He waited. But Jonathan said nothing. However, in a moment he did speak. "I'm to be the saint, am I, forgiving every son of a bitch who digs into my bowels and turns the knife? Why? Just tell me why."
"Because, Jon, though you've turned away, you are still a Christian. And, I hope, a man."
Jonathan laughed. "Words, words." He waved heavily at the telephone. "All right. Tell them. Tell them that I grovel before them and beg their forgiveness—" He stopped. "Hell. Tell them that my heart is broken for them, and then get the hell out of here."
The priest reached for the telephone and took the receiver from its hook.
Marjorie Ferrier sat with her son Harald in her small and private sitting room on the second floor of the great old house. Here no one came except by her invitation. She would quote, without apology, " 'In solitude, when we are least alone.'" Jonathan understood this, but Harald would remark in the new jargon, "It is really selfishness and an indifference to others." He had made this remark, regrettably, to Jonathan, who had snorted. " 'I to myself am dearer than a friend,' Shakespeare. A man never betrays himself unless he is a fool or a saint, and what's the difference? Mother can't really stand people, which shows that she is a very wise woman, indeed."
The soft June rain was falling again, but as it was warm, Marjorie's casement windows were open to the air and the piercing scent of roses blew into the cozy little room. She was knitting serenely; she made many woolen garments each year for her sons and friends, and for the indigent. Harald sipped brandy; he had refused the tea, which stood on the low marble table near his mother. He did not like this small room, with the white paneled walls, the ruffled voile curtains, the rose-colored rug and the delicate mahogany furniture. It reminded him too keenly of the times Marjorie had brought him here as a child to speak to him quietly and firmly after some transgression. It had made him cringe, for she had known him only too well. He preferred his father's infrequent cuffings; at least the old boy didn't understand his children and that had been a blessing.
Harald looked at his mother, at her aloof face, her patrician features, her smooth duck skirt and her severe white-silk
shirtwaist. She wore a brown belt about her narrow waist; her clever hands flashed with needles and with her engagement ring. The long lashes of her hazel eyes, so like Harald's, fluttered duskily on her pale cheek. Her dark head was slightly bent. She might have been alone.
But she said, "You know, dear, as I've told you before, I've asked Jenny to come here and live with me. She refuses."
"I know. Well, the island was her father's dream and delight." He spoke with light bitterness. "She has a passion about it. She thinks I'm a dastardly intruder." He smiled. "I hate the damned pretentious place, and she knows it, and she knows that I don't dare stay away from it more than five months out of a year. I bet she counts each day! More than five months, even a couple of hours—" He moved his finger across his throat in a slicing gesture.
"It was a silly will," said Marjorie. Now she looked at her son. "Jenny believes you overheard her mother say to Jenny, just before she died, that she was about to make a new will."
Harald hesitated. He took another gloomy sip from his glass. "Well. I did. She's quite right. But I didn't know that she knew I'd overheard. I was glad, Mother. I knew the terms of Myrtle's old will. I hated them. I thought perhaps she'd come to her senses, after my long arguments with her. So Jenny knew I'd heard, eh? What did she tell you?"
But his mother was regarding him with an intense if secret expression. "She only mentioned it, Harald. She, too, thought it was a stupid will, and unfair—to her."
"Well, it was. Myrtle ought to have divided the money equally between us. I could have left then, kissing Hambledon good-bye forever, and Jenny could have had her damned island all alone and live like the recluse she really is."
Marjorie was still watching him. Harald did not hear her faint sigh. He was pouring a little more brandy into his glass. He was the more handsome of Marjorie's sons, as everyone was constantly pointing out. "You know," he said, "I've wanted Jenny to marry me, Mother."
"Yes, dear. She told me." . "It's not the money, Mother. After all, what does she have until I die or something? One hundred wretched dollars a month. I love Jenny; I want her."
"Yes," said Marjorie. She paused. "Who do you think is spreading nasty tales about you and Jenny, Harald?"
He did not answer for a moment, and Marjorie became a little sick. Why, Harald, she said to herself. You did! You
want to force Jenny to make her position there with you less scandalous! Oh, Harald, you were always a devious little boy! But this is dreadful. She felt very ill.
"I don't know," said Harald.
"But everyone believes them."
He shrugged. "More fools they. How could anyone believe anything disgusting about poor Jenny? She's about as seductive as a prim stone statue."
"Jon believes those stories, Harald."
"Oh, Jon. He always believes the worst of everybody. He always did." He smiled at her winningly. "When we were kids, he never asked who broke something of his. He took it for granted that I did, and hit first and asked questions afterward. Not that he was invariably wrong. I did like to tease him; he was so solemn most of the time."
Marjorie let the knitting fall to her knees. "Jon was a relentless little boy, dear. To him things were either totally black or totally white. He never saw the gray places. There was a kind of fierceness about him. He could never compromise. Once betrayed, he never forgave. Now you—"
"I live in the gray places. Like you, Mother. Like everybody who's sensible."
"Yes."
He smiled at her affectionately. "If he were a fool, I could understand. But he isn't. Well, not much, anyway. I could forgive and forget. My father always preferred him, though, even if the old boy was more tolerant and understanding. He'd sometimes forget I was alive. It was 'Jon this, and Jon that. My son Jonathan.'" Harald still smiled, but the smile had subtly changed. "My father never took me seriously."
"Perhaps not, Harald. Your father was a very serious man himself."
Harald yawned elaborately. "I know. He was always quoting Thomas a Kempis: 'Everywhere I have sought rest and found it not except sitting apart in a nook with a little book.' He and his little 'nooks!' He'd pull Jon into them with him for hours. Perhaps that is what is wrong with my glum-faced brother."
Marjorie's hands were very still on her fallen knitting. "Let's not belittle Jon's troubles. After all, there was Mavis, and the—the—"
Harald looked thoughtfully at the open casement windows. Twilight, purple and vague, was beginning to tinge the raining sky. "He never knew anything about Mavis at all. He'd known her almost from the moment she had been born. But he never saw her in reality. I did. She was shallow and stupid and plotting and frivolous and sly. You know that, Mother. You never said anything, but I know you could not endure him marrying her. However, there's something to be said in Mavis' defense, too. Jon had set up an impossible standard for her. She was suddenly to acquire intelligence and patience and devotion, and she couldn't do it. She'd lived for Mavis Eaton all her life and now she was expected to live for Jon and his interests! She was to acquire a taste for books and science and for that boring hackneyed art he loves, the pre-Raphaelites. She was to grow four inches taller, at least, metaphorically speaking. But all the time she only wanted to dance, gossip, discuss clothes and people, travel, sing, play, and have a good time generally. If Jon had his complaints, Mavis had them, too, and I think I pitied her the most. Butterflies have to live, too, as well as granite busts."
But Marjorie said, "The town won't forget. In spite of all that Jon has done for it, and his really ferocious care for the sick and his hatred for pain and his devotion, it won't forget. They never say anything, but they still think he killed Mavis."
"They want to believe it, Mother. People always want to believe the worst of others,"
Oh, God, Marjorie prayed in herself, please stop me! But she said
, "You never believed it for a moment, did you, Harald?"
"Not for a moment! Don't I know Jon? I didn't need those medical witnesses from Pittsburgh to tell me! Jon's word was enough." He hesitated.
Marjorie took up her knitting again. She was afraid that Harald would see the trembling of her hands. "Please pour me some fresh tea, dear."
She watched Harald's deft gestures as if all her life depended on his smallest movement. "Cream, again? Sugar? Well, here you are. You didn't drink the first cup."
"Thank you, Harald. Harald, all those months in prison, for Jon! Oh, it's gone and past and the past is better buried! But it won't stay buried for Jon. People still drag out the corpse for him. He thinks I don't know, but I do. He often spends the night out in the offices, drinking—"
"Jon?" Harald stared. He frowned. Does he really care? Marjorie asked herself.
"He thinks I don't know. And I know something else.
When the little Best girl died, he was inconsolable, for all his surface cynicism. And I heard that her parents rejected his diagnosis, and all the hospital rang with contempt for him. The nurses, and some doctors, had heard poor Howard Best's ravings and threats when Jon told them. But he was right, and the poor little thing died soon after. Sometimes I can't sleep, Harald. So I know that Father McNulty went to see Jon in his offices the night of the death. I don't exactly know why. But Jon wouldn't go to the funeral. I've heard he won't speak to Howard or Beth. Two weeks ago. He really loved that little girl; he loves children. It's very strange, isn't it?"
Harald had been listening with deep interest. He said, "I don't think it's strange. I don't blame Jon. I thought they were among his best friends and had always stood by him."
"What is a 'best friend,' Harald? Sometimes I don't know. I never completely trusted anybody. We are truly alone. But Jon had a way, until recently, of expecting the best from people, or at least decent human behavior. Howard had visited him in prison, and it was Howard who found good lawyers for him and always fought furiously with anyone who said Jon was guilty. Then this." She put down her teacup. "If Jon had any doubts about leaving Hambledon, he hasn't any now. I hope he hurries. I hope he leaves soon!"
And so do I, thought Harald. He can't go soon enough for me. He reached out and patted his mother's hand. "Darling, don't be so upset. It's been a miserable time for everybody. It's over. People will forget Jon will set up practice in a better place."
"Jon won't forget, Harald. He won't forget those months and the trial."
She picked up her knitting, though the dusk in the room had become almost opaque. "No, dear. I can knit without a lamp. If Jon ever finds out the truth, I'm afraid he might—he might—"
"Oh, he was always violent. What 'truth'? Some hack injured Mavis, and then when she began to be infected from the injury, she went to her darling uncle, old Eaton, and he rushed her to the hospital and tried to save her life with an operation. But it was too late. That's what he testified in court, wasn't it? It all happened when Jon was in Pittsburgh. If old Eaton still believes that Jon bungled, or something, and then sent her to him, no one can change his opinion. Everybody wants to believe what he wants to believe. Including Jon."
Please stop me, Marjorie prayed. She said, "Everyone knew that Jon wanted children. He wouldn't have performed such an operation on Mavis."
The silence was suddenly intense in the room. Then Harald said, too softly, "Unless he wanted to kill her."
He waited. His mother said nothing. She was only a pale shadow in the room.
"But I don't believe that," said Harald. "We know the truth. He was not in Hambledon for five days. It all happened when he was away."
"Yes," said Marjorie. She thought she was going to faint. Her heart was thumping erratically and there was sweat on her calm forehead. "That is why he was acquitted. The medical testimony even from Dr. Eaton, Martin. And Jon's witnesses. It was impossible."
"How did we get on this gloomy subject?" Harald now stood up as if the dusk were too much for him. He struck a match and lit a lamp. He stood in his tall and elegant handsomeness and stared at the lamp for a long time. "We've gone over this so many times. You mustn't be so morbid, Mother. I thought it was agreed that no one must mention this again."
"Yes, dear." She looked at him with passionate love and sorrow. "But it all came back with little Martha's death. It keeps coming back. And Jon's drinking. He was usually moderate. Harald, I'm afraid for him. He is the desperate kind."
"Oh, come. You don't think he'd kill himself, do you?" Harald laughed.
"I don't know. If the worst comes to the worst, the truth will have to come out."
Harald slowly turned and looked at his mother.
"What truth, Mother? The name of the hack who botched the job?"
"Harald. Before Mavis was taken to the hospital, she told me Jon had—had—done that thing to her."
Harald's color diminished. "I can't believe that!"
"She told me, Harald. That was even before she went to see her uncle. I knew she was sick—and then she told me."
"But that's impossible! Jon wasn't even here!" He studied her intently.
"And she told her uncle."
"She lied," said Harald. "Mavis was always a liar."
"I know. But that's what she told me and her uncle."
"If so, why didn't old Martin so testify?"
"I've thought about it. Was he trying to protect Jon, even if he hated him after all that? You know how doctors stand together. But I did read that he protested when the verdict of acquittal came in."
Harald still stared at his mother. Then he said with quiet violence, "I hope to God you haven't told anyone else about this!"
She raised her large hazel eyes to the eyes so like her own. "No, dear. I haven't told anyone. And, if I should hear it rumored about, Harald, I'll know where it comes from."
Mother and son regarded each other without moving. Then Harald said, "It won't come from me. How could you think that? Why do you look at me like that?"
"Because, dear, I know that you hate Jon. I've known that for years. You disliked each other when you were children. I blame your father a lot for that. Harald, if things get worse—"
"They won't." He spoke reassuringly and with quickness. "Let the dead bury the dead."
"But the dead often won't stay dead."
She stood up. She was very tall and thin and straight and she looked at her son intensely. "Harald. Don't try to force Jenny to marry you. I know you love her. But don't make life too intolerable for her. She doesn't want you, Harald."
He felt threat in the room. He said with lightness, "How can I force Jenny to marry me, Mother? These aren't medieval days."
"Harald, you musn't force her. She isn't as strong as she appears. She's a very sensitive girl. You mustn't force her."
The feeling of threat increased. Harald moved a step backward from his mother. He said, "If Jenny ever marries me, it'll be her decision. I promise you that."
"Yes, dear," she said, and wanted to weep. "Yes, dear." She put her arms about him and it was as if she held, again, her very vulnerable little boy, the little boy who had always laughed when he was hurt. But she had loved Jon the most How could she forgive herself?
"Well, I really don't know, Robert," said Jane Morgan in her usually discontented voice. "The rooms aren't very elaborate."
"But, Mother, they are excellently proportioned and the house isn't that old."
"I thought we'd live elegantly and up to our station."
"We haven't any yet—here."
"Oh, dear Robert! How can you say that? This wretched little town!"
"It isn't wretched and you've liked the ladies you have already met and you told me yourself that they were very 'civil.' Most of them have Main Line relatives in Philadelphia," and Robert added to himself, Whom you don't know and would love to. He stood with his mother in the parlor of the really attractive Georgian house, and, as he had said— prompted by Jonathan Ferrier—the rooms were excellently
proportioned, with high molded ceilings, fine balanced doors, white marble fireplaces and beautiful bright wood floors. Robert resembled a red-gold bear more emphatically and stubbornly each day.
"And the lawns," he said, "magnificent old elms, hickories, oaks, and a view of the river from the morning room and bedroom windows. You won't find any better in Philadelphia at the price."
Jane Morgan, leaning on her canes, again studied the big room with discontent, her widow's weeds heavy and black this hot day, her white silk and lace cap set firmly on her hair in defiance of "modern ways." Her long thin nose twitched; her hard mouth moved with pettish but unspoken thoughts. Her small gray eyes slipped coldly over the sun-shadowed walls, looking for faults and cracks.
"I can't say," she said, "that this is a soffiscated town."
"You mean 'sophisticated,' Mother."
"Robert! I'm growing very weary of your impertinent remarks about my use of the Queen's English!"
"It's King's English now, Mother, remember? King Edward."
The cold little eyes studied him. "You were never like this in Philadelphia! Something has happened to you here—probably that dreadful Ferrier man. I knew I wouldn't like him, and since I've met him my opinions have been confirmed. What a repulsive creature! Haven't you noticed how those thick white ridges spring out around his mouth for no reason at all?"
"That's when he's impatient with people—as he usually is, I admit."
"Bad temper, that's all. Bad blood. I've been hearing a number of things," and she nodded significantly and tapped her canes on the bare wooden floor.
"I suppose you have. Hambledon's as bad as Philadelphia for gossip. Now, Mother. We must decide. This house, you can see, isn't far from the Ferriers, and it is very close to the offices I will be renting. I like it; it is cheaper than the other houses you've seen and we are lucky. It would be much higher priced if the lawyers weren't anxious to close an estate."
"I visualized a more sumptuous home. I can't say I like this home—"
"Mother." Robert was weary. "This isn't a 'home' yet; we don't live here yet. So, it is still a house."