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.