A SICK CALL.
If there is one suburb in Melbourne where a man might be excused
depression and discontent it is that undesirable and dusty part called
Tottenham. On a hot night in the summer time Tottenham gasps in the
streets. In shirt sleeves and thin blouses, not infrequently in a still
scantier attire, men, women, and children sit on doorsteps and
pavements, or collect in the small parks and open spaces, seeking fresh
air. The language on such occasions is apt to be in keeping with the
weather, for the heat excites men's tempers, and leads to unpleasant
remarks and retorts that are still less courteous, until a brawl
frequently terminates the proceedings. The neighbouring hospitals
anticipate scalp wounds and bruises after a hot spell in Tottenham.
It was on such a night that Father Desmond O'Connor, recently ordained,
and appointed curate to Father Quinlan, the parish priest of St.
Carthage's Church, went quietly and swiftly along Carrick Street in
answer to a sick call. He walked absorbed in thought, and heedless of
the groups of people whom he passed.
Desmond O'Connor had fought a severe campaign, and had triumphed. In
Tottenham he lived a quiet and uneventful life, content to do his duty
conscientiously, and pass his leisure hours with his brother-priests
and in the society of his books.
Father Desmond O'Connor was not perfect; he was a good, honest,
hard-working priest, one of that splendid army who are fighting the
Church's battles against human weakness in Australia. His brothers among
the clergy liked and respected him none the less because he was a
cheerful companion, not above an occasional joke.
Father Desmond O'Connor was, in fact, meditating a practical joke as he
hurried on his sick call this hot summer's night. His eyes were
twinkling, and his lips occasionally relaxed into a smile as he
considered the details of this piece of drollery. Once he remarked to
himself, half-audibly:
"I must confer with Father Gleeson. He would suggest the necessary
details."
Thus did he go, smiling and occasionally laughing to himself as some
particularly amusing aspect of that which he was considering struck him.
So pleasant was his face that a man whom he met paused to ask the
direction to a certain street that he well knew. When Father O'Connor
had answered his question, the man asked him:
"Are you a Roman Catholic priest?"
"I am," Desmond answered.
"You'll excuse me stopping you, sir, but you looked so happy and
pleasant that I thought I would like to speak to you. You remind me of a
young fellow I once met some years ago--Desmond O'Connor."
Father O'Connor laughed aloud at the remark.
"Supposing I were to tell you I was he, would you believe me?" he
asked.
The stranger shook his head emphatically.
"No, sir, I would not believe it, even from you. I had an argument with
young O'Connor, half-fun and half-earnest. He was an Agnostic, while I
profess to be a Christian of no denomination--just a Christian. You are
not he."
"I am Desmond O'Connor, and your name, if my memory is correct, is
Laceby, a reporter for the 'News.' If you care to have a chat with me,
you will find me at St. Carthage's Presbytery, in Nixon Street."
"But how did you happen----," Laceby began.
"To change my views? A long story, which I will tell you if you call.
You must excuse me at present. I have to attend a sick call at St.
Luke's Hospital."
They shook hands, and bade one another good-night. Laceby stood watching
Father O'Connor until he had disappeared round a corner.
"A strange army, the priesthood," he said to himself. "Every race and
every rank of life--men who have always had a creed, and men who have
had none. Soldiers, sailors, men from trades and professions, drawn to
the Standard by an irresistible impulse that they term a vocation--but
fine fellows, every one of them."
All the world knows St. Luke's Hospital, its Mother Superioress, and the
devoted nuns who labour for the sick poor. Within the wards many a great
healer has served an apprenticeship, and many a sorely-diseased man or
woman has been snatched from death. There is no charitable institution
in which the Catholics of Australia have more reason to take a
legitimate pride. Standing in Burgoyne-avenue, its brick walls tower
towards the sky, one storey above another, while beside it the small and
modest building, now the convent, remains to speak of small beginnings
that have been brought to a great success.
Father O'Connor was met at the door by a Sister in the black habit of
the Order, a sweet-faced, gentle nun, smiling as kindly as the priest
himself.
"Well, Sister Bernardine!" he cried. "What makes you always smile? One
would expect a serious face in a place like this."
"A smile never made a sick man worse," she answered. "The Mother
Superioress would like to speak to you before you see Mrs. Clarence."
"Certainly, Sister. I am never the worse for a word with Mother
Superioress. Where is she?"
"In the convent expecting you. I think you should be as quick as you
can; the poor woman is seriously injured."
The Mother Superioress beamed upon Father O'Connor. She had conceived a
great liking and respect for the young priest, for she recognised that
beneath his humour and high spirits was concealed a strong sense of
duty, akin to her own.
"I shall not detain you, Father," she said. "This poor lady met with a
motor accident outside our doors, and was carried in here. She is too
sick to move, otherwise we would have sent her to a private hospital.
Dr. Broxham has just seen her, and holds out no hope of recover. But the
trouble is this: she is a Protestant, yet she has asked to see a
priest."
"Does her husband consent?" Father O'Connor asked.
"The poor man was killed," the Mother Superioress answered. "We have not
told her that. But she does not ask for him. She asks constantly for a
priest--and for Denis Quirk."
"Denis Quirk?" cried the priest, "and her name is Clarence! Strange!
Have you sent for Denis Quirk?"
"Who is he?" she asked.
"You must surely know Denis Quirk, the editor of the 'Freelance.' Two
such important persons as you and he must have met."
"Of course I know him. He is one of our best friends. But are you
certain it is he she wishes to see?"
"I merely surmise, Mother. I will see her at once and ask her--the
Sister told me to lose no time."
In the big surgical ward of the hospital, the bed surrounded by screens,
Father O'Connor found a woman, her face of an ashen colour, and
constantly contracted in pain. She lay very quietly and in silence save
when a faint groan spoke of a spasm of agony. Her voice had sunk to a
faint whisper, so that the priest was compelled to bend over and listen
to that which she desired to say. But, in a low voice, and disjointed
sentences, she confided her sins to Father O'Connor's ears, and was then
received into the Catholic Church. Before the priest left her she
asked:
"May I see Mr. Denis Quirk?"
"He shall be sent for at once," Father O'Connor answered. "Good-bye, and
God bless you. You are happy now?"
"For the first time for many years. I only need Denis Quirk's
forgiveness before I die. Promise me I shall not see Mr. Clarence
again."
"I promise that," Father O'Connor answered, whispering to himself: "May
the Lord have mercy on the poor man's soul, for he will need mercy."
In half an hour Denis Quirk was shown to the sick woman's bedside. It is
not my purpose to say what passed between the dying wife and the husband
whom she had so grievously wronged. Denis Quirk readily forgave her the
evil she had done him, and with her he remained until she had passed the
portal of death, holding his hand in hers. Then he rose from his knees
and gazed into her face, and on it he saw a great joy and peace, that
had not rested there for many years.