The Four Feathers

by A. E. W. Mason

  CHAPTER XXXII

  IN THE CHURCH AT GLENALLA

  Ethne sat down in the corner of a pew next to the aisle, and Fevershamtook his stand beside her. It was very quiet and peaceful within thattiny church. The afternoon sun shone through the upper windows and madea golden haze about the roof. The natural murmurs of the summer floatedpleasantly through the open door.

  "I am glad that you remembered our drive and what we said," shecontinued. "It is rather important to me that you should remember.Because, although I have got you back, I am going to send you away fromme again. You will be one of the absent friends whom I shall not losebecause you are absent."

  She spoke slowly, looking straight in front of her without faltering. Itwas a difficult speech for her to deliver, but she had thought over itnight and day during this last fortnight, and the words were ready toher lips. At the first sight of Harry Feversham, recovered to her afterso many years, so much suspense, so much suffering, it had seemed to herthat she never would be able to speak them, however necessary it wasthat they should be spoken. But as they stood over against one anothershe had forced herself to remember that necessity until she actuallyrecognised and felt it. Then she had gone back into the church and takena seat, and gathered up her strength.

  It would be easier for both of them, she thought, if she should give nosign of what so quick a separation cost her. He would know surelyenough, and she wished him to know; she wished him to understand thatnot one moment of his six years, so far as she was concerned, had beenspent in vain. But that could be understood without the signs ofemotion. So she spoke her speech looking steadily straight forward andspeaking in an even voice.

  "I know that you will mind very much, just as I do. But there is no helpfor it," she resumed. "At all events you are at home again, with theright to be at home. It is a great comfort to me to know that. But thereare other, much greater reasons from which we can both take comfort.Colonel Trench told me enough of your captivity to convince me that weboth see with the same eyes. We both understand that this secondparting, hard as it is, is still a very slight, small thing comparedwith the other, our first parting over at the house six years ago. Ifelt very lonely after that, as I shall not feel lonely now. There was agreat barrier between us then separating us forever. We should neverhave met again here or afterwards. I am quite sure of that. But you havebroken the barrier down by all your pain and bravery during these lastyears. I am no less sure of that. I am absolutely confident about it,and I believe you are too. So that although we shall not see one anotherhere and as long as we live, the afterwards is quite sure for us both.And we can wait for that. You can. You have waited with so much strengthall these years since we parted. And I can too, for I get strength fromyour victory."

  She stopped, and for a while there was silence in that church. ToFeversham her words were gracious as rain upon dry land. To hear herspeak them uplifted him so that those six years of trial, of slinkinginto corners out of the sight of his fellows, of lonely endurance, ofmany heart-sinkings and much bodily pain, dwindled away intoinsignificance. They had indeed borne their fruit to him. For Ethne hadspoken in a gentle voice just what his ears had so often longed to hearas he lay awake at night in the bazaar at Suakin, in the Nile villages,in the dim wide spaces of the desert, and what he had hardly dared tohope she ever would speak. He stood quite silently by her side, stillhearing her voice though the voice had ceased. Long ago there werecertain bitter words which she had spoken, and he had told Sutch, soclosely had they clung and stung, that he believed in his dying momentshe would hear them again and so go to his grave with her reproachesringing in his ears. He remembered that prediction of his now and knewthat it was false. The words he would hear would be those which she hadjust uttered.

  For Ethne's proposal that they should separate he was not unprepared. Hehad heard already that she was engaged, and he did not argue against herwish. But he understood that she had more to say to him. And she had.But she was slow to speak it. This was the last time she was to seeHarry Feversham; she meant resolutely to send him away. When once hehad passed through that church door, through which the sunlight and thesummer murmurs came, and his shadow gone from the threshold, she wouldnever talk with him or set her eyes on him until her life was ended. Soshe deferred the moment of his going by silences and slow speech. Itmight be so very long before that end came. She had, she thought, theright to protract this one interview. She rather hoped that he wouldspeak of his travels, his dangers; she was prepared to discuss at lengthwith him even the politics of the Soudan. But he waited for her.

  "I am going to be married," she said at length, "and immediately. I amto marry a friend of yours, Colonel Durrance."

  There was hardly a pause before Feversham answered:--

  "He has cared for you a long while. I was not aware of it until I wentaway, but, thinking over everything, I thought it likely, and in a verylittle time I became sure."

  "He is blind."

  "Blind!" exclaimed Feversham. "He, of all men, blind!"

  "Exactly," said Ethne. "He--of all men. His blindness explainseverything--why I marry him, why I send you away. It was after he wentblind that I became engaged to him. It was before Captain Willoughbycame to me with the first feather. It was between those two events. Yousee, after you went away one thought over things rather carefully. Iused to lie awake and think, and I resolved that two men's lives shouldnot be spoilt because of me."

  "Mine was not," Feversham interrupted. "Please believe that."

  "Partly it was," she returned, "I know very well. You would not own itfor my sake, but it was. I was determined that a second should not be.And so when Colonel Durrance went blind--you know the man he was, youcan understand what blindness meant to him, the loss of everything hecared for--"

  "Except you."

  "Yes," Ethne answered quietly, "except me. So I became engaged to him.But he has grown very quick--you cannot guess how quick. And he sees sovery clearly. A hint tells him the whole hidden truth. At present heknows nothing of the four feathers."

  "Are you sure?" suddenly exclaimed Feversham.

  "Yes. Why?" asked Ethne, turning her face towards him for the first timesince she had sat down.

  "Lieutenant Sutch was at Suakin while I was at Omdurman. He knew that Iwas a prisoner there. He sent messages to me, he tried to organise myescape."

  Ethne was startled.

  "Oh," she said, "Colonel Durrance certainly knew that you were inOmdurman. He saw you in Wadi Halfa, and he heard that you had gone southinto the desert. He was distressed about it; he asked a friend to getnews of you, and the friend got news that you were in Omdurman. He toldme so himself, and--yes, he told me that he would try to arrange foryour escape. No doubt he has done that through Lieutenant Sutch. He hasbeen at Wiesbaden with an oculist; he only returned a week ago.Otherwise he would have told me about it. Very likely he was the reasonwhy Lieutenant Sutch was at Suakin, but he knows nothing of the fourfeathers. He only knows that our engagement was abruptly broken off; hebelieves that I have no longer any thought of you at all. But if youcome back, if you and I saw anything of each other, however calmly wemet, however indifferently we spoke, he would guess. He is so quick hewould be sure to guess." She paused for a moment, and added in awhisper, "And he would guess right."

  Feversham saw the blood flush her forehead and deepen the colour of hercheeks. He did not move from his position, he did not bend towards her,or even in voice give any sign which would make this leave-taking yetmore difficult to carry through.

  "Yes, I see," he said. "And he must not guess."

  "No, he must not," returned Ethne. "I am so glad you see that too,Harry. The straight and simple thing is the only thing for us to do. Hemust never guess, for, as you said, he has nothing left but me."

  "Is Durrance here?" asked Feversham.

  "He is staying at the vicarage."

  "Very well," he said. "It is only fair that I should tell you I had nothought that you would wait. I had no wish that you shoul
d; I had noright to such a wish. When you gave me that fourth feather in the littleroom at Ramelton, with the music coming faintly through the door, Iunderstood your meaning. There was to be a complete, an irrevocable end.We were not to be the merest acquaintances. So I said nothing to you ofthe plan which came clear and definite into my mind at the very timewhen you gave me the feathers. You see, I might never have succeeded. Imight have died trying to succeed. I might even perhaps have shirked theattempt. It would be time enough for me to speak if I came back. So Inever formed any wish that you should wait."

  "That was what Colonel Trench told me."

  "I told him that too?"

  "On your first night in the House of Stone."

  "Well, it's just the truth. The most I hoped for--and I did hope forthat every hour of every day--was that, if I did come home, you wouldtake back your feather, and that we might--not renew our friendshiphere, but see something of one another afterwards."

  "Yes," said Ethne. "Then there will be no parting."

  Ethne spoke very simply, without even a sigh, but she looked at HarryFeversham as she spoke and smiled. The look and the smile told him whatthe cost of the separation would be to her. And, understanding what itmeant now, he understood, with an infinitely greater completeness thanhe had ever reached in his lonely communings, what it must have meantsix years ago when she was left with her pride stricken as sorely as herheart.

  "What trouble you must have gone through!" he cried, and she turned andlooked him over.

  "Not I alone," she said gently. "I passed no nights in the House ofStone."

  "But it was my fault. Do you remember what you said when the morningcame through the blinds? 'It's not right that one should suffer so muchpain.' It was not right."

  "I had forgotten the words--oh, a long time since--until Colonel Trenchreminded me. I should never have spoken them. When I did I was notthinking they would live so in your thoughts. I am sorry that I spokethem."

  "Oh, they were just enough. I never blamed you for them," saidFeversham, with a laugh. "I used to think that they would be the lastwords I should hear when I turned my face to the wall. But you havegiven me others to-day wherewith to replace them."

  "Thank you," she said quietly.

  There was nothing more to be said, and Feversham wondered why Ethne didnot rise from her seat in the pew. It did not occur to him to talk ofhis travels or adventures. The occasion seemed too serious, too vital.They were together to decide the most solemn issue in their lives. Oncethe decision was made, as now it had been made, he felt that they couldhardly talk on other topics. Ethne, however, still kept him at her side.Though she sat so calmly and still, though her face was quiet in itslook of gravity, her heart ached with longing. Just for a little longer,she pleaded to herself. The sunlight was withdrawing from the walls ofthe church. She measured out a space upon the walls where it stillglowed bright. When all that space was cold grey stone, she would sendHarry Feversham away.

  "I am glad that you escaped from Omdurman without the help of LieutenantSutch or Colonel Durrance. I wanted so much that everything should bedone by you alone without anybody's help or interference," she said, andafter she had spoken there followed a silence. Once or twice she lookedtowards the wall, and each time she saw the space of golden lightnarrowed, and knew that her minutes were running out. "You sufferedhorribly at Dongola," she said in a low voice. "Colonel Trench told me."

  "What does it matter now?" Feversham answered. "That time seems ratherfar away to me."

  "Had you anything of mine with you?"

  "I had your white feather."

  "But anything else? Any little thing which I had given you in the otherdays?"

  "Nothing."

  "I had your photograph," she said. "I kept it."

  Feversham suddenly leaned down towards her.

  "You did!"

  Ethne nodded her head.

  "Yes. The moment I went upstairs that night I packed up your presentsand addressed them to your rooms."

  "Yes, I got them in London."

  "But I put your photograph aside first of all to keep. I burnt all yourletters after I had addressed the parcel and taken it down to the hallto be sent away. I had just finished burning your letters when I heardyour step upon the gravel in the early morning underneath my windows.But I had already put your photograph aside. I have it now. I shall keepit and the feathers together." She added after a moment:--

  "I rather wish that you had had something of mine with you all thetime."

  "I had no right to anything," said Feversham.

  There was still a narrow slip of gold upon the grey space of stone.

  "What will you do now?" she asked.

  "I shall go home first and see my father. It will depend upon the way wemeet."

  "You will let Colonel Durrance know. I would like to hear about it."

  "Yes, I will write to Durrance."

  The slip of gold was gone, the clear light of a summer evening filledthe church, a light without radiance or any colour.

  "I shall not see you for a long while," said Ethne, and for the firsttime her voice broke in a sob. "I shall not have a letter from youagain."

  She leaned a little forward and bent her head, for the tears hadgathered in her eyes. But she rose up bravely from her seat, andtogether they went out of the church side by side. She leaned towardshim as they walked so that they touched.

  Feversham untied his horse and mounted it. As his foot touched thestirrup Ethne caught her dog close to her.

  "Good-bye," she said. She did not now even try to smile, she held outher hand to him. He took it and bent down from his saddle close to her.She kept her eyes steadily upon him though the tears brimmed in them.

  "Good-bye," he said. He held her hand just for a little while, and thenreleasing it, rode down the hill. He rode for a hundred yards, stoppedand looked back. Ethne had stopped, too, and with this space betweenthem and their faces towards one another they remained. Ethne made nosign of recognition or farewell. She just stood and looked. Then sheturned away and went up the village street towards her house alone andvery slowly. Feversham watched her till she went in at the gate, but shebecame dim and blurred to his vision before even she had reached it. Hewas able to see, however, that she did not look back again.

  He rode down the hill. The bad thing which he had done so long ago wasnot even by his six years of labour to be destroyed. It was still tolive, its consequence was to be sorrow till the end of life for anotherthan himself. That she took the sorrow bravely and without complaint,doing the straight and simple thing as her loyal nature bade her, didnot diminish Harry Feversham's remorse. On the contrary it taught himyet more clearly that she least of all deserved unhappiness. The harmwas irreparable. Other women might have forgotten, but not she. ForEthne was of those who neither lightly feel nor lightly forget, and ifthey love cannot love with half a heart. She would be alone now, heknew, in spite of her marriage, alone up to the very end and at theactual moment of death.