ned 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 pass 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 shimmer 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."

CHAPTER XXXI

FEVERSHAM RETURNS TO RAMELTON

On an August morning of the same year Harry Feversham rode across the
Lennon bridge into Ramelton. The fierce suns of the Soudan had tanned
his face, the years of his probation had left their marks; he rode up
the narrow street of the town unrecognised. At the top of the hill he
turned into the broad highway which, descending valleys and climbing
hills, runs in one straight line to Letterkenny. He rode rather quickly
in a company of ghosts.

The intervening years had gradually been dropping from his thoughts all
through his journey across Egypt and the Continent. They were no more
than visionary now. Nor was he occupied with any dream of the things
which might have been but for his great fault. The things which had
been, here, in this small town of Ireland, were too definite. Here he
had been most happy, here he had known the uttermost of his misery; here
his presence had brought pleasure, here too he had done his worst harm.
Once he stopped when he was opposite to the church, set high above the
road upon his right hand, and wondered whether Ethne was still at
Ramelton--whether old Dermo