"What a charmer!" the ladies had twittered when Flora and Mavis had left. "What an absolute charmer! What she will do to the boys and men when she is older!"
But she was never young, Marjorie had thought. I know her well.
She started now, seeing that Jonathan had returned to the room and was standing before her, drinking again. He was looking a little sick, as if he were remembering in spite of the whiskey. Marjorie spoke carefully. "You say you didn't see Martin Eaton. I'm sorry. I heard last week that he wasn't feeling so well. Flora told me. It was very tiresome of Flora, really, but she had brought little Mavis with her. You remember Mavis, the niece they adopted."
She knew at once, for his hand quite violently shook for a second, and the whiskey splashed on his fingers. He was looking at her fully and the white ridges she always dreaded had sprung up about his mouth. "What," he said, "is wrong with the kid?"
"Wrong? In what way is she wrong?" asked Marjorie, as if surprised.
"I don't mean that, damn it!" He was almost shouting. "I mean, what have you got against the girl?"
"Jon, please. The windows are all open. I don't understand you. Why should we be talking about a little girl, a little girl in the eighth grade, I believe? A child. Aren't there more interesting things to talk about than children? I don't remember that they are so very important at all but rather boring, in fact, and intelligent people—"
"I asked you, Mother, what you have against the girl?" • Marjorie was terribly frightened. She had never known Jonathan to be like this before, even in his reckless childhood. She said, making her voice cold, "Don't talk to me like that, Jon, and shouting, too! What's the matter with you? Shall we close the subject? Besides, there is something about dinner which I must attend to—" She began to get up.
In spite of her fear she was truly angered when he put his hand against her shoulder and pushed her back into the chair.
"I only asked you a simple, reasonable question," he said, and there was a hard, thick quality about him which was alien to her. "Just a simple question."
"Which I think is too stupid to answer, and far too stupid for an adult to ask. I refuse to talk about a chit. Why should I? Why should you? Are you drunk, Jon? I'm afraid you are. I want to warn you about one thing, my boy. Don't you dare touch me in that manner again. You aren't too old for me not to strike you hard—very hard—across the face."
For a moment their eyes held together and Jonathan saw the icy anger in his mother's, and he was ashamed. He put down the drink. "You're right," he said. "I've been drinking too much today. You see, I've met one of your Laughing Girls, or mine, I should say." He tried to smile. "You must be brave, Mother. I'm not going to be like your Martin Eaton; I'm going to wait for the girl to grow up. But unlike Martin, I'm not going to be put off. I'm going to marry her."
He was still staring at her. She knew that she must not let him know that she knew of whom he was speaking. She must only pray, if she could, that something would happen— She was suddenly confused and exhausted and ill. Not her Jonathan, not her darling!
She tried to laugh a little before that frightening face. "Oh, so she's very young? Well." She paused. "And you are twenty-three. That makes you a mature man, doesn't it—and she is a little girl. I wouldn't, if I were you, let anyone know—"
"Do you think I am insane?" he demanded.
Probably, as of just now, his mother replied inwardly. Yes, very probably.
"I know what happens to men when they fall in love with children," he said.
"Oh, Jon." In spite of herself she winced. "Please don't say anything else. You'll regret it when you remember later. Don't say anything else! It's too dangerous."
"Yes," he said. "It's too dangerous. And I can wait." Later, he wondered why his mother had not been outraged, horrified and shocked to death.
He had waited. All that his mother had said that hot August day had meant nothing at all to him. He had never respected her opinion or known her. He had talked to her that day only because his inner extremity had been so great and uncontrollable, and because he had drunk too much. Within a few days, as she never mentioned that talk—assuredly only a rambling affair to her—he was relieved that she had forgotten it. Only fear of himself, of what he was capable of doing, had impelled him to talk so dangerously. But his mother could have not the slightest idea, and he put her out of his mind. She had no imagination. She was really not very intelligent. And she and old Martin Eaton, by God! Martin had not known what he had escaped. It was unfortunate that his own father had not been so lucky.
That is what Jonathan Ferrier thought that August of his twenty-third year.
He saw Mavis Eaton on every possible occasion during the next five years, and he thought himself exceedingly prudent and subtle at all times. But Mavis had known from the very beginning, and it amused her that this "old man" was interested in her. She teased him artfully when she encountered him in her uncle's house or in his gardens, or demurely tormented him. She was not intelligent, but she had a primitive wisdom. Her uncle and aunt often spoke of the Ferrier money, and as Martin Eaton was as fond of Jonathan as if the young man had been his son, Martin constantly talked of Jonathan's professional future and success and even hinted that he might possibly leave Jonathan a part of his estate. When she was fifteen, Mavis was already picturing herself as a grande dame in Philadelphia or New York, presiding over her successful and famous husband's mansion, for Mavis had no intention of spending her life in little Hambledon. She wanted multitudes of admirers and craved influence. At sixteen she was more than attracting the casual attention of young men in New York, where she attended a private school for a year, and at seventeen she knew her great powers, the seduction and fascination of her perpetual merriment, and her beauty.
Very few noticed the smallness of her blue eyes, for they were almost always arched like fringed quarter moons under her golden brows, crinkled and squinted with laughter. There were some women and girls who said she had "little sly eyes," but this was accounted as envy. Fewer ever saw the cold and conjecturing gleam of those eyes, for they appeared almost entirely closed at all times and somewhat sunken in their sockets. This flaw in her loveliness, which would have been serious and even ugly in a less pretty girl, only gave her more bewitchment and, to young men, a naughty flirtatiousness. Among those who were disturbed by Mavis' eyes and their secretiveness was Marjorie Ferrier.
When Mavis was eighteen, Jonathan told his mother and brother abruptly that he was going to marry the girl in the near future.
Marjorie said nothing, for there was nothing to say. But Harald laughed and said, "Not Golden Girl! Why, she's a dragon! She'd eat the heart out of you in a year!"
The totally infatuated and adoring Jonathan Ferrier hardly heard. Later he was to know that the secret of Mavis' charm was her absolute sexuality. It was not overt; paradoxically she was almost incapable of being aroused herself, almost devoid of sensual passion. She knew that she was irresistible to men, and when she had been fifteen, she knew exactly why, and so she had contempt and amused scorn for those she attracted. However, she learned the art of flaunting her sexual attractions in a most delicate way, with rarely a stir in herself. Such flaunting brought her adoration and gifts and abject admiration, and these were all she really desired. If men were stupid enough to dream that she desired them, more fool they. It had nothing to do with Mavis Eaton's real desires, which she kept hidden.
The Laughing Girls, as Jonathan was to learn much later, have but one love and that is themselves, and but one passion, and that was their enchantment and gain. When Mavis petulantly told him—but with exquisite smiles—that she would not "dream" of spending her life in Hambledon, Jonathan fatuously promised her that in good time they would move to Philadelphia or New York or wherever she desired. This alarmed Martin Eaton. He had a long talk with Jonathan. "We need surgeons and physicians of your kind here, Jon," he said. "You can't desert us, can you, even for Mavis?"
"She's very young. I'm just humorin
g her," said Jonathan. "Of course, I could have a practice in Philadelphia, too—" It was all in the blissful future, and in the meantime there was Mavis, whose touch and laughter and natural gaiety and beauty almost drove him mad. He could not wait for their marriage. To Marjorie Ferrier this abasement of her son seemed tragic, for she had expected more intelligence and discernment in Jonathan and more taste. There was a certain grossness about Mavis, an animal shine and sleekness, which promised many lustful delights. But Marjorie knew that those delights would be an illusion, for the Laughing Girls knew no pleasure but in themselves and their desires, and none of them concerned the happiness and welfare and joy of others. Once Marjorie had said to Harald, "Mavis, under other circumstances and in a different age, would be the perfect—the perfect—"
"Tart," said Harald. "Concubine? Mavis isn't clever enough. Doxy? Perhaps. I think I like tart best."
"Oh, Harald," said Marjorie, and smiled sadly, but she knew he was right. "I really think, concubine. The perfect illusion of the perfect woman."
"With no personal involvement," said Harald. He frequently startled his mother with his perceptive comments, and she was startled now, and thought, as she thought very
often, that Harald was much cleverer than most people knew. It was out of character, in some way, that he had this worldly shrewdness which Jonathan did not possess at all.
Harald said, "There are men who find the world contemptible but, being genial men, they also find it amusingly mad. Jon is not genial, and so he is constantly appalled by the world and enraged by what he considers its meannesses and cruelties and stupidity. He never for a single moment finds it mad, and so he'll never be able to laugh at it and enjoy it. And he'll never understand people, either. How else could he consider marrying Mavis, who has claws where a heart should be?"
(He was to marry Myrtle Heger a little before Jonathan married Mavis Eaton, but no one believed that he loved the woman or that he had married her for anything but her money.)
The marriage of Mavis Eaton to Jonathan Ferrier, on a hot and golden June day, was considered a Statewide Event, and the Governor came, and so did Senator Campion, and, of course, the mayors of several cities. The Eatons were rich, and the Ferriers, and Jonathan was already establishing a famous reputation, and his mother came of an "old family."
He was never to forget his wedding night.
Jonathan, lying in a drunken sleep now in his father's study, or rather sprawled in a leather chair, remembered that night in his dreaming. His dark and faintly sweating face was contorted, and his head moved uneasily, and even in his sleep he was conscious of a powerful nausea and enormous discomfort. He felt as if he were one ache, mentally and physically, and somewhere there was a loud and furious shrilling, as if millions of bees had gone mad.
He pulled himself sluggishly and painfully up from his heavy sleep, saw that it was very early morning and that the telephone on his father's desk was throbbing unremittingly. Nothing stirred in the house. The low and slanting light of first morning was pulsing through the leaded windows. Cursing, wincing, Jonathan reached out and took up the telephone.
"Oh, Jonathan," said Father McNulty's voice in relief. "I hope I didn't wake you too early. It's almost seven, a quarter to."
"Don't mind me," said Jonathan in a slow, thick voice. He swallowed. His throat felt swollen and very dry. "I'm always
awake, like the perfect doctor. Call me in a couple of hours, and perhaps I'll answer then, and perhaps not." He was not really awake. He blinked and shuddered at the light and his stomach seemed to have a tendency to climb into his chest. "Good-bye," he said.
"Jon!" cried the priest. "Please listen for just a second or two. For God's sake, Please listen. This is a matter of life and death—"
"In which I am no longer interested," said Jonathan. "Don't you ever sleep?"
"I haven't slept all night," said the priest. "I just came home myself, and I have a Mass at seven. You remember young Francis Campion? I heard you treated him for colitis or something three years ago. Senator Kenton Campion's son."
Jonathan yawned in agony. His head appeared to be dividing itself slowly and surely into separate sections. "What about it? I'm not the family doctor. They only called me because their own was away or something, after he almost killed the boy. Why don't they call him if the kid's sick again?"
The priest hesitated. "I think there is a personal reason. Family doctor, you know. There might be some—some embarrassment— You see, young Francis tried to hang himself last night, and only old Tom, one of the servants, heard him and saved his life. Hanged himself with the sash of his dressing gown—"
"You can be sure," said Jonathan with bitterness, "that there is always some busybody around to take matters into his own damned interfering hands. When a man wants to die, let him die, say I." He paused, then said with more interest, "Tried to kill himself? At twenty? I thought he was doing well in that seminary of his, studying for the priesthood. A fine priest he'll make!" Jonathan chuckled, then coughed. "So, they called you to administer the proper spiritual punishment."
"Jon, please listen. Tom called me. No one else would. Not the aunt. And the Senator's in Washington, though he is due home today for the Fourth of July celebrations. You know the aunt." The priest coughed in apology. "No doubt a very estimable lady but not one to know what to do. So Tom called me. But young Francis would not listen to me at all and refused to see me. I did stay at his bedside, and he never turned his head in my direction. I stayed until I had to leave for Mass."
"A very piteous story," said Jonathan. "But has it got anything to do with me? No."
"I thought—I thought—" the priest stammered, "that you should see him. No, not for medical attention."
Jonathan came up from the reddish sick fog in total amazement. "Are you out of your mind, Father? 'Not for medical attention,' you say. For what, then?"
"I heard that the boy—trusted—-you. Or something, Jon. It's just an inspiration. He needs something. I think you can give it to him."
"No," said Jonathan. "Besides, if I saw him, I'd have to report it to the police."
"You saved his life once. I think you could do it again, Jon."
"Why should I? Let him go and give him your blessing, Father."
The priest paused. "You will go, Jon, and immediately?"
"No," said Jonathan, and hung up. He fell back into the depths of the leather chair. When he had strength enough, he would take a cold bath, prepare himself a large cold drink, put a cold cloth on his head and go to bed, and inform his mother that no one, under any circumstances, was to disturb him. Preferably forever. He felt profoundly ill and knew, after a moment's reflection, that the illness was in his mind as well as in his abused body. Mavis. Was he to be cursed for all the days of his life by remembering her? She was part of his flesh, like an incubus, beautiful Mavis, laughing Mavis, coaxing, teasing Mavis. He could see her face as clearly as if she were in the room with him, and a heavy weight moved into his eyes, pressing them, filling them with moisture. There were times when he thought he had forgotten her or that he could live with the memory of her, and then when he was off-guard or had been drinking too much, the house was full of her footsteps and her laughter, the rustling of her dresses, the sound of her raucous singing. Then the pain returned, as bad as ever.
He pushed himself to his feet and was dizzy. Why don't I have the courage to die? he asked himself. Why didn't I have the sense to plead guilty and let the state hang me and so save me the trouble? Then he thought of young Francis Campion, twenty years old, who had tried to take his life a few hours ago. Now, what for, at his age? What could so disillusion a man of twenty as to drive him to death, and a budding priest, at that? Jonathan leaned on a table and in spite of himself he was interested. He also remembered the boy and how he had saved his life three years ago. That life had been saved almost as much by the boy's will to live as by Jonathan's skill. Yet, three years later he had looked for death, the only son of one of the richest men
in the state, pampered, indulged, allowed to do what he wished at all times.
Jonathan found himself in his bathroom, naked to the waist, sloshing himself with cold water. He looked at his ravaged face with the bluish growth of beard and said aloud, "The hell with it." He dried himself, dressed in riding clothes. He frowned at his shaking hands. He was all parched leather inside and he craved a drink. He knew he dared not drink water, for it would make him vomit. In complete physical misery, and walking carefully so as not to jar his head too much, he left his room.
Still, no one stirred in the house as yet, though it was almost seven. The house had the dry, aromatic odor of a hot summer morning, compounded of heat, a faint drift of dust, and withering flowers. Jonathan went out into the blaze of the early day and then to the stables.
He still did not know why he was going to see young Francis Campion, or what he was doing out so early in the day with a fearful hangover and a sense that life had become unbearable. He thought of Father McNulty with angry disfavor. Interfering young idiot! But these priests had the idea that human life was sacred or something, and should be preserved. He, Jonathan Ferrier, wished he could take some of them through the wards where people were dying of cancer, including little children, or wards of venereal disease, or tuberculosis, a thousand and one diseases of corruption and agony. Let them see for themselves with what respect their God regarded His own creation that He could bring it so low, far down to the base of screaming animalism, and then abandon it to decay and torture and unspeakable indignities. What God did not respect, man should not respect