Captains and the Kings

by Taylor Caldwell

  Mr. Chisholm's color, in his wrinkled pale face, became ghastly. He averted his head. "Marjorie, I must confess something to you. I-I had control of your mother's money, for she trusted me. During the Panic, a few years ago, I put up her money as collateral for debts, for borrowing- It is not lost. In a few years, I hope, I am sure to recover the full worth of my investments, and I will return the money to your-inheritance. But Mr. Armagh has threatened to make that impossible-he owns my paper, from the banks-" He put his hands over his face. "Forgive me, my child," he said, and his voice broke. Marjorie was on her knees beside him, embracing him, kissing him frantically. "Oh, Papa! Oh, Papa, it doesn't matter! I don't care! Please, Papa, look at me. I love you, Papa. It doesn't matter at all." She was freshly terrified. "In a few years-your inheritance will be intact, with interest," said Mr. Chisholm, and he sat in Marjorie's arms like an old child, his head on her shoulder. "You would never have known, my love, if this had not happened." "It is all my fault," said poor Marjorie. "If I hadn't married Rory when I did, we should not be in this nightmare. Forgive me, Papa. If you can, forgive me. Oh, how could I have brought this down on you, threatened by a low and wicked man, you a gentleman, you, my father! I hate myself. I despise myself. I wish I were dead." Now, for the first time, sitting on her heels, she burst into tears. She dropped her head on her father's knees and groaned. "My darling," said Mr. Chisholm. "Don't reproach yourself. Your grandfather, your mother's father, opposed our marriage, too. I never did^ know why. But we married, just the same, and I never regretted it, and the old gentleman came around nicely." He paused. "But I don't think Armagh will do that." He lifted Marjorie's face in tender hands and kissed her over 'and over. "Hush, my love. I can't bear to hear-those sounds- Hush, my love. You are young. There will be a way- You are young." Bernard waited, suffering with them, until Mr. Chisholm put Marjorie back in her chair. He said, "Mr. Armagh has mentioned, in these papers,' that Marjorie was underage and did not have her father's written consent when she 'allegedly,' he says, married his son. And that, apparently, the marriage has not been consummated." Bernard coughed. "It says in these papers that Rory Armagh and Marjorie Chisholm have never-cohabj.% ited." I He looked at Mr. Chisholm. "So, we have a small choice. Marjorie can'I sue for annulment of her marriage, which was never-consummated, very , , quietly, in New Hampshire. No names will be mentioned, in the press, * says Mr. Armagh. It will be secretly arranged. Very delicate, very refined, ^ of Mr. Armagh, isn't it?" Bernard's mouth twisted with disgust. "That is to save, he says, Miss Marjorie Chisholm's reputation and any future marriage she might consummate. I think," said Bernard, "he has shown '*'this 'generosity' in order to avoid a court suit to maintain the marriage, which might-though it is a small chance-be decided in Marjorie's favor. ': In spite of all his power. Then, too, I think he wants to avoid an open confrontation in the courts, with the resultant notoriety and scandal. Mr. Armagh, I have read, is a man who cherishes his privacy above all else." Marjorie sat in her chair, listening. Her face was very calm, very quiet though the big tears rolled down her cheeks without stopping. She seemed unaware of them. Then she said in a voice without any emotion at all, "I will seek the annulment. Papa, you must arrange it." "My child," said her father, and could have cried. "I am not going to think about it," said Marjorie. "At least, not yet. I am your daughter, Papa, and I hope I have a little of your courage, and fortitude. I won't think about anything, yet." Joseph had not mentioned anything in the papers about the secret little flat in Cambridge, but Marjorie had no doubt that he knew. Why had he refrained from speaking of it? To expedite the annulment of her marriage, for lack of consummation? That was, surely, true. She thought of that blissful little place, which had always seemed so full of light to her in spite of its dinginess, and she felt something break and shatter in her. Never to go there again, and cook and wait for Rory. Never to see Rory again, never to hear his voice, feel his kisses, lie in that sagging bed with him, in his arms. She squeezed her eyes shut against the anguish. No, she nust not think of that, yet. Otherwise she would die, lose her mind, betray her father. Oh, Rory, Rory, she said in herself, don't suffer too much, my Rory. She could see his face, his smiling sensual mouth, his eyes, his bright coloring; she could hear his voice. "I will write to Rory tonight," she said, and her voice had never been so calm. "It will be easier than telling him. I don't think I could trust myself, if I did. No, I could not." She would never tell her father of that little flat in Cambridge. She must let him believe that the marriage had never been consummated. Were he to know he would insist the marriage be maintained, for he was an honorable man. She wrote to Rory that night, her young face drawn and wizened and dry: I have come to the conclusion, ater a lot of thought, my dear, that our marriage was doomed from the start. We both deceived our fathers, and so invited calamity. I am not going to lie and say that I have not had a considerable affection for you, but I must confess to you now that that affection has been steadily declining. I have tried to revive it, but have failed. Therefore, I will seek an annulment-- No one need know that we had that flat in Cambridge. In mercy, my dear Rory, I hope you will not put me to mortification by appearing in any court and contesting me and my word. I should be forever shamed and would not be able to take up my life again, as I must. We were full of folly, and our hopes were childish. I will remember you with affection, as a dear friend, as a brother. It was a mistake, from the beginning. We can only go on from this place, and I will remember you ever, with kindness. I am returning the jewelry you gave me, for I cannot keep it in all conscience, now that any love I had for you--or what I thought was love--no longer exists. Please do not try to see me. Please do not write me. Nothing can change my resolution. If ever you loved me, please heed my wishes, and cause me no more pain. She went to the dark little flat that day and laid the letter and the jewelry on the pillow of the bed. Then she broke down. She flung herself on the bed and hugged the pillows to her desolate young heart and lay, stricken and silent, for a long time, trying to get strength to leave this place forever. She found a tie Rory had left behind, a worn tie, and she took it with her and left the flat and never looked back. When Rory read that letter he said to himself, "It is a lie. It is all a lie." Only two days ago he and Marjorie had lain in this bed, clenched together in a joyful and passionate ecstasy of love, and Marjorie had cried over and over, "Never leave me, Rory, never leave me! Take an oath, Rory, that you will never leave me! I should die, Rory, if I never saw you again!" His Marjorie, his love, his darling, his little bright wife with her mischief and dimples and intelligent wit and laughter, his Marjorie who never lied: But she was lying now. In some way that old bastard, her father, had found out about them, had forced her to write this letter to her husband, had threatened her. Well, he, Rory, was not going to let this happen to him and Marjorie, no matter what it cost. For six months, thereafter, he stormed the Chisholm house, the door resolutely unopened for him. For six months he wrote wild accusatory letters to Mr. Chisholm, letters full of despair and denunciation, of hatred and threats. He wrote to Marjorie every day. His letters were returned unopened. He tried to waylay her, but he never saw her. He grew thinner and paler, and his bright coloring diminished. He thought of enlisting his father's help. The Armaghs, he thought vengefully, were more than a match for that old soft-spoken Pecksniff of a Chisholm. Then one day he received a sealed packet which informed him that the marriage between one Marjorie Jane Chisholm and one Rory Daniel Armagh, had been annulled in a small obscure court in New Hampshire. "I was not even subpoenaed," he said to himself. "I never knew. Marjorie did this by stealth-her father forced her." Then he began to vomit and for the first time in his strong young life he became ill and could not leave his bed for several days. He hoped he would die. In fact, he thought of suicide. He gave it long thought, for the dark impulse lurked in him as it lurked in his father. A year later he was married to Miss Claudia Worthington in the ambassador's private chapel. Miss Worthington made a spectacular bride and the gushing newspapers spoke of th
e bridegroom's famous father, his own handsomeness "and serious demeanor during the ceremony, which was performed by his lordship, the Catholic Bishop of London, himself, and three Monsignori." There were nearly two thousand guests, "all distinguished," and three Royal Personages, not to mention "many of the nobility." The Pope had sent a Papal Blessing for the Nuptial Mass. The wedding was the event of the year, both in America and in England. When Claudia lay beside him in the marriage bed Rory thought, O my God, Marjofie. My little darling, my Marjorie. O, my God, my God. A year after that his first son, Daniel, was born, a year after that his son Joseph, and two years later twin daughters, Rosemary and Claudctte. Claudia Armagh was a most delightful hostess, and all spoke of her charm and gracious personality, her style, her taste, her savoir faire, her fascination, her wardrobes, jewels, furs, carriages, and even her large and stately limousine, one of the first to be manufactured in America, her house in London, her house in New York, her villas in France and Italy, "where the most distinguished members of international society gather for her fiestas and dinners and concerts, which are considered beyond any comparison. The most famous singers and violinists appear at musicales, at the summoning of Mrs. Armagh. She patronizes only Worth for her wardrobe, and only Carrier's for her jewels. Her taste is impeccable." Claudia liked Washington immensely, for now her young husband was a congressman from Pennsylvania. It is true that there was some uproar about the election, the other party claiming that "dead men in cemeteries had voted for Rory Armagh, and live men had been bribed." Mr. Armagh had been elected, however, by a majority of one thousand votes over his opponent, who seemed somewhat resigned and contented. After all, one does not quarrel with the generosity of an Armagh. Nor with their power. Once Claudia said to her husband pettishly, "I know that gentlemen are not always faithful to their marriage vows. My father was not. I do not quarrel with this fact. But I do wish, Rory, that you were not always so-- so blatant--but a little more discreet." Rory looked for Marjorie in every woman. He never found her. I am still Rory's wife, Marjorie would think in her lonely little white bed at night, in her father's house. The marriage was consummated. I don't care about courts and lawyers and annulments. I am still Rory's wife and I will always be. He's married to someone else, but he is still my husband, before God if not before man. Rory, Rory. I know you love me, and will always love me, as I love you. You will never know that I watched you from an upper window when you banged on Papa's door, and that I had to hold myself not to run down to you and throw myself into your arms, no matter what happened. Rory, Rory. How can I live without you, my love, my dearest? Papa thinks I gave you up for him, but I did it for you. Perhaps some day you will know, though I will never tell you. Oh, my Rory, my Rory. My husband, my darling. There will never be anyone else. There was never anyone else. Her father and her aunt pleaded with her to "encourage" the young men who besieged her, but she would say, "I am not interested." How could a wife be interested in any other man but her husband? It was infamous even to think of it. It was adultery, even to think of it. She would hold Rory's old tie against her breast at night, and kiss it and fondle it, and then sleep with it under her cheek. In some way she knew that Rory was thinking of her also, and that in spite of what divided them their love reached out for each other and could never be destroyed. This comforted her. Rory was her own and she was his. Then she began a fantasy. One day, sooner or later, Rory would return. It helped her through the years.