PRUDENCE
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. A _locum tenens_ occupied 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 knew _him_ well 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."