He spoke in his usual hard and emotionless voice. He might have been speaking of a stranger. Even the name was uttered without the slightest hint of sorrow. Durrance began to wonder whether the fountains of affection had not been altogether dried up in General Feversham’s heart.
“It would not please you, then, to know where Harry Feversham has been, and how he has lived during the last five years?”
There was a pause—not a long pause, but still a pause—before General Feversham answered:—
“Not in the least, Colonel Durrance.”
The answer was uncompromising, but Durrance relied upon the pause which preceded it.
“Nor on what business he has been engaged?” he continued.
“I am not interested in the smallest degree. I do not wish him to starve, and my solicitor tells me that he draws his allowance. I am content with that knowledge, Colonel Durrance.”
“I will risk your anger, General,” said Durrance. “There are times when it is wise to disobey one’s superior officer. This is one of the times. Of course you can turn me out of the house. Otherwise I shall relate to you the history of your son and my friend since he disappeared from England.”
General Feversham laughed.
“Of course, I can’t turn you out of the house,” he said; and he added severely, “but I warn you that you are taking an improper advantage of your position as my guest.”
“Yes, there is no doubt of that,” Durrance answered calmly; and he told his story—the recovery of the Gordon letters from Berber, his own meeting with Harry Feversham at Wadi Halfa, and Harry’s imprisonment at Omdurman. He brought it down to that very day, for he ended with the news of Lieutenant Sutch’s departure for Suakin. General Feversham heard the whole account without an interruption, without even stirring in his chair. Durrance could not tell in what spirit he listened, but he drew some comfort from the fact that he did listen and without argument.
For some while after Durrance had finished, the general sat silent. He raised his hand to his forehead and shaded his eyes as though the man who had spoken could see, and thus he remained. Even when he did speak, he did not take his hand away. Pride forbade him to show to those portraits on the walls that he was capable even of so natural a weakness as joy at the reconquest of honour by his son.
“What I don’t understand,” he said slowly, “is why Harry ever resigned his commission. I could not understand it before; I understand it even less now since you have told me of his great bravery. It is one of the queer inexplicable things. They happen, and there’s all that can be said. But I am very glad that you compelled me to listen to you, Durrance.”
“I did it with a definite object. It is for you to say, of course, but for my part I do not see why Harry should not come home and enter in again to all that he lost.”
“He cannot regain everything,” said Feversham. “It is not right that he should. He committed the sin, and he must pay. He cannot regain his career for one thing.”
“No, that is true; but he can find another. He is not yet so old but that he can find another. And that is all that he will have lost.”
General Feversham now took his hand away and moved in his chair. He looked quickly at Durrance; he opened his mouth to ask a question, but changed his mind.
“Well,” he said briskly, and as though the matter were of no particular importance, “if Sutch can manage Harry’s escape from Omdurman, I see no reason, either, why he should not come home.”
Durrance rose from his chair. “Thank you, General. If you can have me driven to the station, I can catch a train to town. There’s one at six.”
“But you will stay the night, surely,” cried General Feversham.
“It is impossible. I start for Wiesbaden early tomorrow.”
Feversham rang the bell and gave the order for a carriage. “I should have been very glad if you could have stayed,” he said, turning to Durrance. “I see very few people nowadays. To tell the truth I have no great desire to see many. One grows old and a creature of customs.”
“But you have your Crimean nights,” said Durrance, cheerfully.
Feversham shook his head. “There have been none since Harry went away. I had no heart for them,” he said slowly. For a second the mask was lifted and his stern features softened. He had suffered much during these five lonely years of his old age, though not one of his acquaintances up to this moment had ever detected a look upon his face or heard a sentence from his lips which could lead them so to think. He had shown a stubborn front to the world; he had made it a matter of pride that no one should be able to point a finger at him and say, “There’s a man struck down.” But on this one occasion and in these few words he revealed to Durrance the depth of his grief. Durrance understood how unendurable the chatter of his friends about the old days of war in the snowy trenches would have been. An anecdote recalling some particular act of courage would hurt as keenly as a story of cowardice. The whole history of his lonely life at Broad Place was laid bare in that simple statement that there had been no Crimean nights for he had no heart for them.
The wheels of the carriage rattled on the gravel.
“Goodbye,” said Durrance, and he held out his hand.
“By the way,” said Feversham, “to organise this escape from Omdurman will cost a great deal of money. Sutch is a poor man. Who is paying?”
“I am.”
Feversham shook Durrance’s hand in a firm clasp.
“It is my right, of course,” he said.
“Certainly. I will let you know what it costs.”
“Thank
