“Tell me the story.”
“I must begin at the beginning. You know I hinted to you about poor mother’s money difficulties?”
“Yes, Barbara.”
“Well, they are all put right; and so suddenly, so unexpectedly. And who do you think has done it? Why, Dr. Tarbot—the man I almost hated. He has lent mother ten thousand pounds, and on such easy terms that it will be possible for her to repay it all by degrees.
“He says he doesn’t mind when the capital is returned, and she is only to pay four per cent. interest. You can’t imagine what a relief it is. The poor dear had been getting into most awful trouble, and those horrid money-lenders were getting her into their clutches.
“She told me only yesterday that unless I engaged myself to Lord Selwyn—(Dick, Dick, think of it, that old horror! that dreadful, withered-up old creature!)—she said that unless I could bring myself to accept his proposals she would have to try to borrow money from the Jews, and they would charge twenty or thirty per cent. interest. She said we might keep on for another few weeks and then we must go under.
“Oh, Dick, if it hadn’t been for you, I must have yielded, for, after all, she is my mother, and I love her dearly! She spoke of the awful scandal, the disgrace, the debts, the angry creditors, her appearance in a public court. Oh, it nearly broke my heart!”
“There, don’t cry, my dearest girl,” said Pelham, for Barbara, overcome by her emotions, had laid her head on his shoulder and burst into a passion of tears.
“I am all right now,” she said, quickly recovering herself. “It is over, and Dr. Tarbot has done it all. He is our blessing, our good angel.”
Pelham was silent.