CHAPTER XIII.

THE DIE CAST.

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

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

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

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

Tarbot was quite agreeable. Her choice even pleased him.

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

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

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

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

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

Clara smiled. Tarbot went on gazing at her critically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?” he asked.

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

He uttered a vexed exclamation and stared at her.

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

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

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

“Not sorry?” he said.

“Yes; can you ever get to feel glad?”

“Glad!” he cried.

“Yes, yes! Speak, speak!”

“Glad that I married you!” he repeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tarbot was waiting impatiently for his breakfast. Clara swept to the head of her table, sat down with what the footman was pleased to call a marchioness air, and poured out the coffee. The servants left the room, and the husband and wife were alone together.

“I shall want a maid,” said Clara, raising her eyes to Tarbot’s face.

“A maid!” he exclaimed. “You! What in the name of fortune for?”

“I, as much as another,” she answered. “Do you suppose I can attend to my own clothes and the thousand and one things which a maid ought to do for a fine lady? Whatever I was in the past, I am now your wife and a fine lady, and as such I must have a maid. I shall go to Mrs. Mount to-day and secure one.”

“As you please,” replied Tarbot. “Now I have eaten enough, and must be off. Don’t expect me to lunch. After I have seen my patients I shall drive round to the hospital. To-morrow, of course, I shall be in to receive patients from ten to one as usual, but to-day I am simply going to announce my return to town.”

“By the way,” said Clara as he rose from the table, “what about Miss Evershed?”

Tarbot gave an involuntary start. Clara noticed a sort of quiver which seemed to run through his frame. He was standing with his back to her; now he turned slowly.

“Miss Evershed, why?”

“When is she to be married?”

“I don’t know. I have heard nothing either of her or Pelham for the last fortnight.”

“You will find out something to-day?”

“Probably, as I intend to call to see Mrs. Pelham.”

“Is Mrs. Pelham still in London?” asked Clara.

“Yes, the house is her own.”

“That’s a good thing for you.”

“Why do you say so?”

“Because I know it.”

“It is a good thing for me,” said Tarbot slowly, “a very good thing. I thought of that when I arranged other matters. Good-by, Clara; expect me when you see me.”