CXXXVI. INFATUATION…

CXXXVI. INFATUATION

Perdita was dressed in a more modest and, to speak truly, in a more delicate manner than on either of the former occasions when Charles had seen her. A plain morning gown, made with a high corsage, set off her fine figure, without affording even a glimpse of the charms the full proportions of which its shape developed. Her hair was arranged in plain bands; and there was altogether an appearance of so much innocence, candour, and maiden reserve in her demeanour, that it seemed to Charles as if he now beheld in her some new phasis of her wondrous beauty.

Hastening forward to meet her, he caught her in his arms and covered her lips, her cheeks, and her brow with kisses: for--whether it were imagination or reality we know not--but she appeared to be far more lovely than ever in his eyes.

“Dearest--dearest Perdita!” he exclaimed,forgetting at that moment all and every thing in the world save the object of his adoration.

“Charles--my lord--how am I to call you henceforth?” she murmured, in that soft, musical tone which flowed like the harmony of the spheres in unto the very soul.

“Am I not Charles to you, dear girl?” he demanded, looking at her tenderly and half reproachfully: then, conducting her to a seat, and placing himself near her, he added, “I have had a long interview with your mother, Perdita; and from all that I could gather, she has no opposition to offer to our love.”

“I know it,” responded the girl, casting down her eyes with a modesty so admirably assumed that it would have deceived the most experienced individual. “And are you well satisfied that she has thus proved favourable to our hopes?”

“Will you always seem to doubt my affection?” demanded the young man, in an impassioned tone: “will you ever appear to believe that I am so volatile--so fickle--so inconstant, as to regret to-day a step that I took yesterday?”

“Pardon me, Charles--pardon me,” said Perdita, looking up into his face with an expression of the most charming naiveté: “but my mother heard a rumour--and yet it might be unfounded----”

“Speak--speak, Perdita!” cried the young man, impatiently.

“A rumour to the effect that you were looked upon as the future husband of Lady Frances Ellingham,” added Perdita, in a tremulous tone, as if scarcely daring to give utterance to the jealous suspicion that the words implied.

Charles Hatfield became suddenly red as scarlet; and Perdita burst into tears.

“Oh! then the rumour is true--and you are deceiving me, my lord!” she exclaimed, affecting a passionate outburst of grief: but, in a few moments, she seemed to exercise an abrupt and powerful controul over her feelings, and rising from her seat, drew herself up into a demeanour of desperate calmness, saying, “Viscount Marston, I will show you that my affection is of no selfish nature. If you love this young lady, who must be your cousin, from all I have heard and know through my mother,--if you prefer the beauteous Frances--for beautiful I am aware she is,--Oh! then I release you from your vows to me--I restore your plight--and I, the obscure and neglected Perdita, will pray in secret for your welfare,--yes, and for the welfare of her who will have robbed me of your affections!”

“No, Perdita--no!” cried Charles, profoundly touched by this well-enacted piece of apparently generous self-denial: “I do not love my cousin Frances--and it was only this very morning that I disputed with my parents because I refused to form an alliance on which their hearts are set. Perdita--my beloved Perdita, I thank thee--Oh! heaven alone knows how sincerely I thank thee for this manifestation of generosity,--a generosity that, if possible, has rivetted my affections more indissolubly on thee!”

“And you will pardon me, Charles--if in a moment of jealousy----” murmured the designing young woman, hanging down her head in a charming kind of confusion and bashfulness.

“Pardon thee!” repeated her dupe, catching her in his arms, and straining her passionately to his breast: “what have I to pardon? Must I pardon thee for loving me so well, my Perdita?--for only those who love well, can know what jealousy is! And, did I think that I had cause, should I not be jealous of thee, sweet Perdita? Oh! yes--and my jealousy would be very fierce and terrible in its consequences. But on neither side shall there be cause for jealousy----”

“At least not on mine, Charles,” returned the young woman, gently extricating herself from his arms, and resuming her seat upon the sofa. “And now, my lord,” she added playfully, “when do you intend to take some charming suburban villa--fit it up in a chaste, elegant, and beautiful style--and bear thither your bride,--for your bride am I prepared to become on the conditions which have already been established between us?”

“Without a day’s--without an hour’s unnecessary delay, my beloved Perdita,” answered Charles, his cheeks flushing and his eyes sparkling with the hopes and voluptuous thoughts inspired by the question thus put to him; and throwing his arms around her, he drew the bewitching syren towards him.

“Charles--Charles,” she murmured, as he glued his lips to her warm, glowing cheek; “you are adorably handsome--and I love you as woman never loved before. But I implore you to release me now--for--my mother might return to the room--and--and--Oh! Charles--you clasp me too violently----”

And she succeeded in disengaging herself from his arms, having maddened him as it were by the contact of her fine, voluptuous form, and the caresses she had allowed him to lavish upon her.

“Perdita, you are more reserved with me than you were yesterday,” said Charles, half reproachfully.

“Or rather say that yesterday I was so hurried away by the rapturous thoughts--the delightful emotions--the elysian feelings which were excited within me by the certainty of possessing your love,” murmured the young woman, “that I had no controul over myself.”

“And now that you are assured of my love, you have grown comparatively cold and reserved,” said Charles, with the least degree of humour.

“Should you think the better of me if I were without the least particle of maiden reserve?” she asked, in a reproachful tone. “Listen, my beloved Charles--and look not angrily on your Perdita!”

“No--not for worlds!” he exclaimed, pressing her hand to his lips, and feeling in the renewed infatuation of his soul that he was prompt to do her bidding and yield to her will in all things.

“Now you are kind and good--and I love you, dear Charles,” said Perdita, in a tone of captivating artlessness. “Although we shall have no bridal ceremony as performed at a church,” she resumed, “yet must our wedding-day--if I may so call it--be duly fixed and celebrated. When, therefore, you have provided for me and my mother such a home as you would wish me and my parent to possess--then shall you bear me thither, my dearest Charles, as your bride--and--and--I will be unto thee as a wife in all respects,” she added, bending her beauteous head down upon his bosom, and concealing her blushing countenance there.

“Be it as you say, my sweet Perdita!” he exclaimed. “And in all things will I do your bidding--for I love and adore you. You are an angel of beauty;--your manners are irresistibly winning;--your voice has the charm of the sweetest melody;--and your looks would kindle love in the breast of an anchorite.”

“Ah! flatterer,” she cried, raising her head, and tapping him gently upon the face. “Will you always think thus well of me?”

“Yes--always, always!” he exclaimed--so completely infatuated was he with the syren. “And now tell me, my charmer--in which part of London should you wish me to fix upon a beautiful villa for your reception?”

“The more secluded the spot--the better,” said Perdita. “I do not wish to form the acquaintance of prying and curious neighbours, nor shall I court the presence of visitors. When you are with me, I shall have no thought but for you: when you are absent, to think of you will be sufficient occupation. I have heard that in the neighbourhood of Holloway there are some delightful villas, newly built----”

“Holloway! It is there--in that neighbourhood--that Markham Place, the mansion where the Prince of Montoni is staying, is situated.”

“And you are acquainted with that Prince?” said Perdita. “Yes--for in this morning’s newspaper I read, amongst the Fashionable Intelligence, that his Royal Highness had yesterday partaken of a banquet at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham in Pall Mall.”

“Oh! he is a great and illustrious Prince, Perdita!” cried Charles, his cheeks suddenly glowing with animation.

“But he is not so handsome as you, Charles?” said Perdita, half enquiringly--half playfully.

“He is very handsome, dearest,” was the reply: “but his heroic deeds--his noble disposition--his boundless philanthropy--and his staunch support of the Rights of Man, constitute attractions which, were he ugly as Satan, would render him adorable as an angel.”

“And have you none of those qualities, my Charles?” demanded Perdita. “Are you not gloriously handsome?--have you not a proud title, which you can claim when you will--aye, and which you will claim shortly?--and will you not some day be a Peer of the Realm, and able to electrify the senate with your eloquence? For that you would be eloquent, Charles, I am convinced;--and, oh! what pleasure--what unfeigned, heart-felt pleasure would it give your devoted Perdita to occupy even the humblest, most secluded nook in the place where you were delivering yourself of the burning thoughts and splendid ideas----”

“Oh! Perdita--do you too hope that I shall yet create for myself a great and a glorious reputation?” demanded the young man, surveying his beauteous companion with joy and surprise.

“Yes, Charles: for do I not love thee?” she asked, in her dulcet, silvery tone.

“Now--oh! now can I understand how the image of the Princess Isabella might cheer and hearten on the once obscure Richard Markham to the accomplishment of those great deeds which have placed him on so proud an eminence! Now,” continued the enthusiastic, infatuated Charles,--“now can I comprehend how gallant knights, in the days of chivalry, would dare every peril--encounter every danger, at the behest or command of their ladye-loves! And you, my Perdita,--you shall be as a Princess Isabella in my eyes--you shall be my ladye-love;--and animated by thy smiles, will I yet carve out for myself a glorious career in the world.”

“I long to see thee in possession of thy titles, Charles--to behold thee, too, occupying thy place in the House of Peers,” said Perdita. “But, hark--the clock strikes two; and now I am compelled to accompany my mother into the City----”

“To her attorney’s?” asked Charles, a sudden fear seizing upon him.

“Yes--to her solicitor’s office,” responded Perdita: then, after suffering him to manifest a sentiment of pique and annoyance for a few moments, she threw her arms around his neck, exclaiming, “And so you are very jealous, sir--are you?--and you thought perhaps that I was about to call upon this lawyer to signify to him my readiness to accept the hand of the old nobleman who is my mother’s relentless opponent in the suit? But I can assure you that the object of my visit in that quarter is one which you will no doubt highly approve. It is to inform the legal gentleman, with my own lips, that I utterly and totally decline the honour of the proposed union----”

“Charming--dearest Perdita!” ejaculated Charles, straining her in rapture to his breast.

“Inasmuch,” she added, with playful artlessness--or rather with an affectation of that delightful naiveté,--“inasmuch as the solicitor will not believe that I can possibly resist so splendid an offer; and he is determined to hear the truth from me--and from me only.”

“And were he to over-persuade you, Perdita--to impress you with the necessity of yielding in this instance----” began Charles, still labouring under the vague apprehension with which the artful creature sought to inspire him in order to attach him the more completely to her.

“Have you so much to fear on the part of an old nobleman whom I have never seen, as I have on the part of that beautiful Lady Frances who dwells beneath the same roof with you?” enquired Perdita, in the most melting tones of her flute-like voice.

“Pardon me--pardon me, dearest girl!” cried Charles, embracing her fondly.

“I have no more to pardon in you at present, than you had to forgive in me ere now,” murmured the guileful woman, placing her warm cheek against his own and allowing their hair to mingle.

For a few moments she remained with him in this position,--a position that enchanted, thrilled, and intoxicated him: then suddenly withdrawing herself from his arms, she said, archly, but impressively, “It now remains with you, Charles, when our wedding-day is to be celebrated.”

“Ah! if you were only as impatient as I!” he exclaimed.

They parted--the young man hastening, as was his wont after these visits, to the park to feast his imagination with a delicious reverie the whole and sole subject of which should be Perdita!

A few minutes after he had taken his departure, Mrs. Fitzhardinge sought her daughter in the drawing-room; and the ensuing dialogue took place.

“Every thing tends to forward our designs with respect to this young man,” observed the old woman, seating herself in a chair opposite to her daughter, who was reclining upon the sofa.

“And yet I cannot now altogether comprehend your policy, mother,” returned Perdita.

“In which particular point, my child?” demanded the vile parent.

“Respecting the nature of the connexion which is to subsist between myself and Charles,” said Perdita. “It was all very well for me to calculate upon being his mistress before we were aware that he is in reality a Viscount, and must be an Earl: but since you succeeded so nicely in extracting those revelations from him this morning, why should we not secure so glorious a prize by a means more durable and powerful than mere sophistry and the love which he bears me? Consider, mother, how instantaneously he took a fancy to me; and believe me when I assure you that coolness will follow as rapidly, after full satiety, on his part.”

“Silly girl! thou art thyself in love with him!” cried Mrs. Fitzhardinge, in a tone of vexation.

“Yes--more than half: I acknowledge it,” returned Perdita, coolly.

“And yet--but a few days ago you assured me that you could not chain yourself to one individual with any hope of being faithful to him,--that love was a passion which would never obtain over you that influence which it so often exercised over the weak, the simple-minded, and the infatuated.”

“It is perfectly true, mother, that I said all which your memory has so faithfully treasured up, and your lips so accurately repeated,” said Perdita, still speaking without excitement. “But then, my dear mother,” she added, almost satirically--no, almost jeeringly, as if diverting herself with her parent’s evident vexation,--“then, you know, I had not seen Charles Hatfield.”

“And I told you not to be too confident on that point to which we are alluding,” cried Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “My dear Perdita, renounce all ideas of marriage with this young man: indeed, you have compromised yourself too deeply in your denunciations of the marriage-tie to be able to recall your sentiments on that head.”

“Not at all,” said Perdita, authoritatively. “In the same way that I induced Charles to accede to my proposals, and even fall into my views--so can I, in a very short space, and by means of other sophistry, convince him that I had merely been playing a part to test the value of his affection----”

“No--no, Perdita: you must not attempt such a perilous proceeding,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, evidently listening with great uneasiness to the words that fell from her daughter’s lips.

“I dare and will attempt all I choose or fancy with that young man!” cried the head-strong Perdita, in an imperious tone.

“Will you not follow my counsel?” demanded Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “Have I not fulfilled all my promises to you?--did I not declare that in London you should find luxury, plenty, and ease?--did I not pledge myself that the young man should sue at your feet and implore your love?--and could you have brought about all these results for yourself?”

“I do not pretend that I could, mother,” returned Perdita. “But am I to be your tool--your instrument--an automaton in your hands?--am I not to have an opinion in our councils?--or am I to pay blind obedience to you, even though I have reasons for questioning the prudence of your proceedings?”

“And do you now question the prudence of my proceedings?” demanded Mrs. Fitzhardinge, growing every moment more and more irritable.

“Yes--I do!” answered Perdita, firmly and resolutely--at the same time fixing her brilliant eyes rebelliously upon her mother. “I admit that if we had only ensnared in our toils a simple commoner--a plain Charles Hatfield--with limited resources within his reach, it would have been advisable to form no lasting connexion with him. But now--now that we are assured, beyond all possibility of doubt, that he is himself a nobleman and the heir to enormous wealth, it would be madness--it would be folly not to bind him to us by irrefragable chains. Why--here is a position to be obtained and ensured at once,--a position which will render us rich for the remainder of our days! And think you, mother, that I have not a little feeling of ambition in my soul? Would it not be a proud thing for you to be enabled to call the Vicountess Marston--and in due time the Countess of Ellingham--your daughter? All these considerations never flashed to my mind until immediately after Charles had quitted the room ere now: or I should have assuredly commenced the undoing of all that stupid work which, by your persuasion and so well tutored by you, I achieved in respect to the conditions whereon our connexion was to be based. What!” she cried, her eyes absolutely flashing fire: “have a coronet within my reach--and refuse it!--have a wealthy noble--or one who will be enormously wealthy--sighing at my feet, and not wed him! Mother,” she cried, actually exciting herself into a passion, “you must think me to be a fool--an idiot--a mad woman!”

“I shall think you to be a fool--an idiot--and a mad woman if you persist in thwarting my plans or proceeding contrary to my advice,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, her tanned, weather-beaten countenance becoming absolutely livid with rage.

“Ah! you have some sinister purpose to serve, mother!” cried Perdita, a sudden idea striking her: “else never would you oppose yourself so completely to the dictates of common sense. What were your words to me when I spoke to you--and spoke as rashly--about the inaccessibility of my soul to the passion of love? You advised me not to count only on the chance of making a good match: you declared it to be far more probable that I might ensnare some young gentleman of birth, family, and fortune--or some old voluptuary of immense wealth;--and you added that there was more to be gained as the mistress of one of those, than as a wife. In fine, your advice was that I should remain unmarried and independent, so that the moment I had ruined one lover, I might take another.”

“Yes--and that counsel was the wisest I could proffer you,” said her mother, actually speaking in a savage tone, and looking as if she could have leapt, tigress-like, upon her daughter and torn her with her nails as if they were claws.

“Oh! the advice was good enough under certain circumstances,” exclaimed Perdita. “It was good in so far as it related to the probability of my securing a succession of lovers, each with only a comparatively small fortune, and each individual, therefore, to be soon set aside. But now that, at the very outset, chance has thrown in my way a young noble, who must sooner or later inherit a vast fortune which no extravagance can completely dissipate,--a fortune, indeed, which will minister to all extravagances, and yet remain unimpaired,--should I not be the veriest fool that ever tossed gold into a river or hurled diamonds into an abyss, were I not to secure the brilliant advantage thus placed within my reach?”

“Daughter,” exclaimed the old woman, with difficulty preventing a complete outburst of her fury, “I tell you that this may not be! Secure Charles Hatfield--or rather Viscount Marston--as your paramour: I will undertake to raise as much money, as you can persuade him to lavish upon you;--and then--then, my child,” she added, adopting a tone of fawning conciliation, “you can choose a new lover and make inroads into another’s fortune.”

“I am determined to pursue and follow out the plan which my own convictions indicate as the most rational--the most sensible--the most advisable!” exclaimed Perdita; “and, therefore, the present dispute is useless and absurd.”

“Dispute!” repeated Mrs. Fitzhardinge, her countenance again becoming absolutely livid, and her whole form trembling with rage: “I do not choose to dispute with you, insolent girl that you are! Now listen to me, Perdita--and know once for all that I will be obeyed in this, as in all things--or I will abandon you to your own resources--I will hurl you back into rags, want, and poverty----”

“Not while I possess this beauty of which a queen might be proud!” said Perdita, in a quiet manner, as she glanced with self complacency at her own handsome countenance as it was reflected in a mirror opposite.

“Oh! think not that beauty is the only element of fortune!” cried the old woman, surveying her daughter with almost an expression of fiend-like hate: “for, if you dare to thwart me, Perdita, I will become your bitterest and most malignant enemy, though you are my own child:--I will pursue thee with my vengeance;--wherever you may be, I will spoil all your machinations and ruin all your schemes;--nay, more--I will compel your very lovers to thrust you ignominiously forth from them! For I will boldly proclaim how that Perdita who has enthralled them, was accursed from her very birth--born in Newgate--thence taken by her mother to a penal colony, where she became lost and abandoned at the early age of thirteen--and how every handsome young officer in garrison at Sydney could boast of the favours of this profligate young creature!”

A mocking laugh came from the lips of Perdita,--a laugh that rang more horribly in the ears of her mother than an explosion of maledictions, recriminations, and insults would have done,--a laugh that seemed to say, “Wretched--drivelling old woman, I despise thee!”

“You will repent this conduct, vile girl--you will repent it!” muttered Mrs. Fitzhardinge, approaching Perdita, and gazing on her with eyes that seemed to glare savagely. “Whatever be the risk--even though I involve myself in the downfall of our splendid prospects--I will ruin thee, if thou darest to oppose and thwart me! Abandon thy scheme of marrying the young nobleman--and we will be friends again: persist in it--and we separate, as mortal enemies. Yes--and the first step which I shall take will be to repair to Charles Hatfield--implore his forgiveness for having been a party to the scheme plotted against him and his--and give such a character of thee, Perdita, that his blood shall run cold in his veins at the mere thought of ever having been placed in contact with thee! And, oh! the picture which a mother will draw of her daughter in such a case,--that picture will be terrible--very terrible! Pause, then--reflect----”

“One word, mother,” said Perdita, who had maintained an extraordinary degree of composure throughout this scene--doubtless because she knew that she must triumph in the long run. “You threaten bravely: let us look calmly and deliberately at what must be the inevitable results of a fearful quarrel between you and me:--let us see who would get the better of it! On one side would be you--old--ugly--disgustingly ugly, I may say--so that to become anything save a beggar, grovelling in the kennel would be impossible. On the other side would be myself--at all events handsome enough to gain the favour of some soft fool: and, spoil my character as you will, you cannot prevent me from finding a paramour amongst those who care nothing for the reputation, but every thing for the beauty, of their mistresses. Bread to me is certain: rags and starvation to you are equally well assured. My life of pleasure, gaiety, and dissipation is to come: yours has passed--and naught remains for you save to die in a workhouse or on a dunghill! Pardon me, my dear mother, for speaking thus openly--thus plainly,” added the young woman, now throwing a spice of irony into her tone: “but you did not spare me when you summed up my characteristics just now. And before I quit the subject, I may as well observe that you yourself are not the most immaculate woman upon the face of the earth. Heaven only knows how prolific were the debaucheries of your youth: but you veiled them all beneath the aspect of a saint! Oh! that was excellent, dear mother--excellent, indeed!” cried Perdita, her merry, musical laugh echoing through the apartment: “only conceive you once to have been a saint! In good truth, you have not much of the appearance of a saint now, mother: neither had you when living with the free-settler as his mistress!”

“Perdita--Perdita!” gasped the wretched Mrs. Fitzhardinge, writhing like a snake at these bitter words, and shaking convulsively from head to foot: “you--you will drive me mad!”

“Ah! what--do you possess feelings, then, my dear mother?” demanded the young woman, assuming an air of profound astonishment. “And yet you must have imagined that your daughter was totally without those same little feelings which it is so easy to wound, and so difficult to heal. Well--I will forbear: otherwise, I was about to have reminded you of those glorious times--before I was born, indeed--when you were the paramour of Sir Henry Courtenay, whose name you so pleasantly and quietly forged to a slip of paper one day----”

“Silence--Perdita--silence!” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, in a hoarse and hollow tone--clasping her hands convulsively at the same time. “I was wrong to provoke you thus: you are very hard upon me--you have the best of it, Perdita--and I--I----”

Here the old wretch burst into tears,--not an assumed grief--no crocodile weeping,--but a flood of genuine tears, wrung from her by the cutting, biting, bitter sarcasms which her daughter had so mercilessly--so slaughterously levelled against her.

Perdita suffered her to weep without offering the least consolation: for the young woman was hurt and wounded on her side as well as the old harridan was hurt and wounded on the other.

The recriminations of those two females--that mother and daughter--had been terrible in their implacability, and appalling in their unnatural malignity.

There was a long pause--during which Mrs. Fitzhardinge sate sobbing--being absolutely hideous in her grief,--while Perdita--with flashing eyes dilating nostrils, flushing cheeks, and palpitating bosom, lay half reclined upon the sofa--tapping the carpet petulantly with the tip of her long, narrow, exquisitely shaped shoe.

“My dear child,” at length said the old woman, “are we to be friends or enemies?”

“That depends entirely upon yourself, mother,” was the answer: “I am not to be tyrannised over by you--nor menaced in the fearful way in which you have threatened me to-day, without showing resentment in return. Really, one would have supposed that you were addressing yourself to the bitterest enemy you had in the world--rather than to your daughter who has done all she could to place you in a comfortable position for the remainder of your days.”

“Well--well--let us be friends, Perdita!” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

“Yes--we will be friends,” responded the daughter. “But remember that my views in respect to Charles Hatfield--or rather, Viscount Marston--are to be carried into effect.”

“Without again quarrelling,” interrupted her mother, “let me assure you that I cannot--cannot possibly consent to this deviation from our original arrangements. It was an express understanding between us that marriage was, in every case, to be out of the question----”

“And may not circumstances transpire to change original plans?” demanded Perdita, beginning to divine the reasons of her mother’s uncompromising opposition to her matrimonial scheme.

“A truce to these arguments!” cried Mrs. Fitzhardinge, again growing irritable. “Remember that this evening your love-sick swain will deposit in my hands all the papers containing the evidence of his father’s right to the earldom and estates of Ellingham----”

“And you will use your power to coerce me?” said Perdita, in her quiet way, which nevertheless seemed to breathe defiance.

“I do not affirm that, my child,” cried the old woman, smothering her rage. “But I would ask you of what use those papers would be without my assistance to raise money on them?”

“Of no more utility than our acquaintance with Charles would be to you, were it not for me,” returned Perdita. “And now, mother, I may as well inform you at once that I can penetrate into all the motives which prompt you thus to oppose my marriage views with respect to Charles. You imagine that if I become his mistress only, I shall be so completely in your power that I must still continue your slave,--that a word from you relative to my past life would send away Charles Hatfield in disgust,--and that in order to prevent you from speaking that word, I shall obey you blindly. In fine, you hope to exercise a despotism alike over him and me,--dispose of the purse--and control the household with sovereign sway. On the other hand, you imagine,--nay, do not look so black, my dear mother--we are only telling each other a few agreeable truths----”

“Go on, vile girl!” gasped Mrs. Fitzhardinge, trembling--suffocating with rage.

“On the other hand, then,” pursued the young woman, in a placid, unexcited manner,--“on the other hand you suppose that if once I become the wife of Charles Hatfield--if once he shall have taken me for better or worse--if once the indissoluble knot be tied, your power over me would cease. For were you to avenge any slight by making revelations respecting me, I might lose my husband’s esteem and love, but should not the less remain his wife. You therefore dread lest you should become a cypher--dependant upon us for your daily bread--unable to control the purse and the domestic economy----”

“And what will you do to guarantee that all you are now saying is not a predictive sketch of what you know must happen in case I permit your marriage?” demanded Mrs. Fitzhardinge, dismayed by this accurate reading of her heart’s secrets on the part of her daughter.

“I can only assure you this much, mother,” was the answer,--“that if you conduct yourself well towards me, I shall act well towards you,--that you shall have your own way in every thing where my will is not violently thwarted,--and that I will co-operate with you cheerfully for our mutual interests, so long as you do not attempt to drive me as a slave.”

“And all this you faithfully promise, Perdita?” demanded her mother, eagerly; for she was now glad to effect any compromise rather than come to an open rupture with her daughter, who, she saw, had in reality so much the better of her.

“Be assured, mother,” replied Perdita, “that I am not for war;--and if we quarrel any more, it will be your fault.”

“We will not quarrel, Perdita,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge: “you shall marry Charles Hatfield--or Viscount Marston, as we ought to call him;--and here let our dispute finish.”

“With all my heart. And now tell me, mother, how--where--and with whom you intend to raise the money upon these papers which Charles is to send or bring in the evening?”

“A few evenings ago, when I was lurking about Pall Mall waiting for that young gentleman, I suddenly encountered a person whom I had known years and years since, and who played me a vile--a very vile trick. He was much altered,” continued Mrs. Fitzhardinge; “but I knew him--knew him the moment the light of the lamp flashed upon his features. I accosted him--told him who I was--and upbraided him for his villainy of former times. He spoke softly and in a conciliatory manner--and we fell into a more amicable train of conversation than at first. We soon understood each other; and giving me his address--for, by-the bye, he has taken a new name--he invited me to call upon him--and we parted. Since then I have made enquiries in the neighbourhood where he dwells; and I learn that he is reputed to be immensely rich--a miser and money-lender. He is therefore the man whom I require;--and we may reckon confidently upon his aid in the business of raising funds on the documents. This very evening I will call upon him----”

“You will permit me to accompany you, mother,” said Perdita, rather in a tone of command than of interrogatory.

“Yes--if such be your pleasure,” was the reply: for the old woman saw that it was useless and totally adverse to her own interests to thwart her daughter in any single respect.

CXXXVII. TWO MORE OLD ACQUAINTANCES

It was about eight o’clock in the evening of the same day when these scenes took place, that an old man, coming from a northern direction, entered the metropolis by the suburb of Pentonville.

He was upwards of seventy-four years of age,--tall--thin--and retaining so much muscular vigour as only to stoop slightly in his gait. His complexion was perfectly cadaverous in hue, ghastly and careworn, and sinister in its expression. His attire was shabby, thread-bare, and travel-soiled,--his dusty boots denoting that he had journeyed some distance on foot. Nevertheless, there was about him a certain air which, in spite of his repulsive features and his sordid garb, denoted gentility; and an observer would have pronounced him to be, as indeed he was, a decayed gentleman.

Having passed by the Model Prison, he struck out of the highway into the fields where so many houses are now rapidly springing up, and which lie in the immediate vicinity of the Barnsbury and Liverpool Roads.

It was evident, however, that he had no definite object in view--no home whither he was proceeding; and he had turned into the fields merely to rub off the dust from his boots in the long grass, and rest himself for a few minutes in a secluded place.

At length he rose; and his wandering footsteps led him into the vicinity of the detached rows of small houses and cottages which dot the immediate neighbourhood of the Caledonian Road.

Once he stopped beneath a lamp; and taking his money from his pocket, counted it slowly. And heaven knows that the amount of his pecuniary property did not require long to reckon; for two shillings in silver and a few halfpence constituted all the store.

“This will at least purchase me a meal and procure me a bed for to-night,” he murmured to himself; “and then--to-morrow--I must present myself to those who have not heard of me for so long a time.”

With these words, the old man resumed his slow and painful walk--for he was wearied and exhausted by the length of his day’s journey. It was evident that he had been absent many--many years from the capital; for, though he had once known this neighbourhood well, yet now it was so changed that he gazed around him with astonishment,--aye, and paused to gaze around, too,--streets, rows of houses, and gardens having taken the place of the open fields.

He had now reached a spot where the dwellings were more thinly scattered, and where the path was as yet unpaved and the road was thickly strown with flints.

It was now close upon nine o’clock; but the July evening was so beautiful that it was far from dark--only dimly obscure;--and thus, though there was no lamp in the neighbourhood where the old man was pursuing his way, yet was it sufficiently light for him to obtain a good view of objects, and even of the countenances of the few people whom he met.

Not that he paid any particular attention to the latter:--still, a stranger just arriving in London, or a person who returns to the capital after a very long absence, observes and marks every thing and every body with an earnest scrutiny at first.

The old man was passing by two small houses, forming one isolated building, and standing back from the road, when he encountered an individual whose face immediately struck him as being one which he had formerly known full well; and in the next instant a light flashed in upon his mind.

“Yes--’tis he!” he ejaculated to himself; and, laying his hand upon the other’s shoulder, he said, “Mr. Howard, we meet at last--after a separation of upwards of nineteen years!”

“My name is not Howard--and I know nothing of you, sir. Let me go!” was the impatient reply, delivered by the individual whom the old man had accosted, and who was himself well stricken in years--being now midway between sixty and seventy.

“Were I on my death bed, I could swear that your name was once Howard, and that you were an attorney in London--an attorney who absconded, ruining thousands,” exclaimed the old man.

“What means this insolence?” asked the other, affecting a tone of deep indignation mingled with surprise. “Pass on your way, sir--and let me pursue mine!”

“Not till I have had recompense or vengeance,” growled the old man, ferociously. “For a sum of money did I sell myself to a vile and abandoned woman--a certain Mrs. Slingsby, whom you knew well;--and this money was deposited with you, villain that you are! For you fled--and the loss of that money was not the lightest of the myriad misfortunes that fell upon me at the time. Now do you know who I am, Mr. Howard?--for I know you full well!”

“You have spoken of a number of unintelligible things to me, sir--mentioned names with which I never was acquainted--alluded to circumstances entirely unknown----”

“Liar!” ejaculated Mr. Torrens--for he was the old man who had just now so wearily entered the suburb of Pentonville: “liar!” he repeated, seizing the other individual by the collar; “what should prevent me from raising an alarm and giving you into custody? For though years have elapsed, yet your offences have never been expiated----”

“Softly--softly, my good sir,” interrupted the person thus addressed, and whose manner began to evince trepidation and alarm. “Let us adjourn somewhere and talk amicably on this matter----”

“No!” cried Mr. Torrens. “How do I know but that you intend to inveigle me into a den where you may perhaps silence my tongue for ever?”

“Fool--dotard!” muttered the other between his lips: “does he take me for a murderer?”

“I believe you to be capable of any villainy,” returned the now infuriated Torrens, whose ears had caught the sense of those low mutterings. “But I shall not lose sight of you until I have received full and complete satisfaction for the wrongs I endured at your hands many years ago. And that you are able to give such satisfaction, your appearance proves full well,” he added, as his eye caught a glimpse of the gold chain and massive seals which depended from the other’s fob.

“Mr. Torrens--I will no longer attempt to conceal a fact of which you are so well assured. I am the Howard to whom you allude: but, in the name of God! do not ruin me--do not expose me. Here--this is my dwelling,” he continued, pointing to one of the two houses in front of which this colloquy took place: “walk in with me--and--and we will converse at our ease----”

“Yes--I will accompany you,” said Mr. Torrens, in a laconic manner: “lead the way, sir.”

Mr. Howard drew forth a small key from his pocket, and with it opened the iron gate of the railings in front of the house. Torrens followed him across the little enclosure; and with another and larger key he opened the door of the dark and gloomy-looking dwelling. No domestic appeared; and the lawyer, entering the parlour, groped about in the dark until he found some lucifer-matches--Torrens remaining all the while in the passage. At length a light was obtained; and the visitor was requested to enter the room, which, by means of the one poor candle that now threw a feeble gleam around, appeared to be but indifferently furnished,--so that the aspect of the small and cheerless house somewhat damped the hopes which Torrens had entertained of compelling the individual whom he had thus accidentally encountered, to disgorge the sum embezzled by him upwards of nineteen years previously.

“Do you live all alone here?” he demanded, taking the seat to which Howard pointed.

“Yes--all alone,” was the reply. “I am too poor to keep a servant.”

“Too poor!” exclaimed Mr. Torrens, his heart sinking within him.

“Yes, indeed! How should I be possessed of any money?” said Howard, glancing around with nervous anxiety, as if he were afraid of being overheard. “From the moment that I was forced, by unexpected reverses and sudden misfortunes, to fly from London, I have led a life of continued struggles; and although, a few years ago, I was venturous enough to return to the metropolis and settle in this little cottage, which I got at a cheap rent as it was only just built,--yet my affairs have not improved----”

“But you must have some means of subsistence?--you pursue some avocation?--you doubtless continue to practise----”

“No--no,” interrupted Howard, hastily. “I have been compelled to change my name--and it is as Mr. Percival--poor Mr. Percival--that I am known in this neighbourhood.”

“You adopt strange precautions for a poor man,” said Torrens, pointing to the strong iron bars that fastened the shutters of the window: then, turning a look full of sardonic meaning upon Howard--or Percival, as we shall call him,--he added, “And methinks that when you opened your front door just now, a heavy chain rattled. Assuredly your little house is well protected.”

“What would you infer from these facts?” demanded Percival: “that I have money--that I have turned miser?” he cried, with a forced and unnatural laugh. “Absurd! The person who lived here before me, had those bars put up to the window-shutters, and that heavy chain to the street door----”

“I thought you got the house cheap because it had only just been built?” said Torrens, smiling with malignant incredulity.

“Yes--but I did not tell you that I was the first person who occupied it,” exclaimed Percival, as if eager to explain away an inconsistency in his statements and efface from the mind of his visitor the disagreeable impression made there.

“This is mere child’s play, Mr. Howard--or Percival--or whatever your name may be!” cried Torrens. “You have got money--and you wish me to believe you poor. For myself, I am poor--so poor that I have but wherewith to obtain a meal and a bed for one night. It is true that I have a daughter and a son-in-law in London;--and it is likewise true that necessity--stern, imperious necessity has driven me at last to this city to seek assistance at their hands. But for nine years have I remained as one dead to them: for nine years have I wandered about the world, caring not what might become of me, and wishing to be believed dead in all reality by my daughter who suspects that I have been very criminal, and by my son-in-law who knows that I have! Yes--yes: I have purposely left them in uncertainty relative to me--unhappy man that I am,--purposely left them so, I say, in order that they may apprehend the worst! Stern want, however, was driving me to them when I encountered you: to-morrow morning I should have appeared in their presence,--in the presence of the daughter whom I do not love, and of her husband whom I hate--hate, for his very virtues, and because he knows me to be so vile!” added the old man, bitterly. “But now, sir, that I have met with you, your purse must save me the pain--the humiliation--the annoyance of encountering those beings face to face! Come, Mr. Percival--I have spoken to you frankly: do you be equally candid with me.”

“Candid in what?” demanded the individual thus addressed.

“In respect to your own means and resources,” returned Torrens. “I do not wish to be hard upon you; but a portion of the money that you robbed me of, I must and will have.”

“These are harsh words--and unavailing, too,” said Percival: “for I have not a sixpence to bless myself with! But,” he added, with a malicious grin, “if I cannot give you money, I may perhaps impart a piece of agreeable intelligence.”

“What! to me?” exclaimed Torrens, in a tone of surprise.

“Yes--to you. What would you think if I were to tell you that your dearly-beloved wife was in London at this very moment, and passing under the aristocratic name of Fitzhardinge?”

“My wife!” repeated Torrens, turning positively livid as these words struck upon his ears. “No--impossible! I would not meet that dreadful woman for thousands of pounds!”

“Then if you remain here you will assuredly encounter her,” said Percival; “for I received a note from her this evening announcing her intention to honour me with a visit,” he added, intently watching the effect which these words produced upon his companion.

“Villain! you are endeavouring to get rid of me as speedily as possible!” cried Torrens, almost foaming at the mouth with rage.

“Should you recognise your wife’s handwriting?” demanded Percival, a diabolical grin still distorting features which, once handsome, had been marred and rendered repulsive by time and evil passions. “Though she is now stricken in years and has become positively hideous in personal appearance, that handwriting retains all the grace and fluency which ever characterised it.”

With these words, he took a perfumed note from his pocket-book, and handed it to Torrens, who, hastily glancing over its contents, read the following words:--

“Mrs. Fitzhardinge presents her compliments to Mr. Percival, and will call upon him between nine and ten o’clock this evening on very particular business. She therefore hopes that Mr. Percival will have the kindness to remain at home to receive her.”

“Now are you satisfied?” demanded Percival, who perceived by the workings of Torrens’ countenance that the handwriting had been fully recognised.

“And on what matters is she--that vile woman--coming to you?” asked Torrens, impatiently.

“I cannot answer the question. You perceive that she speaks only of particular business in a vague fashion. I met her by accident some few days ago--and have not seen her since.”

“And she comes between nine and ten,” mused Torrens: “and it is already close upon ten o’clock! I would not meet her for the world: ’twould recall to my mind, with intolerable force, all the anguish--all the sufferings----No--no,” he cried, suddenly interrupting himself and starting from his chair; “I will not--I cannot meet her!”

“Then you had better depart at once,” said Percival, evidently most anxious to see the unwelcome visitor turn his back upon the house.

“Yes--I shall depart indeed,” exclaimed Torrens: “but you must give me money first. Nay--no more excuses: I am a desperate man----”

At that instant a double knock at the street door echoed through the little dwelling.

“’Tis your wife!” said Percival.

“Hide me--or let me escape,” cried Torrens, manifesting a violent and most unfeigned reluctance to encounter the woman whom for so many reasons he loathed and abhorred.

“Here--by the back gate,” said Percival; and, taking the light in his hand, he hastily conducted the almost bewildered Torrens along the passage--down a few steps--and thence to a door opening upon a piece of unenclosed waste ground at the back of the house.

At that instant the double knock was repeated--more loudly than before and evidently with impatience.

“Good night, Mr. Torrens,” said Percival, scarcely able to subdue a spice of lurking satire in his tone.

“Good night,” returned the other, savagely. “But I shall visit you again to-morrow morning.”

Percival closed the back gate as if to shut out this intimation from his ears; and, hurrying to the front door, he gave admittance to Perdita and her mother.

CXXXVIII. THE MONEY-LENDER

Mrs. and Miss Fitzhardinge were attired in the plainest possible manner, so that they seemed to be some poor tradesman’s wife and daughter. But the moment the light of the candle fell on Perdita’s countenance, Mr. Percival literally started as the glorious beauty of that face was revealed to him. The young woman perceived the effect of her charms on the old lawyer; and a smile of triumph played on her haughty lip,--for she said within herself; “Wherever I go, men pay homage to my loveliness!”

Hastily closing the front door, Percival now conducted his two visitresses into the back-parlour, which was far more commodiously furnished than the one where his interview with Torrens had taken place. The shutters of this room were, however, as strongly protected by iron bars and as well secured as those in the other; and Mr. Percival had multiplied in them the number of holes cut in the shape of a heart, in order that he might be enabled to fire his blunderbuss at a moment’s warning, and in almost any direction, through the shutters, in case of an attempt on the part of burglars to effect an entry in the rear of the building.

For it was perfectly true, as he had informed Torrens, that he lived alone in the house: but he was reported to be a miser--and such indeed he was. Having been extravagant and profligate in his earlier years, he had fallen into the opposite extreme; and when he absconded from his creditors, the money which he had taken with him he hoarded carefully. For a long time he had remained concealed in a distant town, placing out his funds in small loans at an enormous interest; so that as his wealth augmented, his parsimonious habits increased. At last, become greedy and griping as any miser whose renown has been preserved in tale-book or history, Percival--as we shall continue to call him--resolved on venturing to London, where the field for his cupidity was more ample than in the provinces. Trusting to the alteration that years had made in his personal appearance, and to the disguise of the name which he had assumed, he settled in the secluded neighbourhood and comparatively lonely house when we now find him;--and, without seeking business obtrusively, he soon found plenty. One person whom he obliged with a loan would give his address to another also requiring assistance; and thus his clients or patrons--whichever the reader may choose to call the borrowers--increased. He was almost constantly at home--formed no acquaintances--and was short and pithy in his mode of transacting business. He never advanced money save when he perceived the security to be ample; and if occasionally he made a bad debt, he employed an attorney who asked no impertinent questions to sue the defaulter in his own name, it being alleged that the unpaid bill had been passed in a legitimate manner to the pettifogger aforesaid. An elderly widow, of the name of Dyer, occupied the house next door; and she acted in the capacity of charwoman for Mr. Percival--keeping his dwelling in order and preparing for him his frugal meals.

Having recorded these few necessary particulars, we shall now return to the little back parlour, where Mr. Percival and his two visitresses were seated. His back was turned to the window: but Mrs. Fitzhardinge and Perdita, who sate opposite to him, faced it,--while the candle stood on the mantel,--so that had any one peeped through the heart-holes in the shutters, the countenances of the women must have been plainly visible to such curious observer outside the casement.

“Your daughter, madam, I presume?” said Mr. Percival, with a polite inclination of the head towards the handsome Perdita.

“Yes, my dear sir,” was the reply. “And she is about to form an excellent match with a young gentleman who is indeed a nobleman by right, and who will shortly assert his title to that distinction. He wishes to borrow money for his immediate purposes and also to assist me: hence my visit to you this evening.”

“Well--well, my dear madam,” said Percival; “if the security be good----”

“The security is ample,” returned Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “He is indubitably the heir to vast estates--and his bond----”

“Will be quite sufficient,” added Percival. “That is--presuming him to be of age----”

“He is twenty-five years old,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “But the history of himself and family is most extraordinary: and his father is not altogether unknown to you:--for, if I remember aright, it was you who prosecuted the celebrated highwayman, Thomas Rainford, for the robbery of the late Sir Christopher Blunt?”

“What earthly connexion can exist between Tom Rain and the young nobleman who wants to borrow money?” demanded Percival, with unfeigned astonishment.

“Grant me your patience, my dear sir,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge, “and I will explain the matter as concisely as possible. Thomas Rainford was in reality the son of the late Earl of Ellingham--the eldest son, and legitimately born, of that nobleman, who privately married a certain Octavia Manners. The individual who at present bears the title and enjoys the estates of the Earldom of Ellingham, is the offspring of a second marriage contracted by his father. He and Rainford are consequently half-brothers. All these facts are proven by certain papers now in the possession of myself and daughter. One of the documents is the marriage-certificate of the late Earl with Octavia Manners,--another the baptismal certificate of their son,--a third the journal of Octavia Manners explaining many matters connected with the whole affair,--and then follows a variety of documents establishing the identity of Thomas Rainford with the son of the late Earl and the Countess Octavia. Thus far the rights of Thomas Rainford are clearly made out. I must now inform you that Rainford and Lady Georgiana Hatfield have long been united in matrimonial bonds, and that the husband has for a considerable time adapted his wife’s name. The offspring of this alliance is the young gentleman of whom I have already spoken to you, and who at present bears the denomination of Charles Hatfield. Now, his father being the rightful Earl of Ellingham, this Charles Hatfield is actually the Viscount Marston, and heir to the title and estates of the Earldom.”

“Your history, my dear madam, is clear and comprehensive enough,” said Percival, already calculating the enormous gains which might be derived from the fact of becoming the banker to a young noblemen having a vast fortune in the perspective, and whom he supposed to be as extravagantly inclined as youthful scions of the aristocracy in such cases generally are. “And you possess the proofs of all the singular facts which you have detailed?”

“The proofs--the positive proofs,” replied Mrs. Fitzhardinge, emphatically;--and turning towards her daughter, she said, “Show Mr. Percival the papers.”

“It is useless,” answered Perdita, in a firm but quiet manner, “unless he first agree to advance a certain sum of money, should they be satisfactory.”

“True,” said her mother, biting her lip at the thought that her daughter was more keen than herself: then, addressing herself to the miser, she observed, “You heard the remark that fell from the lips of Miss Fitzhardinge?”

“Yes--yes,” returned Mr. Percival. “We shall most likely do business together--most likely,” he repeated. “At the same time, I must see my way very clearly----”

“And we must be careful not to reveal unnecessarily any more of the important secrets of which we are the depositories,” said Perdita.

“Quite right, young lady!” exclaimed the miser, who experienced no slight degree of embarrassment: for he was afraid, on the one hand, of letting a good chance slip through his fingers--and he was fearful, on the other, of admitting that he had ample resources immediately available.

Not that Percival dreaded on the part of Mrs. Fitzhardinge the same attempt at extortion, or rather of obtaining restitution, which had been made by Mr. Torrens; because he knew full well that she was occupying a false position in the world, and living under an assumed name as well as himself;--and should she take it into her head to threaten him with an exposure as being no other than Howard the run-away attorney, he could in a moment retaliate by proclaiming her to be Mrs. Slingsby--or Mrs. Torrens--the woman who had been transported for forgery!

No:--Mr. Percival dreaded not menace on the part of Mrs. Fitzhardinge; but the naturally suspicious disposition of the miser, and the vague fears that ever haunt the avaricious man when questioned as to the amount and whereabouts of his resources--these were the influences which made Percival hesitate to plunge too precipitately into the transaction now submitted for his consideration.

“Well, sir,--are you prepared to negociate with us--or not?” demanded Perdita, after a short pause, during which the miser fidgetted nervously upon his chair.

“It all depends, Miss--it all depends on the amount your noble friend requires,” he answered at length.

“The entire business is left in our hands,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge; “and we wish to raise between five and six thousand pounds in the first instance----”

“Of which one thousand must be paid to-night,” added Perdita, “as an earnest that the transaction is seriously entered into.”

“A thousand pounds to-night!” cried the miser. “But how is that possible--even if I had the money in the house,” he asked, looking anxiously around, and sinking his voice to a low whisper,--“how is it possible, I say, since the young nobleman is not here to give me any acknowledgment?”

“This objection was naturally anticipated by us,” replied Perdita. “Viscount Marston, instead of sending us the papers this evening, did us the honour to call personally with them; and his lordship confided to me,--and to me alone,” added Perdita, with a rapid glance of triumphant meaning at her mother,--“his note of hand for one thousand guineas.”

“I must congratulate you, my dear madam,” exclaimed Percival, addressing himself with a smile to the old woman,--“I must congratulate you on possessing a daughter of the most business-like character in the person of Miss Fitzhardinge.”

“Then pray let us transact our present affairs in a business-like manner,” said Perdita, who was rapidly putting herself more forward in the matter, and proportionately throwing her mother into the back-ground: so that the old woman more than once bit her lip to restrain her rising choler;--but, remembering the terrific scene of the morning, she saw no alternative save to allow her daughter to have her own way--trusting, however, to the chapter of accidents to restore to her in the long run that paramount influence which she had lost.

“You wish me to discount at once that note of hand for a thousand guineas?” said the miser, fixing his eyes admiringly on Perdita’s splendid countenance.

“Yes--as an earnest that you are not prompted by mere curiosity to look farther into this most extraordinary, mysterious, and yet easily understood affair,” replied Perdita.

“I will accede to your terms, Miss Fitzhardinge,” said Percival, after a few minutes’ deliberation,--“provided that the documents in your possession bear out your mother’s statements.”

“Place the money on the table, sir,” returned the young woman, in her quiet though somewhat imperious manner; “and these papers,” she added, producing a sealed packet at the some time, “shall be submitted to your perusal.”

“Good!” cried the miser.

He then rose from his seat; and, having once more cast a furtive look around him, as if it were possible for an intruder to secrete himself in a room fourteen feet by ten, and which the three inmates already nearly filled, he proceeded to open an iron safe that was fitted into a kind of cupboard in one corner. Thence he took forth a tin cash-box, which, when opened, revealed heaps of Bank-notes, and a large amount in gold.

“There, ladies,” said he: “I have now convinced you of my ability to proceed farther in this transaction; and it is your turn, Miss,” he added, looking at Perdita, “to take the next step.”

“Granted!” was the reply; and, opening the packet, she handed the several papers, which were properly classed and numbered, one by one to the miser,--receiving back each before she gave him the next following.

Mr. Percival read the documents without much emotion. His pecuniary avocations had blunted the sentiment of curiosity in his soul: he viewed the matter only in a business-light;--and so long as the security was good, he cared not if all the highwaymen in the world should turn out to be noblemen in their own right. He thought of the profits that might arise from ministering to the extravagances, as he supposed, of a young nobleman having excellent certainties in the perspective; and it was not of the slightest importance to him how Mrs. Fitzhardinge and Perdita had contrived to inveigle him into their meshes--how they had gotten possession of the papers--or how the money raised was to be expended.

“This is completely satisfactory as far as it goes,” he said, returning to the young woman the last paper which she had placed in his hand. “The documents show that Rainford is the real Earl of Ellingham; but there is no evidence to prove that your Charles Hatfield is his son.”

“We are well convinced of that fact,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

“Yes--I suppose it may be admitted,” observed Percival, who had not the least idea that Charles Hatfield had ever passed and was still passing as the nephew of those whose were really his parents. “But there is still one question which must be fully cleared up;--and this is the legitimacy of the young man’s birth. If he be the lawfully begotten son of the rightful owner of the title and estates of the Earldom--then is he the heir, beyond all possibility of doubt: but if he be illegitimate----”

“The idea is absurd,” interrupted Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “There can be no hesitation in declaring that Thomas Rainford and Lady Georgiana had been privately married long before the man himself was condemned to death: else wherefore should she have exerted her interest to obtain a pardon for him at the hand of George the Fourth?”

“I remember the transaction,” said Percival; “and I have no moral doubt that all you tell me is perfectly correct. Indeed, I am so well assured of it, that I have not the least objection to discount the note of hand, on condition that the defective evidence be supplied me before I am called upon to make further advances.”

“Most certainly,” exclaimed Perdita. “Charles will give you every satisfactory proof of the validity of his claims. You require testimony to show that he is the lawfully begotten son of those who now pass under the name of Mr. and Lady Georgiana Hatfield?”

“The certificates of their marriage and his birth,” said the miser. “Where is the note of hand?”

Perdita produced it; and a little altercation then arose respecting the rate of discount. Mrs. Fitzhardinge manifested a greedy anxiety to conclude the bargain on the miser’s own exorbitant terms: but Perdita argued the point with him in a resolute manner. At last, however, an amicable understanding was arrived at; and the miser was permitted to deduct seventy-five pounds for the discount. Perdita received the amount which he then told down upon the table; and the old woman’s features grew distorted with rage--a rage the more intense, because she was forced to restrain it--when she found that her daughter did not offer to render her the guardian of the purse.

But Perdita had that day asserted an empire which she was resolved to maintain--a domination which she was determined to grasp indivisibly. Without positively offending or irritating her mother by pointed and overt insult, she nevertheless had made up her mind to act as the mistress in all things;--and thus had the punishment of the vile old woman already begun, even on account of the new schemes of wickedness which she had set on foot.

Having secured the precious packet of papers and the money about her person, the beautiful Perdita rose from her chair, saying, “We may now take our departure, mother.”

“One word first!” exclaimed Percival, a sudden reminiscence striking him: then, turning towards Mrs. Fitzhardinge, he said, “My dear madam, I have some news to impart which I had almost forgotten in the absorbing nature of the business that has occupied us for the last hour,--news which will not a little astonish you----”

“Then pray keep me no longer in suspense!” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhardinge, Perdita’s conduct not having put her into the best of possible humours.

“Just before you knocked at the door this night----”

“Well, well?” ejaculated the impatient woman.

“A man was with me----”

“And that man?” repeated Mrs. Fitzhardinge, gasping for breath, as if she anticipated the reply.

“Was your husband!” added the miser.

A hideous expression passed over the countenance of Mrs. Fitzhardinge,--an expression of mingled hate, apprehension, and rage; and she staggered for a moment as if she were about to fall.

But subduing her emotions, she approached the miser, and said in a low, hoarse, grating tone, “Does he know that I am in London?--is he aware that I am in England--passing by the name of Fitzhardinge----”

“No--no,” replied Percival hastily: for he saw by the old woman’s manner that she would not thank him were he to inform her that he had made her husband acquainted with so many particulars concerning her.

“You are sure--you are certain?” demanded she, breathing somewhat more freely.

“Since Mr. Percival has already answered you satisfactorily, mother, wherefore require additional assurances?” said Perdita, who was in haste to depart--for it was now waxing very late.

“Because I would sooner meet one of those hideous snakes that I have seen in Australia, than encounter that man!” responded the old woman. “I know not why,--but I hate him--I loathe and abhor him----”

“Come along, mother,” interrupted Perdita, impatiently: “Mr. Percival cares nothing about all this.”

“True! but one word more,” cried Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “Tell me, sir--is that man--my husband,”--and the words appeared almost to choke her,--“is he well off--or poor and wretched?”

“He seemed to be very miserable,” answered the miser;--“so miserable that he wished to obtain assistance from me! But I--I never give,” he added, after a moment’s hesitation.

“I believe you, sir,” remarked Perdita, a faint smile of contempt curling her haughty but beauteous lip. “Now, mother, at last you are ready, I presume?”

“Allow me to light you to the door,” said Percival; and, with a bow, he preceded the two females into the passage.

He opened the front door, and Perdita, wishing him “good night” bounded forth first into the open air--for she felt relieved at escaping from the miser’s cheerless abode:--her mother followed more slowly--and just as she passed by Percival, who stood on the threshold officiously holding the candle, the light streamed fully on the countenance of the old woman. At that same instant Mrs. Dyer--the widow who lived at the next house--was returning home from a neighbour’s; and she caught a complete view of the face of Mrs. Fitzhardinge. It struck the good woman at the moment that she had seldom beheld such a repulsive, sinister countenance: but she was accustomed to see strange-looking people visit the miser’s abode;--and the circumstance therefore made no particular impression on her mind.

She merely said “Good night, sir,” to the miser, and forthwith entered her own abode.

Percival’s door closed at the same instant; and Mrs. Fitzhardinge having overtaken her daughter, the two retraced their way to the City Road, whence they took a cab to Suffolk Street.

CXXXIX. THE MISER ALONE IN HIS DWELLING

Having carefully barred and bolted the street-door, Percival entered the front room, and assured himself that the shutters were safely fastened.

He then returned to the back parlour; and, seating himself at the table, proceeded to examine the contents of his cash-box.

He looked at the note of hand which he had received that night, and which bore the signature of Marston--for, in compliance with the suggestion of Mrs. Fitzhardinge, the infatuated Charles Hatfield had signed the document with the name to which he believed himself to be entitled.

The first sensations of the miser, as he fixed his eyes on the “promise to pay” at a specific date the sum of one thousand guineas, were of pleasure: for he calculated the profit he had derived from the transaction--and he flattered himself that he had gained seventy guineas in a single hour.

“And with so little trouble, too,” he muttered to himself.

But, in the next moment, a gloomy shade began to cross his countenance: for the thought stole upon him that perhaps he had acted too precipitately--that the women might have forged a number of papers to delude him--that, after all, there might be no such person in existence as Charles Hatfield, or Viscount Marston.

“Pshaw!” he exclaimed emphatically, as he endeavoured to banish these unpleasant reflections from his mind; “it is all right--and I am a fool thus to yield to misgivings. Why should not Tom Rain be the rightful Earl of Ellingham? Things more strange and improbable have occurred in this world. And if he be really the elder brother of the nobleman now bearing the title, why should he not have a son who is the heir to that title and likewise to the estates? Yes--yes: it is all feasible enough! Besides, amongst those papers were the marriage certificate of the late Earl and Octavia Manners--and the baptismal certificate of their child. Well, then--granting that there is a Charles Hatfield,--or, in other words, a Viscount Marston,--what is less extraordinary than that so beautiful a creature as this Miss Fitzhardinge should have captivated the young noble? She is a splendid girl--a very splendid girl! Even in the plain garb which she wore this evening--a sort of disguise, no doubt--she looked truly bewitching. What eyes!--what a profile!--what teeth!--what hair! Ah! I wish that I was a young man now--that I had not these sixty-five winters on my head: I would even yet endeavour to rival Viscount Marston! But, no--no: that were impossible! These young girls are smitten with titles more than with money: and, on my honour, Miss Fitzhardinge will become the rank of Viscountess full well. She has the dignity--the stateliness--and yet the grace and elegance of a woman of fashion! All this, doubtless, must be the work of nature: for where could she have become familiar with the manners and customs of the drawing-room? Ah! was not that a noise?”

And the miser, hastily shutting up his cash-box, started to his feet.

He listened--but all was still!

“A false alarm,” he murmured to himself--and resumed his seat.

But the incident had completely disturbed the current of his thoughts which were flowing into a more voluptuous channel than for years and years they had done,--the beauty of Perdita having made a deep impression upon the mind of the miser, and for a few minutes weaned away his attention from the hitherto all-absorbing gold that he worshipped so devotedly.

And now that alarm,--whether false or real, we cannot as yet determine,--recalled his errant thoughts to the one engrossing subject: and carefully depositing his cash-box in the safe, he next secured the safe itself.

Then, having placed the key in his pocket, he took the candle in his hand, and once more inspected the street-door--the shutters in the front-room--and the bolt of the back-gate.

He descended into the kitchen,--that kitchen which no domestic occupied, and the hearth of which so seldom sparkled or shone with blazing coal or wood,--a cursed hearth which, even in the very midst of summer, seemed cheerless and cold! The area that gave light to the kitchen-window was strongly barred over: the window itself was likewise barred;--and the door opening into the area was well secured with bolts and chains.

All these multiplied precautions were duly inspected by the miser. Forgotten now was the image of Perdita:--gold--gold--his gold,--this was the one absorbing idea!

No--not the only one: for with the thought of possessing gold is ever associated the dread of losing it;--and at this moment the man’s mind was a prey to vague fears--undefined alarms--gloomy misgivings.

He did not like that noise which he had heard:--it haunted him like a spectre;--it was something that weighed upon his soul like lead.

He felt--he knew that he was really alone in that house,--aye, and that the house was lonely in situation likewise: for he could not count for aid, in case of need, on the elderly widow next door and her two or three poor female lodgers. Thus, the fact that there was a house adjoining did not detract from the sense of utter loneliness awakened in his mind respecting his own abode.

But were not the bolts secure--the chains fastened--the bars all firm and strong? Oh! he had not spared his money to obtain the best iron and the best work when those precautions were adopted: and, since he had become a miser, he had never paid a bill so cheerfully as that which the defences of his dwelling had incurred.

Yes:--the bolts were secure--the chains were well fastened--and the bars were all firm and strong;--and yet Percival was not at ease in his mind.

That unknown, unaccountable noise had alarmed him. It was a noise the nature of which he could scarcely explain to himself,--nor whether it had occurred inside or outside the house: no--nor whether it were the creaking of timber--or the shaking of the shutters--or the sound of a human voice speaking low, hoarse, and in a disguised tone.

Having convinced himself that all was secure in the kitchen and the little scullery at the back, Percival once more ascended to his back parlour. He looked at his watch, and found it was half an hour past midnight:--still he felt no inclination to sleep! Vague and oppressive fears continued to haunt him;--and the more he essayed to wrestle with his reflections, the more intolerable did they become,--till at last horrible ideas were forced upon his imagination,--of how misers had been murdered for their gold--how their blood had been poured out even on the very treasure-chests to which they clung with desperate tenacity while the blows of the assassins rained down upon their heads!

Of all these things he thought; and his brain appeared to whirl. He cast his eyes around: objects of terror seemed to encounter them in all directions--for his fevered, excited imagination conjured up the most horrifying phantoms.

Suddenly taking his head as it were in his hands, and pressing it violently, he exclaimed aloud. “Perdition take this cowardly nervousness! What have I to fear to-night--more than any other? I need rest--repose--slumber;--and when I awake in the morning, I shall laugh at myself for the absurd terrors to which I have yielded now!”

Taking the light in his hand, he was about to quit the room and seek his chamber up stairs, when a sound, as of the back door slowly opening, fell upon his ears;--and so great was the alarm with which this circumstance filled him,--striking him as it were with a sudden paralysis,--that he let the candle fall upon the floor--and the light was immediately extinguished.

Then there was the rush of a man up the stairs leading from the back door to the parlour;--and in another moment Percival was assailed in the dark, and in a desperate manner. A heavy blow, as with a bludgeon, felled him to the ground,--not quite stunning him, but so far depriving him of his physical energies that he could not even cry out. But he grasped the murderer by the throat; and a short struggle ensued. The assassin, however, was armed with the determination, if not with the strength, of a demon;--and, dashing the miser back on the floor again with all his force, he seized the bludgeon and wielded it with such fearful effect, that in a few instants the victim lay motionless and silent beneath him!

This fearful crime was accomplished in the dark; and yet the murderer appeared not to be afraid--nor to lose his presence of mind. It would also seem that he was acquainted with the nook where the miser’s gold was concealed: yes--even circumstances more minute still were known to him. For, stooping down, and passing his hand over the corpse, he felt in the very pocket where Percival had placed the key of the cupboard enclosing the iron safe;--and then, groping his way to that cupboard, he opened it,--opened likewise the iron safe,--and drew forth the tin case containing the miser’s gold and bank-notes. Breaking open the lid of the box, the miscreant secured all the coin, notes, and papers about his person, and then stole away from the dwelling by means of the back-gate, which he closed behind him.

* * * * *

At half-past seven o’clock in the morning, Mrs. Dyer knocked at the door of the miser’s house, and was somewhat surprised when, five minutes having elapsed, her summons remained unanswered.

“Perhaps he has over-slept himself,” she muttered to herself: “I will come back again presently;”--and the woman returned to her own abode.

But something like a misgiving had stolen into her mind,--a vague and indefinable fear--a presentiment against which she could not wrestle. A gloom had fallen on her spirits: she was in that humour when people who are in any way superstitious, expect bad news. Not that she had heard any noise in the course of the night, or that she had any motive for suspicion:--the feeling that oppressed her was excited by no accountable and intelligible cause,--unless, indeed, it were that during the five or six years she had waited upon Mr. Percival, this was the very first occasion on which she had failed to find him already up and dressed, and ready to admit her at a stipulated hour.

Having performed a few domestic duties in her own house--but in a strange manner, as if she scarcely knew what she was doing,--Mrs. Dyer returned to the miser’s front-door, at which she knocked again.

But again there was no response: all was silent.

The widow-woman was now seriously alarmed; and, hastening back into her dwelling, she informed her female lodgers that she could not make Mr. Percival hear next door, and was afraid something had happened. The three women, to whom these observations were addressed, accompanied her to the miser’s house; and as all within was still silent as the grave, they proceeded round to the back-door with the intention of looking in through the window shutters, which, as we have before stated, were perforated with many heart-holes. But Mrs. Dyer first happened to try the back-gate, and, to her surprise, found it unfastened. She and the other women then entered the house; and their attention, now rendered keen by dark suspicions, was immediately attracted to the fact that the part of the door-post into which the bolt of the back-gate fitted, had been cut away, from the outside, in such a manner that it was an easy affair to slide back the bolt. The females beheld this ominous appearance with dismay;--but how shuddering were the looks of deep apprehension which they rapidly and silently exchanged, when they likewise noticed an old piece of iron still sticking in the lock,--a sure indication of that lock having been picked, also from the outside!

Had either one of the women now manifested the least hesitation to proceed, the others would have gladly followed the example to retreat. But, huddling all together--and in deep silence--they slowly ascended the stairs leading to the back parlour.

The door of this room was half open; and as the widow endeavoured to push it farther back still, it was stopped by something that evidently was not a table nor a chair,--no--nor aught made of wood.

The women slowly entered the parlour:--and then their tongues were suddenly loosened--and piercing shrieks burst from their lips. For the prismatic light which streamed through the heart-holes of the closed shutters, played on the smashed, gory, and disfigured countenance of the murdered man!

Terror for a few minutes rooted to the spot the spectatresses of this horrible spectacle:--and, clinging--hanging to each other, they remained gazing, in terror and dismay, on the remains of him whom they had all seen alive and in health on the preceding day!

At length the female who was nearest to the door seemed suddenly to recover the use of her limbs; and, with another ejaculation of horror, she fled precipitately,--her companions following her with a haste which seemed to indicate that they were afraid lest the murdered man should stretch forth his hand and clutch the hindermost by the garments.

Oh! what terrors are inspired by the cold--inanimate--powerless remains of mortality! And yet men of the strongest minds have had their fears in this respect;--and heroes who would have faced a serried rank bristling with bayonets, or hunted the savage tiger in the jungles of Hindoostan, have feared to remain alone with the corpse of a fellow-creature!

Full soon was the dreadful rumour spread throughout the neighbourhood that the miser Percival had been murdered during the night;--and the police were speedily upon the spot.

The dead body indeed presented a hideous spectacle to the view:--the countenance was so disfigured as to defy recognition;--and the skull was fractured in several places. By the side of the corpse lay a heavy stake; and, as it was covered with blood, and some of the hair from the murdered man’s head was sticking to it, there was no difficulty in pronouncing it to have been the weapon used by the assassin. The candlestick was found on the floor close by;--the cupboard and the iron safe were open;--and the tin-box, emptied of its contents, was stumbled over by one of the officers.

Not the slightest suspicion could possibly be attached to the widow-woman or her lodgers occupying the adjacent house;--but they were necessarily questioned by the inspector, with a view to elicit any particulars that might aid the officers of justice in sifting the most mysterious and horrible affair.

Mrs. Dyer stated that she had heard no disturbance during the night; and her lodgers all made a similar declaration.

“I passed the evening with a neighbour,” said the widow, naming the friend at whose house she had supped; “and I returned home about half-past eleven o’clock. Mr. Percival was at that moment taking leave of some visitors at his own door: and----Oh! I remember now,” exclaimed Mrs. Dyer, a sudden thought striking her,--“there were two women--one apparently young, if I might judge by the hasty glimpse I caught of her figure--for I did not see her face, as she was standing by the gate opening into the road----”

“And the other woman?” demanded the inspector.

“Was old and very ugly,” returned the widow. “I saw her countenance plainly enough; for the light which Mr. Percival held, streamed full upon it;--and I thought at the moment that I had never in my life beheld such a repulsive--horrible-looking creature. I was really frightened--there was something so unpleasant in her looks.”

“And was any man with them?” enquired the officer.

“No: the two women were alone. They took leave of Mr. Percival, and, I suppose, went away. At all events, I know that he closed his door just at the same moment that I shut mine. I said ‘Good night’ to him: and that was the last time I saw the poor gentleman alive.”

“It is highly important,” observed the inspector, “that we should find out these two women of whom you speak--as they were, to all appearances, the last persons who were with the deceased?”

Mrs. Dyer then gave as accurate a description as she could of the personal appearance of the old woman whose countenance had struck her as being so repulsive and sinister;--and the inspector, having left a couple of officers on the premises where the crime had been committed, departed to acquaint the Coroner with the dreadful occurrence.

CXL. FRESH SCENES AND MORE TROUBLES AT HOME

While the discovery of the assassination of the old miser was being made in Pentonville, as just related, a scene of some interest occurred simultaneously at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham, in Pall Mall.

Charles Hatfield had risen early, after having passed a restless night; and, his toilette being completed, he was just meditating--unpleasantly meditating on the demeanour that it was proper for him to assume at the breakfast-table,--when the door opened, and his father entered the chamber.

The young man had not encountered his parents since the dispute of the preceding morning: he had purposely avoided them throughout the day--not appearing at the dinner-table, and absenting himself likewise from the usual family meeting at the supper-hour. He therefore felt himself somewhat disagreeably situated,--being totally unprepared to meet his father, and having decided on no definite course to pursue with regard to him.

“My dear son,” said Mr. Hatfield, approaching and taking the young man’s hand, “it is necessary that we should have an immediate explanation. I allude to the occurrences of yesterday morning; and I regret that you should have adopted the unusual course of absenting yourself throughout the day----”

“I returned home between seven and eight last evening,” interrupted Charles, hastily, but not disrespectfully.

“I am aware of it,” said Mr. Hatfield, fixing his eyes upon his son in a penetrating manner. “But you only remained in the house a few minutes;--and, having visited your chamber, you hurried away again. Were you afraid to encounter your parents? Remember, Charles, if you felt that your conduct of the morning had been undutiful and improper--nay, I will even say cruel, towards us--yet a single word expressive of contrition would have made us open our arms to receive you.”

“You denounce my behaviour as cruel towards you,” exclaimed Charles: “but did you not first provoke me, father?--did you not call me harsh names? And if, in return, I complained of what I considered to be the unnatural conduct of my parents toward me----”

“Wherefore thus pertinaciously endeavour to penetrate into those secrets which, for good and salutary reasons, your parents keep concealed from you?” demanded Mr. Hatfield: “for I presume that you allude to the fact of our still desiring that you should pass as our nephew.”

“You have assured me that I am legitimate--that there is no stigma upon my birth,” cried Charles;--“then wherefore not acknowledge me as your son? You claim from me the duty of a son--and yet you deny me the title! And again I must remind you, father, that to an accident alone am I indebted for the knowledge of my birth!”

“I would ask you, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a serious and impressive tone, “what all this has to do with the proposal of marriage that you made to Lady Frances Ellingham: for it was on this point that our dispute commenced yesterday morning. Am I to suppose that my son, being unwilling to contract an alliance so honourable to him, seeks other grounds whereon to base his design of flying in the face of his parents?--am I to conclude that, being resolved to thwart us in this--our dearest hope, you seize upon another and ignoble pretext to justify your rebellion against us!”

“No--ten thousand times No!” exclaimed the young man, cruelly hurt by these suspicions. “In first place, I do not love Lady Frances Ellingham otherwise than as a brother may love a sister----”

“Because,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, fixing his eyes sternly upon his son,--“because you have formed some connexion of which you are ashamed----”

“Ah!” cried Charles, starting violently. “Has my father acted the spy upon me?”

“Listen,” said Mr. Hatfield, to whose countenance the indignant blood rushed as his son thus insolently addressed him: but he chose to controul his feelings--and he succeeded: “listen, Charles--and then decide whether you ought to judge me so harshly. Your conduct of yesterday morning towards your mother and myself was of such an extraordinary--unaccountable--distressing nature, that you cannot blame me if I resolved to discover the motives that had actuated you. In this determination I was fixed by your protracted absence throughout the day--your stealthy return in the evening--your short visit to your own chamber--your avoidance of all the inmates of this house--and your hasty and also stealthy departure again. I confess, then, that I followed you last evening----”

“You followed me, father?” repeated Charles, in a low, hoarse, and hollow voice.

“Yes--I followed you to Suffolk Street,” continued Mr. Hatfield, with a firmness and a cool determination of tone and manner which he hoped would overawe the rebellious young man: “and, on inquiry in the neighbourhood, I learnt that at the house which you entered, dwells a very beautiful young lady. Now, I give you my honour, Charles, that I asked no more--was told no more than this one fact. I have no desire to become acquainted with the liaisons of my son:--indeed, I know that young men will be--what shall we call it?---gay, if you will. All I wished to ascertain was whether there were any grounds for supposing that you had formed a connexion which you may believe to have love for its basis, and which induced you yesterday morning to refuse the fulfilment of your own offer to Lady Frances Ellingham.”

“Father,” said Charles Hatfield, scarcely able to restrain an outburst of indignation, reproach, and bitter recrimination,--in which, had he allowed that torrent of feelings to force a vent, all that he knew of his family and their secrets would have been revealed, or rather proclaimed, in no measured terms;--“father,” he said, fortunately subduing the evil promptings of the moment,--“I have listened to you with attention--though not without impatience. Yesterday you reviled me--you heaped bitter reproaches upon me--you menaced me with disinheritance: then, in the evening, you enacted the spy upon my actions--you watched me--you followed me----”

“It was my duty--and a most painful one, I can assure you,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, alarmed by the strange--the ominous coldness that characterised his son’s tone and manner.

“Your duty!” ejaculated Charles, now speaking with an indignation that burst forth in frightful contrast with the unnatural tranquillity on which it so abruptly broke; “and wherefore have you not performed your duty in all things? Duty, indeed! But know, father, that there are other duties to fulfil than merely playing the part of a spy on your son’s actions:--there are such duties as giving him his proper name--allowing him to assume his just rights--and placing him in that social position which he ought to occupy! You menace me with the loss of fortune, father?--Oh! you know how vain and ridiculous is this threat--and how it aggravates the wickedness of all your former conduct towards me! I am no longer a child to be held in leading-strings--no longer a silly sentimentalist who, through maudlin and mawkish feelings of a false delicacy, will consent to have my nearest and dearest interests trampled upon--my privileges altogether withheld--my rights cruelly denied me! You have played the mysterious too long,--you have enacted the cruel and unnatural until endurance has become impossible;--and now you would assume the part of the absolute dictator--expecting to find me still a pliant, docile, grovelling slave,--without spirit--without courage--without even the common feelings of a man! But you are mistaken, father:--and if I have thus been driven to tell you my mind, you have only yourself to reproach, for so distressing--so painful a scene!”

Thus speaking,--and before his father had so far recovered from the amazement into which this volley of words threw him, as to be able even to stretch out a hand to retain him,--Charles seized his hat, and rushed from the room.

In less than a minute the front-door of the house closed behind him; and he hurried on, like one demented, to Suffolk Street.

But before we accompany him thither, we must pause to explain the effect which this scene had upon his father.

Indeed, Mr. Hatfield was struck with an astonishment so profound--a bewilderment so complete, that his heart seemed as if it were numbed against pain. He could not comprehend the drift of Charles’s passionate address,--otherwise than by supposing that the young man required to be recognised as a son, and not as a nephew. For it did not--as, in fact, it could not--for a single moment enter Mr. Hatfield’s head that Charles had discovered all the occurrences of former years, and that he had thence drawn the false and fatal inference that he--this same infatuated young man--was the heir to the proud title and vast estates of the Earldom of Ellingham. He therefore saw in his son’s conduct only the rebellious spirit of an individual who, having formed a connexion of which he was most likely ashamed and which he knew to be improper, endeavoured to meet his parents’ reproaches with recriminations, and seize upon the least shadow of an excuse or pretext for resisting the paternal authority.

When reflection thus diminished the wonderment which Mr. Hatfield experienced at the behaviour of the young man, pain and sorrow succeeded that first feeling. Indeed, the unhappy father was cruelly embarrassed: he knew not how to act. Charles was of that age when,--even did circumstances permit Mr. Hatfield to acknowledge that he really was his son,--no legal authority could be exercised, nor constraint practised; and he felt assured that any farther attempt to interfere with him in the connexion which he had formed, would only aggravate the irritability of the wrong-headed young man.

Then again, it was impossible to abandon him thus to courses which might hurry him on to utter ruin;--and moreover, the Lady Frances Ellingham had been so cruelly trifled with, that an explanation with her parents became absolutely necessary.

Now was it that Mr. Hatfield cursed the hour when he had been induced to leave Italy, and return to England on this visit to his half-brother--a visit which the Earl had by letter urged him to pay, and to which he had assented in full confidence of the complete safety of the step.

Bewildered with the variety of his conflicting thoughts, and feeling the necessity as well as recognising the propriety of consulting the Earl, Mr. Hatfield repaired to the library, whence he despatched a message to the nobleman requesting his lordship to join him there as speedily as possible:--for it still wanted upwards of half-an-hour to the usual breakfast time.

The Earl of Ellingham was just issuing from his chamber when the message was delivered to him; and, immediately apprehending some evil news, he hastened to the library, where he found his half-brother pacing up and down in an agitated manner.

Mr. Hatfield, without any disguise, hesitation, or circumlocution, immediately unfolded to the Earl all that had taken place, both on that and the preceding day, in respect to Charles;--and Arthur listened with emotions of mingled pain, astonishment, and apprehension.

“Much as it would have delighted me,” he at length observed, “to witness the union of my daughter and your son, Thomas, I cannot for a moment recommend that the young man’s inclinations should be forced. Such an union seemed necessary--almost imperiously necessary under the peculiar circumstances in which we are placed. While you, the elder brother, renounce the title which is your just right--I, the younger one, have long borne it and bear it still;--though, heaven knows that I value it indeed but little----However,” added the Earl, interrupting himself hastily,--“I was about to observe that, situated as we thus are, it appears but natural and proper that your son should receive a positive and acknowledged admission into the family by means of an alliance with my daughter. And she, poor girl--she loves him,” continued the nobleman, his voice faltering; “and he has acted unwisely--to use no harsher term--in declaring an attachment which he does not feel, and making a proposal which he cannot accomplish.”

“I am at a loss how to act!” said Mr. Hatfield. “My God!” he cried, in a tone expressive of deep feeling, “am I ever to be the means of giving annoyance and vexation to you, my dear Arthur,--you, who have been so kind and generous a friend to me?”

“Not on this account must you distress yourself, Thomas,” returned the Earl, emphatically: “you are not responsible for the wayward humours of your son. But surely this sudden manifestation of a rebellious disposition on his part, cannot arise wholly and solely from the connexion which you believe him to have formed. Have you enquired concerning the character of the women--the mother and daughter--whom he visits in Suffolk-street?”

“No: I contented myself with ascertaining that at the house which I saw him enter, there is a young lady of very extraordinary beauty.”

“And are you convinced that Charles has learnt nothing relative to the events of former years--nothing calculated to diminish----”

“I understand you, Arthur,” said Mr. Hatfield, seeing that his half-brother hesitated: “you would ask whether I have any reason to believe that he has learnt aught which may have a tendency to diminish the respect he had until within these two days past maintained towards his parents? On this head I am of course unable to answer you positively: but my impression is that he is as much as ever in the dark relative to the dread occurrences of the past. Indeed, how can he have possibly learnt a single fact----”

“May not the discovery that he is your son, and not your nephew, have induced him to seek for farther information?” enquired the Earl of Ellingham. “May not some sentiment of ardent curiosity have been awakened within him----”

“But where could he address himself to this task of raising the veil from the mysteries of by-gone years--even if he have the slightest ground to suspect that such mysteries do exist?” demanded Mr. Hatfield, interrupting the Earl. “To what source could he repair for the means of elucidation?”

“I know not: and yet--I am now impressed with suspicions of a most unpleasant nature,” observed the Earl. “It is very essential that some immediate step should be taken to redeem this fine young man from a career of error--perhaps of depravity----”

“Oh! yes--yes!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “My God! if the sins of the father be in this case visited upon the son, life will become intolerable to me!--Rather would I at once have a full and complete understanding with Charles,--tell him all--yes, all,--reveal to him who I really am--open to him the means of a complete retrospection, embracing all my sad history,--and then throw myself on his mercy--imploring him at least to have pity upon his innocent mother, if not on me who am so guilty!”

“No--no, Thomas: this humiliation may not be!” ejaculated the Earl. “For if, as you believe, your son has at present no suspicion of the past, it would be madness to make unnecessary revelations.”

“I am bewildered--cruelly perplexed: I know not how to act!” cried Mr. Hatfield. “Oh! if I were confident that he has no such suspicions--that he has learnt or surmised nothing calculated to diminish the respect due to his mother and myself----”

“How can he have fathomed the obscurity which hangs over your former life?” demanded the Earl. “And as to supposing that he could, by any possible means, obtain even the shadow of an idea of your real birth and parentage----”

“No: for the papers--those important papers which I gave you years ago, and which I requested you to destroy,--those papers, I say,” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, “could alone make such important revelations to my son: and, thank heaven! they are not in existence.”

“My dear brother,” returned the Earl of Ellingham, taking Mr. Hatfield’s hand, and speaking in a very serious tone, “I most frankly and honestly inform you that those papers have not been destroyed. At the same time, they have been kept in a place of perfect security--a secret recess known only to myself----”

“And wherefore were not such dangerous documents burnt--annihilated!” asked Mr. Hatfield, in a reproachful tone.

“I dared not perform a deed which would argue so much selfishness on my part,” replied the Earl of Ellingham, now speaking with a strong emphasis--the result and impulse of his generous, lofty, honourable feelings. “So long as those papers remain in existence, you, my dear brother, can at any moment say to me, ‘I repent of the step which I took in renouncing my just rights and privileges; and I now claim them:’--and should you at any time thus address me, it would only be for me to produce the papers that establish your claims.”

“Oh! Arthur, you are generous--even to a fault!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “You know--or, at least, I again assure you for the hundredth time, that not for worlds would I heap disgrace on a noble name by daring to assume it! Merciful heavens! shall the coronet which becomes you so well, be snatched from your brows, and transferred to those of----”

“Hush! Thomas--hush! this excitement is most unnecessary,” interrupted the Earl. “You must not blame me for the motives which induced me to keep the documents;--and now--if you will have them restored to you----”

“Yes--yes: give them to me, Arthur,” cried Mr. Hatfield, resolving to destroy the papers without farther delay.

“You claim them--they are yours--and they shall at once be returned into your hands,” said the nobleman. “But I conjure you to act not hastily nor rashly----”

“Fear nothing, Arthur,” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield: “but give me the papers! There is no time to lose--the ladies will be waiting for us at the breakfast-table----”

“True!” ejaculated the Earl: and, approaching that shelf at the back of which the secret recess was formed, he said, “Once every year have I inspected this well concealed depository: once every year have I assured myself that the precious documents were safe;--and on those occasions, I have cleansed them of the dust which even accumulates in a place that is almost hermetically sealed.”

As the Earl thus spoke, he took down from the shelf the books which stood immediately before the recess; and Mr. Hatfield, receiving the volumes in his hands, placed them upon the table. While performing this simple and almost mechanical act, his eyes were suddenly attracted to the name and date of one of the books;--and his looks were rivetted, as it were, on the words--“Annual Register, 1827.”

For the nature of the volume and the date of the year whose incidents it recorded, suddenly revived the poignancy of many bitter recollections, the sharpness of which had been somewhat blunted by time: and it was in a moment of strange nervousness--or idiosyncratic excitement, that he opened the book which thus had aroused those painful memories.

An ejaculation of horror--irrepressible horror--escaped his lips: for he had lighted on the very page which contained the account of his Execution at Horsemonger Lane:--and at the very same instant a cry of mingled amazement and alarm burst from the Earl of Ellingham.

“Oh! is this a mere accident?” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield: “or a warning----”

“Merciful heaven--the papers!” ejaculated the nobleman.

“A warning that my son has seen this?” added the unhappy father, almost distracted with the idea.

“Some miscreant has done this!” cried the Earl, stamping his foot with rage: and it was seldom that he thus gave way to his passion.

The brothers turned towards each other--exchanging hasty glances of mutual and anxious enquiry.

“The papers are gone!” said the Earl, clasping his hands in despair.

“Gone!” repeated Mr. Hatfield, staggering as if struck by a sudden blow. “And this book--this book,” he faltered, in a faint tone, “was in the immediate vicinity of the recess! He who took the papers--might have read also--in that volume--the terrible account----”

Mr. Hatfield could say no more: overpowered by his feelings, he sank exhausted on the nearest seat.

The Earl glanced at the open page which his half-brother had indicated; and, observing the nature of the statement there recorded, he instantly comprehended the cause of Mr. Hatfield’s emotions, and also of the suspicions which had suddenly seized upon him.

“Yes--yes: this book has been read lately,” said Arthur, in an excited and hurried manner: “behold! the corners of the covers have been recently injured. Oh! my God! what does all this mean?”

It will be recollected that on the memorable night when Charles Hatfield pursued his successful researches in the library, he had hurled away from him, in his rage and almost maddening grief, the volume that made such strange--such appalling revelations: and the violence of the action had so far injured the book, as to bend and graze the corners of the binding,--the marks of the injury remaining clearly visible, and the white interior of the leather being laid bare, and thus proving how recently the work had been used.

“The book has been read very lately,” murmured Mr. Hatfield, in a musing tone; “and the papers have perhaps been stolen lately---”

“Yes,” exclaimed the Earl: “for not a month has elapsed since I inspected that recess and found them safe.”

“Then who could have done this?” cried Mr. Hatfield, starting from his seat, in a sudden access of excitement which was accompanied by a return of moral and physical energy. “Oh! is it possible that Charles is the author of all that seems so mysterious? Has he searched for the records of my earlier life?--has he by accident discovered and purloined those papers--those fatal papers?”

“Yes--it must be he!” exclaimed the Earl: “for did you not tell me that he spoke of claims--and rights--and privileges unjustly withheld,--and that be has harped upon what he termed the unnatural conduct of his parents in concealing from him the secret of his birth? Thomas--my dear Thomas,” continued Lord Ellingham, speaking in a lower--more measured--and more impressive tone, “I can see it all! That young man has found out who you are: be has learnt that you are the rightful heir to the honours and estates which I enjoy;--and, believing himself to be your legitimate son--according to the assurance that you were forced, for your wife’s sake, to give him--the deluded, deceived Charles Hatfield fancies himself to be the lawful heir to the Earldom!”

“You have divined the truth, Arthur!” cried Mr. Hatfield, his heart wrung to its very core by all the maddening fears and torturing reflections which were thus suddenly excited within him. “Oh! what dreadful embarrassments--what frightful complications, will this misapprehension entail on my unhappy son--on you--on me--on all who are connected with us!”

“There is not a moment to lose!” exclaimed Lord Ellingham. “We must hasten after this infatuated young man----”

At that moment the door opened; and Clarence Villiers entered the library,--the Earl having requested him on the previous day to visit him at the hour when, true to the appointment, he thus made his appearance.

Villiers, perceiving at the first glance, that something unusual was agitating Lord Ellingham and Mr. Hatfield, was about to retire, when the Earl, beckoning him to advance, turned hastily round to his half-brother, and said in a hurried whisper, “We will entrust this matter to Villiers: he will conduct it with less excitement than you and I; and, as he knows your secret----”

“Yes:--but all he does know is that the Mr. Hatfield of to-day is identical with the Thomas Rainford of former times,” interrupted the Earl’s half-brother, also speaking in a low and hasty tone: “remember--he is unacquainted with aught of our family secrets--ignorant of the parentage of Charles----”

“Neither is it necessary that he should be made acquainted with all these facts,” interrupted Arthur:--“but leave the matter to me.” Then, turning towards Clarence, he said, “My dear Mr. Villiers, you come most opportunely to render us an important service. We have every reason to believe that Charles has formed an improper connexion with a young female of great beauty, residing with her mother in very handsome lodgings in Suffolk Street: we likewise conclude that he is there at this present moment. Hasten thither, my good friend--demand an immediate interview with Charles--and tell him that certain discoveries have been made at home, in which he is deeply interested. In a word, compel him to accompany you away from the designing women who have doubtless entangled him in their meshes----”

“Nay: let us not judge hastily,” cried Mr. Hatfield: “remember--I have heard nothing against the characters of these ladies; and it may be a virtuous and honest affection, after all, that renders Charles a visitor at their house. Let Mr. Villiers, then, act with circumspection--and behave with the strictest courtesy towards these ladies, should he encounter them.”

“Yes--but under any circumstances you must persuade Charles to return with you immediately to this house,” said the Earl. “Mr. Hatfield will acquaint you with the precise address of the lodgings in Suffolk Street----”

The Earl’s half-brother mentioned the number of the dwelling to which he had traced his son on the preceding evening;--adding, “The name of the ladies is Fitzhardinge--and I heard that the daughter bears the singular denomination of Perdita.”

“Perdita!” cried Villiers, starting violently. “Oh! if this be the case----unhappy, lost Charles Hatfield!”

“Good heavens! what mean you?” demanded the wretched father, rendered terribly anxious by those ominous words that fell on his ears like a death-knell.

“Two ladies--mother and daughter--dwelling together--and the girl named Perdita,” mused Clarence Villiers, not immediately heeding the earnest appeal of Mr. Hatfield: “yes--yes--it must be they!--my aunt--my wretched, wretched aunt who has returned from transportation--and her profligate but beauteous daughter!”

“Do you mean that Mrs. Slingsby who--years ago--you know to what I allude?” asked Mr. Hatfield, in a hurried tone, as he grasped Clarence violently by the wrist.

“Yes--I do mean that bad woman!” exclaimed Villiers, who had now become painfully excited in his turn: “and I regret--Oh! I regret to say that she has brought over to England her daughter, whom report mentions as an angel of beauty and a demon in profligacy----”

“My God! Mr. Villiers--save Charles--save my Charles from these incarnate fiends!” cried Mr. Hatfield. “Or I myself----”

And he was rushing to the door of the library, when the Earl held him back, saying, “No, Thomas--you must not go in this excited state: let Villiers take the affair in hand.”

Mr. Hatfield fell back into a seat, a prey to the most painful--the most agonising emotions; while Clarence hurriedly departed to execute the commission entrusted to him.

The Earl now addressed himself to the task of consoling his unfortunate brother-in-law;--and he had just succeeded in inducing Mr. Hatfield to assume as composed a demeanour as possible, preparatory to their joint appearance at the breakfast-table, when Clarence Villiers rushed into the room.

Not a quarter of an hour had elapsed since his departure;--and this speedy return, together with his agitated manner, raised new alarms in the breasts of the Earl and Mr. Hatfield.

“They are gone--fled--all three together!” cried Villiers, throwing himself exhausted on an ottoman, and panting for breath.

“Gone!” repeated the miserable father, surveying Clarence with eyes that stared wildly and unnaturally.

“Yes--gone!” said Villiers. “Ten minutes before I reached Suffolk Street, my aunt, her daughter, and Mr. Charles departed in a post-chaise, which had been sent for apparently in consequence of some sudden plan: for the people of the house were previously unacquainted with the intention of their lodgers thus to leave so abruptly.”

“But where was the chaise hired? and which road has it taken?” demanded Mr. Hatfield, now manifesting an energy and determination that proved his readiness to meet the emergency and adopt measures to pursue the fugitives.

“I sought for that information in vain,” returned Clarence Villiers. “It appears that my aunt herself went out to order the post-chaise; and that care was taken not to allow the people of the house any opportunity to converse with the post-boys. The rent and other liabilities were all duly paid; and the landlady of the lodgings accordingly makes no complaint of the women who have quitted her abode.”

“What course do you intend to adopt?” hastily demanded the Earl, turning to his half-brother.

“Order me your best horse to be saddled forthwith,” said Mr. Hatfield; “and I will proceed in pursuit of the runaways. ’Tis ten to one that I will obtain some trace of them. Perhaps Mr. Villiers will likewise mount horse, and take the northern road.”

“While I shall do the same, and pursue a westerly direction,” observed the Earl.

“Good: for it was my intention to choose the route towards Dover,” added Mr. Hatfield. “And now one word more, Arthur,” he continued, the moment Villiers had left the room to give the necessary orders respecting the horses: “as it is probable that we may recover and reclaim my self-willed son--and as, in that case, penitence on his part might induce you to forgive this absurd freak, so that the result may yet be favourable to our nearest and dearest wishes,--under all these circumstances, I say, suffer not Frances to learn aught disparaging to his character.”

“I understand you, Thomas,” exclaimed the Earl, wringing his half-brother’s hand in token of cordial assent to this proposition. “I will even speak as warily and cautiously as I may to my wife;--while, on your side----”

“Oh! I must tell every thing to Georgiana,” said Mr. Hatfield: “suspense and uncertainty would be intolerable to her. I shall now seek her for the purpose of making a hasty but most sad communication: and then away in pursuit of the ingrate!”

A quarter of an hour afterwards, the Earl of Ellingham, Mr. Hatfield, and Clarence Villiers--all three equipped for their journeys--repaired to the nobleman’s stables in the immediate vicinity of the mansion;--and thence they speedily issued forth, well mounted, and each taking a separate direction.

CXLI. THE FLIGHT

Upon breaking away from the presence of his father, in the manner already described, Charles Hatfield hurried to the house in Suffolk Street; and bursting into the room where Mrs. Fitzhardinge and Perdita were seated at breakfast, he exclaimed, “I have at length thrown off all allegiance to my parents;--and I must now act wholly and solely for my own interests.”

“Not altogether for your own, Charles--dear Charles,” said Perdita, fixing upon him a plaintive and half-reproachful look, which made her appear ravishingly beautiful in his eyes.

“No--not altogether for myself will I act,” he cried, embracing her tenderly: “but for thee also, my angel--yes, for thee whom I love--adore--worship!”

“What has occurred this morning to render your lordship thus agitated?” enquired Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

“Oh! a quarrel with my father,” exclaimed Charles, who, in the enthusiasm of his blind devotion to Perdita, had forgotten the old woman’s presence. “He has played the part of a spy upon me--he has followed me to your door--he knows that I visit you--and he will doubtless endeavour to cause a breach between us!”

“Let us depart hence--now--at a moment’s warning!” cried Perdita. “We have ample funds for the purpose. Last night a money-lender discounted your note, Charles: and I have the proceeds safe in my own keeping.”

“Fortune favours us, then!” said the infatuated young man. “Yes--we will depart without delay: we will hasten to some retired place where we can deliberate, fearless of interruption, on the course which it will now be necessary for me to pursue.”

“I will hasten to order a past-chaise,” observed Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “This task had better be performed by myself--so that we may leave behind us no trace of the route we shall have taken.”

“Thanks--a thousand thanks, my dear madam!” cried Charles: then, when the old woman had left the room, he caught Perdita in his arms and pressing her fondly to his bosom, said, “My parents are resolved to force me into a marriage with Lady Frances Ellingham--they would separate me from you----”

“Oh! Charles--were such a destiny in store for me,” said Perdita, affecting to be melted to tears, “I should not be able to bear up against the misfortune. For on you are all my hopes now fixed,--to you have I given my heart--irrevocably given it;--and were you the veriest mendicant on the face of the earth, I would never cease to love you as now I love!”

“Adored Perdita!” cried the young man, enraptured by the tender words and the enchanting manner of the syren, as he strained her to his breast and imprinted a thousand kisses on her brow, her cheeks, and her lips. “Oh! never--never could I prove faithless to thee, my beloved Perdita! Would that you were mine indissolubly--that you were mine by the rites of the Church and the sanction of the law;--for then we might defy the world to separate us!”

“Would you have me renounce the peculiar opinions which I have formed?” asked Perdita, her heart palpitating with joy--for the young man had thus, of his own accord, broached the delicate subject on which she longed to speak, yet knew not how to begin. “Because, if such be your wish, my beloved Charles, I will make even the sacrifice of my strongest prejudices to your heart’s desire----”

“Now, indeed, do I know that you love me, sweetest--dearest girl!” interrupted Charles, experiencing ineffable happiness at the idea of possessing the beauteous Perdita on terms which would not render him ashamed of his connexion. “Yes--yes: I do demand that sacrifice at your hands;--and, if you yield to my wishes in this respect, I shall receive your assent as the most eloquent--the most convincing proof of the attachment you avow! And, moreover, Perdita--dearest, dearest Perdita--I shall be so rejoiced to place a coronet on that fair brow of thine,--so proud to present thee to the world as my wife! Never--never will enraptured husband have experienced a triumph so complete as that which will be mine, when I shall conduct thee--so radiant, so dazzling in thy beauty--amongst the friends whom the declaration of my rank will gather around me,--and when I shall introduce thee, adored one, as the Viscountess Marston! Yes--I shall indeed be proud of thee, my angel;--and now--will you not breathe the word that is to promise me all this triumph and all this joy?--will you not say, ‘Charles, for thy sake, I will accompany thee to the altar, and wed thee according to the rites of the Protestant Church and the exigences of the community!’”

“Oh! not for another instant can I hesitate, my well beloved--my handsome--my generous Charles!” exclaimed the syren, casting her arms round his neck, and pressing him as if in rapture to her glowing bosom: then, in the sweetest, most dulcet intonations of her melodious voice, she said, “Yes--Charles, for thy sake, I will accompany thee to the altar, and will wed thee according to the rites of the Protestant Church and the usages of that society in which we live!”

“Now am I supremely happy!” cried Charles Hatfield, his tone and manner fully corroborating his words. “We will repair to Paris, my beloved Perdita--for there we can be united by the chaplain of the British Embassy without an instant’s unnecessary delay; and thence also can I write to my father, solemnly and formally calling upon him to assert his right to the peerage which he has so long permitted his younger brother to usurp. And in Paris my Perdita will be the cynosure of all interest----”

“Oh! yes--let us visit that delightful city of which I have heard so much!” interrupted the young woman, her eyes gleaming resplendently with the pleasing sensations excited by the idea. “But I must now leave you for a moment, to prepare for this sudden journey--as my mother cannot be long before she returns.”

Perdita rose from the sofa, and hastened from the room, kissing her hand with playful fondness to her lover as she crossed the threshold. Even that simple action on her part excited the most ravishing feelings in his soul;--for as she thus turned round for an instant ere the door closed behind her, his looks swept all the fulness--all the contours--all the rich proportions of her voluptuous form,--while the morning sun-light, rosy from the hues of the hangings through which it penetrated, shone on her beauteous countenance, giving splendour to the fine large eyes, freshness to the vermilion lips, and a halo to her glossy hair!

She disappeared; and Charles, who had risen from his seat simultaneously with herself, advanced to the window. The street was quiet;--but the sounds of the rapid vehicles in Cockspur Street met his ears;--and he wondered whether the post-chaise were yet approaching the dwelling.

This idea led him to ponder on the step which he was about to take;--and a sensation of sadness slowly crept upon him, as he reflected that he was on the point of leaving his home--abandoning his parents and friends! The recollection of his mother smote him--smote him painfully;--and yet he did not seek by inward, silent reasoning to improve this better state of feeling, and act upon its warnings. No:--with that perverseness which so frequently characterises those who are on the point of adopting a measure which they secretly know to be injudicious and unwisely precipitate--even if no worse,--he sought in sophistry and specious mental argument an apology for his conduct. Again he reminded himself that his parents had acted unnaturally towards him,--and that their uniform conduct in this respect had now been followed up by harshness, upbraidings, menaces, and espionnage, on the part of his father. Then he feasted his imagination with the thoughts of possessing Perdita:--in a few days she would be his--irrevocably his, and in a manner which would enable him to present her proudly to the world as his wedded wife. From this strain of meditations he glided into glorious, gorgeous, visions of future greatness:--the words, “My Lord,” and “Your Lordship,” only so recently addressed to him, sounded like delicious music in his ears;--and his painful reflections were subdued by the feelings of triumph now once more awakened within him. Love--ambition--hope,--all--all his yearnings, all his cravings were now on the point of being gratified: he should cast off that parental yoke which had latterly weighed so heavily upon him;--he was about to visit Paris--he would appear as a Viscount, and with a beauteous bride, in the sphere of fashion the most refined, elegance the most perfect, and civilisation the most consummate,--and he already fancied himself walking in the delicious gardens of the Tuileries, with Perdita--the observed of all observers--leaning fondly on his arm!

These visions--sweeping like a gorgeous pageantry through his excited imagination--brought him to that state of mind, in which all regrets were banished--all remorse was forgotten;--and when Perdita returned to the apartment, ready attired for the journey, he flew towards her--he wound his arms around her wasp-like waist, and pressed her enthusiastically to his bosom.

This was the first time that he had seen her in a walking-dress;--and he thought that she even appeared more ravishingly beautiful than when in her morning déshabillée, or her drawing-room garb. The pink crape bonnet, adorned with artificial flowers, set off her fine countenance with such admirable effect:--the flowing drapery of the elegant summer-shawl meandered over the proportions of the symmetrical form--developing each contour with its wavy undulations:--and the straw-coloured kid gloves, fitting tightly to a fault, described the shape of the beautiful tapering fingers.

“You are lovely beyond the loveliness of woman!” murmured Charles Hatfield, surveying her with an admiration the most unfeigned--the most sincere.

“And you, Charles--are not you my own handsome, dearly beloved Charles--so soon to be my husband?” asked Perdita. “You said just now that you should be proud to present me as your wife to your friends:--Oh! I feel--yes, I feel that I shall also be proud to be so presented. My mind seems to have undergone a complete change since I made you that promise to wed you at the altar;--and you must forget, dear Charles, that I ever wished it otherwise!”

Hatfield, for all answer, impressed a burning kiss upon her rosy lips;--and the young woman’s eyes became soft and melting in expression--voluptuous and languid with desire.

At this instant her mother returned, with the announcement that the post-chaise would be at the door in less than a quarter of an hour; and the old woman hastened to the bed-rooms to pack up the trunks. Her daughter, who kept the purse, then gave her the necessary money to liquidate all liabilities due to the landlady of the house; and while this was being done, Perdita placed the gold and Bank-notes in Charles’s hand, saying, “In the excitement of the morning’s incidents I forgot to tender you this amount before.”

“Henceforth all that I have is yours equally, my beloved,” said the young man, as he secured the money about his person.

The post-chaise-and-four now appeared; and while the trunks were being strapped on to the vehicle, Mrs. Fitzhardinge superintended the process, apparently with the bustling officiousness of an old woman of particular habits, but in reality to prevent any communication between the post-boys and the people of the dwelling;--for she knew how inquisitive lodging-house keepers were apt to be, and that postilions were proportionately communicative.

At length all the arrangements were completed;--Charles handed his Perdita into the vehicle--manifested the same politeness towards the old mother--and then entered it himself. Mrs. Fitzhardinge had placed herself with her back to the horses, on an imperious sign from Perdita to that effect;--so that the young couple were next to each other on the same seat.

The post-chaise rolled rapidly away from Suffolk Street, and passed down Whitehall towards Westminster Bridge. So long as the wheels rattled over the stones, but little conversation took place inside the vehicle,--though Charles and Perdita conveyed to each other many tender assurances by means of the eloquent language of the eyes and the pressure of hands. When, however, the chaise emerged from the more crowded, thoroughfares of the metropolis, and entered upon the Dover Road, the travelling party were enabled to discourse at ease.

The day was very sultry;--but the upper part of the barouche was now thrown open; and the speed at which they travelled, created a current of air that mitigated the intensity of the heat. However, Perdita put up her parasol; and as the faces of the happy pair were not very far apart, the silk canopy, circumscribed though it were, shaded those fine countenances which really seemed made to be side by side with each other,--both being so handsome!

For a short time the conversation was general amongst the three:--gradually, however, Mrs. Fitzhardinge was, as it were, excluded from its range--not rudely so,--but because it became of a tender description between the young gentleman and her daughter;--and then it languished somewhat, inasmuch as the old woman was a restraint upon them.

At length there was a pause altogether; but still Charles and Perdita felt no weariness in each other’s society. They gazed on each other--drinking draughts of love in each other’s looks,--and often pressing each other’s hands

For Perdita really loved the young man,--loved him with a deep and ardent affection, of which however sensuality formed no inconsiderable portion. Nevertheless, she did love him after the fashion of her own heart;--and thus to some extent the snarer had become ensnared!

It was in a humour of melting and voluptuous languor, that, suddenly breaking the silence noticed above, Perdita said in her soft, dulcet tones, “Charles, how delicious is it to travel in this manner! Do you know that I feel as if I should like you to repeat to me a piece of poetry--or tell me some interesting tale--for it is so sweet to hear the sound of your voice. But if you thus gratify my caprice--this whim of the moment--let the theme of your recitation be love!”

“I will endeavour to please you, my charmer,” returned the young man;--“and at this moment I bethink me of a Love Story that I wrote myself some few years ago--one day, when the mania for scribbling suddenly seized upon me.”

“Oh! that will be truly delightful!” exclaimed Perdita. “A story of your own composition! Begin, Charles--dear Charles: I am dying to hear this specimen of your abilities.”

“I am afraid it will prove but a poor one,” returned Hatfield. “At the same time, such as it is, I will repeat it.”

Mrs. Fitzhardinge, having overheard this dialogue, intimated the pleasure she should experience in listening to the tale;--and as the chaise was now rolling along a road rendered, as it were, soft by the accumulation of the dust of summer, Charles was not compelled to pitch his voice to a key unpleasantly high, in relating the ensuing narrative.