“You accede to my terms?”
“I do because I must.”
“That’s right. Get your house in order, or stay—do nothing special. I should like to refurnish when I take possession. You can go now, Luke; you need not come here again unless you wish to. The less you are seen here now, the better for our future safety. I will meet you at whatever church you appoint on the morning of this day week. If you are true to me, I will be true to you; if not—I have you in my power.”
CHAPTER XI.
A TELEGRAM.
Having seen Tarbot out, Nurse Ives returned to her own room and sat down in front of the gas stove. It was a warm night—warm and damp. There was a thick fog outside, one of those fogs which are the first forerunners of autumn. But, warm as it was, the woman felt cold. She held out her two thin hands to the warmth of the stove, then, suppressing a shudder, she got up and went on tiptoe into the room where little Piers Pelham was lying fast asleep. He slept soundly, and he looked beautiful—there was an angelic smile on his small face.
A queer, new expression came over the woman’s face.
“Why am I stirred when I look at him?” she said to herself. “Why does my heart beat so fast? If he were my very own I do not think I could love him better.”
Then she returned to her seat in front of the stove. She was a temperate woman, and although she felt faint and overcome she would not have recourse to stimulants. She prepared herself a cup of cocoa. It was hot, and it comforted her. It took away a curious craving which she could not quite account for.
“I am hungry, and yet not hungry,” she said to herself. “I feel terribly excited. I have gone through much, and it is wearing me out. This day week I shall be his wife—I shall be Mrs. Tarbot. There is a good deal to be done in the time. I must get suitable clothes. Above all things, I must supply myself with plenty of underlinen, fine and beautifully embroidered. I shall get a lot of handkerchiefs, too, of the finest lawn, and every one of them shall be embroidered, not marked in ink, but embroidered in satin stitch with the name, ‘Clara Tarbot.’”
“To think of my name being Clara Tarbot! I the wife of Luke Tarbot, the great brain specialist of Harley Street! Oh, I do well, I do very well for myself. I won’t think about any future—I do well for myself for the present. The boy’s life is safe, and I shall get my heart’s desire. This day week he and I will be married.