“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!”