But Molly Healy realised that Desmond O"Connor had decided. To her, this represented the destruction of an ideal she had never hoped to realise; but, as she wiped a few tears from her eyes that evening she remarked to herself:
"Life is made up of not getting what you want, Molly Healy. It is better Desmond should become a priest than die a scallywag--and it will keep him out of the way of that Sylvia Custance. G.o.d knows what is best for every one of us."
CHAPTER XXII.
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 pa.s.sing crazes and pa.s.sions.
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 G.o.d, 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 a.s.sumes 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 a.n.a.lysed 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 ill.u.s.trations, 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 prompt.i.tude.
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 G.o.d!"
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."