Джеймс Хилтон - Morning Journey

Next, and in some sense as an antidote, he picked up Chuzzlewit and turned to the American section; its sheer readableness diverted him for a few moments, but all the time he was imagining what Carey might have thought of America and Americans whilst reading it. Perhaps he should write her a letter to go back with the book; Briggs could mail them to the theatre the next day. He went to a desk and filled several sheets of notepaper, chiefly about Chuzzlewit; it was his first letter to her, indeed, except for the mere note he had sent with the roses. Then he noticed that the inside of the book-cover contained a library card with her address in Terenure, and an idea was born in him that speedily rose to huge dimensions. For he knew now where she lived, where she was at that moment—and she had said it was less than a mile away. Why shouldn’t he walk over to her house before going to bed and make his own delivery of the book and the letter? Of course she would be asleep at such an hour, but he could come close to her for a moment, perhaps for the last time, and she would later know that he had been there. It was odd how satisfying that was to him as he contemplated it.

Venton League was locked and bolted, but the garden door had a simple latch, and he knew there was a side gate several hundred yards from the house that led through unused stables and another gate into a road. He also knew the general direction of Terenure, but that was all. Fortunately he soon met a late-homing tram-driver who directed him to the address. As he approached it he heard, in the very far distance, the crackle of rifle shots. It spurred him, matching his own feeling of excitement in what he was doing— walking at this late hour (and he disliked walking at any hour) through the unknown streets of an unknown city. A mysterious schizophrenic city, he reflected, passing the suburban villas one after the other, each one dark and silent, while a few miles away on roof-tops a handful of zealots risked their lives to make history. He could not help thinking of it theatrically— the vast populous inertia of the sleeping suburbs as a background to the silhouette of the lone man wide awake with a gun. The idea fascinated, then grew larger as he tried to imagine the play whose staging he had already pictured with the eye of his mind. He had no political intelligence, but for that reason he sometimes caught a whiff of events that the analysts and short-range tipsters missed.

When he reached the house he was surprised to see lights in several of the windows, both upstairs and down. He walked up the short path to the porch and dropped both book and note in the letter-box as quietly as he could. But someone must have heard, for before he reached the street again the front door opened and Carey’s voice called out: “Who is it?” Her voice sounded curious rather than startled. He turned back a few paces into the zone of light from the doorway; then she came rushing out to him with an eagerness equally curious. “PAUL!… Won’t you come in?” That startled HIM. She almost dragged him into the house, leading the way to a small room opening off the narrow lobby—a den, it could have been called, with an old fashioned roll-top desk, shabby chairs, and of all things, a complicated gymnastic apparatus of ropes and pulleys. He felt again the overmastering physical ease of being in her presence, the relief of finding her eager to see him despite the fiasco of the cancelled trip; but in addition there was a strangeness he was just faintly aware of, a tension in her face and attitude that he had not seen before.

He began rapidly: “You must think me crazy to be here this time of night, but the fact is, I’m leaving for London early tomorrow and I wanted to return the book… I wrote this note too—never thought I’d see you… nothing important in it—mostly about the book.”

“The book?”

“Martin Chuzzlewit… don’t you remember?”

She answered, almost dreamily: “I didn’t know you knew where I lived.”

“That was in the book, too—on a library card.”

“A LIBRARY book? Oh yes, I do remember… Would you—would you care for a drink?”

“Thanks, no—I’ll have to be going in a minute. Must have some sleep. The boat sails at eight.”

“Why are you going away so soon?”

“My editor cabled me. I’ve got to do a job for him in Italy.”

“Italy? And before you’ve finished all you wanted to do here?”

“Looks like it. I certainly haven’t done much, have I? And I’m specially sorry about Glendalough.”

“That couldn’t be helped—you had the party instead. Was it interesting?”

“Very—but I was missing Glendalough all the time.” How untrue that was, and yet how revealing, even to himself, of the truth; for it was now, with her in that small room, that he was acutely missing something, of which Glendalough could well stand as a name and symbol. “If I’d guessed it would be my last chance, I don’t know but what—”

“Oh no, you couldn’t possibly. And it was just as well.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because…” She hesitated, then chattered on: “You’ll probably get to hear about it… no, you wouldn’t, though, if you’re leaving so soon. Anyhow, it’s nothing that affects you, but if we HAD gone to Glendalough it would have been worse… for me.”

“For YOU?”

“I’m sorry—it’s my fault for not getting to the point…” She seemed to steady herself as if for the repetition of a lesson, then said in a level voice: “My stepfather died this morning.”

“WHAT?” He stared at her, disturbed by her look and manner as much as by what she had said. “Carey! Oh, I’m sorry… Had he been ill? You didn’t tell me… was it sudden?… But if you’d rather not talk about it…”

“I don’t mind… He was all right, early this morning—I saw him before he left for eight-o’clock mass at St. Peter’s—that’s the long mass. I went to the nine o’clock at St. Columba’s—that’s the short one. I was back here by half-past ten after meeting you, and I could see he was back, too, and had had his breakfast—then I heard the water running in the bath upstairs. The water’s never hot enough early in the morning, so on Sundays…”

She hesitated as if the details were becoming too trivial, and he made a murmur of encouragement.

“Well, it became a sort of Sunday treat—he always stayed in the bath a long time and had his grammar books with him—he was learning Gaelic… After the water stopped running I heard him saying over the words… but he was there so long I began to wonder if anything was the matter, so I called out and knocked at the door, but there was no reply. Mrs. Kennedy—she’s the housekeeper we’ve had since my mother died— she said he’d been all right at breakfast—quite chatty and cheerful with her. But after a time I told her I was nervous, so we broke the lock and found him… in the bath… he was dead by then.”

She paused breathlessly and he made haste to offer the only comfort he could think of. “Carey, I know there’s nothing I can say that can really help, but of all the ways to die, it might have been the easiest—a fainting fit—suddenly—the hot bath on top of a meal— “

“No, I don’t think it was that.”

“Why… why not?”

“It wasn’t LIKE that.” She gave him a strained look.

“What did the doctor say?”

“He said what you said—more or less. But I still don’t think —”

“Did you tell him you didn’t?”

“No, I haven’t told anybody that—till now.”

“Carey, what’s on your mind?”

She said in a level voice again: “I think he killed himself.”

“But—how—why—what on earth makes you… Look here, you’d better tell me what really IS on your mind.”