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_ CHAPTER XVI
After this James encountered a strange state of things: the semblance of
happiness, which almost deceived him as to its reality.
Clemency was as loving as she had ever been. Gordon congratulated James
upon the reconciliation. "I knew the child could never hold out, and it
was Annie Lipton," he said. James admitted that Annie Lipton might have
been the straw which turned the balance. He knew that Clemency had not
told Gordon of her conviction that he had given the final dose of
morphine to her aunt. Everything now went on as before. Clemency
suddenly became awake to Emma's petty persecutions of James, and they
ceased. James one day could not help overhearing a conversation between
the two. He was in the stable, and the kitchen windows were open. He
heard only a few words. "You don't mean to say you are goin' to hev
him?" said Emma in her strident voice.
"No, I am not," returned Clemency's sweet, decided one.
"What be you goin' with him again for then?"
James knew how the girl blushed at that, but she answered with spirit.
"That is entirely my own affair, Emma," she said, "and as long as Doctor
Elliot remains under this roof, and pays for it, too, he must be treated
decently. You don't pass him things, you don't fill his lamp. Now you
must treat him exactly as you did before, or I shall tell Uncle Tom."
"You won't tell him why?" said Emma, and there was alarm in her voice,
for she adored Gordon.
"Did you ever know me to go from one to another in such a way?" asked
Clemency. "You know if I told Uncle Tom, he would not put up with it a
minute. He thinks the world of Doctor Elliot."
"It's awful queer how men folks can be imposed on," said Emma.
"That has nothing to do with it," Clemency said. "You must treat Doctor
Elliot respectfully, Emma."
"I'm jest as good as he be," said Emma resentfully.
"Well, what if you are? He's as good as you, isn't he? And he treats you
civilly. He always has."
"I'm a good deal better than he be," Emma went on irascibly. "I wouldn't
have gone and went, and--"
"Hush!" ordered Clemency in a frightened voice. "Emma, you must do as I
say."
James drove out of the yard and heard no more, but after that he had no
fault to find with Emma, so far as her service was concerned. It is true
that she gave him malignant glances, but she made him comfortable,
albeit unwillingly. It was fortunate for him that she did so, or he
would have found his position almost unbearable. Doctor Gordon relaxed
again into his state of apathetic gloom. His strength also seemed to
wane. Almost the whole practice devolved upon James. Gordon seemed less
and less interested even in extreme cases. Georgie K. also lost his
power over him. Now and then of an evening he came, but Gordon, save to
offer him a cigar, took scarcely any notice of him. One evening Georgie
K. made a motion to James behind Gordon's back when he took leave, and
James made an excuse to follow him out. In the drive Georgie K. took
James by the arm, and the young man felt him tremble. "What ails him?"
asked Georgie K.
"I hardly know," James replied in a whisper.
"I know," said Georgie K. By the light from the office window James
could see that the man was actually weeping. His great ruddy face was
streaming with tears. "Don't I know?" he sobbed.
James remembered the stuffed canary and the wax flowers, and the story
Gordon had told him of Georgie K.'s grief over his wife's death.
"I dare say you are right," he returned.
"He's breakin' his heart, that's what he's doin'," said Georgie K.
"Can't you get him to go away for a change or somethin'?"
"I have tried."
"He'll die of it," Georgie K. said with a great gulp as he went out of
the yard.
When James reentered the office Gordon looked up at him. "That poor old
fellow called you out to talk about me," he said quietly. "I know I'm
going downhill."
"For heaven's sake, can't you go up, doctor?"
"No, I am done for. I could get over losing her, but I can't get over
what--you know what."
"But her death was inevitable, and greater agony was inevitable."
Gordon turned upon him fiercely. "When you have been as long in this
cursed profession as I have," he said, "you will realize that nothing is
inevitable. She might have recovered for all I know. That woman, at
Turner Hill, who I thought was dying six months ago, being up and around
again, is an instance. I tell you mortal man has no right to thrust his
hand between the Almighty and fate. You know nothing, and I know
nothing."
"I do know."
"You don't know, and you don't even know that you don't know. There is
no use talking about this any longer. When I am gone you must marry
Clemency, and keep on with my practice."
James considered when he was in his own room that the event of his
succeeding to the practice might not be so very remote, but as to his
marrying Clemency he doubted. He dared not hint of the matter to Gordon,
for he knew it would disturb him, but Clemency, as the days went on,
became more and more variable. At times she was loving, at times it was
quite evident that she shrank from him with a sort of involuntary
horror. James began to wonder if they ever could marry. He was fully
resolved not to clear himself at the expense of Doctor Gordon; in fact,
such a course never occurred to him. He had a very simple
straightforwardness in matters of honor, and this seemed to him a matter
of honor. No question with regard to it arose in his mind. Obviously it
was better that he should bear the brunt than Gordon, but he did ask
himself if it would ever be possible for Clemency to dissociate him from
the thought of the tragedy entirely, and if she could not, would it be
possible for her to be happy as his wife? That very day Clemency had
avoided him, and once when he had approached she had visibly shrunk and
paled. Evidently the child could not help it. She looked miserably
unhappy. She had grown thin lately, and had lost almost entirely her
sense of fun, which had always been so ready.
James went to sleep, wondering how she would treat him the next day. He
never knew, for the girl shifted like a weather-cock, driven hither and
yon by her love and terror like two winds. The next day, however, solved
the problem in an entirely unexpected fashion. James, that morning after
breakfast, during which Clemency had sat pale and stern behind the
coffee-urn, and scarcely had noticed him, set off on a round of calls.
Doctor Gordon, to his surprise, announced his intention of making some
calls himself; he said that he would take the team, and James must drive
the balky mare, as the bay was to be taken to the blacksmith's. Gordon
that morning looked worse than usual, although he evinced such unwonted
energy. He trembled like a very old man. He ate scarcely anything, and
his mouth was set hard with a desperate expression. James wished to urge
him to remain at home, but he did not dare. Gordon, when he left the
breakfast-table, proposed that James should take Clemency with him, but
the girl replied curtly that she was too busy. Gordon started on his
long circuit, and James set off to make the rounds of Alton and
Westover. The mare seemed in a very favorable mood that morning. She did
not balk, and went at a good pace. It was not until James was on his
homeward road that the trouble began. Then the mare planted her four
feet at angles, in her favorite fashion, and became as immovable as a
horse of bronze. James touched her with the whip. He was in no patient
mood that morning. Finally he lashed her. He might as well have lashed a
stone, for all the effect his blows had. Then he got out and tried
coaxing. She did not seem to even see him. Her great eyes had a curious
introspective expression. Then he got again into the buggy and sat
still. A sense of obstinacy as great as the animal's came over him.
"Stand there and be d----d!" he said.
"Go without your dinner if you want to." He leaned back in a corner of
the buggy, and began reflecting.
His reflections were at once angry and gloomy. He was, he told himself,
tired of the situation. He began to wonder if he ought not, for the sake
of self-respect, to leave Alton and Clemency. He wondered if a man ought
to submit to be so treated, and yet he recognized Clemency's own view of
the situation, and a great wave of love and pity for the poor child
swept over him. The mare had halted in a part of the road where there
were no houses, and flowering alders filled the air with their faint
sweetness. Under that sweetness, like the bass in a harmony, he could
smell the pines in the woods on either hand. He also heard their voices,
like the waves of the sea. It was a very warm day, one of those days in
which Spring makes leaps toward Summer. James felt uncomfortably heated,
for the buggy was in the full glare of sunlight. All his solace came
from the fact that he himself, sitting there so quietly, was outwitting
the mare by showing as great obstinacy as her own. He knew that she
inwardly fretted at not arousing irritation. That a tickle, even a lash
of the whip, would delight her. He sat still, leaning his head back. He
was almost asleep when he heard a rumble of heavy wheels, and looking
ahead languidly perceived a wagon laden with household goods of some
spring-flitters approaching. He sat still and watched the great wagon
drawn by two lean, white horses, and piled high with the poor household
belongings--miserable wooden chairs and feather beds, and a child's
cradle rocking imminently on the top. A lank Jerseyman was driving. By
his side on the high seat was his stout wife holding a baby. The weak
wail of the child filled the air. James looked to make sure that there
was room for the team to pass. He thought there was, and sat idly
watching them. The woman looked at him, made some remark to the man, and
then both grinned weakly, recognizing the situation. The man on the team
drove carefully, but a stone on the outer side caused his team to swerve
a trifle. The wheels hit the wheels of the buggy, and the cradle tilted
swiftly on to the back of the balky mare, and she bolted. In all her
experience of a long, balky life, a cradle as a means of breaking her
spirit had not been encountered. James had not time to clutch the lines
which had fallen to the floor of the buggy before he was thrown out. He
felt the buggy tilting to its fall, he heard a crashing sound and a
fierce kicking, and then he knew no more.
When he came to himself he was on the lounge in Doctor Gordon's office.
Emma was just disappearing with a pitcher in the direction of the
kitchen, and he felt something cool on his forehead. He smelled aromatic
salts, and heard a piteous little voice, like the bleat of a wounded
lamb, in his ears, and kisses on his cheeks, and a soft hand rubbing his
own. "Oh, darling," the little voice was saying, "oh, darling, are you
much hurt? Are you? Please speak to me. It is Clemency. Oh, he is dead!
He is dead!" Then came wild sobs, and Emma rushed into the room, and he
heard her say, "Here, put this ice on his head, quick!"
James was still so faint that he could only gasp weakly. And he could
open his eyes to nothing but darkness and a marvellous spinning and whir
as of shadows in a wind.
"He's comin' to," said Emma. Her voice sounded as if she felt moved.
"Don't take on so, Miss Clemency," she said; "he ain't dead."
Again James felt the soft kisses and tears on his face, and again came
the poor little voice, "Oh, darling, please listen, please don't do so.
I will marry you. I will. I know you did just right. I read one of Uncle
Tom's books this morning, and I found out what awful suffering she might
have had hours longer. You did right. I will marry you. I will never
think of it again. Please don't look so. Are you dreadfully hurt? Oh,
when they came bringing you in I thought you were killed! There is a
great bruise on your head. Does it hurt much? You do feel better, don't
you? Oh, Emma, if Uncle Tom would only come. Can't you hear me, dear? I
will marry you. I take it all back. I will marry you! I will marry you
whenever you wish. Oh, please look at me! Please speak to me! Oh, Emma,
there is Uncle Tom. I am so glad."
And then poor, little Clemency, all unstrung and frightened, sank into
an unconscious little heap on the floor as Gordon entered. "What the
devil?" he cried out. "I saw the buggy smashed on the road, and that
mare went down the Ford Hill road like a whirlwind. What, Elliot, are
you hurt, boy? Clemency, Emma, what has happened?"
All the time Gordon was talking he was examining James, who was now able
to speak feebly. "The mare was frightened and threw me," he gasped. "I
was stunned. I am all right now. See to Clemency!"
But Clemency was already staggering weakly to her feet.
"Oh, Uncle Tom, he isn't killed, is he?" she sobbed.
"Killed, no," said Gordon, "but he will be if you don't stop crying and
making a goose of yourself, Clemency."
"We put ice on his head," sobbed Clemency. "He isn't--"
"Of course he isn't. He was only stunned. That is only a flesh wound."
"I tried to git some brandy down him, but I couldn't," said Emma.
"Give it to me," said Gordon. He poured out some brandy in a spoon, and
James swallowed it. "He will be all right now," Gordon said. "You won't
be such a beauty that the women will run after you for a few days,
Elliot, but you're all right."
"I feel all right," James said.
"It is nothing more than a little boy with a bump on his forehead," said
Gordon to Clemency. "Now, child, stop crying, and go and bathe your
eyes. Emma, is luncheon ready?"
When both women had gone Gordon, who had been applying some ointment to
James's forehead, said in a low voice, broken by emotion, "You are all
right, Elliot, but--you did have a close call."
"I suppose I did," James said, laughing feebly.
He essayed to rise, but Gordon held him down. "No, keep still," he said.
"You must not stir to-day. I will have your luncheon brought in.
Clemency will be only too happy to wait on you, hand and foot."
"Poor little girl, I must have given her an awful fright," said James.
"Well, you are not exactly the looking object to do anything else," said
Gordon laughing.
"Where is there a glass?"
"Where you won't have it. You won't be scarred. It is simply a temporary
eclipse of your beauty, and Clemency will love you all the more for it.
You need not worry. Talk about the vanity of women. I thought you were
above it, Elliot. Now lie still. If you get up you will be giddy."
James lay still, smiling. He felt very happy, and his love for Clemency
seemed like a glow of pure radiance in his heart. He lay on the office
lounge all the afternoon. He fell asleep with Clemency sitting beside
holding his hand. Gordon had gone out to finish the calls. It was six
o'clock before he drove into the yard. James had just awakened and lay
feeling a great peace and content. Clemency was smiling down at his
discolored face, as if it were the face of an angel. The windows were
open, and the distant lowing of cattle, waiting at homeward bars, the
monotone of frogs, and the songs of circling swallows came in. James
felt as if he saw in a celestial vision the whole world and life, and
that it was all blessed and good, that even the pain and sorrow
blossomed in the end into ineffable flowers of pure delight.
But when Doctor Gordon entered this vision was clouded, for Gordon's
face had reassumed its old expression of settled melancholy and despair.
He inquired how James found himself with an apathetic air, and then sat
down and mechanically filled his pipe. After it was filled he seemed to
forget to light it, so deep was his painful reverie. He sat with it in
hand, staring straight ahead. Then a strange thing happened. The office
door opened and Mrs. Blair, the nurse, entered. She was dressed in
black, she carried a black travelling bag, and she wore a black bonnet,
with a high black tuft on the top by way of trimming. Mrs. Blair was
very tall, and this black tuft, when she entered the door, barely grazed
the lintel.
Gordon rose and said good evening, and regarded her in a bewildered
fashion, as did James and Clemency.
Mrs. Blair spoke with no preface. "I am going to leave Alton," she said
in her severe voice, "and I want to tell you something first, and to say
good-by." She looked at Gordon, then at the others, one after another,
then at Gordon again. "I did not think at first that it would be
necessary for me to say what I am going to," she continued, "but I
overheard some things that were said that night, and I have been
thinking--and then I heard the other day (I don't know how true it is)
that Clemency and Doctor Elliot had had a falling out, and I didn't know
but--I didn't quite know what anybody thought, and I wanted you all to
know the truth. I didn't want any mistakes made to cause unhappiness."
She hesitated, her eyes upon Doctor Gordon grew more intense. "Maybe
_you_ think you gave her that dose of morphine that killed her," she
said steadily, "but you didn't. Doctor Elliot gave her water, and you
gave her mostly water. I had diluted the morphine, and you didn't know
it. I had made up my mind that she was going to have the morphine, but I
had made up my mind that nobody but me should have the responsibility of
it. I'm all alone in the world, and my conscience upheld me, and I felt
I'd rather take the blame, if there was to be any. I made up my mind to
wait till a certain time and then give it to her, and I did. I am the
one who gave her the morphine that killed her. I am going to leave Alton
for good. My trunk is down at the station. I came to tell you that I
gave her the morphine, and if I did wrong in helping God to shorten her
sufferings, I am the one to be punished, and I stand ready to bear the
punishment."
Gordon looked at her. He did not speak, but it was with his face as if a
mask of dreadful misery had dropped from it.
"Good-by!" said Mrs. Blair. She went out of the door, and the black tuft
on her bonnet barely grazed the lintel.
[THE END]
Mary E Wilkins Freeman's Book: "Doc." Gordon
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