Chapter 38
Courtney Hennessey arrived home in Green Hills very early in the morning, after his mother had written him briefly that she had something of grave importance to impart to you, my dear. It was not like his mother to use stilted language to him, nor to be so completely reticent, as if she feared eavesdroppers or was afraid to put down the matter on paper, or, perhaps, had not the courage to write what must be said. Ther had always been complete confidence between mother and son, for they were much alike and not only in appearance, and trusted each other as they had never trusted anyone else. So Courtney, as he swung down from the train at half-past six of a warm July morning at the depot in Winfield, and looked about him for a family carriage, was more disturbed than his tranquil expression showed. It could not be money, he thought. His mother was a rich woman, and Uncle Joseph managed her affairs. (Courtney, unlike the prescient and inquisitive Rory, had no idea of the liaison between his mother and Joseph.) It might be her health, and alarm sharpened in Courtney as he recalled her somewhat frail appearance and sudden silences during his last spring holiday. The carriage was waiting for him, and a coachman, yawning, in the sweet bright light of the July morning. Even though it was very early passengers were already waiting for the trains to Pittsburgh and Philadelphia and New York, yawning also, and standing over their luggage. The coachman helped Courtney with his bags, and the young man then sat the open carriage and was driven from the depot to Green Hills. He liked homecoming. He liked the warm open country and the quiet roads and the thick green trees and the passing over covered bridges and the shine of green water reflecting back the green shadows above them. He liked the glimpses of farmhouses, once the town was behind, the white fences, the red barns, the cattle going into the fields, the smoke lifting from tight chimneys, the barking of farm dogs and the clucking of fowl. He liked to hear the hailing between farmer and farmer, to see furrows plowed with the golden sun, the scent of earth and hedgerow and growing corn, the rows of green cabbages, the rising of yellow wheat, and, above all, hear the soft silence only enhanced by the peaceful sounds that sometimes filled it. Boston was charming and narrow and Old Worldish with its attached houses and bricked walks shaded by elms and maples, and New York was exciting and magnificent, and he knew London and Paris and Rome and Athens. But something was lacking in cities for all their air of vitality and movement and noise; there was a sterility about them, a strange absence, in spite of parks and streams and rivers in their midst. It was only in the country, anywhere, that a man felt true identity and was part of something. Courtney took off his hat and let the warming wind ruffle the hair that was so like his mother's, pale, fine and thick. He had her features, but whereas hers were like porcelain his were sharp and keener, and his green eyes, unlike hers, had no sadness or determined quietude. He had her slenderness and height, but his was taut. As he sat in the carriage with the sun on his head and face he thought of Ann Marie, and smiled. So long as there was little Ann Marie nothing very evil could be in the news he would soon hear--unless it was news that his mother was dying. He said to the coachman, "How is Mrs. Hennessey, Sam?" The coachman yawned again and replied, "Well, sir, she seemed well enough, until about a week ago, and now she seems troubled, in a way, sir. Absent, as it were." "Troubled." "Absent." That was a new description of his mother, thought Courtney. All at once he wanted the horses to run faster and not dawdle peacefully on the dusty road. The shine on the land was less tranquil to Courtney now, and he was irritated when they had to halt so that a placid and slow-moving procession of cattle could cross the road The farm boy looked at him without interest, and a dog snapped at the heels of the horses and scolded them. They went on, and soon they were rolling down Willoughby Road, past quiet mansions still unstirring, and then turning in the drive of what once was the Armagh house but which now belonged to Elizabeth Hennessey. Courtney had only faint memories of once living in that "titanic white mausoleum," as he called the house where Ann Marie lived, and nearly all were disagreeable due to Bernadette, the daughter of his adoptive father. He had never liked her, but he had never understood the constant animosity she had for him, as if she detested the sight of him and his mother. He saw her very rarely in these ),ears, but when he encountered her she did not try to conceal her hostile hatred-- yes, it was hatred. He knew that. She is likely to have a seizure when she knows about Ann Marie and me, he thought, and not without pleasure though with a little apprehension about the girl he loved. Ann Marie was of age; she could marry whom she desired; Uncle Joseph liked him, and had shown him many indulgent kindnesses when he had visited Rory in Boston. No doubt it will please him, too, to vex Bernadette, thought Courtney of his brother- in-law, whom he called "Uncle," out of respect for his greater age. It always startled Courtney when he heard Joseph called by his Christian name, as if it were an impertinent familiarity, and this amused him as it amused him when Rory referred to Joseph affectionately as "the old man," or "Pa." Courtney knew very well that though Rory loved his father as he loved no one else but his Maggie, he was also profoundly afraid of him, as were Ann Marie and Kevin. Courtney frowned anxiously, thinking of Ann Marie, her shy timidity, her instinctive retreats from a hard face or a rough word, her desire to placate and restore harmony. Yes, her mother would not be gentle to her, very soon--as if she was ever gentle! thought Courtney, and for the first time his indifference towards Bernadette, his adopted sister, turned to active aversion. His mother once had told him that Bernadette had, at one time, "been considered quite pretty and very lively and full of wit and spirit, and very stylish," but Courtney, remembering Bernadette as of today, could hardly believe that that stout body, straining against whalebone and steel, that sallow face engorged on the wide flat cheeks with apoplectic red, the nose that seemed too small in all that flesh, and the big malicious mouth, could have been appealing. Even her fine hazel eyes, sparkling in amber and gold and shadows of green flecked with brown, had been overwhelmed by facial corpulence and held nothing kind or amused in them, but only a steadfast malevolence. She was only about forty-one or so, but her hair was dyed a bright chestnut brown and was lifted high over her face in the wide and towering new pompadour, giving her a gross expression. She was still quick of movement, in spite of her obesity, but she had a tendency to waddle, an ugly contrast to Elizabeth's smooth grace of walk and posture. She also used heavy scent, even in summer, when heavy scents could be sickening and oppressive, and her face never took on any sweetness or pleasure except when she saw her husband. At these times Courtney--the only one--would feel some pity for her. It was still not quite half-past seven, but as he got out of the carriage Courtney, glancing up at, the windows of his mother's rooms, saw that the draperies had been drawn aside and the lace curtains were blowing gently in the silken breeze. His mother usually breakfasted no earlier than half-past eight, or even later, in bed. The fact that she was obviously awake and up at this hour disturbed him even more than before. He went into the house very quickly, to be met by a maid who told him that his mother was waiting for him in the breakfast room. At least, he thought, tossing his hat in the general direction of a hall chair, and then walking down the long white hall to the rear, his mother was well enough to rise and eat downstairs. So, it must be something else. The breakfast room, octagon in shape, was serene in pale yellow and green, and the table was already laid and the gold silk of the curtains was moving in the light warm wind. His mother sat at her place, palely beautiful as always, in her green morning dress, her hair hanging down her back and caught at the nape by a green ribbon. She looks like a girl, thought Courtney, cheered, as he bent to kiss her. She patted his cheek, and then saw his hands and said, "Oh, you are all soot, my dear. Do wash, and I will wait and lust drink a little coffee before you come back." "I was worried about you," said Courtney, "so didn't stop to wash." Now for the first time he saw the violet shadows under her eyes, her unusual pallor, the tight little lines about her mouth. She glanced away. "I am quite well, Courtney. Do come back soon." Her voice was low an
d yes, it was "troubled." Her proud shoulders sagged as if she were very tired and had spent some sleepless nights. Courtney rushed up to his rooms and washed, took off his brown suit and replaced it with a light gray one, smoothed his hair, and ran downstairs again. He had just reached the foot of the stairs when a sick premonition, without a name, struck him. He stopped, his hand on the newel post, in the sunlit silence of the hall. He remembered that Ann Marie was "soon" going to "speak" to her mother. He had made her promise, in his last letter--which announced his arrival in Green Hills very shortly--that she would not "speak" until he was beside her to give her courage. He had also asked her, in his letter, to meet him on horseback "at our usual place." That would be in about three hours. The thought of seeing Ann Marie very soon gave him courage, too, and he went back to the breakfast room. His mother sat as if in a dazed trance, a cup of untouched coffee in her hand, her eyes fixed on the table on which steamed covered dishes of silver. With the clarity of new fear Courtney could see every detail about his mother, and even the tiny rose pattern on the white china plates and the glitter of the silverware. He sat down, and his mother started, for she had not heard him enter. "News of any kind," she said, "can always wait for a contented digestion, can't it?" she was the daughter of his adoptive father. He had never liked her, but he had never understood the constant animosity she had for him, as if she detested the sight of him and his mother. He saw her very rarely in these years, but when he encountered her she did not try to conceal her hostile hatred-- yes, it was hatred. He knew that. She is likely to have a seizure when she knows about Ann Marie and me, he thought, and not without pleasure though with a little apprehension about the girl he loved. Ann Marie was of age; she could marry whom she desired; Uncle Joseph liked him, and had shown him many indulgent kindnesses when he had visited Rory in Boston. No doubt it will please him, too, to vex Bernadette, thought Courtney of his brother- in-law, whom he called "Uncle," out of respect for his greater age. It always startled Courtney when he heard Joseph called by his Christian name, as if it were an impertinent familiarity, and this amused him as it amused him when Rory referred to Joseph affectionately as "the old man," or "Pa." Courtney knew very well that though Rory loved his father as he loved no one else but his Maggie, he was also profoundly afraid of him, as were Ann Marie and Kevin. Courtney frowned anxiously, thinking of Ann Marie, her shy timidity, her instinctive retreats from a hard face or a rough word, her desire to placate and restore harmony. Yes, her mother would not be gentle to her, very soon--as if she was ever gentle thought Courtney, and for the first time his indifference towards Bernadette, his adopted sister, turned to active aversion. His mother once had told him that Bernadette had, at one time, "been considered quite pretty and very lively and full of wit and spirit, and very stylish," but Courtney, remembering Bernadette as of today, could hardly believe that that stout body, straining against whalebone and steel, that sallow face engorged on the wide flat cheeks with apoplectic red, the nose that seemed too small in all that flesh, and the big malicious mouth, could have been appealing. Even her fine hazel eyes, sparkling in amber and gold and shadows of green flecked with brown, had been overwhelmed by facial corpulence and held nothing kind or amused in them, but only a steadfast malevolence. She was only about forty-one or so, but her hair was dyed a bright chestnut brown and was lifted high over her face in the wide and towering new pompadour, giving her a gross expression. She was still quick of movement, in spite of her obesity, but she had a tendency to waddle, an ugly contrast to Elizabeth's smooth grace of walk and posture. She also used heavy scent, even in summer, when heavy scents could be sickening and oppressive, and her face never took on any sweetness or pleasure except when she saw her husband. At these times Courtney--the only one--would feel some pity for her. It was still not quite half-past seven, but as he got out of the carriage Courtney, glancing up at, the windows of his mother's rooms, saw that the draperies had been drawn aside and the lace curtains were blowing gently in the silken breeze. His mother usually breakfasted no earlier than half-past eight, or even later, in bed. The fact that she was obviously awake and up at this hour disturbed him even more than before. He went into the house very quickly, to be met by a maid who told him that his mother was waiting for him in the breakfast room. At least, he thought, tossing his hat in the general direction of a hall chair, and then walking down the long white hall to the rear, his mother was well enough to rise and eat downstairs. So, it must be something else. The breakfast room, octagon in shape, was serene in pale yellow and green, and the table was already laid and the gold silk of the curtains was moving in the light warm wind. His mother sat at her place, palely beautiful as always, in her green morning dress, her hair hanging down her back and caught at the nape by a green ribbon. She looks like a girl, thought Courtney, cheered, as he bent to kiss her. She patted his cheek, and then saw his hands and said, "Oh, you are all soot, my dear. Do wash, and I will wait and just drink a little coffee before you come back." "I was worried about you," said Courtney, "so didn't stop to wash." Now for the first time he saw the violet shadows under her eyes, her unusual pallor, the tight little lines about her mouth. She glanced away. "I am quite well, Courtney. Do come back soon." Her voice was low and yes, it was "troubled." Her proud shoulders sagged as if she were very tired and had spent some sleepless nights. Courtney rushed up to his rooms and washed, took off his brown suit and replaced it with a light gray one, smoothed his hair, and ran downstairs again. He had just reached the foot of the stairs when a sick premonition, without a name, struck him. He stopped, his hand on the newel post, in the sunlit silence of the hall. He remembered that Ann Marie was "soon" going to "speak" to her mother. He had made her promise, in his last letter--which announced his arrival in Green Hills very shortly--that she would not "speak" until he was beside her to give her courage. He had also asked her, in his letter, to meet him on horseback "at our usual place." That would be in about three hours. The thought of seeing Ann Marie very soon gave him courage, too, and he went back to the breakfast room. His mother sat as if in a dazed trance, a cup of untouched coffee in her hand, her eyes fixed on the table on which steamed covered dishes of silver. With the clarity of new fear Courtney could see every detail about his mother, and even the tiny rose pattern on the white china plates and the glitter of the silverware. He sat down, and his mother started, for she had not heard him enter. "News of any kind," she said, "can always wait for a contented digestion, can't it?"