CHAPTER XVI.

THE WRONG MEDICINE.

The wedding took place in a fortnight. The marriage was solemnized at St. James’s, Fore Street. This was the church which Barbara and her mother attended on Sundays. Seeing the church open, one or two spectators dropped in. They got quietly into seats, and waited while the service went on. They noticed the firm upright figure of the bride, her clear voice. They noticed the bridegroom also—his tall, erect frame, his gallant bearing. But as the bride and bridegroom left the church together more than one person noticed the shadow on his face.

“What does it mean?” they said. “This is a true love marriage; we have heard the particulars, and the bridegroom has just come into enormous wealth. What does it mean? He does not look a happy man.”

Amongst the spectators were two whose eyes Barbara encountered with an obvious start. Seated in a pew which opened into the center aisle was Dr. Tarbot. He gave both Pelham and Barbara a keen, bright glance. In a distant part of the church Tarbot’s wife also witnessed the ceremony. On this occasion she preferred not to sit with her husband. Tarbot had no idea that she was in the church, but Pelham and Barbara noticed her.

Barbara felt a queer thrill of fear as she glanced for an instant at the light blue eyes.

From the church the pair went straight to Dover, crossed to Calais, spent one night in Paris, and then went on to Switzerland. It was late autumn now, and Switzerland was in all the glory of its autumn coloring. After the first two or three days Barbara determined to cast aside the fear which haunted her—the fear with regard to her husband’s sanity—for she never for a moment gave the least credence to there being any truth in his suspicions, and began to enjoy herself. She was with the man she loved, her best dreams were realized—she was Dick’s forever.

In her eyes he had always been a hero, one of the best of men. In truth, he was by nature a man any girl might love—frank, independent, brave, fearless. Barbara felt that she loved him all the more because his great riches slightly oppressed him, because his grief for his young cousin’s untimely death had for the time upset his nerves. She felt that her devotion, her love must work wonders. When she found that he did not care to talk about the house and wealth which had come to him so unexpectedly, Barbara also avoided the subject.

She had made up her mind, however. She knew that what Pelham wanted was plenty of occupation. Their honeymoon, therefore, should not be too long—they would go back to England within a month or six weeks, and take up the onerous duties which now had fallen on their shoulders. When he worked, when he went in and out amongst his people, when he took up the position of landlord on a large scale, Pelham would drop that gloom which enveloped him like a mantle.

Four weeks passed by, and the bride began to have anxious moments with regard to the approaching return to England. She had always lived a busy life, and did not care for a _dolce far niente_ existence longer than could be helped. The pair were spending their last week at Glion. The hotel where they were staying would be closed at the end of a month. On a certain evening they stood together on a balcony outside the big drawing-room. A waiter brought them coffee; they sat with a small table between them. Pelham was smoking a fragrant cigar, and Barbara in one of her pretty white dresses looked shadowy and ethereal in the half-light.

“Dick, do you know what this reminds me of?” she said, laying her hand on his arm.

“No,” he answered. He started when she touched him, for he was given to starting of late.

“It reminds me of that happy night when you asked me if I would be your wife. I had two proposals that night.” Barbara laughed as she spoke. “Before you said those words which made me the happiest girl in the world Dr. Tarbot had spoken of his love. We were on the balcony just outside the drawing-room in Mark Place. The light was subdued—something like this—Dr. Tarbot spoke with great and strange passion. I see his face even now, and the queer look in his eyes when I refused him. All the time he was speaking I could not help thinking that I hated him more each moment. I left him on the balcony and went into the drawing-room. Then you met me and we strolled together to the conservatories. Do you remember, Dick?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“Do you remember the scent of that rose? It was a Gloire de Dijon. You touched it with your fingers as you spoke.”

“Yes,” he replied again, and now he stretched out his hands and clasped one of hers, holding it in a warm pressure. “I am the luckiest fellow in the world,” he said, “but I wish to heaven I could——”

“You could do what?” she answered.

“Get rid of that suspicion or—or verify it.”

“Dick dear!” said Barbara in her most soothing voice. She slipped nearer to him. “I have changed my mind. We had better have this thing out. What do you want to verify?”

Pelham looked at her steadily.

“Do you really wish to know at last?” he said.

“Yes.”

“It will be a relief to tell you. You remember that Piers always slept in the nursery. The dressing-room was just beyond, and the nurse kept the medicine and all bottles in the dressing-room. The first night I visited him I went with her to the door of the dressing-room. She gave me the medicine, and I took it into the room alone. I gave the child the medicine, and just when he had finished it the nurse came back. The boy complained that the medicine tasted queer and sweet, not like that which he had been taking.

“The nurse took the glass and tasted what was left, and said that she thought the child must have had the wrong medicine. She went out of the room as she spoke and shut the door after her. I forgot about this at the time, but it came back to me afterwards.

“Ever since the death I have been putting two and two together. I have been anxious to meet Mrs. Tarbot to ask her if she ever had the medicine analyzed to find out why she called it wrong. Then, Barbara dear, I don’t believe that Piers had heart disease. Don’t you remember how he used to run and race, and play tennis and croquet, and ride his pony and his bicycle?

“He could not have done all these things if he had organic disease of the heart—I don’t believe it. He was taken ill very suddenly, and a favorite nurse of Tarbot’s was engaged to look after him. She herself confessed in my presence that there was something wrong with the medicine which she handed to me to give him. All these things might have been of course merely incidents leading to nothing, but on the night the child died a strange thing happened. I was called to the door of the dressing-room and given the boy’s medicine again. The nurse said it would have a very stimulating effect, and would take off the weakness from which the child was suffering. It did not do so—on the contrary, the boy died a few moments afterwards.”

“But he might have died in any case; and three doctors examined his heart,” exclaimed Barbara. “You make me feel uncomfortable when you speak in this way, but I cannot at present see that there is anything whatever to account for your suspicions. If there really is, the thing to do is to make inquiries, and so set your mind at rest. I see that this is not a mere question of nerves.”

“No, dear, I assure you it is not. I am torn between two opinions. I feel inclined one moment to go straight ahead and sift the thing to the bottom, and then again I hesitate, for I have so little to go upon.”

“If you have nothing to go upon, you must make up your mind to banish your suspicions,” said Barbara, speaking in a resolute voice. “They do you harm, Dick. You are not the man you were. Now that the child is dead a great responsibility devolves upon you, and you ought to rise with courage to meet it. I want you, Dick, to be the best landlord that the Pelham property has ever had. I have ideals which I never thought to have realized, but if you will do your part, they may come to pass.”

“I wish Piers was back in the world,” said the young man. “I should be ten times happier living with you, Barbara, in a little house and struggling for briefs. Of course, if the property and title had come to me in the ordinary way——”

“But, Dick, they have,” said Barbara, rising as she spoke. “You will dwell on this matter so long that your mind will really become affected at last.”

“Sit down,” said Pelham. He held out his hand and drew her back to her seat close to his side. “I have not quite told you all. Sit close to me, Barbara. We must talk of this in whispers.”

Barbara drew nearer to her husband. The balcony at this moment was absolutely deserted.

“Do you remember what happened immediately after Piers’s death?”

“What do you mean? Of course, I remember everything.”

“I allude to the night when the coffin was brought home.”

Barbara gave a slight shudder.

“I was in the house then,” she said. “Mrs. Pelham was very ill. It is true Nurse Hester had arrived, but I liked to be with Mrs. Pelham, and she was glad to have me.”

“On the night the coffin was brought in, two days before the funeral, I called very late to see you.”

“Yes, I had gone to bed. The servant told me of your visit in the morning.”

“I arrived between eleven and twelve at night. I rang the bell, and the footman came to answer the door. He told me that all the household had gone to bed, and that he had got up to answer my summons. I said I should like to come in, as I wanted to verify something in the library. I said I would let myself out presently, and that he need not stay up. Of course, he treated me just like one of the family.

“I went to the library and stayed there for a little. My mind was full of suspicion, in a turmoil and agony of uncertainty. I was only waiting for something more to go upon, in order to have the whole thing sifted to the very bottom.

“I stayed in the library for over half an hour. You know it is far away from the rest of the house. About half-past twelve I thought I would go up to the room where the child had died and try if I could find any of the medicines. My idea was to secure a bottle and get the contents analyzed. I naturally supposed that the nurse would be in one of the rooms, and meant to ask her to give me a bottle with a little of the medicine which Piers had last taken. I ran up-stairs. The house was dark, for the electric light had been put out, but I carried a candle. I opened the door of the room where the dead child lay, and went in. It did not take me a moment to switch on the light, and I then saw that the coffin was on the bed, and noticed with a start that the lid was screwed down.

“It seemed to me that it was strangely soon to screw on the lid. I went over and stood by the coffin. The nurse was nowhere to be seen. I then went into the dressing-room and began to search about for the medicine bottles, but although they had been lying on the table during Piers’s illness they had all been removed. There were two cupboards in the room—one was open, the other locked. In the open cupboard were no bottles of any sort. I felt very much inclined to burst open the lock of the other cupboard, but refrained. I feared the noise might disturb Mrs. Pelham.

“I left the room after being there for about a quarter of an hour, not having effected my purpose. As I was going down-stairs I was met by the butler. He had also got up, as he said he had heard the noise of people moving about the house, and could not think what was the matter. I told him at once that I had been up to bid little Piers good-by.

“‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘I’d like to go and have a last look at the little gentleman myself, sir.’

“‘You cannot do so, Johnson,’ I answered. ‘They have screwed on the lid of the coffin already.’

“‘But it’s very soon,’ said the man.

“‘It is very soon,’ I replied. He stared at me as if he scarcely believed the evidence of his own ears. I said nothing further, but left the house. Barbara dear, how white you look!”

“Well, is there anything more?” she asked.

“Only this. I happened to meet Tarbot the next day, and told him that I had gone up to bid little Piers good-by. I said that I was surprised to see the lid already screwed on the coffin. He said that circumstances made it necessary. Tarbot certainly looked like an innocent man—he was brisk and energetic, and had just a natural degree of soberness about him. While I was with him I felt ashamed of my suspicions, and could not speak about what I dreaded.

“Time went by. I attended the funeral. Tarbot also went to it. I hoped that my fears would quickly die; but instead of their dying, Barbara, they are strengthened day by day. If nothing is done to relieve me I shall soon be one of those curses of the nineteenth century—a man of nerves.”

“I am glad you have spoken all that is in your mind,” said Barbara; “and now I tell you what we must do. All this must be cured absolutely, and the only cure is plenty of occupation. We have been long enough in Switzerland; we will return home to-morrow.”

“To London?”

“To London, if you like, for a day or two, and then on to Pelham Towers or the Priory.”

“Pelham Towers is the most important place,” said Dick, “and I am sure the people will be glad to welcome us. I have lived at the Towers, as you know, a good deal.”

Barbara rose to reenter the hotel. Just as she was about to do so a man’s figure darkened the window. He was tall, with black hair, a thin face, and a kindly, shrewd, clever mouth. He stared for a moment at Barbara, glanced beyond her at Pelham, and then with a hearty exclamation of surprise and pleasure came forward.

“Who would have thought of seeing you here, Pelham?” he said. “Pray introduce me to your wife.”

“Carroll, this is luck!” cried Pelham.

Barbara came forward at once when she heard the name. She had never met Mr. Carroll before, but he was a well-known London lawyer, and also one of little Piers Pelham’s guardians.

The two men exchanged some commonplace observations, and Barbara stood for a moment listening to them and joining in herself occasionally. Then, laying her hand on her husband’s shoulder, she said that she was tired and would go to her room, and the two men were left alone together. Leaning over the balcony, they lit their cigars and began to smoke. Carroll, who had been silent for a moment, spoke abruptly.

“When are you going home?”

“To-morrow.”

“Back to London?”

“I suppose so for a day or two.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Why?”

“You don’t mind if I speak openly, do you, Pelham?”

“Of course I don’t. But what do you mean? I hold no secrets.” As Pelham spoke he started and flushed—the memory of all his suspicions with regard to Piers rushed over him.

Carroll, who had been gazing fixedly at him, noticed his change of color.

“There are some ugly rumors about you in London. You had better go there and show yourself.”

“Ugly rumors about me?” said Pelham. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, it has got abroad—I daresay there’s not a word of truth in it—but it is the talk of more than one club that you signed a _post obit_ for a large sum just before that child, little Piers, was taken ill. I don’t believe it for a moment: and I denied it flatly. You are the last man to put your hand to such a document. What is the matter, old fellow?—you look ill.”

“But it is true; I did sign a _post obit_,” answered Pelham in a low voice.

Carroll uttered a surprised exclamation.

“You astound me,” he said. “Then for Heaven’s sake, go back to London at once. This is not a time for you to hide yourself in a corner.”