Captains and The Kings (76 page)

swamped in pity, and again he was humbled. God forgive us, he thought, for what we do to each other. Mr. Chisholm said to his daughter, Marjorie, in his study at home: "He will not only destroy us, my love, but he will destroy his son, Rory, also, unless we agree to this. It is for you to choose." "You mean, Papa, that you are willing to do as I choose?" asked Marjorie. She had not cried at all. She had sat near her father in his study, with his confidential secretary and personal lawyer, Bernard Levine, just behind her, listening. Bernard had been hopelessly in love with Marjorie for a number of years; he was a slight young man with a quiet intelligent face, brown eyes and hair, who listened more than he spoke. "I mean exactly that, my love," said Mr. Chisholm. "No matter the result, it is yours to say and only yours," and he thought how much she resembled her mother as she sat before him in her blue serge suit and shirtwaist and neat little buttoned boots, her black curls vehemently bursting from her pompadour, her small face quickly changing with her emotions and her black eyes eloquent but disciplined. He had called her and Bernard into his study that night, and had simply given his daughter the papers Joseph had left with him. Only once had she exclaimed uncontrollably, and that was at the revelation of her marriage to Rory. "Oh, Papa!" she had cried, in a tone of deep remorse and affection. "I am so sorry that I deceived you. But it was for Rory's sake. His father-" "I know all about Mr. Armagh," said Mr. Chisholm, with sadness. "I wish we had known each other earlier." This was so enigmatic to Marjorie that she had stared at him and wondered.^ Now he had given her the choice, to destroy him, and perhaps Rory, to save her marriage. She doubted that Joseph would "destroy" Rory, his only remaining son, and in a way his only remaining child, out of disappointed ambition and his famous anger. He was not so womanishly capricious, as Rory had often remarked. His first rages, Rory had told her, were later modified by pragmatism and his own brand of reason. But still, Rory had not cared to risk that rage by revealing his marriage. Marjorie felt cold and sick and wild with anguish. Surely it was all a nightmare She was now being asked to give up Rory, never to see Rory again, to permit the destruction of her marriage. Rory, Rory. She became incredulous. I "He, Mr. Armagh, would not do what he threatened to do, Papa!" She, clenched her little hands on her knee. "Why, he loves Rory, and Rory loves him! Rory is all he has!" Mr. Chisholm noted, with sorrow, that Rory, not himself, was first in : her thoughts. "I am afraid, my dear, that he would do exactly that." Mr. Chisholm turned to Bernard. "You saw Mr. Armagh in my office today. You know, from reading the newspapers and the hints in them, what Mr. Armagh is. Bernard, do you think that in this instance he would mellow, come to terms, to acceptance?" Bernard hesitated. It tore him apart, he thought, to sec Marjorie so agonized, for all her calm. But he said, "From what I know of Mr. Armagh, and his history-the man has fascinated me for a long time for some reason, and I have read almost everything concerning him-yes, I think he would do that. I read, on the occasion of his brother's murder, that he had, for many years, abandoned that brother before their reconciliation because Mr. Scan Paul did not rise to his standards, and ambitions. There is also a rumor that he has a sister in a convent, whom he ignores. That may be only hearsay. And there has been gossip, newly revived, that he was the cause of the death of his father-in-law, long ago. I understand that he has ruined many men, in pursuit of his goals. That part is no mere gossip, or hearsay. It is a fact. He has stated in these papers before us that he has 'other plans' for his son. I think we can safely say that if those plans are thwarted that he will do as he has threatened. I never heard that he threatened anyone without carrying it out. There is a great deal about Mr. Armagh that I know from my long reading about him." "Just in newspapers, and magazines, Bernie?" asked Marjorie, and now she was paling even more and she was more tense. "No. There was something about international bankers which I read recently. Mr. Armagh is a director of many large banks in the United States, so it is safe to say that he is in close touch with the bankers of America, and Europe. It was all in a-book. I hear it was suppressed, later, just when it began to be sold in quantity. I don't know if Mr. Armagh is one of them, but he is certainly entangled with them." He looked at Mr. Chisholm, sitting in ashen misery in his leather chair. Mr. Chisholm looked disbelieving. "Bernard, what you are hinting, it is not to be believed!" Bernard shrugged his shoulders, a gesture Mr. Chisholm disliked, and spread out his hands in a "foreign" gesture which Mr. Chisholm disliked even more. "I read, just today, in the Boston Gazette-a newspaper you do not care for, sir-that our government is in deep debt to the bankers for this past war, and that the U. S. Supreme Court will soon declare the Federal income tax un-Constitutional again. The war, though short, cost several billion dollars. The bankers in New York hold the government's paper. In an interview with Mr. Morgan he declares that the only way to be 'solvent' is to have a permanent Federal income tax. In short, if we are to have wars-though he did not say that, of course-the people must be taxed for them. No taxes, no wars. I also read a privately circulated leaflet that there is something called a Scardo Society, formed of prominent American politicians and industrialists, who have already decided that wars are necessary for prosperity, in this increasingly industrial age." lie shrugged again. "There have been many hints of these things in the New York newspapers, too. Whatever is going on, sir, is being kept very secret, and those who even slightly suspect are being ridiculed or ignored or suppressed. I don't know, sir. It is certainly very sinister." Again he spread out his hands. "I do know that reviewers in the newspapers ridiculed and violently attacked that book I mentioned, and called the writer a believer in bogeymen. There was a curious similarity in the attacks." Mr. Chisholm sat in profound and shaken thought, and Marjorie thought, Oh, Rory, Rory! Nothing must part us, Rory, never, never. The great cry in her swelled to her eyes, eyes dry and aching, and there was a choking in her throat. She was filled with desolation, rebellion, hatred, despair. Mr. Chisholm came out of his shock, shaking his head. "I am glad I am no longer young, and have no sons," he said. "For the first time in my life I have a fear for my country. Still, I can hardly believe it. I am sure we will never have a Federal income tax on individuals; I am sure we will have no more wars. The Hague repeatedly says so- No matter. We must solve our own problem. Marjorie, my dear?" "I cannot believe a man can be so monstrous as to threaten a harmless gentleman like you, Papa, and a harmless girl like myself-and his own son! His own son!" Mr. Chisholm could not bear to look at his beloved daughter, so pale, her face quivering, her eyes strained and huge with suffering, and so tense on the edge of her chair. Her mouth, usually smiling with mischief and affection and wit, was the mouth of a tormented woman, pleading for reassurance. No, after one glance, Mr. Chisholm could not bear to look at his Marjorie, and now he hated Joseph Armagh with the first real hatred of his life. His thin hands clenched on the arms of his chair. He understood, now, why it was some men could kill, something which had made him incredulous before. Only madmen, only the deranged, the illiterate, the low-born, the ignorant and stupid and animalistic, killed, he had once thought. Now he could understand. The blood swelled into Mr. Chisholm's withered throat and engorged it. His face turned scarlet and broke into sweat. But he said calmly enough, "I am afraid he means what he says, Marjorie. I should not like to put him to the test. As for myself, I was not young when I married your mother; I am old enough to be your grandfather, my love. I do not fear for myself, for how much longer will I live? I will always have a little sustenance. But I do fear for you, my daughter. He would, indeed, ruin you, and your-your-husband." He hated Rory now, who had taken Marjorie into this frightful situation, who had put her under threat from an evil man. "Bernard, what do you say?" Bernard looked down on his clasped hands. "I agree with you, sir. We dare not take the risk. If Marjorie wants this marriage to continue she has only to say so. I am sure, in spite of what-he-says in those papers, that the legality of the marriage can be proved. It may be difficult. It may take years. But I think a court test, and a summoning of witnesses, would bring out the truth. After all, perjury is still a crime and highly punishable. Marjorie has her marriage certificate, with the names of witnesses, the town clerk, the minister. Not all of them would be able to lie in a court with conviction. Too, sir, you have a name." Hope flared in Marjorie's tormented young face and a glow filled her eyes. Now Bernard could not look at her any longer either. "I don't think, however, that we should forget Rory Armagh, himself," continued Bernard. "He is not the character his father is. The pressure which would be put upon him might be unsupportable. From what I have heard of him, in certain places in Boston, he might remember his father's money, and that he is the heir-" "No, no!" cried Marjorie, swinging to him eagerly. "He has just this last year at law school! Then he would tell his father, upon his graduation, that he is already married! That is our agreement. Rory loves me. He will never give me up, willingly, and I would be willing to put my life on that." Bernard said, "But his father has threatened him, too, and his father is known to keep his threats. Nothing would stop him-to separate you and Rory. His father has enough influence so that Rory would never gain entrance to a law firm of any repute, anywhere. If he set himself up as an independent attorney-he would find few clients. Sir," he said to Mr. Chisholm, "would you, yourself, risk taking young Mr. Armagh into your firm, in the face of his father's opposition?" Mr. Chisholm thought. He thought of his partners, his associates. He became small in his chair. "No, I wouldn't dare that," he said finally. "No, I wouldn't dare. Nor would my partners permit it." "But I have money, Papa," said Marjorie. "It won't be long before I am twenty-one. It is in your hands to permit me to have Mama's money at that time."
Mr. Chisholm's color, in his wrinkled pale face, became ghastly. He averted his head. "Marjorie, I must confess something to you. I-I had control of your mother's money, for she trusted me. During the Panic, a few years ago, I put up her money as collateral for debts, for borrowing- It is not lost. In a few years, I hope, I am sure to recover the full worth of my investments, and I will return the money to your-inheritance. But Mr. Armagh has threatened to make that impossible-he owns my paper, from the banks-" He put his hands over his face. "Forgive me, my child," he said, and his voice broke. Marjorie was on her knees beside him, embracing him, kissing him frantically. "Oh, Papa! Oh, Papa, it doesn't matter! I don't care! Please, Papa, look at me. I love you, Papa. It doesn't matter at all." She was freshly terrified. "In a few years-your inheritance will be intact, with interest," said Mr. Chisholm, and he sat in Marjorie's arms like an old child, his head on her shoulder. "You would never have known, my love, if this had not happened." "It is all my fault," said poor Marjorie. "If I hadn't married Rory when I did, we should not be in this nightmare. Forgive me, Papa. If you can, forgive me. Oh, how could I have brought this down on you, threatened by a low and wicked man, you a gentleman, you, my father! I hate myself. I despise myself. I wish I were dead." Now, for the first time, sitting on her heels, she burst into tears. She dropped her head on her father's knees and groaned. "My darling," said Mr. Chisholm. "Don't reproach yourself. Your grandfather, your mother's father, opposed our marriage, too. I never did^ know why. But we married, just the same, and I never regretted it, and the old gentleman came around nicely." He paused. "But I don't think Armagh will do that." He lifted Marjorie's face in tender hands and kissed her over 'and over. "Hush, my love. I can't bear to hear-those sounds- Hush, my love. You are young. There will be a way- You are young." Bernard waited, suffering with them, until Mr. Chisholm put Marjorie back in her chair. He said, "Mr. Armagh has mentioned, in these papers,' that Marjorie was underage and did not have her father's written consent when she 'allegedly,' he says, married his son. And that, apparently, the marriage has not been consummated." Bernard coughed. "It says in these papers that Rory Armagh and Marjorie Chisholm have never-cohabj.% ited." I He looked at Mr. Chisholm. "So, we have a small choice. Marjorie can'I sue for annulment of her marriage, which was never-consummated, very , , quietly, in New Hampshire. No names will be mentioned, in the press, * says Mr. Armagh. It will be secretly arranged. Very delicate, very refined, ^ of Mr. Armagh, isn't it?" Bernard's mouth twisted with disgust. "That is to save, he says, Miss Marjorie Chisholm's reputation and any future marriage she might consummate. I think," said Bernard, "he has shown '*'this 'generosity' in order to avoid a court suit to maintain the marriage, which might-though it is a small chance-be decided in Marjorie's favor. \': In spite of all his power. Then, too, I think he wants to avoid an open confrontation in the courts, with the resultant notoriety and scandal. Mr. Armagh, I have read, is a man who cherishes his privacy above all else." Marjorie sat in her chair, listening. Her face was very calm, very quiet though the big tears rolled down her cheeks without stopping. She seemed unaware of them. Then she said in a voice without any emotion at all, "I will seek the annulment. Papa, you must arrange it." "My child," said her father, and could have cried. "I am not going to think about it," said Marjorie. "At least, not yet. I am your daughter, Papa, and I hope I have a little of your courage, and fortitude. I won't think about anything, yet." Joseph had not mentioned anything in the papers about the secret little flat in Cambridge, but Marjorie had no doubt that he knew. Why had he refrained from speaking of it? To expedite the annulment of her marriage, for lack of consummation? That was, surely, true. She thought of that blissful little place, which had always seemed so full of light to her in spite of its dinginess, and she felt something break and shatter in her. Never to go there again, and cook and wait for Rory. Never to see Rory again, never to hear his voice, feel his kisses, lie in that sagging bed with him, in his arms. She squeezed her eyes shut against the anguish. No, she nust not think of that, yet. Otherwise she would die, lose her mind, betray her father. Oh, Rory, Rory, she said in herself, don't suffer too much, my Rory. She could see his face, his smiling sensual mouth, his eyes, his bright coloring; she could hear his voice. "I will write to Rory tonight," she said, and her voice had never been so calm. "It will be easier than telling him. I don't think I could trust myself, if I did. No, I could not." She would never tell her father of that little flat in Cambridge. She must let him believe that the marriage had never been consummated. Were he to know he would insist the marriage be maintained, for he was an honorable man. She wrote to Rory that night, her young face drawn and wizened and dry: I have come to the conclusion, ater a lot of thought, my dear, that our marriage was doomed from the start. We both deceived our fathers, and so invited calamity. I am not going to lie and say that I have not had a considerable affection for you, but I must confess to you now that that affection has been steadily declining. I have tried to revive it, but have failed. Therefore, I will seek an annulment-- No one need know that we had that flat in Cambridge. In mercy, my dear Rory, I hope you will not put me to mortification by appearing in any court and contesting me and my word. I should be forever shamed and would not be able to take up my life again, as I must. We were full of folly, and our hopes were childish. I will remember you with affection, as a dear friend, as a brother. It was a mistake, from the beginning. We can only go on from this place, and I will remember you ever, with kindness. I am returning the jewelry you gave me, for I cannot keep it in all conscience, now that any love I had for you--or what I thought was love--no longer exists. Please do not try to see me. Please do not write me. Nothing can change my resolution. If ever you loved me, please heed my wishes, and cause me no more pain. She went to the dark little flat that day and laid the letter and the jewelry on the pillow of the bed. Then she broke down. She flung herself on the bed and hugged the pillows to her desolate young heart and lay, stricken and silent, for a long time, trying to get strength to leave this place forever. She found a tie Rory had left behind, a worn tie, and she took it with her and left the flat and never looked back. When Rory read that letter he said to himself, "It is a lie. It is all a lie." Only two days ago he and Marjorie had lain in this bed, clenched together in a joyful and passionate ecstasy of love, and Marjorie had cried over and over, "Never leave me, Rory, never leave me! Take an oath, Rory, that you will never leave me! I should die, Rory, if I never saw you again!" His Marjorie, his love, his darling, his little bright wife with her mischief and dimples and intelligent wit and laughter, his Marjorie who never lied: But she was lying now. In some way that old bastard, her father, had found out about them, had forced her to write this letter to her husband, had threatened her. Well, he, Rory, was not going to let this happen to him and Marjorie, no matter what it cost. For six months, thereafter, he stormed the Chisholm house, the door resolutely unopened for him. For six months he wrote wild accusatory letters to Mr. Chisholm, letters full of despair and denunciation, of hatred and threats. He wrote to Marjorie every day. His letters were returned unopened. He tried to waylay her, but he never saw her. He grew thinner and paler, and his bright coloring diminished. He thought of enlisting his father's help. The Armaghs, he thought vengefully, were more than a match for that old soft-spoken Pecksniff of a Chisholm. Then one day he received a sealed packet which informed him that the marriage between one Marjorie Jane Chisholm and one Rory Daniel Armagh, had been annulled in a small obscure court in New Hampshire. "I was not even subpoenaed," he said to himself. "I never knew. Marjorie did this by stealth-her father forced her." Then he began to vomit and for the first time in his strong young life he became ill and could not leave his bed for several days. He hoped he would die. In fact, he thought of suicide. He gave it long thought, for the dark impulse lurked in him as it lurked in his father. A year later he was married to Miss Claudia Worthington in the ambassador's private chapel. Miss Worthington made a spectacular bride and the gushing newspapers spoke of the bridegroom's famous father, his own handsomeness "and serious demeanor during the ceremony, which was performed by his lordship, the Catholic Bishop of London, himself, and three Monsignori." There were nearly two thousand guests, "all distinguished," and three Royal Personages, not to mention "many of the nobility." The Pope had sent a Papal Blessing for the Nuptial Mass. The wedding was the event of the year, both in America and in England. When Claudia lay beside him in the marriage bed Rory thought, O my God, Marjofie. My little darling, my Marjorie. O, my God, my God. A year after that his first son, Daniel, was born, a year after that his son Joseph, and two years later twin daughters, Rosemary and Claudctte. Claudia Armagh was a most delightful hostess, and all spoke of her charm and gracious personality, her style, her taste, her savoir faire, her fascination, her wardrobes, jewels, furs, carriages, and even her large and stately limousine, one of the first to be manufactured in America, her house in London, her house in New York, her villas in France and Italy, "where the most distinguished members of international society gather for her fiestas and dinners and concerts, which are considered beyond any comparison. The most famous singers and violinists appear at musicales, at the summoning of Mrs. Armagh. She patronizes only Worth for her wardrobe, and only Carrier's for her jewels. Her taste is impeccable." Claudia liked Washington immensely, for now her young husband was a congressman from Pennsylvania. It is true that there was some uproar about the election, the other party claiming that "dead men in cemeteries had voted for Rory Armagh, and live men had been bribed." Mr. Armagh had been elected, however, by a majority of one thousand votes over his opponent, who seemed somewhat resigned and contented. After all, one does not quarrel with the generosity of an Armagh. Nor with their power. Once Claudia said to her husband pettishly, "I know that gentlemen are not always faithful to their marriage vows. My father was not. I do not quarrel with this fact. But I do wish, Rory, that you were not always so-- so blatant--but a little more discreet." Rory looked for Marjorie in every woman. He never found her. I am still Rory's wife, Marjorie would think in her lonely little white bed at night, in her father's house. The marriage was consummated. I don't care about courts and lawyers and annulments. I am still Rory's wife and I will always be. He's married to someone else, but he is still my husband, before God if not before man. Rory, Rory. I know you love me, and will always love me, as I love you. You will never know that I watched you from an upper window when you banged on Papa's door, and that I had to hold myself not to run down to you and throw myself into your arms, no matter what happened. Rory, Rory. How can I live without you, my love, my dearest? Papa thinks I gave you up for him, but I did it for you. Perhaps some day you will know, though I will never tell you. Oh, my Rory, my Rory. My husband, my darling. There will never be anyone else. There was never anyone else. Her father and her aunt pleaded with her to "encourage" the young men who besieged her, but she would say, "I am not interested." How could a wife be interested in any other man but her husband? It was infamous even to think of it. It was adultery, even to think of it. She would hold Rory's old tie against her breast at night, and kiss it and fondle it, and then sleep with it under her cheek. In some way she knew that Rory was thinking of her also, and that in spite of what divided them their love reached out for each other and could never be destroyed. This comforted her. Rory was her own and she was his. Then she began a fantasy. One day, sooner or later, Rory would return. It helped her through the years.