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,Durran
ce."
"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.