The Four Feathers | Page 9

to fade by any lapse of time, although its significance was not
apprehended now.
It was remembered that Feversham rose abruptly from his chair, just
before the tattoo ceased. He crumpled the telegram loosely in his hands,
tossed it into the fire, and then, leaning his back against the
chimney-piece and upon one side of the fireplace, said again:--
"I don't know;" as though he had thrust that message, whatever it might
be, from his mind, and was summing up in this indefinite way the
argument which had gone before. Thus that long silence was broken,
and a spell was lifted. But the fire took hold upon the telegram and

shook it, so that it moved like a thing alive and in pain. It twisted, and
part of it unrolled, and for a second lay open and smooth of creases, lit
up by the flame and as yet untouched; so that two or three words sprang,
as it were, out of a yellow glare of fire and were legible. Then the flame
seized upon that smooth part too, and in a moment shrivelled it into
black tatters. But Captain Trench was all this while staring into the fire.
"You return to Dublin, I suppose?" said Durrance. He had moved back
again into the room. Like his companions, he was conscious of an
unexplained relief.
"To Dublin? No; I go to Donegal in three weeks' time. There is to be a
dance. It is hoped you will come."
"I am not sure that I can manage it. There is just a chance, I believe,
should trouble come in the East, that I may go out on the staff." The
talk thus came round again to the chances of peace and war, and held in
that quarter till the boom of the Westminster clock told that the hour
was eleven. Captain Trench rose from his seat on the last stroke;
Willoughby and Durrance followed his example.
"I shall see you to-morrow," said Durrance to Feversham.
"As usual," replied Harry; and his three guests descended from his
rooms and walked across the Park together. At the corner of Pall Mall,
however, they parted company, Durrance mounting St. James's Street,
while Trench and Willoughby crossed the road into St. James's Square.
There Trench slipped his arm through Willoughby's, to Willoughby's
surprise, for Trench was an undemonstrative man.
"You know Castleton's address?" he asked.
"Albemarle Street," Willoughby answered, and added the number.
"He leaves Euston at twelve o'clock. It is now ten minutes past eleven.
Are you curious, Willoughby? I confess to curiosity. I am an inquisitive
methodical person, and when a man gets a telegram bidding him tell
Trench something and he tells Trench nothing, I am curious as a

philosopher to know what that something is! Castleton is the only other
officer of our regiment in London. It is likely, therefore, that the
telegram came from Castleton. Castleton, too, was dining with a big
man from the War Office. I think that if we take a hansom to Albemarle
Street, we shall just catch Castleton upon his door-step."
Mr. Willoughby, who understood very little of Trench's meaning,
nevertheless cordially agreed to the proposal.
"I think it would be prudent," said he, and he hailed a passing cab. A
moment later the two men were driving to Albemarle Street.

CHAPTER III
THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER
Durrance, meanwhile, walked to his lodging alone, remembering a day,
now two years since, when by a curious whim of old Dermod Eustace
he had been fetched against his will to the house by the Lennon River
in Donegal, and there, to his surprise, had been made acquainted with
Dermod's daughter Ethne. For she surprised all who had first held
speech with the father. Durrance had stayed for a night in the house,
and through that evening she had played upon her violin, seated with
her back toward her audience, as was her custom when she played, lest
a look or a gesture should interrupt the concentration of her thoughts.
The melodies which she had played rang in his ears now. For the girl
possessed the gift of music, and the strings of her violin spoke to the
questions of her bow. There was in particular an overture--the Melusine
overture--which had the very sob of the waves. Durrance had listened
wondering, for the violin had spoken to him of many things of which
the girl who played it could know nothing. It had spoken of long
perilous journeys and the faces of strange countries; of the silver way
across moonlit seas; of the beckoning voices from the under edges of
the desert. It had taken a deeper, a more mysterious tone. It had told of
great joys, quite unattainable, and of great griefs too, eternal, and with a
sort of