CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Jenny Heger wandered hesitantly onto the terrace where Harald Ferrier was smoking and reading the morning paper. She looked at him with diffidence for some time before he became aware that she was there. Then he glanced up smiling, stood and laid aside his newspaper, and motioned her to a chair in the shining and golden heat of the morning. She shook her head and clasped her hands before her on her rough brown frock.

“I suppose,” she said in a very subdued voice, “you will never forgive me?”

“Jenny,” he said with the utmost gentleness, “I never held it against you. I was only sorry that you could think such things of me.” His hazel eyes sparkled largely on her with genuine love. “But I was a little—hurt. That’s why I refused to go with you to our lawyers and sign those contracts. I wanted to think, to get over my hurt.”

Jenny sighed, and peeped at him shyly. “I’ve been thinking, too,” she said, in that same uncertain voice. “Mama wasn’t very fair to you, and she realized it. So, I want to do what she should have done, and which she would have done if she had lived. The contract you made out—that wasn’t fair. So—so if you want to—we’ll go to our lawyers, and we’ll divide the estate equally, and then you can—go. I don’t know just how large the estate is. I never gave it a thought before. But it must be quite a lot?”

“Yes, Jenny. Several millions of dollars, and still increasing from investments.” He still smiled at her, but he was alert. “Even divided, it would provide enough income for both of us, a rich income, for the rest of our lives, with the residual estate still intact, for our own heirs.”

“I’m glad,” said Jenny, with humility. “So, you can go. I will stay here, on my father’s island, and I will be able to keep it up as he wanted. We can see our lawyers whenever you want to, Harald.”

He was elated, but he did not let it appear. He said, “Jenny, I want to talk to you. Please, Jenny, sit down for a minute. It won’t take long.”

She was too ashamed of her old prejudices and suspicions to refuse. So she sat on the edge of a wicker chair and colored a little, and looked at the rushing azure of the smiling river, and waited. The island was swept by a soft breeze, and held the scent of pine and cut grass and flowers and water. Jenny’s eyes were the eyes of a child, wondering, content, questing. The light wind ruffled the masses of her hanging black hair which was caught back from her face by an untidy blue ribbon. Jenny, Jenny, thought Harald. He had never seen her before like this, quiet, without tenseness and hostility. Once he had thought her simple and without complexities, but now he knew that Jenny was a very elusive personality, and secret.

“Jenny,” he said, “will you listen to me for just a little, without jumping up and running away?”

She looked at him with that directness of hers. “I’ve finished with running away,” she said. “I’ve been running away all my life, and now it is over.”

He knew it was true. She had lost her shy fear of everything and everyone lately, and there was an air of proud reticence about her now. Her eyes did not dart off from anyone’s gaze any longer, nor did she blush very easily, nor did she flit away at the slightest sound of curiosity, or probing, or amusement. Jenny had become a woman. She had acquired courage, and Harald had no doubt that she could now face any hostility or ridicule with fortitude or deserved contempt. That part of her nature had been suppressed too long. Harald had even heard her laughing in the house, and had seen her playing with kittens on the grass.

“I’m glad,” said Harald. “There was never any reason for you to run. When I was a child, I used to run, too. It was stupid.”

“Did you?” She smiled at him with interest.

“Yes, I did. I wanted my father to like me, and to like my painting. I thought he was quite wonderful. But I found out he never had any real taste, such as my mother had. He liked stereotyped art, for he had no imagination to judge anything else. So, when I showed him my early attempts he would look pained. He always had a way of looking pained, and very delicate and bruised. He was a silly man. My brother, Jon, never found that out. He thought Papa was the acme of everything, the final resort, and so he didn’t like our mother because she was onto Papa, herself. Jon doesn’t like my paintings because Papa didn’t.”

Jenny frowned seriously. “That doesn’t sound like—Jon.”

“Oh, but it’s true! Jon hasn’t any imagination either.”

Jenny said nothing. She looked down at her hands. Harald laughed gently. “The only perceptive people in our family, Jenny, are my mother and myself. Jon’s idea of something interesting and beautiful is a corpse.” He laughed again. “He never appreciated Mavis’ beauty, for instance, and never understood her at all.”

“There was never anything to understand,” said Jenny with her old bluntness. “I knew that even when I was very young, four years ago. It was Jon’s trouble that he thought she had—had—well, other things that weren’t obvious. But she didn’t have anything that wasn’t obvious. She was what Mavis was.”

Harald was astounded. He was not sure that he liked this acute Jenny.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Jenny actually became quite animated. “Mavis was very simple, really. She wanted just what kittens want, food, play, amusement, sleep, fun, a soft place to curl, petting, pampering, and what used to be called ‘cosseting.’ Admiration, strokings. And to give nothing in return. And to fight for her luxuries, which she felt were deserved.”

Harald pondered this, narrowing his eyes on this Jenny he had never recognized before. He knew that what she had said was quite true. He only disliked it that Jenny had not been deceived by Mavis.

“Mavis hated anyone who wouldn’t indulge her, or who expected anything real and human from her,” Jenny went on.

How true, thought Harald. But how beautiful she was! He said, “I’m surprised at you, Jenny. You’re being uncharitable.”

“No,” said Jenny, with a return of her old earnestness. “I’m just telling the truth, which Jon found out eventually.”

“How do you know he found that out?”

Jenny looked away. “I just know.”

“He treated Mavis abominably.”

Jenny swung the profound blue of her eyes to him again. “How do you know? Did she tell you?”

Harald became immobile in his chair, but his hands tightened on the arms.

“I knew,” said Jenny, “that you were with her often.”

“How did you know, Jenny?” He was terribly alarmed, and now he sat up.

“I saw both of you along the river at night, talking.”

Harald inhaled slowly and carefully. His fingers twitched on the arms of the chair. Then he said, watching Jenny, “She had to have someone to confide in. And I was sympathetic.”

“I suppose so,” said Jenny, and one look at her ingenuous face convinced him that there was no danger to him in this girl. “It was very sad, all around,” said Jenny. “But I am more sad for Jon.”

Harald took out his scented handkerchief and carefully wiped his forehead. He said, “Mavis, though perhaps you won’t believe it, had a great interest in art.”

“That’s nice,” said Jenny with indifference. She had already dismissed Mavis. “But you wanted to talk to me about something, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Harald pulled himself out of his fear. It had struck across the sunlit terrace like the shadow of a black and avenging wing, but now it was gone. He leaned toward Jenny, his hands clasped between his knees, his smile charming and winsome. Then he became serious.

“Jenny, you never used to believe it when I told you I wanted to marry you.”

She stiffened. Her face became cold and distant.

“Jenny, it usually isn’t considered an insult when a man declares his love for a woman!”

“I—I suppose not.” She shifted to the very edge of her chair.

“Don’t you believe me?”

It was ludicrous, but she was considering, her thoughts going back to the past. Harald found himself smiling again. Jenny was embarrassed, and the faintest flush rose in her pale smooth cheeks. “I believe you. Now,” she said. “I wish you wouldn’t talk about it.”

“Why not? It’s the most important thing to me, Jenny, and it doesn’t concern money.”

“No. No. It doesn’t concern money,” said Jenny. Her color brightened. “I’m sorry I ever thought that.”

“Well, Jenny? What do you say now?”

She looked at the tangled fingers on her lap, and she was distressed.

“I—I can’t think of you like that.”

“Because of your mother?”

“No. It—is something else.”

“Jenny, I’ve noticed that that young doctor has rowed over here to see you occasionally. Jon’s replacement. You aren’t taking him seriously, are you?”

“He’s very kind.” Jenny was miserable.

“And very puerile.” Harald spoke indulgently.

“You’re wrong,” said Jenny, with some heat. “Kindness doesn’t mean you’re a fool. I like to talk to him. He doesn’t have—hidden—places. He’s honest. I like his company. We like the same things.”

“Enough to marry him?”

Jenny said nothing. Her appearance was wretched. Then when she saw that Harald was waiting, smiling, for her answer, she said, “I haven’t thought of marrying him.”

“Well, that’s encouraging. So, Jenny, what is your objection to me?”

“I told you. I can’t think of you like that.” She stood up, and looked desperate. “You mustn’t ask me. Never again. I could never marry you, Harald.”

He stood up, too. “Jenny, would you at least think about it, in justice tome?”

She looked about her as if searching for some hiding place. “I can’t think about it.”

“But there’s no one else. Jenny, I understand you. I’ve loved you for a long time. We could be very happy together.”

“You’ll have to excuse me!” cried Jenny, and before he could say anything else she had run off in her old manner. He watched her flying away down the stairs of the terrace into the gardens. He felt some encouragement. At least she had not rejected him outright, and she had shown considerable confusion and distress. That must mean something. A man who disturbed a woman and sent her flying off had a lot in his favor. Moreover she pitied him because she had wronged him in her thoughts, and pity was first cousin to love.

When Howard Best entered the large office of Dr. Louis Hedler at St. Hilda’s Hospital he found not only the doctor there but Father McNulty. They all shook hands, and Howard sat down. He saw that Louis was very grave and that his large froglike eyes gleamed with consternation. Louis said, “Thanks for coming, Howard. I know it’s late; right at dinnertime. But I wanted you and Father McNulty here when the hospital isn’t teeming as usual, and the corridors rushing, and too much curiosity aroused. This is a very serious and private matter. Private,” he emphasized, looking from one to the other slowly and pointedly.

“You can rely on my discretion,” said the priest, his golden eyes quietly alarmed.

“Yes. And you, Howard?”

“Give me a dollar,” said Howard, smiling. Dr. Hedler stared a moment, then took out his billfold, extracted a dollar bill from it and laid it before Howard, who said, “I am a lawyer. You have just given me a retainer. So anything you say to me, and anything I hear in this room, is completely private and confidential.” His kind boyish face stopped smiling. He put the bill in his pocket and settled his rangy body in the leather chair. He could see the shimmering mountains in the distance, deepening slowly to purple in the evening sky. The weather was still very hot though it was the latter part of August.

“Howard,” said Louis, “you were Jon Ferrier’s lawyer, weren’t you?”

“Yes. Here in Hambledon. I was the one who moved for a change of venue, as you know, and it was granted, considering the atmosphere in this town against Jon. Then I got it moved to Philadelphia, and found the best lawyers for Jon there.” His face became as grave as Louis’. “Why, Louis?”

Dr. Hedler looked down at a thick folder on his desk. He sighed. He rubbed his eyes and stared through the windows, and his finger tapped the folder. “There is one thing,” he said, “Jon can’t be tried for the same alleged crime, can he? Double jeopardy.”

Howard sat up alertly. “No, he can’t. What the hell is this, Louis?”

Louis said, “But it would ruin Jon, wouldn’t it, if fresh evidence were unearthed that he had really ‘bungled’ the abortion on Mavis—perhaps deliberately so—and killed her and his unborn child? It could result in the revocation of his license to practice anywhere?”

“I suppose so,” said Howard, and now he was as alarmed as the doctor. “You know more about that part than I do, though. Come on, Louis! Tell me.”

“Let me begin at the beginning,” said Louis, wiping his face with his handkerchief. He lit a cigar and Howard saw that his hands were shaking slightly. He opened the folder and stared at it grimly, nodding his head from time to time. “It begins with Kent Campion.”

Now the quiet priest sat up very straight in his own chair and both he and Howard fixed their eyes on the doctor.

“Jon,” said Louis, “made a very bad error when he began to oppose ambitious politicians in Washington a couple of years ago. He joined the Anti-Imperialist League founded by George S. Boutwell, former Senator from Massachusetts, former Secretary of the Treasury under Grant. I remember that Boutwell said, ‘Our war to free Cuba must not be turned into wars for Empire. If America ever does seek Empire, and most nations do, then planned reforms in our domestic life will be abandoned, States Rights will be abolished—in order to impose a centralized government upon us for the purpose of internal repudiation of freedom, and adventures abroad. The American Dream will then die—on battlefields all over the world—and a nation conceived in liberty will destroy liberty for Americans and impose tyranny on subject nations.’ Boutwell also said, if I am repeating him correctly, and he quoted Thoreau: ‘If I knew a man was approaching my house to do me good, I would flee for my life.’ Then he went on to say, ‘Every ambitious would-be empire clarions it abroad that she is conquering the world to bring it peace, security and freedom, and is sacrificing her sons only for the most noble and humanitarian purposes. That is a lie, and it is an ancient lie, yet generations still rise and believe it!’”

Howard hesitated. He rubbed his long jaw. Then he said, “I belong to the Anti-Imperialist League, too. I joined when that scoundrel lawyer, Albert Beveridge, now a Senator from Indiana, shouted that ‘Who dares to stop America now, now when we are at last one people, strong enough for any task, great enough for any glory destiny can bestow?’ He also yelled, ‘Our dream is the dream of American expansion until all the seas and nations shall bloom with that flower of liberty—the flag of the United States of America!’ He wasn’t the only one, Louis. He even had the antiwar Populists applauding him! Yes. So, I joined the League. I didn’t know Jon was a member, though.”

“It seems,” said Louis with a wry smile, “that not only did he join but he gave thousands of dollars to it, and wrote little anonymous leaflets for it. Campion found out. He’s hated Jon ever since. Calls him un-American, anti-patriotic, anti-destiny, and such. Even a traitor. Yet I understand that all the League wants is peace at home and abroad, and needed social reforms put into practice, so as to end, justly, the war between labor and capital, assure the soundness of our currency, abolish unjust taxation, advance the cause of the American Negro and the Indians in the West, outlaw child labor, and punish and banish from office all corrupt politicians. I am quoting your League, of course.”

“Those are our objectives,” said Howard, “and very decent and worthy ones.”

“Yes. But that doesn’t help Jon. He made a terrible enemy of the empire-loving Campion and his fellows, though he doesn’t know. I also think there is something else—personal. Campion has complained that Jon induced his son to leave his seminary and ‘flee abroad to some disreputable place where a father cannot reach, comfort and sustain him.’”

The priest uttered an exclamation of anger. “That is most untrue, Doctor! I hope I am not violating a confidence—well, even if I am—but Jon saved young Francis Campion’s life! I know where Francis is. He could assure you of the truth, and not lies.”

“Then,” said Louis, “get him. Bring him back as soon as possible.”

The priest said, “He is in France. I will cable him tonight.”

Louis sighed. “At the best, he will be able to return in ten days. Send for him, Father. Tonight.”

“I will do even more than that,” said the priest. “I will explain, in my cable, why it is needed that Francis not only return at once, but that he send me a cable refuting the—er—errors of his father. That should arrive in less than four days after my cable is sent.” His young face was greatly disturbed.

Howard, equally disturbed, said, “What is all this, Louis? Why is this necessary?”

Louis looked down at the folder. “I am endeavoring to lay the foundation for what I must tell you.” He folded his arms on his desk, and held Howard’s eyes.

“Jon has always been a contentious man, and controversial, in Hambledon, even from boyhood. We all know that. Even worse, he was always honest.” He gave his guests a rueful glance. “There were times when I could have smote Jon thankfully. There were times when I accused him of practically everything. He has no tact, no diplomacy. Unfortunately, too, he is usually right, and that’s unpardonable, isn’t it? You will remember little Martha, Howard.”

“Yes, God forgive me, I do.”

“Do you see him often, Howard?”

“No. I suppose he’s forgiven me. He told me so, anyway. But he doesn’t forget. He’s a relentless man, and won’t forget a wrong. We—Beth and I—kept inviting him to visit us, and he always refused, in his blunt fashion. He informed us he wished to have nothing more to do with Hambledon. Yes, I know he is bitter. My parents do invite Mrs. Ferrier, and she accepts our invitations, but when she has dinner guests of her own Jon always has an excuse not to be present. He won’t forgive Hambledon—not that I blame him. But what about that new ‘evidence’ you mentioned, Louis? What has it got to do with Jon?”

“To be brief about it, Howard, Campion has declared a vendetta against Jon, all very smooth and righteous, of course, and for the good of the town. The plot has been under way for some time. The Senator, and quite a number of other people—you’d be surprised—not only want to drive Jon out of town but want to deprive him of his license to practice anywhere. And, to subject him to new criminal proceedings.”

“But they can’t do that!” cried Howard. “He can’t be tried again for the alleged murders!”

“No. Perhaps not. But he can be tried for performing abortions, can’t he?” Louis opened a desk drawer and drew out a slender piece of linen, stained, and laid it on the desk. Then he opened it silently, and the two other men saw a long curved instrument. “A curette,” said Louis. “For the scraping of a uterus. It is used for legal—and for illegal purposes. It is a lifesaving instrument after a spontaneous abortion, and it is also used by abortionists. Look at it, Howard.”

With horror Howard picked up the instrument, and then he saw the script on the silver handle. “Jonathan Ferrier!” The priest looked at it, and shrank.

“Yes. I’ve talked with Martin Eaton, Mavis’ uncle, at the Senator’s request. I went to Martin’s house. He gave me this curette. He said Mavis had brought it to him—after Jon performed the abortion on her. She told him that Jon had insisted on performing the abortion the night before he left for Pittsburgh. He did not want children. She was heartbroken—”

Howard looked at him wildly, then ran his freckled hand through his bush of auburn curls. His light eyes bulged. “Why, that’s an infernal lie if I ever heard one! I think old Eaton’s lying! He heard the medical testimony of doctors from this very hospital, Louis, and the testimony of doctors in Pittsburgh, that Jonathan was there two, three, days before—” He banged his fist on the desk. “For Christ’s sake, Louis! How could you believe their lies for a moment? Your own surgeons, your own doctors, in this damned hospital, said she had been—aborted—at least forty-eight hours after Jonathan left Hambledon!”

Louis shook his head slowly and painfully. “I know, I know, Howard. Calm down, if you please. But why did old Martin—old indeed!—he’s years younger than I am—lie like that? I have his solemn statement in this folder. He’s a doctor, himself. He was here in this hospital with Mavis, and he had admitted, before she died, that Jonathan had been in Pittsburgh for several days. I heard him, myself, while we were trying to save her life. He was distracted. He did say, over and over, when she died, ‘He’s guilty! Guilty as all hell!’ Well, we can put that down to his distraught state. The girl must have lied to him—he was alone with her when she died. That’s the only explanation.”

Father McNulty spoke in a hushed and shaken voice, “Nothing in the world, even if he confessed it himself, would convince me that Jon ever had anything to do with that crime, that frightful crime.”

“Nothing in the world, Father,” said Louis, “would convince me either. I know Jon. I’ve hated him more often than I’ve liked him, and wanted to get him off the staff, and do him other mischief when he openly insulted me and called me ‘Doctor Bogus.’” He smiled sadly. “But I know him for a good man, even when I wanted to cut his throat.” He hesitated. “The—committee—went to see Dr. Humphrey Bedloe of the Friends’, too. You know old pompous Humphrey. The committee, I might mention, was composed of Senator Campion, Mr. Witherby, and Dr. Schaefer—whom Jon called a butcher and a murderer, with some reason—and a few more prominent citizens who have, to put it kindly, encountered Jon before in some of his less benevolent moods, in and out of the hospitals.

“Well, they went to see old Humphrey, and showed him the curette, and he was aghast. He had admitted that he had thrown Jon off the staff, and Board, even before he was tried. He also admitted he had been ‘hasty’ and that he had never really believed in Jon’s guilt. Then they showed him the curette, and he almost had a stroke. He then confessed that he knew someone who had told him that he had seen Jon in town the day the abortion had taken place.”

The large froggy eyes moved from one face to another. “It was on that frail little evidence—though you never knew it, Howard—that Jon was arrested in Hambledon. Humphrey refused to give the name of the man, but when the committee called on him—with his evidence—he blurted out the story. It was Tom Harper.”

Howard glared at him with incredulity. “Tom Harper, who’s dying of cancer, and whom Jon is helping so wonderfully now?”

“The very same,” said Louis, and he told the two men. They looked at him, dumfounded and sick. “Of course,” said the doctor, “it isn’t possible that it is true. I have my own means of information, and I know they went to Tom. There was a rumor that Jon had been very harsh and cruel to him, had driven him from practice, and then had, even more cruelly, given him a ‘menial’ position as a hired overseer on one of his farms. I see you both know the real story. At any rate, Tom then admitted that he had lied to Humphrey, out of envy and resentment for Jon, and he was brokenhearted. They tried to inveigle him into making a false affidavit, I heard. Thelma, his wife, told me. But he absolutely refused, and threatened to go to Jon with the tale.” Louis’ sigh was very deep. “Unfortunately, Tom died at six o’clock this morning, of a massive internal hemorrhage, caused by his disease. So, we have only Thelma’s word that Tom had told the committee that he had lied to Humphrey. The rumor remains of Jon’s ‘cruelty’ to that unfortunate man. If Thelma tries to help Jon, it will be brought out, to Jon’s injury, that he had given Tom, and her, a contract, most generous—amazingly kind and charitable and generous—assigning the income of the farm to Tom, or to Thelma, for life, and Jon also has paid for their children’s education in the future. The committee is already calling that a ‘bribe to stifle the truth.’”

“Dear God,” groaned Howard. “What kind of people live in this world, anyway?”

Louis was so disturbed that he could not help saying, “Don’t be too hard on humanity, Howard. We—you—are part of it. You will recall the day when Jon told you about your little girl, Martha. I believe you called him a ‘murderer,’ yourself. That was dutifully repeated all over the town.”

The priest looked at Howard compassionately. Howard said, “I deserved that. I really deserved that. I thought it was the truth. Or perhaps I did not. Perhaps I was shouting at the threat to Martha, and not really at Jon.”

“We all try to excuse ourselves, myself included,” said Louis Hedler. “I’m sure this is a familiar story to you, isn’t it, Father?”

“Very familiar,” said the priest. “Even in the Confessional, people will try to defend themselves. And, even on their deathbeds, sometimes.” He had suddenly begun to look much older and wearier than usual. Louis took a sheet of paper out of the folder and studied it. “Yes,” he said, and folded his hands over the sheet.

“I don’t know if you know Peter McHenry, Howard, though Father McNulty does. It seems that Father McNulty had practically kidnaped Jon on the River Road one day, to bring him to Matilda McHenry—”

Howard sat up very straight in his chair. “I know the McHenrys,” he said. His pale eyes began to sparkle wrathfully, in anticipation.

“Good. Then perhaps you know that Mrs. McHenry was in frail health, and had been so for years. Jon examined her, then demanded to examine their child, a little girl of nine, named Elinor, for he was convinced, he said, that Mrs. McHenry’s illness had a psychological basis and not a physical one. Peter objected to Jon examining his child, or even talking to her, but I think Jon insisted—” He glanced at the priest, who hesitated.

“He didn’t exactly insist,” he said. “You must pardon me. The events of that day are painful to remember. It was all so unjust to Jon, and I was the guilty one who cajoled him into seeing the McHenrys. It is true that Peter objected—at first. Then, if my memory is not failing me entirely, he reluctantly consented.”

“Yes,” said Louis. “He told Mr. McHenry that his child was—psychotic—and that she was the unconscious cause of her mother’s illness, though no one, not even the young mother, suspected that. Mr. McHenry”—and Louis looked at Howard piercingly—“was as infuriated as you were, Howard, when Jon told you about Martha. The truth is very hard to accept, isn’t it? At any rate,” he continued, when Howard’s face darkened with heavy color, “they took the child to neurologists in Philadelphia, I believe, and all examining doctors said she was quite normal. Then Mr. McHenry came to me, shouting that Jon was a troublemaker, an incompetent and a cruel liar, and demanding his removal from staff and Board. He was accompanied by Senator Campion and Mr. Witherby. He said his child had not been Jon’s patient at all, had not been called for the child, had insisted on examining her and giving his amateurish opinion—which had caused her parents devastating worry and mental anguish—and acted, in all ways, unethically.”

He lifted the paper on his desk. “Mr. McHenry’s affidavit, sworn to three weeks ago.”

Then the priest spoke through pale lips. “I think Peter will ask for the return of that affidavit, Dr. Hedler.”

“Yes?”

“You see,” said the priest, and there were tears in his eyes, “little Elinor had an episode that even Peter could not overlook. One of the gardener’s boys was teasing her one day, the way boys will tease little girls, and she picked up a scythe and—well, she tried to kill him with it. When her father, who was nearby, tried to take it from her she turned on him, screaming that he wasn’t her father, that he and Matilda had stolen her from her true parents. She was quite—wild. Out of her mind. She struck at him with the scythe, then when he attempted to catch her she raced for the house, shrieking that she was going to kill her false mother. Peter ran after her. They caught her at the door, and she was—Peter’s own words—like a demon. Then she collapsed. When she awakened a few hours later she claimed not to remember the event at all, but Peter says there was something in her eyes, cunning and watchful, which frightened him even more than her violence. He took the child, a few days later, to the alienist in Philadelphia, whom Jon had recommended.” The priest looked down at his shoes. “Dementia praecox, as Jon had diagnosed. Paranoid type. The girl is now confined in a private sanitarium.”

“Dreadful,” said Louis. “The unfortunate parents.” But his voice was a little relieved. He wrote something quickly on the paper. “Perhaps you can induce Mr. McHenry to say he was mistaken in making this affidavit, and to tell the truth.”

“I am sure I can,” said Father McNulty. “He wrote to Jon, I believe, asking his pardon, but Jon never answered him. You know—Jon,” and he looked at Howard. “Very unbending. And proud. Peter would have already repudiated that affidavit, Doctor, if he had remembered it. But he’s very distraught, just now, and consoling his wife.”

“To be sure, to be sure,” said Louis, but he did not sound too sympathetic. He lifted another paper. “A similar complaint by Elsie Holliday. She complains that Jon was not the doctor of her son, Jeffrey, but only a friend. However, she swears, Jon forced himself on the case, insisted on diagnosing it. I am not at liberty to tell you what his diagnosis was, but Jeff did die a short time later in a sanitarium in another state, of the disease Jon diagnosed correctly. It still remains, however, that Jon did examine Jeffrey without permission of Jeffrey’s physicians, and under the protest of the mother. She claims that Jeffrey did not give Jon permission, either. Of course, it is a technicality, but an unpleasant one, but if the facts are so it does not reflect comfortably on Jon. But hardly enough to cause the revocation of his license. However, we know the town, and we know Jon’s enemies, who insist on repeating the scandals against him, and this is just one more, such as the Harper rumor, and then the accusation spread by Peter McHenry among his associates, before he discovered that Jon was entirely correct. One thing piles on another. It makes for miserable reading, in the mass, though individually it means little. Cause only for a reprimand, if that.”

“And all that, on top of what Martin Eaton is now swearing, and the curette, is a lovely story,” said Howard, making a sick mouth.

“Yes. Yes, indeed. Martin’s story, and the evidence of this curette, is very damning, in spite of what we know to be the facts. I wish Tom Harper were alive to repudiate the rumor, which the Senator and old Witherby heartily believe. Or, at least they pretend to. Incidentally, old Jonas told me—swore to it, in fact—that Jon had accused him, without proof, and on later examination, of trying to commit suicide. Jon was not present when Jonas was admitted to the hospital. I think he was out of town. Jon is his family physician, however, and returned a day or two later to take charge of Jonas. Now, it was really very reckless of Jon to tell his patient, later, that he believed him to have attempted suicide. We all know old Jonas. His one terror is of dying. He wants to live forever. I don’t know the true story, or what made Jon accuse Jonas of a crime, but that, too, is a sorry tale. It could have serious repercussions, you know, for a physician is supposed to report an attempted suicide. Jon did not.”

“It smells,” said Howard. “It smells to high Heaven.”

“That is my opinion, too,” said Louis. “But everyone in Hambledon is certain that old Jonas is a saint, and his word would be taken against Jon, who is not regarded as much of a saint.” Louis smiled briefly. “I have Jonas’ affidavit here. ‘As a good Christian man, as my friends can all attest, I deeply resent Dr. Jonathan Ferrier’s accusation, to me, that I attempted to kill myself with a dose of arsenic. This is libelous in the extreme. Et cetera, et cetera.’”

“You know,” said Howard, “I feel as if I am in a crazy, malignant dream.”

“It has been my experience,” said Dr. Hedler, “that this is a most malignant world. What did Pope say of it? ‘Where every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.’ Yes, indeed.”

Howard was thinking. “Coming back to that—that curette. Anyone could have taken it from Jon’s cabinet. It’s in his examination room.” He paused.

“But, they will ask, if Mavis visited an unknown abortionist, why did she take the curette with her? He’d have had one of his own.”

“Perhaps he asked her to bring Jon’s.”

“There is that possibility, yes. But that will hardly be believed, you know. People will ask, ‘Is Dr. Ferrier actually accusing a doctor, an abortionist, of asking for another man’s instrument? Aren’t abortionists more circumspect than that, or is Ferrier implying that there is a deep-laid plot against him, and that the abortionist deliberately killed Mavis to involve Jon?’ That is what they will say, and so no one will believe it. We don’t even believe that, ourselves, do we?”

Howard shook his head dismally. “No, I don’t believe it, either. Mavis is dead. I suppose we’ll never have the real story.”

The priest said, “Murder will out.”

Louis replied, “I am sorry to disillusion you, Father. It often is concealed forever.”

Now he was frowning. “I am approaching the really serious matters, and these cannot be explained, and are totally damning, if true. I have here the affidavit of one Mrs. Edna Beamish of Scranton, formerly of Kensington Terraces, in Hambledon. She alleges that on a certain day—the date is here—Jonathan tried to perform an abortion on her in his offices. She had come to him for that purpose, she swears, because she is a young widow and did not wish to bear a child without a living father. She is very penitent. She claims that she was distracted with grief for her dead husband, and hardly knew what she was doing. However, the pain she suffered in Jonathan’s offices caused her to scream so loudly that she was heard not only in the waiting room but on the street, also. She was in such pain and so terrified that she would not let him proceed, and left. He had demanded two hundred dollars, she swears. She left for her home. Unfortunately—and there is an affidavit from a certain doctor in Scranton to this effect—the injury to her was so extensive—something about the complete dilatation of the uterus—that she did in fact abort later. Two days later, in Scranton, while visiting friends. The doctor, who swears in his own affidavit that an attempt had been made to abort the young lady, is a man of high reputation and standing. He was forced to operate on her. She was hemorrhaging. It is doubtful that if she remarries she will ever be able to bear children, the damage, done by the abortionist, was so extensive, and the resultant inflammation so widespread.”

Louis looked at the two appalled men. “Gentlemen, that was a crime. There is no extenuation. It was a serious crime. The young lady was slightly over three months pregnant. Moreover, we now have affidavits of patients who were in Jon’s office that day. The affidavits were reluctantly given, and how Campion and company discovered who those patients are I simply do not know. But they are here—sworn to by simple, honest people of good reputation in Hambledon, who like Jon and only gave these affidavits under pressure. They testify to the young lady’s screams and her protestations of agony, and her accusation that Jon was ‘hurting’ her. They have described her disheveled state and her denunciations as she ‘fled from his inner rooms.’

“The affidavit from Mrs. Beamish was sent to Senator Campion, who, as her Senator, was outraged. It seems that he had had a warm acquaintance with the late Mr. Ernest Beamish, and esteemed him highly. So Kenton, of course, investigated. The young lady’s affidavit, on the face of it, and her doctor’s affidavit, then can be considered genuine.”

“I don’t believe it,” muttered Howard. “Something smells again. I don’t believe it.”

“Knowing Jon, I do not believe it, either,” said Louis.

“I don’t believe it,” said the priest, and shuddered.

“Nevertheless,” said Louis, “there are the hospital affidavits, the attending surgeon’s affidavit, and the fact that Mrs. Beamish was indeed in Jon’s office, and that indeed other patients heard her screams and saw her flee. Moreover, we now have affidavits from Mrs. Beamish’s husband’s executor, and from that doctor in Scranton, that they visited Jon, alleging that there was a bill due him. He pretended, they said, not to recall Mrs. Beamish immediately, and then admitted that he did. He told them frankly that she had been three months pregnant, but had ‘incontinently,’ run out before he had completed the ‘examination,’ and that therefore she owed him nothing.” Louis smiled his wry smile. “On the face of it, that sounds absurd. No other doctor would have refrained from sending a bill. After all, he did partially examine her. Even if the examination had not been completed, there was still his time, and his good faith in proceeding with an examination she had requested, herself. So, Jon stands damned there, too.”

“But he will have his records of Mrs. Beamish,” said Howard Best, the lawyer. “And no abortionist keeps records of his patients.”

“True. Let us hope he has his records, still. Of course, before a judge and jury, the showing of such a record will not carry much weight, but it will still carry some. Now, let us go on.

“I have here two affidavits from two other young women, a Miss Louise Wertner, seamstress, of Hambledon, and a Miss Mary Snowden, milliner, also of Hambledon. The young ladies—if one can call them such—were indiscreet, indulging in pre-marital experiences, as they admit, themselves, in their affidavits. One girl is nineteen, the other twenty-one, and in poor circumstances. They had heard, they say, of some ‘rumors’ in connection with Dr. Ferrier, and in their extremity had gone to him, and he readily consented to perform the abortions, even to declaring that he detested children and did not blame the girls for wishing to rid themselves of their ‘burdens.’”

The froggy eyes surveyed the two silent men on the other side of the desk, both looking cold and a little shriveled and despairing.

“The young ladies do not know each other. But one paid fifty dollars for the alleged abortion, the other paid seventy-five. Jonathan had his office clerk send them bills to their homes, one dated November 10th, 1900, the other November 21st, the same year. I have those bills here. They went to his office lately, the clerk recognized the bills, accepted payment of them, and receipted them. Would you care to look at them, gentlemen?”

They examined the damning bills, and the receipts. Howard put them down quietly on the desk, clasped his hands together and studied them. Then he said, “There is no proof that Jon aborted them, as they claim, is there?”

“In a way. They both suffered some slight ill effects a few days later. They went to separate doctors, who, in affidavits I have here, swear that the girls had been pregnant and that a recent abortion had been performed on them. The doctors are reputable. Neither knew that Jon was the ‘culprit.’ One of them is on the staff of this hospital, itself. Dr. Philip Harrington. I have had Phil in here, told him none of the things in the affidavit, and asked him about Miss Wertner, his patient. He readily stated that indeed the girl had had a recent criminal abortion, that her condition at no time had been serious, but that she had complained of cramps. She stayed one day in the hospital. You both know Phil Harrington. As I already have an affidavit from the other doctor I asked Phil to make one also, and he did so. He is about to be married. He says he would like to meet the ‘criminal’ personally, who had killed those embryos, and deal with him, himself.”

Howard said in a dull voice, “Wasn’t that indiscreet of Jon, to send the girls bills—if he really did perform the operations?”

“Not in ordinary reasoning. The girls did not have the money. He was sorry for them, or even wished to abort them for some twisted reason or other. Or, he wished to conceal criminal activity and sent them bills for ‘complete physical examinations,’ as the bills, themselves, state clearly. There is another thing: the usual fee for examination, conducted for patients who are in such poor circumstances, is usually far smaller than this. The best physicians ask only fifteen dollars, for such examinations take several days, of at least one hour a day. Quite often, under the rule of charging less for the poor, and charging more for the rich, a doctor will charge only a very few dollars.”

“How did it happen, Doctor, that you received those two affidavits?” asked the priest, who appeared quite ill.

“It is the rule, Father, that when a girl goes to a physician and he discovers that she has had a recent abortion, he must report it. Phil reported it to the Board of St. Hilda’s. The other doctor reported it to the Friends’. This is to protect the attending physician, who must have witnesses during the examinations. It is also the law. It is very necessary to run to earth those despicable creatures, the criminal abortionists, who put the lives of young mothers into terrible jeopardy. The girls often die, you know. The girls were much afraid to report Jon, for fear of legal reprisals, for they are parties to a criminal act. They were given assurances that if they did report the name of the abortionist they could be protected and not prosecuted. Still, they returned to their miserable habitations to consider the case. Then they both made affidavits and sent them, one to this hospital, one to the Friends’.”

Howard considered long and deeply. Then he said, “I don’t believe it. Call that an emotional statement if you will, but I don’t believe it. My lawyer’s instinct tells me that it is a lie they are telling of Jon.”

“I do not believe it, either,” said Louis, and Howard and the priest smiled at him weakly in gratitude. “But still, there are those receipted bills, there are the affidavits of the doctors. Under other circumstances, Howard, what would you say?”

The young man hesitated. Then he admitted, “Guilty.”

“So.” Louis sighed.

“Campion does not know of these second and third abortions?”

“Of course not. He knows about Mrs. Beamish only.” Louis closed the folder. “Campion and company are demanding that I call in some members of the State Medical Board to review the ‘facts.’ The ‘facts’ he has given me. Now, Howard, as Jon’s friend and his former lawyer, what do you suggest I do?”

Howard rubbed his auburn curls wearily, then examined his nails, then scratched his ankle. “How long is Campion giving you to appeal to the State Medical Board?”

“Ten days.”

“Then, you must ask for a longer time. I am going to investigate these serious cases, the Beamish, Wertner and Snowden ones. The other affidavits are only malice and not worthy of consideration. Except for Jon’s curette. I’ll try to see Eaton, but he’s rabid against Jon. Everyone remembers the Philadelphia papers reporting that he shouted, ‘No, no!’ when the verdict of not guilty was brought in. Then he had a stroke. They also remember that he had loved Jon like a son, and was delighted when Jon married his niece, Mavis. Men don’t turn against such ‘sons’ unless for cause, everyone will say. The cause seems obvious. Or, is it so obvious?”

“I do not understand you, Howard.”

“It is a rule among lawyers to ignore the obvious unless it is written down in black and white as a sworn statement, or a confession. Even then we are suspicious. That’s why we scrutinize everything, and that’s why we are so often successful in defending a case. The incredible is more often the real explanation.”

“I hope you are not catching at straws,” said Louis. “Are you going to tell Jon now?”

Howard considered a long time. Then he shook his head. “No, it would only make him furious and even dangerous. You know Jon. No. I want to have some substantial refutation before I talk to him. And, by God, I am going to get it!” He thrust out his long sharp chin belligerently.

Louis was silent for a few minutes. “You know,” he said at last, “I am endangering my position here by telling you any of this, Howard. This is all confidential, you see, as Campion warned me, and he is very powerful on the Board, the only layman. They, too, are preparing the case against Jon. He wants to face Jon with complete iron facts and resolutions, and the State Medical Board members. He wants it all done ruthlessly, like a knife cut.”

“Typical of him, the damned radiant scoundrel,” said Howard with bitterness. “Such men can’t stand honest men, men who oppose them. I’d rather face a tiger than a politician who is after my hide.” He looked at the pale and silent priest. “Father, what do you think of all this?”

“I think that Jon is surrounded by vicious and vindictive enemies, who will do anything to destroy him, Howard. How he earned those enemies lies in his nature, and in their natures, too.”

“Well, he has friends, too, Father, including Louis here. Louis”—and Howard smiled at him—“I’d never have thought it of you!”

“Perhaps,” said Louis Hedler, smiling back but not with much amusement, “you would have no reason to think that of me even now, Howard, if I were not financially independent! It is very strange and sad, is it not, that the mere matter of economic independence can make a man brave, whereas a man not so fortunate would not be brave at all?”

“Courage is always the price that life demands for granting peace,” said the priest.

“A worthy sentiment, Father, and perhaps true. But if a man jeopardizes everything in his life for the sake of the peace of his conscience, he often has reason to regret his nobility. Heroes are lauded in story books, and in history, yet even in history they frequently come to a sad and inglorious end. Later, of course, they are eulogized, but that does them no good at all when they are in their graves.”

“Then only God remembers,” said the priest, and Louis looked embarrassed. He thought that he might begin to believe that if Jon were saved from what was planned for him.