Testimony Of Two Men (6 page)

Robert started; then, seeing the other man, he smiled and waved like a boy. “Just stopped for a breather,” he said. He looked about him with pleasure. He saw the miniature castle at a distance on its lawns, with minute battlements and rounded towers and slit windows, and he was delighted at the white granite perfection, and not embarrassed as Jonathan was whenever he saw it. A little schloss, thought Robert. He saw a greenhouse, its glass windows sparkling in the sun, and small buildings that housed tools. He saw massed trees and formal small gardens and hedge and red-bricked walks and little lily ponds and an old roofed well. There were spruces, too, and flowering shrubs, all fragrant in the water-clean air, all vivid with color. The river gracefully flowed about the island, lovingly enclosing it. Freshness came from little grottoes and winding paths, and white wooden arches bursting with climbing scarlet roses or blue morning glories. Nothing could be more charming, more appropriate, than all this, and it was no longer mawkish to Robert, not even the pretentious little castle. All it needed, he thought, was a still moat and a drawbridge. He listened to the riotous voices of the birds, and to the river, and the tootling of the busy ferryboat. How European in raw America! The farther bank was high and green, and beyond it stood the grape-colored mountains, and it might all have been the Rhine Valley—which he, Robert, had never visited in his life but of which he had heard. He smiled hugely and, seeing that smile, Jonathan frowned, then shrugged. He was somewhat disappointed in young Bob. If a man could not see preciousness at once and grin at it, then there was not much hope for him. “Come on,” he called.

Enchanted, Robert walked slowly toward Jonathan, turning his head from side to side to catch fresh wonders and beauties. He was not envious. He thought it all marvelous. Now he reached Jonathan, and in silence they approached the castle. The walk that led to it was slabs of white marble; three broad marble steps fanned to the bronze doors, and on each side crouched white stone lions, life-size. “What do you think of it?” asked Jonathan.

“Beautiful,” said Robert. Jonathan gave up. “A vulgar man’s dream,” he said. “At least, his dream of a dream.” But Robert did not hear this ill-tempered remark.

The bronze doors opened before they could reach them, and a tall young man in a crimson velvet morning jacket walked easily down the marble steps to await them. Robert saw him in that clarified light of noon, long-headed, casual, smiling. He had a florid handsomeness, unusual in one so slight and young, and bright, ruddy hair, and excellent features, well-cut and candid. He came to them eagerly, as if they were the most welcome of guests, and expected, holding out his hands. Now Robert could see his large eyes, brilliantly hazel and shining with good temper, and his gay and attractive smile, which revealed glowing white teeth. His whole air was frank and boyish and pleased.

“Jon!” he exclaimed. “Jenny just told me. And”—he turned to Robert with that look of deep candor and open expectation. His voice was a lighter version of Jonathan’s.

“My replacement,” said Jonathan. “Robert Morgan. Young Bob.”

“Good! I’ve heard of Dr. Morgan. How do you like our town?”

“I like it. I like it very much,” said Robert with a fervency that made Jonathan smile wryly. He shook hands with Har- aid Ferrier. This brother was not “foreign,” nor odd, nor secret. He was as transparent as the very sunlight and as warm. He made a stranger feel as if he were an old friend about to be strongly embraced. He made a man feel accepted and secure and at ease and more than ordinarily welcome.

“I’m glad,” Harald said. “I’m very glad. Bully, as Teddy Roosevelt would say. Well, come in, come in. You’re both staying for lunch, aren’t you?”

Though his voice resembled Jonathan’s, it lacked Jonathan’s resonance and deep quality, its undertone of hard grittiness. Robert, lulled by all this goodwill, this tremendous kindliness and affability, hesitated. “Well, I—” he said, and looked at Jonathan.

“We came for lunch,” said Jonathan. “Don’t I usually?”

“Except when you come for dinner,” said Harald, laughing. He winked without reason at Robert, as if drawing him into a delicious conspiracy against his brother. “We get a Utile bored here without visitors. I’m a gregarious fella; I love company. It seems such an effort for friends to row across that water. Effete.”

Robert murmured something. What nastiness had he been thinking of Harald Ferrier only a few minutes ago? He could not remember. But he was ashamed. There was such joyousness about Harald, such simplicity and humor.

They entered a square hall, all black and white marble squares, with four suits of armor arranged along the walnut walls. A dark wooden staircase with medieval overtones rose from the hall to a landing with a great stained-glass window. The hall smelled of the ages, a faint but pleasurable mustiness, and Robert saw hanging banners in various colors, hinting of family standards.

“For God’s sake, let’s go out on the terrace, away from this fakery,” said Jonathan.

Harald laughed without offense. “Everything is fake to Jon,” he said to Robert. “But old Pete brought this entire hall from Germany, so what is fake about it? Nothing! And the whole castle is furnished in authentic furniture, brought from all over Europe. Sheraton. Chippendale. Spanish. And there’s a lot of Duncan Phyfe, too. Well, let’s go on the terrace.” He had taken Robert’s arm in total friendliness. “Don’t listen to Jon. He tries to sour life for everybody.”

“Not for everybody,” said Jonathan. “But I’d love to make it a little sour for you.”

“Dear old Jon,” said Harald without resentment “This door, please, Dr. Morgan.” He opened a large carved oaken door and a blaze of sunlight struck into the hall. Beyond it was a terrace of smooth gray stones and tubbed exotic flowers, all surrounded by little spruces. The white granite wall of the castle threw a sharp blue shadow on it all, and there was fine garden furniture waiting, rustic swings, rockers covered with chintz pillows, sofas in red and blue and yellow. Rattan tables held flowering jars and bowls. The lawns moved smoothly away from the terrace, down to the granite enclosure. The river lay beyond, azure and twinkling, and the farther shore and the mountains gave their own peace and tranquillity to the scene. Somewhere, unseen, a fountain tinkled, and there was a scent of wet stone and luxurious grass blowing over the terrace in a wind as pure as crystal.

Robert put on his coat, after a blush of shame that he had forgotten it, and sat down. Jonathan sat near him negligently, his thin legs crossed, his profile to Robert as if he had forgotten him. Harald was superbly gracious. He smiled at Robert amiably. “A drink before lunch?” he suggested. His eyes were warm and affectionate, as if he had known Robert for many years and considered him a dear friend.

“Whiskey and soda, as usual, for me,” said Jonathan, still staring absently at the river. Robert considered. His mother did not believe in strong liquor and he had known, even in college and at medical school and at Johns Hopkins, only beer and wine and sherry. He doubted, in this atmosphere, that any of them would be the proper thing. “Sherry,” said Jonathan, as if reading his mind. Robert hated himself for the heat in his face. “No,” he said. “Thanks, just the same. I think I’d like whiskey, too.”

“Good,” said Harald. He struck a bell on the table near his elbow. The sound was abrupt in that peaceful stillness. A moment later an elderly man in a white jacket came to the door. “Three whiskies and soda, Albert,” said Harald, in his kind voice. “Please.”

The old man smiled at him like a father. “Surely, Mr. Ferrier,” he said. “At once.”

“And would you mind, Albert, asking Miss Heger to join us here? You could bring the sherry for her, too.”

“Whiskey,” said Jonathan, still not turning his head.

“Oh, come now, Jon! Don’t be disagreeable. Jenny doesn’t drink whiskey! She’s a lady.”

Jonathan yawned. “She usually drinks whiskey, too. Don’t put on for Bob.”

Harald still smiled. But his eyes looked pained and Robert was sorry for him. Harald nodded to Albert. “Four whiskies, then.” He hesitated. “You’ll be giving Dr. Morgan a bad impression of us here, Jon.”

“He’ll get worse, in the town.” Jonathan spoke indifferently. He looked now at Robert. “My mother drinks whiskey and likes it. And why not? Such stupidity, thinking women are better, or worse, than men.”

Robert did not know what to say. He wished that Jonathan were less intolerable. But Harald was saying with enthusiasm, “Hambledon is a splendid town, really! You’ll enjoy it, Doctor. Nothing like Philadelphia, of course, but nicer in many ways—”

“Why, then, are you always scheming with lawyers to leave it?” asked Jonathan.

Harald immediately became serious. He leaned earnestly toward his brother. “Now, Jon. You know that’s not true. Isn’t Hambledon my home? Didn’t I always return to it when—”

“Papa’s money began to run out, or he refused you any more.”

Harald laughed lightly. “Oh, come on, Jon! This is Dr. Morgan’s first visit here and—”

“We mustn’t give him a bad impression. Yes, I know. But do you expect he’ll never hear about us in the town? There’re hundreds of old biddies of both sexes who’ll be only too anxious to tell him all about the Ferriers. Better if he hears it at firsthand.”

“You make us sound disreputable, or something.”

“And that’s what we are.”

Harald was silent. He continued to smile, however. The door opened and Jenny came out upon the terrace. She had removed her brown apron, but her blue cotton dress was stained here and there, carelessly, with earth, as if she had come fresh from the garden. Her expression was sullen and remote. She did not look at any of the men, and did not acknowledge them when they rose and greeted her. She moved quickly, with the awkwardness of a colt, to a distant chair, sat down, turned her face away, and folded her large white hands in her lap.

Robert looked at her profile furtively. Close at hand as she was, she appeared almost incredibly beautiful, her brow and fine nose and white chin thrown into relief by the vivid water, her black hair tumbling in the manner of a schoolgirl about her long pale neck and rigid shoulders, and then dropping down her straight back. She had a remarkably sweet breast, high and firm; her waist was very small; her hips swelled under her dress with grace and smoothness. Robert thought that never had he seen a girl so extraordinarily lovely. He saw the glint of fierce blue between her black lashes, intent, as aware as an animal’s, and as unmoved, but watchful and full of enmity.

“I’ve ordered whiskey and soda for you, Jenny,” said Harald in a very gentle voice, almost pleading. “I’m glad you can join us.”

She gave no indication that she had heard him. Her sullen expression did not change. Why, she hates him! thought Robert. Then he had another thought: No, it was Jonathan whom she hated. She had seen him, and Robert, in the grove of trees after all. In that unpolluted air a good eye could detect anybody across even a mile of water. Robert became uncomfortable. As he stared at the girl like a boy he felt his nape tingle and the backs of his broad pink hands. His eye dropped to her bare throat; light lay in its hollow like a tiny pool of quivering water. The tingling increased in his flesh, and he did not know what it was. His eyes dropped even farther to her breast and could not turn away. He did not know that Jonathan was watching him with amusement. He was now staring at Jenny’s round white arms, bare from the strong elbows.

Albert returned with a silver tray, a bottle of soda water, and a bottle of whiskey. The men began to watch him prepare the drinks, as if he fascinated them. The silent girl apparently was disturbing their peace of mind, though she did not even look at them. Albert took a glass to her and she accepted it in silence, not turning her head.

“Cheers,” said Harald, nodding amiably at Robert. “And good health to you, Doctor, and may you be with us a very long time.”

“Thank you,” said Robert. He paused. “And please call me Bob.” He smiled like a shy youth. “No one does in Philadelphia. I’d like to start it in Hambledon.”

“Don’t encourage it with patients,” said Jonathan. “If you insist on getting very friendly with them, which is not the best thing in the world, let them call you Robert—after a long time of probation.”

“You mustn’t listen to Jon,” said Harald, with indulgence. “He’s very formal, for all he doesn’t wear the conventional frock coat and striped trousers.” He became serious. “Everybody will miss him here. But—under the circumstances—I think it is wise to leave—”

Jonathan took a long drink at his glass. “And you’ll like it better, too.”

“Now, Jon. Why should I?”

Jonathan held the glass halfway to his lips and looked at his brother. But he said nothing. Harald was at ease again. However, Robert, who was usually not aware of what his mother called “currents,” felt that something dark and inimical had moved onto the terrace and now stood between the brothers. Jonathan’s stare at Harald was cold. Harald seemed not to notice it. He was sipping at his glass contentedly. Robert was drinking also. He had tasted whiskey but once before in his life, as a child, when he had a bellyache and his father had mixed a concoction of honey, whiskey and hot water for him. He hadn’t liked the whiskey. He did not like it today. His ears were beginning to ring a little, though the sensation was quite agreeable. He was still vaguely disturbed at the sudden tension that had lurched into the atmosphere. Then he saw that Jenny was looking at him with the lack of interest of a statue. Her eyes stared into his, clouded and aloof, much more blue than the river and much more still. Only the small trembling light in the hollow of her throat was alive.