“Away from danger? Is it likely any one would hurt a pretty lamb like that?”
“There are always wolves in the world ready to eat up pretty lambs,” said Clara. “But now listen, mother; this air does not suit Piers, and I’m going to send him away. He shall go down to Cornwall with you. You’ll keep him in your own cottage, and say he’s a boy you’ve been given to nurse. He will spend the winter with you, and I’ll give you two pounds a week as long as you look after him, and don’t guess any more than you know at present.”
“Two pounds a week!—A mercy me! how will you get the money, Clara?”
“From my husband.”
“To be sure. I forgot you was married. You never told me the name of your husband. Your name is no longer Ives.”
“Not likely.”
“What is your name?”
Clara hesitated, then she said slowly, “Tarbot.”
“Tarbot, Tarbot—it sounds like Turbot—you ain’t surely married to that doctor fellow?”
“You must not talk of him in that strain. He’s one of the best doctors in London—one of the cleverest, I mean. Yes, I am his wife. I have a fine house and plenty of money, but I don’t want you to come to my house, and I don’t want the boy to come there. If either of you come to the house, or if ever you let out that I gave you the boy to take care of, mischief will come of it; black mischief mother, black mischief.”