A LINK BROKEN.
Denis Quirk was back in Melbourne, in the "Bachelors' Flat," and working
relentlessly at the "Freelance." That intrepid little weekly had
shouldered its way into a prominent position in the literary world. It
stood for independence of thought, avoiding the humdrum of the beaten
track, offering its own ideas to the public, careless of passing crazes
and passions.
It may be said of Denis Quirk in those days that his only pleasure was
in his work. He was lonely for Desmond O'Connor, now a student at Manly.
The flat was still frequented by the representatives of motley and
variegated talent, as in the old days. Jests were made, good stories
told, and songs sung by well-trained voices; but these were mere
acquaintances. Denis longed for the intimate companionship of the former
days.
Jackson had invited him to his home in Brighton, but there he found
Sylvia Custance. She weaved her web to enslave Denis, interesting
herself in his career, asking him fairly intelligent questions, and
doing her utmost to persuade him that he was the most important person
in the world to her. Denis watched her as a scientist observes a
remarkable organism. Once, after a prolonged silence on his part, she
asked--
"What are you thinking about, if I may ask?"
"I was thinking about you," he replied.
She eyed him for one moment, as if uncertain how she should regard his
answer. "And what is your opinion about me?" she asked, after a pause.
"One that I cannot properly express in every-day language. You are the
most versatile woman I have been privileged to know, and in some
respects one of the very cleverest."
"That is great praise from you," she answered.
"It is neither praise nor flattery; it is merely the truth. You are so
clever that I cannot understand you."
Sylvia Custance imagined that she had at last won Denis Quirk's
admiration. Had she listened to him coldly dissecting her for the
benefit of one of her chosen bodyguard, she would have suffered a bitter
disillusionment. Denis was walking home with this admirer, a mere boy,
to whose unopened eyes Sylvia Custance was the ideal of women.
"Did you ever see such another woman as Mrs. Custance?" the young man
asked, in his youthful enthusiasm.
"No, thank God, I never did," Denis answered bluntly.
This was a sudden and unexpected check to the boy's eloquence. He
regarded Denis frowningly.
"If you intend----," he began.
"You asked my opinion, and I have answered you. There is no need for
anger. I have a very high regard for good women. Mrs. Custance is not a
woman, merely a psychological problem to me. She cares for only one
person--herself, and that self she regards as a celestial body around
which all other lesser bodies should revolve. To attain this necessary
consummation she adopts a chameleon character, altering herself to suit
all who approach her. To you she is sweet, and inclined to gush; to me,
a woman whose interests are in the stern affairs of life; to another an
artist--something different to all men. She is so versatile that she has
no fixed character. She is neither good nor bad, frivolous nor earnest;
she assumes whatever she considers most suitable to the present moment.
But I annoy you?"
"No, you don't. Not one bit. Mrs. Custance's character can bear your
satire. She is the sweetest and most kindly woman in the world."
"To you she probably is. That sweetness is the music to which you are
expected to dance. I accuse her of no evil intention. She is far too
prudent to ever repeat her one mistake of falling in love with anyone
but herself. You may fall in love with her; she expects you to do that.
But you need expect no act of imprudence from her. She will lead you to
the very gates of love and close them gently in your face."
The boy went away furiously angry with Denis, but in the months to come
he recognised that he had heard Sylvia Custance accurately analysed
during that unpleasant half-hour's walk with Denis Quirk.
Denis watched the boy as he strode away towards his home, his figure
stiffly borne, the picture of indignant protest. For his own part,
Denis desired no further acquaintance with Sylvia Custance. He despised
her so much that the very thought of her was repulsive to his nature.
After that one visit he preferred to cultivate old Jackson in his office
in the city.
Occasionally he made a flying visit to Grey Town to enjoy the
restfulness of "Layton," but he did not stay long even there. After a
week or ten days he would suddenly pack his Gladstone bag and return in
haste to Melbourne. His answer to his mother was always the same, when
she pleaded with him to stay a few days longer:
"I must get back to work. There is nothing else worth living for."
Denis Quirk was busy in his office, writing, revising, correcting
proofs, reading a celebrated work for review, criticising illustrations,
doing many things and several men's work at the one time. He had a
sub-editor, a very capable journalist, but he had the feeling, like
other great men, that no one could do his work but he, and in this he
was partly right. The telephone rang while he was thus engaged, and he
sprang up and seized the receiver. Grey Town was speaking.
"Yes, Grey Town speaking. It is Kathleen O'Connor. Can you hear me?"
"Distinctly," he answered.
"Mrs. Quirk is seriously ill. She wants you."
"I will be with you in seven hours. Will she last till then?"
"Dr. Marsh thinks so; but please waste no time. Good-bye."
He rang his bell, and the office messenger answered it with promptitude.
He had learned the lesson of haste when the master's bell rang.
"Send Mr. Gillon to me, and order a motor to take me to Grey Town at
once. Ring up my flat, and ask my man to pack my valise," cried Denis.
"Tell the motor to call for it," he added.
To the sub-editor he confided the work that still remained to be done.
"I will take this with me," he said, picking up an important article,
"and read it on the journey. I will send it back in the motor."
A quarter of an hour later he was being carried at full speed in a
twenty-horse power Fiat car towards Grey Town.
"If you delay one moment; if you blow out, or even puncture, I will
never employ you again," he remarked to the chauffeur.
"It's all luck," the driver answered, indignantly.
"I prefer lucky men," Denis replied. "Now drive like the very deuce."
Nursing his outraged dignity, the chauffeur sent the car at its topmost
speed on the long road to Grey Town. This was his lucky trip; stray
nails there were in plenty, also dangerous places, but the Fiat raced
through in six hours. Denis sat rigidly perusing and correcting the
article, determined not to think of grey sorrow at the other end. Once
he groaned to himself.
"The last good thing in life, and I am to close it. But, there is
work--and the Church, thank God!"
Then he made a further correction, folded the article, and placed it in
an envelope. This he confided to the chauffeur.
"I like you," he remarked; "you can be as reckless as I when it is
necessary. I shall want a driver soon. Would you take the post?"
"I prefer to be where I am," the man answered. "A driver can't be lucky
always."
"He only needs to be lucky on occasions like this, when a mother is
waiting to say 'Good-bye' to a son."
In six hours' time the car raced up the avenue at "Layton," to find
Samuel Quirk pacing the verandah while he awaited his son. Denis could
see the hand of bitter grief in the old man's bent figure, in the deep
lines on his face, and in the sunken eyes. After nearly fifty years'
companionship the prospect of losing his faithful wife struck Samuel
Quirk a titanic blow.
Denis had never been outwardly demonstrative towards his father. Samuel
Quirk had not invited any sign of affection, and his son had not offered
it. But they loved and respected one another, for Samuel Quirk was the
type of man that Denis could best admire. He recognised honesty and
purity of intention in the old man; he knew that Samuel Quirk would
never intentionally injure another. These virtues appealed to him like
rich jewels hidden within a rough casket. To-day his heart went right
out to the pathetic figure of hopeless misery portrayed by his father.
He sprang from the car and took his father's hand tenderly.
"It's the will of God," he said.
"Did I say it was not?" asked Samuel Quirk. "I knew it must come
soon--but that doesn't make it one bit easier!"
"How is she?" Denis asked.
"Slipping away--and calling out for you."
Denis waited to hear no more. He ran up the stairs to his mother's room.
Here he found Father Healy, Molly, Kathleen, and the nurse who had been
with Desmond O'Connor. At his coming they left the room, whispering each
one a short welcome as they passed him.
Mrs. Quirk turned her head, and her thin, white face broke into a sweet
smile.
"Come to me, Denis. God is good to send you. Sure, I am blessed above
all women. Himself is with me, the Divine Redeemer, and His Blessed
Mother, and the angels. Father Healy has been praying over me, and now
you have come to say good-bye. Sit beside me, and take my hand. Don't be
crying. I am just passing to God. Don't forget to say a prayer for me."
She paused in distress, while Denis took her hand, and sat on a chair,
the tears rolling down his cheek. After a few seconds she spoke again:
"Don't be fretting because the world is hard, boy. All will come right,
and there's a good wife waiting you--one that will be true to you."
"Don't be worrying yourself about me. I shall always land on my feet,"
he answered. Then, after a pause, he added: "You have been perfect as a
mother and as a woman. There is nothing to regret on that score."
"Many things undone, and many that might have been done better. But God
is good and merciful, boy. He doesn't expect too much."
Thus they spoke together for ten minutes. Then Denis saw that she was
exhausted. He rose to call the nurse, but she held his hand for one
minute.
"Promise me that you will marry Kathleen," she whispered.
"I am already married," he answered.
"You will be set free--I am sure of it. Promise me, Denis."
"I promise to do that if it is ever possible."
"God bless you and keep you. May the Sacred Heart prevent you from sin,
and Mary, the Mother of God, pray for you," she said, in a low, broken
voice.
A few hours later the end came to her peacefully, and the soul of
"Granny" Quirk passed the narrow gate that leads from things seen to
those that are apprehended by faith. With a smile on her face she passed
the portal, confident in the mercy of Almighty God.
After the funeral the question of Kathleen O'Connor's future came up for
discussion. After various solutions had been suggested by Father Healy,
Dr. Marsh, and Denis, old Samuel Quirk calmly settled the matter.
"Kathleen will stay here, and keep the house for me," he said. "She will
be my daughter. What would I be doing all alone in this big house?"
The few days that had elapsed since Mrs. Quirk's death had changed him
into a decrepit old man. He sat through the greater part of the day in
an easy-chair on the verandah, taking no interest in anything; just
gazing vacantly in front of him for hours at a time. Mental and bodily
strength seemed to have deserted him. From vigour he had passed suddenly
into senility.
"Are you willing to stay with him?" Dr. Marsh asked Kathleen. "It means
acting as a nurse to an impatient old man."
"I promised Mrs. Quirk that I would remain at "Layton" while he needed
me," she answered.
"The burden may be a heavy one," said Father Healy.
"I can bear it," she answered cheerfully.
Denis Quirk waited until the other had gone. Then he went to Kathleen to
find her working among the flowers, filling the vases and placing them
in the positions where Mrs. Quirk had liked to see them. He sat watching
her silently, as he had been accustomed to do in the days of their first
acquaintance. Presently she turned towards him.
"You remind me of the old Denis Quirk to-day--the one whom I resented,"
she said.
"I was summing you up in those days," he answered; "just wondering
whether you were genuine."
"That was what I objected to," she answered. "I have never been
subjected to examination--I have not so much as examined myself too
critically--and the feeling is creepy."
"You have been tried and acquitted," he laughed. "You leave the court
without a stain upon your character. Indeed, you have been promoted to
stand upon a pedestal, and receive the admiration of your fellows."
"No, no! Not that, if you please," she cried. "Allow me to remain just a
woman. It is my best plea for leniency. I detest the idea of a pedestal.
Supposing I were found to have a flaw--I have a good many, I assure
you--everyone would see it. Let me hide myself in the crowd."
"Only one person is permitted to admire you on the pedestal; the one who
has placed you there. In his eyes there is no flaw. But," he added,
hastily, "I may, at least, thank you for your kindness to my parents.
You are a good woman, and you need no higher praise. Take care of the
old man, and--good-bye."
He took her hand and crushed it in his own. Then he turned abruptly on
his heel and left her. That night she fancied she could hear him pacing
the avenue restlessly, and in that fact she found security. The
following morning he was gone.
"Where is Denis?" old Samuel Quirk asked her, in his half-sleepy way.
"He has returned to his work. You should be a proud man, Mr. Quirk, for
I believe that Mrs. Quirk is a saint, and I am sure that Denis is a
hero."
"He should be here in Grey Town," the old man grumbled.
"He is in the best place--out there in Melbourne. He will return to Grey
Town when the time is ripe for him."