CHAPTER XXXIV.

THE LAST STRAW.

Barbara had scarcely gone before the door of the consulting-room was opened, and Clara came in. Clara wore her old gray bonnet and cloak, her nurse’s dress.

Tarbot, who was standing by the mantelpiece with an excited look in his eyes and his lips still trembling, turned when she entered.

“Leave me,” he said. “I cannot speak to you at present. Go away.”

“I won’t keep you long,” answered Clara very gently. She was interrupted by a fit of coughing. Try as she would, she could not restrain it. Her face became crimson, and her features worked. She struggled hard with this convulsion of nature. Presently it passed, but not until the handkerchief which she had pressed to her lips was stained with blood.

Tarbot stood a few feet away regarding her, and his face wore a malignant scowl. Clara slipped her handkerchief into her pocket, and sat down on the nearest chair, panting as she did so.

“You are ill,” said Tarbot. “When you have done your business here as witness at the trial, you had better go to Algiers for the winter.”

“We will leave that matter for the present,” said Clara. “I wish to tell you now that I know exactly what you have done.”

“What I have done?”

“Yes. You have just had an interview with Lady Pelham.”

“What is that to you?”

“A great deal. I am your wife. I happened to see you just now.”

“So you played the spy?”

“I did, Luke, and I am not ashamed. I opened the door softly. You were too much occupied to notice me. I saw when you took her in your arms—you, who are another woman’s husband—kissed her. She repelled you, as a good woman should. I have not a word to say against her, but for you, Luke, for you—this to me is—the very last straw.”

“Never mind!” he said excitedly. “You shall go to Algiers when the trial is over. It will come on in a fortnight. The man has not a loophole of escape. The whole thing will sweep to its ghastly conclusion in a few weeks.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes. What do you mean?”

“I was only thinking of the ace of trumps.”

“Again you talk in that ridiculous way. You made use of that expression before. What do you mean?”

“You will know presently. Good-by, Luke.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

Clara did not say anything further. She went into the hall, opened the hall door, and let herself out. Walking somewhat unsteadily and feebly, swaying now and then from side to side, she got as far as the end of the street. Here she hailed a hansom, and desired the man to drive her to Paddington. When she got there she took the next train to Haversham.

About half-way down the line she took a letter out of her pocket. It was directed to her husband. She gave it a queer look, and there was an ominous glitter in her eyes. When she reached a large junction she called a porter to her, gave him sixpence and asked him to post her letter. The man promised to obey. Clara sank back in her seat with a sigh of relief, and the train moved on.

She arrived at Haversham late that evening. It was only a wayside station, and there were no cabs. She had to walk the entire distance to Great Pelham. The night was a wet one, and the heavy rain penetrated through Clara’s cloak. She was damp through and through. She reached the “Pelham Arms” about ten o’clock. When she got there she spoke to one of the waiters.

“Get some tea at once in the coffee-room, and order a cab. I want to drive to Pelham Towers,” she said.

The man looked eager when she pronounced the name, for already strange news was beginning to be whispered with regard to Pelham Towers. The account of the trial had come down in the evening papers, and the whole country rang with the news.

The tea was brought, and Clara drank it off, for she was parched with thirst and fever. In less than ten minutes she was driving to the Towers. She got there about half-past ten. She desired the man to take her to the side entrance. One of the servants came out and stared when she saw her.

“I have called to speak to a person who I believe is here—a person of the name of Ives,” said Clara.

“There is a little lady of that name in the house. She’s in the housekeeper’s room,” said the woman.

“I wish to see her immediately.”

“What name shall I say?”

“Tell her that her daughter has come, and wants to speak to her.”

“Will you please step in, ma’am?”

Clara desired the cab to wait, and entered the hall. A moment later Mrs. Ives came out.

“Clary, thank the good God you have come. I couldn’t keep it to myself another half an hour. There’s bitter, bitter trouble. Clary, I couldn’t have kept it to myself any longer without going mad, and Mrs. Posset can scarcely see from crying. Clary, what _do_ it mean?”

“It means that I want to speak to you, mother, and immediately.”

Mrs. Posset’s stout form was now seen in the doorway of her parlor. Mrs. Ives turned and addressed her.

“My darter has come, ma’am,” she said, “and wants to see me on a matter of special business. There ain’t nothing surprising that ’appens nowadays, but ef I could see her alone for a few minutes it might be a convenience for all concerned.”

“You can see her in here,” said Mrs. Posset. She went out of the room as she spoke. Clara and her mother entered. Clara sank down panting on the sofa.

“Help me to take my cloak off,” she said. “I am not long for this world, but I want to unburden my soul before I go.”

“What do you mean, child? How awful you look!”

“Mother, where is the boy?”

“I wish to God that I knew, but I don’t.”

“He hasn’t come here, then?”

“No, no, and your letter kept me here, and it was like imprisoning me. I’m near mad keeping it all to myself, and now there’s the news that Sir Richard Pelham has been arrested for the murder of the little chap who is alive and well.”

“Yes, yes, mother, I know all that, and we will put it right. I have come down for the purpose, but we must find the boy, and we have not a moment to lose.”

“You’ll tell the truth, Clary?”

“As there is a God above.”

“Thank the Lord, thank the Lord! But, child, how queer you look!”

“I am dying, mother, but I shan’t die until I have told the truth. I have suffered much, and the last straw, the last straw came to-day. You have heard of it, haven’t you?”

“To be sure, child, to be sure! But _how_ queer you look!”

“Oh, I am bad, my heart aches, and my body aches, and there’s no rest for me on earth. Come, mother, put on your bonnet. I told the cab to wait, and we must leave here to-night. We must find the child.”

“They say,” cried Mrs. Ives, “that a doctor is coming down from London to-morrow morning. They’re going to open the vault, and they are going to take out the coffin.”

“Let them. It doesn’t matter. Richard Pelham will be saved. The beautiful young lady will have a life of happiness. I go under forever, but what does that matter? Come, mother, come at once.”