The Four Feathers

  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," repli
ed 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.