“Ah! then you have heard of that?” interrupted Mrs. Fitzhardinge, with a subdued feeling of spite; for she thought that her daughter took the matter very quietly. “I was taken back to London—examined at the Marylebone Police-court—and discharged without much difficulty. Now, in your turn, answer my next question—wherefore has Charles left you?”
“In the first place,” said Perdita, “tell me how you discovered my abode?”—and she fixed her large grey eyes in a searching manner upon the old woman, as if to ascertain by that look the precise extent of her mother’s knowledge relative to herself and Charles.
“That is speedily explained,” observed Mrs Fitzhardinge, who instantly perceived that her daughter intended to reveal to her no more than she was actually compelled to do, and it flashed to her mind—she knew not why—that Perdita meant especially to throw a veil over the fact of her marriage with Charles. Else, why had she not immediately mentioned it?—why had she not hastened to satisfy her that the alliance had indeed taken place? But if Perdita had a motive in concealing that fact, then the knowledge of the secret might sooner or later prove serviceable to Mrs. Fitzhardinge; and she therefore resolved to feign ignorance. All these thoughts and calculations swept through the old woman’s brain in a moment; and she preserved the while the most steady composure of countenance. “That is speedily explained,” she repeated. “I went to the Prefecture of Police, and learnt your address.”
“But you knew not by what name to ask for me,” said Perdita, still keeping her eyes fixed on her mother’s countenance.
“I inquired for you by the name of Fitzhardinge,” answered the old woman, hazarding the falsehood; “and was referred to the hotel where you and Charles had put up——”
“And on your calling there?” asked Perdita, impatiently.
“The porter laconically told me that you had removed hither,” returned the old woman. “But what means the absence of Charles? and has he not married you?”
“No,” responded Perdita, reading in her mother’s countenance more intently—more searchingly than hitherto: “he has played a perfidious part, and deserted me.”
“The villain!” ejaculated the old woman, affecting to give full credence to the denial that the matrimonial alliance had taken place; while, on the other hand, Perdita was completely deceived by her mother’s profound duplicity.
“The adventures I have experienced,” said Perdita, “have been numerous and exciting. When every thing was settled for the ceremony to take place, the father of Charles suddenly appeared upon the scene, and exposed me in a cruel manner to his son. In fact, Mr. Hatfield proved himself to be well acquainted with all—every thing—relating to you and me; and he unsparingly availed himself of that knowledge. I retaliated—I convinced him that his family affairs were no secret to me;—and then he again assumed the part of one who triumphs in defeating the hopes of another; for he produced unquestionable evidence to the fact that his son is illegitimate, and entirely dependent upon him.”