best part of an hour. At the end of thattime the Arab was seen to descend the glacis, cross the trench, andproceed toward the hills. Durrance gave the order for the resumption ofthe march. 

The water-tanks were filled, the men replenished their zamshyehs, knowing that of all thirsts in this world the afternoon thirst is thevery worst, saddled their camels, and mounted to the usual groaning andsnarling. The detachment moved northwestward from Sinkat, at an acuteangle to its morning's march. It skirted the hills opposite to the passfrom which it had descended in the morning. The bushes grew sparse. Itcame into a black country of stones scantily relieved by yellowtasselled mimosas. 

Durrance called Mather to his side. 

"That Arab had a strange story to tell me. He was Gordon's servant inKhartum. At the beginning of 1884, eighteen months ago in fact, Gordongave him a letter which he was to take to Berber, whence the contentswere to be telegraphed to Cairo. But Berber had just fallen when themessenger arrived there. He was seized upon and imprisoned the day afterhis arrival. But during the one day which he had free he hid the letterin the wall of a house, and so far as he knows it has not beendiscovered. "

"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 theman 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 ofthe plateau, and climbed again over shale. 

"A letter from Gordon, " said Durrance, in a musing voice, "scribbledperhaps upon the roof-top of his palace, by the side of his greattelescope--a sentence written in haste, and his eye again to the lens, searching over the palm trees for the smoke of the steamers--and itcomes down the Nile to be buried in a mud wall in Berber. Yes, it'scurious, " and he turned his face to the west and the sinking sun. Evenas he looked, the sun dipped behind the hills. The sky above his headdarkened rapidly, to violet; in the west it flamed a glory of coloursrich and iridescent. The colours lost their violence and blendeddelicately into one rose hue, the rose lingered for a little, and, fading in its turn, left a sky of the purest emerald green transfusedwith light from beneath rim of the world. 

"If only they had let us go last year westward to the Nile, " he saidwith a sort of passion. "Before Khartum had fallen, before Berber hadsurrendered. But they would not. "

The magic of the sunset was not at all in Durrance's thoughts. The storyof the letter had struck upon a chord of reverence within him. He wasoccupied with the history of that honest, great, impracticable soldier, who, despised by officials and thwarted by intrigues, a man of few tiesand much loneliness, had gone unflaggingly about his work, knowing thewhile that the moment his back was turned the work was in an instant allundone. 

Darkness came upon the troops, the camels quickened their pace, thecicadas shrilled from every tuft of grass. The detachment moved downtoward the well of Disibil. Durrance lay long awake that night on hiscamp bedstead spread out beneath the stars. He forgot the letter in themud wall. Southward the Southern Cross hung slanting in the sky, abovehim glittered the curve of the Great Bear. In a week he would sail forEngland; he lay awake, counting up the years since the packet had castoff 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 evennow at the recollection of the Hadendowas leaping and stabbing throughthe breach of McNeil's zareba six miles from Suakin; he recalled theobdurate defence of the Berkshires, the steadiness of the Marines, therallying of the broken troops. The years had been good years, years ofplenty, years which had advanced him to the brevet-rank oflieutenant-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. Notto write letters was indeed a part of the man. Correspondence was adifficulty to him. He was thinking now that he would surprise hisfriends 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 hislife's work lay here in the Soudan. He would certainly come back. Andso, turning on his side, he slept dreamlessly while the hosts of thestars trampled across the heavens above his head. 

 * * * * *

Now, at this moment Abou Fatma of the Kabbabish tribe was sleeping undera boulder on the Khor Gwob. He rose early and continued along the broadplains to the white city of Suakin. There he repeated the story which hehad told to Durrance to one Captain Willoughby, who was acting for thetime as deputy-governor. After he had come from the Palace he told hisstory 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 handoverheard 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 diagramsin the dust, not knowing that during his imprisonment the town of Berberhad 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 mentalked secretly together. The Greek happened to be Harry Feversham whomDurrance was proposing to visit in Donegal. Captain Willoughby wasDeputy-Governor of Suakin, and after three years of waiting one of HarryFeversham's opportunities had come. 

CHAPTER VIII

LIEUTENANT SUTCH IS TEMPTED TO LIE

Durrance reached London one morning in June, and on that afternoon tookthe first walk of the exile, into Hyde Park, where he sat beneath thetrees marvelling at the grace of his countrywomen and the delicacy oftheir apparel, a solitary figure, sunburnt and stamped already with thatindefinable expression of the eyes and face which marks the men setapart in the distant corners of the world. Amongst the people whostrolled 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 witha quick and almost furtive glance which might have told even Durrancesomething of the place which he held in her thoughts. She was comparinghim with the picture which she had of him now three years old. She waslooking for the small marks of change which those three years might havebrought about, and with eyes of apprehension. But Durrance only noticedthat she was dressed in black. She understood the question in his mindand 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 waskilled 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 ofperplexing silences; and her pale and placid face, with its cold correctoutline, gave no clue to the thoughts with which she occupied them. Shesat without stirring. Durrance was embarrassed. He remembered Mr. Adairas a good-humoured man, whose one chief quality was his evidentaffection for his wife, but with what eyes the wife had looked upon himhe had never up till now considered. Mr. Adair indeed had been at thebest a shadowy figure in that small household, and Durrance found itdifficult even to draw upon his recollections for any full expression ofregret. 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 correctedherself, and said a little hurriedly, "I mean--the marriage never tookplace. "

Durrance was not a man easily startled, and even when he was, hissurprise was not expressed in exclamations. 

"I don't think that I understand. Why did it never take place?" heasked. Mrs. Adair looked sharply at him, as though inquiring for thereason 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 thenight 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 verynight 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 Ihave met any one who has even seen him since that time. He must haveleft England. "

Durrance pondered on this mysterious disappearance. It was HarryFeversham, then, whom he had seen upon the pier as the Channel boat castoff. The man with the troubled and despairing face was, after all, hisfriend. 

"And Miss Eustace?" he asked after a pause, with a queer timidity. "Shehas 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 aconstable called Bastable?"

"Indeed, I did. He was the means of introducing me to Miss Eustace andher father. I was travelling from Londonderry to Letterkenny. I receiveda letter from Mr. Eustace, whom I did not know, but who knew from myfriends at Letterkenny that I was coming past his house. He asked me tostay the night with him. Naturally enough I declined, with the resultthat Bastable arrested me on a magistrate's warrant as soon as I landedfrom the ferry. "

"That is the man, " said Mrs. Adair, and she told Durrance the historyof the fire. It appeared that Bastable's claim to Dermod's friendshiprested upon his skill in preparing a particular brew of toddy, whichneeded a single oyster simmering in the saucepan to give it itsperfection of flavour. About two o'clock of a June morning the spiritlamp on which the saucepan stewed had been overset; neither of the twoconfederates in drink had their wits about them at the moment, and thehouse was half burnt and the rest of it ruined by water before the firecould be got under. 

"There were consequences still more distressing than the destruction ofthe house, " she continued. "The fire was a beacon warning to Dermod'screditors for one thing, and Dermod, already overpowered with debts, fell in a day upon complete ruin. He was drenched by the water hosesbesides, and took a chill which nearly killed him, from the effects ofwhich he has never recovered. You will find him a broken man. Theestates are let, and Ethne is now living with her father in a littlemountain village in Donegal. "

Mrs. Adair had not looked at Durrance while she spoke. She kept her eyesfixed steadily in front of her, and indeed she spoke without feeling onone side or the other, but rather like a person constraining herself tospeech because speech was a necessity. Nor did she turn to look atDurrance 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, Ithink you are right. "

"It means, " said Mrs. Adair, "that Ethne with all her ill-luck hasreason to be envied by many other women. "

Durrance did not answer that suggestion directly. He watched thecarriages drive past, he listened to the chatter and the laughter of thepeople about him, his eyes were refreshed by the women in theirlight-coloured frocks; and all the time his slow mind was working towardthe lame expression of his philosophy. Mrs. Adair turned to him with aslight impatience in the end. 

"Of what are you thinking?" she asked. 

"That women suffer much more than men when the world goes wrong withthem, " he answered, and the answer was rather a question than a definiteassertion. "I know very little, of course. I can only guess. But I thinkwomen gather up into themselves what they have been through much morethan we do. To them what is past becomes a real part of them, as much apart of them as a limb; to us it's always something external, at thebest the rung of a ladder, at the worst a weight on the heel. Don't youthink so, too? I phrase the thought badly. But put it this way: Womenlook backwards, we look ahead; so misfortune hits them harder, eh?"

Mrs. Adair answered in her own way. She did not expressly agree. But acertain humility became audible in her voice. 

"The mountain village at which Ethne is living, " she said in a lowvoice, "is called Glenalla. A track strikes up towards it from the roadhalfway between Rathmullen and Ramelton. " She rose as she finished thesentence and held out her hand. "Shall I see you?"

"You are still in Hill Street?" said Durrance. "I shall be for a timein London. "

Mrs. Adair raised her eyebrows. She looked always by nature for theintricate and concealed motive, so that conduct which sprang from areason, obvious and simple, was likely to baffle her. She was bafflednow by Durrance's resolve to remain in town. Why did he not travel atonce to Donegal, she asked herself, since thither his thoughtsundoubtedly preceded him. She heard of his continual presence at hisService Club, and could not understand. She did not even have asuspicion of his motive when he himself informed her that he hadtravelled into Surrey and had spent a day with General Feversham. 

It had been an ineffectual day for Durrance. The general kept himsteadily to the history of the campaign from which he had just returned. Only once was he able to approach the topic of Harry Feversham'sdisappearance, and at the mere mention of his son's name the oldgeneral's face set like plaster. It became void of expression andinattentive as a mask. 

"We will talk of something else, if you please, " said he; and Durrancereturned to London not an inch nearer to Donegal. 

Thereafter he sat under the great tree in the inner courtyard of hisclub, talking to this man and to that, and still unsatisfied with theconversation. All through that June the afternoons and evenings foundhim at his post. Never a friend of Feversham's passed by the tree butDurrance had a word for him, and the word led always to a question. Butthe 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 thespeculations of his friends. 

Toward the end of June, however, an old retired naval officer limpedinto the courtyard, saw Durrance, hesitated, and began with a remarkablealacrity 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 issome while since we met, but I remember you very well now. I think wemet--let me see--where was it? An old man's memory, Colonel Durrance, islike a leaky ship. It comes to harbour with its cargo of recollectionsswamped. "

Neither the lieutenant's present embarrassment nor his previoushesitation escaped Durrance's notice. 

"We met at Broad Place, " said he. "I wish you to give me news of myfriend 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 hadalways been doubtful whether Durrance was aware of Harry's fall intodisgrace. Durrance plainly did not know. 

"There is only one person in the world, I believe, " said Sutch, "who cananswer 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 downat his companion. 

"Well, it is true, " he admitted. "I can answer your questions, but Iwill not. "

"Harry Feversham is my friend. "

"General Feversham is his father, yet he knows only half the truth. MissEustace was betrothed to him, and she knows no more. I pledged my wordto 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 thelieutenant, cordially. 

"Nor that entirely. There is another aspect of the matter. I will notask you to answer my questions, but I will put a third one to you. It isone harder for me to ask than for you to answer. Would a friend of HarryFeversham be at all disloyal to that friendship, if"--and Durranceflushed 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 therapidity of his promotion, speculating upon his likelihood to take awoman's fancy. Here was an aspect of the case, indeed, to which he hadnot given a thought, and he was no less troubled than startled. Forthere had grown up within him a jealousy on behalf of Harry Feversham asstrong as a mother's for a favourite second son. He had nursed with amost pleasurable anticipation a hope that, in the end, Harry would comeback to all that he once had owned, like a rethroned king. He stared atDurrance and saw the hope stricken. Durrance looked the man of couragewhich his record proved him to be, and Lieutenant Sutch had his theoryof women. "Brute courage--they make a god of it. "

"Well?" asked Durrance. 

Lieutenant Sutch was aware that he must answer. He was sorely tempted tolie. For he knew enough of the man who questioned him to be certain thatthe lie would have its effect. Durrance would go back to the Soudan, andleave his suit unpressed. 

"Well?"

Sutch looked up at the sky and down upon the flags. Harry had foreseenthat this complication was likely to occur, he had not wished that Ethneshould wait. Sutch imagined him at this very moment, lost somewhereunder the burning sun, and compared that picture with the one before hiseyes--the successful soldier taking his ease at his club. He feltinclined to break his promise, to tell the whole truth, to answer boththe questions which Durrance had first asked. And again the pitilessmonosyllable 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 moorlandcountry. The heather encroached upon its garden, and the bridle-pathended at its door. On three sides an amphitheatre of hills, whichchanged so instantly to the season that it seemed one could distinguishfrom day to day a new gradation in their colours, harboured it like aship. No trees grew upon those hills, the granite cropped out amidst themoss and heather; but they had a friendly sheltering look, and Durrancecame almost to believe that they put on their different draperies ofemerald green, and purple, and russet brown consciously to delight theeyes of the girl they sheltered. The house faced the long slope ofcountry to the inlet of the Lough. From the windows the eye reached downover the sparse thickets, the few tilled fields, the whitewashedcottages, to the tall woods upon the bank, and caught a glimpse ofbright water and the gulls poising and dipping above it. Durrance rodeup the track upon an afternoon and knew the house at once. For as heapproached, the music of a violin floated towards him from the windowslike a welcome. His hand was checked upon the reins, and a particularstrong hope, about which he had allowed his fancies to play, rose upwithin him and suspended his breath. 

He tied up his horse and entered in at the gate. A formless barrackwithout, the house within was a place of comfort. The room into which hewas shown, with its brasses and its gleaming oak and its wide prospect, was bright as the afternoon itself. Durrance imagined it, too, with theblinds drawn upon a winter's night, and the fire red on the hearth, andthe 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 herface. 

Durrance laughed suddenly as they shook hands, and Ethne wondered why. She followed the direction of his eyes towards the violin which lay upona table at her side. It was pale in colour; there was a mark, too, closeto 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 itback 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 sheadded: "I accepted it some while ago. There was a time when I needed tobe assured that I had sure friends. And a thing tangible helped. I wasvery 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 playedupon it, but only recently. For a long time I put my violin away. Ittalked to me too intimately of many things which I wished to forget, "and these words, like the rest, she spoke without hesitation or anydown-dropping of the eyes. 

Durrance fetched up his luggage from Rathmullen the next day, and stayedat the farm for a week. But up to the last hour of his visit no furtherreference was made to Harry Feversham by either Ethne or Durrance, although they were thrown much into each other's company. For Dermod waseven more broken than Mrs. Adair's description had led Durrance toexpect. His speech was all dwindled to monosyllables; his frame wasshrunken, and his clothes bagged upon his limbs; his very stature seemedlessened; even the anger was clouded from his eye; he had become astay-at-home, dozing for the most part of the day by a fire, even inthat July weather; his longest walk was to the little grey church whichstood naked upon a mound some quarter of a mile away and within view ofthe windows, and even that walk taxed his strength. He was an old manfallen upon decrepitude, and almost out of recognition, so that hisgestures and the rare tones of his voice struck upon Durrance assomething painful, like the mimicry of a dead man. His collie dog seemedto 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 wetweather or the fine, they tramped the hills, while she, with the colourglowing in her face, and her eyes most jealous and eager, showed himher country and exacted his admiration. In the evenings she would takeher violin, and sitting as of old with an averted face, she would bidthe strings speak of the heights and depths. Durrance sat watching thesweep of her arm, the absorption of her face, and counting up hischances. He had not brought with him to Glenalla Lieutenant Sutch'santicipations that he would succeed. The shadow of Harry Feversham mightwell separate them. For another thing, he knew very well that povertywould fall more lightly upon her than upon most women. He had indeed hadproofs of that. Though the Lennon House was altogether ruined, and itslands gone from her, Ethne was still amongst her own people. They stilllooked eagerly for her visits; she was still the princess of thatcountry-side. On the other hand, she took a frank pleasure in hiscompany, and she led him to speak of his three years' service in theEast. No detail was too insignificant for her inquiries, and while hespoke her eyes continually sounded him, and the smile upon her lipscontinually approved. Durrance did not understand what she was after. Possibly no one could have understood unless he was aware of what hadpassed between Harry Feversham and Ethne. Durrance wore the likeness ofa man, and she was anxious to make sure that the spirit of a maninformed it. He was a dark lantern to her. There might be a flameburning within, or there might be mere vacancy and darkness. She waspushing back the slide so that she might be sure. 

She led him to speak of Egypt upon the last day of his visit. They wereseated upon the hillside, on the edge of a stream which leaped fromledge to ledge down a miniature gorge of rock, and flowed over deeppools between the ledges very swiftly, a torrent of clear black water. 

"I travelled once for four days amongst the mirages, " hesaid, --"lagoons, still as a mirror and fringed with misty trees. Youcould almost walk your camel up to the knees in them, before the lagoonreceded and the sand glared at you. And one cannot imagine that glare. Every stone within view dances and shakes like a heliograph; you cansee--yes, actually see--the heat flow breast high across the desertswift as this stream here, only pellucid. So till the sun sets ahead ofyou level with your eyes! Imagine the nights which follow--nights ofinfinite silence, with a cool friendly wind blowing from horizon tohorizon--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'slike 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 youtravel north again. " He raised himself upon his elbow and turnedsuddenly towards her. "Do you know--I can only speak for myself--but Inever feel alone in those empty spaces. On the contrary, I always feelvery close to the things I care about, and to the few people I careabout too. "

Her eyes shone very brightly upon him, her lips parted in a smile. Hemoved nearer to her upon the grass, and sat with his feet gathered underhim upon one side, and leaning upon his arm. 

"I used to imagine you out there, " he said. "You would have lovedit--from the start before daybreak, in the dark, to the camp-fire atnight. You would have been at home. I used to think so as I lay awakewondering how the world went with my friends. "

"And you go back there?" she said. 

Durrance did not immediately answer. The roar of the torrent throbbedabout them. When he did speak, all the enthusiasm had gone from hisvoice. 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 againthere fell a silence between them. 

"Of what are you thinking?"

"That you need not miss me, " he said, and he was aware that she drewback and sank down upon her heels. "My appointment at Halfa--I mightshorten its term. I might perhaps avoid it altogether. I have still halfmy furlough. "

She did not answer nor did she change her attitude. She remained verystill, and Durrance was alarmed, and all his hopes sank. For a stillnessof attitude he knew to be with her as definite an expression of distressas a cry of pain with another woman. He turned about towards her. Herhead was bent, but she raised it as he turned, and though her lipssmiled, there was a look of great trouble in her eyes. Durrance was aman like another. His first thought was whether there was not someobstacle which would hinder her from compliance, even though sheherself 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. Totell 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 rocksinto a wrinkled pool of water just beneath. It was after all the shadowof Feversham which stretched between himself and her. 

"I know, of course, " he said, "that you would never feel trouble, as somany do, with half your heart. You would neither easily care nor lightlyforget. "

"I remember enough, " she returned in a low voice, "to make your wordsrather a pain to me. Some day perhaps I may bring myself to telleverything which happened at that ball three years ago, and then youwill be better able to understand why I am a little distressed. All thatI can tell you now is this: I have a great fear that I was to somedegree the cause of another man's ruin. I do not mean that I was toblame for it. But if I had not been known to him, his career mightperhaps never have come to so abrupt an end. I am not sure, but I amafraid. I asked whether it was so, and I was told 'no, ' but I think verylikely that generosity dictated that answer. And the fear stays. I ammuch distressed by it. I lie awake with it at night. And then you comewhom I greatly value, and you say quietly, 'Will you please spoil mycareer 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 placewhere a soldier can find work to his hand. "

His voice had taken a new hopefulness. For he had listened intently tothe words which she had spoken, and he had construed them by thedictionary of his desires. She had not said that friendship bounded allher thoughts of him. Therefore he need not believe it. Women were givento a hinting modesty of speech, at all events the best of them. A manmight read a little more emphasis into their tones, and underline theirwords and still be short of their meaning, as he argued. A subtledelicacy graced them in nature. Durrance was near to Benedick's mood. "One whom I value"; "I shall miss you"; there might be a double meaningin the phrases. When she said that she needed to be assured that she hadsure friends, did she not mean that she needed their companionship? Butthe argument, had he been acute enough to see it, proved how deep he wassunk in error. For what this girl spoke, she habitually meant, and shehabitually meant no more. Moreover, upon this occasion she hadparticularly weighed her words. 

"No doubt, " she said, "_a_ soldier can. But can this soldier find workso suitable? Listen, please, till I have done. I was so very glad tohear all that you have told me about your work and your journeys. I wasstill more glad because of the satisfaction with which you told it. Forit seemed to me, as I listened and as I watched, that you had found theone true straight channel along which your life could run swift andsmoothly and unharassed. And so few do that--so very few!" And she wrungher hands and cried, "And now you spoil it all. "

Durrance suddenly faced her. He ceased from argument; he cried in avoice of passion:--

"I am for you, Ethne! There's the true straight channel, and upon myword I believe you are for me. I thought--I admit it--at one time Iwould 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 hadspoken in a voice overloud, so that it had something almost ofbrutality. 

"Do I hurt you?" he continued. "I am sorry. But let me speak the wholetruth out, I cannot afford reticence, I want you to know the first andlast of it. I say now that I love you. Yes, but I could have said itwith equal truth five years ago. It is five years since your fatherarrested me at the ferry down there on Lough Swilly, because I wished topress on to Letterkenny and not delay a night by stopping with astranger. Five years since I first saw you, first heard the language ofyour violin. I remember how you sat with your back towards me. The lightshone on your hair; I could just see your eyelashes and the colour ofyour cheeks. I remember the sweep of your arm.... My dear, you are forme; 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 restlessnessof the born traveller, the craving for the large and lonely spaces inthe outlandish corners of the world, the incurable intermittent fever tobe moving, ever moving amongst strange peoples and under strangeskies--these were deep-rooted qualities of the man. Passion mightobscure them for a while, but they would make their appeal in the end, and the appeal would torture. The home would become a prison. Desireswould so clash within him, there could be no happiness. That was theman. For herself, she looked down the slope of the hill across the browncountry. Away on the right waved the woods about Ramelton, at her feetflashed a strip of the Lough; and this was her country; she was itschild and the sister of its people. 

"No, " she repeated, as she rose to her feet. Durrance rose with her. Hewas still not so much disheartened as conscious of a blunder. He had puthis case badly; he should never have given her the opportunity to thinkthat marriage would be an interruption of his career. 

"We will say good-bye here, " she said, "in the open. We shall be nonethe less good friends because three thousand miles hinder us fromshaking hands. "

They shook hands as she spoke. 

"I shall be in England again in a year's time, " said Durrance. "May Icome back?"

Ethne's eyes and her smile consented. 

"I should be sorry to lose you altogether, " she said, "although even ifI 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 aredoing, if ever you have the time to spare. "

"I may write?" he exclaimed eagerly. 

"Yes, " she answered, and his eagerness made her linger a littledoubtfully upon the word. "That is, if you think it fair. I mean, itmight be best for you, perhaps, to get rid of me entirely from yourthoughts;" and Durrance laughed and without any bitterness, so that in amoment Ethne found herself laughing too, though at what she laughed shewould have discovered it difficult to explain. "Very well, write to methen. " 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, andgoing into her room took one of her violins from its case. But it wasthe violin which Durrance had given to her, and before she had touchedthe strings with her bow she recognised it and put it suddenly away fromher in its case. She snapped the case to. For a few moments she satmotionless in her chair, then she quickly crossed the room, and, takingher keys, unlocked a drawer. At the bottom of the drawer there layhidden a photograph, and at this she looked for a long while and verywistfully. 

Durrance meanwhile walked down to the trap which was waiting for him atthe gates of the house, and saw that Dermod Eustace stood in the roadwith his hat upon his head. 

"I will walk a few yards with you, Colonel Durrance, " said Dermod. "Ihave a word for your ear. "

Durrance suited his stride to the old man's faltering step, and theywalked behind the dog-cart, and in silence. It was not the mere personaldisappointment which weighed upon Durrance's spirit. But he could notsee with Ethne's eyes, and as his gaze took in that quiet corner ofDonegal, he was filled with a great sadness lest all her life should bepassed in this seclusion, her grave dug in the end under the wall of thetiny church, and her memory linger only in a few white cottagesscattered over the moorland, and for a very little while. He wasrecalled by the pressure of Dermod's hand upon his elbow. There was agleam of inquiry in the old man's faded eyes, but it seemed that speechitself was a difficulty. 

"You have news for me?" he asked, after some hesitation. "News of HarryFeversham? 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 forsorrow. He struck us a cruel blow, Colonel Durrance. --I should havenothing but curses for him in my mouth and my heart. A black-throatedcoward my reason calls him, and yet I would be very glad to hear how theworld goes with him. You were his friend. But you do not know?"

It was actually of Harry Feversham that Dermod Eustace was speaking, andDurrance, as he remarked the old man's wistfulness of voice and face, was seized with a certain remorse that he had allowed Ethne so tothrust his friend out of his thoughts. He speculated upon the mystery ofHarry Feversham's disappearance at times as he sat in the evening uponhis verandah above the Nile at Wadi Halfa, piecing together the fewhints which he had gathered. "A black-throated coward, " Dermod hadcalled Harry Feversham, and Ethne had said enough to assure him thatsomething graver than any dispute, something which had destroyed all herfaith in the man, had put an end to their betrothal. But he could notconjecture at the particular cause, and the only consequence of hisperplexed imaginings was the growth of a very real anger within himagainst the man who had been his friend. So the winter passed, andsummer 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 beganeagerly to look homeward. But in the contrary direction, five hundredmiles to the south of his frontier town, on the other side of the greatNubian desert and the Belly of Stones, the events of real importance tohim were occurring without his knowledge. On the deserted track betweenBerber and Suakin the wells of Obak are sunk deep amongst mounds ofshifting sand. Eastward a belt of trees divides the dunes from a hardstony plain built upon with granite hills; westward the desert stretchesfor fifty-eight waterless miles to Mahobey and Berber on the Nile, adesert so flat that the merest tuft of grass knee-high seems at thedistance of a mile a tree promising shade for a noonday halt, and a pileof stones no bigger than one might see by the side of any roadway inrepair achieves the stature of a considerable hill. In this particularMay there could be no spot more desolate than the wells of Obak. The sunblazed upon it from six in the morning with an intolerable heat, and allnight the wind blew across it piercingly cold, and played with the sandas it would, building pyramids house-high and levelling them, tunnellingvalleys, silting up long slopes, so that the face of the country wascontinually changed. The vultures and the sand-grouse held itundisturbed in a perpetual tenancy. And to make the spot yet moredesolate, there remained scattered here and there the bleached bones andskeletons of camels to bear evidence that about these wells once thecaravans had crossed and halted; and the remnants of a house built ofbranches bent in hoops showed that once Arabs had herded their goats andmade their habitation there. Now the sun rose and set, and the hot skypressed upon an empty round of honey-coloured earth. Silence broodedthere like night upon the waters; and the absolute stillness made it aplace of mystery and expectation. 

Yet in this month of May one man sojourned by the wells and sojournedsecretly. Every morning at sunrise he drove two camels, swiftriding-mares of the pure Bisharin breed, from the belt of trees, wateredthem, and sat by the well-mouth for the space of three hours. Then hedrove them back again into the shelter of the trees, and fed themdelicately with dhoura upon a cloth; and for the rest of the day heappeared no more. For five mornings he thus came from his hiding-placeand sat looking toward the sand-dunes and Berber, and no one approachedhim. But on the sixth, as he was on the point of returning to hisshelter, he saw the figures of a man and a donkey suddenly outlinedagainst the sky upon a crest of the sand. The Arab seated by the welllooked first at the donkey, and, remarking its grey colour, half rose tohis feet. But as he rose he looked at the man who drove it, and saw thatwhile his jellab was drawn forward over his face to protect it from thesun, his bare legs showed of an ebony blackness against the sand. Thedonkey-driver was a negro. The Arab sat down again and waited with anair of the most complete indifference for the stranger to descend tohim. He did not even move or turn when he heard the negro's feettreading the sand close behind him. 

"Salam aleikum, " said the negro, as he stopped. He carried a long spearand a short one, and a shield of hide. These he laid upon the ground andsat 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, MoussaFedil, stopped me in the market-place of Berber, and seeing that I washungry, gave me food. And when I had eaten he charged me to drive thisdonkey to Abou Fatma at the wells of Obak. "

Abou Fatma looked carelessly at the donkey as though now for the firsttime he had remarked it. 

"Tayeeb, " he said, no less carelessly. "The donkey is mine, " and he satinattentive and motionless, as though the negro's business were done andhe might go. 

The negro, however, held his ground. 

"I am to meet Moussa Fedil again on the third morning from now, in themarket-place of Berber. Give me a token which I may carry back, so thathe may know I have fulfilled the charge and reward me. "

Abou Fatma took his knife from the small of his back, and picking up astick from the ground, notched it thrice at each end. 

"This shall be a sign to Moussa Fedil;" and he handed the stick to hiscompanion. The negro tied it securely into a corner of his wrap, loosedhis water-skin from the donkey's back, filled it at the well and slungit about his shoulders. Then he picked up his spears and his shield. Abou Fatma watched him labour up the slope of loose sand and disappearagain on the further incline of the crest. Then in his turn he rose, andhastily. When Harry Feversham had set out from Obak six days before totraverse the fifty-eight miles of barren desert to the Nile, this greydonkey had carried his water-skins and food. 

Abou Fatma drove the donkey down amongst the trees, and fastening it toa stem examined its shoulders. In the left shoulder a tiny incision hadbeen made and the skin neatly stitched up again with fine thread. He cutthe stitches, and pressing open the two edges of the wound, forced out atiny package little bigger than a postage stamp. The package was agoat's bladder, and enclosed within the bladder was a note written inArabic and folded very small. Abou Fatma had not been Gordon'sbody-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 widestreets is building. There is no longer any sign by which I may know theruins of Yusef's house from the ruins of a hundred houses; nor doesYusef any longer sell rock-salt in the bazaar. Yet wait for me anotherweek. "

The Arab of the Bisharin who wrote the letter was Harry Feversham. Wearing the patched jubbeh of the Dervishes over his stained skin, hishair frizzed on the crown of his head and falling upon the nape of hisneck in locks matted and gummed into the semblance of seaweed, he wentabout his search for Yusef through the wide streets of New Berber withits 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 theletters, a warren of ruined houses facing upon narrow alleys and windingstreets. The front walls had been pulled down, the roofs carried away, only the bare inner walls were left standing, so that Feversham when hewandered amongst them vainly at night seemed to have come into longlanes of five courts, crumbling into decay. And each court was onlydistinguishable from its neighbour by a degree of ruin. Already thefoxes made their burrows beneath the walls. 

He had calculated that one night would have been the term of his stay inBerber. He was to have crept through the gate in the dusk of theevening, and before the grey light had quenched the stars his faceshould be set towards Obak. Now he must go steadily forward amongst thecrowds like a man that has business of moment, dreading conversationlest his tongue should betray him, listening ever for the name of Yusefto strike upon his ears. Despair kept him company at times, and fearalways. But from the sharp pangs of these emotions a sort of madnesswas begotten in him, a frenzy of obstinacy, a belief fanatical as thedark religion of those amongst whom he moved, that he could not now failand the world go on, that there could be no injustice in the wholescheme of the universe great enough to lay this heavy burden upon theone man least fitted to bear it and then callously to destroy himbecause he tried. 

Fear had him in its grip on that morning three days after he had leftAbou Fatma at the wells, when coming over a slope he first saw the sandstretched like a lagoon up to the dark brown walls of the town, and theovershadowing foliage of the big date palms rising on the Nile bankbeyond. Within those walls were the crowded Dervishes. It was surely themerest madness for a man to imagine that he could escape detectionthere, even for an hour. Was it right, he began to ask, that a manshould even try? The longer he stood, the more insistent did thisquestion grow. The low mud walls grew strangely sinister; the welcomegreen of the waving palms, after so many arid days of sun and sand andstones, became an ironical invitation to death. He began to wonderwhether 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 veinswere 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 evenin that strong heat, and the great loneliness of the place smote uponhim, so that his knees shook. He faced about and commenced to run, leaping in a panic alone and unpursued across the naked desert under thesun, while from his throat feeble cries broke inarticulately. 

He ran, however, only for a few yards, and it was the very violence ofhis flight which stopped him. These four years of anticipation were asnothing, then? He had schooled himself in the tongue, he had lived inthe bazaars, to no end? He was still the craven who had sent in hispapers? The quiet confidence with which he had revealed his plan toLieutenant Sutch over the table in the Criterion grill-room was the merevainglory of a man who continually deceived himself? And Ethne?... 

He dropped upon the ground and, drawing his coat over his head, lay, abrown spot indistinguishable from the sand about him, an irregularity inthe 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'sface towards him. A little while and he was back again in Donegal. Thesummer night whispered through the open doorway in the hall; in a roomnear by people danced to music. He saw the three feathers fluttering tothe floor; he read the growing trouble in Ethne's face. If he could dothis 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. Therewere significant words too in his ears, "I should have no doubt that youand I would see much of one another afterwards. " Towards the setting ofthe sun he rose from the ground, and walking down towards Berber, passedbetween the gates. 

CHAPTER XI

DURRANCE HEARS NEWS OF FEVERSHAM

A month later Durrance arrived in London and discovered a letter fromEthne awaiting him at his club. It told him simply that she was stayingwith 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. Durrancecalled at Hill Street the next afternoon and found Ethne alone. 

"I did not write to Wadi Halfa, " she explained at once, "for I thoughtthat you would be on your way home before my letter could arrive. Myfather died last month, towards the end of May. "

"I was afraid when I got your letter that you would have this to tellme, " he replied. "I am very sorry. You will miss him. "

"More than I can say, " said she, with a quiet depth of feeling. "He diedone 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 chillwas the occasion rather than the cause; for he died of a gradualdissolution rather than a definite disease. 

It was a curious story which Ethne had to tell, for it seemed that justbefore his death Dermod recaptured something of his old masterfulspirit. "We knew that he was dying, " Ethne said. "He knew it too, andat seven o'clock of the afternoon after--" she hesitated for a momentand resumed, "after he had spoken for a little while to me, he calledhis dog by name. The dog sprang at once on to the bed, though his voicehad not risen above a whisper, and crouching quite close, pushed itsmuzzle with a whine under my father's hand. Then he told me to leave himand the dog altogether alone. I was to shut the door upon him. The dogwould tell me when to open it again. I obeyed him and waited outside thedoor until one o'clock. Then a loud sudden howl moaned through thehouse. " She stopped for a while. This pause was the only sign ofdistress which she gave, and in a few moments she went on, speakingquite simply, without any of the affectations of grief. "It was tryingto 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 leftin his room. One imagined him just the other side of that thindoor-panel, lying very still and silent in the great four-poster bedwith his face towards the hills, and the light falling. One imagined theroom slipping away into darkness, and the windows continually loominginto 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 hardfor me. "

Durrance said nothing in reply, but gave her in full measure what shemost needed, the sympathy of his silence. He imagined those hours in thepassage, six hours of twilight and darkness; he could picture herstanding close by the door, with her ear perhaps to the panel, and herhand upon her heart to check its loud beating. There was somethingrather cruel, he thought, in Dermod's resolve to die alone. It was Ethnewho 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. Fromneither her eyes nor the level tone of her voice could he gatheranything of the answer, but a sudden throb of hope caught away hisbreath. 

"Tell me!" he said, in a sort of suspense, as he leaned forward in hischair. 

"Of Mr. Feversham, " she answered, and he drew back again, and rathersuddenly. It was evident that this was not the name which he hadexpected. 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 Ithink that I would like to know if you have any knowledge of what he isdoing or where he is. "

Durrance did not answer nor did he raise his face. He reflected upon thestrange strong hold which Harry Feversham kept upon the affections ofthose who had once known him well; so that even the man whom he hadwronged, and upon whose daughter he had brought much suffering, mustremember him with kindliness upon his death-bed. The reflection was notwithout its bitterness to Durrance at this moment, and this bitternesshe was afraid that his face and voice might both betray. But he wascompelled 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 theexpression of his face, a thrill of deep anger sounded through hiswords, in spite of his efforts to subdue his tones. 

"No, " he said, "I never have, " and suddenly his anger had its way withhim; it chose as well as informed his words. "And I never wish to, " hecried. "He was my friend, I know. But I cannot remember that friendshipnow. 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 sixhours. " 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 walkedround to the back of her chair. 

"You once said that you would perhaps tell me why your engagement wasbroken off. "

"But you know, " she said. "What you said at the window showed that youknew. "

"No, I do not. One or two words your father let drop. He asked me fornews of Feversham the last time that I spoke with him. But I knownothing 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. Durrancebroke it again. 

"I have only one more year at Halfa. It would be wise to leave Egyptthen, I think. I do not expect much will be done in the Soudan for somelittle while. I do not think that I will stay there--in any case. I meaneven if you should decide to remain alone at Glenalla. "

Ethne made no pretence to ignore the suggestion of his words. "We areneither 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 ofprudence. The prudence which knows that it's worth while to dare a gooddeal. "

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 sheremained in this attitude, quite silent and very still. She asked aquestion at the last, and in a very low and gentle voice. 

"Do you want me so very much?" And before he could answer she turnedquickly towards him. "Try not to, " she exclaimed earnestly. "For thisone year try not to. You have much to occupy your thoughts. Try toforget me altogether;" and there was just sufficient regret in her tone, the regret at the prospect of losing a valued friend, to take all thesting from her words, to confirm Durrance in his delusion that but forher fear that she would spoil his career, she would answer him in verydifferent 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 cigarunder the big tree where he had sat so persistently a year before in hisvain quest for news of Harry Feversham. It was much the same sort ofclear night as that on which he had seen Lieutenant Sutch limp into thecourtyard and hesitate at the sight of him. The strip of sky wascloudless and starry overhead; the air had the pleasant languor of asummer night in June; the lights flashing from the windows and doorwaysgave to the leaves of the trees the fresh green look of spring; andoutside in the roadway the carriages rolled with a thunderous hum likethe sound of the sea. And on this night, too, there came a man into thecourtyard who knew Durrance. But he did not hesitate. He came straightup to Durrance and sat down upon the seat at his side. Durrance droppedthe 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 eveningpaper. I knew that it was about the time one might expect to find you inLondon. You have seen, I suppose?"

"What?" asked Durrance. 

"Then you haven't, " replied Mather. He picked up the newspaper whichDurrance had dropped and turned over the sheets, searching for the pieceof news which he required. "You remember that last reconnaissance wemade from Suakin?"

"Very well. "

"We halted by the Sinkat fort at midday. There was an Arab hiding inthe 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 havenot forgotten. "

"Then here's something which will interest you, " and Captain Mather, having folded the paper to his satisfaction, handed it to Durrance andpointed to a paragraph. It was a short paragraph; it gave no details; itwas the merest summary; and Durrance read it through between the puffsof his cigar. 

"The fellow must have gone back to Berber after all, " said he. "A riskybusiness. Abou Fatma--that was the man's name. "

The paragraph made no mention of Abou Fatma, or indeed of any man exceptCaptain Willoughby, the Deputy-Governor of Suakin. It merely announcedthat certain letters which the Mahdi had sent to Gordon summoning him tosurrender Khartum, and inviting him to become a convert to the Mahdistreligion, together with copies of Gordon's curt replies, had beenrecovered from a wall in Berber and brought safely to Captain Willoughbyat 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'sown hand. They are, at all events, of an historic interest. "

"In a way, no doubt, " said Mather. "But even so, their recovery throwsno light upon the history of the siege. It can make no real differenceto any one, not even to the historian. "

"That is true, " Durrance agreed, and there was nothing more untrue. Inthe same spot where he had sought for news of Feversham news had nowcome to him--only he did not know. He was in the dark; he could notappreciate that here was news which, however little it might trouble thehistorian, touched his life at the springs. He dismissed the paragraphfrom his mind, and sat thinking over the conversation which had passedthat afternoon between Ethne and himself, and without discouragement. Ethne had mentioned Harry Feversham, it was true, --had asked for news ofhim. But she might have been--nay, she probably had been--moved to askbecause her father's last words had referred to him. She had spoken hisname in a perfectly steady voice, he remembered; and, indeed, the merefact that she had spoken it at all might be taken as a sign that it hadno longer any power with her. There was something hopeful to his mind inher very request that he should try during this one year to omit herfrom 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 helonged. 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 andreturned 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 intopractice the policy which she had commended to his thoughts. He was totry to forget her, and she would help him to success so far as she couldby her absence from his sight. And in attributing this reason to her, Durrance was right. But one thing Ethne had forgotten. She had not askedhim to cease to write to her, and accordingly in the autumn of that yearthe letters began again to come from the Soudan. She was frankly glad toreceive them, but at the same time she was troubled. For in spite oftheir careful reticence, every now and then a phrase leaped out--itmight be merely the repetition of some trivial sentence which she hadspoken long ago and long ago forgotten--and she could not but see thatin spite of her prayer she lived perpetually in his thoughts. There wasa strain of hopefulness too, as though he moved in a world painted withnew colours and suddenly grown musical. Ethne had never freed herselffrom the haunting fear that one man's life had been spoilt because ofher; she had never faltered from her determination that this should nothappen with a second. Only with Durrance's letters before her she couldnot evade a new and perplexing question. By what means was thatpossibility to be avoided? There were two ways. By choosing which ofthem could she fulfil her determination? She was no longer so sure asshe had been the year before that his career was all in all. Thequestion recurred to her again and again. She took it out with her onthe hillside with the letters, and pondered and puzzled over it and gotnever an inch nearer to a solution. Even her violin failed her in thisstrait. 

CHAPTER XII

DURRANCE SHARPENS HIS WITS

It was a night of May, and outside the mess-room at Wadi Halfa threeofficers were smoking on a grass knoll above the Nile. The moon was atits full, and the strong light had robbed even the planets of theirlustre. The smaller stars were not visible at all, and the sky washed ofits dark colour, curved overhead, pearly-hued and luminous. The threeofficers sat in their lounge chairs and smoked silently, while thebull-frogs croaked from an island in mid-river. At the bottom of thesmall steep cliff on which they sat the Nile, so sluggish was its flow, shone like a burnished mirror, and from the opposite bank the desertstretched away to infinite distances, a vast plain with scatteredhummocks, a plain white as a hoar frost on the surface of which thestones sparkled like jewels. Behind the three officers of the garrisonthe roof of the mess-room verandah threw a shadow on the ground; itseemed a solid piece of blackness. 

One of the three officers struck a match and held it to the end of hiscigar. The flame lit up a troubled and anxious face. 

"I hope that no harm has come to him, " he said, as he threw the matchaway. "I wish that I could say I believed it. "

The speaker was a man of middle age and the colonel of a Soudanesebattalion. He was answered by a man whose hair had gone grey, it istrue. But grey hair is frequent in the Soudan, and his unlined facestill showed that he was young. He was Lieutenant Calder of theEngineers. Youth, however, in this instance had no optimism wherewith tochallenge 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 ArmyService Corps, who alone hazarded a cheerful prophecy. 

"It's early days to conclude Durrance has got scuppered, " said he. "Oneknows Durrance. Give him a camp-fire in the desert, and a couple ofsheiks to sit round it with him, and he'll buck to them for a month andnever feel bored at the end. While here there are letters, and there'san office, and there's a desk in the office and everything he loathesand can't do with. You'll see Durrance will turn up right enough, thoughhe won't hurry about it. "

"He is three weeks overdue, " objected the colonel, "and he's methodicalafter a fashion. I am afraid. "

Major Walters pointed out his arm to the white empty desert across theriver. 

"If he had travelled that way, westward, I might agree, " he said. "ButDurrance went east through the mountain country toward Berenice and theRed Sea. The tribes he went to visit were quiet, even in the worsttimes, when Osman Digna lay before Suakin. "

The colonel, however, took no comfort from Walters's confidence. Hetugged at his moustache and repeated, "He is three weeks overdue. "

Lieutenant Calder knocked the ashes from his pipe and refilled it. Heleaned forward in his chair as he pressed the tobacco down with histhumb, and he said slowly:--

"I wonder. It is just possible that some sort of trap was laid forDurrance. I am not sure. I never mentioned before what I knew, becauseuntil lately I did not suspect that it could have anything to do withhis delay. But now I begin to wonder. You remember the night before hestarted?"

"Yes, " said Dawson, and he hitched his chair a little nearer. Calder wasthe one man in Wadi Halfa who could claim something like intimacy withDurrance. Despite their difference in rank there was no great disparityin age between the two men, and from the first when Calder had comeinexperienced and fresh from England, but with a great ardour to acquirea comprehensive experience, Durrance in his reticent way had been atpains to show the newcomer considerable friendship. Calder, therefore, might be likely to know. 

"I too remember that night, " said Walters. "Durrance dined at the messand 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 theriver-bank to Tewfikieh. "

Wadi Halfa was the military station, Tewfikieh a little frontier town tothe north separated from Halfa by a mile of river-bank. A few Greekskept stores there, a few bare and dirty cafés faced the street betweennative cook-shops and tobacconists'; a noisy little town where the negrofrom the Dinka country jolted the fellah from the Delta, and the air wastorn with many dialects; a thronged little town, which yet lacked toEuropean ears one distinctive element of a throng. There was no ring offootsteps. The crowd walked on sand and for the most part with nakedfeet, so that if for a rare moment the sharp high cries and theperpetual voices ceased, the figures of men and women flitted bynoiseless as ghosts. And even at night, when the streets were mostcrowded and the uproar loudest, it seemed that underneath the noise, andalmost 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, " saidCalder. "I went to his quarters at eleven. He had not returned. He wasstarting eastward at four in the morning, and there was some detail ofbusiness on which I wished to speak to him before he went. So I waitedfor his return. He came in about a quarter of an hour afterwards andtold 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 undersome excitement. He barely listened to what I had to say, and heanswered me at random. It was quite evident that he was moved, andrather deeply moved, by some unusual feeling, though at the nature ofthe feeling I could not guess. For at one moment it seemed certainly tobe anger, and the next moment he relaxed into a laugh, as though inspite of himself he was glad. However, he bundled me out, and as I wentI heard him telling his servant to go to bed, because, though heexpected 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 whenDurrance's servant went to call him at four o'clock for his journey, hefound Durrance still sitting on the verandah outside his quarters, asthough 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 puzzledand worried. I thought, too, that he meant to tell me what was thematter. I still think that he had that in his mind, but that he couldnot decide. For even after he had taken his seat upon his saddle and hiscamel 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 allevents, he did not speak. He struck the camel on the flank with hisstick, 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 atrap. Who could this visitor have been whom he meets in the street ofTewfikieh, and who must come so secretly to Wadi Halfa? What can havebeen his business with Durrance? Important business, troublesomebusiness--so much is evident. And he did not come to transact it. Wasthe whole thing a lure to which we have not the clue? Like ColonelDawson, I am afraid. "

There was a silence after he had finished, which Major Walters was thefirst to break. He offered no argument--he simply expressed again hisunalterable cheerfulness. 

"I don't think Durrance has got scuppered, " said he, as he rose from hischair. 

"I know what I shall do, " said the colonel. "I shall send out a strongsearch party in the morning. "

And the next morning, as they sat at breakfast on the verandah, he atonce proceeded to describe the force which he meant to despatch. MajorWalters, too, it seemed, in spite of his hopeful prophecies, hadpondered during the night over Calder's story, and he leaned across thetable to Calder. 

"Did you never inquire whom Durrance talked with at Tewfikieh on thatnight?" he asked. 

"I did, and there's a point that puzzles me, " said Calder. He wassitting with his back to the Nile and his face towards the glass doorsof the mess-room, and he spoke to Walters, who was directly opposite. "Icould not find that he talked to more than one person, and that oneperson could not by any likelihood have been the visitor he expected. Durrance stopped in front of a café where some strolling musicians, whohad somehow wandered up to Tewfikieh, were playing and singing for theirnight's lodging. One of them, a Greek I was told, came outside into thestreet and took his hat round. Durrance threw a sovereign into the hat, the man turned to thank him, and they talked for a little timetogether;" and as he came to this point he raised his head. A look ofrecognition came into his face. He laid his hands upon the table-edge, and leaned forward with his feet drawn back beneath his chair as thoughhe was on the point of springing up. But he did not spring up. His lookof recognition became one of bewilderment. He glanced round the tableand saw that Colonel Dawson was helping himself to cocoa, while MajorWalters's eyes were on his plate. There were other officers of thegarrison present, but not one had remarked his movement and its suddenarrest. Calder leaned back, and staring curiously in front of him andover the major's shoulder, continued his story. "But I could never hearthat Durrance spoke to any one else. He seemed, except that one knows tothe contrary, merely to have strolled through the village and back againto 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 thedoorway, and listening with a remarkable intentness to the voices of hisfellow-officers. It was perhaps noticeable that Calder, who wasDurrance'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 camea quick and troubled look of comprehension into his face. 

"We expected you three weeks ago, " said Dawson, as he pulled a chairaway from an empty place at the table. 

"The delay could not be helped, " replied Durrance. He took the chair anddrew it up. 

"Does my story account for it?" asked Calder. 

"Not a bit. It was the Greek musician I expected that night, " heexplained with a laugh. "I was curious to know what stroke of ill-luckhad cast him out to play the zither for a night's lodging in a café atTewfikieh. 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 onDurrance. Durrance looked round the table, and then called themess-waiter. "Moussa, get me something cold, " said he, and the waiterwent back into the mess-room. Calder nodded his head with a faint smile, as though he understood that here was a difficulty rather cleverlysurmounted. 

"There's tea, cocoa, and coffee, " he said. "Help yourself, Durrance. "

"Thanks, " said Durrance. "I see, but I will get Moussa to bring me abrandy-and-soda, I think, " and again Calder nodded his head. 

Durrance ate his breakfast and drank his brandy-and-soda, and talked thewhile of his journey. He had travelled farther eastward than he hadintended. He had found the Ababdeh Arabs quiet amongst their mountains. If they were not disposed to acknowledge allegiance to Egypt, on theother hand they paid no tribute to Mahommed Achmet. The weather had beengood, ibex and antelope plentiful. Durrance, on the whole, had reason tobe content with his journey. And Calder sat and watched him, anddisbelieved every word that he said. The other officers went about theirduties; Calder remained behind, and waited until Durrance should finish. But it seemed that Durrance never would finish. He loitered over hisbreakfast, and when that was done he pushed his plate away and sattalking. There was no end to his questions as to what had passed at WadiHalfa during the last eight weeks, no limit to his enthusiasm over thejourney from which he had just returned. Finally, however, he stoppedwith a remarkable abruptness, and said, with some suspicion, to hiscompanion:--

"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 cloudand his forehead contract. 

"True, " he said, after a pause. "I had forgotten my letters. " And herose from his seat at the table, mounted the steps, and passed into themess-room. 

Calder immediately sprang up, and with his eyes followed Durrance'smovements. Durrance went to a nail which was fixed in the wall close tothe glass doors and on a level with his head. From that nail he tookdown the key of his office, crossed the room, and went out through thefarther door. That door he left open, and Calder could see him walk downthe path between the bushes through the tiny garden in front of themess, unlatch the gate, and cross the open space of sand towards hisoffice. 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 inWadi Halfa who possessed something of Durrance's confidence; he knewthat there were certain letters in a woman's handwriting waiting for himin his office. He was very deeply troubled. Durrance had aged duringthese eight weeks. There were furrows about his mouth where only faintlines had been visible when he had started out from Halfa; and it wasnot merely desert dust which had discoloured his hair. His hilarity, too, had an artificial air. He had sat at the table constraining himselfto the semblance of high spirits. Calder lit his pipe, and sat for along while by the empty table. 

Then he took his helmet and crossed the sand to Durrance's office. Helifted the latch noiselessly; as noiselessly he opened the door, and helooked in. Durrance was sitting at his desk with his head bowed upon hisarms and all his letters unopened at his side. Calder stepped into theroom and closed the door loudly behind him. At once Durrance turned hisface 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, atlunch-time. Will you give it to me, please?"

He held out his hand towards Calder. Calder took his pipe from hismouth, and, standing thus in full view of Durrance, slowly anddeliberately placed it into Durrance's outstretched palm. It was notuntil 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 fora 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 hadexercised 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 voicespoke from where. When I raised my head and saw you, though your eyesrested 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 armover your shoulder so that Moussa had to put the brandy-and-soda safelyinto your palm, I was sure. "

"I was a fool to try and hide it, " said Durrance. "Of course I knew allthe time that I couldn't for more than a few hours. But even those fewhours somehow seemed a gain. "

"How did it happen?"

"There was a high wind, " Durrance explained. "It took my helmet off. Itwas eight o'clock in the morning. I did not mean to move my camp thatday, and I was standing outside my tent in my shirt-sleeves. So you seethat 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 thesame thing happen a hundred times--each time that I stooped to pick itup it skipped away; each time that I ran after it, it stopped and waitedfor me to catch it up. And before one was aware what one was doing, onehad run a quarter of a mile. I went down, I was told, like a log justwhen I had the helmet in my hand. How long ago it happened I don't quiteknow, for I was ill for a time, and afterwards it was difficult to keepcount, 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. Hehad bidden his followers carry him back to Berber, and then, influencedby the natural wish to hide his calamity as long as he could, he hadenjoined 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. Iwill fetch him here privately, and we will hear what he says. Yourblindness may be merely temporary. "

The Syrian doctor, however, pursed up his lips and shook his head. Headvised 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 youever thrown from your horse? Were you wounded?"

"No, " said Durrance. 

The Syrian did not disguise his conviction that the case was grave; andafter he had departed both men were silent for some time. Calder had afeeling that any attempt at consolation would be futile in itself, andmight, moreover, in betraying his own fear that the hurt wasirreparable, only discourage his companion. He turned to the pile ofletters and looked them through. 

"There are two letters here, Durrance, " he said gently, "which you mightperhaps care to hear. They are written in a woman's hand, and there isan Irish postmark. Shall I open them?"

"No, " exclaimed Durrance, suddenly, and his hand dropped quickly uponCalder's arm. "By no means. "

Calder, however, did not put down the letters. He was anxious, forprivate reasons of his own, to learn something more of Ethne Eustacethan the outside of her letters could reveal. A few rare references madein unusual moments of confidence by Durrance had only informed Calder ofher name, and assured him that his friend would be very glad to changeit if he could. He looked at Durrance--a man so trained to vigour andactivity that his very sunburn seemed an essential quality rather thanan accident of the country in which he lived; a man, too, who came tothe wild, uncitied places of the world with the joy of one who comesinto an inheritance; a man to whom these desolate tracts were home, andthe fireside and the hedged fields and made roads merely the otherplaces; and he understood the magnitude of the calamity which hadbefallen him. Therefore he was most anxious to know more of this girlwho wrote to Durrance from Donegal, and to gather from her letters, asfrom a mirror in which her image was reflected, some speculation as toher character. For if she failed, what had this friend of his any longerleft?

"You would like to hear them, I expect, " he insisted. "You have beenaway 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 toget used to being blind after your eyes have served you pretty well allyour life. " And his voice shook ever so little. "You will have to helpme to answer them, Calder. So read them. Please read them. "

Calder tore open the envelopes and read the letters through and wassatisfied. They gave a record of the simple doings of her mountainvillage in Donegal, and in the simplest terms. But the girl's natureshone out in the telling. Her love of the country-side and of the peoplewho dwelt there was manifest. She could see the humour and the tragedyof the small village troubles. There was a warm friendliness forDurrance moreover expressed, not so much in a sentence as in the wholespirit of the letters. It was evident that she was most keenlyinterested in all that he did; that, in a way, she looked upon hiscareer as a thing in which she had a share, even if it was only afriend's share. And when Calder had ended he looked again at Durrance, but now with a face of relief. It seemed, too, that Durrance wasrelieved. 

"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 meto 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 haverecognised him. He had narrowed down into the most selfish, exacting, egotistical creature it is possible to imagine. I don't wonder; I hardlysee how he could help it; I don't blame him. But it wouldn't make lifeeasier for a wife, would it? A helpless husband who can't cross a roadwithout his wife at his elbow is bad enough. But make him a selfishbeast into the bargain, full of questions, jealous of her power to gowhere she will, curious as to every person with whom she speaks--andwhat then? My God, I am glad that girl refused me. For that I am mostgrateful. "

"She refused you?" asked Calder, and the relief passed from his face andvoice. 

"Twice, " said Durrance. "What an escape! You see, Calder, I shall bemore trouble even than the man I told you of. I am not clever. I can'tsit in a chair and amuse myself by thinking, not having any intellect tobuck about. I have lived out of doors and hard, and that's the only sortof life that suits me. I tell you, Calder, you won't be very anxious formuch of my society in a year's time, " and he laughed again and with thesame harshness. 

"Oh, stop that, " said Calder; "I will read the rest of your letters toyou. "

He read them, however, without much attention to their contents. Hismind was occupied with the two letters from Ethne Eustace, and he waswondering whether there was any deeper emotion than mere friendshiphidden beneath the words. Girls refused men for all sorts of queerreasons which had no sense in them, and very often they were sick andsorry about it afterwards; and very often they meant to accept the menall the time. 

"I must answer the letters from Ireland, " said Durrance, when he hadfinished. "The rest can wait. "

Calder held a sheet of paper upon the desk and told Durrance when he waswriting on a slant and when he was writing on the blotting-pad; and inthis way Durrance wrote to tell Ethne that a sunstroke had deprived himof his sight. Calder took that letter away. But he took it to thehospital 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 uphis 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 theoccasion. For the cause one must look deeper. "

Calder came to a stop, and there was a look of horror in his eyes. "Youmean--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 hewaited for the answer in suspense. 

"Then this calamity is not all. There will be more to follow--deathor--" 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. Hewas more disturbed by the blow which had fallen upon Durrance than hewould have cared to own; and he put the letter upon the table andthought of the message of renunciation which it contained, and he couldhardly restrain his fingers from tearing it across. It must be sent, heknew; its destruction would be of no more than a temporary avail. Yet hecould hardly bring himself to post it. With the passage of every minutehe realised more clearly what blindness meant to Durrance. A man notvery clever, as he himself was ever the first to acknowledge, and alwaysthe inheritor of the other places, --how much more it meant to him thanto the ordinary run of men! Would the girl, he wondered, understand asclearly? It was very silent that morning on the verandah at Wadi Halfa;the sunlight blazed upon desert and river; not a breath of wind stirredthe foliage of any bush. Calder drank his brandy-and-soda, and slowlythat 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 heheard Colonel Dawson's voice in the mess-room, and taking up his letter, walked away to the post-office. Durrance's letter was despatched, butsomewhere in the Mediterranean it crossed a letter from Ethne, whichDurrance received a fortnight later at Cairo. It was read out to him byCalder, who had obtained leave to come down from Wadi Halfa with hisfriend. Ethne wrote that she had, during the last months, considered allthat he had said when at Glenalla and in London; she had read, too, hisletters and understood that in his thoughts of her there had been nochange, and that there would be none; she therefore went back upon herold argument that she would, by marriage, be doing him an injury, andshe would marry him upon his return to England. 

"That's rough luck, isn't it?" said Durrance, when Calder had read theletter through. "For here's the one thing I have always wished for, andit comes when I can no longer take it. "

"I think you will find it very difficult to refuse to take it, " saidCalder. "I do not know Miss Eustace, but I can hazard a guess from theletters of hers which I have read to you. I do not think that she is awoman who will say 'yes' one day, and then because bad times come to yousay 'no' the next, or allow you to say 'no' for her, either. I have asort of notion that since she cares for you and you for her, you aredoing little less than insulting her if you imagine that she cannotmarry 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, bepossible if upon both sides there was love, and the letter from Ethneproved--did it not?--that on both sides there _was_ love. Besides, therewere some trivial compensations which might help to make her sacrificeless burdensome. She could still live in her own country and move in herown home. For the Lennon house could be rebuilt and the estates clearedof their debt. 

"Besides, " said Calder, "there is always a possibility of a cure. "

"There is no such possibility, " said Durrance, with a decision whichquite startled his companion. "You know that as well as I do;" and headded with a laugh, "You needn't start so guiltily. I haven't overhearda 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. Theirwords--yes--their words tell me to visit specialists in Europe, and notlose heart, but their voices give the lie to their words. If one cannotsee, one can at all events hear. "

Calder looked thoughtfully at his friend. This was not the only occasionon which of late Durrance had surprised his friends by an unusualacuteness. Calder glanced uncomfortably at the letter which he was stillholding in his hand. 

"When was that letter written?" said Durrance, suddenly; andimmediately upon the question he asked another, "What makes you jump?"

Calder laughed and explained hastily. "Why, I was looking at the letterat the moment when you asked, and your question came so pat that I couldhardly believe you did not see what I was doing. It was written on thefifteenth 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 hiscompanion, it seemed almost as though he were afraid; his attitude wasone of suspense. 

"That's a queer coincidence, " said Durrance, with a careless laugh; andCalder had an intuition that he was listening with the utmost intentnessfor 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 nobreath 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 theywere both listening for some particular sound to rise up from the streetand penetrate into the room. The window stood open that they might hearit the more quickly. It was half-past five in the afternoon. June hadcome round again with the exhilaration of its sunlight, and London hadsparkled into a city of pleasure and green trees. In the housesopposite, the windows were gay with flowers; and in the street below, the carriages rolled easily towards the Park. A jingle of bells roseupwards 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;" andthe jingle grew fainter and died away. 

Mrs. Adair looked at the clock. 

"Colonel Durrance is late, " she said, and she turned curiously towardsEthne. It seemed to her that Ethne had spoken her "yes" with much moreof suspense than eagerness; her attitude as she leaned forward at thewindow had been almost one of apprehension; and though Mrs. Adair wasnot quite sure, she fancied that she detected relief when the cab passedby the house and did not stop. "I wonder why you didn't go to thestation 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 asrather helpless, and I don't wish him to think that. He has his servantwith him. " Ethne looked again out of the window, and once or twice shemade a movement as if she was about to speak and then thought silencethe 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 toknow that I ever received it. "

Mrs. Adair was puzzled, and she hated to be puzzled. She had been shownthe telegram, but she had not been told that Ethne had written toDurrance, 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 somestanding, 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 anungracious shrug of the shoulders. "But there is a reason, I suppose. Idon'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 expectedthe blind man to whom she was betrothed, with apprehension. It is truethat she was a little afraid. Just twelve months had passed since, inthis very room, on just such a sunlit afternoon, Ethne had biddenDurrance try to forget her, and each letter which she had since receivedhad shown that, whether he tried or not, he had not forgotten. Even thatlast one received three weeks ago, the note scrawled in the handwritingof a child, from Wadi Halfa, with the large unsteady words stragglingunevenly across the page, and the letters running into one anotherwherein he had told his calamity and renounced his suit--even thatproved, and perhaps more surely than its hopeful forerunners--that hehad not forgotten. As she waited at the window she understood veryclearly that it was she herself who must buckle to the hard work offorgetting. Or if that was impossible, she must be careful always thatby no word let slip in a forgetful moment she betrayed that she had notforgotten. 

"No, " she said, "two lives shall not be spoilt because of me, " and sheturned towards Mrs. Adair. 

"Are you quite sure, Ethne, " said Mrs. Adair, "that the two lives willnot 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 ofyour will, something of a hindrance and a drag? Isn't it possible thathe 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 Durranceand Harry Feversham, but of Durrance and Ethne herself. There she waswrong; but Ethne did not dispute the point, she was indeed rather gladthat her friend was wrong, and she allowed her to continue in her wrongbelief. 

Ethne resumed her watch at the window, foreseeing her life, planning itout so that never might she be caught off her guard. The task would bedifficult, no doubt, and it was no wonder that in these minutes whileshe waited fear grew upon her lest she should fail. But the end was wellworth the effort, and she set her eyes upon that. Durrance had losteverything which made life to him worth living the moment he wentblind--everything, except one thing. "What should I do if I werecrippled?" he had said to Harry Feversham on the morning when for thelast time they had ridden together in the Row. "A clever man might putup with it. But what should I do if I had to sit in a chair all mydays?" Ethne had not heard the words, but she understood the man wellenough without them. He was by birth the inheritor of the other places, and he had lost his heritage. The things which delighted him, the longjourneys, the faces of strange countries, the camp-fire, a mere spark ofred light amidst black and empty silence, the hours of sleep in the openunder bright stars, the cool night wind of the desert, and the work ofgovernment--all these things he had lost. Only one thing remained tohim--herself, and only, as she knew very well, herself so long as hecould believe she wanted him. And while she was still occupied with herresolve, the cab for which she waited stopped unnoticed at the door. Itwas not until Durrance's servant had actually rung the bell that herattention 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 beeninquisitive; he took his friends as he found them; he put them under nomicroscope. It would have been easy at any time, Ethne reflected, toquiet his suspicions, should he have ever come to entertain any. But_now_ it would be easier than ever. There was no reason forapprehension. Thus she argued, but in spite of the argument she rathernerved herself to an encounter than went forward to welcome herbetrothed. 

Mrs. Adair slipped out of the room, so that Ethne was alone whenDurrance entered at the door. She did not move immediately; she retainedher attitude and position, expecting that the change in him would forthe first moment shock her. But she was surprised; for the particularchanges which she had expected were noticeable only through theirabsence. His face was worn, no doubt, his hair had gone grey, but therewas no air of helplessness or uncertainty, and it was that which for hisown sake she most dreaded. He walked forward into the room as though hiseyes saw; his memory seemed to tell him exactly where each piece of thefurniture stood. The most that he did was once or twice to put out ahand where he expected a chair. 

Ethne drew silently back into the window rather at a loss with whatwords to greet him, and immediately he smiled and came straight towardsher. 

"Ethne, " he said. 

"It isn't true, then, " she exclaimed. "You have recovered. " The wordswere forced from her by the readiness of his movement. 

"It is quite true, and I have not recovered, " he answered. "But youmoved 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 suddenlylouder, 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 acouple meeting on the first occasion after they have become engaged, butthey served to hinder embarrassment. Ethne shrank from any perfunctoryexpression of regret, knowing that there was no need for it, andDurrance had no wish to hear it. For there were many things which thesetwo understood each other well enough to take as said. They did no morethan shake hands when they had spoken, and Ethne moved back into theroom. 

"I will give you some tea, " she said, "then we can talk. "

"Yes, we must have a talk, mustn't we?" Durrance answered seriously. Hethrew off his serious air, however, and chatted with good humour aboutthe details of his journey home. He even found a subject of amusement inhis sense of helplessness during the first days of his blindness; andEthne's apprehensions rapidly diminished. They had indeed almostvanished from her mind when something in his attitude suddenly broughtthem back. 

"I wrote to you from Wadi Halfa, " he said. "I don't know whether youcould read the letter. "

"Quite well, " said Ethne. 

"I got a friend of mine to hold the paper and tell me when I was writingon 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 shockthat he had set a trap to catch her. The curious stillness of his faceseemed to tell her that he was listening with an extreme intentness forsome start, perhaps even a checked exclamation, which would betray thatshe knew something of Calder of the Sappers. Did he suspect, she askedherself? Did he know of the telegram? Did he guess that her letter wassent out of pity? She looked into Durrance's face, and it told hernothing except that it was very alert. In the old days, a year ago, theexpression of his eyes would have answered her quite certainly, howeverclose he held his tongue. 

"I could read the letter without difficulty, " she answered gently. "Itwas 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 noword 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 hisface whether he accepted or questioned her answer; and again sherealised that a year ago while he had his sight she would have been inno doubt. 

"Yes, I know you. You would take nothing back, " he said at length. "Butthere is my point of view. "

Ethne looked at him with apprehension. 

"Yes?" she replied, and she strove to speak with unconcern. "Will youtell me it?"

Durrance assented, and began in the deliberate voice of a man who hasthought 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 egotismunless one is perpetually on one's guard. And will one be perpetually onone'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 Iwere a writer, I could still dictate. If I were a business man, I couldconduct my business. But I am a soldier, and not a clever soldier. Jealousy, a continual and irritable curiosity--there is no Paul Pry likeyour blind man--a querulous claim upon your attention--these are myspecial dangers. " And Ethne laughed gently in contradiction of hisargument. 

"Well, perhaps one may hold them off, " he acknowledged, "but they are tobe considered. I have considered them. I am not speaking to you withoutthought. I have pondered and puzzled over the whole matter night afternight since I got your letter, wondering what I should do. You know howgladly, with what gratitude, I would have answered you, 'Yes, let themarriage go on, ' if I dared. If I dared! But I think--don't you?--that agreat trouble rather clears one's wits. I used to lie awake at Cairo andthink; and the unimportant trivial considerations gradually droppedaway; 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 gonethrough just such an experience herself. It might have been herself, andnot Durrance, who was speaking. She looked up at him, and for the firsttime began to understand that after all she and he might have much incommon. 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. Marriagebetween a man crippled like myself, whose life is done, and a woman likeyou, active and young, whose life is in its flower, would be quite wrongunless each brought to it much more than friendship. It would be quitewrong 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 Ethnefelt that it was the intonation to which he listened rather than thewords. His very attitude of concentration showed her that. She began towonder whether it would be so easy after all to quiet his suspicions nowthat he was blind; she began to realise that it might possibly on thatvery account be all the more difficult. 

"Then do you bring more than friendship?" he asked suddenly. "You willbe very honest, I know. Tell me. "

Ethne was in a quandary. She knew that she must answer, and at once andwithout ambiguity. In addition, she must answer honestly. 

"There is nothing, " she replied, and as firmly as before, "nothing inthe 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 ofthe conversation which had passed between Harry Feversham and LieutenantSutch in the grill-room of the Criterion Restaurant; she knew nothing ofHarry's plans; she had not heard of the Gordon letters recovered fromthe mud-wall of a ruined house in the city of the Dervishes on the Nilebank. Harry Feversham had, so far as she knew and meant, gone forevercompletely out of her life. Therefore her wish was an honest one. But itwas not an exact answer to Durrance's question, and she hoped that againhe would listen to the intonation, rather than to the words. However, heseemed content with it. 

"Thank you, Ethne, " he said, and he took her hand and shook it. His facesmiled at her. He asked no other questions. There was not a doubt, shethought; his suspicions were quieted; he was quite content. And uponthat Mrs. Adair came with discretion into the room. 

She had the tact to greet Durrance as one who suffered under nodisadvantage, and she spoke as though she had seen him only the weekbefore. 

"I suppose Ethne has told you of our plan, " she said, as she took hertea 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 toGuessens in Devonshire. I am your neighbour--a couple of fields separateus, that's all. So Ethne will stay with me during the interval beforeyou are married. "

"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Adair, " Durrance exclaimed; "because, ofcourse, 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 gooddeal 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 benecessary to go so far. I expect that I shall be able to stay atGuessens and come up to London when it is necessary. Thank you verymuch, Mrs. Adair. It is a good plan. " And he added slowly, "From mypoint of view there could be no better. "

Ethne watched Durrance drive away with his servant to his old rooms inSt. James's Street, and stood by the window after he had gone, in muchthe same attitude and absorption as that which had characterised herbefore he had come. Outside in the street the carriages were now comingback from the park, and there was just one other change. Ethne'sapprehensions had taken a more definite shape. 

She believed that suspicion was quieted in Durrance for to-day, at allevents. She had not heard his conversation with Calder in Cairo. She didnot know that he believed there was no cure which could restore him tosight. She had no remotest notion that the possibility of a remedy mightbe a mere excuse. But none the less she was uneasy. Durrance had grownmore acute. Not only his senses had been sharpened, --that, indeed, wasto be expected, --but trouble and thought had sharpened his mind as well. It had become more penetrating. She felt that she was entering upon anencounter of wits, and she had a fear lest she should be worsted. "Twolives shall not be spoilt because of me, " she repeated, but it was aprayer now, rather than a resolve. For one thing she recognised quitesurely: 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, andonce at all events they found expression on her lips. 

"I am afraid, " she said, one morning, as she stood in the sunlight at anopen 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 inLondon?"

"No, " Ethne answered slowly, "not of that. For he is at this momentcrossing the lawn towards us. "

Again Mrs. Adair smiled, but she did not raise her head from the bookwhich she was reading, so that it might have been some passage in thebook which so amused and pleased her. 

"I thought so, " she said, but in so low a voice that the words barelyreached Ethne's ears. They did not penetrate to her mind, for as shelooked across the stone-flagged terrace and down the broad shallowflight 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 itnow no importance in her thoughts. 

"Would he travel up to town so often to see his oculist if he hadnone?" she asked in reply. "Of course he hopes. "

"I am afraid, " said Ethne, and she turned with a sudden movement towardsher 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 whatyou do, to fill out your sentences, to make your movements thecommentary of your words? Laura, haven't you noticed? At times I thinkthe very corners of my mind are revealed to him. He reads me like achild's lesson book. "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Adair, "you are at a disadvantage. You no longer haveyour 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'sface with its bright colour and her steady, frank, grey eyes visiblebefore him, he could hardly weigh her intervals of silence and hermovements against her spoken words with the detachment which was nowpossible to him. On the other hand, whereas before she had never beentroubled by a doubt as to what he meant or wished, or intended, now shewas often in the dark. Durrance's blindness, in a word, had produced aneffect entirely opposite to that which might have been expected. It hadreversed their positions. 

Mrs. Adair, however, was more interested in Ethne's unusual burst ofconfidence. There was no doubt of it, she reflected. The girl, onceremarkable for a quiet frankness of word and look, was declining into acreature of shifts and agitation. 

"There is something, then, to be concealed from him?" she askedquietly. 

"Yes. "

"Something rather important?"

"Something which at all costs I must conceal, " Ethne exclaimed, and wasnot sure, even while she spoke, that Durrance had not already found itout. She stepped over the threshold of the window on to the terrace. Infront of her the lawn stretched to a hedge; on the far side of thathedge a couple of grass fields lifted and fell in gentle undulations;and beyond the fields she could see amongst a cluster of trees the smokefrom the chimneys of Colonel Durrance's house. She stood for a littlewhile hesitating upon the terrace. On the left the lawn ran down to aline of tall beeches and oaks which fringed the creek. But a broad spacehad been cleared to make a gap upon the bank, so that Ethne could seethe sunlight on the water and the wooded slope on the farther side, anda sailing-boat some way down the creek tacking slowly against the lightwind. Ethne looked about her, as though she was summoning her resources, and even composing her sentences ready for delivery to the man who waswalking steadily towards her across the lawn. If there was hesitationupon her part, there was none at all, she noticed, on the part of theblind man. It seemed that Durrance's eyes took in the path which hisfeet trod, and with the stick which he carried in his hand he switchedat the blades of grass like one that carries it from habit rather thanfor any use. Ethne descended the steps and advanced to meet him. Shewalked slowly, as if to a difficult encounter. 

But there was another who only waited an opportunity to engage in itwith eagerness. For as Ethne descended the steps Mrs. Adair suddenlydropped the book which she had pretended to resume and ran towards thewindow. 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 inher 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 hertone, contempt for Ethne Eustace, the woman of the open air who wasafraid, who shrank from marriage with a blind man, and dreaded therestraint upon her freedom. It was that shrinking which Ethne had toconceal--Mrs. Adair had no doubt of it. "For my part, I am glad, " shesaid, and she was--fiercely glad that blindness had disabled Durrance. For if her opportunity ever came, as it seemed to her now more and morelikely to come, blindness reserved him to her, as no man was everreserved to any woman. So jealous was she of his every word and lookthat his dependence upon her would be the extreme of pleasure. Shewatched Ethne and Durrance meet on the lawn at the foot of the terracesteps. She saw them turn and walk side by side across the grass towardsthe creek. She noticed that Ethne seemed to plead, and in her heart shelonged to overhear. 

And Ethne was pleading. 

"You saw your oculist yesterday?" she asked quickly, as soon as theymet. "Well, what did he say?"

Durrance shrugged his shoulders. 

"That one must wait. Only time can show whether a cure is possible ornot, " he answered, and Ethne bent forward a little and scrutinised hisface 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 thereuponhe asked her suddenly a question of which she did not see the drift. "Itwas Mrs. Adair, I imagine, who proposed this plan that I should comehome to Guessens and that you should stay with her here across thefields?"

Ethne was puzzled by the question, but she answered it directly andtruthfully. "I was in great distress when I heard of your accident. Iwas so distressed that at the first I could not think what to do. I cameto 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 pleadingrang in her voice. She was asking Durrance to confirm her words, and heunderstood 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 whilefrom 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 asentence which Harry Feversham--" He spoke the name quite carelessly, but paused just for a moment after he had spoken it. No expression uponhis face showed that he had any intention in so pausing, but Ethnesuspected one. He was listening, she suspected, for some movement ofuneasiness, perhaps of pain, into which she might possibly be betrayed. But she made no movement. "A sentence which Harry Feversham spoke a longwhile since, " he continued, "in London just before I left London forEgypt. He was speaking of you, and he said: 'She is of her country andmore of her county. I do not think she could be happy in any place whichwas not within reach of Donegal. ' And when I remember that, it seemsrather selfish that I should claim to keep you here at so much cost toyou. "

"I was not thinking of that, " Ethne exclaimed, "when I asked why we mustwait. That makes me out most selfish. I was merely wondering why youpreferred to wait, why you insist upon it. For, of course, although onehopes 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 timeDurrance did not confirm her words, and she repeated them with a greateremphasis, "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 ofHarry Feversham. There is something which I want you to tell me. Yousaid a long time ago at Glenalla that you might one day bring yourselfto tell it me, and I should rather like to know now. You see, HarryFeversham was my friend. I want you to tell me what happened that nightat Lennon House to break off your engagement, to send him away anoutcast. "

Ethne was silent for a while, and then she said gently: "I would rathernot. 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 toanswer, and I don't want, of course, to cause you pain. "

"It's not on that account that I wish to say nothing, " Ethne explainedearnestly. She paused and chose her words. "It isn't that I am afraid ofany pain. But what took place, took place such a long while ago--I lookupon Mr. Feversham as a man whom one has known well, and who is nowdead. "

They were walking toward the wide gap in the line of trees upon the bankof 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 creekwhile 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 grassbank of the garden, and upon the bank itself a man was standing andstaring 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 hadlost his way. I will go on and put him right. "

She ran forward as she spoke, seizing upon that stranger's presence as ameans of relief, even if the relief was only to last for a minute. Suchrelief might be felt, she imagined, by a witness in a court when thejudge rises for his half-hour at luncheon-time. For the close of aninterview with Durrance left her continually with the sense that she hadjust stepped down from a witness-box where she had been subjected to across-examination so deft that she could not quite clearly perceive itstendency, although from the beginning she suspected it. 

The stranger at the same time advanced to her. He was a man of themiddle size, with a short snub nose, a pair of vacuous protruding browneyes, and a moustache of some ferocity. He lifted his hat from his headand disclosed a round forehead which was going bald. 

"I have sailed down from Kingsbridge, " he said, "but I have never beenin this part of the world before. Can you tell me if this house iscalled The Pool?"

"Yes; you will find Mrs. Adair if you go up the steps on to theterrace, " 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 wayto 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 putto this trouble?"

Again the stranger curled a moustache. Again his eyes dwelt vacantlyupon 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 amCaptain Willoughby. "

Ethne drew sharply back; the bright colour paled in her cheeks; her lipsset in a firm line, and her eyes grew very hard. She glowered at himsilently. 

Captain Willoughby was not in the least degree discomposed. He took histime to speak, and when he did it was rather with the air of a manforgiving a breach of manners, than of one making his excuses. 

"I can quite understand that you do not welcome me, Miss Eustace, butnone of us could foresee that you would be present when the three whitefeathers 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 heartmade vocal. It startled Ethne as much as it surprised CaptainWilloughby. She had schooled herself to omit Harry Feversham from herthoughts, and to obliterate him from her affections, and the cry showedto her how incompletely she had succeeded. Only a few minutes since shehad spoken of him as one whom she looked upon as dead, and she hadbelieved that she spoke the truth. 

"You have actually seen him?" she repeated in a wondering voice. Shegazed at her stolid companion with envy. "You have spoken to him? And heto 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 correctanswer; she was not, indeed, sufficiently mistress of herself tospeculate upon any answer, but she dreaded it, whatever it might be. 

"Yes, " she said slowly, and almost reluctantly. "After all, why are youhere?"

Willoughby took a letter-case from his breast, opened it withdeliberation, and shook out from one of its pockets into the palm of hishand 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, weresent to Feversham by three separate men. This is actually one of thosefeathers which were forwarded from his lodgings to Ramelton five yearsago. I am one of the three men who sent them. I have come to tell youthat 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 andfragile and yet so momentous as a symbol, and the trees and the gardenbegan to whirl suddenly about her. She was aware that Captain Willoughbywas speaking, but his voice had grown extraordinarily distant and thin;so that she was annoyed, since she wished very much to hear all that hehad 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 shenever would forgive, helped her to command herself. She would give noexhibition of weakness before any one of the detested three, and with aneffort 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 shockto me. Even now I do not quite understand. "

She led the way from that open space to a little plot of grass above thecreek. On three sides thick hedges enclosed it, at the back rose thetall elms and poplars, in front the water flashed and broke in ripples, and beyond the water the trees rose again and were overtopped by slopingmeadows. A gap in the hedge made an entrance into this enclosure, and agarden-seat stood in the centre of the grass. 

"Now, " said Ethne, and she motioned to Captain Willoughby to take a seatat 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 HarryFeversham 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 onepang of remorse that she had been unjust. Remorse, no doubt, would comeafterwards. At present the mere knowledge that she had been unjust wastoo great a happiness to admit of abatement. She opened her hand andlooked at the feather. And as she looked, memories sternly repressed forso long, regrets which she had thought stifled quite out of life, longings which had grown strange, filled all her thoughts. TheDevonshire 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 duringa spring five years ago, before the feathers came to Ramelton. 

Willoughby began to tell his story, and almost at once even the memoryof that season vanished. 

Ethne was in the most English of counties, the county of Plymouth andDartmouth and Brixham and the Start, where the red cliffs of itscoast-line speak perpetually of dead centuries, so that one cannot putinto any harbour without some thought of the Spanish Main and of thelittle barques and pinnaces which adventured manfully out on their longvoyages with the tide. Up this very creek the clink of theship-builders' hammers had rung, and the soil upon its banks wasvigorous with the memories of British sailors. But Ethne had no thoughtfor these associations. The country-side was a shifting mist before hereyes, which now and then let through a glimpse of that strange widecountry in the East, of which Durrance had so often told her. The onlytrees which she saw were the stunted mimosas of the desert; the only seathe great stretches of yellow sand; the only cliffs the sharp-peakedpyramidal black rocks rising abruptly from its surface. It was part ofthe irony of her position that she was able so much more completely toappreciate the trials which one lover of hers had undergone through theconfidences 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 seatbeside her, and he had barely spoken a score of words before she brokethat promise. 

"I am Deputy-Governor of Suakin, " he began. "My chief was on leave inMay. You are fortunate enough not to know Suakin, Miss Eustace, particularly in May. No white woman can live in that town. It has asodden 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 theverandah on the first floor of the palace about ten o'clock at night, looking out over the harbour and the distillation works, and wonderingwhether it was worth while to go to bed at all, when a servant told methat 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 wasclose 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, Isuppose, who have been a year or two in the Soudan, a trifle overtrainedand that sort of thing. "

"Never mind, " said Ethne, with a sigh of disappointment. For five yearsshe had heard no word of Harry Feversham. She fairly hungered for newsof him, for the sound of his habitual phrases, for the description ofhis familiar gestures. She had the woman's anxiety for his bodilyhealth, 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 thathowever 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 notsent in his name. 'You would not have seen me if I had, ' he replied, andhe drew a packet of letters out of his pocket. Now, those letters, MissEustace, 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 afterthey reached Berber, that town surrendered to the Mahdists. Abou Fatma, the messenger who carried them, hid them in the wall of the house of anArab called Yusef, who sold rock-salt in the market-place. Abou was thenthrown into prison on suspicion, and escaped to Suakin. The lettersremained hidden in that wall until Feversham recovered them. I lookedover them and saw that they were of no value, and I asked Fevershambluntly why he, who had not dared to accompany his regiment on activeservice, had risked death and torture to get them back. "

Standing upon that verandah, with the quiet pool of water in front ofhim, Feversham had told his story quietly and without exaggeration. Hehad related how he had fallen in with Abou Fatma at Suakin, how he hadplanned the recovery of the letters, how the two men had travelledtogether as far as Obak, and since Abou Fatma dared not go farther, howhe himself, driving his grey donkey, had gone on alone to Berber. He hadnot even concealed that access of panic which had loosened his jointswhen first he saw the low brown walls of the town and the towering datepalms behind on the bank of the Nile; which had set him running andleaping across the empty desert in the sunlight, a marrowless thing offear. He made, however, one omission. He said nothing of the hours whichhe had spent crouching upon the hot sand, with his coat drawn over hishead, while he drew a woman's face toward him across the continents andseas 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 CaptainWilloughby, 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 theEmir, and that a new one was building upon its southern confines, "continued Willoughby. "All the landmarks by which Feversham was to knowthe house in which the letters were hidden had gone. The roofs had beentorn off, the houses dismantled, the front walls carried away. Narrowalleys of crumbling fives-courts--that was how Feversham described theplace--crossing this way and that and gaping to the stars. Here andthere 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 hadonce sold rock-salt in the market-place, had stood, there was no hope inthose acres of crumbling mud. The foxes had already made their burrowsthere. "

The smile faded from Ethne's face, but she looked again at the whitefeather lying in her palm, and she laughed with a great contentment. Itwas yellow with the desert dust. It was a proof that in this story therewas to be no word of failure. 

"Go on, " she said. 

Willoughby related the despatch of the negro with the donkey to AbouFatma at the Wells of Obak. 

"Feversham stayed for a fortnight in Berber, " Willoughby continued. "Aweek during which he came every morning to the well and waited for thereturn of his negro from Obak, and a week during which that negrosearched for Yusef, who had once sold rock-salt in the market-place. Idoubt, Miss Eustace, if you can realise, however hard you try, what thatfortnight must have meant to Feversham--the anxiety, the danger, thecontinued expectation that a voice would bid him halt and a hand fallupon his shoulder, the urgent knowledge that if the hand fell, deathwould be the least part of his penalty. I imagine the town--a town oflow houses and broad streets of sand, dug here and there into pits formud wherewith to build the houses, and overhead the blistering sun anda hot shadowless sky. In no corner was there any darkness orconcealment. And all day a crowd jostled and shouted up and down thesestreets--for that is the Mahdist policy to crowd the towns so that allmay be watched and every other man may be his neighbour's spy. Fevershamdared not seek the shelter of a roof at night, for he dared not trusthis tongue. He could buy his food each day at the booths, but he wasafraid of any conversation. He slept at night in some corner of the olddeserted town, in the acres of the ruined fives-courts. For the samereason he must not slink in the by-ways by day lest any should questionhim about his business; nor listen on the chance of hearing Yusef's namein the public places lest other loiterers should joke with him and drawhim into their talk. Nor dare he in the daylight prowl about thosecrumbled ruins. From sunrise to sunset he must go quickly up and downthe streets of the town like a man bent upon urgent business whichpermits of no delay. And that continued for a fortnight, Miss Eustace! Aweary, trying life, don't you think? I wish I could tell you of it asvividly as he told me that night upon the balcony of the palace atSuakin. "

Ethne wished it too with all her heart. Harry Feversham had made hisstory very real that night to Captain Willoughby; so that even after thelapse of fifteen months this unimaginative creature was sensible of acontrast and a deficiency in his manner of narration. 

"In front of us was the quiet harbour and the Red Sea, above us theAfrican stars. Feversham spoke in the quietest manner possible, but witha peculiar deliberation and with his eyes fixed upon my face, as thoughhe was forcing me to feel with him and to understand. Even when helighted his cigar he did not avert his eyes. For by this time I hadgiven 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 withone of his equals, or indeed with any of his countrymen on a footing ofequality. He told me so. I wish I could remember all that he told me. "Willoughby stopped and cudgelled his brains helplessly. He gave up theeffort in the end. 

"Well, " he resumed, "after Feversham had skulked for a fortnight inBerber, the negro discovered Yusef, no longer selling salt, but tendinga small plantation of dhurra on the river's edge. From Yusef, Fevershamobtained particulars enough to guide him to the house where the letterswere concealed in the inner wall. But Yusef was no longer to be trusted. Possibly Feversham's accent betrayed him. The more likely conjecture isthat Yusef took Feversham for a spy, and thought it wise to bebeforehand and to confess to Mohammed-el-Kheir, the Emir, his own sharein the concealment of the letters. That, however, is a mere conjecture. The important fact is this. On the same night Feversham went alone toold 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 wallstill stood. Three feet from the floor and two feet from the right-handcorner the letters were hidden in that inner wall. Feversham dug intothe mud bricks with his knife; he made a hole wherein he could slip hishand. The wall was thick; he dug deep, stopping now and again to feelfor the packet. At last his fingers clasped and drew it out; as he hidit in a fold of his jibbeh, the light of a lantern shone upon him frombehind. "

Ethne started as though she had been trapped herself. Those acres ofroofless fives-courts, with here and there a tower showing up againstthe sky, the lonely alleys, the dead silence here beneath the stars, thecries and the beating of drums and the glare of lights from the newtown, Harry Feversham alone with the letters, with, in a word, someportion of his honour redeemed, and finally, the lantern flashing uponhim in that solitary place, --the scene itself and the progress of theincidents were so visible to Ethne at that moment that even with thefeather in her open palm she could hardly bring herself to believe thatHarry Feversham had escaped. 

"Well, well?" she asked. 

"He was standing with his face to the wall, the light came from thealley behind him. He did not turn, but out of the corner of his eye hecould see a fold of a white robe hanging motionless. He carefullysecured the package, with a care indeed and a composure which astonishedhim even at that moment. The shock had strung him to a concentration andlucidity of thought unknown to him till then. His fingers weretrembling, he remarked, as he tied the knots, but it was withexcitement, and an excitement which did not flurry. His mind workedrapidly, but quite coolly, quite deliberately. He came to a perfectlydefinite conclusion as to what he must do. Every faculty which hepossessed was extraordinarily clear, and at the same timeextraordinarily still. He had his knife in his hand, he faced aboutsuddenly and ran. There were two men waiting. Feversham ran at the manwho held the lantern. He was aware of the point of a spear, he duckedand beat it aside with his left arm, he leaped forward and struck withhis right. The Arab fell at his feet; the lantern was extinguished. Feversham sprang across the white-robed body and ran eastward, towardthe open desert. But in no panic; he had never been so collected. He wasfollowed by the second soldier. He had foreseen that he would befollowed. If he was to escape, it was indeed necessary that he shouldbe. He turned a corner, crouched behind a wall, and as the Arab camerunning by he leaped out upon his shoulders. And again as he leaped hestruck. "

Captain Willoughby stopped at this point of his story and turned towardsEthne. He had something to say which perplexed and at the same timeimpressed 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? Fromthe first moment when the lantern shone upon him from behind, to thelast when he turned his feet eastward, and ran through the ruined alleysand broken walls toward the desert and the Wells of Obak, he felt nofear. "

This was the most mysterious part of Harry Feversham's story to CaptainWilloughby. Here was a man who so shrank from the possibilities ofbattle, that he must actually send in his papers rather than confrontthem; 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 greatbitterness of spirit. He had sat on the verandah at Suakin, whittlingaway at the edge of Captain Willoughby's table with the very knife whichhe had used in Berber to dig out the letters, and which had proved sohandy a weapon when the lantern shone out behind him--the one glimmeringpoint of light in that vast acreage of ruin. Harry Feversham had kept itcarefully uncleansed of blood; he had treasured it all through hisflight across the two hundred and forty odd miles of desert into Suakin;it was, next to the white feathers, the thing which he held mostprecious of his possessions, and not merely because it would serve as acorroboration of his story to Captain Willoughby, but because the weaponenabled him to believe and realise it himself. A brown clotted rustdulled the whole length of the blade, and often during the first twodays and nights of his flight, when he travelled alone, hiding andrunning and hiding again, with the dread of pursuit always at his heels, he had taken the knife from his breast, and stared at it withincredulous 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 thesecond day, and had wandered vainly, with his small store of dates andwater exhausted, until he had stumbled and lay prone, parched andfamished and enfeebled, with the bitter knowledge that Abou Fatma andthe Wells were somewhere within a mile of the spot on which he lay. Buteven at that moment of exhaustion the knife had been a talisman and ahelp. He grasped the rough wooden handle, all too small for a Westernhand, and he ran his fingers over the rough rust upon the blade, and theweapon spoke to him and bade him take heart, since once he had been putto the test and had not failed. But long before he saw the white housesof Suakin that feeling of elation vanished, and the knife became anemblem of the vain tortures of his boyhood and the miserable folly whichculminated in his resignation of his commission. He understood now thewords which Lieutenant Sutch had spoken in the grill-room of theCriterion Restaurant, when citing Hamlet as his example, "The thingwhich he saw, which he thought over, which he imagined in the act and inthe consequence--that he shrank from. Yet when the moment of actioncomes sharp and immediate, does he fail?" And remembering the words, Harry Feversham sat one May night, four years afterwards, in CaptainWilloughby's verandah, whittling away at the table with his knife, andsaying over and over again in a bitter savage voice: "It was anillusion, but an illusion which has caused a great deal of suffering toa 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 Fevershamcould have understood, or than Ethne had. But Willoughby could at allevents remember and repeat, and Ethne had grown by five years ofunhappiness since the night when Harry Feversham, in the little roomoff the hall at Lennon House, had told her of his upbringing, of theloss of his mother, and the impassable gulf between his father andhimself, and of the fear of disgrace which had haunted his nights anddisfigured the world for him by day. 

"Yes, it was an illusion, " she cried. "I understand. I might haveunderstood a long while since, but I would not. When those feathers camehe told me why they were sent, quite simply, with his eyes on mine. Whenmy 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 hisconfession no less unflinchingly to the old general. But Ethne knewenough. "It was the possibility of cowardice from which he shrank, notthe possibility of hurt, " she exclaimed. "If only one had been a littleolder, a little less sure about things, a little less narrow! I shouldhave listened. I should have understood. At all events, I should not, Ithink, have been cruel. "

Not for the first time did remorse for that fourth feather which she hadadded to the three, seize upon her. She sat now crushed by it intosilence. Captain Willoughby, however, was a stubborn man, unwilling uponany occasion to admit an error. He saw that Ethne's remorse byimplication condemned himself, and that he was not prepared to suffer. 

"Yes, but these fine distinctions are a little too elusive for practicalpurposes, " he said. "You can't run the world on fine distinctions; so Icannot 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 forself-reproach. "

Ethne did not consider what he precisely meant by the last reference toherself. For as he leaned complacently back in his seat, anger againsthim flamed suddenly hot in her. Occupied by his story, she had ceased totake stock of the story-teller. Now that he had ended, she looked himover from head to foot. An obstinate stupidity was the mark of the manto 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 recollectedthat she herself had endorsed his judgment. Shame tingled through allher blood; she sat with her lips set, keeping Willoughby under watchfrom the corners of her eyes, and waiting to pounce savagely the momenthe opened his lips. There had been noticeable throughout his narrative amanner of condescension towards Feversham. "Let him use it again!"thought Ethne. But Captain Willoughby said nothing at all, and Ethneherself broke the silence. "Who of you three first thought of sendingthe feathers?" she asked aggressively. "Not you?"

"No; I think it was Trench, " he replied. 

"Ah, Trench!" Ethne exclaimed. She struck one clenched hand, the handwhich held the feather, viciously into the palm of the other. "I willremember that name. "

"But I share his responsibility, " Willoughby assured her. "I do notshrink from it at all. I regret very much that we caused you pain andannoyance, but I do not acknowledge to any mistake in this matter. Itake my feather back now, and I annul my accusation. But that is yourdoing. "

"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 ofwomen and their great quality of forgiveness. You gave the feathers backto Feversham in order that he might redeem his honour. That is evident. "

Ethne sprang to her feet before Captain Willoughby had come to the endof his sentence, and stood a little in front of him, with her faceaverted, and in an attitude remarkably still. Willoughby in hisignorance, like many another stupid man before him, had struck with ashrewdness and a vigour which he could never have compassed by the useof his wits. He had pointed out abruptly and suddenly to Ethne a waywhich she might have taken and had not, and her remorse warned her veryclearly that it was the way which she ought to have taken. But she couldrise to the heights. She did not seek to justify herself in her owneyes, nor would she allow Willoughby to continue in his misconception. She recognised that here she had failed in charity and justice, and shewas glad that she had failed, since her failure had been the opportunityof greatness to Harry Feversham. 

"Will you repeat what you said?" she asked in a low voice; "and ever soslowly, 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 hissubsequent bravery compel the men who sent them to take them back, andso 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--itwas not likely to occur. As things happened, Feversham still waited forthree years in the bazaar at Suakin before it did. No, Miss Eustace, itneeded a woman's faith to conceive that plan--a woman's encouragement tokeep 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, togive an unimagined benignance to her eyes, an unearthly brightness tothe smile upon her lips and the colour upon her cheeks. So thatWilloughby, 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. "Theplan was of his devising from first to last. Nor did I encourage him toits execution. For until to-day I never heard a word of it. Since thenight 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 becausethey were his, and I wished to show him that I agreed with theaccusations of which they were the symbols. That seems cruel? But I didmore. I snapped a fourth white feather from my fan and gave him that tocarry away too. It is only fair that you should know. I wanted to makean end for ever and ever, not only of my acquaintanceship with him, butof every kindly thought he might keep of me, of every kindly thought Imight keep of him. I wanted to be sure myself, and I wanted him to besure, that we should always be strangers now and--and afterwards, " andthe last words she spoke in a whisper. Captain Willoughby did notunderstand what she meant by them. It is possible that only LieutenantSutch 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 havenever at any minute during these five years quite forgotten that fourthwhite feather and the quiet air of dignity with which he took it. Butto-day I am glad. " And her voice, though low, rang rich with the fulnessof her pride. "Oh, very glad! For this was his thought, his deed. Theyare both all his, as I would have them be. I had no share, and of that Iam very proud. He needed no woman's faith, no woman's encouragement. "

"Yet he sent this back to you, " said Willoughby, pointing in someperplexity to the feather which Ethne held. 

"Yes, " she said, "yes. He knew that I should be glad to know. " Andsuddenly she held it close to her breast. Thus she sat for a while withher eyes shining, until Willoughby rose to his feet and pointed to thegap 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 enteringor going out. 

CHAPTER XVI

CAPTAIN WILLOUGHBY RETIRES

Ethne had entirely forgotten even Colonel Durrance's existence. From themoment when Captain Willoughby had put that little soiled feather whichhad once been white, and was now yellow, into her hand, she had had nothought for any one but Harry Feversham. She had carried Willoughby intothat enclosure, and his story had absorbed her and kept her memory onthe rack, as she filled out with this or that recollected detail ofHarry's gestures, or voice, or looks, the deficiencies in hercompanion's narrative. She had been swept away from that August gardenof sunlight and coloured flowers; and those five most weary years, during which she had held her head high and greeted the world with asmile of courage, were blotted from her experience. How weary they hadbeen perhaps she never knew, until she raised her head and saw Durranceat the entrance in the hedge. 

"Hush!" she said to Willoughby, and her face paled and her eyes shuttight for a moment with a spasm of pain. But she had no time to sparefor any indulgence of her feelings. Her few minutes' talk with CaptainWilloughby had been a holiday, but the holiday was over. She must takeup again the responsibilities with which those five years had chargedher, and at once. If she could not accomplish that hard task offorgetting--and she now knew very well that she never would accomplishit--she must do the next best thing, and give no sign that she had notforgotten. Durrance must continue to believe that she brought more thanfriendship into the marriage account. 

He stood at the very entrance to the enclosure; he advanced into it. Hewas so quick to guess, it was not wise that he should meet CaptainWilloughby or even know of his coming. Ethne looked about her for anescape, knowing very well that she would look in vain. The creek was infront of them, and three walls of high thick hedge girt them in behindand at the sides. There was but one entrance to this enclosure, andDurrance 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 hehad 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 canI say to him?"

"Say nothing!"

Durrance was still standing just within the enclosure, and, as itseemed, looking straight towards the two people seated on the bench. 

"Ethne, " he said, rather than called; and the quiet unquestioning voicemade 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 ofdoubt. 

"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, shecaught his arm tight in her hand. Willoughby did not pursue hisinquiries. Ethne's manner constrained him to silence. She sat verystill, 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 agreat fear in her eyes; her face was strained forward, and not a muscleof it moved, so that Willoughby, as he looked at her, was conscious of acertain excitement, which grew on him for no reason but her remarkableapprehension. He began unaccountably himself to fear lest he and sheshould be discovered. 

"He is coming towards us, " he whispered. 

"Not a word, not a movement. "

"Ethne, " Durrance cried again. He advanced farther into the enclosureand towards the seat. Ethne and Captain Willoughby sat rigid, watchinghim with their eyes. He passed in front of the bench, and stoppedactually facing them. Surely, thought Willoughby, he sees. His eyes wereupon them; he stood easily, as though he were about to speak. EvenEthne, though she very well knew that he did not see, began to doubt herknowledge. 

"Ethne!" he said again, and this time in the quiet voice which he hadfirst used. But since again no answer came, he shrugged his shouldersand turned towards the creek. His back was towards them now, but Ethne'sexperience had taught her to appreciate almost indefinable signs in hisbearing, since nowadays his face showed her so little. Something in hisattitude, in the poise of his head, even in the carelessness with whichhe swung his stick, told her that he was listening, and listening withall his might. Her grasp tightened on Willoughby's arm. Thus theyremained for the space of a minute, and then Durrance turned suddenlyand took a quick step towards the seat. Ethne, however, by this timeknew the man and his ingenuities; she was prepared for some suchunexpected movement. She did not stir, there was not audible the merestrustle of her skirt, and her grip still constrained Willoughby. 

"I wonder where in the world she can be, " said Durrance to himselfaloud, and he walked back and out of the enclosure. Ethne did not freeCaptain Willoughby's arm until Durrance had disappeared from sight. 

"That was a close shave, " Willoughby said, when at last he was allowedto speak. "Suppose that Durrance had sat down on the top of us?"

"Why suppose, since he did not?" Ethne asked calmly. "You have told meeverything?"

"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 featherto me last summer?"

"Last year my leave was short. I spent it in the hills north of Suakinafter 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 hisgood news instead of shooting ibex on Jebel Araft, it would have madeall the difference in her life, and the cry was loud at her heart, "Whydidn't you come?" But outwardly she gave no sign of the irreparable harmwhich Willoughby's delay had brought about. She had the self-command ofa woman who has been sorely tried, and she spoke so unconcernedly thatWilloughby 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 beena long and difficult matter to explain in a letter. He asked me to go toyou when I had an opportunity, and I had no opportunity before. To tellthe truth, I thought it very likely that I might find Feversham had comeback before me. "

"Oh, no, " returned Ethne, "there could be no possibility of that. Theother two feathers still remain to be redeemed before he will ask me totake back mine. "

Willoughby shook his head. "Feversham can never persuade Castleton andTrench 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 hisears. But her face showed him quite clearly that she was thoroughlypleased. Ethne was a Celt, and she had the Celtic feeling that death wasnot a very important matter. She could hate, too, and she could be hardas 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, butshe did not trouble her head about that. She was very glad to hear thatMajor 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 worseoff than that. He was captured when engaged on a reconnaissance. He isnow a prisoner in Omdurman. "

"Ah!" said Ethne. 

"I don't think you can have any idea, " said Willoughby, severely, "ofwhat captivity in Omdurman implies. If you had, however much youdisliked 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. Iwant you to tell me one thing first, " said she, as she rose from herseat. "What became of Mr. Feversham after he had given you thatfeather?"

"I told him that he had done everything which could be reasonablyexpected; and he accepted my advice. For he went on board the firststeamer which touched at Suakin on its way to Suez and so left theSoudan. "

"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 hadmore than enough. "

"I am glad of that, " said Ethne, and she bade Willoughby wait within theenclosure until she returned, and went out by herself to see that theway was clear. The garden was quite empty. Durrance had disappeared fromit, and the great stone terrace of the house and the house itself, withits striped sunblinds, looked a place of sleep. It was getting towardsone o'clock, and the very birds were quiet amongst the trees. Indeed thequietude of the garden struck upon Ethne's senses as something almoststrange. Only the bees hummed drowsily about the flowerbeds, and thevoice of a lad was heard calling from the slopes of meadow on the farside 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 meyour story. You are going back at once to Kingsbridge? I hope so. For Ido not wish Colonel Durrance to know of your visit or anything of whatyou have told me. "

"Durrance was a friend of Feversham's--his great friend, " Willoughbyobjected. 

"He is quite unaware that any feathers were sent to Mr. Feversham, sothere is no need he should be informed that one of them has been takenback, " Ethne answered. "He does not know why my engagement to Mr. Feversham was broken off. I do not wish him to know. Your story wouldenlighten him, and he must not be enlightened. "

"Why?" asked Willoughby. He was obstinate by nature, and he meant tohave the reason for silence before he promised to keep it. Ethne gave itto him at once very simply. 

"I am engaged to Colonel Durrance, " she said. It was her fear thatDurrance already suspected that no stronger feeling than friendshipattached her to him. If once he heard that the fault which broke herengagement to Harry Feversham had been most bravely atoned, there couldbe no doubt as to the course which he would insist upon pursuing. Hewould strip himself of her, the one thing left to him, and that she wasstubbornly 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 Fevershamhad 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 mytime in bringing you that feather, " and he pointed towards it. She washolding it in her open hand, and she drew her hand sharply away, asthough 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 alittle 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 noticedher careful handling of the feather; he remembered something of theglowing look with which she had listened to his story, something of theeager tones in which she had put her questions; and he added, "Ishouldn't wonder if it was rather rough on you too, Miss Eustace. "

Ethne did not answer him, and they walked together out of the enclosuretowards the spot where Willoughby had moored his boat. She hurried himdown the bank to the water's edge, intent that he should sail awayunperceived. 

But Ethne had counted without Mrs. Adair, who all that morning had seenmuch in Ethne's movements to interest her. From the drawing-room windowshe had watched Ethne and Durrance meet at the foot of theterrace-steps, she had seen them walk together towards the estuary, shehad noticed Willoughby's boat as it ran aground in the wide gap betweenthe trees, she had seen a man disembark, and Ethne go forward to meethim. Mrs. Adair was not the woman to leave her post of observation atsuch a moment, and from the cover of the curtains she continued to watchwith 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 downthe street. Ethne and the man from the boat turned away and disappearedamongst the trees, leaving Durrance forgotten and alone. Mrs. Adairthought at once of that enclosure at the water's edge. The conversationlasted for some while, and since the couple did not promptly reappear, aquestion flashed into her mind. "Could the stranger be Harry Feversham?"Ethne had no friends in this part of the world. The question pressedupon Mrs. Adair. She longed for an answer, and of course for thatparticular answer which would convict Ethne Eustace of duplicity. Herinterest grew into an excitement when she saw Durrance, tired ofwaiting, follow upon Ethne's steps. But what came after was to interesther still more. 

Durrance reappeared, to her surprise alone, and came straight to thehouse, 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 yougoing?"

"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 notimmediately go. He stood by the window idly swinging to and fro thetassel of the blind. 

"I did not know until to-day that it was your plan that I should comehome and Ethne stay with you until I found out whether a cure was likelyor 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'stelegram reached her from Wadi Halfa, I suppose. "

Mrs. Adair was not deceived by his attitude of carelessness. Sherealised that his expression of gratitude had deliberately led up tothis 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 Durrancereturned to England. 

"Of course I knew of it, " he returned, and without waiting any longerfor an answer he went out on to the terrace. 

Mrs. Adair dismissed for the moment the mystery of the telegram. She wasoccupied by her conjecture that in the little garden by the water's edgeDurrance had stood and called aloud for Ethne, while within twelve yardsof him, perhaps actually within his reach, she and some one else hadkept very still and had given no answer. Her conjecture was soon provedtrue. She saw Ethne and her companion come out again on to the openlawn. Was it Feversham? She must have an answer to that question. Shesaw them descend the bank towards the boat, and, stepping from herwindow, ran. 

Thus it happened that as Willoughby rose from loosening the painter, hesaw Mrs. Adair's disappointed eyes gazing into his. Mrs. Adair called toEthne, 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, didnot move away, and an awkward pause followed. Ethne was forced to givein. 

"I was talking to Captain Willoughby, " and she turned to him. "You donot know Mrs. Adair, I think?"

"No, " he replied, as he raised his hat. "But I know Mrs. Adair very wellby 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 vigorouslyto 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 onthe point of saying when Ethne turned her eyes quietly upon him and cuthim short. He was on the point of adding another name. "CaptainWilloughby, " 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. CaptainWilloughby had fallen into her little trap with a guilelessness whichprovoked in her a desire for a closer acquaintanceship. WhateverWilloughby knew it would be easy to extract. Ethne, however, haddisconcerting ways which at times left Mrs. Adair at a loss. She lookednow straight into Mrs. Adair's eyes and said calmly:--

"Captain Willoughby and I have been talking of Mr. Feversham. " At thesame 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 cameout to tell you that, but I am glad that I came, for it gives me theopportunity 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 hasreminded me that his leave is very short, and we have no right to detainhim. Good-bye. "

Captain Willoughby gazed with a vain appeal upon Miss Eustace. He hadtravelled all night from London, he had made the scantiest breakfast atKingsbridge, and the notion of lunch appealed to him particularly atthat moment. But her eyes rested on his with a quiet and inexorablecommand. He bowed, got ruefully into his boat, and pushed off from theshore. 

"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 ortwice she opened the palm of her hand and disclosed to her companion'sview a small white feather, at which she laughed again, and with a clearand rather low laugh. But she gave no explanation of CaptainWilloughby's errand. Had she been in Mrs. Adair's place she would nothave 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 andintriguing mind. She preferred to look through a keyhole even when shecould walk straight in at the door; and knowledge which could be gainedby a little maneuvering was always more desirable and precious in hereyes than any information which a simple question would elicit. Sheavoided, 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 hadoutwitted a companion into telling her spontaneously some trivial andunimportant piece of news which a straightforward request would have atonce secured for her at breakfast-time. 

Therefore, though she was mystified by the little white feather uponwhich Ethne seemed to set so much store, and wondered at the good newsof Harry Feversham which Captain Willoughby had brought, and vainlypuzzled her brains in conjecture as to what in the world could havehappened on that night at Ramelton so many years ago, she betrayednothing 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 itwas not to any purpose. 

"I don't believe that you hear a single word I am saying!" sheexclaimed. 

Ethne laughed and pleaded guilty. She betook herself to her room as soonas lunch was finished, and allowed herself an afternoon of solitude. Sitting at her window, she repeated slowly the story which Willoughbyhad told to her that morning, and her heart thrilled to it as to musicdivinely played. The regret that he had not come home and told it a yearago, when she was free, was a small thing in comparison with the storyitself. It could not outweigh the great gladness which that brought toher--it had, indeed, completely vanished from her thoughts. Her pride, which had never recovered from the blow which Harry Feversham had dealtto her in the hall at Lennon House, was now quite restored, and by theman who had dealt the blow. She was aglow with it, and most grateful toHarry Feversham for that he had, at so much peril to himself, restoredit. She was conscious of a new exhilaration in the sunlight, of aquicker pulsation in her blood. Her youth was given back to her uponthat August afternoon. 

Ethne unlocked a drawer in her dressing-case, and took from it theportrait which alone of all Harry Feversham's presents she had kept. Sherejoiced that she had kept it. It was the portrait of some one who wasdead to her--that she knew very well, for there was no thought ofdisloyalty toward Durrance in her breast--but the some one was a friend. She looked at it with a great happiness and contentment, because HarryFeversham had needed no expression of faith from her to inspire him, and no encouragement from her to keep him through the years on the levelof his high inspiration. When she put it back again, she laid the whitefeather 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 theshadows 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, andshe wished that the good news had been brought to her there. The regretthat it had not was her crumpled rose-leaf. Here she was in a strangeland; there the brown mountains, with their outcroppings of granite andthe voices of the streams, would have shared, she almost thought, in hernew happiness. Great sorrows or great joys had this in common for EthneEustace, they both drew her homewards, since there endurance was moreeasy and gladness more complete. 

She had, however, one living tie with Donegal at her side, for Dermod'sold collie dog had become her inseparable companion. To him she made herconfidence, and if at times her voice broke in tears, why, the dog wouldnot tell. She came to understand much which Willoughby had omitted, andwhich Feversham had never told. Those three years of concealment in thesmall and crowded city of Suakin, for instance, with the troops marchingout to battle, and returning dust-strewn and bleeding and laurelled withvictory. Harry Feversham had to slink away at their approach, lest someold friend of his--Durrance, perhaps, or Willoughby, or Trench--shouldnotice him and penetrate his disguise. The panic which had beset himwhen first he saw the dark brown walls of Berber, the night in theruined acres, the stumbling search for the well amongst the shiftingsandhills of Obak, --Ethne had vivid pictures of these incidents, and asshe thought of each she asked herself: "Where was I then? What was Idoing?"

She sat in a golden mist until the lights began to change upon the stillwater of the creek, and the rooks wheeled noisily out from the tree-topsto sort themselves for the night, and warned her of evening. 

She brought to the dinner-table that night a buoyancy of spirit whichsurprised her companions. Mrs. Adair had to admit that seldom had hereyes shone so starrily, or the colour so freshly graced her cheeks. Shewas more than ever certain that Captain Willoughby had brought stirringnews; she was more than ever tortured by her vain efforts to guess itsnature. But Mrs. Adair, in spite of her perplexities, took her share inthe talk, and that dinner passed with a freedom from embarrassmentunknown since Durrance had come home to Guessens. For he, too, threw offa burden of restraint; his spirits rose to match Ethne's; he answeredlaugh with laugh, and from his face that habitual look of tension, thelook of a man listening with all his might that his ears might make goodthe 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 lockedin its case during these last two months. Durrance had come to look uponthat 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 worldwent ill, it was kept silent lest it should say too much, and open oldwounds and lay them bare to other eyes. Ethne herself knew it for anindiscreet 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 forit, 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 morethan friendliness evident to-night, and for the first time it'sevident. "

There came a look of pity upon Mrs. Adair's face, and she passed out ofthe room without another word. Durrance took all of that great change inEthne 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 Ethneunlocking the case of her violin, she went out on to the terrace. Shefelt that she could not sit patiently in her company. So that whenDurrance entered the drawing-room he found Ethne alone there. She wasseated 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 firstevening when I came to Ramelton. I remember so well how you played itthen. 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 ofmoonlight. Ethne suddenly crossed to the lamp and put it out. Sheresumed her seat, while Durrance remained in the shadow, leaningforward, with his hands upon his knees, listening--but with anintentness 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 bedecided. Ethne's violin would tell him assuredly whether he was right orno. Would friendship speak from it or the something more thanfriendship?

Ethne played the overture, and as she played she forgot that Durrancewas in the room behind her. In the garden the air was still andsummer-warm and fragrant; on the creek the moonlight lay like a solidfloor of silver; the trees stood dreaming to the stars; and as the musicfloated loud out across the silent lawn, Ethne had a sudden fancy thatit might perhaps travel down the creek and over Salcombe Bar and acrossthe moonlit seas, and strike small yet wonderfully clear like fairymusic upon the ears of a man sleeping somewhere far away beneath thebrightness of the southern stars with the cool night wind of the desertblowing upon his face. 

"If he could only hear!" she thought. "If he could only wake and knowthat what he heard was a message of friendship!"

And with this fancy in her mind she played with such skill as she hadnever used before; she made of her violin a voice of sympathy. The fancygrew and changed as she played. The music became a bridge swung inmid-air across the world, upon which just for these few minutes she andHarry Feversham might meet and shake hands. They would separate, ofcourse, forthwith, and each one go upon the allotted way. But these fewminutes would be a help to both along the separate ways. The chords rangupon silence. It seemed to Ethne that they declaimed the pride which hadcome to her that day. Her fancy grew into a belief. It was no longer "Ifhe should hear, " but "He _must_ hear!" And so carried away was she fromthe discretion of thought that a strange hope suddenly sprang up andenthralled her. 

"If he could answer!"

She lingered upon the last bars, waiting for the answer; and when themusic 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 acrossthe lawn. It came from the dark shadows of the room behind her, and itwas 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 inthe 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 notreally played at all. But a melody of it and not even that really, but asuggestion of a melody, I heard stumbled out upon a zither, with manyfalse notes, by a Greek in a bare little whitewashed café, lit by oneglaring 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. Shesat very still in the moonlight; only had any one bent over her witheyes to see, he would have discovered that her eyelids were closed. There followed a long silence. She did not consider why Durrance, havingkept this knowledge secret so long, should speak of it now. She did notask what Harry Feversham was doing that he must play the zither in amean café at Wadi Halfa. But it seemed to her that he had spoken to heras she to him. The music had, after all, been a bridge. It was not evenstrange 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 moonlitgarden to the band of silver in the gap of the trees; and she kept herposition deliberately. For it helped her to believe that Harry Fevershamhimself was speaking to her, she was able to forget that he was speakingthrough the voice of Durrance. She almost forgot that Durrance was evenin the room. She listened with Durrance's own intentness, and anxiousthat the voice should speak very slowly, so that the message might takea long time in the telling, and she gather it all jealously to herheart. 

"It was on the night before I started eastward into the desert--for thelast time, " said Durrance, and the deep longing and regret with which hedwelt upon that "last time" for once left Ethne quite untouched. 

"Yes, " she said. "That was in February. The middle of the month, wasn'tit? Do you remember the day? I should like to know the exact day if youcan tell me. "

"The fifteenth, " said Durrance; and Ethne repeated the datemeditatively. 

"I was at Glenalla all February, " she said. "What was I doing on thefifteenth? It does not matter. "

She had felt a queer sort of surprise all the time while Willoughby wastelling his story that morning, that she had not known, by someinstinct, of these incidents at the actual moment of their occurrence. The surprise returned to her now. It was strange that she should havehad to wait for this August night and this summer garden of moonlightand closed flowers before she learned of the meeting between Fevershamand Durrance on February 15 and heard the message. And remorse came toher 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 wellpunished. " It did not at all occur to her that the message could conveyany but the best of news. It would carry on the good tidings which shehad already heard. It would enlarge and complete, so that this day mightbe 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. Iturned the key in the door at ten o'clock, thinking with relief that forsix weeks I should not open it, and I strolled northward out of WadiHalfa along the Nile bank into the little town of Tewfikieh. As Ientered the main street I saw a small crowd--Arabs, negroes, a Greek ortwo, and some Egyptian soldiers, standing outside the café, and lit upby a glare of light from within. As I came nearer I heard the sound of aviolin and a zither, both most vilely played, jingling out a waltz. Istood at the back of the crowd and looked over the shoulders of the menin front of me into the room. It was a place of four bare whitewashedwalls; a bar stood in one corner, a wooden bench or two were rangedagainst the walls, and a single unshaded paraffin lamp swung and glaredfrom the ceiling. A troupe of itinerant musicians were playing to thatcrowd of negroes and Arabs and Egyptians for a night's lodging and theprice 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 bothold, both slatternly and almost in rags; the man a thin, sallow-facedfellow, with grey hair and a black moustache; the woman fat, coarse offace, unwieldy of body. Of the other two, one it seemed must be theirdaughter, a girl of seventeen, not good-looking really, but dressed andturned out with a scrupulous care, which in those sordid and meansurroundings lent her good looks. The care, indeed, with which she wasdressed assured me she was their daughter, and to tell the truth, I wasrather touched by the thought that the father and mother would go inrags so that she at all costs might be trim. A clean ribbon bound backher hair, an untorn frock of some white stuff clothed her tidily; evenher shoes were neat. The fourth was a young man; he was seated in thewindow, with his back towards me, bending over his zither. But I couldsee that he wore a beard. When I came up the old man was playing theviolin, though playing is not indeed the word. The noise he made wasmore like the squeaking of a pencil on a slate; it set one's teeth onedge; the violin itself seemed to squeal with pain. And while hefiddled, and the young man hammered at his zither, the old woman andgirl slowly revolved in a waltz. It may sound comic to hear about, butif you could have seen! ... It fairly plucked at one's heart. I do notthink that I have ever in my life witnessed anything quite so sad. Thelittle crowd outside, negroes, mind you, laughing at the troupe, passingfrom one to the other any sort of low jest at their expense, and insidethe four white people--the old woman, clumsy, heavy-footed, shining withheat, 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, andjust about you the great silent and spacious dignity of the moonlitdesert. Imagine it! The very ineptness of the entertainment actuallyhurt one. "

He paused for a moment, while Ethne pictured to herself the scene whichhe had described. She saw Harry Feversham bending over his zither, andat once she asked herself, "What was he doing with that troupe?" It wasintelligible enough that he would not care to return to England. It wascertain that he would not come back to her, unless she sent for him. Andshe knew from what Captain Willoughby had said that he expected nomessage from her. He had not left with Willoughby the name of any placewhere a letter could reach him. But what was he doing at Wadi Halfa, masquerading with this itinerant troupe? He had money; so muchWilloughby had told her. 

"You spoke to him?" she asked suddenly. 

"To whom? Oh, to Harry?" returned Durrance. "Yes, afterwards, when Ifound 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 benchagainst the whitewashed wall; the young man raised his head from hiszither; the old man scraped a new chord upon his violin, and the girlstood forward to sing. Her voice had youth and freshness, but no otherquality of music. Her singing was as inept as the rest of theentertainment. Yet the old man smiled, the mother beat time with herheavy foot, and nodded at her husband with pride in their daughter'saccomplishment. And again in the throng the ill-conditioned talk, theuntranslatable jests of the Arabs and the negroes went their round. Itwas horrible, don't you think?"

"Yes, " answered Ethne, but slowly, in an absent voice. As she had feltno sympathy for Durrance when he began to speak, so she had none tospare for these three outcasts of fortune. She was too absorbed in themystery of Harry Feversham's presence at Wadi Halfa. She was listeningtoo closely for the message which he sent to her. Through the openwindow the moon threw a broad panel of silver light upon the floor ofthe room close to her feet. She sat gazing into it as she listened, asthough it was itself a window through which, if she looked but hardenough, she might see, very small and far away, that lighted caféblazing upon the street of the little town of Tewfikieh on the frontierof the Soudan. 

"Well?" she asked. "And after the song was ended?"

"The young man with his back towards me, " Durrance resumed, "began tofumble out a solo upon the zither. He struck so many false notes, notune was to be apprehended at the first. The laughter and noise grewamongst 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 melodybegan to emerge--a weak thin thing with no soul in it, a ghost of amelody, and yet familiar. I stood listening in the street of sand, between the hovels fringed by a row of stunted trees, and I was carriedaway out of the East to Ramelton and to a summer night beneath a meltingsky of Donegal, when you sat by the open window as you sit now andplayed 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 guessit 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, Iwas only curious. I wondered how it was that an itinerant Greek came topick up the tune. At all events, I determined to reward him for hisdiligence. 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 passedthrough the jeering crowd, I threw a sovereign into the hat. He turnedto 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 wasupon 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 witha momentary recollection of Feversham's utter inability to appreciateany music except that which she herself evoked from her violin. "He hadno ear. You couldn't invent a discord harsh enough even to attract hisattention. He could never have remembered any melody from the MusolineOverture. "

"Yet it was Harry Feversham, " he answered. "Somehow he had remembered. Ican understand it. He would have so little he cared to remember, andthat little he would have striven with all his might to bring clearlyback to mind. Somehow, too, by much practice, I suppose, he had managedto elicit from his zither some sort of resemblance to what heremembered. Can't you imagine him working the scrap of music out in hisbrain, humming it over, whistling it uncounted times with perpetualerrors and confusions, until some fine day he got it safe and sure andfixed it in his thoughts? I can. Can't you imagine him, then, picking itout sedulously and laboriously on the strings? I can. Indeed, I can. "

Thus Ethne got her answer, and Durrance interpreted it to herunderstanding. She sat silent and very deeply moved by the story he hadtold to her. It was fitting that this overture, her favourite piece ofmusic, should convey the message that he had not forgotten her, that inspite of the fourth white feather he thought of her with friendship. Harry Feversham had not striven so laboriously to learn that melody invain. Ethne was stirred as she had thought nothing would ever again havethe power to stir her. She wondered whether Harry, as he sat in thelittle bare whitewashed café, and strummed out his music to the negroesand Greeks and Arabs gathered about the window, had dreamed, as she haddone to-night, that somehow, thin and feeble as it was, some echo of themelody 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 caféin the desert town would never be very far from her thoughts, but shehad no intention of relaxing on that account from her determination topretend to forget. The mere knowledge that she had at one time beenunjustly harsh to Harry, made her yet more resolved that Durrance shouldnot suffer for any fault of hers. 

"I told you last year, Ethne, at Hill Street, " Durrance resumed, "that Inever wished to see Feversham again. I was wrong. The reluctance was allon his side and not at all on mine. For the moment that he realised hehad 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 notlet 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 beforeHarry Feversham had been my friend, my one great friend; that we hadrowed in the same college boat at Oxford, he at stroke, I at seven;that the stripes on his jersey during three successive eights had mademy eyes dizzy during those last hundred yards of spurt past the barges. We had bathed together in Sandford Lasher on summer afternoons. We hadhad supper on Kennington Island; we had cut lectures and paddled up theCher 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 tothat squalid little town and play the zither vilely before a crowd ofnatives and a few Greek clerks for his night's lodging and the price ofa meal. "

"No, " Ethne interrupted suddenly. "It was not for that reason that hewent to Wadi Halfa. "

"Why, then?" asked Durrance. 

"I cannot think. But he was not in any need of money. His father hadcontinued 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 didnot even notice that she had made a slip. She was too engrossed inDurrance'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. "Didyou not ask him? Why didn't you? Why?"

She was disappointed, and the bitterness of her disappointment gavepassion to her cry. Here was the last news of Harry Feversham, and itwas brought to her incomplete, like the half sheet of a letter. Theomission might never be repaired. 

"I was a fool, " said Durrance. There was almost as much regret in hisvoice now as there had been in hers; and because of that regret he didnot remark the passion with which she had spoken. "I shall not easilyforgive myself. He was my friend, you see. I had him by the arm, and Ilet him go. I was a fool. " And he knocked upon his forehead with hisfist. 

"He tried Arabic, " Durrance resumed, "pleading that he and hiscompanions were just poor peaceable people, that if I had given him toomuch money, I should take it back, and all the while he dragged awayfrom 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 mego, Jack, let me go. ' There was the crowd about us. It was evident thatHarry had some reason for secrecy; it might have been shame, for all Iknew, shame at his downfall. I said, 'Come up to my quarters in Halfa assoon as you are free, ' and I let him go. All that night I waited for himon the verandah, but he did not come. In the morning I had to startacross the desert. I almost spoke of him to a friend who came to see mestart, to Calder, in fact--you know of him--the man who sent you thetelegram, " said Durrance, with a laugh. 

"Yes, I remember, " Ethne answered. 

It was the second slip she had made that night. The receipt of Calder'stelegram was just one of the things which Durrance was not to know. Butagain she was unaware that she had made a slip at all. She did not evenconsider how Durrance had come to know or guess that the telegram hadever been despatched. 

"At the very last moment, " Durrance resumed, "when my camel had risenfrom the ground, I stooped down to speak to him, to tell him to see toFeversham. But I did not. You see I knew nothing about his allowance. Imerely thought that he had fallen rather low. It did not seem fair tohim that another should know of it. So I rode on and kept silence. "

Ethne nodded her head. She could not but approve, however poignant herregret for the lost news. 

"So you never saw Mr. Feversham again?"

"I was away nine weeks. I came back blind, " he answered simply, and thevery simplicity of his words went to Ethne's heart. He was apologisingfor his blindness, which had hindered him from inquiring. She began towake to the comprehension that it was really Durrance who was speakingto her, but he continued to speak, and what he said drove her quite outof all caution. 

"I went at once to Cairo, and Calder came with me. There I told him ofHarry Feversham, and how I had seen him at Tewfikieh. I asked Calderwhen he got back to Halfa to make inquiries, to find and help HarryFeversham if he could; I asked him, too, to let me know the result. Ireceived a letter from Calder a week ago, and I am troubled by it, verymuch troubled. "

"What did he say?" Ethne asked apprehensively, and she turned in herchair away from the moonlight towards the shadows of the room andDurrance. She bent forward to see his face, but the darkness hid it. Asudden fear struck through her and chilled her blood, but out of thedarkness Durrance spoke. 

"That the two women and the old Greek had gone back northward on asteamer to Assouan. "

"Mr. Feversham remained at Wadi Halfa, then? That is so, isn't it?" shesaid eagerly. 

"No, " Durrance replied. "Harry Feversham did not remain. He slipped pastHalfa the day after I started toward the east. He went out in themorning, and to the south. "

"Into the desert?"

"Yes, but the desert to the south, the enemy's country. He went just asI 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 theletter from his pocket and gave it to her, and she carried it over tothe 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 thetroupe had performed admitted that Joseppi, under which name he knewFeversham, had wandered south, carrying a water-skin and a store ofdates, though why, he either did not know or would not tell. Ethne had aquestion to ask, but it was some time before she could trust her lips toutter it distinctly and without faltering. 

"What will happen to him?"

"At the best, capture; at the worst, death. Death by starvation, orthirst, or at the hands of the Dervishes. But there is just a hope itmight 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 knowledgeof our plans and our strength. I think that they would most likely sendhim to Omdurman. I have written to Calder. Spies go out and in from WadiHalfa. We often hear of things which happen in Omdurman. If Feversham istaken there, sooner or later I shall know. But he must have gone mad. Itis the only explanation. "

Ethne had another, and she knew hers to be the right one. She was offher 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. Thereis some comfort in that, and perhaps something may be done. When I hearfrom Calder I will tell you. Perhaps something may be done. "

It was evident that Durrance had misconstrued her remark. He at allevents was still in the dark as to the motive which had taken Fevershamsouthward beyond the Egyptian patrols. And he must remain in the dark. For Ethne did not even now slacken in her determination still to pretendto have forgotten. She stood at the window with the letter clenched inher hand. She must utter no cry, she must not swoon; she must keep verystill and quiet, and speak when needed with a quiet voice, even thoughshe knew that Harry Feversham had gone southward to join Colonel Trenchat Omdurman. But so much was beyond her strength. For as ColonelDurrance began to speak again, the desire to escape, to be alone withthis terrible news, became irresistible. The cool quietude of thegarden, the dark shadows of the trees, called to her. 

"Perhaps you will wonder, " said Durrance, "why I have told you to-nightwhat I have up till now kept to myself. I did not dare to tell it youbefore. I want to explain why. "

Ethne did not notice the exultation in his voice; she did not considerwhat his explanation might be; she only felt that she could not nowendure to listen to it. The mere sound of a human voice had become anunendurable thing. She hardly knew indeed that Durrance was speaking, she was only aware that a voice spoke, and that the voice must stop. Shewas close by the window; a single silent step, and she was across thesill and free. Durrance continued to speak out of the darkness, engrossed in what he said, and Ethne did not listen to a word. Shegathered her skirts carefully, so that they should not rustle, andstepped from the window. This was the third slip which she made uponthat eventful night. 

CHAPTER XIX

MRS. ADAIR INTERFERES

Ethne had thought to escape quite unobserved; but Mrs. Adair was sittingupon the terrace in the shadow of the house and not very far from theopen window of the drawing-room. She saw Ethne lightly cross the terraceand run down the steps into the garden, and she wondered at theprecipitancy of her movements. Ethne seemed to be taking flight, and ina sort of desperation. The incident was singular, and remarkablysingular to Mrs. Adair, who from the angle in which she sat commanded aview of that open window through which the moonlight shone. She had seenEthne turn out the lamp, and the swift change in the room from light todark, with its suggestion of secrecy and the private talk of lovers, hadbeen a torture to her. But she had not fled from the torture. She hadsat listening, and the music as it floated out upon the garden with itsthrill of happiness, its accent of yearning, and the low, hushedconversation which followed upon its cessation in that darkened room, had struck upon a chord of imagination in Mrs. Adair and had kindled herjealousy into a scorching flame. Then suddenly Ethne had taken flight. The possibility of a quarrel Mrs. Adair dismissed from her thoughts. Sheknew very well that Ethne was not of the kind which quarrels, nor wouldshe escape by running away, should she be entangled in a quarrel. Butsomething still more singular occurred. Durrance continued to speak inthat room from which Ethne had escaped. The sound of his voice reachedMrs. Adair's ears, though she could not distinguish the words. It wasclear to her that he believed Ethne to be still with him. Mrs. Adairrose from her seat and, walking silently upon the tips of her toes, cameclose to the open window. She heard Durrance laugh light-heartedly, andshe 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 atHill 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 shouldhave believed without question just what you wished me to believe. Butyou had no longer those defences. I on my side had grown quicker. Ibegan 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 noanswer or acknowledgment. He spoke with the voice of enjoyment which aman 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 morethan friendship on both sides. But I had grown selfish. I warned you, Ethne, selfishness was the blind man's particular fault. I waited anddeferred the time of marriage. I made excuses. I led you to believe thatthere 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 thanfriendship. So long as there was a chance of that, I--Ethne, I could notlet you go. So, I listened for some new softness in your voice, some newbuoyancy in your laughter, some new deep thrill of the heart in themusic which you played, longing for it--how much! Well, to-night I haveburnt my boats. I have admitted to you that I knew friendship limitedyour thoughts of me. I have owned to you that there is no hope my sightwill be restored. I have even dared to-night to tell you what I havekept secret for so long, my meeting with Harry Feversham and the perilhe has run. And why? Because for the first time I have heard to-nightjust those signs for which I waited. The new softness, the new pride, inyour voice, the buoyancy in your laughter--they have been audible to meall this evening. The restraint and the tension were gone from yourmanner. And when you played, it was as though some one with just yourskill and knowledge played, but some one who let her heart speakresonantly 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 shehad led Captain Willoughby that morning. Here she was private; hercollie dog had joined her; she had reached the solitude and the silencewhich had become necessities to her. A few more words from Durrance andher prudence would have broken beneath the strain. All that pretence ofaffection which during these last months she had so sedulously built upabout him like a wall which he was never to look over, would have beenstruck down and levelled to the ground. Durrance, indeed, had alreadylooked over the wall, was looking over it with amazed eyes at thisinstant, but that Ethne did not know, and to hinder him from knowing itshe had fled. The moonlight slept in silver upon the creek; the talltrees stood dreaming to the stars; the lapping of the tide against thebank was no louder than the music of a river. She sat down upon thebench and strove to gather some of the quietude of that summer nightinto her heart, and to learn from the growing things of nature about hersomething 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 andshe had regained Harry Feversham. For in that way she thought ofWilloughby's message. This morning she had regained him, and thisevening the bad news had come and she had lost him, and most likelyright to the very end of mortal life. Harry Feversham meant to pay forhis fault to the uttermost scruple, and Ethne cried out against histhoroughness, which he had learned from no other than herself. "Surely, "she thought, "he might have been content. In redeeming his honour in theeyes of one of the three he has done enough, he has redeemed it in theeyes of all. "

But he had gone south to join Colonel Trench in Omdurman. Of thatsqualid and shadowless town, of its hideous barbarities, of the horrorsof its prison-house, Ethne knew nothing at all. But Captain Willoughbyhad hinted enough to fill her imagination with terrors. He had offeredto explain to her what captivity in Omdurman implied, and she wrung herhands, as she remembered that she had refused to listen. What crueltiesmight not be practised? Even now, at that very hour perhaps, on thisnight 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 andbabbled in her ears when five years ago she had watched out anothersummer night till dawn. Never had she so hungered for her own countryand the companionship of its brown hills and streams. No, not even thisafternoon, when she had sat at her window and watched the lights changeupon the creek. Donegal had a sanctity for her, it seemed when shedwelled 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 suddenfierce loathing for the concealments, the shifts and maneuvers whichshe had practised, and still must practise, sprang up within her. Agreat weariness came upon her, too. But she did not change from herfixed resolve. Two lives were not to be spoilt because she lived in theworld. To-morrow she could gather up her strength and begin again. ForDurrance must never know that there was another whom she placed beforehim in her thoughts. Meanwhile, however, Durrance within thedrawing-room brought his confession to an end. 

"So you see, " he said, "I could not speak of Harry Feversham untilto-night. For I was afraid that what I had to tell you would hurt youvery much. I was afraid that you still remembered him, in spite of thosefive years. I knew, of course, that you were my friend. But I doubtedwhether 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 bythe window, heard him move in the shadows. 

"Ethne!" he said, with some surprise in his voice; and since again noanswer came, he rose, and walked towards the chair in which Ethne hadsat. Mrs. Adair could see him now. His hands felt for and grasped theback of the chair. He bent over it, as though he thought Ethne wasleaning forward with her hands upon her knees. 

"Ethne, " he said again, and there was in this iteration of her name moretrouble and doubt than surprise. It seemed to Mrs. Adair that he dreadedto find her silently weeping. He was beginning to speculate whetherafter all he had been right in his inference from Ethne's recapture ofher youth to-night, whether the shadow of Feversham did not after allfall between them. He leaned farther forward, feeling with his hand, andsuddenly a string of Ethne's violin twanged loud. She had left it lyingon 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 hishand across his forehead once or twice, and then, without calling uponEthne again, he advanced to the open window. 

Mrs. Adair did not move, and she held her breath. There was just thewidth of the sill between them. The moonlight struck full upon Durrance, and she saw a comprehension gradually dawn in his face that some one wasstanding 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 astep 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 veryquickly and silently. I saw her from my chair. Then I heard you speakingalone. "

"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 theman who had grown quick. There could be only one reason for her suddenunexplained and secret flight. He had told her that Feversham hadwandered south from Wadi Halfa into the savage country; he had spokenout his fears as to Feversham's fate without reserve, thinking that shehad forgotten him, and indeed rather inclined to blame her for thecallous indifference with which she received the news. The callousnesswas a mere mask, and she had fled because she no longer had the strengthto hold it up before her face. His first suspicions had been right. Feversham still stood between Ethne and himself and held them at arm'slength. 

"She ran as though she was in great trouble and hardly knew what she wasdoing, " 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 forthe weeks of mortification which she had endured. There is somethingwhich might be said for Mrs. Adair; extenuations might be pleaded, evenif 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 shehad been racked by them to the limits of endurance. There had beensomething grotesque, something rather horrible, in that outbreak andconfession by Durrance, after Ethne had fled from the room. He wasspeaking out his heart to an empty chair. She herself had stood withoutthe window with a bitter longing that he had spoken so to her and abitter knowledge that he never would. She was sunk deep in humiliation. The irony of the position tortured her; it was like a jest of grimselfish gods played off upon ineffectual mortals to their hurt. And atthe bottom of all the thoughts rankled that memory of the extinguishedlamp, 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, eventhough it was to the man whom she coveted. 

"There's one thing which I don't understand, " said Durrance. "I mean thechange which we both noticed in Ethne to-night. I mistook the cause ofit, that's evident. I was a fool. But there must have been a cause. Thegift of laughter had been restored to her. Her gravity, her air ofcalculation, had vanished. She became just what she was five years ago. "

"Exactly, " Mrs. Adair answered. "Just what she was before Mr. Fevershamdisappeared from Ramelton. You are so quick, Colonel Durrance. Ethne hadgood news of Mr. Feversham this morning. "

Durrance turned quickly towards her, and Mrs. Adair felt a pleasure athis abrupt movement. She had provoked the display of some emotion, andthe 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 thatevening, and though unnoticed at the time, it came back to Durrance'smemory now. She had declared that Feversham still drew an allowance fromhis father. "I heard it only to-day, " she had said. 

"Yes, Ethne heard news of Feversham to-day, " he said slowly. "Did shemake a mistake five years ago? There was some wrong thing HarryFeversham was supposed to have done. But was there really moremisunderstanding than wrong? Did she misjudge him? Has she to-daylearnt that she misjudged him?"

"I will tell you what I know. It is not very much. But I think it isfair that you should know it. "

"Wait a moment, please, Mrs. Adair, " said Durrance, sharply. He had puthis questions rather to himself than to his companion, and he was notsure that he wished her to answer them. He walked abruptly away from herand leaned upon the balustrade with his face towards the garden. 

It seemed to him rather treacherous to allow Mrs. Adair to disclose whatEthne herself evidently intended to conceal. But he knew why Ethnewished to conceal it. She wished him never to suspect that she retainedany love for Harry Feversham. On the other hand, however, he did notfalter from his own belief. Marriage between a man crippled like himselfand a woman active and vigorous like Ethne could never be right unlessboth brought more than friendship. He turned back to Mrs. Adair. 

"I am no casuist, " he said. "But here disloyalty seems the truestloyalty of all. Tell me what you know, Mrs. Adair. Something might bedone perhaps for Feversham. From Assouan or Suakin something might bedone. This news--this good news came, I suppose, this afternoon when Iwas at home. "

"No, this morning when you were here. It was brought by a CaptainWilloughby, 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 thelawn when he landed from the creek. Ethne left you and went forward tomeet him. I saw them meet, because I happened to be looking out of thiswindow at the moment. "

"Yes, Ethne went forward. There was a stranger whom she did not know. Iremember. "

"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 itevoked no sign of pain. 

"As though she had forgotten me, you mean, " said Durrance, quietlycompleting her sentence. "No doubt she had. "

"They went together into the little enclosed garden on the bank, " andDurrance started as she spoke. "Yes, you followed them, " continued Mrs. Adair, curiously. She had been puzzled as to how Durrance had missedthem. 

"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, butshe got none. 

"Well?" he asked. 

"They stayed there for a long while. You had gone home across the fieldsbefore they came outside into the open. I was in the garden, and indeedhappened 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 hurriedhim into his boat and back to Kingsbridge at once. "

"Then how do you know Captain Willoughby brought good news of HarryFeversham?"

"Ethne told me that they had been talking of him. Her manner and herlaugh showed me no less clearly that the news was good. "

"Yes, " said Durrance, and he nodded his head in assent. CaptainWilloughby's tidings had begotten that new pride and buoyancy in Ethnewhich he had so readily taken to himself. Signs of the necessarysomething more than friendship--so he had accounted them, and he wasright so far. But it was not he who had inspired them. His verypenetration and insight had led him astray. He was silent for a fewminutes, and Mrs. Adair searched his face in the moonlight for someevidence 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. Ethnecarried it back to the house in her hand. Her eyes were upon it all theway, her lips smiled at it. I do not think there is anything half soprecious to her in all the world. "

"A token?"

"A little white feather, " said Mrs. Adair, "all soiled and speckled withdust. Can you read the riddle of that feather?"

"Not yet, " Durrance replied. He walked once or twice along the terraceand back, lost in thought. Then he went into the house and fetched hiscap 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 toyour kindness. When I was in the drawing-room alone and you came to thewindow, how much did you hear? What were the first words?"

Mrs. Adair's answer relieved him of a fear. Ethne had heard nothingwhatever of his confession. 

"Yes, " he said, "she moved to the window to read a letter by themoonlight. She must have escaped from the room the moment she had readit. Consequently she did not hear that I had no longer any hope ofrecovering my sight, and that I merely used the pretence of a hope inorder to delay our marriage. I am glad of that, very glad. " He shookhands with Mrs. Adair, and said good-night. "You see, " he addedabsently, "if I hear that Harry Feversham is in Omdurman, somethingmight 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 dogwould be to Ethne in this bad hour, and perhaps he rather envied thedog. Mrs. Adair wondered that at a moment of such distress to him hecould still spare a thought for so small an alleviation of Ethne'strouble. She watched him cross the garden to the stile in the hedge. Hewalked steadily forward upon the path like a man who sees. There wasnothing in his gait or bearing to reveal that the one thing left to himhad that evening been taken away. 

CHAPTER XX

WEST AND EAST

Durrance found his body-servant waiting up for him when he had comeacross the fields to his own house of "Guessens. "

"You can turn the lights out and go to bed, " said Durrance, and hewalked through the hall into his study. The name hardly described theroom, 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 aboutthe room in the dark. There were many cups and goblets scattered aboutthe room, which Durrance had won in his past days. He knew them each oneby their shape and position, and he drew a kind of comfort from the feelof 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 andbright as they used to be. This one, a thin-stemmed goblet, he had wonin a regimental steeple-chase at Colchester; he could remember the daywith its clouds and grey sky and the dull look of the ploughed fieldsbetween the hedges. That pewter, which stood upon his writing table andwhich had formed a convenient holder for his pens, when pens had been ofuse, he had acquired very long ago in his college "fours, " when he was afreshman at Oxford. The hoof of a favourite horse mounted in silvermade an ornament upon the mantelpiece. His trophies made the room agigantic diary; he fingered his records of good days gone by and came atlast to his guns and rifles. 

He took them down from their racks. They were to him much what Ethne'sviolin was to her and had stories for his ear alone. He sat with aRemington across his knee and lived over again one long hot day in thehills to the west of Berenice, during which he had stalked a lion acrossstony, open country, and killed him at three hundred yards just beforesunset. Another talked to him, too, of his first ibex shot in the KhorBaraka, and of antelope stalked in the mountains northward of Suakin. There was a little Greener gun which he had used upon midwinter nightsin a boat upon this very creek of the Salcombe estuary. He had broughtdown his first mallard with that, and he lifted it and slid his lefthand along the under side of the barrel and felt the butt settlecomfortably into the hollow of his shoulder. But his weapons began totalk over loudly in his ears, even as Ethne's violin, in the earlierdays after Harry Feversham was gone and she was left alone, had spokenwith too penetrating a note to her. As he handled the locks, and wasaware that he could no longer see the sights, the sum of his losses waspresented to him in a very definite and incontestable way. 

He put his guns away, and was seized suddenly with a desire to disregardhis blindness, to pretend that it was no hindrance and to pretend sohard that it should prove not to be one. The desire grew and shook himlike a passion and carried him winged out of the countries of dim starsstraight to the East. The smell of the East and its noises and thedomes of its mosques, the hot sun, the rabble in its streets, and thesteel-blue sky overhead, caught at him till he was plucked from hischair and set pacing restlessly about his room. 

He dreamed himself to Port Said, and was marshalled in the longprocession of steamers down the waterway of the canal. The song of theArabs coaling the ship was in his ears, and so loud that he could seethem as they went at night-time up and down the planks between thebarges and the deck, an endless chain of naked figures monotonouslychanting and lurid in the red glare of the braziers. He travelled out ofthe canal, past the red headlands of the Sinaitic Peninsula, into thechills of the Gulf of Suez. He zigzagged down the Red Sea while theGreat Bear swung northward low down in the sky above the rail of thequarterdeck, and the Southern Cross began to blaze in the south; hetouched at Tor and at Yambo; he saw the tall white houses of Yeddah liftthemselves out of the sea, and admired the dark brine-withered woodworkof their carved casements; he walked through the dusk of its roofedbazaars with the joy of the homesick after long years come home; andfrom Yeddah he crossed between the narrowing coral-reefs into theland-locked harbour of Suakin. 

Westward from Suakin stretched the desert, with all that it meant tothis man whom it had smitten and cast out--the quiet padding of thecamels' feet in sand; the great rock-cones rising sheer and abrupt asfrom a rippleless ocean, towards which you march all day and get nonearer; the gorgeous momentary blaze of sunset colours in the west; therustle of the wind through the short twilight when the west is a purepale green and the east the darkest blue; and the downward swoop of theplanets out of nothing to the earth. The inheritor of the other placesdreamed himself back into his inheritance as he tramped to and fro, forgetful of his blindness and parched with desire as with afever--until unexpectedly he heard the blackbirds and the swallowsbustling and piping in the garden, and knew that outside his windows theworld was white with dawn. 

He waked from his dream at the homely sound. There were to be no morejourneys for him; affliction had caged him and soldered a chain abouthis leg. He felt his way by the balustrade up the stairs to his bed. Hefell 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 wassport prepared for them this morning under the few palm trees before thehouse of the Emir Wad El Nejoumi. A white prisoner captured a weekbefore close to the wells of El Agia on the great Arbain road, by aparty of Arabs, had been brought in during the night and now waited hisfate at the Emir's hands. The news spread quick as a spark through thetown; already crowds of men and women and children flocked to this rareand pleasant spectacle. In front of the palm trees an open spacestretched to the gateway of the Emir's house; behind them a slope ofsand descended flat and bare to the river. 

Harry Feversham was standing under the trees, guarded by four of theAnsar soldiery. His clothes had been stripped from him; he wore only atorn and ragged jibbeh upon his body and a twist of cotton on his headto shield him from the sun. His bare shoulders and arms were scorchedand blistered. His ankles were fettered, his wrists were bound with arope of palm fibre, an iron collar was locked about his neck, to which achain was attached, and this chain one of the soldiers held. He stoodand smiled at the mocking crowd about him and seemed well pleased, likea lunatic. 

That was the character which he had assumed. If he could sustain it, ifhe could baffle his captors, so that they were at a loss whether he wasa man really daft or an agent with promises of help and arms to thedisaffected tribes of Kordofan--then there was a chance that they mightfear to dispose of him themselves and send him forward to Omdurman. Butit was hard work. Inside the house the Emir and his counsellors weredebating his destiny; on the river-bank and within his view a highgallows stood out black and most sinister against the yellow sand. HarryFeversham was very glad of the chain about his neck and the fetters onhis legs. They helped him to betray no panic, by assuring him of itsfutility. 

These hours of waiting, while the sun rose higher and higher and no onecame from the gateway, were the worst he had ever as yet endured. Allthrough that fortnight in Berber a hope of escape had sustained him, andwhen that lantern shone upon him from behind in the ruined acres, whathad to be done must be done so quickly there was no time for fear orthought. Here there was time and too much of it. 

He had time to anticipate and foresee. He felt his heart sinking tillhe was faint, just as in those distant days when he had heard the houndsscuffling and whining in a covert and he himself had sat shaking uponhis horse. He glanced furtively towards the gallows, and foresaw thevultures perched upon his shoulders, fluttering about his eyes. But theman had grown during his years of probation. The fear of physicalsuffering was not uppermost in his mind, nor even the fear that he wouldwalk unmanfully to the high gallows, but a greater dread that if he diednow, here, at Dongola, Ethne would never take back that fourth feather, and his strong hope of the "afterwards" would never come to itsfulfilment. He was very glad of the collar about his neck and thefetters on his legs. He summoned his wits together and standing therealone, without a companion to share his miseries, laughed and scrapedand grimaced at his tormentors. 

An old hag danced and gesticulated before him, singing the while amonotonous song. The gestures were pantomimic and menaced him withabominable mutilations; the words described in simple and unexpurgatedlanguage the grievous death agonies which immediately awaited him, andthe eternity of torture in hell which he would subsequently suffer. Feversham understood and inwardly shuddered, but he only imitated hergestures and nodded and mowed at her as though she was singing to him ofParadise. Others, taking their war-trumpets, placed the mouths againstthe 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 musicwas 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 stoodbefore the captive and poised his spear, swinging it backward andforward, to make his arm supple before he thrust, like a bowler beforehe delivers a ball at a cricket match. Feversham glanced wildly abouthim, and seeing no escape, suddenly flung out his breast to meet theblow. But the spear never reached him. For as the warrior lunged fromthe shoulder, one of the four guards jerked the neck chain violentlyfrom behind, and the prisoner was flung, half throttled, upon his back. Three times, and each time to a roar of delight, this pastime wasrepeated, 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 thecrowd, the prisoner was dragged under the arch across a courtyard into adark room. 

For a few moments Feversham could see nothing. Then his eyes began toadapt themselves to the gloom, and he distinguished a tall, bearded man, who sat upon an angareb, the native bedstead of the Soudan, and twoothers, who squatted beside him on the ground. The man on the angarebwas 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 washanded to the captive. Feversham seated himself upon the ground, andwith slow, fumbling fingers, breathing hard as he bent over the zither, he began to elicit a wavering melody. It was the melody to whichDurrance had listened in the street of Tewfikieh on the eve of his lastjourney into the desert; and which Ethne Eustace had played only thenight before in the quiet drawing-room at Southpool. It was the onlymelody which Feversham knew. When he had done Nejoumi began again. 

"You are a spy. "

"I have told you the truth, " answered Feversham, stubbornly, and Nejoumitook a different tone. He called for food, and the raw liver of a camel, covered with salt and red pepper, was placed before Feversham. Seldomhas a man had smaller inclination to eat, but Feversham ate, none theless, even of that unattractive dish, knowing well that reluctance wouldbe construed as fear, and that the signs of fear might condemn him todeath. And, while he ate, Nejoumi questioned him, in the silkiest voice, about the fortifications of Cairo and the strength of the garrison atAssouan, and the rumours of dissension between the Khedive and theSirdar. 

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 soldiersseized upon Feversham and dragged him out again into the sunlight. Theypoured water upon the palm-rope which bound his wrists, so that thethongs 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 hadso long and so carefully pondered. He could not improve upon it, he wassure, by any alteration suggested by fear, at a moment when he could notthink clearly. A rope was flung about his neck, and he was pushed anddriven beneath the gallows. 

"Speak, Kaffir, " said Nejoumi; "so shall you escape death. "

Feversham smiled and grimaced, and shook his head loosely from side toside. It was astonishing to him that he could do it, that he did notfall down upon his knees and beg for mercy. It was still moreastonishing to him that he felt no temptation so to demean himself. Hewondered whether the oft repeated story was true, that criminals inEnglish prisons went quietly and with dignity to the scaffold, becausethey had been drugged. For without drugs he seemed to be behaving withno less dignity himself. His heart was beating very fast, but it waswith a sort of excitement. He did not even think of Ethne at thatmoment; and certainly the great dread that his strong hope would neverbe fulfilled did not trouble him at all. He had his allotted part toplay, and he just played it; and that was all. 

Nejoumi looked at him sourly for a moment. He turned to the men whostood ready to draw away from Feversham the angareb on which he wasplaced:--

"To-morrow, " said he, "the Kaffir shall go to Omdurman. "

Feversham began to feel then that the rope of palm fibre tortured hiswrists. 

CHAPTER XXI

ETHNE MAKES ANOTHER SLIP

Mrs. Adair speculated with some uneasiness upon the consequences of thedisclosures which she had made to Durrance. She was in doubt as to thecourse which he would take. It seemed possible that he might franklytell Ethne of the mistake which he had made. He might admit that he haddiscovered the unreality of her affection for him, and the reality ofher love for Feversham; and if he made that admission, however carefullyhe tried to conceal her share in his discovery, he would hardly succeed. She would have to face Ethne, and she dreaded the moment when hercompanion's frank eyes would rest quietly upon hers and her lips demandan explanation. It was consequently a relief to her at first that nooutward change was visible in the relations of Ethne and Durrance. Theymet and spoke as though that day on which Willoughby had landed at thegarden, and the evening when Ethne had played the Musoline Overture uponthe violin, had been blotted from their experience. Mrs. Adair wasrelieved at first, but when the sense of personal danger passed fromher, and she saw that her interference had been apparently withouteffect, she began to be puzzled. A little while, and she was both angryand disappointed. 

Durrance, indeed, quickly made up his mind. Ethne wished him not toknow; it was some consolation to her in her distress to believe that shehad brought happiness to this one man whose friend she genuinely was. And of that consolation Durrance was aware. He saw no reason to destroyit--for the present. He must know certainly whether a misunderstandingor an irreparable breach separated Ethne from Feversham before he tookthe steps he had in mind. He must have sure knowledge, too, of HarryFeversham's fate. Therefore he pretended to know nothing; he abandonedeven his habit of attention and scrutiny, since for these there was nolonger any need; he forced himself to a display of contentment; he madelight of his misfortune, and professed to find in Ethne's company morethan its compensation. 

"You see, " he said to her, "one can get used to blindness and take it asthe natural thing. But one does not get used to you, Ethne. Each timeone 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 hissuspicions, and she was able to set off his indefatigable cheerfulnessagainst her own misery. And her misery was great. If for one day she hadrecaptured the lightness of heart which had been hers before the threewhite feathers came to Ramelton, she had now recaptured something of thegrief which followed upon their coming. A difference there was, ofcourse. Her pride was restored, and she had a faint hope born ofDurrance's words that Harry after all might perhaps be rescued. But sheknew again the long and sleepless nights and the dull hot misery of thehead as she waited for the grey of the morning. For she could no longerpretend to herself that she looked upon Harry Feversham as a friend whowas dead. He was living, and in what straits she dreaded to think, andyet thirsted to know. At rare times, indeed, her impatience got thebetter 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 itis difficult and would in any case take time. Attempts, for instance, have been made to get Trench out and others, but the attempts have notyet 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 tounderstand, " and pulled herself up abruptly. "You mean the Arab who cancome and go between Omdurman and the Egyptian frontier?"

"Yes. He is usually some Dervish pedlar or merchant trading with thetribes of the Soudan, who slips into Wadi Halfa or Assouan or Suakin andundertakes the work. Of course his risk is great. He would have shortshrift in Omdurman if his business were detected. So it is not to bewondered at that he shirks the danger at the last moment. As often asnot, 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 comesback alone, with a story of excuses. It was summer, and the seasonunfavourable for an escape. Or the prisoners were more strictly guarded. Or he himself was suspected. And he needs more money. His tale may betrue, and you give him more money; and he comes back again, and again hecomes back alone. "

Ethne nodded her head. 

"Exactly. "

Durrance had unconsciously explained to her a point which till now shehad not understood. She was quite sure that Harry Feversham aimed insome way at bringing help to Colonel Trench, but in what way his owncapture was to serve that aim she could not determine. Now sheunderstood: he was to be his own go-between, and her hopes drew strengthfrom this piece of new knowledge. For it was likely that he had laid hisplans with care. He would be very anxious that the second feather shouldcome 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, " shesaid, and again she forced herself to indifference. 

"Easy!" exclaimed Durrance; "no, it would not be easy. A hovel crowdedwith Arabs, without light or air, and the roof perhaps two feet aboveyour head, into which you were locked up from sundown to morning; verylikely the prisoners would have to stand all night in that foul den, soclosely packed would they be. Imagine it, even here in England, on anevening like this! Think what it would be on an August night in theSoudan! Especially if you had memories, say, of a place like this, tomake the torture worse. "

Ethne looked out across that cool garden. At this very moment HarryFeversham might be struggling for breath in that dark and noisome hovel, dry of throat and fevered with the heat, with a vision before his eyesof the grass slopes of Ramelton and with the music of the Lennon Riverliquid in his ears. 

"One would pray for death, " said Ethne, slowly, "unless--" She was onthe point of adding "unless one went there deliberately with a fixedthing to do, " but she cut the sentence short. Durrance carried it on:--

"Unless there was a chance of escape, " he said. "And there is achance--if Feversham is in Omdurman. "

He was afraid that he had allowed himself to say too much about thehorrors of the prison in Omdurman, and he added: "Of course, what I havedescribed to you is mere hearsay and not to be trusted. We have noknowledge. Prisoners may not have such bad times as we think;" andthereupon he let the subject drop. Nor did Ethne mention it again. Itoccurred to her at times to wonder in what way Durrance had understoodher abrupt disappearance from the drawing-room on the night when he hadtold her of his meeting with Harry Feversham. But he never referred toit himself, and she thought it wise to imitate his example. Thenoticeable change in his manner, the absence of that caution which hadso distressed her, allayed her fears. It seemed that he had found forhimself some perfectly simple and natural explanation. At times, too, she asked herself why Durrance had told her of that meeting in WadiHalfa, and of Feversham's subsequent departure to the south. But forthat she found an explanation--a strange explanation, perhaps, but itwas simple enough and satisfactory to her. She believed that the newswas a message of which Durrance was only the instrument. It was meantfor her ears, and for her comprehension alone, and Durrance was bound toconvey it to her by the will of a power above him. His real reason shehad not stayed to hear. 

During the month of September, then, they kept up the pretence. Everymorning when Durrance was in Devonshire he would come across the fieldsto Ethne at The Pool, and Mrs. Adair, watching them as they talked andlaughed without a shadow of embarrassment or estrangement, grew moreangry, and found it more difficult to hold her peace and let thepretence go on. It was a month of strain and tension to all three, andnot one of them but experienced a great relief when Durrance visited hisoculist in London. And those visits increased in number, and lengthenedin duration. Even Ethne was grateful for them. She could throw off themask for a little while; she had an opportunity to be tired; she hadsolitude wherein to gain strength to resume her high spirits uponDurrance'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 weare always together?" she asked herself. But she thrust the questionback unanswered; she dared not look forward, lest even now her strengthshould fail her. 

After the third visit Durrance said to her:--

"Do you remember that I once mentioned a famous oculist at Wiesbaden? Itseems 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 nofear of that. I can rout out some relative to go with me. "

"No; it is on my own account, " answered Durrance. "I shall perhaps haveto go into a home. It is better to be quite quiet and to see no one fora time. "

"You are sure?" Ethne asked. "It would hurt me if I thought you proposedthis plan because you felt I would be happier at Glenalla. "

"No, that is not the reason, " Durrance answered, and he answered quitetruthfully. He felt it necessary for both of them that they shouldseparate. He, no less than Ethne, suffered under the tyranny ofperpetual simulation. It was only because he knew how much store she setupon carrying out her resolve that two lives should not be spoiltbecause of her, that he was able to hinder himself from crying out thathe knew the truth. 

"I am returning to London next week, " he added, "and when I come back Ishall be in a position to tell you whether I am to go to Wiesbaden ornot. "

Durrance had reason to be glad that he had mentioned his plan before thearrival of Calder's telegram from Wadi Halfa. Ethne was unable toconnect his departure from her with the receipt of any news aboutFeversham. The telegram came one afternoon, and Durrance took it acrossto The Pool in the evening and showed it to Ethne. There were only fourwords to the telegram:--

"Feversham imprisoned at Omdurman. "

Durrance, with one of the new instincts of delicacy which had been bornin him lately by reason of his sufferings and the habit of thought, hadmoved away from Ethne's side as soon as he had given it to her, and hadjoined Mrs. Adair, who was reading a book in the drawing-room. He hadfolded up the telegram, besides, so that by the time Ethne had unfoldedit and saw the words, she was alone upon the terrace. She rememberedwhat Durrance had said to her about the prison, and her imaginationenlarged upon his words. The quiet of a September evening was upon thefields, a light mist rose from the creek and crept over the garden bankacross the lawn. Already the prison doors were shut in that hot countryat the junction of the Niles. "He is to pay for his fault ten timesover, then, " she cried, in revolt against the disproportion. "And thefault was his father's and mine too more than his own. For neither of usunderstood. "

She blamed herself for the gift of that fourth feather. She leaned uponthe stone balustrade with her eyes shut, wondering whether Harry wouldoutlive this night, whether he was still alive to outlive it. The verycoolness of the stones on which her hands pressed became the bitterestof reproaches. 

"Something can now be done. "

Durrance was coming from the window of the drawing-room, and spoke as hecame, to warn her of his approach. "He was and is my friend; I cannotleave him there. I shall write to-night to Calder. Money will not bespared. He is my friend, Ethne. You will see. From Suakin or fromAssouan 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 interestin 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'sregiment. 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 greatgulley 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 beenbrought back by Captain Willoughby. It was just possible that ColonelTrench might bring back the second. Harry Feversham had succeeded onceunder great difficulties, in the face of great peril. The peril wasgreater now, the difficulties more arduous to overcome; that she clearlyunderstood. But she took the one success as an augury that anothermight follow it. Feversham would have laid his plans with care; he hadmoney wherewith to carry them out; and, besides, she was a woman ofstrong faith. But she was relieved to know that the sender of the thirdfeather could never be approached. Moreover, she hated him, and therewas an end of the matter. 

Durrance was startled. He was a soldier of a type not so rare as themakers of war stories wish their readers to believe. Hector of Troy washis ancestor; he was neither hysterical in his language nor vindictivein 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 whenoccasion needed and of an unflinching severity, but whose nature wasgentle and compassionate. And this barbaric utterance of Ethne Eustacehe 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, andDurrance did not pass it by unnoticed. He remembered it, and thought itover in his gun-room at Guessens. It added something to the explanationwhich he was building up of Harry Feversham's disgrace anddisappearance. The story was gradually becoming clear to his sharpenedwits. Captain Willoughby's visit and the token he had brought had givenhim the clue. A white feather could mean nothing but an accusation ofcowardice. Durrance could not remember that he had ever detected anysigns of cowardice in Harry Feversham, and the charge startled himperpetually into incredulity. 

But the fact remained. Something had happened on the night of the ballat Lennon House, and from that date Harry had been an outcast. Supposethat a white feather had been forwarded to Lennon House, and had beenopened in Ethne's presence? Or more than one white feather? Ethne hadcome back from her long talk with Willoughby holding that white featheras 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 particularatoned. Ethne's recapture of her youth pointed inevitably to thatconclusion. She treasured the feather because it was no longer a symbolof cowardice but a symbol of cowardice atoned. 

But Harry Feversham had not returned, he still slunk in the world'sby-ways. Willoughby, then, was not the only man who had brought theaccusation; there were others--two others. One of the two Durrance hadlong since identified. When Durrance had suggested that Harry might betaken to Omdurman, Ethne had at once replied, "Colonel Trench is inOmdurman. " She needed no explanation of Harry's disappearance from WadiHalfa into the southern Soudan. It was deliberate; he had gone out to becaptured, to be taken to Omdurman. Moreover, Ethne had spoken of theuntrustworthiness of the go-between, and there again had helped Durrancein his conjectures. There was some obligation upon Feversham to come toTrench's help. Suppose that Feversham had laid his plans of rescue, andhad ventured out into the desert that he might be his own go-between. Itfollowed that a second feather had been sent to Ramelton, and thatTrench had sent it. 

To-night Durrance was able to join Major Castleton to Trench andWilloughby. Ethne's satisfaction at the death of a man whom she did notknow could mean but the one thing. There would be the same obligationresting upon Feversham with regard to Major Castleton if he lived. Itseemed likely that a third feather had come to Lennon House, and thatMajor Castleton had sent it. 

Durrance pondered over the solution of the problem, and more and more hefound it plausible. There was one man who could have told him the truthand who had refused to tell it, who would no doubt still refuse to tellit. But that one man's help Durrance intended to enlist, and to this endhe must come with the story pat upon his lips and no request forinformation. 

"Yes, " he said, "I think that after my next visit to London I can pay avisit to Lieutenant Sutch. "

CHAPTER XXII

DURRANCE LETS HIS CIGAR GO OUT

Captain Willoughby was known at his club for a bore. He was a determinedraconteur of pointless stories about people with whom not one of hisaudience was acquainted. And there was no deterring him, for he did notlisten, he only talked. He took the most savage snub with a vacant andamicable face; and, wrapped in his own dull thoughts, he continued hiscopious monologue. In the smoking-room or at the supper-table he crushedconversation flat as a steam-roller crushes a road. He was quiteirresistible. Trite anecdotes were sandwiched between aphorisms of thecopybook; and whether anecdote or aphorism, all was delivered with theair 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 ofsheer dulness. Only those, however, who did not know him waited longenough; the rest of his fellow-members at his appearance straightwayrose and fled. 

It happened, therefore, that within half an hour of his entrance to hisclub, 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 themost frequented. For he made it a rule to choose the largest group ashis audience. He was sitting in this solitary state one afternoon earlyin October, when the waiter approached him and handed to him a card. 

Captain Willoughby took it with alacrity, for he desired company, andhis acquaintances had all left the club to fulfil the most pressing andimperative 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 whyshould he go out of his way to do so now? It looked as if Durrance hadsomehow 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 beneeded to elude them. Captain Willoughby had no mind to meddle anyfurther in the affairs of Miss Ethne Eustace. Feversham and Durrancemust fight their battle without his intervention. He did not distrusthis powers of diplomacy, but he was not anxious to exert them in thisparticular case, and he looked suspiciously at Durrance as he enteredthe room. Durrance, however, had apparently no questions to ask. Willoughby rose from his chair, and crossing the room, guided hisvisitor 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 mancan't enjoy his tobacco without seeing the smoke of it. If I let mycigar out, I should know at once. But you will see, I shall not let itout. " He lighted his cigar with deliberation and leaned back in hischair. 

"I am lucky to find you, Willoughby, " he continued, "for I am only intown for to-day. I come up every now and then from Devonshire to see myoculist, and I was very anxious to meet you if I could. On my last visitMather told me that you were away in the country. You remember Mather, Isuppose? He was with us in Suakin. "

"Of course, I remember him quite well, " said Willoughby, heartily. Hewas more than willing to talk about Mather; he had a hope that intalking about Mather, Durrance might forget that other matter whichcaused him anxiety. 

"We are both of us curious, " Durrance continued, "and you can clear upthe point we are curious about. Did you ever come across an Arab calledAbou 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 hadheard the name. "No, I never came across him;" and then he stopped. Itoccurred 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 somequestion of the kind. But he kept silent. As a matter of fact, he waswondering 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 agoupon the verandah of the Palace at Suakin. For he had spoken the truth. He never had come across Abou Fatma, although Feversham had spoken ofhim. 

"That makes me still more curious, " Durrance continued. "Mather and Iwere together on the last reconnaissance in '84, and we found Abou Fatmahiding in the bushes by the Sinkat fort. He told us about the Gordonletters 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 Ido remember the name now that you mention the letters. "

"They were brought to you in Suakin fifteen months or so back. Mathershowed me the paragraph in the _Evening Standard_. And I am curious asto whether Abou Fatma returned to Berber and recovered them. But sinceyou 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 todeny all acquaintance with Abou Fatma of the Kabbabish tribe. 

"No; it was not Abou Fatma, " he said, with an awkward sort ofhesitation. He dreaded the next question which Durrance would put tohim. He filled his pipe, pondering what answer he should make to it. ButDurrance put no question at all for the moment. 

"I wondered, " he said slowly. "I thought that Abou Fatma would hardlyreturn to Berber. For, indeed, whoever undertook the job undertook it atthe risk of his life, and, since Gordon was dead, for no very obviousreason. "

"Quite so, " said Willoughby, in a voice of relief. It seemed thatDurrance's curiosity was satisfied with the knowledge that Abou Fatmahad not recovered the letters. "Quite so. Since Gordon was dead, for noreason. "

"For no obvious reason, I think I said, " Durrance remarkedimperturbably. Willoughby turned and glanced suspiciously at hiscompanion, wondering whether, after all, Durrance knew of his visit toKingsbridge and its motive. Durrance, however, smoked his cigar, leaningback in his chair with his face tilted up towards the ceiling. Heseemed, now that his curiosity was satisfied, to have lost interest inthe history of the Gordon letters. At all events, he put no morequestions upon that subject to embarrass Captain Willoughby, and indeedthere was no need that he should. Thinking over the possible way bywhich Harry Feversham might have redeemed himself in Willoughby's eyesfrom the charge of cowardice, Durrance could only hit upon this recoveryof the letters from the ruined wall in Berber. There had been nopersonal danger to the inhabitants of Suakin since the days of that lastreconnaissance. The great troop-ships had steamed between the coralreefs 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 tosay, "Your life was forfeit but for me, whom you call coward. " AndDurrance, turning over in his mind all the news and gossip which hadcome to him at Wadi Halfa or during his furloughs, had been brought toconjecture whether that fugitive from Khartum, who had told him hisstory in the glacis of the silent ruined fort of Sinkat during onedrowsy afternoon of May, had not told it again at Suakin withinFeversham's hearing. He was convinced now that his conjecture wascorrect. 

Willoughby's reticence was in itself a sufficient confirmation. Willoughby, without doubt, had been instructed by Ethne to keep histongue in a leash. Colonel Durrance was prepared for reticence, helooked to reticence as the answer to his conjecture. His trained ear, besides, had warned him that Willoughby was uneasy at his visit andcareful in his speech. There had been pauses, during which Durrance wasas sure as though he had eyes wherewith to see, that his companion wasstaring at him suspiciously and wondering how much he knew, or howlittle. There had been an accent of wariness and caution in his voice, which was hatefully familiar to Durrance's ears, for just with thataccent Ethne had been wont to speak. Moreover, Durrance had settraps, --that remark of his "for no obvious reason, I think I said, " hadbeen one, --and a little start here, or a quick turn there, showed himthat Willoughby had tumbled into them. 

He had no wish, however, that Willoughby should write off to Ethne andwarn her that Durrance was making inquiries. That was a possibility, herecognised, and he set himself to guard against it. 

"I want to tell you why I was anxious to meet you, " he said. "It wasbecause of Harry Feversham;" and Captain Willoughby, who wascongratulating himself that he was well out of an awkward position, fairly jumped in his seat. It was not Durrance's policy, however, tonotice his companion's agitation, and he went on quickly: "Somethinghappened to Feversham. It's more than five years ago now. He didsomething, I suppose, or left something undone, --the secret, at allevents, has been closely kept, --and he dropped out, and his place knewhim 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 towardshis companion. 

"You know that?" exclaimed Willoughby. 

"Yes, for I came across him this Spring at Wadi Halfa, " Durrancecontinued. "He had fallen rather low, " and he told Willoughby of theirmeeting outside of the café of Tewfikieh. "It's strange, isn't it?--aman whom one knew very well going under like that in a second, disappearing before your eyes as it were, dropping plumb out of sight asthough down an oubliette in an old French castle. I want you to look outfor 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 ofmine--one of my few real friends. "

"All right, " said Willoughby, cheerfully. Durrance knew at once from thetone of his voice that suspicion was quieted in him. "I will look outfor 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 tobaccoand sucked at the mouthpiece. 

"Yes, a great friend, " said Durrance. "You and I dined with him in hisflat high up above St. James's Park just before we left England. "

And at that chance utterance Willoughby's briar pipe ceased suddenly tobubble. A moment's silence followed, then Willoughby swore violently, and a second later he stamped upon the carpet. Durrance's imaginationwas kindled by this simple sequence of events, and he straightway madeup 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 otherside of the table Captain Willoughby in another chair. But CaptainWilloughby lighting his pipe and suddenly arrested in the act by asentence spoken without significance, Captain Willoughby staringsuspiciously in his slow-witted way at the blind man's face, until thelighted match, which he had forgotten, burnt down to his fingers, and heswore and dropped it and stamped it out upon the floor. Durrance hadnever given a thought to that dinner till this moment. It was possibleit might deserve much thought. 

"There were you and I and Feversham present, " he went on. "Feversham hadasked us there to tell us of his engagement to Miss Eustace. He had justcome back from Dublin. That was almost the last we saw of him. " He tooka pull at his cigar and added, "By the way, there was a third manpresent. "

"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 andstruck another match and lighted his pipe. As he did so, Durrance laiddown 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 tobetray that, however long the interval since that little dinner inFeversham's rooms, it was at all events still distinct in hisrecollections. 

"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 disgraceand disappearance. Durrance tried to recollect all the details of theevening; but he had been occupied himself on that occasion. Heremembered leaning against the window above St. James's Park; heremembered hearing the tattoo from the parade-ground of WellingtonBarracks--and a telegram had come. 

Durrance made up another picture in his mind. Harry Feversham at thetable reading and re-reading his telegram, Trench and Willoughby waitingsilently, perhaps expectantly, and himself paying no heed, but staringout 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 wasgetting hot in his search. He sat for a while longer talking about theprospects of the Soudan, and then rose up from his chair. 

"Well, I can rely on you, Willoughby, to help Feversham if ever you findhim. Draw on me for money. "

"I will do my best, " said Willoughby. "You are going? I could have won abet off you this afternoon. "

"How?"

"You said that you did not let your cigars go out. This one's stonecold. "

"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 tosee the last of him, but he was fairly satisfied with his own exhibitionof diplomacy. It would have been strange, after all, he thought, if hehad not been able to hoodwink poor old Durrance; and he returned to thesmoking-room and refreshed himself with a whiskey and potass. 

Durrance, however, had not been hoodwinked. The last perplexing questionhad been answered for him that afternoon. He remembered now that nomention had been made at the dinner which could identify the sender ofthe telegram. Feversham had read it without a word, and without a wordhad crumpled it up and tossed it into the fire. But to-day Willoughbyhad told him that it had come from Castleton, and Castleton had beendining with a high official of the War Office. The particular act ofcowardice which had brought the three white feathers to Ramelton waseasy to discern. Almost the next day Feversham had told Durrance in theRow that he had resigned his commission, and Durrance knew that he hadnot resigned it when the telegram came. That telegram could have broughtonly one piece of news, that Feversham's regiment was ordered on activeservice. The more Durrance reflected, the more certain he felt that hehad at last hit upon the truth. Nothing could be more natural than thatCastleton should telegraph his good news in confidence to his friends. Durrance had the story now complete, or rather, the sequence of factscomplete. For why Feversham should have been seized with panic, why heshould have played the coward the moment after he was engaged to EthneEustace--at a time, in a word, when every manly quality he possessedshould have been at its strongest and truest, remained for Durrance, andindeed, was always to remain, an inexplicable problem. But he put thatquestion aside, classing it among the considerations which he had learntto estimate as small and unimportant. The simple and true thing--thething of real importance--emerged definite and clear: Harry Fevershamwas atoning for his one act of cowardice with a full and an overflowingmeasure of atonement. 

"I shall astonish old Sutch, " he thought, with a chuckle. He took thenight mail into Devonshire the same evening, and reached his home beforemidday. 

CHAPTER XXIII

MRS. ADAIR MAKES HER APOLOGY

Within the drawing-room at The Pool, Durrance said good-bye to Ethne. Hehad so arranged it that there should be little time for thatleave-taking, and already the carriage stood at the steps of Guessens, with his luggage strapped upon the roof and his servant waiting at thedoor. 

Ethne came out with him on to the terrace, where Mrs. Adair stood at thetop of the flight of steps. Durrance held out his hand to her, but sheturned 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 toDurrance. "You will write from Wiesbaden? Soon, please!"

"The moment I arrive, " answered Durrance. He descended the steps withMrs. Adair, and left Ethne standing upon the terrace. The last scene ofpretence had been acted out, the months of tension and surveillance hadcome to an end, and both were thankful for their release. Durranceshowed that he was glad even in the briskness of his walk, as he crossedthe lawn at Mrs. Adair's side. She, however, lagged, and when she spokeit was in a despondent voice. 

"So you are going, " she said. "In two days' time you will be atWiesbaden and Ethne at Glenalla. We shall all be scattered. It will belonely here. "

She had had her way; she had separated Ethne and Durrance for a time atall events; she was no longer to be tortured by the sight of them andthe sound of their voices; but somehow her interference had brought herlittle satisfaction. "The house will seem very empty after you are allgone, " she said; and she turned at Durrance's side and walked down withhim into the garden. 

"We shall come back, no doubt, " said Durrance, reassuringly. 

Mrs. Adair looked about her garden. The flowers were gone, and thesunlight; clouds stretched across the sky overhead, the green of thegrass underfoot was dull, the stream ran grey in the gap between thetrees, and the leaves from the branches were blown russet and yellowabout 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 meanything. "

Durrance did not answer her, and she resented his silence. She knewnothing whatever of his plans; she was unaware whether he meant to breakhis engagement with Ethne or to hold her to it, and curiosity consumedher. It might be a very long time before she saw him again, and all thatlong time she must remain tortured with doubts. 

"You distrust me?" she said defiantly, and with a note of anger in hervoice. 

Durrance answered her quite gently:--

"Have I no reason to distrust you? Why did you tell me of CaptainWilloughby'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 couldI go on keeping silence? Don't you understand?"

"No. "

Durrance might have understood, but he had never given much thought toMrs. Adair, and she knew it. The knowledge rankled within her, and hissimple "no" stung her beyond bearing. 

"I spoke brutally, didn't I?" she said. "I told you the truth asbrutally as I could. Doesn't that help you to understand?"

Again Durrance said "No, " and the monosyllable exasperated her out ofall prudence, and all at once she found herself speaking incoherentlythe things which she had thought. And once she had begun, she could notstop. She stood, as it were, outside of herself, and saw that her speechwas madness; yet she went on with it. 

"I told you the truth brutally on purpose. I was so stung because youwould not see what was so visible had you only the mind to see. I wantedto hurt you. I am a bad, bad woman, I suppose. There were you and she inthe room talking together in the darkness; there was I alone upon theterrace. It was the same again to-day. You and Ethne in the room, Ialone upon the terrace. I wonder whether it will always be so. But youwill not say--you will not say. " She struck her hands together with agesture of despair, but Durrance had no words for her. He walkedsilently along the garden path towards the stile, and he quickened hispace 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 notdeterred by it. Her madness had taken hold of her. 

"I do not think I would have minded so much, " she continued, "if Ethnehad really cared for you; but she never cared more than as a friendcares, just a mere friend. And what's friendship worth?" she askedscornfully. 

"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 areblind. 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 wasglad; when I saw you in Hill Street, I was glad; ever since, I have beenglad--quite glad. Because I saw that she shrank. From the beginning sheshrank, thinking how her life would be hampered and fettered, " and thescorn of Mrs. Adair's voice increased, though her voice itself was sunkto a whisper. "I am not afraid, " she said, and she repeated the wordspassionately again and again. "I am not afraid. I am not afraid. "

To Durrance it seemed that in all his experience nothing so horrible hadever 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 wasall. She wrote out of pity; and, having written, she was afraid of whatshe had done; and being afraid, she had not courage to tell you she wasafraid. 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 hesitationsand timidities. He knew, too, that the other explanation was the trueone. 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 wasnot worth while to argue against Mrs. Adair's slanders. Besides, he wasclose upon the stile which separated the garden of The Pool from thefields. Once across that stile, he would be free of Mrs. Adair. Hecontented himself with saying quietly:--

"You are not just to Ethne. "

At that simple utterance the madness of Mrs. Adair went from her. Sherecognised the futility of all that she had said, of her boastings ofcourage, 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 herdegradation, and she fell to excuses. 

"I am a bad woman, I suppose. But after all, I have not had the happiestof lives. Perhaps there is something to be said for me. " It soundedpitiful and weak, even in her ears; but they had reached the stile, andDurrance had turned towards her. She saw that his face lost something ofits sternness. He was standing quietly, prepared now to listen to whatshe might wish to say. He remembered that in the old days when he couldsee, he had always associated her with a dignity of carriage and areticence of speech. It seemed hardly possible that it was the samewoman who spoke to him now, and the violence of the contrast made himready to believe that there must be perhaps something to be said on herbehalf. 

"Will you tell me?" he said gently. 

"I was married almost straight from school. I was the merest girl. Iknew nothing, and I was married to a man of whom I knew nothing. It wasmy mother's doing, and no doubt she thought that she was acting for thevery best. She was securing for me a position of a kind, and comfort andrelease from any danger of poverty. I accepted what she said blindly, ignorantly. I could hardly have refused, indeed, for my mother was animperious woman, and I was accustomed to obedience. I did as she told meand 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, nodoubt, 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 youunderstand. At the beginning I was contented, I suppose. I had a housein town and another here. But it was dull, " and she stretched out herarms. "Oh, how dull it was! Do you know the little back streets in amanufacturing town? Rows of small houses, side by side, with nothing torelieve 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 andblack. The sort of street whence any crazy religious charlatan who canpromise a little colour to their grey lives can get as many votaries ashe wants. Well, when I thought over my life, one of those little streetsalways came into my mind. There are women, heaps of them, no doubt, towhom the management of a big house, the season in London, the ordinaryround of visits, are sufficient. I, worse luck, was not one of them. Dull! You, with your hundred thousand things to do, cannot conceive howoppressively dull my life was. And that was not all!" She hesitated, butshe could not stop midway, and it was far too late for her to recoverher ground. She went on to the end. 

"I married, as I say, knowing nothing of the important things. Ibelieved 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 wassomething more to be won out of existence than mere dulness; at least, that there was something more for others, though not for me. One couldnot 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, andfrom the happiness of her looks and voice one knew with absolutecertainty that there was ever so much more. Only the chance of thatever so much more my mother had denied to me. "

All the sternness had now gone from Durrance's face, and Mrs. Adair wasspeaking with a great simplicity. Of the violence which she had usedbefore there was no longer any trace. She did not appeal for pity, shewas not even excusing herself; she was just telling her story quietlyand gently. 

"And then you came, " she continued. "I met you, and met you again. Youwent away upon your duties and you returned; and I learnt now, not thatthere 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 Ifelt happier. I thought that I should be quite content to have you for afriend, to watch your progress, and to feel pride in it. But yousee--Ethne came, too, and you turned to her. At once--oh, at once! Ifyou had only been a little less quick to turn to her! In a very shortwhile I was sad and sorry that you had ever come into my life. "

"I knew nothing of this, " said Durrance. "I never suspected. I amsorry. "

"I took care you should not suspect, " said Mrs. Adair. "But I tried tokeep you; with all my wits I tried. No match-maker in the world everworked so hard to bring two people together as I did to bring togetherEthne and Mr. Feversham, and I succeeded. "

The statement came upon Durrance with a shock. He leaned back againstthe stile and could have laughed. Here was the origin of the whole sadbusiness. From what small beginnings it had grown! It is a tritereflection, but the personal application of it is apt to take away thebreath. It was so with Durrance as he thought himself backwards intothose days when he had walked on his own path, heedless of the peoplewith whom he came in touch, never dreaming that they were at that momentinfluencing his life right up to his dying day. Feversham's disgrace andruin, Ethne's years of unhappiness, the wearying pretences of the lastfew months, all had their origin years ago when Mrs. Adair, to keepDurrance to herself, threw Feversham and Ethne into each other'scompany. 

"I succeeded, " continued Mrs. Adair. "You told me that I had succeededone morning in the Row. How glad I was! You did not notice it, I amsure. The next moment you took all my gladness from me by telling me youwere starting for the Soudan. You were away three years. They were nothappy years for me. You came back. My husband was dead, but Ethne wasfree. Ethne refused you, but you went blind and she claimed you. You cansee what ups and downs have fallen to me. But these months here havebeen the worst. "

"I am very sorry, " said Durrance. Mrs. Adair was quite right, hethought. There was indeed something to be said on her behalf. The worldhad gone rather hardly with her. He was able to realise what she hadsuffered, since he was suffering in much the same way himself. It wasquite intelligible to him why she had betrayed Ethne's secret that nightupon the terrace, and he could not but be gentle with her. 

"I am very sorry, Mrs. Adair, " he repeated lamely. There was nothingmore 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 crossedthe fields to his house. 

Mrs. Adair stood by that stile for a long while after he had gone. Shehad shot her bolt and hit no one but herself and the man for whom shecared. 

She realised that distinctly. She looked forward a little, too, and sheunderstood that if Durrance did not, after all, keep Ethne to herpromise and marry her and go with her to her country, he would come backto Guessens. That reflection showed Mrs. Adair yet more clearly thefolly of her outcry. If she had only kept silence, she would have had avery true and constant friend for her neighbour, and that would havebeen something. It would have been a good deal. But, since she hadspoken, they could never meet without embarrassment, and, practisecordiality as they might, there would always remain in their minds therecollection of what she had said and he had listened to on theafternoon when he left for Wiesbaden. 

CHAPTER XXIV

ON THE NILE

It was a callous country inhabited by a callous race, thought Calder, ashe travelled down the Nile from Wadi Halfa to Assouan on his threemonths' furlough. He leaned over the rail of the upper deck of thesteamer and looked down upon the barge lashed alongside. On the lowerdeck of the barge among the native passengers stood an angareb, [2]whereon was stretched the motionless figure of a human being shrouded ina black veil. The angareb and its burden had been carried on board earlythat morning at Korosko by two Arabs, who now sat laughing andchattering in the stern of the barge. It might have been a dead man or adead woman who lay still and stretched out upon the bedstead, so littleheed did they give to it. Calder lifted his eyes and looked to his rightand his left across glaring sand and barren rocks shaped roughly intothe hard forms of pyramids. The narrow meagre strip of green close bythe water's edge upon each bank was the only response which the Soudanmade to Spring and Summer and the beneficent rain. A callous countryinhabited by a callous people. 

[Footnote 2: The native bedstead of matting woven across a four-leggedframe. ]

Calder looked downwards again to the angareb upon the barge's deck andthe figure lying upon it. Whether it was man or woman he could nottell. The black veil lay close about the face, outlining the nose, thehollows of the eyes and the mouth; but whether the lips wore a moustacheand the chin a beard, it did not reveal. 

The slanting sunlight crept nearer and nearer to the angareb. Thenatives seated close to it moved into the shadow of the upper deck, butno one moved the angareb, and the two men laughing in the stern gave nothought to their charge. Calder watched the blaze of yellow light creepover the black recumbent figure from the feet upwards. It burnt at lastbright and pitiless upon the face. Yet the living creature beneath theveil never stirred. The veil never fluttered above the lips, the legsremained 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 notthink 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 lifeand death are written and will inevitably befall after the manner of thewriting. That man lying so quiet beneath the black covering had probablyat the beginning suffered nothing more serious than a bruise, which afew simple remedies would have cured within a week. But he had beenallowed to lie, even as he lay upon the angareb, at the mercy of thesun and the flies, unwashed, unfed, and with his thirst unslaked. Thebruise had become a sore, the sore had gangrened, and when all remedieswere too late, the Egyptian Mudir of Korosko had discovered the accidentand sent the man on the steamer down to Assouan. But, familiar thoughthe story was, Calder could not dismiss it from his thoughts. Theimmobility of the sick man upon the native bedstead in a way fascinatedhim, and when towards sunset a strong wind sprang up and blew againstthe stream, he felt an actual comfort in the knowledge that the sick manwould gain some relief from it. And when his neighbour that evening atthe dinner table spoke to him with a German accent, he suddenly askedupon an impulse:--

"You are not a doctor by any chance?"

"Not a doctor, " said the German, "but a student of medicine at Bonn. Icame from Cairo to see the Second Cataract, but was not allowed to gofarther than Wadi Halfa. "

Calder interrupted him at once. "Then I will trespass upon your holidayand claim your professional assistance. "

"For yourself? With pleasure, though I should never have guessed youwere ill, " said the student, smiling good-naturedly behind hiseyeglasses. 

"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 weeksago, and I know these people. No one will have touched him since he washurt. The sight will not be pretty. This is not a nice country foruntended 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 theupper deck. 

The wind had freshened during the dinner, and, blowing up stream, hadraised waves so that the steamer and its barge tossed and the waterbroke on board. 

"He was below there, " said the student, as he leaned over the rail andpeered 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 fromthe centre of the upper deck, glimmered and threw uncertain lights anduncertain shadows over a small circle. Beyond the circle all was blackdarkness, except at the bows, where the water breaking on board flung awhite sheet of spray. It could be seen like a sprinkle of snow driven bythe 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. Thereis no one in the bows. "

Calder bent his head downwards and stared into the darkness for a littlewhile 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 deckof the steamer and went to the side. He could make certain now. Theangareb stood in a wash of water on the very spot to which at Calder'sorder it had been moved that morning. And on the angareb the figurebeneath the black covering lay as motionless as ever, as inexpressive oflife 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 theGerman student climbed across the bulwarks on to the barge. He summonedthe 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 thewound. "

The two men hesitated, and then one of them with an air of insolenceobjected. "There are doctors in Assouan, whither we are taking him. "

Calder raised the lantern and himself drew the veil away from off thewounded man. "Now if you please, " he said to his companion. The Germanstudent made his examination of the wounded thigh, while Calder held thelantern above his head. As Calder had predicted, it was not a pleasantbusiness; for the wound crawled. The German student was glad to cover itup again. 

"I can do nothing, " he said. "Perhaps, in a hospital, with baths anddressings--! Relief will be given at all events; but more? I do notknow. Here I could not even begin to do anything at all. Do these twomen understand English?"

"No, " answered Calder. 

"Then I can tell you something. He did not get the hurt by falling outof any palm tree. That is a lie. The injury was done by the blade of aspear or some weapon of the kind. "

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. "

Calder bent down suddenly towards the Arab on the angareb. Although henever moved, the man was conscious. Calder had been looking steadily athim, 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 comprehensioncame 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 tellwas a great eagerness to answer. Calder dropped upon his knee close bythe 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 onstill more eagerly. 

"You were wounded there? No. Where then? At Berber? Yes. You were inprison at Omdurman and escaped? No. Yet you were wounded. "

Calder sank back upon his knee and reflected. His reflections roused inhim some excitement. He bent down to the Arab's ear and spoke in a lowerkey. 

"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 eachname 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 ampledged to help Effendi Feversham, " he said, but in vain. The Arab couldnot speak, he could not so much as tell his name, and his companionswould not. Whatever those two men knew or suspected, they had no mind tomeddle in the matter themselves, and they clung consistently to a storywhich absolved them from responsibility. Kinsmen of theirs in Korosko, hearing that they were travelling to Assouan, had asked them to takecharge of the wounded man, who was a stranger to them, and they hadconsented. Calder could get nothing more explicit from them than thisstatement, however closely he questioned them. He had under his hand theinformation which he desired, the news of Harry Feversham for whichDurrance asked by every mail, but it was hidden from him in a lockedbook. He stood beside the helpless man upon the angareb. There he was, eager enough to speak, but the extremity of weakness to which he hadsunk laid a finger upon his lips. All that Calder could do was to seehim safely bestowed within the hospital at Assouan. "Will he recover?"Calder asked, and the doctors shook their heads in doubt. There was achance perhaps, a very slight chance; but at the best, recovery would beslow. 

Calder continued upon his journey to Cairo and Europe. An opportunity ofhelping Harry Feversham had slipped away; for the Arab who could noteven speak his name was Abou Fatma of the Kabbabish tribe, and hispresence wounded and helpless upon the Nile steamer between Korosko andAssouan meant that Harry Feversham's carefully laid plan for the rescueof 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 ofFeversham from the one man who possessed it, stepped into a carriage ofthe train at Assouan, Lieutenant Sutch was driving along a high whiteroad of Hampshire across a common of heather and gorse; and he too wastroubled on Harry Feversham's account. Like many a man who lives muchalone, Lieutenant Sutch had fallen into the habit of speaking histhoughts aloud. And as he drove slowly and reluctantly forward, morethan once he said to himself: "I foresaw there would be trouble. Fromthe 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 ofpines to a little railway station. The sight of the rails gleamingbright in the afternoon sunlight, and the telegraph poles running awayin a straight line until they seemed to huddle together in the distance, increased Sutch's discomposure. He reined his pony in, and sat staringwith a frown at the red-tiled roof of the station building. 

"I promised Harry to say nothing, " he said; and drawing some makeshiftof comfort from the words, repeated them, "I promised faithfully in theCriterion grill-room. "

The whistle of an engine a long way off sounded clear and shrill. Itroused Lieutenant Sutch from his gloomy meditations. He saw the whitesmoke of an approaching train stretch out like a riband in the distance. 

"I wonder what brings him, " he said doubtfully; and then with an effortat courage, "Well, it's no use shirking. " He flicked the pony with hiswhip and drove briskly down the hill. He reached the station as thetrain drew up at the platform. Only two passengers descended from thetrain. They were Durrance and his servant, and they came out at once onto the road. Lieutenant Sutch hailed Durrance, who walked to the side ofthe 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 toDurrance's ears belied the heartiness of the words. Durrance, however, was prepared for a reluctant welcome, and he had purposely sent histelegram at the last moment. Had he given an address, he suspected thathe might have received a refusal of his visit. And his suspicion wasaccurate enough. The telegram, it is true, had merely announcedDurrance's visit, it had stated nothing of his object; but its despatchwas 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 HarryFeversham, those inquiries which Sutch was on no account to answer, which he must parry all this afternoon and night. But he saw Durrancefeeling about with his raised foot for the step of the trap, and thefact of his visitor's blindness was brought home to him. He reached outa hand, and catching Durrance by the arm, helped him up. After all, hethought, it would not be difficult to hoodwink a blind man. Ethneherself had had the same thought and felt much the same relief as Sutchfelt now. The lieutenant, indeed, was so relieved that he found room foran impulse of pity. 

"I was very sorry, Durrance, to hear of your bad luck, " he said, as hedrove off up the hill. "I know what it is myself to be suddenly stoppedand put aside just when one is making way and the world is smoothingitself out, though my wound in the leg is nothing in comparison to yourblindness. I don't talk to you about compensations and patience. That'sthe gabble of people who are comfortable and haven't suffered. _We_ knowthat for a man who is young and active, and who is doing well in acareer where activity is a necessity, there are no compensations if hiscareer's suddenly cut short through no fault of his. "

"Through no fault of his, " repeated Durrance. "I agree with you. It isonly the man whose career is cut short through his own fault who getscompensations. "

Sutch glanced sharply at his companion. Durrance had spoken slowly andvery thoughtfully. Did he mean to refer to Harry Feversham, Sutchwondered. Did he know enough to be able so to refer to him? Or was itmerely 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 isbrought up short, stopped in his career, perhaps disgraced. " Sutchstarted a little at the word. "Yes, perhaps--disgraced, " Durrancerepeated. "Well, the shock of the disgrace is, after all, hisopportunity. Don't you see that? It's his opportunity to know himself atlast. Up to the moment of disgrace his life has all been sham andillusion; the man he believed himself to be, he never was, and now atthe last he knows it. Once he knows it, he can set about to retrieve hisdisgrace. Oh, there are compensations for such a man. You and I know acase in point. "

Sutch no longer doubted that Durrance was deliberately referring toHarry Feversham. He had some knowledge, though how he had gained itSutch could not guess. But the knowledge was not to Sutch's idea quiteaccurate, and the inaccuracy did Harry Feversham some injustice. It wason that account chiefly that Sutch did not affect any ignorance as toDurrance's allusion. The passage of the years had not diminished hisgreat regard for Harry; he cared for him indeed with a woman'sconcentration of love, and he could not endure that his memory should beslighted. 

"The case you and I know of is not quite in point, " he argued. "You arespeaking of Harry Feversham. "

"Who believed himself a coward, and was not one. He commits the faultwhich stops his career, he finds out his mistake, he sets himself to thework 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 Iknow, but I thought for the moment it was your view--that Harry fanciedhimself to be a brave man and was suddenly brought up short bydiscovering that he was a coward. But how did you find out? No one knewthe 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 notknow of the determination to retrieve it. "

"She knows now, " said Durrance; and he added sharply, "You are glad ofthat--very glad. "

Sutch was not aware that by any movement or exclamation he had betrayedhis pleasure. His face, no doubt, showed it clearly enough, but Durrancecould not see his face. Lieutenant Sutch was puzzled, but he did notdeny the imputation. 

"It is true, " he said stoutly. "I am very glad that she knows. I canquite see that from your point of view it would be better if she did notknow. But I cannot help it. I am very glad. "

Durrance laughed, and not at all unpleasantly. "I like you the betterfor 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 sixweeks ago. He brought with him a white feather which he gave to MissEustace, as a proof that he withdrew his charge of cowardice againstHarry Feversham. "

Sutch stopped the pony in the middle of the road. He no longer troubledto conceal the joy which this good news caused him. Indeed, he forgotaltogether Durrance's presence at his side. He sat quite silent andstill, with a glow of happiness upon him, such as he had never known inall his life. He was an old man now, well on in his sixties; he hadreached an age when the blood runs slow, and the pleasures are of a greysober kind, and joy has lost its fevers. But there welled up in hisheart 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 steamaway into darkness and rain, and had prayed that he might live untilthis great moment should come. And he had lived and it had come. Hisheart was lifted up in gratitude. It seemed to him that there was agreat burst of sunlight across the world, and that the world itself hadsuddenly grown many-coloured and a place of joys. Ever since the nightwhen he had stood outside the War Office in Pall Mall, and HarryFeversham had touched him on the arm and had spoken out his despair, Lieutenant Sutch had been oppressed with a sense of guilt. Harry wasMuriel Feversham's boy, and Sutch just for that reason should havewatched him and mothered him in his boyhood since his mother was dead, and fathered him in his youth since his father did not understand. Buthe had failed. He had failed in a sacred trust, and he had imaginedMuriel Feversham's eyes looking at him with reproach from the barrier ofthe 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 Icould only see and not help, surely you might have helped. Just for mysake 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 HarryFeversham's own act. The news was not altogether unexpected, but thelightness of spirit which he felt showed him how much he had countedupon its coming. 

"I knew, " he exclaimed, "I knew he wouldn't fail. Oh, I am glad you cameto-day, Colonel Durrance. It was partly my fault, you see, that HarryFeversham ever incurred that charge of cowardice. I could havespoken--there was an opportunity on one of the Crimean nights at BroadPlace, and a word might have been of value--and I held my tongue. I havenever ceased to blame myself. I am grateful for your news. You have theparticulars? Captain Willoughby was in peril, and Harry came to hisaid?"

"No, it was not that exactly. "

"Tell me! Tell me!"

He feared to miss a word. Durrance related the story of the Gordonletters, and their recovery by Feversham. It was all too short forLieutenant Sutch. 

"Oh, but I am glad you came, " he cried. 

"You understand at all events, " said Durrance, "that I have not come torepeat to you the questions I asked in the courtyard of my club. I amable, on the contrary, to give you information. "

Sutch spoke to the pony and drove on. He had said nothing which couldreveal to Durrance his fear that to renew those questions was theobject of his visit; and he was a little perplexed at the accuracy ofDurrance's conjecture. But the great news to which he had listenedhindered him from giving thought to that perplexity. 

"So Miss Eustace told you the story, " he said, "and showed you thefeather?"

"No, indeed, " replied Durrance. "She said not a word about it, she nevershowed me the feather, she even forbade Willoughby to hint of it, shesent him away from Devonshire before I knew that he had come. You aredisappointed at that, " he added quickly. 

Lieutenant Sutch was startled. It was true he was disappointed; he wasjealous of Durrance, he wished Harry Feversham to stand first in thegirl's thoughts. It was for her sake that Harry had set about hisdifficult and perilous work. Sutch wished her to remember him as heremembered her. Therefore he was disappointed that she did not at oncecome with her news to Durrance and break off their engagement. It wouldbe 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 hehad brought a white feather, and that Ethne had taken it from him. Nevermind by whom. That gave me a clue. I lay in wait for Willoughby inLondon. He is not very clever; he tried to obey Ethne's command ofsilence, but I managed to extract the information I wanted. The rest ofthe story I was able to put together by myself. Ethne now and then wasoff her guard. You are surprised that I was clever enough to find outthe 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, thatDurrance continually guessed with so singular an accuracy; still it wasuncomfortable. 

"I have said nothing which could in any way suggest that I wassurprised, " he said testily. 

"That is quite true, but you are none the less surprised, " continuedDurrance. "I don't blame you. You could not know that it is only since Ihave 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 orgot out at your station. Well, I can tell you that you have driven me upa hill between forests of pines, and are now driving me across opencountry 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. Ihave never heard quite that sound except when the wind blows acrossheather. "

He turned the conversation back to Harry Feversham and hisdisappearance, and the cause of his disappearance. He made no mention, Sutch remarked, of the fourth white feather which Ethne herself hadadded to the three. But the history of the three which had come by thepost 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 ordinaryofficers, one rather shrewd, the second quite commonplace, the thirddistinctly stupid. I saw them going quietly about the routine of theirwork. It seems quite strange to me now. There should have been some markset upon them, setting them apart as the particular messengers of fate. But there was nothing of the kind. They were just ordinary prosaicregimental officers. Doesn't it seem strange to you, too? Here were menwho could deal out misery and estrangement and years of suffering, without so much as a single word spoken, and they went about theirbusiness, and you never knew them from other men until a long whileafterwards some consequence of what they did, and very likely haveforgotten, rises up and strikes you down. "

"Yes, " said Sutch. "That thought has occurred to me. " He fell towondering again what object had brought Durrance into Hampshire, sincehe did not come for information; but Durrance did not immediatelyenlighten him. They reached the lieutenant's house. It stood alone bythe roadside looking across a wide country of downs. Sutch took Durranceover his stable and showed him his horses, he explained to him thearrangement of his garden and the grouping of his flowers. StillDurrance said nothing about the reason of his visit; he ceased to talkof Harry Feversham and assumed a great interest in the lieutenant'sgarden. But indeed the interest was not all pretence. These two men hadsomething in common, as Sutch had pointed out at the moment of theirmeeting--the abrupt termination of a promising career. One of the twowas old, the other comparatively young, and the younger man was mostcurious to discover how his elder had managed to live through thedragging profitless years alone. The same sort of lonely life laystretched out before Durrance, and he was anxious to learn whatalleviations could be practised, what small interests could bediscovered, how best it could be got through. 

"You don't live within sight of the sea, " he said at last as they stoodtogether, after making the round of the garden, at the door. 

"No, I dare not, " said Sutch, and Durrance nodded his head in completesympathy and comprehension. 

"I understand. You care for it too much. You would have the fullknowledge of your loss presented to your eyes each moment. "

They went into the house. Still Durrance did not refer to the object ofhis visit. They dined together and sat over their wine alone. StillDurrance did not speak. It fell to Lieutenant Sutch to recur to thesubject of Harry Feversham. A thought had been gaining strength in hismind all that afternoon, and since Durrance would not lead up to itsutterance, he spoke it out himself. 

"Harry Feversham must come back to England. He has done enough to redeemhis honour. "

Harry Feversham's return might be a little awkward for Durrance, andLieutenant Sutch with that notion in his mind blurted out his sentencesawkwardly, but to his surprise Durrance answered him at once. 

"I was waiting for you to say that. I wanted you to realise without anysuggestion of mine that Harry must return. It was with that object thatI came. "

Lieutenant Sutch's relief was great. He had been prepared for anobjection, at the best he only expected a reluctant acquiescence, and inthe greatness of his relief he spoke again:--

"His return will not really trouble you or your wife, since Miss Eustacehas forgotten him. "

Durrance shook his head. 

"She has not forgotten him. "

"But she kept silence, even after Willoughby had brought the featherback. You told me so this afternoon. She said not a word to you. Sheforbade Willoughby to tell you. "

"She is very true, very loyal, " returned Durrance. "She has pledgedherself to me, and nothing in the world, no promise of happiness, nothought of Harry, would induce her to break her pledge. I know her. ButI know too that she only plighted herself to me out of pity, because Iwas blind. I know that she has not forgotten Harry. "

Lieutenant Sutch leaned back in his chair and smiled. He could havelaughed outright. He asked for no details, he did not doubt Durrance'swords. He was overwhelmed with pride in that Harry Feversham, in spiteof 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 toa human being. The nobler she was, the greater was his pride that HarryFeversham still retained her heart. Lieutenant Sutch fairly revelled inthis 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 wasreally acquainted with Harry Feversham, it was only an occasion of greatgladness. Durrance would have to get out of the way, of course, but thenhe should never have crossed Harry Feversham's path. Sutch was cruelwith the perfect cruelty of which love alone is capable. 

"You are very glad of that, " said Durrance, quietly. "Very glad thatEthne has not forgotten him. It is a little hard on me, perhaps, whohave not much left. It would have been less hard if two years ago youhad told me the whole truth, when I asked it of you that summer eveningin the courtyard of the club. "

Compunction seized upon Lieutenant Sutch. The gentleness with whichDurrance 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 thatnight at the club, if he had related Feversham's story, Durrance wouldhave been spared a great deal. 

"I couldn't!" he exclaimed. "I promised Harry in the most solemn waythat I would tell no one until he came back himself. I was sorelytempted to tell you, but I had given my word. Even if Harry never cameback, if I obtained sure knowledge that he was dead, even then I wasonly to tell his father, and even his father not all that could be toldon 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 thecatch and raised the sash. For some little while he stood by the openwindow, silent, undecided. Durrance plainly did not know of the fourthfeather broken off from Ethne's fan, he had not heard the conversationbetween himself and Feversham in the grill-room of the CriterionRestaurant. There were certain words spoken by Harry upon that occasionwhich it seemed fair Durrance should now hear. Compunction and pity badeSutch repeat them, his love of Harry Feversham enjoined him to hold histongue. He could plead again that Harry had forbidden him speech, butthe plea would be an excuse and nothing more. He knew very well thatwere Harry present, Harry would repeat them, and Lieutenant Sutch knewwhat harm silence had already done. He mastered his love in the end andcame back to the table. 

"There is something which it is fair you should know, " he said. "WhenHarry went away to redeem his honour, if the opportunity should come, hehad no hope, indeed he had no wish, that Miss Eustace should wait forhim. She was the spur to urge him, but she did not know even that. Hedid not wish her to know. He had no claim upon her. There was not even ahope in his mind that she might at some time be his friend--in thislife, at all events. When he went away from Ramelton, he parted fromher, according to his thought, for all his mortal life. It is fair thatyou should know that. Miss Eustace, you tell me, is not the woman towithdraw from her pledged word. Well, what I said to you that eveningat the club I now repeat. There will be no disloyalty to friendship ifyou marry Miss Eustace. "

It was a difficult speech for Lieutenant Sutch to utter, and he was veryglad when he had uttered it. Whatever answer he received, it was rightthat the words should be spoken, and he knew that, had he refrained fromspeech, he would always have suffered remorse for his silence. None theless, however, he waited in suspense for the answer. 

"It is kind of you to tell me that, " said Durrance, and he smiled at thelieutenant with a great friendliness. "For I can guess what the wordscost 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 ofview. Marriage between a man blind like myself and any woman, let aloneEthne, could not be fair or right unless upon both sides there was morethan 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 yetdone 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 Ihave followed all these three men's careers--Trench is a prisoner inOmdurman. "

"So is Harry Feversham. "

Sutch stared at his visitor. For a moment he did not understand, theshock had been too sudden and abrupt. Then after comprehension dawnedupon him, he refused to believe. The folly of that refusal in its turnbecame apparent. He sat down in his chair opposite to Durrance, awedinto 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. Iwill give you a letter to Willoughby, who is Deputy-Governor, andanother to a Greek merchant there whom I know, and on whom you can drawfor as much money as you require. "

"That's good of you, Durrance, upon my word, " Sutch interrupted; andforgetting that he was talking to a blind man he held out his handacross the table. "I would not take a penny if I could help it; but I ama poor man. Upon my soul it's good of you. "

"Just listen to me, please, " said Durrance. He could not see theoutstretched hand, but his voice showed that he would hardly have takenit 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 theGreek merchant's advice and organise a rescue as best you can. It willbe a long business, and you will have many disappointments before yousucceed. But you must stick to it until you do. "

Upon that the two men fell to a discussion of the details of the lengthof time which it would take for a message from Suakin to be carriedinto Omdurman, of the untrustworthiness of some Arab spies, and of therisks which the trustworthy ran. Sutch's house was searched for maps, the various routes by which the prisoners might escape were described byDurrance--the great forty days' road from Kordofan on the west, thestraight track from Omdurman to Berber and from Berber to Suakin, andthe desert journey across the Belly of Stones by the wells of Murat toKorosko. It was late before Durrance had told all that he thoughtnecessary and Sutch had exhausted his questions. 

"You will stay at Suakin as your base of operations, " said Durrance, ashe closed up the maps. 

"Yes, " answered Sutch, and he rose from his chair. "I will start as soonas 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 andMiss Eustace know how the attempt progresses. "

"Let me know, " said Durrance, "but not a whisper of it to Ethne. Sheknows nothing of my plan, and she must know nothing until Fevershamcomes back himself. She has her point of view, as I have mine. Two livesshall not be spoilt because of her. That's her resolve. She believesthat to some degree she was herself the cause of Harry Feversham'sdisgrace--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 lifespoilt because of her. Suppose now I go to her and say: 'I know that youpretend out of your charity and kindness to care for me, but in yourheart you are no more than my friend, ' why, I hurt her, and cruelly. Forthere's all that's left of the second life spoilt too. But bring backFeversham! Then I can speak--then I can say freely: 'Since you are justmy friend, I would rather be your friend and nothing more. So neitherlife will be spoilt at all. '"

"I understand, " said Sutch. "It's the way a man should speak. So tillFeversham 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 tobring him home, you go back to her. "

"No, " said Durrance, "I can't go back. The strain of keeping up thepretence was telling too much on both of us. I go to Wiesbaden. Anoculist lives there who serves me for an excuse. I shall wait atWiesbaden until you bring Harry home. "

Sutch opened the door, and the two men went out into the hall. Theservants had long since gone to bed. A couple of candlesticks stood upona table beside a lamp. More than once Lieutenant Sutch had forgottenthat his visitor was blind, and he forgot the fact again. He lightedboth candles and held out one to his companion. Durrance knew from thenoise of Sutch's movements what he was doing. 

"I have no need of a candle, " he said with a smile. The light fell fullupon 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, andfurrows in the cheeks. His hair was grey as an old man's hair. Durrancehad himself made so little of his misfortune this evening that Sutch hadrather 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 ofthe candle, framed in the darkness of the hall, it showed white anddrawn and haggard--the face of an old worn man set upon the stalwartshoulders of a man in the prime of his years. 

"I have said very little to you in the way of sympathy, " said Sutch. "Idid not know that you would welcome it. But I am sorry. I am verysorry. "

"Thanks, " said Durrance, simply. He stood for a moment or two silentlyin front of his host. "When I was in the Soudan, travelling through thedeserts, I used to pass the white skeletons of camels lying by the sideof 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 dropsand dies with the load upon his back. It seemed to me, even in thosedays, the right and enviable way to finish. You can imagine how I mustenvy 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 themorning. He roused the household, packed and repacked his clothes, andmade such a bustle and confusion that everything to be done took twiceits ordinary time in the doing. There never had been so much noise andflurry in the house during all the thirty years of Lieutenant Sutch'sresidence. His servants could not satisfy him, however quickly theyscuttled about the passages in search of this or that forgotten articleof his old travelling outfit. Sutch, indeed, was in a boyish fever ofexcitement. It was not to be wondered at, perhaps. For thirty years hehad lived inactive--on the world's half-pay list, to quote his ownphrase; and at the end of all that long time, miraculously, somethinghad fallen to him to do--something important, something which neededenergy and tact and decision. Lieutenant Sutch, in a word, was to beemployed again. He was feverish to begin his employment. He dreaded theshort interval before he could begin, lest some hindrance shouldunexpectedly occur and relegate him again to inactivity. 

"I shall be ready this afternoon, " he said briskly to Durrance as theybreakfasted. "I shall catch the night mail to the Continent. We mightgo 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. Idid not think of it until I was in bed last night. You put it into myhead. "

"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 hiscompanion. "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 stillredeeming it. You said last night that you were bound by a promise notto tell him anything of his son's intention, or even of his son'ssuccess until the son returned himself. But I am bound by no promise. Ithink such a promise bears hardly on the general. There is nothing inthe world which could pain him so much as the proof that his son was acoward. Harry might have robbed and murdered. The old man would havepreferred him to have committed both these crimes. I shall cross intoSurrey 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, ofcourse. He will be very glad that Harry has atoned his disgrace, but hewill never understand why he incurred it. And, after all, he will onlybe glad because the family honour is restored. "

"I don't agree, " said Durrance. "I believe the old man is rather fond ofhis son, though to be sure he would never admit it. I rather likeGeneral Feversham. "

Lieutenant Sutch had seen very little of General Feversham during thelast five years. He could not forgive him for his share in theresponsibility of Harry Feversham's ruin. Had the general been capableof sympathy with and comprehension of the boy's nature, the whitefeathers would never have been sent to Ramelton. Sutch pictured the oldman sitting sternly on his terrace at Broad Place, quite unaware that hewas himself at all to blame, and on the contrary, rather inclined topose as a martyr, in that his son had turned out a shame and disgrace toall the dead Fevershams whose portraits hung darkly on the high walls ofthe hall. Sutch felt that he could never endure to talk patiently withGeneral Feversham, and he was sure that no argument would turn thatstubborn man from his convictions. He had not troubled at all toconsider whether the news which Durrance had brought should be handed onto 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 aninstinct of self-preservation, that's all, " said Durrance. "Selfishnessis the natural and encroaching fault of the blind. I know that, so I amcareful to guard against it. "

He travelled accordingly that morning by branch lines from Hampshireinto Surrey, and came to Broad Place in the glow of the afternoon. General Feversham was now within a few months of his eightieth year, andthough his back was as stiff and his figure as erect as on that nightnow so many years ago when he first presented Harry to his Crimeanfriends, he was shrunken in stature, and his face seemed to have grownsmall. Durrance had walked with the general upon his terrace only twoyears ago, and blind though he was, he noticed a change within thisinterval of time. Old Feversham walked with a heavier step, and therehad come a note of puerility into his voice. 

"You have joined the veterans before your time, Durrance, " he said. "Iread of it in a newspaper. I would have written had I known where towrite. "

If he had any suspicion of Durrance's visit, he gave no sign of it. Herang the bell, and tea was brought into the great hall where theportraits hung. He asked after this and that officer in the Soudan withwhom 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 sameman who walked with me on my terrace two years ago. "

The general had never been remarkable for tact, and the solitary life heled had certainly brought no improvement. Durrance could have counteredwith 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 HarryFeversham. I will not discuss him. "

He spoke in his usual hard and emotionless voice. He might have beenspeaking of a stranger. Even the name was uttered without the slightesthint of sorrow. Durrance began to wonder whether the fountains ofaffection 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 GeneralFeversham answered:--

"Not in the least, Colonel Durrance. "

The answer was uncompromising, but Durrance relied upon the pause whichpreceded it. 

"Nor on what business he has been engaged?" he continued. 

"I am not interested in the smallest degree. I do not wish him tostarve, and my solicitor tells me that he draws his allowance. I amcontent with that knowledge, Colonel Durrance. "

"I will risk your anger, General, " said Durrance. "There are times whenit 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 toyou the history of your son and my friend since he disappeared fromEngland. "

General Feversham laughed. 

"Of course, I can't turn you out of the house, " he said; and he addedseverely, "But I warn you that you are taking an improper advantage ofyour position as my guest. "

"Yes, there is no doubt of that, " Durrance answered calmly; and he toldhis story--the recovery of the Gordon letters from Berber, his ownmeeting with Harry Feversham at Wadi Halfa, and Harry's imprisonment atOmdurman. He brought it down to that very day, for he ended with thenews of Lieutenant Sutch's departure for Suakin. General Feversham heardthe whole account without an interruption, without even stirring in hischair. Durrance could not tell in what spirit he listened, but he drewsome comfort from the fact that he did listen and without argument. 

For some while after Durrance had finished, the general sat silent. Heraised his hand to his forehead and shaded his eyes as though the manwho 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 thoseportraits on the walls that he was capable even of so natural a weaknessas joy at the reconquest of honour by his son. 

"What I don't understand, " he said slowly, "is why Harry ever resignedhis commission. I could not understand it before; I understand it evenless now since you have told me of his great bravery. It is one of thequeer inexplicable things. They happen, and there's all that can besaid. 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, butfor my part I do not see why Harry should not come home and enter inagain to all that he lost. "

"He cannot regain everything, " said Feversham. "It is not right that heshould. He committed the sin, and he must pay. He cannot regain hiscareer for one thing. "

"No, that is true; but he can find another. He is not yet so old butthat 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. Helooked quickly at Durrance; he opened his mouth to ask a question, butchanged his mind. 

"Well, " he said briskly, and as though the matter were of no particularimportance, "if Sutch can manage Harry's escape from Omdurman, I see noreason, either, why he should not come home. "

Durrance rose from his chair. "Thank you, General. If you can have medriven 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 shouldhave been very glad if you could have stayed, " he said, turning toDurrance. "I see very few people nowadays. To tell the truth I have nogreat 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. Ihad no heart for them, " he said slowly. For a second the mask was liftedand his stern features softened. He had suffered much during these fivelonely years of his old age, though not one of his acquaintances up tothis moment had ever detected a look upon his face or heard a sentencefrom his lips which could lead them so to think. He had shown astubborn front to the world; he had made it a matter of pride that noone should be able to point a finger at him and say, "There's a manstruck down. " But on this one occasion and in these few words herevealed to Durrance the depth of his grief. Durrance understood howunendurable the chatter of his friends about the old days of war in thesnowy trenches would have been. An anecdote recalling some particularact of courage would hurt as keenly as a story of cowardice. The wholehistory of his lonely life at Broad Place was laid bare in that simplestatement that there had been no Crimean nights for he had no heart forthem. 

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 Omdurmanwill 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 aquestion which he had it in his mind to ask, but the question wasdelicate. He stood uneasily on the steps of the house. 

"Didn't I hear, Durrance, " he said with an air of carelessness, "thatyou were engaged to Miss Eustace?"

"I think I said that Harry would regain all that he had lost except hiscareer, " said Durrance. 

He stepped into the carriage and drove off to the station. His work wasended. There was nothing more for him now to do, except to wait atWiesbaden and pray that Sutch might succeed. He had devised the plan, itremained for those who had eyes wherewith to see to execute it. 

General Feversham stood upon the steps looking after the carriage untilit disappeared among the pines. Then he walked slowly back into thehall. "There is no reason why he should not come back, " he said. Helooked up at the pictures. The dead Fevershams in their uniforms wouldnot 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 cityremote among the sands began to loom very large on his mind. He owned tohimself that he felt very tired and old, and many times that night herepeated his prayer, "Please God, Harry will come back soon, " as he saterect upon the bench which had once been his wife's favourite seat, andgazed 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 Houseof Stone in Omdurman. Only a thorn zareeba as yet enclosed that noisomeprison and the space about it. It stood upon the eastern border of thetown, surely the most squalid capital of any empire since the worldbegan. Not a flower bloomed in a single corner. There was no grass northe 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 withvermin and poisoned with disease. 

Between the prison and the Nile no houses stood, and at this time theprisoners were allowed, so long as daylight lasted, to stumble in theirchains down the half-mile of broken sloping earth to the Nile bank, sothat they might draw water for their use and perform their ablutions. For the native or the negro, then, escape was not so difficult. Foralong that bank the dhows were moored and they were numerous; the rivertraffic, such as there was of it, had its harbour there, and the wideforeshore made a convenient market-place. Thus the open space betweenthe river and the House of Stone was thronged and clamorous all day, captives rubbed elbows with their friends, concerted plans of escape, orthen and there slipped into the thickest of the crowd and made theirway to the first blacksmith, with whom the price of iron outweighed anyrisk he took. But even on their way to the blacksmith's shop, theirfetters called for no notice in Omdurman. Slaves wore them as a dailyhabit, and hardly a street in all that long brown treeless squalid citywas ever free from the clink of a man who walked in chains. 

But for the European escape was another matter. There were not so manywhite prisoners but that each was a marked man. Besides relays of camelsstationed through the desert, much money, long preparations, and aboveall, devoted natives who would risk their lives, were the firstnecessities for their evasion. The camels might be procured andstationed, but it did not follow that their drivers would remain at thestations; the long preparations might be made and the whip of the gaoleroverset them at the end by flogging the captive within an inch of hislife, on a suspicion that he had money; the devoted servant might shrinkat the last moment. Colonel Trench began to lose all hope. His friendswere working for him, he knew. For at times the boy who brought his foodinto the prison would bid him be ready; at times, too, when at someparade of the Khalifa's troops he was shown in triumph as an emblem ofthe destiny of all the Turks, a man perhaps would jostle against hiscamel and whisper encouragements. But nothing ever came of theencouragements. He saw the sun rise daily beyond the bend of the riverbehind the tall palm trees of Khartum and burn across the sky, and themonths dragged one after the other. 

On an evening towards the end of August, in that year when Durrancecame home blind from the Soudan, he sat in a corner of the enclosurewatching the sun drop westwards towards the plain with an agony ofanticipation. For however intolerable the heat and burden of the day, itwas as nothing compared with the horrors which each night renewed. Themoment of twilight came and with it Idris es Saier, the great negro ofthe Gawaamah tribe, and his fellow-gaolers. 

"Into the House of Stone!" he cried. 

Praying and cursing, with the sound of the pitiless whips fallingperpetually upon the backs of the hindmost, the prisoners jostled andstruggled at the narrow entrance to the prison house. Already it wasoccupied by some thirty captives, lying upon the swamped mud floor orsupported against the wall in the last extremities of weakness anddisease. Two hundred more were driven in at night and penned there tillmorning. The room was perhaps thirty feet square, of which four feetwere occupied by a solid pillar supporting the roof. There was no windowin the building; a few small apertures near the roof made a pretence ofgiving air, and into this foul and pestilent hovel the prisoners werepacked, screaming and fighting. The door was closed upon them, utterdarkness replaced the twilight, so that a man could not distinguish eventhe outlines of the heads of the neighbours who wedged him in. 

Colonel Trench fought like the rest. There was a corner near the doorwhich he coveted at that moment with a greater fierceness of desire thanhe 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, thebruises of his neighbour's shackles; he would have, too, a supportagainst which to lean his back during the ten interminable hours ofsuffocation. 

"If I were to fall! If I were to fall!"

That fear was always with him when he was driven in at night. It workedin him like a drug producing madness. For if a man once went down amidthat yelling, struggling throng, he never got up again--he was trampledout of shape. Trench had seen such victims dragged from the prison eachmorning; and he was a small man. Therefore he fought for his corner in afrenzy like a wild beast, kicking with his fetters, thrusting with hiselbows, diving under this big man's arm, burrowing between two others, tearing at their clothes, using his nails, his fists, and even strikingat 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 forbreath; the rest of the night he would spend in holding it against allcomers. 

"If I were to fall!" he gasped. "O God, if I were to fall!" and heshouted aloud to his neighbour--for in that clamour nothing less than ashout 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 theHadendoas, and Trench, a friendship born of their common necessities hadsprung up. There were no prison rations at Omdurman; each captive wasdependent upon his own money or the charity of his friends outside. ToTrench from time to time there came money from his friends, broughtsecretly into the prison by a native who had come up from Assouan orSuakin; 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 tothe Mahdist faith, or starved with such patience as he could. There weretimes, too, when Ibrahim had no friend to send him his meal into theprison. And thus each man helped the other in his need. They stood sideby side against the wall at night. 

"Yes, Effendi, I am here, " and groping with his hand in the blackdarkness, he steadied Trench against the wall. 

A fight of even more than common violence was raging in an extremecorner of the prison, and so closely packed were the prisoners that witheach advance of one combatant and retreat of the other, the wholejostled crowd swayed in a sort of rhythm, from end to end, from side toside. But they swayed, fighting to keep their feet, fighting even withtheir teeth, and above the din and noise of their hard breathing, theclank of their chains, and their imprecations, there rose now and then awild sobbing cry for mercy, or an inhuman shriek, stifled as soon asuttered, which showed that a man had gone down beneath the stampingfeet. Missiles, too, were flung across the prison, even to the foulearth gathered from the floor, and since none knew from what quarterthey were flung, heads were battered against heads in the effort toavoid them. And all these things happened in the blackest darkness. 

For two hours Trench stood in that black prison ringing with noise, rankwith heat, and there were eight hours to follow before the door would beopened and he could stumble into the clean air and fall asleep in thezareeba. He stood upon tiptoe that he might lift his head above hisfellows, but even so he could barely breathe, and the air he breathedwas moist and sour. His throat was parched, his tongue was swollen inhis mouth and stringy like a dried fig. It seemed to him that theimagination of God could devise no worse hell than the House of Stone onan August night in Omdurman. It could add fire, he thought, but onlyfire. 

"If I were to fall!" he cried, and as he spoke his hell was madeperfect, for the door was opened. Idris es Saier appeared in theopening. 

"Make room, " he cried, "make room, " and he threw fire among theprisoners to drive them from the door. Lighted tufts of dried grassblazed in the darkness and fell upon the bodies of the prisoners. Thecaptives were so crowded they could not avoid the missiles; in places, even, they could not lift their hands to dislodge them from theirshoulders or their heads. 

"Make room, " cried Idris. The whips of his fellow-gaolers enforced hiscommand, the lashes fell upon all within reach, and a little space wascleared within the door. Into that space a man was flung and the doorclosed again. 

Trench was standing close to the door; in the dim twilight which camethrough the doorway he had caught a glimpse of the new prisoner, a manheavily ironed, slight of figure, and bent with suffering. 

"He will fall, " he said, "he will fall to-night. God! if I were to!" andsuddenly the crowd swayed against him, and the curses rose louder andshriller than before. 

The new prisoner was the cause. He clung to the door with his faceagainst the panels, through the chinks of which actual air might come. Those behind plucked him from his vantage, jostled him, pressed himbackwards that they might take his place. He was driven as a wedge isdriven by a hammer, between this prisoner and that, until at last he wasflung against Colonel Trench. 

The ordinary instincts of kindness could not live in the nightmare ofthat prison house. In the daytime, outside, the prisoners were oftendrawn together by their bond of a common misery; the faithful as oftenas not helped the infidel. But to fight for life during the hours ofdarkness without pity or cessation was the one creed and practice of theHouse of Stone. Colonel Trench was like the rest. The need to live, ifonly long enough to drink one drop of water in the morning and draw oneclean mouthful of fresh air, was more than uppermost in his mind. It wasthe only thought he had. 

"Back!" he cried violently, "back, or I strike!"--and, as he wrestled tolift his arm above his head that he might strike the better, he heardthe 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 swayedagain and the shrill cries and curses rose again, deafening the ears, piercing the brain, Trench supported his companion, and bending down hishead caught again after so many months the accent of his own tongue. Andthe 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, whichhad been spoken to him, which he had spoken to others--as a matter ofcourse. In the House of Stone they sounded most wonderful. They had amagic, too. Meadows of grass, cool skies, and limpid rivers rose in greyquiet pictures before his mind. For a moment he was insensible to hisparched throat, to the stench of that prison house, to the oppressiveblackness. But he felt the man whom he supported totter and slip, andagain he cried to Ibrahim:--

"If he were to fall!"

Ibrahim helped as only he could. Together they fought and wrestled untilthose about them yielded, crying:--

"Shaitan! They are mad!"

They cleared a space in that corner and, setting the Englishman downupon 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 lullof 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 wellapart and guarded Trench and his new friend. 

Bending his head, Trench could now hear the words. They were the wordsof a man in delirium, spoken in a voice of great pleading. He wastelling some tale of the sea, it seemed. 

"I saw the riding lights of the yachts--and the reflections shorteningand lengthening as the water rippled--there was a band, too, as wepassed the pier-head. What was it playing? Not the overture--and I don'tthink that I remember any other tune.... " And he laughed with a crazychuckle. "I was always pretty bad at appreciating music, wasn't I?except when you played, " and again he came back to the sea. "There wasthe line of hills upon the right as the boat steamed out of the bay--youremember there were woods on the hillside--perhaps you have forgotten. Then came Bray, a little fairyland of lights close down by the water atthe point of the ridge ... You remember Bray, we lunched there once ortwice, just you and I, before everything was settled ... It seemedstrange to be steaming out of Dublin Bay and leaving you a long way offto the north among the hills ... Strange and somehow not quite right ... For that was the word you used when the morning came behind theblinds--it is not right that one should suffer so much pain ... Theengines didn't stop, though, they just kept throbbing and revolving andclanking as though nothing had happened whatever ... One felt a littleangry about that ... The fairyland was already only a sort of goldenblot behind ... And then nothing but sea and the salt wind ... And thethings to be done. "

The man in his delirium suddenly lifted himself upon an elbow, and withthe other hand fumbled in his breast as though he searched forsomething. "Yes, the things to be done, " he repeated in a mumblingvoice, and he sank to unintelligible whisperings, with his head fallenupon his breast. 

Trench put an arm about him and raised him up. But he could do nothingmore, and even to him, crouched as he was close to the ground, thenoisome heat was almost beyond endurance. In front, the din of shrillvoices, the screams for pity, the swaying and struggling, went on inthat appalling darkness. In one corner there were men singing in a madfrenzy, in another a few danced in their fetters, or rather tried todance; in front of Trench Ibrahim maintained his guard; and besideTrench there lay in the House of Stone, in the town beyond the world, aman who one night had sailed out of Dublin Bay, past the riding lanternsof the yachts, and had seen Bray, that fairyland of lights, dwindle to agolden blot. To think of the sea and the salt wind, the sparkle of lightas the water split at the ship's bows, the illuminated deck, perhaps thesound of a bell telling the hour, and the cool dim night about andabove, so wrought upon Trench that, practical unimaginative creature ashe was, for very yearning he could have wept. But the stranger at hisside began to speak again. 

"It is funny that those three faces were always the same ... The man inthe tent with the lancet in his hand, and the man in the back room offPiccadilly ... And mine. Funny and not quite right. No, I don't thinkthat was quite right either. They get quite big, too, just when you aregoing to sleep in the dark--quite big, and they come very close to youand won't go away ... They rather frighten one.... " And he suddenlyclung to Trench with a close, nervous grip, like a boy in an extremityof fear. And it was in the tone of reassurance that a man might use to aboy 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 comeout of his boyhood, and was rehearsing some interview which was to takeplace in the future. 

"Will you take it back?" he asked, with a great deal of hesitation andtimidity. "Really? The others have, all except the man who died atTamai. And you will too!" He spoke as though he could hardly believesome piece of great good fortune which had befallen him. Then his voicechanged to that of a man belittling his misfortunes. "Oh, it hasn't beenthe best of times, of course. But then one didn't expect the best oftimes. And at the worst, one had always the afterwards to look forwardto ... Supposing one didn't run.... I'm not sure that when the wholething's balanced, it won't come out that you have really had the worsttime. I know you ... It would hurt you through and through, pride andheart and everything, and for a long time just as much as it hurt thatmorning when the daylight came through the blinds. And you couldn't doanything! And you hadn't the afterwards to help you--you weren't lookingforward to it all the time as I was ... It was all over and done withfor you ... " and he lapsed again into mutterings. 

Colonel Trench's delight in the sound of his native tongue had now givenplace 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 thecab-stand in the southwest corner of St. James's Square: "I am aninquisitive, methodical person, " he had said, and he had not describedhimself amiss. Here was a life history, it seemed, being unfolded to hisears, and not the happiest of histories, perhaps, indeed, withsomething of tragedy at the heart of it. Trench began to speculate uponthe meaning of that word "afterwards, " which came and went among thewords 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 werehaving their effect. Trench bent his head again to his companion and nowheard more clearly. 

"I saw your light that morning ... You put it out suddenly ... Did youhear my step on the gravel?... I thought you did, it hurt rather, " andthen he broke out into an emphatic protest. "No, no, I had no idea thatyou would wait. I had no wish that you should. Afterwards, perhaps, Ithought, but nothing more, upon my word. Sutch was quite wrong.... Ofcourse there was always the chance that one might come to griefoneself--get killed, you know, or fall ill and die--before one asked youto take your feather back; and then there wouldn't even have been achance 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 anyaction of his own. He was more curious than ever about that"afterwards"; he began to have a glimmering of its meaning, and he wasstruck with wonderment at the thought of how many men there were goingabout the world with a calm and commonplace demeanour beneath whichwere hidden quaint fancies and poetic beliefs, never to be so much assuspected, until illness deprived the brain of its control. 

"No, one of the reasons why I never said anything that night to youabout what I intended was, I think, that I did not wish you to wait orhave any suspicion of what I was going to attempt. " And thenexpostulation ceased, and he began to speak in a tone of interest. "Doyou know, it has only occurred to me since I came to the Soudan, but Ibelieve that Durrance cared. "

The name came with something of a shock upon Trench's ears. This manknew Durrance! He was not merely a stranger of Trench's blood, but heknew 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 samesquare with him, perhaps, at Tokar, or Tamai, or Tamanieb, just as Trenchhad done! And so Trench's curiosity as to the life history in its turngave place to a curiosity as to the identity of the man. He tried tosee, knowing that in that black and noisome hovel sight was impossible. He might hear, though, enough to be assured. For if the stranger knewDurrance, it might be that he knew Trench as well. Trench listened; thesound of the voice, high pitched and rambling, told him nothing. Hewaited 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, thathis new-found compatriot, this friend of Durrance, in his deliriumimagined himself to be speaking--a woman named Ethne. Trench couldrecall no such name; but the voice in the dark went on. 

"All the time when I was proposing to send in my papers, after thetelegram had come, he stood at the window of my rooms with his back tome, looking out across the park. I fancied he blamed me. But I think nowhe 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 Durrancestanding by a window with his back to the room. He remembered a telegramcoming which took a long while in the reading--which diffused among allexcept Durrance an inexplicable suspense. He remembered, too, a man whospoke of his betrothal and of sending in his papers. But surely thiscould not be the man. Was the woman's name Ethne? A woman ofDonegal--yes; and this man had spoken of sailing out of Dublin Bay--hehad 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 amud-walled city, and an intolerable sun burning upon a wide round ofdesert, and a man who lay there all the day with his linen robe drawnover his head, and slowly drew one face towards him across threethousand miles, until at sunset it was near, and he took courage andwent down into the gate. And after that, four words stabbed Trench. 

"Three little white feathers, " were the words. Trench leaned backagainst the wall. It was he who had devised that message. "Three littlewhite feathers, " the voice repeated. "This afternoon we were under theelms 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 featherscame. "Harry, " she had said. "Do you remember, Harry?" Trench wascertain. 

"Feversham!" he cried. "Feversham!" And he shook the man whom he heldin his arms and called to him again. "Under the elms by the LennonRiver--" Visions of green shade touched with gold, and of the sunlightflickering between the leaves, caught at Trench and drew him like amirage in that desert of which Feversham had spoken. Feversham had beenunder the elms of the Lennon River on that afternoon before the featherscame, and he was in the House of Stone at Omdurman. But why? Trench askedhimself 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 sandhillswhich continually shifted and danced about him as he ran, so that hecould 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. "AbouFatma!" he cried, and the cry was the cry of a man whose throat isparched, and whose limbs fail beneath him. "Abou Fatma! Abou Fatma!" Hestumbled as he ran, picked himself up, ran and stumbled again; and abouthim the deep soft sand piled itself into pyramids, built itself intolong slopes and ridges, and levelled itself flat with an extraordinaryand a malicious rapidity. "Abou Fatma!" cried Feversham, and he began toargue in a weak obstinate voice. "I know the wells are here--closeby--within half a mile. I know they are--I know they are. "

The clue to that speech Trench had not got. He knew nothing ofFeversham's adventure at Berber; he could not tell that the wells werethe Wells of Obak, or that Feversham, tired with the hurry of histravelling, and after a long day's march without water, had lost his wayamong the shifting sandhills. But he did know that Willoughby had takenback his feather, and he made a guess as to the motive which had broughtFeversham now to the House of Stone. Even on that point, however, he wasnot to remain in doubt; for in a while he heard his own name uponFeversham's lips. 

Remorse seized upon Colonel Trench. The sending of the feathers had beenhis invention and his alone. He could not thrust the responsibility ofhis invention upon either Willoughby or Castleton; it was just hisdoing. He had thought it rather a shrewd and clever stroke, heremembered at the time--a vengeance eminently just. Eminently just, nodoubt, it was, but he had not thought of the woman. He had not imaginedthat she might be present when the feathers came. He had indeed almostforgotten 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 himtalk. Now Feversham was lurking in the bazaar at Suakin and during thesiege. 

"During the siege, " thought Trench. "While we were there, then, he washerding 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 witha zither, in the company of some itinerant musicians, hiding from anywho might remember him and accuse him with his name. Trench heard of aman slipping out from Wadi Halfa, crossing the Nile and wandering withthe assumed manner of a lunatic southwards, starving and waterless, until one day he was snapped up by a Mahdist caravan and dragged toDongola as a spy. And at Dongola things had happened of which the meremention made Trench shake. He heard of leather cords which had beenbound about the prisoner's wrists, and upon which water had been poureduntil the cords swelled and the wrists burst, but this was among theminor 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 andthe good daylight. He stood up and with Ibrahim's help protected thisnew comrade until the eager rush was past. Then he supported him outinto the zareeba. Worn, wasted in body and face, with a rough beardstraggled upon his chin, and his eyes all sunk and very bright, it wasstill Harry Feversham. Trench laid him down in a corner of the zareebawhere 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 itback. As he poured it down Feversham's throat, Feversham seemed for amoment to recognise him. But it was only for a moment, and theincoherent tale of his adventures began again. Thus, after five years, and for the first time since Trench had dined as Feversham's guest inthe high rooms overlooking St. James's Park, the two men met in theHouse of Stone. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

PLANS OF ESCAPE

For three days Feversham rambled and wandered in his talk, and for threedays Trench fetched him water from the Nile, shared his food with him, and ministered to his wants; for three nights, too, he stood withIbrahim and fought in front of Feversham in the House of Stone. But onthe fourth morning Feversham waked to his senses and, looking up, withhis own eyes saw bending over him the face of Trench. At first the faceseemed part of his delirium. It was one of those nightmare faces whichhad used to grow big and had come so horribly close to him in the darknights of his boyhood as he lay in bed. He put out a weak arm and thrustit aside. But he gazed about him. He was lying in the shadow of theprison house, and the hard blue sky above him, the brown bare trampledsoil on which he lay, and the figures of his fellow-prisoners draggingtheir chains or lying prone upon the ground in some extremity ofsickness gradually conveyed their meaning to him. He turned to Trench, caught at him as if he feared the next moment would snatch him out ofreach, and then he smiled. 

"I am in the prison at Omdurman, " he said, "actually in the prison! Thisis 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. ToTrench the words, the tone of satisfaction in which they were uttered, sounded like some sardonic piece of irony. A man who plumed himself uponindifference to pain and pleasure--who posed as a being of so muchexperience that joy and trouble could no longer stir a pulse or cause afrown, and who carried his pose to perfection--such a man, thoughtTrench, might have uttered Feversham's words in Feversham's voice. ButFeversham was not that man; his delirium had proved it. Thesatisfaction, then, was genuine, the words sincere. The peril of Dongolawas past, he had found Trench, he was in Omdurman. That prison house washis longed-for goal, and he had reached it. He might have been danglingon a gibbet hundreds of miles away down the stream of the Nile with thevultures perched upon his shoulders, the purpose for which he livedquite unfulfilled. But he was in the enclosure of the House of Stone inOmdurman. 

"You have been here a long while, " he said. 

"Three years. "

Feversham looked round the zareeba. "Three years of it, " he murmured. "Iwas afraid that I might not find you alive. "

Trench nodded. 

"The nights are the worst, the nights in there. It's a wonder any manlives through a week of them, yet I have lived through a thousandnights. " And even to him who had endured them his endurance seemedincredible. "A thousand nights of the House of Stone!" he exclaimed. 

"But we may go down to the Nile by daytime, " said Feversham, and hestarted up with alarm as he gazed at the thorn zareeba. "Surely we areallowed 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 bowlof 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 amanner 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 inobedience to Trench's warning. 

"But they cannot understand what we say, " he objected in a voice fromwhich the excitement had suddenly gone. 

"They can see that we talk together and earnestly. Idris would know ofit within the hour, the Khalifa before sunset. There would be heavierfetters 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 gotogether down to the Nile. "

Trench lay down beside Feversham and in a moment was asleep. Fevershamwatched him, and saw, now that his features were relaxed, the marks ofthose three years very plainly in his face. It was towards noon beforehe 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 orwives of the prisoners entered. At once that enclosure became a cage ofwild beasts. The gaolers took their dole at the outset. Little more ofthe "aseeda"--that moist and pounded cake of dhurra which was the staplediet of the town--than was sufficient to support life was allowed toreach 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 everycorner men gaunt and thin as skeletons hopped and leaped as quickly asthe weight of their chains would allow them towards the entrance. Hereone weak with starvation tripped and fell, and once fallen lay prone ina 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 fromtheir hands, though the whips of the gaolers laid their backs open. There were thirty gaolers to guard that enclosure, each armed with hisrhinoceros-hide courbatch, but this was the one moment in each day whenthe courbatch was neither feared, nor, as it seemed, felt. 

Among the food-bearers a boy sheltered himself behind the rest and gazedirresolutely about the zareeba. It was not long, however, before he wasdetected. He was knocked down, and his food snatched from his hands; butthe boy had his lungs, and his screams brought Idris-es-Saier himselfupon 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 thecorner where Feversham lay. The boy advanced, holding out his emptyhands as though explaining how it was that he brought no food. But hecame quite close, and squatting at Feversham's side continued to explainwith words. And as he spoke he loosed a gazelle skin which was fastenedabout his waist beneath his jibbeh, and he let it fall by Feversham'sside. The gazelle skin contained a chicken, and upon that Feversham andTrench breakfasted and dined and supped. An hour later they were allowedto pass out of the zareeba and make their way to the Nile. They walkedslowly 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 unloadingdhows, others were paddling knee-deep in the muddy water. The shore wascrowded with men screaming and shouting and excited for no reasonwhatever. 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 WadiHalfa with a zither. I know. But you were captured by your owndeliberate 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, " andFeversham looked about him suddenly in alarm, "Very much, " continuedTrench. "You came to join me because five years ago I sent you a whitefeather. "

"And was that all I told you?" asked Feversham, anxiously. 

"No, " Trench replied, and he dragged out the word. He sat up whileFeversham lay on his side, and he looked towards the Nile in front ofhim, holding his head between his hands, so that he could not see or beseen by Feversham. "No, that was not all--you spoke of a girl, the samegirl of whom you spoke when Willoughby and Durrance and I dined with youin London a long while ago. I know her name now--her Christian name. Shewas with you when the feathers came. I had not thought of thatpossibility. She gave you a fourth feather to add to our three. I amsorry. "

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 presentwhen 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 aswell. For without her presence, without that fourth feather snapped fromher fan, I might have given up there and then. Who knows? I doubt if Icould have stood up to the three long years in Suakin. I used to see youand 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'tthink how the mere routine of a regiment to which one had becomeaccustomed, and which one cursed heartily enough when one had to put upwith it, appealed as something very desirable. I could so easily haverun away. I could so easily have slipped on to a boat and gone back toSuez. 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, Isaw you, but I was careful that you should not see me. I doubt if Icould have endured it without the recollection of that night atRamelton, without the feel of the fourth feather to keep therecollection actual and recent in my thoughts. I should never have gonedown from Obak into Berber. I should certainly never have joined you inOmdurman. "

Trench turned quickly towards his companion. 

"She would be glad to hear you say that, " he said. "I have no doubt sheis 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 besorry. I don't blame you, or her, " and in his turn Feversham was silentand looked towards the river. The air was shrill with cries, the shorewas thronged with a motley of Arabs and negroes, dressed in their longrobes of blue and yellow and dirty brown; the work of unloading thedhows went busily on; across the river and beyond its fork the palmtrees of Khartum stood up against the cloudless sky; and the sun behindthem was moving down to the west. In a few hours would come the horrorsof the House of Stone. But they were both thinking of the elms by theLennon River and a hall of which the door stood open to the cool nightand which echoed softly to the music of a waltz, while a girl and a manstood with three white feathers fallen upon the floor between them; theone man recollected, the other imagined, the picture, and to both ofthem it was equally vivid. Feversham smiled at last. 

"Perhaps she has now seen Willoughby; perhaps she has now taken hisfeather. "

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 hadstruggled up in his hopeless breast during the three days and nights ofhis watch, a hope which he had striven to repress for very fear lest itmight prove false, sprang to life. 

"Not yet, --then you _have_ a plan for our escape, " and the anxietyreturned to Feversham's face. 

"I said nothing of it, " he pleaded, "tell me that! When I was deliriousin the prison there, I said nothing of it, I breathed no word of it? Itold you of the four feathers, I told you of Ethne, but of the plan foryour escape I said nothing. "

"Not a single word. So that I myself was in doubt, and did not dare tobelieve, " and Feversham's anxiety died away. He had spoken with his handtrembling upon Trench's arm, and his voice itself had trembled withalarm. 

"You see if I spoke of that in the House of Stone, " he exclaimed, "Imight have spoken of it in Dongola. For in Dongola as well as inOmdurman I was delirious. But I didn't, you say--not here, at allevents. So perhaps not there either. I was afraid that I should--how Iwas afraid! There was a woman in Dongola who spoke some English--verylittle, but enough. She had been in the 'Kauneesa' of Khartum whenGordon ruled there. She was sent to question me. I had unhappy times inDongola. "

Trench interrupted him in a low voice. "I know. You told me things whichmade me shiver, " and he caught hold of Feversham's arm and thrust theloose sleeve back. Feversham's scarred wrists confirmed the tale. 

"Well, I felt myself getting light-headed there, " he went on. "I made upmy mind that of your escape I must let no hint slip. So I tried to thinkof something else with all my might, when I was going off my head. " Andhe 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. Hehad paid no heed to Feversham's last words. He had dared now to give hishopes their way. 

"So it's true, " he said in a quiet wondering voice. "There will be amorning 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 thebrink 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 askedeagerly. 

"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, wherefresh camels wait, from Metemneh to Berber. There we cross the Nile;camels are waiting for us five miles from Berber. From Berber we ride inover 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 camelfor 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 ablue linen dress, loitering between us and the gaol. As we came pasthim, he made me a sign. I did not return it. I shall return it on theday when we escape. "

"He will wait?"

"For a month. We must manage on one night during that month to escapefrom the House of Stone. We can signal him to bring help. A passagemight be made in one night through that wall; the stones are looselybuilt. "

They walked a little farther and came to the water's edge. There amidthe crowd they spoke again of their escape, but with the air of menamused at what went on about them. 

"There is a better way than breaking through the wall, " said Trench, andhe uttered a laugh as he spoke and pointed to a prisoner with a greatload upon his back who had fallen upon his face in the water, andencumbered by his fetters, pressed down by his load, was vainlystruggling to lift himself again. "There is a better way. You havemoney?"

"Ai, ai!" shouted Feversham, roaring with laughter, as the prisoner halfrose and soused again. "I have some concealed on me. Idris took what Idid not conceal. "

"Good!" said Trench. "Idris will come to you to-day or to-morrow. Hewill talk to you of the goodness of Allah who has brought you out of thewickedness of the world to the holy city of Omdurman. He will tell youat great length of the peril of your soul and of the only means ofaverting it, and he will wind up with a few significant sentences abouthis starving family. If you come to the aid of his starving family andbid him keep for himself fifteen dollars out of the amount he took fromyou, 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 willask for permission for me to sleep in the open too. Come! There's Idrisshepherding us home. "

It fell out as Trench had predicted. Idris read Feversham an abnormallylong lecture that afternoon. Feversham learned that now God loved him;and how Hicks Pasha's army had been destroyed. The holy angels had donethat, not a single shot was fired, not a single spear thrown by theMahdi's soldiers. The spears flew from their hands by the angels'guidance and pierced the unbelievers. Feversham heard for the firsttime of a most convenient spirit, Nebbi Khiddr, who was the Khalifa'seyes and ears and reported to him all that went on in the gaol. It waspointed out to Feversham that if Nebbi Khiddr reported against him, hewould have heavier shackles riveted upon his feet, and many unpleasantthings would happen. At last came the exordium about the starvingchildren, and Feversham begged Idris to take fifteen dollars. 

Trench's plan succeeded. That night Feversham slept in the open, and twonights later Trench lay down beside him. Overhead was a clear sky andthe blazing stars. 

"Only three more days, " said Feversham, and he heard his companion drawin 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 hadrepressed on the day when they sat upon the foreshore of the Nile. "Eachman has his particular weak spot of sentiment, I suppose. I have mine. Iam not a marrying man, so it's not sentiment of that kind. Perhaps youwill 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 merelythat I hate the emptiness of those desert wastes. It isn't merely that Iam sick of the palm trees of Khartum, or these chains or the whips ofthe gaolers. But there's something more. I want to die at home, and Ihave been desperately afraid so often that I should die here. I want todie at home--not merely in my own country, but in my own village, and beburied there under the trees I know, in the sight of the church and thehouses 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 tohim, and he knew why. They never had actually been spoken to him, butthey might have been and by Ethne Eustace. 

"No, I am not laughing, " he answered. "I understand. " And he spoke witha warmth of tone which rather surprised Trench. And indeed an actualfriendship sprang up between the two men, and it dated from that night. 

It was a fit moment for confidences. Lying side by side in thatenclosure, they made them one to the other in low voices. The shouts andyells came muffled from within the House of Stone, and gave to them botha 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. Thatnight air would be very cold before morning and wake them to shiver intheir rags and huddle together in their corner. But at present they laycomfortably upon their backs with their hands clasped behind their headsand 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; andthey fell to making plans of what they would do when they had crossedthe desert and the Mediterranean and the continent of Europe, and hadcome to their own country of dim small stars. Fascinated and enthralledby the pictures which the simplest sentence, the most commonplacephrase, through the magic of its associations was able to evoke in theirminds, they let the hours slip by unnoticed. They were no longerprisoners in that barbarous town which lay a murky stain upon thesolitary wide spaces of sand; they were in their own land, followingtheir old pursuits. They were standing outside clumps of trees, guns intheir hands, while the sharp cry, "Mark! Mark!" came to their ears. Trench heard again the unmistakable rattle of the reel of hisfishing-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 hadseen, the last books which they had read six years ago. 

"There goes the Great Bear, " said Trench, suddenly. "It is late. " Thetail of the constellation was dipping behind the thorn hedge of thezareeba. They turned over on their sides. 

"Three more days, " said Trench. 

"Only three more days, " Feversham replied. And in a minute they wereneither in England nor the Soudan; the stars marched to the morningunnoticed above their heads. They were lost in the pleasant countries ofsleep. 

CHAPTER XXIX

COLONEL TRENCH ASSUMES A KNOWLEDGE OF CHEMISTRY

"Three more days. " Both men fell asleep with these words upon theirlips. But the next morning Trench waked up and complained of a fever;and the fever rapidly gained upon him, so that before the afternoon hadcome he was light-headed, and those services which he had performed forFeversham, Feversham had now to perform for him. The thousand nights ofthe House of Stone had done their work. But it was no mere coincidencethat Trench should suddenly be struck down by them at the very momentwhen the door of his prison was opening. The great revulsion of joywhich had come to him so unexpectedly had been too much for hisexhausted body. The actual prospect of escape had been the crowningtrial 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 terribletyphus fever which had struck down so many in that infected gaol andcarried them off upon the seventh day. 

Feversham refused to believe. "It is nothing, " he repeated in a sort ofpassionate obstinacy; but in his mind there ran another question, "Willthe men with the camels wait?" Each day as he went to the Nile he sawAbou 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 henursed Trench. The boy came daily to the prison with food; he was sentout to buy tamarinds, dates, and roots, out of which Ibrahim brewedcooling draughts. Together they carried Trench from shade to shade asthe sun moved across the zareeba. Some further assistance was providedfor the starving family of Idris, and the forty-pound chains whichTrench wore were consequently removed. He was given vegetable marrowsoaked in salt water, his mouth was packed with butter, his bodyanointed 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, ' hesaid, 'beneath the trees he knew. ' Not here, no. " And he spoke againwith a passionate obstinacy. He was no longer thinking of the man in theblue robe outside the prison walls, or of the chances of escape. Thefear that the third feather would never be brought back to Ethne, thatshe would never have the opportunity to take back the fourth of her ownfree will, no longer troubled him. Even that great hope of "theafterwards" was for the moment banished from his mind. He thought onlyof Trench and the few awkward words he had spoken in the corner of thezareeba 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 andnight he watched by Trench's side the long hard battle between life anddeath. At one moment it seemed that the three years of the House ofStone must win the victory, at another that Trench's strong constitutionand 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 hissleep, and when he waked it was with a clear head. He found himselfalone, and so swathed in camel-cloths that he could not stir; but theheat of the day was past, and the shadow of the House of Stone lay blackupon the sand of the zareeba. He had not any wish to stir, and he laywondering idly how long he had been ill. While he wondered he heard theshouts of the gaolers, the cries of the prisoners outside the zareebaand in the direction of the river. The gate was opened, and theprisoners flocked in. Feversham was among them, and he walked straightto 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 byTrench'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. Youmust leave me here, and go while you still can. Perhaps when you come toAssouan you can do something for me. I could not move at present. Youwill go to-morrow?"

"No, I should not go without you in any case, " answered Feversham. "Asit is, it is too late. "

"Too late?" Trench repeated. He took in the meaning of the words butslowly; he was almost reluctant to be disturbed by their mere sound; hewished just to lie idle for a long time in the cool of the sunset. Butgradually the import of what Feversham had said forced itself into hismind. 

"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 nolonger. They were afraid of detection, and meant to return whether wewent with them or not. "

"You should have gone with them, " said Trench. For himself he did not atthat moment care whether he was to live in the prison all his life, solong as he was allowed quietly to lie where he was for a long time; andit was without any expression of despair that he added, "So our onechance is lost. "

"No, deferred, " replied Feversham. "The man who watched by the river inthe blue gown brought me paper, a pen, and some wood-soot mixed withwater. He was able to drop them by my side as I lay upon the ground. Ihid them beneath my jibbeh, and last night--there was a moon lastnight--I wrote to a Greek merchant who keeps a _café_ at Wadi Halfa. Igave him the letter this afternoon, and he has gone. He will deliver itand receive money. In six months, in a year at the latest, he will beback in Omdurman. "

"Very likely, " said Trench. "He will ask for another letter, so that hemay receive more money, and again he will say that in six months or ayear he will be back in Omdurman. I know these people. "

"You do not know Abou Fatma. He was Gordon's servant over there beforeKhartum fell; he has been mine since. He came with me to Obak, andwaited there while I went down to Berber. He risked his life in comingto Omdurman at all. Within six months he will be back, you may be verysure. "

Trench did not continue the argument. He let his eyes wander about theenclosure, and they settled at last upon a pile of newly turned earthwhich 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'sthe object?"

"I don't know, " said Feversham. Indeed he did not know, but hesuspected. With a great fear at his heart he suspected the reason whythe well was being dug in the enclosure of the prison. He would not, however, reveal his suspicion until his companion was strong enough tobear the disappointment which belief in it would entail. But within afew days his suspicion was proved true. It was openly announced that ahigh wall was to be built about the House of Stone. Too many prisonershad escaped in their fetters along the Nile bank. Henceforward they wereto be kept from year's beginning to year's end within the wall. Theprisoners built it themselves of mud-bricks dried in the sun. Fevershamtook his share in the work, and Trench, as soon almost as he couldstand, was joined with him. 

"Here's our last hope gone, " he said; and though Feversham did notopenly agree, in spite of himself his heart began to consent. 

They piled the bricks one upon the other and mortised them. Each day thewall rose a foot. With their own hands they closed themselves in. Twelvefeet high the wall stood when they had finished it--twelve feet high, and smooth and strong. There was never a projection from its surface onwhich a foot could rest; it could not be broken through in a night. Trench and Feversham contemplated it in despair. The very palm trees ofKhartum 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 andflashing gold, limited their world. Trench covered his face with hishands. 

"I daren't look at it, " he said in a broken voice. "We have beenbuilding our own coffin, Feversham, that's the truth of it. " And then hecast up his arms and cried aloud: "Will they never come up the Nile, thegunboats 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. Sixmonths, --what are they?"

But, though he spoke stoutly for his comrade's sake, his own heart sankwithin him. 

The details of their life during the six months are not to be dweltupon. In that pestilent enclosure only the myriad vermin lived lives ofcomfort. No news filtered in from the world outside. They fed upontheir own thoughts, so that the sight of a lizard upon the wall becamean occasion for excitement. They were stung by scorpions at night; theywere at times flogged by their gaolers by day. They lived at the mercyof the whims of Idris-es-Saier and that peculiar spirit Nebbi Khiddr, who always reported against them to the Khalifa just at the moment whenIdris was most in need of money for his starving family. Religious menwere sent by the Khalifa to convert them to the only true religion; andindeed the long theological disputations in the enclosure became eventsto which both men looked forward with eagerness. At one time they wouldbe freed from the heavier shackles and allowed to sleep in the open; atanother, without reason, those privileges would be withdrawn, and theystruggled for their lives within the House of Stone. 

The six months came to an end. The seventh began; a fortnight of itpassed, and the boy who brought Feversham food could never cheer theirhearts 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 eighththere came two of the Khalifa's bodyguard to the prison, who talked withIdris. Idris advanced to the two prisoners. 

"Verily God is good to you, you men from the bad world, " he said. "Youare to look upon the countenance of the Khalifa. How happy you shouldbe!"

Trench and Feversham rose up from the ground in no very happy frame ofmind. "What does he want with us? Is this the end?" The questionsstarted up clear in both their minds. They followed the two guards outthrough 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 cardsthat Nebbi Khiddr has suggested something of the kind, " he said. 

They were led into the great parade-ground before the mosque, and thenceinto the Khalifa's house, where another white man sat in attendance uponthe threshold. Within the Khalifa was seated upon an angareb, and agrey-bearded Greek stood beside him. The Khalifa remarked to them thatthey were both to be employed upon the manufacture of gunpowder, withwhich 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 fluentArabic that there was nothing connected with gunpowder which he did notknow about; and upon his words they were both told they were to beemployed at the powder factory under the supervision of the Greek. 

For that Greek both prisoners will entertain a regard to their dyingday. 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 hesuggested to the Khalifa their employment, and the same pity taught himto cover the deficiencies of their knowledge. 

"I know nothing whatever about the making of gunpowder except thatcrystals are used, " said Trench. "But we shall leave the prison eachday, and that is something, though we return each night. Who knows whena chance of escape may come?"

The powder factory lay in the northward part of the town, and on thebank of the Nile just beyond the limits of the great mud wall and at theback of the slave market. Every morning the two prisoners were let outfrom the prison door, they tramped along the river-bank on the outsideof the town wall, and came into the powder factory past the storehousesof the Khalifa's bodyguard. Every evening they went back by the sameroad to the House of Stone. No guard was sent with them, since flightseemed impossible, and each journey that they made they looked anxiouslyfor the man in the blue robe. But the months passed, and May broughtwith it the summer. 

"Something has happened to Abou Fatma, " said Feversham. "He has beencaught 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 knowof a sword-thrust received by Abou Fatma, as he fled through Berber onhis return from Omdurman. He had been recognised by one of his oldgaolers in that town, and had got cheaply off with the one thrust in histhigh. From that wound he had through the greater part of this year beenslowly recovering in the hospital at Assouan. But though Feversham heardnothing of Abou Fatma, towards the end of May he received news thatothers were working for his escape. As Trench and he passed in the duskof one evening between the storehouses and the town wall, a man in theshadow of one of the narrow alleys which opened from the storehouseswhispered to them to stop. Trench knelt down upon the ground andexamined his foot as though a stone had cut it, and as he kneeled theman walked past them and dropped a slip of paper at their feet. He was aSuakin merchant, who had a booth in the grain market of Omdurman. Trenchpicked up the paper, hid it in his hand and limped on, with Feversham athis side. There was no address or name upon the outside, and as soon asthey had left the houses behind, and had only the wall upon their rightand the Nile upon their left, Trench sat down again. There was a crowdabout the water's edge, men passed up and down between the crowd andthem. Trench took his foot into his lap and examined the sole. But atthe same time he unfolded the paper in the hollow of his hand and readthe 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 trusthim. --Sutch. " And he asked, "Who is Sutch?"

"A great friend of mine, " said Feversham. "He is in Egypt, then! Does hesay where?"

"No; but since Mohammed Ali, the grain merchant, dropped the paper, wemay be sure he is at Suakin. A man with a box of matches! Think, we maymeet him to-night!"

But it was a month later when, in the evening, an Arab pushed past themon the river-bank and said: "I am the man with the matches. To-morrow bythe storehouse at this hour. " And as he walked past them he dropped abox of coloured matches on the ground. Feversham stooped instantly. 

"Don't touch them, " said Trench, and he pressed the box into the groundwith his foot and walked on. 

"Sutch!" exclaimed Feversham. "So he comes to our help! How did he knowthat I was here?"

Trench fairly shook with excitement as he walked. He did not speak ofthe great new hope which so suddenly came to them, for he dared not. Hetried even to pretend to himself that no message at all had come. He wasafraid to let his mind dwell upon the subject. Both men slept brokenlythat night, and every time they waked it was with a dim consciousnessthat something great and wonderful had happened. Feversham, as he layupon his back and gazed upwards at the stars, had a fancy that he hadfallen asleep in the garden of Broad Place, on the Surrey hills, andthat he had but to raise his head to see the dark pines upon his righthand and his left, and but to look behind to see the gables of the houseagainst the sky. He fell asleep towards dawn, and within an hour waswaked up by a violent shaking. He saw Trench bending over him with agreat fear on his face. 

"Suppose they keep us in the prison to-day, " he whispered in a shakingvoice, plucking at Feversham. "It has just occurred to me! Suppose theydid that!"

"Why should they?" answered Feversham; but the same fear caught hold ofhim, and they sat dreading the appearance of Idris, lest he should havesome such new order to deliver. But Idris crossed the yard and unboltedthe prison door without a look at them. Fighting, screaming, jammedtogether in the entrance, pulled back, thrust forwards, the captivesstruggled out into the air, and among them was one who ran, foaming atthe mouth, and dashed his head against the wall. 

"He is mad!" said Trench, as the gaolers secured him; and since Trenchwas unmanned that morning he began to speak rapidly and almost withincoherence. "That's what I have feared, Feversham, that I should gomad. To die, even here, one could put up with that without overmuchregret; but to go mad!" and he shivered. "If this man with the matchesproves false to us, Feversham, I shall be near to it--very near to it. Aman one day, a raving, foaming idiot the next--a thing to be put awayout of sight, out of hearing. God, but that's horrible!" and he droppedhis head between his hands, and dared not look up until Idris crossed tothem and bade them go about their work. What work they did in thefactory that day neither knew. They were only aware that the hourspassed with an extraordinary slowness, but the evening came at last. 

"Among the storehouses, " said Trench. They dived into the first alleywhich they passed, and turning a corner saw the man who had brought thematches. 

"I am Abdul Kader, " he began at once. "I have come to arrange for yourescape. But at present flight is impossible;" and Trench swayed upon hisfeet as he heard the word. 

"Impossible?" asked Feversham. 

"Yes. I brought three camels to Omdurman, of which two have died. TheEffendi at Suakin gave me money, but not enough. I could not arrangefor relays, but if you will give me a letter to the Effendi telling himto give me two hundred pounds, then I will have everything ready andcome again within three months. "

Trench turned his back so that his companion might not see his face. Allhis spirit had gone from him at this last stroke of fortune. The truthwas clear to him, appallingly clear. Abdul Kader was not going to riskhis life; he would be the shuttle going backwards and forwards betweenOmdurman and Suakin as long as Feversham cared to write letters andSutch to pay money. But the shuttle would do no weaving. 

"I have nothing with which to write, " said Feversham, and Abdul Kaderproduced them. 

"Be quick, " he said. "Write quickly, lest we be discovered. " AndFeversham wrote; but though he wrote as Abdul suggested, the futility ofhis writing was as clear to him as to Trench. 

"There is the letter, " he said, and he handed it to Abdul, and, takingTrench by the arm, walked without another word away. 

They passed out of the alley and came again to the great mud wall. Itwas sunset. To their left the river gleamed with changing lights--hereit ran the colour of an olive, there rose pink, and here again abrilliant green; above their heads the stars were coming out, in theeast it was already dusk; and behind them in the town, drums werebeginning to beat with their barbaric monotone. Both men walked withtheir chins sunk upon their breasts, their eyes upon the ground. Theyhad come to the end of hope, they were possessed with a lethargy ofdespair. Feversham thought not at all of the pine trees on the Surreyhills, nor did Trench have any dread that something in his head wouldsnap 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 aword. So stricken, indeed, were they that an Arab turned and kept pacebeside them, and neither noticed his presence. In a few moments the Arabspoke:--

"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 soabsorbed in misery, that the words passed unheard. He repeated them, andFeversham looked up. Quite slowly their meaning broke in on Feversham'smind; 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 asick man. It seemed that he would swoon, and Feversham took him by thearm. 

"Is it true?" Trench asked faintly; and before Feversham could answerAbou Fatma went on:--

"Walk forwards very slowly. Before you reach the end of the wall it willbe dusk. Draw your cloaks over your heads, wrap these rags about yourchains, so that they do not rattle. Then turn and come back, go close tothe water beyond the storehouses. I will be there with a man to removeyour chains. But keep your faces well covered and do not stop. He willthink you slaves. "

With that he passed some rags to them, holding his hands behind hisback, while they stood close to him. Then he turned and hurried back. Very slowly Feversham and Trench walked forwards in the direction of theprison; the dusk crept across the river, mounted the long slope of sand, enveloped them. They sat down and quickly wrapped the rags about theirchains and secured them there. From the west the colours of the sunsethad altogether faded, the darkness gathered quickly about them. Theyturned and walked back along the road they had come. The drums were morenumerous now, and above the wall there rose a glare of light. By thetime they had reached the water's edge opposite the storehouses it wasdark. Abou Fatma was already waiting with his blacksmith. The chainswere knocked off without a word spoken. 

"Come, " said Abou. "There will be no moon to-night. How long before theydiscover you are gone?"

"Who knows? Perhaps already Idris has missed us. Perhaps he will nottill 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 farside of the cemetery stood a disused house; a man rose up in the doorwayas they approached, and went in. 

"Wait here, " said Abou Fatma, and he too went into the house. In amoment 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 youmount. "

"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 theflanks. 

Behind them the glare of the lights dwindled, the tapping of the drumsdiminished. 

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 havemissed us. "

"Even if he has, " replied Feversham, "it will take time to get mentogether for a pursuit, and those men must fetch their camels, andalready it is dark. "

But although he spoke hopefully, he turned his head again and againtowards the glare of light above Omdurman. He could no longer hear thetapping of the drums, that was some consolation. But he was in a countryof silence, where men could journey swiftly and yet make no noise. Therewould be no sound of galloping horses to warn him that pursuit was athis heels. Even at that moment the Ansar soldiers might be riding withinthirty paces of them, and Feversham strained his eyes backwards into thedarkness and expected the glimmer of a white turban. Trench, however, never turned his head. He rode with his teeth set, looking forwards. Yetfear was no less strong in him than in Feversham. Indeed, it wasstronger, for he did not look back towards Omdurman because he did notdare; and though his eyes were fixed directly in front of him, thethings which he really saw were the long narrow streets of the townbehind him, the dotted fires at the corners of the streets, and menrunning hither and thither among the houses, making their quick searchfor the two prisoners escaped from the House of Stone. 

Once his attention was diverted by a word from Feversham, and heanswered 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 abstractedvoice. Feversham did not ask him to explain what his allusion meant, norcould Trench have disclosed why he had spoken it; the words had comeback to him suddenly with a feeling that it was somehow appropriate thatthe vision which was the last thing to meet Feversham's eyes as he setout upon his mission he should see again now that that mission wasaccomplished. They spoke no more until two figures rose out of thedarkness in front of them, at the very feet of their camels, and AbouFatma 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 mendisappeared for a few minutes and brought four camels up. Meanwhile thesaddles were unfastened and removed from the camels Trench and hiscompanion had ridden out of Omdurman. 

"They are good camels?" asked Feversham, as he helped to fix the saddlesupon the fresh ones. 

"Of the Anafi breed, " answered Abou Fatma. "Quick! Quick!" and helooked anxiously to the east and listened. 

"The arms?" said Trench. "You have them? Where are they?" and he benthis body and searched the ground for them. 

"In a moment, " said Abou Fatma, but it seemed that Trench could hardlywait for that moment to arrive. He showed even more anxiety to handlethe 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 somelong desert grass rustled about their legs. He stooped and dug into thesoft sand with his hands. 

"Here, " he said. 

Trench flung himself upon the ground beside him and scooped with bothhands, making all the while an inhuman whimpering sound with his mouth, like the noise a foxhound makes at a cover. There was something ratherhorrible to Feversham in his attitude as he scraped at the ground on hisknees, at the action of his hands, quick like the movements of a dog'spaws, and in the whine of his voice. He was sunk for the time into ananimal. In a moment or two Trench's fingers touched the lock and triggerof a rifle, and he became man again. He stood up quietly with the riflein his hands. The other arms were unearthed, the ammunition shared. 

"Now, " said Trench, and he laughed with a great thrill of joy in thelaugh. "Now I don't mind. Let them follow from Omdurman! One thing iscertain now: I shall never go back there; no, not even if they overtakeus, " and he fondled the rifle which he held and spoke to it as though itlived. 

Two of the Arabs mounted the old camels and rode slowly away toOmdurman. Abou Fatma and the other remained with the fugitives. Theymounted and trotted northeastwards. No more than a quarter of an hourhad elapsed since they had first halted at Abou Fatma's word. 

All that night they rode through halfa grass and mimosa trees and wentbut slowly, but they came about sunrise on to flat bare ground brokenwith 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 theirmeal, and they ate it as they sat their camels. These, indeed, now thatthey were free of the long desert grass, trotted at their quickest pace. And at sunset that evening they stopped and rested for an hour. Allthrough that night they rode and the next day, straining their ownendurance and that of the beasts they were mounted on, now ascending onto high and rocky ground, now traversing a valley, and now trotting fastacross plains of honey-coloured sand. Yet to each man the pace seemedalways as slow as a funeral. A mountain would lift itself above the rimof the horizon at sunrise, and for the whole livelong day it stoodbefore their eyes, and was never a foot higher or an inch nearer. Attimes, some men tilling a scanty patch of sorghum would send thefugitives' hearts leaping in their throats, and they must make a widedetour; or again a caravan would be sighted in the far distance by thekeen eyes of Abou Fatma, and they made their camels kneel and laycrouched behind a rock, with their loaded rifles in their hands. Tenmiles from Abu Klea a relay of fresh camels awaited them, and upon thesethey travelled, keeping a day's march westward of the Nile. Thence theypassed through the desert country of the Ababdeh, and came in sight of abroad grey tract stretching across their path. 

"The road from Berber to Merowi, " said Abou Fatma. "North of it we turneast 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 abouthim 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 safeto travel by day. They dismounted, and all that day they lay hiddenbehind a belt of shrubs upon some high ground and watched the road andthe people like specks moving along it. They came down and crossed it inthe darkness, and for the rest of that night travelled hard towards theriver. As the day broke Abou Fatma again bade them halt. They were in adesolate open country, whereon the smallest protection was magnified bythe surrounding flatness. Feversham and Trench gazed eagerly to theirright. Somewhere in that direction and within the range of theireyesight flowed the Nile, but they could not see it. 

"We must build a circle of stones, " said Abou Fatma, "and you must lieclose to the ground within it. I will go forward to the river, and seethat the boat is ready and that our friends are prepared for us. I shallcome 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 theground 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 takeyour camels, and bring you back fresh ones in the evening. " And incompany 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 thisperhaps was the longest day of their lives. They were so near to safetyand yet not safe. To Trench's thinking it was longer than a night in theHouse of Stone, and to Feversham longer than even one of those days sixyears back when he had sat in his rooms above St. James's Park andwaited for the night to fall before he dared venture out into thestreets. They were so near to Berber, and the pursuit must needs beclose behind. Feversham lay wondering how he had ever found the courageto venture himself in Berber. They had no shade to protect them; all daythe sun burnt pitilessly upon their backs, and within the narrow circleof stones they had no room wherein to move. They spoke hardly at all. The sunset, however, came at the last, the friendly darkness gatheredabout them, and a cool wind rustled through the darkness across thedesert. 

"Listen!" said Trench; and both men as they strained their ears heardthe soft padding of camels very near at hand. A moment later a lowwhistle 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 badnews too. The boat is ready, our friends are waiting for us, camels areprepared 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 closelywatched. Before sunrise we must have struck inland from the eastern bankof the Nile. "

They crossed the river cautiously about one o'clock of the morning, andsank the boat upon the far side of the stream. The camels were waitingfor them, and they travelled inland and more slowly than suited theanxiety of the fugitives. For the ground was thickly covered withboulders, and the camels could seldom proceed at any pace faster than awalk. And all through the next day they lay hidden again within a ringof stones while the camels were removed to some high ground where theycould graze. During the next night, however, they made good progress, and, coming to the groves of Abu Hamed in two days, rested for twelvehours there and mounted upon a fresh relay. From Abu Hamed their roadlay across the great Nubian Desert. 

Nowadays the traveller may journey through the two hundred and fortymiles of that waterless plain of coal-black rocks and yellow sand, andsleep 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 awhite signboard, and the stoppage of the train will inform him that hehas come to a station. Let him put his head from the window, he will seethe long line of telegraph poles reaching from the sky's rim behind himto the sky's rim in front, and huddling together, as it seems, with lessand less space between them the farther they are away. Twelve hours willenclose the beginning and the end of his journey, unless the enginebreak down or the rail be blocked. But in the days when Feversham andTrench escaped from Omdurman progression was not so easy a matter. Theykept eastward of the present railway and along the line of wells amongthe hills. And on the second night of this stage of their journey Trenchshook Feversham by the shoulders and waked him up. 

"Look, " he said, and he pointed to the south. "To-night there's noSouthern Cross. " His voice broke with emotion. "For six years, for everynight of six years, until this night, I have seen the Southern Cross. How often have I lain awake watching it, wondering whether the nightwould ever come when I should not see those four slanting stars! I tellyou, Feversham, this is the first moment when I have really dared tothink that we should escape. "

Both men sat up and watched the southern sky with prayers ofthankfulness in their hearts; and when they fell asleep it was only towake up again and again with a fear that they would after all still seethat constellation blazing low down towards the earth, and to fallasleep again confident of the issue of their desert ride. At the end ofseven days they came to Shof-el-Ain, a tiny well set in a barren valleybetween 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 oftheir 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 theground in front of the kneeling camels, he heaped dhurra before them. Heeven went so far in his gratitude as to pat one of the animals upon theneck, 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 camelwill 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 threewhite feathers, two small, the feathers of a heron, the other large, anostrich 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 ofhis 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 offlight?" exclaimed Trench. "Why? There's no more to be done. Castleton'sdead. You keep the feather which he sent, but he is dead. You can donothing with it. You must come home. "

"Yes, " answered Feversham, "but after you, certainly not with you. Yougo on to Assouan and Cairo. At each place you will find friends towelcome you. I shall not go with you. "

Trench was silent for a while. He understood Feversham's reluctance, hesaw that it would be easier for Feversham if he were to tell his storyfirst to Ethne Eustace, and without Feversham's presence. 

"I ought to tell you no one knows why you resigned your commission, orof 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 weall agreed and kept to the agreement, " he said. 

"Perhaps you will see Durrance, " said Feversham; "if you do, give him amessage from me. Tell him that the next time he asks me to come and seehim, whether it is in England or Wadi Halfa, I will accept theinvitation. "

"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 theNile. The other Arab will guide you into Assouan. "

They slept that night in security beside the well, and the next morningthey parted company. Trench was the first to ride off, and as his camelrose 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 toRathmullen. You must drive the twelve miles to Ramelton. But you may notfind 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 heturned his head and saw Feversham still standing by the well; more thanonce he was strongly drawn to stop and ride back to that solitaryfigure, but he contented himself with waving his hand, and even thatsalute was not returned. 

Feversham, indeed, had neither thought nor eyes for the companion of hisflight. 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 anyjoy. For six years, through many trials, through many falterings, hismission had strengthened and sustained him. It seemed to him now thatthere was nothing more wherewith to occupy his life. Ethne? No doubt shewas long since married ... And there came upon him all at once a greatbitterness of despair for that futile, unnecessary mistake made by himsix years ago. He saw again the room in London overlooking the quiettrees 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, thework was not quite done. There was his father, who just at this momentwas very likely reading his _Times_ after breakfast upon the terrace ofBroad Place among the pine trees upon the Surrey hills. He must visithis father, he must take that fourth feather back to Ramelton. There wasa telegram, too, which must be sent to Lieutenant Sutch at Suakin. 

He mounted his camel and rode slowly with Abou Fatma westwards towardsWadi Halfa. But the sense of loss did not pass from him that day, norhis anger at the act of folly which had brought about his downfall. Thewooded slopes of Ramelton were very visible to him across the shimmer ofthe desert air. In the greatness of his depression Harry Feversham uponthis 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 theLennon bridge into Ramelton. The fierce suns of the Soudan had tannedhis face, the years of his probation had left their marks; he rode upthe narrow street of the town unrecognised. At the top of the hill heturned into the broad highway which, descending valleys and climbinghills, runs in one straight line to Letterkenny. He rode rather quicklyin a company of ghosts. 

The intervening years had gradually been dropping from his thoughts allthrough his journey across Egypt and the Continent. They were no morethan visionary now. Nor was he occupied with any dream of the thingswhich might have been but for his great fault. The things which hadbeen, here, in this small town of Ireland, were too definite. Here hehad been most happy, here he had known the uttermost of his misery; herehis 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 theroad upon his right hand, and wondered whether Ethne was still atRamelton--whether old Dermod was alive, and what kind of welcome hewould receive. But he waked in a moment to the knowledge that he wassitting upon his horse in the empty road and in the quiet of an Augustmorning. There were larks singing in the pale blue above his head; alandrail sent up its harsh cry from the meadow on the left; the crow ofa cock rose clear from the valley. He looked about him, and rode brisklyon down the incline in front of him and up the ascent beyond. He rodeagain with his company of ghosts--phantoms of people with whom upon thisroad he had walked and ridden and laughed, ghosts of old thoughts andrecollected words. He came to a thick grove of trees, a broken fence, agateway with no gate. Inattentive to these evidences of desertion, heturned in at the gate and rode along a weedy and neglected drive. At theend of it he came to an open space before a ruined house. The aspect ofthe tumbling walls and unroofed rooms roused him at last completely fromhis absorption. He dismounted, and, tying his horse to the branch of atree, ran quickly into the house and called aloud. No voice answeredhim. He ran from deserted room to deserted room. He descended into thegarden, but no one came to meet him; and he understood now from theuncut grass upon the lawn, the tangled disorder of the flowerbeds, thatno one would come. He mounted his horse again, and rode back at a sharptrot. 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 uponhim:--

"So Lennon House has been burned down? When was that?"

"Five years ago, " the landlady returned, "just five years ago thissummer. " And she proceeded, without further invitation, to give avoluminous account of the conflagration and the cause of it, the ruin ofthe Eustace family, the inebriety of Bastable, and the death of DermodEustace at Glenalla. "But we hope to see the house rebuilt. It's likelyto be, we hear, when Miss Eustace is married, " she said, in a voicewhich suggested that she was full of interesting information upon thesubject of Miss Eustace's marriage. Her guest, however, did not respondto the invitation. 

"And where does Miss Eustace live now?"

"At Glenalla, " she replied. "Halfway on the road to Rathmullen there's atrack 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 bewanting to see her?"

"Yes. I shall be glad if you will order my horse to be brought round tothe door, " said the man; and he rose from the table to put an end to theinterview. 

The landlady, however, was not so easily dismissed. She stood at thedoor and remarked:--

"Well, that's curious--that's most curious. For only a fortnight ago agentleman burnt just as black as yourself stayed a night here on thesame errand. He asked for Miss Eustace's address and drove up toGlenalla. Perhaps you have business with her?"

"Yes, I have business with Miss Eustace, " the stranger returned. "Willyou be good enough to give orders about my horse?"

While he was waiting for his horse he looked through the leaves of thehotel book, and saw under a date towards the end of July the name ofColonel 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. " Andhe 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 purplehollow 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 withoutany plan. A few cottages stood together, then came a gap of fields, beyond that a small plantation of larches and a house which stood byitself. Beyond the house was another gap, through which he could seestraight down to the water of the Lough, shining in the afternoon sun, and the white gulls poising and swooping above it. And after passingthat gap he came to a small grey church, standing bare to the winds uponits tiny plateau. A pathway of white shell-dust led from the door of thechurch to the little wooden gate. As he came level with the gate acollie dog barked at him from behind it. 

The rider looked at the dog, which was very grey about the muzzle. Henoticed its marking, and stopped his horse altogether. He glancedtowards the church, and saw that the door stood open. At once hedismounted; he fastened his horse to the fence, and entered thechurchyard. The collie thrust its muzzle into the back of his knee, sniffed once or twice doubtfully, and suddenly broke into an exuberantwelcome. The collie dog had a better memory than the landlady of theinn. He barked, wagged his tail, crouched and sprang at the stranger'sshoulders, whirled round and round in front of him, burst into sharp, excited screams of pleasure, ran up to the church door and barkedfuriously there, then ran back and jumped again upon his friend. The mancaught the dog as it stood up with its forepaws upon his chest, pattedit, and laughed. Suddenly he ceased laughing, and stood stock-still withhis eyes towards the open door of the church. In the doorway EthneEustace was standing. He put the dog down and slowly walked up the pathtowards her. She waited on the threshold without moving, withoutspeaking. She waited, watching him, until he came close to her. Then shesaid simply:--

"Harry. "

She was silent after that; nor did he speak. All the ghosts and phantomsof old thoughts in whose company he had travelled the whole of that dayvanished away from his mind at her simple utterance of his name. Sixyears had passed since his feet crushed the gravel on the dawn of a Junemorning beneath her window. And they looked at one another, remarkingthe changes which those six years had brought. And the changes, unnoticed and almost imperceptible to those who had lived daily in theircompany, sprang very distinct to the eyes of these two. Feversham wasthin, his face was wasted. The strain of life in the House of Stone hadleft its signs about his sunken eyes and in the look of age beyond hisyears. But these were not the only changes, as Ethne noticed; they werenot, indeed, the most important ones. Her heart, although she stood sostill and silent, went out to him in grief for the great troubles whichhe had endured; but she saw, too, that he came back without a thought ofanger towards her for that fourth feather snapped from her fan. But shewas clear-eyed even at this moment. She saw much more. She understoodthat the man who stood quietly before her now was not the same man whomshe had last seen in the hall of Ramelton. There had been a timidity inhis manner in those days, a peculiar diffidence, a continual expectationof other men's contempt, which had gone from him. He was now quietlyself-possessed; not arrogant; on the other hand, not diffident. He hadput 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 notwasted. "

But Feversham thought of her lonely years in this village ofGlenalla--and thought with a man's thought, unaware that nowhere elsewould she have chosen to live. He looked into her face, and saw themarks of the years upon it. It was not that she had aged so much. Herbig grey eyes shone as clearly as before, the colour was still as brightupon her cheeks. But there was more of character. She had suffered; shehad eaten of the tree of knowledge. 

"I am sorry, " he said. "I did you a great wrong six years ago, and Ineed 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 intothe palm of his hand. The larger one, the ostrich feather, he held outto 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 claspedthem, 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. Ishall keep them. I am very proud to have them to keep. "

She kept them, as she had once kept Harry Feversham's portrait. Therewas something perhaps in Durrance's contention that women so much morethan men gather up their experiences and live upon them, lookingbackwards. Feversham, at all events, would now have dropped the feathersthen 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 nolonger needed to encourage, they were dead things. Ethne, however, heldthem tight in her hand; to her they were not dead. 

"Colonel Trench was here a fortnight ago, " she said. "He told me youwere bringing it back to me. "

"But he did not know of the fourth feather, " said Feversham. "I nevertold any man that I had it. "

"Yes. You told Colonel Trench on your first night in the House of Stoneat Omdurman. He told me. I no longer hate him, " she added, but without asmile and quite seriously, as though it was an important statement whichneeded 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 ourhouse when I came to fetch you from the quay? We were alone in thedog-cart, and we spoke--"

"Of the friends whom one knows for friends the first moment, and whomone 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. "Isaid 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, andperhaps think so for a long while, but that in the end one would beproved not to have made them. I have often thought of those words. Iremembered them very clearly when Captain Willoughby brought to me thefirst feather, and with a great deal of remorse. I remember them againvery 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 Idid not. " Her voice shook a little, and pleaded as she went on: "I wasyoung. 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. Thenshe 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 Fevershamtook his stand beside her. It was very quiet and peaceful within thattiny church. The afternoon sun shone through the upper windows and madea golden haze about the roof. The natural murmurs of the summer floatedpleasantly through the open door. 

"I am glad that you remembered our drive and what we said, " shecontinued. "It is rather important to me that you should remember. Because, although I have got you back, I am going to send you away fromme again. You will be one of the absent friends whom I shall not losebecause you are absent. "

She spoke slowly, looking straight in front of her without faltering. Itwas a difficult speech for her to deliver, but she had thought over itnight and day during this last fortnight, and the words were ready toher lips. At the first sight of Harry Feversham, recovered to her afterso many years, so much suspense, so much suffering, it had seemed to herthat she never would be able to speak them, however necessary it wasthat they should be spoken. But as they stood over against one anothershe had forced herself to remember that necessity until she actuallyrecognised and felt it. Then she had gone back into the church and takena seat, and gathered up her strength. 

It would be easier for both of them, she thought, if she should give nosign of what so quick a separation cost her. He would know surelyenough, and she wished him to know; she wished him to understand thatnot one moment of his six years, so far as she was concerned, had beenspent in vain. But that could be understood without the signs ofemotion. So she spoke her speech looking steadily straight forward andspeaking in an even voice. 

"I know that you will mind very much, just as I do. But there is no helpfor it, " she resumed. "At all events you are at home again, with theright to be at home. It is a great comfort to me to know that. But thereare other, much greater reasons from which we can both take comfort. Colonel Trench told me enough of your captivity to convince me that weboth see with the same eyes. We both understand that this secondparting, hard as it is, is still a very slight, small thing comparedwith the other, our first parting over at the house six years ago. Ifelt very lonely after that, as I shall not feel lonely now. There was agreat barrier between us then separating us forever. We should neverhave met again here or afterwards. I am quite sure of that. But you havebroken the barrier down by all your pain and bravery during these lastyears. 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 anotherhere 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 strengthall these years since we parted. And I can too, for I get strength fromyour victory. "

She stopped, and for a while there was silence in that church. ToFeversham her words were gracious as rain upon dry land. To hear herspeak them uplifted him so that those six years of trial, of slinkinginto corners out of the sight of his fellows, of lonely endurance, ofmany heart-sinkings and much bodily pain, dwindled away intoinsignificance. They had indeed borne their fruit to him. For Ethne hadspoken in a gentle voice just what his ears had so often longed to hearas 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 tohope she ever would speak. He stood quite silently by her side, stillhearing her voice though the voice had ceased. Long ago there werecertain bitter words which she had spoken, and he had told Sutch, soclosely had they clung and stung, that he believed in his dying momentshe would hear them again and so go to his grave with her reproachesringing in his ears. He remembered that prediction of his now and knewthat it was false. The words he would hear would be those which she hadjust uttered. 

For Ethne's proposal that they should separate he was not unprepared. Hehad heard already that she was engaged, and he did not argue against herwish. 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 seeHarry Feversham; she meant resolutely to send him away. When once hehad passed through that church door, through which the sunlight and thesummer murmurs came, and his shadow gone from the threshold, she wouldnever talk with him or set her eyes on him until her life was ended. Soshe deferred the moment of his going by silences and slow speech. Itmight be so very long before that end came. She had, she thought, theright to protract this one interview. She rather hoped that he wouldspeak of his travels, his dangers; she was prepared to discuss at lengthwith 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 amto 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 wentaway, but, thinking over everything, I thought it likely, and in a verylittle time I became sure. "

"He is blind. "

"Blind!" exclaimed Feversham. "He, of all men, blind!"

"Exactly, " said Ethne. "He--of all men. His blindness explainseverything--why I marry him, why I send you away. It was after he wentblind that I became engaged to him. It was before Captain Willoughbycame to me with the first feather. It was between those two events. Yousee, after you went away one thought over things rather carefully. Iused to lie awake and think, and I resolved that two men's lives shouldnot 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 itfor 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, youcan understand what blindness meant to him, the loss of everything hecared 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 sovery clearly. A hint tells him the whole hidden truth. At present heknows nothing of the four feathers. "

"Are you sure?" suddenly exclaimed Feversham. 

"Yes. Why?" asked Ethne, turning her face towards him for the first timesince she had sat down. 

"Lieutenant Sutch was at Suakin while I was at Omdurman. He knew that Iwas a prisoner there. He sent messages to me, he tried to organise myescape. "

Ethne was startled. 

"Oh, " she said, "Colonel Durrance certainly knew that you were inOmdurman. He saw you in Wadi Halfa, and he heard that you had gone southinto the desert. He was distressed about it; he asked a friend to getnews of you, and the friend got news that you were in Omdurman. He toldme so himself, and--yes, he told me that he would try to arrange foryour escape. No doubt he has done that through Lieutenant Sutch. He hasbeen at Wiesbaden with an oculist; he only returned a week ago. Otherwise he would have told me about it. Very likely he was the reasonwhy Lieutenant Sutch was at Suakin, but he knows nothing of the fourfeathers. He only knows that our engagement was abruptly broken off; hebelieves that I have no longer any thought of you at all. But if youcome back, if you and I saw anything of each other, however calmly wemet, however indifferently we spoke, he would guess. He is so quick hewould be sure to guess. " She paused for a moment, and added in awhisper, "And he would guess right. "

Feversham saw the blood flush her forehead and deepen the colour of hercheeks. 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 yetmore 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. Hemust 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 nothought that you would wait. I had no wish that you should; I had noright to such a wish. When you gave me that fourth feather in the littleroom at Ramelton, with the music coming faintly through the door, Iunderstood 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 ofthe plan which came clear and definite into my mind at the very timewhen you gave me the feathers. You see, I might never have succeeded. Imight have died trying to succeed. I might even perhaps have shirked theattempt. It would be time enough for me to speak if I came back. So Inever 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 forthat every hour of every day--was that, if I did come home, you wouldtake back your feather, and that we might--not renew our friendshiphere, 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 HarryFeversham as she spoke and smiled. The look and the smile told him whatthe cost of the separation would be to her. And, understanding what itmeant now, he understood, with an infinitely greater completeness thanhe had ever reached in his lonely communings, what it must have meantsix years ago when she was left with her pride stricken as sorely as herheart. 

"What trouble you must have gone through!" he cried, and she turned andlooked him over. 

"Not I alone, " she said gently. "I passed no nights in the House ofStone. "

"But it was my fault. Do you remember what you said when the morningcame through the blinds? 'It's not right that one should suffer so muchpain. ' It was not right. "

"I had forgotten the words--oh, a long time since--until Colonel Trenchreminded me. I should never have spoken them. When I did I was notthinking they would live so in your thoughts. I am sorry that I spokethem. "

"Oh, they were just enough. I never blamed you for them, " saidFeversham, with a laugh. "I used to think that they would be the lastwords I should hear when I turned my face to the wall. But you havegiven 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 didnot rise from her seat in the pew. It did not occur to him to talk ofhis travels or adventures. The occasion seemed too serious, too vital. They were together to decide the most solemn issue in their lives. Oncethe decision was made, as now it had been made, he felt that they couldhardly 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 itslook of gravity, her heart ached with longing. Just for a little longer, she pleaded to herself. The sunlight was withdrawing from the walls ofthe church. She measured out a space upon the walls where it stillglowed bright. When all that space was cold grey stone, she would sendHarry Feversham away. 

"I am glad that you escaped from Omdurman without the help of LieutenantSutch or Colonel Durrance. I wanted so much that everything should bedone by you alone without anybody's help or interference, " she said, andafter she had spoken there followed a silence. Once or twice she lookedtowards the wall, and each time she saw the space of golden lightnarrowed, and knew that her minutes were running out. "You sufferedhorribly at Dongola, " she said in a low voice. "Colonel Trench told me. "

"What does it matter now?" Feversham answered. "That time seems ratherfar 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 otherdays?"

"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 presentsand 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 yourletters after I had addressed the parcel and taken it down to the hallto be sent away. I had just finished burning your letters when I heardyour 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 keepit and the feathers together. " She added after a moment:--

"I rather wish that you had had something of mine with you all thetime. "

"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 wemeet. "

"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 filledthe church, a light without radiance or any colour. 

"I shall not see you for a long while, " said Ethne, and for the firsttime her voice broke in a sob. "I shall not have a letter from youagain. "

She leaned a little forward and bent her head, for the tears hadgathered in her eyes. But she rose up bravely from her seat, andtogether they went out of the church side by side. She leaned towardshim as they walked so that they touched. 

Feversham untied his horse and mounted it. As his foot touched thestirrup Ethne caught her dog close to her. 

"Good-bye, " she said. She did not now even try to smile, she held outher 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 thenreleasing it, rode down the hill. He rode for a hundred yards, stoppedand looked back. Ethne had stopped, too, and with this space betweenthem and their faces towards one another they remained. Ethne made nosign of recognition or farewell. She just stood and looked. Then sheturned away and went up the village street towards her house alone andvery slowly. Feversham watched her till she went in at the gate, but shebecame dim and blurred to his vision before even she had reached it. Hewas 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 wasnot even by his six years of labour to be destroyed. It was still tolive, its consequence was to be sorrow till the end of life for anotherthan himself. That she took the sorrow bravely and without complaint, doing the straight and simple thing as her loyal nature bade her, didnot diminish Harry Feversham's remorse. On the contrary it taught himyet more clearly that she least of all deserved unhappiness. The harmwas irreparable. Other women might have forgotten, but not she. ForEthne was of those who neither lightly feel nor lightly forget, and ifthey love cannot love with half a heart. She would be alone now, heknew, in spite of her marriage, alone up to the very end and at theactual moment of death. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

ETHNE AGAIN PLAYS THE MUSOLINE OVERTURE

The incredible words were spoken that evening. Ethne went into herfarm-house and sat down in the parlour. She felt cold that summerevening and had the fire lighted. She sat gazing into the bright coalswith that stillness of attitude which was a sure sign with her of tenseemotion. The moment so eagerly looked for had come, and it was over. Shewas alone now in her remote little village, out of the world in thehills, and more alone than she had been since Willoughby sailed on thatAugust morning down the Salcombe estuary. From the time of Willoughby'scoming she had looked forward night and day to the one half-hour duringwhich Harry Feversham would be with her. The half-hour had come andpassed. She knew now how she had counted upon its coming, how she hadlived for it. She felt lonely in a rather empty world. But it was partof her nature that she had foreseen this sense of loneliness; she hadknown that there would be a bad hour for her after she had sent HarryFeversham away, that all her heart and soul would clamour to her to callhim back. And she forced herself, as she sat shivering by the fire, toremember 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 onthe night of the ball at Lennon House, and recognise what a small thingthis was to that. She fell to wondering what Harry Feversham would donow that he had returned, and while she was building up for him a futureof great distinction she felt Dermod's old collie dog nuzzling at herhand with his sure instinct that his mistress was in distress. Ethnerose from her chair and took the dog's head between her hands and kissedit. He was very old, she thought; he would die soon and leave her, andthen there would be years and years, perhaps, before she lay down in herbed and knew the great moment was at hand. 

There came a knock upon the door, and a servant told her that ColonelDurrance was waiting. 

"Yes, " she said, and as he entered the room she went forward to meethim. She did not shirk the part which she had allotted to herself. Shestepped out from the secret chamber of her grief as soon as she wassummoned. 

She talked with her visitor as though no unusual thing had happened anhour before, she even talked of their marriage and the rebuilding ofLennon House. It was difficult, but she had grown used to difficulties. Only that night Durrance made her path a little harder to tread. Heasked her, after the maid had brought in the tea, to play to him theMusoline Overture upon her violin. 

"Not to-night, " said Ethne. "I am rather tired. " And she had hardlyspoken before she changed her mind. Ethne was determined that in thesmall things as well as in the great she must not shirk. The smallthings with their daily happenings were just those about which she mustbe most careful. "Still I think that I can play the overture, " she saidwith a smile, and she took down her violin. She played the overturethrough from the beginning to the end. Durrance stood at the window withhis 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 thatoverture 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 otherway 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 youplay. 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--theoverture which was once strummed out in a dingy café at WadiHalfa--to-night again I should find you off your guard. "

His words took her breath away and the colour from her cheeks. She gotup 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 asmile upon his face. It took her a long time to understand that he hadactually spoken them. She was not sure at the first that heroverstrained senses were not playing her tricks; but he repeated hisquestion, 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 thefourth feather, " said Durrance. "I knew of the three before. Trenchwould never have told me of the fourth had I not known of the three. ForI should not have met him as he landed from the steamer at Dover. Ishould not have asked him, 'Where is Harry Feversham?' And for me toknow of the three was enough. "

"How do you know?" she cried in a kind of despair, and coming close toher he took gently hold of her arm. 

"But since I know, " he protested, "what does it matter how I know? Ihave known a long while, ever since Captain Willoughby came to The Poolwith the first feather. I waited to tell you that I knew until HarryFeversham came back, and he came to-day. "

Ethne sat down in her chair again. She was stunned by Durrance'sunexpected disclosure. She had so carefully guarded her secret, that torealise 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 musthave time to gather up her faculties again under command. So she spokeof the unimportant thing to gain the time. 

"You were in the church, then? Or you heard us upon the steps? Or youmet--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 thedecision to which she knew very well that he had come. Durrance had hisvanities like others; and in particular one vanity which had sprung upwithin him since he had become blind. He prided himself upon thequickness of his perception. It was a delight to him to make discoverieswhich no one expected a man who had lost his sight to make, and toannounce them unexpectedly. It was an additional pleasure to relate tohis puzzled audience the steps by which he had reached his discovery. "Not one of your conjectures is right, Ethne, " he said, and hepractically 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 Iknew 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 Igot 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 allher self-control, she said:--

"You went away to Wiesbaden for a year. You went away just after CaptainWilloughby came. Was that the reason why you went away?"

"I went because neither you nor I could have kept up the game ofpretences we were playing. You were pretending that you had no thoughtfor Harry Feversham, that you hardly cared whether he was alive or dead. I was pretending not to have found out that beyond everything in theworld you cared for him. Some day or other we should have failed, eachone in turn. I dared not fail, nor dared you. I could not let you, whohad said 'Two lives must not be spoilt because of me, ' live through ayear thinking that two lives had been spoilt. You on your side dared notlet me, who had said 'Marriage between a blind man and a woman is onlypossible when there is more than friendship on both sides, ' know thatupon 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 thingworth doing, and incumbent on her to do, to guard this man fromknowledge which would set the crown on his calamities, and she hadfailed. He had set himself to protect her from the comprehension thatshe had failed, and he had succeeded. It was not any mere sense ofhumiliation, due to the fact that the man whom she had thought tohoodwink had hoodwinked her, which troubled her. But she felt that sheought to have succeeded, since by failure she had robbed him of his lastchance of happiness. There lay the sting for her. 

"But it was not your fault, " he said. "Once or twice, as I said, youwere off your guard, but the convincing facts were not revealed to me inthat way. When you played the Musoline Overture before, on the night ofthe day when Willoughby brought you such good news, I took to myselfthat happiness of yours which inspired your playing. You must not blameyourself. 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 wenton: "Two lives should not be spoilt because of you. Had you had yourway, had I not found out, not two but three lives would have been spoiltbecause of you--because of your loyalty. "

"Three?"

"Yours. Yes--yes, yours, Feversham's, and mine. It was hard enough tokeep 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 gaveyou a pause, a rest wherein to drop pretence and be yourself. It couldnot have lasted long even in Devonshire. But what when we came to liveunder the same roof, and there were no visits to the oculist, when wesaw each other every hour of every day? Sooner or later the truth musthave come to me. It might have come gradually, a suspicion added to asuspicion and another to that until no doubt was left. Or it might haveflashed out in one terrible moment. But it would have been made clear. And then, Ethne? What then? You aimed at a compensation; you wanted tomake up to me for the loss of what I love--my career, the army, thespecial service in the strange quarters of the world. A finecompensation to sit in front of you knowing you had married a crippleout of pity, and that in so doing you had crippled yourself and foregonethe happiness which is yours by right. Whereas now--"

"Whereas now?" she repeated. 

"I remain your friend, which I would rather be than your unlovedhusband, " 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-byeto him twice. "

At the "twice" Ethne raised her head, but before she could speakDurrance explained:--

"Once in the church, again upon your violin, " and he took up theinstrument from the chair on which she had laid it. "It has been a verygood friend, your violin, " he said. "A good friend to me, to us all. Youwill understand that, Ethne, very soon. I stood at the window while youplayed it. I had never heard anything in my life half so sad as yourfarewell to Harry Feversham, and yet it was nobly sad. It was truemusic, it did not complain. " He laid the violin down upon the chairagain. 

"I am going to send a messenger to Rathmullen. Harry cannot cross LoughSwilly to-night. The messenger will bring him back to-morrow. "

It had been a day of many emotions and surprises for Ethne. As Durrancebent down towards her, he became aware that she was crying silently. Foronce tears had their way with her. He took his cap and walkednoiselessly 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 cameto 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 asat 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 longjourneys amongst the strange people in the East. "

He went from the house upon his errand. He had learned his lesson a longtime since, and the violin had taught it him. It had spoken again thatafternoon, and though with a different voice, had offered to him thesame message. The true music cannot complain. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE END

In the early summer of next year two old men sat reading theirnewspapers after breakfast upon the terrace of Broad Place. The elder ofthe two turned over a sheet. 

"I see Osman Digna's back at Suakin, " said he. "There's likely to besome fighting. "

"Oh, " said the other, "he will not do much harm. " And he laid down hispaper. The quiet English country-side vanished from before his eyes. Hesaw only the white city by the Red Sea shimmering in the heat, the brownplains about it with their tangle of halfa grass, and in the distancethe 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 atsix o'clock of the morning there, sunstruck in the temples right througha regulation helmet. Yes, a town of dank heat! But I was glad to bethere--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 Englishgarrison 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 littlewhile a footman brought to each a small pile of letters. GeneralFeversham ran over his envelopes with a quick eye, selected one letter, and gave a grunt of satisfaction. He took a pair of spectacles from acase 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 hiscompanion and himself, drew a cigar-case from his pocket, and in spiteof the impatience of Lieutenant Sutch, proceeded to cut and light itwith the utmost deliberation. The old man had become an epicure in thisrespect. A letter from Ramelton was a luxury to be enjoyed with all theaccessories of comfort which could be obtained. He made himselfcomfortable in his chair, stretched out his legs, and smoked enough ofhis cigar to assure himself that it was drawing well. Then he took uphis letter again and opened it. 

"From him?" asked Sutch. 

"No; from her. "

"Ah!"

General Feversham read the letter through slowly, while Lieutenant Sutchtried not to peep at it across the table. When the general had finishedhe 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, hewas in the bazaars, he saw the under side of it. "

"Yes. But you and I won't read it, Sutch, " said Feversham. "No; I amwrong. 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 sittingwith the letter upon his knees and a frown of great perplexity upon hisface. 

"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 Fevershamnever would understand. For he could not understand without muchself-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 forhalf an hour. He was Harry's best man. Well, that too I neverunderstood. Did you?"

"Yes, I understood that as well. "

"Oh!" said General Feversham. He asked for no explanations, but, as hehad always done, he took the questions which he did not understand andput them aside out of his thoughts. But he did not turn to his otherletters. He sat smoking his cigar, and looked out across the summercountry and listened to the sounds rising distinctly from the fields. Sutch had read through all of his correspondence before Feversham spokeagain. 

"I have been thinking, " he said. "Have you noticed the date of themonth, Sutch?" and Sutch looked up quickly. 

"Yes, " said he, "this day next week will be the anniversary of ourattack upon the Redan, and Harry's birthday. "

"Exactly, " replied Feversham. "Why shouldn't we start the Crimean nightsagain?"

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, sentthe servant for the Army List. Bending over that Army List the twoveterans may be left. 

But of one other figure in this story a final word must be said. Thatnight, when the invitations had been sent out from Broad Place, and nolonger a light gleamed from any window of the house, a man leaned overthe rail of a steamer anchored at Port Said and listened to the song ofthe Arab coolies as they tramped up and down the planks with their coalbaskets between the barges and the ship's side. The clamour of thestreets of the town came across the water to his ears. He pictured tohimself the flare of braziers upon the quays, the lighted port-holes, and dark funnels ahead and behind in the procession of the anchoredships. Attended by a servant, he had come back to the East again. Earlythe next morning the steamer moved through the canal, and towards thetime of sunset passed out into the chills of the Gulf of Suez. Kassassin, Tel-el-Kebir, Tamai, Tamanieb, the attack upon McNeil'szareeba--Durrance lived again through the good years of his activity, the years of plenty. Within that country on the west the longpreparations were going steadily forward which would one day roll up theDervish Empire and crush it into dust. Upon the glacis of the ruinedfort of Sinkat, Durrance had promised himself to take a hand in thatgreat 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. Threenights more, and though he would not see it, the Southern Cross wouldlift 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 yearsof 1685-1687, under strange and difficult circumstances, written somewhile afterward in his own hand, and now edited by A. E. W. MASON

Philadelphia Evening Bulletin: In spirit and color it reminds us of thevery remarkable books of Mr. Conon Doyle. The author has measurablycaught the fascinating diction of the seventeenth century, and thestrange adventures with which the story is filled are of a sufficientlyperilous order to entertain the most Homeric mind. 

Boston Courier: In this elaborately ingenious narrative the adventuresrecorded are various and exciting enough to suit the most exactingreader. The incidents recited are of extreme interest, and are not drawnout into noticeable tenuity. 

The Outlook: "The Courtship of Maurice Buckler" is not only full ofaction and stimulating to curiosity, but tells a quite original plot ina clever way. Perhaps in its literary kinship it approaches more closelyto "The Prisoner of Zenda" than to any other recent novel, but there isno evidence of imitation; the resemblance is in the spirit and dash ofthe narrative. The merit of this story is not solely in its grasp on thereader's attention and its exciting situations; it is written inexcellent English, the dialogue is natural and brisk, the individualcharacters stand out clearly, and the flavor of the time is wellpreserved.