Testimony of Two Men

by Taylor Caldwell

  "I have written the whole story here, lest it die with me and evil again be done. I am glad you came. I did not know to whom to intrust this story. But, as you are Jon's friend, I know I can trust you. I have but a few more lines to write, and it is finished. Then you may read it for yourself and save both you and me from copious explanations and words. I am so weary these days. So—beset."

  Howard felt that this was a momentous time. He sat in silence as the pen painfully scratched its way across the page. He saw it dipped into the ink, saw it write, saw it dipped again. The dead hand lay on the paper, unmoving. The shutters were open here and the hot bright wind entered, fluttering the written pages, stirring the dust, lifting the pages of open books, glittering on the edges of furniture. The large dying face of Martin Eaton was intent, and there was gray sweat on his parched forehead and fallen cheeks.

  There was something to be said in favor of a man who was dying with dignity, thought Howard Best, a man who asked for no pity, no sentimentality, no false denial of the truth. Howard had not the slightest doubt that the agonizingly written document he was about to read would right an evil and save a man from complete ignominy and injustice.

  Martin laid down the pen and stared at the final paragraphs he had written. He said, "I have made this out in the form of an affidavit. I had thought of you to act as the notary, or the witness." He looked at Howard now, raising his eyes with a conspicuous effort, and what life remained in him shone, for the last time, with indomitable life and determination. "This has not been easy for me to do. I know this will destroy others. But there comes an hour when a man must do as he must do, and there is nothing else." He nodded at the papers, spent, and Howard reached to the desk and took them. Martin lay back in his chairs and closed his eyes.

  The writing was amazingly clear and careful, as if written so there could be no conjecture over a single word. It was small and sharp though sometimes wavering, but every period and comma were there, every large capital.

  "I, Martin Joseph Eaton, of River Road, Hambledon, in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, make this statement, on this date, August 29th, 1901, of my own free will and desire,

  and in my own handwriting, which can be verified, in order that Jonathan Ferrier of this town will no longer be the subject of calumny, odium, disgrace and scandal and libel, as he has been since November 5th, 1900. It has been in my power, and in the power of someone else to be named, to have righted this wrong, but I have refrained for reasons I will now set forth.

  "The dead are beyond our feeble hatred and our derision, and this I should have known long ago. To protect the name of the dead is not only futile and sentimental—when they have caused misery and despair—but they would not have it so and perhaps do not wish it so. If God is a God of love, He is also the God of Justice and even of wrath, and so I dare not die until I have written all that must be written on this day.

  "My niece, Mavis Alicia Eaton, was not my niece. She was the daughter of my brother's wife, Hilda, Mrs. Jerome Eaton.

  "In my youth and young manhood I loved Marjorie Farmington, now Mrs. Adrian Ferrier of this town. But she married Adrian Ferrier, and I believed that I would care for no other woman. Then my brother, two years my junior, Jerome, met a young lady of considerable family and fortune in Pittsburgh, where he was a teacher of history. Her name was Hilda Gorham, and she resembled Marjorie Ferrier in a most extraordinary way. I did not know her until she had married my brother, for I was in Heidelberg at the time for a year's supplementary study. When I returned and saw Hilda for the first time, it was as if my whole life had been renewed, and Hilda told me later that she had loved me instantly. However, she had no reason to divorce my brother, and she was fond of him, and we both decided he must not be hurt, as he was a man of singular innocence and kindness and trust.

  "I have no excuse to offer for my love for Hilda and our subsequent actions. Love, I have heard, is its own reason for being. It is also its own terror and suffering. When Mavis was born, it was Jerome who held her proudly in his arms and claimed her as his daughter, and not I. He was an unworldly man and was never suspicious, as he ought to have been under the circumstances, on which I will not expound."

  Howard felt greatly moved and full of a sympathetic suffering. He looked up from the pages, but Martin lay back in his chair as if asleep, his face peaceful and resigned.

  "My brother and Hilda and Mavis remained in Pittsburgh and I saw them only occasionally. Therefore, I was able to maintain my equanimity and composure, and to sustain Hilda in her silence. I saw the child infrequently, also, but loved her with a passionate adoration which should be reserved for the Deity only. I would gladly have given my life for her. When her parents died suddenly, I knew I must take her into my house. I had, in the meantime, married my dear Flora, who will be the one to suffer excessively when this document is made public, as it must be. I needed her devotion and her affection, for I have always been a lonely man. I believe our marriage has been happy and I have given Flora no reason to mistrust me.

  "She, too, loved Mavis, who was the most beautiful child I have ever seen, and she happily agreed that we should adopt her as our own, for Flora could bear no children. She treated Mavis with affection and care of a mother, in all respects. Sufficient.

  "To me, at least, Mavis was perfection, not only in appearance but in character and grace. When I held her on my knee and fondled her, I could hardly endure my joy and delight and love. As she grew to girlhood and then to womanhood my pride in her became daily stronger, my care closer. All who had seen and known Mavis can testify to her beauty, her winsomeness, her happy laughter, her gaiety, her fascination. This is no mere driveling of a father, but the truth."

  Again Howard looked at Martin Eaton, but he had not moved. Howard thought, My God, how this will shake this town! It was not a pleasant thought, and Howard hesitated before continuing to read.

  "I have always loved young people, especially those of beauty and charm like Mavis, and those of dedication, intelligence and honor, such as Jonathan Ferrier. He was not only my loved Marjorie's son, but he had her character and uprightness, though not her humor and tolerance. From earliest childhood he was somewhat relentless and a stickler for pride, and what he called, as a child, 'justice.' These are admirable traits, but like all admirable traits they can be carried to excess. I often told him when he was very young that he could never expect absolute honor and truth and justice in this world, but I discovered that he did not believe me, and I know that he was very angered when he was forced to perceive the reality of evil and malice and cruelty in our midst There is much that is intolerant in Jonathan, and this has been his burden and aroused much hatred against him— though I confess that he was intolerant against all mendacity, double-dealing, lies, hypocrisy, injustice, hardheartedness, and sentimentality. I often told him that it was excellent to be against these evils but that he should soften his expressions when he encountered them, for it is the curse of mankind that it must pretend not to condemn when condemnation—if this were a good world—is necessary. 'Truth crushed to earth will rise again,' is a pretty aphorism, but it is not valid, and if it does rise, then it is a miracle for the ages to stand before, agape."

  Amen, thought Howard, with deep sadness.

  "I saw from the beginning that Jonathan would make an excellent physician and so guided him into the noblest profession any man can pursue with the exception of the clergy. He was much intrigued, even as a child, when I told him that once all physicians had been priests, and all priests physicians. The thought fascinated him, and he saw immediately that there was the closest of all relationships in those professions, for a man does not deal with the body successfully unless he considers the soul, nor does he deal with a man's spiritual vices unless he also deals with the body which manifests them.

  "I was his mentor. His father did not highly approve of Jonathan's choice of a profession, but I will not comment upon Adrian except to say that I wonder to this hour why Marjorie Farmington had marr
ied him. Marjorie, however, believed Jonathan would make a splendid physician. We had many quiet discussions about the matter. But Marjorie was also of the opinion that Jonathan must curb, to some extent, his pride, his intolerance, his relentlessness, if he were to live among men with any comfort. I am afraid that neither of us has been very successful with Jonathan in this regard."

  That is putting it very mildly, thought Howard, and for the first time since beginning this sad history he smiled a little.

  "I loved Jonathan Ferrier as my son. When he told me, when Mavis was only fifteen, that he wished to marry her in good time, I was filled with happiness. The two I loved most dearly in the world would be my children through their marriage. The day of their wedding remains in my memory like a beautiful painting, perfect, without a flaw. I will carry the memory of that day with me into eternity, if there is indeed eternity for us.

  "I do not wish those who read this to believe that I was totally insensible to Mavis' faults, as if I were a stupid and blinded man. I knew her to be selfish and even petulant at times, and demanding, but it gave me pleasure to satisfy all her desires far beyond her needs. I knew Jonathan would so treat her, or at least I believed he would. I gave her to him less than giving her in marriage to another man, than in putting her in the arms of a younger father who would protect and guard and love her when I was dead. It was a fatuous error, and I have no explanation for it, and no excuse, though I know it was ridiculous. A husband demands more of his wife than does her father, and he has a clearer eye for her faults and a duller eye for her virtues. But this I did not know until the day of her death.

  "All seemed well with that most auspicious marriage for nearly a year, and then I observed that Jonathan appeared distrait at times, and unusually nervous and abstracted. But he was new in his practice and I believed that was the trouble. As for Mavis, she was herself as usual, deeply enjoying life, radiant in the mere act of living, full of laughter and brightness and luminous smiles. If sometimes I thought that she seemed still a little frivolous for a young matron, I remembered her youth and her inexperience. She told me how deeply she loved Jonathan, and I had no way of knowing that this was not the truth—then. Mavis, Mavis."

  Again Howard was almost unbearably touched at those last words, written as if spoken to Martin's deepest self and not to anyone who would read this. The heat in the dusty study increased, the wind was more dazzling, the light sharper. Martin Eaton had not moved a finger. He had withdrawn to some great distance where no one could ever reach him again with pain or despair or longing.

  "I am growing weary," the dying man had written. "I must be briefer for I may die before this is completed. As the few years of that marriage continued I saw that Jonathan was growing more absorbed in his work and less in his wife, but I judged that to be quite common among doctors, who do not

  make the most desirable husbands in the world. If they are truly dedicated men—and only dedicated men should practice the holy art of medicine—then they cannot give themselves entirely to their wives and their children. Much of them belongs to their patients, and this must never be denied. Sometimes I told Jonathan that he must not pursue even medicine with such single ardor but that he should give some thought to Mavis. Invariably he agreed, but I remember, now, that his face would darken and he would quickly change the subject.

  "Then, two years before her death Mavis complained to me that Jonathan desired no children. This was on the occasion when I delicately suggested to her that a child, or two or three, would crown her married happiness. I was much disturbed at her answer—that Jonathan wished no family. I hinted about it once or twice to Jonathan himself, but he would put me off with a smile, one of his harsh jokes, or a shrug, or again with a change of subject.

  "I know the truth now—and from Mavis' dying lips—that it was she and not Jonathan who was averse to children. I know that she wished to keep herself uniquely herself, the first-adored of all who knew her. She did not want competition, nor had she any maternal instincts.

  "For the last three years of their marriage, Mavis and Jonathan lived apart, and had no conjugal intercourse with each other."

  Howard could not help an exclamation of astonishment,

  and it was abrupt in that hot and sunny silence. But Martin did not stir. He merely sank lower in his chair and appeared to dwindle.

  "All this I discovered later. In the meantime, and I must confess it, I was feeling the stress of my years and my practice, and I could not forget Hilda, the mother of my daughter. I resorted more and more to whiskey for release and comfort. This is well known in Hambledon. I give this as my excuse for not noticing the signs of disaster in Mavis' marriage until less than two years before her tragic death. Mavis appeared to have become more petulant, more absorbed in her own desires, more impatient, and on a number of occasions she would gibe at Jonathan in the company of others, and before me. I do not, even now, fully know the reason for this raillery of hers, but Jonathan never rebuked her. He remained

  silent, and for a hasty and imperious man this was remarkable.

  "Then, over a year before she died, Mavis told me that Jonathan, on several occasions, had threatened to kill her, and that once he had even taken her by the throat in rage. She exhibited actual terror of him to me, when she told me, and I knew when Mavis lied and knew when she spoke the truth. She really feared him. I said I would speak to him, for I was outraged and appalled, but she implored my silence."

  The stilted, old-fashioned phrases did not jar on Howard's mind. Now he felt intense alarm and consternation, and he was afraid. He felt for his pipe and lit it. He puffed a moment or two and again read those damning words. Then he hurried on with his reading.

  "I tried to question Mavis closely. I knew Jonathan's rash temper, his disregard for consequences when he was in a rage. But Mavis was evasive. She was not certain, she said, what it was that so displeased Jonathan, but she thought it was because she was so much younger than he was and much less serious, and that he expected too much of her. I was relieved, God help me. I agreed with her that this was probably the cause of his anger and that time would improve the situation. She assured me that I was probably right and would speak no more of it. However, I did notice that when she would look at Jonathan, it would be with sullenness, defiance, malice, and apprehension.

  "Jonathan had made my Mavis unhappy, had brought out in her those traits which were less pleasing than others, had caused her to fear him and to hate him. She was a light golden bird and he was a hawk, dark and somber. I see now, as I did not see until Mavis' death, that the marriage had been disastrous not only for Mavis but for Jonathan, and had inevitably been leading to tragedy. But Jonathan was older and wiser, and he was a man. Therefore, I hold him guilty of Mavis' death, and he alone."

  Howard read this over, and over, and his consternation grew.

  "Yes, I hold him guilty, though he did not do the deed of which he is still accused. It was not his child which Mavis was carrying. It was his brother's, Harald Ferrier's."

  Oh, my God! thought Howard, with repulsion and incredulousness. He put down the sheets of paper and went to the window and looked out and saw nothing of the beautiful gardens below, or of Flora among the zinnias, or of the shining blue floor of the river beyond. He had a single, wild impulse to take those papers and destroy them, and only the quick knowledge that they must remain intact for Jonathan's sake prevented him from acting. He went back to his chair. He lit his pipe again, for it had gone out. The scratch of the match on his sole was like a shot in the silent room, and he started at the sound. But Martin seemed asleep.

  "On October 30th, 1900, Jonathan Ferrier was called to Pittsburgh for a consultation, for over the years he had acquired a broad and excellent reputation. He remained there until the afternoon of November 5th, and of this there is no doubt, for so it has been attested to, under oath, by the most eminent men.

  "On November 3rd, 1900, Mavis came to me, desperately ill, hemorrhaging. She brought to me the curette of J
onathan, her husband, and told me that he had aborted her on October 29th, for again he had told her he would have no children of hers in his house. As she was obviously almost in extremis, I took her to the hospital. Otherwise, I should have hidden this crime, this infamy, in my house. I will not write here of my suffering and despair and hatred and rage. I only will write that Mavis told me that she had been aborted, in Jonathan's own examination room, and by him, on the eve of his departure to Pittsburgh, on October 29th.

  "As I sat by her bed in St. Hilda's Hospital, with all the help about Mavis which she needed, I swore to her that I would avenge her. I knew that she was dying. She was badly infected. Worse, they detected signs of mutilation, deliberate wounding, as by a savage madman who hated her. Then it was brought to my attention by competent colleagues whose word could not be challenged that Mavis' condition plainly showed that she had been aborted no earlier than November 1st. They preferred to believe that it was even later, on November 2nd. The septicemia, while fulminating and spreading rapidly, was not so advanced as it would have been had the abortion taken place on October 29th. And so I knew that Mavis had lied to me. But in the extremity of the hours I did not admonish her. She was so gravely ill, bleeding slowly to death, and agonized with pain and fever. Her uterus had been perforated in several places. The vagina was lacerated. The abortion, I was told, had been done by an amateur or a fiend.