THE WRONG MEDICINE.
The wedding took place in a fortnight. The marriage was solemnized at
St. James’s, Fore Street. This was the church which Barbara and her
mother attended on Sundays. Seeing the church open, one or two
spectators dropped in. They got quietly into seats, and waited while the
service went on. They noticed the firm upright figure of the bride, her
clear voice. They noticed the bridegroom also—his tall, erect frame, his
gallant bearing. But as the bride and bridegroom left the church
together more than one person noticed the shadow on his face.
“What does it mean?” they said. “This is a true love marriage; we have
heard the particulars, and the bridegroom has just come into enormous
wealth. What does it mean? He does not look a happy man.”
Amongst the spectators were two whose eyes Barbara encountered with an
obvious start. Seated in a pew which opened into the center aisle was
Dr. Tarbot. He gave both Pelham and Barbara a keen, bright glance. In a
distant part of the church Tarbot’s wife also witnessed the ceremony. On
this occasion she preferred not to sit with her husband. Tarbot had no
idea that she was in the church, but Pelham and Barbara noticed her.
Barbara felt a queer thrill of fear as she glanced for an instant at the
light blue eyes.
From the church the pair went straight to Dover, crossed to Calais,
spent one night in Paris, and then went on to Switzerland. It was late
autumn now, and Switzerland was in all the glory of its autumn coloring.
After the first two or three days Barbara determined to cast aside the
fear which haunted her—the fear with regard to her husband’s sanity—for
she never for a moment gave the least credence to there being any truth
in his suspicions, and began to enjoy herself. She was with the man she
loved, her best dreams were realized—she was Dick’s forever.
In her eyes he had always been a hero, one of the best of men. In truth,
he was by nature a man any girl might love—frank, independent, brave,
fearless. Barbara felt that she loved him all the more because his great
riches slightly oppressed him, because his grief for his young cousin’s
untimely death had for the time upset his nerves. She felt that her
devotion, her love must work wonders. When she found that he did not
care to talk about the house and wealth which had come to him so
unexpectedly, Barbara also avoided the subject.
She had made up her mind, however. She knew that what Pelham wanted was
plenty of occupation. Their honeymoon, therefore, should not be too
long—they would go back to England within a month or six weeks, and take
up the onerous duties which now had fallen on their shoulders. When he
worked, when he went in and out amongst his people, when he took up the
position of landlord on a large scale, Pelham would drop that gloom
which enveloped him like a mantle.
Four weeks passed by, and the bride began to have anxious moments with
regard to the approaching return to England. She had always lived a busy
life, and did not care for a _dolce far niente_ existence longer than
could be helped. The pair were spending their last week at Glion. The
hotel where they were staying would be closed at the end of a month. On
a certain evening they stood together on a balcony outside the big
drawing-room. A waiter brought them coffee; they sat with a small table
between them. Pelham was smoking a fragrant cigar, and Barbara in one of
her pretty white dresses looked shadowy and ethereal in the half-light.
“Dick, do you know what this reminds me of?” she said, laying her hand
on his arm.
“No,” he answered. He started when she touched him, for he was given to
starting of late.
“It reminds me of that happy night when you asked me if I would be your
wife. I had two proposals that night.” Barbara laughed as she spoke.
“Before you said those words which made me the happiest girl in the
world Dr. Tarbot had spoken of his love. We were on the balcony just
outside the drawing-room in Mark Place. The light was subdued—something
like this—Dr. Tarbot spoke with great and strange passion. I see his
face even now, and the queer look in his eyes when I refused him. All
the time he was speaking I could not help thinking that I hated him more
each moment. I left him on the balcony and went into the drawing-room.
Then you met me and we strolled together to the conservatories. Do you
remember, Dick?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“Do you remember the scent of that rose? It was a Gloire de Dijon. You
touched it with your fingers as you spoke.”
“Yes,” he replied again, and now he stretched out his hands and clasped
one of hers, holding it in a warm pressure. “I am the luckiest fellow in
the world,” he said, “but I wish to heaven I could——”
“You could do what?” she answered.
“Get rid of that suspicion or—or verify it.”
“Dick dear!” said Barbara in her most soothing voice. She slipped nearer
to him. “I have changed my mind. We had better have this thing out. What
do you want to verify?”
Pelham looked at her steadily.
“Do you really wish to know at last?” he said.
“Yes.”
“It will be a relief to tell you. You remember that Piers always slept
in the nursery. The dressing-room was just beyond, and the nurse kept
the medicine and all bottles in the dressing-room. The first night I
visited him I went with her to the door of the dressing-room. She gave
me the medicine, and I took it into the room alone. I gave the child the
medicine, and just when he had finished it the nurse came back. The boy
complained that the medicine tasted queer and sweet, not like that which
he had been taking.
“The nurse took the glass and tasted what was left, and said that she
thought the child must have had the wrong medicine. She went out of the
room as she spoke and shut the door after her. I forgot about this at
the time, but it came back to me afterwards.
“Ever since the death I have been putting two and two together. I have
been anxious to meet Mrs. Tarbot to ask her if she ever had the medicine
analyzed to find out why she called it wrong. Then, Barbara dear, I
don’t believe that Piers had heart disease. Don’t you remember how he
used to run and race, and play tennis and croquet, and ride his pony and
his bicycle?
“He could not have done all these things if he had organic disease of
the heart—I don’t believe it. He was taken ill very suddenly, and a
favorite nurse of Tarbot’s was engaged to look after him. She herself
confessed in my presence that there was something wrong with the
medicine which she handed to me to give him. All these things might have
been of course merely incidents leading to nothing, but on the night the
child died a strange thing happened. I was called to the door of the
dressing-room and given the boy’s medicine again. The nurse said it
would have a very stimulating effect, and would take off the weakness
from which the child was suffering. It did not do so—on the contrary,
the boy died a few moments afterwards.”
“But he might have died in any case; and three doctors examined his
heart,” exclaimed Barbara. “You make me feel uncomfortable when you
speak in this way, but I cannot at present see that there is anything
whatever to account for your suspicions. If there really is, the thing
to do is to make inquiries, and so set your mind at rest. I see that
this is not a mere question of nerves.”
“No, dear, I assure you it is not. I am torn between two opinions. I
feel inclined one moment to go straight ahead and sift the thing to the
bottom, and then again I hesitate, for I have so little to go upon.”
“If you have nothing to go upon, you must make up your mind to banish
your suspicions,” said Barbara, speaking in a resolute voice. “They do
you harm, Dick. You are not the man you were. Now that the child is dead
a great responsibility devolves upon you, and you ought to rise with
courage to meet it. I want you, Dick, to be the best landlord that the
Pelham property has ever had. I have ideals which I never thought to
have realized, but if you will do your part, they may come to pass.”
“I wish Piers was back in the world,” said the young man. “I should be
ten times happier living with you, Barbara, in a little house and
struggling for briefs. Of course, if the property and title had come to
me in the ordinary way——”
“But, Dick, they have,” said Barbara, rising as she spoke. “You will
dwell on this matter so long that your mind will really become affected
at last.”
“Sit down,” said Pelham. He held out his hand and drew her back to her
seat close to his side. “I have not quite told you all. Sit close to me,
Barbara. We must talk of this in whispers.”
Barbara drew nearer to her husband. The balcony at this moment was
absolutely deserted.
“Do you remember what happened immediately after Piers’s death?”
“What do you mean? Of course, I remember everything.”
“I allude to the night when the coffin was brought home.”
Barbara gave a slight shudder.
“I was in the house then,” she said. “Mrs. Pelham was very ill. It is
true Nurse Hester had arrived, but I liked to be with Mrs. Pelham, and
she was glad to have me.”
“On the night the coffin was brought in, two days before the funeral, I
called very late to see you.”
“Yes, I had gone to bed. The servant told me of your visit in the
morning.”
“I arrived between eleven and twelve at night. I rang the bell, and the
footman came to answer the door. He told me that all the household had
gone to bed, and that he had got up to answer my summons. I said I
should like to come in, as I wanted to verify something in the library.
I said I would let myself out presently, and that he need not stay up.
Of course, he treated me just like one of the family.
“I went to the library and stayed there for a little. My mind was full
of suspicion, in a turmoil and agony of uncertainty. I was only waiting
for something more to go upon, in order to have the whole thing sifted
to the very bottom.
“I stayed in the library for over half an hour. You know it is far away
from the rest of the house. About half-past twelve I thought I would go
up to the room where the child had died and try if I could find any of
the medicines. My idea was to secure a bottle and get the contents
analyzed. I naturally supposed that the nurse would be in one of the
rooms, and meant to ask her to give me a bottle with a little of the
medicine which Piers had last taken. I ran up-stairs. The house was
dark, for the electric light had been put out, but I carried a candle. I
opened the door of the room where the dead child lay, and went in. It
did not take me a moment to switch on the light, and I then saw that the
coffin was on the bed, and noticed with a start that the lid was screwed
down.
“It seemed to me that it was strangely soon to screw on the lid. I went
over and stood by the coffin. The nurse was nowhere to be seen. I then
went into the dressing-room and began to search about for the medicine
bottles, but although they had been lying on the table during Piers’s
illness they had all been removed. There were two cupboards in the
room—one was open, the other locked. In the open cupboard were no
bottles of any sort. I felt very much inclined to burst open the lock of
the other cupboard, but refrained. I feared the noise might disturb Mrs.
Pelham.
“I left the room after being there for about a quarter of an hour, not
having effected my purpose. As I was going down-stairs I was met by the
butler. He had also got up, as he said he had heard the noise of people
moving about the house, and could not think what was the matter. I told
him at once that I had been up to bid little Piers good-by.
“‘Yes,’ said the man, ‘I’d like to go and have a last look at the little
gentleman myself, sir.’
“‘You cannot do so, Johnson,’ I answered. ‘They have screwed on the lid
of the coffin already.’
“‘But it’s very soon,’ said the man.
“‘It is very soon,’ I replied. He stared at me as if he scarcely
believed the evidence of his own ears. I said nothing further, but left
the house. Barbara dear, how white you look!”
“Well, is there anything more?” she asked.
“Only this. I happened to meet Tarbot the next day, and told him that I
had gone up to bid little Piers good-by. I said that I was surprised to
see the lid already screwed on the coffin. He said that circumstances
made it necessary. Tarbot certainly looked like an innocent man—he was
brisk and energetic, and had just a natural degree of soberness about
him. While I was with him I felt ashamed of my suspicions, and could not
speak about what I dreaded.
“Time went by. I attended the funeral. Tarbot also went to it. I hoped
that my fears would quickly die; but instead of their dying, Barbara,
they are strengthened day by day. If nothing is done to relieve me I
shall soon be one of those curses of the nineteenth century—a man of
nerves.”
“I am glad you have spoken all that is in your mind,” said Barbara; “and
now I tell you what we must do. All this must be cured absolutely, and
the only cure is plenty of occupation. We have been long enough in
Switzerland; we will return home to-morrow.”
“To London?”
“To London, if you like, for a day or two, and then on to Pelham Towers
or the Priory.”
“Pelham Towers is the most important place,” said Dick, “and I am sure
the people will be glad to welcome us. I have lived at the Towers, as
you know, a good deal.”
Barbara rose to reenter the hotel. Just as she was about to do so a
man’s figure darkened the window. He was tall, with black hair, a thin
face, and a kindly, shrewd, clever mouth. He stared for a moment at
Barbara, glanced beyond her at Pelham, and then with a hearty
exclamation of surprise and pleasure came forward.
“Who would have thought of seeing you here, Pelham?” he said. “Pray
introduce me to your wife.”
“Carroll, this is luck!” cried Pelham.
Barbara came forward at once when she heard the name. She had never met
Mr. Carroll before, but he was a well-known London lawyer, and also one
of little Piers Pelham’s guardians.
The two men exchanged some commonplace observations, and Barbara stood
for a moment listening to them and joining in herself occasionally.
Then, laying her hand on her husband’s shoulder, she said that she was
tired and would go to her room, and the two men were left alone
together. Leaning over the balcony, they lit their cigars and began to
smoke. Carroll, who had been silent for a moment, spoke abruptly.
“When are you going home?”
“To-morrow.”
“Back to London?”
“I suppose so for a day or two.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“Why?”
“You don’t mind if I speak openly, do you, Pelham?”
“Of course I don’t. But what do you mean? I hold no secrets.” As Pelham
spoke he started and flushed—the memory of all his suspicions with
regard to Piers rushed over him.
Carroll, who had been gazing fixedly at him, noticed his change of
color.
“There are some ugly rumors about you in London. You had better go there
and show yourself.”
“Ugly rumors about me?” said Pelham. “I don’t understand.”
“Well, it has got abroad—I daresay there’s not a word of truth in it—but
it is the talk of more than one club that you signed a _post obit_ for a
large sum just before that child, little Piers, was taken ill. I don’t
believe it for a moment: and I denied it flatly. You are the last man to
put your hand to such a document. What is the matter, old fellow?—you
look ill.”
“But it is true; I did sign a _post obit_,” answered Pelham in a low
voice.
Carroll uttered a surprised exclamation.
“You astound me,” he said. “Then for Heaven’s sake, go back to London at
once. This is not a time for you to hide yourself in a corner.”