CHAPTER XXV
LIEUTENANT SUTCH COMES OFF THE HALF-PAY LIST
At the time when Calder, disappointed at his failure to obtain news ofFeversham from the one man who possessed it, stepped into a carriage ofthe train at Assouan, Lieutenant Sutch was driving along a high whiteroad of Hampshire across a common of heather and gorse; and he too wastroubled on Harry Feversham's account. Like many a man who lives muchalone, Lieutenant Sutch had fallen into the habit of speaking histhoughts aloud. And as he drove slowly and reluctantly forward, morethan once he said to himself: "I foresaw there would be trouble. Fromthe beginning I foresaw there would be trouble."
The ridge of hill along which he drove dipped suddenly to a hollow.Sutch saw the road run steeply down in front of him between forests ofpines to a little railway station. The sight of the rails gleamingbright in the afternoon sunlight, and the telegraph poles running awayin a straight line until they seemed to huddle together in the distance,increased Sutch's discomposure. He reined his pony in, and sat staringwith a frown at the red-tiled roof of the station building.
"I promised Harry to say nothing," he said; and drawing some makeshiftof comfort from the words, repeated them, "I promised faithfully in theCriterion grill-room."
The whistle of an engine a long way off sounded clear and shrill. Itroused Lieutenant Sutch from his gloomy meditations. He saw the whitesmoke of an approaching train stretch out like a riband in the distance.
"I wonder what brings him," he said doubtfully; and then with an effortat courage, "Well, it's no use shirking." He flicked the pony with hiswhip and drove briskly down the hill. He reached the station as thetrain drew up at the platform. Only two passengers descended from thetrain. They were Durrance and his servant, and they came out at once onto the road. Lieutenant Sutch hailed Durrance, who walked to the side ofthe trap.
"You received my telegram in time, then?" said Durrance.
"Luckily it found me at home."
"I have brought a bag. May I trespass upon you for a night's lodging?"
"By all means," said Sutch, but the tone of his voice quite clearly toDurrance's ears belied the heartiness of the words. Durrance, however,was prepared for a reluctant welcome, and he had purposely sent histelegram at the last moment. Had he given an address, he suspected thathe might have received a refusal of his visit. And his suspicion wasaccurate enough. The telegram, it is true, had merely announcedDurrance's visit, it had stated nothing of his object; but its despatchwas sufficient to warn Sutch that something grave had happened,something untoward in the relations of Ethne Eustace and Durrance.Durrance had come, no doubt, to renew his inquiries about HarryFeversham, those inquiries which Sutch was on no account to answer,which he must parry all this afternoon and night. But he saw Durrancefeeling about with his raised foot for the step of the trap, and thefact of his visitor's blindness was brought home to him. He reached outa hand, and catching Durrance by the arm, helped him up. After all, hethought, it would not be difficult to hoodwink a blind man. Ethneherself had had the same thought and felt much the same relief as Sutchfelt now. The lieutenant, indeed, was so relieved that he found room foran impulse of pity.
"I was very sorry, Durrance, to hear of your bad luck," he said, as hedrove off up the hill. "I know what it is myself to be suddenly stoppedand put aside just when one is making way and the world is smoothingitself out, though my wound in the leg is nothing in comparison to yourblindness. I don't talk to you about compensations and patience. That'sthe gabble of people who are comfortable and haven't suffered. _We_ knowthat for a man who is young and active, and who is doing well in acareer where activity is a necessity, there are no compensations if hiscareer's suddenly cut short through no fault of his."
"Through no fault of his," repeated Durrance. "I agree with you. It isonly the man whose career is cut short through his own fault who getscompensations."
Sutch glanced sharply at his companion. Durrance had spoken slowly andvery thoughtfully. Did he mean to refer to Harry Feversham, Sutchwondered. Did he know enough to be able so to refer to him? Or was itmerely by chance that his words were so strikingly apposite?
"Compensations of what kind?" Sutch asked uneasily.
"The chance of knowing himself for one thing, for the chief thing. He isbrought up short, stopped in his career, perhaps disgraced." Sutchstarted a little at the word. "Yes, perhaps--disgraced," Durrancerepeated. "Well, the shock of the disgrace is, after all, hisopportunity. Don't you see that? It's his opportunity to know himself atlast. Up to the moment of disgrace his life has all been sham andillusion; the man he believed himself to be, he never was, and now atthe last he knows it. Once he knows it, he can set about to retrieve hisdisgrace. Oh, there are compensations for such a man. You and I know acase in point."
Sutch no longer doubted that Durrance was deliberately referring toHarry Feversham. He had some knowledge, though how he had gained itSutch could not guess. But the knowledge was not to Sutch's idea quiteaccurate, and the inaccuracy did Harry Feversham some injustice. It wason that account chiefly that Sutch did not affect any ignorance as toDurrance's allusion. The passage of the years had not diminished hisgreat regard for Harry; he cared for him indeed with a woman'sconcentration of love, and he could not endure that his memory should beslighted.
"The case you and I know of is not quite in point," he argued. "You arespeaking of Harry Feversham."
"Who believed himself a coward, and was not one. He commits the faultwhich stops his career, he finds out his mistake, he sets himself to thework of retrieving his disgrace. Surely it's a case quite in point."
"Yes, I see," Sutch agreed. "There is another view, a wrong view as Iknow, but I thought for the moment it was your view--that Harry fanciedhimself to be a brave man and was suddenly brought up short bydiscovering that he was a coward. But how did you find out? No one knewthe whole truth except myself."
"I am engaged to Miss Eustace," said Durrance.
"She did not know everything. She knew of the disgrace, but she did notknow of the determination to retrieve it."
"She knows now," said Durrance; and he added sharply, "You are glad ofthat--very glad."
Sutch was not aware that by any movement or exclamation he had betrayedhis pleasure. His face, no doubt, showed it clearly enough, but Durrancecould not see his face. Lieutenant Sutch was puzzled, but he did notdeny the imputation.
"It is true," he said stoutly. "I am very glad that she knows. I canquite see that from your point of view it would be better if she did notknow. But I cannot help it. I am very glad."
Durrance laughed, and not at all unpleasantly. "I like you the betterfor being glad," he said.
"But how does Miss Eustace know?" asked Sutch. "Who told her? I did not,and there is no one else who could tell her."
"You are wrong. There is Captain Willoughby. He came to Devonshire sixweeks ago. He brought with him a white feather which he gave to MissEustace, as a proof that he withdrew his charge of cowardice againstHarry Feversham."
Sutch stopped the pony in the middle of the road. He no longer troubledto conceal the joy which this good news caused him. Indeed, he forgotaltogether Durrance's presence at his side. He sat quite silent andstill, with a glow of happiness upon him, such as he had never known inall his life. He was an old man now, well on in his sixties; he hadreached an age when the blood runs slow, and the pleasures are of a greysober kind, and joy has lost its fevers. But there welled up in hisheart a gladness of such buoyancy as only falls to the lot of youth.Five years ago on the pier of Dover he had watched a mail packet steamaway into darkness and rain, and had prayed that he might live untilthis great moment should come. And he had lived and it had come. Hisheart was lifted up in gratitude. It seemed to him that there was agreat burst of sunlight across the world, and that the world itself hadsuddenly grown many-coloured and a place of joys. Ever since the nightwhen he had stood outside the War Office in Pall Mall, and HarryFeversham had touched him on the arm and had spoken out his despair,Lieutenant Sutch had
been oppressed with a sense of guilt. Harry wasMuriel Feversham's boy, and Sutch just for that reason should havewatched him and mothered him in his boyhood since his mother was dead,and fathered him in his youth since his father did not understand. Buthe had failed. He had failed in a sacred trust, and he had imaginedMuriel Feversham's eyes looking at him with reproach from the barrier ofthe skies. He had heard her voice in his dreams saying to him gently,ever so gently: "Since I was dead, since I was taken away to where Icould only see and not help, surely you might have helped. Just for mysake you might have helped,--you whose work in the world was at an end."And the long tale of his inactive years had stood up to accuse him. Now,however, the guilt was lifted from his shoulders, and by HarryFeversham's own act. The news was not altogether unexpected, but thelightness of spirit which he felt showed him how much he had countedupon its coming.
"I knew," he exclaimed, "I knew he wouldn't fail. Oh, I am glad you cameto-day, Colonel Durrance. It was partly my fault, you see, that HarryFeversham ever incurred that charge of cowardice. I could havespoken--there was an opportunity on one of the Crimean nights at BroadPlace, and a word might have been of value--and I held my tongue. I havenever ceased to blame myself. I am grateful for your news. You have theparticulars? Captain Willoughby was in peril, and Harry came to hisaid?"
"No, it was not that exactly."
"Tell me! Tell me!"
He feared to miss a word. Durrance related the story of the Gordonletters, and their recovery by Feversham. It was all too short forLieutenant Sutch.
"Oh, but I am glad you came," he cried.
"You understand at all events," said Durrance, "that I have not come torepeat to you the questions I asked in the courtyard of my club. I amable, on the contrary, to give you information."
Sutch spoke to the pony and drove on. He had said nothing which couldreveal to Durrance his fear that to renew those questions was theobject of his visit; and he was a little perplexed at the accuracy ofDurrance's conjecture. But the great news to which he had listenedhindered him from giving thought to that perplexity.
"So Miss Eustace told you the story," he said, "and showed you thefeather?"
"No, indeed," replied Durrance. "She said not a word about it, she nevershowed me the feather, she even forbade Willoughby to hint of it, shesent him away from Devonshire before I knew that he had come. You aredisappointed at that," he added quickly.
Lieutenant Sutch was startled. It was true he was disappointed; he wasjealous of Durrance, he wished Harry Feversham to stand first in thegirl's thoughts. It was for her sake that Harry had set about hisdifficult and perilous work. Sutch wished her to remember him as heremembered her. Therefore he was disappointed that she did not at oncecome with her news to Durrance and break off their engagement. It wouldbe hard for Durrance, no doubt, but that could not be helped.
"Then how did you learn the story?" asked Sutch.
"Some one else told me. I was told that Willoughby had come, and that hehad brought a white feather, and that Ethne had taken it from him. Nevermind by whom. That gave me a clue. I lay in wait for Willoughby inLondon. He is not very clever; he tried to obey Ethne's command ofsilence, but I managed to extract the information I wanted. The rest ofthe story I was able to put together by myself. Ethne now and then wasoff her guard. You are surprised that I was clever enough to find outthe truth by the exercise of my own wits?" said Durrance, with a laugh.
Lieutenant Sutch jumped in his seat. It was mere chance, of course, thatDurrance continually guessed with so singular an accuracy; still it wasuncomfortable.
"I have said nothing which could in any way suggest that I wassurprised," he said testily.
"That is quite true, but you are none the less surprised," continuedDurrance. "I don't blame you. You could not know that it is only since Ihave been blind that I have begun to see. Shall I give you an instance?This is the first time that I have ever come into this neighbourhood orgot out at your station. Well, I can tell you that you have driven me upa hill between forests of pines, and are now driving me across opencountry of heather."
Sutch turned quickly towards Durrance.
"The hill, of course, you would notice. But the pines?"
"The air was close. I knew there were trees. I guessed they were pines."
"And the open country?"
"The wind blows clear across it. There's a dry stiff rustle besides. Ihave never heard quite that sound except when the wind blows acrossheather."
He turned the conversation back to Harry Feversham and hisdisappearance, and the cause of his disappearance. He made no mention,Sutch remarked, of the fourth white feather which Ethne herself hadadded to the three. But the history of the three which had come by thepost to Ramelton he knew to its last letter.
"I was acquainted with the men who sent them," he said, "Trench,Castleton, Willoughby. I met them daily in Suakin, just ordinaryofficers, one rather shrewd, the second quite commonplace, the thirddistinctly stupid. I saw them going quietly about the routine of theirwork. It seems quite strange to me now. There should have been some markset upon them, setting them apart as the particular messengers of fate.But there was nothing of the kind. They were just ordinary prosaicregimental officers. Doesn't it seem strange to you, too? Here were menwho could deal out misery and estrangement and years of suffering,without so much as a single word spoken, and they went about theirbusiness, and you never knew them from other men until a long whileafterwards some consequence of what they did, and very likely haveforgotten, rises up and strikes you down."
"Yes," said Sutch. "That thought has occurred to me." He fell towondering again what object had brought Durrance into Hampshire, sincehe did not come for information; but Durrance did not immediatelyenlighten him. They reached the lieutenant's house. It stood alone bythe roadside looking across a wide country of downs. Sutch took Durranceover his stable and showed him his horses, he explained to him thearrangement of his garden and the grouping of his flowers. StillDurrance said nothing about the reason of his visit; he ceased to talkof Harry Feversham and assumed a great interest in the lieutenant'sgarden. But indeed the interest was not all pretence. These two men hadsomething in common, as Sutch had pointed out at the moment of theirmeeting--the abrupt termination of a promising career. One of the twowas old, the other comparatively young, and the younger man was mostcurious to discover how his elder had managed to live through thedragging profitless years alone. The same sort of lonely life laystretched out before Durrance, and he was anxious to learn whatalleviations could be practised, what small interests could bediscovered, how best it could be got through.
"You don't live within sight of the sea," he said at last as they stoodtogether, after making the round of the garden, at the door.
"No, I dare not," said Sutch, and Durrance nodded his head in completesympathy and comprehension.
"I understand. You care for it too much. You would have the fullknowledge of your loss presented to your eyes each moment."
They went into the house. Still Durrance did not refer to the object ofhis visit. They dined together and sat over their wine alone. StillDurrance did not speak. It fell to Lieutenant Sutch to recur to thesubject of Harry Feversham. A thought had been gaining strength in hismind all that afternoon, and since Durrance would not lead up to itsutterance, he spoke it out himself.
"Harry Feversham must come back to England. He has done enough to redeemhis honour."
Harry Feversham's return might be a little awkward for Durrance, andLieutenant Sutch with that notion in his mind blurted out his sentencesawkwardly, but to his surprise Durrance answered him at once.
"I was waiting for you to say that. I wanted you to realise without anysuggestion of mine that Harry must return. It was with that object thatI came."
Lieutenant Sutch's relief was great. He had been prepared for anobjection, at the best he only expected a reluctant acquiescence, and inthe greatness of his relief he spoke again:--
"His return will not really trouble you or your wife, si
nce Miss Eustacehas forgotten him."
Durrance shook his head.
"She has not forgotten him."
"But she kept silence, even after Willoughby had brought the featherback. You told me so this afternoon. She said not a word to you. Sheforbade Willoughby to tell you."
"She is very true, very loyal," returned Durrance. "She has pledgedherself to me, and nothing in the world, no promise of happiness, nothought of Harry, would induce her to break her pledge. I know her. ButI know too that she only plighted herself to me out of pity, because Iwas blind. I know that she has not forgotten Harry."
Lieutenant Sutch leaned back in his chair and smiled. He could havelaughed outright. He asked for no details, he did not doubt Durrance'swords. He was overwhelmed with pride in that Harry Feversham, in spiteof his disgrace and his long absence,--Harry Feversham, his favourite,had retained this girl's love. No doubt she was very true, very loyal.Sutch endowed her on the instant with all the good qualities possible toa human being. The nobler she was, the greater was his pride that HarryFeversham still retained her heart. Lieutenant Sutch fairly revelled inthis new knowledge. It was not to be wondered at after all, he thought;there was nothing astonishing in the girl's fidelity to any one who wasreally acquainted with Harry Feversham, it was only an occasion of greatgladness. Durrance would have to get out of the way, of course, but thenhe should never have crossed Harry Feversham's path. Sutch was cruelwith the perfect cruelty of which love alone is capable.
"You are very glad of that," said Durrance, quietly. "Very glad thatEthne has not forgotten him. It is a little hard on me, perhaps, whohave not much left. It would have been less hard if two years ago youhad told me the whole truth, when I asked it of you that summer eveningin the courtyard of the club."
Compunction seized upon Lieutenant Sutch. The gentleness with whichDurrance had spoken, and the quiet accent of weariness in his voice,brought home to him something of the cruelty of his great joy and pride.After all, what Durrance said was true. If he had broken his word thatnight at the club, if he had related Feversham's story, Durrance wouldhave been spared a great deal.
"I couldn't!" he exclaimed. "I promised Harry in the most solemn waythat I would tell no one until he came back himself. I was sorelytempted to tell you, but I had given my word. Even if Harry never cameback, if I obtained sure knowledge that he was dead, even then I wasonly to tell his father, and even his father not all that could be toldon his behalf."
He pushed back his chair and went to the window. "It is hot in here,"he said. "Do you mind?" and without waiting for an answer he loosed thecatch and raised the sash. For some little while he stood by the openwindow, silent, undecided. Durrance plainly did not know of the fourthfeather broken off from Ethne's fan, he had not heard the conversationbetween himself and Feversham in the grill-room of the CriterionRestaurant. There were certain words spoken by Harry upon that occasionwhich it seemed fair Durrance should now hear. Compunction and pity badeSutch repeat them, his love of Harry Feversham enjoined him to hold histongue. He could plead again that Harry had forbidden him speech, butthe plea would be an excuse and nothing more. He knew very well thatwere Harry present, Harry would repeat them, and Lieutenant Sutch knewwhat harm silence had already done. He mastered his love in the end andcame back to the table.
"There is something which it is fair you should know," he said. "WhenHarry went away to redeem his honour, if the opportunity should come, hehad no hope, indeed he had no wish, that Miss Eustace should wait forhim. She was the spur to urge him, but she did not know even that. Hedid not wish her to know. He had no claim upon her. There was not even ahope in his mind that she might at some time be his friend--in thislife, at all events. When he went away from Ramelton, he parted fromher, according to his thought, for all his mortal life. It is fair thatyou should know that. Miss Eustace, you tell me, is not the woman towithdraw from her pledged word. Well, what I said to you that eveningat the club I now repeat. There will be no disloyalty to friendship ifyou marry Miss Eustace."
It was a difficult speech for Lieutenant Sutch to utter, and he was veryglad when he had uttered it. Whatever answer he received, it was rightthat the words should be spoken, and he knew that, had he refrained fromspeech, he would always have suffered remorse for his silence. None theless, however, he waited in suspense for the answer.
"It is kind of you to tell me that," said Durrance, and he smiled at thelieutenant with a great friendliness. "For I can guess what the wordscost you. But you have done Harry Feversham no harm by speaking them.For, as I told you, Ethne has not forgotten him; and I have my point ofview. Marriage between a man blind like myself and any woman, let aloneEthne, could not be fair or right unless upon both sides there was morethan friendship. Harry must return to England. He must return to Ethne,too. You must go to Egypt and do what you can to bring him back."
Sutch was relieved of his suspense. He had obeyed his conscience and yetdone Harry Feversham no disservice.
"I will start to-morrow," he said. "Harry is still in the Soudan?"
"Of course."
"Why of course?" asked Sutch. "Willoughby withdrew his accusation;Castleton is dead--he was killed at Tamai; and Trench--I know, for Ihave followed all these three men's careers--Trench is a prisoner inOmdurman."
"So is Harry Feversham."
Sutch stared at his visitor. For a moment he did not understand, theshock had been too sudden and abrupt. Then after comprehension dawnedupon him, he refused to believe. The folly of that refusal in its turnbecame apparent. He sat down in his chair opposite to Durrance, awedinto silence. And the silence lasted for a long while.
"What am I to do?" he said at length.
"I have thought it out," returned Durrance. "You must go to Suakin. Iwill give you a letter to Willoughby, who is Deputy-Governor, andanother to a Greek merchant there whom I know, and on whom you can drawfor as much money as you require."
"That's good of you, Durrance, upon my word," Sutch interrupted; andforgetting that he was talking to a blind man he held out his handacross the table. "I would not take a penny if I could help it; but I ama poor man. Upon my soul it's good of you."
"Just listen to me, please," said Durrance. He could not see theoutstretched hand, but his voice showed that he would hardly have takenit if he had. He was striking the final blow at his chance of happiness.But he did not wish to be thanked for it. "At Suakin you must take theGreek merchant's advice and organise a rescue as best you can. It willbe a long business, and you will have many disappointments before yousucceed. But you must stick to it until you do."
Upon that the two men fell to a discussion of the details of the lengthof time which it would take for a message from Suakin to be carriedinto Omdurman, of the untrustworthiness of some Arab spies, and of therisks which the trustworthy ran. Sutch's house was searched for maps,the various routes by which the prisoners might escape were described byDurrance--the great forty days' road from Kordofan on the west, thestraight track from Omdurman to Berber and from Berber to Suakin, andthe desert journey across the Belly of Stones by the wells of Murat toKorosko. It was late before Durrance had told all that he thoughtnecessary and Sutch had exhausted his questions.
"You will stay at Suakin as your base of operations," said Durrance, ashe closed up the maps.
"Yes," answered Sutch, and he rose from his chair. "I will start as soonas you give me the letters."
"I have them already written."
"Then I will start to-morrow. You may be sure I will let both you andMiss Eustace know how the attempt progresses."
"Let me know," said Durrance, "but not a whisper of it to Ethne. Sheknows nothing of my plan, and she must know nothing until Fevershamcomes back himself. She has her point of view, as I have mine. Two livesshall not be spoilt because of her. That's her resolve. She believesthat to some degree she was herself the cause of Harry Feversham'sdisgrace--that but for her he would not have resigned his commission."
"Yes."
"You agree with that? At all eve
nts she believes it. So there's one lifespoilt because of her. Suppose now I go to her and say: 'I know that youpretend out of your charity and kindness to care for me, but in yourheart you are no more than my friend,' why, I hurt her, and cruelly. Forthere's all that's left of the second life spoilt too. But bring backFeversham! Then I can speak--then I can say freely: 'Since you are justmy friend, I would rather be your friend and nothing more. So neitherlife will be spoilt at all.'"
"I understand," said Sutch. "It's the way a man should speak. So tillFeversham comes back the pretence remains. She pretends to care for you,you pretend you do not know she thinks of Harry. While I go eastwards tobring him home, you go back to her."
"No," said Durrance, "I can't go back. The strain of keeping up thepretence was telling too much on both of us. I go to Wiesbaden. Anoculist lives there who serves me for an excuse. I shall wait atWiesbaden until you bring Harry home."
Sutch opened the door, and the two men went out into the hall. Theservants had long since gone to bed. A couple of candlesticks stood upona table beside a lamp. More than once Lieutenant Sutch had forgottenthat his visitor was blind, and he forgot the fact again. He lightedboth candles and held out one to his companion. Durrance knew from thenoise of Sutch's movements what he was doing.
"I have no need of a candle," he said with a smile. The light fell fullupon his face, and Sutch suddenly remarked how tired it looked and old.There were deep lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth, andfurrows in the cheeks. His hair was grey as an old man's hair. Durrancehad himself made so little of his misfortune this evening that Sutch hadrather come to rate it as a small thing in the sum of human calamities,but he read his mistake now in Durrance's face. Just above the flame ofthe candle, framed in the darkness of the hall, it showed white anddrawn and haggard--the face of an old worn man set upon the stalwartshoulders of a man in the prime of his years.
"I have said very little to you in the way of sympathy," said Sutch. "Idid not know that you would welcome it. But I am sorry. I am verysorry."
"Thanks," said Durrance, simply. He stood for a moment or two silentlyin front of his host. "When I was in the Soudan, travelling through thedeserts, I used to pass the white skeletons of camels lying by the sideof the track. Do you know the camel's way? He is an unfriendly,graceless beast, but he marches to within an hour of his death. He dropsand dies with the load upon his back. It seemed to me, even in thosedays, the right and enviable way to finish. You can imagine how I mustenvy them that advantage of theirs now. Good night."
He felt for the bannister and walked up the stairs to his room.
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