THE LAST STRAW.
Barbara had scarcely gone before the door of the consulting-room was
opened, and Clara came in. Clara wore her old gray bonnet and cloak, her
nurse’s dress.
Tarbot, who was standing by the mantelpiece with an excited look in his
eyes and his lips still trembling, turned when she entered.
“Leave me,” he said. “I cannot speak to you at present. Go away.”
“I won’t keep you long,” answered Clara very gently. She was interrupted
by a fit of coughing. Try as she would, she could not restrain it. Her
face became crimson, and her features worked. She struggled hard with
this convulsion of nature. Presently it passed, but not until the
handkerchief which she had pressed to her lips was stained with blood.
Tarbot stood a few feet away regarding her, and his face wore a
malignant scowl. Clara slipped her handkerchief into her pocket, and sat
down on the nearest chair, panting as she did so.
“You are ill,” said Tarbot. “When you have done your business here as
witness at the trial, you had better go to Algiers for the winter.”
“We will leave that matter for the present,” said Clara. “I wish to tell
you now that I know exactly what you have done.”
“What I have done?”
“Yes. You have just had an interview with Lady Pelham.”
“What is that to you?”
“A great deal. I am your wife. I happened to see you just now.”
“So you played the spy?”
“I did, Luke, and I am not ashamed. I opened the door softly. You were
too much occupied to notice me. I saw when you took her in your
arms—you, who are another woman’s husband—kissed her. She repelled you,
as a good woman should. I have not a word to say against her, but for
you, Luke, for you—this to me is—the very last straw.”
“Never mind!” he said excitedly. “You shall go to Algiers when the trial
is over. It will come on in a fortnight. The man has not a loophole of
escape. The whole thing will sweep to its ghastly conclusion in a few
weeks.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yes. What do you mean?”
“I was only thinking of the ace of trumps.”
“Again you talk in that ridiculous way. You made use of that expression
before. What do you mean?”
“You will know presently. Good-by, Luke.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
Clara did not say anything further. She went into the hall, opened the
hall door, and let herself out. Walking somewhat unsteadily and feebly,
swaying now and then from side to side, she got as far as the end of the
street. Here she hailed a hansom, and desired the man to drive her to
Paddington. When she got there she took the next train to Haversham.
About half-way down the line she took a letter out of her pocket. It was
directed to her husband. She gave it a queer look, and there was an
ominous glitter in her eyes. When she reached a large junction she
called a porter to her, gave him sixpence and asked him to post her
letter. The man promised to obey. Clara sank back in her seat with a
sigh of relief, and the train moved on.
She arrived at Haversham late that evening. It was only a wayside
station, and there were no cabs. She had to walk the entire distance to
Great Pelham. The night was a wet one, and the heavy rain penetrated
through Clara’s cloak. She was damp through and through. She reached the
“Pelham Arms” about ten o’clock. When she got there she spoke to one of
the waiters.
“Get some tea at once in the coffee-room, and order a cab. I want to
drive to Pelham Towers,” she said.
The man looked eager when she pronounced the name, for already strange
news was beginning to be whispered with regard to Pelham Towers. The
account of the trial had come down in the evening papers, and the whole
country rang with the news.
The tea was brought, and Clara drank it off, for she was parched with
thirst and fever. In less than ten minutes she was driving to the
Towers. She got there about half-past ten. She desired the man to take
her to the side entrance. One of the servants came out and stared when
she saw her.
“I have called to speak to a person who I believe is here—a person of
the name of Ives,” said Clara.
“There is a little lady of that name in the house. She’s in the
housekeeper’s room,” said the woman.
“I wish to see her immediately.”
“What name shall I say?”
“Tell her that her daughter has come, and wants to speak to her.”
“Will you please step in, ma’am?”
Clara desired the cab to wait, and entered the hall. A moment later Mrs.
Ives came out.
“Clary, thank the good God you have come. I couldn’t keep it to myself
another half an hour. There’s bitter, bitter trouble. Clary, I couldn’t
have kept it to myself any longer without going mad, and Mrs. Posset can
scarcely see from crying. Clary, what _do_ it mean?”
“It means that I want to speak to you, mother, and immediately.”
Mrs. Posset’s stout form was now seen in the doorway of her parlor. Mrs.
Ives turned and addressed her.
“My darter has come, ma’am,” she said, “and wants to see me on a matter
of special business. There ain’t nothing surprising that ’appens
nowadays, but ef I could see her alone for a few minutes it might be a
convenience for all concerned.”
“You can see her in here,” said Mrs. Posset. She went out of the room as
she spoke. Clara and her mother entered. Clara sank down panting on the
sofa.
“Help me to take my cloak off,” she said. “I am not long for this world,
but I want to unburden my soul before I go.”
“What do you mean, child? How awful you look!”
“Mother, where is the boy?”
“I wish to God that I knew, but I don’t.”
“He hasn’t come here, then?”
“No, no, and your letter kept me here, and it was like imprisoning me.
I’m near mad keeping it all to myself, and now there’s the news that Sir
Richard Pelham has been arrested for the murder of the little chap who
is alive and well.”
“Yes, yes, mother, I know all that, and we will put it right. I have
come down for the purpose, but we must find the boy, and we have not a
moment to lose.”
“You’ll tell the truth, Clary?”
“As there is a God above.”
“Thank the Lord, thank the Lord! But, child, how queer you look!”
“I am dying, mother, but I shan’t die until I have told the truth. I
have suffered much, and the last straw, the last straw came to-day. You
have heard of it, haven’t you?”
“To be sure, child, to be sure! But _how_ queer you look!”
“Oh, I am bad, my heart aches, and my body aches, and there’s no rest
for me on earth. Come, mother, put on your bonnet. I told the cab to
wait, and we must leave here to-night. We must find the child.”
“They say,” cried Mrs. Ives, “that a doctor is coming down from London
to-morrow morning. They’re going to open the vault, and they are going
to take out the coffin.”
“Let them. It doesn’t matter. Richard Pelham will be saved. The
beautiful young lady will have a life of happiness. I go under forever,
but what does that matter? Come, mother, come at once.”