CHAPTER CXXXI.

THE SYREN’S ARTS AND CHARMS.

On gaining the street, Charles Hatfield hurried along like one

demented,--positively reeling with the influence which Perdita’s

charms, allurements, and arts had shed upon him,--and feeling within

his soul a glow of such ineffable happiness that he appeared to have

been snatched from the world and wafted to Elysium. Had he just

quitted a banquet where his head had been pillowed on the bosom of

beauty, and the fair hands of the charmer had held to his lips brimming

goblets of champagne of which he had drunk deeply, he would not have

experienced a more extraordinary degree of excitement, nor such

felicitous sensations.

[Illustration]

But the moment of reaction came; and though the revulsion was slow, yet

it was powerful--and even painful.

He had found his way into Saint James’s Park; and hurrying to the most

secluded quarter, he was still giving rein to the luxuriousness of his

thoughts, when it suddenly flashed to his mind that he had not received

from the lips of Mrs. Fitzhardinge the important communications which

she had promised him. Indeed, he had not seen her again from the moment

when she showed him into the drawing-room where he had found the lovely

creature to whom his friendship--his eternal friendship was so solemnly

plighted.

Striking his repeater,--for obscurity reigned in that portion of the

park where he now was, and he could not see the position of the hands

of his watch,--he was amazed to discover that his interview with

Perdita had lasted two hours.

Two hours!--and it scarcely seemed to have occupied ten minutes!

But now his reasoning faculties returned;--and he began to ask himself

innumerable questions.

“Wherefore was I conducted to that house? was it really to receive

important revelations from the mother? or only to be thrown into

the way of the daughter? Why did not the mother make her appearance

once during those two hours which I passed with the daughter? Was it

a stratagem devised by designing women to ensnare me? or was Mrs.

Fitzhardinge unexpectedly prevented from joining us so soon as she

had intended? My God! I am bewildered--I know not what to think! For

if they be women of evil repute and having sinister aims in view,

Perdita would not have given me to understand that they are at ease

in their circumstances, and hope to be even rich very shortly? But

that young creature--so beautiful,--so indescribably--so enchantingly

beautiful,--what object could she have in pledging her friendship to

me--to _me_, a stranger whom she had never seen before? Fool that I am!

wherefore did I give a similar promise to her? Oh! it was in a moment

of delirium--of enchantment--of intoxication;--and might it not also

have been the same with her? Ah! that belief would denote a boundless

vanity on my part;--and yet women have their sudden caprices--their

instantaneous attachments, as well as men! Yes--it must be so--Perdita

loves me!--she loves me--and I already love her deeply--madly, in

return!”

But scarcely had these thoughts passed through his brain, when his

heart smote him painfully--severely,--reproaching him with his

treachery towards Lady Frances Ellingham, and suggesting a comparison

between the retiring, bashful beauty of this charming young creature,

and the warm, impassioned, bold loveliness of the syren Perdita.

The more Charles Hatfield pondered upon the strange scene that had

taken place in Suffolk Street, the less satisfied did he feel with

himself. He saw that his conduct had been rash, precipitate, and

thoughtless;--and yet there was something so pleasurable in what he

blamed himself for, that he was not altogether contrite. Indeed, he

felt--he admitted to his own secret soul, that had he the power of

recalling the last two hours, he should act precisely in the same

manner over again. For when he thought of Perdita,--remembered her

witcheries--dwelt on her faultless charms--and recalled to mind the

mystic fascination of her language and the delicious tones of her

voice,--his imagination grew inflamed--his blood ran rapidly and hotly

in his veins--and it seemed that were she Satan in female shape, he

could sell his soul to her!

It was late when he returned to Ellingham House; and he repaired at

once to his chamber. But he could not sleep: the image of Perdita

haunted him;--and were it not so unseasonable an hour he would have

returned to Suffolk Street under pretence of soliciting the promised

revelations from Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

When he retired to rest, and sleep did at last visit his eyes,

that beauteous image followed him in his dreams. He thought that

he was seated by the side of the witching fair one on the sofa,

and that she was reclining, half-embraced, on his breast, with her

countenance, flushed and wanton in expression, upturned towards

his own. This delicious position appeared to last for a long--long

time, neither uttering a word, but drinking deep draughts of love

from each other’s eyes. Then he fancied that he stooped to press his

lips to her delicious mouth;--but at that instant the lovely face

changed--elongating, and undergoing so horrible a transformation

that his eyes were fixed in appalling fascination upon it,--while,

at the same time, he became sensible that the soft and supple form

which he held in his arms was undergoing a rapid and signal change

likewise,--till the whole being, lately so charming, so tender, and

so loving, was changed into a hideous serpent. A terrible cry escaped

him--and he awoke!

The rays of the gorgeous sun were streaming in at the window, as

Charles Hatfield started from his slumber; and, to his surprise, he

found his father standing by the side of the bed.

“You have been labouring under the influence of an unpleasant dream,

Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, taking his son’s hand.

“Yes--’twas indeed a hideous dream!” exclaimed the young man,

shuddering at the idea which still pursued him.

“And was that dream a reflex of any thoughts which occupy you when

awake?” asked his father, in a kind and anxious tone.

Charles surveyed his parent with astonishment, and then became

absolutely crimson in the face;--for this early and unusual visit

seemed to imply that its object was in some way connected with matters

that had lately been occupying, as the reader knows, no inconsiderable

share of the young man’s reflections--we mean, the family secrets into

which he had so strangely penetrated.

“Yes, Charles,” continued Mr. Hatfield; “I feared that you had

something upon your mind; and your manner now confirms that

apprehension. For the last week you have not been the same gay, happy,

lively being you so lately were;--and, although you have endeavoured

to conceal your sorrow from observation, yet it has not escaped the

eyes of your affectionate mother and myself. Tell me, Charles--tell me

candidly, I implore you--is it in consequence of the discovery that we

are your parents, and not mere relatives----”

“Oh! my dear father,” exclaimed the young man, “that discovery made me

happy, I solemnly assure you!”

“Then wherefore are you melancholy and thoughtful at times?” asked Mr.

Hatfield, in a tone of deep interest.

“Melancholy and thoughtful!” repeated Charles, mechanically.

“Yes, my dear son: and even at this moment----”

“Even at this moment,” still repeated Charles, whose imagination was

wandering to Suffolk Street, the influence of his dream having been

to fill his soul with a more profound terror than he had ever before

experienced from the worst of sleep’s delusions.

“Yes--even at this moment you are abstracted--your ideas are

unsettled--and there is a wildness in your looks which terrifies me!”

cried Mr. Hatfield, speaking with strong emphasis and in an earnest

manner. “Charles! again I implore you to tell me the cause of this

change which has so lately come over you!”

“Dear father, why will you press me on the subject?” cried the young

man, now brought to himself, yet knowing not how to reply. “Oh! believe

me--believe me, it will be better for us both that you do not persist

in questioning me!”

“On the contrary, Charles,” returned Mr. Hatfield, speaking more

seriously and firmly than before, “it will be far more satisfactory

to me--yes, and to your mother also--to be made the depositors of

your secret cares. You have assured me that you are not unhappy on

account of the discovery made on the day when the Prince of Montoni

was received at Court; and therefore I must conjecture the existence

of some other cause of grief. Charles, my dear boy,” added his father,

gazing steadfastly upon him, “you love Lady Frances--and you are

fearful of avowing your passion?”

The young man had expected that his father was about to speak on some

of those family matters into the mysterious depths of which he had

penetrated; and, therefore, when Mr. Hatfield addressed to him that

species of interrogative accusation, Charles experienced a relief which

betrayed itself as well in the brightening up of his countenance as in

the surprise wherewith he regarded his parent.

“Ah! now I have penetrated your secret!” cried the latter: then,

wringing his son’s hand, he said impressively, “Fear nothing--but hope

every thing, Charles;--and if you have reason to believe that Lady

Frances reciprocates your attachment, hesitate not to offer her your

hand.”

With these words, Mr. Hatfield hurried from the room, leaving his son

amazed and bewildered at the turn which the scene had so unexpectedly

taken.

“Yes,” exclaimed the young man aloud, after a long pause, during which

he reflected profoundly alike on his fearful dream and his father’s

suggestion; “I will banish Perdita from my memory--for that vision was

a providential warning! The most deadly serpents often wear the most

beauteous skins;--and Perdita--the syren Perdita--has secret ends of

her own to serve in thus throwing her silken chains round me. There is

mischief in her fascination:--the honey of her lips will turn to gall

and bitterness in the mouth of him who presses them! And Frances--my

charming cousin Frances, who knows not that she is thus related to

me,--sweet Lady Frances is endowed with every quality calculated to

ensure my happiness. Yes--I will adopt my father’s counsel: I will

secure the hand of this amiable girl! Then, although I must sooner or

later compel my sire to wrest the earldom from his younger brother,

the blow will fall the less severely on the latter, inasmuch as his

daughter will become a Viscountess in espousing me, and a Countess at

my father’s death!”

Thus reasoned Charles Hatfield, as he performed the duties of the

toilette; and when he descended to the breakfast-parlour, there was so

fine a glow of animation on his countenance, and so much happiness in

his bright eyes, that his parents were rejoiced to mark the change.

They did not, however, make any audible observation on the subject;

but the rapid and significant glances which they dealt at each other,

expressed the delight that filled their souls.

Lady Frances looked more than usually beautiful and interesting on this

occasion: at least so thought Charles Hatfield, as, seating himself by

her side, he ministered to her the attentions of the breakfast table.

The conversation turned upon an important event which was to take place

in the evening--the Prince of Montoni having accepted the Earl of

Ellingham’s invitation to a banquet at the lordly mansion in Pall Mall.

It was resolved, in order to render befitting honour to the illustrious

guest, that the entertainment should be of the most sumptuous

description; and no expense was to be spared on the occasion. A select

number of the noble Earl’s acquaintances were invited; and these were

chosen not on account of great names and sounding titles,--but on the

score of personal merit and consideration.

Soon after breakfast Charles Hatfield and Lady Frances found themselves

alone together in the apartment; and the young maiden, approaching her

companion, said in her artless, fascinating manner, “I am delighted

to see that you have recovered your natural gaiety. Do you know,

Mr. Charles, that you have latterly been most desperately moody and

reserved?”

“Not towards you, I hope, dear Fanny,” he replied. “Not for worlds,” he

added emphatically, “would I give you cause to think ill of me.”

“As for thinking ill of you, Charles,” she observed, “_that_ would

be impossible! But may I not seek to know the reasons of your late

unhappiness?”

“Let us not discourse upon the past, Fanny,” said the young man,

earnestly. “I am happy now, at all events--happier, too, than ever,

because I perceive that my welfare is not altogether indifferent to

you.”

“Far from it,” observed Lady Frances, with the ingenuous emphasis of

her extreme artlessness. “Do we not live beneath the same roof?--are we

not friends?--are not our parents very dear friends to each other?--and

is it not therefore natural that I should feel interested in all that

concerns your happiness?”

“Adorable creature!” exclaimed Charles, as he drew a rapid contrast

between the charming _naiveté_ of the beautiful Lady Frances and the

forward, bold manner of the voluptuously lovely Perdita: then, taking

his cousin’s hand, and gazing tenderly upon her innocent countenance,

he said, “Fanny, were our parents to sanction our marriage, would you

consent to be mine?”

Lady Frances withdrew her hand hastily; and, blushing deeply, she gazed

for a few seconds in the most unfeigned surprise on her companion.

“You are not offended with me?” asked Charles. “I had hoped--I had

flattered myself----”

“No--I am not offended with you,” returned Fanny, now casting down her

eyes and blushing even more deeply than before: “but I fear--I tremble

lest I am doing wrong thus to listen to you----”

“A virtuous affection is no crime,” said the young man, hastily. “And

now, my dearest Frances, if you feel that you _can_ love me, I will at

once declare to your noble parents the attachment--the deep attachment

which I experience towards you.”

“Whatever my father and mother counsel, will become a law for me,”

answered Lady Frances, in a low and tremulous tone, which convinced the

suitor that he was not indifferent to her.

Charles pressed her hand to his lips, and hurried from the room with

the intention of immediately seeking the Earl of Ellingham; but in the

passage he encountered a domestic who gave him a note which had just

been left by a messenger. The address was in an elegant female hand;

and the word “Private” was written in the corner. Charles hastened to

his own apartment, and read the note, the contents of which ran as

follow:----

“MY DEAREST FRIEND,--Before you see my mother again, I must

have a few words with you in private. She is compelled to visit

her solicitor at mid-day, and will be absent for at least two

hours. I shall expect you as soon after twelve as possible.

“PERDITA FITZHARDINGE.”

“No--I will not accept the invitation!” exclaimed the young man,

aloud: then, gazing again at the note, he murmured, “What a charming

hand-writing--and how beautiful does her mystic and romantic name

appear upon paper! _Perdita!_--’tis a name which possesses an

irresistible attraction! But--oh! that dream! And yet it was but a

dream--and a very silly dream, the more I contemplate it. Heavenly

warnings are not sent by such means; and Lady Frances might as well

have been the subject of the vision as Perdita. What can she require

with me? She must have a few words with me in private before I see her

mother again. Then her mother expects and intends to have an interview

with me--and she must therefore have certain communications to make,

after all. This does not appear like delusion nor trickery:--no--the

old lady really has matters of import to discuss with me;--and I

should be wrong--I should perhaps be criminally neglectful of my

own interests, were I not to hear whatever she may have to state.

And, Perdita--it would be at least rude and ungentlemanly on my part

not to attend to this missive, the nature of which appears to be

urgent. Yes--I will call on Perdita: ’tis already verging close upon

mid-day--and there is no time to be lost. But--after all that has

passed between dear Frances and myself this morning--I shall be as

distant and reserved as politeness will admit: I shall arm myself

against the fascinations of the syren;--and if she offer to release me

from the pledge of friendship so inconsiderately given, I shall not

fail to accept with joy the proposed emancipation.”

But, before he repaired to Suffolk Street, did he not seek his father

to communicate to him the important fact that he had duly followed his

counsel and solicited the hand of Lady Frances?--or did he not obtain

an interview with the Earl and acquaint him with the nature of the

conversation which had taken place between himself and that nobleman’s

daughter?

Alas! no:--for it was close upon twelve when the young man received

Perdita’s note;--and he thought that it did not precisely signify for

an hour or two when he might make those statements; whereas it was

necessary to see the syren without delay.

Thus reasoned Charles Hatfield to himself;--and the reader will agree

with us in deciding that the necessity which constituted the excuse for

his conduct, was not quite so urgent as he chose to fancy it.

Moreover,--since Charles Hatfield resolved to appear as reserved and

formal as he well might be, towards Perdita,--it was assuredly strange

that he should devote more than usual attention to his toilette,

arranging his hair in the most becoming style, and surveying with

inward satisfaction his very handsome countenance in the mirror.

The clock struck twelve as he quitted the house;--and it was impossible

to conceal from himself the fact that he was rejoiced at having an

excuse to call upon Perdita.

Then, as he proceeded with some degree of rapidity towards Suffolk

Street, he could not possibly prevent his imagination from indulging

in exciting conjectures how Perdita would be dressed--how she would

look by day-light--and how she would receive him when she observed his

studied coolness and his constraint of manner.

“Poor girl!” he murmured to himself: “if she really hoped to find a

sincere friend in me, how will she bear the disappointment which is

in store for her? It grieves me--Oh! it grieves me to be compelled to

inflict a wound upon her gentle heart; but duty--yes, my duty towards

Lady Frances leaves me no alternative.”

With a beating heart he knocked at the door;--and in less than a minute

he was conducted to the drawing-room, where Perdita was waiting to

receive him.

The young lady was dressed in an elegant morning wrapper; and, the

weather being intensely hot, the ribbands which should have fastened

it round her neck, were left untied, so that it remained open at

the bosom. Her hair was arranged in bands, and she wore a cap of

the slightest material, but the snowy whiteness of which enhanced

the glossy richness of those luxuriant masses that crowned her fine

forehead. Her large grey eyes, with their dark pupils, were as bright

and lustrous as on the preceding evening; and the noon-day sun

detracted not from the exquisite whiteness of the neck and shoulders,

and the healthy hues of the complexion of the countenance, which had

shone to such advantage by candle-light.

No: Perdita was as ravishingly beautiful on this occasion, as on the

former;--and there was a freshness--yes, even an appearance of virgin

freshness, about her, matured and developed as her charms were, which

counteracted the impression that her wanton looks and the forwardness

of her manner might otherwise have created in respect to her virtue.

Her depravity in Australia had not impaired her loveliness, nor marred

the youthfulness of her beauty: her face--her figure afforded not an

intimation that she had been steeped in licentious enjoyments from the

age of thirteen until she embarked on board the ship that wafted her to

England.

The moment Charles Hatfield entered the room, he was struck by the

enchanting loveliness of Perdita as much as he had been on the

preceding evening--indeed, as completely as if this were the first time

that he had ever seen her. For an instant he stopped short as if he

dared not proceed farther within the sphere of that Circean influence

which a warning voice within his soul seemed to declare was alluring

him on to total destruction but, fascinated as is the tremulous bird by

the eye of the serpent, he advanced towards the beautiful creature who

rose from the sofa to receive him.

Then as he felt her warm hand in his,--as her countenance beamed upon

him in all the glory of its loveliness,--as her soft, musical, and

delicious voice flowed upon his ear, borne on a breath fragrant as the

perfume of flowers, and issuing from lips that seemed to have robbed

the rose of its tint,--he felt his stern resolves thawing within him,

and experienced the impossibility of manifesting coolness towards a

creature of such exquisite charms and such rare fascinations.

“I thank you, my dear friend, for this punctuality,” she said, gently

drawing him to a seat by her side on the sofa, when she resumed

her place. “Have you thought of all that passed between us last

evening?--and have you reflected that we played the part of silly

children in pledging eternal friendship, total strangers as we were to

each other?--or did you regard the proceeding as a natural and solemn

compact, to be inviolably maintained?”

“Wherefore these questions, Perdita?” enquired Charles, dazzled by

the impassioned looks that were fixed upon him. “Have you yourself

repented----”

“I never repent of any thing that I may do,” answered Perdita, hastily.

“I do nothing without being convinced beforehand that I am acting

judiciously and properly; and when I most appear to be the child of

impulse, I am on those occasions the most considerate, cautious, and

reflective. But this may not be the case with you: and, therefore, it

was incumbent upon me to ascertain your feeling in respect----”

“In respect to that friendship which I have sworn!” exclaimed Charles,

no longer master of himself. “Not for world’s would I recall the pledge

I gave----”

“Then we are friends--friends in the manner I had hoped we should be,”

said the young woman. “But it was necessary that I should be assured of

this before I spoke to you on a subject which otherwise would have been

indifferent to you,” she added, bending on her companion a look that

seemed to invite him to kiss the red, pouting lips which, now parting

with a delicious smile, revealed her somewhat large, but pearly, even,

and admirably shaped teeth.

“Proceed, my dearest--dearest friend,” exclaimed Charles, no longer

thinking of Lady Frances, but totally absorbed in the fascination which

attracted him towards the bewitching Perdita.

“You call me your friend--and it is as a friend that I wish to consult

you, Charles,” said the young woman, heaving a deep sigh. “You must

know that, singular being that I may appear to you, and even unmaidenly

hasty in forming so sincere a friendship----”

“No--no: you obeyed the dictates of a generous heart--a heart as

ingenuous and innocent as it is fervid and warm,” cried Charles,

seizing one of her hands and pressing it in both his own.

“Ah! now you comprehend my sentiments just as I would have explained

them had I been able to find language for the purpose!” she said,

abandoning her hand to him as if unwittingly. “But, as I was about to

observe, I am all candour and frankness:--that is my deposition;--and

when you left me last evening, I immediately hastened to my mother, who

was seized with a sudden indisposition which prevented her from joining

us in this room; and to her I revealed at once and unhesitatingly every

word of the conversation that had occurred between you and me.”

“And she doubtless reproached you for opening your heart so freely to

one who was a complete stranger to you?” said Charles, now fearful lest

Mrs. Fitzhardinge should forbid his visits to Perdita in future.

“She reproached me indeed--but mildly and blandly,” answered the

deceitful young woman, assuming a plaintive tone; “and yet not so

mildly as was her wont on former occasions--for it appears that she has

formed certain views in regard to me--views of marriage----”

“Marriage, Perdita!” repeated Charles Hatfield, bitterly.

“Yes,” she responded, her voice growing more mournful still. “A man of

immense wealth--and with a noble title, but whose name I do not even

yet know, and whom I have never seen----”

“Oh! this is infamous, thus to dispose of you to a person whom perhaps

you may never be able to love!” cried Charles, with strange emphasis

and excitement of manner.

“Love! I shall hate and abhor him, even though he be handsome and

amiable beyond all conception,” exclaimed Perdita. “I shall detest him

for the mere fact that I am compelled to espouse him.”

“But will you yield with docility to an arrangement which seems to

me--pardon the freedom with which I speak of your mother--to be

indelicate and unjust?” demanded the young man.

“Alas! I fear that I have no alternative save to yield with as good a

grace as I can assume,” answered Perdita, tears now starting to her

eyes, and trembling on her long dark lashes; “for the nobleman whom my

mother would thus force me to wed, is her opponent in the law-suit--and

he has discovered a means of establishing his claims beyond all

possibility of farther dispute.”

“Oh! I understand the dreadful selfishness that is now at work in

respect to you!” cried Charles. “He will allow your mother to enjoy the

fortune, provided you are immolated--sacrificed----”

“Yes: those are the terms;--and now you may easily comprehend how I

shrink from such a fate!” exclaimed the young woman, sobbing profoundly.

“But this nobleman--who is he? what is his name?” demanded Hatfield,

powerfully excited.

“I know so little of my mother’s private affairs, that I am unable to

answer the questions,” said Perdita. “To speak candidly, she refused

even to mention the name or the age of this unknown suitor for my hand:

and therefore I apprehend the worst. Indeed, from an observation which

she inadvertently dropped, I am convinced that he is old--very old----”

“And you who are so young--and so beautiful!” cried Charles Hatfield,

gazing upon her with admiration--nay, with adoration and enthusiastic

worship. “It were an infamy--a crime--a diabolical crime, thus to

sacrifice you!”

“Yet such is my mother’s intention,” murmured Perdita; “and therefore

was it that she reproached me for vowing a permanent friendship with

you.”

“Then Mrs. Fitzhardinge will immolate you on the altar of

selfishness--she will sell you for gold,--sell you, perhaps, to an old

man who may be hideous, and who is certain to be loathsome to you?”

exclaimed Charles, speaking with all the rapidity of wild excitement.

“Yes:--and it was not until last night that I was aware of the

frightful arrangement which my mother had thus made--the dreadful

compact to which she had assented. It seems that this nobleman had

heard of me--and the description given of my appearance pleased him; so

that when he yesterday discovered the existence of some paper which at

once annihilated all my mother’s previously conceived hopes of gaining

the law-suit, he promised his hateful conditions.”

“And Mrs. Fitzhardinge has now sought her attorney----”

“For the purpose of declaring that I assent to this most unnatural

union!” added Perdita, with the well-feigned emphasis of violent sorrow.

“But was it possible that you could hold out to your mother even the

faintest prospect of thus sacrificing all your happiness suddenly and

in a moment?” demanded Charles.

“When I beheld my mother weep--heard her implore and beseech--and was

made aware of the ruin that threatened her unless I agreed to the

proposals of this unknown suitor, I wept also--and, my tears choking

me, my silence was taken for assent. Then my mother departed to visit

her solicitor: and in my despair I despatched a note to you, praying

you to call on me during her absence.”

“My God! what counsel--what advice can I give you?” exclaimed Charles,

bewildered by the tale which was told so plausibly that not a doubt

of its truth existed in his mind. “I cannot see you sacrificed

thus:--yet how can I save you? Oh! were I possessed of a fortune, I

would bestow it upon your mother that she might leave you free and

unshackled to obey only the dictates of your own will--follow your own

inclinations--and bestow your hand where you could likewise grant your

affections!”

“Ah! my generous friend,” murmured Perdita, advancing her countenance

towards his own as if unwittingly and in the excitement of her

feelings: “how deeply grateful to you am I for these assurances! I

knew that I should receive your sympathy--if not your aid,--your

commiseration--if not your assistance.”

“How can I assist you, dearest Perdita?” exclaimed Charles, pressing

her hand violently in his own. “The liberality of my pa----my uncle and

aunt, I mean--have enabled me to accumulate some seven or eight hundred

pounds--for my allowance is far more liberal than my expenditure:

and that amount is at your mother’s service. But it is so small--so

contemptibly small in comparison with the fortune which she doubtless

hopes to acquire----”

“Nevertheless, it may procure a delay, by rescuing my mother from the

immediate embarrassments in which this sudden change in the aspect of

her affairs has plunged her,” said Perdita: “for, to speak candidly to

you, her solicitor has been advancing her a regular income during the

time that the suit has lasted;--and now, since all hope of gaining it

is destroyed, no farther supplies can be expected from that quarter.”

“Yes--it may procure a delay,” said Charles, in a musing tone; “and

with leisure to reflect calmly--deliberately--much may be done! O

Perdita--never, never could I see you thus sacrificed to a man whom you

would abhor!”

“Generous friend--’twas heaven who sent you to me!” exclaimed the young

woman, drooping her head upon his breast, and weeping,--weeping tears

of gratitude, as he fondly believed.

He threw his arms around her--he pressed her to his heart--he clasped

her with such fervour that the embrace was passionately violent--he

strained her as it were to the seat of his very soul: then, hastily

loosening his hold, he raised her face--her warm, blushing face--and

on her lips he imprinted a thousand rapturous kisses,--those lips that

were literally glued to his own. He looked into her eyes, and read

love, desire, and passion in those orbs, now melting with languor and

wantonness;--for Perdita herself had almost entirely lost all power

of self-controul, and clung to him as if inviting the full extreme of

voluptuous enjoyment. He felt her bosom heaving against his chest;

and, maddened with excitement, his daring hand invaded the treasures

of those swelling, palpitating globes, so snowy in their whiteness--so

warm with their licentious fires.

But at that instant Perdita recovered her presence of mind: and it

flashed to her memory that it was no part of her scheme to surrender

herself completely up to him until she had ensnared his affections so

fully--so inextricably, that all subsequent escape or estrangement,

through repentance and remorse, should be impossible.

Accordingly--wresting herself from his embrace, and retreating to the

farther end of the sofa, she hastily arranged her cap and dishevelled

hair--drew the wrapper over her breast--and, turning upon him eyes that

still seemed to swim in liquid languor, said in a half-reproachful

manner, “Oh! Charles--is this friendship? would you ruin me?”

“Sweetest--dearest creature,” exclaimed the young man, “did I not tell

you yester-night that _friendship_ was a sentiment dangerous for us

to feel, and a word perilous for our tongues to utter? O Perdita--it

is not friendship that I feel for you: ’tis love--ardent, sincere,

and devoted love! And ’twas not friendship at first sight that I

experienced for you the moment I last evening set foot in this room:

but ’twas love--love, my Perdita--such love as never before did man

entertain for woman!”

“And it was because I love you, Charles,” murmured Perdita, in her

softest, tenderest tones, “that I loathe and abhor the idea of that

union which my mother has so inconsiderately--so rashly--so cruelly

planned for me!”

“You love me, Perdita!” ejaculated the young man, wild with joy:

“oh! thanks--ten thousand thanks for that assurance, my own sweet

Perdita! I was happy in the possession of your friendship: but I am

now mad--demented in the confidence of owning your love! For the love

of such a being as yourself is something that would make a paradise of

the blackest and most barren desert on the face of the earth! Is it

possible, then, that I possess your love, Perdita--dearest Perdita? Oh!

tell me so once more: it is so delicious to hear such an avowal from

your lips!”

“Yes, Charles--I love you--I do indeed love you,” replied the young

woman, throwing as much softness into her melting tones, as much

witchery into her manner, and as much voluptuous languor into her

glances as she possibly could.

It was like a scene of enchantment for that young man of wild and

fervid impulses; and he was completely--wholly absorbed in its magic

interest,--an interest so enthralling, so captivating that he felt as

if he had been suddenly wafted into a new world of delights unknown in

this sublunary sphere. Lady Frances was forgotten--his parents, his

ambitious aims, and even his admiration of the Prince of Montoni,--all,

all were forgotten in the delirium of passion which had seized upon him.

“You love me--you do indeed love me!” he exclaimed; and, approaching

the object of his worship, he again wound his arms around her--again

drank in the sweetness of her moist red lips.

“Charles--Charles,” she murmured; “you are gloriously handsome--and I

adore you!”

But as she thus spoke, she once more disengaged herself from his

maddened embrace--for she felt that her own passions, ever violent,

were raging to a degree that became almost uncontroullable.

“And now listen to me--patiently and tranquilly if you can; and I

will lay down the conditions on which our complete happiness may

be based,--conditions which have for their elements that generous

confidence, that mutual reliance, and that candour and frankness which

alone constitute pure affection.”

“Proceed, dearest Perdita,” said Hatfield: “I am all attention--and

your voice is sweeter in my ears than the most delicious music.”

Perdita once more arranged her cap and the massive bands of her glossy

hair: then, turning with a simulation of charming artlessness towards

her companion, she addressed him in the following manner.