Part 46 (2/2)

At the ”twice” Ethne raised her head, but before she could speak Durrance explained:--

”Once in the church, again upon your violin,” and he took up the instrument from the chair on which she had laid it. ”It has been a very good friend, your violin,” he said. ”A good friend to me, to us all. You will understand that, Ethne, very soon. I stood at the window while you played it. I had never heard anything in my life half so sad as your farewell to Harry Feversham, and yet it was n.o.bly sad. It was true music, it did not complain.” He laid the violin down upon the chair again.

”I am going to send a messenger to Rathmullen. Harry cannot cross Lough Sw.i.l.l.y to-night. The messenger will bring him back to-morrow.”

It had been a day of many emotions and surprises for Ethne. As Durrance bent down towards her, he became aware that she was crying silently. For once tears had their way with her. He took his cap and walked noiselessly to the door of the room. As he opened it, Ethne got up.

”Don't go for a moment,” she said, and she left the fireplace and came to the centre of the room.

”The oculist at Wiesbaden?” she asked. ”He gave you a hope?”

Durrance stood meditating whether he should lie or speak the truth.

”No,” he said at length. ”There is no hope. But I am not so helpless as at one time I was afraid that I should be. I can get about, can't I?

Perhaps one of these days I shall go on a journey, one of the long journeys amongst the strange people in the East.”

He went from the house upon his errand. He had learned his lesson a long time since, and the violin had taught it him. It had spoken again that afternoon, and though with a different voice, had offered to him the same message. The true music cannot complain.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV

THE END

In the early summer of next year two old men sat reading their newspapers after breakfast upon the terrace of Broad Place. The elder of the two turned over a sheet.

”I see Osman Digna's back at Suakin,” said he. ”There's likely to be some fighting.”

”Oh,” said the other, ”he will not do much harm.” And he laid down his paper. The quiet English country-side vanished from before his eyes. He saw only the white city by the Red Sea s.h.i.+mmering in the heat, the brown plains about it with their tangle of halfa gra.s.s, and in the distance the hills towards Khor Gwob.

”A stuffy place Suakin, eh, Sutch?” said General Feversham.

”Appallingly stuffy. I heard of an officer who went down on parade at six o'clock of the morning there, sunstruck in the temples right through a regulation helmet. Yes, a town of dank heat! But I was glad to be there--very glad,” he said with some feeling.

”Yes,” said Feversham, briskly; ”ibex, eh?”

”No,” replied Sutch. ”All the ibex had been shot off by the English garrison for miles round.”

”No? Something to do, then. That's it?”

”Yes, that's it, Feversham. Something to do.”

And both men busied themselves again over their papers. But in a little while a footman brought to each a small pile of letters. General Feversham ran over his envelopes with a quick eye, selected one letter, and gave a grunt of satisfaction. He took a pair of spectacles from a case and placed them upon his nose.

”From Ramelton?” asked Sutch, dropping his newspaper on to the terrace.

”From Ramelton,” answered Feversham. ”I'll light a cigar first.”

He laid the letter down on the garden table which stood between his companion and himself, drew a cigar-case from his pocket, and in spite of the impatience of Lieutenant Sutch, proceeded to cut and light it with the utmost deliberation. The old man had become an epicure in this respect. A letter from Ramelton was a luxury to be enjoyed with all the accessories of comfort which could be obtained. He made himself comfortable in his chair, stretched out his legs, and smoked enough of his cigar to a.s.sure himself that it was drawing well. Then he took up his letter again and opened it.

<script>