The Four Feathers

by A. E. W. Mason

  CHAPTER XVI

  CAPTAIN WILLOUGHBY RETIRES

  Ethne had entirely forgotten even Colonel Durrance's existence. From themoment when Captain Willoughby had put that little soiled feather whichhad once been white, and was now yellow, into her hand, she had had nothought for any one but Harry Feversham. She had carried Willoughby intothat enclosure, and his story had absorbed her and kept her memory onthe rack, as she filled out with this or that recollected detail ofHarry's gestures, or voice, or looks, the deficiencies in hercompanion's narrative. She had been swept away from that August gardenof sunlight and coloured flowers; and those five most weary years,during which she had held her head high and greeted the world with asmile of courage, were blotted from her experience. How weary they hadbeen perhaps she never knew, until she raised her head and saw Durranceat the entrance in the hedge.

  "Hush!" she said to Willoughby, and her face paled and her eyes shuttight for a moment with a spasm of pain. But she had no time to sparefor any indulgence of her feelings. Her few minutes' talk with CaptainWilloughby had been a holiday, but the holiday was over. She must takeup again the responsibilities with which those five years had chargedher, and at once. If she could not accomplish that hard task offorgetting--and she now knew very well that she never would accomplishit--she must do the next best thing, and give no sign that she had notforgotten. Durrance must continue to believe that she brought more thanfriendship into the marriage account.

  He stood at the very entrance to the enclosure; he advanced into it. Hewas so quick to guess, it was not wise that he should meet CaptainWilloughby or even know of his coming. Ethne looked about her for anescape, knowing very well that she would look in vain. The creek was infront of them, and three walls of high thick hedge girt them in behindand at the sides. There was but one entrance to this enclosure, andDurrance himself barred the path to it.

  "Keep still," she said in a whisper. "You know him?"

  "Of course. We were together for three years at Suakin. I heard that hehad gone blind. I am glad to know that it is not true." This he said,noticing the freedom of Durrance's gait.

  "Speak lower," returned Ethne. "It is true. He _is_ blind."

  "One would never have thought it. Consolations seem so futile. What canI say to him?"

  "Say nothing!"

  Durrance was still standing just within the enclosure, and, as itseemed, looking straight towards the two people seated on the bench.

  "Ethne," he said, rather than called; and the quiet unquestioning voicemade the illusion that he saw extraordinarily complete.

  "It's impossible that he is blind," said Willoughby. "He sees us."

  "He sees nothing."

  Again Durrance called "Ethne," but now in a louder voice, and a voice ofdoubt.

  "Do you hear? He is not sure," whispered Ethne. "Keep very still."

  "Why?"

  "He must not know you are here," and lest Willoughby should move, shecaught his arm tight in her hand. Willoughby did not pursue hisinquiries. Ethne's manner constrained him to silence. She sat verystill, still as she wished him to sit, and in a queer huddled attitude;she was even holding her breath; she was staring at Durrance with agreat fear in her eyes; her face was strained forward, and not a muscleof it moved, so that Willoughby, as he looked at her, was conscious of acertain excitement, which grew on him for no reason but her remarkableapprehension. He began unaccountably himself to fear lest he and sheshould be discovered.

  "He is coming towards us," he whispered.

  "Not a word, not a movement."

  "Ethne," Durrance cried again. He advanced farther into the enclosureand towards the seat. Ethne and Captain Willoughby sat rigid, watchinghim with their eyes. He passed in front of the bench, and stoppedactually facing them. Surely, thought Willoughby, he sees. His eyes wereupon them; he stood easily, as though he were about to speak. EvenEthne, though she very well knew that he did not see, began to doubt herknowledge.

  "Ethne!" he said again, and this time in the quiet voice which he hadfirst used. But since again no answer came, he shrugged his shouldersand turned towards the creek. His back was towards them now, but Ethne'sexperience had taught her to appreciate almost indefinable signs in hisbearing, since nowadays his face showed her so little. Something in hisattitude, in the poise of his head, even in the carelessness with whichhe swung his stick, told her that he was listening, and listening withall his might. Her grasp tightened on Willoughby's arm. Thus theyremained for the space of a minute, and then Durrance turned suddenlyand took a quick step towards the seat. Ethne, however, by this timeknew the man and his ingenuities; she was prepared for some suchunexpected movement. She did not stir, there was not audible the merestrustle of her skirt, and her grip still constrained Willoughby.

  "I wonder where in the world she can be," said Durrance to himselfaloud, and he walked back and out of the enclosure. Ethne did not freeCaptain Willoughby's arm until Durrance had disappeared from sight.

  "That was a close shave," Willoughby said, when at last he was allowedto speak. "Suppose that Durrance had sat down on the top of us?"

  "Why suppose, since he did not?" Ethne asked calmly. "You have told meeverything?"

  "So far as I remember."

  "And all that you have told me happened in the spring?"

  "The spring of last year," said Willoughby.

  "Yes. I want to ask you a question. Why did you not bring this featherto me last summer?"

  "Last year my leave was short. I spent it in the hills north of Suakinafter ibex."

  "I see," said Ethne, quietly; "I hope you had good sport."

  "It wasn't bad."

  Last summer Ethne had been free. If Willoughby had come home with hisgood news instead of shooting ibex on Jebel Araft, it would have madeall the difference in her life, and the cry was loud at her heart, "Whydidn't you come?" But outwardly she gave no sign of the irreparable harmwhich Willoughby's delay had brought about. She had the self-command ofa woman who has been sorely tried, and she spoke so unconcernedly thatWilloughby believed her questions prompted by the merest curiosity.

  "You might have written," she suggested.

  "Feversham did not suggest that there was any hurry. It would have beena long and difficult matter to explain in a letter. He asked me to go toyou when I had an opportunity, and I had no opportunity before. To tellthe truth, I thought it very likely that I might find Feversham had comeback before me."

  "Oh, no," returned Ethne, "there could be no possibility of that. Theother two feathers still remain to be redeemed before he will ask me totake back mine."

  Willoughby shook his head. "Feversham can never persuade Castleton andTrench to cancel their accusations as he persuaded me."

  "Why not?"

  "Major Castleton was killed when the square was broken at Tamai."

  "Killed?" cried Ethne, and she laughed in a short and satisfied way.Willoughby turned and stared at her, disbelieving the evidence of hisears. But her face showed him quite clearly that she was thoroughlypleased. Ethne was a Celt, and she had the Celtic feeling that death wasnot a very important matter. She could hate, too, and she could be hardas iron to the men she hated. And these three men she hated exceedingly.It was true that she had agreed with them, that she had given a feather,the fourth feather, to Harry Feversham just to show that she agreed, butshe did not trouble her head about that. She was very glad to hear thatMajor Castleton was out of the world and done with.

  "And Colonel Trench too?" she said.

  "No," Willoughby answered. "You are disappointed? But he is even worseoff than that. He was captured when engaged on a reconnaissance. He isnow a prisoner in Omdurman."

  "Ah!" said Ethne.

  "I don't think you can have any idea," said Willoughby, severely, "ofwhat captivity in Omdurman implies. If you had, however much youdisliked the captive, you would feel some pity."

  "Not I," said Ethne, stubbornly.

  "I will tell you something of what it does imply."

  "No. I don'
t wish to hear of Colonel Trench. Besides, you must go. Iwant you to tell me one thing first," said she, as she rose from herseat. "What became of Mr. Feversham after he had given you thatfeather?"

  "I told him that he had done everything which could be reasonablyexpected; and he accepted my advice. For he went on board the firststeamer which touched at Suakin on its way to Suez and so left theSoudan."

  "I must find out where he is. He must come, back. Did he need money?"

  "No. He still drew his allowance from his father. He told me that he hadmore than enough."

  "I am glad of that," said Ethne, and she bade Willoughby wait within theenclosure until she returned, and went out by herself to see that theway was clear. The garden was quite empty. Durrance had disappeared fromit, and the great stone terrace of the house and the house itself, withits striped sunblinds, looked a place of sleep. It was getting towardsone o'clock, and the very birds were quiet amongst the trees. Indeed thequietude of the garden struck upon Ethne's senses as something almoststrange. Only the bees hummed drowsily about the flowerbeds, and thevoice of a lad was heard calling from the slopes of meadow on the farside of the creek. She returned to Captain Willoughby.

  "You can go now," she said. "I cannot pretend friendship for you,Captain Willoughby, but it was kind of you to find me out and tell meyour story. You are going back at once to Kingsbridge? I hope so. For Ido not wish Colonel Durrance to know of your visit or anything of whatyou have told me."

  "Durrance was a friend of Feversham's--his great friend," Willoughbyobjected.

  "He is quite unaware that any feathers were sent to Mr. Feversham, sothere is no need he should be informed that one of them has been takenback," Ethne answered. "He does not know why my engagement to Mr.Feversham was broken off. I do not wish him to know. Your story wouldenlighten him, and he must not be enlightened."

  "Why?" asked Willoughby. He was obstinate by nature, and he meant tohave the reason for silence before he promised to keep it. Ethne gave itto him at once very simply.

  "I am engaged to Colonel Durrance," she said. It was her fear thatDurrance already suspected that no stronger feeling than friendshipattached her to him. If once he heard that the fault which broke herengagement to Harry Feversham had been most bravely atoned, there couldbe no doubt as to the course which he would insist upon pursuing. Hewould strip himself of her, the one thing left to him, and that she wasstubbornly determined he should not do. She was bound to him in honour,and it would be a poor way of manifesting her joy that Harry Fevershamhad redeemed his honour if she straightway sacrificed her own.

  Captain Willoughby pursed up his lips and whistled.

  "Engaged to Jack Durrance!" he exclaimed. "Then I seem to have wasted mytime in bringing you that feather," and he pointed towards it. She washolding it in her open hand, and she drew her hand sharply away, asthough she feared for a moment that he meant to rob her of it.

  "I am most grateful for it," she returned.

  "It's a bit of a muddle, isn't it?" Willoughby remarked. "It seems alittle rough on Feversham perhaps. It's a little rough on Jack Durrance,too, when you come to think of it." Then he looked at Ethne. He noticedher careful handling of the feather; he remembered something of theglowing look with which she had listened to his story, something of theeager tones in which she had put her questions; and he added, "Ishouldn't wonder if it was rather rough on you too, Miss Eustace."

  Ethne did not answer him, and they walked together out of the enclosuretowards the spot where Willoughby had moored his boat. She hurried himdown the bank to the water's edge, intent that he should sail awayunperceived.

  But Ethne had counted without Mrs. Adair, who all that morning had seenmuch in Ethne's movements to interest her. From the drawing-room windowshe had watched Ethne and Durrance meet at the foot of theterrace-steps, she had seen them walk together towards the estuary, shehad noticed Willoughby's boat as it ran aground in the wide gap betweenthe trees, she had seen a man disembark, and Ethne go forward to meethim. Mrs. Adair was not the woman to leave her post of observation atsuch a moment, and from the cover of the curtains she continued to watchwith all the curiosity of a woman in a village who draws down the blind,that unobserved she may get a better peep at the stranger passing downthe street. Ethne and the man from the boat turned away and disappearedamongst the trees, leaving Durrance forgotten and alone. Mrs. Adairthought at once of that enclosure at the water's edge. The conversationlasted for some while, and since the couple did not promptly reappear, aquestion flashed into her mind. "Could the stranger be Harry Feversham?"Ethne had no friends in this part of the world. The question pressedupon Mrs. Adair. She longed for an answer, and of course for thatparticular answer which would convict Ethne Eustace of duplicity. Herinterest grew into an excitement when she saw Durrance, tired ofwaiting, follow upon Ethne's steps. But what came after was to interesther still more.

  Durrance reappeared, to her surprise alone, and came straight to thehouse, up the terrace, into the drawing-room.

  "Have you seen Ethne?" he asked.

  "Is she not in the little garden by the water?" Mrs. Adair asked.

  "No. I went into it and called to her. It was empty."

  "Indeed?" said Mrs. Adair. "Then I don't know where she is. Are yougoing?"

  "Yes, home."

  Mrs. Adair made no effort to detain him at that moment.

  "Perhaps you will come in and dine to-night. Eight o'clock."

  "Thanks, very much. I shall be pleased," said Durrance, but he did notimmediately go. He stood by the window idly swinging to and fro thetassel of the blind.

  "I did not know until to-day that it was your plan that I should comehome and Ethne stay with you until I found out whether a cure was likelyor possible. It was very kind of you, Mrs. Adair, and I am grateful."

  "It was a natural plan to propose as soon as I heard of your ill-luck."

  "And when was that?" he asked unconcernedly. "The day after Calder'stelegram reached her from Wadi Halfa, I suppose."

  Mrs. Adair was not deceived by his attitude of carelessness. Sherealised that his expression of gratitude had deliberately led up tothis question.

  "Oh, so you knew of that telegram," she said. "I thought you did not."For Ethne had asked her not to mention it on the very day when Durrancereturned to England.

  "Of course I knew of it," he returned, and without waiting any longerfor an answer he went out on to the terrace.

  Mrs. Adair dismissed for the moment the mystery of the telegram. She wasoccupied by her conjecture that in the little garden by the water's edgeDurrance had stood and called aloud for Ethne, while within twelve yardsof him, perhaps actually within his reach, she and some one else hadkept very still and had given no answer. Her conjecture was soon provedtrue. She saw Ethne and her companion come out again on to the openlawn. Was it Feversham? She must have an answer to that question. Shesaw them descend the bank towards the boat, and, stepping from herwindow, ran.

  Thus it happened that as Willoughby rose from loosening the painter, hesaw Mrs. Adair's disappointed eyes gazing into his. Mrs. Adair called toEthne, who stood by Captain Willoughby, and came down the bank to them.

  "I noticed you cross the lawn from the drawing-room window," she said.

  "Yes?" answered Ethne, and she said no more. Mrs. Adair, however, didnot move away, and an awkward pause followed. Ethne was forced to givein.

  "I was talking to Captain Willoughby," and she turned to him. "You donot know Mrs. Adair, I think?"

  "No," he replied, as he raised his hat. "But I know Mrs. Adair very wellby name. I know friends of yours, Mrs. Adair--Durrance, for instance;and of course I knew--"

  A glance from Ethne brought him abruptly to a stop. He began vigorouslyto push the nose of his boat from the sand.

  "Of course, what?" asked Mrs. Adair, with a smile.

  "Of course I knew of you, Mrs. Adair."

  Mrs. Adair was quite clear that this was not what Willoughby had been onthe point of saying when Ethne turned her eyes qu
ietly upon him and cuthim short. He was on the point of adding another name. "CaptainWilloughby," she repeated to herself. Then she said:--

  "You belong to Colonel Durrance's regiment, perhaps?"

  "No, I belong to the North Surrey," he answered.

  "Ah! Mr. Feversham's old regiment," said Mrs. Adair, pleasantly. CaptainWilloughby had fallen into her little trap with a guilelessness whichprovoked in her a desire for a closer acquaintanceship. WhateverWilloughby knew it would be easy to extract. Ethne, however, haddisconcerting ways which at times left Mrs. Adair at a loss. She lookednow straight into Mrs. Adair's eyes and said calmly:--

  "Captain Willoughby and I have been talking of Mr. Feversham." At thesame time she held out her hand to the captain. "Good-bye," she said.

  Mrs. Adair hastily interrupted.

  "Colonel Durrance has gone home, but he dines with us to-night. I cameout to tell you that, but I am glad that I came, for it gives me theopportunity to ask your friend to lunch with us if he will."

  Captain Willoughby, who already had one leg over the bows of his boat,withdrew it with alacrity.

  "It's awfully good of you, Mrs. Adair," he began.

  "It is very kind indeed," Ethne continued, "but Captain Willoughby hasreminded me that his leave is very short, and we have no right to detainhim. Good-bye."

  Captain Willoughby gazed with a vain appeal upon Miss Eustace. He hadtravelled all night from London, he had made the scantiest breakfast atKingsbridge, and the notion of lunch appealed to him particularly atthat moment. But her eyes rested on his with a quiet and inexorablecommand. He bowed, got ruefully into his boat, and pushed off from theshore.

  "It's a little bit rough on me too, perhaps, Miss Eustace," he said.Ethne laughed, and returned to the terrace with Mrs. Adair. Once ortwice she opened the palm of her hand and disclosed to her companion'sview a small white feather, at which she laughed again, and with a clearand rather low laugh. But she gave no explanation of CaptainWilloughby's errand. Had she been in Mrs. Adair's place she would nothave expected one. It was her business and only hers.