“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.”