Testimony Of Two Men (35 page)

Jonathan was firmly of the belief that because a man never chose to be precipitated into life, he possessed the innate prerogative of deciding when he should leave it. Once, three years ago, commenting on a prominent suicide, he had horrified his colleagues by saying, “The poor devil attempted it twice before, and some busybody was able to prevent it at the last moment. Now he’s succeeded, and good luck to him, wherever he is. Death is hard for anyone to face, no matter how sick, and it takes a special kind of courage to bring it on yourself, and don’t whimper to me about ‘cowardice.’ A suicide is a brave man.” He had then grinned and had quoted
a
stanza from Omar Khayyam:

“Oh, Thou, Who man of baser Earth didst make, And Who with Paradise devised the Snake— For all the Sin wherewith the face of man Is blackened—Man’s forgiveness give—and take!”

This, in 1898, was often mentioned as indicative of Jonathan Ferrier’s “lack of heart and human pity” and, of course, “incorrigible blasphemy.” One minister had been moved to give a sermon on a Sunday about “the present disregard for the sacredness of life and the tolerance of Sin,” and all his congregation had understood he was referring to Jonathan Ferrier. Another had spoken of the Last Judgment and the fiery Pit for blasphemers and suicides and other intransigent types who “insulted the Almighty to His Face,” and again all knew this was a reference to Jonathan Ferrier. For had he not recommended that the man’s will be honored and that his body be sent to Philadelphia for cremation and his ashes scattered—and without benefit of clergy? Many suspected, with considerable reason, that Jonathan had not been exactly “faithful to his marriage vows,” so when the minister had also mentioned a “faithless and adulterous generation, calmly unmoved before the Foulest Crime of them All,” most of the congregation had nodded sober heads. It was no surprise to them when Jonathan did not appear at the elaborate funeral of the sinful suicide, who was not only a prominent citizen but had been a patient of Jonathan’s, and his friend. He had not even sent flowers. “I’ll be no party to a sideshow he specifically did not want,” said Jonathan. “To honor his will was the last thing he had ever asked of this damnable world, and he was denied. So, the hell with a funeral, flowers and a monument.”

Recalling this, Jonathan was more enraged than ever that he was traveling on a mountain road to the house where a young man had attempted suicide last night. If the boy wanted to die, then why should he not die? he repeated to himself. It was his own life; he had not asked for it, but it was now his own. Jonathan kicked the side of his horse angrily, then immediately apologized to the beast. “You have twice the sense of a man,” he said, patting the hot black neck, “and I regret that I’m riding you up here for absolutely nothing.”

He reached the iron gates of the Campion house and rode through them to the glistening whiteness of the tall walls and the incongruous pillars and the mounting slate peak. The gardener and his two sons were busy clipping, watering and raking, and they removed their straw hats in greeting to Jonathan, then stared at him curiously. That young priest was here early this morning and now the doctor, but the house was silent and the doors shut and what was it all about and what did it mean? Not a single maid came out to inform them, though they were certain that one eventually would.

A pretty little maid in black silk uniform and with a frilled white cap and apron met him at the door, and she was rosy with subdued excitement. The madam, she informed Jonathan in a hushed voice, was in the second drawing room waiting for him. and Jonathan gave the girl his hat and asked her to have a groom take care of his horse. Then, dusty and sweating, he went through the cool dusk of the great hall and along the marble corridor to the second drawing room, and he hoped to God that Beatrice Offerton was not hysterical and surrounded by maids ministering to her and holding smelling salts to her nose.

The second drawing room was as large as a tennis court, in Jonathan’s opinion, but not so large as the first, which was never used except when a host of friends—and wealthy constituents and “scheming politicians”—were present. Here the immense windows were not shrouded but looked like enormous and hotly colored landscapes, as they framed the trees, grottoes, lawns, and flower beds outside. There was something a little Florentine about these views, which included the blue shadow and blue mist of the rising mountains beyond, and something distinctly Florentine about this room, with its tessellated black and white marble floor, Aubusson rugs, pedestals of white and black marble surmounted by exquisite little marble statues and groups, and heavy marble tables and gilt and damask chairs.

Jonathan was astonished to see Beatrice Offerton alone, standing serenely beside a center table and carefully arranging huge crimson roses fresh from the garden. She had a dreaming and absorbed expression, with a faint smile, one with which Jonathan was very familiar. He had said of it, “She’s listening happily to her peristalsis.” If anything was disturbing that majestic vacancy which was a woman, it was not evident. Clad in a rose and green print silk dress, with a cascade of delicate white lace pouring over the massive bosom, and with her pompadour glinting and glistening in the pure light of the morning that gushed through the windows, Beatrice was the picture of the lady of the manor, peacefully occupied in a household task which required all her pleased attention. She gave the impression of humming, though there was no sound in the large room except for a little clink of pruning scissors as the lady deftly clipped off a dead leaf here or a wilted bud there.

Jonathan was freshly outraged. He had been told of a tragedy. There was no evidence of it here, though even one so Stupid and self-engrossed as Beatrice should at least have shown the merest agitation. She was still not aware of him. She moved a little, richly as always, joyously aware of her body as always, and she was a fine woman, though of too much poundage and altogether too big. The dress was tight over her oversize hourglass figure, as was the fashion, and it then burst into soft pleats and ruffles below her knees. It whispered a little with her movements and fluttered about her insteps. Jonathan, near the doorway, caught, even above the swooning scent of the roses, the odor of Beatrice’s inevitable talcum, and he saw the faint bloom of it on her neck and full pink cheeks, and, as the ruffles fell back from her wrists he saw it again on her large fat arms.

He wanted to swear. Though he made no sound, standing on the marble in his riding clothes and with his bag in his wet hand, Beatrice became aware of him and looked up, vaguely and distantly startled. For a moment she appeared not to recognize him. She stood with the little scissors in one hand and a great red rose in the other, and slowly and methodically blinked at him and her face was absolutely empty. One ponderous thought seemed to be running through what mind she possessed: “Can that possibly be Jon Ferrier? If so, why? Today?” Her staring blue eyes were like the eyes of a wax doll.

“Jon? Jon?” she said at last, in her pretty deep voice. “Oh! It’s you, Jon, isn’t it?”

“I think so,” said Jon, “though we could both be dreaming.”

She considered that and then she slowly smiled. “How nice,” she said. “Dear me, you do look warm. Do come into the morning room in a moment and we’ll have some strawberry lemonade and some nice fresh pastry. Or perhaps you’d prefer to wait for luncheon? Kenton is expected on the next train, you know. He is to make the speech on the Fourth of July. He’ll be so happy to see you, you are quite a favorite of his and he always said you should be in politics, but Washington is so hot, isn’t it, and—”

“I think,” said Jonathan, “that I was sent for, Beatrice, or am I dreaming that, too?”

Again she was startled and again she considered placidly. Then at last she put down her scissors. “Oh, dear,” she said, and smiled that sweet and meaningless smile of hers. “Such a trial, isn’t it? I was sure it would be perfectly all right, if one just forgets these unpleasant things and pretends they never happened, and that—that priest—he did not agree with me. He said you really must come. I didn’t truly send for you, Jon dear. I was truly against it. Such a bother and embarrassment, and Francis didn’t mean it at all, and I am sure it is an accident and can be explained sensibly, but that priest—”

Jonathan was now totally exasperated. “Correct me if I am wrong,” he said, “but I understand that Francis tried to hang himself last night in his room, and a servant heard the crash of the falling chair, and he ran to Francis’ room and rescued him in time. Hanged with the sash of his morning robe, I was told.” He shook the bag at his side. “Well, what is the truth, anyway?”

Beatrice’s flush had paled just a little, and she moistened her full pink hps and looked down at her hands. “I’m sure it can all be explained,” she murmured. “So tiresome for Kenton, when he hears. I’m sure Francis did not intend—it was looped over a sconce on the wall, it could have caught there by itself, such things do happen—”
_x

“And it made a nice little noose of itself and just threw itself around Francis’ neck while he was climbing a chair— no doubt to polish the candle sconce at midnight, he disliking dust so much after the austerity of a seminary, and then by some chance he kicked the chair over—and there he was,” said Jonathan.

Beatrice was actually nodding, slowly and massively. “It could well be,” she said in a blank tone. Then she stared at the roses, wet her lips again, and blinked over and over. She touched a drooping flower. “I do love roses,” she murmured. “And so nice that we still have some left. Kenton adores them. They make a room so cozy—so homelike—”

Jonathan, though he had known Beatrice well ever since her arrival in Hambledon over fifteen years ago, was incredulous. He came toward her, really staring at her, his black eyes ablaze. “Look here, Beatrice,” he said in a brutal voice, “you don’t seem to understand. I’m a doctor. I am compelled by law to report the crime of attempted suicide to the police. Do you understand? To the police. And then the newspapers will get it.”

He had hoped to shock her into some semblance of comprehension and intelligence. At least, he saw that her hands dropped limply to her sides and that she was paling again and that her blue eyes were enormously dilated and fixed with the faintest terror on him. “Police?” she said. “The police? No, that is utterly not to be thought of, Jon! What are you saying? What about Kenton? Kenton! The shame. Oh, no, not the police. That terrible, thoughtless boy— The police. You are joking, aren’t you, Jon?”

“I’m not joking, so you’d better pay me some attention, Beatrice. You’re Francis’ aunt, after all, for God’s sake! Haven’t you any feeling for him at all? Weren’t you notified at once when it happened? What did you do? Why wasn’t I called immediately, or at least some other doctor? What did the boy say to you? To the servant? How did Father McNulty come to hear of it, and who called him? Give me some answers, Beatrice!”

Beatrice looked about her vaguely, then seeing the chair near her knee she slowly sat down in it. Vaguely, she felt for the handkerchief in her sleeve, and she took it out, pressed it briefly against her lips, then looked at it with all the intentness of which she was capable, which was very little, indeed.

“So disturbing,” she murmured. “And so inconvenient. Kenton will be traveling all over the state, speaking, and it does wear him so. It’s not that he can be elected, you know, it’s the Governor who appoints him, and if the Governor hears of this, such an upright man and such a Christian, but a little rigid—I do wish they’d pass that Amendment so that Senators can go outright to the people and get elected without the Governor— Poor Kenton.”

Then Jonathan became aware that this large and shapely sculpture of a woman did indeed have some feeling within that self-loving body, but all the feeling was directed toward her brother, and she feared, as much as she could possibly fear, for his career.

“Beatrice,” he said, “it’s the State Legislature which appoints Senators, not the Governor. Never mind. Answer my other questions.”

She ruminated, her head bent, the handkerchief twisting slowly in her hands. “I don’t understand it,” she said at last. “I didn’t understand when Francis came home. I did think he seemed a little tired and worn, but all that study, and I’ve heard the priests are very harsh to seminarians. But I thought a few days’ rest—I never pry, Jonathan. No one can ever accuse me of prying. I am always prepared to listen, and I respect confidences, but if no one confides, I would never insist. That is my code; it was the code of my family. I thought, too, he might be wanting to see Kenton—the only son, you see. And I thought good wholesome food, and peace and quiet at home, and good sleep at night— But it would seem that wasn’t the trouble at all. I don’t know, Jon. I confess I never did understand Francis. Such a strange little boy, even when he was a baby. Quite like Henrietta; she was quite hysterical, you know. A weakness in the Pike family—”

Jonathan, leaning against the table now, prayed for patience somewhat blasphemously. But he had to wait until the slow and heavy thoughts could give utterance and answer him.

“Kenton is the only real conversationalist in the family,” Beatrice went on, with a dim and hopeful smile at Jonathan. She was really pale now. “I am not; talking does bore me so. Francis, I think, doesn’t like conversation, either. I can’t remember that he ever talked much to Kenton or to me. I respected his—reticences. He never told me anything, and not this time, either. He just—came home. And then he stayed in his room. That was two days ago. He never came down for his meals. He ordered trays in his room, and I was so upset.
I
had prevailed on Cook to make his favorite dishes. Strawberry shortcake. Chicken baked in wine, I don’t like it, myself, but Francis did, and where he got the idea— ham roasted with honey and pureed chestnuts, even though it is summer now. That curious green tea he favors. But the trays came down untouched. Cook told me. I was quite disturbed.”