“Be seated, sir,” she said, coldly and formally indicating a chair, into which Charles Hatfield fell as if in obedience to the command of a witch. “I have many matters whereon to converse with you; and, to speak candidly, scarcely know how to commence. One subject personally regards you: another intimately relates to my own interests. But I will begin with that which so nearly concerns yourself.” “I am all attention, madam,” said Charles, endeavouring to assume as respectful a demeanour as possible, but in reality glancing with much impatience towards the door--as if by his eager looks inviting the entrance of Perdita. “My daughter will not interrupt us, Mr. Hatfield,” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzhardinge, with an affectation of malice which seemed ominous and foreboding to the young man. “Indeed, whether you will ever see her again, depends upon the result of our present interview.” “My God! madam,” cried Charles, in an imploring tone; “have I offended your beautiful daughter--or yourself?” “I am not precisely offended, Mr. Hatfield,” said the old woman, assuming a more conciliatory manner: “but certain explanations are necessary between us;--and indeed, it depends entirely on yourself whether you ever behold Perdita again.” “Then I shall behold her again, madam,” returned Charles, emphatically. “And now I can really listen to you with attention----” “And perhaps with patience,” added Mrs. Fitzhardinge, her rigid features at length relaxing into a faint smile. “But I will not tax that patience longer than I can help. Firstly, then, we are to speak of the matters which concern yourself. And now--will you not be surprised when I assure you that I am acquainted with many strange and marvellous secrets connected with your family?” “Ah!” ejaculated Charles, starting. “But perhaps I even know more than you yourself are acquainted with?” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “No, madam--no: that is impossible!” he cried, emphatically. “Do any of those secrets give you pain to contemplate?” she asked, fixing her eyes searchingly upon him. “Pardon me for thus questioning you----” “And why, madam, do you so question me?” he demanded, almost angrily. “Because I am as yet ignorant to what extent your knowledge may go in certain respects,” she replied. “Then believe me, madam--believe me,” cried Charles Hatfield, bitterly, “when I assure you that I know much more than you can possibly have an idea of!” “Is the name of Rainford familiar to you?” asked the old woman, steadily watching the effect of her question. “Madam,” exclaimed Charles, starting from his seat, and approaching Mrs. Fitzhardinge in a threatening manner, “would you taunt me with the infamy of my birth?--for I see that it is no secret to you! But imagine not--if such indeed be your idea--that I am unworthy the love of your daughter Perdita! You were about to marry her to an old nobleman: what if a young nobleman were to demand her hand?”