It was now past eleven o’clock; for the incidents related in the two preceding chapters, had occupied two full hours:—and, during that interval, how many revelations had been made—what changes of feeling effected—what new emotions engendered—what bright visions destroyed!
Yet such is human life;—and two minutes, instead of two hours, are often sufficient to hurl down the finest fabrics of happiness which the imagination has ever built up in the realms of fancy or the sphere of reality.
On arriving at the hotel in the Place Vendôme, the father and son repaired to the apartment occupied by the former; and Charles threw himself on a sofa, as if exhausted and overwhelmed by the terrible excitement he had undergone that morning.
Mr. Hatfield related to him all that had passed between Perdita and himself after the young man had quitted the room; and Charles was rejoiced,—if rejoiced he could be in the midst of the strange thoughts and reminiscences which crowded upon him,—to learn that the family papers were secure in his father’s possession.
“And those papers shall no longer be a source of alarm and embarrassment to those whom they so deeply regard,” said Mr. Hatfield, when he had brought his brief narrative to a conclusion: then, ringing the bell, he ordered the waiter who answered the summons to bring him a lighted candle.
This command was speedily obeyed; and when the domestic had retired, Mr. Hatfield, having thrown all the documents upon the hearth, set them alight. While they were consuming,—those precious papers, which were worth an Earldom to him, did he choose to avail himself of the proofs which they contained,—both himself and his son watched them with a fixed gaze, but with different emotions. For Charles sighed as he thought of the bright dreams which the perusal of those papers had so lately excited in his imagination; and Mr. Hatfield experienced an indescribable relief in witnessing their destruction.
“Now,” he exclaimed, in a tone of triumph, “no living soul can dispute my brother’s right to the rank which he bears and the estates which he possesses! Nor think, Charles,” he added, turning to his son, and speaking in a calmer and more measured voice,—“think not that it costs me a pang thus to dispose of these papers. The flame has died away—naught save a heap of tinder remains—and I have willingly and cheerfully resigned the power of ever doing mischief, or being made the instrument of wrong, towards a brother to whom I owe so much. But enough of this: and now tell me, Charles, in details as ample as you can bring your mind to endure, the whole particulars of your unfortunate connexion with these women, in order to convince me that nothing more remains to be accomplished to rid ourselves completely of them. For you must remember that though we have managed to dispose of the daughter, the mother still possesses a knowledge of many secrets which we would not have revealed.”
Charles immediately complied with his father’s request, and narrated how Mrs. Fitzhardinge had accosted him in the street,—how she had spoken mysteriously, and thereby induced him to accompany her to Suffolk Street,—how he had there found himself in the presence of Perdita,—and how Mrs. Fitzhardinge on a subsequent occasion mentioned certain family matters evincing her knowledge of special secrets which she alleged to have been revealed to her by the gipsy Miranda.
“Then it was not from your lips that she first learnt the circumstances connected with myself!” said Mr. Hatfield, interrogatively.
“No: she particularly mentioned the gipsy as her authority for all she knew and alluded to,” was the reply.