THE CALM.--THE TEMPEST.
Return we now to Charles Hatfield and Perdita.
The gorgeous lustre of a Parisian summer morning streamed through the
muslin curtains of a handsome chamber in the hotel at which they had
taken up their abode: and the glory of that sun-light shone upon the
nuptial couch, where the newly-wedded pair still slept.
The night of bliss had passed; and, wearied with love’s dalliance,
they had fallen into a deep slumber, the dreams of which were soft and
voluptuous, and gave no forewarning of a coming storm.
The long, luxuriant, deep brown hair of Perdita flowed over the snowy
whiteness of the pillow; and the dark, thick, slightly curling fringes
of the closed eye-lids reposed on cheeks flashed with the ecstatic
nature of her visions.
A gentle smile played upon her moist lips of richest red,--a smile that
subdued the expression of resoluteness which her countenance was wont
to wear, and gave an indescribable charm of serenity and sweetness to
features usually indicative of such strong passions and such fierce
desires.
But those passions were now lulled to rest: those desires were for the
time assuaged;--and happiness filled the soul of the sleeping woman.
One fine, white, and robust arm lay outside the coverlid: the other
supported the head, or rather half embraced the neck of her young and
handsome husband.
The sunbeams seemed to kiss her flowing hair,--seemed to play with the
exquisitely modelled arm that lay completely exposed,--seemed also to
revel in the treasures of her naked bosom, so firm, so rounded, and so
regularly heaving.
Sleep likewise sealed the eyes of Charles Hatfield: smiles likewise
played open his lips;--and his countenance appeared a perfect specimen
of god-like beauty incarnate in man.
Yes: they were a handsome pair;--and so far there was a remarkable
fitness in their union--but in naught beside!
In perfect happiness had they sunk into the profound slumber which
still enwrapped them;--for, on the one side, Charles Hatfield had
become possessed of that woman of glorious loveliness who had
enchanted--captivated--enthralled his very soul;--and, on the other,
Perdita believed herself to have gained the title of _Vicountess
Marston_ already, and to have that of _Countess of Ellingham_ in
perspective.
It was nine o’clock in the morning--the morning succeeding the bridal
night: and thus were the newly-wedded pair still sleeping in the
nuptial couch.
Presently the door opened, and Rosalie entered the room,--Rosalie,
naturally so gay, blythe, and full of spirits--but now with a cloud
upon her brow, and evident anxiety in her manner.
Advancing towards the bed, she paused--gazed for a few moments upon
the sleepers--and murmured to herself in French, “How handsome and
how serenely happy they appear to be! What a pity it is to awake
them!”--then, after another short pause, she said hurriedly, “And yet
it must be--for _the stranger_ is imperative.”
Thus speaking, she touched Charles Hatfield gently on the arm; and
he woke up, with a start. But Rosalie immediately put her finger to
her lip to enjoin silence; and the young man, now completely aroused,
surveyed her with mingled surprise and anger,--surprise at her
mysterious behaviour, and anger at her intrusion.
“Hush!” she said, in a low but emphatic tone. “A gentleman insists upon
seeing you--and, as his manner is so curious, I thought I had better
awake you _first_, sir,” she added, glancing significantly towards her
mistress, who still slept on.
“A gentleman!” repeated Charles, a suspicion--almost a certainty of the
real truth flashing to his mind: “describe him!”--and he also spoke in
a whisper, though with emphasis.
Rosalie gave a hurried sketch of the individual who so imperiously
demanded an immediate interview with her master; and Charles found that
his conjecture was correct--too correct, indeed!
“Go to him--and say that I shall be with him in five minutes,” he
observed, in a tone expressive of deep vexation;--and Rosalie retired.
Charles immediately rose from the couch, but without awaking Perdita;
and, having hastily slipped on some clothing, he proceeded to the
sitting-room belonging to the suite of apartments which he had hired at
the hotel.
He now found himself face to face with his father!
Mr. Hatfield was pacing the parlour in an agitated manner, when
the young man entered;--his countenance was very pale, and wore an
expression of deep care: indeed, Charles was shocked when his parent,
turning round to accost him, thus presented to his view an aspect so
profoundly wretched--so eloquently woe-begone.
The young man, during the few minutes which had intervened from
the time that Rosalie quitted his bed-chamber until the instant
when he repaired to the sitting-room, had nerved himself with all
his energy--braced himself with all his courage--mustered all his
resolution, to undergo what he knew must prove a painful trial; for he
expected accusations of disobedience and ingratitude--reproaches for
unmanly conduct towards Lady Frances Ellingham,--in fine, a repetition
of those scenes which had bitterly occurred at the Earl’s mansion in
Pall Mall, and which, characterised by so much misconception as they
had been, had materially tended to diminish the authority of the father
and the respect of the son.
Yes: he had made up his mind to bear upbraidings and encounter the most
painful remonstrances;--he had even resolved to recriminate in the old
style--reproaching his father for the wrongs which he imagined himself
to have sustained at his hands relative to the secrets attendant upon
his birth and social position. But when he beheld the expression
of deep care and the ashy pallor which sate upon that father’s
countenance, his rebellious heart softened--his stern resolves gave
way--his better feelings once more stirred within him;--and all on a
sudden it struck him that there must be some reason for his parent’s
altered appearance, of a nature more grave--more serious, than the mere
grief which this runaway match could possibly occasion.
The thought that evil had happened to his mother flashed to his
mind;--and in an instant all his imaginary wrongs were forgotten.
“Father--dear father,” he exclaimed, in a tone of earnest appeal; “keep
me not in suspense! My mother----”
“Is as well, I hope, as under circumstances she can possibly be,”
interrupted Mr. Hatfield, in a hollow and sombre tone.
“Thank God!” cried Charles, fervently.
“Is it possible that you still love your mother?” demanded Mr.
Hatfield, whose countenance brightened up in the faintest degree, but
in a manner as sickly as if the gleam of a dying lamp fell upon the
rigid features of a corpse.
“Is it possible that you can ask me the question?” exclaimed the young
man. “Oh! you know that I love my mother--my dear mother,” he repeated,
as a thousand proofs of her affection for him suddenly rose up in
his mind--rapidly as the spell of an enchanter might cause flowers
to appear upon the surface of a stern and arid waste. “And you, my
father,” he continued, taking his parent’s hand, and pressing it to
his lips, “I love you also--in spite of what you may suppose to be my
disobedient conduct!”
“No--no--you love me not!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, hastily withdrawing
his hand which for a few moments he had abandoned to his son: “else
never would you have acted thus. But tell me, Charles--tell me,--for
I did not condescend to question your flippant French servant,--tell
me--have I come too late to save you?--are you married to that young
woman----”
“If you mean, father, whether Perdita Fitzhardinge is now my wife,”
began Charles, drawing himself up proudly, and speaking in a
resolute--almost indignant tone,--“I----”
“Perdita Fitzhardinge!” repeated the unhappy man, staggering as if
from a sudden blow dealt by an invisible hand: “oh! then ’tis indeed
she--and all my worst fears are confirmed! Villiers was right--and
those officers were right also!”
“What mean you, father!” demanded Charles, now seriously
alarmed--though knowing not what to think. “You speak of a young lady
of ravishing beauty--elegant manners--spotless character----”
“Charles Hatfield, is she your wife?” asked the parent, now advancing
close up to the young man, and pressing his arm so violently with the
strong spasm which convulsed his fingers that Charles winced and almost
cried out through the pain inflicted; for his arm felt as if it were
grasped by fingers of iron!
“Yes, father--I am proud to inform you,” he said, again assuming an air
of noble independence,--“I am proud to inform you----”
“Fool--madman--senseless idiot!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, his rage
suddenly bursting forth with such volcanic fury that his son fell back
in terror and dismay and eyed his father as if he thought that _he_
must be insane: “you know not what you have done--the misery, the
wretchedness you have prepared for yourself--the ashes you are heaping
upon your own head--the infamy and disgrace you have brought down upon
yourself and all connected with you----”
“Father--father!” cried Charles, now becoming full of wrath in his
turn: “you exceed the license which belongs to a parent even when the
son is in his nonage! Remember that you are alluding to the marriage
which I have thought fit to contract----”
“A marriage which will embitter the remainder of your days, sir,”
retorted Mr. Hatfield, turning sharply round upon his son, and speaking
with almost savage rage.
“This is unworthy of you--and I shall hear no more,” said Charles, in a
haughty tone and with a dignified manner, as he made for the door.
“Stop, sir!” cried Mr. Hatfield, rushing after him and detaining him
forcibly by the arm: “we may not part thus----”
“Speak not evil, then, of my wife!” exclaimed Charles, turning round,
and darting on his sire a look of superb defiance.
“Your wife!” repeated Mr. Hatfield, his manly voice suddenly assuming
the almost shrieking tone of a wild hysterical laugh: “your wife!” he
said, now echoing his own words. “Oh! my God, that I should hear you
call that woman--that vile, profligate woman, by the sacred name----
“Father!” ejaculated Charles Hatfield, now goaded to desperation, and
raising his arm in a menacing manner: “forbear--forbear, I say,” he
continued in a hoarse, thick voice,--“or, by the heaven above us! I
shall strike even _you_!”
“Listen--listen, Charles--for God’s sake, have patience!” cried
Mr. Hatfield, the thought now flashing to his mind that in his
ungovernable passion he had dealt only in epithets and averments as
yet unintelligible to his son--whereas he should at once have revealed
facts, terrible and startling, crushing and overwhelming though they
might be.
“I will hear you, father,” said the young man, now speaking in a tone
of dogged sullenness “but again I warn you not to provoke me beyond the
power of endurance.”
“No--no--I will not anger you, my son,” rejoined the unhappy parent,
becoming comparatively calm and even mournful in his manner and aspect;
“for, alas! I have tidings to reveal to you which will pierce like a
dagger to your heart’s core. The woman whom you have wedded as your
wife----”
“Again that contemptuous name of ‘_the woman_!’” ejaculated Charles,
fire flashing from his eyes.
“Patience!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, firmly: “that woman has deceived
you--duped you--entangled you, heaven alone knows how! to your utter
undoing--for she is the profligate and abandoned daughter of a vile and
tainted wretch--a returned transport!”
“’Tis false--false as hell!” thundered Charles, the workings of his
countenance rendering him, handsome though he naturally was, hideous
and horrible to behold.
“’Tis true--’tis true!” cried Mr. Hatfield, as if catching up the
terrible emphasis with which his son had spoken. “Perdita Slingsby--for
that is her name--is a wanton, beauteous though she may be: and it was
but two days ago that I accidentally heard the full narrative of her
profligacies in Sydney, from two officers quartered at Dover.”
When the dreadful accusation that his wife was a _wanton_ had fallen
upon the young man’s ears, his boiling rage was on the point of
bursting forth, with all the violence of language and clenched fist,
against the author of his being: but when the allusion to the officers
at Dover immediately followed, the scene on the Parade suddenly flashed
to his memory, and a faintness--a sensation of sickness came over
him,--and he staggered to a sofa, on which he sank as if exhausted and
overcome.
“Father--father,” he murmured, horrible suspicions now rising up one
after another, with lightning speed, in his soul: “your words are
terrible--they will kill me! And yet,” he added, in a firmer tone,as
a ray of hope gleamed in upon his darkening thoughts,--“I am a fool
to believe this tale! No--no--it is impossible! Perdita is pure and
virtuous--and there is some dreadful mistake in all this.”
But even as he uttered these words, a secret voice seemed to whisper
in his ears that he was only catching at a straw, and that he was in
reality drowning in the ocean of truth which was pouring in with such
sweeping rapidity and overwhelming might upon him.
“There is no mistake, my son,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a voice of
profound melancholy. “Would to heaven that there were!” he added, with
such deep conviction of the misery which his words implied, that all
hope perished suddenly in the breast of his son. “You have become the
prey to two designing women: for I heard terrible things at Dover, I
can assure you! The officers to whom I ere now alluded, had recognised
Perdita leaning on your arm----”
“Yes--yes: I see it all now!” exclaimed Charles, covering his face
with his hands, and pressing his fingers with almost frantic violence
against his throbbing brows.
“And those officers--with sorrow and grief do I tell you all this--had
themselves shared the favours of Perdita in Sydney; and as for the
mother of the abandoned girl--know you what has become of her?”
suddenly demanded Mr. Hatfield.
“No: we missed her at Dover--just as we had embarked on board the
French steam-ship----”
“Then you are doomed to receive another dreadful shock, my poor boy,”
continued Mr. Hatfield, in a tone of deep commiseration: “for Mrs.
Slingsby--or Mrs. Fitzhardinge--or whatever she calls herself--was
arrested at Dover, in consequence of a communication made by electric
telegraph from London----”
“Arrested!” cried Charles, his amazement for a moment becoming stronger
even than his deep--deep grief.
“Yes--arrested on suspicion of being concerned in a murder of an
atrocious character at Pentonville!” added Mr. Hatfield, in a solemn
and impressive tone.
“Merciful God!” ejaculated the young man, clasping his hands together
as if in mortal agony: “surely I have fallen in with fiends in female
disguise. But Perdita--Perdita,” he cried, the lingering remnants of
affection causing him to hope that he was destined to hear nothing more
terrible of _her_ than the revelations which had already crushed him as
it were to the very dust: “she at least, father, is unsuspected in this
dreadful affair?”
“The old woman who _is_ suspected, and whose countenance was seen by
a witness as she issued from the house of the murdered man,--that old
woman, who is no doubt Mrs. Slingsby, was accompanied by another and
younger female----”
“Tell me no more, father!” almost yelled forth Charles Hatfield,
literally writhing on the sofa, as if with the poignant anguish of a
wound in a vital part.
“Compose yourself, my dear son--if it be possible,” said the
disconsolate parent: “for I have many other things to tell you,--other
dreams to destroy,--dreams equally as bright as the hallucinations
which you had entertained relative to this wicked and hypocritical
Perdita. But first I ought to observe that there appears to be no
direct evidence to fix the murder of Mr. Percival----”
“Percival!” repeated Charles, another and still more dreadful
pang shooting through his heart: “tell me--Percival did you
say?--Percival--a money-lender----”
“The same,” cried Mr. Hatfield: “for I last evening read the entire
account of the murder in an English paper which I saw at the hotel
where I have put up.”
“Then is the horrible surmise too true--too accurate,” said Charles, in
a hollow tone, while his face grew ghastly once more; “and it must have
been these demons in female shape who caused his death. But on what
night, father,” he demanded with abrupt impatience, “did the murder
take place?”
“The night before you quitted London,” was the answer.
“Ah! then it is clear--clear--clear, beyond all possibility of doubt!”
exclaimed Charles. “Yes--it was on the night in question that my note
of hand was discounted by that same Percival--for Perdita has since
told me that such was the name of the money-lender,” he continued, in
his soul-harrowing musings.
“You have been raising money, then, Charles?” said Mr. Hatfield. “But
that is a miserable--a contemptible trifle compared to all the rest!
May I however ask you on what security--or on what prospects--you have
obtained a loan and given a promissory note?”
“Father, henceforth there must be no secrets between us!” returned
the young man, becoming respectful, submissive, and even imploring
in his tone and demeanour. “The dreadful revelations of this morning
have destroyed all that egotistical confidence in myself and my own
wisdom----”
“Yes, Charles,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, taking his son’s hand
and speaking in a kind, commiserating tone; “you have been too
susceptible to first impressions--you have formed hasty opinions--you
have grasped at shadows--you have revelled in delicious hopes and
pleasing aspirations, without ever pausing to reflect that the very
foundation-stone of all this castle-building was a mere delusion.”
“I do not comprehend you, father,” said the young man, now surveying
his parent with profound surprise: “unless, indeed, you allude to
the destruction of all the bright visions which I have conjured up
respecting the false--the wicked--the abandoned Perdita.”
“No, my dear son--I am now seeking to direct the conversation into
another channel,” responded Mr. Hatfield, with solemn emphasis; “for,
alas! I can too well divine the deplorable error which you have adopted
and cherished as a substantial truth.”
“An error, father!” repeated Charles, still completely mystified.
“Yes--an error of the most afflicting nature,--afflicting to
you--afflicting to me--afflicting to your mother also,” added
Mr. Hatfield, his voice becoming low and melancholy. “In a word,
Charles, you believe yourself to be that which you are not--your
ambition has blinded you--your pride has led you into the most fatal
misconceptions----”
“Father, you allude to my birth!” exclaimed the young man, starting as
he spoke. “Oh! is there any delusion in my recently formed opinions in
that respect?”
Mr. Hatfield rose--and paced the room for a few moments: the whelming
tide of recollections of the past was now combined with that of the
sorrows of the present and the fears for the future;--and his emotions
were so powerful, that his voice was choked--his faculty of speech was
for the time suffocated by ineffable feelings.
“Father--keep me not in suspense, I implore you!” said Charles, rising
from the sofa and accosting his parent. “I am nerved _now_ to hear any
thing and every thing, however terrible, in relation to myself! Only
keep me not in suspense, I beseech--I implore you!”
“Alas! my dear boy,” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, turning towards him with
tearful eyes,--“if I tell you all connected with your birth--I--I shall
unmask myself--I shall stand revealed before you as a monster whom you
must henceforth loathe and detest.”
“No--no,” cried Charles, now throwing himself into his father’s arms
and embracing him tenderly: “for the fatal difficulties--the cruel
embarrassments, in which I have plunged myself by my accursed folly--my
insane infatuation,--all these convince me that I need a kind friend
and adviser--and in you, my dearest father, I shall find both!”
“Your language--your altered manner--your affection determine me to
throw myself upon your mercy, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a low
and profoundly mournful tone; “yes,--’tis the strange--the unnatural
spectacle of a father imploring a son to forgive _him_--the father--the
stain and the stigma which mark that son’s birth!”
“Holy God! have I heard aright?” ejaculated Charles, pressing his hand
to his brow;--and, staggering back, he sank on the sofa,--not in a
swoon--not in a state of insensibility,--but stunned and stupefied, as
it were--and yet retaining a maddening consciousness of _all_!
“Yes,” continued his father, speaking in a sepulchral, unearthly tone,
and averting his head,--“you are, alas! illegitimate, my dear boy; and
the hopes--the aspirations, which I _know_ you have formed, are all
baseless visions!”
“And yet,” cried Charles, again starting suddenly from his seat,
“you assured me--emphatically assured me, that my mother was
pure--innocent--stainless;--and it was this averment that led me,
in connexion with the discovery which I lately made of other great
secrets,--it was this declaration on your part, I say, which led me to
form those hopes--indulge in those aspirations!”
“Oh! my God--it is now that I am to appear as a monster in your eyes,
Charles!” exclaimed the wretched father, in a voice of bitter anguish:
“and yet to guard against all future misconceptions, since past ones
have wrought such deplorable mischief--I must reveal every thing to
you! Yes--your mother _was_ stainless--_was_ pure--_was_ innocent;--and
I--villain, miscreant that I was--I forcibly took from her that jewel
of chastity----”
“Enough--enough!” almost shrieked forth Charles Hatfield, extending his
hands imploringly: “utter not another word--I understand you too well
already!”
“And you have _read_ the history of my past life, Charles--is it not
so?” asked the unhappy parent. “Yes--yes: I know you have _read_--in
the _Annual Register_--the frightful narrative----”
“Father,” said the young man, rising, and grasping the hands of his
sire: “you must not blush in the presence of your son! Once for all,
let me state that I _do_ know every thing;--and now let the past--so
far as it regards yourself--be buried in oblivion. My impertinent
curiosity first led me to make those researches into mysteries
which I should never have sought to penetrate;--and the knowledge I
accidentally acquired, led me to form hopes which have exercised a
fatal influence upon me! I discovered that you were the real Earl of
Ellingham; and, deeming myself to be your legitimately born son, I
conceived that you had wronged me by keeping me in darkness in respect
to the title which I fancied to be my own,--in respect, also, to the
higher title to which I believed myself to be the heir! Now--now, I can
no longer blame you for having observed so much mystery: Oh! no--on
the contrary, I have rewarded all your kindness towards me, with the
blackest ingratitude.”
“We will pardon and forgive each other,” said Mr. Hatfield, solemnly:
“you shall pardon and forgive me for the stigma that attaches itself
to your birth--you shall likewise pardon me your mother’s wrongs, even
as she herself has long, long since pardoned me: and I, on my part,
will think no more of all that you have lately done--save to extricate
you from the cruel embarrassments in which by your hasty conduct, your
imprudence, and your misconceptions, you have become involved. In a
word, I will be to you as a kind friend and adviser;--and if henceforth
I may not hope for your affection--at least I may reckon upon your
gratitude.”
“Yes--both, both!” cried Charles Hatfield, again embracing his father
tenderly. “Oh! how wicked--how criminal I have been! A veil has fallen
from my eyes--my soul has lost its dogged obstinacy--and I now perceive
how ungrateful I have been to my dear mother and yourself. But if it
be not too late to repair the past,” he continued, retreating a few
paces, and addressing his parent with a tone and manner of solemn
earnestness,--“if it be not too late to regain my mother’s love and
yours also,--oh! then the remainder of my life shall be wholly and
solely devoted to that one object! Yes--I will reinstate myself in
your esteem--I will prove by years of affection and obedience how
bitter is my remorse and how sincere is my repentance for the follies
and indiscretions of a few weeks! But in the meantime, father--in the
meantime, how am I to act towards the vile--the guilty woman, whom I
lately loved so madly?”
“Where is she at present?” demanded Mr. Hatfield, profoundly touched by
the contrition and altered feelings now manifested by his son.
“I left her asleep in a chamber belonging to this suite,” was the
reply. “Oh! I dare not meet her again--for I fear that I should spring
upon her like a tiger, and sacrifice her to my resentment! For all my
affection has now turned to a bitter--burning hatred,--a hatred against
herself and her more vile mother; and I am astounded when I reflect how
completely I have been deluded by them. It appears to me a dream--a
vision! I can scarcely bring myself to conceive that I could possibly
have been so insensate--so mad--so blind--so besotted! Oh! I could dash
my head against the wall, to punish myself for this atrocious folly!”
And the young man struck his clenched fists forcibly against his
forehead.
“Compose yourself--in the name of God! compose yourself,” said his
parent, rushing in upon him and restraining him from the commission
of farther violence. “Give not way to despair, my dear son--meet your
misfortune with courage----”
“Oh! it is easy thus to recommend patience and endurance,” exclaimed
Charles, bitterly: “but think how cruelly I have been deceived! I was
fascinated as by the eyes of a serpent;--the magic of her charms, the
melody of her voice, the sophistry of her tongue, and the excitement
of her caresses, threw spells of an irresistible nature upon me: I
was enchanted--held captive in silken chains--dazzled by the almost
superhuman beauty of that prodigy of deceit and wantonness! I was not
allowed time for reflection--suspicion had no leisure to rise up in my
bosom, much less to fix its habitation there;--for I was whirled along,
as in a delirious dream, from the first instant that I met that woman
until the instant when your revelations of this morning dispelled the
entire illusion. The artfulness of that designing creature sustained
a constant elysian excitement in my soul: a perpetual succession of
insidious wiles, of apparent proofs of deep tenderness, and of caresses
that would enthral the heart of a saint,--such--such was the magic
course in which I was hurried madly along. Endowed with a wondrous
presence of mind, she had a ready answer for every question that I put
to her--even to the explanation of her singular name;--and, with a
guile as profound as it was ravishing--with an artfulness as deep as it
was calculated to enchant and captivate--she invested the history of
her early days with a mystery which only increased my admiration, and
made her appear more interesting in my eyes.”
“You cannot wonder, then, that you were so completely deceived, my poor
boy,” said Mr. Hatfield, who had listened with great, though mournful
interest to the eloquent delineation of causes and effects which the
impassioned language of the young man had so graphically shaped. “But
as for the designing creature’s name, I heard its origin from the
officers whom I met at Dover. She is called _Perdita_, or ‘The Lost
One,’ because she was born in Newgate--and her mother, in the moment of
repentance for her own crimes, gave her that appellation as a memorial
and a warning----”
“Heavens!” ejaculated Charles; “and I believed the specious--the
plausible explanation which the artful girl gave me relative to her
name! Oh! she is made up of deceit: the world has never known her equal
in that respect. I have read of Circe, with her spells--and of the
Syrens, with their perilous allurements;--I have read also of those
Mermaids--with the heads and busts of beauteous women, and with the
tails of monsters--and whose melting looks and ravishing songs enticed
sailors to their coasts, only to fall victims to these unnatural
devourers of human flesh:--but all these wonders of heathen mythology
are surpassed by this modern Circe--this Syren of the nineteenth
century--this Mermaid who preys, not on mortal flesh, but upon immortal
souls!”
There was a terrible earnestness in the tone and manner of Charles, as
he gave utterance to these words:--and his father perceived that the
heart of the young man was painfully lacerated by the conviction of
Perdita’s tremendous duplicity.
“Yes,” resumed Charles,--and Mr. Hatfield allowed him to speak on,
knowing that feelings so powerfully excited as his had been and still
were, must have a proper vent, in order that the soul might regain
something approaching to the equilibrium of calmness:--“yes,” exclaimed
the young man, passionately,--“she, whom I believed to be the mirror
in which all excellent qualities were reflected, is the embodiment
of every possible vice--every earthly iniquity. Oh! what a splendid
personification of SIN would she make for the painter or the architect!
But it must be a bold pencil or a powerful pen that could do justice
to _her_,--aye, and a man deeply read in the mysteries of human life,
to pourtray her character with accuracy! And that character I can read
now;--and I know her to be a creature who has studied sensuality, with
all the ardour of a glowing temperament--with all the vivid sensibility
that could enhance the joys of amorous enchantment! Oh! mine was an
idolatry such as a rapt enthusiasm pays, in its blind belief, to
the Spirit of Evil, conceiving it to be the source of every virtue!
Fatal mistake--deplorable error: shall I ever surmount the terrible
consequences?”
“Yes--by taking courage, following my counsel, and placing me in
full possession of all the minutest details of this distressing and
perplexing case,” said Mr. Hatfield, assuming the part of a comforter,
now that the indignation of his son had in some degree expended itself
in those passionate outpourings which we have endeavoured to describe.
“Oh! fear not, my beloved father--my only friend,” cried Charles,
warmly,--“fear not that I shall now conceal aught from you! I have
obeyed the impulses of my own wrongheadedness--and I am suffering
terribly in consequence: I have followed the dictates of my own
wilfulness--and I have gone lamentably astray! The result is that I
have no more confidence in myself: from the pinnacle of that proud
independence which I sought to assume, I am dashed down into a state
of childish helplessness. If you abandon me--I should not have courage
even to attempt to extricate myself from this maze of embarrassments in
which I am so cruelly involved: I should resign myself to my fate--I
should sink into despair!”
“Cheer up, my beloved son--and think not for a moment of these dreadful
alternatives,” said Mr. Hatfield: “but answer me a few questions, and I
shall then know better how to act. Did you not find certain papers in a
secret recess in the Earl’s library----”
“Yes--and those papers are safe,” replied Charles: “at least--Perdita
has them secure in her writing-desk, and we will make her surrender
them presently.”
“As her husband--alas! that I should have to speak of you as such,--you
may break open that desk and take them by force,” said Mr. Hatfield!
“Does the young woman know their contents?”
“Unfortunately she does,” was the mournful answer.
“And her mother----”
“Is equally well acquainted with them,” said Charles. “Even to save
you a pang,--and heaven knows I would now do much to spare you any
additional uneasiness,--I will not deceive nor mislead you in a single
detail.”
“No--this is not a time nor a case for trifling, Charles,” observed Mr.
Hatfield. “Then both these women know who I am?” he added, in a low and
hoarse voice.
“Oh! my God!” cried Charles, giving vent to his deep vexation and
obeying the impulse of his self-accusing spirit: “to what humiliations
have I not exposed you, my dearest father? _Can_ you--_will_ you ever
forgive me for all this?”
“Have we not had much to pardon--much to explain, on either side,
already?” asked Mr. Hatfield, his voice now regaining its mildness--a
mildness that was, however, mournfully subdued. “Well, then, my dear
boy, give not way to these self-reproaches; for if I be anxious to
obtain a certain knowledge of the full extent of these evils, it
is only with the view of falling into no error and committing no
oversight in extricating both yourself and me from the embarrassments
that surround us. To return, then, to the immediate subject of our
discourse--those women know _all_?”
“All--every thing,” replied Charles. “In that blind infatuation----”
“Compose yourself, my dear boy,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a voice slightly
indicative of paternal authority. “Respecting the promissory note you
gave the money-lender Percival----”
“Oh! now I shrink indeed from telling you the truth,” interrupted
Charles, his countenance glowing with shame and confusion; “and
yet--faithful to my promise--I will not mislead you. The note of hand
to which you allude was signed--_Viscount Marston_!”
“If I recollect aright,” said Mr. Hatfield, “the account of the
murder, as reported in the newspapers, states distinctly that no
papers nor documents of any kind were found in the victim’s house--the
tin-box, in which such things were probably kept, having been emptied
of its contents. The assassin or assassins, then, whoever they may
be, possessed themselves of all the poor man’s papers--and your note
doubtless amongst the rest. In this case, we shall probably never hear
of it again. But--knowing the two women as you do--can you believe that
_they_ were the murderesses?”
“No--I cannot think it!” exclaimed Charles. “What motive could they
have had? Certainly not to recover my promissory note, since they
believed me to be the heir to immense wealth;--and as they no doubt
fancied that their connexion with me would place ample resources at
their command, they were not likely to peril their lives by killing
the man for the sake of the money which he might have had in the
house. Besides, when I saw them on the following morning, there was no
confusion--nothing on their part to denote that they had so recently
committed a horrible crime; and, depraved--wicked--unscrupulous as they
evidently are, I cannot bring myself to imagine that they could meet
me with calm and unruffled countenances, only a few hours after having
accomplished a midnight murder.”
“Let us hope that they are indeed innocent,” said Mr. Hatfield
solemnly. “And now I will explain to you the manner in which I propose
to deal with this Perdita.”
The interest and attention of Charles redoubled, if possible, as his
father uttered these words.
“Thank heaven,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “I possess wealth; and by
means of gold, every thing can be accomplished with such mercenary
adventuresses as these. Perdita shall receive a handsome sum of ready
money, and a suitable income allowed her so long as she shall consent
to dwell upon the continent, take any other name than that which you
have unfortunately given her, and never more molest you.”
But scarcely had Mr. Hatfield uttered these words,--and before his
son had time to offer a single comment upon the proposed plan to be
adopted,--the door opened, and Perdita entered the room.