CHAPTER CLV.

THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

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 _mademoiselle_[12] 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.”

[Illustration]

“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.