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.