While he was thus speaking, Mrs. Mortimer rapidly revolved in her mind all the chances that were for or against her at that moment. Were she to scream and attempt resistance, could she succeed in alarming the neighbourhood before the miscreant would have plunged his dagger into her?—or, indeed, would he have recourse to such an extreme measure at all? These questions she at once decided against herself; and, reverting to her former project of affecting obedience, she thrust her hand into her bosom, dexterously separated a couple of the notes from the rest of the bundle, and threw those two upon the table.
Jack Rily instantly snatched them up; and when he perceived that they were for a thousand pounds each, he could scarcely contain his joy.
Flinging the terrible clasp-knife on the floor, he rushed upon the old woman, who was seized with too sudden and too profound a terror to permit her even to give utterance to the faintest ejaculation—for she thought that he intended to murder her: but her cruel apprehensions fled in another moment when the loathsome monster, throwing his arms about her neck, began to embrace and fondle her as if she were a blooming beauty of seventeen instead of a hideous harridan upwards of sixty. Nevertheless, old and polluted as she was, and inured to all circumstances of disgust as her term of transportation had rendered her, she revolted with a sickening sensation from the pawings and caresses of the hare-lipped wretch who had thus enfolded her in his horrible embrace. She therefore struggled to rid herself of him—to escape from his arms: but he, almost maddened with the joy which the sight of the bank-notes had raised up in his breast, hugged her only the more tightly in proportion as her resistance became the more desperate.
“By heavens! I’ll kiss you again, old gal!” he exclaimed. “I care not how ugly the world may consider you——Be quiet now, can’t you?——to me you’re a paragon of beauty——Perdition! let go of me, you hell-cat——there! now you’re magnificent in your rage—that’s the humour I like to see a woman in——Hey-dey! what’s that?”
And, as he uttered this ejaculation, he suddenly quitted his hold upon Mrs. Mortimer, and pounced upon something that had rolled on the floor.
It was the bundle of Bank-notes, which had fallen from the old woman’s dress during the struggle.
“By Jove! here’s a treasure—a fortune—a King’s ransom!” ejaculated the Doctor, scarcely able to believe his eyes, as he hastily turned over the notes with his hands. “My God! it is impossible!” he cried, his wonderment increasing to such a pitch, that he began to think he must be insane: then, a sudden idea striking him, he turned abruptly towards Mrs. Mortimer, who had sunk back, exhausted and overwhelmed with rage and grief, into the chair. “Ah! I understand it all now,” he said, his voice changing in a moment to the low tone of solemn mystery: “you are a nice old girl, you are! Yes—yes—I understand it at last! These are all queer screens26—and you went into the bank to smash27 some of them. By Jove! it’s glorious.”
Mrs. Mortimer, who was gasping for breath, could make no reply: her mouth was parched—her tongue was as dry as if she had been travelling for hours over a desert without tasting water.
“And yet,” resumed Jack Rily, scrutinising the notes more narrowly still, “these are precious good imitations—too good to be imitations, indeed. I know enough of Bank-notes—aye, and of forged ones too—to see that these are the genuine flimsies. Blood and thunder! what a glorious old wretch you are!” he cried, again surveying her with a joy that was entirely unfeigned and amounted almost to admiration. “I suppose you have committed some splendid forgery. But of course it must be something of that kind,” he added, a sudden reminiscence striking him: “or else you wouldn’t have been so deucedly alarmed when I threatened just now to kick up a row in the streets and attract the notice of the police. So, you perceive, that I was pretty keen in my surmises. I knew you had money concealed in your bosom—and I was equally well convinced you had not obtained it by means that would bear inquiry. However, here it is—in my possession—and it can’t be in safer hands. I’ll just sit down quietly, and count how much there is.”
Thus speaking, the monster picked up his clasp-knife, which he closed and consigned to his pocket; and he next proceeded to inspect the Bank-notes. But when he discovered the enormous sum to which they amounted, his astonishment grew to such an extreme as even to subdue his joy; and, shaking his head slowly, he observed, “This is such a heavy affair that the police will leave no stone unturned to detect the holders of the notes. Whatever we do, must be done at once; and in order that I should be able to judge what course to pursue, you must give me all the particulars of the transaction.”
Mrs. Mortimer was struck by the truth of this observation: for she knew that the moment the forgery was detected, payment of the notes would be stopped, and advertisements announcing the usual caution would be inserted in the newspapers.
“Well, I suppose there is no use in disguising the real truth,” she exclaimed, recovering her self-possession; “and I will tell you all about it in a few words. A certain nobleman——”
“Who is he?” demanded Rily. “Come—speak out plainly.”
“The Marquis of Delmour, since you must know,” returned the old woman.
“And what did he do,” asked the man, impatiently.
“He gave me a cheque for six hundred pounds for a particular service that I rendered him; and he also gave my daughter——”
“Ah! you have got a daughter, eh?” exclaimed Jack Rily. “Is she anything like yourself?”
“She is as beautiful as an angel,” answered Mrs. Mortimer, a scintillation of a mother’s pride flashing at the moment in her bosom: “but as depraved and dissolute as a demoness,” she added almost immediately. “Well, this Marquis of Delmour was wheedled by her out of a cheque for sixty thousand pounds; and though my daughter kept it quiet enough, I found out the secret. So away I sped—back to England I came——”
“Where did all this happen, then?” demanded Jack.
“In Paris—three days ago,” replied Mrs. Mortimer. “On my arrival in London, my course was easy——”
“You may almost say natural,” interrupted the Doctor. “I understand the business plainly enough at present. You altered your six hundred pound draft into one for sixty thousand—and you have thus forestalled your daughter?”
“That is precisely how the matter stands,” said the old woman.
“And when is it likely that your daughter will be in London to present her cheque?” asked the Doctor.
“I should say that I had about twelve hours’ start of her,” was the response; “and then, as she would not travel by night—having a handsome young foreigner as her companion—the circumstance of her stopping to sleep on the road would delay her pretty nearly another twelve hours. Besides, she believes me to be still in Paris—she has not the least idea of my sudden return to England; and therefore she has no particular motive to induce her to adopt any extraordinary speed.”
“Well, well,” cried the Doctor, impatiently: “but all this palaver does not answer my question. When do you expect your daughter will reach London?”
“This evening,” replied the old woman: “too late to present her cheque at the bank. And there are means—yes, there are means,” she continued in a musing tone, “which, if skilfully adopted, would compel my daughter to refrain from offering her draft at all, and likewise force her to leave us in undisturbed possession of the money.”
“And those means?” demanded Jack Rily, his eyes brightening.
“Before I explain myself, let us come to a thorough understanding,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “Will you restore me one-half of the amount you now hold in your possession? I am content to abandon the other half to you.”
“Yes, that is a bargain,” answered Jack Rily; “for I see that you do not relish the idea of living with me altogether, and that you will leave me when this matter is properly settled. Is it not so?”
“Well, such is indeed my intention,” responded the old woman.
“Our relative position now stands in this manner,” continued Jack Rily: “there are sixty thousand pounds’ worth of good notes. With all my connexion amongst fences and receivers of such flimsy, I could not manage to obtain gold for more than two or three thousand in the course of the day; and to-morrow morning your daughter may present her cheque, when a discovery will take place, and all the rest of the notes will be useless. As for going over to the continent, and endeavouring to pass them there, the thing would be ridiculous; for the advertisements in the newspapers would put all the money-changers in Europe upon their guard. Thus far, then, the notes are not worth more than two or three thousand pounds to me. But, on the other hand, you say that you have the means of stopping your daughter’s mouth, and compelling her to put up with the loss. In this case, the whole amount of notes becomes available; and therefore we will share and share alike.”
“Then give me my moiety at once,” said the old woman, with greedy impatience.
“No such thing!” ejaculated Rily: “I must have some guarantee that you act properly in this business; and you can have no hesitation in putting your trust in me, because you have had a proof of my good feeling before. I have not forgotten that you saved my life in the struggle with Vitriol Bob; and the same feeling that made me give you half the spoil then, will prompt me to act with equal fairness now. You are therefore at liberty to depart when you choose, and to go where you like: the notes will remain in my possession—and when you come back to me with the assurance that you have prevented your daughter from taking any step that may lead to an explosion of the whole business, your share shall be immediately forthcoming. I have now put the matter in the proper light; and with such a good understanding, there can be no quarrelling. As to whether you afterwards choose to become my broom-stick wife, I must leave it entirely to yourself: for though I should be as happy as a king in the possession of your old person and sixty thousand pounds, yet I shall be able to console myself for your loss by means of the thirty thousand that will remain to me.”
During this long tirade, all the first portion of which was delivered in a tone of business-like seriousness, Mrs. Mortimer was hastily reflecting upon the improvement that had so unexpectedly taken place in the aspect of her affairs: for she now found herself at liberty to leave the monster whom she loathed and abhorred, and she had every chance of regaining and being able to make use of the moiety of the Bank-notes.
She accordingly assented to the conditions proposed by the Doctor, leaving the broom-stick marriage “an open question;” and having settled her disordered attire, she took her departure—not however before she had been compelled to submit to another hugging on the part of the hare-lipped wretch whose caresses were so revolting and intolerable.
It was about five o’clock in the evening of the same day on which these events occurred, that Laura Mortimer and the Count of Carignano, attended by Rosalie, arrived in London by the South Eastern Railway; and they immediately repaired to an hotel at the west-end of the town.
Although the young Italian nobleman had experienced sufficient leisure for reflection with regard to the step which he was about to take, the enthusiasm of his passion had not undergone the least abatement: on the contrary, the more he saw of Laura, and the longer he was in her company, the more ardently did he burn to make her his wife.
Nor can this infatuation on his part be a subject of wonder or surprise with our readers: for when it is remembered that the artful creature united the most winning ways and captivating manners to the most transcendent loveliness, and that the Count of Carignano had the warm Italian blood flowing in his veins,—when, too, it is recollected that the syren maintained an incessant fire upon his heart with the artillery of her charms and her fascinations—never permitting the conversation to droop throughout the journey, and never seeming wearied of lavishing the tenderest caresses upon her handsome companion,—when all these circumstances are taken into consideration, it cannot be a matter of wonderment if the silken chains in which Lorenzo was ensnared, were completely rivetted.
There was also this fact which served to strengthen his love and her power: namely, that she had not invited him to return to her in Paris—she had not sought to retain him within the sphere of her influence on the occasion of their first amour—she had not played the part of a mere adventuress or husband-hunter towards him. No: she had dismissed him with the understanding that their connexion could not be renewed—that she could neither become his wife nor his mistress;—and the young man had of his own accord flown back to her, as a suppliant for her hand! That she could be an adventuress or a husband-hunter, never therefore entered his imagination—even if for an instant he paused to ponder with any degree of seriousness upon her character; and so far from considering that he was bestowing any favour upon her by making her the sharer of his wealth and title, he looked upon himself as the party owing the obligation—he regarded himself as the happy individual who had the greater reason to rejoice at the connexion.
On her part, Laura Mortimer was most anxious that the marriage-knot should be tied as speedily as possible: for she naturally longed to place beyond all possibility of doubt or disappointment the brilliant destiny that had suddenly developed itself to her view. Even the possession of the cheque for sixty thousand pounds was a secondary consideration, in comparison with her desire to secure that proud title of Countess which was now within her reach.
Having partaken of a hasty dinner at the hotel, Laura and her intended husband repaired without delay to a fashionable house-agent in the neighbourhood; and it happened that he had upon his list a furnished villa of which possession might be taken at an hour’s notice. It was situated in Westbourne Place, Pimlico, and was in perfect readiness for the reception of occupants. Thither the Count, Laura, and the house-agent immediately proceeded; and as the villa fully corresponded, in all its conveniences and appointments, with the description given, an arrangement was effected upon the spot for the tenancy.
Laura and the Count returned, however, to the hotel for that night; and early in the morning they repaired to Doctors’ Commons, where the young nobleman speedily obtained a special license. Thence, attended by Rosalie, they drove to a church at no very great distance; and by eleven o’clock the hands of Laura Mortimer and the Count of Carignano were united at the altar.
The incidents of this forenoon had, however, been closely watched by Mrs. Mortimer.
The wily old woman, upon quitting the Doctor the day before, had reasoned thus within herself:—
“Laura has captivated a young Italian nobleman whom she feels she can love—whom she already loves—and who possesses a proud title and princely revenues. Those were the very words which she used when she communicated her matrimonial intentions to me in Paris. I know her well enough to be fully convinced that she will not delay a moment after her return to London, in securing her admirer. A special license must be the means—and, as her intended husband is a foreigner, Laura will no doubt accompany him, at least into the neighbourhood of Doctors’ Commons. Even the presentation of her cheque at the banker’s will be quite a secondary matter, when compared with the grand object of securing the coronet which she so much covets!”
It was in consequence of these reflections that Mrs. Mortimer rose early in the morning and repaired to the district of Doctors’ Commons, where it is no difficult matter to become an observer without being observed, in the maze of narrow streets and little courts forming that neighbourhood. Nor was she mistaken in her conjecture—neither had she long to wait. In a short time a carriage—hired from the hotel—made its appearance, and a handsome young man, with a clear olive complexion and a glossy moustache, alighted. A lady thrust out her head to give him a few whispered instructions; and the beauteous countenance was not so completely shaded by the white bonnet and the veil, but that Mrs. Mortimer, from the nook where she had concealed herself, could recognise the features of her daughter. In a short time the handsome Italian returned, his own countenance glowing with delight; and the moment he re-entered the vehicle, it drove away. Mrs. Mortimer had a cab in attendance; and she followed the carriage to within sight of the church at which it stopped. She then dismissed the cab, and boldly entered the church, in order to become perfectly convinced that no unexpected accident should interfere with the marriage ceremony. Seating herself in a pew at a distance from the altar, she could behold everything without being observed by those whom she was thus watching. She saw Laura converse for a few moments with the sexton, who immediately afterwards hurried away; and in about a quarter of an hour he returned in company with the clergyman and the clerk. The ceremony then took place; and when the Count of Carignano was leading Laura back to the carriage, Rosalie being in close attendance upon them, Mrs. Mortimer suddenly emerged from the pew.
For an instant her daughter started and seemed profoundly vexed at this abrupt and unaccountable appearance of her parent; but in the next moment she recovered her self-possession, and, assuming a smiling countenance, said, “I thought you were in Paris; this therefore is an unexpected pleasure. Permit me, Lorenzo,” she added, turning, towards her husband, “to present my mother, who has thus accidentally happened to enter, for her own devotions, the very church where our marriage has taken place.”
As she uttered these words, Laura glanced with imperious signification at the old woman, as much as to enjoin her not to undeceive the Count relative to the accidental nature of this meeting: for the bride now understood full well that her mother had been watching her movements—though for what purpose she could not possibly divine.
“I am delighted to have the honour of an introduction to Mrs. Mortimer,” said the Count, taking the old woman’s hand: “and I hope that she approves of the alliance which her daughter has just formed?”
“Oh! assuredly, my lord,” answered the harridan: “but I regret that I was not duly invited to be present at the ceremony. However, I am not the less contented that it should have taken place; and as my stay in London is very short, your lordship will perhaps excuse me if I crave a few minutes’ private conversation with my daughter.”
“You may accompany us to the house which we have taken, mother,” said Laura: “and my dear Lorenzo will there grant us an opportunity of discoursing alone——on family matters——for a short time.”
“Certainly!” exclaimed the nobleman, who was too happy to offer an objection to anything proposed by his charming wife, and who saw nothing sinister nor strange in the present scene, unless indeed it were the sudden and unexpected presence of the mother: but as she had offered no objection to the match, he did not choose to trouble his own felicity with any conjecture as to the cause of her abrupt appearance on the occasion.
The bride, bridegroom, Mrs. Mortimer, and Rosalie (who had acted as bridemaid) accordingly entered the carriage, which drove away at a rapid pace towards Pimlico.
During the ride the conversation was of that general nature which settled upon no particular topic, and which therefore needs no detail here; and on the arrival of the party at the beautiful little villa in Westbourne Place, Mrs. Mortimer and Laura were speedily closetted together.
The moment they were thus alone, Laura’s countenance suddenly changed; and her features assumed an expression of something more than sternness—for it was rage—as she said in an imperious tone, “Why have you been watching my movements?—and how dared you thus to intrude yourself upon me at such a time and place?”
“Because it is of the utmost importance that I should confer with you at once on a subject of deep interest to us both,” replied Mrs. Mortimer, adopting a voice and manner of such cool insolence as to convince the shrewd and penetrating Laura that some circumstance had transpired to enable the old woman to proclaim her independence.
“And of what nature is that subject?” inquired the young lady, still treating her mother with a coolness almost amounting to disdain.
“In one sense, I am completely in your power: in another sense, you are entirely in mine,” returned Mrs. Mortimer; “and therefore mutual concessions are necessary to enable us both to enjoy peace, and follow our own ways unmolested.”
“You must explain yourself more fully yet,” said Laura, believing the announcement that she was in her mother’s power to allude to the secrets which the old woman might reveal relative to the dissoluteness of her former life. “If you desire me to render you any service,” she added, after a few moments’ pause, “you should not address me in the shape of menaces; because you know my disposition well enough to be fully aware that I am not likely to yield to them, even though my own interests should suffer by my obstinacy in that respect.”
“Perhaps you will talk differently in a few minutes,” observed the old woman. “If we now stand face to face as enemies, it is your own fault.”
“We will not re-argue all the points involved in that accusation,” said Laura. “Remember the scene in Suffolk Street—remember also the remarks which passed between us the other evening in Paris; and then cease to charge me with the misunderstandings that may have sprung up between us. You desired to play the despot’s part—I resisted—and in these few words all our differences are summed up. But I imagine that those differences were settled, and that an arrangement was made, whereby you were to dwell apart from me and receive a quarterly stipend of two hundred pounds. Have you thought better of the business?—or do you require some other terms?”
“Yes—I require other terms, indeed,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer: then, fixing her eyes full upon the countenance of her daughter, she said, “I am in possession of a secret which would ruin you——”
“Enough, mother!” ejaculated Laura, her beauteous countenance becoming scarlet with rage. “I will hear no more—for I understand your menace. But now listen to me! You fancy that I am in your power:—you think that if you seek my husband and reveal to him all the particulars of my past life—my amours—my profligacy,—you flatter yourself, I say, that his love will turn to hatred, and that he will discard me! Now, I dare you to do your worst—I fear you not! In the first place, you shall not see my husband again: in the second, you could succeed in working no change in his sentiments towards me. I would give you the lie to every word you uttered! He knows that I am not a goddess of purity: but I should have little difficulty in persuading him that you are magnifying a comparatively venial frailty into a monstrous dissoluteness. And now, mother, you may leave me as speedily as you choose—and spare me the pain of thrusting you from my doors by main force.”
Sublime and grand in the majesty of her beauty was the voluptuous—wanton—unprincipled Perdita,—(for on this occasion we must give her the name which so admirably represents her character),—as, drawn up to her full height, and with heaving bosom, flashing eyes, and expanding nostrils, she thus addressed her mother. Having laid aside her bonnet, shawl, and long white gloves, she seemed like a Pythoness in her bridal garments; and her manner was as energetic and awe-inspiring, as her voice was emphatic and determined in its full silver tones.
But the old woman lost not her composure: on the contrary, she listened to her daughter with the calm insolence of one possessing a last argument the enunciation of which would crush and overwhelm.
“One word, Laura,” she said, in a voice that commanded the young lady’s attention: “one word—and then act as you choose. If I ere now adopted a tone of menace, it was not with the intention of wielding such paltry and poor weapons as those to which you have alluded. I had not then, and have not now, the slightest intention of venting my spite in petty tittle-tattle relative to your amours: I will not afford you the chance,” she added, with keen sarcasm, “of using your sophistry for the purpose of colouring your dissoluteness so as to give it the air of a mere feminine frailty.”
“Cease this long preface, and come to the point at once,” said Laura, a vague fear coming over her, but which she concealed beneath a cold and rigid expression of countenance: at the same time, she saw full well that her mother was really possessed of some secret power whereof she was determined to make the most.
“My preface is done,” continued Mrs. Mortimer; “and now for the matter to which it was to lead. You have this day married the Count of Carignano?”
“You need scarcely ask that question,” said Laura; “since you have ere now accompanied us from the church where the ceremony was performed.”
“And you will henceforth style yourself Countess of Carignano?” proceeded the old woman, still adopting an interrogatory style.
“Certainly,” responded Laura: “I shall use the title to which marriage has given me a right. But to what point, may I once more ask, is all this long discourse to come?”
“To this,” answered the old woman, approaching her daughter and sinking her voice to a low whisper: “to this,” she repeated, her countenance becoming stern and resolute, while she abruptly stamped her foot imperiously upon the carpet: “to this, Laura—that your marriage of to-day is no marriage at all—that you consequently have no more right than I to the title of Countess—and that you have drawn down upon your head the peril of a prosecution for bigamy!”
An ice-chill came upon the heart of the young lady as these withering words met her ears: but, by means of an effort so powerful that it was anguish even to exercise it,—yes, agony thus to restrain her pent-up rage from finding a vent in a furious outburst,—she preserved an outward calmness which astonished her mother, who had expected to bring her down as an abject suppliant upon her knees.
“You must still explain yourself farther,” said Laura, in a cold tone.
“What! you affect not to understand me?” exclaimed the old woman. “Or would you have the insolence to deny that you are already married to Charles Hatfield?”
“I do not condescend to a falsehood upon the subject—at least with you,” responded Laura, contemptuously: though internally her agitation was immense.
“And yet you did deny it in Paris,” said the old woman. “But I was aware of the fact at the time—and I cherished the secret, well knowing that it would serve me some day or another. I little thought, however, that I should so soon be compelled to make use of it.”
“And for what purpose have you now proclaimed your knowledge thereof?” demanded Laura, a gleam of joy lighting up in her soul as she perceived that her mother was vexed and embarrassed by the calmness with which her menaces were received.
“In a word,” resumed the old woman, “we are in the power of each other. You can transport me—and I can transport you.”
“Again must I request you to explain yourself,” said Laura. “You are evidently fencing with something that you wish, yet fear to communicate.”
“I will speak out at once,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer. “The cheque which the Marquis of Delmour gave me for six hundred pounds, I altered in such a way as to make it represent sixty thousand; and I yesterday obtained the amount from the bankers. If you present your cheque, I shall be ruined; and therefore I propose a compromise.”
“And by way of opening the negociation, you level menaces at my head,” said Laura, who, though at first startled by the announcement of the tremendous fraud perpetrated by her mother, had speedily recovered her self-possession.
“What, then, is your decision?” asked the old woman, trembling from head to foot, and no longer able to conceal the horrible fears that had come upon her: for she began to fancy that her daughter would not yield even to the threats that had been used to coerce her. “What is your decision, I repeat?”
“To refuse all compromise—to accept the gauntlet which you threw down at first, and which you would now gladly take back again—to place myself in a condition of open hostility to you!” answered Laura, her countenance growing stern and pale, and her lips quivering slightly.
“But it will be transportation for us both,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer: “I for forgery—you for bigamy!”
“Permit me to give you my view of the case,” said Laura. “I hold a cheque for sixty thousand pounds, which I shall present to-morrow; and the money must be paid to me. The bankers will be the sufferers by the forgery—not I, nor the Marquis of Delmour. This disposes of one part of the question. For the rest, I have only to observe that even if I were tried and convicted for bigamy, a fortune of sixty thousand pounds would be no mean consolation during, perhaps, imprisonment for two years or transportation for seven. I am not, however, so sure that any prosecution of the kind will take place, be you never so vindictive: for I question whether you will have the courage to open your lips to accuse me of bigamy, seeing that it would not only be forgery with which I should charge you—but murder!”
“Murder!” repeated the old woman, half in indignation and half in terror: “what mean you?”
“I mean that Mr. Torrens, your husband, met with a violent death,” answered Laura,—“that you yourself gave me this information—and that you came over to London to be revenged upon him for his conduct of former times! Now, mother,” she exclaimed, her countenance suddenly becoming radiant with triumph,—“now will you dare to repeat your menaces against me?”
The old woman staggered back a few paces, and sank into a chair. The tables had been completely turned against her: she had come to conquer—and she must depart conquered;—she had sought out Laura in the hope of reducing her to submission—she was herself now crushed and overwhelmed.
There was something shocking in the mortal enmity which had thus sprung up between the mother and daughter,—the former threatening transportation—the latter pointing to the gibbet looming in the distance!
“But you know—you know, in your own heart, that I did not take the life of Torrens?” suddenly ejaculated the old woman, starting from her seat.
“I know nothing more than what you yourself told me, mother,” said Laura; “and if the matter should happen to go before the magistrate for investigation, I shall only state what I do know—and shall not assist your cause with any conjecture relative to your innocence.”
“And would you send me to the scaffold?” demanded the wretched woman, her voice becoming plaintive and mournful: “would you place me in such a position that I must inevitably sink beneath a mass of circumstantial evidence, and be condemned as a murderess?”
“Would you send your own child into transportation, the horrors of which you yourself have experienced?” asked Laura, bitterly.
“Oh! my God—this is a punishment for all my crimes!” exclaimed the miserable Mrs. Mortimer, a pang of remorse suddenly shooting through her heart like a barbed and fiery arrow.
“You should have calculated all the consequences before you came hither to menace me,” observed Laura, still in a cold and severe tone—a tone that was unpitying and merciless.
“Can nothing move you?” asked the wretched woman, now completely subdued and cast down—overwhelmed and spirit-broken.
“Nothing!” responded Laura, sternly. “You may do your worst—I fear you not; and henceforth I acknowledge you not as my mother!”
Saturated with crimes—steeped in profligacy as the old woman’s soul was, nevertheless this sudden renunciation of her by her own daughter went like a death-pang to her heart. She fell back again into the seat from which she had started a few minutes previously—a deadly pallor came over her countenance, rendering it hideous and ghastly as if the finger of the Destroyer were upon her—and her breath came in long and difficult sobs.
But her daughter stood gazing unmoved on this piteous spectacle,—stood like an avenging goddess, in her white robes, as if about to immolate her victim upon an altar!
“Give me a glass of water, Laura—for the love of God, a glass of water!” gasped the old woman at length, as she extended her arms piteously towards the relentless being, whose heart, so voluptuously tender beneath the influence of love, was hard as adamant against the appeals of her parent.
“Nothing—no, not even a drop of water, nor a crust of bread shall you receive beneath my roof,” was the unpitying, remorseless answer.
“Then my curse be upon you—my curse be upon your dwelling, and all whom it contains!” cried the old woman, suddenly recovering her own energy and firmness—for the last words of her daughter had goaded her to desperation.
“The curses of fiends turn to blessings,” said Laura, in a calm and deliberate voice.
“But a mother’s curse is a terrible—terrible thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, fixing her haggard eyes intently upon her daughter, who returned the gaze with looks of proud disdain and haughty defiance.
The old woman then rose slowly from her seat, and as slowly walked towards the door; on reaching which she turned round, and said, “Is there no way of restoring peace between us?”
“None,” was the resolute and laconic answer.
Mrs. Mortimer hesitated yet for a few moments; then, as if suddenly embracing a desperate resolve, or struck by some terrible idea of vengeance, she abruptly quitted the room.
Laura listened, with suspended breath, to hear whether there was any one in the hall for her mother to speak to; but her apprehensions on this head were speedily relieved, and in a few moments the front door closed behind the old woman.
The Count of Carignano, who had watched her departure from the drawing-room window, now hastened to join his lovely wife.
“The interview has been a long one—and, I fear, not altogether pleasant, dearest,” he exclaimed, as he clasped Laura in his arms.
“My mother wished to exercise over me a despotism to which I cannot yield,” responded the bride. “But wherefore did you conjecture that our meeting was disagreeable?”
“Became your countenance is very pale, my love,” answered the Count, in a voice full of tenderness. “Ah! now it is growing animated—and the colour of the rose is returning to your lovely cheeks.”
“Yes,” murmured the fascinating woman, as she wound her snowy arms about her husband’s neck, “it is because your presence has restored me to happiness, and banished from my mind the unpleasant impressions excited by my mother’s behaviour. But we shall see her no more—and naught can now interfere with our perfect felicity.”
“This assurance delights me,” answered the Count, gazing with a joyous admiration upon the splendid creature who had that morning become his bride.
It will be recollected that Mrs. Mortimer was far from being unprovided with money—her share of the spoil obtained from Torrens still being in her possession, with the trifling deduction of the few pounds she had expended in travelling, clothes, and maintenance, during the interval that had elapsed since the occurrences in Stamford Street.
The bulk of the amount thus remaining to her had been carefully sewn in her stays, so that it had altogether escaped the notice of Jack Rily: and thus the old woman was not destitute of resources.
But the sum in her possession was a mere trifle when compared with that which she had hoped to acquire from the forgery; and she now resolved to leave no stone unturned—no measure unattempted, however desperate, in order to accomplish her aim. Besides, she longed—she craved to wreak a terrific vengeance upon her daughter,—yes—upon her own daughter: for the remorse and the softer feelings which had ere now found an avenue into her breast, when Laura renounced her, were only evanescent and short-lived. We have moreover seen that this temporary weakness was speedily succeeded by the desperation produced by a terrible resolve to which her mind came as it were all in a moment!
Impelled by this sinister influence, Mrs. Mortimer lost no time in repairing to Roupel Street, where she found Jack Rily lolling in a chair, smoking his pipe and enjoying a quart of half-and-half.
“Well, my old tiger-cat, what news?” he exclaimed, the moment Mrs. Mortimer made her appearance. “Have you succeeded with your beautiful daughter?”
“Very far from it,” was the answer. “And now,” she added, ere the Doctor had time to give vent to the oath which rose to his lips through the vexation of disappointment,—“and now the matter has come to that extreme point when nothing but a desperate step can prevent the presentation of the genuine cheque to-morrow.”
“Are you sure it will not be presented to-day?” demanded Jack Rily.
“Yes; my daughter said that she should present it to-morrow,” responded Mrs. Mortimer; “and I have every reason to believe that she will not go near the bank to-day. In fact, she was married this morning to a young Italian nobleman, whom she loves deeply, and whom she will not therefore quit, even for an hour, on her wedding-day.”
“Well, and what do you propose?” asked Jack Rily, fixing upon her a significant look, which shewed that he already more than half divined what was passing in her bosom.
“Are you man enough to risk all—every thing—for the sake of that thirty thousand pounds which will become your share if we succeed?” demanded the old woman, returning the look with one of equally ominous meaning.
“I am man enough to do any thing for such a sum!” he answered, sinking his voice to a low whisper, and laying down his pipe—a proof that he considered the topic of discourse to be growing too serious to permit any abstraction of the thoughts.
“Then you understand me?” said Mrs. Mortimer, leaning forward, and surveying him with a penetration which appeared to read the secrets of his inmost soul.
“Yes—I understand you, my tiger-cat,” replied the man; and he drew his hand significantly across his throat.
“Well, and will you do it?” she asked.
“But it is your own daughter,” he observed, shuddering at the atrocity of the woman’s mind which could calmly contemplate such a fearful deed.
“She has renounced me,” was the laconic answer.
“Nevertheless, you are still her mother,” persisted Jack Rily.
“I discard her—for ever!” responded the horrible old woman.
“Well—you astounded me at first,” said the Doctor, in a slow tone, as he reflected profoundly upon the extreme step suggested: “but I can look at the business with a more steady eye now. I always thought that I was bad enough: but, by God! you beat anything I ever knew in the shape of wickedness.”
“Then you refuse—you decline?” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, interrogatively, while rage convulsed her entire frame—for she dreaded lest the money should be lost, and Laura escape her vengeance.
“By Satan!” cried the Doctor; “if you have pluck enough to propose, I am not the man to refuse to execute the scheme. But how do I know that when the critical moment comes, remorse won’t seize on you, and you’ll cry off?”
“When I have made up my mind to anything, I am not to be deterred by difficulty—danger—or compunction,” answered the old woman. “I implored the ungrateful girl to give me a glass of water, when I was choking—and she refused. What mercy can I have towards her?”
“None,” responded Jack Rily. “But you must enter into farther explanations, old tiger-cat: because at present I’m pretty well in the dark relative to the precise nature of your plans, and the way in which they are to be executed. It’s now four o’clock in the afternoon—and we must settle everything without delay, if it’s to be done to-night.”
“It is for to-night,” said the old woman, emphatically. “My daughter and her husband have taken a house in Pimlico——”
“How many servants?” demanded Jack Rily.
“I cannot exactly answer the question: but I know that there is a French lady’s maid; and I saw an English valet, who had been recommended by the house-agent——”
“Never mind who recommended him,” interrupted the Doctor, impatiently; “he is there—and that’s enough for us. All I care about knowing is how many people we may have to deal with.”
“But the venture must be made at any risk,” observed Mrs. Mortimer. “It is of the highest consequence to us to gain possession of the genuine cheque——”
“And put the holder of it out of the way,” added Jack Rily. “Oh! I understand your drift plainly enough: but I wish to see my course clear—because I’d better do the best I can with the notes under existing circumstances, rather than get a bullet through my brain or find myself laid by the heels in Newgate some time between this and to-morrow morning.”
“Certainly—certainly,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer. “Well—upon what do you decide?”
“To risk the business,” answered Jack, starting from his seat. “And now I’ll just go and take a quiet walk down into Pimlico, for the purpose of surveying the premises. Whereabouts is it?”
“Westbourne Place, No.——,” replied Mrs. Mortimer.
“Well—you can meet me again down in that neighbourhood at about midnight,” said the Doctor. “Where shall the place of appointment be?”
“In Sloane Square, if you like,” observed the old woman.
“Good—precisely at midnight. And now be off—because I am going to hide the Bank-notes so that nobody may be able to find them during my absence,” said the Doctor, with a meaning look. “Of course I need hardly tell you that if you are scheming or manœuvring to get me into a plant down at Pimlico, you’ll never go away alive to make a boast of it.”
“The idea that I should act in such a way, is ridiculous,” returned Mrs. Mortimer.
“Well—there is no harm in giving you the caution, old tiger-cat,” remarked the Doctor, carelessly. “So tramp off—and be punctual to our appointment.”
“I shall not fail,” said the horrible woman, who thereupon took her departure.
How she passed the remainder of that day, we know not. Suffice it to say that the leisure-time which she had for reflection did not induce her to change her mind nor swerve from her purpose: on the contrary, as she entered Sloane Square a few minutes before midnight, it was with a determination to take her share in the awful tragedy which she contemplated—namely, the murder of her own daughter and the Count of Carignano. Bad and depraved as she was, never in her life until this occasion had she thought so calmly and coolly of shedding blood: for if on the previous day she had harboured the design of assassinating Jack Rily, in order to regain possession of the Bank-notes, it was not without a cold shudder, even though there was something like aggravation to inspire the idea. But now she had brought herself—or circumstances had tutored her—to survey with a diabolical tranquillity the hideous, appalling crime which she had in view; and as she walked along, she clutched with savage triumph a clasp-knife that she had purchased during the evening.
Precisely as the clock struck twelve Jack Rily joined her.
“Well, you have not altered your mind?” he said.
“It is rather for me to ask you that question,” was her response.
“Oh, I am resolute enough!” he observed; and through the semi-obscurity of the night she could see his large white teeth flashing hideously between the opening in his lip. “I have taken a good survey of the premises,” he continued, “and know exactly how to proceed. Have you got any weapon, old tiger-cat?”
“This,” she replied, placing the clasp-knife in his hand.
He opened the blade—felt it—closed it again—and, returning the knife to his companion, said, “That will do. But there is one thing that troubles me a little,” he added, after a few moments’ hesitation; “and I’ll be hanged if I can get it off my mind. Yet—perdition seize it!—I am no coward either.”
“What have you to fear, then?” demanded the old woman, hastily.
“Why, to tell you the truth——but come along farther away from the lamps——to tell you the truth, as I was jogging quietly down Sloane Street just now,” continued Rily, glancing furtively around, “some one, coming hastily up from a narrow street on the right-hand side, passed just in front of me. We almost ran against each other, and I caught a glimpse of the fellow’s countenance——”
“Who was he?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, shuddering in anticipation of the reply.
“Vitriol Bob,” was the answer.
“I thought you were going to say so,” exclaimed the old woman. “But perhaps he did not notice you—and even if he did, I suppose you are not afraid that he will attempt any mischief?”
“Whether he noticed me or not, I can’t say,” replied the Doctor; “because the encounter was so abrupt—so sudden—that he was off again in an instant. But if he did, I am well aware that he is capable of anything. However, I don’t mean to let that prey upon my mind, I can tell you.”
“And yet it does seem to have depressed you a little,” said Mrs. Mortimer.
“Well—I’d rather it shouldn’t have happened—that’s all!” ejaculated the ruffian, forcing himself to assume a gaiety which he did not altogether feel; for, though no coward, yet the incident of his meeting with his sworn foe in the manner described, had troubled him.
Doubtless the man’s mind, contemplating a diabolical crime, was more disposed to superstitious terrors, and to acknowledge the influence of presentiments, than on ordinary occasions: hence the vague uneasiness and undefined apprehensions that had seized upon him.
Mrs. Mortimer caught the dispiriting effects of the encounter which her confederate had experienced with one of the most desperate ruffians in London; and such a chill fell upon her mind, that she was about to propose the abandonment of the scheme, when Jack Rily suddenly exclaimed, “Well thought of! I’ve something in my pocket that will do us good!”