Having secured the best room which the “Pelham Arms” boasted of, Tarbot proceeded to make himself comfortable. He ordered a good dinner, unpacked his traps, and then took a stroll to reconnoiter the place. He knew Pelham Towers well, having been there in his boyhood, and he wished now to revisit his old haunts, and prepare for the campaign which he had set himself.
As he was returning to the inn, just as the dusk was falling, a carriage passed him. The occupants of the carriage were Barbara and Mrs. Pelham. There was still light enough for them to recognize him. Barbara desired the carriage to stop, and Tarbot went up to speak to the two ladies.
“What are you doing here?” asked Barbara.
“I have come down on special business,” he replied. “I have a matter I want to consult you about,” he added, looking full at Mrs. Pelham.
“Why did you not tell us, Dr. Tarbot? We could have put you up at the Towers.”
“Thank you,” he replied; “but I have taken a very comfortable room at the ‘Pelham Arms.’”
Barbara paused for a moment. She did not like Tarbot, and was sorry he had come to Great Pelham, but as he was there she felt she must be civil to him.
“You will dine with us to-night?” she said, bending out of the carriage as she spoke and looking at him.
He glanced full up into her lovely eyes. Her face caused his heart to beat wildly.
“I will come,” he said in a hoarse voice.
Barbara could not but observe his agitation. She repented of having asked him.
“We dine at seven,” she said coldly, falling back into her seat as she spoke. “We shall expect you at that hour.”
He answered in the affirmative, and the carriage bowled rapidly away.
With his heart still beating faster than usual, the man returned to the inn. The moment had come for him to strike his great blow, but the look in Barbara’s eyes disarmed him. After all, he need even now do nothing. In his hand lay potent and terrible possibilities—the power to quench the happiness in those eyes, the power to drive that young heart to the verge of madness. After all, Pelham was only the instrument with which he (Tarbot) should strike at Barbara’s heart. If only even now she would be kind to him—a little kind—he might reconsider the situation; but then he began to say to himself that she had never been unkind, never since he had known her. It had always been her way to be gentle and sweet, she was that to all the world. He did not want her sweetness; her indifference nearly maddened him—she was sweet because she was indifferent. He would rather have her hatred than her indifference. Yes, hatred was better than the condition which means neither love nor hate. When he did what he meant to do, she would hate him. In all the future of her life he would stand before her as a monster who had dragged her husband to disgrace, ruin, and death.