“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.