Testimony Of Two Men (40 page)

But the Senator was no cringer. He said, “I regret that
I
came to your assistance, Jon. I fear that there was more, behind the scenes, shall we say, than appeared at the trial.”

“Indeed, there always is.” Jonathan was smiling. “As for your ‘assistance,’ you are a liar. If you did anything at all, in

your discretion, it was your disavowal of knowing the Ferrier family ‘well.’ It doesn’t matter. I want to advise you about something. Before you begin to stuff yourself with your usual hearty lunch, I want you to go upstairs to your son, and say at least five decent words to him, not in reproach or condemnation, but in kindness. He has some faint idea of what you really are, I am sure, though he’d die rather than tell. Be grateful for that. Just a few kind words, if you think you can manage it. And then let him alone.”

Beatrice Offerton spoke for the first time, and in a surprisingly shrill voice.

“How dare you insult the Senator like this, Jonathan Ferrier! And what are you implying about my brother, my good Christian honorable brother?”

“Why don’t you ask the Senator yourself, Beatrice?” said Jonathan, and he swung about and went to the door of the hall. The Senator watched him go, and there was no happy complacency on his face now, no sweetness, no affection. The big blue eyes were so narrowed that the color had disappeared between the short chestnut lashes. Jonathan’s footsteps clanged on marble.

Once home, Jonathan fell into bed after partially undressing. The house was hot and close, though all the windows were open, and the curtains were slapping softly against the screens. He promised himself to sleep an hour or two at the most, for he was exhausted and sick. Just as he was falling asleep he heard the soft resonance of music. His mother, as she frequently did, was playing the piano in the drawing room. In the brightness of the full July day she was playing a nocturne, dark and lonely and slow. Jon half raised himself on his elbow and listened. She played with deep emotion and sadness, thinking herself alone, and in spite of himself he was deeply stirred. Each note was grieving, somber, contemplative, and it seemed to invade his very flesh and loneliness and loss, and a knowledge of man’s impotence before the face of being.

Was his mother exactly what he thought she was? The question disturbed him, for he had long ago acquired the habit of studying other people, tabulating them on mental cards, and then filing them away in his mind, never to be re-studied. It saved doubts and second thoughts. The thought

came to him, out of nowhere at all: What do I really know about people? I mean, outside their pain and their surface life? He listened to the sorrowful nocturne, which seemed to express all the loneliness of life, all the blindness and wretchedness and lack of hope.

All his likes and dislikes had been set in stone for eternity, uncompromising, permitting no erasures and no additions. He did not like to think of that now, as he leaned on his elbow and listened to the haunting nocturne. He wanted to shout down to his mother, “Stop it! I’m trying to sleep, damn it!”

Then all at once he was really and profoundly asleep, but he dreamt uneasily, and his dream was of Mavis, his dead wife, as his dreams were usually in these days as never they had been before. He awoke, sweating on his bed and grimy. He got to his feet and was amazed that it was late afternoon and that he had slept so long. He went into his bathroom, shaking and empty and gaunt, and bathed and shaved, and came out dressed. His mother was waiting for him, a tall glass of eggnog, laced with brandy, on a tray in her hands.

She said with her usual tranquillity, “You come in late, or early, didn’t you, dear? You didn’t have your breakfast or your lunch. Do swallow this down. You seem so exhausted.”

Without speaking, he sat down on the edge of his bed and drank the eggnog, making his usual taciturn faces. But it began to revive him. Marjorie never asked about his patients, for she knew that it was unethical for him to discuss them with an outsider. She said, “Young Dr. Morgan called, and I told him that you were asleep, after being out so early in the morning, and he said that everything was fine at St. Hilda’s, and you weren’t to worry. And Miss Meadows died.” She looked at him sadly, knowing how grieved he was to lose a patient.

But he said, “Good. I was going to operate on her, but now I don’t need to. I’ll make the funeral arrangements.” He drank the last of the eggnog. “I’ll go along to the hospitals right away.”

They sat together in silence. They thought of Mavis. She was, even in her death, an intruder in this house, a bright, brash intruder who should never have entered here. Neither one knew of the other’s thoughts.

It was just as well. They were both thinking of Jonathan’s marriage to Mavis Eaton on a hot June day several years ago.

Jonathan Ferrier and Mavis Eaton had been married in the First Presbyterian Church of Hambledon, in a candlelight ceremony, when Mavis was just past her twentieth birthday.

“Not before a priest?” Marjorie had asked her son when he had told her of his coming marriage.

“Now, why should I?” His tone was irascibly patient. “I am not Catholic any longer, or rather I should say I am a lapsed Catholic, as the Church would call it. I’m not a medievalist or a mystic, and it takes both to be Catholic.” Marjorie had said nothing. Nor had she made any remark to Harald when he announced wryly that he was to be his brother’s best man. There are times, Marjorie had thought to herself, when it is utterly impossible to do anything about a situation except hold your tongue and smile as if all were well. Old Father McGuire had come to see her, however, under the vague impression that she was the
diabla ex machina.
They had never liked each other, though they had respect. He was a bad-tempered old man.

“It is true,” he said to Marjorie as they sipped hot strong tea in the morning room, “that Jonathan and Harald can hardly be called practicing Catholics. I know that well! But a baptized Catholic is always a Catholic, even when lapsed.”

“I never had any influence with my sons,” said Marjorie, holding before him a silver plate of nutcakes, the sort he favored, flavored with rum. “I have told you that before, Father. Jon was always under his father’s influence, and Harald was always alone, and I never understood him.”

The fat old man lifted thick white brows, and sipped his tea contemplatively for a moment. “Adrian was a good Catholic,” he remarked. “If Jon was so under his father’s influence, why has he fallen away?”

“I don’t know, Father. I think something happened to him by the time he was seventeen.” She smiled at him. “I think he became disillusioned by humanity. Not an unusual reason for abandoning religion. Jon was always a thoughtful boy, too much so, and too fierce and strong in his responses to others. And intolerant of what he considered any trespass against something he called ‘civilized decency.’ By nature, I think he is really a Calvinist. Perhaps Adrian had a little Huguenot blood in him.”

“No. Adrian was most pious. I knew him well, for twenty years.” He paused. “I have tried to talk with Jon. He has refused to come to see me in the rectory, though he has always been very generous with charitable donations. Mrs. Ferrier, did you know that Jon is at war with humanity?”

“Yes, I know.”

“And so, he is at war with God. I’ve known Jon since he was a child. I’ve known Hambledon for many years. There has always been an animosity toward Jon here.”

“I knew that,” said Marjorie, with some surprise at the old priest’s intuition, which she thought was hers alone. “Jon’s character is too definite—”

“True. Definite characters are uncomfortable ones in this world, whether they are criminals or saints. People don’t like others with strong opinions unless they are opinions they hold themselves, and even then they don’t admire vehemence in speech. They don’t like vehement actions, either. That’s very strange in so young and strong and vital a country. And perhaps ominous. Republics are usually manly and forthright.”

“You don’t think America is manly?”

He shook his head and thought for a few moments.
“I
come from a manly country, Ireland. But America is not manly in that fashion, and that is dangerous. Republics are usually masculine, but lately I have suspected that America is beginning to show feminine traits, and that usually means a nation is declining into democracy. What is it Aristotle said? ‘Republics decline into democracies, and democracies degenerate into despotisms.’ Yes. Populism is becoming popular in America—an old doctrine, though its adherents invariably think it is a new one, age after age. Thank you, Mrs. Ferrier, these cakes are delicious as always. I have a sweet tooth.”

“You were saying, Father?”

“Well, America is too fervid over inconsequential things, and she likes William Jennings Bryan and other novelties. Such childishnesses. And that’s effeminate. She also likes fads and frivolities. That, too, is effeminate. There is nothing really stable about America, and her politicians are always talking about ‘becoming.’ I love this country. It has given my people their greatest opportunity, but still I am afraid. Let us come back to Jon.” He smiled at her charmingly, his big flushed face very youthful under his white hair.

“The present animosity I detect here against Jon did not come suddenly with his twenty-first birthday. It was not like a clap of thunder, nor is it motiveless malice. Not entirely. It was there, that hostility, for many silent or whispering years. Jealousy of his merits and talents, his family, and his money. Fury that he is exactly what he seems, and that he is uncompromising and loves excellence. He hates mediocrity, and we must confess that most men are mediocre, though considering themselves exceptional. Jon also hates farce and incompetence and even the polite, social hypocrisies. He is also very brave, and men suspect true bravery, being, in the majority, not brave at all. I fear that the town is only waiting its opportunity to crush him and express its resentment of him.”

Marjorie looked with melancholy at him, and with a little fear.

“Let us hope,” said the old priest, “that he will never do something rash enough to expose himself to the malice of the community. I wish he would leave Hambledon and go to a larger city. Not that larger cities are more tolerant of the confirmed individualist, but such men are less likely to be conspicuous in big cities. I wish,” he continued, with the somberness of his race, “that men like Jon were more appreciated and more honored, and understood, for they are rare, even if a little terrible. That’s too much to ask, of course.”

“Perhaps Jon will be appreciated as time goes on.”

“I doubt it, Mrs. Ferrier. Jon has set himself against human nature, and human nature is not going to accommodate itself to Jon’s glorious inner picture of what it should be. He will have to learn to compromise without disgust, and at least to endure.” He looked at her. “Do you like Miss Eaton?”

The question was unexpected and shocked Marjorie, and she winced. She made her handsome face smooth, but the sharp old priest had seen her shrinking. She said, “I am not the sort of woman who interferes with her adult children.”

Ah, yes, thought the priest sadly. A proud woman it is, and a reticent one. Her children may respect her but hardly love her. Still, respect is often more valuable than love. Unrestrained love can be very destructive; at the worst, it is maudlin.

When he had left, after some courtly compliments concerning her garden and her beautiful subdued house, Marjorie was beset with anxious and premonitory thoughts. She had prayed that some miracle would occur to keep Jon from marrying Mavis Eaton, but no miracle came to his rescue. Ardent in nature, and indeed fierce, as the priest had commented, and she herself, he was unable to detect the slightest flaw in Mavis. He had lived, during the past few years, in a state of bemusement over her, and with a kind of joyful surprise each time he had seen the girl. What did she represent to him?

The big fieldstone church, austere and dark even in the hot bright afternoon, flared with shadows and candlelight, and the air was stifling and rustled with fans. Those who had been invited to the wedding filled every pew, and the sultry atmosphere became more oppressive with women’s scents and the fragrance of banked flowers everywhere. The mayor was present, and Senator Campion and State Senators, and the Governor himself, and other dignitaries, and their wives. It was a gala occasion.

Jon waited with his brother, sweating with embarrassment and expectation, his dark face clenched. He seemed to be frowning. “Quiet,” Harald whispered with amusement, and Jon glanced at him irritably and flushed. Then the organ, and the triumphant voices, rose to the entrance music, and there was Mavis on her proud uncle’s arm, and she was floating down the aisle to her bridegroom.

Of less than usual height for a woman, she seemed taller today, for her long gown flowed not only to the red carpet of the aisle but had a long train, held by two young boys, distant cousins, pages in blue silk. A little flower girl preceded her, and eight bridesmaids clad like autumn flowers in gold taffeta. But Jon saw only his bride. Her gown was demurely high in the neck, tight lace and pearls upheld with whalebone about her throat, and the same material partially covered her full breast. The white satin of the gown clung to her delectable figure in all its virginal though mature curves, and enhanced the smallness of her delicate waist and her feminine hips, a trifle broad but very stylish. The satin quivered in the candlelight, and there was something both enticing and innocent, though faintly lewd, in that smooth exposure of her body in the gleaming rich fabric. It was a Worth gown, purchased in Paris, and the ladies in the church gasped both in admiration and envy. It was strewn, at the curve below the hips, with sparkling stones and pearls, and the train, heavily jeweled, glittered like sunlit rain. She wore white kid gloves and diamond bracelets, and there were diamonds in her ears. She was one shimmer of light, exquisite, softly pliant, alluring.