"There was nothing else I could do, truly! I knew where I should have gone, but I couldn't. With you I might have been a better man, if less august. But I just couldn't, Meggie. Oh, I wish I could make you see that!" Her hand stole along his bare arm, tenderly. "Dear Ralph, I do see it. I know, I know.... Each of us has something within us which won't be denied, even if it makes us scream aloud to die. We are what we are, that's all. Like the old Celtic legend of the bird with the thorn in its breast, singing its heart out and dying. Because it has to, it's driven to. We can know what we do wrong even before we do it, but self-knowledge can't affect or change the outcome, can it? Everyone singing his own little song, convinced it's the most wonderful song the world has ever heard. Don't you see? We create our own thorns, and never stop to count the cost. All we can do is suffer the pain, and tell ourselves it was well worth it."
"That's what I don't understand. The pain." He glanced down at her hand, so gently on his arm, hurting him so unbearably. "Why the pain, Meggie?" "Ask God, Ralph," said Meggie. "He's the authority on pain, isn't He? He made us what we are, He made the whole world. Therefore He made the pain, too."
Bob, Jack, Hughie, Jims and Patsy were in for dinner, since it was Saturday night. Tomorrow Father
Watty was due out to say Mass, but Bob called him and said no one would be there. A white lie, to preserve Cardinal Ralph's anonymity. The five Cleary boys were more like Paddy than ever, older, slower in speech, as steadfast and enduring as the land. And how they loved Dane! Their eyes never seemed to leave him, even followed him from the room when he went to bed. It wasn't hard to see they lived for the day when he would be old enough to join them in running Drogheda.
Cardinal Ralph had also discovered the reason for Justine's enmity. Dane had taken a fancy to him, hung on his words, lingered near him; she was plain jealous.
After the children had gone upstairs, he looked at those who were left: the brothers, Meggie, Fee.
"Fee, leave your desk for a moment," he said. "Come and sit here with us. I want to talk to all of you."
She still carried herself well and hadn't lost her figure, only slackened in the breasts, thickened very slightly in the waist; more a shaping due to old age than to an actual weight gain. Silently she seated herself in one of the big cream chairs opposite the Cardinal, with Meggie to one side, and the brothers on stone benches close by.
"It's about Frank," he said.
The name hung between them, resounding distantly. "What about Frank?" asked Fee composedly.
Meggie laid her knitting down, looked at her mother, then at Cardinal Ralph. "Tell us, Ralph," she said quickly, unable to bear her mother's composure a moment longer.
"Frank has served almost thirty years in jail, do you realize that?" asked the Cardinal. "I know my people kept you informed as we arranged, but I had asked them not to distress you unduly. I honestly couldn't see what good it could do Frank or yourselves to hear the harrowing details of his loneliness and despair, because there was nothing any of us might have done. I think Frank would have been released some years ago had he not gained a reputation for violence and instability during his early years in Goulburn Gaol. Even as late as the war, when some other prisoners were released into armed service, poor Frank was refused."
Fee glanced up from her hands. "It's his temper," she said without emotion. The Cardinal seemed to be having some difficulty in finding the right words; while he sought for them, the family watched him in mingled dread and hope, though it wasn't Frank's welfare they cared about. "It must be puzzling you greatly why I came back to Australia after all these years," Cardinal Ralph said finally, not looking at Meggie. "I haven't always been mindful of your lives, and I know it. From the day I met you, I've thought of myself first, put myself first. And when the Holy Father rewarded my labors on behalf of the Church with a cardinal's mantle, I asked myself if there was any service I could do the Cleary family which in some way would tell them how deeply I care." He drew a breath, focused his gaze on Fee, not on Meggie. "I came back to Australia to see what I could do about Frank. Do you remember, Fee, that time I spoke to you after Paddy and Stu died? Twenty years ago, and I've never been able to forget the look in your eyes. So much energy and vitality, crushed."
"Yes," said Bob abruptly, his eyes riveted on his mother. "Yes, that's it." "Frank is being paroled," said the Cardinal. "It was the only thing I could do to show you that I do care."
If he had expected a sudden, dazzling blaze of light from out of Fee's long darkness, he would have been very disappointed; at first it was no more than a small flicker, and perhaps the toll of age would never really permit it to shine at full brightness. But in the eyes of Fee's sons he saw its true magnitude, and knew a sense of his own purpose he hadn't felt since that time during the war when he had talked to the young German soldier with the imposing name.
"Thank you," said Fee.
"Will you welcome him back to Drogheda?" he asked the Cleary men. "This is his home, it's where he ought to be," Bob answered elliptically. Everyone nodded agreement save Fee, who seemed intent on some private vision.
"He isn't the same Frank," Cardinal Ralph went on gently. "I visited him in Goulburn Gaol to tell him the news before I came here, and I had to let him know everyone on Drogheda had always been aware what had happened to him. If I tell you that he didn't take it hard, it might give you some idea of the change in him. He was simply . . . grateful. And so looking forward to seeing his family again, especially you, Fee."
"When's he being released?" Bob asked, clearing his throat, pleasure for his mother clearly warring with fear of what would happen when Frank returned.
"In a week or two. He'll come up on the night mail. I wanted him to fly, but he said he preferred the train."