THE JOURNEY CONTINUED AND CONCLUDED.
Perdita and her mother exchanged not a word until they reached the high
road once more; but when their faces were again turned towards London,
the latter exclaimed in a tone of chuckling triumph, “’Twas a lucky
chance which threw us in with that gipsy!”
“Yes, mother--as far as obtaining a good meal was concerned,” replied
Perdita.
“Silly child! it was the old crone’s talk that elicited the remark
which I just made. Did you not hear the strange facts she suffered to
ooze out in her idiotic musings? Did nothing strike you----”
“Yes: her description of a young man of such divine beauty made so
strong an impression upon me, that my very veins appeared to run with
lightning,” interrupted Perdita.
“Ah!” cried her mother, evidently struck by a sudden thought: “you
were pleased with her allusion to that handsome young gentleman? Well,
Perdita--trust me when I declare emphatically that this same young
gentleman shall sue at your feet for those favours which unasked you
would this moment bestow upon him!”
“Mother, you yourself will soon appear to me to be indulging in
idiotic musings!” cried Perdita, half in delight--half in contemptuous
incredulity. “You never saw this young man--you know nothing of him----”
“Know nothing of him!” repeated her mother, scornfully. “We know
enough, Perdita, to compel a whole family to implore our forbearance
and our mercy,--to reduce that Mr. Hatfield, Lady Georgiana, and their
nephew to the necessity of beseeching our silence on their bended
knees!”
“Do you really put faith in the rhodomontade of that gipsy about the
identity of the Mr. Hatfield of whom she spoke with a certain Tom Rain
who had been hanged?” demanded Perdita, impatiently.
“Yes--because I know it to be true!” ejaculated her mother. “Listen,
Perdita:--you were not born at that time--but it was only a few months
before your birth when the whole metropolis was astounded by the sudden
discovery that Tom Rain, the highwayman, was indeed alive. I was in
London at the time----”
“In Newgate, mother?” asked her daughter, as coolly as if it were the
most common-place question.
“Yes--in Newgate, if you must have me be particular in every detail,”
answered the old harridan, bitterly.
“Where I was born,” remarked Perdita. “One of the first places I shall
request you to show me, will be that same Newgate. But go on--I am
listening attentively.”
“Well, then--I was in Newgate at the time that all London was astounded
by certain discoveries relative to this same Tom Rainford--all brought
about in consequence of a dreadful murder committed by that very
Benjamin Bones whom you heard the gipsy mention. The story is too
long to tell you now; but you shall have it shortly in its fullest
details--for it may regard our interests more nearly than you at
present imagine. One fact I must however state,--which is that Thomas
Rainford was a famous highwayman who was hanged, and that by some means
which never transpired, he was rescued from death--resuscitated, in
fine. He received the royal pardon for all the deeds he had committed
in opposition to the laws; and what afterwards became of him I knew
not----”
“Because you had to leave England in pursuance of your sentence, I
suppose, mother?” added Perdita, enquiringly.
“Precisely so. And now chance throws us in the way of an old crone
who, in the audible musings of dotage, informs us that this same Tom
Rain is actually living under a feigned name--aye, and at the mansion
of the Earl of Ellingham. It is clear that the gipsy had never heard
of the wondrous fact that Rainford appeared in London disguised as a
Blackamoor, only a few months after his execution, as I may call it: it
is evident that the circumstance of his having survived the scaffold
was unknown to her and to her companions. Thus was she struck with
amazement and surprise, as well she might be under such circumstances,
when she beheld him in Lord Ellingham’s carriage. But gipsies go so
little into great cities and towns--hold so little intercourse with any
save their own people--and are so little curious in respect to matters
which do not immediately concern themselves, that it is not surprising
if the old gipsy had never heard reported the well-known fact of
Rainford’s resuscitation.”
“Then you presume that this Rainford is now living, honourably and
respectably, in London, under the name of Hatfield,” said Perdita,
enquiringly; “and you mean to use your knowledge of his real name to
work out our particular aims?”
“You now comprehend me, daughter,” returned the old woman; “and you may
perhaps begin to understand how his nephew shall become bound to you by
silken cords.”
“I have set my mind upon that handsome young man,” said Perdita,
emphatically; “and believe me, I shall omit nothing that will tend to
gratify my passion.”
“Wanton--voluptuous, even as I was,” muttered the harridan to
herself;--“aye, licentious and depraved as was her father!”
“What are you mumbling to yourself, mother?” demanded Perdita.
“Something about me, I warrant.”
“No harm--no harm,” responded the wretch, hastily. “But, to return to
the subject of our conversation, Perdita; what do you think of our
prospects now?--knowing all we do of this Mr. Hatfield, and able as we
are to overwhelm him, his titled wife, and his nephew in disgrace, if
we choose to utter a single word.”
“I think that all will go well enough in respect to money; for _that_
we have the means of extorting,” said Perdita. “But I cannot see how,
by such a course, we shall do otherwise than disgust the nephew, and
make an enemy of him.”
“Ah! short-sighted girl” ejaculated her mother. “We must not commence
with extortion! I know that Lady Georgiana Hatfield was very rich when
I was a resident in London years ago; and it is not probable that she
has become poor since. Then again, this Hatfield or Rainford must be
on intimate terms with the Earl of Ellingham, since he and his family
are residing at that nobleman’s mansion. All this denotes that the
young man can command ample funds at will;--and the young man, then,
must be ensnared by your wiles. But if you surrender yourself to him
immediately----”
“Trust me for knowing how to play my cards well!” interrupted Perdita,
impatiently. “But on our arrival in London to-night, where are we
to find a dwelling-place?--how are we to clothe ourselves decently
to-morrow?--how, in a word, are we to live until all these grand
schemes begin to work?”
“You shall see, Perdita,” answered her mother. “During my long sojourn
in Australia, one person in England wrote to me frequently--one person
sent me sums of money occasionally. Otherwise, Perdita, after I
obtained my ticket of leave, we should have starved: for the labour of
my hands, severely as I toiled, produced not sufficient to maintain us
both. This one person lives in London: I know his address;--and to his
door must we first repair before we can even procure the wherewith to
obtain a bed!”
“Is it the friend who, as you told me, interested himself to procure
your pardon?” demanded Perdita.
“The friend!--the relation you mean,” said her mother, hastily.
“Yes--he is my relation--the only one I possess in the world save
yourself, if a daughter can be called by that name.”
The conversation, which may have served to throw additional light upon
the depraved character of these two women, was interrupted by the
necessity of stepping to the side of the road to permit a cart, which
was on the point of overtaking them, to pass. The vehicle was driven
along at a rapid pace by a sturdy, good-natured butcher; and as it was
whisking by the two females, the pure moon-light falling fully on the
handsome countenance of Perdita, enabled the man to catch a glimpse of
the surpassing beauty of that face.
Instantly pulling up, he said, “Holloa! my good women, you are out
late--or rather early--for ’tis two o’clock in the morning.”
“We are very tired, and are anxious to reach London as soon as
possible,” replied Perdita’s mother.
“I am going as one may say right through London,” observed the butcher:
“in fact, to Oxford Street--and if you like to have a ride, both of
you, I’ll put you down at the nearest point to where your business
leads you.”
The old woman greedily snapped at the offer; and the good-natured
butcher helped her daughter and herself into the cart, which
immediately drove on again at a spanking pace.
And now full soon did the myriad lights of London greet the eyes of
the travellers; and Perdita felt her heart dilate with ineffable
emotions as she drew near that sovereign city of a thousand towers,
pinnacles, and spires,--that mighty Babylon in which all her hopes,
her aims, her ambitious views were centred. A misty haze of light,
resembling a faintly illuminated fog, appeared to hang over the vast
metropolis;--and as the vehicle approached nearer and nearer still,
the countless dwellings began to stand out in relief from the bosom of
that dimly lustrous shroud. On--on the travellers go: the houses are
scattered along the road;--but in a short time they become continuous
ranges of habitations;--and now it may be airily said that the wheels
of the cart rattle on the pavement of London.
But a feeling of disappointment seizes upon Perdita: instead of lordly
mansions, she sees dingy-looking tenements of no considerable size,
and presenting any thing but an imposing appearance, especially at
that sombre hour. Nevertheless, the farther she advances the more
satisfied does she become;--and now the travellers reach that great
junction-point for cross-roads, where stands the Elephant and Castle.
The tap is open--the butcher stops, alights, and disappears inside the
establishment. In a few minutes he returns with a steaming hot glass of
brandy-and-water,--for a good-natured fellow is this butcher;--and he
kindly proffers it to the two females. It was not because Perdita was
so handsome, that he did it: no--it was through pure kindness, and as
much for the sake of her mother as of herself. Nor did the two females
require much pressing to partake of the welcome beverage; and while
they were drinking _their_ glass, their good-hearted friend hurried
back to the tap to enjoy _his own_ reeking jorum.
And now away they speed again--up the Waterloo Road--over the bridge.
Then and there it was that a splendid and soul-stirring spectacle burst
upon the sight of Perdita:--for an instant her admiration was rivetted
to that magnificent piece of masonry constituting the finest viaduct
of the kind in the whole world;--but in the next she threw her glances
right and left, embracing thus rapidly all the splendid features of a
scene bathed in silver by the cloudless lamp of night. The bosom of the
mighty Thames reflected the lights on the banks and the bridges,--those
very lights tracing the course of the proud stream and marking its
ample width:--then her looks dwelt on the mighty dome of Saint Paul’s,
rearing its colossal head to the deep purple summer sky;--and lastly
they ran rapidly along the northern shore, embracing each point of
interest, until they stopped at the New Houses of Parliament, so
gleamingly white in the chaste lustre of the moon.
“Yes, mother,” she whispered, in an exulting tone: “this is indeed a
stupendous city!”
“You have seen nothing of it as yet,” was the reply. “But here we must
alight,” added the old woman, the moment the cart reached the Strand.
The wanderers accordingly descended; and, having proffered their hearty
thanks to the butcher for his kindness, they continued their journey on
foot, their way now lying in the direction of Brompton.
Along the Strand they proceeded--through Spring Gardens--into St.
James’s Park,--Perdita admiring the fine buildings which she passed;
for the morning was now breaking, and each grand feature of that part
of the metropolis emerged slowly and majestically from obscurity.
Perdita’s mother, in pointing out Carlton House to her daughter,
observed, “When I was last in England George the Fourth was King; and
that was his favourite residence.”
They proceeded through the park;--and now Perdita beheld the abode of
the Queen of England--that palace on which so much of the country’s
money has been shamefully squandered, and with the arrangements of
which her Majesty is still dissatisfied! God help Victoria, if she
cannot contrive to make herself comfortable at Buckingham House; we
sincerely hope that she will always find such quarters gratuitously
provided for her, and that she will learn not to grumble at them.
Contrast that palace with the working-man’s home, and then let us see
whether Parliament would be justified in voting another sixpence to
enlarge or improve the sovereign residence. Oh! how loathsome--how
revolting to our mind are the caprices, the selfishness, and the
insolence of Royalty!
The two wanderers now entered the spacious district of Pimlico, which
they traversed painfully--for they had become almost as wearied as when
they were toiling on between Dartford and Shooter’s Hill.
“Shall we soon be there, mother?” enquired Perdita, her handsome
countenance bearing a care-worn expression as if patience and strength
were alike nearly exhausted.
“In less than twenty minutes now,” was the answer, “we shall reach the
place whither we are bound.”
“And suppose your nephew should not be in London?” said Perdita.
“Ah! now you have touched the very chord which vibrates with anguish
to my heart’s core!” exclaimed the old woman. “But let us not yield to
despondency,” she added, almost immediately.
“No--it is useless to meet evils half way,” observed Perdita.
The two proceeded in silence for upwards of a quarter of an hour, until
they reached a particular part of Brompton, when the elder wanderer
said, “It must be somewhere about here that he lives. Ah! Number Seven!
Yes--_this_ is the house, Perdita!” she added, indicating a beautiful
cottage-residence, standing alone in the midst of a pleasant garden.
“But it will be useless for you to accompany me,” continued the hag:
“on the contrary, many reasons, which I will hereafter explain, render
it advisable that my nephew should not come to know you by sight.”
“Just as you please, mother,” said Perdita, in the quiet way which was
habitual to her when she had no inclination either on one side or the
other. “There is a large stone at the angle of the road yonder: I will
rest there until you return.”
“Do so,” replied the old woman; and, having paused for a few moments to
dwell admiringly on the fine symmetry of her daughter’s form as Perdita
repaired slowly towards the point indicated, the harridan advanced to
the door of the house in which her relation dwelt.
She knocked and rang;--and in a few minutes a servant-maid, throwing
open a window, enquired who it was that came at such an unseasonable
hour.
“Is your master at home?” demanded the old woman.
“He is: but----”
“Thank God!” ejaculated the visitor, considerably relieved by this
announcement. “You must inform him that an elderly female wishes to
speak to him on particular business----”
“I cannot venture to disturb him,” answered the servant. “Come at eight
o’clock: master and missus will be up then.”
At this moment another window was opened, and a gentleman, who had
evidently slipped on a dressing-gown in great haste, appeared at the
casement, exclaiming, “I will see you now--at once!”
And in less than a minute the old woman was admitted into the dwelling
by the gentleman who had thus addressed her.
Not a word was uttered,--merely hasty glances of recognition were
exchanged, and those looks dubious on her part and reserved on
his,--until they entered a parlour, the door of which the gentleman
carefully closed, while his visitress sank exhausted upon a sofa.
“I am returned at last, Clarence,” she said, in a low and hoarse
voice,--for she was now evidently much moved at finding herself in
the presence of her relative, and by no means so confident as she had
appeared to her daughter with regard to the reception she was likely to
experience.
“Yes--returned, against my express desire--against the solemn promise
that you sent me to remain in the colony if I procured your pardon!”
exclaimed Mr. Villiers--for it was he--in a reproachful tone.
“Would you have had me bury myself in that horrible place of exile?”
demanded his aunt--Mrs. Torrens, or Mrs. Slingsby, or whatever she now
denominated herself.
“I would have had you keep your pledge so sacredly given,” replied
Clarence; “and on my side I should have fulfilled my engagement by
remitting you forty pounds every half-year. Why--why have you come back
to England?”
“Because I would sooner die than remain in a colony where I have
endured so much,” responded the woman.
“Yes--you have endured much indeed,” said Mr Villiers, still more
bitterly than before: “but it has been your own fault. Do you remember
the interviews I had with you in prison both prior and subsequent
to your condemnation? Did you not exhibit every sign of the deepest
contrition--utter every possible vow of amendment? And what were the
results? Arrived in the colony, you became unruly--profligate--a
perfect scandal where all is scandalous--shameless where every thing is
shameful----”
“Listen to me, Clarence!” exclaimed his aunt, rising from the sofa and
advancing towards him: “it is so easy to reproach--but not so easy
to admit of extenuation for guilt. As God is my judge, my penitence
in Newgate was sincere--my contrition unfeigned! I even longed for
the hour of my departure to arrive, that I might for ever quit a
country where I had played so vile a part, and to some extent retrieve
my character in a penal colony. But when I set foot on board the
convict-ship, I found myself thrown into the depths of a very sink
of immorality,--plunged into an infernal stew of profligacy, from
which escape was impossible. I threw myself on my knees before the
surgeon, and implored him to remove me from that dreadful assemblage
of fiends in female shape: he laughed at me, and bade me return to
my place. Then my companions abused and ill-treated me for having
dared to complain;--and the babe which I bore in my arms was made the
subject of the bitterest taunts and most cutting gibes. I had named
her _Perdita_--as you well know--that her lost and hopeless condition,
through the infamy of her mother, might ever be retained fresh in
my memory, and that the necessity of toiling hard and honourably
for her might be impressed on my soul even by the warning nature of
that very name. But, oh! those wretches, with whom I was forced to
associate, levelled the most cruel jeers and jests against me on
account of that innocent babe; because she was born in Newgate! And
nothing is so galling--nothing so terribly afflicting--nothing so
poignantly cutting, as to insult a woman through the medium of her
illegitimate, helpless babe! My God! what bitter tears I shed on board
that convict-ship,--tears which seemed to sear my very countenance
as they fell, so scalding were they! Then the frightful scenes which
were enacted in our cabin,--the quarrelling that took place, the
imprecations that accompanied even the simplest remark, the obscene
tales that were told,--oh! it was horrible, horrible. I struggled
against the contamination as mortal being never struggled before:--but
it was like a combat between a drowning person and the fury of a
whelming torrent,--a vain, ineffectual, and useless fight, in which I
felt myself to be completely powerless;--until, in despair, I resigned
myself to the flood that was whirling me along in its triumphant
course;--and I found relief even in drinking of that feculent, fœtid
stream from which there was no escape. Yes--thus was I drawn down into
the whirlpool of immoralities and profligacies on the brink of which
the law placed me:--and if my vows of contrition--my asseverations of
penitence proved so many delusions, you must blame the system to which
I was subjected--and not myself.”
“And do you mean, then, to inform me that you endeavoured to be
moral, reserved, pious, and tranquil on board the convict-ship--but
that it was impossible to avoid being dragged into the common abyss
of depravity?” demanded Clarence, now speaking in a mild and even
compassionate tone.
“Most solemnly do I swear that such is the fact!” exclaimed his aunt,
with an emphasis which spoke volumes in favour of her sincerity.
“Then are you to be pitied, poor woman,” said Clarence; “and the
Government of that day most bear all the blame of your relapse and
subsequent depravity. But where is your daughter Perdita?”
“She is in the neighbourhood--waiting for me,” was the answer. “I
did not choose to bring her beneath your roof. Indeed, naught save
necessity--necessity the most stern--should have led me hither.”
“The accounts which I received from a correspondent at Sydney, spoke,
alas! most unfavourably of your daughter,” observed Clarence. “My God!
could you not at least have saved her from entering the paths that lead
to perdition?”
“Behold, now, how ready you are to blame me!” cried his aunt, in
a voice expressive of vexation. “I was allotted as a servant to a
free-settler in the penal colony; and the man made me his mistress.
There was no compliance on my part in the first instance: ’twas
absolute compulsion. Then I yielded to my fate, seeing that it was
useless to contend against it. I had to work hard all day; and the
moment Perdita was able to run alone, she played in the streets with
the other poor children of Sydney. I could not prevent it--do all I
would to endeavour to keep her in doors. Well, at last I obtained a
ticket of leave, and tried to earn a livelihood by the toil of my
own hands. But to do this, I was compelled to be out all day;--and
then, where was Perdita? Where was she?” almost screamed the woman,
becoming much excited: “why--_lost_--as her name implies;--not
lost as you lose an object and can find it no more,--but lost
_morally_--irretrievably lost! ’Tis true that I imparted to her as
much knowledge as I myself possessed or had leisure to instil into
her--and that to do this I deprived myself of my natural rest. But
how could I teach her virtue?--how could I read the Bible with her?
My story was known throughout the colony;--and Perdita learnt before
even she had intelligence to understand the meaning of the facts,
that she was a bastard--born in Newgate, the great criminal prison of
London--and that her mother was every thing infamous and vile! My God!
circumstances would not allow me to nurture her in moral ways, even if
I had possessed the inclination: but by the time she was old enough
to learn, I had myself become as deeply steeped in profligacy as any
other woman in the colony. Can you wonder, then, that she soon fell
into the ways of vice? Beautiful as she was--and is--she soon attracted
notice;--and your fine English officers--the gentlemen sent out to
protect the colony,--_they_ were the authors of her ruin--and they
encouraged her in a career of infamy. Oh! Clarence, it is a frightful
thing for me to stand before you--you, who are my own nephew--and
have to make such horrible revelations: but you reproach me for my
own wickedness--you would seek to represent me as the cause of my
daughter’s wickedness--and I am forced to explain to you the appalling
nature of the influences acting upon us, and the circumstances
surrounding us. Now--now, I could weep in humiliation;--but an hour
hence, I shall be obdurate and hardened as ever. The world has made me
so.”
“And now what do you propose to do?” enquired Clarence. “It is
impossible for me even to advise you in the frightful position in which
you are placed, and since you have acted so completely in opposition
to my counsel by returning to England. Pecuniary assistance--_that_ I
can afford you to a limited amount----”
“Give me fifty guineas, Clarence--and you shall never see me more,”
interrupted his aunt.
“I will spare you a hundred,” answered the generous-hearted young man;
and quitting the room, he returned in a few minutes, bringing the money
in a bag. “Here,” he said,--“take that, my poor aunt--and may God make
it prosper in your hands. But, oh! suffer not your daughter to continue
in the ways of vice and depravity: remember that she possesses an
immortal soul--and that there is another world in which an account must
be given for the conduct pursued in this.”
The old woman made no answer; but, clutching the bag eagerly, she
secured it amongst her tattered garments. Then, ashamed of the greedy
impatience which she had manifested, and seeking to avert her nephew’s
attention from the fact by turning the conversation into another
channel, she said, “I hope you continue to enjoy that happiness,
Clarence, which yourself and your excellent Adelais so much deserve!”
“Thank God! my felicity is as complete as man’s can be in this world,”
was the reply. “Having now for upwards of nineteen years held the good
situation which my kind patron, the Earl of Ellingham, gave me, I
have enjoyed a certain means of existence--have acquired influential
friends--and have been enabled to rear my sons and daughters in a way
which, I hope, will be salutary to them on their entrance into life.”
“And that man--my husband--have you heard of him lately?” enquired
Villiers’ aunt, in a low tone and hesitating way.
“Never since the occasion--and that is now nine years ago--when he
wrote to announce the death of poor Rosamond at Geneva. I mentioned
that fact to you in a letter which accompanied one of the remittances I
made to Sydney on your behalf----”
“And from that time you have received no tidings of my husband?”
“Not once!” replied Villiers. “Whether he be alive or dead--what has
become of him, I cannot tell you. This uncertainty relative to her
father’s fate is a cause of uneasiness to Adelais:--but every state and
station in life has its annoyances and its sorrows. Poor Rosamond! she
fell into a slow decline shortly after leaving England--and for nearly
ten years did she linger on, wasting away! Adelais and I saw her once
during that period: we visited Switzerland on purpose. Then how deeply
was my wife shocked when she behold the wreck that remained of her once
lovely and blooming sister. But I cannot dwell upon that episode in our
lives----”
“No--no,” exclaimed Perdita’s mother, now in haste to depart. “I
will not distress you,” she added, with a hypocritical appearance
of sympathy, “by exacting the painful narrative from you. Farewell,
Clarence--farewell.”
The generous-hearted Villiers proffered his hand to his aunt,--that
aunt who was once so fine a woman, so elegantly dressed, and the
mistress of a splendid mansion,--but who was now hideous to look upon,
clothed in rags, and as yet homeless on the face of the earth!
For a few instants her heart swelled with profound emotions as she
pressed that hand which was thus kindly extended to her, and tears rose
to the very brims of her eyes, but did not run over.
Then she hurried away from his presence:--and the moment she set foot
on the threshold of the dwelling--or rather, when its door closed
behind her--she subdued the feelings that had well nigh overpowered
her; and gave all her attention--all her interest--all her thoughts to
the precious bag which she had concealed amongst her garments.
“Well, mother, I thought you were never coming back!” cried Perdita,
in a reproachful tone: then, perceiving by the old woman’s countenance
that she had good news, she allowed her own to brighten up, as she
hurried to meet her.
“Perdita--we have now the means----”
“Of obtaining shelter and a breakfast, I hope?”
“Of purchasing good clothes--taking fine lodgings----”
“Oh! then your nephew--or relation of some kind, whatever he may
be--has behaved well!” cried the young woman, overjoyed by this
intelligence.
“A hundred guineas, Perdita--a hundred guineas in this bag!” exclaimed
her mother, shaking the precious object of her avaricious worship:
then, again concealing it beneath her rags, she said, “But come,
Perdita: let us betake ourselves to another quarter of the town--for I
have promised Clarence Villiers that he shall see my face no more.”
The old hag and the handsome young woman retraced their way into the
heart of London; and, arriving in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden,
they entered an early breakfast-house, where they partook of a copious
meal, to which appetite and good spirits enabled them to do honour.
The repast being despatched, the elder of the two wanderers had
a few minutes’ whispering conversation with the landlady of the
establishment; the result of which was that a bed-room was speedily
placed at the disposal of the guests, who retired to partake of a few
hours’ most necessary repose.
It was near mid-day when the mother and daughter rose; and then another
interview with the landlady was shortly followed, in obedience to the
instructions given her, by the arrival of a woman who sold second-hand
female apparel, and who came laden with band-boxes. The contents
thereof were speedily examined; and the wanderers having selected the
articles which seemed most appropriate for their temporary use, the
slop-seller was well paid and dismissed.
And now Perdita and her parent began to assume each a very different
appearance from that which they had so recently worn. Copious ablutions
and decent clothing made the elder less revoltingly ugly, and the
younger more strikingly beautiful.
As they thus performed their toilette together, in the little chamber
of the coffee-house, the mother surveyed, with pride and admiration,
the features and form of her daughter,--calculating at the same time
how large a fortune the judicious sale of such loveliness was likely to
amass;--while on her side the young woman stood in superb complacency
before the glass, exercising a thousand little arts to render the
details of her toilette as perfect as circumstances would admit.
Perdita’s dark brown hair was combed out with the utmost care, and
arranged in simple bands, glossy and massive on either side of her
fine forehead. By chance she had obtained from the second-hand dealer
a gown which precisely fitted her, and which, being very low in the
body, displayed her full and swelling bust to its greatest advantage.
The darned stockings and the clumsy shoes wore superseded by more
fitting articles; and now the robust leg, the slender ancle, and the
long narrow foot were as faultless in proportion as if a sculptor had
modelled them to his own exquisite but voluptuous taste. A neat straw
bonnet and an ample shawl completed her attire;--and now well, but by
no means splendidly nor elegantly dressed, Perdita appeared a creature
so exceedingly handsome, that even her mother was surprised as much as
she was delighted.
And, as for the old woman herself, she had assumed an air of greater
respectability than at first might have appeared possible--seeing
that her look was sinister and repulsive, and her countenance so
weather-beaten and marred by suffering!
Forth went the mother and daughter into the streets of London;--and
their first care was to purchase a variety of articles of attire of a
far better kind than that which they had just procured,--likewise a
little jewellery and the necessary _paraphernalia_ of the toilette. The
goods were all sent to the coffee-house where they had hired a chamber;
and a couple of large trunks were the last objects they bought, and
which were despatched to the same place.
These matters having been accomplished, the old woman conducted her
daughter into the fashionable quarter of Regent Street; and there
Perdita beheld enough to excite her wonder and her admiration. The
magnificent shops--the fine buildings--the splendid equipages--and the
handsomely dressed gentlemen on horseback, all shared her attention in
their turns:--nor was she, an observer, unobserved--for many an old
voluptuary and stripling gallant paused to bestow a second glance upon
the plainly but decently dressed young female whoso countenance was so
strikingly beautiful, and in whose looks there was a subdued wantonness
engendering the most voluptuous sensations.
To Perdita’s mother how altered did London seem! Here was a street
which she had never seen before--there a street had been pulled down
to make way for some great thoroughfare. Here buildings once familiar
had disappeared: there strange edifices had sprung up! In Regent Street
she looked for the shops at which she had been accustomed to deal long
years before, when she dwelt in the immediate neighbourhood, and when
she was deemed a _saint_: but most of the establishments she sought had
changed their proprietors and their nature,--a grocer’s having become
a book-seller’s, a milliner’s a china warehouse, and so on. She had a
great mind to pass into Burlington Street; but she had not quite the
necessary courage to do _that_--at least for the present.
Having threaded Regent Street from Oxford Circus to Waterloo Place, the
two women turned into Pall Mall West, along which they proceeded for
a short distance; when the mother suddenly clasped her daughter’s arm
almost violently, exclaiming in a hasty whisper at the same time, “This
is the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham!”
Scarcely were these words uttered, when the door was opened, and forth
came Charles Hatfield. Passing by the two females without noticing
that he had immediately become the object of their most earnest
attention,--and indeed, without observing them at all, so deeply was he
absorbed in thought,--he moved on at a slow and uncertain pace, as if
he had merely come out to seek the fresh air, and having no particular
destination.
Yes:--he had indeed become the cynosure of attraction on the part
of the old woman and her daughter,--the former devouring him with
her eyes, in order to read his character and disposition in his
countenance, and assure herself from that physiognomical perusal that
he was fitted for her purpose,--and the latter embracing with a look
of ardent, wanton scrutiny every feature of his fine face and every
proportion of his symmetrical form.
He passed on:--and for a few minutes the mother and daughter preserved
a deep silence, each occupied with her own thoughts.
“That young man may be rendered pliant and docile according to our
will,” said the old woman at length.
“He is beyond all doubt the one whom the gipsy alluded to in such
glowing colours,” observed Perdita, with a voluptuous languor in the
eyes, a flushing of the cheeks, and a slow but deep heaving of the
bosom.
“And he has something on his mind--that is clear!” added the old woman.
“Which we will soon make him divulge to us,” said Perdita. “But how do
you intend to proceed in order to form his acquaintance?”
“Oh! nothing is more easy!” returned her mother. “In the first place we
must take handsome lodgings. I know of a nice, quiet, retired street
in the neighbourhood. Come along, Perdita--we must not waste valuable
time.”
The two women repaired direct to Suffolk Street, Pall Mall East; and in
the window of a house of handsome appearance they saw a card announcing
furnished apartments to be let. The lodgings were speedily inspected
and hired, the prepayment of a month’s rent immediately ensuring the
good opinion of the landlady and rendering references unnecessary.
Back to the coffee-house in the vicinity of Covent Garden did the
wanderers hasten; and in a few minutes all their packages and new
purchases were transported to a hackney coach, which was fetched from
the nearest stand. The coffee-house keeper was liberally rewarded, and
a handsome fee was bestowed upon the driver of the vehicle to induce
him to state, in case of being questioned in Suffolk Street, that he
had brought the ladies from some respectable hotel.
All these matters being arranged, the mother and daughter proceeded in
the hackney-coach to their new lodgings, where they at once took up
their quarters under the imposing name of Mrs. and Miss Fitzhardinge.
Had the worthy butcher who a few hours previously took pity on the two
ragged, sinking mendicants, and sustained their strength and courage
by means of hot brandy-and-water at the Elephant and Castle,--had he
now beheld Mrs. and Miss Fitzhardinge sitting down, elegantly attired,
at a well spread dinner-table, and at the fashionable time of six
in the evening,--he would not for an instant have supposed that the
way-worn beggars of the morning’s adventure and the ladies of Suffolk
Street, Pall Mall, were identical: or if, by chance, he should have
recognised Perdita’s handsome countenance, he would have thought that
the delusions of enchantment had been practised upon him or her.
And now we have prepared the way, with due prefatory explanation, for
one of the most striking and remarkable episodes in this narrative--an
episode showing how Perdita’s arts and Perdita’s beauty accomplished
aims which women of less enterprise than herself and her mother would
have deemed impossible.
Oh! fatal influence--that influence which the depraved and wanton
Perdita wielded by means of her transcendant charms!
[Illustration]