Therefore it was that as he rode the next morning into the Row his blue eyes looked out upon the world from his bronzed face with not a jot12 less of his usual friendliness13. He waited at half-past nine by the clump14 of lilacs and laburnums at the end of the sand, but Harry15 Feversham did not join him that morning, nor indeed for the next three weeks. Ever since the two men had graduated from Oxford16 it had been their custom to meet at this spot and hour, when both chanced to be in town, and Durrance was puzzled. It seemed to him that he had lost his friend as well.
Meanwhile, however, the rumours17 of war grew to a certainty; and when at last Feversham kept the tryst18, Durrance had news.
"I told you luck might look my way. Well, she has. I go out to Egypt on General Graham's staff. There's talk we may run down the Red Sea to Suakin afterward19."
The exhilaration of his voice brought an unmistakable envy into Feversham's eyes. It seemed strange to Durrance, even at that moment of his good luck, that Harry Feversham should envy him—strange and rather pleasant. But he interpreted the envy in the light of his own ambitions.
Feversham rode by his friend's side in silence. Then, as they came to the chairs beneath the trees, he said:—
"That was expected. The day you dined with me I sent in my papers."
"That night?" said Durrance, turning in his saddle. "After we had gone?"
"Yes," said Feversham, accepting the correction. He wondered whether it had been intended. But Durrance rode silently forward. Again Harry Feversham was conscious of a reproach in his friend's silence, and again he was wrong. For Durrance suddenly spoke heartily21, and with a laugh.
"I remember. You gave us your reasons that night. But for the life of me I can't help wishing that we had been going out together. When do you leave for Ireland?"
"To-night."
"So soon?"
They turned their horses and rode westward22 again down the alley23 of trees. The morning was still fresh. The limes and chestnuts24 had lost nothing of their early green, and since the May was late that year, its blossoms still hung delicately white like snow upon the branches and shone red against the dark rhododendrons. The park shimmered25 in a haze26 of sunlight, and the distant roar of the streets was as the tumbling of river water.
"It is a long time since we bathed in Sandford Lasher," said Durrance.
"Or froze in the Easter vacations in the big snow-gully on Great End," returned Feversham. Both men had the feeling that on this morning a volume in their book of life was ended; and since the volume had been a pleasant one to read, and they did not know whether its successors would sustain its promise, they were looking backward through the leaves before they put it finally away.
Durrance had schooled himself not to wince28, and he did not, even at that anticipatory29 "us." If his left hand tightened30 upon the thongs31 of his reins32, the sign could not be detected by his friend.
"If I come back," said Durrance. "You know my creed33. I could never pity a man who died on active service. I would very much like to come by that end myself."
It was a quite simple creed, consistent with the simplicity34 of the man who uttered it. It amounted to no more than this: that to die decently was worth a good many years of life. So that he uttered it without melancholy35 or any sign of foreboding. Even so, however, he had a fear that perhaps his friend might place another interpretation36 upon the words, and he looked quickly into his face. He only saw again, however, that puzzling look of envy in Feversham's eyes.
"You see there are worse things which can happen," he continued; "disablement, for instance. Clever men could make a shift, perhaps, to put up with it. But what in the world should I do if I had to sit in a chair all my days? It makes me shiver to think of it," and he shook his broad shoulders to unsaddle that fear. "Well, this is the last ride. Let us gallop," and he let out his horse.
Feversham followed his example, and side by side they went racing37 down the sand. At the bottom of the Row they stopped, shook hands, and with the curtest of nods parted. Feversham rode out of the park, Durrance turned back and walked his horse up toward the seats beneath the trees.
Even as a boy in his home at Southpool in Devonshire, upon a wooded creek38 of the Salcombe estuary39, he had always been conscious of a certain restlessness, a desire to sail down that creek and out over the levels of the sea, a dream of queer outlandish countries and peoples beyond the dark familiar woods. And the restlessness had grown upon him, so that "Guessens," even when he had inherited it with its farms and lands, had remained always in his thoughts as a place to come home to rather than an estate to occupy a life. He purposely exaggerated that restlessness now, and purposely set against it words which Feversham had spoken and which he knew to be true. Ethne Eustace would hardly be happy outside her county of Donegal. Therefore, even had things fallen out differently, as he phrased it, there might have been a clash. Perhaps it was as well that Harry Feversham was to marry Ethne—and not another than Feversham.
Thus, at all events, he argued as he rode, until the riders vanished from before his eyes, and the ladies in their coloured frocks beneath the cool of the trees. The trees themselves dwindled40 to ragged41 mimosas, the brown sand at his feet spread out in a widening circumference42 and took the bright colour of honey; and upon the empty sand black stones began to heap themselves shapelessly like coal, and to flash in the sun like mirrors. He was deep in his anticipations43 of the Soudan, when he heard his name called out softly in a woman's voice, and, looking up, found himself close by the rails.
"How do you do, Mrs. Adair?" said he, and he stopped his horse. Mrs. Adair gave him her hand across the rails. She was Durrance's neighbour at Southpool, and by a year or two his elder—a tall woman, remarkable44 for the many shades of her thick brown hair and the peculiar45 pallor on her face. But at this moment the face had brightened, there was a hint of colour in the cheeks.
"I have news for you," said Durrance. "Two special items. One, Harry Feversham is to be married."
"To whom?" asked the lady, eagerly.
"You should know. It was in your house in Hill Street that Harry first met her; and I introduced him. He has been improving the acquaintance in Dublin."
But Mrs. Adair already understood; and it was plain that the news was welcome.
"Ethne Eustace!" she cried. "They will be married soon?"
"There is nothing to prevent it."
"I am glad," and the lady sighed as though with relief. "What is your second item?"
"As good as the first. I go out on General Graham's staff."
Mrs. Adair was silent. There came a look of anxiety into her eyes, and the colour died out of her face.
"You are very glad, I suppose," she said slowly.
Durrance's voice left her in no doubt.
"I should think I was. I go soon, too, and the sooner the better. I will come and dine some night, if I may, before I go."
"My husband will be pleased to see you," said Mrs. Adair, rather coldly. Durrance did not notice the coldness, however. He had his own reasons for making the most of the opportunity which had come his way; and he urged his enthusiasm, and laid it bare in words more for his own benefit than with any thought of Mrs. Adair. Indeed, he had always rather a vague impression of the lady. She was handsome in a queer, foreign way not so uncommon46 along the coasts of Devonshire and Cornwall, and she had good hair, and was always well dressed. Moreover, she was friendly. And at that point Durrance's knowledge of her came to an end. Perhaps her chief merit in his eyes was that she had made friends with Ethne Eustace. But he was to become better acquainted with Mrs. Adair. He rode away from the park with the old regret in his mind that the fortunes of himself and his friend were this morning finally severed47. As a fact he had that morning set the strands48 of a new rope a-weaving which was to bring them together again in a strange and terrible relationship. Mrs. Adair followed him out of the park, and walked home very thoughtfully.
Durrance had just one week wherein to provide his equipment and arrange his estate in Devonshire. It passed in a continuous hurry of preparation, so that his newspaper lay each day unfolded in his rooms. The general was to travel overland to Brindisi; and so on an evening of wind and rain, toward the end of July, Durrance stepped from the Dover pier49 into the mail-boat for Calais. In spite of the rain and the gloomy night, a small crowd had gathered to give the general a send-off. As the ropes were cast off, a feeble cheer was raised; and before the cheer had ended, Durrance found himself beset50 by a strange illusion. He was leaning upon the bulwarks51, idly wondering whether this was his last view of England, and with a wish that some one of his friends had come down to see him go, when it seemed to him suddenly that his wish was answered; for he caught a glimpse of a man standing52 beneath a gas-lamp, and that man was of the stature53 and wore the likeness54 of Harry Feversham. Durrance rubbed his eyes and looked again. But the wind made the tongue of light flicker55 uncertainly within the glass; the rain, too, blurred56 the quay57. He could only be certain that a man was standing there, he could only vaguely58 distinguish beneath the lamp the whiteness of a face. It was an illusion, he said to himself. Harry Feversham was at that moment most likely listening to Ethne playing the violin under a clear sky in a high garden of Donegal. But even as he was turning from the bulwarks, there came a lull59 of the wind, the lights burned bright and steady on the pier, and the face leaped from the shadows distinct in feature and expression. Durrance leaned out over the side of the boat.
"Harry!" he shouted, at the top of a wondering voice.
But the figure beneath the lamp never stirred. The wind blew the lights again this way and that, the paddles churned the water, the mail-boat passed beyond the pier. It was an illusion, he repeated; it was a coincidence. It was the face of a stranger very like to Harry Feversham's. It could not be Feversham's, because the face which Durrance had seen so distinctly for a moment was a haggard, wistful face—a face stamped with an extraordinary misery60; the face of a man cast out from among his fellows.
Durrance had been very busy all that week. He had clean forgotten the arrival of that telegram and the suspense61 which the long perusal62 of it had caused. Moreover, his newspaper had lain unfolded in his rooms. But his friend Harry Feversham had come to see him off.
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1
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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2
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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7
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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8
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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10
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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11
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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12
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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13
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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14
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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15
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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16
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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17
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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18
tryst
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| n.约会；v.与…幽会 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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21
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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23
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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24
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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25
shimmered
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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27
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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28
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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29
anticipatory
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| adj.预想的，预期的 | |
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30
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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31
thongs
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| 的东西 | |
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32
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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33
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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34
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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36
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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37
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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38
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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39
estuary
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| n.河口，江口 | |
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40
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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42
circumference
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| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
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43
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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44
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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45
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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46
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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47
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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48
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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49
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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50
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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51
bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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52
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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53
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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54
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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55
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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56
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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57
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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58
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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59
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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60
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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61
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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62
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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