“The Mollie Maguires?”
“Then you heard of them?”
“I never heard they were innocent.”
“And you never will, if you listen to the Wynnes and them. But you never heard of the handprint on the wall of the Carbon County jail? I daresay you wouldn’t of heard of that.”
“No.”
“No. Well there’s the mark of a hand on the wall of a cell in Mauch Chunk prison, and how it got there is a story in itself. One of the condemned men, the morning of the execution, he placed his hand on the wall of his cell and solemnly declared, ‘As God is me judge I’m innocent, and the mark of me hand on this wall will attest to me innocence.’ Well, the mark remains to this day. To this day, and no matter how many times they scrape it off and whitewash it, they can’t erase the imprint of that innocent man’s right hand.”
“Oh, you’ve seen it?”
“Seen it? No, I haven’t seen it. I’ve never had occasion to be on the inside of the county prison, but it’s a well-known fact to Protestants as well as Catholics. No, I haven’t seen it, and I’m sure neither has old Tom Wynne seen it either. But I’ll wager you I sleep better nights than old Tom Wynne and them, that can’t whitewash or scrape or paint out the proof of their guilt.”
As he anticipated, George Lockwood inevitably encountered Theron Wynne on a Hilltop street. “You didn’t let us know you were here,” said Theron Wynne.
“I was afraid you’d think I was hinting for lodgings,” said George Lockwood. “And I’m only going to be here a day or two.”
“Important business, no doubt. I don’t know what else would bring you to Hilltop in the cold weather.”
“Business. I don’t know how important. I trust Mrs. Wynne is well, and your daughter Agnes?”
“Mrs. Wynne was down with a touch of rheumatism, every year about this time she complains. But she’s up and about again, thank you. Agnes is substituting at the kindergarten, and we’re all getting ready for Christmas. Agnes won’t be here much through the holidays, but I’m glad of that for her sake. There isn’t much in the way of a nice social life in Hilltop, for a girl that’s been away at school. Come and take supper with us tomorrow? I’d ask you for tonight, but Mrs. Wynne wouldn’t like to be caught unprepared.”
“I’m going back tomorrow, unfortunately, but thank you, and please remember me to them both.”
“A cup of tea. Come in for a cup of tea this afternoon,” said Theron Wynne. “They often have a cup of tea, Mrs. Wynne and Agnes.”
“Well—if you’re sure it wouldn’t inconvenience Mrs. Wynne.”
“It’ll give her an excuse to display her good tea set.”
George Lockwood was surprised to find a florist in Hilltop, and he took a dozen hothouse roses to Bessie Wynne. They served as a conversation piece. “You must have got these from Jimmy MacGregor,” said Bessie Wynne. “I know Jimmy’s roses.”
“Why? Is there more than one florist in Hilltop?”
“There are three,” said Agnes Wynne.
“That’s two more than we have in Swedish Haven,” said George Lockwood. “Three florists, and I frankly didn’t expect to find any.”
“Oh, don’t be deceived by the surroundings,” said Bessie Wynne. “In the spring and summer the backyards are full of flowers. Even if it’s only a sunflower, the miners—at least the English and the Welsh—”
“And the Scotch and the Irish,” said Theron Wynne.
“Yes. The hunkies don’t plant many flowers, but all the others do. They may have a space no larger than this table, but in the evening you’ll see the men cultivating their little gardens. And of course they all try to grow vegetables, even the hunkies. Cabbage. Beets. But the women grow the vegetables mostly.”
“Amazing. I suppose they want to brighten their lives,” said George Lockwood. “A bit of bright color. I don’t know much about flowers. My grandfather did. Trees, too. He should have been with me on this trip. I’m looking for timberland, for our mills.”
“You won’t find any for sale, I’m afraid,” said Theron Wynne.
“Oh, everything is for sale, isn’t it? If you want to go high enough?” said George Lockwood.
“Yes, that’s true. But as a business proposition you wouldn’t want to buy any of the timberland in this section. My cousin’s Company wouldn’t sell, and I doubt if the other companies would either. What’s more, some of those Pennsylvania Dutchmen from down around Allentown have been here ahead of you and tied up what was left.”
“I found that out today.”
“You’ll have to go farther north, and even there you’ll find that a few families own the best land. Some of that land they got for two or three dollars an acre, I’m told. That may be an exaggeration. Up around the west branch of the Nesquehela, some of the Holland Dutch from York State bought that land from the Indians, as far back as a hundred years ago. Some of it they never cut, but now I understand they’re pretty busy with logging operations.”
“What will happen when you’ve mined all the coal out of this section?”
“Two hundred years from now?”
“Is there that much coal still to be mined?”
“So they say,” said Theron Wynne. “Two hundred years of prosperity. If you have any money to invest, buy stock in any of the big coal companies. No matter how much you pay for it, it’s going to be worth more. This country, the United States, that is—is going to buy more and more anthracite coal.”
“And in two hundred years this place won’t be fit to live in. It’s ugly enough now, but think of two centuries of culm banks piling up,” said Agnes Wynne.
“In two centuries, Agnes, the culm banks will be covered with mountain laurel. And in any case you and I will be covered with—I guess culm. Agnes doesn’t realize that industry and prosperity take their toll.”
“Yes, I do, Father. I can remember when the coal dirt at Number Twelve was only as high as this house. Now it’s a mountain.”
“Not quite a mountain, Agnes,” said her father.
“I confess I wouldn’t like to live in the coal region,” said George Lockwood.
“But you have to admit you’d be willing to profit from coal mining. And if you got hold of your timberland, I don’t know which is uglier. A culm bank, or a hundred acres of stumps after the loggers get through with their work.” Theron Wynne was petulantly defensive.
“Maybe we’d better change the subject,” said Bessie Wynne.
“I agree,” said George Lockwood. “Mr. Wynne doesn’t like what industry does to the landscape, and neither does Miss Wynne. But neither do I. Nobody does. Nobody likes to hear the squeals from a slaughterhouse, either, but we all like scrapple for breakfast.”
“Ugh. I hate scrapple,” said Agnes Wynne.
“Well, do you like steak? A cow doesn’t make as much noise as a pig, but if you want to have steak, the cow has to be hit on the head first. Your shoes are made of leather, Miss Wynne.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
“Some religions won’t allow you to wear shoes, or buttons that are made of horn—” said George Lockwood.
“No, not religion,” said Bessie Wynne. “Business is bad enough, but if we start talking about religion we’ll spoil our tea party.”
“Mrs. Wynne is referring to the discussions Agnes and I have about religion, not to anything you might say, Mr. Lockwood.”
“Oh, Mr. Lockwood understood that, didn’t you?” said Bessie Wynne.
“Of course,” said George Lockwood. “There’s one thing I must say, if you promise not to think me forward. But every time I have a conversation with this family, it’s stimulating. What you said about my grandfather last summer, Mr. Wynne—”