"Then I knew that Mavis was dying, that it was a matter of less than an hour. She had remained conscious throughout her suffering. I sent strangers from her room. I took her burning hands in mine and said to her, 'Before God, Mavis, you must tell me the truth, for you are dying and will soon face your God, and you must not go to Him with a lie on your lips.'
"The child was fearfully frightened. She struggled with herself, and then she confessed.
"Jonathan, she said, had long ago rejected her and was not living with her as man and wife. He despised her, upbraided her constantly, called her a fool and mindless. She had wanted only to be happy in her life, to dress prettily, to be adored, to be pampered, to be treated as a lovable child who must not be denied. It was most piteous. Mavis was a woman, almost twenty-four, yet she spoke as one who is only five years old, and as simply. She had often wanted to return to her old home, she said, to the arms of her adopted parents, for she was lonely and unwanted and unneeded and unloved in her husband's house."
Liar, liar, thought Howard. She still could not refrain from lies even when she was terrified and knew she was dying. She must leave behind her the blameless and luminous memory she had created in her life. All Howard's pity was for the stricken father and the maligned husband of that craven young woman on her dying bed, who must preserve a lie, and would have died with lies, if her father had not so pressed her.
"I listened to Mavis' faint and dying voice, so unlike her exuberant own, and did not fully understand at first. She told me that she had sought love and admiration apart from Jonathan, who withheld them from her. I do not remember clearly! I know she spoke of at least four men, but their names have gone from my recall. I was stunned beyond grief, beyond speech. Mavis pleaded for herself, for her forlorn state, and I could only hold my child in my arms and weep over her, and try to listen to this most important confession.
"Her last lover, the father of her aborted child, was Harald Ferrier. When she discovered her condition, Harald decided that she must be aborted, and told her that though he was fond of her, he did not love her and had no intention of asking her to divorce her husband and marry him. Moreover, he said, he was committed to another. He had regarded the liaison with Mavis as 'midsummer madness,' to quote his own words, and had not believed Mavis was more serious than himself. Their mistake could be rectified. I will not expound on the morals and degeneracy and bestiality of this man's character, a man judged to be amiable, admirable, kind and tolerant in this town, for all his light follies, which are well known. I leave the judgment to God.
"He told Mavis that he had heard of an abortionist, a competent surgeon in high esteem in Hambledon, who obliged unfortunate ladies in Mavis' predicament. This conversation, Mavis told me, was held in the Ferrier house during Marjorie Ferrier's absence, and in the weekly absence of servants. Mavis had sent for him to consult with him. When it was agreed that Mavis must be aborted, Harald Ferrier then called the scoundrel, the murderer, in Mavis' presence. She was afraid but not heartbroken. She confessed she had been deeply attracted to Harald Ferrier but had not loved him. The abortionist agreed to the operation, and named the time on the next day or so. Mavis, in her dying state, was not certain which was the date. She only knew that Jonathan had not been in town for at least two days. Approaching death was already confusing her mind.
"Then the abortionist made one demand. He asked that Mavis bring with her Jonathan's own curette, which, he declared, he had once seen in Jonathan's own examination room when they had been friends some years before. (I believe they had some disagreement later, which had caused coldness and aversion between them.) I am of the opinion that the abortionist demanded Jonathan's curette in the event that should Mavis suffer some consequences, he would not be held responsible. I refuse to believe that he had asked for the instrument with the deliberate intention of injuring Mavis, or even killing her, in order to involve Jonathan in his wife's subsequent dangerous illness or perhaps her death. No, no man can be that vile."
No? thought Howard, and felt the deepest bitterness of his life. Much was being revealed to him now than ever he had dreamed of, than ever he had feared of his fellows.
"The name of the murderer must be written here. It was Claude Brinkerman."
No! thought Howard, and then he said aloud, "Oh, no." For his own wife, Beth, was now expecting her third child with happiness and so was almost consoled for the death of the little girl, Martha. She had been delivered of her little son by Jonathan, but since he was leaving Hambledon, she had chosen Brinkerman, who had the highest reputation for dexterity and skill in obstetrics. If quite a number of his patients appeared to die, it was generally accepted as unfortunate and not the fault of the physician, and besides, women always had mysterious "inward trouble,"- due, it was said, to their tight corsets and heavy long skirts.
It was some aghast moments before Howard could continue his reading.
"Mavis knew where Jonathan kept his office keys, which he had not taken with him on his journey to Pittsburgh. She was able to secure the curette, which had been described to her by Jonathan himself long before. She then relocked the cabinet and replaced the keys.
"How can I continue this dreadful narrative, recalling everything with so much vividness and torment? Mavis died. That is, perhaps, the only thing that matters to me.
"The hospital had already been aware of Mavis' story that Jonathan had aborted her. She had screamed it over and over, in the presence of attending physicians and nurses, and myself. There were some who knew it could not be true. But Jonathan has many enemies. These were only too eager to believe the awful lie, even though they had been told it was not possible. They spread it through the town. I had sent a telegram to Jonathan the evening before to return, that Mavis was gravely ill and it was feared she was dying. He returned only three hours after her death, on the first train available.
"Why have I not, before this, told Mavis' true story to others, and to Jonathan? Why did I let him be tried for murder of his wife and unborn child—though he knew the child had not been his, and he had not injured my daughter? Why did I shout, 'no, no!' when the verdict of not guilty was brought in by the jury?
"You who read this, have pity on a father who adored his daughter beyond reason, and even with blasphemy. I believed that Mavis had spoken truly when she said that Jonathan had rejected her, had made her desperately unhappy, had almost driven her from his house. I still believe he had threatened her life. He had made my child wretched, and that was unpardonable. In her unhappiness she had sought love illicitly, and if that was wrong, it can be pardoned and understood. But she was so joyous, so affectionate. Love was part of her existence. She could not live without it and the admiration it brought. She wanted only to dance and sing and live, and this was denied her by both her husband and the man who murdered her.
"There was her name to protect, above all else. I vowed to keep clear and untarnished the lovely name she had made for herself not only in Hambledon but in many other places. Her good name was precious to me. No malicious scandal must touch her. No jeering name must dirty her. As she had lived, so she must be in death, loved, admired, remembered for her beauty and her youth, her laughter and her gaiety. The truth, spoken by me, would have condemned her name to infamy forever. What father would bring that upon his daughter?
"Would I have spoken had Jonathan been convicted for murders he had not committed? Before God, I do not know. I think I should have done so, as I write this, for there was the thought of Marjorie Ferrier, the mother of Jonathan, and I frequently confuse her in any mind with Hilda, for I loved them both. I should not have let Marjorie Ferrier's son die— at least I think that now.
"I must repeat: Had Jonathan loved my daughter as I loved her, had he been a second father to her, indulging her with affection, as I did, then she would not have strayed, she would not have died. Again, therefore, I hold him not guiltless of her death.
"I have but two things to speak of now. One is for verification, in the event t
hat anyone might challenge a dying man's confession of his guilt and his love. I have written that no one was in the Ferrier house on the day the abortion was arranged except Harald Ferrier and my daughter. There was one other: Marjorie Ferrier. She had intended to be absent that afternoon, and Mavis thought she was alone in the house. But Marjorie, who suffers from a serious heart affliction, had decided to rest. She, too, thought she was alone in the house, but then, hearing voices downstairs, she came down, also, and overheard the conversation between her son Harald and Mavis, and the arrangements they were making.
"Marjorie has told me this. She said she was afraid she would collapse in the hall. But she made her way upstairs and then fainted on her bed. Later, a physician was called for her. She did not know what to do. To speak to Mavis would have precipitated fresh tragedy, for Mavis was distraught She dared not think what a revelation to her husband would have brought about: disgrace. The ejection from Jonathan's house. Marjorie knew that Mavis and Jonathan were no longer husband and wife in the meaning of the word. What if Jonathan learned that his brother was the father of the unborn child? So Marjorie, though the thought of an abortion was unspeakable, decided to remain silent, to let the 'culprits," as she called my child and her lover, find their own solution. 'For the sake of all,' Marjorie said to me after Mavis' death. 'I kept my silence. My son Harald is my son, also, and though I do not condone, but only condemn, his actions, I must think of what would happen to him if Jonathan ever knew. I must think, too, of Jonathan. But,' she said to me much later, 'if Jonathan had been condemned to death for crimes he did not commit, then I should have come to you and told you you must tell the truth.'
"Marjorie does not know all the truth. She came to me after Mavis' death and told me that Mavis had informed her that Jonathan had aborted her in his own examination rooms. Marjorie knew this for a lie. She did not want me to believe such a lie.
"In a strange way we became conspirators of silence after Jonathan was acquitted. We have thought that best, best for the Ferrier family, best for Mavis' name. But Marjorie is afraid that in some way Jonathan will find out the truth and that he might try to kill his brother, not just for betraying him but for the anguish he had caused him, and the silence he had kept in the face of his brother's arrest. Jonathan is a violent man, and this I believe with all my heart. He is an unforgiving one, and implacable. I believe in Marjorie's fears.
"This letter should not have been written but for one reason. It is true that sometimes evil will out but not very often. Senator Kenton Campion came to me recently and told me that he knew that I 'knew' the truth about Mavis' death, that Jonathan Ferrier had indeed murdered his wife and child. He demanded the 'truth.' He wishes to destroy Jonathan for various reasons, and so do others equally malevolent. When I refused to speak, he informed me that he was aware that Mavis was my daughter. To protect Mavis I gave Louis Hedler the curette which she had given to me, and let him believe what he willed. For Mavis is, to me, still the only creature of consequence in the world.
"However, I cannot let Jonathan continue to be condemned. I cannot let him become the victim of powerful malice. I do not know what my sentiments are toward him now. I have been so confused for so long a time. But it is possible I still love him. And I remember that he did not testify to the fact that Mavis' child had not been his. Was he protecting me or Mavis?
"Humanity is not to be understood, no, not even by mankind itself. We do abominable things in the name of love. We do disastrous things to protect ourselves and others. We permit evil to grow more powerful every day and make no attempt to halt it. We are afraid. We are cowards. We do not possess the manhood with which we were endowed at birth; we lost it, we always lose it, through compromise, through hope, through lies to ourselves, through commitment to false ideals, through fear, through womanish timidity, through exigency.
"We condemn, we lie, by silence, when we should speak. But for that cowardice we cannot be forgiven.
"I beg Marjorie Ferrier's forgiveness in breaking my silence. She will know at the last that I did it for her son Jonathan, and not out of weakness or present fear of death. But what the results will be I do not know. I no longer care, except for Flora, my wife, who has been my dear companion and friend for many years and who will have to endure living when I am dead. The time has come to exonerate Jonathan Ferrier and protect him from the plot gathering against him. As I forgive him may he forgive me, and may he remember, as I do now, the years when I regarded him as my son.
"(Signed) Martin Joseph Eaton, M.D."
The stark and blazing silence and heat in the study had increased. Howard could hardly breathe for emotion and physical oppression. He gently laid down the papers, contemplated them for a moment, then said quietly, "Martin? I have finished."
The lightless eyes opened sluggishly and looked with a dazed expression upon the younger man. Then Martin groaned as if from deep in his flesh rather than from his throat, and he pulled himself up in his chair with all the effort of his body. "Yes," he said. His look, his manner, forbade Howard to remark on the dolorous saga he had read, and Howard thought, with increasing compassion, that Jonathan Ferrier was not the only one in this miserable affair who was proud.
"I wish it notarized," said Martin. "I have witnesses here, or you may have your own, for there must be witnesses."
"Yes," said Howard. "I will arrange it all tomorrow."
Martin shook his monolithic head and for the last time, Howard was to remember, he smiled. "You lawyers," he said again. "It is always 'tomorrow' to you. Tomorrow. But it must be today. Now. Why does tomorrow always fascinate you so much? The law's delay—' Call your office. Ask for your seal and your witnesses. At once."
He looked imperatively at Howard. "I may die tonight," he said, "then it will all be of no use."
Why, indeed, not today? Howard telephoned his office and then he sat with Martin and drank some of his whiskey, and neither said a word. The papers lay between them like something with a life of its own, palpitating. There were many things Howard wished to say to this dying father. He wished to tell him that he had still been unjust to Jonathan Ferrier in his remarks that Jonathan had been harsh to his young wife and had rejected her. He wished to tell Martin that quite a little clique had known Mavis' true character, and her love affairs, and that a few, if not more, knew her heartlessness, craft and malice and self-absorption. But that would bring no peace to Martin Eaton, but only distress.
Two clerks, one with the seal, arrived in fifteen minutes, sweating with zeal and the heat, Howard did not permit them to read the papers; he merely had Martin initial each page, followed by the initials of the clerks. The clerks were eager to read, but Howard was deft. He needed but their acknowledgment that they had seen Martin sign each page, and then his signature at the end, repeating the one he had already written. Then he asked Martin to raise his right hand and swear that everything he had written in the affidavit had been true, that he had made the affidavit of his own will and desire and had written it in his own hand. This done, Howard put his notary's seal on each page, very carefully. It was not necessary, but he knew Jonathan's enemies.
Martin chuckled as he laid down his pen and nodded when Howard refilled his glass. "Campion," he said in his dry rustle of a voice. He looked into the glass, then raised it and stared at Howard directly. "To justice," he said, and laughed for the last time in his life.
When Howard arrived at his pleasant house on the street which Jonathan had derided—Rose Hill Road—he said to his pretty wife, Beth: "Don't ask me questions, dear, or for explanations. But you must never see Claude Brinkerman again. We must find someone else when you have the baby."
"Well, really, Howard, he is the best," Beth replied with surprise, and looked at him searchingly. "I have recommended so many of my friends to him."
"You must never do that again!" he said with such emphasis that she was quite astonished and stared at him.
"Why Howard! You look—distracted. So pale, so concerned, so very,
very grave. Is something wrong, dearest?"
"Very wrong, Beth. But you must do as I wish, for I know things you do not know. I've had a terrible three hours. I can't tell you. Just do as I say."
She continued to stare at him with wifely conjecture. Then she said, "Very well, Howard, you must have your reasons. I wish I had had your advice before, though. Only last November I sent my little milliner to him—a very talented girl with ribbons and plumes, she made my Christmas hat, and we both liked it so much that I permitted her to display it in her little window for a few days. You liked it, too, remember? Fawn, felt, with yellow ribbons and orange plumes, quite becoming, and you said— What's the matter, Howard?"
"Beth!" He had jumped to his feet. "What is your milliner's name?"
"Why—why—how extraordinary you are, Howard, and how peculiar you look! And what does it matter? It's Mary Snowden."
Howard smacked his hands together hard and clenched his teeth visibly with triumph. "I thought I'd heard that name before, by God! Beth! Why did you send that girl to Claude Brinkerman last November?"
"For goodness sake, Howard! What questions you ask! It won't mean anything to you, and it is a little indelicate. She had female trouble."
"What in hell's that?"
Beth dropped her pretty eyes. "Inwardly," she said with a prim purse of her hps.
"Well, for God's sake, Beth, what is it? 'Inwardly' covers a lot of territory, I can see for myself. Please, Beth, forget you're a lady for a moment. You don't know how deadly serious this is. Let's be frank. Was the girl pregnant?"
"Howard! How can you say such a dreadful thing about a poor, talented, good hard-working girl! So nice—so—almost —a lady. Well-mannered. Clever. Of course she wasn't pregnant. She isn't married!"
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