Jonathan prudently estimated the cost. "I think a large wing for tuberculosis at St. Hilda's and another wing for the study of cancer at the Friends' would be more practical."
"I have money enough for it all," said Jenny, with a large gesture.
"After what Harald takes?"
"Jon, don't be mercenary. We can do it all. What is money for but to be used?"
"Jenny, when you look at me with such innocence, you almost convince me."
"People need medicine for their souls as well as for their bodies, Jon."
He kissed her ardently. "Perhaps you will minister to my soul tonight, Jenny?"
"On September 30th," she said. "Not a day sooner. I think we should inform Father McNulty."
Jonathan had long consultations with Robert Morgan. "I will buy back my practice, Bob. You can then be my associate, if you can bear staying in Hambledon."
"I don't know," said young Robert. "I will sell the practice back to you, as you obviously intend to stay here." His kind face was wretched.
Jonathan said, "Bob, you are young, and, as I've quoted to
you often enough, 'Men have died and worms have eaten them—'"
" 'But not for love.' Yes, that's a favorite saying of yours, isn't it, and I don't believe you mean a word of it. You went thundering over to that island to kill your brother, I've heard, but if Jenny hadn't been there, you wouldn't have gone mad and practically swum over there in the hurricane. You'd have lain in wait for him someplace, and perhaps smeared him over the landscape—before a good audience. No doubt to teach others a lesson."
Jonathan chuckled. "Perhaps. Still, the story, spread by a few 'good' friends, hasn't done my reputation much harm. On the contrary."
"The populace does love a swashbuckler," said Robert. "You are out of date."
"Oh, I don't know about that," said Jonathan, thinking of the new President in the White House. "People are still romantic. When a nation stops being romantic it stops being a nation or a force in the world. By the way, I hear Maude Kitchener has set her cap for you,"
"You hear too many things," said Robert, and thought of Jenny, and wondered how he could endure living in Hambledon knowing she was the wife of another man. If Jenny had married him, he would have contrived to send his mother back to Philadelphia and have rescued his house, his beautiful house. It was almost worth marrying for, to save its beauty.
"Women are very sinister," said Jonathan. "You might be wise to run."
Robert was annoyed. "I am not running," he said. "Nor are you—anymore, I hope. Well, I will stay and be your associate, if you will have me. I only hope we will not end up someday murdering each other."
It was a cool September evening and Father McNulty was in the Confessional at St. Leo's Church. He had been there for over two hours, listening with sad compassion to the endless repetition of human error and human sin and human fallibility and human arrogance. He was young, but he felt as old as death and life. He was also getting hungry and cramped.
Someone entered the Confessional and knelt down and the priest waited. The penitent was silent. Then Father McNulty saw a familiar long dark head through the grill, and then, with growing joy and astonishment, he heard a familiar voice.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned—"
The priest sighed. "And about time," he said, and prepared to listen. He was sure that the penitent thought he had a remarkable story to tell, but it was as old as man, as old as the very stars.
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