“Fiend—wretch!” ejaculated the young man, springing forward as if about to dash her on the floor and trample her under foot.
But the hand of his father suddenly grasped him as in an iron vice, and held him back; and all the while Perdita had maintained her ground—shrinking not a step, retreating not a pace.
“Coward!” she exclaimed, in a tone of ineffable contempt, as she kept her eyes—her large, shining grey eyes—fixed with disdain upon him whom she had lately loved so fervently and so well.
“Charles—Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in an imploring voice, as he held his son firmly by both arms,—“merit not by your actions that infamous woman’s reproaches. I was prepared for what she dared to address to me——”
“Oh! my dear father, this is terrible!” murmured the young man, who felt a faintness coming over him, as the words which Perdita had spoken concerning his parent still rang in his ears, and as he observed the deadly pallor which had spread over that parent’s countenance.
“Compose yourself, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, conducting him to a seat: then, turning round and accosting Perdita, he exclaimed, “Madam, let us treat this most unpleasant affair as a purely business-matter: in short, let us effect an arrangement which may be proper and suitable for both parties—the basis being the immediate separation of yourself and my son.”
“Yes—I have no longer any objection to offer to that proposal,” said Perdita; “for after his attempt to strike me, I despise even more than I hate him.”
“And just now,” exclaimed the young man, starting from his seat, “you declared that I possessed your heart. Oh! I am rejoiced that you have admitted your hatred towards me—because I have thereby received another proof of your boundless duplicity.”
Perdita smiled scornfully—but deigned no reply.
“Leave the affair in my hands, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, in an authoritative tone: then, observing with satisfaction that his son returned to his seat, the father addressed himself once more to Perdita, who remained standing near the mantel. “Madam,” he continued, “you have already heard that the bright hopes in which your husband had indulged, and the golden visions which he had conjured up, are all destroyed by the revelation which I have this morning made to him,—the revelation of the one fatal secret—his illegitimacy! Instead, then, of being Viscount Marston at present and Earl of Ellingham in perspective, he is still plain and simple Charles Hatfield—and so he is likely to remain. By consequence, you, madam, are Mrs. Hatfield—and not Viscountess Marston now, nor with any chance of becoming Countess of Ellingham. If you require proofs of what I am now telling you, I can exhibit them at once;—for, knowing beforehand the nature of the delusions in which my son had cradled his fancy, and the necessity of destroying them, I set out on this journey provided with several papers of importance. For instance,” continued Mr. Hatfield, taking forth his pocket-book; “here is the certificate of my marriage with Lady Georgiana Hatfield—and you may at once perceive by the date how impossible it is that our son could have been born in wedlock.”