The Secret Journey (22 page)

Peter jumped to his feet. ‘Do you mean my mother is lying to you?' he asked. He gripped the back of the chair. The blood mounted to his forehead. ‘I won't answer your questions. I don't know why I sit here listening to you. Give me any message you like, if there is one to give, and I am going.'

Anna Ragner laughed. ‘You do know why,' she said, reaching out her two hands and putting Peter back into the chair again. ‘You are not so dull as all that, young man. In fact, I seem to interest you very much. Do you suppose I would have sat here bored by your company if I did not realize your reluctance to leave the room at all?'

‘I know nothing whatever about this,' shouted Peter. ‘Nothing. It is none of my business.'

‘It is your business as well as your mother's. She borrowed money here. I shan't, of course, refer to the reason for which she borrowed it. From what I know already it would hardly be fair to reacquaint you with the facts. When a person receives a loan from me it is as if all her family, all her relations, and all her friends had received it. Young man, it is a great responsibility to be a moneylender in Gelton. I do not mean that I expect anything but the promise to repay, what I do mean is that I find it necessary to acquaint myself with a number of facts. Do you suppose I don't require—as I do now, since the particulars your mother gave are altered by your father's leaving work—a list of the earnings of each member of the family? Destitute people are not always honest people. Experience has taught me to be on my guard. And remember, also, that when a client is placed on these books she comes again and again. But what I can't understand,' and that cold mask-like face seemed suddenly to pulsate with life and warmth, as the very words themselves seemed passionate and full of yearning, ‘what I don't understand is why people loathe me. Yes. Why do they loathe me, who sits and listens to their tales?—and what tales they are! Who helps them when there is no other help available? They do not loathe their butchers and bakers when their bills are due. When they have no bread, it is my money that buys it for them; when they have no warmth, it is I who supplies it. And you see, young man——' but Peter pushed back his chair, his one desire being to rise and go. He had had enough. ‘Sit down,' she said, ‘sit down,' and herself rose, and looking down at his face, seeing the disgust already imprinted there, she added, ‘Sit down. I should hate to feel for a single moment that you were filled with that strange loathing.'

Again her features flashed that ingratiating and intriguing smile. Her manner changed. She clapped her hands together.

‘I have to protect myself. I have to keep my dignity too. And is it not fair that I in turn should exact a toll from them—all these people who beg, cringe, plead, and crave my help, whilst at the same time hating me for it? I have been lending money for twenty-one years, but this is the first time I have ever revealed my inmost thoughts to an utter stranger, to one who is no different than the rest. A user of my money. But you understand. I can see that. Yes, I could see that at once. You would. You are intelligent, as you are young and strong. Be honest with me. Do
you
too loathe me?' She looked closely at him now, and realized at once that she had triumphed.

‘No! I don't loathe you, Mrs. Ragner,' said Peter, ‘but I don't know you either.'

‘Ah! But I am sure you will, young man. And when you know me better, you will understand me better. Isn't that so? You see, I could even now bring pressure to bear upon your mother, but I would not do that—because I feel that you understand. You are such a perfectly understanding person. A good, honest, upright young man, eh? I had meant to give you the full details of the transaction your mother had with me. But now I won't. In any case, I hardly think you could be interested. There are so many facts and figures, contractual clauses, promissory notes, a commitment deed, a surrender document, an authority to collect, and why should I bore you with all these details? Why, when already I know that head of yours is in the clouds? Now you may take this note to your mother.'

She took from her bag a sealed letter and handed it to Peter Fury. He thanked her and put it in his pocket. He got up from the chair. He felt as though for the past hour he had been chained there. It seemed so extraordinary that whilst he hated it all, the room, the woman, the man, the atmosphere, he was absolutely will-less. He could not move from the chair. Why had she told him all this—this woman with her money and her power, who now pleaded and begged—even cringed before him like some tempted animal and besought him not to loathe her?

She followed him to the door, and placed her hands upon his shoulders. A feeling of revulsion passed through him, he wanted to grip this woman by the throat, to shake her, to shout into her ear how much he hated her, who was sly and crafty, filthy, a beast, both of them beasts, penned together here in this disgusting house, all their dignity and their respect, their honour, their every human feeling, smothered by the weight, by the power, by the harsh voice of their money. He wanted to spit into that now smiling face, which seemed to goad and torment him, to exult in his helplessness. Yet he said nothing, betrayed nothing.

‘I thought,' said Anna Ragner, ‘I might find one who did not hate me.'

She gripped the lapels of his coat and looked into his face. Her mouth was half-open; he could see the white teeth and the tip of her tongue, and her expression was one of awe, as though everything now depended upon Peter Fury's reply. He could not help laughing, it was inevitable, the vacuum for all those strange thoughts and feelings that had risen and held him fast to the chair. He had sat helpless, listening, head lowered, the while the room itself seemed to become changed—electric with the welter of her words. Did he ever think as he walked the King's Road with Mr. Joseph Kilkey that he would enter such a world, and entering it become so fascinated? That bleak house that no passer-by would look upon a second time. And this was the house to which his mother had come, right up that long and steep hill, where all Gelton must come. And how pitiful this creature seemed to him now, who with desperate frenzy hung on, waiting for his answer. A few words. Waiting to know whether he loathed her.

‘I've told you, Mrs. Ragner, that I don't loathe you. But also I don't know you.'

‘You will bring me the answer to the note,' she said, tapping his pocket where lay the sealed envelope.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I'll bring the answer to your note,' hardly seeming to realize he had uttered the words, knowing only that her demand was for him a signal that this adventure had reached its end. That at last he was going—away from this mysterious house, home to Hatfields, and for the first time he experienced a delicious thrill at the realization.

Hatfields actually existed—his mother would be there, the kitchen lit up, warm and comfortable. It was as if he had been bound to a wheel that revolved slowly through some long dark tunnel, that the wheel rolled on, the tunnel was endless, and now he was out again.

‘Corkran will see you out,' said Mrs. Ragner.

She raised herself upon her toes, and before Peter Fury realized it had implanted a kiss upon his mouth.

‘Good-night, Mr. Fury,' she said.

He would have spoken, but the words remained lifeless upon his tongue. The door had opened. As though in a dream he stumbled out. He could see Mr. Corkran in the half-light of the hall.

‘This way,' the factotum was saying. ‘This way.' He pulled Peter by the arm, half pulled him to the front door. A red light shone over the door. Peter Fury looked at the man. He was wearing his sailor's jersey—with the words ‘Allan Line' stitched in white thread across his back. His iron-grey hair was closely cropped, and brushed flatly down upon his head. It smelt strongly of bay-rum. He wore his hair in a quiff, that with the help of a good supply of bay-rum lay flat and half-way down his forehead. His arms were bare to the shoulders, for the sleeves of the jersey had been cut off. He wore dungarees, trousers of a light blue, was without socks, his white feet encased in rope shoes. Unlike Anna Ragner, Mr. Corkran was wont to frown upon this flagrant departure from principle. He looked at Peter Fury through his half-closed eyes, indeed this peculiar habit of observation gave one the impression that Mr. Corkran's first reaction to human confrontation was one of complete disgust. How could Anna Ragner, being what she was—and who knew better than he himself did?—how could she stoop so low as to indulge in such human intimacies? His expression now registered not only disgust, but something malevolent, something deeper than hatred. He distrusted Peter Fury. He was afraid of him. And he conveyed this fear when he said in a whispering tone, ‘And are you calling again?'

He held on to the knob of the door with one hand, the forefinger of the other rested on his hip.

‘I expect I shall come,' replied Peter. ‘But why do you ask?'

‘Because,' said Mr. Corkran, almost breathing upon the other's face, ‘because you will have to come in through this door. It is the only entrance, and I will be here.'

CHAPTER VI

It was very late when Peter Fury arrived home. He found his mother seated at the table. She was writing a letter. Judging by the number of sheets spread over the table it was a very long letter. To find her writing a letter at this hour of the night was not exceptional. Peter took Mrs. Ragner's note and put it on the table.

‘This is from Banfield Road, Mother,' he said, ‘for you.'

‘Have you been there all this time?' she asked, without interrupting the flow of her pen.

‘Oh no! I met Mr. Kilkey on the way. We had a talk. He left me at the corner of Instone Road.'

He took off his coat and flung it over the edge of the sofa. Then he sat down. He looked across at his mother, and from her to the empty high-backed chair. How lonely, how miserable the house seemed even, without the presence of that helpless old man. But worse than this he felt the absence of his father, even the clouds of smoke with which the kitchen was always filled when Mr. Fury was at home.

‘Mother must feel it,' he was saying to himself. ‘Yes. She must! But she says nothing. Not a word.'

As he looked at her bent head, at the wisps of hair that hung over her ears, his mind was filled with thoughts of other times. How everything had changed! Once all was laughter in the house—laughter and warmth. Now there seemed nothing.

‘Mother,' he asked, ‘who are you writing to at this hour of the night?'

‘To Anthony,' she said. ‘Why?'

Still she did not look at him. She had not moved since he came in. After a while she did look up and say quietly, ‘I wonder if you'd mind just going up and sitting with your grandfather for a while. He's very low to-day. I'll be finished in a minute.' Then she went on with her writing.

Peter suddenly said, ‘Oh—all right.'

As he was going upstairs, Mrs. Fury got up and went over to him.

‘Don't you want to sit with your grandfather?' she asked. ‘The old man won't poison you.'

‘I never said I didn't want to go,' protested Peter. ‘I didn't catch what you said for a minute. I was thinking of something else. That's all.'

‘You always are,' she replied, and went back to the table to continue her letter.

‘She's so bitter,' thought Peter. ‘How can anybody ever understand her?' and he went into Mr. Mangan's room.

Mrs. Fury gathered the sheets of the letter, and leaning back in the chair began to read it. It was as follows:

3 H
ATFIELDS
, G
ELTON
.

June 12th
, 1912.

M
Y DEAR
S
ON
,—I hope you have arrived safely and that you will get this letter at the Bethel in West Street. You will see it is a very long letter. Such a lot has happened since you went away. Well, your father is a happy man at last. He's done what he always threatened to do. He sailed last Sunday for a seven months' voyage to some part of South America. I simply can't tell you how it has made me feel. These last few weeks my mind has been all over the place. I wasn't surprised, for I felt all along that your father wasn't happy, yet God knows we've had good times in this house.

I have been happy, Anthony, but now everything has changed. If I had thought that to-night I should be writing a letter like this—well—oh, I won't talk about it. Why should I trouble you with my little worries? Peter is home. It's funny for me to say it, but it hardly means anything to me except that he gave me his wages, but you all did that.

Your brother has changed very much. He's not like you, Anthony, for I don't believe he even wanted to come home. He isn't interested any more in the house. He's been home some days now, but I've hardly seen him. The only thing that hasn't changed in him is his old willingness to do messages for me.

He's a strange creature, this brother of yours. He's not like anybody else in the family. He hasn't any affection at all. I think he mentioned you once since he's been home. He saw your father off, for I couldn't very well go, as your grandfather is very low at present. My heart goes out to this helpless old man, and if he should be taken, I don't know what I would do. Your grandfather means much to me. So very much, and I'm not thinking at all of his little pension. Although he's in this low state, I never bothered to write to your Aunt Brigid, for I feel she doesn't want to bother herself with us any more.

Miss Pettigrew and she still write long letters to each other. God knows what they say about me and all our family, and when Miss Pettigrew wrote last I'm sure it must have been a most interesting letter, for I'm afraid your father—who never liked either your aunt or her—thoroughly disgraced himself last week when he fell dead drunk in her shop.

But all this can hardly interest you, my dear son. So I had better come to the reason why to-night I have written such a long, long letter.