“I think his little play-acting with the arsenic was to frighten you, to make you fear the whole city and the whole city to suspect you. Some do, you know. You know that.
“He is bruising you mentally. He keeps you simmering with terror. I don’t know how he managed to do that with his first wife, but he did it, and so she killed herself to escape him, and his sons escaped him, too, one way or another. Prissy, you won’t take my advice, but I’ll give it. Pack up and leave at once. Unless, of. course, you have the strength of will to pretend to great serenity with him, and if you can make yourself wink at him sometimes and imply that you’re on to him and that you’re not in the least disturbed.”
“Golly, Jon, I’ve stood more than three years of that old wretch! Don’t you think I deserve something after he’s dead? If I left him now, I’d get nothing. Though I admit I do get restless sometimes.” She gave him a pretty and significant smile through her tears. He patted her hand. “I’m sure you still have—friends,” he said. “If you can manage it discreetly.”
“Oh,
I
couldn’t. He watches me all the time. If I go shopping, I must give him a detailed account of every damned minute, Jon. And what I bought, and if the clerks were slow. He times me. And Jack drives me, you know, and he gets reports from Jack, too. I know it.”
“He isn’t concerned with your fidelity, dear. It’s just his little way of making you miserable. I agree you deserve something for enduring him for three years—and he’ll probably live forever. You must make up your mind as to whether
or
not it is worth it, for you.”
“Oh, my God!” exclaimed Prissy, glancing through the window. “Here he is now, and he’s looking at your horse and he knows it is yours!”
“Let’s pretend we didn’t know he had returned,” said Jonathan. “That’ll be his first disappointment—not to find us romping in your bed, not that he really cares or is capable of romping, too. Let’s smile at him sweetly. Then leave us alone. Perhaps I can put the fear of God into him, though I’ve noticed that the brotherly-lovers don’t believe in God at all.”
Old Jonas Witherby came into the house, elaborately assisted by his coachman, who handled him as though he were extremely fragile. But Jonas was vigorous and strong, even if he permitted his servant to pretend that he was not. He came in beaming and rosy, all silken white hair and holy smiles and happy eyes. “Jon, my boy!” he said, holding out two soft warm hands and taking one of Jonathan’s and pressing it tenderly. “How delightful to see you! But, is Prissy ill?” He looked at his wife with enormous concern and affection.
“No, she isn’t, and aren’t you glad?” said Jonathan. “I was passing by and I thought I’d drop in and see how you were, and to find out if you were interested in giving me a check for the new tuberculosis hospital we’re still plotting about.”
Jonas cackled happily and shook his head as if Jonathan had perpetrated a wonderful joke which was greatly appreciated. He sat down with a rich sigh of pleasure. “What a marvelous day it is!” he said. “So comforting to old bones. Prissy, love, would you give me a drink? My usual. Just a little, a very little, whiskey, but plenty of cool soda. I see you have both been celebrating in my absence.”
“Yes, we have,” said Jonathan. “After all, how often
do
you leave this house?”
Jonas chortled. He pretended, all at once, to be very watchful of Priscilla. “Sweetheart,” he said, in a very wistful and timid voice, “is that the whiskey you and Jon have been drinking?”
Priscilla looked up with a start and her lovely face became strained. She did not see Jonathan shake his head at her in reproof. “Yes, it is,” she answered, and her hand trembled as she poured the liquor. Jonathan watched idly. He said, “You know, Jonas, I wouldn’t blame Prissy a bit if she dropped arsenic in it—though, how could she get arsenic?”
The old man was still intent on the pouring liquid, pretending to helpless concern. Then he said, “Eh?”
“You heard me. You know that arsenic isn’t easy to come by, though it is used for insects in gardens. Not the pure stuff, of course. To get the pure stuff you must buy it from a chemist and sign for it. That’s the law. So, how could Prissy get it without throwing suspicion on herself?” Jon sat down and smiled sweetly at the old man. “Perhaps you could tell us, Jonas.”
The old man’s face was cherubic with infantile bewilderment. “Eh? Another of your jokes, Jon? Really. Very bad taste.”
Jonathan leaned back in his chair and studied the high white ceiling. “Of course, one could give a story about rats. Or send someone for it—in another town, with a false name and address. Prissy, have you been tampering with Jack, the gardener-coachman?”
“Jon! What are you saying?” Poor Priscilla stood with the bottle in her little hand and regarded Jonathan with terror.
“Just speculating, Prissy. I’m a great speculator. Besides, I’m curious. Jonas, what do you think?”
“I wouldn’t poison even a rat,” said Jonas in a sad and trembling voice. He took his glass from Priscilla’s hand, gave her a courtly bow of his head in thanks. “I love all that lives.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do. You have
a
reputation for that, Jonas. Prissy, would you give me another drink—from that very bottle, dear—and then leave us for a minute? I’m still concerned about Jonas’ health and would like to ask him
a
few questions.”
Priscille was very pale. Jonathan saw how her hands shook. When she caught his eye, he winked at her broadly, and for the first time a little smile appeared on her mouth. Her fingers touched his urgently as he took the glass, and he pressed them deftly in return. Then with a murmur she left the room, walking with tiny grace, her dress flowing behind her. Jonas watched her, allowing Jonathan to see his wide soft smile, his air of indulgent adoration. “Dear girl,” sighed Jonas. “How she has brightened my days and brought new life to an old, helpless body.”
“I bet,” said Jonathan. “But what does Prissy get out of it?”
“My all,” said Jonas, in a deep tone. “My all. My worship, my protection and, at the end, my money.”
“Good. I love precious marriages like this. So rare. Prissy will still be young when you are gathered to your ancestors, Jonas. That should give you happiness, knowing that she can enjoy your money for a long time—though without the delight of your presence, of course.”
A dark and ugly look sparkled in the old man’s eyes, and Jonathan saw his spirit, treacherous and lying. Then it hid itself behind benignity again. “Ah, yes,” he sighed. “It is really one of the satisfactions of my days to think of that.”
“I really love you,” said Jonathan. “In a naughty world you are a shining light of virtue, Jonas. A light of peace and goodwill toward men, blameless, tender, trusting, generous. Innocent, above all. Now that we are alone, Jonas, where did you get that arsenic?”
Jonas regarded him with smiling soft hatred. “Now, Jon, please don’t joke about such serious things.”
“I’m not joking, I assure you. Jonas, stop being so damned sanctimonious. I’m a doctor. Remember? I have only to make a few inquiries here or in other cities in the state, and I’ll get the information I need. It will take a little time, and a few descriptions, and a little pressure, but I’ll get it. Do you understand?”
Jonas smiled superbly. “Really, Jon. If anyone bought any arsenic, anywhere—”
“It wasn’t Prissy. I’ve already told that about. What’s the matter? Do you feel ill?” Jonathan rose with pretended sudden alarm.
Jonas waved him back. He pulled his linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped a sagging old face, which was no longer pink. “No, no, there’s nothing wrong, Jon. Just a touch of the sun, perhaps.” His breath was now honestly harsh. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jon. What is all this about arsenic? I wasn’t poisoned.”
“So you weren’t. I know you’ll mention that occasionally. We have you down for acute indigestion with a touch of the liver. I made that emphatic on your chart.” He remained standing. “Unless, of course, you wish it to be known that you tried to poison yourself—you couldn’t stand the wickedness in this old world or something—and so took the arsenic in a moment of noble desperation.”
“I’ve thought of it!” Jonas’ voice was all tremulous and full of dolorous music. “I have thought of it!”
“Well, we all think of it occasionally. Only the stupid never contemplate suicide. But don’t think of it again, Jonas old boy. Try to enjoy life.”
Jonas was much moved. He looked at Jonathan with gratitude. “Dear boy, what a comfort you are to a poor old soul.”
“Indeed I am. I won’t mention a word of this conversation, poor old soul, unless it becomes absolutely necessary, which
I
am sure it will not.”
“It will not, Jon, I give you my word. After all, it would not sound very nice if I mentioned that my doctor hinted I had poisoned myself, would it?”
“Oh, by then I’d have proof,” said Jonathan, with an airy gesture. “Names, dates, descriptions. You know how people would laugh, don’t you?”
Jonas drank slowly and appreciatively from his glass. “Jon,” he said, wiping his lips, “I don’t think you truly love, do you?”
“Indeed I don’t,” said Jonathan with affability.
Jonas sighed. “I have devoted my whole life to humanity, nurturing, offering, comforting—”
“Well, you can do that again. Send me five thousand dollars, by check, tomorrow, for that tuberculosis hospital we have been discussing all this time.”
Their eyes locked together, Jonathan’s amused and hard, the old man’s vicious.
“Five thousand dollars,” said Jonathan. “Not made out to me, but to the Hambledon Tuberculosis Hospital. Why, we’ll have a plaque on the wall for you, dear heart! ‘Gift of Jonas Witherby, Founder.’ In the most prominent place, naturally. Perhaps with a bas-relief of you, with your fine patrician features, smiling your benevolent smile. Isn’t that a lovely thought?”
A tear moistened Jonas’ eye as he considered, but the evil light in it did not diminish. He nodded. “Tomorrow, Jon,
I
give you my word.”
“Good. And let there be no more talk of poisoning, even by innuendo, dear heart.”
Jonathan saluted amiably and left the room. He met the fearful Prissy in the hall. He whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ve stopped him. I think.” He kissed her cheek lightly.
After he was gone Jonas, with a very sprightly walk, went up to his bedroom. He gave a number to Central, speaking in his unctuous and loving voice. A few moments later a voice answered him, and he said, “Kenton? Jonas Witherby here. Yes. When can we have our little talk?”
Jonathan rode rapidly out of town on horseback to his
nearest farm, which began on the outskirts of the city and which was now being managed by Dr. Thomas Harper. He rarely talked much to his former friend, not out of continuing resentment and hatred and contempt, but because he was fearful that if he showed kindness, Tom would become maudlin and overwhelmed again by his own guilt, and this was something Jonathan found extremely embarrassing, to the point of anger. If a man had been a villain and an ingrate, let him then feel remorse and repentance in his heart, and not infuse them into his ordinary daily communications, particularly when talking with the object of his former malice. It was Jonathan’s firm conviction that while repentance was theoretically good, it could also have a repercussion dangerous to the victim: The repentant aggressor, being human, and desiring to relieve himself of his painful state of mind, might look for more reasons to hate his victim and end up being more malignant than before. From both sentimentality and malignance Jonathan wished himself to be delivered.
He hoped to ride about the farm and talk with Thelma Harper and her four engaging children, for he had known Thelma as a nurse at St. Hilda’s when he had been a lowly medical student and her husband an intern. He had had no status at St. Hilda’s as yet and was snubbed by nurses and
The still apprehensive Priscilla, not quite reassured by Jonathan, and always nervously suspicious these days, had followed her husband discreetly and when he had closed his bedroom door, she pressed her ear against it and listened. indulged by interns, but Thelma had been kind and motherly, though she was but four years older than himself. She had also—and this was more important to Jonathan than anything else—been an excellent nurse in a day when nurses were only drudges and exploited and regarded with more than a small contempt by hospitals in general.
Jonathan took the narrow riding path and rode along the river, not only because it was cooler here but because it was the shortest way to his farm. His horse did not like water and pretended fear of it always, rolling back an eloquent eye at his rider in reproach and apprehension. “Nonsense,” said Jonathan. “Even if you are gelded, you still have enough manhood in you, and stop being such a farce.” The horse bent his head in piteous resignation and pranced along at a sedate pace. “I suppose,” said Jonathan reflectively, “that as most men now seem gelded in spirit if not in actuality, I shouldn’t call your state to your mind. It’s a universal and melancholy fact. Only the boys roaring out into the territories seem to have any gumption these days, but when they have the West well settled and the cities rise up, then they’re gelded themselves, too. A man can’t live in the city with testes. What was it Socrates said: ‘A hamlet breeds heroes. A city breeds eunuchs.’ Vicious ones, too, for eunuchs are always shrill and iniquitous and full of murder. And never mind Charles Lamb and his ‘thither side of innocence.’ “