“Alas! you had already fled,” continued Mr. Hatfield; “and when Villiers returned to communicate this fact, an instantaneous pursuit was resolved upon. Clarence took one road—the Earl another—and I chose the road to Dover. I was mounted on a good horse, and must have inevitably overtaken you before you had proceeded many miles, when, on turning an angle of the road, I suddenly encountered a light chaise-cart that was turning the corner at a furious rate. The shock was violent; and I was hurled from my horse with such force that I was stunned by the fall. When I recovered my senses I was lying on a bed at a small road-side tavern; and a candle was burning in the room. It was night: hours had elapsed since the accident which had occurred; and during that long interval I had remained senseless—unconscious of all that was passing. A surgeon had been sent for from Greenwich, near which place the accident occurred; and he was an ignorant quack who had adopted no effective measures to recover me. But nature had at length asserted her empire in that where medical mismanagement had necessarily failed to produce any good result; and I recovered my powers of thought—only to experience the bitterest anguish at the delay that had taken place. Ill and suffering as I was, I endeavoured to rise, with the determination of pursuing my journey; but this was impossible. For in the first place I was too much exhausted to leave the couch on which I was thus helplessly stretched; and, secondly, I learnt, to my increased annoyance, that my horse was injured in a serious manner. To be brief, I resigned myself to the necessity of at least remaining a few hours longer in that place; and a deep sleep came over me. In the morning I awoke, much refreshed, though still suffering from the pain of the severe contusions that I had received. All hope of continuing my journey on horseback was destroyed; and I accordingly procured a post-chaise in which I hastened on to Dover. There I arrived in the afternoon; and by accident I put up at the same hotel where you and your female companions had stopped. On inquiring I heard that yourself and the young lady had departed for Calais in the morning, and that the old one had been arrested on her way to the port, in consequence of a communication received by electric telegraph from London. No steam vessel was to leave for France until the following day; and I was therefore compelled to wait patiently at the hotel. Patiently, indeed! No—that was impossible;—for all these delays were maddening, under the circumstances. But I will not dwell at unnecessary length on any portion of my narrative—much less upon the nature of the feelings which I experienced at that time. In the evening I dined in the coffee-room—if the mere mockery of sitting down to table and eating nothing can be called dining; and, while I was thus seated at a repast which I did not touch, I was suddenly interested in a conversation which was taking place between two officers who were discussing a bottle of wine at an adjacent table.”
“Oh! I ought to have perceived that there was something mysterious and wrong in that adventure upon the Marine Parade!” cried Charles, literally savage with himself at his blindness and folly. “But I was so completely infatuated by that artful, designing creature——”
“I must implore you to compose yourself,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, in an earnest but kind tone: “for if I am now relating to you all that occurred to me, it is only that you may become acquainted with everything, and have nothing left behind as a cause for future excitement. Therefore I will be explicit with you respecting the substance of the conversation which was passing between those officers in the manner I have described. Indeed, you may conceive my astonishment when I overheard one of them mention the name of Perdita; for that is by no means a common one—and perhaps this woman is the only being on the face of the earth who bears it. I accordingly listened—and in a short time the whole adventure which had taken place on the Parade the evening before, became known to me. Then I addressed myself to the two officers, stating that I had overheard their remarks, apologising for my rudeness in listening, but excusing myself on the ground that the young gentleman whom they had seen with Perdita was nearly allied to me, and that I was, in fact, in pursuit of him. They assured me that no apology was necessary; and I joined them in conversation. Then was it that I learnt a dreadful tale of female depravity; for it appears that Perdita became indeed the ‘Lost One’ at a very early age, and that her favours were distributed in Sydney to any good-looking young man who might happen to please her fancy.”
“Vile—detested Perdita!” ejaculated Charles, almost gnashing his teeth with rage.
“Yes—you must know her character fully, my poor boy,” said Mr. Hatfield; “for fear that she should ever again endeavour to exercise her syren influence upon you.”
“Oh, such an attempt would be utter madness on her part!” cried Charles, now speaking with every symptom of the deepest indignation and even loathing. “But what more said the officers whom you thus singularly encountered?”
“It appears,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “that Perdita was not thoroughly depraved in the sense in which we allude to an unfortunate woman who plies her hideous trade for bread. No—she bartered not her charms for gold. Indeed, though very poor, she would scarcely ever receive any recompense from her favourites—unless delicately conveyed in the form of presents. But money she never took: her pride revolted at that,—and it was purely through the wantonness of her disposition and the burning ardour of her temperament that she plunged headlong into a career of licentiousness.”
“And I to have fallen the victim to such a polluted wretch!” exclaimed the young man.
“At Sydney,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “she was looked upon as a species of prodigy. Endowed with an intellect as powerful as her beauty was great, and possessing extraordinary natural abilities, she listened with eagerness to the conversation of those officers and other gentlemen who became her favourites, and treasured up all the information she could thus acquire. She was also fond of reading the newspapers sent from England, and all works treating of the mother-country and the principal nations of Europe; and thus she gleaned a vast amount of miscellaneous knowledge, fitting her to become a woman of the world. With singular facility, too, she studied and appropriated the gentility of gait, demeanour, and manners which she observed in her superiors; and the very bearing of the ladies in Sydney, as they walked abroad, was noted and adopted by her. Thus even in her poverty, to which she clung rather than surrender up her independence by becoming a wife or a kept mistress—for she might have been either—even in her poverty, I say, there was an air of lofty pride and calm hauteur about her, which would have led a stranger to fancy that she had sprung from an aristocratic stock, whose family fortunes had decayed. Moreover, her spirit was indomitable and fiery; and she knew full well how to avenge an insult. Did she receive overtures from any one who was displeasing to her, she would reject them with scorn; and, if possible, she would punish the adventurous suitor, in one way or another, for his insolence in addressing her. It was her delight at times to throw around herself—her deeds—her words—and even her entire character, a veil of mystery, and to affect an eccentricity of habits and a singularity of manner which made many ignorant and credulous people imagine that she was a being of no common order. Amongst those who might be properly styled her equals, she was reserved, cold, and distant; and even to those whom, in the same sense, we may denominate her superiors, she demeaned herself condescendingly, as if conferring a favour on them by her presence. In her amours, she maintained this singular pride, as if she were a Catherine of Russia, inviting her lovers to her arms, but never yielding to an invitation that might come from them. In a word, this Perdita was looked upon as the most remarkable, and at the same time the most unintelligible—the most incomprehensible character at Sydney; and even the most respectable persons were anxious to have her pointed out to them, when they walked abroad. Endowed with such a splendid intellect—possessed of such rare and almost superhuman loveliness—robing herself, as it were, in mystery—and evincing so proud a spirit, as well as such an aptitude for the self-appropriation of the refinements and the etiquette of genteel breeding,—it cannot be wondered at if Perdita should have been regarded in no common light by the inhabitants of the penal settlement. But from all I have now told you, Charles, it is easy for you to comprehend how dangerous is the character of such a woman—how completely she must be the mistress of every art in the school of hypocrisy, guile, and deceit; and if I have been thus elaborate in my details respecting her—if I have thus minutely recapitulated all that I learnt from the two officers at Dover—it is simply to place you more effectually upon your guard with reference to that syren——”
“I have already said,” interrupted Charles, speaking with the vehemence of sincerity and of deep conviction, “that never—never could she resume her empire over me! Oh! my dear father, the lesson has been too terrible not to have served as a warning; and sooner would I seek the embrace of a hideous serpent, than suffer myself to be allured back to the arms of Perdita. And—oh!” ejaculated the young man, a sudden reminiscence flashing to his mind, “I should have taken warning, days and days ago; for I recollect a fearful dream which I had, and which I must now look upon as providential! Madman that I was to neglect so solemn a foreshadowing of the truth!”
“Compose yourself, Charles,” cried Mr. Hatfield; “and now let me finish my narrative. I had reached that point which related to my accidental interview with the officers at Dover, where I was compelled to pass the night—a night of cruel and torturing suspense! Next morning, I crossed to Calais, and there I obtained a trace of you at Dessin’s hotel. Without delay I took a post-chaise, and hurried on in pursuit. I reached Paris at five last evening, and put up at the hotel whence we started just now. But I had not any time to lose, for I felt convinced that you intended to marry Perdita. I accordingly hurried off to the British Embassy, either to know the worst, if the worst were indeed already accomplished—or to take any measures I could to anticipate the ceremony, in case it should not have been as yet performed. But I could not obtain any satisfactory intelligence; no one to whom I addressed myself was able to state whether certain persons whom I described had been married during the day or not. I drove to the dwelling of the chaplain—but he had gone a few miles into the country. I found out the abode of his clerk—but this official was likewise from home. Almost distracted, I sped to the Prefecture of Police to ascertain if it were possible to discover your address in Paris, knowing that the landlords of all hotels are under the necessity of making daily returns of the names of their lodgers to the proper authorities. But I found the Prefecture closed for the night; and I returned, exhausted with fatigue and disconsolate in mind, to the hotel. Summoning the commissionaire, I gave him the necessary instructions to make particular inquiries at the Prefecture, the moment that establishment should open in the morning. This he promised to do, and I retired to bed—but not to rest!”
“Oh! my dear father,” exclaimed Charles, seizing his parent’s hand, and pressing it with fervour to his lips, “how can you ever pardon me for all the uneasiness I have occasioned you?—and if you can, how shall I hope to receive the forgiveness of my mother, when she learns all the sorrow you have endured on my account?”
“It is not, perhaps, necessary that your mother should be made acquainted with every thing,” observed Mr. Hatfield, emphatically: “but all this will depend upon circumstances—especially on the results of our previous and private interview with Lord Ellingham. As for you and me, Charles, we have already forgiven each other every thing,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a solemn tone. “And now my narrative has reached its conclusion,” he added; “for shortly after eight o’clock this morning, the commissionaire came and informed me that he had discovered the hotel where you were residing. You know the rest.”
Charles sighed, but made no answer, and the journey was continued for a long time in profound silence.
Return we now to Mrs. Fitzhardinge, whom the officers of justice had arrested at Dover, on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of Mr. Percival, the miser.
The old woman, when made acquainted with the cause of her apprehension, was completely thunder-struck; for, in truth, she had not even heard until that moment of the dreadful deed which had taken place. But the Dover constables who took her into custody, and who were in plain clothes, insisted upon her accompanying them to London; and, yielding to the imperious necessity with as good a grace as possible, Mrs. Fitzhardinge cherished that consolation that her innocence must inevitably become apparent when the case should undergo a magisterial investigation.
For a variety of reasons, she made no mention of her daughter and Charles, who, she doubted not, had embarked in safety; neither did she volunteer any explanations relative to her acquaintance with Mr. Percival, or the business which she had with him on the night when, as it appeared, the murder was committed. She had already in her life passed through the ordeal of arrest—examination at a police-court—committal—trial—and condemnation—aye, and expiation also; and she was well aware that unseasonable garrulity, or explanatory remarks inconsiderately volunteered, seldom benefit even the innocent person when unjustly accused. She accordingly shrouded herself, or, rather, took refuge in a complete silence, from which the officers did not seek to draw her, as they all proceeded together by railway to London.
On their arrival in the metropolis at a somewhat late hour in the afternoon, Mrs. Fitzhardinge was consigned to Clerkenwell prison, where she passed the night; and at ten o’clock on the following morning she was removed in a cab to Marylebone police-court, to undergo an examination relative to the serious charge existing against her.
The prisoner, who had retained counsel in her behalf, and made other arrangements for her defence, appeared perfectly cool and collected; and although the sinister expression of her countenance might have told somewhat in her disfavour, in the estimation of common observers, yet, to the eye of the experienced magistrate, it spoke not of guilt in this instance. Nevertheless, that very experience which he possessed taught him not to judge either way by outward appearances; and he therefore prepared himself to give the matter the most searching investigation.
The first witness examined was Mrs. Dyer, who deposed as follows:—“I occupy a house adjoining that of the deceased. At half-past eleven o’clock on the night in question, I returned home from the dwelling of a friend in the neighbourhood, and saw deceased at his door, taking leave of two females. He had a light in his hand. One of the women, who seemed by her figure and general appearance to be young, was at the garden-gate; and I could not see her countenance. The light which the deceased carried fell fully upon the face of the other female; and I therefore obtained a good view of her. The prisoner at the bar is the female alluded to.”
Mrs. Dyer then narrated how she and her lodgers had discovered the murder on the ensuing morning; but these details are already known to the reader.
The inspector of police who had the case in hand, was next examined, and his deposition was to the following effect:—“In consequence of the information I received from Mrs. Dyer, immediately after the murder was discovered, I instituted certain inquiries, and ascertained, in the course of the morning, that an old and a young woman had taken a cab in the neighbourhood of the Angel at Islington, on the previous night, which was the one in question. They drove to Suffolk-street, Pall Mall, where the young lady paid the driver his fare from a heavy and well-filled purse. The driver gave me a description of the elder female; and that description tallied with the one already given by Mrs. Dyer. I thereupon repaired to Suffolk-street, and learnt that the two women had taken their departure in a post-chaise, between nine and ten o’clock that morning. This was the morning after the murder. Previous to their departure, they were joined by a young gentleman who went away with them. He had called on several occasions at the lodgings; and his name was——”
Here the magistrate interposed, and said that it might not be necessary to mention this name publicly, as there was nothing to implicate the gentleman referred to.
The inspector accordingly proceeded thus:—“The chaise was sent for in a great hurry, and its destination was unknown to the landlady and servants of the house. No previous intimation of the intended departure of the lodgers had been given. They settled all their liabilities before they left. The prisoner at the bar paid the rent and other little matters owing; but did not display any large sum of money. Having ascertained all these particulars, I sent a description of the elder female to the various railways having electric telegraphs; and the prisoner at the bar was apprehended at Dover, in consequence of the information thus conveyed.”
Upon being cross-examined by the learned gentleman for the defence, the inspector fairly and impartially deposed as follows:—“The stake with which the murder was evidently perpetrated, was found by the side of the corpse. It was taken from a piece of unenclosed waste ground at the back of the house. I believe this to be the fact, because I have discovered a hole from which a stake had most likely been taken; and the stake now produced fits that hole. I also discovered marks of footsteps between the back door of the house and the spot where the stake had been pulled up. Those marks are of a man’s boots. The soil of some part of the waste ground is moist and damp. There are marks on the window-ledge of the back parlour, as if some one with dirty boots or shoes had clambered up and stood there. The shutters have numerous heart-holes in them, so that a person standing up on the ledge, outside the window could see into the back parlour. I discovered no traces of any female footsteps on the waste ground neither are there two descriptions of marks. They are all produced by the same sized boots. The door-post of the back gate was cut away from the outside. Whoever did it must have known the precise place where the bolt fitted into the door-post in the inside. The cutting away rendered it easy to force back the bolt with the fingers. The work of cutting was performed, I should say, with a knife—most probably a pocket or clasp-knife. It must have taken half an hour at the least to accomplish; and the hand that did it must have been tolerably strong. There are marks of footsteps, indicated in the same manner as those on the window-ledge, up the stairs from the back door to the back parlour. The lock of the back door so often alluded to, was picked from the outside.”
The inspector’s evidence terminated here; and the counsel for Mrs. Fitzhardinge recalled Mrs. Dyer.
“Will you state, as accurately as you can, the hour when you returned home on the night of the murder?” he asked.
“Half-past eleven, sir,” was the answer.
“That will do,” said the learned gentleman, who forthwith proceeded to call the driver of the cab which Mrs. Fitzhardinge and Perdita had taken on the night in question. “At what hour,” he demanded, “did the prisoner and the young lady who accompanied her hire your vehicle?”
“It was twelve o’clock,” replied the man. “I am sure it was precisely midnight, because I had just left a public-house when I was hailed by the ladies.”
This witness was ordered to stand down; and the landlady of the house in Suffolk-street was called next. She deposed that she was sitting up for her lodgers on the night in question, and that they reached home at twenty minutes to one. She was certain as to the correctness of her statement, because she looked at the clock in the passage as she passed by to let the ladies in. There was nothing confused in their manner. She attended them to the door of their bed-chamber, and did not observe that their shoes were at all soiled with damp clay. She was convinced that they did not leave the house again that night. The ladies had always appeared to have plenty of money from the very day they entered her dwelling.
The learned counsel then proceeded to address the magistrate on behalf of Mrs. Fitzhardinge. He began by remarking on the meagre nature of the evidence against her—the mere fact that she and the young lady who was with her, and who was her daughter, were the last persons seen in the company of the murdered man;—and he complained bitterly that his client should have been arrested—ignominiously brought back to London—and forced through the ordeal of a public examination on such a shallow pretence. Every circumstance, adduced that morning—every feature of the evidence, tended only to exculpate the prisoner at the bar. In the first place, it was clear, from the testimony recorded, that the prisoner and her daughter had quitted the house of the deceased at half-past eleven—had taken a cab at the Angel at midnight—and had driven straight home, reaching Suffolk-street at twenty minutes to one. Now the distance from the scene of the murder to the Angel would require rapid walking for two females to accomplish in half an hour, and leave not an instant to accomplish the crime before they set out, much less to cut away the door-post, ransack the deceased’s boxes, and so forth. From the Angel they were traced home, and they did not leave the house again that night. Now, the evidence of the inspector of police tended, to show incontestibly that the murder had been perpetrated by a man. He (the learned counsel) was instructed to state that Mrs. Fitzhardinge and her daughter had called upon Mr. Percival for the purpose of obtaining the discount of a bill; that he did discount the document, and that he left his cash-box open on the table during the negotiation. It was presumable that some man, who probably knew the premises well, had clambered up against the back-window, had beheld the cash-box and its contents, and, during the night, had perpetrated the bloody deed. The speedy departure of the prisoner, her daughter, and the gentleman who had been alluded to, on the morning following that night of the crime, was occasioned by the fact that the young people contemplated a matrimonial alliance unknown to the gentleman’s parents; and the means of travelling having been procured by the discount already mentioned, there was no necessity to delay the departure for Paris any longer. This was the simple and plain explanation of the suddenly undertaken journey and the precipitate decampment from Suffolk-street. But the ladies did not act as if they had committed a crime, nor their male companion as if he had been an accomplice in one; for they travelled by post-chaise instead of by rail, to Dover; and there they waited quietly until the steam-packet left next morning, instead of hiring some small craft, as they might have done, to waft them across, the same night of their arrival, to Calais. Again, if the prisoner and her daughter had even entertained such a fearful idea as that of depriving the miser of his life for the sake of his gold, they would have had a better opportunity of carrying it into execution while alone with him in his back parlour, than by the roundabout manner suggested by the nature of the charge against Mrs. Fitzhardinge. During the short time the two ladies had dwelt at the lodgings in Suffolk-street they had not been embarrassed for want of funds; nor even when they sought the aid of the discounter was their need so pressing, much less was it of that desperate nature which could alone prompt to such a dreadful alternative as murder. The reason why the assistance of the deceased was sought at all, could be readily explained by the avowal that the bill to be discounted was not a security which any other class of money-lenders would entertain: it was the promissory note of a young gentleman raising cash upon his expectations, and therefore of a character suiting only the purposes of a discounter who took an amount of interest proportionate to the risk which he ran. In conclusion, the learned gentleman insisted that there was not a shadow of evidence against his client.
The magistrate acquiesced in this view of the case, and discharged Mrs. Fitzhardinge forthwith. She was, however, compelled to repair from the Marylebone Police-court to the tavern where the coroner was holding an adjourned inquest upon the body; but the result of her examination before the magistrate being communicated to that functionary, she was not detained on his authority. A verdict of “Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown” was returned, and the old woman once more found herself at liberty.
The evidence given by the inspector of police at the Marylebone court, and repeated in the presence of the coroner, had excited certain suspicions in the mind of Mrs. Fitzhardinge; and the more she pondered upon the subject—the more she reflected upon the occurrences at Percival’s house on the night of the murder, and the details of the manner in which the deed itself must have been accomplished, the more confident did she become that she could name the assassin.
Had circumstances permitted, she would have remained in London to ferret out the individual whom she thus associated with the crime: but she could not now spare the time; for she was anxious to proceed, without delay, to Paris, and join her daughter and Charles Hatfield, who, she had no doubt, had reached that capital in safety.
Her examination at the police-court, and her attendance at the inquest, had however consumed the entire day; and she therefore waited until the next morning, when she departed by the first train for Folkestone, at which town she arrived in time to embark on board a steamer for Boulogne.
In order that we may accurately show the precise time when Mrs. Fitzhardinge reached Paris, we must request our readers to observe, that on the same day that Charles and Perdita crossed the water to Calais, the old woman was borne back to London by the constables: on the following day, while they were journeying towards the French capital, she was undergoing the examination already recorded;—on the third day, when they were married at the British Ambassador’s chapel, she was hastening to join them;—and it was, therefore, in the after-part of the fourth day, being the one on which the separation of Charles and her daughter had occurred, that Mrs. Fitzhardinge entered Paris in the diligence, or stage-coach—thoroughly wearied out by the fatigue, annoyance, and excitement she had lately undergone.
The old woman repaired to an hotel in the immediate neighbourhood of the office where the coach stopped; and, having changed her apparel, drove forthwith in a hackney vehicle to the British Embassy: for it must be remembered that she was entirely ignorant of every thing that had taken place in respect to her daughter and Charles since she had been separated from them, and knew not where they had put up in Paris. Indeed, she even had her misgivings whether they were in the French capital at all, or whether they might not have set out upon some tour immediately after their marriage; for that they were already united in matrimonial bonds, she had no doubt. That they had returned to Dover to look for her, she did not flatter herself; inasmuch as she had latterly seen enough of Perdita’s altered disposition to be fully aware that all maternal authority or filial affection were matters which the young lady was more inclined to treat with contempt than with serious consideration. But Mrs. Fitzhardinge was resolved not to be thrust aside without an effort to regain the maternal authority: as for the filial affection, her soul—tanned, hardened, rendered rough and inaccessible, and with all its best feelings irremediably blunted by the incidents of her stormy life—her soul, we say, experienced but a slight pang at the idea of having to renounce that devotedness which it is usually a mother’s joy and delight to receive at the hands of a daughter.
No; the aim of this vile intriguing woman was merely the re-establishment of her former ascendancy over her daughter,—by fair means or by foul—by conciliation or intimidation—by ministering to her vanity and her pride, or by working on her fears—by rendering herself necessary to her, or by reducing her to subjection through a course of studied despotism and tyranny. Her imagination pictured the voluptuous and impassioned Perdita clinging to her young husband as to something which had become necessary to her very existence, and from which it were death to part; and she chuckled within herself, as she muttered between her lips,—“The girl would have this marriage; and it shall be made in my hands a means to subdue her! For in her tenderest moments—when reading love in his eyes, and looking love with her own,—when wrapt in Elysian dreams and visions of ineffable bliss—then will I steal near her, and whisper in her ear, ‘Perdita, you must yield to me in all things; or with a word—a single word—will I betray you to that fond, confiding fool; I will blast all your happiness, and he shall cast thee away from him as a loathsome and polluted thing!’”
With such agreeable musings as these did Mrs. Fitzhardinge while away the half-hour which the hackney-coach occupied in driving her from the hotel to the British Embassy. It was now five o’clock in the evening, and she fortunately found the chaplain’s clerk in an office to which the gate-porter directed her to proceed. From the official to whom she was thus referred, she learnt that Charles Hatfield and Perdita Fitzhardinge were united in matrimonial bonds on the previous day; and an inspection of the register, for which she paid a small fee, enabled her to ascertain the address they had given as their place of abode in the French capital.
Satisfied with these results, Mrs. Fitzhardinge returned to the vehicle, and ordered the coachman to drive her to an hotel which she named, and which was the one mentioned in the register. We should observe that the old woman spoke French with fluency; and thus she had no difficulty in making herself understood in the gay city of Paris.
On arriving at the hotel indicated, Mrs. Fitzhardinge alighted, and inquired of the porter whether Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield were residing there. The man referred to a long list of names on a paper posted against the wall; and, after running his eye down the column, turned to the old woman with the laconic, but respectfully uttered observation,—“Removed to No. 9, Rue Monthabor.”
To this new address did Mrs. Fitzhardinge repair, without pausing to ask any further question; and on her arrival at the entrance to a house of handsome appearance in the street named, she inquired for Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield.
“Oh! it is all right,” said the porter. “I was told that if any persons called to ask for Mrs. Hatfield, I was to direct them to the lady who has taken the second floor.”
Mrs. Fitzhardinge was somewhat surprised by this ambiguous answer: but it instantly struck her that Charles might have assumed his title of Viscount Marston, and that the name of Hatfield would, therefore, be unknown to the porter, had no particular instructions been left with him. At all events, she was in too great a hurry to remain bandying words with the man; and she accordingly hastened to ascend to the second floor, which, we should observe by the way, is the most fashionable in Parisian houses.
But as she mounted the staircase, it struck her that the porter, when replying to her query, had made no mention of any gentleman at all, but had plainly and clearly spoken of “the lady who has taken the second floor.” The old woman was puzzled—indeed, bewildered by the mystery which suddenly appeared to envelope her; and a certain misgiving seized upon her mind, the nature of which she could not precisely define.
On gaining the marble landing of the second floor, she rang the bell at the door of the suite of apartments on that flat, and was immediately admitted by Rosalie into a handsomely furnished drawing-room.
“Whom shall I mention to mademoiselle?” inquired the French lady’s-maid.
“Her mother,” was the response.
Rosalie withdrew; and Mrs. Fitzhardinge, seating herself upon an elegant ottoman, cast her eyes around the splendid room.
“Perdita is well lodged, at all events,” she mused inwardly. “But somehow or another, there is a mystery which I cannot comprehend. The porter spoke of no gentleman—the maid was equally silent on that head, and alluded to her mistress as mademoiselle12 and not as madame. What can it mean?”
At this moment the door opened, and Perdita made her appearance in a charming déshabillée; for she had been assisting to arrange her effects in her newly-hired ready-furnished apartments.
The meeting between the mother and daughter was characterised by nothing cordial—much less affectionate: there was no embracing—not even a shaking of the hand, but only a mutual desire, hastily evinced on either side, to receive explanations.
“Where is Charles?” demanded Mrs. Fitzhardinge.
“Gone,” was the laconic reply.
“Gone!” ejaculated the old woman, now manifesting the most profound astonishment.
“Yes; gone—departed—never to return,” said Perdita, with some degree of bitterness: then, in an altered tone, and with recovered calmness, she asked, “But how have you managed respecting the accusation——”
“Ah! then you have heard of that?” interrupted Mrs. Fitzhardinge, with a subdued feeling of spite; for she thought that her daughter took the matter very quietly. “I was taken back to London—examined at the Marylebone Police-court—and discharged without much difficulty. Now, in your turn, answer my next question—wherefore has Charles left you?”
“In the first place,” said Perdita, “tell me how you discovered my abode?”—and she fixed her large grey eyes in a searching manner upon the old woman, as if to ascertain by that look the precise extent of her mother’s knowledge relative to herself and Charles.
“That is speedily explained,” observed Mrs Fitzhardinge, who instantly perceived that her daughter intended to reveal to her no more than she was actually compelled to do, and it flashed to her mind—she knew not why—that Perdita meant especially to throw a veil over the fact of her marriage with Charles. Else, why had she not immediately mentioned it?—why had she not hastened to satisfy her that the alliance had indeed taken place? But if Perdita had a motive in concealing that fact, then the knowledge of the secret might sooner or later prove serviceable to Mrs. Fitzhardinge; and she therefore resolved to feign ignorance. All these thoughts and calculations swept through the old woman’s brain in a moment; and she preserved the while the most steady composure of countenance. “That is speedily explained,” she repeated. “I went to the Prefecture of Police, and learnt your address.”
“But you knew not by what name to ask for me,” said Perdita, still keeping her eyes fixed on her mother’s countenance.
“I inquired for you by the name of Fitzhardinge,” answered the old woman, hazarding the falsehood; “and was referred to the hotel where you and Charles had put up——”
“And on your calling there?” asked Perdita, impatiently.
“The porter laconically told me that you had removed hither,” returned the old woman. “But what means the absence of Charles? and has he not married you?”
“No,” responded Perdita, reading in her mother’s countenance more intently—more searchingly than hitherto: “he has played a perfidious part, and deserted me.”
“The villain!” ejaculated the old woman, affecting to give full credence to the denial that the matrimonial alliance had taken place; while, on the other hand, Perdita was completely deceived by her mother’s profound duplicity.
“The adventures I have experienced,” said Perdita, “have been numerous and exciting. When every thing was settled for the ceremony to take place, the father of Charles suddenly appeared upon the scene, and exposed me in a cruel manner to his son. In fact, Mr. Hatfield proved himself to be well acquainted with all—every thing—relating to you and me; and he unsparingly availed himself of that knowledge. I retaliated—I convinced him that his family affairs were no secret to me;—and then he again assumed the part of one who triumphs in defeating the hopes of another; for he produced unquestionable evidence to the fact that his son is illegitimate, and entirely dependent upon him.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Fitzhardinge, who now fancied that she read the reason which had induced Perdita to conceal her marriage with the young man. “Then, after all, your suitor is plain Charles Hatfield, and not Viscount Marston?”
“Such is indeed the case, mother,” returned Perdita; “and I think you will agree with me that I have had a fortunate escape.”
“I do congratulate you on that point,” answered the old woman, her dissimulation continuing impenetrable. “But where have you obtained the means to hire this handsome lodging?”
“You cannot suppose that I allowed Mr. Hatfield and his son to depart without making ample provision for me!” exclaimed Perdita. “No; I displayed a too intimate acquaintance with all their family affairs to permit them thus to abandon me. Besides, the very secret of the young man’s illegitimacy—a secret which the father revealed in a moment of excitement, produced by the discussion that took place between us—that secret——”
“I understand you, Perdita,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge: “it was necessary to purchase your silence respecting a matter that involved the good name and the honour of Lady Georgiana Hatfield. Well, have you made a profitable bargain for yourself?”
“A thousand pounds in ready money; and five hundred a year for life, on condition that I return not to England,” was the response.
“Good!” ejaculated the old woman, her eyes glistening with delight.
“And I have adopted another name, for a variety of reasons,” continued Perdita. “In the first place, having learnt from that hated Mr. Hatfield of your arrest at Dover, and the nature of the charge against you, I feared lest the whole thing should be blazoned in the newspapers——”
“Well, well,” interrupted her mother: “I understand! The name of Fitzhardinge would suit no longer. What is the new one?”
“I have taken that of Mortimer,” answered the daughter. “Laura Mortimer sounds prettily, I think?”
“Then you have not even retained your Christian name?” said the old woman, interrogatively.
“No; for it is so uncommon, that it could not fail to excite attention, wherever whispered,” was the reply.
“In this case, I am to become Mrs. Mortimer?” continued the mother.
“Precisely so; and as a matter of course, you will take up your abode with me.”
“You do not appear particularly unhappy at the loss of the young man whom you fell so deeply in love with?” observed the old woman, whom we must now denominate Mrs. Mortimer.
“That dream has passed—gone by—vanished!” returned Laura—for by this Christian name is Perdita to be henceforth known; and as she spoke, her voice assumed a deep and even menacing tone. “Yes—that illusion is dissipated; and, if circumstances permit, I will have vengeance where I used to think only of love.”
“To what circumstances do you allude?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.
“Can you not understand my position—aye, and your own position also?” exclaimed Laura. “At present we are dependent, to a certain degree, upon Mr. Hatfield, and must adhere to the conditions he imposed upon me: that is to say, we must reside on the continent so long as the income allowed by him shall be indispensably necessary. But the moment that I can carve out a new career of fortune for myself, either by a brilliant marriage, or by enchaining some wealthy individual in my silken meshes,—the instant that I find myself in a condition to spurn the aid of Mr. Hatfield’s purse, and can command treasures from another quarter,—then, mother, then,” added Laura, emphatically, “will be the time for vengeance! For, think you,” she continued, drawing herself proudly up to her full height, while her nostrils dilated and her eyes flashed fire,—“think you that, if I have loved as a woman, I will not likewise be avenged as a woman? Oh! yes—yes; and welcome—most welcome will be that day when I shall see myself independent of the purse of Mr. Hatfield, and able to work out my vengeance after the manner of my own heart! To be exposed by the father and discarded by the son—to have the mask torn away from my countenance by the former, and be looked upon with loathing and abhorrence by the latter,—oh, all this is enough to drive me mad—mad! And if I retained a calm demeanour and a stern composure of countenance in the presence of those men this morning, it was only the triumph of an indomitable pride over feelings wounded in the most sensitive point!”
“Vengeance, indeed, is a pleasing consummation,” said the old woman: then, after an instant’s pause, she added, “And I also have a vengeance to gratify.”
“You, mother!” ejaculated Laura, with unfeigned surprise.
“Yes. You remember the night that we called upon Percival? Well, you may recollect how he spoke of a certain visitor who had been with him——”
“Torrens—your husband,” observed Laura, quietly.
“The same. He was the murderer of Percival,” added Mrs. Mortimer, her countenance assuming an expression so fiend-like, that it was horrible to behold.
“How know you that?” demanded Laura, surprised.
“I am convinced of it,” returned her mother. “Listen! On that night when we visited the miser, Torrens had been with him: indeed, he had departed from the house only the moment before we knocked at the door. You remember that Percival said so? Well—and you also recollect that Torrens was represented to be poor and very miserable? While we were engaged with Percival, the cash-box was produced, and its contents were displayed. A man clambered up to the window, and looked through the holes in the shutters. This was proved at the police-office. We departed, and the miser was left alone. The back gate was forced open—or, rather, the wood-work was cut away in such a manner as to allow the bolt to be shot back with the fingers—and the lock was picked with a piece of iron. All this was done from the outside. Then, again, the stake whereby the old man was killed was taken from a piece of waste ground at the back of the house; and on the damp clayey soil the marks of boots were discovered. The murder was therefore perpetrated by the man whose footsteps were thus traced; and who could that man be but Torrens? I have no doubt of the accuracy of my conjectures.”
“They are reasonable, at the least,” observed Laura. “But wherefore do you trouble your head about him, when I require your assistance here in a matter of importance?”
“One moment, and you shall explain your views when I have made you acquainted with mine,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “Percival was a rich man, and that cash-box contained a treasure in notes and gold. Torrens has, no doubt, concealed himself somewhere in London;—a man who has committed such a crime invariably regards the metropolis itself as the safest hiding-place. My design is to ferret him out, and compel him by menaces to surrender into my keeping the treasure which he has obtained. You and I, Perdita—Laura, I mean—will know how to spend those thousands; and it will give me pleasure—unfeigned pleasure,” she added, with a fearful expression of countenance, “to know that he has been plunged back again into misery and want.”
“The project is a good one, mother,” said Laura; “and the money would prove most welcome. Possessed of a few thousands of pounds, I would at once act in complete independence of Mr. Hatfield. But wherefore this bitter vengeance against the man who is still your husband?”
“Because, when he was released from Newgate upwards of nineteen years ago, when imprisoned there on suspicion of having murdered a certain Sir Henry Courtenay,” said the old woman,—“when he was set free, I tell you, I still languished a prisoner in that horrible gaol. And he came not near me: he recognised me not—he loathed and abhorred me; and I knew it! You, Laura, have felt how terrible it is to be hated—shunned—forsaken by one on whom you have claims: you are still smarting under the conduct of Charles Hatfield. Can you not, then, comprehend how I should cherish feelings of bitterness against that sneaking coward—that base wretch, who was a partner in my iniquity, and who abandoned me to my fate, doubtless hoping that a halter would end my days, and for ever rid him of me.”
“But you loved not that man, according to all I have ever heard you say upon the subject,” returned Laura; “whereas,” she added, in a tone of transitory softness, “I did—yes—I did love Charles Hatfield.”
“Granted the difference!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer; “and yet, even making every possible allowance for that, there is still room enough to admit the existence of my bitter hostility against Torrens. What! was I not arrested the other day—dragged ignominiously back to London—compelled to sleep in a prison; and forced to appear at the bar of justice,—and all on account of his crime! He reaped the benefit—I the inconvenience, the fear, the exposure, and the disgrace! It is true that I never loved him—never even liked him;—true, also, that ours was a marriage of convenience—both suspecting, despising, and abhorring each other. From the very first, then, I was his enemy; and ever since I have cherished an undying animosity against him.”
“Well, mother, I shall not attempt to interfere with your vengeance any more than you will seek to mar the progress of mine. You have given me an explanation of your views; and it is now my turn to speak. This morning,” continued Laura, “my hopes were suddenly defeated, and my golden dreams dissipated by the appearance of Mr. Hatfield. At half-past eleven o’clock, I found myself deserted by him whom I had loved, and alone as it were in a strange city. I instantly made up my mind not to yield to sorrow or give way to grief; and when a woman, placed in such circumstances, will not permit her tender feelings to get the better of her pride—when, in fact, she takes refuge in that very pride against the poignancy of sorrow—she necessarily conceives thoughts of vengeance. For the pride which becomes her defence and her shield in such a case, must be vindicated. I therefore determined to cherish this hope of vengeance, and gratify that hope when the proper time shall come. But, in the interval—and first of all—I must create a brilliant social position for myself. On these matters I reflected seriously this morning, so soon as Charles and his father had taken their departure. Then, to a certain extent, I made a confidant of my French lady’s-maid, who has already become deeply attached to me, and in whom I speedily discovered a spirit of intrigue and a shrewd disposition. At the same time, I told her nothing more than was absolutely necessary to account for the abrupt departure of Charles and my change of name; and even those explanations which I did give her were not entirely true. In a word, I acted with caution, while I secured her fidelity and devotion to my interests. Having thus come to a certain understanding, as it were, we repaired to an agency-office, kept by an Englishman, and made inquiries for furnished apartments in a fashionable neighbourhood. The agent conducted us hither: I inspected the suite—approved of it—paid a half-year’s rent in advance—and removed into my new abode, where you now find me, at about three o’clock this afternoon.”