There seemed to Clarice to be a familiar look about this representation of a fern. The double sheet of writing paper was thick and glossy¹, with untrimmed edges, and on this the curved fern, with its fronds² wonderfully delicate and distinct, had evidently been impressed with an india-rubber stamp, moistened with purple ink. The square-sized envelope bore no address, no stamp, and no seal. What could one make of such a missive? It appeared meaningless, yet to Clarice the fern itself recalled some faint memory. Probably that memory, whatever it might be, was clearer to Horran, and so had given him the shock of which he had complained.  
After some consideration, Clarice slipped the envelope and sheet of paper into her pocket, thinking it advisable to remove them from Horran's sight. He had fallen into a deep sleep, and was breathing almost imperceptibly, his face looking singularly calm and unwrinkled. Whatever his disease might be, he certainly was not suffering pain; but it was strange that after a ten hours' sleep, he should again relapse into slumber³. Still, from his looks there was no cause for alarm, so Clarice touched the bell, and when Chalks entered, she pointed⁴ silently to his unconscious master.
 
The valet was a round, rosy⁵, stout⁶ little man, with twinkling black eyes, and a meek⁷ manner. He beamed with good nature and overflowed⁸ with the milk of human kindness. An attendant with so cheerful a disposition⁹ and smiling a countenance¹⁰ was quite the kind of nurse needed by an invalid¹¹, as his spirits were infectious, and frequently served to arouse the somewhat melancholy¹² Mr. Horran from dismal¹³ musings. Chalks displayed no surprise at the sight of his patient asleep again, but lifted him in his arms and placed him gently on the bed. Clarice deliberated as to whether she should tell Chalks (who was intelligent and devoted¹⁴ to Mr. Horran) about the missive of the purple fern; but finally decided¹⁵ to say nothing concerning it to anyone until she had seen Anthony. The elusive¹⁶ memory, which would not come back to her in its entirety, suggested that Ackworth could account for the fern in some way.
 
"What do you think of him, Chalks?" she asked, indicating the unconscious man on the bed.
 
"I think's he's asleep, Miss," said Chalks, innocently.
 
"But why should he sleep again after ten hours' slumber?"
 
"Why should he be ill at all, Miss?" was the retort of the cheerful little man, "seeing that them doctors says as his organs is healthy, and that there ain't nothing whatever the matter with him?"
 
Miss Baird drew her white brows together in a perplexed¹⁷ way. "There must be some reason for his disease, Chalks."
 
"The doctors say there's no disease, Miss."
 
"But this sleep is unnatural¹⁸."
 
"Master's health has been unnatural for the last ten years, Miss."
 
"What is your theory, Chalks?"
 
"I have none, Miss. Master gets headaches and giddy fits, and weeps and gets into rages, which ain't his real nature, and he's had two fits, and now sleeps like a top for hours. This ain't what you'd call health, Miss, and yet Dr. Jerce and Dr. Wentworth have both examined him heaps of times, only to find he's all right, both inside and outside. It's a riddle¹⁹, Miss, that's what it is."
 
"What's to be done, then?"
 
Chalks advanced briskly to the bed. "Leave Master to me, Miss, and I'll put him between the sheets. Then we must wait until Dr. Wentworth comes again, Miss."
 
Clarice walked to the door, but cast a glance round the room, before going out. She saw that one of the French windows was open, and moved to close it. Chalks stopped her. "No, Miss, Master must have all the air he can get--Dr. Wentworth says so."
 
"And Dr. Jerce?" Chalks beamed like a cherub²⁰. "Bless your heart, Miss, he insists on Master getting as little air as possible. When Dr. Jerce comes down, Miss, he says the window must be closed; when Dr. Wentworth turns up, he opens it straight off. They don't agree, Miss, which is hard on me, Miss."
 
"It is perplexing," assented²¹ Clarice, laughing, "what do you do?"
 
"Well, Miss, I let them do what they like. If Dr. Jerce closes the window, I leave it so; when Dr. Wentworth opens it, I let it be. Sometimes that window is open all night and closed all day. At other times, Miss, it's open all day and closed all night. It depends on them dratted doctors."
 
Clarice laughed at this explanation, and seeing that her guardian²², to all appearance, was in a healthy sleep, went away. "Tell me when he wakes up, Chalks," said she, at the door.
 
"Yes, Miss, if Master don't sleep for one hundred years, like the Sleeping Beauty," and Chalks chuckled²³ at his own simple wit. Clarice passed the morning in attending to her domestic duties, and had a consultation²⁴ with Mrs. Rebson about the Christmas festivities. That cheerful housekeeper²⁵ remarked that it would be as well to make the house as bright as possible, since The Domestic Prophet declared that something terrible would happen before Christmas. What the event might be, Mrs. Rebson could not tell, as the prophet, after the manner of his kind, was obscure in the wording of his oracles²⁶. Nevertheless, Clarice became infected with the vague dread²⁷ which Mrs. Rebson insisted she felt herself, and the memory of that oddly delivered envelope, containing the stamped picture of the purple fern, did not tend to dissipate her uneasiness. When she left Mrs. Rebson, still prophesying²⁸ coming woes²⁹, like an elderly Cassandra, the girl felt that a walk would do her good, and, putting on her furs, she sallied forth³⁰, eager to breathe a less portentous³¹ atmosphere.
 
The day was bright and clear, the snow was hard and clean. In the lucid³² air lurked³³ the sting of frost. Sitting over a fire, one was apt to shiver; but smart walking brought a colour to the most wan³⁴ cheeks, and communicated a glow to the whole body. Clarice looked extremely pretty as the exercise tinted³⁵ her oval face, and sent the warm blood spinning through her youthful veins³⁶. She walked in a determined³⁷, swinging way, with steadfast³⁸ eyes and a firmly closed mouth, like a woman who knows her own mind, and who means to have her own way. It needed a very strong man to master this young lady of the new school, and Clarice believed that Ackworth was just the man to exercise authority. Certainly, Dr. Jerce might have mastered her also, as he was stern and strong. But then she did not love Dr. Jerce, and only from the tyrant³⁹ she loved was Miss Baird ready to take orders.
 
Finding herself near the vicarage, Clarice determined to enter and see if Ferdy was there. As he had not come back to luncheon⁴⁰, it was probable that he had gone to Prudence⁴¹ Clarke for consolation⁴², a thing Miss Baird quite approved of, as she respected Prudence, and would have been glad to see Ferdy engaged to so sensible a girl. The quarrel at the breakfast table had no doubt left Ferdy fretful and complaining, so it was pretty certain that he would visit Prudence and pour his woes into her sympathetic ears. Ferdy never could keep his troubles to himself, but invariably climbed to the highest house-top to shout out his puny⁴³ griefs. Clarice wished him to marry Prudence, yet sometimes she doubted if so sensible a girl would tolerate such a baby man as a husband.
 
The servant who answered the door said that Miss Clarke had gone out skating with Mr. Baird, but that the vicar was in his study. Clarice would have turned away in pursuit of the young people, but that the parson heard her voice and came into the hall. He was an undersized, miserable⁴⁴ man, with a head too large for his body, and an awkward, diffident manner, which seemed to continually apologise for the existence of Mr. Nehemiah Clarke. His voice was querulous, and his complaints were incessant⁴⁵. In his rusty⁴⁶ black clothes, with his bent⁴⁷ frame and untidy hair, he looked a most dismal object, and Clarice, in her then somewhat dejected state of mind, scarcely relished⁴⁸ an interview with so cheerless a person. However, she could not help herself, and entered the study with the best grace she could muster⁴⁹.
 
"There," whimpered Mr. Clarke, waving his hands towards an array of bills, which strewed⁵⁰ his desk like autumn leaves, "what do you think of that for Christmas, Clarice? How is a man to preach goodwill⁵¹ towards men, when men won't show any goodwill towards him?"
 
"But we all get bills at Christmas time," said Miss Baird, consolingly. "I get more than anyone else," moaned the vicar, sinking into the chair before his desk; "why they should come to me, I don't know."
 
"You should pay as you go, Mr. Clarke."
 
"I haven't any ready money, Clarice. It's all very well for you, in the lap of luxury; but I have only three hundred a year, and even that small sum comes to me slowly, since people will not pay their tithes⁵² without legal threats, and those cost money. I don't eat much, I dress plainly, I never enjoy myself, and keep only one cheap servant, yet the bills will come in. Prudence is responsible for many; she ought to emulate⁵³ her name, but she won't. Imprudence would suit her better. Oh, dear me, how I can sympathise with Lear."
 
"I don't think Prudence is extravagant⁵⁴, Mr. Clarke," said Clarice, who resented this placing of burdens on other people's shoulders, "she always seems to me to be a sensible girl."
 
"In some ways--in some ways," muttered the vicar, discontentedly.
 
Clarice reflected for a few minutes. From hints dropped by Prudence, she had a shrewd idea of where the vicar's money went. "How is Frank, Mr. Clarke?" she asked, significantly.
 
"My son. He is still in London, trying to get work. Poor lad, he is very unfortunate. With his education and manners and brains, he ought to be one of the foremost men of the time; but the want of money is a bar to his advancement⁵⁵."
 
"What is Frank doing?"
 
"Nothing. He has tried the army, the medical profession, the legal profession, the lecture hall, and even the stage. But, as yet, he has not hit upon the field in which he can display his undoubted abilities to their utmost."
 
"You support him, I suppose?"
 
"I can't let the boy starve," said Mr. Clarke, defiantly⁵⁶.
 
"Well, then, it seems to me that Frank is more to blame than Prudence for your difficulties. He ought to support himself."
 
"He will some day, when he acquires the position to which his talents will lead him. Then he will bring glory to the Clarkes."
 
"He only brings misfortune and debts just now," said Clarice, dryly.
 
"Who says so?" asked the vicar, furiously.
 
"Prudence tells me that her brother will not do anything, but passes his time in idleness, and constantly comes to you for money. As he is over thirty years of age, he certainly should support himself."
 
"Poor Frank cannot help his misfortunes."
 
"I rather think that a man's misfortunes are, as a rule, of his own making, Mr. Clarke. Your own, for instance. You have three hundred a year and a free house. That ought to keep you out of debt; but if you will give all your money to Frank, what can you expect?"
 
"My dear--my dear," said Mr. Clarke, testily⁵⁷, "a girl like you can't understand these things."
 
"Oh, yes, I can. Since Uncle Henry has been ill all these years, I have had a great deal to do with business."
 
The vicar started. "I thought Mr. Barras was your guardian's lawyer."
 
"So he is. He attends to everything, but Uncle Henry rarely sees Mr. Barras himself, so I have to attend to necessary matters."
 
"Why doesn't Ferdinand--?"
 
"Ferdinand!" Clarice made a gesture of contempt.
 
"He is the same as your son, and spends money rather than earns it."
 
"My dear, you shouldn't say these things, unbecoming in a young girl's mouth. It is not modest in a woman."
 
Clarice stood up, very tall and dignified⁵⁸, and rather irritated. "What is the use of talking like that to me, Mr. Clarke. All that idea of the superiority of man is a thing of the past. I am only a woman, and a girl, as you say, but I have five times the sense of Ferdinand, and Uncle Henry trusts me rather than him. Prudence also is clever and sensible. I don't believe that she is extravagant, Mr. Clarke. Frank is the one who spends your money. If you would allow Frank to earn his own living, and let Prudence arrange your affairs, you would soon be out of difficulties."
 
"Prudence knows nothing of business, Clarice."
 
"And Frank knows less," retorted the girl, thoroughly⁵⁹ angry. "Women have more intuition than men. But there is another way out of your difficulties, Mr. Clarke."
 
"What is that?" asked the little man, somewhat cowed by the determined demeanour of Miss Baird.
 
"Ferdy is in love with Prudence. Let them marry, and then I can arrange that your debts will be paid when Ferdy comes in for his money two years hence."
 
"But in the meantime?" moaned the vicar.
 
"We can arrange something--that is, if you will stop sending money to Frank. Let him sink or swim, Mr. Clarke. Self-reliance is the sole thing which will make a man of Frank."
 
"I'll see, I'll see," said Mr. Clarke, evasively, "but if I allow Prudence to marry Ferdinand--and I note that they love one another--do you think he will help me?"
 
"I shall help you."
 
"But how can you--?"
 
"Mr. Clarke, I spoke⁶⁰ to Uncle Henry this morning, and he told me that as our guardian, he has the authority to appoint another one at his death. He doesn't trust Ferdy, so he has constituted me the head of our affairs. Ferdy gets two thousand a year, as I do, in two years, but I shall have the casting vote as to how his money is disposed of--at least, up to the age of twenty-five, when he takes it over. If Ferdy marries Prudence next year, I'll allow him a good income, on condition that he pays your debts. He will do it, if I advise, as I shall have the legal power when Uncle Henry dies."
 
"But if Mr. Horran does not die?"
 
"Then I'll see what Mr. Barras can do. He is the lawyer, and believes in me. He tells me everything."
 
Clarke rose, and began to pace the room. "Has Barras told you that Horran lent me one thousand pounds five years ago at ten per cent."
 
"No," said Clarice, somewhat startled, "is that so?"
 
"Yes. I am in great trouble over the loan. I borrowed it to help my son Frank, and I have had to pay interest at the rate of ten per cent. every year--that is, one hundred pounds. I have not paid up for three years, so I am indebted to Mr. Horran for three hundred pounds, and he threatens to sell me up--that means ruin."
 
"I don't believe it," cried Clarice, energetically. "Uncle Henry is a kind man, and would never do such a thing. Who says so?"
 
"Mr. Barras."
 
"Then I'll go up to London and see Mr. Barras after Christmas. He ought to have told me about this, but he did not. Why do you not see Uncle Henry yourself, Mr. Clarke?"
 
"I tried to, but Dr. Jerce would not let me. He said that I would upset Mr. Horran if I talked business to him. I therefore have kept away from the house."
 
"I noticed that you had not been near us for months," said Clarice, thoughtfully. "But how does Dr. Jerce come to know of the matter?"
 
"Mr. Barras told him."
 
Miss Baird flushed in an angry way. "It seems to me that Mr. Barras takes a great deal upon himself," she said, haughtily⁶¹. "Since Uncle Henry is ill, and trusts me, I am the one to be spoken to, about these matters, and not Dr. Jerce. I'll question Uncle Henry about the loan, and see that everything is put right."
 
"Then I won't have to pay the three hundred," said the vicar, eagerly. "I can't say that," rejoined Clarice, bluntly. "I'll see what I can do. Of course, if Ferdy would only become engaged to Prudence, I might be able to do much, but as matters stand, Dr. Jerce and Mr. Barras may prove too strong for me."
 
"But Mr. Horran trusts you--so you say, Clarice?"
 
"He does. But he-Uncle Henry, I mean--has a great opinion of Dr. Jerce, and in his weak state may be influenced by him. I'll speak to the doctor and to Mr. Barras--more than this I can't promise."
 
The vicar looked more miserable than ever and twice opened his mouth to speak. Each time he closed it, while Clarice wondered at his hesitation⁶². "Do you think that everything is right with Mr. Horran?" asked Mr. Clarke, at length.
 
"What do you mean by that?" she asked, startled.
 
"Mr. Horran has no money, you know, save what he receives from your estate by acting⁶³ as your guardian."
 
Clarice stared. "I never knew that," she said, at length. "I understood, of course, that Uncle Henry received a sum for acting as guardian, since that is but right. But he has his own money and the house--"
 
"The house you live in belonged to your father, and now belongs to you," said Clarke, rapidly, leaning forward with eagerness to emphasise⁶⁴ his words. "I know, because I buried both your parents, and was present at the reading of the will. Mr. Horran loved your mother and was trusted by your father; but he never had any money. When your father died he left everything to your mother, in trust for you and Ferdinand. When she went the way of all flesh, she constituted Mr. Horran, who then managed her business, your guardian, as she trusted him, and he was hard up. Did not Mr. Barras tell you all these things, Clarice?"
 
"No," she said, absently, and began to see that the lawyer had not trusted her so entirely⁶⁵ as she had thought--neither had Horran, if the vicar was to be believed. "I shall speak to Uncle Henry," she said, after a pause, "and from him I shall learn the true position of affairs. Meantime, please say nothing, Mr. Clarke."
 
"No. I'll be silent. But this three hundred interest--?"
 
"I'll see about that also. I am sure that Uncle Henry does not mean to be hard on you. Of course, business may upset him, since he is so ill, and Dr. Jerce may be right in keeping you away. All the same, it seems to me that Dr. Jerce knows a good deal about our private affairs."
 
"I am sure that Mr. Horran tells him everything," said Clarke, with a gloomy air, "and Dr. Jerce is not friendly towards me. I don't know why, since we were at college together, but he is not friendly."
 
Clarice felt puzzled. This conversation with Mr. Clarke opened her eyes to the fact that business was not so easy a matter as she had imagined. If she was to be tricked by Mr. Barras keeping back details of finance, and if Dr. Jerce was influencing Horran secretly, it appeared that she would have some difficulty in straightening out things at the death. Nevertheless, Horran had assured her that when he passed away, she would find everything in good order. Before she could pursue the subject further in her thoughts, the door opened, and Prudence appeared, with Ferdy behind her. Prudence was a brunette, as dark as Ferdy was fair, but tall and handsome and full of life and spirits. From the downward curve of her mouth, it would seem that she had a temper. But just now, she appeared to be filled with joy, and rushed to kiss Clarice. "Dear! dear!" she said, quickly, "Ferdy has--Ferdy has--"
 
"I am glad," cried Clarice, guessing what had happened with the swift intuition of a woman; "it is exactly what I wanted Ferdy to do."
 
"Well, then," said Ferdy, who was radiant as a lover, and who evidently had forgiven his sister for the quarrel at breakfast, "I've done it."
 
"Done what?" asked the vicar, staring open-mouthed. "I have asked Prudence to become my wife."
 
"Thank God!" said Clarke, devout⁶⁶ and egotistic, "my debts will be paid."