ON THE BRINK OF A CHASM
                      A RECORD OF PLOT AND PASSION


                                   BY

                              L. T. MEADE

      Author of “The Medicine Lady,” “A Soldier of Fortune,” Etc.


                                NEW YORK
                        F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY
                       9 AND 11 EAST 16TH STREET

                                 LONDON
                            CHATTO & WINDUS
                                  1899




                             Copyright 1899

                                   by

                        F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY


  _On the Brink of a Chasm_




                               CONTENTS.


              CHAPTER                                 PAGE
                   I. Undone                             7

                  II. A Man’s Revenge                   17

                 III. “The King can do no Wrong”        28

                  IV. A _Post Obit_                     36

                   V. “I have Misjudged Him”            48

                  VI. The Kiss                          57

                 VII. The Cause of Death                68

                VIII. The Long Trunk                    77

                  IX. The Dead Restored                 88

                   X. “Diamond cut Diamond”             95

                  XI. A Telegram                       108

                 XII. A Crafty Old Lady                118

                XIII. The Die Cast                     129

                 XIV. Black Mischief                   138

                  XV. Dick’s Secret                    150

                 XVI. The Wrong Medicine               157

                XVII. Mrs. Pelham                      170

               XVIII. “Tarbot Will tell Me”            184

                 XIX. “‘Scoundrel!’ He Said”           190

                  XX. The Price of His Sin             197

                 XXI. “Honor Bright”                   210

                XXII. “Your Eyes are Big and Bright”   220

               XXIII. With the Doctors                 230

                XXIV. The Little Woman in Black        236

                 XXV. “There’s a Cruel Sin Somewhere”  250

                XXVI. Not in the Bargain               258

               XXVII. A Black Crime                    269

              XXVIII. The “Pelham Arms”                276

                XXIX. Circumstantial Evidence          289

                 XXX. The Bolt                         297

                XXXI. Gone                             309

               XXXII. Barbara hears Startling News     319

              XXXIII. A Moment of Triumph              329

               XXXIV. The Last Straw                   343

                XXXV. Ace of Trumps                    350

               XXXVI. Sir Piers                        358




                        ON THE BRINK OF A CHASM.




                               CHAPTER I.
                                UNDONE.


There was a crush at Mrs. Evershed’s beautiful house in Mark Place, and
she now stood at the head of the staircase receiving her guests. Her
face wore a smile, and conventional words of welcome rose to her lips.

She was a handsome woman of about forty, and there were few people, even
in Mayfair, who entertained more brilliantly. To look at her, her house,
her servants, her guests, no one would suppose that she had a care in
the world, and yet just behind that smiling face grim care dwelt.

At this very moment, while money was being as lavishly expended as if it
were mere water, she herself was on the verge of bankruptcy. The crisis
was imminent; her creditors clamored. It would be impossible to keep the
wolf at bay more than a few days longer. She knew of this, but still she
smiled and received her guests with unction.

Meanwhile Barbara, Mrs. Evershed’s only daughter, had hidden herself in
the recess of a curtained window. She was nineteen years of age, and was
considered one of the handsomest girls who had made their _debut_ that
season. Had she been worldly-minded, and only thought of money, she
might have made a match which would have saved Mrs. Evershed from all
her money liabilities forever, but this was not Barbara’s way.

She was a rebellious girl; she had never wanted for money, and could not
realize the fact that she might soon be penniless. With sparkles in her
eyes, lips slightly parted, and cheeks with the glow of beautiful
expectation on them, she waited in her corner. Now and then she peeped
forward and glanced at her mother. She knew perfectly well what her
mother’s thoughts were.

“Yes; she would like me to marry Lord Selwyn,” thought the girl to
herself. “No matter even though he is seventy and ugly, and they also
say that he drinks; has he not eighty thousand pounds a year, and would
not the money put all mother’s terrible money affairs straight? But I
won’t marry him; no, I won’t. There is only one man whom I care for.”

Barbara was tall; her eyes were soft brown with a starry light in them.
She had quantities of dark hair, too, which was coiled in a classical
fashion round her stately head. She was dressed in white silk, and held
in her hand a large feather fan.

“I have made up my mind,” she said again to herself—“if Dick proposes
to-night I shall accept him. When mother really knows that I am engaged
to Dick she will think of some other way of getting out of her
difficulties. I cannot and will not marry Lord Selwyn. As to Luke
Tarbot, they say he is rich too.” She shuddered slightly.

“Dick is the only man I will marry. If I were Dick’s wife I could be a
good woman. It is true that he is only a briefless barrister at present,
but he has got brains. He suits me, I suit him. I love him, and I will
never, _never_ marry or love anybody else.”

The crush in the beautiful rooms grew greater and greater. Voices
sounded close to Barbara. She feared any moment that her hiding place
might be discovered; if so, good-by to the treat she had promised
herself when Dick Pelham appeared. Presently one or two men came and
stood just outside the velvet curtain. They talked and laughed, and once
or twice Mrs. Evershed’s name passed their lips. One said to the other—

“Those difficulties which Saunderson spoke of last night at the club
cannot be true. She would not be so mad as to entertain in this lavish
style if they were.”

“Oh, she does it for a blind,” was the reply of the other. “There is no
way of keeping up your credit like keeping up your debts. She is a fool
of course. By the way, they say that handsome girl of hers might help
her if she would.”

“By marrying Selwyn?” said the other.

“Aye. Why not? By marrying Selwyn and saving the position.”

The first man made an impatient movement.

“I hope the girl has too much self-respect,” he said then.

Barbara shivered behind her curtain. Very little more would have made
her scream. Her silk dress made a slight noise as it rustled against the
balcony.

“Hush, there may be some one near,” said the first speaker. The men
moved away, and Barbara stepped on to the balcony. She leant over the
parapet and pressed her hands to her hot cheeks.

“It is too bad,” thought the angry girl; “even in mother’s own house
they will not leave her alone. I know who those men are, of course. I
recognized Mr. Ashford’s voice, and the other is Mr. Seton. So our
affairs are the common talk of the clubs, and it is really expected that
I am to rescue mother by making a loveless marriage. But I won’t—my life
is my own; I decline to sacrifice myself.”

“I am glad to find you at last,” said a voice in her ears. “I have been
looking for you everywhere. Why are you hiding yourself?”

“The rooms are so hot,” answered Barbara shortly. “How do you do, Dr.
Tarbot?”

The man held out his hand, which Barbara just touched with her long,
slim fingers. His was a somewhat striking personality, and yet he was
not the least good-looking. He was of medium height, thin in build: his
brow was broad and lofty, his eyebrows well marked, and his deep gray
eyes were full of light.

That strange light was never absent from the eyes, which in themselves
were somewhat pale in color, but with their black irises and black
surroundings made an important addition to a decidedly remarkable face.
The man’s mouth was firm and cut in a straight line.

He made the most of his height, holding himself very erect, and now he
looked full and boldly into Barbara’s eyes. The balcony was softly lit,
and the girl could be seen quite distinctly. The electric light, which
was covered with glass globes formed in the shape of lilies, gave her an
unreal appearance.

“I am glad I have found you,” repeated Tarbot. He spoke in a hurry, and
as though he were slightly out of breath. “I rushed off here in great
haste. I must see a patient again before midnight. The man will probably
die when the new day dawns, and he has a longing to have me with him
when he breathes his last.”

Barbara was silent, but her eyes, as if mesmerized, fixed themselves on
Tarbot.

“It is a relief to see you, Miss Evershed: you look so bright—as if you
had never known sorrow or illness. The contrast between that dying man’s
agony and your grace and beauty is enough to stagger one. Yes, I can
stay but for a quarter of an hour. I promised Mr. Harlington to be with
him when he died.”

“Why did you leave him?” said Barbara in her slow voice. She always
spoke in a slow, reflective sort of way.

“Does not the contrast make you ill?” she continued. “The frivolity of
life one moment, a death-bed the next. I do not know how you doctors can
live; you must get terribly hard as the years go on. Well, I must go
back to our guests; mother will want me to help her. There are a great
many people here to-night.”

“The rooms are packed and the heat is stifling. Why should you join that
overheated throng? As to your mother wanting you, she told me where I
should find you, and said nothing about asking you to go to her. Please
stay——”

Barbara paused with her hand upon the frame of the open window.

“Yes?” she asked in an interrogative way.

“I should not have left a dying man if I had not a special reason for
doing so.”

“Yes?” replied Barbara again.

“You are the reason.”

“I am very sorry indeed to hear it, Dr. Tarbot. I do not think your
reason adequate. Now I must go back to our guests.”

“You must not,” said Dr. Tarbot firmly. “I came here with the express
purpose of seeing you, and I will not be foiled. You will stay with me
for a moment or two. I want to say, to say——”

Barbara returned once more to the balcony. She saw that the man must
have his opportunity, and she knew that she was in for a bad quarter of
an hour. She closed her big fan and held it in both hands.

“You know what I want to say.”

“Yes,” replied Barbara. She made a short pause before she uttered the
single word. Then she added, marked deliberation in her tone, “Is it a
gentlemanly action to detain a girl against her will?”

“Barbara, you must know what I mean.”

“When did I give you leave, Dr. Tarbot, to call me by my Christian
name?”

“I used to call you Barbara when you were a child. Do you never remember
the old days?”

“Those days are over,” answered Barbara. “Now, please, say what you have
to say.”

“And then go, is that it?”

“Will you speak?”

“I will. My words can be soon said. I love you—I want you for my wife. I
am determined to win you.”

“Determined!” said Barbara. “You are very bold, Dr. Tarbot.”

“I was never a coward. I will plead with you until I succeed. You are
the only woman in all the world whom I love. I will have you.”

“You will? Again I say you are bold.”

“For Heaven’s sake let us argue the matter out quietly.”

“There is nothing whatever to argue. You say you love me. I do not
return your love, therefore I cannot marry you. Are not those words
plain enough?”

“Plain as they are, they do not clinch this business,” said the man, now
trembling with rage and suppressed passion. “I will plead my cause and
you must listen. What I feel for you is more than ordinary love; it has
been the growth of years. Do you think just for a light word I will give
you up? I should make you a good husband. As to your mother, I know well
what money difficulties she is in, but I can put her straight. I am a
young man—not like Lord Selwyn.”

“Do not mention his name.”

“I must, for report gives you to him. I only say now what is the common
talk of London. I am a young man, and not in the least like Selwyn. I
hate a girl giving herself to an old man, but I am young and suitable as
regards age. I am clever, too, and doing splendidly in my profession.
Already I am considered one of the greatest brain specialists of the
day. By and by I shall be a rich man. Already I am anything but poor. I
can put your mother’s affairs quite straight, and I will if only you
will promise to be mine.”

“I do not love you, and therefore I cannot promise to be yours. Now,
please, let me go.”

“Not yet, not for a moment. Your love will come. Promise to marry me, if
not for my sake, for your mother’s. Oh, Barbara, Miss Evershed—it does
not matter what I call you—you will never repent it. If you were my
wife, I should be a good man. I do not pretend that I am good now; I am
just a desperate fellow, but full of love for you. Have you not been the
star which I have set before me since I was a lad? Say you will marry
me; say it—you will never regret it. If you do not there will be
mischief. Oh, Barbara, do not give me up. Barbara, I shall go down, I
shall sink, I shall be ruined, if you refuse me.”

He paused at last, looking, with his eyes burning with suppressed
passion, into the girl’s face. She did not shrink from his gaze, but she
changed her position. Some of the soft golden light fell across her
dress and on her white arms, and gave a queer glow to the big fan.
Barbara unfurled it slowly, and held it so as partly to hide her face.

“I am sorry for you,” she said; “you must try and get over this. But you
have had my answer; I cannot say anything different.”

“Do not refuse me now. Think, consider, take time. I cannot, I cannot
give you up to another.”

There was such a genuine tone of agony in the man’s voice that, in spite
of herself, the girl was slightly softened; her tone became gentle.

“It pains me to give you pain,” she said, “but you must consider my
answer quite final. It would be false kindness to give you the least
hope. I do not love you, I could never under any circumstances love you;
you do not in any single particular suit me. As your wife I should be
miserable—I should be worse, I should even be bad. I could never be the
wife of one I do not sincerely love. If you were the last man left in
the world I could not marry you, Dr. Tarbot. Is not that decisive
enough?”

“It is, and I am undone,” said Tarbot. His face grew ghastly white; he
staggered against the window frame.

Without a word Barbara turned and left him. She entered the gaily
lighted room. Tarbot, leaning against the window frame, watched her as
she did so.




                              CHAPTER II.
                            A MAN’S REVENGE.


Barbara looked like a beautiful white lily. Her long neck slightly
drooped as she walked down the room. Tarbot’s face as he watched her
became more and more ugly; the devil was fairly aroused in him.

“If I cannot have that woman for my wife I shall go under,” he muttered.
“But she shall be mine—I swear it. Only a rival can kill hope. If there
is a rival, _if_”—he clenched his hand—“he shall rue it,” he muttered;
“the man, whoever he is, shall rue it—he shall rue it to his dying day.”

At that moment Tarbot’s worst fears were confirmed. He could see well
into the big drawing-room, and just then he noticed a man who, in
irreproachable evening costume, with a rose in his button-hole, came
forward and clasped one of Barbara’s white hands. The man was tall,
fair, and remarkably good-looking: his face was clean-shaven, his mouth
sweet in expression, his eyes full of kindliness. They were good eyes,
gray in color and well open.

Barbara looked up into his face, and there was an expression in hers
which Tarbot saw and interpreted aright. That expression was the last
straw. It turned the disappointed man’s blood into gall. He clenched
both his hands tightly. They were the hands of a surgeon—beautifully
formed, firm, and cool as steel. He clenched them so hard now that the
nails penetrated the skin. His face felt cold; a moment later it was
bathed in perspiration.

Fury ungovernable raged in his heart. He trembled all over. For a moment
he could scarcely see clearly; then, rubbing one of his hands across his
eyes, he pulled himself together with a great effort. Once more he bent
forward and glanced into the drawing-room. The crowds were still there,
the crush was at its height, but the pair he sought had vanished.

“So Dick Pelham is her choice,” muttered Tarbot. “I know where I shall
find them; they are sure to be in one of the conservatories. If I
remember aright, this balcony runs right round to the conservatories; I
don’t mind spying on them. Barbara is turning me into a devil, and I
shall act as one. Pelham looked as if he meant to say something
to-night; she will reply. I must know all about it; I must be in the
thick of this matter.”

As Tarbot thought he began to creep along the balcony. Presently he
found himself standing outside the great conservatory. The windows were
all wide open. Tarbot stationed himself in deep shadow; he could hear
almost every word which was spoken within the glass walls. At first
there was a confusion of sound, then two voices, distinct and clear,
fell on the man’s ears.

“I must have your answer, Barbara,” said Pelham. His voice was eager and
tremulous. “Say yes or no to me at once.”

There was a pause, then came Barbara’s reply.

“I have loved you for long years, Dick; I shall never love anybody else.
I would willingly become engaged to you but for mother. But mother is
miserable and anxious. She has got into great money difficulties. She
hopes against hope that I will relieve the strain by marrying a rich
man, but, Dick, I cannot do it. I would do much for mother, but I cannot
destroy my whole life even for her. You are the only one I love; I
cannot give you up.”

“That’s right, Barbara; that’s plucky!” said the young man. “Then you
will become engaged to me, darling?”

“I can neither give you up nor become engaged to you. You see for
yourself, do you not, how I am pulled both ways? It would drive mother
mad at the present crisis if I were to tell her that all hope is
over—that I am engaged to you and will not look at any other man. Oh,
Dick! my heart is torn. I am an unhappy, miserable girl!”

“You ought to tell her the truth,” said Pelham. “She has no right
whatever to coerce you. Tell her to-night; tell her you are engaged to
me. I do not expect her to consent to our marriage just at present, but
at least she ought to know of the engagement.”

“But we are not engaged.”

“No, but we ought to be—where is the difficulty? Barbara, it will be
such an incentive. I shall work like a horse, and I know I shall get on.
I have brains and pluck. You won’t have long to wait—I vow it. Already I
am doing well in my profession; in ten years’ time I shall be a rich
man.”

“But I cannot wait for ten years,” said Barbara slowly. “I don’t mind
how poor you are, Dick. I would marry you to-morrow if it were not for
mother. I don’t know how she will get out of her difficulties. I cannot
help her in the way she wishes.”

“They speak of you in connection with Selwyn,” said the young man. “It
is too awful.”

“Yes, but there is nothing in it. Such reports are sure to be spread of
any girl. Listen to me, dear. I will be faithful to you, but I must not
worry mother just for a little. Be satisfied; let us understand each
other, but do not let the engagement become public quite yet.”

“I suppose it must be as you wish,” said Pelham, “only I hate to feel
that other men have a right to talk to you, and make love to you; but I
suppose I must submit. Oh! if only poor little Piers were not in
existence, your mother would welcome me. If I could come to her as Sir
Richard Pelham she would raise no objections, eh, Barbara?”

“No,” answered Barbara slowly. “But as Piers is there, and as we love
him very much, and as we earnestly hope he will live, there is no use
thinking of that.”

“Of course there is not, and I am mad to speak of it; but my brain is in
a whirl to-night. Yes; Piers will live—he will be a strongman yet. He
will come in for his sixty thousand pounds a year and the Pelham
estates.”

“It is strange to think that you are really the next heir,” said
Barbara.

“It is a fact all the same, Barbara. If Piers were not in the world,
dear little chap, I should be the baronet, and the property would be
mine. Well, don’t let us say anything more about it. I suppose I must
consent to our not being engaged for the present, but you must make me a
promise.”

“What is that?”

“Tell me, here and now, that you will never marry anybody else.”

“I promise never to marry any man in this wide world but you, Richard
Pelham,” said the girl slowly and solemnly.

Tarbot peered through the glass of the conservatory. He could just see
the faces of the lovers. Barbara’s was all aflame with emotion. Dick was
holding both her hands in a fervent clasp. With bowed head the surgeon
moved away. He had made up his mind.

Hailing a hansom, he drove straight to the house of the patient whose
dying bed he had promised to attend. It was now close on twelve
o’clock—the man had breathed his last a quarter of an hour ago. Tarbot
went into the house, made ample apologies to the widow, sympathized with
her as she stood before him in her grief, and then took his leave.

“No time like the present,” he said to himself. “My blood is up; I will
not wait until the morning. What I have to do I will do quickly.

“Drive to Tottenham Court Road, and put me down at the corner of Goodge
Street,” said Tarbot to his driver.

He stepped into the hansom, the man whipped up his horse, and a few
moments later the doctor was walking quietly down Goodge Street. It
happened to be Saturday night, and Goodge Street at that hour was the
reverse of aristocratic. Torches were flaring on piled-up barrows
holding every sort of fruit. Women were screaming and chaffering, men
were lounging about and smoking, children got in the way, were knocked
over, and cried out.

Tarbot in his light overcoat was a strange figure in the midst of the
others. One or two people remarked him, a woman laughed, and a girl came
behind him and pushed his hat over his eyes. A peal of laughter followed
this witticism. Tarbot did not take the least notice, but walked on
quickly.

At last he stopped at a corner house which was different from its
neighbors. It was newly built, and looked clean and respectable. It was,
in short, a great block of people’s buildings. He went up the winding
stairs, and presently sounded a bell on a door which was painted dark
green, and on which the number 47 shone out in vivid white. There was a
brass plate below the number on which were inscribed the words—

                MISS CLARA IVES,
                    _Trained Nurse, Medical, Surgical._

Tarbot waited for a moment. Would the nurse be in? or, if in, would she
have retired to rest?

“Scarcely that,” he muttered to himself; “Clara does not sleep well.
Clara has been subject to insomnia; she will scarcely retire before
midnight on such a hot night as the present one.”

These thoughts had scarcely darted through his brain before the door was
opened, and a woman, tall and slender, with reddish hair and a freckled
face, stood before him. She was a painfully thin woman, her eyes light
blue and her upper lip long.

When she saw Tarbot there came a gleam into her eyes—a peculiar look
which for a moment transformed them. Then she stretched out her long
right hand, took hold of the doctor’s, and led him into the room.

“Who would have thought of seeing you here, and now?” she said
breathlessly. “What do you want with me? Another case, eh? or anything
else?”

“I want a good deal with you, Clara, as it happens,” said Tarbot. He
spoke in a familiar tone, without a trace of respect in it. “Shut the
door, turn on the gas, and let us talk. As I said, I have much to say.”

“But I am going out to a case in half an hour,” said Nurse Ives. “I am
packing my things now—it is a bad case. A child has been burnt, and they
have sent for me.”

“Somebody else must attend to it. I want you,” said Tarbot.

“What for?”

“Another case—one of life or death.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have I ever spoken to you of little Piers Pelham, the present owner of
the Pelham estates?”

“What, the child who comes between Richard Pelham and the baronetcy?”
said the nurse eagerly.

“The same.”

“Yes, I have heard of him; he is a delicate child. What of him?”

“If you undertake his case he runs a chance of being a dead child soon.”

“Now what does this mean?”

“It means that I want to revenge a wrong, and the tool is young Piers
Pelham. Do you follow me?”

“Not at present, but I shall soon,” answered the woman. Then she
continued:

“What is the matter with the boy?”

“At present,” said Tarbot, speaking very slowly, “he is quite well, but
within a few days he will be ill. I shall send for you; you will nurse
him.”

“And——?” said the woman.

Tarbot went forward and began to whisper in her ear. Nurse Ives had a
dead-white complexion. As the doctor spoke, her face turned ghastly.

“You want me to connive at a crime?” she said.

Tarbot winced, then he said “Yes.”

“Is this matter very important to you?”

“It is life or death to me—life or death.”

The surgeon rubbed his hands slowly one inside the other; his eyes were
fixed on the eyes of the nurse. She looked back at him. Then she spoke.

“I will do what you require, on a condition.”

“What is that?”

“That you make me your wife.”

“That I marry you?” said Tarbot. He started up. “That I marry you?”

An ugly line, where she had been cut long ago, came out across the
woman’s temple. It showed fiery red; the rest of her face was
dead-white. She laid one of her hands on Tarbot’s; her hand was icy
cold. He shivered.

“That you marry me,” she repeated; “that you own me before all the world
as your lawful wedded wife. Only on that condition will I do what you
want.”

Tarbot did not reply for a minute. He turned away from the eager eyes of
the nurse, and closed his own. As he did so he saw another vision—a
vision of a girl in white. He was carried away from his present
surroundings as he listened to a girl’s voice. The girl’s face was a
lovely one, and her voice like music. She was saying solemnly, “I
promise never to marry any man in this wide world but you, Richard
Pelham.”

“I am waiting for my answer,” said Nurse Ives.

“Yes,” cried Tarbot, starting and opening his eyes. “If you do what I
require, if our scheme succeeds, I will make you my lawful wedded wife
in the sight of Heaven.”




                              CHAPTER III.
                      “THE KING CAN DO NO WRONG.”


Sir Piers Pelham, aged seven, was an autocrat. He lived in a big house,
daintily and luxuriously furnished. He had servants to do his bidding;
each whim was attended to immediately; his mother was there to obey his
every dictate. He was the King in No. 12 Ashley Mansions. Nothing was
too great to do for him, nothing too hard to endure for his sake.

At present the little baronet was under the care of guardians—his mother
was one, a lawyer of the name of Carroll was another, and Luke Tarbot,
one of the cleverest and most rising doctors in Harley Street, the
third. When Piers came of age he would enter into a property which
represented over sixty thousand pounds a year.

The boy’s father had died while hunting a month before his birth. He had
never been the reigning baronet. The reigning baronet was an old man,
who had passed from life when little Piers was a year old. From that
time the boy was Sir Piers Pelham. If he died the title would go to Dick
Pelham, who was his second cousin.

On a certain evening, about a week after the events related in the last
chapter, Luke Tarbot, when he entered his house in Harley Street, found
a note awaiting him. It was from 12 Ashley Mansions, and ran as follows:


  “DEAR LUKE,—I wish you would look round as soon as possible. That new
  medicine you have given Piers does not suit him. He is feverish and
  unwell. The nurse has kept him in bed to-day. He is not the least like
  himself. I feel strangely anxious.

                                                    “Yours very truly,
                                                        “MARION PELHAM.”


Having read the note Tarbot went into his dining-room and rang the bell.
His servant answered his summons.

“Have dinner served at once, Peters,” said his master.

The man withdrew, and a few moments later the doctor was enjoying an
exquisitely cooked meal. He was an epicure and always ate deliberately.

Having finished and enjoyed the refreshment of a cigar, he put on his
overcoat and went to Ashley Mansions. The door was opened by a footman
in the Pelham livery. The doctor asked for Mrs. Pelham.

“My mistress is in the drawing-room, sir. She has been looking out for
you very anxiously, Dr. Tarbot.”

“Announce me, please,” said Tarbot.

He left his hat and overcoat in the hall, and a moment later was ushered
into Mrs. Pelham’s presence. She was a little woman, with rosy cheeks
and bright, dark eyes. She had the eager, affectionate manner of a
person whose heart overbalances her mind.

“I am so glad to see you, doctor,” she cried. “Please sit down. Piers
has had a very queer fainting fit this afternoon. I do not like the
state he is in at all.”

“Has the nurse come?” asked Tarbot.

“She came yesterday. I don’t much like her, and I don’t think the child
does either.”

“Oh, she is an excellent nurse,” said Tarbot, frowning; “one of the very
best I have on my staff. I’ll go up and have a look at the child.”

Mrs. Pelham took the doctor up-stairs herself. The bedroom occupied by
the small baronet was luxuriously furnished in the style best calculated
to please a child.

Just beyond it was a dressing-room, but the little baronet slept, as
well as played, in his nursery. He was sitting up in bed now, with
flushed cheeks. He was a remarkably pretty boy, with soft black hair,
eyes dark as night, and a velvety skin of the purest olive. The moment
his mother appeared he called out to her in a high, ringing tone,—

“I’m better again, mother. Oh, is that you, Dr. Tarbot? I don’t want any
more of your nasty medicines. You needn’t order them for me, for I’m not
going to take them.”

He laughed as he announced his determination. The mother ran up to the
boy and began to kiss him.

“Oh, I do think he is a little better,” she cried eagerly. She looked
round as she spoke at the nurse, who was standing perfectly motionless
by the bedside. The nurse did not glance at her—her eyes were fixed on
Tarbot.

“I took his temperature an hour ago,” she said; “he is decidedly
feverish, and ought to stay quiet.”

“I hate you, you nasty nurse,” said little Piers, “and I hate you, too,
Dr. Tarbot. I want Dick to come to me—Dick or Barbara, but I would
rather have Dick. Do send Dick to me, mother. He ought to come, oughtn’t
he, when the king wants him?”

“I don’t think you should have visitors at present,” said Tarbot. “I
wish you to stay quiet and to do what Nurse Ives says.”

“Oh, I’m not going to obey her,” said the child. “I hate nurses. I want
Dick. Please, mother, send for Dick!”

The doctor began to examine the boy, tapping the little chest, listening
to his breathing, taking his temperature, feeling his pulse.

“You’ll be better soon,” he said, when he stood up after making his
examination. “I’ll send you some fresh medicine; you need not take any
more of that bitter stuff. Nurse, I will give you some directions in the
other room. Piers, listen to me—you must stay in bed.”

“No, I won’t,” said the boy. “I’m going to get up.”

“You’ll stay in bed, my boy, because I order it,” said Tarbot in a
determined voice.

The boy gazed at him out of his great black eyes.

“You order it?” he said slowly. “I didn’t think anybody could order Sir
Piers Pelham.”

“And why not?”

“Oh, because—because I’m rich,” said the child, “and I”—he gazed round
him in a puzzled way—“I’m great. I’ll be a _very_ great man when I’m
grown up. I was telling nurse about it. I was telling her that I’d have
heaps of money. I shall have everything my own way. I’ll be a sort of
king. The king can do no wrong. That’s a beautiful proverb, isn’t it?
I’m going to have it illuminated and put over the mantelpiece. I’m the
king and I can do no wrong, and I wish to get up, and I _will_. You
can’t keep me in bed, nor can nurse.”

“You may be a great king, or autocrat, or whatever you like to call it,”
said Tarbot, “but you have got to obey me now because I am your doctor.
Nurse, I must speak to you. I will see you afterwards in the
drawing-room, Mrs. Pelham.”

The doctor and the nurse left the room. The nurse was absent about five
minutes. She came back looking quiet and calm. She went and stood by
little Piers’s bed. The mother was at the other side.

“I think the doctor would like to speak to you, madam,” said the nurse.

Mrs. Pelham left the room. She went down-stairs. Tarbot was waiting for
her, standing with his back to the mantelpiece. As soon as Mrs. Pelham
came in he began to speak.

“I don’t like the condition of the child.”

She clasped her hands, and a look of terror came into her face.

“I have discovered that there is real cardiac mischief.”

“What is that?” asked Mrs. Pelham.

“The child’s heart is seriously affected.”

The mother uttered a cry.

“I shall call in Dr. Williamson to-morrow. He is a great authority on
such cases. We must take his advice.”

Mrs. Pelham sat down on the nearest chair and burst into tears.

“You might send for the child’s cousin,” said Tarbot.

“What cousin?”

“Dick Pelham—he is fond of him. Anything reasonable ought to be granted
to the boy at present.”

Mrs. Pelham started up. “Dick shall come at once,” she cried.

“That is right. I’ll call round in the morning.”

Tarbot left the house. Mrs. Pelham sent a hurried messenger for Dick. He
arrived within an hour.

“Why, Mrs. Pelham!” he exclaimed, bursting into the room, “what sad news
is this? What is the matter with Piers?”

“He is ill, Dick. The doctor says it is quite serious.”

“Do you mean that Tarbot says so?”

“Yes, of course I mean Dr. Tarbot. He always attends little Piers when
he is ill. He is his guardian, you know, Dick, or perhaps you have
forgotten. I hope you didn’t mind my sending for you—the little fellow
has been calling for you all day.”

“I am delighted you sent for me. I’ll go up to the boy at once.”

Pelham ran up-stairs. Piers with a flushed face was arguing with Nurse
Ives. Nurse Ives was making few replies. She was sitting quietly by the
child. Her eyes were fixed steadily on his face. Little Piers turned
away from the bright glassy look in her eyes, then, as if fascinated, he
looked back at her. Dick’s entry into the room made a diversion.

“Hullo, Piers! what’s the matter?” said his cousin.

“Oh, Cousin Dick, Cousin Dick!” said the boy, “I am glad to see you.
Come and sit with me. I am glad, I am glad! You can go away now, nurse,
I want to be all alone with my Cousin Dick: he’s my greatest friend.
He’s my heir, you know.”

“Your heir?” said the nurse. “What do you mean?”

“Yes; if I were to die, Dick would be Sir Dick. Doesn’t it sound funny?
Sir Dick! You would, wouldn’t you, Dick?”

“Don’t talk about it, Piers; I hate the subject,” said Dick, frowning.

“I wouldn’t make you angry for the world. Come and sit near me and hold
my hand. Nurse, you can go out of the room. I love you, Dick; I love
you.”

“But what is the matter with you, Piers?”

“My ticker beats too fast—it’s awfully troublesome—it beats one, two,
and it stops; then it flies on, and then it seems scarcely to go at all,
and I feel cold and faint. If I were to get a little worse, then you’d
come into my property. You’d make an awfully nice baronet. Give me your
hand, Dick. Sir Dick you’d be if I were dead.”

“Go to sleep, Piers,” said Dick.




                              CHAPTER IV.
                             A _POST OBIT_.


Pelham sat with the boy for about an hour. The nurse came in and turned
off the electric light. She lit a lamp in a distant part of the room,
and shaded it; then she approached the bedside on tiptoe.

“How is the boy now?” asked Pelham in a whisper.

“He is very ill,” said the woman. “He ought to have his medicine soon.”

“But you won’t wake him for it,” said Dick.

“I am sorry, but I must. The boy must have his medicine regularly; it is
a heart stimulant.”

“Well, let me give it to him,” said Dick.

“You may if you like,” answered the nurse. “Come into the dressing-room.
I will give you the glass, and you must raise his head a little and
whisper to him. He’ll open his eyes and drink it, and then go off to
sleep again.”

As the nurse spoke she opened a bottle of medicine, measured out a dose
carefully, and gave it to the young man. He took it into the sick-room,
and, placing it on a table, bent down over the little patient.

The boy was sleeping, starting now and then in his sleep, now and then
muttering a word.

“Dick, I’m glad you are with me—I’d like you to be Sir Dick, it would
sound so pretty, so pretty.”

“Wake up, Piers,” said his cousin. The moment he spoke the child opened
his eyes.

“It is time for your medicine, little chap.”

“Oh, I hate that nasty stuff,” said the boy, shuddering and turning his
head away.

“But you’ll drink it for me because you are a brave little lad.”

“I don’t want it, I’d rather die.”

“Nonsense, Piers, folly!”

“But if I died you’d be Sir Dick.”

“And I should hate it,” said Dick.

“You’d hate it?” said the boy. “Why, you’d be the king then.”

“I’d hate it all the same. I want you to live. I love you, little chap.
Now open your mouth, drink this off. Ah, that’s a good boy.”

The child swallowed the medicine.

“It doesn’t taste like the last,” he said; “it’s sticky and rather
sweet. I’d rather have the old medicine.”

“Sweet and sticky,” said Nurse Ives, who came into the room just then.
“It ought not to be, for there’s nothing either sweet or sticky in it.
What do you mean, child? Give me the glass, please, Mr. Pelham.”

She dipped in her finger and tasted the dregs.

“It is queer,” she said. “I wonder what is the matter with it. It ought
not to taste like this.”

She went out of the room, closing the door after her.

Pelham paid no heed to her words. He was not thinking about the
medicine, he was disturbed and anxious about Piers.

After a time the child dropped off to sleep again, and then the young
man stole to the door.

“I am going away now, nurse,” he said. “I’ll look in to-morrow.”

Pelham went down-stairs. The drawing-room door was open. Mrs. Pelham
stood on the threshold.

“Well, Dick, well?” she said eagerly. “What do you think of him?”

“I think he is rather bad, if you ask me,” said Pelham. “There is a
great change in him. If I were you I’d call in other advice.”

“That is what Luke thinks. He said we ought to have another doctor. I am
afraid he thinks badly of the case.”

“I’d have in another doctor, and take him out of Tarbot’s hands,” said
Dick.

“What, give up Dr. Tarbot, the child’s guardian! Dick, you are talking
nonsense.”

“Nonsense or not, if the boy were mine I’d do it,” said Pelham. “I don’t
like Tarbot. I never pretended to. I don’t like that nurse either.”

“But Dr. Tarbot says she is the very best nurse on his staff.”

“All the same I don’t like her. I’d have somebody else, and I’d have a
new doctor. That is my advice, but of course you won’t take it.”

“I couldn’t, my dear Dick. I couldn’t offend Dr. Tarbot. It would be
madness. Oh, what a confused, helpless state I feel in—my darling child,
my only one! You don’t think that he is in danger?”

“Oh, I don’t go so far as that,” said Pelham. “I’ll call in again in the
morning, and I’ll send Barbara round.”

“He loves Barbara, he would like to see her,” said Mrs. Pelham. “Give my
love to her, Dick. Dick, is it true—are you engaged to Barbara?”

“Yes, worse luck,” was the reply.

“Why do you say worse luck?”

“Because we cannot marry. I am as poor as a church mouse, and she has
nothing. But there, Mrs. Pelham, I am a selfish brute to talk of my own
affairs just now. I hope little Piers will be better in the morning.
Good night.”

As soon as Dick had gone Mrs. Pelham went softly up-stairs. She opened
the door of the sick-room and stole in. The boy, excited and restless,
heard her. He called to her to come to him.

“I can’t sleep, mother,” he said.

“Is he worse, nurse?” asked Mrs. Pelham.

“No, madam, nothing of the kind,” said the nurse. “Kindly leave us,
madam, you are only exciting him.”

“Yes, you had better go away, you are only exciting me,” repeated Piers.
“I want Dick to stay with me. You are too anxious. I hear it in your
voice. Please go away, mother.”

Mrs. Pelham went very slowly out of the room. When the last echo of her
steps had died away Nurse Ives locked the door. She then turned on the
electric light.

“What are you doing now?” asked the sick child, raising himself on his
elbow.

“I mean to send you to sleep.”

“Like you did last night?”

“Yes, like I did last night. Didn’t you like it?”

“I was a little—afraid,” said the boy very slowly. He looked anxiously
round the room—“I wish—Dick were—here,” he said again, “or—or mother. I
was very much _afraid_.” And now his eyes, luminous and troubled, were
fixed upon the cold, inscrutable face of the red-haired nurse.

“There is nothing to frighten you, child, quite the contrary,” said the
nurse. “You must just lie quiet and fix your eyes on me.”

“I don’t want that bright light,” said the boy.

“Never mind the light—don’t think of it. I want to send you off to
sleep.”

“Why don’t you give me something to send me to sleep? When mother had
bad toothache the doctor gave her something out of a bottle and she went
to sleep. I wish you’d give me something out of a bottle. I don’t like
to go to sleep your way.”

“Mine is a much, much better way. Now you’ll do what I tell you. Give me
both your hands.”

“I—I _won’t_!” said the child, struggling and beginning to cry feebly.

“I am going to stroke your forehead quite gently, and you shall look in
my eyes. Don’t look away. See, I’m going to comfort you.”

The boy fidgeted and tried to shut his eyes.

“Open your eyes, Piers, look at me this minute,” said the nurse, in a
firm, stern voice.

“I—I won’t!” began the child. He looked away, then he looked again; soon
he looked steadily, his own eyes full of fear. Gradually the fear went
out of them, the eyes became fixed and strained. The nurse sat in such a
position that the boy had to look up a little as he gazed at her.
Meanwhile she stroked his forehead gently, calmly. Soon a change came
over the face, the eyelids closed, the color left cheeks and lips; the
nurse put her finger and thumb on the little wrist—the pulse had
apparently ceased to beat.

“It’s all right,” she said to herself. “I didn’t study under Dr.
Weismann in Paris for nothing. Ha! ha! my dear Doctor Tarbot, you think
I am your tool, but how do you know that I shall not turn the tables on
you? Poison this boy, indeed—not I! I mean to save him, poor little
fellow! I shall save him, and win you. I shall feather my own nest, and
hold such a weapon against you that you will be in my power for the rest
of your life. You made a mistake when you asked a woman as wise as I am
to assist you.

“Can I ever forget the day when Dr. Weismann performed a similar
experiment on a young man in the hospital, and then called in the most
eminent physicians to examine him; didn’t they one and all pronounce him
dead? You are not cleverer than Dr. Weismann, or the other great Paris
savants. I am your match. You will rue the day you consulted me.”

The nurse laughed softly to herself. Meanwhile she watched the patient.
The child looked no longer like a patient; he looked no longer like any
living creature—the pallor of death was on his forehead. To all
appearance he had ceased to breathe.

Nurse Ives sat motionless by his side for a couple of hours. At the end
of that time she went up to a wicker-work trunk which stood in a corner
of the room. It was a trunk of somewhat novel shape, being longer than
those usually employed. She opened it, and took out an electrical
apparatus. She put this in order, and applied a powerful current to the
child, placing one pole at the side of the neck, and the other over the
heart. In a few moments little Piers opened his eyes slowly, and gazed
up at his nurse with a tranquil expression.

“I have had a nice sleep,” he said.

She smiled at him, bent forward, and kissed him.

“You must have some nourishment before you go to sleep again,” she said.

She put away the electrical apparatus, returning it to its place in her
wicker-work trunk. She then heated some beef-tea and brought it to the
child’s bedside.

“Drink it off, dear,” she said. The child drank it greedily.

“You did put me into a nice sleep,” he exclaimed.

“Yes, am I not a wonderful woman? Now go to sleep again, little one, and
I will sit by you. But listen to me, Piers—you are not to tell anybody
about my secret.”

“What secret?” asked the boy.

“The beautiful way in which I put you to sleep.”

“Would you rather I didn’t?”

“I should be very, very angry if you did. You must not disobey me. Do
you promise?”

“Oh, yes, I promise; but don’t look at me with such queer eyes; you make
me frightened.”

“You have no cause to be frightened; go to sleep again.”

Meanwhile Pelham, hailing a hansom, drove straight to his chambers in
Temple Court. He entered his sitting-room, and then started back with an
impatient exclamation. Tarbot was standing on the hearth.

“I am sorry you cannot give me a welcome, Pelham,” said the other man.
He came forward as he spoke, and held out his hand. “Have you been to
see little Sir Piers?”

“Yes,” answered Pelham.

“What did you think of him?”

“He seems very weak. I don’t much like his state.”

“Oh, we’ll pull him through,” said Tarbot, speaking in a cheerful tone.
“I am glad you went to see him; he has taken a great fancy to you.”

“We were always the best of chums,” said Pelham shortly. “Take a chair,
won’t you? Can I do anything?”

“That’s a civil way of asking why I take the liberty of calling. The
fact is, I have come on a matter of great importance.”

Pelham remained motionless. He had not seated himself, but stood on the
hearth where Tarbot had stood a minute or two before. His blue eyes were
fixed upon Luke Tarbot’s face. The surgeon gazed straight up at the
young man.

“So you are engaged to Barbara Evershed,” Tarbot said abruptly.

“Yes; but how do you know?” Pelham’s face was crimson.

“You are engaged to the girl I meant to marry. You must forgive me if I
fail to congratulate you.”

Pelham’s blue eyes wore a stormy expression.

“This is an awful blow to me, but all the same, for the sake of the
girl, I want to help you. I know more about Mrs. Evershed than you have
any idea of. She is in serious difficulties. Although you are engaged to
Miss Evershed, you have not a chance of marrying her, because you are a
poor man. Miss Evershed, as far as I can make out, will not allow the
engagement to become public. That is an awkward thing for you. You would
like to have everything straight and above board, would you not?”

“That goes without saying,” answered Dick. “But excuse me, Dr. Tarbot, I
can scarcely understand——”

“My object in taking any trouble in the matter?” continued Tarbot. “It
never occurred to you, did it, that there might be such a thing as
disinterested love?”

“You are not the man to do anything noble without an object.”

“You are unfair to me, Pelham, and I shall prove to you that you are in
the wrong. Mrs. Evershed’s difficulties are most serious. Between her
and ruin there is but a step. Now, it so happens that I can help her.”

“You can help her—how?”

“By the loan of a sufficient sum of money to put her straight with her
creditors for a considerable time.”

“Then for Heaven’s sake do it, Tarbot. It would be a generous action.”

“And why, according to your own showing, should Luke Tarbot be the man
to do a generous action?” asked the doctor.

Again Pelham was silent. Tarbot took a step forward. Pelham looked him
full in the eyes.

“You want to say something. Say it quickly,” he cried. “To be frank with
you, Tarbot, there are some men whom I like, and some——”

“For whom you have an antipathy,” said Dr. Tarbot.

Pelham nodded.

“Then in that case all is fair and above board between us,” said Tarbot.
“We both want the same girl; we have both fought for her. You have won
and I have lost. The loser in the game has seldom an admiration for the
winner, but all the same, for the sake of this girl, I will help you to
do a generous thing.”

“What is that?”

Tarbot bent forward and said in a low tone, “I will lend Mrs. Evershed
ten thousand pounds on condition that you pay me back on the day you
come in for the Pelham estates.”

Pelham’s face turned white.

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I say. I will lend you that sum to help Mrs. Evershed on
that one condition and that alone. You will have, of course, to sign a
_post obit_, but such things are done every day. On the day you come in
for the estates, worth over sixty thousand a year, you will pay me back
that trifling loan. Are you willing to oblige Barbara’s mother, or are
you not?”




                               CHAPTER V.
                        “I HAVE MISJUDGED HIM.”


Two or three days later Pelham received a note from Barbara Evershed.

“Dearest Dick, come and see me at once,” she wrote. “Something most
wonderful and unexpected has happened.”

Pelham, who was just attending to his first brief, started up with an
exclamation, put on his hat, and in half an hour had arrived at Mrs.
Evershed’s house in Mark Place. He was admitted at once, and ran up to
the drawing-room, where Barbara was waiting for him.

“Dear old Dick,” she cried, “I am about the happiest girl on earth!”

“But what has happened? I never saw you look so excited before.”

“I have reason to be excited. We can be engaged now quite openly. Oh,
how happy I am!”

“And so am I, Barbara, if it is true; but has your mother given her
consent?”

“Yes, it is all right now. Everything has come right, and in such a
wonderful, marvelous way.”

“Tell me the story.”

“I must begin at the beginning. You know I hinted to you about poor
mother’s money difficulties?”

“Yes, Barbara.”

“Well, they are all put right; and so suddenly, so unexpectedly. And who
do you think has done it? Why, Dr. Tarbot—the man I almost hated. He has
lent mother ten thousand pounds, and on such easy terms that it will be
possible for her to repay it all by degrees.

“He says he doesn’t mind when the capital is returned, and she is only
to pay four per cent. interest. You can’t imagine what a relief it is.
The poor dear had been getting into most awful trouble, and those horrid
money-lenders were getting her into their clutches.

“She told me only yesterday that unless I engaged myself to Lord
Selwyn—(Dick, Dick, think of it, that old horror! that dreadful,
withered-up old creature!)—she said that unless I could bring myself to
accept his proposals she would have to try to borrow money from the
Jews, and they would charge twenty or thirty per cent. interest. She
said we might keep on for another few weeks and then we must go under.

“Oh, Dick, if it hadn’t been for you, I must have yielded, for, after
all, she is my mother, and I love her dearly! She spoke of the awful
scandal, the disgrace, the debts, the angry creditors, her appearance in
a public court. Oh, it nearly broke my heart!”

“There, don’t cry, my dearest girl,” said Pelham, for Barbara, overcome
by her emotions, had laid her head on his shoulder and burst into a
passion of tears.

“I am all right now,” she said, quickly recovering herself. “It is over,
and Dr. Tarbot has done it all. He is our blessing, our good angel.”

Pelham was silent.

“It happened last night. Mother and I had a long conversation, and at
last I told her I would think over matters, and let her know my decision
within an hour. I never meant to yield, Dick, so you need not look at me
so reproachfully, but it was my only chance to gain time, and just then
Dr. Tarbot was announced.

“I went out of the room, for I did not want to see him. Little I knew
what he had come about, ungrateful girl that I was. He and mother sat
together and had a long, long conversation, and I went up to my room. I
thought everything was lost. And then at last I heard Dr. Tarbot go. The
next instant mother rushed up-stairs, opened my door, came up to me, and
clasped me in her arms.

“‘Darling, darling, we are saved!’ she cried.

“‘What can you mean?’ I answered.

“‘It is all Dr. Tarbot’s doing; he has proved our good angel,’ said
mother. ‘He will lend me ten thousand pounds within a week from now. Oh,
Barbara, he is doing it so handsomely, so splendidly!

“‘Barbara child, you ought to marry him. He loves you, he told me how he
loved you; he said it was on your account he was doing it. He didn’t
press that you should engage yourself to him. On the contrary, he seemed
quite hopeless about it. But, Barbara, he is a man in a thousand.’

“‘I am greatly obliged to him,’ I said. ‘I think he is quite splendid; I
didn’t know it was in him; but, mother dear, I cannot show my gratitude
in that way—I can never marry him.’

“‘My darling, he makes no conditions. He said you were not to be
persecuted on his account. I almost think he would have preferred your
not knowing that he has behaved so well to me. Now, Barbara, you queer
girl, have you nothing to say to me, no secret you are keeping from me?
I have rather suspected it for the last few days.’

“Dick, that was my opportunity. I could not help it—I burst out with
everything. I told mother all about my great, great passionate love for
you. She was so kind to me, and so relieved about her money affairs,
that she consented to my becoming engaged to you.

“She even said she thought Dr. Tarbot would like it. Just imagine it,
Dick! Could you for a moment have believed that it was in that man to be
so generous? Oh, how bitterly I have misjudged him! I should like to go
on my knees to him.

“Well, mother told me I must write to you early this morning, and ask
you to stay to lunch, and we can be engaged now before all the world. As
soon as you have a little home for me, Dick, however humble, I will come
to it with delight.”

To this exciting narrative Pelham made short replies. He said he was
very glad, but his enthusiasm with regard to Tarbot was not what the
girl had expected. On the contrary, whenever Tarbot’s name was mentioned
Pelham’s face became grave and stern.

“What is the matter, Dick?” said Barbara at last. “Why do you look like
that?—you have such a queer expression in your eyes.”

“Have I, Barbara? I ought to have a delighted expression—the thought of
winning you is enough to make any man happy.”

“But are you not grateful to Dr. Tarbot?”

“Don’t question me. I have an unreasonable—no, perhaps it is not
unreasonable—but I have a very strong dislike to him.”

“Surely that is unkind. I own, until yesterday I quite shared your
feeling, but how can I think it any longer? I almost believe that I
could love him. At least I must tell him how very grateful I am for what
he has done.”

Pelham looked stern.

“Dick, what is the matter?”

“Don’t say too much about him, Barbara. I must tell you plainly that I
do not like this. It seems to me as if I owed you to Tarbot’s action. It
all sounds very generous, but then you are not behind the scenes. I
don’t want to be in debt to Tarbot for anything. Oh, there, there,
dear,” for Barbara’s face had clouded and then became very white. “It is
all right now, and it _is_ a blessed relief, and we’ll be married as
soon as we can, little woman. I was attending to my first brief when
your fascinating little note arrived.

“I rushed off to you, of course, for what are briefs to me when you want
me? But now I shall attend to business with a will. I have about three
hundred a year of my own—a mere nothing, of course—but we might be
married in the autumn. We could begin in a small way, and hope for the
time when I shall earn enough to give you the comforts you ought to
have, my darling.”

“I don’t want comforts, or luxuries,” said Barbara. “I just want to be
with you. Yes, we’ll be married in the autumn, Dick. I don’t wish to
wait. I don’t care how poor you are. Oh, that is mother’s step. Now,
Dick darling, be kind to her, she has gone through a great deal. Money
troubles are enough to take the heart out of any one. Be very nice to
her, dearest. Be as grateful as you can.”

As Barbara uttered the last words the drawing-room door was opened and
Mrs. Evershed came in. She was a handsome woman, tall and stately. There
were hard, worn lines round her mouth, but her relief was expressed in
the eyes, which were still shining as if through recent tears, and in
the mouth, which smiled, notwithstanding its tenseness. Pelham went up
to her eagerly.

“Is what Barbara tells me true, Mr. Pelham?” said Mrs. Evershed.

“It is perfectly true,” replied the young man. “I love Barbara with all
my heart. She has promised to marry me, but we should both like your
consent.”

“That means,” said Mrs. Evershed, “that you would marry without it.”

“I should,” was the quick response; “but I doubt whether Barbara would
yield to my entreaties.”

“I don’t know what I should have done if I had been tried,” said
Barbara, “but luckily it is not necessary. Mother consents, don’t you,
mother—you consent to make me happy in my own way?”

“Yes, my child, I cannot refuse my consent. I have been relieved of a
great load of care, Mr. Pelham, and it behooves me to be good to others.
I may as well say frankly that I had more ambitious views for Barbara,
although, of course, I like you personally very much.”

As Mrs. Evershed said the last words she held out her hand.

“I give my consent, Dick,” she said softly. The young man grasped the
hand she offered.

“You are more than good,” he said. “You make me happier than I have
words to express.”

“Well, come down and have lunch with us now. I shall have much, of
course, to talk to you about afterwards. Yes, I allow the engagement,
but the marriage need not take place for some time.”

“We can talk that over by and by, mother,” said Barbara. “Come, Dick;
come to lunch. I am so hungry.”

They had just assembled in the dining-room when there came a ring at the
front door, and a moment later Tarbot appeared. He entered the room
hurriedly, shook hands with Mrs. Evershed, nodded to Pelham, and then
approached Barbara’s side. When she saw him her face grew white. She
looked round her eagerly; the servant had withdrawn. She held out both
her hands then and clasped Tarbot’s.

“I must thank you here and now,” she said. “I do so with a full heart. I
did not know it was in you. You are the most generous man in the world.”

A queer look came into Tarbot’s face. His eager eyes looked into the
girl’s; they glittered with suppressed emotion. He tried to say
something, but no words would come. Barbara’s girlish thanks unnerved
him. Pelham was watching him intently. The next moment the little party
were seated at the luncheon table.

Just as the servant was handing an _entrée_, Tarbot glanced at Mrs.
Evershed and spoke quietly.

“This is very sad about Piers Pelham.”

“What about him?” asked Mrs. Evershed.

Pelham dropped his knife and fork. Barbara looked up with interrogation
and alarm in her eyes.

“I am sorry to say that the child is dangerously ill. I have been
obliged to consult Williamson. He thinks badly of the case. All depends
on the next few days, but at the present moment his life hangs in the
balance.”




                              CHAPTER VI.
                               THE KISS.


Late in the afternoon of that same day, Barbara Evershed called at 12
Ashley Mansions.

“How is Sir Piers?” she asked of the servant who opened the door.

“Very ill, miss.”

“Is Mrs. Pelham at home?”

“Yes.”

The man knew Barbara, and invited her to enter.

“I am quite sure Mrs. Pelham will be glad to see you, Miss; she has
mentioned your name once or twice to-day.”

“I will find her myself,” said Barbara; “don’t come up-stairs.”

The girl ran quickly up the richly carpeted stairs, and a moment later
knocked at a door. A voice said “Come in,” and she entered.

Mrs. Pelham started up when Barbara appeared.

“Oh, I am glad to see you,” she exclaimed. “Come over here, sit down
near me. Have you heard the—the news?”

The widow’s lips trembled, and her eyelids were red from weeping.

“The news about Piers?” said Barbara. “Oh, I don’t believe for a moment
it is so bad. Dear Mrs. Pelham, don’t give way; try, try to bear up.”
For the poor woman had suddenly flung her arms round Barbara’s neck and
burst into a passion of convulsive weeping.

“He is dying!” she exclaimed. “He has such dreadful fainting fits. The
doctors say that there is no hope. There were two of them here this
morning. They say that in all probability little Piers will be dead
before many days are over. Oh, Barbara, I am glad you have called. It
seems a queer, wild thing to say, but I do believe you can save him.”

“I! What do you mean?” said Barbara, coloring vividly.

“He has been often asking for you and Dick—he loves you both so much. Do
you know, Barbara, I have taken a most terrible dislike to that
red-haired nurse?”

“Is she a trained nurse?”

“Yes, the one Dr. Tarbot insists on having. She belongs to his special
staff. Sir Richard Spears, as well as Mr. Williamson, called to-day. I
said something about having in a second nurse, but Dr. Tarbot said at
once that it was not necessary.”

“You ought to do what you please,” said Barbara.

“He is a very determined man, Barbara, and I dare not oppose him. It
seems to me as if I had not the management of my own child, and it is
hard, bitterly hard. Oh, I cannot believe that my darling is leaving
me.”

“I don’t think it _can_ be true,” said Barbara. She stood upright. All
the happiness which had filled her eyes left them, and her face looked
grave and older than her years.

“I don’t think God can mean little Piers to die,” she repeated. “I am
sorry you do not like the nurse, for so much depends on nursing in cases
of bad illness. May I go up to see Piers now, Mrs. Pelham?”

“Oh, my darling, I wish you would. I have a feeling that you can save
him.”

“I shall only be too delighted to go and sit in the room and do anything
the nurse says. I have always been fond of Piers. He has been like a
little brother to me.”

“Barbara, I shall die if my only child is taken from me.”

“But he may be spared,” exclaimed Barbara eagerly. There was hope in her
young voice.

Mrs. Pelham dried her tears.

“Go up and see him, Barbara,” she said. “Go now, at once; the nurse may
try to prevent it, but insist on seeing him. He ought not to be left
alone with that strange woman, and she never likes me to be long in the
room. Children have got better, haven’t they, even when the doctors have
given them up?”

“Over and over again,” said Barbara. “Yes, I’ll go up at once.”

She left the drawing-room and ran up-stairs. She knew Piers’s beautiful
room well, and softly opened the door. Within was darkness. A woman in
full nurse’s dress confronted the girl.

“What do you want? You must not come in here,” said Nurse Ives.

“My name is Evershed,” said Barbara, dropping her voice to a very low
tone. “I have come to see Piers. I am one of his greatest friends. I
have known him all his life. May I come in and sit with him for a
little? I should like it so much, and I would be quiet. I would do just
what you wished.”

“You cannot come in,” said the nurse. “I cannot permit it. No stranger
is to be allowed to come into the room. I am acting on the doctor’s
authority.” As Nurse Ives spoke Barbara found herself edged, against her
will, on to the landing. A very weak voice inside the room called her
name—“Barbara! Barbara!”

“Oh, he heard my voice; he wants me. Do—do, nurse, let me go to
him—please, nurse.”

“I cannot,” said the nurse. “Stay where you are for a moment. I will go
back to him.”

She reentered the room and said something to the child which Barbara
could not hear, and returned.

“You cannot see the boy—I have Dr. Tarbot’s orders. Now please go away.
I must return to him immediately.”

As the woman spoke she went back to the sick-room and shut the door in
Barbara’s face. Just for a moment the girl lingered on the landing, then
a resolved expression filled her eyes.

“You will not let me in without Dr. Tarbot’s permission. Then I will go
and obtain it,” she said aloud. “I will see Piers, come what may.”

She ran down-stairs. Mrs. Pelham met her on the landing.

“Well?” she said eagerly. “Did you see him? What did you think of him?
Was the nurse very unpleasant? Oh, Barbara dear, I shall go mad if
nothing is done! Oh, if I could only get that woman out of the house!”

“She seems a good and capable nurse,” said Barbara. “Don’t get too
nervous, please, Mrs. Pelham. The boy is ill, and I should like beyond
anything to be with him. No, dear, she would not let me see him. He
heard me, and called me, the darling; but she would not let me in. I
have made up my mind, however. I am going straight off now to get Dr.
Tarbot’s permission. If he says I may see Piers, it will be all right.”

“That’s splendid, Barbara! Do go at once. It is so queer that the only
person who is allowed freely to see the dear little fellow is Dick. Dr.
Tarbot does not mind Dick being with him, nor does the nurse, and Dick
calls every day. He will be here soon. It is the greatest possible
comfort to me to have the dear fellow about the house. He is almost like
a son of my own. You know, dear, how much I have always loved him. Oh,
and you are engaged to him, Barbara. Yes, I know; the report has reached
me. He will be a husband in a thousand. I am glad you are going to be
happy with him some day. Yes, when Dick comes he will sit with Piers,
but he does not often come until late, and if you could be with the
darling until Dick arrives I should not be nearly so anxious.”

“Well, hope for the best now, dear Mrs. Pelham. I will go off at once to
see Dr. Tarbot.”

Barbara ran down-stairs. Ashley Mansions was within a stone’s throw of
Harley Street. In less than five minutes she was standing on the steps
of Dr. Tarbot’s house, and the door was immediately opened in answer to
her ring. She asked if Dr. Tarbot was in.

“Yes, Miss,” replied the footman.

“I want to see him immediately.”

The man invited her in.

“What name?” he asked.

“Say that Miss Evershed has called. Say also that my business is of an
urgent nature.”

The man showed Barbara into the dining-room and withdrew. A moment later
Tarbot entered the room. He came forward eagerly, his thin lips
twitching, his eyes full of subdued light.

“To what am I indebted for this pleasure?” he began.

Barbara interrupted him.

“I want to ask you a great favor, Dr. Tarbot.”

“What is it?”

“I wish to sit up with little Piers to-night.”

On hearing these words the expression on Tarbot’s face altered.

“Are you mad?” he asked, looking full at the girl.

“No; I am sane.”

“Do you know anything whatever of nursing?”

“I don’t want to nurse—there is a professional nurse to do that. I want
to stay with the child, to hold his hand, to be with him. It is unkind
to leave him with strangers.”

“Miss Evershed,” said Tarbot suddenly, “I would do much for you, you
know that.” The look in the doctor’s eyes became eager, and Barbara
shrank towards the door.

“I would do much for you,” he continued, “but where my professional
duties are concerned I have no choice. I would rather that the nurse had
the entire care of Piers.”

“Oh, I cannot see any reason for this,” said Barbara, clasping her
hands. “Besides,” she added eagerly, “you allow Dick Pelham to be with
him.”

“Pelham is different. He has been with the boy from the first. It would
be unkind to turn him out of the room, but your face would be a fresh
one. The child’s condition is most serious. Any extra excitement might
stop the heart which is so dangerously affected.”

“Can I not induce you to grant my request? Little Piers called out for
me when I went to the door just now—he heard my voice. Is not happiness
good for sick people? Is not happiness, and a little bit of their own
way, quite as valuable as your most potent drugs? Oh, I believe such to
be the case—I am sure I am right. Dr. Tarbot, do allow me to have my
wish. It cannot possibly injure Piers for me to sit with him, and I am
always quiet and never excitable. It would make him happy! Please grant
my desire.”

While Barbara spoke, the eager light in her eyes, the tremulous movement
of her beautiful lips, her young figure all alive with the sympathy and
longing which filled her soul, brought to Tarbot a moment of mad brief
temptation. His own eyes glittered. He came close to the girl.

“You want this favor badly?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“If I grant it, will you do something for me?”

“Need you ask?”

“I will grant your wish on a condition.”

Tarbot’s face grew white. He came still closer to Barbara.

“Well?” she asked impatiently.

“If I allow you to sit with little Piers to-night will you—_kiss me_?”

Barbara staggered and caught a chair to steady herself.

“An hour ago I thought you a good man,” she said at last slowly. “I was
mistaken. I cannot sit with Piers on those terms. Good night.”

Tarbot quickly recovered himself.

“Forgive me! Forgive me!” he cried. “I was mad for a moment. It is your
fault. Why are you so beautiful, so lovable? Oh, Barbara, you could have
made a good man of me, and now I am”—he breathed the words low—“a devil!
But forgive me. Come, I will go back with you. You shall have your wish.
I grant it without any condition. I will accompany you to Ashley
Mansions and take you into the sick-room.”

Barbara said nothing. Her first impulse was to go straight home to her
mother, but thoughts of Piers and of the benefit she might do him caused
her to change her mind. She walked quickly back to Ashley Mansions with
the surgeon, neither of them speaking a word.

Mrs. Pelham was waiting by the drawing-room door.

“It is all right,” said Barbara, nodding to her. “Dr. Tarbot will allow
me to stay with Piers to-night.”

“Thank God!” answered Mrs. Pelham. “I am greatly obliged to you, doctor,
for this. Barbara, dear, Dick is up-stairs. He arrived almost
immediately after you left. There seems to be some commotion in the
sick-room. I heard steps hurrying about, but I am too frightened to go
and inquire. Go and tell me quickly if anything is wrong.”

Barbara nodded, and the girl and the doctor went up-stairs. When they
reached the threshold of the room Tarbot turned and looked full at
Barbara.

“Say that you forgive the impulse which came over me half an hour ago.”

Barbara hesitated; then her words came out, very low.

“I will—try.”

“Come this way.” Tarbot opened the door. The two passed beyond the
screen. The room was no longer dark—it was lit up with brilliance.

Pelham and Nurse Ives were both standing by the bed. When Pelham saw
Barbara he uttered a cry. Nurse Ives looked at the doctor and nodded to
him to come forward.

In the bed lay a little figure perfectly motionless, and as if carved in
marble.




                              CHAPTER VII.
                          THE CAUSE OF DEATH.


Barbara tried to hurry forward, but Tarbot pushed her aside. He bent
over the child and examined him carefully. The boy was absolutely
unconscious and icy cold. He looked exactly like one dead. Was he dead?
Barbara’s heart beat so hard that she fancied it must be heard. She had
never seen death before. Did it look like that?—was there always that
absence of all movement, that queer gray look on the face? Already it
seemed to Barbara that she scarcely knew little Piers.

Tarbot did not speak for a moment; then he turned to the nurse.

“How long has the boy been in this state?”

“Not long—about a quarter of an hour.”

“Tell me what occurred.”

Barbara, scarcely able to control herself, had walked to the window. She
now came forward and stood at the foot of the bed. Pelham had placed
himself close to the little motionless figure, and once or twice his
hand touched the boy’s clustering dark curls. Nurse Ives faced the
doctor. She held herself erect. The electric light lit up each feature.
Her harsh face, her red hair, her pale blue eyes, and the ugly red scar
across her forehead were all distinctly visible.

Barbara shuddered as she looked at her. Was it possible that a woman
like that had attended the sweet little child during his last hours? The
girl found herself shivering from head to foot.

“Tell me how this happened, nurse,” said Tarbot in a gentle voice.

“As you know, doctor,” said the nurse, “the child has been subject to
bad fainting fits.”

Tarbot nodded.

“The stimulants had a certain effect on the heart,” continued Nurse
Ives, “but the improvement always passed away quickly. Notwithstanding
the large amount of nourishment he took, the boy was thoroughly
exhausted. Miss Evershed came up on the landing and I went to speak to
her. The boy heard her voice and got into a state of excitement, too
much for him in his feeble state. I did not dare to allow her to come
in. When he found I would not admit her he began to cry, and I was just
repenting of my own determination, when to my great relief Mr. Pelham
came into the room. When he saw the child he put his arms round him and
raised him slightly on his pillow.

“‘You must not move him too much,’ I said; ‘in the state of his heart
the least exertion is bad.’”

“Bad!” exclaimed Tarbot. “In the condition the child was in, the
slightest movement might have proved fatal.”

Pelham’s face, already white, now looked ghastly. He ceased to touch
little Piers’s curls. With his arms flung at his sides, he turned and
faced the doctor.

“May I continue the story?” he asked abruptly.

“Certainly,” said Tarbot, turning and facing him.

“I thought the boy very bad; I noticed how weak he was and the blue look
round his lips. I asked the nurse if he ought not to have some medicine.
She told me that his medicine was finished, and that the chemist had not
yet sent a fresh supply. I then asked her to give him brandy. She
brought some. I endeavored to put a little between his lips. Nurse came
up and watched me as I did so.

“‘He ought to have the proper medicine,’ she said.

“She asked me to fetch it. She gave me the address of the chemist, and I
rushed off. I was absent about ten minutes. When I came back with the
medicine the boy was looking very queer and white. Nurse took the bottle
into the dressing-room and I accompanied her. She poured out a dose and
gave it to me. She stayed in the dressing-room while I went back to the
room. The light was dim, for the boy complained of it hurting his eyes.
I raised him up and managed to get the medicine between his lips. I had
scarcely done so before nurse came back. She said he ought to be better
now, that the medicine was a very strong heart stimulant and ought to
act immediately.

“I told her I did not think it was doing so. It seemed to me that the
child’s breathing was becoming slower and slower. I touched his forehead
and it was cold. I looked round at the nurse.

“‘Is anything the matter?’ she asked.

“‘I do not like the condition of the child,’ I said. The moment I said
so she started up, switched on the light and bent over him.

“‘Go down-stairs and fetch up some more brandy,’ she said.

“I ran down. I did not want to frighten Mrs. Pelham, and I could not
find the butler immediately. I had to go down to the kitchen premises in
search of him. This caused a delay, and I was not back in the sick-room
for two or three minutes. When I returned the child was in his present
condition. How dreadfully bad he looks! What is the matter?”

Tarbot made no reply.

He bent again over the child. Once again he held the pulseless wrist
between his finger and thumb; once again he listened at the cold still
heart.

Barbara and Pelham now stood side by side at the foot of the bed. Having
made his brief examination, Tarbot stood up and faced them.

“The king is dead! Long live the king!” he exclaimed. He held out his
hand to Pelham.

Pelham turned white as death.

“Dead! What do you mean?” he exclaimed. “The child cannot be dead. I
don’t believe it.”

“Look for yourself,” said Tarbot. “What does this mean but death? The
heart has ceased to beat, the body is already turning cold. I will see
the child again within a few hours, but in my opinion he is dead. I—you
will allow me to congratulate you.”

“Oh, Dr. Tarbot,” cried Barbara, “you cannot say such awful words now!
Congratulate Dick! Congratulate Dick! What do you mean?”

She began to tremble. Pelham put his arm round her.

“Come out of the room,” he said.

On the landing Barbara’s self-control completely forsook her. She began
to cry in a terrified, painful sort of way. Tarbot heard her sobs and
went out.

“Now, this is wrong,” he said, speaking in his most professional manner.
“Of course it is all terribly sad, but Dr. Williamson and Sir Richard
Spears and I expected the child’s death. His heart was terribly
affected. Had he lived he would never have been strong, and would have
suffered much. Although he was rich, his life would not have been a
happy one. I did not think death would have been quite so sudden, but——
By the way, Miss Evershed, can you control yourself?”

“I will try to,” said Barbara.

“Will you do something for me?”

“What?”

“Will you break this terrible news to Mrs. Pelham?”

“Oh, I cannot, I cannot,” said the girl, trembling and covering her
face.

“That means that you will not? You are, I know, a brave woman. Ought you
to think of yourself in a moment like this?”

The girl colored; then drew herself together.

“You do right to remind me,” she said. “I would not be a coward for the
world. If you think it right, I will go to her.”

“I do. I knew you had plenty of pluck.”

Barbara glanced up at Pelham. There was an expression on his face which
she had never seen there before. It puzzled and terrified her.

“Go, dearest,” he said, bending down and kissing her on the forehead.
“Go. God help you! God help us both!”

Barbara ran down-stairs.

“Pelham, this is a grand thing for you,” said Tarbot.

“I forbid you to speak of the change in my prospects to-night,” said the
young man impetuously. “I cannot stand this—it all looks——”

“What do you mean?”

“The least said, soonest mended,” said Pelham. “I am in no fit state to
speak to any one now. I will leave you, Dr. Tarbot. I can do no good
here. I will come back in the morning.”

He rushed down-stairs, and the next instant let himself out of the
house.

Tarbot remained on the landing a moment; then he returned to the boy’s
nursery. Already over the features of the child that look of repose had
crept which only death is supposed to give. The nurse was beginning to
lay out the little body. She now stood still awaiting the doctor’s
directions.

“Death has come rather sooner than I expected,” said Dr. Tarbot. “It was
doubtless due to shock—the shock which caused death was the sudden
appearance on the scene of Sir Richard Pelham.”

The nurse stood up and stared full at Tarbot. She made no reply. There
was a scornful expression round her lips.

“It is best that we should talk in this strain,” said Tarbot, dropping
his voice. “I repeat, the shock which caused death was the sudden
appearance on the scene of Sir Richard Pelham.”

“I don’t think so; the boy was fond of his cousin.”

“He was; but love is too mighty an emotion when life ebbs so low. We
should never have pulled him through. Well, nurse, it is a fine thing
for Sir Richard.”

“I fail to understand you,” said the nurse. Then she added
significantly, “I have done my part well?”

“Admirably.”

“You will keep your part of the bargain?”

“Certainly.”

“Then you will give a certificate of death?”

“For the sake of appearances, I should like to see the child again in
the morning, but I am as sure that death has already taken place as that
I am now talking to you. In the morning I can write the certificate.”

“What cause will you give for death?” asked the woman.

“Collapse from cardiac failure.”

“I shall stay here to-night,” said Nurse Ives.

“Do so, nurse. I should wish you to stay for the next day or two, as you
will probably have to look after the mother. She is certain to be
terribly prostrated; I am going to her now. I sent Miss Evershed to
break the news to her.”

“That is a kind girl, a fine girl,” said Nurse Ives. As she spoke she
raised her eyes and fixed them on Tarbot’s face. Her glance took him by
surprise. He looked away, and a dull red crept into the woman’s face.
She tightened her thin lips, and there came an ominous gleam in her pale
blue eyes.

“Is Sir Richard here?” she asked after a moment.

“No, he has gone. By the way, nurse, don’t throw away that last bottle
of medicine.”

“You had better take it with you, Dr. Tarbot.”

“No, I will not do that. Leave it where it can be got when the moment
arrives. Put it into the cupboard and lock the cupboard. Mrs. Pelham
will not change the arrangement of the room for some time. I shall write
a certificate of death in the morning.”

Once again Tarbot strode up to the bed and looked at the body. The child
was now faintly smiling with that ineffable smile of peace which death
seems always to give. Heaving a brief sigh of satisfaction, Tarbot
turned on his heel and left the room.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                            THE LONG TRUNK.


It was certified that Piers Pelham, baronet, aged seven, had come by his
death owing to cardiac failure. The certificate to this effect was duly
signed by the well-known Dr. Tarbot, one of the cleverest and most
rising doctors in Harley Street. The great specialists who had been
called in to see the child expressed no surprise when they heard of the
death; only one of them remarked that he did not think the end would
have come quite so soon.

In other quarters there was a certain amount of gossip. Dick Pelham was
considered wonderfully lucky. Before the child’s death he had been a
mere nobody—a briefless barrister with the ordinary chances of a
moderate success. Now he was a man of vast importance—the baronetcy was
one of the oldest in England, and the acres which belonged to the title
large, fair, and widely spread.

Pelham’s engagement to Barbara Evershed had just been bruited abroad in
society, and she was heartily congratulated. The whole thing was almost
like a story. Nothing could have happened in a more opportune way. Of
course, the death of the child was dreadful, and those who knew the
little fellow were heartily sorry; but few people did know him, and
Barbara had a wide circle of friends and acquaintances.

Amongst these people the general rumor was that the child had been
removed at a most crucial and happy moment. Mrs. Evershed’s monetary
affairs would be put straight, and she would be the mother-in-law of one
of the richest men in England. The match was a splendid one for her
handsome daughter. Yes, Barbara was in luck, but as she happened to be a
popular girl, as the voice of society pronounced her fine-spirited, and
even noble, there was not one who grudged her the happiness which was
now assuredly to be hers.

As to the mother of the dead boy, the terrible shock had brought on a
sharp attack of nervous fever. A nurse had to be called in to look after
her. As a matter of course, Nurse Ives had been asked to undertake the
case, but, much to Barbara’s surprise, she absolutely refused to nurse
Mrs. Pelham.

“I cannot do it,” she said. “I will stay in the house until another
nurse arrives, but I do not wish to have anything to do with the case.”

Tarbot was much annoyed at this decision, but he could not shake Nurse
Ives’s resolve.

Forty-eight hours after the death of the child his coffin arrived. The
undertaker’s men brought it into the room. Nurse Ives was the only one
present. The men lifted the little body from the bed and laid it in the
coffin. They then turned to view their work.

“He makes a pretty corpse, don’t he?” said one to the other.

In truth he did. His face was like a flower, for the color had not quite
left his cheeks.

“You’d a’most fancy he was alive still,” said one of the men. “See that
touch of pink?” He touched the cheek reverently. Nurse Ives went up and
stood at the head of the bed. She gave the man an angry glance and he
apologized for what he had done.

“We will come in if you like later on to screw down the lid,” he said.

“The lid had better be screwed on now,” said the nurse. “There are signs
of mortification already setting in, and it would be unwise to leave the
coffin uncovered any longer. Miss Evershed or Mrs. Pelham might come up
to see the corpse; it would not be safe, and I wish to have the lid
screwed on at once.”

“All right, Miss, we’ll soon put things straight.”

The men put on the lid and screwed it down, and then they went away. The
moment they did so a queer look came over Nurse Ives’s impassive face.
She went quickly to the door of the room and locked it. Then, taking a
turnscrew, she hastily unfastened the screws and removed the lid from
the top of the coffin. Having done this, she lifted the body out.

Once again she laid it on the bed, and now she piled warm blankets over
the little body, and put a hot bottle, which she had previously got
ready, to the feet. Then, going to the dressing-room, she brought away a
small box which contained capsules of amyl nitrite. She broke one of the
capsules in a handkerchief, and, holding it close to the nostrils of the
child, a strong and pungent odor filled the room. The face of the dead
underwent no perceptible change at first, but then the faint color in
the cheeks increased. A look of triumph filled the nurse’s eyes.

“Good!” she cried. “It is all right. I thought I could do it, and I
have. Dr. Tarbot imagined he would be even with me. He is not; I am his
master. What is about to happen to-night will come upon him as a blow
when he least expects it. Yes, all is well; I feather my own nest; I
receive that reward for which I have lost my soul. I prepare for the
evil day. I know what I am about.”

As these thoughts flew through the woman’s mind she went over to the
wicker trunk at the other end of the room and opened it. The trunk was
of a peculiar shape—much longer than is ordinarily made. From this
receptacle she took out bales of cotton wool and several iron weights.
She wrapped the wool round the weights and filled the coffin with them.

When she had put in enough wool and iron to make up the probable weight
of the child, she screwed on the lid again, and having done so, bent
over the little body. The color was still in the cheeks, although the
cheeks were cold, and the eyes remained firmly shut. Not a breath passed
the lips, not a movement was apparent; still, the woman felt quite
satisfied. She gave a further sigh of intense relief, and throwing an
eider-down quilt over the blankets, left the room, taking good care to
lock the door of the chamber of death after her. She went the entire
length of a long corridor and paused outside Mrs. Pelham’s room. The
other nurse had arrived and was already in charge. Barbara Evershed was
standing near the door. Barbara had seen the undertaker’s men bringing
up the little coffin, and her eyes were red from a fresh burst of tears.

“I shall leave to-night,” said Nurse Ives, pausing and looking full into
the girl’s face.

“Will you see Mrs. Pelham?” asked Barbara.

“It will not be necessary; but if she wishes I will go in and say
good-by to her.”

“I am sure she would like it; but first a word. Nurse, I saw the coffin
brought up-stairs.”

“Yes, my dear, yes,” said Nurse Ives. She did not touch Barbara, but she
looked at her with a curious expression. “The coffin has arrived and I
put the child in.”

“I should like to see him once again,” said Barbara.

“You cannot. The lid is screwed on the coffin.”

Barbara’s face flushed.

“Was that necessary?” she asked.

“Yes; it was indispensable. I will speak to Dr. Tarbot on the subject
when he next calls. It would not have been safe for you to see the
little corpse again.”

Barbara was silent for a moment.

“You had better come in and say good-by to Mrs. Pelham,” she said then.

Nurse Ives entered the room. A moment later she stood by the sick-bed.
Mrs. Pelham, with her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, a strained,
piteous expression round her trembling mouth, looked up at the nurse.

“Is that you, Nurse Ives?” she said.

“Yes, madam.”

“I am sorry you are going to leave me. I like to feel that the one who
has been with my darling at the last is now with me.”

“For some reasons I am sorry to go, madam, but it is impossible for me
to stay. I will wish you good-by now. Nurse Hester will do all she can
for you—will you not, Nurse Hester?”

The strange nurse nodded but did not trouble herself to speak. She did
not like Nurse Ives, and she was not going to conceal the fact.

Mrs. Pelham held out her trembling hand.

“Good-by,” she said.

The nurse turned and left the room. Barbara followed her on to the
landing.

“I shall go in a couple of hours,” said the nurse. “I am only waiting to
see Dr. Tarbot and to pack one or two of my things. Ah, I think I hear
the doctor’s step on the stairs.”

The woman stood in the shadow, and the doctor, without seeing her,
entered the sick-room. He stayed there for a few moments and then came
out again, Barbara accompanying him.

“Is that you, nurse?” he said.

“Yes, sir. I have waited to speak to you. I should like to say a word
before I go.”

“All right, I can attend to you now. Good night, Miss Evershed. I hope
you will go to bed and have a good sleep. Nurse Hester can look after
the patient. There is nothing to be alarmed about in her condition—she
is suffering from shock and fever. These symptoms will soon pass off.”

Barbara reentered the room, and Nurse Ives and Dr. Tarbot walked down
the passage together.

“So you have quite made up your mind to go?” he said to her.

“Yes, I leave to-night. I thought I ought to tell you that I had the
coffin screwed up.”

“Indeed! Is that not rather soon?”

“Unmistakable signs of mortification have already set in.”

“Then in that case you did right.”

“I thought you ought to know,” said the nurse, dropping her eyes.

“Certainly. You acted with discretion. It would never do, were such the
case, for Miss Evershed to be bending over the child’s body. Girls have
so much false sentiment in a thing of that kind. The poor little fellow
is now far beyond the reach of any sympathy which earth can give him.”

“That is what I thought, doctor. Well, I shall leave to-night.”

“Shall I order a cab for you?”

“No, thank you; I will go out later on and see to that myself.”

“Very well, nurse. Good-by. I shall find you at your old quarters, eh?”

“Yes.”

“You will not undertake a new case at present?”

“I shall never undertake a new case; you understand our compact?”

“I am not likely to forget. I will call to see you to-morrow evening.”

The doctor ran down-stairs and let himself out of the house. Nurse Ives
went softly back to the room where the child who was supposed to be dead
lay. Having entered, she locked the door. She remained in the room for a
few minutes and then went down-stairs. The footman was in the hall.

“Are you going out, nurse?” he asked.

“Yes; but I shall be back in an hour.”

“We shall all be glad to retire early to-night,” said the man. “I, for
one, am dead tired.”

“Of course you are, and you need not sit up. I am leaving to-night, but
not yet.”

“Then, of course, one of us must stay up to see you out?”

“That is not necessary. If you leave the door on the latch I shall let
myself out, and I have a latch-key with me. I have a little business to
transact now, but will be back again. I shall desire a cab to call for
me when I am ready. Go to bed, Thomas. I can manage for myself.”

The man nodded, and the nurse left the house. She hailed a cab, and
drove straight to her own rooms in Goodge Street. She made certain
preparations there, and then left the house. The same cabby brought her
back to Ashley Mansions.

“I shall want you to wait,” she said to the man. “I shall be leaving
very soon.”

She had been absent nearly an hour, and it was now close on twelve
o’clock. When Nurse Ives came in again the house was quiet; Barbara,
worn out, had retired to her own room. The servants, only too glad of
the early hours after the late excitement, had retired to theirs. Nurse
Hester sat with the sick woman. Mrs. Pelham was very restless. Sleep
would not visit her. She insisted on holding Nurse Hester’s hand, and
the nurse could not leave her for a moment. Nurse Ives knew exactly what
was likely to take place, and had made her plans accordingly. At
midnight she lifted the boy from the bed, and opening the wicker trunk,
laid him in it. He was a little fellow and very slender; the trunk was
long, and the boy fitted in comfortably.

Having done this, Nurse Ives stole down-stairs on tiptoe and motioned
the cabby to leave his horse and enter the house.

“I want you to move a trunk down,” she said. “Will your horse remain
quiet while you are away?”

“Oh, yes; there’s no fear of him,” answered the man. “You haven’t much
luggage, have you?

“No, only the one trunk, and it is not specially heavy. Go up-stairs as
quietly as you can.”

The man did so. He lifted the trunk on his shoulder.

“It’s a queer shape,” he said to the woman.

“It’s a very convenient shape,” she answered. “Skirts of dresses do not
get creased in a trunk like that. I had it made on purpose.”

The man hoisted it on his shoulder and went quietly down-stairs.

He put the trunk on the cab, and Nurse Ives shut the door of 12 Ashley
Mansions behind her. At about half-past twelve she reached her own
place. The cabby carried the trunk up-stairs for her and laid it inside
the room. The lamp was lit here, and the gas stove was burning brightly.
On the table in the center of the room was something covered with a
white cloth. Nurse Ives paid the cabman, who withdrew.

The moment he did so she lifted the covering from the instrument on the
table and proceeded to open the trunk.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                           THE DEAD RESTORED.


Nurse Ives lifted the little body out of the trunk and laid it down on a
pile of warm blankets in front of the hot fire; then, taking the
electric battery from the table, she proceeded to put it in order and
applied it to the side of the child’s neck and over the region of his
heart, just as she had done before in Ashley Mansions. On this occasion,
however, the electric current was far more powerful.

The nurse watched the child with keen anxiety as she used this means for
his restoration. At first the strong electric current seemed to have
little or no effect; then gradually the color, which had been restored
to the child’s cheeks when the amyl nitrite had been applied, deepened
and the eyelids quivered very slightly. At last the eyes were opened
just for an instant and then closed again. When this happened the nurse
ceased to apply the current, and, rushing to the table, prepared a
hypodermic injection of ether. This was quickly injected into the
child’s arm. The effect was instantaneous—a gentle glow pervaded the
whole of the hitherto icy frame and the little body quivered from head
to foot.

Once again the boy’s eyes were opened, and now it was quite apparent
that he was breathing, although very faintly. Nurse Ives began gently to
rub the limbs with her warm hands. Stooping low, she breathed with her
own hot breath into the child’s mouth. His breath was now coming calmly
and steadily.

She once again applied the current, and the boy began to stir. Then she
lifted the arms above the head and put them down again, performing by
this means artificial respiration. The child now looked steadily at her.
There was a dreamy, unconscious film over the bright, dark eyes; but he
was awake, alive—no longer a corpse. He was a living boy once again.

Nurse Ives took the little wrist between her finger and thumb—the pulse
was working, but somewhat shakily.

She did not dare to lift the boy yet into a sitting position. She
allowed the full influence of the fire to pervade his icy frame, and
occasionally she still applied a gentle current of electricity.

After a time she put away the instrument, and, kneeling by the child,
put into his mouth a few drops of very strong soup mixed with brandy. He
swallowed a little. She felt the pulse again. It was steady, stronger,
less intermittent.

“Where am I?” asked little Piers.

“With me, my dear little man, quite safe. Don’t talk now; you are weak.
I am going to give you something nice to eat.”

“I am—_awfully_ hungry,” said the child.

The nurse knelt low by his side. She fed him by drops. She had made up
her mind that the child should live. Her exertions were rewarded. She
thought of nothing else at the moment, her soul was filled with pure
gladness. She even forgot Tarbot.

“They all think that he is screwed up in his little coffin—that he is
dead, dead, dead!” she said to herself, “and yet I have him here alive
and well. It was a terrible experiment, but it has succeeded. I have
saved him from the hands of a wicked man.” She clasped her hands, fell
on her knees, and covered her face. “And yet I love that man,” she cried
with a groan.

She trembled all over. The boy called her, however, and she had to
exercise self-control. Hour by hour he was now getting rapidly better.
Not only did he recover full consciousness, but he seemed stronger than
before the long trance to which he had been subjected.

“It is a wonderful case,” thought Nurse Ives. “More wonderful even than
that case which excited so much remark in Paris when I was with Dr.
Weismann. I am the cleverest woman in England—I have brought the dead
back to life. You will do now, my little man,” she said aloud, looking
at the child as she spoke.

The boy was gazing at her intently. He was sitting up; he looked quite
strong, and there was color in his cheeks.

“Where am I?” he asked. He gazed anxiously round the queer little room.

“You are on a visit to me, I am taking care of you. I am your nurse.
Don’t you love me?”

“But you aren’t my real nurse,” said little Piers. “What folly you talk!
You’re only the woman who came in to nurse me when I was taken ill.
Where am I? I want to go home to mother and to Dick. Where is Dick? He
was the last person I saw before——” The child began to shudder and
tremble.

“What is it, little one? Don’t look like that. What is troubling you?”

“Take me in your arms, nurse,” said the child.

The nurse seated herself on a low rocking-chair and lifted the boy into
her embrace. His face was deadly white again, the faint trace of color
having left it, but his eyes, large and beautiful, were fixed with
wonder in them on the nurse.

“Are you,” he said, speaking very slowly and with pauses between, “the
same woman—who—used to nurse me when—I was—very ill—at home?”

“Yes, dear.”

“You had red hair?”

“Yes, dear.”

“I didn’t like you then.”

“No, dear.”

“But”—he glanced up at her—“your hair isn’t red now: it’s gold, and I
_like you_.”

“Lay your head on my breast, little man. I am so glad you like me. I
like you, too.”

The child’s dark head fell upon the woman’s breast, and a moment
afterwards he sank into a gentle sleep.

“He’ll do, he’ll live,” she muttered. “Luke Tarbot, what a sell for you!
He’ll live, he’ll live! Thank God! Yes, I can manage everything my own
way now. Luke thought himself cleverer than I. I am playing my own game,
and this”—she glanced at the child—“this little fellow is the ace of
trumps.”

Nurse Ives presently lifted the boy and carried him into the next room.
She undressed him and lay down beside him, taking him in her arms. The
child slept during all the night, but the woman lay awake. She was too
excited to sleep—she was a desperate woman, and she was playing a
desperate game.

In the morning the child awoke, looking much better. He was now lively
and full of questions, anxious to go home, talking frequently about his
mother, about Barbara and Dick.

“Why are you keeping me here?” he said to Nurse Clara, but though he
asked the question he was not in the least alarmed. He was only seven
years old: a precocious boy of his age; but at seven our faith is large,
and we believe, as a rule, what is said to us.

During the following day Nurse Ives did not dare to leave him. While she
watched him, and played with him, and chatted and got him to tell her
his innocent thoughts, she was turning over a weighty problem in her
mind. It would, she felt certain, be madness to confide her secret to
another, and yet she knew that if she married Tarbot, as she meant to do
almost immediately, she must get some one to help her in the care of the
boy.

Early in the evening Nurse Ives took the child in her arms and rocked
him off to sleep. He was wide awake when she began and resisted her
efforts.

“Don’t stare at me,” he said, beginning to shudder. “I don’t like it.”

She took no notice. She did not mean to mesmerize him again after
to-night, but to-night she must do it. It was all important that he
should remain absolutely quiet during Tarbot’s visit. She fixed her eyes
on his face. Soon his bright dark eyes looked steadily into hers, and a
curious look came into them. He closed them in a few moments, repose
settled down over each feature, his breath came softly and gently. She
carried him then into her little bedroom, put him in the bed which she
had previously warmed, and, putting a nightlight in a distant corner,
softly shut the door. He was mesmerized into a tranquil sleep, not in
the least resembling the cataleptic state in which he was the night
before. Nurse Ives now felt certain that the child would sleep
undisturbed during Tarbot’s visit.




                               CHAPTER X.
                         “DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND.”


It was nine o’clock when Tarbot arrived. Nurse Ives was waiting for his
step. If he lifted the little knocker on her door and sounded a rat-tat
the child might awake. Accordingly, the nurse kept the door open. Once
or twice she went out into the passage and looked over the banister.
Tarbot’s steps would be distinctly heard upon the stone stairs, and it
was necessary to bring him into the room as quietly as possible. He was
a man who invariably kept his appointments to the minute. Nurse Ives was
certain he would come about nine o’clock, and he verified her belief by
arriving two minutes after the hour.

“Ha, nurse!” he said when he saw her. She had dressed herself for the
occasion, and with great care. She had changed her nurse’s dress for one
of blue velvet, of a deep rich tone of blue, the gift of a former
patient. It suited the woman well, bringing out the best points in her
face and figure. She wore ruffles of real lace round her throat and
wrists; her hair she had managed to dress with skill, fluffing it out
and making the most of it. Its redness now became a positive beauty.

Nurse Ives knew the necessity of striking while the iron was hot, and of
making in every respect as good an effect as possible. Having attended
to her own person and made it as attractive as she could, she next
turned her attention to the little room, which now appeared almost
pretty. The gas stove burned brightly, the atmosphere was warm, but not
too warm. On the center table was a lamp with a rose-colored shade. The
disfiguring gas, which always tries the prettiest face, was not lit. The
light round the table was rosy. Nurse Ives sat in this warm glow; it
softened her features, rendering them almost beautiful. She was very
pale, but the rose light gave her just the right touch of color. The red
mark on her forehead was hidden by the cunning way in which she had
arranged her hair.

At the first glance Tarbot scarcely knew her, but at the second he
recognized her. In his heart of hearts he disliked her all the more for
dressing up in velvet and trying to assume the manner and appearance of
a fashionable woman. He knew well why she did it, and he said to himself
that he was paying a terribly heavy price for his revenge. He was
beginning already to repent, but he was not a man ever to turn back. He
held out his hand to the nurse now, and entered the room with a cheery
step.

“You did capitally,” he said. “Capitally! No one could have managed
better.”

To hear him speak, one might have supposed that he was congratulating
the nurse on having brought a patient back from the borders of the
grave. She took his cue, and replied in much the same tone.

“Having pleased you,” she answered, “I have nothing further to desire.”

As she spoke she raised her light blue eyes to his face. She longed for
him to kiss her. Unscrupulous as she was, for him she felt a passion
which in itself was pure and strong and holy. She would have given up
her life for him. If he had in any degree returned her love she would
have been faithful to him, no matter whom else she destroyed. Provided
he did not provoke her jealousy, she would in her way make him an
excellent wife, but with such a woman as Clara Ives jealousy could make
her as cruel as the grave.

She motioned the doctor now to an easy chair and sat down at a little
distance from him.

“Will you eat?” she asked.

“I have just dined.”

“Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Nothing, thank you.”

“Then I will shut the door. We have much to arrange, have we not?”

“Yes, nurse. We can talk over the progress of events and all that is
likely to follow, but not to-night, nurse.”

Clara Ives held up her hand.

“Why do you stop me? What is the matter?” said Tarbot.

“From this moment,” she replied, “we drop that word nurse. It signifies
servitude, and I’m a servant no longer.”

“We’re both servants to the noble cause of science,” said Tarbot with a
light laugh. “It’s no disgrace to be a servant, my good creature.”

“It is no disgrace,” answered Nurse Ives. She rose to her feet, then
suddenly fell on her knees. She was close to Tarbot now, and, stretching
out one of her hands, she clasped his. It had been lying in his lap, and
he had not time to withdraw it.

“I long to be _your_ servant,” she said, and she kissed the hand which
she held.

He laid the other for a moment on her head.

“I did not know you had such good hair,” he said. “It is thick and
abundant. It suits you arranged like this.”

“It is not really thick, but I puffed it out by artificial means. I am
glad you like it. I did the best for my appearance for your sake. I know
I am not beautiful.”

“All the same, you look well in that dress,” he answered. “Dress can do
much for you.”

“It shall do much for me, Luke.”

He suppressed an involuntary shudder when she called him by his
Christian name.

“It shall do much for me,” she repeated. “You will never be ashamed of
me when you see me at the head of your table.”

He did not reply, but started restlessly from his chair and stood with
his back to the gas stove.

“This room is hot,” he said. “Do you mind opening the other door?”

“No, I would rather leave it closed. I like to keep my bedroom cool. The
air from the gas stove gets into the room and overheats it.”

“As you please. You must not keep me long now. Things have turned out
exactly as we planned.”

“Yes,” said the woman. “Yes.”

“You did what I required admirably—no one better. By the way, have you
any of the hyoscine left?”

The nurse’s face grew very white.

“A little. Why do you ask?”

“You had better give it to me—it is safer.”

Nurse Ives rose and went into the other room. She soon returned with a
small bottle which contained some white powder. Tarbot slipped the
bottle into his pocket.

“Pelham is in the toils,” he said grimly. “You are prepared to swear
that he was alone in the room with the child when he took the last
dose?”

“I am; but need we enter into the subject now?”

“No, no. You look worn out. Are your nerves troubling you, nurse?”

“They are a little. I am overdone. I did not think I should find it so
hard. I did it for your sake, remember. I have imperiled my soul for
you.”

A sneer crossed Tarbot’s lips. He did not reply at all to this
statement.

“When is the funeral to be?” asked the nurse.

“On Saturday.”

The woman gave a shudder.

“You are trembling. I must give you a tonic,” said Tarbot with some
anxiety.

“I do not need any tonic. I shall be all right when the funeral has
taken place—that is all. Where is the child to be buried?”

“In the family vault in Devonshire. There is a chapel attached to Pelham
Towers, and a consecrated graveyard—the vault of the Pelhams is there.”

An involuntary smile crossed the woman’s face, and she turned her head
aside.

“Are you going to attend the funeral?” she asked.

“Mrs. Pelham wishes it. I would do anything to please her—poor soul.”

Clara Ives smiled again.

“What is the matter with you?” Tarbot continued. “When I speak of the
funeral of a child who has died in his babyhood, a child whose life
meant much and whose mother is broken-hearted, it seems strange that you
should smile.”

“There are hidden nerves which one cannot always control,” said the
nurse with an air of wisdom.

“Oh, come, Clara, you need not talk science to me.”

“Of course not. You know a great deal more than I do.”

“And yet you are very well informed for a nurse.”

“That is true. Remember, I was with Dr. Weismann in Paris for a year.”

“He was a clever man, but a humbug.”

“I don’t think so.”

“We need not say anything more about it now,” said Tarbot, rising.

“We need not,” she answered. “I know a little science, a smattering
which comes in usefully on occasions. When I am your wife you will
perhaps instruct me further.”

“Are you eager that I should do so—to lift the curtain more, to study
the awful, the terrible problem?”

“Apart from your love, that is the one and only subject which fascinates
me,” replied Nurse Ives.

“Well, well, our tastes agree in this matter. You have quite made up
your mind not to take another case?”

“I have told you so.”

“It seems a pity. I must be going now; I will look in again in a few
days.”

“I shall not take another case, and you must not go away just yet.”

“I must. I have a patient to see at ten o’clock.”

“Your patient will have to wait.”

“My dear good Clara! I, a doctor, keep a patient waiting! You forget
yourself.”

“No; but you, Luke, forget yourself.”

“I fail to understand you.”

“You shall not leave here,” said the woman. She drew herself up—she was
tall and slender. “You shall not leave here until our wedding day is
fixed. Luke, what day will you marry me?”

He gave a shudder, and this time it was perceptible. An ugly expression
crossed the woman’s face, and the red scar became visible even under the
cloudy mass of hair. She raised her hand impatiently and pushed back the
hair. As a nurse, she always wore it smooth and plain, and in its fluffy
condition it worried her.

“I keep you to your bargain,” she said. “You promised to marry me if I
did what you required.”

“And, of course, I keep my word,” he answered. “But why speak of
marriage just now? We can surely wait for a short time.”

“We cannot.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you are to marry me.”

“Did I not say I would?”

“Oh, Luke, if you could but love me! Luke, bad as I am, I would make you
a good wife. Bad as I am, I could be good to you. After all, are we not
both outcasts? Are we not both separated from the rest of the world by
the crime we have committed?”

“Hush!” said the man. His face looked ghastly. “How dare you talk like
that? There are subjects which even between man and wife”—his lips
trembled—“must not be alluded to. I did what I did because—Heavens! we
cannot talk of it!”

“We need not talk of it, but you _know_ what we both have done.”

“I won’t listen to you. What is it you want? There are things which
upset the strongest man’s nerves. You, Clara, are coarse. You are not a
lady; you have been trained in hardness; you have no highly-strung
nerves. It is terrible to be highly educated. It brings torture.”

“Aye, I can guess that. You had best make me your wife. I can keep those
disordered nerves of yours in check. When the time comes, I shall know
how to soothe you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I may not tell you now. After you have married me you will not regret
it. When is the wedding day to be?”

“When do you wish for it?”

“First, Luke, answer me one question. Have you the very slightest love
for me?”

“Do you want me to tell the truth or a lie?”

“Oh, what folly this is!” cried the woman. “A lie! I should soon detect
it. The truth, man, and nothing else.”

“Then this is the truth—I do not love you.”

“I thought as much. Luke, when is our wedding to be?”

“You make a proposal, Clara, and I will see if I can yield to it.”

“We can be married by special license,” she said.

“Special license! Why throw away fifty pounds?”

“We can be married by special license,” repeated Nurse Ives; “so the
wedding can take place this day week.”

“So soon!” said Tarbot. “Impossible!”

“It is not impossible, Luke. Do you consent?”

“I must if you wish it; but it must be quite private.”

“We will go to church on the morning of this day week, and afterwards we
can go for a fortnight’s honeymoon.”

“It would be very awkward my leaving London just now.”

“Awkward or not it must be done. You can get a _locum tenens_.”

“Very well; if I must, I must. I did not know you would be so exacting.”

“We are to be married, then, this day week by special license, and——”

“Privately married, remember, Clara. There is to be no fuss. A busy
doctor cannot afford the time. We marry, and I take you away for a
fortnight.” The man’s lips trembled. He turned aside. He was paying a
price which nearly maddened him.

Nurse Ives kept on gazing at him fixedly.

“I have more to say,” she continued.

“What is it?”

“At the end of the fortnight you bring me to your house in Harley
Street, you introduce me to your friends as Mrs. Tarbot, your lawful
wife, you take me into society, and you publish our marriage on the day
it takes place in every daily newspaper in London.”

“Come, Clara, this is too much.”

“You promise all this or I——”

“You what?”

“I deal you a blow.”

Tarbot was standing up. He staggered slightly.

“What kind of blow? You are not going to turn traitor?”

“I won’t say what I am going to do. I did what you wished. It is your
turn now to fulfil your side of the bargain. If you refuse you will
repent it. If you accede to my wishes I will help you to carry out your
revenge. Remember, at present you have only committed the crime, but the
pleasure which is to follow has not begun. Are you going to deny
yourself that for which you blackened your soul?”

“I am not.”

“Remember, I shall make you an excellent wife. I shall stimulate you to
greater exertions in your career. There will be no nerves about me, no
stepping back because of conscience, or any such humbug. When your foe
falls, I shall for your sake rejoice. I know the woman whom you mean to
hurt and crush and dishonor. She is the woman whom you now love.”

“Whom now I hate. Don’t dare to mention her name.”

“I will mention it, and now. Her name is Barbara Evershed. I understand
exactly what your revenge means. It is the most diabolical scheme ever
planned by human brain, but I will help you to carry it out.”

“Clara, you are a terrible and extraordinary woman.”

“You have not yet half gauged my wickedness or my powers. Do not make me
your enemy. You will only repent that deed once, but that will be
forever. Make me your wife, and you shall have a splendid time. Is it to
be or not to be?”

“I said I would marry you, but some of your terms are preposterous.”

“They must all be carried out. Marry me in a week from now. After the
marriage we go away for a fortnight’s—bliss.” She paused here and looked
him full in the face. He made an effort to return her gaze, but his
eyes, bold and inscrutable as they were, fell before hers.

“It is diamond cut diamond,” she said slowly. “You have your match in
me.”

“I believe I have.”

“You accede to my terms?”

“I do because I must.”

“That’s right. Get your house in order, or stay—do nothing special. I
should like to refurnish when I take possession. You can go now, Luke;
you need not come here again unless you wish to. The less you are seen
here now, the better for our future safety. I will meet you at whatever
church you appoint on the morning of this day week. If you are true to
me, I will be true to you; if not—I have you in my power.”




                              CHAPTER XI.
                              A TELEGRAM.


Having seen Tarbot out, Nurse Ives returned to her own room and sat down
in front of the gas stove. It was a warm night—warm and damp. There was
a thick fog outside, one of those fogs which are the first forerunners
of autumn. But, warm as it was, the woman felt cold. She held out her
two thin hands to the warmth of the stove, then, suppressing a shudder,
she got up and went on tiptoe into the room where little Piers Pelham
was lying fast asleep. He slept soundly, and he looked beautiful—there
was an angelic smile on his small face.

A queer, new expression came over the woman’s face.

“Why am I stirred when I look at him?” she said to herself. “Why does my
heart beat so fast? If he were my very own I do not think I could love
him better.”

Then she returned to her seat in front of the stove. She was a temperate
woman, and although she felt faint and overcome she would not have
recourse to stimulants. She prepared herself a cup of cocoa. It was hot,
and it comforted her. It took away a curious craving which she could not
quite account for.

“I am hungry, and yet not hungry,” she said to herself. “I feel terribly
excited. I have gone through much, and it is wearing me out. This day
week I shall be his wife—I shall be Mrs. Tarbot. There is a good deal to
be done in the time. I must get suitable clothes. Above all things, I
must supply myself with plenty of underlinen, fine and beautifully
embroidered. I shall get a lot of handkerchiefs, too, of the finest
lawn, and every one of them shall be embroidered, not marked in ink, but
embroidered in satin stitch with the name, ‘Clara Tarbot.’”

“To think of my name being Clara Tarbot! I the wife of Luke Tarbot, the
great brain specialist of Harley Street! Oh, I do well, I do very well
for myself. I won’t think about any future—I do well for myself for the
present. The boy’s life is safe, and I shall get my heart’s desire. This
day week he and I will be married.

“I wonder where we shall go for our honeymoon. Imagine my having him for
a fortnight all to myself! How will he bear it? If he had any love to
give me he might like it, for I have power, strength. I am in no sense a
nonentity. I can flatter, I can please, I can excite him, and I can also
soothe him. I vow that he shall come under my influence. I know a way by
which I believe I can gain a wonderful power over him. I will use it.

“That girl shall be wholly forgotten. Plain as I am, I am the woman to
whom he will come in his hour of trial. Yes, there is no doubt I have a
great future before me, but in the meantime there is much to be done. A
few pretty dresses, or, rather, handsome dresses, have to be bought,
and, above all things else, the boy has to be cared for. Now, what am I
to do with the child?”

This problem occupied Nurse Ives during the remainder of the night. She
had been up for several nights now, but she did not feel sleepy. She
thought and thought, and towards morning it seemed to her that she had
solved the difficulty.

“It is the best thing I can do, and I must do it,” she thought. “What is
a mother for but to help a daughter? Yes, I will do it.”

Having made up her mind, she went and lay down beside the boy. The soft
breath of the child, who was now fast returning to his normal state of
health, mingled with hers, and she clasped the dimpled fingers of the
little one. As she did this, once again that queer indescribable
drawing, which she did not recognize as love, began to awaken in her
heart. She crept close to the lad and took comfort in his presence.

“I am so glad I saved him,” she said to herself. “When all’s said and
done, I am not such a villain as Luke—Luke, the man I love, the man I
would die for.”

At last she fell asleep, wearied out, and awoke about ten o’clock. The
boy was sitting up in bed. He was hungry, and there was a slightly
fretful expression on his face.

“Why do you sleep so long?” he said in a peremptory tone. “I’m not
accustomed to being kept waiting for my breakfast. Why didn’t you wake
up in proper time? I’m very hungry. I want my breakfast.”

“I’ll get it for you at once, little one,” said the nurse. “Stay where
you are; I’ll dress you afterwards. I’ll bring you your breakfast in a
few minutes.”

Nurse Ives rose hastily, and without even troubling to smooth her hair
or change her blue velvet dress, went into the other room. Having set
the kettle on to boil, she came back.

“How smart you are, nurse!” said the child.

“Do you like my pretty frock?” she asked.

“I like it awfully. You won’t wear that ugly nurse’s dress any more,
will you?”

“I don’t intend to. I’m not going to be a nurse any more, little Piers.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No, my love.”

“Do get me my breakfast—I’m so hungry.”

“It’s coming, dear. I have set the egg on to boil.”

Nurse Ives returned to the other room and prepared a dainty meal. She
brought it to the boy on a tray and sat by his side while he ate it.

“You look much better,” she said.

“I’m quite well,” he answered with a laugh. “It’s wonderful how much
nicer I feel in this queer, poky little scrap of a room. I was awfully
ill when I was at home. I never felt anything like it. Nurse, did you
ever seem to be going through the floor?”

“No, dear, I can’t say that I have.”

“I have felt it, and it’s awful. The feeling began to come just when you
arrived. I used to have it about once a day at first, but lately it
seemed to be always coming. I was always going down, and down, and down,
and then jumping up again, and then at last——”

“Yes, dear; tell me what you felt.”

“I heard Barbara’s voice, and you wouldn’t let her in. I called out to
her, but you wouldn’t let her come. Then I cried, for I love her better
than any other woman in the world, except mother, but you sent her away;
and I felt so dreadful. I went down, and down, and down ever so far, and
it seemed to me that Barbara would save me, but you wouldn’t allow her
to come in. You were awfully cruel then. You didn’t wear your pretty
blue velvet dress then. Oh, you were terribly cruel. I thought about
your cruelty, and the feeling of going down got worse and worse. I
thought at last that I must be sinking right through the earth, and that
perhaps I’d come out on the other side, where it’s day, you know, when
it’s night with us. Oh, it was awful!”

“Don’t talk of it any more, Piers—it is over.”

“But I like to tell you. Dick came into the room—dear Dick, I was glad
to see him. You know, nurse, he is very strong, and I like to have him
with me. He put his big strong arms round me, and then I didn’t sink any
more, at least, not at first, but at last even his arms didn’t seem
strong enough, and I began sinking away from them, and then you sent him
out. Oh, why did you send him away? You could have gone for the medicine
yourself. I called after him, but my voice was too weak. Then Dick came
back, and you gave him the medicine, and he brought it to me. I was glad
to take it from Dick’s hands. I didn’t mind what I did for him, for he
was always my very greatest friend. It’s nice for a boy like me to have
a man friend, and then, of course, he’s my own cousin. If I had died
that time, he’d have been Sir Richard Pelham. I thought I was going to
die after I took that medicine. I sank down faster and faster, and I
looked up as I sank and I saw Dick far above me, and then I remembered
no more.”

“You were very ill, child,” said the nurse.

“Did you think I was going to die?”

“I thought you were bad.”

“But did you think I was going to die? I remember so well the look on
Dick’s face—all white as if he were terrified—that was the very last
thing I saw before I went right down into the earth. I didn’t see you at
all—only Dick. Did you suppose that I was dying?”

“No, Piers. I thought you would get better presently.”

“Do you think Dick was frightened?”

“Perhaps. But we will not talk of that any more.”

“Nurse, will you take me back home to-day? I want to see mother, and
Barbara, and Dick.”

“Not to-day, Piers. You are very much better since you have come to me,
and it is part of your cure to live with me for a little. If I wear my
pretty blue velvet dress and tell you fairy tales and give you nice
things to eat, you won’t mind staying with me for a time, will you?”

“No; for I quite love you. You are so changed. But when may I see Dick
and Barbara again?”

“I will tell you that by and by. If you are patient, you will see them
all the sooner.”

The boy lay back on his pillow with a sigh.

“May I get up?” he asked after a moment. “I feel quite well.”

“I will dress you myself, dear, and you shall come and sit with me in my
sitting-room. But first I must go out.”

“Where to?”

“To the post-office to send a telegram.”

“To Dick?”

“No, dear; not to Dick, but somebody else.”

“Who?” asked the child.

“To my mother.”

“Have you a mother? You look very old to have a mother.”

“I have a mother, my dear, but she lives far away from here, in
Cornwall.”

“Cornwall—that’s in the very, very south of England, not far from
Devonshire, where one of my places is. You know, nurse, I am an awfully
rich boy, don’t you?”

“Yes, little Piers.”

“Why don’t you call me Sir Piers? It doesn’t seem respectful to call me
little Piers.”

“But I’d rather call you little Piers. I want you to forget the other
name.”

“Forget that I am Sir Piers Pelham! What do you mean?”

“It is part of your cure. I hope to have you quite well before long, and
when you are quite well and quite strong you shall be Sir Piers Pelham
again, and you shall go back to Dick and Barbara and to your mother and
Dr. Tarbot.”

“Dr. Tarbot,” said the boy, his face flushing. “I hate him.”

“That is unkind. He is your good doctor.”

“He’s not good, and I hate him. Well, go and send off your telegram to
your mother if you must, only it does seem queer that you should have
one. What do you want to say to her?”

“I want her to come here on a visit.”

“Oh, I shall like that. It will be fun to see you greeting your mother.
Will you kiss her much and will you obey her? Of course, you ought to
obey your mother—it’s the fifth commandment. Well, go, nurse, now, and
be quick back.”

A few moments afterwards Nurse Ives went to the nearest telegraph office
and sent off a message. The result of her message was that early on the
following morning a little woman, with a wrinkled face and hands
slightly distorted with rheumatism, arrived on the scene.

“Well, now, Clara, what does this mean?” said the woman, “sending for me
in such a precious hurry. What’s up, my girl? You look excited.”

“I sent for you, mother, because I want you to take care of a little boy
for me.”

“A little boy! Good gracious! Not a patient?”

“Yes, mother, a patient. I want you to look after him—that’s why I sent
for you. I’ll tell you all particulars when you’ve had some breakfast.”




                              CHAPTER XII.
                           A CRAFTY OLD LADY.


Mrs. Ives was like and yet unlike her daughter. She had the same sandy
complexion, her face was slightly freckled and her lips very thin; she
had shrewd, kindly eyes, however, and a brisk, active manner. She was
about sixty years of age. Clara bustled about now to make her mother
comfortable.

“You sit just here,” she said, pushing the old lady into the only
arm-chair which the little room contained. “After you have had a good
breakfast you shall lie down for a bit. There’s a great deal to be done,
and I have much to tell you.”

“Well, tell it and be quick, Clara. You always were a queer one, and you
look changed—you’ve got so smart. Why are you wearing that pretty dress?
I thought you always wore your nurse’s livery.”

“I am not going to be a nurse any more, mother.”

“A mercy me!” said the old lady, throwing up her hands. “And after all
the expense of having you eddicated, and you one of the Nightingale
nurses at St. Thomas’s Hospital and all. They think a sight of you in
the old place. Wherever I go the folks is always asking me how Sister
Clara is getting on, and I tell you I’m just as proud as Punch of you. I
say you nurse all the dukes in London, and that you’re took up wonderful
by the Royal Family. They believes it—some folks will believe anything.
And now you’re going to give it all up. You’re not going into domestic
service again, are you?”

“After a fashion, I am, mother; but there, don’t talk so much. Drink
your warm coffee. I’ll have a nice rasher of bacon and an egg done for
you in a jiffy.”

“I can’t abear them cooking eggs,” said the old lady. “I’ll have a bit
of bacon if you do it crisp and tasty. I traveled up without any fret or
worry, and slept the whole of the way. What a queer, extravagant thing
you was to say I might come first class. Not me! I traveled third. I’d
like to see myself first. It wouldn’t seem respectful to the quality.”

Clara did not reply. She knew her mother’s ways.

“There’s no necessity to be so very close about money now,” she said,
after a long pause. “I’m doing well and I want you to have all
comforts.”

“You’re doing well when you give up your profession? It looks like it.
Are you gwine to be married?”

“Well, that’s about it, mother. You’ve hit the nail on the head now. I
am.

“Tell me all about it, Clara,” said the old lady. “I love to hear a
right good rattling love story. Is it to the grocer, or the fishmonger,
or the baker? I always said you’d do well in a shop. You’re the sort to
draw customers, though you are plain, to be sure. Your freckles seem to
have spread. Can’t you get a lotion to take ’em off? They’re not at all
becoming.”

“Dear me, mother, don’t mind about my freckles now. I was born with
them, and they must stay on my face!”

“That they must, Clara, and it’s wrong for me to grumble, but I did fret
about them freckles when you was a little tot. Dear heart! I used to
dream of ’em at nights. I used to say, they’ll come between her and
matrimony—such a plague of ’em as you had—but now it seems I was all
wrong. Maybe freckles have come into fashion. Who’s the lucky man,
Clara?”

“He’s not the baker, nor the grocer, nor the fishmonger,” said Clara
quietly. “Here, mother, eat your bacon. I’ll tell you everything
afterwards.”

While Mrs. Ives enjoyed her breakfast, the nurse withdrew into the inner
room and began to dress little Piers.

“I’m ever so well,” said the boy. “I’m going out for a bit to-day.”

“But, my dear, it’s raining.”

“That doesn’t matter. You can send for my carriage. I always drive in
the brougham on wet days. Nurse, who was that person you were talking
to? I heard a voice keep chattering and chattering. Whose was it?”

“My mother’s, dear.”

“Has your mother come? Oh, I am glad. I want to see her.”

“You shall see her when you are dressed, Piers.”

“But I’m very sorry I wasn’t in the room when she arrived. I wanted to
see you kiss her. Are you beginning to obey her already? You know it’s
the fifth commandment—children ought to obey their parents.”

“Oh, it’s all right, dear. Don’t talk quite so much, Piers. Sit still
while I dress you.”

“I feel so well and jolly,” said the child. “When may I go home?”

“Not for a bit yet. You would be as bad as ever if you did—you’d have
that sinking feeling you spoke to me about.”

The child shuddered and began to tremble visibly.

“You’re not going back at present, darling. You don’t mind staying in
this cosy little house with me, do you?”

“It’s like a doll’s house,” said the child; “and your mother must be the
head doll. What fun! I’m one of the little ones and you’re another
doll.”

“Now, come here, Piers, and stand by me, and let me say something. I
believe you are a brave boy and that you wouldn’t tell a lie?”

“Of course I wouldn’t. I’m quite an important person, you know. Do you
think great men such as I shall be tell lies?”

“I don’t believe you could tell a lie, Piers. Now, I want you to promise
me something; I am sure when you promise you will keep your word. I
don’t want my mother to know that you are Sir Piers Pelham.”

“Why?”

“I cannot tell you why. Sometime she may know, but not yet. All you have
to say is that you are Piers, little Piers, my patient. You are not to
tell her what your surname is, nor anything about the grand house you
used to live in, nor about your mother, nor Dick, nor Barbara. Just say
you are my little patient and that you love me—don’t say anything else.”

“Must I really promise?”

“Yes.”

“It seems such an awful lot to promise, and I am afraid. You know, I am
not old and I might forget. It’s difficult to remember that you’re not
to talk of the people you love. Why must I do it?”

“Well, Piers, I thought it would be fun, but you need not if you dislike
it. I cannot take you to my mother if you do not, that’s all. I’ll have
to send her back to Cornwall. She’s a very amusing old lady, and you’d
like her.”

“Oh, I’ll promise then,” said the child.

“Kiss me, Piers, on each cheek, and then make me the promise very
solemnly.”

“If it’s going to be solemn I’d better kneel down and pray to God to
help me to keep it,” said the boy.

“You can do that by and by when you say your prayers, but not now. Kiss
me and promise.”

“I promise,” said the child.

“That’s my brave little lad. Now I will take you and show you to my
mother.”

As Clara spoke she opened the door which divided the bedroom from the
little sitting-room and brought Sir Piers into the sitting-room. The
child came forward with his usual manly grace. He flung back his
handsome little head and stared into the eyes of the old lady.

“My word! what a fine little fellow!” she cried. “Come and kiss me, my
little lad.”

The boy held up his coral lips.

“I like you,” he said softly. “Are you nurse’s mother?”

“Yes, dear.”

The old lady made room for Piers on her lap.

“What a very wrinkled face you have,” he said.

“No more wrinkles than I ought to have,” was the reply. “It’s becoming
to have wrinkles when you’re turning a bit aged. It’s like the russet
apple when it’s ripe—I’m ripe, and that’s why the wrinkles is there.”

“Ripe,” said little Piers. He touched the old cheek with his tiny
finger. “I like you,” he repeated after a pause. “I’m glad I made that
promise.”

“What promise, little un?”

“Oh, something to Nurse Clara, but I mustn’t tell you. If I told you it
would be breaking my word. Nurse, come here. I’m going to be a good boy,
and I’m going to love your mother. If I love her and if I keep my word
for a whole week, may I go home?”

“Perhaps,” said Nurse Clara.

Mrs. Ives fixed her shrewd eyes on her daughter.

“There’s something at the back of all this,” thought the old lady to
herself. “That boy is no ordinary patient. I’ll get to the bottom of it,
or my name’s not Sarah Ives. It’s just like Clara, she was always one
for mysteries.”

“It’s a fine day,” said Mrs. Ives, getting up as she spoke and going to
the window.

“No, it isn’t; it rains,” said little Piers.

“It did rain, but it’s fine now. Suppose I take you for a walk?”

“Oh, yes,” said the child, clapping his hands.

“But you mustn’t walk to-day,” said Nurse Clara. “It’s part of the cure;
the doctor wishes him to stay indoors,” she continued, turning to her
mother.

Little Piers frowned.

“I’m ever so much better, and the air would do me good,” he said. “You
might send for the——”

Nurse Ives held up a warning finger.

“You are not to go out,” she said. “Mother, you are much too tired after
your long journey to think of such a thing. I am going to leave you both
now for a time, as I have got several things to buy. You look well after
the child while I’m out, mother; you’ll be careful of him, won’t you?”

“Careful!” said Mrs. Ives, “when I’ve had six of my own, and buried five
of ’em. You’re the only one left, Clara, and your freckles was always a
worry. I not understand how to look after a child! I don’t know what you
mean.”

“Of course, mother, you’re splendid with children. Well, I’ll be back in
an hour or so.”

Nurse Ives put on a smart hat—the hat was made of black lace—she covered
her sandy locks and freckled face with a spotted veil, and, nodding to
her mother and the child, went out.

“She do look smart—quite the lady,” said the old woman, glancing at
Piers as she spoke.

Piers nodded.

“She’s very handsome, and I love her,” he said.

“Well, now, child, it surprises me to hear you talk. I never would have
said Clara was handsome, though she is my own darter, but there’s no
accounting for tastes. How close this room is! Now I’d like to go for a
walk uncommon. Suppose you and me was to go out unbeknown to Clara?”

“Might we?” said little Piers, his face coloring.

“Might you? And what’s to hinder you if I say you may? We might go for a
little stroll all by our two selves, mightn’t we?”

“I’d love it better than anything,” said little Piers. “But perhaps
Nurse Clara——”

“Nurse Clara needn’t know, you little silly. Go and fetch your cap and
we’ll be off.”

Little Piers looked puzzled for a moment; then his face lit up and he
ran eagerly into the bedroom. He soon came back.

“I can’t find my cap,” he said.

Mrs. Ives accompanied him into Clara’s bedroom. They searched high and
low in vain.

“What a pity!” she said. “And I thought I’d like a spell of the air.
Well, you look here, little boy, we will go out presently when Clara
comes in.”

“And I could show you the house where I used to live; but oh, I forgot,
I can’t—it would be telling my secret.”

“So you have a secret, little un?”

“Haven’t I just—such a big one!”

“I wonder now, if I could guess it,” said Mrs. Ives in a thoughtful
voice.

Piers clapped his hands.

“What fun if you did,” he cried. “Nurse wouldn’t mind if you guessed
it—that wouldn’t be _me_ telling.”

“Of course it wouldn’t. Well, now, let me see; you are high born?”

Piers nodded. “Good, good,” he exclaimed.

“And rich?”

“Good again,” said Piers.

“If I was to see that house where you lived I could tell a lot more.
Showing me the house isn’t letting out the secret.”

“Isn’t it? Perhaps not. I’d like to show you the house very much
indeed.”

“But perhaps you have forgotten what part of London it’s in?”

“Not I—not I: it’s near Harley Street where that dreadful doctor lives—I
hate that doctor, Mrs. Ives. Oh, I know quite well how to get there, and
as you say, it wouldn’t be telling.”

“Of course it wouldn’t; and it would be much nicer for you if I guessed
your secret, for then we could talk it over together. I tell you what:
let’s go out at once, without waiting for that cap of yours. We can buy
a new one for sixpence at the first shop we come across.”

They went.




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                             THE DIE CAST.


Everything turned out according to Nurse Ives’ wishes. In a week’s time
she and Dr. Tarbot were married by special license at St. James’s, Fore
Street.

Tarbot made a sullen bridegroom. Even during the ceremony he showed a
morose face. Clara, on the contrary, looked animated, eager, excitedly
happy.

The ceremony was over, the signatures signed in the vestry, and the
bride and bridegroom were congratulated by their witnesses. Tarbot put a
couple of guineas into each of the verger’s palms. He also paid a
handsome fee to the clergyman, and the bride and the bridegroom were
off. Tarbot had asked Clara where she wished to spend her honeymoon, and
she promptly answered Paris.

“I know Paris well, of course, but I could never see enough of it,” she
said. “I’d love to go there again.”

Tarbot was quite agreeable. Her choice even pleased him.

They put up at a fashionable hotel, and Clara spent a busy time. She did
not waste it in sight-seeing. When she was in Paris before she had never
visited the Louvre, or Fontainebleau, or Versailles, nor did she go to
them now. She preferred the shops; she went to them often and with good
effect. Her intention was, if possible, to reconstruct herself. She had
saved some money of her own, and she now spent it freely. It was
necessary for her, as Tarbot’s wife, to make a good appearance. So she
went from shop to shop choosing clothes, and choosing well. Her husband
never accompanied her, and she was all the better pleased at this. She
had a greater opportunity of doing what she meant to do.

Hour by hour and day by day the woman was changing. She shed her
vulgarity as if it were a skin which was useless. She went to the best
hairdresser to have her hair arranged. She was told that she had lovely
hair—quite the fashionable tone. She got the most expensive lotions to
bring out its brilliancy. She bought additional hair at a fabulous
price, to pile on her head to add to the richness of her locks, which,
in color perfect, were in quantity a little scanty. She also purchased
cosmetics, which she applied night and morning to her freckled face. The
cosmetics did nothing for the freckles, but she fancied they did. She
bought the finest black lace, and many garments trimmed with jet, and
soft sweeping robes, mostly black. And Tarbot found out by degrees that
he was not ashamed to walk with Clara, and that people turned to look at
her.

“What is the matter with you?” he said one day.

“Why do you ask? Don’t you like my dress?”

“I like it too well—I should not know you in it.”

Clara smiled. Tarbot went on gazing at her critically.

“You have a good figure,” he said; “a very good figure. I had no idea of
it when I married you. I did not know you were so tall, or that you had
such a small waist. Your hips are well developed, too, and your
shoulders are good—you are a finely proportioned woman. If you were not
so thin you might even be handsome.”

While he paid her these compliments she longed passionately for him to
give her one affectionate glance; but this he had never considered in
the bargain, and certainly did not intend to bestow.

When Clara had purchased her wardrobe, finally buying an evening dress
from Worth, who studied her good figure and peculiar face, and made her
a robe which was afterwards talked about in more than one London
drawing-room, she told her husband that it was time to return home.

“But the fortnight is not up yet,” he said.

“Never mind. You are anxious to get back to your patients. I don’t care
a fig for fine scenery or picture galleries, or old palaces, or anything
of that sort. I came to Paris to get my trousseau. I have got it, and
now I wish to return to England.”

“All right, Clara,” said Tarbot. “I am abundantly willing.”

The pair crossed to Dover by the night boat that evening, and early on
the following morning arrived at Tarbot’s house in Harley Street. The
servants expected them, and were up. The weather was getting chilly, and
Clara was glad to see fires in the rooms and the whole place looking
fresh and clean. She looked round with approbation, gave her orders to
the footman in a haughty tone, which made him secretly incline to the
belief that his master had married a duchess in disguise, and then swept
up-stairs to her own room.

This room, by Tarbot’s orders, had been newly furnished. It was bare,
cold, and correct, but Clara was pleased with it. She liked the sense of
space which it gave, and she thought that the pale blue and white
furniture would suit her complexion.

“By the way,” she said, turning to Tarbot, who followed her, “you intend
to give me _carte blanche_ to do what I like in the re-arranging of the
house?”

“Certainly,” he replied. “I shall have no time to attend to the house. A
great number of fresh patients have written for appointments. As soon as
I have had breakfast I shall order the brougham and go round at once to
attend to them.”

“Very well,” said Clara. “That will suit me perfectly.”

“Are you not tired?” he said. “You have been up all night. Wouldn’t you
like to lie down for a little?”

“Tired!” she answered. “I! You forget what my old life was.”

“True; but you are so changed—so transformed.”

“Luke!” said Clara. She was standing before a glass, removing her hat;
she was unpinning it carefully. Those red locks, frizzled and curled,
required careful manipulation. She smoothed her hair with her hands, and
then, turning, faced her husband. He was leaving the room, but looked
round at the sound of her voice.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Do you love me even a little?” she asked suddenly.

He uttered a vexed exclamation and stared at her.

“What an inconvenient question, and at such a time!” he exclaimed. “I
want to go out. I cannot talk of love now.”

She ran up to him, slipped behind him, shut the door, and then stood
facing him.

“Answer me,” she said. Her heart was beating hard. “Everything in all
the world depends upon your answer. Can you by any chance get to feel
not _sorry_ that you married me?”

“Not sorry?” he said.

“Yes; can you ever get to feel glad?”

“Glad!” he cried.

“Yes, yes! Speak, speak!”

“Glad that I married you!” he repeated.

“Speak, Luke! Tell me the truth.” She clasped her hands tightly
together. There was an imploring expression in her eyes, her lips were
trembling.

“Glad that I tied myself to you!” he continued. “Good Heavens! what are
you made of? Let me go.” He pushed her roughly aside, opened the door,
slammed it after him, and ran down-stairs.

Clara listened with a wild expression on her face until his retreating
footsteps ceased to sound. Then she fell on her knees, clasped her hands
before her face, and burst into a passion of weeping.

“The die is cast,” she said at last when she rose to her feet. “I am his
wife, and I love him, but I will oppose him through thick and thin
now—he has himself to blame.”

A few minutes afterwards, quite calm and cold and placid-looking, the
new mistress of No. 250, Harley Street, swept down-stairs. She had
already changed her traveling dress for one of black velvet. This dress
had a long train. Round her neck she wore a scarf artistically arranged.
The scarf was of rich old Spanish lace. Her face, very pale, rose above
its picturesque surroundings, looking haughty and well. The footman was
decidedly impressed by her. The butler, however, knew better.

“She ain’t a lady—don’t tell me!” he said.

“Oh, she is,” cried the footman. “Didn’t you notice her ’aughty hairs?
Yes, she’s a lady, and no mistake. Most probable she come to grief with
her first, and took up Tarbot as better than nothing. She’s a
marchioness at the least.”

“Marchioness you!” said the butler. “Don’t talk folly.”

Tarbot was waiting impatiently for his breakfast. Clara swept to the
head of her table, sat down with what the footman was pleased to call a
marchioness air, and poured out the coffee. The servants left the room,
and the husband and wife were alone together.

“I shall want a maid,” said Clara, raising her eyes to Tarbot’s face.

“A maid!” he exclaimed. “You! What in the name of fortune for?”

“I, as much as another,” she answered. “Do you suppose I can attend to
my own clothes and the thousand and one things which a maid ought to do
for a fine lady? Whatever I was in the past, I am now your wife and a
fine lady, and as such I must have a maid. I shall go to Mrs. Mount
to-day and secure one.”

“As you please,” replied Tarbot. “Now I have eaten enough, and must be
off. Don’t expect me to lunch. After I have seen my patients I shall
drive round to the hospital. To-morrow, of course, I shall be in to
receive patients from ten to one as usual, but to-day I am simply going
to announce my return to town.”

“By the way,” said Clara as he rose from the table, “what about Miss
Evershed?”

Tarbot gave an involuntary start. Clara noticed a sort of quiver which
seemed to run through his frame. He was standing with his back to her;
now he turned slowly.

“Miss Evershed, why?”

“When is she to be married?”

“I don’t know. I have heard nothing either of her or Pelham for the last
fortnight.”

“You will find out something to-day?”

“Probably, as I intend to call to see Mrs. Pelham.”

“Is Mrs. Pelham still in London?” asked Clara.

“Yes, the house is her own.”

“That’s a good thing for you.”

“Why do you say so?”

“Because I know it.”

“It is a good thing for me,” said Tarbot slowly, “a very good thing. I
thought of that when I arranged other matters. Good-by, Clara; expect me
when you see me.”




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                            BLACK MISCHIEF.


When her husband left the house Clara sent for the cook. She gave
explicit orders, and the cook was respectful. The woman had lived before
now in what she considered high families—families where thirty servants
at least were kept. She endeavored to impress Clara, but Clara was not
impressed in the very least. The new mistress told the woman exactly
what she required, all her remarks were pertinent and to the point, and
the cook could not help respecting her.

Clara gave firm orders, short and decisive. The best tradespeople were
to be dealt with, the cooking was to be of the highest quality—dainty,
_recherché_, agreeable to the palate.

The cook went down-stairs highly pleased, and then Clara proceeded to
interview the rest of the servants. She acted her part to
perfection—they were all pleased, inclined to be deferential. Even the
butler was satisfied, and was disposed to think there was something in
the footman’s words.

“Not that she’s a marchioness,” he said, when he was alone with that
functionary; “but I don’t say she mightn’t have married a baronight when
in a previous state.”

This admission was honey to the footman, who had been severely snubbed
early in the morning, and everything was likely to go smoothly in
Tarbot’s household.

Having arranged matters so far, Clara now went out. She told the footman
to whistle for a hansom, and when it arrived she stepped into it with
his aid.

She desired the cabby to drive her to a job-master’s. She saw the head
of the establishment and asked him to send round for orders every
morning and afternoon until she had purchased a carriage of her own. She
looked at the different victorias and landaus which were for hire,
selected two of the best, which she said she was willing to pay special
terms for the use of, and then told the man to take the victoria round
to 250 Harley Street, within an hour. She then returned home.

At the appointed time the victoria drew up at the door. Again the
footman helped Mrs. Tarbot into her carriage, and threw a light fur rug
over her knees. She desired the man to drive into Oxford Street, but
after they had turned the corner she spoke to him again and told him
that her real destination was Goodge Street.

Having arrived at her old quarters, she ordered the man to drive about
for an hour and afterwards come back for her. She then ran up-stairs.

She was dressed from head to foot in black, for she had discovered that
no other color suited her so well, no other style of dress brought out
the best points in her figure or made the most of that dead-white
complexion and that brilliant red-gold hair. She knocked at the door
behind which she had so often sat and waited and longed for Tarbot.

Now she was his wife, his lawful wedded wife. She had taken possession
of his house, of his riches—his position in society was hers, his name
was hers. She possessed all of him except the part she most longed to
secure—the man’s heart. Could she ever have that? She felt that it was
beyond her purchase. She hated and she loved him for what he withheld:
she hated him to the point of extreme pain, she loved him to the point
of madness.

Mrs. Ives was in, and so was little Piers. Mrs. Ives started back when
she saw Clara and began to say that her daughter was out.

“Nonsense, mother; don’t talk folly,” said Clara. “Don’t you know me?”
She flung back her veil.

“A mercy me! Whoever would suppose that it was you, Clara,” said the old
woman. “Why, you _are_ fine. Fine feathers make fine birds. Piers,
here’s your nurse come back.”

“I’m not Piers’s nurse any more. How are you, Piers, all the same?” said
Clara. She now entered the room, shut the door behind her and turned to
face her mother and the boy.

After one admiring glance, Piers ran and clasped his arms round her
neck.

“I always said you were a very handsome woman,” he cried. “You look
awfully fine now you wear black. Black is the proper color for a lady to
wear, and you’re a lady now, aren’t you?”

“I hope so, Piers.”

“A mercy me!” said the old woman again. She still stood in the
background. From time to time she dropped a sort of involuntary curtsey.

“Are you sure it’s you, Clara?” she said at last, coming to the light.

“Stare at me as long as you like, mother. When you have quite done, I’ll
sit down. I have a good deal to say.”

“May I sit on your knee?” asked the boy.

“You may,” said Clara. She placed herself in the rocking-chair.

The boy scrambled on to her knee.

“I’m quite well again,” he said in a low, excited voice, “and I’ve kept
my promise, but it was awfully hard. Do you know how I managed?”

Clara nodded but did not speak. She was looking at the child with a
hungry expression in her eyes. There was a wonderful drawing in her
heart towards him. She felt that here was something more valuable than
her grand house, her fine dress, her large establishment. She looked
into the boy’s velvety eyes, then suddenly clasped him to her heart and
pressed her lips to his.

“But for me, little Piers, but for me,” she said with a sort of
strangled sob.

“Why do you talk in such a queer way?” he asked. “Are you frightened
about anything? Are you worried?”

“No, no, I am only glad, Piers. Don’t ask me any more. So you kept——”

“Oh, yes, I kept the secret,” he said, nodding to her, an expression of
delight visiting his small mouth. “And I’m just going to tell how I
managed. It was such fun. I told your mother—she’s a dear old thing, but
she’s not handsome like you, nor is she a lady—I told her each morning
at breakfast that I had a _great_ secret, and then I got her to guess
what it was.”

“Good Heavens!” said Clara.

“It was such fun,” continued Piers. “She used to guess all sorts of
things, and sometimes she shot very near the mark, nurse, but never
quite. Sometimes she was almost cross, and she would say I must tell
her. She’s wonderfully full of curiosity for such an old body. She never
_quite_ guessed, though once or twice she got very near to it. One day
she said perhaps I was a prince in disguise. Oh, how I clapped my hands
when she said that! I laughed—didn’t I laugh just! I said, ‘Good, good,
good, but not _quite_ right.’”

“For Heaven’s sake, child, hush!” said Clara. “Mother, do you mind going
into the other room for a moment?”

“Highty tighty!” said the old lady. “I can see well there’s a change
come over you, Clara. You wouldn’t talk to your mother like that in the
old days. Oh, to be sure I’ll go; but I intend to have a word with you
myself by and by.”

The old woman went into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

“Now, Piers,” said Clara.

“Are you going to be angry with me?” asked Piers. “You look something
like you used to look when you made me stare into your eyes.”

“Do you remember that?” asked Mrs. Tarbot in some alarm.

“I do, in a puzzled sort of way. I used rather to like it at first. I
used to feel that I loved you, and yet I hated you. I felt I’d do
anything in all the world for you, and yet I could not bear you. Nurse,
you’re not going to make me look at you again like that?”

“Never, as there is a heaven above,” answered the woman.

“Why are you trembling? Let me keep my arms tight round your neck. That
soft black lace suits you awfully well. Mother wears lace like that—it’s
very good, and it’s expensive. Are you a rich lady now, nurse?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Oh, I’m rather glad. Perhaps you’ll be able soon to take a better room.
Are you coming back to live with us, nurse, with your mother and me?”

“No, Piers; but now I’m not going to talk of my own affairs. There is
another thing I must say. You are not to set my mother guessing your
secret.”

“But why, why?” asked the child in astonishment. “It amuses me and it
keeps me from telling it. I’m very dull, you know, very dull indeed. I,
who have so much, am now given so little. If it were not that Mrs. Ives
takes me out two or three times daily, and if it were not that I always
go——”

“What?” said Clara.

“Oh, now you are looking really cross. I always walk past Ashley
Mansions. I take Mrs. Ives there every day. I stop in front of No. 12,
and when I’m there, just at the opposite side of the street, I make her
guess harder than ever.”

“This must be put a stop to,” said Clara under her breath. “I have not
come back a moment too soon.”

“What is the matter with you, nurse? How queer you look!”

“There’s nothing the matter, dear. Oh, yes, what you did was quite
natural, and I—I am not cross. You are going to have a change soon,
dear, darling little Piers, a splendid change. Now run into the bedroom
and send my mother in.”

“It is fun,” said the boy. “You have secrets with me and secrets with
your mother.” He strutted into the bedroom.

“It’s your turn now,” he said to the old lady. “I am to be shut in here
while you two talk secrets. I hate secrets, but they’re awful ’citing.
Go, Mrs. Ives, and talk to her. She’s a very handsome woman, and she’s a
lady, but I do wish she didn’t want us to keep so many secrets.”

“What’s up?” asked Mrs. Ives. “Whisper to me, honey.”

“I think it’s because we walked past Ashley Mansions.” He stopped and
clapped his hand to his mouth. “Don’t you remember how I stopped
opposite No. 12 and made you guess—don’t you remember?”

“Of course I remember,” said Mrs. Ives, with a toss of her head. “And I
can put two and two together as well as most. I’ll have a talk with
Clara. Clara may keep things from the rest of the world, but she’s not
going to keep them from her old mother. You rest quiet, my little lamb;
you and I will be a match for Clara yet, although she is such a fine
lady.”

Mrs. Ives went back into the sitting-room. She dropped a mocking curtsey
to her daughter.

“A mercy me!” she cried for the third time. “And what’s your ladyship’s
pleasure with me?”

“Don’t talk nonsense, mother,” said Clara. “Sit down and let us discuss
things.”

“I’m agreeable,” said old Mrs. Ives.

“This kind of thing can’t go on, you know,” said Clara.

“What kind of thing, your ladyship?”

“Oh, mother, don’t be so irritating; I hate you to speak in that strain.
Look here, you mustn’t pry into my secrets about the boy. If I choose to
keep him here that’s my affair. You’re fond of a bit of money, aren’t
you, and I can make it well worth your while to keep quiet and lie low,
but the moment you guess what I want to keep hidden, the money stops.
The child goes elsewhere, you understand?”

“To be sure, Clara,” said Mrs. Ives—the sparkle became very bright in
her eyes as she spoke, and she screwed up her shrewd little mouth until
it resembled a round O.

“I’ll be careful,” she cried.

“Well, then, that’s all right. And now please tell me exactly what you
have guessed.”

“What I have guessed,” said the old woman coloring. “He ain’t your own
child, I know that.”

“Of course not, mother: don’t run away with such a wild idea. But that’s
not the thought in your mind.”

“No, it ain’t; but why should I tell it?”

“You must tell it—I insist.”

“You’ve got that masterful, you ain’t what you were. I don’t think
riches have improved you, but if you want to know really what I do
think, there’s somebody as wants to get rid of that child, and you are
given money to hide him.”

“You’re wrong there,” said Clara. “I have not got a farthing for the
boy. I’m keeping him away from danger, that’s what I’m doing.”

“Away from danger? Is it likely any one would hurt a pretty lamb like
that?”

“There are always wolves in the world ready to eat up pretty lambs,”
said Clara. “But now listen, mother; this air does not suit Piers, and
I’m going to send him away. He shall go down to Cornwall with you.
You’ll keep him in your own cottage, and say he’s a boy you’ve been
given to nurse. He will spend the winter with you, and I’ll give you two
pounds a week as long as you look after him, and don’t guess any more
than you know at present.”

“Two pounds a week!—A mercy me! how will you get the money, Clara?”

“From my husband.”

“To be sure. I forgot you was married. You never told me the name of
your husband. Your name is no longer Ives.”

“Not likely.”

“What is your name?”

Clara hesitated, then she said slowly, “Tarbot.”

“Tarbot, Tarbot—it sounds like Turbot—you ain’t surely married to that
doctor fellow?”

“You must not talk of him in that strain. He’s one of the best doctors
in London—one of the cleverest, I mean. Yes, I am his wife. I have a
fine house and plenty of money, but I don’t want you to come to my
house, and I don’t want the boy to come there. If either of you come to
the house, or if ever you let out that I gave you the boy to take care
of, mischief will come of it; black mischief mother, black mischief.”

“Yes,” said the old woman. Her voice was cowed and she felt frightened.

“Come over here to me, mother. I’ll whisper something to you.”

“You give me the creeps,” began Mrs. Ives.

“Come here, mother, come here.”

The old woman was afraid to stir. Clara rose and went to her, she knelt
by her side.

“There are those who want to get rid of the child,” she said in a hoarse
whisper, “but with you, mother, he is safe. Now you understand.”

“Yes, I think I do,” said the old woman. She sat back in her chair. She
was white and trembling.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                             DICK’S SECRET.


Mrs. Pelham mourned for her boy in the deepest black. She gradually
recovered her health, but her spirits were low, and she indulged in much
weeping. She began to look pale and old, and her friends all pitied her
sincerely.

For the first fortnight after the unexpected death of the boy Mrs.
Evershed did not dare to visit the unhappy widow. She felt that under
such peculiar, such wonderful circumstances, she could scarcely command
her own face. The event which was a terrible blow to Mrs. Pelham was
life and the resurrection of all things bright and beautiful to Mrs.
Evershed. Now, indeed, Dick Pelham was a son-in-law after her own heart.
She did not dare to hurry on the wedding too soon, but at the same time
she was glad to tell her friends that Barbara was engaged to the dear
fellow quite a fortnight before his little cousin died.

People were fond of congratulating Barbara and talking about her luck,
but Barbara herself quickly put a stop to this. She felt the child’s
death acutely, and was low-spirited and nervous. She was happy because
she was engaged to the man of her heart, but in other ways she was not
happy. Riches had come to her; her mother’s affairs were all put
absolutely straight. In future she would never know the meaning of want
of money. Money in full abundance was to be hers, but somehow—she could
not quite tell why—a certain zest was taken out of her life.

As to Dick, there was a queer change in him. He gave up visiting at Mrs.
Pelham’s house, and he hated to hear his cousin’s name mentioned. When
alone with Barbara he was apt to lapse into long fits of silence. Once
he told Barbara that he would fifty times rather work as a navvy than
step into the riches which now were his. Barbara felt surprised at words
which she considered too strong for the occasion.

“If it was God’s will——” she began.

“But it was not His will,” interrupted Dick fiercely. “Don’t talk about
it any more, Barbara.”

He became gloomy, reserved, and irritable; over and over these moods
visited him. In the old days there was not a gayer, happier fellow than
Dick Pelham. He had a kind word for every one; now he was morose and
disagreeable. Barbara could not account for the change in his manner.
Mrs. Pelham noticed it. She spoke to Barbara about it.

“He is a different man. I should not know him for the same,” she said.

“It is grief, it is grief,” said Barbara.

“Oh darling! it is sweet of him to grieve, and I love him for it,” said
the poor woman, “but I wish he would grieve in the way you do, Barbara.
If he would only come and talk to me, we might look at my angel’s toys
together and comfort ourselves with memories of him; but to keep away
from me, never to come near the house, it looks strange—it is strange.”

To this remark Barbara made no reply.

One day, about six weeks after little Piers’s death, Pelham called at
Mrs. Evershed’s house. He had written Barbara a note to say that he
wished to see her on an important matter, and begged her to be at home.

“How ill you look!” cried Barbara when she saw him. “Your face is
dreadfully white. I wish you would tell me what is wrong.”

“I have come here to do so,” he answered.

“Oh! I am glad of that. I am so puzzled about you, and so is Mrs.
Pelham. Mother noticed even yesterday that you were not quite so——Oh, it
does not matter what she said; we won’t talk of it. But ever since dear
little Piers died I cannot help seeing that you are changed.”

“I am worried, Barbara. I am more than worried—I am tortured by a doubt.
That doubt makes all the world dark.”

“What is it, Dick?”

“You may not wish to marry me when you know.”

“Dick!” The girl’s face turned white.

“Have you heard that Tarbot is married?”

“Dr. Tarbot married!” cried Barbara.

“How startled you look! Does it affect you much?”

“It astonishes me, Dick. But why should you look at me so strangely?”

“I don’t know myself,” said the young man. “I feel suspicious and queer
about everything. He loved you, Barbara.”

“He said so, but men quickly change,” said the girl. Then she added with
spirit, “I never could bear him. I was grateful to him for what he did
for mother, but I never could bear him for himself. It is a relief that
he is married. Who is the girl?”

“You will never guess her name.”

“Then tell me, if I am not likely to guess.”

“Barbara, he must have done this for a reason. He has married that
red-haired nurse who attended little Piers when he was ill.”

Barbara’s utter astonishment was reflected in her face. A queer thrill
of alarm ran through her frame.

“Sit still,” said Pelham. “I must ask you to share my burden with me.
That marriage confirms a suspicion which I hold.”

“What, Dick—what?”

Pelham began to pace up and down the room.

“I am pursued by a horrible fear,” he said suddenly. “I think—nay,
sometimes my thoughts seem certainties—I think that little Piers came by
his death through foul means. Barbara, the thought terrifies me; it
takes the joy out of everything. I am haunted by it.”

“Dick! Dick!” said the girl. “Why, this is madness,” she continued. “I
have heard of people getting queer when they are overwrought as you have
been lately. Your nerves are out of order. Darling, do cast the awful
thought from you. There is no foundation for it—none. It terrifies me
even to hear you speak.”

“Aye,” said Pelham; “but what if you had to live with my thought day and
night, if it haunted you in your dreams, if it pursued you wherever you
went—just that little life clamoring to be avenged? Barbara, you don’t
suppose that this is merely a figment of the imagination—that I have no
cause for what I think?”

“Oh, Dick! I am sick with terror. Must you tell me any more?”

“I must. Afterwards we need not talk of it. Oh, I cannot marry you
keeping all this dark.”

“This is a figment of the imagination,” cried the girl. “Did we not go
into the room a moment or two after his death? Dick, I will not listen.
You are nervous. Marry me, Dick—dear Dick. Let our wedding be soon. I
will comfort you, I will cheer you, I will banish those awful thoughts.”

“Do you really wish to hear nothing more?” asked Pelham, gazing at her
in astonishment.

“For the present I do. I am so certain that you have no ground for your
terrors. Dr. Tarbot is bad, but he is not a murderer. Dick, when I am
your wife, I can exorcise the demon. I don’t mind what the world says.
Let us be married quietly, and at once.”

“You have not got your trousseau. Most girls think of that.”

“We can get what we want after we are married.”

Pelham stood up.

“You really wish me to say nothing more about my suspicions?”

“I won’t listen—there’s nothing in them. We will marry and I will make
you happy—so happy, Dick, that you will forget your nervous terrors.”

“You tempt me, Barbara.”

“Say yes, then, my darling. Surely you won’t refuse?”

“Not I. I long for you. I do believe you are the only one who can put me
right, and your feeling that there is nothing in it gives me a momentary
sensation of comfort, but remember I have not told you _why_ I suspect.”

“You shall some day—when we are married, but not now. You are
prejudiced; you hate Dr. Tarbot—surely not more than I hate him—but that
he should stoop to such a horrible crime—no, Dick, no. Turn your thought
away from it. It is wrong.”

“When shall we be married?” he asked.

“Whenever you like—next week, the week after, whenever you please.”

“The sooner the better,” answered Pelham.




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                          THE WRONG MEDICINE.


The wedding took place in a fortnight. The marriage was solemnized at
St. James’s, Fore Street. This was the church which Barbara and her
mother attended on Sundays. Seeing the church open, one or two
spectators dropped in. They got quietly into seats, and waited while the
service went on. They noticed the firm upright figure of the bride, her
clear voice. They noticed the bridegroom also—his tall, erect frame, his
gallant bearing. But as the bride and bridegroom left the church
together more than one person noticed the shadow on his face.

“What does it mean?” they said. “This is a true love marriage; we have
heard the particulars, and the bridegroom has just come into enormous
wealth. What does it mean? He does not look a happy man.”

Amongst the spectators were two whose eyes Barbara encountered with an
obvious start. Seated in a pew which opened into the center aisle was
Dr. Tarbot. He gave both Pelham and Barbara a keen, bright glance. In a
distant part of the church Tarbot’s wife also witnessed the ceremony. On
this occasion she preferred not to sit with her husband. Tarbot had no
idea that she was in the church, but Pelham and Barbara noticed her.

Barbara felt a queer thrill of fear as she glanced for an instant at the
light blue eyes.

From the church the pair went straight to Dover, crossed to Calais,
spent one night in Paris, and then went on to Switzerland. It was late
autumn now, and Switzerland was in all the glory of its autumn coloring.
After the first two or three days Barbara determined to cast aside the
fear which haunted her—the fear with regard to her husband’s sanity—for
she never for a moment gave the least credence to there being any truth
in his suspicions, and began to enjoy herself. She was with the man she
loved, her best dreams were realized—she was Dick’s forever.

In her eyes he had always been a hero, one of the best of men. In truth,
he was by nature a man any girl might love—frank, independent, brave,
fearless. Barbara felt that she loved him all the more because his great
riches slightly oppressed him, because his grief for his young cousin’s
untimely death had for the time upset his nerves. She felt that her
devotion, her love must work wonders. When she found that he did not
care to talk about the house and wealth which had come to him so
unexpectedly, Barbara also avoided the subject.

She had made up her mind, however. She knew that what Pelham wanted was
plenty of occupation. Their honeymoon, therefore, should not be too
long—they would go back to England within a month or six weeks, and take
up the onerous duties which now had fallen on their shoulders. When he
worked, when he went in and out amongst his people, when he took up the
position of landlord on a large scale, Pelham would drop that gloom
which enveloped him like a mantle.

Four weeks passed by, and the bride began to have anxious moments with
regard to the approaching return to England. She had always lived a busy
life, and did not care for a _dolce far niente_ existence longer than
could be helped. The pair were spending their last week at Glion. The
hotel where they were staying would be closed at the end of a month. On
a certain evening they stood together on a balcony outside the big
drawing-room. A waiter brought them coffee; they sat with a small table
between them. Pelham was smoking a fragrant cigar, and Barbara in one of
her pretty white dresses looked shadowy and ethereal in the half-light.

“Dick, do you know what this reminds me of?” she said, laying her hand
on his arm.

“No,” he answered. He started when she touched him, for he was given to
starting of late.

“It reminds me of that happy night when you asked me if I would be your
wife. I had two proposals that night.” Barbara laughed as she spoke.
“Before you said those words which made me the happiest girl in the
world Dr. Tarbot had spoken of his love. We were on the balcony just
outside the drawing-room in Mark Place. The light was subdued—something
like this—Dr. Tarbot spoke with great and strange passion. I see his
face even now, and the queer look in his eyes when I refused him. All
the time he was speaking I could not help thinking that I hated him more
each moment. I left him on the balcony and went into the drawing-room.
Then you met me and we strolled together to the conservatories. Do you
remember, Dick?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“Do you remember the scent of that rose? It was a Gloire de Dijon. You
touched it with your fingers as you spoke.”

“Yes,” he replied again, and now he stretched out his hands and clasped
one of hers, holding it in a warm pressure. “I am the luckiest fellow in
the world,” he said, “but I wish to heaven I could——”

“You could do what?” she answered.

“Get rid of that suspicion or—or verify it.”

“Dick dear!” said Barbara in her most soothing voice. She slipped nearer
to him. “I have changed my mind. We had better have this thing out. What
do you want to verify?”

Pelham looked at her steadily.

“Do you really wish to know at last?” he said.

“Yes.”

“It will be a relief to tell you. You remember that Piers always slept
in the nursery. The dressing-room was just beyond, and the nurse kept
the medicine and all bottles in the dressing-room. The first night I
visited him I went with her to the door of the dressing-room. She gave
me the medicine, and I took it into the room alone. I gave the child the
medicine, and just when he had finished it the nurse came back. The boy
complained that the medicine tasted queer and sweet, not like that which
he had been taking.

“The nurse took the glass and tasted what was left, and said that she
thought the child must have had the wrong medicine. She went out of the
room as she spoke and shut the door after her. I forgot about this at
the time, but it came back to me afterwards.

“Ever since the death I have been putting two and two together. I have
been anxious to meet Mrs. Tarbot to ask her if she ever had the medicine
analyzed to find out why she called it wrong. Then, Barbara dear, I
don’t believe that Piers had heart disease. Don’t you remember how he
used to run and race, and play tennis and croquet, and ride his pony and
his bicycle?

“He could not have done all these things if he had organic disease of
the heart—I don’t believe it. He was taken ill very suddenly, and a
favorite nurse of Tarbot’s was engaged to look after him. She herself
confessed in my presence that there was something wrong with the
medicine which she handed to me to give him. All these things might have
been of course merely incidents leading to nothing, but on the night the
child died a strange thing happened. I was called to the door of the
dressing-room and given the boy’s medicine again. The nurse said it
would have a very stimulating effect, and would take off the weakness
from which the child was suffering. It did not do so—on the contrary,
the boy died a few moments afterwards.”

“But he might have died in any case; and three doctors examined his
heart,” exclaimed Barbara. “You make me feel uncomfortable when you
speak in this way, but I cannot at present see that there is anything
whatever to account for your suspicions. If there really is, the thing
to do is to make inquiries, and so set your mind at rest. I see that
this is not a mere question of nerves.”

“No, dear, I assure you it is not. I am torn between two opinions. I
feel inclined one moment to go straight ahead and sift the thing to the
bottom, and then again I hesitate, for I have so little to go upon.”

“If you have nothing to go upon, you must make up your mind to banish
your suspicions,” said Barbara, speaking in a resolute voice. “They do
you harm, Dick. You are not the man you were. Now that the child is dead
a great responsibility devolves upon you, and you ought to rise with
courage to meet it. I want you, Dick, to be the best landlord that the
Pelham property has ever had. I have ideals which I never thought to
have realized, but if you will do your part, they may come to pass.”

“I wish Piers was back in the world,” said the young man. “I should be
ten times happier living with you, Barbara, in a little house and
struggling for briefs. Of course, if the property and title had come to
me in the ordinary way——”

“But, Dick, they have,” said Barbara, rising as she spoke. “You will
dwell on this matter so long that your mind will really become affected
at last.”

“Sit down,” said Pelham. He held out his hand and drew her back to her
seat close to his side. “I have not quite told you all. Sit close to me,
Barbara. We must talk of this in whispers.”

Barbara drew nearer to her husband. The balcony at this moment was
absolutely deserted.

“Do you remember what happened immediately after Piers’s death?”

“What do you mean? Of course, I remember everything.”

“I allude to the night when the coffin was brought home.”

Barbara gave a slight shudder.

“I was in the house then,” she said. “Mrs. Pelham was very ill. It is
true Nurse Hester had arrived, but I liked to be with Mrs. Pelham, and
she was glad to have me.”

“On the night the coffin was brought in, two days before the funeral, I
called very late to see you.”

“Yes, I had gone to bed. The servant told me of your visit in the
morning.”

“I arrived between eleven and twelve at night. I rang the bell, and the
footman came to answer the door. He told me that all the household had
gone to bed, and that he had got up to answer my summons. I said I
should like to come in, as I wanted to verify something in the library.
I said I would let myself out presently, and that he need not stay up.
Of course, he treated me just like one of the family.

“I went to the library and stayed there for a little. My mind was full
of suspicion, in a turmoil and agony of uncertainty. I was only waiting
for something more to go upon, in order to have the whole thing sifted
to the very bottom.

“I stayed in the library for over half an hour. You know it is far away
from the rest of the house. About half-past twelve I thought I would go
up to the room where the child had died and try if I could find any of
the medicines. My idea was to secure a bottle and get the contents
analyzed. I naturally supposed that the nurse would be in one of the
rooms, and meant to ask her to give me a bottle with a little of the
medicine which Piers had last taken. I ran up-stairs. The house was
dark, for the electric light had been put out, but I carried a candle. I
opened the door of the room where the dead child lay, and went in. It
did not take me a moment to switch on the light, and I then saw that the
coffin was on the bed, and noticed with a start that the lid was screwed
down.

“It seemed to me that it was strangely soon to screw on the lid. I went
over and stood by the coffin. The nurse was nowhere to be seen. I then
went into the dressing-room and began to search about for the medicine
bottles, but although they had been lying on the table during Piers’s
illness they had all been removed. There were two cupboards in the
room—one was open, the other locked. In the open cupboard were no
bottles of any sort. I felt very much inclined to burst open the lock of
the other cupboard, but refrained. I feared the noise might disturb Mrs.
Pelham.

“I left the room after being there for about a quarter of an hour, not
having effected my purpose. As I was going down-stairs I was met by the
butler. He had also got up, as he said he had heard the noise of people
moving about the house, and could not think what was the matter. I told
him at once that I had been up to bid little Piers good-by.

“‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘I’d like to go and have a last look at the little
gentleman myself, sir.’

“‘You cannot do so, Johnson,’ I answered. ‘They have screwed on the lid
of the coffin already.’

“‘But it’s very soon,’ said the man.

“‘It is very soon,’ I replied. He stared at me as if he scarcely
believed the evidence of his own ears. I said nothing further, but left
the house. Barbara dear, how white you look!”

“Well, is there anything more?” she asked.

“Only this. I happened to meet Tarbot the next day, and told him that I
had gone up to bid little Piers good-by. I said that I was surprised to
see the lid already screwed on the coffin. He said that circumstances
made it necessary. Tarbot certainly looked like an innocent man—he was
brisk and energetic, and had just a natural degree of soberness about
him. While I was with him I felt ashamed of my suspicions, and could not
speak about what I dreaded.

“Time went by. I attended the funeral. Tarbot also went to it. I hoped
that my fears would quickly die; but instead of their dying, Barbara,
they are strengthened day by day. If nothing is done to relieve me I
shall soon be one of those curses of the nineteenth century—a man of
nerves.”

“I am glad you have spoken all that is in your mind,” said Barbara; “and
now I tell you what we must do. All this must be cured absolutely, and
the only cure is plenty of occupation. We have been long enough in
Switzerland; we will return home to-morrow.”

“To London?”

“To London, if you like, for a day or two, and then on to Pelham Towers
or the Priory.”

“Pelham Towers is the most important place,” said Dick, “and I am sure
the people will be glad to welcome us. I have lived at the Towers, as
you know, a good deal.”

Barbara rose to reenter the hotel. Just as she was about to do so a
man’s figure darkened the window. He was tall, with black hair, a thin
face, and a kindly, shrewd, clever mouth. He stared for a moment at
Barbara, glanced beyond her at Pelham, and then with a hearty
exclamation of surprise and pleasure came forward.

“Who would have thought of seeing you here, Pelham?” he said. “Pray
introduce me to your wife.”

“Carroll, this is luck!” cried Pelham.

Barbara came forward at once when she heard the name. She had never met
Mr. Carroll before, but he was a well-known London lawyer, and also one
of little Piers Pelham’s guardians.

The two men exchanged some commonplace observations, and Barbara stood
for a moment listening to them and joining in herself occasionally.
Then, laying her hand on her husband’s shoulder, she said that she was
tired and would go to her room, and the two men were left alone
together. Leaning over the balcony, they lit their cigars and began to
smoke. Carroll, who had been silent for a moment, spoke abruptly.

“When are you going home?”

“To-morrow.”

“Back to London?”

“I suppose so for a day or two.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Why?”

“You don’t mind if I speak openly, do you, Pelham?”

“Of course I don’t. But what do you mean? I hold no secrets.” As Pelham
spoke he started and flushed—the memory of all his suspicions with
regard to Piers rushed over him.

Carroll, who had been gazing fixedly at him, noticed his change of
color.

“There are some ugly rumors about you in London. You had better go there
and show yourself.”

“Ugly rumors about me?” said Pelham. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, it has got abroad—I daresay there’s not a word of truth in it—but
it is the talk of more than one club that you signed a _post obit_ for a
large sum just before that child, little Piers, was taken ill. I don’t
believe it for a moment: and I denied it flatly. You are the last man to
put your hand to such a document. What is the matter, old fellow?—you
look ill.”

“But it is true; I did sign a _post obit_,” answered Pelham in a low
voice.

Carroll uttered a surprised exclamation.

“You astound me,” he said. “Then for Heaven’s sake, go back to London at
once. This is not a time for you to hide yourself in a corner.”




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                              MRS. PELHAM.


The Pelhams returned home and took up their quarters at Mrs. Evershed’s
house in Mark Place.

Pelham had been in London two or three days before he could muster
sufficient courage to visit Mrs. Pelham.

“You must come, Dick,” said his young wife; “your keeping away looks
strange. Mrs. Pelham has been talking to mother about you and wondering
why you never come near her. She sent us an invitation only yesterday,
and she wants us to take tea with her this afternoon. I accepted her
invitation for us both. Come with me, and get it over.”

Pelham remained silent for a moment. Then he said—

“Yes, Barbara, it is best to get it over. I will come.”

At the appointed hour they arrived at Ashley Mansions. Mrs. Pelham was
alone in the old drawing-room where Dick had so often greeted her in the
presence of little Piers.

Barbara in her rich furs, her eyes sparkling and the color of health and
happiness on her cheeks, made a lovely picture as she advanced eagerly
into the room. She held out both her hands, and tears of sympathy filled
her eyes. She put her arms round the little widow’s neck and kissed her.
Mrs. Pelham received her with effusion, but her real anxiety was to get
a glimpse of Dick.

“Ah!” she said, “you have come at last.” She looked full up into the
young man’s face and burst into tears.

“I didn’t think you would have left me so long,” she continued. “I
thought you would have been a son to me now.”

She sobbed audibly. Pelham was visibly affected. Mrs. Pelham sat down,
and he placed himself near her. Presently she held out one of her hands
and invited him to clasp it in his.

“No one in all the world is as dear to me as you are now,” she said.

“I thought that under the circumstances you would rather not see me,”
said Pelham.

“What a strange thought to come to you! You certainly were wrong. Do you
think I grudge you what once belonged to him? I am not quite so base as
that.”

“Dick has been in very low spirits since little Piers’s death,” said
Barbara suddenly. “He felt his death dreadfully. He loved him as if he
were his own brother.”

“I know that,” said Mrs. Pelham, taking out her handkerchief and
applying it afresh to her eyes. “And now—I say it quite frankly,
Dick—now that God has seen fit to remove little Piers, I am more glad
that you should have the property than any one else in the world. If
anything could reconcile me to the death of my only boy, it is the
thought that you are his heir.”

“Thank you,” said Dick. “You are more than good.”

“Will you come and visit us at Pelham Towers this winter, Mrs. Pelham?”
said Barbara.

Mrs. Pelham looked attentively from one young face to the
other—Barbara’s full of eagerness, fire and enthusiasm, Dick’s strangely
downcast.

“Yes, I will come,” she answered. “Dick, you feel all this too much.”

Pelham walked to the mantelpiece. There he stood fidgeting with one of
the ornaments, his back turned to Mrs. Pelham and Barbara. Barbara saw
that the interview was proving too much for him. She was distressed and
alarmed at his state, and as soon as possible rose to leave.

“What a short visit!” said Mrs. Pelham in a fretful tone. “I hoped you
would both stay and have a long talk. There is so much that we have to
talk over together.”

“I will come again to-morrow,” said Barbara in her soft voice, glancing
as she spoke towards her husband.

“He is dreadfully upset,” she continued, dropping her voice almost to a
whisper. “I will come by myself if I may.”

“When do you leave London?” asked Mrs. Pelham.

“On Saturday, I think. Don’t we go to Pelham Towers on Saturday, Dick?”

“Yes,” replied Pelham. “We will both come to say good-by before we leave
London, and we hope to see you, Mrs. Pelham, at the Towers in the
winter,” he added.

The two women said a few more words to each other, and then Barbara and
her husband found themselves outside the door.

They walked as far as Mark Place.

“I shan’t come in just yet, Barbara,” said Dick. “That visit has upset
me—I shall go for a walk. Ask your mother not to wait dinner.”

He turned immediately and left her. Barbara went up-stairs to the
drawing-room, where her mother was waiting for her.

“Did you see Mrs. Pelham?” asked Mrs. Evershed.

“Yes.”

“I am glad Dick went there at last.”

Barbara made no reply.

“She is recovering, is she not?” said Mrs. Evershed.

“She seemed to me to be in very great trouble,” replied Barbara. “Seeing
Dick upset her dreadfully.”

“He ought to have gone there long ago,” said her mother. “His not doing
so arouses suspicion.”

“Arouses suspicion, mother?” echoed Barbara. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Barbara, you may as well know it—there has been considerable talk
about a _post obit_.”

“_Post obit_—what is that?” asked Barbara.

“It is a document in which a man makes himself liable to pay away
property which he does not possess at the time, but which will be his at
the death of a relation.”

“I do not understand,” said Barbara.

“Well, my dear, that is what your husband has done.”

“My husband has signed a _post obit_! I think you must be wrong.”

“I am not wrong. Your husband promised to pay a certain sum of money on
the death of Piers Pelham. It is always considered a shady thing to do,
and I cannot imagine how a man like Dick could have been guilty of such
an indiscretion. It makes at the present moment a handle for talk. I
don’t like it, I must say so frankly.”

Barbara was silent. Her face had turned very pale.

“The story as it reached my ears was something as follows,” continued
Mrs. Evershed. “You remember how kind we thought Dr. Tarbot when he lent
me that ten thousand pounds!”

“Certainly, mother, and he was very kind. I don’t like him for most
things, but I always did think he was generous about that.”

“It seems, Barbara, that he was not quite so generous as we imagined,
for Dick—poor fellow!—was implicated in the matter too. Dr. Tarbot
required some security for his money. I had none to give him, and the
security he claimed was that Dick should pay him as soon as he came in
for the property.”

“For what property?”

“Barbara, my dear, how silly you are! The Pelham property.”

“Are you sure you are right?”

“Positive. You can ask your husband yourself.”

“When did this happen?” asked the girl. She was trembling visibly.

“Sit down, dear. Really, Barbara, you are a most impulsive person.
There’s nothing so dreadful in what I tell you—it may be an
indiscretion, of course, but many men do it.”

“Not men like Dick,” said Barbara—she spoke with an effort.

“My dear child, notwithstanding your quixotic views with regard to that
husband of yours, you must accept facts. Dick signed a document which is
called a _post obit_, in which he promised to pay back the capital of
ten thousand pounds to Dr. Tarbot whenever he came in for the Pelham
estates.”

“When did he sign the document?” asked Barbara.

“On the day the loan was made to me.”

Lady Pelham walked to the window and stood there looking out. Everything
seemed dim and strange. She had a queer singing in her ears. She could
hear nothing for a moment but this tempestuous noise. She turned and
faced her mother.

“I am going out, mother,” she said.

“But it is so late, dear, and you have only just come in.”

“I must go.”

“Where?”

“I will tell you presently.”

“Barbara, are you going to have secrets from me, your mother?”

“I will tell you presently. I cannot now.”

Barbara left the room.

Mrs. Evershed walked to the window and watched her as she crossed the
little quadrangle which stood in front of Mark Place. The girl went down
a street, which led into a wide thoroughfare.

“How queerly she takes it,” thought the mother. “Many a man has done a
similar thing before now. I am sorry Barbara is so sensitive. Doubtless
those two will have their first quarrel over this matter. How did the
rumor get out? Such private things as these are never known as a rule.
What can it mean?”

Meanwhile Barbara, her heart on fire, and the noise of its loud beating
quite audible in her ears, walked rapidly in the direction of Tarbot’s
house in Harley Street. She arrived there about six o’clock. When the
servant answered her summons she asked if the doctor was in. The man
said no.

“When do you expect him to return?” asked Barbara.

“Not until late, madam. He had to go into the country to attend a
patient.”

Barbara hesitated for a moment; then with reluctance she put her next
question.

“Is Mrs. Tarbot at home?”

“I will inquire, madam, if you will wait a moment.”

“If she is at home I should like to see her.”

“What name shall I say?”

“Lady Pelham.”

The man invited Barbara in and went up-stairs to make the inquiry. He
returned quickly to say that his mistress was at home, and would be
pleased to see Lady Pelham.

Barbara followed him up the richly carpeted stairs into a magnificent
drawing-room on the first floor. This room had been newly furnished, and
showed excellent taste in all its arrangements. The electric light was
subdued by golden silk draperies over the pomegranate shaped globes, the
curtains were drawn before the large windows, there was a fire in the
grate. From the depths of a deep arm-chair a tall woman dressed in black
rose as Barbara entered. She had a pale face and radiant red-gold hair.
She came a step or two forward and half hesitated whether to hold out
her hand or not. Barbara advanced to meet her. For a moment she could
not recognize in this graceful and perfectly dressed lady Nurse Ives,
whom she had last seen at Ashley Mansions.

“Is this really you?” was the exclamation which burst involuntarily from
her lips.

“Yes, it is I,” replied Mrs. Tarbot. “I am changed.”

“You are transformed.”

Mrs. Tarbot gave a faint smile.

“Won’t you sit down?” she said.

“Thank you,” answered Barbara. She seated herself and threw up her veil.

“It is good of you to pay me this visit,” said Tarbot’s wife.

“I have come to you because your husband is out. This is not an ordinary
call.”

“Indeed!” Mrs. Tarbot looked at Barbara with an intense and hungry
stare.

“I will treat whatever you tell me as confidential,” she said.

Barbara looked full at her. Her very voice had altered, her manners were
those of a refined and well-educated woman. Her dress, black, and of the
softest lace and silk, scarcely rustled as she moved.

Now as she returned Barbara’s gaze her eyes grew bright. The eyes
themselves were of a very pale blue, painfully deficient in color by
daylight, but at night the pupils were apt to dilate, and in the midst
of the white face the eyes glowed dark, somber and watchful. Barbara
thought she had never seen a more peculiar or a stronger type of face.
She was so much engaged in the amazing discovery of the changed Nurse
Ives that she could not speak for a moment.

“Have you got over your astonishment?” said Mrs. Tarbot at last,
speaking very softly.

Barbara started and colored.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” she replied. “I hope you will forgive me. You
are so transformed that I did not know you.”

“That is true, Lady Pelham,” was the slow reply; “I am as much altered
as the circumstances of my life have changed. When you last saw me I was
only a nurse. My parentage is humble, my mother is a very humble person
indeed. She is an excellent woman and with plenty of character, but she
belongs to the peasantry of our county.”

“What is your county?” asked Barbara.

“Cornwall.”

“Ah!”

“My mother has a little cottage in Cornwall by the sea coast. She pays
ten pounds a year for it. She lives not very far from Falmouth. I
remember the time when there was extreme difficulty in meeting that ten
pounds rent. Then I went away and was trained as a nurse, and——”

“And you married Dr. Tarbot?”

“Yes, I married Dr. Tarbot. I am sorry he is out. He would doubtless
have answered whatever question you intend to ask better than I could.”

“I wished to see him with regard to a curious rumor which is afloat, but
I have something else to say to you.”

“What is that? I am all attention.”

“May I trust you?”

“Absolutely.”

“It is about my husband. He is not well. He is troubled by a nervous
ailment.”

Mrs. Tarbot looked watchful and eager. She no longer lay back in her
chair; she sat upright, her thin hands were folded on her lap, the
jewels with which her fingers were loaded shone in the firelight. Her
eyes, filled with bold intentness, were fixed on Barbara’s white face.
All the remarkable and gracious beauty of the young face was torture to
the jealous heart of the other woman. She saw that a new development in
her strange history was imminent, and roused herself, bracing every
nerve to meet it. “Yes,” she said, “a nervous ailment. This is the age
for such maladies. We live too fast, we put too much into our lives,
nerves get overwrought, they give way. Our grandmothers vegetated, they
did not know the meaning of nerves. A young man, rich, in the prime of
youth, who has just married the girl he loves, ought not to suffer from
nervous troubles.”

“My husband cannot get over the death of the child.”

“Ah!”

“He is haunted by strange fears in connection with that death.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I say, and I have come now to ask you to tell me frankly and
fully, knowing that God is present and is listening to us, what the
child really died of.”

“Acute disease of the heart.”

“I wish you would tell Dick so. His mind is in a strange state of
confusion. If you were to see him and repeat the words you have just
told me it might give him untold relief.”

“My word alone would not do that. When Dr. Tarbot signed the death
certificate he spoke of the cause of death as aortic disease—that means
disease of the aortic valve of the heart, a species of heart disease
which invariably ends suddenly. Dr. Williamson and Sir Richard Spears
were of the same opinion. My word goes for nothing. Let your husband see
the great specialists who examined the boy’s heart within twenty-four
hours of his death.”

“I am greatly obliged to you,” said Barbara. She rose to go as she
spoke. “I will tell Dick what you say. Yes, he must see the doctors.
Their verdict will set his mind at rest.”

Barbara held out her hand.

“I am glad you came to see me,” said Mrs. Tarbot, “and if in the future
I can help you, pray command me.”

“But how can you help me?”

“I mean this. From what you say, your husband is suffering from nerve
depression. Nothing else can account for the curious state you have half
described. The doctors whom he consults may set his mind at rest, but if
after seeing them his troubles return, his complaint ought to be treated
as something physical, an ailment of the body which requires cure.”

“But how can such a thing be cured? How can a thought, a dominant
thought, be banished?”

“It can, and—I can do it.”

“You, Mrs. Tarbot? You?”

“Yes, I. Did I ever tell you that I spent three years of my life in
Paris?”

“No.”

“I did. I was one of the principal assistants of the great Dr. Weismann.
When he lived he was the greatest mesmerist, the greatest hypnotist of
his day. He accomplished more cures by hypnotism than I can describe to
you. Now, the hypnotism of suggestion would, in case of need, cure your
husband.”

“But I don’t believe in it, nor, I am sure, does he.”

“You may come to believe in it yet. When you do, send for me, and I will
help you. I will do my best for you.”

Barbara promised, feeling as she did so a vague sense of coming trouble.
Soon afterwards she took her leave and hurried home as quickly as she
could.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                         “TARBOT WILL TELL ME.”


When Pelham left his wife he went into the Park. It was a foggy evening
with frost in the air, and the fog was densest in the Park, as it always
is. He walked under the trees watching the gas lamps, which shone feebly
through the foggy atmosphere. He did not heed where he was going, his
whole soul was absorbed in anxious thought. There were no nervous
terrors now visible on his face. He held himself erect, and walked
quickly. After a time he stood still under a lamp post, a look of
resolution and strength visiting his face.

“I’ll do it,” he said to himself. “I’ll do it, and I won’t waste another
moment. The time has come for action, and I will act.”

He left the Park, walked rapidly to the nearest telegraph office and
sent a telegram to his wife:—

“Don’t sit up for me should I be late.—Pelham.”

This being despatched, he walked as fast as he could in the direction of
Ashley Mansions. He ran up the steps of the well-known house and rang
the bell.

The old butler smiled with pleasure when he saw his face.

“My mistress is dining at present, sir; but she’ll be sure to see you.
This way, Sir Richard.”

The man ushered him into the big dining-room. It was a somber apartment,
with a dark, old-fashioned flock paper on the walls and heavy moreen
curtains to the windows. The house was lit throughout with electric
light, but even that failed to make the room look cheerful. A portrait
of little Piers done by a celebrated painter had the place of honor over
the mantelpiece. The picture had been executed about six months before
the child’s death. The boy in rich velvet, a Vandyke collar surrounding
his soft little neck, his dark hair flung back from his brow, was
standing with one arm over the neck of a favorite boarhound. He was
looking straight out into the world with his eager—almost too
eager—gaze. The eyes, like those in every good portrait, followed the
inmates of the room.

As Pelham entered they fixed themselves immediately on him. The young
man was startled. He had forgotten that this speaking portrait of Piers
existed. His heart gave a bound, he looked up at the picture as though
he meant to say something reassuring to it. The sparkling, vivid,
lifelike glance continued to follow the young man. Mrs. Pelham, who was
seated at a small table just under the picture and close to the fire,
rose and went to meet him.

“Now, Dick, this is nice and friendly,” she cried. “Sit down. You’ll
have dinner with me, won’t you?”

“I shall be very pleased,” answered Pelham.

“Lay a place at once for Sir Richard,” said Mrs. Pelham, turning to the
butler.

The man hurried off to obey. A moment latter Pelham was pretending to
eat; inwardly he was all on wires. The portrait with its speaking eyes
oppressed him, he longed to be in another room.

At last the meal came to an end.

“Serve coffee in the drawing-room,” said Mrs. Pelham to the butler.
“Will you come this way, Dick! It is so kind of you to come back
informally, just like you used to do in the old days when dear little
Piers was alive.”

“I came back because I wanted to ask you a question,” said Pelham.

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Pelham.

“I want to go up to Piers’s nursery.”

“Of course you can, my dear fellow; but what for?”

“Has the room been disarranged since his death?”

“Put in order, Dick—nothing more. I am not going to have that dear room
touched, at any rate, not for a long time. By and by when you have a
little son of your own, he shall come and stay here and——”

Mrs. Pelham’s tears flowed.

“Don’t talk of it, don’t think of it,” said Pelham. “This death has been
a frightful blow to me. I must tell you what I feel about it. There are
moments when I am almost inclined to shirk the whole thing—to go away. I
hate the property which has come to me through the child’s death.”

“It is very good of you to feel like that, but you must get over it,
Dick—you must really. Even though he was my son I cannot let his death
ruin your life. But now, what do you want to go to his room for?”

“Must I tell you?”

“Not if you would rather not. Perhaps you wish me to give you something
to remember him by, and I will with pleasure. Shall I come with you?”

“I would rather go alone, and I will tell you quite frankly the reason:
I wish to examine the boy’s medicine bottles.”

Mrs. Pelham started back.

“What in the world do you mean?” she exclaimed.

“I am dreadfully sorry to distress you,” said Pelham, “but I am
particularly anxious to see the bottle out of which Piers had his last
dose of medicine. Is it still up-stairs?”

“It is not. Of course, my dear Dick, I would gratify you if I could.”

“I have been anxious for some time to see that last bottle of medicine.”

“Why so?”

“A nervous man’s fears. Don’t ask me more.”

“Your fears, Dick?”

Mrs. Pelham’s eyes became dilated with a queer expression of intense
distress.

“Don’t think anything about it,” he answered. “I am nervous; and to have
that special medicine analyzed would set my mind at rest. I know that
the medicines were always kept in a cupboard in the dressing-room. Let
me go to that cupboard. Give me the key.”

“But this is most alarming,” said Mrs. Pelham. “I think you must be out
of your mind.”

“Let me have the key of the cupboard.”

“The cupboard is open, and the medicines have been removed. Dr. Tarbot
was here a fortnight ago. He asked me to give him the key of that
special cupboard. He told me that there was something peculiar about
Piers’s death—of course we all know that he died of acute heart disease,
or something of the sort, but Dr. Tarbot was anxious to make copious
notes of the case, and he had lost one of the prescriptions. He took all
the medicine bottles away.”

While Mrs. Pelham was speaking Dick’s face grew hard and gray.

“If that is the case there is no use in troubling you,” he said. “Tarbot
will tell me what I desire to know. Good night.”




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                        “‘SCOUNDREL!’ HE SAID.”


When Pelham left the house in Ashley Mansions it was not yet ten
o’clock. He paused for a moment on the pavement to look at his watch and
consult with himself. The result of his brief thought was that he turned
with resolute steps in the direction of Harley Street. Ten minutes after
he left Ashley Mansions he was ringing the bell of Luke Tarbot’s house.
The door was opened, he asked if the doctor was in. The servant replied
in the affirmative.

“What name shall I say?” he asked.

“Say that Sir Richard Pelham wishes to speak to Dr. Tarbot for a
moment.”

Sir Richard was asked to step into the hall, and the servant went
hurriedly into a room which opened on to the hall at the left side. The
next moment Tarbot came out to meet Dick and to welcome him.

“Come in, Sir Richard,” he said. “I am very glad to see you. Do you mind
joining me in my smoking-den? I can give you an excellent cigar and a
hearty welcome.”

Tarbot’s manner was cordial. The two men entered the smoking-room.
Pelham declined a cigar. His manner was full of reserve, and intensely
gloomy. Tarbot saw at a glance that he intended to make himself
disagreeable. He gave his guest one very keen flash out of his deeply
set eyes, and immediately afterwards put on his most guarded manner.

It had been the lot of the great surgeon to see all sorts and conditions
of men. For years now he had read the human countenance in its intricate
and many phases. He saw that Dick was much troubled and desperate. This
was no call of mere politeness. But it was not Tarbot’s cue to take the
initiative, and he waited for his guest to speak.

“I have come here to-night, Dr. Tarbot, to ask you a special question.”

“What may that be?” asked Tarbot.

“Have I to thank you for a very unpleasant rumor which is afloat with
regard to me in my club?”

“You must explain yourself. I do not understand.”

“It is this. It is known in the club that I signed a _post obit_ a
fortnight before the death of my little cousin.”

Tarbot slightly shifted his position.

“I did not know that the rumor had got afloat,” he said. “I am certainly
innocent of propagating it. But are you sure it is known?”

“Yes. I was first told of it by Carroll, whom I met at the hotel at
Glion, where my wife and I stayed. He begged me to return to London as
quickly as possible in order to contradict the gossip which was afloat.
I did come back, and I find on my arrival that matters are even more
unpleasant than I had believed possible.”

Tarbot laughed.

“How the rumor got about is more than I can tell you,” he replied. “I
can only assure you once more that I am not responsible. I should
naturally wish to hide a matter in which I myself am implicated. You
understand, Pelham, that it affects me as much as you. My advice to you
is this: don’t take the slightest notice. Live it down—there is nothing
in it.”

“It is unpleasant and undesirable,” said Dick, “and the man who has
caused it to be spread is my enemy.”

“Then find him,” said Tarbot lightly. “Find him, and vent your spleen
upon him. Will you change your mind and have a cigar? I can recommend
this brand.”

“No, thank you. I only smoke with my friends.”

“What am I to understand by that?” asked Tarbot. As he spoke he looked
Dick full in the face.

“I thought we were friends,” continued Tarbot after a moment’s pause.

“No,” answered Dick. “I must be frank at a moment like the present. I
dislike you, Dr. Tarbot. I have an antipathy to you—what is more, I
distrust you.”

“You must give me a reason for those last words. Why do you distrust
me?”

“I intend to speak fully. The child’s death has distressed me much.
Yesterday I got a copy of the certificate.”

“Why?”

“Because I am not satisfied with the reason you gave for the death.”

“Did you ever qualify as a medical man?”

“Never; but I use my common sense, and I repeat that I am not satisfied
with the reason you gave for the death.”

“Why?”

“You state that the boy died from heart disease.”

“He did—from aortic disease.”

“But I say that he never had heart disease. I knew him well, almost from
his birth. He was delicate, but he had no organic complaint of any sort.
It is just possible that disease of the heart may be developed within a
fortnight, but on that point I should like to ask the opinion of another
doctor.”

“Why so? Is not my word as good as another’s? Such instances are rare,
but not impossible.”

Pelham was silent.

“Go on,” said Tarbot after a pause. “Say all that is in your mind. You
have gone too far now to draw back. Your impression is that the child
did not die of heart disease. You at least admit that he is dead?”

“Heaven help me, yes.”

“That being the case, what did he die of?”

“I cannot tell you. I wish I could.”

“Is it your impression that he came by his death unduly?”

“I have harbored such a suspicion.”

“Whom do you suspect?”

Pelham’s face flushed, but his eyes looked straight into Tarbot’s.

“Perhaps you can answer that,” he replied; “but whatever the cause of
death, I wish to have all the circumstances relating to the child’s last
illness closely investigated.”

“I do not know what more you can do. I signed the certificate. I am
ready to abide by my decision. I certified that Piers Pelham died from
aortic disease. My opinion was corroborated by Dr. Williamson and Sir
Richard Spears. In what position are you that you place your opinion
against three such authorities?”

“I am in no position whatever, but still I hold my own thoughts, and I
wish to have something done.”

“What?”

“To have the medicine which the boy last took analyzed.”

“Talking of that,” said Tarbot, “don’t forget that you yourself gave
that last dose of medicine to the boy. You went to fetch the bottle, you
took the medicine to the child, he received it from your hands.”

“True, but what of that?”

“Much or little according to circumstances.”

“I do not understand you,” said Pelham. “It matters little who gave the
medicine to the child. I wish to have it analyzed. Nothing else will set
my mind at rest. I have just been to Mrs. Pelham’s house for the purpose
of securing the bottle, but I find that you forestalled me, and that you
have the medicine in your own keeping.”

“I have.”

“What do you want it for?”

“To have it analyzed.”

“Then you agree with me?” said Dick eagerly.

“I don’t agree with you, but because I am taking copious notes of Sir
Piers Pelham’s death I wish to have the medicine analyzed.”

“Can you do it?”

“Yes.”

“Will you do it now?”

“No.”

“What if I compel you?”

“Compel me! My good fellow, you are talking nonsense.”

Pelham was fast losing his self-control: he leaped forward and seized
Tarbot by the arm.

“Scoundrel!” he said. “Notwithstanding that certificate, I have my
reasons for suspecting you. Analyze that medicine at once before my
eyes, or, by heaven, I’ll have you in a court of justice.”

“You must be mad, Pelham,” said Tarbot calmly. “I will analyze the
medicine, certainly, but at my own good time and pleasure. Now leave the
house. Your words are insulting. You forget yourself. Too great a
portion of this world’s riches has overbalanced your brain. I have heard
of such cases before. When you can exercise self-control I will speak to
you again.”




                              CHAPTER XX.
                         THE PRICE OF HIS SIN.


Pelham never quite remembered how he got into the street. He was only
conscious of having completely lost his self-control, of a mad whirl of
emotions, which deprived him, for the moment, of all ordinary sense and
prudence. A loathing for the man with whom he had been conversing, a
certainty that there was a real foundation for his appalling fears, both
combined to overbalance a brain already strained to the utmost. When the
cold night air, however, blew on his heated forehead he quickly
recovered himself, and seeing that he could do nothing further went
home.

Having seen Pelham out, Tarbot returned to his smoking-room. There was a
grim determination about his thin lips and a frown between his
brows—thought was working hard in his active brain. After a short time
given to reflection, he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, laid it in
its accustomed place on the mantelpiece, turned off the electric light
and went up-stairs.

He entered the drawing-room. He knew that here he should find the woman
he had lately married. He found her stretched in an easy chair beside
the fire. Her hands were lying idly in her lap, her eyes were shut—she
was fast asleep. Tarbot had always a quiet tread. He now advanced almost
on tiptoe and stood looking down at her.

“The price I have paid for my sin,” he muttered under his breath.

He drew a chair forward and softly seated himself. The woman was
unconscious of his presence, and he could look at her; he could fill his
soul with loathing of her, and drink the cup which he had prepared for
his own lips to the dregs. His face was white as he gazed at Clara. She
did not look well in her sleep. There were haggard lines round her
lips—lines which had come far too soon, for she was still quite a young
woman. Her cheeks were hollow, she coughed now and then. Her dead-white
complexion, with its disfiguring freckles, gave her face the look of the
dead.

“Would she were dead!” muttered Tarbot. “Would she were——”

From the face he looked down at the hands, the arms, the outlines of the
thin limbs.

“There is a certain grace about her,” he said to himself, “but it is the
grace of the panther, the tigress. If I married another woman now I
should commit bigamy. I could curse her.” He bent a little nearer, and
then a queer and eager light began to grow in his eyes.

“I believe it is true,” he said to himself. He rose softly, left the
room, and returned with his stethoscope. Clara’s dress was partly open
at the thin neck. With the delicate hand of the practised surgeon, he
was able to apply the stethoscope to her chest without rousing her. He
listened attentively, not making a thorough examination of her lungs,
but one sufficient for his purpose.

“It is too true,” he muttered. He let the lace fall back over her
heaving chest, and looked at her again. The woman stirred in her sleep.
Her long training as a nurse had accustomed her to wake up bright and
alert. Tarbot put the stethoscope in his pocket. Clara opened her eyes
and started upright.

“I am very sorry I slept,” she said. “Have you been long here? Shall I
ring for coffee—the servants have not yet gone to bed?”

“No, thanks. I want to talk to you, Clara. Are you wide awake? Can you
attend to me?”

“Certainly. I am very wide awake. I have had my little nap. I do not
need more sleep to-night—that is, if you really wish to speak to me.”

“I want to say something, but I shall not keep you long.”

“Have you been in the room many minutes?”

“Two or three.”

“You were seated here close to me, looking at me?”

“Aye, I looked at you. By the way, Clara, I wish you would not wear
those diamonds every night.”

“Why not? Do you object?”

“I do. It is bad form. You are not going out anywhere. Only a _parvenu_
would load herself with jewels in the way you do. You coughed, too, in
your sleep, and when you did I noticed the diamonds. Do you ever feel
ill, or tired, or weary?”

“Of late I have done so from time to time.”

“I thought as much. I must send you to a warmer climate, but we will
talk of that later on. You cannot leave England at present. You are
useful to me.”

“I know that, Luke. I am glad to be useful to you.”

“Then take care of yourself, and don’t go out too much at night. By the
way, does that cough hurt?”

“A little. Why?”

“I will only tell you that you ought to be careful. A cough is a thing
no one should trifle with. Your mother is alive, I think I heard you
say?”

“Yes.”

“Is your father?”

“No.”

“What did your father die of?”

“Consumption. ‘Galloping consumption’ they called it down in Cornwall.”

“Ah, I see!”

Clara’s eyes began to dilate with a sort of terror. Tarbot looked away
from her.

“We won’t talk any more of your health now,” he said after a pause. “We
will get to business.”

She gave him a pleading glance, and then with a heavy sigh lowered her
eyes.

“I am all attention,” she said.

“Pelham has been here,” said Tarbot.

“Is he here now?”

“No; I turned him out.”

“Good Heavens, Luke! Why?”

“Because he insulted me.”

“What do you mean?”

“To all intents and purposes, he accused me of the murder of Sir Piers
Pelham.”

“Nonsense! He accused you! Why should he think any foul play had taken
place? Impossible!”

“Nevertheless it is true. The man is an utter fool. I always thought him
so, but I find there is a bit of the knave in him as well. He maintains
that the child did not come by his death by ordinary means. He is moving
heaven and earth in this cursed business. Clara, it is full time for us
to be up and stirring.”

“What do you mean?”

She had risen from her chair, her thin hands worked convulsively, the
rings on her fingers flashed.

“I hate all that finery,” said the man irritably. “I repeat, that your
wearing it is bad form. Now listen to me. Pelham must be arrested in a
fortnight for the murder of his cousin!”

“No, Luke, no, it cannot be.”

“It shall be, Clara.”

“I forbid it,” said the woman. “It is not in the bargain,” she
continued. She brought out her words with almost a stutter—she was
trembling so hard. “It is not in the bargain,” she repeated. “Six months
was the bargain, six months after marriage. I for bid you to deal the
blow a day before the time.”

“You must be mad, Clara. You must see for yourself that circumstances
change. If I do not have Pelham arrested he will turn the tables on me.
Oh, I know I am safe enough, but I cannot afford delay. Who would have
thought that Pelham, a sleepy sort of fellow——”

“An alert lawyer, you mean,” interrupted Clara.

“Ah, you think so! He fascinates you.”

“He is an innocent man and a good man,” replied Mrs. Tarbot. “I like him
well because he loved that child, because when the child died Mr. Pelham
had a sense, not of rejoicing, but of sorrow. He is a good man, and when
you strike him you do a fiendish deed. Give it up, Luke, give it up, and
I will serve you to my dying day.”

“Give it up! But I married you for the sake of it.”

“Aye, I know that. Then you are inexorable?”

He made no reply. He was taller than his wife, and he was looking down
at her. The expression in his eyes caused her to turn aside.

“I forgot for a moment,” she said at last slowly, “that I had united
myself to a devil.”

“Think me one if you will,” replied Tarbot. “Upon my word, I would
rather you thought me a devil than a saint—it is less mawkish. Bah! when
I remember that I married you for better for worse, till death us do
part, I can scarcely contain myself.”

Tarbot walked to the other end of the room. When he came back a new
expression had come over Clara’s face. All sentiment had died out of
it—it was hard and shrewd and businesslike as his own.

“Well,” he said, “you look better now. I have much to say. Sit down at
this table and I will place myself opposite to you.”

She did what he told her.

“Begin,” she said. “What have you to tell me?”

“First of all, I shall analyze that medicine. I shall, of course,
discover the hyocene. I will acquaint Mrs. Pelham with the fact, and get
her to take the necessary steps to have Pelham arrested.”

“When do you propose that he shall be arrested?”

“This is Thursday, and he goes to Pelham Towers on Saturday. The arrest
can take place in the course of next week.”

“Suppose it does,” said Clara slowly: “what will happen next?”

“He will be brought back to London and examined before the magistrate of
the district in which little Piers died. Your evidence and mine will do
the rest.”

“My evidence?” said Clara.

“Of course. You will have to prove that you gave Pelham the medicine,
and that you remained in the dressing-room while he administered it to
the boy. What is the matter with you to-night? Why do you hesitate and
look so queer? If at the last moment you turn traitress, you shall——”

The man did not finish the sentence, but there came a look into his eyes
which caused Clara’s heart to sink.

“I will fulfil my part of the bargain. I will keep my word,” she said at
last slowly.

“That’s right. Now you are returning to your senses.”

“But you must also keep your part,” she continued. “The promises you
made were these: I was to become your wife, and Sir Richard Pelham was
to be unmolested for six months.”

“I remember quite well that you made that a condition,” said Tarbot. “It
always seemed to me an unnecessary and foolish one, but until to-night I
never considered it carefully. Circumstances alter matters. In a case
like this we cannot adhere strictly to a bargain. We are both in
danger—in extreme danger—we have to fight, remember, for our lives.”

“True,” she answered. She lowered her eyes, to raise them the next
moment and fix them on her husband’s face.

“Pelham must be arrested next week,” repeated Tarbot.

“No, no, Luke! Not so soon.”

“Clara, my word must be law in this matter. When our lives are in
jeopardy we cannot afford to play the fool for a matter of mere
sentiment. I tell you, if I do not have Pelham arrested he will turn the
tables on me.”

“He will not, for his fears will soon be over. His apprehensions will
sink out of sight, he will go down to his property and be a happy man.”

“What do you mean?”

“If, Luke, I can quiet all Sir Richard Pelham’s suspicions, will you
delay the evil moment?”

“I don’t understand what you are talking about.”

“Nor can I explain; but I think I shall succeed. Now go on—what will
happen after Sir Richard has been before the magistrate?”

“He will be remanded, in order that the Home Secretary may give an order
for the exhumation of the child’s body.”

Clara turned whiter than ever. She trembled all over.

“What is the matter with you?” said her husband. “You are not the woman
you were a few months ago. If I had known that I was really about to
unite myself to such a vacillating, poor, weak—what is wrong?”

“Nothing. I trembled because I suddenly thought of the ace of trumps.”

“The ace of trumps! Good heavens! Are you mad?”

“No, Luke, I am sane—quite sane. I only remembered that I hold the ace
of trumps in my hand, and therefore I have no real cause for fear. You
will be obliged to do what I wish. You must not have Sir Richard
arrested next week—not for a month or two months.”

“Let it be a bargain, then,” said Tarbot. “Provided Pelham does not go
to extremities, provided his present suspicions are lulled to rest, I am
willing to let the matter lie over until Christmas. Will that content
you?”

“It is better than nothing,” said Clara very slowly.

“But remember the condition. His suspicions about me must die out, or at
least they must not be acted upon.”

“I think I shall succeed,” said Clara.

“Well, it is a bargain then. I am going to analyze the medicine now.
Good night.”

Tarbot rose, and a moment later left the room. Clara stood where he had
left her. One of her thin hands drummed on the little table near which
she was standing. Her thoughts were very busy. After a time she rose and
went to her secretary. She took out a sheet of headed notepaper and
envelope, and sitting down wrote a note. This note was to Barbara
Pelham.


  “DEAR LADY PELHAM,—The advice I gave you to-day I want to enforce by a
  letter. I have thought much of you since your visit. Your husband is
  in a highly nervous condition, but he has no cause whatever for his
  fears. Why should he not set them completely at rest by doing as I
  suggest, and asking the opinions of Dr. Williamson and Sir Richard
  Spears? He might also go to the chemist and get a copy of the
  prescription of the last medicine given to the child. Would you
  suggest this to him without bringing my name into the matter? After
  receiving the information which he will doubtless get from the two
  great specialists and from the chemist, if his fears still remain,
  please communicate with me, for I can give him a treatment which will
  assuredly put him into a healthier frame of mind. I would rather not
  use this last remedy unless essential.

  “Yours, with much sympathy,

                                                         “CLARA TARBOT.”


Having written the letter, Clara herself went out to post it. The
servants had gone to bed. She wrapped a shawl round her head and walked
quickly down Harley Street. She slipped the letter into the pillar box
and returned home. Her mind was comparatively at rest. She had just
reached her hall door when a hand was laid on her arm. She turned round
quickly.

“Well, Clara, well! And so you were about to cut your own mother.”

“Mother,” cried Clara with a start, “What have you come to town for?
What is the matter? Anything wrong?”

“Nothing, Clara, nothing. I’ve only come to talk to you. I am coming
into your house, into your grand house. I don’t care about your
grandeur, but I’m coming in to see you, for I’ve got something to say.”

“Come in, of course, mother. I shall be delighted to welcome you. Come
up-stairs to the drawing-room.”

Clara closed the hall door, and walked up the grand staircase
accompanied by her mother. They entered the drawing-room, the little
woman immediately dropping a curtsey.

“A mercy me!” she cried. “A deal of rugs and curtains and fine furniture
all over the place, but the air smothering to the breathing all the
same. Clara, I came to say that the child——”

“If you want to talk on private matters, mother, we had better go to my
bedroom. You will sleep here, of course.”

“No, I have a lodging outside. I couldn’t have a wink of sleep in a
grand sort o’ place like this, but I have come to say——”

“We will talk in my bedroom, mother.”




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                            “HONOR BRIGHT.”


Clara took her mother to her bedroom. A bright fire glowed in the grate,
the bed was turned down, and everything looked soft, luxurious, and the
very height of luxury.

“A deary me!” said the old woman again—she dropped two curtseys—one to
the bed and another to the fire. “I never held with grandeur. It’s all
very well for them as was born to it, but folks like you and me, Clary,
we ain’t meant to have it, and it don’t agree with us. Why, you’re the
color of a duck’s egg in complexion now, and your freckles seem to have
spread.”

“Oh, mother, what do you want?” said Clara. “What have you come about?”

“Aye, aye, that’s the mystery,” said little Mrs. Ives, her small eyes
dancing.

“Is there anything wrong with the child?”

“You’ll hear in a minute, my deary dear. Oh, I’ll sit near you if you
wish, but not close to the fire—it shrivels up the complexion, and it’s
making you as green as can be.”

“What have you got to say?” exclaimed Mrs. Tarbot. She had great
difficulty in restraining herself from using angry words.

“You was always one for your tempers, Clara. But never mind, I has come
to say——”

“What, mother?”

“That I have brought the child back to London.”

“And why, may I ask?”

“Because he wished to see the place where he was accustomed to live, and
why should I fret him—the dear lamb?”

“Where have you taken him? You know I gave up my rooms in Brand’s
Buildings.”

“I ain’t gone back there. I has took a nice lodging for myself and the
boy at 30 Hester Street, just over the way.”

“You ought not to have done it, mother.”

“The child was restless,” continued the old woman. “He’s a bonny boy,
and I ain’t got his secret out of him, but I very near have. I thought
it best to come and tell you, and you had better come round and have a
look at him in the morning.”

“I’ll come now,” said Clara. “You wait a minute. I must look into this
matter directly.”

She went to her wardrobe, opened it, and took out an old bonnet which
she had not worn since her marriage, and also a long cloak.

“Can’t you wait till the morning?” said the mother.

“No; I have other things to attend to then. I’ll come with you now.”

The old woman made no further objection. Clara opened the door of her
bedroom and, accompanied by Mrs. Ives, went down-stairs. The servants
had gone to bed, for the hour was nearly midnight. Mrs. Tarbot took a
latch-key from a hook in the hall, and slipped it into her pocket; then
she opened the door and went out.

The two women did not take long in reaching No. 30 Hester Street. Most
of the lights in the house were out, but in reply to their ring a woman
with a dirty dress and red face opened the door. Mrs. Ives nodded to
her.

“I’m bringing a friend of mine to see the little gentleman,” she said.

The woman made no response, and Clara and Mrs. Ives went up-stairs
together.

“You should not speak of me as a friend of yours, mother,” said Clara in
a whisper as they were going up.

“And why not? If my own darter ain’t a friend, I don’t know who is. I
were very near saying, I ha’ brought my darter to see the little boy,
but out of respect for your ladyship I said friend. Now here we be.”

They paused on the third landing, and Mrs. Ives opened the door and went
in. Clara followed her. The room was small and shabby.

“You ought not to have taken the boy to a place of this sort,” said Mrs.
Tarbot.

“Why not? You never told me that he come of gentle folk.”

“You might have guessed that for yourself. The child must be well taken
care of. He can’t stay here.”

“That’s for you to settle, Clary. In London the child wishes to be, and
in London he must be.”

“Mother, when you talk like that you aggravate me past bearing.”

Mrs. Ives walked across the sitting-room and threw open the door of the
bedroom.

“Don’t you go and wake him,” she said. “He’s strong now—brown as a nut
and as handsome as a picture. Come along, we’ll have a look at him.”

Mrs. Ives lit a candle and they went into the bedroom. The boy was lying
on a small bed which had been made up in a corner of the room. Clara
bent over him.

The child in his sleep looked like an angel. Once he stirred, and when
he did so that thing within her which no one else had ever brought to
life began to make itself apparent. Her feeling for Tarbot was passion,
but her feeling for the boy was love, pure and holy.

“Hush, hush! don’t wake him,” she said; but her words came too late. The
old woman made a hasty movement, knocking over a little table as she did
so. The boy started in his sleep, opened his eyes and looked full at
Clara.

“I am so glad you have come back again,” he cried. The next instant his
soft arms were round her neck, and she felt his kisses on her thin
cheek.

“I’m so glad you have come back,” he repeated, “and I have kept it—I
have really. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

“Dear little Piers,” said Clara.

“Are you going to stay with me? I’d like it awfully; I have a lot of
things I want to talk to you about. You know all my secrets, and it
would be a real comfort to talk to you. Please, grannie (nurse, I always
call your mother ‘grannie’), please, grannie, go out of the room. I want
to say things to my nurse—oh, I forgot, you don’t want me to call you
‘nurse’ any more, do you?”

“I don’t mind, Piers; you may call me ‘nurse’ if you like. I’ll stay
with you for a little. Mother, you can go into the sitting-room.”

“Oh, can I? Seems to me I’m hustled about to please everybody but
myself,” said the old woman. “All right, I’ll go. You don’t mind if I
leave the door ajar, do you?”

“Please shut it, mother, and don’t bother.”

“Oh, I’m a bother, am I? Your temper gets worse and worse, Clara. But
I’m going, I’m going.”

She left the room, shutting the door noisily.

“She’s very cross with you,” said little Piers. “But she’s not cross
with me, and I love her awfully.”

“I am glad of that, dear.”

“I went with grannie this morning to look at my real home,” continued
Piers. “I didn’t tell her which house it was, but I stared at it, and
p’r’aps she saw the direction my eyes were looking in. I did so long to
run across and ring the bell and rush up to mother and hug her, but I
didn’t because I had promised you. Honor bright, you know, honor
bright.”

“Yes, honor bright, Piers,” said Mrs. Tarbot. Her brows were knit, and
she was gazing anxiously across the little room. Her mind was full of
perplexity and dread.

“I want to see mother so dreadfully,” continued the child. “I dream of
her at night, and I want to see Dick. It’s strange they don’t any of
them write. When may I go back to them, nurse?”

“Piers, I am sorry, but I must disappoint you. You’ll be a brave lad, I
know.”

“Yes, I’ll be brave, but what do you want to disappoint me about?”

“I have some sad news for you.”

“Sad?”

“You cannot go back to your mother, Piers.”

“Why?”

“And you must not go into the street where she used to live; you must
not stand any more outside the house.”

“But why?”

“Because your mother is not there.”

“What do you mean?”

“She has gone away for the present, and your Cousin Dick and your friend
Barbara have also gone away. They will come back by and by—by and by
when you are really cured—but it takes a long time to cure a little chap
who has been as ill as you have been. You would not like to sink down
through the floor any more, would you?”

“Don’t you think you’re just a little bit of a humbug?” said Piers,
gazing full into Mrs. Tarbot’s face. “Why do you talk in that way, just
as if you had made it up, and why do you turn your eyes away? I don’t
think mother can have gone away, and I’m sure Dick and Barbara must be
here, because——”

“Is it likely I’d tell you a lie, Piers?”

“Well, of course I hope you wouldn’t, but I’m not sure. I suppose you
wouldn’t, that is, if you are a good woman. Are you a good woman,
nurse?”

“No, child, no. Heaven help me, no, I’m not.”

“Then perhaps you do tell lies. Of course, good women never do. God
hates those who tell them, so you had better be careful. I never tell
lies, and that’s why I keep my promise to you. I never tell grannie my
secret.”

“If you had done so, Piers, you would have been an awfully wicked little
boy. You must never, never tell Mrs. Ives the truth.”

“I won’t, because I promised, but why do you call her Mrs. Ives? She’s
your mother—you _do_ forget your fifth commandment. Well, now I’ll tell
you something she says. Every morning the first thing when she gets up
she says, ‘Piers, blood is thicker than water; but, Piers,’ she goes on,
‘there is some as has water in their veins instead of blood.’ I don’t
know what she means by that, nurse, unless she’s talking about you; but
you haven’t water in your veins instead of blood, have you?”

“No, dear, my mother could not have meant me. She’s an old woman, and
she’s given to talking nonsense.”

“There you are, forgetting your fifth commandment again. I tell you I
like her very much. She’s not quite as handsome as you, but I think
perhaps she’s a better woman than you are. She never tells a lie.”

“Piers, you are talking nonsense, and I am angry.”

“Angry?” said the child.

“Yes, because you talk nonsense. You ought to be satisfied and to trust
me. Your own mother and your Cousin Dick and your friend Barbara are far
away. Some day, if you are really good, you will see them again, that
is, if you trust me; if not——”

“If not?” queried the child.

“Then, Piers, I shall have to take you away from my mother, and put you
with some one else, who will be stern and who won’t listen to any
nonsense you may talk. I don’t wish to threaten you, dear little man,
for I love you, but I shall have to do it if you go on as you are
doing.”

“And I have been brave,” said the boy, his brown eyes filling with
tears. He clasped his hands and looked straight before him. “I have
never told,” he continued. “Each morning when I wake I ask God to help
me to keep my secret and not to let me tell a lie. All during the day
it’s on the tip of my tongue to say, ‘I’m Sir Piers Pelham, and my
mother lives at No. 12 Ashley Mansions, and my Cousin Dick, his other
name is Pelham, and my friend Barbara, her other name is Evershed.’ It’s
always and always on the tip of my tongue. But I don’t say any of these
things because I promised you I wouldn’t. Oh, it’s hard of you to say
that you are angry with me. I am a brave boy, and I wouldn’t tell a lie
for the world.”

“You’re a perfect darling,” said Clara, overcome by the beauty of the
child and the magic of his words. She lifted him out of bed and held him
in her arms, cuddling him close to her, until at last he fell asleep
with his head on her breast.

“I would almost die for him,” she thought. “Some day he shall come into
his own again; but not yet—not at present. I have Luke to think of. I
have almost given up hope of winning Luke’s heart, but I may succeed
yet. If so, little Piers, you must keep your secret for a long, long
time.”




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                    “YOUR EYES ARE BIG AND BRIGHT.”


When the boy was sound asleep Clara went into the room where her mother
was waiting for her.

“Well, Clary, and how do you think he is?”

“Splendid, mother. You have taken excellent care of him, but you must go
back with him to Cornwall to-morrow.”

“He don’t like it; he’s mad to come back to his own folk. Why should he
stay away from them?”

“If he goes back you’ll lose your two pounds a week.”

“Aye, there’s summat in that,” said the old woman.

“I love my bit of money,” she continued after a pause. “I don’t believe
in no bankses. I has my money in an old stocking at the back of the
chimney. I has got a hundred and fifty pounds. When are we to go back,
Clary?”

“By the first train to-morrow. It is sheer madness of you to stay here.
If you do such a thing again I must take the boy away and put him in the
care of some one else, but I would rather he were with you, mother.”

“You may as well leave him with me. I’ll look after him and tend him,
and he loves me.”

“Well, mother, here’s five pounds over and above what I generally give.
This will be plenty for your fare and the boy’s back to Cornwall, and I
will send you three pounds a week in the future if you will look after
him well.”

“Three pounds a week?” said the old woman. “That’s twelve pounds a
month—a deal of money—a deal! I’ll look after him a bit longer then,
Clary, but don’t try me too much, for I can’t abear his little cry of
‘I’ve a secret, but you mustn’t guess; and if you knew who my people
were you’d take me home, wouldn’t you, grannie?’ That’s his little cry,
and he’s such a grand, brave little chap. I don’t know what you’re
after, but it’s evil, I make no doubt. You ain’t my sort—you don’t go to
your chapel reg’lar, and you don’t say your prayers reg’lar. And duck
green is your complexion, and your freckles is spreading. Now I’ll say
good night, for if you ain’t tired I am.”

Mrs. Ives held up her mouth as she spoke to Clara’s sallow cheek. The
daughter scarcely returned her salutation. Wrapped in thought she left
the house. She ran down-stairs and let herself out, returning to the
house in Harley Street some time after one o’clock. As she stood on the
steps fumbling for her latch-key, her husband confronted her.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“To see an old patient.”

“I thought you had given up nursing.”

“I had a message from an old patient who wished particularly to see me—a
message which I could not refuse.”

“Your mother brought it to you, didn’t she?”

“How did you know my mother was here, Luke?”

“I saw you go out with her. What did she come about?”

“I have just told you she brought a message from a patient, Luke. I did
not know you were curious.”

“I am not the least curious,” he replied. “To be curious signifies an
interest in a person. As I do not take the slightest interest in you I
am not curious. Now, I have much to do, and will wish you good night.”

“Good night,” she answered. Husband and wife parted in the hall. Clara
went very slowly up the broad flight of stairs. When she reached the
first landing she turned and looked back at Tarbot, he on his part
looking up at her. The look she gave him back in return was full of an
undefined and curious expression. It puzzled the man, and he thought it
over a good bit as he sat in his study.

“If I did not know that it was quite impossible,” he said to himself, “I
should say that my wife, the woman to whom I have given my name, for
whom I have ruined myself, holds some secret against me. What did she
mean when she spoke of having the ace of trumps in her hand? If Clara
turns against me I shall be lost. I hate her, but I must keep friendly
with her, that’s evident. She would be faithful to me—poor soul!—if she
thought I had the least vestige of love for her. Can I feign what she
wants and so get that ace of trumps from her? Shall I try?”

He sat with his head buried in his hands for some time, but as the night
advanced he paced the room restlessly.

Clara also scarcely slept that night. Early in the morning she rose and
went to her husband. He was still in his study.

Clara was dressed with care, and notwithstanding her sleepless night
looked trim and fresh. As usual, she wore black; soft real lace
encircled her thin white throat, and her head, with its crown of red
hair, looked something like a tropical flower. She was a graceful woman,
and the dress she now wore gave her a special charm.

To Tarbot, who had been experimenting, analyzing, thinking hard, who was
almost worn out in consequence, she suddenly appeared as almost a vision
of beauty.

He looked up as she entered, carrying a little tray. It contained tea
and toast. With a flash of quick thought he remembered afresh her
expression of the night before—that she held the ace of trumps in her
hand. He knew that if he could give her any affection she would be his
forever. At that moment, with this thought in his head, she was almost
attractive to him.

“You should not stay up all night,” she said. “I have brought you this.
Sit down and let me pour you out a cup of tea.”

He sank into the nearest chair. She poured out the tea, putting in the
amount of sugar and cream that he liked. She brought the fragrant cup to
his side, and buttering a piece of toast, put it on a plate and laid it
on a little table near by. As he lifted the cup to his lips his eyes
fixed themselves on her face.

“You are an extraordinary woman,” he began. “When I think of you as——”

“As what, Luke?” she asked eagerly, for there seemed to her at that
moment to be a new note in his voice. If, after all, he was beginning to
love her, if by any chance that passion which she felt for him was about
to be responded to, then good-by to all else, good-by to the child’s
future, good-by to everything but the prize which she had set herself to
win. To win Luke Tarbot’s heart she would not care to what crime she
stooped. Now she came a little nearer to him, and laid one of her thin
but shapely hands on his arm.

“You are very tired, and you ought to rest,” she said.

“I am tired,” he replied, “dead tired, worn out. A night like this takes
a lot out of a man. Clara, you look well.”

“I am glad you think so. I have put on no jewels because you dislike
them. I take great pains with my dress these days.”

“You do, my poor girl.”

“For your sake, Luke.”

“It is useless, Clara,” he said, but he uttered the words sadly, and
still there was that new puzzled expression in his eyes, and,
notwithstanding his words, she did not think that her pains were quite
thrown away.

Having finished his tea, Tarbot was refreshed. He stood up. He did not
mind talking to Clara in the garish morning light.

“I shall be an old man before my time,” he said abruptly. “I am a
disappointed, a bitterly disappointed man. I only live for one thing
now. When that is over my career will be ended.”

Clara made no reply, but her gray eyes were still fixed upon him.

“And until it is over I shall have no rest,” he continued. “There is a
fever here.” He laid his hand against his heart.

“If you will go to your room you can have two or three hours of perfect
quiet,” said Clara. “Lay your head on your pillow, and you will drop
asleep immediately.”

“I wish I could take your advice, but I am the victim of insomnia; it
has only come on lately. I did not like to tell you of it. I would give
the world at this present moment for a couple of hours’ refreshing
slumber.”

“Let me make some passes across your forehead—I know exactly how. You
will soon sleep if I do so.”

“You mean that you want to mesmerize me?”

“Not exactly to mesmerize you, Luke—not to go as far as that. It would
require a stronger woman than I am to mesmerize a man like you.”

He smiled at her—his slow, inscrutable smile.

“But I can put you to sleep. Let me try. Just stay quiet, and don’t
resist me. Let yourself go. In ten minutes you will be asleep.”

“Can you limit the duration of my sleep?” he asked.

“Yes, you shall sleep for an hour, two hours, three hours. How long can
you give yourself?”

“What o’clock is it now?”

“Six o’clock.”

“I can sleep until nine, I believe. Will you promise to wake me at nine
o’clock?”

“You shall wake yourself. I need not be present. I will simply suggest
to you that you sleep for three hours, and at nine you will wake. You
may rest assured that things will happen exactly as I wish.”

“Where did you learn all this gibberish, Clara? Oh, of course, with Dr.
Weismann in Paris. He was a rare humbug.”

“You would not think so if you had been in his employment, as I was for
three years. He performed marvelous cures, and was a wonderful man.”

“He is dead, is he not?” said Tarbot.

“He is. Had he been alive I should still have been with him.”

“Aye, Clara, and happier than with me.”

“Perhaps so, Luke; but all the same, I am with you, and I would not
change my lot for that of any other woman in the world. It is within
your power to——”

“To do what?”

“To make me the happiest woman on earth.”

“How?”

“You know how.”

“Yes, I know how,” he said half sleepily, for already she was looking
into his eyes.

“I have done much for you, after all, Clara,” he said. “It is not every
man who would marry a woman like you. You were a very plain woman before
I gave you the means to dress yourself properly. You are not exactly
plain now. You remind me of a beautiful snake—your head, as you arrange
your hair lately, looks brilliant, but at any moment you may stretch out
a forked tongue and strike, strike death—you give that impression. It is
not a pleasant one, and yet to a certain extent it fascinates. You have
a power of your own, and on many men you can exercise it, but not on me.
I have done much for you. What more do you want? I have given you house,
name, position, unlimited wealth—what more do you want?”

“I want more—a little thing, but of such priceless value!” she said
hungrily.

He was lying back looking up at her. She was making passes across his
forehead.

“I feel strangely sleepy,” he said. “The most delicious sleep steals
over me. It is wonderful! You are a queer creature. What more did you
say you wanted—what is the thing of priceless value?”

“A heart, Luke—yours.”

Tarbot gave a laugh.

“My heart!” he cried. “It is out of your reach—high as the heavens it is
above you, or low as hell beneath you, whichever simile you like best.
It can never be yours. Did you say I should wake in three hours?”

“In three hours,” she answered quietly. “Don’t turn your eyes from
me—keep looking at me.”

“Your eyes are big and bright—wonderfully bright. There is a flash of
sea-green in them. Now, Barbara’s eyes are brown with golden
lights—yours are green and icy cold. How sleepy I feel. No, you will
never have my heart—but folly! I won’t give way to this.”

The next instant his eyes closed, and he was in a sound and childlike
slumber.

Clara looked at him with a grim smile on her face.

“I believe I shall win him yet,” she murmured. “If so, beware, little
Piers Pelham!”




                             CHAPTER XXIII.
                           WITH THE DOCTORS.


Barbara received Mrs. Tarbot’s letter by the first post in the morning.
She read the contents and determined to act on Clara’s counsel at once.
Pelham was just getting up when his wife appeared.

“Dear, how bad you look!” said Barbara, giving him a glance of mingled
apprehension and affection.

“Matters get worse and worse with me, Bab,” he replied. “I sometimes
scarcely know what I am doing.”

“It is all nerves, dear,” she answered.

“If so, do you know a cure?”

“Common sense,” she replied.

“What do you mean, Barbara?”

“What I say. You are very anxious. If your mind were set at rest your
nervous fears would vanish.”

“Ah, but that’s just it. I can’t set my mind at rest. You don’t know
what happened last night.”

He then related his interview with Mrs. Pelham and his further interview
with Tarbot. Barbara listened attentively.

“I know what I would do,” she said suddenly.

“What?”

“You are not satisfied with the death certificate?”

“No.”

“You suspect Dr. Tarbot?”

“Heaven help me, Barbara, I do. I cannot help it. The man is a
scoundrel. I cannot look at him without being assured on that point.”

“I don’t like him,” said Barbara; “but never, no, never for a single
moment, can I think of him as you do. The dear little fellow came by his
death through natural causes—of that I am firmly convinced, but if I
were you, Dick——”

“Yes?” he asked.

“I would go and see the two great consultants who were called in when
little Piers was so ill.”

Pelham gazed at her anxiously.

“That is a capital idea,” he said, and his brow cleared.

“You will act on it, Dick—will you not?”

“I will think about it,” he replied.

“The two great consultants,” she called after him, as he left the room.
“You’ll visit them both. Ask them if their verdict coincides with that
of Luke Tarbot, and then go to the chemist, Dick, and get a copy of the
prescription for yourself.”

“Good, good!” he answered. “You’re a wife in a thousand, Bab.” He kissed
her affectionately.

Pelham felt too much excited to eat any breakfast. He went into the Park
and wandered about until it was late enough to visit Sir Richard Spears.
When at ten o’clock he presented himself at the house of the great
specialist his eyes were gleaming brightly, but the rest of his face
looked haggard. He asked if the doctor was in. The servant replied in
the affirmative. Pelham then inquired if he might see him.

“Have you an appointment, sir?” asked the man.

“No; but, all the same, it is most urgent that I should see him as soon
as possible.” As Pelham spoke he produced his card. The man looked at
it.

“I will inquire if the doctor can see you, sir. You are early, and it
maybe possible that he can give you an interview before his other
patients arrive.”

The man took Pelham’s card into the doctor’s inner sanctum. He soon
reappeared and motioned Pelham to follow him.

Sir Richard Spears had keen eyes. As patient after patient appeared
before him he was wont to give each a quick glance, after which he
scarcely troubled to watch their faces again. In that glance, as a rule,
he found out what was the matter with each of those who came to ask him
for relief.

“A highly disordered nervous condition,” was his comment with regard to
Pelham.

“Sit down. What can I do for you?” he asked.

“You can answer a question,” said Pelham.

“About yourself? You come to me as a patient?”

“In one sense, yes, in another, no. I am very much troubled, and I think
it just possible that you may be able to relieve me.”

“Then yours is a mental case, but——”

“I have come to ask you a question,” interrupted Pelham, “and I am
willing to pay the ordinary fee. Will you answer it?”

“Ask it and then I will tell you,” said the doctor.

“My question is this: You saw little Sir Piers Pelham during his last
illness. You saw him, I am given to understand, in consultation with Dr.
Tarbot of Harley Street?”

“That is so; but this, Sir Richard Pelham”—the doctor glanced at the
young man’s card as he spoke—“this is unusual.”

“It is unusual, and so is my attitude,” replied Pelham. “What I have
come to ask is this: Do you believe that the child’s death was owing to
aortic disease?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Pelham’s brow cleared. He gave a short, quick sigh of relief.

“Why do you ask me?”

“Because I have had my doubts. I have known Piers from a child: he never
showed the slightest symptom of heart disease.”

“That fact has nothing to do with it. Aortic disease may come on
suddenly and—end abruptly. In the case of your young friend it did so. I
am glad to be able to relieve your mind. Yours is a somewhat strange
inquiry, but I have thought it best to answer it.”

“What is your fee?” asked Pelham.

“Nothing, because I have done nothing for you. Good-by. By the way, you
don’t look too well yourself. You ought to have change and rest.”

“I shall be better now,” replied Pelham. He left the house. From Sir
Richard Spears he went to Dr. Williamson. He was also fortunate enough
to see him, and to put to him the same question. The same reply was
vouchsafed. The boy had died from aortic disease. Aortic disease as a
rule ended suddenly.

Dick’s relief was now so manifest in his face that he could almost laugh
aloud. From Dr. Williamson he went straight to the chemist from whom he
had obtained the medicine which had been given to little Sir Piers on
the night of his death. The chemist was willing to give him a copy of
the prescription. Dick knew nothing whatever about medicine, but having
got the copy, he asked the man what each ingredient meant. In some
surprise the chemist answered him.

“This is a very harmless prescription,” he said. “It would have little
effect one way or the other.”

“But the child for whom it was meant,” said Dick, his suspicions
returning in a flash, “required a strong stimulant immediately.”

The chemist shrugged his shoulders.

“I am not prepared to enter into that question,” he answered. “This
prescription is harmless—a little sal volatile, a small dose of
digitalis, etc., etc.”

“Thank you,” replied Dick.

“I am a fool for my pains,” he said to himself. “Tarbot is an honest
man, and the child died from natural causes. I am a fool for my pains.”

He rushed home and burst into the room where Barbara was sitting. His
face was now like sunshine.

“You will have no cause to be miserable again,” he said. “I have taken
your advice. My suspicions have vanished into thin air.”

“Thank God for His mercy!” said the young wife.




                             CHAPTER XXIV.
                       THE LITTLE WOMAN IN BLACK.


About a fortnight after the Pelhams had taken up their residence at
Pelham Towers a little old woman might have been seen making her way
slowly up the avenue. From the lodge gates to the mansion was a distance
of nearly two miles. The little woman as she walked kept muttering to
herself.

“Craft shall meet craft,” she was saying. “Yes, if Clary had confided in
me I wouldn’t ha’ done nothing secret or unbeknown, but as it is, I’ll
just find out for myself what I can. The child’s as good a little lad as
ever walked the earth. He’s all the same to me as if he were bone of my
bone and flesh of my flesh. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. But a
dearie me! I ain’t a-going to be gulled not for nobody, and by Clary
least of all. Haven’t I nursed her and dangled her in my arms and lay
awake with her when she was teething, and is she going to make a fool of
her old mother now? Not a bit of it.

“There’s a mighty secret wrapped up in that little lad, and I’m going to
get to the bottom of it. He never told me—poor darling!—but Clary didn’t
count that he’d talk in his sleep. She gives me three pound a week for
looking after him; s’pose I make her give me ten or fifteen, or s’pose I
tell her that her secret and I ain’t going to be bedfellows much longer.
S’pose I refuse to keep it altogether? Ah, I have Clary in my power.
Fancy me having a woman like that under my thumb! But it is so—it is so.
When she was young she was always one too many for me. Even as a little
tot she would have her own way, and she’d look round at me as spiteful
as you please, and just do the very thing I told her not, but the tables
is going to be turned now, or I’m much mistook. I wish no ill to my own
darter, but I’ll know her secret or my name’s not Sary Ives.”

The little woman walked on as rapidly as she could. She was a smart
little personage and very trim and spruce for her years. It was a windy
day, and her thin skirts were blown about her spare figure. She wore an
old-fashioned poke bonnet, and a black shawl was pinned neatly across
her chest. She looked the very essence of rustic respectability. Her
dress was of black merino, and she had a gay crimson kerchief peeping
out under the shawl; her gloves were of crimson cloth of the same color
as the kerchief. She wore cloth boots with elastic sides, and looked
down at them now and then with complacency.

“Aye, I’m as neat as a new pin,” she said to herself; “and these boots
are as comfortable as can be. Yes, I’ll find out all I can, and I’ll let
out nothing. Now, I wonder who this pretty young miss is a-coming up the
avenue. I’ll bob a curtsey to her leastways.”

A tall girl leading a bicycle and wearing a dark blue serge cycling
dress was seen approaching. A couple of dogs were following her. The
dogs made at once for the old woman, barking loudly as they did so. But
Mrs. Ives was no coward. She dropped two or three curtseys, as was her
manner, first to the lady and then to the dogs. The dogs began to leap
up at her.

“Manners, manners!” she cried to them. “Get down. Call ’em off, please,
missy, call ’em off. I ain’t afeared, for I don’t think they’ll bite,
but I don’t want to be stretched flat on the road. Call ’em off, please,
missy.”

Barbara whistled to the dogs, who immediately bounded back to her. She
drew up before the little woman, who dropped another curtsey.

“Eh, but you’re a pretty gel, and it’s a pleasure to look at you,” said
Mrs. Ives.

Barbara colored.

“I don’t know your face,” she said. “I know most of the people round
here. Are you a stranger?”

“My dearie, that I am, and my name is Ives—Mrs. Ives—at your service.”

“Ives!” said Barbara, feeling puzzled. “Ives—it is an uncommon name,”
she added.

“Yes, my love, but not so uncommon in Cornwall as here. I hail from
Cornwall, missy.”

“I have never been in Cornwall,” said Barbara, “but I understand that it
is a beautiful county.”

“That it is. Eh, but you won’t mind a compliment from an old woman—you
have a sweet face. I like them big brown eyes and that clear sort of
complexion without any freckles. Was you ever troubled with freckles,
dear?”

“No,” replied Barbara.

“Well, there’s a beautiful recipe I has got for getting rid of ’em. It’s
mostly made of buttermilk, but the buttermilk must be fresh. Oh, I beg
your pardon, Miss”—for Barbara was beginning to move on. “I was on my
way to the house to see the lady, the new lady what has got lately
married—Lady Pelham. I want to ask her some questions.”

“I am Lady Pelham,” said Barbara, “so you need not go to the house to
see me. Can I do anything for you?”

“Oh, sakes alive!” Mrs. Ives dropped three or four curtseys in quick
succession. “To think that I should be looking at a real titled dame! It
must be wonderful comfortin’ to be called Lady. Do you like it, my dear
young Miss?”

“Yes,” answered Barbara, who began to be much entertained. “I like to be
called Lady Pelham because I know then that I am my dear husband’s wife.
I love him with all my heart.”

“That’s right, and as it should be,” said old Mrs. Ives in an emphatic
voice. “I like to hear a young lady stand up for her good man. And how
long is you wedded, dear?”

“Not long—not quite two months.”

“Aye, these are early days. You haven’t had your first quarrel, has
you?”

“No; why should I ever have a quarrel?”

“Oh, they come in the best intentioned families—they’re certain to come.
You’ll fret, and you’ll fume, and you’ll say ’ard things to one another,
and you’ll get a little away from each other, but if you’re a sensible
miss, as I take you to be by that glint in your eyes, you’ll come
together again. Things will be all right if you’ll only use common sense
and bear and forbear. That’s it, my dear young lady. Bear and forbear.
That’s what I’d like to say to my darter, who’s lately married, but she
wouldn’t hear it from me.”

“And why should she not hear it from you, for it is excellent advice?”
said Barbara. “But you say you’re a stranger to these parts.”

“I come from the next county, Miss.”

“And you want to say something to me?”

“I thought I’d call in, for I’m sort of curious. Seems to me as I know
your name.”

“I daresay you have heard it before. The Pelhams of Pelham Towers are
well known.”

“In their own county, no doubt,” said the old woman, “but not in mine,
at least, not among the cottagers.”

“But you have heard the name?”

“Aye, and that’s my secret.”

“You look rather fagged with your walk. You must come down to the house
with me and have something to eat. You don’t look too strong.”

“But I am, my dear; I’m as strong as can be. I’ll be seventy my next
birthday. Come November I’ll have done my three score years and ten, but
dear heart, there ain’t no failing about me. I’m a bit withered—ripe, I
tells the child.”

“Oh, you have a child. Is he your own?”

“Not he. He’s a little lad what lives with me. I call ’im my own child,
for I’m fond of him. Yes, I’ll come to the house with you if you like.
I’d be glad of a bite and a sup. Beer is what I takes. I can’t abear
tea—it’s washy stuff.”

“You shall have a glass of beer and some cold meat. Come this way.”

“But you was going for a ride on that wicked-looking machine,” said the
old woman.

“Oh, the ride can keep,” returned Barbara. “I’ll come with you and make
you comfortable.”

As she spoke she turned her bicycle and walked down the long avenue by
the little woman’s side.

“This is a powerful big place,” said Mrs. Ives.

“It is,” answered Barbara.

“Your husband must be a rich man.”

“He is, very.”

“Now, I wonder has you any other places to call your own?”

“I believe we have several.”

“Dear heart! it seems too much for a young couple. You’ll be wore out
with the responsibility of ’em, my deary. You’d ha’ done a deal better
to pray the prayer of Agar and be satisfied with what he asked the
Almighty for.”

“I don’t remember what he wanted at this moment,” replied Barbara with a
smile.

“Oh, my word! you ain’t been brought up proper on your Bible. ‘Give me
neither poverty nor riches,’ was Agar’s cry, ‘and feed me with food
convenient for me.’ I often thought how beautiful was his words, and
when I sees the rich and great of the earth I says to mysel’, ‘Well,
they’re not Agars.’ They might ha’ been Agars if they liked and gave
away some of their property to feed the starving, but they didn’t like
it and they ain’t got the blessing. My deary, I’d like well to see that
husband of yours.”

“If we meet him I’ll introduce him to you.”

“What’s his name, dear?”

“Sir Richard Pelham.”

“Aye, that’s a pretty name; and you’re not married more than two
months?”

“No.”

“I hope you’ll be happy, Lady Pelham, and you has my best wishes. Oh, is
this the house?”

They were turning a corner of the avenue as the old woman spoke, and now
the magnificent old pile, gray with age, appeared in view. Mrs. Ives
dropped a succession of curtseys with great rapidity.

“It’s my way of expressing my feelings,” she said, looking at Barbara.
“It’s a magnificent place, and you must be proud of it.”

“Not at all. Sometimes one feels both pleasure and pain in possessing a
place of this sort.”

“Oh, that’s because you’re young to it,” said Mrs. Ives. “You’ll soon
get accustomed, mark my words. Of course, only being wedded two months,
you naturally feel a bit strange. Perhaps afore you was married you was
a poor girl like my Clary.”

“Clara!” cried Barbara in astonishment. “Clara Ives! Do you mean to tell
me,” she cried excitedly, “that you are the mother of Clara Ives, the
nurse?”

“Same, love, same. She’s my own true darter—a plain girl.”

“And she’s married to Dr. Tarbot?”

“Yes, my dear; like yourself, she’s married riches—from poverty she has
come to great wealth.”

“I was never exactly poor in that way,” said Barbara, who did not care
to have her past compared to that of Clara Ives. “But this is
interesting!” she cried. “You are not like Mrs. Tarbot.”

“Oh, something the same, my dear. I’ve just them sort of crabbed
notions; she was always a crabbed girl, but mortal clever. Well, I was
curious to see the place and now I’ve seen it, and I’m pleased to have
had this talk with you. Now, your husband, he don’t have your feelings,
do he? He’s accustomed to wealth from his birth, ain’t that so?”

“Well, no, that’s the curious part,” said Barbara, who found herself
confiding in this old woman, and not in the least minding the fact that
she was doing so. “Dick, my dear husband, came in for the property
unexpectedly.”

“Indeed, that do sound romantic. Was it a sudden death, a shipwreck, or
a murder, that done it?”

“Oh, no, no, nothing like that—but it was very sad. Mr. Pelham, as he
was then, was very poor, and he loved me well, but we could not marry.
Then his dear little cousin died—such a sweet boy—and Dick became Sir
Richard Pelham.”

“Ah, quite a little child it was who stood in the way and he died?” said
Mrs. Ives.

“Yes,” replied Barbara, “the little boy died.”

“A baby were he, love?”

“Oh, no, not a baby. He was seven years old—such a pretty boy!”

“To be sure now, that was great trouble. And so your husband came in for
the property then?”

“Yes.”

“How long ago, may I ask?”

“Two or three months ago. It all happened unexpectedly. The boy was
never strong—he died of heart disease. By the way,” continued Barbara,
looking full at the old woman, “you must have heard about it, for your
daughter nursed him during his last illness.”

“A mercy me!” said Mrs. Ives. “As if that makes any difference! Clary
talk about her patients to her old mother! Not she. I knows nothing
about it, dear, and I’d like well to hear the story. But your eyes are
full of tears; you look quite sad.”

“I always feel sad when I think of him—dear little Piers!”

“To be sure, to be sure. What was it you called him, love?”

“Piers.”

“That’s an uncommon name.”

“It is, but it has belonged to the family of the Pelhams for
generations. I am sorry Dick is not Piers, although, of course, I like
his own name.”

“I am vastly interested by what you tells me, love. The child must have
been a nice little gentleman.”

“Yes; but I can’t talk of him any more. It makes me too sad. Come this
way, Mrs. Ives.”

Barbara entered the house and took the old woman in the direction of the
housekeeper’s room. The housekeeper’s name was Mrs. Posset. She was very
stout, and she always wore the richest of black silk dresses and the
finest of real lace caps. When Barbara entered she rose and looked with
anything but approval at Mrs. Ives.

“Please, Mrs. Posset,” said Barbara in her kind voice, “will you give
this old lady something to eat? She is tired and has come a long way.”

“Eh, _dear_, what a beautiful dress!” cried Mrs. Ives, dropping a low
curtsey to the housekeeper, who was much more stately in her manner than
Barbara herself.

A little flattery always mollified Mrs. Posset, and she told Barbara
that she would do what was necessary. Accordingly she invited Mrs. Ives
to seat herself, and ringing a bell, the still-room maid appeared.
Directions were given to her, with the result that in about five minutes
a trayful of appetizing viands was brought into the room. The tray was
placed in front of Mrs. Ives, who drew off her crimson gloves,
unfastened her black shawl, and prepared to enjoy herself.

“Eh,” she said, looking up at Mrs. Posset presently, “it’s a mournful
tale.”

“What?” asked the housekeeper.

“That about the little lad who died.”

“I’d rather not talk of it,” said Mrs. Posset. As she spoke her face
began to work—it got crimson, then her eyes filled with tears. She
covered her face and sobbed audibly.

“She do take it to heart. I can pump her a bit,” thought the old woman.
After a moment she said—

“You’re upset, ma’am, and I’m sorry.”

“I am,” said Mrs. Posset. “I loved him as if he were my own. He was a
dear little chap.”

“He must have been, and the young lady what got her husband and the
beautiful place, too, by means of the death, seems mighty troubled, too.
I s’pose he was a handsome little feller?”

“Handsome!” cried Mrs. Posset. “I never saw his like, never. The most
beautiful child you ever set eyes on.”

“Fair, I s’pose? Most of the quality is fair.”

“Not a bit of it. Dark as a raven, black hair, beautiful brown eyes, and
such a complexion. And the manner with him and the loving words, and the
way he’d fling his arms round my neck and say, ‘I love you, Posset.
Posset, have you got a bit of cake for me?’ Oh, he was a darling little
chap!”

“He must have been,” said Mrs. Ives. “It’s afflictin’ to hear you,
ma’am. Maybe you has got his picter? I’d like well to see it.”

“I have got a lovely photograph, but I don’t show it to everybody.”

“Well, then, ma’am, I won’t ask again, and I’m very much obliged for the
nice food and thank you kindly. I sympathize with your grief. I has lost
children of my own, and I know what it means.”

“If you would really like to see the photograph,” began Mrs. Posset, “I
don’t mind showing it to you, for you seem a feeling sort of body.”

As she spoke she crossed the room, opened a chiffonier and took out a
leather case. This she unfastened and laid before the little woman. Mrs.
Ives dropped three or four curtseys in succession, her face turned white
and her lips trembled.

“I thank you, ma’am. It brings the tears to my eyes to see that little
face,” she said.

Then she made a hasty adieu and vanished.




                              CHAPTER XXV.
                    “THERE’S A CRUEL SIN SOMEWHERE.”


On leaving the house Mrs. Ives walked quickly up the avenue. When she
had gone nearly a mile she met one of the under-gardeners. He was
weeding and cutting the edges of the road. As her wont was, Mrs. Ives
dropped a curtsey right in front of him.

“A’ternoon,” she said.

The man looked at her and nodded in reply.

“Fine day,” he said after a pause.

“Yes, fine day,” said Mrs. Ives, “but you might speak to a body. In
Cornwall they speaks to a body when a body curtseys. Isn’t that the
manner with Devonshire folk?”

“I don’t mean to be oncivil,” said the man. “Was there anything you
wanted to ask, ma’am?”

“I’d be obliged if you’d kindly direct me to the family vault,” said
Mrs. Ives.

“What in the name of fortune for?”

“Curiosity, my young lad. If I has a failing it’s unbounded curiosity. I
want to see the place where the little Sir Piers is lying till the trump
of doom.”

“Oh, if you really wish to see the family vault,” said the man resting
on his spade as he spoke, “you just take that turn there to the left and
you’ll find yourself alongside the chapel. There’s a lych gate and a
graveyard all correct and proper. You go through the gate and you’ll see
the vault in front of you.”

“A big vault, I s’pose?” said Mrs. Ives.

“Yes, a big square vault with a stone top. It’s mostly full by now.”

“I don’t want to hear no more,” said Mrs. Ives. “I am curious by natur’,
but I has no taste for the horrors. I’ll be wishing you a good
a’ternoon.”

She dropped another curtsey, and the man touched his hat and went on
with his work.

Mrs. Ives took the next turning to her left. She went down a narrow
path, and presently saw where the old chapel, partly in ruins and partly
well preserved, came into view. In the east portion of the chapel
services could be held, and were held on certain occasions. The old lych
gate was in front of her. She opened it and went through, and then
walked up the path which led to the chapel. The chapel itself was open
and she entered. The walls of that part which were still in preservation
were covered with brasses and monuments, some very old fashioned, some
more modern, but all erected to the praise and glory of the dead and
gone Pelhams. In every direction there were monuments, and as she was
looking some workmen were busy. They saw her and made way for her to
pass. A lovely tablet of the purest white marble was being put up to the
memory of little Piers. Mrs. Ives began to speak to the men, but they
were strangers and did not know anything about the child.

“It seems mortal sad for the young to pass away in their first blush,”
said Mrs. Ives, turning to the head workman.

“It is that, ma’am,” he answered.

“And where is this beautiful monument to be placed, if I may venture to
ask?”

“On this wall, in front of the family pew, just there,” said the man.
“It’s young Lady Pelham has ordered it to be done. She comes to see how
we are getting on every day.”

“Well, it’s a pretty simple design, and no doubt worthy of the lamb
called so early to his rest,” said Mrs. Ives. She dropped another
curtsey, not to the man but to the tablet, and went into the churchyard.
There she found the family vault and stood by it for a time. An old man
who was passing through the graveyard came up to her.

“Now I wonder was you present at the funeral of Sir Piers Pelham?” asked
Mrs. Ives, dropping two curtseys.

“Yes, that I were,” he replied, “and it was the finest funeral we’ve had
for many a day. All the county come, and there was a lot of crying and
sobbing, but it was nothing to what took place that same night.”

“What were that?” she asked. “I like a good story,” she continued. She
slipped her hand into her pocket, produced a shilling, and pressed it
into the man’s palm. He pocketed it with a quick motion and turned and
faced her.

“I don’t mind telling what I know,” he said. “The awful time was when
the heir himself, the new baronet, come back.”

“Sir Richard, you mean?”

“The same. He come that night all alone, and he were in a terrible
state. He went right into the vault. He had a lantern with him, and down
he went, yes down the steps and into the vault. I stood near in the dark
trembling mighty, just ahint that yew tree, but he didn’t notice me. He
went into the vault, and I saw the lantern lighting up the gloom. I
heard him groaning to himself. He was in mortal trouble if ever young
man were.”

“It’s a strange tale,” said Mrs. Ives, “and afflictin’. He must ha’ been
a tender-hearted young man. I’ll wish you a good a’ternoon.”

She left the little churchyard and was soon on the high road. She
reached Haversham station in time to catch her train, and very late the
same night found herself home once more in her little cottage in
Cornwall.

Piers was asleep. As he lay on his small bed, with one arm flung above
his clustering mass of black curls, Mrs. Ives shading a candle, bent
carefully over him.

“The same,” she muttered. “The same shape of face, the true oval, most
aristocratic, the mouth with its dimples and its curves—aye, it takes
quality to make a mouth like that. The brows—I could be romantic over
the brows, they look as if they was Cupid’s bows. I ha’ heard the
expression, it’s poetry and it’s beautiful. The ’air dark and curly and
as soft as silk. Oh, he’s the very same. Clary, what do it mean? what do
it mean?”

The little woman left the boy and went back to her kitchen. There she
sat with her hands folded on her lap and a look of consternation, even
terror, on her small crabbed face.

“What do it mean?” she repeated. “There’s no doubt they ha’ put a coffin
in the vault, but there ain’t no little Sir Piers in it.”

Mrs. Ives’ thoughts were so disturbing that, weary as she was, she did
not care to go to bed. She drew a glass of beer from a barrel in the
corner, drank it off, and after a very long time lay down without
troubling to undress in the room where the boy slept.

Early in the morning he awoke fresh and bright. He scrambled out of bed
and went to the old woman’s side. He then sat on the bottom of the bed
and faced her.

“You’ve come back,” he said. “I’m so glad.”

“I have come back, Piers,” she answered.

“Where were you yesterday, grannie?”

“I went on a long journey into Devonshire.”

“Oh,” said Piers very solemnly, “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Why so, love? Do you object to me going into the next county?”

“I do,” replied Piers, “because——”

“Yes, dear.”

“Oh, I can’t tell you. She’ll be angry.”

“Who, dear?”

“She.”

“Do you mean my darter—Mrs. Tarbot?”

“I do, grannie.”

“Well, whether she’s angry or whether she’s not,” said Mrs. Ives, “I
went sure enough. You sit there on the bed and I’ll tell you a bit of a
story. I went to a beautiful place.”

“Did you?” said the boy. He was trembling and the color was coming and
going in his face. One moment his cheeks were brilliantly red, the next
white. His little hands shook, he locked one inside the other to keep
them still.

“A real beautiful place,” continued Mrs. Ives. “I won’t name no names,
for names is worriting to the young, but I went there and saw a very
lovely young lady.”

“A lovely young lady,” repeated little Piers. “I like lovely ladies. Was
she more beautiful than your daughter, grannie?”

“My darter and she ain’t in the same runnin’. You know how freckled my
poor Clary is, but there weren’t a freckle on her face, bless her, and
her eyes were as brown as hazel nuts and wide open, and with a sparkle
in the middle of ’em.”

“I once knew eyes like that,” said little Piers. “Please don’t say any
more.”

“Why not, love? It was a beautiful place, and she was good to me, and
took me down to the house. Oh, there was a mortal long avenue—two miles,
if you’ll believe me, Piers.”

“Two miles!” said little Piers.

“What’s the matter, dear?”

“Nothing, but your story makes me sad. I once knew an avenue two miles
long.”

“No! did you, love? That’s curious, very.”

“I did,” said little Piers. “You may go on talking if you like,
grannie.”

“I’m glad you’re interested, my hearty, and I’m willing to go on. The
young lady with the pretty brown eyes took me down to the house and I
was took to the housekeeper’s room. Dear heart! the housekeeper was
mortal stout. I don’t believe she’s long for this world.”

Little Piers got crimson.

“She is,” he cried, “she is.”

“She’s not, love. She’s too stout to live.”

“She’s not a bit too stout,” said little Piers.

“Why do you say that, dear? You don’t know her, do you?”

“I won’t say whether I know her or not,” returned the boy firmly, “but
she’s not too stout. She’s a darling. I love her.”

“What’s the matter with you, Piers?”

“I don’t like that story. It reminds me of——”

“Of what, love?”

“My secret. Please don’t tell me any more, grannie.”

“I won’t if it frets you, dear heart. Go and put on your things, and
we’ll both have our breakfast. You must be very hungry.”

“No, I seem to lose hunger when you talk about the house, and the
housekeeper, and the brown eyes of that beautiful, most beautiful girl.”

“Then I won’t say another word. Oh, by the way, they was all in sorrow.”

“Were they? What about?”

“It seems there was a little chap that—but what is the matter, Piers?”

“I won’t listen, I won’t, I won’t,” cried Piers. He clapped his hands to
his ears and rushed out of the room.

“He shall come into his own. There’s a cruel sin somewhere, and Clary is
at the bottom of it,” said Mrs. Ives to herself.




                             CHAPTER XXVI.
                          NOT IN THE BARGAIN.


Nearly a month went by and the time was getting towards Christmas. The
weather in London was bitterly cold. Fogs were frequent, and there was a
good deal of sickness about.

Mrs. Pelham had left town and gone down to Pelham Towers to stay with
the new owner and his wife. She was to spend Christmas with them. Tarbot
had discovered what he considered a specific against influenza and was
specially busy. His wife helped him. She had thrown herself into the
full interest of his work, and was a valuable assistant. He found
himself talking over his cases with her. She gave him many an important
suggestion.

As a competent nurse and even as a friend he began to find her not
disagreeable. Her hopes were high that she might yet win that shriveled
and undeveloped part of him which he called his heart. As illness
increased and the doctor’s time became more and more busy, Clara hoped
against hope that his darling revenge was being put out of sight. With
all her knowledge and all her cleverness, however, she little knew her
man.

Towards the middle of December the influenza began to abate, and on a
certain evening Tarbot came home early, entered his wife’s drawing-room,
and, flinging himself into a chair, looked her full in the face.

“I have earned a holiday,” he said. “It will be possible for me to take
it, and I mean to do so.”

“Indeed!” she replied.

“Yes, I am going into the country.”

“Where to?”

“To Devonshire.”

“To Devonshire,” repeated Clara, sitting upright.

“Yes, to Devonshire. Mrs. Pelham, I understand, is now staying at the
Towers, and I want to see her.”

“What for, Luke?”

He was silent for a moment, staring full into her face.

“I wish to see Mrs. Pelham, Clara, for that purpose which I mean no
longer to delay in putting into execution. I have discovered beyond
doubt that poison was administered to Sir Piers Pelham. The poison,
without question, caused the child’s death. This poison was given by Sir
Richard Pelham, who is now the owner of the property and the reigning
baronet. Mrs. Pelham must know this fact without delay.”

As he spoke Clara rose from her seat and began to pace up and down the
room. She had the lithe, quick movements of the tigress. She was wearing
a dress with a dash of yellow in it. The dress was made of velvet and
clung to her figure, which was lissom and graceful. When her husband
stopped speaking she paused in front of him, her thin hands clasped.

“Why do you talk folly?” she said. “Why do you disguise your intentions
and talk to me as if I did not know?”

“Because I think it best,” he replied. “We never can tell when our words
may fall on other ears. That old proverb about the little bird comes
true now and again, Clara. Understand once for all, that in this matter
I intend from first to last to treat Pelham as if I myself believed in
his guilt.”

“You are intolerable,” she cried, turning away from him. “I cannot work
with you on those terms. If you will be above board, at least with me, I
can then make up my mind whether I go with you or not.”

“Make up your mind whether you go with me or not?” he repeated in
astonishment. “Have you ever had any doubt?”

“Many times,” she answered.

He glanced at her, read something in her downcast face and his own
turned pale. Then starting to his feet he approached her. In an instant
both her hands were in his grasp.

“Did you mean what you said just now?”

She looked up at him. Stout as her courage was, something in his eyes
made her heart quail.

“I didn’t mean it,” she answered.

He dropped her hands and gave a hoarse laugh.

“If you had really meant it I should have killed you,” he replied. “Did
I marry you for you to fail me at the extreme moment? You know the price
you pay for your present position.”

“Aye, Luke,” she replied, “I do know the price, and I’ll pay it gladly
to the last drop of my heart’s blood if only you on your part will
fulfil your side of the bargain.”

“What is that?”

“I want your love and you have never given it to me.”

“That was never in the bargain, Clara.”

“In words it never was, but oh, you must have guessed.”

She suddenly fell on her knees, her hands were clasped together, she
looked up at him imploringly.

“Do you think I would do what I did—that I would make myself a by-word,
a disgrace, one of the cruellest women in existence, if I had not hoped
to win your love? Do you think I would do what I did simply for
position, a fine house, money? You do not know me. Oh, Luke, Luke, give
me what I crave for. Sometimes I think my heart will break. I would
gladly do evil, commit crime for you, but not when you are cold, cold as
ice to me.”

“Get up, Clara,” said Tarbot. “I cannot listen to your words of folly.
As to my loving you, understand once for all that it is absolutely out
of the question. I do what I do because—no, even to you I will not tell
that part. I have my reasons.”

“I wish you would tell me. I would not betray you.”

“I never will tell you. Get up. Cease to talk this folly or I shall
despise you and be even more cold to you than I have been of late.”

Clara rose slowly. Her mad passion was over. Her face was white as
death. She coughed. Her cough was hoarse and hollow.

“You are not well,” said Tarbot. “You ought to do something for that
cough.”

“It is of no consequence, don’t notice it.”

“Well, then, let us return to business. I married you because in no
other way could I get what I wanted. If you fail me now you know the
consequences.”

She did not reply, and he turned on his heel and walked away from her.
When he came back again she had not stirred from her former position;
her hands were still clasped tightly together, her head was bent.

“If you mean to defy me,” said Tarbot, “you had better know the truth. I
can be terrible, cruel, dangerous to those who thwart me.”

“I won’t defy you,” she said then, making a sort of gasping sound as she
spoke. She crouched away from him, and going up to the mantelpiece leant
her elbow on it. Tarbot again paced up and down the room. After a time
he came up to his wife and spoke in his usual tone.

“I go to Devonshire to-morrow. I shall remain there for a day or two.”

“And I?”

“You stay here.”

“Are you going to Pelham Towers?”

“No.”

“Where?”

“I shall put up at the inn at Great Pelham.”

“But the Pelhams will think it strange. They will probably invite you to
stay with them.”

“They may invite, but I shall not accept.”

“What do you mean to do when you go to Devonshire?” said Clara.

“I don’t mind telling you. I shall see Mrs. Pelham and acquaint her with
the discovery I have made with regard to the medicine which was last
given to Piers. She must be the one to deal with the matter. She will
deal with it because I shall force her to, but she must take the
initiative. In all probability she will come back to London, she may
even want to see you. When she comes you will know what to say to her,
Clara. Remember, I trust you. I shall leave here by an early train in
the morning. I am going out now to arrange with my _locum tenens_.”

“Who is he?”

“Dr. Dayrell. He will stay here, and will see my patients until I
return.”

Tarbot left the room, and Clara found herself alone. She still stood
near the fire. Something glittered in her eye. She raised a cobwebby
lace handkerchief to wipe it away—it was a tear. Then she sank into the
nearest chair.

“I have heard the truth at last,” she said to herself. “I shall never
win his love. He has paid me what he considers a good price—he has made
me his lawful wife. To the longest day he lives, unless I die first, I
shall be his wife. He is rich and great, and I can share both his riches
and his greatness, only I never married him for them. He will not
believe me, but it is true. He thinks that for the sake of riches and
greatness I shall be his tool and accomplice, but with all his
cleverness he has not read my woman’s heart. If he loved me I would go
with him wherever he chose to lead, but as he doesn’t love me, I am
undecided—love like mine has been known to change to hate. If such a
thing should happen, Luke Tarbot had better beware.”

She rose from her seat now in her agitation, and as she did so a pang
sharp as a knife went through her chest. She paused as if she were
stricken with death, and her breath came short and sharp. After a moment
she went up to the glass and examined her face carefully.

“Thin, thin to emaciation,” she said to herself. “The bones protrude.
Ah, how ugly I grow! No wonder he cannot love me. And this cough which I
am always trying to suppress, and the burning thirst, and the fever at
night, and the cold sweat—oh, great heaven! I know the truth, but I will
have my fears confirmed, and now at this moment. I will be a coward no
longer. My friend, Dr. Mary Murchison, will tell me the truth, and I
would rather hear it from the lips of a woman than a man.”

Clara left the drawing-room, went to her bedroom, put on her bonnet and
warm mantle, and went out. Walking quickly, she soon reached Dr. Mary
Murchison’s house in Queen Anne Street. The lady doctor was at home, and
when Clara was ushered into her consulting-room came at once to see her.

“Mrs. Tarbot,” she cried, shaking hands with her. “I am glad you have
come, but what can I do for you?”

“I am here on a painful business,” said Clara. “I am, as you know, a
doctor’s wife, but I would rather have the opinion of one who is not
related to me. I have been unwell for some time.”

“You look very bad.”

“My lungs are, I know, affected. Will you tell me how seriously they are
involved?”

Dr. Mary Murchison promised to comply. She brought her stethoscope,
Clara bared her chest, and the doctor listened attentively. After a
moment or two she put down the stethoscope and looked full at Dr.
Tarbot’s wife.

“Well?” said Clara.

Still Dr. Murchison did not speak.

“The truth, please,” said Clara again.

“You are very ill, Mrs. Tarbot.”

“You mean that I am dying?”

“Well, yes, I do mean it. Both your lungs are affected, one extensively,
but both are affected.”

“How long?” asked Clara.

“A few months, not longer.”

“There is no remedy?”

“None.”

“Thank you very much. I must return home now,” said Clara.

“But take care of yourself. You did wrong to come out in the night air.
How mad Dr. Tarbot must be not to have discovered this long ago! He
ought to have sent you to a warmer climate.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Clara. “I thank you for telling me the truth.”

She shook hands with Dr. Murchison and left the house. She had not been
absent from her own house more than half an hour, and as she reentered
the house Tarbot met her.

“You were out,” he said. “Where were you?”

“I went to see my friend, Dr. Mary Murchison.”

“What about?”

“I was asking her advice. I am not quite well, Luke.”

“I have noticed that,” he said slowly. He looked at her with his cruel
eyes. It seemed to her then that they danced as if with malevolent
satisfaction.

“I will speak to you presently about your health,” he said. “You may
want a warmer climate. I have noticed that cough. Don’t go out again at
night—it is unwise. I will have a talk with you when I return from
Devonshire.”

He nodded to her.

She made no answer, but went up-stairs to the drawing-room and sat down
in her chair once more by the fire. Once or twice she coughed feebly;
the cough gave her acute pain, she put her hand to her thin chest; then,
taking up a heavy Oriental shawl she wrapped it round her figure. As she
was doing so, some one tapped her on the shoulder, and she looked up
with a start. Little Mrs. Ives was standing before her.

“Aye, Clary, here I be,” said the little woman. “I know well you didn’t
expect me, and that you didn’t wish me to come, but I’ve kept it to
myself for over a month and I can’t abear it no longer. I told that fine
servant of yours to let me up. I took him by surprise and ran past him
up the stairs. You needn’t glare at me like that, Clary, for here I be
and here I’ll stay till I know the whole truth. Aye, Clary, my girl, I
has found out your secret, and I know the name of the child. He’s Sir
Piers Pelham, the rightful owner of Pelham Towers. I don’t mean to keep
that secret to myself any longer.”




                             CHAPTER XXVII.
                             A BLACK CRIME.


Mrs. Ives’s appearance on the scene roused Clara. She questioned her
mother eagerly. Very soon she had got to the bottom of the old woman’s
knowledge. Mrs. Ives completely exonerated the boy of having broken his
word.

“There’s not a more truthful nor a braver little chap in existence,” she
cried. “He were always a near telling me, dear lamb! The whole thing
worrited him awful, but he never did tell, never. Because he had given
his word to you, Clary, nothing would make him break it. I don’t think
red-hot irons would have wrung the truth from him, but he let it out in
his sleep, bless him. He was restless, he had a bad headache. I gave him
some quieting medicine, and he went to sleep in my arms, and in his
sleep he began to talk and to mention the name of Pelham and Pelham
Towers, and he cried out for some one called Dick and for a young lady
of the name of Barbara.

“You’ll judge it were easy for me to put two and two together after
that. But I thought I’d make certain sure afore I come to you, Clary,
and I did. A month ago I went to Pelham Towers and I saw the young lady,
the baronet’s wife, and I saw the housekeeper. I also saw the family
vault. Dear heart! I heard a mighty piteous story about a coffin being
put in and about one who went into the vault and who mourned as if his
heart were broken. It was a deep plot, Clary, a deep plot, but I ha’
found it out. It ain’t your secret any more. It’s mine now.”

“What do you mean to do?” asked Clara at last.

“Tell me first if it’s true, Clary. I know it is, but I’d like to hear
it from your own lips.”

“Yes, mother, it’s true,” said Clara slowly. “Now I want to know what
you mean to do.”

“I must know all the reasons,” said the old woman.

“I am not at liberty to give you the reasons.”

“But, Clary, my girl, you’ve done an awful thing—something that will
bring you under the power of the law. Am I to stand the disgrace of
having one of my own locked up in one of her Majesty’s prisons and going
through penal servitude, and being spoke of in all the papers? I’m poor,
but I’m honest, and I has a respectable name, and this thing will kill
me, that’s what it will.”

“Well, mother, if you keep the secret the catastrophe you dread will
never happen,” said Clara. “You have only to keep it faithfully, and all
will be well.”

“That’s very fine,” said the little woman; “but the secret worries me.
Why should the boy be cut out of his own?”

“It is absolutely necessary that for the present he must remain unknown
to his relatives,” said Clara. “It is a deep and a dreadful plot,
mother, but it is too late to go back now. I may as well confess that I
am bitterly sorry I ever took part in it.”

“It’s worse than a plot—it’s a black crime,” said the little woman.
“Why, there’s the mother of the boy mourning him as if he were dead, and
there was the old housekeeper crying fit to break her heart, and the
young lady who has come in for all the money, she looked as sad as sad
could be when she spoke of him, and they’re putting up a tablet to him
in the old church. Clary, it’s past bearing. ’Tain’t likely as I’ll keep
it burdening my soul. Even for you I can’t do that.”

“You’ll do great and terrible mischief if you let out what you know,”
said Clara.

“But why did you do it, Clary? ’Pon my word, to think that a girl of
mine should have grown up such a desperate woman. You was always
masterful as a little ’un, but I didn’t think you’d stoop to open
sin—the sort of sin, that means, to be tried and put in prison. Why,
it’s very near murder. What do it all mean, Clary?”

“It means something dreadful,” said Mrs. Tarbot; “but I have put my hand
to it, and it is too late to turn back now.”

“But why did you do it?”

“Look at me, mother.”

“I do look at you. I’m a-staring at you, and I don’t think you look at
all well. You’re drawn and pale in the face past knowing. It’s ugly to
see the skin stretched as tight as that. To be sure, you has a beautiful
dress on, far too grand for my taste—it looks something like a snake’s
skin. Why on earth did you choose that color? Oh, dearie me, Clara, I
wouldn’t know you. I never did think you’d grow up so wicked. It’s a
pity the good God didn’t take you when you was so bad with the croup
that time, when you was a little mite. Oh, I prayed mighty ’ard that you
might be spared, but I wish now to my heart that I hadn’t.”

“There’s no good in regretting the past, mother. I am as I am. I don’t
pretend to be a good woman.”

“No, that you ain’t. You’re a rare bad ’un. I wish I’d never brought you
into the world. It’s terrible to think what you ha’ done—it’s terrible.”

The poor old lady began to sob; she was shaken to her very depths.
Presently she raised her trembling old hand, and laid it on her
daughter’s cold fingers.

“Give it up, Clary,” she said. “Confess your sin, and give it up.”

“I cannot do what you want, mother.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I cannot.”

“You haven’t told me yet why you done it at all.”

“Very well, I’ll tell you. I suppose I was mad at the time. Mother, did
you ever love anybody?”

“Did I ever love anybody? Lawk a mercy! to be sure I did. I loved your
poor father, and I loved my children when they come, and I love you now,
though you are such a bad ’un, and I love that little chap. What does
this mean?”

“I want you to consider, mother. The sort of love you’re speaking about
is not what I mean. When you were engaged to my father, and when you
married him, did you ever feel that you would have committed even a
crime if he wanted it, just because you loved him so well?”

“A mercy me! no,” said the little woman. She rose now and dropped a
curtsey. “My word! you are upsettin’, Clary. To be sure I loved Thomas.
He was a good man when he wasn’t in his tantrums, but as to committing a
crime for him, no, no, nothing of that sort. I wouldn’t have sinned for
him, not I.”

“Then you don’t understand anything about desperate, passionate love,”
said the younger woman. “You don’t understand the love I feel. I love
Luke, for years I have loved him. What I did was my one and only chance
of winning him.”

“Then you’re a greater fool than I gave you credit for,” said the old
woman. “It’s all past bearing, and I don’t think I can keep the secret
any longer.”

“Sleep over it, mother,” said Clara. “You are tired. I will get you a
room ready for you.”

“Oh, I’d be frightened to sleep in this grand house. I’ll go out and get
a lodging near by.”

“No, you won’t. I won’t have it said that I turned my own mother out of
doors at this hour. You must sleep here. Come, I’ll take you up-stairs.”

“You are as masterful as of old, Clary; but, dear heart, I don’t like
sleeping in a house of this sort. However, as it’s late, and if you
promise to give me the smallest room and the plainest you has, I’ll
stay.”

“Yes; I can give you a nice little dressing-room beyond mine, with a
snug bed in it. I’ll have a fire lit.”

“Sakes alive! don’t give me a fire in my bedroom. I hates ’em past
bearing, they’re not healthy.”

“Very well, mother, just as you please, but it’s late now, and you must
rest.”

Clara took her mother up-stairs, gave her every requisite for the night,
and left her. Then she went to her own room. Prepared as she supposed
herself to be for every possible emergency, it had not occurred to her
that her mother would first discover her secret and then refuse to keep
it.

She knew that the present danger was great. Whatever she herself might
resolve to do in the future it would never, never do for her mother to
forestall her. The child must be removed from the old woman, and if Mrs.
Ives did not promise to respect Clara’s secret she would have to be
deprived of her liberty. To do this was no easy matter.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII.
                           THE “PELHAM ARMS.”


On the following morning at an early hour Tarbot, knowing nothing of the
arrival of Mrs. Ives, went down to Devonshire. He left the train at the
little station of Haversham, and, taking a trap, drove straight to the
“Pelham Arms” in the village of Great Pelham, which went by this name in
contradistinction to Little Pelham, which was four miles distant at the
other side of Pelham Towers.

Having secured the best room which the “Pelham Arms” boasted of, Tarbot
proceeded to make himself comfortable. He ordered a good dinner,
unpacked his traps, and then took a stroll to reconnoiter the place. He
knew Pelham Towers well, having been there in his boyhood, and he wished
now to revisit his old haunts, and prepare for the campaign which he had
set himself.

As he was returning to the inn, just as the dusk was falling, a carriage
passed him. The occupants of the carriage were Barbara and Mrs. Pelham.
There was still light enough for them to recognize him. Barbara desired
the carriage to stop, and Tarbot went up to speak to the two ladies.

“What are you doing here?” asked Barbara.

“I have come down on special business,” he replied. “I have a matter I
want to consult you about,” he added, looking full at Mrs. Pelham.

“Certainly,” she answered.

Then Barbara spoke.

“Why did you not tell us, Dr. Tarbot? We could have put you up at the
Towers.”

“Thank you,” he replied; “but I have taken a very comfortable room at
the ‘Pelham Arms.’”

Barbara paused for a moment. She did not like Tarbot, and was sorry he
had come to Great Pelham, but as he was there she felt she must be civil
to him.

“You will dine with us to-night?” she said, bending out of the carriage
as she spoke and looking at him.

He glanced full up into her lovely eyes. Her face caused his heart to
beat wildly.

“I will come,” he said in a hoarse voice.

Barbara could not but observe his agitation. She repented of having
asked him.

“We dine at seven,” she said coldly, falling back into her seat as she
spoke. “We shall expect you at that hour.”

He answered in the affirmative, and the carriage bowled rapidly away.

With his heart still beating faster than usual, the man returned to the
inn. The moment had come for him to strike his great blow, but the look
in Barbara’s eyes disarmed him. After all, he need even now do nothing.
In his hand lay potent and terrible possibilities—the power to quench
the happiness in those eyes, the power to drive that young heart to the
verge of madness. After all, Pelham was only the instrument with which
he (Tarbot) should strike at Barbara’s heart. If only even now she would
be kind to him—a little kind—he might reconsider the situation; but then
he began to say to himself that she had never been unkind, never since
he had known her. It had always been her way to be gentle and sweet, she
was that to all the world. He did not want her sweetness; her
indifference nearly maddened him—she was sweet because she was
indifferent. He would rather have her hatred than her indifference. Yes,
hatred was better than the condition which means neither love nor hate.
When he did what he meant to do, she would hate him. In all the future
of her life he would stand before her as a monster who had dragged her
husband to disgrace, ruin, and death.

Yes, better that feeling than the present. The time would come when she
would plead with him. To see her at his feet pleading, imploring,
beseeching of him to withhold his hand—ah, then indeed his revenge would
be accomplished. His heart quickened, he felt happy, at being so far
away from Clara. When he thought of Clara his determination not to spare
Barbara grew and intensified in force. Had he not married Clara in order
to promote his vengeance? If Barbara had married him, as he had once
told her, he would have been a good man. She had rejected him, and he
was a bad one. On her own head the blame must fall.

He wandered about, too restless to go indoors, too restless to accept
the invitation of the jolly landlord of the “Pelham Arms” to go into the
bar parlor and have a smoke, too restless to do anything but long
intensely for the moment when he might go up to the Towers and look at
Barbara.

The time flew by, the hour arrived. He dressed with care. He put a light
overcoat over his evening suit and walked the short distance from the
“Arms” to the Towers. He arrived at the old place a few minutes before
seven o’clock. He was shown at once into the rose drawing-room, a lovely
apartment with oriel windows of colored glass fashioned in the shape of
roses. The rose drawing-room opened into wide conservatories, the doors
of which were unclosed, and the scent of many exotics filled the
beautiful room.

Barbara, in a dress of white silk, stood near the hearth. Neither Pelham
nor Mrs. Pelham had yet made their appearance. Barbara came a step
forward when Tarbot entered.

“How is your wife?” she asked. She could scarcely have made a remark
more displeasing to Tarbot. He frowned and bit his lips, then he
answered shortly:

“My wife is well, thank you.”

“Do you intend to make a long stay in Devonshire?” was Barbara’s next
commonplace remark.

He answered that circumstances would decide that. Just then Mrs. Pelham
came into the room, followed by Dick. Dinner was announced, and the
party went into the dining hall. The meal was a subdued one. Pelham’s
antipathy to Tarbot made itself felt. Notwithstanding all his efforts,
he could not be cordial to his unwelcome guest. The men remained for a
short time over wine, and joined the ladies soon afterwards in the
drawing-room. The moment they did so, Barbara went up to her husband,
slipped her hand inside his arm, and led him into the conservatory.
Tarbot had hoped to have a few moments’ conversation with her. He bit
his lips as he saw what this movement meant.

“She hates me; she cannot bear even to give me ordinary civilities,” he
said to himself. “So much the better for my purpose.”

The next instant he found himself in a low chair by Mrs. Pelham’s side.

“You said you wished to see me, Dr. Tarbot,” she said.

“I do,” he replied. “I am anxious to have an interview with you on a
matter of grave importance.”

“Your looks frighten me,” she said. “What can be very important to me
now?”

“What I am about to tell you will be of the greatest importance. What
time to-morrow can we have our interview?”

“Whatever time will suit you, Dr. Tarbot. Your time is mine. I am not
specially engaged in any way. It is true that Barbara wants me to go
with her to Exeter to choose presents for the villagers’ Christmas tree,
but there is no special hurry, and we can postpone our visit. I shall be
at your disposal. Will you come here at eleven o’clock?”

“Would it be possible for you to come to me?”

“Why?”

“I have reasons which you will appreciate.”

“Certainly, if you wish,” she replied.

“I can secure a sitting-room where we can be quite alone at the ‘Pelham
Arms.’ May I expect you at eleven o’clock to-morrow?”

“Yes,” replied the widow.

At that moment Barbara and Pelham entered the room. Barbara sat down at
the open piano and began to sing. She sang several times, and her voice
was rich, full, and pleasing. Dick went and stood by her side. Between
the songs he and she spoke together in low tones, just as if they were
lovers. Presently Tarbot, making an effort, went up and joined the
group. He could talk well, and he exerted himself now to be agreeable.
Presently his efforts met their reward. Barbara ceased to distrust him.
He spoke of people and matters which only Londoners would appreciate.
Barbara asked questions, put in suggestions, and enjoyed the doctor’s
clever epitome of society gossip.

Dick scarcely spoke. He was never much of a talker, and his dislike to
Tarbot increased moment by moment. Once more the old suspicions returned
to him. Had the child come by his death through natural causes? Pelham
had to remind himself of what the two great consultants and the chemist
had said before his usual equanimity reasserted itself.

Soon after ten o’clock Tarbot took his leave. He shook hands first with
Barbara, then he went up to Mrs. Pelham.

“I shall expect you to-morrow,” he said.

“I shall be with you at eleven o’clock,” she replied. He then left the
room, Dick accompanying him as far as the hall door.

The moment Barbara and Mrs. Pelham were alone Barbara spoke.

“I am glad that is over,” she said.

“Why do you dislike him, Barbara?”

“I cannot explain what I feel about him,” said Barbara impatiently. “By
the way was he making an appointment with you? I thought we were to go
to Exeter to-morrow.”

“I hope, dear, that you will not mind putting off the expedition until
Friday, or, if that is very inconvenient, will you go without me?”

“Of course I will put it off if there is any good reason for it,” said
Barbara. “We can go on Friday quite as well as to-morrow.”

“Dr. Tarbot wants to leave for London on Friday morning,” said Mrs.
Pelham, “and as he wishes to see me on a matter of business I appointed
to-morrow at eleven o’clock.”

“Well,” said Barbara, tapping her fingers lightly on the mantelpiece,
“we must ask him to lunch, I suppose. I frankly confess that I shall be
glad when he goes.”

“I fear he must have guessed your feelings towards him, for he refuses
to come here. He has asked me to meet him at the ‘Pelham Arms.’”

Barbara said nothing further, for at that moment her husband reentered
the room.

The next day at the appointed hour Mrs. Pelham put on her things and
prepared to walk to the “Pelham Arms.” Pelham met her in the avenue and
asked where she was going.

“To the ‘Pelham Arms,’ to meet Luke Tarbot.”

“Why doesn’t he come here?” said Pelham. “He ought not to order you
about in that style.”

“He didn’t order me, Dick. I invited him here, knowing that you and
Barbara would give me free leave to do so.”

“Of course,” said Pelham.

“But he preferred seeing me at the ‘Arms,’ and as I had no excuse to
offer, I of course agreed. I shall be back before long. Good-by.”

“Won’t you have the carriage?” called Dick after her.

“No, it is a lovely morning, and I shall enjoy the walk.”

Mrs. Pelham reached the “Pelham Arms” at three minutes to eleven. Tarbot
was waiting for her, he was standing on the steps, a cigar in his mouth.
When he saw her he threw away the cigar and came forward to meet her.
His face was white, his lips looked thinner than ever, and his eyes had
a strained expression.

“I have secured a private sitting-room,” he said; “we shall be quite
undisturbed. Come this way.”

Mrs. Pelham wondered what Tarbot wanted with her, and what news could
affect her seriously now that the child was dead; she felt distressed
and nervous.

Trembling a little, she followed the doctor into a small room, at the
back of the bar. It smelt of cheese and stale beer. Tarbot went to the
window and threw it open. There was a fire in the grate.

“That makes the atmosphere more tolerable,” he said. “I am sorry I could
not invite you to a nicer room.”

“The room matters nothing,” said Mrs. Pelham. She untied her cloak as
she spoke and threw back the crêpe strings of her bonnet. Her crêpe veil
was up, her face looked pallid and her dark eyes full of apprehension.

“What is it, Luke? This mystery unnerves me.”

“I have some painful news to give you,” he said; “the best way is to
tell you quite simply what I have discovered.”

“What is that?”

“You remember that I asked you to let me have the bottle which contained
the medicine little Piers took just before he died?”

“I remember quite well, and you took all the medicine bottles away. You
said you wanted to work up your case. What is it, Luke, what is the
matter?”

“Something very grave has happened,” he replied. “I have hesitated for
some weeks to tell you. The fact is, I have known this for over a month;
my wife also knows it, for I had to confide in her. For a time I thought
I would keep the whole matter to myself, but I found that my conscience
would not rest. It seems to me you ought to know, that you are the one
to decide. The thing haunts me. I can bear it no longer. That is the
reason why I could not come to Pelham Towers to talk the matter over
with you, for it concerns—Richard Pelham.”

“But what is it, Luke? I wish you would speak out. I hate people to beat
about the bush. You have discovered something in the bottle of medicine.
By the way, Dick was very queer when he spoke about that medicine.”

“No wonder,” said Tarbot. “He came to you about it, then? Yes, I
remember, he told me so.”

“He did. He said he wanted to get the medicine analyzed. It was a
strange wish of his, and it puzzled me at the time. Just as if the dear
child had come by his death by foul means! Luke, what is it?”

Mrs. Pelham had been seated. Now she stood upright, for something in the
face of the doctor had overbalanced her self-control. Holding out both
her hands, she clasped those of Luke Tarbot.

“Sit down; control yourself,” he said. “I have bad news. I analyzed the
medicine. I found hyocene in it.”

“Hyocene? What is that?”

“A deadly poison.”

“Luke!”

Mrs. Pelham had a dim feeling that the curtain was going to be lifted
from something awful; the room seemed to go round. She raised her hand
and passed it across her brows.

“I cannot see,” she cried. “The room is very hot.”

“I will open the window wider; take this chair. You will understand what
I have told you in a moment.”

She did not speak, but, sinking back into the chair, closed her eyes.
Tarbot flung the window wide open, poured out a glass of water and
brought it to her.

“You will recover in a moment,” he said. “I knew it would be a terrible
shock, and I felt that it was best for you to see me here and alone.”

“Tell me again,” she said after a moment. “There was in that
medicine—what?”

“Hyocene.”

“And that is?”

“A deadly poison.”

“And the child took it?”

“Yes.”

“But who put it there, Luke; who put it there?”

“Mrs. Pelham, that is the question which in my opinion the law must
decide. One thing at least is clear—the man who gave the boy his first
and last dose out of that bottle was Richard Pelham.”

“No,” said the widow. She clasped her hands before her face.
“Impossible!” she cried. “You cannot mean it. Dick! Dick give poison to
my boy! No, no!”

“It is true,” said Tarbot. “You must nerve yourself to meet the truth.
The boy has to be avenged. I can stand the secret no longer—I had to
tell you. Sir Richard Pelham gave him the dose.”




                             CHAPTER XXIX.
                        CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE.


After an hour of earnest whispered conversation Mrs. Pelham rose.

“I cannot return to the Towers,” she said.

“Why not? Your absence will look strange.”

“I cannot help it. It is impossible for me to face either Barbara or
Dick. I shall go to London with you.”

Tarbot considered for a moment. It had not occurred to him that Mrs.
Pelham would do this, but after a little thought he considered it a wise
step.

“Very well,” he said. “I am not greatly surprised; but what about your
things?”

“I will send a note to my maid. She will pack them and follow me this
evening. I will go to town with you, Dr. Tarbot. When does the next
train start?”

Tarbot sent for a time-table. The next train would leave Haversham
within an hour.

“You must have some lunch before you start, and then we will drive over
to the station,” he said.

Mrs. Pelham bowed her head in acquiescence. Her face looked gray and her
eyes strained, and there was a tense expression about her lips as though
she were keeping her self-control with a mighty effort.

When the lunch was brought in she managed to eat a little, schooling
herself to do so. Then a trap was found, and the pair drove to the
station. Mrs. Pelham had written a brief note to Barbara and also one to
her maid. In Barbara’s letter she had simply said—

“Unexpected news obliges me to hurry to town. Will write more fully on
my arrival.”

When they got to the station Tarbot took a first class ticket for
himself and another for Mrs. Pelham. He tipped the guard to reserve the
carriage, and they traveled up to London alone. Just as they neared the
metropolis Mrs. Pelham bent forward and touched Tarbot’s hand with her
fingers.

“I have made up my mind,” she said. “I will avenge the death.”

“I am glad of it,” said Tarbot. “I thought you would feel so and act so.
I knew there was no other course open to you.”

“I have not the least idea how to proceed,” continued Mrs. Pelham, “but
I shall not rest day or night until Richard Pelham is arrested. I have
thought over all that you have told me, and the evidence seems
conclusive. Dick’s gloom, his unaccountable and strange misery, all that
took place immediately after the death of the child, can only be
accounted for in the one way. It is fearful; but there is not the
slightest doubt that the circumstantial evidence against Dick is of the
strongest nature. Yes, I must take the necessary steps to bring him to
justice, and at once.”

“You are doing the right thing,” said Tarbot. “A life for a life,
remember. You have the authority of Scripture for what you are about to
do.”

Mrs. Pelham shivered and covered her face with her hands.

“I loved him well,” she continued. “This very morning as I sat by his
side at breakfast I noticed how kind he looked. Dr. Tarbot, are you sure
of what you are telling me?”

“I am certain. The circumstantial evidence is so strong that it will
hang him.”

“Great Heaven! If Dick dies by the hand of the hangman I believe I shall
go mad. I feel almost as if he were a son to me.”

“Think what he did, and your feelings will alter.”

“That is true. I hate him already. Oh, my heart is torn.”

“You will be better when you have done what is right,” said Tarbot. “He
will hang for this.”

As the man spoke his lips slowly moved apart. A diabolical smile flitted
across his face.

“You will guide me,” said Mrs. Pelham. “You will tell me what steps to
take?”

“No, I must not do that. You must consult your own lawyer.”

“What, Mr. Carroll? He was one of dear little Piers’s guardians.”

“Carroll is a barrister, is he not?”

“Yes.”

“You must put your affairs into the hands of an able solicitor.
Doubtless, Carroll will tell you the right man.”

Mrs. Pelham was silent.

“When we reach town you had better go straight to Carroll and ask his
advice. He will tell you the proper man to employ. You must have a very
smart criminal solicitor. If possible, you had better instruct
Wilkinson. You must have a criminal barrister also—Chartris is your
man.”

“Is all this necessary?”

“Indispensable.”

“Then I will go to Mr. Carroll when I get to town.”

“Do so. Carroll will give you all the necessary counsel. Pelham ought to
be arrested as quickly as possible.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Pelham clasped her hands together convulsively.

“I have come up to town for no other purpose,” she continued. “I shall
not rest day or night until my darling’s most cruel murder has been
avenged.”

“When you speak like that you act as a brave and noble woman. A life for
a life, remember. I will be your friend through all.”

“Thank you.”

The train arrived at Paddington. Tarbot saw Mrs. Pelham into a cab, and
the driver was desired to go straight to Carroll’s chambers in Holles
Street.

Carroll happened to be in, and he saw Mrs. Pelham at once. Her agitation
and the strained look on her face frightened him. He asked her to sit
down, and questioned her eagerly as to what was the matter.

“I have come to consult you about the most awful matter,” she said.

“What is it, Mrs. Pelham? What can possibly agitate you to such a
fearful extent?”

“It is something that Luke Tarbot has just told me. On hearing the news
I came to town. Luke Tarbot has discovered that my child, my little
Piers, came by his death by the administration of a most subtle poison.
An awful stuff called hyocene was put into his medicine.”

“Impossible!” said Carroll. “Who has told you this?”

“Dr. Tarbot. For some reason he had his suspicions, and he analyzed the
medicine.”

“But Tarbot was the doctor who attended the case. He ordered the
medicine to be given himself. The man must be mad.”

“He says the hyocene must have been put into the medicine after it
arrived from the chemist’s. But the terrible fact that I am coming to is
this. Dr. Tarbot says that Dick did it.”

“Richard Pelham!” cried Carroll. “Richard Pelham try to murder Piers!
Impossible, monstrous! My dear madam, you are the subject of a terrible
hallucination.”

“I wish I were.” The poor woman clasped and unclasped her hands. Her
face was full of terror and distress.

“It is true,” she repeated. “I could not believe it myself at first, but
I do now. The circumstantial evidence is fearfully strong, and it is all
against Dick. I must prosecute him. My child’s death must be avenged. I
have come to town for the purpose.”

“Where is Tarbot? When did he bring you this cock-and-bull story?”

“It is not a cock-and-bull story. You may think so at first, but you
will not when you know all. Dick was in a fearful state after the
death—his agitation was unnatural. It points strongly to his guilt.”

“Not to those who know the man,” said Carroll.

“I should be more than thankful if anybody could clear him,” replied
Mrs. Pelham, “but at present I think, nay, more, I am certain he is
guilty.”

“You are overwrought, and no wonder,” said Carroll kindly. “Of course, I
will look into this matter. You must leave it to me. Will you stay here
while I interview Tarbot?”

“You will find him at his house in Harley Street. Yes, I will remain
here until you return.”

“That is good. I will order the servants to bring you some refreshment.
You must have something, it is necessary for you to husband your
strength. I will be off at once now to Tarbot and then return to you.”

Carroll left the room. He was absent nearly an hour. At the end of that
time he came back, and his face was very grave.

“I saw Tarbot,” he said, “and he has certainly confided a strange tale
to me. I don’t even now believe in Dick’s guilt; but you are right, Mrs.
Pelham—the circumstantial evidence is terribly strong. Have you quite
made up your mind to prosecute?”

“I have. Can I allow the child’s death to be unavenged?”

“I have not a word to say if such is your wish. I will take you now to a
solicitor whom I know.”

“Dr. Tarbot wishes me to consult a solicitor of the name of Wilkinson.”

“He is a smart man, but I think I prefer Cornish. John Cornish is very
just, and has had a vast amount of criminal practise.”

“Just as you please, Mr. Carroll. I will put myself into your hands.”

“Then we’ll go to Cornish. I will have a hansom whistled for, and we’ll
drive there at once.”

Mrs. Pelham rose. In a few moments’ time the pair were driving in the
direction of Cornish’s chambers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. They found him
at home. Carroll had a brief interview with the lawyer first; afterwards
Cornish saw the widow and took her instructions.

“I will get a warrant immediately from the magistrate of the district
where the child died,” he said. “Sir Richard Pelham will be arrested
early to-morrow morning.”




                              CHAPTER XXX.
                               THE BOLT.


It wanted now but three days to Christmas, and Pelham and his wife were
very busy. They were happy in their new life, and all Pelham’s
suspicions had rolled away like a cloud on a summer’s morning. He was
sorry for Piers, sorry for the child’s early death, but his own life now
fully occupied him.

Pelham was a good fellow. He was married to the girl he loved. Day by
day he saw more of the charm and beauty of her character—she was all
his. To pour his riches at her feet, to surround her with glory and
honor were his delight. Yes, he would live a good life, the best life of
all, for the sake of his tenantry and for the sake of Barbara.

Mrs. Pelham’s message and her sudden departure puzzled the young couple.

“What can it mean?” said Barbara. “Mrs. Pelham was not going to leave us
until long after Christmas. My mother arrives to-morrow. What can be the
matter?”

“She doubtless had her reasons,” said Pelham. “She will write and tell
you when she gets to town.”

“I wonder what Dr. Tarbot really wanted with her?” continued Barbara.

Pelham drew his wife to his side.

“Don’t let us talk about Tarbot,” he said.

“Why so?”

“I dislike the man so cordially. What about that Christmas tree?”

Barbara brightened up.

“I shall go into Exeter to-day,” she said, “and I will buy the things
necessary for the tree there. Will you come with me, Dick?”

“I cannot. I have to see Manson about the lease for the South Meadow
Farm. It is a lovely day, and you may as well drive over to Exeter. The
horses are eating their heads off, and a long run will do them good.”

The pair had this conversation in their room before they went down to
breakfast. On the breakfast table several letters awaited them. Amongst
others was one from Mrs. Evershed. In this she announced her intention
of arriving at Pelham Towers by a certain train in the afternoon.

“I did not know that mother would choose that train,” said Barbara. “As
that is the case, Dick, I will go to Exeter by train, for I can just fit
things in, and return in time to join mother at Haversham station. We
will then drive home together.”

“Very well, dear, as you like.”

“I shall buy quite a cartload of things,” said Barbara, laughing as she
spoke. “I want this Christmas tree to be the best the children have ever
seen. You may as well select a fir tree for the purpose when you take
your rounds this morning, Dick.”

“All right,” he answered.

Barbara having finished her breakfast went to the window.

“How lovely things are looking!” she said. “But it is cold. I should not
be surprised if we had a fall of snow.”

Pelham joined his wife at the window. A fairer scene could scarcely be
found in the length and breadth of England. The place was covered with
hoar frost, the rolling lawns were skirted by great forest trees, there
was a lake in the distance, and a range of low-lying hills stood out
against the horizon. The high road wound like a white ribbon through the
heart of the landscape. There was a peace and a great silence over the
scene. A robin was hopping about on a bough near by looking for his
breakfast. Barbara opened the window and threw out some crumbs.

“It is all lovely, lovely,” she said. “Don’t forget about the tree this
morning, Dick. Let it be a right royal one for the sake of dear little
Piers. I am going to give the Christmas tree in his memory, and I mean
to talk about him to the children.”

Pelham said nothing, and a thoughtful look passed over his face. For a
moment his eyes became full of gloom, but Barbara was too happy in her
own reflections to notice this.

“Good-by, dear,” she said. “I must hurry off. I have to give some
directions about mother’s room, and I shall try to catch the 11.10
train.”

She ran out of the room singing a light song under her breath. Dick
Pelham stood for a moment where she had left him. Then, whistling to his
dogs, he went out.

For the rest of the morning many duties kept him busy, for he was an
ideal landlord, and looked into the smallest details himself, but he
found time to see Barbara off on her expedition to Exeter. She was to
drive to the station, about four miles away.

“God bless her!” said Pelham as he watched the ponies, with their
ringing bells, trot down the avenue and then disappear from view. His
dogs still following him, he sauntered down the avenue. He was to meet
his steward within an hour, but there was still plenty of time. He had
gone about a hundred yards when an old man was seen hobbling up the
drive.

“Well, Crayshaw, and what do you want?” said Dick, pausing in his walk.

The old man gazed up at him with bleared and red eyes.

“You’ve got over it, and I’m glad,” he remarked.

“Got over it! Got over what? What do you mean, my good fellow?”

“It’s nigh upon the blessed Christmas, the birth of Christ, and I want
to unburden my soul. I listened when I ought not.”

“You listened! What do you mean?”

“I saw you, Sir Richard, that night you went down into the vault, the
night the child was buried. I saw you, and what’s more, I heard you. You
was ter’ble upset. For a man who had just come in for a title and a lot
of money, you was upset past natural. Yes, yes. I saw it and I heard,
and I want to unburden my soul now. You was ter’ble upset, Sir Richard.”

Pelham colored with annoyance.

“Where did you say you were?” he asked after a pause.

“Just ahint the old yew tree. Oh, I never told, never except once, and
that to an old woman, a strange old body who didn’t know these parts.
She come here a month back. I told her and she was ter’ble interested.
It was wonderful for a man like you to go right down into the vault, and
then to groan. Your groans down there was enough to turn a body’s head.
I won’t deny that the frights didn’t take hold of me, for they did, and
I run home with my hands to my ears and trusting that none of the
sperrits of the dead and gone Pelhams would come after me. But you’re
better now, you’re all right now. You has accepted your riches in a
thankful sperrit, and that’s as it ought to be.”

“Yes, things are as they ought to be,” said Pelham after a pause. “See,
here, Crayshaw, don’t talk about this matter. I will own that I was much
upset that time. Here’s a sovereign for you. You understand what I mean,
Crayshaw—keep your own counsel.”

“A word to the wise is allers enough,” mumbled the old man out of his
almost toothless gums. He clutched hold of the sovereign and slipped it
into his pocket. As he hobbled away he said to himself—

“Seems to me this ’ere secret of mine is going to become valuable. I got
a shilling from that old woman, and here’s a sovrin now from the
guv’nor. I’ll make use of this secret seems to me.”

He hobbled away to find the nearest public-house, in order to spend a
portion of the money. As he sipped his mug of beer he nodded
mysteriously to his companions and told them that he had suddenly
discovered a little mine of gold, but he did not tell them what it was;
he only excited their curiosity to a considerable extent.

As the old man disappeared up the avenue Pelham turned to the left. He
did not know himself why he did so, but the old man’s words had
disturbed him and brought back some of the melancholy which had caused
his early married days to be so miserable.

“What a fool I was!” he said to himself. “It was really a case of
nerves, for if ever a man was possessed of a mad frenzy to his own
undoing, I was that fellow. I felt certain when I went down into that
vault that a murdered child lay there. The thought maddened me. Money
was nothing to me, even Barbara did not seem of the slightest
consequence. To win her was little to me then. I was full of the one
sole maddening fear that Piers had come by his death by foul means. But
those two great consultants in London set me straight, and the chemist
finished the business. It is odd though that I still distrust Tarbot.

“What did he come sneaking down here about, and why did Mrs. Pelham go
off to town so suddenly? I hate the man still and I distrust him more
than ever. He would do me a mischief if he could—not a doubt of that. By
the way—I am sorry old Crayshaw heard me groaning in the vault.” Dick
paused in his rapid thoughts to go up to the tomb of his ancestors and
bend over it. “By the way,” he considered, “Barbara wishes to have the
service in the chapel on Christmas Day. I may as well look in and see if
it is all right.”

He entered the chapel, the door of which stood open, and went and stood
under the tablet. He read the inscription to little Piers. It was a
simple one, and a suitable verse of Scripture was engraved under it. He
turned on his heel and went out.

In spite of himself, and very much to his own wonder, he found little by
little his good spirits slipping away from him. He could not account for
this, but he had to admit that it was the case. He entered the little
churchyard, and crossed again to where the gloomy vault of the Pelhams
stood.

“What a hideous place!” he said to himself. “How improved are the modern
ideas with regard to burial!”

As he stood close to the vault, with his hand resting on the stone which
contained inscriptions to his dead and gone ancestors, he thought again
of that night of terror when he had gone down the steps and passed the
gloomy portals. He remembered the look of the place as the lantern threw
its strong light upon it, the coffins ranged on their shelves, some on
the floor. He remembered that he had trampled on the rotten boards, some
of which creaked under his weight. Finally he had stood close to the
shelf where the coffin of the youngest baronet of the house had just
been placed. He recalled it all now—the damp feel of the place, the
weird light from his lantern, his own grief and oppression, nay, even
terror.

“I must have been mad at the time,” he said to himself. As he said the
words a hand was laid on his arm. He turned quickly. A man in plain
clothes, a total stranger, was standing near him.

“Am I right in supposing that I am addressing Sir Richard Pelham?” asked
the man.

“That is my name,” said Dick. He started back as he spoke. “Who are
you?” he continued. “I do not know your face.”

“I am a stranger to these parts, sir; but I have come here to say a word
to you.”

As the man spoke he slipped his hand into his pocket and took out
something.

“My mate is waiting outside,” he said gravely, “and I have got a
dog-cart handy. I have a warrant here for your arrest, sir.”

“For my arrest?” cried Pelham.

“Yes, Sir Richard, for your arrest on suspicion of having murdered the
late Sir Piers Pelham.”

The words fell on Dick’s ears without at first conveying any impression.
The man repeated them.

“You had better come quietly, sir,” he continued. “As I said just now, I
have a trap outside, and if we drive off at once to Haversham station we
can take the next train to town. Anything you say now, sir, will be used
against you, so you had best be silent.

“Stop a minute. I must think,” said Pelham. He took off his soft cap and
put up his hand to his forehead as if to brush away some hair. His brain
was in a whirl, but his first consecutive and clear thought was for
Barbara. When she returned home that night he would not be there; she
would miss him, she would wonder what had become of him.

“Of course there is a mistake,” thought the young man. “I don’t quite
comprehend it, but Barbara, whatever happens, must not be frightened.”

He turned and looked at the man who had come to arrest him.

“I will go with you, of course,” he said. “The matter will doubtless be
cleared up immediately, but I should like first to leave a note for my
wife. Do you permit it?”

“Yes, sir, provided I come with you to the house.”

“You need not do that,” said Pelham. He shrugged his shoulders, took his
pocket-book out of his pocket, tore a leaf from it and wrote a few
words.


  “DARLING,—I am called to town on sudden business. Do not be uneasy. I
  hope to return to-morrow.

                                                          “Yours, DICK.”


He folded the note and gave it to a gardener who was passing.

“Take this to the house,” he said, “and tell the servants to deliver it
to your mistress when she returns.”

The man took it without the least apparent curiosity and went away. Then
Pelham turned to the police constable.

“I am at your service,” he said. “I presume you will not think it
necessary to handcuff me?”

“I think you are to be trusted, sir,” said the man.

Pelham nodded, and the ghost of a smile flitted across his lips. A
moment later he was driving to Haversham in the company of the two
police constables. When they reached the station they took tickets in a
third-class compartment; one of them tipped the guard to allow them to
have it to themselves.

Dick sat in a corner and kept looking out at the landscape. Surely this
was a dream, and he would wake presently to find it was so. His thoughts
were busy, but not greatly with himself. He felt a certain sense of
satisfaction. His old suspicions were right—there was something
unnatural about the death of the child. It was strange why he was
arrested. Of course, he was the wrong man—Tarbot was the guilty person.
Why had they arrested him? This journey was unpleasant, but to-morrow,
at the farthest, before the magistrate, he, Dick Pelham, would be
abundantly cleared. Tarbot, beyond doubt, was the guilty person.




                             CHAPTER XXXI.
                                 GONE.


On the night that Clara Tarbot faced the awful fact that she was not
long for this world, that consumption had claimed her for its prey, and
when she had also discovered that her great secret was in jeopardy, and
that at any moment her husband’s plans would be brought to utter ruin,
Mrs. Ives was also restless and uneasy. Mrs. Ives did not like sleeping
in Luke Tarbot’s house.

“It don’t suit me,” said the little woman to herself, “a bed like this.
I want my feather bed. I don’t like these sort of springs under me—shaky
and unnatural, and mighty like earthquakes they seems to me. And I don’t
like carpets all over the floor, unwholesome they is, they don’t let
enough air in, and you can’t clean ’em often enough, and I hates heavy
curtains to the winders.

“Finery don’t suit me, nor luxuries—I weren’t born to ’em, and the worst
of it is that Clary, my own darter, don’t suit me neither. No, she nor
her ’ouse ain’t my sort. I hope to goodness I’ll soon be able to get out
of this. I’ll get back to Cornwall as fast as ever I can go. If I don’t
go away she’ll be after wringing a promise out of me. Well, I just won’t
make it—I’d rather a deal lose the money. What’s money, after all, if it
only brings you things like this? My word! my old bones will be shook
into a jelly if I lie much longer on this bed. I can’t move without the
thing jumping under me. I’ll be out of this house at dawn.”

Mrs. Ives sat up in bed. The perfectly-balanced springs annoyed her
much; finally she rose and seated herself on a hard-bottomed chair.
There were two or three easy chairs in the room, but she chose the hard
and stiff one by preference.

“That’s it,” she said. “Now I’m easy. I can turn and twist, and the
thing don’t rock under me. Now I can think for a bit. Clary, my own
darter, is agen me, I can see that. Well, I’ll be off afore she knows
anything about it.”

There was a clock on the mantelpiece. Mrs. Ives found herself watching
the hours. The clock struck one, two, three, then four. When it gave out
its four strokes Mrs. Ives began to tidy herself in front of the glass.
She was careful not to make the slightest noise.

“For Clary wor always a light sleeper,” she said to herself. She poured
a little water with great skill and care into the heavy basin, grumbling
at the weight and beauty of the jug as she did so. At each process of
her toilet she objected more and more to the comforts which surrounded
her.

“I ’ates them soft towels,” she muttered to herself, as she dried her
face.

Having dressed and once more arranged her little black shawl and her
neat poke bonnet, the old woman made for the door. She took a long time
opening it, but she succeeded at last.

Clara, who had been awake until an hour before, was now in heavy
slumber. This was her time for repose. Tarbot was not in the house, the
servants’ rooms were far away. Mrs. Ives stole like a thief down-stairs.
Step by step she went, holding her candle high and looking straight
before her.

“Dear heart, what a gloomy sort of place! If this is what grandeur and
riches mean, give me poverty,” she muttered to herself. “Clary, you
don’t get no promise out of me.”

By and by she reached the hall, and the next moment found herself
standing by the door. It was bolted and chained, but Mrs. Ives saw to
her relief that it was not locked. She could manage to remove the bolts
and chains. In a few seconds she was out in the open air. She gave a
little skip and spring of delight, and running down the steps walked
nimbly up the street. “I’ll walk to Paddington,” she said to herself. “I
don’t know when the next train goes to Falmouth, but it’s sure to start
early. Dear heart! how refreshing the morning air is! Give me poverty
and fresh air and a feather bed. None of them springs for me again. My
darter will be in a state, but I ain’t agoin’ to promise her, not I.
I’ll take little Sir Piers back to Pelham Towers, that I will. I won’t
hold that awful secret another day.”

Mrs. Ives, busy with her thoughts, stepped cheerfully along. Presently
she saw a policeman walking by. She quickened her steps almost to a run
and went up to him.

“My good sir,” she said, “can you tell me the way to Paddington?”

The policeman gave her directions and she walked on again.

“I wish I had asked him when the next train started for Falmouth,” she
said to herself, “but perhaps he wouldn’t ha’ known. Dear heart! how
hunted Clary do look! She ain’t at all a nice sort, not at all. She
never wor, and she grows less so as she gets older.”

Mrs. Ives continued her walk. From Harley Street to Paddington was
scarcely thirty minutes’ walk. She arrived at the great terminus soon
after five o’clock, and found to her relief that a train started for
Falmouth at 5.30. She took her ticket, and, as soon as ever she could,
seated herself in the corner of a third-class compartment. It was cold
at this hour, but Mrs. Ives was made of stern metal, and she drank in
the keen air with appreciation.

“A sight better than Clara’s stifling house,” she thought.

A porter was passing and she called out to him.

“When does this train arrive at Falmouth, my good man?”

“Four-eighteen,” replied the man.

“My word—a long time! But never mind, I’ll be there in time for his
tea—bless ’im!”

The porter did not know to whose tea she alluded, but did not stop to
inquire.

“He allers likes his tea with me,” continued the little woman, “and he
shall have it to-night with a fresh egg and a little honey. Honey agrees
with him wonderful. He’s a splendid child. I love ’im better than I
loves Clary. Clary takes after her father. My word, how thin and ugly
she have grown! I shouldn’t be surprised if she had caught the
consumption same as her father died of.”

Punctual to the moment the train steamed out of the station. Mrs. Ives
settled herself comfortably in her corner, looked around her and
chuckled.

“I ha’ done it now,” she thought. “I’ll talk to the little chap to-night
and I’ll take him back to-morrow. I’m sorry for the pretty young lady.
It’ll go hard with her and her husband returning to poverty. Well, never
mind, hardships must be borne once in a way, and poverty ain’t none so
bad. I ha’ tasted riches, and I’d a sight sooner have poverty.”

Mrs. Ives made a sniff of approval and flung down the window.

“Sakes, this keen air is refreshing,” she said. “That house with its
curtains was enough to stifle a body.”

The train was punctual in arriving at Falmouth, but Mrs. Ives had still
two miles to complete her journey. Her little cottage was situated in a
village a mile outside the big town. As she walked she began to have a
strange and almost painful longing to clasp the boy in her arms, to kiss
his white forehead, to look into his deep and lovely eyes, to hear his
shout of rapture when she told him that through no fault of his she had
discovered his secret, and that in spite of Clary he was going home.

“I’ll miss him,” she said to herself, “but any one can see that he frets
a good bit—poor lamb! He won’t fret any longer now. Yes, I’ll miss him
sore, but I’ll always feel deep down in my heart that I took him back to
his own, and that I foiled Clary, who’s turned so monstrous wicked. It’s
a terrible thing to think of one’s own darter coming so low, but I won’t
be the one to connive at her wickedness.”

Mrs. Ives’s little cottage was on the outskirts of the village. The
lights were burning in the cottage windows as she walked down the
street. No one noticed her as she went by. Had the village folk done so
they might have had news.

By and by she entered her own cottage. When she had gone away she had
left a village girl in possession. The name of the girl was Mary Welsh.
She was a round-headed, blue-eyed girl, with a flat face, and a keen,
clever way about her. Mrs. Ives had given her directions with regard to
little Piers. She was to play with him, but not to encourage him to talk
about his fancies. He was to be out a good deal, for, Christmas as the
season was, it was pleasant in the neighborhood of Falmouth, and not
specially cold.

“Ain’t they got no fire and no light? How mortal dull for the little
chap!” she said to herself as she noticed that the house was in
darkness. But the next moment it occurred to her that Mary Welsh might
have taken the boy to have tea with her own people. Such a proceeding
would be very wrong on the part of Mary, but, nevertheless, she might
have committed the crime.

“Where are you, little chap?” called out Mrs. Ives as she lifted the
latch. There was not a sound or a movement—the place was empty. Mrs.
Ives knew where the matches were kept. She found the box, struck a match
and lit a candle. The fire was out, the place was in confusion. A
telegram lay on the table.

“From Clary, but I ain’t a-going to mind her,” said Mrs. Ives. She went
into the little bedroom; both the beds were in order, but there was not
a sight of the child anywhere.

“Dear, dear, and I’m fagged out. Yes, I’m beginning to feel the journey
now,” she said to herself; “but there’s no help for it. I must go off to
Mary’s. Now what does this mean?”

There was a sound of footsteps running quickly. The next moment the
house door was flung open and Mary rushed into the room. The moment she
saw Mrs. Ives she fell on her knees.

“It weren’t my fault, and don’t you go a-blaming me,” she called out.

“What do you mean?” said Mrs. Ives. “Get up and speak plain.”

“I had nothing to do with it. I just left him for five minutes, and
where he’s gone off to Heaven only knows.”

“Where—who’s gone—what are you talking about?”

“The child, little Piers, he slipped off yesterday in the darkness. I
was with him and had just given him his supper, and I said I’d come back
in a few minutes, and when I did there wasn’t a sight of him. Mother and
me and all the village have been looking for him, and we ain’t seen him,
none of us.”

“You get out of my house this minute,” said Mrs. Ives. “A nice girl you
are to have the care of a little gentleman.”

The girl disappeared. There was something awful at that moment in the
little woman’s flashing eyes. She walked to the door, locked it, then
she lit her lamp and sat down to think. The boy was gone—but where? What
could be the matter? Had any misfortune befallen him?

Amid all her wild dreams the possibility that the boy might himself try
to get back to his old home had never once occurred to her, but now it
did. She nodded her head several times.

“Deary me! there seems likely to be no rest for me this blessed night,”
she said. “I must try to take the next train to Haversham. I wonder if
there’s one to-night; most likely not, but anyhow, back I must go to
Falmouth to find out.”

She did not wait even to get herself a cup of tea. When she reached the
town she was greeted with the information that by no possible means
could she get across country to Haversham that night. There would be a
train at eight o’clock on the following morning. She must wait until
then.

“But what is the matter, ma’am?” said the old clerk, who knew her well,
having seen her often before.

“It’s a bad job,” she answered, “and I want to hurry as fast as I can.
There’s a little gentleman missing, and more hangs on him than words can
say. You didn’t see a pretty little gentleman, dressed common enough,
but with the air of the nobility, asking for a ticket here yesterday
evening, sir?”

Mrs. Ives went on to describe the boy. She spoke with glowing terms of
his rosy face, his dark eyes and his black hair.

No, the clerk had seen no such little gentleman. He thought Mrs. Ives
must be slightly off her head. She turned away in the darkness.




                             CHAPTER XXXII.
                     BARBARA HEARS STARTLING NEWS.


It was on the very day that Pelham was arrested on a charge of murder,
and Barbara, happy and unconscious, had gone to Exeter to buy presents
for the Christmas tree, that Mrs. Ives began her search for Piers.
Having had time to think during the night, she resolved not to begin by
going to Pelham Towers. The boy had no money, of that she was well
aware. It would be out of his power to walk the distance from Falmouth
to Great Pelham under several days, besides he would not know the way.
Beyond doubt, he was still in the immediate neighborhood. Mrs. Ives
would make inquiries in her own vicinity first.

“He’s such a pretty little dear that any one might kidnap him,” she said
to herself. “I hope to goodness there ain’t no gipsies about. I’ll go to
the different villages and make inquiries, and I’ll offer a reward. I’ll
write it out and I’ll put it up on my door the first thing in the
morning. I’ll spend a pound over Piers. It’s a deal of money, but I’ll
spend it.”

So, taking tremendous pains, the little woman wrote in large
characters:—


                            ONE POUND REWARD.

  Wanted, a little boy, aged seven, named Piers. Complexion dark, with
  rosy cheeks, eyes dark and shining like stars. Black hair, all curled.
  A nobleman-in-disguise sort of appearance.


Having fashioned this description to her own mind, Mrs. Ives proceeded
to post it on the door of her house. She had printed it partly, in red
ink and partly in black. “Nobleman-in-disguise sort of appearance” was
all done in red ink. It was the kind of advertisement to attract
immediate attention. As soon as daylight came she began her round of the
village. She then went to the neighboring villages. Wherever she went
she made inquiries. Here and there she posted up her queer
advertisement. She was very weary and tired now, but still her courage
never flagged. She got no hint of the boy’s whereabouts from any one. No
one had seen or heard of him, but all the villagers were interested and
promised to look out. As far as they could tell, there were no gipsies
in the neighborhood. Mrs. Ives went home.

“I must do it. I must go off to Pelham Towers afore the last train goes
to night,” she said to herself. “But first I’ll just read this telegram
from poor Clary.”

The telegram was brief. It simply contained a request on the part of
Clara that Mrs. Ives would do nothing until she saw her.

Mrs. Ives once again dipped her pen in the ink and wrote a telegram to
Clara.

“Boy gone. Am off now to Pelham Towers to find him. Your mother.”

When she got to Falmouth Mrs. Ives sent off this message. She then took
a ticket to Haversham, and in course of time was put down at the little
wayside station. It was a long walk from there to the Towers, but when
her spirit was up the little woman was good for anything.

Accordingly she was once more trudging down the avenue when Barbara was
returning from Exeter. Barbara had had a successful day, and driving
back in the pretty pony carriage with her mother wrapped in furs by her
side, she was chatting and laughing gaily.

“I do declare,” she said, “there’s that funny little old woman again!”

“What little woman, dear?” said Mrs. Evershed.

“Her name is Ives. What can she want now?”

Barbara pulled up the ponies. She leant out of the carriage.

“Good evening, Mrs. Ives,” she said.

“Oh, good evening, my pretty young lady,” said Mrs. Ives, dropping her
accustomed curtsey. “I’m in a sore bit of trouble, and I’ve come back
here thinking perhaps you could help me.”

“If I can I will right heartily,” said Barbara. “But you look very
tired, and there is plenty of room in the carriage. Please get in.”

Mrs. Evershed made a gesture of disapproval, but Barbara could afford to
take no notice of her mother. Mrs. Ives interested her. She thought she
would like to show the little woman to Dick. Barbara’s heart was full of
Dick. She had not been parted from him for so long a time since their
marriage. She had a great deal to tell him.

“Step in. Take this seat,” said Barbara.

Mrs. Ives did so.

“I’m mighty obliged. I’m very footsore,” said the little woman.

Barbara whipped up the ponies and proceeded at a rapid pace down the
avenue. Mrs. Ives sat quite silent, staring full in the face of the
pretty young lady.

“I can deal her a blow, and, dear heart! I don’t like to do it,” she
said to herself. “But after all, what is riches? I ha’ tasted them at my
darter’s and they’re a grand mistake. It’s a sight better to live poor
and live plain. Yes, that’s what I say—live poor and live plain. Have
plain food and a plain bed and cleanliness round you, and you don’t want
for nothing. That’s the way to live and have a long life, and no
encouraging of stoutness.”

As these thoughts flew through Mrs. Ives’s active brain she glanced at
Mrs. Evershed, who was decidedly broad and fully developed. Mrs. Ives
did not like the grand lady, and did not trouble to look at her again.

They presently reached the house. Barbara helped her mother out of the
carriage and then turned to Mrs. Ives.

“Will you come into the hall?” she said. “This lady is my mother, and I
want to see to her comforts. If you will stay in the hall I will come
back to you presently.”

Mrs. Ives nodded.

Barbara conveyed Mrs. Evershed up-stairs.

“Why do you talk to that sort of person, Barbara? It’s not at all good
taste,” said Mrs. Evershed.

“Oh, mother, where does the bad taste come in? She’s such a little
character, quite an oddity, and I enjoy her,” said Barbara. “I wonder
where Dick is!”

A servant, who had been hovering about, now came forward with Dick’s
note.

“Sir Richard said you were to receive this immediately on your return,
my lady,” he remarked.

Barbara opened the note, read the contents, and her face turned white.

“What can be the matter?” she said aloud.

“Is anything wrong, dear?” asked Mrs. Evershed.

“No, nothing that I know of; but Dick had to go to town unexpectedly. He
says he’ll be back to-morrow. I wonder what can be the matter! He said
nothing at all about going to town when I was leaving this morning.”

“Sir Richard went away in a dog-cart with two strange men,” volunteered
the footman.

Barbara’s surprise and curiosity became still greater, but she would not
condescend to question the man.

“It’s all right,” she said in a would-be cheerful tone. “Let me take you
to your room, mother. I hope the fire is good.”

Mrs. Evershed thought nothing of Dick’s disappearance. On the contrary,
she was rather pleased than otherwise to have her daughter to herself
for the first evening.

“The house is wonderfully pretty, dear,” she said. “More than pretty,
quite handsome, but it really ought to be re-decorated. That splendid
old tapestry, for instance, is quite thrown away in its present
position. Now, you ought to go to——”

“I like things as they are,” interrupted Barbara.

“Of course, my dear child; but without in the least disturbing the old
ancestral appearance of the place you could accentuate the best points.
I know a man who will help you. His terms are enormous, but what can you
expect when he does so much for the money.”

“Well, mother, we will talk about that presently. Now, this is your
room. I hope you will find it comfortable.”

The apartment in question was a splendid one and very spacious.
Barbara’s maid was waiting to unpack Mrs. Evershed’s things.

“I will leave you now to the care of Marshall,” said the younger lady.
“Marshall, please bring tea to Mrs. Evershed in this room. We dine at
seven, mother.”

Barbara left the room. In the passage outside she stood still for a
minute. There was no one by. She slipped her hand into her pocket and
took out Dick’s note. It was written in pencil on a torn page of his
pocket-book. The few words were quickly read, but Barbara lingered long
over the “Darling” with which the note was begun. Suddenly raising it to
her lips she kissed the signature; then, tenderly folding it up, she put
it back in her pocket.

“I wish I knew what has really happened,” she said to herself. “He knew
nothing whatever about this business when I left him this morning. I
hope nothing is wrong.”

In her disappointment about her husband not being at home, she forgot
all about Mrs. Ives. When she returned to the hall the little woman was
still seated on one of the chairs.

“Oh, I am sorry I forgot all about you,” said Barbara. “Did you wish to
see me about anything?”

“Well, yes, my lady, I should like to ask you one or two questions.”

“Come in here. This is my husband’s study, and we shall be quite
uninterrupted.”

Barbara opened a door to the left of the hall and entered first. Mrs.
Ives followed her. Barbara closed the door behind her guest.

“And now what is it?” she asked.

“Well, my lady, I have come here to know if by any chance a little boy
has arrived during the last twenty-four hours.”

“I don’t understand,” said Barbara. “A little boy—what do you mean?”

“A very pretty little boy, my lady,” said Mrs. Ives, speaking slowly,
her eyes fixed on Barbara’s blooming face. “Brown eyes he had, deep and
soft, a wonderful look in ’em, starry eyes, I call ’em, and a little
brown face with roses in his cheeks, and black hair all curly, and his
name, my lady, is Piers. Has he come here within the last twenty-four
hours?”

“Certainly not. What a strange question to ask. A boy called Piers. Why,
that is the name of the dear little fellow who died three months ago.”

“I was thinking of that, my lady.”

“But what can you mean? The child you describe is exactly like the
little Piers who died. Please explain yourself.”

“I can do it in a few words, my lady. I has had the care of a little boy
just as I have described, with the air of the nobility about him, and a
splendid way and brave, brave as a hero of antiquity, but he’s lost, my
lady. I went to town to see my darter, Clara Tarbot what now is—she
looks mortal bad—riches don’t agree with her. I saw my darter on the
subject of the little boy, and when I come home he was gone. I thought
maybe he’d come here.”

“I cannot understand it,” said Barbara. She began to tremble. She did
not know why. “A little boy whom you had the care of called Piers, with
that sort of appearance, and you thought he would come here. But why
should he come here?”

“I had the thought, my lady. I ain’t prepared to say what gave birth to
it.”

“I have been out of the house all day,” said Barbara after another
pause, “but I will of course inquire. If you will stay where you are I
can soon let you know.”

Barbara left the room. The little woman clasped her hands and looked
straight before her.

“This is his house,” she said to herself, “and the room is a beautiful
one—heaps of air, big, lofty. If I don’t soon get tidings the police
must be told that he’s not an ordinary little boy, but Sir Piers Pelham
himself.”

Lady Pelham returned, and her face was pale.

“I have made inquiries,” she said, “but no little boy has arrived
to-day. It is late, and I will give you a bed for the night. The child
you have been taking care of may turn up in the morning, but I cannot
possibly imagine why you should think he was coming here. Would you like
to stay here for the night?”

“It’s late,” said Mrs. Ives, “and my bones, they do ache terrible. Ha’
you got a feather bed and a room without curtains and bare floor?”

Barbara could not help smiling.

“I daresay we can accommodate you with what you require in one of the
attics,” she said.

“Then I will stay, for the child may come in the morning. Did you ask
Mrs. Posset if the child had come?”

“Certainly, I went to Mrs. Posset first of all.”

“And what did she say?”

“Your description made her cry. I had to explain that——”

“What, my lady?”

“That it could not have been our little boy.”

“And why not, my pretty lady?”

“Because I saw him after he died,” said Barbara. “Oh, you make my heart
ache when you talk of him. He is dead and in his grave. Now I will take
you to the housekeeper. She will give you a comfortable room for the
night.”




                            CHAPTER XXXIII.
                          A MOMENT OF TRIUMPH.


By the morning post Barbara received a letter from Dick. It was short,
and its contents were startling.


  “DEAREST BARBARA” (he wrote),—“Something very bad has happened. I dare
  not and will not tell you what it is, but it is just possible that I
  shall be obliged to remain in town for a day or two. Please don’t be
  frightened, darling. The machinations of the wicked seldom prosper,
  and I have not the slightest doubt that everything will turn out right
  in the end. If you do not hear from me or see me for a few days try to
  keep calm and cheerful, for I am convinced that I shall soon be able
  to return to you, and that this most dark cloud will pass. My promise,
  however, to come back to Pelham Towers to-morrow I find impossible to
  fulfil.

                                         “Yours ever, my darling,
                                                                 “DICK.”


Barbara was standing near the breakfast table when she read this letter.
She read it once, twice, and even three times. After the third perusal
she put it in her pocket. Mrs. Evershed had entered the room. She was
standing near a glorious fire, for the weather happened to be intensely
cold, and her eyes, dark and sunken, were fixed upon her daughter’s
face.

“What is it, Barbara? Have you news of your husband?” she asked.

“I have had a letter from him,” said Barbara slowly.

“He returns home to-day, does he not?” said Mrs. Evershed.

“No, mother.”

“But I thought you said he would come back to-day?”

“So he told me in the note I received yesterday, but he finds it
impossible to do so. Mother, do you greatly mind if I leave you here,
and go up to London?”

“To London?” said Mrs. Evershed. “But what for, Barbara, what for?”

“I wish to see Dick.”

“My dear child, you look quite mysterious. Is anything wrong?”

“I hope not, but I am not sure.”

“Won’t you tell me, Barbara?”

“I cannot, mother, for I do not know myself. Dick, it appears, is in
some sort of trouble. Will you stay at the Towers and look after things
and let me be free to go to town? Otherwise I cannot rest—I cannot
really, mother.”

“You look strange, Barbara, and frightened.”

“I am frightened,” said Barbara. “I do not know why, but I am.”

“Sit down, dear, and have some breakfast.”

“You will look after things here, and set me free to go up to town?”
repeated Barbara.

“Of course, my love, although I think it most unnecessary for you to
go.”

“I must decide for myself on that point,” said Barbara.

Mrs. Evershed said nothing more. Barbara crossed the room and rang the
bell. When the servant appeared she ordered the carriage to be round
within half an hour.

“I shall catch the ten o’clock train from Haversham,” she said, as she
seated herself before the coffee urn.

“Barbara, my dear, you are trembling. You must not give way,” said her
mother. “Indeed, I am convinced there is no cause for alarm. You have
had little to do with men hitherto, my poor child, and do not know what
queer creatures they are, with their ups and downs and their mysteries,
and their sudden departures from home. Oh, I had plenty of that sort of
thing to go through when your poor father was alive, and I know all
about it.”

“I don’t understand you, mother,” said Barbara impatiently. She could
not bear a word to be even hinted against Dick. She slipped her hand
into her pocket and softly touched his note.

“You will come back to-morrow, Barbara?”

“Probably,” replied Barbara.

“You will spend to-night at my house?”

“If necessary, I will do so, mother.”

Barbara could scarcely eat. She broke a piece of toast up mechanically
and put dry morsels into her mouth.

“I am certain there is nothing the matter,” said Mrs. Evershed
cheerfully. “To-morrow will be Christmas Eve. Would you like me to carry
on the arrangements you have already made?”

“Please, mother, yes, certainly. I will desire the servants to come to
you for orders, and Mrs. Posset will, of course, manage the
housekeeping. There won’t be much for you to do, but order the carriage
whenever you want it. Make yourself as happy as you can. I am sorry to
have to leave you, dear mother.”

“I wonder what is wrong,” thought Mrs. Evershed when Barbara left the
room.

A few moments later young Lady Pelham left the Towers.

Barbara did not look back as she was bowled up the avenue. Had she done
so she would have seen little Mrs. Ives standing near one of the side
entrances bobbing her accustomed curtseys.

Mrs. Ives was in a sad state of indecision. She had also received a
letter by that morning’s post. It was from her daughter Clara. Clara had
desired her to stay where she was, to keep her secret, and on no account
to leave Pelham Towers until she got further directions.

“Unless you want to ruin me forever, you will do what I require,” wrote
Clara in her peremptory manner.

Mrs. Ives was shaken and agitated.

“I ask, both for your sake and that of the child,” said Clara finally,
and Mrs. Ives felt that she must submit.

Meanwhile Barbara hurried quickly up to town. Oh, that she could get to
Dick on the wings of thought! The long delay, the awful suspense were
terrible.

At last the journey was over and she found herself at Paddington. She
had come up to town without luggage, and got into a hansom immediately.
Until this moment she had not remembered that she did not really know
where to find Dick. When the cabman asked her for directions she paused
for a moment to consider.

“Drive to 12 Ashley Mansions, near Harley Street,” she said to him.

The man whipped up his horse and in a short time the cab drew up at the
familiar door. Barbara got out, ran up the steps, and rang the bell. The
servant, who knew her well, opened the door. He started quite
perceptibly when he saw her.

“Is Mrs. Pelham in?” asked Barbara.

“Yes, Lady Pelham, but——”

“I must see her immediately.”

“I will let her know that you have called, Lady Pelham.”

The man’s face was certainly queer. He stood in such a position that
Barbara had almost to push past him into the hall.

“Don’t keep me,” she said. “I will go and see Mrs. Pelham without being
announced. Is she in the drawing-room?”

“I believe so, my lady. But if you will excuse me, my lady——”

Barbara did not hear, she was already half-way up the stairs. The next
moment she had entered the well-known drawing-room. Mrs. Pelham was
seated with her back to her, busily writing. The widow’s little figure
looked alert, even the back of her head seemed full of a new resolution.

Barbara went silently up to her and touched her on the arm. Mrs. Pelham
turned with a start. When she saw Barbara she became very white.

“_You_, you have come here?” she said.

“Yes, I am here, Mrs. Pelham. Can you tell me where Dick is?”

“But don’t you know anything, Barbara?” cried the widow.

“Not yet, but I will know. Put me out of suspense. Tell me at once.”

“Barbara, I cannot. I wish you had not come here. This is dreadful.”

“Tell me at once, Mrs. Pelham. Do you think I am silly? Don’t you know
that I am a woman—that I have got both strength and courage? I know that
something dreadful has happened. What is it?”

“I suppose I must tell you, but I wish some one else would. Your
husband——” Mrs. Pelham paused to wet her lips. They were already so dry
she could scarcely bring out the words.

“Yes,” said Barbara.

“Your husband—Dick, has been——”

“Yes?”

“Arrested.”

“Arrested! My husband arrested! What for? Oh, for God’s sake tell me
quickly!”

“Yes, Barbara, I will—that is, I will try. I know it is an awful shock
for you, poor girl! But, Barbara, your husband, Dick, has been arrested
on suspicion of having——”

“Yes, yes, on suspicion of what?”

“Of having murdered my little Piers!”

“Oh, Mrs. Pelham, what utter nonsense!” said Barbara. The accusation was
so monstrous, so unfounded, that her first feeling was one of relief.
She even gave a strange and hollow laugh.

“What nonsense!” she repeated. “Dick accused of murdering Piers! Dick,
who loved him! Mrs. Pelham, has anybody gone mad?”

“My poor child, I don’t wonder at your taking it like this. I felt
somewhat as you do at the first moment, but it is all too, too true. I
thought, of course, you must know by this time.”

“Tell me more—tell me quickly. Where is Dick now?”

“He was examined before the magistrate this morning, Barbara. I was
there—I had to be present. He is remanded until—until——”

“I do not understand,” said Barbara. “It is so ridiculous. I know you
are trying to tell me the most awful thing in the world, but it is so
utterly false that I cannot feel it.”

She laughed again; her laugh sounded awful.

“Just tell me the whole story from beginning to end,” she said.

“I will, dear. I am most terribly sorry for you.”

“But are you not sorry for him? You surely do not believe it?”

“Oh, my poor Barbara, my poor Barbara!”

“Really, I think you must have gone mad, too,” said Barbara. “Such a
monstrous accusation, and you look quite solemn! What has become of the
laws of England when they accuse the most innocent man in the world?”

“Barbara, dear, it does not look so. I am bound to say that the
circumstantial evidence is very, very grave. Oh, it has all come
suddenly, and I had to prosecute. Yes, I know I am your enemy, Barbara.”

“Then you have done this?” said Barbara, slowly. She backed away from
Mrs. Pelham, her face as white as death. The arrows were beginning now
to pierce her soul. “You have done this?” she repeated.

“How could I help it, Barbara? My only child! And it seems to me to be
so abundantly proved. Dick gave him that last dose of medicine. Some one
put something into the medicine—hyocene. It is dreadful stuff—a most
fatal poison. It has been proved, or almost proved, that Dick did it.”

“And they say that Dick gave that medicine with that dreadful poison in
it to Piers, and you believe it—you think he did it? But Piers was
supposed to die of heart disease.”

“This particular medicine would affect the heart strongly, and the
disease which was mentioned in the death certificate would to all
appearance occur. It was a clever scheme. Barbara, circumstantial
evidence is heavy against your husband.”

“I know now what something Dick said in his letter means,” cried
Barbara. “‘The machinations of the wicked.’ I know what that expression
means now.”

“They are going to exhume the little body,” continued Mrs. Pelham, who
was now crying bitterly. “They are going down to Pelham Towers, and they
will open the little coffin, and the doctor employed by the Crown—for,
of course, the Crown prosecutes in a case like this—will exhume the
child’s little body. Even in his grave my darling must not rest in
peace. They will have to do so in order to prove whether the child
really swallowed the poison or not.”

“Who has told you all this?” asked Barbara. She began to tie the strings
of her cloak with trembling fingers.

“Luke Tarbot, of course. Where are you going, dear? I feel so bitterly
for you. I know that you at least are perfectly innocent.”

“I wonder you think so,” said Barbara. “I would almost rather you did
not. If Dick could be guilty of such a monstrous crime, why should not I
connive at it? Oh, this is too fearful! I am going away, Mrs. Pelham.”

“Where to?”

“It does not matter to you, for you are Dick’s enemy—Dick, who loved
you! But stay, Dick himself had suspicions. He suspected Dr. Tarbot.”

“That is one of the strong cases against him, Barbara. His causeless
suspicions, his restlessness, his acute misery after the death of the
child, have been strongly commented on, and will prove a powerful lever
against him. What earthly motive would Dr. Tarbot have in injuring the
child?”

“Ah, that I have to find out,” said Barbara. “Well, good-by. I am
thankful I came up to town. My Dick! Yes, the accusation is too
monstrous. Good-by.”

Lady Pelham left the room without touching Mrs. Pelham’s hand.

She went into the street. Her eyes were bright; she held herself erect;
she did not look like a woman stricken down. Now was the time to act.
Once or twice as she hurried along in the direction of Harley Street she
even laughed to herself. She soon reached Dr. Tarbot’s house and rang
the bell.

“Is Dr. Tarbot in?” she asked of the servant.

“Yes, ma’am. What name shall I say?”

“Lady Pelham. I wish to speak to him immediately.”

The man stared at her with undoubted curiosity—curiosity so great that
even the mask which he was, as a servant, obliged to wear was slightly
lifted. He showed Barbara into the waiting-room and went to inform his
master. In an instant he came back, threw open the door for Lady Pelham,
said that Dr. Tarbot would see her, and took her into the
consulting-room.

Tarbot came eagerly forward—his face very white and very thin, his lips
parted. Barbara went straight up to him.

“I have just seen Mrs. Pelham,” she said, “and she has told me
everything. So you are in this—you came down to Pelham Towers for the
purpose of putting suspicion into Mrs. Pelham’s mind. You have caused my
husband to be arrested on this most false charge.”

“There is no use in taking matters in that spirit, Lady Pelham,” said
Tarbot. “The magistrate who this morning examined your husband with
extreme care and justice does not agree with you in calling the charge
false.”

“It is a trumped-up charge against one of the best men God ever made,”
said Barbara.

“You cannot prove it.”

“I will prove it yet. But what I have come about now is to ask why _you_
have interfered in this matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you get Mrs. Pelham to prosecute my husband?”

“I only told her the simple truth. I could not do otherwise—the burden
rested too heavy on my soul.”

“Your eyes belie your words. You did not do it for that reason.”

An evil spirit seemed to leap out of Tarbot’s face at that moment, and
he came closer to Barbara. Barbara did not repel him. On the contrary,
she looked full at him. His eyes quailed for a moment under her gaze;
then they were lifted, and she saw the triumph in them.

“You have not answered my question,” she said. “Even granted that there
was truth in what you said, why should you be the one to take the
initiative?”

“Do you really want to know?” His voice had dropped now to a low tone,
his white lips trembled, he came yet closer. Suddenly Barbara felt his
hand laid heavily on her shoulder. She did not shrink from his touch.

“Shall I really tell you?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“I did it because of you. I loved you, and you treated me with scorn. If
you had married me I could have been a good man. As it is, I am a bad
one. I was glad to have this handle against your husband. Having
discovered the truth, I was glad to incite Mrs. Pelham to prosecute.
Why? Because it hurt you—it hurt you.”

The touch of his hand felt like fire. Barbara noticed it for the first
time.

“Let me go,” she said.

“I will not. My moment of triumph has come, and I shall take it.” The
next instant he had caught her in both his arms, and was pressing his
burning kisses on her lips.

“You drove me mad,” he said, “but this is my hour of triumph. I loved
you, and you treated me with scorn. Yes, I am bad now, and you are the
cause. When your husband hangs for this crime, my revenge will be
complete.”

“You are a monster, and I treat you with the contempt you deserve,”
cried Barbara. “Touch me again if you dare!” She extricated herself from
his grasp with a sudden quick movement.

“My husband will be cleared,” she said. “As there is a God above, he is
innocent, and I defy you, Dr. Tarbot. Don’t keep me, sir.”

She left the room.




                             CHAPTER XXXIV.
                            THE LAST STRAW.


Barbara had scarcely gone before the door of the consulting-room was
opened, and Clara came in. Clara wore her old gray bonnet and cloak, her
nurse’s dress.

Tarbot, who was standing by the mantelpiece with an excited look in his
eyes and his lips still trembling, turned when she entered.

“Leave me,” he said. “I cannot speak to you at present. Go away.”

“I won’t keep you long,” answered Clara very gently. She was interrupted
by a fit of coughing. Try as she would, she could not restrain it. Her
face became crimson, and her features worked. She struggled hard with
this convulsion of nature. Presently it passed, but not until the
handkerchief which she had pressed to her lips was stained with blood.

Tarbot stood a few feet away regarding her, and his face wore a
malignant scowl. Clara slipped her handkerchief into her pocket, and sat
down on the nearest chair, panting as she did so.

“You are ill,” said Tarbot. “When you have done your business here as
witness at the trial, you had better go to Algiers for the winter.”

“We will leave that matter for the present,” said Clara. “I wish to tell
you now that I know exactly what you have done.”

“What I have done?”

“Yes. You have just had an interview with Lady Pelham.”

“What is that to you?”

“A great deal. I am your wife. I happened to see you just now.”

“So you played the spy?”

“I did, Luke, and I am not ashamed. I opened the door softly. You were
too much occupied to notice me. I saw when you took her in your
arms—you, who are another woman’s husband—kissed her. She repelled you,
as a good woman should. I have not a word to say against her, but for
you, Luke, for you—this to me is—the very last straw.”

“Never mind!” he said excitedly. “You shall go to Algiers when the trial
is over. It will come on in a fortnight. The man has not a loophole of
escape. The whole thing will sweep to its ghastly conclusion in a few
weeks.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes. What do you mean?”

“I was only thinking of the ace of trumps.”

“Again you talk in that ridiculous way. You made use of that expression
before. What do you mean?”

“You will know presently. Good-by, Luke.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

Clara did not say anything further. She went into the hall, opened the
hall door, and let herself out. Walking somewhat unsteadily and feebly,
swaying now and then from side to side, she got as far as the end of the
street. Here she hailed a hansom, and desired the man to drive her to
Paddington. When she got there she took the next train to Haversham.

About half-way down the line she took a letter out of her pocket. It was
directed to her husband. She gave it a queer look, and there was an
ominous glitter in her eyes. When she reached a large junction she
called a porter to her, gave him sixpence and asked him to post her
letter. The man promised to obey. Clara sank back in her seat with a
sigh of relief, and the train moved on.

She arrived at Haversham late that evening. It was only a wayside
station, and there were no cabs. She had to walk the entire distance to
Great Pelham. The night was a wet one, and the heavy rain penetrated
through Clara’s cloak. She was damp through and through. She reached the
“Pelham Arms” about ten o’clock. When she got there she spoke to one of
the waiters.

“Get some tea at once in the coffee-room, and order a cab. I want to
drive to Pelham Towers,” she said.

The man looked eager when she pronounced the name, for already strange
news was beginning to be whispered with regard to Pelham Towers. The
account of the trial had come down in the evening papers, and the whole
country rang with the news.

The tea was brought, and Clara drank it off, for she was parched with
thirst and fever. In less than ten minutes she was driving to the
Towers. She got there about half-past ten. She desired the man to take
her to the side entrance. One of the servants came out and stared when
she saw her.

“I have called to speak to a person who I believe is here—a person of
the name of Ives,” said Clara.

“There is a little lady of that name in the house. She’s in the
housekeeper’s room,” said the woman.

“I wish to see her immediately.”

“What name shall I say?”

“Tell her that her daughter has come, and wants to speak to her.”

“Will you please step in, ma’am?”

Clara desired the cab to wait, and entered the hall. A moment later Mrs.
Ives came out.

“Clary, thank the good God you have come. I couldn’t keep it to myself
another half an hour. There’s bitter, bitter trouble. Clary, I couldn’t
have kept it to myself any longer without going mad, and Mrs. Posset can
scarcely see from crying. Clary, what _do_ it mean?”

“It means that I want to speak to you, mother, and immediately.”

Mrs. Posset’s stout form was now seen in the doorway of her parlor. Mrs.
Ives turned and addressed her.

“My darter has come, ma’am,” she said, “and wants to see me on a matter
of special business. There ain’t nothing surprising that ’appens
nowadays, but ef I could see her alone for a few minutes it might be a
convenience for all concerned.”

“You can see her in here,” said Mrs. Posset. She went out of the room as
she spoke. Clara and her mother entered. Clara sank down panting on the
sofa.

“Help me to take my cloak off,” she said. “I am not long for this world,
but I want to unburden my soul before I go.”

“What do you mean, child? How awful you look!”

“Mother, where is the boy?”

“I wish to God that I knew, but I don’t.”

“He hasn’t come here, then?”

“No, no, and your letter kept me here, and it was like imprisoning me.
I’m near mad keeping it all to myself, and now there’s the news that Sir
Richard Pelham has been arrested for the murder of the little chap who
is alive and well.”

“Yes, yes, mother, I know all that, and we will put it right. I have
come down for the purpose, but we must find the boy, and we have not a
moment to lose.”

“You’ll tell the truth, Clary?”

“As there is a God above.”

“Thank the Lord, thank the Lord! But, child, how queer you look!”

“I am dying, mother, but I shan’t die until I have told the truth. I
have suffered much, and the last straw, the last straw came to-day. You
have heard of it, haven’t you?”

“To be sure, child, to be sure! But _how_ queer you look!”

“Oh, I am bad, my heart aches, and my body aches, and there’s no rest
for me on earth. Come, mother, put on your bonnet. I told the cab to
wait, and we must leave here to-night. We must find the child.”

“They say,” cried Mrs. Ives, “that a doctor is coming down from London
to-morrow morning. They’re going to open the vault, and they are going
to take out the coffin.”

“Let them. It doesn’t matter. Richard Pelham will be saved. The
beautiful young lady will have a life of happiness. I go under forever,
but what does that matter? Come, mother, come at once.”




                             CHAPTER XXXV.
                             ACE OF TRUMPS.


As soon as Clara left him, Tarbot put on his hat and went to see the
solicitor for the prosecution. The latter had made an appointment to see
Tarbot between three and four o’clock. He had a long interview with the
doctor, in which details with regard to Pelham’s trial were most
carefully gone into. Tarbot told what he had to tell in a quiet voice,
his face calm and stern-looking. Now and then to a close observer there
might have been seen what looked almost like a sorrowful expression
stealing round the lips.

When Tarbot had given all his information Mr. Cornish spoke.

“By the way, this is an unpleasant business for you,” he said. “That
part about the _post obit_ will not sound too well. You got him to sign
that, remember.”

“I did it simply because I had no other security for my money. As
matters have turned out I know well that this part of the affair will
not redound to my credit. But, after all, what was I to do? I could not
hold back because of that. I was the child’s guardian, remember, and
Mrs. Pelham was my great friend.”

“A case of conscience. I quite understand,” said Cornish. “Well, it is
all sad and terrible. The case will go, without the slightest doubt,
against the prisoner.”

“You think so?” said Tarbot eagerly. In spite of all his efforts his
eyes danced now with malignity.

“I am certain of it,” said Cornish, glancing up at him in some surprise.
“The man will hang for the crime. The jury will convict him, and there
won’t be a loophole for the commutation of the sentence. I am sorry for
the young wife.”

“Yes, she is the one to be pitied,” said Tarbot.

“If any further particulars come to light you will acquaint me?” said
Cornish.

“Yes,” replied Tarbot, rising as he spoke. “By the way, have you given
orders for the exhumation of the body?”

“Yes, the doctor for the Crown goes down to Great Pelham to-night with
his assistant and the usual officers from Scotland Yard. You clearly
understand that Pelham is only remanded for the present—he cannot be
committed for trial until the body has been exhumed, and it is clearly
proved that the child swallowed the poison.”

“Yes, yes, I see. Well, you are losing no time.”

“I am not. In a matter of this sort there is no good in lingering over
things. From what you have told me it is only a mere matter of form. The
child of course swallowed the hyocene. Pelham will be committed for
trial in a few days. You, of course, Dr. Tarbot, will be served with a
subpœna to appear as witness for the prosecution. Your wife will also
have a notice to appear.”

“Who instructs for the defense?” asked Tarbot.

“Wilkinson; and Merriman is the barrister. Merriman is the best criminal
barrister we have, but he cannot fight a case like ours, although he
will do his best.”

“Why did we not secure him?” said Tarbot, knitting his brows.

“Oh, I think highly of my own man; and in any case Merriman had been
previously retained for the defense.”

“It is a great pity we did not get him,” repeated Tarbot.

The lawyer said nothing. The doctor bade him good-by, and took his
leave.

Tarbot went straight to see Mrs. Pelham. He told her briefly what had
occurred, gave her a _resumé_ of the present aspect of the case, and
sitting down by her side, looked at her. The widow’s expression was
nervous and worn to the last degree.

“You are not well,” he said.

She burst into tears.

“I wish I had never done it,” she cried.

“Done what, my dear madam?”

“What I have done—prosecuted Dick. I have broken the heart of the
bravest girl in the world.”

Tarbot could not help shivering.

“Do you allude to Lady Pelham?”

“I do, Luke. She was here this afternoon. How splendidly she spoke, and
how grand was her trust in her husband! Are you quite sure that
Dick—Dick, who has the most open face in the world—did commit such a
dastardly crime?”

“Think for yourself. Go over the evidence,” said Tarbot.

“Oh, I have; but somehow lately I cannot think about it. My head gets
giddy, and I am leaving it all to you. I wish I were dead and in the
grave with my murdered boy.”

“I pity you sincerely,” said Tarbot. “You must stay quiet and hope for
the best. It is too late to change matters now, and it would be very
wrong, very wrong indeed, to leave the child’s death unavenged.”

He stayed for a few moments longer, and then took his leave.

On the following morning, amongst several letters which lay on his
breakfast table, Tarbot received one from his wife. He had not noticed
Clara’s absence on the previous evening. She was often away from dinner
lately, her health being far from good. Occasionally she spent whole
days in bed. He used to hear her coughing, but he never went to her.
When he saw her letter, however, on the breakfast table, he could not
help giving a start. It bore a country postmark. He opened it and read
the following words:


  “I told you, Luke Tarbot, that there was such a thing as the last
  straw. There is also such a thing as the worm turning. I have reached
  the last straw, and, to employ the other metaphor, I am the worm, much
  trodden on and much suffering, who has at last turned. Now listen to
  what I am going to say. I am on my way to Haversham. From there I
  shall go straight to Pelham Towers. Do you know why? To tell the
  truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. It was always your
  good pleasure to laugh at my mesmeric powers. When you read this
  letter you will no longer smile at them.

  “I am about to explain to you what I meant when I spoke of possessing
  the ace of trumps. Read and consider my words carefully. You often
  told me that Dr. Weismann of Paris was a humbug. Listen and tremble.
  He was no humbug. He was a man who possessed a marvelous personality,
  a strange and occult power. He imparted his knowledge to me, and I
  also found after some practise that I possessed the same intangible
  power. When you thought the child was dead he was not dead at all—he
  never died. That time when you wrote a certificate of his death he was
  only in a mesmeric sleep or trance. With care and cunning I had
  brought him to that pass. I never gave him a drop of the hyocene which
  you had provided me with. From time to time I subjected him to certain
  influences which produced trance. He got quickly and completely under
  my power.

  “On the night you saw him his condition simulated death so well that
  you were taken in. It resembled a similar case in Paris which I
  attended, in which death was so completely simulated that three
  physicians were taken in, and pronounced the patient dead.[1] Luke,
  little Sir Piers has never died. I weighted his coffin with iron
  weights wrapped in wool. I took the boy to my own lodgings. He is well
  now—in perfect health. My mother has the care of him, and when I tell
  my story I am going to produce him. Your whole case, therefore, falls
  to the ground. I tell you now in order that you may if you like leave
  the country while there is time. I give you this one last chance for
  the sake of the old love which I felt for you.

Footnote 1:

    A fact.

  “Your revenge, Luke Tarbot, has come to nothing. Had you given me any
  return for the love which I lavished upon you, I would have been true
  to you to the extent of sinning for you, and going hand in glove with
  you in this. As it is, I have ceased to love you. I shall be punished,
  but it does not matter, for my days are numbered, and I would far
  rather spend them in prison than have the life of a brave and gallant
  gentleman like Richard Pelham any further imperiled.

  “You know the worst now, Luke, you know all. My ace of trumps is
  little Sir Piers, who is alive and well.

                                                                “CLARA.”


There is such a thing as a bad man’s frenzy, and it is best to draw the
veil over it. Tarbot had wild ideas at first of rushing after Clara and
murdering her on the spot in order to secure her silence, but as each
futile thought swept through his brain he pushed it away as hopeless and
impracticable. After a couple of hours of thought which no one need envy
him, he went with stealthy and quick movements to pack a few belongings
into his Gladstone bag. From his house he rushed to his bank, drew what
balance he possessed there, and took the morning train to the Continent.

He had the sense to see that his game was up. There was nothing whatever
for him but flight.




                             CHAPTER XXXVI.
                               SIR PIERS.


It occurred to little Sir Piers that it would be a good thing if now,
that he was quite well, he went home. As no one was inclined to take
him, he thought he would go by himself. That would not be exactly
breaking his secret, for surely if he were well he might go home to his
mother and to Dick and to Barbara. He thought the matter over in the
puzzled and yet wise way of seven years old. He did not wish to be
unkind to his nurse or unkind to grannie, but, all the same, it seemed
to him only fair that he should at least see the old place again, and
behold his mother, if even at a distance, and see Barbara, the lady with
the starry brown eyes, and Dick, the hero of his boyish dreams.

So when Mrs. Ives went to London Piers quickly made up his mind. He had
no money, but he had a shrewd wit, a brave spirit, and a gentleman’s
heart. When darkness fell he left the cottage and walked quickly up the
high road. Piers was dressed by Clara’s orders just as any other peasant
boy. He wore a shabby blouse, much worn knickerbockers, and socks which
revealed his bare legs above them. His socks were blue, coarse homespun,
his shoes were also coarse, and just what a village boy would wear.

But, though Clara and her mother disguised the lad in these clothes,
they could not take away his gallant figure, his beautiful face, his
dancing eyes, and his classical features. They could not take away a
certain personality which raised him above the common herd. Still, in
the dusk no one would specially notice these things, and a village boy
wandering about was not likely to attract attention. He walked he did
not know where, for a very long time. He was under the impression that
he was going in the direction of Devonshire. Whenever he met any one he
asked where Devonshire was, and as a rule the person spoken to pointed
in a certain direction, and Piers walked on.

When he got to a cottage he went to the door and asked for a drink of
water. There was something wonderfully appealing in his dark eyes, and
he usually received either a hunch of bread or a big glass of milk
instead, so that although he had no money he did not starve, and as the
first night was a warm one he lay down under the shelter of a great
hayrick, burrowing a little way into it, and so escaping the worst of
the cold and chill. Early in the morning he got up and walked on again,
and thus he continued, journeying by easy stages, receiving food from
time to time from the cottagers, and attracting little or no attention
for two days.

He had really at last crossed the borders and was in Devonshire. He was
footsore and weary, and Devonshire was a big place, and he had not the
least idea in what part of it Pelham Towers was situated. It occurred to
him early on the morning of the third day that he must do something
more. His boots were much worn with walking, and his dress untidy. His
knees were torn from some thorns, and his face had lost its color; his
eyes, too, had a strained and anxious expression.

He began to see his home in his dreams. He began to dream when he walked
as well as when he lay down; he was very anxious indeed. The longing to
see his mother and Barbara grew keener and keener. He had never realized
before that walking was so tiring. It seemed hard that he should have to
walk and be so hungry when he was in reality such a rich little boy—a
king in his way—with five big places of his own.

As he was thinking these thoughts in the early morning he saw a
gentleman coming towards him in a gig. The gentleman had red whiskers
and a red face. He was a stout personage, and he was driving a chestnut
cob with a firm hand.

“Please stop!” said Piers, running into the middle of the road and
holding up his own thin hand to arrest attention.

The child had suddenly made up his mind to ask the gentleman to help
him.

Now it so happened that this man, a certain Squire Furzby, had been
reading the account of the magistrate’s inquiry into the strange case of
Sir Richard Pelham. He had been reading it with great interest, for, of
course, he knew the Pelhams of Pelham Towers well.

“Please stop!” called little Piers.

The gentleman drew up his horse and said “Hullo!”

“Is this Devonshire, please?” asked Piers.

“You ought to know that, my little man. You were born here, I make no
doubt.”

“It is quite true, I was born in Devonshire,” replied Piers. “But I have
come from Cornwall. I have walked a very long way.”

“What a queer little chap! Can I do anything for you?”

Piers gazed earnestly up at Squire Furzby.

“May I speak to you as one gentleman to another?” he asked.

The Squire gazed hard at the battered and much dilapidated little
apparition in the road.

“As one gentleman to another? Yes, certainly,” he said.

“As I am in Devonshire, and as tickets cost a great deal,” continued
Piers, “I was going to ask if you would drive me to the nearest railway
station, and if you would lend me my fare, third-class. I’m seven years
old, so I shall only want a half-ticket to a station called Haversham.”

“What an extraordinary boy! What do you want to go to Haversham for?
Have you no money of your own?”

Piers held up his two empty hands.

“I have a great deal of money,” he said. “I am a very rich boy.” He
paused.

“Well?”

“I can’t tell you any more; but will you trust me with a third-class
fare to Haversham?”

“The nearest railway station is half a mile away, just behind those
trees,” said Squire Furzby.

“Please will you take me there? I will promise so faithfully to return
the money if you’ll lend it to me; on my honor, you know—and as you are
a gentleman, and I’m another. Do you think you could trust me?”

“Your ticket at half-price third-class costs one and elevenpence,” said
the gentleman. “I happen to know that line well.”

“Would you lend it me? It will be such an immense help.”

“If you confide in me.”

“That’s just what I can’t do. I am an unfortunate boy burdened with a
secret. Will you trust me because you are a gentleman and because I am
one?”

“’Pon my word, you’re the queerest little chap I ever saw in my life.
Can’t you tell me anything about yourself?”

“My Christian name is Piers.”

“It’s an uncommon name.”

“It is, but not in our family. You shall have your money back to-morrow
or the next day at farthest. One and elevenpence won’t break you, will
it?”

“No,” said the gentleman. “Jump up, Piers; I’ll drive you to the
station, anyhow.”

The child obeyed, and a moment later was seated by the man’s side. The
Squire whipped up his pony.

“What do you want to do when you get to Haversham?”

“I want to go to Pelham Towers.”

“Pelham Towers! Hullo! They’re in great trouble over there, you know.”

“Are they? I don’t know,” said little Piers. His face was white, he
began to shiver. They reached the railway station.

“Will you trust me with the one and elevenpence,” asked the child,
“because you’re a gentleman and I’m another?”

“’Pon my word, I begin to think you are a gentleman,” said the Squire.
“Here’s your money. Take three shillings, you had better—you’ll want
something to eat on the way.”

“Thank you very much,” said Piers. He took off his ragged cap, made a
graceful bow to the gentleman, and then bounded into the station.

“Queer little chap! Wonder what it means?” said the Squire to himself.
“Looked like a gentleman although dressed as a beggar. I am not sorry I
did it, no, I’m not sorry. I’ll never see that money again, of course,
but all the same, I’m not sorry I did it.”

Meanwhile little Piers, having taken his ticket, waited eagerly for the
train. It came up in due course. He took his seat in an empty carriage
and soon found himself in the old familiar landmarks. He felt quite
happy now and his heart light. It was delightful to be so near home
again.

When the train drew up at Haversham he got out and walked steadily in
the direction of Pelham Towers. On his way he passed a cottage where
bread and milk were sold. He went in and proudly paid for his own
breakfast. By and by he reached the avenue. He saw the lodge gates, but
now as he saw them he began to tremble, for it suddenly occurred to him
that after all his secret still belonged to Clara, and that he had
faithfully promised her not to reveal it.

“I know that short cut just where the gap in the hedge is,” thought the
child. “I’ll not go round by the lodge, for some one might see me. I’ll
push my way through the gap.”

He did so, and the next moment he was running down a side path which led
straight to the chapel. The chapel door was open and Piers walked in. It
was cold in the chapel, but he was hot with walking. He took off his
cap, pushed back his curls, and seated himself in the family pew. He had
often sat there with his mother, and he felt quite comfortable and
soothed and happy. No one was likely to come to disturb him. He could
think what his next step should be—how he could gratify his longing, his
passionate longing to see his mother and Barbara, and the old place, and
yet keep his secret.

Presently he started up, raised his eyes, and confronted the white
tablet which recounted his own early death. He read it eagerly.

“What does it mean?” he said to himself. “Piers Pelham, aged seven,
died. Died! But I have not died. Piers Pelham! There never was any other
Piers Pelham, aged seven, but me, and that white stone looks new, and
there’s a verse under it. I died last summer—last August. But I didn’t
die. I’m here. What does it mean? I don’t like it,” thought little
Piers.

He heard voices outside: he looked around him. He went down the aisle
and entered the churchyard. There was a commotion in the churchyard. A
couple of grave-looking professional men were standing together and
talking in low tones. One or two other men, also complete strangers to
Piers, stood by. Some masons were busy taking away the entrance stone to
the old vault.

Piers knew that vault. He had often glanced at it with silent dread when
he passed on into the church with his mother. Sometimes when he had bad
dreams he thought of his ancestors lying in the vault, and he wondered
what sort of a place there was inside. As he came now into the sunlight
the entrance stone had just been moved away, and he caught a glimpse of
the black interior. He did not like it—it made his heart beat painfully.
No one was looking at him, however. There was painful work on hand, and
the attention of all this queer company was attracted towards it.

Piers moved softly aside in the direction of the old yew tree. He did
not want any of these strangers to notice him.

At the other side of the yew tree stood Gaffer Crayshaw. Gaffer Crayshaw
knew he ought not to be there. If he were discovered he would be ordered
to go quickly about his business, but he trusted no one would see him.
With his old body pressed against the yew tree, he was peering out
through the branches, his eyes fixed upon the scene which was taking
place around the vault. He did not notice Piers, but Piers recognized
him at a glance.

“Old Crayshaw,” thought the child. “He used to give me barley sugar.
He’ll tell me what it all means.”

The little fellow stepped cautiously around, making no noise as he did
so. He stood at last just behind Gaffer. Presently Piers’s small hand
was laid on the old man’s arm.

“What are they doing over there?” asked the child. “What are they doing
in the vault? Are they burying anybody?”

“’Tain’t that. Hush! Don’t speak!” said the old man. He half glanced
round and saw a little figure in the ordinary blouse of a village boy
standing beside him.

“Get away, you little beggar,” he continued. “Get out of this. Hush! Get
you gone.”

“But what are they doing?” pleaded Piers. His voice became a little more
shrill.

In despair Crayshaw thought it best to answer him.

“They ain’t a-burying nobody, but they’re a-taking somebody out of his
coffin. Yes, there they come and the coffin with them. That’s the coffin
that holds little Sir Piers Pelham—bless him! Poor little chap! They’re
taking it out, and they’re going to open it.”

“But I’m not there!” cried Piers.

His voice rang out very high and clear. It startled old Crayshaw, who
turned round and looked at him for the first time attentively. The old
man’s face turned white, he clapped his two hands to his ears, uttered a
loud and terrified shriek, and fled from the spot as if he were pursued
by a thousand demons.

Piers did not take any notice of him. One of the doctors who was bending
over the coffin glanced up with an annoyed expression of face.

“Go away, little boy,” he said; and then he gave directions to one of
the men beside him. The man stepped forward.

“But I’m not going away!” said little Piers. “This is my own churchyard
and my own chapel. What are you doing here? You are to go away—I’m not
going.”

The man was about to reply angrily, and to push the little intruder from
the scene, when suddenly there was a fresh commotion. Some steps were
heard approaching—eager steps, the steps of women. Piers burst from the
restraining hand of the man. He had the boy in his grip, but the child
wriggled away as if he were a little eel.

“Barbara!” cried Piers. “Barbara!” He rushed down the path. A lady with
starry brown eyes was coming up, a lady with a white face, and a world
of indescribable sorrow in her eyes. She was accompanied by some one
else, but at her Piers had no time to glance. He flung his arms round
Barbara’s neck.

“What does it mean?” he cried. “What does it mean? Here I am. I’m back
again. I’m alive and well. What does it mean, dear, darling, darling
Barbara?”

“Is it a dream?” cried Barbara. “Are you a spirit or in the flesh? Oh,
Piers, speak, for heavens sake! Oh, my heart will break!”

“But I am as alive as possible,” said Piers in a tone of astonishment.
“I never was dead at all. What can it mean? I, dead and in my coffin!
And they have stuck my name on a tablet in the church. What can it mean?
I didn’t die aged seven. I’m alive. Feel me. Isn’t my arm strong? Aren’t
my cheeks rosy? It was grannie did all that. I love grannie and I love
Clara, but I can’t, no, I can’t keep my secret any longer, Clara. There
you are, nurse, I see you. Oh, Barbara, kiss me. Barbara, take me back
to mother. Where’s Dick? Oh, Barbara, Barbara!”

Barbara Pelham was too brave a girl to faint even in the presence of
such an emergency. It is true that she grasped hold of Clara Tarbot, and
looked with terrified eyes from Clara to the boy.

“He is here—God bless him!—and alive,” cried Clara. “I will tell you
all. I came down for the purpose. I have a terrible confession to make.”
But the words had scarcely passed her lips before her composure gave
way, her strength, already strained to the utmost, vanished, and the
unhappy woman sank in a fit of unconsciousness on the ground.


All further explanations can be quickly made. Clara recovered in time to
make full confession. This she did in the presence of the doctors and
the police constables, who took down her depositions word for word as
they fell from her dying lips. She was taken to the house and tenderly
nursed, and no word of reproach was uttered to her, for those who bent
over her felt that, bad as she was, she had been instrumental in saving
the life of the boy.

As to Piers himself, he and Barbara went up to town that afternoon.
Barbara took the boy straight home to his mother, and then went to
acquaint the magistrates with the strange turn affairs had taken. She
held Clara’s deposition in her hand. So Dick was liberated and the
celebrated trial came to nothing, and little Piers is still the reigning
baronet of the house of Pelham—a gracious and kindly lad, who will grow
up into a good and brave man. He has repaid Squire Furzby, who is one of
his stanchest friends, and is never tired of telling of the dull
winter’s morning when, having given, as he considered, three shillings
to a beggar, he had in reality saved a great family from the extreme of
tragedy.

Dick Pelham has, after all, to work for his own living, but is none the
less happy on that account, and Barbara has gladly resigned the title
which, as she confessed afterwards, gave her more pain than pleasure.

Grannie Ives has a house on the estate and spends every Sunday with Mrs.
Posset. Between them they do their best to spoil Piers, but they do not
succeed. A warrant is out for the arrest of Luke Tarbot, and the police
are still busy searching for him.


                                THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




_Joan, the Curate_


                          _By FLORENCE WARDEN_

          _308 pages, size 7½ × 5, cloth, 3 stampings, $1.00_

The time of the story is 1748, its scene being along the seacoast of
Sussex, England. The doings here of the “free-traders,” as they called
themselves, or smugglers, as the government named them, had become so
audacious that a revenue cutter with a smart young lieutenant in
command, and a brigade of cavalry, were sent down to work together
against the offenders. Everybody in the village seems engaged in evading
the revenue laws, and the events are very exciting. Joan is the parson’s
daughter, and so capable and useful in the parish that she is called
“the curate.” She and the smart young lieutenant are the characters in a
romance.—_Book Notes_, May, 1899.

The author of the once immensely popular “House on the Marsh” turns in
her new story to the Sussex coast as it was in the middle of the last
century. The time and the place will at once suggest smugglers to the
observant reader, and, in truth, these gentry play an important part in
the tale.—_The Mail and Express_, April 11, 1899.

Miss Florence Warden in “Joan, the Curate” (F. M. Buckles & Co.) tells
an orthodox tale of smugglers in the last century with plenty of
exciting adventures and no deviations from the accepted traditions of a
familiar pattern in fiction.

                                              —_N. Y. Sun_, May 6, 1899.

“Joan, the Curate” (Joan, a creamy-skinned, blackeyed maiden, gets her
surname on account of the part she plays in helping her father, Parson
Langley, with his duties), is a village tale of the smuggling days on
the wild marsh coast of Kent and the equally lonely cliffs of Sussex.
The village is a hot-bed of these daring “free-traders,” even the parson
and his daughter are secretly in sympathy with them, and young
Lieutenant Tregenna, who is in command of the revenue cutter sent to
overawe the natives, has anything but a comfortable task to perform. His
difficulties only increase when he falls in love with Joan and discovers
her leanings towards the illegalities of the village, and when, at the
same time, the audacious leader of the smugglers, Ann Price, who carries
on her trade disguised as a man, falls in love with him herself, the
complications are almost bewildering. The story moves through countless
adventures, sanguinary fights, and lovers’ quarrels to the
conventionally happy ending and the partial return of the fishermen to
honest ways.

                                                —_Book News_, May, 1899.




_The Real Lady Hilda_


                           _By B. M. CROKER_

         _266 pages, sizes, 7½ × 5, cloth, 3 stampings, $1.00_

“The Real Lady Hilda,” by B. M. Croker, is a very pleasing novel,
depending for its interest not upon sensational incident, but upon a
clever portrayal of disagreeable traits of character in high society.
The story is told by a young lady who finds herself with her stepmother
in obscure lodgings in an obscure country town. The head of the family
had been physician to a Rajah in India, had lived in princely style and
had entertained in princely fashion. He had died and left to his widow
and child nothing but a small pension, and they soon found themselves in
straightened circumstances. Besides the character drawing, the
entertaining feature of the story lies in the shabby treatment which the
two impecunious women receive from the people whom they have so royally
entertained in India, and the inability of the widow, with her Indian
experience, to understand it. Entertaining, too, is the fawning toadyism
of the middle-class women, who disdainfully tip their noses and wag
their tongues when they find that the poor women are neglected by the
great lady in the neighborhood.

              —_The Bookseller, Newsdealer and Stationer_, June 1, 1899.

Mrs. Croker belongs to the group of English country life novelists. She
is not one of its chief members, but she succeeds often in being amusing
in a quiet, simple way. Her gentlefolk lack the stamp of caste, but the
plots in which they are placed are generally rather ingenious. Of
course, in a field so assiduously worked, one cannot look for
originality. The present book is just what the author modestly calls
it—a “sketch,” with the usual poor girl of good family and the equally
familiar happy ending.—_Mail and Express_, May 1, 1899.




_The Good Mrs. Hypocrite_


                              _By “RITA”_

          _284 pages, size 7½ x 5, cloth, 3 stampings, $1.00_

“Good Mrs. Hypocrite.” A study in self-righteousness, is a most
enjoyable novel by “Rita.” It has little of plot, and less of adventure,
but is the study of a single character and a narration of her career.
But she is sufficiently unique to absorb the attention, and her purely
domestic experiences are quite amusing. She is the youngest daughter of
a Scotch family, angular as to form and sour as to feature. She had an
aggressive manner, was selfish, and from girlhood set herself against
all tenderness of sentiment. Losing her parents, she tried her hand as a
governess, went to her brother in Australia, returned to England and
joined a sisterhood in strange garb, and her quarrelsome disposition and
her habit of quoting scripture to set herself right made her presence
everywhere objectionable. For this old maid was very religious and
strict as to all outward forms. Finally she went to live with an invalid
brother. She discharged the servant, chiefly because she was plump and
fair of feature, and she replaced her with a maid as angular as herself,
straight from Edinbro’. The maid was also religious and quoted
scripture, and the fun of the story lies in the manner in which the
woman who had had her way so long was beaten by her own weapons.

                 -_Bookseller, Newsdealer and Stationer_, June 15, 1899.

The Scotch character is held up in this story at its worst. All its
harshness, love of money, unconscious hypocrisy, which believes in
lip-service while serving but its own self, are concentrated in the
figure of the old spinster who takes charge of her invalid brother’s
household. She finds a match, however, in the Scotch servant she hires,
hard like herself, but with the undemonstrative kindness that seems to
be a virtue of the race. The book lacks the charm that lies at the root
of the popularity of the books of the “Kailyard” school. In its
disagreeable way, however, it is consistent, though the melodramatic
climax is not the ending one has a right to expect.—_The Mail and
Express_, June 21, 1899.




_Captain Jackman_


                         _By W. CLARK RUSSELL_

          _240 pages, size 7½ × 5, cloth, 3 stampings, $1.00_

Clark Russell in “Captain Jackman” has told a good story of the strange
conduct of a ship’s master, who starts out with a fake robbery by which
he realizes £1500. The account of his peculiar courtship and the still
more peculiar acceptance of his offer by the daughter of a retired naval
commander is scarcely credible, but it is readable and the tragic end is
not improbable. It is a mere short story, expanded by large type into a
volume.

                               —_San Francisco Chronicle_, July 9, 1899.

“Captain Jackman; or, A Tale of Two Tunnels,” is a story by W. Clark
Russell, not so elaborate in plot as some of his stories, or so full of
life on the sea, but some of the characters are sailors, and its
incidents are of the ocean, if not on it. Its hero is dismissed from the
command of a ship by her owners, because of his loss of the proceeds of
a voyage, which they evidently think he had appropriated to himself. The
heroine discovers him in and rescues him from a deserted smuggler’s
cave, where he had by some mischance imprisoned himself. He handsome,
she romantic as well, they fall in love with each other. Her father, a
retired commander of the Royal navy, storms and swears to no purpose,
for she elopes with the handsome captain, who starts on an expedition to
capture a Portuguese ship laden with gold—a mad scheme, conceived as it
appears by a madman, which accounts for his curious and unconventional
ways,

                —_Bookseller, Newsdealer and Stationer_, July, 15, 1899.

It is readable, interesting, and admirable in its technical skill. Mr.
Russell, without apparent effort, creates an atmosphere of realism. His
personages are often drawn with a few indicative strokes, but this can
never be said of his central figures. In the present little story the
fascinating personality of Captain Jackman stands our very clearly. He
is a curious study, and the abnormal state of his mind is made to come
slowly into the recognition of the reader just as it does into that of
old Commander Conway, R. N. This is really a masterly bit of
story-craft, for it is to this that the maintenance of the interest of
the story is due. The reader does not realize at first that he is
following the fortunes of a madman, but regards Jackman as a brilliant
adventurer. The denouement is excellently brought about, although it
gives the tale its sketchy character.—_N. Y. Times_, July 1, 1899.




_A Rogue’s Conscience_


                       _By DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY_

           _311 pages, size 7½ x 5 cloth, 3 stampings, $1.00_

It is rather unusual to find a detective story written from the
criminal’s point of view, and truth to tell, in this “Rogue’s
Conscience,” by David Christie Murray, we find our sympathies and
anxieties strongly following the hunted ones. Mr. James Mortimer and Mr.
Alexander Ross were such entertaining sinners, and their disguises were
so marvellous, and their escapes so hair-breath, that we follow the
comedy of their fortunes with unfailing cheerfulness. When the scene
shifts from city risks to the broad field of mining camp speculations,
we see the beginning of the end, for here the “rogue’s conscience”
commenced to work, and a double reformation ends the book in a blaze of
glory. The story has just enough seriousness to give it balance but by
no means enough to destroy the pleasantly light and entertaining quality
of the book.—_Literary World_, August 5, 1899.

David Christie Murray has written an amusing tale of two unworthies in
“A Rogue’s Conscience.” “If you want to enlighten a rogue’s conscience,
serve him as he served other people—rob him,” observes the “hero,” who
has acquired the “sixth sense of honesty.” How he arrived at this sage
conclusion, and how he put the principle into effect, all tend toward
the live human interest of a story which shows no sign of lagging from
beginning to end. The tale is not free from tragedy, but even the sombre
parts are handled easily and lightly, as though the author believed them
necessary, but yet felt freer in the atmosphere of almost light-hearted
roguery which pervades most of the volume. The book is capital reading
for a summer afternoon, and action lurks on every page.—_American_,
August 31, 1899.

Two rogues, who figure in the novel as James Mortimer and Alexander
Ross, in alliance with a third scamp, forged an issue of the Bank of
England. The nameless third paid the penalty of his crime, but Mortimer
and Ross, through the clever scheming of Mortimer, escaped to British
Columbia after having added to their ill-gotten gains. Mortimer,
apparently the most unscrupulous, makes the singular atonement which
transforms him into a hero.

                                   —_Publishers’ Weekly_, July 22, 1899.




_A Man’s Undoing_


                      _By Mrs. H. LOVETT CAMERON_

           _333 Pages, size 7½ x 5 cloth, 3 stampings, $1.00_

A retired English officer, returned to his widowed mother’s quiet home
in the country, finds his undoing in idleness, which leads him into a
flirtation with a girl socially and intellectually his inferior, but who
is clever enough to force marriage upon him. Then complications thicken,
as the man discovers the full meaning of his fatal mistake.

                               —_The Mail and Express_, August 10, 1889.

“A Man’s Undoing” is an exceptionally good novel by Mrs. H. Lovett
Cameron. It is not written to tickle the palate of the sated reader who
is looking only for new sensations, nor is it intended to amuse for a
short hour. It preaches no new doctrine; it presents no novelties of
character or incident. Its theme is as old as humanity—the burden of
story and song through all the ages. But Mrs. Cameron shows that it has
lost none of its interest, that its phases may be presented in new
aspects, that the conventionalities of modern civilization have not made
it less a force in the affairs of men, nor obliterated any of its
eternal truths. Its influence over the lives of men and women varies in
extent and results, as the men and women vary in character, subject
always to variations of condition and environment; therefore it always
presents new studies. All the world loves a lover, and no one knows
better than Mrs. Cameron how to make a lover most interesting.
Especially skillful is she in her delineations of women who love. She
paints other women also to fill out her pictures—the narrow-minded old
maids and the gossipy matrons, and none of her women are repellingly
bad—but her women who love have all the nobility and strength of
womanhood. As she deals with noble character, so she deals with the
serious affairs of life, of strong emotions, of heart histories, with
all their heroism and pathos. “A Man’s Undoing” is admirably
constructed. Its lessons will not be lost upon the thoughtful, and it
will be read with eager interest by all classes of novel readers.

               —_Bookseller, Newsdealer and Stationer_, August 15, 1899.

This is a good strong story; told with dramatic emphasis. It is not
heavy; plenty light enough for summer reading; but the author, Mrs. H.
Lovett Cameron, writes with the skill of a trained novelist, as, indeed,
she is. How the man came to be undone, as the result of a one-week
flirtation—that is for the readers to find out. The lover of a good
story will not lay down the book until the last page is turned. The
volume appears in a cloth cover of brown, black, red and green. The type
is clear and good sized; the paper good, and the pages number
333.—_American_, August 24, 1899.


                  _At all booksellers or will be sent,
                  postpaid, upon receipt of price by_

                       _F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY_

                   _9–11 East 16th Street, New York_

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. P. 201, changed “error” to “terror”.
 2. P. 301, changed “listed” to “listened”.
 3. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 4. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
 5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.