Jonas cackled happily and shook his head as if Jonathan had perpetrated a wonderful joke which was greatly appreciated. He sat down with a rich sigh of pleasure. "What a marvelous day it is!" he said. "So comforting to old bones. Prissy, love, would you give me a drink? My usual. Just a little, a very little, whiskey, but plenty of cool soda. I see you have both been celebrating in my absence."
"Yes, we have," said Jonathan. "After all, how often do you leave this house?"
Jonas chortled. He pretended, all at once, to be very watchful of Priscilla. "Sweetheart," he said, in a very wistful and timid voice, "is that the whiskey you and Jon have been drinking?"
Priscilla looked up with a start and her lovely face became strained. She did not see Jonathan shake his head at her in reproof. "Yes, it is," she answered, and her hand trembled as she poured the liquor. Jonathan watched idly. He said, "You know, Jonas, I wouldn't blame Prissy a bit if she dropped arsenic in it—though, how could she get arsenic?"
The old man was still intent on the pouring liquid, pretending to helpless concern. Then he said, "Eh?"
"You heard me. You know that arsenic isn't easy to come by, though it is used for insects in gardens. Not the pure stuff, of course. To get the pure stuff you must buy it from a chemist and sign for it. That's the law. So, how could Prissy get it without throwing suspicion on herself?" Jon sat down and smiled sweetly at the old man. "Perhaps you could tell us, Jonas."
The old man's face was cherubic with infantile bewilderment. "Eh? Another of your jokes, Jon? Really. Very bad taste."
Jonathan leaned back in his chair and studied the high white ceiling. "Of course, one could give a story about rats. Or send someone for it—in another town, with a false name and address. Prissy, have you been tampering with Jack, the gardener-coachman?"
"Jon! What are you saying?" Poor Priscilla stood with the bottle in her little hand and regarded Jonathan with terror.
"Just speculating, Prissy. I'm a great speculator. Besides, I'm curious. Jonas, what do you think?"
"I wouldn't poison even a rat," said Jonas in a sad and trembling voice. He took his glass from Priscilla's hand, gave her a courtly bow of his head in thanks. "I love all that lives."
"Oh, I'm sure you do. You have a reputation for that, Jonas. Prissy, would you give me another drink—from that very bottle, dear—and then leave us for a minute? I'm still concerned about Jonas' health and would like to ask him a few questions."
Priscille was very pale. Jonathan saw how her hands shook. When she caught his eye, he winked at her broadly, and for the first time a little smile appeared on her mouth. Her fingers touched his urgently as he took the glass, and he pressed them deftly in return. Then with a murmur she left the room, walking with tiny grace, her dress flowing behind her. Jonas watched her, allowing Jonathan to see his wide soft smile, his air of indulgent adoration. "Dear girl," sighed Jonas. "How she has brightened my days and brought new life to an old, helpless body."
"I bet," said Jonathan. "But what does Prissy get out of it?"
"My all," said Jonas, in a deep tone. "My all. My worship, my protection and, at the end, my money."
"Good. I love precious marriages like this. So rare. Prissy will still be young when you are gathered to your ancestors, Jonas. That should give you happiness, knowing that she can enjoy your money for a long time—though without the delight of your presence, of course."
A dark and ugly look sparkled in the old man's eyes, and Jonathan saw his spirit, treacherous and lying. Then it hid itself behind benignity again. "Ah, yes," he sighed. "It is really one of the satisfactions of my days to think of that."
"I really love you," said Jonathan. "In a naughty world you are a shining light of virtue, Jonas. A light of peace and goodwill toward men, blameless, tender, trusting, generous. Innocent, above all. Now that we are alone, Jonas, where did you get that arsenic?"
Jonas regarded him with smiling soft hatred. "Now, Jon, please don't joke about such serious things."
"I'm not joking, I assure you. Jonas, stop being so damned sanctimonious. I'm a doctor. Remember? I have only to make a few inquiries here or in other cities in the state, and I'll get the information I need. It will take a little time, and a few descriptions, and a little pressure, but I'll get it. Do you understand?"
Jonas smiled superbly. "Really, Jon. If anyone bought any arsenic, anywhere—"
"It wasn't Prissy. I've already told that about. What's the matter? Do you feel ill?" Jonathan rose with pretended sudden alarm.
Jonas waved him back. He pulled his linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped a sagging old face, which was no longer pink. "No, no, there's nothing wrong, Jon. Just a touch of the sun, perhaps." His breath was now honestly harsh. "I don't know what you're talking about, Jon. What is all this about arsenic? I wasn't poisoned."
"So you weren't. I know you'll mention that occasionally. We have you down for acute indigestion with a touch of the liver. I made that emphatic on your chart." He remained standing. "Unless, of course, you wish it to be known that you tried to poison yourself—you couldn't stand the wickedness in this old world or something—and so took the arsenic in a moment of noble desperation."
"I've thought of it!" Jonas' voice was all tremulous and full of dolorous music. "I have thought of it!"
"Well, we all think of it occasionally. Only the stupid never contemplate suicide. But don't think of it again, Jonas old boy. Try to enjoy life."
Jonas was much moved. He looked at Jonathan with gratitude. "Dear boy, what a comfort you are to a poor old soul."
"Indeed I am. I won't mention a word of this conversation, poor old soul, unless it becomes absolutely necessary, which I am sure it will not."
"It will not, Jon, I give you my word. After all, it would not sound very nice if I mentioned that my doctor hinted I had poisoned myself, would it?"
"Oh, by then I'd have proof," said Jonathan, with an airy gesture. "Names, dates, descriptions. You know how people would laugh, don't you?"
Jonas drank slowly and appreciatively from his glass. "Jon," he said, wiping his lips, "I don't think you truly love, do you?"
"Indeed I don't," said Jonathan with affability.
Jonas sighed. "I have devoted my whole life to humanity, nurturing, offering, comforting—"
"Well, you can do that again. Send me five thousand dollars, by check, tomorrow, for that tuberculosis hospital we have been discussing all this time."
Their eyes locked together, Jonathan's amused and hard, the old man's vicious.
"Five thousand dollars," said Jonathan. "Not made out to me, but to the Hambledon Tuberculosis Hospital. Why, we'll have a plaque on the wall for you, dear heart! 'Gift of Jonas Witherby, Founder.' In the most prominent place, naturally. Perhaps with a bas-relief of you, with your fine patrician features, smiling your benevolent smile. Isn't that a lovely thought?"
A tear moistened Jonas' eye as he considered, but the evil light in it did not diminish. He nodded. "Tomorrow, Jon, I give you my word."
"Good. And let there be no more talk of poisoning, even by innuendo, dear heart."
Jonathan saluted amiably and left the room. He met the fearful Prissy in the hall. He whispered, "Don't worry. I've stopped him. I think." He kissed her cheek lightly.
After he was gone Jonas, with a very sprightly walk, went up to his bedroom. He gave a number to Central, speaking in his unctuous and loving voice. A few moments later a voice answered him, and he said, "Kenton? Jonas Witherby here. Yes. When can we have our little talk?"
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Jonathan rode rapidly out of town on horseback to his nearest farm, which began on the outskirts of the city and which was now being managed by Dr. Thomas Harper. He rarely talked much to his former friend, not out of continuing resentment and hatred and contempt, but because he was fearful that if he showed kindness, Tom would become maudlin and overwhelmed again by his own guilt, and this was something Jonathan found extremely embarrassing, to the point of anger. If a m
an had been a villain and an ingrate, let him then feel remorse and repentance in his heart, and not infuse them into his ordinary daily communications, particularly when talking with the object of his former malice. It was Jonathan's firm conviction that while repentance was theoretically good, it could also have a repercussion dangerous to the victim: The repentant aggressor, being human, and desiring to relieve himself of his painful state of mind, might look for more reasons to hate his victim and end up being more malignant than before. From both sentimentality and malignance Jonathan wished himself to be delivered.
He hoped to ride about the farm and talk with Thelma Harper and her four engaging children, for he had known Thelma as a nurse at St. Hilda's when he had been a lowly medical student and her husband an intern. He had had no status at St. Hilda's as yet and was snubbed by nurses and
The still apprehensive Priscilla, not quite reassured by Jonathan, and always nervously suspicious these days, had followed her husband discreetly and when he had closed his bedroom door, she pressed her ear against it and listened. indulged by interns, but Thelma had been kind and motherly, though she was but four years older than himself. She had also—and this was more important to Jonathan than anything else—been an excellent nurse in a day when nurses were only drudges and exploited and regarded with more than a small contempt by hospitals in general.
Jonathan took the narrow riding path and rode along the river, not only because it was cooler here but because it was the shortest way to his farm. His horse did not like water and pretended fear of it always, rolling back an eloquent eye at his rider in reproach and apprehension. "Nonsense," said Jonathan. "Even if you are gelded, you still have enough manhood in you, and stop being such a farce." The horse bent his head in piteous resignation and pranced along at a sedate pace. "I suppose," said Jonathan reflectively, "that as most men now seem gelded in spirit if not in actuality, I shouldn't call your state to your mind. It's a universal and melancholy fact. Only the boys roaring out into the territories seem to have any gumption these days, but when they have the West well settled and the cities rise up, then they're gelded themselves, too. A man can't live in the city with testes. What was it Socrates said: 'A hamlet breeds heroes. A city breeds eunuchs.' Vicious ones, too, for eunuchs are always shrill and iniquitous and full of murder. And never mind Charles Lamb and his 'thither side of innocence.' "
Thelma had written him recently that Tom seemed much improved, "and able to take short rides every day." What had the poet, William Blake, said: "Cruelty has a human heart, and jealousy a human face." It took a poet to be pithy and full of verity, and only the ignorant called them decadent or ladylike or other demeaning terms. They were a virile breed. Jonathan recited some of his favorite poems to himself and looked at the river. The island was partly behind him now. A little mist was rising from the water into the heated air, and the island seemed adrift, a fairy place, and Jonathan thought of Jenny and Robert Morgan, and chuckled but not very agreeably. He would have to corner the elusive Jenny very soon and no more delicate approaches. Jonathan remembered what Ibsen had said: "One should never put on one's best trousers to go out to battle for freedom and truth." Nor should he put on his best trousers to fight for love, either.
The river had a dreamlike quality today, its current hardly visible, hardly running, its surface like pale blue silk and as smooth. The ferries chugging from side to side were busy with holidayers, and there were boats out with sails, and rowboats moving placidly with picnickers looking for a likely spot along the shore, and the sun was a yellow haze and the mountains on the other side of the river were gauzy shapes of green. It was what countrymen called "a pretty day." Humid and hot, but languorous and peaceful, and voices called and laughed from the river and from the gardens that bordered the narrow road. But now the houses and the gardens were becoming farther and farther apart, and the country was approaching, smelling of dust and hay, and the peculiar excitation of the lovely and carnal earth.
Here and there along uncultivated stretches of land little humpy and jagged roads tumbled out to join the River Road, and as Jonathan approached one on his left a buggy came smartly hurtling toward him, and his horse, predictably, reared in pretended fright. For an instant he stood against the sun with Jonathan standing in the stirrups and raised from the saddle, then he dropped his legs at a quick touch of the crop. The buggy also came to an abrupt stop, and there was young Father McNulty's face peering out from under the dusty top.
"Jon!" exclaimed the priest, and against all knowledge of horses he flung down the reins of his own and jumped from the buggy. "I've been calling you! What a Godsend you are to appear like this!"
"For God's sake," said Jonathan, and alighted, and went to the buggy and caught and fastened the reins. "Your horse could bolt, you damned city man! Good thing she's a tame mare and I'm not riding a stallion." He stood in the hot yellow dust of the road and regarded Father McNulty with no pleasure at all.
But Father McNulty was too fervid with gratitude to care. He grasped Jonathan's arm and pointed up the little road. "You know the McHenrys."
"No, I don't, and moreover I don't want to know them."
"Young manager of the Hambledon Lumber Mills. From Michigan."
"Good. Hope Prissy Witherby pays him a good salary. She was the town doxy, you know, temporarily reformed. Prettiest legs between here and New York, and as for her other qualities, what is it the advertisements say? 'One trial will convince you.' "
"Jon." The priest smiled. "Don't try to shock me." He stopped smiling. "It's young Mrs. McHenry I've been visiting.
Peter called me. I'm afraid the girl is going mad. I could do nothing with her at all. Matilda is the loveliest girl."
"What's wrong with the rites of exorcism? Out of business in this scientific twentieth century?" He moved toward his horse, and the priest grasped him again.
"Jon, I prayed to find you. I've been calling you. This is a terrible emergency. I want you—"
"I'm no alienist," said Jonathan. "I've had no training in mental illness. Send her off to Philadelphia. I know just the man."
"You did wonders with young Campion."
"Oh? Matilda tried to commit suicide? Well, why did you interfere—again?"
"Please, Jon. No, she didn't try to kill herself, but she is distracted enough to think of it. I am afraid she is losing her mind, and Peter is desperate. They have such a delightful little girl, too, Elinor. It's a tragedy."
"I told you I'm no alienist, for God's sake, and besides, I don't much believe in them. No, I'm on my way to my farm, and if you'll kindly let go of my sleeve, I'll be obliged."
"You are the only one who can help her," said the priest.
Jonathan stared at him incredulously. "You must be out of your mind yourself!"
"I've always had a certain feeling about you, Jon, and you are so compassionate."
Jonathan burst out laughing and shook his head and went to his horse.
"Priests have intuitions," said Father McNulty. "That's why I know about you."
Jonathan put his foot into a stirrup and looked back with annoyance. "I've heard about those intuitions. They're invariably wrong. Old Father McGuire, whom you succeeded, was all full of the damnedest intuitions about my father, and not one of them had any reality. We must have a chat about that soon. Besides, if you need a doctor, there's my replacement, Bob Morgan, who's so full of loving kindness that it makes me want to puke sometimes. Call him for Matilda on Monday. He's out riding with my lady at the present time. I hope they aren't indulging in the pleasantest pastime of all, the only one that matters."
"I prayed to find you," said the priest in a voice of such urgent humility that Jonathan paused. "And then there you were. It was God's answer to my prayer. You can't overlook that, Jon."
"God and I parted company when I was seventeen," said Jonathan, "and one of these days I'll tell you about that, too, and make an agnostic of you." He mounted his horse. Father McNulty caught one of the reins, and the horse step
ped back, almost on him, and Jonathan, with an oath, had to apply the crop again.
"Christ!" Jonathan exclaimed. "Don't you know anything about horses at all? You are a menace. You shouldn't be driving that buggy for a minute."
"I know about people," said the priest with pale resolution. "I know about you."
"No."
"Yes."
Jonathan looked down at him with amused wonder. "You're a persistent devil, aren't you? What's the matter with their own physician?"
"They've been here only two months. They came for Matilda's health. Please, Jon. I can't wait until Monday for Matilda, and besides I doubt young Dr. Morgan could help that poor girl. You need only to talk to her for a few minutes. Please."
"They're well off, I suppose?"
"Moderately so. What—"
"And servants?"
"A housekeeper, and a second maid, and a gardener. What—"
"I have the perfect cure for the lady," said Jonathan, "and it will cost her husband—unfortunate devil—nothing. Let him discharge the servants and make the young lady roll up her sleeves and pin up her skirts and get to scrubbing, cleaning and cooking and washing and ironing, and tending the garden. Then her megrims will be gone—presto—overnight. Nothing like hard grim work to cure a sick mind."
The priest said, "Not always, Jon. And there's that darling little girl, Elinor. Think what this is doing to the child—and she is only nine years old." He smiled up at Jonathan pleadingly, but also with artfulness. "She reminds me of little Martha Best."
"That's a lie, and I hope you confess it," said Jonathan. He sighed. He looked at his watch. "All right, considering that I'd have to ride you down if I don't. I'll look at the delicate, pampered lady for exactly five minutes and that's all."
With more expertness than Jonathan would have believed, the priest turned his buggy around on the narrow side road and rode off in a spume of yellow dust and Jonathan followed. The road climbed, and then at the top where it leveled there was an old farmhouse, restored, mellow and warm in its nest of trees and sun, with ancient lawns about it and a white picket fence and a pretty bed of flowers near the door. Cicadas shrilled in the burning heat, but otherwise there was no sound and no sight of any human being. The place seemed deserted. As the leaves moved, the sun struck on small latticed windows and on dark old wood, and laced the stone path with dancing shadows. Jonathan remembered that this was "the old Barrow Place," once a farm, and sold long ago.