A _POST OBIT_.
Pelham sat with the boy for about an hour. The nurse came in and turned
off the electric light. She lit a lamp in a distant part of the room,
and shaded it; then she approached the bedside on tiptoe.
“How is the boy now?” asked Pelham in a whisper.
“He is very ill,” said the woman. “He ought to have his medicine soon.”
“But you won’t wake him for it,” said Dick.
“I am sorry, but I must. The boy must have his medicine regularly; it is
a heart stimulant.”
“Well, let me give it to him,” said Dick.
“You may if you like,” answered the nurse. “Come into the dressing-room.
I will give you the glass, and you must raise his head a little and
whisper to him. He’ll open his eyes and drink it, and then go off to
sleep again.”
As the nurse spoke she opened a bottle of medicine, measured out a dose
carefully, and gave it to the young man. He took it into the sick-room,
and, placing it on a table, bent down over the little patient.
The boy was sleeping, starting now and then in his sleep, now and then
muttering a word.
“Dick, I’m glad you are with me—I’d like you to be Sir Dick, it would
sound so pretty, so pretty.”
“Wake up, Piers,” said his cousin. The moment he spoke the child opened
his eyes.
“It is time for your medicine, little chap.”
“Oh, I hate that nasty stuff,” said the boy, shuddering and turning his
head away.
“But you’ll drink it for me because you are a brave little lad.”
“I don’t want it, I’d rather die.”
“Nonsense, Piers, folly!”
“But if I died you’d be Sir Dick.”
“And I should hate it,” said Dick.
“You’d hate it?” said the boy. “Why, you’d be the king then.”
“I’d hate it all the same. I want you to live. I love you, little chap.
Now open your mouth, drink this off. Ah, that’s a good boy.”
The child swallowed the medicine.
“It doesn’t taste like the last,” he said; “it’s sticky and rather
sweet. I’d rather have the old medicine.”
“Sweet and sticky,” said Nurse Ives, who came into the room just then.
“It ought not to be, for there’s nothing either sweet or sticky in it.
What do you mean, child? Give me the glass, please, Mr. Pelham.”
She dipped in her finger and tasted the dregs.
“It is queer,” she said. “I wonder what is the matter with it. It ought
not to taste like this.”
She went out of the room, closing the door after her.
Pelham paid no heed to her words. He was not thinking about the
medicine, he was disturbed and anxious about Piers.
After a time the child dropped off to sleep again, and then the young
man stole to the door.
“I am going away now, nurse,” he said. “I’ll look in to-morrow.”
Pelham went down-stairs. The drawing-room door was open. Mrs. Pelham
stood on the threshold.
“Well, Dick, well?” she said eagerly. “What do you think of him?”
“I think he is rather bad, if you ask me,” said Pelham. “There is a
great change in him. If I were you I’d call in other advice.”
“That is what Luke thinks. He said we ought to have another doctor. I am
afraid he thinks badly of the case.”
“I’d have in another doctor, and take him out of Tarbot’s hands,” said
Dick.
“What, give up Dr. Tarbot, the child’s guardian! Dick, you are talking
nonsense.”
“Nonsense or not, if the boy were mine I’d do it,” said Pelham. “I don’t
like Tarbot. I never pretended to. I don’t like that nurse either.”
“But Dr. Tarbot says she is the very best nurse on his staff.”
“All the same I don’t like her. I’d have somebody else, and I’d have a
new doctor. That is my advice, but of course you won’t take it.”
“I couldn’t, my dear Dick. I couldn’t offend Dr. Tarbot. It would be
madness. Oh, what a confused, helpless state I feel in—my darling child,
my only one! You don’t think that he is in danger?”
“Oh, I don’t go so far as that,” said Pelham. “I’ll call in again in the
morning, and I’ll send Barbara round.”
“He loves Barbara, he would like to see her,” said Mrs. Pelham. “Give my
love to her, Dick. Dick, is it true—are you engaged to Barbara?”
“Yes, worse luck,” was the reply.
“Why do you say worse luck?”
“Because we cannot marry. I am as poor as a church mouse, and she has
nothing. But there, Mrs. Pelham, I am a selfish brute to talk of my own
affairs just now. I hope little Piers will be better in the morning.
Good night.”
As soon as Dick had gone Mrs. Pelham went softly up-stairs. She opened
the door of the sick-room and stole in. The boy, excited and restless,
heard her. He called to her to come to him.
“I can’t sleep, mother,” he said.
“Is he worse, nurse?” asked Mrs. Pelham.
“No, madam, nothing of the kind,” said the nurse. “Kindly leave us,
madam, you are only exciting him.”
“Yes, you had better go away, you are only exciting me,” repeated Piers.
“I want Dick to stay with me. You are too anxious. I hear it in your
voice. Please go away, mother.”
Mrs. Pelham went very slowly out of the room. When the last echo of her
steps had died away Nurse Ives locked the door. She then turned on the
electric light.
“What are you doing now?” asked the sick child, raising himself on his
elbow.
“I mean to send you to sleep.”
“Like you did last night?”
“Yes, like I did last night. Didn’t you like it?”
“I was a little—afraid,” said the boy very slowly. He looked anxiously
round the room—“I wish—Dick were—here,” he said again, “or—or mother. I
was very much _afraid_.” And now his eyes, luminous and troubled, were
fixed upon the cold, inscrutable face of the red-haired nurse.
“There is nothing to frighten you, child, quite the contrary,” said the
nurse. “You must just lie quiet and fix your eyes on me.”
“I don’t want that bright light,” said the boy.
“Never mind the light—don’t think of it. I want to send you off to
sleep.”
“Why don’t you give me something to send me to sleep? When mother had
bad toothache the doctor gave her something out of a bottle and she went
to sleep. I wish you’d give me something out of a bottle. I don’t like
to go to sleep your way.”
“Mine is a much, much better way. Now you’ll do what I tell you. Give me
both your hands.”
“I—I _won’t_!” said the child, struggling and beginning to cry feebly.
“I am going to stroke your forehead quite gently, and you shall look in
my eyes. Don’t look away. See, I’m going to comfort you.”
The boy fidgeted and tried to shut his eyes.
“Open your eyes, Piers, look at me this minute,” said the nurse, in a
firm, stern voice.
“I—I won’t!” began the child. He looked away, then he looked again; soon
he looked steadily, his own eyes full of fear. Gradually the fear went
out of them, the eyes became fixed and strained. The nurse sat in such a
position that the boy had to look up a little as he gazed at her.
Meanwhile she stroked his forehead gently, calmly. Soon a change came
over the face, the eyelids closed, the color left cheeks and lips; the
nurse put her finger and thumb on the little wrist—the pulse had
apparently ceased to beat.
“It’s all right,” she said to herself. “I didn’t study under Dr.
Weismann in Paris for nothing. Ha! ha! my dear Doctor Tarbot, you think
I am your tool, but how do you know that I shall not turn the tables on
you? Poison this boy, indeed—not I! I mean to save him, poor little
fellow! I shall save him, and win you. I shall feather my own nest, and
hold such a weapon against you that you will be in my power for the rest
of your life. You made a mistake when you asked a woman as wise as I am
to assist you.
“Can I ever forget the day when Dr. Weismann performed a similar
experiment on a young man in the hospital, and then called in the most
eminent physicians to examine him; didn’t they one and all pronounce him
dead? You are not cleverer than Dr. Weismann, or the other great Paris
savants. I am your match. You will rue the day you consulted me.”
The nurse laughed softly to herself. Meanwhile she watched the patient.
The child looked no longer like a patient; he looked no longer like any
living creature—the pallor of death was on his forehead. To all
appearance he had ceased to breathe.
Nurse Ives sat motionless by his side for a couple of hours. At the end
of that time she went up to a wicker-work trunk which stood in a corner
of the room. It was a trunk of somewhat novel shape, being longer than
those usually employed. She opened it, and took out an electrical
apparatus. She put this in order, and applied a powerful current to the
child, placing one pole at the side of the neck, and the other over the
heart. In a few moments little Piers opened his eyes slowly, and gazed
up at his nurse with a tranquil expression.
“I have had a nice sleep,” he said.
She smiled at him, bent forward, and kissed him.
“You must have some nourishment before you go to sleep again,” she said.
She put away the electrical apparatus, returning it to its place in her
wicker-work trunk. She then heated some beef-tea and brought it to the
child’s bedside.
“Drink it off, dear,” she said. The child drank it greedily.
“You did put me into a nice sleep,” he exclaimed.
“Yes, am I not a wonderful woman? Now go to sleep again, little one, and
I will sit by you. But listen to me, Piers—you are not to tell anybody
about my secret.”
“What secret?” asked the boy.
“The beautiful way in which I put you to sleep.”
“Would you rather I didn’t?”
“I should be very, very angry if you did. You must not disobey me. Do
you promise?”
“Oh, yes, I promise; but don’t look at me with such queer eyes; you make
me frightened.”
“You have no cause to be frightened; go to sleep again.”
Meanwhile Pelham, hailing a hansom, drove straight to his chambers in
Temple Court. He entered his sitting-room, and then started back with an
impatient exclamation. Tarbot was standing on the hearth.
“I am sorry you cannot give me a welcome, Pelham,” said the other man.
He came forward as he spoke, and held out his hand. “Have you been to
see little Sir Piers?”
“Yes,” answered Pelham.
“What did you think of him?”
“He seems very weak. I don’t much like his state.”
“Oh, we’ll pull him through,” said Tarbot, speaking in a cheerful tone.
“I am glad you went to see him; he has taken a great fancy to you.”
“We were always the best of chums,” said Pelham shortly. “Take a chair,
won’t you? Can I do anything?”
“That’s a civil way of asking why I take the liberty of calling. The
fact is, I have come on a matter of great importance.”
Pelham remained motionless. He had not seated himself, but stood on the
hearth where Tarbot had stood a minute or two before. His blue eyes were
fixed upon Luke Tarbot’s face. The surgeon gazed straight up at the
young man.
“So you are engaged to Barbara Evershed,” Tarbot said abruptly.
“Yes; but how do you know?” Pelham’s face was crimson.
“You are engaged to the girl I meant to marry. You must forgive me if I
fail to congratulate you.”
Pelham’s blue eyes wore a stormy expression.
“This is an awful blow to me, but all the same, for the sake of the
girl, I want to help you. I know more about Mrs. Evershed than you have
any idea of. She is in serious difficulties. Although you are engaged to
Miss Evershed, you have not a chance of marrying her, because you are a
poor man. Miss Evershed, as far as I can make out, will not allow the
engagement to become public. That is an awkward thing for you. You would
like to have everything straight and above board, would you not?”
“That goes without saying,” answered Dick. “But excuse me, Dr. Tarbot, I
can scarcely understand——”
“My object in taking any trouble in the matter?” continued Tarbot. “It
never occurred to you, did it, that there might be such a thing as
disinterested love?”
“You are not the man to do anything noble without an object.”
“You are unfair to me, Pelham, and I shall prove to you that you are in
the wrong. Mrs. Evershed’s difficulties are most serious. Between her
and ruin there is but a step. Now, it so happens that I can help her.”
“You can help her—how?”
“By the loan of a sufficient sum of money to put her straight with her
creditors for a considerable time.”
“Then for Heaven’s sake do it, Tarbot. It would be a generous action.”
“And why, according to your own showing, should Luke Tarbot be the man
to do a generous action?” asked the doctor.
Again Pelham was silent. Tarbot took a step forward. Pelham looked him
full in the eyes.
“You want to say something. Say it quickly,” he cried. “To be frank with
you, Tarbot, there are some men whom I like, and some——”
“For whom you have an antipathy,” said Dr. Tarbot.
Pelham nodded.
“Then in that case all is fair and above board between us,” said Tarbot.
“We both want the same girl; we have both fought for her. You have won
and I have lost. The loser in the game has seldom an admiration for the
winner, but all the same, for the sake of this girl, I will help you to
do a generous thing.”
“What is that?”
Tarbot bent forward and said in a low tone, “I will lend Mrs. Evershed
ten thousand pounds on condition that you pay me back on the day you
come in for the Pelham estates.”
Pelham’s face turned white.
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I say. I will lend you that sum to help Mrs. Evershed on
that one condition and that alone. You will have, of course, to sign a
_post obit_, but such things are done every day. On the day you come in
for the estates, worth over sixty thousand a year, you will pay me back
that trifling loan. Are you willing to oblige Barbara’s mother, or are
you not?”