By a natural effect of curiosity,—perhaps also in obedience to a last remaining particle of that immense love which he had so lately borne her,—Charles Hatfield likewise glanced towards her from beneath his half-closed lids, and also while he wished to appear as if fixing his gaze downward:—thus their looks met—unavoidably met,—and the blood rushed to the countenance of the young man, as he felt overwhelmed with shame, and bitterly indignant with himself, for having given way to this momentary proof of weakness.
On the other hand, a smile of triumph,—though faint, and perceptible only to her husband—not to his father, who saw not with eyes that had once looked love towards her,—curled the rich red lips of Perdita; and she thought within herself, “Even in the bitterness of your hate, the power of my charms revives a spark, albeit an evanescent one, of the fires that were wont to burn within your breast in adoration of me!”
All this dumb show—this mute expression of the strangest, and yet the most natural feelings on either side, occupied but a few moments;—and then, as Perdita placed the desk upon the table, Charles turned to quit the room.
“Here are writing materials, sir,” she said to Mr. Hatfield, not choosing to appear to notice the departure of her husband; for all the pride of this extraordinary woman was aroused to a degree which in a being of lesser energy would have been totally incompatible with the frightful exposure that had been made of her depravity and deceit.
But the consciousness of possessing the loveliness of an Angel rose superior to the shame of being proved to be endowed with the profligacy of a Demon: the knowledge that she was so pre-eminently beautiful was for her a triumph and a glory which, in her estimation, threw into the shade the certainty of her wantonness and guile;—she flattered herself and fancied that, even were her true character revealed in its proper colours to all the world, the darkness of her soul would be absorbed and rendered invisible by the transcendant brilliancy of her outward charms.
Thus, even in the presence of the husband to whom she was unmasked, and of the indignant father who had unmasked her, the pride of her loveliness enabled her to maintain that haughty demeanour which we have explained;—for it was not Perdita who was likely to melt into tears—to supplicate for mercy—to acknowledge shame or remorse—or to kneel to those whom she now looked upon as her enemies. Unless, indeed, she had some grand object to accomplish, or some important end to gain;—and then she could veil her pride beneath an assumption of all the passions—all the emotions—and all the tender feelings which she might deem it expedient to affect.
To return to the thread of our narrative.
“Here are writing materials, sir,” she remarked, as she placed the desk upon the table: then, drawing a chair near, she seated herself in a calm and dignified manner, and with all the appearance of one who knew and felt that she had important business in hand.
Mr. Hatfield bowed—seated himself likewise—and proceeded to draw up a document including the conditions which he had already specified, and which the lady had agreed to.
While he was writing, Perdita kept her eyes fixed upon him, as if she could tell by the movement of the pen the very words it was forming, as the hand which held it travelled rapidly over the paper.