“Clara!” cried Barbara in astonishment. “Clara Ives! Do you mean to tell me,” she cried excitedly, “that you are the mother of Clara Ives, the nurse?”
“Same, love, same. She’s my own true darter—a plain girl.”
“And she’s married to Dr. Tarbot?”
“Yes, my dear; like yourself, she’s married riches—from poverty she has come to great wealth.”
“I was never exactly poor in that way,” said Barbara, who did not care to have her past compared to that of Clara Ives. “But this is interesting!” she cried. “You are not like Mrs. Tarbot.”
“Oh, something the same, my dear. I’ve just them sort of crabbed notions; she was always a crabbed girl, but mortal clever. Well, I was curious to see the place and now I’ve seen it, and I’m pleased to have had this talk with you. Now, your husband, he don’t have your feelings, do he? He’s accustomed to wealth from his birth, ain’t that so?”
“Well, no, that’s the curious part,” said Barbara, who found herself confiding in this old woman, and not in the least minding the fact that she was doing so. “Dick, my dear husband, came in for the property unexpectedly.”
“Indeed, that do sound romantic. Was it a sudden death, a shipwreck, or a murder, that done it?”
“Oh, no, no, nothing like that—but it was very sad. Mr. Pelham, as he was then, was very poor, and he loved me well, but we could not marry. Then his dear little cousin died—such a sweet boy—and Dick became Sir Richard Pelham.”
“Ah, quite a little child it was who stood in the way and he died?” said Mrs. Ives.