"
Durrance, with one of the new instincts of delicacy which had been born
in him lately by reason of his sufferings and the habit of thought, had
moved away from Ethne's side as soon as he had given it to her, and had
joined Mrs. Adair, who was reading a book in the drawing-room. He had
folded up the telegram, besides, so that by the time Ethne had unfolded
it and saw the words, she was alone upon the terrace. She remembered
what Durrance had said to her about the prison, and her imagination
enlarged upon his words. The quiet of a September evening was upon the
fields, a light mist rose from the creek and crept over the garden bank
across the lawn. Already the prison doors were shut in that hot country
at the junction of the Niles. "He is to pay for his fault ten times
over, then," she cried, in revolt against the disproportion. "And the
fault was his father's and mine too more than his own. For neither of us
understood."
She blamed herself for the gift of that fourth feather. She leaned upon
the stone balustrade with her eyes shut, wondering whether Harry would
outlive this night, whether he was still alive to outlive it. The very
coolness of the stones on which her hands pressed became the bitterest
of reproaches.
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