CHAPTER CLIII.

FATHER AND SON.

Mr. Hatfield found his son waiting for him in the coffee-room; and,

entering the _citadine_, or one-horse hackney-coach, in which the

former had arrived, they proceeded to the hotel at which he had put up,

and which was in the Place Vendôme.

It was now past eleven o’clock; for the incidents related in the two

preceding chapters, had occupied two full hours:--and, during that

interval, how many revelations had been made--what changes of feeling

effected--what new emotions engendered--what bright visions destroyed!

Yet such is human life;--and two minutes, instead of two hours, are

often sufficient to hurl down the finest fabrics of happiness which the

imagination has ever built up in the realms of fancy or the sphere of

reality.

On arriving at the hotel in the Place Vendôme, the father and son

repaired to the apartment occupied by the former; and Charles threw

himself on a sofa, as if exhausted and overwhelmed by the terrible

excitement he had undergone that morning.

Mr. Hatfield related to him all that had passed between Perdita and

himself after the young man had quitted the room; and Charles was

rejoiced,--if rejoiced he could be in the midst of the strange thoughts

and reminiscences which crowded upon him,--to learn that the family

papers were secure in his father’s possession.

“And those papers shall no longer be a source of alarm and

embarrassment to those whom they so deeply regard,” said Mr. Hatfield,

when he had brought his brief narrative to a conclusion: then, ringing

the bell, he ordered the waiter who answered the summons to bring him a

lighted candle.

This command was speedily obeyed; and when the domestic had retired,

Mr. Hatfield, having thrown all the documents upon the hearth, set

them alight. While they were consuming,--those precious papers, which

were worth an Earldom to him, did he choose to avail himself of the

proofs which they contained,--both himself and his son watched them

with a fixed gaze, but with different emotions. For Charles sighed as

he thought of the bright dreams which the perusal of those papers had

so lately excited in his imagination; and Mr. Hatfield experienced an

indescribable relief in witnessing their destruction.

“Now,” he exclaimed, in a tone of triumph, “no living soul can dispute

my brother’s right to the rank which he bears and the estates which

he possesses! Nor think, Charles,” he added, turning to his son, and

speaking in a calmer and more measured voice,--“think not that it

costs me a pang thus to dispose of these papers. The flame has died

away--naught save a heap of tinder remains--and I have willingly and

cheerfully resigned the power of ever doing mischief, or being made

the instrument of wrong, towards a brother to whom I owe so much.

But enough of this: and now tell me, Charles, in details as ample

as you can bring your mind to endure, the whole particulars of your

unfortunate connexion with these women, in order to convince me that

nothing more remains to be accomplished to rid ourselves completely of

them. For you must remember that though we have managed to dispose of

the daughter, the mother still possesses a knowledge of many secrets

which we would not have revealed.”

Charles immediately complied with his father’s request, and narrated

how Mrs. Fitzhardinge had accosted him in the street,--how she had

spoken mysteriously, and thereby induced him to accompany her to

Suffolk Street,--how he had there found himself in the presence of

Perdita,--and how Mrs. Fitzhardinge on a subsequent occasion mentioned

certain family matters evincing her knowledge of special secrets which

she alleged to have been revealed to her by the gipsy Miranda.

“Then it was not from your lips that she first learnt the circumstances

connected with myself!” said Mr. Hatfield, interrogatively.

“No: she particularly mentioned the gipsy as her authority for all she

knew and alluded to,” was the reply.

“But the gipsy was unaware of the fact of my mother’s marriage with the

late Earl of Ellingham,” observed Mr. Hatfield; “and consequently she

was ignorant of the legitimacy of my birth and the rights belonging to

me thereupon.”

“Oh! now a light breaks in upon my mind!” exclaimed Charles. “I

remember that she was surprised when I told her that I was a young

nobleman, as I did then really believe myself to be; and I likewise

recollect that she afterwards spoke to me in a manner which, while

pretending a full and perfect acquaintance with all our family affairs,

led me to give answers which were doubtless revelations of secrets to

her. But all this did not strike me at the time: now, however, that the

film has been removed from my eyes, I behold things in a clearer and

truer light.”

“Yes--and I also can understand this matter,” said Mr. Hatfield, after

a few moments’ deep thought “On their return to England, these women

must have fallen in with Miranda: from her lips they heard enough to

put them in possession of secrets which they doubtless intended to use

for the purpose of extorting money from _me_ through _you_. Then your

infatuation in respect to the daughter, led you to speak to the mother

in such a random, inconsiderate manner as to make her more fully aware

of our family’s position. Thus, while affecting to know all, she drew

from you those details which filled up the chapters that were wanting

in the history as Miranda originally told it. Yes--this must be the

truth and the explanation of the whole affair;--and now it remains for

us to hasten to England without delay, and, in case the old woman shall

be relieved from the charge at present existing against her, purchase

her secrecy and her exile in the same way as we have arranged with her

daughter.”

“But how can I face my mother?” asked Charles, in a tone expressive of

the deepest grief: “how meet the Earl of Ellingham, whom I have sought

to injure--and Lady Frances, to whom I have conducted myself in so

scandalous a manner?”

“Now you recognise the impropriety of your behaviour towards her!”

exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “Oh! I am rejoiced to perceive that your heart

is open to impressions of such a saving nature!”

“The incidents of this day have made me an altered man,” said Charles,

emphatically.

“Then am I almost happy that they have occurred!” cried his father.

“The teachings have been bitter--bitter indeed, my poor boy; but the

results may constitute an ample recompense alike to yourself and your

parents. _We_ have recovered a son--_you_ have acquired an experience

ten thousand times more valuable than the best precepts ever inculcated

by mortal tongue.”

“Oh! this is true--most true, father!” exclaimed Charles. “But you have

not answered the questions--the painful questions--which I have put to

you.”

“First, then, with regard to your mother,” responded Mr. Hatfield,

“you know that she will receive you with open arms. In respect to the

Earl, he must be told all--every thing; and you may count upon his

generosity. But it is with reference to Lady Frances Ellingham, who

loves you--from whom the causes of your flight have been carefully

concealed--and who cannot be informed of your sad connexion with a

profligate woman,--Oh! it is in regard to her, that I know not how to

act--that I am bewildered--cruelly embarrassed!”

“Remember, my dear father,” said Charles, in a tone of deep humility,

“that henceforth I shall do your bidding in all things. You have but to

speak--and I obey.”

“Think not, my dear son,” answered Mr. Hatfield, “that I shall claim of

you a deference incompatible with your age and social position--or that

I shall attempt to exercise an authority that may seem to have borrowed

any taint of severity from the experience of the past. No: but I shall

counsel and advise you as a friend--and in your best interest shall I

ever speak. On our arrival in London, we will not return immediately to

Pall Mall; but we will repair to an hotel, whence I will send privately

for the Earl; and his advice will assist me in respect to the course to

be observed towards his amiable daughter. And now, Charles, do you feel

yourself capable of commencing at once our journey homeward?--or are

you too much exhausted----”

“No--no: let us depart from Paris without delay!” exclaimed the young

man. “I have no longer any object in remaining here.”

Mr. Hatfield rang the bell; and a waiter made his appearance.

“A chaise-and-four as speedily as possible,” was the laconic command

given; “and you must have our passports backed for Boulogne or Calais.”

The domestic bowed and withdrew.

Two hours afterwards the father and son were seated together in the

chaise, which was rolling rapidly along the road to Saint Denis.

“I will now give you some account of the adventures which I

experienced in pursuit of you,” said Mr. Hatfield, who felt that the

silence previously existing between himself and Charles was growing

painful: for they had not uttered a word from the moment they entered

the vehicle until Mr. Hatfield now spoke--an interval of nearly

half-an-hour.

“I shall be pleased to hear them,” observed the young man, anxious

to divert his thoughts from the painful topics that were naturally

occupying them: “for I must confess that I am at a loss to conjecture

how you happened to fall in with the officers at Dover, and how you

were enabled to trace me to the hotel where you this morning found me.”

“The explanation of all this is readily given,” said Mr. Hatfield; and

as the chaise was rolling along the unpaved part of the road, there was

no effort necessary to make his voice audible. “I shall commence with

the incidents of the morning on which you quitted London in company

with the two females whose pernicious influence has worked so much

mischief. You remember that a most painful interview took place between

yourself and me in the library, and that you burst away--perhaps just

at the moment when explanations might have arisen to convince you of

the futility of your ambitious hopes and golden visions in respect

to birth and title. Shortly after you thus left me, the Earl entered

the room; and a conversation which took place, led to the mention of

the secret papers. He sought for them in the recess to which he had

consigned them--and they were gone. At the same moment I obtained

the conviction that the _Annual Register_ for a certain year, and

containing a certain dreadful narrative, had been lately read. Then a

light broke in upon the Earl and myself; and we penetrated the motives

of the strange conduct you had recently observed towards your parents.

At this juncture, Mr. Clarence Villiers made his appearance; and, on

consulting him, we learnt to our dismay that the women who passed under

the name Fitzhardinge were his aunt and cousin,--Mrs. Slingsby, who

was transported years ago for forgery--and Perdita, her illegitimate

child, born in Newgate, a few weeks previous to her departure. You may

conceive the anguish which we endured when we found that you had become

connected with such women; and Villiers hastened to Suffolk Street to

obtain an interview with you.”

“Would to God that he had succeeded in finding me--that my departure

with those wretches had been only delayed a few minutes!” cried

Charles, still a prey to the most harrowing feelings.

[Illustration]

“Alas! you had already fled,” continued Mr. Hatfield; “and when

Villiers returned to communicate this fact, an instantaneous pursuit

was resolved upon. Clarence took one road--the Earl another--and I

chose the road to Dover. I was mounted on a good horse, and must

have inevitably overtaken you before you had proceeded many miles,

when, on turning an angle of the road, I suddenly encountered a light

chaise-cart that was turning the corner at a furious rate. The shock

was violent; and I was hurled from my horse with such force that I was

stunned by the fall. When I recovered my senses I was lying on a bed

at a small road-side tavern; and a candle was burning in the room. It

was night: hours had elapsed since the accident which had occurred;

and during that long interval I had remained senseless--unconscious of

all that was passing. A surgeon had been sent for from Greenwich, near

which place the accident occurred; and he was an ignorant quack who had

adopted no effective measures to recover me. But nature had at length

asserted her empire in that where medical mismanagement had necessarily

failed to produce any good result; and I recovered my powers of

thought--only to experience the bitterest anguish at the delay that

had taken place. Ill and suffering as I was, I endeavoured to rise,

with the determination of pursuing my journey; but this was impossible.

For in the first place I was too much exhausted to leave the couch on

which I was thus helplessly stretched; and, secondly, I learnt, to my

increased annoyance, that my horse was injured in a serious manner. To

be brief, I resigned myself to the necessity of at least remaining a

few hours longer in that place; and a deep sleep came over me. In the

morning I awoke, much refreshed, though still suffering from the pain

of the severe contusions that I had received. All hope of continuing

my journey on horseback was destroyed; and I accordingly procured a

post-chaise in which I hastened on to Dover. There I arrived in the

afternoon; and by accident I put up at the same hotel where you and

your female companions had stopped. On inquiring I heard that yourself

and the young lady had departed for Calais in the morning, and that the

old one had been arrested on her way to the port, in consequence of

a communication received by electric telegraph from London. No steam

vessel was to leave for France until the following day; and I was

therefore compelled to wait patiently at the hotel. Patiently, indeed!

No--_that_ was impossible;--for all these delays were maddening, under

the circumstances. But I will not dwell at unnecessary length on any

portion of my narrative--much less upon the nature of the feelings

which I experienced at that time. In the evening I dined in the

coffee-room--if the mere mockery of sitting down to table and eating

nothing can be called dining; and, while I was thus seated at a repast

which I did not touch, I was suddenly interested in a conversation

which was taking place between two officers who were discussing a

bottle of wine at an adjacent table.”

“Oh! I ought to have perceived that there was something mysterious

and wrong in that adventure upon the Marine Parade!” cried Charles,

literally savage with himself at his blindness and folly. “But I was so

completely infatuated by that artful, designing creature----”

“I must implore you to compose yourself,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield,

in an earnest but kind tone: “for if I am now relating to you all

that occurred to me, it is only that you may become acquainted with

everything, and have nothing left behind as a cause for future

excitement. Therefore I will be explicit with you respecting the

substance of the conversation which was passing between those

officers in the manner I have described. Indeed, you may conceive

my astonishment when I overheard one of them mention the name of

_Perdita_; for that is by no means a common one--and perhaps this woman

is the only being on the face of the earth who bears it. I accordingly

listened--and in a short time the whole adventure which had taken

place on the Parade the evening before, became known to me. Then I

addressed myself to the two officers, stating that I had overheard

their remarks, apologising for my rudeness in listening, but excusing

myself on the ground that the young gentleman whom they had seen with

Perdita was nearly allied to me, and that I was, in fact, in pursuit of

him. They assured me that no apology was necessary; and I joined them

in conversation. Then was it that I learnt a dreadful tale of female

depravity; for it appears that Perdita became indeed the ‘_Lost One_’

at a very early age, and that her favours were distributed in Sydney to

any good-looking young man who might happen to please her fancy.”

“Vile--detested Perdita!” ejaculated Charles, almost gnashing his teeth

with rage.

“Yes--you must know her character fully, my poor boy,” said Mr.

Hatfield; “for fear that she should ever again endeavour to exercise

her syren influence upon you.”

“Oh, such an attempt would be utter madness on her part!” cried

Charles, now speaking with every symptom of the deepest indignation

and even loathing. “But what more said the officers whom you thus

singularly encountered?”

“It appears,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “that Perdita was not thoroughly

depraved in the sense in which we allude to an unfortunate woman who

plies her hideous trade for bread. No--she bartered not her charms

for gold. Indeed, though very poor, she would scarcely ever receive

any recompense from her favourites--unless delicately conveyed in the

form of presents. But money she never took: her pride revolted at

_that_,--and it was purely through the wantonness of her disposition

and the burning ardour of her temperament that she plunged headlong

into a career of licentiousness.”

“And I to have fallen the victim to such a polluted wretch!” exclaimed

the young man.

“At Sydney,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “she was looked upon as a

species of prodigy. Endowed with an intellect as powerful as her

beauty was great, and possessing extraordinary natural abilities,

she listened with eagerness to the conversation of those officers

and other gentlemen who became her favourites, and treasured up all

the information she could thus acquire. She was also fond of reading

the newspapers sent from England, and all works treating of the

mother-country and the principal nations of Europe; and thus she

gleaned a vast amount of miscellaneous knowledge, fitting her to

become a woman of the world. With singular facility, too, she studied

and appropriated the gentility of gait, demeanour, and manners which

she observed in her superiors; and the very bearing of the ladies in

Sydney, as they walked abroad, was noted and adopted by her. Thus

even in her poverty, to which she clung rather than surrender up her

independence by becoming a wife or a kept mistress--for she might have

been either--even in her poverty, I say, there was an air of lofty

pride and calm hauteur about her, which would have led a stranger to

fancy that she had sprung from an aristocratic stock, whose family

fortunes had decayed. Moreover, her spirit was indomitable and fiery;

and she knew full well how to avenge an insult. Did she receive

overtures from any one who was displeasing to her, she would reject

them with scorn; and, if possible, she would punish the adventurous

suitor, in one way or another, for his insolence in addressing her.

It was her delight at times to throw around herself--her deeds--her

words--and even her entire character, a veil of mystery, and to affect

an eccentricity of habits and a singularity of manner which made many

ignorant and credulous people imagine that she was a being of no common

order. Amongst those who might be properly styled her equals, she was

reserved, cold, and distant; and even to those whom, in the same sense,

we may denominate her superiors, she demeaned herself condescendingly,

as if conferring a favour on them by her presence. In her amours, she

maintained this singular pride, as if she were a Catherine of Russia,

inviting her lovers to her arms, but never yielding to an invitation

that might come from them. In a word, this Perdita was looked upon as

the most remarkable, and at the same time the most unintelligible--the

most incomprehensible character at Sydney; and even the most

respectable persons were anxious to have her pointed out to them, when

they walked abroad. Endowed with such a splendid intellect--possessed

of such rare and almost superhuman loveliness--robing herself, as it

were, in mystery--and evincing so proud a spirit, as well as such

an aptitude for the self-appropriation of the refinements and the

etiquette of genteel breeding,--it cannot be wondered at if Perdita

should have been regarded in no common light by the inhabitants of

the penal settlement. But from all I have now told you, Charles,

it is easy for you to comprehend how dangerous is the character of

such a woman--how completely she must be the mistress of every art

in the school of hypocrisy, guile, and deceit; and if I have been

thus elaborate in my details respecting her--if I have thus minutely

recapitulated all that I learnt from the two officers at Dover--it is

simply to place you more effectually upon your guard with reference to

that syren----”

“I have already said,” interrupted Charles, speaking with the vehemence

of sincerity and of deep conviction, “that never--never could she

resume her empire over me! Oh! my dear father, the lesson has been too

terrible not to have served as a warning; and sooner would I seek the

embrace of a hideous serpent, than suffer myself to be allured back

to the arms of Perdita. And--oh!” ejaculated the young man, a sudden

reminiscence flashing to his mind, “I should have taken warning, days

and days ago; for I recollect a fearful dream which I had, and which

I must now look upon as providential! Madman that I was to neglect so

solemn a foreshadowing of the truth!”

“Compose yourself, Charles,” cried Mr. Hatfield; “and now let me finish

my narrative. I had reached that point which related to my accidental

interview with the officers at Dover, where I was compelled to pass

the night--a night of cruel and torturing suspense! Next morning, I

crossed to Calais, and there I obtained a trace of you at Dessin’s

hotel. Without delay I took a post-chaise, and hurried on in pursuit. I

reached Paris at five last evening, and put up at the hotel whence we

started just now. But I had not any time to lose, for I felt convinced

that you intended to marry Perdita. I accordingly hurried off to the

British Embassy, either to know the worst, if the worst were indeed

already accomplished--or to take any measures I could to anticipate the

ceremony, in case it should not have been as yet performed. But I could

not obtain any satisfactory intelligence; no one to whom I addressed

myself was able to state whether certain persons whom I described had

been married during the day or not. I drove to the dwelling of the

chaplain--but he had gone a few miles into the country. I found out the

abode of his clerk--but this official was likewise from home. Almost

distracted, I sped to the Prefecture of Police to ascertain if it were

possible to discover your address in Paris, knowing that the landlords

of all hotels are under the necessity of making daily returns of the

names of their lodgers to the proper authorities. But I found the

Prefecture closed for the night; and I returned, exhausted with fatigue

and disconsolate in mind, to the hotel. Summoning the _commissionaire_,

I gave him the necessary instructions to make particular inquiries

at the Prefecture, the moment that establishment should open in the

morning. This he promised to do, and I retired to bed--but not to rest!”

“Oh! my dear father,” exclaimed Charles, seizing his parent’s hand, and

pressing it with fervour to his lips, “how can you ever pardon me for

all the uneasiness I have occasioned you?--and if _you_ can, how shall

I hope to receive the forgiveness of my mother, when she learns all the

sorrow you have endured on my account?”

“It is not, perhaps, necessary that your mother should be made

acquainted with _every thing_,” observed Mr. Hatfield, emphatically:

“but all this will depend upon circumstances--especially on the results

of our previous and private interview with Lord Ellingham. As for you

and me, Charles, we have already forgiven each other every thing,” said

Mr. Hatfield, in a solemn tone. “And now my narrative has reached its

conclusion,” he added; “for shortly after eight o’clock this morning,

the _commissionaire_ came and informed me that he had discovered the

hotel where you were residing. You know the rest.”

Charles sighed, but made no answer, and the journey was continued for a

long time in profound silence.