"And it is for sale," said Joseph, pointing out a case which they had just been studying. Mr. Spaulding pursed his large flabby lips. Then he could not help smiling and winking. "To the highest bidder," he said. "See, it is like the Constitution of the United States of America. The Constitution guarantees to the individual States that they have the sacred right to secede from the Union whenever they Desire, and no Hindrance shall be put upon them. But Mr. Lincoln has decided otherwise, for his own reasons, which we hope are Just. We can only Hope. If a President, or the United States Supreme Court, can decide at random what is Constitutional or unconstitutional, to suit their whims or their convictions or their expediency -in spite of express wordage simply and explicitly given in the Constitution -then Law, too, can be decided on the basis of personal convictions and expediency, or whims. One must suit the Law, or the Constitution, to suit the case." "Prologue to chaos," said Joseph. Mr. Spaulding said, "What did you say?" "Nothing," said Joseph. "I was just talking to myself." Mr. Spaulding said, " The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven-blesseth him that gives and him that takes'. The Bible."
"Shakespeare," said Joseph. "Portia. Merchant of Venice." "Smart as paint, aren't you?" said Mr. Spaulding. "I was testing you, dear boy." He gave Joseph a smile of loving malevolence. "Joseph, you and I did not make the Law. Now, any fool can pick up a law book and read what the Law says and what its apparent intention is, but will that stand up in court? No, sir, not always, rarely ever. It is a lawyer's function to convince judge and jury that the Law did not mean exactly that, or perhaps meant even the complete opposite. Only idiots go by a strict interpretation. A wise lawyer can make ducks and drakes out of any law." "The Devil's race," said Joseph. "What's that? I do wish, Joseph, that you would lose that annoying habit of mumbling to yourself. Judges don't like it. To continue: The Law is only what people agree it is, mainly juries, after they have been persuaded by a smart lawyer, though tomorrow they will agree it is something else again when they are in the hands of another lawyer. That is the beauty of Law, Joseph. Its flexibility. The same Law can accuse a man of being a criminal and the very same Law can declare him innocent. It can hang or release in the exact same words. So you must always decide at once what you wish the Law to do for you, and your Client, and convince yourself that that is the only solution. All my Clients," said Mr. Spaulding, "are innocent." Joseph soon discovered in full why Mr. Spaulding was so necessary to Mr. Healey. The evidence was in the files in the locked room. He often found himself sickened at the evidence of collusion between Mr. Healey and Mr. Spaulding and the two local judges. For certain favors the judges owed their elections to Mr. Healey, and Mr. Healey owed considerable to the judges, and all this was presided over by the massive realism of Mr. Spaulding. He once said to Joseph, in a rare moment of vulgarity, "It's a case, dear boy, of you scratching my back, and me scratching yours, and what is wrong with a little proper scratching ,at the right time and in the right place? You can't always reach the itch, yourself, and you need help, and in a way it is Christian reciprocity. Joseph, if we all adhered to the letter of the Law, which I think Christ Himself condemned, there would be precious few of us left free in this world, and very little joy. Or profit." The months went by and Joseph learned in the offices of Mr. Healey and in the richer office of Mr. Spaulding, and what he learned, in spite of himself, made his nature harsher than it was even by birth, and bitterer than he could ever have imagined. More and more he was convinced that as an inhabitant of this world, for which he was not guilty, he must live by its laws and its exigencies if he were to survive and save his family. His last chance for personal happiness winked out and the ponderous darkness settled upon his spirit.
chapter 13
Joseph, out of desperate necessity, had finally been forced to trust the first person, with the exception of his mother, he had ever trusted in his life. It was a trust that was really only partial mistrust, but it had to be risked. He needed to send money to Sister Elizabeth for his brother and sister. He knew that there was only a slight chance that Mr. Squibbs would ever discover that "Scottie" was really an Irishman and that he had a family in St. Agnes's Orphanage, and that through them he could trace the man who had absconded with his money. Still, there was that chance, and life was grotesque enough to permit it, and Joseph dared not risk such Hogarthian jokes. He was saving everything he could, and soon he would have enough for Mr. Squibbs plus interest. In the meantime there was Scan, and Regina, and his unshaken belief that in the event money was not received by Sister Elizabeth they would be separated and adopted, or worse. He considered. Every two months or so Mr. Healey sent Haroun and two older men to Wheatfield to buy equipment for his wells, or other of his enterprises, or to deliver messages. (Mr. Healey did not trust the United States Post Office, nor even the Wells Fargo Express.) Joseph had once suggested that he would not mind such a journey occasionally, himself, but Mr. Healey assured him that his time was too valuable in Titusville. So Joseph had recourse to Haroun, whose dedication to him was frequently embarrassing. ("You've got yourself your own Bill Strick- land, ain't you?" Mr. Healey asked once, with immense amusement.) Joseph wrote a letter to Sister Elizabeth in which he said he sometimes "passed through" Wheatfield on business from Pittsburgh, and he enclosed a full year's payment for his family in gold bills, and extra money for small luxuries for them for the coming Christmas and their birthdays. He added that he was sealing the letter in red wax in three places, and that he'd be obliged if Sister Elizabeth would inform him if the letter had been tampered with and if anything had been taken from the envelope. Then he went to the stables over which Haroun slept and lived in a small hay- scented and manure-pungent room, and Haroun was happy to see him for never before had Joseph visited him here. Joseph sat with the letter in his hand and studied Haroun with the intensity he always gave those he was judging and weighing. He saw the boy's glowing devotion and the wise candor of the huge black eyes. Mr. Healey trusted Haroun to the small extent of the boy's duties, and so did the men with whom he worked in the well houses and in the field. It was as if, to Joseph, he had never seen the boy fully before. He did not often encounter him, and Joseph did not linger for idle conversation on the few occasions he saw him. His indifference to Haroun had not diminished, nor did he think of him for weeks at a time. Had Haroun vanished mysteriously he would have shrugged and forgotten at once. But now he must consider Haroun for Haroun was necessary to him. The boy had lost his starved appearance, due to plain but sufficient food and reasonably comfortable shelter, and a little money. His always hopeful and expectant expression had brightened as his optimism grew. Joseph marveled at the implicit vitality of the boy, the innate exuberance for life, the appetite for living, and the laughter that lay so close to his lips and rarely left his eyes. The crop of thick black curls had become glossy with health, the dusky skin was browner and sleeker, the mouth as red as a girl's and almost always smiling. He looked like a lively cherub though the eyes were hardly angelic. What he did with his small free time was a mystery, to Joseph, who had never thought of it before. Haroun was now sixteen, and still small for his age, but he seemed to vibrate with animation and vigor like a young colt eagerly pawing the green pasture. Haroun suddenly impinged on Joseph's consciousness like a highly colored and unexpected portrait, and he did not like it. But his liking or disliking must not interfere with necessity. Joseph sat on the edge of Haroun's narrow cot and Haroun sat on the wooden crate which was his only chair and which held his few belongings, and in the light of the kerosene lamp Haroun's delight at this visit was embarrassing to the older man. He held the letter to Sister Elizabeth in his hand, and he looked into Haroun's eyes and said, "I want you to mail this letter in Wheatfield tomorrow, when you go there early in the morning." "Yes!" said Haroun, and held out his small brown hand for the letter. But Joseph still held it. Would Haroun ask why it should be posted in Wheatfield? If he did then he could not be intrusted with the posting. But Haroun did not ask. He on
ly waited, his hand still extended. If Joseph wished something it was enough for him, and he almost palpitated with the pleasure of the thought that he would be helping his friend. "You must not let anyone else see this letter," said Joseph."No!" exclaimed Haroun, shaking his curls until they flew. "You will take it to the post office," said Joseph. "And there you will arrange for a postal box for me, Joseph Francis. I will give you the two dollars rent for the year." For the first time Haroun was puzzled. "I do not understand this, about a box," he said. "You must tell me so I can be sure." So Joseph explained and Haroun listened with the older boy's own intensity and concentration, and then Joseph made him repeat the instructions at least twice. Then he gave the letter to Haroun who tied it in a kerchief and stuffed it into the pocket of his only coat. Joseph watched him closely, but the boy showed no curiosity, no slyness, no speculation. He was only happy that Joseph was with him. "How do you like your work for Mr. Healey, Harry?" Joseph asked, not with interest for he could feel none, but he felt that some amenities should be included. "I like it," said Haroun. "I am making money, and isn't that enough?" He laughed and his white teeth shone in the lamplight. "I will soon be a rich man, like Mr. Healey." Joseph could not resist smiling. "And how do you think you'll manage that?" Haroun looked wise. "I save almost all, and when I have enough I will buy a string of tools for myself. One of these days." "Good," said Joseph. He did not see that Haroun had stopped smiling and that he was regarding Joseph with earnest attention as if listening to something that had not been spoken. Joseph looked at the floor and thought, rubbing his foot against some straws on the wood. Then he glanced up at Haroun and was a little confused at the boy's expression, for it was both sad and very mature, the expression of a man who knew all about the world and was not enraged at it but only aware. "Harry, here are two dollars for you, yourself, for doing me this favor." Joseph held out two cartwheels, for one must always pay for what is received or one becomes the lesser, and nothing but money bought loyalty. There was a sudden sharp silence in the little musty room as if someone had slammed a brutal hand on a table in threat or anger. Haroun looked at the money in Joseph's hand but did not take it. His face became absent, averted. Then he said in a very low voice, one Joseph had not heard before, "What have I done to you, Joe, that you insult me, your friend?" Joseph started to reply, then could say nothing. Something moved in the cold stiffness of him, something painful and unfamiliar, something infinitely melancholy and ashamed. He stood up, slowly. He felt a vague anger against Haroun that the boy should touch him so acutely, and presume to call him "friend," a silly incredible word. "I'm sorry," he said in a cold voice. "I didn't mean to offend you, Harry. But you are doing me a great favor, and then-" "And then?" repeated Haroun when Joseph stopped. Joseph moved his head restlessly. "You don't make much money, Haroun. I-I haven't even seen you for a long time. I thought perhaps the money-I thought you could buy something for yourself with it. Call it a present, if you want to, and not payment." Haroun stood up also. His head hardly reached Joseph's chin but he was suddenly endowed with dignity. "Joe," he said, "when you really want to give me a present I'll like it and take it. But you don't want to give me a present now. You want to pay me for doing something for my friend, and friends don't take pay." Joseph felt another unfamiliar emotion-curiosity. "What is the difference between payment and a present, Harry?" Haroun shook his head. "Maybe, sometime, you'll know, Joe. If you don't ever, then don't try to give me money." Joseph could find nothing more to say and so he turned and went down the ladder to the warm dark stables and heard the stamping and the snufflings of the horses, and he went out into the cold night and stood for several minutes on the packed clay of the ground and did not see anything at all. "Nothing like a good war for prosperity!" said Mr. Healey to Mr. Mont- rose, showing him an advance cheque on a British bank for delivery of four thousand eight-chamber repeating rifles which had been manufactured by Barbour & Bouchard, quite illegally, considering that the British owned the patent entirely at present. (Barbour & Bouchard, munitions makers in Pennsylvania, were quite realistic about the "temporary appropriation" of the patent, as they also had a large interest in Robsons and Strong, British munitions makers, who did own the patent. It was only a matter of time until amicable arrangements would be made, which could not now be made in view of the War between the States and the blockade against all ships, mainly British, which Washington had promulgated.) No name was issued on the British bank draft, but Mr. Healey quite understood. The rifles were to be delivered to a small unbusy port in lower Virginia, where Mr. Healey had done business in some trifles before, none of which would have received the hearty approval either of the police or the Federal military. "And this is just the beginning," added Mr. Healey with satisfaction. "What's four thousand rifles? Hardly a flea bite. Of course, Barbour & Bouchard are doing their own gun-running and arrangements with the Confederacy, and making millions. Maybe they want to be generous and let me and other small fry make an honest dollar." He chuckled. "And perhaps," said the elegant Mr. Montrose, "Barbour & Bouchard are testing us to see if we can be entirely trusted with the gun-running, and perhaps they have heard that so far we have been discreet and bold enough to do other running to the Confederacy of contraband, without being caught once." "Knock wood," said Mr. Healey. "And that means that B&B, if we do this right, will have more work for us. Sure, and that it is." He puffed on his cigar, thoughtfully. "When I was younger I did a bit of blackbirding in my time. After all, the black savages were better treated and fed here than in their jungles, where they were the slaves of their cannibal chiefs. Still and all, it came to me at last that they were human, too, and I was brought up a strict Catholic and it went against the grain. I regretted the money, but there's things a man can't always force himself to do." Barbour & Bouchard sold the eight-chamber repeating rifles in enormous quantities to the Federal Government in Washington. Whether or not the four thousand rifles now waiting in New York in a discreet warehouse -the boxes labeled machine parts-were rifles stolen by interested parties from the Federal allotment, or whether Barbour & Bouchard had delivered those weapons themselves to that warehouse, was something Mr. Healey would not have dreamed of speculating about. That would have been uncivil, ungrateful, unrealistic, and unworthy of a businessman. Besides, the bank draft was solely for successful delivery and demanded no investment of Mr. Healey beyond the lives or liberty of his agents. Nevertheless, one had to be careful in choosing those agents. "It is time to break young Francis in," said Mr. Montrose. "I have kept my counsel for two years about him, giving him only temperate commendations to you, but now I am certain not only were you completely correct about him in the beginning but that he has improved so he is, himself, a formidable weapon, or henchman, or whatever you may wish to call him. My trust is rarely given in full, but I think we can trust young Mr. Francis to the utmost-so long as we continue to pay him well and he can pick our brains." "Um," said Mr. Healey. He considered the ash on his cigar as he and Mr. Montrose sat in his study over brandy. "Perhaps it is right you are. I sent him to Corland to buy up some leases, but before he went he said to me, 'Mr. Healey, I want to buy some leases on my own, and next to the leases you want. I do not yet have the money. Would you lend me two thousand dollars?' "Well, sir, I thought that was mighty cool on the part of the spalpeen, whom I pay forty dollars a week now-under duress, you might say." Mr. Healey smiled, but not with annoyance. "Mighty cool. Twenty dollars a week to be returned from his pay, with six percent interest. Well, sir, I did." "I know," said Mr. Montrose. Mr. Healey was not surprised. What Mr. Montrose did not know was of the very least significance. "I had a small talk with him," Mr. Montrose said. He preferred narrow and scented cheroots to the thick and robust cigars Mr. Healey favored. "No, he did not tell me of the loan. I said to him, 'All leases, to be legal, must be in your full and correct name in the courthouse, or later-er, scoundrels-might dispute the matter.' I like the young man, and wished to help him and prevent him from doing himself a grave mischief. He appeared some
what disturbed at this. To make certain he visited the courthouse himself. He trusts no one, and that is in itself commendable. Apparently he discovered that I had given him correct information." Mr. Healey sat up. "Yes? And what is his correct name?" Mr. Healey knew Mr. Montrose too well to question how he had come by the information. "Joseph Francis Xavier Armagh. That is a strange name." "A high-nosed Irish name!" said Mr. Healey, delighted. "County Armagh. Not your County Mayo or Cork or such. High-nosed. Damn me if I don't have a lordship working for me! I always knew it." Mr. Montrose, as an aristocratic Southerner of Scots-Irish stock-he was related to the Carrolls-was a little impressed, though not too much, as he was an Episcopalian born. "Lots of Protestants, though, in County Armagh, and among the Armaghs," said Mr. Healey with unusually prejudiced feeling. "Got a feeling, though, that Joe's not a Protestant." "No, he isn't," said Mr. Montrose, smiling slightly. "As you know, the court records demand to know a man's baptismal name as well as the name he is-ah-assuming for various reasons, and where he was baptised. Young Joseph was baptised in St. Bridget's Church in Carney, Ireland. His writing was almost illegible when he gave this reluctant information, and possibly he gave it truthfully after my warning. But I have never been balked by illegible writing. It is one of my hobbies." "And not even a Rosary in his room, or a holy medal or picture," said Mr. Healey. "Nor in yours," said Mr. Montrose, smiling again. "Well, I am-different," said Mr. Healey. Mr. Montrose saw that Mr. Healey seemed somewhat depressed, or hurt, and this amused Mr. Montrose. He loved paradoxes, especially those concerning human nature. "Young heathen," said Mr. Healey, and Mr. Montrose assumed a grave expression. "Excommunicated, perhaps." Mr. Montrose said, "Certainly, we will not betray to young Mr. Francis that we know his true and full name. That would be most vulgar of us. It is none of our business, as you know, sir." "True, that it is," said Mr. Healey, but he fumed slightly. "Well, I never took a false name, or shortened mine, but once, and that was when I had a little difficulty with the police in Philadelphia, when I was very young. I had a little pride, I had." "We shall not question young Mr. Francis's reasons," said Mr. Montrose. Mr. Healey looked at him curiously. What was Mr. Montrose's true name? But no one ever asked. Mr. Montrose owned no leases; he had no businesses with the courthouses. He dealt only with banks. Mr. Healey, though it was difficult, always suppressed his normal Irish inquisitiveness, for inquisitiveness could be dangerous. They settled down to business. Gun-running to the embattled South was somewhat different from running in food supplies, wool lengths, tools and such, in which Mr. Healey had been heavily and profitably engaged since the outbreak of the war. For contraband such as weapons Washington had threatened the death penalty. Still, at this time, the Federal Government was in dire difficulties with the wild and chaotic draft riots all over the North, and the constant threats against the life of Mr. Lincoln- in the North-and the various victories of the Confederacy. (Mobs in the North were carrying placards around courthouses and Federal buildings depicting Mr. Lincoln as "The Dictator," for he had suspended the law of habeas corpus among other Constitutional guarantees, and the American people were still suspicious of government, remembering that governments are usually men's deadliest enemies.) "I don't want anybody killed, or caught," said Mr. Healey. "Or anybody who would talk. You are right, you are. I'll have a talk with Joe Francis Xavier. Sound him out," "I want you to do something for me," said Mr. Healey to Joseph, after he had called him into the study. "A little-dangerous. And no questions." "What?" asked Joseph, frowning. Mr. Healey raised a pacific hand. "Now, now, don't you get on your high horse. I'm not asking you this time to look about you in Pittsburgh and bring some nice pretty little girls to some of my boardinghouses, where they'll be well-fed and protected and make a bit of solid cash. I don't understand you," complained Mr. Healey. "The girls I have always- protected, call it-come from wretched homes or have no homes, or are in slavery service, starving and what not. What's the harm in their earning some good money and having a gay time with many a spark? But not you, you monk, you Joe St. Francis Xavier, not you. It ain't moral, or something, you think. But I have my ears out, and you didn't find it amiss just lately to use that there little token I gave you, did you?" Joseph was silent. Mr. Healey laughed, leaned across his table and slapped Joseph on one of the cold slender hands which rested tensely on the wood. "Don't give it a second thought, Joe. You're young, and it's only envious I am. What it is to be young! Never mind. The job I have in mind for you, Joe, is something you never dreamed of before, and I never engaged in it, myself. Not out of your morality, you righteous humbug, but out of lack of opportunity. Now, no questions. It's gun-running down to a little port in Ole Virginny, as they call it." Joe studied him. His expression did not change. He said, "And how will I manage that?" Mr. Healey, before replying, opened his desk drawer and removed a packet of gold bills from it and a new pistol and a box of ammunition. "Now here," he said, "is what you will use to grease your way, if things get a little sticky, which we hope they won't. Never saw a man whose eyes don't shine when he sees these. And this here gun is for you. It's yours, for always. Fine gun, isn't it? Best made; Barbour & Bouchard, right here in this here Commonwealth. They made those four thousand eight-chamber rifles you'll be delivering down South. Mr. Montrose will go with you. Time you faced a little danger, took on some of the responsibilities my other lads have been doing right along, as you know only too well. But you've been snug in my offices, like a flea in a dog's ear, and the only danger you ever had was when you spent those two nights a month in the file room. My lads're not getting younger, and you're young, and it's hard to recruit the proper men for the proper jobs. Haven't found anyone but you in three-four long years, and that's a compliment, sir, that's a compliment." Joseph thought of his brother and his sister, and then he took the pistol in his hand and tested it. It had a fine balance, an excellent "feel," a certain competent smoothness, a certain deadly reassurance. "You've said no questions," said Joseph. "But I need to ask a few." "Go ahead," said Mr. Healey, with a large wave of his hand. "But that don't mean I have to answer them." "Is there any chance I may be killed, or caught?" Mr. Healey watched him closely, then nodded. "I'll be honest with you. Yes. Not a big chance, but some. Depends on what you do, what you say, how you conduct yourself, and your luck. But you got the luck of the Irish, don't you?" Joe's hands caressed the pistol but he looked silently at Mr. Healey for several moments. He said, "And how much will you pay me for this?" Mr. Healey affected incredulous astonishment. "You get your pay, don't you? Pay my other lads didn't get until they'd worked for me at least ten whole years, and you've been around only little over two. It's the soft heart I have, and I'm getting sentimental in my old age. I'll forget you ever asked that question." Joseph smiled faintly. "I owe you one thousand eight hundred dollars still. You've treated me fair and square, as you call it, Mr. Healey, and you've collected your interest, too, which is only right. So, to be brief, when I return after this job you will cancel the balance of my debt to you." He lifted his own hand. "I take care of your books, Mr. Healey. You do pay the men a handsome salary, but for certain tricky jobs you give them a fine gift. I know. I write out the cheques myself, for your signature. I may be your eyes and your ears, as you have kindly mentioned yourself several times, but I do have eyes and ears of my own, too, though I keep my tongue to myself." "You're mad, that you are," said Mr. Healey. Joseph said nothing, but waited. "Your first important job, and God knows if you'll do it right, and you want one thousand eight hundred dollars for it!" "Mr. Healey, there is a good chance, and that I know, that I may never come back. I will leave a letter with-someone-who will deliver my options to another person in another city, if I am killed or caught. You need have no anxieties. I will not tell that-someone-where I am going or what I am going to do. I will only tell him that if I don't return he is to go to you and you will give him the canceled agreement, and he will send it off to another person. You see, Mr. Healey"-and Joseph smiled his grimace of a smile again-"I am giving you my absolute trust that
you will act honorably." Mr. Healey was alarmed. He sat up straight, his face swelling and turning crimson. "And who, may I ask, is that person in another city?" Joseph almost laughed. "Only a nun, sir, only a nun." "A nun!" "Yes. A harmless old nun-she once did me a great favor." "I think," said Mr. Healey with awe, "that you're daft. A nun! You! And who's your messenger right here, who'll take the papers to that nun, not that I believe a word of it." "Harry Zeff." "And he knows that nun?" Mr. Healey slapped his forehead in despair. "No. He does not. He won't even need to know her or see her. He will only send her the papers when he reads her address in the letter I will leave him." "Good God, why all these secrets?" "No secrets, Mr. Healey. A nun is not a secret, and we Irish do have a penchant for the Religious, don't we?" "What's that-that pen-?" "A weakness for, let us say." "So, you want to be charitable, to an old nun who probably never saw twenty dollars in her life!" "No. Not charitable. Just a-remembrance, I'll call it." Mr. Healey repeated, "I think you're daft." He chewed furiously on his cigar, then spat. He glared at Joseph. "You're deeper than a well," he said. "Maybe deeper than hell, even. Any connection of yours, that nun?" "No." "I don't believe any of this," said Mr. Healey. "Nobody, sir, is going to force you to believe anything. I just want your word of honor that you will deliver that canceled agreement to Harry Zeff to be sent to that nun, if I don't return." "You think of everything, don't you?" "Yes." "What makes you think you can trust Harry?" "What makes you think you can trust Bill Strickland?" "Hah!" Mr. Healey leaned back in his chair. "I saved Bill from the gallows." "And I saved Harry's life, or at least his leg." "But Harry's sharp, and Bill's a dog." Joseph did not answer. Mr. Healey studied him. "So you finally got yourself to trust somebody, eh?" "I tested him, and he asked no questions." "You could take a lesson from him," said Mr. Healey with sourness. When Joseph made no comment Mr. Healey said irascibly, "Why can't you leave that letter with me, and not with Harry? Don't you trust me? And I don't like that smile of yours, I'm thinking." "Mr. Healey, you once said the fewer people you need to trust the better. I've already trusted Harry. Besides, you are a busy and important man and I don't wish to burden you with trifles like this." "Hum," said Mr. Healey. "Trying to diddle me, are you? You got a right sarcastic mouth on you, Irish, for all your smooth way of speaking." "I am not planning on being killed or caught, Mr. Healey. The letter is only for an unforeseen emergency, which I hope will not occur. I can trust Harry to return that letter to me unread in case I return. I've trusted him before. I didn't like to do it but I was forced to." "All I know," said Mr. Healey, "is that in some way you outsmarted me and got me to say you can have that money I lent you. I didn't intend to. All right, get on with you. Get out of this room." Joseph stood up and said, "Thank you, Mr. Healey. You are a gentleman." Mr. Healey watched the young man leave the room and silently close the door after him. He ruminated. He began to smile, and it was both a rueful and affectionate smile, and then he shook his head as if laughing at himself. "The damned Irish!" he said aloud. "You can't beat us." Joseph wrote the letter to Sister Elizabeth, and enclosed the deeds to the options he had bought near Corland. He wrote that the options were to be held for his brother and his sister, and then offered for sale in a year for a certain price to Mr. Healey. He mentioned that a cheque would be reaching her shortly in the amount of several hundred dollars, for the board of his family. "This will protect their future, which I leave in your hands," he wrote, "for if you receive this letter I will probably be dead." He sealed the letter carefully and wrapped paper about it, which he sealed also. Then he wrote a short note to Haroun Zieff and sealed it also, the hot red wax dripping on his fingers. The candle he had lighted for this purpose flickered and smoked. On the envelope he wrote, Not to be opened unless I am dead. He blew out the candle and the wan and sharper light of his table lamp filled his bedroom. A fire burned quietly in the grate. It was April i, 1863, a cold bleak April after a desperately bitter winter. Joseph put the two packets together, placed them in a drawer of the rosewood desk and turned the key and pocketed it. The packets would be given to Haroun on the day he left for New York. He threw more coals on the fire and opened a book and began to read. He had marked a place with Sister Elizabeth's last letter. He would reread it again, then burn it. He never left any incriminating item behind him. He had put the thought of his coming mission to New York, and then Virginia, out of his mind for there was no need to think of it at present. Unnecessary thought was an impediment and made one too hesitant about the future. He had given a very brief consideration as to what he would do on his return, for now he owed no one anything and could borrow again, probably from Mr. Healey, for a string of tools and the hire of a few men to work them on the property on which he held options. However, there was a good possibility that he would not return, and there was no intelligence in planning unless there was a sound assurance behind the planning. Until he returned he would waste no time even on probabilities. A week from today and he would be in New York. He did not even try to remember New York. If a vague and uneasy pain touched him occasionally from the suppressed remembrance he was hardly aware of it, though he moved restlessly once or twice in his green velvet rocking chair. He had learned how to deal with sorrow; of that he was certain. One had only to make up one's mind that nothing in the world would ever hurt him again, not even memory, and that was sufficient. If natural apprehension nibbled a little at the edge of his intense concentration on the book he ignored it and dismissed it. Fear did not make him stare sightlessly at the page. What had to be done must be done, and as his life had always been joyless and he knew nothing of laughter and gaiety he found nothing particularly valuable in it for himself. He had money in the bank in Titusville; he had his options. All would be used for his family's future, combined with the sale of the options to Mr. Healey if he, Joseph, did not return. The options, a year from now, ought to be worth twice what he had paid for them and far more, for drilling had already begun in Corland and wells had come in in a very satisfactory way. All in all, the family was protected. It did not occur to Joseph, who trusted no one very much, not even Haroun, that he was trusting Sister Elizabeth to use the money wisely and well in behalf of Scan and Regina. Deep in his hidden consciousness lay that trust, though he did not know it consciously. He was reading Macaulay's Essay on Machiavelli, and it came to him with grim humor that he, himself, was not of the cut of a Machiavelli. The airy and delicate art of supreme irony-in contrast with the acid irony of the Irish-interested him and pleased him, as one would be interested and pleased by a ballet full of grace, gauzy gestures, pirouettes, and collected harmony. Having read much of Machiavelli himself, Joseph found Macaulay's treatise somewhat heavy and pedantic, though Macaulay had indeed suspected that Machiavelli's gravest advice to princes was given with tongue in cheek. But Machiavelli's dancing-eyed mockery was not Joseph's, for Joseph understood, himself, that his own mockery of men and life came from hatred and pain while Machiavelli's came from sophisticated amusement. Joseph was well aware that he could never laugh at the world. To be the total ironist one had to possess that gift no matter what wounds lay under the laughter. To be a Machiavelli, then, with plots and counterplots, one had to be objective, not an objectivity that came from uninterest, as in his own case, but the objectivity of a man at once apart from the world and subjectively involved in it. Only a few months ago the Union troops under Rosecrans had forced the Southern "rebels" to retreat after the Battle of Murfreesboro. Mr. Lincoln, in January of this year, had issued the Emancipation Proclamation, and a few weeks later the Union had passed a draft law which had resulted in many bloody riots throughout the North. Burnside's Union Army had been almost annihilated at Fredericksburg. The Union, though grief-stricken at the death of its sons, was engaged in merry moneymaking and a war prosperity which elated almost everyone. There were constant bands, exhortations, the movement of troops and excitement in the Union, and particularly in Pennsylvania so near to the field of battle. Yet to Joseph Armagh they were events that had been taking place, and were tak
ing place, on Arcturus and engaged his interest not at all. He was not even a citizen of the United States of America nor did he consider the possibility of becoming so. If he thought of the situation in the most passing way it was with the thought that he was an alien in this world and its affairs were not his affairs, and that he had no country and no allegiances. He got up from his rocking chair for a moment to throw a new handful of coals on the fire. He sat down and opened his book and saw the last letter from Sister Elizabeth, dated ten days ago. He opened it and reread it. She thanked him for the money for Scan and Regina, who were now boasting that they had a rich man for a brother, and their teachers had warned them of the sin of pride, Sister Elizabeth added with a touch of humor. Scan still remained of a "delicate constitution, not, perhaps, physically, but of a too intense sensibility found very rarely in a lad and not approved by the other Sisters." Regina, as always, was somewhat too quiet but still "an angel, devoted to prayer, modesty, gentleness, and a sweet demeanor, a true daughter of the Blessed Mother." Joseph frowned. He stared at the carefully written pages for a moment before continuing. Sister Elizabeth went on to relate, with sadness, of public buildings being turned into hasty hospitals to accommodate the desperately wounded and dying soldiers, and of the Sisters' service in those hospitals, nursing, tending, feeding, comforting, praying, sustaining, the washing of wounds and the writing of letters to mothers and wives. "We are hard-pressed," wrote the nun, "but we thank Our Lord for this opportunity to serve Him and to console the dying and to sustain the living. Trains arrive daily with their burdens of the wounded and the suffering, and the ladies of Winfield give of their money, their hearts and their helping hands. Rich or poor, all divisions are forgotten in these dire times, and we are but servants of the suffering, and we are not concerned whether they are of the Union or the Confederate armies. Captured Confederate physicians work nobly side by side with their Union brothers, to save as many of the young boys as possible, and they toil in their uniforms and there are no reproaches, no cruel glances, no quarrels. Truly it has been said that in the presence of pain and despair all men are brothers, though sadly they are not brothers in health and prosperity and happiness. That is a most mysterious and fatal flaw in human nature. Ah, if this wicked war would but end, and peace be restored! So we all pray, Union or Confederate, and our little church at Mass is filled every day with the Gray and the Blue kneeling side by side and receiving Holy Communion together! Yet tomorrow, restored to health and their respective armies, tiiey will seek to kill each other. Never was there a holy war, Joseph, never a just war, despite all the slogans and the banners. But men love war and though they deny it vehemently, as I hear daily, it is rooted in their Nature, alas." She added, "If you can, say five Hail Marys a day for the souls of the sick and dying, for I cannot believe, in my heart, that you have totally forgotten" Joseph had sent her ten dollars extra in his last letter and in accordance with his request Sister Elizabeth had sent him a daguerreotype of Sean and one of Mary Regina, somewhat highly colored, by hand, by the photographer. But not even the too-florid and vivid touches could conceal the smiling and poetic face of Sean Armagh, overly sensitive and refined, and the shining gaze and immaculate countenance of Regina, fragile yet exquisitely strong and softly ardent. It was the face of Moira Armagh, yet not her face, for there had been a sweet and tender earthiness in Moira. There was no earthiness in Regina's luminous eyes, blue and fearless, nor in the carving of her nose and the firm innocence of her beautiful child's mouth. In contrast, Sean was another Daniel Armagh, full of grace and light and hopeful merriment. Sean was now almost thirteen, his sister, seven. It was the portrait of Regina that held Joseph's attention, though the dark and suppressed pain always struck at him in spite of self-discipline even at the thought of her. He studied the black glossiness of her long curls, the smoothness of her white forehead, the blue large stillness of her eyes between her golden lashes and for some reason Joseph was suddenly frightened as if by some foreboding undefined by his consciousness, and formless. He forced himself to look at the likeness of Sean and tried to feel the old bitter resentment he had felt for his father. All at once-and he was incredulous at the thought-he believed that he would always have to protect Sean but that Regina was beyond his protection and had no need of it. What nonsense, he thought with some anger. I will make a man of my brother if I have to kill him doing it, but Regina will always need me, my darling, my sister. He went to his coat which hung with his other few items of clothing in the rosewood wardrobe and brought out his leather pocketbook and he put the portraits of his brother and his sister in one side and tried, with sternness, to control the sudden turbulence of his foolish thoughts. He returned to his chair and gloomily studied the fire, then reread the final page of Sister Elizabeth's letter. "Among our dearest and most devoted helpers is Mrs. Tom Hennessey, the wife of our senator. So kind and gracious a lady, so dedicated and tireless! Sometimes she brings her little girl, Bernadette, to our orphanage, for you cannot instill too soon a spirit of charity and love and kindness in a Child, and Bernadette, a most charming Child, is as thoughtful as her mother and brings gifts to the Little Ones who have no one to remember them. She and Mary Regina have become friends, for all Mary Regina's natural reserve and reticence, and it is well for Mary Regina to have so blithe a spirit sometimes near her, for she is often too grave. I have often heard Mary Regina laugh, her quiet little laugh, and it is music to my heart. We love her dearly." His first vexed thought when he had originally read this letter was to command Sister Elizabeth to keep his sister from the daughter of Senator Hennessey, that corrupt man. But his realism soon convinced him that his real impulse was jealousy, and he was mortified. Still, he could not suppress that jealousy, for Regina was his own and she belonged only to him, and the very thought that others saw her when he could not was misery to him. He had not seen her for several years, but he wrote her a small note to be enclosed in his letters to Sister Elizabeth, and he never once thought of writing to Sean though Sean wrote to him. Looking at the fire now he said to himself that time was growing short and that when he returned from his mission he would go on business for Mr. Healey to Pittsburgh and have another conversation with the man he had met there. Having decided this, he picked up his book of essays, closed his mind to all other thoughts, and read. The carved clock below in the hall struck one, two and then three, and the fire died down and the room became cold and Joseph still read. Mr. Healey did not come to his offices the next day as was his usual custom. Nor had he been present at breakfast with Joseph. Little Liza timidly informed Joseph, on his indifferent question that no, Mr. Healey was not sick. He had but gone to the depot to meet an Important Personage who would be a guest in this house for a few days, a very Important Personage. No, she did not know his name.