On arriving at the hotel indicated, Mrs. Fitzhardinge alighted, and inquired of the porter whether Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield were residing there. The man referred to a long list of names on a paper posted against the wall; and, after running his eye down the column, turned to the old woman with the laconic, but respectfully uttered observation,—“Removed to No. 9, Rue Monthabor.”

To this new address did Mrs. Fitzhardinge repair, without pausing to ask any further question; and on her arrival at the entrance to a house of handsome appearance in the street named, she inquired for Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield.

“Oh! it is all right,” said the porter. “I was told that if any persons called to ask for Mrs. Hatfield, I was to direct them to the lady who has taken the second floor.”

Mrs. Fitzhardinge was somewhat surprised by this ambiguous answer: but it instantly struck her that Charles might have assumed his title of Viscount Marston, and that the name of Hatfield would, therefore, be unknown to the porter, had no particular instructions been left with him. At all events, she was in too great a hurry to remain bandying words with the man; and she accordingly hastened to ascend to the second floor, which, we should observe by the way, is the most fashionable in Parisian houses.

But as she mounted the staircase, it struck her that the porter, when replying to her query, had made no mention of any gentleman at all, but had plainly and clearly spoken of “the lady who has taken the second floor.” The old woman was puzzled—indeed, bewildered by the mystery which suddenly appeared to envelope her; and a certain misgiving seized upon her mind, the nature of which she could not precisely define.

On gaining the marble landing of the second floor, she rang the bell at the door of the suite of apartments on that flat, and was immediately admitted by Rosalie into a handsomely furnished drawing-room.

“Whom shall I mention to mademoiselle?” inquired the French lady’s-maid.

“Her mother,” was the response.

Rosalie withdrew; and Mrs. Fitzhardinge, seating herself upon an elegant ottoman, cast her eyes around the splendid room.

“Perdita is well lodged, at all events,” she mused inwardly. “But somehow or another, there is a mystery which I cannot comprehend. The porter spoke of no gentleman—the maid was equally silent on that head, and alluded to her mistress as mademoiselle12 and not as madame. What can it mean?”

At this moment the door opened, and Perdita made her appearance in a charming dÉshabillÉe; for she had been assisting to arrange her effects in her newly-hired ready-furnished apartments.

The meeting between the mother and daughter was characterised by nothing cordial—much less affectionate: there was no embracing—not even a shaking of the hand, but only a mutual desire, hastily evinced on either side, to receive explanations.

“Where is Charles?” demanded Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

“Gone,” was the laconic reply.

“Gone!” ejaculated the old woman, now manifesting the most profound astonishment.

“Yes; gone—departed—never to return,” said Perdita, with some degree of bitterness: then, in an altered tone, and with recovered calmness, she asked, “But how have you managed respecting the accusation——”

“Ah! then you have heard of that?” interrupted Mrs. Fitzhardinge, with a subdued feeling of spite; for she thought that her daughter took the matter very quietly. “I was taken back to London—examined at the Marylebone Police-court—and discharged without much difficulty. Now, in your turn, answer my next question—wherefore has Charles left you?”

“In the first place,” said Perdita, “tell me how you discovered my abode?”—and she fixed her large grey eyes in a searching manner upon the old woman, as if to ascertain by that look the precise extent of her mother’s knowledge relative to herself and Charles.

“That is speedily explained,” observed Mrs Fitzhardinge, who instantly perceived that her daughter intended to reveal to her no more than she was actually compelled to do, and it flashed to her mind—she knew not why—that Perdita meant especially to throw a veil over the fact of her marriage with Charles. Else, why had she not immediately mentioned it?—why had she not hastened to satisfy her that the alliance had indeed taken place? But if Perdita had a motive in concealing that fact, then the knowledge of the secret might sooner or later prove serviceable to Mrs. Fitzhardinge; and she therefore resolved to feign ignorance. All these thoughts and calculations swept through the old woman’s brain in a moment; and she preserved the while the most steady composure of countenance. “That is speedily explained,” she repeated. “I went to the Prefecture of Police, and learnt your address.”

“But you knew not by what name to ask for me,” said Perdita, still keeping her eyes fixed on her mother’s countenance.

“I inquired for you by the name of Fitzhardinge,” answered the old woman, hazarding the falsehood; “and was referred to the hotel where you and Charles had put up——”

“And on your calling there?” asked Perdita, impatiently.

“The porter laconically told me that you had removed hither,” returned the old woman. “But what means the absence of Charles? and has he not married you?”

“No,” responded Perdita, reading in her mother’s countenance more intently—more searchingly than hitherto: “he has played a perfidious part, and deserted me.”

“The villain!” ejaculated the old woman, affecting to give full credence to the denial that the matrimonial alliance had taken place; while, on the other hand, Perdita was completely deceived by her mother’s profound duplicity.

“The adventures I have experienced,” said Perdita, “have been numerous and exciting. When every thing was settled for the ceremony to take place, the father of Charles suddenly appeared upon the scene, and exposed me in a cruel manner to his son. In fact, Mr. Hatfield proved himself to be well acquainted with all—every thing—relating to you and me; and he unsparingly availed himself of that knowledge. I retaliated—I convinced him that his family affairs were no secret to me;—and then he again assumed the part of one who triumphs in defeating the hopes of another; for he produced unquestionable evidence to the fact that his son is illegitimate, and entirely dependent upon him.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Fitzhardinge, who now fancied that she read the reason which had induced Perdita to conceal her marriage with the young man. “Then, after all, your suitor is plain Charles Hatfield, and not Viscount Marston?”

“Such is indeed the case, mother,” returned Perdita; “and I think you will agree with me that I have had a fortunate escape.”

“I do congratulate you on that point,” answered the old woman, her dissimulation continuing impenetrable. “But where have you obtained the means to hire this handsome lodging?”

“You cannot suppose that I allowed Mr. Hatfield and his son to depart without making ample provision for me!” exclaimed Perdita. “No; I displayed a too intimate acquaintance with all their family affairs to permit them thus to abandon me. Besides, the very secret of the young man’s illegitimacy—a secret which the father revealed in a moment of excitement, produced by the discussion that took place between us—that secret——”

“I understand you, Perdita,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge: “it was necessary to purchase your silence respecting a matter that involved the good name and the honour of Lady Georgiana Hatfield. Well, have you made a profitable bargain for yourself?”

“A thousand pounds in ready money; and five hundred a year for life, on condition that I return not to England,” was the response.

“Good!” ejaculated the old woman, her eyes glistening with delight.

“And I have adopted another name, for a variety of reasons,” continued Perdita. “In the first place, having learnt from that hated Mr. Hatfield of your arrest at Dover, and the nature of the charge against you, I feared lest the whole thing should be blazoned in the newspapers——”

“Well, well,” interrupted her mother: “I understand! The name of Fitzhardinge would suit no longer. What is the new one?”

“I have taken that of Mortimer,” answered the daughter. “Laura Mortimer sounds prettily, I think?”

“Then you have not even retained your Christian name?” said the old woman, interrogatively.

“No; for it is so uncommon, that it could not fail to excite attention, wherever whispered,” was the reply.

“In this case, I am to become Mrs. Mortimer?” continued the mother.

“Precisely so; and as a matter of course, you will take up your abode with me.”

“You do not appear particularly unhappy at the loss of the young man whom you fell so deeply in love with?” observed the old woman, whom we must now denominate Mrs. Mortimer.

“That dream has passed—gone by—vanished!” returned Laura—for by this Christian name is Perdita to be henceforth known; and as she spoke, her voice assumed a deep and even menacing tone. “Yes—that illusion is dissipated; and, if circumstances permit, I will have vengeance where I used to think only of love.”

“To what circumstances do you allude?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.

“Can you not understand my position—aye, and your own position also?” exclaimed Laura. “At present we are dependent, to a certain degree, upon Mr. Hatfield, and must adhere to the conditions he imposed upon me: that is to say, we must reside on the continent so long as the income allowed by him shall be indispensably necessary. But the moment that I can carve out a new career of fortune for myself, either by a brilliant marriage, or by enchaining some wealthy individual in my silken meshes,—the instant that I find myself in a condition to spurn the aid of Mr. Hatfield’s purse, and can command treasures from another quarter,—then, mother, then,” added Laura, emphatically, “will be the time for vengeance! For, think you,” she continued, drawing herself proudly up to her full height, while her nostrils dilated and her eyes flashed fire,—“think you that, if I have loved as a woman, I will not likewise be avenged as a woman? Oh! yes—yes; and welcome—most welcome will be that day when I shall see myself independent of the purse of Mr. Hatfield, and able to work out my vengeance after the manner of my own heart! To be exposed by the father and discarded by the son—to have the mask torn away from my countenance by the former, and be looked upon with loathing and abhorrence by the latter,—oh, all this is enough to drive me mad—mad! And if I retained a calm demeanour and a stern composure of countenance in the presence of those men this morning, it was only the triumph of an indomitable pride over feelings wounded in the most sensitive point!”

“Vengeance, indeed, is a pleasing consummation,” said the old woman: then, after an instant’s pause, she added, “And I also have a vengeance to gratify.”

“You, mother!” ejaculated Laura, with unfeigned surprise.

“Yes. You remember the night that we called upon Percival? Well, you may recollect how he spoke of a certain visitor who had been with him——”

“Torrens—your husband,” observed Laura, quietly.

“The same. He was the murderer of Percival,” added Mrs. Mortimer, her countenance assuming an expression so fiend-like, that it was horrible to behold.

“How know you that?” demanded Laura, surprised.

“I am convinced of it,” returned her mother. “Listen! On that night when we visited the miser, Torrens had been with him: indeed, he had departed from the house only the moment before we knocked at the door. You remember that Percival said so? Well—and you also recollect that Torrens was represented to be poor and very miserable? While we were engaged with Percival, the cash-box was produced, and its contents were displayed. A man clambered up to the window, and looked through the holes in the shutters. This was proved at the police-office. We departed, and the miser was left alone. The back gate was forced open—or, rather, the wood-work was cut away in such a manner as to allow the bolt to be shot back with the fingers—and the lock was picked with a piece of iron. All this was done from the outside. Then, again, the stake whereby the old man was killed was taken from a piece of waste ground at the back of the house; and on the damp clayey soil the marks of boots were discovered. The murder was therefore perpetrated by the man whose footsteps were thus traced; and who could that man be but Torrens? I have no doubt of the accuracy of my conjectures.”

“They are reasonable, at the least,” observed Laura. “But wherefore do you trouble your head about him, when I require your assistance here in a matter of importance?”

“One moment, and you shall explain your views when I have made you acquainted with mine,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “Percival was a rich man, and that cash-box contained a treasure in notes and gold. Torrens has, no doubt, concealed himself somewhere in London;—a man who has committed such a crime invariably regards the metropolis itself as the safest hiding-place. My design is to ferret him out, and compel him by menaces to surrender into my keeping the treasure which he has obtained. You and I, Perdita—Laura, I mean—will know how to spend those thousands; and it will give me pleasure—unfeigned pleasure,” she added, with a fearful expression of countenance, “to know that he has been plunged back again into misery and want.”

“The project is a good one, mother,” said Laura; “and the money would prove most welcome. Possessed of a few thousands of pounds, I would at once act in complete independence of Mr. Hatfield. But wherefore this bitter vengeance against the man who is still your husband?”

“Because, when he was released from Newgate upwards of nineteen years ago, when imprisoned there on suspicion of having murdered a certain Sir Henry Courtenay,” said the old woman,—“when he was set free, I tell you, I still languished a prisoner in that horrible gaol. And he came not near me: he recognised me not—he loathed and abhorred me; and I knew it! You, Laura, have felt how terrible it is to be hated—shunned—forsaken by one on whom you have claims: you are still smarting under the conduct of Charles Hatfield. Can you not, then, comprehend how I should cherish feelings of bitterness against that sneaking coward—that base wretch, who was a partner in my iniquity, and who abandoned me to my fate, doubtless hoping that a halter would end my days, and for ever rid him of me.”

“But you loved not that man, according to all I have ever heard you say upon the subject,” returned Laura; “whereas,” she added, in a tone of transitory softness, “I did—yes—I did love Charles Hatfield.”

“Granted the difference!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer; “and yet, even making every possible allowance for that, there is still room enough to admit the existence of my bitter hostility against Torrens. What! was I not arrested the other day—dragged ignominiously back to London—compelled to sleep in a prison; and forced to appear at the bar of justice,—and all on account of his crime! He reaped the benefit—I the inconvenience, the fear, the exposure, and the disgrace! It is true that I never loved him—never even liked him;—true, also, that ours was a marriage of convenience—both suspecting, despising, and abhorring each other. From the very first, then, I was his enemy; and ever since I have cherished an undying animosity against him.”

“Well, mother, I shall not attempt to interfere with your vengeance any more than you will seek to mar the progress of mine. You have given me an explanation of your views; and it is now my turn to speak. This morning,” continued Laura, “my hopes were suddenly defeated, and my golden dreams dissipated by the appearance of Mr. Hatfield. At half-past eleven o’clock, I found myself deserted by him whom I had loved, and alone as it were in a strange city. I instantly made up my mind not to yield to sorrow or give way to grief; and when a woman, placed in such circumstances, will not permit her tender feelings to get the better of her pride—when, in fact, she takes refuge in that very pride against the poignancy of sorrow—she necessarily conceives thoughts of vengeance. For the pride which becomes her defence and her shield in such a case, must be vindicated. I therefore determined to cherish this hope of vengeance, and gratify that hope when the proper time shall come. But, in the interval—and first of all—I must create a brilliant social position for myself. On these matters I reflected seriously this morning, so soon as Charles and his father had taken their departure. Then, to a certain extent, I made a confidant of my French lady’s-maid, who has already become deeply attached to me, and in whom I speedily discovered a spirit of intrigue and a shrewd disposition. At the same time, I told her nothing more than was absolutely necessary to account for the abrupt departure of Charles and my change of name; and even those explanations which I did give her were not entirely true. In a word, I acted with caution, while I secured her fidelity and devotion to my interests. Having thus come to a certain understanding, as it were, we repaired to an agency-office, kept by an Englishman, and made inquiries for furnished apartments in a fashionable neighbourhood. The agent conducted us hither: I inspected the suite—approved of it—paid a half-year’s rent in advance—and removed into my new abode, where you now find me, at about three o’clock this afternoon.”

“You have lost no time in settling yourself thus far, at all events,” observed Mrs. Mortimer. “But proceed: you have more yet to explain to me.”

“Only to observe that your aid is now required, mother, to help me to that brilliant position which I am determined to reach, and the attainment of which will render us independent for the remainder of our days.”

“My aid and assistance you shall have, Laura—aye, and effectually too,” returned the old woman, with difficulty concealing the joy and triumph which she experienced on finding herself thus again appealed to as a means to work out a grand design: “but a fortnight’s delay will not prejudice your scheme. You will not lose one particle of your beauty in that time: on the contrary, you will recover your wonted hues of health—for your cheeks are somewhat pale this evening, and there is a blueish tint around your eyes. Doubtless,” she added, with a slightly malicious grin, “Charles Hatfield was a husband to you in everything save the indissoluble bonds!”

“No,” replied Laura, with an effrontery so cool, so complete, that, had the old woman been questioning her daughter on suspicion only, and not on a verified certainty, she would have been satisfied with that laconic, but emphatic negative.

“Ah! then your maudlin sentimentalism did not render you altogether pliant and docile to the impetuous passions of that handsome young man?” she observed.

“Believing that we were to be married,” answered Laura, “I necessarily refrained from compromising myself in his estimation. But wherefore these questions, mother?”—and again the fine large eyes of the young woman were fixed searchingly on Mrs. Mortimer’s countenance.

“I had no particular motive in putting those queries,” was the response, apparently delivered off hand, but in reality well weighed and measured, as was every word that the artful old creature uttered upon this occasion. “I was merely curious to learn whether your prudence or your naturally voluptuous temperament had prevailed in the strong wrestle that must have taken place between those feelings, while you were travelling and dwelling alone with a handsome young man whom you almost adored.”

“Not quite alone, mother,” exclaimed Laura, impatiently. “Rosalie was with us.”

“Oh! the French lady’s maid, who is so shrewd in disposition, and who manifests such an admirable capacity for intrigue!” cried the old woman, unable to resist the opportunity of bantering her daughter a little, in revenge for the cool insults which she herself had received at the hands of that daughter during the last few days of their sojourn in England.

“Mother, have you sought me out only to revive a certain bitterness of feeling which you so recently studied to provoke between us!” demanded Laura, her countenance flushing with indignation; and when she had ceased speaking, she bit her under-lip with her pearly teeth.

“No, no: we will not dispute,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “But you must admit that I warned you not to dream of marriage with that Charles Hatfield; and, had you followed my advice, and stayed in London, you might have retained him as a lover——”

“Let us not talk of the past,” interrupted Laura, with an imperiousness of manner which warned her mother not to provoke her farther. “The present is assured, and we are at least independent; but the future is before us—and there is the sphere in which my hopes are soaring.”

“To return, then, to the point whence I ere now diverged,” resumed Mrs. Mortimer, “I will repeat my assertion that one fortnight’s delay will not mar your plans. On the contrary, you will obtain physical rest after the fatigues of travelling, and mental composure after the excitement of recent occurrences. Your charms will be enhanced, and you will thereby become the more irresistible. This fortnight’s interval I require for my own purposes, as just now explained to you; and, whatever be the result of my search after Torrens, I pledge myself that, if alive and in health, I will return to you in the evening of the fourteenth day from the present date.”

“Agreed!” exclaimed Laura. “You purpose, therefore, to retrace your way to London!”

“Such is my intention. A night’s rest will be sufficient to recruit my strength,” continued Mrs. Mortimer; “and to-morrow morning I shall depart.”

“Now let us thoroughly understand each other, and in no way act without a previous constitution and agreement,” said Laura. “You are about to return to the English metropolis, and it may happen that you will encounter Charles Hatfield. It is my wish that you avoid him—that you do not appear even to notice him; and, for the same reasons which urge me to give you this recommendation, I must request that you attempt no extortion with his father—that you will not seek to render available or profitable the knowledge you possess of the private affairs of that family. Were you to act contrary to my wishes in this respect, you would only mar the projects which I have formed to ensure the eventual gratification of my vengeance.”

“I have listened to you with attention,” said the old woman, “because I would not irritate you by interruption. The counsel you have given me was, however, quite unnecessary. My sole object in visiting London is connected with Torrens; and were I to behold Charles Hatfield at a distance, I should avoid him rather than throw myself in his way. His father I know not even by sight. Besides, according to the tacit understanding which appeared to establish itself between you and me just now, we are mutually to forbear from interfering in each other’s special affairs; and on this basis, good feelings will permanently exist between us. On my return to Paris, fourteen days hence, I shall devote myself to the object which you have in view; and rest assured that, ere long, some wealthy, amorous, and docile nobleman—English or French, no matter which—shall be languishing at your feet.”

“Yes—it is for you to find out the individual to be enchained; and it will then be for me to enchain him,” cried Laura, her countenance lighting up with the glow of anticipated triumph.

The mother and daughter thus made their arrangements, and settled their plans in an amicable fashion; and the former, after passing the night at the handsome lodgings which Laura occupied, set out in the morning on her journey back to London.

We must here pause, for a brief space, to explain the sentiments and motives that respectively influenced these designing women during the lengthy discourse above recorded.

We have already stated, that even before Mrs. Mortimer found herself in the presence of her daughter, her suspicions and her curiosity were excited by two or three mysterious though trivial incidents that occurred; and she had not been many minutes in Laura’s company, before she acquired the certainty that the young woman intended to conceal the fact of her marriage with Charles Hatfield. Mrs. Mortimer at first fancied that this desire arose from shame on the part of Laura, whose pride might naturally revolt from the idea of avowing that, in her eagerness to secure the hand of a nobleman, she had only linked herself indissolubly to a simple commoner, of illegitimate birth, and entirely dependent on his father. But, as the conversation embraced ampler details, and exhibited views more positive and minute, Mrs. Mortimer perceived that Laura was not influenced by wounded pride and shame only in concealing the fact of her marriage; but that, as she contemplated another matrimonial alliance, as soon as an opportunity for an eligible match should present itself she was unwilling to allow her mother to attain the knowledge of a secret that would place her so completely in that mother’s power.

And Mrs. Mortimer had accurately read the thoughts and motives that were uppermost in Laura’s mind. For, imagining from the observations made, and the questions put by her mother, that the fact of her marriage with Charles Hatfield was indeed unknown to the old woman, she resolved to cherish so important—so precious a secret. Well aware of the despotic character and arbitrary disposition of her parent, Laura chose to place herself as little as possible at the mercy of one who sought to rule with a rod of iron, and who was unscrupulous and resolute to a degree in adopting any means that might establish her sway over those whom she aspired to controul.

“No—no,” thought Laura within herself: “my secret is safe—I am well assured of that;—and my mother shall not penetrate it! The lips of Rosalie, who alone could reveal it to her now, are sealed by rich bribes. For such a secret in my mother’s keeping would reduce me to the condition of her slave! I should not dare to contract another marriage; because her exigences would be backed by a menace of exposure, and a prosecution for bigamy: and by means of the terrorism which she would thus exercise over me, I should become a mere puppet in her hands—not daring to assert a will of my own!”

On the other hand, Mrs. Mortimer’s thoughts ran thus:—“Laura believes me to be ignorant of her marriage, and my dissimulation shall confirm her in that belief. Yes—I will act so as to lull her into complete security on this point. It would be of no use to me now to proclaim my knowledge of the fact that the marriage has taken place; because, at present, she requires my services, and will be civil and courteous to me of her own accord. But when once I shall have helped her to a wealthy and titled husband, and when my aid shall no longer be required, then she will re-assert her sway and attempt to thrust me aside as a mere cypher! But she shall find herself mistaken; and the secret that I thus treasure up must prove the talisman to give me despotic controul over herself, her husband, her household,—aye, and her purse! Yes—yes: she may marry now, without any opposition from me. For, whereas in the former case her marriage would indeed have reduced me to the condition of a miserable dependant, a new alliance will invest me with the power of a despot. Ah! daughter—daughter, you have at length over-reached yourself.”

And such was indeed the case; for so well did Mrs. Mortimer play her part of deep dissimulation, that Laura felt convinced her secret was safe, and that the circumstance of her marriage was totally unsuspected. And it was as much to confirm the young woman in this belief, as for the purpose of slyly bantering her, that the mother questioned her as to the point to which her connexion with Charles Hatfield had reached, and astutely placed in juxta-position her daughter’s prudence on the one hand, and voluptuousness of temperament on the other. Thus Laura was completely duped, while secretly triumphing in the belief that it was her parent who was deceived!

We must, however, observe, that the two women, under present circumstances, felt dependent on each other in many and important respects; and this mutual necessity rendered them easy to come to terms and settle their affairs upon an amicable basis.

On the one hand, Mrs. Mortimer relied upon her daughter for pecuniary supplies; and this very circumstance prompted her to undertake the journey to London in the hope of finding Torrens, and extorting from him the treasure of which, as she believed, he had plundered Percival. The possession of a few thousands of pounds, added to her knowledge of Laura’s secret, would place her in a condition of complete independence; and that independence she would labour hard to achieve for herself. But she might fail—and then she would again be compelled to fall back on the resources of her daughter. Thus, for the present at least, she was in a state of dependence—and it was by no means certain that her visit to London would change her condition in this respect.

On the other hand, Laura was dependent on her mother for aid in carrying out her ambitious views. Ignorant of the French language as she was, she could not hope to succeed by herself alone; and, in intrigues which required so much delicacy of management, she could not rely solely on a lady’s-maid. The assistance of her mother was therefore necessary; for she reflected that the astute old woman who had succeeded in inducing Charles Hatfield to accompany her to the lodgings in Suffolk-street, could not fall to lead some wealthy and amorous noble within the influence of her daughter’s syren-charms in the Rue Monthabor.

We have now explained the exact position in which these two designing women were placed with regard to each other; and we must request our readers to bear in mind all the observations which we have just recorded, inasmuch as they afford a clue to the motives of many transactions to be hereafter narrated.

For the history of Laura is, as it were, only just commenced; and the most startling, exciting, and surprising incidents of her career have yet to be told.

She was a woman of whom it may be well said, “We ne’er shall look upon her like again!”

But the delineation of such a character as this Perdita—or Laura, as we are henceforth to call her—has the advantage of throwing into glorious contrast the virtues, amenities, and endearing qualities of woman generally,—inasmuch as she is a grand and almost unique exception, proving the rule which asserts the excellent qualities of her sex.