CHAPTER XVII.—CONCLUSION.
Three weeks had passed since the flight of Hector Laroche, when one wet forenoon Colonel Woodruffe, in company with a constable in plain clothes, found himself at the door of a low lodging-house in a frowsy-looking street in close proximity to one of the docks. The landlord of the house admitted the visitors, and ushering them up-stairs, unlocked the door of a small bedroom. There, on a ragged straw mattress, lay the dead body of Hector Laroche. A paragraph in the morning’s paper had aroused the suspicions of Colonel Woodruffe, who happened to be in London at the time, and he at once ordered a cab and set his face eastward.
The statement of the landlord of the lodging-house was to the effect that Laroche had lodged with him for little more than a week at the time of his death; that he was exceedingly quiet and well behaved; that he lay in bed nearly the whole day, reading the newspapers and French novels, and having a bottle of brandy at his elbow; and that he rarely went out of doors till after nightfall, and then only for a short time. On the Tuesday, contrary to his custom, he had gone out about noon, and on returning a little before dusk, had remarked to the landlord that he should only require his bed for one night more, as he had just secured a berth on board a steamer which was to sail the following day. At that time, he appeared to be somewhat the worse for drink. He went up-stairs soon afterwards, and nothing more was seen or heard of him. As he was in the habit of not rising till late, no comment was made on his non-appearance next morning; and it was not till two o’clock in the afternoon that the landlord knocked at his door. There being no reply to his summons, he opened the door and went in. There he found Laroche, lying on his bed as if asleep, and dressed, except for his coat and waistcoat. But over his face was spread a fine cambric handkerchief, which medical evidence afterwards proved to have been saturated with chloroform. On the table by his side were a novel, a half-emptied bottle of cognac, a phial, uncorked, containing chloroform, and the dead man’s watch and chain. In one of his pockets was found a purse containing a considerable sum in notes and gold.
At the inquest, the tendency of the evidence pointed strongly to the probability of the deceased having committed suicide while under the temporary influence of strong drink. There was only one piece of evidence forthcoming which served in some measure to invalidate that assumption. The landlord of the house deposed to the fact of the lock of the bedroom door having been secretly tampered with, so that while the door was to all appearance fastened on the inside, it could be opened without difficulty from without. As, however, there was no evidence forthcoming to implicate any one in particular with the act in question, and as the property of the dead man had apparently not been touched, the jury had no option but to bring in an open verdict. The evidence tendered by Colonel Woodruffe was confined entirely to the question of identity.
Two days later he attended Laroche’s funeral—the solitary ‘mourner’ there. This he did out of respect for Mora.
Whether Laroche’s death was the result of his own rash act, or whether it was due to certain other agencies of which mention has previously been made, is one of those mysteries respecting which the world will probably never be any wiser than it is now.
Lady Renshaw was as good as her word when she stated that she had discarded her niece for ever. But it is possible that she might not have proved quite so obdurate had she not at the same time found herself so thoroughly checkmated in other directions. Her surprise at finding Mr Etheridge transformed into Sir William Ridsdale, and the knowledge that all her scheming to secure the rich baronet’s son for Miss Wynter had not only proved futile, but had evidently been seen through from the first by the keen-eyed Sir William, combined with her chagrin that Madame De Vigne, instead of being regarded in the light of an adventuress, was looked upon as a person whose friendship any one might feel proud to claim, following so close upon Bella’s ‘heartless duplicity,’ proved more than she had the courage to face. And when, in addition, a horrid suspicion began to shape itself in her mind that Dr M‘Murdo—no doubt instigated thereto by that odious Miss Gaisford—instead of having fallen in love with her, as she so fondly dreamed, had been merely trying to make her look ridiculous, and amuse himself at the same time—it was no wonder she made up her mind that the sooner she left the Palatine and its inmates behind her the better.
Thus it fell out next morning that when Bella, intent on forgiveness and reconciliation, knocked at her aunt’s door, there came no response; after which a very brief inquiry sufficed to establish the fact that Lady Renshaw had risen at some abnormally early hour, and, accompanied by her maid, had started southward by the first train. She had left behind her no word or message of any kind for the dismayed girl, who found herself thus cruelly deserted in the huge hotel.
But Miss Pen came to the rescue almost before Bella in her bewilderment had time fully to realise the fact of her aunt’s desertion. The little circle of which Miss Pen formed a component part welcomed her as one of themselves, now that the incubus of Lady Renshaw’s presence was removed; and Bella quickly found that what she had lost in one direction was far more than made up to her in others. When, two days later, the party at the Palatine broke up, Miss Wynter accompanied the Rev. Septimus and his sister to their home in the Midlands, there to remain till Mr Dulcimer was prepared to claim her as his wife. And there, some three months later, a quiet wedding took place, our good vicar tying the knot, Sir William himself giving away the bride, who had not failed to become a great favourite with him, Archie acting as best-man, and Miss Loraine as bridesmaid-in-chief. Miss Pen played a voluntary on the organ, and there was a mist of tears in her eyes as she did so. Some vague dream of the past, never to be realised in this world, may perchance have been busy in her mind at the time.
When spring came round again, the worthy vicar was called upon to tie two more nuptial knots. Mora and her sister were married on the same day. Archie and his wife went abroad for a year’s travel; and now that they are back, Clarice, who has far greater faith in her husband’s abilities than he has himself, has made up her mind that Archie must go into parliament. She firmly believes that if he will only do so, there is a brilliant future before him. Time will prove.
Sir William has ventured to spend the last two winters in England, and, somewhat to his surprise, has found himself none the worse in health for doing so. He divides his time pretty equally between his son’s house and that of Colonel Woodruffe. He did not forget our friend Mr Dulcimer when an opportunity presented itself. Through his influence, Dick was appointed to the secretaryship of a large public Company, the salary of which just doubled his previous income. Meanwhile, his wife had not found existence even in a small suburban villa by any means so unendurable as she at one time professed to fear it would be. In truth, her high spirits and good temper are enough to brighten any home. She has all the appearance of being one of the happiest women in England.
Lastly, what is there left to record of her who has been the central figure of our little history? Happily, not much. Are not the happiest lives those of which there is nothing to relate? With Mora the days of storm and stress are over; the past with all its wretchedness and misery seems little more than a hideous dream. She is happy in the present, and, so far as human fallibility can judge, there seems every prospect of her continuing so in time to come. Dr Mac came all the way from Aberdeen to attend her marriage. As he shook hands with her after the ceremony, he said: ‘What a pity, my dear madame, what a great pity it is that Providence did not bless you with a twin-sister!’
‘Why so, doctor?’
‘Because, in that case, there is just a possibility that another poor mortal in addition to my friend the colonel might have been made a happy man to-day.’
Note.—All dramatic rights in the foregoing story are reserved by the author.