CHAPTER CXCV.

HORRORS.

It will be recollected that Mrs. Mortimer was far from being unprovided

with money--her share of the spoil obtained from Torrens still being in

her possession, with the trifling deduction of the few pounds she had

expended in travelling, clothes, and maintenance, during the interval

that had elapsed since the occurrences in Stamford Street.

The bulk of the amount thus remaining to her had been carefully sewn in

her stays, so that it had altogether escaped the notice of Jack Rily:

and thus the old woman was not destitute of resources.

But the sum in her possession was a mere trifle when compared with

that which she had hoped to acquire from the forgery; and she now

resolved to leave no stone unturned--no measure unattempted, however

desperate, in order to accomplish her aim. Besides, she longed--she

craved to wreak a terrific vengeance upon her daughter,--yes--upon her

own daughter: for the remorse and the softer feelings which had ere now

found an avenue into her breast, when Laura renounced her, were only

evanescent and short-lived. We have moreover seen that this temporary

weakness was speedily succeeded by the desperation produced by a

terrible resolve to which her mind came as it were all in a moment!

Impelled by this sinister influence, Mrs. Mortimer lost no time in

repairing to Roupel Street, where she found Jack Rily lolling in a

chair, smoking his pipe and enjoying a quart of half-and-half.

“Well, my old tiger-cat, what news?” he exclaimed, the moment Mrs.

Mortimer made her appearance. “Have you succeeded with your beautiful

daughter?”

“Very far from it,” was the answer. “And now,” she added, ere the

Doctor had time to give vent to the oath which rose to his lips through

the vexation of disappointment,--“and now the matter has come to

that extreme point when nothing but a desperate step can prevent the

presentation of the genuine cheque to-morrow.”

“Are you sure it will not be presented to-day?” demanded Jack Rily.

“Yes; my daughter said that she should present it _to-morrow_,”

responded Mrs. Mortimer; “and I have every reason to believe that she

will not go near the bank to-day. In fact, she was married this morning

to a young Italian nobleman, whom she loves deeply, and whom she will

not therefore quit, even for an hour, on her wedding-day.”

“Well, and what do you propose?” asked Jack Rily, fixing upon her a

significant look, which shewed that he already more than half divined

what was passing in her bosom.

“Are you man enough to risk all--every thing--for the sake of that

thirty thousand pounds which will become your share if we succeed?”

demanded the old woman, returning the look with one of equally ominous

meaning.

“I am man enough to do any thing for such a sum!” he answered, sinking

his voice to a low whisper, and laying down his pipe--a proof that he

considered the topic of discourse to be growing too serious to permit

any abstraction of the thoughts.

“Then you understand me?” said Mrs. Mortimer, leaning forward, and

surveying him with a penetration which appeared to read the secrets of

his inmost soul.

“Yes--I understand you, my tiger-cat,” replied the man; and he drew his

hand significantly across his throat.

“Well, and will you do it?” she asked.

“But it is your own daughter,” he observed, shuddering at the atrocity

of the woman’s mind which could calmly contemplate such a fearful deed.

“She has renounced me,” was the laconic answer.

“Nevertheless, you are still her mother,” persisted Jack Rily.

“I discard her--for ever!” responded the horrible old woman.

“Well--you astounded me at first,” said the Doctor, in a slow tone, as

he reflected profoundly upon the extreme step suggested: “but I can

look at the business with a more steady eye _now_. I always thought

that I was bad enough: but, by God! you beat anything I ever knew in

the shape of wickedness.”

“Then you refuse--you decline?” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer,

interrogatively, while rage convulsed her entire frame--for she dreaded

lest the money should be lost, and Laura escape her vengeance.

“By Satan!” cried the Doctor; “if you have pluck enough to propose, I

am not the man to refuse to execute the scheme. But how do I know that

when the critical moment comes, remorse won’t seize on you, and you’ll

cry off?”

“When I have made up my mind to anything, I am not to be deterred

by difficulty--danger--or compunction,” answered the old woman. “I

implored the ungrateful girl to give me a glass of water, when I was

choking--and she refused. What mercy can I have towards her?”

“None,” responded Jack Rily. “But you must enter into farther

explanations, old tiger-cat: because at present I’m pretty well in the

dark relative to the precise nature of your plans, and the way in which

they are to be executed. It’s now four o’clock in the afternoon--and we

must settle everything without delay, if it’s to be done _to-night_.”

“It _is_ for to-night,” said the old woman, emphatically. “My daughter

and her husband have taken a house in Pimlico----”

“How many servants?” demanded Jack Rily.

“I cannot exactly answer the question: but I know that there is

a French lady’s maid; and I saw an English valet, who had been

recommended by the house-agent----”

“Never mind who recommended him,” interrupted the Doctor, impatiently;

“he is there--and that’s enough for us. All I care about knowing is how

many people we may have to deal with.”

“But the venture must be made at any risk,” observed Mrs. Mortimer. “It

is of the highest consequence to us to gain possession of the genuine

cheque----”

“And put the holder of it out of the way,” added Jack Rily. “Oh! I

understand your drift plainly enough: but I wish to see my course

clear--because I’d better do the best I can with the notes under

existing circumstances, rather than get a bullet through my brain or

find myself laid by the heels in Newgate some time between this and

to-morrow morning.”

“Certainly--certainly,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer. “Well--upon what do you

decide?”

“To risk the business,” answered Jack, starting from his seat. “And now

I’ll just go and take a quiet walk down into Pimlico, for the purpose

of surveying the premises. Whereabouts is it?”

“Westbourne Place, No.----,” replied Mrs. Mortimer.

“Well--you can meet me again down in that neighbourhood at about

midnight,” said the Doctor. “Where shall the place of appointment be?”

“In Sloane Square, if you like,” observed the old woman.

“Good--precisely at midnight. And now be off--because I am going to

hide the Bank-notes so that nobody may be able to find them during

my absence,” said the Doctor, with a meaning look. “Of course I need

hardly tell you that if you are scheming or manœuvring to get me into

a plant down at Pimlico, you’ll never go away alive to make a boast of

it.”

“The idea that I should act in such a way, is ridiculous,” returned

Mrs. Mortimer.

“Well--there is no harm in giving you the caution, old tiger-cat,”

remarked the Doctor, carelessly. “So tramp off--and be punctual to our

appointment.”

“I shall not fail,” said the horrible woman, who thereupon took her

departure.

How she passed the remainder of that day, we know not. Suffice it to

say that the leisure-time which she had for reflection did not induce

her to change her mind nor swerve from her purpose: on the contrary,

as she entered Sloane Square a few minutes before midnight, it was

with a determination to take her share in the awful tragedy which she

contemplated--namely, the murder of her own daughter and the Count of

Carignano. Bad and depraved as she was, never in her life until this

occasion had she thought so calmly and coolly of shedding blood: for

if on the previous day she had harboured the design of assassinating

Jack Rily, in order to regain possession of the Bank-notes, it was

not without a cold shudder, even though there was something like

aggravation to inspire the idea. But now she had brought herself--or

circumstances had tutored her--to survey with a diabolical tranquillity

the hideous, appalling crime which she had in view; and as she walked

along, she clutched with savage triumph a clasp-knife that she had

purchased during the evening.

Precisely as the clock struck twelve Jack Rily joined her.

“Well, you have not altered your mind?” he said.

“It is rather for me to ask you that question,” was her response.

“Oh, I am resolute enough!” he observed; and through the semi-obscurity

of the night she could see his large white teeth flashing hideously

between the opening in his lip. “I have taken a good survey of the

premises,” he continued, “and know exactly how to proceed. Have you got

any weapon, old tiger-cat?”

“This,” she replied, placing the clasp-knife in his hand.

He opened the blade--felt it--closed it again--and, returning the knife

to his companion, said, “That will do. But there is one thing that

troubles me a little,” he added, after a few moments’ hesitation; “and

I’ll be hanged if I can get it off my mind. Yet--perdition seize it!--I

am no coward either.”

“What have you to fear, then?” demanded the old woman, hastily.

“Why, to tell you the truth----but come along farther away from the

lamps----to tell you the truth, as I was jogging quietly down Sloane

Street just now,” continued Rily, glancing furtively around, “some one,

coming hastily up from a narrow street on the right-hand side, passed

just in front of me. We almost ran against each other, and I caught a

glimpse of the fellow’s countenance----”

“Who was he?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, shuddering in anticipation of the

reply.

“Vitriol Bob,” was the answer.

“I thought you were going to say so,” exclaimed the old woman. “But

perhaps he did not notice you--and even if he did, I suppose you are

not afraid that he will attempt any mischief?”

“Whether he noticed me or not, I can’t say,” replied the Doctor;

“because the encounter was so abrupt--so sudden--that he was off again

in an instant. But if he did, I am well aware that he is capable of

anything. However, I don’t mean to let _that_ prey upon my mind, I can

tell you.”

“And yet it _does_ seem to have depressed you a little,” said Mrs.

Mortimer.

“Well--I’d rather it shouldn’t have happened--that’s all!” ejaculated

the ruffian, forcing himself to assume a gaiety which he did not

altogether feel; for, though no coward, yet the incident of his meeting

with his sworn foe in the manner described, had troubled him.

Doubtless the man’s mind, contemplating a diabolical crime, was more

disposed to superstitious terrors, and to acknowledge the influence of

presentiments, than on ordinary occasions: hence the vague uneasiness

and undefined apprehensions that had seized upon him.

Mrs. Mortimer caught the dispiriting effects of the encounter which her

confederate had experienced with one of the most desperate ruffians

in London; and such a chill fell upon her mind, that she was about

to propose the abandonment of the scheme, when Jack Rily suddenly

exclaimed, “Well thought of! I’ve something in my pocket that will do

us good!”

[Illustration]

With these words he produced a flask of brandy, which he handed to the

old woman, who drank deeply: he then applied it to his own lips, and

drained it of its contents.

“Now I feel all right again!” he cried, as he restored the empty bottle

to his pocket. “There’s nothing like a drop of the bingo at a crisis of

this nature.”

“Nothing!” observed Mrs. Mortimer, assentingly: for she likewise felt

all her resolution--or rather hard-heartedness--suddenly revive under

the influence of the alcohol.

“Now, then, let us proceed to business,” said Jack. “I have got my

own clasp-knife--a darkey[28]--and a small jimmey,”[29] he continued;

“and blowed if it shall be my fault, should we fail in the crack[30]

to-night----”

“And all that is to follow,” added Mrs. Mortimer, to whom the brandy

had imparted a ferociousness which made her thirst as it were to drink

her own daughter’s blood.

The two miscreants--male and female--now proceeded in silence; and as

they entered Westbourne Place a lovely moon broke forth from behind a

cloud hitherto dark and menacing.

“This is the house,” said Mrs. Mortimer, when they came within sight of

the dwelling where Laura and the Count of Carignano were slumbering in

each other’s arms.

“I know it, old gal,” responded Jack Rily. “We must turn into the lane

that leads down by the side of the premises. Come along--quick--there’s

a person approaching from behind.”

And, followed by the old woman, he darted into the alley which

separated the Count of Carignano’s abode from the neighbouring row of

houses.

At the back of the villa there was a small garden, the boundary-wall

of which was of no great height; and the Doctor, in the survey of the

premises which he took during the evening, had made up his mind to

effect an entry in the rear of the building.

“All is quiet,” he said, in a low whisper to his companion. “I will

climb on to the top of the wall, and then help you up. We will soon

make light work of it.”

But scarcely were these words uttered, when a dark shadow appeared at

the end of the lane--and in another moment Jack Rily and Mrs. Mortimer

beheld a man hastening towards them.

The old woman instinctively drew close up to her powerful confederate

for protection, in case mischief should be intended; and scarcely was

this movement effected, when the cause of apprehension was close up to

the spot where she and Rily were standing in the deep shade of the wall.

At that instant the moon-beams fell fully upon the man’s countenance;

and a cry of horror burst from the lips of Mrs. Mortimer as she

recognised her terrible enemy--Vitriol Bob! Simultaneously with that

cry, an ejaculation of rage escaped from Jack Rily, who, dashing the

old woman away from him, sprang towards the formidable foe.

But ere the sounds of the cry and the ejaculation had died in the air,

Vitriol Bob, nimbly eluding the attack of the Doctor, raised above his

head _something_ which his right hand grasped; and although the blow

was intended for Jack Rily, it fell with an ominous crash full upon the

countenance of Mrs. Mortimer, who, striving to escape, but bewildered

by terror, was running across the lane, in front of Vitriol Bob, at the

instant.

Then--O heavens! what a shriek of agony--what a yell of indescribable

anguish broke upon the silence of the night--rending the air with its

piercing sound, and raising echoes of even more horrifying wildness

throughout the neighbourhood.

Vitriol Bob fled in one direction--Jack Rily in another; and the old

woman was abandoned, alike by friend and foe, to her wretched fate!

But--see! the lights gleam in the windows of the very villa which

was to have been the scene of a horrible murder: the painful yells,

which still continue to beat the air with their agonising vibrations,

have aroused the Count of Carignano--aroused also the lovely creature

in whose arms he was sleeping. The valet and Rosalie likewise start

from their respective couches; and the young Italian nobleman and the

man-servant, having hastily thrown on some clothing, descend into the

street.

The cries proceed from the lane: they rush to the spot--and there

upon the ground they behold a female writhing like a stricken snake,

evidently in the most horrible tortures.

What can it mean?

They do not wait to ask the question; but, raising the wretched

sufferer from the ground, they bear her into the house--her shrieks and

screams lacerating their ears all the time, and her contortions and

writhings being so powerful that they can scarcely carry her along.

The neighbours have likewise been alarmed; but none have imitated

the example of the generous young Italian, and descended from

their bed-rooms to afford assistance. They look forth from their

windows--satisfy themselves that aid _is_ at hand--and, believing the

uproar to be created by some poor woman in a fit, close the curtains

and hasten back to bed again.

In the meantime the Count of Carignano and his valet have borne the

writhing--yelling sufferer into the hall; and Laura descends the stairs

with a candle in her hand. She has thrown on a dressing-gown, and

thrust her naked feet into slippers; and her magnificent hair floats in

messy modulations and luxuriant waves over her fine shoulders and her

ample bosom.

But scarcely do the rays of the light fall upon the countenance of the

suffering wretch, when the Count of Carignano starts back in horror,

exclaiming, “Merciful God! do my eyes deceive me?--is it possible?

Laura, dearest----”

“’Tis my mother!” cried the young lady, hastening up to the spot where

the old woman lay writhing and screaming fearfully upon the mat.

“Ah! that voice!” said the dying Mrs. Mortimer, suddenly desisting

from the outpourings of ineffable agony, as the musical tones of her

daughter fell upon her ears: “Laura--is it indeed you? Come near--give

me your hand--I cannot see you----My God! I am blind--the fiend--the

wretch----Come near, I say----Oh! I am dying--and this is the beginning

of hell----”

“Mother--mother!” exclaimed Laura, whose heart was touched by

witnessing the appalling pain that writhed the form of the old woman.

“Forgive me, my child--forgive me,” gasped the dying wretch: “I came

to----But all is growing dark in my mind as well as my eyes----forgive

me, I say--forgive me----Oh! God!” she suddenly shrieked

forth,--“this--_this_ that I feel now must be Death!”

As these words fell from the old woman’s tongue amidst gasps of agony,

convulsions seized upon her--and she expired in the most shocking

agonies.