CHAPTER XIV.

BLACK MISCHIEF.

When her husband left the house Clara sent for the cook. She gave explicit orders, and the cook was respectful. The woman had lived before now in what she considered high families—families where thirty servants at least were kept. She endeavored to impress Clara, but Clara was not impressed in the very least. The new mistress told the woman exactly what she required, all her remarks were pertinent and to the point, and the cook could not help respecting her.

Clara gave firm orders, short and decisive. The best tradespeople were to be dealt with, the cooking was to be of the highest quality—dainty, _recherché_, agreeable to the palate.

The cook went down-stairs highly pleased, and then Clara proceeded to interview the rest of the servants. She acted her part to perfection—they were all pleased, inclined to be deferential. Even the butler was satisfied, and was disposed to think there was something in the footman’s words.

“Not that she’s a marchioness,” he said, when he was alone with that functionary; “but I don’t say she mightn’t have married a baronight when in a previous state.”

This admission was honey to the footman, who had been severely snubbed early in the morning, and everything was likely to go smoothly in Tarbot’s household.

Having arranged matters so far, Clara now went out. She told the footman to whistle for a hansom, and when it arrived she stepped into it with his aid.

She desired the cabby to drive her to a job-master’s. She saw the head of the establishment and asked him to send round for orders every morning and afternoon until she had purchased a carriage of her own. She looked at the different victorias and landaus which were for hire, selected two of the best, which she said she was willing to pay special terms for the use of, and then told the man to take the victoria round to 250 Harley Street, within an hour. She then returned home.

At the appointed time the victoria drew up at the door. Again the footman helped Mrs. Tarbot into her carriage, and threw a light fur rug over her knees. She desired the man to drive into Oxford Street, but after they had turned the corner she spoke to him again and told him that her real destination was Goodge Street.

Having arrived at her old quarters, she ordered the man to drive about for an hour and afterwards come back for her. She then ran up-stairs.

She was dressed from head to foot in black, for she had discovered that no other color suited her so well, no other style of dress brought out the best points in her figure or made the most of that dead-white complexion and that brilliant red-gold hair. She knocked at the door behind which she had so often sat and waited and longed for Tarbot.

Now she was his wife, his lawful wedded wife. She had taken possession of his house, of his riches—his position in society was hers, his name was hers. She possessed all of him except the part she most longed to secure—the man’s heart. Could she ever have that? She felt that it was beyond her purchase. She hated and she loved him for what he withheld: she hated him to the point of extreme pain, she loved him to the point of madness.

Mrs. Ives was in, and so was little Piers. Mrs. Ives started back when she saw Clara and began to say that her daughter was out.

“Nonsense, mother; don’t talk folly,” said Clara. “Don’t you know me?” She flung back her veil.

“A mercy me! Whoever would suppose that it was you, Clara,” said the old woman. “Why, you _are_ fine. Fine feathers make fine birds. Piers, here’s your nurse come back.”

“I’m not Piers’s nurse any more. How are you, Piers, all the same?” said Clara. She now entered the room, shut the door behind her and turned to face her mother and the boy.

After one admiring glance, Piers ran and clasped his arms round her neck.

“I always said you were a very handsome woman,” he cried. “You look awfully fine now you wear black. Black is the proper color for a lady to wear, and you’re a lady now, aren’t you?”

“I hope so, Piers.”

“A mercy me!” said the old woman again. She still stood in the background. From time to time she dropped a sort of involuntary curtsey.

“Are you sure it’s you, Clara?” she said at last, coming to the light.

“Stare at me as long as you like, mother. When you have quite done, I’ll sit down. I have a good deal to say.”

“May I sit on your knee?” asked the boy.

“You may,” said Clara. She placed herself in the rocking-chair.

The boy scrambled on to her knee.

“I’m quite well again,” he said in a low, excited voice, “and I’ve kept my promise, but it was awfully hard. Do you know how I managed?”

Clara nodded but did not speak. She was looking at the child with a hungry expression in her eyes. There was a wonderful drawing in her heart towards him. She felt that here was something more valuable than her grand house, her fine dress, her large establishment. She looked into the boy’s velvety eyes, then suddenly clasped him to her heart and pressed her lips to his.

“But for me, little Piers, but for me,” she said with a sort of strangled sob.

“Why do you talk in such a queer way?” he asked. “Are you frightened about anything? Are you worried?”

“No, no, I am only glad, Piers. Don’t ask me any more. So you kept——”

“Oh, yes, I kept the secret,” he said, nodding to her, an expression of delight visiting his small mouth. “And I’m just going to tell how I managed. It was such fun. I told your mother—she’s a dear old thing, but she’s not handsome like you, nor is she a lady—I told her each morning at breakfast that I had a _great_ secret, and then I got her to guess what it was.”

“Good Heavens!” said Clara.

“It was such fun,” continued Piers. “She used to guess all sorts of things, and sometimes she shot very near the mark, nurse, but never quite. Sometimes she was almost cross, and she would say I must tell her. She’s wonderfully full of curiosity for such an old body. She never _quite_ guessed, though once or twice she got very near to it. One day she said perhaps I was a prince in disguise. Oh, how I clapped my hands when she said that! I laughed—didn’t I laugh just! I said, ‘Good, good, good, but not _quite_ right.’”

“For Heaven’s sake, child, hush!” said Clara. “Mother, do you mind going into the other room for a moment?”

“Highty tighty!” said the old lady. “I can see well there’s a change come over you, Clara. You wouldn’t talk to your mother like that in the old days. Oh, to be sure I’ll go; but I intend to have a word with you myself by and by.”

The old woman went into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

“Now, Piers,” said Clara.

“Are you going to be angry with me?” asked Piers. “You look something like you used to look when you made me stare into your eyes.”

“Do you remember that?” asked Mrs. Tarbot in some alarm.

“I do, in a puzzled sort of way. I used rather to like it at first. I used to feel that I loved you, and yet I hated you. I felt I’d do anything in all the world for you, and yet I could not bear you. Nurse, you’re not going to make me look at you again like that?”

“Never, as there is a heaven above,” answered the woman.

“Why are you trembling? Let me keep my arms tight round your neck. That soft black lace suits you awfully well. Mother wears lace like that—it’s very good, and it’s expensive. Are you a rich lady now, nurse?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Oh, I’m rather glad. Perhaps you’ll be able soon to take a better room. Are you coming back to live with us, nurse, with your mother and me?”

“No, Piers; but now I’m not going to talk of my own affairs. There is another thing I must say. You are not to set my mother guessing your secret.”

“But why, why?” asked the child in astonishment. “It amuses me and it keeps me from telling it. I’m very dull, you know, very dull indeed. I, who have so much, am now given so little. If it were not that Mrs. Ives takes me out two or three times daily, and if it were not that I always go——”

“What?” said Clara.

“Oh, now you are looking really cross. I always walk past Ashley Mansions. I take Mrs. Ives there every day. I stop in front of No. 12, and when I’m there, just at the opposite side of the street, I make her guess harder than ever.”

“This must be put a stop to,” said Clara under her breath. “I have not come back a moment too soon.”

“What is the matter with you, nurse? How queer you look!”

“There’s nothing the matter, dear. Oh, yes, what you did was quite natural, and I—I am not cross. You are going to have a change soon, dear, darling little Piers, a splendid change. Now run into the bedroom and send my mother in.”

“It is fun,” said the boy. “You have secrets with me and secrets with your mother.” He strutted into the bedroom.

“It’s your turn now,” he said to the old lady. “I am to be shut in here while you two talk secrets. I hate secrets, but they’re awful ’citing. Go, Mrs. Ives, and talk to her. She’s a very handsome woman, and she’s a lady, but I do wish she didn’t want us to keep so many secrets.”

“What’s up?” asked Mrs. Ives. “Whisper to me, honey.”

“I think it’s because we walked past Ashley Mansions.” He stopped and clapped his hand to his mouth. “Don’t you remember how I stopped opposite No. 12 and made you guess—don’t you remember?”

“Of course I remember,” said Mrs. Ives, with a toss of her head. “And I can put two and two together as well as most. I’ll have a talk with Clara. Clara may keep things from the rest of the world, but she’s not going to keep them from her old mother. You rest quiet, my little lamb; you and I will be a match for Clara yet, although she is such a fine lady.”

Mrs. Ives went back into the sitting-room. She dropped a mocking curtsey to her daughter.

“A mercy me!” she cried for the third time. “And what’s your ladyship’s pleasure with me?”

“Don’t talk nonsense, mother,” said Clara. “Sit down and let us discuss things.”

“I’m agreeable,” said old Mrs. Ives.

“This kind of thing can’t go on, you know,” said Clara.

“What kind of thing, your ladyship?”

“Oh, mother, don’t be so irritating; I hate you to speak in that strain. Look here, you mustn’t pry into my secrets about the boy. If I choose to keep him here that’s my affair. You’re fond of a bit of money, aren’t you, and I can make it well worth your while to keep quiet and lie low, but the moment you guess what I want to keep hidden, the money stops. The child goes elsewhere, you understand?”

“To be sure, Clara,” said Mrs. Ives—the sparkle became very bright in her eyes as she spoke, and she screwed up her shrewd little mouth until it resembled a round O.

“I’ll be careful,” she cried.

“Well, then, that’s all right. And now please tell me exactly what you have guessed.”

“What I have guessed,” said the old woman coloring. “He ain’t your own child, I know that.”

“Of course not, mother: don’t run away with such a wild idea. But that’s not the thought in your mind.”

“No, it ain’t; but why should I tell it?”

“You must tell it—I insist.”

“You’ve got that masterful, you ain’t what you were. I don’t think riches have improved you, but if you want to know really what I do think, there’s somebody as wants to get rid of that child, and you are given money to hide him.”

“You’re wrong there,” said Clara. “I have not got a farthing for the boy. I’m keeping him away from danger, that’s what I’m doing.”

“Away from danger? Is it likely any one would hurt a pretty lamb like that?”

“There are always wolves in the world ready to eat up pretty lambs,” said Clara. “But now listen, mother; this air does not suit Piers, and I’m going to send him away. He shall go down to Cornwall with you. You’ll keep him in your own cottage, and say he’s a boy you’ve been given to nurse. He will spend the winter with you, and I’ll give you two pounds a week as long as you look after him, and don’t guess any more than you know at present.”

“Two pounds a week!—A mercy me! how will you get the money, Clara?”

“From my husband.”

“To be sure. I forgot you was married. You never told me the name of your husband. Your name is no longer Ives.”

“Not likely.”

“What is your name?”

Clara hesitated, then she said slowly, “Tarbot.”

“Tarbot, Tarbot—it sounds like Turbot—you ain’t surely married to that doctor fellow?”

“You must not talk of him in that strain. He’s one of the best doctors in London—one of the cleverest, I mean. Yes, I am his wife. I have a fine house and plenty of money, but I don’t want you to come to my house, and I don’t want the boy to come there. If either of you come to the house, or if ever you let out that I gave you the boy to take care of, mischief will come of it; black mischief mother, black mischief.”

“Yes,” said the old woman. Her voice was cowed and she felt frightened.

“Come over here to me, mother. I’ll whisper something to you.”

“You give me the creeps,” began Mrs. Ives.

“Come here, mother, come here.”

The old woman was afraid to stir. Clara rose and went to her, she knelt by her side.

“There are those who want to get rid of the child,” she said in a hoarse whisper, “but with you, mother, he is safe. Now you understand.”

“Yes, I think I do,” said the old woman. She sat back in her chair. She was white and trembling.