Return we now to Charles Hatfield and Perdita.

The gorgeous lustre of a Parisian summer morning streamed through the muslin curtains of a handsome chamber in the hotel at which they had taken up their abode: and the glory of that sun-light shone upon the nuptial couch, where the newly-wedded pair still slept.

The night of bliss had passed; and, wearied with love’s dalliance, they had fallen into a deep slumber, the dreams of which were soft and voluptuous, and gave no forewarning of a coming storm.

The long, luxuriant, deep brown hair of Perdita flowed over the snowy whiteness of the pillow; and the dark, thick, slightly curling fringes of the closed eye-lids reposed on cheeks flashed with the ecstatic nature of her visions.

A gentle smile played upon her moist lips of richest red,—a smile that subdued the expression of resoluteness which her countenance was wont to wear, and gave an indescribable charm of serenity and sweetness to features usually indicative of such strong passions and such fierce desires.

But those passions were now lulled to rest: those desires were for the time assuaged;—and happiness filled the soul of the sleeping woman.

One fine, white, and robust arm lay outside the coverlid: the other supported the head, or rather half embraced the neck of her young and handsome husband.

The sunbeams seemed to kiss her flowing hair,—seemed to play with the exquisitely modelled arm that lay completely exposed,—seemed also to revel in the treasures of her naked bosom, so firm, so rounded, and so regularly heaving.

Sleep likewise sealed the eyes of Charles Hatfield: smiles likewise played open his lips;—and his countenance appeared a perfect specimen of god-like beauty incarnate in man.

Yes: they were a handsome pair;—and so far there was a remarkable fitness in their union—but in naught beside!

In perfect happiness had they sunk into the profound slumber which still enwrapped them;—for, on the one side, Charles Hatfield had become possessed of that woman of glorious loveliness who had enchanted—captivated—enthralled his very soul;—and, on the other, Perdita believed herself to have gained the title of Vicountess Marston already, and to have that of Countess of Ellingham in perspective.

It was nine o’clock in the morning—the morning succeeding the bridal night: and thus were the newly-wedded pair still sleeping in the nuptial couch.

Presently the door opened, and Rosalie entered the room,—Rosalie, naturally so gay, blythe, and full of spirits—but now with a cloud upon her brow, and evident anxiety in her manner.

Advancing towards the bed, she paused—gazed for a few moments upon the sleepers—and murmured to herself in French, “How handsome and how serenely happy they appear to be! What a pity it is to awake them!”—then, after another short pause, she said hurriedly, “And yet it must be—for the stranger is imperative.”

Thus speaking, she touched Charles Hatfield gently on the arm; and he woke up, with a start. But Rosalie immediately put her finger to her lip to enjoin silence; and the young man, now completely aroused, surveyed her with mingled surprise and anger,—surprise at her mysterious behaviour, and anger at her intrusion.

“Hush!” she said, in a low but emphatic tone. “A gentleman insists upon seeing you—and, as his manner is so curious, I thought I had better awake you first, sir,” she added, glancing significantly towards her mistress, who still slept on.

“A gentleman!” repeated Charles, a suspicion—almost a certainty of the real truth flashing to his mind: “describe him!”—and he also spoke in a whisper, though with emphasis.

Rosalie gave a hurried sketch of the individual who so imperiously demanded an immediate interview with her master; and Charles found that his conjecture was correct—too correct, indeed!

“Go to him—and say that I shall be with him in five minutes,” he observed, in a tone expressive of deep vexation;—and Rosalie retired.

Charles immediately rose from the couch, but without awaking Perdita; and, having hastily slipped on some clothing, he proceeded to the sitting-room belonging to the suite of apartments which he had hired at the hotel.

He now found himself face to face with his father!

Mr. Hatfield was pacing the parlour in an agitated manner, when the young man entered;—his countenance was very pale, and wore an expression of deep care: indeed, Charles was shocked when his parent, turning round to accost him, thus presented to his view an aspect so profoundly wretched—so eloquently woe-begone.

The young man, during the few minutes which had intervened from the time that Rosalie quitted his bed-chamber until the instant when he repaired to the sitting-room, had nerved himself with all his energy—braced himself with all his courage—mustered all his resolution, to undergo what he knew must prove a painful trial; for he expected accusations of disobedience and ingratitude—reproaches for unmanly conduct towards Lady Frances Ellingham,—in fine, a repetition of those scenes which had bitterly occurred at the Earl’s mansion in Pall Mall, and which, characterised by so much misconception as they had been, had materially tended to diminish the authority of the father and the respect of the son.

Yes: he had made up his mind to bear upbraidings and encounter the most painful remonstrances;—he had even resolved to recriminate in the old style—reproaching his father for the wrongs which he imagined himself to have sustained at his hands relative to the secrets attendant upon his birth and social position. But when he beheld the expression of deep care and the ashy pallor which sate upon that father’s countenance, his rebellious heart softened—his stern resolves gave way—his better feelings once more stirred within him;—and all on a sudden it struck him that there must be some reason for his parent’s altered appearance, of a nature more grave—more serious, than the mere grief which this runaway match could possibly occasion.

The thought that evil had happened to his mother flashed to his mind;—and in an instant all his imaginary wrongs were forgotten.

“Father—dear father,” he exclaimed, in a tone of earnest appeal; “keep me not in suspense! My mother——”

“Is as well, I hope, as under circumstances she can possibly be,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, in a hollow and sombre tone.

“Thank God!” cried Charles, fervently.

“Is it possible that you still love your mother?” demanded Mr. Hatfield, whose countenance brightened up in the faintest degree, but in a manner as sickly as if the gleam of a dying lamp fell upon the rigid features of a corpse.

“Is it possible that you can ask me the question?” exclaimed the young man. “Oh! you know that I love my mother—my dear mother,” he repeated, as a thousand proofs of her affection for him suddenly rose up in his mind—rapidly as the spell of an enchanter might cause flowers to appear upon the surface of a stern and arid waste. “And you, my father,” he continued, taking his parent’s hand, and pressing it to his lips, “I love you also—in spite of what you may suppose to be my disobedient conduct!”

“No—no—you love me not!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, hastily withdrawing his hand which for a few moments he had abandoned to his son: “else never would you have acted thus. But tell me, Charles—tell me,—for I did not condescend to question your flippant French servant,—tell me—have I come too late to save you?—are you married to that young woman——”

“If you mean, father, whether Perdita Fitzhardinge is now my wife,” began Charles, drawing himself up proudly, and speaking in a resolute—almost indignant tone,—“I——”

“Perdita Fitzhardinge!” repeated the unhappy man, staggering as if from a sudden blow dealt by an invisible hand: “oh! then ’tis indeed she—and all my worst fears are confirmed! Villiers was right—and those officers were right also!”

“What mean you, father!” demanded Charles, now seriously alarmed—though knowing not what to think. “You speak of a young lady of ravishing beauty—elegant manners—spotless character——”

“Charles Hatfield, is she your wife?” asked the parent, now advancing close up to the young man, and pressing his arm so violently with the strong spasm which convulsed his fingers that Charles winced and almost cried out through the pain inflicted; for his arm felt as if it were grasped by fingers of iron!

“Yes, father—I am proud to inform you,” he said, again assuming an air of noble independence,—“I am proud to inform you——”

“Fool—madman—senseless idiot!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, his rage suddenly bursting forth with such volcanic fury that his son fell back in terror and dismay and eyed his father as if he thought that he must be insane: “you know not what you have done—the misery, the wretchedness you have prepared for yourself—the ashes you are heaping upon your own head—the infamy and disgrace you have brought down upon yourself and all connected with you——”

“Father—father!” cried Charles, now becoming full of wrath in his turn: “you exceed the license which belongs to a parent even when the son is in his nonage! Remember that you are alluding to the marriage which I have thought fit to contract——”

“A marriage which will embitter the remainder of your days, sir,” retorted Mr. Hatfield, turning sharply round upon his son, and speaking with almost savage rage.

“This is unworthy of you—and I shall hear no more,” said Charles, in a haughty tone and with a dignified manner, as he made for the door.

“Stop, sir!” cried Mr. Hatfield, rushing after him and detaining him forcibly by the arm: “we may not part thus——”

“Speak not evil, then, of my wife!” exclaimed Charles, turning round, and darting on his sire a look of superb defiance.

“Your wife!” repeated Mr. Hatfield, his manly voice suddenly assuming the almost shrieking tone of a wild hysterical laugh: “your wife!” he said, now echoing his own words. “Oh! my God, that I should hear you call that woman—that vile, profligate woman, by the sacred name——

“Father!” ejaculated Charles Hatfield, now goaded to desperation, and raising his arm in a menacing manner: “forbear—forbear, I say,” he continued in a hoarse, thick voice,—“or, by the heaven above us! I shall strike even you!”

“Listen—listen, Charles—for God’s sake, have patience!” cried Mr. Hatfield, the thought now flashing to his mind that in his ungovernable passion he had dealt only in epithets and averments as yet unintelligible to his son—whereas he should at once have revealed facts, terrible and startling, crushing and overwhelming though they might be.

“I will hear you, father,” said the young man, now speaking in a tone of dogged sullenness “but again I warn you not to provoke me beyond the power of endurance.”

“No—no—I will not anger you, my son,” rejoined the unhappy parent, becoming comparatively calm and even mournful in his manner and aspect; “for, alas! I have tidings to reveal to you which will pierce like a dagger to your heart’s core. The woman whom you have wedded as your wife——”

“Again that contemptuous name of ‘the woman!’” ejaculated Charles, fire flashing from his eyes.

“Patience!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, firmly: “that woman has deceived you—duped you—entangled you, heaven alone knows how! to your utter undoing—for she is the profligate and abandoned daughter of a vile and tainted wretch—a returned transport!”

“’Tis false—false as hell!” thundered Charles, the workings of his countenance rendering him, handsome though he naturally was, hideous and horrible to behold.

“’Tis true—’tis true!” cried Mr. Hatfield, as if catching up the terrible emphasis with which his son had spoken. “Perdita Slingsby—for that is her name—is a wanton, beauteous though she may be: and it was but two days ago that I accidentally heard the full narrative of her profligacies in Sydney, from two officers quartered at Dover.”

When the dreadful accusation that his wife was a wanton had fallen upon the young man’s ears, his boiling rage was on the point of bursting forth, with all the violence of language and clenched fist, against the author of his being: but when the allusion to the officers at Dover immediately followed, the scene on the Parade suddenly flashed to his memory, and a faintness—a sensation of sickness came over him,—and he staggered to a sofa, on which he sank as if exhausted and overcome.

“Father—father,” he murmured, horrible suspicions now rising up one after another, with lightning speed, in his soul: “your words are terrible—they will kill me! And yet,” he added, in a firmer tone,as a ray of hope gleamed in upon his darkening thoughts,—“I am a fool to believe this tale! No—no—it is impossible! Perdita is pure and virtuous—and there is some dreadful mistake in all this.”

But even as he uttered these words, a secret voice seemed to whisper in his ears that he was only catching at a straw, and that he was in reality drowning in the ocean of truth which was pouring in with such sweeping rapidity and overwhelming might upon him.

“There is no mistake, my son,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a voice of profound melancholy. “Would to heaven that there were!” he added, with such deep conviction of the misery which his words implied, that all hope perished suddenly in the breast of his son. “You have become the prey to two designing women: for I heard terrible things at Dover, I can assure you! The officers to whom I ere now alluded, had recognised Perdita leaning on your arm——”

“Yes—yes: I see it all now!” exclaimed Charles, covering his face with his hands, and pressing his fingers with almost frantic violence against his throbbing brows.

“And those officers—with sorrow and grief do I tell you all this—had themselves shared the favours of Perdita in Sydney; and as for the mother of the abandoned girl—know you what has become of her?” suddenly demanded Mr. Hatfield.

“No: we missed her at Dover—just as we had embarked on board the French steam-ship——”

“Then you are doomed to receive another dreadful shock, my poor boy,” continued Mr. Hatfield, in a tone of deep commiseration: “for Mrs. Slingsby—or Mrs. Fitzhardinge—or whatever she calls herself—was arrested at Dover, in consequence of a communication made by electric telegraph from London——”

“Arrested!” cried Charles, his amazement for a moment becoming stronger even than his deep—deep grief.

“Yes—arrested on suspicion of being concerned in a murder of an atrocious character at Pentonville!” added Mr. Hatfield, in a solemn and impressive tone.

“Merciful God!” ejaculated the young man, clasping his hands together as if in mortal agony: “surely I have fallen in with fiends in female disguise. But Perdita—Perdita,” he cried, the lingering remnants of affection causing him to hope that he was destined to hear nothing more terrible of her than the revelations which had already crushed him as it were to the very dust: “she at least, father, is unsuspected in this dreadful affair?”

“The old woman who is suspected, and whose countenance was seen by a witness as she issued from the house of the murdered man,—that old woman, who is no doubt Mrs. Slingsby, was accompanied by another and younger female——”

“Tell me no more, father!” almost yelled forth Charles Hatfield, literally writhing on the sofa, as if with the poignant anguish of a wound in a vital part.

“Compose yourself, my dear son—if it be possible,” said the disconsolate parent: “for I have many other things to tell you,—other dreams to destroy,—dreams equally as bright as the hallucinations which you had entertained relative to this wicked and hypocritical Perdita. But first I ought to observe that there appears to be no direct evidence to fix the murder of Mr. Percival——”

“Percival!” repeated Charles, another and still more dreadful pang shooting through his heart: “tell me—Percival did you say?—Percival—a money-lender——”

“The same,” cried Mr. Hatfield: “for I last evening read the entire account of the murder in an English paper which I saw at the hotel where I have put up.”

“Then is the horrible surmise too true—too accurate,” said Charles, in a hollow tone, while his face grew ghastly once more; “and it must have been these demons in female shape who caused his death. But on what night, father,” he demanded with abrupt impatience, “did the murder take place?”

“The night before you quitted London,” was the answer.

“Ah! then it is clear—clear—clear, beyond all possibility of doubt!” exclaimed Charles. “Yes—it was on the night in question that my note of hand was discounted by that same Percival—for Perdita has since told me that such was the name of the money-lender,” he continued, in his soul-harrowing musings.

“You have been raising money, then, Charles?” said Mr. Hatfield. “But that is a miserable—a contemptible trifle compared to all the rest! May I however ask you on what security—or on what prospects—you have obtained a loan and given a promissory note?”

“Father, henceforth there must be no secrets between us!” returned the young man, becoming respectful, submissive, and even imploring in his tone and demeanour. “The dreadful revelations of this morning have destroyed all that egotistical confidence in myself and my own wisdom——”

“Yes, Charles,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield, taking his son’s hand and speaking in a kind, commiserating tone; “you have been too susceptible to first impressions—you have formed hasty opinions—you have grasped at shadows—you have revelled in delicious hopes and pleasing aspirations, without ever pausing to reflect that the very foundation-stone of all this castle-building was a mere delusion.”

“I do not comprehend you, father,” said the young man, now surveying his parent with profound surprise: “unless, indeed, you allude to the destruction of all the bright visions which I have conjured up respecting the false—the wicked—the abandoned Perdita.”

“No, my dear son—I am now seeking to direct the conversation into another channel,” responded Mr. Hatfield, with solemn emphasis; “for, alas! I can too well divine the deplorable error which you have adopted and cherished as a substantial truth.”

“An error, father!” repeated Charles, still completely mystified.

“Yes—an error of the most afflicting nature,—afflicting to you—afflicting to me—afflicting to your mother also,” added Mr. Hatfield, his voice becoming low and melancholy. “In a word, Charles, you believe yourself to be that which you are not—your ambition has blinded you—your pride has led you into the most fatal misconceptions——”

“Father, you allude to my birth!” exclaimed the young man, starting as he spoke. “Oh! is there any delusion in my recently formed opinions in that respect?”

Mr. Hatfield rose—and paced the room for a few moments: the whelming tide of recollections of the past was now combined with that of the sorrows of the present and the fears for the future;—and his emotions were so powerful, that his voice was choked—his faculty of speech was for the time suffocated by ineffable feelings.

“Father—keep me not in suspense, I implore you!” said Charles, rising from the sofa and accosting his parent. “I am nerved now to hear any thing and every thing, however terrible, in relation to myself! Only keep me not in suspense, I beseech—I implore you!”

“Alas! my dear boy,” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, turning towards him with tearful eyes,—“if I tell you all connected with your birth—I—I shall unmask myself—I shall stand revealed before you as a monster whom you must henceforth loathe and detest.”

“No—no,” cried Charles, now throwing himself into his father’s arms and embracing him tenderly: “for the fatal difficulties—the cruel embarrassments, in which I have plunged myself by my accursed folly—my insane infatuation,—all these convince me that I need a kind friend and adviser—and in you, my dearest father, I shall find both!”

“Your language—your altered manner—your affection determine me to throw myself upon your mercy, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a low and profoundly mournful tone; “yes,—’tis the strange—the unnatural spectacle of a father imploring a son to forgive him—the father—the stain and the stigma which mark that son’s birth!”

“Holy God! have I heard aright?” ejaculated Charles, pressing his hand to his brow;—and, staggering back, he sank on the sofa,—not in a swoon—not in a state of insensibility,—but stunned and stupefied, as it were—and yet retaining a maddening consciousness of all!

“Yes,” continued his father, speaking in a sepulchral, unearthly tone, and averting his head,—“you are, alas! illegitimate, my dear boy; and the hopes—the aspirations, which I know you have formed, are all baseless visions!”

“And yet,” cried Charles, again starting suddenly from his seat, “you assured me—emphatically assured me, that my mother was pure—innocent—stainless;—and it was this averment that led me, in connexion with the discovery which I lately made of other great secrets,—it was this declaration on your part, I say, which led me to form those hopes—indulge in those aspirations!”

“Oh! my God—it is now that I am to appear as a monster in your eyes, Charles!” exclaimed the wretched father, in a voice of bitter anguish: “and yet to guard against all future misconceptions, since past ones have wrought such deplorable mischief—I must reveal every thing to you! Yes—your mother was stainless—was pure—was innocent;—and I—villain, miscreant that I was—I forcibly took from her that jewel of chastity——”

“Enough—enough!” almost shrieked forth Charles Hatfield, extending his hands imploringly: “utter not another word—I understand you too well already!”

“And you have read the history of my past life, Charles—is it not so?” asked the unhappy parent. “Yes—yes: I know you have read—in the Annual Register—the frightful narrative——”

“Father,” said the young man, rising, and grasping the hands of his sire: “you must not blush in the presence of your son! Once for all, let me state that I do know every thing;—and now let the past—so far as it regards yourself—be buried in oblivion. My impertinent curiosity first led me to make those researches into mysteries which I should never have sought to penetrate;—and the knowledge I accidentally acquired, led me to form hopes which have exercised a fatal influence upon me! I discovered that you were the real Earl of Ellingham; and, deeming myself to be your legitimately born son, I conceived that you had wronged me by keeping me in darkness in respect to the title which I fancied to be my own,—in respect, also, to the higher title to which I believed myself to be the heir! Now—now, I can no longer blame you for having observed so much mystery: Oh! no—on the contrary, I have rewarded all your kindness towards me, with the blackest ingratitude.”

“We will pardon and forgive each other,” said Mr. Hatfield, solemnly: “you shall pardon and forgive me for the stigma that attaches itself to your birth—you shall likewise pardon me your mother’s wrongs, even as she herself has long, long since pardoned me: and I, on my part, will think no more of all that you have lately done—save to extricate you from the cruel embarrassments in which by your hasty conduct, your imprudence, and your misconceptions, you have become involved. In a word, I will be to you as a kind friend and adviser;—and if henceforth I may not hope for your affection—at least I may reckon upon your gratitude.”

“Yes—both, both!” cried Charles Hatfield, again embracing his father tenderly. “Oh! how wicked—how criminal I have been! A veil has fallen from my eyes—my soul has lost its dogged obstinacy—and I now perceive how ungrateful I have been to my dear mother and yourself. But if it be not too late to repair the past,” he continued, retreating a few paces, and addressing his parent with a tone and manner of solemn earnestness,—“if it be not too late to regain my mother’s love and yours also,—oh! then the remainder of my life shall be wholly and solely devoted to that one object! Yes—I will reinstate myself in your esteem—I will prove by years of affection and obedience how bitter is my remorse and how sincere is my repentance for the follies and indiscretions of a few weeks! But in the meantime, father—in the meantime, how am I to act towards the vile—the guilty woman, whom I lately loved so madly?”

“Where is she at present?” demanded Mr. Hatfield, profoundly touched by the contrition and altered feelings now manifested by his son.

“I left her asleep in a chamber belonging to this suite,” was the reply. “Oh! I dare not meet her again—for I fear that I should spring upon her like a tiger, and sacrifice her to my resentment! For all my affection has now turned to a bitter—burning hatred,—a hatred against herself and her more vile mother; and I am astounded when I reflect how completely I have been deluded by them. It appears to me a dream—a vision! I can scarcely bring myself to conceive that I could possibly have been so insensate—so mad—so blind—so besotted! Oh! I could dash my head against the wall, to punish myself for this atrocious folly!”

And the young man struck his clenched fists forcibly against his forehead.

“Compose yourself—in the name of God! compose yourself,” said his parent, rushing in upon him and restraining him from the commission of farther violence. “Give not way to despair, my dear son—meet your misfortune with courage——”

“Oh! it is easy thus to recommend patience and endurance,” exclaimed Charles, bitterly: “but think how cruelly I have been deceived! I was fascinated as by the eyes of a serpent;—the magic of her charms, the melody of her voice, the sophistry of her tongue, and the excitement of her caresses, threw spells of an irresistible nature upon me: I was enchanted—held captive in silken chains—dazzled by the almost superhuman beauty of that prodigy of deceit and wantonness! I was not allowed time for reflection—suspicion had no leisure to rise up in my bosom, much less to fix its habitation there;—for I was whirled along, as in a delirious dream, from the first instant that I met that woman until the instant when your revelations of this morning dispelled the entire illusion. The artfulness of that designing creature sustained a constant elysian excitement in my soul: a perpetual succession of insidious wiles, of apparent proofs of deep tenderness, and of caresses that would enthral the heart of a saint,—such—such was the magic course in which I was hurried madly along. Endowed with a wondrous presence of mind, she had a ready answer for every question that I put to her—even to the explanation of her singular name;—and, with a guile as profound as it was ravishing—with an artfulness as deep as it was calculated to enchant and captivate—she invested the history of her early days with a mystery which only increased my admiration, and made her appear more interesting in my eyes.”

“You cannot wonder, then, that you were so completely deceived, my poor boy,” said Mr. Hatfield, who had listened with great, though mournful interest to the eloquent delineation of causes and effects which the impassioned language of the young man had so graphically shaped. “But as for the designing creature’s name, I heard its origin from the officers whom I met at Dover. She is called Perdita, or ‘The Lost One,’ because she was born in Newgate—and her mother, in the moment of repentance for her own crimes, gave her that appellation as a memorial and a warning——”

“Heavens!” ejaculated Charles; “and I believed the specious—the plausible explanation which the artful girl gave me relative to her name! Oh! she is made up of deceit: the world has never known her equal in that respect. I have read of Circe, with her spells—and of the Syrens, with their perilous allurements;—I have read also of those Mermaids—with the heads and busts of beauteous women, and with the tails of monsters—and whose melting looks and ravishing songs enticed sailors to their coasts, only to fall victims to these unnatural devourers of human flesh:—but all these wonders of heathen mythology are surpassed by this modern Circe—this Syren of the nineteenth century—this Mermaid who preys, not on mortal flesh, but upon immortal souls!”

There was a terrible earnestness in the tone and manner of Charles, as he gave utterance to these words:—and his father perceived that the heart of the young man was painfully lacerated by the conviction of Perdita’s tremendous duplicity.

“Yes,” resumed Charles,—and Mr. Hatfield allowed him to speak on, knowing that feelings so powerfully excited as his had been and still were, must have a proper vent, in order that the soul might regain something approaching to the equilibrium of calmness:—“yes,” exclaimed the young man, passionately,—“she, whom I believed to be the mirror in which all excellent qualities were reflected, is the embodiment of every possible vice—every earthly iniquity. Oh! what a splendid personification of Sin would she make for the painter or the architect! But it must be a bold pencil or a powerful pen that could do justice to her,—aye, and a man deeply read in the mysteries of human life, to pourtray her character with accuracy! And that character I can read now;—and I know her to be a creature who has studied sensuality, with all the ardour of a glowing temperament—with all the vivid sensibility that could enhance the joys of amorous enchantment! Oh! mine was an idolatry such as a rapt enthusiasm pays, in its blind belief, to the Spirit of Evil, conceiving it to be the source of every virtue! Fatal mistake—deplorable error: shall I ever surmount the terrible consequences?”

“Yes—by taking courage, following my counsel, and placing me in full possession of all the minutest details of this distressing and perplexing case,” said Mr. Hatfield, assuming the part of a comforter, now that the indignation of his son had in some degree expended itself in those passionate outpourings which we have endeavoured to describe.

“Oh! fear not, my beloved father—my only friend,” cried Charles, warmly,—“fear not that I shall now conceal aught from you! I have obeyed the impulses of my own wrongheadedness—and I am suffering terribly in consequence: I have followed the dictates of my own wilfulness—and I have gone lamentably astray! The result is that I have no more confidence in myself: from the pinnacle of that proud independence which I sought to assume, I am dashed down into a state of childish helplessness. If you abandon me—I should not have courage even to attempt to extricate myself from this maze of embarrassments in which I am so cruelly involved: I should resign myself to my fate—I should sink into despair!”

“Cheer up, my beloved son—and think not for a moment of these dreadful alternatives,” said Mr. Hatfield: “but answer me a few questions, and I shall then know better how to act. Did you not find certain papers in a secret recess in the Earl’s library——”

“Yes—and those papers are safe,” replied Charles: “at least—Perdita has them secure in her writing-desk, and we will make her surrender them presently.”

“As her husband—alas! that I should have to speak of you as such,—you may break open that desk and take them by force,” said Mr. Hatfield! “Does the young woman know their contents?”

“Unfortunately she does,” was the mournful answer.

“And her mother——”

“Is equally well acquainted with them,” said Charles. “Even to save you a pang,—and heaven knows I would now do much to spare you any additional uneasiness,—I will not deceive nor mislead you in a single detail.”

“No—this is not a time nor a case for trifling, Charles,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “Then both these women know who I am?” he added, in a low and hoarse voice.

“Oh! my God!” cried Charles, giving vent to his deep vexation and obeying the impulse of his self-accusing spirit: “to what humiliations have I not exposed you, my dearest father? Can you—will you ever forgive me for all this?”

“Have we not had much to pardon—much to explain, on either side, already?” asked Mr. Hatfield, his voice now regaining its mildness—a mildness that was, however, mournfully subdued. “Well, then, my dear boy, give not way to these self-reproaches; for if I be anxious to obtain a certain knowledge of the full extent of these evils, it is only with the view of falling into no error and committing no oversight in extricating both yourself and me from the embarrassments that surround us. To return, then, to the immediate subject of our discourse—those women know all?”

“All—every thing,” replied Charles. “In that blind infatuation——”

“Compose yourself, my dear boy,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a voice slightly indicative of paternal authority. “Respecting the promissory note you gave the money-lender Percival——”

“Oh! now I shrink indeed from telling you the truth,” interrupted Charles, his countenance glowing with shame and confusion; “and yet—faithful to my promise—I will not mislead you. The note of hand to which you allude was signed—Viscount Marston!”

“If I recollect aright,” said Mr. Hatfield, “the account of the murder, as reported in the newspapers, states distinctly that no papers nor documents of any kind were found in the victim’s house—the tin-box, in which such things were probably kept, having been emptied of its contents. The assassin or assassins, then, whoever they may be, possessed themselves of all the poor man’s papers—and your note doubtless amongst the rest. In this case, we shall probably never hear of it again. But—knowing the two women as you do—can you believe that they were the murderesses?”

“No—I cannot think it!” exclaimed Charles. “What motive could they have had? Certainly not to recover my promissory note, since they believed me to be the heir to immense wealth;—and as they no doubt fancied that their connexion with me would place ample resources at their command, they were not likely to peril their lives by killing the man for the sake of the money which he might have had in the house. Besides, when I saw them on the following morning, there was no confusion—nothing on their part to denote that they had so recently committed a horrible crime; and, depraved—wicked—unscrupulous as they evidently are, I cannot bring myself to imagine that they could meet me with calm and unruffled countenances, only a few hours after having accomplished a midnight murder.”

“Let us hope that they are indeed innocent,” said Mr. Hatfield solemnly. “And now I will explain to you the manner in which I propose to deal with this Perdita.”

The interest and attention of Charles redoubled, if possible, as his father uttered these words.

“Thank heaven,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “I possess wealth; and by means of gold, every thing can be accomplished with such mercenary adventuresses as these. Perdita shall receive a handsome sum of ready money, and a suitable income allowed her so long as she shall consent to dwell upon the continent, take any other name than that which you have unfortunately given her, and never more molest you.”

But scarcely had Mr. Hatfield uttered these words,—and before his son had time to offer a single comment upon the proposed plan to be adopted,—the door opened, and Perdita entered the room.