CHAPTER XXXII.

BARBARA HEARS STARTLING NEWS.

It was on the very day that Pelham was arrested on a charge of murder, and Barbara, happy and unconscious, had gone to Exeter to buy presents for the Christmas tree, that Mrs. Ives began her search for Piers. Having had time to think during the night, she resolved not to begin by going to Pelham Towers. The boy had no money, of that she was well aware. It would be out of his power to walk the distance from Falmouth to Great Pelham under several days, besides he would not know the way. Beyond doubt, he was still in the immediate neighborhood. Mrs. Ives would make inquiries in her own vicinity first.

“He’s such a pretty little dear that any one might kidnap him,” she said to herself. “I hope to goodness there ain’t no gipsies about. I’ll go to the different villages and make inquiries, and I’ll offer a reward. I’ll write it out and I’ll put it up on my door the first thing in the morning. I’ll spend a pound over Piers. It’s a deal of money, but I’ll spend it.”

So, taking tremendous pains, the little woman wrote in large characters:—

ONE POUND REWARD.

Wanted, a little boy, aged seven, named Piers. Complexion dark, with rosy cheeks, eyes dark and shining like stars. Black hair, all curled. A nobleman-in-disguise sort of appearance.

Having fashioned this description to her own mind, Mrs. Ives proceeded to post it on the door of her house. She had printed it partly, in red ink and partly in black. “Nobleman-in-disguise sort of appearance” was all done in red ink. It was the kind of advertisement to attract immediate attention. As soon as daylight came she began her round of the village. She then went to the neighboring villages. Wherever she went she made inquiries. Here and there she posted up her queer advertisement. She was very weary and tired now, but still her courage never flagged. She got no hint of the boy’s whereabouts from any one. No one had seen or heard of him, but all the villagers were interested and promised to look out. As far as they could tell, there were no gipsies in the neighborhood. Mrs. Ives went home.

“I must do it. I must go off to Pelham Towers afore the last train goes to night,” she said to herself. “But first I’ll just read this telegram from poor Clary.”

The telegram was brief. It simply contained a request on the part of Clara that Mrs. Ives would do nothing until she saw her.

Mrs. Ives once again dipped her pen in the ink and wrote a telegram to Clara.

“Boy gone. Am off now to Pelham Towers to find him. Your mother.”

When she got to Falmouth Mrs. Ives sent off this message. She then took a ticket to Haversham, and in course of time was put down at the little wayside station. It was a long walk from there to the Towers, but when her spirit was up the little woman was good for anything.

Accordingly she was once more trudging down the avenue when Barbara was returning from Exeter. Barbara had had a successful day, and driving back in the pretty pony carriage with her mother wrapped in furs by her side, she was chatting and laughing gaily.

“I do declare,” she said, “there’s that funny little old woman again!”

“What little woman, dear?” said Mrs. Evershed.

“Her name is Ives. What can she want now?”

Barbara pulled up the ponies. She leant out of the carriage.

“Good evening, Mrs. Ives,” she said.

“Oh, good evening, my pretty young lady,” said Mrs. Ives, dropping her accustomed curtsey. “I’m in a sore bit of trouble, and I’ve come back here thinking perhaps you could help me.”

“If I can I will right heartily,” said Barbara. “But you look very tired, and there is plenty of room in the carriage. Please get in.”

Mrs. Evershed made a gesture of disapproval, but Barbara could afford to take no notice of her mother. Mrs. Ives interested her. She thought she would like to show the little woman to Dick. Barbara’s heart was full of Dick. She had not been parted from him for so long a time since their marriage. She had a great deal to tell him.

“Step in. Take this seat,” said Barbara.

Mrs. Ives did so.

“I’m mighty obliged. I’m very footsore,” said the little woman.

Barbara whipped up the ponies and proceeded at a rapid pace down the avenue. Mrs. Ives sat quite silent, staring full in the face of the pretty young lady.

“I can deal her a blow, and, dear heart! I don’t like to do it,” she said to herself. “But after all, what is riches? I ha’ tasted them at my darter’s and they’re a grand mistake. It’s a sight better to live poor and live plain. Yes, that’s what I say—live poor and live plain. Have plain food and a plain bed and cleanliness round you, and you don’t want for nothing. That’s the way to live and have a long life, and no encouraging of stoutness.”

As these thoughts flew through Mrs. Ives’s active brain she glanced at Mrs. Evershed, who was decidedly broad and fully developed. Mrs. Ives did not like the grand lady, and did not trouble to look at her again.

They presently reached the house. Barbara helped her mother out of the carriage and then turned to Mrs. Ives.

“Will you come into the hall?” she said. “This lady is my mother, and I want to see to her comforts. If you will stay in the hall I will come back to you presently.”

Mrs. Ives nodded.

Barbara conveyed Mrs. Evershed up-stairs.

“Why do you talk to that sort of person, Barbara? It’s not at all good taste,” said Mrs. Evershed.

“Oh, mother, where does the bad taste come in? She’s such a little character, quite an oddity, and I enjoy her,” said Barbara. “I wonder where Dick is!”

A servant, who had been hovering about, now came forward with Dick’s note.

“Sir Richard said you were to receive this immediately on your return, my lady,” he remarked.

Barbara opened the note, read the contents, and her face turned white.

“What can be the matter?” she said aloud.

“Is anything wrong, dear?” asked Mrs. Evershed.

“No, nothing that I know of; but Dick had to go to town unexpectedly. He says he’ll be back to-morrow. I wonder what can be the matter! He said nothing at all about going to town when I was leaving this morning.”

“Sir Richard went away in a dog-cart with two strange men,” volunteered the footman.

Barbara’s surprise and curiosity became still greater, but she would not condescend to question the man.

“It’s all right,” she said in a would-be cheerful tone. “Let me take you to your room, mother. I hope the fire is good.”

Mrs. Evershed thought nothing of Dick’s disappearance. On the contrary, she was rather pleased than otherwise to have her daughter to herself for the first evening.

“The house is wonderfully pretty, dear,” she said. “More than pretty, quite handsome, but it really ought to be re-decorated. That splendid old tapestry, for instance, is quite thrown away in its present position. Now, you ought to go to——”

“I like things as they are,” interrupted Barbara.

“Of course, my dear child; but without in the least disturbing the old ancestral appearance of the place you could accentuate the best points. I know a man who will help you. His terms are enormous, but what can you expect when he does so much for the money.”

“Well, mother, we will talk about that presently. Now, this is your room. I hope you will find it comfortable.”

The apartment in question was a splendid one and very spacious. Barbara’s maid was waiting to unpack Mrs. Evershed’s things.

“I will leave you now to the care of Marshall,” said the younger lady. “Marshall, please bring tea to Mrs. Evershed in this room. We dine at seven, mother.”

Barbara left the room. In the passage outside she stood still for a minute. There was no one by. She slipped her hand into her pocket and took out Dick’s note. It was written in pencil on a torn page of his pocket-book. The few words were quickly read, but Barbara lingered long over the “Darling” with which the note was begun. Suddenly raising it to her lips she kissed the signature; then, tenderly folding it up, she put it back in her pocket.

“I wish I knew what has really happened,” she said to herself. “He knew nothing whatever about this business when I left him this morning. I hope nothing is wrong.”

In her disappointment about her husband not being at home, she forgot all about Mrs. Ives. When she returned to the hall the little woman was still seated on one of the chairs.

“Oh, I am sorry I forgot all about you,” said Barbara. “Did you wish to see me about anything?”

“Well, yes, my lady, I should like to ask you one or two questions.”

“Come in here. This is my husband’s study, and we shall be quite uninterrupted.”

Barbara opened a door to the left of the hall and entered first. Mrs. Ives followed her. Barbara closed the door behind her guest.

“And now what is it?” she asked.

“Well, my lady, I have come here to know if by any chance a little boy has arrived during the last twenty-four hours.”

“I don’t understand,” said Barbara. “A little boy—what do you mean?”

“A very pretty little boy, my lady,” said Mrs. Ives, speaking slowly, her eyes fixed on Barbara’s blooming face. “Brown eyes he had, deep and soft, a wonderful look in ’em, starry eyes, I call ’em, and a little brown face with roses in his cheeks, and black hair all curly, and his name, my lady, is Piers. Has he come here within the last twenty-four hours?”

“Certainly not. What a strange question to ask. A boy called Piers. Why, that is the name of the dear little fellow who died three months ago.”

“I was thinking of that, my lady.”

“But what can you mean? The child you describe is exactly like the little Piers who died. Please explain yourself.”

“I can do it in a few words, my lady. I has had the care of a little boy just as I have described, with the air of the nobility about him, and a splendid way and brave, brave as a hero of antiquity, but he’s lost, my lady. I went to town to see my darter, Clara Tarbot what now is—she looks mortal bad—riches don’t agree with her. I saw my darter on the subject of the little boy, and when I come home he was gone. I thought maybe he’d come here.”

“I cannot understand it,” said Barbara. She began to tremble. She did not know why. “A little boy whom you had the care of called Piers, with that sort of appearance, and you thought he would come here. But why should he come here?”

“I had the thought, my lady. I ain’t prepared to say what gave birth to it.”

“I have been out of the house all day,” said Barbara after another pause, “but I will of course inquire. If you will stay where you are I can soon let you know.”

Barbara left the room. The little woman clasped her hands and looked straight before her.

“This is his house,” she said to herself, “and the room is a beautiful one—heaps of air, big, lofty. If I don’t soon get tidings the police must be told that he’s not an ordinary little boy, but Sir Piers Pelham himself.”

Lady Pelham returned, and her face was pale.

“I have made inquiries,” she said, “but no little boy has arrived to-day. It is late, and I will give you a bed for the night. The child you have been taking care of may turn up in the morning, but I cannot possibly imagine why you should think he was coming here. Would you like to stay here for the night?”

“It’s late,” said Mrs. Ives, “and my bones, they do ache terrible. Ha’ you got a feather bed and a room without curtains and bare floor?”

Barbara could not help smiling.

“I daresay we can accommodate you with what you require in one of the attics,” she said.

“Then I will stay, for the child may come in the morning. Did you ask Mrs. Posset if the child had come?”

“Certainly, I went to Mrs. Posset first of all.”

“And what did she say?”

“Your description made her cry. I had to explain that——”

“What, my lady?”

“That it could not have been our little boy.”

“And why not, my pretty lady?”

“Because I saw him after he died,” said Barbara. “Oh, you make my heart ache when you talk of him. He is dead and in his grave. Now I will take you to the housekeeper. She will give you a comfortable room for the night.”