The dead having been buried, and the will read, and the business arranged by Mr. Barras, with the assistance of Clarice, things settled down into the usual quiet jog-trot of existence. The reward offered for the apprehension of Alfred Osip remained unclaimed, as neither Sims, nor his fellow-detectives, could discover the whereabouts of the assassin. He had vanished as completely as though the earth had swallowed him up, and gradually all interest in the case died away. Even in Crumel, people almost forgot, and, indeed, Horran had been merely a name to the townspeople for so long, that he was not missed, as a more prominent man would have been.
Ferdy returned to London and to his studies under Dr. Jerce on the day after the funeral, leaving Clarice to manage affairs. The doctor himself never reappeared again at Crumel for some time, and never even sent a message through Ferdy when the boy wrote. Nevertheless, Clarice could not help thinking that in some way Jerce was not inactive, and that he would yet make trouble. She had attempted to see Mr. Clarke and his daughter, after Ferdy had taken his departure; but found, to her surprise--for the parson was a notable stay-at-home--that they had gone to Brighton for a few weeks. Alocum tenensoccupied the pulpit of the ancient church, and his sermons pleased the congregation much more than the discourses of Mr. Clarke. Prudence had left a note for Clarice, saying that her father was ill, and had to take a rest, and also asking her to do nothing about the thousand pound loan until the vicar returned. But Clarice noted that the girl gave no address where letters might be sent to, and on making enquiries at the vicarage, found that the same reticence had been observed there. Mr. Clarke's letters, therefore, accumulated until his return--in three weeks. Clarice heard the news, when she was conversing with Anthony.
Captain Ackworth came over nearly every day, and had long conversations with Clarice. He urged her--now that she was her own mistress--to marry him forthwith, and be happy, but this she resolutely declined to do. On this very occasion, three weeks after the burial of Henry Horran, the young man was still urging, and Clarice was still refusing.
"Dear," she said to her lover, "I have my duty to perform towards Ferdy."
Anthony, who was walking up and down the long drawing-room, uttered an angry growl. "Why should you make yourself miserable over that silly boy?" he demanded, crossly.
"Just because he is a silly boy and my brother. Wait until he is married to Prudence, and then I'll become your wife, whenever you like, my dear. I'm sure," added Clarice, with a sigh, "I would give anything to marry you now, and be happy."
"That rests with yourself," said Anthony, coming to the sofa and putting his arm round her waist. "Clarice, you suffer too much from a very aggressive conscience."
"All the better for our married life," said the girl, gaily, "think how anxious I shall be to please my fireside tyrant."
"I am afraid you will be the tyrant, dearest. See how unable I am to make you do what I want."
"Because it would not be right, Anthony. I wish to settle all things connected with the past before I begin a new life with you."
"I fancied--according to your own way of putting it--that the new epoch had begun," joked Ackworth.
"It has, and it has not. My new epoch begins with my marriage to you, darling, and the old epoch ended with Uncle Henry's death. This is a kind of interregnum--"
"Which will end--?"
"When Ferdy is married."
"And when will that be?"
"As soon as I can arrange. Anthony, what is the use of talking more about the matter? I have told you how necessary it is, that Ferdy should have someone to guide him. While he is unmarried I must be his guide, but when Prudence becomes his wife, I have every hope that she will be able to keep him in order."
"Well, then, I wish you would marry the young scamp as soon as you can," said Ackworth, rather wounded. "It seems to me, Clarice, that you love him more than you do me."
"My dearest, the weakest always require the most love. You are strong, Anthony; you can walk alone. But poor weak Ferdy--"
"Selfish, greedy Ferdy," contradicted Ackworth. "I should like to give him a good thrashing."
"Well," said Clarice, musingly; "I don't think that would hurt him."
"It would," said Ackworth, grimly, "if I administered it."
"What nonsense! Don't frown"--she smoothed away a wrinkle or two on his forehead, and then kissed him as he was about to speak. "I do not wish to argue any more, my dear, obstinate, darling sweetheart. I may as well tell you that the Clarkes return to-morrow, as I heard this morning. I'll see them in the afternoon, and arrange as soon as possible about Ferdy's marriage. Then--and not till then--we,----"
"All right," interrupted Anthony, and stole a kiss in his turn, "but will Ferdy give up that dancing girl?"
"Why, I told you that he had done so. Zara went away immediately after the funeral, and her mother accompanied her to stop in Town for a week or so. Ferdy has forgotten all about Zara by this time. It is just as well," sighed Clarice, "as I had to pay those awful bills. Two thousand pounds, Anthony. Think of it."
"Oh, I always knew that Ferdy could get through no end of cash," said Ackworth, coolly, "especially when Butterfly had him in tow. But now that he has escaped her, I dare say he'll marry Miss Clarke."
"He is willing enough to do so," said Clarice, "and I think that he really loves her, as much as his weak nature will allow him to love anyone but himself. The opposition--so I gathered from Ferdy--is on the part of Mr. Clarke."
"But why, seeing that Mr. Clarke is in your debt, and should be glad that his daughter should make a rich marriage?"
"I can't explain, Anthony. Mr. Clarke certainly seemed to be pleased when the marriage was announced--that is, the engagement. Why he should have changed his mind, I can't say. But I'll know to-morrow."
"Well, then, when this is settled we can look after our own happiness?" said the Captain.
"Yes. You know, I want to have you, all to myself."
"I know, I know. I am of the same way of thinking. Also my father and mother are most anxious to meet you again. They are old, and want a sweet daughter in the house. I am an only child, you know, Clarice, so when I marry you I'll chuck the army, and we can live near the old people."
"I should not like you to leave the army," said Clarice, thoughtfully; "you must have something to do in life."
"I'll make love to you, dear. However, I'll obey your slightest command. Indeed, Clarice, I often wish that you would allow me to help you now."
"In what way. I have arranged all business affairs with Mr. Barras. The search for Osip is in the hands of the detectives. I am arranging about Ferdy's future as I tell you, and--and--well, everything is going smoothly. There's nothing to be done."
"Have you found out where that forty thousand pounds went?"
"Not a trace of it. Uncle Henry received it in gold, but we have searched the room and the house and even the garden, without coming upon any buried treasure. Chalks declares that he never heard Uncle Henry say anything about money, and never saw him with any save a few sovereigns."
"Could Mr. Horran have hidden the gold without Chalks knowing anything about the hiding?"
"Oh, yes. Chalks was not always with Uncle Henry. He was frequently away for hours, and rarely sat up with him a night, unless by the doctors' orders. Uncle Henry received the gold in small sums, so could easily hide it if he wished."
"Or spend it in London," said Ackworth, significantly.
"Ah, you mean that Uncle Henry went secretly to London," said Clarice, recalling the story Anthony had told about the Shah's Rooms.
"Well, I saw him there with Osip, you know."
"Are you sure that his companion was Osip?"
"Yes. I did not know at the time. But when Jerce described that criss-cross scar and the thin, lean figure of the man, I am sure it was Osip. And Mr. Horran also. I knewhimwell enough," ended Ackworth, with emphasis, "and even in the glimpse I caught of him, I was certain."
"But I can't see how Uncle Henry, ill as he was, could have travelled to town," objected Clarice.
"My dear, we argued all this before, and I stated then, as I state now, that a quick motor-car could easily take Mr. Horran from here to London. And now, Clarice, this large sum of money which is missing, points to the fact that Mr. Horran must have secretly led a gay life, and that his illness was merely an excuse to hide his real existence."
"No, no!" said Clarice, with horror, "I can't think Uncle Henry was so wicked; and remember, the doctors found out what he suffered from, and that it was a real disease."
"Humph! Perhaps," said Ackworth, grudgingly; "but the money?"
"I can't say anything about that."
"If Mr. Horran had forty thousand paid to him in gold," said Anthony, firmly, "he must either have spent it by secretly going to town, and to places like the Shah's Rooms, where I saw him; or he must have concealed the money somewhere. Now you can't find the money and the lawyer can't account for it in a business way. It only remains, from a common-sense point of view, that Horran really was a profligate, and used his illness as a mask."
"But the doctors--both Dr. Jerce and Dr. Wentworth--say that the post-mortem examination showed that Uncle Henry really was ill," persisted Clarice, much distressed. "The thing in the brain, whatever they called it, quite accounted for the symptoms which so puzzled them."
"Then I give it up," said Anthony.
"So do I," replied Clarice, promptly. "I am not going to trouble any more about that missing money, or about the capture of Osip, or about anything else. I must settle Ferdy's future, and then we can marry."
This speech was quite agreeable to Ackworth, who had long wished to bring her to this point. While they were talking about more pleasant subjects connected with their marriage, Jane limped in at the open window, and immediately went to Anthony. The dog was fond of the young man, and showed her pleasure by rubbing her head against his knee, and looking up at him with faithful eyes.
"Jane loves you as much as she hates Dr. Jerce," said Clarice, patting the dog's shaggy coat.
"Why should she hate Jerce?"
"I don't know, especially as he was kind to her. He found her in Whitechapel, starving and wet, and took her home. But she hated him so much that he had to get rid of her. He intended to have her poisoned, but I asked him to give her to me. Dear Jane, she is so faithful. All the same, she should like Dr. Jerce for his kindness."
"I am glad she doesn't," said Anthony. "I don't like Dr. Jerce."
"Why not? Everyone does."
"Clarice, how can you ask me that when you know that he had the cheek to propose to you? I don't like Jerce. Oh, he's clever enough, and very philanthropic, and all that. All the same, it was impertinent of an old man to propose to you."
"A famous man," teased Clarice; "remember he is now Sir Daniel Jerce, and more famous than ever. You need not be jealous of him, Anthony. He has never come here since the day he proposed, and I refused."
"Well, I hope we'll never set eyes on him again."
"I hope Jane won't," laughed the girl, "she will certainly bite him if she does."
"H'm!" said Ackworth, examining the dog's strong white teeth; "I can't say I'd like to get a bite from these jaws. But anyone could run away, seeing that Jane is lame."
"I think Jane is obstinate enough to follow until she can get her bite," said Clarice, dryly. "I never knew so dogged a dog. There's a pun for you, Anthony. Why don't you laugh?"
To please her Anthony did laugh, and was rebuked for the obvious effort he made. Then Clarice romped with Jane, who barked and danced as well as her lameness permitted. The trio in short behaved like children, and their careless glee went far to dispel the gloomy atmosphere, which for weeks had pervaded the house. And Clarice, by this time, was recovering from the effects of the tragedy, and was more like her old bright self. On this especial evening, Anthony stopped to dinner, and, heedless of the necessity of a chaperon, they enjoyed themselves greatly. It was quite a foretaste of the time when they would be Darby and Joan by their own particular fireside.
However, after pleasure comes business, and next afternoon, Miss Baird set out for the vicarage. She had ascertained that the Clarkes had returned in the morning, and called a few hours later, anxious to get Ferdy's business settled, so that she could arrange her own life. Often had the girl wondered why Mr. Clarke, who had seemed markedly pleased when the engagement was announced, should have placed any bar in the way of the marriage. She was resolved to come to a complete understanding; to learn the reason for this whim, and to use any power she possessed to bring about the desirable match. Whatever objection Mr. Clarke could urge against Ferdy, Clarice was certain that Prudence would remain true to her absent lover. Prudence had always loved Ferdy deeply, from the time they were boy and girl together.
Mr. Clarke proved to be in his study, and Clarice found him unpacking some parcels. She was astonished to see how ill the man looked. He had never enjoyed the best of health, and was invariably badly dressed and absent-minded. But now he looked leaner than ever, and his eyes avoided her own, uneasily. Clarice sat down in a perfect state of consternation.
"My dear Mr. Clarke," she said, as soon as she could get her breath, "what on earth is the matter?"
"Nothing," said the vicar, with a weary sigh, and went on with his unpacking in a restless, disturbed manner.
"But you went away for your health," persisted Miss Baird, "and you have been breathing the sea-air for three weeks. It doesn't seem to have done you a particle of good.
"When the mind is ill at ease, Clarice, there is no chance of the body regaining health."
"What's the matter now?" asked Clarice, abruptly.
"My son Frank is dead," said the vicar, with a sob.
"Oh!" Clarice was dreadfully shocked, and now quite understood the sick looks of the bereaved father. She knew that Frank had been the apple of Mr. Clarke's eyes, notwithstanding that he had always behaved like the rascal, he inherently was.
"I am sorry," she said, rising; "perhaps you would like me to go away."
"No! no! Stop, please, I'll send Prudence to you, as I have to attend to some pastoral matters myself."
"But your poor son----"
"Don't say anything more, Clarice," interrupted the vicar, looking an untidy but pathetic figure. "My son is dead, and I never wish to hear his name mentioned again. As he has sown so has he reaped, and I hope that God will have mercy upon his soul."
"How did he die?"
"No! no! Say no more," cried Mr. Clarke, and before Clarice could apologise, he hurried from the room.
Clarice was puzzled. Frank was dead, and--strange to say--the vicar seemed glad that he was dead. Frank, undoubtedly, was a prodigal son, but his father had always condoned his follies and rascalities. Yet, apparently, at the eleventh hour Frank had done something which even the lenient parent could not forgive. Clarice did not wish to know what the deed was. She had quite enough troubles of her own, without thinking of those of other people. Still, the attitude and wild words of Mr. Clarke astonished her not a little.
Prudence came in, looking almost as ill as her father had done. The girl was tall, handsome, and dark, with a cool, confident manner, and with a considerable fund of common sense. But she appeared very sick and very ill at ease, and accepted the kiss of her old friend in a mechanical way, which provoked Clarice into speech.
"You don't seem very pleased to see me, Prudence?"
"I am," said Prudence, in a dull, heavy voice; "if you had not come to me, I should have called at The Laurels. I want help."
"You shall have it," said Clarice, impetuously. "Whatever is the matter? Is it your brother's death?"
"Yes--that is one thing. Father is worried about that, but there is something else. If I explain myself to you, you must promise me never to speak of what I say to anyone."
"No, I won't," said Clarice, struck by her earnestness, and wondering what fatal secret was about to be unfolded. "Is it something that Ferdy has done?"
"Don't speak of Ferdy--don't speak of him. My poor, darling boy. I'll never see him again--never--never--never."
A wild fear was in Clarice's heart. "Prudence!" she exclaimed, catching the girl's arm; "has Ferdy been doing anything wrong?"
"No. Ferdy is all that can be desired, but I can never marry him."
"Why not?"
"Because," said Prudence, in a solemn manner, "if I marry Ferdy, my father will be accused of murdering Mr. Horran."
In the dingy study an eloquent silence prevailed. After making her startling announcement, Prudence sat tearless, and with a drawn white face, plucking at the damp handkerchief she carried in her hands. Poor girl, she had wept until she could weep no more, and all she could do, with worn-out emotions, was to hold her peace, until Clarice could help her to continue the conversation. That young lady, as white-faced as her hostess, sat tongue-tied and horrified. She looked at the sad figure before her, at the grim line of theological books bound in calf, at the unclean window with its ragged curtains, and at the grimy carpet, worn and faded. It took her some time to collect her thoughts. When she did recover her speech, it was to energetically deny the truth of the girl's speech.
"I don't believe it," cried Clarice, decisively; "don't talk to me, Prudence," she went on, as the girl was about to speak, "you know perfectly well that Uncle Henry was murdered by that wretched Osip, and that a verdict to that effect was brought in by the jury. Besides, what possible object could your father have to commit murder?"
Prudence looked up with a scared look, and stealthily glanced at the door, as she answered in a whisper. "The loan--the interest," said Prudence, in the voice of a ghost, so thin and low was her speech.
Clarice started and reflected. There certainly was a motive here to make Clarke commit a crime--that is, if Horran, grinding him to the dust, had proposed to sell him up. But that is exactly what the dead man never intended to do. "Uncle Henry would never have behaved like a usurer," said Clarice.
"He charged father ten per cent.," said Prudence, scathingly.
"If he had been a Shylock, he would have charged him fifty per cent., my dear, and also he would not have allowed the interest to run on for three years without claiming his own. And now I think of it," added Clarice, recalling a late conversation with Mr. Barras, "Uncle Henry knew very little about the matter. He instructed Mr. Barras to lend your father one thousand pounds, and omitted to mention the interest. Mr. Barras charged ten per cent. on his own. It is a large percentage, but then Mr. Barras is not the most amiable of men. And, I suppose, he thought he was doing right in getting as much as he could for the money."
"Father owed Mr. Horran one thousand pounds and three hundred for interest," said Prudence, "and----"
"One moment, dear. He owed this, and still owes this to the estate of myself and Ferdy. Mr. Horran had a settled income for acting as our guardian, but the money he lent was ours, and not his. I have taken this debt upon myself, and when you marry Ferdy, I'll give your father a discharge."
Prudence lifted up her hands with a low wail. "I can never marry Ferdy," she said, in a broken voice.
"What nonsense; you shall marry him."
"And see my father stand in the dock as a felon."
"There is no chance of that, Prudence. What does your father say?"
"Clarice! Do you think that I have told him?" she said, vehemently. "Oh, no. Poor father has enough troubles to bear, without my heaping more on him. He knows nothing of my reason for refusing to marry."
"But he objects himself?" said Clarice, much perplexed.
"Yes, because of my brother. Frank has brought disgrace on us, and has died in disgrace."
"When and where, Prudence?"
"I can't tell you anything," rejoined the girl; "all I know is that just after the burial of your guardian, father received some bad news about Frank. I have not seen Frank for years, nor have I heard anything about him. He was always in trouble, and father was always sending him money. He borrowed that thousand to help Frank and get him out of some scrape. But this time the news must have been awful, for father came to me, and, saying that Frank was dead, and that he never wished to hear his name mentioned again, he wrote off to get another clergyman, and arranged that we should go away for a time."
"But has he never told you what your brother did?"
"No. I have asked him three or four times; he will not say a word about poor dead Frank. And then father told me that because Frank had done something wicked, that I was to give up all thought of marrying Ferdy."
"Did you agree to that?"
"No. I said that Frank's sins should never spoil my life, and father was very angry with me."
"That was perfectly right," said Clarice, heartily, her common sense coming to her aid; "if the sins of the father are visited on the children, that is no reason that the additional burden of a brother's faults should be heaped on a sister's shoulders. You were quite right to stick to Ferdy, my dear. But what caused you to change your mind, Prudence?"
"I was told that my father had murdered Mr. Horran," said the poor girl again, and in the same terrified whisper; "and that if I married Ferdy, information would be given to the police, which would lead to his arrest."
"What a preposterous story," said Clarice, indignantly, "did you believe it, Prudence?"
The girl glanced round again, and seemed to shrink into nothing as she whispered, "Yes!"
Clarice stared at her. "You ought to stick up for your father," said she, with some slang, but with great truth.
"God help me, I wish I could," wailed Prudence, clasping her hands.
Clarice caught one of her hands. "Be more explicit," she said, quickly; "you have told me so much that you must tell me all."
"You won't let the police know about father's guilt?"
"No, because I don't believe that he is guilty. Why, the jury brought in a verdict against Osip. The evidence was perfectly plain. Go on, tell me all you know."
Prudence drew her chair close to that of her visitor's, and placed her lips to Clarice's ear. "Father owed that money, as you know," she explained, hurriedly; "and Mr. Barras wrote, saying that, unless the interest was paid immediately after New Year, father would be sold up. He was nearly frenzied, as he could not have stopped in the parish if such a sale had taken place, and we are so poor that we had nowhere to go to. Then, as father said, the Bishop might have interfered."
"Private matters of this sort have nothing to do with the Bishop."
"Father thought otherwise, and went about the house moaning that he was in disgrace, and did not know what to do. Then you came on the day Ferdy and I became engaged. Father was more cheerful after you had gone, both on account of my engagement, and from something which you said to him."
"I said that I would speak to Uncle Henry and settle the loan," said Clarice, rapidly; "go on, dear, I want to know all before your father returns."
"Afterwards father fell into low spirits again, and wanted to see Mr. Horran for himself. He tried to, but was refused admittance."
"I know," nodded Clarice. "Dr. Jerce thought that such a visit would irritate Uncle Henry. Now that I know Mr. Barras charged ten per cent., and that Uncle Henry, who respected your father, was ignorant of such extortion, I quite understand why Dr. Jerce did not want Uncle Henry to be upset. He was quite right. But then, Prudence, your father did see my guardian."
"Yes. He went in by the open French window, and----"
"I remember what he said at the inquest," interrupted Clarice, with a musing air. "Ah!" She started as the memory came back to her; "he stated that Uncle Henry denied giving Mr. Barras permission to lend the money."
"No," said Prudence, quickly; "if you will refer to the newspaper report, Clarice, he really said that Mr. Horran declared that he had not given Mr. Barras permission to lend the money at ten per cent. So that agrees with what you say. Mr. Barras was allowed to make the loan, but charged ten per cent. on his own account, so to speak."
Clarice nodded. "Well, then, Uncle Henry told your father not to worry, and said that he would write to Mr. Barras."
Prudence nodded. "Yes, I remember."
There was a pause. Then Clarice said, impatiently: "Well, then, my dear girl, if matters were thus adjusted by my Uncle Henry and your father, I don't see what motive Mr. Clarke had to kill my guardian."
Prudence thought for a few moments. "Clarice, it may be that my father did not tell the exact truth about the interview at the inquest. You see, he wished to avert suspicion from himself."
"But he was never suspected."
"Wait, Clarice. My father was very much agitated after the interview with Mr. Horran, although he said very little about it to me. I heard no more about the matter until the inquest, when father gave his evidence. I thought that he spoke truly, until----"
"Until what?"
"Until that woman called to see me, while everyone was at the funeral."
Clarice started. "Woman--what woman?"
"Mrs. Dumps' daughter."
"Zara Dumps--Butterfly?"
"Yes. You know her as well as I do, Clarice. Sarah Dumps is her name, although she chooses to call herself Zara. She was always a most disagreeable girl, as I knew when I had anything to do with her in the Sunday School. That was before she went away to appear on the stage as Butterfly."
"I never did think much of her," said Clarice, contemptuously, "and, indeed, I never thought about her at all, until I learned accidentally that Ferdy admired her."
"And she admires Ferdy," said Prudence, panting, and with her dark eyes flashing. "I hate her! Oh, how I hate her! It is wonderful, all the same, Clarice, how that dowdy little country girl has blossomed into a well-dressed woman of the world."
"All superficial, Prudence. I dare say she's as ignorant as ever. I know from what little I saw of her at Church festivals and school treats, that she couldn't speak English."
"She speaks it very well now," said Prudence, bitterly; "well enough, at all events to tell me that I must give up Ferdy."
"And you did--at that minx's bidding?" Clarice clenched her fist so that the glove split. "I would have turned her out of the house--the insolent creature. To dare to love Ferdy--to dare to address you in such a way. What did you say?"
"At first I laughed at her, but when she spoke--"
"Well," asked Clarice, seeing that the girl hesitated, "what did she say?"
"She told me that my father had murdered Mr. Horran, and that if I did not refuse to marry Ferdy, she would tell the police."
Clarice laughed derisively. "And you believed this story--a story which such a brazen girl had every inducement to tell."
"Not at first, but afterwards I found proof."
"Against your father? I can never believe that," said Miss Baird, very decidedly. "What proof--no, tell me first, on what grounds this Dumps woman based her accusation."
"She said that she was stopping at the Savoy Hotel, with her mother, for a rest."
"Quite right. I know she was. Mrs. Rebson told me. Go on."
"Mrs. Dumps on that night----"
"What night?"
"The night when Mr. Horran was killed."
"He was murdered between one and two in the morning."
"Well, then, during the hours of darkness," said Prudence, impatiently, "on that night, or morning, if you like, Mrs. Dumps was taken ill, and Sarah was awakened to attend to her. Sal volatile was needed, so Sarah put on her things, and went out to the chemist."
"I don't believe it; the chemist would not attend to anyone at that hour. By the way, what do you say the hour was?"
"Two o'clock," said Prudence, softly. "And then the chemist is a relative of Mrs. Dumps, Clarice, and would probably give Sarah what she wanted."
"Sal volatile. Humph!" said Clarice, inelegantly. "Well?"
"Sarah said that she went along quietly, and passed your house----"
"She would have to if she came up the lane to go to the High Street," remarked Clarice, trying mentally to follow the wanderings of Butterfly, so as to be certain of the truth of her evidence.
"It was a moonlight night, and Sarah kept in the shadow on the other side of the lane, so that no one should see her going out so late."
"Why should she have done that? Did she expect to meet anyone?"
"She said something about the chances of meeting a policeman," was Prudence's reply. "Do let me get on with the story, Clarice, or I'll never get it finished."
"I am all attention."
"Well, then, Sarah says that she saw my father come quickly out of the window of your uncle's bedroom, and run out of the garden and up the lane. She was in the shadow, and he passed her rapidly, but she saw for one second in the moonlight, his face, white and terrified. She went and got the sal volatile, and told no one of what she had seen, not even her mother, until she came to use her knowledge to part me from Ferdy."
When Prudence paused, Clarice looked at her with an unmoved face. "Well, my dear?"
"Well," said Prudence, "that is Sarah Dumps' story."
"A very weak one. I believe she made it up. She could not get your father arrested on that evidence."
"But, Clarice," Prudence placed her lips at the girl's ear; "I laughed at Sarah's wild story. But when she went I examined my father's bedroom. I found a shirt thrown into the washing basket, which had not been called for--the basket, I mean--owing to the holidays. I found that the wrists were spotted with blood."
"Oh!" Clarice started. "Are you certain that it was blood?"
"Quite certain. I dipped one of the cuffs in water, and the spots turned perfectly red. Clarice," she gripped her friend's hand tightly, "do you think that my father really is guilty?"
"I can't think that, Prudence. He had no reason--everything was arranged between him and Uncle Henry."
"Yes. Father said that at the inquest, but he may have told an untruth to shield himself."
"Prudence, do you believe that your father is guilty?"
"Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't. Father has had so much worry that he is not always accountable for his actions. He may have gone out in a frenzy, and, finding the window open, he may have--oh!" The poor girl broke off, weeping. "What am I to do?"
"Ask your father to prove his innocence."
"I dare not, Clarice. What with his own troubles and the death of Frank, and this mysterious wickedness of which Frank has been guilty, poor father is nearly crazy. Did he know that he was accused of murder he would go out of his mind altogether."
"But if Sarah Dumps tells the police, he----"
"She will hold her tongue. I said that I would give up Ferdy. I wrote and told Ferdy that I could not marry him, and said that my father did not approve of the match."
"Ferdy said something about this," said Clarice. "Well, then, Prudence, you leave everything to me. I'll speak to Anthony. He is very clever and will be able to help me. Don't worry, and--hush! Your father."
Clarke entered the room with a wild look, hurriedly, and frowned when he saw the two girls together. "I thought you had gone, Clarice," he said, fretfully. "I wish you would go. Prudence has much to do."
"I am going," said Clarice, pressing the girl's arm, so as to make her humour the excited man. "I only waited to tell you, Mr. Clarke, that I have seen Mr. Barras, and have assumed the rights of your loan. You will have no further trouble about it."
"It is good of you," said Clarke, gloomily, "and a few days ago, I should have hailed your news with joy. But it is now too late. I am an outcast and accursed, and----"
"Father! Father!" said Prudence, placing her hand on his arm.
He shook it off. "I tell you, girl, we must leave this house, and hide our shameful heads. The Angel of the Lord will pursue me--me, my child, and not you--with a fiery brand."
"Mr. Clarke," said Clarice, in a firm way, and fastening her eyes very steadily on the excited face of the poor parson, "you are talking nonsense. Sit down and-----"
"No. You shall not direct me in my own house."
"It is for your good." Speaking softly, Clarice placed her hand on Clarke's arm, and drew him gently towards the arm chair, with her eyes fixed on his all the time. Prudence watched in awestricken silence, as Miss Baird seemed to be quite mistress of the situation. "Sit down, sit down," whispered Clarice, softly, and when the parson dropped heavily into the chair, she placed a cool hand on his burning brow. "You will sleep now, and wake feeling much better."
"I will not sleep," said Clarke, trying to remove his eyes from her as the mesmeric influence was dominating him; "go away----"
"Yes, when you sleep. Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!" Clarice's voice took on a kind of sing-song, and she drew her warm, firm hand gently across the man's wrinkled brow. Gradually Clarke's muscles relaxed, and his eyes grew calmer. Then they closed, and he began to breath gently. "Wake up in an hour, feeling perfectly well," commanded Clarice, and then beckoned the astonished Prudence from the room.
"I used to do that to Uncle Henry for his headaches," she laughed.
Having thus quieted the overwrought vicar, Clarice took leave of poor Prudence. However, she left the girl in a much more cheerful frame of mind, as she asserted her belief in Mr. Clarke's innocence, in spite of all appearance to the contrary, and promised every assistance. But when Miss Baird returned home, and thought over what she had learned, it appeared difficult to keep her word.
Certainly, she did not think that the parson was guilty, even though the evidence of the blood-spotted cuffs was almost proof positive. In some way this might be explained, although at the moment, Clarice could not suggest to herself any possible explanation. But she believed that Clarke had given true evidence at the inquest, and that Horran had quite intended to put matters right. For years her late guardian had known the vicar, and had always respected him, although he had never approved of Clarke's devotion to his miserable son. It was quite probable that Horran had instructed Barras to give the vicar a loan of one thousand pounds, but it was improbable that he had insisted upon ten per cent., or indeed--knowing Clarke's circumstances--upon any percentage whatsoever. Owing to Horran's illness, he had given Barras a power of attorney to execute small matters connected with the estate, and thus save himself trouble, so it was probable that Barras, for the benefit of the estate, had charged the large percentage. This could easily be ascertained by a conversation with the lawyer, and Clarice determined to pay a visit to London and see him, as soon as she could.
With regard to the story told by Sarah Dumps, the girl was doubtful. It might or it might not be true. Assuredly, Zara Dumps, anxious to marry Ferdy, had every reason to get Mr. Clarke into trouble, so as to prevent the marriage of Prudence. Then, again, she really might have seen Clarke leave the death chamber, and thus have made use of her secret knowledge to gain her ends. If this was the case, Clarice asked herself what Clarke was doing in her guardian's room at such an early hour of the morning. According to the medical evidence, Horran was murdered between one and two, and it was at the latter hour--according to Zara Dumps--that Clarke had left the Laurels. This question could be settled by asking the vicar bluntly to explain. But, seeing that the poor man was so overwrought, it was impossible to question him for the moment. The examination would have to come sooner or later, if things were to be put right; but Miss Baird thought that it would be as well to wait for a few days.
The irony of the situation lay in the fact that Zara need not have accused the vicar, so as to gain the refusal of Prudence, and procure the stoppage of the marriage. Mr. Clarke himself refused to allow the ceremony to take place, and for some reason connected with the prodigal son. What that reason was, Clarice very much wanted to know, and determined to insist upon an explanation, when she questioned the vicar about his presumed midnight visit. Clarice was naturally of an impatient character, and would have been delighted to then and there have interviewed Clarke so as to learn the truth. But the man was not in a fit state of mind to calmly discuss his troubles, and Clarice trusted that a few days would reduce his excitement to normal limits. Then she could have a quiet conversation, and induce him to be frank with her. Meanwhile, she reflected upon what was best to be done.
After some cogitation, she determined to go the next day to see Mr. Barras, and learn exactly how the matter stood, as regards the loan; afterwards she could return and see Mr. Clarke; and, meanwhile, she intended to explain matters to Anthony, so as to have the benefit of his common sense. Having thus arranged things, Clarice possessed her soul in patience for the day. But all her schemes were upset when Ferdy unexpectedly arrived about seven o'clock, and just in time for dinner. He looked nervous, and shirked all explanation of his appearance until dinner was over, and he was seated with his puzzled sister in the drawing-room.
"Now, then, Ferdy," said Clarice, when coffee was served, and her brother had lighted his inevitable cigarette, "perhaps you will tell me why you have come down?"
"Aren't you glad to see me?" questioned Ferdy, evasively.
"Delighted; but that does not answer my question. Why did you come?"
"To see you, Clarry."
"Of course, and your other reason?"
Ferdy hesitated, and sought inspiration from the ceiling. Then, in his usual crafty way, he began to explain by degrees. "I suppose you know that everything is ended between myself and Prudence," he said.
Clarice looked hard at him, and wondered if it would be wise for her to admit that she had seen Prudence, and knew the reason why the engagement had been broken off. A moment's reflection convinced her that, in dealing with so shifty a young man as he was, it would be better to deny all knowledge. Ferdy was playing some game, she was certain, and what the game might be, she wanted very much to learn. If she gave him rope enough he would assuredly hang himself, so this she proceeded to do, by pretending ignorance. "You hinted when we last met that there was some misunderstanding between you."
"There is no misunderstanding on my part," cried Ferdy, falling at once into the trap. "I love Prudence, and I am willing to marry her. But she refuses to marry me, and has broken off the engagement."
"Indeed. And what reason does she assign for this sudden change?"
"Her father will not accept me as his son-in-law."
"On what grounds?"
Ferdy shrugged his shoulders. "Mr. Clarke, according to Prudence, does not approve of the match."
"Have you been doing anything to make him disapprove?" asked Clarice, quickly and pointedly.
"No!" replied Ferdy, indignantly, "I don't know why you are always suspecting me of doing wrong, Clarry. I'm straight--that is, I am as straight as most fellows."
"That is not saying much," rejoined Clarice, sarcastically.
"Well, then, I am as straight as Ackworth."
"That you are not, Ferdy. Anthony always speaks the truth."
"So do I. You have no right to say otherwise."
"Ferdy, all your life you have told half-truths, and those are much worse than right-down lies."
"Oh, hang it, that's too bad. I tell you what it is, Clarry. If you have such a bad opinion of me, I am not fit for your society. Give me my income, and let me go out of your life."
"I'll do nothing of the sort," said Clarice, sternly. "You are not fit to look after your own life. If I gave you the two thousand a year--and remember I cannot do that until the two years are past--you would simply go headlong to ruin. No, Ferdy, you must marry Prudence, and she will look after you."
"How impossible you are, Clarry," cried Ferdy, greatly exasperated. "I tell you that I should like to marry Prudence, but she won't allow me to. Both herself and her father are against my becoming her husband. You can ask them, if you doubt me."
"Oh, I believe what you say," remarked Clarice, readily.
"Then what am I to do?"
"Leave it to time to right things. I dare say Mr. Clarke will change his mind again."
"He may not for years, even if he changes it at all," grumbled Ferdy, "and I can't wait on his pleasure for ever."
"If you love Prudence you can."
"I don't know. I do love her, but she doesn't love me," said the young man, sulkily, "and if I can't get love in one quarter, I must in another. Do you see?"
"Oh, yes," said Clarice, cruelly. "I see that you love only one person, and that is yourself. What's the other woman's name?"
Ferdy started, and grew red. "The--the--the--other woman?"
"Yes. You talk about getting love in another quarter. In the Dumps quarter, I dare say."
"She's a lovely girl, and as good as they make them," said Ferdy, in a furious way; "don't you say a word against her, Clarry, for I won't stand it. You must respect her----"
"As my future sister-in-law?"
"Yes," said Ferdy, getting up to add dignity to his declaration. "Oh," remarked Miss Baird, coolly; "so you have proposed?"
"I have proposed, because Prudence chucked me, and Zara has accepted my hand."
"How delightfully you have arranged it all, Ferdy. Does Miss Dumps know about your income?"
"She knows everything, and she is willing to wait for two years until I come in for my money."
"How considerate of her. She must love you very much, Ferdy, to be willing to accept you with a paltry two thousand a year."
"She does love me," said Ferdy, with sulky dignity.
"And you love her?"
"Yes, I do."
"What about your love for Prudence?"
"I love her, but in a different way."
Clarice laughed. "Really, Ferdy, you must have a large heart. Why not turn Turk or Mormon?"
"It's all very well to laugh," said Ferdy, with a wounded air; "but if you had been chucked by one you loved, you would seek love elsewhere. I am certain of that."
"Ah. You judge me by yourself. Well, then, Ferdy, suppose I refuse to allow you to marry Zara?"
"You can't. I am my own master and over age."
"You are not master of your money."
"I shall be in two years."
"Quite so, and Zara, who must be a most self-denying person, is willing to wait until you are rich in two years. I understand; but in the meantime, Ferdy, what if I stop your allowance?"
"I shall go to law," said Ferdy, pompously.
"I am afraid that won't do you much good," retorted his sister, with a calm smile. "In the first place, you have no money, and no lawyer will undertake the case unless certain fees are paid down. In the second place, you will fail in your action. The will is perfectly clear as to my powers and duties as guardian. I have full power to do what I like until you are legally of age in two years."
"It's an infernal shame," muttered Ferdy, who had sense enough to see that she spoke the truth.
"I don't think so, and any sensible person who understood the position of things would not think so either. However, you can see that it is waste of time for you to go to law. What else can you do?"
"I can go on the stage."
"With Zara?"
"Yes," said Ferdy, triumphantly, and rubbing his hands. "Ah, you didn't think I'd say that, did you?"
"I expected to hear anything, so long as it was sufficiently silly," said Clarice, in her coldest tone. "Really, Ferdy, you are a child."
"You won't find it so when I take my own way."
"What is your own way?"
"I have told you. I am engaged to Zara, and I intend to marry her, now that Prudence has behaved so badly. If you refuse to allow me money, I'll chuck the medical profession and go on the stage to act with Zara in her Butterfly sketch at the Mascot Music Hall. She isn't satisfied with the Chrysalis, and I can act that."
"Act what?" asked Clarice, puzzled by the scientific word.
"The Chrysalis. In the sketch--it is called the Birth of a Butterfly--there's a Chrysalis, acted by a man, which wriggles about the stage. Out of it comes Zara as the Butterfly, and----"
"Oh, I understand. What a high ambition you have. I should think a worm of that acrobatic kind would just suit you. So this is your plan, is it?"
"Yes. I came down especially to tell you."
"What does Dr. Jerce say?"
"He says nothing. Jerce is sulky with me, because you----"
"Because I refused to marry him. What a child the man is, in spite of his fame and knighthood. As much a child as you are."
"I am not here to discuss Jerce," said Ferdy, loftily, "but to hear what you have to say to my plan. If you will allow me my income as usual, I won't go on the stage."
"But you'll marry Zara, all the same."
"Yes. She loves me and I love her."
"No, you don't. You love Prudence, and are only dominated by a stronger will in the person of this dancer. I know that Prudence has treated you badly, and so has Mr. Clarke. All the same, if you truly love the lady and not the dancer, you will wait until time brings Mr. Clarke round to accepting you as his son-in-law."
"No," said Ferdy, very decidedly; "and I want your answer, please, so that I can arrange what to do."
"Ah, that means you must decide whether you are to be a doctor or a Chrysalis," said Clarice, quietly and contemptuously. "Give me a few minutes to consider the matter, Ferdy."
Her brother looked at her suddenly, apparently thinking that she was about to give way. However, he was sufficiently wise not to press his advantage for the time being. "I'll play for a time," he said, crossing to the piano, "while you think. Will the music disturb you in any way?"
"No," said Clarice, absently, and Ferdy began to play a soft, murmurous piece of music, which suggested waving green forests and gentle summer winds. He played very well in an amateur sort of way, and played also softly, so Clarice was quite able to follow her own thoughts, as the music echoed through the room.
In Ferdy's defiance she saw again the hand of Zara Dumps. Apparently the dancer was bent upon marrying the boy, and would stop at nothing to accomplish her aim. Perhaps she was in love, as Ferdy undoubtedly was a handsome and charming fellow. Also in two years he would be in possession of a very respectable income. Anthony had hinted that Zara wished to marry money; but either she had not chanced upon a millionaire sufficiently susceptible, or else she had a genuine love for Ferdy Baird, and was prepared to be happy with him on a moderate income. Clarice saw very plainly that her brother was absolutely dominated by the will of the dancer, and that if she refused the allowance she would only throw him more completely into the arms of this clever woman. On the other hand, by letting things remain as they were, she would be able, by holding the purse strings, to keep a certain hold over the headstrong boy. It was out of the question to allow Ferdy to ruin his career by going on the music hall stage.
Moreover, Clarice began to feel piqued by Zara. That this woman should set herself to intrigue in this manner annoyed her. Zara apparently thought that she could get everything her own way. Clarice was determined that she should not be triumphant all along the line, and looked forward with pleasure to thwarting the dancer. Also, in the accusation of Clarke by Miss Dumps, Clarice saw that much larger issues than Ferdy's future were involved. Zara evidently quite expected that Clarice would refuse Ferdy's allowance, and thus would compel him to rely on her. Miss Baird at once resolved to countercheck the dancer by acting in a contrary way. As she had done with Ferdy, so would she do with Zara--that is, she intended to give the dancer rope enough to hang herself. Clarice wished to find out what string Zara was pulling, and time was required to look into matters. Time could be gained by checkmating her in this manner, so having made up her mind, Clarice called Ferdy away from the piano.
"My dear boy," she said gently. "I don't want you to be unhappy. I know, as I said before, that Prudence has treated you badly, so it is not to be wondered at that you should go to a woman who loves you."
"Zara does--oh, she does," said Ferdy, promptly.
"Well, then," said Clarice, in a caressing tone, "I shall continue your allowance, as I don't want you to go on the stage. But if I do this, you must make me a promise."
"Anything," cried Ferdy, delighted at having secured his end.
"Promise me that you will not contract a secret marriage with this dancer," said Miss Baird, earnestly.
"I promise, with all my heart," replied Ferdy; and so the agreement was made, and Clarice thus gained time to fathom the schemes of Miss Dumps, which had to do with greater things than Ferdy imagined.
It was at this moment, or a little later, that Anthony appeared in full mess kit. He looked excited when he burst into the room, which he did more noisily than usual. "I apologise for my dress," he said, coming forward to kiss Clarice, "but I was in such a hurry to see you that I came over without changing, in another fellow's motor-car. It's waiting outside, and I can't stop more than a few minutes."
"And I expect you want to speak to Clarry," said Ferdy, quickly; "I'll go out and have a look at the car."
Anthony seemed pleased when the boy left the room, and at once brought out a letter. "I came to see you about this," he said, handing it to the girl; "it came by to-night's post, and I lost no time in bringing it to you. What does it mean?"
Clarice opened the letter, which was written in a delicate hand, and very neatly, on fine thick paper. The few lines ran as follows:--
"If Captain Anthony Ackworth marries Miss Clarice Baird, his future brother-in-law will be placed in the dock, as guilty of the murder of his guardian, Mr. Henry Horran. From a Friend."