Testimony of Two Men

by Taylor Caldwell

  Harald inhaled slowly and carefully. His fingers twitched on the arms of the chair. Then he said, watching Jenny, "She had to have someone to confide in. And I was sympathetic."

  "I suppose so," said Jenny, and one look at her ingenuous face convinced him that there was no danger to him in this girl. "It was very sad, all around," said Jenny. "But I am more sad for Jon."

  Harald took out his scented handkerchief and carefully wiped his forehead. He said, "Mavis, though perhaps you won't believe it, had a great interest in art."

  "That's nice," said Jenny with indifference. She had already dismissed Mavis. "But you wanted to talk to me about something, didn't you?"

  "Yes." Harald pulled himself out of his fear. It had struck across the sunlit terrace like the shadow of a black and avenging wing, but now it was gone. He leaned toward Jenny, his hands clasped between his knees, his smile charming and winsome. Then he became serious.

  "Jenny, you never used to believe it when I told you I wanted to marry you."

  She stiffened. Her face became cold and distant.

  "Jenny, it usually isn't considered an insult when a man declares his love for a woman!"

  "I—I suppose not." She shifted to the very edge of the chair.

  "Don't you believe me?"

  It was ludicrous, but she was considering, her thoughts going back to the past. Harald found himself smiling again. Jenny was embarrassed, and the faintest flush rose in her pale smooth cheeks. "I believe you. Now," she said. "I wish you wouldn't talk about it."

  "Why not? It's the most important thing to me, Jenny, and it doesn't concern money."

  "No. No. It doesn't concern money," said Jenny. Her color brightened. "I'm sorry I ever thought that."

  "Well, Jenny? What do you say now?"

  She looked at the tangled fingers on her lap, and she was distressed.

  "I—I can't think of you like that."

  "Because of your mother?"

  "No. It—is something else."

  "Jenny, I've noticed that that young doctor has rowed over here to see you occasionally. Jon's replacement. You aren't taking him seriously, are you?"

  "He's very kind," Jenny was miserable.

  "And very puerile." Harald spoke indulgently.

  "You're wrong," said Jenny with some heat. "Kindness doesn't mean you're a fool. I like to talk to him. He doesn't have—hidden—places. He's honest. I like his company. We like the same things."

  "Enough to marry him?"

  Jenny said nothing. Her appearance was wretched. Then when she saw that Harald was waiting, smiling, for her answer, she said, "I haven't thought of marrying him."

  "Well, that's encouraging. So, Jenny, what is your objection to me?"

  "I told you. I can't think of you like that." She stood up, and looked desperate. "You mustn't ask me. Never again. I could never marry you, Harald."

  He stood up, too. "Jenny, would you at least think about it, in justice to me?"

  She looked about her as if searching for some hiding place. "I can't think about it."

  "But there's no one else. Jenny, I understand you. I've loved you for a long time. We could be very happy together."

  "You'll have to excuse me!" cried Jenny, and before he could say anything else, she had run off in her old manner. He watched her flying away down the stairs of the terrace into the gardens. He felt some encouragement. At least she had not rejected him outright, and she had shown considerable confusion and distress. That must mean something. A man who disturbed a woman and sent her flying off had a lot in his favor. Moreover she pitied him because she had wronged him in her thoughts, and pity was first cousin to love.

  When Howard Best entered the large office of Dr. Louis Hedler at St. Hilda's Hospital, he found not only the doctor there but Father McNulty. They all shook hands, and Howard sat down. He saw that Louis was very grave and that his large froglike eyes gleamed with consternation. Louis said, "Thanks for coming, Howard. I know it's late; right at dinnertime. But I wanted you and Father McNulty here when the hospital isn't teeming as usual, and the corridors rushing, and too much curiosity aroused. This is a very serious and private matter. Private," he emphasized, looking from one to the other slowly and pointedly.

  "You can rely on my discretion," said the priest, his golden eyes quietly alarmed.

  "Yes. And you, Howard?"

  "Give me a dollar," said Howard, smiling. Dr. Hedler stared a moment, then took out his billfold, extracted a dollar bill from it and laid it before Howard, who said, "I am a lawyer. You have just given me a retainer. So anything you say to me and anything I hear in this room is completely private and confidential." His kind boyish face stopped smiling. He put the bill in his pocket and settled his rangy body in the leather chair. He could see the shimmering mountains in the distance, deepening slowly to purple in the evening sky. The weather was still very hot though it was the latter part of August.

  "Howard," said Louis, "you were Jon Ferrier's lawyer, weren't you?"

  "Yes. Here in Hambledon. I was the one who moved for a change of venue, as you know, and it was granted, considering the atmosphere in this town against Jon. Then I got it moved to Philadelphia and found the best lawyers for Jon there." His face became as grave as Louis'. "Why, Louis?"

  Dr. Hedler looked down at a thick folder on his desk. He sighed. He rubbed his eyes and stared through the windows, and his ringer tapped the folder. "There is one thing," he said, "Jon can't be tried for the same alleged crime, can he? Double jeopardy."

  Howard sat up alertly. "No, he can't. What the hell is this, Louis?"

  Louis said, "But it would ruin Jon, wouldn't it, if fresh evidence were unearthed that he had really 'bungled' the abortion on Mavis—perhaps deliberately so—and killed her and his unborn child? It could result in the revocation of his license to practice anywhere?"

  "I suppose so," said Howard, and now he was as alarmed as the doctor. "You know more about that part than I do, though. Come on, Louis! Tell me."

  "Let me begin at the beginning," said Louis, wiping his face with his handkerchief. He lit a cigar and Howard saw that his hands were shaking slightly. He opened the folder and stared at it grimly, nodding his head from time to time. "It begins with Kent Campion."

  Now the quiet priest sat up very straight in his own chair and both he and Howard fixed their eyes on the doctor.

  "Jon," said Louis, "made a very bad error when he began to oppose ambitious politicians in Washington a couple of years ago. He joined the Anti-Imperialist League founded by George S. Boutwell, former Senator from Massachusetts, former Secretary of the Treasury under Grant. I remember that Boutwell said, 'Our war to free Cuba must not be turned into wars for empire. If America ever does seek empire, and most nations do, then planned reforms in our domestic life will be abandoned, states' rights will be abolished—in order to impose a centralized government upon us for the purpose of internal repudiation of freedom, and adventures abroad. The American dream will then die—on battlefields all over the world—and a nation conceived in liberty will destroy liberty for Americans and impose tyranny on subject nations.' Boutwell also said, if I am repeating him correctly, and he quoted Thoreau: 'If I knew a man was approaching my house to do me good, I would flee for my life.' Then he went on to say, 'Every ambitious would-be empire clarions it abroad that she is conquering the world to bring it peace, security and freedom, and is sacrificing her sons only for the most noble and humanitarian purposes. That is a lie, and it is an ancient lie, yet generations still rise and believe it!'"

  Howard hesitated. He rubbed his long jaw. Then he said,

  "I belong to the Anti-Imperialist League, too. I joined when that scoundrel lawyer, Albert Beveridge, now a Senator from Indiana, shouted that 'Who dares to stop America now, now when we are at last one people, strong enough for any task, great enough for any glory destiny can bestow?' He also yelled, 'Our dream is the dream of American expansion until all the seas and nations shall bloom with that flower of liberty —the flag of
the United States of America!' He wasn't the only one, Louis. He even had the antiwar Populists applauding him! Yes. So, I joined the League. I didn't know Jon was a member, though."

  "It seems," said Louis with a wry smile, "that not only did he join but he gave thousands of dollars to it and wrote little anonymous leaflets for it. Campion found out. He's hated Jon ever since. Calls him un-American, antipatriotic, antidestiny, and such. Even a traitor. Yet I understand that all the League wants is peace at home and abroad, and needed social reforms put into practice, so as to end, justly, the war between labor and capital, assure the soundness of our currency, abolish unjust taxation, advance the cause of the American Negro and the Indians in the West, outlaw child labor, and punish and banish from office all corrupt politicians. I am quoting your League, of course."

  "Those are our objectives," said Howard, "and very decent and worthy ones."

  "Yes. But that doesn't help Jon. He made a terrible enemy of the empire-loving Campion and his fellows, though he doesn't know. I also think there is something else—personal. Campion has complained that Jon induced his son to leave his seminary and 'flee abroad to some disreputable place where a father cannot reach, comfort and sustain him.'"

  The priest uttered an exclamation of anger. "That is most untrue, Doctor! I hope I am not violating a confidence—well, even if I am—but Jon saved young Francis Campion's life! I know where Francis is. He could assure you of the truth, and not lies."

  "Then," said Louis, "get him. Bring him back as soon as possible."

  The priest said, "He is in France. I will cable him tonight."

  Louis sighed. "At the best, he will be able to return in ten days. Send for him, Father. Tonight."

  "I will do even more than that," said the priest. "I will explain, in my cable, why it is needed that Francis not only return at once, but that he send me a cable refuting the—er— errors of his father. That should arrive in less than four days after my cable is sent." His young face was greatly disturbed.

  Howard, equally disturbed, said, "What is all this, Louis? Why is this necessary?"

  Louis looked down at the folder. "I am endeavoring to lay the foundation for what I must tell you." He folded his arms on his desk and held Howard's eyes.

  "Jon has always been a contentious man, and controversial, in Hambledon, even from boyhood. We all know that. Even worse, he was always honest." He gave his guests a rueful glance. "There were times when I could have smote Jon thankfully. There were times when I accused him of practically everything. He has no tact, no diplomacy. Unfortunately, too, he is usually right, and that's unpardonable, isn't it? You will remember little Martha, Howard."

  "Yes, God forgive me, I do."

  "Do you see him often, Howard?"

  "No. I suppose he's forgiven me. He told me so, anyway. But he doesn't forget. He's a relentless man and won't forget a wrong. We—Beth and I—kept inviting him to visit us, and he always refused in his blunt fashion. He informed us he wished to have nothing more to do with Hambledon. Yes, I know he is bitter. My parents do invite Mrs. Ferrier, and she accepts our invitations, but when she has dinner guests of her own, Jon always has an excuse not to be present. He won't forgive Hambledon—not that I blame him. But what about that new 'evidence' you mentioned, Louis? What has it got to do with Jon?"

  "To be brief about it, Howard, Campion has declared a vendetta against Jon, all very smooth and righteous, of course, and for the good of the town. The plot has been under way for some time. The Senator and quite a number of other people—you'd be surprised—not only want to drive Jon out of town but want to deprive him of his license to practice anywhere. And to subject him to new criminal proceedings."

  "But they can't do that!" cried Howard. "He can't be tried again for the alleged murders!"

  "No. Perhaps not. But he can be tried for performing abortions, can't he?" Louis opened a desk drawer and drew out a slender piece of linen, stained, and laid it on the desk. Then he opened it silently, and the two other men saw a long curved instrument. "A curette," said Louis. "For the scraping of a uterus. It is used for legal—and for illegal purposes. It is a lifesaving instrument after a spontaneous abortion, and it is also used by abortionists. Look at it, Howard."

  With horror Howard picked up the instrument, and then he saw the script on the silver handle. "Jonathan Ferrier!" The priest looked at it and shrank.

  "Yes. I've talked with Martin Eaton, Mavis' uncle, at the Senator's request. I went to Martin's house. He gave me this curette. He said Mavis had brought it to him—after Jon performed the abortion on her. She told him that Jon had insisted on performing the abortion the night before he left for Pittsburgh. He did not want children. She was heartbroken—"

  Howard looked at him wildly, then ran his freckled hand through his bush of auburn curls. His light eyes bulged. "Why, that's an infernal lie if I ever heard one! I think old Eaton's lying! He heard the medical testimony of doctors from this very hospital, Louis, and the testimony of doctors in Pittsburgh, that Jonathan was there two, three, days before —" He banged his fist on the desk. "For Christ's sake, Louis! How could you believe their lies for a moment? Your own surgeons, your own doctors, in this damned hospital, said she had been—aborted—at least forty-eight hours after Jonathan left Hambledon!"

  Louis shook his head slowly and painfully. "I know, I know, Howard. Calm down, if you please. But why did old Martin—old indeed!—he's years younger than I am—lie like that? I have his solemn statement in this folder. He's a doctor himself. He was here in this hospital with Mavis and he had admitted, before she died, that Jonathan had been in Pittsburgh for several days. I heard him myself while we were trying to save her life. He was distracted. He did say, over and over, when she died, 'He's guilty! Guilty as all hell!' Well, we can put that down to his distraught state. The girl must have lied to him—he was alone with her when she died. That's the only explanation."

  Father McNulty spoke in a hushed and shaken voice, "Nothing in the world, even if he confessed it himself, would convince me that Jon ever had anything to do with that crime, that frightful crime."

  "Nothing in the world, Father," said Louis, "would convince me either. I know Jon. I've hated him more often than I've liked him, and wanted to get him off the staff and do him other mischief when he openly insulted me and called me 'Doctor Bogus.'" He smiled sadly. "But I know him for a good man, even when I wanted to cut his throat." He hesitated. "The—committee—went to see Dr. Humphrey Bedloe of the Friends', too. You know old pompous Humphrey. The committee, I might mention, was composed of Senator Campion, Mr. Witherby, and Dr. Schaefer—whom Jon called a butcher and a murderer, with some reason—and a few more prominent citizens who have, to put it kindly, encountered Jon before in some of his less benevolent moods, in and out of the hospitals.

  "Well, they went to see old Humphrey and showed him the curette, and he was aghast. He had admitted that he had thrown Jon off the staff, and Board, even before he was tried. He also admitted he had been 'hasty' and that he had never really believed in Jon's guilt. Then they showed him the curette, and he almost had a stroke. He then confessed that he knew someone who had told him that he had seen Jon in town the day the abortion had taken place."

  The large froggy eyes moved from one face to another. "It was on that frail little evidence—though you never knew it, Howard—that Jon was arrested in Hambledon. Humphrey refused to give the name of the man, but when the committee called on him—with his evidence—he blurted out the story. It was Tom Harper."

  Howard glared at him with incredulity. "Tom Harper, who's dying of cancer, and whom Jon is helping so wonderfully now?"

  "The very same," said Louis, and he told the two men. They looked at him, dumfounded and sick. "Of course," said the doctor, "it isn't possible that it is true. I have my own means of information, and I know they went to Tom. There was a rumor that Jon had been very harsh and cruel to him, had driven him from practice, and then had, even more cruelly, gave him a 'menial' position as
a hired overseer on one of his farms. I see you both know the real story. At any rate, Tom then admitted that he had lied to Humphrey out of envy and resentment for Jon, and he was brokenhearted. They tried to inveigle him into making a false affidavit, I heard. Thelma, his wife, told me. But he absolutely refused, and threatened to go to Jon with the tale." Louis' sigh was very deep. "Unfortunately, Tom died at six o'clock this morning, of a massive internal hemorrhage, caused by his disease. So, we have only Thelma's word that Tom had told the committee that he had lied to Humphrey. The rumor remains of Jon's 'cruelty' to that unfortunate man. If Thelma tries to help Jon, it will be brought out, to Jon's injury, that he had given Tom and her a contract, most generous—amazingly kind and charitable and generous—assigning the income of the farm to Tom, or to Thelma, for life, and Jon also has paid for their children's education in the future. The committee is already calling that a 'bribe to stifle the truth.'"

  "Dear God," groaned Howard. "What kind of people live in this world, anyway?"

  Louis was so disturbed that he could not help saying, "Don't be too hard on humanity, Howard. We—you—are part of it. You will recall the day when Jon told you about your little girl, Martha. I believe you called him a 'murderer' yourself. This was dutifully repeated all over the town."

  The priest looked at Howard compassionately. Howard said, "I deserved that I really deserved that. I thought it was the truth. Or perhaps I did not Perhaps I was shouting at the threat to Martha and not really at Jon."

  "We all try to excuse ourselves, myself included," said Louis Hedler. "I'm sure this is a familiar story to you, isn't it, Father?"

  "Very familiar," said the priest. "Even in the Confessional, people will try to defend themselves. And even on their deathbeds sometimes." He had suddenly begun to look much older and wearier than usual. Louis took a sheet of paper out of the folder and studied it "Yes," he said, and folded his hands over the sheet.

  "I don't know if you know Peter McHenry, Howard, though Father McNulty does. It seems that Father McNulty had practically kidnaped Jon on the River Road one day to bring him to Matilda McHenry—"