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_ CHAPTER XV
James sat as if turned to stone. All in a second he realized what it
must be. He let Clemency's hand go, and leaned back in his chair. "What
do you mean, Clemency?" he asked finally, but he realized how senseless
the question was. He knew perfectly well what she meant, and he knew
perfectly well that he was utterly helpless before her accusation.
"You know," said Clemency, still in her unnatural hard voice. "You
killed her."
"How?"
"You know. You gave her more morphine, and her heart was weak. Emma
overheard Uncle Tom say so, and that more morphine was dangerous. She
might have been alive to-day if it had not been for you."
James sat staring at the girl. She went on pitilessly. "You did not see
Emma that last time you came upstairs," she said, "but she saw you. She
was standing in the door of her room, and she had no light. She saw you
and Mrs. Blair going away from her room, and she heard Mrs. Blair tell
you she was dead. You killed her. I want nothing whatever to do with a
murderer."
James remembered that draught of cold air. It must have come from the
open door of Emma's room at the end of the hall. He understood that Emma
could not have seen him coming upstairs, but that she had seen him with
Mrs. Blair at the door of the sick-room, and had jumped at her
conclusion.
"Emma knew when you went upstairs first," said Clemency. "You left her
door a little ajar. Emma saw you giving her a hypodermic. And then when
that did not kill her you gave her another. Uncle Tom did not know. He
must never know, for it would kill him, but you did kill her."
James was silent for a moment. He realized the impossibility of clearing
himself from the accusation unless he told the whole truth and
implicated Doctor Gordon. Finally he said, miserably enough, "You don't
know how horribly she was suffering, dear. You don't know what torments
she would have had to suffer."
He knew when he said that that he incriminated himself. Clemency
retorted immediately, "You don't know. I have heard Uncle Tom say that
nobody can ever know. She might have gotten well. Anyway, you killed
her." With that Clemency sprang up and ran out of the room, and James
heard her sob.
As for himself, he remained where he was for a long time. He never knew
how long. He felt numb. He realized himself to be in a gulf of
misunderstanding, from which he could not be extricated, even for the
sake of Clemency. It seemed to him again that he must go away, but he
remembered Gordon's pitiful plea to him to remain. Finally he went into
his room, to find that Emma, in her absurd malice, had left only the
coverlid on the bed. She had stripped it of the sheets and blankets. He
lay down with his clothes on and passed a sleepless night.
The next morning at the breakfast-table he looked haggard and pale. He
could eat nothing. Doctor Gordon looked at him keenly.
"What is the matter, Elliot?" he asked.
Clemency gave a quick glance at him, and her face worked.
"Nothing," replied James.
"You look downright ill."
"I am not ill."
Clemency rose abruptly and left the table.
"What is the matter, Clemency? Where are you going?" Gordon called out.
"I have finished my breakfast," the girl replied in a stifled voice.
Gordon insisted on making some calls that morning, and relieving James.
"You are worn out, my son," he said in a voice of real affection, and
clapped him on the shoulder. He sent James on a short round in spite of
his objections, and the consequence was that James reached home half an
hour before luncheon.
It was a beautiful morning. Spring seemed to have come with a winged
leap. A faint down of green shaded the elms, and there was a pink cloud
of peach bloom in the distance. The cherry trees were swollen almost to
blossom, and the apple trees had pale radiances in the glance of the
sun. The grass was quite green, and here and there were dandelions.
Clemency was out in the yard, working in a little flower-garden, as
James drove in. She had on a black dress, and her fair head was
uncovered. She pretended not to see James, but he had hardly entered the
office before she came in. Her face was all suffused with pink. She
looked at him tenderly and angrily.
"Are you ill?" she said, in an indignant voice which had, in spite of
herself, soft cadences.
"No, Clemency."
"Then why do you look so?" she demanded.
James turned at that. "Clemency, you accuse me of cruelty," he said,
"but you yourself are cruel. You do not realize that you cannot tell a
man he is a murderer, and throw him over when he loves you, and yet have
him utterly unmoved by it."
Suddenly Clemency was in his arms. "I love you, I love you," she sobbed.
"Don't be unhappy, don't look so. It breaks my heart. I love you, I do
love you, dear. I can't marry you, but I love you!"
"If you love me, you can marry me."
Clemency shrank away, then she clung to him again. "No," she said, "I
can't get over the thought of it. I can't help it, but I do love you. We
will go on just the same as ever, only we will not get married. You know
we were not going to get married just yet anyway. I love you. We will go
on just the same. Only don't look the way you did this morning at
breakfast."
"How did I look?"
"As if your heart were broken."
"So it is, dear."
"No, it is not. I love you, I tell you. What is the need of bothering
about marriage anyway? I am perfectly happy being engaged. Annie says
she is never going to get married. Let the marriage alone. Only you
won't look so any more, will you, dear?" _
Read next: Chapter 16
Read previous: Chapter 14
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