CHAPTER XVI.
THE WRONG MEDICINE.
The wedding took place in a fortnight. The marriage was solemnized at St. James’s, Fore Street. This was the church which Barbara and her mother attended on Sundays. Seeing the church open, one or two spectators dropped in. They got quietly into seats, and waited while the service went on. They noticed the firm upright figure of the bride, her clear voice. They noticed the bridegroom also—his tall, erect frame, his gallant bearing. But as the bride and bridegroom left the church together more than one person noticed the shadow on his face.
“What does it mean?” they said. “This is a true love marriage; we have heard the particulars, and the bridegroom has just come into enormous wealth. What does it mean? He does not look a happy man.”
Amongst the spectators were two whose eyes Barbara encountered with an obvious start. Seated in a pew which opened into the center aisle was Dr. Tarbot. He gave both Pelham and Barbara a keen, bright glance. In a distant part of the church Tarbot’s wife also witnessed the ceremony. On this occasion she preferred not to sit with her husband. Tarbot had no idea that she was in the church, but Pelham and Barbara noticed her.
Barbara felt a queer thrill of fear as she glanced for an instant at the light blue eyes.
From the church the pair went straight to Dover, crossed to Calais, spent one night in Paris, and then went on to Switzerland. It was late autumn now, and Switzerland was in all the glory of its autumn coloring. After the first two or three days Barbara determined to cast aside the fear which haunted her—the fear with regard to her husband’s sanity—for she never for a moment gave the least credence to there being any truth in his suspicions, and began to enjoy herself. She was with the man she loved, her best dreams were realized—she was Dick’s forever.
In her eyes he had always been a hero, one of the best of men. In truth, he was by nature a man any girl might love—frank, independent, brave, fearless. Barbara felt that she loved him all the more because his great riches slightly oppressed him, because his grief for his young cousin’s untimely death had for the time upset his nerves. She felt that her devotion, her love must work wonders. When she found that he did not care to talk about the house and wealth which had come to him so unexpectedly, Barbara also avoided the subject.
She had made up her mind, however. She knew that what Pelham wanted was plenty of occupation. Their honeymoon, therefore, should not be too long—they would go back to England within a month or six weeks, and take up the onerous duties which now had fallen on their shoulders. When he worked, when he went in and out amongst his people, when he took up the position of landlord on a large scale, Pelham would drop that gloom which enveloped him like a mantle.
Four weeks passed by, and the bride began to have anxious moments with regard to the approaching return to England. She had always lived a busy life, and did not care for a dolce far niente existence longer than could be helped. The pair were spending their last week at Glion. The hotel where they were staying would be closed at the end of a month. On a certain evening they stood together on a balcony outside the big drawing-room. A waiter brought them coffee; they sat with a small table between them. Pelham was smoking a fragrant cigar, and Barbara in one of her pretty white dresses looked shadowy and ethereal in the half-light.
“Dick, do you know what this reminds me of?” she said, laying her hand on his arm.