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Page 56
To James's surprise, but everything surprised him now, Gordon seemed to
recover his spirits. He ate heartily. He laughed and joked. After dinner
he went upstairs to see Mrs. Ewing, and when he came down insisted that
James should accompany him to the hotel for a game of euchre. James
would have preferred remaining with Clemency, whose eyes were wistful,
but Gordon hurried him away. They remained until nearly midnight in the
parlor, where the funeral had taken place a short time before, playing
euchre, telling stories, and drinking apple-jack. James noticed that the
hotel man often cast an anxious and puzzled glance at Gordon. He began
to fancy that what seemed mirth and jollity was the mere bravado of
misery and a ghastly mask of real enjoyment. He was glad when Gordon
made the move to leave. Georgie K. stood in the door watching the two
men untie the horse and get into the buggy. "Take care of yourself,
Doc," he hallooed, and there was real affection and concern in his
voice.
Gordon drove now, and the mare, being on her homeward road, made good
time. James helped Gordon unharness, as Aaron had gone to bed. His deep
snores sounded through the stable from his room above. "It's a pity to
wake up anything," Gordon said. "Guess well put the mare up ourselves."
Now his voice was bitter again. Gordon had the key of the office door,
and after locking the stable the two men entered. Gordon threw some wood
on the fire. The lamp with its dangling prisms was burning. "Sit down a
minute," Gordon said, "'I have something to tell you. I may as well get
it off my mind now. It has got to come sometime."
James sat down and lit a cigar. He felt himself in a nervous tension.
Gordon filled his pipe and lit it, then he began to speak in an odd,
monotonous voice, as though he were reciting.
"That man's name was James Mendon. He was an Englishman. When I first
began practice it was in the West. That man had a ranch near the little
town where I lived with my sister Alice. Alice was a beautiful girl. We
had lost our parents, and she kept house for me. The man was as handsome
as a devil, and he had the devil's own way with women. God only knows
what a good girl like my sister saw in him. He had a bad name, even out
in that rough country. Horrible tales were circulated about his cruelty
to animals for one thing. His cowboys deserted him and told stories.
His very dog turned on him, and bit him. God knows how he was torturing
the animal. I saw the scar on his hand when he lay on his death-bed.
Well, however it was, my sister loved him and married him, and he
treated her like a fiend. She died, and it was a merciful release. He
deserted her three months before her death. Sold out all he had, and
left her without a cent. She came back to me, and three months later
Clemency was born."
Gordon paused and looked at James. "Yes," he said, "that man was
Clemency's father."
He waited, but only for a second. The young man spoke, and his clear
young voice rang out like a trumpet. "I never loved Clemency as I love
her now," he said.
CHAPTER XI
Gordon smiled at James. "God bless you, boy!" he said.
"What possible difference do you think that could make?" demanded James
hotly. "Could that poor little girl help it?"
"Of course she could not, but some men might object, and with reason, to
marrying 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 case
plainly before you. That man who was buried this afternoon was simply
unspeakable. He was a monstrosity of perverted morality. I cannot even
bring myself to tell you what I know of him. I cannot even bring myself
to give you the least hint of what my poor young sister, Clemency's
mother, 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. Clemency
is her mother's living and breathing image as far as looks go, and as
far as I can judge in the innermost workings of her mind. I have not
seen in her the slightest taint from her evil father, though God knows I
have watched for it with horror as the years have passed. After she was
born I smuggled her away by night, and gave out word that the child had
died at the same time with the mother. There was a private funeral, and
the 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 trusted
her, I was obliged to do so, and I fear that she has betrayed me. I
established a practice in another town in another State, and there I met
Clara. She has told me that she informed you of the fact that she was my
wife, but not of our reasons for concealing it. Just before we were
married I became practically certain that Clemency's father had gained
in some way information that led him to suspect, if not to be absolutely
certain, that his child had not died with his wife. I had a widowed
sister, Mrs. Ewing, who lived in Iowa with her only daughter just about
Clemency's age. Just before our marriage she decided to remove to
England to live with some relatives of her deceased husband. They had
considerable property, and she had very little. I begged her to go
secretly, 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, was
aware of the fact that my sister and daughter had gone to England, and
not East to live with me. Clara and I were married privately in an
obscure little Western hamlet, and came East at once. We have lived in
various localities, being driven from one to another by the danger of
Clemency's father ascertaining the truth; and my wife has always been
known as Mrs. Ewing, and Clemency as her daughter. It has been a life of
constant watchfulness and deception, and I have been bound hand and
foot. Even had Clemency's father not been so exceedingly careful that it
would have been difficult to reach him by legal methods, there was the
poor child to be considered, and the ignominy which would come upon her
at the exposure of her father. I have done what I could. I am naturally
a man who hates deception, and wishes above all things to lead a life
with its windows open and shades up, but I have been forced into the
very reverse. My life has been as closely shuttered and curtained as my
house. I have been obliged to force my own wife to live after the same
fashion. Now the cause for this secrecy is removed, but as far as she is
concerned, the truth must still be concealed for Clemency's sake. It
must not be known that that dead man was her father, and the very
instant we let go one thread of the mystery the whole fabric will
unravel. Poor Clara can never be acknowledged openly as my wife, the
best and most patient wife a man ever had, and under a heavier sentence
of death this moment than the utmost ingenuity of man could contrive."
Gordon groaned, and let his head sink upon his hands.
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