GREAT IS THE TRUTH.
"Bachelors' Flat," in Collins Street, was peculiarly silent. The
customary visitors paused in the hall downstairs and did not venture to
ascend to the third floor of the mansions. Merely a sympathetic message
to the caretaker, a few parting words of hope, or a shake of the head,
and they passed on into the busy world outside.
In the flat itself men and women walked with quiet feet and spoke to one
another in whispers, saving in the darkened room where Desmond O'Connor
chattered unceasingly, and now shouted or laughed in the wildness of
delirium. A nurse was installed in his room, a quiet and gentle little
lady, never hurried yet never slow; always patient, with a coaxing
manner and a soft voice. When he was sensible Desmond called her the
Angel of Mercy; in his delirium he spoke to her always as Sylvia. Even
in his wildest ravings, when he muttered and shouted sentences he had
heard from the lips of others and never sullied his own lips with, he
was always respectful to her.
Kathleen O'Connor and Molly Healy were with her as untrained auxiliaries
to take her place and implicitly follow her directions when sleep could
no longer be denied. To them she gave the highest praise in her power
when she remarked approvingly:
"You should have been nurses, both of you."
Denis Quirk had resigned his room to the nurses, and when he slept
stretched himself out on the couch in the dining-room. He was watching
anxiously for his friend's moment of softening when Desmond would need
and ask for a priest. By a special arrangement the Archbishop had
granted to Father Healy the permission to attend Desmond, if he desired
a confessor. Then, day or night, as soon as the telephone carried the
expected message, the parish priest of Grey Town was prepared to hasten
in a motor car to Melbourne.
But the fever had gone on to the dread third week, where death crouches
beside the patient's sick bed, and Desmond had made no sign. The doctor
came and went frequently, having the brand of anxiety plainly printed on
his face; the nurse had curtailed her hours of sleep to the minimum of
possibility, and the message had not been sent.
"Why will he not surrender?" sighed Kathleen O'Connor. "I have asked him
to see Father Healy, and he always answers, 'No.'"
"The good God is just trying us," said Molly Healy. "He wishes to see
how far our faith will go. But I am hoping that mine will stretch a
little further yet; for it needs to be elastic in times like this."
Denis Quirk came in from his work, a little older and more tired-looking
than he had been, but just as warm-hearted and humorous as when life
was moving like a well-oiled machine.
"Any improvement?" he asked.
Kathleen shook her head, while tears filled her eyes.
"We are so weak and powerless," she said.
"But brave of heart," he answered cheerfully. "Things are at their worst
just now, but there is always a glimmer of light in the East. Keep your
eyes that way and you will soon see the sun rising to send the shadows
and the black thoughts helter skelter back into the darkness.... May I
see him?"
"I will ask nurse," said Kathleen. "She is the commander-in-chief."
"Oh, you great-hearted women--angels of self-sacrifice," said Denis,
after she had left the room. "You make me feel such a mean and
contemptible worm."
Molly laughed at this outburst.
"Sure you are not so bad--for a man," she said. "The Lord gave you the
physical strength, and us poor women the moral virtues. You can't help
it that you were not made a woman. Just do your best to put up with
yourself."
In a few minutes Kathleen returned.
"Nurse says you may go in to him for five minutes. He is quiet and
sensible now," she said.
Denis entered the sick room very quietly. It was darkened and cool;
about it there was the scent of fresh flowers brought daily from
Jackson's garden. The bed linen was scrupulously white, and the room
itself bare of furniture, but exceedingly tidy. Desmond O'Connor was
lying in a peaceful doze, low in the bed, in the prostration that had
followed a period of wild delirium. As Denis entered he opened his eyes
and smiled.
"Is it you, Dad?" he asked. "I fancied you would come to me. I have been
a disgrace to you!"
Denis did not answer, fearing to break the chain of thought that had
taken his friend back to his childish days.
"A disgrace to you and to the O'Connors," Desmond continued. "Didn't you
tell me that in the dark days the O'Connors clung to the Faith; that
never a one of them ever fell away? Well, I have been the first; just
from pique, dad; pique and pride.... Why don't you speak to me?"
Still did Denis refrain from answering him, and Desmond continued:
"But I begin to see again. It was all darkness for a time ... after
Sylvia had left me hopeless.... Where is Sylvia?"
He turned his head to search the room.
The nurse, hearing the name by which he addressed her, entered the room,
and stood beside his bed.
"Ah, there she is! Don't go away from me, Sylvia."
"Only into the next room," she answered.
"Yes, that will do.... Isn't she splendid, dad?... I intend to come
round, when I am well again, to make my peace with God, and live like an
O'Connor.... Why don't you send for a priest?" he asked, in an irritable
voice.
"You shall have a priest!" cried Denis.
But Desmond relapsed into a half sleep, broken by a rambling delirium,
like to a fragmentary nightmare. The word had been spoken, and when
Denis Quirk had called the nurse and left her in charge, he hastened to
the nearest telephone exchange and sent the long-delayed message to
Father Healy. In half an hour's time the big motor car from the Grey
Town garage was starting on the long journey to Melbourne.
Through the evening and night the good priest sat silently beside the
chauffeur, but his lips were moving constantly, his fingers passing the
rosary beads as he prayed for the boy he loved. The chauffeur, who knew
him well, had never found the priest so self-absorbed. As a general
rule, Father Healy made the longest journey short; to-night he could
only pray silently. For he had seen Desmond grow up from infancy to
manhood, and had prepared him for the Sacraments. His downfall had been
a calamity; his return to the Faith would mean a triumph over the powers
of evil. Thus did the car rush through the night, its bright headlights
picking out the road in front of it; blackness around; the horn now
sounding its deep note as they dashed past a township, while Father
Healy was praying for the sick man in Melbourne.
It was three o'clock in the morning when the car entered the sleeping
city, where darkness and quiet held possession. Here and there a light
shone from a window, telling its tale of sickness; now and again they
passed a night wanderer or policeman; but Melbourne lay in placid
sleep, reinvigorating itself for the busy day.
In the flat Denis Quirk was sitting in an armchair anxiously expecting
the sound of the motor. His quick ears heard it as it came up Collins
Street, and he was at the door to admit Father Healy.
"I suppose you are tired and hungry?" he asked.
"Neither," the priest replied. "But my friend here has had a long drive.
He would appreciate a cup of tea--eh, Jack?"
"No thank you, Father. I will take the car to the garage, and get to
bed," the chauffeur answered. Therewith he started post haste for the
garage and bed.
"How is Desmond?" Father Healy asked anxiously.
"At his very worst, the doctor tells me. If he comes through the next
few days there is hope; at present it might go either way," Desmond
answered.
"Can I see him?"
"I will ask the nurse," said Denis. "We do nothing without consulting
her. Sit down and eat while I find her. Ah! here is Miss O'Connor," he
added, as Kathleen entered the room.
"Father, I am so pleased to see you," said Kathleen. "I have been
waiting so long for you, until at last I began to lose hope."
"I have been as anxious as you," he answered. "Is the boy asleep?"
"I will ask nurse," said Kathleen, and went quietly out of the room.
Desmond had just awakened from a quiet sleep. He was fully conscious,
more so than he had been for many days. When Kathleen entered the nurse
stole over and looked at him.
"Awake?" she asked, in a low voice.
"Very much so," he answered. "All the queer things have gone, leaving me
at peace."
"Father Healy is here," she said.
"Did I send for him? I have a faint idea I did ... a sort of half dream
that the dad came to me and told me to see the Father," he answered.
"Will you see him?" she asked.
"Give me something to pull me together first. I am in a mortal dread,"
he whispered.
"Would you rather wait?" she asked.
"No; it has to be gone through. Just a mouthful of nourishment; then
send him in!"
In the quiet of the sick room priest and penitent conferred together in
whispers; Desmond O'Connor pouring the story of his fall and the
subsequent history resulting from it into the good Father's kindly ears.
And when it was completed there was a great joy in the two hearts and a
peace in Desmond's that had not been there for many years.
"You are tired, my son," said Father Healy kindly.
"Tired, but glad, Father. I have come out of the ocean of darkness and
doubt into the old harbour of peace and certainty."
A few minutes after Father Healy had left him he was again sleeping as
peacefully as a child. The nurse, looking into his thin, pale face,
where black lines encircled the eyes, found a gentle smile on it.
"Oh, these Catholics!" she said to herself; "what a satisfaction their
religion is to them! I believe he will come through now."
Yet, strangely enough, although she was a good little woman, she did not
realise that there must be something superhuman in a religion that can
give perfect peace to the soul and increased strength to the body.
In this manner began Desmond O'Connor's progress towards recovery.
Slowly the fever began to abate, leaving him prostrate and feeble after
the severe struggle he had maintained for weeks. During the first days
of convalescence he was so weak that death seemed preferable. But inch
by inch he fought his way back to health; until he was allowed to sit in
an armchair. After that his recovery was more rapid.
As he became stronger Desmond found himself a prey to the most dreadful
spiritual desolation. The Faith that he had again found and accepted as
a great gift, with an outburst of thanksgiving, seemed to be withdrawn
from him. For days and days doubts and misgivings troubled him so that
he walked as a blind man, gropingly. And with the doubts there came a
myriad of evil thoughts to torment him. He could not read nor pray; he
had to cling blindly to Acts of Faith and resignation.
It was fortunate for him in those days that Father Healy had left him
under the care of an old Jesuit Father. Day after day the old priest
visited him, and while he was with him Desmond was at peace. But no
sooner was the good Father out of the room than the blackness of
desolation closed around him.
"Is this to go on for ever?" he asked the priest.
"No, my son. You are weak in body and new to the Faith. You have
weakened yourself during the years of doubt. In a short time you will
find your feet again and walk confidently. Go frequently to the
Sacraments, and trust in God."
Thus did it happen with Desmond. Slowly the doubts and difficulties left
him, so that he wondered that they had ever caused him uneasiness. But
daily in his Acts of Thanksgiving he praised his Divine Redeemer who had
lifted him from the valley of desolation to an absolute certainty of
Faith.
This was the beginning of a new life to him. During his convalescence he
entered more deeply into his religion than he had ever done before.
Slowly its great beauty unfolded itself to him; he found it so wonderful
in its perfection, so satisfying that he marvelled at his previous
lukewarmness. It was just at this time that a visitor came to see him.
Desmond was sitting up in an easy chair; the nurse had gone to another
patient while Father Healy and Molly were in Grey Town. Kathleen, having
made her brother comfortable, had slipped out for a short breath of air,
leaving Desmond in charge of Black, the incomparable man-servant. A ring
at the door bell, a vision of a beautiful face and a graceful figure
becomingly dressed, conquered Black. His orders were to admit no
visitors, but he was so fascinated by the apparition that he carried the
card in to Desmond, and a moment later Sylvia Custance was sitting
beside the sick man's chair.
Desmond looked up as she entered to judge how the years had treated her.
Older and more mature, but otherwise unaltered, he decided as he took
her hand and shook it.
"You poor man! How pale you are!" she cried. "I only returned home last
week to hear that you had been so desperately ill."
"Home?" he asked, in a puzzled voice.
"The only home I have ever known. I have been miserable since I left
it," she explained.
"And Custance?" he questioned.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"He is impossible," she said. "I have done my utmost for him, but at
last there came a time when I could not go on. We have separated."
"With his consent?" he asked.
"Custance cares for nothing now but that cursed drug. Oh, what a fool I
have been," she almost moaned.
There came a painful silence, broken at last by her.
"But now I intend to return to the old life and the old friends. I shall
forget the horror of what I have endured.... You will help me to
forget?"
He was very weak and weary. As he watched her the old passion began to
return to him. But it so happened that he looked towards a picture given
him that very day by the old Jesuit Father. It was a simple painting of
the Sacred Heart, with no attempt at artistic beauty. That very day,
however, the old priest had spoken so eloquently of the mystery of love
portrayed by that poor picture that Desmond valued it better than if it
had been a treasure of art.
"I have done with the old life," he said.
"You fancy that now. But wait until you are strong and feel again the
joy of life," she said. "Then you will alter your mind."
"Tell me about your trouble," he suggested.
"No. Not that, please. It is bad enough to have lived it. It was pure
misery and hopelessness. I prefer to talk of anything but that."
They were still talking when Kathleen returned. She concealed the dismay
and dread that she felt in finding Sylvia Custance with Desmond. She
feared the old influence that had so vitally helped to ruin her
brother's life and drive him from his Faith. At present he was weak in
body, and like an infant in religion. The slightest obstacle might turn
him again to his former state of doubt. At this critical stage Sylvia
Custance was a great danger. But it flashed into her mind that Desmond
must fight his own fight unaided. If he succumbed again it was not her
fault. She could only pray for him.
That evening when she bade him good-night, he said to her:
"I think I will go down to Grey Town to-morrow, Kath."
"Are you strong enough?" she asked.
"I don't want to see Sylvia Custance again. The old life must die, Kath.
It seems rather hard, but it must be done. Make all arrangements like a
dear girl."
The next morning as they travelled towards Grey Town she recognised that
he had not slept well, but she made him comfortable with rugs and
cushions, and watched him drop into a quiet sleep. Denis Quirk, who had
insisted on accompanying them, brought them refreshments at every
possible opportunity and watched over them with untiring zeal. When they
arrived at Grey Town the "Layton" motor was waiting to carry them to the
Quirks' home. Here they found Mrs. Quirk, very enfeebled, but smiling a
glad welcome, and old Samuel Quirk, to greet them warmly.
"It is like home to me," cried Kathleen, as she kissed the kindly,
withered old face.
"And home it is, honey, when you are here; but it is a lonely home
without yourself and Denis," said Mrs. Quirk.