Gradually, as she approached the end of this speech, Perdita had suffered her voice to lose its energy and its firmness, and grow tender, pathetic, and mournful—until at the close of her appeal, it became tremulously plaintive and profoundly touching,—while her form simultaneously relaxed from its statue-like rigidity—the head slightly inclining, the body bending in the least degree forward, and the hands joining as the last words fell from her lips.
For an instant Charles was about to yield to the appeal commenced with a dignity so well assumed, and terminated with a tenderness so well affected; but, at the critical moment, Mr. Hatfield, who had hitherto remained a mute spectator of this extraordinary scene, stepped forward, exclaiming, “No—no; a compromise of such a nature is impossible! Charles, the sophistry is indeed most specious—but the peril is likewise tremendous!”
“Yes—yes,” cried the young man, instantly recovering his presence of mind: “I told you, father, that she was a Circe—a Syren,—and now you have ample proofs of the assertion.”
While he was yet speaking, the appearance of Perdita underwent a rapid and signal change. She suddenly seemed to throw off the air of a suppliant, as if she were discarding a mean garment that was unbecoming and abhorrent: her cheeks acquired a deeper flush, her eyes a more dazzling brilliancy;—the blue veins in her forehead grew more clearly traceable—her nostrils dilated—her lips wreathed into an expression of sovereign disdain—and her entire form appeared to expand into more majestic proportions.
A moment before she had seemed a voluptuous beauty, in the melting softness of an appeal for pardon at love’s shrine: now she stood in the presence of the father and son,—proud—haughty—and magnificent as Juno,—and armed with authority to wield the lightning-shafts and the thunderbolts of Jove.
“Let us think of peace no more,” she exclaimed: “but war—terrible war,—war to the knife! Cast me off—thrust me from you—denounce me as the wanton Perdita—proclaim me to be born of a felon, and to have first seen the light in Newgate,—do all this if you will: I shall not the less remain your wife, Charles—and, as your wife, I am ennobled,—I bear the proud title of Viscountess Marston!”
“Miserable woman,” cried Mr. Hatfield: “you deceive yourself—even as Charles has been by himself deceived! For know that he is illegitimate——”
“’Tis false! you would delude—you would mislead me!” exclaimed Perdita, who, in spite of the tone of confidence in which she uttered these ejaculations, was painfully affected by the revelation that had elicited them.
“It is true—too true!” cried Charles, with a bitterness that carried conviction to the mind of Perdita.
“Then if I cannot proclaim myself to be Viscountess Marston,” she said, concealing with a desperate and painful effort the shock which she had just experienced,—“I can still have my revenge against you both;—for if my mother were a felon, Charles, your father was the same—if I were born in Newgate, the author of your being has passed through the hands of the public executioner!”