The Purple Fern E-Book

Fergus Hume

• Herausgeber: Publisher s11838
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

The Purple Fern written by a prolific English novelist Fergus Hume. This book is one of many works by him. Published in 1907. And now republish in ebook format. We believe this work is culturally important in its original archival form. While we strive to adequately clean and digitally enhance the original work, there are occasionally instances where imperfections such as blurred or missing pages, poor pictures or errant marks may have been introduced due to either the quality of the original work. Despite these occasional imperfections, we have brought it back into print as part of our ongoing global book preservation commitment, providing customers with access to the best possible historical reprints. We appreciate your understanding of these occasional imperfections, and sincerely hope you enjoy reading this book.

Leseprobe

The Purple Fern

By

Fergus Hume

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I. THE MAN IN GREY

CHAPTER II. AN ADVENTURE

CHAPTER III. TWINS

CHAPTER IV. A MYSTERY

CHAPTER V. THE VICAR

CHAPTER VI. A DISCOVERY

CHAPTER VII. DR. JERCE EXPLAINS

CHAPTER VIII. WHAT HAPPENED NEXT

CHAPTER IX. THE INQUEST

CHAPTER X. A CHANCE WHISPER

CHAPTER XI. THE DOG

CHAPTER XII. BUSINESS AFFAIRS

CHAPTER XIII. THE NEW EPOCH

CHAPTER XIV. PRUDENCE

CHAPTER XV. THE VICAR'S TROUBLES

CHAPTER XVI. A STRANGE COMMUNICATION

CHAPTER XVII. THE RECALL OF DR. JERCE

CHAPTER XVIII. THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS

CHAPTER XIX. ZARA, THE BUTTERFLY

CHAPTER XX. PROOF POSITIVE

CHAPTER XXI. ACKWORTH'S NEWS

CHAPTER XXII. THE ANONYMOUS LETTER

CHAPTER XXIII. AN IMPORTANT DISCOVERY

CHAPTER XXIV. FERDINAND BAIRD AT BAY

CHAPTER XXV. THE WHOLE TRUTH

CHAPTER XXVI. NEMESIS

CHAPTER I. THE MAN IN GREY

The train to Crumel was late. Due at four o'clock, it failed to reach its destination, until ten minutes past the hour. This was not the fault of the branch-line authorities. The London express had been behind time at Werry Junction, whereby the local had been forced to wait. The delay mattered little to the majority of the passengers, as time in the wilds of Essex is of less value than a similar commodity in the metropolis. But Dr. Jerce, being a famous urban physician, felt annoyed, as he had come down hurriedly, in this unpleasant weather, to see a patient, and wished to be back in Harley Street by nine o'clock. Also Dr. Jerce was Napoleonic in his love for precision, and the failure of the Company to obey the time-table irritated his usually bland temper.

Jerce was not unlike the great Corsican in looks,—that is, he was short and stout, calm in his manner and impenetrable in expression. His clean-shaven face, classical in outline, save that the jaw was of the bull-dog order, did not betray his present feelings of exasperation at the pin-prick of delay. When the belated local finally steamed leisurely into the terminus, he buttoned his sable-lined coat, adjusted his shining silk hat, and dusted unnecessarily his smart patent leather boots, so unsuitable to the season. Finally, with the same imperturbable air, he collected the Christmas magazines he had been reading on the way down, and stepped on to the thronged platform. A man in a grey coat, grey gloves, grey trousers, and a grey Homburg hat, leaped from the adjoining carriage, and followed closely at the heels of the popular physician. Jerce did not turn his head, as no sixth sense told him that he was being watched.

It wanted only a week to Christmas, and the weather was quite of the traditional Dickens kind. Deep snow almost overwhelmed the quaint little Essex town, and this, hardened by many nights of frost, sparkled like jewels in the clear radiance of street-lamps and shop-lights. The short winter's day drew to a bitterly cold close, and although the pedestrians, crowding the narrow, twisted streets, were, for the most part, warmly clad, many of the more sensitive shivered in the cutting east wind. But Jerce, having a sufficiency of flesh to cover his bones, and a fur-lined overcoat to protect that same flesh, stepped out briskly and comfortably, without regard to the chills of the season. The man in grey followed him at a respectful distance, keenly observant.

The shops, already decked for Yule-tide, looked unusually lavish with their blaze of lights, their mistletoe, and red-berried holly branches, and their extra display of Santa Claus presents and Christmas provisions. But the doctor did not look at the glittering windows, nor did the man in grey. Jerce, who appeared to be well known, nodded smilingly, right and left, to respectful townspeople, and his follower took note of this popularity. Finally, the physician turned down a somewhat dark side-lane—for it was not yet an official street—and entered an iron gate on the left-hand side, some distance down. This admitted him into the grounds of a large, square Georgian mansion of mellow red brick, covered with ivy and snow, and looking like a house with a history. The watcher was compelled to remain outside the high iron railings, as he was unable to give any plausible reason for entering. When Jerce rang the bell and finally disappeared inside the mansion, the grey man muttered an impatient word or two, and resigned himself to sauntering up and down the lane, until such time as the doctor should emerge.

But the air was nipping, while the man in grey was thin and thinly clothed. Shortly he began to shiver and turn blue. Glancing down the semi-lane, where it led into the truly rural country, he noticed the brilliant lights of an ambitious inn. Measuring with his eye the distance from the Georgian mansion to this hostel, the man in grey saw that he could shelter therein, and yet keep an eye on the gate, out of which the doctor presumably would come. The opportunity was too tempting. Crossing the road, he entered the bar, which looked warm and cheery. Jerce would scarcely return to London for an hour or so, therefore the watcher thought that, with an occasional glance out of the bar-room door, he could very well keep guard over the doctor's comings and goings. But the first thing he did, when inside, was to demand a Bradshaw.

"Lor' now," prattled the lady behind the counter, in a thin mincing voice, the very ghost of speech and with restless volubility, "if I didn't see it only an hour ago. Yes, I did, say what you like. Mr. Ferdinand,—though to be sure you don't know him,—but Mr. Ferdinand came in for a Scotch and Polly, and asked to look up the London trains for this evening. He had that Bradshaw in the private bar, if I remember, which I can't be certain. Through that door, sir, if you please. I'm sure I'll be able to oblige, though I can't be positive."

When this incoherent speech terminated, the thin stranger passed through a narrow door in a partition, plastered with gaudy almanacks and sober advertisement sheets, to enter a small cupboard cut off from the bar by the aforesaid partition. It contained two deal chairs, a deal table covered with a red cloth and strewn with newspapers and guide books, and nothing else. Dimly lighted by a smelling swing lamp dangling over the table, and better illuminated by a bright fire, it looked comfortable enough, when contrasted with the snowy world outside. The lady who talked so much, suddenly appeared from somewhere like a jack-in-the-box, and after turning up the lamp, poked the fire vigorously and unnecessarily, chattering all the time.

"You see, sir, only the gentry come to this private bar," she said, in her high-pitched voice, and taking stock of the stranger all the time, "and there's no gentry hereabouts to-night. Mr. Ferdinand,—but you don't know him, of course, but Mr. Ferdinand, and a pleasant young gentleman he is, was the last to look at that Bradshaw. Oh, yes, you were asking for it, sir,—of course, you were, though where it can be, I can't say, happy as I'd be to oblige you. But the table is so very untidy, sir,—" making it worse by tossing about papers and books and pamphlets,—"people won't leave things where they ought to, and this Bradshaw, which is a new one,—oh, here you are, sir. You'll be sure to find the train you want, or perhaps the local time-table," she snatched up a pink sheet, "which is published as an advertisement by my uncle, who keeps the baker's shop on the left hand side of our High Street, going towards the station. Oh, you prefer Bradshaw, sir. Well, sir, some likes this and some that, but I never, never could understand Bradshaw myself, my head for figures not being like my brother, who is truly wonderful, and quite a phenomenon. Figures is child's bricks to him, and—oh, there's someone asking for beer. You'll excuse me, sir, won't you," with a winning smile. "I'll attend to this customer and return, when I set Lydia to watch the others."

With these highly unnecessary remarks to a wearied listener, the brisk landlady, who was thin and small, tight-laced, and highly-coloured, disappeared as suddenly as she had presented herself, and was heard a moment later exchanging interminable greetings with the last person who had entered to toast the Season. The man in grey shrugged his lean shoulders and breathed a sigh of relief, when Mrs. Talkative departed. Shortly he nodded contentedly over the Bradshaw. The next London train did not leave Crumel until seven o'clock, so if Dr. Jerce intended to go to town on this night, he would have to be at the station at that hour. Of course, there was a chance that the doctor might remain, but the grey man did not think that this was likely, as he had observed the absence of a bag. Still, it was as well to provide against emergencies, and, when the landlady returned, the stranger asked a question in a deep, grave voice, which suggested, in some uncanny way, cemeteries and funerals.

"I may have to remain here to-night," said he, surveying the brightly-dressed, would-be fashionable lady, "can I have a bed, please?"

With all her frivolous exterior, the little woman had a head for business, and first glanced round the room to see if the visitor had brought a bag. He guessed the meaning of her hesitation.

"I shall pay for a bed and for two meals in advance," he remarked, solemnly, "that is, if I find it necessary to remain, Miss—Miss—"

"There, now," giggled the hotel fairy, pleasantly confused, "if I ain't always saying to Lydia—who is the housemaid—that strangers will call me Miss, though I should look married, having heard the wedding service three times, and the funeral words as often. My last name was Dumps, if you please, sir,—John Dumps, and a dear man he was, though not extraordinarily handsome. He left me this hotel—the Savoy Hotel," added the landlady, with emphasis, "and you can call me Mrs. Dumps."

The grave man listened impassively, with his keen eyes on the airy female, so gorgeously arrayed. He might have been of bronze for all the impression this speech seemed to make. Yet it conveyed to him the idea that Mrs. Dumps was a confirmed gossip, and sufficiently free with her tongue to tell him everything he wished to know concerning Crumel and its inhabitants. Making a mental note of this, the grey man reverted to his first statement. "I shall pay in advance, Mrs. Dumps," he remarked, "and the price."

"Seven shillings for supper and bed and breakfast. I can't say fairer than that, look as you like, Mr.—Mr.—lor, now, I don't know your—"

"Osip is my name," interrupted the man, and tendered two halfcrowns and a single florin.

Mrs. Dumps' claw-like fingers closed on the money in a way which suggested the miser. "Osip. Really! Osip! A strange name, Osip."

"I am a strange man," replied the other curtly, "would you mind getting me a glass of ginger beer, Mrs. Dumps?"

"Oh, Mr. Osip, really, Mr. Osip. Surely, port or whiskey at Christmas, let alone the freezing weather, and the frost causing thirst."

"I never drink alcohol, Mrs. Dumps."

"Lor now," said the landlady, confidentially, "if you aren't exactly like me on the mother's side, as I come of a full-blooded family given to choking and apoplexy. I don't believe in strong drink myself, Mr. Osip, say what you like."

"Then why sell it?" was the not unnatural question.

"I must live," said Mrs. Dumps, plaintively; then to avoid further remarks, she hopped into the bar like a wren, although her plumage was less sober. Presently she returned with the ginger beer. "And won't you take something to eat, Mr. Osip?" she asked, with her fashionable head on one side, more like a bird than ever.

"No, thank you," Osip paused, then faced her abruptly. "I am a stranger in Crumel and I think of taking a house here. Do you know of any to let, Mrs. Dumps?"

"My cousin does, Mr. Osip. Arthur Grinder, Grocer and Land-agent, with an insurance office and a dog-cart, in which he drives round our beautiful and interesting country. All orders——"

Osip cut Mrs. Dumps short in her description, which was evidently culled from the local guide-book, or from one of Mr. Grinder's pamphlets. "I shall see him to-morrow, if I stay," said he, hurriedly.

"But, surely, Mr. Osip, you'll stay, seeing you have paid?"

"Circumstances may arise which may make it necessary for me to return to London to-night. But I can afford the loss."

This speech made the landlady sweeter than ever. Apparently the stranger was rich, so she prepared to make herself aggressively agreeable. "If you become one of us," chirped Mrs. Dumps, more like a roguish bird than ever. "I dare say you'll like to know about the town."

Osip sat down near the fire and folded his arms.

"Information of that kind has its advantages," he said, dryly, "can you tell me anything about Crumel and its inhabitants?"

"Can I tell?" echoed Mrs. Dumps, shrilly contemptuous, "why, I was born and bred here. It is thirty years since I saw the light of day in dear Crumel. Thirty years," repeated Mrs. Dumps, challenging contradiction, which she seemed to expect with regard to her age. Osip might have suggested with some truth that she was over forty, but he did not judge it wise to interrupt the flowing current of her gossip. Nodding gravely he looked into the fire and Mrs. Dumps talked on rapidly, reverting again to the guide-book or to the pamphlet of Mr. Grinder, who was her cousin.

"Crumel," explained Mrs. Dumps, breathlessly, "has three thousand inhabitants, more or less, chiefly less, and the surrounding country is dotted with the delightful residence of well-to-do gentry. Formerly the place was called Legby, in the time of Charles the First; but when General Cromwell visited the then village, during one of his wars, the prosperity increased so greatly through his having made it his headquarters, that the inhabitants, in compliment to the great man, called the then village, Cromwell, which by time has become corrupted to Crumel."

"Very interesting," yawned Osip, visibly bored.

"The minster is tenth century, and very fine," continued the guide-book, "and also Low Church, the vicar being the Rev. Nehemiah Clarke, who is quite a Puritan, out of compliment, no doubt, to Cromwell, or Crumel, to whom the town, formerly the village of Legby, owes its greatness. And they do say," continued Mrs. Dumps, dropping the guide-book, to become merely a gossip, "that Mr. Clarke's daughter, Miss Prudence,—did you ever hear such a name, sir, and she isn't a bit prudent, well, then, Miss Prudence would rather her pa was High Church. I dare say Mr. Ferdinand, who loves Miss Prudence, would like it also, he being quite artistic."

"You have mentioned Mr. Ferdinand several times, Mrs. Dumps. Who is he?"

"An orphan, and so is his sister, Miss Clarice Baird,—wealthy orphans, too, Mr. Osip, I assure you," and Mrs. Dumps nodded vigorously.

Osip showed that he was becoming weary of this conversation, since he was not gathering precisely the information he required. Abruptly he changed the subject. "In this lane——"

"Street," interpolated Mrs. Dumps, indignantly.

"Very good: street. And nearly opposite to this inn——"

"Hotel, if you please, Mr. Osip. The Savoy Hotel."

"So be it, Mrs. Dumps. Well, then, in this street and nearly opposite to the Savoy Hotel, there is a red brick mansion, which I should like to purchase, if it is for sale."

"Lor, now, how funny that is, say what you like, seeing it's the very house where the Baird orphans live."

"Alone, Mrs. Dumps?"

"Oh, dear me, no, sir. They board, so to speak, with their guardian, Mr. Henry Horran, who suffers from some disease the doctors can't put a name to. He's been ailing, off and on, for over ten years; but the doctors can't cure him nohow, not knowin' what's wrong with his inside. Mr. Ferdinand ought to find out, seeing he's lived with Mr. Horran all his life, though to be sure, he ain't old, being but three and twenty."

"Mr. Ferdinand Baird is not a doctor, then?"

"He will be some day, if his brains hold out. He's a medical student, and what you might call an apprentice to Dr. Jerce."

"Ha!" said Osip, quickly, "your local doctor?"

"Lor, no, whatever made you think that, Mr. Osip. Dr. Wentworth's our local, and he isn't bad, though I know more about insides than he does. But what can you expect, as I always say, when he's unmarried, and can't understand ladies? Why, Sampson Tait can cure better than our Dr. Wentworth."

"Sampson Tait?"

"Our chemist," explained Mrs. Dumps, "my second cousin on my father's side."

"You seem to have endless relatives, Mrs. Dumps."

"Heaps and heaps, and they're always dying, which makes mourning come expensive. But I'm lonely, all the same, Mr. Osip, I do assure you, as no one can live lightheartedly, after burying three husbands. Of course, there's my daughter Zara, but she's in London. Her pa had her christened Sarah, but Zara to my mind is more romantic."

"Undoubtedly. Well, then, this Dr. Jerce?"

"Not to know him," interrupted Mrs. Dumps, throwing up her hands, "is to argue yourself unknown. He's famous in Harley Street, London, and they do say that he'll be knighted some day soon. A great day for Crumel that will be, as he's a native, and we're proud of him, not that it's to be wondered at, for a better man never lived."

"A better doctor?" said Osip, inquiringly.

"A better man," reiterated Mrs. Dumps, firmly. "He's kind to the poor, and lavish with money, and why, with such a loving heart, as I know he has, he never will marry, beats me hollow. But they do say as he loves Miss Clarice, though he'll never get her, say what you like, she being engaged, I do hear, to a soldier officer, called Captain Anthony Ackworth, who fires guns at Gattlinsands, five miles away on the seashore."

"Oh, and is Miss Baird rich?"

"She will be and so will her brother, when they and reach the age of five and twenty, being twins, though she's got the brains of the two. Mr. Horran is the guardian, and looks after the money, but since he's ill—and Lord knows what his illness is about—I dare say Dr. Jerce helps him to see that things are kept straight. The Bairds were a Scotch family in the time of James the First," added Mrs. Dumps, becoming again like a guide-book, "and that Stuart king gave them lands about Crumel, then the village of Legby. The old Manor-House is three miles from Crumel, and is let to a rich American, until the Baird orphans prefer to live in it; they meanwhile dwelling with Mr. Horran, who is their guardian by law constituted. That is Miss Clarice,—bless her—lives with Mr. Horran, but Mr. Ferdinand is usually in town, where he boards with Dr. Jerce, who is like a father to him, and I dare say would like to be a brother-in-law, not that he's likely to be so, with Captain Ackworth in the way."

"Does Dr. Jerce come down often?"

"Once a week at least, Mr. Osip, to see Mr. Horran. He's interested no end in the case, but he don't know what's wrong with the man."

"And Dr. Jerce is a good fellow," said Osip, thoughtfully.

"One of the very best. But won't you drink up your ginger beer, sir, and partake of some more? We must rejoice at Christmas time."

"I'll rejoice when I return," said Osip; then rose unexpectedly, and buttoned up his threadbare overcoat. "Meanwhile, I'll stroll through the town and inspect the shops."

"Be sure you look into the butcher's window," screamed Mrs. Dumps, as he passed out, "he being my nephew by his mother's side."

Osip made no reply, but vanished into the night, as Mrs. Dumps fluttered back to the bar, to charm fresh customers. A clouded sky revealed neither moon nor stars, but the hard snow emitted a kind of sepulchral radiance, which created a luminous atmosphere. By an odd inversion the light seemed to come from below, instead of being shed from above, as usual, and the effect was weird in the extreme.

Walking towards the red-brick mansion, Osip pondered over what he had heard from the chattering landlady, and congratulated himself on securing information, while not appearing to seek for the same. Opposite the Georgian mansion, he halted for a few seconds, and, as there appeared to be no one about, he made up his mind to venture into the grounds. Noiselessly opening the gate, he skirted the leafless hedge, and reached the side of the house. Here he found two French windows, giving on to a miniature terrace. The blinds were not down, nor were the curtains drawn, so the lamp-light poured forth across the snow in a gleaming stream. Osip cautiously peered in, and beheld Jerce talking to a pretty young girl, whom he took to be Clarice Baird. Without hesitation, he pressed his ear against the wall, and listened with all his ears.

CHAPTER II. AN ADVENTURE

"I am extremely puzzled," said Dr. Jerce, scratching his plump chin with his right fore-finger—a favourite gesture of his.

"Oh!—a clever man like you."

"Ah-a,—what pleasant feminine flattery."

"The truth. You are celebrated."

"Humph! So is a charlatan, if he advertises himself sufficiently."

"Charlatans don't cure people as you do, doctor,—nor can they ever hope to be knighted, like someone I know."

"Well," answered the stout man, again tickling his chin. "I am not so sure of that. Humbug often succeeds, where merit fails. Perhaps," his little black eyes twinkled, "perhaps that is why I can look forward to being Sir Daniel Jerce."

The girl looked closely into his bland face. "A charlatan would never confess to being puzzled."

"In this case," Jerce shrugged, and resumed a quarter-deck walk in the long drawing-room, "the Archangel Gabriel would be puzzled."

"What can be the matter with Uncle Henry?" observed his listener, pensively.

"Ask the Archangel Gabriel, Miss Baird."

"Miss Baird?" Like a woman her train of thought switched up a siding.

Jerce coloured all over his large waxen face, and he gulped with embarrassment. "Of course, I have known you since you were a little girl," he began, awkwardly, "but——"