Testimony Of Two Men (103 page)

Jonathan said in that disturbingly indifferent voice, “The opinion of others never concerned me very much. It concerns me less now.”

The priest frowned, thinking. “Still,” he said, “in cases where it is not very important, and nothing moral is involved, or anything serious, it is best to be tactful.”

Again Jonathan was silent, and the priest knew that he could not reach him. He had tried, and it was hopeless, and there was nothing left but prayer. However, he tried once more. “Jonathan, if many in this town did not love and respect you, you would be in a frightful position tonight, and in the days to come. Remember those who care about you.”

“Don’t worry,” said Jonathan. “I won’t do anything rash. Yet.”

“I remember
a
section of
a
very melodramatic poem,” said Father McNulty.

” ‘In tragic life, God wot,

 
No villain need be.

Passion spins the plot.

We are betrayed by what is false within.’

“Jon, I
know you do not forgive easily, if ever. But when you think of those men who injured you, remember that they were weak as well as bad, and many were confused and uncertain and baffled by their own desires, their own defects of character, and perhaps their private tragedies. Dr. Eaton was a very tragic man. At the last he made a supreme effort to clear your name, and died the next day.”

“I hope,” said Jonathan, “that it wasn’t an easy death.”

The priest said nothing. They reached the dark and closed Ferrier house, and Jonathan got out of the buggy and without another word or a look he walked to the door, and was

lost in the shadows of the deep porch. The priest drove on, the wheels of the buggy rattling on the cobblestones, the horse clumping steadily, and the dust of the trees sifting down.

Jonathan crossed the lawns to his offices. The light in his private office was still lit. He walked into the room and looked at the havoc he had done, and the wreckage. It was like seeing the results of a nightmare. He was in a worse nightmare now. He must think and think and think, and know what he must do. He took off his coat and hat and collar, and set to work, lifting shards of glass, paper and books. It took him a long time, and he worked deftly and almost soundlessly. He filled every wastebasket. He found a broom in a closet and he swept the rug as best he could. He put the furniture in order. He rehung the draperies, which he had pulled down.

He went to the house and up to his room in the darkness.

He lit the gaslights in his room and they bloomed into soft yellow. Here, too, was wreckage. He found Jenny’s portrait and he straightened out the canvas and looked at the young and desolate profile.

“Jenny,” he said, “I should have been a disaster to you before. I should be total catastrophe to you now. Good-bye, my darling.”

He could not sleep. He resumed his packing, then stopped. He went outside and walked the streets, his footsteps echoing under the lonely trees, until the gray morning light stood in the east and a hot breeze rose. Once again in his bedroom he took a heavy sedative and fell into a mute and dreamless sleep.

The next morning quite early Dr. Louis Hedler and Howard Best drove up to “Pike’s Peak,” the Hambledon residence of Senator Kenton Campion. It was cooler as the doctor’s carriage carried them higher into the mountains, and here at least there was some blessed greenness and glossy shade. But the sky was still that curious saffron color, though it was hardly nine o’clock. They saw the fine houses on their smooth lawns, heard the hissing of hoses, the subdued voices of gardeners, the playful barking of dogs, the ringing voices of children. But the road was white with dust, and occasional walls pounded with hurting light.

“He seemed quite unconcerned when I called him last night, before we saw Jon Ferrier,” said Dr. Hedler. “I told him it was important, that I must see him this morning, and not in my office, and he couldn’t have been more indifferent or less curious.”

“He probably thinks you are coming to plead for Jon,” said Howard. “He threatened you not so subtly, didn’t he?”

“To be sure. Kent is a very unworthy man, and a mean one. It doesn’t matter. I am now in full agreement with you, Howard, to handle the affair this way, without publicity, without the newspapers, without the State Medical Board, without witnesses. Say what you care to about Campion, and I will agree with you heartily, but we must also admit that he’s very careful of himself and knows when to withdraw and when to attack. We don’t want Jon to confront all those people—we agreed on that. He was just about out of his mind last night, and God only knows what he is thinking today and what he is planning. So, for his sake we must spare him and conclude things quietly. When Campion gets a sniff of the carrion we are preparing for Brinkerman, he’ll withdraw so fast you won’t see him except for a blink. No scandal for Kent.”

“And he won’t have to pay for that stinking plot against Jon! A nice thought.”

“Isn’t it? But sometimes to help the innocent, like Jon, one must let the scoundrel get off scot-free. I hope Jon will appreciate that someday, though I doubt he is in a temper calm enough to agree as of now. In his own way, our Jon can be very vengeful. He won’t thank us for this morning’s work— yet. Later, he may.”

The town lay below them, already shimmering in heat waves, and the water of the river was brassy. Dr. Hedler felt uncomfortable in his formal brown suit, and as he was also stout, he began to suffer. He pushed his straw hat far back on his round skull and puffed at his cigar. “You will be able to cancel that warrant out for Jon, won’t you, Howard?”

“It isn’t signed yet. Something tells me, as I told you last night, that Campion will hurry to call the sheriff and ask for cancellation, and to assure him that everything is splendid now. Oh, hell cover his fat tracks very ably and very dexterously, you can be sure of that!”

Louis sighed. “I hate to see such a rascal come out of this without a single wound. I hate, even more, to think of that man back in Washington, doing his mischief as usual, serene and unctuous and loved and admired. I may have a talk with the Governor in the near future, a very discreet talk, and show him a few documents. Perhaps the legislature won’t confirm Campion again, or perhaps they’ll recall him. But that will bring in the newspapers, and reporters are avidly curious, and Jon may be drawn in. I must think about it.”

“We have to walk very tenderly about Jon,” said Howard. “If he were a more reasonable man, we could discuss things with him and lay our own plans. I think, I am sure, that it was knowing about his brother—that damned dilettante—that really knocked him off his precarious perch. The other things —he could be induced to look at them fairly calmly, in proportion, eventually.”

“I’m sorry for Marjorie Ferrier, with two such sons,” said Louis. “Now, she disproves our neat theory that much that happens to one lies in his own nature. Marjorie was always a great lady, a magnificent woman, tolerant, kind, composed, full of fortitude and intelligence. She never interfered with anyone.”

“Perhaps,” said Howard, “that was the whole damned trouble. Tolerance, I am coming to think, can create as much disaster as intolerance.”

“I wonder what Jon will do now,” said Louis as they approached the Campion estate.

“Whatever it is,” said Howard, with pessimism, “you can be sure it will be the very worst.”

The slim maid at the door assured them that they were expected, and they went into the shining marble hall and then into the room with the Florentine windows looking out at the gardens and the hot purple and bronze mountains. They found young Francis Campion waiting for them, fatigued and strained but smiling, in his black, habitlike clothing. “I arrived a little earlier,” he said to them, shyly shaking hands but looking anxiously into their faces. “How is Dr. Ferrier?”

“As bad as can be expected,” said Howard. Francis made a distressed sound. He walked slowly up and down the room, a thin young man with a delicate profile.

“Father McNulty sent me a long cable,” he said. “And there was a letter from him waiting for me here. I can hardly believe it. It’s a frightful story.” He looked at them. “And true, too?”

“Quite true. And much worse,” said Louis Hedler. “I don’t know how much Father could squeeze into a cable and a letter, but there have been many developments since then, and each one is a little worse than the one before.” He paused. “As it concerns your father so intimately, perhaps you’d rather not hear our conversation with him, Francis.”

“I am staying,” said the young man with resolution.
“I
have some things to say to my father, too. If necessary, I will say them in front of you. I’ve been a coward. I don’t want to injure him, but I must think of my country first. It is possible something can be arranged so my father’s name won’t be blasted in the newspapers. It is entirely his choice.”

Howard and Louis looked at each other, then Howard smiled and sighed happily. “You give us pleasure, Francis,” he said, and rubbed his hands together.

They heard measured footsteps approaching, calm, casual footsteps, and Senator Campion entered, beaming, chestnut-colored, flushed with sleep and food. He was like a large, middle-aged cherub, plump but stately, happy with life and, thought Howard Best, he has probably slept like a lamb and as snugly. Always the politician, he greeted his visitors with hearty amiability, shook hands with them fondly, smiled at them, and studied them with his keen politician’s eyes, watchful, hard.

“I see you’ve already greeted Francis,” he said, and put his hand on his son’s thin shoulder. When Francis moved away, the Senator did not even glance at him. “Such a pleasant surprise. Quite unexpected, too. Francis, as this affair my friends have come to consult me about is very private, and needs to be managed discreetly, will you excuse us?”

“No,” said Francis. “I think this concerns me, too.”

The thick chestnut brows rose, and slowly the Senator turned on his heel and stared at his son. “You? How could it possibly concern you, my boy?”

“I know it is about Jon Ferrier, and anything about Jon Ferrier now concerns me.” Francis’ thin face firmed and his eyes were no longer shy but direct.

“How do you know it is about Ferrier?” asked the Senator, and he was not as flushed as before.

“We told him,” said Howard quickly.

“Oh, you did.” The Senator’s regard swept to Howard and there was a threat in the narrowed look. “I think that was very imprudent of you, Howard. As this is a legal matter, you have behaved unethically, and I think the Bar Association—”

“I always behave unethically to protect the innocent,” said Howard. “Don’t you, Senator?”

“There is a slight question of the innocence of your client, Howard. Or, is he your client?”

“Yes.”

“How did that happen? How did you, or he, know about this private matter, not a word of which has so far been allowed to go beyond closed doors?”

“Jon heard rumors,” Howard said. “Just rumors. So, he came to me, on the strength of the rumors.”

“Rumors.” The Senator contemplated Louis for a long moment. “From an impeccable source, I trust, Howard?”

“Impeccable. Trustworthy. News does get out in a little town like this, Senator. For instance, frightened girls’ talk. Indiscreet ladies whisper secrets to each other. A colleague catches a breath of scandal, of danger. Another colleague overhears a private conversation and reports it to the interested party. People make quiet affidavits, and clerks gossip. It arrives at Jon’s doorstep, all of it. Nothing very tangible, of course, but enough. So, he comes to me to ask me to protect his interests. Is that sufficient?”

“I think you are lying,” said the Senator, but he still contemplated Louis Hedler.

“Oh, it won’t matter in the least in, say”—Howard looked at his watch—“another hour. Then you will be grateful, and not annoyed, that we consulted you. Before we moved.”

“Before you moved,” said the Senator.

“Exactly. We do have a warm spot in our hearts for you, Kent, we really do. So, instead of calling in the newspapers, and getting out warrants of arrest, immediately, and mentioning your involvement, we came to talk to you.”

“I don’t know what the hell you are talking about!” exclaimed the Senator, and his look at Louis had turned murderous.

“Well, I do,” said Howard, smiling. “For instance, I was in Scranton recently, visiting friends, and I discovered that they were close friends of a certain Mrs. Edna Beamish, and—you know how people are, Senator—they mentioned that you were, yourself, a very close, a very dear, a very intimate friend of Edna’s. Very intimate, indeed.”

The Senator had turned a curious color. He glanced quickly at his son, who was listening alertly. “What of it?” asked Kenton Campion. “I knew her husband well.”

Then Howard, watching him closely for signs of guilt and fear, said, “You and she also know Dr. Claude Brinkerman, don’t you?” He had no proof of the involvement of Edna Beamish with the doctor, but he struck this blow deliberately, hoping.

The Senator’s face had become the color and texture of wet lard. But he was not a politician for nothing. He said,
“I
know Claude Brinkerman. What of it?”

Howard shrugged. “I, too, know Brinkerman and all about him. News gets out. To support his wife in the manner to which she was never accustomed, he turned to performing abortions. Now, I have it on excellent authority that Mrs. Beamish had occasion to visit Brinkerman, and I also have it on authority that you two are very close to each other—in Washington—and people do talk, as I’ve reminded you before. I also have it on good authority that Mrs. Beamish recently had an abortion, and so there is the whole story.”