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Page 79
"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 re�ntered 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.
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