But, unsuspicious of the storm which was about to explode against her, Perdita entered that room;—and the influence of a night of love and voluptuousness and of elysian dreams lingered upon her countenance in the smile that it wore.
She had slept for nearly an hour after Charles Hatfield had risen so noiselessly from her side in the nuptial couch;—and when she at length awoke, she imagined that her young husband had been unwilling to disturb her when he himself arose. Nevertheless, she determined to seek him ere she passed through the routine of the toilette;—and hastily fastening up her hair, and assuming a slight apparel, she had proceeded to the sitting-room where she supposed him to be.
And there indeed he was: but not alone!
Still, when Perdita, on first entering the apartment, beheld another person with him whom she sought, she had no suspicion of the real truth, but imagined it must be some friend who had found out her husband’s residence in Paris and had perhaps called to congratulate him on his bridal.
Thus was it that her countenance wore that delicious expression of pleasure and satisfaction, as she advanced towards Charles and that other;—and it was not until she was within a few paces of them, that she observed the foreboding looks which they cast upon her—even the aversion and the hate with which they both regarded her!
Then she stopped suddenly short, her countenance undergoing an immediate change—the smile disappearing, and giving place to an expression of proud defiance and haughty contempt; though she was still unconscious of the nature of the storm that she saw lowering so ominously.
“Charles, who is this person?” she demanded, indicating Mr. Hatfield with a movement of the head, accompanied by a slight inflection of the whole form—a gesture which would have become a queen.
“My father,” answered the young man quietly;—and he turned away towards the mantel-piece.
For an instant Perdita seemed shocked by this announcement;—but in the next moment, as the thought swept across her brain that it was impossible for Mr. Hatfield to know aught seriously detrimental to her character, she crossed the room in a majestic manner, and, laying her long tapered fingers gently upon her husband’s arm, said, “Is it possible that the remonstrances of your father should have induced you to repent of this alliance,—you, who have sworn to love and cherish me in spite of parents and all the world beside?”
“When a man discovers that he has taken a reptile to his bosom,” said Charles, the words hissing through his almost set teeth, “he flings it away from him. He ought to crush it beneath his heel!”
The last sentence was added after a moment’s pause, and ere Perdita, who was astounded at the tone, and manner, and words of her husband, had regained the power of utterance so as to enable her lips to shape a comment or a reply.
“Is it to me that this insulting allusion applies?” she demanded at length—her countenance becoming ashy pale, and her lips quivering with the rage which she still sought to subdue.
“It is to you that I addressed myself,” exclaimed Charles, now turning round and confronting the woman whom he had lately loved with such madness, and whom he now loathed with such savage aversion. “Vile—polluted—wanton thing,” he cried, unabashed—undismayed by the lightning glances that flashed from her wildly dilating orbs: “the mask is torn from your face as the film from my eyes—and I am no longer your dupe, though, alas! I am perhaps still your victim! I know all—all—every thing,—the depravity of your past life—the hypocrisy of your present course:—all—all is now revealed to me. Your evil fame has followed you from beyond the seas;—it overtook you on the Marine Parade at Dover;—and it now attaches itself for ever to your steps, in the capital of France. Oh! my God—how cruelly, how miserably have I been deceived!”
And the young man darted a glance of savage hatred upon the woman who, pale and motionless as a marble statue, seemed petrified by the crushing truths that fell upon her ears.
Meantime Mr. Hatfield stood aloof, with folded arms—listening to the words that his son addressed to Perdita, and marking their effect.
“That you were born in Newgate—of a woman condemned to death for felony, and then reprieved,—this was no fault of yours,” continued Charles, in a slow and measured tone—for he sought as much as possible to prevent a violent outburst of the rage that boiled within him:—“that the mystic name of Perdita, or ‘The Lost One,’ should have proved prophetic of your after life, you also could not help;—and that, amongst the felonry of New South Wales, you should have become polluted—contaminated—and indeed lost, was perhaps a fate for which you are rather to be pitied than blamed. But here all sympathy ceases for you! Wherefore, on your arrival in England, did you seek me out to become your victim?—wherefore did your wretched mother dog my footsteps—accost me—ensnare me into a discourse to which she imparted a mysterious interest—and then lead me into your presence? Why did you open the battery of all your meretricious charms upon me?—why cast your spells around me—wean my affections from an estimable young lady who is white as snow compared with the blackness of your soul—and lead me on until the crowning act of ruin was accomplished yesterday in the Chapel of the British Embassy?”
“I have heard you with patience—and if you possess the generosity of a man and an Englishman, you will give me an equal share of your attention,” said Perdita, who, during her husband’s address, had recovered all her wonted presence of mind—though her heart was wounded in its very core. “It is true that I was born in Newgate—that I deceived you respecting the origin of my Christian name—and that I escaped not the contamination of a far-off clime into which my sad destinies threw me. But when my mother, for reasons which I think she made satisfactorily apparent to you, sought an interview with you,—and when that circumstance introduced us to each other, did you not proffer me your friendship of your own accord?—did you not next assure me that this sentiment had changed to the feeling of love?—did you not implore me, almost on your knees, to become your wife at the altar—I, who in the first instance had proposed and agreed to become your mistress only? And then you dare to speak of our marriage as the crowning act of you ruin,—that marriage on which you yourself so imploringly—so earnestly—so solemnly insisted?”
“Oh! yes—because I deemed you pure and virtuous!” exclaimed Charles, almost gnashing his teeth as the words of Perdita reminded him of all the arts which she had practised to ensnare him—all the sophistry she had used to make herself appear in his eyes every thing that she was not.
“Was it to be supposed,” she asked, impatiently and haughtily,—that shameless Perdita—“was it to be supposed that I would reveal to you the incidents of my past life? And yet, even if I had, I do firmly and sincerely believe that you would still have made me your wife!”
“No—never, never!” cried Charles, his voice and manner expressing loathing, abhorrence, and indignation. “But let us not bandy words thus. I have intelligence which—lost and depraved as you are, and vilely as you have treated me—I nevertheless grieve to have to convey to you,—for I cannot, even in my anger and hate, forget that you are a woman.”
“And that intelligence?” demanded Perdita, suffering not her countenance nor her manner to betray the deep curiosity and the suspense which her husband’s words had suddenly excited within her bosom.
“The intelligence regards your mother, and explains her mysterious disappearance at Dover,” continued Charles, who, as well as his father, now intensely watched the young woman’s countenance.
“Speak on!” she said, not a muscle of her face betraying any emotion:—and still she stood motionless and statue-like.
“Your mother was arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of Mr. Percival, the money-lender whom you represented to me as the discounter of my promissory note;”—and, as Charles uttered these words in slow and measured tones, he maintained his eyes fixed upon the pale but unchanging features of his wife.
“Then my mother has been accused of that whereof she is innocent,” said Perdita, in a voice so firm and resolute, yet devoid of passion, that her hearers felt convinced she was practising no artifice now. “It is true that Percival discounted your note: I myself received the money—and you can doubtless give your father a satisfactory explanation relative to the expenditure of the portion that is gone. If Percival have indeed met his death by violent means, it was not by the hands of two weak women that he fell.”
“Thank heaven! this crime at least cannot, then, be attributed to you,” said Charles. “There must be enough upon your conscience without that!”
“And have you nothing wherewith to reproach yourself?” demanded Perdita, still maintaining that majesty of demeanour which, with her now marble-like features, her motionless attitude, and her fine form enveloped in drapery that fell in classic plaits and graceful folds around her, gave her the air of a statue of Diana the Huntress or of Juno Queen of Heaven. “Have you inflicted no injury upon me?” she asked. “Yes—yes: and I will convince you that your conduct has been far from blameless in that respect. You loved me—loved me almost from the first instant that you beheld me. Yours was not a tranquil—serene—and sickly sensation: it was a fury—a wild passion—a delirium—a species of hurricane of the strongest, most fervent emotions. I was all—every thing to you: parents—family—friends,—Oh! you cared for none of these in comparison with me. The holiest ties you would have broken—the most sacred bonds you would have snapped—the most solemn obligations you would have violated, sooner than have resigned your hope of possessing me! All this is true—and you know it. Your love amounted to a madness—a frenzy, capable of the most unheard-of sacrifices, and as likely to hurry you into the most desperate extremes. For had I provoked your jealousy, you would have murdered me: had I fled and abandoned you, you would have pined to death—or committed suicide. In fine, yours was no common love—no ordinary affection. Poets never dreamt and novelists never depicted a love so boundless—so absorbing—so immense as yours. And what could result from such a love as this! The consequence was inevitable;—and that consequence was that I, who had never loved before, received into my soul a transfusion of the spirit that animated you. You were so happy in your love, that my imagination doubtless longed to revel in the same paradise which you had created for yourself;—and I was taught by you to love as profoundly and as well. In a word, you ensnared my heart—you obtained a hold upon my affections; and, as there is a living God above us! I swear that when you led me to the altar, you loved me not better than I loved you. And this love which I experienced for you, would have made me a good wife—a sincere friend—a conscientious adviser. I should have entered upon a new existence; and my soul would have become purified. True it is that I gave to the marriage-bed a body that was polluted and unchaste: but I gave also a heart that was wholly and solely thine;—and from the instant that our hands were united by the minister of God, it would have proved as impossible for me to have played the wanton with another as that the infant child should harbour thoughts of villainy and murder. Now you have learnt the antecedents of my life—and your love is suddenly changed into hatred. But did you not take me for better or worse?—did you not wed me, because you loved me!—did you not espouse me for myself alone! Oh! you should pity me for the past—and cherish me at present and for the future: and your conscience tells you thus much even now!”
Charles Hatfield, who had listened with deep and solemn interest,—for his soul was absolutely enchained by this strange display of natural eloquence,—now shook his head impatiently.
“No! Then mark how fatal your love will have proved to me,” exclaimed Perdita. “You cast me off—you put me away from you;—and yet you cannot give me back the heart which you have ensnared. Wherefore—wherefore did you bring to bear upon me the influence of your ardent love, unless you were prepared to make every sacrifice unto the end? I am young—I am beautiful—and I might gain a high and a proud position by means of marriage: but, no—I am chained to you—and you are intent upon discarding me! Now reflect well on the probable consequences of this proceeding on your part,” continued Perdita, her melodious voice gathering energy, and a tinge of rose-bud hue appearing on her cheeks and gradually deepening into a flush,—while her eyes shone with a lustre that gave an almost unearthly radiance to her entire countenance: “reflect well, I say,” she repeated, “on the probable consequences of the resolution which you have taken. As your wife, and dwelling with you as such, I should have clung to you—loved you with unceasing devotion—exerted all my powers to retain your esteem. Nay, more—in time I should have won your good opinion by my actions—as I had already secured it by my words. Amongst the entire community of women, there would have been none more exemplary than I;—and thus your love would have proved a saving influence—valuable to society at large, and blessed by the Almighty Ruler whom you worship. But how changed are these prospects! You are prepared to discard me—to thrust me away from your presence—to push me out into the great world, where I must battle for myself. There I shall find my circumstances terribly—-fearfully altered from what they were before your lips whispered the delicious but fatal tale of love in mine ears. For if I retain your name, I thereby proclaim myself a divorced wife: if I pass myself off as an unmarried young lady, I shall not dare to accept proposals for an alliance, be it never so advantageous—because the fear of a prosecution for bigamy would hang over my head. Will you, then, forgive me for the past, and receive me as an affectionate wife and reformed woman to your arms?—or will you send me forth, an outcast—with ruined hopes, blighted prospects, and a damaged character?”
Gradually, as she approached the end of this speech, Perdita had suffered her voice to lose its energy and its firmness, and grow tender, pathetic, and mournful—until at the close of her appeal, it became tremulously plaintive and profoundly touching,—while her form simultaneously relaxed from its statue-like rigidity—the head slightly inclining, the body bending in the least degree forward, and the hands joining as the last words fell from her lips.
For an instant Charles was about to yield to the appeal commenced with a dignity so well assumed, and terminated with a tenderness so well affected; but, at the critical moment, Mr. Hatfield, who had hitherto remained a mute spectator of this extraordinary scene, stepped forward, exclaiming, “No—no; a compromise of such a nature is impossible! Charles, the sophistry is indeed most specious—but the peril is likewise tremendous!”
“Yes—yes,” cried the young man, instantly recovering his presence of mind: “I told you, father, that she was a Circe—a Syren,—and now you have ample proofs of the assertion.”
While he was yet speaking, the appearance of Perdita underwent a rapid and signal change. She suddenly seemed to throw off the air of a suppliant, as if she were discarding a mean garment that was unbecoming and abhorrent: her cheeks acquired a deeper flush, her eyes a more dazzling brilliancy;—the blue veins in her forehead grew more clearly traceable—her nostrils dilated—her lips wreathed into an expression of sovereign disdain—and her entire form appeared to expand into more majestic proportions.
A moment before she had seemed a voluptuous beauty, in the melting softness of an appeal for pardon at love’s shrine: now she stood in the presence of the father and son,—proud—haughty—and magnificent as Juno,—and armed with authority to wield the lightning-shafts and the thunderbolts of Jove.
“Let us think of peace no more,” she exclaimed: “but war—terrible war,—war to the knife! Cast me off—thrust me from you—denounce me as the wanton Perdita—proclaim me to be born of a felon, and to have first seen the light in Newgate,—do all this if you will: I shall not the less remain your wife, Charles—and, as your wife, I am ennobled,—I bear the proud title of Viscountess Marston!”
“Miserable woman,” cried Mr. Hatfield: “you deceive yourself—even as Charles has been by himself deceived! For know that he is illegitimate——”
“’Tis false! you would delude—you would mislead me!” exclaimed Perdita, who, in spite of the tone of confidence in which she uttered these ejaculations, was painfully affected by the revelation that had elicited them.
“It is true—too true!” cried Charles, with a bitterness that carried conviction to the mind of Perdita.
“Then if I cannot proclaim myself to be Viscountess Marston,” she said, concealing with a desperate and painful effort the shock which she had just experienced,—“I can still have my revenge against you both;—for if my mother were a felon, Charles, your father was the same—if I were born in Newgate, the author of your being has passed through the hands of the public executioner!”
“Fiend—wretch!” ejaculated the young man, springing forward as if about to dash her on the floor and trample her under foot.
But the hand of his father suddenly grasped him as in an iron vice, and held him back; and all the while Perdita had maintained her ground—shrinking not a step, retreating not a pace.
“Coward!” she exclaimed, in a tone of ineffable contempt, as she kept her eyes—her large, shining grey eyes—fixed with disdain upon him whom she had lately loved so fervently and so well.
“Charles—Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in an imploring voice, as he held his son firmly by both arms,—“merit not by your actions that infamous woman’s reproaches. I was prepared for what she dared to address to me——”
“Oh! my dear father, this is terrible!” murmured the young man, who felt a faintness coming over him, as the words which Perdita had spoken concerning his parent still rang in his ears, and as he observed the deadly pallor which had spread over that parent’s countenance.
“Compose yourself, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, conducting him to a seat: then, turning round and accosting Perdita, he exclaimed, “Madam, let us treat this most unpleasant affair as a purely business-matter: in short, let us effect an arrangement which may be proper and suitable for both parties—the basis being the immediate separation of yourself and my son.”
“Yes—I have no longer any objection to offer to that proposal,” said Perdita; “for after his attempt to strike me, I despise even more than I hate him.”
“And just now,” exclaimed the young man, starting from his seat, “you declared that I possessed your heart. Oh! I am rejoiced that you have admitted your hatred towards me—because I have thereby received another proof of your boundless duplicity.”
Perdita smiled scornfully—but deigned no reply.
“Leave the affair in my hands, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in an authoritative tone: then, observing with satisfaction that his son returned to his seat, the father addressed himself once more to Perdita, who remained standing near the mantel. “Madam,” he continued, “you have already heard that the bright hopes in which your husband had indulged, and the golden visions which he had conjured up, are all destroyed by the revelation which I have this morning made to him,—the revelation of the one fatal secret—his illegitimacy! Instead, then, of being Viscount Marston at present and Earl of Ellingham in perspective, he is still plain and simple Charles Hatfield—and so he is likely to remain. By consequence, you, madam, are Mrs. Hatfield—and not Viscountess Marston now, nor with any chance of becoming Countess of Ellingham. If you require proofs of what I am now telling you, I can exhibit them at once;—for, knowing beforehand the nature of the delusions in which my son had cradled his fancy, and the necessity of destroying them, I set out on this journey provided with several papers of importance. For instance,” continued Mr. Hatfield, taking forth his pocket-book; “here is the certificate of my marriage with Lady Georgiana Hatfield—and you may at once perceive by the date how impossible it is that our son could have been born in wedlock.”
While thus speaking, Mr. Hatfield had sunk his voice to the lowest audible whisper—so that Perdita alone heard him: for the revelation he was making was of a most painful nature, although rendered imperatively necessary under the circumstances.
Perdita glanced rapidly over the certificate, and bit her lip with a vexation she could no longer conceal;—for that document effectually set at rest the question of her husband’s legitimacy or illegitimacy; and she indeed found that instead of gaining a noble title by marriage, she had formed an alliance with an obscure young man who was dependant on his parents for even a morsel of bread.
“It now remains for you to decide whether you choose to proclaim yourself, wherever you go, to be the wife of Mr. Charles Hatfield;—or whether you will think fit to resume your maiden name—or any other that may suit your purposes—and maintain a strict silence henceforth relative to this most unfortunate alliance.”
Thus spoke Mr. Hatfield;—and Perdita appeared to be plunged in deep thought for a few minutes.
“And what are the conditions you annex to those alternatives?” she asked at length, fixing her eyes, which now shone with a subdued and sombre lustre, in a penetrating manner upon Mr. Hatfield’s countenance—as if she would there read the reply to her question even before his lips could frame it.
“If you proclaim yourself my son’s wife,” said he, meeting her look firmly and speaking resolutely, “I shall spare no expense in bringing the whole transaction before the proper tribunals in England, with the ultimate view of enabling him to obtain a divorce; and in this case I should not allow you one single farthing—no, not even to save you from starvation.”
“And have you not reflected,” asked Perdita, in a tone and with a gesture indicative of superb disdain,—“have you not reflected that a judicial investigation must inevitably lay bare all the tremendous secrets connected with yourself and family?—for you cannot suppose, that if you commence the part of a persecutor against me, I shall evince any forbearance towards you! No—it would be, as I said just now, a terrible warfare—a warfare to the very death,—and in which human ingenuity would rack itself to discover and set in motion all possible means of a fearful vengeance.”
“I have weighed all this,” said Mr. Hatfield, calmly; “and I have resolved to dare exposure of every kind—nay, to sacrifice myself, if necessary—in order to save my son.”
“And now for the conditions annexed to the second alternative?” said Perdita, maintaining a remarkable coolness and self-possession, although in the secret recesses of her soul she harboured the conviction that the triumph was as yet on the other side, and that she must end by accepting the best terms she could obtain.
“If you will sign a paper, undertaking never to represent yourself as my son’s wife,” said Mr. Hatfield,—“never to molest him in any way—never to return to England, but to fix your abode in some continental state,—and lastly, that you will retain inviolably secret not only the fact of this most inauspicious marriage, but likewise all matters connected with myself and family,—if you affix your name to such a document,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “I will immediately pay you the sum of one thousand pounds, and I will allow you five hundred pounds a year so long as the convention shall be duly kept on your part.”
“And should you happen to die before me?” said Perdita, her manner now being of that cold, passionless nature which rendered it impossible for Mr. Hatfield to conjecture what sort of an impression his alternatives and their conditions had made upon her mind: “for you must remember,” she added, “that such an event is to be reckoned upon in the common course of nature.”
“Granted,” was the prompt reply. “My will shall contain a clause enjoining and empowering my executors to continue the payment of your income, from a fund especially sunk for the purpose, so long as your conduct shall be in accordance with the conditions stipulated.”
“And am I to understand that if I leave your son unmolested, I shall remain unmolested also!” demanded Perdita.
“I scarcely comprehend you,” said Mr. Hatfield, evidently perplexed.
“I mean,” replied Perdita, in a slow and measured tone, so that her words could not be misapprehended nor their sense mistaken,—“I mean that if I go forth into the world again as Miss Fitzhardinge, or Miss Fitzgerald, or any other name I may choose to take,—and if, receiving a suitable offer of marriage, I contract such an alliance,—I mean, then, to ask whether I may calculate upon acting thus with impunity at your hands?”
“My God! what interest can I have to molest you in any way?” cried Mr. Hatfield. “Would to heaven that you could both of you sign a paper effectually emancipating you from any claim on each other in respect to this accursed—this miserable marriage.”
“You are now speaking with unnecessary excitement, sir, after having reproved your son for the same fault—and also after having yourself proposed to discuss this matter in a purely business-like manner,” said Perdita, her lip curling slightly with an expression of scornful triumph.
“True, madam,” observed Mr. Hatfield, who, throughout this dialogue—since his son had remained seated apart—had treated Perdita with a perfect though frigid courtesy: “I was in error to give way to any intemperance of tone or manner—and I ask your pardon. You have now heard all that I have to propose——”
“And I accept the conditions,” she said. “Indeed, I shall be happy for this scene to terminate as speedily as possible.”
“A few minutes’ more will suffice, madam,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “If you will have the kindness to provide me with writing-materials, I shall not be compelled to intrude on you much longer.”
Perdita bowed slightly: and quitted the room,—not in haste—but with stately demeanour and measured tread, as if she were merely a consenting party to a business-transaction, and not a vanquished one on whom conditions had been imposed.
The moment the door closed behind her, Mr. Hatfield said to his son, “That woman is indeed a prodigy of beauty, and a very demon at heart. What an angelic creature would she have been were she as pure and virtuous as she is lovely!”
“Ah! my dear father,” returned Charles, who appeared to be completely spirit-broken and overwhelmed by the terrible occurrences and revelations of this memorable morning,—“you can now comprehend, perhaps,—at least to some extent,—the nature of that infatuation which I experienced in respect to this singular being. The world has never seen her equal for beauty and for wickedness.”
“The sooner you are removed from the sphere of her fatal influence, the better,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “When she re-appears, do you quit the room, and hasten as much as possible your preparations to depart with me.”
“Fear not, my dear father,” responded Charles, “that I shall, of my own accord, interpose any delay. But the papers—she will surrender them——”
“As a matter of course. You may have observed,” added the parent, “that, in spite of her haughty coldness, she was subdued and vanquished.”
At this instant the door opened, and Perdita returned, bearing her writing-desk in her hands.
Her countenance, though flushed, and thus presenting a striking contrast to its colourless appearance some time before, gave no indication of the nature of her feelings: impossible was it to judge of the emotions that might occupy her bosom, by that which is wont to be denominated the mirror of the soul.
Her step was still measured and stately, while her attitude was graceful; and, as she advanced towards the table—passing through the golden flood of lustre that filled the room—the waving of her white drapes; gave an additional charm to the undulating nature of her motion.
From beneath her richly fringed lids, while affecting to keep her eyes half bent downward as if on the rose-wood desk which she carried, she darted a rapid glance at Mr. Hatfield—and then her look dwelt the least thing more lingeringly on her husband, who had risen from his seat and was leaning on the mantel.
By a natural effect of curiosity,—perhaps also in obedience to a last remaining particle of that immense love which he had so lately borne her,—Charles Hatfield likewise glanced towards her from beneath his half-closed lids, and also while he wished to appear as if fixing his gaze downward:—thus their looks met—unavoidably met,—and the blood rushed to the countenance of the young man, as he felt overwhelmed with shame, and bitterly indignant with himself, for having given way to this momentary proof of weakness.
On the other hand, a smile of triumph,—though faint, and perceptible only to her husband—not to his father, who saw not with eyes that had once looked love towards her,—curled the rich red lips of Perdita; and she thought within herself, “Even in the bitterness of your hate, the power of my charms revives a spark, albeit an evanescent one, of the fires that were wont to burn within your breast in adoration of me!”
All this dumb show—this mute expression of the strangest, and yet the most natural feelings on either side, occupied but a few moments;—and then, as Perdita placed the desk upon the table, Charles turned to quit the room.
“Here are writing materials, sir,” she said to Mr. Hatfield, not choosing to appear to notice the departure of her husband; for all the pride of this extraordinary woman was aroused to a degree which in a being of lesser energy would have been totally incompatible with the frightful exposure that had been made of her depravity and deceit.
But the consciousness of possessing the loveliness of an Angel rose superior to the shame of being proved to be endowed with the profligacy of a Demon: the knowledge that she was so pre-eminently beautiful was for her a triumph and a glory which, in her estimation, threw into the shade the certainty of her wantonness and guile;—she flattered herself and fancied that, even were her true character revealed in its proper colours to all the world, the darkness of her soul would be absorbed and rendered invisible by the transcendant brilliancy of her outward charms.
Thus, even in the presence of the husband to whom she was unmasked, and of the indignant father who had unmasked her, the pride of her loveliness enabled her to maintain that haughty demeanour which we have explained;—for it was not Perdita who was likely to melt into tears—to supplicate for mercy—to acknowledge shame or remorse—or to kneel to those whom she now looked upon as her enemies. Unless, indeed, she had some grand object to accomplish, or some important end to gain;—and then she could veil her pride beneath an assumption of all the passions—all the emotions—and all the tender feelings which she might deem it expedient to affect.
To return to the thread of our narrative.
“Here are writing materials, sir,” she remarked, as she placed the desk upon the table: then, drawing a chair near, she seated herself in a calm and dignified manner, and with all the appearance of one who knew and felt that she had important business in hand.
Mr. Hatfield bowed—seated himself likewise—and proceeded to draw up a document including the conditions which he had already specified, and which the lady had agreed to.
While he was writing, Perdita kept her eyes fixed upon him, as if she could tell by the movement of the pen the very words it was forming, as the hand which held it travelled rapidly over the paper.
At length the document was finished; and Mr. Hatfield presented it to Perdita for her perusal. While she was engaged in reading it, he drew forth his pocket-book, and counted thence ten notes, each of a hundred pounds, upon the table.
“I have no objection to offer to this deed,” said Perdita, taking up the pen to sign it.
“Here is the amount promised,” said Mr. Hatfield; “and I will now give you an undertaking relative to the payment of the income which I have promised you.”
Perdita bowed coldly; and he immediately drew up the second paper.
“I must now request you to give me up all the private documents which my son placed in your hands for safe keeping,” observed Mr. Hatfield.
“They are in the upper part of that desk—and you can take them,” said Perdita, without the least hesitation; for she was naturally prepared for this demand, and had no object to serve in refusing it.
She then signed her undertaking, while Mr. Hatfield possessed himself of the documents and looked them carefully over to ascertain that none were missing.
Having satisfied himself on this head, he gave Perdita the money and the undertaking which he had prepared; and thus terminated this strange business.
“I have now a few observations to make,” said Perdita; “but they are not of a nature to revive any unpleasant discussion. They concern matters entirely personal to myself. Although I have declared—and emphatically declare again—that my mother is innocent of the crime on suspicion of which you inform me that she has been arrested, the judicial investigation will naturally lead to a most unpleasant exposure of her name. It is therefore probable that my interests and views may be served by a change of my name—as I shall not of course bear that which the marriage-ceremony of yesterday gave to me. Should I adopt such a course, I will acquaint you by letter with the fact——”
“Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” said Mr. Hatfield; “but I shall seek not to become acquainted with any particulars that may hereafter concern you. Every quarter you can draw upon me, through any banker, in any part of the world where you may happen to be; and you are at liberty to use any name you may think fit—save one. I shall know that the draft is yours; and you may rest assured that it will be duly honoured.”
“Then we have now no more to say to each other,” observed Perdita, rising from her seat, and mechanically drawing the muslin wrapper around her, in such a manner that it displayed all the full proportions of her fine figure.
Mr. Hatfield bowed a negative,—then immediately added, “But perhaps you will have no objection, madam, to remain here until my son shall have made his preparations for departure?”
“Oh! certainly.” cried the young woman, her lip curling haughtily. “Think not, sir, that I shall condescend to use any arts in order to win him back to me;—although well aware am I that if I chose to do so, I should speedily behold him languishing at my feet.”
Scarcely were these words uttered, when Rosalie entered the room, and addressing herself to Mr. Hatfield, said, “My master, sir, is waiting for you below.”
The abigail, who was evidently at a loss to comprehend the nature of all that was going on,—though she saw enough to convince her that something very uncommon and unusual was taking place,—retired as soon as she had delivered this message;—and Mr. Hatfield, as he glanced towards Perdita while bowing to take his leave, observed that her countenance had again grown marble-like with pallor.
For now that the conviction that Charles was really gone was forced upon her mind, a pang of regret struck to her heart,—regret to lose one—the first—whom she had ever really loved;—and for a few instants she felt as if all her affection for him had suddenly revived with tenfold violence.
But this weakness on her part was speedily dissipated: her pride resumed its empire,—and she remembered likewise that her connexion with him had not only put her in possession of a large sum of ready money, but had likewise assured her of a handsome annual income for the remainder of her days.
Thus, almost before Mr. Hatfield had reached the room-door, the colour had returned to her cheeks,—and her countenance became radiant with triumph,—for she murmured to herself, as she contrasted her present position with that in which she had first set foot on European soil, “It is my beauty that has done all this!”
Mr. Hatfield found his son waiting for him in the coffee-room; and, entering the citadine, or one-horse hackney-coach, in which the former had arrived, they proceeded to the hotel at which he had put up, and which was in the Place Vendôme.
It was now past eleven o’clock; for the incidents related in the two preceding chapters, had occupied two full hours:—and, during that interval, how many revelations had been made—what changes of feeling effected—what new emotions engendered—what bright visions destroyed!
Yet such is human life;—and two minutes, instead of two hours, are often sufficient to hurl down the finest fabrics of happiness which the imagination has ever built up in the realms of fancy or the sphere of reality.
On arriving at the hotel in the Place Vendôme, the father and son repaired to the apartment occupied by the former; and Charles threw himself on a sofa, as if exhausted and overwhelmed by the terrible excitement he had undergone that morning.
Mr. Hatfield related to him all that had passed between Perdita and himself after the young man had quitted the room; and Charles was rejoiced,—if rejoiced he could be in the midst of the strange thoughts and reminiscences which crowded upon him,—to learn that the family papers were secure in his father’s possession.
“And those papers shall no longer be a source of alarm and embarrassment to those whom they so deeply regard,” said Mr. Hatfield, when he had brought his brief narrative to a conclusion: then, ringing the bell, he ordered the waiter who answered the summons to bring him a lighted candle.
This command was speedily obeyed; and when the domestic had retired, Mr. Hatfield, having thrown all the documents upon the hearth, set them alight. While they were consuming,—those precious papers, which were worth an Earldom to him, did he choose to avail himself of the proofs which they contained,—both himself and his son watched them with a fixed gaze, but with different emotions. For Charles sighed as he thought of the bright dreams which the perusal of those papers had so lately excited in his imagination; and Mr. Hatfield experienced an indescribable relief in witnessing their destruction.
“Now,” he exclaimed, in a tone of triumph, “no living soul can dispute my brother’s right to the rank which he bears and the estates which he possesses! Nor think, Charles,” he added, turning to his son, and speaking in a calmer and more measured voice,—“think not that it costs me a pang thus to dispose of these papers. The flame has died away—naught save a heap of tinder remains—and I have willingly and cheerfully resigned the power of ever doing mischief, or being made the instrument of wrong, towards a brother to whom I owe so much. But enough of this: and now tell me, Charles, in details as ample as you can bring your mind to endure, the whole particulars of your unfortunate connexion with these women, in order to convince me that nothing more remains to be accomplished to rid ourselves completely of them. For you must remember that though we have managed to dispose of the daughter, the mother still possesses a knowledge of many secrets which we would not have revealed.”
Charles immediately complied with his father’s request, and narrated how Mrs. Fitzhardinge had accosted him in the street,—how she had spoken mysteriously, and thereby induced him to accompany her to Suffolk Street,—how he had there found himself in the presence of Perdita,—and how Mrs. Fitzhardinge on a subsequent occasion mentioned certain family matters evincing her knowledge of special secrets which she alleged to have been revealed to her by the gipsy Miranda.
“Then it was not from your lips that she first learnt the circumstances connected with myself!” said Mr. Hatfield, interrogatively.
“No: she particularly mentioned the gipsy as her authority for all she knew and alluded to,” was the reply.
“But the gipsy was unaware of the fact of my mother’s marriage with the late Earl of Ellingham,” observed Mr. Hatfield; “and consequently she was ignorant of the legitimacy of my birth and the rights belonging to me thereupon.”
“Oh! now a light breaks in upon my mind!” exclaimed Charles. “I remember that she was surprised when I told her that I was a young nobleman, as I did then really believe myself to be; and I likewise recollect that she afterwards spoke to me in a manner which, while pretending a full and perfect acquaintance with all our family affairs, led me to give answers which were doubtless revelations of secrets to her. But all this did not strike me at the time: now, however, that the film has been removed from my eyes, I behold things in a clearer and truer light.”
“Yes—and I also can understand this matter,” said Mr. Hatfield, after a few moments’ deep thought “On their return to England, these women must have fallen in with Miranda: from her lips they heard enough to put them in possession of secrets which they doubtless intended to use for the purpose of extorting money from me through you. Then your infatuation in respect to the daughter, led you to speak to the mother in such a random, inconsiderate manner as to make her more fully aware of our family’s position. Thus, while affecting to know all, she drew from you those details which filled up the chapters that were wanting in the history as Miranda originally told it. Yes—this must be the truth and the explanation of the whole affair;—and now it remains for us to hasten to England without delay, and, in case the old woman shall be relieved from the charge at present existing against her, purchase her secrecy and her exile in the same way as we have arranged with her daughter.”
“But how can I face my mother?” asked Charles, in a tone expressive of the deepest grief: “how meet the Earl of Ellingham, whom I have sought to injure—and Lady Frances, to whom I have conducted myself in so scandalous a manner?”
“Now you recognise the impropriety of your behaviour towards her!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “Oh! I am rejoiced to perceive that your heart is open to impressions of such a saving nature!”
“The incidents of this day have made me an altered man,” said Charles, emphatically.
“Then am I almost happy that they have occurred!” cried his father. “The teachings have been bitter—bitter indeed, my poor boy; but the results may constitute an ample recompense alike to yourself and your parents. We have recovered a son—you have acquired an experience ten thousand times more valuable than the best precepts ever inculcated by mortal tongue.”
“Oh! this is true—most true, father!” exclaimed Charles. “But you have not answered the questions—the painful questions—which I have put to you.”
“First, then, with regard to your mother,” responded Mr. Hatfield, “you know that she will receive you with open arms. In respect to the Earl, he must be told all—every thing; and you may count upon his generosity. But it is with reference to Lady Frances Ellingham, who loves you—from whom the causes of your flight have been carefully concealed—and who cannot be informed of your sad connexion with a profligate woman,—Oh! it is in regard to her, that I know not how to act—that I am bewildered—cruelly embarrassed!”
“Remember, my dear father,” said Charles, in a tone of deep humility, “that henceforth I shall do your bidding in all things. You have but to speak—and I obey.”
“Think not, my dear son,” answered Mr. Hatfield, “that I shall claim of you a deference incompatible with your age and social position—or that I shall attempt to exercise an authority that may seem to have borrowed any taint of severity from the experience of the past. No: but I shall counsel and advise you as a friend—and in your best interest shall I ever speak. On our arrival in London, we will not return immediately to Pall Mall; but we will repair to an hotel, whence I will send privately for the Earl; and his advice will assist me in respect to the course to be observed towards his amiable daughter. And now, Charles, do you feel yourself capable of commencing at once our journey homeward?—or are you too much exhausted——”
“No—no: let us depart from Paris without delay!” exclaimed the young man. “I have no longer any object in remaining here.”
Mr. Hatfield rang the bell; and a waiter made his appearance.
“A chaise-and-four as speedily as possible,” was the laconic command given; “and you must have our passports backed for Boulogne or Calais.”
The domestic bowed and withdrew.
Two hours afterwards the father and son were seated together in the chaise, which was rolling rapidly along the road to Saint Denis.
“I will now give you some account of the adventures which I experienced in pursuit of you,” said Mr. Hatfield, who felt that the silence previously existing between himself and Charles was growing painful: for they had not uttered a word from the moment they entered the vehicle until Mr. Hatfield now spoke—an interval of nearly half-an-hour.
“I shall be pleased to hear them,” observed the young man, anxious to divert his thoughts from the painful topics that were naturally occupying them: “for I must confess that I am at a loss to conjecture how you happened to fall in with the officers at Dover, and how you were enabled to trace me to the hotel where you this morning found me.”
“The explanation of all this is readily given,” said Mr. Hatfield; and as the chaise was rolling along the unpaved part of the road, there was no effort necessary to make his voice audible. “I shall commence with the incidents of the morning on which you quitted London in company with the two females whose pernicious influence has worked so much mischief. You remember that a most painful interview took place between yourself and me in the library, and that you burst away—perhaps just at the moment when explanations might have arisen to convince you of the futility of your ambitious hopes and golden visions in respect to birth and title. Shortly after you thus left me, the Earl entered the room; and a conversation which took place, led to the mention of the secret papers. He sought for them in the recess to which he had consigned them—and they were gone. At the same moment I obtained the conviction that the Annual Register for a certain year, and containing a certain dreadful narrative, had been lately read. Then a light broke in upon the Earl and myself; and we penetrated the motives of the strange conduct you had recently observed towards your parents. At this juncture, Mr. Clarence Villiers made his appearance; and, on consulting him, we learnt to our dismay that the women who passed under the name Fitzhardinge were his aunt and cousin,—Mrs. Slingsby, who was transported years ago for forgery—and Perdita, her illegitimate child, born in Newgate, a few weeks previous to her departure. You may conceive the anguish which we endured when we found that you had become connected with such women; and Villiers hastened to Suffolk Street to obtain an interview with you.”
“Would to God that he had succeeded in finding me—that my departure with those wretches had been only delayed a few minutes!” cried Charles, still a prey to the most harrowing feelings.