by A. J. Cronin
"I couldn't do it," Mathry said in a husky voice.
"Yes, you could," Paul exclaimed. "And I'll help you. I'll try and get a school near you. Be on hand if you need me."
"No . . . you wouldn't do that? Or would you?"
"Yes."
Mathry again stole that shrinking look at Paul. His chapped lips trembled.
"I'm all in," he muttered. "I think I'll go to bed."
Paul felt his heart lift, as at a great victory. What had caused Mathry to break down in this fashion he could not guess — he had not dared to hope for it. But in this crumbling front he saw a future for both of them, a final justification snatched in the moment of defeat. He was glad he had decided to wait on.
He looked straight at his father, keeping his voice under control.
"You'll feel better after a good sleep."
Mathry got to his feet.
"In the country . . ." he muttered. "With chickens and a cow ... it would be fine . . . but could I . . . ?"
"Yes," Paul said again, more firmly.
There was a moment's hesitation.
"All right," Mathry said in a queer hoarse tone. He opened his mouth, closed it again. "Now I'll go and turn in." Suddenly he paused, as though struck by something, lifted his head and looked into the distance. His voice took on a different quality — remote, human, and strangely timorous.
"Do you remember . . . Paul ... on Jesmond Dene . . . when we used to sail the paper boats?"
He gave his son a shamed, contorted look and, brushing his hand across his inflamed and watery eyes, shambled out of the room.
BEYOND THIS PLACE
CHAPTER XX
FOR a long time Paul remained in the sitting room. Now, after all, he could carry out his plan. It was not the idyhic vision he might once have entertained of a rose-embowered cottage set on a hill above green meadows in the deep countryside. This new maturity that had replaced his sentimental adolescence had made him soberly practical, wary of rash enthusiasms. He must complete his teacher's course, not in Belfast — that was now unthinkable — but at one of the smaller English provincial universities, Durham perhaps, where the fees were moderate and the tuition excellent. In the suburbs of this Northern cathedral city he would surely find some sort of dwelling, no matter how primitive, to house them both, with an allotment garden in which Mathry might find the incentive to work out his salvation. Could this regeneration be achieved? Paul did not know. He had heard of cases where men, released after long terms of penal servitude, fifteen, twenty, even thirty years, had managed to resume an existence of complete normality, to lose themselves in the crowd, achieve a tranquil and hum-drum old age. But they, of course, had not been wrongfully imprisoned.
Quickly, before the throb of injustice could start in him again, Paul got to his feet. He wished nothing to disturb that new sense of peace, almost of placidity, which had replaced his violent rage against the law. It was not late and before retiring he decided to take a walk. Switching out the light and moving quietly along the corridor so that he might not disturb Mathry, he went downstairs.
The evenings were lengthening and, outside, the last of the daylight lingered, as though reluctant to depart. The air was warm, luminous, and still. Stirred by the beauty of the twilight he strolled away from the hotel.
He had meant to walk at random, yet though his route was circuitous, he evinced no surprise when, half an hour later, he found
BEYOND THTS PLACE
himself in the familiar precincts of Ware Place. Outside Lena's lodging he drew up, and from the opposite side of the street, resting against the iron railings, he gazed upwards at the blank, unlit windows of the untenanted upper storey.
The days of stifling uncertainty were over, his nerves were no longer on the rack. Liberated from his obsession, he was at last free to appreciate all that Lena had done for him. Now he realized that without her help his father would still be in Stoneheath and he, almost certainly, would not have survived. A pang of regret for his insensitiveness, his lack of gratitude, stung him, together with a sudden longing, that was almost unbearable, to see her again. If only she might appear, at this instant, from the shadows, bareheaded, wearing her old raincoat buttoned up at the neck, hollow-cheeked and pensive, so generous and humble, so heedless of herself, yet exhaling that northern freshness which lay on her like dew.
How puerile had been his attitude towards her, how immature his recoil from the outrage that had flawed her virginity. Now he could think calmly of that act of defilement, the details of which had previously caused him a sick, insensate rage. Now, indeed, because of that violation, he felt for her a greater tenderness.
From the Ware steeple came eleven slow strokes, the crescent moon sank down, and still he did not stir but remained looking upwards at those three blank windows, while across the screen of his sight there passed image after image. Although she was not there, never had he seen her so clearly as during that solitary hour. And more and more the presentiment grew that he would soon be with her again. He rejected the impulse to seek out Mrs. Hanley, whom he would find too eager for confidences. Instead, he would go to Dunn, tomorrow, and obtain the address from him. In a single sweeping act of vision he foresaw the circumstances which would enable him to find her and, as though that moment had already come, he was filled with happiness.
At last he turned slowly away. In the main thoroughfare the traffic was stilled, the shops had long since been closed, but at the street corners a few newsboys remained, calling the final edition. Dimly, throughout the evening, Paul had been conscious of their shouts but, sick to death of sensation, he had ignored them. Now
BEYOND THIS PLACE
however, his eye was caught in passing by a placard waved by a ragged urchin beneath a street lamp. Arrested, he took a few steps backwards, handed over a coin, and held the copy of the Chronicle to the flickering light. And there, in the stop press, were three blurred lines of print. The police had broken into the flat at Ushaw Terrace and found Enoch Oswald. He had hanged himself from the gaselier.
Paul slowly recovered himself.
"Poor devil," he murmured at last. "He promised he would go away, and this is what he intended to do!"
And with that exclamation, uttered in sorrow and compassion, all bitterness, the last shreds of hatred, seemed purged from him. He drew a long deep breath. The night air was damp and cool. From a nearby basement bakehouse, where the men were already at work, came the fragrance of new bread. There was no moon but through the roof-tops a few clear stars looked down upon the city as it settled at last to silence. Insensibly, Paul's heart lifted. His step quickened as he set out for the hotel. For the first time in manv months he felt the sweet savour of life, and the promise of the morning.
