The Secret Journey by James Hanley Read Free Book Online Page B

You listen to me. Sheila, listen! Don’t say that any more. Will you promise? Please promise!’ All his innocence, his youth, his belief, his hope, all went out to her in that simple utterance. And as he squeezed her shoulders so hard that she actually winced, it was as though he were holding together the altar he had built about her name and presence—her body, her love, her feelings. It hurt just holding her like this, hurt at the very depths of his soul because he loved her, trusted her. She was his happiness. Desperately he clung to it, and all that it meant.
    â€˜Don’t say any more! Please! please! I know. It’s Desmond! You are afraid of my brother. But, Sheila, don’t you see …?’
    â€˜I afraid of Desmond?’ She smiled at him. ‘What have I to fear from him? Nothing. No two people understand one another better than we do.’
    â€˜Then you have told him!’ he almost gasped. ‘You told him?’
    â€˜I told him nothing. Silly boy! Now …’ She said good-night with her warm mouth, holding him frenziedly, wishing him gone—yet dreading the very moment when she herself must go. ‘Good-night, Peter darling.’
    â€˜Now!’ he said, ‘tell me! Where is this new house you are in—and to-morrow? What about to-morrow?’
    â€˜Don’t ask me that.’ She broke free and ran. The youth ran after her, partly fell on one knee as he flung himself, hands out, to catch the hem of her skirt. ‘Stop,’ he said fiercely. ‘You must, Sheila. You must. To-morrow. Same place, same time. I’ll be there. You will, won’t you? Yes, yes. Lovely Sheila!’ He kissed her, then turned and fled, his fingers pressed against the drum of his ears as though he were determined not to hear her reply, filled with dread and yet with joy, floating upon a delirious wave, yet fearful he would be flung down. So he ran on until he reached Preston Row, when he slowed down to a quick walk. At the end of the Row he would catch a tram. He would be home before midnight at the latest. Twice he stopped, stood with feet apart, hands clasped together, looking up at the stars. ‘Am I happy? God! Yes, I am happy.’ Even now in the murk and dark of this mean street, silent, deserted, he could feel the aura of her presence. ‘Sheila! Sheila! We shall yet be together. Marvellous Sheila!’ The world was blotted out—there were only two people in it—Sheila and himself. ‘Yes, I am happy’ he half shouted, and ran on. He would catch a late tram. Just as he reached the stop he heard the dull roar of one in the distance. He began shivering with the cold. His whole body like some delicate instrument could yet feel the touch of her hand. ‘Dear Sheila!’ he said. ‘Dear Sheila!’ The memory of the woman, of her embraces, the feel of her flesh, had tempered his body, every fibre of his being retained that ecstasy, that thrill of being with her. She was gone, but that aura of her presence still hung around him. Suddenly the tram came roaring to a standstill; only then did his spirits fall, only then did that urgent, passionate music filling his breast become suddenly voiceless. He boarded the tram. It was empty. Crouched in a corner seat, holding his coat collar tight around his neck, he began the journey home. Home to Hatfields. It was like going into a long dark and damp tunnel, racing away from the light—the darkness at last obliterating that aura of her presence. He pictured her crouched in the corner of the arch—her white face held up to him—and this vision he retained, harbouring it in his memory, holding it frenziedly and desperately, as though as the tram pursued its inexorable journey through the tunnel it was taking toll of that strange, wonderful, and passionate hour. He was going home to Hatfields. He saw the house, the street, the bone factory; saw his father and mother seated in the