Captains and The Kings (39 page)

for his family and stops at nothing, and the family is not grateful. Often, it despises. I gave my family not only my life, but all the love and devotion of which I am capable. Do they understand? Or, in a twisted way, do they think they are entitled to all this, for which I labored and gave up my own youth? It was only when Regina came to him, silently, touching his hand, kissing his cheek, her eyes filled with a mysterious light, that he felt comforted, reassured. He had the strangest feeling that she understood everything he thought in his moments of misery. She would even, at her age, climb on his knee as she had done as a young child and put her arms about his neck and kiss him softly, and hold him as a mother holds a son, protecting him from pain, calling to him that she was there and would not leave him. Once he asked her with his cold abruptness, "What's wrong with Sean?" She had thought for a moment, and then she had said, "He is afraid that you think he is foolish, or something, and not serious. He has never told me. It is just something I have felt, Joe. He is truly grateful to you; he knows what you have done for us. But you, in some way, will not let him tell you. He is not strong as you are strong, Joe. You have a very sharp way of speaking. Sean is now a man, not a little boy. You are not his father. Treat him as a respected brother and not one you believe has no wits at all." "But, he has no wits," said Joseph, and then he smiled. "He has his own wits," said Regina, and for one of few times Joseph was impatient with her. A man was a man, or he was not a man. Daniel Armagh had not been a man. Today, they went back to the Hospice, where they were staying for a few days. Very shortly they would move into the house on Willoughby Road. Sean and Regina would not see Titusville again, in its uproarious venality and noise and vigilantes and confusion and vicious characters. For some reason which Joseph was never to understand Sean had found it exciting, in spite of his delicate airs and elegance. He had taken a great fancy to Mr. Montrose, and Mr. Montrose appeared to have affection for him, something else which vexed and confused Joseph. (Mr. Montrose had left for Virginia a year ago.) Sean, in Titusville, was alert and glowing and interested. He even went out to the oil fields. He would walk the crowded and noisy streets with an air of delight. He had attached himself to Harry Zeff and his young wife, Liza, with happy devotion. (Harry was now, to Joseph, what Mr. Montrose had been to Mr. Healey.) Harry seemed to like him and enjoy his company. He would listen to Sean when he sang Irish ballads, and applaud with enthusiasm. "Why don't you teach him to be a man in the raw business of life, Harry?" Joseph once asked. "There are many ways of being a man, Joe," said Harry. "He's feckless and a milksop." Harry and Liza had built a house for themselves in Titusville which decorously followed the fashion of old and established residences. They had urged Joseph to stay with them when he was in Titusville, but he preferred the solitude of his hotel. Besides, the distant cries of Harry's infant twin sons annoyed Joseph. Liza had the delusion of the common born: she believed everyone was interested in her offspring and would \ interrupt Joseph and Harry, when they were in her house, by triumphantly ^bringing the squalling little boys into Harry's "study." Even Harry, the perpetually good-natured, would have to order her to leave, which made her cry. Joseph liked Liza and remembered her days of brutality in Mr. Healey's house. But she was now comparatively rich, and had nursemaids, and the intrusion was unpardonable. "Why don't you get married?" Harry Zeff asked his friend. The very thought was repugnant to Joseph. His old habit of considering his sister and his brother intruded on him. "I have seen no woman as yet," he said, "that I would want to marry." He thought of {Catherine Hennessey. Then Harry said, watching him, "You are a multimillionaire now, Joe. Who is going to get your money? Your sister? She will probably marry, herself. Your brother-" And Harry paused, more keenly watching him. Sean. Sean would go to Harvard. Then, what would he do? Would Harvard make a responsible man of him, serious, determined to succeed? Would it change his character, make it resolute and strong? Joseph thought, and he was appalled. He knew that men never changed their nature. The three Armaghs moved into their new house, which now contained its full staff of servants, and were accompanied by Regina's governess, a young lady who had been rigorously convent-trained, and Sean's tutor. (The latter had been chosen from applicants in Boston, a young man named Timothy Dineen, whom Joseph had liked for his serious appearance, his maturity, and his firm understanding of what was important in life, such as fortitude, courage, intelligence, learning, and manliness. Joseph hoped that Timothy would impart some of his principles to Sean but so far the result had not been one for enthusiasm.) Sister Elizabeth had selected Regina's governess, a Miss Kathleen Faulk, whose mother was known to the old nun. "I want no pieties in this house," Joseph had told the young woman and Timothy from the start. "Keep your holy water, your medals, your crucifixes, your pious literature and your holy pictures, in your own quarters, and do not intrude them elsewhere." Timothy, who was fearless, and several years younger than Joseph, said, "Mr. Armagh, may I enquire, then, why you chose Catholics for your sister and your brother?" In spite of himself Joseph gave his hard-lipped smile. "I don't want them to be out of their element-yet. It might confuse them. As for Miss Regina, she is very religious and I never interfere with one's religion. It would make her unhappy to deprive her of what she has always known. Sean -there is muscle in your religion, Mr. Dineen, as well as sentimentality and statues in sickly colors. Endurance. Fearlessness. Respect for authority and education. Masculinity. Awareness of living. Strength. I've known many old priests-" He paused, and Timothy held his own mouth still. "They had what we call fortitude, and faced a Sassenagh with a gun with nothing but their breviaries in their own hands and shouted him down for the sake of a child or a helpless woman." Again he paused, remembering, and the dark Celtic gloom deepened on his face and the younger man felt a confused pity. "So," said Joseph, "try to put some steel into the backbone of your pupil, Mr. Dineen, and make him a little worthy of the brave men who died for him." Such as yourself, poor devil, thought young Timothy, who had had the good fortune to be born "lace-curtain" Irish, and whose grandfather had come to America long before the Famine and with a sturdy trade in his hands. Miss Kathleen Faulk was a pallid fair young woman, very thin but durable, with a large nose and light eyes and an air of competence. She was very tall, much taller than Timothy Dineen, who had a quick but squarish look, solid and compact, obvious muscles and vitality and health, and very deep black eyes and a rolling mass of black hair. He looked like a pugilist, rather than a scholar, and had been taught by the Jesuits and had few illusions left, as he would remark. He wore spectacles on his snubbed nose and his mouth was strong and pink and a little inflexible. Miss Faulk, who earnestly desired to be married, had considered Timothy at once, even though his head did come only to the height of her nostrils, but he continued to show no interest. Now horses were quartered in the stables, and carriages, traps and buggies, all of the best quality, and exotic plants were already blooming, this chill November day, in the glass conservatories, and warm fires burned on brown, blue, white, rose, and purplish marble hearths all over the big fcbright house. Joseph had ordered that the servants' quarters under the j eaves be made as comfortable and pleasant as possible, and he gave them £xcellcnt wages and was courteous to them, and they marveled and were Lhappy and did all they could to please the somber Master on his return {from his affairs in Titusville, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Boston, New York, and in other cities. "We must have a party!" said Sean to his sister after they had been ^installed in their new house for a month and the first snow was falling. "We must ask Joe," said Regina. "Joe?" said Sean. "You know what he would say, Ginny. No." "He knows we can't live alone," said the girl. "He has told me to make friends. I know a lot of the girls in the convent. They would be so pleased jto be invited here, with a few of the Sisters." Sean was aghast. "That ugly mass of tatterdemalions! Joe would give the back of his hand to them, and so would I. I never want to think of that orphanage again. Ginny, you know how I detest their ugliness and poverty and smells-I never could stand them. Their very presence here would depress me beyond describing." Regina was horrified. She knew that Sean shrank from the sight of suffering, and everything morbid and wretched and unbeautiful, but she had endured the same deprivations and the same unlovely scenes, and thought of the orphanage, now, with compassion and sadness and a hope that she might be able to persuade Joseph to make life there brighter and more bearable. "They would remind me," said Sean, with real distress, "of all those terrible years we had to spend there, for no fault of our own. And we waited, and waited, all that time, for Joe to keep his promise. I had just about given up hope- He could have done it sooner." He tossed back his golden hair in a gesture of remembered misery and resentment. "He must have wasted a lot of time. He could have done it sooner." "He could not have done it sooner!" said Regina. "How can you be so cruel, Sean? Sister Elizabeth has told me what Joe suffered, and how he worked for us-" She could not continue for fear of bursting out crying. For one of the rare times in her tranquil life she felt the sharp edge of uncontrollable anger and indignation. "Very well," said Sean. "I am grateful, and you know it, Ginny, and I don't like the peculiar way you are staring at me now. It is just that I cannot even endure the very thought of those-people. The orphanage. Our party must be made up of better specimens." "Richer, more fortunate, perhaps?" said Regina and her young voice held its first bitterness, its first contempt, and Sean looked at her uneasily and wondered what had happened to his benign and thoughtful sister and her understanding. Regina thought: I believed that Sean had the kindest and tenderest of hearts, and perhaps he has though I don't know any longer. Perhaps he is one of those who cannot bear the sight of ugliness or pain or despair, not out of cruelty or hardness but out of a fear of them and because they offend his eye. Sean said, "Very well, Ginny, I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. But I can't help what I feel, dear. I never want even to think of that orphanage again, where we were caged like beasts." His melodious voice rose passionately. "Can't you understand, Ginny? I don't care about new friends being richer or more fortunate, as you called them. I just want to know people who are different from those we have known. Is that so heartless, so incomprehensible?" Regina bent her head and a long black curtain of her hair fell over her face and half hid it. "I will ask Joe," she said. She stood up and left the luxurious breakfast room where she and Sean had been eating, and Sean watched her go, hurt and somewhat perplexed, and with a feeling that his sister had betrayed him.
He had always thought of Regina as a young princess, tall and stately and serene, always ready with a look or touch of sympathy, always gazing at her brother with great dark blue eyes which swam with radiance and affection. Now, he thought, it is always Joe, Joe, Joe, as if he were a member of the Trinity, Itself, instead of a rough brute of a man without any of the amenities and with the face of a boulder that has stared at the sky relentlessly for ages. He always frightened me half to death, even at his best. No finer feelings, no subtleties, no eye except for money, money, money. Scan absently fingered the goldpieces in his own pocket and forgot who had given them to him. Sighing, he went into one of the noble parlors-now called the music room-and sat down at the piano and played to console himself and ease the misery of his own dejection. Soon the delectable notes of Debussy dashed at the gilded paneled walls like bright water, and sparkled in the air and sang like fountains in the sun. Finally, feeling much happier, Scan's fingers rippled gayly on the board and he threw back his head and sang joyously, hardly conscious of the words but only of the music: "They're hanging men and women for the wearing of the Green!" He heard a cough and looked up, smiling, to see Timothy Dineen standing near him. His hands fell from the keys. "Pretty song, isn't it?" asked Timothy. Scan began to laugh his light laugh but something in Timothy's face startled him, and again he was baffled. Everyone was very strange this morning. "I had two uncles who were hanged, and a young aunt," said Timothy, "for that very 'wearing of the green,' in Ireland. Somehow, I don't find it very amusing."
"For God's sake!" cried Scan. "I was just singing! Doesn't a man dare sing in this house?" But Timothy was staring at the newly falling snow through the velvet- draped windows. "I don't think your brother would like to hear that song sung so merrily, either," he said. "But come along. You are already half an hour late for your studies." His black eyes contemplated Scan without kindness, and then he turned and went out.
Chapter 27
Katherine Hennessey walked slowly and with considerable feebleness across the vast and whitely shining hall of her house. From large arched windows draped in lace and velvet on each side of the huge bronze doors the lucid light of early morning poured into the hall, and there was softer light streaming down the enormous marble stairs which led to upper floors. Sofas and love seats in rose and gold and blue lined the white- paneled walls, which were traced in silver, and upon orange plants and other exotic flora in their Chinese pots. The air was warm and silky, for this was the middle of May, and the scent of flowering gardens and shrubs and red-bud trees had penetrated into the hall. Beyond the doors fresh new trees lifted their leaves, and they were so young that they appeared wet with gleaming water, and they stirred and glittered in the sun.
A profound and tremulous hope had come to Katherine Hennessey recently, for her husband would run for Governor of the Commonwealth in November, and he would be at home more often, perhaps every weekend and at every holiday, and several consecutive weeks in the year. She had hated Washington and its mud and its teeming people and its predatory politicians, and its dank streets ugly to her, for all their width, and the blank Circles and the ostentatiously large government buildings, and the stench of its Negro slums, and its sewers. The climate had made her ill. The Potomac, to her, was a sluggish and filthy and noxious stream, often covered with fog, and now, to her, the city was a tomb for she still mourned Mr. Lincoln. The houses, the majority of them, had seemed crowded and unattractive, and the wooden and brick walks rough to her feet, and the cobblestones had appeared slimy. She was quite convinced that Washington had put its own disgusting mark on her husband-poor Tom-and had wearied him to death, and had separated him from his family because of endless and devoted duties. Even in summer, that most awful and impossible summer of Washington, he had had to remain in Washington, toiling for the welfare of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and the whole nation, enduring the sodden heat, the stinks, the almost tropical rains and storms, and the pervading mud. Now he would come home. When in Philadelphia-she did not doubt that a grateful Commonwealth would elect him-he would be very near. Perhaps they could have a small house there where she could be with him. He was not young any longer. He was in his late fifties. Here her sorrowful mind would become darkly shifting and confused. In Washington, there had been so many Temptations from Unscrupulous Adventuresses, all preying on defenseless politicians so far from home-so lonely-so homesick - One could not always blame the Gentlemen-one had to hold fast and love and understand, and forgive. One must always console herself that she was the Wife, the Chosen, and must think as little as possible no matter when grief assaulted her and shame and humiliation, and not imagine herself an actual object of contempt, despised, rejected. One must conceal Tears. Katherine was often stringent and harsh in her thoughts of herself. She had frequently, when her pain was too great, gently upbraided her husband, and had wept, and had forgotten that Gentlemen detested tears and fled from them, and that they deserved more consideration from their wives.