CONCLUSION.
Six weeks had elapsed since the events recorded in the last chapter.
It was the evening of the return of Gerald Brooke and his wife to the
home which they left under such tragic circumstances nearly a year
before. Gerald's wound had proved a troublesome one; and after his
release from custody, which was merely a matter of a couple of days,
he had hurried up to London for the sake of obtaining the best medical
advice, and there he had since remained; a few friends had met to
welcome the home-comers; there was to be a grand reception by the
tenants and others on the morrow.
First and foremost there was our dear Miss Primby, not looking a day
older than when we first made her acquaintance. She had been filling
the post of mistress _pro tem_, at the Towers for the past month. She
was of an anxious mind, and small responsibilities assumed a magnitude
in her eyes they did not really possess, and thereby worried her not a
little. She will be thankful when Clara resumes the reins of power,
and she herself is allowed to subside into that life of tranquil
obscurity in which she finds her only true happiness. There, too, deep
in conversation, were Lady Fanny Dwyer and Mr. Tom Starkie. Her
ladyship was husbandless as usual, but seemed in nowise put about
thereby. She and Tom struck fire frequently in the arguments and
disputations they were so fond of holding with each other; they
agreed to differ and differed to agree, and perhaps were none the less
good friends on that account.
Flitting in and out and round about was Margery, spick and span in a
new gown and gay ribbons, and a tiny apron all pockets and embroidery.
For the first time in her life she had on a pair of French kid shoes,
and she could not help stealing a glance at her feet now and again
when no one was looking. She scarcely knew them for her own property,
so changed an appearance did they present. This evening she was to
enter on her new duties as "own maid" to her beloved mistress. Who so
happy as Margery!
The turret clock struck seven, but Mr. and Mrs. Brooke had not yet
arrived. They were to drive down from London, and ought to have been
here nearly an hour ago. Every minute Miss Primby grew more fidgety.
Some accident must have happened, she felt sure. Perhaps the horses
had run away; perhaps a wheel had come off the carriage; perhaps any
of twenty possible mishaps had befallen the travellers. Fidgets are
infectious, and before long Tom Starkie began to consult his watch
every minute or two and to answer her ladyship at random. So many
strange things had happened to Gerald during the last twelve months
that anxiety on the part of his friends might be readily excused. The
suspense was brought to an end by the sudden inroad of Margery, who
had been down to the lodge, and now brought word that a carriage and
pair had just turned the corner of the high-road half a mile away.
This news sent every one trooping to the main entrance to the Towers.
Not long had they to wait.
Gerald still carried his arm in a sling, but his other hand was
clasped tightly by his wife. Neither of them could speak as the
carriage wheeled into the avenue and the old home they had at one time
thought never to see again came into view. Nor was there much said for
the first few moments after they alighted. A kiss, an embrace, a
handgrip, told more than words: of tears the ladies shed not a few,
but they were tears which had their source in the daysprings of
happiness.
Dinner was over and the company had returned to the drawing-room. The
lamps had been lighted; but so soft and balmy was the evening that the
long windows had been left wide open. Outside, terrace and garden and
the miles of woodland stretching far beyond were bathed in a tender
sheen of moonlight. Lady Fan was at the piano turning over some music.
Mr. Tom Starkie was stooping over the canterbury, trying to find a
certain piece of Schubert's he was desirous her ladyship should play.
Clara and her aunt were talking together in a low voice on the sofa at
the opposite side of the room. On the hearthrug, his back to the empty
fireplace, stood Gerald. As he gazed on the pretty domestic scene
before him, he could scarcely realise that all the strange events of
the past year were anything more than the dream of a disordered brain.
Could it be possible that only a few short weeks ago he who now stood
there, so rich in all that makes life beautiful, had been a hunted
felon on whose head a price had been set Incredible as it seemed, it
was yet but too true. If proof positive were needed there was his arm
still in a sling to furnish it. His eyes turned fondly to the sweet
face of his wife, to which the sunshine and roses of other days were
already beginning to come back. How brave, how loyal, how devoted she
had been through all the dark days of his trouble! The care and love
of a lifetime could scarcely repay her for all she had gone through
for his sake. She had indeed been that crown of glory to her husband
of which the sage made mention in days long ago.
Clara, who while talking with her aunt had been absently gazing
through the open window on to the terrace, suddenly gave utterance to
a shriek, and springing to her feet, flung herself upon her husband's
breast and clasped him round the neck with both arms. An instant later
a pistol-shot rang through the dusk, and the bullet, passing within an
inch or two of Gerald's head, crashed into the pier-glass behind. At
the open window stood George Crofton, hatless and haggard, his white
drawn features distorted by a scowl of fiendish malignity, the light
of mingled hate and madness blazing in his eyes. Tom Starkie sprang
forward as Crofton, with an imprecation on his lips, raised his
revolver to fire again. But quicker even than Tom was a dark-cloaked
figure which sprang suddenly into the range of vision framed by the
window and dashed the uplifted weapon from Crofton's hand. For a
second there was a cold gleam of steel in the moonlight and then the
cloaked figure vanished us quickly as it had come. With a loud cry
Crofton flung both arms above his head and staggered forward a pace or
two into the room. "Gerald Brooke, you have won the game!" he
exclaimed in hoarse accents; then making a clutch at his heart, he
gave a great gasp and fell forward on his face. Gerald and Tom raised
him. A tiny stream of blood trickled from his lips: he was stone-dead.
The _portière_ was drawn aside, and all eyes turned on him who stepped
into the room. It was the Russian, looking as cold, pale, and
impassive as he always looked.
"Karovsky, have you had any hand in this?" demanded Gerald sternly, as
he pointed to the dead man.
"I, my friend! what should I have to do with such _canaille?_"
demanded the other with a shrug.
Not more than half a minute had elapsed from the beginning to the end
of the tragedy. Under the direction of Starkie, two or three of the
servants who had hurried in now proceeded to remove the body to
another room. While this was taking place the Russian drew Gerald
aside. "Look here, Brooke," he said. "It is never wise to inquire too
curiously into matters when no good end can be served thereby. This
man had made up his mind to murder you. It was your life against his.
It may be--mind you, I only say it may be--that that fact had come
within the cognisance of the Brotherhood to which you and I have the
honour to belong. If such were the case, they were bound by their laws
to take his life rather than allow him to take yours. But this is
nothing more than guesswork. In any case the scoundrel is dead
and your life is safe; but it was touch-and-go with you, my
friend--touch-and-go."
The unexpected appearance of Karovsky following so closely on the grim
scene just enacted before his eyes revived in Gerald's mind certain
apprehensions that had slumbered almost undisturbed for many months.
All his fears took flame at once as his memory travelled back to that
April evening when Karovsky's ill-omened presence first crossed the
threshold of Beechley Towers. What if, at some future day, when all
the world seemed full of sunshine, he should suddenly appear again
with a message of the same dire import!
Gerald's heart seemed compressed as in a vice as this thought with all
its dread significance forced itself on his mind. "Karovsky, he said
in a dry hard voice, now that you are here, there is one question I
would fain ask you."
"I think I can guess the purport of it," answered the Russian with his
imperturbable smile. "You need be under no fear, _mon ami_, that I or
any other emissary of the Brotherhood will ever come to you again with
evil tidings. The man who was condemned to die is dead, and although
he did not meet his fate at your hands, that matters nothing. The
sentence has been carried into effect, and such being the case, by the
rules of the Supreme Tribunal you, Gerald Brooke, are absolved in full
from ever being called upon again."
THE END.