CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

When Jonathan came into his offices six days later, he was gratified, for Robert Morgan’s sake, to find every chair taken in the waiting room, Robert busy in the examination room, and even a few standees in the hall outside. He went into the office and Robert came in and said, “We have a rush. Was it always like this?”

“Yes. Nice, isn’t it? The news that you are not married and that you are handsome, and rich, must have gotten around, for I see quite a number of well-dressed Mamas out there, all, no doubt, equipped with marriageable daughters, and there are two or three young ladies, too.” Jonathan removed his hat and wiped his ridged forehead. “Four o’clock, and the evening rush hasn’t begun.”

Robert picked up a typed card from the polished desk. “Now, here’s a young lady who interests me. A Mrs. Edna Beamish. Beautiful, and apparently with money. She insists on seeing only you. Hints she has something quite extraordinary wrong with her.”

“Never heard of her.” Jonathan took the card and read the address. “Kensington Terraces. That’s one of the few places in this town which can really be called an apartment house—unpleasant things, harbingers of the bright new future when men will be living in anthills. But this, so far, is a nice and very expensive group of flats—why do they call them ‘apartments’? Flats. I’ve been in one. Lavish, surrounded by gardens. Hum. Edna Beamish. Twenty-two years old. Any idea what is wrong with her?”

“No. She looks very well to me, naturally good color, very pretty and stylish. And with a gay eye. I’ve told her you are taking no new patients, but she says she has heard so much about you and will see no one else. Take a look at her, anyway. She probably has a fat purse,” and Robert grinned. “She’s worth looking at, and from her manner I gather she wouldn’t object too much if I invited her out for a decorous evening.”

Jonathan went into the waiting room. “Mrs. Beamish?” he asked of the crowd. A lissome young lady rose, dressed in a simple but obviously costly lavender silk dress which sheathed her figure tightly and dropped in a mass of rustling ruffles to the floor. She wore a broad silk lavender hat to match, with pink roses, and her hands were gloved in white and she carried a beruffled parasol the color of her hat and dress, or gown would more properly describe it, thought Jonathan. She had a very attractive bosom, indeed, on which reposed a long string of amethysts set in gold, and the same gems enhanced her ears.

Her hair was fair and abundant and beautifully coiffed under the hat, and she had a small and mischievous face, very piquant and lively, with large light brown eyes and impressive lashes, and a dimple in a pink cheek. The eyes flashed seductively at Jonathan, roving rapidly from his face to his feet. She sighed and smiled. “Mrs. Beamish,” she murmured.

Jonathan was intrigued. He said, “I am taking no new patients, Mrs. Beamish. You were told that. But Dr. Morgan will see you.” (That would be a nice figure to examine.) He waved to her to precede him and she swept by him in a sweet rustle and embowered in a rich and enticing perfume, which Jonathan appreciated immensely.

Once alone with him in the office she turned, gave him another view of the deep dimple, sighed and smiled. “Oh, Doctor.” Her voice was light and caressing. “I’m so sorry, but I just couldn’t see anyone but you—after all I have heard.” The fine eyelashes fluttered like moths and threw a dainty shadow on her round cheeks. “I really couldn’t.”

“That’s nonsense,” said Jonathan, inspecting the figure again. “The town is full of good doctors, and Dr. Morgan is one of the best. He’ll admit it himself.”

She trilled with delight, then coquettishly tapped Jonathan on the arm with her parasol. She shook her head. “No, only you, Doctor. I heard Dr. Morgan isn’t married—” She dropped those wonderful eyelashes modestly.

“Oh,” said Jonathan. “I’m not, either. By the way, I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing you before.”

“I’ve lived in Hambledon only a few months,” said the young lady, waving a little gloved hand and so setting the perfume in motion again. “I have a slight—chest. I was told, in Scranton, that the air here is very good for such things.”

And the chest is very pretty, too, thought Jonathan approvingly. “That’s silly. Of course, Scranton is smokier, but not too much. So, you are from Scranton?”

“Yes. I’m not well known there either, Doctor. You see, I come from a very unimportant working-class family. Poor, but honest. But I married well. A gentleman from—from Chicago. He was visiting in Scranton, and liked it, and so we were married.”

“But he likes Hambledon better?”

Again she sighed, and the lively face became sorrowful. “I am a widow, sir.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jonathan. Her sigh was very beguiling.

“A lonely widow,” said Mrs. Beamish.

“Oh, I doubt that!” said Jonathan gallantly. But she shook her head and gave him a sidelong vision of her lashes and tilted nose. A very alluring baggage! Jonathan was beginning to have some idea about the lady and he doubted she was inconsolable, and that she would reject the suggestion of a quiet and private little dinner somewhere, with good wine. He knew just the place, and knew it well.

“It is very hard for a lone woman to become acquainted with genteel people in a strange city,” said Mrs. Beamish with a sorrowful but fetching glance. Now Jonathan heard her accent, common and uncultured, but nice for all that. Commonness was not to be despised in a very pretty woman; on the contrary.

“Well,” he said, and looked at the card as if considering. “If you insist, Mrs. Beamish. But I warn you that if your condition demands long treatment I shall have to turn you over to Dr. Morgan.”

“What a treasure you are!” she exclaimed. Robert appeared, with his patient, from the inner examination rooms, and seemed surprised, and pleased, to see Mrs. Beamish. “I shall examine Mrs. Beamish,” said Jonathan with a grave voice, and winked at Robert. “If you don’t mind, Doctor. Then, she is yours.”

“That,” said Robert, “will be my pleasure.” The girl tittered, but not disagreeably, and gave Robert a flirtatious glance. Jonathan opened the door and let the young lady go in. Robert shook his head at him, and smiled.

“Disrobe, please,” said Jonathan, and removed his coat and put on a white jacket. Mrs. Beamish surveyed the immaculate room with its table and its formidable array of cabinets with fearful instruments in them. She seemed a little daunted. “Disrobe?” she said.

“Well, I can hardly examine you with that dress on, and your corsets, can I?” Jonathan asked with reason. “I’ll go into the other examination room, while you at least take the dress off, and loosen the corsets.”

When he returned she looked more fetching than ever, in her white silk and lace petticoats and what was known as a camisole, all white ribbons and embroidery. The bosom did excellently for itself without the whalebone. She had taken off her hat, too, and her hair was very bright and fluffy. Most appealing, thought Jonathan. He sat down near her and took one of her small plump hands. “Now, tell me what you think is wrong,” he said. “Chest, again?”

She dropped her eyes. “Well, no, Doctor. I’m afraid it’s female trouble. Inwardly.”

“That’s where it usually is,” said Jonathan. “I’ve never seen it elsewhere. Now, my dear, I am a doctor, and I’m sure other doctors have examined you before for one thing or another, so shall we put aside the modesty for a few minutes and get down to questions?”

She laughed at him demurely. She answered the questions readily enough. She had pain in her right side very often, every month. “Probably just ovulation,” said Jonathan. “Quite often a little painful.” Oh, but this pain was agonizing! It tore her apart. She screamed, really she did. Nothing helped at all. It went on for days. She couldn’t sleep or rest or eat. It was frightful. Her face became quite awed and pale.

Ovarian cyst? thought Jonathan. He asked more questions. She was a little vague. Her knowledge of her own anatomy was very sketchy and grotesque. When he said “ovary” she stared at him blankly. “You know,” he said in a jocular voice. “Where the eggs are.”

“Eggs? Doctor, I’m not a hen!”

“Nevertheless, you do lay an egg every month, I assure you,” he said. She looked offended. He gently slapped the white silken thigh and said, “Now, I’ll examine you. Just lie down on this table, please. And here are the stirrups. Put your feet in them.”

“Stirrups?”

“Have you never been examined this way before?” asked Jonathan.

“No. It was always just my chest.”

“We’ll examine that, too, after this. Now, just don’t be so stiff. Lie down. That’s a nice girl. Cover yourself with this little sheet. And up with the feet. I won’t hurt you.”

But she looked at the dilating instrument with real terror, half concealed though it was with a napkin. She pulled her knees together. “It won’t hurt you,” said Jonathan. “Perhaps a little discomfort, but you’re a big girl now, and you’ve been married.”

His amused voice reassured her, and she endured the extensive examination with only a wince or two. After the first flurry she appeared to lose her modesty and concentrated her attention on the instrument, and didn’t mind Jonathan’s careful peering.

“All right,” he said after about five minutes, “you can sit up now.” He carried the instrument away to a basin, to await sterilization. The girl sat up and arranged the sheet very carefully over her legs. Jonathan came back to her, smiling.

“I have good news for you,” he said, “though it’s sad that your husband is not alive to hear it. You are nearly three months pregnant.”

“Oh!” cried Mrs. Beamish, and fell back on the table and began to cry. “Oh! Oh, poor Ernest! Not to have known about it, and he did want a baby so! He died two months ago, Doctor.”

“Unfortunate,” said Jonathan, with real regret, both for the deceased Mr. Beamish, and for himself. “Well, now, you must take the best of care of yourself, and rest as much as possible, and be brave, and walk quietly every day. I will give you a little booklet—”

Mrs. Beamish suddenly gave vent to peal after peal of tearing and tortured screams, so loud that even those in the waiting room could hear them. While Jonathan, stunned and motionless, looked at her in absolute amazement, she rolled back and forth on the table, howling.

“Doctor, please, please, please! Oh, Doctor, you are killing me! Oh! Oh!”

There was a loud knock on the door, which Jonathan did not hear, being petrified by the screams, and then Robert rushed in, very agitated. He looked at the convulsed and half-naked girl on the table, and then at Jonathan. “What the hell?” he asked.

“Hysterical,” Jonathan could manage at last. “She’s a widow, and pregnant. Legitimately, I assume. Here,” he said to Mrs. Beamish. “Stop that!”

“My God, you can hear her on the street,” said Robert, quite shaken.

Jonathan deftly slapped the girl’s face and she stopped at once. Tears ran down her cheeks. She looked at Robert imploringly. “He hurt me terribly, when he did it,” she sobbed. “Hurt me terribly. I didn’t know it would be that bad.”

“Nonsense,” said Jonathan. “You never let out a whimper. Go on, now. Get dressed.” He said to Robert, “Just the usual pelvic. A robust piece.”

Robert looked at the girl, frowning. “I think you’d better leave her to me,” he said. But the girl was hastily dressing, crying quietly and shaking. She did not put on her hat or gloves, but instead she galloped out of the examination room, raising her voice in loud and frenzied sobs, and staggering visibly. She rushed past the astonished spinster at the typewriter, and the aghast and staring patients, and she exclaimed at the door, “He almost killed me, and he said it wouldn’t hurt!” Then she fled outside.

“For God’s sake,” said Robert. “What did all that mean?”

Jonathan shrugged. “We get all kinds,” he said. “I just think she’s upset, knowing she’s pregnant and her husband recently dead. She’ll calm down, and be back in a week or so.” He heard a carriage draw up outside, and looked through the window. “And a very nice vehicle she has there, too,” he said. “A good pair of mares.”

Robert was uneasy. “You never saw her before? Where has she been hiding?”

Jonathan explained. “I still don’t like it,” said Robert, perturbed. “If she goes yelling like that to another doctor, it would hurt your reputation.”

Jonathan laughed. “Nothing can hurt my reputation any longer,” he said. “No. She’ll be back. If only to look at you.”

But Mrs. Beamish never returned, and after a few days the two young doctors forgot her entirely. The elderly spinster did not, however, nor the other patients present. It had been very dramatic to people with drab or uneventful lives. Gossip spread through the city.

Marjorie Ferrier read all the newspaper clippings pertaining to her son, Harald’s, show in Philadelphia, and she almost cried with gratification and sadness. “Wonderful, dear,” she said to Harald. “How very successful! I am glad you were so appreciated, and sold so many. We must send these clippings to the local newspapers.”

“Three thousand dollars,” said Harald. “Not too bad. But then there were collectors from New York who know the coming trend in painting. By the way, I was offered five thousand for one—five thousand!—but refused it.”

“But why?”

He smiled at her with her own fine hazel eyes. “I saved it for you. I want you to have it. It was the only portrait, and one of the few I ever did.”

He lifted a large canvas and carefully removed the several burlap coverings, and then exposed it to the vivid July light in the morning room.

It was a portrait of Jenny Heger. It depicted her in profile against a faintly umbrian interior, like rich but muted sunshine. She wore a dress of bluish-white of no particular style, except that her throat was visible and the top of one smooth shoulder. A small high casement window, mullioned, had been thrown wide open and the girl appeared to be looking out at nothing at all but a bleak and glaring light, a nothingness stark and empty. There was not a shadow, not an outline, of a single thing in that remorseless and almost blinding illumination, at once desolate and haunted. Her expression was brooding and quiet and very still, as if she knew that she was contemplating a barren glow in which nothing would ever move or live. Her black hair had a wild and disheveled appearance, suggesting that she had thrown it aside in haste when she had run hopefully to this casement, only to let it fall heavily down her back in her devastated realization. One hand was lifted in a gesture intended to smooth that hair, and then she had left it in that lonely gesture, halfway to her cheek. Her mouth was only slightly colored, and apart in childlike wonderment and sorrow, and the blue of her eyes appeared to shimmer in the abandoned brilliance.

The whole impression of the painting was of coldness, of forsaken and solitary dejection, of faith left forlorn and deserted and betrayed in a hollow light. Harald had not used the traditional bland style of painting. The paint was rough and strong and bold and full of vitality and passion, very moving and exciting, conveying powerful emotion both in the girl and in the viewer.

“Oh,” said Marjorie, and she winked strongly several times. “How very beautiful. And—how very terrible. How you have caught poor Jenny! When did she pose for you, dear?”

“She never did. I didn’t need her to pose, Mother.”

“No,” said Marjorie, still looking at the portrait, enthralled and deeply moved. “I suppose you didn’t, Harald. No, I suppose you didn’t. It is just like Jenny, and conveys so much. I—well, I must confess that I never knew how much you—” She stopped.

“How much I understand and care for Jenny?” Harald’s handsome face smiled easily, but his eyes were ambiguous. “I thought you knew. Anyway, it is yours, Mother, because you are so fond of Jenny, and I want you to have it.”

I will hang it in the drawing room, thought Marjorie, and then she had a quick and disturbing thought. Jonathan must never see what his brother had painted of Jenny. Marjorie wanted to cry in her sudden wretchedness. She watched Harald place the portrait against the wall of the morning room, and she saw all his slow and absorbed movements. Then he stood off from the portrait and looked down at it, his head bent as if he had forgotten her. He said, his well-tailored back to her, “I’ve watched her so often, with that very expression. She’s had a miserable life—Jenny. Like a recluse, and she’s only twenty. That was Pete’s doing. Then Myrtle did not care about Jenny with the strong love Jenny had for her mother. Myrtle was incapable of anything strong in the way of emotion or attachment. She accepted everyone’s affection graciously and kindly, and appreciated it, and was fond in return. But love—no. She wasn’t very intelligent, but she had gentle ways. I liked her very much. I really did. I tried to get her to do something about Jenny, to send her abroad for her own good, to meet her contemporaries, to force her to dress better, and Myrtle did try, with her soft persuasiveness.”

Harald laughed shortly. “If she had suggested to Jenny that she hang herself the girl wouldn’t have been more horrified! No, she said. She had to stay—to take care of Mama and watch over dear Papa’s castle, and his rose gardens. Particularly his rose gardens. I’ve seen women possessed by men, and jewels, and pleasure, and vice and all the passions, but I never knew anyone possessed by a rose garden before! Did you?”

“No,” said Marjorie, wanting to cry more than ever. “Perhaps the rose garden means something—someone—to Jenny, who is immeasurably dear to her. She haunts it.”

“Pete, probably,” said Harald. “What a gross little fat beast he was! And crass about everything but his foolish castle.”

He turned to his mother, and his highly colored and appealing face was serious. “I’ve asked you before: Isn’t there any word you could put in about me to Jenny?”

“No, dear, there isn’t, and I’ve told you that too, before.” Marjorie shook her head and looked at her son with pity. “Harald, dear, I think you’d better look elsewhere.”

“I don’t want anyone but Jenny, Mother. I never will. I’m not very young; I’m thirty-three. That’s old enough to know what you want.” He sat down beside her and sipped at the brandy near him. He regarded his mother thoughtfully. “Something just occurred to me. Is there something you haven’t told me? You are so sure Jenny will never be reconciled to me or consider me.”

Marjorie hesitated. “Perhaps,” she said, “there is someone else. Jenny hasn’t told me, but there is something—something about her that makes me feel there is, indeed, someone else.”

“That’s not possible. Jenny never goes anywhere, never meets anyone, hasn’t seen half a dozen men in as many years! And only one or two young men.” Harald smiled confidently. “It’s something else. Pete’s memory.”

Marjorie was silent. Harald’s light eyebrows dropped over his eyes as he studied his mother, and his suspicions increased. “Mother, have you any idea?”

“Jenny has never said a word to me.”

“That’s not exactly what I asked you, dear. I asked if you have any idea, yourself.”

“I’m not a mind reader, Harald.”

“No, but you’re evading the question.” He smiled at her with affection.

“Harald, I can’t conjecture without absolute knowledge. And Jenny has—”

“Never said anything to you. I know. You haven’t seen her anywhere, with anyone else, have you?”

Marjorie looked at the portrait. “She was at the Fourth celebrations with me, and Jon, and Dr. Morgan—such a nice boy—and the Kitcheners, and Mrs. Morgan.”

“Now, that’s a lively gathering if I ever knew one! The Kitcheners are like soft, rolled breasts of chicken cooked in cream, and about as pungent, and Mrs. Morgan, I have heard, is a harpy, and young Dr. Morgan is very innocuous, with all that boyish charm. Our Jenny, who constantly reads Pascal’s Pensées, and Molière and Walter Pater, and St. Augustine, and God knows what else, can’t be interested in Dr. Morgan.”

“I think he was quite smitten with her,” said Marjorie, glad that one name had not been mentioned by Harald. “He stared at her as if bewitched all through the fried chicken, the beer, the chocolate cake and the iced tea, not to mention the potato salad, the hot rolls and the green onions. He looks like a hearty young man with an excellent appetite, yet he hardly ate a thing, and when he got chocolate icing all over his fingers he quite simply sucked them—and stared at Jenny, enraptured.”

Harald laughed, seeing the picture vividly.

“And how did our Lady of Shalott respond to that?”

“Well, you know how unaffected and unworldly Jenny is, and how little she appreciates her beauty or even knows she has it. She kept blushing. Robert made her uneasy, I am afraid.”

Harald stopped laughing. “When a man makes a woman uneasy, even if he is sucking chocolate off his fingers or nibbling at fried chicken, then it is serious. That uneasiness can grow into interest, and interest into something stronger. Has she seen him often before?”

“I really don’t know, dear. You know that Jenny comes into town once or twice a week, on that deplorable bicycle when she could have a buggy of her own, or hire a hack, and it’s possible she’s encountered Robert on the street here and there, or in a shop. He’s looking for a special mirror which his mother wants, and some old paintings, preferably of London in a foggy rain. That’s Mrs. Morgan’s taste.”

But Harald was not diverted. His fair forehead knotted, and he considered. “He’s just the sort of red-gold lamb who could appeal to a woman’s cradle instincts. Such men end up with blue ribbons in their hair, eventually, put there by Mama.”

“He’s not that soft and weak and unmanly, Harald. He gives the impression of virility and a lot of stubbornness and other masculine qualities. I had invited him because of Maude Kitchener, who was enraptured as much by Robert as he was enraptured by Jenny.”

“And who do you think Jenny was enraptured by?”

The sharp and sudden question affected Marjorie unpleasantly. She said, “I’m sure I don’t know, dear, as I told you before. It is just a—tenuous feeling I have. But, could you really imagine Jenny that enraptured by anyone, so that she might be present in person but far off in mind, dreaming?”

“I do indeed,” said Harald, in that same sharp tone. “I do, indeed! She is just the sort. Now that you mention it I have seen her in that absent condition, staring into space almost by the hour. Reminds me of that silly old poem, ‘A woman dreaming of her demon lover.’ The point is, who’s the demon?”

Marjorie sighed. “Do we really have to talk about poor Jenny so much?”

“Mother,” said Harald, “she is the only thing I ever think of, most of the time.” He sat near his mother and though he had considerable of Jonathan’s appearance of containment and control, just then he gave the impression of urgency. “I can’t keep on just trying to change Jenny’s mind about me any longer. I have to bring her to realizing—well, that I love her and want her. I’ve told her dozens of times! It doesn’t seem to penetrate her mind, shall we say? That’s why I thought you might be able to help me, to put in a word—”

“Harald, I couldn’t. You know I never interfere, and I’m absolutely no good at hints or insinuations, and I wouldn’t want to offend Jenny by seeming to be minding her own business.” She bit her lip a little. “It’s possible we’ll know soon enough, if there is anything to know.”

“And that’ll be too late for me. You’re hiding something from me, aren’t you?”

“You’ve been home three days, haven’t you, Harald? You’ve seen Jenny. Have you shown her those clippings?”

Now she saw Jonathan clearly in him for the first time, concentrated and annoyed at her attempt to change the subject. “I’ve seen her,” he said, in Jonathan’s own hard and impatient voice. “I’ve talked to her. I might have been talking to a statue, a statue which finds me particularly revolting, if a statue can feel anything. Show her the clippings? She’d throw them in my face! And what in hell did I ever do to her to merit all that hate?”

“Did it ever occur to you, Harald, that a young girl like Jenny might find it a little—well, repulsive—to think of marrying a man who was married to her mother?”

“Not in this case. I told her frankly after Myrtle died that—what is the delicate little euphemism?—we had not lived together as husband or wife, though we manifestly occupied the same bed.”

Marjorie did not know whether to laugh out loud or to express horror. She rounded her eyes at her son. “Dear me, I didn’t know. How—very confusing. Why on earth,” asked Marjorie, “did you two ever get married in the first place?”

“It was simple.” Harald was smiling now. “I needed money, and Myrtle needed a flattering, courteous, attentive man with whom to travel and whom to display—and an attractive one whom other women might envy her. She couldn’t travel with Jenny. After all, even an unimaginative woman like Myrtle would find Jenny a little rocky to take while traveling, and among company. Myrtle was considerably older even than Pete. She had been nearly forty when Jenny was born. She was one of those nice, inoffensive, agreeable little women, and full of affability, which men like Pete—bustling, offensive, determined little brutes—adore. But after one child—that was enough dallying in love’s arms for Myrtle. So, we came to a pleasant arrangement. She loved art, she said. She wanted to be a sponsor for my art. She needed a winsome escort—that was me. And, she liked me and was fond of me, and I liked her and did not find her in the least objectionable. Her will was a shock to me, I admit, under the circumstances.”

Marjorie was fascinated. “And what did Jenny say to all this, when you told her?”

“I think she wanted to kill me, and for the life of me I don’t know why. Do you?”

“Surely. She thought you had married her mother for her money.”

“Well, I did. Though it wasn’t so bald as all that.”

Mirth glittered in Marjorie’s eyes. “You know, Harald, you may find it incredible, but sometimes you are as single-eyed as Jon. Not very often, for you know a great deal more about people than he does, and they never surprise and stun you, as poor Jon is always stunned. But still, you were a little naïve in telling all this to Jenny.”

“I don’t think so. She’s the forthright sort, and so I was forthright. And by nature, I’m not at all that blunt, so please don’t compare me with Jon. He’s like a sledgehammer, and throws himself at everyone he decides isn’t being candid and honest enough for him, or just possesses the little ordinary human weaknesses that everyone but himself, of course, possesses. That’s why his—trouble—was worse than it was. All he had to do, in court; was to defend himself respectfully, gently, modestly, and sincerely, with an eye to impressing the judge with his blameless sweet nature, and the jury. Instead of that he showed every sign of contempt for them all, as if he thought them below the status of mankind for even daring to believe he had—done that to Mavis. He was outraged at them! He lacks finesse, the ability to slide around rough edges. He lacks diplomacy.”

Harald’s ruddy hair caught a beam of sunlight and it sparkled on his fine teeth and Marjorie, as always, thought how endearing he appeared and how charming.

“Yes, I know,” she said. “Jon was like that from babyhood.”

“You can’t go around in this world telling the truth,” said Harald. “It’s a very bad, disgraceful habit and deserves all the uppercuts it gets, and all the infamy and hate. Besides, what makes Jon think that everything he thinks about people is the exact truth? For instance, he called me a lute player,’ years ago—”

“A lute player?”

“Yes, an idle singer of poetic little songs, to amuse the ladies with. Of course, I’m using a figure of speech, but that’s what he thought of me. He never took my painting seriously, for the simple reason that the almighty Jonathan Ferrier never understood it or wanted to understand it. To him I was as trivial—as—Mavis, and just about as useful in the world. Not to be useful in the world was to him a cardinal sin, one of the worst. I strolled around the fringes of the grimy and industrious world; I laughed when I should be deadly solemn. I sauntered when he thought I should be running. I lacked ‘purpose,’ he said. He was always bursting with purpose, until he married Mavis, and then he started to wander in a dark wood, like Dante. But you can be sure that under all that he was seething with his infernal purpose or trying to recover it. He couldn’t live without it.”

“Yes, I know,” said Marjorie.

“He never found out that the real purpose of living—if there is one at all—is to enjoy yourself as much as possible and have as little pain as you can. It’s a very interesting and beautiful world, and I like to roam it and paint it, my own impressions of it, and mingle with people—I like people and can’t live without them—and drink and dine with them and laugh with them. It’s harmless; it’s enjoyable, and if there is some plan for us here I think it is purely to have pleasure in a world made for pleasure. There’s every enticement, God knows.”

“And that’s always been the contention between you and Jon.”

Harald shifted in his chair. “Partly. At least, that’s what started it. Then, he’s possessive. Do you know that he thinks you never cared for him in the least and that all your maternal devotion was centered on me?” He laughed at his mother’s astonishment.

“Now, really, Harald!”

“Oh, he does. I used to watch him when we were kids, and I used to torment him about it. He wanted everyone and everything centered on himself.”

“Jon never cared about anyone but his father.”

“Don’t believe it, Mother. He took good care of dear Papa’s tender little sensibilities, but you were the object of his real affections. He thought he didn’t have yours, so he decided that you weren’t very intelligent in not appreciating the golden salver he was offering, containing his heart’s blood, or something. Maybe his head.”

Marjorie was still disbelieving, and she smiled at Harald, in denial. “Perhaps you are as wrong about Jon as he is about you, dear. You two were always incompatible. I think you both try very hard to find something tangible to dislike each other about, when it’s only a matter of—a matter of—”

“‘I do not like you, Dr. Fell;

The reason why I cannot tell.’”

“Exactly,” said Marjorie. “It isn’t uncommon between brothers, or anyone else.”

Harald stood up. “When is he leaving Hambledon, with that rasping tongue of his? To afflict some other community?”

“I suppose soon, when young Robert is well established. But, it’s a very strange thing. He hasn’t talked much about it lately.” Then Marjorie looked at her son with her hazel eyes darkening and becoming deeper and more watchful.

In turn, he lost his amiable look. He went over to the portrait and affected to be studying it, and his voice was careless when he said, “I wish he’d leave very soon. It would be better for him. Much better. And very much safer, safer above all.”

Marjorie was silent. When Harald turned to her again her face held nothing but pain, and she showed every sign of intense weariness. “You mean Hambledon has robbed him of purpose?” she said after several moments.

“No,” said Harald. “I don’t mean that at all. I mean Mavis.”