"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 G.o.d."
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 pa.s.sion 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.