CHAPTER CLII.
THE FATHER, THE SON, AND THE SON’S WIFE.
The magnificent creature whom Mr. Hatfield now beheld for the first
time, had perhaps never shone to greater advantage than on the present
occasion.
She was absolutely dazzling--radiant--supernally grand, in all the
glory of her queen-like beauty.
A French cambric wrapper, worked, and trimmed with costly lace,
enveloped her form--fitting loosely, yet defining all the rich contours
of her voluptuous shape;--and, though--having risen hurriedly almost
immediately after awakening--she had no stays on, the natural firmness
of her bust maintained its rounded proportions without any artificial
support.
We have before said that her early initiation in a career of wantonness
and the licentious course which she had pursued in Australia, had
marred nothing of the first freshness of youth in respect to her;--and
thus, though her wrapper was so far open at the bosom as to show that
the glowing orbs of snowy whiteness were unsustained by the usual
article of apparel, their contours were of virgin roundness.
Her dark brown hair had been hastily gathered up in two massive
bands, silken and glossy, and serving as a frame to set off the
height and width of the fine forehead, which rose above brows arching
majestically, and almost meeting between the temples.
Her cheeks were slightly flushed with a carnation hue;--her large
grey eyes shone brilliantly, and appeared to give a halo of light to
her whole countenance;--her moist red lips, parted with a smile of
happiness and satisfaction, revealed the teeth so perfectly regular
and of such pearly whiteness;--and her neck arched proudly and with
swan-like grace.
One arm hung negligently, but slightly rounded, by her side: the other,
thrown across her form just above the waist, kept the folds of the
wrapper together;--and from beneath the skirt of that elegant, tasteful
garment, of almost gauzy lightness and transparency, peeped forth the
beautifully-modelled ankles in their flesh-coloured silk stockings, and
the charming feet in their embroidered slippers of pale blue satin.
Though, as we have before stated, she was not above the middle
height, yet there was something truly regal and commanding in her
deportment--something more than graceful and less than imperious in her
carriage, and, altogether, she appeared a being to whom it would not be
idolatrous to kneel.
On the contrary,--prejudiced and naturally inveterate as he was against
her, Mr. Hatfield could well comprehend, even at the first glance which
he threw upon her, how a young man of enthusiastic disposition and
keen sensibility might love that enchanting creature with a devotion
amounting to a worship.
The apartment was large and beautifully furnished,--the uncarpetted
floor of oak was polished almost to mirror-like brightness,--vast
looking-glasses, set in splendid frames, were suspended to the
walls,--a massive or-molu time-piece and handsome porcelain vases
filled with flowers freshly gathered that morning, stood on the
mantel,--and through the casements, which reached from the ceiling to
the floor, and which were only partially shaded by muslin curtains,
flowed the gorgeous lustre of the cloudless sun, so that the room
seemed filled with a transparent and impalpable haze of gold-dust.
Thus the whole aspect of that large and lofty apartment was magnificent
and rich, bright and joyous;--and, had the minds of the father and son
at the instant been in a different mood, they would have felt thrilled
with admiration and delight at the presence of the magnificent creature
who now entered an atmosphere so congenially glorious and sunny.
It seemed as if the beauteous being herself were surrounded with
a golden halo,--as if the perfume of the freshly gathered flowers
were the delicious fragrance of her breath,--as if the delicate feet
and ankles bore her glancingly along a polished surface which she
scarcely appeared to touch; while the immense mirrors multiplied the
voluptuous form, as though other and kindred houris were moving about
in attendance on their queen.
The effulgence of the warm sun played on her shining hair, as if a
glory sate on that exquisitely shaped head,--gave additional brightness
to the eyes that flashed with the natural fire of joy,--and rendered
the fine and faultless countenance radiant and dazzling in its
surpassing beauty.
Were that a room in a palatial dwelling,--were it an empress making
her appearance,--and were the two men courtiers awaiting her presence,
the effect could not have been more grand--more striking,--and the
courtiers would have fallen on their knees in mute adoration of a being
that seemed almost divine!
But, alas! circumstances marred all those fine effects which the
transcendant charms of a lovely woman might have produced;--for the
soul of this woman corresponded not with her captivating exterior,--it
was dark and hideous--inspiring horrible thoughts, and suggesting ideas
of a nature so sinister, sombre, and gloomy, as to throw into the shade
all the glory of the outward loveliness.
[Illustration]
But, unsuspicious of the storm which was about to explode against her,
Perdita entered that room;--and the influence of a night of love and
voluptuousness and of elysian dreams lingered upon her countenance in
the smile that it wore.
She had slept for nearly an hour after Charles Hatfield had risen
so noiselessly from her side in the nuptial couch;--and when she at
length awoke, she imagined that her young husband had been unwilling to
disturb her when he himself arose. Nevertheless, she determined to seek
him ere she passed through the routine of the toilette;--and hastily
fastening up her hair, and assuming a slight apparel, she had proceeded
to the sitting-room where she supposed him to be.
And there indeed he was: but not alone!
Still, when Perdita, on first entering the apartment, beheld _another
person_ with him whom she sought, she had no suspicion of the real
truth, but imagined it must be some friend who had found out her
husband’s residence in Paris and had perhaps called to congratulate him
on his bridal.
Thus was it that her countenance wore that delicious expression of
pleasure and satisfaction, as she advanced towards Charles and _that
other_;--and it was not until she was within a few paces of them, that
she observed the foreboding looks which they cast upon her--even the
aversion and the hate with which they _both_ regarded her!
Then she stopped suddenly short, her countenance undergoing an
immediate change--the smile disappearing, and giving place to an
expression of proud defiance and haughty contempt; though she was
still unconscious of the nature of the storm that she saw lowering so
ominously.
“Charles, who is this person?” she demanded, indicating Mr. Hatfield
with a movement of the head, accompanied by a slight inflection of the
whole form--a gesture which would have become a queen.
“My father,” answered the young man quietly;--and he turned away
towards the mantel-piece.
For an instant Perdita seemed shocked by this announcement;--but in
the next moment, as the thought swept across her brain that it was
impossible for Mr. Hatfield to know aught seriously detrimental to
her character, she crossed the room in a majestic manner, and, laying
her long tapered fingers gently upon her husband’s arm, said, “Is it
possible that the remonstrances of your father should have induced you
to repent of this alliance,--_you_, who have sworn to love and cherish
me in spite of parents and all the world beside?”
“When a man discovers that he has taken a reptile to his bosom,” said
Charles, the words hissing through his almost set teeth, “he flings it
away from him. He _ought_ to crush it beneath his heel!”
The last sentence was added after a moment’s pause, and ere Perdita,
who was astounded at the tone, and manner, and words of her husband,
had regained the power of utterance so as to enable her lips to shape a
comment or a reply.
“Is it to me that this insulting allusion applies?” she demanded at
length--her countenance becoming ashy pale, and her lips quivering with
the rage which she still sought to subdue.
“It is to you that I addressed myself,” exclaimed Charles, now
turning round and confronting the woman whom he had lately loved with
such madness, and whom he now loathed with such savage aversion.
“Vile--polluted--wanton thing,” he cried, unabashed--undismayed by the
lightning glances that flashed from her wildly dilating orbs: “the
mask is torn from your face as the film from my eyes--and I am no
longer your dupe, though, alas! I am perhaps still your victim! I know
all--all--every thing,--the depravity of your past life--the hypocrisy
of your present course:--all--all is now revealed to me. Your evil fame
has followed you from beyond the seas;--it overtook you on the Marine
Parade at Dover;--and it now attaches itself for ever to your steps, in
the capital of France. Oh! my God--how cruelly, how miserably have I
been deceived!”
And the young man darted a glance of savage hatred upon the woman
who, pale and motionless as a marble statue, seemed petrified by the
crushing truths that fell upon her ears.
Meantime Mr. Hatfield stood aloof, with folded arms--listening to the
words that his son addressed to Perdita, and marking their effect.
“That you were born in Newgate--of a woman condemned to death for
felony, and then reprieved,--_this_ was no fault of yours,” continued
Charles, in a slow and measured tone--for he sought as much as
possible to prevent a violent outburst of the rage that boiled within
him:--“that the mystic name of _Perdita_, or ‘The Lost One,’ should
have proved prophetic of your after life, you also could not help;--and
that, amongst the felonry of New South Wales, you should have become
polluted--contaminated--and indeed _lost_, was perhaps a fate for which
you are rather to be pitied than blamed. But here all sympathy ceases
for you! Wherefore, on your arrival in England, did you seek _me_ out
to become your victim?--wherefore did your wretched mother dog my
footsteps--accost me--ensnare me into a discourse to which she imparted
a mysterious interest--and then lead me into your presence? Why did you
open the battery of all your meretricious charms upon me?--why cast
your spells around me--wean my affections from an estimable young lady
who is white as snow compared with the blackness of _your_ soul--and
lead me on until the crowning act of ruin was accomplished yesterday in
the Chapel of the British Embassy?”
“I have heard you with patience--and if you possess the generosity
of a man and an Englishman, you will give me an equal share of your
attention,” said Perdita, who, during her husband’s address, had
recovered all her wonted presence of mind--though her heart was wounded
in its very core. “It is true that I was born in Newgate--that I
deceived you respecting the origin of my Christian name--and that I
escaped not the contamination of a far-off clime into which my sad
destinies threw me. But when my mother, for reasons which I think she
made satisfactorily apparent to you, sought an interview with you,--and
when that circumstance introduced us to each other, did you not proffer
me your friendship of your own accord?--did you not next assure me that
this sentiment had changed to the feeling of love?--did you not implore
me, almost on your knees, to become your wife at the altar--I, who in
the first instance had proposed and agreed to become your mistress
only? And then you dare to speak of our marriage as the crowning act
of you ruin,--that marriage on which you yourself so imploringly--so
earnestly--so solemnly insisted?”
“Oh! yes--because I deemed you pure and virtuous!” exclaimed Charles,
almost gnashing his teeth as the words of Perdita reminded him of all
the arts which she had practised to ensnare him--all the sophistry she
had used to make herself appear in his eyes every thing that she was
_not_.
“Was it to be supposed,” she asked, impatiently and haughtily,--that
shameless Perdita--“was it to be supposed that I would reveal to you
the incidents of my past life? And yet, even if I had, I do firmly and
sincerely believe that you would still have made me your wife!”
“No--never, never!” cried Charles, his voice and manner expressing
loathing, abhorrence, and indignation. “But let us not bandy words
thus. I have intelligence which--lost and depraved as you are, and
vilely as you have treated me--I nevertheless grieve to have to convey
to you,--for I cannot, even in my anger and hate, forget that you are a
woman.”
“And that intelligence?” demanded Perdita, suffering not her
countenance nor her manner to betray the deep curiosity and the
suspense which her husband’s words had suddenly excited within her
bosom.
“The intelligence regards your mother, and explains her mysterious
disappearance at Dover,” continued Charles, who, as well as his father,
now intensely watched the young woman’s countenance.
“Speak on!” she said, not a muscle of her face betraying any
emotion:--and still she stood motionless and statue-like.
“Your mother was arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the murder
of Mr. Percival, the money-lender whom you represented to me as the
discounter of my promissory note;”--and, as Charles uttered these words
in slow and measured tones, he maintained his eyes fixed upon the pale
but unchanging features of his wife.
“Then my mother has been accused of that whereof she is innocent,”
said Perdita, in a voice so firm and resolute, yet devoid of passion,
that her hearers felt convinced she was practising no artifice now.
“It is true that Percival discounted your note: I myself received
the money--and you can doubtless give your father a satisfactory
explanation relative to the expenditure of the portion that is gone. If
Percival have indeed met his death by violent means, it was not by the
hands of two weak women that he fell.”
“Thank heaven! _this_ crime at least cannot, then, be attributed to
you,” said Charles. “There must be enough upon your conscience without
_that_!”
“And have _you_ nothing wherewith to reproach yourself?” demanded
Perdita, still maintaining that majesty of demeanour which, with
her now marble-like features, her motionless attitude, and her
fine form enveloped in drapery that fell in classic plaits and
graceful folds around her, gave her the air of a statue of Diana
the Huntress or of Juno Queen of Heaven. “Have you inflicted no
injury upon me?” she asked. “Yes--yes: and I will convince you
that your conduct has been far from blameless in that respect. You
loved me--loved me almost from the first instant that you beheld
me. Yours was not a tranquil--serene--and sickly sensation: it
was a fury--a wild passion--a delirium--a species of hurricane of
the strongest, most fervent emotions. I was all--every thing to
you: parents--family--friends,--Oh! you cared for none of these in
comparison with me. The holiest ties you would have broken--the most
sacred bonds you would have snapped--the most solemn obligations
you would have violated, sooner than have resigned your hope of
possessing me! All this is true--and you know it. Your love amounted
to a madness--a frenzy, capable of the most unheard-of sacrifices,
and as likely to hurry you into the most desperate extremes. For had
I provoked your jealousy, you would have murdered me: had I fled and
abandoned you, you would have pined to death--or committed suicide.
In fine, yours was no common love--no ordinary affection. Poets
never dreamt and novelists never depicted a love so boundless--so
absorbing--so immense as yours. And what could result from such a love
as this! The consequence was inevitable;--and that consequence was that
I, who had never loved before, received into my soul a transfusion of
the spirit that animated _you_. You were so happy in your love, that
my imagination doubtless longed to revel in the same paradise which
you had created for yourself;--and I was taught by you to love as
profoundly and as well. In a word, you ensnared my heart--you obtained
a hold upon my affections; and, as there is a living God above us! I
swear that when you led me to the altar, you loved me not better than
I loved you. And this love which I experienced for you, would have
made me a good wife--a sincere friend--a conscientious adviser. I
should have entered upon a new existence; and my soul would have become
purified. True it is that I gave to the marriage-bed a body that was
polluted and unchaste: but I gave also a heart that was wholly and
solely thine;--and from the instant that our hands were united by the
minister of God, it would have proved as impossible for me to have
played the wanton with another as that the infant child should harbour
thoughts of villainy and murder. Now you have learnt the antecedents
of my life--and your love is suddenly changed into hatred. But did you
not take me for better or worse?--did you not wed me, because you loved
me!--did you not espouse me for myself alone! Oh! you should pity me
for the past--and cherish me at present and for the future: and your
conscience tells you thus much even now!”
Charles Hatfield, who had listened with deep and solemn interest,--for
his soul was absolutely enchained by this strange display of natural
eloquence,--now shook his head impatiently.
“No! Then mark how fatal your love will have proved to me,”
exclaimed Perdita. “You cast me off--you put me away from you;--and
yet you cannot give me back the heart which you have ensnared.
Wherefore--wherefore did you bring to bear upon me the influence of
your ardent love, unless you were prepared to make every sacrifice
unto the end? I am young--I am beautiful--and I might gain a high
and a proud position by means of marriage: but, no--I am chained to
_you_--and _you_ are intent upon discarding me! Now reflect well
on the probable consequences of this proceeding on your part,”
continued Perdita, her melodious voice gathering energy, and a tinge
of rose-bud hue appearing on her cheeks and gradually deepening into
a flush,--while her eyes shone with a lustre that gave an almost
unearthly radiance to her entire countenance: “reflect well, I say,”
she repeated, “on the probable consequences of the resolution which you
have taken. As your wife, and dwelling with you as such, I should have
clung to you--loved you with unceasing devotion--exerted all my powers
to retain your esteem. Nay, more--in time I should have won your good
opinion by my _actions_--as I had already secured it by my _words_.
Amongst the entire community of women, there would have been none
more exemplary than I;--and thus your love would have proved a saving
influence--valuable to society at large, and blessed by the Almighty
Ruler whom you worship. But how changed are these prospects! You are
prepared to discard me--to thrust me away from your presence--to push
me out into the great world, where I must battle for myself. _There_
I shall find my circumstances terribly---fearfully altered from what
they were before your lips whispered the delicious but fatal tale of
love in mine ears. For if I retain your name, I thereby proclaim myself
a divorced wife: if I pass myself off as an unmarried young lady, I
shall not dare to accept proposals for an alliance, be it never so
advantageous--because the fear of a prosecution for bigamy would hang
over my head. Will you, then, forgive me for the past, and receive me
as an affectionate wife and reformed woman to your arms?--or will you
send me forth, an outcast--with ruined hopes, blighted prospects, and a
damaged character?”
Gradually, as she approached the end of this speech, Perdita had
suffered her voice to lose its energy and its firmness, and grow
tender, pathetic, and mournful--until at the close of her appeal, it
became tremulously plaintive and profoundly touching,--while her form
simultaneously relaxed from its statue-like rigidity--the head slightly
inclining, the body bending in the least degree forward, and the hands
joining as the last words fell from her lips.
For an instant Charles was about to yield to the appeal commenced with
a dignity so well assumed, and terminated with a tenderness so well
affected; but, at the critical moment, Mr. Hatfield, who had hitherto
remained a mute spectator of this extraordinary scene, stepped forward,
exclaiming, “No--no; a compromise of such a nature is impossible!
Charles, the sophistry is indeed most specious--but the peril is
likewise tremendous!”
“Yes--yes,” cried the young man, instantly recovering his presence of
mind: “I told you, father, that she was a Circe--a Syren,--and now you
have ample proofs of the assertion.”
While he was yet speaking, the appearance of Perdita underwent a rapid
and signal change. She suddenly seemed to throw off the air of a
suppliant, as if she were discarding a mean garment that was unbecoming
and abhorrent: her cheeks acquired a deeper flush, her eyes a more
dazzling brilliancy;--the blue veins in her forehead grew more clearly
traceable--her nostrils dilated--her lips wreathed into an expression
of sovereign disdain--and her entire form appeared to expand into more
majestic proportions.
A moment before she had seemed a voluptuous beauty, in the melting
softness of an appeal for pardon at love’s shrine: now she stood in the
presence of the father and son,--proud--haughty--and magnificent as
Juno,--and armed with authority to wield the lightning-shafts and the
thunderbolts of Jove.
“Let us think of peace no more,” she exclaimed: “but war--terrible
war,--war to the knife! Cast me off--thrust me from you--denounce
me as the wanton Perdita--proclaim me to be born of a felon, and to
have first seen the light in Newgate,--do all this if you will: I
shall not the less remain your wife, Charles--and, as your wife, I am
ennobled,--I bear the proud title of _Viscountess Marston_!”
“Miserable woman,” cried Mr. Hatfield: “you deceive yourself--even
as Charles has been by himself deceived! For know that he is
illegitimate----”
“’Tis false! you would delude--you would mislead me!” exclaimed
Perdita, who, in spite of the tone of confidence in which she uttered
these ejaculations, was painfully affected by the revelation that had
elicited them.
“It is true--too true!” cried Charles, with a bitterness that carried
conviction to the mind of Perdita.
“Then if I cannot proclaim myself to be Viscountess Marston,” she said,
concealing with a desperate and painful effort the shock which she had
just experienced,--“I can still have my revenge against you both;--for
if _my_ mother were a felon, Charles, _your_ father was the same--if
_I_ were born in Newgate, the author of _your_ being has passed through
the hands of the public executioner!”
“Fiend--wretch!” ejaculated the young man, springing forward as if
about to dash her on the floor and trample her under foot.
But the hand of his father suddenly grasped him as in an iron vice,
and held him back; and all the while Perdita had maintained her
ground--shrinking not a step, retreating not a pace.
“Coward!” she exclaimed, in a tone of ineffable contempt, as she kept
her eyes--her large, shining grey eyes--fixed with disdain upon him
whom she had lately loved so fervently and so well.
“Charles--Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in an imploring voice, as he
held his son firmly by both arms,--“merit not by your actions that
infamous woman’s reproaches. I was prepared for what she dared to
address to me----”
“Oh! my dear father, this is terrible!” murmured the young man, who
felt a faintness coming over him, as the words which Perdita had spoken
concerning his parent still rang in his ears, and as he observed the
deadly pallor which had spread over that parent’s countenance.
“Compose yourself, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, conducting him to a
seat: then, turning round and accosting Perdita, he exclaimed, “Madam,
let us treat this most unpleasant affair as a purely business-matter:
in short, let us effect an arrangement which may be proper and suitable
for both parties--the basis being the immediate separation of yourself
and my son.”
“Yes--I have no longer any objection to offer to that proposal,” said
Perdita; “for after his attempt to strike me, I despise even more than
I hate him.”
“And just now,” exclaimed the young man, starting from his seat, “you
declared that I possessed your heart. Oh! I am rejoiced that you have
admitted your hatred towards me--because I have thereby received
another proof of your boundless duplicity.”
Perdita smiled scornfully--but deigned no reply.
“Leave the affair in my hands, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in an
authoritative tone: then, observing with satisfaction that his son
returned to his seat, the father addressed himself once more to
Perdita, who remained standing near the mantel. “Madam,” he continued,
“you have already heard that the bright hopes in which your husband
had indulged, and the golden visions which he had conjured up, are
all destroyed by the revelation which I have this morning made to
him,--the revelation of the _one_ fatal secret--his illegitimacy!
Instead, then, of being _Viscount Marston_ at present and _Earl of
Ellingham_ in perspective, he is still plain and simple _Charles
Hatfield_--and so he is likely to remain. By consequence, you, madam,
are _Mrs. Hatfield_--and not _Viscountess Marston_ now, nor with any
chance of becoming _Countess of Ellingham_. If you require proofs of
what I am now telling you, I can exhibit them at once;--for, knowing
beforehand the nature of the delusions in which my son had cradled his
fancy, and the necessity of destroying them, I set out on this journey
provided with several papers of importance. For instance,” continued
Mr. Hatfield, taking forth his pocket-book; “here is the certificate of
my marriage with Lady Georgiana Hatfield--and you may at once perceive
by the date how impossible it is that our son could have been born in
wedlock.”
While thus speaking, Mr. Hatfield had sunk his voice to the lowest
audible whisper--so that Perdita alone heard him: for the revelation he
was making was of a most painful nature, although rendered imperatively
necessary under the circumstances.
Perdita glanced rapidly over the certificate, and bit her lip with a
vexation she could no longer conceal;--for that document effectually
set at rest the question of her husband’s legitimacy or illegitimacy;
and she indeed found that instead of gaining a noble title by marriage,
she had formed an alliance with an obscure young man who was dependant
on his parents for even a morsel of bread.
“It now remains for you to decide whether you choose to proclaim
yourself, wherever you go, to be the wife of Mr. Charles Hatfield;--or
whether you will think fit to resume your maiden name--or any other
that may suit your purposes--and maintain a strict silence henceforth
relative to this most unfortunate alliance.”
Thus spoke Mr. Hatfield;--and Perdita appeared to be plunged in deep
thought for a few minutes.
“And what are the conditions you annex to those alternatives?” she
asked at length, fixing her eyes, which now shone with a subdued
and sombre lustre, in a penetrating manner upon Mr. Hatfield’s
countenance--as if she would _there_ read the reply to her question
even before his lips could frame it.
“If you proclaim yourself my son’s wife,” said he, meeting her look
firmly and speaking resolutely, “I shall spare no expense in bringing
the whole transaction before the proper tribunals in England, with the
ultimate view of enabling him to obtain a divorce; and in this case I
should not allow you one single farthing--no, not even to save you from
starvation.”
“And have you not reflected,” asked Perdita, in a tone and with a
gesture indicative of superb disdain,--“have you not reflected that
a judicial investigation must inevitably lay bare all the tremendous
secrets connected with yourself and family?--for you cannot suppose,
that if you commence the part of a persecutor against _me_, I shall
evince any forbearance towards _you_! No--it would be, as I said just
now, a terrible warfare--a warfare to the very death,--and in which
human ingenuity would rack itself to discover and set in motion all
possible means of a fearful vengeance.”
“I have weighed all this,” said Mr. Hatfield, calmly; “and I have
resolved to dare exposure of every kind--nay, to sacrifice myself, if
necessary--in order to save my son.”
“And now for the conditions annexed to the second alternative?” said
Perdita, maintaining a remarkable coolness and self-possession,
although in the secret recesses of her soul she harboured the
conviction that the triumph was as yet on the other side, and that she
must end by accepting the best terms she could obtain.
“If you will sign a paper, undertaking never to represent yourself
as my son’s wife,” said Mr. Hatfield,--“never to molest him in any
way--never to return to England, but to fix your abode in some
continental state,--and lastly, that you will retain inviolably secret
not only the fact of this most inauspicious marriage, but likewise
all matters connected with myself and family,--if you affix your name
to such a document,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “I will immediately pay
you the sum of one thousand pounds, and I will allow you five hundred
pounds a year so long as the convention shall be duly kept on your
part.”
“And should you happen to die before me?” said Perdita, her manner now
being of that cold, passionless nature which rendered it impossible for
Mr. Hatfield to conjecture what sort of an impression his alternatives
and their conditions had made upon her mind: “for you must remember,”
she added, “that such an event is to be reckoned upon in the common
course of nature.”
“Granted,” was the prompt reply. “My will shall contain a clause
enjoining and empowering my executors to continue the payment of your
income, from a fund especially sunk for the purpose, so long as your
conduct shall be in accordance with the conditions stipulated.”
“And am I to understand that if I leave your son unmolested, I shall
remain unmolested also!” demanded Perdita.
“I scarcely comprehend you,” said Mr. Hatfield, evidently perplexed.
“I mean,” replied Perdita, in a slow and measured tone, so that her
words could not be misapprehended nor their sense mistaken,--“I mean
that if I go forth into the world again as Miss Fitzhardinge, or Miss
Fitzgerald, or any other name I may choose to take,--and if, receiving
a suitable offer of marriage, I contract such an alliance,--I mean,
then, to ask whether I may calculate upon acting thus with impunity at
your hands?”
“My God! what interest can I have to molest you in any way?” cried Mr.
Hatfield. “Would to heaven that you could both of you sign a paper
effectually emancipating you from any claim on each other in respect to
this accursed--this miserable marriage.”
“You are now speaking with unnecessary excitement, sir, after having
reproved your son for the same fault--and also after having yourself
proposed to discuss this matter in a purely business-like manner,”
said Perdita, her lip curling slightly with an expression of scornful
triumph.
“True, madam,” observed Mr. Hatfield, who, throughout this
dialogue--since his son had remained seated apart--had treated Perdita
with a perfect though frigid courtesy: “I was in error to give way to
any intemperance of tone or manner--and I ask your pardon. You have now
heard all that I have to propose----”
“And I accept the conditions,” she said. “Indeed, I shall be happy for
this scene to terminate as speedily as possible.”
“A few minutes’ more will suffice, madam,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “If
you will have the kindness to provide me with writing-materials, I
shall not be compelled to intrude on you much longer.”
Perdita bowed slightly: and quitted the room,--not in haste--but
with stately demeanour and measured tread, as if she were merely a
consenting party to a business-transaction, and not a vanquished one on
whom conditions had been imposed.
The moment the door closed behind her, Mr. Hatfield said to his son,
“That woman is indeed a prodigy of beauty, and a very demon at heart.
What an angelic creature would she have been were she as pure and
virtuous as she is lovely!”
“Ah! my dear father,” returned Charles, who appeared to be completely
spirit-broken and overwhelmed by the terrible occurrences and
revelations of this memorable morning,--“you can now comprehend,
perhaps,--at least to some extent,--the nature of that infatuation
which I experienced in respect to this singular being. The world has
never seen her equal for beauty and for wickedness.”
“The sooner you are removed from the sphere of her fatal influence, the
better,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “When she re-appears, do you quit the
room, and hasten as much as possible your preparations to depart with
_me_.”
“Fear not, my dear father,” responded Charles, “that I shall, of my
own accord, interpose any delay. But the papers--she will surrender
them----”
“As a matter of course. You may have observed,” added the parent,
“that, in spite of her haughty coldness, she was subdued and
vanquished.”
At this instant the door opened, and Perdita returned, bearing her
writing-desk in her hands.
Her countenance, though flushed, and thus presenting a striking
contrast to its colourless appearance some time before, gave no
indication of the nature of her feelings: impossible was it to judge of
the emotions that might occupy her bosom, by that which is wont to be
denominated the mirror of the soul.
Her step was still measured and stately, while her attitude was
graceful; and, as she advanced towards the table--passing through the
golden flood of lustre that filled the room--the waving of her white
drapes; gave an additional charm to the undulating nature of her motion.
From beneath her richly fringed lids, while affecting to keep her eyes
half bent downward as if on the rose-wood desk which she carried, she
darted a rapid glance at Mr. Hatfield--and then her look dwelt the
least thing more lingeringly on her husband, who had risen from his
seat and was leaning on the mantel.
By a natural effect of curiosity,--perhaps also in obedience to a last
remaining particle of that immense love which he had so lately borne
her,--Charles Hatfield likewise glanced towards her from beneath his
half-closed lids, and also while he wished to appear as if fixing his
gaze downward:--thus their looks met--unavoidably met,--and the blood
rushed to the countenance of the young man, as he felt overwhelmed with
shame, and bitterly indignant with himself, for having given way to
this momentary proof of weakness.
On the other hand, a smile of triumph,--though faint, and perceptible
only to her husband--not to his father, who saw not with eyes that had
once looked love towards _her_,--curled the rich red lips of Perdita;
and she thought within herself, “Even in the bitterness of your hate,
the power of my charms revives a spark, albeit an evanescent one, of
the fires that were wont to burn within your breast in adoration of me!”
All this dumb show--this mute expression of the strangest, and yet the
most natural feelings on either side, occupied but a few moments;--and
then, as Perdita placed the desk upon the table, Charles turned to quit
the room.
“Here are writing materials, sir,” she said to Mr. Hatfield, not
choosing to appear to notice the departure of her husband; for all the
pride of this extraordinary woman was aroused to a degree which in a
being of lesser energy would have been totally incompatible with the
frightful exposure that had been made of her depravity and deceit.
But the consciousness of possessing the loveliness of an Angel rose
superior to the shame of being proved to be endowed with the profligacy
of a Demon: the knowledge that she was so pre-eminently beautiful was
for her a triumph and a glory which, in her estimation, threw into the
shade the certainty of her wantonness and guile;--she flattered herself
and fancied that, even were her true character revealed in its proper
colours to all the world, the darkness of her soul would be absorbed
and rendered invisible by the transcendant brilliancy of her outward
charms.
Thus, even in the presence of the husband to whom she was unmasked,
and of the indignant father who had unmasked her, the pride of her
loveliness enabled her to maintain that haughty demeanour which we
have explained;--for it was not Perdita who was likely to melt into
tears--to supplicate for mercy--to acknowledge shame or remorse--or to
kneel to those whom she now looked upon as her enemies. Unless, indeed,
she had some grand object to accomplish, or some important end to
gain;--and then she could veil her pride beneath an assumption of all
the passions--all the emotions--and all the tender feelings which she
might deem it expedient to affect.
To return to the thread of our narrative.
“Here are writing materials, sir,” she remarked, as she placed the desk
upon the table: then, drawing a chair near, she seated herself in a
calm and dignified manner, and with all the appearance of one who knew
and felt that she had important business in hand.
Mr. Hatfield bowed--seated himself likewise--and proceeded to draw up a
document including the conditions which he had already specified, and
which the lady had agreed to.
While he was writing, Perdita kept her eyes fixed upon him, as if she
could tell by the movement of the pen the very words it was forming, as
the hand which held it travelled rapidly over the paper.
At length the document was finished; and Mr. Hatfield presented it to
Perdita for her perusal. While she was engaged in reading it, he drew
forth his pocket-book, and counted thence ten notes, each of a hundred
pounds, upon the table.
“I have no objection to offer to this deed,” said Perdita, taking up
the pen to sign it.
“Here is the amount promised,” said Mr. Hatfield; “and I will now give
you an undertaking relative to the payment of the income which I have
promised you.”
Perdita bowed coldly; and he immediately drew up the second paper.
“I must now request you to give me up all the _private documents_ which
my son placed in your hands for safe keeping,” observed Mr. Hatfield.
“They are in the upper part of that desk--and you can take them,” said
Perdita, without the least hesitation; for she was naturally prepared
for this demand, and had no object to serve in refusing it.
She then signed her undertaking, while Mr. Hatfield possessed himself
of the documents and looked them carefully over to ascertain that none
were missing.
Having satisfied himself on this head, he gave Perdita the money and
the undertaking which he had prepared; and thus terminated this strange
business.
“I have now a few observations to make,” said Perdita; “but they are
not of a nature to revive any unpleasant discussion. They concern
matters entirely personal to myself. Although I have declared--and
emphatically declare again--that my mother is innocent of the crime
on suspicion of which you inform me that she has been arrested, the
judicial investigation will naturally lead to a most unpleasant
exposure of her _name_. It is therefore probable that my interests and
views may be served by a change of _my name_--as I shall not of course
bear that which the marriage-ceremony of yesterday gave to me. Should I
adopt such a course, I will acquaint you by letter with the fact----”
“Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” said Mr. Hatfield; “but I
shall seek not to become acquainted with any particulars that may
hereafter concern you. Every quarter you can draw upon me, through any
banker, in any part of the world where you may happen to be; and you
are at liberty to use any name you may think fit--save _one_. I shall
know that the draft is yours; and you may rest assured that it will be
duly honoured.”
“Then we have now no more to say to each other,” observed Perdita,
rising from her seat, and mechanically drawing the muslin wrapper
around her, in such a manner that it displayed all the full proportions
of her fine figure.
Mr. Hatfield bowed a negative,--then immediately added, “But perhaps
you will have no objection, madam, to remain here until my son shall
have made his preparations for departure?”
“Oh! certainly.” cried the young woman, her lip curling haughtily.
“Think not, sir, that I shall condescend to use any arts in order to
win him back to me;--although well aware am I that if I chose to do so,
I should speedily behold him languishing at my feet.”
Scarcely were these words uttered, when Rosalie entered the room, and
addressing herself to Mr. Hatfield, said, “My master, sir, is waiting
for you below.”
The abigail, who was evidently at a loss to comprehend the nature of
all that was going on,--though she saw enough to convince her that
something very uncommon and unusual was taking place,--retired as soon
as she had delivered this message;--and Mr. Hatfield, as he glanced
towards Perdita while bowing to take his leave, observed that her
countenance had again grown marble-like with pallor.
For now that the conviction that Charles was really gone was forced
upon her mind, a pang of regret struck to her heart,--regret to lose
one--_the first_--whom she had ever really loved;--and for a few
instants she felt as if all her affection for him had suddenly revived
with tenfold violence.
But this weakness on her part was speedily dissipated: her pride
resumed its empire,--and she remembered likewise that her connexion
with him had not only put her in possession of a large sum of ready
money, but had likewise assured her of a handsome annual income for the
remainder of her days.
Thus, almost before Mr. Hatfield had reached the room-door, the colour
had returned to her cheeks,--and her countenance became radiant with
triumph,--for she murmured to herself, as she contrasted her present
position with that in which she had first set foot on European soil,
“It is my beauty that has done all this!”