"Jenny?" said Jonathan.
"Miss Jenny. I am not on less formal speaking terms with her," said Robert. "I received a kind little note in reply, and I must confess I was both pleased and surprised, and she accepted my invitation."
Jonathan leaned against his desk and crossed his ankles. "I don't believe it," he said. "Jenny has never accepted any young man's invitation before."
"She accepted mine." Robert was very relieved that Jona- than had shown no intense interest or annoyance, though why he should do either Robert could not understand. He only knew that any mention of Jenny heretofore aroused Jonathan to inexplicable emotion or lascivious remarks. He smiled a little and looked up at Jonathan, who was lighting a cigarette. "I know she is a very bashful young lady, and I will try to gain her confidence."
Jonathan's polished black eyes surveyed the suit and accessories contemplatively. "That ought to scare her to death, rather than reassure her," he said. "What if there is an emergency at the hospital?"
"Don't you remember?" asked Robert. "You kindly offered to attend to that for me, seeing that I haven't had a day's leisure since I arrived. And we doctors do need recreation, as you've said yourself, or we'll soon not be worth anything to our patients."
"Did I say that?" said Jonathan. "One of my more careless moments." He seemed casually amused. "You'll quite outshine poor Jenny, who doesn't possess, I have heard, one single pretty gown."
Robert ran his hand over his fine gold watch chain and took out his watch. He was more and more relieved. He said, "My mother once remarked that it seemed strange that Miss Jenny did not employ a companion, an older woman, in loco parentis, as it were." What his mother had really said was, "It is an affront to the morals of the whole community that that young woman is so brazen in her conduct, and so careless of public opinion and the sensibilities of gently bred young ladies, that she does not have with her some elderly female of impeccable background and position in this city to protect her from gossip and give her respectability." Remembering, Robert blushed, and Jonathan saw it.
"Jenny? An elderly female companion?" Jonathan laughed. "Jenny, I can assure you, can take very good care of herself."
"But there is, after all, your brother living in the same house with her, and he a young man still, and only the servants."
"Isn't he protector enough for Jenny?" asked Jonathan.
The term, Robert recalled, was ambiguous. He began to feel a little heat of anger against Jonathan. "Just what do you mean by protector?" he demanded.
Jonathan said, "Now, what do you think I mean? Technically, he's her stepfather, the husband of her dead mother. Don't develop an evil mind, Bob."
"I'm not the one with an evil mind!" said Robert, and felt a hard constriction in his chest. "I've seen Miss Jenny only a few times since the Fourth of July, on the streets and in the shops, and a more lovely and innocent young lady I have never seen in my life!" He seemed to swell. "We've talked a little, here and there, and she's very shy and timid and seems afraid and awkward. I—I like Miss Jenny very much! I do, indeed. Eventually, I hope that she will take me seriously."
Jonathan whistled. He eyed Robert and not with kindness, and then with a slow thoughtfulness. "We have progressed, haven't we?"
"I hope so. I fervently hope so!" said Robert, and shook an invisible speck of dust from his hat and prepared to leave. Then he had another thought. "Why doesn't your brother supplement her income so she can leave the island for a more —a more—protected residence?"
"I hear he did," said Jonathan. "But she refused. I told you. She regards him as an interloper, a criminal blackguard who married her mother for her money—and she is quite right, Harald makes no pretense otherwise, and it was an amiable marriage—and she considers the island hers, as it was her father's, and she stands guard over it. She'll never leave it unless she is first sandbagged and blindfolded by someone, and somehow I can't see you in that role."
"Hardly," said Robert. "But still, if she marries, she may change her mind."
"My dear noisy-suited friend," said Jonathan, "I should not blow up my hopes if I were you. Jenny and my mother are almost as close as mother and daughter, and my mother has hinted to me several times that Jenny's affections are firmly fixed on some mysterious stranger."
Robert's face actually paled, and Jonathan frowned. "If that were so, she would not have accepted my invitation," he said.
"Perhaps the gentleman is unattainable," said Jonathan.
"Then, all the more should she be diverted," said Robert, and took himself off in his sartorial glory.
Jonathan had not seen Jenny since that evening when he had tried to seduce her somewhat strenuously. He had often rowed over to the island on the pretense of amusing himself by mocking his brother, but when Harald was there—which was infrequent—Jenny appeared to be absent, or at least she made no appearance. Jonathan had idly asked about her once or twice and Harald had shrugged, had remarked that she was "in town," or was not feeling well, or, "God knows, I don't know where she is!" Harald seemed less easy lately, less nonchalant and less smiling, and to be absorbed in some thoughts of his own. He was restless. If one so affable and pleasant could be said to be brooding, then Harald was brooding. In view of what Marjorie had said, this was interesting to Jonathan. He wanted to say, "Insofar as Jenny is concerned, sweet brother, you might as well give up, and perhaps I should, too, though damned if I will until the day I die."
When she visited Marjorie, Jonathan did not know, though he suspected. Marjorie did not mention the girl except to remark at one time that Jenny was not visiting her as often as usual. This was understandable, considering that she probably feared his unexpected arrival in the house.
There was one thing which had relieved him excessively: It was most evident that Jenny had never told Harald of his brother's attack on her. She could easily have done so. Harald would then, at her insistence, have forbidden Jonathan to come to the island any longer. (It would have been interesting to see if he could summon up a rage or engage in fireworks or threats for the first time in his life.) But, for some strange reason, Jenny had not told him, and this was exciting in itself, nor had she written asking him never to go there any longer, nor had she asked Marjorie to convey the message.
But he had not seen her. The infuriating thing was that Robert Morgan had seen her on the streets and in the shops he was prowling for his mother, and she had actually accepted an innocent invitation from him. The implications of this nagged at Jonathan. He liked Robert immensely; he felt for him the strong brotherly affection he had never felt for his own brother. It annoyed his pride and his opinion of himself that he should, this hot Saturday afternoon, think many uncomplimentary things of his young replacement, and also of Jenny.
If Jenny had been elusive before, she was far more elusive now. Jonathan had planned a nice strategy of coming across her in the gardens of the island, where she was eternally working, or alone in the castle, and then forcing her to listen to him, even if he had to hold her. He had planned, to the last comma, what he would say. But Jenny eluded him. He never even caught a glimpse of her. He was not a patient man. He had planned that tomorrow he would see her, or perhaps later today. He had never failed in a wooing of a woman yet, and had even married one—the only one he had wanted to marry. For this pursuit he had an engaging mixture of nattering impatience and even more flattering bullying, mixed with a real gentleness. No lady, except Jenny, had outrightly rejected him, not even married ladies of genteel reputations. He had not had to buy them with gifts, not even glittering courtesans who could command stupendous prices. In Hambledon, he had been more circumspect, though not entirely. The ladies of New York and Philadelphia knew him well, and often too well.
He had never, for a moment, doubted that in the wooing of Jenny Heger he would be successful. He loved her, and he had never loved a woman before, as he realized now. He had everything to offer, such as himself and marriage. Not even when pursuing a particularly difficult lady had he hinted
marriage as a possibility, nor had he ever called Mavis "darling" as he had called Jenny.
Now, out of nowhere had come this naive young Robert Morgan, with his gorgeous raiment and his ability to get Jenny to do what it had been impossible for any man before him to do. What of the man Jenny was alleged to be attached to—unless Marjorie had been entirely mistaken? Could it be —it was impossible!—that Jenny had been detached from that stranger by Robert Morgan? It was absurd. It was not to be thought of for a moment. Jenny was a girl of intelligence; she was unlikely to be attracted to a man of limited imagination. But one never knew about women. They were capable of the most bizarre revulsions and attractions.
The telephone rang.
A high and breathless female voice rushed to Jonathan's ear. "Jon? Jon! This is Prissy Witherby! Oh, Jon, I'm scared to death!"
"I shouldn't wonder, being married to Jonas," said Jonathan. "Anything specific wrong, Prissy?"
"Jon, please come at once! He's out driving today—he goes every day. But all at once I can't stand it! I'll lose my mind!"
Jonathan would have smiled indulgently at this from another woman, but Priscilla Witherby, the former doxy, had the common sense of her calling and the realism, and so hysteria was unlikely. "What's he up to now, Prissy?"
"I don't know! That's what makes it so frightening, Jon. But it is something, I know. Since he came from the hospital, he sits smiling all alone, like a damned satisfied spider, spinning, plotting— Oh, I know I sound fanciful, but you know Jonas."
"I do. I'll come as soon as I can, Prissy. How long does he stay out, driving?"
"From two to three hours in this weather. Jack drives him to the park and around." The girl caught her breath in a sob. "He's been gone fifteen minutes. That should give us time to talk."
After he had finished his conversation with Prissy, Jonathan thought about Jonas Witherby, the soft, smiling, loving evil of a man. The gentle-voiced, charitably speaking, mild, tender-eyed evil. Damn them, these dangerous ones! Jonathan remembered the dead wife, the ruined sons, all the victims of this monstrous corruption, this man who had never been known to speak evil, to see evil, or to hear evil, at least overtly—this man who had deceived almost an entire small city into believing in his goodness and kindness and pure-hearted sympathy. If Jonas Witherby were to testify in a court of law against or for a man, the judge would inevitably believe him, listening to his affectionate voice, looking at his saintly face, and so would a jury. Jonathan prepared to leave for the Witherby house when he heard the bell ring in the waiting room. He frowned with annoyance as he went to the door. There were no office hours here on Saturday afternoon except for emergencies and fixed appointments.
Two well-dressed gentlemen in their thirties, strangers to Jonathan, stood in the deserted waiting room. He said with abruptness, "I'm sorry. Dr. Morgan is not in, and there are no office hours on Saturday afternoons except by appointment."
One young man spoke, a tall and pleasant man with shrewd light eyes and blond thick hair and with a humorous face. "Dr. Ferrier? Thank you. I'm Bill Stokeley, from Scranton," and he gave Jonathan his card. Jonathan looked at it: William Sebastian Stokeley, attorney-at-law. "And this other gentleman," said Mr. Stokeley, "is Dr. Henderson Small, also of Scranton." Another card was given Jonathan in identification.
"Well, what can I do for you?" asked Jonathan.
"We'd like to discuss a former patient of yours, Doctor," said Mr. Stokeley, "and to pay you for her examination. I understand that you never sent her a bill."
"What was her name?"
"Mrs. Edna Beamish."
Jonathan considered. The name sounded familiar to him, but he could not recall the patient. He shook his head. The two men glanced at each other in satisfaction. "You may not know," said Jonathan, "but I have—had—a large practice, not only in Hambledon but from surrounding villages and townships, and even from Scranton and Philadelphia. My replacement, Dr. Morgan, has been handling most of them. I am merely here now to help him establish himself, before I leave the city permanently."
"Mrs. Beamish lived at Kensington Terraces when she visited you, Doctor."
Jonathan shook his head again then went to the files, opened one and withdrew a card and studied it. Then he laughed. "Oh, Edna. Yes, I remember now. She was here almost a month ago. Charming young lady. She did not let me complete my examination and became a little—disturbed— and ran out after creating a scene. She was understandably upset, for I discovered she was at least ten weeks pregnant, and her husband had recently died, and so he would never know his child. I didn't send her a bill because the examination was incomplete." He looked at the lawyer.
Mr. Stokeley said, "I am here to pay her bill, Doctor. You see, my firm manages her late—husband's—estate. Ernest Beamish. So, she reports all bills to us, and we pay them for her. She is very young and inexperienced herself, and incapable of managing the rather large estate her husband left her. He appointed us executors." He smiled. "In fact, we are in loco parentis to her. So when she returned to Scranton to live two weeks ago, she told us that she had consulted you and that you had sent no bill."
"Don't bother about a bill," said Jonathan. "I expected Mrs. Beamish to return for further examination, and possibly prenatal attention, and possibly for obstetrical purposes, at the hands of my replacement. As she did not return, I don't think she or you are obligated to pay any bill, and I certainly won't send one."
He looked curiously at Dr. Henderson Small, a short slender man, very dark and grave and inconspicuous. "Are you attending Mrs. Beamish, Doctor?"
"I did," said Dr. Small in a significant voice.
"Did she run out on you, too?" Jonathan smiled, noting the past tense.
Mr. Stokeley intervened. "Mrs. Beamish is—er—a rather difficult girl. I happened to be in town with Dr. Small today, and I thought it well to stop in to see you and ask for a bill."
"No bill," said Jonathan. He was becoming irritated. The afternoon was hot and fine. He intended to ride out to one of his farms and see how a certain filly was doing, one who was showing all signs of being a remarkable racer. "If that is all, gentlemen—"
Mr. Stokeley said smoothly, "As I told you, Doctor, we act in loco parentis to Mrs. Beamish. Obviously she needs continued treatment. Dr. Small, here, is not a gynecologist. He is a general surgeon, and certainly not an obstetrician! He told Edna he has had very little training in obstetrics—I think that is the new science of doctors who deliver babies? Yes. However, she insisted on him examining her, and he discovered a—slight—abnormality." Mr. Stokeley gave Jonathan a genial smile. "He referred her to an obstetrician in Scranton, but so far she hasn't followed his advice. By the way, did you find any abnormality, Doctor?"
"None," said Jonathan. "At least not during the pelvic examination, which was as thorough as I could give, considering the fact that she was squeamish and resistant, not an unusual thing in young ladies under the circumstances," For the first time he saw that Dr. Small was discreetly taking notes on a very abbreviated little black notebook. "What is this?" he asked.
"Just for reference, Doctor." Mr. Stokeley was very pleasant. "You see, there is that large estate, and naturally a—er —natural issue would be important, wouldn't it? We feel every responsibility for Edna. Now, Doctor. Would you mind telling Dr. Small exactly what your examination showed?"
It was almost two o'clock. It would take at least an hour for Jonathan to ride out to his farm after seeing Prissy. He glanced at his watch.
"I found no abnormality," he said, with increasing impatience. He looked at the reserved Dr. Small. "What did you find?"
"No abnormality in the pelvic regions," said Dr. Small. "But something unimportant in the pancreas. We did want your opinion before sending Mrs. Beamish—insist on sending her—to a competent man in Scranton."
"It isn't necessary," said Jonathan, more and more impatient. "I found her approximately ten weeks pregnant, a healthy young white female, widow, with no previous history of disease of
any kind. She did complain of 'terrible pain' in the lower right quadrant of her abdomen, which she gave as the reason for her coming to me in the. first place. This usually occurs during ovulation, a common thing. I examined her for a cystic ovary and found everything normal. I then examined her for chronic appendicitis, or blind bowel, as the laity call it. Nothing pathological there, either. I intended examination for possible kidney involvement or—"
Dr. Small interrupted. "But insofar as the pelvic examination was concerned, there was no abnormality?"
"None. Didn't you say that was your opinion, too?"
Mr. Stokeley gave Dr. Small an enigmatic and unfriendly glance, and the doctor said at once, "I saw no evidence of a natural—a natural—abnormality."
Jonathan found this ambiguous. He looked intently at Dr. Small and said, "We don't usually speak of 'natural abnormalities,' Doctor. A contradiction in terms."
"And of semantics," said Dr. Small.
"Yes. So, what did you mean?"
"Oh," said Mr. Stokeley, "let's not get into a medical discussion, gentlemen, on this fine day! Our train leaves in half an hour for Scranton." He held out an expansive palm to Jonathan and said in a rich but slow and emphatic voice, "So, you did not receive payment for your examination?"
"I told you, no." Dr. Small quietly wrote that down.
Mr. Stokeley grinned and shook his head. "That Edna! She is always complaining that she never has any pocket money. Let me be frank, Doctor. She claims she paid you two hundred dollars for your examination! In cash, and not by check, on which we usually insist."
Jonathan laughed. "Had I completed the examination as I had wished, I'd have sent her a bill for ten, perhaps fifteen, dollars. I'm afraid our little Edna is attempting a financial wheedling from you. She never paid me a cent and I never sent her a bill. Now, if you will excuse me—"
"Thank you, Doctor, thank you," said Mr. Stokeley effusively. "I shall really have to castigate our Edna, I really shall. I suspected it all along. Good day, Doctor."