'Doc.' Gordon

by Mary Eleanor Wilkins Freeman

  CHAPTER XI

  Gordon smiled at James. "God bless you, boy!" he said.

  "What possible difference do you think that could make?" demanded Jameshotly. "Could that poor little girl help it?"

  "Of course she could not, but some men might object, and with reason, tomarrying a girl who came of such stock on her father's side."

  "I am not one of those men."

  "No, I don't think you are, but it is only my duty to put the caseplainly before you. That man who was buried this afternoon was simplyunspeakable. He was a monstrosity of perverted morality. I cannot evenbring myself to tell you what I know of him. I cannot even bring myselfto give you the least hint of what my poor young sister, Clemency'smother, suffered in her brief life with him. You may fear heredity--"

  "Heredity, nothing! Don't I know Clemency?"

  "I myself really think that you have nothing whatever to fear. Clemencyis her mother's living and breathing image as far as looks go, and asfar as I can judge in the innermost workings of her mind. I have notseen in her the slightest taint from her evil father, though God knows Ihave watched for it with horror as the years have passed. After she wasborn I smuggled her away by night, and gave out word that the child haddied at the same time with the mother. There was a private funeral, andthe casket was closed. I had hard work to carry it through successfully,for I was young in those days, and broken-hearted at losing my sister,but carry it through I did, and no one knew except a nurse. I trustedher, I was obliged to do so, and I fear that she has betrayed me. Iestablished a practice in another town in another State, and there I metClara. She has told me that she informed you of the fact that she was mywife, but not of our reasons for concealing it. Just before we weremarried I became practically certain that Clemency's father had gainedin some way information that led him to suspect, if not to be absolutelycertain, that his child had not died with his wife. I had a widowedsister, Mrs. Ewing, who lived in Iowa with her only daughter just aboutClemency's age. Just before our marriage she decided to remove toEngland to live with some relatives of her deceased husband. They hadconsiderable property, and she had very little. I begged her to gosecretly, or rather to hint that she was going East to live with me,which she did. Nobody in the little Iowa village, so far as I knew, wasaware of the fact that my sister and daughter had gone to England, andnot East to live with me. Clara and I were married privately in anobscure little Western hamlet, and came East at once. We have lived invarious localities, being driven from one to another by the danger ofClemency's father ascertaining the truth; and my wife has always beenknown as Mrs. Ewing, and Clemency as her daughter. It has been a life ofconstant watchfulness and deception, and I have been bound hand andfoot. Even had Clemency's father not been so exceedingly careful that itwould have been difficult to reach him by legal methods, there was thepoor child to be considered, and the ignominy which would come upon herat the exposure of her father. I have done what I could. I am naturallya man who hates deception, and wishes above all things to lead a lifewith its windows open and shades up, but I have been forced into thevery reverse. My life has been as closely shuttered and curtained as myhouse. I have been obliged to force my own wife to live after the samefashion. Now the cause for this secrecy is removed, but as far as she isconcerned, the truth must still be concealed for Clemency's sake. Itmust not be known that that dead man was her father, and the veryinstant we let go one thread of the mystery the whole fabric willunravel. Poor Clara can never be acknowledged openly as my wife, thebest and most patient wife a man ever had, and under a heavier sentenceof death this moment than the utmost ingenuity of man could contrive."Gordon groaned, and let his head sink upon his hands.

  "She told me some time ago that she was ill," James said pityingly.

  "Ill? She has been upon the executioner's block for years. It is notillness; that is too tame a word for it. It is torture, prolonged asonly the evil forces of Nature herself can prolong it."

  Gordon rose and shook himself angrily. "I am keeping her now almostconstantly under morphine," he said. "She has suffered more lately. Theattacks have been more frequent. There has never been the slightestpossibility of a surgical operation. From the very first it was utterlyhopeless, and if it had been the dog there, I should have put a bulletthrough his head and considered myself a friend." Gordon gazed withmiserable reflection at the dog. "I am glad that the _direct_ cause ofthat man's death was not what it might have been," he said.

  He shook himself again as a dog shakes off water. He laughed a miserablelaugh. "Well," he said, "Clemency is free now. She can go her ways asshe will. You see she resembled her mother so closely that I had toguard her from even the sight of her father. He would have known thetruth at once. Clemency is free, but I have paid an awful price for herfreedom and for your life. If I had not done what you doubtless know Idid that night, you would have been shot, and it would have been astruggle between myself and her father, with the very good chance of mybeing killed, and Clara and the girl left defenseless. His revolvercarried six deaths in it. It would all have depended upon the quicknessof the dog, and I should have left too much hanging upon that."

  "I don't see what else you could do," James said in a low voice. He waspale himself. He did not blame Gordon. He felt that he himself, inGordon's place, would have done as he had done, and yet he felt as iffaced close to a horror of murder and death, and he knew from the lookupon the other man's countenance that it was the same with him.

  "I saw no other way," Gordon said in a broken voice, "but--but I don'tknow whether I am a murderer or an executioner, and I never shall know.God help me! Well," he added with a sigh, "what is done, is done. Let usgo to bed."

  James said when they parted at his room door that he hoped Mrs. Ewingwould have a comfortable night.

  "Yes, she will," replied Gordon quietly. Then he gave the young man'shand a warm clasp. "God bless you!" he whispered. "If this had turnedyou against the child, it would have driven me madder than I am now. Ilove her as if she were my own. You and your loyalty are all I have tohold to."

  "You can hold to that to the end," James returned with warmth, and helooked at Gordon as he might have looked at his own father.

  Late as it was, he wrote that night to his own father and mother,telling them of his engagement to Clemency. There now can be no possibleneed for secrecy with regard to it. James, in spite of his vague senseof horror, felt an exhilaration at the thought that now all could beabove board, that the shutters could be flung open. He felt as if anincubus had rolled from his mental consciousness. Clemency herselfexperienced something of the same feeling. She appeared at thebreakfast-table the next morning with her hat. "Uncle says I may go withyou on your rounds," she said to James. She beamed, and yet there was atroubled and puzzled expression on her pretty face. When she and Jameshad started, and were moving swiftly along the country road, she saidsuddenly, "Will you tell me something?"

  James hesitated.

  "Will you?" she repeated.

  "I can't promise, dear," he said.

  "Why not?" she asked pettishly.

  "Because it might be something which I ought not to tell you."

  "You ought to tell me everything if--if--" she hesitated, and blushed.

  "If what?" asked James tenderly.

  She nestled up to him. "If you--feel toward me as you say you do."

  "If. Oh, Clemency!"

  "Then you ought to tell me. No, you needn't kiss me. I want you to tellme something. I don't want to be kissed."

  "Well, what is that you want to know, dear?"

  "Will you promise to tell me?"

  "No, dear, I can't promise, but I will tell you if I am able withoutdoing you harm."

  "Who was that man who was buried yesterday, who had been hunting me solong, and frightening me and Uncle Tom, and why have I been compelled tostay housed as if I were a prisoner so much of my life?"

  "Because you were in danger, dear, from the man."

  "You are answering me in a circle." Clemency sat u
pright and looked atJames, and the blue fire in her eyes glowed. "Who was the man?" sheasked peremptorily.

  "I can't tell you, dear."

  "But you know."

  "Yes."

  "Why can't you tell me then?"

  "Because it is not best."

  Clemency shrugged her shoulders. "Why did he hunt me so?"

  "I can't tell you, dear."

  "But you know."

  "I am not sure."

  "But you think you know."

  "Yes."

  "Then tell me."

  "I can't, dear."

  "When will you tell me?"

  "Never!"

  Clemency looked at him, and again she blushed. "You will tell meafter--we are--married. You will have to tell me everything then," shewhispered.

  James shook his head.

  "Won't you then?"

  "No, dear, I shall never tell you while I live."

  Clemency made a sudden grasp at the reins. "Then I will never marryyou," she said. "I will never marry you, if you keep things from me."

  "I will never keep things from you that you ought to know, dear."

  "I ought to know this!"

  James remained silent. Clemency had brought the horse to a full stop."Won't you ever tell me?" she asked.

  "No, never! dear."

  "Then let me get out. This is Annie Lipton's street. I am going to seeher. I have not seen her for a long time. I will walk home. It is safeenough now. You can tell me that much?"

  "Yes, it is, but Clemency, dear."

  "I am not Clemency, dear. I am not going to marry you. You say you wroteyour father and mother last night that we were going to get married.Well, you can just write again and tell them we are not. No, you neednot try to stop me. I will get out. Good-by! I shall not be home toluncheon. I shall stay with Annie. I like her very much better than Ilike you."

  With that Clemency had slipped out of the buggy and hurried up a streetwithout looking back. James drove on. He felt disturbed, but notseriously so. It was impossible to take Clemency's anger as a realthing. It was so whimsical and childish. He had counted upon his longmorning with her, but he went on with a little smile on his face.

  He was half inclined to think, so slightly did he estimate Clemency'sanger, that she would not keep her word, and would be home for luncheon.But when he returned she was not there, and she had not come when thebell rang.

  "Why, where is Clemency?" Gordon said, when they entered thedining-room.

  "She insisted upon stopping to see her friend Miss Lipton," said James."She said that she might not be home to lunch." Emma gave one of hersharp, baffled glances at him, then, having served the two men, shetossed her head and went out. Nobody knew how much she wished to listenat the kitchen door, but she was above such a course.

  "Clemency and I had a bit of a tiff," James explained to Gordon. "Sheseemed vexed because I would not tell her what you told me last night.She is curious to know more about--that man."

  "She must not know," Gordon said quickly. "Never mind if she does seem alittle vexed. She will get over it. I know Clemency. She is like hermother. The power of sustained indignation against one she loves is notin the child, and she must not know. It would be a dreadful thing forher to know. I myself cannot have it. It is enough of a horror as it is,but to have that child look at me, and think--" Gordon broke offabruptly.

  "She will never know through me," James said, "and I think with you thather resentment will not last."

  "She will be home this afternoon," said Gordon, "and the walk will doher good."

  But the two returned from their afternoon calls, and still Clemency hadnot returned. Emma met them at the door. "Mrs. Ewing says she is worriedabout Miss Clemency," she said. Gordon ran upstairs. When he came downhe joined James in the office. "I have pacified Clara," he said, "butsuppose you jump into the buggy, Aaron has not unharnessed yet, anddrive over to Annie Lipton's for her. It is growing colder, and Clemencyhas not been outdoors much lately, and she has rather a delicate throat.It is time now that she was home."

  James smiled. "Suppose she will not come with me?" he suggested.

  "Nonsense," said Gordon. "She will be only too glad if you meet herhalf-way. She will come. Tell her I said that she must."

  "All right," replied James.

  He went out, got into the buggy, and drove along rapidly. He had theteam, and the horses were still quite fresh, as they had not been longdistances that day. There was a vague fear in the young man's mind,although he tried to dispel it by the force of argument. "What has thegirl to fear now?" his reason kept dinning in his ears, but, in spiteof himself, something else, which seemed to him unreason, made himanxious. When he reached Annie Lipton's home, a fine old house, overhungwith a delicate tracery of withered vines, he saw Annie's pretty head ata front window. She opened the door before he had time to ring the bell,and she looked with alarmed questioning at him.

  "I have come for Miss Ewing, her uncle--" James began, but Annieinterrupted him, her face paling perceptibly. "Clemency," she said;"why, she left here directly after lunch. She said she must go. She feltanxious about her mother, and did not want to leave her any longer.Hasn't she come home yet?"

  "No," said James.

  "And you didn't meet her? You must have met her."

  "No."

  The two stood staring at each other. A delicate old face peeped out ofthe door at the right of the halls. It was like Annie's, only dimmed byage, and shaded by two leaf-like folds of gray hair as smooth as silver."Oh, mother, Clemency has not got home!" Annie cried. "Dr. Elliot, thisis my mother. Mother, Clemency has not got home. What do you think hashappened?"

  The lady came out in the hall. She had a quiet serenity of manner, buther soft eyes looked anxious. "Could she have stopped anywhere, dear?"she said.

  "You know, mother, there is not a single house between here and her ownwhere Clemency ever stops," said Annie. She was trembling all over.

  James made a movement to go. "What are you going to do?" cried Annie.

  "Stop at every house between here and Doctor Gordon's, and ask if thepeople have seen her," replied James.

  Then he ran back to the buggy, and heard as he went a little nervouscall from Annie, "Oh, let us know if--"

  "I will let you know when I find her, Miss Lipton," he called back as hegathered up the lines. He kept his word. He did stop at every house, andat every one all knowledge of the girl was disclaimed. There were notmany houses, the road being a lonely one. He was met mostly by women whoseemed at once to share his anxiety. One woman especially asked verycarefully for a description of Clemency, and he gave a minute one. "Yousay her mother is ill, too," said the woman. She was elderly, but stillpretty. She had kept her tints of youth as some withered flowers do,and there seemed still to cling to her the atmosphere of youth, asfragrance clings to dry rose leaves. She was dressed in rather asuperior fashion to most of the countrywomen, in soft lavender cashmerewhich fitted her slight, tall figure admirably. James had a glimpsebehind her of a pretty interior: a room with windows full of bloomingplants, of easy-chairs and many cushioned sofas, beside book-cases. Thewoman looked, so he thought, like one who had some private anxiety ofher own. She kept peering up and down the road, as they talked, asthough she, too, were on the watch for some one. She promised James tokeep a lookout for the missing girl. "Poor little thing," she murmured.There was something in her face as she said that, a slight phase ofamusement, which caused James to stare keenly at her, but it had passed,and her whole face denoted the utmost candor and concern.

  When James reached home he had a forlorn hope that he should findClemency there; that from a spirit of mischief she had taken some crosstrack over the fields to elude him. But when Aaron met him in the drive,and he saw the man's frightened stare, he knew that she had not come.It was unnecessary to ask, but ask he did. "She has not come?"

  "No, Doctor Elliot," replied Aaron. He did not even chew. He tied thehorses, and followed James into the office, with his jaws stiff. Gordon
stood up when James entered, and looked past him for Clemency. "She wasnot there?" he almost shouted.

  "She left the Liptons at two o'clock, and I have stopped at every houseon my way, and no one has seen her."

  "Oh, my God!" said Gordon, with a dazed look at James.

  "What do you think?" asked James.

  "I don't know what to think. I am utterly at a loss now. I supposed shewas entirely safe. There are almost no tramps at this season, and inbroad daylight. At two, you said? It is almost six. I don't know what todo. What will come next? I must tell Clara something before I doanything else."

  Gordon rushed out of the office, and they heard his heavy tread on thestairs. Aaron stared at James, and still he did not chew.

  "It's almost dark," he said with a low drawl.

  "Yes."

  "We've got to take lanterns, and hunt along the road and fields."

  "Yes, we have."

  The dog, which had been asleep, got up, and came over to James, and laidhis white head on his knee. "We can take him," Aaron said. "Sometimesdogs have more sense than us."

  "That is so," said James. He felt himself in an agony of helplessness.He simply did not know what to do. He had sunk into a chair and his headfairly rung. It seemed to him incredible that the girl had disappeared asecond time. A queer sense of unreality made him feel faint.

  Gordon reentered the room. "I have told Clara that you have come back,and that Clemency is to stay all night with Annie Lipton," he said. Thenhe, too, stood staring helplessly. Emma had come into the room, and nowshe spoke angrily to the three dazed men. "Git the lanterns lit, forgoodness' sake," said she, "and hunt and do something. I'm goin' to gither supper, and I'll keep her pacified." Emma gave a jerk with a sharpelbow toward Mrs. Ewing's room. "For goodness' sake, if you don't knowyet where she has went, why don't you do somethin'?" she demanded. Themen went before her sharp command like dust before her broom. "Keep asstill as you can," ordered Emma as they went out. "_She_ mustn't, git toworryin' before she comes home."

  "Saw a little dark figure running toward him." Page 239.]

  For the next two hours Gordon, James, and Aaron searched. They walked,each going his separate way into the fields and woods on the road,having agreed upon a signal when the girl should be found. The signalwas to be a pistol shot. James went first to the wood, where he hadfound Clemency on her former disappearance. He searched in every shadow,throwing the gleam of his lantern into little dark nests of last year'sferns, and hollows where last year's leaves had swirled together to die,but no Clemency. At last, wearied and heart-sick, he came out on theroad. The moon was just up, a full moon, and the road lay stretchedbefore him like a silver ribbon covered with the hoar-frost. He gazeddown it hopelessly, and saw a little dark figure running toward him. Hewas incredulous, but he called, "Clemency!"

  A glad little cry answered him. He himself ran forward, and the girl wasin his arms, sobbing and trembling as if her heart would break.

  "What has happened? What has happened, darling?" James cried in anagony. "Are you hurt? What has happened?"

  "Something very strange has happened, but I am not hurt," sobbedClemency. James remembered the signal. "Wait a second, dear," he said;"your uncle and Aaron are searching, and I promised to fire the pistolif I found you." James fired his pistol in the air six times. Then hereturned to Clemency, who was leaning against a tree. "How I wish we haddriven here!" James said tenderly.

  "I can walk, if you help me," Clemency sobbed, leaning against him. "Oh,I am so sorry I acted so this morning. I got punished for it. I haven'tbeen hurt, nobody has been anything but kind to me, but I have beendreadfully frightened."

  Gordon and Aaron came running up. "Where have you been, Clemency?"Gordon demanded in a harsh voice. "Another time you must do as you aretold. You are too old to behave like a child, and put us all in such afright."

  Clemency left James, and ran to her uncle, and clung to him sobbinghysterically. "Oh, Uncle Tom, don't scold me," she whimpered.

  "Are you hurt? What has happened?"

  "I am not hurt a bit," sobbed Clemency.

  Gordon put his arm around her. "Well," he said, "as long as you are safekeep your story until we get home. Elliot, take her other arm. She isalmost too used up to walk. Now stop crying, Clemency."

  When they were home, in the office, Clemency told her story, which was astrange one. She had been on her way home from Annie Lipton's, and hadreached a certain house, when the door opened and a woman stood therecalling her. She described the woman and the house, and James gave astart. "That must be the same woman whom I saw," he exclaimed.

  "She was a woman I had never seen," said Clemency. "I think she had onlylived there a very short time."

  Gordon nodded gloomily. "I know who she is, I fear," he said. "Strangethat I did not suspect."

  "She looked very kind and pleasant," said Clemency, "and I thought shewanted something and there was no harm, but when I reached her the firstthing I knew she had hold of me, and her hands were like iron clamps.She put one over my mouth, and held me with the other, and pulled meinto the house and locked the door. Then she made me go into a littledark room in the middle of the house and she locked me in. She told meif I screamed nobody would hear me, but she did speak kindly. She wasvery kind. Once she even kissed me, although I did not want her to. Shebrought a lamp in, and made me lie down on a couch in the room and drinka glass of wine. She told me not to be afraid, nobody would hurt me. Sheseemed to me to be always listening, and every now and then she wentout, but she always locked the door behind her. When she came back shewould look terribly worried. About half an hour ago she went out, andwhen she came back brought a tray with tea and bread and cold chickenfor me. I told her I would starve before I ate anything while she keptme there. She did not seem to pay much attention, she looked sodreadfully worried. She sat down and looked at me. Finally, she said, asif she were afraid to hear her own voice, 'Has any accident happenednear here lately that you have heard of?' I told her about the man thatfell down in our drive and died of erysipelas. I did not tell heranything else. All at once she almost fell in a faint. Then she stoodup, and she looked as if she were dead. She told me to stay where I wasjust fifteen minutes, then I might go, but I must not stir before. Thenshe kissed me again, and her lips were like ice. She went out, and Iknew the door was not locked, but I was afraid to stir. I could hear herrunning about. Then I heard the outer door slam, and I looked at mywatch, and it was fifteen minutes. Then I ran out and up the road asfast as I could. Just before I saw Doctor Elliot the New York trainpassed. I heard it. I think she was hurrying to catch that."

  Gordon nodded.

  "Oh, Uncle Tom, who was she, and why did she lock me up?" askedClemency.

  "Clemency," said Gordon, in a sterner voice than Clemency had ever heardhim use toward her, "never speak, never think, of that woman or that managain. Now go out and eat your dinner."