Chapter 57
Never had Old Syrup been so magnificent, so theatrical, so eloquent, and such a delight to the Press. Reporters came from all over the country to/ interview him, and then to write excited columns about him. The story was dramatic enough, but Old Syrup was not only a former congressman- they always called him "Congressman"-and very rich and politically , powerful, but he was dramatically Irish and descriptive and never once did » he repeat his story in the exact same words as before. There was always something remembered, something added, something imagined. This led to his later appointment as senator the next year by the State Legislature, and to an increase in his fortune. Queenie, "my lady friend," was his I hostess in Washington, and a very discreet one. It was well known that Mrs. Old Syrup had no taste for politics, was very retiring, very charitable, and a joy to her parish, and disliked Washington. She was also a gentlewoman and never mentioned Queenie except as "my dear husband's assistant." "There I was, with my boys, and my darlin' young friend, Rory Armagh, the senator-like a son to me himself, then-and we were all laughing and the band was playing, and hundreds, perhaps thousands, were struggling to get to Rory to shake his hand and shout their support of him, and there he was, shining like the damned sun, itself, now, and a sight for any sore eyes-his Dada was my best friend-and I tell you, gentlemen, that I'm a cynic and an old pol, but there was tears in my eyes, with joy. I couldn't have been prouder or happier if Rory had been of my own flesh and blood. Knew him since he was a little boyeen, and always ready with a smile, a joke, a sparkle. A scholar and a gentleman, as well as a senator. If Rory had lived to be nominated he would have been elected, yes sir, and he would have made the best damned President this country has ever seen. It's America's loss, gentlemen, even more than his parents' loss, and may God console them in His mercy. "Well-you will excuse me a minute, now, won't you, while I wipe these old eyes. After all, it's a terrible thing, all that life and handsomeness and vigor, a young man, too, with a darlin' wife and four little children-my heart breaks for those little ones, and the young widow, so brave and beautiful and never breaking down, though you could see her heart was shattered, standing by the grave in her black veils like a statue, and never even shedding a tear. It's the easy grief that cries, not the deep one. Well, as I was saying, there we were in the lobby, and the crowds and the hails for Rory, and the band, and people pouring in through the doors just to look at the lad, and then all at once he moved-he must have seen someone he wanted to shake hands with-and he was exposed just for an instant, and me there with my sons and his bodyguard, and then there was a crack-a loud crack, like a firecracker. That's what we thought it was, for a minute, and we cursed the fool who'd do that in such a crowd. "Then there was another crack. We all stood there, gowping, not knowing where to look, then men started to run and mill. Like hell, itself, yelling and shouting and pushing each other and somebody screamed 'Murder!' And, gentlemen, it was." Genuine tears would stand in his crafty eyes for a moment, because of the picture he had drawn. Emotion broke his sonorous voice. "Well, gentlemen, there was Rory on the floor-someone had cleared a space when he fell in the arms of his men-and a young lady, a most beautiful young lady, was kneeling beside him, holding him in her arms. Now, I knew that young lady's Dada well; an old and valued friend, a distinguished gentleman, Mr. Albert Chisholm, a lawyer of an old firm in Boston, honorable, upright firm. Miss Marjorie Chisholm. She'd known Rory in Boston when he was at Harvard. Rumors, there were, that theyI once was engaged, then. Young love. Miss Chisholm never married." Old Syrup would then look about him significantly, sigh, and shake his head. "I know, gentlemen, that she was first named 'the mystery woman,' but there weren't no mystery about Miss Chisholm. Belle of Boston when she made her day-boo. The pleece knew her at once. She wouldn't let Rory out of her arms for a long time; had locked him in them, she had. It was pitiful. Then she went with him to the hospital, with the priest, old Father O'Brien, old friend of mine. But Rory was already dead. You'll excuse me a minute, gentlemen.- All Miss Chisholm could say, over and over, was 'Rory, Rory, Rory.' Like a Litany. Her father's associate had to be called to take her away, a Mr. Bernard Levine, a lawyer himself-trusted friend of the family. "The murderer? Well, gentlemen, I never saw him, meself. But they found the 'black flag of anarchy,' as they called it, in his pocket, a little black flag, and a card saying he belonged to the I. W. W. Now, sir, I'mt all for Labor, meself. Didn't I always fight for Labor when I was in Washington? Wobblies, they called them. Gentlemen, will you believe me when I say it is my conviction, my heart's conviction, that that murderer was no member of the I. W. W.? Rory always stood for the Working Man, when he was senator. Always spoke for the Working Man, all over the country. And another thing, gentlemen, there wasn't a single piece of identification on that foul murderer, not one. Even the name on the card was false. Never belonged to any union, and the I. W. W. never heard of him. And there wasn't a handprint of his on the card, neither! What more ' proof do you want, then? Card as clean as a babe's mouth, and new as if it just come from the printing press. Young feller, they said, with a beard. Not more than twenty-one, twenty-two. Never did find out who he was. Never will, I'm thinking. ' "Who shot him, right after he shot Rory? No one will ever find that out, either. Rory's bodyguards' guns had not been fired. No pleeceman had fired a gun. It came, now, out of the blue, as they say. Well, there were hundreds, thousands, there. Any man could have killed the assassin. And then melted off, like butter on a hot plate, oozing out of the crowd. I've heard him called a 'hero' by some newspapers, for killing the assassin, but; if he's such a hero why don't he come forward to be praised? All I can , say now is that that's the real mystery-outside the reason why Rory was murdered. If that assassin hadn't been shot, himself, we'd maybe have got the truth out of him. The pleece here in Boston, and I'm proud of the bhoys, have ways of making criminals talk. Now we'll never know the truth-who ordered Rory assassinated." Old Syrup looked about him weightily. "Maybe that's the idea, then, gentlemen, maybe that's the whole idea. "What's that you say, sir? 'Disgruntled youth?' Now, begging your pardon, what the hell does that mean? Just words, now. Empty words. Is it hinting at a plot I am? Gentlemen, I don't know. Who would 'plot' against Rory? Finest young Christian gentleman I ever met, a lovely lad, never harmed a soul in his short life. Kind, charitable, full of fun, the best of sons and husbands. The whole Senate grieves for him, as well as his friends. You've read the eulogies. Weren't anything compared to what was said at the grave. In the family plot, in Green Hills, Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. Well, lots of you were there, too, so I don't have to repeat what was said. Assistant Secretary of State was there, and several senators and politicians, and two-three governors. And," said Old Syrup, impressively, "Old Joe's associates, many of them, Big Feenanciers and businessmen and bankers-never saw such a gathering. Mr. Jay Regan, himself, stood beside Joe Armagh and held his arm, and I'll never forget what he said to Joe, in that deep voice of his, at the funeral: " 'Joseph he said, and many of us heard it, 'remember, you have four grandchildren.' Now, gentlemen, I think that was touching, then, don't you? 'Remember, you have four grandchildren.' Consoling, now. Reminding Joe he still had obligations, though all his three children lay in their graves before him, his son, the war hero, Kevin, his beautiful daughter, Ann Marie, and now Rory. And there was his brother's grave there, too, Scan Armagh, known to millions as Scan Paul. Greatest Irish tenor in the whole world, and don't deny it. "What did Joe say? Well, he just turned a little and he looked at Mr. Regan-the Big Wall Street Feenancier-and it was as if there was a fire on his face for a minute-he being reminded of his dear little grandchildren, and that he had a Duty to them, even if his poor heart was broken. Joe's made of steel, gentlemen. As we always said, the same fire that melts butter hardens steel. And Joe looked right at Mr. Regan, one of his dear friends, and he smiled. Comforted, right there at the grave, thinking of the Little Ones, Rory's children. He smiled. "Rory's poor mother? Ah, there's the tragedy. Lost her mind. She's in a sanitarium
now, in Philadelphia, poor soul. Sent there last week, right after the funeral. God send His angels to comfort her. They found her in the dark one night-wandered out of the house-and lying on her son, Kevin's, grave. Not crying, just mute. Like a dead creature, poor lady. Knew her father well, the old senator, when I was young, meself. Wonderful man. My Dada took me to see him in Washington; couldn't have been more than twenty or so. "Ah, and a tragedy it all is, then. Mrs. Rory is with her parents, and the children. Under private doctor's care, in her father's house. Declared up and down, when she first knew, that Rory had 'died in the cause of Labor.' The Rights of Labor, she says. Well, who knows her husband's heart more than a wife does? So, who knows what Rory would have done if he had been President, for the Civil Rights of All Americans? Ambassador Worthington has hinted of them, himself. "We mourn for the sorrow of the Armagh family. But, gentlemen, we should mourn for America, who suffered this tremendous I say, tremendous loss. God, in His wisdom, we say, Knows Best. We can only Hope. And don't, gentlemen, out of mercy, repeat any more about 'the curse on the Armaghs.' What curse? They never did anyone harm, now." It was deep winter, but in Maryland it was dry and bleak and gray and black, the hills stark under a bitter sun. There was little snow, and this was in patches on the brown fields and in the ditches. Timothy Dineen sat in an austerely clean room smelling of wax and fern and incense. Light came in faint and feeble shadows through the stained- glass windows. Before him was a screen and behind it he could see only the dim outline of a nun. Her voice was low and clear, the beloved voice he remembered, the young voice unroughened by the years, the melodious Irish voice he had adored in his youth. It was firm and gentle with courage and faith and consolation. But, he thought, I am old, old, old as death and as weary. "You say, Tim, that dear Joseph died of a heart attack a month ago, in his bed, at night. I think he died of a broken heart. You see, Tim dear, Joseph never lived a single day for himself. He never once thought of himself, in all his life. Is that a sin? We esteem self-sacrifice- But we also must remember that one has one's own soul to save, too. Ah, darling Joseph! He lived for Sean and me, and then for his children. I remember my young days in the orphanage. Sister Elizabeth would tell Sean and me of Joseph's sacrifices for us, his endless struggles for us, his endless devotion. Sean-" The gentle voice hesitated. "Ah, we are often blind, and our ears often deceive us, or we deceive ourselves. But I always knew, even as a very young child, what Joseph was doing for his family, and how he denied himself the simple joys and pleasures of youth so that we could have safety and security and a home. He was very young when he became the head of our family. Only thirteen, dear Tim. But, he was a Man. And that is something strange and rare and wonderful. A Man. He never asked for pity or for help. He never asked anyone to be generous or kind to him. He didn't even ask Sean and me to love him! But he loved us. He dearly loved us. Ah, God forgive me that I did not entirely understand! My youth was no excuse, no excuse at all, dear Tim. I do penance daily for my lack of understanding. I was drawn inexorably to this life, and always was drawn since my earliest recollections. But perhaps I was too stupid to make Joseph understand. He thought, always, that I had deserted him-as Sean had deserted him. I must do extra penance." Timothy felt old and broken. He remembered: "The tumult and the shouting dies, The Captains and the Kings depart. Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice- A humble and a contrite heart." If anyone's prayers would be heard by God-if there was indeed a God who heard and listened-then He would hear Sister Mary Bernarde's prayers above the prayers of anyone else, for surely, though she accused herself of "hard-heartedness and stupidity" she was as sinless and as good and pure as any human being he had ever known, even including his mother. Then he thought: But the "Captains and the Kings" haven't "departed" at all! They were stronger than ever, since Rory Armagh's assassination. They would continue to grow in strength, until they had the whole silly world, the whole credulous world, the whole ingenuous world, in their hands. Anyone who would challenge them, attempt to expose them, show them unconcealed and naked, would be murdered, laughed at, called mad, or ignored, or denounced as a fantasy-weaver. The hell with the world, thought Timothy Dineen. Maybe these "quiet deadly men" were all it deserved. It would deserve the wars, the revolutions, the tyrannies, the chaos. For wicked men there was always the hope of remorse and penance. For the stupid there was no hope at all. The stupid invariably sacrificed its heroes, and raised statues to its murderers. The hell with the world. He, Timothy Dineen, was growing old. He would see the beginning of the last battle of man against his assassins-but, thank God, he would not see the final debacle. That was left to the coming effervescent and enthusiastic young, who would follow any banner and die in any carefully plotted war, and murder any potential rescuers. He said, "Sister, pray for me." Then he was astonished, for the conviction had come to him that Sister Mary Bernarde's prayers might have some efficacy! She was only an immured nun, shut off from the world, living in an atmosphere of simple devotion and faith, unaware of the terrors outside her convent, unaware of all the ramifications of her brother's life of which he could not tell her, for she would not understand and be only confused. Yet he said, "Pray for me." "I will pray for all the world," she said. "And especially for Joseph, dear Tim, and you." He went out into the cold winter afternoon. The station hack was waiting for him. He heard the soft ringing of bells over the desolate landscape.
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