The Four Feathers | Page 7

was no use to argue with him, for he did not hear the argument, but
behind his vacant eyes all the while he turned over his crippled

thoughts and was satisfied. The fourth at the table was Durrance, a
lieutenant of the East Surrey Regiment, and Feversham's friend, who
had come in answer to a telegram.
This was June of the year 1882, and the thoughts of civilians turned
toward Egypt with anxiety; those of soldiers, with an eager anticipation.
Arabi Pasha, in spite of threats, was steadily strengthening the
fortifications of Alexandria, and already a long way to the south, the
other, the great danger, was swelling like a thunder-cloud. A year had
passed since a young, slight, and tall Dongolawi, Mohammed Ahmed,
had marched through the villages of the White Nile, preaching with the
fire of a Wesley the coming of a Saviour. The passionate victims of the
Turkish tax-gatherer had listened, had heard the promise repeated in the
whispers of the wind in the withered grass, had found the holy names
imprinted even upon the eggs they gathered up. In 1882 Mohammed
had declared himself that Saviour, and had won his first battles against
the Turks.
"There will be trouble," said Trench, and the sentence was the text on
which three of the four men talked. In a rare interval, however, the
fourth, Harry Feversham, spoke upon a different subject.
"I am very glad you were all able to dine with me to-night. I
telegraphed to Castleton as well, an officer of ours," he explained to
Durrance, "but he was dining with a big man in the War Office, and
leaves for Scotland afterwards, so that he could not come. I have news
of a sort."
The three men leaned forward, their minds still full of the dominant
subject. But it was not about the prospect of war that Harry Feversham
had news to speak.
"I only reached London this morning from Dublin," he said with a
shade of embarrassment. "I have been some weeks in Dublin."
Durrance lifted his eyes from the tablecloth and looked quietly at his
friend.

"Yes?" he asked steadily.
"I have come back engaged to be married."
Durrance lifted his glass to his lips.
"Well, here's luck to you, Harry," he said, and that was all. The wish,
indeed, was almost curtly expressed, but there was nothing wanting in
it to Feversham's ears. The friendship between these two men was not
one in which affectionate phrases had any part. There was, in truth, no
need of such. Both men were securely conscious of it; they estimated it
at its true, strong value; it was a helpful instrument, which would not
wear out, put into their hands for a hard, lifelong use; but it was not,
and never had been, spoken of between them. Both men were grateful
for it, as for a rare and undeserved gift; yet both knew that it might
entail an obligation of sacrifice. But the sacrifices, were they needful,
would be made, and they would not be mentioned. It may be, indeed,
that the very knowledge of their friendship's strength constrained them
to a particular reticence in their words to one another.
"Thank you, Jack!" said Feversham. "I am glad of your good wishes. It
was you who introduced me to Ethne; I cannot forget it."
Durrance set his glass down without any haste. There followed a
moment of silence, during which he sat with his eyes upon the
tablecloth, and his hands resting on the table edge.
"Yes," he said in a level voice. "I did you a good turn then."
He seemed on the point of saying more, and doubtful how to say it. But
Captain Trench's sharp, quick, practical voice, a voice which fitted the
man who spoke, saved him his pains.
"Will this make any difference?" asked Trench.
Feversham replaced his cigar between his lips.
"You mean, shall I leave the service?" he asked slowly. "I don't know;"

and Durrance seized the opportunity to rise from the table and cross to
the window, where he stood with his back to his companions.
Feversham took the abrupt movement for a reproach, and spoke to
Durrance's back, not to Trench.
"I don't know," he repeated. "It will need thought. There is much to be
said. On the one side, of course, there's my father, my career, such as it
is. On the other hand, there is her father, Dermod Eustace."
"He wishes you to chuck your commission?" asked Willoughby.
"He has no doubt the Irishman's objection to constituted authority," said
Trench, with a laugh. "But need you subscribe to it, Feversham?"
"It is not merely that." It was still to Durrance's back that he addressed
his excuses. "Dermod is old, his estates are going to ruin, and there are