"I know." The sick and fallen feeling in Jonathan's middle became stronger. Then with it came a deep and bitter anger and the white folds sprang out about his mouth.
"There's nothing anyone can do to me," he said. "I'm financially independent of my profession. I'm a rich man, with sound investments and property. So, they can't hurt me in my -pocket. They can't injure my reputation, for I haven't any here, and be damned to reputation anyway. They can't take away my patients, because I have sold my practice. So, what can they do to me?"
"I hate conjectures," said Phil.
"Well, what do you 'conjecture'?"
"Jon, so help me, I don't know. It's just a feeling I have. Maybe I've developed an imagination since I met Elvira. She's a very complicated girl and gives me books to read, books I never had time to read before or even knew existed.
Edgar Allan Poe is one of her favorites, and he's mine now, too, and you can't read Poe without getting your imagination all excited or developing one."
"I bet you had fun with The Pit and the Pendulum."
"I sweated, I swear." Phil smiled briefly. He got up and put his hands in the pockets of his untidy trousers and lumbered heavily up and down for a few moments, and Jonathan thought he would be one of the few people in Hambledon whom he would miss. Phil stopped in front of him and looked down gravely. "I smell danger," he said. "It's the kind of inner smell I get about a patient even before I pick up the scalpel. A feeling that something's wrong, though all previous indications have suggested this is going to be a very simple and uneventful operation. I had a young woman last week with what all examinations seemed to show had just a cystic ovary, and the uterus was clean and healthy. But when I took the scalpel and looked down at her unconscious face—a nice healthy-looking face, plump, too-—I knew there was something not so pure and pretty going on here. And, by God, I was right. The poor girl had a carcinoma, and the damned thing had spread—way up."
"So, you think there's something cancerous going on around me."
"Don't smile, Jon, but that's exactly what I think."
"And not a single word or hint to prove it."
Phil sat down, thrust out his legs straight before him, pushed out his big red lip and stared at his boots, which, since he had met Elvira, shone like the sun. A shaft of light touched his thick blond hair, and he looked like a troubled schoolboy, for he had round large features full of young health and vitality.
"Well there was just something a couple of days ago. I was passing old Louis' office and he was talking to someone behind the shut door, and he was yelling, and we always try to listen when Louis yells. He was shouting, and I caught your name, but that's about all, except that he did say 'don't believe it.' If I hadn't been uneasy for some time, I wouldn't have thought a thing about it, but I went back down the hall and waited. And then out of Louis' office came a sweet-faced old man with white hair and that scoundrel, Senator Campion. Old Louis just stood on the threshold and glowered at them, and then he slammed the door right on their heels."
"Good for Louis," said Jonathan, but his voice was absent "That was all?"
"Thinking back, I heard Louis saying that something was 'beamish,' and that's one of Lewis Carroll's coined words, isn't it, from Alice in Wonderland. Now, beamish means gladsome, if I remember, and smiling, and shining, all at the same time, and from the tone of Louis' voice it didn't seem right. He was bellowing then, and why was he doing that when things were so 'beamish'?"
Jonathan suddenly sat upright. "Beamish?" he repeated. "Was he talking about a—a woman? A patient, perhaps of mine?"
Phil shook his head. "I don't know, Jon. I just know that Louis looked as if he was about to have a stroke there on the threshold, and Campion was as rosy as could be, and grinning, and the old man—"
"You never met Jonas Witherby, did you?"
"Witherby?" Phil thought. "Oh. Once. A couple of years ago. I've seen his photograph in the newspapers when he's been sponsoring something or other, or laying a cornerstone. Yes, by God, it was Witherby!" He paused. "Now, look, Jon, maybe it means nothing at all. Maybe I just thought I'd heard your name from Louis. I've been on tenterhooks about you for the last few weeks."
"Perhaps," said Jonathan. He shrugged. "Don't worry. I'm not going in to old Louis and ask him anything and so get you in trouble. It could be nothing at all."
"Sure," said Phil. "Oh, the last thing Campion said before he had the door slammed on him was 'Well bring you the depositions first. Thought it was only fair.'"
"Well, never trouble trouble until trouble troubles you, as the old saw is," said Jonathan.
"If it weren't for the smirks I've been getting and your enemies asking about you, I wouldn't be so nervous, Jon. But maybe I've been building up something from nothing. You know how it is in a hospital among the staff and other doctors. They hear the slightest rumor, mostly without truth behind it, and they spread it all around fast. Never saw such gossips as doctors. They must do it to relieve the strain or something."
"But it's worse at the Friends'?" asked Jonathan, thinking of Humphrey Bedloe.
"Yes, thicker, but still just that—feeling. Do you want me to scout around?"
The thought of cumbersome Phil Harrington being subtle and indirect made Jonathan smile. "Don't bother, Phil. Just keep your ears open, will you? Though damned if I can think of anything they can do to me now."
"I will, Jon, I will. Don't worry, yourself. By the way, that intern now specializing in neurology here: Moe Abrams, the smart Jewish boy. You remember him. He walked in your shadow until he decided to give up obstetrics and take up neurology. He's with Newcome, and then he's going back to med school for further study. Didn't he help you with Hortense Nolan or something?"
"He did. He'd make a fine obstetrician, but he told me lately that it 'hurt' him to see young mothers suffer, and I couldn't change his mind. Must have what the Freudians call 'a mother complex' or something just as silly. What about him?"
"Well, I'd almost forgotten. I never listen to stories much. He wanted to know if he should tell you something but was scared. After all, he's having a hell of time getting along financially, and he's terrified of being hurt himself, and you can't blame him. He said he'd rather I told you myself and not use his name, but how can I?"
"I'd be the last person in the world to get Moe in trouble," said Jonathan. "I won't even let him know we're having this conversation. What did he say?"
"Well, you know old Newcome, who looks like an elder British statesman, lean and lanky and dignified, and wears a monocle, and affects an English accent ever since he spent two years at Oxford. But a good neurologist just the same. Took it up five years ago. He called Moe in to listen to a case he just had, a little girl. He also called another assistant, in his last year, interning. You know him, too, Walt Germaine. Sharp as vinegar. The kid's parents had brought her in. Name of McHenry—"
"McHenry!"
"You know them? God damn it, I'm sorry about that, Jon.'"
"Go on!" said Jonathan, and now his voice was more ugly than Phil had ever heard before.
"Moe said that Newcome examined the kid and looked at the reports of two nerve doctors in Pittsburgh about the little girl. Pretty kid, Moe said, and very quiet and dignified. There was also a report from Dr. Berryman, the G.P., you know, a sound man, here in town. Doc Berryman had said the child was anemic and needed more sun and fresh air and maybe the seaside, and then the parents had taken the girl to Pittsburgh for a more complete examination. Moe read the reports. 'Mild anemia, as approaching puberty. No pathology anywhere. Child unusually reserved but equable of temper and devoted to parents, and generally liked at her school. No nerve damage. No sign of any mental aberrations. No hallucinations. Mentally considerably above normal. A little constrained, but that is the result of fine breeding. Obedient. No troublesome traits.' That's the way it went on from the Pittsburgh boys. And the mother cried and kissed the child. It was the father who lost his head. He demanded to see Louis, and so he snatched up th
e reports and made old Newcome go down to Louis' office with him, and he was raving mad, Moe said, and he said he'd have you up for something or other. Incoherent. And they stamped down to Louis' office. That's all."
Jonathan's cold black rage stood in his eyes. He told Phil briefly about his encounter with the McHenrys. "I'm not an alienist," he said. "I told McHenry that at the very beginning. I was kidnaped into that house by that fool of a priest. I told them all I could be mistaken. I suggested to McHenry that he go to Philadelphia with the child and consult competent alienists and consider a sanitarium."
Phil was a doctor and so he said, "You really thought the child had dementia praecox, as McHenry alleged you had said?"
"Yes, I did. But, again, I could well be mistaken. That isn't my line. But neurologists. Why didn't the idiot follow my advice and take her to an alienist? Well, I could be mistaken. Who among us hasn't made mistakes in his practice? The girl isn't my patient. I was called to examine her sick mother— who is being driven out of her mind by her daughter's—peculiarities. I should have minded my own business, suggested to McHenry that he take a holiday with his wife—alone—for a while, and left it at that. But not Jon Ferrier, the soul-healer! No, indeed, God damn me! Well, Louis knows I'm no alienist, so he can't call me on that. What did Louis say, by the way?"
"Moe wasn't invited to join the conference. But he heard McHenry raving in the hall that he was going to sue for damages, or something, punitive damages against you for mental anguish and suffering, and there was something said about suing St. Hilda's too, because you are on the staff, a member of the Board."
"Oh, shit," said Jonathan. "Let the bugger sue me, the big
Mick. I should have punched his nose in when he insulted me in his house, and while I was at it I should have punched that priest, too. Moe's a good boy for telling you this, Phil, and I appreciate it, and I won't say a word to anyone."
"I think," said Phil, "that the word got around about the McHenrys and you. Not from Moe. He was terrified of even telling me. Maybe Newcome's assistant or Newcome himself. He never liked you, you know."
"No, he didn't. He was all for going into a man's skull after a 'tumor' one time. The man was crazy with head pains and pressures and was scared to death about a brain operation, and I don't blame him. So his wife brought him to me." Jonathan gave a short and ugly laugh. "Do you know what was wrong with him? He was forty-eight years old and refused to wear glasses for reading! He was quite a beau around this town, and still is, in spite of being married. He wanted to give the impression of being a romping boy, and he was afraid glasses, even for reading, would spoil that pretty vision. He also had hypertension, 188 over 110, nothing to fool with. One of the drivers, rushing to the top in his work, wanting to retire 'while I'm still young.' So I had a talk with the lad, told him he needn't wear glasses except in the bosom of his family and behind locked doors in his office, and advised him to calm down or he'd have a coronary soon or a stroke, and then where would the girls be? I also gave him a mild sedative, put him on a salt-free diet, told him to lose ten pounds and take more exercise—restore his beauty and put the roses back in his cheeks—and sent him on his way, blessing me. He never forgets me at Christmas or any other time he can think of.
"The stupid bastard, though, not only called Newcome to tell him the operation was off but gloated over the fact that Newcome had been wrong, and lavishly misquoted me. New-come's never forgiven me the insult, and in a way I don't blame him. I never complain and never explain—an old aphorism of my mother's, and she is right—so I didn't drop my dignity long enough to tell Newcome what I'd actually said to that ass."
"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?"
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