The Senator reflected. He looked from one face to the other carefully and they could not tell what he was thinking.
“You have forgotten those three women, Edna and the two girls. Their last true affidavits are a matter of public record?”
“No. Louise Wertner’s and Mary Snowden’s were made before me, at my behest,” said Howard. “If we can settle this thing like reasonable gentlemen, if we can agree—then you, Senator, need only inform Mrs. Beamish that she must withdraw the complaint, which is the only one of public record and in the sheriff’s hands. I wish I had known,” said Howard with an affectionate smile, “and I would have dissuaded Mrs. Beamish from the very beginning with the information
I
have against her.”
“Then, on whose public complaint to the sheriff will Brinkerman be arrested?”
“On Mrs. Beamish’s. She is responsible, not
I.
But then she was following orders, was she not? As for the girls’ affidavits, they were given to Louis, both sets, I may remark, the ones they falsely made—under orders—and the second true ones, admitting perjury.”
Again the Senator reflected, and he sucked his purplish lips in and out and began to tap the table with his pince-nez.
“You have only to call your good friend, the sheriff, who received his support from you, Senator, and ask him, in the kindest way possible, to squash Mrs. Beamish’s complaint and to destroy the warrant he has for Jonathan’s arrest.”
“And Brinkerman—you say he will be arrested?”
Louis looked at him. “He will be, unless Mrs. Beamish’s complaint is withdrawn, unless you ask the sheriff to overlook—with a laugh, of course—her indiscreet perjury.
I
shudder,” said Louis, his face changing, “to let such a man get away from the punishment he deserves. Yet, for Jon Ferrier’s sake I will not let the sheriff read Martin Eaton’s last and true affidavit. What Jon will say to that I do not know. But again, he will have no evidence. I promise you that. We did not even permit him to keep a copy of Martin’s affidavit.”
“You have not been entirely frank with me,” said the Senator. “You threatened and bullied me, implied you had already moved against me and Brinkerman, for effect. Is that fair or just?”
Howard could not help it. He burst out laughing with genuine mirth and threw back his head. He choked, “Senator, that remark of yours, about ‘fair and just’ tickles me almost to death, it honestly does!”
“Now, Howard,” said Louis.
Francis came from the window, his fine face tense and tremulous. “You actually intend not to expose this man as he should be exposed?”
“My dear boy,” said Louis, “sometimes one has to keep silence to protect others, even if it goes against the grain, even though it leaves bile in one’s mouth. Isn’t Jon more important to you than your father’s ruin?”
“No, he isn’t,” said the Senator. “This white-faced whelp has been trying for years to ruin me, from his own admission.”
With the faintest and most distressful of sounds Francis turned and went quickly from the room and Louis and Howard watched him go with sorrow and sympathy. Then Louis said, “If that were true, he could have done it before, and not almost died of what he knew about you, Kent. I’ve known him from childhood, from babyhood. He adored you. What did you do to turn him against you, Kent, your only son?”
The Senator’s chestnut brows drew over his eyes and his mouth twitched again. He made no reply.
“Well,” said Howard, “the sheriff should be in his office.
I
believe you have a telephone in the hall below, Senator. May we accompany you, just to listen to your remarks, and have the assurance that no move will be made against Jon?”
“But there is something else,” said Louis, “and the most important. Howard and I have discussed this thoroughly. Everyone knows that you were a close friend of Adrian Ferrier’s and that you have a high regard for Marjorie, and I believe there was a rumor that you steadfastly declared that Jon was not guilty of Mavis’ death. How admirable it will seem to the good people of Hambledon—and the national newspapers—when you announce that you personally undertook an investigation of the case and that you are happy to announce that, indeed, Jon was not guilty!”
“No,” said the Senator with firmness.
Louis sighed. “Then, we will, in spite of everything, have to give a copy of Martin Eaton’s last affidavit, which implicates you and Brinkerman, to the press.”
“God damn you,” said the Senator, in a very soft voice. “Isn’t it enough that I may—may, I remark—ask the sheriff what you have suggested I ask him?”
“No, it is not nearly enough,” said Howard. “Don’t force our hands into making everything public. At the very least,” he continued with cunning, “you will be thwarting Jon’s explosive demands that it all be made public, for you know he can be wild, and he has suffered a great deal. By saying what we have suggested you say to the press, you will be frustrating poor Jon, and it is really very unkind of us to think of it at all.”
“And God damn him, too,” said the Senator, and stood up. He surveyed them. “I’ve met scoundrels before in Philadelphia and Washington, but you two bumpkins are the most conscienceless.”
Now Louis laughed as well as Howard. The Senator was not ashamed or embarrassed. After a few moments he laughed himself, briefly and grimly, and spread out his hands. “Let us go downstairs to the telephone.” He added,
“I
think
I
will return to Washington almost immediately.”
“A very wise thought,” said Howard, as they went down the shining marble stairs together. “One never knows what Jon Ferrier will do.”
“I suggest,” said Louis Hedler, “that you warn Brinkerman to give up his extracurricular activities. As for myself, I will ask him to resign from the staff and will hint to him as much as possible of what I know. One never knows with a man like Brinkerman, but that is the very least I can do.” He sighed. “It is a very bad predicament in which I find myself. Ferrier would not be so discreet as I, but then he is much younger and he has not had much experience with mankind.”
On Monday, Louis Hedler called Jonathan Ferrier at his house. He said with extreme smoothness, “Jon, there has been a delay. The members of the State Medical Board will not arrive for a week or more.”
“Why not?”
“Jon, they did not tell me.” Louis paused. “I hope you are giving this matter a great deal of careful and judicious thought.”
“Louis,” said Jonathan, “you are moderate to excess.
I
am giving it thought, all right”
“That is what I am afraid of,” said the older doctor. “You have kept your own counsel, haven’t you?”
“I have. If those men do not arrive soon, I will go myself to Philadelphia and consult with them.”
“Bringing the mountain
to
Mohammed.
I
wouldn’t advise that, Jonathan.”
“I heard a rumor
at
Phil Harrington’s wedding yesterday that Brinkerman has ‘suddenly been called out of town and may settle elsewhere.’ Now, Louis, you don’t know anything about that, do you?”
“I do. But this is no conversation to be having on the telephone, Jon. You will know everything in good time.”
“Somehow,” said Jonathan, “I have the strangest feeling that little mice, or perhaps rats, are running around in the dark, and I am not supposed to hear them.”
“I do like your analogies, dear boy, but—”
“I also heard that Campion has been ‘recalled’ to Washington, and that’s odd, for President McKinley, I hear, is going to Buffalo to speak at the Pan-American Exposition. I verified Campion’s absence by one single telephone call to his house. What do you know about that, Louis?”
“I am not exactly Campion’s best friend, Jon. Why don
‘t
you go somewhere for a few days and rest or something?”
“And why don’t you go to hell, Louis?” Jonathan slammed the receiver into its hook. Louis Hedler shook his head. Jonathan’s voice had been reasonably normal and controlled, but that did not deceive Louis. He dreaded the day and the hour when he must sit down with this immoderate man and tell him that his plans for vengeance must be put aside, and mainly for his own sake. Louis called Howard Best at his house and told him discreetly of his conversation with Jon, without mentioning his name.
“It’s a fine thing that our friend up on the hill had the discretion to leave,” said Howard. “I’m afraid our other friend wanted to visit him in the name of mayhem, or worse. When does the Big Smile release the story to the newspapers?”
“Wednesday.”
“I wonder what our little playmate is going
to
think
of
that?”
“The imagination boggles,” said Louis. “I have
a
feeling that I must visit my sister-in-law in Scranton before the release.”
“And Beth has relatives in Wilkes-Barre. They have been
begging us to visit them. See you when we both get back to Hambledon, Louis.”
“Yes. By the way, the members of the Medical Board must have heard a little something soothing, probably from the Big Smile, for they were very understanding and agreeable when I suggested that it may not be necessary at all for them to come here. They were not in the least surprised when I sent them my telegram, apparently, for their own was most amiable in reply and even a little indifferent.”
“Ah, well, it is for the best. Good-bye, Louis, have a happy holiday.”
Jonathan was not drinking. He knew he must have a clear mind if he were to carry out his plans. In the meantime he was finishing his packing. He had prospective customers for two of his farms. He would not let himself think of anything too acutely, for he was afraid that he would lose all his reason. He occupied himself with external things. He visited the farm on which Thelma Harper and her children were living, and to his surprise he let himself be persuaded to remain two days. He rode over the early autumn acres, had long discussions with his tenants, and played with Thelma’s children and was more surprised to discover that he could sleep without a drink or a sedative. He had heard from Thelma of Senator Campion’s attempt to persuade her husband to swear to a false affidavit against Jonathan, and to the young widow’s astonishment Jonathan only smiled as if it were a great joke. She knew Jonathan well. He seemed calm enough, and even joked with her a few times, but she saw his eyes and was disturbed. She cooked him excellent meals, and though he sat at the table with her and her children, and teased them all, he ate almost nothing. At night she could hear him walking for a considerable time before he went to bed.
All that Jonathan had learned over a period of three months—the tentative tolerance, the increasing charity, the attempts at understanding, the new pity and flexibility—had left him entirely. He was one abscess of cold but fulminating hatred. Upon his return to Hambledon he did not visit his offices, did not go to the hospitals. “I just want to be alone,” he said to Robert on the telephone. “I have a number of things to do and arrangements to make.” He did not mention some inquiries he had begun.
So, thought Robert, he is really leaving. I just hope he doesn’t have a gun in the house. I didn’t like the sound of his voice.
Jonathan rode his horse down the River Road every day, not once looking at the island in the water. He knew he dared not do that. He would find little pine groves, and lie down in the dusty autumn grass and look blindly at the sky, and try to think of nothing at all. There was a time for everything, he would think. This is not the time. Yet.
The heat and dryness over the land continued and seemed to become worse. Each day there were hopes and prayers for rain, for autumn coolness, for surcease. The river fell lower and lower, and in the country the wells sank and the little ponds and streams dried up. At night the profitless lightning and wind began, but there was no thunder, no showers, no storms, though occasionally there was a growling in the mountains.
Each morning, back in Hambledon, Jonathan continued his rigid and self-imposed discipline. He would get up, eat a small breakfast if any, read his newspaper, then go out for hard riding, a sleep perhaps in the grass, and then a return to his house where he wrote business letters or read them, and communicated with his banks and his brokers. This took most of his day. He would eat his lonely dinner, sometimes glancing at his mother’s empty place. After dinner he would read in his father’s study, and sometimes he would come to himself with a start, realizing that time had passed, a long time, and he had not turned a page. Then he would go to bed.
He was like a condemned man counting out his last days. His thoughts were purely abstract and on the surface. He would not let himself think of Jenny Heger. Afterward—he would go abroad, perhaps for a year or more. He had his letters of credit. Upon his return, he would go—where? He did not as yet know. That year lay before him. When he came back, it would be time to think of how he must spend the rest of his life, and it was only then that he felt a black premonition of agony to be endured in the future. His life was wasted, gone. A man without hope, without plans, without a real destination, was truly dead, he would say to himself.
Robert Morgan, miserable and apprehensive, came down to breakfast one morning and his mother said with satisfaction, “We have an invitation to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Kitchener, Robert.”