A MOMENT OF TRIUMPH.
By the morning post Barbara received a letter from Dick. It was short,
and its contents were startling.
“DEAREST BARBARA” (he wrote),—“Something very bad has happened. I dare
not and will not tell you what it is, but it is just possible that I
shall be obliged to remain in town for a day or two. Please don’t be
frightened, darling. The machinations of the wicked seldom prosper,
and I have not the slightest doubt that everything will turn out right
in the end. If you do not hear from me or see me for a few days try to
keep calm and cheerful, for I am convinced that I shall soon be able
to return to you, and that this most dark cloud will pass. My promise,
however, to come back to Pelham Towers to-morrow I find impossible to
fulfil.
“Yours ever, my darling,
“DICK.”
Barbara was standing near the breakfast table when she read this letter.
She read it once, twice, and even three times. After the third perusal
she put it in her pocket. Mrs. Evershed had entered the room. She was
standing near a glorious fire, for the weather happened to be intensely
cold, and her eyes, dark and sunken, were fixed upon her daughter’s
face.
“What is it, Barbara? Have you news of your husband?” she asked.
“I have had a letter from him,” said Barbara slowly.
“He returns home to-day, does he not?” said Mrs. Evershed.
“No, mother.”
“But I thought you said he would come back to-day?”
“So he told me in the note I received yesterday, but he finds it
impossible to do so. Mother, do you greatly mind if I leave you here,
and go up to London?”
“To London?” said Mrs. Evershed. “But what for, Barbara, what for?”
“I wish to see Dick.”
“My dear child, you look quite mysterious. Is anything wrong?”
“I hope not, but I am not sure.”
“Won’t you tell me, Barbara?”
“I cannot, mother, for I do not know myself. Dick, it appears, is in
some sort of trouble. Will you stay at the Towers and look after things
and let me be free to go to town? Otherwise I cannot rest—I cannot
really, mother.”
“You look strange, Barbara, and frightened.”
“I am frightened,” said Barbara. “I do not know why, but I am.”
“Sit down, dear, and have some breakfast.”
“You will look after things here, and set me free to go up to town?”
repeated Barbara.
“Of course, my love, although I think it most unnecessary for you to
go.”
“I must decide for myself on that point,” said Barbara.
Mrs. Evershed said nothing more. Barbara crossed the room and rang the
bell. When the servant appeared she ordered the carriage to be round
within half an hour.
“I shall catch the ten o’clock train from Haversham,” she said, as she
seated herself before the coffee urn.
“Barbara, my dear, you are trembling. You must not give way,” said her
mother. “Indeed, I am convinced there is no cause for alarm. You have
had little to do with men hitherto, my poor child, and do not know what
queer creatures they are, with their ups and downs and their mysteries,
and their sudden departures from home. Oh, I had plenty of that sort of
thing to go through when your poor father was alive, and I know all
about it.”
“I don’t understand you, mother,” said Barbara impatiently. She could
not bear a word to be even hinted against Dick. She slipped her hand
into her pocket and softly touched his note.
“You will come back to-morrow, Barbara?”
“Probably,” replied Barbara.
“You will spend to-night at my house?”
“If necessary, I will do so, mother.”
Barbara could scarcely eat. She broke a piece of toast up mechanically
and put dry morsels into her mouth.
“I am certain there is nothing the matter,” said Mrs. Evershed
cheerfully. “To-morrow will be Christmas Eve. Would you like me to carry
on the arrangements you have already made?”
“Please, mother, yes, certainly. I will desire the servants to come to
you for orders, and Mrs. Posset will, of course, manage the
housekeeping. There won’t be much for you to do, but order the carriage
whenever you want it. Make yourself as happy as you can. I am sorry to
have to leave you, dear mother.”
“I wonder what is wrong,” thought Mrs. Evershed when Barbara left the
room.
A few moments later young Lady Pelham left the Towers.
Barbara did not look back as she was bowled up the avenue. Had she done
so she would have seen little Mrs. Ives standing near one of the side
entrances bobbing her accustomed curtseys.
Mrs. Ives was in a sad state of indecision. She had also received a
letter by that morning’s post. It was from her daughter Clara. Clara had
desired her to stay where she was, to keep her secret, and on no account
to leave Pelham Towers until she got further directions.
“Unless you want to ruin me forever, you will do what I require,” wrote
Clara in her peremptory manner.
Mrs. Ives was shaken and agitated.
“I ask, both for your sake and that of the child,” said Clara finally,
and Mrs. Ives felt that she must submit.
Meanwhile Barbara hurried quickly up to town. Oh, that she could get to
Dick on the wings of thought! The long delay, the awful suspense were
terrible.
At last the journey was over and she found herself at Paddington. She
had come up to town without luggage, and got into a hansom immediately.
Until this moment she had not remembered that she did not really know
where to find Dick. When the cabman asked her for directions she paused
for a moment to consider.
“Drive to 12 Ashley Mansions, near Harley Street,” she said to him.
The man whipped up his horse and in a short time the cab drew up at the
familiar door. Barbara got out, ran up the steps, and rang the bell. The
servant, who knew her well, opened the door. He started quite
perceptibly when he saw her.
“Is Mrs. Pelham in?” asked Barbara.
“Yes, Lady Pelham, but——”
“I must see her immediately.”
“I will let her know that you have called, Lady Pelham.”
The man’s face was certainly queer. He stood in such a position that
Barbara had almost to push past him into the hall.
“Don’t keep me,” she said. “I will go and see Mrs. Pelham without being
announced. Is she in the drawing-room?”
“I believe so, my lady. But if you will excuse me, my lady——”
Barbara did not hear, she was already half-way up the stairs. The next
moment she had entered the well-known drawing-room. Mrs. Pelham was
seated with her back to her, busily writing. The widow’s little figure
looked alert, even the back of her head seemed full of a new resolution.
Barbara went silently up to her and touched her on the arm. Mrs. Pelham
turned with a start. When she saw Barbara she became very white.
“_You_, you have come here?” she said.
“Yes, I am here, Mrs. Pelham. Can you tell me where Dick is?”
“But don’t you know anything, Barbara?” cried the widow.
“Not yet, but I will know. Put me out of suspense. Tell me at once.”
“Barbara, I cannot. I wish you had not come here. This is dreadful.”
“Tell me at once, Mrs. Pelham. Do you think I am silly? Don’t you know
that I am a woman—that I have got both strength and courage? I know that
something dreadful has happened. What is it?”
“I suppose I must tell you, but I wish some one else would. Your
husband——” Mrs. Pelham paused to wet her lips. They were already so dry
she could scarcely bring out the words.
“Yes,” said Barbara.
“Your husband—Dick, has been——”
“Yes?”
“Arrested.”
“Arrested! My husband arrested! What for? Oh, for God’s sake tell me
quickly!”
“Yes, Barbara, I will—that is, I will try. I know it is an awful shock
for you, poor girl! But, Barbara, your husband, Dick, has been arrested
on suspicion of having——”
“Yes, yes, on suspicion of what?”
“Of having murdered my little Piers!”
“Oh, Mrs. Pelham, what utter nonsense!” said Barbara. The accusation was
so monstrous, so unfounded, that her first feeling was one of relief.
She even gave a strange and hollow laugh.
“What nonsense!” she repeated. “Dick accused of murdering Piers! Dick,
who loved him! Mrs. Pelham, has anybody gone mad?”
“My poor child, I don’t wonder at your taking it like this. I felt
somewhat as you do at the first moment, but it is all too, too true. I
thought, of course, you must know by this time.”
“Tell me more—tell me quickly. Where is Dick now?”
“He was examined before the magistrate this morning, Barbara. I was
there—I had to be present. He is remanded until—until——”
“I do not understand,” said Barbara. “It is so ridiculous. I know you
are trying to tell me the most awful thing in the world, but it is so
utterly false that I cannot feel it.”
She laughed again; her laugh sounded awful.
“Just tell me the whole story from beginning to end,” she said.
“I will, dear. I am most terribly sorry for you.”
“But are you not sorry for him? You surely do not believe it?”
“Oh, my poor Barbara, my poor Barbara!”
“Really, I think you must have gone mad, too,” said Barbara. “Such a
monstrous accusation, and you look quite solemn! What has become of the
laws of England when they accuse the most innocent man in the world?”
“Barbara, dear, it does not look so. I am bound to say that the
circumstantial evidence is very, very grave. Oh, it has all come
suddenly, and I had to prosecute. Yes, I know I am your enemy, Barbara.”
“Then you have done this?” said Barbara, slowly. She backed away from
Mrs. Pelham, her face as white as death. The arrows were beginning now
to pierce her soul. “You have done this?” she repeated.
“How could I help it, Barbara? My only child! And it seems to me to be
so abundantly proved. Dick gave him that last dose of medicine. Some one
put something into the medicine—hyocene. It is dreadful stuff—a most
fatal poison. It has been proved, or almost proved, that Dick did it.”
“And they say that Dick gave that medicine with that dreadful poison in
it to Piers, and you believe it—you think he did it? But Piers was
supposed to die of heart disease.”
“This particular medicine would affect the heart strongly, and the
disease which was mentioned in the death certificate would to all
appearance occur. It was a clever scheme. Barbara, circumstantial
evidence is heavy against your husband.”
“I know now what something Dick said in his letter means,” cried
Barbara. “‘The machinations of the wicked.’ I know what that expression
means now.”
“They are going to exhume the little body,” continued Mrs. Pelham, who
was now crying bitterly. “They are going down to Pelham Towers, and they
will open the little coffin, and the doctor employed by the Crown—for,
of course, the Crown prosecutes in a case like this—will exhume the
child’s little body. Even in his grave my darling must not rest in
peace. They will have to do so in order to prove whether the child
really swallowed the poison or not.”
“Who has told you all this?” asked Barbara. She began to tie the strings
of her cloak with trembling fingers.
“Luke Tarbot, of course. Where are you going, dear? I feel so bitterly
for you. I know that you at least are perfectly innocent.”
“I wonder you think so,” said Barbara. “I would almost rather you did
not. If Dick could be guilty of such a monstrous crime, why should not I
connive at it? Oh, this is too fearful! I am going away, Mrs. Pelham.”
“Where to?”
“It does not matter to you, for you are Dick’s enemy—Dick, who loved
you! But stay, Dick himself had suspicions. He suspected Dr. Tarbot.”
“That is one of the strong cases against him, Barbara. His causeless
suspicions, his restlessness, his acute misery after the death of the
child, have been strongly commented on, and will prove a powerful lever
against him. What earthly motive would Dr. Tarbot have in injuring the
child?”
“Ah, that I have to find out,” said Barbara. “Well, good-by. I am
thankful I came up to town. My Dick! Yes, the accusation is too
monstrous. Good-by.”
Lady Pelham left the room without touching Mrs. Pelham’s hand.
She went into the street. Her eyes were bright; she held herself erect;
she did not look like a woman stricken down. Now was the time to act.
Once or twice as she hurried along in the direction of Harley Street she
even laughed to herself. She soon reached Dr. Tarbot’s house and rang
the bell.
“Is Dr. Tarbot in?” she asked of the servant.
“Yes, ma’am. What name shall I say?”
“Lady Pelham. I wish to speak to him immediately.”
The man stared at her with undoubted curiosity—curiosity so great that
even the mask which he was, as a servant, obliged to wear was slightly
lifted. He showed Barbara into the waiting-room and went to inform his
master. In an instant he came back, threw open the door for Lady Pelham,
said that Dr. Tarbot would see her, and took her into the
consulting-room.
Tarbot came eagerly forward—his face very white and very thin, his lips
parted. Barbara went straight up to him.
“I have just seen Mrs. Pelham,” she said, “and she has told me
everything. So you are in this—you came down to Pelham Towers for the
purpose of putting suspicion into Mrs. Pelham’s mind. You have caused my
husband to be arrested on this most false charge.”
“There is no use in taking matters in that spirit, Lady Pelham,” said
Tarbot. “The magistrate who this morning examined your husband with
extreme care and justice does not agree with you in calling the charge
false.”
“It is a trumped-up charge against one of the best men God ever made,”
said Barbara.
“You cannot prove it.”
“I will prove it yet. But what I have come about now is to ask why _you_
have interfered in this matter.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you get Mrs. Pelham to prosecute my husband?”
“I only told her the simple truth. I could not do otherwise—the burden
rested too heavy on my soul.”
“Your eyes belie your words. You did not do it for that reason.”
An evil spirit seemed to leap out of Tarbot’s face at that moment, and
he came closer to Barbara. Barbara did not repel him. On the contrary,
she looked full at him. His eyes quailed for a moment under her gaze;
then they were lifted, and she saw the triumph in them.
“You have not answered my question,” she said. “Even granted that there
was truth in what you said, why should you be the one to take the
initiative?”
“Do you really want to know?” His voice had dropped now to a low tone,
his white lips trembled, he came yet closer. Suddenly Barbara felt his
hand laid heavily on her shoulder. She did not shrink from his touch.
“Shall I really tell you?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“I did it because of you. I loved you, and you treated me with scorn. If
you had married me I could have been a good man. As it is, I am a bad
one. I was glad to have this handle against your husband. Having
discovered the truth, I was glad to incite Mrs. Pelham to prosecute.
Why? Because it hurt you—it hurt you.”
The touch of his hand felt like fire. Barbara noticed it for the first
time.
“Let me go,” she said.
“I will not. My moment of triumph has come, and I shall take it.” The
next instant he had caught her in both his arms, and was pressing his
burning kisses on her lips.
“You drove me mad,” he said, “but this is my hour of triumph. I loved
you, and you treated me with scorn. Yes, I am bad now, and you are the
cause. When your husband hangs for this crime, my revenge will be
complete.”
“You are a monster, and I treat you with the contempt you deserve,”
cried Barbara. “Touch me again if you dare!” She extricated herself from
his grasp with a sudden quick movement.
“My husband will be cleared,” she said. “As there is a God above, he is
innocent, and I defy you, Dr. Tarbot. Don’t keep me, sir.”
She left the room.