CXXVIII. THE JOURNEY CONTINUED AND CONCLUDED…

CXXVIII. THE JOURNEY CONTINUED AND CONCLUDED

Perdita and her mother exchanged not a word until they reached the high road once more; but when their faces were again turned towards London, the latter exclaimed in a tone of chuckling triumph, “’Twas a lucky chance which threw us in with that gipsy!”

“Yes, mother--as far as obtaining a good meal was concerned,” replied Perdita.

“Silly child! it was the old crone’s talk that elicited the remark which I just made. Did you not hear the strange facts she suffered to ooze out in her idiotic musings? Did nothing strike you----”

“Yes: her description of a young man of such divine beauty made so strong an impression upon me, that my very veins appeared to run with lightning,” interrupted Perdita.

“Ah!” cried her mother, evidently struck by a sudden thought: “you were pleased with her allusion to that handsome young gentleman? Well, Perdita--trust me when I declare emphatically that this same young gentleman shall sue at your feet for those favours which unasked you would this moment bestow upon him!”

“Mother, you yourself will soon appear to me to be indulging in idiotic musings!” cried Perdita, half in delight--half in contemptuous incredulity. “You never saw this young man--you know nothing of him----”

“Know nothing of him!” repeated her mother, scornfully. “We know enough, Perdita, to compel a whole family to implore our forbearance and our mercy,--to reduce that Mr. Hatfield, Lady Georgiana, and their nephew to the necessity of beseeching our silence on their bended knees!”

“Do you really put faith in the rhodomontade of that gipsy about the identity of the Mr. Hatfield of whom she spoke with a certain Tom Rain who had been hanged?” demanded Perdita, impatiently.

“Yes--because I know it to be true!” ejaculated her mother. “Listen, Perdita:--you were not born at that time--but it was only a few months before your birth when the whole metropolis was astounded by the sudden discovery that Tom Rain, the highwayman, was indeed alive. I was in London at the time----”

“In Newgate, mother?” asked her daughter, as coolly as if it were the most common-place question.

“Yes--in Newgate, if you must have me be particular in every detail,” answered the old harridan, bitterly.

“Where I was born,” remarked Perdita. “One of the first places I shall request you to show me, will be that same Newgate. But go on--I am listening attentively.”

“Well, then--I was in Newgate at the time that all London was astounded by certain discoveries relative to this same Tom Rainford--all brought about in consequence of a dreadful murder committed by that very Benjamin Bones whom you heard the gipsy mention. The story is too long to tell you now; but you shall have it shortly in its fullest details--for it may regard our interests more nearly than you at present imagine. One fact I must however state,--which is that Thomas Rainford was a famous highwayman who was hanged, and that by some means which never transpired, he was rescued from death--resuscitated, in fine. He received the royal pardon for all the deeds he had committed in opposition to the laws; and what afterwards became of him I knew not----”

“Because you had to leave England in pursuance of your sentence, I suppose, mother?” added Perdita, enquiringly.

“Precisely so. And now chance throws us in the way of an old crone who, in the audible musings of dotage, informs us that this same Tom Rain is actually living under a feigned name--aye, and at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham. It is clear that the gipsy had never heard of the wondrous fact that Rainford appeared in London disguised as a Blackamoor, only a few months after his execution, as I may call it: it is evident that the circumstance of his having survived the scaffold was unknown to her and to her companions. Thus was she struck with amazement and surprise, as well she might be under such circumstances, when she beheld him in Lord Ellingham’s carriage. But gipsies go so little into great cities and towns--hold so little intercourse with any save their own people--and are so little curious in respect to matters which do not immediately concern themselves, that it is not surprising if the old gipsy had never heard reported the well-known fact of Rainford’s resuscitation.”

“Then you presume that this Rainford is now living, honourably and respectably, in London, under the name of Hatfield,” said Perdita, enquiringly; “and you mean to use your knowledge of his real name to work out our particular aims?”

“You now comprehend me, daughter,” returned the old woman; “and you may perhaps begin to understand how his nephew shall become bound to you by silken cords.”

“I have set my mind upon that handsome young man,” said Perdita, emphatically; “and believe me, I shall omit nothing that will tend to gratify my passion.”

“Wanton--voluptuous, even as I was,” muttered the harridan to herself;--“aye, licentious and depraved as was her father!”

“What are you mumbling to yourself, mother?” demanded Perdita. “Something about me, I warrant.”

“No harm--no harm,” responded the wretch, hastily. “But, to return to the subject of our conversation, Perdita; what do you think of our prospects now?--knowing all we do of this Mr. Hatfield, and able as we are to overwhelm him, his titled wife, and his nephew in disgrace, if we choose to utter a single word.”

“I think that all will go well enough in respect to money; for that we have the means of extorting,” said Perdita. “But I cannot see how, by such a course, we shall do otherwise than disgust the nephew, and make an enemy of him.”

“Ah! short-sighted girl” ejaculated her mother. “We must not commence with extortion! I know that Lady Georgiana Hatfield was very rich when I was a resident in London years ago; and it is not probable that she has become poor since. Then again, this Hatfield or Rainford must be on intimate terms with the Earl of Ellingham, since he and his family are residing at that nobleman’s mansion. All this denotes that the young man can command ample funds at will;--and the young man, then, must be ensnared by your wiles. But if you surrender yourself to him immediately----”

“Trust me for knowing how to play my cards well!” interrupted Perdita, impatiently. “But on our arrival in London to-night, where are we to find a dwelling-place?--how are we to clothe ourselves decently to-morrow?--how, in a word, are we to live until all these grand schemes begin to work?”

“You shall see, Perdita,” answered her mother. “During my long sojourn in Australia, one person in England wrote to me frequently--one person sent me sums of money occasionally. Otherwise, Perdita, after I obtained my ticket of leave, we should have starved: for the labour of my hands, severely as I toiled, produced not sufficient to maintain us both. This one person lives in London: I know his address;--and to his door must we first repair before we can even procure the wherewith to obtain a bed!”

“Is it the friend who, as you told me, interested himself to procure your pardon?” demanded Perdita.

“The friend!--the relation you mean,” said her mother, hastily. “Yes--he is my relation--the only one I possess in the world save yourself, if a daughter can be called by that name.”

The conversation, which may have served to throw additional light upon the depraved character of these two women, was interrupted by the necessity of stepping to the side of the road to permit a cart, which was on the point of overtaking them, to pass. The vehicle was driven along at a rapid pace by a sturdy, good-natured butcher; and as it was whisking by the two females, the pure moon-light falling fully on the handsome countenance of Perdita, enabled the man to catch a glimpse of the surpassing beauty of that face.

Instantly pulling up, he said, “Holloa! my good women, you are out late--or rather early--for ’tis two o’clock in the morning.”

“We are very tired, and are anxious to reach London as soon as possible,” replied Perdita’s mother.

“I am going as one may say right through London,” observed the butcher: “in fact, to Oxford Street--and if you like to have a ride, both of you, I’ll put you down at the nearest point to where your business leads you.”

The old woman greedily snapped at the offer; and the good-natured butcher helped her daughter and herself into the cart, which immediately drove on again at a spanking pace.

And now full soon did the myriad lights of London greet the eyes of the travellers; and Perdita felt her heart dilate with ineffable emotions as she drew near that sovereign city of a thousand towers, pinnacles, and spires,--that mighty Babylon in which all her hopes, her aims, her ambitious views were centred. A misty haze of light, resembling a faintly illuminated fog, appeared to hang over the vast metropolis;--and as the vehicle approached nearer and nearer still, the countless dwellings began to stand out in relief from the bosom of that dimly lustrous shroud. On--on the travellers go: the houses are scattered along the road;--but in a short time they become continuous ranges of habitations;--and now it may be airily said that the wheels of the cart rattle on the pavement of London.

But a feeling of disappointment seizes upon Perdita: instead of lordly mansions, she sees dingy-looking tenements of no considerable size, and presenting any thing but an imposing appearance, especially at that sombre hour. Nevertheless, the farther she advances the more satisfied does she become;--and now the travellers reach that great junction-point for cross-roads, where stands the Elephant and Castle.

The tap is open--the butcher stops, alights, and disappears inside the establishment. In a few minutes he returns with a steaming hot glass of brandy-and-water,--for a good-natured fellow is this butcher;--and he kindly proffers it to the two females. It was not because Perdita was so handsome, that he did it: no--it was through pure kindness, and as much for the sake of her mother as of herself. Nor did the two females require much pressing to partake of the welcome beverage; and while they were drinking their glass, their good-hearted friend hurried back to the tap to enjoy his own reeking jorum.

And now away they speed again--up the Waterloo Road--over the bridge. Then and there it was that a splendid and soul-stirring spectacle burst upon the sight of Perdita:--for an instant her admiration was rivetted to that magnificent piece of masonry constituting the finest viaduct of the kind in the whole world;--but in the next she threw her glances right and left, embracing thus rapidly all the splendid features of a scene bathed in silver by the cloudless lamp of night. The bosom of the mighty Thames reflected the lights on the banks and the bridges,--those very lights tracing the course of the proud stream and marking its ample width:--then her looks dwelt on the mighty dome of Saint Paul’s, rearing its colossal head to the deep purple summer sky;--and lastly they ran rapidly along the northern shore, embracing each point of interest, until they stopped at the New Houses of Parliament, so gleamingly white in the chaste lustre of the moon.

“Yes, mother,” she whispered, in an exulting tone: “this is indeed a stupendous city!”

“You have seen nothing of it as yet,” was the reply. “But here we must alight,” added the old woman, the moment the cart reached the Strand.

The wanderers accordingly descended; and, having proffered their hearty thanks to the butcher for his kindness, they continued their journey on foot, their way now lying in the direction of Brompton.

Along the Strand they proceeded--through Spring Gardens--into St. James’s Park,--Perdita admiring the fine buildings which she passed; for the morning was now breaking, and each grand feature of that part of the metropolis emerged slowly and majestically from obscurity.

Perdita’s mother, in pointing out Carlton House to her daughter, observed, “When I was last in England George the Fourth was King; and that was his favourite residence.”

They proceeded through the park;--and now Perdita beheld the abode of the Queen of England--that palace on which so much of the country’s money has been shamefully squandered, and with the arrangements of which her Majesty is still dissatisfied! God help Victoria, if she cannot contrive to make herself comfortable at Buckingham House; we sincerely hope that she will always find such quarters gratuitously provided for her, and that she will learn not to grumble at them. Contrast that palace with the working-man’s home, and then let us see whether Parliament would be justified in voting another sixpence to enlarge or improve the sovereign residence. Oh! how loathsome--how revolting to our mind are the caprices, the selfishness, and the insolence of Royalty!

The two wanderers now entered the spacious district of Pimlico, which they traversed painfully--for they had become almost as wearied as when they were toiling on between Dartford and Shooter’s Hill.

“Shall we soon be there, mother?” enquired Perdita, her handsome countenance bearing a care-worn expression as if patience and strength were alike nearly exhausted.

“In less than twenty minutes now,” was the answer, “we shall reach the place whither we are bound.”

“And suppose your nephew should not be in London?” said Perdita.

“Ah! now you have touched the very chord which vibrates with anguish to my heart’s core!” exclaimed the old woman. “But let us not yield to despondency,” she added, almost immediately.

“No--it is useless to meet evils half way,” observed Perdita.

The two proceeded in silence for upwards of a quarter of an hour, until they reached a particular part of Brompton, when the elder wanderer said, “It must be somewhere about here that he lives. Ah! Number Seven! Yes--this is the house, Perdita!” she added, indicating a beautiful cottage-residence, standing alone in the midst of a pleasant garden. “But it will be useless for you to accompany me,” continued the hag: “on the contrary, many reasons, which I will hereafter explain, render it advisable that my nephew should not come to know you by sight.”

“Just as you please, mother,” said Perdita, in the quiet way which was habitual to her when she had no inclination either on one side or the other. “There is a large stone at the angle of the road yonder: I will rest there until you return.”

“Do so,” replied the old woman; and, having paused for a few moments to dwell admiringly on the fine symmetry of her daughter’s form as Perdita repaired slowly towards the point indicated, the harridan advanced to the door of the house in which her relation dwelt.

She knocked and rang;--and in a few minutes a servant-maid, throwing open a window, enquired who it was that came at such an unseasonable hour.

“Is your master at home?” demanded the old woman.

“He is: but----”

“Thank God!” ejaculated the visitor, considerably relieved by this announcement. “You must inform him that an elderly female wishes to speak to him on particular business----”

“I cannot venture to disturb him,” answered the servant. “Come at eight o’clock: master and missus will be up then.”

At this moment another window was opened, and a gentleman, who had evidently slipped on a dressing-gown in great haste, appeared at the casement, exclaiming, “I will see you now--at once!”

And in less than a minute the old woman was admitted into the dwelling by the gentleman who had thus addressed her.

Not a word was uttered,--merely hasty glances of recognition were exchanged, and those looks dubious on her part and reserved on his,--until they entered a parlour, the door of which the gentleman carefully closed, while his visitress sank exhausted upon a sofa.

“I am returned at last, Clarence,” she said, in a low and hoarse voice,--for she was now evidently much moved at finding herself in the presence of her relative, and by no means so confident as she had appeared to her daughter with regard to the reception she was likely to experience.

“Yes--returned, against my express desire--against the solemn promise that you sent me to remain in the colony if I procured your pardon!” exclaimed Mr. Villiers--for it was he--in a reproachful tone.

“Would you have had me bury myself in that horrible place of exile?” demanded his aunt--Mrs. Torrens, or Mrs. Slingsby, or whatever she now denominated herself.

“I would have had you keep your pledge so sacredly given,” replied Clarence; “and on my side I should have fulfilled my engagement by remitting you forty pounds every half-year. Why--why have you come back to England?”

“Because I would sooner die than remain in a colony where I have endured so much,” responded the woman.

“Yes--you have endured much indeed,” said Mr Villiers, still more bitterly than before: “but it has been your own fault. Do you remember the interviews I had with you in prison both prior and subsequent to your condemnation? Did you not exhibit every sign of the deepest contrition--utter every possible vow of amendment? And what were the results? Arrived in the colony, you became unruly--profligate--a perfect scandal where all is scandalous--shameless where every thing is shameful----”

“Listen to me, Clarence!” exclaimed his aunt, rising from the sofa and advancing towards him: “it is so easy to reproach--but not so easy to admit of extenuation for guilt. As God is my judge, my penitence in Newgate was sincere--my contrition unfeigned! I even longed for the hour of my departure to arrive, that I might for ever quit a country where I had played so vile a part, and to some extent retrieve my character in a penal colony. But when I set foot on board the convict-ship, I found myself thrown into the depths of a very sink of immorality,--plunged into an infernal stew of profligacy, from which escape was impossible. I threw myself on my knees before the surgeon, and implored him to remove me from that dreadful assemblage of fiends in female shape: he laughed at me, and bade me return to my place. Then my companions abused and ill-treated me for having dared to complain;--and the babe which I bore in my arms was made the subject of the bitterest taunts and most cutting gibes. I had named her Perdita--as you well know--that her lost and hopeless condition, through the infamy of her mother, might ever be retained fresh in my memory, and that the necessity of toiling hard and honourably for her might be impressed on my soul even by the warning nature of that very name. But, oh! those wretches, with whom I was forced to associate, levelled the most cruel jeers and jests against me on account of that innocent babe; because she was born in Newgate! And nothing is so galling--nothing so terribly afflicting--nothing so poignantly cutting, as to insult a woman through the medium of her illegitimate, helpless babe! My God! what bitter tears I shed on board that convict-ship,--tears which seemed to sear my very countenance as they fell, so scalding were they! Then the frightful scenes which were enacted in our cabin,--the quarrelling that took place, the imprecations that accompanied even the simplest remark, the obscene tales that were told,--oh! it was horrible, horrible. I struggled against the contamination as mortal being never struggled before:--but it was like a combat between a drowning person and the fury of a whelming torrent,--a vain, ineffectual, and useless fight, in which I felt myself to be completely powerless;--until, in despair, I resigned myself to the flood that was whirling me along in its triumphant course;--and I found relief even in drinking of that feculent, fœtid stream from which there was no escape. Yes--thus was I drawn down into the whirlpool of immoralities and profligacies on the brink of which the law placed me:--and if my vows of contrition--my asseverations of penitence proved so many delusions, you must blame the system to which I was subjected--and not myself.”

“And do you mean, then, to inform me that you endeavoured to be moral, reserved, pious, and tranquil on board the convict-ship--but that it was impossible to avoid being dragged into the common abyss of depravity?” demanded Clarence, now speaking in a mild and even compassionate tone.

“Most solemnly do I swear that such is the fact!” exclaimed his aunt, with an emphasis which spoke volumes in favour of her sincerity.

“Then are you to be pitied, poor woman,” said Clarence; “and the Government of that day most bear all the blame of your relapse and subsequent depravity. But where is your daughter Perdita?”

“She is in the neighbourhood--waiting for me,” was the answer. “I did not choose to bring her beneath your roof. Indeed, naught save necessity--necessity the most stern--should have led me hither.”

“The accounts which I received from a correspondent at Sydney, spoke, alas! most unfavourably of your daughter,” observed Clarence. “My God! could you not at least have saved her from entering the paths that lead to perdition?”

“Behold, now, how ready you are to blame me!” cried his aunt, in a voice expressive of vexation. “I was allotted as a servant to a free-settler in the penal colony; and the man made me his mistress. There was no compliance on my part in the first instance: ’twas absolute compulsion. Then I yielded to my fate, seeing that it was useless to contend against it. I had to work hard all day; and the moment Perdita was able to run alone, she played in the streets with the other poor children of Sydney. I could not prevent it--do all I would to endeavour to keep her in doors. Well, at last I obtained a ticket of leave, and tried to earn a livelihood by the toil of my own hands. But to do this, I was compelled to be out all day;--and then, where was Perdita? Where was she?” almost screamed the woman, becoming much excited: “why--lost--as her name implies;--not lost as you lose an object and can find it no more,--but lost morally--irretrievably lost! ’Tis true that I imparted to her as much knowledge as I myself possessed or had leisure to instil into her--and that to do this I deprived myself of my natural rest. But how could I teach her virtue?--how could I read the Bible with her? My story was known throughout the colony;--and Perdita learnt before even she had intelligence to understand the meaning of the facts, that she was a bastard--born in Newgate, the great criminal prison of London--and that her mother was every thing infamous and vile! My God! circumstances would not allow me to nurture her in moral ways, even if I had possessed the inclination: but by the time she was old enough to learn, I had myself become as deeply steeped in profligacy as any other woman in the colony. Can you wonder, then, that she soon fell into the ways of vice? Beautiful as she was--and is--she soon attracted notice;--and your fine English officers--the gentlemen sent out to protect the colony,--they were the authors of her ruin--and they encouraged her in a career of infamy. Oh! Clarence, it is a frightful thing for me to stand before you--you, who are my own nephew--and have to make such horrible revelations: but you reproach me for my own wickedness--you would seek to represent me as the cause of my daughter’s wickedness--and I am forced to explain to you the appalling nature of the influences acting upon us, and the circumstances surrounding us. Now--now, I could weep in humiliation;--but an hour hence, I shall be obdurate and hardened as ever. The world has made me so.”

“And now what do you propose to do?” enquired Clarence. “It is impossible for me even to advise you in the frightful position in which you are placed, and since you have acted so completely in opposition to my counsel by returning to England. Pecuniary assistance--that I can afford you to a limited amount----”

“Give me fifty guineas, Clarence--and you shall never see me more,” interrupted his aunt.

“I will spare you a hundred,” answered the generous-hearted young man; and quitting the room, he returned in a few minutes, bringing the money in a bag. “Here,” he said,--“take that, my poor aunt--and may God make it prosper in your hands. But, oh! suffer not your daughter to continue in the ways of vice and depravity: remember that she possesses an immortal soul--and that there is another world in which an account must be given for the conduct pursued in this.”

The old woman made no answer; but, clutching the bag eagerly, she secured it amongst her tattered garments. Then, ashamed of the greedy impatience which she had manifested, and seeking to avert her nephew’s attention from the fact by turning the conversation into another channel, she said, “I hope you continue to enjoy that happiness, Clarence, which yourself and your excellent Adelais so much deserve!”

“Thank God! my felicity is as complete as man’s can be in this world,” was the reply. “Having now for upwards of nineteen years held the good situation which my kind patron, the Earl of Ellingham, gave me, I have enjoyed a certain means of existence--have acquired influential friends--and have been enabled to rear my sons and daughters in a way which, I hope, will be salutary to them on their entrance into life.”

“And that man--my husband--have you heard of him lately?” enquired Villiers’ aunt, in a low tone and hesitating way.

“Never since the occasion--and that is now nine years ago--when he wrote to announce the death of poor Rosamond at Geneva. I mentioned that fact to you in a letter which accompanied one of the remittances I made to Sydney on your behalf----”

“And from that time you have received no tidings of my husband?”

“Not once!” replied Villiers. “Whether he be alive or dead--what has become of him, I cannot tell you. This uncertainty relative to her father’s fate is a cause of uneasiness to Adelais:--but every state and station in life has its annoyances and its sorrows. Poor Rosamond! she fell into a slow decline shortly after leaving England--and for nearly ten years did she linger on, wasting away! Adelais and I saw her once during that period: we visited Switzerland on purpose. Then how deeply was my wife shocked when she behold the wreck that remained of her once lovely and blooming sister. But I cannot dwell upon that episode in our lives----”

“No--no,” exclaimed Perdita’s mother, now in haste to depart. “I will not distress you,” she added, with a hypocritical appearance of sympathy, “by exacting the painful narrative from you. Farewell, Clarence--farewell.”

The generous-hearted Villiers proffered his hand to his aunt,--that aunt who was once so fine a woman, so elegantly dressed, and the mistress of a splendid mansion,--but who was now hideous to look upon, clothed in rags, and as yet homeless on the face of the earth!

For a few instants her heart swelled with profound emotions as she pressed that hand which was thus kindly extended to her, and tears rose to the very brims of her eyes, but did not run over.

Then she hurried away from his presence:--and the moment she set foot on the threshold of the dwelling--or rather, when its door closed behind her--she subdued the feelings that had well nigh overpowered her; and gave all her attention--all her interest--all her thoughts to the precious bag which she had concealed amongst her garments.

“Well, mother, I thought you were never coming back!” cried Perdita, in a reproachful tone: then, perceiving by the old woman’s countenance that she had good news, she allowed her own to brighten up, as she hurried to meet her.

“Perdita--we have now the means----”

“Of obtaining shelter and a breakfast, I hope?”

“Of purchasing good clothes--taking fine lodgings----”

“Oh! then your nephew--or relation of some kind, whatever he may be--has behaved well!” cried the young woman, overjoyed by this intelligence.

“A hundred guineas, Perdita--a hundred guineas in this bag!” exclaimed her mother, shaking the precious object of her avaricious worship: then, again concealing it beneath her rags, she said, “But come, Perdita: let us betake ourselves to another quarter of the town--for I have promised Clarence Villiers that he shall see my face no more.”

The old hag and the handsome young woman retraced their way into the heart of London; and, arriving in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, they entered an early breakfast-house, where they partook of a copious meal, to which appetite and good spirits enabled them to do honour.

The repast being despatched, the elder of the two wanderers had a few minutes’ whispering conversation with the landlady of the establishment; the result of which was that a bed-room was speedily placed at the disposal of the guests, who retired to partake of a few hours’ most necessary repose.

It was near mid-day when the mother and daughter rose; and then another interview with the landlady was shortly followed, in obedience to the instructions given her, by the arrival of a woman who sold second-hand female apparel, and who came laden with band-boxes. The contents thereof were speedily examined; and the wanderers having selected the articles which seemed most appropriate for their temporary use, the slop-seller was well paid and dismissed.

And now Perdita and her parent began to assume each a very different appearance from that which they had so recently worn. Copious ablutions and decent clothing made the elder less revoltingly ugly, and the younger more strikingly beautiful.

As they thus performed their toilette together, in the little chamber of the coffee-house, the mother surveyed, with pride and admiration, the features and form of her daughter,--calculating at the same time how large a fortune the judicious sale of such loveliness was likely to amass;--while on her side the young woman stood in superb complacency before the glass, exercising a thousand little arts to render the details of her toilette as perfect as circumstances would admit.

Perdita’s dark brown hair was combed out with the utmost care, and arranged in simple bands, glossy and massive on either side of her fine forehead. By chance she had obtained from the second-hand dealer a gown which precisely fitted her, and which, being very low in the body, displayed her full and swelling bust to its greatest advantage. The darned stockings and the clumsy shoes wore superseded by more fitting articles; and now the robust leg, the slender ancle, and the long narrow foot were as faultless in proportion as if a sculptor had modelled them to his own exquisite but voluptuous taste. A neat straw bonnet and an ample shawl completed her attire;--and now well, but by no means splendidly nor elegantly dressed, Perdita appeared a creature so exceedingly handsome, that even her mother was surprised as much as she was delighted.

And, as for the old woman herself, she had assumed an air of greater respectability than at first might have appeared possible--seeing that her look was sinister and repulsive, and her countenance so weather-beaten and marred by suffering!

Forth went the mother and daughter into the streets of London;--and their first care was to purchase a variety of articles of attire of a far better kind than that which they had just procured,--likewise a little jewellery and the necessary paraphernalia of the toilette. The goods were all sent to the coffee-house where they had hired a chamber; and a couple of large trunks were the last objects they bought, and which were despatched to the same place.

These matters having been accomplished, the old woman conducted her daughter into the fashionable quarter of Regent Street; and there Perdita beheld enough to excite her wonder and her admiration. The magnificent shops--the fine buildings--the splendid equipages--and the handsomely dressed gentlemen on horseback, all shared her attention in their turns:--nor was she, an observer, unobserved--for many an old voluptuary and stripling gallant paused to bestow a second glance upon the plainly but decently dressed young female whoso countenance was so strikingly beautiful, and in whose looks there was a subdued wantonness engendering the most voluptuous sensations.

To Perdita’s mother how altered did London seem! Here was a street which she had never seen before--there a street had been pulled down to make way for some great thoroughfare. Here buildings once familiar had disappeared: there strange edifices had sprung up! In Regent Street she looked for the shops at which she had been accustomed to deal long years before, when she dwelt in the immediate neighbourhood, and when she was deemed a saint: but most of the establishments she sought had changed their proprietors and their nature,--a grocer’s having become a book-seller’s, a milliner’s a china warehouse, and so on. She had a great mind to pass into Burlington Street; but she had not quite the necessary courage to do that--at least for the present.

Having threaded Regent Street from Oxford Circus to Waterloo Place, the two women turned into Pall Mall West, along which they proceeded for a short distance; when the mother suddenly clasped her daughter’s arm almost violently, exclaiming in a hasty whisper at the same time, “This is the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham!”

Scarcely were these words uttered, when the door was opened, and forth came Charles Hatfield. Passing by the two females without noticing that he had immediately become the object of their most earnest attention,--and indeed, without observing them at all, so deeply was he absorbed in thought,--he moved on at a slow and uncertain pace, as if he had merely come out to seek the fresh air, and having no particular destination.

Yes:--he had indeed become the cynosure of attraction on the part of the old woman and her daughter,--the former devouring him with her eyes, in order to read his character and disposition in his countenance, and assure herself from that physiognomical perusal that he was fitted for her purpose,--and the latter embracing with a look of ardent, wanton scrutiny every feature of his fine face and every proportion of his symmetrical form.

He passed on:--and for a few minutes the mother and daughter preserved a deep silence, each occupied with her own thoughts.

“That young man may be rendered pliant and docile according to our will,” said the old woman at length.

“He is beyond all doubt the one whom the gipsy alluded to in such glowing colours,” observed Perdita, with a voluptuous languor in the eyes, a flushing of the cheeks, and a slow but deep heaving of the bosom.

“And he has something on his mind--that is clear!” added the old woman.

“Which we will soon make him divulge to us,” said Perdita. “But how do you intend to proceed in order to form his acquaintance?”

“Oh! nothing is more easy!” returned her mother. “In the first place we must take handsome lodgings. I know of a nice, quiet, retired street in the neighbourhood. Come along, Perdita--we must not waste valuable time.”

The two women repaired direct to Suffolk Street, Pall Mall East; and in the window of a house of handsome appearance they saw a card announcing furnished apartments to be let. The lodgings were speedily inspected and hired, the prepayment of a month’s rent immediately ensuring the good opinion of the landlady and rendering references unnecessary.

Back to the coffee-house in the vicinity of Covent Garden did the wanderers hasten; and in a few minutes all their packages and new purchases were transported to a hackney coach, which was fetched from the nearest stand. The coffee-house keeper was liberally rewarded, and a handsome fee was bestowed upon the driver of the vehicle to induce him to state, in case of being questioned in Suffolk Street, that he had brought the ladies from some respectable hotel.

All these matters being arranged, the mother and daughter proceeded in the hackney-coach to their new lodgings, where they at once took up their quarters under the imposing name of Mrs. and Miss Fitzhardinge.

Had the worthy butcher who a few hours previously took pity on the two ragged, sinking mendicants, and sustained their strength and courage by means of hot brandy-and-water at the Elephant and Castle,--had he now beheld Mrs. and Miss Fitzhardinge sitting down, elegantly attired, at a well spread dinner-table, and at the fashionable time of six in the evening,--he would not for an instant have supposed that the way-worn beggars of the morning’s adventure and the ladies of Suffolk Street, Pall Mall, were identical: or if, by chance, he should have recognised Perdita’s handsome countenance, he would have thought that the delusions of enchantment had been practised upon him or her.

And now we have prepared the way, with due prefatory explanation, for one of the most striking and remarkable episodes in this narrative--an episode showing how Perdita’s arts and Perdita’s beauty accomplished aims which women of less enterprise than herself and her mother would have deemed impossible.

Oh! fatal influence--that influence which the depraved and wanton Perdita wielded by means of her transcendant charms!

CXXIX. THE ADVERTISING AGENT

On the day after the one the incidents of which have just been related, Mr. Bubbleton Styles called, precisely as the clock struck eleven in the forenoon, upon an advertising agent dwelling in the immediate vicinity of Cornhill.

The agent, knowing that Mr. Styles was the registered promoter of a scheme which had obtained the patronage of the high and mighty Mr. Podgson, was particularly civil and urbane; and having bowed him into the private office, and presented him with a chair, he said, “Now, Mr. Styles, sir--what can I do for you?”

“I intend to give the newspapers a round of advertisements,” answered the City gentleman, pulling out his prospectuses.

“Softly--softly, my dear sir,” exclaimed the agent: “you must be guided by me in this. If you went to the generality of agents, they would say, ‘Oh! advertise by all means in every paper in existence:’--but I, Mr. Styles, am a little more conscientious. There are some journals, in fact, which are perfectly useless as advertising media: it would be money completely thrown away.”

“I am much obliged to you for your kindness,” said Mr. Styles. “Of course we shall advertise in the Times.”

“As a matter of course!” cried the agent. “’Tis the great daily Leviathan which every body sees, no matter what his politics may be. The Morning Chronicle, too, is a good medium: the Herald, Post, and Advertiser must likewise be included;--and it would be folly to omit the Sun, Globe, and Standard.”

“Well--and what about the Daily News and the Express?” asked Mr. Styles, apparently astonished that no reference should have been made to those print.

“The Daily News!” ejaculated the agent, in perfect wonderment: “the Express!” he cried, in horrified amazement. “Excuse me, my dear friend--but are you mad? have you taken leave of your senses?”

“I hope not,” responded Mr. Styles, in his usual calm, business-like manner. “What makes you think so?”

“What makes me think so!” repeated the agent: “why, the idea that you should for an instant entertain the notion of advertising in those contemptible abortions! They are a perfect disgrace to newspaper literature, sir,” proceeded the agent, who was speaking conscientiously, and indeed truly. “Did you ever happen to read the Daily News?”

“I have never seen the paper in my life,” answered Mr. Styles: “I had only heard of it.”

“And you are not likely to see it,” returned the agent, “unless you go into the heart of Wapping or explore the back slums of Whitechapel. No respectable newsman keeps it: not that newsmen are more particular than other shop-keepers--but they only keep what they can sell, Mr. Styles. As for the Express, it is a regular cheat of an evening paper--made up entirely of the articles in the Daily News, without even having the bad grammar and the typographical errors corrected. But both prints are the most contemptible threepenny things I ever saw in my life; and one would be inclined to fancy that all the real newspaper talent had been absorbed by the pre-existing journals, leaving only the meanest literary scrubs in London to do the News and the Express.”

“And yet I thought that the News had been started under the auspices of Mr. Charles Dickens--the immortal Boz?” said Mr. Styles, interrogatively.

“So it was,” replied the advertising agent: “but the name of Charles Dickens was rather damnatory than useful to a newspaper-speculation. Every one must admit that Boz is a great novelist--a very great novelist indeed--the Fielding of his age; but he is totally incapable of writing for a newspaper. The proprietors of the News made a tremendous splash with his name; but they only created a quagmire for themselves to flounder in. When their paper was first coming out, every body thought it was to do wonders. The Times was to lose half its subscribers; and the Chronicle was to be ruined altogether. But, alas! never did so labouring a mountain produce such a contemptible mouse; and people began to fancy that the wags engaged on Punch had started the Daily News as a grand parody on the newspaper press. The leaders were rubbish--the criticisms of new works, mere nonsense--the dramatic reviews, utter balderdash. It however seems that in the lowest depths there is a deeper still even with the bathos of journalists; for when the News tumbled down (which it soon did) to a two-penny halfpenny print, the rubbish, the nonsense, and the balderdash became more astounding still. There is a young man named Bilk who does the ‘moral department’ of the paper; and he is the most grovelling ass that ever was created. He undertakes to review a whole batch of cheap publications in a lump; but what he calls reviewing is nothing else than abusing the works with an insolence so cool, and a rashness so indiscriminate that he must be as consummate a coxcomb as he is an unprincipled ruffian. The News affects a moral tone, and entrusts its conscience to this half-buffoon--half-barbarian, in the hope that the lucubrations of the ungrammatical scribe may acquire for it the reputation of a serious, sober, and sedate journal. The despicable being to whom I allude is the son of the proprietor of the Assinœum--a paper which Bulwer mauled and exposed so terribly in one of his admirable novels many years ago. The articles in the Assinœum may be termed TWADDLE UPON STILTS----”

“You are really very inveterate in your denunciations of these prints,” observed Mr. Styles, who having an hour to spare, did not experience any impatience in listening to the agent’s remarks.

“Not at all inveterate--only justly indignant,” was the answer. “I am indignant, because I admire the newspaper press of Great Britain--I am proud of it--I glory in belonging to the country which possesses it; and therefore when I see journalism prostituted to the lowest and meanest purposes--when I behold such despicable abortions as the Daily News and the Express daring to show themselves in that sphere where respectability and talent alone existed until those threepenny things made their appearance,--I am angry--I am disgusted! Only see how the News has been tinkered and hacked about with the idea of making it a property. First it was five-pence--then it was two-pence halfpenny--next it was three-pence;--and yet with all this derogatory experimentalising, the owners have failed to make it a property. What a miserable thing does it look, with its beggarly three columns of advertisements! The Times has as many in a day as the News has had altogether since its sickly existence began. The very Parliamentary Reporters engaged upon the News are ashamed of their connexion with such a scurvy affair; and the doorkeeper of the Gallery of the House of Commons looks on them with kind commiseration, knowing how degrading it must be to their feelings to take their places in the seats allotted to the representatives of that three-penny hodgepodge. You never see the News quoted from nor alluded to by its contemporaries. It is not recognised as a member of the newspaper press. It has tried all imaginable kinds of manœuvres to force itself into notoriety,--sometimes currying favour with the superior journals, and at others abusing them; but all to no purpose. Its contemporaries will not notice it: they will not be bullied nor coaxed into such condescension. Why--would you believe that the very Editor is heartily ashamed of his post: but he knows that if he resigned it, he should be compelled to relapse into the lowest walks of penny-a-lining, whence he was dragged forth to conduct the thing.”

“How is it possible that such a contemptible journal continues in existence?” asked Mr. Styles.

“There! now you puzzle me indeed!” exclaimed the advertising agent. “The question you have put to me involves one of the greatest mysteries of London; and I am quite incapable of affording you the solution. Time will however show: for, in this case, time must clear up all doubt and uncertainty regarding the matter. For the present, however, take my advice and refrain from advertising in a paper which is contemptible in circulation and influence--scurrilous[8] or hypocritical, according to circumstances, in its literary articles--and wishy-washy in the extreme in its leaders.”

“Well, I am excessively obliged to you for this most useful warning,” observed Mr. Bubbleton Styles. “You have nothing to say against the Weekly Dispatch--the Sunday Times--Bell’s Life in London----”

“All good papers!” exclaimed the advertising agent. “But here is a list of those metropolitan and provincial journals in which I should recommend you to advertise.”

“I place myself entirely in your hands,” answered the promoter of the grandest railway scheme ever devised: and, thrusting his hands into his breeches pockets, he rattled a little silver and a great many halfpence, saying, “Shall I give you a hundred or so in advance? or will you send in the account----”

“Pray do not think of offering any sum in advance, Mr. Styles--my dear Mr. Styles!” cried the agent. “It is but a trifle: three hundred guineas will cover the outlay for this first batch of advertisements--and I will send in my little account to the secretary when the Board meets.”

“Very good,” rejoined the promoter;--and, having come to this excellent understanding, the two gentlemen parted--Mr. Styles betaking himself to Garraway’s Coffee-house, where he ate his lunch standing at the bar, and afterwards returning to his office at Crosby Hall Chambers.

CXXX. PERDITA

A week had elapsed since the arrival of Mrs. and Miss Fitzhardinge in the great metropolis; and as yet they appeared to be no nearer to an acquaintanceship with Charles Hatfield than they were on the day when they first beheld him issue from Lord Ellingham’s mansion;--for that it was he whom they had seen on the occasion alluded to, the mother had satisfactorily ascertained.

Indeed, the old woman had not been idle. Every evening, for a couple of hours, did she watch in the immediate vicinity of the Earl’s dwelling to obtain an interview with the young man: but he did not appear to go out after dusk.

Mrs. Fitzhardinge accordingly began to think of changing her tactics, and endeavouring to catch him in the day-time, when fortune at last favoured her views;--for on the eighth night of her loiterings in Pall Mall, she had the satisfaction of seeing him sally forth shortly after nine o’clock.

Unhesitatingly accosting him, she said, “Mr. Hatfield, will you accord me your attention for a few moments?”

The young man turned towards her, and beheld a very ugly, plainly-attired, old lady: he nevertheless answered her respectfully, because she had addressed him in a manner denoting genteel breeding. We should observe, too, that she had purposely assumed a humble apparel on the occasion of these evening watchings, in order to avoid the chance of attracting the attention of passers-by or policemen, who would naturally have wondered to see a handsomely apparelled person thus loitering about.

“Certainly, madam,” replied Charles: “I will listen to any thing you may have to say to me. Will you walk into the house which I have just left: ’tis the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham.”

“I know well who lives there, Mr. Hatfield,” answered the old woman; “and it is precisely because I wish to speak to you alone, that I have accosted you in the street. Can you pardon such boldness?”

“If your business with me be of importance, madam,” said Charles, “no apology can be necessary on your part.”

“Yes--my business is indeed of importance,” returned Mrs. Fitzhardinge, with mysterious emphasis. “But I cannot speak to you here----”

“I have already requested you to accompany me to the house where I am residing with my relatives and friends,” said Charles, with the least indication of impatience in his manner.

“And I have already assured you that I am anxious to converse with you alone,” responded the old woman, nothing daunted. “Do not mistrust me, sir--do not suppose that I have accosted you for the purpose of soliciting any assistance of a pecuniary kind----”

“Then, madam, what do you require of me?” asked Charles, hastily.

“Ten minutes’ private conversation--on matters of importance--of deep importance to yourself!” replied Mrs. Fitzhardinge, as rapidly and as firmly as the other had spoken: then, before he had time to make any rejoinder, she added, “For your own sake, Mr. Hatfield--if for no other consideration--you will accompany me to my own dwelling, which is close at hand. What! you hesitate? Then continue to cherish the secret grief which weighs upon your mind----”

“Ah! what did you say?” ejaculated the young man, starting as if a chord had been touched so as to vibrate to his very heart’s core.

“I mean that if you refuse to accompany me, you will repent the loss of an opportunity to receive revelations nearly concerning yourself, and which opportunity may not speedily occur again.”

As Mrs. Fitzhardinge uttered these words, she fixed a strange, mysterious, and almost ominous look upon Charles Hatfield, who was bewildered and amazed by her language. The old woman had dealt her random shots with good effect; and she experienced an inward triumph at her skill, and a sure conviction of its success.

“Who are you? and what do you know of me?” demanded Charles, breaking silence abruptly after more than a minute’s pause, and speaking in a tone of earnestness denoting mingled suspense, wonder, and curiosity.

“My name is Fitzhardinge,” replied the old woman; “and I know all--every thing concerning you,--aye, much more than you can possibly suspect. But not another word of explanation will I utter here; and you may now decide whether you will at once accompany me----”

“I will accompany you, madam,” interrupted Charles Hatfield, in a decided manner. “In which direction does your abode lie?”

“Five minutes will take us thither,” was the answer.

The old woman and the young gentleman now proceeded in silence towards Suffolk Street, Pall Mall--the latter wondering who his companion might be, what she could possibly have to communicate to him, and how she had acquired the information which she alleged to be so important and was about to impart. He naturally associated the promised revelations with the mysterious circumstances which he had so recently fathomed by means of the letters and manuscripts found in the secret recess of the library at Lord Ellingham’s mansion;--and yet he was at a loss to conceive how a Mrs. Fitzhardinge, whose name was entirely strange to him, could possibly have any connexion with his own family affairs. At one moment he fancied that the proceeding on her part was nothing more nor less than a plot to inveigle him to some den for predatory purposes: for he had heard that London abounded in such horrible places, and also in persons who adopted every kind of stratagem to lure the unwary into those fatal snares. But when he considered the quarter of the great metropolis in which his companion evidently resided, as she had assured him that her abode was only a few minutes’ walk from the spot where she had first accosted him,--when he again noticed the respectability of her appearance, and reflected that there was something superior in her manners, language, and address,--and lastly, when he remembered that amidst circumstances so complicated and mysterious as those which regarded his own family, it was highly possible for that aged female to be interested in them in some way or another,--he blamed himself for his misgivings, and resolved to see the end of the adventure.

Scarcely was his mind thus made up, when Mrs. Fitzhardinge turned into Suffolk Street; and in less than another minute, she knocked in an authoritative manner at the door of a handsome house. The summons was instantaneously responded to by a respectable female-servant; and Charles Hatfield followed the old lady up a wide stair-case lighted by a lamp which a statue in a niche held in its hand. On reaching the first landing, Mrs. Fitzhardinge threw open a door, saying, “Walk into this room, Mr. Hatfield: I will join you in a few moments.”

Charles entered--and the door immediately closed behind him.

The young man found himself in a well-furnished apartment, in which the light of the wax candles placed upon the mantel was reflected in a handsome mirror. The atmosphere was rendered perfumed and refreshing by vases of fresh flowers tastefully disposed around: and on a side-table stood a large globe filled with the clearest water, in which gold and silver fish were disporting. The curtains were closed over the windows; but still the room was cool and the air grateful in that sultry summer season.

These observations were made at a rapid glance;--and then Charles Hatfield’s looks were concentrated in the cynosure which instantly absorbed all interest--all attention. For, half sitting, half reclining upon the sofa, was a being of such transcendant beauty that never in the wildest of his dreams had he conceived the like. When reading a novel or a poem, his imagination had often depicted to itself the semblance of the heroine--and this mental portraiture was invariably drawn with the utmost perfection of form and feature which impassioned and enthusiastic youth could devise. But no flight--no soaring of that fervid imagination had ever yet idealised such dazzling, brilliant charms as those which now met his astonished gaze,--charms that intoxicated while they delighted, and that ravished while they infused a warm voluptuousness into the soul of the beholder.

And, in sooth, well might Charles Hatfield experience ineffable feelings and tender emotions as he contemplated the fiend in an angel’s shape that was half reclining on the sofa; for Perdita was surpassingly lovely on this occasion! She was attired in a light pink muslin dress, made very low in the body, so that her neck and shoulders were set off in all their dazzling whiteness against the deep purple velvet of the sofa--and her full, swelling, firm bosom was more than half revealed. Her hair was arranged in long ringlets, glittering like hyperions, luxuriant, and sweeping those glowing globes that appeared to heave to their caresses. Her large grey eyes beamed with voluptuous languor, although a brilliant light shone in the depths of the dark pupils;--and her vermilion lips, parted with a smile, displayed the white and even rows of pearls, so faultless in their beauty. The slightly sun-burnt tinge of her face appeared to be the rich hue of an Italian complexion--the carnation glow of health, and youth, and warm blood animating her cheeks. Then her arms were naked,--those arms which were dazzlingly white, robust, and yet admirably modelled, and which seemed ready to stretch out and clasp a favoured lover to the panting breast. One foot was raised on the sofa--the other rested on an ottoman;--and thus, as Charles Hatfield’s eyes swept the rich and fine proportions--the undulating contours of that splendid form, it seemed to him as if a halo of voluptuousness surrounded this enchanting being--a very perfume of beauty enveloped her in its intoxicating influence.

She had heard him ascending the stairs--and she had purposely placed herself in an attitude which should seem as if he had disturbed her unexpectedly, and thus serve as an apology for the negligent abandonment of limb which gave to her position an air alike wanton and lascivious. While she, therefore, affected to gaze on him in soft surprise, he was intently devouring her with looks of unfeigned amazement;--and while she still retained that voluptuous attitude as if unwittingly, he was rivetted to the spot near the door where he had stopped short on first catching sight of her. This dumb-show on the part of both,--artificial with her, and real with him,--lasted for nearly a minute;--and during that time Perdita had an opportunity of surveying the young man’s handsome appearance with even more searching scrutiny than when she had seen him in Pall Mall the very day of her arrival in London,--while, on his side, Charles Hatfield had leisure to scan a combination of charms such as transcended all his ideal creations, and which, had he beheld them in a picture, he would have declared to be impossible of realization.

Again must we observe how different was this elegantly-attired, captivating creature as she now appeared, from the ragged, way-worn wanderer that she was when first we introduced her to our readers! But oh! dangerous--trebly dangerous Perdita,--a snake with the loveliest skin--a demon with the most heavenly form--utter profligacy in the most witching guise!

And now the young man, who has been brought within the sphere of this perilous influence, recovers his self-possession so far as to be able to stammer forth an apology for what he conceives to be an intrusion occasioned by some strange mistake.

“No excuse is necessary, sir,” replies Perdita; “The lady whom you state to have conducted you hither, is my mother; and she has doubtless sought her chamber for a few minutes to change her attire. Pray be seated.”

But Charles Hatfield once more stood still--rivetted to the spot, after having advanced a few paces towards Perdita;--for the sound of her voice, so sweetly musical--so enchantingly harmonious, appeared to inspire him with ecstatic emotions and infuse an ineffable delight into his very soul.

Then Perdita arose from the sofa, and indicating a chair close by, again invited the young man to be seated,--accomplishing this courtesy with so ravishing a grace and such a charming smile, that he felt himself intoxicated--bewildered--enchanted by the magic of her beauty, the melody of her silver tones, and the soft persuasion of her manner. For the consciousness of almost superhuman beauty had rendered Perdita emulative of every art and taught her to study every movement which might invest her with a winning way and a witching power;--and thus this singular young woman had acquired a politeness so complete that it seemed intuitive, and a polish so refined that it appeared to have been gained by long and unvaried association with the highest classes.

Sinking into the chair thus gracefully offered him, Charles Hatfield could not take his eyes off the magnificent creature who remained standing for a few seconds after he was seated; for, affecting to alter the position of one of the wax candles on the mantel, as if it were too near the mirror, she placed herself in such an attitude that the young man might obtain a perfect view of the flowing outlines of her glorious form,--the splendid arching of the swan-like neck--the luxurious fulness of the bust--the tapering slenderness of the waist--the plump and rounded arms--the large, projecting hips--and the finely proportioned feet and ankles.

The effect thus produced by the artful, designing creature, whose voluptuous position seemed all natural and all unstudied, was precisely that which she had intended;--for Charles Hatfield experienced a delirium of emotions till then unknown--and he felt that he could almost spring from his seat, catch that bewitching form in his arms, and, covering her with kisses, exclaim, “Pardon me--but I am mad--intoxicated--raving with passion!”

“My mother will not be many minutes, sir,” said Perdita, now returning to her seat upon the sofa; “and in the meantime I must solicit you to exercise your patience--for I am afraid you will find me but a dull companion.”

“Impossible!” cried Charles, enthusiastically; then fearing that he had spoken in too decided and earnest a manner to one who was a perfect stranger, he added in a more subdued and reserved tone, “But perhaps I am intruding on your privacy, as I am afraid that when I entered--I mean, I fear that I--I disturbed you----”

“I certainly was not aware that my mother expected a visitor this evening,” answered Perdita; “and it is I who should apologise, inasmuch as you caught me in such a lounging, lazy attitude. But since I have been in London I have experienced a heaviness in the atmosphere that engenders indolence--for I have hitherto been accustomed to the country.”

“Then you have not long resided in London, Miss Fitzhardinge?” said Charles, hazarding this mode of address with the determination of ascertaining whether the beautiful young woman were married or single.

“We have only been in this city for one week,” she replied in an acquiescent way which convinced him that she had not changed the parental name by means of wedlock--a discovery that infused a secret glow of pleasure into his very soul, though at the same instant his heart smote him as if he were already playing a treacherous part in respect to Lady Frances Ellingham. “No,” continued Perdita, “we have not long resided in London. Urgent affairs have compelled my mother to visit the capital; and as our stay is likely to be of considerable duration, we are about to take a house. For my part, I am not sorry that we are thus to settle in London: for, in spite of its oppressive atmosphere, its smoke, and its noise, it has many attractions.”

“You have already seen enough, then, to induce you to prefer London to the country, Miss Fitzhardinge?” said Charles, now admiring the fine aquiline profile of which he was suffered to obtain a perfect view, as Perdita half averted her looks on purpose, though quite in a natural manner.

“I have seen enough to render me an enthusiastic admirer of your great city,” she replied, now turning her full countenance upon him, and smiling so as to display her brilliant teeth: “but I am anxious to behold more, and my wish cannot very readily be gratified. For, save our attorney, we have no acquaintances--no friends in London: we are perfect strangers here--and we cannot very well ask our solicitor to escort us to the theatre and to those places of amusement which ladies would hardly choose to visit unless accompanied and protected by a gentleman.”

“Is it possible that you, Miss Fitzhardinge, should have to experience the want of such a chaperon?” demanded Charles Hatfield, again hurried by his enthusiasm into language too little reserved and distant for a perfect stranger to address to a young lady:--at least, so he thought and feared immediately after he had made the observation.

“It is very possible,” replied Perdita, in a mild and almost plaintive tone. “In the country we had numerous friends; but here----”

And the artful creature, stopping short, stooped down to pick up her handkerchief as if to apply it to her eyes:--at the same instant Charles, obeying the impulse of polite attention, bent down also to save the lady the trouble and perform the little act of courtesy, when their hair--their very cheeks came in contact,--accidentally as the confused and bewildered Charles imagined, but intentionally on the part of the wanton and astute Perdita.

And that contact--Oh! it was thrilling in the extreme; and Charles Hatfield felt as if his veins ran with liquid fire;--for the perfume exhaled from the lady’s hair--the velvety feeling of the luxuriant curls--the softness and the warmth of her carnation cheek--and then the view which he could not possibly avoid for a moment obtaining of the glowing breast which her stooping posture completely revealed,--all this was sufficient to madden him with passion and excite him to a degree when all self-command becomes nearly impossible. But he still possessed a sufficiency of mental energy to controul himself; and, stammering forth an awkward apology, he hurriedly observed, “Would you not think me too bold, Miss Fitzhardinge, I should be proud to offer my services as a chaperon to yourself--and your mother,” he added for decency’s sake.

The instant this offer was made,--made without the least forethought and in the confusion of the young man’s mind arising from the incidents just related,--he repented of his rashness: he would have given worlds to be able to recall the proposal. For, in a moment to his mind flashed the image of the lovely Lady Frances Ellingham--the reflection that he was offering his attentions to a young person totally unknown to him--the remembrance that he had many matters of importance to occupy his leisure--and the general impression that he had committed himself in a most singularly foolish and inconsiderate manner.

Perdita saw what was passing in his mind: at least, she perceived that he repented of the proposal which he had so precipitately made, and which it had rejoiced her so much to receive;--and she resolved to conquer his scruples--overcome his repugnance--and confirm him in the act of vassalage to which her transcendent charms and her wanton arts had already prompted him.

Laying her soft warm hand upon his, and approaching her countenance so near to his own that her fragrant breath fanned his cheek, she said, in a tone apparently of deep emotion, “Mr. Hatfield, this proposal is so generous--so kind--so unexpected, that I know not how to answer you otherwise than by expressing my sincere gratitude. And yet--so frankly have you made the offer, that it would be a miserable affectation on my part to hesitate or to appear leas candid and open in accepting it. I do therefore accept it, my dear sir--and with renewed thanks. And think not that in constituting yourself the friend--for in such a light must I henceforth consider you--of Miss Fitzhardinge, you are doing aught derogatory to yourself. No: for my mother is descended from an old and illustrious family,--a family which has enumerated amongst its members personages of rank, eminence, and renown;--and should the Chancery suit which she has come to London to prosecute, result favourably to her, she will recover an enormous fortune that has been accumulating for years through remaining in a dormant state.”

While Perdita was delivering this tissue of falsehoods with an air of the most profound sincerity, she still kept her hand upon that of the young man--still retained her countenance near his own--and likewise fixed upon him looks at once languishing, tender, and voluptuous.

Again did he lose all power of sober reflection and, completely yielding to the influence which the syren had in so short a time gained over him, he said, “I shall be proud and delighted to act as your escort, Miss Fitzhardinge. But you just now addressed me by my name--and yet I thought you were unprepared for my presence here this evening.”

“I was well aware that my mother wished to see you on particular business,” said Perdita, having a ready reply for every question that might be put to her; “and therefore when I saw you enter the room, I concluded that you must be Mr. Charles Hatfield.”

“And are you acquainted with the nature of the business concerning which Mrs. Fitzhardinge desired to speak with me?” inquired the young man, wondering why the old lady did not make her appearance.

“Yes--I am well informed on that subject,” returned Perdita; “but pray do not ask me to talk to you on business! I detest the very name! And now perhaps you will consider me a silly--flighty--volatile creature----”

“I consider you to be an angel of beauty!” exclaimed Charles, unable to restrain the raptures which hurried him on to this impassioned ejaculation.

“I was told before I came to London that the gentlemen of the great metropolis were very fond of paying silly young ladies vain and empty compliments,” said Perdita, looking with good-humoured archness at her companion, while her eyes beamed with wickedness and her bosom heaved visibly.

“Is it the first time that you have been assured of your beauty?” asked Charles, still carried away by an uncontroullable influence.

“No--not precisely the first,” responded Perdita, with a naiveté so admirably assumed that her companion believed it to be completely genuine. “There was a young gentleman--or rather a nobleman, but I must not mention his name--in the country, who offered me his hand;--and he paid me many very fine compliments.”

“And you accepted the proposal? you are engaged to him?” exclaimed Charles, with a strange fluttering of the heart.

“Neither the one nor the other,” answered Perdita. “I could not love him--and therefore I declined the honour. My mother was angry with me, and talked a great deal about the excellence of the match and so forth: but I was obstinate--yes, very obstinate, Mr. Hatfield,” she said archly; “for never--never,” she continued, her tone suddenly becoming earnest and her manner serious,--“never could I bestow my hand where I cannot likewise give my heart!”

“And you have resolved wisely, Miss Fitzhardinge!” exclaimed Charles. “Matrimony without sincere affection can afford no promise of happiness. But one so beautiful as yourself--impressed too with such sterling sentiments and harbouring such pure principles--oh, you will prove indeed a treasure to the man who is fortunate enough to secure your heart and hand!”

“Again you compliment me, Mr. Hatfield,” said Perdita, looking down and blushing,--for even her very blushes she could command at pleasure. “In reference, however, to the observation you have just made, I should remark that I have never yet met with one of your sex whom I could comprehend fully and who could understand me. I admire openness, candour and sincerity,--that generous frankness, too, which at once establishes friendship and dissipates cold formality. For I believe that the trammels of ceremonial politeness positively spoil the heart,--tutoring it to curb its enthusiasm where enthusiasm would be so natural! I know not how to express myself clearly; but what I mean to imply is this--that I am a believer in the possibility of friendship at first sight----”

“And of love at first sight also?” exclaimed Charles Hatfleld, in an impassioned tone.

“Yes--and of love at first sight also,” repeated Perdita, again hanging down her head--again commanding a deep blush--and likewise speaking in a low, melting tone of deep emotion, as she drew a long sigh.

“Was it that possibility of experiencing the feeling of friendship at first sight, which led you to accept my proposed services as an escort to the places of public amusement?” enquired Charles.

“Wherefore do you seek thus to probe the secret feelings of my soul?” asked Perdita, turning upon him a look indicative of mingled pleasure and amazement.

“Have I offended you by the question, charming lady?” exclaimed Charles.

“Oh! I do not so readily take offence, Mr. Hatfield,” cried Perdita. “But--frank, candid, and ingenuous though I believe myself to be--I still have my little feelings of pride, and I could not think of making an avowal to a gentleman otherwise than as a reciprocity.”

“Then were I to declare sincerely and solemnly--and on my honour as a man--that it was a sentiment of friendship, experienced at first sight and according to your own doctrine, which prompted me to offer my services as a chaperon,” said Charles, hastily and enthusiastically, “would you deign to answer my question?”

“Such a declaration on your part, sir, would necessarily elicit--nay, demand some kind of a response on mine,” returned the artful beauty, looking down, and tapping the carpet with her foot in such a manner that her ankle peeped from beneath her dress, and the young man’s eyes could catch a glimpse of the exquisitely white skin through the net work of the dainty silk stocking.

Charles hesitated: an avowal of friendship trembled on his tongue--but he thought how dangerous such a confession would be--he thought, too, of Lady Frances Ellingham!

And Perdita again perceived that he hesitated; and instantly had recourse to a new artifice to display her charms to their utmost advantage. Stooping down, she affected to arrange the ottoman in the most convenient manner for her feet;--but, in this attitude which seemed so natural, ingenuous, and artless, she revealed so much of the treasures of her bosom that no room was left for imaginings--and Charles Hatfield felt himself seized with a delirium in which he would have made over his soul to Satan had such been the price demanded for the possession of Perdita.

“Miss Fitzhardinge,” he said, his voice almost subdued and his tongue parched through the maddening fierceness of passion, “on my honour as a gentleman, I swear that the offer I ere now made you was dictated by a feeling of friendship! Yes--of a friendship that sprang up in my soul in a single instant--that took birth in a moment--a friendship that prompted me to declare how proud and delighted I should be to act as your escort! For I am candid, frank, and ingenuous as I perceive you to be,--and I will give you another proof of the existence of these qualities in respect to myself--even at the risk of offending you. From the first moment that I set foot in this room until now, I have experienced emotions such as I never felt before. In my delirium I apostrophised you as an angel of beauty;--and an angel of beauty must you indeed be to exercise such prompt--such speedy--such witching influence as that which has enthralled me. For it appears as if there were a spell upon me--an enchantment, from which there is no escape. Sweet lady, pardon me for having spoken thus frankly----”

“I again assure you that I do not very readily take offence,” answered Perdita: then, laying her hand upon his--for the designing woman sought to excite him almost to madness--and again approaching her countenance so near his own that he could look into the depth of her large, wanton eyes,--she said, “You have made a certain avowal, and you have a right to expect a candid and unreserved reply from me. Then learn, Mr. Hatfield, that never should I have accepted your services as a chaperon--never should we have talked thus familiarly--never would you have been suffered to read so much of my disposition as within the last hour you have learnt--had not I likewise experienced a feeling of friendship at first sight for you!”

“Oh! my God--this is happiness so unhoped--so unlooked for--so unexpected, that I am bewildered-dazzled--amazed!” murmured the young man, a mist obscuring his brain--and yet a glorious, lustrous, golden mist through which he seemed to catch glimpses of paradise. “Friendship did you say, charming lady? Yet is not friendship a dangerous word for lips like ours to breathe--and a dangerous sentiment for hearts like ours to feel?”

“You speak as if you were under an apprehension that you are doing wrong?” said Perdita, in a tone of soft reproach. “Oh! is this candour and frankness? If you regret that you have pledged me your friendship--for such I augur of your words--I release you, Mr. Hatfield, from the bond: nay--I should be too proud to ask you to adhere to it!”

And now the young man beheld the fascinating woman in a new phasis of her charms;--for, with that ready versatility of aspect and demeanour which she had so completely at her command, she suddenly invested herself with all the majesty of sublime haughtiness;--no longer melting, tender, wanton, and voluptuous as Venus--but terrible, domineering, superb, and imperious as Juno,--no longer wearing the cestus of the Goddess of Love--but grasping, as the Queen of Heaven, the thunders of Olympian Jove.

Her eyes flashed fire--her cheeks flushed--her nostrils dilated--her lip curled--her neck arched proudly rather than gracefully--her bosom heaved as if it would burst the low corsage which only half restrained it--and her very form seemed to draw itself up into a height, which, even as she sate and of middling stature as she was, appeared colossal at that moment to the astounded gaze of the young man.

Never was artifice more successful--never was triumph more complete, on one side;--never was defeat more signal--never was humiliation more contrite, on the other. For, overwhelmed as it were by the sovereign majesty of that anger which he believed himself to have provoked, Charles Hatfield fell upon his knees before the haughty beauty, and seizing both her hands in his, he extravagantly devoured them with kisses, exclaiming, “Pardon--pardon!”

“Yes--yes: it is as frankly accorded as sincerely demanded!” exclaimed Perdita, not offering to withdraw her hands from the lips which were now glued to them: and in an instant her whole manner and appearance changed again--and when Charles Hatfield ventured to look up into the syren’s face, he saw her bending over him with cheeks flushed it is true, but not by anger--and with eyes that seemed to swim in wanton, liquid languor.

Rising from his suppliant posture, and now taking a seat by the side of Perdita on the sofa,--relinquishing her hands at the same time, for fear of giving offence by retaining them,--the infatuated young man, drunk with passion, said in a low murmuring tone, “We have not been acquainted more than one hour, and we have exchanged vows of friendship--is it not so?”

“Yes--if you do not repent now, and never will repent of that pledge on your part,” answered the dangerous young woman, who thus conducted her designing machinations with such consummate skill.

“No--never, never!” cried Hatfield. “And now we know each other as well as if we had been intimate since our infancy! To you, then, henceforth I am Charles; and you are to me----”

“Perdita,” said she.

“Oh! beautiful--singular--and yet ominous name!” exclaimed the young gentleman. “Yes--you are my friend--my dear friend Perdita! And now, Perdita, I will avail myself of this romantic yet not the less sincere friendship that is established between us, to ask you what caprice or fancy gave you so remarkable a Christian name?”

“Because in my infancy--shortly after my birth, and before I was baptised--I was lost,--or rather stolen by gipsies,” answered Perdita, investing herself and her history with as much of the charm of mysticism as possible: “and when I was recovered from the kidnappers by my parents, they christened me Perdita--or THE LOST ONE.”

“Every thing connected with you seems to be imbued with deep and enthralling interest, my dear friend,” said Charles: “a supernatural halo appears to surround you! Your beauty is of a nature so superior to aught of female loveliness that I ever before beheld--your voice has something so indescribably melting and musical that it awakens echoes in the inmost recesses of the soul--your history is strange, wild, and impressive in its very commencement--your disposition is characterised by a frankness and candour so generous that it inspires and reciprocates profound friendship the instant it meets a kindred spirit--and then there is about you a something so witching, so captivating, so enchanting, that the best and most virtuous of men would lose all sense of duty, did you--sweet syren that you are--undertake to lead them astray.”

“If I have indeed found a kindred spirit in you, Charles,” said Perdita, taking his hand and pressing it as if in grateful and innocent rapture to her heaving bosom--an act which only tended to inflame the young man almost to madness,--“I shall have gained that which I have long sought, and never yet found. For my heart has hitherto been as complete a stranger to a sincere friendship as to love! When I spoke ere now of our friends in the country, I meant those acquaintances whom custom denominates by the other title.”

“Perdita--my friend Perdita, the amity that we have pledged each other shall be eternal!” exclaimed Charles, in an impassioned tone.

“And you will return to visit me to-morrow?” said the young woman, her fine grey eyes beaming with an unsettled lustre, as if the mingled voluptuousness of day and night met in those splendid, eloquent orbs.

“Yes--oh! yes!” cried Charles, as if it were unnecessary to have asked the question. “And now I shall leave you, Perdita: I shall depart to feast my imagination on the pleasures of this interview.”

Thus speaking, the young man pressed Perdita’s hand to his lips, and hurried from the room, intoxicated with a delirium of bliss, and scarcely conscious of where he was or whither he was going.

CXXXI. THE SYREN’S ARTS AND CHARMS

On gaining the street, Charles Hatfield hurried along like one demented,--positively reeling with the influence which Perdita’s charms, allurements, and arts had shed upon him,--and feeling within his soul a glow of such ineffable happiness that he appeared to have been snatched from the world and wafted to Elysium. Had he just quitted a banquet where his head had been pillowed on the bosom of beauty, and the fair hands of the charmer had held to his lips brimming goblets of champagne of which he had drunk deeply, he would not have experienced a more extraordinary degree of excitement, nor such felicitous sensations.

But the moment of reaction came; and though the revulsion was slow, yet it was powerful--and even painful.

He had found his way into Saint James’s Park; and hurrying to the most secluded quarter, he was still giving rein to the luxuriousness of his thoughts, when it suddenly flashed to his mind that he had not received from the lips of Mrs. Fitzhardinge the important communications which she had promised him. Indeed, he had not seen her again from the moment when she showed him into the drawing-room where he had found the lovely creature to whom his friendship--his eternal friendship was so solemnly plighted.

Striking his repeater,--for obscurity reigned in that portion of the park where he now was, and he could not see the position of the hands of his watch,--he was amazed to discover that his interview with Perdita had lasted two hours.

Two hours!--and it scarcely seemed to have occupied ten minutes!

But now his reasoning faculties returned;--and he began to ask himself innumerable questions.

“Wherefore was I conducted to that house? was it really to receive important revelations from the mother? or only to be thrown into the way of the daughter? Why did not the mother make her appearance once during those two hours which I passed with the daughter? Was it a stratagem devised by designing women to ensnare me? or was Mrs. Fitzhardinge unexpectedly prevented from joining us so soon as she had intended? My God! I am bewildered--I know not what to think! For if they be women of evil repute and having sinister aims in view, Perdita would not have given me to understand that they are at ease in their circumstances, and hope to be even rich very shortly? But that young creature--so beautiful,--so indescribably--so enchantingly beautiful,--what object could she have in pledging her friendship to me--to me, a stranger whom she had never seen before? Fool that I am! wherefore did I give a similar promise to her? Oh! it was in a moment of delirium--of enchantment--of intoxication;--and might it not also have been the same with her? Ah! that belief would denote a boundless vanity on my part;--and yet women have their sudden caprices--their instantaneous attachments, as well as men! Yes--it must be so--Perdita loves me!--she loves me--and I already love her deeply--madly, in return!”

But scarcely had these thoughts passed through his brain, when his heart smote him painfully--severely,--reproaching him with his treachery towards Lady Frances Ellingham, and suggesting a comparison between the retiring, bashful beauty of this charming young creature, and the warm, impassioned, bold loveliness of the syren Perdita.

The more Charles Hatfield pondered upon the strange scene that had taken place in Suffolk Street, the less satisfied did he feel with himself. He saw that his conduct had been rash, precipitate, and thoughtless;--and yet there was something so pleasurable in what he blamed himself for, that he was not altogether contrite. Indeed, he felt--he admitted to his own secret soul, that had he the power of recalling the last two hours, he should act precisely in the same manner over again. For when he thought of Perdita,--remembered her witcheries--dwelt on her faultless charms--and recalled to mind the mystic fascination of her language and the delicious tones of her voice,--his imagination grew inflamed--his blood ran rapidly and hotly in his veins--and it seemed that were she Satan in female shape, he could sell his soul to her!

It was late when he returned to Ellingham House; and he repaired at once to his chamber. But he could not sleep: the image of Perdita haunted him;--and were it not so unseasonable an hour he would have returned to Suffolk Street under pretence of soliciting the promised revelations from Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

When he retired to rest, and sleep did at last visit his eyes, that beauteous image followed him in his dreams. He thought that he was seated by the side of the witching fair one on the sofa, and that she was reclining, half-embraced, on his breast, with her countenance, flushed and wanton in expression, upturned towards his own. This delicious position appeared to last for a long--long time, neither uttering a word, but drinking deep draughts of love from each other’s eyes. Then he fancied that he stooped to press his lips to her delicious mouth;--but at that instant the lovely face changed--elongating, and undergoing so horrible a transformation that his eyes were fixed in appalling fascination upon it,--while, at the same time, he became sensible that the soft and supple form which he held in his arms was undergoing a rapid and signal change likewise,--till the whole being, lately so charming, so tender, and so loving, was changed into a hideous serpent. A terrible cry escaped him--and he awoke!

The rays of the gorgeous sun were streaming in at the window, as Charles Hatfield started from his slumber; and, to his surprise, he found his father standing by the side of the bed.

“You have been labouring under the influence of an unpleasant dream, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, taking his son’s hand.

“Yes--’twas indeed a hideous dream!” exclaimed the young man, shuddering at the idea which still pursued him.

“And was that dream a reflex of any thoughts which occupy you when awake?” asked his father, in a kind and anxious tone.

Charles surveyed his parent with astonishment, and then became absolutely crimson in the face;--for this early and unusual visit seemed to imply that its object was in some way connected with matters that had lately been occupying, as the reader knows, no inconsiderable share of the young man’s reflections--we mean, the family secrets into which he had so strangely penetrated.

“Yes, Charles,” continued Mr. Hatfield; “I feared that you had something upon your mind; and your manner now confirms that apprehension. For the last week you have not been the same gay, happy, lively being you so lately were;--and, although you have endeavoured to conceal your sorrow from observation, yet it has not escaped the eyes of your affectionate mother and myself. Tell me, Charles--tell me candidly, I implore you--is it in consequence of the discovery that we are your parents, and not mere relatives----”

“Oh! my dear father,” exclaimed the young man, “that discovery made me happy, I solemnly assure you!”

“Then wherefore are you melancholy and thoughtful at times?” asked Mr. Hatfield, in a tone of deep interest.

“Melancholy and thoughtful!” repeated Charles, mechanically.

“Yes, my dear son: and even at this moment----”

“Even at this moment,” still repeated Charles, whose imagination was wandering to Suffolk Street, the influence of his dream having been to fill his soul with a more profound terror than he had ever before experienced from the worst of sleep’s delusions.

“Yes--even at this moment you are abstracted--your ideas are unsettled--and there is a wildness in your looks which terrifies me!” cried Mr. Hatfield, speaking with strong emphasis and in an earnest manner. “Charles! again I implore you to tell me the cause of this change which has so lately come over you!”

“Dear father, why will you press me on the subject?” cried the young man, now brought to himself, yet knowing not how to reply. “Oh! believe me--believe me, it will be better for us both that you do not persist in questioning me!”

“On the contrary, Charles,” returned Mr. Hatfield, speaking more seriously and firmly than before, “it will be far more satisfactory to me--yes, and to your mother also--to be made the depositors of your secret cares. You have assured me that you are not unhappy on account of the discovery made on the day when the Prince of Montoni was received at Court; and therefore I must conjecture the existence of some other cause of grief. Charles, my dear boy,” added his father, gazing steadfastly upon him, “you love Lady Frances--and you are fearful of avowing your passion?”

The young man had expected that his father was about to speak on some of those family matters into the mysterious depths of which he had penetrated; and, therefore, when Mr. Hatfield addressed to him that species of interrogative accusation, Charles experienced a relief which betrayed itself as well in the brightening up of his countenance as in the surprise wherewith he regarded his parent.

“Ah! now I have penetrated your secret!” cried the latter: then, wringing his son’s hand, he said impressively, “Fear nothing--but hope every thing, Charles;--and if you have reason to believe that Lady Frances reciprocates your attachment, hesitate not to offer her your hand.”

With these words, Mr. Hatfield hurried from the room, leaving his son amazed and bewildered at the turn which the scene had so unexpectedly taken.

“Yes,” exclaimed the young man aloud, after a long pause, during which he reflected profoundly alike on his fearful dream and his father’s suggestion; “I will banish Perdita from my memory--for that vision was a providential warning! The most deadly serpents often wear the most beauteous skins;--and Perdita--the syren Perdita--has secret ends of her own to serve in thus throwing her silken chains round me. There is mischief in her fascination:--the honey of her lips will turn to gall and bitterness in the mouth of him who presses them! And Frances--my charming cousin Frances, who knows not that she is thus related to me,--sweet Lady Frances is endowed with every quality calculated to ensure my happiness. Yes--I will adopt my father’s counsel: I will secure the hand of this amiable girl! Then, although I must sooner or later compel my sire to wrest the earldom from his younger brother, the blow will fall the less severely on the latter, inasmuch as his daughter will become a Viscountess in espousing me, and a Countess at my father’s death!”

Thus reasoned Charles Hatfield, as he performed the duties of the toilette; and when he descended to the breakfast-parlour, there was so fine a glow of animation on his countenance, and so much happiness in his bright eyes, that his parents were rejoiced to mark the change. They did not, however, make any audible observation on the subject; but the rapid and significant glances which they dealt at each other, expressed the delight that filled their souls.

Lady Frances looked more than usually beautiful and interesting on this occasion: at least so thought Charles Hatfield, as, seating himself by her side, he ministered to her the attentions of the breakfast table.

The conversation turned upon an important event which was to take place in the evening--the Prince of Montoni having accepted the Earl of Ellingham’s invitation to a banquet at the lordly mansion in Pall Mall. It was resolved, in order to render befitting honour to the illustrious guest, that the entertainment should be of the most sumptuous description; and no expense was to be spared on the occasion. A select number of the noble Earl’s acquaintances were invited; and these were chosen not on account of great names and sounding titles,--but on the score of personal merit and consideration.

Soon after breakfast Charles Hatfield and Lady Frances found themselves alone together in the apartment; and the young maiden, approaching her companion, said in her artless, fascinating manner, “I am delighted to see that you have recovered your natural gaiety. Do you know, Mr. Charles, that you have latterly been most desperately moody and reserved?”

“Not towards you, I hope, dear Fanny,” he replied. “Not for worlds,” he added emphatically, “would I give you cause to think ill of me.”

“As for thinking ill of you, Charles,” she observed, “that would be impossible! But may I not seek to know the reasons of your late unhappiness?”

“Let us not discourse upon the past, Fanny,” said the young man, earnestly. “I am happy now, at all events--happier, too, than ever, because I perceive that my welfare is not altogether indifferent to you.”

“Far from it,” observed Lady Frances, with the ingenuous emphasis of her extreme artlessness. “Do we not live beneath the same roof?--are we not friends?--are not our parents very dear friends to each other?--and is it not therefore natural that I should feel interested in all that concerns your happiness?”

“Adorable creature!” exclaimed Charles, as he drew a rapid contrast between the charming naiveté of the beautiful Lady Frances and the forward, bold manner of the voluptuously lovely Perdita: then, taking his cousin’s hand, and gazing tenderly upon her innocent countenance, he said, “Fanny, were our parents to sanction our marriage, would you consent to be mine?”

Lady Frances withdrew her hand hastily; and, blushing deeply, she gazed for a few seconds in the most unfeigned surprise on her companion.

“You are not offended with me?” asked Charles. “I had hoped--I had flattered myself----”

“No--I am not offended with you,” returned Fanny, now casting down her eyes and blushing even more deeply than before: “but I fear--I tremble lest I am doing wrong thus to listen to you----”

“A virtuous affection is no crime,” said the young man, hastily. “And now, my dearest Frances, if you feel that you can love me, I will at once declare to your noble parents the attachment--the deep attachment which I experience towards you.”

“Whatever my father and mother counsel, will become a law for me,” answered Lady Frances, in a low and tremulous tone, which convinced the suitor that he was not indifferent to her.

Charles pressed her hand to his lips, and hurried from the room with the intention of immediately seeking the Earl of Ellingham; but in the passage he encountered a domestic who gave him a note which had just been left by a messenger. The address was in an elegant female hand; and the word “Private” was written in the corner. Charles hastened to his own apartment, and read the note, the contents of which ran as follow:----

“MY DEAREST FRIEND,--Before you see my mother again, I must have a few words with you in private. She is compelled to visit her solicitor at mid-day, and will be absent for at least two hours. I shall expect you as soon after twelve as possible.

“PERDITA FITZHARDINGE.”

“No--I will not accept the invitation!” exclaimed the young man, aloud: then, gazing again at the note, he murmured, “What a charming hand-writing--and how beautiful does her mystic and romantic name appear upon paper! Perdita!--’tis a name which possesses an irresistible attraction! But--oh! that dream! And yet it was but a dream--and a very silly dream, the more I contemplate it. Heavenly warnings are not sent by such means; and Lady Frances might as well have been the subject of the vision as Perdita. What can she require with me? She must have a few words with me in private before I see her mother again. Then her mother expects and intends to have an interview with me--and she must therefore have certain communications to make, after all. This does not appear like delusion nor trickery:--no--the old lady really has matters of import to discuss with me;--and I should be wrong--I should perhaps be criminally neglectful of my own interests, were I not to hear whatever she may have to state. And, Perdita--it would be at least rude and ungentlemanly on my part not to attend to this missive, the nature of which appears to be urgent. Yes--I will call on Perdita: ’tis already verging close upon mid-day--and there is no time to be lost. But--after all that has passed between dear Frances and myself this morning--I shall be as distant and reserved as politeness will admit: I shall arm myself against the fascinations of the syren;--and if she offer to release me from the pledge of friendship so inconsiderately given, I shall not fail to accept with joy the proposed emancipation.”

But, before he repaired to Suffolk Street, did he not seek his father to communicate to him the important fact that he had duly followed his counsel and solicited the hand of Lady Frances?--or did he not obtain an interview with the Earl and acquaint him with the nature of the conversation which had taken place between himself and that nobleman’s daughter?

Alas! no:--for it was close upon twelve when the young man received Perdita’s note;--and he thought that it did not precisely signify for an hour or two when he might make those statements; whereas it was necessary to see the syren without delay.

Thus reasoned Charles Hatfield to himself;--and the reader will agree with us in deciding that the necessity which constituted the excuse for his conduct, was not quite so urgent as he chose to fancy it.

Moreover,--since Charles Hatfield resolved to appear as reserved and formal as he well might be, towards Perdita,--it was assuredly strange that he should devote more than usual attention to his toilette, arranging his hair in the most becoming style, and surveying with inward satisfaction his very handsome countenance in the mirror.

The clock struck twelve as he quitted the house;--and it was impossible to conceal from himself the fact that he was rejoiced at having an excuse to call upon Perdita.

Then, as he proceeded with some degree of rapidity towards Suffolk Street, he could not possibly prevent his imagination from indulging in exciting conjectures how Perdita would be dressed--how she would look by day-light--and how she would receive him when she observed his studied coolness and his constraint of manner.

“Poor girl!” he murmured to himself: “if she really hoped to find a sincere friend in me, how will she bear the disappointment which is in store for her? It grieves me--Oh! it grieves me to be compelled to inflict a wound upon her gentle heart; but duty--yes, my duty towards Lady Frances leaves me no alternative.”

With a beating heart he knocked at the door;--and in less than a minute he was conducted to the drawing-room, where Perdita was waiting to receive him.

The young lady was dressed in an elegant morning wrapper; and, the weather being intensely hot, the ribbands which should have fastened it round her neck, were left untied, so that it remained open at the bosom. Her hair was arranged in bands, and she wore a cap of the slightest material, but the snowy whiteness of which enhanced the glossy richness of those luxuriant masses that crowned her fine forehead. Her large grey eyes, with their dark pupils, were as bright and lustrous as on the preceding evening; and the noon-day sun detracted not from the exquisite whiteness of the neck and shoulders, and the healthy hues of the complexion of the countenance, which had shone to such advantage by candle-light.

No: Perdita was as ravishingly beautiful on this occasion, as on the former;--and there was a freshness--yes, even an appearance of virgin freshness, about her, matured and developed as her charms were, which counteracted the impression that her wanton looks and the forwardness of her manner might otherwise have created in respect to her virtue. Her depravity in Australia had not impaired her loveliness, nor marred the youthfulness of her beauty: her face--her figure afforded not an intimation that she had been steeped in licentious enjoyments from the age of thirteen until she embarked on board the ship that wafted her to England.

The moment Charles Hatfield entered the room, he was struck by the enchanting loveliness of Perdita as much as he had been on the preceding evening--indeed, as completely as if this were the first time that he had ever seen her. For an instant he stopped short as if he dared not proceed farther within the sphere of that Circean influence which a warning voice within his soul seemed to declare was alluring him on to total destruction but, fascinated as is the tremulous bird by the eye of the serpent, he advanced towards the beautiful creature who rose from the sofa to receive him.

Then as he felt her warm hand in his,--as her countenance beamed upon him in all the glory of its loveliness,--as her soft, musical, and delicious voice flowed upon his ear, borne on a breath fragrant as the perfume of flowers, and issuing from lips that seemed to have robbed the rose of its tint,--he felt his stern resolves thawing within him, and experienced the impossibility of manifesting coolness towards a creature of such exquisite charms and such rare fascinations.

“I thank you, my dear friend, for this punctuality,” she said, gently drawing him to a seat by her side on the sofa, when she resumed her place. “Have you thought of all that passed between us last evening?--and have you reflected that we played the part of silly children in pledging eternal friendship, total strangers as we were to each other?--or did you regard the proceeding as a natural and solemn compact, to be inviolably maintained?”

“Wherefore these questions, Perdita?” enquired Charles, dazzled by the impassioned looks that were fixed upon him. “Have you yourself repented----”

“I never repent of any thing that I may do,” answered Perdita, hastily. “I do nothing without being convinced beforehand that I am acting judiciously and properly; and when I most appear to be the child of impulse, I am on those occasions the most considerate, cautious, and reflective. But this may not be the case with you: and, therefore, it was incumbent upon me to ascertain your feeling in respect----”

“In respect to that friendship which I have sworn!” exclaimed Charles, no longer master of himself. “Not for world’s would I recall the pledge I gave----”

“Then we are friends--friends in the manner I had hoped we should be,” said the young woman. “But it was necessary that I should be assured of this before I spoke to you on a subject which otherwise would have been indifferent to you,” she added, bending on her companion a look that seemed to invite him to kiss the red, pouting lips which, now parting with a delicious smile, revealed her somewhat large, but pearly, even, and admirably shaped teeth.

“Proceed, my dearest--dearest friend,” exclaimed Charles, no longer thinking of Lady Frances, but totally absorbed in the fascination which attracted him towards the bewitching Perdita.

“You call me your friend--and it is as a friend that I wish to consult you, Charles,” said the young woman, heaving a deep sigh. “You must know that, singular being that I may appear to you, and even unmaidenly hasty in forming so sincere a friendship----”

“No--no: you obeyed the dictates of a generous heart--a heart as ingenuous and innocent as it is fervid and warm,” cried Charles, seizing one of her hands and pressing it in both his own.

“Ah! now you comprehend my sentiments just as I would have explained them had I been able to find language for the purpose!” she said, abandoning her hand to him as if unwittingly. “But, as I was about to observe, I am all candour and frankness:--that is my deposition;--and when you left me last evening, I immediately hastened to my mother, who was seized with a sudden indisposition which prevented her from joining us in this room; and to her I revealed at once and unhesitatingly every word of the conversation that had occurred between you and me.”

“And she doubtless reproached you for opening your heart so freely to one who was a complete stranger to you?” said Charles, now fearful lest Mrs. Fitzhardinge should forbid his visits to Perdita in future.

“She reproached me indeed--but mildly and blandly,” answered the deceitful young woman, assuming a plaintive tone; “and yet not so mildly as was her wont on former occasions--for it appears that she has formed certain views in regard to me--views of marriage----”

“Marriage, Perdita!” repeated Charles Hatfield, bitterly.

“Yes,” she responded, her voice growing more mournful still. “A man of immense wealth--and with a noble title, but whose name I do not even yet know, and whom I have never seen----”

“Oh! this is infamous, thus to dispose of you to a person whom perhaps you may never be able to love!” cried Charles, with strange emphasis and excitement of manner.

“Love! I shall hate and abhor him, even though he be handsome and amiable beyond all conception,” exclaimed Perdita. “I shall detest him for the mere fact that I am compelled to espouse him.”

“But will you yield with docility to an arrangement which seems to me--pardon the freedom with which I speak of your mother--to be indelicate and unjust?” demanded the young man.

“Alas! I fear that I have no alternative save to yield with as good a grace as I can assume,” answered Perdita, tears now starting to her eyes, and trembling on her long dark lashes; “for the nobleman whom my mother would thus force me to wed, is her opponent in the law-suit--and he has discovered a means of establishing his claims beyond all possibility of farther dispute.”

“Oh! I understand the dreadful selfishness that is now at work in respect to you!” cried Charles. “He will allow your mother to enjoy the fortune, provided you are immolated--sacrificed----”

“Yes: those are the terms;--and now you may easily comprehend how I shrink from such a fate!” exclaimed the young woman, sobbing profoundly.

“But this nobleman--who is he? what is his name?” demanded Hatfield, powerfully excited.

“I know so little of my mother’s private affairs, that I am unable to answer the questions,” said Perdita. “To speak candidly, she refused even to mention the name or the age of this unknown suitor for my hand: and therefore I apprehend the worst. Indeed, from an observation which she inadvertently dropped, I am convinced that he is old--very old----”

“And you who are so young--and so beautiful!” cried Charles Hatfield, gazing upon her with admiration--nay, with adoration and enthusiastic worship. “It were an infamy--a crime--a diabolical crime, thus to sacrifice you!”

“Yet such is my mother’s intention,” murmured Perdita; “and therefore was it that she reproached me for vowing a permanent friendship with you.”

“Then Mrs. Fitzhardinge will immolate you on the altar of selfishness--she will sell you for gold,--sell you, perhaps, to an old man who may be hideous, and who is certain to be loathsome to you?” exclaimed Charles, speaking with all the rapidity of wild excitement.

“Yes:--and it was not until last night that I was aware of the frightful arrangement which my mother had thus made--the dreadful compact to which she had assented. It seems that this nobleman had heard of me--and the description given of my appearance pleased him; so that when he yesterday discovered the existence of some paper which at once annihilated all my mother’s previously conceived hopes of gaining the law-suit, he promised his hateful conditions.”

“And Mrs. Fitzhardinge has now sought her attorney----”

“For the purpose of declaring that I assent to this most unnatural union!” added Perdita, with the well-feigned emphasis of violent sorrow.

“But was it possible that you could hold out to your mother even the faintest prospect of thus sacrificing all your happiness suddenly and in a moment?” demanded Charles.

“When I beheld my mother weep--heard her implore and beseech--and was made aware of the ruin that threatened her unless I agreed to the proposals of this unknown suitor, I wept also--and, my tears choking me, my silence was taken for assent. Then my mother departed to visit her solicitor: and in my despair I despatched a note to you, praying you to call on me during her absence.”

“My God! what counsel--what advice can I give you?” exclaimed Charles, bewildered by the tale which was told so plausibly that not a doubt of its truth existed in his mind. “I cannot see you sacrificed thus:--yet how can I save you? Oh! were I possessed of a fortune, I would bestow it upon your mother that she might leave you free and unshackled to obey only the dictates of your own will--follow your own inclinations--and bestow your hand where you could likewise grant your affections!”

“Ah! my generous friend,” murmured Perdita, advancing her countenance towards his own as if unwittingly and in the excitement of her feelings: “how deeply grateful to you am I for these assurances! I knew that I should receive your sympathy--if not your aid,--your commiseration--if not your assistance.”

“How can I assist you, dearest Perdita?” exclaimed Charles, pressing her hand violently in his own. “The liberality of my pa----my uncle and aunt, I mean--have enabled me to accumulate some seven or eight hundred pounds--for my allowance is far more liberal than my expenditure: and that amount is at your mother’s service. But it is so small--so contemptibly small in comparison with the fortune which she doubtless hopes to acquire----”

“Nevertheless, it may procure a delay, by rescuing my mother from the immediate embarrassments in which this sudden change in the aspect of her affairs has plunged her,” said Perdita: “for, to speak candidly to you, her solicitor has been advancing her a regular income during the time that the suit has lasted;--and now, since all hope of gaining it is destroyed, no farther supplies can be expected from that quarter.”

“Yes--it may procure a delay,” said Charles, in a musing tone; “and with leisure to reflect calmly--deliberately--much may be done! O Perdita--never, never could I see you thus sacrificed to a man whom you would abhor!”

“Generous friend--’twas heaven who sent you to me!” exclaimed the young woman, drooping her head upon his breast, and weeping,--weeping tears of gratitude, as he fondly believed.

He threw his arms around her--he pressed her to his heart--he clasped her with such fervour that the embrace was passionately violent--he strained her as it were to the seat of his very soul: then, hastily loosening his hold, he raised her face--her warm, blushing face--and on her lips he imprinted a thousand rapturous kisses,--those lips that were literally glued to his own. He looked into her eyes, and read love, desire, and passion in those orbs, now melting with languor and wantonness;--for Perdita herself had almost entirely lost all power of self-controul, and clung to him as if inviting the full extreme of voluptuous enjoyment. He felt her bosom heaving against his chest; and, maddened with excitement, his daring hand invaded the treasures of those swelling, palpitating globes, so snowy in their whiteness--so warm with their licentious fires.

But at that instant Perdita recovered her presence of mind: and it flashed to her memory that it was no part of her scheme to surrender herself completely up to him until she had ensnared his affections so fully--so inextricably, that all subsequent escape or estrangement, through repentance and remorse, should be impossible.

Accordingly--wresting herself from his embrace, and retreating to the farther end of the sofa, she hastily arranged her cap and dishevelled hair--drew the wrapper over her breast--and, turning upon him eyes that still seemed to swim in liquid languor, said in a half-reproachful manner, “Oh! Charles--is this friendship? would you ruin me?”

“Sweetest--dearest creature,” exclaimed the young man, “did I not tell you yester-night that friendship was a sentiment dangerous for us to feel, and a word perilous for our tongues to utter? O Perdita--it is not friendship that I feel for you: ’tis love--ardent, sincere, and devoted love! And ’twas not friendship at first sight that I experienced for you the moment I last evening set foot in this room: but ’twas love--love, my Perdita--such love as never before did man entertain for woman!”

“And it was because I love you, Charles,” murmured Perdita, in her softest, tenderest tones, “that I loathe and abhor the idea of that union which my mother has so inconsiderately--so rashly--so cruelly planned for me!”

“You love me, Perdita!” ejaculated the young man, wild with joy: “oh! thanks--ten thousand thanks for that assurance, my own sweet Perdita! I was happy in the possession of your friendship: but I am now mad--demented in the confidence of owning your love! For the love of such a being as yourself is something that would make a paradise of the blackest and most barren desert on the face of the earth! Is it possible, then, that I possess your love, Perdita--dearest Perdita? Oh! tell me so once more: it is so delicious to hear such an avowal from your lips!”

“Yes, Charles--I love you--I do indeed love you,” replied the young woman, throwing as much softness into her melting tones, as much witchery into her manner, and as much voluptuous languor into her glances as she possibly could.

It was like a scene of enchantment for that young man of wild and fervid impulses; and he was completely--wholly absorbed in its magic interest,--an interest so enthralling, so captivating that he felt as if he had been suddenly wafted into a new world of delights unknown in this sublunary sphere. Lady Frances was forgotten--his parents, his ambitious aims, and even his admiration of the Prince of Montoni,--all, all were forgotten in the delirium of passion which had seized upon him.

“You love me--you do indeed love me!” he exclaimed; and, approaching the object of his worship, he again wound his arms around her--again drank in the sweetness of her moist red lips.

“Charles--Charles,” she murmured; “you are gloriously handsome--and I adore you!”

But as she thus spoke, she once more disengaged herself from his maddened embrace--for she felt that her own passions, ever violent, were raging to a degree that became almost uncontroullable.

“And now listen to me--patiently and tranquilly if you can; and I will lay down the conditions on which our complete happiness may be based,--conditions which have for their elements that generous confidence, that mutual reliance, and that candour and frankness which alone constitute pure affection.”

“Proceed, dearest Perdita,” said Hatfield: “I am all attention--and your voice is sweeter in my ears than the most delicious music.”

Perdita once more arranged her cap and the massive bands of her glossy hair: then, turning with a simulation of charming artlessness towards her companion, she addressed him in the following manner.

CXXXII. THE DANGEROUS SOPHISTRY OF A LOVELY WOMAN

“You are now about to discover a new phasis in my character, dear Charles; and perhaps you will look upon my notions and opinions as unmaidenly and bold--if not positively immoral. But remember that I am not like the generality of my sex; and that my sentiments, though audacious as innovations, are nevertheless as sincerely believed in as they are tenaciously clung to by me.”

“It is because you are so different from other women, not only in the loveliness of your person, but also in the tone and strength of your mind,” said Charles, “that I am thus enamoured of you--yes, and proud too of possessing your affection in return.”

“But I am about to preach a doctrine which you may think repugnant to the befitting delicacy of my sex,” returned Perdita: “for it is of the uselessness of the marriage rites that I have now to discourse.”

“Proceed, dearest,” said Charles; “and I will frankly give you my opinion on your views in this respect.”

“Ah! now you encourage me to open my heart to you, my dear friend,” exclaimed Perdita; “and you do not affect the sanctimonious hypocrite, who frowns even before he has heard the argument broached. Thus stands our present position in my estimation:--We love each other----”

“Devotedly--earnestly,” added Charles, with strong emphasis, the image of Lady Frances being as completely banished from his mind as if such a person as that charming creature did not exist in the world.

“Yes--we love each other devotedly and earnestly,” continued Perdita; “and the extent as well as the ardour of our passion is a something which should remain a solemn and sacred mystery to the vulgar and curious observer. ’Tis a secret which we should cherish between ourselves,--a secret whose charm is spoilt, or at all events marred, by being revealed to others who are indifferent to us. This is one reason wherefore I consider the pompous ceremony of marriage to be actually detrimental to the fervid, ardent, and warm attachment which seeks to hide itself in the bosoms of the fond couple who entertain it. Then, again, I should not be happy were I to have the conviction that I was so enchained to you by legal trammels that you could not cast me off did I become displeasing to you;--for I should never know whether you still clung to me through the endurance of real affection, or because an indissoluble bond forged by human legislation united us. No:--I would rather that our love rested upon its own basis alone--existing by its own vitality, and through no borrowed and artificial auxiliary,--that it should be a mutual confidence--a mutual reliance,--free and independent in one sense, and compulsory in none. If on these terms you will take thy Perdita to thine arms, Charles--then indeed shall I gladly become thine:--but if our union must be characterised by solemn ceremonies and cold, inanimate rites--then, heartbreaking as the alternative will be, I can never--never be more to thee than a sincere and faithful friend.”

“Dearest Perdita,” exclaimed Charles, “I receive all these confessions of your peculiar sentiments as new proofs of your love for me! For by the very nature of the conditions which you stipulate, you convince me of the trust which you repose in my fidelity and honour.”

“Yes--because in defiance of the opinion of the world, I surrender myself up to you, to be a wife in every thing save in respect to that ceremony which is the first object of a virtuous woman’s thoughts,” murmured Perdita. “And now, dear Charles, do you entertain a mean opinion of my principles, because I dare to chalk out a path of happiness according to my own fancy?”

“No--no. Perdita!” cried the young man, pressing to his lips the hand which was extended to him with such an appearance of ingenuousness that it quite enchanted him. “But how is it possible that you--so young--should have pondered so seriously on the subject of love and of marriage? For you have assured me that you never loved till now----”

“Though nineteen summers have not yet passed over my head,” interrupted Perdita, “my mind has travelled much in the realms of thought and meditation;--and though, as I will candidly confess to you, I have read but little, yet have I pondered much.”

“And there is about you a mystery as charming and as interesting as your loveliness is indescribably great,” said Charles: “and you know, angel that you are, how I adore you!”

“Then if we plight our faith to each other to-day, as solemnly and as emphatically as yester-night we vowed an eternal friendship, shall you ever repent the step you will have taken?” asked Perdita, gazing affectionately on her handsome companion, whose looks seemed to devour her.

“Repent!--what, repent the step that makes you mine?” he exclaimed. “No--never, never!”

“And you take me as your wife on the conditions I have named--that I am to be a wife, and no wife?” said Perdita, her musical voice sounding soft as a silver bell and tremulously clear,--ravishment in her tone, love in her eyes, and warmth in the tender pressure of the hand which the young man had grasped.

“Yes--I take you as my wife on those conditions,” he returned, pressing her to his bosom. “But there are still many things to be considered, my Perdita,” he observed, after a short pause, during which they exchanged the most rapturous kisses. “In the first place, your mother----”

“I shall boldly acquaint her with what I have done,” said Perdita; “and she will not seal my unhappiness by an opposition--which, after all, would be vain and useless,” added the syren.

“And will not Mrs. Fitzhardinge recoil in horror from the idea that her daughter should have formed this connexion, without bearing the legal name of a wife?” demanded Charles, gazing earnestly on her beautiful countenance.

“Leave me to make my mother a convert to my own principles respecting marriage,” was the reply. “And now, with regard to yourself, my Charles,--you need be under no restraint. Continue to dwell with your family--and visit me as frequently as you can. In fact, I shall of course expect you to pass as much of your time as possible with me,--but never when your relatives and friends require your presence.”

“Oh! on these terms we shall indeed be supremely happy!” cried Charles. “And now you are my wife?”

“Yes--and you are my husband,” blushingly answered the syren, as she drooped her head upon his breast.

He wound his arms around her; and then their lips met in warm and luscious kisses. Charles grew bolder: his hand wandered to Perdita’s glowing bosom,--and Perdita no longer restrained him--no longer shrank back. Still, however, she did not choose to surrender herself immediately: a little more tantalization would only rivet his enthusiastic attachment and confirm the madness of his devouring passion;--and, accordingly--at the moment when, wild with desire, he was about to claim the privilege of a husband, she started from his arms, exclaiming, “Hush! my mother has returned--I hear her approaching!”

They separated--retreating to the ends of the sofa; and Perdita arranged her disordered hair once more.

No one however came: it was a false alarm,--as Perdita indeed well knew it to be.

“You must leave me now, Charles,” she said; “for my mother cannot be long ere she comes back. To-morrow, at mid-day, I shall be again alone--for I am aware that she will have to pay another visit to her attorney. Come, then, at that hour--and I will tell you all that has passed between my parent and myself.”

“Not an instant later than twelve to-morrow shall I be!” exclaimed Charles. “And now,--forgive me for returning for a moment to worldly affairs--quitting the paradise of happiness to which you have raised me, my Perdita,--but in respect to the small sum----”

“Oh! I had forgotten all our arrangements with regard to that matter,” said Perdita: “and, indeed--I detest and abominate money-affairs. But now--as your wife, dearest Charles--I may mention my wishes on that head without a blush. I should therefore be pleased if you could forward the amount to me in the course of the afternoon; and I will use it to the best possible advantage with my mother.”

“In less than an hour it shall be here in an envelope, sealed, and addressed to yourself,” said Charles. “Farewell, my sweet Perdita--farewell, until to-morrow!”

They embraced each other fervently; and Charles Hatfield took his departure.

Before he returned home, he walked into the park to collect his scattered thoughts and acquire some degree of composure. His perfidy--his infamous treachery towards Lady Frances now burst upon him in all its hideousness. That very morning had he demanded his cousin’s hand in marriage;--and within an hour afterwards he had solemnly contracted a strange and scarcely comprehensible union with Perdita Fitzhardinge.

His conduct seemed vile in the extreme: his heart, smote him painfully.

Yet was he so completely infatuated with Perdita, that he could not calmly contemplate the idea of breaking with her for ever. He was like a gambler who loathes himself for his ready yielding to a ruinous vice--but who nevertheless returns with renewed zest to the gaming-table.

For Charles thought of the happiness which he had so nearly attained on this eventful day, and which he felt assured must await him on the morrow:--he could not banish from his imagination the recollection of those charms which had plunged him into a perfect delirium of passion;--and the more he thought on the witching loveliness of Perdita, the less inclined was he to resign her.

Then came the almost inevitable results of the sophistry which the designing woman had called to her aid,--results which may be explained the more completely by following the current of the young man’s thoughts.

“After all, I am not indissolubly bound to Perdita--nor has she for ever linked her destiny with mine. No marriage ceremony has taken place between us--nor will any. I am not inextricably fastened to her apron-strings. And yet--and yet, is it honourable of me to make such calculations, the inferences to be drawn from which I am ashamed even to express to my own secret self? No--no: because no legal ties exist between us, I am the more imperiously bound to remain faithfully attached to her! Beautiful--enchanting--mysterious Perdita, how hast thou enthralled me! But--my God! am I not your willing slave?--do I not accept the yoke which thou hast thrown upon me?--would I release myself from those silken chains, even were I able? No--ten thousand times no, my adored--my worshipped Perdita! I care not whether thou dost exercise a supernatural enchantment over me: if thou art Satan in a female shape--or a serpent, as my dream appeared to give warning--I cannot cease to love thee,--no--never--never!”

But what of Lady Frances Ellingham? Oh! it was rash--it was indiscreet of him to solicit her hand;--but had he not acted in pursuance of the advice of his father?--and had he gone so far as to be unable to retreat?

Alas! Charles Hatfield, the sophistry of Perdita has rendered thee sophistical, until thou dost stand on the very threshold of--villainy!

Reckless art thou of the whisperings of conscience:--thou art infatuated with the fatal beauty of thy Perdita--and the hope, the burning hope of tasting in her arms the pleasures of paradise, renders thee studious only to subdue the remorse that whispers to thee the name of the outraged Lady Frances Ellingham!

Having wandered in the park for upwards of half an hour, Charles Hatfield bethought himself of the promise to send the amount of his savings to his beauteous Perdita; and, hastening home, he sought his chamber, which he reached unperceived by any one save the domestic who gave him admission. That he was thus unobserved, was a source of satisfaction,--inasmuch as he felt that his cheeks were flushed, and he feared lest his appearance might seem singular.

Opening his desk he took from a secret drawer the Bank-notes which constituted his savings; and enveloping them in a sheet of paper, he issued forth again to leave the parcel at the house in Suffolk Street. This being done, Charles returned to the park, where he roamed about until the hour arrived when it was necessary for him to return home in order to dress for dinner.

The reader must not forget that a splendid banquet was to take place that evening at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham,--a banquet given in honour of the Prince of Montoni, and at which his Royal Highness was to be present.

As the hour approached, Charles Hatfield felt his heart beat; and all his admiration of the illustrious hero revived;--so that his mind was labouring under no inconsiderable degree of excitement, as he thought of Perdita on the one hand--the Prince on the other--and also of Lady Frances Ellingham!

CXXXIII. A THRONE SURROUNDED BY REPUBLICAN INSTITUTIONS

The entertainment was of the most splendid description--worthy of the hospitality and taste of the noble host and hostess.

The Prince of Montoni was dressed in plain clothes: but on his breast gleamed the star denoting his rank; and on his left leg he wore the English Garter, his Royal Highness having been admitted on the previous day a member of that illustrious Order.

He was seated on the right of the Countess of Ellingham, Lady Frances being next to him, and Charles Hatfield occupying the place immediately following. In addition to these personages and the Earl of Ellingham, Mr. Hatfield, and Lady Georgiana there were Sir John Lascelles, Clarence Villiers and Adelais, and the select few who had been invited to the banquet on this occasion.

The Prince was naturally of a modest and unassuming disposition,--though endowed with ample dignity to maintain his lofty rank and honourably fill his high position,--yet bearing himself so condescendingly and affably, that every one felt completely at ease in his presence. Even Sir John Lascelles, who had grown somewhat morose, and difficult to please in his old age, was quite delighted with the youthful hero, whose conversation was characterised by so much sound sense and such a total absence of obtrusiveness.

Charles Hatfield was delighted at the thought of being once more in company with the object of his worship; and he seemed to hang upon every word that fell from the lips of the Prince of Montoni, as if he were listening to a demigod.

When the ladies had retired, the conversation turned upon political matters; and the Earl of Ellingham questioned the Prince relative to the condition of the Castelcicalans, whom report, newspapers, and books represented to be in the highest possible state of civilisation prosperity, and happiness.

“His Sovereign Highness, my revered father-in-law,” said the Prince, “has exerted himself in all possible ways to render his people contented and flourishing. The task may seem to be difficult for a monarch to undertake; but it really is not so. Honourable, upright, and liberal-minded Ministers are to be found in all countries, if the sovereign have but the discrimination to select them: indeed, a Chamber of Deputies, rightly constituted, will be sure to indicate the most efficient and trust-worthy men to whom the responsibilities of government may be safely confided. Every man in Castelcicala, having a habitation in which he may be said to be settled,--no matter whether it be a house of his own, or a mere lodging,--has the right of suffrage. The elections take place by ballot; and thus, considering that all save absolute mendicants have the power of voting, and seeing likewise the immense number of voters that there are, bribery is almost impossible. But to ensure, as much as mortal means can, the purity of election, any attempt at bribery or intimidation is counted a misdemeanor, and is punished by a fine, imprisonment, and the loss of civil rights for a period of seven years. Under these circumstances our elections take place in an orderly, quiet, and honest manner: the people conduct themselves with propriety, because they recognise the generous confidence reposed in them by their sovereign, and endeavour to render themselves worthy of it.”

“When your Royal Highness liberated Castelcicala and opened the way for the Grand Duke Alberto to the throne,” said Sir John Lascelles, who had listened attentively to the Prince’s observations, “the Castelcicalans were in a state of abject slavery. Were these boons of consummate freedom conferred upon them in a moment?--and if so, were the people prepared in any way to receive them?”

“A nation in slavery, Sir John,” answered the Prince, “is like a body in a condition of deep disease. Now, would you restore that body to perfect health all in a moment, if you had the power?--or would you only effect the restoration by slow and almost imperceptible degrees?”

“As a conscientious and an honest man, I should of course adopt the mode of instantaneous cure,” replied the physician.

“Then, Sir John, your question whether the Castelcicalans were prepared to receive the consummation of their freedom in a moment, is answered,” said the Prince, smiling. “Believe me, those statesmen who talk of the necessity of gradual reform are either weak and timid, or else in their hearts opposed to the interests of the people. Freedom is a nation’s right; and a right cannot be recognised too suddenly nor too frankly. Were your fortune in the grasp of a rapacious monarch, should you be contented by receiving it in small instalments according to his caprice and good pleasure? No: certainly not! You would demand and expect to receive the whole at once--and would consider yourself the victim of a monstrous tyranny, were your claims refused, or ridiculed, or set at naught. Yes, Sir John--the Castelcicalans obtained in a moment, as it were, their emancipation from tyranny and oppression. Immediately after His Sovereign Highness ascended the throne of that powerful State, he promulgated a decree, not merely conceding universal suffrage as a boon, but at once proclaiming it as the recognised right of the people. He did not say, ‘I give it to you:’ but he said, ‘I do not for an instant attempt to withhold it.’ The people saw that they were not treated as children, but as a free and enlightened nation; and they generously proffered gratitude, and testified their admiration and respect for their monarch. The Chambers assembled in due time--both Senators and Deputies being elected, and the principle of an hereditary Peerage being totally eschewed. Not even is the President of the Senate appointed by the Grand Duke: he is chosen by his compeers, as is the President of the Chamber of Deputies. The Grand Duke pledged himself to retain in power or to nominate only those Ministers whom the parliamentary majority pointed out; and, accordingly, the Cabinet which I had the honour to appoint during the period when I exercised the functions of Regent, immediately after the battle of Montoni, has remained in office ever since that time--because it is supported by the majority. There is an Opposition in both Chambers,--an Opposition consisting of the Aristocracy of the Old School, High Churchmen, and a few very wealthy landowners; and indeed an Opposition is necessary to all good government, because were measures passed by universal acclamation, there would be no sifting of all their details to the very bottom. The Progressist Ministry in Castelcicala is therefore rather thankful to the Opposition than otherwise;--but the popular voice is entirely in favour of the Ministerial party.”

“The Grand Duke is therefore almost a cypher in Castelcicala?” observed Sir John Lascelles.

“Not so,” returned the Prince, mildly but firmly. “There must be a chief magistrate--an executive--in every State; and he is that chief magistrate. Do you suppose that the task of discriminating and rewarding merit,--in patronising the arts and sciences,--in raising the humble but deserving individual,--and in performing all the various services to a country which the supreme ruler must ever have the opportunity of doing,--do you not suppose, Sir John Lascelles, that these are duties which render a good Prince any thing but a cypher? It is true that Castelcicala has a Throne: but it is surrounded by Republican Institutions;--and it matters very little whether Alberto be called President, Grand Duke, Emperor, or King. There is nothing in the name of the office: all that merits our attention is the extent of the privileges of that office.”

“But the sovereignty of Castelcicala is hereditary,” said Sir John Lascelles; “and yet your Royal Highness is an opponent to the hereditary peerage. If the principle be objectionable in the one case----”

“Pardon me for interrupting you, sir,” exclaimed the Prince: “but you are arguing on a false premise. The hereditary principle is abolished even in respect to the sovereignty. Alberto voluntarily abdicated this dynastic privilege; and one of his first acts was to place his diadem at the disposal of the Chambers. He told them that he was willing to obey the sovereign will of the people. The Chambers confirmed him in his high office; and of their own accord they honoured me by naming me the heir-apparent to the throne. But the hereditary principle is virtually annihilated; because one generation cannot bind its successor; and the law which thus appointed me as the heir-apparent, may be repealed by a new Chamber. It is monstrous to suppose that the hereditary principle can be tolerated by a nation knowing its own power and appreciating its own interests: for that principle may give you a good sovereign to-day, and a tyrant, an idiot, or a degraded sensualist to-morrow.”

“I admit the force of your Royal Highness’s argument,” said Lascelles; “and if I object, it is rather to seek information on these subjects than to question the excellence of the system of government introduced into Castelcicala. I would now deferentially seek to learn how far that system has benefitted the people of your Highness’s adopted country?”

“In the first place, Sir John,” returned the Prince, “the people have the elections entirely in their own hands, and return to Parliament representatives who do not buy their seats, but who are chosen on account of their merits. At least, this observation applies to the great majority of the Senators and Deputies. The elections take place every two years; so that ample opportunity is allowed the constituents of getting rid of persons who may chance to deceive them or prove incapable; while a sufficient space of time is afforded for giving the representatives a fair trial. The result of these arrangements is, that the majority of the representatives legislate for the interests of the mass--and not of the few. Good measures are the consequence; and the happiness of the people is promoted, while civilisation progresses rapidly, and the prosperity of the country increases daily. My lord,” continued the Prince, turning towards the Earl of Ellingham, “history has recorded the memorable speech which your lordship delivered nineteen years ago in the House of Lords--the speech that first introduced your lordship to the world as the generous defender, vindicator, and champion of the People;--and it rejoices me unfeignedly to be enabled to inform you, my noble friend--for so you will permit me to call you--that the speech I allude to, and all your subsequent orations on the same subject have been studied, weighed, and debated upon in the Councils of the Sovereign of Castelcicala.”

The Earl acknowledged the compliment in befitting terms; and the Prince of Montoni continued in the following manner:--

“To prove to your lordship that it is no idle flattery--of which, indeed, I am incapable--that I am now addressing to you, I will at once inform you that every suggestion which your lordship’s first and grandest oration contained, has been carried out with complete success in Castelcicala. Anticipating the pleasure of being enabled this evening to give your lordship some account of the condition of the Castelcicalans, I had furnished myself with a copy of the memorable speech to which I have already several times alluded; and I will now explain in detail the results of your lordship’s views, as exemplified in their application to the Grand Duchy.”

The Prince produced a manuscript; and, spreading it before him, his Royal Highness continued in the ensuing terms,--addressing himself to a most attentive and delighted audience:--

“Your lordship stated that it was too frequently alleged that the industrious classes are thoughtless, improvident, ungrateful, and intellectually dull: but this assertion you emphatically denied; and you proceeded to reason thus:--‘Despair, produced by their unhappy condition, naturally led to dissipation in many instances; but were the working man placed in a position so that his livelihood should be rendered less precarious than it now was--were his labour adequately remunerated--were he more fairly paid by the representatives of property--were a scale of wages established, having a fixed minimum, but no fixed maximum, the increased comfort thus ensured to him would naturally remove from his mind those cares which drove him to the public-house.’--Well, my lord and gentlemen,” continued the Prince, “the suggestion has been adopted in Castelcicala: a fixed minimum for wages has been established--the lowest amount of payment ensuring a sum sufficient to enable the working man to maintain himself and his family in respectability. The results may almost be said to have been instantaneous. Crime diminished rapidly: statistical returns soon proved that intemperance experienced a remarkable decrease; and such was the falling off in the consumption of spirituous liquors, beer, and tobacco, that the Government found it necessary to grant a compensation to the licensed victuallers, publicans, and tobacconists who suffered by this change in the habits of the people. Even employers speedily began to recognise the advantage of the new state of things in the improved condition of their employed, the increase and the excellence of the labour they obtained, and the superiority of their agriculture or their manufactures. No maximum of wages has been fixed in Castelcicala; and when I left the country a month ago, those wages were higher than ever they were known to be before. The demand for labour has greatly increased; and, though the territory be densely populated, employment may be found for all. If a man be now a pauper or mendicant in Castelcicala, it must be either through physical infirmity, or through his unwillingness to work. Of this latter, however, we have comparatively few examples--emulation and patriotism acting powerfully in a country where so much happiness and such prosperity prevail. Now, with a slight alteration in your lordship’s speech, one of the most remarkable passages in that speech reads thus when applied to Castelcicala:--‘There is no fixed maximum of wages, because wages are always to be increased in proportion to the value of productive labour to employers: but there is a minimum established, to obviate the cruel and disastrous effects of those periods when labour exceeds the demand in the market. This is not considered unfair towards employers, because when the markets are brisk and trade is flourishing, they (the employers) reap the greatest benefit from that activity, and enrich themselves in a very short time; therefore, when markets are dull and trade is stagnant, they are still compelled to pay such wages as enable their employed to live comfortably. The profits gained during prosperous seasons not only enable employers to enjoy handsome incomes, but also to accumulate considerable savings; and as the best wages scarcely enable the employed to make any thing like an adequate provision for periods of distress, it is not deemed fair that the representatives of property should use the labour of the working classes just when it suits them, and discard it or only use it on a miserable recompense when it does not so well suit them. For the labour of the employed not only makes annual incomes for the employers, but also permanent fortunes; and the value of that labour is not calculated as lasting only just as long as it is available for the purpose of producing large profits. Labour is recognised in Castelcicala and positively stated to be the working man’s capital, and bears constant interest, as well as money placed in the funds--that interest of course increasing in proportion to the briskness of markets; but never depreciating below a standard value--much less being discarded as valueless altogether, in times of depression. A thousand pounds always obtains three per cent. interest, under any circumstances; and, at particular periods, is worth six or seven per cent. Labour is considered by the Castelcicalans in the same light. Stagnant markets diminish the profits of employers, but do not ruin them: if they do not obtain profit enough to live upon, they have the accumulations of good seasons to fall back upon. But how different used to be the case with the employed! To them stagnation of business was ruin--starvation--death;--the breaking up of their little homes--the sudden check of their children’s education--the cause of demoralisation and degradation--and the necessity of applying to the parish! All these terrible evils have been completely annihilated by the system introduced into Castelcicala. The supply and demand of labour are necessarily unequal at many times, and in many districts; and the Government has therefore adopted measures to prevent those frightful fluctuations in wages which carry desolation into the homes of thousands of hard-working, industrious, and deserving families. In fact, a law has been passed to ensure the working-man against the casualty of being employed at a price below remuneration.’--Thus, my lord, you perceive that so far your views have been most successfully carried out: they are no longer a theory--I have seen them reduced to positive practice; and I pledge myself most solemnly and sacredly to the admirable working of this enlightened reformatory system.”

“Would that I could see my own fellow-countrymen rendered thus happy--raised thus high in the social sphere--and thus tenderly cared for by their rulers!” exclaimed Lord Ellingham, in the impassioned tone of the most earnest and heart-felt sincerity.

“The day must come,” observed the Prince of Montoni, “when the English people will recognise all the grand truths which you enunciated nineteen years ago from your place in the House of Lords. And, if in England you have failed to convince the aristocracy and the landowners of the wickedness of the course they are pursuing,--are not your labours in some degree rewarded by the knowledge that your lordship’s plans have been carried out to the very letter in the Grand Duchy of Castelcicala,--yes, and carried out too with such unequivocal success?”

“The information which your Royal Highness now imparts, gives me the most unfeigned pleasure,” said the Earl. “I had indeed read and heard of the recent grand improvements which had taken place in that Italian State where there is a Throne surrounded by Republican Institutions: but I was not aware--indeed, the loftiest flights of vanity never could have suggested to me that my views and theories had in any way contributed to the prosperity of the MODEL STATE, as the Liberals in England now denominate Castelcicala.”

“To convince you, my lord, how far your ideas have been applied to the elevation of Castelcicala to its present proud eminence,” said the Prince, “I will again refer to a passage in your lordship’s ever memorable speech, and point a few contrasts. ‘In England the poor are not allowed to have a stake in the country:’ I have shown you that the very reverse is the case in the Grand Duchy. ‘In England there are no small properties: the land is in the possession of a few individuals comparatively; and thus the landed interest constitutes a tremendous monopoly, most unjust and oppressive to the industrious classes.’--In Castelcicala the law of primogeniture is annihilated; there no man can leave his estate solely to his eldest son; it must be divided amongst all his male children equally, a charge being fixed upon it for the support of his daughters. Thus the territory is rapidly undergoing a process of sub-division, which admits thousands to the enjoyment of a real stake in the country, and breaks down the tremendous monopoly of the landed interest. In Castelcicala, moreover, ‘property is compelled to maintain labour as long as labour seeks for employment and occupation.’ What now, then, is the condition of the Castelcicalan people? Being well treated, rendered free, and having every possible avenue opened to them for the attainment of real property, ‘the working-classes are not driven by their cares and troubles to the excessive use of alcoholic liquors; they do not become demoralized by being compelled to migrate from place to place in search of employment--they are not forced to go upon the tramp, sleeping in hideous dens of vice, where numbers are forced to herd together without reference to age or sex: they are not unsettled in all their little arrangements to bring up their children creditably and with due reference to instruction;--they are not made discontented, anxious for any change no matter what, vindictive towards a society which renders them outcasts, and sullen or reckless in their general conduct.’--On the contrary, they feel settled in their condition; they know that the cottage which constitutes their home, is not held upon a precarious tenure: they never feel the sickening conviction that if they have bread and meat to-day, they may have only bread to-morrow, and no food at all the day after. The industrious classes in Castelcicala are no longer the mere slaves and tools of the wealthy classes: they are no longer retained in bondage--no longer kept in absolute serfdom by an oligarchy. I now pass to another subject,” said the Prince: “and here again I refer to the speech of the Earl of Ellingham--applying to Castelcicala the observations which he used in reference to England. The Castelcicalan industrious classes, then, ‘were ground down by indirect taxes, in which shape they actually contributed more to the revenue, in proportion to their means, than the rich. The only luxuries which the poor enjoyed, and which had become as it were necessaries--namely, tea, sugar, tobacco, beer, and spirits,--were the most productive sources of revenue. If aristocrats reproached the poor for dirty habits, as he well knew that it was their custom to do, he would ask them why soap was made an article subject to so heavy a tax? It was a contemptible fallacy to suppose that because the poor contributed little or nothing in the shape of direct taxation to the revenue, they were positively untaxed. The real fact was that the poor paid more in direct taxes than the rich did in both direct and in indirect ways, when the relative means of the two parties were taken into consideration.’--Such was the state of the industrious classes of Castelcicala until their voice was heard in the legislative assemblies; and all taxes upon the necessaries of life were speedily removed. Luxuries alone were left to bear the weight of taxation--the duties upon carriages, livery servants, armorial bearings, hunters, racers, hounds, and foreign wines being doubled.”

The Prince of Montoni paused; and the Earl of Ellingham exchanged a rapid but significant glance with Mr. Hatfield--for they both remembered the time when, nineteen years previously, and when the latter lay on the bed in Old Death’s house, they had conversed upon the best means of ameliorating the condition of the suffering millions.

His Royal Highness, finding that his auditors were most anxious that he should continue his explanations, and perceiving that Sir John Lascelles had become especially interested therein, resumed his subject in the following manner:--

“The inequality of the laws, and their incongruity, severity, and injustice towards the poor, long constituted a crying evil in Castelcicala. ‘Every advantage was given to the rich in the way of procuring bail in those cases where security for personal appearance was required; but no poor man could possibly give such security. He must go to prison, and there herd with felons of the blackest dye. Perhaps on trial his innocence would transpire; and then what recompense had he for his long incarceration--his home broken up during his absence--and his ruined family? It was possible--nay, it often happened that a man would lie thus in prison for four or five months previously to trial; and during that period it would be strange indeed if he escaped gaol contamination.’--In order to remedy these evils, vast facilities were afforded in respect to bail, the respectability and not the monied qualifications of the sureties being considered. Thus a working man may be bailed by any two of his associates who can obtain a good character from their employer: this of course applies to charges of a lighter kind, heavier responsibility being required where a serious accusation is involved. But even should an accused have to go to prison until his trial, he is not placed in a felons’ gaol: he is not, while still untried, subjected to that indignity and contamination. He is confined in a building having no connexion with a prison, and termed A House of Detention. Again, the judges have the power to order a compensation to every one whose innocence transpires on trial; and I must inform you that the trial may take place as soon after committal as the individual chooses. All depends on the speed which he makes in getting up his defence. When committed, he is asked if he have the means of retaining counsel: if he prove to the magistrate that he is poor, a barrister is immediately provided for him. The trial may come on the very next day; for there are local Courts throughout the Grand Duchy, and these courts have no recess--no holiday. Were I, on my return to Castelcicala, to inform a person not well acquainted with English laws and customs, that in this very same enlightened England a man may languish several months in a common gaol awaiting his trial, I should scarcely be believed.”

“And what is the nature of the punishments inflicted in the country of your Royal Highness’s adoption?” enquired Sir John Lascelles.

“I will tell you,” said the Prince. “In the first place we have abolished the punishment of death, as barbarian, un-Christian, and demoralizing. Murder is punished by imprisonment for life; and imprisonment, fine, confiscation of property in the cases of single men having no persons dependent on them, and the loss of civil rights--these are the penalties used amongst us. The individual who is condemned to imprisonment, is not on that account rendered an useless member of society. Every criminal gaol is an assemblage of workshops where all trades and manufactures are carried on; and each prisoner must work at his own trade, or be taught one. If he have a family out-of-doors, his earnings go to support that family: if he have none, they accumulate until the day of his release. Should he refuse to work, he is put upon bread and water; and this fare soon compels him to adopt habits of industry in order to obtain plentiful and wholesome meals. Castelcicalan prisons resemble vast factories rather than gaols; and so admirable--so salutary--so reformatory is the discipline maintained in them, that a prisoner on his emancipation finds no difficulty in obtaining work again. Employers consider, in such a case, that he has expiated an offence which should not be remembered to his prejudice; and he begins the world again with a new character. He has, as it were, passed through a criminal bankruptcy court, and obtained his certificate. Should he, however, experience any difficulty in finding employment, the local authorities are bound to supply him with work at the average rate of wages. The results of all these arrangements are striking. In the first place, a Castelcicalan prison is reformatory instead of being a sink of contaminating iniquity: secondly, a man on leaving a criminal gaol, is not forced back into the ways of vice. If he relapse, it must be through determined wickedness: but relapses are very, very rare in the Grand Duchy--for happily those individuals are few who remain in the ways of crime for crime’s sake! And now, my lord, you will perceive how far the framers of all these salutary enactments respecting prisoners and prison discipline, were indebted to the following passage in your speech:--‘The criminal laws of England are only calculated to produce widely spread demoralization--to propagate vice--to render crime terribly prolific. A man no matter what his offence may have been--should be deemed innocent and untainted again, when he has paid the penalty of his misdeeds; because to brand a human being eternally, is to fly in the face of the Almighty and assert that there should be no such thing as forgiveness, and that there is no such thing as repentance. But the nature of punishments in England is so to brand the individual, and so to dare the majesty of heaven. For the gaols are perfect nests of infamy--sinks of iniquity, imprisonment in which necessarily fastens an indelible stigma upon the individual. He either comes forth tainted; or else it is supposed that he must be so. Under these circumstances, he vainly endeavours to obtain employment; and, utterly failing in his attempt to earn an honest livelihood, he is compelled perforce to relapse into habits of crime and lawlessness. This fact accounts for an immense amount of the demoralization which the Bishops so much deplore, but the true causes of which they obstinately refuse to acknowledge. The criminal gaols are moral pest-houses, in which no cures are effected, but where the contagious malady becomes more virulent. Society should not immure offenders solely for the sake of punishment--but with a view to reformation of character.’”

“Castelcicala has the honour of having taken the initiative in all the great and glorious reforms which you suggested,” said Mr. Hatfield, turning with admiration towards the Earl of Effingham. “In England reform is much talked of; and when a small concession is made--for a concession it is in this country, to all intents and purposes--the people congratulate themselves as if their complete emancipation were at hand.”

“There is a passage in the Earl’s speech,” resumed the Prince, “which particularly struck the Grand Duke and the Ministers when they were deliberating upon the proposed reforms and ameliorations to be introduced to the Chambers. That passage ran thus:--‘When a poor man is oppressed by a rich one, it is vain and ludicrous to assert that the Courts of Law are open to him: law is a luxury in which only those who possess ample means can indulge. In a case where some grievous injury is sustained by a poor man--the seduction of his wife or daughter, for instance--redress or recompense is impossible, unless some attorney takes up the case on speculation; and this is a practice most demoralizing and pernicious. But if left entirely unassisted in that respect, the poor man can no more go to Westminster Hall than he can afford to dine at Long’s Hotel.’--Now in Castelcicala, a plan has been adopted which seems to meet the difficulties set forth in the Earl of Ellingham’s speech, and which does not involve the additional danger of rendering law so cheap as to encourage litigation in every paltry quarrel. To every Local Court are attached officers denominated the Peoples’ Attorneys-General; and any poor man having a ground of complaint against a neighbour, addresses himself to one of those officers, who immediately examines into the affair, and if he see that the plaint be well founded, he prosecutes on behalf of the poor man. These officers are paid fixed salaries by the Government, and dare not take fees. They are selected with care, and are as incapable of bribery as the judges themselves;--and thus every means is taken to guarantee the poor man justice. Seduction and adultery are not made mere pecuniary matters in Castelcicala: they are punished by imprisonment;--and the penalty is very heavy in a case where a rich man debauches a poor man’s daughter. I now pass on to the subject of Education; and your treatment of this subject, my dear Earl, in your speech, is not the least remarkable portion of the oration. You declared that ‘it was positively shocking to think that such care should be taken to convert negroes to Christianity thousands of miles off, while the most deplorable ignorance prevailed at home. The Church enjoys revenues the amount of which actually bring the ministers of the gospel into discredit, as evidencing their avaricious and grasping disposition;--while the people remain as uneducated as if not a single shilling were devoted to spiritual pastors or lay instructors.’ You boldly ‘accused both houses of Parliament and the upper classes generally of being anxious to keep the masses in a state of ignorance. Where instruction is imparted gratuitously, it is entirely of a sectarian nature; just as if men required to study grammar, history, arithmetic, or astronomy on Church of England principles. The whole land is over-run by clergymen, who live upon the fat of it--Universities and public schools have been richly endowed for the purpose of propagating knowledge and encouraging learning,--and yet the people are lamentably ignorant. It is a wicked and impudent falsehood to declare that they are intellectually dull or averse to mental improvement. Common sense--that best of sense--is the special characteristic of the working classes; and those who can read are absolutely greedy in their anxiety to procure books, newspapers, and cheap publications for perusal. The fact is, that the mind of the industrious population is a rich soil, wherein all good seed will speedily take root, shoot up, and bring forth fruit to perfection: but the apprehensions or narrow prejudices of the upper classes--the oligarchy--will not permit the seed to be sown. Now as the soil must naturally produce something, even of its own accord, it too often gives birth to rank weeds; and this is made a matter of scorn, reviling, and reproach. But the real objects of that scorn--that reviling--and that reproach, are those who obstinately and wickedly neglect to put the good soil to the full test of fertilisation.’--All these observations,” continued his Royal Highness, “were as applicable to Castelcicala a short time back as they have ever been and still are in England. But the reforms in the Church and in the Educational System were not the least important of those which characterised the new order of things. The two institutions were separated, and rendered entirely independent of each other, the Church being abandoned entirely to the voluntary principle, and the duty of educating the people being attached to the State, a Minister of Public Instruction being appointed. All sectarianism in education is now abolished: the system is entirely secular. The schoolmasters are appointed by the municipal corporations in the various localities, and their salaries are paid by the State. They are all laymen; for it is now a principle established in the Grand Duchy that parents shall train up their children in the creed which they may prefer. Thus Protestants, Catholics, and Jews all receive the blessings and benefits of the secular education; no tampering with religious opinions--no proselytism being permitted. The whole scheme is on the broadest basis of liberality; and the people are delighted with its working. As for the Church, it is entirely separated from the State; and the order of Bishops has been suppressed. The Catholic religion is still that of the great majority: but it is shorn of its pomp; and ecclesiastical ostentation and vain display have received a blow which they will never recover. The result is, that the Christian creed has been restored to something resembling its primitive simplicity, and such as its Divine Founder intended. I have now, my lord and gentlemen, given you a hasty, but I hope intelligible sketch of the condition of Castelcicala at the present day; and it only remains for me to sum up the reforms which have been accomplished, and which completely carry out the views and the theories so ably propounded by you, my dear Earl, nineteen years ago. In the first place, there is a Throne surrounded by Republican Institutions; and the hereditary principle as well as the law of primogeniture have been annihilated--never to be revived. Then, we have adopted ‘a minimum rate of wages, to prevent the sudden fluctuation of such wages, and to compel property to give constant employment to labour:--indirect taxes upon the necessaries of life have been abolished;--the laws and their administration are equitably proportioned to the relative conditions of the rich and the poor;--a general system of national education has been established, and intrusted to laymen, totally distinct from religious instruction and sectarian tenets;--a complete reformation in the system of prison discipline has taken place; and establishments have been founded for the purpose of affording work to persons upon leaving criminal gaols, as a means of their obtaining an honest livelihood and retrieving their characters prior to seeking employment for themselves;--and the franchise has been so extended as to give every man who earns his own bread by the sweat of his brow, a stake and interest in the country’s welfare.’”

The Prince ceased speaking; and those who had been his auditors expressed their sincerest thanks for the gratifying explanations he had given them with so much readiness and affability. Nor less were they charmed to find that a truly liberal and enlightened system of policy would stand such remarkable tests, and work so well. The question, whether the nations of Europe are civilised enough to receive Republican Institutions, was completely solved, to their satisfaction; and even Sir John Lascelles, who was somewhat tainted with the doctrines of the Old School, acknowledged himself to be a convert.

The party then joined the ladies in the drawing-room where political subjects gave way to discourse upon less serious topics;--and when the company took their departure, the inmates of the lordly mansion did not separate to retire to their respective chambers until they had exchanged many enthusiastic comments upon the character, disposition, talents, and bearing of his Royal Highness, the Prince of Montoni.

CXXXIV. A PAINFUL SCENE

We deemed it advisable to break as little as possible, by comment or extraneous explanation, the thread of the Prince of Montoni’s discourse upon the reform that had been introduced into the Grand Duchy of Castelcicala. We therefore refrained from giving any account of the manner in which Charles Hatfield listened, and received--or rather, greedily drank in--the narrative of his Royal Highness.

To say that the young man heard with enthusiasm, were to convey but a feeble idea of his emotions as he hung upon every sentence--every word, that fell from the lips of the Earl’s illustrious guest:--when, however, we declare that even Perdita’s image fell into the back-ground of his mind, during the whole time that the Prince was discoursing, our readers may form some notion of the nature of that impression which was made upon him.

On retiring to his chamber at about one o’clock in the morning, Charles Hatfield thought not of seeking his couch: but, throwing himself into an arm-chair, he gave way to the agitating--conflicting--turbulent ideas which had been excited in his soul.

“The modesty of the Prince,” he thought, “concealed the fact that nearly all the reforms which he detailed, were suggested by himself. Oh! what would I give to be enabled to raise myself to eminence in the world! Twenty years of my life?--Ah! yes--willingly--willingly would I yield up a quarter of my probable existence to gain a name, honoured and renowned as that of the Prince of Montoni! And is not rank within my grasp? Can I not in a moment--by the waving of my hand, as it were--place upon my brow the coronet of a Viscount? May I not yet stand before the world as the heir-apparent to the Earldom of Ellingham? Yes;--and if once I find my way into the supreme legislative assembly, shall I not be enabled to advocate the cause of the People, and obtain a glorious renown? It were trifling with my own interests--it were wronging myself, to abstain from asserting my just rights! If my father choose to remain a simple commoner and allow his younger brother to wear the honours and hold the estates of a proud Earldom, am I to be bound by his will? No--no: and my father acts not a parent’s part towards me in thus keeping me in obscurity. ’Tis clear that my sire’s early life renders him desirous to shun all circumstances that may attract attention towards him: ’tis clear--my God! how dreadful to think of!--’tis clear, I say, that he feels the impropriety of a highwayman laying claim to a lordly title! Oh! the sins of the father are indeed visited on the child in my case! But I am innocent: my life has been spotless and pure--my character is untarnished. Wherefore should I suffer for my parent’s crimes? It is unjust--most unjust; and even filial duty, in its best and holiest sense, cannot compel me to renounce the distinctions to which by birth I am the heir! No--no: a young man of my ambition--my talents--my feelings--my burning hopes, must not immolate himself for the sake of a father who acts unjustly towards him. For how stands the case between us? The question is whether a parent should make any and every sacrifice for his child; or whether the child must make all possible sacrifices for his father. In asserting his rights, claiming his title, and thereby enabling me to assume my own, he doubtless would have to make a sacrifice: he must declare who he is--my God!--the Resuscitated Highwayman! But, on the other hand, in consenting to keep his secret, do I not wilfully blind myself to my own interests--wantonly thrust aside those opportunities of gaining distinction and acquiring renown which are within my reach--crush with suicidal hand the glorious aspirations which I have formed--and purposely trample on all the hopes that are developing themselves before me?”

Charles Hatfield rose--paced the room in an agitated manner--then, reseating himself, again plunged into his ominous reflections.

“I have read that those who yield to the influence of false sentimentalism, never rise in the world. He who would attain to the pinnacle of eminence, must harden his heart,--even as did Napoleon, when he put away from him that charming Josephine who loved him with such pure and fervid devotion. Yes--family, kith, and kindred must be sacrificed--all sacrificed--by him who follows the dictates of his ambition. And yet--and yet, did not Richard Markham rise by his virtues, as much as by his talents and heroism, to that eminence which enabled him to take his place amongst the mightiest Princes of Europe? Oh! but he had opportunities which may never occur again--he is the one in the thousand whom Fortune takes by the hand. If I remain obscure--unknown--plain Mr. Charles Hatfield--I am but an unit amidst the millions which, constitute the mass called the People. But if I suddenly stand forth as a Viscount, and the heir of a wealthy Earldom, shall I not at once be placed in a position to carve out a career for myself? Oh! how glorious--how thrilling would it be, to have the power of saying to my Perdita, ‘Beautiful angel! I am not the obscure young man I appear to be: in me behold Viscount Marston, the heir to the Earldom of Ellingham!’ Ah! Perdita, then would you feel honoured in my love--and I should not be compelled to evince my gratitude to thee for loving me! Charming, adorable Perdita--thine image is coupled with the bright dream of ambition that now animates me;--for when I shall have distinguished myself in the Senate, how delicious will it be to see thee welcome with pride and admiration my return to thine arms,--to behold thy fine eyes fixed upon me, eloquently proclaiming how proud thou art to own the love of a man who is filling the world with his fame! Yes--I must assert my rights:--but how? Oh! I will confide all to Perdita--and she possesses a mind so strong and an intellect so powerful, that she will assist me with her counsel in this difficulty. And it will be so sweet to receive advice from her lips--so delightful to mark the interest which she will take in my affairs!”

Again he rose from his seat: for a sudden thought had struck him--accompanied by a severe pang,--a pang that went through his heart like a barbed arrow.

“My mother!--my poor mother!” he murmured to himself: “Oh! what a blow will it be to her if I compel my father--compel her husband--to assert his claims to the Earldom of Ellingham! And yet--was I not for years neglected by her?--did she care for me--did she even have me to dwell with her during my infancy? No--no: I was abandoned to the woman Watts;--and had I become a thief in the streets--a prowling, houseless vagabond--my mother would have been to blame!”

Thus was it that this young man, having imbibed from Perdita the art and facility of sophistical reasoning,--thus was it that he crushed all the naturally generous feelings of his soul, and struggled desperately to subdue the promptings of his really good disposition.

Love and ambition produced these baneful effects!

But his love,--was it a pure and honest love inspired by a virtuous being?--or was it a frenzy engendered and sustained by a depraved and designing woman endowed with the most glorious beauty?

And his ambition,--was it that fine spirit of emulation which warms the generous heart, and prompts the enlightened mind to seek distinction for the sake of being enabled, by means of influence and high position, to benefit the human race?--or was it a selfish craving after rank and power, in order to enjoy the sweets of applause, become the object of servile flattery, and obtain the honour ever shown in this country to sounding titles and a proud aristocracy?

The reader can answer these questions for himself.

Having passed nearly two hours in the wild reverie which suggested schemes so menacing in their nature to his own and his parents’ happiness, Charles Hatfield retired to rest;--and in his dreams he beheld a variety of scenes and images, incongruously grouped and confusedly jumbled together,--the voluptuous form of Perdita stretched in a witching undress on the sofa, and extending her arms to welcome him to her embraces,--the Marshal Prince of Montoni, seated on horseback, surrounded by a brilliant staff,--thousands and thousands of persons gathered together to witness the passing of a gay cavalcade, of which he fancied himself to be the leader as well as the hero of the occasion,--and then his father and mother kneeling and weeping at his feet, and proffering some prayer to which he refused to accede. Then he thought that he was roving in a delicious garden, where the singing of birds, the hues of the flowers, and the fragrance of aromatic shrubs made every thing delightful to the senses, and where Perdita was his companion. She appeared to be clad in the loose and scanty drapery which heathen goddesses are represented to wear,--fastened by a clasp on the left shoulder, flowing so as to leave the right bosom entirely bare, and confined by a zone to the waist. Airily, airily they tripped along together, until they beheld a temple standing at a distance: then Perdita suddenly assumed the majesty of a queen--and conducting her lover to a shrine within the temple, made him kneel down while she crowned him with a wreath of flowers, while unseen minstrels poured forth a strain of delicious music.

Under the influence of this last dream he awoke;--and the image of Perdita still remained uppermost in his mind.

Then as he performed the functions of the toilette, he reconsidered all the arguments and plans--repeated to himself all the sophistical reasoning--into which he had fallen before he retired to rest;--and, hardening his heart in respect to his parents,--yes, and hardening it, too, with regard to Lady Frances Ellingham,--he resolved to sacrifice all and every thing to the two idols of his soul--ambition and Perdita!

In this frame of mind he descended to the breakfast-parlour, where the Earl and Countess of Ellingham, Lady Frances, Mr. Hatfield, and Lady Georgiana were already assembled. Charles assumed as gay an appearance as possible: for he was resolved to mask his knowledge of all the family secrets as well as his sinister designs, until he should have consulted with Perdita. But in spite of himself, there was a certain constraint and embarrassment in his manner when he spoke to Lady Frances; and this artless, beautiful young creature surveyed him with astonishment and grief.

The fact was that the heart of Charles Hatfield smote him for the vile and perfidious part he had enacted towards his cousin; and he scarcely dared to look her in the face.

Her parents and his own, as well as she herself, noticed the peculiarity of his demeanour in this respect; and Lady Georgiana was so affected by his apparent coolness towards the Earl’s daughter that it was with difficulty she could restrain herself from questioning him then and there on the subject. A hasty whisper, however, from her husband sealed her tongue and gave her the assurance that he would soon ascertain the cause of their son’s altered behaviour towards the young lady who was already looked upon as his future wife.

Accordingly, when the morning repast was concluded, Mr. Hatfield beckoned his son to follow him to the library; and now Charles was struck with a sudden fear--conscience exciting the apprehension that his schemings were discovered and seen through by an outraged, indignant father.

On entering the library, Mr. Hatfield motioned him to take a seat near him: then, fixing his eyes upon the young man’s countenance, he said, “Charles, has any misunderstanding occurred between Lady Frances and yourself?”

“No--not that I am aware of,” returned Charles, considerably relieved by the question that indicated the nature of the colloquy which it opened. “Wherefore should you entertain such an idea?”

“Because your manner towards Lady Frances at the breakfast-table was cool, constrained, and embarrassed,” said Mr. Hatfield. “She herself noticed the circumstance; and I observed that Lord and Lady Ellingham were pained by it likewise. As for your mother, Charles--she was deeply grieved; and I was both hurt and annoyed.”

“I am sorry, my dear father--but--but, I was not aware of any difference in my demeanour towards her ladyship,” stammered Charles, unskilled as yet in the arts of duplicity and guile.

“My son--my dear son, do not attempt to deceive me!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, emphatically. “Lady Frances, in the artlessness of her soul--in the confiding candour of her amiable nature--yesterday acquainted her mother, the Countess of Ellingham, with all that had taken place between yourself and her in the morning. You made her an offer of your hand, in pursuance of the counsel which I gave you;--and her parents will cheerfully yield an assent to your suit. Indeed, the Earl expected to see you on the subject yesterday afternoon; but it appears that immediately after your interview with Lady Frances, you went out and remained absent for some hours. How you dispose of your time, it is not for me to enquire: you are of an age when you are entitled to be your own master. But this I implore of you,--lose no time in seeking a private interview with the Earl, and soliciting him to accord you the hand of his daughter. ’Tis a mere ceremony which a parent, and a personage of his standing, naturally expects you to perform;--and I promise you that there is no chance of a refusal.”

“My dear father,” said Charles, the natural candour of his nature asserting its empire; “I was too hasty in proposing to Lady Frances. Would to God that I could recall the step I thus rashly took!”

Mr. Hatfield surveyed his son in profound astonishment for nearly a minute: then, breaking forth indignantly, he exclaimed, “What, sir! you have dared to trifle with the affections of an amiable and accomplished girl?--you decline a match which is so desirable in every point of view, and on which your mother’s heart is set?”

“I must decline the honour of this alliance,” answered the young man, speaking with a courage which even surprised himself.

“Do you know, Charles,” demanded his father, with on utterance almost suffocated by indescribable emotions,--“do you know that your conduct is that of a villain? And shall it be said that you--you, a young man of whom such lofty expectations have been formed----”

“By whom have these expectations been formed?” suddenly cried the rebellious son, his choler rising as all his wrongs, real or imaginary, rushed to his mind,--those wrongs which he believed himself to have received and to be still enduring at the hands of his parents.

“By whom?” repeated Mr. Hatfield, much pained by the tone, words, and manner of the young man. “By whom should such hopes be experienced, save by your parents?”

“My parents!” cried Charles, with withering irony. “Wherefore am I not acknowledged as your son?--why do you not proclaim yourselves to be my parents? Was not the discovery on my part a matter of mere chance?--and should I not have been kept for ever ignorant of the fact, had not an accident revealed it to me?”

“Oh! my God!--this is retribution!” murmured Mr. Hatfield, bowing himself down, and covering his face with his hands.

At that moment the door opened--and Lady Georgiana, pale as death and scarcely able to support herself on her tottering limbs, made her appearance.

Unable to endure the state of suspense in which she had been plunged relative to the altered manner of her son towards Lady Frances at the breakfast-table,--and having a vague presentiment that some unpleasant scene was occurring between him and her husband in the library,--she had determined to repair thither and relieve herself at once from an uncertainty that was intolerable. But upon reaching the door she heard Charles talking loudly and bitterly: she instinctively paused;--and those terrible questions which he addressed to his father, smote upon her ear like the voice of the Angel of Death.

Staggering into the room, she mechanically closed the door behind her; and then leant against it for support. Her fine--her handsome countenance denoted the most poignant anguish: it was absolutely distorted--while a frightful pallor overspread it.

“My mother--my dear mother!” exclaimed Charles, bounding towards her;--for his soul was touched by the pitiable appearance which she presented to his view.

“Just heaven! Charles--what have you said to your father!” she asked, in a tone of despair;--and flinging herself into her son’s arms, she gave vent to a flood of tears.

“I implore your pardon, my dear parents, if in a moment of haste and impatience I said aught that can give you offence,” exclaimed the young man: “but I was not master of my emotions--for you, my father, had termed me a villain!”

“Let us not recriminate,” said Mr. Hatfield, rising and taking his son by the hand, Lady Georgiana having in the meantime sunk into the chair to which Charles conducted her. “I was wrong to address you thus harshly: but your refusal to form an alliance with Lady Frances, to whom you only yesterday imparted a confession of attachment----”

“O Charles! is it possible that your parents are to experience such bitterness of disappointment as this?” exclaimed Lady Georgiana, turning a look of appeal--of earnest appeal--upon her son. “You know not how profound will be my sorrow if you thus enact a perfidious part towards Lady Frances Ellingham!”

“Would you have me wed when my heart is not fixed?” demanded Charles, warmly. “I laboured under a delusion: I fancied that I loved Lady Frances as one whom I should wish to make my wife--but I now find that it was only with the affection of a brother or of a very sincere friend that I in reality regarded her! Yesterday morning you, my dear father, entered my chamber, at a moment when the confusion of ideas caused by unpleasant dreams was scarcely dissipated;--you urged me to confess an attachment to Lady Frances--to seek her hand;--and I obeyed you! But I acted under an impulse for which I could not account;--I yielded to some unknown influence which I could not resist. And yet it was not love, my dear parents;--no--it was not love! In making Lady Frances my wife I should only ensure the unhappiness of an excellent--a beautiful--an accomplished girl----”

“You admit all her admirable qualities, Charles,” interrupted his mother; “and yet you refuse to avail yourself of an opportunity to secure so precious a prize--to link your fortunes with one who is certain to make the best of wives!”

“It is truly incomprehensible!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, whose knowledge of the world and large experience of the human heart convinced him that there was something more at the bottom of his son’s conduct than the alleged reasons for so abruptly breaking off a match that, he thought, must appear in every way so eligible and advantageous to the young man.

“My dear parents, this scene is most painful to us all,” said Charles, who, glancing rapidly at the time-piece upon the mantel, saw that the hour was approaching for his to visit Perdita.

His father, observing that impatient look cast towards the clock, instantly comprehended that his son had some appointment to keep; and connecting this discovery with the strangeness of his conduct in respect to Lady Frances, it flashed to his mind in a moment that the young man had formed some attachment elsewhere.

“Charles,” he accordingly said, turning abruptly towards his son and looking him full in the face, “you love another?”

The young man became red as scarlet, and stammered out a few unintelligible words, which his father soon cut short.

“Now we have discovered the truth! But surely you have formed no unworthy attachment?--surely you cannot love one whom you are ashamed to name?” cried Mr. Hatfield.

“Speak, Charles--speak! Answer your father!” said Lady Georgiana, in an imploring tone, as she perceived her son turn away towards the mantel.

For rebellious thoughts again rose in the mind of the young man;--and he felt hurt and vexed that his conduct should thus be questioned by parents who never had acknowledged him as their son until the necessity was forced upon them by his accidental discovery of the secret of his birth, and who now kept him out of what he conceived to be his just rights. Moreover, was he not twenty-five years old?--and was that an age at which he should thus be tutored and treated like a child? Lastly, it was verging fast upon twelve; and had he not assured his Perdita that he would not be a minute later mid-day?

“Charles, why do you not answer me?” asked Mr. Hatfield, approaching him: “wherefore do you treat your parents with contempt?”

“Wherefore did my parents treat me with such unnatural neglect as to bring me up as their nephew?” demanded the young man, turning abruptly--almost savagely round upon his father. “Wherefore do they now pass me off to the world in that latter capacity?” he cried, becoming fearfully excited.

Lady Georgiana uttered a faint scream, covered her face with her hands, and fell back in her chair sobbing bitterly.

“You speak of unnatural conduct!” cried Mr. Hatfield, growing excited in his turn. “Tell me at once, Charles--do you mean to throw off all allegiance to your parents? If so--remember that it is in our power to deprive you of the immense fortune which is otherwise destined for you----”

“Ah! menaces!” ejaculated the young man: and darting upon his father a look of mingled regret and anger--of united sorrow and indignation,--a look so strange, so ominous that Mr. Hatfield started with horror,--he rushed from the room.

“Stay! stay!” cried Lady Georgiana, springing towards the door.

But her son heeded her not: he obeyed not her voice;--and the unhappy mother sank upon the floor, gasping for utterance, and feeling as if her heart would break with the wretched sensations that filled her bosom.

Mr. Hatfield hastened to raise his wife--to place her in a chair--and to breath words of consolation in her ears.

When she was somewhat recovered, she clasped her hands convulsively together; and, looking up appealingly into his face, said, “Is this a reality? or is it a dream?”

“Alas! it is a terrible reality,” responded Mr. Hatfield, in a tone of mingled bitterness and sorrow.

“And what can it all mean?” asked Lady Georgiana, wildly: for she was bewildered by the strangeness of her son’s conduct--amazed by the sudden alteration of his manner from respect to insolent indifference towards his parents.

“Heaven alone can solve that question for us at present,” returned her husband. “Can it be that he has learnt any thing--that he suspects aught of the past? No--no: that is impossible! But ever since the discovery of his real parentage, he has been altered;--sometimes moody and thoughtful--at others petulant and hasty,--now unnaturally gay and excited--then deeply depressed and melancholy,--but never unruly and overbearing, disobedient and rebellious, as he has shown himself this forenoon.”

“’Tis easy to perceive, I fear, that he is troubled by the mystery which induced us to conceal his position with regard to us,” said Lady Georgiana;--“and likewise--yes, likewise,” she added hesitatingly, “the circumstance that he still passes as our nephew weighs upon his mind!”

“Oh! this is a terrible retribution for my sins!--an awful punishment for the foul misdeeds of my earlier years!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, wringing his hands bitterly.

“My dear husband,” said Lady Georgiana, whose turn it now was to console; “give not way thus to your sorrow! Let us hope that he will repent of this strange unruliness of conduct----”

“Alas! I have sad forebodings of evil!” cried the unhappy man. “I fear that he has formed some unworthy connexion, Georgiana: but let us dissemble our sorrow--let us not afflict the Earl and the amiable Esther by giving them any account of the occurrences of this day.”

“And yet what can we say respecting the union that was contemplated between their amiable daughter and our son?” demanded Lady Georgiana, in an anxious tone.

“We will by some means find an excuse for the embarrassment and coldness of manner which Charles exhibited at the breakfast-table,” returned Mr. Hatfield; “and I will seek the earliest opportunity to reason with him fully and calmly upon the subject.”

“If he should have formed an attachment elsewhere----”

“That is scarcely probable, when we come to look calmly at the matter--since he yesterday morning declared his affection to Frances.”

“Alas! ’tis a mystery which pains and alarms me,” said Lady Georgiana.

“A mystery which I will penetrate, my dear wife!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, in a resolute--almost stern tone of voice. “But for the present, it is useless to hazard a conjecture.”

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.