“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.
CHAPTER CLXXXV.
THE LAWYER’S HEAD CLERK.
It was about four o’clock in the afternoon of the day following the incidents just related, that Mr. James Heathcote, the lawyer, was seated at his writing-table in that private office which we have already described to our readers,—when a low, timid knock at the door fell upon his ears.