She tried harder to pull away from him, frenzied, and now he let her go and she reeled with a sudden release and had to catch the back of a chair to keep from falling headlong. He stood and looked- at her with his set face and it was the face of a stranger to her, cold and rigorous and condemning. In spite of her wild rage and hate she became confusedly quiet.
"I'll have a doctor examine you, Jenny, and have you put away until you are cured of your mad obsession. I mean it, Jenny. But before I do that, I want to know how you acquired that twisted idea, for you have a twisted mind, Jenny, a strange and peculiar and inhuman mind."
"Very well, I'll tell you!" she cried, and now tears ran down her face and her breath caught in her throat. "It was the night she died. Your brother came here to see her, and then you both went downstairs into the hall, talking, almost whispering, together, and I was frightened about my mother. I knew she was sick but not very sick. Jon was treating her. He came almost every day. I thought you two were hiding something from me and so I crept down the stairs, you didn't see me, and I heard you both almost whispering together in the hall."
She stopped, swallowed, gasped. A lifetime of grief and suffering stifled her breath. She put her hand to her throat and choked, and then she moaned.
"Go on," said Harald in his brother's own relentless voice.
"I—I didn't hear it all, but enough! I heard him say '—I gave her an injection. Don't give her the digitalis she's been taking. Throw it away. That injection may do it.'"
Harald's face became like Jon's, closed and hard and drawn.
"Go on," he said with quietness.
"She needed that digitalis to keep her alive! But you took it away, and I couldn't find it! And then—and then—two hours later she died—after what he gave her, that injection!"
Jenny put her hands over her face.
He waited. His face was slimy with sweat. When Jenny finally dropped her hands, he saw her abysmal pain and despair, but he was not moved.
"Did your mother ask for her digitalis, Jenny?"
"No! But I always gave it to her at night, the last thing, and I couldn't find it. I wanted to ask her, but the—the thing —your brother gave her—it made her drowsy. I think she went into a coma— Oh, God, I don't know! But she never woke up."
Then Harald shook his head slowly and dazedly and sat down and regarded the floor in silence.
The girl was sobbing now, heaving dry sobs that shook her whole body. She held to the back of a chair and bent her whole body in her anguish. At last the sounds she made penetrated Harald's stupefaction, and he looked at her, and then he was full of pity.
"Jenny, Jenny," he said. "That night when Jon came, he found she was practically in extremis. He thought of the hospital but decided she was too ill to be moved. She had been in very bad pain all that day, and she never said a word to us, did she? But I knew she was more ill than usual, and I sent for Jon, and he came. He said there was one last thing he could try, something new. Adrenalin. She was in shock, and dying. Jon stayed with her until she was a little relaxed, but he told me in her bedroom that she could not live, though perhaps there was some small hope. He'd come the next morning. But she died in the night, as you know."
"You lie, you lie! You wanted her money! That's all you married her for—her money!" But Jenny, of a sudden, looked stunned. "And—you had her killed! You wanted her to die before she could change her will!"
"Oh, Jenny, you fool. Jenny, do you remember that your mother's—your mother—was taken to the hospital the next morning? You were so broken that you didn't ask why. But I knew. Jon wanted an autopsy. Autopsies are important to doctors. I gave my consent. I was sorry, afterward, thinking of Myrtle's body— But, by God, I am glad now! God, how glad I am! Your consent wasn't necessary. The husband makes the decision. Your mother's—heart—it was closely examined by at least five doctors besides Jon. It was a classic case of what they call myocardial infarction. I think that means a big blood clot. In a way, her heart disease had had nothing to do with it. It could happen to anyone, but it was worse for her, having a weak heart. They wondered how she had survived those hours before Jon arrived. In fact, one of the doctors wrote about it in a medical magazine—with photographs."
"You lie," Jenny whispered. It was only a whisper. But a glazed look of horror began to spread over her face.
Harald sighed and shrugged. "Jenny, the hospital records are there for you to read for yourself. Go to St. Hilda's tomorrow, see Dr. Louis Hedler, and ask to see the records. As Myrtle's daughter, he won't refuse you. Or"—and now he laughed with something close to contempt—"do you think all the doctors, including Hedler, are in league with Jon and me? Perhaps you think all of Hambledon conspired with Jon to 'murder' your mother."
Jenny collapsed into a chair. She looked at him with huge eyes in a gray face. She could not speak.
"To think," said Harald, "that on the basis of a little suspicious and ugly eavesdropping, you could think my brother, a reputable physician, would plot with me to kill your mother! For what? Some of her money? She was fond of me, Jenny. I know she intended to change her will. She meant to give half her estate to me and half to you—with no damnable provision to jail me on this detestable island for seven months of my life, every year. We discussed it, Jenny, before she even mentioned it to you."
He shook his head over and over, then put his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.
"It's all Pete's fault," he said, as if speaking to himself. "He twisted you, shut you away from life, from people, and I have a disgusting idea why he did it. You were his princess, he said. Your mother told me. You were his darling. He wouldn't ever let you get away into a sane and normal life, for then you'd see things in perspective, see a whole world you had been missing. You'd leave him, eventually, for somebody else, some other man. Are you following me, Jenny, into the sewer that was your father's mind? Don't look at me like that, Jenny. I might be sorry for you, after all your accusations, and I don't want to be sorry yet. I think I want to laugh at you a little, to despise you a little, though I know it isn't your fault. It is your fantasies, the fantasies your father encouraged in you, so you'd never leave him. He built up a world of madness for you, to make you afraid of others, to suspect dragons in every corner, to mistrust everybody. To keep you shut in. For himself."
He dropped his hands. "I have some letters your mother wrote to me, when I was in New York, before we were married. We were engaged. She wrote that she hoped that the normal life we could bring to you, together, would change and free you once and for all. I'll give you the letters tonight, Jenny. I never wanted you to see them, but I think you need the punishment."
He stood up, very weary and shaken. He looked down at the girl, whose head had fallen on her breast. He dearly wanted to touch that mound of black hair, like shining glass.
He wanted to hold and comfort her tenderly, without passion. She was suddenly a broken child to him. Jenny, Jenny, he thought. This will pass. You're young, and you'll recover. And then, perhaps, there'll be some hope for me, after the nightmare you've been living.
But Jenny was thinking, Jon, Jon, Jon. How can I ever look at you again, Jon? How dare I look at you? Oh, Jon, can you ever forgive me? I must have been out of my mind. I was willing to believe anything of Harald. But how could I have believed it of you?
That night when she could finally go upstairs, weak and quivering, she found her mother's letters on her table, and she read them all, weeping.
If Jenny did not sleep that night, neither did Harald Ferrier to any extent.
His gesture to Jenny concerning her mother's estate was at least partially sincere. He found the island more and more distasteful, and the months he was compelled to spend here were months he designated to his friends in New York, Boston and Philadelphia as "my penal servitude." It was not to his modern taste or habits and he found it oppressive. He was restive every moment he spent there, for since early childhood he had despised Hambledon and had dreamed of a m
ore cosmopolitan existence than the slow tide of the town. Affable and handsome and engaging though he was, he had few or no real friends in Hambledon, for it was not in his nature to become attached overmuch in friendships and society. Moreover the people were inclined to become very partisan in politics or mores, and very emotional over many things, and Harald by temperament was not partisan or emotional. He found both boring. His was the easy way, the pleasant way, the enjoyable calm way—accepting rather than declining, and never at any time taking a definite stand about anything.
But he loved Jenny. At first he was amused at the very idea and found it novel. Later, experiencing its pains, he found the condition of being in love disturbing yet exciting. He truly wanted the girl, but he wanted her without the island. In offering to return the estate to her, he was also returning the detested island. He had believed that her infuriated and constant antagonism toward him since her mother's death had been due to her anger that she had been treated so indifferently by that mother, for Harald, in spite of his agree- able and casual approach to life, valued money above all else. He could not conceive that others would be uninterested. In giving Jenny her mother's estate he believed that he would have removed both her antagonism and her reason for rejecting him. Like his brother, Jonathan, he had found women always ready for light romances and always susceptible to him. He had no reason, therefore, to believe that Jenny was an exception.
Had she not flown at him like a wild young eagle, all talons and slashing beak and blue fury, his next step after her acceptance of his conditions would have been a gentle reminder that he loved her. He had had it all planned, like a stage scene. Her rush of gratitude and joy over the prospect of receiving all of her mother's money, and the island to boot, would have softened her, made her take him seriously, made her think that money was not everything to Harald Ferrier but that she was. No woman could have helped being flattered and touched by such devotion and sacrifice, especially as the obstruction had been removed. In a few days— for Jenny was a thoughtful girl—she would begin to feel kindness for him and regret that she had treated him so vilely and so unjustly. The future would then be inevitable.
His part in the script had been letter-perfect. Then the script had gone mad. Jenny had at first responded as she was intended to respond, but after that she had lost her Harald-written speeches and words of gratitude and begun an impromptu speech of her own. The play was in ruins thereafter, the characters uttering whatever they desired to utter with a total disregard of the playwright—Harald Ferrier. He had intended a comedy-melodrama along graceful lines, with urbane periods and poetic intimations. It had become a tragic farce, a tragi-comedy.
He lay on his bed—or rather, Myrtle's bed—sweltering in the heat, which would not relent, and stared at the hot stars and the hot moon and did not know whether to curse mildly or laugh. Poor old Jon. It was not enough for him to have been accused of two murders but tonight he had been accused of another, and the last so absurd, so contrived in the mind of that poor silly girl, who suspected everyone and everything, that even Jon would find it excruciatingly funny. One of these days, when Jenny and I are married, thought Harald, turning over his hot pillow, I'll tell him about it. He has no sense of humor, only a brutal wit. Still he should find it funny as well as incredible.
It was not Harald's intention at all to relinquish his dead wife's estate to Jenny and also resign his rights to the island if Jenny should remain adamant to his proposal. Should she continue to refuse him, then he would not sign those contracts. His little speech about seeing their mutual lawyers tomorrow had been only to shock her into noticing him, for the first time, as a heroic and sacrificing figure, attractive, benign, loving, devoted. Well, tomorrow was another day. He would pretend utmost hurt over her accusations, and would not let himself forgive her so soon, and so he would take time to "think" the matter over carefully.
He had indeed been shaken, and considerably frightened and alarmed, at Jenny's mad accusations but not for long. He knew a great deal more about erratic human nature and its irrational storms than did his brother, and nothing much surprised, jolted or bewildered him. So his first consternation was not long in disintegrating, leaving him more and more amused by the moment, and feeling more and more pity for Jenny, who had carried this bloody suspicion so long in her naive mind. Jenny, Jenny, he thought with affection, if I had indeed wanted to do away with your mother, I'd have done it with far more finesse and certainly would not have trusted Jon, or dreamed of trusting him to help me. How little you know of anybody!
Now his usual urbanity and tranquil spirits returned, and he at last fell asleep, reflecting that if Jenny married him or not, he would still have the income from her mother's vast estate. But he did not permit himself to think that Jenny would actually reject him. After all, who else wanted her, who would marry a girl with a small income of one hundred dollars a month, with only prospects, it is true, of eventually inheriting a great estate? But those prospects were far in the future, and young men had little faith in the future. They wanted the Now.
With Jenny as his wife he would not only have the one woman he had ever wanted to marry with any desire and passion and love, but he would have that lovely money as well. They would sell that damned island or rent it. It meant nothing to Harald as he drifted off into a peaceful sleep. He had a happy dream that the island had been broken and smashed by a hurricane and he and Jenny, aboard a luxurious liner, watched it drift away in chunks. And laughed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Robert Morgan walked gloomily through the bouse his mother and he had bought. It was a beautiful house, of noble proportions, and not afflicted by the Victorian "wood lace" which Jonathan Ferrier so despised and which he had taught Robert to despise also. But Jane Morgan, who had been born in that very sort of a Victorian house, deemed it beautiful and "refined" and indicative of "culture" and taste. So she had brought the heaviest and the ugliest of her inherited furniture to this house in Hambledon, and had hung the darkest and most impenetrable draperies at the windows—which she had also swathed in somber lace—and the shining floors had been covered from wall to wall with dim carpets. She kept the shutters at least half shut and so a house once radiant with light became dusky and secretive and cold. Every possible corner was crowded with "antiques" of dubious value, and cabinets leaned darkly against pale paneled walls filled with what Jane conceived of as objets dart but which had been made lavishly in factories in Sevres in imitation of Dresden and Meissen. Marble fireplaces had their mantelpieces draped in dull velvet, red or brown or deep blue, with ponderous fringes, and upon this velvet she had placed fraudulent ormulu clocks, false Staffordshire ware, tall vases corroded with gilt and of weird and depressing shapes, conch shells, little china trays, and crystal holders filled with dried flowers or wisps of pussywillow.
Even the big mirrors she installed here and there reflected only swart shadows, dejected images, shut and looming doors. The whole effect suggested dinginess, funereal sullenness. It did not seem the same house Robert had bought, airy, bright, clean, the windows glittering, the doors opening on gardens.
After the second night she had spent in the changed house she said to her son, "Robert, the birds are very disturbing in this town, very disturbing indeed. They awaken me early in the morning and impinge on my nervous state. I have not been able to sleep for more than eight or nine hours a night since we were unfortunate enough to arrive here."
Robert looked about him and was more depressed than ever. Was it possible that he had never noticed before how vile and uncouth his mother's taste was, and how coarse? But he had seen the Ferrier house and other houses of light and comfort in Hambledon, including the house of the Kitcheners, which, though it did not possess the elegance and charm of the Ferrier house still had distinction of color, openness and warmth and innocent gaiety and homeliness. How could he have dreamed of bringing Jenny Heger to this house— which he now referred to as "my mother's house"? His mother had cleverly, and as if with m
alice, destroyed every perspective, every grace.
He said, "Mother, I don't find the birds disturbing. And you are not an invalid. It isn't normal to sleep for more than nine or even eight hours."
"Robert! Have you forgotten that I am indeed an invalid and have arthritis?"
"None of your joints are swollen."
"You have not seen my—limbs—or my feet, nor have you felt the pain in my shoulders and my back. I do not understand you, Robert. I have done everything to please you, consented to this little town, to this home, which I did not admire from the beginning. There were other homes more suitable—"
"Houses," said Robert.
Jane raised her voice imperatively. "I repeat, I do not understand you, Robert! We were discussing the birds. Can we not trap them or at least buy one or two cats to destroy them! How the Almighty could create such noisy creatures, to disturb the peace of humanity, is beyond my comprehension! Once I rather admired them but do so no longer. They are surely useless—"
"Mother," said Robert, "if all the birds in the world disappeared, man could not survive more than seven years thereafter. That is a scientific fact. You don't like these beautiful trees either, and I believe you mentioned that you 'wondered' why God had made them, too. If trees disappeared from the face of the earth, we should soon have Only a desert in which we could not live. Rainfall would cease, grass would die, and we'd become a barren world. It is only mankind," said Robert in a louder and relishing tone, "who could disappear totally and never be missed by anything which lives. To tell the truth, he's a worthless creature!"
Jane looked at him narrowly. "I must say, Robert, that you sound like your dear friend, Dr. Ferrier. Blasphemous. Did not the Almighty make man to have dominion over this world and the rule of everything? Then, everything else could disappear—and in many cases it would be an improvement —and man would still be triumphantly alive."
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