"We had been married over three years," he had testified calmly. "There were no children. My wife did not want any. She had always had a delicate constitution." He had hesitated here. "Yes, I wanted children— No, I can't even hazard a guess at the name of the abortionist. My wife died of septicemia, of course, as a result of the abortion. I am a surgeon. If I had performed the abortion myself, it wouldn't have been botched, I assure you!"
The jury hadn't liked that remark. It had sounded heartless to them. In fact, they had not liked Dr. Ferrier himself, with
his tall thin arrogance, his tight dark face, his sharp "foreign" cheekbones, his polished black eyes, his air of disgust and impatience with all that was in that crowded courtroom, including the judge and the jury. He had shown no evidence of grief for his young wife, no sign of pity or regret. He had listened intently to the testimony of fellow physicians and sometimes his impatience leaped out upon his shut face. Septicemia, resulting from a bungled operation with lacerations. "I am a surgeon," he had repeated. "There would have been no bungling." His manner had been contemptuous.
And then he had appeared to be about to say something else, in his bitter impatience. However, he merely clenched his mouth tighter.
The witnesses called for the defense had been distinguished doctors and surgeons themselves. They not only testified that Dr. Ferrier, indeed, could not have performed such a gross operation. He was, in fact, operating in Pittsburgh on the crucial days, under their very admiring eyes. Brain tumors. He had used the Broca method. He had been in Pittsburgh not only those days but the day before and two days afterward, to be certain that his patients were out of danger. Five days in all. Dr. Ferrier had not appeared to be listening to those testifying in his defense. He had sat "like a stone," said one newspaper, "staring blackly into space," occasionally passing his lean hand over his thick dark hair. It was as if he had removed himself spiritually from that place into a solitude that could not be entered by anyone else, a solitude that was gloomy and soundless.
He had been acquitted. The jury, reluctantly, had had to believe the witnesses for the defense. There was no way around it. Still, the opinion remained that had Dr. Ferrier not been a rich man, a very rich man, he would have been found guilty.
There were even some vile rumors—which did not appear in court—that Dr. Ferrier had deliberately "bungled" the operation so that his young wife, only twenty-four, would die. So he remained, in many eyes, a double murderer: The murderer of a young woman and his own unborn child, three months an embryo. Among the many so fiercely convinced was his wife's paternal uncle, Dr. Martin Eaton, a much respected surgeon in Hambledon. This was strange to friends, for Dr. Eaton had, before Mavis' death, been deeply fond of Dr. Ferrier and had regarded him as a son, with pride and admiration. Mavis had been brought up from childhood by
Dr. Eaton and his wife, Flora, after her parents' death. They had finally adopted her, for they had no children of their own.
Dr. Eaton, a tall stout man of sixty, had sat grimly in the courtroom all through those days and had stared fixedly at Dr. Ferrier, and with open hatred. When the jury had returned with their sullen verdict of "Not Guilty," Dr. Eaton had stood up and had desperately shouted, "No, no!" Then he had turned, staggered a little, and then, recovering himself, had left the courtroom. He had returned to Hambledon that night and had suffered a stroke, from which he was still recovering. Hambledon sympathized with him with real compassion.
Yes, thought Robert Morgan, again glancing at his father's watch, there were surely "currents" still in Hambledon. No wonder Dr. Ferrier wished to leave. Someone knocked on the door. Dr. Ferrier was waiting below for Dr. Morgan.
To Robert's surprise Dr. Ferrier was not on horseback as usual but in a handsome phaeton drawn by two of his wonderful black horses, wild-looking beasts with white noses and untamed eyes. Racehorses? Robert thought with nervousness. Surely not. He and his mother did not move in horsy circles in Philadelphia and his one acquaintance with "the evils of racing," as his mother called it, was when he had recklessly accompanied some classmates to a track, where he had unaccountably won one hundred and twenty dollars on a bet of twelve. (He could not remember the name of the horse now, and he was doubtful if he had known it then. But someone had once told him his lucky number was five and so he had bet his money on a horse with that number, though the colors of the jockey were two he nauseously hated, pinkish gray and liverish purple, they reminding him of the anonymous guts in the autopsy rooms. It had not been what was generally known as "a fiery steed." In fact, its languor at the post had been obvious to everyone, except himself, and he had evoked roaring laughter at his choice. But ridicule always made Robert stubborn, so he had placed his bet and had won. It had been a happy June day, he remembered, a day like this, all sun and warmth and with an undercurrent of excitement.) He smiled at Dr. Ferrier's horses, then turned his face on the older man with sincere pleasure.
He'll do, thought Dr. Ferrier, though he's still naive and he's a plodder. At any rate he's honest and competent, which is more than I can say for a lot of hacks in frock coats and striped trousers whom I know. A Mama's boy. I can make short work of that—I hope.
He said, "Robert. I thought I'd call for you in my mother's phaeton." He smiled bleakly at the younger man, who was only twenty-six and whose stocky build made him appear smaller than his nearly six feet of height. Robert had sandy-red hair, thick and glossy, a round and boyish face pinkly colored, good wide blue eyes, a short and obstinate nose, a gentle mouth, a dimpled chin. He also had a small mustache, the color of his hair, and big shoulders. His hands, too, were big and square, and so were his feet in their black and polished boots. The day was hot; he wore thick black broadcloth and what Jonathan Ferrier usually described as a hard black inverted chamber pot, though it was only a New York derby. His collar, of course, was high and stiff, which gave his florid color an unfortunate enhancement, and his tie was black and fastened firmly with a pearl tiepin.
To Robert's surprise the usually austere and correct Dr. Ferrier was dressed as if for golfing, or for hunting or lawn bowling, in that his coat was a thin woolen plaid, his trousers light gray flannel, his shoes low. Even worse, he wore no collar and no hat. Yet his native air of hard elegance had not diminished for all this informal wardrobe. "Get in," he said in his usual quick and abrupt manner.
(Robert's mother had sternly told him all his life that no lady or gentleman ever appeared on a public street, walking or riding, without a hat and without gloves.)
"And take that obscene pot off your head," said Jonathan Ferrier, as Robert cautiously settled himself on the seat with his host. "A day like this! It must be nearly ninety."
The horses set out in what to Robert was a somewhat hasty trot. He removed his hat and held it on his knees. The warm wind rushed through his hair and lifted it pleasantly. "The horses," said Robert, trying to keep trepidation out of his nice young voice. "Racers?"
"Hardly. But I do have racers, as I told you before. I'm going to run two of them in the fall, at Belmont. Expect one of them to win. A stallion, three years old. Argentine stock. Should run the legs off most of the dog meat we have here. I bought his sire myself, in Buenos Aires."
Robert had been born in Philadelphia. He knew Boston well, and New York. He had interned at Johns Hopkins. But never had he met a man so insouciant as Jon Ferrier, who had apparently visited all the great capitals of the world and who had been born in little Hambledon. Robert had expected that he could kindly condescend to the "natives" of this town, and perhaps even to the famous Dr. Ferrier; he had been warned by his mother to be "gracious." Robert felt like a fool today. In fact, he had been feeling a fool for the past five days. He ought to have remembered that Dr. Ferrier had been graduated from Harvard Medical School and had studied at Heidelberg and the Sorbonne, and that he was one of the small handful of surgeons who operated on the brain, which only yesterday was considered one of "the forbidden chambers." Such a man would, of course, think it nothing at all
to import a horse from Argentina for his own stables.
"I thought we'd forget the operating rooms and the hospitals today," said Jonathan. He laughed briefly. "Two diploma-mill hacks in frock coats who have never heard of Pasteur and Liston. But full of dignity and presence. They are slicing and sawing and grinding away at a great rate this morning, and if any of their patients survive, I'll be surprised. Only good luck and excellent constitutions kept their other patients alive after the general bloody slaughter."
"Why do the hospitals keep them, then, Doctor?"
"How many times do I have to tell you to call me Jon? After all, I'm not old enough to be your father. Why do they keep the hacks? Well, one of them is the Governor's cousin, and the other is Chief-of-Staff of the medical board at St Hilda's, our very fashionable private little hospital. Oil-well rich, on his wife's side; he bought his way in." He chuckled with a dry and cynical sound. "In fact, he is operating on his wife's sister; ovarian tumor. I diagnosed it as probably carcinoma before—" He paused. "But affable Dr. Hedler thought, and thinks, my diagnosis ridiculous. He's possibly just finding it out, or one of the interns is diffidently informing him, or even one of the nurses! He'd never know by himself."
Robert was horrified. "And you say nothing—Jon?"
Jonathan gave him a brief hard stare. "Why should I? Oh, a year or so ago I'd have kicked up a stink. But not now. Why should I? She chose Dr. Hedler. He's very impressive, and ladies love that, and he speaks with the authority of the ignorant. Presence. It's true I'm still on the staff, and the Board, but I've learned recently when to keep my mouth shut. I recommend that to you, too, young Robert. At least for a few years. I had a bad time, myself, when I was first practicing and tried to introduce asepsis into the operating rooms, and white trousers and jackets for the surgeons, and lots of hand washing and rubber gloves. If it hadn't been for my family's name—and money—they'd have thrown me out. My mother had promised a wing at St. Hilda's. The hacks still wear their frock coats and striped trousers and wipe their scalpels in a lordly fashion on their sleeves, or the nurses' backsides, or whatever is handy. With a flourish. And they come, many of them, right from the dissection rooms. One's an obstetrician. He's delivering a baby this morning." He laughed again. "The lady will be very lucky, indeed, not to die of puerperal fever."
"And there's nothing you will—I mean, nothing you can do?"
"No. Would they listen to me, some of them, these days? No. I've heard it said that few would trust me to treat their dogs."
"Impossible!" Robert's pink face flushed with indignation. Dr. Ferrier was amused.
"You haven't the remotest idea, have you, about people, my boy? You'll find out, unfortunately. Look at you. A doctor who can blush. Remarkable. Here's another thought for you: What a surgeon or general practitioner does, or does not, do is only part of the story of a patient's survival. At least fifty percent of his good luck is due to himself and his faith in his physician. Didn't they teach you that in the great Johns Hopkins?"
"Well, yes."
"But you don't believe it?"
Robert was uncomfortable. "Of course I believe it. But still a hack, with all the confidence in the world, and his patient's confidence in him, can literally commit murder in the operating room, or even in the ward."
"True. But those are the overt cases. I had a patient one time with a mere wen on his neck, and he died of shock, the result of his fear beforehand. A minor operation at that. He didn't have any confidence in me. That was a few weeks ago, after—"
After the trial, thought Robert.
"So," said Jonathan Ferrier, "that sort of thing convinced me to get out of here."
"You haven't forgotten, though, that you'll stay and make the rounds with me, and be on hand in the operating rooms?"
"I gave you my promise, didn't I?" said Jonathan with impatience.
The granite cobblestones shone as if polished in the sun. They were rolling down the wide green streets of the better part of the town, with large pleasant houses standing far back on warm and glistening lawns blowing with glittering trees. Here and there the lawns were splashed with brilliant flower beds, and here and there tethered horses drank at concrete watering troughs. Robert could hear the lazy slapping of screen doors in the distance and the hissing of hoses as they watered the grass, and an occasional hammering. The sun splintered hotly on his face and hands; the tires on the phaeton's wheels, rubber and thick, moved over the cobbles smoothly and the vehicle rocked just perceptibly. In the distance, Robert could see the mountains taking on a soft purplish cast, setting into relief the red roofs of rich houses, or the white walls. A lovely, prosperous town, this Hambledon. Robert already felt comfortable in it, and he also felt an eager affection for all who lived here whom he did not yet know.
Jonathan said, "I hope you'll like it here. I had ten applications, you know, for my practice. I interviewed them all. You were the last."
Robert colored with shy pleasure, and Jonathan again gave indication of his unaccountable amusement. "I'm glad you selected me," said Robert, wondering how it was that he was always amusing the older man, and why he was amused at all.
"You were the best," said Jonathan. "At least, you seemed the most harmless. Don't be annoyed. It's very important to be harmless, if you are a physician. Didn't old Hippocrates say that? Yes. In fact, the greatest compliment you can say of us is that we didn't hurt anyone, even if we didn't help. I know an old fart who is very competent with the scalpel—ingenious at times, inspired—but they have to give the patient ether before they get a look at him. A gargoyle, with a temper to match. He could kill with a look, and I suppose he already has. He's harmful. He's usually called in desperate cases, after the first surgeon is about to give up. Really miraculous. But harmful."
Robert had been told at Johns Hopkins that it was not necessary for physicians to "indulge in levity" even among themselves, when it came to patients. Apparently Dr. Ferrier had not been taught that. Sometimes he intimidated poor Robert, who greatly admired him but still did not know if he liked him. He had a harsh and bitter way of speaking and was often contemptuous. At first Robert had thought this all the result of the tragic trial, but others, in a whisper, had assured him that Jonathan had always been this way. "Of course, it is accentuated now, but he was usually a cynical devil." Robert was not certain that it was good for a physician to be cynical in the least, and too objective. He had a very tender heart
"Don't be too anxious to embrace this damn town," said Jonathan, as they rolled rapidly through the streets. "We have a lot of new-rich here; oil people. The kind of precious vulgarians who refer to their houses as 'homes.' Upstarts. Modesty is something they don't appreciate or value. They think it is a self-awareness of inferiority, and then they stamp on you. We have a few authentic families but not very many. Just an American town, just any town. Mostly populated by fools. Do you suffer fools gladly, Robert? Good. You ought to be very popular here. I never could. That's where the Church and I differ. Violently."
Robert could connect Jonathan Ferrier with many things but not with any church. He was constantly discovering startling things about the other man, some of them disconcerting.
"You—belong to a church, Jon?"
Jonathan turned his head slightly and gave Robert his unpleasant stark grin. "In a way. Why, does that surprise you? The Ferriers had a hard fence to climb over two hundred years ago, when they came to Pennsylvania. They were—are —what you people call Papists. Nominally I'm a Catholic. But I haven't been to Mass for years. You see, once I was as downy-headed as you, Bob. My fellowman soon disillusioned me. I was seventeen then. You are nearly ten years older than that. How in hell can you be so innocent?"
"I'm not that innocent," said Robert with dignity, and Jonathan was highly amused again and chuckled that dry chuckle of his.
"You surely had some of the nurses, and perhaps some of the trollops of the town, didn't you?"
Robert's too-ready color flushed his face once more. He thought of
his mother. He was certain she believed him virginal. He remembered the quick and awkward episodes of the past few years, and it embarrassed him now to recall that he had always closed his eyes so that he would not see the women's faces. He could feel Dr. Ferrier watching him, but he stared obdurately at the thin sunburned hands that held the reins -o surely.
"I once had an intern from a Methodist medical school," said Jonathan with happy remembrance, "who could never bring himself to utter the word 'vagina.' He preferred to call it 'the private parts.' There's nothing," said Jonathan, "less private, in a hospital or an operating room, than those delicately mentioned 'parts.'"
"One has to remember that—er—women have their reticences," said the unfortunate Robert.
"Do they now?" said Jonathan, raising one of his thick black brows. "If there is anything less reticent, or modest, than a woman, I've yet to meet it. A woman in heat can make the most uncouth man seem like a choirboy."
"I suppose you've had a lot of experience," said Robert.
"Good! You aren't all custard, are you, Bob? That's one thing I wanted to be sure of; I was a little afraid, sometimes, that you were too gentle for the bloody arenas we call hospitals."
"I was considered very competent at Johns Hopkins," said Robert in a stiff tone. "Hardly a custard. Besides, my father was a surgeon, too, and before I even studied medicine, I watched many of his operations."
"And didn't faint once, I suppose. Never mind. I'm joshing you. I really like you, Bob, and I'm notable for not liking people. You must cultivate a sense of humor. Never mind. Do you know where we're going today? To watch birds."