Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

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.

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.