THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
Clarice sank back in her chair, as Jerce left the room, wondering if
she had heard aright. Sir Daniel had certainly said in plain English
that, failing the breaking of the engagement, Ferdy would be hanged.
That meant the guilt of Ferdy, and yet she could prove that the boy
had been locked in his room. What was meant by being an accessory
after the fact? She would have to ask Mr. Barras the meaning of that
legal phrase. In some way, however--she guessed that much,--it
implicated Ferdy in the crime. Ferdy was, wild, assuredly, and to get
money would do much. But he would never dare to commit a vile murder.
In the first place, his nature was too mild, and in the second, he was
too timid. Ferdy must be innocent. And yet--it was strange that he
should always be so mysterious, and so ready to take alarm. Clarice
recalled several occasions when Ferdy had appeared startled by
apparently innocent remarks. Then, again, Ferdy was in the toils of
Zara Dumps; and Zara--from her accusation of Mr. Clarke--knew
something about the crime. What if she was throwing the blame on the
parson to shield Ferdy, whom she loved?
At this point of her agonised reflections, the door opened, and Sir
Daniel Jerce again appeared. "I think," he said, coldly, yet very
pointedly, "that if you take a walk, and put away those medicine
bottles, you will find that your illness will vanish. Good-day." And
he was gone in a moment.
Clarice flung off the shawl and ran to the door. Jerce, then, saw
through her feigned disorder. What a fool she was to try and deceive
so clever a physician. By the time she gained the hall, Jerce had
already passed out of the front door, and when she opened that, he was
passing out of the gate. For the moment she felt inclined to call him
back, and insist upon her illness, but knowing that she could not
deceive so capable a judge, she closed the door again, and returned to
the drawing-room.
There she wrapped herself up again. It was necessary to deceive those
in the house, since no one was so acute as Jerce, to tell a false
illness from a real one. She could not carry out her plot unless she
pretended to be ill, and so had taken advantage of being in the porch
on the previous night to secure her ends. Intending to go secretly to
London on that same evening, Clarice wished to keep to her room,
so that no one save Mrs. Rebson--in whom she would have to
confide--should know that she was out of the house. And especially had
she wished to deceive Jerce. Yet he had seen through her scheme of
pretended sickness, and would be on the look-out to see why she had
acted in such a manner. Clarice was certain that in some way Jerce was
plotting against her and Anthony, notwithstanding his denial of the
anonymous letter. It would take her all her ingenuity, clever as she
thought herself, to circumvent the doctor. He was uncommonly sharp and
uncommonly suspicious, and if he found out what she intended to do, he
would nullify the success of her plot in some way. What a fool she had
been to see him, especially when she had gained nothing by the
interview.
In the face of this first failure to impose upon a clever man who
wanted his own way, many a woman would have thrown up the sponge. But
Clarice only stiffened her back in the face of the increasing
difficulties. Come what may, she would masquerade as she intended, and
learn the truth of Ferdy's hidden life. Her plan was at once daring
and simple. In looks she exactly resembled Ferdy, and, dressed in a
suit of his clothes, no one would be able to recognise her as his
sister. Also she could mimic Ferdy's tricks of speech and ordinary
gestures exactly, and thus would be able to pass as her brother, even
with those who knew him well. Once arrayed as Ferdy, Clarice intended
to go to London and pass the evening at the Mascot Music Hall, in
order to witness the performance of Sarah Dumps. Then--as Ferdy--she
would go round and see the dancer, and perhaps Zara might let slip
something which would put her on the track of the boy's delinquencies.
If she could arrive at the truth of Ferdy's fast life, at which Jerce
had hinted, she might learn how he came to be implicated in the crime.
And he was implicated rather than Clarke, since Clarice believed that
Zara had only accused Clarke to save her lover, as well as to prevent
the marriage with Prudence. Also the direct accusation in the
anonymous letter hinted that someone--if not Jerce--knew that Ferdy
had some connection with the death of Henry Horran. Jerce himself
hinted that Ferdy was mixed up in the matter, and was ready to use his
information--whatever it might be--to place Ferdy in the dock, if the
match with Ackworth was not broken off.
It can thus be seen why Clarice had asked Anthony to invite her
brother to Gattlinsands on that evening, and to detain him, if
possible, for the next night. She did not want to run the risk of
meeting Ferdy at the Mascot Music Hall, or to have--as it were--two
Richmonds in the field. On this one night she hoped to learn
sufficient to force Ferdy into open confession, and when she knew all,
she might be able to save him. But failing success on this night, she
trusted to be more successful on the ensuing evening. But in any case,
she felt that she must be successful if Ferdy was to be saved from the
tricksters who were around him and from his own weak self. Of course,
her experiment was a daring one, and Anthony certainly would not
approve of it. But too much was at stake to hesitate, so Clarice went
up to her room about five o'clock to get ready for her masquerade. On
the stroke of the hour, Mrs. Rebson appeared with a telegram, which
proved to be from Anthony. He wired that Ferdy had accepted his
invitation, and was on his way to Gattlinsands.
"That's all right," said Clarice, putting the wire carefully away.
"What's all right, deary?" asked Mrs. Rebson, who was smoothing her
nursling's bed.
"Nanny, come here," said the girl, and led Mrs. Rebson to a chair. "I
dare say you remember what you said about disgrace?"
"The Domestic Prophet," replied Mrs. Rebson, smoothing her apron;
"yes, and disgrace will come, say what you like."
"It will come, I fear."
Mrs. Rebson clapped her gnarled old hands. "I've brought you to your
senses," she cried, in her cracked voice, and with great triumph; "you
will never doubt the Domestic Prophet again."
"Oh, no," answered Clarice, artfully. "Disgrace is coming, I fear,
Nanny, and to Ferdy."
Mrs. Rebson's hands fell by her side, and she began to shake.
"Disgrace, and to my darling boy," she whimpered. "Oh, Miss Clarice,
what is it? What have you been doing?"
"It's not what I have been doing, but what I am about to do," said
Miss Baird, resolutely. "Now, Nanny, if you want to save Ferdy from
disgrace, from imprisonment, and perhaps from worse, you must hold
your tongue about what I am going to tell you."
"I swear it on the Bible," whimpered Mrs. Rebson again. "Oh, my pretty
boy--my sweet darling!" She began to cry in a senile manner.
Clarice knew that she could trust the old woman to be silent, as her
affection for the unworthy Ferdy would have sealed her lips, even had
she been threatened with the gallows to open them. If Clarice wanted
to leave The Laurels secretly for her masquerade, and to return
without her absence being known, it was absolutely necessary that she
should trust the old woman. Therefore, she risked telling Mrs. Rebson
all that she knew, and again impressed upon her, at the end of the
confession, the absolute necessity--for Ferdy's sake--of silence.
Mrs. Rebson wept all the time and cried out at intervals, and
exclaimed indignantly at Ferdy's enemies, and altogether conducted
herself as a partisan of that shifty youth. "But I knew that the
Domestic Prophet could not lie," cried Mrs. Rebson, "though I never
thought he meant my precious lamb. Oh, Miss Clarice, what is to be
done? They will hang and quarter my darling baby."
"No, no, Nanny. I can save him," said Clarice, soothingly.
"And you will--you will?"
"If you will consent to help me."
"I would go to the scaffold for my Ferdy, sweetheart," said Mrs.
Rebson, fervently, whereupon Clarice explained how she meant to
masquerade as her twin brother. Mrs. Rebson was startled, and
expostulated in alarm. "Oh, my deary, it's a dreadful thing you would
do. What would the world say?"
"The world will never know, Nanny. That is why I want you to help me.
I am supposed to be ill with this cold, so I can be thought to be in
this room nursing it. While I am away don't let anyone enter, but
attend to me as if I were really ill in bed. Everyone will think that,
I am indisposed."
"When will you be back?" asked Mrs. Rebson, shaking and nervous.
"To-morrow some time. I can stop at some hotel in town."
"Oh, Miss Clarice, a young lady without a chaperon."
"I won't be a young lady, but a young man," said Clarice, impatiently,
and crossing the room to look into a Gladstone bag which she had
packed with masculine belongings.
"A young gentleman, seeing that you are to be Master Ferdy," said Mrs.
Rebson, with dignity. Then she began to beat her hands on her old
knees. "Oh, dear, it is all very dreadful, and I don't know what your
poor pa and ma would say. I don't think I should allow it."
Clarice forbore to tell Mrs. Rebson that she had no power to forbid,
since she was not now a nursery autocrat. But she wanted to set the
old woman entirely on her side so as to carry out her plans. "If you
think it would be better to let Ferdy get into trouble----"
"No! no! oh, dear me, no, Miss Clarice! Anything but that. I'll say
that you are ill in bed, and I shan't allow anyone into the room. But
how will you get out of the house and away from the station without
being recognised?"
"I can dress as Ferdy, and slip out of the drawing-room window,"
explained Clarice, quietly, and getting a pair of scissors; "as to the
station, there will probably be a crowd there, and I can get unnoticed
into a carriage. Besides, everyone will take me to be Ferdy."
"Not those who know you."
"Oh, yes, I think so. I can imitate Ferdy exactly. I shall have to, if
I want to deceive Zara Dumps."
"The hussy" said Mrs. Rebson, vigorously; then, with a cracked scream,
"Miss Clarice, what are you doing to your hair?"
"Cutting it off," said Clarice, snipping vigorously. "I can't expect
to masquerade successfully with a woman's hair."
"Oh, Miss Clarry, Miss Clarry, your lovely hair," wept Mrs. Rebson,
and but that Ferdy's life--as she thought--depended upon the
assumption of Ferdy's personality, she would then and there have
refused to join in, what seemed to her, to be a mad, fantastic scheme.
"What's the use of going on in this way?" asked Clarice, angrily.
"Perhaps I am acting foolishly, but it's the only chance that I can
see of saving Ferdy from his enemies. Come, Nanny, cut my hair, and
trim it--not too short."
Mrs. Rebson, with the tears streaming down her wrinkled face,
manipulated the scissors. "What will the captain say?"
"Nothing," retorted Clarice, "when I tell him my reason. Anthony has
every confidence in me. I dare say he'll be shocked, but I can't help
that. There "--she surveyed her cropped head in the glass, and was
surprised to see how remarkably she resembled Ferdy--"no one will ever
guess that I am not my brother."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Rebson, pointedly, "you may deceive a man, but you'll
never get a woman to believe in you."
"I'll try, at all events," said Clarice, thinking of Zara. "Come,
Nanny, help me to dress."
Mrs. Rebson was not of much use, and she wept most of the time, so
Clarice set her to work to re-pack the Gladstone bag. In it was stowed
a tweed suit, since Clarice was rapidly assuming a spare evening dress
of Ferdy's. Also he had left behind him, luckily, a fur-lined coat,
and Clarice had purchased in the High Street a silk hat, ostensibly
for her brother, but really for her masquerade. Ferdy was very
extravagant in the matter of clothes, and no doubt much of the
squandered two thousand pounds had gone on his wardrobe, so that the
girl was easily able to array herself in the evening purple and fine
linen of a young man about town.
When she was dressed--when the fur coat was on, when the silk hat was
worn, and when Clarice placed a cigarette in her mouth--even Mrs.
Rebson was startled, and stared, open-mouthed, at the change. "Oh,
deary, mercy me," cried Mrs. Rebson, raising her hands, "I really
should take you for Master Ferdy, my dear."
"Rippin' old Nanny," said Clarice, with so exact an imitation of her
brother's voice that Mrs. Rebson jumped.
"It's not right--it really ain't right," she blubbered. "You might be
my darling boy from the looks of you and the voice of you."
"That's as it should be. Now, Nanny, kiss me, and wish me God speed."
"Never," said Mrs. Rebson, energetically, "when you're doing exactly
what Moses said you shouldn't do, and wearing man's clothes."
"To save Ferdy, Nanny," murmured Clarice, and, gained the kiss and the
blessing. Then, the servants being at their tea, she slipped down with
the Gladstone bag in her hand, and went out by the French window of
the drawing-room. Mrs. Rebson, at the bedroom window, saw her
disappear up the lane.
"It might be Master Ferdy himself," said Mrs. Rebson, with a heavy
heart, and prepared to carry out her part of the deception.
There was, as Clarice had anticipated, a crowd at the station, as it
was market day in Crumel, and many sellers and buyers were leaving by
the 6.30 train. Slipping unnoticed through the crowd, she obtained her
ticket from a clerk too busy to glance up, and got into an empty
first-class smoking carriage. She did not like the atmosphere, as her
sense of smell was delicate, but it was necessary to keep up the
deception of manliness, and, moreover, in a smoker she was not likely
to meet with any local women friends, who might penetrate her
disguise. Also Clarice smoked herself a little, having first done so
out of bravado, because Anthony had laughed at her early attempt. She,
therefore, lighted a cigarette, and tried to feel herself a man. What
she did feel was undoubtedly a delightful sense of freedom, and
regretted again, as she had often regretted before, that she had not
been born with a beard. Nature had undoubtedly made a mistake in
creating Clarice a woman. Perhaps owing to the similarity of the
twin's looks, she had confused the souls, and had given to Clarice the
body which was truly Ferdy's.
In due time the young gentleman--Clarice felt herself to be truly a
young gentleman--arrived at Liverpool Street Station, and hailed a
cab. She told the man to drive to a quiet West End hotel, where Ferdy
sometimes stopped, when it was too late to return home to his quarters
in Dr. Jerce's Harley Street house. Here Clarice was quite delighted
with the result of her masquerade. Everyone, including the landlord,
the barmaid, and the waiters, took her for Ferdy, and she was given
the dinner table at which Ferdy usually sat. And from the smirk of the
barmaid, who inquired if Mr. Baird would take a glass of sherry before
dinner, Clarice gathered some information as to Ferdy's urban habits.
After Clarice had placed her bag in the bedroom--and only then did
it occur to her that she could have assumed her evening dress in
Town--she ordered a hansom, and drove to the Mascot Music Hall. It was
a magnificent, palatial structure, decorated and painted and gilded
like the Golden House of Nero. For the first time in her quiet life
Clarice found herself in such a place, and was astonished at the blaze
of light, the number of well-dressed people, the quantity of flowers,
and the numerous aids to pleasure which she beheld on every hand.
Also, she was surprised to see what a lot of liquor was drunk, and
wondered if it was necessary to keep up her assumed character by
ordering a whisky and soda. Although some acrobats were performing on
the splendid stage, it was yet early, and the house was not yet quite
full. Clarice was thus enabled to secure a very comfortable stall. As
the evening grew later, the seats on all sides of her were gradually
filled, but she found that the one next to her remained empty.
The performance was of the usual class, and showed little originality,
although it was entirely new to the girl, who had lived most of her
life in Crumel. Acrobats tumbled, thought-readers performed their
wonders, musical Americans played various instruments, and
interspersed their jangling with United States slang, delivered in
nasal voices, and various crack comedians sang the comic songs of the
day, which were--Clarice thought--but dreary productions. She enjoyed
the performance, however, as it was all new to her, but wondered what
Ferdy could find in the "turns" to come there night after night.
Perhaps "The Birth of the Butterfly" would be more artistic and
amusing, and it came on at nine o'clock. This was the especial moment
for which Clarice had waited all the evening.
Immediately before the curtain rose on the sketch, a little
overdressed woman came pushing along to the vacant seat beside Miss
Baird. She turned to see who it was, and to her dismay recognised Mrs.
Dumps. The little woman also recognised--as she thought--Clarice's
brother, and exchanged greetings very affably.
"Though I'm not astonished to see you here, Mr. Ferdinand," said Mrs.
Dumps, in her voluble way, "Zara says that you come nearly every night
to see her sketch."
"Don't you come yourself, Mrs. Dumps?" said Clarice, carefully
imitating her brother's voice, and rejoiced to see that even keen-eyed
Mrs. Dumps did not know her.
"I don't," said Mrs. Dumps, screwing up her mouth. "I've been weeks in
London, but this is the first time I've been to see Zara play,
although she has begged me on her bended knees. But I was brought up a
Churchwoman, and I don't hold with theatres, much less with ungodly
music-halls. Zara would go on the stage, being always bent on having
her own way, although I said I'd curse her if she did."
"And did you?" asked Clarice, quietly, perfectly certain that her
disguise could not be penetrated.
"What would have been the good?" said Mrs. Dumps, crossly, "seeing
that Zara is my own daughter, and my only one, and not Dumps' child
either, though she took his name. My first husband was her father, Mr.
Ferdinand, so when you marry her, you will have to take her as Sarah
Twine, that being the poor man's name. Hush! here's the piece
beginning. I do hope it's respectable. Zara said it was, else I should
not have come. Oh, dear me," wailed Mrs. Dumps, in an under tone, "how
dreadful it is to have my child and Twine's appearing on the wicked,
wicked, bad, evil, shameless stage."
Clarice would have liked to question Mrs. Dumps further about the
marriage, but that the curtain rose, and she had to pay attention to
the sketch. The scene represented, very picturesquely, a garden of
roses, and at the back was a Brobdignagian flower, upon which lay
stretched out a gigantic green worm. This was probably the Chrysalis,
which it had been Ferdy's ambition to act. While the music thrilled
through the air, and the lights rapidly changed, the worm began to
writhe and to execute acrobatic feats. It twisted and turned on the
small space--comparatively speaking--of the flower, and finally
crawled across the stage, wriggling grotesquely. Mrs. Dumps was
annoyed.
"To think that a child of mine and Twine should make such an
exhibition of herself," she said, indignantly.
"That is not Zara," whispered Clarice, smiling; "she appears as the
Butterfly, you know."
"Then all I can say is that she ain't like the butterflies I've met
with," said Mrs. Dumps, angrily, "me having chased them as a girl."
"Wait till Zara appears," was the reply of the charming, handsome
young gentleman, whom the landlady of the Savoy Hotel took to be Mr.
Ferdinand Baird, of The Laurels.
Mrs. Dumps sniffed aggressively, and sat very rigid, with the fullest
intention of giving her daughter a good talking to for daring to lower
the dignity of the Twine name. Meanwhile, the eyes of all were
watching the pretty picture on the stage. A wind swept through the
garden of flowers, and the blossoms withered under its blighting
breath. In one moment the radiant Paradise of Roses took on a wintry
aspect. Snow fell thickly, the trees shed their leaves, the sky turned
dark, and the ungainly green chrysalis shivered and wriggled in a
wonderful manner to the shrill blowing of flutes and trumpets in the
orchestra. It was so realistic that the audience could almost--as one
enthusiast declared--feel the cold.
Then came the mellow sound of flutes, and the delicate trilling of
stringed instruments. The roses began to bloom again, the sky regained
its brilliant blue, and the trees budded afresh, under the touch of
sudden spring. The green worm writhed its way to the gigantic rose,
and lay there exhausted and still, until the rising petals of the
flower concealed it from sight. Then came a pause, and afterwards,
with a triumphal burst of music, out of the closed rose sprang a light
and airy figure, with glittering, glorious butterfly wings,
scintillating and vast. Zara shot up to the flies like a rocket, and
then swooped gracefully down to the front of the stage. Supported in
her airy flights by invisible wires, she fluttered amongst the
blossoms like an immense jewelled insect, coquetting and caressing and
hovering marvellously on iridescent pinions. Over all played the
ever-changing limelights, so that the girl floated lightly as
thistle-down in the midst of a King-Opal of prismatic hues. Then she
dropped lightly on to the stage, and began a dreamy, sensuous dance,
which would have driven St. Anthony out of his senses. When the dance
was at its height, and Zara whirled fast and furious in the radiant
lights and colours, a dismal note sounded in the orchestra. The
butterfly paused, and shivered, as a cold wind bent the flowers, and
chilled them. Again the dance commenced, but this time it was slower.
The music grew sadder, the many flowers began to fade once more, and
finally the snow began to fall in feathery white flakes. Shortly the
garden was again strewn in ruins, and the poor Butterfly, frozen and
dying, sank weakly to the ground, while the snow piled a white mound
over its short-lived beauty. When the dancer was completely buried,
the curtain fell.
It rose again in answer to thunderous applause, and Zara appeared,
leading by the hand her fellow-artiste, who had so wonderfully
performed the Chrysalis. He had put aside his mask, and came to the
front of the stage, where he could be plainly seen. Clarice looked at
him indifferently, but when she glanced aside at Mrs. Dumps, she saw
that the little woman's face was bloodless and pinched.
"Oh, Mr. Ferdinand," gasped Mrs. Dumps, clutching her companion's arm,
"that's Osip--that's the murderer!"