CHAPTER XXII.

“YOUR EYES ARE BIG AND BRIGHT.”

When the boy was sound asleep Clara went into the room where her mother was waiting for her.

“Well, Clary, and how do you think he is?”

“Splendid, mother. You have taken excellent care of him, but you must go back with him to Cornwall to-morrow.”

“He don’t like it; he’s mad to come back to his own folk. Why should he stay away from them?”

“If he goes back you’ll lose your two pounds a week.”

“Aye, there’s summat in that,” said the old woman.

“I love my bit of money,” she continued after a pause. “I don’t believe in no bankses. I has my money in an old stocking at the back of the chimney. I has got a hundred and fifty pounds. When are we to go back, Clary?”

“By the first train to-morrow. It is sheer madness of you to stay here. If you do such a thing again I must take the boy away and put him in the care of some one else, but I would rather he were with you, mother.”

“You may as well leave him with me. I’ll look after him and tend him, and he loves me.”

“Well, mother, here’s five pounds over and above what I generally give. This will be plenty for your fare and the boy’s back to Cornwall, and I will send you three pounds a week in the future if you will look after him well.”

“Three pounds a week?” said the old woman. “That’s twelve pounds a month—a deal of money—a deal! I’ll look after him a bit longer then, Clary, but don’t try me too much, for I can’t abear his little cry of ‘I’ve a secret, but you mustn’t guess; and if you knew who my people were you’d take me home, wouldn’t you, grannie?’ That’s his little cry, and he’s such a grand, brave little chap. I don’t know what you’re after, but it’s evil, I make no doubt. You ain’t my sort—you don’t go to your chapel reg’lar, and you don’t say your prayers reg’lar. And duck green is your complexion, and your freckles is spreading. Now I’ll say good night, for if you ain’t tired I am.”

Mrs. Ives held up her mouth as she spoke to Clara’s sallow cheek. The daughter scarcely returned her salutation. Wrapped in thought she left the house. She ran down-stairs and let herself out, returning to the house in Harley Street some time after one o’clock. As she stood on the steps fumbling for her latch-key, her husband confronted her.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“To see an old patient.”

“I thought you had given up nursing.”

“I had a message from an old patient who wished particularly to see me—a message which I could not refuse.”

“Your mother brought it to you, didn’t she?”

“How did you know my mother was here, Luke?”

“I saw you go out with her. What did she come about?”

“I have just told you she brought a message from a patient, Luke. I did not know you were curious.”

“I am not the least curious,” he replied. “To be curious signifies an interest in a person. As I do not take the slightest interest in you I am not curious. Now, I have much to do, and will wish you good night.”

“Good night,” she answered. Husband and wife parted in the hall. Clara went very slowly up the broad flight of stairs. When she reached the first landing she turned and looked back at Tarbot, he on his part looking up at her. The look she gave him back in return was full of an undefined and curious expression. It puzzled the man, and he thought it over a good bit as he sat in his study.

“If I did not know that it was quite impossible,” he said to himself, “I should say that my wife, the woman to whom I have given my name, for whom I have ruined myself, holds some secret against me. What did she mean when she spoke of having the ace of trumps in her hand? If Clara turns against me I shall be lost. I hate her, but I must keep friendly with her, that’s evident. She would be faithful to me—poor soul!—if she thought I had the least vestige of love for her. Can I feign what she wants and so get that ace of trumps from her? Shall I try?”

He sat with his head buried in his hands for some time, but as the night advanced he paced the room restlessly.

Clara also scarcely slept that night. Early in the morning she rose and went to her husband. He was still in his study.

Clara was dressed with care, and notwithstanding her sleepless night looked trim and fresh. As usual, she wore black; soft real lace encircled her thin white throat, and her head, with its crown of red hair, looked something like a tropical flower. She was a graceful woman, and the dress she now wore gave her a special charm.

To Tarbot, who had been experimenting, analyzing, thinking hard, who was almost worn out in consequence, she suddenly appeared as almost a vision of beauty.

He looked up as she entered, carrying a little tray. It contained tea and toast. With a flash of quick thought he remembered afresh her expression of the night before—that she held the ace of trumps in her hand. He knew that if he could give her any affection she would be his forever. At that moment, with this thought in his head, she was almost attractive to him.

“You should not stay up all night,” she said. “I have brought you this. Sit down and let me pour you out a cup of tea.”

He sank into the nearest chair. She poured out the tea, putting in the amount of sugar and cream that he liked. She brought the fragrant cup to his side, and buttering a piece of toast, put it on a plate and laid it on a little table near by. As he lifted the cup to his lips his eyes fixed themselves on her face.

“You are an extraordinary woman,” he began. “When I think of you as——”

“As what, Luke?” she asked eagerly, for there seemed to her at that moment to be a new note in his voice. If, after all, he was beginning to love her, if by any chance that passion which she felt for him was about to be responded to, then good-by to all else, good-by to the child’s future, good-by to everything but the prize which she had set herself to win. To win Luke Tarbot’s heart she would not care to what crime she stooped. Now she came a little nearer to him, and laid one of her thin but shapely hands on his arm.

“You are very tired, and you ought to rest,” she said.

“I am tired,” he replied, “dead tired, worn out. A night like this takes a lot out of a man. Clara, you look well.”

“I am glad you think so. I have put on no jewels because you dislike them. I take great pains with my dress these days.”

“You do, my poor girl.”

“For your sake, Luke.”

“It is useless, Clara,” he said, but he uttered the words sadly, and still there was that new puzzled expression in his eyes, and, notwithstanding his words, she did not think that her pains were quite thrown away.

Having finished his tea, Tarbot was refreshed. He stood up. He did not mind talking to Clara in the garish morning light.

“I shall be an old man before my time,” he said abruptly. “I am a disappointed, a bitterly disappointed man. I only live for one thing now. When that is over my career will be ended.”

Clara made no reply, but her gray eyes were still fixed upon him.

“And until it is over I shall have no rest,” he continued. “There is a fever here.” He laid his hand against his heart.

“If you will go to your room you can have two or three hours of perfect quiet,” said Clara. “Lay your head on your pillow, and you will drop asleep immediately.”

“I wish I could take your advice, but I am the victim of insomnia; it has only come on lately. I did not like to tell you of it. I would give the world at this present moment for a couple of hours’ refreshing slumber.”

“Let me make some passes across your forehead—I know exactly how. You will soon sleep if I do so.”

“You mean that you want to mesmerize me?”

“Not exactly to mesmerize you, Luke—not to go as far as that. It would require a stronger woman than I am to mesmerize a man like you.”

He smiled at her—his slow, inscrutable smile.

“But I can put you to sleep. Let me try. Just stay quiet, and don’t resist me. Let yourself go. In ten minutes you will be asleep.”

“Can you limit the duration of my sleep?” he asked.

“Yes, you shall sleep for an hour, two hours, three hours. How long can you give yourself?”

“What o’clock is it now?”

“Six o’clock.”

“I can sleep until nine, I believe. Will you promise to wake me at nine o’clock?”

“You shall wake yourself. I need not be present. I will simply suggest to you that you sleep for three hours, and at nine you will wake. You may rest assured that things will happen exactly as I wish.”

“Where did you learn all this gibberish, Clara? Oh, of course, with Dr. Weismann in Paris. He was a rare humbug.”

“You would not think so if you had been in his employment, as I was for three years. He performed marvelous cures, and was a wonderful man.”

“He is dead, is he not?” said Tarbot.

“He is. Had he been alive I should still have been with him.”

“Aye, Clara, and happier than with me.”

“Perhaps so, Luke; but all the same, I am with you, and I would not change my lot for that of any other woman in the world. It is within your power to——”

“To do what?”

“To make me the happiest woman on earth.”

“How?”

“You know how.”

“Yes, I know how,” he said half sleepily, for already she was looking into his eyes.

“I have done much for you, after all, Clara,” he said. “It is not every man who would marry a woman like you. You were a very plain woman before I gave you the means to dress yourself properly. You are not exactly plain now. You remind me of a beautiful snake—your head, as you arrange your hair lately, looks brilliant, but at any moment you may stretch out a forked tongue and strike, strike death—you give that impression. It is not a pleasant one, and yet to a certain extent it fascinates. You have a power of your own, and on many men you can exercise it, but not on me. I have done much for you. What more do you want? I have given you house, name, position, unlimited wealth—what more do you want?”

“I want more—a little thing, but of such priceless value!” she said hungrily.

He was lying back looking up at her. She was making passes across his forehead.

“I feel strangely sleepy,” he said. “The most delicious sleep steals over me. It is wonderful! You are a queer creature. What more did you say you wanted—what is the thing of priceless value?”

“A heart, Luke—yours.”

Tarbot gave a laugh.

“My heart!” he cried. “It is out of your reach—high as the heavens it is above you, or low as hell beneath you, whichever simile you like best. It can never be yours. Did you say I should wake in three hours?”

“In three hours,” she answered quietly. “Don’t turn your eyes from me—keep looking at me.”

“Your eyes are big and bright—wonderfully bright. There is a flash of sea-green in them. Now, Barbara’s eyes are brown with golden lights—yours are green and icy cold. How sleepy I feel. No, you will never have my heart—but folly! I won’t give way to this.”

The next instant his eyes closed, and he was in a sound and childlike slumber.

Clara looked at him with a grim smile on her face.

“I believe I shall win him yet,” she murmured. “If so, beware, little Piers Pelham!”