While thus speaking, Mr. Hatfield had sunk his voice to the lowest audible whisper—so that Perdita alone heard him: for the revelation he was making was of a most painful nature, although rendered imperatively necessary under the circumstances.
Perdita glanced rapidly over the certificate, and bit her lip with a vexation she could no longer conceal;—for that document effectually set at rest the question of her husband’s legitimacy or illegitimacy; and she indeed found that instead of gaining a noble title by marriage, she had formed an alliance with an obscure young man who was dependant on his parents for even a morsel of bread.
“It now remains for you to decide whether you choose to proclaim yourself, wherever you go, to be the wife of Mr. Charles Hatfield;—or whether you will think fit to resume your maiden name—or any other that may suit your purposes—and maintain a strict silence henceforth relative to this most unfortunate alliance.”
Thus spoke Mr. Hatfield;—and Perdita appeared to be plunged in deep thought for a few minutes.
“And what are the conditions you annex to those alternatives?” she asked at length, fixing her eyes, which now shone with a subdued and sombre lustre, in a penetrating manner upon Mr. Hatfield’s countenance—as if she would there read the reply to her question even before his lips could frame it.
“If you proclaim yourself my son’s wife,” said he, meeting her look firmly and speaking resolutely, “I shall spare no expense in bringing the whole transaction before the proper tribunals in England, with the ultimate view of enabling him to obtain a divorce; and in this case I should not allow you one single farthing—no, not even to save you from starvation.”
“And have you not reflected,” asked Perdita, in a tone and with a gesture indicative of superb disdain,—“have you not reflected that a judicial investigation must inevitably lay bare all the tremendous secrets connected with yourself and family?—for you cannot suppose, that if you commence the part of a persecutor against me, I shall evince any forbearance towards you! No—it would be, as I said just now, a terrible warfare—a warfare to the very death,—and in which human ingenuity would rack itself to discover and set in motion all possible means of a fearful vengeance.”
“I have weighed all this,” said Mr. Hatfield, calmly; “and I have resolved to dare exposure of every kind—nay, to sacrifice myself, if necessary—in order to save my son.”
“And now for the conditions annexed to the second alternative?” said Perdita, maintaining a remarkable coolness and self-possession, although in the secret recesses of her soul she harboured the conviction that the triumph was as yet on the other side, and that she must end by accepting the best terms she could obtain.
“If you will sign a paper, undertaking never to represent yourself as my son’s wife,” said Mr. Hatfield,—“never to molest him in any way—never to return to England, but to fix your abode in some continental state,—and lastly, that you will retain inviolably secret not only the fact of this most inauspicious marriage, but likewise all matters connected with myself and family,—if you affix your name to such a document,” continued Mr. Hatfield, “I will immediately pay you the sum of one thousand pounds, and I will allow you five hundred pounds a year so long as the convention shall be duly kept on your part.”