CHAPTER XXIX.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume VII, Issue 342, 7 November 1879, Page 5

CHAPTER XXIX.

wp ™5 EAE^ W T The arrangements for his departure ZnW, o ?* CC ° m P^ te f To one M "^sophisticated as the priest in business matters, it had seemed almost incredible that so important S/ff • CC + ° fuldrf uld ri b< Lf. 0 soon Bettled 5 b «t or three letters to Rome KniTK? ♦ arran / ed everything, and by the middle of September the doctor was ready to start. n-nJo W "f- With min e led emotions of satisfaction and regret that ti^^t discovered on his return from Dublin, that his friends at S,^?^ B6^ left home durin S his absence, and that nothing ESS? °* bld tbem adieu throu g h Father Donovan. Before s?* 2m- 161I 61 " 7 sad succession of partings had to be gone through with 5 ft' M?'•M ?'• * VG 7 enthusia 3tic were they withal ; for the object ot OMearas journey had, in some way or other, oozed out, and loth as the people of Ballycross were to part with " their docthor," they ZJVS^^ lO^ since ]earned t0 ? i7e th ™ and £? It a< ' a ? d the y were °ot likely now to begrudge an offering for the defence of the Church they loved better than life, howevef K/i h e^ n ? Waßprized ' Dear as Dr - O'Meara was to them, it one word could have retained him at home, there was not a Catholic —man, woman or child— in Ballycross that would have spoken it. And so, one golden autumn morning, with Father Donovan's blessing on his head and the blessings of all the rest hovering in the air around him, Richard O'Meara started on his holy mission business connected with his new profession detained him a day X» -^ '* ?* from Maude > he well knew ' for he had received the address from her uncle. When the lamps were lighted, and there was no chance of his being recognised, he sought the house, found it, ana tor a moment stood irresolutely before the door ; the next, he passed on his way with a firmer foot than ever, and only bade her farewell in the depths of bis own heart. The next evening, iust as the setting sun was bathing old London in a flood of gold and purple, he left. As he paced the platform of the railway-station, waiting tor nis train, his eye encountered group after group of friends surrounding departing travellers, and for the first time in his life he longed for a kindly hand to press his, and for a loving voice to bid mm trod speed. An exquisite sense of loneliness took possession of him, that most desolate of all loneliness, isolation in a a crowd. The tram came up, and for a few minutes the bustle incident on its arrival and the care of his luggage somewhat distracted him ; but no wt^S v, ? h , efiridllim self whirling on his way, locked and doubleiocKea au alone in a carriage, than the same sense of desolation returned and crept through every nerve and fibre of his heart. As fie looked out upon the dusky buildings of the fast-retreating city, witn its mazy masses of dwelling-houses and warehouses, wharves and workshops, with the mighty cupola of its cathedral towering over an, like the head of a state giant, London no longer seemed to mm simply the terra incognita it had always been before. It was ratner what a grim black casket enclosing a precious jewel would be to a man who valued that jewel more than all on earth beside, yet witnout the faintest hope of ever possessing it. When the last few traces ot city life had disappeared, and the varied and beautiful landscapes that surround London began to unfold themselves, rich in the golden radiance of the setting sun, the calm resolution that had supported Richard O'Meara during the last few weeks vanished altogether, and doubts of every kind assailed him. His errand was quixotic, its end a chimera, a chivalric dream, worthier of the romance of the Middle Ages than the common sense of the nineteenth century. Ihere were Catholics enough who pronounced it such • wny not believe them ? And even if it were not so, why should he more than thousands of others, be called upon to renounce the happiness of his life, and sacrifice friends, fortune, perhaps life itself, for the defence of the Holy See ? " God wills it !" cried a voice within mm, irresistible as the war-cry of the ancient Crusaders : and as he listened to it, though he folded his arms and threw back his head aenantly his nostril quivered, his breast heaved, and heavy tears Zwv t ? e ] r 11 '« r ay through his closed eyelids, bitter almost as those that had fallen on his father's coffin. With these tears the conflict seemed to cease ; for after drying his eyes quickly, ashamed of his weakness he drew a book from his pocket and began to turn over the leaves. It was a small copy of thft " Spiritual Combat,"— Father Donovan s parting gift— and as his eye wandered among its beautiful trutns and precepts, calmness and tranquility once more returned. At length he closed it, and once more throwing himself back in his seat, began to repeat slowly, and with the deepest devotion, the ' veni bancte Spiritus," a prayer that from bis earliest boyhood had been his unfailing refuge in moments of doubt and distress. Nor did lie; to whom it was addressed fail him in that moment of perplexity • for as the words, J " Flecte quod eat rigidum, M Fove quod eat frifiiduin, ' Rege quod est deviurn." fell from his lips, the glory of his vocation as a soldier of the Cioss and the danger of his affection for a heretic, seemed to rise before him ; and as he gazed upon the two pictures, thankfulness enthusiasm, and even joy once more quivered in the heart, and beamed over the countenance lately so desolate and cast down. Nor did this brightness pass away ; but the next day in Paris, before the altar of Notre Dame des Victoires, Richard O'Meara ouce again offered himself to the service of God in the person of His Vicar, and promised, by His Grace, never again to look back from the plough on which he now laid the most willing of hands, and went on his wav rejoicing. He spent the remainder of that day in wandering about from one object of interest to another with a friend, and at his solicitation had just consented to pass the remainder of the week with him when

news suddenly arrived from Rome which, though vague and uncertain, was more than sufficient to warn him that if ever true hearts and sturdy arms were needed round the Papal throne they were needed then and there. The very next train that started for Marseilles bore him to that city, whence he embarked on board a steamer for Civita Vecchia, and two days later was in Rome. What his sentiments might have been under other circumstances at treading for the first time the hallowed soil of the Eternal City, hichard O'Meara had little leisure to consider. The evil tidings that had reached him in Paris had fallen even short of the reality, and terror and dismay were depicted on every countenance he met. lhree days before his arrival, the Garibaldians had suddenly entered the Papal States at four different points, and had already possessed themselves of the strong town of Bagnorea. On reaching the barracks, notwithstanding the excitement that prevailed there, the doctor was most warmly welcomed by the English and Irish recruits who clustered round him in the guardroom like so many bees. But a very small amount of reflection soon convinced him that, with his ignorance of military discipline, enrolment in either the, Zouaves or Dragoons at such a moment was simply out of the question It was however, with no little envy that he watched the evolutions of certain tine young fellows, who formed part of a detachment thf>t had received orders to start next morning for Bagnorea with a hundred and nfty Romans of the line. Suddenly an idea struck him. He craved an audience with the commanding officer, and having obtained it asked permission to accompany the regiment as a civilian, to assist the staft-surgeon in the ambulance, a task for which his superior surgical skill eminently qualified him. His request was granted, and aiter a short but sound sleep, his first experience of soldier life, he set out on his holy mission with a joy in his heart too deep for words. But although Richard O'Meara's errand was one of mercy rather than war, he nevertheless saw more active service in that one day than many a hoary veteran in the English army sees in a whole lifetime. For scarcely had they gained the high ground that encircles Eagnorea, from which the Italians retired at their approach, when a shower of balls rained out upon them from certain vineyards in the vicinity, in which the latter had taken refuge. Unflinchingly O Meara passed through the fiery ordeal, though many a comrade fell wounded at his side. Furiously he joined in the charge that dislodged the enemy from their vantage-ground, and when the cowards took shelter in a neighbouring convent, he joined in the attack on the gate with the butt-end of a musket thrown away by an Italian in his flight, and was one of the first to rush in to victory. By three o'clock the town was in possession of the Papal troops, the action having lasted four hours. That night the victors rested from their toils • some in the various convents, others in the hospitable homes of the grateful townspeople. Not so the doctor, for though wearied and even slightly wounded, the night tbat gave rest to others only gave him fresh work. Hour after hour he passed with the patient sisters from one groaning sufferer to another, tending Zouave and Garibaldian indiscriminately, relieving their sufferings with his skilful touch, and raising their drooping spirits with his cheery voice. Not once in the proudest and happiest moments of the last nine months had so bright a smile beamed on O'Meara's face as the one that shone there that night, nor would he have relinquished his post beside those lowly pallets for any other earthly happiness that his heart could have imagined.