The Four Feathers

by A. E. W. Mason

  CHAPTER VI

  HARRY FEVERSHAM'S PLAN

  It was the night of August 30. A month had passed since the ball atLennon House, but the uneventful country-side of Donegal was still busywith the stimulating topic of Harry Feversham's disappearance. Thetownsmen in the climbing street and the gentry at their dinner-tablesgossiped to their hearts' contentment. It was asserted that HarryFeversham had been seen on the very morning after the dance, and at fiveminutes to six--though according to Mrs. Brien O'Brien it was tenminutes past the hour--still in his dress clothes and with a whitesuicide's face, hurrying along the causeway by the Lennon Bridge. It wassuggested that a drag-net would be the only way to solve the mystery.Mr. Dennis Rafferty, who lived on the road to Rathmullen, indeed, wentso far as to refuse salmon on the plea that he was not a cannibal, andthe saying had a general vogue. Their conjectures as to the cause of thedisappearance were no nearer to the truth. For there were only two whoknew, and those two went steadily about the business of living as thoughno catastrophe had befallen them. They held their heads a trifle moreproudly perhaps. Ethne might have become a little more gentle, Dermod alittle more irascible, but these were the only changes. So gossip hadthe field to itself.

  But Harry Feversham was in London, as Lieutenant Sutch discovered on thenight of the 30th. All that day the town had been perturbed by rumoursof a great battle fought at Kassassin in the desert east of Ismailia.Messengers had raced ceaselessly through the streets, shouting tidingsof victory and tidings of disaster. There had been a charge by moonlightof General Drury-Lowe's Cavalry Brigade, which had rolled up Arabi'sleft flank and captured his guns. It was rumoured that an Englishgeneral had been killed, that the York and Lancaster Regiment had beencut up. London was uneasy, and at eleven o'clock at night a great crowdof people had gathered beneath the gas-lamps in Pall Mall, watching withpale upturned faces the lighted blinds of the War Office. The crowd wassilent and impressively still. Only if a figure moved for an instantacross the blinds, a thrill of expectation passed from man to man, andthe crowd swayed in a continuous movement from edge to edge. LieutenantSutch, careful of his wounded leg, was standing on the outskirts, withhis back to the parapet of the Junior Carlton Club, when he felt himselftouched upon the arm. He saw Harry Feversham at his side. Feversham'sface was working and extraordinarily white, his eyes were bright likethe eyes of a man in a fever; and Sutch at the first was not sure thathe knew or cared who it was to whom he talked.

  "I might have been out there in Egypt to-night," said Harry, in a quicktroubled voice. "Think of it! I might have been out there, sitting by acamp-fire in the desert, talking over the battle with Jack Durrance; ordead perhaps. What would it have mattered? I might have been in Egyptto-night!"

  Feversham's unexpected appearance, no less than his wandering tongue,told Sutch that somehow his fortunes had gone seriously wrong. He hadmany questions in his mind, but he did not ask a single one of them. Hetook Feversham's arm and led him straight out of the throng.

  "I saw you in the crowd," continued Feversham. "I thought that I wouldspeak to you, because--do you remember, a long time ago you gave me yourcard? I have always kept it, because I have always feared that I wouldhave reason to use it. You said that if one was in trouble, the tellingmight help."

  Sutch stopped his companion.

  "We will go in here. We can find a quiet corner in the uppersmoking-room;" and Harry, looking up, saw that he was standing by thesteps of the Army and Navy Club.

  "Good God, not there!" he cried in a sharp low voice, and moved quicklyinto the roadway, where no light fell directly on his face. Sutch limpedafter him. "Nor to-night. It is late. To-morrow if you will, in somequiet place, and after nightfall. I do not go out in the daylight."

  Again Lieutenant Sutch asked no questions.

  "I know a quiet restaurant," he said. "If we dine there at nine, weshall meet no one whom we know. I will meet you just before nineto-morrow night at the corner of Swallow Street."

  They dined together accordingly on the following evening, at a table inthe corner of the Criterion grill-room. Feversham looked quickly abouthim as he entered the room.

  "I dine here often when I am in town," said Sutch. "Listen!" Thethrobbing of the engines working the electric light could be distinctlyheard, their vibrations could be felt.

  "It reminds me of a ship," said Sutch, with a smile. "I can almost fancymyself in the gun-room again. We will have dinner. Then you shall tell meyour story."

  "You have heard nothing of it?" asked Feversham, suspiciously.

  "Not a word;" and Feversham drew a breath of relief. It had seemed tohim that every one must know. He imagined contempt on every face whichpassed him in the street.

  Lieutenant Sutch was even more concerned this evening than he had beenthe night before. He saw Harry Feversham clearly now in a full light.Harry's face was thin and haggard with lack of sleep, there were blackhollows beneath his eyes; he drew his breath and made his movements in arestless feverish fashion, his nerves seemed strung to breaking-point.Once or twice between the courses he began his story, but Sutch wouldnot listen until the cloth was cleared.

  "Now," said he, holding out his cigar-case. "Take your time, Harry."

  Thereupon Feversham told him the whole truth, without exaggeration oromission, forcing himself to a slow, careful, matter-of-fact speech, sothat in the end Sutch almost fell into the illusion that it was just thestory of a stranger which Feversham was recounting merely to pass thetime. He began with the Crimean night at Broad Place, and ended with theball at Lennon House.

  "I came back across Lough Swilly early that morning," he said inconclusion, "and travelled at once to London. Since then I have stayedin my rooms all day, listening to the bugles calling in the barrack-yardbeneath my windows. At night I prowl about the streets or lie in bedwaiting for the Westminster clock to sound each new quarter of an hour.On foggy nights, too, I can hear steam-sirens on the river. Do you knowwhen the ducks start quacking in St. James's Park?" he asked with alaugh. "At two o'clock to the minute."

  Sutch listened to the story without an interruption. But halfway throughthe narrative he changed his attitude, and in a significant way. Up tothe moment when Harry told of his concealment of the telegram, Sutch hadsat with his arms upon the table in front of him, and his eyes upon hiscompanion. Thereafter he raised a hand to his forehead, and so remainedwith his face screened while the rest was told. Feversham had no doubtof the reason. Lieutenant Sutch wished to conceal the scorn he felt, andcould not trust the muscles of his face. Feversham, however, mitigatednothing, but continued steadily and truthfully to the end. But evenafter the end was reached, Sutch did not remove his hand, nor for somelittle while did he speak. When he did speak, his words came uponFeversham's ears with a shock of surprise. There was no contempt inthem, and though his voice shook, it shook with a great contrition.

  "I am much to blame," he said. "I should have spoken that night at BroadPlace, and I held my tongue. I shall hardly forgive myself." Theknowledge that it was Muriel Graham's son who had thus brought ruin anddisgrace upon himself was uppermost in the lieutenant's mind. He feltthat he had failed in the discharge of an obligation, self-imposed, nodoubt, but a very real obligation none the less. "You see, Iunderstood," he continued remorsefully. "Your father, I am afraid, neverwould."

  "He never will," interrupted Harry.

  "No," Sutch agreed. "Your mother, of course, had she lived, would haveseen clearly; but few women, I think, except your mother. Brute courage!Women make a god of it. That girl, for instance,"--and again HarryFeversham interrupted.

  "You must not blame her. I was defrauding her into marriage."

  Sutch took his hand suddenly from his forehead.

  "Suppose that you had never met her, would you still have sent in yourpapers?"

  "I think not," said Harry, slowly. "I want to be fair. Disgracing myname and those dead men in the hall I think I would have risked. I couldnot risk disgracing her."

  And Lieutenant Sutch thumped his
fist despairingly upon the table. "Ifonly I had spoken at Broad Place. Harry, why didn't you let me speak? Imight have saved you many unnecessary years of torture. Good heavens!what a childhood you must have spent with that fear all alone with you.It makes me shiver to think of it. I might even have saved you from thislast catastrophe. For I understood. I understood."

  Lieutenant Sutch saw more clearly into the dark places of HarryFeversham's mind than Harry Feversham did himself; and because he saw soclearly, he could feel no contempt. The long years of childhood, andboyhood, and youth, lived apart in Broad Place in the presence of theuncomprehending father and the relentless dead men on the walls, haddone the harm. There had been no one in whom the boy could confide. Thefear of cowardice had sapped incessantly at his heart. He had walkedabout with it; he had taken it with him to his bed. It had haunted hisdreams. It had been his perpetual menacing companion. It had kept himfrom intimacy with his friends lest an impulsive word should betray him.Lieutenant Sutch did not wonder that in the end it had brought aboutthis irretrievable mistake; for Lieutenant Sutch understood.

  "Did you ever read 'Hamlet'?" he asked.

  "Of course," said Harry, in reply.

  "Ah, but did you consider it? The same disability is clear in thatcharacter. The thing which he foresaw, which he thought over, which heimagined in the act and in the consequence--that he shrank from,upbraiding himself even as you have done. Yet when the moment of actioncomes, sharp and immediate, does he fail? No, he excels, and just byreason of that foresight. I have seen men in the Crimea, tortured bytheir imaginations before the fight--once the fight had begun you mustsearch amongst the Oriental fanatics for their match. 'Am I a coward?'Do you remember the lines?

  Am I a coward? Who calls me villain? Breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face?

  There's the case in a nutshell. If only I had spoken on that night!"

  One or two people passed the table on the way out. Sutch stopped andlooked round the room. It was nearly empty. He glanced at his watch andsaw that the hour was eleven. Some plan of action must be decided uponthat night. It was not enough to hear Harry Feversham's story. Therestill remained the question, what was Harry Feversham, disgraced andruined, now to do? How was he to re-create his life? How was the secretof his disgrace to be most easily concealed?

  "You cannot stay in London, hiding by day, slinking about by night," hesaid with a shiver. "That's too like--" and he checked himself.Feversham, however, completed the sentence.

  "That's too like Wilmington," said he, quietly, recalling the storywhich his father had told so many years ago, and which he had neverforgotten, even for a single day. "But Wilmington's end will not bemine. Of that I can assure you. I shall not stay in London."

  He spoke with an air of decision. He had indeed mapped out already theplan of action concerning which Lieutenant Sutch was so disturbed.Sutch, however, was occupied with his own thoughts.

  "Who knows of the feathers? How many people?" he asked. "Give me theirnames."

  "Trench, Castleton, Willoughby," began Feversham.

  "All three are in Egypt. Besides, for the credit of their regiment theyare likely to hold their tongues when they return. Who else?"

  "Dermod Eustace and--and--Ethne."

  "They will not speak."

  "You, Durrance perhaps, and my father."

  Sutch leaned back in his chair and stared.

  "Your father! You wrote to him?"

  "No; I went into Surrey and told him."

  Again remorse for that occasion, recognised and not used, seized uponLieutenant Sutch.

  "Why didn't I speak that night?" he said impotently. "A coward, and yougo quietly down to Surrey and confront your father with that story totell to him! You do not even write! You stand up and tell it to him faceto face! Harry, I reckon myself as good as another when it comes tobravery, but for the life of me I could not have done that."

  "It was not--pleasant," said Feversham, simply; and this was the onlydescription of the interview between father and son which was vouchsafedto any one. But Lieutenant Sutch knew the father and knew the son. Hecould guess at all which that one adjective implied. Harry Fevershamtold the results of his journey into Surrey.

  "My father continues my allowance. I shall need it, every penny ofit--otherwise I should have taken nothing. But I am not to go homeagain. I did not mean to go home for a long while in any case, if atall."

  He drew his pocket-book from his breast, and took from it the four whitefeathers. These he laid before him on the table.

  "You have kept them?" exclaimed Sutch.

  "Indeed, I treasure them," said Harry, quietly. "That seems strange toyou. To you they are the symbols of my disgrace. To me they are muchmore. They are my opportunities of retrieving it." He looked about theroom, separated three of the feathers, pushed them forward a little onthe tablecloth, and then leaned across toward Sutch.

  "What if I could compel Trench, Castleton, and Willoughby to take backfrom me, each in his turn, the feather he sent? I do not say that it islikely. I do not say even that it is possible. But there is a chancethat it may be possible, and I must wait upon that chance. There will befew men leading active lives as these three do who will not at somemoment stand in great peril and great need. To be in readiness for thatmoment is from now my career. All three are in Egypt. I leave for Egyptto-morrow."

  Upon the face of Lieutenant Sutch there came a look of great andunexpected happiness. Here was an issue of which he had never thought;and it was the only issue, as he knew for certain, once he was aware ofit. This student of human nature disregarded without a scruple theprudence and the calculation proper to the character which he assumed.The obstacles in Harry Feversham's way, the possibility that at the lastmoment he might shrink again, the improbability that three suchopportunities would occur--these matters he overlooked. His eyes alreadyshone with pride; the three feathers for him were already taken back.The prudence was on Harry Feversham's side.

  "There are endless difficulties," he said. "Just to cite one: I am acivilian, these three are soldiers, surrounded by soldiers; so much theless opportunity therefore for a civilian."

  "But it is not necessary that the three men should be themselves inperil," objected Sutch, "for you to convince them that the fault isretrieved."

  "Oh, no. There may be other ways," agreed Feversham. "The plan camesuddenly into my mind, indeed at the moment when Ethne bade me take upthe feathers, and added the fourth. I was on the point of tearing themacross when this way out of it sprang clearly up in my mind. But I havethought it over since during these last weeks while I sat listening tothe bugles in the barrack-yard. And I am sure there is no other way. Butit is well worth trying. You see, if the three take back theirfeathers,"--he drew a deep breath, and in a very low voice, with hiseyes upon the table so that his face was hidden from Sutch, headded--"why, then she perhaps might take hers back too."

  "Will she wait, do you think?" asked Sutch; and Harry raised his headquickly.

  "Oh, no," he exclaimed, "I had no thought of that. She has not even asuspicion of what I intend to do. Nor do I wish her to have one untilthe intention is fulfilled. My thought was different"--and he began tospeak with hesitation for the first time in the course of that evening."I find it difficult to tell you--Ethne said something to me the daybefore the feathers came--something rather sacred. I think that I willtell you, because what she said is just what sends me out upon thiserrand. But for her words, I would very likely never have thought of it.I find in them my motive and a great hope. They may seem strange to you,Mr. Sutch; but I ask you to believe that they are very real to me. Shesaid--it was when she knew no more than that my regiment was ordered toEgypt--she was blaming herself because I had resigned my commission, forwhich there was no need, because--and these were her words--because hadI fallen, although she would have felt lonely all her life, she wouldnone the less have surely known that she and I would see much of oneanother--afterwards."

&
nbsp; Feversham had spoken his words with difficulty, not looking at hiscompanion, and he continued with his eyes still averted:--

  "Do you understand? I have a hope that if--this fault can berepaired,"--and he pointed to the feathers,--"we might still, perhaps,see something of one another--afterwards."

  It was a strange proposition, no doubt, to be debated across the soiledtablecloth of a public restaurant, but neither of them felt it to bestrange or even fanciful. They were dealing with the simple seriousissues, and they had reached a point where they could not be affected byany incongruity in their surroundings. Lieutenant Sutch did not speakfor some while after Harry Feversham had done, and in the end Harrylooked up at his companion, prepared for almost a word of ridicule; buthe saw Sutch's right hand outstretched towards him.

  "When I come back," said Feversham, and he rose from his chair. Hegathered the feathers together and replaced them in his pocket-book.

  "I have told you everything," he said. "You see, I wait upon chanceopportunities; the three may not come in Egypt. They may never come atall, and in that case I shall not come back at all. Or they may comeonly at the very end and after many years. Therefore I thought that Iwould like just one person to know the truth thoroughly in case I do notcome back. If you hear definitely that I never can come back, I wouldbe glad if you would tell my father."

  "I understand," said Sutch.

  "But don't tell him everything--I mean, not the last part, not what Ihave just said about Ethne and my chief motive, for I do not think thathe would understand. Otherwise you will keep silence altogether.Promise!"

  Lieutenant Sutch promised, but with an absent face, and Fevershamconsequently insisted.

  "You will breathe no word of this to man or woman, however hard you maybe pressed, except to my father under the circumstances which I haveexplained," said Feversham.

  Lieutenant Sutch promised a second time and without an instant'shesitation. It was quite natural that Harry should lay some stress uponthe pledge, since any disclosure of his purpose might very well wear theappearance of a foolish boast, and Sutch himself saw no reason why heshould refuse it. So he gave the promise and fettered his hands. Histhoughts, indeed, were occupied with the limit Harry had set upon theknowledge which was to be imparted to General Feversham. Even if he diedwith his mission unfulfilled, Sutch was to hide from the father thatwhich was best in the son, at the son's request. And the saddest part ofit, to Sutch's thinking, was that the son was right in so requesting.For what he said was true--the father could not understand. LieutenantSutch was brought back to the causes of the whole miserable business:the premature death of the mother, who could have understood; the wantof comprehension in the father, who was left; and his own silence onthe Crimean night at Broad Place.

  "If only I had spoken," he said sadly. He dropped the end of his cigarinto his coffee-cup, and standing up, reached for his hat. "Many thingsare irrevocable, Harry," he said, "but one never knows whether they areirrevocable or not until one has found out. It is always worth whilefinding out."

  The next evening Feversham crossed to Calais. It was a night as wild asthat on which Durrance had left England; and, like Durrance, Fevershamhad a friend to see him off, for the last thing which his eyes beheld asthe packet swung away from the pier, was the face of Lieutenant Sutchbeneath a gas-lamp. The lieutenant maintained his position after theboat had passed into the darkness and until the throb of its paddlescould no longer be heard. Then he limped through the rain to his hotel,aware, and regretfully aware, that he was growing old. It was long sincehe had felt regret on that account, and the feeling was very strange tohim. Ever since the Crimea he had been upon the world's half-pay list,as he had once said to General Feversham, and what with that and therecollection of a certain magical season before the Crimea, he hadlooked forward to old age as an approaching friend. To-night, however,he prayed that he might live just long enough to welcome back MurielGraham's son with his honour redeemed and his great fault atoned.