Chapter 45
Joseph had enough powerful influence to have Kevin's body shipped back to Green Hills as speedily as possible, in the sealed bronze casket he had ordered. Accompanying it were two captains of the American Fleet off Santiago, and a company of sailors in full dress. There was a note of condolence from the admiral: It was indeed a random shot from one of the retreating Spanish men-of-war, though all had surrendered. The bullet, which was extracted, was of the manufacture of Barbour d- Bouchard, the American munitions makers. Of course, we know that munitions makers sell to all customers-my deepest condolences and regrets. Young Mr. Armagh endeared himself to us with his honesty, courage, intelligence and consideration- A random shot. It was no more than that. The Celt, the ancient Celt, stirred in Joseph again, the Celt of occult mysteries, of bloody vengeance, of Fate, of elves and fairies and screams in the night. Of banshees wailing under the moon, and misty bogs and green lakes as still as glass and hills of vapor. Kevin was part of that also. Joseph said to himself, over and over, Nonsense. It was an accident-as Ann Marie's was an accident. As Kevin had not been a soldier or a sailor there could be no military funeral in late August, but the captains and the sailors were there, and one of the sailors rendered Taps in the Armagh family plot in Green Hills with the tall marble obelisk looking down enigmatically. There would be a small marble cross on Kevin's grave, as there was on Scan's grave. The black earth waited, and the funeral-private-took place during a hot dark day full of thunderous threat. Joseph stood with Bernadette, who was swathed in black veiling, and his son Rory whose full jovial face was set and somber, and his henchmen, Charles and Timothy and Harry, and watched his younger son's coffin lowered into the ground to the murmurous prayers of the priest. A crowd of reporters, kept back by police, stood at a distance snapping photographs. Kevin was a hero. Though only a civilian, an observer, he had "braved" danger to report honestly to his countrymen, and so was a hero. There were rumors of the Congressional Medal of Honor, given posthumously. (It eventually arrived and was mounted in Kevin's room at home.) "Not all who die in the service of their Country wear a uniform," said the priest. "There are Heroes who serve as nobly-" Joseph thought of Senator Bassett. Bernadette was weeping and swaying beside him, and he put his arm about her absently. Once, in her grief she had said recently to him, "The Armaghs brought disaster to the Hennesseys!" Then she had abjectly apologized and almost groveled before her husband. "You are all I have left," Joseph said to Rory the night of the funeral. "So all you do must be for us." He had never seen Rory cry before, not even as a child, but Rory broke down and wept like a woman, his face in his hands. "What is it?" Joseph asked, but not with contempt. Rory did not answer. The ancient Celt was stirring in Rory also, but he could not have explained it logically. There was only a dark confusion within him, a far clashing, a sound like footsteps in the night, a breath that could not be identified; but also a certitude, a terror, a dread. He wanted to run to Marjorie, the sane and lovingly mocking, and be held in her arms, for Mar- jorie knew no turmoils and was full of common sense. So was Elizabeth Hennessey who, if Catholic, was also AngloSaxon. Her reticence had kept her from going to the Armagh house during the period of mourning, though she ached for Joseph. She had sent flowers from her conservatory. She had written notes of condolence to Bernadette, and to her lover. She had not been invited to the funeral. She thought of Kevin, the big dark young man who was so solid and sensible and kind. Why was it that the best died and the evil lived and flourished? It was an old mystery, not to be explained. But, in truth, Elizabeth did not believe in mysteries. She went to Kevin's raw grave the next day and said to him, "Godspeed, my dear, Godspeed," though she did not believe in the incantation. There had been no message from Joseph for a long time. Elizabeth waited. There was nothing else she could do. If a woman was helplessly and hopelessly in love with a man like Joseph Armagh she could not be even delicately aggressive or suggestive; she could not intrude, demand, accuse. She could only wait, and sit at her window and wonder if Joseph were still in his house or had left for Philadelphia, Chicago, New York, Boston, or other cities. There was no word from him. Is it over? she asked herself, and felt that she could not endure existence if that were so. She had seen photographs in the newspapers of Joseph tenderly enclosing his wife in his arms at the funeral, and then leading her into the carriage, she collapsed against him. Men were sentimental, unlike women. Perhaps the death of his son had made him turn diligently and remorsefully to his wife; it was just like a man. Men loved the heroic and self-denying role, even if it destroyed them. In many ways they were serious actors, and adored dramatics. Often they did not know they were acting. It was that part of masculine nature which Elizabeth feared and distrusted. That part surely played its own role in wars, for men were romanticists and always, thought Elizabeth with wry sadness, on parade. No true woman had ever written a marching song nor had yearned to blow a bugle or sound a drum. No woman, really, had ever put "duty" above love, unless she had loved only a little. Women knew the forces of life and what impelled them; men could only write poetry. Women lived. Men struck postures. In the second week of September Joseph came to Elizabeth. She held out her arms mutely to him, wise enough not to cry, not to ask, not to reproach, not even to console. She took him to her bed, almost without speaking, and held him close and kissed him and said nothing. She lay in his arms and felt his love and his grief and his anguish, and touched him gently-and still said nothing. She had the wisdom of a woman completely in love, asking only to give. It was enough for her that he had returned to her. There was nothing else. It was almost dawn when he said to her abruptly, "I asked you before, Elizabeth. Do you believe in curses?" "No," she said at once. "If you are speaking of family calamities-they happen to all families, without curses, sooner or later. I believe in a merciful God. He would not permit any of His children to curse His other children. 'Vengeance is mine/ sayeth the Lord. 'I will repay.'" That's what I am afraid of, thought Joseph, the wry Celt, who did not believe in God. He tried to smile at Elizabeth in the blue-gray light of dawn. "Don't become mystical with me, Lizzie. There is no occult Vengeance.'" Then, why did you ask? Elizabeth asked him silently. But she only kissed him gently. She said to him, "I am not superstitious, and neither are you, my darling." They did not speak of their families. Joseph asked nothing about Courtney. Elizabeth held Joseph in her arms and felt she was holding her whole world. But a man with a woman did not feel that. This she knew. It was enough for her that she loved and was loved in return, but a man never gave his whole heart to love and that was a fact with which no wise woman ever quarreled. Joseph, in Philadelphia, read the reports gathered by Charles Devereaux and his investigators regarding his son, Rory, and he felt a cold outraged anger. That damned young swine, secretive, wily. Why had he married the girl? To be sure, she was of a notable and aristocratic family, of much wealth and position. But why had he married her and so jeopardized his future? "I feel that Rory has done himself well," said Charles, looking at Joseph with curiously remote gray eyes. "Marjorie Chisholm has an impeccable background. They married in secret because of possible opposition by their families. I am not going to question Rory's reasons for fearing you would oppose the marriage. I know the reasons of Mr. Albert Chisholm. I think the marriage should be revealed. It will not do Rory harm. It might, indeed, do him a lot of good-married to the daughter of a distinguished family, of Boston." "You wouldn't understand," said Joseph. "He is going to marry the daughter of the ambassador, Claudia Worthington, who is related to the British Royal Family." Charles said, "No, I don't understand," but he did. He, too, was partly of an oppressed race who longed for both justification and retribution. "Write for an appointment for me with Mr. Albert Chisholm, confidentially," said Joseph. "In the meantime, talk to the minister who married them, and the town clerk who recorded the marriage. You know what to do, Charles." Unfortunately Charles did. He did not like it nor approve of it. But, he was the son of his father and there were other things to consider besides emotionalism and what men called "love." Mr. Albert Chisholm, upon receiving Charles's cool and businesslike letter, thought to himself, No doubt that scoundrel, Armagh, is going to plead with me to allow a marriage between his son and Marjorie. I will soon put him in his place. That night he called his daughter to him and said, "Marjorie, my dear, are you ever seeing that young-Armagh, is his name? I truly hope not. You know I forbade you to see him again or to answer his letters and his impudent importunities." Marjorie's smooth olive face became very still. "Why do you ask, Papa?" The letter had been very confidential, from Charles, and Albert was too sensible a man, and knew too much of the Armagh power, to be indiscreet. So he said, "I have noticed that you never accept the invitations of highly eligible young men, my dear child. So I have feared you are still thinking of that rascal's son." Marjorie dropped her eyes demurely. "I go nowhere with Mr. Armagh," she said, and this was quite true. "I am afraid that other young men do not interest me, as yet. They seem so callow-compared with you, Papa." Mr. Chisholm bridled with pride and happiness, but he shook his finger archly at his pretty little daughter. "But Papa cannot remain forever with you, my love. You must really consider marriage. After all, you are going on twenty-one-in eight months." She suddenly sat on his knee and began to cry, and he was taken aback. He said, as he smoothed her thick glossy curls, "My dearest child, I did not mean to make you unhappy. Marjorie, I would do anything in the world to give you happiness, in the measure allowed to human beings. You must never forget that." She put her small round arms about his neck and cried even harder and cursed Rory inwardly for his insistence on secrecy. She could no longer bear the deception on her father. She looked at him tearfully. "Even if I wanted to marry Rory, Papa?" He stiffened, and hesitated, then said with resolution, "I pray, my child, it will never come to that. But, if it does, I will swallow my pride and permit it. But do not think rashly, Marjorie. Your whole future depends on one decision." Marjorie cuddled in his lap like a kitten, thinking furiously. Then, without any warning at all, a terrible premonition came to her, of desolation and abandonment. It was silly. She was Rory's wife. It is true that his brother had been killed in the war, but nothing evil could ever happen to her Rory, nothing could ever separate them. Nothing.
Chapter 46
Mr. Albert Chisholm had decided exactly how he would receive the swaggering and impudent Irishman, Mr. Joseph Armagh. He would sit calmly in his office, behind the desk which had belonged to his grandfather, with the silver bowl made by his distant relative, Paul Revere, filled with fresh flowers-it was late September and the flowers were bronze and gold-and he would receive Mr. Armagh with calm dignity and courtesy and offer him a cigar. He would speak in quiet and modulated accents- these Irish were so loud and noisy and obstinate-and so Mr. Armagh would know that for the first time in his life he had encountered an authentic gentleman. Mr. Chisholm had given orders to his secretaries. They would conduct Mr. Armagh at once to his inner sanctuary, with discretion and soft footsteps, and would not converse with him. Mr. Chisholm had a whole lifetime of decorum, proper behavior, and patrician cliches behind him, so he would not need to strive confusedly for these things. They were automatic. He wore his frock coat and striped trousers and stiff winged collar and black cravat with the pearl pin, and discreet gold cufflinks, and his gray mustache was neatly cut and waxed and his light eyes were calm. The day was cool and so a small fire burned in brisk orange on his black marble hearth, and behind him loomed his immense law library, all beautifully bound in gold, crimson, and dark blue leather, and the carpet on the floor was a true Aubusson, and the wood that showed was polished to a rich mahogany. The furniture was all black leather, and burnished, and the aromatic scent of the chrysanthemums mingled with the scent of lemon oil polish and beeswax and burning cannel coal. His clean windows looked out on the street, with dark red draperies framing them. All in all, he thought, it was very impressive, and though he was one of the three partners of the firm his grandfather had established he had many young and ambitious lawyers "under" him, who did most of the work now. (They, being brash and young, called him "Grandpa" behind his back and had little respect for his legal knowledge. "Grandpa stuck with the Law," they would say derisively, whereas anyone of intelligence knew that the Law was to be manipulated by clever men in behalf of affluent clients. They had increased the business, and Mr. Chisholm believed it was all due to him.) A secretary put his head into the room and announced Mr. Armagh. Mr. Chisholm rose in a stately fashion and waited. In a few moments, he feared, the big room would be roaring with a rude Irish voice, barroom expletives, shouting and what not. Mr. Chisholm had asked for a brass spittoon that morning, and one stood near the visitor's chair, across from the desk, for no doubt Mr. Armagh was an ardent tobacco-chewer and spitter. Mr. Chisholm had thought of a newspaper under the spittoon, but that would be rude, he had finally decreed. He had sighed. He had already decided that if Mr. Armagh was really desirous of his son marrying Marjorie, and if the young people, unfortunately, were as eager, he might be persuaded to take the matter under advisement, however it offended his standards and his hopes for Marjorie, who had been the belle of all the cotillions and whose debut had been mentioned in the New York and Philadelphia newspapers. But he winced at the thought of Marjorie belonging to such a family, and having all her delicate sensibilities constantly outraged. Joseph entered the office and the secretary closed the door softly behind him. Mr. Chisholm gaped. He could not believe it. Here was one not at all like the Irish Boston Mayors, such as Old Syrup, and sundry other politicians whom the fastidious Mr. Chisholm had long deplored. Here was a tall, lean man impeccably dressed in dark well-tailored clothing, his linen immaculate and beyond reproach, his few pieces of jewelry in excellent taste, his boots narrow and quietly polished. But it was Joseph's ascetic face which fixed Mr. Chisholm's attention, that reserved, emotionless face, clean-shaven, stark and-yes!-aristocratic. The mingled russet and white of his hair had been expertly barbered, neither too long nor too short, and his expression was both controlled and formidable, and those eyes were the eyes of a most intelligent and immovable man. Something tight loosened in Mr. Chisholm. Was it possible that this immigrant Irishman was a gentleman? Scots-Irish, perhaps, with a background of Covenanters? Mr. Chisholm had such in his own family. "Mr. Armagh, I presume?" said Mr. Chisholm in a carefully subdued voice and held out his hand. Mr. Armagh took that hand briefly. It was long and slender, Mr. Chisholm noted, and very strong and dry. Mr. Chisholm had not intended to say this but he did: "I was most distressed to hear of your son's death, ah, in the line of duty, Mr. Armagh." "Thank you," said Joseph. His voice, Mr. Chisholm thought, might be a little too melodious, with a certain lilt notable in the Irish, but it was the voice of a gentleman! Neither too emphatic nor dull, and very controlled. "Please sit down, Mr. Armagh," said Mr. Chisholm, a little shaken. Why, compared with this man, Rory Armagh, the son, was a hod-carrier! Still, blood told. The mother, perhaps, was a vulgar woman, and that explained Rory's skeptical wide laughter, vibrant coloring, vitality, and the cynical smile he bestowed on everybody, and his way of lightly mocking his elders. Still, blood told, and Mr. Armagh was evidently a man of "blood." Mr. Chisholm felt his vitals quiver with relief. Mr. Armagh was also very, very powerful, and very, very rich. There might be a compromise- It was rumored that some of the Irish were descended from kings; landed gentry. Joseph had seated himself, one long lean leg over the knee of the other, and he was looking at Mr. Chisholm, still not seated, with a most penetrating regard. "Brandy, Mr. Armagh?" asked Mr. Chisholm, gesturing to a small cabinet nearby. "No, thank you. I don't drink," said Joseph. Well! An Irishman who did not drink! Mr. Chisholm drank discreetly, such as brandy and the best of wines, but he respected men who did not drink. "A cigar?" suggested Mr. Chisholm, more and more shaken. "No, thank you. I don't smoke." Mr. Chisholm was an expert on picking out plebeians who affected to aristocratic restraints, and he knew that Joseph was not affected in his rejection of brandy and cigars. He simply did not care for them. "I know you are a very busy lawyer," said Joseph, who was studying Mr. Chisholm acutely. "So I will take up as little of your time as possible." He had come swiftly to the conclusion that Mr. Chisholm was not very intelligent, but was a gentleman and a slight ditherer, and a kind and somewhat hesitant man. Under other circumstances Joseph would have been inclined to look favorably upon him and think that Rory had not made too bad a choice in a family. He glanced quickly at a silver-framed photograph of Miss Marjorie Chisholm on Mr. Chisholm's desk. A lovely child, with a fine bright face and mischievous eyes and a wide brow and a tangle of black curls: No one could quarrel with such a beauty. He bent and opened his dispatch case and brought out a sheaf of documents and laid them on Mr. Chisholm's desk. "I have discovered, as no doubt you have, sir, that documents and evidence are much more telling than conversation, and save a lot of time. May I suggest that you read these?" Mr. Chisholm gaped again, and sat down slowly and then put on his pince-nez. He began to read. Joseph did not watch him. He looked about the room and thought how much this resembled his own rooms at Green Hills. However, there was no aura of power here, just meticulous and boring law, ponderous and dusty. Yes, a ditherer, poor bastard. There was an ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, and its soft tick became louder and louder in the complete quiet of the room, and the small noise of the fire was the noise of an approaching holocaust. Joseph began to watch Mr. Chisholm's face. Moment by moment, as he quietly turned page after page, his coloring dwindled, became very pale, then absolutely white, and his facial muscles sagged and twitched, and his eyes drooped, and a thin double-chin began to hang under the real one, like dewlaps. Suddenly, he was an old and diminished man, and his mustache quivered, and he sank deeper and deeper into his chair. His hands began to tremble, then increased to a palsy. His lips, under that pathetically groomed mustache, became purplish gray, and jerked. Joseph frowned. He had hoped not to encounter this. He had thought to face a very quietly pompous man of much composure and resolution, who would agree with him, or at least listen to his arguments. But Mr. Chisholm was looking broken and disintegrated. Joseph suddenly remembered what his father had said: "Gentlemen do not fight. They come to an agreement." Joseph had laughed at that, even when he had been only twelve. He had always laughed at it-until now. Had he known fully about Mr. Chisholm his approach would have been different. Damn Charles. Charles was a gentleman. He should have warned his employer. Mr. Chisholm slowly turned the last page. He looked at Joseph. Joseph had expected stricken and terrified eyes, but Mr. Chisholm's were wounded and unafraid. "So," Mr. Chisholm said, "my daughter is married to your son, Rory. I forbade her to see him. I knew nothing but catastrophe could result. I was quite correct. Mr. Armagh-it was not necessary for you to threaten me, and Marjorie." Joseph sat forward. "I did not know with whom I had to deal, Mr. Chisholm, or my approach would have been different. Let me be brief. I have other plans for my son. He is all I have left. He must make a name for himself. Your daughter cannot give him that name." Mr. Chisholm said, as if he had not heard Joseph: "If Marjorie, and I, do not give our consent to the annulment of this marriage you will shame my dear daughter as not being married at all-she was underage- and the minister was 'deceived.' In fact, the minister was a fraud, and not a duly ordained minister. The town clerk who recorded the marriage was deceived also. He never recorded the marriage. All records have been destroyed in that little village. There is no record. Therefore, Marjorie has been guilty of fornication with your son. You know these are all lies, Mr. Armagh. You have used your influence. If Marjorie, and I, give our consent to a legal annulment, quietly suppressed so that no one will know, there will be no reprisals. Am I correct, Mr. Armagh?" "You are correct, sir," said Joseph. "If we do not agree"-and Mr. Chisholm was taken by a violent spell of coughing-"you will ruin me. You have done your research very well, sir. It is quite true that the Panic of '93 forced me into debt, and I have not recovered my finances. You own my paper at the banks. You will demand payment on that paper. That will reduce me to penury. I thought my bankers-were gentlemen." Joseph said, "Bankers are never gentlemen." Mr. Chisholm nodded. "I know that now. I see terrible ramifications- My ancestors fought for America- No matter. That will bore you. Sir, if Marjorie quietly seeks an annulment of this fatal marriage, and it is granted without publicity, you will withdraw your threats against my daughter, and me?" "Yes," said Joseph, and he stood up and went to the windows and looked out. "And if we inform your son, Rory, you will still take reprisals?" "Yes," said Joseph. "He must never know. Your daughter must just tell him the marriage is over, for her own reasons." Mr. Chisholm reflected. "You love your son, and I love my daughter. I was willing that this marriage continue. But you are not. Mr. Armagh, on second thought, I am desirous that my daughter should not be connected with you. With you, sir. Even through your son. She would not be able to bear it. She was brought up in an honorable family-" Joseph swung to him so sharply that Mr. Chisholm recoiled. "So was I," said Joseph. "An honorable, God-fearing, decent, land-owning family. A family, a nation, a religion, ancient in history. But, sir, we were destroyed as ruthlessly as Russian serfs are destroyed by their masters. We were hunted down like animals, like vermin, for no reason at all but that we wanted to be free, as a nation, and to practice our religion. That was quite a heinous crime, wasn't it? To be free is to be condemned. To seek freedom is to be a criminal. To revolt against oppressors is to die. Yes, I know that. Your own ancestors left England for just the same thing. But you have forgotten. Your ancestors were poor driven English yeomen, who wanted nothing but peace and to serve their religion. This they were denied, as my people were denied. So they emigrated-here. "Long before your ancestors were a distinct people, sir, the Irish were an ancient proud race. We were never slaves, as you Anglo-Saxons were, and never, by God, shall we be slaves!" Mr. Chisholm sat back in his chair and stared and his thoughts were jumbled. Then, still looking at Joseph he said, "You are taking revenge." Joseph returned to his chair and sat down. "You are very subtle, Mr. Chisholm." "I never knew I was," said Mr. Chisholm, almost with humility. "But this I know now: There will be no peace or civilization in this world until we forget our wrongs and live and work together as men, and not avengers." "That will be the Millennium," said Joseph, and he smiled. "Do we not all have reason to be avengers?" "I do not," said Mr. Chisholm, and believed it. He felt humble and sick and ashamed, and, odd to say, he felt compassion for Joseph Armagh. Then, thought Joseph, you have no spirit. "So long as we hold hatred for anyone," said Mr. Chisholm, marveling at his new thoughts, "we are not men at all. We are beasts. It is against the dignity of men that we should hate. It is against the ordinances of God." You are a naive fool, thought Joseph, with some pity. You do not know what is going on in the least. If I told you you would drop dead of horror and despair. Perhaps your God is merciful. He will never let you know. But Mr. Chisholm was looking at him strangely. "Mr. Armagh, you have no religion at all, have you?" Joseph was silent for a moment or two, then he said, "No. I do not. I have not believed in anything since I was a young child. The world taught me that, sir." Mr. Chisholm nodded. "I so suspected. Mr. Armagh, one of these days you will be driven to the edge." He stood up. He was stately again, but not with an offensive stateliness. He said, "Mr. Armagh, what you wish will be consummated. You may rest assured of that. I am not impressed by your threats against me and my daughter. I wish it ended. I hope never to see you again." Then Joseph said, "I wish I had known your kind when I was a child, sir. We might have come to the same conclusion." His face was full of regret, and yet he was coldly amused. He left then and Mr. Chisholm watched him go. Again, he was