Part 34 (2/2)

For, as I told you, Ethne has not forgotten him; and I have my point of view. Marriage between a man blind like myself and any woman, let alone Ethne, could not be fair or right unless upon both sides there was more than friends.h.i.+p. Harry must return to England. He must return to Ethne, too. You must go to Egypt and do what you can to bring him back.”

Sutch was relieved of his suspense. He had obeyed his conscience and yet done Harry Feversham no disservice.

”I will start to-morrow,” he said. ”Harry is still in the Soudan?”

”Of course.”

”Why of course?” asked Sutch. ”Willoughby withdrew his accusation; Castleton is dead--he was killed at Tamai; and Trench--I know, for I have followed all these three men's careers--Trench is a prisoner in Omdurman.”

”So is Harry Feversham.”

Sutch stared at his visitor. For a moment he did not understand, the shock had been too sudden and abrupt. Then after comprehension dawned upon him, he refused to believe. The folly of that refusal in its turn became apparent. He sat down in his chair opposite to Durrance, awed into silence. And the silence lasted for a long while.

”What am I to do?” he said at length.

”I have thought it out,” returned Durrance. ”You must go to Suakin. I will give you a letter to Willoughby, who is Deputy-Governor, and another to a Greek merchant there whom I know, and on whom you can draw for as much money as you require.”

”That's good of you, Durrance, upon my word,” Sutch interrupted; and forgetting that he was talking to a blind man he held out his hand across the table. ”I would not take a penny if I could help it; but I am a poor man. Upon my soul it's good of you.”

”Just listen to me, please,” said Durrance. He could not see the outstretched hand, but his voice showed that he would hardly have taken it if he had. He was striking the final blow at his chance of happiness.

But he did not wish to be thanked for it. ”At Suakin you must take the Greek merchant's advice and organise a rescue as best you can. It will be a long business, and you will have many disappointments before you succeed. But you must stick to it until you do.”

Upon that the two men fell to a discussion of the details of the length of time which it would take for a message from Suakin to be carried into Omdurman, of the untrustworthiness of some Arab spies, and of the risks which the trustworthy ran. Sutch's house was searched for maps, the various routes by which the prisoners might escape were described by Durrance--the great forty days' road from Kordofan on the west, the straight track from Omdurman to Berber and from Berber to Suakin, and the desert journey across the Belly of Stones by the wells of Murat to Korosko. It was late before Durrance had told all that he thought necessary and Sutch had exhausted his questions.

”You will stay at Suakin as your base of operations,” said Durrance, as he closed up the maps.

”Yes,” answered Sutch, and he rose from his chair. ”I will start as soon as you give me the letters.”

”I have them already written.”

”Then I will start to-morrow. You may be sure I will let both you and Miss Eustace know how the attempt progresses.”

”Let me know,” said Durrance, ”but not a whisper of it to Ethne. She knows nothing of my plan, and she must know nothing until Feversham comes back himself. She has her point of view, as I have mine. Two lives shall not be spoilt because of her. That's her resolve. She believes that to some degree she was herself the cause of Harry Feversham's disgrace--that but for her he would not have resigned his commission.”

”Yes.”

”You agree with that? At all events she believes it. So there's one life spoilt because of her. Suppose now I go to her and say: 'I know that you pretend out of your charity and kindness to care for me, but in your heart you are no more than my friend,' why, I hurt her, and cruelly. For there's all that's left of the second life spoilt too. But bring back Feversham! Then I can speak--then I can say freely: 'Since you are just my friend, I would rather be your friend and nothing more. So neither life will be spoilt at all.'”

”I understand,” said Sutch. ”It's the way a man should speak. So till Feversham comes back the pretence remains. She pretends to care for you, you pretend you do not know she thinks of Harry. While I go eastwards to bring him home, you go back to her.”

”No,” said Durrance, ”I can't go back. The strain of keeping up the pretence was telling too much on both of us. I go to Wiesbaden. An oculist lives there who serves me for an excuse. I shall wait at Wiesbaden until you bring Harry home.”

Sutch opened the door, and the two men went out into the hall. The servants had long since gone to bed. A couple of candlesticks stood upon a table beside a lamp. More than once Lieutenant Sutch had forgotten that his visitor was blind, and he forgot the fact again. He lighted both candles and held out one to his companion. Durrance knew from the noise of Sutch's movements what he was doing.

”I have no need of a candle,” he said with a smile. The light fell full upon his face, and Sutch suddenly remarked how tired it looked and old.

There were deep lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth, and furrows in the cheeks. His hair was grey as an old man's hair. Durrance had himself made so little of his misfortune this evening that Sutch had rather come to rate it as a small thing in the sum of human calamities, but he read his mistake now in Durrance's face. Just above the flame of the candle, framed in the darkness of the hall, it showed white and drawn and haggard--the face of an old worn man set upon the stalwart shoulders of a man in the prime of his years.

”I have said very little to you in the way of sympathy,” said Sutch. ”I did not know that you would welcome it. But I am sorry. I am very sorry.”

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