CHAPTER CXXXV.

CHARLES HATFIELD AND MRS. FITZHARDINGE.

It was a little after twelve o’clock when Charles Hatfield reached the

house in Suffolk Street.

“Is Miss Fitzhardinge at home?” he enquired of the female servant who

answered his summons at the door.

“Have the kindness to walk up into the drawing-room, sir,” was the

response; and, with beating heart, the young man followed the domestic

into the apartment where he expected again to behold his beauteous

Perdita.

But, to his disappointment--a disappointment which he could not

conceal, he found himself in the presence of her mother.

“Be seated, sir,” she said, coldly and formally indicating a chair,

into which Charles Hatfield fell as if in obedience to the command of a

witch. “I have many matters whereon to converse with you; and, to speak

candidly, scarcely know how to commence. One subject personally regards

you: another intimately relates to my own interests. But I will begin

with that which so nearly concerns yourself.”

“I am all attention, madam,” said Charles, endeavouring to assume as

respectful a demeanour as possible, but in reality glancing with much

impatience towards the door--as if by his eager looks inviting the

entrance of Perdita.

“My daughter will not interrupt us, Mr. Hatfield,” exclaimed Mrs.

Fitzhardinge, with an affectation of malice which seemed ominous and

foreboding to the young man. “Indeed, whether you will ever see her

again, depends upon the result of our present interview.”

“My God! madam,” cried Charles, in an imploring tone; “have I offended

your beautiful daughter--or yourself?”

“I am not precisely offended, Mr. Hatfield,” said the old woman,

assuming a more conciliatory manner: “but certain explanations are

necessary between us;--and indeed, it depends entirely on yourself

whether you ever behold Perdita again.”

“Then I shall behold her again, madam,” returned Charles, emphatically.

“And now I can really listen to you with attention----”

“And perhaps with patience,” added Mrs. Fitzhardinge, her rigid

features at length relaxing into a faint smile. “But I will not tax

that patience longer than I can help. Firstly, then, we are to speak of

the matters which concern yourself. And now--will you not be surprised

when I assure you that I am acquainted with many strange and marvellous

secrets connected with your family?”

“Ah!” ejaculated Charles, starting.

“But perhaps I even know more than you yourself are acquainted with?”

said Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

“No, madam--no: that is impossible!” he cried, emphatically.

“Do any of those secrets give you pain to contemplate?” she asked,

fixing her eyes searchingly upon him. “Pardon me for thus questioning

you----”

“And why, madam, do you so question me?” he demanded, almost angrily.

“Because I am as yet ignorant to what extent your knowledge may go in

certain respects,” she replied.

“Then believe me, madam--believe me,” cried Charles Hatfield, bitterly,

“when I assure you that I know much more than you can possibly have an

idea of!”

“Is the name of Rainford familiar to you?” asked the old woman,

steadily watching the effect of her question.

“Madam,” exclaimed Charles, starting from his seat, and approaching

Mrs. Fitzhardinge in a threatening manner, “would you taunt me with the

infamy of my birth?--for I see that it is no secret to you! But imagine

not--if such indeed be your idea--that I am unworthy the love of your

daughter Perdita! You were about to marry her to an old nobleman: what

if a young nobleman were to demand her hand?”

“A young nobleman!” ejaculated Mrs. Fitzhardinge, now surprised in

her turn: for it must be remembered that all she knew concerning the

present subject was gleaned from the musings of the old gipsy; and

those musings had led her to believe that Charles was the nephew of Mr.

Hatfield, _alias_ Thomas Rainford.

“Yes--madam--a young nobleman!” he repeated, carried away by the

excitement of feelings under which he laboured: for he fancied that

the old lady had intended to reproach him--_him_, the son of the

resuscitated highwayman--with having dared to love her daughter. “And

now, perhaps, it is your turn to be surprised: for, as surely as you

are seated there, I am not the plain, and humble, and obscure Charles

Hatfield--but the _Lord Viscount Marston_, heir to the Earldom of

Ellingham!”

Mrs. Fitzhardinge restrained her surprise with the utmost presence of

mind--exerting indeed an extraordinary power of self-controul; and,

surveying him with an unblushing effrontery, she said, “Well, my lord,

your lordship is at length led to confess who you really are!”

“My lord”--“your lordship!”--Oh! how sweetly--how sweetly sounded those

words on the ears of Charles Hatfield:--he forgot that he was the son

of the resuscitated highwayman--he remembered not that his sire had

passed through the ordeal of a scaffold: he heard only that he was

saluted with a title of nobility; and already did it seem as if half

his ambition were gratified.

“Madam,” he said, at length recovering his self-possession, and

subduing as much as possible the wildness of that joy which had seized

upon him, “then it appears you were acquainted with my right to a title

of nobility?”

“I was,” she answered, with an air of the most perfect truthfulness:

“and believing _you_ to be ignorant of that fact, I was anxious to

make the revelation to your lordship.”

“You are consequently acquainted with every thing that regards me?”

continued Charles, not perceiving, in the still elated condition of

his mind, that the question was foolish became it embraced a vague and

undefined generality.

“Everything, my lord,” returned Mrs. Fitzhardinge, repeating the

titular appellation, because in her latent shrewdness she saw full well

the pleasure that its swelling sound afforded to the young man.

“This is most strange--most singular!” cried Charles, musing audibly:

“for I came hither with the intention of revealing all--every thing--to

your Perdita, through whom you would have learnt the entire particulars

in the course of this day;--and, behold! I am anticipated--for you

already are as well acquainted with those most mysterious circumstances

as I myself! But may I ask, madam,” he exclaimed, turning abruptly

towards Mrs. Fitzhardinge,--“may I ask how you came to know that Mr.

Hatfield is my father, and that he is the rightful Earl of Ellingham,

legitimately born?”

Mrs. Fitzhardinge had hitherto known nothing at all of those

circumstances; but, without manifesting the least surprise, she said,

“Pray be seated, my lord--compose yourself--give not way to unnecessary

excitement; and I will at once proceed to explain all my conduct to

your lordship.”

Charles Hatfield threw himself into an arm-chair, and showed a

disposition to listen with attention.

“Has your lordship ever heard of a gipsy named Miranda?” enquired Mrs.

Fitzhardinge.

“Yes: I lately read the entire history of that Octavia Manners who

became Countess of Ellingham, and who was my father’s mother. The gipsy

of whom you speak was her faithful friend: but she must now be very

old--even if she be in existence!”

“She _is_ in existence--or at least was a short time back,” said Mrs.

Fitzhardinge. “From her lips did I receive the entire history of your

family.”

“But she could not have known that the late Earl of Ellingham married

the injured Octavia Manners,” cried Charles: “she could not have been

aware of my father’s real rank and position.”

“Yes--she knew all,” returned the wily woman, uttering a deliberate

falsehood: “how and by what means, it matters not--neither, indeed, did

she inform me. When the whole tale was revealed to me, I thought that

you must be in ignorance of your just rights; and, having by accident

heard a good account of your lordship’s generous heart and amiable

qualities----”

“From whom?” demanded Charles.

“Oh! I must not gratify your curiosity in these minute details,”

exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “Suffice it that I adhere to the important

points of our present topic.”

“Proceed, madam: I will not again interrupt you unnecessarily,” said

the young man.

“Well, then, my lord--I fancied that it was a flagrant shame and an

abhorrent cruelty thus to retain you in ignorance, as I supposed, of

your true standing in the world; and a sense of justice determined

me--although a total stranger to you--to acquaint your lordship with

those facts which, it however appears, were already well known to you.”

“To speak candidly, my dear madam,” said Charles, “I _was_ in complete

ignorance of all those circumstances until eight or ten days ago, when

they were revealed to me by the strangest accident in the world.”

“May I, without appearing indiscreet, enquire the nature of

the accident that thus put your lordship in possession of such

important--such vitally important facts?”

“Assuredly, my dear madam,” returned Charles Hatfield. “You yourself

have behaved to me with so much kindness and candour in this respect,

that I owe you my entire confidence. A mere chance threw in my way

certain papers which fully prove that Octavia Manners was the wife of

the late Earl of Ellingham when their child was born; and that my own

father, who now bears the name of Hatfield, but who was so long and so

unhappily known by that of Rainford, was the child to whom allusion is

made.”

“And those papers--have you them in your possession?” asked Mrs.

Fitzhardinge.

“I have--carefully concealed in a private compartment of my

writing-desk, in my own chamber at Lord Ellingham’s mansion.”

“But has your lordship no hesitation in proclaiming your rights and

titles--or rather in acquiring them by forcing your father to proclaim

his own?” demanded the old woman, again fixing her eyes steadfastly

upon his countenance.

“Ah! _there_, madam, you touch the wound in my heart!” exclaimed

Charles, the sudden workings of his countenance displaying the anguish

which the thought excited within him. “I am loth to take the grand--the

important--the irrevocable step on the one hand; and I cannot bear to

surrender up all my privileges on the other. Moreover, my parents have

not acted towards me in a way to render necessary every sacrifice on my

part;--and even this morning--this very morning--my father added a new

injury to the list of those already committed against me--a new wrong,

by upbraiding me, under particular circumstances, with harshness--even

brutality.”

“Certainly your lordship cannot permit a false sense of filial duty

to mar all the golden prospects which open before you!” exclaimed

the vile woman, who was thus encouraging evil thoughts in the young

man’s mind. “Consider your youth--your handsome appearance--your great

talents--the brilliant hopes which develop themselves in the horizon of

the future----”

“Oh! I have thought of all this--I have weighed every thing for and

against the course which I long to adopt, but which the interests of my

parents oppose----”

Charles paused--dashed his hand against his heated brow--and, rising,

paced the room in an agitated manner.

“My lord, this excitement is useless,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “If you

will deign to consider me as a friend----”

“I do--I do!” he cried, approaching her, and pressing her shrivelled

hand with fervent, but oh! with how mistaken gratitude: “have you not

proved yourself my friend? Did you not, though a stranger, contemplate

the generous act of revealing to me secrets which you considered as

necessary to be known to me? And have you not even now given me advice

which is consistent with my interests?”

“Then, if your lordship will thus regard me as a friend, permit me to

suggest that you do not on the one hand abandon your determination to

assert your rights, nor on the other adopt any course that has not

been well deliberated upon. Consider,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, “your

lordship will have to steel your heart against a father’s prayers--a

mother’s tears: you will have to contend against the entreaties of

you uncle, the Earl--and of his handsome Jewish wife,--aye--and the

beseechings of their daughter too;--for I understand that your lordship

has a beautiful cousin----”

“Oh! how many hearts may I not have to break in piling up the fabric of

my ambition!” exclaimed Charles Hatfield, his heart once more smiting

him severely,--or rather with an anguish that was intolerable.

“Yes--those are the considerations which lie before your lordship,”

resumed Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “But you must also reflect, my lord, upon

the immense interests you have at stake. Is it better to remain simple

_Charles Hatfield_ all your life--or----”

“You need not finish the question, madam,” said the young man, suddenly

interrupting the infamous old harridan, and now speaking in a cold tone

of desperate resolution. “I must persevere: my destiny is fixed--and

even if hearts break in the struggle, I will not shrink from the

contest that is to give me my just rights! But let us talk no more of

this for the present. May I be permitted to enquire after your charming

daughter----”

“You have now, my lord, turned the conversation on the second subject

which required discussion between us,” interrupted Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

“Perdita has confessed to me all that has taken place between herself

and your lordship----”

“And you are doubtless offended!” exclaimed Charles Hatfield, observing

that the old lady’s countenance had again become very serious.

“No, my lord--I am not precisely angry,” she returned; “but I tremble

to approach a topic which involves so many difficulties.”

“Ah! madam--with your strong mind, all difficulties are surmountable,”

said Charles “and you have only to stipulate, in order that I shall

assent to every thing that you may propose.”

“In the first place,” resumed the wily woman, “you are aware of the

strange--fanciful--and, I must say, unfortunate notions which my

daughter has imbibed relative to marriage; and your lordship must

be aware that--supposing your mutual passion be allowed to take its

course unrestrained--the world will regard her only as your lordship’s

mistress!”

“Madam--I would cheerfully conduct her to the altar----”

“Whither she will not go,” added the old woman, emphatically. “No--my

lord, it is useless to reason with that strong--headed, obstinate

girl on the subject. Admitting, then, that I--her mother--placing her

happiness above conventional opinions, and entertaining implicit faith

in your honour and integrity,--admitting, I say, that I consent to the

union of hearts proposed in this case,--waiving the ceremony of the

union of hands,--can you, my lord, undertake to ensure my daughter

against the contingencies of poverty?”

“Situated as I now am, the means at my disposal an limited indeed,”

said Charles Hatfield: “but the moment my rights are proclaimed and

recognised----”

“Then, at the same instant, the family estates, at present held by the

Earl of Ellingham, will pass into the hands of your father--and you

still remain totally dependant upon him until his death,” said Mrs.

Fitzhardinge, embracing at a glance the whole range of contingencies.

“True!” cried Charles, suddenly becoming much embarrassed, and seeing

difficulties most unexpectedly start up.

“_But_,” resumed Mrs. Fitzhardinge, after a few minutes’ pause, and

laying strong emphasis upon the monosyllable,--“_but_, my lord, even

should you immediately quarrel with your father by compelling him to

wrest the titles and estates from the hands of his younger brother who

now holds them, there are ways and means for your lordship to raise

money--those estates becoming inalienably yours in the perspective.”

“Yes--I understand--there is that alternative!” exclaimed Charles. “But

my father would not discard me altogether--he would not deprive me of

the means of support during his life-time----”

“You know not, my lord, what may be the results of the family

convulsion--the domestic revolution--which your contemplated

proceedings will bring about. Pardon me, my dear Viscount, if I thus

dwell upon matters so purely worldly;--but remember that I myself am

now placed in a cruel position by the total wreck of the brilliant

hopes which my claims in Chancery so recently held out;--and unless

I succeed in raising a few thousand pounds within a week, I shall

positively be menaced with imprisonment in a debtors’ gaol.”

“Merciful heaven!” cried Charles Hatfield: “how can I possibly assist

you?”

“You will not think me mercenary, my lord----”

“Oh! no--no, my dear madam!” he exclaimed impatiently. “Tell me if

there be a means of raising the amount you require; and my readiness to

adopt those means must be received by you as a proof of my anxiety to

render myself worthy of Perdita’s love and your esteem.”

“Generous nobleman!” cried Mrs. Fitzhardinge, pretending to be affected

by the scene: “my daughter will indeed be happy in the possession of

your heart! Listen, my lord,” she continued; “and our interview may

soon be brought to a close--for I know that you are as anxious to see

a certain person as she is dying to behold you. Your lordship ere now

alluded to particular papers which prove the legitimate birth, rights,

and identity of you father:--by means of those papers, and on your

lordship signing a document, I can undertake to procure as large a sum

of money as may be required either by my necessities or for your own

present wants.”

“This evening, my dear madam, I will place the papers in your hands,”

said Charles, who was anxious to terminate this interview as speedily

as possible--for his impatience to behold Perdita began to exceed his

powers of endurance.

“At eight o’clock this evening I shall expect your lordship,” observed

Mrs. Fitzhardinge: and, with these words, she quitted the apartment.

Charles Hatfield approached the mirror--arranged his hair in the most

becoming manner--and had just snatched a last satisfactory glance at

the reflection of his handsome countenance, when the door opened and

Perdita entered the room.