“I have already said,” interrupted Charles, speaking with the vehemence of sincerity and of deep conviction, “that never—never could she resume her empire over me! Oh! my dear father, the lesson has been too terrible not to have served as a warning; and sooner would I seek the embrace of a hideous serpent, than suffer myself to be allured back to the arms of Perdita. And—oh!” ejaculated the young man, a sudden reminiscence flashing to his mind, “I should have taken warning, days and days ago; for I recollect a fearful dream which I had, and which I must now look upon as providential! Madman that I was to neglect so solemn a foreshadowing of the truth!”
“Compose yourself, Charles,” cried Mr. Hatfield; “and now let me finish my narrative. I had reached that point which related to my accidental interview with the officers at Dover, where I was compelled to pass the night—a night of cruel and torturing suspense! Next morning, I crossed to Calais, and there I obtained a trace of you at Dessin’s hotel. Without delay I took a post-chaise, and hurried on in pursuit. I reached Paris at five last evening, and put up at the hotel whence we started just now. But I had not any time to lose, for I felt convinced that you intended to marry Perdita. I accordingly hurried off to the British Embassy, either to know the worst, if the worst were indeed already accomplished—or to take any measures I could to anticipate the ceremony, in case it should not have been as yet performed. But I could not obtain any satisfactory intelligence; no one to whom I addressed myself was able to state whether certain persons whom I described had been married during the day or not. I drove to the dwelling of the chaplain—but he had gone a few miles into the country. I found out the abode of his clerk—but this official was likewise from home. Almost distracted, I sped to the Prefecture of Police to ascertain if it were possible to discover your address in Paris, knowing that the landlords of all hotels are under the necessity of making daily returns of the names of their lodgers to the proper authorities. But I found the Prefecture closed for the night; and I returned, exhausted with fatigue and disconsolate in mind, to the hotel. Summoning the commissionaire, I gave him the necessary instructions to make particular inquiries at the Prefecture, the moment that establishment should open in the morning. This he promised to do, and I retired to bed—but not to rest!”
“Oh! my dear father,” exclaimed Charles, seizing his parent’s hand, and pressing it with fervour to his lips, “how can you ever pardon me for all the uneasiness I have occasioned you?—and if you can, how shall I hope to receive the forgiveness of my mother, when she learns all the sorrow you have endured on my account?”
“It is not, perhaps, necessary that your mother should be made acquainted with every thing,” observed Mr. Hatfield, emphatically: “but all this will depend upon circumstances—especially on the results of our previous and private interview with Lord Ellingham. As for you and me, Charles, we have already forgiven each other every thing,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a solemn tone. “And now my narrative has reached its conclusion,” he added; “for shortly after eight o’clock this morning, the commissionaire came and informed me that he had discovered the hotel where you were residing. You know the rest.”
Charles sighed, but made no answer, and the journey was continued for a long time in profound silence.
CHAPTER CLIV.
MRS. FITZHARDINGE.
Return we now to Mrs. Fitzhardinge, whom the officers of justice had arrested at Dover, on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of Mr. Percival, the miser.
The old woman, when made acquainted with the cause of her apprehension, was completely thunder-struck; for, in truth, she had not even heard until that moment of the dreadful deed which had taken place. But the Dover constables who took her into custody, and who were in plain clothes, insisted upon her accompanying them to London; and, yielding to the imperious necessity with as good a grace as possible, Mrs. Fitzhardinge cherished that consolation that her innocence must inevitably become apparent when the case should undergo a magisterial investigation.
For a variety of reasons, she made no mention of her daughter and Charles, who, she doubted not, had embarked in safety; neither did she volunteer any explanations relative to her acquaintance with Mr. Percival, or the business which she had with him on the night when, as it appeared, the murder was committed. She had already in her life passed through the ordeal of arrest—examination at a police-court—committal—trial—and condemnation—aye, and expiation also; and she was well aware that unseasonable garrulity, or explanatory remarks inconsiderately volunteered, seldom benefit even the innocent person when unjustly accused. She accordingly shrouded herself, or, rather, took refuge in a complete silence, from which the officers did not seek to draw her, as they all proceeded together by railway to London.
On their arrival in the metropolis at a somewhat late hour in the afternoon, Mrs. Fitzhardinge was consigned to Clerkenwell prison, where she passed the night; and at ten o’clock on the following morning she was removed in a cab to Marylebone police-court, to undergo an examination relative to the serious charge existing against her.