THE END
Some months later, in the spring-time, Mr. and Mrs. Herries were
seated under their own fig-tree; in other words, they were occupying
the "Moated Hall." Angus had entered into full possession of his
property, and was now a country gentleman, popular and wealthy. His
wife also was much admired, and, her story being known, everyone was
delighted to make her acquaintance. It had been impossible to keep the
mysterious tale of the "Marsh Inn" murder out of the newspapers, and
quite a legend had grown up in connection with it.
Pope Narby was tried for the murder of Sir Simon, and although he
would fain have denied his guilt, and although his mother would fain
have taken it on her own shoulders, he was condemned and sentenced to
be hanged. It was this news which Elspeth and her husband were
discussing after dinner in the garden.
The night was beautiful and spring-like. There was a glorious moon
gleaming in a cloudless sky, and everywhere the earth was breaking
into blossom with the coming of spring. Browne had been dining with
the young couple, but had been hastily called away to see a patient.
Angus and his wife were alone, and sat side by side, hand in hand, on
the terrace of the old hall. Elspeth looked more delicate and ethereal
than ever in her evening dress, and Herries, immaculately groomed and
arrayed in purple and fine linen, appeared a very different creature
to the worn-out tramp who had sought the shelter of the "Marsh Inn."
He was just talking of this experience.
"I thought that it was the unluckiest thing that ever happened to me,"
he said, looking fondly at his pretty wife, "but now I know that but
for my visit there I would never have been where I am. You would not
have been my wife, Elspeth, nor would I now be drawing fifty thousand
a year."
"Yet we have seen much misery coming out of the whole business,"
sighed the girl-wife. "Is it a good thing, Angus, to build up
happiness on the sorrows of other people?"
"My darling, we did all we could to help others. Their sorrows were
caused simply by their own wickedness, from which both of us suffered.
No, Elspeth, I don't think we can blame ourselves in any way. Let us
recall, for the last time, all that has happened, and then agree to
forget the sorrowful past."
"Well, then, Angus, let us begin with Pope Narby."
"I rather think we end with him," said Herries, "seeing that the poor
wretch will be hanged in a few days. The appeal his mother made to the
Home Secretary has been rejected, and the law will take its course.
But he certainly deserves his doom. When I was in the court at the
time he was sentenced, Elspeth, he talked about Eugene Aram, and
compared himself to that person, saying he had killed Sir Simon to get
money to become famous."
"Did Mrs. Narby know that he was guilty?"
"Not at the time. But she noticed that he was always down at the Red
Creek----"
"I noticed that also, from the mud on his boots."
"Well, then, one day she followed him there, and found that he had
buried the notes and gold in a box. She made him confess all, which he
did, only he never told her that Captain Kyles had made him sign a
confession."
"I wonder that Pope was so foolish as to do that."
"He would not have done that had not Kyles promised to save him by
taking him to South America. Then he thought that he was safe and
Kyles certainly would have kept his word had not Trent and his
policemen arrived. I was angry with Ritson for having warned Trent,
but as events proved it was just as well."
"I thought you intended yourself to warn Trent," said Elspeth.
"So I did, dear, but then, from certain information I learned I
fancied that your father might be guilty."
"What, papa? Oh no. He would do many wrong things, I know, but
not----"
"Well," said Herries dryly, "I don't think he'd even stop short of
murder to get money. But there is no danger of his doing anything of
that sort now, as he has his five hundred a year. He is coming to see
us to-night, Elspeth, and then intends to go to-morrow to the North
there to live always."
"I am glad of that," said the daughter heartily. "Papa is not a good
man, Angus, and the further away from us he is the better. But do you
know," she added smiling, "I really thought that papa would have
married Mrs. Mountford."
"There was not the least chance of that, dear, although he certainly
admired her. Poor Mrs. Mountford, I am glad I allowed her an annuity
as she certainly has had a very bad time. She felt the loss of Maud
very much."
"Why was not Maud saved?" asked Elspeth.
"In all the confusion it was impossible," said Herries earnestly, "for
I would have saved her myself in spite of her wickedness had I got my
wits about me. But I struck my head against the side of the yacht,
when she pushed me over, and the boatmen dragged me quite stunned into
their boat. Maud was pushed over immediately afterwards by Señora
Guzman, and----"
"Who can swear to that?"
"Ritson. He saw her do it, and saw Maud push me over. You see, my
dear, Maud knew that if I died that the money would come to her, and
that was why she wanted to come with me on the yacht. I saw that she
had something on her mind, but she would not tell me what it was. And
no wonder, seeing that it was her design to push me overboard, and get
the cash. Then she thought that Bruce Kyles would marry her."
"Had she been successful would he have done that?"
"No. He loved Señora Guzman. I think that Kyles behaved very badly.
However, he has vanished out of our lives with the four thousand----"
"Ah," said Elspeth smiling, "Mr. Ritson has never ceased to mourn for
the loss of that."
"I think Kyles deserved the money," said Herries, "and Ritson made a
good thing out of it, when the property came into my possession.
Without that confession, extorted by Kyles from Pope Narby, we would
never have got the fortune. But it proved beyond all doubt that Pope
was guilty, so everything has turned out for the best. I do not grudge
Kyles the money. He's in South America by now, I expect, hunting for
that treasure along with Señora Guzman and her father.
"What will they do when they find it?"
"Marry, and then, with heaps of money at their back,--I believe the
treasure amounts to five millions sterling,--they will try and get
back authority in Indiana."
"What about Mrs. Narby?"
"I intend to give her some money and send her to the States to rejoin
her husband. Pope must be hanged: there's no help for it."
While they thus talked and enjoyed the beauty of the night, they heard
a grand mellow voice chanting one of the psalms. Shortly the musical
person came in sight, and then they beheld the Rev. Michael Gowrie, in
strict clerical dress, looking fat and gay and more bibulous than
ever. On seeing his son-in-law and daughter he advanced with a
majestic gait reciting solemnly--
"Soon, as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the glorious tale.
"That's Addison, ye ken, my bairns. A fine poet, though not tae be
named i' the same breeth wi' Robbie Burns."
"So you are off to-morrow?" said Herries taking no notice of this
poetical outburst.
"I'm gangin' tae morrow tae the Norrth. Aye, my fut wull be on ma
native heath soon. Five hunner a year, and a stainless name. Leuk,
laddie, what honesty o' purpose does for the wise."
"Oh father," said Elspeth disgusted, "you know you----"
"I know that I walked in miry ways," said the sage quickly, "groped in
darkness and employed in the muckrake to find ma gold. But I wis but a
good honest mon struggling wi' advarsity. Aye, lassie, dinna forget
that I saved your husband fra the gallows."
"You've made five hundred a year out of that," said Herries,
contemptuously.
"And gey cheap at the price, my manny. My ain conscience o' having
dune good is ma reward. Aye, I can lay ma venerable locks on my pillow
and say I've thocht o' the gude o' ithers afore ma ain. See, Elspeth,
the husband I got for ye, and the hoose, and the----"
"Oh, shut up and go away," said Herries, disgusted with the old scamp,
"and don't come near us oftener than you can help."
"And this," said Mr. Gowrie, lifting his eyes to the cloudless sky,
"is gratitude."
"Gratitude be hanged, I owe you none."
"Dinna talk o' hanging, laddie, when ye think that puir Pope's fate
micht hae been yours. Ye owe me a' theengs, I'm theenking. What were
ye but a Jonah when I took peety on ye at the 'Marsh Inn'? I helped ye
with counsel, I cheered yer lonely path, and gied tae ye ma ain bairn,
the pride and glory of my existeence."
Herries stared at Mr. Gowrie thus praising himself, then taking
Elspeth's arm within his own, calmly walked away. "Dear," he said when
they entered the house, "when your father goes, we'll forget all the
past."
"I never wish to see him again," shuddered the girl, "and oh, Angus,
to think I should have such a father," she let fall a tear.
Herries kissed it away.
"There! There! We won't think any more of him or of our troubles.
All's well that end's well. You and I are no longer Mr. and Mrs.
Jonah."
"What are we then?" asked Elspeth smiling through her tears.
"Dand Joan," and then they sat down happy at last. And the sage,
the wise man, who had steered them,--in his own opinion,--through all
their troubles, sat on the terrace lamenting the ingratitude of his
children.
"Aye, aye," said Gowrie, "I'm a Lear--wha hes cherished a serpent to
sting me. But for the gude siller--aye," he chuckled and rubbed his
hands, I hae the siller, and can gang my ways content until yon day
when I occupy the hoose built wi'oot hands. A Provideence hes watched
o'er me I doot not, for I'm nae ane o' they sceptics wha' disnae
believe in ony thing. Weel, weel,' he rose, and walked into the hoose,
"a wee drappy toddy and then to bed. Jonah's Luck, aye, it's Jonah's
Fortune I'm theenking, and I gie it a' tae Jonah."
THE END
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HUNT, BARNARD A CO., LONDON, W., AND AYLESBURY.