Complete works of a e w.., p.381
Complete Works of a E W Mason, page 381
“We are both of us curious,” Durrance continued, “and you can clear up the point we are curious about. Did you ever come across an Arab called Abou Fatma?”
“Abou Fatma,” said Willoughby, slowly, “one of the Hadendoas?”
“No, a man of the Kabbabish tribe.”
“Abou Fatma?” Willoughby repeated, as though for the first time he had heard the name. “No, I never came across him;” and then he stopped. It occurred to Durrance that it was not a natural place at which to stop; Willoughby might have been expected to add, “Why do you ask me?” or some question of the kind. But he kept silent. As a matter of fact, he was wondering how in the world Durrance had ever come to hear of Abou Fatma, whose name he himself had heard for the first and last time a year ago upon the verandah of the Palace at Suakin. For he had spoken the truth. He never had come across Abou Fatma, although Feversham had spoken of him.
“That makes me still more curious,” Durrance continued. “Mather and I were together on the last reconnaissance in ‘84, and we found Abou Fatma hiding in the bushes by the Sinkat fort. He told us about the Gordon letters which he had hidden in Berber. Ah! you remember his name now.”
“I was merely getting my pipe out of my pocket,” said Willoughby. “But I do remember the name now that you mention the letters.”
“They were brought to you in Suakin fifteen months or so back. Mather showed me the paragraph in the Evening Standard. And I am curious as to whether Abou Fatma returned to Berber and recovered them. But since you have never come across him, it follows that he was not the man.”
Captain Willoughby began to feel sorry that he had been in such haste to deny all acquaintance with Abou Fatma of the Kabbabish tribe.
“No; it was not Abou Fatma,” he said, with an awkward sort of hesitation. He dreaded the next question which Durrance would put to him. He filled his pipe, pondering what answer he should make to it. But Durrance put no question at all for the moment.
“I wondered,” he said slowly. “I thought that Abou Fatma would hardly return to Berber. For, indeed, whoever undertook the job undertook it at the risk of his life, and, since Gordon was dead, for no very obvious reason.”
“Quite so,” said Willoughby, in a voice of relief. It seemed that Durrance’s curiosity was satisfied with the knowledge that Abou Fatma had not recovered the letters. “Quite so. Since Gordon was dead, for no reason.”
“For no obvious reason, I think I said,” Durrance remarked imperturbably. Willoughby turned and glanced suspiciously at his companion, wondering whether, after all, Durrance knew of his visit to Kingsbridge and its motive. Durrance, however, smoked his cigar, leaning back in his chair with his face tilted up towards the ceiling. He seemed, now that his curiosity was satisfied, to have lost interest in the history of the Gordon letters. At all events, he put no more questions upon that subject to embarrass Captain Willoughby, and indeed there was no need that he should. Thinking over the possible way by which Harry Feversham might have redeemed himself in Willoughby’s eyes from the charge of cowardice, Durrance could only hit upon this recovery of the letters from the ruined wall in Berber. There had been no personal danger to the inhabitants of Suakin since the days of that last reconnaissance. The great troop-ships had steamed between the coral reefs towards Suez, and no cry for help had ever summoned them back. Willoughby risked only his health in that white palace on the Red Sea. There could not have been a moment when Feversham was in a position to say, “Your life was forfeit but for me, whom you call coward.” And Durrance, turning over in his mind all the news and gossip which had come to him at Wadi Halfa or during his furloughs, had been brought to conjecture whether that fugitive from Khartum, who had told him his story in the glacis of the silent ruined fort of Sinkat during one drowsy afternoon of May, had not told it again at Suakin within Feversham’s hearing. He was convinced now that his conjecture was correct.
Willoughby’s reticence was in itself a sufficient confirmation. Willoughby, without doubt, had been instructed by Ethne to keep his tongue in a leash. Colonel Durrance was prepared for reticence, he looked to reticence as the answer to his conjecture. His trained ear, besides, had warned him that Willoughby was uneasy at his visit and careful in his speech. There had been pauses, during which Durrance was as sure as though he had eyes wherewith to see, that his companion was staring at him suspiciously and wondering how much he knew, or how little. There had been an accent of wariness and caution in his voice, which was hatefully familiar to Durrance’s ears, for just with that accent Ethne had been wont to speak. Moreover, Durrance had set traps, — that remark of his “for no obvious reason, I think I said,” had been one, — and a little start here, or a quick turn there, showed him that Willoughby had tumbled into them.
He had no wish, however, that Willoughby should write off to Ethne and warn her that Durrance was making inquiries. That was a possibility, he recognised, and he set himself to guard against it.
“I want to tell you why I was anxious to meet you,” he said. “It was because of Harry Feversham;” and Captain Willoughby, who was congratulating himself that he was well out of an awkward position, fairly jumped in his seat. It was not Durrance’s policy, however, to notice his companion’s agitation, and he went on quickly: “Something happened to Feversham. It’s more than five years ago now. He did something, I suppose, or left something undone, — the secret, at all events, has been closely kept, — and he dropped out, and his place knew him no more. Now you are going back to the Soudan, Willoughby?”
“Yes,” Willoughby answered, “in a week’s time.”
“Well, Harry Feversham is in the Soudan,” said Durrance, leaning towards his companion.
“You know that?” exclaimed Willoughby.
“Yes, for I came across him this Spring at Wadi Halfa,” Durrance continued. “He had fallen rather low,” and he told Willoughby of their meeting outside of the café of Tewfikieh. “It’s strange, isn’t it? — a man whom one knew very well going under like that in a second, disappearing before your eyes as it were, dropping plumb out of sight as though down an oubliette in an old French castle. I want you to look out for him, Willoughby, and do what you can to set him on his legs again. Let me know if you chance on him. Harry Feversham was a friend of mine — one of my few real friends.”
“All right,” said Willoughby, cheerfully. Durrance knew at once from the tone of his voice that suspicion was quieted in him. “I will look out for Feversham. I remember he was a great friend of yours.”
He stretched out his hand towards the matches upon the table beside him. Durrance heard the scrape of the phosphorus and the flare of the match. Willoughby was lighting his pipe. It was a well-seasoned piece of briar, and needed a cleaning; it bubbled as he held the match to the tobacco and sucked at the mouthpiece.
“Yes, a great friend,” said Durrance. “You and I dined with him in his flat high up above St. James’s Park just before we left England.”
And at that chance utterance Willoughby’s briar pipe ceased suddenly to bubble. A moment’s silence followed, then Willoughby swore violently, and a second later he stamped upon the carpet. Durrance’s imagination was kindled by this simple sequence of events, and he straightway made up a little picture in his mind. In one chair himself smoking his cigar, a round table holding a match-stand on his left hand, and on the other side of the table Captain Willoughby in another chair. But Captain Willoughby lighting his pipe and suddenly arrested in the act by a sentence spoken without significance, Captain Willoughby staring suspiciously in his slow-witted way at the blind man’s face, until the lighted match, which he had forgotten, burnt down to his fingers, and he swore and dropped it and stamped it out upon the floor. Durrance had never given a thought to that dinner till this moment. It was possible it might deserve much thought.
“There were you and I and Feversham present,” he went on. “Feversham had asked us there to tell us of his engagement to Miss Eustace. He had just come back from Dublin. That was almost the last we saw of him.” He took a pull at his cigar and added, “By the way, there was a third man present.”
“Was there?” asked Willoughby. “It’s so long ago.”
“Yes — Trench.”
“To be sure, Trench was present. It will be a long time, I am afraid, before we dine at the same table with poor old Trench again.”
The carelessness of his voice was well assumed; he leaned forwards and struck another match and lighted his pipe. As he did so, Durrance laid down his cigar upon the table edge.
“And we shall never dine with Castleton again,” he said slowly.
“Castleton wasn’t there,” Willoughby exclaimed, and quickly enough to betray that, however long the interval since that little dinner in Feversham’s rooms, it was at all events still distinct in his recollections.
“No, but he was expected,” said Durrance.
“No, not even expected,” corrected Willoughby. “He was dining elsewhere. He sent the telegram, you remember.”
“Ah, yes, a telegram came,” said Durrance.
That dinner party certainly deserved consideration. Willoughby, Trench, Castleton — these three men were the cause of Harry Feversham’s disgrace and disappearance. Durrance tried to recollect all the details of the evening; but he had been occupied himself on that occasion. He remembered leaning against the window above St. James’s Park; he remembered hearing the tattoo from the parade-ground of Wellington Barracks — and a telegram had come.
Durrance made up another picture in his mind. Harry Feversham at the table reading and re-reading his telegram, Trench and Willoughby waiting silently, perhaps expectantly, and himself paying no heed, but staring out from the bright room into the quiet and cool of the park.
“Castleton was dining with a big man from the War Office that night,” Durrance said, and a little movement at his side warned him that he was getting hot in his search. He sat for a while longer talking about the prospects of the Soudan, and then rose up from his chair.
“Well, I can rely on you, Willoughby, to help Feversham if ever you find him. Draw on me for money.”
“I will do my best,” said Willoughby. “You are going? I could have won a bet off you this afternoon.”
“How?”
“You said that you did not let your cigars go out. This one’s stone cold.”
“I forgot about it; I was thinking of Feversham. Good-bye.”
He took a cab and drove away from the club door. Willoughby was glad to see the last of him, but he was fairly satisfied with his own exhibition of diplomacy. It would have been strange, after all, he thought, if he had not been able to hoodwink poor old Durrance; and he returned to the smoking-room and refreshed himself with a whiskey and potass.
Durrance, however, had not been hoodwinked. The last perplexing question had been answered for him that afternoon. He remembered now that no mention had been made at the dinner which could identify the sender of the telegram. Feversham had read it without a word, and without a word had crumpled it up and tossed it into the fire. But to-day Willoughby had told him that it had come from Castleton, and Castleton had been dining with a high official of the War Office. The particular act of cowardice which had brought the three white feathers to Ramelton was easy to discern. Almost the next day Feversham had told Durrance in the Row that he had resigned his commission, and Durrance knew that he had not resigned it when the telegram came. That telegram could have brought only one piece of news, that Feversham’s regiment was ordered on active service. The more Durrance reflected, the more certain he felt that he had at last hit upon the truth. Nothing could be more natural than that Castleton should telegraph his good news in confidence to his friends. Durrance had the story now complete, or rather, the sequence of facts complete. For why Feversham should have been seized with panic, why he should have played the coward the moment after he was engaged to Ethne Eustace — at a time, in a word, when every manly quality he possessed should have been at its strongest and truest, remained for Durrance, and indeed, was always to remain, an inexplicable problem. But he put that question aside, classing it among the considerations which he had learnt to estimate as small and unimportant. The simple and true thing — the thing of real importance — emerged definite and clear: Harry Feversham was atoning for his one act of cowardice with a full and an overflowing measure of atonement.
“I shall astonish old Sutch,” he thought, with a chuckle. He took the night mail into Devonshire the same evening, and reached his home before midday.
CHAPTER XXIII
MRS. ADAIR MAKES HER APOLOGY
WITHIN THE DRAWING-ROOM at The Pool, Durrance said good-bye to Ethne. He had so arranged it that there should be little time for that leave-taking, and already the carriage stood at the steps of Guessens, with his luggage strapped upon the roof and his servant waiting at the door.
Ethne came out with him on to the terrace, where Mrs. Adair stood at the top of the flight of steps. Durrance held out his hand to her, but she turned to Ethne and said: —
“I want to speak to Colonel Durrance before he goes.”
“Very well,” said Ethne. “Then we will say good-bye here,” she added to Durrance. “You will write from Wiesbaden? Soon, please!”
“The moment I arrive,” answered Durrance. He descended the steps with Mrs. Adair, and left Ethne standing upon the terrace. The last scene of pretence had been acted out, the months of tension and surveillance had come to an end, and both were thankful for their release. Durrance showed that he was glad even in the briskness of his walk, as he crossed the lawn at Mrs. Adair’s side. She, however, lagged, and when she spoke it was in a despondent voice.
“So you are going,” she said. “In two days’ time you will be at Wiesbaden and Ethne at Glenalla. We shall all be scattered. It will be lonely here.”
She had had her way; she had separated Ethne and Durrance for a time at all events; she was no longer to be tortured by the sight of them and the sound of their voices; but somehow her interference had brought her little satisfaction. “The house will seem very empty after you are all gone,” she said; and she turned at Durrance’s side and walked down with him into the garden.
“We shall come back, no doubt,” said Durrance, reassuringly.
Mrs. Adair looked about her garden. The flowers were gone, and the sunlight; clouds stretched across the sky overhead, the green of the grass underfoot was dull, the stream ran grey in the gap between the trees, and the leaves from the branches were blown russet and yellow about the lawns.
“How long shall you stay at Wiesbaden?” she asked.
“I can hardly tell. But as long as it’s advisable,” he answered.
“That tells me nothing at all. I suppose it was meant not to tell me anything.”
Durrance did not answer her, and she resented his silence. She knew nothing whatever of his plans; she was unaware whether he meant to break his engagement with Ethne or to hold her to it, and curiosity consumed her. It might be a very long time before she saw him again, and all that long time she must remain tortured with doubts.
“You distrust me?” she said defiantly, and with a note of anger in her voice.
Durrance answered her quite gently: —
“Have I no reason to distrust you? Why did you tell me of Captain Willoughby’s coming? Why did you interfere?”
“I thought you ought to know.”
“But Ethne wished the secret kept. I am glad to know, very glad. But, after all, you told me, and you were Ethne’s friend.”
“Yours, too, I hope,” Mrs. Adair answered, and she exclaimed: “How could I go on keeping silence? Don’t you understand?”
“No.”
Durrance might have understood, but he had never given much thought to Mrs. Adair, and she knew it. The knowledge rankled within her, and his simple “no” stung her beyond bearing.
“I spoke brutally, didn’t I?” she said. “I told you the truth as brutally as I could. Doesn’t that help you to understand?”
Again Durrance said “No,” and the monosyllable exasperated her out of all prudence, and all at once she found herself speaking incoherently the things which she had thought. And once she had begun, she could not stop. She stood, as it were, outside of herself, and saw that her speech was madness; yet she went on with it.
“I told you the truth brutally on purpose. I was so stung because you would not see what was so visible had you only the mind to see. I wanted to hurt you. I am a bad, bad woman, I suppose. There were you and she in the room talking together in the darkness; there was I alone upon the terrace. It was the same again to-day. You and Ethne in the room, I alone upon the terrace. I wonder whether it will always be so. But you will not say — you will not say.” She struck her hands together with a gesture of despair, but Durrance had no words for her. He walked silently along the garden path towards the stile, and he quickened his pace a little, so that Mrs. Adair had to walk fast to keep up with him. That quickening of the pace was a sort of answer, but Mrs. Adair was not deterred by it. Her madness had taken hold of her.
“I do not think I would have minded so much,” she continued, “if Ethne had really cared for you; but she never cared more than as a friend cares, just a mere friend. And what’s friendship worth?” she asked scornfully.
“Something, surely,” said Durrance.
“It does not prevent Ethne from shrinking from her friend,” cried Mrs. Adair. “She shrinks from you. Shall I tell you why? Because you are blind. She is afraid. While I — I will tell you the truth — I am glad. When the news first came from Wadi Halfa that you were blind, I was glad; when I saw you in Hill Street, I was glad; ever since, I have been glad — quite glad. Because I saw that she shrank. From the beginning she shrank, thinking how her life would be hampered and fettered,” and the scorn of Mrs. Adair’s voice increased, though her voice itself was sunk to a whisper. “I am not afraid,” she said, and she repeated the words passionately again and again. “I am not afraid. I am not afraid.”
