Even the apple-jack and euchre at Georgie K.'s were not sufficient to
entirely establish Doctor Gordon in his devil-may-care mood. Georgie K.
kept looking at him with solicitation, which had something tender about
it. "Don't you feel well, Doc?" he asked.
"Never felt better in my life," returned Gordon quickly. "To-night I am
feeling particularly good, because I really think I have evolved an
utterly new theory of death and disease which ought to make me famous,
if I ever get a chance to write a book about it."
Georgie K. stared at him inquiringly.
"I don't know that you will understand, old man," said Gordon, "but here
it is. It is simple in one way. Nobody will deny that we come of the
earth; well, we are sick and die of the earth. We grow old and weary and
drop into our graves, because of the tremendous, though unconscious and
involuntary, wear upon nerves and muscles and emotion which is required
to keep us here at all. Gravitation kills us all in the end, just as
surely as if we fell off a precipice. Gravitation is the destroyer, and
gravitation is earth-force. The same monster which produces us devours
us. That's so. I hope I shall get a chance to write that book. Clubs are
trumps; pass."
"Sure you are well, Doc?" inquired Georgie K., again scowling anxiously.
"Never felt better, didn't I just say so? You are a regular old hen,
Georgie K. You cluck at a fellow like a setting hen at one chicken."
Still Doctor Gordon's gloomy face, although he tried to be jocular, did
not relax. Going home late that night, or rather early next morning, he
laid his hand heavily on James's shoulder.
"Boy, I am about at the finish!" he groaned out.
"Now, see here, Doctor Gordon, can't I be of some assistance if you were
to tell me?" asked James. He passed his hand under the older man's arm,
and helped him through a snowdrift as if he had been his father. A great
compassion filled his heart.
But Gordon only groaned out a great sigh. "No," he said. "Secrecy is the
one shield I have. I don't say weapon, but shield. In these latter days
we try to content ourselves with shields; and secrecy is the strongest
shield on earth. If I were going to commit a crime, I should never even
intimate the slightest motive for it to any man living. I should trust
no man living to help me through with it."
James felt a vague horror steal over him. He tried to speak lightly to
cover it. "I trust there is no question of crime?" he said, laughing.
"Not the slightest," replied Gordon. "I have no intention to use a
weapon, but my shield I must stick to. Thank the Lord, you were awake
last night, and to-night Clemency is in another room. By the way, I have
bought a dog."
"A dog?"
"Yes, a bull terrier, well trained, but he has a voice like a whole pack
of hounds. Clemency likes dogs. I will venture that no one comes near
the house after this without waking him up."
"You will keep him tied though."
"Yes, unless I get driven too far," replied Gordon grimly.
"Does Mrs. Ewing like dogs?"
"She is as fond of them as Clemency."
When, the next day, the dog arrived James was assured of the fact that
both Clemency and Mrs. Ewing did like dogs. They seemed more pleased
than he had ever seen them, and the dog responded readily to their
advances. He was a splendid specimen of his breed, very large, without a
spot on his white coat, and with beautiful eyes. Doctor Gordon had a
staple fixed in the vestibule, and the dog was leashed to it at night.
"I can't have my patients driven away," he said with a laugh.
That evening Doctor Gordon had a call, and he took Aaron with him. That
left James alone with Clemency, as Mrs. Ewing retired almost immediately
after Doctor Gordon left.
After the jingle of the sleigh-bells had died away Clemency laid down
her work and looked at James. The new dog was lying at her feet. "Uncle
Tom bought this dog on account of him," she said. As she spoke, she gave
an odd significant gesture over her shoulder as if the man were there,
and a look of horror came over her face. Immediately the dog growled,
and sprang up, raced to the door, and let forth a volley of howls and
barks. "He knows," said Clemency. "Isn't it queer? That dog knows there
is something wrong just by the way I spoke and looked."
James himself was not quite so sure. He glanced at the closed shutters.
Then he went himself to the door to be sure that it was bolted as usual,
and through into the study. Everything was fast, but the dog continued
to race wildly back and forth from door to windows, barking wildly, with
a slender crest of hair erect on his glossy white back. Emma, the maid,
came in from the kitchen, and met James and Clemency in the hall. She
looked white, and was trembling. "I know there was somebody about the
house," she said.
James hesitated. He thought of a possible patient. Still there had been
no ring at the office door. He considered a moment. Then he sent
Clemency, the maid, and the dog back into the parlor, and before he
opened the outer door of the office he locked the other which
communicated with the rest of the house, and put the key in his pocket.
Then he threw open the outer door and called, "Anybody there?"
Utter silence answered him. He looked into a black wall of night. It was
not snowing, but the clouds were low and thick, and no stars were
visible. He called again in a shout, "Hullo there! Who is it?" and
obtained no response. Then he closed the door, fastened it, and returned
to the living-room. "I guess you were right," he said to Clemency.
"Yes, I think so," said Clemency. She spoke to Emma. "Jack acted so
because of something I said to Doctor Elliot," she added. "He thought
something was wrong. He is very intelligent." The dog was again lying at
her feet.
But Emma shook her head obstinately. She was the middle-aged daughter of
a New Jersey farmer, and had lived with the family ever since they had
resided in Alton. She had a harsh face, although rather good-looking, "I
have been used to dogs all my life," said she, "and I never knowed a dog
to act like that unless there was somebody about the house."
"Well, I have done all I could," said James. "I called out the office
door, and nobody answered. It could not have been a patient."
"There was somebody about the house," repeated Emma. "Well, I must go
and mix up the bread."
When she was gone, Clemency looked palely at James. "Oh," she said, "do
you think it could have been that man?"
"No," replied James firmly; "it must have been your gesture. That is a
very intelligent dog, and dogs have imagination. He imagined something
wrong."
"I hope it was that," said Clemency faintly. "It seems to me I should
die if I thought that terrible man were hanging about the house. It is
bad enough never to be able to go out of doors."
"Doctor Gordon says I may take you out driving some evening," said James
consolingly.
Clemency looked at him with a brightening face. "Did he?"
"Yes."
Then to James's utter surprise Clemency broke down, and began to cry.
"Oh," she wailed, "I don't know as I want to go. I am afraid all the
time. If we were out driving, and he came up to the horse's head, what
could we do?"
"He would get a cut across the face that he would remember," James
returned fiercely.
"But he would see me."
"It would be dark."
"He might have a lantern."
"You can wear a thick veil."
Clemency sobbed harder than ever. "Oh, no," she wailed, "I don't want to
go so, in the dark, with a thick veil over my face, thinking every
minute he may come. Oh, no, I don't want to go."
"You poor little soul," said James, and there was something in his voice
which he himself had never heard before. Clemency glanced up at him
quickly, and he saw as plainly as if he had been looking in a glass
himself in her blue eyes. Instantly emotions of which he had dreamed,
but never experienced, leaped up in his heart like flame. He knew that
he loved Clemency. What he had felt for her mother had been passionless
worship, giving all, and asking nothing. This was love which asked as
well as gave. "Clemency," he began, and his voice was hoarse with
emotion. She turned her head away, the tears were still on her cheeks,
but they were very red, and her cheeks were dimpling involuntarily.
"Well?" she whispered.
"Do you care anything about--me?"
Clemency nodded, still keeping her face averted.
"That means--"
Clemency said nothing.
"That means you love me," James whispered.
Clemency nodded again. Then she turned her head slowly, and gave him a
narrow blue glance, and smiled like a shy child.
"I was afraid--" she began.
"Afraid of what, dear?" James put his arm about the girl, and the
ashe-blonde head dropped on his shoulder.
"Afraid you--didn't."
"Afraid I didn't care?"
Clemency nodded against his breast.
"I think I must have cared all the time, only at first, when I saw your
mother--"
Clemency raised her head immediately and gave it an indignant toss.
"There," said she. "I knew it. Very well, if you would rather be my
stepfather, you can, only I think you would be a pretty one, no older,
to speak of, than I am, and I know my mother wouldn't have you anyway.
The idea of your thinking that my mother would get married again anyway,
and especially to you," Clemency said witheringly. She sat up straight
and looked at James. "I wish your father were a widower, then I would
marry him the minute he asked me," said she, "and see how you would
like it. I guess you would have a step-mother who would make you walk
chalk." Clemency tossed her head again. Then she gave a queer little
whimsical glance at James, and both of them burst out laughing, and she
was in his arms again, and he was kissing her. "There, that is enough,"
said she presently. "I once wore out a doll I had kissing her. She was
wax, and it was warm weather, and I actually did wear that doll out. The
color all came off her cheeks, and she got soft."
"You are not a doll, darling," said James fervently, and he would have
kissed her again, but she pushed him away. "No," said she, "I know the
color won't come off my cheeks, but I might get soft like that doll. One
can never tell. You must stop now. I want to talk to you. It is all
right about my mother."
"It was only because I never saw such a woman in all my life before,"
said James. "I never thought of marrying."
"You would have had to take it out in thinking," said Clemency, "but it
is all right. I think myself that my mother is the most wonderful woman
that ever lived. I think the old Greek goddesses must have looked just
like her. I don't wonder you felt so about her. I don't know as I should
have thought much of you if you hadn't. Why, everybody falls down and
worships her. Of course I know that I am nothing compared to her. I
should be angry if you really thought so."
"I don't think so in one way," James said honestly. "I don't think you
are as beautiful as your mother, but I love you, Clemency."
"Well, that will do for me," said Clemency. "No, you need not kiss me
again. I think myself I shall make you a better wife than a
stepdaughter. You need not think for one minute that I would have minded
you as I do Uncle Tom."
"But you will have to when we are married," said James.
Clemency blushed and quivered. "Well, maybe I will," she whispered. "I
suppose I shall be just enough of a fool to stay in the house, if you
order me, the way I do when Uncle Tom does."
"You shall stay in the house for no man alive when I have you in
charge," said James. "Clemency--"
"What?"
"I will take you out now, if you say so. I can protect you."
"I know you can," Clemency said, "but I guess we had better not. You see
Uncle Tom doesn't know yet, and he will be coming home, and--"
"I am going to tell him just as soon as he does," declared James.
"I wonder if you had better not wait," Clemency said thoughtfully.
"Wait? Why?"
"Nothing, only poor Uncle Tom is frightfully worried about something
now. He worries about that dreadful man, and I am afraid he worries
about mother. I don't know exactly what he worries about; but I don't
want him worried about anything else."
"I can't see for the life of me why he should worry about this," said
James with a piqued air. He was, in fact, considering quite naïvely that
he was not a bad match, taking into consideration his prospects, and
Clemency evidently needed all the protection she could get.
Clemency understood directly what his tone implied. "Oh, goodness," said
she, "of course, as far as you are concerned, Uncle Tom will be pleased.
Why shouldn't he? and so will mother. Here you are young and handsome,
and well educated, and good, what more could anybody want for a girl,
unless they were on the lookout for a ducal coronet or something of that
sort? It isn't that, only there is something queer, there must be
something queer, about that man, and I don't know how much this might
complicate it. I don't know but Uncle Tom might have more occasion to
worry."
"I don't see why," said James mystified, "but I'll wait a few days if
you say so, only I hate to have anything underhanded, you know. How
about your mother?"
"Please wait and tell her when you tell Uncle Tom," pleaded Clemency.
All the time she was completely deceiving the young man. What she was
really afraid of was that James himself might run into danger from this
mysterious persecutor of hers if the fact of her betrothal became known.
"I shall not mind staying in the house at all now," she added. An
expression came over her face which James did not understand, which no
man would have understood. Clemency was wonderfully skilled at
needle-work, and she had plenty of material in the house. She was
reflecting innocently how she could begin at once upon some dainty
little frills for her trousseau. A delight, purely feminine, filled her
fair little face.
"All the same," said James, "I am going to take you out before long. You
must have some fresh air."
"I don't mind," said Clemency, then she broke off suddenly. She ran to
the farther end of the room, sat down, and snatched a book from the
table and opened it in the middle, "It is Uncle Tom," she remarked.
James laughed, crossed the room swiftly, kissed her, then went into the
office to greet Doctor Gordon. Doctor Gordon stood by the office fire
taking off his overcoat. He looked gloomier than usual. "Who is in
there?" he asked, pointing to the living-room wall.
"Your niece," answered James. He felt himself color, but the other man
did not notice it.
"Mrs. Ewing has gone to bed?"
"Yes, went directly after you left."
Doctor Gordon's face grew darker. He had tossed his coat over a chair,
and stood staring absently at the table with its prismatic lights.
"I know where he is," he said presently in a whisper.
"You mean?"
"Yes," said Doctor Gordon impatiently. "You know whom I mean. I saw him
go in--well, no matter where."
"I suspect that he has been hanging about here," said James.
"What makes you think so?"
"The dog barked and acted queer."
"Dogs always did hate him," said Doctor Gordon, with a queer expression.
Then he gave himself a shake. Here he said: "Let's have something hot
and a smoke." He called to Emma to bring some hot water and sugar and
lemons and glasses. Then he produced a bottle from a cabinet in the
office, and himself brewed a sort of punch, the like of which James had
never tasted before.
"That's my own recipe," said Doctor Gordon, laughing. "Nobody knows what
it is, not even Georgie K. But--" he hesitated a little, then he added
laughing, "I have left it in my will for Georgie K. I made my will some
little time ago."
James felt it incumbent upon himself to say something about Doctor
Gordon being still a young man comparatively, and healthy. To his
sanguine young mind a will seemed ominous.
"Well, I have not reached the allotted span," Gordon replied, "but
healthier men than I have come to their end sooner than they expected,
and I wanted to make sure of some things. I wanted especially to make
sure that Clemency--Mrs. Ewing has relatives in the West, and--"
James felt somewhat bewildered. He could not quite see what Gordon
meant, but he took another sip of the golden, fragrant compound before
him, and again remarked upon its excellence.
"That makes me think," said Gordon, evidently glad himself to turn the
conversation. "A sip of this will do poor little Clemency good. You say
she is in the parlor."
"Yes."
Gordon opened the door and called Clemency, who came with a little
reluctance. The girl was afraid of her uncle's eyes. She sidled into the
office like a child who had done something wrong. She took her little
glass of punch, and never looked at James or her uncle. James, too, did
not look at her. He smoked, and almost turned his back upon her. Doctor
Gordon looked from one to the other, and his face changed. Clemency
slipped out as soon as she could, saying that she was tired. Then
Gordon turned abruptly upon James. "There is something between you two,
Clemency and you," he said in a brusque voice.
James colored and hesitated.
"Out with it," said Gordon peremptorily.
"Clemency wished--" began James.
"Wished you to keep it secret, of course. Well, she told me herself,
poor little soul, the moment she came into the room."
James sat still. He did not know what to do. Finally he said in a
stammering voice that he hoped there would be no objection.
"No objection certainly on my part or Mrs. Ewing, if Clemency has taken
a fancy to you," replied Doctor Gordon. "But--" he hesitated a moment.
"It is only fair to tell you that you yourself may later on entertain
some very reasonable objection," Gordon said grimly.
"It is impossible," James cried eagerly. "I have known her only a few
weeks, but I feel as if it were a lifetime. Nothing can change me. And
as for money, if you mean anything of that kind, I don't care if she
hasn't a cent. I have my profession, and my father is well-to-do. Then,
besides, I have a little that an aunt, my mother's sister, left me. I
can support Clemency."
"It is not that," Gordon said. "Clemency has--at least I think I can
secure it to her--a little fortune of her own, and she will have
something besides. I was not thinking of money at all."
"Then there can be nothing," James said positively. His sense of
embarrassment had passed. He beamed at the older man.
"There can be something else. There is something else," Gordon said
gloomily. "I don't know but I ought to tell you, but, the truth is, you
know my theory with regard to secrecy. I don't doubt but you can hold
your tongue, yet the whole affair is so dangerous, that I dare not, I
cannot, tell you yet. I can only say this, that there does exist some
obstacle to your marriage with my niece, and your engagement must be
regarded by myself in a tentative light. If the time ever comes when you
know all, and wish to withdraw, you can do so in my opinion with perfect
honor. In the meantime you had better say nothing to any one outside.
You had better not even tell Mrs. Ewing. I hope Clemency herself will
not. Perhaps when she has had a few hours in which to collect herself,
her face will not be quite so tell-tale."
"Nothing whatever can change me," said James, with almost anger.
Gordon shook his head. "I begin to think I may have done you a wrong
having you come here at all," he said. "I suppose I ought to have
thought of the possibility, but I have had so much on my mind."
"You have done me the greatest good I ever had done me in my whole
life," James said fervently.
Gordon rose and shook the young man's hand. "As far as Clemency and I
and Mrs. Ewing are concerned," he said, "nothing could have been better.
Well, we will hope for the best, my boy." He clapped James on the
shoulder and smiled, and James went to his room feeling dizzy with
happiness and mystery, and a trifle so with the doctor's punch.