The Secret Journey (95 page)

‘Then
look
sorry, will you!'

He flared up at once, bent down, swept papers, letters, cards into one big heap and flung them into a corner.

‘What's the matter with you?'

‘Nothing.'

‘It looks like it. How long d'you suppose I'm going to go on living with a bear?'

‘I'm no bear.'

‘You
are
a bear! Sometimes I loathe the sight of you, you make me ill.'

‘Sheila!'

‘I said it. You make me ill. Go off and see your father! But don't roar at me. I can't help your mother being ill. That's something for
you
to think about.'

‘Sheila! I'm sorry. I am,
really
. I'm hasty. Too bloody hasty. Sometimes I'm not sure of you, Sheila! You do love me?' he walked over to her, holding out his hands.

‘You must learn to control yourself. I don't like you any other way. Things go to your head. That can't be helped when one is not used to them. Even Alice smiles,' and she could clearly see the servant girl's sly smile. ‘You say you love me, and the next minute you say you aren't sure of me! You want an angel.'

‘You know what I mean. I try hard to forget the other matter.'

‘What other matter?' Her coolness unnerved him. He could never keep his balance.

‘You know, or ought to. D'you think I'm a fool?'

‘Perhaps you are,' she said, and saw the blood rush to his face. ‘Restrain yourself. But even
if
you are, there's no need to be a wild bear as well, Desmond.'

‘Sheila! Forgive me. I didn't mean this. Really, I'm afraid. I'm worried. I wish I had stayed in bed this morning.'

He began pacing up and down the room, looking at her, looking at his boots; this had become a habit. Then he stopped again in front of her. She was in a rage herself. But how lovely she looked when in a rage.

‘I understood we weren't going to discuss that matter,' she said at length.

‘I know. I know. I know,' he said quickly, exasperated. ‘I'm not discussing it. Let's forget it, Sheila! I've been rotten to you lately. This is all my fault. I keep thinking of them—perhaps I shouldn't. Sometimes
everybody
seems lousy, really.'

‘Even Mr. Tinks?' she said, assuming his mood had generated somewhere in the vicinity of the gentleman of that name. ‘Didn't you like what he had to say?'

To Desmond this seemed almost as though she had stood behind them in that bar-room, listening. What an uncanny woman she was! Yes. That was the very devil of it. He didn't understand her. Sometimes he wondered if after all this wasn't just an adventure for her. H'm! No bloody adventure for him! One long struggle. He had more than an idea as to her origin. But he kept silent. He kept his word—his oath. He said he would never question. She respected him for that.

There was something fundamentally decent in this man, with his rough insensitive face, his smattering of intelligence, his foresight and arrogance—his superb belief in himself. She fostered these things in him. By these things he flourished and grew. She knew him like a book, like every word in a book. She looked at him now out of clear brown eyes, and not only knew that he had had a bad morning, but she could measure up to an inch his reactions to it, for the next few days. He would sulk, then be sentimental and silly—if he wasn't she wouldn't like him so much, then he'd become arrogant again. The ebb and flow of Desmond passed under her experienced fingers. He was like an instrument upon which she played.

‘Darling,' she said. ‘Love me.'

That was enough. Two words and they changed everything. Even Mr. Tinks could take on a sort of charming, benevolent glow. She lay in his arms in the chair. Now she teased him. Must he go! Must he see his father! Now! This evening!

‘Yes, Sheila! I must see him. If I don't—I've made up my mind—and if I don't I won't see him at all. After all he is my father—and mother is mother. Yes. I'm going to see them both this evening—dad anyhow! I'll feel more comfortable when I've done that. But don't go out, Sheila! I'll be back early.'

‘I won't go out, darling! Love me! Love me!' she said, nestling into his arms.

His sheer animation invigorated her. He could emit a series of waves that swept up and engulfed her. There was something dynamic—vital in this man. He had no restraint. He had no polish. If there existed a code of polite rules for love-making then he had never heard of them. He never kissed her, that was polite. He seemed to suck at her lips, to absorb, smother them in his own.

‘D'you really feel happy, Sheila?' he asked, one big hand under her breast. ‘Really?'

She answered him by nestling even closer in his arms. Here was a world, a new world of experience—in this man's arms. Could she have done other than run away with him and marry him? Could she have done other than recognize that standing on that river-bank, this man revealed something to her, something more real than she had ever known? She spoke of this.

Did he remember the day? She did! She had just escaped out of the house and had gone to sit on the river-bank, not because she wanted to sit in its peace and beauty, not because she was tired, not because she hated the place from which she had just run. No. But because looking up suddenly she had seen him standing there, fishing. He mustn't laugh. And when she had seen him she realized it was the first time she had ever seen any human being who was different.

He listened, a broad smile on his face. What did she mean by that?

Laughing, she said. ‘I don't know, darling, but it's strange, isn't it? One can tramp a continent, and climb a high mountain, see someone whom one has never dreamed of—an entire stranger—and yet you know deep down he or she is
all
that can matter. Well, darling, that was how I looked at you, why I ran off with you, married you. Des darling, I wish—oh, I wish!'… She lay limp then.

‘What, Sheila?' he said. ‘What?' and the soft beat of her heart was under his hand.

‘Nothing! Nothing! I'm just talking. You do love me, Des? You do love me?'

He answered her with passionate embraces. Did he love her! Good God! Why yes.

‘D'you still
have
to see your father?' she asked, and he sat up in the chair.

‘But I have to, Sheila!'

One arm was flung high into the air. She liked such demonstrativeness. It
was
Desmond. All that lifting of hands, curling of lips, blustering, and swearing, and frowning and suspecting and worrying—all her Desmond. This was life—fullness. What more could one want? Again she tormented.

‘But do you
really
have to go, Des? To-night? Honestly! You've been
so
busy lately. Rushing here and there. And maybe when we reach London, darling, you'll be far too busy to see much of me. But you will climb, won't you, darling?'

She admired him when he said pointedly: ‘I'm going out. And I'll be back early.'

With that he got out of the chair, lifting her with him. He held her in front of him, back against his chest, he saw her face in the mirror opposite, and she looked at him out of this mirror, and suddenly he had forced her backwards and downwards.

‘Sheila, why
can't
we have a child?' His words poured into her ear. Hot liquid words.

‘We will, Des, soon,' she said. ‘Now run away. I'm going upstairs because I've got things to do, and Alice is going to make the tea. There,' and planting a swift kiss on his cheek she ran off out of the room.

He went back to his chair. How happy he really was. Life really meant something. It had meaning, purpose. There were so many things to do. His whole being thrilled to the thought——

Hearing the noise of the letter-box lid he got up. The afternoon post had come. There was one letter. When he saw the printed name of the sender on the back of the envelope he gave a little whistle, exclaimed: ‘Phew! That was quick.'

It was. An instantaneous decision. Final and definite. He knew this as soon as he saw the letter. It made him lose that glow—it was a … ‘it's a bastard,' he said, ‘a bastard!' Tearing up the letter he flung it into the fire.

If Desmond Fury thought it was ‘a bastard,' Mr. Trears thought otherwise. In fact he thought it the height of impudence. The letter which had been delivered only an hour after having being pushed through the hotel letter-box, had come to his desk immediately after he returned from lunch, and he always lunched early, getting back to the office about two. He wasn't surprised by this letter. Mr. Laurence Trears was a man who couldn't be surprised about anything. It rather amused him, reading the letter. It was almost childlike—though nevertheless earnest. Yes, of course he knew the name Fury. Had good reason to do so. That case had really made his name. Why should he ever forget Fury? The name had such a fine sound too. He read the letter through twice. Then he sat back in his chair and smiled.

He wanted to make his mother an allowance of ten shillings a week, and he wanted this done through the ‘kindness' of Mr. Trears. But why couldn't the man send the money himself? He knew his origin, or perhaps his position wouldn't allow him seeing ‘a poor old woman' who had done harm to nobody but herself. He could see her now, this tall, gaunt, soldierly-looking creature, standing outside his office door. Standing there in her long serge coat, and her black straw hat—he might say a battered straw hat—and her down-at-heel shoes, standing looking at him as though he, Mr. Laurence Trears, were God—or the sun—and saying: ‘Can't you, sir? Can't you?' and looking at him with her bold eyes, and he having nothing to say beyond: ‘Impossible, Mrs. Fury.' He knew her, knew her well. Saw her home—heard her story—learned of her family.

Just a simple hard-working woman. Just short of money, just short of opportunities. That was all. He knew she had gone away to hide. He understood her shame, her pride in her son gone. But he couldn't help. Couldn't raise a finger of effort. No. He could do nothing, who would like to do everything. But this thing he would not do. What he called ‘this magnificent effort' must be returned to Captain Fury the same day. He was surprised to be asked to undertake such a commission. Such transactions he must say were no part of his business, ending: ‘You might with advantage go down to your mother and hand her the lump sum. She would be well worth it.'

That was that! There it lay, the ‘magnificent effort,' simply ashes in the fire. Damn Mr. Trears! Blast Mr. Trears! Writing him a letter like that. One might suppose he wanted to commission the man to murder or poison. Telling me what I ought to do. Blast these people. Why were they always correcting him, checking him, telling him what
they
thought he should do? They seemed to like doing it. Even his wife was not above such a thing, in spite of that largeness of mind upon which she prided herself.

To have thanked Desmond for ‘this magnificent effort' was something Mr. Trears could not do. At least he could not say ‘magnificent.' That would get too near the bone. To tell an army captain, and to keep on reminding an army captain of his beginnings would be the last thing to venture. Mr. Trears had more sense than that. He hadn't liked the man when he met him. He could hardly believe he was the son of the woman whose youngest he had defended, and only by a miracle saved from the rope. Mr. Trears forthwith instructed his clerk to write to Captain Fury. He would not sign the letter. Mr. Potts, the clerk, could always deal with minor matters.

This refusal upset Desmond Fury, as Mr. Laurence Trears knew it would. Well, to hell with Trears. He'd find somebody else. Give her the whole sum. H'm, she wouldn't drink it, of course! No! But worse horror she might even be generous with it. Give it to the Church. That would be too bad.

Alice bringing in tea disturbed him. He went off into another room, hung about there waiting for Sheila to say:

‘Tea, Des.' He liked that. Liked hearing her call him ‘Des.'

When at length she did call, and he went in, he showed not the slightest sign of the effect which the solicitor's letter had had upon him. Between Trears and Tinks he'd had a day. Still, he had made up his mind on one thing. He
would
see his father. And three times during tea he mentioned this—as though he were determined on planting it in Sheila's head. She might even say once again: ‘Don't go.'

‘You know, Des darling, we ought to make more friends in London. Don't you think so?'

‘Expect we ought to,' he said, then stuffed his mouth with bun loaf. ‘The right kind, of course. The very opposite of these people we know here. God! They make me sick with their little dignities and their superior airs, and their bloody politeness over things—well, you know.…'

‘Even trifles count,' she said, countering his ebullience, the kind she didn't like in him. He laughed. It amused him!

‘Not those kind of silly trifles,' he said.

‘I hope you find your father well,' she said. ‘Sometimes I feel I would have loved to have known your parents. Do you think that very funny?'

‘No! Not at all! All the same, you can't now. So that doesn't matter, does it?'

‘No, of course not!'

It didn't! So there was the end of that question.

She drank more tea. ‘D'you think they might have liked me, Des?' she asked. ‘Really, honestly?'

He smiled down at her. How indefatigable she was! Perhaps it was the tea. ‘Oh, I don't know! You met one and that was enough for me.'

‘Desmond!'

‘Of course! Yes, I understand! But you began these silly bloody arguments yourself. I never mentioned them, did I? Did I?' His voice rose.

‘Oh, all right! All right,' she said, ‘we won't discuss them. They might be some rare and precious metal, so holy a substance, too holy to be discussed. Your extreme sensitiveness does you no credit—it reveals the worst side of your character. You keep asking me if I love you! Sometimes I find it hard.'