Chapter 40
Joseph and Rory went to the ambassador's ball, in the American Embassy, a huge gray and gloomy building which was, however, adequately heated--for which Rory was grateful. There was no man present, he thought, who looked as distinguished as his father in his formal clothing, and he noticed that the gorgeously clad ladies noticed that fact also. Was it his detached and impassive look, his air of restrained strength, his dispassionate conversation, his cold courtesy? Rory had no answer, but his eyes followed Joseph with admiration. The ladies all appeared beautiful in their Paris gowns and jewels, the gentlemen all courtly and gallant. The music and lights were gay, the fires big, the refreshments lavish, the wine pouring like a red or white river into glittering glasses, the chandeliers blazing. There was such an atmosphere of amiability, sophisticated intellect and generous good-will that Rory was delighted. Here there were no stern and concentrated faces, no whisper of international evil, no plots, no soft-spoken conspiracies--yet Rory knew that they were here in person. He heard French and German spoken all about him, and other tongues, all lilting and vivacious. The American Ambassador, his Excellency, Mr. Stephen Worthington, was the gayest and most vivacious of all, and he had, Rory observed, his daughter's magnetism. He was always surrounded by swirling groups, sparkling and flattering. His lady was a dim little person in a dim gray gown, and had a way of seeking corners. His Excellency had Claudia's exotic appearance, heavier in him and at moments repellent, for his features were grosser. His dark chestnut hair was long and carefully waved, his mustache discreet and aristocratic, his height graceful, his changeful eyes dancing with affection and pleasure in the company about him. His voice was modulated, with an acquired English accent which never slipped, and his laughter was a rich sound and full. It was evident that he was very popular. He greeted everyone as if his or her presence was the one be had been waiting for for a long time, and he was delighted to see the dear one again. Rory studied him at a distance. he wondered if he were as stupid and shallow as Claudia, and as pettily self-absorbed, and as exigent, and greedy. After half an hour's contemplation of his host Rory came to the conclusion that he was, indeed, but that he had learned to conceal these unappetizing traits in the name of diplomacy and advancement. The eyes, in spite of the constant smiles and open laughter and chuckles, had a cold calculation in them, and a watchfulness. Here, too, was an execrable man, for he would agree to anything which would he to his advantage, no real how venal. Claudia, of course, was there, in girlish gauze and white silk with a slim diamond necklace and a diamond bracelet, all in the best of taste and not ostentatious. Rory danced with her, and tried to avoid looking at her directly, for then he was disarmed and fascinated, over and over attempting to fathom her elusive charm. She chattered breathlessly, as she danced, pointing out "distinguished persons," and hardly uttering a sentence when she did not mention "dear Papa," and what this noted gentleman had said of Papa and what Papa had said to him, and how Papa was so graciously received by all the European monarchs, and how attached Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, was to him, she who did not particularly care for Americans. why, only a year ago she had come out from her widowed seclusion to be present here at a ball, and she stayed all of fifteen minutes! "Remarkable," said Rory, trying not to look at her, and trying to concentrate only on that silly infantile voice which was sometimes inaudible in its breathlessness. She smelled of jasmine, and forever after Rory hated that scent, fie thought of Marjorie, and her naughty bantering, and her telling little jokes, and ached. Rory loved parties, for he by nature was gregarious like his mother, and he loved the sight of pretty women, and he loved wine and whiskey and caviar and rich dishes and shine and glitter and the flash of silver or gold slippers, and music and lights and fires. But by ten o'clock he found he was mysteriously fatigued. It was this damned English climate, he thought, which made his back ache like this, and made him feel an elderly rheumatoid condition. He danced with a multitude of ladies, young and old, even his shy and frightened hostess. He was gallant, dashing, handsome. Younger feminine eyes followed him, and so did older eyes, lovingly. He was witty, bright, courtly. He hardly seemed American, thought many, forgiving him. Gentlemen found him surprisingly adroit and informed and intelligent. He had surreptitiously visited the one small table which held "vulgar" whiskey, and he had visited it several times. He felt the need for it, though Joseph had often warned him that "the creature" was direful for Irishmen. He had, on too many rueful occasions, conceded the truth of this. But what was one to do after that meeting of the Committee for Foreign Studies, two days ago, and this accursed climate, and this ball, and that stupid little Claudia who insistently found him after every dance he danced with another lady?
Joseph, who never missed anything, was quite aware that his son was visiting, too often, that secluded and a little shameful table with the whiskey. He also noticed that Miss Claudia was pursuing him with girlish ardor. He also saw that Rory was dexterously trying to avoid her, and he frowned. He waited until the next morning when Rory was painfully sober and keeping his eyes sedulously away from the sight of the covered silver dishes filled with broiled kidneys, hot ham, bacon, eggs, trout, pasties, and other English breakfast delicacies. Rory drank black coffee only, and played with a buttered crumpet, and his color was not very florid today. Joseph said in a cold voice, "Go on with you, boyo. Have a hair of the dog that bit you. It's the only cure." Rory rose like a suddenly animated spring and shot to the cabinet where he poured himself a small glass of whiskey. He drank it like a man dying of thirst, and said "Ah!" in a deep and grateful voice. His eyes watered, but his color began to return. It was sleeting outside, and very dark, for all it was nearly noon. "This damned climate," said Rory, and dabbed at his eyes. "No worse than Boston, or New York, at this time of year," said Joseph. "Well? Do you feel better? I've told you all about the poteen and what it does to us." "Is that why you don't drink it, Pa?" asked Rory, with more courage than usual when with his father. "Or are you afraid that if you do drink it you might be offguard--" "Against what?" Joseph's voice was deadly. 485 "Nothing," said Rory. "That is, I mean, someone might take advantage of you." "No one ever did, except my father," said Joseph. "No one ever will." His narrow face with the bony cheekbones tightened, as it always did when he mentioned Danny Armagh. "I don't drink much, except a little brandy or wine, because I don't like it, boyo. I never acquired a taste for it. why make your palate and stomach suffer?" "I drink it for effect," said Rory. "And that's the worst reason of all," said Joseph. "No man should look for escape." "Paraphrasing Patrick Henry.," said Rory, with recklessness, "is life so dear and reality so sweet that they must be purchased at the price of moderation?" Joseph could not help smiling. "You do have the Irish tongue on you, I admit. Sit down, Rory. Unless you want another drink." "I do," said Rory fervently, and poured another two fingers. After that he sat down and could consider the steaming silver dishes without too much disfavor. He helped himself to a strip of bacon and a spoonful of broiled kidneys and discovered that they did not nauseate him this time. He could even relish them a little. "Distasteful as reality often is," said Joseph, "we have to face it." Now he is going to suggest something really disagreeable and appalling, thought Rory and blinked at his father rosily. "The ambassador and I had a few minutes of conversation last night, before you almost disgraced yourself and had to be helped to our carriage by two footmen," said Joseph. "A very' interesting conversation." I bet, thought Rory, but he looked at Joseph with genuine affection. "We came to the conclusion--after observing a few incidents--that a marriage will be arranged between you and Miss Worthington, say a year or so from now." Rory became very still. The fork lay in his hand without moving. The heavy eyes were fixed. Rory felt sick again. "I don't like her," he said. "She's foolish and silly and without brains, and she bores me to death. I wouldn't marry her if she was the last woman on earth." Joseph leaned back in his chair, but he was tense. "I knew you'd say that, bucko. "What does all that matter? Are you looking for hearts and flowers, fo
r God's sake? Are you romantic?" and he looked as if he wished to spit. "Romance, and love, are for children and imbecile young girls, not for intelligent adults. Do you think I loved your mother, or found her intelligent and full of witty conversation? Men don't consider these things when they are planning on an advantageous marriage. Only adolescent Americans want what they call 'love.' No wonder marriage is. in such a bad state in America, with all that moonlight and roses and summer breezes! They're a bad foundation for a judicious marriage, with advantages." "You can't marry a woman who revolts you," said Rory. "Does she that? I saw you staring at her as if she were a basilisk," said Joseph. "When she danced with someone else you still stared after her." "I couldn't help it," said Rory. "She's got that damned something or other-I don't know. But I can't stand the girl, honestly. To be honest again, it wouldn't be fair to her, either." The sleet hissed against the windows, the air darkened, the wind rose, and the fire rose also. Joseph considered his son. Then he said, "But you are going to marry her just the same, Rory. That does not mean you have to be faithful to her. There are other women." "Suppose you wanted to marry one of them?" asked Rory. For the first time that Rory could recall Joseph looked away from a direct confrontation. He stared at the windows. "You don't," he said. "Not unless you want to throw your career away. Or the lady is unwilling. Or there are-impediments." So, Aunt Elizabeth was "unwilling," thought Rory, and felt compassion for his father. "It is settled, then," said Joseph. "You will marry Miss Claudia within two years." Rory's facial muscles bulged about his full-lipped mouth. He played with his fork. He said, "I want to marry someone else. We-we are practically engaged." Joseph stood up abruptly. "Who, for Christ's sake, you idiot?" "A girl I met in Boston. A wonderful girl, intelligent, dear, beautiful, kind, and generally adorable," said Rory. "A girl of a rich Boston family, who'd grace our name, to use an old-fashioned expression." "Who?" repeated Joseph, and his voice was pouncing. "You don't know her, Pa," said Rory, and now he was frightened. That damned whiskey. It could surely betray a man. "It really isn't official. I- I am just playing with the thought. A lovely girl. You'd like her." He had an idea. "Her father opposes the alliance." Joseph's face blackened. "He does that, does he? One of those Boston Brahmins who despises the Irish, and Papists?" "I think I'm bringing him around," said Rory. "You mean you are humiliating yourself-you, the son of Joseph Armagh?" Joseph's look was dangerous. "A Boston chit, a miss with dainty little manners! Money, you say? How much?" "Not as much as we have. Her father is a member of an old Boston law firm. His father, and grandfather, established it. He is quite wealthy. No money problems there." Joseph slowly sat down. His voice was too quiet. "Have you spoken for the lady already?" "No." "Have I met her father?" Rory hesitated. "I don't know. Perhaps." "I know them all. I must have met him, if he's a lawyer-and rich. Now, listen to me, boyo. The day you become engaged to Miss Claudia Worthington I will give you two million dollars. The day you marry her you will receive ten million. Can your Boston chit match that?" Rory was silent. "If you reject Miss Claudia," said Joseph, "and listen to me carefully: You will not be my son any longer. You will receive nothing more from me, living or dead. Is that perfectly clear?" O God, thought Rory, thinking of his fifty dollars a month and Marjorie's thirty and of the dreary little flat in Cambridge which was his heaven. He said, trying to smile, "Claudia is only sixteen. Well, nearly seventeen. We'll have a year or so to consider, won't we?" "True. In the meantime you will not see the Boston lady any longer- unless she is willing to oblige you, outside of marriage. Some of these Boston ladies are quite-ardent-let us say, for all their hoity-toity manners and 'family.' " Joseph smiled unpleasantly. Ron said, "I still have to complete law school." "Who says you do not? In fact, I insist on it. When you pass the bar the marriage will take place." Joseph slapped the table with an air of finality. "It is settled, then, though it was settled last night between Steve and me. A most suitable marriage, and the girl is obviously infatuated with you, though I cannot tell why." Joseph invited Rory to smile with him, and Rory finally succeeded in doing so. His back, or something, was aching like a fever in him, or as if broken. Just let me finish law school, he thought. That's all I want. Then the hell with everything else, and I'll have my Maggie. I'll find out, thought Joseph. I'll set Charles on this at once, and a few other of my men. We've got to stop it before it becomes serious. He was not too vexed with his son, whom everyone had admired last night. Young men get in the damnedest difficulties, especially when they are full-blooded like Rory, and there are always women waiting for them like vultures. Let the boy have his fun, so long as he understands that it is not to be serious. For some reason Joseph felt an icy and vindictive satisfaction in the thought of the jilted Boston Brahmin's daughter. It was time, God knew, it was time. Now he was even proud. The son of an Irish immigrant would reject the daughter of a Boston scion! He, Joseph, had waited a long time. Maggie, thought Rory. He also thought of the ominous men he had met, and he remembered how he had planned, in the future, to circumvent them. He dropped his aching head in his hands and was nauseated again. But he was by nature optimistic. He had a year, perhaps two years, and who knew what would happen in that time? He stood up in his morning flannel robe and went to the roaring fire. "It's damned cold in here," he said, and stirred up the coals and rubbed his muscular arms. The chimney pots of London boiled out their black smoke and the air was full of their gassy stench. It seemed to invade Rory's whole being as well as his nose, and his courage sank. What would his father say, and do, when he discovered that his son was already married? Rory did not underestimate Joseph. He knew his father would stop at nothing. The only solution, then, was not to let him even be suspicious, and to wait until he, Rory, had passed his bar examinations. Rory saw the men of the Committee for Foreign Studies, and he felt that he had committed an act of absolute betrayal, though he could not understand why at this agitated moment.
Chapter 41
For the first time in his life, as he crossed the tumultuous and angry gray Atlantic on his way home, Rory Armagh felt the need of a confidant. It was not so much the thought of the bankers and giant financiers-including some noblemen-whom he had met in Europe, which so disturbed him, but the implications and ramifications of their growing power. He remembered that the Committee for Foreign Studies was mainly an American establishment, with a branch in England, and that the Committee was only part of a whole, under different names in different nations and with different nationalities. In America, there were at least five generals who were members of the Committee. The vast interlocking organizations, with their one aim and their one mind, were what was so appalling to Rory, and their brotherhood control of politicians. Where had he heard: "In hell, there are no disputes"? This whole apparatus had begun with the League of Just Men, of which Karl Marx had been a member, but the apparatus was not Communistic or Socialistic or Monarchist or democratic or anything else. They merely used these political ideologies as weapons against mankind, to confuse it and tame it and enslave it. They were not involved in philosophies or metaphysics or ideals or any other of the intellectual toys with which so- called intelligent men beguiled themselves and persuaded themselves of their mentality. They were above politics as such. Let the rabble pretend happily that it had influence on its government, so long as that rabble never guessed who indeed ruled their government! It was their very dispassionate ruthlessness and almost inhuman drive which admittedly