Durrance said nothing in reply, but gave her in full measure what she most needed, the sympathy of his silence. He imagined those hours in the passage, six hours of twilight and darkness; he could picture her standing close by the door, with her ear perhaps to the panel, and her hand upon her heart to check its loud beating. There was something rather cruel, he thought, in Dermod’s resolve to die alone. It was Ethne who broke the silence.
“I said that my father spoke to me just before he told me to leave him. Of whom do you think he spoke?”
She was looking directly at Durrance as she put the question. From neither her eyes nor the level tone of her voice could he gather anything of the answer, but a sudden throb of hope caught away his breath.
“Tell me!” he said, in a sort of suspense, as he leaned forward in his chair.
“Of Mr. Feversham,” she answered, and he drew back again, and rather suddenly. It was evident that this was not the name which he had expected. He took his eyes from hers and stared downwards at the carpet, so that she might not see his face.
“My father was always very fond of him,” she continued gently, “and I think that I would like to know if you have any knowledge of what he is doing or where he is.”
Durrance did not answer nor did he raise his face. He reflected upon the strange strong hold which Harry Feversham kept upon the affections of those who had once known him well; so that even the man whom he had wronged, and upon whose daughter he had brought much suffering, must remember him with kindliness upon his deathbed. The reflection was not without its bitterness to Durrance at this moment, and this bitterness he was afraid that his face and voice might both betray. But he was compelled to speak, for Ethne insisted.
“You have never come across him, I suppose?” she asked.
Durrance rose from his seat and walked to the window before he answered. He spoke looking out into the street, but though he thus concealed the expression of his face, a thrill of deep anger sounded through his words, in spite of his efforts to subdue his tones.
“No,” he said, “I never have,” and suddenly his anger had its way with him; it chose as well as informed his words. “And I never wish to,” he cried. “He was my friend, I know. But I cannot remember that friendship now. I can only think that if he had been the true man we took him for, you would not have waited alone in that dark passage during those six hours.” He turned again to the centre of the room and asked abruptly:—
“You are going back to Glenalla?”
“Yes.”
“You will live there alone?”
“Yes.”
For a little while there was silence between them. Then Durrance walked round to the back of her chair.
“You once said that you would perhaps tell me why your engagement was broken off.”
“But you know,” she said. “What you said at the window showed that you knew.”
“No, I do not. One or two words your father let drop. He asked me for news of Feversham the last time that I spoke with him. But I know nothing definite. I should like you to tell me.”
Ethne shook her head and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “Not now,” she said, and silence again followed her words. Durrance broke it again.
“I have only one more year at Halfa. It would be wise to leave Egypt then, I think. I do not expect much will be done in the Sudan for some little while. I do not think that I will stay there—in any case. I mean even if you should decide to remain alone at Glenalla.”
Ethne made no pretence to ignore the suggestion of his words. “We are neither of us children,” she said; “you have all your life to think of. We should be prudent.”
“Yes,” said Durrance, with a sudden exasperation, “but the right kind of prudence. The prudence which knows that it’s worth while to dare a good deal.”
Ethne did not move. She was leaning forward with her back towards him, so that he could see nothing of her face, and for a long while she remained in this attitude, quite silent and very still. She asked a question at the last, and in a very low and gentle voice.
“Do you want me so very much?” And before he could answer she turned quickly towards him. “Try not to,” she exclaimed earnestly. “For this one year try not to. You have much to occupy your thoughts. Try to forget me altogether;” and there was just sufficient regret in her tone, the regret at the prospect of losing a valued friend, to take all the sting from her words, to confirm Durrance in his delusion that but for her fear that she would spoil his career, she would answer him in very different words. Mrs. Adair came into the room before he could reply, and thus he carried away with him his delusion.
He dined that evening at his club, and sat afterwards smoking his cigar under the big tree where he had sat so persistently a year before in his vain quest for news of Harry Feversham. It was much the same sort of clear night as that on which he had seen Lieutenant Sutch limp into the courtyard and hesitate at the sight of him. The strip of sky was cloudless and
