CHAPTER IX
AT GLENALLA
The farm-house stood a mile above the village, in a wild moorlandcountry. The heather encroached upon its garden, and the bridle-pathended at its door. On three sides an amphitheatre of hills, whichchanged so instantly to the season that it seemed one could distinguishfrom day to day a new gradation in their colours, harboured it like aship. No trees grew upon those hills, the granite cropped out amidst themoss and heather; but they had a friendly sheltering look, and Durrancecame almost to believe that they put on their different draperies ofemerald green, and purple, and russet brown consciously to delight theeyes of the girl they sheltered. The house faced the long slope ofcountry to the inlet of the Lough. From the windows the eye reached downover the sparse thickets, the few tilled fields, the whitewashedcottages, to the tall woods upon the bank, and caught a glimpse ofbright water and the gulls poising and dipping above it. Durrance rodeup the track upon an afternoon and knew the house at once. For as heapproached, the music of a violin floated towards him from the windowslike a welcome. His hand was checked upon the reins, and a particularstrong hope, about which he had allowed his fancies to play, rose upwithin him and suspended his breath.
He tied up his horse and entered in at the gate. A formless barrackwithout, the house within was a place of comfort. The room into which hewas shown, with its brasses and its gleaming oak and its wide prospect,was bright as the afternoon itself. Durrance imagined it, too, with theblinds drawn upon a winter's night, and the fire red on the hearth, andthe wind skirling about the hills and rapping on the panes.
Ethne greeted him without the least mark of surprise.
"I thought that you would come," she said, and a smile shone upon herface.
Durrance laughed suddenly as they shook hands, and Ethne wondered why.She followed the direction of his eyes towards the violin which lay upona table at her side. It was pale in colour; there was a mark, too, closeto the bridge, where a morsel of worm-eaten wood had been replaced.
"It is yours," she said. "You were in Egypt. I could not well send itback to you there."
"I have hoped lately, since I knew," returned Durrance, "that,nevertheless, you would accept it."
"You see I have," said Ethne, and looking straight into his eyes sheadded: "I accepted it some while ago. There was a time when I needed tobe assured that I had sure friends. And a thing tangible helped. I wasvery glad to have it."
Durrance took the instrument from the table, handling it delicately,like a sacred vessel.
"You have played upon it? The Musoline overture, perhaps," said he.
"Do you remember that?" she returned, with a laugh. "Yes, I have playedupon it, but only recently. For a long time I put my violin away. Ittalked to me too intimately of many things which I wished to forget,"and these words, like the rest, she spoke without hesitation or anydown-dropping of the eyes.
Durrance fetched up his luggage from Rathmullen the next day, and stayedat the farm for a week. But up to the last hour of his visit no furtherreference was made to Harry Feversham by either Ethne or Durrance,although they were thrown much into each other's company. For Dermod waseven more broken than Mrs. Adair's description had led Durrance toexpect. His speech was all dwindled to monosyllables; his frame wasshrunken, and his clothes bagged upon his limbs; his very stature seemedlessened; even the anger was clouded from his eye; he had become astay-at-home, dozing for the most part of the day by a fire, even inthat July weather; his longest walk was to the little grey church whichstood naked upon a mound some quarter of a mile away and within view ofthe windows, and even that walk taxed his strength. He was an old manfallen upon decrepitude, and almost out of recognition, so that hisgestures and the rare tones of his voice struck upon Durrance assomething painful, like the mimicry of a dead man. His collie dog seemedto age in company, and, to see them side by side, one might have said,in sympathy.
Durrance and Ethne were thus thrown much together. By day, in the wetweather or the fine, they tramped the hills, while she, with the colourglowing in her face, and her eyes most jealous and eager, showed himher country and exacted his admiration. In the evenings she would takeher violin, and sitting as of old with an averted face, she would bidthe strings speak of the heights and depths. Durrance sat watching thesweep of her arm, the absorption of her face, and counting up hischances. He had not brought with him to Glenalla Lieutenant Sutch'santicipations that he would succeed. The shadow of Harry Feversham mightwell separate them. For another thing, he knew very well that povertywould fall more lightly upon her than upon most women. He had indeed hadproofs of that. Though the Lennon House was altogether ruined, and itslands gone from her, Ethne was still amongst her own people. They stilllooked eagerly for her visits; she was still the princess of thatcountry-side. On the other hand, she took a frank pleasure in hiscompany, and she led him to speak of his three years' service in theEast. No detail was too insignificant for her inquiries, and while hespoke her eyes continually sounded him, and the smile upon her lipscontinually approved. Durrance did not understand what she was after.Possibly no one could have understood unless he was aware of what hadpassed between Harry Feversham and Ethne. Durrance wore the likeness ofa man, and she was anxious to make sure that the spirit of a maninformed it. He was a dark lantern to her. There might be a flameburning within, or there might be mere vacancy and darkness. She waspushing back the slide so that she might be sure.
She led him to speak of Egypt upon the last day of his visit. They wereseated upon the hillside, on the edge of a stream which leaped fromledge to ledge down a miniature gorge of rock, and flowed over deeppools between the ledges very swiftly, a torrent of clear black water.
"I travelled once for four days amongst the mirages," hesaid,--"lagoons, still as a mirror and fringed with misty trees. Youcould almost walk your camel up to the knees in them, before the lagoonreceded and the sand glared at you. And one cannot imagine that glare.Every stone within view dances and shakes like a heliograph; you cansee--yes, actually see--the heat flow breast high across the desertswift as this stream here, only pellucid. So till the sun sets ahead ofyou level with your eyes! Imagine the nights which follow--nights ofinfinite silence, with a cool friendly wind blowing from horizon tohorizon--and your bed spread for you under the great dome of stars. Oh,"he cried, drawing a deep breath, "but that country grows on you. It'slike the Southern Cross--four overrated stars when first you see them,but in a week you begin to look for them, and you miss them when youtravel north again." He raised himself upon his elbow and turnedsuddenly towards her. "Do you know--I can only speak for myself--but Inever feel alone in those empty spaces. On the contrary, I always feelvery close to the things I care about, and to the few people I careabout too."
Her eyes shone very brightly upon him, her lips parted in a smile. Hemoved nearer to her upon the grass, and sat with his feet gathered underhim upon one side, and leaning upon his arm.
"I used to imagine you out there," he said. "You would have lovedit--from the start before daybreak, in the dark, to the camp-fire atnight. You would have been at home. I used to think so as I lay awakewondering how the world went with my friends."
"And you go back there?" she said.
Durrance did not immediately answer. The roar of the torrent throbbedabout them. When he did speak, all the enthusiasm had gone from hisvoice. He spoke gazing into the stream.
"To Wadi Halfa. For two years. I suppose so."
Ethne kneeled upon the grass at his side.
"I shall miss you," she said.
She was kneeling just behind him as he sat on the ground, and againthere fell a silence between them.
"Of what are you thinking?"
"That you need not miss me," he said, and he was aware that she drewback and sank down upon her heels. "My appointment at Halfa--I mightshorten its term. I might perhaps avoid it altogether. I have still halfmy furlough."
She did not answer nor did she change her attitude. She remained verystill, and Durrance was alarmed, a
nd all his hopes sank. For a stillnessof attitude he knew to be with her as definite an expression of distressas a cry of pain with another woman. He turned about towards her. Herhead was bent, but she raised it as he turned, and though her lipssmiled, there was a look of great trouble in her eyes. Durrance was aman like another. His first thought was whether there was not someobstacle which would hinder her from compliance, even though sheherself were willing.
"There is your father," he said.
"Yes," she answered, "there is my father too. I could not leave him."
"Nor need you," said he, quickly. "That difficulty can be surmounted. Totell the truth I was not thinking of your father at the moment."
"Nor was I," said she.
Durrance turned away and sat for a little while staring down the rocksinto a wrinkled pool of water just beneath. It was after all the shadowof Feversham which stretched between himself and her.
"I know, of course," he said, "that you would never feel trouble, as somany do, with half your heart. You would neither easily care nor lightlyforget."
"I remember enough," she returned in a low voice, "to make your wordsrather a pain to me. Some day perhaps I may bring myself to telleverything which happened at that ball three years ago, and then youwill be better able to understand why I am a little distressed. All thatI can tell you now is this: I have a great fear that I was to somedegree the cause of another man's ruin. I do not mean that I was toblame for it. But if I had not been known to him, his career mightperhaps never have come to so abrupt an end. I am not sure, but I amafraid. I asked whether it was so, and I was told 'no,' but I think verylikely that generosity dictated that answer. And the fear stays. I ammuch distressed by it. I lie awake with it at night. And then you comewhom I greatly value, and you say quietly, 'Will you please spoil mycareer too?'" And she struck one hand sharply into the other and cried,"But that I will not do."
And again he answered:--
"There is no need that you should. Wadi Halfa is not the only placewhere a soldier can find work to his hand."
His voice had taken a new hopefulness. For he had listened intently tothe words which she had spoken, and he had construed them by thedictionary of his desires. She had not said that friendship bounded allher thoughts of him. Therefore he need not believe it. Women were givento a hinting modesty of speech, at all events the best of them. A manmight read a little more emphasis into their tones, and underline theirwords and still be short of their meaning, as he argued. A subtledelicacy graced them in nature. Durrance was near to Benedick's mood."One whom I value"; "I shall miss you"; there might be a double meaningin the phrases. When she said that she needed to be assured that she hadsure friends, did she not mean that she needed their companionship? Butthe argument, had he been acute enough to see it, proved how deep he wassunk in error. For what this girl spoke, she habitually meant, and shehabitually meant no more. Moreover, upon this occasion she hadparticularly weighed her words.
"No doubt," she said, "_a_ soldier can. But can this soldier find workso suitable? Listen, please, till I have done. I was so very glad tohear all that you have told me about your work and your journeys. I wasstill more glad because of the satisfaction with which you told it. Forit seemed to me, as I listened and as I watched, that you had found theone true straight channel along which your life could run swift andsmoothly and unharassed. And so few do that--so very few!" And she wrungher hands and cried, "And now you spoil it all."
Durrance suddenly faced her. He ceased from argument; he cried in avoice of passion:--
"I am for you, Ethne! There's the true straight channel, and upon myword I believe you are for me. I thought--I admit it--at one time Iwould spend my life out there in the East, and the thought contented me.But I had schooled myself into contentment, for I believed you married."Ethne ever so slightly flinched, and he himself recognised that he hadspoken in a voice overloud, so that it had something almost ofbrutality.
"Do I hurt you?" he continued. "I am sorry. But let me speak the wholetruth out, I cannot afford reticence, I want you to know the first andlast of it. I say now that I love you. Yes, but I could have said itwith equal truth five years ago. It is five years since your fatherarrested me at the ferry down there on Lough Swilly, because I wished topress on to Letterkenny and not delay a night by stopping with astranger. Five years since I first saw you, first heard the language ofyour violin. I remember how you sat with your back towards me. The lightshone on your hair; I could just see your eyelashes and the colour ofyour cheeks. I remember the sweep of your arm.... My dear, you are forme; I am for you."
But she drew back from his outstretched hands.
"No," she said very gently, but with a decision he could not mistake.She saw more clearly into his mind than he did himself. The restlessnessof the born traveller, the craving for the large and lonely spaces inthe outlandish corners of the world, the incurable intermittent fever tobe moving, ever moving amongst strange peoples and under strangeskies--these were deep-rooted qualities of the man. Passion mightobscure them for a while, but they would make their appeal in the end,and the appeal would torture. The home would become a prison. Desireswould so clash within him, there could be no happiness. That was theman. For herself, she looked down the slope of the hill across the browncountry. Away on the right waved the woods about Ramelton, at her feetflashed a strip of the Lough; and this was her country; she was itschild and the sister of its people.
"No," she repeated, as she rose to her feet. Durrance rose with her. Hewas still not so much disheartened as conscious of a blunder. He had puthis case badly; he should never have given her the opportunity to thinkthat marriage would be an interruption of his career.
"We will say good-bye here," she said, "in the open. We shall be nonethe less good friends because three thousand miles hinder us fromshaking hands."
They shook hands as she spoke.
"I shall be in England again in a year's time," said Durrance. "May Icome back?"
Ethne's eyes and her smile consented.
"I should be sorry to lose you altogether," she said, "although even ifI did not see you, I should know that I had not lost your friendship."She added, "I should also be glad to hear news of you and what you aredoing, if ever you have the time to spare."
"I may write?" he exclaimed eagerly.
"Yes," she answered, and his eagerness made her linger a littledoubtfully upon the word. "That is, if you think it fair. I mean, itmight be best for you, perhaps, to get rid of me entirely from yourthoughts;" and Durrance laughed and without any bitterness, so that in amoment Ethne found herself laughing too, though at what she laughed shewould have discovered it difficult to explain. "Very well, write to methen." And she added drily, "But it will be about--other things."
And again Durrance read into her words the interpretation he desired;and again she meant just what she said, and not a word more.
She stood where he left her, a tall, strong-limbed figure of womanhood,until he was gone out of sight. Then she climbed down to the house, andgoing into her room took one of her violins from its case. But it wasthe violin which Durrance had given to her, and before she had touchedthe strings with her bow she recognised it and put it suddenly away fromher in its case. She snapped the case to. For a few moments she satmotionless in her chair, then she quickly crossed the room, and, takingher keys, unlocked a drawer. At the bottom of the drawer there layhidden a photograph, and at this she looked for a long while and verywistfully.
Durrance meanwhile walked down to the trap which was waiting for him atthe gates of the house, and saw that Dermod Eustace stood in the roadwith his hat upon his head.
"I will walk a few yards with you, Colonel Durrance," said Dermod. "Ihave a word for your ear."
Durrance suited his stride to the old man's faltering step, and theywalked behind the dog-cart, and in silence. It was not the mere personaldisappointment which weighed upon Durrance's spirit. But he could notsee with Ethne's eyes, and as his gaze took in that quiet corner ofDonegal
, he was filled with a great sadness lest all her life should bepassed in this seclusion, her grave dug in the end under the wall of thetiny church, and her memory linger only in a few white cottagesscattered over the moorland, and for a very little while. He wasrecalled by the pressure of Dermod's hand upon his elbow. There was agleam of inquiry in the old man's faded eyes, but it seemed that speechitself was a difficulty.
"You have news for me?" he asked, after some hesitation. "News of HarryFeversham? I thought that I would ask you before you went away."
"None," said Durrance.
"I am sorry," replied Dermod, wistfully, "though I have no reason forsorrow. He struck us a cruel blow, Colonel Durrance.--I should havenothing but curses for him in my mouth and my heart. A black-throatedcoward my reason calls him, and yet I would be very glad to hear how theworld goes with him. You were his friend. But you do not know?"
It was actually of Harry Feversham that Dermod Eustace was speaking, andDurrance, as he remarked the old man's wistfulness of voice and face,was seized with a certain remorse that he had allowed Ethne so tothrust his friend out of his thoughts. He speculated upon the mystery ofHarry Feversham's disappearance at times as he sat in the evening uponhis verandah above the Nile at Wadi Halfa, piecing together the fewhints which he had gathered. "A black-throated coward," Dermod hadcalled Harry Feversham, and Ethne had said enough to assure him thatsomething graver than any dispute, something which had destroyed all herfaith in the man, had put an end to their betrothal. But he could notconjecture at the particular cause, and the only consequence of hisperplexed imaginings was the growth of a very real anger within himagainst the man who had been his friend. So the winter passed, andsummer came to the Soudan and the month of May.
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