The Mysteries of London, Vol. IV — page 114: what you’re looking at

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en ei ne THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON. 107 CCC AT a OO TC a a Ga which prompt you thus to oppose my marriage views with respect to Charles. You imagine that if I become his mistress only, I shall be so completely in your prver that I must still continuc your slave,—that a “«rd from you relative to my past life would send wway Charles Hatfield in disgust,—and that in order tu prevent you from speaking that word, I shall obey xeu blindly. In fine, you hope to exercise 2 despotism alike over him and me,—dispose of the purse—and controul the household with sovereign sway. On the other hand, you imagine,—nay, do not look so black, my dear mother-—we are only telling each other a few azreeable truths ——” “ Go on, vile girl!” gasped Mrs. Fitzhardinge, trein- bling—suffocating witli rage. . “On the other hand, then,” pursued the young woman, in a placid, unexcited manner,—“ on the other hand you suppose that if once 1 becbme the wife of Charles Tattield—if once he shall have taken me for better or worse—if once the indissoluble knot be tied, your power over me would cease. Jor were you to avenge any slight by making revelations respecting me, I] might lose my husband’s esteem and love, but should net the Iess remain his wife. You therefore dread Jest you should become a cypher—dependant upon us for your daily bread—unable to controul the purse and the domestic economy pa “And what will you do to guarantee that all you are now saying is not a predictive sketch of what you now must happen in ease I permit vour marriage?” demanded Mrs. Fitzhardinge, dismayed by this accu- rate reading of her heart’s secrets on the part of her daughter. “ T can only assure you this much, mother,” was the answer,—“ that if you conduct yourself well towards mne, I shall act well towards you,—that you shall have your own way in every thing where my will is not violently thwarted,—and that I will co-operate with you cheerfully for our mutual interests, 50 long as you do not attempt to drive me as a slave.” “And all this you faithfully promise, Perdita?” demanded her mother, eagerly; for she was now glad to cfiect any compromise rather than come to an open rupture with her daughter, who, she saw, had in reality so much the better of her. : “Be assured, mother,” replied Perdita, “that Iam not for war;—-and if we quarrel any more, it will be your fault.” “We will not quarrel, Perdita,” said Mrs, litzhard- inge: “you shall marry Charles Hatfield—or Viscount Marston, as we ought to call him;—and here let our dispute finish.” “With all my heart. And now tell me, mother, how—where—and with whom you intend to raise the moncy upon these papers which Charles is ty send or bring in the evening?” “A few evenings ago, when I was lurking about Pall Mall waiting for that young gentleman, IJ sud- denly e1countercd a person whom I had known years and years since, and who played me a vile—a very vile trick. Hewas much altered,” continued Mrs. Vitz- hardinge; * but I knew him—knew him the moment the light of the lamp flashed upon his features. J accosted himn—told him who I was—and upbraided him for his villainy of former times. Ile spoke softly and in a conciliatory manner—and we fell into a more amicable train of conversation than at first. We soon understood cack other; and giving me his address— for, by-the bye, he has taken a new name—hce invited me to call upon him—and we parted. Since then IJ have made enquiries in the neighbourhood where he dwells; and I learn that he is reputed to be immensely rich—a miser and money-lender. He 1s therefore the man whom [ require ;—and we may reckon confidently upon his aid in the business of raising funds on the documents. ‘Thus very evening I will call upon him id “You will permit me to accompany you, mother,” said Perdita, rather in a tone of command than of interrogatory. “Ycs—if such be your pleasure,” was the reply: for the vld woman saw that it was useless and totaliy adverse to her own interests to thwart her daughter in any singie respect. CHAPTER CXXXVII. TWO MORE OLD ACQUAINTANCES, Ir was about eight o’clock in the evening of the same day when these secnes took place, that an old map coming from a northern directiorf, entered the metro- polis by the suburb of Pentonville. IIe was upwards of seventy-four years of age,—tall —thin—and retaming so much muscular vigour as only to stoop slightly in his gait. Wis complexion was perfectly cadaverous in hue, ghastly and careworn, and sinister in its expression. Iis attire was shabby, thread-bare, and travel-soiled,—his dusty boots denot- ing that he had journeyed some distance on foot. Nevertheless, there was about him a certain air which, in spite of his repulsive features and his sordid garb, denoted gentility; and an observer would have pro- nounced him to be, as indeed he was, a decayed gen- tleman. Waving passed by the Mode! Prison, he struck out of the highway into the fields where so many houses are now rapidly springing up, and which lie in the immediate vicinity of the Barnsbary and Liverpool Roads. It was evident, however, that he had no definite object in view—no home whither he was proceeding ; and he had turned into the fields merely to rub off the dust from his boots in the long grass, and rest himself for a few minutes in a secluded place. At length he rose; and his wandering footsteps led him into the vicinity of the detached rows of small houses and cottages which dot the immediate neigh- bourhood of the Caledonian Road. Once he stopped beneath a lamp; and taking his money from his pocket, counted it slowly. And heaven knows that the amount of his pecumiary pro+ perty did not require long to reckon; for two shillings in silver and a few halfpence constituted all the store. “This will at Jeast purchase me a meal and procure me a bed for to-night,” he murmured to himself; “and then—to-morrow—I must present myself to those who have not licard of me for so long a time!” With these words, the old man resumed his slow and painful walk—for he was wearicd and exhausted by the length of his day’s journey. It was evident that he had been absent many—many years from the capital; for, though he had once known this neigh- bourhocl well, yet now it was so changed that he gaved around him with astonishment,—aye, and paused to gaze around, too,—streets, rows of houses, and gardens having taken the place of ihe open fields. He had now reached a spot where the dweilings (C(O) (C DOO SS (SO)