Next morning, Clarice and her brother were at breakfast together in a cheerful little octagon-shaped room, all enamelled white panels, delicately painted wreaths of flowers and profuse gilding. More snow had fallen during the night, and through the tall, narrow windows could be seen a spotless world, almost as white as the breakfast-room itself. But a cheerful fire of oak logs blazing in the brass basket, where the bluish tiles took the smoke, and in the centre of the apartment a round table, large enough for two, was covered with dainty linen upon which stood a silver service, delicate china, and many appetizing dishes. Clarice was a notable housekeeper, and knowing that Ferdinand was fond of a good breakfast, used her best endeavours to provide him with the toothsome food he loved. And this was somewhat in the nature of a bribe.
"By jove!" said the young man, attacking a devilled kidney, "Jerce's housekeeper doesn't feed me like this."
"Then why don't you come down here oftener, Ferdy, and allow me to feed you," suggested Clarice, artfully, and filled him another cup of hot fragrant coffee.
"What rot--as if I could. Jerce keeps me at work, I can tell you. I scarcely have a minute to myself."
"And the minutes you have are given to other people than your sister," said Clarice, dryly.
"Ho! ho!" Ferdinand chuckled. "Jealous of Prudence."
"No! I should like to see you married to Prudence. She would keep you in order."
"Bosh! Jerce does that."
"I doubt it, after what he told me last night."
Knife and fork fell from Ferdinand's hands, and his rosy complexion became as white as the snow out of doors. "Wh-a-t--what--did he tell you?" he quavered, while Clarice looked at him, astonished.
"Only that you are a trifle wild," she hastened to explain. "Why should you look so alarmed?"
"I'm--I'm not alarmed," denied Baird, and absently wiped his forehead with his napkin. "That is, of course if Jerce talks about my being wild to you, and you speak to Prudence, she'll give me the go-by, like a shot. Prudence is awfully jealous."
"I'm not in the habit of telling tales," said Clarice, dryly.
"Jerce is, then. Why can't he hold his tongue?"
"Is what he says true?"
"I don't exactly know what he did say," said Ferdinand, irritably, and pushed back his plate. "You've spoilt my breakfast. I don't like shocks."
"Why should you receive a shock from my very simple observation?"
"Because--well, because of Prudence. I'm fond of Prudence, and I don't want her to know that I--well, that I--enjoy myself."
Clarice tried to catch his eye, so as to see if he was speaking the truth, but Ferdinand evaded her gaze, and rising, went to the fireplace, where he lighted a cigarette. The girl remained seated where she was, resting her elbows on the table, and with a frown knitting her brow. Ferdy was so weak, that she always feared lest his weakness should land him in trouble. Moreover, he was not truthful, when anything was to be gained by telling a falsehood. His confused manner showed that he had something to hide; but, she reflected bitterly, that to ply him with questions, would only make his recording angel take to shorthand, so rapidly would the lies pour out.
Ferdy, leaning his elbows on the mantelpiece, admired his own handsome face in the round mirror, and furtively glanced at the reflection of his sister. The twins were wonderfully alike, and wonderfully good-looking, but Clarice, strange to say, was the more manly of the two. That is her manner was more masculine and decisive, her mouth was firmer, and she had the squarer chin. With his rosy oval face, his Grecian nose, his full lips, and soft brown hair, which lay in silky waves on his white forehead, Ferdinand was much too pretty for a man. He possessed a slim, shapely figure, and wore the smartest of clothes with an aristocratic air. Curiously enough, considering his delicate looks, he was an excellent athlete, and also had proved his bravery more than once, when in the Wild Waste Lands at the Back of Beyond, whither he had gone a year previously on a tramp steamer. From that wild excursion he had returned brown and healthy, and full of life; but within twenty-four hours, Clarice, who had rejoiced at the apparently virile change, knew that Ferdy was as weak and wavering as ever. He was a weed to voyage with every current, a feather to be wafted hither and thither, on every breath of wind.
"I should have been the man," said Clarice, suddenly rising, and placing her hands on her hips with a throw-back of her shoulders.
"Eh--er--what's that you say?" asked Ferdy, absently.
His sister came to where he stood, and placed her face beside his. "I should have been the man, and you the woman," she declared, as they looked at their delicate, youthful faces in the mirror. "You and I are alike, Ferdy, but there is a difference."
"If we are alike, how can there be a difference?" asked the wise youth, pettishly.
"Can't you see? I can. Look at my chin, and at your own. Gaze into my eyes, see the firmness of my lips. There's a dash of the man in me, Ferdy, and much of the woman about you."
Baird dropped into an armchair and kicked his long legs in the air with a light laugh. "I suppose you say that, because I'm like you."
"You aren't like me. I wish you were."
"Come, now--your face and mine. Where's the difference?"
"In the points I have named," she replied, quickly. "I am not talking of the physical, Ferdy. I know you are brave enough, dear, and can hold your own with anyone, where fighting is concerned."
"I should jolly well think I could," muttered Baird, bending his arm and feeling his muscle. "I've never been licked in a fight yet."
"But," went on Clarice, with emphasis, "it's your nature I talk of. You are so weak--so very, very weak."
"I'm not," snapped Ferdy, flushing. "I always have my own way."
"Ah, that's obstinacy, not strength. Because a person said no, you would say yes, and vice-versa. But you are the prey of your own passions, Ferdy. You deny yourself nothing."
"Why should I?"
"Because it is by denial--by self-denial, that we make ourselves strong, Ferdy. Why, any woman could twist you round her finger."
"Any woman can twist any man, you mean. If you bring the sex question into the matter, Clarice, I admit that man is the weaker vessel. A woman can do what she likes with a man. Women rule the world, and why they should bother about this suffragette business, beats me."
"All men can't be twisted by women, Ferdy. Dr. Jerce, for instance."
"Pooh. He's so wrapped up in medicine and science that he hates the sex--your sex, I mean."
"I don't think so," said Clarice, recalling a scene on the previous night. "Dr. Jerce is a man like other men in that way, only he is sufficiently strong to hold his own with women."
"I say," cried Ferdy, restlessly, "what's all this chatter about?"
"About you, if you'll only listen," said his sister, looking down at the weak frowning face. "I'm worried about you, Ferdy. When you were here with me, I could manage you, but since you came back from that trip a year ago, and went in for medicine, you have changed for the worse."
"I don't see that," said Baird, sulkily.
"I do. There are lines on your face, which should not be there at your age. Look at the black circles under your eyes. You're getting the look of a man who stops up night after night, and you do."
"Who says that?"
"Dr. Jerce says it. You don't attend to your work, he says. You are always at music-halls; you take more drink than is good for you; you gamble above what you can afford, and I dare say that you make love to all manner of women."
"Oh, I say, you shouldn't say that last."
"Because I'm a girl--an unmarried woman," flashed out Clarice. "What rubbish! I'll say what I think to you, who are my only brother and my twin. Do you think that I am going to see you ruin yourself with wine and women and cards, simply because there are things a girl is not supposed to know? I am twenty-three. I have had endless responsibility since Uncle Henry took ill, so I am quite able to speak out and to save you if possible."
Ferdinand rose and flung his cigarette into the fire. "I won't have you talk like that to me," he declared, his voice thick with anger. "I am a man, and you are a woman."
"The reverse, I think," retorted Clarice, bitterly.
"You have got far too high an opinion of yourself," foamed Ferdy, kicking the logs angrily, "and when Uncle Henry dies, I'll show you who is to be master here."
Clarice ignored the latter part of this speech. "Why do you suggest that Uncle Henry may die?"
"He's ill--he can't last long," stammered Ferdy, evasively.
"How do you know? How does Dr. Jerce know? He told me himself that he could not understand this strange illness, and could not say whether Uncle Henry would live or die. Do you call yourself more clever than Dr. Jerce?"
"I have studied medicine, and--"
"For twelve months, and what you call study, I call pursuit of pleasure. You are wasting your life, and there is no one to stand between you and ruin, but me. I dare not tell Uncle Henry what Dr. Jerce reported to me, as his health is too delicate to stand shocks."
"You can tell him what you like," mumbled Ferdy, knowing very well that he was safe in giving the permission.
"I shall tell him nothing, but," added Clarice, with emphasis, "I'll tell Prudence, if you don't mend."
Ferdy clenched his hands and his eyes flashed.
"Prudence won't believe one word of what you say," he declared, angrily. "She loves me, as I love her, and--"
"Do you love her?" asked Clarice, sharply, and Ferdinand recoiled before the look in her eyes. "Dr. Jerce--"
"What has he dared to say?"
"Nothing more than what I have told you," said the girl, "but no man who is behaving as you are, can possibly love a woman truly."
"Oh, bother, leave these sort of things alone. You are a girl, and you don't understand. As to Jerce, he has his own secrets."
He turned on his heel to leave the room, but Clarice swiftly placed herself in his way. "Now, what do you mean by that?" she asked, wondering if Jerce had related the scene of the previous night in order to enlist Ferdy on his side to forward his suit.
"Well," mumbled the young man, pausing and fishing out another cigarette from mere habit, "there's no reason why I shouldn't tell you about the row. Jerce never said I wasn't to."
"What row--as you call it?"
"I don't know what else you would call it," retorted Ferdy, who had regained his good humour, with the shallow capacity of his nature. "I don't know who that chap in grey can be, but Jerce knows. And what's more, I believe he hunted him out last night. I was going to town with Jerce and he said that I could stop down here for a couple of days. If he wasn't after that grey chap, why didn't he want my company?"
Clarice listened to all this with a puzzled expression. "I don't understand a word you're talking about," she said, tartly; "what grey man--what row?"
"Well," drawled Baird, lighting his cigarette, and strolling back to his seat, "it's like this." And he related all that had taken place on the terrace, and described the man with the criss-cross scar on his face, ending up with a few comments of his own. "And Jerce must know the chap, for he wouldn't let me go for the police. Oh, Jerce has his secrets, and if a chap has to knock him down and go through his pockets, those secrets ain't respectable--that's all I have to say. A nice chap Jerce is, to talk of my being wild, when he's old enough to know better, and has larks like this."
"Why don't you tell him so?" asked Clarice, sarcastically.
"Oh, it's none of my business," replied Ferdy, airily. All the same his delicate colour came and went in a way which showed Clarice that he was afraid of Dr. Jerce. And very rightly, too, considering their relative ages and different positions in the world.
"It's a strange thing," said Clarice, thoughtfully, kilting up her dress and resting one slender foot on the fender. "I wonder Dr. Jerce didn't speak of the matter."
"Oh, he wants you to have a good opinion of him, so doesn't give away his little wickednesses."
"Ferdy!" said Miss Baird, sharply, for his flippant tone jarred on her, "you have no right to speak like this of Dr. Jerce. Everyone who knows him, is aware that his character is of the highest. He is charitable and attends to poor people in some London slum for nothing. No one can breathe a word against him. A man like Dr. Jerce would not hold the position he does, or expect to be knighted, unless his reputation and life were spotless. However, there's an easy way of learning the truth. Dr. Jerce is coming down again to-morrow to consult with Dr. Wentworth over Uncle Henry's case; I'll tell him what you say!"
"No! no!" This time Ferdinand went quite white and spoke with dry lips. "You'll only get me into a row. I dare say Jerce is all right. I never heard anyone speak of him save with the highest praise, and he has been a good friend to me. I don't want to quarrel with him."
"There is no need that you should do so, Ferdy. All I mean to ask Dr. Jerce is, why the man assaulted him and went through his pockets."
"He says that he doesn't know," said Ferdy gruffly.
"You say that he knows the man?"
"He might--that is, I think so. Anyhow, he wouldn't let me go for the police, so it looks as though he didn't want a public row. But you'd better not say anything, Clarice. Jerce may get his back up at my telling you. He'd row me. I don't want that. Jerce is a brick, you know, Clarry. He's lent me money when Uncle Henry kept me short."
Remembering the hopes expressed by the doctor, Clarice was vastly indignant at this revelation, and faced her weak twin with clenched hands. "How dare you borrow money from Dr. Jerce?" she said, and her eyes flashed. "Uncle Henry gives you all you want."
"He doesn't," said Ferdy, sulkily. "He allows me next to nothing. I call him a skinflint. What's two hundred a year?"
"Very good pocket-money. He pays your bills, keeps you for nothing, and gives you four pounds a week to waste. Yet with all that, you borrow from Dr. Jerce. How much have you had?"
"That's my business."
"Mine also. Tell me, or I'll tell Uncle Henry."
"Only a few hundreds," snarled Ferdy, reluctantly.
"A few hundreds!" Clarice sank into her seat and looked at Ferdy with consternation. "And how on earth have you spent so much, in addition to your own income?"
"Money will go," lamented Ferdy. "Whenever I break a pound, I never have any left within the hour."
"You'll bring disgrace on us some day," said Clarice, with a pained look. "Why didn't you come to me?"
"You're so high and mighty. You wouldn't have understood."
"I understand this much, that Dr. Jerce is the last man I should wish you to have money from."
"I thought you liked him."
"I did--I do, and I respect him. All the same, I wish you hadn't borrowed from him." Ferdinand rose and kicked the logs again in his petulant fashion. "I must have money somehow to enjoy myself."
"You have four pounds a week."
"What's that--I want fifty. And after all, it's my own money. When we come of age in two years we each have two thousand a year. I don't see why Uncle Henry should grudge me cash in the way he does. If you don't want to spend it, I do. And what's more," cried Ferdy, working himself into a rage, "I'm going to."
"You shan't spend Dr. Jerce's money," said Clarice, and her mouth shut firmly, while her eyes glittered like steel.
"How can you stop me from getting it?" scoffed Fred, uneasily. "I can ask him to refuse you more. Dr. Jerce will do anything for me."
Ferdy scowled. "I know that," he said, moodily.
"He hinted that he was in love with you. If you were only a decent sort, Clarry, you would marry him and help me. He's got heaps of tin, and you'd be Lady Jerce some day, you know."
"Oh!" said Clarice, and her voice was as hard as her eyes, "did Dr. Jerce ask you to speak to me?"
"No! no, on my honour he didn't; but he hinted that he'd like you to be his wife. I never said anything."
"Not even that I am engaged to Anthony Ackworth."
Ferdy looked up in genuine surprise. "Oh, by Jove, you ain't!"
"Yes, I am. He asked me to become his wife only six days ago. I consented, and we are engaged. Uncle Henry knows, and I intended to tell you later. I thought you might have guessed. Apparently you did not, being so wrapped up in yourself. I'm glad of that, as I want to tell Dr. Jerce myself. You would only bungle the matter."
"Ackworth's only a gunner chap," muttered Ferdinand, in dismay. "You had much better marry Jerce. He could help me, you know."
"With more money, I suppose."
"Well, not exactly that," confessed Ferdy, with an engaging air of candour, "though I shouldn't mind asking him for a fiver, if I were hard up, which I generally am. But when I become a doctor, Jerce could retire and hand over his patients to me, you know. Oh, there are lots of ways in which he could be useful to me, if you are nice to him. If you ain't, he may cut up rough, and Jerce isn't pleasant when he's in a rage, I can tell you."
"Oh!" said Clarice, contemptuously, "so to please you, I am to marry a man old enough to be my father."
"He's only fifty-five, and rich, and he'll have a title soon."
"So will Anthony, if it comes to that. His father is a baronet."
"A poor baronet," sneered Ferdy, with emphasis. "I'll have two thousand a year of my own when I am twenty-five," said the girl, ignoring the speech, "and Anthony has his pay and an allowance from his father. We will be able to live very comfortably on what we can get. Besides, Uncle Henry likes Anthony, and is delighted that I should marry him. As to Dr. Jerce--" she hesitated.
"What about him?" murmured Baird, nervously.
"I'll inform him of my engagement, when he comes down again. Also, I'll ask him about this row, as you call it, and request him to refuse you more money."
"You'll ruin me," gasped Ferdinand, on whose forehead the drops of perspiration were standing thickly.
"In what way?"
"Jerce will chuck me. He can be a beast when he likes."
"Let him be a beast," said Clarice, impatiently, "although I think you exaggerate. He'll say nothing. He has no right to say anything."
"Clarice!" He caught her hands. "For my sake you must marry Jerce."
The girl released herself, angrily. "What do you mean by that?"
"Jerce could help me so much," said Ferdy, feebly.
"Is that all?" asked Clarice, keeping her eyes steadfastly fixed on the weak, handsome face of her brother.
"Of course--of course," he replied, testily. "What else could there be, you stupid girl?"
"I don't know," she said, coldly, "but I do know, Ferdy, that you never by any chance tell the whole truth. You always keep something back, and that makes it difficult to know how to advise you."
"I don't ask for advice."
"No," she answered, bitterly, "you ask for a sacrifice which in your egotistic eyes is no sacrifice. And you are keeping something back from me. What reason have you to be afraid of Dr. Jerce?"
"I have no reason. I never said that I was afraid."
"And yet----"
"And yet--and yet," he broke in, snappishly, "you are making a mountain out of a mole-hill. I only suggest that you should marry--"
"Marry a man I don't love. My word is passed to Anthony."
"Clarice?"
The girl pushed him aside and opened the door. "That is enough. Go your own silly way, but don't ask me to come with you."
"Ah! You are always selfish."
"Always," said Clarice, sadly, and thinking of the many small sacrifices she had made for the fool before her, "therefore, I marry the man I love!" and she hastened from the room, unwilling to break down before one who would take such emotion as a sign of yielding.
Ferdy, left alone, kicked over the breakfast table, and vented his rage on the furniture generally. The room was quite a wreck by the time his feelings were completely relieved.
The housekeeper of Mr. Horran's establishment was a small, withered-up old woman, who looked like the bad fairy of a D'Aulnoy story. She had nursed Clarice and Ferdy, and their father before them, so she was deeply attached to the twins. Of course, Ferdy being the more selfish of the two obtained all her affection, and although she was fond of Clarice, she lavished the treasures of her love on Ferdy, who gave her in return more kicks than half-pence. Mrs. Rebson was quite seventy years of age, and her face resembled a winter apple, so rosy and wrinkled it was. She must have had French blood in her old veins, for her vivacity was wonderful, and her jet black eyes were undimmed by age. Nothing ever seemed to put her out of temper, and her devotion to the twins had in it something of a religion.
Being thus bright and cheerful, it was strange that Mrs. Rebson should cherish a dreadful little book, which was called The Domestic Prophet, full of dismal hints. Published at the beginning of each year, it prophesied horrors for every month, from January to December, and was as lachrymose as the Book of Lamentations. Not a single, cheerful event enlivened the year from this modern prophet's point of view, and although the book (consisting of twenty-four pages) was bound in green paper, the cover should certainly have been black, if only for the sake of consistency. Over this lamentable production, Mrs. Rebson was bending, when Clarice entered fresh from her encounter with Ferdy.
"What is the matter, lovey?" asked the old woman, pushing up her spectacles on her lined forehead, "there's nothing to worry about. I have ordered the dinner, and seen to the Christmas provisions, and Mr. Horran's in a sweet sleep, and your good gentleman is coming this afternoon to kiss your bonny face, bless it, and bless him."
Clarice sat down with a disconsolate air. "It's Ferdy."
"Now, Miss," Mrs. Rebson's voice became sharper, and her manner quite like that of the nurse who put the twins to bed years before, "how often have I told you not to quarrel with your dear brother, as is bone of your bone and flesh of your flesh and the sweetest tempered baby I ever nursed?"
"Nanny!" Clarice called Mrs. Rebson by this childish name for the sake of old times, and perhaps from custom. "You are quite crazy about Ferdy, and he doesn't deserve your love."
"Indeed he does, Miss, and I wonder at your talking in that way. Oh, fie, Miss, fie," shaking a gnarled finger, "this is jealousy."
"It's common sense, Nanny," retorted Clarice, and detailed what Dr. Jerce had said about Ferdy, and what Ferdy had said to her. Mrs. Rebson listened to all this, quite unmoved. "But, of course, you won't believe a word I say against your idol," ended Clarice, bitterly.
"Because everyone's against him," cried Mrs. Rebson, wrathfully. "Oh, that Jerce man--I'll Jerce him if he dares to speak against Master Ferdy, who is an angel."
"There are two kinds of angels, Nanny, white and black."
"Master Ferdy's the kind of angel that plays a harp," said the old dame, with dignity, "and why shouldn't the poor boy amuse himself?"
"He'll get into trouble unless he's more careful. Drinking and gambling and sitting up all night with fast people."
"I don't believe a word of it," said Mrs. Rebson, energetically.
"Dr. Jerce says--"
"He's a liar, Miss, and don't come to me with tales of that angel. Why can't you hold your tongue, and think of your future with Mr. Ackworth, who is so fond of you and I hope you'll deserve his fondness."
"I'm fond of Ferdy, too, Nanny, and I want him to grow up to be a good man."
"Heisa good man," said the old nurse, obstinately, "and there's no more growing of that sort needed. Mr. Horran, drat him, keeps the poor boy short of money."
"Two hundred a year--"
"What's that, when Master Ferdy will have two thousand?"
"He won't become possessed of that for two years, Nanny. Meanwhile, he has no right to gamble."
"I don't believe he does. Why, he spends all his money in buying books about health and medicine. I gave him five pounds the other day to get some."
"Oh, Nanny, your savings again, when you promised me you wouldn't."
"I can do what I like with my own, Miss Clarice. Besides, I have made Master Ferdy my heir, so why shouldn't he have the money now, if he likes, bless him."
"Nanny," said Clarice, seriously. "You are ruining Ferdy."
"Me!" Mrs. Rebson gave an indignant screech. "Me ruin the boy I love so dearly. Jealousy again, Miss Clarice. Go and read the Commandments, Miss, and weep for your sins."
"I don't think I'll find 'Honour thy brother' among the Commandments, Nanny," said Clarice, the humorous side of the business striking her; "however, I see it's useless to think you will blame Ferdy."
Mrs. Rebson looked round the comfortable little room, and removed her spectacles. "My dear," she said, in a rather shaky voice, "if I must speak plainly to you, I am rather put out about Master Ferdy. Not that it's his fault," added the nurse, hurriedly, "but when one sees him being led away by that hussy--"
"Who is that?" asked Clarice, anxiously.
"Mrs. Dumps' daughter. Zara, she calls herself, when I know that she was christened simple Sarah. Not that she is simple, my dear, for a more cunning fox isn't to be found, with her red hair--dyed--and her cream complexion and red cheeks, which are nothing but pearl-powder and rouge, drat her, and her mother also, for a fool!"
Clarice knew Mrs. Dumps, and also had frequently seen Sarah Dumps, but had never for one moment thought that Ferdy would be attracted by such a bold, chattering girl, who flirted indiscriminately with every man, good-looking or plain. "I thought Sarah had gone to London."
"So she has!" said Mrs. Rebson, fiercely, "she went over a year ago, and with her good looks--all paint and dye--and brazen impudence--ah, that's genuine enough--she pushed her way on to the stage."
"So Mrs. Dumps told me," said Miss Baird. "Sarah is dancing and singing at some West-end music-hall."
"She is that, and fine dancing it is, I don't doubt--the hussy. I'd rather see a child of mine in her grave than capering as a butterfly before gentry."
"Butterflies don't caper, Nanny."
"This one does," sniffed the old woman, viciously. "She calls herself Butterfly on the stage."
"The Butterfly?"
"No--just Butterfly, when she ought to be called Cat. Well, then, my love, Mrs. Dumps, who is a cousin of mine (and I don't think much of her dressing and screeching like a peacock) called to see me the other day, and told me that Master Ferdy had been seeing Sarah--I can't bring myself to call her Zara--such affectation. He's been driving and talking and walking, and giving her presents, and Mrs. Dumps, who is a born fool, thinks that Master Ferdy means marriage."
Clarice started to her feet. "Oh, Nanny!"
"What's the use of saying, 'Oh, Nanny,' like that?" snapped Mrs. Rebson. "You know what an angel Master Ferdy is, and how easily a pretty face can beguile him--not that Sarah is pretty, the minx. It's her fault, and I'd tar and feather her and ride her on a rail if I had my way. Why can't she leave the boy alone? I know you are jealous of Master Ferdy, Miss Clarice, but as you have a head on your shoulders--I don't deny that, lovey--it is only right that you should know the truth. I can't tell Mr. Horran, as there would be trouble."
Clarice went to the window, and looked out into the white, cold world, with her thoughts fixed anywhere but on the scenery. In fact, she was wondering what was best to be done about Ferdinand, who evidently had become entangled with Sarah Dumps. Dr. Jerce apparently knew of this entanglement, hence Ferdy's fear of him, and dread as to what he might have said. It was useless to talk to Ferdy, who would only go his own way, being obstinate, as all weak people are; while Mr. Horran was too ill to be told of the business. There remained Anthony and Dr. Jerce to help her. The second of these had made things unpleasant by wanting to marry her, so it was difficult to appeal to him for aid. He might demand his price. Finally, in two minutes, Clarice made up her mind to enlist Captain Ackworth on her side. He was not coming this afternoon, as Mrs. Rebson had said, but the next day, so she could speak to him then. Meanwhile, it would be best to be agreeable to Ferdy and keep him at home, lest he should go back to town and to this dreadful girl. Not that Sarah Dumps really was very dreadful, for being shrewd, she was quite respectable, and able to take excellent care of herself. But, naturally, Clarice thought she was dreadful, when Ferdy was in her toils--though what Sarah Dumps could see in poor, weak Ferdy, passed Clarice's comprehension.
"Well, deary?" asked Mrs. Rebson, impatiently.
"Say nothing to Mr. Horran, or to Ferdy," said Clarice, turning from the window. "I'll see what I can do."
"Treat Master Ferdy tenderly," warned Mrs. Rebson.
"Oh, yes," replied Miss Baird, indifferently. "Things will come all right, Nanny. Ferdy, after all, is in love with Prudence."
"Another hussy," snapped the nurse.
"A very clever one, then. She would make Ferdy a good wife, and rule him with a rod of iron."
"He doesn't want that, Miss. You can lead him with a silken thread."
"I am quite sure Sarah Dumps can," said Clarice, emphatically. "Ferdy can always be led in the way he wishes to go. No, no!" she waved her hand impatiently, "don't defend him any more, Nanny. I agree with you that Ferdy is all sugar-candy and honey. I'll try and put everything right."
"And it needs putting right," said Mrs. Rebson, in her most lively tone, "there's going to be trouble--yes, poverty--death--sorrow--disgrace--"
"Stop, stop!" cried Clarice, turning pale, "what do you mean?"
"The Domestic Prophet--"
"Oh, that creature. Pooh!" Clarice was much relieved. "I thought you were in earnest."
"The Domestic Prophet always is, deary."
"He's a fraud, Nanny. He never prophesies correctly."
"Yes, he does," cried Mrs. Rebson, obstinately, and adjusting her spectacles, "listen to this," and she read: "'The month of December will be dangerous to elderly men who are sick. They will probably die if the weather is severe, and in winter we may expect snow. Some elderly men will probably meet with a violent death, either by poison or the knife, or a railway accident, or by drowning, if they frequent seaside resorts. Beware the dead of night,' says the Domestic Prophet, 'to all men over fifty.'"
After reading this precious extract, Mrs. Rebson lifted her eyes, to find Clarice choking with laughter, and assumed an offended air. "You were always foolish, Miss," she said, disdainfully, "but these things will come true. Mr. Horran is doomed; he is over fifty."
"And how do you think he will die, Nanny--not in a railway accident or by drowning, as he can't leave the house. The severe weather may kill him, certainly, but I'll see that he is well wrapped up. There remains the knife and the poison. Which will he die of?"
Mrs. Rebson still continued, disdainful. "It's all very well sniggering, Miss, but the Domestic Prophet is right very often." She opened the dismal book again, and read: "'When a black cat bites its tail, take it for a sign of a sudden death.' And," added Mrs. Rebson, closing the book solemnly, "I saw my black cat bite its tail only yesterday. Also Mr. Horran is elderly, and should beware the dead of night."
"Well, then," said Clarice, flippantly, "I suppose Buster," this was the black cat's name, "hints, by biting his tail, that Mr. Horran is about to meet with a violent death at midnight."
"I don't say Mr. Horran, Miss. But Dr. Jerce is over fifty, and so is the Rev. Nehemiah Clarke."
"You also, Nanny--"
"The Domestic Prophet is talking of men, deary. You scoff, Miss, but mark my words, before the end of the month, we'll hear of something."
Miss Baird, still laughing, kissed the withered cheek. "I dare say," was her reply, "your prophet is very general in his applications. Well, I shall see Uncle Henry--"
"Don't tell him what I say."
"Oh, but I will, Nanny. It's too funny to keep to myself," and Clarice left the room laughing, while Mrs. Rebson, with a sigh for such levity, began to read The Domestic Prophet with renewed zeal.
Meanwhile, Miss Clarice proceeded to Mr. Horran's bedroom. This was on the other side of the house, and was similar in many respects to the drawing-room. Here also were two French windows opening on to a terrace, and the apartment was large and lofty and spacious, and was furnished half as a bedroom and half as a sitting-room. This was because Mr. Horran lived, for the most part of his life, beneath its roof. Formerly, he had occupied a room on the first floor, where the other bedrooms were, but being unable, by reason of his mysterious disease, to mount the stairs, he had, within the last five years, transferred this room, which was formerly a library, into his sleeping chamber. It was handsomely furnished, and very comfortable, and had a large open fireplace, in which, summer and winter, blazed a grand fire. The walls were of a deep orange colour, as Mr. Horran thought such a hue was most restful to the eye, and on them hung many fine pictures, and also several spears and swords and Zulu shields and Matabele assegais, which various friends had brought as presents. In front of one window stood a rosewood escritoire, covered with papers, but the way to the other window was left open, as it acted also as a door, whence Mr. Horran could emerge, on fine days, to take the sun on the miniature terrace. For an invalid, everything was perfectly arranged, and Mr. Horran was lodged luxuriously.
The old man himself was thin and wrinkled, but very straight and somewhat military in his looks, the resemblance being increased by a long, iron-grey moustache and closely clipped grey hair. He had left his bed and was sitting, clothed in a camel's hair dressing-gown, in a deep-seated leather armchair before the fire. When Clarice entered he was weeping, and she hastened towards him in alarm.
"Dear Uncle Henry," she said, putting her arms round his neck, "why did you get up? It is most imprudent. Dr. Jerce and Dr. Wentworth both say you should remain in bed. I wonder Chalks," this was Horran's valet and faithful attendant, "allowed you."
"I'm all right, my dear," said Mr. Horran, trying to recover his self-command, and patting Clarice's hand. "I'm only upset a little."
"And no wonder, after that fit."
"It is not the fit. That is all right now. I have been sleeping for about ten hours, and woke some time ago, feeling much better. Indeed, I felt so well, that I decided to rise, and take a stroll on the terrace, in the winter sunshine. Then I received a shock."
"What kind of a shock?"
"We won't say anything about it just now," said Horran, in a weak voice. "It would not interest you, and besides, I don't wish to talk of it. I have told no one, not even Chalks."
"Told him what?"
"Nothing, nothing," maundered on the old man, staring into the fire. "I feel ever so much better, my dear, only I can't help crying--some sort of emotion from the shock."
Clarice slipped down beside him, and held his cold hands. "Dear Uncle Henry, tell me what is the matter," she implored, "it isn't Ferdy?"
"No, no! Ferdy is all right. He's a good boy and very kind. It is very strange, Clarry, but I am now beginning to feel drowsy, and a few minutes ago, I was so wide-awake. Oh, dear me," he sighed, "I do wish Daniel, or Dr. Wentworth would find out what is the matter with me."
"They will find out soon, dear," said Clarice, soothingly.
"No. Clever as Daniel is, my disease seems to baffle him. He says that I may live for years, but I don't think that is likely, Clarry, dear. However, should I die suddenly, everything is straight. You and Ferdy will get your money within a week of my death."
"Dear, don't talk of your death."
"I must. It is just as well, Clarry, that you should know how matters stand. I have arranged that you will control Ferdy's money, as I have the power to do by your father's will. I was appointed sole guardian, and the will enables me to appoint another guardian should I die. But I shall not do that. I shall arrange, and have arranged, as my lawyer will tell you, to give you the whole four thousand pounds a year. You will be, so to speak, your own guardian, and Ferdy's also."
"You don't trust Ferdy, then, Uncle Henry?" she asked, in a low voice.
"No, dear," he patted her hand. "You are the clever one. Ferdy is unstable. I have seen that for many years, and so I placed him with Daniel, who will keep the boy straight. Ferdy is like your poor father, charming and weak; you more resemble your dear mother, who was my first and my last love. I never married because of your mother."
"I know, dear." Clarice kissed the cold hand tenderly, as she knew of this romance. She was the sole person to whom Horran ever spoke of the matter. He maundered on dreamily. "I told Daniel of my will, and he was not pleased. He said that a woman should not possess such power, as she was incapable of exercising it."
"Oh, indeed," said Clarice, flushing angrily. "I think Dr. Jerce will find me perfectly capable. I am glad that you have made me Ferdy's guardian, Uncle Henry, as he certainly needs a guiding hand. Have you told him about the will, dear?"
"No, I only told Daniel, who was displeased. But then he says that I may live for years. He spoke kindly, too, though he is wrong in believing I shall recover. Daniel and I have always been friends. We only quarrelled once, and that was over your mother. But she married Baird, and left us both in the cold. But for you, dear Clarry, I should have had a lonely life, my dear."
Clarice rose and moved towards the bell. "Let me call Chalks to put you to bed again, Uncle Henry. You are quite drowsy."
"No! no!" The invalid grew testy, sudden changes of mood being a characteristic of his unknown disease. "I'm comfortable here. And I want to see Daniel. Where is Daniel?"
"He returned to town last night, dear. I don't think he will come again until after Christmas."
"That is not for a few days," groaned Horran, in a piteous tone. "Oh, send for him, Clarry. I must see him about the letter."
"What letter, dear?" she asked, much puzzled. Horran raised his heavy lids with an effort. "The letter which I found on the terrace, near the window. It gave me a shock."
"Show it to me, Uncle Henry."
"No! You would not understand. Daniel might; he's so clever."
"Who wrote this letter?" coaxed Clarice, trying to get information. "There is no writing," he answered, drowsily. "It is not a letter."
"You said that it was."
"Picture writing, then, like the ancient Egyptians." She thought, naturally, that his mind was wandering, when he talked in so contradictory a manner. After a moment or so, his head fell back on the chair, and his eyes closed. He began to breathe deeply, and apparently was falling asleep. Clarice put her ear to his lips, as she saw them move, and caught three words, which conveyed nothing: "The--Purple--Fern!"
This was unintelligible, until she noticed an envelope at his feet, which had fallen out of his pocket. Picking this up, she took out the slip of paper it contained, and found thereon, no writing, but the representation of a tiny fern, stamped in purple ink.