Captains and The Kings (90 page)

Placards appeared, with Rory's overcolored portrait on them, and a thunderous shout went up: "Rory! Rory! Rory! Harp for a Harp! Long live the Irish!" They had been recognized at last. A tidal wave of wet men swarmed upon them, literally carrying them off their feet, bearing them with bellows and shouts and hoarse chanting into the center of the lobby. The bodyguard struggled and punched to keep up with the two men. Rory's red-gold head bobbed, sank, rose, turned about around and around, and his flushed and handsome face was laughing automatically. Timothy was close by, but having trouble even touching the floor.
Another group was struggling towards them, flailing arms and kicking, and the hysterical band began to play, "Kathleen Mavourneen!" and hundreds began to sing the song of Old Syrup, former Mayor of Boston, former congressman, former looter who had been discovered with both hands and both feet in the public trough. He had been consigned to "private life," and had never remained there, execrated and adored, incredibly fat and gross and huge of red wet face, and genial and honey-tempered as always, and perpetually engaged in politics, always regrettable and enjoyed by his public. Though he was in his seventies, married and with ten burly sons-now surrounding him and kicking and pushing too worshipful citizens-he had his "lady friend," as she was coyly called, with him, a tall slender woman with bright red hair and big protuberant green eyes and roped with pearls and pinned with diamonds and clad in her favorite virginal color-white silk-and showered with lace and wearing a huge plumed and flowered hat. Unkind rumor said she had been the esteemed madam of one of Joseph Armagh's most expensive houses of joy, but in fact she was really a burlesque queen from New York, though she had been born in Boston. At any rate, Old Syrup had been devoted to her for nearly two decades-she was now in her lush ripe forties-and her name was Kathleen, and he had adopted the old Irish song "as her own," in her honor. What Mrs. Old Syrup had to say about this was not recorded. Nor was the source of his wealth ever questioned. It was expected that politicians looted. It only became reprehensible when they were caught at it. Old Syrup was once reported to say, anent investigations: "Reform movements? I love them, now. They make money for me. Couldn't buy that advertising." He and his sons, and his lady, fell upon Rory. Rory was wrapped in huge fat arms, encased in bursting broadcloth, and smacked on both cheeks. "Jaysus!" shouted Old Syrup. "And it's a gladsome sight for me, boyo, to see the son of that old rascal, Armagh, campaigning in me own town, then! Old Joe! God bless him! Never a better Irishman in this whole damned country, God bless him! How's old Joe?" Rory had met Old Syrup many times before, and was always amused by him, and fond, for there was something charming about the old scoundrel, something both innocent and wicked, honestly goodhearted and kind, and ruthless, pious and blasphemous, ready to weep-and sincerely-at a story of want and suffering-and ready to exploit and rob the very same day, even those who were already exploited and robbed. "An Irishman," Rory once said to his father, "never makes a good Machiavelli. He can't master either his heart, his emotions, or his lusts. Nothing devious about us, sad to say. Whatever we are, we are with full soul and bad temper and our very, very uncontrollable tongues. Saint or sinner-we go all out on it, hammer and tongs, in spite of a lot of us trying to act like High Church bishops with gaiters, drinking tea and eating crumpets in genteel society. It galls us, finally." Rory knew what Old Syrup was, and it amused him, and he let himself be heartily thumped and embraced and knew that for this moment, at least, Old Syrup was passionately honest in his greetings. (What he would think the next day, and before the primaries, and in close consultation with his cronies, was something else indeed.) Tonight he loved Rory like his favorite son. Tonight he was bursting with affection for "Old Joe." Tonight he desired nothing more than to establish Rory as the idol of the Boston Irish, and make him President. It was evident. His vast face, like the face of a happy child with naughty blue eyes, looked up at Rory with delight and affection. "Mr. Flanagan," Timothy said, and had to repeat it several times before Old Syrup heard him. "Is there any way of getting Rory into the ballroom before he is stamped to death?" "Eh?" said Old Syrup, and looked up at his mighty belligerent sons. "Sure and we can. Bhoys, out with the feet and the fists."
But the crowd had become fully aware of the presence of Rory, and the boiling whirlpool surged towards him with the banners and the placards and the heat and the smoke. His clothing was seized, his shoulders. Arms tangled with his; he would have fallen if there had been anywhere to fall, an unoccupied spot. But every inch had legs and feet in it, struggling for advantage. Screams, howls, yells, expletives concerning trampled toes, rudely affectionate greetings shrieked in the highest and most penetrating tones, ruder questions, demands to shake his hand, demands to be heard, hoots and general bedlam, surrounded him almost visibly. The band went mad, pounding out "'Hie Harp That Once Thro' Tara's Halls" in the most antic ragtime, which Timothy admitted was an improvement. He was fighting, together with the Klanagan brothers, to prevent Rory from being enthusiastically mashed to death, smothered or crushed. Above all that welter and happy fury Rory's shining head rose and bobbed, was lost, rose again. The crowd was trying to bear him somewhere, and rival contingents were trying to bear him somewhere else, and a few fistfights broke out merrily, to joyous cheers, and the smoke rose to the golden dome of the lobby and the heat became intolerable. Something fell thunderously somewhere, to heightened cheers, but no one seemed to know what it was, or where. "Ah, it's a grand day, then!" cried Old Syrup, hugging one of Rory's arms determinedly and kicking out dexterously and without malice against pressing adherents. "God bless the Irish!" "Somebody had better, or I'll be killed," Rory shouted back. One sleeve had been torn almost free from his coat at the shoulder, and his striped shirt showed in the gap. His tie hung at the side of his neck like a hangman's rope, and he was afraid he would be strangled. His feet had been stepped on so assiduously that they felt both burning and numb. His carefully brushed hair was disheveled, and fell and bounced over his wet forehead, which gave him a very boyish appearance. It was splendid to be hailed this way, but he wondered if he would survive. He was already drained, and he had an important and momentous speech to make, and the ballroom was hardly nearer than in the beginning, and the noise made his head throb. Then the Flanagans, man and boy, stood together like a football phalanx, and charged those nearest to Rory, and many of the crowd, cursing and waving fists, fell back and challenged the Flanagans to "come outside, then." Banners and placards tossed crazily, the band was shrieking its heart out and the drums were like thunder. But Rory found himself propelled towards the ballroom, three or four of his bodyguard with him, and Timothy, who ran with water and was bedraggled. The whirlpools swung together again en masse, and surged after Rory, and everyone poured and struggled and pushed and hit to get into the ballroom to the best seats. The band tried to enter, but was impeded by brass and drums. Trumpets and horn caught the dazzling light of the chandelier in hot gold, and splintered it. Flags blew as if in a hurricane. Throngs continued to struggle through the doors, shouting, hailing. The river came to a brief halt as two men fell before it and tried to scramble to their feet and were either kicked impatiently or thrown off balance. Rory drew a deep breath; his lungs smarted from all that smoke and heat. He looked aside, still smiling widely. And near him, very near, almost within touching distance, Marjorie Chisholm stood, laughing and dimpling. She was thirty-three or more years old and she looked like a fresh girl in her gray linen suit and gay sailor hat with pink ribbons. Her black eyes were merry-he had never forgotten them-and they shone and shimmered with love and joy at the sight of him, and her red mouth pursed in a kiss which she blew towards him, and her black hair began to tumble from under her hat in the way he remembered so dearly, all curls and tendrils and polished waves. In that instant he was not Senator Rory Armagh any longer, a husband and a father, a man aspiring to the nomination of his Party. He was Rory Armagh, the law student at Harvard, and he was meeting Marjorie here and in a moment he would have her in his arms, and there was nothing else in all the world and never was, and his whole body began to pound like one gigantic pulse. "Maggie, Maggie!" he shouted over the hubbub. They were pulling the fallen men to their feet, and cursing them, and there was a little cleared space, miraculously, about Rory, and forgetting everything he plunged towards Marjorie, calling to her over and over, and his face was the face of a youth who sees his love, and it was lighted and passionate and urgent. She took a single step towards him, her gloved hands outheld, and she too saw no one else and every sound died from her awareness except the sound of Rory's voice, and she saw nothing but his face. Someone seized Rory's arm. He never knew who it was. He tore that arm away, and turned his head furiously. It was the last conscious gesture he was ever to make. For a shot rang out, stunningly, shockingly, and for a moment or two the roaring stopped, and the seething diminished. Someone called plaintively, someone denounced firecrackers in this place. Men looked about confusedly, suddenly immobile, staring, glaring. There was another shot, a great cry, and then a milling, of terror, of panic, of an animal attempt at flight. "My God, what was that?" asked Timothy. He turned to Rory, for it was he who tried to restrain the other man. But Rory was only standing there, blank and white and blinking, swaying from side to side, his eyes blind yet searching, his mouth open. Then he fell like a post falling, but he could not reach the floor. He fell into the arms of half a dozen men, and they held him and whimpered and called over and over, "Are you hurt? Anybody hurt?" A terrible melee broke out. "Murder!" howled hundreds of men, who still had seen nothing and had only heard. "Call the police! Murder! Get that man! Who's this man, lying here? What-what-what-" The former noise was nothing like the noise which now struck the lobby, wave upon wave of clamor, of curses, of struggles, of yells and imprecations. Every man tried to run in a different direction from his neighbor, and they collided, staggered back, fought, thrust, even bit, in their terror and panic, their eyes starting from their pallid damp faces, their mouths open and emitting grunts and squeals and shouts. The floor of the lobby trembled; the walls trembled. The flags blew straight out. Those who had sought walls for shelter huddled together, panting, arms fending off those who fell against them, feet kicking. Over it all came the hoarse and gasping cry: "Who was shot? Who did it?" Police were using their clubs, raising them and striking down without discrimination. Men fell; others piled upon them, wriggling like a heap of frenzied worms. The police climbed on them, over them, smashing down, and with the instinct of the law moving steadily to where Rory and his bodyguard and Timothy and Old Syrup had been standing. Their faces were fixed, not snarling or threatening. They stared only in Rory's direction, and made for him, their helmets invulnerable to blows, their arms rising and falling like the arms of machines. They had cleared a spot to lay Rory down. His chest was pulsing scarlet. His eyes were open and vaguely searching, though dimming rapidly. Only his hair remained in its resplendent condition, falling back from his forehead. His face was the color of wet clay. His mouth moved a little. "Oh Christ, Christ, Christ," said Timothy and knelt beside Rory and took his hand. He looked down into that dying face and he burst into tears. Old Syrup, his hands on his knees, bent over Rory, muttering, gaping. Then a cry rose: "A doctor! A priest!" "Armagh's down! Armagh's been shot! Armagh's dead!" roared hundreds, and they halted their flight as they realized, aghast, what they had said and what it meant. "Oh, Christ, Christ, a doctor," groaned Timothy. "A priest. Rory? Rory?" Several policemen had reached them and Timothy raised his distorted face and implored them, "A doctor, a priest. He's badly hurt, Rory." He repeated it over and over and clutched Rory's hand and a nightmare dazzle began to blind him and he said, "No, no, no." A ring of faces, appalled, pallid, loomed over him and he begged them to help, and finally someone said, "It's all right, Mr. Dinecn. A doctor's getting through, and a priest." Hands touched him comfortingly, seeing his agony, but no one touched Rory. No one wanted to see what had been done to him, and many men about him began to cry like young children, turning aside, bending their heads, their features grimacing. Old Syrup staggered into the arms of two of his sons and he pressed his face against the chest of one and wept and whimpered, and they patted him, and were grim. Timothy, who felt he was dying, himself, vaguely saw a woman kneeling beside Rory on the other side. She had lifted his head on her knee, her gray linen knee. Her hat was lost; her black polished hair fell to her shoulders. Rory's blood covered her gloved hands, her dress. She drew his head to her breast. She said, "Rory. It's Maggie, Rory. Maggie." Her pretty face was white and petrified. She pushed back his hair. She bent her head and kissed his cheek, his fallen gaping mouth. "Rory, my dearest, it's Maggie." No one tried to remove her. They were all struck by the sight of the dying man in the arms of this strange young woman, dabbled with his blood, holding him as she would hold all the world. Rory was in a dark and swirling place, filled with flashes of scarlet lightning. He was being tossed about on a black sea, helplessly. He could see nothing. But he could hear Marjorie's voice, and he thought he replied to it: "Oh, Maggie, Maggie, my darling. Oh, Maggie." But he made no sound at all. He died an instant later in Marjorie's arms. A priest was kneeling now, beside them, blessing himself, murmuring the prayers for the dying, for the dead. And Marjorie knelt there and knew that all her hopes were finally as dead as the man she held, but to the very last she would not let them take him away.
Chapter 57
Never had Old Syrup been so magnificent, so theatrical, so eloquent, and such a delight to the Press. Reporters came from all over the country to/ interview him, and then to write excited columns about him. The story was dramatic enough, but Old Syrup was not only a former congressman- they always called him "Congressman"-and very rich and politically , powerful, but he was dramatically Irish and descriptive and never once did » he repeat his story in the exact same words as before. There was always something remembered, something added, something imagined. This led \ to his later appointment as senator the next year by the State Legislature, and to an increase in his fortune. Queenie, "my lady friend," was his I hostess in Washington, and a very discreet one. It was well known that Mrs. Old Syrup had no taste for politics, was very retiring, very charitable, and a joy to her parish, and disliked Washington. She was also a gentlewoman and never mentioned Queenie except as "my dear husband's assistant." "There I was, with my boys, and my darlin' young friend, Rory Armagh, the senator-like a son to me himself, then-and we were all laughing and the band was playing, and hundreds, perhaps thousands, were struggling to get to Rory to shake his hand and shout their support of him, and there he was, shining like the damned sun, itself, now, and a sight for any sore eyes-his Dada was my best friend-and I tell you, gentlemen, that I'm a cynic and an old pol, but there was tears in my eyes, with joy. I couldn't have been prouder or happier if Rory had been of my own flesh and blood. Knew him since he was a little boyeen, and always ready with a smile, a joke, a sparkle. A scholar and a gentleman, as well as a senator. If Rory had lived to be nominated he would have been elected, yes sir, and he would have made the best damned President this country has ever seen. It's America's loss, gentlemen, even more than his parents' loss, and may God console them in His mercy. "Well-you will excuse me a minute, now, won't you, while I wipe these old eyes. After all, it's a terrible thing, all that life and handsomeness and vigor, a young man, too, with a darlin' wife and four little children-my heart breaks for those little ones, and the young widow, so brave and beautiful and never breaking down, though you could see her heart was shattered, standing by the grave in her black veils like a statue, and never even shedding a tear. It's the easy grief that cries, not the deep one. Well, as I was saying, there we were in the lobby, and the crowds and the hails for Rory, and the band, and people pouring in through the doors just to look at the lad, and then all at once he moved-he must have seen someone he wanted to shake hands with-and he was exposed just for an instant, and me there with my sons and his bodyguard, and then there was a crack-a loud crack, like a firecracker. That's what we thought it was, for a minute, and we cursed the fool who'd do that in such a crowd. "Then there was another crack. We all stood there, gowping, not knowing where to look, then men started to run and mill. Like hell, itself, yelling and shouting and pushing each other and somebody screamed 'Murder!' And, gentlemen, it was." Genuine tears would stand in his crafty eyes for a moment, because of the picture he had drawn. Emotion broke his sonorous voice. "Well, gentlemen, there was Rory on the floor-someone had cleared a space when he fell in the arms of his men-and a young lady, a most beautiful young lady, was kneeling beside him, holding him in her arms. Now, I knew that young lady's Dada well; an old and valued friend, a distinguished gentleman, Mr. Albert Chisholm, a lawyer of an old firm in Boston, honorable, upright firm. Miss Marjorie Chisholm. She'd known Rory in Boston when he was at Harvard. Rumors, there were, that theyI once was engaged, then. Young love. Miss Chisholm never married." Old Syrup would then look about him significantly, sigh, and shake his head. "I know, gentlemen, that she was first named 'the mystery woman,' but there weren't no mystery about Miss Chisholm. Belle of Boston when she made her day-boo. The pleece knew her at once. She wouldn't let Rory out of her arms for a long time; had locked him in them, she had. It was pitiful. Then she went with him to the hospital, with the priest, old Father O'Brien, old friend of mine. But Rory was already dead. You'll excuse me a minute, gentlemen.- All Miss Chisholm could say, over and over, was 'Rory, Rory, Rory.' Like a Litany. Her father's associate had to be called to take her away, a Mr. Bernard Levine, a lawyer himself-trusted friend of the family. "The murderer? Well, gentlemen, I never saw him, meself. But they found the 'black flag of anarchy,' as they called it, in his pocket, a little black flag, and a card saying he belonged to the I. W. W. Now, sir, I'mt all for Labor, meself. Didn't I always fight for Labor when I was in Washington? Wobblies, they called them. Gentlemen, will you believe me when I say it is my conviction, my heart's conviction, that that murderer was no member of the I. W. W.? Rory always stood for the Working Man, when he was senator. Always spoke for the Working Man, all over the country. And another thing, gentlemen, there wasn't a single piece of identification on that foul murderer, not one. Even the name on the card was false. Never belonged to any union, and the I. W. W. never heard of him. And there wasn't a handprint of his on the card, neither! What more ' proof do you want, then? Card as clean as a babe's mouth, and new as if it just come from the printing press. Young feller, they said, with a beard. Not more than twenty-one, twenty-two. Never did find out who he was. Never will, I'm thinking. ' "Who shot him, right after he shot Rory? No one will ever find that out, either. Rory's bodyguards' guns had not been fired. No pleeceman had fired a gun. It came, now, out of the blue, as they say. Well, there were hundreds, thousands, there. Any man could have killed the assassin. And then melted off, like butter on a hot plate, oozing out of the crowd. I've heard him called a 'hero' by some newspapers, for killing the assassin, but; if he's such a hero why don't he come forward to be praised? All I can , say now is that that's the real mystery-outside the reason why Rory was murdered. If that assassin hadn't been shot, himself, we'd maybe have got the truth out of him. The pleece here in Boston, and I'm proud of the bhoys, have ways of making criminals talk. Now we'll never know the truth-who ordered Rory assassinated." Old Syrup looked about him weightily. "Maybe that's the idea, then, gentlemen, maybe that's the whole idea. "What's that you say, sir? 'Disgruntled youth?' Now, begging your pardon, what the hell does that mean? Just words, now. Empty words. Is it hinting at a plot I am? Gentlemen, I don't know. Who would 'plot' against Rory? Finest young Christian gentleman I ever met, a lovely lad, never harmed a soul in his short life. Kind, charitable, full of fun, the best of sons and husbands. The whole Senate grieves for him, as well as his friends. You've read the eulogies. Weren't anything compared to what was said at the grave. In the family plot, in Green Hills, Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Well, lots of you were there, too, so I don't have to repeat what was said. Assistant Secretary of State was there, and several senators and politicians, and two-three governors. And," said Old Syrup, impressively, "Old Joe's associates, many of them, Big Feenanciers and businessmen and bankers-never saw such a gathering. Mr. Jay Regan, himself, stood beside Joe Armagh and held his arm, and I'll never forget what he said to Joe, in that deep voice of his, at the funeral: " 'Joseph he said, and many of us heard it, 'remember, you have four grandchildren.' Now, gentlemen, I think that was touching, then, don't you? 'Remember, you have four grandchildren.' Consoling, now. Reminding Joe he still had obligations, though all his three children lay in their graves before him, his son, the war hero, Kevin, his beautiful daughter, Ann Marie, and now Rory. And there was his brother's grave there, too, Scan Armagh, known to millions as Scan Paul. Greatest Irish tenor in the whole world, and don't deny it. "What did Joe say? Well, he just turned a little and he looked at Mr. Regan-the Big Wall Street Feenancier-and it was as if there was a fire on his face for a minute-he being reminded of his dear little grandchildren, and that he had a Duty to them, even if his poor heart was broken. Joe's made of steel, gentlemen. As we always said, the same fire that melts butter hardens steel. And Joe looked right at Mr. Regan, one of his dear friends, and he smiled. Comforted, right there at the grave, thinking of the Little Ones, Rory's children. He smiled. "Rory's poor mother? Ah, there's the tragedy. Lost her mind. She's in a sanitarium now, in Philadelphia, poor soul. Sent there last week, right after the funeral. God send His angels to comfort her. They found her in the dark one night-wandered out of the house-and lying on her son, Kevin's, grave. Not crying, just mute. Like a dead creature, poor lady. Knew her father well, the old senator, when I was young, meself. Wonderful man. My Dada took me to see him in Washington; couldn't have been more than twenty or so. "Ah, and a tragedy it all is, then. Mrs. Rory is with her parents, and the children. Under private doctor's care, in her father's house. Declared up and down, when she first knew, that Rory had 'died in the cause of Labor.' The Rights of Labor, she says. Well, who knows her husband's heart more than a wife does? So, who knows what Rory would have done if he had been President, for the Civil Rights of All Americans? Ambassador Worthington has hinted of them, himself. "We mourn for the sorrow of the Armagh family. But, gentlemen, we should mourn for America, who suffered this tremendous I say, tremendous loss. God, in His wisdom, we say, Knows Best. We can only Hope. And don't, gentlemen, out of mercy, repeat any more about 'the curse on the Armaghs.' What curse? They never did anyone harm, now." It was deep winter, but in Maryland it was dry and bleak and gray and black, the hills stark under a bitter sun. There was little snow, and this was in patches on the brown fields and in the ditches. Timothy Dineen sat in an austerely clean room smelling of wax and fern and incense. Light came in faint and feeble shadows through the stained- glass windows. Before him was a screen and behind it he could see only the dim outline of a nun. Her voice was low and clear, the beloved voice he remembered, the young voice unroughened by the years, the melodious Irish voice he had adored in his youth. It was firm and gentle with courage and faith and consolation. But, he thought, I am old, old, old as death and as weary. "You say, Tim, that dear Joseph died of a heart attack a month ago, in his bed, at night. I think he died of a broken heart. You see, Tim dear, Joseph never lived a single day for himself. He never once thought of himself, in all his life. Is that a sin? We esteem self-sacrifice- But we also must remember that one has one's own soul to save, too. Ah, darling Joseph! He lived for Sean and me, and then for his children. I remember my young days in the orphanage. Sister Elizabeth would tell Sean and me of Joseph's sacrifices for us, his endless struggles for us, his endless devotion. Sean-" The gentle voice hesitated. "Ah, we are often blind, and our ears often deceive us, or we deceive ourselves. But I always knew, even as a very young child, what Joseph was doing for his family, and how he denied himself the simple joys and pleasures of youth so that we could have safety and security and a home. He was very young when he became the head of our family. Only thirteen, dear Tim. But, he was a Man. And that is something strange and rare and wonderful. A Man. He never asked for pity or for help. He never asked anyone to be generous or kind to him. He didn't even ask Sean and me to love him! But he loved us. He dearly loved us. Ah, God forgive me that I did not entirely understand! My youth was no excuse, no excuse at all, dear Tim. I do penance daily for my lack of understanding. I was drawn inexorably to this life, and always was drawn since my earliest recollections. But perhaps I was too stupid to make Joseph understand. He thought, always, that I had deserted him-as Sean had deserted him. I must do extra penance." Timothy felt old and broken. He remembered: "The tumult and the shouting dies, The Captains and the Kings depart. Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice- A humble and a contrite heart." If anyone's prayers would be heard by God-if there was indeed a God who heard and listened-then He would hear Sister Mary Bernarde's prayers above the prayers of anyone else, for surely, though she accused herself of "hard-heartedness and stupidity" she was as sinless and as good and pure as any human being he had ever known, even including his mother. Then he thought: But the "Captains and the Kings" haven't "departed" at all! They were stronger than ever, since Rory Armagh's assassination. They would continue to grow in strength, until they had the whole silly world, the whole credulous world, the whole ingenuous world, in their hands. Anyone who would challenge them, attempt to expose them, show them unconcealed and naked, would be murdered, laughed at, called mad, or ignored, or denounced as a fantasy-weaver. The hell with the world, thought Timothy Dineen. Maybe these "quiet deadly men" were all it deserved. It would deserve the wars, the revolutions, the tyrannies, the chaos. For wicked men there was always the hope of remorse and penance. For the stupid there was no hope at all. The stupid invariably sacrificed its heroes, and raised statues to its murderers. The hell with the world. He, Timothy Dineen, was growing old. He would see the beginning of the last battle of man against his assassins-but, thank God, he would not see the final debacle. That was left to the coming effervescent and enthusiastic young, who would follow any banner and die in any carefully plotted war, and murder any potential rescuers. He said, "Sister, pray for me." Then he was astonished, for the conviction had come to him that Sister Mary Bernarde's prayers might have some efficacy! She was only an immured nun, shut off from the world, living in an atmosphere of simple devotion and faith, unaware of the terrors outside her convent, unaware of all the ramifications of her brother's life of which he could not tell her, for she would not understand and be only confused. Yet he said, "Pray for me." "I will pray for all the world," she said. "And especially for Joseph, dear Tim, and you." He went out into the cold winter afternoon. The station hack was waiting for him. He heard the soft ringing of bells over the desolate landscape.