Jonathan had been reluctantly listening. Into the murky but slowly quieting reaches of his mind new thoughts were intruding like fingers of light, the thoughts he had been thinking over the past months, still clarified thoughts, unique, thoughts detached from his own nature as if they had been spoken to him by someone else. He had heard them, had weighed them, had considered them, had been amazed by them, for a long time. They had been like calm and judicious voices, penetrating his chronic misery, giving him hope, exhilaration, speaking with authority, reason and detachment.
He said to Jenny, “You have heard what he has said. What have you to say, Jenny?”
“You are impossible,” said the girl, and laid her cheek against his shoulder. “You are the most terrible person I’ve ever known. If I many you, I don’t think you will ever forgive me.”
Jonathan said, “Probably not. And then again, possibly yes.”
Harald turned his face away and sat down heavily on the stairs. He folded his arms on his knees and dropped his ruddy head upon them in an attitude of complete surrender and prostration. Jonathan said to Jenny, “Now, find a cloak and a shawl, for I am taking you home to my mother tonight. The island is unsafe; the water’s rising.” He touched her cheek. “I think, after all, I really came for you.”
“Yes. Of course,” she said, and went to the stairway. She paused as she reached Harald, and hesitated. She spoke to the back of his head. “Come with us, Harald.” Then she ran up the stairs and disappeared into the darkness, to prepare to leave and to advise the servants to leave also.
Jonathan spoke to his brother’s bowed head. “We’ve both lived in a sort of stupid confusion. I always thought my mother preferred you and I hated both of you for it. I always knew what my father was. If you will remember, I warned you not to take him seriously.”
“I remember,” said Harald in a muffled voice.
“I don’t think,” said Jonathan, “that the Ferrier men have been overly intelligent.”
” ‘Speak for yourself, John,’” said Harald from the depths of his folded arms.
For the first time Jonathan smiled, and it was a sour smile. He looked at the crop in his hand, then threw it across the hall, where it clanged against a suit of armor, rocked it, then fell to the floor.
“I don’t think
I
would have killed you,” Jonathan said to his brother.
Harald raised his head and Jonathan saw that he looked ravaged and depleted. “Oh,” said Harald, “I’m sure you would have if it hadn’t been for Jenny.” He touched his cheek and winced at the sight of the blood. “Or, would you prefer to call this a love pat?”
Jonathan sat down in an armorial chair, and now there was no sound in the hall but the roaring of wind and water and thunder as they waited for Jenny. They did not look or speak to each other again. When the lightning flashed in, it snowed only their averted faces.
Robert Morgan came into Marjorie Ferrier’s bedroom, where she was being sedulously attended by two sprightly young nurses from St. Hilda’s. Marjorie’s eyes, even while she lay high on the pillows under her, watched only the door, and when Robert came in, they questioned him alertly, though she could not speak. He smiled at her, and the girls looked at him adoringly. He said, taking the weak and almost pulseless wrist, “The river rescue boat went to the island for them, and I’ve just heard. They are landing on this side. I told you. You had no need to worry, Mrs. Ferrier.”
Her white lips formed one word, “Both?”
He nodded. “Three, and the two servants. The rescuers signaled five people, so I assume that is all.”
Marjorie’s eyes filled with tears, and Robert pressed her wrist and watched her face.
He had been called by the maid, who had found Marjorie unconscious on the floor of Jonathan’s room. The girl had heard the stormy altercation, then the crash of the front door, and then the silence filled only with the sound of thunder. She had discreetly gone to investigate, and then had hysterically reported to the cook, who had immediately called Robert at his house, for he had not gone to the office that day and had been able to visit but one hospital. Robert saw that Marjorie was too ill to be moved, that her ailing heart had suffered an almost fatal shock, and that she would probably die of it very soon. It was Robert who had sent for Father McNulty and for the nurses, and the priest was now in the morning room listening anxiously to the storm and waiting news of the people on the island.
It was to Robert that Marjorie had whispered of Jonathan’s frenzied rush from the house and what he had threatened to do to his brother, and he saw that if she were not relieved very soon, her death could not be delayed. He had done all he could do. He had alerted, through the harbor police, the men who had been busy through twenty-four hours of storm rescuing people from low-lying sections along the river, and from two islands upstream. The police, though harried and sleepless, had agreed to call Robert when the river-boat signaled the rescue of those on Heart’s Ease. They had also agreed to furnish the rescued with transportation through the flooding night to the Ferrier house, or any other destination.
“They will be here soon,” said Robert, who was red-eyed from exhaustion. He had worked on the injured and battered for hours after last midnight, and it was now approaching midnight again.
Marjorie was too spent to speak. She could only thank Robert with her eyes. She let her lids drop and her head rolled weakly on the pillow. Robert kept his fingers lightly on her pulse, counting and frowning. If she died before her sons arrived, then it would be all Jonathan’s fault, and it was all he deserved. Oh, of course the damned fool had his grievances, and they were all severe and grave and deserved retribution, and only a clod would deny the truth. But to have shocked his mother in this fashion and to have told her what he intended to do was unpardonable. For a moment Robert hoped that Harald Ferrier had been able to defend himself ably, so ably that he had perhaps inflicted some painful injuries on his brother. Violence must be met by violence, Robert thought, and force by force. The cheek-turning fantasy was out of place under some circumstances.
Marjorie appeared to sleep. Robert sighed and gently released her wrist. He looked about him at the large and charming bedroom with its French furniture, its pale blue walls and olive-green draperies, its fight gold Oriental rug, its little white marble fireplace, its chairs of blue and yellow and olive-green silk, its polished painted tables, its crystal and silver, and its faint fragrance of spice and old roses. It was a gracious room, the room of a great lady of taste and delicacy and worldliness, and it came to Robert that his mother was the most unworldly of creatures and the most tasteless, and for that he should feel considerable compassion. He forgot to feel resentful that she had destroyed his beautiful house. After all, she was old and had none of the sophistication of Marjorie Ferrier. He admired the lovely French bed in which Marjorie lay, its fine linen sheets, its embroidered pillows, its delicate yellow blanket A little clock chimed on the bedside table, a fairy chime.
They should be here soon. Robert went down to the morning room.
The young priest was as exhausted as he, for he, too, had been working sleeplessly, consoling the stricken, helping to search for the missing. He looked up as Robert entered, hopefully yet fearfully.
Robert said, “She’s holding her own, but that is all I can say. I wish they’d arrive soon.”
The priest sighed. “So do I. That Jonathan! I pity him very much. If his mother dies without him seeing her, then he will never forgive himself. He can be much harsher on himself than his worst enemy, as he has proved over and over this past year. If his mother dies—he will really be destructive of himself.”
“I can almost wish he would,” said Robert, thinking of the dying woman upstairs. The priest smiled at him sadly, his golden eyes bright in the lamplight
“No, you don’t, Doctor. If Jon is a merciless enemy, he is also a merciful friend, and he has been kind to you, as you’ve admitted yourself. I heard that because he liked you from the beginning, he sold you his practice at half of what he was offered by others. Only Jon would do a thing like that, and yet he has the reputation of being a very shrewd man with a dollar.”
Robert raised his red-gold eyebrows in skepticism. His mustache seemed not so full and jaunty as usual. He sat down. Then he said, after some minutes of thought, “Perhaps you are right, Father. I saw how he treated many of his patients. The children and the old loved him. He was harsh with malingerers and joked roughly with others. But the sick respected and trusted him, and I suppose that is most important.”
“It is most important Doctor. Jon knows how to treat the sick. He never learned how to treat the well. The helpless touch his heart. He is ruthless with his peers. I’ve often thought he is the true Renaissance man, romantic, poetic and passionate, out of place in this dull and utilitarian age, which is certain to become even more so in the near future. Industry and technology will make man much more comfortable than he was in ages past, but they’ll dim his soul. We talked about that in Rome only a year ago. Well, Jon will have to come to terms with his era, for it is certain that it won’t come to terms with him!”
Robert made a wry face. “I can’t imagine Jon coming to terms with anyone, least of all with himself.”
They listened to the storm. “I think it is lessening,” said Robert He almost laughed. “Did I tell you, Father, of what I saw Jon doing this morning? He was helping the gardener repair the damage to the lawns and the bushes, and hauling away tree branches, quite in amiable company. Yet a few hours later he could go shouting off to kill his brother! What lack of self-control.” He sighed. He wondered how Jonathan would have responded to his own situation: Loving a woman who did not want him and who rejected him for someone else. He would probably butcher the man and take the woman by force. I wouldn’t thought Robert, put it beyond him. He thought of Jenny and sagged wearily in his chair. If she married Jonathan, her life was certain to be lively, at the very least, but hardly restful and full of peace and tranquillity. But Jenny was a girl of character. She would learn, perhaps, how to outshout Jonathan and how to control him. Robert had his serious doubts, and his longing for Jenny made him feel weak and bereft.
“I came to Hambledon only a few months before Jon’s wife died,” said Father McNulty. “I never knew the younger Mrs. Ferrier, but I saw her about the town in her carriage. She is what the older men and the poets call ‘a dream of fair women.’ I thought how suitable, in appearance at any rate, she seemed for Jon, gay and effervescent and beautiful and sparkling. One never knows. If anyone had seemed less threatened by tragedy, it was young Mrs. Ferrier.”
“He is going to marry Jenny,” said Robert in a flat tone.
The priest nodded. “So his mother informed me quite a few weeks ago, before he knew it himself.” He looked keenly at Robert. “What pleasant people those Kitcheners are, to be sure. And a lovely young lady, Miss Kitchener.”
“Isn’t she?” said Robert with indifference. This was the night he and his mother were to dine with the Kitcheners, but the storm had intervened. He suddenly saw Maude’s pretty eyes and auburn curls and heard her shy sweet voice. How unlike Jenny she was. Jenny was a storm of blue and black and white, for all her apparent diffidence and restraint. Jenny was strong, but Maude was not strong at all, and suddenly Robert’s tender young heart felt gentle toward her. The strong could be formidable and frightening.
The priest cleared his throat. He said, “I heard tonight at St Hilda’s that old Mr. Witherby died in bed last night.”
“So did I,” said Robert. He smiled suddenly. “Jon will probably send the widow his felicitations with a basket of the most expensive flowers.”
“Yes. That would be just like him. Jonas must have been
a
frightful old man, from what I have heard, and have known, myself, and from what he tried to do to Jon.”
“Corrupt,” said Robert. “He had the appearance of
a
saint.”
“Whereas Jon looks like a romantic version of the Devil. Did I hear a door open?”
Robert and the priest stood up, went along the corridor to the pale gray hall, where the chandelier was softly lighted. Three people were already there, drenched and dripping, Jenny, Jonathan and Harald Ferrier, and all were drained and stunned in appearance, and Harald’s face was oozing with blood from a very bad long wound on his cheek. They stared speechlessly at the priest and Robert, and Jenny took the shawl from her head and aimlessly shook it, and the men shook water from their hands and bare heads.
“What?” asked Jonathan, looking from one to the other.
“Mrs. Ferrier,” said Robert. He could not help it, but with Jonathan’s own sharp ruthlessness he said, “She is dying. She’s had a bad heart attack.”
He watched Jonathan’s black eyes deepen and narrow, and Harald uttered an exclamation and Jenny gave a little cry.
“Something,” said Robert, looking into Jonathan’s face intently, “gave her a severe shock. She was found on the floor of a room upstairs by one of your servants, who called me, about three or more hours ago. I’ve done what I could for her, but I am afraid that she won’t live until morning.”
Jenny again gave a muffled cry and started toward the stairway, but Jonathan caught her by her wrist and held her. “Never mind, Jenny,” he said in a peremptory voice. He turned to the priest. “This is true?”