The Secret Journey (82 page)

How strange everything was. This had been a long, lonely journey. He crossed the road, and then he saw a man hurrying towards him. As he rushed round the corner he heard his name called. Mr. Fury did something he hadn't done for years. He ran and did not stop until he got out of the street. He dodged about by the wall and finally, scenting all danger past, made a rush for the place again. This time he was in luck, and in a few minutes he had reached the church.

Thank the Lord for that! He was safe. He passed through the iron gate, walked slowly up the drive and rang the bell. When the door opened, a pretty red-haired girl looked out at him. He leaned a hand on the wall, fingering the stone. Was Father Moynihan in? He would like to see him. Yes. It was urgent. A very sick case. Yes. Urgent! And he approached the step. When the girl replied in a rich Irish brogue: ‘He's gone out,' Mr. Fury felt he had found a lost friend. He was here after all. Father Richard Moynihan. Imagine it. He looked up at the girl. ‘I thought perhaps he was in Ireland?'

‘He was up to a month ago,' she replied. She had not asked him inside. He wished she would. Nothing he would like better than to sit down. ‘Will he be long, miss?'

‘I'm afraid he won't be back till very late. Will you leave a message?'

Mr. Fury hesitated. Secretly delighted as he was at this good news of the priest, he thought of, and now vividly saw, his wife in the hospital.

‘Can I see another priest. It's rather urgent, miss. Is Father Tierney in?'

‘Yes. Father Tierney is in. Will you come in, please?'

He passed inside.

‘Wait here, please. What name shall I say?' She looked down at one hand that had begun to tremble on his knee. She understood.

‘Fury. Just say Denny Fury. I'm sure he'll know,' and he followed her with his eyes. A lovely Irish girl. Just over from home too. Good Lord! Didn't it make one think of the times gone, and how he had left that place, and Fanny too. Ah! But the Irish and not the Jews were the real wanderers. Before he was aware of it, a young priest was standing in front of him. The girl herself had gone.

‘Mr. Fury! Why, you
are
a stranger! And how
are
you, Mr. Fury?'

Mr. Fury stood up. ‘Why, Father Tierney. You gave me a start, so you did. Oh dear me, Father. It's good to see you,' and he shot forth his two hands, and gripped those of the priest. ‘I hope you are well, Father. I'm glad to hear you've Father Moynihan back again with you.'

‘Now, Mr. Fury! What's your trouble? Come along to my room now.'

‘Yes, Father!' And he followed behind the priest, bowler hat in hand.

‘It's my wife, Father! It's Fanny! I'm afraid—afraid——'

CHAPTER II

S
T
. S
EBASTIAN'S
P
RESBYTERY
,

Tuesday, November 14th
.

D
EAR
M
RS.
K
ILKEY,

This evening your father called here to see me. I'm sorry to say that your mother is at this moment very seriously ill at the General Hospital, and I advise you to go and see her as soon as possible. I, unfortunately, did not see your father; I was out, but he left a message with Father Tierney. I trust God your mother will get better. I am myself going to the hospital to-day.

I remain, Yours sincerely,

R
ICHARD
M
OYNIHAN
, P.P.

The woman slowly folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. She went quite pale.

‘Who's the letter from?'

‘Why?'

‘Never mind why. Take a look in the glass. What's wrong? Who's it from? Don't be sulky.'

‘From a friend.'

‘What friend?'

‘Oh, a priest if you want to know,' exclaimed the woman uneasily. She was half inclined to rise, but somehow the necessary effort wasn't forthcoming.

‘What priest?'

‘A Father Moynihan! It's about my mother! She's in hospital. I——' and then she made the effort and was on her feet, stammering. ‘I must go. I'll
have
to go.'

‘What's the matter with her?'

‘She's ill. Couldn't you hear?
Very
ill.' The woman crossed the kitchen.

‘Here! Where are you running off to now? Don't you know the case comes off at eleven?'

‘What case? Oh, yes. Yes. I forgot. Still, I'm going. My mother's dangerously ill.'

‘Are you taking the kid?'

‘No.'

‘Why the devil you ever brought him here I don't know. You never kept your bargain.'

‘He's my son.'

‘Christ! I know he is. He looks just like you, though you were different one time. I mean at the factory you were different. You know you had looks. Now you just look sour. Well, you'd better get off and see your mother. But get back by one. This woman's calling at two. I'm bloody worried over this Rogers case. You know, I wish you'd be a bit more sympathetic, Maureen. You're getting sour. To be frank with you I don't like sourness. You should never have brought that kid here. He was all right where he was, with that good-natured husband of yours. Blast these police. They're always interfering. Only yesterday——'

‘I
must
go! It may mean anything. I'm so—oh——' and the woman rushed out of the kitchen.

The man followed her upstairs. The room door slammed. He stood outside shouting: ‘What's all this bloody nonsense? Anyhow, how do I know it's your mother? Let's see the letter. I'll——'

‘You can see it downstairs. It's on the dresser,' he heard her saying.

‘Good God!' he said, ‘at this hour of the morning. At
this
hour indeed,' and he went downstairs. He sat down and went on with his breakfast.

Meanwhile the woman upstairs was changing her dress, and every now and again she stole a glance into the mirror. What a sight she looked. What a sight! Mother in hospital! She hadn't got over the shock. It was more than a shock, to one whose world had never taken in the full significance of hospitals and doctors and dying and pain. Those were tiresome things. She finished dressing and went downstairs. She was ready to go. The man got up, crossed over to her.

‘Kiss, Maury,' he said. ‘Nice kiss for Dick, Maury! Sorry I was so bloody irritable.' He kissed her full on the lips. ‘Don't forget. Before two. I'm worried.'

‘So am I,' she replied coldly, making for the door.

He caught her arm. ‘I may have to leave Gelton soon, Maury,' he said.

‘You mean——' She pulled free her arm and grasped the door-handle.

He pushed his face down, smiled, caressed her cheek with his lips. ‘I mean
we
, Maury. I'm all confused! I wish you hadn't to go.'

She looked him full in the face. ‘Do you still love me, Dick?' she asked.

‘Love you! Christ, of course I love you, my little Maury,' and he caught her by the shoulders and embraced her, holding her tight as though he would never let her go. ‘You know, Maury, it's a pity about the kid.'

‘Do you
really
love me, Dick?' she asked, raising her face to his.

‘Yes, ducks, but didn't you hear what I said? The kid. You know, Maury …'

‘I wish you would call him by his name, for once anyhow,' she said. She began stroking his hair with her hand, smiling up at him.

‘Yes. I know! What is his name? Dermod. Yes. Well Dermod's a nuisance. That's all, Maury! You should never have brought him. Maureen, you were a fool. That husband of yours has regular work, a good job, only himself to keep.
You
were the fool when he stopped sending you the few bob for the kid. You never wrote, did you? Silly little bitch!' He pushed her away.

‘Dick! Oh, Dick! You don't mean——' She burst into tears. ‘You don't mean, Dick! you
do
love me, don't you, darling? I'll do anything for you. Really. Honestly. Only love me, Dick. Love me like I love you.' She threw her arms around him. She kissed him passionately, clung to him. ‘Don't you understand, Dick?'

‘Yes. Yes.'Course I understand! Don't be such a bloody fuss, Maureen! Lately you've done nothing else but fuss. Fuss, fuss, fuss! It'll spoil your looks, old girl, and what will I do then? What will Dicky do then? I like you to look nice, Maury. Pretty, you know. You're getting thin too,' and he brought the flat of his hand down against her hip. ‘I like my girl to be fat. See, Maury,' and he traced her body's shape with both hands, running his hands down from shoulder to knee. Finally he clasped her about the waist, raised her from the ground, laughed.

‘The kid weighs more than you! Maury, you were a mug. A real mug. This chap you were married to would have gone on shelling out for the rest of his natural. The bloody good old cow! You could tell that by his writing. Oh well—you'd better get off, I suppose, you'd
better
get off, but you know, Maury, I wish you'd think of me a bit more. Look at you now. Rushing off like this. To see your mother. How do I know you aren't going to clear? Oh'—he paused, then rushed from her to the table—‘sod these people! Always interfering.'

He stood with his back to her. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something. Now she was standing beside him, her hands on his shoulders. She began to sob.

‘Oh hell! Chuck it,' he growled, turning round. ‘Go off then and see your mother.'

‘Dick,' she said, ‘oh, Dick!' and rested her head on his shoulder. ‘Oh, Dick——'

Dick, however, had had enough. Firmly he removed her hands, led her to the door, and opening it wide to the street said in a slow, drawling voice: ‘I saw the letter! Better cut right away for the General. But be here before that Sloane woman gets here. I can't stand the bitch! I believe it's she who split.' And then he found himself talking into empty air, for Maureen had gone.

The man stood leaning out, looking after her. Recognizing somebody passing he waved a hand, grinned. Then he withdrew, slammed the door. Returned to the table and growled. Yes. The position was—the position. ‘Well, that's the bloody position!' he shouted, and pushing away his plate, got up and went upstairs. Yes, that was the position. And now
she'd
gone! It
would
bloody well happen like that. It was just his bad luck that some people had a habit of being in hospitals at the wrong moment, and that some people couldn't keep their mouths shut. In the bedroom he sat down on the bed to think.

He was a short, stockily built man, with a head of thick black curly hair. He had an olive-coloured skin, was clean shaven; and above a rather finely shaped nose, a pair of eyes formed the only debit part of his make-up. They were too small, and too close set. They seemed out of place in such a face. He wore a suit of the loudest brown, as well as boots of the same colour. He was a very hairy man, one would suppose he had ripened to manhood under a Southern rather than a Northern sun, though he was in fact a native of Gelton. Maureen was certain his father must have been an Italian, or at least his grandfather. He certainly looked like one himself, though the name he bore was far from Latin. Mr. Richard Slye was just turned forty. He had had an exciting and varied career. To cite it in full would fill a volume. At the moment he was carrying on various schemes in order to live. All schemes, all methods and manners of livelihood were to Mr. Slye neither good or bad. Simply necessities. To him the immoral was moral. Everything was worth doing. Everything. And as a gentleman who had carried out everything except murder, a few sidelines like touting for abortionists, agent for muscular developers, and fine-art post cards, and the classics of Paul de Kock and Company, as well as an interest in horses and dogs, were hardly worth the mentioning. Mr. Slye liked women—he loved them passionately, devotedly; not one or two, but all women. They were
all
beautiful. They were vital necessities. Maureen he loved, though at the moment he wasn't certain for how long. Neither was she.

People who lived in Adolphus Terrace looked upon Mr. Slye as a man of means. All men of means according to them were gentlemen who didn't work. Tramps were of course excluded, for no tramp could ever dress, or hope to dress in such a picturesque, spectacular way. Everybody addressed him as Slye Esquire. He himself rather liked it. It amused him too, as it would any man whose father had been a labourer in a jute factory, and to which Slye junior had proceeded at the early age of fourteen, and who, by the time he was eighteen, had risen to the height of foreman.

He rose in two hemispheres simultaneously, in his employer's and in the girls who worked there. It was here in fact that he had learned that women were
all
beautiful and
all
necessary. Girls became women. Women came and went from the factory, but Richard Slye remained. They all loved him. There was something fascinating about him. He knew it. They knew it. Maureen knew it a week after she had gone to work there. But success in her case had not been so easy. Mr. Slye had to break down many barriers beside an inherent shyness.

Maureen Fury was a pious girl of seventeen. A year later she was like all the others. Beautiful. Necessary. He remembered her longest, loved her longest. He wanted to own Maureen. But like the others she had left the factory. Got married to a middle-aged man, and one not half so attractive as Mr. Slye. He had lost sight of her for years. But miracles still happened even in Gelton jute factories. And now here she was actually living with him, and to him she was more lovely and fragrant than all the others he had learned to know.

He liked her pretty face, and she was a bit more intelligent than the rest. He liked her mass of golden red hair, her big honest eyes, her little mouth, and the shape of her body. Yes, it had been a miracle. She had actually come to him when he asked her. He had only one regret. That she had known another man. At first she had seemed afraid, remorseful, but he had soon reassured her.