Chapter 5
"Joseph, lad," said the nun and held out her hand to him. It was a hand callused and scored by endless hard work, but warm and strong. His own was cold and flaccid in it, and the nun was aware of the fact. But she smiled her deceptively sweet smile and blinked behind her polished glasses, and her rosy face dimpled and her face was affectionate under her coif and black veil. Though she ate less than anyone in the convent her short body was plump, which was an unending miracle to the young nuns under her care. "Where is Scan, and Regina?" Joseph asked with no replying smile. He stood before the nun in threatening challenge and the old fear returned to him. "Joey, sit down, do, and let me talk with you," said Sister Elizabeth. "Have no fear. The little ones are expecting you and they will be here presently. But I have something important to tell you." "They are sick!" said Joseph in a loud accusatory voice, and his brogue roughened it. "Not at all," said Sister Elizabeth, and no longer smiled. Her face became stern and commanding. "Stand, if you will, and not sit. You are a very stubborn lad, Joey, and I am displeased with you. I thought I would speak with you as I would speak to a sensible man but I am afraid there is little hope of that! Ah, well. "Did you notice that handsome carriage and all, outside, waiting?" "What has it to do with me?" demanded Joseph. "Or has someone a fine job to offer with good wages, Sister?" and he smiled with derision at such a golden idea. "Ah, Joey," sighed Sister Elizabeth. She loved the boy. He reminded her of her relentless brave brothers in Ireland, all of them dead now of disease and starvation. "Life is not that easy and fanciful." "You have no need to tell me that, Sister."
Yes, Joey, and that I know." She regarded him with hidden compassion. "Well, I must tell you. There is a beautiful lady here, young but truly genteel, the wife of a gentleman of excellent prospects. She is, herself, rich and it is her house in which they live, and her servants, and she is almost the sole support of our church in Winfield, and it is she who pays for our food and shelter and clothing and boots, and she gives to the Missions and a seminary. But there is a bottom to every purse, I have heard, and she does all she can. "She has a little daughter, the age of Mary Regina, but alas, she can have no more children. Her great heart longs for another little one, but it is not to be. It is God's will. So she wishes to adopt-" "Regina?" said Joseph in a tone like a curse. He made a wild gesture almost as if he would strike the nun before whom he still stood. "Is that what you would tell me?" "Joey-" "How dared you show Regina to her!" His voice rose to a broken shout of rage and affront. "Do I not pay for my sister? You would steal her from me, in spite of your mealy promises. You lied to me!" She reached out, her face as hard as his, and she caught his thin arm and shook him. "Speak to me not like that, Joey, or I shall leave you and say no more. In truth, I would leave you now were it not for Mary Regina and her future. I did not show your sister to this lady, whom I must call Mrs. Smith, for you are not to know her name. She saw the child on one of her missions of mercy to this orphanage, bringing us rolls of wool and flannel, and some money, and she loved the child at once and thought of her as a sister for her own little one. "Hark, Joey. Let the madness go from your mind a moment. What future has Mary Regina here, and in this city? You are only sixteen, poor lad. You are half-starved and live miserably, and though you have not told me I know. You have a brother, also. Life is not good for the Irish now in America, as you have discovered for yourself, and it may never be. Do we not have to keep the doors of the church locked except at Mass, and the doors of this orphanage, also? It was but two months ago when evil men forced their way into the church and threw down the altar and desecrated the Host, and beat Father Barton who tried, in vain, to restrain them. They stole our candlesticks and broke our crucifix and befouled the sacristy. You know of this, Joey, and I have heard it is as bad in other cities in America, against the Catholics and the Church. But a month ago the Sister Superior in her convent in Boston was beaten almost to death, and her nuns attacked, and the Hosts in the adjoining church were fed to horses, or stamped in the gutter."
She lifted her eyes to the crucrfix on the wall, and her face was pale and there were tears on her lashes. But she continued to talk quietly and resolutely. "What life opens before Mary Regina, who needs a home and a mother's love and care and a future of peace and comfort, and education? At the best you may make some higher wages, but short of a miracle you will be hard pressed to support yourself and Scan for many years. In the meantime, you will live as you live, and there will be no hope for Mary Regina, and little for yourself and Scan. "Do not the children of your dead parents deserve more than this? You are a man, Joey, and Scan will soon be a man, and life is not so hard for men as it is for women, and that we know. You will manage for yourselves. But what of Mary Regina? Do you dare deny to her what the little love may have-warmth and good clothing and care and affection, and teachers and gentility, and later a fine marriage? You would deprive her of this, Joey, and condemn her to lifelong misery instead. Have you thought what the years will inevitably bring her if she remains here? We can teach her her letters and domestic duties, but when she is fourteen we can no longer keep her here, for her place must be given to a younger girl. We have no choice. So Mary Regina, as do all our girls, must go into service and be a despised servant the rest of her life, and her way will be humble and she must bow before those who will abuse and scorn her and treat her with less kindness than they treat their horses and dogs. "You have told me, Joey, that when Mary Regina is fourteen you will be able to give her a good home of your own making. That is in less than eleven years. Do you believe this truly, Joey?" "Yes," said Joseph, and in the dim lamplight and half-darkness which now filled the reception room his face was the face of a man much older, and set. The nun sighed again and looked down at her clasped hands. "You do not know the world, Joey, in spite of what you have already endured. You are very young, and so to you nothing is impossible. But, Joey, almost all of the dreams of the young come to nothing, and I have seen that for myself. I have seen hundreds of high young hearts broken, and die in the breaking. And I have heard the silence of despair, more times than I dare think of." Her round voice, usually so full and assured, now sank into melancholy. "Joey," she continued after a moment, "I do not deny that you may make your way, and well. But not with a sister to care for and protect. You must also think of Scan. Do not deprive Mary Regina of the mother and the love and the home this beautiful lady has offered her out of the goodness and tenderness of her heart. You dare not, Joey." A wizened tautness drew the boy's features together and his pale cheeks seemed to sink in like the face of an old man. His deep-set blue eyes fixed themselves with unmoving intensity upon the nun, and his wide thin mouth was like a blade. He had removed his workman's cap when he had entered the room, and his ragged thatch of russet hair hung in points over his wrinkled brow, over his ears and the back of his neck. His was a face of both black desolation and concentrated anger. "Think, Joey, before you speak," said Sister Elizabeth, and her voice was gentle and moved. Joseph began to walk up and down the little room, firmly and slowly, his hands in his pockets, his stare fixed blindly ahead of him. Sister Elizabeth saw his sick pallor and his ginger freckles and his fearful thinness and shabbincss, and her heart sickened with grief and pity. So brave a lad, with so strong a soul-yet he was but a lad after all, an orphan little older than many now in this orphanage. She closed her eyes and prayed: "Dear Lord, let him make the right decision, for his sake above all others." He suddenly halted before the nun and again made that fierce and intimidating gesture. His large, almost hooked, nose was a gaunt and glistening bone in his stark face. "Let me see this precious lady," he said. Almost crying out in her joy Sister Elizabeth bounced to her feet and waddled swiftly from the room. Alone again Joseph turned and surveyed the crucifix. It seemed to flicker with life as the waning and brightening of the lamplight washed across it in waves. Joseph smiled, and he shook his head as if with somber amusement at something which had no meaning for him but which had suddenly called itself to his attention. The door o
pened and Sister Elizabeth entered, and a young lady with her. Joseph opened his eyes-they were sunken now as if from a profound illness. "Mrs.-Smith," said the nun. "This is Joseph Armagh, Mary Regina's brother, of whom I have told you. Joey?" She looked with dismay at the boy. Joseph was leaning against the wall and did not move and gave no response. But he was gazing with complete fixity at the young woman who stood, smiling hopefully, near Sister Elizabeth. She was young, possibly nineteen or twenty, and tall and slender, with a fine and sensitive face of rose and pearl, with large and shimmering dark eyes and a scarlet mouth like a leaf in autumn. Under a bonnet of rich pink velvet, tied with pink satin ribbons, her hair curled in tawny waves and little ringlets. She wore a short jacket of some smooth dark fur, shining and expensive, and her elegant hooped skirt was of black velvet trimmed with gilt braid. She carried a muff in her gloved hands, and the muff was of the fur of the jacket. There were diamond and ruby earrings in her cars, and a little scarlet light was reflected on her beautiful checks. Her slippers were of velvet, with low heels, and beneath her skirt there was a hint of pantalettes of lace and silk.