“That you make me your wife.”
“That I marry you?” said Tarbot. He started up. “That I marry you?”
An ugly line, where she had been cut long ago, came out across the woman’s temple. It showed fiery red; the rest of her face was dead-white. She laid one of her hands on Tarbot’s; her hand was icy cold. He shivered.
“That you marry me,” she repeated; “that you own me before all the world as your lawful wedded wife. Only on that condition will I do what you want.”
Tarbot did not reply for a minute. He turned away from the eager eyes of the nurse, and closed his own. As he did so he saw another vision—a vision of a girl in white. He was carried away from his present surroundings as he listened to a girl’s voice. The girl’s face was a lovely one, and her voice like music. She was saying solemnly, “I promise never to marry any man in this wide world but you, Richard Pelham.”
“I am waiting for my answer,” said Nurse Ives.
“Yes,” cried Tarbot, starting and opening his eyes. “If you do what I require, if our scheme succeeds, I will make you my lawful wedded wife in the sight of Heaven.”
CHAPTER III.
“THE KING CAN DO NO WRONG.”
Sir Piers Pelham, aged seven, was an autocrat. He lived in a big house, daintily and luxuriously furnished. He had servants to do his bidding; each whim was attended to immediately; his mother was there to obey his every dictate. He was the King in No. 12 Ashley Mansions. Nothing was too great to do for him, nothing too hard to endure for his sake.
At present the little baronet was under the care of guardians—his mother was one, a lawyer of the name of Carroll was another, and Luke Tarbot, one of the cleverest and most rising doctors in Harley Street, the third. When Piers came of age he would enter into a property which represented over sixty thousand pounds a year.