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.
"Darby and 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."