A MYSTERY
The housekeeper of Mr. Horran's establishment was a small, withered-up
old woman, who looked like the bad fairy of a D'Aulnoy story. She had
nursed Clarice and Ferdy, and their father before them, so she was
deeply attached to the twins. Of course, Ferdy being the more selfish
of the two obtained all her affection, and although she was fond of
Clarice, she lavished the treasures of her love on Ferdy, who gave her
in return more kicks than half-pence. Mrs. Rebson was quite seventy
years of age, and her face resembled a winter apple, so rosy and
wrinkled it was. She must have had French blood in her old veins, for
her vivacity was wonderful, and her jet black eyes were undimmed by
age. Nothing ever seemed to put her out of temper, and her devotion to
the twins had in it something of a religion.
Being thus bright and cheerful, it was strange that Mrs. Rebson should
cherish a dreadful little book, which was called The Domestic Prophet,
full of dismal hints. Published at the beginning of each year, it
prophesied horrors for every month, from January to December, and was
as lachrymose as the Book of Lamentations. Not a single, cheerful
event enlivened the year from this modern prophet's point of view, and
although the book (consisting of twenty-four pages) was bound in green
paper, the cover should certainly have been black, if only for the
sake of consistency. Over this lamentable production, Mrs. Rebson was
bending, when Clarice entered fresh from her encounter with Ferdy.
"What is the matter, lovey?" asked the old woman, pushing up her
spectacles on her lined forehead, "there's nothing to worry about. I
have ordered the dinner, and seen to the Christmas provisions, and Mr.
Horran's in a sweet sleep, and your good gentleman is coming this
afternoon to kiss your bonny face, bless it, and bless him."
Clarice sat down with a disconsolate air. "It's Ferdy."
"Now, Miss," Mrs. Rebson's voice became sharper, and her manner quite
like that of the nurse who put the twins to bed years before, "how
often have I told you not to quarrel with your dear brother, as is
bone of your bone and flesh of your flesh and the sweetest tempered
baby I ever nursed?"
"Nanny!" Clarice called Mrs. Rebson by this childish name for the sake
of old times, and perhaps from custom. "You are quite crazy about
Ferdy, and he doesn't deserve your love."
"Indeed he does, Miss, and I wonder at your talking in that way. Oh,
fie, Miss, fie," shaking a gnarled finger, "this is jealousy."
"It's common sense, Nanny," retorted Clarice, and detailed what Dr.
Jerce had said about Ferdy, and what Ferdy had said to her. Mrs.
Rebson listened to all this, quite unmoved. "But, of course, you won't
believe a word I say against your idol," ended Clarice, bitterly.
"Because everyone's against him," cried Mrs. Rebson, wrathfully. "Oh,
that Jerce man--I'll Jerce him if he dares to speak against Master
Ferdy, who is an angel."
"There are two kinds of angels, Nanny, white and black."
"Master Ferdy's the kind of angel that plays a harp," said the old
dame, with dignity, "and why shouldn't the poor boy amuse himself?"
"He'll get into trouble unless he's more careful. Drinking and
gambling and sitting up all night with fast people."
"I don't believe a word of it," said Mrs. Rebson, energetically.
"Dr. Jerce says--"
"He's a liar, Miss, and don't come to me with tales of that angel. Why
can't you hold your tongue, and think of your future with Mr.
Ackworth, who is so fond of you and I hope you'll deserve his
fondness."
"I'm fond of Ferdy, too, Nanny, and I want him to grow up to be a good
man."
"He _is_ a good man," said the old nurse, obstinately, "and there's no
more growing of that sort needed. Mr. Horran, drat him, keeps the poor
boy short of money."
"Two hundred a year--"
"What's that, when Master Ferdy will have two thousand?"
"He won't become possessed of that for two years, Nanny. Meanwhile, he
has no right to gamble."
"I don't believe he does. Why, he spends all his money in buying books
about health and medicine. I gave him five pounds the other day to get
some."
"Oh, Nanny, your savings again, when you promised me you wouldn't."
"I can do what I like with my own, Miss Clarice. Besides, I have made
Master Ferdy my heir, so why shouldn't he have the money now, if he
likes, bless him."
"Nanny," said Clarice, seriously. "You are ruining Ferdy."
"Me!" Mrs. Rebson gave an indignant screech. "Me ruin the boy I love
so dearly. Jealousy again, Miss Clarice. Go and read the Commandments,
Miss, and weep for your sins."
"I don't think I'll find 'Honour thy brother' among the Commandments,
Nanny," said Clarice, the humorous side of the business striking her;
"however, I see it's useless to think you will blame Ferdy."
Mrs. Rebson looked round the comfortable little room, and removed her
spectacles. "My dear," she said, in a rather shaky voice, "if I must
speak plainly to you, I am rather put out about Master Ferdy. Not that
it's his fault," added the nurse, hurriedly, "but when one sees him
being led away by that hussy--"
"Who is that?" asked Clarice, anxiously.
"Mrs. Dumps' daughter. Zara, she calls herself, when I know that she
was christened simple Sarah. Not that she is simple, my dear, for a
more cunning fox isn't to be found, with her red hair--dyed--and her
cream complexion and red cheeks, which are nothing but pearl-powder
and rouge, drat her, and her mother also, for a fool!"
Clarice knew Mrs. Dumps, and also had frequently seen Sarah Dumps, but
had never for one moment thought that Ferdy would be attracted by such
a bold, chattering girl, who flirted indiscriminately with every man,
good-looking or plain. "I thought Sarah had gone to London."
"So she has!" said Mrs. Rebson, fiercely, "she went over a year ago,
and with her good looks--all paint and dye--and brazen impudence--ah,
that's genuine enough--she pushed her way on to the stage."
"So Mrs. Dumps told me," said Miss Baird. "Sarah is dancing and
singing at some West-end music-hall."
"She is that, and fine dancing it is, I don't doubt--the hussy. I'd
rather see a child of mine in her grave than capering as a butterfly
before gentry."
"Butterflies don't caper, Nanny."
"This one does," sniffed the old woman, viciously. "She calls herself
Butterfly on the stage."
"The Butterfly?"
"No--just Butterfly, when she ought to be called Cat. Well, then, my
love, Mrs. Dumps, who is a cousin of mine (and I don't think much of
her dressing and screeching like a peacock) called to see me the other
day, and told me that Master Ferdy had been seeing Sarah--I can't
bring myself to call her Zara--such affectation. He's been driving and
talking and walking, and giving her presents, and Mrs. Dumps, who is a
born fool, thinks that Master Ferdy means marriage."
Clarice started to her feet. "Oh, Nanny!"
"What's the use of saying, 'Oh, Nanny,' like that?" snapped Mrs.
Rebson. "You know what an angel Master Ferdy is, and how easily a
pretty face can beguile him--not that Sarah is pretty, the minx. It's
her fault, and I'd tar and feather her and ride her on a rail if I
had my way. Why can't she leave the boy alone? I know you are jealous
of Master Ferdy, Miss Clarice, but as you have a head on your
shoulders--I don't deny that, lovey--it is only right that you should
know the truth. I can't tell Mr. Horran, as there would be trouble."
Clarice went to the window, and looked out into the white, cold world,
with her thoughts fixed anywhere but on the scenery. In fact, she was
wondering what was best to be done about Ferdinand, who evidently had
become entangled with Sarah Dumps. Dr. Jerce apparently knew of this
entanglement, hence Ferdy's fear of him, and dread as to what he might
have said. It was useless to talk to Ferdy, who would only go his own
way, being obstinate, as all weak people are; while Mr. Horran was too
ill to be told of the business. There remained Anthony and Dr. Jerce
to help her. The second of these had made things unpleasant by wanting
to marry her, so it was difficult to appeal to him for aid. He might
demand his price. Finally, in two minutes, Clarice made up her mind to
enlist Captain Ackworth on her side. He was not coming this afternoon,
as Mrs. Rebson had said, but the next day, so she could speak to him
then. Meanwhile, it would be best to be agreeable to Ferdy and keep
him at home, lest he should go back to town and to this dreadful girl.
Not that Sarah Dumps really was very dreadful, for being shrewd, she
was quite respectable, and able to take excellent care of herself.
But, naturally, Clarice thought she was dreadful, when Ferdy was in
her toils--though what Sarah Dumps could see in poor, weak Ferdy,
passed Clarice's comprehension.
"Well, deary?" asked Mrs. Rebson, impatiently.
"Say nothing to Mr. Horran, or to Ferdy," said Clarice, turning from
the window. "I'll see what I can do."
"Treat Master Ferdy tenderly," warned Mrs. Rebson.
"Oh, yes," replied Miss Baird, indifferently. "Things will come all
right, Nanny. Ferdy, after all, is in love with Prudence."
"Another hussy," snapped the nurse.
"A very clever one, then. She would make Ferdy a good wife, and rule
him with a rod of iron."
"He doesn't want that, Miss. You can lead him with a silken thread."
"I am quite sure Sarah Dumps can," said Clarice, emphatically. "Ferdy
can always be led in the way he wishes to go. No, no!" she waved her
hand impatiently, "don't defend him any more, Nanny. I agree with you
that Ferdy is all sugar-candy and honey. I'll try and put everything
right."
"And it needs putting right," said Mrs. Rebson, in her most
lively tone, "there's going to be trouble--yes,
poverty--death--sorrow--disgrace--"
"Stop, stop!" cried Clarice, turning pale, "what do you mean?"
"The Domestic Prophet--"
"Oh, that creature. Pooh!" Clarice was much relieved. "I thought you
were in earnest."
"The Domestic Prophet always is, deary."
"He's a fraud, Nanny. He never prophesies correctly."
"Yes, he does," cried Mrs. Rebson, obstinately, and adjusting her
spectacles, "listen to this," and she read: "'The month of December
will be dangerous to elderly men who are sick. They will probably die
if the weather is severe, and in winter we may expect snow. Some
elderly men will probably meet with a violent death, either by poison
or the knife, or a railway accident, or by drowning, if they frequent
seaside resorts. Beware the dead of night,' says the Domestic Prophet,
'to all men over fifty.'"
After reading this precious extract, Mrs. Rebson lifted her eyes, to
find Clarice choking with laughter, and assumed an offended air. "You
were always foolish, Miss," she said, disdainfully, "but these things
will come true. Mr. Horran is doomed; he is over fifty."
"And how do you think he will die, Nanny--not in a railway accident or
by drowning, as he can't leave the house. The severe weather may kill
him, certainly, but I'll see that he is well wrapped up. There remains
the knife and the poison. Which will he die of?"
Mrs. Rebson still continued, disdainful. "It's all very well
sniggering, Miss, but the Domestic Prophet is right very often." She
opened the dismal book again, and read: "'When a black cat bites its
tail, take it for a sign of a sudden death.' And," added Mrs. Rebson,
closing the book solemnly, "I saw my black cat bite its tail only
yesterday. Also Mr. Horran is elderly, and should beware the dead of
night."
"Well, then," said Clarice, flippantly, "I suppose Buster," this was
the black cat's name, "hints, by biting his tail, that Mr. Horran is
about to meet with a violent death at midnight."
"I don't say Mr. Horran, Miss. But Dr. Jerce is over fifty, and so is
the Rev. Nehemiah Clarke."
"You also, Nanny--"
"The Domestic Prophet is talking of men, deary. You scoff, Miss, but
mark my words, before the end of the month, we'll hear of something."
Miss Baird, still laughing, kissed the withered cheek. "I dare say,"
was her reply, "your prophet is very general in his applications.
Well, I shall see Uncle Henry--"
"Don't tell him what I say."
"Oh, but I will, Nanny. It's too funny to keep to myself," and Clarice
left the room laughing, while Mrs. Rebson, with a sigh for such
levity, began to read The Domestic Prophet with renewed zeal.
Meanwhile, Miss Clarice proceeded to Mr. Horran's bedroom. This was on
the other side of the house, and was similar in many respects to the
drawing-room. Here also were two French windows opening on to a
terrace, and the apartment was large and lofty and spacious, and was
furnished half as a bedroom and half as a sitting-room. This was
because Mr. Horran lived, for the most part of his life, beneath its
roof. Formerly, he had occupied a room on the first floor, where the
other bedrooms were, but being unable, by reason of his mysterious
disease, to mount the stairs, he had, within the last five years,
transferred this room, which was formerly a library, into his sleeping
chamber. It was handsomely furnished, and very comfortable, and had a
large open fireplace, in which, summer and winter, blazed a grand
fire. The walls were of a deep orange colour, as Mr. Horran thought
such a hue was most restful to the eye, and on them hung many fine
pictures, and also several spears and swords and Zulu shields and
Matabele assegais, which various friends had brought as presents. In
front of one window stood a rosewood escritoire, covered with papers,
but the way to the other window was left open, as it acted also as a
door, whence Mr. Horran could emerge, on fine days, to take the sun on
the miniature terrace. For an invalid, everything was perfectly
arranged, and Mr. Horran was lodged luxuriously.
The old man himself was thin and wrinkled, but very straight and
somewhat military in his looks, the resemblance being increased by a
long, iron-grey moustache and closely clipped grey hair. He had left
his bed and was sitting, clothed in a camel's hair dressing-gown, in a
deep-seated leather armchair before the fire. When Clarice entered he
was weeping, and she hastened towards him in alarm.
"Dear Uncle Henry," she said, putting her arms round his neck, "why
did you get up? It is most imprudent. Dr. Jerce and Dr. Wentworth both
say you should remain in bed. I wonder Chalks," this was Horran's
valet and faithful attendant, "allowed you."
"I'm all right, my dear," said Mr. Horran, trying to recover his
self-command, and patting Clarice's hand. "I'm only upset a little."
"And no wonder, after that fit."
"It is not the fit. That is all right now. I have been sleeping for
about ten hours, and woke some time ago, feeling much better. Indeed,
I felt so well, that I decided to rise, and take a stroll on the
terrace, in the winter sunshine. Then I received a shock."
"What kind of a shock?"
"We won't say anything about it just now," said Horran, in a weak
voice. "It would not interest you, and besides, I don't wish to talk
of it. I have told no one, not even Chalks."
"Told him what?"
"Nothing, nothing," maundered on the old man, staring into the fire.
"I feel ever so much better, my dear, only I can't help crying--some
sort of emotion from the shock."
Clarice slipped down beside him, and held his cold hands. "Dear Uncle
Henry, tell me what is the matter," she implored, "it isn't Ferdy?"
"No, no! Ferdy is all right. He's a good boy and very kind. It is very
strange, Clarry, but I am now beginning to feel drowsy, and a few
minutes ago, I was so wide-awake. Oh, dear me," he sighed, "I do wish
Daniel, or Dr. Wentworth would find out what is the matter with me."
"They will find out soon, dear," said Clarice, soothingly.
"No. Clever as Daniel is, my disease seems to baffle him. He says that
I may live for years, but I don't think that is likely, Clarry, dear.
However, should I die suddenly, everything is straight. You and Ferdy
will get your money within a week of my death."
"Dear, don't talk of your death."
"I must. It is just as well, Clarry, that you should know how matters
stand. I have arranged that you will control Ferdy's money, as I have
the power to do by your father's will. I was appointed sole guardian,
and the will enables me to appoint another guardian should I die. But
I shall not do that. I shall arrange, and have arranged, as my lawyer
will tell you, to give you the whole four thousand pounds a year. You
will be, so to speak, your own guardian, and Ferdy's also."
"You don't trust Ferdy, then, Uncle Henry?" she asked, in a low voice.
"No, dear," he patted her hand. "You are the clever one. Ferdy is
unstable. I have seen that for many years, and so I placed him with
Daniel, who will keep the boy straight. Ferdy is like your poor
father, charming and weak; you more resemble your dear mother, who was
my first and my last love. I never married because of your mother."
"I know, dear." Clarice kissed the cold hand tenderly, as she knew of
this romance. She was the sole person to whom Horran ever spoke of the
matter. He maundered on dreamily. "I told Daniel of my will, and he
was not pleased. He said that a woman should not possess such power,
as she was incapable of exercising it."
"Oh, indeed," said Clarice, flushing angrily. "I think Dr. Jerce will
find me perfectly capable. I am glad that you have made me Ferdy's
guardian, Uncle Henry, as he certainly needs a guiding hand. Have you
told him about the will, dear?"
"No, I only told Daniel, who was displeased. But then he says that I
may live for years. He spoke kindly, too, though he is wrong in
believing I shall recover. Daniel and I have always been friends. We
only quarrelled once, and that was over your mother. But she married
Baird, and left us both in the cold. But for you, dear Clarry, I
should have had a lonely life, my dear."
Clarice rose and moved towards the bell. "Let me call Chalks to put
you to bed again, Uncle Henry. You are quite drowsy."
"No! no!" The invalid grew testy, sudden changes of mood being a
characteristic of his unknown disease. "I'm comfortable here. And I
want to see Daniel. Where is Daniel?"
"He returned to town last night, dear. I don't think he will come
again until after Christmas."
"That is not for a few days," groaned Horran, in a piteous tone. "Oh,
send for him, Clarry. I must see him about the letter."
"What letter, dear?" she asked, much puzzled. Horran raised his heavy
lids with an effort. "The letter which I found on the terrace, near
the window. It gave me a shock."
"Show it to me, Uncle Henry."
"No! You would not understand. Daniel might; he's so clever."
"Who wrote this letter?" coaxed Clarice, trying to get information.
"There is no writing," he answered, drowsily. "It is not a letter."
"You said that it was."
"Picture writing, then, like the ancient Egyptians." She thought,
naturally, that his mind was wandering, when he talked in so
contradictory a manner. After a moment or so, his head fell back on
the chair, and his eyes closed. He began to breathe deeply, and
apparently was falling asleep. Clarice put her ear to his lips, as
she saw them move, and caught three words, which conveyed nothing:
"The--Purple--Fern!"
This was unintelligible, until she noticed an envelope at his feet,
which had fallen out of his pocket. Picking this up, she took out the
slip of paper it contained, and found thereon, no writing, but the
representation of a tiny fern, stamped in purple ink.