“Well, doctors,” said Phil philosophically. “You know how they are.”
“That I do, my friend. I’ve made wrong diagnoses myself dozens of times, and when the patient consulted someone else who gave the right diagnosis, and the other doctor told me, I cursed myself, but I was grateful. But Newcome is too egotistic for that. He never makes a mistake. Well, I’m afraid he has made one this time, though I hope to God he hasn’t.”
He patted Phil’s huge knee. “Even if I made a wrong diagnosis about Elinor McHenry, what harm has been done? Louis’s familiar with wrong diagnoses. He’s made a few gorgeous ones himself, more than a few. He knows we aren’t infallible. Let McHenry give himself pleasure thinking about suing me. On what grounds?”
“Still, even the instigation of a suit, no matter if it will be thrown out, isn’t pleasant, Jon.”
“I’ve had my share of unpleasantness, and the worst of all, so nothing else can really disturb me.”
He went back to the offices in a murderous state of mind. He told himself that he was imagining things, but now he recalled that for the last two or three weeks his colleagues had indeed either been avoiding him, or greeting him coolly, or not stopping for chats in the corridors. He had thought that was because he was already no longer one of them and that he was leaving. He had few real friends among them, very few indeed. Had he intended to remain, he had thought, they would have treated him as always. But he was a departing guest, and they were remaining at home, and what had they in common now? No more hospital gossip, no more attending at operations, no more joint consultations, no more familiar ground.
He had thought that was all. But Phil Harrington had brought him that sullen sinking illness in his guts again. It was his conviction that in his case it would have been better if he had not known. Being forewarned was all very well for the soldier who was staying in his fortress, but it was irrelevant for one who was already marching away with his battalions to safety. “The hell with them all,” he thought. “What can they do to me?”
Then he recalled “beamish.” Edna Beamish, the rich and hysterical young widow, who had been so anxious to pay her bill, and which he had refused to tender? He thought of the doctor and the lawyer who had visited him. Well, what about it? He had not accepted any money for an incomplete examination. Phil could have been mistaken. He had listened outside a shut door, a dangerous thing, a thick shut door. Possibly Louis had not said “beamish” at all. Squeamish, perhaps. Campion could make anyone squeamish, and Jonathan now recalled, with a loud laugh, that Louis had not wanted him to be appointed United States Senator, and had so written to the
State Legislature, he having a better man in mind. Campion had probably never forgotten and perhaps was pressing Louis on some matter, and Louis was “squeamish.” Old Witherby and Campion were great friends. No doubt Campion had taken Witherby along as support. As for Phil hearing Jonathan’s name being mentioned it could possibly have been half a dozen “Johns,” and not Jonathan Ferrier at all.
The McHenry matter was something else again. Jonathan could not shake off the memory of the child’s eerie eyes, the air of subtle disturbance about and in her, the sense of something hidden and sinister and dangerous. He could not forget the distraction of the mother and the ominous stress on her heart.
The elderly spinster at the typewriter gave him a telegram when he arrived. Jonathan did not like telegrams on principle. He opened it, and his premonition was confirmed.
must inform you with sorrow that my dear husband jeffrey holliday died last night in the sanitarium in louisiana stop unsuspected nodules had invaded his throat and though desperate measures were employed he suddenly suffocated stop he had been doing well far better than expected thanks to you jon stop if this accident had not occurred we should have been so happy as always stop but we have had these weeks together and they must last me a lifetime stop jeff must be buried here as you know stop pray for him and for me too stop elizabeth
Jonathan stood with the telegram in his hand and he thought of his friend and the valiant loving woman who had married him, and he felt ill with sadness. Only two days ago he had received a letter from Jeffrey, a buoyant letter full of hope and contentment and the surety that he would be eventually cured.
Jonathan thought of Jeffrey’s hysterical mother, Elsie Holliday. He felt pity for her. She had lost everything she had. She could not even have the sorrow, beneficial, of seeing her son for the last time in his coffin. She could not arrive soon enough for his burial in the dark swamps of Louisiana.
The spinster lady cleared her chaste throat. “There is a veiled lady waiting for you in your office, Doctor. I told her there were no office hours until six o’clock, but she insisted! Really! Said she was a friend and this was a personal matter.”
Jonathan went into the inner office. A small and fragile young lady waited for him in a dark blue linen suit and white frilled blouse and dark straw hat over which she had drawn a thick black veil to conceal her face. But he knew her at once.
“Well, Prissy!” he said. “Take that damned tent from your face, will you? You attract more recognition with it than without it.”
She threw back the veil and he saw the real reason for it. Her face was very white and she had given up the paint pots since she had married Jonas Witherby and her eyes were red with sleeplessness and not with tears. He sat down near her and took her black-gloved hand and it was trembling. “Don’t tell me the old bastard accidentally took another dose of arsenic and did himself in! That would be happy news, indeed.”
She tried to smile. Her nice mouth was very pale and dry. “No, Jon, dear, I’m afraid that’s not it. I can’t stay but a minute or two. Oh, I wish he was dead! How could I have been such a fool to marry him? Just for money, as if I hadn’t enough! That’s greed for you, Jon.”
“It’s the old desire of women to be respectable, though God knows why they should care so long as they’re comfortable and having a fine time of it. Well, what is the matter, Prissy? You aren’t ill, are you?”
“No.” She fumbled in her purse, took out
a
scented handkerchief and pressed it to her mouth. She regarded him with pain. “It’s you, Jon.”
He frowned, and again the weak and plunging sickness hit his middle. “What’s wrong now?”
“Do you remember when you came to see Jonas recently, when I was so afraid of him? Well, after you left, he went up to his bedroom and closed the door and I don’t know why I should have listened to him telephone. I never did before. He was calling Senator Campion, and he said they should have a talk, a little talk. And then he said, ‘But we have to make very, very sure, Kent, and build up quite a case, here and there, so Ferrier will be finished once and for all.’ That’s what he said, Jon. ‘Finished once and for all, not only in the state but in the whole country, too.’ ” She gave a little dry gasp. Then she took out a little golden case in which she kept her violet-scented Turkish cigarettes, and Ion lit one for her. Even over his anger and consternation he remembered the odor of those cigarettes in Prissy’s little house, in her tasteful and gracious parlor where she met her friends, and friends they were.
“Oh, Jon, what did you ever do to the old son of a bitch that he should try to hurt you? Oh, you’ve joked with him and made fun of him to his face, but he always laughed and seemed to enjoy it.”
“I don’t think he did, Prissy, and I never intended that he should. I let him know that there was one in this town who knew all about his pious lies and sweet mouthings and Christian tolerance and soft pattings-of-arms, and tender voice.” He got up, walked about slowly, then stood behind his desk, staring down blankly at it, rubbing a little dust with one dark finger. Prissy watched him with acute and loving anxiety. “A man will forgive you if you catch him in larceny, or even in a great lie, or if you best him in business or undercut him or rob him, or even if you run off with his wife or ravish his daughter. But he’ll never forgive you for catching him out in hypocrisy, or calling him a psalm-singing rascal to his face. After all, he’s spent a lifetime polishing up his public image as a saint, and garlanding it, and gilding it with a halo, and he washed that image’s feet until they are as white as snow and arranged every damned fold in its heavenly toga. From childhood he has practiced the saintly voice as sedulously as a singer practices, until every modulation is full of music and prayerful sanctity and as round as an organ note. Then comes along a suicidal idiot like me and knocks the plaster image over and it cracks, and out crawl the black smelly worms of pure iniquity for everyone to see. No, Prissy. A man never forgives that.”
“But, Jon, I’ve known a lot of bad men, and they even enjoyed being told they were bad—”
“But not one who pretended that he had the personal Ear of the Lord Himself. Old Jonas is a disaster, as I don’t need to tell you. He’s destroyed more people with his sweetness and light and loving voice and ways than a maniac will do with poison or a gun. And even his victims will tell you, with tremolos, that ‘Jonas is such a good man, such a saint!’ It wasn’t his pawing fault that catastrophe happened to you, or you are sick at heart, or undone, or broken, or despairing, of scared out of your wits by menacing shadows. Oh, no. It was really your own fault. Jonas did everything he could to help you. Wasn’t he always there, purring and fondling and sighing, and advising? Yes, indeed.”
“I wish there was a way of getting away with murder!” said Prissy through her clenched white teeth. She beat her small knees with her gloved hands. Her large blue eyes flashed.
“So do I. I’ve thought the law was most unfair about murder,” said Jon. “Murder is as deep an instinct in the human soul as self-preservation, or sex, and just as valid and perhaps just as healthy. After all, our cave ancestors practiced it with fervor and thought nothing of it. That still lies under our civilization, in spite of religion, and those who deny it are cowards afraid to face the truth or ashamed of it.”
Jon came back to her and sat down.
“Jon, what do you think the old—scoundrel—is trying to do to you?”
“I don’t know, my love. I wish I did.”
“Why don’t you go to him and ask?”
“And cause you trouble? No, Prissy. Besides, he’d just give me that darling haunted look of his, his precious innocent look, and be all bewildered and heartbroken. He might even burst into tears! No, Prissy, don’t even think of leaving him. He can’t live forever. Even the Devil gets impatient for his own at last and one of these days, soon I hope, you will be a rich and happy widow.”
She was so deeply distressed for him that he made himself smile and he took her hand again. “Dear Prissy, I can fight my own battles, and what you’ve told me is not news to me. They can scheme and plot, but they can’t hurt me, dear.”
“Truly, Jon?”
“Truly.”
She kissed him, and he kissed her pleasurably in return, and saw her out, veiled again, and Miss Forster stopped her typing and was full of curiosity. Before Jon went back into his office, she said, “Doctor, I deposited two large checks in your .account three weeks ago for examinations you gave to two ladies last November—before—-before—”
“Before my trial, dear. Yes. When did the money come in?”
“Oh, I forgot. They weren’t checks. They were cash. Should I have put it in Dr. Morgan’s account, seeing he bought your practice?” She looked as if she were about to cry, for she was very devoted to Jonathan.
“Well, no. They were old accounts. How much?”
“One was for fifty dollars, the other for seventy-five.” She consulted her books. “A Miss Louise Wertner, and a Miss Mary Snowden. I receipted the bills and they took them away. Then I wanted to make a note in their folders, but there were no folders in your files.” She frowned worriedly.
“I
know you throw away old cards and folders, Doctor, but you should wait at least three years. You never know.”
“Never know what? We don’t have income tax any longer, dear heart, to pay for any war. No use cluttering up your files.” He recalled that he had thrown away Edna Beamish’s record, too, and for some reason he felt a vague disquiet.
“Well, anyway,” said Miss Forster with disapproval. She was very meticulous. “Do you recall those young women, Doctor?”
“From last November, with this place crowded to the eaves every day? And I also had other things to think about, if you recall. It was a time that could be lightly referred to as trying.’”
“Yes. But you must have seen them often, to have such large bills.”
“They do seem large, don’t they? They were typed on my letterhead, were they?”
“Yes, indeed, Doctor. I typed with this very Oliver. The ‘d’ is always crooked. It spoils the look of letters, reports and—”
“Take it up with Dr. Morgan and nag him into buying you a fine new Underwood. You deserve it, dear, after all these years with the Oliver.”
She smiled at him dryly, and he went into his office and sat down and began to think. He forgot Miss Forster and her worries. Jonathan went over in his mind what Phil Harrington had told him, and Prissy. Vague but disagreeable. There was no doubt that his enemies were plotting something, and he could find no area in which he was vulnerable. Then he thought, But who is invulnerable to malice? He shrugged. Now he found an acid pleasure in speculating on what his enemies were up to, including Kenton Campion. They knew that the town was driving him out or that he could no longer endure living in it. What more did they want? His license had been restored to him the moment he was acquitted. (They had had no right, the State Medical Society, to insist on its revocation before the conclusion of the case, and he could have caused them some unpleasant moments, or he could have sued for malicious mischief and punitive damages, but he had been only too glad to drop the matter, even though the newspapers had been gleeful enough to print the news of the revocation of his license in large type, and be damned to the unlawfulness of it.)