CHAPTER XXV.

“THERE’S A CRUEL SIN SOMEWHERE.”

On leaving the house Mrs. Ives walked quickly up the avenue. When she had gone nearly a mile she met one of the under-gardeners. He was weeding and cutting the edges of the road. As her wont was, Mrs. Ives dropped a curtsey right in front of him.

“A’ternoon,” she said.

The man looked at her and nodded in reply.

“Fine day,” he said after a pause.

“Yes, fine day,” said Mrs. Ives, “but you might speak to a body. In Cornwall they speaks to a body when a body curtseys. Isn’t that the manner with Devonshire folk?”

“I don’t mean to be oncivil,” said the man. “Was there anything you wanted to ask, ma’am?”

“I’d be obliged if you’d kindly direct me to the family vault,” said Mrs. Ives.

“What in the name of fortune for?”

“Curiosity, my young lad. If I has a failing it’s unbounded curiosity. I want to see the place where the little Sir Piers is lying till the trump of doom.”

“Oh, if you really wish to see the family vault,” said the man resting on his spade as he spoke, “you just take that turn there to the left and you’ll find yourself alongside the chapel. There’s a lych gate and a graveyard all correct and proper. You go through the gate and you’ll see the vault in front of you.”

“A big vault, I s’pose?” said Mrs. Ives.

“Yes, a big square vault with a stone top. It’s mostly full by now.”

“I don’t want to hear no more,” said Mrs. Ives. “I am curious by natur’, but I has no taste for the horrors. I’ll be wishing you a good a’ternoon.”

She dropped another curtsey, and the man touched his hat and went on with his work.

Mrs. Ives took the next turning to her left. She went down a narrow path, and presently saw where the old chapel, partly in ruins and partly well preserved, came into view. In the east portion of the chapel services could be held, and were held on certain occasions. The old lych gate was in front of her. She opened it and went through, and then walked up the path which led to the chapel. The chapel itself was open and she entered. The walls of that part which were still in preservation were covered with brasses and monuments, some very old fashioned, some more modern, but all erected to the praise and glory of the dead and gone Pelhams. In every direction there were monuments, and as she was looking some workmen were busy. They saw her and made way for her to pass. A lovely tablet of the purest white marble was being put up to the memory of little Piers. Mrs. Ives began to speak to the men, but they were strangers and did not know anything about the child.

“It seems mortal sad for the young to pass away in their first blush,” said Mrs. Ives, turning to the head workman.

“It is that, ma’am,” he answered.

“And where is this beautiful monument to be placed, if I may venture to ask?”

“On this wall, in front of the family pew, just there,” said the man. “It’s young Lady Pelham has ordered it to be done. She comes to see how we are getting on every day.”

“Well, it’s a pretty simple design, and no doubt worthy of the lamb called so early to his rest,” said Mrs. Ives. She dropped another curtsey, not to the man but to the tablet, and went into the churchyard. There she found the family vault and stood by it for a time. An old man who was passing through the graveyard came up to her.

“Now I wonder was you present at the funeral of Sir Piers Pelham?” asked Mrs. Ives, dropping two curtseys.

“Yes, that I were,” he replied, “and it was the finest funeral we’ve had for many a day. All the county come, and there was a lot of crying and sobbing, but it was nothing to what took place that same night.”

“What were that?” she asked. “I like a good story,” she continued. She slipped her hand into her pocket, produced a shilling, and pressed it into the man’s palm. He pocketed it with a quick motion and turned and faced her.

“I don’t mind telling what I know,” he said. “The awful time was when the heir himself, the new baronet, come back.”

“Sir Richard, you mean?”

“The same. He come that night all alone, and he were in a terrible state. He went right into the vault. He had a lantern with him, and down he went, yes down the steps and into the vault. I stood near in the dark trembling mighty, just ahint that yew tree, but he didn’t notice me. He went into the vault, and I saw the lantern lighting up the gloom. I heard him groaning to himself. He was in mortal trouble if ever young man were.”

“It’s a strange tale,” said Mrs. Ives, “and afflictin’. He must ha’ been a tender-hearted young man. I’ll wish you a good a’ternoon.”

She left the little churchyard and was soon on the high road. She reached Haversham station in time to catch her train, and very late the same night found herself home once more in her little cottage in Cornwall.

Piers was asleep. As he lay on his small bed, with one arm flung above his clustering mass of black curls, Mrs. Ives shading a candle, bent carefully over him.

“The same,” she muttered. “The same shape of face, the true oval, most aristocratic, the mouth with its dimples and its curves—aye, it takes quality to make a mouth like that. The brows—I could be romantic over the brows, they look as if they was Cupid’s bows. I ha’ heard the expression, it’s poetry and it’s beautiful. The ’air dark and curly and as soft as silk. Oh, he’s the very same. Clary, what do it mean? what do it mean?”

The little woman left the boy and went back to her kitchen. There she sat with her hands folded on her lap and a look of consternation, even terror, on her small crabbed face.

“What do it mean?” she repeated. “There’s no doubt they ha’ put a coffin in the vault, but there ain’t no little Sir Piers in it.”

Mrs. Ives’ thoughts were so disturbing that, weary as she was, she did not care to go to bed. She drew a glass of beer from a barrel in the corner, drank it off, and after a very long time lay down without troubling to undress in the room where the boy slept.

Early in the morning he awoke fresh and bright. He scrambled out of bed and went to the old woman’s side. He then sat on the bottom of the bed and faced her.

“You’ve come back,” he said. “I’m so glad.”

“I have come back, Piers,” she answered.

“Where were you yesterday, grannie?”

“I went on a long journey into Devonshire.”

“Oh,” said Piers very solemnly, “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Why so, love? Do you object to me going into the next county?”

“I do,” replied Piers, “because——”

“Yes, dear.”

“Oh, I can’t tell you. She’ll be angry.”

“Who, dear?”

“She.”

“Do you mean my darter—Mrs. Tarbot?”

“I do, grannie.”

“Well, whether she’s angry or whether she’s not,” said Mrs. Ives, “I went sure enough. You sit there on the bed and I’ll tell you a bit of a story. I went to a beautiful place.”

“Did you?” said the boy. He was trembling and the color was coming and going in his face. One moment his cheeks were brilliantly red, the next white. His little hands shook, he locked one inside the other to keep them still.

“A real beautiful place,” continued Mrs. Ives. “I won’t name no names, for names is worriting to the young, but I went there and saw a very lovely young lady.”

“A lovely young lady,” repeated little Piers. “I like lovely ladies. Was she more beautiful than your daughter, grannie?”

“My darter and she ain’t in the same runnin’. You know how freckled my poor Clary is, but there weren’t a freckle on her face, bless her, and her eyes were as brown as hazel nuts and wide open, and with a sparkle in the middle of ’em.”

“I once knew eyes like that,” said little Piers. “Please don’t say any more.”

“Why not, love? It was a beautiful place, and she was good to me, and took me down to the house. Oh, there was a mortal long avenue—two miles, if you’ll believe me, Piers.”

“Two miles!” said little Piers.

“What’s the matter, dear?”

“Nothing, but your story makes me sad. I once knew an avenue two miles long.”

“No! did you, love? That’s curious, very.”

“I did,” said little Piers. “You may go on talking if you like, grannie.”

“I’m glad you’re interested, my hearty, and I’m willing to go on. The young lady with the pretty brown eyes took me down to the house and I was took to the housekeeper’s room. Dear heart! the housekeeper was mortal stout. I don’t believe she’s long for this world.”

Little Piers got crimson.

“She is,” he cried, “she is.”

“She’s not, love. She’s too stout to live.”

“She’s not a bit too stout,” said little Piers.

“Why do you say that, dear? You don’t know her, do you?”

“I won’t say whether I know her or not,” returned the boy firmly, “but she’s not too stout. She’s a darling. I love her.”

“What’s the matter with you, Piers?”

“I don’t like that story. It reminds me of——”

“Of what, love?”

“My secret. Please don’t tell me any more, grannie.”

“I won’t if it frets you, dear heart. Go and put on your things, and we’ll both have our breakfast. You must be very hungry.”

“No, I seem to lose hunger when you talk about the house, and the housekeeper, and the brown eyes of that beautiful, most beautiful girl.”

“Then I won’t say another word. Oh, by the way, they was all in sorrow.”

“Were they? What about?”

“It seems there was a little chap that—but what is the matter, Piers?”

“I won’t listen, I won’t, I won’t,” cried Piers. He clapped his hands to his ears and rushed out of the room.

“He shall come into his own. There’s a cruel sin somewhere, and Clary is at the bottom of it,” said Mrs. Ives to herself.