CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE “PELHAM ARMS.”

On the following morning at an early hour Tarbot, knowing nothing of the arrival of Mrs. Ives, went down to Devonshire. He left the train at the little station of Haversham, and, taking a trap, drove straight to the “Pelham Arms” in the village of Great Pelham, which went by this name in contradistinction to Little Pelham, which was four miles distant at the other side of Pelham Towers.

Having secured the best room which the “Pelham Arms” boasted of, Tarbot proceeded to make himself comfortable. He ordered a good dinner, unpacked his traps, and then took a stroll to reconnoiter the place. He knew Pelham Towers well, having been there in his boyhood, and he wished now to revisit his old haunts, and prepare for the campaign which he had set himself.

As he was returning to the inn, just as the dusk was falling, a carriage passed him. The occupants of the carriage were Barbara and Mrs. Pelham. There was still light enough for them to recognize him. Barbara desired the carriage to stop, and Tarbot went up to speak to the two ladies.

“What are you doing here?” asked Barbara.

“I have come down on special business,” he replied. “I have a matter I want to consult you about,” he added, looking full at Mrs. Pelham.

“Certainly,” she answered.

Then Barbara spoke.

“Why did you not tell us, Dr. Tarbot? We could have put you up at the Towers.”

“Thank you,” he replied; “but I have taken a very comfortable room at the ‘Pelham Arms.’”

Barbara paused for a moment. She did not like Tarbot, and was sorry he had come to Great Pelham, but as he was there she felt she must be civil to him.

“You will dine with us to-night?” she said, bending out of the carriage as she spoke and looking at him.

He glanced full up into her lovely eyes. Her face caused his heart to beat wildly.

“I will come,” he said in a hoarse voice.

Barbara could not but observe his agitation. She repented of having asked him.

“We dine at seven,” she said coldly, falling back into her seat as she spoke. “We shall expect you at that hour.”

He answered in the affirmative, and the carriage bowled rapidly away.

With his heart still beating faster than usual, the man returned to the inn. The moment had come for him to strike his great blow, but the look in Barbara’s eyes disarmed him. After all, he need even now do nothing. In his hand lay potent and terrible possibilities—the power to quench the happiness in those eyes, the power to drive that young heart to the verge of madness. After all, Pelham was only the instrument with which he (Tarbot) should strike at Barbara’s heart. If only even now she would be kind to him—a little kind—he might reconsider the situation; but then he began to say to himself that she had never been unkind, never since he had known her. It had always been her way to be gentle and sweet, she was that to all the world. He did not want her sweetness; her indifference nearly maddened him—she was sweet because she was indifferent. He would rather have her hatred than her indifference. Yes, hatred was better than the condition which means neither love nor hate. When he did what he meant to do, she would hate him. In all the future of her life he would stand before her as a monster who had dragged her husband to disgrace, ruin, and death.

Yes, better that feeling than the present. The time would come when she would plead with him. To see her at his feet pleading, imploring, beseeching of him to withhold his hand—ah, then indeed his revenge would be accomplished. His heart quickened, he felt happy, at being so far away from Clara. When he thought of Clara his determination not to spare Barbara grew and intensified in force. Had he not married Clara in order to promote his vengeance? If Barbara had married him, as he had once told her, he would have been a good man. She had rejected him, and he was a bad one. On her own head the blame must fall.

He wandered about, too restless to go indoors, too restless to accept the invitation of the jolly landlord of the “Pelham Arms” to go into the bar parlor and have a smoke, too restless to do anything but long intensely for the moment when he might go up to the Towers and look at Barbara.

The time flew by, the hour arrived. He dressed with care. He put a light overcoat over his evening suit and walked the short distance from the “Arms” to the Towers. He arrived at the old place a few minutes before seven o’clock. He was shown at once into the rose drawing-room, a lovely apartment with oriel windows of colored glass fashioned in the shape of roses. The rose drawing-room opened into wide conservatories, the doors of which were unclosed, and the scent of many exotics filled the beautiful room.

Barbara, in a dress of white silk, stood near the hearth. Neither Pelham nor Mrs. Pelham had yet made their appearance. Barbara came a step forward when Tarbot entered.

“How is your wife?” she asked. She could scarcely have made a remark more displeasing to Tarbot. He frowned and bit his lips, then he answered shortly:

“My wife is well, thank you.”

“Do you intend to make a long stay in Devonshire?” was Barbara’s next commonplace remark.

He answered that circumstances would decide that. Just then Mrs. Pelham came into the room, followed by Dick. Dinner was announced, and the party went into the dining hall. The meal was a subdued one. Pelham’s antipathy to Tarbot made itself felt. Notwithstanding all his efforts, he could not be cordial to his unwelcome guest. The men remained for a short time over wine, and joined the ladies soon afterwards in the drawing-room. The moment they did so, Barbara went up to her husband, slipped her hand inside his arm, and led him into the conservatory. Tarbot had hoped to have a few moments’ conversation with her. He bit his lips as he saw what this movement meant.

“She hates me; she cannot bear even to give me ordinary civilities,” he said to himself. “So much the better for my purpose.”

The next instant he found himself in a low chair by Mrs. Pelham’s side.

“You said you wished to see me, Dr. Tarbot,” she said.

“I do,” he replied. “I am anxious to have an interview with you on a matter of grave importance.”

“Your looks frighten me,” she said. “What can be very important to me now?”

“What I am about to tell you will be of the greatest importance. What time to-morrow can we have our interview?”

“Whatever time will suit you, Dr. Tarbot. Your time is mine. I am not specially engaged in any way. It is true that Barbara wants me to go with her to Exeter to choose presents for the villagers’ Christmas tree, but there is no special hurry, and we can postpone our visit. I shall be at your disposal. Will you come here at eleven o’clock?”

“Would it be possible for you to come to me?”

“Why?”

“I have reasons which you will appreciate.”

“Certainly, if you wish,” she replied.

“I can secure a sitting-room where we can be quite alone at the ‘Pelham Arms.’ May I expect you at eleven o’clock to-morrow?”

“Yes,” replied the widow.

At that moment Barbara and Pelham entered the room. Barbara sat down at the open piano and began to sing. She sang several times, and her voice was rich, full, and pleasing. Dick went and stood by her side. Between the songs he and she spoke together in low tones, just as if they were lovers. Presently Tarbot, making an effort, went up and joined the group. He could talk well, and he exerted himself now to be agreeable. Presently his efforts met their reward. Barbara ceased to distrust him. He spoke of people and matters which only Londoners would appreciate. Barbara asked questions, put in suggestions, and enjoyed the doctor’s clever epitome of society gossip.

Dick scarcely spoke. He was never much of a talker, and his dislike to Tarbot increased moment by moment. Once more the old suspicions returned to him. Had the child come by his death through natural causes? Pelham had to remind himself of what the two great consultants and the chemist had said before his usual equanimity reasserted itself.

Soon after ten o’clock Tarbot took his leave. He shook hands first with Barbara, then he went up to Mrs. Pelham.

“I shall expect you to-morrow,” he said.

“I shall be with you at eleven o’clock,” she replied. He then left the room, Dick accompanying him as far as the hall door.

The moment Barbara and Mrs. Pelham were alone Barbara spoke.

“I am glad that is over,” she said.

“Why do you dislike him, Barbara?”

“I cannot explain what I feel about him,” said Barbara impatiently. “By the way was he making an appointment with you? I thought we were to go to Exeter to-morrow.”

“I hope, dear, that you will not mind putting off the expedition until Friday, or, if that is very inconvenient, will you go without me?”

“Of course I will put it off if there is any good reason for it,” said Barbara. “We can go on Friday quite as well as to-morrow.”

“Dr. Tarbot wants to leave for London on Friday morning,” said Mrs. Pelham, “and as he wishes to see me on a matter of business I appointed to-morrow at eleven o’clock.”

“Well,” said Barbara, tapping her fingers lightly on the mantelpiece, “we must ask him to lunch, I suppose. I frankly confess that I shall be glad when he goes.”

“I fear he must have guessed your feelings towards him, for he refuses to come here. He has asked me to meet him at the ‘Pelham Arms.’”

Barbara said nothing further, for at that moment her husband reentered the room.

The next day at the appointed hour Mrs. Pelham put on her things and prepared to walk to the “Pelham Arms.” Pelham met her in the avenue and asked where she was going.

“To the ‘Pelham Arms,’ to meet Luke Tarbot.”

“Why doesn’t he come here?” said Pelham. “He ought not to order you about in that style.”

“He didn’t order me, Dick. I invited him here, knowing that you and Barbara would give me free leave to do so.”

“Of course,” said Pelham.

“But he preferred seeing me at the ‘Arms,’ and as I had no excuse to offer, I of course agreed. I shall be back before long. Good-by.”

“Won’t you have the carriage?” called Dick after her.

“No, it is a lovely morning, and I shall enjoy the walk.”

Mrs. Pelham reached the “Pelham Arms” at three minutes to eleven. Tarbot was waiting for her, he was standing on the steps, a cigar in his mouth. When he saw her he threw away the cigar and came forward to meet her. His face was white, his lips looked thinner than ever, and his eyes had a strained expression.

“I have secured a private sitting-room,” he said; “we shall be quite undisturbed. Come this way.”

Mrs. Pelham wondered what Tarbot wanted with her, and what news could affect her seriously now that the child was dead; she felt distressed and nervous.

Trembling a little, she followed the doctor into a small room, at the back of the bar. It smelt of cheese and stale beer. Tarbot went to the window and threw it open. There was a fire in the grate.

“That makes the atmosphere more tolerable,” he said. “I am sorry I could not invite you to a nicer room.”

“The room matters nothing,” said Mrs. Pelham. She untied her cloak as she spoke and threw back the crêpe strings of her bonnet. Her crêpe veil was up, her face looked pallid and her dark eyes full of apprehension.

“What is it, Luke? This mystery unnerves me.”

“I have some painful news to give you,” he said; “the best way is to tell you quite simply what I have discovered.”

“What is that?”

“You remember that I asked you to let me have the bottle which contained the medicine little Piers took just before he died?”

“I remember quite well, and you took all the medicine bottles away. You said you wanted to work up your case. What is it, Luke, what is the matter?”

“Something very grave has happened,” he replied. “I have hesitated for some weeks to tell you. The fact is, I have known this for over a month; my wife also knows it, for I had to confide in her. For a time I thought I would keep the whole matter to myself, but I found that my conscience would not rest. It seems to me you ought to know, that you are the one to decide. The thing haunts me. I can bear it no longer. That is the reason why I could not come to Pelham Towers to talk the matter over with you, for it concerns—Richard Pelham.”

“But what is it, Luke? I wish you would speak out. I hate people to beat about the bush. You have discovered something in the bottle of medicine. By the way, Dick was very queer when he spoke about that medicine.”

“No wonder,” said Tarbot. “He came to you about it, then? Yes, I remember, he told me so.”

“He did. He said he wanted to get the medicine analyzed. It was a strange wish of his, and it puzzled me at the time. Just as if the dear child had come by his death by foul means! Luke, what is it?”

Mrs. Pelham had been seated. Now she stood upright, for something in the face of the doctor had overbalanced her self-control. Holding out both her hands, she clasped those of Luke Tarbot.

“Sit down; control yourself,” he said. “I have bad news. I analyzed the medicine. I found hyocene in it.”

“Hyocene? What is that?”

“A deadly poison.”

“Luke!”

Mrs. Pelham had a dim feeling that the curtain was going to be lifted from something awful; the room seemed to go round. She raised her hand and passed it across her brows.

“I cannot see,” she cried. “The room is very hot.”

“I will open the window wider; take this chair. You will understand what I have told you in a moment.”

She did not speak, but, sinking back into the chair, closed her eyes. Tarbot flung the window wide open, poured out a glass of water and brought it to her.

“You will recover in a moment,” he said. “I knew it would be a terrible shock, and I felt that it was best for you to see me here and alone.”

“Tell me again,” she said after a moment. “There was in that medicine—what?”

“Hyocene.”

“And that is?”

“A deadly poison.”

“And the child took it?”

“Yes.”

“But who put it there, Luke; who put it there?”

“Mrs. Pelham, that is the question which in my opinion the law must decide. One thing at least is clear—the man who gave the boy his first and last dose out of that bottle was Richard Pelham.”

“No,” said the widow. She clasped her hands before her face. “Impossible!” she cried. “You cannot mean it. Dick! Dick give poison to my boy! No, no!”

“It is true,” said Tarbot. “You must nerve yourself to meet the truth. The boy has to be avenged. I can stand the secret no longer—I had to tell you. Sir Richard Pelham gave him the dose.”