When she had eaten and drank as drunk as much as she cared for, she addressed herself to the grand project which she had in view, and in furtherance of which she had demanded the private room and the writing materials at the coffee-house.
The writing of the Marquis was execrably bad; and it was not a very difficult matter to add ty to the six, and transform the word hundred into thousand, in the body of the cheque; while the simple addition of 00 to the 600l. written in figures in the corner, completed the forgery.
The cheque, therefore, now stood for sixty thousand pounds, instead of six hundred, payable to bearer, no particular name being mentioned as the intended recipient.
When the old woman had thus transformed the document, a glow of triumph animated her hideous countenance: but in a few moments a chill—a cold, creeping tremor came over her—as if a clammy snake were gradually coiling itself around her form, underneath her clothes;—for she remembered all the sensations which she had experienced when she committed the forgery of Sir Henry Courtenay’s name nineteen years previously!
By a desperate effort the old woman shook off the painful feeling that thus influenced her; and, resolving to allow herself no more leisure for reflection, lest her thoughts should make a coward of her, she rang the bell—paid the trifling amount incurred—and took her departure from the coffee-house.
During her walk to the bank, which was close at hand, she rapidly calculated in her mind all the chances of success. The Marquis had unquestionably been thither to give instructions relative to the draft held by Laura as well as that which had been given to herself; and there was not the slightest reason to fear that her daughter had followed so closely on her steps from Paris as to have been able to visit the bank during the hour that had just elapsed. As for the excellence of the forgery—or rather of the alterations, Mrs. Mortimer entertained no apprehension on that score; and thus, all things considered, she deemed failure to be impossible.
With an apparent outward composure, but with a palpitating heart, the old woman entered the bank, and presented her cheque to one of the clerks. He surveyed it narrowly—took it into the private office, or parlour, doubtless to submit it to one of the proprietors of the establishment or some responsible person—and remained away upwards of two minutes.
Two minutes!—but that interval was an age—a perfect age in the imagination of the old woman! It was an interval composed of such intense feelings that the hair of a young person might have turned suddenly grey,—feelings of such burning hope and such awful suspense, of such profound terror and fervid expectation, that while molten lead appeared to drop upon one side of her heart, ice seemed to lay upon the other!
At length the clerk came back; and Mrs. Mortimer darted a rapid—searching—penetrating glance at his countenance.
Nothing save respect and civility could she trace thereon: and she instantly knew that she was safe!