A FINAL SURPRISE.
And now that the mysterious criminal has been discovered, nothing
remains but to relate the end of some and the future of
others--meaning all those persons who, directly or indirectly, have
been connected in any way with the tragic death of Julian Edermont.
In the first place, Joad died of heart disease. This organ had been
affected for some considerable period, and he had always been told to
live quietly and to avoid excitement. For years he had taken this
advice, and had vegetated at the Red House; but the dread of what
Mallison might do to him, and the excitement of the subsequent arrest,
proved too much for him. He fell dead on his own doorstep on the very
night on which the murderer was arrested.
"Although," said the _Morning Planet_, commenting on this event, "it
was perhaps as well that he did not live. He might have been arrested
for keeping silence as to his knowledge of the assassin. He was an
accessory after the fact, and in his terror he compounded a felony;
so, probably, if he had lived the law would have taken cognisance of
his behaviour. But as it was, Lambert Joad died worth fifty thousand
pounds. By the will of Julian Edermont, this amount was left to the
person who should bring his murderer to justice. Mr. Joad did this, as
it was through his instrumentality that the criminal Mallison, alias
Pride, was secured by the police. He was arrested in Joad's cottage,
whither in the evening he had gone to see the old man, and owing to
the excitement of the struggle and subsequent capture, Joad fell dead
of heart disease. His gaining of the reward did him but little good.
But it will now go to his relatives, if he has any, and should prove a
lucky windfall for them."
Although Lady Burville's name was kept out of the papers, a rumour got
about that she was connected in some way with the case. Nothing very
definite was known as to how she was implicated, but it was hinted
that in some vague way the death was due to her influence. Alarmed at
this hint of publicity, and tired of being blackmailed by Pallant, the
little woman plucked up her small portion of courage, and confessed
the whole story to Sir John. Needless to say, the millionaire was
deeply shocked, but as he recognised that his wife was one of those
weak fools of women who bring trouble on themselves and on everyone
else, he forgave her. He trusted to the influence of his strong nature
to keep her in the right path for the future, and, indeed, as Laura
Burville had an assured position--for Sir John insisted upon marrying
her again after he knew that Carew was really dead--and plenty of
money, she had no temptation to behave badly. After the confession and
second marriage and forgiveness, she felt much happier than she had
done since the tragedy at Christchurch. Her fate was a better one than
she had a right to expect.
With Pallant, who knew that Lady Burville had not been actually
married, seeing that Carew still lived, when the first ceremony took
place, Sir John came to a compromise. He paid him a handsome sum of
money, for which he received a receipt. Then he turned the blackmailer
out of the house, made him leave England, and swore if he ever set
foot in London again that he would prosecute him for blackmailing. As
Pallant knew that Sir John was a man of his word, and, moreover, as he
had reaped a rich harvest by his blackguardly conduct, he willingly
went abroad. Ultimately he returned to San Francisco, and was shot in
a Chinese gambling shop while playing fan-tan. No one regretted him
when he died, and the only people who gave him a thought were the
Burvilles, who breathed more freely when they saw an account of the
tragedy. So Augustus Pallant was punished in the long-run for his many
villainies.
And the still greater villain, John Mallison, came to his right end
also. He refused to admit his guilt, but, thanks to the evidence of
Meg Gance, who deposed as to the alteration of the clock, and to the
confession of Joad, he was arrested, and tried for the murder of his
quondam friend. The jury brought him in guilty, and he was condemned
to death. At the last moment he confessed that the charge was true.
"I did kill Julian Dargill," he confessed, the night before his
execution, "and I am glad that I rid the world of the crawling little
ingrate. Twenty and more years ago I saved his life from the bullet of
Carew at the risk of my own. I took his name, and led Carew off to
America on a false trail; and had it not been for the dexterity with
which I avoided him, I should have been killed by my pursuer in
mistake for Dargill. And for this service Julian allowed me only a
paltry two hundred a year. I turned tutor and took the name of Pride
at Chillum to keep Dargill under my eye; and I had to have some excuse
for remaining in so dull a hole.
"Julian was afraid to tell me face to face that he intended to cut off
my pension. The coward wrote, although I was at Chillum at the time.
It was no coincidence that I was in the study between the visits of
Lady Burville and Scott. I learnt from Joad, who opened the letter to
Lady Burville, that Edermont expected those two at midnight on the
second of August. I wanted to go and taunt him before them with his
mean conduct. I did not intend to kill him, but only to taunt him, and
to get possession of the manuscript, so as to force him to continue my
pension. But he threatened me with a pistol, and in self-defence I
killed him. The blow was unpremeditated, but, since it killed him, I
refuse to say that I am sorry. I knew that Joad had secured the
manuscript, but he refused to give it up, and I could not find out
where he had hidden it. If I had secured the manuscript, no one would
have known that John Mallison was in existence, and I would then have
denounced Joad as the assassin and gained the fifty thousand pounds.
It was his belief that I had taken it instead of Miss Dora that made
him tell Carver the truth. But he is dead, too, the miserable traitor!
I shall have one satisfaction in going to the scaffold in knowing that
the man who injured me and the man who betrayed me have gone before.
Both their deaths, directly and indirectly, can be laid at my door.
I'm glad of it."
As to Dora, there was some difficulty over her marriage--this time
through her own scruples about her birth. She reminded Allen of the
blot upon her life--that she had not even a right to the name of
Dargill, much less that of Carew. But Allen laughed away her scruples
and kissed away her tears, and swore that she should be his wife in
the spring. Dora yielded to his persuasions and to those of Mrs. Tice,
and surrendered herself to the full tide of happiness which was
bearing her along to a prosperous future. So all was settled, and then
came a final surprise from no less a person than Mr. Carver.
Shortly after Mallison, alias Pride, had paid the penalty of his
crime, the lovers were seated on the lawn of the Red House, under the
shadow of the mighty cedar. It was a quiet and beautiful evening, just
after sunset, and the sky was resplendent with colours like the hues
of a butterfly's wing. Allen's arm was round the waist of Dora, and
they were talking of their future.
"I think it will be best for you to come to Canterbury, Dora," he was
saying. "After the tragedy which has taken place in this house, you
can never live in it without a shudder. Marry me, live in Canterbury,
and we will keep on Mrs. Tice as housekeeper."
"But I lose what little fortune I have if I leave it," remonstrated
the girl.
"What of that? I can give you a comfortable home, dearest. My practice
is increasing, and in a few years we shall be quite opulent. Give up
your father's bequest, my own, and let us begin our new life without
dwelling within the shadow of a crime."
While Dora was reflecting what answer to make, the gate opened--it was
never locked now--and Mr. Carver, as black as a raven and as lean as a
stick, made his appearance. He saw the couple on the lawn, and walked
directly towards them, with what was meant for a smile on his grim
face. Indeed, he had taken a great fancy to the young couple--to Dora
in particular--and they both welcomed him heartily.
"Well, my young friends," said he, when the first greetings were over,
"I have come to learn your plans."
"We were just making them," said Dora with a blush. "Allen wants me to
give up the Red House and live in Canterbury when we are married."
"I agree with him there, Miss Dora. The Red House is what the Scotch
call uncanny. I should not like to live in it myself, with the
knowledge that a brutal murder had been committed within its walls."
"I feel the same as you do," replied Dora. "All the same, if I give it
up I lose my poor two hundred a year, and shall go to Allen a pauper."
"Dearest, as if that mattered! I can provide a home for you, and Mrs.
Tice shall look after it."
"Be comforted, Miss Dora," said Carver, smiling. "You will not go to
Allen a pauper. You are entitled to fifty thousand pounds--your
father's money."
"But why, Mr. Carver? I did not find out who killed my father."
"No; but Joad did, and the money came to him. On the day that he made
his confession--as if anticipating his untimely end--he made his will,
and left all the money to you."
"All the money to Dora?" cried Allen joyfully. "Then she inherits her
father's money, after all!"
"Every penny of it," replied Carver gravely; "and I'm glad to say so."
"But--but can I take it?" said Dora in a hesitating manner.
"Tut, tut! Why not? You need have no compunction in doing so, my dear.
As your father's daughter and sole offspring, he should have left it
to you. It has only passed through Joad's hands on its way to your
pockets. Take it by all means. I kept the telling of this for you as a
pleasant surprise. Do not spoil my little plot by a refusal."
"What do you say, Allen?"
"I say with Mr. Carver, my dear, take it--it is lawfully yours."
"Then I shall accept it. Fifty thousand pounds! O Allen!" Dora flung
her arms round his neck. "You can go to London--we can take a house in
Harley Street--you can become a famous physician--and--and----"
"And all your geese will be swans!" laughed Carver kindly.
But Allen did not laugh. He held Dora to his breast and kissed her.
"My dearest," he said in a grave tone, "the money is not unwelcome;
but a greater gift has come to me than that--the gift of a
true-hearted, stanch woman, who will be a noble wife."
"Hear, hear!" said Carver the misogamist. And so that disturbed
chapter in their lives came to an end.
THE END.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.