“A mystery which I will penetrate, my dear wife!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, in a resolute—almost stern tone of voice. “But for the present, it is useless to hazard a conjecture.”
CHAPTER CXXXV.
CHARLES HATFIELD AND MRS. FITZHARDINGE.
It was a little after twelve o’clock when Charles Hatfield reached the house in Suffolk Street.
“Is Miss Fitzhardinge at home?” he enquired of the female servant who answered his summons at the door.
“Have the kindness to walk up into the drawing-room, sir,” was the response; and, with beating heart, the young man followed the domestic into the apartment where he expected again to behold his beauteous Perdita.
But, to his disappointment—a disappointment which he could not conceal, he found himself in the presence of her mother.
“Be seated, sir,” she said, coldly and formally indicating a chair, into which Charles Hatfield fell as if in obedience to the command of a witch. “I have many matters whereon to converse with you; and, to speak candidly, scarcely know how to commence. One subject personally regards you: another intimately relates to my own interests. But I will begin with that which so nearly concerns yourself.”
“I am all attention, madam,” said Charles, endeavouring to assume as respectful a demeanour as possible, but in reality glancing with much impatience towards the door—as if by his eager looks inviting the entrance of Perdita.
“My daughter will not interrupt us, Mr. Hatfield,” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhardinge, with an affectation of malice which seemed ominous and foreboding to the young man. “Indeed, whether you will ever see her again, depends upon the result of our present interview.”
“My God! madam,” cried Charles, in an imploring tone; “have I offended your beautiful daughter—or yourself?”