“You did not fail,” said Ethne, quietly; “it was only I who failed.”
She blamed herself most bitterly. She had set herself, as the one thing worth doing, and incumbent on her to do, to guard this man from knowledge which would set the crown on his calamities, and she had failed. He had set himself to protect her from the comprehension that she had failed, and he had succeeded. It was not any mere sense of humiliation, due to the fact that the man whom she had thought to hoodwink had hoodwinked her, which troubled her. But she felt that she ought to have succeeded, since by failure she had robbed him of his last chance of happiness. There lay the sting for her.
“But it was not your fault,” he said. “Once or twice, as I said, you were off your guard, but the convincing facts were not revealed to me in that way. When you played the ‘Melusine Overture’ before, on the night of the day when Willoughby brought you such good news, I took to myself that happiness of yours which inspired your playing. You must not blame yourself. On the contrary, you should be glad that I have found out.”
“Glad!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, for my sake, glad.” And as she looked at him in wonderment he went on: “Two lives should not be spoilt because of you. Had you had your way, had I not found out, not two but three lives would have been spoilt because of you—because of your loyalty.”
“Three?”
“Yours. Yes—yes, yours, Feversham’s, and mine. It was hard enough to keep the pretence during the few weeks we were in Devonshire. Own to it, Ethne! When I went to London to see my oculist it was a relief; it gave you a pause, a rest wherein to drop pretence and be yourself. It could not have lasted long even in Devonshire. But what when we came to live under the same roof, and there were no visits to the oculist, when we saw each other every hour of every day? Sooner or later the truth must have come to me. It might have come gradually, a suspicion added to a suspicion and another to that until no doubt was left. Or it might have flashed out in one terrible moment. But it would have been made clear. And then, Ethne? What then? You aimed at a compensation; you wanted to make up to me for the loss of what I love—my career, the army, the special service in the strange quarters of the world. A fine compensation to sit in front of you knowing you had married a cripple out of pity, and that in so doing you had crippled yourself and foregone the happiness which is yours by right. Whereas now—”
“Whereas now?” she repeated.
“I remain your friend, which I would rather be than your unloved husband,” he said very gently.
Ethne made no rejoinder. The decision had been taken out of her hands.
“You sent Harry away this afternoon,” said Durrance. “You said goodbye to him twice.”
At the “twice” Ethne raised her head, but before she could speak Durrance explained:—
“Once in the church, again upon your violin,” and he took up the instrument from the chair on which she had laid it. “It has been a very good friend, your violin,” he said. “A good friend to me, to us all. You will understand that, Ethne, very soon. I stood at the window while you played it. I had never heard anything in my life half so sad as your farewell to Harry Feversham, and yet it was nobly sad. It was true music, it did not complain.” He laid the violin down upon the chair again.
“I am going to send a messenger to Rathmullen. Harry cannot cross Lough Swilly tonight. The messenger will bring him back tomorrow.”
It had been a day of many emotions and surprises for Ethne. As Durrance bent down towards her, he became aware that she was crying silently. For once tears had their way with her. He took his cap and walked noiselessly to the door of the room. As he opened it, Ethne got up.
“Don’t go for a moment,” she said, and she left the fireplace and came to the centre of the room.
“The oculist at Wiesbaden?” she asked. “He gave you a hope?”
Durrance stood meditating whether he should lie or speak the truth.
“No,” he said at length. “There is no hope. But I am not so helpless as at one time I was afraid that I should be. I can get about, can’t I? Perhaps one of these days I shall go on a journey, one of the long journeys amongst the strange people in the east.”
He went from the house upon his errand. He had learned his lesson a long time since, and the violin had taught it him. It had spoken again that afternoon, and though with a different voice, had offered to him the same message. The true music cannot complain.
XXXIV
The End
In the early summer of next year two old men sat reading their newspapers after breakfast upon the terrace of Broad Place. The elder of the two turned over a sheet.
“I see Osman Digna’s back at Suakin,” said he. “There’s likely to be some fighting.”
“Oh,” said the other, “he will not do much harm.” And he laid down his paper. The quiet
