CHAPTER XV.

DICK’S SECRET.

Mrs. Pelham mourned for her boy in the deepest black. She gradually recovered her health, but her spirits were low, and she indulged in much weeping. She began to look pale and old, and her friends all pitied her sincerely.

For the first fortnight after the unexpected death of the boy Mrs. Evershed did not dare to visit the unhappy widow. She felt that under such peculiar, such wonderful circumstances, she could scarcely command her own face. The event which was a terrible blow to Mrs. Pelham was life and the resurrection of all things bright and beautiful to Mrs. Evershed. Now, indeed, Dick Pelham was a son-in-law after her own heart. She did not dare to hurry on the wedding too soon, but at the same time she was glad to tell her friends that Barbara was engaged to the dear fellow quite a fortnight before his little cousin died.

People were fond of congratulating Barbara and talking about her luck, but Barbara herself quickly put a stop to this. She felt the child’s death acutely, and was low-spirited and nervous. She was happy because she was engaged to the man of her heart, but in other ways she was not happy. Riches had come to her; her mother’s affairs were all put absolutely straight. In future she would never know the meaning of want of money. Money in full abundance was to be hers, but somehow—she could not quite tell why—a certain zest was taken out of her life.

As to Dick, there was a queer change in him. He gave up visiting at Mrs. Pelham’s house, and he hated to hear his cousin’s name mentioned. When alone with Barbara he was apt to lapse into long fits of silence. Once he told Barbara that he would fifty times rather work as a navvy than step into the riches which now were his. Barbara felt surprised at words which she considered too strong for the occasion.

“If it was God’s will——” she began.

“But it was not His will,” interrupted Dick fiercely. “Don’t talk about it any more, Barbara.”

He became gloomy, reserved, and irritable; over and over these moods visited him. In the old days there was not a gayer, happier fellow than Dick Pelham. He had a kind word for every one; now he was morose and disagreeable. Barbara could not account for the change in his manner. Mrs. Pelham noticed it. She spoke to Barbara about it.

“He is a different man. I should not know him for the same,” she said.

“It is grief, it is grief,” said Barbara.

“Oh darling! it is sweet of him to grieve, and I love him for it,” said the poor woman, “but I wish he would grieve in the way you do, Barbara. If he would only come and talk to me, we might look at my angel’s toys together and comfort ourselves with memories of him; but to keep away from me, never to come near the house, it looks strange—it is strange.”

To this remark Barbara made no reply.

One day, about six weeks after little Piers’s death, Pelham called at Mrs. Evershed’s house. He had written Barbara a note to say that he wished to see her on an important matter, and begged her to be at home.

“How ill you look!” cried Barbara when she saw him. “Your face is dreadfully white. I wish you would tell me what is wrong.”

“I have come here to do so,” he answered.

“Oh! I am glad of that. I am so puzzled about you, and so is Mrs. Pelham. Mother noticed even yesterday that you were not quite so——Oh, it does not matter what she said; we won’t talk of it. But ever since dear little Piers died I cannot help seeing that you are changed.”

“I am worried, Barbara. I am more than worried—I am tortured by a doubt. That doubt makes all the world dark.”

“What is it, Dick?”

“You may not wish to marry me when you know.”

“Dick!” The girl’s face turned white.

“Have you heard that Tarbot is married?”

“Dr. Tarbot married!” cried Barbara.

“How startled you look! Does it affect you much?”

“It astonishes me, Dick. But why should you look at me so strangely?”

“I don’t know myself,” said the young man. “I feel suspicious and queer about everything. He loved you, Barbara.”

“He said so, but men quickly change,” said the girl. Then she added with spirit, “I never could bear him. I was grateful to him for what he did for mother, but I never could bear him for himself. It is a relief that he is married. Who is the girl?”

“You will never guess her name.”

“Then tell me, if I am not likely to guess.”

“Barbara, he must have done this for a reason. He has married that red-haired nurse who attended little Piers when he was ill.”

Barbara’s utter astonishment was reflected in her face. A queer thrill of alarm ran through her frame.

“Sit still,” said Pelham. “I must ask you to share my burden with me. That marriage confirms a suspicion which I hold.”

“What, Dick—what?”

Pelham began to pace up and down the room.

“I am pursued by a horrible fear,” he said suddenly. “I think—nay, sometimes my thoughts seem certainties—I think that little Piers came by his death through foul means. Barbara, the thought terrifies me; it takes the joy out of everything. I am haunted by it.”

“Dick! Dick!” said the girl. “Why, this is madness,” she continued. “I have heard of people getting queer when they are overwrought as you have been lately. Your nerves are out of order. Darling, do cast the awful thought from you. There is no foundation for it—none. It terrifies me even to hear you speak.”

“Aye,” said Pelham; “but what if you had to live with my thought day and night, if it haunted you in your dreams, if it pursued you wherever you went—just that little life clamoring to be avenged? Barbara, you don’t suppose that this is merely a figment of the imagination—that I have no cause for what I think?”

“Oh, Dick! I am sick with terror. Must you tell me any more?”

“I must. Afterwards we need not talk of it. Oh, I cannot marry you keeping all this dark.”

“This is a figment of the imagination,” cried the girl. “Did we not go into the room a moment or two after his death? Dick, I will not listen. You are nervous. Marry me, Dick—dear Dick. Let our wedding be soon. I will comfort you, I will cheer you, I will banish those awful thoughts.”

“Do you really wish to hear nothing more?” asked Pelham, gazing at her in astonishment.

“For the present I do. I am so certain that you have no ground for your terrors. Dr. Tarbot is bad, but he is not a murderer. Dick, when I am your wife, I can exorcise the demon. I don’t mind what the world says. Let us be married quietly, and at once.”

“You have not got your trousseau. Most girls think of that.”

“We can get what we want after we are married.”

Pelham stood up.

“You really wish me to say nothing more about my suspicions?”

“I won’t listen—there’s nothing in them. We will marry and I will make you happy—so happy, Dick, that you will forget your nervous terrors.”

“You tempt me, Barbara.”

“Say yes, then, my darling. Surely you won’t refuse?”

“Not I. I long for you. I do believe you are the only one who can put me right, and your feeling that there is nothing in it gives me a momentary sensation of comfort, but remember I have not told you _why_ I suspect.”

“You shall some day—when we are married, but not now. You are prejudiced; you hate Dr. Tarbot—surely not more than I hate him—but that he should stoop to such a horrible crime—no, Dick, no. Turn your thought away from it. It is wrong.”

“When shall we be married?” he asked.

“Whenever you like—next week, the week after, whenever you please.”

“The sooner the better,” answered Pelham.