Part 42 (2/2)

”I served myself from first to last.”

”You have learned the churlishness of a camel,” cried Trench. ”A camel will carry you where you want to go, will carry you till it drops dead, and yet if you show your grat.i.tude it resents and bites. Hang it all, Feversham, there's my hand.”

Feversham untied a knot in the breast of his jibbeh and took out three white feathers, two small, the feathers of a heron, the other large, an ostrich feather broken from a fan.

”Will you take yours back?”

”Yes.”

”You know what to do with it.”

”Yes. There shall be no delay.”

Feversham wrapped the remaining feathers carefully away in a corner of his ragged jibbeh and tied them safe.

”We shake hands, then,” said he; and as their hands met he added, ”To-morrow morning we part company.”

”Part company, you and I--after the year in Omdurman, the weeks of flight?” exclaimed Trench. ”Why? There's no more to be done. Castleton's dead. You keep the feather which he sent, but he is dead. You can do nothing with it. You must come home.”

”Yes,” answered Feversham, ”but after you, certainly not with you. You go on to a.s.souan and Cairo. At each place you will find friends to welcome you. I shall not go with you.”

Trench was silent for a while. He understood Feversham's reluctance, he saw that it would be easier for Feversham if he were to tell his story first to Ethne Eustace, and without Feversham's presence.

”I ought to tell you no one knows why you resigned your commission, or of the feathers we sent. We never spoke of it. We agreed never to speak, for the honour of the regiment. I can't tell you how glad I am that we all agreed and kept to the agreement,” he said.

”Perhaps you will see Durrance,” said Feversham; ”if you do, give him a message from me. Tell him that the next time he asks me to come and see him, whether it is in England or Wadi Halfa, I will accept the invitation.”

”Which way will you go?”

”To Wadi Halfa,” said Feversham, pointing westwards over his shoulder.

”I shall take Abou Fatma with me and travel slowly and quietly down the Nile. The other Arab will guide you into a.s.souan.”

They slept that night in security beside the well, and the next morning they parted company. Trench was the first to ride off, and as his camel rose to its feet, ready for the start, he bent down towards Feversham, who pa.s.sed him the nose rein.

”Ramelton, that was the name? I shall not forget.”

”Yes, Ramelton,” said Feversham; ”there's a ferry across Lough Sw.i.l.l.y to Rathmullen. You must drive the twelve miles to Ramelton. But you may not find her there.”

”If not there, I shall find her somewhere else. Make no mistake, Feversham, I shall find her.”

And Trench rode forward, alone with his Arab guide. More than once he turned his head and saw Feversham still standing by the well; more than once he was strongly drawn to stop and ride back to that solitary figure, but he contented himself with waving his hand, and even that salute was not returned.

Feversham, indeed, had neither thought nor eyes for the companion of his flight. His six years of hard probation had come this morning to an end, and yet he was more sensible of a certain loss and vacancy than of any joy. For six years, through many trials, through many falterings, his mission had strengthened and sustained him. It seemed to him now that there was nothing more wherewith to occupy his life. Ethne? No doubt she was long since married ... and there came upon him all at once a great bitterness of despair for that futile, unnecessary mistake made by him six years ago. He saw again the room in London overlooking the quiet trees and lawns of St. James's Park, he heard the knock upon the door, he took the telegram from his servant's hand.

He roused himself finally with the recollection that, after all, the work was not quite done. There was his father, who just at this moment was very likely reading his _Times_ after breakfast upon the terrace of Broad Place among the pine trees upon the Surrey hills. He must visit his father, he must take that fourth feather back to Ramelton. There was a telegram, too, which must be sent to Lieutenant Sutch at Suakin.

He mounted his camel and rode slowly with Abou Fatma westwards towards Wadi Halfa. But the sense of loss did not pa.s.s from him that day, nor his anger at the act of folly which had brought about his downfall. The wooded slopes of Ramelton were very visible to him across the s.h.i.+mmer of the desert air. In the greatness of his depression Harry Feversham upon this day for the first time doubted his faith in the ”afterwards.”

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