Miss Baird, who was feminine after all, and very much in love and young in years and spirits, thought that this was an excellent idea, so the rest of the drive was all that could be desired in the way of cheap and genuine happiness. When it ended, she gave Anthony Russian tea in a tumbler and dainty caviare sandwiches. Ferdy, as they learned from Mrs. Rebson, had returned from the railway station to enjoy his golden hour at the vicarage, and Mr. Horran had again fallen asleep.
But simple happiness over afternoon tea could not last for ever, and when Anthony set out for Gattlinsands, after a lingering farewell, Clarice felt the reaction. To prevent herself from feeling dull, it was necessary that she should do something, so true to her intention of defying Dr. Jerce, she tapped at the door of the sick-room. Chalks appeared, with a whispered communication that the patient was awake and too fractious to see anyone on that night. Clarice returned to the drawing-room, and read indolently until Wentworth came to pay a late visit at eight o'clock. Just as she descended the stairs, dressed for dinner, Miss Baird caught the young physician at the door, and accosted him at once.
"Is Uncle Henry better, doctor?" she asked, coming forward.
Wentworth was a slim, shy man, who wore spectacles, and spoke in a jerky, staccato manner when addressed by a woman. "Better--yes--that is,--more awake. Lethargy passed away--very bad temper. Better leave him alone until the morning. 'Night, Miss Baird," and he shot off in confusion, like a timid schoolboy.
Clarice made a hurried meal, and returned drearily to the empty drawing-room, without any desire to encounter the fractiousness of her guardian, which she had experienced on more than one occasion. After the somewhat exciting day she really felt worn-out and in need of rest, therefore made up her mind to retire comparatively early. However, she hoped that Ferdy would come home soon to explain his absence from the dinner table, and passed the time in playing Patience until ten o'clock. Finally, after asking Mrs. Rebson if the house was locked up, and if Ferdy had returned--which he had not--she ascended the stairs to bed. At the top of them she found Ferdy clinging to the banisters. Apparently he had entered the house without Mrs. Rebson's knowledge.
"Oh!" said Clarice, perceiving his condition. "Again."
Ferdy chuckled. "I've been--S'v'y H'l--B't'fly pretty girl--j'lly ev'ning--such fun--it's--it's--" Here he missed one step and rolled down two, with an idiotic giggle. Clarice would have struck him in her disgust, but that would have done no good. Being a prompt and powerful young woman, she caught him by the collar of his coat and dragged him into his bedroom on the first floor. There she locked him in, while Ferdy protested weakly all the time, and only yielded to superior force.
"Faugh!" said Clarice, throwing the key on her dressing-table. "What a weak fool he is." She sat down and stared at the reflection of her face in the Louis Quinze mirror. It looked weary and drawn. "I shall be an old woman soon if this sort of thing goes on," she thought. "Oh, dear me, how tired I am of bearing other people's burdens. I must end it. In some way, I'll get the truth out of Uncle Henry, settle the money matters, marry Anthony, and wash my hands of everything. As to Ferdy, I'll marry him to Prudence and let her look after him."
Having thus arranged the future, she retired to rest. But not to sleep, since her brain was much too active for slumber. She tossed and turned and sighed wearily at intervals, as the hours dragged on to midnight. Only on hearing the church clock strike twelve did she begin to lose consciousness, and, finally, thankfully sank into a deep slumber, which lasted for hours.
Towards dawn, as is often the case with worried people, she began to dream in a confused, broken way, and the purple fern, very naturally, since it was in her mind, mingled with her fleeting visions. She fled--so it seemed--through dark streets, of nightmare length, pursued by the man in grey, who assumed monstrous proportions. He caught her, at the end of interminable miles, and--so she dreamed, with gasping horror--stabbed her to the heart. Then she felt the mark of the Purple Fern--the mark, indeed, of the Beast, as it might be--stamped on her forehead. Afterwards, half awake and half asleep--only in her dream she was dead--she felt herself being placed in a narrow coffin, and heard the hammering of the nails, which closed her in for ever and ever and ever. With a violent effort she broke the nightmare's bonds, and woke in a cold perspiration, to see the cold, faint dawn glimmering behind the window blinds, and--horrible feeling--to hear the knocking continue. But not on her dream coffin. The blows came on her bedroom door, steady, persistent, terrifying. She heard her name called in a quavering voice, and sprang out of bed, confused and dazed.