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Page 64
"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.
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