Clemency was so worn out that Doctor Gordon insisted upon her going to

bed directly after dinner, and he and James had a solitary evening in

the office, with the exception of Gordon's frequent absence in his

wife's room. Each time when he returned he looked more gloomy. "I have

increased the morphine almost as much as I dare," he said, coming into

the office about ten. He sat down and lit his pipe. James laid down the

evening paper which he had been reading. "Is she asleep now?" he asked.

"Yes. By the way, Elliot, have you guessed who that woman was who

kidnapped Clemency?"

James hesitated. "I don't fairly know whether I am right, but I have

guessed," he replied.

"Who?"

"The nurse."

"You are right. It was the nurse. That man had won her over, and set her

up housekeeping in Westover. He had been staying at the hotel there

before he came here. He was her lover, of course, although he was too

circumspect not to guard the secret. She has been living in that house

for the last three months under the name of Mrs. Wood, a widow. The

former occupants went away last summer, Aaron has been telling me. He

said that once he himself saw the man enter the house, and he had seen

the woman on the street. She had made herself quite popular in Westover.

It was no part of that man's policy to keep his vice behind locked

doors. Locks themselves are the best witness against evil. She attended

the Dutch Reformed Church regularly. She was present at all the church

suppers, and everybody has called on her in Westover. Now I think she

has fled, half-crazed with grief over the death of her lover, and afraid

of some sort of exposure. Unless I miss my guess, there will be a furor

around here shortly over her disappearance. She was not a bad woman as I

remember her, and she was attractive, with a kindly disposition. But he

had his way always with women, and I suppose she thought she was doing

him a service by kidnapping poor little Clemency. I am sorry for her. I

hope she did not go away penniless, but she has her nursing to fall

back upon. She was a good nurse. That makes me think. I must see if Mrs.

Blair cannot come here to-morrow. Clara must have somebody beside

Clemency and Emma. I should prefer a trained nurse, and this woman is

simply the self-taught village sort, but Clara prefers her. She shrinks

at the very mention of a trained nurse. Of course, it is unreasonable,

but the poor soul has always had an awful dread of hospitals and a

possible operation, and I believe that in some way she thinks a trained

nurse one of a dreadful trinity. She must be humored, of course. The

result cannot be changed."

"You have no hope, then?" James said in a low voice.

"I have had no more from the outset than if she had been already dead,"

said Gordon.

James said nothing. An enormous pity for the other man was within him.

He thought of Clemency, and he seemed to undergo the same pangs. He felt

such a terrible understanding of the other's suffering that it passed

the bounds of sympathy. It became almost experience. His young face took

on the same expression of dull misery as Gordon's. Presently Gordon

glanced at him, and spoke with a ring of gratitude and affection in his

tired voice.

"You are a good fellow, Elliot," he said, "and you are the one ray of

comfort I have. I am glad that I have you to leave poor little Clemency

with."

James looked at him with sudden alarm. "You are not ill?" he said.

"No, but there is an end to everybody's rope, and sometimes I think I am

about at the end of mine. I don't know. Anyway, it is a comfort to me to

think that Clemency has you in case anything should happen to me."

"She has me as long as I live," James said fervently. Red overspread his

young face, his eyes glistened. Again the great pity and understanding

with regard to the other man came over him, and a feeling for Clemency

which he had never before had: a feeling greater than love itself, the

very angel of love, divinest pity and protection, for all womanhood,

which was exemplified for himself in this one girl. His heart ached, as

if it were Clemency's upstairs, lying miserably asleep under the

influence of the drug, which alone could protect her from indescribable

pain. His mind projected itself into the future, and realized the

possibility of such suffering for her, and for himself. The honey-sting

of pain, which love has, stung him sharply.

Gordon seemed to divine his thoughts. "God grant that you may never have

to undergo what I am undergoing, boy," he said. Then he added, "It was

in poor Clara's blood, her mother before her died the same way. Clemency

comes, on her mother's side at least, of a healthy race, morally and

physically, although the nervous system is oversensitive. If my poor

sister had been happy, she would have been alive to-day. And as far as I

know of the other side, there was perfect physical health, although he

had that abnormal lack of moral sense that led one to dream of

possession. Did you notice how much less evil he looked when he was

dead, even with that frightfully disfigured face?"

"Yes."

"There are strange things in this world," said Gordon with gloomy

reflection, "or else simple things which we are strange not to believe.

Sometimes I think people will have to take to the Bible again in that

literal sense in which so many are now inclined to disregard it. Well,

Elliot, I honestly feel that you have nothing to fear in taking poor

little Clemency. I should tell you if I thought otherwise. She will

make you happy, and I can think of no reason to warn you concerning any

possible lapses, in either her physical or her moral health, and I have

had her in my charge since she first drew the breath of life. Come, my

son, it is late, and we have a great deal to do to-morrow. This awful

business has made me neglect patients. I have to see Clara again, and

get what rest I can." Gordon looked older and wearier than James had

ever seen him, as he bade him good-night, old and weary as he had often

seen him look. A sudden alarm for Gordon himself came over him. He

wondered, after he had entered, his room, if he were not strained past

endurance. He recalled his own father's healthy, ruddy face, and Gordon

was no older.

He lay awake a while thinking anxiously of Gordon, then his own happy

future blazoned itself before him, and he dreamed awake, and dreamed

asleep, of himself and Clemency, in that future, whose golden vistas had

no end, so far as his young eyes could see. The sense of relief from

anxiety over the girl was so intense that it was in itself a delight.

Clemency herself felt it. The next morning at breakfast she looked

radiant. Gordon had assured her the sick woman had rested quietly, and

told her that Mrs. Blair was coming.

"To-day I can go where I choose," Clemency exclaimed gayly.

"Not until afternoon," replied Gordon, then he relented at her look of

disappointment, and suggested that she go with Elliot to make his calls,

while he went with Aaron and the team. It was a beautiful morning;

spring seemed to have arrived. Everywhere was the plash of running

water, now and then came distant flutings of birds. "I know that was a

bluebird," Clemency said happily. "I feel sure mother will get well now.

It seems wicked to be glad that the man is dead, especially on such a

morning, but I wonder if it is, when he would have spoiled the morning."

"Don't think about it, anyway!" James said.

"I try not to."

"You must not!"

"I know why Uncle Tom did not want me to go out alone this morning,"

Clemency said, with one of her quick wise looks, cocking her head like a

bird.

"Why?"

"He wanted to make sure that that woman has really gone."

"Clemency, you must not mention that man or woman to me again," said

James.

"I am not married to you yet," Clemency said, pouting.

"That makes no difference, you must promise."

"Well, then, I will. I am so happy this morning, that I will promise

anything."

James looked about to be sure nobody was in sight before he kissed the

little radiant face.

"I won't speak of them again, but I am right," Clemency said with a

little toss and blush, and it proved that she was.

At luncheon Doctor Gordon told Clemency that she could go wherever she

liked. She gave a little glance at James, and said gayly, "All right,

Uncle Tom."

That afternoon Gordon and James made some calls in company, driving far

into the hills. They had hardly started before Gordon said abruptly,

"Well, the woman is gone, and there is a wild excitement in Westover

over her disappearance. I believe they are about to drag the pond. A man

who knew her well by sight declares that she boarded that New York

train, but the people will not give up the theory that she has been

murdered for her jewelry. By the way, I think I need not worry over her

immediate necessities. It seems that she had worn a quantity of very

valuable jewels. Of course her going without any baggage except a

suit-case, and leaving behind the greater part of her wardrobe, does

look singular. But it seems that the house was rented furnished, and I

fancy she lived always in light marching orders, and probably carried

the most valuable of her possessions upon her person and in her

suit-case. Well, I am thankful she has decamped."

"You don't fear her returning?" asked James with some anxiety.

"No, I have no fear of that. She is probably broken-hearted over the

death of that man. She is not of the sort to kidnap on her own account.

It was only for him. Clemency has nothing more to fear."

"I am thankful."

"You can well believe that I am, when I tell you that this afternoon I

am absolutely sure, for the first time in years, that the girl is safe

to come and go as she pleases. I have had hideous uncertainty as well as

hideous certainty to cope with. Now it is down to the hideous certainty.

That is bad enough, but fate on an open field is less unmanning than

fate in ambush. I have long known to a nicety the fate in the field."

Gordon hesitated a second, then he said abruptly, with his face turned

from his companion, in a rough voice, "Clara can't last many days."

James made an exclamation.

"She has gone down hill rapidly during the last two days," said Gordon.

"I have been increasing the morphine. It can't last long." Gordon ended

the sentence with a hoarse sob.

"I can't say anything," James faltered after a second, "but you know--"

"Yes, I know," Gordon said. "You are as sorry as any one can be who is

not, so to speak, the hero, or rather the coward, of the tragedy. Yes, I

know. I'm obliged to you, Elliot, but all of us have to face death,

whether it is our own or the death of another dearer than ourselves,

alone. A soul is a horribly lonely thing in the worst places of life."

"Have you told Clemency?"

"No, I have put it off until the last minute. What good can it do? She

knows that Clara is very ill, but she does not know, she has never

known, the character of the illness. Sometimes I have a curious feeling

that instinct has asserted itself, and that Clemency, fond as she is of

my wife, has not exactly the affection which she would have had for her

own mother."

"I don't think she knows any difference at all," James said. "I think

the poor little girl will about break her heart."

"I did not mean to underestimate Clemency's affection," said Gordon,

"but what I say is true. The girl herself will never know it, and, you

may not believe it, but she will not suffer as she would suffer if Clara

were her own mother. These ties of the blood are queer things, nothing

can quite take their place. If Clemency had died first Clara would have

been indignant at the suggestion, but she herself would not have mourned

as she would mourn for her own daughter. I must touch up the horses a

bit. I want to get home. I may not be able to go out again to-night.

Last night I was up until dawn with Clara." Gordon touched the horses

with a slight flicker of the whip. He held the lines taut as they sprang

forward. His face was set ahead. James glancing at him had a realization

of the awful loneliness of the other man by his side. He seemed to

comprehend the vastness of the isolation of a grief which concerns one,

and one only, more than any other. Gordon had the expression of a

wanderer upon a desert or a frozen waste. Illimitable distances of

solitude seemed reflected in his gloomy eyes.

James did not attempt to talk to him. It seemed like mockery, this

effort to approach with sympathy this set-apart man, who was

unapproachable.

That night Gordon's wife was much worse. Gordon came down to James's

room about two o'clock. James had been awake for some time listening to

the sounds of suffering overhead, and he had lit his lamp and dressed,

thinking that he might be needed. Gordon stood in the doorway almost

reeling. He made an effort before he spoke.

"Come into my office, will you?" he said.

James at once followed him. Going through the hall the sounds of agony

became more distinct. When they entered the office Gordon fairly slammed

the door, then he turned to Elliot with a savage expression. "Hear

that," he said, as if he were accusing the other man. "Hear that, I say!

The last hypodermic has not taken effect yet, and her heart is weak. If

I give her more--"

He stopped, staring at James, his face worked like a child's. Then

suddenly an almost idiotic expression came over it, the utter numbness

of grief. Then it passed away. Again he looked intelligently into the

young man's eyes. "If I don't give her more," he gasped out, "if I

don't, this may last hours. If I do--"

The two men stood staring at each other. James thought of Clemency. "Has

Clemency been in to see her?" he asked.

"Yes, she heard, and came in. I sent her out. She is in her own room

now; Emma is with her." Suddenly Gordon gave a look of despairing appeal

at James. "I--wish you would go up and see Clara," he whispered.

James knew what he meant. He hesitated.

"Go, and send Mrs. Blair down here," said Gordon. "Tell her I want to

see her."

"Well," said James slowly.

The two men did not look at each other again. Gordon sank into his

chair. James went out of the room and upstairs. He knocked on the door

of the sick-room, and Mrs. Blair, the village nurse, answered his knock.

She was a large woman in a voluminous wrapper. Her face had a settled

expression of gravity, almost of sternness. She looked at James. The

screams from the writhing mass of agony in the bed did not appear to be

moving her, whereas she in reality was herself screwed to such a pitch

of mental torture of pity that she was scarcely able to move. She was

rigid.

"Doctor Gordon sent me," whispered James. "He wished me to see her. He

asked me to say to you that he would like to see you for a minute in the

office."

The woman did not move for a second. Then she whispered close to James's

ear, "It is on the bureau."

James nodded. They passed each other. James entered the room and closed

the door. A lamp was burning on a table with a screen before it. The bed

was in shadow. The screams never ceased. They were not human. James

could not realize that the beautiful woman whom he had known was making

such sounds. They sounded like the shrieks of an animal. All the soul

seemed gone from them.

James approached the bed. There was a roll of dark eyes at him. Then a

voice ghastly beyond description, like the snarl of a hungry beast, came

from between the straight white lips. "More, more! Give me more! Be

quick!"

James hesitated.

"Quick, quick!" demanded the voice.

James crossed the room to the dresser. The sick woman now interspersed

her screams with the word "quick!"

James filled a hypodermic syringe from a glass on the bureau and

approached the bed again. He bared a shuddering arm and inserted the

instrument quickly. "Now try and be quiet," he said. "You will go to

sleep."

Then he went out of the room. The screams had ceased. As James

approached the stair another door opened, and Clemency in a wrapper

looked out. She was very pale, her eyes were distended with fear, and

her mouth was trembling. "How is she?" she whispered.

"Better, dear. Go back in your room and lie down. We are doing all we

can."

When James entered the office Gordon and Mrs. Blair turned with one

accord, and fixed horribly searching eyes upon his face. He sat down

beside the table, and mechanically lit a cigar.

"How did she seem?" Gordon asked almost inaudibly.

"Better."

"Was she quiet?"

"Yes."

Gordon gave a long sigh. His face was deadly white. He leaned back in

his chair, and both James and the nurse sprang. They thought he had

fainted. While James felt his pulse Mrs. Blair got some brandy. Gordon

swallowed the brandy, and raised his head.

"It is nothing," he said in a harsh voice. "You had better go back to

her, Mrs. Blair."

A look of strange dread came over the woman's grave face.

"I will be there directly," said Gordon.

Mrs. Blair went out. She left the door ajar. The house was so still that

one could seem to hear the silence. There was something terrible about

it after the turmoil of sound. Then the silence was broken. A scream

more terrible than ever pierced it like a sword. Another came. Gordon

sprang up and faced James. The young man's eyes fell before the look of

fierce questioning in Gordon's.

"I could not," he gasped. "Oh, Doctor Gordon, I could not! Instead of

that I used water. I thought perhaps her mind being convinced that it

was morphine, she might--"

"Mind!" shouted Gordon. "Mind, how much do you suppose the poor,

tortured thing has to bring to bear upon this? I tell you she is being

eaten alive. There is no other word for it. Gnawed, and worried, and

eaten alive." Gordon ran out of the room.

James closed the door. The dog, who had been asleep beside the fire,

started up, came over to James, laid his white head on his knee and

whimpered, with an appealing look in his brown eyes, which were turned

toward the young man's face. Almost immediately Mrs. Blair entered the

room. She was very pale. "Doctor Gordon sent me down for the brandy,"

she said abruptly. She went to the table on which the brandy flask

stood, but she seemed in no hurry to take it.

"How is she?" asked James.

"I think she is a little quieter." The nurse stood staring at the fire

for a second longer. Then she took the brandy flask and went out with a

soft, but jarring, tread.

Doctor Gordon must have passed her on the stairs, for he returned almost

directly after she had left, and stood with his back to James, fussing

over some bottles on the shelves opposite the fireplace. He stood there

for some five minutes. James glancing over his shoulder saw that he was

trembling in a strange rigid fashion, but he seemed intent upon the

bottles. The house was very still again. Gordon at last seemed to have

finished whatever he was doing with the bottles. He left them and sat

down in his chair. The dog left James and went to him, but Gordon pushed

him away roughly. Then Gordon spoke to James without turning his face in

his direction. "I wish you would go upstairs," he said hoarsely. "Mrs.

Blair is alone, and I--I am about done too."

James obeyed without a word. When he reached the head of the stairs he

felt a sudden draught of cold wind. Mrs. Blair came out of the

sick-room, closing the door behind her. Her face looked as stern as fate

itself. James knew what had happened the moment he saw her.

James began to speak stammeringly, but she stopped him. "Call Doctor

Gordon," she said shortly. "She is dead."




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