“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.
CHAPTER 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.