Now he was approaching the rich residential area of Green Hills, where the safe lived and had their tranquil existence far from Winfield. The road began to wind, and other roads left off from it, and at near or far distances Joseph saw the white brick or sandstone mansions of the fortunate and the cynical, and the gravel walks that led across lawns like green water and past gardens filled with the purple and gold of iris and daffodils and red tulips in spring beds. Almost every estate was guarded by wrought- iron and ornamental fences and tall gates which did not shut out envious glances but announced to passers-by that they must not trespass. The fire of the approaching sunset ignited tall mirror-like windows with its own color, and slate roofs glimmered and occasionally a red brick chimney emitted a feather or two of soft gray smoke. It was very silent and full of a peace which Joseph could no longer feel. He knew that Mayor Hennessey lived on Willoughby Terrace, and he watched for discreet board signs as roads were increasingly named. Then he came on it to his right and he turned off the rough main road onto a narrower but smoother road, very winding and overhung with oaks and elms and maples. A low graystone fence followed the road instead of iron fences and gates and over this he could see the mansions, some sunken below the rising ground of the distance, some bold and standing like monarchs on their land. Dogs barked warningly, and some collies raced across lawns to the stone walls and challenged Joseph's passing. He did not pause nor even look at them.'He was watching for an iron shield embedded in the wall with the number eighteen upon it in Gothic scroll. He finally found it, and stopped to look past the lawns which rolled and spread serenely over several acres. The mayor's white house was the largest and most imposing of any which Joseph had seen so far, and the most opulent and pretentious. Its center was of the classic outdoor portico type of ancient Roman fashion with thick and smooth white pillars and Corinthian capitals and frescoes and ponderous carved bases. The floor within was of white stone, gleaming and polished as marble, leading to mighty double bronze doors of Italian origin. On each side of the tall porticoed entrance structure stretched a two-storied wing, broad as well as high, with ornamental friezes near the eaves and a wide balcony at the end, extending from the upper floor. Ever}' window was partly shaded by shirred gray silk, glimmering as silver; flowering spring shrubs, yellow and snowy, pressed against the shining walls. Great pruned trees were scattered in groups of twos and threes on the lawn, and every blade of grass had its own iridescence in the lowering light of early evening. A marvelous tranquillity lay over everything like a blessing, heightened by the deep sweet sadness of descending robin song. So, thought Joseph, himself lives here and his money came from human misery and death and despair, as always it does. Yet, there is none to reproach him, neither God nor man, and all fawn upon him and he will be a senator and crowds will laud him and he will have the ear of the President and all will honor his riches and consider him worthier than other men because of it. I, too, honor him, for he is a thief and a murderer and a mountebank and a whoremonger-and does the world not prefer such to an honest and devoted man? It can only be that the good and noble man is a fool, despised by God, Himself, for does not the Bible say, "The wicked flourish like a green bay tree" and their children dance with joy in the streets? It is true.
He leaned his elbows on the wall and contemplated the grounds and the mansion and listened to the evensong of the birds. Here would his sister, Regina, have lived had he permitted it, slowly forgetting that she was of another family, lost to him and Scan forever. She would have slept in one of those chambers of the upper story, and would have run on these lawns. But, she would no longer be Mary Regina Armagh of a prouder name than Hennessey and it would be as if she had died, and she would finally have believed that those within were her family and she had no other, and her love would be for unworthy strangers. Not for an instant did Joseph regret his decision concerning his sister. He could only smile grimly at the house and nod his head over and over as in secret agreement with himself. He heard the shrill ringing sound of a young child's voice, and a very little girl came suddenly running across the grass towards the wall where he stood, and she was followed by an elderly woman in the blue cotton dress, white apron and cap of a nursemaid. Joseph stood in brushy shadow ' and he looked at the child, who was about Regina's age and screaming with malicious mirth. She was somewhat smaller than Regina, but plump, and she wore a frock of white silk and a little jacket of blue velvet trimmed with silver embroidery and as her tiny petticoats swayed they revealed the ruffles of lace pantalettes and little black slippers and white silk stockings. She had a round golden little face saucy and rather flat, and merry hazel eyes, and her smooth brown hair had been trained into glistening curls that reached almost to her shoulders. Her lips were full and red and showed bright teeth, and her nose was tilted. It was not a pretty face, but she had a look of constant mirth that was very attractive and even fascinating. Regina was grave and thoughtful. This child-Bernadette, is it?-had probably never wept for fear in her life and probably had no thoughts but of her own babyish satisfaction. Like Regina, she was four years old. She had almost reached the wall but did not see the watching Joseph in the shadows. She looked about her with gleeful mischief, and as the nursemaid, uttering loud reproaches, was almost upon her, she darted away like a squirrel, squealing with impish laughter, showing her pantalettes up to her fat thighs. She ran very fast and soon she was lost among the trees and the panting old nursemaid stopped to catch her breath and shake her head. The slow spring twilight began to flow over the lawns and Joseph turned away and began his long walk back to Winfield. A mist was rising over the ground now and the joyous cries of the peepers were louder and more insistent. The sky was a pure soft green and the orange of the west had turned to scarlet. A wind came up, heavily scented by warming pines and living plants. Joseph had just reached the intersection of the private road with the main road when he heard the rattling of wheels and the rapid pound of hoofs. He looked down the broad road and saw an open victoria approaching pulled by two beautiful white horses. A coachman, young and in fine livery, was driving the horses and he looked at Joseph out of a broad and bellicose face, snapping his whip, as the carriage turned in on Willoughby Terrace. But Joseph did not look at him. He was staring at the occupant of the victoria, and he had no doubt at all that this was Mayor Tom Hennessey, for he had once seen his woodcut in a newspaper page which had enclosed his lunch. As Mrs. Hennessey was young Joseph had thought to see a young husband, for the photograph had been flattering. But Tom Hennessey appeared to be a man approaching forty, at least, a big, wide handsome man with a wenching and florid face and slate-gray narrow eyes, and an exigent, even brutal, mouth. He had the Irish long lip, as Joseph had also, but a thick ridge of a nose protruded above it, giving his face an arrogant and scoundrelly expression. His chin was smooth-shaven, as was his lip, and heavy and dimpled, and it indicated common blood. He was clad in fawn broadcloth with a greatcoat of brown velvety cloth, and his waistcoat was richly embroidered. He wore a tall and shining hat, and from under it flowed his brown and waving hair and his brown sideburns. He looked potent and virile and cruel, though his mouth was automatically arranged in a look of amity and humor. His gloved hands rested on an ebony walking stick with a gold head, and his jewelry was flashing and considerably vulgar. Foot travelers were few on Willoughby Terrace and Tom Hennessey's attention was caught by the sight of this tall thin youth with the beggarly clothing and workman's boots and woolen cap. A servant? A gardening hand? Tom Hennessey had the born politician's powers of keen observation and he missed nothing, no matter how unimportant. The sunken blue eyes of Joseph were met squarely in sudden confrontation with the merciless gray eyes of the older man. It was absurd to the mayor, but something which had quickened shot between them and the mayor was fully conscious of it as was Joseph. The mayor touched the rump of his coachman with the tip of his cane and the man brought the wonderful horses to a halt very close to the stranger. The mayor had a round and sonorous voice, the voice of a blackguard politician, and it was mellifluous and fruity in addition, trained as it was by ruthless guile. He said to Joseph, "Do you live on these estates, my lad?" Joseph wanted to go on with a mumble but his own interest in the mayor held him near to the horses' heads. "No," he said. "I do not." Tom Hennessey had been born in Pennsylvania, but his father had been born in Ireland and he well-remembered the rich brogue and it echoed now in Joseph's voice. Tom's eyes sharpened. He studied Joseph calmly but completely from his seat in the victoria. "What is it, then, that you do?" he asked and smiled his engaging smile. But the smile did not have the innocent charm of Daniel Armagh, but the charm of the born rascal. Joseph looked at him in silence and not with trepidation. His thin wide cheekbones, sprinkled with freckles, seemed to become more noticeable. "It's out for a walk, I am," he replied. Now he became wary. If this man spoke to his wife of Joseph's appearance, and his Irish intonations, then she would immediately suspect Joseph's identity. There would be no clanger in that, but to Joseph the whole world was dangerous and should not be informed. He added, "I am a gardener's helper." "Hum," said the mayor. Had not the news been so portentous today, and were he not returning hurriedly home from Winfield to pack for a fast journey to Washington-as a senator just confirmed by the State Legislature-he would have taken the time to satisfy his curiosity about Joseph. Abruptly, he ordered the coachman to drive and the horses skipped on. But Joseph stood and watched the vehicle until it was out of sight beyond a bend in the road. He smiled a little. His conviction that he had been only too right concerning Regina's adoption was confirmed. A father like that-he would inevitably have poisoned that young soul with his own sensuality and coarseness. Shanty Irish, commented Joseph to himself, in scorn, as he walked rapidly towards town. Did America, then, have no pride that she should honor such as Tom Hennessey and raise them to high estate? Joseph, for the first time in years, began to whistle as he walked back to Winfield, and his young heart was lighter than it had been since he had been a child. If the Tom Hennesseys could become rich and famous and honored in this America, then an Armagh could also, and easier. He thought of what he had seen, and he looked back over his shoulder at the silvery mist which was blowing over the softening green hills, and it seemed to him that this was the fairest sight he had ever beheld and that he must live here one day, and on not too far a day. It would be the home of Scan and Regina with himself as guardian, behind high walls, and perhaps the peace he had momentarily experienced an hour or so ago would return to him until the end of his life. Not joy, not wealth for wealth itself, not laughter and songs and travel and beauty and obsequiousness and servants, not love-no, he wanted only peace and forgetfulness until the blessed time when he could turn his face away from it all and be done with it.
It was dark when he reached his boardinghouse and again he read what he had first read last November on a black and sleeting night in the midst of his suffering, and he thought and said to himself, It will be next Sunday.
Chapter 8
On Saturday night, after work, Joseph counted up the money he had saved. It amounted to seventy-two dollars, after nearly six months of Sunday work, and sacrifice and the payment of three dollars a week to the orphanage. It seemed an enormous sum to Joseph, but he knew it was not enough. He carefully wrote a letter, bought a stamp at the post office, near the depot, and mailed it. It was the first posted letter he had ever written in America. Absently, he noted the large poster in brilliant red, white, and blue on the post-office walls, urgently calling for volunteers for the Army and the Cavalry and the Navy, but it meant nothing to him though he was surrounded by men who excitedly discussed it. He went out, unseen and himself indifferent. He stopped on the street, standing on the brick sidewalk, and the barrenness of the town struck him again, the absence of vital color, the few isolated and drooping trees leafing listlessly in the late May twilight. Men passed him, reading newspapers with large black print, and there was a sense of hurry in the air and elation. For an instant Joseph felt it, for it was almost palpable, and he reflected with his usual dark irony that death and war and disaster had their own impelling excitement which stirred and lifted the dull mind. He suddenly thought of his great-grandfather's wake, before the full Famine-Moira's grandfather. He, himself, had been but five and his parents had taken him with them, for Moira was a realist and believed children should early know about death for, was it not as natural as life and birth, and was it not the soul's introduction into life everlasting? Daniel had demurred, for he was softer of nature than Moira, and Joseph had felt his first wild impatience with his father, his first repudiation of sentimentality. The wake had begun somberly among a large crowd in the snug small house, and even the walls were lined with mourners, for the old man had been cherished. Then the poteen was passed about, and a table of cold funereal meats was discovered, and shortly thereafter the drama of death had become melodrama, not only a solemn occasion but a theatrical one in which the corpse was the leading character. Poteen flowed, tears flowed, cries and exclamations rose, loud keenings were like flutes and trumpets.
The mourners mourned with exaltation. Daniel Armagh had been present at many wakes but they had never failed to shock him and convince him of their impropriety, but Joseph, cynical from birth, and understanding, knew that men can find piquant stimulation even in calamity. Later he was to know that were it not for these men would go mad, for life would be totally unbearable. Unlike the bewildered Daniel, Joseph could understand why Moira and her mother could push Daniel away with a quick wrath when he tried to comfort them and hush their wailings. In their doleful way they were enjoying themselves and resented interference, and their tears washed away their pain and made them important. Even the two priests present looked at Daniel with annoyance, as if at an uncomprehending stranger, and eventually one had led him away and had gently put a large mug in his hand. In his long reading Joseph had read somewhere, "Life is a comedy for the man who thinks, a tragedy for the man who feels." To Joseph life was a black comedy, if a tragic one in its overtones, and he accepted it. He kept himself apart from it for it would sap his strength. He remembered another aphorism: "That man is strongest who is alone." He had long ago refused to feel the immanence of tragedy as it concerned others, and he turned from the fatal involvements of mankind and felt only contempt. He went to the orphanage, though this was but Saturday night, and Sister Elizabeth was surprised to sec him. "The children are in bed," she said. "But, I will ask Sister to bring them to you if you cannot see them tomorrow, Joey." "No," he said. If he saw his brother and sister now it would be a weakness he could not afford, and might hold him back. He said, "Sister, I am going away for a little while, a few months, perhaps a year. I have another job, in Pittsburgh, which will pay me better." "Capital, Joey!" she said, and looked at him scarchingly. "Oh, Joey, you are going to join the Army?" "No." The idea amused him, and he gave the nun his dark unmirthful smile. "But it is connected in some fashion, Sister. It will pay me very well-in Pittsburgh." "You must write as soon as you are settled," said Sister Elizabeth. A peculiar uneasiness came to her, which she dismissed at once, being a sensible woman. "I will." He looked down into her shrewd eyes, and hesitated a moment. "I hope, in the near future, to send for Scan and Regina." "I see," said the nun. "You will send your address?" Joseph paused. "I will not be staying, Sister, at one place, but I will send money now and then." He put a roll of bills into her hand. "There is fifty dollars here, Sister, for Scan and Regina, for their board. When that is gone there will be more from me."