Читать книгу On the Brink of a Chasm: A record of plot and passion - L. T. Meade - Страница 9

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Barbara tried to hurry forward, but Tarbot pushed her aside. He bent over the child and examined him carefully. The boy was absolutely unconscious and icy cold. He looked exactly like one dead. Was he dead? Barbara’s heart beat so hard that she fancied it must be heard. She had never seen death before. Did it look like that?—was there always that absence of all movement, that queer gray look on the face? Already it seemed to Barbara that she scarcely knew little Piers.

Tarbot did not speak for a moment; then he turned to the nurse.

“How long has the boy been in this state?”

“Not long—about a quarter of an hour.”

“Tell me what occurred.”

Barbara, scarcely able to control herself, had walked to the window. She now came forward and stood at the foot of the bed. Pelham had placed himself close to the little motionless figure, and once or twice his hand touched the boy’s clustering dark curls. Nurse Ives faced the doctor. She held herself erect. The electric light lit up each feature. Her harsh face, her red hair, her pale blue eyes, and the ugly red scar across her forehead were all distinctly visible.

Barbara shuddered as she looked at her. Was it possible that a woman like that had attended the sweet little child during his last hours? The girl found herself shivering from head to foot.

“Tell me how this happened, nurse,” said Tarbot in a gentle voice.

“As you know, doctor,” said the nurse, “the child has been subject to bad fainting fits.”

Tarbot nodded.

“The stimulants had a certain effect on the heart,” continued Nurse Ives, “but the improvement always passed away quickly. Notwithstanding the large amount of nourishment he took, the boy was thoroughly exhausted. Miss Evershed came up on the landing and I went to speak to her. The boy heard her voice and got into a state of excitement, too much for him in his feeble state. I did not dare to allow her to come in. When he found I would not admit her he began to cry, and I was just repenting of my own determination, when to my great relief Mr. Pelham came into the room. When he saw the child he put his arms round him and raised him slightly on his pillow.

“‘You must not move him too much,’ I said; ‘in the state of his heart the least exertion is bad.’”

“Bad!” exclaimed Tarbot. “In the condition the child was in, the slightest movement might have proved fatal.”

Pelham’s face, already white, now looked ghastly. He ceased to touch little Piers’s curls. With his arms flung at his sides, he turned and faced the doctor.

“May I continue the story?” he asked abruptly.

“Certainly,” said Tarbot, turning and facing him.

“I thought the boy very bad; I noticed how weak he was and the blue look round his lips. I asked the nurse if he ought not to have some medicine. She told me that his medicine was finished, and that the chemist had not yet sent a fresh supply. I then asked her to give him brandy. She brought some. I endeavored to put a little between his lips. Nurse came up and watched me as I did so.

“‘He ought to have the proper medicine,’ she said.

“She asked me to fetch it. She gave me the address of the chemist, and I rushed off. I was absent about ten minutes. When I came back with the medicine the boy was looking very queer and white. Nurse took the bottle into the dressing-room and I accompanied her. She poured out a dose and gave it to me. She stayed in the dressing-room while I went back to the room. The light was dim, for the boy complained of it hurting his eyes. I raised him up and managed to get the medicine between his lips. I had scarcely done so before nurse came back. She said he ought to be better now, that the medicine was a very strong heart stimulant and ought to act immediately.

“I told her I did not think it was doing so. It seemed to me that the child’s breathing was becoming slower and slower. I touched his forehead and it was cold. I looked round at the nurse.

“‘Is anything the matter?’ she asked.

“‘I do not like the condition of the child,’ I said. The moment I said so she started up, switched on the light and bent over him.

“‘Go down-stairs and fetch up some more brandy,’ she said.

“I ran down. I did not want to frighten Mrs. Pelham, and I could not find the butler immediately. I had to go down to the kitchen premises in search of him. This caused a delay, and I was not back in the sick-room for two or three minutes. When I returned the child was in his present condition. How dreadfully bad he looks! What is the matter?”

Tarbot made no reply.

He bent again over the child. Once again he held the pulseless wrist between his finger and thumb; once again he listened at the cold still heart.

Barbara and Pelham now stood side by side at the foot of the bed. Having made his brief examination, Tarbot stood up and faced them.

“The king is dead! Long live the king!” he exclaimed. He held out his hand to Pelham.

Pelham turned white as death.

“Dead! What do you mean?” he exclaimed. “The child cannot be dead. I don’t believe it.”

“Look for yourself,” said Tarbot. “What does this mean but death? The heart has ceased to beat, the body is already turning cold. I will see the child again within a few hours, but in my opinion he is dead. I—you will allow me to congratulate you.”

“Oh, Dr. Tarbot,” cried Barbara, “you cannot say such awful words now! Congratulate Dick! Congratulate Dick! What do you mean?”

She began to tremble. Pelham put his arm round her.

“Come out of the room,” he said.

On the landing Barbara’s self-control completely forsook her. She began to cry in a terrified, painful sort of way. Tarbot heard her sobs and went out.

“Now, this is wrong,” he said, speaking in his most professional manner. “Of course it is all terribly sad, but Dr. Williamson and Sir Richard Spears and I expected the child’s death. His heart was terribly affected. Had he lived he would never have been strong, and would have suffered much. Although he was rich, his life would not have been a happy one. I did not think death would have been quite so sudden, but—— By the way, Miss Evershed, can you control yourself?”

“I will try to,” said Barbara.

“Will you do something for me?”

“What?”

“Will you break this terrible news to Mrs. Pelham?”

“Oh, I cannot, I cannot,” said the girl, trembling and covering her face.

“That means that you will not? You are, I know, a brave woman. Ought you to think of yourself in a moment like this?”

The girl colored; then drew herself together.

“You do right to remind me,” she said. “I would not be a coward for the world. If you think it right, I will go to her.”

“I do. I knew you had plenty of pluck.”

Barbara glanced up at Pelham. There was an expression on his face which she had never seen there before. It puzzled and terrified her.

“Go, dearest,” he said, bending down and kissing her on the forehead. “Go. God help you! God help us both!”

Barbara ran down-stairs.

“Pelham, this is a grand thing for you,” said Tarbot.

“I forbid you to speak of the change in my prospects to-night,” said the young man impetuously. “I cannot stand this—it all looks——”

“What do you mean?”

“The least said, soonest mended,” said Pelham. “I am in no fit state to speak to any one now. I will leave you, Dr. Tarbot. I can do no good here. I will come back in the morning.”

He rushed down-stairs, and the next instant let himself out of the house.

Tarbot remained on the landing a moment; then he returned to the boy’s nursery. Already over the features of the child that look of repose had crept which only death is supposed to give. The nurse was beginning to lay out the little body. She now stood still awaiting the doctor’s directions.

“Death has come rather sooner than I expected,” said Dr. Tarbot. “It was doubtless due to shock—the shock which caused death was the sudden appearance on the scene of Sir Richard Pelham.”

The nurse stood up and stared full at Tarbot. She made no reply. There was a scornful expression round her lips.

“It is best that we should talk in this strain,” said Tarbot, dropping his voice. “I repeat, the shock which caused death was the sudden appearance on the scene of Sir Richard Pelham.”

“I don’t think so; the boy was fond of his cousin.”

“He was; but love is too mighty an emotion when life ebbs so low. We should never have pulled him through. Well, nurse, it is a fine thing for Sir Richard.”

“I fail to understand you,” said the nurse. Then she added significantly, “I have done my part well?”

“Admirably.”

“You will keep your part of the bargain?”

“Certainly.”

“Then you will give a certificate of death?”

“For the sake of appearances, I should like to see the child again in the morning, but I am as sure that death has already taken place as that I am now talking to you. In the morning I can write the certificate.”

“What cause will you give for death?” asked the woman.

“Collapse from cardiac failure.”

“I shall stay here to-night,” said Nurse Ives.

“Do so, nurse. I should wish you to stay for the next day or two, as you will probably have to look after the mother. She is certain to be terribly prostrated; I am going to her now. I sent Miss Evershed to break the news to her.”

“That is a kind girl, a fine girl,” said Nurse Ives. As she spoke she raised her eyes and fixed them on Tarbot’s face. Her glance took him by surprise. He looked away, and a dull red crept into the woman’s face. She tightened her thin lips, and there came an ominous gleam in her pale blue eyes.

“Is Sir Richard here?” she asked after a moment.

“No, he has gone. By the way, nurse, don’t throw away that last bottle of medicine.”

“You had better take it with you, Dr. Tarbot.”

“No, I will not do that. Leave it where it can be got when the moment arrives. Put it into the cupboard and lock the cupboard. Mrs. Pelham will not change the arrangement of the room for some time. I shall write a certificate of death in the morning.”

Once again Tarbot strode up to the bed and looked at the body. The child was now faintly smiling with that ineffable smile of peace which death seems always to give. Heaving a brief sigh of satisfaction, Tarbot turned on his heel and left the room.