When Harry said of Charles, with some admiration, "That's a mean Southern bastard," Harry did not understand why Joseph's small eyes glittered with merriment. "You'd think," Harry said, "that no one born north of the Mason-Dixon line had any right to call himself human. Or claim to be an intelligent gentleman." Joseph had replied, "If the history of every man in this world were known, back to our forefathers, none of us would have reason for any pride at all." Harry had smiled and had not answered this. He knew too well the pride of Joseph Armagh, and so Harry had his own souce of secret laughter. It was on one warm June day, brilliant with sun and suffused with the fragrance of roses, that Joseph became really aware of his children. He and Charles were m Green Hdls for a few days. Joseph was at his desk in his rooms and Charles was standing by a window looking over the glistening green grass and the flowers and the long lawns and trees. He suddenly said, "They are fine young people. I wish I had children of my own." Joseph had looked up impatiently. "What?" he said. "Your children," said Charles. "Rory looks like one of those Greek gods we hear about, and the girl is delicate and graceful. A lady." Joseph--'stood up and went to the window and looked out. Anything that caught the attention of Charles. Devereaux must be remarkable, for Charles, like himself, was usually unintersted in others and considered few worthy enough to deserve a remark. Rory and Ann Marie were walking side by side over the long lawns in the sun. There was a deep affection between them. They were holding hands like very young lovers, and their heads were bent and they were evidently talking seriously. Rory's reddish head was bright in the sunlight, and seemed haloed with color, and he walked like a dancer with poise and economy and ease. His handsome boy's face was absorbed and attentive. He was somewhat of a dandy and wore the latest fashions, which became him. Ann Marie walked beside him, with a faintly timid air and lightness, her blue dress clinging to her slight but proud figure, her brown hair shining, her pale face gentle and quiet. She kept glancing at her brother very soberly, and occasionally she nodded. For the first time Joseph was thoroughly and completely aware of them, and that they were his children, and that they were personable and human and had a poignant air of youth and identity. They were also beautiful and in some way moving. Joseph leaned on the marble windowsill and stared at his children and then said to himself, in reluctant and even angry wonder: My children! Suddenly they were no longer Bernadette's, but his own. They were not the grandchildren of Tom Hennessey, but the grandchildren of Daniel and Moira Armagh, and they had their blood and their flesh. I know nothing about them, thought Joseph, with renewed wonder though without regret. They were like a revelation to him, for they had destiny also. At some distance behind them Kevin ambled, his stocky child's body, broad and strong, possessed of the awkwardness of childhood. He had a dark square face with hard facial bones, very resolute and grave. It was the gravity that redeemed it from pugnacity. His deep brown hair was a mass of curls. His dark brown eyes were examining something he held in his hands, and he was intent upon it. Joseph had never noticed it before: Kevin resembled Moira Armagh's father, a sturdy and compact Irishman who would never compromise with anything, not even with his God, a quietly belligerent man of daunting pride and self-respect. Joseph, at the window today, did not know he was smiling as he looked down at his children. He did not know, until somewhat later, that love for them had come to him on that June day and that finally they were his own and part of himself, and that he had acquired another familyjl On Rory's fifteenth birthday Joseph said to him, trying to smile, "I am going to make you President of the United States of America." Rory looked at his father with impudent thoughtfulness and said, "You'll try damned hard anyway, Pa. And I'll try with you." Then Joseph knew that his son would do anything to please him, and he had felt sharp pain and a sudden blank confusion. Rory asked, "Why should that be important to you, Pa?" Joseph had considered, and Rory watched him and saw the darkening of his face and the tightening of his mouth. Joseph said, "I could never explain it to you, I am afraid. I have too many memories." Rory had nodded, as if he understood in entirety. For Ann Marie Joseph had acquired a special tenderness. She had a simplicity of character which both frightened and touched him. It was not Regina's simplicity, which had been full of knowledge, but a limpid simplicity that knew nothing of evil and so denied it. For Kevin Joseph now had a rough and rollicking affection, and he sometimes called Kevin "you old man. I think you were born with a beard." Rory acquired learning with ease and insouciance, but Kevin labored earnestly and grubbily. When Joseph learned that his children had always loved him he was both ashamed and remorseful, and was sometimes incredulous. But, there it was. He had done nothing to gain their love, and yet they had given it to him as they had not given it to their mother who had indulged them and then had pettishly resented them because they had not lived up to the "new theories" she had acquired from reading Horace Mann's effusions. They did not respond as Horace Mann had alleged children would respond to certain methods. It finally came to Bernadette that they thought their mother somewhat silly, and as Bernadette was not silly in the least she had been outraged. She had always been glad when they were absent, so she could think of no one but Joseph. A year after the day Joseph had secretly acknowledged his children as his own she had learned that he loved them. For that she never forgave them. Her jealousy crushed and almost demolished her. It wounded her in her deepest places. Without an effort they had gained Joseph's love, and she, who gave her life to him, was rejected. She became distraught. She regretted that she had ever given birth to them. They were her rivals, her enemies. To please Joseph she pretended solicitude and affection for them. They had stolen from her, she believed, what was rightfully hers. To Bernadette the most grievous day of her life occurred when she had complained to Joseph of Ann Marie's "ugliness," and had said, "I doubt the girl will ever make a good marriage, with her lack of beauty and presence. Dear me, she is not in the least charming. She has no style at all." Joseph had turned on her with so vindictive a face and with such a savage look that she had recoiled. He said, "Let my children alone. I warn you, let my children alone." Bernadette, abandoned, felt the first profound prostration she had ever experienced. She had been forced to take to her bed, she who was never ill. For days she lay in her darkened room, unable to weep, and could only stare dry-eyed at the painted ceiling. She could not even speak. She felt that she was dying, and actually longed for death. When she recovered a little she had aged. Her grief was more endurable but heavy with sorrow. However, she had courage. It is just a matter of time, she would tell herself. They will soon be married and gone, and I will be alone with Joseph, and he will finally know that he has no one but me. We are not getting younger. Some day he will understand and love me, and I can only wait for that. She knew, by now, his many infidelities. She knew of the woman he loved. But, she was his wife, and a wife's position was impregnable, upheld by God and society and all legal sanctions. Even Joseph Armagh could not forever ignore these. Now there remained to her, in her clutching despair, only her husband and herself.
Chapter 33
One of his classmates said to Rory Armagh: "Your father is only an Irish whoremaster." Rory replied: "And your grandfather was a pious Puritan blackbirder, who baptised miserable savages and blessed them then spirited them into slavery, though it was against the law. Nothing like a few prayers on the way to the bank!" "pittah!" said the other youth. "At least my father doesn't sleep with his mother-in-law." Rory, the good-tempered and genial, had then almost beaten his opponent to death with a wild savagery he had never displayed before in all his vigorous life. He was immediately expelled, and returned to Green Hills, and his father, in Philadelphia, received a formal letter from the schoolmaster: I regret to inform you, sir, that your son, Rory Daniel Armagh, has been expelled from this school because of a violent and unprovoked attack he made on young Mr. Anthony Masters during recess on April 2 inst., in the Yard. Mr. Masters has been confined to the infirmary with sundry lacerations and bruises and a broken arm and a Concussion, and his
condition is serious. It is not believed he will be able to return to his classes for several weeks. Mr. Burney Masters, of Boston, who is a revered and distinguished member of Boston Society, is much incensed over this brutal punishment inflicted on his son and is considering legal action. It is only due to my importunities and beseechings that he is delaying such action and has it under advisement with his lawyers, of the notable concern of McDermott, Lindsay, Horace and Witherslgoon. I have the good repute of Our School to consider, and this dastardly attack will hardly enhance the Reputation of our Institution, and there will be Discussions among Parents which will rebound upon the School. This is sad because so many of our graduates have gone on to careers of distinction in Public Affairs and business, and never before has there been such an Incident. It is unfortunate that young Mr. Armagh has been excelled only two months prior to his graduation from the School, but he invoked this disastrous contretemps and no one else. I regret that we cannot recommend him, as projected, to Harvard University, nor to Yale or Princeton, or any other Institution of repute and learning, des#ire Mr. Armagh's scholastic record which heretofore led all others. No one deplores this Event more than do I, Your obedient Servant, Geoffrey L. D. Armstead. Joseph returned at once to Green Hills with Charles Devereaux in a cold fury both against his son and Mr. Armstead, who was no favorite of his. Joseph said, on the train, "That damned supercilious old bastard! Priim lipped Puritan and pecksniffer! I had to pay twice the fee to get that damned Rory enrolled at that school, among the Genteel Scions of Boston and New York and Philadelphia, to quote Armstead, and now see what he does! Ruins and disgraces himself, and humiliates me." Charles said, "Let us hear Rory's story from himself. I know of Armstead. He would appear at Harvard when I was there, at teas and such, with his wife, who is a mean little brown hen of a woman, though of such Noble Ancestry, as she would confess, herself. They make a fine pair." "Of course, I know that Rory is a favorite of yours," said Joseph, with an angry glance at his secretary. "If he had murdered young Masters you'd find some excuse for him." He ran his lean fingers through his thick russet and white hair, and the implacable expression which everyone feared settled on his face. "What can we do to ruin Armstead?" Charles gave this long consideration. "He is not a businessman. Inherited wealth, old family, sound investments, married into a rich family of the same calibre. No political background, and doesn't mingle with politicians. Of course, there is always something, as we've found out in the past. But that would take time, and Rory is only seven weeks away from graduation, so we must get to work at once to have him reinstated. The only thing we can do--if it is at all possible--is to put pressure on Mr. Burney Masters, the father, to force his son to apologize publicly to Rory and withdraw his charges, and get Rory reinstated at once. Armstead could never refuse Mr. Masters. Masters is an alumnus of that school and has a large scholarship running." "Burney Masters," said Joseph, frowning. "Didn't he run against the Irish Mayor of Boston and lose?" Charles smiled. He took out his notebook and pencil. "So he did. And isn't the mayor a friend of yours? Didn't you contribute to his campaign? It seems, if I remember correctly, that Mr. Masters ran on a Reform Platform and said some unkind things about the Boston Irish during the campaign. Not that that will do us any good, however. It was a miracle that the present mayor was elected under the circumstances. The mayor is hardly one who can put pressure on Mr. Armstead, who despises him. I believe the feeling is mutual." Charles leaned back in his comfortable chair in Joseph's private coach and closed his clever gray eyes and thought for a considerable time. Joseph waited. Then Charles said "Ah!" in a deep and contented voice. "Mr. Armagh, I do believe there is something. You will remember that all odds were with Mr. Masters for his election over the present mayor. Mr. Masters conducted a strong and determined campaign, and is an eloquent speaker, and put a lot of money of his own into that campaign, and had the backing of all the Beacon Street 616 debutantes and gentry. The present mayor was too florid--and too Irish--to be very effective, except among his own, and his way of dancing a little jig and singing an Irish ballad or two on the platform did not enhance his repute among the Proper Bostonians, though his own enthusiastically applauded him. Mr. Masters not only led, according to the Boston newspapers, but his dignity and presence, as they called it, 'boded well for an administration which would not be soiled and corrupt as the previous one was, but one of which Bostonians could be proud and vindicated as citizens of an honorable city.' "Then," concluded Charles, "something happened during the last three weeks of the campaign. Mr. Masters made fewer and fewer public ap- pcarances. His speeches were weaker and more restrained, and less pejorative. He seemed to have lost steam. He made no appearance at all during the last week, and refused newspaper interviews except for one mild plea foi his election. His posters disappeared. His people made no more house- to-house calls. There were no more bulletins on Maior Issues. Now, that is very interesting. I wonder what happened to Mr. Masters?" "I wondered at the time, myself," said Joseph, sitting up and looking at Charles with interest. "I asked Old Syrup, as we called him, and he only smiled that peculiar Sphinx-like smile the Irish can assume when they have 'something under their nose' which they prefer not to make public. So, he had something on Masters, something lethal. It must have been very good. Charles, send him a telegram in my name tonight and take a letter from me to him tomorrow." "He's a wily character," said Charles. "He wants to be governor, and he won't do anything, even for you, which will jeopardize that." "But I know something very lethal, myself, about Old Syrup," said Joseph, with great satisfaction. "If he wants to be governor he had better not antagonize me. I think we have concluded the problem. In the meantime I will deal with Rory." "With fairness and restraint, I hope," said Charles. This time Joseph smiled a little. The two men were met by a wailing Bernadette who exclaimed at once, "Your son! He has disgraced us forever! And I was such friends with Emma Masters, who leads Boston society, and we were received almost everywhere in Boston! The Armsteads were gracious to us, too, on more than one occasion, and were most civil. Now, we will be outcasts in Boston, humiliated and ignored and snubbed, all due to your son's extravagant temper and viciousness and violence--attacking a refined young gentleman like young Masters!" Only Charles saw .that she felt considerable secret elation over this episode, for she believed that Rory would no longer be so loved by his father, and therefore would no longer be her rival. Joseph glared at her and said, "Refined young gentlemen do not provoke attacks. I will be in my study. Send Rory to me at once." "If you do not punish him severely you will be lacking in your Duty, Joe," said Bernadette, a little dismayed at Joseph's reception of her complaint. "To think he would have been graduated from that distinguished school in June, with honors, and now he will not graduate, he will be accepted only in the lowest establishments and will not be admitted to Harvard, and he has ruined his future!" "Send Rory to me," said Joseph, and left her abruptly. Charles accompanied him. By the time they had reached Joseph's rooms Joseph was again in an icy rage against his son, for he had had to leave important business in Philadelphia. Joseph did not like intrigues for intrigue's sake, and only indulged in them when absolutely necessary. Rory, immaculately dressed as always, and resplendently handome in spite of an impressive black eye, came at once to the study. His high color was a little subdued. He wore a curious expression of reserve and tightness, like his father's, but Charles had never seen this before on the lad's face,,_ usually so open and twinkling and mirthful. Joseph let him stand before him like a penitent. "So," he said, "my son is a boisterous and murderous hooligan, is he? Without any thought at all he tries to destroy his own future, which has already cost his father a pretty penny, sir. What have you to say for yourself?" Rory said, and his cynical blue eyes were averted, "He insulted-you- Pa." Charles stood behind Joseph's chair, and he tried to catch the seventeen- year-old youth's eye, but failed. There was a heavy sullenness on Rory's usually merry mouth, and a secretiveness. "Now," said Joseph, "that's a very fine sentiment, I am thinking, protecting y
our father's honor. Look here, Rory, I have never concealed my activities from you. I have told you many times that businessmen are not concerned with legal or illegal activities, so long as they don't engage the attention-too keenly-of the law, and even then that can be surmounted. Business is business, as it has been said over and over. It has no particular ethics. It has only one standard: Will something succeed or not? We are not the Salvation Army or Morality Troops. We deal with a hard and exigent world, and so have to be hard and exigent too, if we are not to be bankrupts. I've told you this often, and I thought you understood." He paused and looked at Rory. But Rory, with rare stubbornness, was staring at his feet. He did not look defiant in an immature way, or rebellious as many youths appear when castigated by a father. He had the appearance of someone who is protecting something, or someone. However, only Charles noticed this, and not Joseph, who was growing coldly angry again. Rory said, "He called you-names." Joseph's thin mouth tightened even more. "Rory, I have been called every name you can imagine, and many more. Some I have deserved; some I have not. It is of no importance to me and should not be of importance to you. I thought you understood that. You will be called names, too, in the future. If you are sensitive to name-calling then you had better settle for a clerkship in one of my offices, or teach in some obscure little school, or open a shop. Now, Rory, let us put this nonsense aside. I will do what I can to get you reinstated. I think it is possible." "My marks," said Rory, without looking at his father, "are high enough so that I don't need to return to that school. I excelled in all the curriculum. I didn't even have to take the last examination; my record stood for itself. Old Armstead knows that. He is only being malicious, because he hates you, Pa, and me-because we are Irish. He'd do anything to frustrate you. You will remember how he opposed my entry into his damned stupid school." Now the boy flushed and he looked at his father with an anger equaling Joseph's own. "I resent it that you had to pay double to get me enrolled there!" "Who told you that?" asked Joseph sharply. "Old Armstead, himself, with that spittle-satisfaction of his, four days ago." Joseph and Charles exchanged a glance. "If I can't make my way with my own endowments in any damned school or college I don't want it!" exclaimed Rory, his face deepening in color. "I won't be mortified any longer!" Joseph's tone was gentler when he spoke. "You have to face the facts of life, Rory, and I don't like it that you are beginning to sound Noble. Endure humiliations, but bide your time for your revenge, and never forget. The day will always come when you can repay. I know. But once a man begins to feel Noble he is already defeated. If he won't fight, then he'd better tuck his tail between his legs and slink away. That's the law of life, and who are you to defy it?" Charles said, "Every man has to endure belittlement for one thing or another, Rory. He has to make his compromises, though without weakness. If he can conceal something about himself which is injurious, then he should do so. If he has nothing really deadly to be ashamed of, but it is said that he has, then he should fight." Rory was extremely fond of Charles, but now he said to him with bitterness, "That is all very well for you, Charles, but you are a Devereaux of Virginia and no one could ever unjustly point a finger at your parents, or yourself." There was a sudden long silence. Charles looked again at Joseph who shook his head peremptorily. But Charles drew a deep breath and said, "You are wrong, Rory. I am a Negro." Rory flung up his head and gaped at Charles, his mouth opening. "What!" he cried incredulously. Charles nodded, with a beautiful and amiable smile. "My mother was also a Devereaux, by blood, but she was born a slave, and she bore me, an illegitimate darkie, to my father." Rory stared wide-eyed at Charles's yellow hair, sharp features and gray eyes. He looked stunned. "Rory," said Charles, "if someone asked me if I were a Negro I would say yes. I feel no disgrace, no inferiority. But it is my affair, my secret if you will have it so. It is no business of anyone else's. Before, say--Divinity
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