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 cafe 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 hoodwinke
d 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.
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