There seemed to Clarice to be a familiar look about this representation of a fern. The double sheet of writing paper was thick and glossy, with untrimmed edges, and on this the curved fern, with its fronds wonderfully delicate and distinct, had evidently been impressed with an india-rubber stamp, moistened with purple ink. The square-sized envelope bore no address, no stamp, and no seal. What could one make of such a missive? It appeared meaningless, yet to Clarice the fern itself recalled some faint memory. Probably that memory, whatever it might be, was clearer to Horran, and so had given him the shock of which he had complained.
After some consideration, Clarice slipped the envelope and sheet of paper into her pocket, thinking it advisable to remove them from Horran's sight. He had fallen into a deep sleep, and was breathing almost imperceptibly, his face looking singularly calm and unwrinkled. Whatever his disease might be, he certainly was not suffering pain; but it was strange that after a ten hours' sleep, he should again relapse into slumber. Still, from his looks there was no cause for alarm, so Clarice touched the bell, and when Chalks entered, she pointed silently to his unconscious master.
The valet was a round, rosy, stout little man, with twinkling black eyes, and a meek manner. He beamed with good nature and overflowed with the milk of human kindness. An attendant with so cheerful a disposition and smiling a countenance was quite the kind of nurse needed by an invalid, as his spirits were infectious, and frequently served to arouse the somewhat melancholy Mr. Horran from dismal musings. Chalks displayed no surprise at the sight of his patient asleep again, but lifted him in his arms and placed him gently on the bed. Clarice deliberated as to whether she should tell Chalks (who was intelligent and devoted to Mr. Horran) about the missive of the purple fern; but finally decided to say nothing concerning it to anyone until she had seen Anthony. The elusive memory, which would not come back to her in its entirety, suggested that Ackworth could account for the fern in some way.
"What do you think of him, Chalks?" she asked, indicating the unconscious man on the bed.
"I think's he's asleep, Miss," said Chalks, innocently.
"But why should he sleep again after ten hours' slumber?"
"Why should he be ill at all, Miss?" was the retort of the cheerful little man, "seeing that them doctors says as his organs is healthy, and that there ain't nothing whatever the matter with him?"
Miss Baird drew her white brows together in a perplexed way. "There must be some reason for his disease, Chalks."
"The doctors say there's no disease, Miss."
"But this sleep is unnatural."
"Master's health has been unnatural for the last ten years, Miss."
"What is your theory, Chalks?"
"I have none, Miss. Master gets headaches and giddy fits, and weeps and gets into rages, which ain't his real nature, and he's had two fits, and now sleeps like a top for hours. This ain't what you'd call health, Miss, and yet Dr. Jerce and Dr. Wentworth have both examined him heaps of times, only to find he's all right, both inside and outside. It's a riddle, Miss, that's what it is."
"What's to be done, then?"
Chalks advanced briskly to the bed. "Leave Master to me, Miss, and I'll put him between the sheets. Then we must wait until Dr. Wentworth comes again, Miss."
Clarice walked to the door, but cast a glance round the room, before going out. She saw that one of the French windows was open, and moved to close it. Chalks stopped her. "No, Miss, Master must have all the air he can get--Dr. Wentworth says so."
"And Dr. Jerce?" Chalks beamed like a cherub. "Bless your heart, Miss, he insists on Master getting as little air as possible. When Dr. Jerce comes down, Miss, he says the window must be closed; when Dr. Wentworth turns up, he opens it straight off. They don't agree, Miss, which is hard on me, Miss."
"It is perplexing," assented Clarice, laughing, "what do you do?"
"Well, Miss, I let them do what they like. If Dr. Jerce closes the window, I leave it so; when Dr. Wentworth opens it, I let it be. Sometimes that window is open all night and closed all day. At other times, Miss, it's open all day and closed all night. It depends on them dratted doctors."
Clarice laughed at this explanation, and seeing that her guardian, to all appearance, was in a healthy sleep, went away. "Tell me when he wakes up, Chalks," said she, at the door.
"Yes, Miss, if Master don't sleep for one hundred years, like the Sleeping Beauty," and Chalks chuckled at his own simple wit. Clarice passed the morning in attending to her domestic duties, and had a consultation with Mrs. Rebson about the Christmas festivities. That cheerful housekeeper remarked that it would be as well to make the house as bright as possible, since The Domestic Prophet declared that something terrible would happen before Christmas. What the event might be, Mrs. Rebson could not tell, as the prophet, after the manner of his kind, was obscure in the wording of his oracles. Nevertheless, Clarice became infected with the vague dread which Mrs. Rebson insisted she felt herself, and the memory of that oddly delivered envelope, containing the stamped picture of the purple fern, did not tend to dissipate her uneasiness. When she left Mrs. Rebson, still prophesying coming woes, like an elderly Cassandra, the girl felt that a walk would do her good, and, putting on her furs, she sallied forth, eager to breathe a less portentous atmosphere.
The day was bright and clear, the snow was hard and clean. In the lucid air lurked the sting of frost. Sitting over a fire, one was apt to shiver; but smart walking brought a colour to the most wan cheeks, and communicated a glow to the whole body. Clarice looked extremely pretty as the exercise tinted her oval face, and sent the warm blood spinning through her youthful veins. She walked in a determined, swinging way, with steadfast eyes and a firmly closed mouth, like a woman who knows her own mind, and who means to have her own way. It needed a very strong man to master this young lady of the new school, and Clarice believed that Ackworth was just the man to exercise authority. Certainly, Dr. Jerce might have mastered her also, as he was stern and strong. But then she did not love Dr. Jerce, and only from the tyrant she loved was Miss Baird ready to take orders.
Finding herself near the vicarage, Clarice determined to enter and see if Ferdy was there. As he had not come back to luncheon, it was probable that he had gone to Prudence Clarke for consolation, a thing Miss Baird quite approved of, as she respected Prudence, and would have been glad to see Ferdy engaged to so sensible a girl. The quarrel at the breakfast table had no doubt left Ferdy fretful and complaining, so it was pretty certain that he would visit Prudence and pour his woes into her sympathetic ears. Ferdy never could keep his troubles to himself, but invariably climbed to the highest house-top to shout out his puny griefs. Clarice wished him to marry Prudence, yet sometimes she doubted if so sensible a girl would tolerate such a baby man as a husband.
The servant who answered the door said that Miss Clarke had gone out skating with Mr. Baird, but that the vicar was in his study. Clarice would have turned away in pursuit of the young people, but that the parson heard her voice and came into the hall. He was an undersized, miserable man, with a head too large for his body, and an awkward, diffident manner, which seemed to continually apologise for the existence of Mr. Nehemiah Clarke. His voice was querulous, and his complaints were incessant. In his rusty black clothes, with his bent frame and untidy hair, he looked a most dismal object, and Clarice, in her then somewhat dejected state of mind, scarcely relished an interview with so cheerless a person. However, she could not help herself, and entered the study with the best grace she could muster.
"There," whimpered Mr. Clarke, waving his hands towards an array of bills, which strewed his desk like autumn leaves, "what do you think of that for Christmas, Clarice? How is a man to preach goodwill towards men, when men won't show any goodwill towards him?"
"But we all get bills at Christmas time," said Miss Baird, consolingly. "I get more than anyone else," moaned the vicar, sinking into the chair before his desk; "why they should come to me, I don't know."
"You should pay as you go, Mr. Clarke."
"I haven't any ready money, Clarice. It's all very well for you, in the lap of luxury; but I have only three hundred a year, and even that small sum comes to me slowly, since people will not pay their tithes without legal threats, and those cost money. I don't eat much, I dress plainly, I never enjoy myself, and keep only one cheap servant, yet the bills will come in. Prudence is responsible for many; she ought to emulate her name, but she won't. Imprudence would suit her better. Oh, dear me, how I can sympathise with Lear."
"I don't think Prudence is extravagant, Mr. Clarke," said Clarice, who resented this placing of burdens on other people's shoulders, "she always seems to me to be a sensible girl."
"In some ways--in some ways," muttered the vicar, discontentedly.
Clarice reflected for a few minutes. From hints dropped by Prudence, she had a shrewd idea of where the vicar's money went. "How is Frank, Mr. Clarke?" she asked, significantly.
"My son. He is still in London, trying to get work. Poor lad, he is very unfortunate. With his education and manners and brains, he ought to be one of the foremost men of the time; but the want of money is a bar to his advancement."
"What is Frank doing?"
"Nothing. He has tried the army, the medical profession, the legal profession, the lecture hall, and even the stage. But, as yet, he has not hit upon the field in which he can display his undoubted abilities to their utmost."
"You support him, I suppose?"
"I can't let the boy starve," said Mr. Clarke, defiantly.
"Well, then, it seems to me that Frank is more to blame than Prudence for your difficulties. He ought to support himself."
"He will some day, when he acquires the position to which his talents will lead him. Then he will bring glory to the Clarkes."
"He only brings misfortune and debts just now," said Clarice, dryly.
"Who says so?" asked the vicar, furiously.
"Prudence tells me that her brother will not do anything, but passes his time in idleness, and constantly comes to you for money. As he is over thirty years of age, he certainly should support himself."
"Poor Frank cannot help his misfortunes."
"I rather think that a man's misfortunes are, as a rule, of his own making, Mr. Clarke. Your own, for instance. You have three hundred a year and a free house. That ought to keep you out of debt; but if you will give all your money to Frank, what can you expect?"
"My dear--my dear," said Mr. Clarke, testily, "a girl like you can't understand these things."
"Oh, yes, I can. Since Uncle Henry has been ill all these years, I have had a great deal to do with business."
The vicar started. "I thought Mr. Barras was your guardian's lawyer."
"So he is. He attends to everything, but Uncle Henry rarely sees Mr. Barras himself, so I have to attend to necessary matters."
"Why doesn't Ferdinand--?"
"Ferdinand!" Clarice made a gesture of contempt.
"He is the same as your son, and spends money rather than earns it."
"My dear, you shouldn't say these things, unbecoming in a young girl's mouth. It is not modest in a woman."
Clarice stood up, very tall and dignified, and rather irritated. "What is the use of talking like that to me, Mr. Clarke. All that idea of the superiority of man is a thing of the past. I am only a woman, and a girl, as you say, but I have five times the sense of Ferdinand, and Uncle Henry trusts me rather than him. Prudence also is clever and sensible. I don't believe that she is extravagant, Mr. Clarke. Frank is the one who spends your money. If you would allow Frank to earn his own living, and let Prudence arrange your affairs, you would soon be out of difficulties."
"Prudence knows nothing of business, Clarice."
"And Frank knows less," retorted the girl, thoroughly angry. "Women have more intuition than men. But there is another way out of your difficulties, Mr. Clarke."
"What is that?" asked the little man, somewhat cowed by the determined demeanour of Miss Baird.
"Ferdy is in love with Prudence. Let them marry, and then I can arrange that your debts will be paid when Ferdy comes in for his money two years hence."
"But in the meantime?" moaned the vicar.
"We can arrange something--that is, if you will stop sending money to Frank. Let him sink or swim, Mr. Clarke. Self-reliance is the sole thing which will make a man of Frank."
"I'll see, I'll see," said Mr. Clarke, evasively, "but if I allow Prudence to marry Ferdinand--and I note that they love one another--do you think he will help me?"
"I shall help you."
"But how can you--?"
"Mr. Clarke, I spoke to Uncle Henry this morning, and he told me that as our guardian, he has the authority to appoint another one at his death. He doesn't trust Ferdy, so he has constituted me the head of our affairs. Ferdy gets two thousand a year, as I do, in two years, but I shall have the casting vote as to how his money is disposed of--at least, up to the age of twenty-five, when he takes it over. If Ferdy marries Prudence next year, I'll allow him a good income, on condition that he pays your debts. He will do it, if I advise, as I shall have the legal power when Uncle Henry dies."
"But if Mr. Horran does not die?"
"Then I'll see what Mr. Barras can do. He is the lawyer, and believes in me. He tells me everything."
Clarke rose, and began to pace the room. "Has Barras told you that Horran lent me one thousand pounds five years ago at ten per cent."
"No," said Clarice, somewhat startled, "is that so?"
"Yes. I am in great trouble over the loan. I borrowed it to help my son Frank, and I have had to pay interest at the rate of ten per cent. every year--that is, one hundred pounds. I have not paid up for three years, so I am indebted to Mr. Horran for three hundred pounds, and he threatens to sell me up--that means ruin."
"I don't believe it," cried Clarice, energetically. "Uncle Henry is a kind man, and would never do such a thing. Who says so?"
"Mr. Barras."
"Then I'll go up to London and see Mr. Barras after Christmas. He ought to have told me about this, but he did not. Why do you not see Uncle Henry yourself, Mr. Clarke?"
"I tried to, but Dr. Jerce would not let me. He said that I would upset Mr. Horran if I talked business to him. I therefore have kept away from the house."
"I noticed that you had not been near us for months," said Clarice, thoughtfully. "But how does Dr. Jerce come to know of the matter?"
"Mr. Barras told him."
Miss Baird flushed in an angry way. "It seems to me that Mr. Barras takes a great deal upon himself," she said, haughtily. "Since Uncle Henry is ill, and trusts me, I am the one to be spoken to, about these matters, and not Dr. Jerce. I'll question Uncle Henry about the loan, and see that everything is put right."
"Then I won't have to pay the three hundred," said the vicar, eagerly. "I can't say that," rejoined Clarice, bluntly. "I'll see what I can do. Of course, if Ferdy would only become engaged to Prudence, I might be able to do much, but as matters stand, Dr. Jerce and Mr. Barras may prove too strong for me."
"But Mr. Horran trusts you--so you say, Clarice?"
"He does. But he-Uncle Henry, I mean--has a great opinion of Dr. Jerce, and in his weak state may be influenced by him. I'll speak to the doctor and to Mr. Barras--more than this I can't promise."
The vicar looked more miserable than ever and twice opened his mouth to speak. Each time he closed it, while Clarice wondered at his hesitation. "Do you think that everything is right with Mr. Horran?" asked Mr. Clarke, at length.
"What do you mean by that?" she asked, startled.
"Mr. Horran has no money, you know, save what he receives from your estate by acting as your guardian."
Clarice stared. "I never knew that," she said, at length. "I understood, of course, that Uncle Henry received a sum for acting as guardian, since that is but right. But he has his own money and the house--"
"The house you live in belonged to your father, and now belongs to you," said Clarke, rapidly, leaning forward with eagerness to emphasise his words. "I know, because I buried both your parents, and was present at the reading of the will. Mr. Horran loved your mother and was trusted by your father; but he never had any money. When your father died he left everything to your mother, in trust for you and Ferdinand. When she went the way of all flesh, she constituted Mr. Horran, who then managed her business, your guardian, as she trusted him, and he was hard up. Did not Mr. Barras tell you all these things, Clarice?"
"No," she said, absently, and began to see that the lawyer had not trusted her so entirely as she had thought--neither had Horran, if the vicar was to be believed. "I shall speak to Uncle Henry," she said, after a pause, "and from him I shall learn the true position of affairs. Meantime, please say nothing, Mr. Clarke."
"No. I'll be silent. But this three hundred interest--?"
"I'll see about that also. I am sure that Uncle Henry does not mean to be hard on you. Of course, business may upset him, since he is so ill, and Dr. Jerce may be right in keeping you away. All the same, it seems to me that Dr. Jerce knows a good deal about our private affairs."
"I am sure that Mr. Horran tells him everything," said Clarke, with a gloomy air, "and Dr. Jerce is not friendly towards me. I don't know why, since we were at college together, but he is not friendly."
Clarice felt puzzled. This conversation with Mr. Clarke opened her eyes to the fact that business was not so easy a matter as she had imagined. If she was to be tricked by Mr. Barras keeping back details of finance, and if Dr. Jerce was influencing Horran secretly, it appeared that she would have some difficulty in straightening out things at the death. Nevertheless, Horran had assured her that when he passed away, she would find everything in good order. Before she could pursue the subject further in her thoughts, the door opened, and Prudence appeared, with Ferdy behind her. Prudence was a brunette, as dark as Ferdy was fair, but tall and handsome and full of life and spirits. From the downward curve of her mouth, it would seem that she had a temper. But just now, she appeared to be filled with joy, and rushed to kiss Clarice. "Dear! dear!" she said, quickly, "Ferdy has--Ferdy has--"
"I am glad," cried Clarice, guessing what had happened with the swift intuition of a woman; "it is exactly what I wanted Ferdy to do."
"Well, then," said Ferdy, who was radiant as a lover, and who evidently had forgiven his sister for the quarrel at breakfast, "I've done it."
"Done what?" asked the vicar, staring open-mouthed. "I have asked Prudence to become my wife."
"Thank God!" said Clarke, devout and egotistic, "my debts will be paid."
On that same night the weather changed with unexampled rapidity from cold to warm. A thick mist descended on Crumel, and the snow began to melt, as though under the influence of a summer sun. The long hours of darkness were filled with the dripping of water, the melting of snow, and the whole country was turned into a vast expanse of slush. The expectations of a White Christmas, entertained by old-fashioned people, vanished, and next day it seemed, from the warm humidity of the foggy air, as though the season of Yule had given place to early autumn.
Clarice looked out of her bedroom-window on to damp green lawns, from which patches of snow were quickly disappearing, and experienced a sense of discomfort, which she set down to the queer weather. Perhaps the earthquakes in the earlier part of the year had disarranged the English climate and altered the seasons, but assuredly the atmosphere was decidedly unhealthy. Yet the vague fears of the girl may have been less due to the sudden change of temperature than to the feeling of apprehension she entertained, since her conversation with Mr. Clarke, that money matters were not so satisfactory as she had thought them to be.
Hitherto Clarice had implicitly trusted Mr. Barras in her innocence of worldly ways. He had always been frank with her, so far as she could see, and having been delegated by Horran to tell her of all things connected with the estate, Clarice had believed that she knew everything. Now, if the vicar were to be believed, it appeared that Horran had lent him money, and was pressing for the payment of the interest. Also, Dr. Jerce seemed to know of the private business of the Baird orphans, and to be influencing Horran against the wretched Mr. Clarke. Certainly, the vicar was not a very estimable character, and his infatuation for his spendthrift son merited contempt rather than approbation. Nevertheless, Horran had known Clarke all his life and had been to college with him and with Jerce. He therefore, assuredly, should not be hard on the parson, whose sole fault was affection for an unworthy son. Also, if Jerce was influencing Horran, as Clarke suggested, he might advise leniency instead of bearing hard on the man, especially at Christmas time. Barras also appeared to be anxious to force the vicar into discharging the interest at a time when he could ill afford to pay three pounds, much less three hundred; and, more than this, Barras wilfully concealed from Clarice the facts of the case. If the lawyer withheld this item, he certainly withheld others, and Clarice, staring out of her window at the thaw, began to find herself doubting the honesty of Mr. Barras.
Added to these troubles were the facts of Horran's mysterious illness, and the mystery of the purple fern. More than ever, Clarice was determined not to speak to Jerce about the missive, which had sent Horran into his second deep sleep. Putting aside the fact that Jerce was in league with Barras--as it would appear--to bankrupt the vicar, the doctor, being in love with her, assuredly was not a person to whom she could talk freely. Then again, Ferdy's manner alarmed the girl. After his first outburst of joy on becoming engaged to Prudence, he had relapsed into moody silence, and seemed to be much worried over something, which he refused to explain to his sister.
In vain, on the previous night, had Clarice implored him to be entirely frank. Ferdy, declaring that there was nothing wrong, had maintained his moody manner, and had drunk much more wine than was good for a man with a weak brain. On the whole, Clarice, after reflection, concluded that her uneasiness was due less to the unexampled weather than to the domestic mysteries, by which she seemed to be surrounded.
On leaving her room, she found that Ferdy had already breakfasted, and had gone out. Presuming that he was haunting Prudence with the impatience of a young lover, Clarice thought no more about his absence, but breakfasted alone. Then she repaired to Mr. Horran's room to speak to him of the many matters which were on her mind. It was just as well, she thought, to go to the fountain head at once, and to learn if Horran really desired to sell up the vicar.
"Is Uncle Henry awake?" she asked, when Chalks presented himself. "No, Miss," was the prompt reply, "he is sound asleep, as usual."
"Dear me. And how long will he sleep?"
"Dr. Wentworth can't say, Miss. We tried to wake him, and can't, so Dr. Wentworth said it would be better to let him sleep until he had a consultation with Dr. Jerce."
Clarice cast a look at the French window, and saw that it was open wide, in spite of the fog. "I see that Dr. Wentworth has been here, Chalks," she said, remembering the whimsical explanation of the man about the disagreement between the two physicians. "Yes, Miss," said Chalks, casting a look at the window, "but when Dr. Jerce comes this afternoon, he will have that closed."
"Oh is Dr. Jerce coming this afternoon?"
"Yes, Miss. Dr. Wentworth doesn't like this constant sleeping of the master, and has sent for Dr. Jerce to consult."
"It is just as well," said Clarice, crossing to the bed and looking at the pale, calm face of the still sleeping man. "I want to talk to Dr. Jerce about some business."
This was hardly the term. She wished to ask Jerce why the grey man had searched his pockets, and why he was influencing Barras and Horran to be hard on the vicar. The matter of the purple fern, she intended to relate to no one but Anthony. A memory of his name made her glance at her watch, and she noted that he would soon make his appearance. Horran seemed to be sleeping as placidly as an infant, so she felt that there was no cause for alarm. Bending to kiss the placid face, she turned slowly towards the door.
"By the way, Chalks, have you seen Mr. Ferdinand this morning?" she asked, thinking that her brother might have paid a visit to the invalid.
"Yes, Miss," said the valet, promptly. "I saw him out of this," he waved his hand towards the open French window, "going to the Savoy Hotel."
"Oh," ejaculated Clarice, and hastily left the room. It seemed strange to her that Ferdy should seek out the mother of Sarah Dumps, just when he became engaged. Surely he did not love the dancer, when he had only lately proposed to Prudence. Remembering Dr. Jerce's remarks, and recalling the conversation of Mrs. Rebson, the girl felt uneasy on account of her brother. Ferdy seemed to have two strings to his bow. Sarah Dumps was not at home, certainly, yet,--here Clarice stopped and thought. A sudden idea struck her. She returned quickly to the sick-room. "Chalks, you go sometimes to the Savoy Hotel," she remarked, "were you there last night?"
"For half an hour, Miss," replied the valet, apologetically, "Mrs. Rebson watched master while I was away. I hope I didn't do wrong, but master seemed to be sleeping so quietly that I thought I might get a breath of fresh air."
"No! no! that's all right, Chalks. But do you know if Mrs. Dumps' daughter has returned for Christmas."
"Yes, Miss. She came back last night, and a very pretty girl she is, Miss, quite a--"
"Yes, yes! I have seen her," interrupted Clarice, hurriedly, and went away feeling more upset than ever. This, then, was the reason of Ferdy's visit to the Savoy Hotel. Sarah Dumps was in the field, and Ferdy was in her nets. Yet weak as the boy was, it seemed incredible that he should propose to one woman and immediately seek the company of another. Here, then, was another trouble for Clarice, and she did not know very well what to do. It was impossible to speak to Ferdy, as she had no proof that he loved Sarah Dumps, save from what Mrs. Rebson had said. A simple denial on the part of Ferdy would take the wind out of her sails, so to speak, and she would be helpless to do anything. On the other hand, Clarice felt certain that in some way Ferdy was playing a double game. She knew his weak character too well to give him the benefit of the doubt. For all she knew he might be engaged to both Sarah Dumps and Prudence at the same time. "Oh, dear me," cried her heart, "I wish Anthony would marry me and take me away from all these troubles;" but even as she thought, the wish seemed cowardly. She would have to remain and fight Ferdy's battles and those of the vicar. Also, if the purple fern meant any harm to Mr. Horran, she would be forced to help him also. The sole thing she could do was to seek Anthony's advice and aid.
Towards noon that young man arrived, having driven over from Gattlinsands in his dog-cart. Usually he came over on a motor bicycle, but as he explained to Clarice between kisses, the sudden thaw had made the roads death-traps in the way of slipping. "I'm jolly well splashed," said Ackworth, laughing, "but if Leander swam the Hellespont to see Hero, why shouldn't I wade through acres of slush to see you?"
"Of course," smiled Clarice, who felt much lighter-hearted, now that this strong young lover was present, "only you were driving instead of wading, my dear Anthony."
"Well, I dare say Leander would have taken a penny steamer had there been one," said Anthony, throwing back his handsome head, "so that makes my parallel the more perfect."
Clarice laughed again, and drew him silently to a sofa, whereon they sat hand in hand, after the delightfully foolish manner of lovers. Ackworth was certainly a Swain of whom any girl might have been proud. He was not the desperately good-looking god of the Family Herald, but was comely enough in his youth and strength to pass in a crowd. His closely clipped hair was fair, as was his moustache. He had a bronzed face and a pair of merry blue eyes, and was as well set up as military training and constant out-of-door exercise could make him. Finally, he had a well-groomed, clean look, and anyone could see that he was a thoroughly wholesome, honourable gentleman. Clarice, of course, deemed him to be perfection, which he was not; but he had more virtues than faults, and assuredly was masterful enough to satisfy the most exacting woman. As a Greek god, Anthony Ackworth was a failure; as a man to trust and love he came off very well. That he was not superlatively clever, did not lower Clarice's appreciation of his character.
"Well?" asked Anthony, unoriginally, "how are things?"
"All wrong," replied Clarice, quickly. "I have been most anxious to see you, dear. I want help."
"I should think you were clever enough to do without any help I could give you," said Ackworth, admiringly, for he looked upon Miss Baird as a Queen Elizabeth-cum-Catherine-George Eliot kind of woman. "Is Mr. Horran any better?"
"No--that is, he's asleep."
"He was asleep last time I was here."
"Yes. He then slept for ten hours and woke up to drop asleep again for a longer period."
"What a dormouse sort of existence. Is it that which worries you?"
"No. Uncle Henry is no better and no worse than he ever was. I have several things to worry me. Ferdy is engaged to Prudence Clarke."
"Lucky man. She's a pretty girl," said Anthony; "that shouldn't worry you, dearest. You wished to have her for a sister-in-law."
"Yes, but there's Sarah Dumps."
"What a name. Who is Sarah Dumps?"
"Butterfly."
"Butterfly what?"
"You know. She dances and sings under the name of--"
"Oh!" Anthony was suddenly enlightened. "I remember. I saw a dancer called Butterfly at the Mascot Music-hall. She's pretty, but not the kind of woman I admire."
"I am afraid Ferdy does," sighed Clarice.
"What. You don't mean to say--"
"Yes, I do. Listen to what Mrs. Rebson says." And Clarice related the conversation with the old housekeeper. "And you see," ended Miss Baird, anxiously, "if Sarah Dumps has come back, and Ferdy has gone to see her so immediately, I am afraid he is entangled with her."
Ackworth shook his head. "No, my dear," he said, very decidedly, "Ferdy is not clever, but, at least, he is a gentleman. No man would propose to one woman, and then immediately visit another old flame. I don't believe there is anything in the matter. Besides, Butterfly--to give her the name she is best known by--is ambitious of a richer husband than your brother, to say nothing of her wish for a title."
"But Mrs. Dumps--"
"Oh, the mother living here naturally thinks Ferdy a good match."
"Well, he is. He will have two thousand a year."
"Butterfly will want ten thousand. From all I have heard she has a wonderful capacity for spending."
"Is she--is she--," Clarice hesitated, "quite respectable?"
"Oh, quite," assented Ackworth, decisively, "she's too clever a young woman to play fast and loose with her reputation. She wants to marry well, you see, and therefore keeps straight. But I don't think you need be afraid of Ferdy, darling. He's only one of the many moths that have fluttered round that candle. Now that he's engaged he'll forget her. And, after all, it's mere talk. He may not be in love with Butterfly at all."
"Why should he visit her, so--"
"He may have gone to see the mother, or to have a drink," said Anthony, vaguely. "Ferdy's an ass, but he's all right."
"But Dr. Jerce says he drinks and gambles, and--"
"I'll have to talk to Ferdy, and see if I can lead him in the right way," said Ackworth, with some impatience. "Don't trouble yourself over your brother, dearest. Every young man of that age is more or less of an ass. But it's only like a young colt kicking his heels in a flowery meadow."
"Then I need not worry, Anthony?"
"No, I'll speak to Ferdy and take this especial worry off your shoulders, my dear. Anything else?"
"This." Clarice held out the letter, without explanation, as she wanted to know if the elusive memory would come more clearly to Anthony. He opened the envelope in silence, then sprang up with a shout when he saw the contents.
"The Purple Fern, by Jupiter!" said Ackworth, staring. "What does it mean?" asked Clarice, vaguely terrified.
Ackworth looked anxious. "Nothing very pleasant," he muttered; "I thought it had been stamped out."
"What had been stamped out?"
"This purple fern business. Don't you remember that the papers were full of it a year ago, Clarry?"
Clarice put her hand to her head. The memory came back with a rush, and she now knew why the pictorial representation of the fern had been vaguely familiar to her. "Oh," she exclaimed, "does it mean death to Uncle Henry?"
"What?" Anthony looked relieved. "Thenyoudid not get it?"
"No. Uncle Henry told me that he found it outside his bedroom window. I expect he remembered about the murders, and received the shock he talked about. Why do you look so relieved?"
"I thought that the warning might have been directed to you," muttered Ackworth, turning over the envelope, "apparently it is not, and perhaps not even to Mr. Horran, since there is no address."
"Tell me, Anthony, exactly what it means," said Clarice, anxiously. "I remember reading a lot about those murders, but I almost forget."
"I wonder at that, considering how we talked them over," said Ackworth, sitting down again, and slipping his arm round her as though to protect her from harm. "Don't you remember, darling, that one person after another was found murdered in houses and in streets, with a purple fern stamped on the forehead. And in every case, a warning of a stamped fern was sent beforehand. Then the police caught one man red-handed. He was tried and hanged, but he would not give away his associates. But the police gathered that he was one of a gang who killed people to get money--since all the victims were wealthy--and in every instance the sign of the association, a purple fern, was stamped on the forehead of the victim. But with the hanging of the man that was caught, the murders ceased. This is the first time I have heard of a new warning being given. I should recommend Mr. Horran to take care of himself."
"Oh, Anthony, how terrible. Do you really think that he is in danger of his life?"
"Judging by the fact that seven people, men and women, were killed, after such a warning had been sent, I do think it is dangerous. I shall see the local police about this at once. The house must be watched. I wonder why Horran is to be killed. Is he very rich?"
Recollecting what Clarke had said, Clarice could reply easily: "On the contrary, he has nothing but what he earns by acting as our guardian. I wish he could explain exactly how he picked up the letter; but he is still asleep."
At this minute the wheels of a carriage were heard. Clarice, wondering if the new arrival was Jerce, opened the French window and stepped out on to the terrace, now sloppy with mixed snow and water and mud. She strolled to the end, followed by Anthony, and saw that Dr. Jerce had indeed arrived. He was stepping out of a hired fly, and had just handed the man his fare, when he caught sight of Clarice. At once he came towards her with outstretched hand. She took it unwillingly enough. "I received a wire from Wentworth," he said, anxiously. "I hope my old friend is not very ill again."
"No. He's in a sound sleep, and Dr. Wentworth is puzzled over the length of his slumber. Come in this way." And she went along the terrace.
"Thank you. Ah, Mr. Ackworth, how are you? Quite a change in the weather, isn't it? And I--why, what's the matter?"
The ejaculation was caused by a cry from Clarice. She had picked up a small object, which the thaw had revealed. It was a small gold box, and on its face was set a curved fern in amethysts.
"The Purple Fern again!" exclaimed Ackworth, amazed.
Ackworth and Clarice looked at one another dumfounded, and Dr. Jerce, with considerable amazement, looked at them. Finally, the eyes of all three rested on the object picked up by the girl. It outwardly appeared to be a snuffbox, and, with its surface of dull gold, wherein the amethystine fern was delicately set, looked an exquisite specimen of the jeweller's art. But to Jerce there seemed nothing about it to startle the young people. Yet Anthony appeared grave and Clarice even frightened.
"One would think you had picked up a serpent," said Jerce, jestingly; "what is there about that snuffbox which frightens you?"
"The Purple Fern!" she replied, pointing to the amethysts.
As the doctor still seemed to be puzzled, Ackworth explained. "Do you not remember those murders of a year ago?"
"Murders? Oh, er--yes. There was much in the papers about them, but I read the public journals very little. All my time is taken up with medical works. Just refresh my memory, will you, Ackworth? The dead bodies were stamped with a fern, weren't they?"
"Yes--on the forehead. Seven people were stabbed to the heart. One in Kensington Gardens, one in the Strand, one in a house at Hampstead, and one--"
"Yes! yes! I remember now," interrupted Jerce, impatiently, "but the murderer was caught and hanged, if I forget not."
"Onemurderer was caught," said Anthony, with emphasis, "but he had accomplices, whose names he refused to reveal."
"Really. But there have been no more murders since."
"No. For over a year they have ceased; but this," Ackworth pointed to the golden box, "and the warning received by Mr. Horran, look as though the accomplices who were not caught intend to begin another series of crimes."
Jerce looked confounded. "What's that you say, about Horran having received a warning?" he asked.
Before Ackworth could reply, Clarice drew the attention of the two men to the box, which she had opened. It was divided into two compartments, one of which was empty, while the other was filled with a silken pad, moistened with purple ink.
"Look!" cried Miss Baird, aghast, as well she might be. "This is the very box which contained the stamp for impressing the purple fern on the forehead of the victims. Here is the pad, but the stamp has gone. Oh, Anthony, how did this come here? The letter, too, and--"
"What letter?" asked Jerce, soothing her agitation, while Ackworth took over the box to examine it.
"It's not exactly a letter," said Clarice, striving to appear calm, "only Uncle Henry found an envelope outside his window yesterday. It contained a sheet of paper stamped,--but Mr. Ackworth can show it to you."
"Here it is," remarked Anthony, taking the envelope from his pocket, and passing it to the now grave doctor, "and now this box has been found, it seems to me that Mr. Horran is in danger of death."
Jerce examined the picture of the fern, turned and twisted the envelope to see if there was any address or postmark, and looked attentively at the dainty box. "Humph!" said he, cautiously, "the assassin must be a man of taste and culture, since he designed such a receptacle for his india-rubber stamp, and uses such costly stationery."
"A man," echoed Clarice, with a sudden idea, "the assassin may not be a man at all. That box and paper look as though a woman--"
"No," interrupted the doctor, decisively, "the person who dropped this gold box here is a man. And without doubt he is connected with those wretches who used the purple fern to stamp their handiwork. Yes," he spoke half to himself, "there certainly must be a gang."
"Of course," chimed in Ackworth, quickly, "the man who was caught defied the authorities to stamp out the criminals. He admitted that he had three accomplices--"
"Two, I remember now," broke in Clarice, "two."
"Well, then, he admitted that he had two accomplices, but refused to betray their names or hiding places. Also, he warned the Government that they would avenge his death; but for the last twelve months they have not done so. Now," Ackworth pointed to the box and the warning missive with great significance, "we must take steps to save Mr. Horran's life," he ended, decisively.
"Certainly! Certainly," agreed Jerce. "What's to be done?"
"I'll go at once to the local police."
"No, I should not do that, Mr. Ackworth. It will be better to come with me to London to-night and report the case at Scotland Yard."
"But in the meantime, Uncle Henry may be killed."
"Chalks can stop with him day and night, until a detective arrives."
"A detective!" echoed Clarice, in dismay, "and in this house."
"Why not?" asked Jerce, quietly. "We must take strong measures. I see no reason why Horran should be killed, as he is not a wealthy man; and this gang always selected their victims, both men and women, from rich people. Perhaps to supply these luxuries." He touched the valuable box and expensive envelope. "But certainly the man in grey means to kill Horran, else why the warning?"
"The man in grey" asked Ackworth, inquiringly.
"Ferdy told me about that," said Clarice, quickly. "I was going to ask you about the man. Why did he search your pockets?"
"I did not know at the time," said the doctor, gravely, "but I know now. Come this way." He walked into the drawing-room through the window. "We must speak softly, so that no one may overhear."
"But we are quite safe here," said Clarice, as Anthony closed the window; "why are you afraid doctor?"
"Walls have ears, my dear Miss Baird, and the remaining man of the triumvirate is clever and cunning."
"The remaining man," said Ackworth; "then another of the three is dead?"
Jerce nodded and sat down quietly. He looked somewhat upset. "It is a very unpleasant business," he said, anxiously, "and I am to blame in not having allowed Ferdinand to inform the police about the assault made on me the other night. Had the man in grey been arrested, this warning or threat might not have come. Also the fact of the box with the purple fern would have ensured his hanging, as one of the gang who committed those cruel murders. I am much to blame. All I can say is, that not until I returned to Harley Street on that night did I guess why the man in grey wanted to search my pockets."
"And why did he?" asked Clarice, who had been listening to this explanation with a puzzled look.
"That's a long story."
"Then begin at the beginning," said Ackworth, impetuously, "for I want to know everything so that I can see my way."
"To what, Mr. Ackworth?"
"To protecting Mr. Horran, and getting this blackguard arrested."
Jerce nodded approvingly. "I shall lend you all the assistance I can, Mr. Ackworth," said he, firmly. "Unless this man is caught, he will be a veritable scourge to society."
"The story--the story!" cried Clarice, with impatience.
"It is, indeed, a story; more like romance than real life," said Jerce, quickly. "You know, Miss Baird, that I have a consulting room in Tea Street, Whitechapel."
"Yes, Mr. Horran told me that also," said Anthony. "You physic poor people for nothing."
"I do. I earn so much money in the West End that I think it is only right to use my talents for the poor. We must do what good we can in this world, you know, Mr. Ackworth. I don't set up for being a philanthropist, but in my humble way I do what good I can. Well, then," he resumed, quickly, seeing that Clarice was growing impatient again, "I was there--in Tea Street--some two months ago, and attended on a young man, who was dying of consumption. He appeared to be clever, refined, and intelligent, and, for that miserably poor quarter, his room was furnished with great taste and somewhat expensively. He seemed to be absolutely alone, and I did what I could to save his life. All my skill was of no avail, and he died. As I had refused to receive a fee, he gave me a sealed envelope, and told me to carry it constantly upon my person."
"Why?" asked Clarice, wonderingly.
"I'll tell you later. The dying man also warned me that if I was attacked by a fellow with a criss-cross scar on his left cheek, to open the envelope. Then the man died and was buried. I did not attach much importance to the sealed letter, and--"
"Didn't you open it?" asked the girl, eagerly.
"Not until the man in grey attacked me."
"I should have opened it at once," she said, quickly.
Jerce smiled. "Eve's curiosity," he answered; "however, I am not a woman, so I refrained from unsealing the envelope, and after a time I slipped it, with some other papers, into my safe, and thought no more about the matter. But when this grey man attacked me the other night, the incident was recalled to my mind, but not," added Jerce, with emphasis, "not until Ferdinand told me that he had seen a man in grey clothes with a scar on his cheek. I then returned to London and opened the envelope. I found therein a paper containing a name and address."
"What were they?" asked Anthony, who was listening attentively.
"Alfred Osip, 14, Rough Lane, Stepney. Also there were a few lines, stating that the man who wrote them--my consumptive patient--and Osip were the surviving members of the Purple Fern gang, and that if Osip's room in Stepney were searched, papers proving the guilt of all would be found. Well, then, Mr. Ackworth, one man has been hanged, another has died of consumption, and the third, Alfred Osip, is the person who attacked me on that terrace, and no doubt, in the struggle, dropped this golden box, which at one time undoubtedly contained the india-rubber stamp used to mark the victims."
"I see," said Clarice, "but why should Osip attack you, doctor?"
Jerce looked at her in surprise. "My dear, you are usually quicker in seeing things," he said, rebukefully. "Of course, Osip in some way knew that his dying accomplice had betrayed him, and that I carried the sealed letter--as he thought--on my person. That was why he searched. I should have had him arrested, when Ferdinand suggested going for the police; but I never dreamed that the wretch was connected with the Purple Fern gang. However, I have made what amends I can. I went at once to Scotland Yard, and told the authorities what I have told you. Now, this warning to Horran--undoubtedly sent by Osip--and this box, will be valuable evidence. He may be caught red-handed, if he attempts the murder. But you can see now, Mr. Ackworth, why I suggest that you should not inform the local police. Osip is cunning and dangerous, so it will be advisable for us to get a detective from London to see into the matter. I fear the Crumel police may bungle the business. I return to London this afternoon--or, to be precise, this evening, so I shall at once communicate this new discovery to the Scotland Yard authorities."
Ackworth nodded. "I think your plan is the best, Doctor," he said, in a meditative voice, "only I hope this brute will not murder Mr. Horran in the meantime."
"I suggest that Chalks should remain constantly with Mr. Horran."
"Will not that arouse Mr. Horran's suspicions?" asked Anthony. "After all, in his delicate state of health, it will not do to let him know that he is in danger of death."
"Uncle Henry knows already," said Clarice, impetuously. "The discovery of the envelope gave him a shock--he said so, and wanted to see you, doctor. I expect the sight of the fern recalled the murders to him at once. I had an idea that the fern was familiar to me, but until Mr. Ackworth refreshed my memory, I could not be sure."
"I'll speak to Chalks," said Jerce, rising, "but it will be just as well that no one else in the house should know about the matter, and----"
"There's one who knows," said a voice, coming from a distant alcove, and Ferdy's head appeared over the back of a deep leather armchair, which faced towards a window.
The doctor started and looked displeased. "Ferdinand," he said, in an angry voice, "why did you listen to what does not concern you?"
"I think it concerns me a great deal," said Ferdy, coolly, and came forward into the full light of the room, very pale, and with ruffled hair. "I went to sleep in that chair, and woke up at the sound of your voices. I listened, half unconsciously, and then, when the story became interesting, I listened with all my ears. As the chair-back is towards you, I expect you did not see me."
"I wish you had come out, Ferdy," said Clarice, much annoyed, as she recalled her conversation with Ackworth, "how long have you been sleeping?"
"Not very long. I came in through the window, when you were out on the terrace."
Ackworth looked hard at Ferdy to see if he was lying, but could only make out that the young man looked extremely upset. He remarked upon it with some dryness, and Baird turned on him at once with the fractiousness of a spoilt child. "That story has made me quite sick," said he, restlessly. "I don't want to be murdered in my bed."
"The warning was not sent to you," said Clarice, contemptuously.
"If it had been, I'd have gone to the police station right off. I wish you had let me go on that night, doctor."
"I wish I had," said Jerce, regretfully. "However, it's too late now, and we must do the best we can. Don't say a word about this to anyone, Ferdinand."
"I jolly well won't. I don't wish to be mixed up with these horrid things," said Baird. "I'm going upstairs to lie down now. I was sleepy before with walking, but now I'm quite sick with--"
"Sleepy with walking," whispered Clarice, drawing close to him. "Ferdy, you have been drinking in the Savoy Hotel. Your eyes are red and your cheeks are pale. You have been--"
"Oh, leave me alone," said Ferdy, rudely, and twitching his sleeve from Clarice's hand, he abruptly left the room.
Anthony bit his lip. "That young monkey deserves a kicking," he said, sharply; "if he were not your brother, Clarice, I should break his neck."
Dr. Jerce started. Already the girl had called the man by his Christian name, and now the man was returning the compliment. Clarice coloured with genuine annoyance, as Jerce was the last man to whom she wanted the secret of her engagement revealed. The doctor looked sharply from one to the other, but, saying nothing, walked towards the door, with official composure. Clarice did not know if he guessed the truth, or if he deemed the interchange of familiar names mere slips of the tongue. Jerce's face was inscrutable.
"Will you come with me to see our patient?" he asked Clarice, politely.
"Certainly, doctor. Please remain here, Mr. Ackworth." She cast a side glance at Jerce to see if he noted the stiff address, but he made no sign. "I shall return almost directly."
Anthony looked puzzled, as he could not understand why Clarice had coloured when speaking to the doctor, and was perfectly unaware that Jerce had hinted at a proposal. However, as the presence of a third person did not permit of an explanation, he merely bowed his acquiescence. Clarice looked at her lover for one moment in a hesitating manner, then hastily followed the doctor.
She caught up with him at the door of Mr. Horran's bedroom, and they entered without speaking. As usual--since Wentworth had last seen the patient--the French window was wide open. Jerce immediately shut it sharply.
"I have told you a dozen times to keep this window closed," he said, severely, to Chalks.
"I don't open it, sir," protested the valet. "Dr. Wentworth--"
"He has his views and I have mine," said Jerce, imperiously. "Mr. Horran is my patient, and Dr. Wentworth is merely called in, as a local practitioner, to act while I am absent. The window must be kept closed day and night. Do you hear?"
"Yes, sir," said Chalks, sulkily. "I think master is waking, sir." Both Jerce and Clarice turned towards the bed, and saw that Horran was sitting up. He smiled in a dreamy way, when he caught sight of his old friend, but seemed disinclined to talk. Jerce felt the man's pulse, and listened to the beating of his heart. Then he produced an ophthalmoscope, and examined the eyes, turning up the lids delicately with his fingers. After a few minutes he drew back with a puzzled expression and shook his head, while Horran, in a semiconscious condition, sank back on his pillow.
"Well?" asked Clarice, eagerly.
Jerce shrugged his shoulders. "As usual, I can say nothing," he replied, in a low voice. "I can find no trace of optic-neuritis, and the visual acuity is normal. On my next visit, when Wentworth is present, I shall make a more precise examination."
"What is to be done?"
"Nothing at present. I never met with a more interesting, or more perplexing case in all my experience. I would give much to know the true cause of these symptoms. I must return to town by the three o'clock train," concluded the doctor, glancing at his watch.
"No!" said a strong voice from the bed, and there they saw Horran, sitting up, apparently wide awake. The sudden change was one quite characteristic of his mysterious disease. "No," repeated the sick man, with an anxious glance at Jerce, "you and I must have a talk, Daniel. Things must be settled between us."
"Yes, yes," said Jerce, good-naturedly; then sank his voice to address Clarice. "He apparently wants to talk about his will. Leave me alone with him. Take Chalks with you."
Clarice kissed her guardian, but he took no notice of her, as his eyes were steadily fixed on the doctor's strong, calm face. "Things must be settled between us," repeated Horran, as Clarice and Chalks departed.