GONE.
On the night that Clara Tarbot faced the awful fact that she was not
long for this world, that consumption had claimed her for its prey, and
when she had also discovered that her great secret was in jeopardy, and
that at any moment her husband’s plans would be brought to utter ruin,
Mrs. Ives was also restless and uneasy. Mrs. Ives did not like sleeping
in Luke Tarbot’s house.
“It don’t suit me,” said the little woman to herself, “a bed like this.
I want my feather bed. I don’t like these sort of springs under me—shaky
and unnatural, and mighty like earthquakes they seems to me. And I don’t
like carpets all over the floor, unwholesome they is, they don’t let
enough air in, and you can’t clean ’em often enough, and I hates heavy
curtains to the winders.
“Finery don’t suit me, nor luxuries—I weren’t born to ’em, and the worst
of it is that Clary, my own darter, don’t suit me neither. No, she nor
her ’ouse ain’t my sort. I hope to goodness I’ll soon be able to get out
of this. I’ll get back to Cornwall as fast as ever I can go. If I don’t
go away she’ll be after wringing a promise out of me. Well, I just won’t
make it—I’d rather a deal lose the money. What’s money, after all, if it
only brings you things like this? My word! my old bones will be shook
into a jelly if I lie much longer on this bed. I can’t move without the
thing jumping under me. I’ll be out of this house at dawn.”
Mrs. Ives sat up in bed. The perfectly-balanced springs annoyed her
much; finally she rose and seated herself on a hard-bottomed chair.
There were two or three easy chairs in the room, but she chose the hard
and stiff one by preference.
“That’s it,” she said. “Now I’m easy. I can turn and twist, and the
thing don’t rock under me. Now I can think for a bit. Clary, my own
darter, is agen me, I can see that. Well, I’ll be off afore she knows
anything about it.”
There was a clock on the mantelpiece. Mrs. Ives found herself watching
the hours. The clock struck one, two, three, then four. When it gave out
its four strokes Mrs. Ives began to tidy herself in front of the glass.
She was careful not to make the slightest noise.
“For Clary wor always a light sleeper,” she said to herself. She poured
a little water with great skill and care into the heavy basin, grumbling
at the weight and beauty of the jug as she did so. At each process of
her toilet she objected more and more to the comforts which surrounded
her.
“I ’ates them soft towels,” she muttered to herself, as she dried her
face.
Having dressed and once more arranged her little black shawl and her
neat poke bonnet, the old woman made for the door. She took a long time
opening it, but she succeeded at last.
Clara, who had been awake until an hour before, was now in heavy
slumber. This was her time for repose. Tarbot was not in the house, the
servants’ rooms were far away. Mrs. Ives stole like a thief down-stairs.
Step by step she went, holding her candle high and looking straight
before her.
“Dear heart, what a gloomy sort of place! If this is what grandeur and
riches mean, give me poverty,” she muttered to herself. “Clary, you
don’t get no promise out of me.”
By and by she reached the hall, and the next moment found herself
standing by the door. It was bolted and chained, but Mrs. Ives saw to
her relief that it was not locked. She could manage to remove the bolts
and chains. In a few seconds she was out in the open air. She gave a
little skip and spring of delight, and running down the steps walked
nimbly up the street. “I’ll walk to Paddington,” she said to herself. “I
don’t know when the next train goes to Falmouth, but it’s sure to start
early. Dear heart! how refreshing the morning air is! Give me poverty
and fresh air and a feather bed. None of them springs for me again. My
darter will be in a state, but I ain’t agoin’ to promise her, not I.
I’ll take little Sir Piers back to Pelham Towers, that I will. I won’t
hold that awful secret another day.”
Mrs. Ives, busy with her thoughts, stepped cheerfully along. Presently
she saw a policeman walking by. She quickened her steps almost to a run
and went up to him.
“My good sir,” she said, “can you tell me the way to Paddington?”
The policeman gave her directions and she walked on again.
“I wish I had asked him when the next train started for Falmouth,” she
said to herself, “but perhaps he wouldn’t ha’ known. Dear heart! how
hunted Clary do look! She ain’t at all a nice sort, not at all. She
never wor, and she grows less so as she gets older.”
Mrs. Ives continued her walk. From Harley Street to Paddington was
scarcely thirty minutes’ walk. She arrived at the great terminus soon
after five o’clock, and found to her relief that a train started for
Falmouth at 5.30. She took her ticket, and, as soon as ever she could,
seated herself in the corner of a third-class compartment. It was cold
at this hour, but Mrs. Ives was made of stern metal, and she drank in
the keen air with appreciation.
“A sight better than Clara’s stifling house,” she thought.
A porter was passing and she called out to him.
“When does this train arrive at Falmouth, my good man?”
“Four-eighteen,” replied the man.
“My word—a long time! But never mind, I’ll be there in time for his
tea—bless ’im!”
The porter did not know to whose tea she alluded, but did not stop to
inquire.
“He allers likes his tea with me,” continued the little woman, “and he
shall have it to-night with a fresh egg and a little honey. Honey agrees
with him wonderful. He’s a splendid child. I love ’im better than I
loves Clary. Clary takes after her father. My word, how thin and ugly
she have grown! I shouldn’t be surprised if she had caught the
consumption same as her father died of.”
Punctual to the moment the train steamed out of the station. Mrs. Ives
settled herself comfortably in her corner, looked around her and
chuckled.
“I ha’ done it now,” she thought. “I’ll talk to the little chap to-night
and I’ll take him back to-morrow. I’m sorry for the pretty young lady.
It’ll go hard with her and her husband returning to poverty. Well, never
mind, hardships must be borne once in a way, and poverty ain’t none so
bad. I ha’ tasted riches, and I’d a sight sooner have poverty.”
Mrs. Ives made a sniff of approval and flung down the window.
“Sakes, this keen air is refreshing,” she said. “That house with its
curtains was enough to stifle a body.”
The train was punctual in arriving at Falmouth, but Mrs. Ives had still
two miles to complete her journey. Her little cottage was situated in a
village a mile outside the big town. As she walked she began to have a
strange and almost painful longing to clasp the boy in her arms, to kiss
his white forehead, to look into his deep and lovely eyes, to hear his
shout of rapture when she told him that through no fault of his she had
discovered his secret, and that in spite of Clary he was going home.
“I’ll miss him,” she said to herself, “but any one can see that he frets
a good bit—poor lamb! He won’t fret any longer now. Yes, I’ll miss him
sore, but I’ll always feel deep down in my heart that I took him back to
his own, and that I foiled Clary, who’s turned so monstrous wicked. It’s
a terrible thing to think of one’s own darter coming so low, but I won’t
be the one to connive at her wickedness.”
Mrs. Ives’s little cottage was on the outskirts of the village. The
lights were burning in the cottage windows as she walked down the
street. No one noticed her as she went by. Had the village folk done so
they might have had news.
By and by she entered her own cottage. When she had gone away she had
left a village girl in possession. The name of the girl was Mary Welsh.
She was a round-headed, blue-eyed girl, with a flat face, and a keen,
clever way about her. Mrs. Ives had given her directions with regard to
little Piers. She was to play with him, but not to encourage him to talk
about his fancies. He was to be out a good deal, for, Christmas as the
season was, it was pleasant in the neighborhood of Falmouth, and not
specially cold.
“Ain’t they got no fire and no light? How mortal dull for the little
chap!” she said to herself as she noticed that the house was in
darkness. But the next moment it occurred to her that Mary Welsh might
have taken the boy to have tea with her own people. Such a proceeding
would be very wrong on the part of Mary, but, nevertheless, she might
have committed the crime.
“Where are you, little chap?” called out Mrs. Ives as she lifted the
latch. There was not a sound or a movement—the place was empty. Mrs.
Ives knew where the matches were kept. She found the box, struck a match
and lit a candle. The fire was out, the place was in confusion. A
telegram lay on the table.
“From Clary, but I ain’t a-going to mind her,” said Mrs. Ives. She went
into the little bedroom; both the beds were in order, but there was not
a sight of the child anywhere.
“Dear, dear, and I’m fagged out. Yes, I’m beginning to feel the journey
now,” she said to herself; “but there’s no help for it. I must go off to
Mary’s. Now what does this mean?”
There was a sound of footsteps running quickly. The next moment the
house door was flung open and Mary rushed into the room. The moment she
saw Mrs. Ives she fell on her knees.
“It weren’t my fault, and don’t you go a-blaming me,” she called out.
“What do you mean?” said Mrs. Ives. “Get up and speak plain.”
“I had nothing to do with it. I just left him for five minutes, and
where he’s gone off to Heaven only knows.”
“Where—who’s gone—what are you talking about?”
“The child, little Piers, he slipped off yesterday in the darkness. I
was with him and had just given him his supper, and I said I’d come back
in a few minutes, and when I did there wasn’t a sight of him. Mother and
me and all the village have been looking for him, and we ain’t seen him,
none of us.”
“You get out of my house this minute,” said Mrs. Ives. “A nice girl you
are to have the care of a little gentleman.”
The girl disappeared. There was something awful at that moment in the
little woman’s flashing eyes. She walked to the door, locked it, then
she lit her lamp and sat down to think. The boy was gone—but where? What
could be the matter? Had any misfortune befallen him?
Amid all her wild dreams the possibility that the boy might himself try
to get back to his old home had never once occurred to her, but now it
did. She nodded her head several times.
“Deary me! there seems likely to be no rest for me this blessed night,”
she said. “I must try to take the next train to Haversham. I wonder if
there’s one to-night; most likely not, but anyhow, back I must go to
Falmouth to find out.”
She did not wait even to get herself a cup of tea. When she reached the
town she was greeted with the information that by no possible means
could she get across country to Haversham that night. There would be a
train at eight o’clock on the following morning. She must wait until
then.
“But what is the matter, ma’am?” said the old clerk, who knew her well,
having seen her often before.
“It’s a bad job,” she answered, “and I want to hurry as fast as I can.
There’s a little gentleman missing, and more hangs on him than words can
say. You didn’t see a pretty little gentleman, dressed common enough,
but with the air of the nobility, asking for a ticket here yesterday
evening, sir?”
Mrs. Ives went on to describe the boy. She spoke with glowing terms of
his rosy face, his dark eyes and his black hair.
No, the clerk had seen no such little gentleman. He thought Mrs. Ives
must be slightly off her head. She turned away in the darkness.