Free Our Time Is Gone by James Hanley Page B

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?’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Can I see another priest. It’s rather urgent, miss. Is Father Tierney in?’
    â€˜Yes. Father Tierney is in. Will you come in, please?’
    He passed inside.
    â€˜Wait here, please. What name shall I say?’ She looked down at one hand that had begun to tremble on his knee. She understood.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Now, Mr. Fury! What’s your trouble? Come along to my room now.’
    â€˜Yes, Father!’ And he followed behind the priest, bowler hat in hand.
    â€˜It’s my wife, Father! It’s Fanny! I’m afraid—afraid——’

CHAPTER II
    I
    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.
    â€˜Who’s the letter from?’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Never mind why. Take a look in the glass. What’s wrong? Who’s it from? Don’t be sulky.’
    â€˜From a friend.’
    â€˜What friend?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜What priest?’
    â€˜A Father Moynihan! It’s about my mother! She’s in hospital. I——’ and then she made the