CHAPTER CLXXXIV.

LAURA AND HER MOTHER.--ANOTHER INTERRUPTION.

“Here I am in Paris once more, Perdita--Laura, I mean,” said the old woman, without moving from the seat which she had taken, and without offering to embrace her daughter; “and I am within the fortnight stipulated, too.”

“You have travelled post from Calais or Boulogne, doubtless?” observed Laura, interrogatively: “for your clothes are covered with dust--and it is evident that you were not cooped up in the interior of a diligence. I may therefore conclude that you were successful in your search after Torrens and your designs upon him,” she added, fixing a penetrating glance upon her mother’s countenance.

“I was so far successful that I obtained certain intelligence concerning him,” responded the old woman: “but I failed altogether in my hope of becoming the possessor of his money.”

“And what was the intelligence to which you allude?” demanded Laura, who felt convinced from her mother’s manner that she had _not_ failed in the object of her journey.

“I learnt, beyond all question or doubt, that Torrens really was the murderer of Percival, but that he himself had met with a violent death.”

“Ah! Torrens is no more?” exclaimed Laura: then, bending a look full of deep meaning upon her mother, she said in a tone of equal significancy, “You went to London to be revenged upon him--and he is dead! He has experienced a violent end. Well--I understand you--I read your secret--and you need not be more explicit.”

“By heaven! you wrong me, Laura,” exclaimed the old woman, starting in astonishment and alarm as the justice of her daughter’s horrible suspicion became suddenly apparent--a suspicion that she herself had so incautiously engendered by the mysterious manner in which she had announced Torrens’ death.

“It is not worth while disputing upon the subject,” said Laura, in a tone which convinced her mother--and, indeed, was intended to convince her, that no explanation could now possibly wipe away the suspicion alluded to. “You are doubtless well pleased that Torrens is no more--and that is sufficient.”

“Perdita--Laura, I mean,” said the old woman, speaking as if her tongue were parched, or as if ashes clogged up her throat, “why should you take delight in uttering things to vex and annoy me? For some time past--indeed ever since the date of your connection with Charles Hatfield, a barrier has appeared to rise up between us. We seem to act towards each other as if it were tacitly understood that we are enemies, or that we mutually harboured distrust and suspicion.”

“I am aware of it, mother--and it is all your own fault,” answered Laura. “You sought to exercise over me a sway to which I would not and never will submit; and you menaced me in a manner not easily to be forgotten.”

“But you had your revenge--for you abused me vilely,” retorted Mrs. Mortimer, with a malignant bitterness of accent.

“Acknowledged! And you yourself must admit that you provoked my resentment. But let us not remain here bandying words, which may only lead to an useless quarrel. Circumstances have opened to me a grand career--a career, in which my happiness and my interests may be alike promoted; and I have accepted the destiny thus favourably prepared for me. In a word, I am about to marry a young Italian nobleman whom I feel I can love--whom I already love, indeed--and who possesses a proud title and princely revenues.”

“Ah! you are about to be married?” said Mrs. Mortimer, speaking as if the project were perfectly natural and without an objection: but in her heart--in the depths of her foul and vindictive soul, she was rejoiced,--for this alliance would place her daughter completely in her power.

The reader will remember that the old woman was aware of Laura’s union with Charles Hatfield, but that the young lady herself was totally unsuspicious of that fact being thus known to her mother.

“Yes,” resumed Laura: “I am about to be married. I leave Paris for England to-morrow morning. I return to London, because I am now independent of the Hatfields; and at my leisure I shall devise means to avenge myself for the insults I have received at their hands. It now remains for you and me to decide upon what terms we are to exist in future. Be friendly--and I shall allow you a handsome income: be hostile--and I shall dare all you can do against me.”

“I am sorry that my daughter should think it necessary to propose such alternatives,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “State what you require me to do.”

“To settle in France--wherever you please,” responded Laura; “and I will grant you an allowance of two hundred pounds every three months.”

“The pecuniary portion of the conditions is liberal enough,” said Mrs. Mortimer; “but the rest is as despotic and galling as the terms which Mr. Hatfield made the other day with you.”

“I much regret that prudence should compel me thus to dictate to you,” returned Laura: “there is, however, no alternative. ’Tis for you to yield to my conditions--or open war will at once commence between us.”

“I consent--I agree,” said the old woman, who knew that the time was not yet come for her to show her teeth in defiance of her daughter.

“So much the better!” exclaimed Laura, but in a tone indicating that the matter was one of perfect indifference to her; for she little knew--little suspected how irretrievably her marriage with the Count of Carignano would place her in her mother’s power. “And now I have one question to ask you.”

“Speak, Perdita,” observed the old woman.

“Pray remember that my name is _Laura_!” cried her daughter, petulantly. “You perceive how necessary it is that we should dwell apart from each other. Your imprudence is really great; and the question I am about to put to you, refers to some matter in which you doubtless compromised yourself. Are you acquainted with the Marquis of Delmour?”

“The Marquis of Delmour!” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, with an expression of countenance denoting the most unfeigned astonishment. “No--certainly not. I have heard of him, it is true; but only in the same way that one hears of any other person conspicuous for rank, wealth, or station. I have never seen the Marquis of Delmour to my knowledge.”

“Perhaps you have been in his company without knowing who he was,” resumed Laura. “At all events, have you recently represented yourself, in any circle or place, as the widow of a General-officer whom you stated to have died in India?”

The system of duplicity which the old woman determined to adopt towards her daughter, had so well prepared her to sustain any questioning or cross-examination on any point, that she did not betray the least surprise, nor did her countenance undergo the slightest change as that interrogatory suddenly brought to her mind the conviction that Mr. Vernon and the Marquis of Delmour must be one and the same person. Without at the moment perceiving how this discovery could be in any way useful to her, but still acting with that reserve and wariness with which she had armed herself in order to meet her daughter, she resolved not to mention a single word of anything that had occurred in London relative to the beautiful Recluse of the Cottage, her father, and Lord William Trevelyan.

Accordingly, and without the least hesitation,--nor quailing, nor changing colour beneath the penetrating gaze which Laura fixed upon her,--she said, “I do not remember ever to have made any such representation as that to which you allude.”

“It is singular--this coincidence,” mused Laura, audibly; “and yet it is of little import to me.”

“It would appear, at all events, that you must be acquainted with this Marquis of Delmour of whom you speak?” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a careless and indifferent tone.

Scarcely were the words uttered, when a violent ringing at the front door was heard; and in a few moments a voice, instantly recognised alike by Laura and her mother, exclaimed to Rosalie, “Has your mistress retired to rest yet? I must see her immediately.”

The abigail, suspecting that it would be better not to allow the Marquis of Delmour--for he the visitor was--to be brought face to face with the handsome young Italian, unhesitatingly conducted the nobleman into the parlour where Laura and Mrs. Mortimer were holding their interview.

But the moment Rosalie had closed the door behind the Marquis, he uttered an ejaculation of mingled astonishment and rage, and springing towards Mrs. Mortimer, exclaimed, “Ah! I meet you again, vile woman! Give me up my daughter--tell me where you have hidden her!”

And he caught her violently by the arm.

“I know what you mean, my lord,” said the old woman, hastily: “but you accuse me wrongfully.”

“Wrongfully!” repeated the Marquis, his countenance white with rage: “no--no! I only accuse you justly--for it must be you who have spirited away my child--my beloved Agnes!”

“It is false!” ejaculated the old woman, with an emphasis which made him release his hold of her and fall back two or three paces.

“False, you say!” he cried. “Oh! then, if you have really not done this flagrant wrong--but if you are in possession of any clue--”

“I am--I am,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, seeing in a moment that a reward was to be obtained and her spite against Lord William Trevelyan to be gratified at the same time: for she _did_ cherish the bitterest animosity against that young nobleman, on account of his conduct towards her when, four days previously, she had taken Agnes Vernon to his house in Park Square.

“And yet I cannot conceive you to be innocent in this matter,” exclaimed the nobleman, surveying her with deep distrust and aversion--and all this time taking no notice of Laura, so profoundly were his feelings engrossed by the subject which now occupied his mind: “for wherefore did you visit the cottage where Agnes dwelt?--why did you intrude yourself upon her presence?”

“All that can be readily explained, my lord,” responded Mrs. Mortimer, not losing an atom of her self-possession.

“Then tell me where my daughter is--tell me what has become of her?” cried the nobleman, in an appealing tone; “and if you have been concerned in removing her from the cottage, I will forgive you! Nay, more--I will reward you handsomely.”

“Your daughter is in safety--that much I can inform you at once,” said Mrs. Mortimer.

“Thanks--thanks for this assurance!” cried the old nobleman, clasping his hands together in gratitude for the relief thus imparted to his mind: then, suddenly recollecting the presence of Laura, he turned towards her, and in a tone of mingled suspicion and reproach, said, “But how is it that I find you with the very person of whom I spoke to you somewhat disparagingly two short hours ago?”

“She claims some distant relationship with me, my dear Marquis,” Laura hastened to observe--but without manifesting the slightest embarrassment; while the rapid and intelligent sign which she made to her mother, and which was altogether unperceived by the nobleman, was fully understood by the old woman.

“Ah! that is on account of her name being _Mortimer_,” said the Marquis, completely satisfied by the answer which Laura had given him--especially as the old woman offered no contradiction. “And now I must request you to accede to some alteration in our plans for to-morrow,” he continued, drawing Laura aside, and speaking to her in a low tone. “On my return just now to the hotel where I am staying, I found a letter containing the afflicting intelligence that a daughter of mine--a daughter whom circumstances have compelled me to keep in the strictest seclusion--had suddenly and most mysteriously disappeared from her dwelling in the neighbourhood of London. This happened five days ago;--but Mrs. Gifford--my dear child’s housekeeper, and I may almost say _guardian_--did not immediately write to me, hoping that Agnes would return. Oh! you may conceive how deeply this event has grieved me----”

“I sympathise sincerely with you, my dear Marquis,” interrupted Laura, affecting to wipe away tears from her eyes: for it suited her purpose to remain on good terms with the old nobleman until she should have cashed her draft for the sixty thousand pounds. “Yes--I sincerely sympathise with you,” she repeated: “and I can anticipate the proposed alterations in our arrangements. You intend to start immediately for England----”

“Without a moment’s unnecessary delay,” said the Marquis, who was greatly excited by the intelligence he had received from Mrs. Gifford: “the instant I return to my hotel, a post-chaise and four will be in readiness for me. But may I hope that you will follow me to London as speedily as convenient?”

“I shall depart to-morrow, my dear Marquis, at the hour already arranged,” responded Laura; “and deeply do I regret that my preparations are so backward as to render it impossible for me to offer to become your travelling-companion at once.”

“Dearest Laura!” murmured the Marquis, for a single moment losing the remembrance of his affliction in the doting passion he had formed for the beautiful woman who was thus grossly deluding him. “Our separation will not be very long,” he continued; “and I hope that when we meet in London three days hence, I may have good news to tell you respecting Agnes. Now, madam,” he exclaimed aloud, turning towards Mrs. Mortimer, who, while affecting to be examining the mantel-ornaments, was vainly endeavouring to catch the sense of what was passing at a little distance between her daughter and the Marquis; “now, madam,” he said, approaching her with an abruptness that made her start, “I do not think I shall be insulting you if I offer you a hundred guineas for the information which you professed yourself able and willing to give relative to my daughter--my dear and well-beloved Agnes.”

“A hundred guineas, my lord!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, contemptuously: “if you really love that young lady whom you call your daughter, you must surely consider that it is worth five or six times the amount named in order to regain possession of her.”

“Laura dearest:----I mean, Miss Mortimer,” said the nobleman, impatiently, as he turned towards the young lady,--“oblige me with writing materials, and I will speedily satisfy this woman’s rapacity.”

“Perhaps I might also exact a recompense for keeping secret the good understanding which exists between your lordship and ‘_dearest Laura_,’ and which you so unguardedly betrayed?” observed Mrs. Mortimer, in a tone of bitter sarcasm, and with a malignant glance darted from her snake-like eyes at her daughter.

“Silence, woman!” ejaculated the Marquis, speaking with the emphasis of authority: then, the writing materials being now placed before him, he sate down and wrote a cheque, which he tossed across the table to Mrs. Mortimer, saying, “I am sorry that I have not enough money about my person to satisfy your demands. I am therefore compelled to give you a draft upon my London bankers; and you will perceive that it is for _six times_ as much as I at first offered you,” he added, dwelling on the words which the old woman had herself used to indicate the amount of her expectations.

“Yes--my lord: I see that it is for six hundred pounds,” she observed, coolly and quietly, as she folded up the cheque and secured it about her person. “And now I will tell you what I know concerning your daughter; and I take heaven to witness that I will not mislead you.”

“If you do, my good woman,” interrupted the Marquis, “you will find payment of the cheque stopped at the bank. Go on; and delay not--for my time is precious.”

“In a word, my lord,” said Mrs. Mortimer, the contemptuous manner in which she was treated by the haughty peer being fully counterbalanced by the handsome bonus that had just fallen into her hand,--“Lord William Trevelyan, whom you doubtless know well by name, if not personally, is deeply enamoured of your daughter; and he employed me to take a letter to her. I acquitted myself of the task: but Miss Agnes is a perfect dragon of virtue--and I could make little impression upon her.”

“God be thanked!” ejaculated the Marquis, fervently.

“Well--although Lord William’s passion is honourable enough, I have no doubt, yet Miss Agnes----”

“And is it Lord William who has taken her away?” demanded the Marquis, unable to restrain his impatience or any longer endure the tortures of suspense.

“No, my lord--it was her mother!” said Mrs. Mortimer, watching through profound curiosity the effect which this announcement would produce upon the nobleman.

“Ah! then my worst apprehensions are confirmed!” he exclaimed, in a tone of poignant anguish.

“But do not give way to despair, my lord,” said Mrs. Mortimer: “for Miss Agnes subsequently escaped from the house where her mother placed her----”

“Oh! I then she loves me still--_me_--her father!” exclaimed the Marquis, in accents of joy: “and she yielded not to the wiles of that woman----But proceed, madam--proceed!” he cried, suddenly interrupting himself, and again speaking in a tone of impatience.

“Having escaped, as I have just said,” resumed Mrs. Mortimer, “Agnes fell into the power of ruffian, from whose hands I was fortunate enough to rescue her; and, not knowing precisely whither to take her, I thought it best to consult Lord William Trevelyan upon the proper course to adopt. His lordship, who is a man of honour--and pray remember to tell him that I say so,” she added, with a slight accent of malignity,--“his lordship immediately placed her in the care of a lady of his acquaintance; and it is to him that you must apply, my Lord Marquis, for the address of your daughter’s new abode.”

“And all that you have told me is true?” exclaimed the old nobleman.

“If it should prove otherwise, your lordship has in your own hands the means of punishing me,” responded Mrs. Mortimer.

“True!” cried the Marquis; “and now I am somewhat consoled by the tidings you have given me. My daughter is safe, and in the society of honourable persons. I thank you, madam.”

He then turned away to shake Laura cordially by the hand ere he took his departure.

“You will leave to-morrow at mid-day, dearest,” he said, in an under tone to her whom he fondly hoped to make his mistress, but who was so grossly deluding him.

“Yes--without fail,” was the reply.

“And on your arrival in town you will instantly send me word at which hotel you take up your temporary residence?” continued the Marquis. “I shall hasten to join you, and hope to have a charming villa ready to receive you.”

“You are too good, my dear Marquis, to think to much of me at a time when your heart is so severely lacerated on account of your daughter,” said Laura, likewise speaking in a whisper.

“There is nothing that I would not do for you, beloved Laura,” responded the infatuated old noble. “You hold already a cheque for sixty thousand pounds: that is nothing to what I will do for you, my dearest angel. And if I allude to pecuniary affairs at all, it is to convince you how anxious I am to ensure your happiness, not only now--but likewise when I shall be no more.”

Thus speaking, the Marquis of Delmour pressed Laura’s hand fervently, and was about to hurry away, when, suddenly recollecting something, he drew her still farther aside, and said in a very low whisper, “Have nothing to do with that woman dearest! I dislike her looks--I mistrust her altogether. She is evidently an adventuress. Oh! how could I have ever supposed even for an instant that such a wretch was the mother of such an angelic being as my Laura?”

Another fond and impassioned look--another pressure of the hand--and the Marquis was gone.

Of all this latter dialogue which took place between that nobleman and Laura, and which was carried on in a very low tone, Mrs. Mortimer, who strained all her auricular faculties to catch even a syllable, succeeded only in overhearing a very short sentence. But that one sentence she did manage to catch; and a highly significant as well as deeply important one was it for her.

And these were the words which she thus caught--“_You hold already a cheque for sixty thousand pounds!_”

Quickly as the first glass of sparkling wine infuses a delicious sensation throughout the entire frame,--so speedily did that one sentence create a burning joy in the breast of the old woman. She saw through it all:--Laura had wheedled the Marquis out of that immense sum--and now she intended to jilt him, and espouse the Italian noble!

“A cheque for sixty thousand pounds!” thought Mrs. Mortimer within herself, while the Marquis and Laura were still whispering together: “sixty thousand pounds! Well--we shall see! It is better than a paltry six hundred.”

And, while thus musing, she affected to be smelling the flowers on the mantel-piece, until the door suddenly opened and closed again instantaneously--and then she turned round towards Laura, for the Marquis was gone.

“And you assured me that you knew nothing of the nobleman who has just left us?” said Laura, fixing her eyes with cold contempt on her mother.

“I knew him only as Mr. Vernon until I saw him here this evening,” was the answer.

“But it was to him that you had passed yourself as the widow of a General-officer in the Indian army,” persisted Laura: “and yet you denied having ever made such a representation to any one. You perceive, mother, that I cannot trust you: you are full of duplicity and deceit even to me--and still you complain that a coolness subsists between us.”

“I may observe, on my side, Laura,” retorted the old woman, with a subdued and cunning malignity, “that you were not more communicative to me relative to the Marquis of Delmour than I was disposed to be to you. We are therefore even upon that score; and, at all events, let us not dispute. I shall now leave you, Laura--for I am well aware that my room will be preferable to my company. It is my present intention to remain in Paris; and from time to time I will send you tidings of my whereabouts, so that you may duly remit me my quarterly income, as promised just now. The cheque of the Marquis I shall send through the medium of some Parisian banker.”

The old woman then took her departure, a cool “Good-bye” being all the farewell salutation that passed between her daughter and herself as she crossed the threshold of the handsome suite of apartments.

“Thank God! she is gone!” thought Laura, as she hastened to rejoin her handsome Castelcicalan, who was growing impatient of her protracted absence.

“The haughty and self-sufficient creature!” murmured Mrs. Mortimer to herself, an she hastily descended the stairs: “she is completely in my power--at my mercy--in every way!”

And did the old woman remain in Paris in fulfilment of her declared intention?

No:--wearied and exhausted by travel as she already was, but animated with an indomitable energy, Mrs. Mortimer hastened, late though the hour now was, to procure a post-chaise and four; and while Laura was passing a night of voluptuousness and love in the arms of the handsome Count of Carignano, her mother was speeding along the road to Boulogne, on her way back to London.