“I HAVE MISJUDGED HIM.”
Two or three days later Pelham received a note from Barbara Evershed.
“Dearest Dick, come and see me at once,” she wrote. “Something most
wonderful and unexpected has happened.”
Pelham, who was just attending to his first brief, started up with an
exclamation, put on his hat, and in half an hour had arrived at Mrs.
Evershed’s house in Mark Place. He was admitted at once, and ran up to
the drawing-room, where Barbara was waiting for him.
“Dear old Dick,” she cried, “I am about the happiest girl on earth!”
“But what has happened? I never saw you look so excited before.”
“I have reason to be excited. We can be engaged now quite openly. Oh,
how happy I am!”
“And so am I, Barbara, if it is true; but has your mother given her
consent?”
“Yes, it is all right now. Everything has come right, and in such a
wonderful, marvelous way.”
“Tell me the story.”
“I must begin at the beginning. You know I hinted to you about poor
mother’s money difficulties?”
“Yes, Barbara.”
“Well, they are all put right; and so suddenly, so unexpectedly. And who
do you think has done it? Why, Dr. Tarbot—the man I almost hated. He has
lent mother ten thousand pounds, and on such easy terms that it will be
possible for her to repay it all by degrees.
“He says he doesn’t mind when the capital is returned, and she is only
to pay four per cent. interest. You can’t imagine what a relief it is.
The poor dear had been getting into most awful trouble, and those horrid
money-lenders were getting her into their clutches.
“She told me only yesterday that unless I engaged myself to Lord
Selwyn—(Dick, Dick, think of it, that old horror! that dreadful,
withered-up old creature!)—she said that unless I could bring myself to
accept his proposals she would have to try to borrow money from the
Jews, and they would charge twenty or thirty per cent. interest. She
said we might keep on for another few weeks and then we must go under.
“Oh, Dick, if it hadn’t been for you, I must have yielded, for, after
all, she is my mother, and I love her dearly! She spoke of the awful
scandal, the disgrace, the debts, the angry creditors, her appearance in
a public court. Oh, it nearly broke my heart!”
“There, don’t cry, my dearest girl,” said Pelham, for Barbara, overcome
by her emotions, had laid her head on his shoulder and burst into a
passion of tears.
“I am all right now,” she said, quickly recovering herself. “It is over,
and Dr. Tarbot has done it all. He is our blessing, our good angel.”
Pelham was silent.
“It happened last night. Mother and I had a long conversation, and at
last I told her I would think over matters, and let her know my decision
within an hour. I never meant to yield, Dick, so you need not look at me
so reproachfully, but it was my only chance to gain time, and just then
Dr. Tarbot was announced.
“I went out of the room, for I did not want to see him. Little I knew
what he had come about, ungrateful girl that I was. He and mother sat
together and had a long, long conversation, and I went up to my room. I
thought everything was lost. And then at last I heard Dr. Tarbot go. The
next instant mother rushed up-stairs, opened my door, came up to me, and
clasped me in her arms.
“‘Darling, darling, we are saved!’ she cried.
“‘What can you mean?’ I answered.
“‘It is all Dr. Tarbot’s doing; he has proved our good angel,’ said
mother. ‘He will lend me ten thousand pounds within a week from now. Oh,
Barbara, he is doing it so handsomely, so splendidly!
“‘Barbara child, you ought to marry him. He loves you, he told me how he
loved you; he said it was on your account he was doing it. He didn’t
press that you should engage yourself to him. On the contrary, he seemed
quite hopeless about it. But, Barbara, he is a man in a thousand.’
“‘I am greatly obliged to him,’ I said. ‘I think he is quite splendid; I
didn’t know it was in him; but, mother dear, I cannot show my gratitude
in that way—I can never marry him.’
“‘My darling, he makes no conditions. He said you were not to be
persecuted on his account. I almost think he would have preferred your
not knowing that he has behaved so well to me. Now, Barbara, you queer
girl, have you nothing to say to me, no secret you are keeping from me?
I have rather suspected it for the last few days.’
“Dick, that was my opportunity. I could not help it—I burst out with
everything. I told mother all about my great, great passionate love for
you. She was so kind to me, and so relieved about her money affairs,
that she consented to my becoming engaged to you.
“She even said she thought Dr. Tarbot would like it. Just imagine it,
Dick! Could you for a moment have believed that it was in that man to be
so generous? Oh, how bitterly I have misjudged him! I should like to go
on my knees to him.
“Well, mother told me I must write to you early this morning, and ask
you to stay to lunch, and we can be engaged now before all the world. As
soon as you have a little home for me, Dick, however humble, I will come
to it with delight.”
To this exciting narrative Pelham made short replies. He said he was
very glad, but his enthusiasm with regard to Tarbot was not what the
girl had expected. On the contrary, whenever Tarbot’s name was mentioned
Pelham’s face became grave and stern.
“What is the matter, Dick?” said Barbara at last. “Why do you look like
that?—you have such a queer expression in your eyes.”
“Have I, Barbara? I ought to have a delighted expression—the thought of
winning you is enough to make any man happy.”
“But are you not grateful to Dr. Tarbot?”
“Don’t question me. I have an unreasonable—no, perhaps it is not
unreasonable—but I have a very strong dislike to him.”
“Surely that is unkind. I own, until yesterday I quite shared your
feeling, but how can I think it any longer? I almost believe that I
could love him. At least I must tell him how very grateful I am for what
he has done.”
Pelham looked stern.
“Dick, what is the matter?”
“Don’t say too much about him, Barbara. I must tell you plainly that I
do not like this. It seems to me as if I owed you to Tarbot’s action. It
all sounds very generous, but then you are not behind the scenes. I
don’t want to be in debt to Tarbot for anything. Oh, there, there,
dear,” for Barbara’s face had clouded and then became very white. “It is
all right now, and it _is_ a blessed relief, and we’ll be married as
soon as we can, little woman. I was attending to my first brief when
your fascinating little note arrived.
“I rushed off to you, of course, for what are briefs to me when you want
me? But now I shall attend to business with a will. I have about three
hundred a year of my own—a mere nothing, of course—but we might be
married in the autumn. We could begin in a small way, and hope for the
time when I shall earn enough to give you the comforts you ought to
have, my darling.”
“I don’t want comforts, or luxuries,” said Barbara. “I just want to be
with you. Yes, we’ll be married in the autumn, Dick. I don’t wish to
wait. I don’t care how poor you are. Oh, that is mother’s step. Now,
Dick darling, be kind to her, she has gone through a great deal. Money
troubles are enough to take the heart out of any one. Be very nice to
her, dearest. Be as grateful as you can.”
As Barbara uttered the last words the drawing-room door was opened and
Mrs. Evershed came in. She was a handsome woman, tall and stately. There
were hard, worn lines round her mouth, but her relief was expressed in
the eyes, which were still shining as if through recent tears, and in
the mouth, which smiled, notwithstanding its tenseness. Pelham went up
to her eagerly.
“Is what Barbara tells me true, Mr. Pelham?” said Mrs. Evershed.
“It is perfectly true,” replied the young man. “I love Barbara with all
my heart. She has promised to marry me, but we should both like your
consent.”
“That means,” said Mrs. Evershed, “that you would marry without it.”
“I should,” was the quick response; “but I doubt whether Barbara would
yield to my entreaties.”
“I don’t know what I should have done if I had been tried,” said
Barbara, “but luckily it is not necessary. Mother consents, don’t you,
mother—you consent to make me happy in my own way?”
“Yes, my child, I cannot refuse my consent. I have been relieved of a
great load of care, Mr. Pelham, and it behooves me to be good to others.
I may as well say frankly that I had more ambitious views for Barbara,
although, of course, I like you personally very much.”
As Mrs. Evershed said the last words she held out her hand.
“I give my consent, Dick,” she said softly. The young man grasped the
hand she offered.
“You are more than good,” he said. “You make me happier than I have
words to express.”
“Well, come down and have lunch with us now. I shall have much, of
course, to talk to you about afterwards. Yes, I allow the engagement,
but the marriage need not take place for some time.”
“We can talk that over by and by, mother,” said Barbara. “Come, Dick;
come to lunch. I am so hungry.”
They had just assembled in the dining-room when there came a ring at the
front door, and a moment later Tarbot appeared. He entered the room
hurriedly, shook hands with Mrs. Evershed, nodded to Pelham, and then
approached Barbara’s side. When she saw him her face grew white. She
looked round her eagerly; the servant had withdrawn. She held out both
her hands then and clasped Tarbot’s.
“I must thank you here and now,” she said. “I do so with a full heart. I
did not know it was in you. You are the most generous man in the world.”
A queer look came into Tarbot’s face. His eager eyes looked into the
girl’s; they glittered with suppressed emotion. He tried to say
something, but no words would come. Barbara’s girlish thanks unnerved
him. Pelham was watching him intently. The next moment the little party
were seated at the luncheon table.
Just as the servant was handing an _entrée_, Tarbot glanced at Mrs.
Evershed and spoke quietly.
“This is very sad about Piers Pelham.”
“What about him?” asked Mrs. Evershed.
Pelham dropped his knife and fork. Barbara looked up with interrogation
and alarm in her eyes.
“I am sorry to say that the child is dangerously ill. I have been
obliged to consult Williamson. He thinks badly of the case. All depends
on the next few days, but at the present moment his life hangs in the
balance.”