“HONOR BRIGHT.”
Clara took her mother to her bedroom. A bright fire glowed in the grate,
the bed was turned down, and everything looked soft, luxurious, and the
very height of luxury.
“A deary me!” said the old woman again—she dropped two curtseys—one to
the bed and another to the fire. “I never held with grandeur. It’s all
very well for them as was born to it, but folks like you and me, Clary,
we ain’t meant to have it, and it don’t agree with us. Why, you’re the
color of a duck’s egg in complexion now, and your freckles seem to have
spread.”
“Oh, mother, what do you want?” said Clara. “What have you come about?”
“Aye, aye, that’s the mystery,” said little Mrs. Ives, her small eyes
dancing.
“Is there anything wrong with the child?”
“You’ll hear in a minute, my deary dear. Oh, I’ll sit near you if you
wish, but not close to the fire—it shrivels up the complexion, and it’s
making you as green as can be.”
“What have you got to say?” exclaimed Mrs. Tarbot. She had great
difficulty in restraining herself from using angry words.
“You was always one for your tempers, Clara. But never mind, I has come
to say——”
“What, mother?”
“That I have brought the child back to London.”
“And why, may I ask?”
“Because he wished to see the place where he was accustomed to live, and
why should I fret him—the dear lamb?”
“Where have you taken him? You know I gave up my rooms in Brand’s
Buildings.”
“I ain’t gone back there. I has took a nice lodging for myself and the
boy at 30 Hester Street, just over the way.”
“You ought not to have done it, mother.”
“The child was restless,” continued the old woman. “He’s a bonny boy,
and I ain’t got his secret out of him, but I very near have. I thought
it best to come and tell you, and you had better come round and have a
look at him in the morning.”
“I’ll come now,” said Clara. “You wait a minute. I must look into this
matter directly.”
She went to her wardrobe, opened it, and took out an old bonnet which
she had not worn since her marriage, and also a long cloak.
“Can’t you wait till the morning?” said the mother.
“No; I have other things to attend to then. I’ll come with you now.”
The old woman made no further objection. Clara opened the door of her
bedroom and, accompanied by Mrs. Ives, went down-stairs. The servants
had gone to bed, for the hour was nearly midnight. Mrs. Tarbot took a
latch-key from a hook in the hall, and slipped it into her pocket; then
she opened the door and went out.
The two women did not take long in reaching No. 30 Hester Street. Most
of the lights in the house were out, but in reply to their ring a woman
with a dirty dress and red face opened the door. Mrs. Ives nodded to
her.
“I’m bringing a friend of mine to see the little gentleman,” she said.
The woman made no response, and Clara and Mrs. Ives went up-stairs
together.
“You should not speak of me as a friend of yours, mother,” said Clara in
a whisper as they were going up.
“And why not? If my own darter ain’t a friend, I don’t know who is. I
were very near saying, I ha’ brought my darter to see the little boy,
but out of respect for your ladyship I said friend. Now here we be.”
They paused on the third landing, and Mrs. Ives opened the door and went
in. Clara followed her. The room was small and shabby.
“You ought not to have taken the boy to a place of this sort,” said Mrs.
Tarbot.
“Why not? You never told me that he come of gentle folk.”
“You might have guessed that for yourself. The child must be well taken
care of. He can’t stay here.”
“That’s for you to settle, Clary. In London the child wishes to be, and
in London he must be.”
“Mother, when you talk like that you aggravate me past bearing.”
Mrs. Ives walked across the sitting-room and threw open the door of the
bedroom.
“Don’t you go and wake him,” she said. “He’s strong now—brown as a nut
and as handsome as a picture. Come along, we’ll have a look at him.”
Mrs. Ives lit a candle and they went into the bedroom. The boy was lying
on a small bed which had been made up in a corner of the room. Clara
bent over him.
The child in his sleep looked like an angel. Once he stirred, and when
he did so that thing within her which no one else had ever brought to
life began to make itself apparent. Her feeling for Tarbot was passion,
but her feeling for the boy was love, pure and holy.
“Hush, hush! don’t wake him,” she said; but her words came too late. The
old woman made a hasty movement, knocking over a little table as she did
so. The boy started in his sleep, opened his eyes and looked full at
Clara.
“I am so glad you have come back again,” he cried. The next instant his
soft arms were round her neck, and she felt his kisses on her thin
cheek.
“I’m so glad you have come back,” he repeated, “and I have kept it—I
have really. It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”
“Dear little Piers,” said Clara.
“Are you going to stay with me? I’d like it awfully; I have a lot of
things I want to talk to you about. You know all my secrets, and it
would be a real comfort to talk to you. Please, grannie (nurse, I always
call your mother ‘grannie’), please, grannie, go out of the room. I want
to say things to my nurse—oh, I forgot, you don’t want me to call you
‘nurse’ any more, do you?”
“I don’t mind, Piers; you may call me ‘nurse’ if you like. I’ll stay
with you for a little. Mother, you can go into the sitting-room.”
“Oh, can I? Seems to me I’m hustled about to please everybody but
myself,” said the old woman. “All right, I’ll go. You don’t mind if I
leave the door ajar, do you?”
“Please shut it, mother, and don’t bother.”
“Oh, I’m a bother, am I? Your temper gets worse and worse, Clara. But
I’m going, I’m going.”
She left the room, shutting the door noisily.
“She’s very cross with you,” said little Piers. “But she’s not cross
with me, and I love her awfully.”
“I am glad of that, dear.”
“I went with grannie this morning to look at my real home,” continued
Piers. “I didn’t tell her which house it was, but I stared at it, and
p’r’aps she saw the direction my eyes were looking in. I did so long to
run across and ring the bell and rush up to mother and hug her, but I
didn’t because I had promised you. Honor bright, you know, honor
bright.”
“Yes, honor bright, Piers,” said Mrs. Tarbot. Her brows were knit, and
she was gazing anxiously across the little room. Her mind was full of
perplexity and dread.
“I want to see mother so dreadfully,” continued the child. “I dream of
her at night, and I want to see Dick. It’s strange they don’t any of
them write. When may I go back to them, nurse?”
“Piers, I am sorry, but I must disappoint you. You’ll be a brave lad, I
know.”
“Yes, I’ll be brave, but what do you want to disappoint me about?”
“I have some sad news for you.”
“Sad?”
“You cannot go back to your mother, Piers.”
“Why?”
“And you must not go into the street where she used to live; you must
not stand any more outside the house.”
“But why?”
“Because your mother is not there.”
“What do you mean?”
“She has gone away for the present, and your Cousin Dick and your friend
Barbara have also gone away. They will come back by and by—by and by
when you are really cured—but it takes a long time to cure a little chap
who has been as ill as you have been. You would not like to sink down
through the floor any more, would you?”
“Don’t you think you’re just a little bit of a humbug?” said Piers,
gazing full into Mrs. Tarbot’s face. “Why do you talk in that way, just
as if you had made it up, and why do you turn your eyes away? I don’t
think mother can have gone away, and I’m sure Dick and Barbara must be
here, because——”
“Is it likely I’d tell you a lie, Piers?”
“Well, of course I hope you wouldn’t, but I’m not sure. I suppose you
wouldn’t, that is, if you are a good woman. Are you a good woman,
nurse?”
“No, child, no. Heaven help me, no, I’m not.”
“Then perhaps you do tell lies. Of course, good women never do. God
hates those who tell them, so you had better be careful. I never tell
lies, and that’s why I keep my promise to you. I never tell grannie my
secret.”
“If you had done so, Piers, you would have been an awfully wicked little
boy. You must never, never tell Mrs. Ives the truth.”
“I won’t, because I promised, but why do you call her Mrs. Ives? She’s
your mother—you _do_ forget your fifth commandment. Well, now I’ll tell
you something she says. Every morning the first thing when she gets up
she says, ‘Piers, blood is thicker than water; but, Piers,’ she goes on,
‘there is some as has water in their veins instead of blood.’ I don’t
know what she means by that, nurse, unless she’s talking about you; but
you haven’t water in your veins instead of blood, have you?”
“No, dear, my mother could not have meant me. She’s an old woman, and
she’s given to talking nonsense.”
“There you are, forgetting your fifth commandment again. I tell you I
like her very much. She’s not quite as handsome as you, but I think
perhaps she’s a better woman than you are. She never tells a lie.”
“Piers, you are talking nonsense, and I am angry.”
“Angry?” said the child.
“Yes, because you talk nonsense. You ought to be satisfied and to trust
me. Your own mother and your Cousin Dick and your friend Barbara are far
away. Some day, if you are really good, you will see them again, that
is, if you trust me; if not——”
“If not?” queried the child.
“Then, Piers, I shall have to take you away from my mother, and put you
with some one else, who will be stern and who won’t listen to any
nonsense you may talk. I don’t wish to threaten you, dear little man,
for I love you, but I shall have to do it if you go on as you are
doing.”
“And I have been brave,” said the boy, his brown eyes filling with
tears. He clasped his hands and looked straight before him. “I have
never told,” he continued. “Each morning when I wake I ask God to help
me to keep my secret and not to let me tell a lie. All during the day
it’s on the tip of my tongue to say, ‘I’m Sir Piers Pelham, and my
mother lives at No. 12 Ashley Mansions, and my Cousin Dick, his other
name is Pelham, and my friend Barbara, her other name is Evershed.’ It’s
always and always on the tip of my tongue. But I don’t say any of these
things because I promised you I wouldn’t. Oh, it’s hard of you to say
that you are angry with me. I am a brave boy, and I wouldn’t tell a lie
for the world.”
“You’re a perfect darling,” said Clara, overcome by the beauty of the
child and the magic of his words. She lifted him out of bed and held him
in her arms, cuddling him close to her, until at last he fell asleep
with his head on her breast.
“I would almost die for him,” she thought. “Some day he shall come into
his own again; but not yet—not at present. I have Luke to think of. I
have almost given up hope of winning Luke’s heart, but I may succeed
yet. If so, little Piers, you must keep your secret for a long, long
time.”