CHAPTER XX.

THE PRICE OF HIS SIN.

Pelham never quite remembered how he got into the street. He was only conscious of having completely lost his self-control, of a mad whirl of emotions, which deprived him, for the moment, of all ordinary sense and prudence. A loathing for the man with whom he had been conversing, a certainty that there was a real foundation for his appalling fears, both combined to overbalance a brain already strained to the utmost. When the cold night air, however, blew on his heated forehead he quickly recovered himself, and seeing that he could do nothing further went home.

Having seen Pelham out, Tarbot returned to his smoking-room. There was a grim determination about his thin lips and a frown between his brows—thought was working hard in his active brain. After a short time given to reflection, he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, laid it in its accustomed place on the mantelpiece, turned off the electric light and went up-stairs.

He entered the drawing-room. He knew that here he should find the woman he had lately married. He found her stretched in an easy chair beside the fire. Her hands were lying idly in her lap, her eyes were shut—she was fast asleep. Tarbot had always a quiet tread. He now advanced almost on tiptoe and stood looking down at her.

“The price I have paid for my sin,” he muttered under his breath.

He drew a chair forward and softly seated himself. The woman was unconscious of his presence, and he could look at her; he could fill his soul with loathing of her, and drink the cup which he had prepared for his own lips to the dregs. His face was white as he gazed at Clara. She did not look well in her sleep. There were haggard lines round her lips—lines which had come far too soon, for she was still quite a young woman. Her cheeks were hollow, she coughed now and then. Her dead-white complexion, with its disfiguring freckles, gave her face the look of the dead.

“Would she were dead!” muttered Tarbot. “Would she were——”

From the face he looked down at the hands, the arms, the outlines of the thin limbs.

“There is a certain grace about her,” he said to himself, “but it is the grace of the panther, the tigress. If I married another woman now I should commit bigamy. I could curse her.” He bent a little nearer, and then a queer and eager light began to grow in his eyes.

“I believe it is true,” he said to himself. He rose softly, left the room, and returned with his stethoscope. Clara’s dress was partly open at the thin neck. With the delicate hand of the practised surgeon, he was able to apply the stethoscope to her chest without rousing her. He listened attentively, not making a thorough examination of her lungs, but one sufficient for his purpose.

“It is too true,” he muttered. He let the lace fall back over her heaving chest, and looked at her again. The woman stirred in her sleep. Her long training as a nurse had accustomed her to wake up bright and alert. Tarbot put the stethoscope in his pocket. Clara opened her eyes and started upright.

“I am very sorry I slept,” she said. “Have you been long here? Shall I ring for coffee—the servants have not yet gone to bed?”

“No, thanks. I want to talk to you, Clara. Are you wide awake? Can you attend to me?”

“Certainly. I am very wide awake. I have had my little nap. I do not need more sleep to-night—that is, if you really wish to speak to me.”

“I want to say something, but I shall not keep you long.”

“Have you been in the room many minutes?”

“Two or three.”

“You were seated here close to me, looking at me?”

“Aye, I looked at you. By the way, Clara, I wish you would not wear those diamonds every night.”

“Why not? Do you object?”

“I do. It is bad form. You are not going out anywhere. Only a _parvenu_ would load herself with jewels in the way you do. You coughed, too, in your sleep, and when you did I noticed the diamonds. Do you ever feel ill, or tired, or weary?”

“Of late I have done so from time to time.”

“I thought as much. I must send you to a warmer climate, but we will talk of that later on. You cannot leave England at present. You are useful to me.”

“I know that, Luke. I am glad to be useful to you.”

“Then take care of yourself, and don’t go out too much at night. By the way, does that cough hurt?”

“A little. Why?”

“I will only tell you that you ought to be careful. A cough is a thing no one should trifle with. Your mother is alive, I think I heard you say?”

“Yes.”

“Is your father?”

“No.”

“What did your father die of?”

“Consumption. ‘Galloping consumption’ they called it down in Cornwall.”

“Ah, I see!”

Clara’s eyes began to dilate with a sort of terror. Tarbot looked away from her.

“We won’t talk any more of your health now,” he said after a pause. “We will get to business.”

She gave him a pleading glance, and then with a heavy sigh lowered her eyes.

“I am all attention,” she said.

“Pelham has been here,” said Tarbot.

“Is he here now?”

“No; I turned him out.”

“Good Heavens, Luke! Why?”

“Because he insulted me.”

“What do you mean?”

“To all intents and purposes, he accused me of the murder of Sir Piers Pelham.”

“Nonsense! He accused you! Why should he think any foul play had taken place? Impossible!”

“Nevertheless it is true. The man is an utter fool. I always thought him so, but I find there is a bit of the knave in him as well. He maintains that the child did not come by his death by ordinary means. He is moving heaven and earth in this cursed business. Clara, it is full time for us to be up and stirring.”

“What do you mean?”

She had risen from her chair, her thin hands worked convulsively, the rings on her fingers flashed.

“I hate all that finery,” said the man irritably. “I repeat, that your wearing it is bad form. Now listen to me. Pelham must be arrested in a fortnight for the murder of his cousin!”

“No, Luke, no, it cannot be.”

“It shall be, Clara.”

“I forbid it,” said the woman. “It is not in the bargain,” she continued. She brought out her words with almost a stutter—she was trembling so hard. “It is not in the bargain,” she repeated. “Six months was the bargain, six months after marriage. I for bid you to deal the blow a day before the time.”

“You must be mad, Clara. You must see for yourself that circumstances change. If I do not have Pelham arrested he will turn the tables on me. Oh, I know I am safe enough, but I cannot afford delay. Who would have thought that Pelham, a sleepy sort of fellow——”

“An alert lawyer, you mean,” interrupted Clara.

“Ah, you think so! He fascinates you.”

“He is an innocent man and a good man,” replied Mrs. Tarbot. “I like him well because he loved that child, because when the child died Mr. Pelham had a sense, not of rejoicing, but of sorrow. He is a good man, and when you strike him you do a fiendish deed. Give it up, Luke, give it up, and I will serve you to my dying day.”

“Give it up! But I married you for the sake of it.”

“Aye, I know that. Then you are inexorable?”

He made no reply. He was taller than his wife, and he was looking down at her. The expression in his eyes caused her to turn aside.

“I forgot for a moment,” she said at last slowly, “that I had united myself to a devil.”

“Think me one if you will,” replied Tarbot. “Upon my word, I would rather you thought me a devil than a saint—it is less mawkish. Bah! when I remember that I married you for better for worse, till death us do part, I can scarcely contain myself.”

Tarbot walked to the other end of the room. When he came back a new expression had come over Clara’s face. All sentiment had died out of it—it was hard and shrewd and businesslike as his own.

“Well,” he said, “you look better now. I have much to say. Sit down at this table and I will place myself opposite to you.”

She did what he told her.

“Begin,” she said. “What have you to tell me?”

“First of all, I shall analyze that medicine. I shall, of course, discover the hyocene. I will acquaint Mrs. Pelham with the fact, and get her to take the necessary steps to have Pelham arrested.”

“When do you propose that he shall be arrested?”

“This is Thursday, and he goes to Pelham Towers on Saturday. The arrest can take place in the course of next week.”

“Suppose it does,” said Clara slowly: “what will happen next?”

“He will be brought back to London and examined before the magistrate of the district in which little Piers died. Your evidence and mine will do the rest.”

“My evidence?” said Clara.

“Of course. You will have to prove that you gave Pelham the medicine, and that you remained in the dressing-room while he administered it to the boy. What is the matter with you to-night? Why do you hesitate and look so queer? If at the last moment you turn traitress, you shall——”

The man did not finish the sentence, but there came a look into his eyes which caused Clara’s heart to sink.

“I will fulfil my part of the bargain. I will keep my word,” she said at last slowly.

“That’s right. Now you are returning to your senses.”

“But you must also keep your part,” she continued. “The promises you made were these: I was to become your wife, and Sir Richard Pelham was to be unmolested for six months.”

“I remember quite well that you made that a condition,” said Tarbot. “It always seemed to me an unnecessary and foolish one, but until to-night I never considered it carefully. Circumstances alter matters. In a case like this we cannot adhere strictly to a bargain. We are both in danger—in extreme danger—we have to fight, remember, for our lives.”

“True,” she answered. She lowered her eyes, to raise them the next moment and fix them on her husband’s face.

“Pelham must be arrested next week,” repeated Tarbot.

“No, no, Luke! Not so soon.”

“Clara, my word must be law in this matter. When our lives are in jeopardy we cannot afford to play the fool for a matter of mere sentiment. I tell you, if I do not have Pelham arrested he will turn the tables on me.”

“He will not, for his fears will soon be over. His apprehensions will sink out of sight, he will go down to his property and be a happy man.”

“What do you mean?”

“If, Luke, I can quiet all Sir Richard Pelham’s suspicions, will you delay the evil moment?”

“I don’t understand what you are talking about.”

“Nor can I explain; but I think I shall succeed. Now go on—what will happen after Sir Richard has been before the magistrate?”

“He will be remanded, in order that the Home Secretary may give an order for the exhumation of the child’s body.”

Clara turned whiter than ever. She trembled all over.

“What is the matter with you?” said her husband. “You are not the woman you were a few months ago. If I had known that I was really about to unite myself to such a vacillating, poor, weak—what is wrong?”

“Nothing. I trembled because I suddenly thought of the ace of trumps.”

“The ace of trumps! Good heavens! Are you mad?”

“No, Luke, I am sane—quite sane. I only remembered that I hold the ace of trumps in my hand, and therefore I have no real cause for fear. You will be obliged to do what I wish. You must not have Sir Richard arrested next week—not for a month or two months.”

“Let it be a bargain, then,” said Tarbot. “Provided Pelham does not go to extremities, provided his present suspicions are lulled to rest, I am willing to let the matter lie over until Christmas. Will that content you?”

“It is better than nothing,” said Clara very slowly.

“But remember the condition. His suspicions about me must die out, or at least they must not be acted upon.”

“I think I shall succeed,” said Clara.

“Well, it is a bargain then. I am going to analyze the medicine now. Good night.”

Tarbot rose, and a moment later left the room. Clara stood where he had left her. One of her thin hands drummed on the little table near which she was standing. Her thoughts were very busy. After a time she rose and went to her secretary. She took out a sheet of headed notepaper and envelope, and sitting down wrote a note. This note was to Barbara Pelham.

“DEAR LADY PELHAM,—The advice I gave you to-day I want to enforce by a letter. I have thought much of you since your visit. Your husband is in a highly nervous condition, but he has no cause whatever for his fears. Why should he not set them completely at rest by doing as I suggest, and asking the opinions of Dr. Williamson and Sir Richard Spears? He might also go to the chemist and get a copy of the prescription of the last medicine given to the child. Would you suggest this to him without bringing my name into the matter? After receiving the information which he will doubtless get from the two great specialists and from the chemist, if his fears still remain, please communicate with me, for I can give him a treatment which will assuredly put him into a healthier frame of mind. I would rather not use this last remedy unless essential.

“Yours, with much sympathy,

“CLARA TARBOT.”

Having written the letter, Clara herself went out to post it. The servants had gone to bed. She wrapped a shawl round her head and walked quickly down Harley Street. She slipped the letter into the pillar box and returned home. Her mind was comparatively at rest. She had just reached her hall door when a hand was laid on her arm. She turned round quickly.

“Well, Clara, well! And so you were about to cut your own mother.”

“Mother,” cried Clara with a start, “What have you come to town for? What is the matter? Anything wrong?”

“Nothing, Clara, nothing. I’ve only come to talk to you. I am coming into your house, into your grand house. I don’t care about your grandeur, but I’m coming in to see you, for I’ve got something to say.”

“Come in, of course, mother. I shall be delighted to welcome you. Come up-stairs to the drawing-room.”

Clara closed the hall door, and walked up the grand staircase accompanied by her mother. They entered the drawing-room, the little woman immediately dropping a curtsey.

“A mercy me!” she cried. “A deal of rugs and curtains and fine furniture all over the place, but the air smothering to the breathing all the same. Clara, I came to say that the child——”

“If you want to talk on private matters, mother, we had better go to my bedroom. You will sleep here, of course.”

“No, I have a lodging outside. I couldn’t have a wink of sleep in a grand sort o’ place like this, but I have come to say——”

“We will talk in my bedroom, mother.”