"What do you want?" Jon asked, barring the way. But Robert saw over his shoulder and his face became horrified, and his reddish-gold mustache bristled. Slowly then he turned to look at Jonathan again, and he said, "Did you do this?" It was a foolish question, he knew, for now he could smell the rank alcohol. Jonathan's gray and sweating face and disordered black hair and soaked shirt were evidence enough of what had happened in this room. He saw that one of Jonathan's hands had bled a little; the brownish crust was all over the back in wrinkles.
"My God," said Robert.
"Pretty, isn't it?" said Jonathan. "Now, what the hell do you want?"
Robert could not look at him in this state, so he looked down helplessly at his shoes. "You. Dr. Hedler wants to see you in his office. It's very important. At St. Hilda's. He must see you at once. He asked me to come for you. He didn't want to use the telephone. All those listening girls at Central. It's most important—Jon. He's waiting for you."
"Tell Louis to go to hell. You can all go to hell," said Jonathan. "What does anything matter to me any longer? Good-bye, Bob. You won't see me again."
Robert looked up at him quickly, and his blue eyes darkened. "Oh, yes, I will. If you don't come with me now. I've got my buggy outside. I'll see you, Jon, and very soon—in jail."
"What?" Jonathan rubbed his hands over his wet face, then stared at his injured hand. "What are you talking about? Go home, Bob, like a good boy."
"Worse, prison," said Robert "Cant you hear me? Prison. For a long, long time—unless you help us to help you. There's a warrant right now in the sheriffs office for your arrest waiting to be signed right after Labor Day. He's holding it up at Louis' request."
"You must be out of your mind," said Jonathan with awe.
"No, you are, you crazy idiot!" said Robert "Look what you've done here!"
"What's that got to do with— What the hell are you talking about?" shouted Jonathan. "Sheriff. Warrant! Are you out of your mind?"
"No, you are," Robert repeated. He was quite pale. "See here, they are waiting, your friends. There's something you have to know at once. I won't tell you, so stop glaring at me. You must hear for yourself. Can't you clean yourself up in a hurry?" Robert added in pure desperation. He took Jonathan by his arm and shook him. "Clean up, in the washroom! Now! You've got to come with me!"
Jonathan frowned. He rubbed his throbbing head. He swallowed dryly. He examined his hand again. What had the fool said? Prison. He stared at Robert, who had gone to the washroom adjoining and was already running water into the basin. "I'll mop you up, if you're too helpless to do it yourself," said Robert. He came from the washroom with a wet towel and threw it into Jonathan's face. "You ought to be ashamed," he said in a suddenly boyish and broken voice. "Ashamed."
It was that tone that finally reached Jonathan. He pressed the wet towel over his face and rubbed the blood from his hands, and he was smiling a little. Then he went into the washroom and closed the door, and Robert, wincing, heard him being sick. While he waited Robert took a closer survey of the room, shaking his head. A few months ago he would not have understood, but now he knew too much. He had always known that Jonathan Ferrier was violent by nature, but the violence had remained pressed down for a long time. What had caused it to erupt? Robert sighed. He had a very clear idea. But if it had not been that, it would have been something else. The pent rebellion, for nearly a year, had finally grown too powerful to keep locked up and leashed. A tiger can be kept at bay only so long, and then it must charge.
Jonathan came from the washroom, gray but quiet, combing his dampened hair. He looked very ill, but at least he was as composed as a man like him could be. "Where's my jacket?" he asked. "There it is. Look at it. I must have slept in it. And Where's my collar and tie?"
"Here," said Robert, taking them from the desk. "I suppose you don't remember anything. That's a fine state of affairs, a man of your position getting mad drunk."
"You must try it sometime, Sunday-school boy," said Jonathan. "What did you say? Old Louis wants to see me in his office? At this hour? What time is it, anyway?"
"Nine o'clock. What's wrong with your watch?"
It was dangling by its chain, and the two men looked at it and saw that it was smashed also. "My grandfather's watch," said Jonathan, and he detached it from its chain and laid it down on his desk. "A repeater. Nine o'clock? What is Louis doing there in his office?"
"I told you, he's waiting for you, and that is all I am going to tell you. Have some gratitude, if you can. Come on." He watched Jonathan fumbling with his collar button, then went to his aid deftly. He saw Jonathan's eyes close to his, black and whitely polished, in spite of his state, and Jonathan smiled at him almost gently. "You're a good boy, Bob," he said. "I'm getting very fond of you. What's on Louis' mind? Someone done some more slaughtering in the operating room? If so, I don't intend to do anything about it."
"Come on!" said Robert, with a sudden access of impatience. "You look like a tramp, but it can't be helped."
As it was half-past nine St. Hilda's was quiet but glowing with lights here and there in the hot darkness of the night. In silence, Jonathan and Robert went to Louis Hedler's office, passing only one lone nurse and one intern, who stared after them curiously. Robert opened the door and said, "Here he is, at last. I found him dead drunk, and I had to pull him together."
"A canard," said Jonathan. He stopped. He saw in the room not only Louis Hedler at his desk, a fat and foppish frog, but Father McNulty and Howard Best, in leather chairs near the desk. "What is this?" asked Jonathan slowly.
"Come in, Jon," said Louis, staring at him with a formidable expression. "You look very dapper, I must admit. Did Robert pull you out of a trash barrel? Robert, my boy, would you please lock that door behind Jon? We don't want to be disturbed for a while, at least." He stared at Jonathan again. "Is whiskey always your fortress and strength, Jon? Is that how you answer living?"
"Tell me a better way," said Jonathan, but he was watching Robert Morgan locking the door. He raised his eyebrows when Robert put the key firmly in his pocket.
"Hello, Jon," said Howard Best, rising and coming to him and holding out his hand. They had met occasionally in the last months, but Jonathan had never been cordial and never engaged his friend in conversation any longer. So, his temper rising again, he looked pointedly at the hand and did not take it. Howard dropped it, and color came into his kind face. "All right, Jon," he said. "You never give up, do you?"
"Why should I? Now tell me what all—"
"No, you never give up," said Howard. "A damned proud, bellicose bastard—that's what you are, Jon. An unforgiving —well, I won't call you that name because it would reflect on your mother, whom I respect, which is more than I can say for you. What's the matter with you?" Howard had begun to shout "You and your damned choleric pride, your self-righteousness! I admit I was rough with you, I admit it. But curse it, weren't you ever rough with anybody? Hah! Didn't you ever accuse anybody of something which was false?"
"Yes, he did," said Robert Morgan, standing beside Louis' desk. "He's self-righteous, all right. He believed all the lies of the town about Miss Jenny Heger. He told me some of them and laughed, too. But that's all right for Jonathan Ferrier! What he believes is truth, no matter how much of a disgusting lie it is. He makes all the judgments; no one dares to challenge them." The young man's face was quiet and resolute, but he looked the astounded Jonathan in the eye.
"I talked with Jenny today," said Robert, and now he turned his head aside. "I wanted to marry her. She is the loveliest young lady I've ever known. She was—well, she was just distracted. It seems that she had thought something unpleasant about Jon, but she didn't tell me what it was. But she did tell me that he had believed vicious tales about her, and had never defended her, and had behaved abominably to her. If—if I were more of a man, I suppose, I'd punch his teeth out, talking and thinking those things about Jenny, as he did."
Jonathan's face had closed, the muscles rising and standi
ng up on it in hard ridges. He was thinking. Then the sickness he had felt in his office was nothing compared with this.
He thought of Jenny, and he put his hand to his forehead. He said, "I think I must sit down, if you don't mind." He saw an empty chair and went to it, walking very carefully, and he sat down and he looked at the edge of Louis' desk and felt the accusing silence about him. He said, "Jenny told you all that?"
"Yes, she did. She's a very reticent girl, as you ought to know, and very innocent and restrained. A lovely girl." Robert's voice shook a little. "She wouldn't have told me if I hadn't asked her to marry me for about the tenth time. I saw she was in a very agitated state of mind. She couldn't help herself. She cried. And so she told me. I'd like to know what you did to her, Ferrier."
Jonathan considered, then he look up and he smiled faintly. "You can punch my teeth out if you want to, Bob."
Louis Hedler laughed, and so did the priest, who had as yet said nothing, and Jonathan held out his hand to Howard Best frankly and said, "I don't deserve having you shake hands with me, Howard, but do it anyway."
"It almost kills me," said Howard, "it really almost kills me." But he took the offered hand. "And I bet it just about kills you, too, to show a little common charity."
Father McNulty spoke. "I think Aristotle, in his Poetics, mentions that the hero of a tragedy must be a worthy man, and admirable. He must also have some grave fault of character which is the source of his tragedy. That is you, Jon."
"Very well, I confess I am a swine, that everything that has happened to me is my fault, my own fault, my most grievous fault, Father—if I remember the Confessional." Jonathan's face had begun to spark again and temper showed in his eyes. "I was accused of two murders I never committed, and so that is my fault. I spent months in prison and was' tried, and that, too, was my fault. This town believed that I was guilty, and drove me out, and lied about me—and that is my fault: I never wanted anything but good for it—but that is my most grievous fault. For that, of course, for all of it, I can't ever be forgiven. Unpardonable sins."
"Now, Jon," said Louis Hedler.
But Father McNulty was regarding Jonathan with stern sadness. "You are that worthy and admirable man Aristotle spoke of, Jon. But you have a terrible defect of character and soul. You demand perfection of everybody. You have no pity for weak human nature. You despise it—"
"Oh, so I should forgive and kiss and sob over every dog who's licked at my reputation for years, must I, and thank him for the smear? Frank, I never considered you overly intelligent, but I did think that you had some understanding."
"Thank you." The young priest's face had flushed and his golden eyes brightened with his own anger. "No, no one expects you to fawn on your detractors who've done you an awful mischief, and those who falsely accused you of crimes you did not commit. But you have raised up enemies—"
"And that's my fault, too, I suppose." Jonathan's harsh voice grew louder. "I only had no patience for lies, for incompetence, for hypocrisy, for pretense. But I should have 'charity' for them, I suppose? I should smile at liars, incompetents, hypocrites, pretenders, and tell them they are dear souls?"
"No." The priest sighed. "No decent man would expect that. But there is a way of correcting error. This is also another way: using a sledgehammer. That's your method, Jon."
"Final, too," said Jonathan, and he laughed shortly. No one laughed with him.
"One should walk softly In this world," said Louis Hedler. "Not stealthily, but softly. What was it Nietzsche's Zarathustra said: 'Walk among your enemies with a sleeping sword.' That isn't your way, Jon, and never was. You never learned discretion."
"Is this what I came to hear?" asked Jonathan, rising. "Then, I will go home, if you don't mind."
Louis went on as if he had not spoken. "No one expects you to connive at evils, Jon, or even suffer them in silence. But you don't have to accuse a man, before others, of being whatever you think he is, or whatever he really is. If only in self-defense you should have a little more—call it self-protectiveness, if you will."
"Thanks for the advice," said Jonathan. "Bob, open that door, if you please."
Robert Morgan ignored him.
Jonathan's expression became furiously irascible. "Didn't Christ whip the money-changers out of the Temple? If I remember correctly He also addressed some of the men of His day in ungentle terms, such as 'liars, hypocrites, sons of the Devil.'"
"You are hardly Christlike," said the priest
"But you think I've earned a cross? Such as this running lecture? It seems I came here under false pretenses. I heard a rumor of sheriffs and prisons." He glared at Robert "To be frank, I've been drunk all day, and your errand boy disturbed me, and that is something I will remember."
Louis said, "I will repeat what Zarathustra said: 'Walk among your enemies with a sleeping sword.' A sword, Jon, always ready to be used if necessary, but not used constantly on small and unworthy objects. Used with charity, if that is possible. All this is preliminary to what we must tell you. You've raised up deadly enemies. Some men make friends, others collect foes. It depends on your taste. You tried desperately to make an enemy of me, Jon. You worked at it very hard, very sedulously, with admirable persistence. You concentrated on it."
Jonathan could not help smiling. "I'm afraid you are right, Louis. Very well. I apologize. Is that why I was wanted here? To confess my sins, be absolved, and sent lovingly on my way?"
"Not quite. Please' let me continue. You worked just as hard to make other enemies, perhaps even harder. Most of them, I will admit, are detestable men. For that reason alone you should have avoided them, for your own sake. Or, if you could not avoid them, there were other ways of dealing with them instead of that sledgehammer Father mentioned. Other men have been falsely accused, then cleared, and everyone was happy. But not in your case, Jon. People were disappointed. Why? Perhaps because the majority of men are naturally evil and malicious and they can't bear honest men, and partly because they were antagonized needlessly. Never mind. This was not a meeting to discuss morals or theology. It concerns you, only."
He glanced at Robert, Howard Best and the priest. "We who are here are your best friends, Jon. You have no better in the world. There isn't one of us you haven't insulted and derided, either in your usual bad-tempered way or in pretended indulgence. But, we are more charitable than you. We disregard your nastiness and your inpetuousness and your endearing ways, and remember you for a good and dedicated man, suffering the defects of his own virtues and stumbling blindly through a cave of snakes, absolutely unarmed. For that's what you've always been, Jon. Absolutely unarmed. Helpless against cruelty and malice and calumny. Not even recognizing your enemies. Not even stepping warily about them and watching them. You have our sympathy. Now, if you will draw your chair closer to this desk, I will give you something to read. It makes very bad reading, Jon."
He gave Jonathan a sheaf of papers. "Affidavits from Jonas Witherby, Mrs. Holliday, Peter McHenry. And a few others like them. But after you have read those, you will find much more—interesting—affidavits toward the end. Take your time, my boy, take your time."
Jonathan looked at Howard Best and frowned. "Affidavits. I smell a lawyer."
"Now, Jon," said Louis Hedler.
"Devil's race," said Jonathan.
"Thanks for your usual barb," said Howard Best, but he smiled.
Jonathan's hands were still trembling from his debauch, his fine dark surgeon's hands. He glanced about him suspiciously, then began to read. They watched his tense face. He was reading casually, and the first affidavit was Jonas Witherby's. "Not only did he accuse me of attempting suicide, but he tried to blackmail me into giving him money for his alleged wing at St. Hilda's Hospital for tuberculosis—"
"Why, the old dog," said Jonathan, and shrugged. "Poppycock. He didn't try to commit suicide. He tried to make it appear that Prissy had poisoned him. What trash."
Louis Hedler lit a cigar, Howard lit his pipe, Robert lit his, and
the priest lit a cigarette. It was quiet now in the big handsome office with the soft lamps burning, and the windows were open and a night wind stirred the draperies. Smoke curled toward the high white ceiling. Jonathan continued to read, muttering under his breath.
Lightning suddenly snaked over the tops of the black mountains, licking them with a forked tongue. The wind rose higher. Now they could hear the thudding of a night train and then its long dolorous wail as it wound through the valley. There were subdued noises in the hospital at this hour, the rolling of a cart, suddenly quickened footsteps, the rapid tap of heels, the opening and shutting of a door, an abrupt cry, a wail, a soothing voice. The priest heard them and Howard Best, but the three doctors were accustomed to these sounds and they did not reach their consciousness.
Jonathan, as he read, was becoming paler and paler and his face narrower and narrower as every muscle tightened in it and elongated. In comparison his black lashes and brows and thick black hair became sharp and vivid. They saw him examine the receipted bills given to Louise Wertner and Mary Snowden. He reread their affidavits. He reread Edna Beamish's affidavit. He looked up, cleared his throat, and spoke in a very quiet voice.
"These are all lies," he said. "Every one is a lie. I merely gave the Beamish woman a preliminary examination, told her her condition, and then she—" He paused, and looked from one still face to another. "As for these other women, I don't remember them at all. I don't know why they were sent these bills. I—I never touched them. If I had made a compete examination of them, I'd have remembered. The bills—they are exorbitant. I never charge women of that class more than five or ten dollars for a complete examination."
"They claim abortions," said Louis Hedler. "Those are higher."
Jonathan now fixed all his attention on the other doctor. "I never performed an abortion in my life. I never used a curette on a woman unless it was absolutely necessary to remove the results of a spontaneous abortion, or to save a life, or for diagnostic purposes. Do you believe me?" He appeared in a state of shock, but now the black eyes were beginning to glint and the livid ridges were appearing about his mouth.
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