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 r
ecapture 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 fri
endship--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.