CHAPTER CLII.

THE FATHER, THE SON, AND THE SON’S WIFE.

The magnificent creature whom Mr. Hatfield now beheld for the first time, had perhaps never shone to greater advantage than on the present occasion.

She was absolutely dazzling--radiant--supernally grand, in all the glory of her queen-like beauty.

A French cambric wrapper, worked, and trimmed with costly lace, enveloped her form--fitting loosely, yet defining all the rich contours of her voluptuous shape;--and, though--having risen hurriedly almost immediately after awakening--she had no stays on, the natural firmness of her bust maintained its rounded proportions without any artificial support.

We have before said that her early initiation in a career of wantonness and the licentious course which she had pursued in Australia, had marred nothing of the first freshness of youth in respect to her;--and thus, though her wrapper was so far open at the bosom as to show that the glowing orbs of snowy whiteness were unsustained by the usual article of apparel, their contours were of virgin roundness.

Her dark brown hair had been hastily gathered up in two massive bands, silken and glossy, and serving as a frame to set off the height and width of the fine forehead, which rose above brows arching majestically, and almost meeting between the temples.

Her cheeks were slightly flushed with a carnation hue;--her large grey eyes shone brilliantly, and appeared to give a halo of light to her whole countenance;--her moist red lips, parted with a smile of happiness and satisfaction, revealed the teeth so perfectly regular and of such pearly whiteness;--and her neck arched proudly and with swan-like grace.

One arm hung negligently, but slightly rounded, by her side: the other, thrown across her form just above the waist, kept the folds of the wrapper together;--and from beneath the skirt of that elegant, tasteful garment, of almost gauzy lightness and transparency, peeped forth the beautifully-modelled ankles in their flesh-coloured silk stockings, and the charming feet in their embroidered slippers of pale blue satin.

Though, as we have before stated, she was not above the middle height, yet there was something truly regal and commanding in her deportment--something more than graceful and less than imperious in her carriage, and, altogether, she appeared a being to whom it would not be idolatrous to kneel.

On the contrary,--prejudiced and naturally inveterate as he was against her, Mr. Hatfield could well comprehend, even at the first glance which he threw upon her, how a young man of enthusiastic disposition and keen sensibility might love that enchanting creature with a devotion amounting to a worship.

The apartment was large and beautifully furnished,--the uncarpetted floor of oak was polished almost to mirror-like brightness,--vast looking-glasses, set in splendid frames, were suspended to the walls,--a massive or-molu time-piece and handsome porcelain vases filled with flowers freshly gathered that morning, stood on the mantel,--and through the casements, which reached from the ceiling to the floor, and which were only partially shaded by muslin curtains, flowed the gorgeous lustre of the cloudless sun, so that the room seemed filled with a transparent and impalpable haze of gold-dust.

Thus the whole aspect of that large and lofty apartment was magnificent and rich, bright and joyous;--and, had the minds of the father and son at the instant been in a different mood, they would have felt thrilled with admiration and delight at the presence of the magnificent creature who now entered an atmosphere so congenially glorious and sunny.

It seemed as if the beauteous being herself were surrounded with a golden halo,--as if the perfume of the freshly gathered flowers were the delicious fragrance of her breath,--as if the delicate feet and ankles bore her glancingly along a polished surface which she scarcely appeared to touch; while the immense mirrors multiplied the voluptuous form, as though other and kindred houris were moving about in attendance on their queen.

The effulgence of the warm sun played on her shining hair, as if a glory sate on that exquisitely shaped head,--gave additional brightness to the eyes that flashed with the natural fire of joy,--and rendered the fine and faultless countenance radiant and dazzling in its surpassing beauty.

Were that a room in a palatial dwelling,--were it an empress making her appearance,--and were the two men courtiers awaiting her presence, the effect could not have been more grand--more striking,--and the courtiers would have fallen on their knees in mute adoration of a being that seemed almost divine!

But, alas! circumstances marred all those fine effects which the transcendant charms of a lovely woman might have produced;--for the soul of this woman corresponded not with her captivating exterior,--it was dark and hideous--inspiring horrible thoughts, and suggesting ideas of a nature so sinister, sombre, and gloomy, as to throw into the shade all the glory of the outward loveliness.

But, unsuspicious of the storm which was about to explode against her, Perdita entered that room;--and the influence of a night of love and voluptuousness and of elysian dreams lingered upon her countenance in the smile that it wore.

She had slept for nearly an hour after Charles Hatfield had risen so noiselessly from her side in the nuptial couch;--and when she at length awoke, she imagined that her young husband had been unwilling to disturb her when he himself arose. Nevertheless, she determined to seek him ere she passed through the routine of the toilette;--and hastily fastening up her hair, and assuming a slight apparel, she had proceeded to the sitting-room where she supposed him to be.

And there indeed he was: but not alone!

Still, when Perdita, on first entering the apartment, beheld _another person_ with him whom she sought, she had no suspicion of the real truth, but imagined it must be some friend who had found out her husband’s residence in Paris and had perhaps called to congratulate him on his bridal.

Thus was it that her countenance wore that delicious expression of pleasure and satisfaction, as she advanced towards Charles and _that other_;--and it was not until she was within a few paces of them, that she observed the foreboding looks which they cast upon her--even the aversion and the hate with which they _both_ regarded her!

Then she stopped suddenly short, her countenance undergoing an immediate change--the smile disappearing, and giving place to an expression of proud defiance and haughty contempt; though she was still unconscious of the nature of the storm that she saw lowering so ominously.

“Charles, who is this person?” she demanded, indicating Mr. Hatfield with a movement of the head, accompanied by a slight inflection of the whole form--a gesture which would have become a queen.

“My father,” answered the young man quietly;--and he turned away towards the mantel-piece.

For an instant Perdita seemed shocked by this announcement;--but in the next moment, as the thought swept across her brain that it was impossible for Mr. Hatfield to know aught seriously detrimental to her character, she crossed the room in a majestic manner, and, laying her long tapered fingers gently upon her husband’s arm, said, “Is it possible that the remonstrances of your father should have induced you to repent of this alliance,--_you_, who have sworn to love and cherish me in spite of parents and all the world beside?”

“When a man discovers that he has taken a reptile to his bosom,” said Charles, the words hissing through his almost set teeth, “he flings it away from him. He _ought_ to crush it beneath his heel!”

The last sentence was added after a moment’s pause, and ere Perdita, who was astounded at the tone, and manner, and words of her husband, had regained the power of utterance so as to enable her lips to shape a comment or a reply.

“Is it to me that this insulting allusion applies?” she demanded at length--her countenance becoming ashy pale, and her lips quivering with the rage which she still sought to subdue.

“It is to you that I addressed myself,” exclaimed Charles, now turning round and confronting the woman whom he had lately loved with such madness, and whom he now loathed with such savage aversion. “Vile--polluted--wanton thing,” he cried, unabashed--undismayed by the lightning glances that flashed from her wildly dilating orbs: “the mask is torn from your face as the film from my eyes--and I am no longer your dupe, though, alas! I am perhaps still your victim! I know all--all--every thing,--the depravity of your past life--the hypocrisy of your present course:--all--all is now revealed to me. Your evil fame has followed you from beyond the seas;--it overtook you on the Marine Parade at Dover;--and it now attaches itself for ever to your steps, in the capital of France. Oh! my God--how cruelly, how miserably have I been deceived!”

And the young man darted a glance of savage hatred upon the woman who, pale and motionless as a marble statue, seemed petrified by the crushing truths that fell upon her ears.

Meantime Mr. Hatfield stood aloof, with folded arms--listening to the words that his son addressed to Perdita, and marking their effect.

“That you were born in Newgate--of a woman condemned to death for felony, and then reprieved,--_this_ was no fault of yours,” continued Charles, in a slow and measured tone--for he sought as much as possible to prevent a violent outburst of the rage that boiled within him:--“that the mystic name of _Perdita_, or ‘The Lost One,’ should have proved prophetic of your after life, you also could not help;--and that, amongst the felonry of New South Wales, you should have become polluted--contaminated--and indeed _lost_, was perhaps a fate for which you are rather to be pitied than blamed. But here all sympathy ceases for you! Wherefore, on your arrival in England, did you seek _me_ out to become your victim?--wherefore did your wretched mother dog my footsteps--accost me--ensnare me into a discourse to which she imparted a mysterious interest--and then lead me into your presence? Why did you open the battery of all your meretricious charms upon me?--why cast your spells around me--wean my affections from an estimable young lady who is white as snow compared with the blackness of _your_ soul--and lead me on until the crowning act of ruin was accomplished yesterday in the Chapel of the British Embassy?”

“I have heard you with patience--and if you possess the generosity of a man and an Englishman, you will give me an equal share of your attention,” said Perdita, who, during her husband’s address, had recovered all her wonted presence of mind--though her heart was wounded in its very core. “It is true that I was born in Newgate--that I deceived you respecting the origin of my Christian name--and that I escaped not the contamination of a far-off clime into which my sad destinies threw me. But when my mother, for reasons which I think she made satisfactorily apparent to you, sought an interview with you,--and when that circumstance introduced us to each other, did you not proffer me your friendship of your own accord?--did you not next assure me that this sentiment had changed to the feeling of love?--did you not implore me, almost on your knees, to become your wife at the altar--I, who in the first instance had proposed and agreed to become your mistress only? And then you dare to speak of our marriage as the crowning act of you ruin,--that marriage on which you yourself so imploringly--so earnestly--so solemnly insisted?”

“Oh! yes--because I deemed you pure and virtuous!” exclaimed Charles, almost gnashing his teeth as the words of Perdita reminded him of all the arts which she had practised to ensnare him--all the sophistry she had used to make herself appear in his eyes every thing that she was _not_.

“Was it to be supposed,” she asked, impatiently and haughtily,--that shameless Perdita--“was it to be supposed that I would reveal to you the incidents of my past life? And yet, even if I had, I do firmly and sincerely believe that you would still have made me your wife!”

“No--never, never!” cried Charles, his voice and manner expressing loathing, abhorrence, and indignation. “But let us not bandy words thus. I have intelligence which--lost and depraved as you are, and vilely as you have treated me--I nevertheless grieve to have to convey to you,--for I cannot, even in my anger and hate, forget that you are a woman.”

“And that intelligence?” demanded Perdita, suffering not her countenance nor her manner to betray the deep curiosity and the suspense which her husband’s words had suddenly excited within her bosom.

“The intelligence regards your mother, and explains her mysterious disappearance at Dover,” continued Charles, who, as well as his father, now intensely watched the young woman’s countenance.

“Speak on!” she said, not a muscle of her face betraying any emotion:--and still she stood motionless and statue-like.

“Your mother was arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of Mr. Percival, the money-lender whom you represented to me as the discounter of my promissory note;”--and, as Charles uttered these words in slow and measured tones, he maintained his eyes fixed upon the pale but unchanging features of his wife.

“Then my mother has been accused of that whereof she is innocent,” said Perdita, in a voice so firm and resolute, yet devoid of passion, that her hearers felt convinced she was practising no artifice now. “It is true that Percival discounted your note: I myself received the money--and you can doubtless give your father a satisfactory explanation relative to the expenditure of the portion that is gone. If Percival have indeed met his death by violent means, it was not by the hands of two weak women that he fell.”

“Thank heaven! _this_ crime at least cannot, then, be attributed to you,” said Charles. “There must be enough upon your conscience without _that_!”

“And have _you_ nothing wherewith to reproach yourself?” demanded Perdita, still maintaining that majesty of demeanour which, with her now marble-like features, her motionless attitude, and her fine form enveloped in drapery that fell in classic plaits and graceful folds around her, gave her the air of a statue of Diana the Huntress or of Juno Queen of Heaven. “Have you inflicted no injury upon me?” she asked. “Yes--yes: and I will convince you that your conduct has been far from blameless in that respect. You loved me--loved me almost from the first instant that you beheld me. Yours was not a tranquil--serene--and sickly sensation: it was a fury--a wild passion--a delirium--a species of hurricane of the strongest, most fervent emotions. I was all--every thing to you: parents--family--friends,--Oh! you cared for none of these in comparison with me. The holiest ties you would have broken--the most sacred bonds you would have snapped--the most solemn obligations you would have violated, sooner than have resigned your hope of possessing me! All this is true--and you know it. Your love amounted to a madness--a frenzy, capable of the most unheard-of sacrifices, and as likely to hurry you into the most desperate extremes. For had I provoked your jealousy, you would have murdered me: had I fled and abandoned you, you would have pined to death--or committed suicide. In fine, yours was no common love--no ordinary affection. Poets never dreamt and novelists never depicted a love so boundless--so absorbing--so immense as yours. And what could result from such a love as this! The consequence was inevitable;--and that consequence was that I, who had never loved before, received into my soul a transfusion of the spirit that animated _you_. You were so happy in your love, that my imagination doubtless longed to revel in the same paradise which you had created for yourself;--and I was taught by you to love as profoundly and as well. In a word, you ensnared my heart--you obtained a hold upon my affections; and, as there is a living God above us! I swear that when you led me to the altar, you loved me not better than I loved you. And this love which I experienced for you, would have made me a good wife--a sincere friend--a conscientious adviser. I should have entered upon a new existence; and my soul would have become purified. True it is that I gave to the marriage-bed a body that was polluted and unchaste: but I gave also a heart that was wholly and solely thine;--and from the instant that our hands were united by the minister of God, it would have proved as impossible for me to have played the wanton with another as that the infant child should harbour thoughts of villainy and murder. Now you have learnt the antecedents of my life--and your love is suddenly changed into hatred. But did you not take me for better or worse?--did you not wed me, because you loved me!--did you not espouse me for myself alone! Oh! you should pity me for the past--and cherish me at present and for the future: and your conscience tells you thus much even now!”

Charles Hatfield, who had listened with deep and solemn interest,--for his soul was absolutely enchained by this strange display of natural eloquence,--now shook his head impatiently.

“No! Then mark how fatal your love will have proved to me,” exclaimed Perdita. “You cast me off--you put me away from you;--and yet you cannot give me back the heart which you have ensnared. Wherefore--wherefore did you bring to bear upon me the influence of your ardent love, unless you were prepared to make every sacrifice unto the end? I am young--I am beautiful--and I might gain a high and a proud position by means of marriage: but, no--I am chained to _you_--and _you_ are intent upon discarding me! Now reflect well on the probable consequences of this proceeding on your part,” continued Perdita, her melodious voice gathering energy, and a tinge of rose-bud hue appearing on her cheeks and gradually deepening into a flush,--while her eyes shone with a lustre that gave an almost unearthly radiance to her entire countenance: “reflect well, I say,” she repeated, “on the probable consequences of the resolution which you have taken. As your wife, and dwelling with you as such, I should have clung to you--loved you with unceasing devotion--exerted all my powers to retain your esteem. Nay, more--in time I should have won your good opinion by my _actions_--as I had already secured it by my _words_. Amongst the entire community of women, there would have been none more exemplary than I;--and thus your love would have proved a saving influence--valuable to society at large, and blessed by the Almighty Ruler whom you worship. But how changed are these prospects! You are prepared to discard me--to thrust me away from your presence--to push me out into the great world, where I must battle for myself. _There_ I shall find my circumstances terribly---fearfully altered from what they were before your lips whispered the delicious but fatal tale of love in mine ears. For if I retain your name, I thereby proclaim myself a divorced wife: if I pass myself off as an unmarried young lady, I shall not dare to accept proposals for an alliance, be it never so advantageous--because the fear of a prosecution for bigamy would hang over my head. Will you, then, forgive me for the past, and receive me as an affectionate wife and reformed woman to your arms?--or will you send me forth, an outcast--with ruined hopes, blighted prospects, and a damaged character?”

Gradually, as she approached the end of this speech, Perdita had suffered her voice to lose its energy and its firmness, and grow tender, pathetic, and mournful--until at the close of her appeal, it became tremulously plaintive and profoundly touching,--while her form simultaneously relaxed from its statue-like rigidity--the head slightly inclining, the body bending in the least degree forward, and the hands joining as the last words fell from her lips.

For an instant Charles was about to yield to the appeal commenced with a dignity so well assumed, and terminated with a tenderness so well affected; but, at the critical moment, Mr. Hatfield, who had hitherto remained a mute spectator of this extraordinary scene, stepped forward, exclaiming, “No--no; a compromise of such a nature is impossible! Charles, the sophistry is indeed most specious--but the peril is likewise tremendous!”

“Yes--yes,” cried the young man, instantly recovering his presence of mind: “I told you, father, that she was a Circe--a Syren,--and now you have ample proofs of the assertion.”

While he was yet speaking, the appearance of Perdita underwent a rapid and signal change. She suddenly seemed to throw off the air of a suppliant, as if she were discarding a mean garment that was unbecoming and abhorrent: her cheeks acquired a deeper flush, her eyes a more dazzling brilliancy;--the blue veins in her forehead grew more clearly traceable--her nostrils dilated--her lips wreathed into an expression of sovereign disdain--and her entire form appeared to expand into more majestic proportions.

A moment before she had seemed a voluptuous beauty, in the melting softness of an appeal for pardon at love’s shrine: now she stood in the presence of the father and son,--proud--haughty--and magnificent as Juno,--and armed with authority to wield the lightning-shafts and the thunderbolts of Jove.

“Let us think of peace no more,” she exclaimed: “but war--terrible war,--war to the knife! Cast me off--thrust me from you--denounce me as the wanton Perdita--proclaim me to be born of a felon, and to have first seen the light in Newgate,--do all this if you will: I shall not the less remain your wife, Charles--and, as your wife, I am ennobled,--I bear the proud title of _Viscountess Marston_!”

“Miserable woman,” cried Mr. Hatfield: “you deceive yourself--even as Charles has been by himself deceived! For know that he is illegitimate----”

“’Tis false! you would delude--you would mislead me!” exclaimed Perdita, who, in spite of the tone of confidence in which she uttered these ejaculations, was painfully affected by the revelation that had elicited them.

“It is true--too true!” cried Charles, with a bitterness that carried conviction to the mind of Perdita.

“Then if I cannot proclaim myself to be Viscountess Marston,” she said, concealing with a desperate and painful effort the shock which she had just experienced,--“I can still have my revenge against you both;--for if _my_ mother were a felon, Charles, _your_ father was the same--if _I_ were born in Newgate, the author of _your_ being has passed through the hands of the public executioner!”

“Fiend--wretch!” ejaculated the young man, springing forward as if about to dash her on the floor and trample her under foot.

But the hand of his father suddenly grasped him as in an iron vice, and held him back; and all the while Perdita had maintained her ground--shrinking not a step, retreating not a pace.

“Coward!” she exclaimed, in a tone of ineffable contempt, as she kept her eyes--her large, shining grey eyes--fixed with disdain upon him whom she had lately loved so fervently and so well.

“Charles--Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in an imploring voice, as he held his son firmly by both arms,--“merit not by your actions that infamous woman’s reproaches. I was prepared for what she dared to address to me----”

“Oh! my dear father, this is terrible!” murmured the young man, who felt a faintness coming over him, as the words which Perdita had spoken concerning his parent still rang in his ears, and as he observed the deadly pallor which had spread over that parent’s countenance.

“Compose yourself, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, conducting him to a seat: then, turning round and accosting Perdita, he exclaimed, “Madam, let us treat this most unpleasant affair as a purely business-matter: in short, let us effect an arrangement which may be proper and suitable for both parties--the basis being the immediate separation of yourself and my son.”

“Yes--I have no longer any objection to offer to that proposal,” said Perdita; “for after his attempt to strike me, I despise even more than I hate him.”

“And just now,” exclaimed the young man, starting from his seat, “you declared that I possessed your heart. Oh! I am rejoiced that you have admitted your hatred towards me--because I have thereby received another proof of your boundless duplicity.”

Perdita smiled scornfully--but deigned no reply.

“Leave the affair in my hands, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in an authoritative tone: then, observing with satisfaction that his son returned to his seat, the father addressed himself once more to Perdita, who remained standing near the mantel. “Madam,” he continued, “you have already heard that the bright hopes in which your husband had indulged, and the golden visions which he had conjured up, are all destroyed by the revelation which I have this morning made to him,--the revelation of the _one_ fatal secret--his illegitimacy! Instead, then, of being _Viscount Marston_ at present and _Earl of Ellingham_ in perspective, he is still plain and simple _Charles Hatfield_--and so he is likely to remain. By consequence, you, madam, are _Mrs. Hatfield_--and not _Viscountess Marston_ now, nor with any chance of becoming _Countess of Ellingham_. If you require proofs of what I am now telling you, I can exhibit them at once;--for, knowing beforehand the nature of the delusions in which my son had cradled his fancy, and the necessity of destroying them, I set out on this journey provided with several papers of importance. For instance,” continued Mr. Hatfield, taking forth his pocket-book; “here is the certificate of my marriage with Lady Georgiana Hatfield--and you may at once perceive by the date how impossible it is that our son could have been born in wedlock.”

While thus speaking, Mr. Hatfield had sunk his voice to the lowest audible whisper--so that Perdita alone heard him: for the revelation he was making was of a most painful nature, although rendered imperatively necessary under the circumstances.

Perdita glanced rapidly over the certificate, and bit her lip with a vexation she could no longer conceal;--for that document effectually set at rest the question of her husband’s legitimacy or illegitimacy; and she indeed found that instead of gaining a noble title by marriage, she had formed an alliance with an obscure young man who was dependant on his parents for even a morsel of bread.

“It now remains for you to decide whether you choose to proclaim yourself, wherever you go, to be the wife of Mr. Charles Hatfield;--or whether you will think fit to resume your maiden name--or any other that may suit your purposes--and maintain a strict silence henceforth relative to this most unfortunate alliance.”

Thus spoke Mr. Hatfield;--and Perdita appeared to be plunged in deep thought for a few minutes.

“And what are the conditions you annex to those alternatives?” she asked at length, fixing her eyes, which now shone with a subdued and sombre lustre, in a penetrating manner upon Mr. Hatfield’s countenance--as if she would _there_ read the reply to her question even before his lips could frame it.

“If you proclaim yourself my son’s wife,” said he, meeting her look firmly and speaking resolutely, “I shall spare no expense in bringing the whole transaction before the proper tribunals in England, with the ultimate view of enabling him to obtain a divorce; and in this case I should not allow you one single farthing--no, not even to save you from starvation.”

“And have you not reflected,” asked Perdita, in a tone and with a gesture indicative of superb disdain,--“have you not reflected that a judicial investigation must inevitably lay bare all the tremendous secrets connected with yourself and family?--for you cannot suppose, that if you commence the part of a persecutor against _me_, I shall evince any forbearance towards _you_! No--it would be, as I said just now, a terrible warfare--a warfare to the very death,--and in which human ingenuity would rack itself to discover and set in motion all possible means of a fearful vengeance.”

“I have weighed all this,” said Mr. Hatfield, calmly; “and I have resolved to dare exposure of every kind--nay, to sacrifice myself, if necessary--in order to save my son.”

“And now for the conditions annexed to the second alternative?” said Perdita, maintaining a remarkable coolness and self-possession, although in the secret recesses of her soul she harboured the conviction that the triumph was as yet on the other side, and that she must end by accepting the best terms she could obtain.

“If you will sign a paper, undertaking never to represent yourself as my son’s wife,” said Mr. Hatfield,--“never to molest him in any way--never to return to England, but to fix your abode in some continental state,--and lastly, that you will retain inviolably secret not only the fact of this most inauspicious marriage, but likewise all matters connected with myself and family,--if you affix your name to such a document,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “I will immediately pay you the sum of one thousand pounds, and I will allow you five hundred pounds a year so long as the convention shall be duly kept on your part.”

“And should you happen to die before me?” said Perdita, her manner now being of that cold, passionless nature which rendered it impossible for Mr. Hatfield to conjecture what sort of an impression his alternatives and their conditions had made upon her mind: “for you must remember,” she added, “that such an event is to be reckoned upon in the common course of nature.”

“Granted,” was the prompt reply. “My will shall contain a clause enjoining and empowering my executors to continue the payment of your income, from a fund especially sunk for the purpose, so long as your conduct shall be in accordance with the conditions stipulated.”

“And am I to understand that if I leave your son unmolested, I shall remain unmolested also!” demanded Perdita.

“I scarcely comprehend you,” said Mr. Hatfield, evidently perplexed.

“I mean,” replied Perdita, in a slow and measured tone, so that her words could not be misapprehended nor their sense mistaken,--“I mean that if I go forth into the world again as Miss Fitzhardinge, or Miss Fitzgerald, or any other name I may choose to take,--and if, receiving a suitable offer of marriage, I contract such an alliance,--I mean, then, to ask whether I may calculate upon acting thus with impunity at your hands?”

“My God! what interest can I have to molest you in any way?” cried Mr. Hatfield. “Would to heaven that you could both of you sign a paper effectually emancipating you from any claim on each other in respect to this accursed--this miserable marriage.”

“You are now speaking with unnecessary excitement, sir, after having reproved your son for the same fault--and also after having yourself proposed to discuss this matter in a purely business-like manner,” said Perdita, her lip curling slightly with an expression of scornful triumph.

“True, madam,” observed Mr. Hatfield, who, throughout this dialogue--since his son had remained seated apart--had treated Perdita with a perfect though frigid courtesy: “I was in error to give way to any intemperance of tone or manner--and I ask your pardon. You have now heard all that I have to propose----”

“And I accept the conditions,” she said. “Indeed, I shall be happy for this scene to terminate as speedily as possible.”

“A few minutes’ more will suffice, madam,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “If you will have the kindness to provide me with writing-materials, I shall not be compelled to intrude on you much longer.”

Perdita bowed slightly: and quitted the room,--not in haste--but with stately demeanour and measured tread, as if she were merely a consenting party to a business-transaction, and not a vanquished one on whom conditions had been imposed.

The moment the door closed behind her, Mr. Hatfield said to his son, “That woman is indeed a prodigy of beauty, and a very demon at heart. What an angelic creature would she have been were she as pure and virtuous as she is lovely!”

“Ah! my dear father,” returned Charles, who appeared to be completely spirit-broken and overwhelmed by the terrible occurrences and revelations of this memorable morning,--“you can now comprehend, perhaps,--at least to some extent,--the nature of that infatuation which I experienced in respect to this singular being. The world has never seen her equal for beauty and for wickedness.”

“The sooner you are removed from the sphere of her fatal influence, the better,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “When she re-appears, do you quit the room, and hasten as much as possible your preparations to depart with _me_.”

“Fear not, my dear father,” responded Charles, “that I shall, of my own accord, interpose any delay. But the papers--she will surrender them----”

“As a matter of course. You may have observed,” added the parent, “that, in spite of her haughty coldness, she was subdued and vanquished.”

At this instant the door opened, and Perdita returned, bearing her writing-desk in her hands.

Her countenance, though flushed, and thus presenting a striking contrast to its colourless appearance some time before, gave no indication of the nature of her feelings: impossible was it to judge of the emotions that might occupy her bosom, by that which is wont to be denominated the mirror of the soul.

Her step was still measured and stately, while her attitude was graceful; and, as she advanced towards the table--passing through the golden flood of lustre that filled the room--the waving of her white drapes; gave an additional charm to the undulating nature of her motion.

From beneath her richly fringed lids, while affecting to keep her eyes half bent downward as if on the rose-wood desk which she carried, she darted a rapid glance at Mr. Hatfield--and then her look dwelt the least thing more lingeringly on her husband, who had risen from his seat and was leaning on the mantel.

By a natural effect of curiosity,--perhaps also in obedience to a last remaining particle of that immense love which he had so lately borne her,--Charles Hatfield likewise glanced towards her from beneath his half-closed lids, and also while he wished to appear as if fixing his gaze downward:--thus their looks met--unavoidably met,--and the blood rushed to the countenance of the young man, as he felt overwhelmed with shame, and bitterly indignant with himself, for having given way to this momentary proof of weakness.

On the other hand, a smile of triumph,--though faint, and perceptible only to her husband--not to his father, who saw not with eyes that had once looked love towards _her_,--curled the rich red lips of Perdita; and she thought within herself, “Even in the bitterness of your hate, the power of my charms revives a spark, albeit an evanescent one, of the fires that were wont to burn within your breast in adoration of me!”

All this dumb show--this mute expression of the strangest, and yet the most natural feelings on either side, occupied but a few moments;--and then, as Perdita placed the desk upon the table, Charles turned to quit the room.

“Here are writing materials, sir,” she said to Mr. Hatfield, not choosing to appear to notice the departure of her husband; for all the pride of this extraordinary woman was aroused to a degree which in a being of lesser energy would have been totally incompatible with the frightful exposure that had been made of her depravity and deceit.

But the consciousness of possessing the loveliness of an Angel rose superior to the shame of being proved to be endowed with the profligacy of a Demon: the knowledge that she was so pre-eminently beautiful was for her a triumph and a glory which, in her estimation, threw into the shade the certainty of her wantonness and guile;--she flattered herself and fancied that, even were her true character revealed in its proper colours to all the world, the darkness of her soul would be absorbed and rendered invisible by the transcendant brilliancy of her outward charms.

Thus, even in the presence of the husband to whom she was unmasked, and of the indignant father who had unmasked her, the pride of her loveliness enabled her to maintain that haughty demeanour which we have explained;--for it was not Perdita who was likely to melt into tears--to supplicate for mercy--to acknowledge shame or remorse--or to kneel to those whom she now looked upon as her enemies. Unless, indeed, she had some grand object to accomplish, or some important end to gain;--and then she could veil her pride beneath an assumption of all the passions--all the emotions--and all the tender feelings which she might deem it expedient to affect.

To return to the thread of our narrative.

“Here are writing materials, sir,” she remarked, as she placed the desk upon the table: then, drawing a chair near, she seated herself in a calm and dignified manner, and with all the appearance of one who knew and felt that she had important business in hand.

Mr. Hatfield bowed--seated himself likewise--and proceeded to draw up a document including the conditions which he had already specified, and which the lady had agreed to.

While he was writing, Perdita kept her eyes fixed upon him, as if she could tell by the movement of the pen the very words it was forming, as the hand which held it travelled rapidly over the paper.

At length the document was finished; and Mr. Hatfield presented it to Perdita for her perusal. While she was engaged in reading it, he drew forth his pocket-book, and counted thence ten notes, each of a hundred pounds, upon the table.

“I have no objection to offer to this deed,” said Perdita, taking up the pen to sign it.

“Here is the amount promised,” said Mr. Hatfield; “and I will now give you an undertaking relative to the payment of the income which I have promised you.”

Perdita bowed coldly; and he immediately drew up the second paper.

“I must now request you to give me up all the _private documents_ which my son placed in your hands for safe keeping,” observed Mr. Hatfield.

“They are in the upper part of that desk--and you can take them,” said Perdita, without the least hesitation; for she was naturally prepared for this demand, and had no object to serve in refusing it.

She then signed her undertaking, while Mr. Hatfield possessed himself of the documents and looked them carefully over to ascertain that none were missing.

Having satisfied himself on this head, he gave Perdita the money and the undertaking which he had prepared; and thus terminated this strange business.

“I have now a few observations to make,” said Perdita; “but they are not of a nature to revive any unpleasant discussion. They concern matters entirely personal to myself. Although I have declared--and emphatically declare again--that my mother is innocent of the crime on suspicion of which you inform me that she has been arrested, the judicial investigation will naturally lead to a most unpleasant exposure of her _name_. It is therefore probable that my interests and views may be served by a change of _my name_--as I shall not of course bear that which the marriage-ceremony of yesterday gave to me. Should I adopt such a course, I will acquaint you by letter with the fact----”

“Pardon me for interrupting you, madam,” said Mr. Hatfield; “but I shall seek not to become acquainted with any particulars that may hereafter concern you. Every quarter you can draw upon me, through any banker, in any part of the world where you may happen to be; and you are at liberty to use any name you may think fit--save _one_. I shall know that the draft is yours; and you may rest assured that it will be duly honoured.”

“Then we have now no more to say to each other,” observed Perdita, rising from her seat, and mechanically drawing the muslin wrapper around her, in such a manner that it displayed all the full proportions of her fine figure.

Mr. Hatfield bowed a negative,--then immediately added, “But perhaps you will have no objection, madam, to remain here until my son shall have made his preparations for departure?”

“Oh! certainly.” cried the young woman, her lip curling haughtily. “Think not, sir, that I shall condescend to use any arts in order to win him back to me;--although well aware am I that if I chose to do so, I should speedily behold him languishing at my feet.”

Scarcely were these words uttered, when Rosalie entered the room, and addressing herself to Mr. Hatfield, said, “My master, sir, is waiting for you below.”

The abigail, who was evidently at a loss to comprehend the nature of all that was going on,--though she saw enough to convince her that something very uncommon and unusual was taking place,--retired as soon as she had delivered this message;--and Mr. Hatfield, as he glanced towards Perdita while bowing to take his leave, observed that her countenance had again grown marble-like with pallor.

For now that the conviction that Charles was really gone was forced upon her mind, a pang of regret struck to her heart,--regret to lose one--_the first_--whom she had ever really loved;--and for a few instants she felt as if all her affection for him had suddenly revived with tenfold violence.

But this weakness on her part was speedily dissipated: her pride resumed its empire,--and she remembered likewise that her connexion with him had not only put her in possession of a large sum of ready money, but had likewise assured her of a handsome annual income for the remainder of her days.

Thus, almost before Mr. Hatfield had reached the room-door, the colour had returned to her cheeks,--and her countenance became radiant with triumph,--for she murmured to herself, as she contrasted her present position with that in which she had first set foot on European soil, “It is my beauty that has done all this!”