“THE KING CAN DO NO WRONG.”
Sir Piers Pelham, aged seven, was an autocrat. He lived in a big house,
daintily and luxuriously furnished. He had servants to do his bidding;
each whim was attended to immediately; his mother was there to obey his
every dictate. He was the King in No. 12 Ashley Mansions. Nothing was
too great to do for him, nothing too hard to endure for his sake.
At present the little baronet was under the care of guardians—his mother
was one, a lawyer of the name of Carroll was another, and Luke Tarbot,
one of the cleverest and most rising doctors in Harley Street, the
third. When Piers came of age he would enter into a property which
represented over sixty thousand pounds a year.
The boy’s father had died while hunting a month before his birth. He had
never been the reigning baronet. The reigning baronet was an old man,
who had passed from life when little Piers was a year old. From that
time the boy was Sir Piers Pelham. If he died the title would go to Dick
Pelham, who was his second cousin.
On a certain evening, about a week after the events related in the last
chapter, Luke Tarbot, when he entered his house in Harley Street, found
a note awaiting him. It was from 12 Ashley Mansions, and ran as follows:
“DEAR LUKE,—I wish you would look round as soon as possible. That new
medicine you have given Piers does not suit him. He is feverish and
unwell. The nurse has kept him in bed to-day. He is not the least like
himself. I feel strangely anxious.
“Yours very truly,
“MARION PELHAM.”
Having read the note Tarbot went into his dining-room and rang the bell.
His servant answered his summons.
“Have dinner served at once, Peters,” said his master.
The man withdrew, and a few moments later the doctor was enjoying an
exquisitely cooked meal. He was an epicure and always ate deliberately.
Having finished and enjoyed the refreshment of a cigar, he put on his
overcoat and went to Ashley Mansions. The door was opened by a footman
in the Pelham livery. The doctor asked for Mrs. Pelham.
“My mistress is in the drawing-room, sir. She has been looking out for
you very anxiously, Dr. Tarbot.”
“Announce me, please,” said Tarbot.
He left his hat and overcoat in the hall, and a moment later was ushered
into Mrs. Pelham’s presence. She was a little woman, with rosy cheeks
and bright, dark eyes. She had the eager, affectionate manner of a
person whose heart overbalances her mind.
“I am so glad to see you, doctor,” she cried. “Please sit down. Piers
has had a very queer fainting fit this afternoon. I do not like the
state he is in at all.”
“Has the nurse come?” asked Tarbot.
“She came yesterday. I don’t much like her, and I don’t think the child
does either.”
“Oh, she is an excellent nurse,” said Tarbot, frowning; “one of the very
best I have on my staff. I’ll go up and have a look at the child.”
Mrs. Pelham took the doctor up-stairs herself. The bedroom occupied by
the small baronet was luxuriously furnished in the style best calculated
to please a child.
Just beyond it was a dressing-room, but the little baronet slept, as
well as played, in his nursery. He was sitting up in bed now, with
flushed cheeks. He was a remarkably pretty boy, with soft black hair,
eyes dark as night, and a velvety skin of the purest olive. The moment
his mother appeared he called out to her in a high, ringing tone,—
“I’m better again, mother. Oh, is that you, Dr. Tarbot? I don’t want any
more of your nasty medicines. You needn’t order them for me, for I’m not
going to take them.”
He laughed as he announced his determination. The mother ran up to the
boy and began to kiss him.
“Oh, I do think he is a little better,” she cried eagerly. She looked
round as she spoke at the nurse, who was standing perfectly motionless
by the bedside. The nurse did not glance at her—her eyes were fixed on
Tarbot.
“I took his temperature an hour ago,” she said; “he is decidedly
feverish, and ought to stay quiet.”
“I hate you, you nasty nurse,” said little Piers, “and I hate you, too,
Dr. Tarbot. I want Dick to come to me—Dick or Barbara, but I would
rather have Dick. Do send Dick to me, mother. He ought to come, oughtn’t
he, when the king wants him?”
“I don’t think you should have visitors at present,” said Tarbot. “I
wish you to stay quiet and to do what Nurse Ives says.”
“Oh, I’m not going to obey her,” said the child. “I hate nurses. I want
Dick. Please, mother, send for Dick!”
The doctor began to examine the boy, tapping the little chest, listening
to his breathing, taking his temperature, feeling his pulse.
“You’ll be better soon,” he said, when he stood up after making his
examination. “I’ll send you some fresh medicine; you need not take any
more of that bitter stuff. Nurse, I will give you some directions in the
other room. Piers, listen to me—you must stay in bed.”
“No, I won’t,” said the boy. “I’m going to get up.”
“You’ll stay in bed, my boy, because I order it,” said Tarbot in a
determined voice.
The boy gazed at him out of his great black eyes.
“You order it?” he said slowly. “I didn’t think anybody could order Sir
Piers Pelham.”
“And why not?”
“Oh, because—because I’m rich,” said the child, “and I”—he gazed round
him in a puzzled way—“I’m great. I’ll be a _very_ great man when I’m
grown up. I was telling nurse about it. I was telling her that I’d have
heaps of money. I shall have everything my own way. I’ll be a sort of
king. The king can do no wrong. That’s a beautiful proverb, isn’t it?
I’m going to have it illuminated and put over the mantelpiece. I’m the
king and I can do no wrong, and I wish to get up, and I _will_. You
can’t keep me in bed, nor can nurse.”
“You may be a great king, or autocrat, or whatever you like to call it,”
said Tarbot, “but you have got to obey me now because I am your doctor.
Nurse, I must speak to you. I will see you afterwards in the
drawing-room, Mrs. Pelham.”
The doctor and the nurse left the room. The nurse was absent about five
minutes. She came back looking quiet and calm. She went and stood by
little Piers’s bed. The mother was at the other side.
“I think the doctor would like to speak to you, madam,” said the nurse.
Mrs. Pelham left the room. She went down-stairs. Tarbot was waiting for
her, standing with his back to the mantelpiece. As soon as Mrs. Pelham
came in he began to speak.
“I don’t like the condition of the child.”
She clasped her hands, and a look of terror came into her face.
“I have discovered that there is real cardiac mischief.”
“What is that?” asked Mrs. Pelham.
“The child’s heart is seriously affected.”
The mother uttered a cry.
“I shall call in Dr. Williamson to-morrow. He is a great authority on
such cases. We must take his advice.”
Mrs. Pelham sat down on the nearest chair and burst into tears.
“You might send for the child’s cousin,” said Tarbot.
“What cousin?”
“Dick Pelham—he is fond of him. Anything reasonable ought to be granted
to the boy at present.”
Mrs. Pelham started up. “Dick shall come at once,” she cried.
“That is right. I’ll call round in the morning.”
Tarbot left the house. Mrs. Pelham sent a hurried messenger for Dick. He
arrived within an hour.
“Why, Mrs. Pelham!” he exclaimed, bursting into the room, “what sad news
is this? What is the matter with Piers?”
“He is ill, Dick. The doctor says it is quite serious.”
“Do you mean that Tarbot says so?”
“Yes, of course I mean Dr. Tarbot. He always attends little Piers when
he is ill. He is his guardian, you know, Dick, or perhaps you have
forgotten. I hope you didn’t mind my sending for you—the little fellow
has been calling for you all day.”
“I am delighted you sent for me. I’ll go up to the boy at once.”
Pelham ran up-stairs. Piers with a flushed face was arguing with Nurse
Ives. Nurse Ives was making few replies. She was sitting quietly by the
child. Her eyes were fixed steadily on his face. Little Piers turned
away from the bright glassy look in her eyes, then, as if fascinated, he
looked back at her. Dick’s entry into the room made a diversion.
“Hullo, Piers! what’s the matter?” said his cousin.
“Oh, Cousin Dick, Cousin Dick!” said the boy, “I am glad to see you.
Come and sit with me. I am glad, I am glad! You can go away now, nurse,
I want to be all alone with my Cousin Dick: he’s my greatest friend.
He’s my heir, you know.”
“Your heir?” said the nurse. “What do you mean?”
“Yes; if I were to die, Dick would be Sir Dick. Doesn’t it sound funny?
Sir Dick! You would, wouldn’t you, Dick?”
“Don’t talk about it, Piers; I hate the subject,” said Dick, frowning.
“I wouldn’t make you angry for the world. Come and sit near me and hold
my hand. Nurse, you can go out of the room. I love you, Dick; I love
you.”
“But what is the matter with you, Piers?”
“My ticker beats too fast—it’s awfully troublesome—it beats one, two,
and it stops; then it flies on, and then it seems scarcely to go at all,
and I feel cold and faint. If I were to get a little worse, then you’d
come into my property. You’d make an awfully nice baronet. Give me your
hand, Dick. Sir Dick you’d be if I were dead.”
“Go to sleep, Piers,” said Dick.