ON THE BRINK OF A CHASM.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 3297, 16 August 1911, Page 3

ON THE BRINK OF A CHASM.

A RECORD OF PLOT AND PASSION.

(By L. T. Meade, author of “A Son

of Ishmael,” etc.)

CHAPTER XXV.

BIJACK MISCHIEF

When her husband left the house Clara sent for the cook. She gave explicit orders, and the cook was a<---spectful. The woman had lived before now in what she considered high families —families where thirty servants at least were kept. She endeavored to •impress Clara, but Clara was not impressed in the very least. The new mistress told the woman exactly what she required, all her remarks were pertinent and to the point, and the cook could not help respecting her. Clara gave firm orders, short and decisive. The best tradespeople were to be dealt with, the cooking was to be of the highest quality—dainty, recherche, agreeable to the palate. The cook went downstairs highly pleased, and then Clara proceeded, to interview the rest of the servants. She acted her part to perfection—they were all pleased, inclined to be deferential. Even the butler was satisfied, and was disposed to think there was something in the footman’s words.

“Not that she’s a marchioness,” he said, when he was alone with that functionary; “but I don’t say she mightn’t have married a baronight when in a previous state.” This admission was honey to the footman, who had been severely rebuked early in the morning, and everything was likely to go smoothly in Tarbot’s household.

Having arranged matters so far, Clara now went out. She told the footman to whistle for a hansom, and when it arrived she stepped into it with his aid.

She desired the cabby to drive her to a job-master’s. (She saw the head of the establishment and asked him to send round for orders every morning and afternoon until she had purchased a carriage of her own. She looked at the different victorias and landaus which were for hire, selected two of the best, which she was willing to pay special terms for the use of, and then told the man to take the victoria, round to 250, Harley Street within an hour. She then returned home.

At the appointed time the victoria drew up at the door. Again the footman helped Mrs Tarbot into her carnage, and threw a light fur rug over her. knees. She desired the man to drive into Oxford Street, but after they had turned the corner she spoke to him again and told him that her real destination was Goodge Street. Having arrived at her old quarters, she ordered the man to drive about for an hour and afterwards come back for her. She then ran upstairs. She was dressed from head to foot in black, for she had discovered that no other color suited her so well, no other style of dress brought out the best points in her figure or made the most of that dead-white complexion and that bril ! .• nt red-gold hair. She knocked at the door behind which she had so often sat and waited and longed for Tarbot.

Now she was his wife, liis lawful wedded wife. She had taken possession of his house, of his riches—his position in society was hers, his name was hers. She possessed all of him except the part she most longed to secure—the man’s heart. Could she ever have that? tone felt that it was beyond her purchase. She hated and she loved him for what he withheld; she hated him to the point of extreme pain, she loved him to the point of madness. Mrs Ives was in and so was little Piers. Mrs Ives started back wnen she saw Clara and began to say that her daughter was out. “Nonsense, mother; don’t talk folly,” said Clara. “Don’t you know me?” She flung back her veil.

“A mercy me! Whoever would suppose that it was you, Clara,” said the old woman. “Why, you are fine. Fine feathers make fine birds. Piers, here’s your nurse come back.”

“I’m not Piers’ nurse any more. How are you Piers, all tlie same?” said Clara. She now entered the room j shut the door behind her, and turned to face her mother and the boy. After one admiring glance Piers ran and clasped his arms round her neck. “1 always said you were a very handsome woman,” he cried. “You look awfully fine now you wear black. Black is the proper color for a lady to wear, and you’re a. lady now, aren’^you?”

“I hope so, Piers.’ ’ “A mercy me!” said the old woman again. She still stood in the background. From time to time she dropped a sort of involuntary curtsey. “Are you sure it’s you, Clara?” she said at last, coming to the light. “Stare at me as long as you like, mother. When you have quite done, I’ll sit down. I have a good deal to say.” “May I sit on your knee?” asked the boy. “You may,” said Clara. She placed herself in the rocking chair. The boy scrambled on to her knee. “I’m quite well again,” he said-in a low, excited voice, “and I’ve kept my promise, but .it was awfully hard. Do you know how I managed?” Clara nodded but did not speak. She was looking at the child with a hungry expression in her eyes. There was ai queer expression in her eyes.' There

was a queer drawing in her Mart towards him, and she could not quite ac- ' count for it. She felt that here was something more valuable than her grand house, her fine dress, her large establishment. She looked into the boy’s velvety brown eyes, then suddenly clasped him to her' heart and pressed her lips to his. “But for me, little Piers, but for me,” she said with a sort of strangled sob.

“Why do you talk in such a queer way?” ho asked. “Are you frightened about anything? Are you worried?”

‘No, no, I ami only glad, Piers. Don’t ask me any more. So you kept —” “Oh, yes, I kept the secret,” he said, noding to her, an expression of delight visiting his small mouth. “And I’m just going to tell how I managed. It was such fun. I told your mother—• she’s a dear old thing, but she’s not handsome like you, nor is she a lady— I told her each morning at breakfast that I had a great secret, and then I got, her to guess what it was.” “Good heavens !” cried Clara.

“It was such fun,” continued Piers. “She used to guess all sorts of things, and sometimes she shot very near the mark, nurse, hut never quite. Sometimes she was almost cross, and site would say I must tell her. She’s wonderfully full of curiosity for such an old body. She never quite guessed, though once or twice she got very near to it. One day she said perhaps I was a prince in disguise. Oh, how I clapper my hands when she said that! I laughed—didn’t I laugh just! I said, ‘Good, good, good, but not quite right.” “For Heaven’s sake, child, hush!” said Clara. “Mother, do you mind going into the other room for' a moment?”

“Mighty tightyl” said the old lady. “I can see well there’s a. change come over you, Clara. You wouldn’t talk to your mother like that in the old days. Oh, to be sure I’ll go; hut I intend to have a word with you myself by-ahd-by.”

The old woman went into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

“Now, Piers,” said Clara. “Are you going to be angry with me?” asked Piers. “You look sometimes like you used to look when you made me stare into your eyes.” “Do you remember that?” asked Mrs Tarbot in some alarm.

“I do, in a puzzled sort of way. 1 used rather to like it at first I used to feel that I loved you, and yet I hated you. I felt I’d do anything in all the world for you. Nurse, you’re not going to make me look at you again like that?”

“Never, as there is a heaven above,” answered the woman.

“Why are you trembling? Let me keep my arms tight round your neck. That soft black lace suits you awfully well. Mother wears lace like that — it’s very good, and it’s expensive. Are vou a rich lady now, nurse?” “Yes, dear.” “Oh, I’m rather glad. Perhaps you’ll be able soon to take a better room. Are yon coming back to live with us, nurse, with your mother and me?” “No, Piers; but now I’m not going to talk of my own affairs. ITiere is another thing I must say. You are not to set my mother guessing your secret.” (To be Continued To-morrow.)