t
have come to me. It might have come gradually, a suspicion added to a
suspicion and another to that until no doubt was left. Or it might have
flashed out in one terrible moment. But it would have been made clear.
And then, Ethne? What then? You aimed at a compensation; you wanted to
make up to me for the loss of what I love--my career, the army, the
special service in the strange quarters of the world. A fine
compensation to sit in front of you knowing you had married a cripple
out of pity, and that in so doing you had crippled yourself and foregone
the happiness which is yours by right. Whereas now--"

"Whereas now?" she repeated.

"I remain your friend, which I would rather be than your unloved
husband," he said very gently.

Ethne made no rejoinder. The decision had been taken out of her hands.

"You sent Harry away this afternoon," said Durrance. "You said good-bye
to him twice."

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 nobly 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
Swilly 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 lesso