“Oh! my God!—this is retribution!” murmured Mr. Hatfield, bowing himself down, and covering his face with his hands.
At that moment the door opened—and Lady Georgiana, pale as death and scarcely able to support herself on her tottering limbs, made her appearance.
Unable to endure the state of suspense in which she had been plunged relative to the altered manner of her son towards Lady Frances at the breakfast-table,—and having a vague presentiment that some unpleasant scene was occurring between him and her husband in the library,—she had determined to repair thither and relieve herself at once from an uncertainty that was intolerable. But upon reaching the door she heard Charles talking loudly and bitterly: she instinctively paused;—and those terrible questions which he addressed to his father, smote upon her ear like the voice of the Angel of Death.
Staggering into the room, she mechanically closed the door behind her; and then leant against it for support. Her fine—her handsome countenance denoted the most poignant anguish: it was absolutely distorted—while a frightful pallor overspread it.
“My mother—my dear mother!” exclaimed Charles, bounding towards her;—for his soul was touched by the pitiable appearance which she presented to his view.
“Just heaven! Charles—what have you said to your father!” she asked, in a tone of despair;—and flinging herself into her son’s arms, she gave vent to a flood of tears.
“I implore your pardon, my dear parents, if in a moment of haste and impatience I said aught that can give you offence,” exclaimed the young man: “but I was not master of my emotions—for you, my father, had termed me a villain!”
“Let us not recriminate,” said Mr. Hatfield, rising and taking his son by the hand, Lady Georgiana having in the meantime sunk into the chair to which Charles conducted her. “I was wrong to address you thus harshly: but your refusal to form an alliance with Lady Frances, to whom you only yesterday imparted a confession of attachment——”
“O Charles! is it possible that your parents are to experience such bitterness of disappointment as this?” exclaimed Lady Georgiana, turning a look of appeal—of earnest appeal—upon her son. “You know not how profound will be my sorrow if you thus enact a perfidious part towards Lady Frances Ellingham!”
“Would you have me wed when my heart is not fixed?” demanded Charles, warmly. “I laboured under a delusion: I fancied that I loved Lady Frances as one whom I should wish to make my wife—but I now find that it was only with the affection of a brother or of a very sincere friend that I in reality regarded her! Yesterday morning you, my dear father, entered my chamber, at a moment when the confusion of ideas caused by unpleasant dreams was scarcely dissipated;—you urged me to confess an attachment to Lady Frances—to seek her hand;—and I obeyed you! But I acted under an impulse for which I could not account;—I yielded to some unknown influence which I could not resist. And yet it was not love, my dear parents;—no—it was not love! In making Lady Frances my wife I should only ensure the unhappiness of an excellent—a beautiful—an accomplished girl——”
“You admit all her admirable qualities, Charles,” interrupted his mother; “and yet you refuse to avail yourself of an opportunity to secure so precious a prize—to link your fortunes with one who is certain to make the best of wives!”
“It is truly incomprehensible!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, whose knowledge of the world and large experience of the human heart convinced him that there was something more at the bottom of his son’s conduct than the alleged reasons for so abruptly breaking off a match that, he thought, must appear in every way so eligible and advantageous to the young man.
“My dear parents, this scene is most painful to us all,” said Charles, who, glancing rapidly at the time-piece upon the mantel, saw that the hour was approaching for his to visit Perdita.
His father, observing that impatient look cast towards the clock, instantly comprehended that his son had some appointment to keep; and connecting this discovery with the strangeness of his conduct in respect to Lady Frances, it flashed to his mind in a moment that the young man had formed some attachment elsewhere.
“Charles,” he accordingly said, turning abruptly towards his son and looking him full in the face, “you love another?”
The young man became red as scarlet, and stammered out a few unintelligible words, which his father soon cut short.
“Now we have discovered the truth! But surely you have formed no unworthy attachment?—surely you cannot love one whom you are ashamed to name?” cried Mr. Hatfield.
“Speak, Charles—speak! Answer your father!” said Lady Georgiana, in an imploring tone, as she perceived her son turn away towards the mantel.
For rebellious thoughts again rose in the mind of the young man;—and he felt hurt and vexed that his conduct should thus be questioned by parents who never had acknowledged him as their son until the necessity was forced upon them by his accidental discovery of the secret of his birth, and who now kept him out of what he conceived to be his just rights. Moreover, was he not twenty-five years old?—and was that an age at which he should thus be tutored and treated like a child? Lastly, it was verging fast upon twelve; and had he not assured his Perdita that he would not be a minute later mid-day?
“Charles, why do you not answer me?” asked Mr. Hatfield, approaching him: “wherefore do you treat your parents with contempt?”
“Wherefore did my parents treat me with such unnatural neglect as to bring me up as their nephew?” demanded the young man, turning abruptly—almost savagely round upon his father. “Wherefore do they now pass me off to the world in that latter capacity?” he cried, becoming fearfully excited.
Lady Georgiana uttered a faint scream, covered her face with her hands, and fell back in her chair sobbing bitterly.
“You speak of unnatural conduct!” cried Mr. Hatfield, growing excited in his turn. “Tell me at once, Charles—do you mean to throw off all allegiance to your parents? If so—remember that it is in our power to deprive you of the immense fortune which is otherwise destined for you——”
“Ah! menaces!” ejaculated the young man: and darting upon his father a look of mingled regret and anger—of united sorrow and indignation,—a look so strange, so ominous that Mr. Hatfield started with horror,—he rushed from the room.
“Stay! stay!” cried Lady Georgiana, springing towards the door.
But her son heeded her not: he obeyed not her voice;—and the unhappy mother sank upon the floor, gasping for utterance, and feeling as if her heart would break with the wretched sensations that filled her bosom.
Mr. Hatfield hastened to raise his wife—to place her in a chair—and to breath words of consolation in her ears.
When she was somewhat recovered, she clasped her hands convulsively together; and, looking up appealingly into his face, said, “Is this a reality? or is it a dream?”
“Alas! it is a terrible reality,” responded Mr. Hatfield, in a tone of mingled bitterness and sorrow.
“And what can it all mean?” asked Lady Georgiana, wildly: for she was bewildered by the strangeness of her son’s conduct—amazed by the sudden alteration of his manner from respect to insolent indifference towards his parents.
“Heaven alone can solve that question for us at present,” returned her husband. “Can it be that he has learnt any thing—that he suspects aught of the past? No—no: that is impossible! But ever since the discovery of his real parentage, he has been altered;—sometimes moody and thoughtful—at others petulant and hasty,—now unnaturally gay and excited—then deeply depressed and melancholy,—but never unruly and overbearing, disobedient and rebellious, as he has shown himself this forenoon.”
“’Tis easy to perceive, I fear, that he is troubled by the mystery which induced us to conceal his position with regard to us,” said Lady Georgiana;—“and likewise—yes, likewise,” she added hesitatingly, “the circumstance that he still passes as our nephew weighs upon his mind!”
“Oh! this is a terrible retribution for my sins!—an awful punishment for the foul misdeeds of my earlier years!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, wringing his hands bitterly.
“My dear husband,” said Lady Georgiana, whose turn it now was to console; “give not way thus to your sorrow! Let us hope that he will repent of this strange unruliness of conduct——”
“Alas! I have sad forebodings of evil!” cried the unhappy man. “I fear that he has formed some unworthy connexion, Georgiana: but let us dissemble our sorrow—let us not afflict the Earl and the amiable Esther by giving them any account of the occurrences of this day.”
“And yet what can we say respecting the union that was contemplated between their amiable daughter and our son?” demanded Lady Georgiana, in an anxious tone.
“We will by some means find an excuse for the embarrassment and coldness of manner which Charles exhibited at the breakfast-table,” returned Mr. Hatfield; “and I will seek the earliest opportunity to reason with him fully and calmly upon the subject.”
“If he should have formed an attachment elsewhere——”
“That is scarcely probable, when we come to look calmly at the matter—since he yesterday morning declared his affection to Frances.”
“Alas! ’tis a mystery which pains and alarms me,” said Lady Georgiana.
“A mystery which I will penetrate, my dear wife!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, in a resolute—almost stern tone of voice. “But for the present, it is useless to hazard a conjecture.”
It was a little after twelve o’clock when Charles Hatfield reached the house in Suffolk Street.
“Is Miss Fitzhardinge at home?” he enquired of the female servant who answered his summons at the door.
“Have the kindness to walk up into the drawing-room, sir,” was the response; and, with beating heart, the young man followed the domestic into the apartment where he expected again to behold his beauteous Perdita.
But, to his disappointment—a disappointment which he could not conceal, he found himself in the presence of her mother.
“Be seated, sir,” she said, coldly and formally indicating a chair, into which Charles Hatfield fell as if in obedience to the command of a witch. “I have many matters whereon to converse with you; and, to speak candidly, scarcely know how to commence. One subject personally regards you: another intimately relates to my own interests. But I will begin with that which so nearly concerns yourself.”
“I am all attention, madam,” said Charles, endeavouring to assume as respectful a demeanour as possible, but in reality glancing with much impatience towards the door—as if by his eager looks inviting the entrance of Perdita.
“My daughter will not interrupt us, Mr. Hatfield,” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhardinge, with an affectation of malice which seemed ominous and foreboding to the young man. “Indeed, whether you will ever see her again, depends upon the result of our present interview.”
“My God! madam,” cried Charles, in an imploring tone; “have I offended your beautiful daughter—or yourself?”
“I am not precisely offended, Mr. Hatfield,” said the old woman, assuming a more conciliatory manner: “but certain explanations are necessary between us;—and indeed, it depends entirely on yourself whether you ever behold Perdita again.”
“Then I shall behold her again, madam,” returned Charles, emphatically. “And now I can really listen to you with attention——”
“And perhaps with patience,” added Mrs. Fitzhardinge, her rigid features at length relaxing into a faint smile. “But I will not tax that patience longer than I can help. Firstly, then, we are to speak of the matters which concern yourself. And now—will you not be surprised when I assure you that I am acquainted with many strange and marvellous secrets connected with your family?”
“Ah!” ejaculated Charles, starting.
“But perhaps I even know more than you yourself are acquainted with?” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge.
“No, madam—no: that is impossible!” he cried, emphatically.
“Do any of those secrets give you pain to contemplate?” she asked, fixing her eyes searchingly upon him. “Pardon me for thus questioning you——”
“And why, madam, do you so question me?” he demanded, almost angrily.
“Because I am as yet ignorant to what extent your knowledge may go in certain respects,” she replied.
“Then believe me, madam—believe me,” cried Charles Hatfield, bitterly, “when I assure you that I know much more than you can possibly have an idea of!”
“Is the name of Rainford familiar to you?” asked the old woman, steadily watching the effect of her question.
“Madam,” exclaimed Charles, starting from his seat, and approaching Mrs. Fitzhardinge in a threatening manner, “would you taunt me with the infamy of my birth?—for I see that it is no secret to you! But imagine not—if such indeed be your idea—that I am unworthy the love of your daughter Perdita! You were about to marry her to an old nobleman: what if a young nobleman were to demand her hand?”
“A young nobleman!” ejaculated Mrs. Fitzhardinge, now surprised in her turn: for it must be remembered that all she knew concerning the present subject was gleaned from the musings of the old gipsy; and those musings had led her to believe that Charles was the nephew of Mr. Hatfield, alias Thomas Rainford.
“Yes—madam—a young nobleman!” he repeated, carried away by the excitement of feelings under which he laboured: for he fancied that the old lady had intended to reproach him—him, the son of the resuscitated highwayman—with having dared to love her daughter. “And now, perhaps, it is your turn to be surprised: for, as surely as you are seated there, I am not the plain, and humble, and obscure Charles Hatfield—but the Lord Viscount Marston, heir to the Earldom of Ellingham!”
Mrs. Fitzhardinge restrained her surprise with the utmost presence of mind—exerting indeed an extraordinary power of self-controul; and, surveying him with an unblushing effrontery, she said, “Well, my lord, your lordship is at length led to confess who you really are!”
“My lord”—“your lordship!”—Oh! how sweetly—how sweetly sounded those words on the ears of Charles Hatfield:—he forgot that he was the son of the resuscitated highwayman—he remembered not that his sire had passed through the ordeal of a scaffold: he heard only that he was saluted with a title of nobility; and already did it seem as if half his ambition were gratified.
“Madam,” he said, at length recovering his self-possession, and subduing as much as possible the wildness of that joy which had seized upon him, “then it appears you were acquainted with my right to a title of nobility?”
“I was,” she answered, with an air of the most perfect truthfulness: “and believing you to be ignorant of that fact, I was anxious to make the revelation to your lordship.”
“You are consequently acquainted with every thing that regards me?” continued Charles, not perceiving, in the still elated condition of his mind, that the question was foolish became it embraced a vague and undefined generality.
“Everything, my lord,” returned Mrs. Fitzhardinge, repeating the titular appellation, because in her latent shrewdness she saw full well the pleasure that its swelling sound afforded to the young man.
“This is most strange—most singular!” cried Charles, musing audibly: “for I came hither with the intention of revealing all—every thing—to your Perdita, through whom you would have learnt the entire particulars in the course of this day;—and, behold! I am anticipated—for you already are as well acquainted with those most mysterious circumstances as I myself! But may I ask, madam,” he exclaimed, turning abruptly towards Mrs. Fitzhardinge,—“may I ask how you came to know that Mr. Hatfield is my father, and that he is the rightful Earl of Ellingham, legitimately born?”
Mrs. Fitzhardinge had hitherto known nothing at all of those circumstances; but, without manifesting the least surprise, she said, “Pray be seated, my lord—compose yourself—give not way to unnecessary excitement; and I will at once proceed to explain all my conduct to your lordship.”
Charles Hatfield threw himself into an arm-chair, and showed a disposition to listen with attention.
“Has your lordship ever heard of a gipsy named Miranda?” enquired Mrs. Fitzhardinge.
“Yes: I lately read the entire history of that Octavia Manners who became Countess of Ellingham, and who was my father’s mother. The gipsy of whom you speak was her faithful friend: but she must now be very old—even if she be in existence!”
“She is in existence—or at least was a short time back,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “From her lips did I receive the entire history of your family.”
“But she could not have known that the late Earl of Ellingham married the injured Octavia Manners,” cried Charles: “she could not have been aware of my father’s real rank and position.”
“Yes—she knew all,” returned the wily woman, uttering a deliberate falsehood: “how and by what means, it matters not—neither, indeed, did she inform me. When the whole tale was revealed to me, I thought that you must be in ignorance of your just rights; and, having by accident heard a good account of your lordship’s generous heart and amiable qualities——”
“From whom?” demanded Charles.
“Oh! I must not gratify your curiosity in these minute details,” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “Suffice it that I adhere to the important points of our present topic.”
“Proceed, madam: I will not again interrupt you unnecessarily,” said the young man.
“Well, then, my lord—I fancied that it was a flagrant shame and an abhorrent cruelty thus to retain you in ignorance, as I supposed, of your true standing in the world; and a sense of justice determined me—although a total stranger to you—to acquaint your lordship with those facts which, it however appears, were already well known to you.”
“To speak candidly, my dear madam,” said Charles, “I was in complete ignorance of all those circumstances until eight or ten days ago, when they were revealed to me by the strangest accident in the world.”
“May I, without appearing indiscreet, enquire the nature of the accident that thus put your lordship in possession of such important—such vitally important facts?”
“Assuredly, my dear madam,” returned Charles Hatfield. “You yourself have behaved to me with so much kindness and candour in this respect, that I owe you my entire confidence. A mere chance threw in my way certain papers which fully prove that Octavia Manners was the wife of the late Earl of Ellingham when their child was born; and that my own father, who now bears the name of Hatfield, but who was so long and so unhappily known by that of Rainford, was the child to whom allusion is made.”
“And those papers—have you them in your possession?” asked Mrs. Fitzhardinge.
“I have—carefully concealed in a private compartment of my writing-desk, in my own chamber at Lord Ellingham’s mansion.”
“But has your lordship no hesitation in proclaiming your rights and titles—or rather in acquiring them by forcing your father to proclaim his own?” demanded the old woman, again fixing her eyes steadfastly upon his countenance.
“Ah! there, madam, you touch the wound in my heart!” exclaimed Charles, the sudden workings of his countenance displaying the anguish which the thought excited within him. “I am loth to take the grand—the important—the irrevocable step on the one hand; and I cannot bear to surrender up all my privileges on the other. Moreover, my parents have not acted towards me in a way to render necessary every sacrifice on my part;—and even this morning—this very morning—my father added a new injury to the list of those already committed against me—a new wrong, by upbraiding me, under particular circumstances, with harshness—even brutality.”
“Certainly your lordship cannot permit a false sense of filial duty to mar all the golden prospects which open before you!” exclaimed the vile woman, who was thus encouraging evil thoughts in the young man’s mind. “Consider your youth—your handsome appearance—your great talents—the brilliant hopes which develop themselves in the horizon of the future——”
“Oh! I have thought of all this—I have weighed every thing for and against the course which I long to adopt, but which the interests of my parents oppose——”
Charles paused—dashed his hand against his heated brow—and, rising, paced the room in an agitated manner.
“My lord, this excitement is useless,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “If you will deign to consider me as a friend——”
“I do—I do!” he cried, approaching her, and pressing her shrivelled hand with fervent, but oh! with how mistaken gratitude: “have you not proved yourself my friend? Did you not, though a stranger, contemplate the generous act of revealing to me secrets which you considered as necessary to be known to me? And have you not even now given me advice which is consistent with my interests?”
“Then, if your lordship will thus regard me as a friend, permit me to suggest that you do not on the one hand abandon your determination to assert your rights, nor on the other adopt any course that has not been well deliberated upon. Consider,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, “your lordship will have to steel your heart against a father’s prayers—a mother’s tears: you will have to contend against the entreaties of you uncle, the Earl—and of his handsome Jewish wife,—aye—and the beseechings of their daughter too;—for I understand that your lordship has a beautiful cousin——”
“Oh! how many hearts may I not have to break in piling up the fabric of my ambition!” exclaimed Charles Hatfield, his heart once more smiting him severely,—or rather with an anguish that was intolerable.
“Yes—those are the considerations which lie before your lordship,” resumed Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “But you must also reflect, my lord, upon the immense interests you have at stake. Is it better to remain simple Charles Hatfield all your life—or——”
“You need not finish the question, madam,” said the young man, suddenly interrupting the infamous old harridan, and now speaking in a cold tone of desperate resolution. “I must persevere: my destiny is fixed—and even if hearts break in the struggle, I will not shrink from the contest that is to give me my just rights! But let us talk no more of this for the present. May I be permitted to enquire after your charming daughter——”
“You have now, my lord, turned the conversation on the second subject which required discussion between us,” interrupted Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “Perdita has confessed to me all that has taken place between herself and your lordship——”
“And you are doubtless offended!” exclaimed Charles Hatfield, observing that the old lady’s countenance had again become very serious.
“No, my lord—I am not precisely angry,” she returned; “but I tremble to approach a topic which involves so many difficulties.”
“Ah! madam—with your strong mind, all difficulties are surmountable,” said Charles “and you have only to stipulate, in order that I shall assent to every thing that you may propose.”
“In the first place,” resumed the wily woman, “you are aware of the strange—fanciful—and, I must say, unfortunate notions which my daughter has imbibed relative to marriage; and your lordship must be aware that—supposing your mutual passion be allowed to take its course unrestrained—the world will regard her only as your lordship’s mistress!”
“Madam—I would cheerfully conduct her to the altar——”
“Whither she will not go,” added the old woman, emphatically. “No—my lord, it is useless to reason with that strong—headed, obstinate girl on the subject. Admitting, then, that I—her mother—placing her happiness above conventional opinions, and entertaining implicit faith in your honour and integrity,—admitting, I say, that I consent to the union of hearts proposed in this case,—waiving the ceremony of the union of hands,—can you, my lord, undertake to ensure my daughter against the contingencies of poverty?”
“Situated as I now am, the means at my disposal an limited indeed,” said Charles Hatfield: “but the moment my rights are proclaimed and recognised——”
“Then, at the same instant, the family estates, at present held by the Earl of Ellingham, will pass into the hands of your father—and you still remain totally dependant upon him until his death,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, embracing at a glance the whole range of contingencies.
“True!” cried Charles, suddenly becoming much embarrassed, and seeing difficulties most unexpectedly start up.
“But,” resumed Mrs. Fitzhardinge, after a few minutes’ pause, and laying strong emphasis upon the monosyllable,—“but, my lord, even should you immediately quarrel with your father by compelling him to wrest the titles and estates from the hands of his younger brother who now holds them, there are ways and means for your lordship to raise money—those estates becoming inalienably yours in the perspective.”
“Yes—I understand—there is that alternative!” exclaimed Charles. “But my father would not discard me altogether—he would not deprive me of the means of support during his life-time——”
“You know not, my lord, what may be the results of the family convulsion—the domestic revolution—which your contemplated proceedings will bring about. Pardon me, my dear Viscount, if I thus dwell upon matters so purely worldly;—but remember that I myself am now placed in a cruel position by the total wreck of the brilliant hopes which my claims in Chancery so recently held out;—and unless I succeed in raising a few thousand pounds within a week, I shall positively be menaced with imprisonment in a debtors’ gaol.”
“Merciful heaven!” cried Charles Hatfield: “how can I possibly assist you?”
“You will not think me mercenary, my lord——”
“Oh! no—no, my dear madam!” he exclaimed impatiently. “Tell me if there be a means of raising the amount you require; and my readiness to adopt those means must be received by you as a proof of my anxiety to render myself worthy of Perdita’s love and your esteem.”
“Generous nobleman!” cried Mrs. Fitzhardinge, pretending to be affected by the scene: “my daughter will indeed be happy in the possession of your heart! Listen, my lord,” she continued; “and our interview may soon be brought to a close—for I know that you are as anxious to see a certain person as she is dying to behold you. Your lordship ere now alluded to particular papers which prove the legitimate birth, rights, and identity of you father:—by means of those papers, and on your lordship signing a document, I can undertake to procure as large a sum of money as may be required either by my necessities or for your own present wants.”
“This evening, my dear madam, I will place the papers in your hands,” said Charles, who was anxious to terminate this interview as speedily as possible—for his impatience to behold Perdita began to exceed his powers of endurance.
“At eight o’clock this evening I shall expect your lordship,” observed Mrs. Fitzhardinge: and, with these words, she quitted the apartment.
Charles Hatfield approached the mirror—arranged his hair in the most becoming manner—and had just snatched a last satisfactory glance at the reflection of his handsome countenance, when the door opened and Perdita entered the room.
Perdita was dressed in a more modest and, to speak truly, in a more delicate manner than on either of the former occasions when Charles had seen her. A plain morning gown, made with a high corsage, set off her fine figure, without affording even a glimpse of the charms the full proportions of which its shape developed. Her hair was arranged in plain bands; and there was altogether an appearance of so much innocence, candour, and maiden reserve in her demeanour, that it seemed to Charles as if he now beheld in her some new phasis of her wondrous beauty.
Hastening forward to meet her, he caught her in his arms and covered her lips, her cheeks, and her brow with kisses: for—whether it were imagination or reality we know not—but she appeared to be far more lovely than ever in his eyes.
“Dearest—dearest Perdita!” he exclaimed,forgetting at that moment all and every thing in the world save the object of his adoration.
“Charles—my lord—how am I to call you henceforth?” she murmured, in that soft, musical tone which flowed like the harmony of the spheres in unto the very soul.
“Am I not Charles to you, dear girl?” he demanded, looking at her tenderly and half reproachfully: then, conducting her to a seat, and placing himself near her, he added, “I have had a long interview with your mother, Perdita; and from all that I could gather, she has no opposition to offer to our love.”
“I know it,” responded the girl, casting down her eyes with a modesty so admirably assumed that it would have deceived the most experienced individual. “And are you well satisfied that she has thus proved favourable to our hopes?”
“Will you always seem to doubt my affection?” demanded the young man, in an impassioned tone: “will you ever appear to believe that I am so volatile—so fickle—so inconstant, as to regret to-day a step that I took yesterday?”
“Pardon me, Charles—pardon me,” said Perdita, looking up into his face with an expression of the most charming naiveté: “but my mother heard a rumour—and yet it might be unfounded——”
“Speak—speak, Perdita!” cried the young man, impatiently.
“A rumour to the effect that you were looked upon as the future husband of Lady Frances Ellingham,” added Perdita, in a tremulous tone, as if scarcely daring to give utterance to the jealous suspicion that the words implied.
Charles Hatfield became suddenly red as scarlet; and Perdita burst into tears.
“Oh! then the rumour is true—and you are deceiving me, my lord!” she exclaimed, affecting a passionate outburst of grief: but, in a few moments, she seemed to exercise an abrupt and powerful controul over her feelings, and rising from her seat, drew herself up into a demeanour of desperate calmness, saying, “Viscount Marston, I will show you that my affection is of no selfish nature. If you love this young lady, who must be your cousin, from all I have heard and know through my mother,—if you prefer the beauteous Frances—for beautiful I am aware she is,—Oh! then I release you from your vows to me—I restore your plight—and I, the obscure and neglected Perdita, will pray in secret for your welfare,—yes, and for the welfare of her who will have robbed me of your affections!”
“No, Perdita—no!” cried Charles, profoundly touched by this well-enacted piece of apparently generous self-denial: “I do not love my cousin Frances—and it was only this very morning that I disputed with my parents because I refused to form an alliance on which their hearts are set. Perdita—my beloved Perdita, I thank thee—Oh! heaven alone knows how sincerely I thank thee for this manifestation of generosity,—a generosity that, if possible, has rivetted my affections more indissolubly on thee!”
“And you will pardon me, Charles—if in a moment of jealousy——” murmured the designing young woman, hanging down her head in a charming kind of confusion and bashfulness.
“Pardon thee!” repeated her dupe, catching her in his arms, and straining her passionately to his breast: “what have I to pardon? Must I pardon thee for loving me so well, my Perdita?—for only those who love well, can know what jealousy is! And, did I think that I had cause, should I not be jealous of thee, sweet Perdita? Oh! yes—and my jealousy would be very fierce and terrible in its consequences. But on neither side shall there be cause for jealousy——”
“At least not on mine, Charles,” returned the young woman, gently extricating herself from his arms, and resuming her seat upon the sofa. “And now, my lord,” she added playfully, “when do you intend to take some charming suburban villa—fit it up in a chaste, elegant, and beautiful style—and bear thither your bride,—for your bride am I prepared to become on the conditions which have already been established between us?”
“Without a day’s—without an hour’s unnecessary delay, my beloved Perdita,” answered Charles, his cheeks flushing and his eyes sparkling with the hopes and voluptuous thoughts inspired by the question thus put to him; and throwing his arms around her, he drew the bewitching syren towards him.
“Charles—Charles,” she murmured, as he glued his lips to her warm, glowing cheek; “you are adorably handsome—and I love you as woman never loved before. But I implore you to release me now—for—my mother might return to the room—and—and—Oh! Charles—you clasp me too violently——”
And she succeeded in disengaging herself from his arms, having maddened him as it were by the contact of her fine, voluptuous form, and the caresses she had allowed him to lavish upon her.
“Perdita, you are more reserved with me than you were yesterday,” said Charles, half reproachfully.
“Or rather say that yesterday I was so hurried away by the rapturous thoughts—the delightful emotions—the elysian feelings which were excited within me by the certainty of possessing your love,” murmured the young woman, “that I had no controul over myself.”
“And now that you are assured of my love, you have grown comparatively cold and reserved,” said Charles, with the least degree of humour.
“Should you think the better of me if I were without the least particle of maiden reserve?” she asked, in a reproachful tone. “Listen, my beloved Charles—and look not angrily on your Perdita!”
“No—not for worlds!” he exclaimed, pressing her hand to his lips, and feeling in the renewed infatuation of his soul that he was prompt to do her bidding and yield to her will in all things.
“Now you are kind and good—and I love you, dear Charles,” said Perdita, in a tone of captivating artlessness. “Although we shall have no bridal ceremony as performed at a church,” she resumed, “yet must our wedding-day—if I may so call it—be duly fixed and celebrated. When, therefore, you have provided for me and my mother such a home as you would wish me and my parent to possess—then shall you bear me thither, my dearest Charles, as your bride—and—and—I will be unto thee as a wife in all respects,” she added, bending her beauteous head down upon his bosom, and concealing her blushing countenance there.
“Be it as you say, my sweet Perdita!” he exclaimed. “And in all things will I do your bidding—for I love and adore you. You are an angel of beauty;—your manners are irresistibly winning;—your voice has the charm of the sweetest melody;—and your looks would kindle love in the breast of an anchorite.”
“Ah! flatterer,” she cried, raising her head, and tapping him gently upon the face. “Will you always think thus well of me?”
“Yes—always, always!” he exclaimed—so completely infatuated was he with the syren. “And now tell me, my charmer—in which part of London should you wish me to fix upon a beautiful villa for your reception?”
“The more secluded the spot—the better,” said Perdita. “I do not wish to form the acquaintance of prying and curious neighbours, nor shall I court the presence of visitors. When you are with me, I shall have no thought but for you: when you are absent, to think of you will be sufficient occupation. I have heard that in the neighbourhood of Holloway there are some delightful villas, newly built——”
“Holloway! It is there—in that neighbourhood—that Markham Place, the mansion where the Prince of Montoni is staying, is situated.”
“And you are acquainted with that Prince?” said Perdita. “Yes—for in this morning’s newspaper I read, amongst the Fashionable Intelligence, that his Royal Highness had yesterday partaken of a banquet at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham in Pall Mall.”
“Oh! he is a great and illustrious Prince, Perdita!” cried Charles, his cheeks suddenly glowing with animation.
“But he is not so handsome as you, Charles?” said Perdita, half enquiringly—half playfully.
“He is very handsome, dearest,” was the reply: “but his heroic deeds—his noble disposition—his boundless philanthropy—and his staunch support of the Rights of Man, constitute attractions which, were he ugly as Satan, would render him adorable as an angel.”
“And have you none of those qualities, my Charles?” demanded Perdita. “Are you not gloriously handsome?—have you not a proud title, which you can claim when you will—aye, and which you will claim shortly?—and will you not some day be a Peer of the Realm, and able to electrify the senate with your eloquence? For that you would be eloquent, Charles, I am convinced;—and, oh! what pleasure—what unfeigned, heart-felt pleasure would it give your devoted Perdita to occupy even the humblest, most secluded nook in the place where you were delivering yourself of the burning thoughts and splendid ideas——”
“Oh! Perdita—do you too hope that I shall yet create for myself a great and a glorious reputation?” demanded the young man, surveying his beauteous companion with joy and surprise.
“Yes, Charles: for do I not love thee?” she asked, in her dulcet, silvery tone.
“Now—oh! now can I understand how the image of the Princess Isabella might cheer and hearten on the once obscure Richard Markham to the accomplishment of those great deeds which have placed him on so proud an eminence! Now,” continued the enthusiastic, infatuated Charles,—“now can I comprehend how gallant knights, in the days of chivalry, would dare every peril—encounter every danger, at the behest or command of their ladye-loves! And you, my Perdita,—you shall be as a Princess Isabella in my eyes—you shall be my ladye-love;—and animated by thy smiles, will I yet carve out for myself a glorious career in the world.”
“I long to see thee in possession of thy titles, Charles—to behold thee, too, occupying thy place in the House of Peers,” said Perdita. “But, hark—the clock strikes two; and now I am compelled to accompany my mother into the City——”
“To her attorney’s?” asked Charles, a sudden fear seizing upon him.
“Yes—to her solicitor’s office,” responded Perdita: then, after suffering him to manifest a sentiment of pique and annoyance for a few moments, she threw her arms around his neck, exclaiming, “And so you are very jealous, sir—are you?—and you thought perhaps that I was about to call upon this lawyer to signify to him my readiness to accept the hand of the old nobleman who is my mother’s relentless opponent in the suit? But I can assure you that the object of my visit in that quarter is one which you will no doubt highly approve. It is to inform the legal gentleman, with my own lips, that I utterly and totally decline the honour of the proposed union——”
“Charming—dearest Perdita!” ejaculated Charles, straining her in rapture to his breast.
“Inasmuch,” she added, with playful artlessness—or rather with an affectation of that delightful naiveté,—“inasmuch as the solicitor will not believe that I can possibly resist so splendid an offer; and he is determined to hear the truth from me—and from me only.”
“And were he to over-persuade you, Perdita—to impress you with the necessity of yielding in this instance——” began Charles, still labouring under the vague apprehension with which the artful creature sought to inspire him in order to attach him the more completely to her.
“Have you so much to fear on the part of an old nobleman whom I have never seen, as I have on the part of that beautiful Lady Frances who dwells beneath the same roof with you?” enquired Perdita, in the most melting tones of her flute-like voice.
“Pardon me—pardon me, dearest girl!” cried Charles, embracing her fondly.
“I have no more to pardon in you at present, than you had to forgive in me ere now,” murmured the guileful woman, placing her warm cheek against his own and allowing their hair to mingle.
For a few moments she remained with him in this position,—a position that enchanted, thrilled, and intoxicated him: then suddenly withdrawing herself from his arms, she said, archly, but impressively, “It now remains with you, Charles, when our wedding-day is to be celebrated.”
“Ah! if you were only as impatient as I!” he exclaimed.
They parted—the young man hastening, as was his wont after these visits, to the park to feast his imagination with a delicious reverie the whole and sole subject of which should be Perdita!
A few minutes after he had taken his departure, Mrs. Fitzhardinge sought her daughter in the drawing-room; and the ensuing dialogue took place.
“Every thing tends to forward our designs with respect to this young man,” observed the old woman, seating herself in a chair opposite to her daughter, who was reclining upon the sofa.
“And yet I cannot now altogether comprehend your policy, mother,” returned Perdita.
“In which particular point, my child?” demanded the vile parent.
“Respecting the nature of the connexion which is to subsist between myself and Charles,” said Perdita. “It was all very well for me to calculate upon being his mistress before we were aware that he is in reality a Viscount, and must be an Earl: but since you succeeded so nicely in extracting those revelations from him this morning, why should we not secure so glorious a prize by a means more durable and powerful than mere sophistry and the love which he bears me? Consider, mother, how instantaneously he took a fancy to me; and believe me when I assure you that coolness will follow as rapidly, after full satiety, on his part.”
“Silly girl! thou art thyself in love with him!” cried Mrs. Fitzhardinge, in a tone of vexation.
“Yes—more than half: I acknowledge it,” returned Perdita, coolly.
“And yet—but a few days ago you assured me that you could not chain yourself to one individual with any hope of being faithful to him,—that love was a passion which would never obtain over you that influence which it so often exercised over the weak, the simple-minded, and the infatuated.”
“It is perfectly true, mother, that I said all which your memory has so faithfully treasured up, and your lips so accurately repeated,” said Perdita, still speaking without excitement. “But then, my dear mother,” she added, almost satirically—no, almost jeeringly, as if diverting herself with her parent’s evident vexation,—“then, you know, I had not seen Charles Hatfield.”
“And I told you not to be too confident on that point to which we are alluding,” cried Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “My dear Perdita, renounce all ideas of marriage with this young man: indeed, you have compromised yourself too deeply in your denunciations of the marriage-tie to be able to recall your sentiments on that head.”
“Not at all,” said Perdita, authoritatively. “In the same way that I induced Charles to accede to my proposals, and even fall into my views—so can I, in a very short space, and by means of other sophistry, convince him that I had merely been playing a part to test the value of his affection——”
“No—no, Perdita: you must not attempt such a perilous proceeding,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, evidently listening with great uneasiness to the words that fell from her daughter’s lips.
“I dare and will attempt all I choose or fancy with that young man!” cried the head-strong Perdita, in an imperious tone.
“Will you not follow my counsel?” demanded Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “Have I not fulfilled all my promises to you?—did I not declare that in London you should find luxury, plenty, and ease?—did I not pledge myself that the young man should sue at your feet and implore your love?—and could you have brought about all these results for yourself?”
“I do not pretend that I could, mother,” returned Perdita. “But am I to be your tool—your instrument—an automaton in your hands?—am I not to have an opinion in our councils?—or am I to pay blind obedience to you, even though I have reasons for questioning the prudence of your proceedings?”
“And do you now question the prudence of my proceedings?” demanded Mrs. Fitzhardinge, growing every moment more and more irritable.
“Yes—I do!” answered Perdita, firmly and resolutely—at the same time fixing her brilliant eyes rebelliously upon her mother. “I admit that if we had only ensnared in our toils a simple commoner—a plain Charles Hatfield—with limited resources within his reach, it would have been advisable to form no lasting connexion with him. But now—now that we are assured, beyond all possibility of doubt, that he is himself a nobleman and the heir to enormous wealth, it would be madness—it would be folly not to bind him to us by irrefragable chains. Why—here is a position to be obtained and ensured at once,—a position which will render us rich for the remainder of our days! And think you, mother, that I have not a little feeling of ambition in my soul? Would it not be a proud thing for you to be enabled to call the Vicountess Marston—and in due time the Countess of Ellingham—your daughter? All these considerations never flashed to my mind until immediately after Charles had quitted the room ere now: or I should have assuredly commenced the undoing of all that stupid work which, by your persuasion and so well tutored by you, I achieved in respect to the conditions whereon our connexion was to be based. What!” she cried, her eyes absolutely flashing fire: “have a coronet within my reach—and refuse it!—have a wealthy noble—or one who will be enormously wealthy—sighing at my feet, and not wed him! Mother,” she cried, actually exciting herself into a passion, “you must think me to be a fool—an idiot—a mad woman!”
“I shall think you to be a fool—an idiot—and a mad woman if you persist in thwarting my plans or proceeding contrary to my advice,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, her tanned, weather-beaten countenance becoming absolutely livid with rage.
“Ah! you have some sinister purpose to serve, mother!” cried Perdita, a sudden idea striking her: “else never would you oppose yourself so completely to the dictates of common sense. What were your words to me when I spoke to you—and spoke as rashly—about the inaccessibility of my soul to the passion of love? You advised me not to count only on the chance of making a good match: you declared it to be far more probable that I might ensnare some young gentleman of birth, family, and fortune—or some old voluptuary of immense wealth;—and you added that there was more to be gained as the mistress of one of those, than as a wife. In fine, your advice was that I should remain unmarried and independent, so that the moment I had ruined one lover, I might take another.”
“Yes—and that counsel was the wisest I could proffer you,” said her mother, actually speaking in a savage tone, and looking as if she could have leapt, tigress-like, upon her daughter and torn her with her nails as if they were claws.
“Oh! the advice was good enough under certain circumstances,” exclaimed Perdita. “It was good in so far as it related to the probability of my securing a succession of lovers, each with only a comparatively small fortune, and each individual, therefore, to be soon set aside. But now that, at the very outset, chance has thrown in my way a young noble, who must sooner or later inherit a vast fortune which no extravagance can completely dissipate,—a fortune, indeed, which will minister to all extravagances, and yet remain unimpaired,—should I not be the veriest fool that ever tossed gold into a river or hurled diamonds into an abyss, were I not to secure the brilliant advantage thus placed within my reach?”