“No—never, never!” cried Charles, his voice and manner expressing loathing, abhorrence, and indignation. “But let us not bandy words thus. I have intelligence which—lost and depraved as you are, and vilely as you have treated me—I nevertheless grieve to have to convey to you,—for I cannot, even in my anger and hate, forget that you are a woman.”
“And that intelligence?” demanded Perdita, suffering not her countenance nor her manner to betray the deep curiosity and the suspense which her husband’s words had suddenly excited within her bosom.
“The intelligence regards your mother, and explains her mysterious disappearance at Dover,” continued Charles, who, as well as his father, now intensely watched the young woman’s countenance.
“Speak on!” she said, not a muscle of her face betraying any emotion:—and still she stood motionless and statue-like.
“Your mother was arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of Mr. Percival, the money-lender whom you represented to me as the discounter of my promissory note;”—and, as Charles uttered these words in slow and measured tones, he maintained his eyes fixed upon the pale but unchanging features of his wife.
“Then my mother has been accused of that whereof she is innocent,” said Perdita, in a voice so firm and resolute, yet devoid of passion, that her hearers felt convinced she was practising no artifice now. “It is true that Percival discounted your note: I myself received the money—and you can doubtless give your father a satisfactory explanation relative to the expenditure of the portion that is gone. If Percival have indeed met his death by violent means, it was not by the hands of two weak women that he fell.”
“Thank heaven! this crime at least cannot, then, be attributed to you,” said Charles. “There must be enough upon your conscience without that!”
“And have you nothing wherewith to reproach yourself?” demanded Perdita, still maintaining that majesty of demeanour which, with her now marble-like features, her motionless attitude, and her fine form enveloped in drapery that fell in classic plaits and graceful folds around her, gave her the air of a statue of Diana the Huntress or of Juno Queen of Heaven. “Have you inflicted no injury upon me?” she asked. “Yes—yes: and I will convince you that your conduct has been far from blameless in that respect. You loved me—loved me almost from the first instant that you beheld me. Yours was not a tranquil—serene—and sickly sensation: it was a fury—a wild passion—a delirium—a species of hurricane of the strongest, most fervent emotions. I was all—every thing to you: parents—family—friends,—Oh! you cared for none of these in comparison with me. The holiest ties you would have broken—the most sacred bonds you would have snapped—the most solemn obligations you would have violated, sooner than have resigned your hope of possessing me! All this is true—and you know it. Your love amounted to a madness—a frenzy, capable of the most unheard-of sacrifices, and as likely to hurry you into the most desperate extremes. For had I provoked your jealousy, you would have murdered me: had I fled and abandoned you, you would have pined to death—or committed suicide. In fine, yours was no common love—no ordinary affection. Poets never dreamt and novelists never depicted a love so boundless—so absorbing—so immense as yours. And what could result from such a love as this! The consequence was inevitable;—and that consequence was that I, who had never loved before, received into my soul a transfusion of the spirit that animated you. You were so happy in your love, that my imagination doubtless longed to revel in the same paradise which you had created for yourself;—and I was taught by you to love as profoundly and as well. In a word, you ensnared my heart—you obtained a hold upon my affections; and, as there is a living God above us! I swear that when you led me to the altar, you loved me not better than I loved you. And this love which I experienced for you, would have made me a good wife—a sincere friend—a conscientious adviser. I should have entered upon a new existence; and my soul would have become purified. True it is that I gave to the marriage-bed a body that was polluted and unchaste: but I gave also a heart that was wholly and solely thine;—and from the instant that our hands were united by the minister of God, it would have proved as impossible for me to have played the wanton with another as that the infant child should harbour thoughts of villainy and murder. Now you have learnt the antecedents of my life—and your love is suddenly changed into hatred. But did you not take me for better or worse?—did you not wed me, because you loved me!—did you not espouse me for myself alone! Oh! you should pity me for the past—and cherish me at present and for the future: and your conscience tells you thus much even now!”
Charles Hatfield, who had listened with deep and solemn interest,—for his soul was absolutely enchained by this strange display of natural eloquence,—now shook his head impatiently.
“No! Then mark how fatal your love will have proved to me,” exclaimed Perdita. “You cast me off—you put me away from you;—and yet you cannot give me back the heart which you have ensnared. Wherefore—wherefore did you bring to bear upon me the influence of your ardent love, unless you were prepared to make every sacrifice unto the end? I am young—I am beautiful—and I might gain a high and a proud position by means of marriage: but, no—I am chained to you—and you are intent upon discarding me! Now reflect well on the probable consequences of this proceeding on your part,” continued Perdita, her melodious voice gathering energy, and a tinge of rose-bud hue appearing on her cheeks and gradually deepening into a flush,—while her eyes shone with a lustre that gave an almost unearthly radiance to her entire countenance: “reflect well, I say,” she repeated, “on the probable consequences of the resolution which you have taken. As your wife, and dwelling with you as such, I should have clung to you—loved you with unceasing devotion—exerted all my powers to retain your esteem. Nay, more—in time I should have won your good opinion by my actions—as I had already secured it by my words. Amongst the entire community of women, there would have been none more exemplary than I;—and thus your love would have proved a saving influence—valuable to society at large, and blessed by the Almighty Ruler whom you worship. But how changed are these prospects! You are prepared to discard me—to thrust me away from your presence—to push me out into the great world, where I must battle for myself. There I shall find my circumstances terribly—-fearfully altered from what they were before your lips whispered the delicious but fatal tale of love in mine ears. For if I retain your name, I thereby proclaim myself a divorced wife: if I pass myself off as an unmarried young lady, I shall not dare to accept proposals for an alliance, be it never so advantageous—because the fear of a prosecution for bigamy would hang over my head. Will you, then, forgive me for the past, and receive me as an affectionate wife and reformed woman to your arms?—or will you send me forth, an outcast—with ruined hopes, blighted prospects, and a damaged character?”