Part 33 (1/2)

At the time when Calder, disappointed at his failure to obtain news of Feversham from the one man who possessed it, stepped into a carriage of the train at a.s.souan, Lieutenant Sutch was driving along a high white road of Hamps.h.i.+re across a common of heather and gorse; and he too was troubled on Harry Feversham's account. Like many a man who lives much alone, Lieutenant Sutch had fallen into the habit of speaking his thoughts aloud. And as he drove slowly and reluctantly forward, more than once he said to himself: ”I foresaw there would be trouble. From the 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 of pines to a little railway station. The sight of the rails gleaming bright in the afternoon sunlight, and the telegraph poles running away in a straight line until they seemed to huddle together in the distance, increased Sutch's discomposure. He reined his pony in, and sat staring with a frown at the red-tiled roof of the station building.

”I promised Harry to say nothing,” he said; and drawing some makes.h.i.+ft of comfort from the words, repeated them, ”I promised faithfully in the Criterion grill-room.”

The whistle of an engine a long way off sounded clear and shrill. It roused Lieutenant Sutch from his gloomy meditations. He saw the white smoke of an approaching train stretch out like a riband in the distance.

”I wonder what brings him,” he said doubtfully; and then with an effort at courage, ”Well, it's no use s.h.i.+rking.” He flicked the pony with his whip and drove briskly down the hill. He reached the station as the train drew up at the platform. Only two pa.s.sengers descended from the train. They were Durrance and his servant, and they came out at once on to the road. Lieutenant Sutch hailed Durrance, who walked to the side of the trap.

”You received my telegram in time, then?” said Durrance.

”Luckily it found me at home.”

”I have brought a bag. May I trespa.s.s upon you for a night's lodging?”

”By all means,” said Sutch, but the tone of his voice quite clearly to Durrance's ears belied the heartiness of the words. Durrance, however, was prepared for a reluctant welcome, and he had purposely sent his telegram at the last moment. Had he given an address, he suspected that he might have received a refusal of his visit. And his suspicion was accurate enough. The telegram, it is true, had merely announced Durrance's visit, it had stated nothing of his object; but its despatch was 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 Harry Feversham, those inquiries which Sutch was on no account to answer, which he must parry all this afternoon and night. But he saw Durrance feeling about with his raised foot for the step of the trap, and the fact of his visitor's blindness was brought home to him. He reached out a hand, and catching Durrance by the arm, helped him up. After all, he thought, it would not be difficult to hoodwink a blind man. Ethne herself had had the same thought and felt much the same relief as Sutch felt now. The lieutenant, indeed, was so relieved that he found room for an impulse of pity.

”I was very sorry, Durrance, to hear of your bad luck,” he said, as he drove off up the hill. ”I know what it is myself to be suddenly stopped and put aside just when one is making way and the world is smoothing itself out, though my wound in the leg is nothing in comparison to your blindness. I don't talk to you about compensations and patience. That's the gabble of people who are comfortable and haven't suffered. _We_ know that for a man who is young and active, and who is doing well in a career where activity is a necessity, there are no compensations if his career's suddenly cut short through no fault of his.”

”Through no fault of his,” repeated Durrance. ”I agree with you. It is only the man whose career is cut short through his own fault who gets compensations.”

Sutch glanced sharply at his companion. Durrance had spoken slowly and very thoughtfully. Did he mean to refer to Harry Feversham, Sutch wondered. Did he know enough to be able so to refer to him? Or was it merely 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 is brought up short, stopped in his career, perhaps disgraced.” Sutch started a little at the word. ”Yes, perhaps--disgraced,” Durrance repeated. ”Well, the shock of the disgrace is, after all, his opportunity. Don't you see that? It's his opportunity to know himself at last. Up to the moment of disgrace his life has all been sham and illusion; the man he believed himself to be, he never was, and now at the last he knows it. Once he knows it, he can set about to retrieve his disgrace. Oh, there are compensations for such a man. You and I know a case in point.”

Sutch no longer doubted that Durrance was deliberately referring to Harry Feversham. He had some knowledge, though how he had gained it Sutch could not guess. But the knowledge was not to Sutch's idea quite accurate, and the inaccuracy did Harry Feversham some injustice. It was on that account chiefly that Sutch did not affect any ignorance as to Durrance's allusion. The pa.s.sage of the years had not diminished his great regard for Harry; he cared for him indeed with a woman's concentration of love, and he could not endure that his memory should be slighted.

”The case you and I know of is not quite in point,” he argued. ”You are speaking of Harry Feversham.”

”Who believed himself a coward, and was not one. He commits the fault which stops his career, he finds out his mistake, he sets himself to the work 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 I know, but I thought for the moment it was your view--that Harry fancied himself to be a brave man and was suddenly brought up short by discovering that he was a coward. But how did you find out? No one knew the 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 not know of the determination to retrieve it.”

”She knows now,” said Durrance; and he added sharply, ”You are glad of that--very glad.”

Sutch was not aware that by any movement or exclamation he had betrayed his pleasure. His face, no doubt, showed it clearly enough, but Durrance could not see his face. Lieutenant Sutch was puzzled, but he did not deny the imputation.

”It is true,” he said stoutly. ”I am very glad that she knows. I can quite see that from your point of view it would be better if she did not know. But I cannot help it. I am very glad.”

Durrance laughed, and not at all unpleasantly. ”I like you the better for 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.”