A Lost Cause

At last they heard the panting of the returning motor-car. Stephens had arrived with the oil that the Bishop had blessed.

The whole party got into the car, which was a large one, and they set off rapidly through the streets towards Malakoff House.

How strange it was, Lucy thought, this swift career of moderns in the wonderful machine of their age, this rush to the bedside of a dying woman with the last consolation of the Church! It was full of awe, but full of sweetness also. It seemed to show – and how plainly – the divine continuity of the Faith, the harmonic welding of the order and traditions of our Lord's own time with the full vivid life of the nineteenth century.

They were shown into the grim house. Truly the shadow of death seemed to lie there, was exhaled from the massive funereal furniture of a bygone generation, with all its faded pomp and circumstance.

The mistress of it all was going away from it for ever, would never hold her tawdry court in that grim drawing-room any more.

Dr. Coxe, Hibbert's assistant, came down-stairs and met them.

"I have got the two Hamlyns out of the house at last," he whispered. "They were distressing the patient greatly. I insisted, however. We had a row on the stairs – fortunately, I don't think the patient could hear it. I'm sorry, doctor, but I had to use a little physical persuasion to the young one."

"Never mind, Coxe," Hibbert answered. "I'll see that nothing comes of it. They won't dare to do anything. I will see to that. Is Miss Pritchett ready? Can we go up?"

"Yes," the young man answered, looking curiously at the four priests and the grave girl who was with them in her gay summer frock. "Miss Davies is there."

He was a big, young Scotsman, with a profound contempt for religion, but skilled and tender in his work, nevertheless.

"Will you come up?" Hibbert whispered, taking him a little apart from the others.

"I'd rather be excused, old man," he answered. "Call me if I'm wanted. I can't stand this mumbo-jumbo, you know!"

Hibbert nodded curtly. He understood the lad very well. "Will you follow me, Father?" he said to Blantyre.

Blantyre put on his surplice and stole. Then they all went silently up the wide stairs, with their soft carpet and carved balusters, into the darkened chamber of death.

The dying woman was propped up by pillows. Her face was the colour of grey linen, the fringes of hair she wore in health were gone.

A faint smile came to her lips. Then, as she saw Lucy, she called to her in a clear, thin voice that seemed as if it came from very far away.

"Kiss me, my dear," she said; "forgive me."

Lucy kissed the old, wrinkled face tenderly. Her tears fell upon it in a sacrament of forgiveness and holy amity.

"I want just to say to all of you," Miss Pritchett said, "that I have been untrue to what I really believed, and I have helped the enemies of the Faith. I never forgot your teaching, Father, I knew all the time I was doing wrong. I ask all of you to forgive me as I believe Jesus has forgiven me."

A murmur of kindliness came from them all.

"Then I can go in peace," she gasped. Then with a faint and pathetic shadow of her old manner she turned to Gussie. "Hush!" she said. "Stop sniffling, Miss Davies! I am very happy. Now, Father – "

Her eyes closed and her hands remained still. They saw all earthly thoughts die out of the wrinkled old face, now turned wholly to God.

They all knelt save the vicar, who had placed the oil in an ampulla upon a table.

Then he began the 71st Psalm. "In Thee, O Lord, have I put my trust, let me never be put to confusion: but rid me, and deliver me, in Thy righteousness, incline Thine ear unto me, and save me."

There was no sound in the chamber save that of the ancient Hebrew song.

"Forsake me not, O God, in mine old age, when I am grey-headed: until I have showed Thy strength unto this generation, and Thy power to all them that are yet for to come.

"Thy righteousness, O God, is very high: and great things are they that Thou hast done; O God, who is like unto Thee?"

Then, all together, they said the antiphon: "O Saviour of the world, who by Thy Cross and precious Blood hast redeemed us, save us and help us, we humbly beseech Thee, O Lord."

The central figure in the huge four-post bed lay still and waxen. But when the priest came up to it with the oil, the eyes opened and looked steadfastly into his face.

He dipped his thumb into the silver vessel and made the sign of the Cross on the eyes, the ears, the lips, the nostrils, and the hands, saying each time as he did so:

"Through this unction, and of His most tender mercy, may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins thou hast committed."

The whispering words that brought renewal of lost innocence to the dying woman sank into Lucy's heart, never to leave it. In the presence of these wondrous mysteries, death, and death vanquished by Christ, sin purged and forgiven in the Sacrament, her resolution was made. She knew that she would fix her eyes upon the Cross, never to take them from it more.

She saw her brother bending over the still figure, his white surplice ghostlike in the gloom of the hangings, as he wiped the anointed parts with wool.

Then Stephens brought him a basin of clear water and he washed his hands.

Raising his arm, he said:

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, may this anointing with oil be to thee for the purification of thy mind and body, and may it fortify and defend thee against the darts of evil spirits. Amen."

Two more prayers were said and then came the Blessing.

All rose from their knees. As Lucy slipped from the room, she saw the doctor was bending over the waxen figure in the bed.

She heard her brother and his two assistant priests beginning other prayers, in a louder voice, a sort of litany, it seemed.

She found Carr was beside her descending the stairs.

"What is that?" she whispered.

"The prayers for the commendation of a departing soul; she is going. God rest her and give her peace."

"Amen," said Lucy.

They came down into the hall, where they stood for a moment quite alone. Both were greatly agitated, both felt drawn together by some great power.

"How beautiful it is!" Carr said at length. "Our Lord is with her. May we all die so."

"Poor, dear woman!"

"In a few moments she will be in the supreme and ineffable glory of Paradise. I want to see trees and flowers, to think happily of the wonderful mercy and goodness of God among the things He has made. I should like to walk in the park for an hour, to hear the birds and see the children play. Will you come with me?"

"Yes, I will come."

He took her hand and bowed low over it.

"I have a great thing to ask of you," he said.