The young man considered. Then he deleted these remarks about Dr. Ferrier. His mother would be outraged at such a lack of “gentility.”
“Mama,” he said aloud, “you are an ass.” His own remark shocked him for a moment, then he grinned and straightened his young shoulders under the excellent broadcloth of his suit. After all, it was time for the old girl to remember that he was no longer a child and no longer dependent upon her.
He removed the big gold watch, which had belonged to his doctor father before his death, looked at it, saw that it was almost ten o’clock and that Dr. Ferrier was calling for him soon. He replaced the watch in his vest pocket and straightened the heavy gold watch chain over his paunchless front. He concluded his letter with a flurry of affectionate remarks, then set out to recopy the edited paragraphs. Upon conclusion, it seemed to him a very priggish letter, itself, but just what his mother would expect. The unexpected, to her, was outrageous. Nothing unexpected occurred to the well-bred, certainly nothing disheveled. Such as life, thought the young man, feeling exhilarated by his new objectivity. How he’d like to lure her into an obstetrical ward! Or a VD one, for instance, not that she’d ever heard of venereal disease and the surprising numbers of the “gentry” who turned up there regularly! She had never heard of a D&C, he was sure. Ladies did not have uteruses. Their children “emerged” gracefully from undefined regions.
Robert had taken up, again, smoking “the filthy weed,” as his mother called it, since coming to Hambledon. So he lit a cigarette and relaxed, smiling thoughtfully through the window. It was a gorgeous June day, and the town was scented with its own roses and lilies and warm lawns, and the hearty odors of manure and the adjacent water and chimney smoke. Sun poured down the green and purple mountains in an avalanche of sparkling light, and there was a feeling of vivacity in the air which was not present in plodding Philadelphia. He could see the river from where he sat in his hotel room on the fifth floor. It ran with color, violet and green and shimmering blue, curving and broadening about the town. He saw the ferryboat bustling across the water to the other side, and heard its tooting. He saw other busy river traffic. And there was that island fancifully called “Heart’s Ease.” Yes, it was heart-shaped, and the largest island in the broad river, but only a woman could think of such a sickening name. It lay quite deeply in the water, and Robert could see the tops of its many crowding trees and a glimpse of the gray granite walls that hedged it in almost completely.
Dr. Ferrier’s brother, Harald, and the latter’s daughter, lived there all alone except for three servants. This was all young Robert knew of the island, except that Harald’s dead wife’s first husband had bought the island and had built what was called the “castle” on it, because, on his honeymoon, he had become enamored of the river and the island. He had never lived there himself. But his widow had lived there prior to her marriage to Harald and then for the two short years she had survived after that marriage. Dr. Ferrier had told Robert that much but no more. He appeared reticent on the subject. He had mentioned that his brother had inherited a great fortune from his wife, or at least the huge income on it, for his lifetime so long as he lived on the island. The daughter had inherited only one hundred dollars a month pocket money. However, if Harald should tire of the arrangement and leave the island permanently, he would receive only fifty thousand dollars and the money, in trust, would revert to the daughter. Jennifer? Jenny? Something like that. If Harald married again, he would receive only twenty-five thousand dollars as a “wedding gift” from his dead wife.
Mrs. Ferrier’s first husband had owned a tremendous steel mill in Pittsburgh and oil wells in Titusville. Income from both continued to bloat the trust. Very, very nice. There had been no envy in Dr. Ferrier’s voice when he had given these facts to Robert. But his dark face had become sardonic and closed, and Robert’s curiosity, always very lively, was much stimulated. “Your much older brother?” he had asked with pardonable avidity.
“No,” said Jonathan Ferrier, and had appeared amused.
“My younger brother. I’m thirty-five. Harald’s thirty-three.”
“The child must be just a baby,” Robert had suggested.
Dr. Ferrier had seemed even more amused. He had changed the subject. No, he was not envious of all that money. He was a rich man, himself, inherited as well as earned money. His mother had been a Farmington of Philadelphia, and everyone knew that the Farmingtons were immensely wealthy. It was rumored that the Ferriers had come from France, or Belgium, over two hundred years ago and had always lived in this vicinity. Dr. Ferrier owned three rich farms nearby, which he rented out.
“Never deprecate money,” Dr. Ferrier had told Robert. “Poverty is no crime, but the populace doesn’t really believe that. You can be a saint with all the heroic virtues, but if you have no money, you’ll be despised. What does the Bible say? ‘A rich man’s wealth is his strong city.’ The old boys knew what they were talking about!”
It was “the strong city” of Dr. Ferrier’s wealth, the newspapers had more than hinted, which had procured his acquittal, for he had been able to “buy” the very best lawyers in Philadelphia, a city noted for its lawyers.
Robert, in his hotel room, and waiting to be called by Dr. Ferrier for another tour of the town, thought about the accusations and the trial, which had occupied the first pages in the Philadelphia papers for months. Dr. Ferrier had been charged with performing a botched abortion on his young wife, Mavis, which had resulted in her death two days later. That had happened nearly a year ago. The defense had had to struggle for weeks to obtain an unprejudiced jury. Dr. Ferrier had testified in his own defense. He had not been in Hambledon at the time of the alleged abortion but in Pittsburgh, and he had witnesses. He had not even known that his wife was pregnant. She had never told him. No, he had not the slightest suspicion of the criminal.
“We had been married over three years,” he had testified calmly. “There were no children. My wife did not want any. She had always had a delicate constitution.” He had hesitated here. “Yes, I wanted children— No, I can’t even hazard a guess at the name of the abortionist. My wife died of septicemia, of course, as a result of the abortion. I am a surgeon. If I had performed the abortion myself, it wouldn’t have been botched, I assure you!”
The jury hadn’t liked that remark. It had sounded heartless to them. In fact, they had not liked Dr. Ferrier himself, with
his tall thin arrogance, his tight dark face, his sharp “foreign” cheekbones, his polished black eyes, his air of disgust and impatience with all that was in that crowded courtroom, including the judge and the jury. He had shown no evidence of grief for his young wife, no sign of pity or regret. He had listened intently to the testimony of fellow physicians and sometimes his impatience leaped out upon his shut face. Septicemia, resulting from a bungled operation with lacerations. “I am a surgeon,” he had repeated. “There would have been no bungling.” His manner had been contemptuous.
And then he had appeared to be about to say something else, in his bitter impatience. However, he merely clenched his mouth tighter.
The witnesses called for the defense had been distinguished doctors and surgeons themselves. They not only testified that Dr. Ferrier, indeed, could not have performed such a gross operation. He was, in fact, operating in Pittsburgh on the crucial days, under their very admiring eyes. Brain tumors. He had used the Broca method. He had been in Pittsburgh not only those days but the day before and two days afterward, to be certain that his patients were out of danger. Five days in all. Dr. Ferrier had not appeared to be listening to those testifying in his defense. He had sat “like a stone,” said one newspaper, “staring blackly into space,” occasionally passing his lean hand over his thick dark hair. It was as if he had removed himself spiritually from that place into a solitude that could not be entered by anyone else, a solitude that was gloomy and soundless.
He had been acquitted. The jury, reluctantly, had had to believe the witnesses for the defense. There was no way around it. Still, the opinion remained that had Dr. Ferrier not been a rich man, a very rich man, he would have been found guilty.
There were even some vile rumors—which did not appear in court—that Dr. Ferrier had deliberately “bungled” the operation so that his young wife, only twenty-four, would die. So he remained, in many eyes, a double murderer: The murderer of a young woman and his own unborn child, three months an embryo. Among the many so fiercely convinced was his wife’s paternal uncle, Dr. Martin Eaton, a much respected surgeon in Hambledon. This was strange to friends, for Dr. Eaton had, before Mavis’ death, been deeply fond of Dr. Ferrier and had regarded him as a son, with pride and admiration. Mavis had been brought up from childhood by
Dr. Eaton and his wife, Flora, after her parents’ death. They had finally adopted her, for they had no children of their own.
Dr. Eaton, a tall stout man of sixty, had sat grimly in the courtroom all through those days and had stared fixedly at Dr. Ferrier, and with open hatred. When the jury had returned with their sullen verdict of “Not Guilty,” Dr. Eaton had stood up and had desperately shouted, “No, no!” Then he had turned, staggered a little, and then, recovering himself, had left the courtroom. He had returned to Hambledon that night and had suffered a stroke, from which he was still recovering. Hambledon sympathized with him with real compassion.
Yes, thought Robert Morgan, again glancing at his father’s watch, there were surely “currents” still in Hambledon. No wonder Dr. Ferrier wished to leave. Someone knocked on the door. Dr. Ferrier was waiting below for Dr. Morgan.
To Robert’s surprise Dr. Ferrier was not on horseback as usual but in a handsome phaeton drawn by two of his wonderful black horses, wild-looking beasts with white noses and untamed eyes. Racehorses? Robert thought with nervousness. Surely not. He and his mother did not move in horsy circles in Philadelphia and his one acquaintance with “the evils of racing,” as his mother called it, was when he had recklessly accompanied some classmates to a track, where he had unaccountably won one hundred and twenty dollars on a bet of twelve. (He could not remember the name of the horse now, and he was doubtful if he had known it then. But someone had once told him his lucky number was five and so he had bet his money on a horse with that number, though the colors of the jockey were two he nauseously hated, pinkish gray and liverish purple, they reminding him of the anonymous guts in the autopsy rooms. It had not been what was generally known as “a fiery steed.” In fact, its languor at the post had been obvious to everyone, except himself, and he had evoked roaring laughter at his choice. But ridicule always made Robert stubborn, so he had placed his bet and had won. It had been a happy June day, he remembered, a day like this, all sun and warmth and with an undercurrent of excitement.) He smiled at Dr. Ferrier’s horses, then turned his face on the older man with sincere pleasure.
He’ll do, thought Dr. Ferrier, though he’s still naive and he’s a plodder. At any rate he’s honest and competent, which is more than I can say for a lot of hacks in frock coats and striped trousers whom I know. A Mama’s boy. I can make short work of that—I hope.
He said, “Robert. I thought I’d call for you in my mother’s phaeton.” He smiled bleakly at the younger man, who was only twenty-six and whose stocky build made him appear smaller than his nearly six feet of height. Robert had sandy-red hair, thick and glossy, a round and boyish face pinkly colored, good wide blue eyes, a short and obstinate nose, a gentle mouth, a dimpled chin. He also had a small mustache, the color of his hair, and big shoulders. His hands, too, were big and square, and so were his feet in their black and polished boots. The day was hot; he wore thick black broadcloth and what Jonathan Ferrier usually described as a hard black inverted chamber pot, though it was only a New York derby. His collar, of course, was high and stiff, which gave his florid color an unfortunate enhancement, and his tie was black and fastened firmly with a pearl tiepin.
To Robert’s surprise the usually austere and correct Dr. Ferrier was dressed as if for golfing, or for hunting or lawn bowling, in that his coat was a thin woolen plaid, his trousers light gray flannel, his shoes low. Even worse, he wore no collar and no hat. Yet his native air of hard elegance had not diminished for all this informal wardrobe. “Get in,” he said in his usual quick and abrupt manner.
(Robert’s mother had sternly told him all his life that no lady or gentleman ever appeared on a public street, walking or riding, without a hat and without gloves.)
“And take that obscene pot off your head,” said Jonathan Ferrier, as Robert cautiously settled himself on the seat with his host. “A day like this! It must be nearly ninety.”
The horses set out in what to Robert was a somewhat hasty trot. He removed his hat and held it on his knees. The warm wind rushed through his hair and lifted it pleasantly. “The horses,” said Robert, trying to keep trepidation out of his nice young voice. “Racers?”
“Hardly. But I do have racers, as I told you before. I’m going to run two of them in the fall, at Belmont. Expect one of them to win. A stallion, three years old. Argentine stock. Should run the legs off most of the dog meat we have here. I bought his sire myself, in Buenos Aires.”
Robert had been born in Philadelphia. He knew Boston well, and New York. He had interned at Johns Hopkins. But never had he met a man so insouciant as Jon Ferrier, who had apparently visited all the great capitals of the world and who had been born in little Hambledon. Robert had expected that he could kindly condescend to the “natives” of this town, and perhaps even to the famous Dr. Ferrier; he had been warned by his mother to be “gracious.” Robert felt like a fool today. In fact, he had been feeling a fool for the past five days. He ought to have remembered that Dr. Ferrier had been graduated from Harvard Medical School and had studied at Heidelberg and the Sorbonne, and that he was one of the small handful of surgeons who operated on the brain, which only yesterday was considered one of “the forbidden chambers.” Such a man would, of course, think it nothing at all to import a horse from Argentina for his own stables.