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.
“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.
“You are now about to discover a new phasis in my character, dear Charles; and perhaps you will look upon my notions and opinions as unmaidenly and bold—if not positively immoral. But remember that I am not like the generality of my sex; and that my sentiments, though audacious as innovations, are nevertheless as sincerely believed in as they are tenaciously clung to by me.”
“It is because you are so different from other women, not only in the loveliness of your person, but also in the tone and strength of your mind,” said Charles, “that I am thus enamoured of you—yes, and proud too of possessing your affection in return.”
“But I am about to preach a doctrine which you may think repugnant to the befitting delicacy of my sex,” returned Perdita: “for it is of the uselessness of the marriage rites that I have now to discourse.”
“Proceed, dearest,” said Charles; “and I will frankly give you my opinion on your views in this respect.”
“Ah! now you encourage me to open my heart to you, my dear friend,” exclaimed Perdita; “and you do not affect the sanctimonious hypocrite, who frowns even before he has heard the argument broached. Thus stands our present position in my estimation:—We love each other——”
“Devotedly—earnestly,” added Charles, with strong emphasis, the image of Lady Frances being as completely banished from his mind as if such a person as that charming creature did not exist in the world.
“Yes—we love each other devotedly and earnestly,” continued Perdita; “and the extent as well as the ardour of our passion is a something which should remain a solemn and sacred mystery to the vulgar and curious observer. ’Tis a secret which we should cherish between ourselves,—a secret whose charm is spoilt, or at all events marred, by being revealed to others who are indifferent to us. This is one reason wherefore I consider the pompous ceremony of marriage to be actually detrimental to the fervid, ardent, and warm attachment which seeks to hide itself in the bosoms of the fond couple who entertain it. Then, again, I should not be happy were I to have the conviction that I was so enchained to you by legal trammels that you could not cast me off did I become displeasing to you;—for I should never know whether you still clung to me through the endurance of real affection, or because an indissoluble bond forged by human legislation united us. No:—I would rather that our love rested upon its own basis alone—existing by its own vitality, and through no borrowed and artificial auxiliary,—that it should be a mutual confidence—a mutual reliance,—free and independent in one sense, and compulsory in none. If on these terms you will take thy Perdita to thine arms, Charles—then indeed shall I gladly become thine:—but if our union must be characterised by solemn ceremonies and cold, inanimate rites—then, heartbreaking as the alternative will be, I can never—never be more to thee than a sincere and faithful friend.”
“Dearest Perdita,” exclaimed Charles, “I receive all these confessions of your peculiar sentiments as new proofs of your love for me! For by the very nature of the conditions which you stipulate, you convince me of the trust which you repose in my fidelity and honour.”
“Yes—because in defiance of the opinion of the world, I surrender myself up to you, to be a wife in every thing save in respect to that ceremony which is the first object of a virtuous woman’s thoughts,” murmured Perdita. “And now, dear Charles, do you entertain a mean opinion of my principles, because I dare to chalk out a path of happiness according to my own fancy?”
“No—no. Perdita!” cried the young man, pressing to his lips the hand which was extended to him with such an appearance of ingenuousness that it quite enchanted him. “But how is it possible that you—so young—should have pondered so seriously on the subject of love and of marriage? For you have assured me that you never loved till now——”
“Though nineteen summers have not yet passed over my head,” interrupted Perdita, “my mind has travelled much in the realms of thought and meditation;—and though, as I will candidly confess to you, I have read but little, yet have I pondered much.”
“And there is about you a mystery as charming and as interesting as your loveliness is indescribably great,” said Charles: “and you know, angel that you are, how I adore you!”
“Then if we plight our faith to each other to-day, as solemnly and as emphatically as yester-night we vowed an eternal friendship, shall you ever repent the step you will have taken?” asked Perdita, gazing affectionately on her handsome companion, whose looks seemed to devour her.
“Repent!—what, repent the step that makes you mine?” he exclaimed. “No—never, never!”
“And you take me as your wife on the conditions I have named—that I am to be a wife, and no wife?” said Perdita, her musical voice sounding soft as a silver bell and tremulously clear,—ravishment in her tone, love in her eyes, and warmth in the tender pressure of the hand which the young man had grasped.
“Yes—I take you as my wife on those conditions,” he returned, pressing her to his bosom. “But there are still many things to be considered, my Perdita,” he observed, after a short pause, during which they exchanged the most rapturous kisses. “In the first place, your mother——”
“I shall boldly acquaint her with what I have done,” said Perdita; “and she will not seal my unhappiness by an opposition—which, after all, would be vain and useless,” added the syren.
“And will not Mrs. Fitzhardinge recoil in horror from the idea that her daughter should have formed this connexion, without bearing the legal name of a wife?” demanded Charles, gazing earnestly on her beautiful countenance.
“Leave me to make my mother a convert to my own principles respecting marriage,” was the reply. “And now, with regard to yourself, my Charles,—you need be under no restraint. Continue to dwell with your family—and visit me as frequently as you can. In fact, I shall of course expect you to pass as much of your time as possible with me,—but never when your relatives and friends require your presence.”
“Oh! on these terms we shall indeed be supremely happy!” cried Charles. “And now you are my wife?”
“Yes—and you are my husband,” blushingly answered the syren, as she drooped her head upon his breast.
He wound his arms around her; and then their lips met in warm and luscious kisses. Charles grew bolder: his hand wandered to Perdita’s glowing bosom,—and Perdita no longer restrained him—no longer shrank back. Still, however, she did not choose to surrender herself immediately: a little more tantalization would only rivet his enthusiastic attachment and confirm the madness of his devouring passion;—and, accordingly—at the moment when, wild with desire, he was about to claim the privilege of a husband, she started from his arms, exclaiming, “Hush! my mother has returned—I hear her approaching!”
They separated—retreating to the ends of the sofa; and Perdita arranged her disordered hair once more.
No one however came: it was a false alarm,—as Perdita indeed well knew it to be.
“You must leave me now, Charles,” she said; “for my mother cannot be long ere she comes back. To-morrow, at mid-day, I shall be again alone—for I am aware that she will have to pay another visit to her attorney. Come, then, at that hour—and I will tell you all that has passed between my parent and myself.”
“Not an instant later than twelve to-morrow shall I be!” exclaimed Charles. “And now,—forgive me for returning for a moment to worldly affairs—quitting the paradise of happiness to which you have raised me, my Perdita,—but in respect to the small sum——”
“Oh! I had forgotten all our arrangements with regard to that matter,” said Perdita: “and, indeed—I detest and abominate money-affairs. But now—as your wife, dearest Charles—I may mention my wishes on that head without a blush. I should therefore be pleased if you could forward the amount to me in the course of the afternoon; and I will use it to the best possible advantage with my mother.”
“In less than an hour it shall be here in an envelope, sealed, and addressed to yourself,” said Charles. “Farewell, my sweet Perdita—farewell, until to-morrow!”
They embraced each other fervently; and Charles Hatfield took his departure.
Before he returned home, he walked into the park to collect his scattered thoughts and acquire some degree of composure. His perfidy—his infamous treachery towards Lady Frances now burst upon him in all its hideousness. That very morning had he demanded his cousin’s hand in marriage;—and within an hour afterwards he had solemnly contracted a strange and scarcely comprehensible union with Perdita Fitzhardinge.
His conduct seemed vile in the extreme: his heart, smote him painfully.
Yet was he so completely infatuated with Perdita, that he could not calmly contemplate the idea of breaking with her for ever. He was like a gambler who loathes himself for his ready yielding to a ruinous vice—but who nevertheless returns with renewed zest to the gaming-table.
For Charles thought of the happiness which he had so nearly attained on this eventful day, and which he felt assured must await him on the morrow:—he could not banish from his imagination the recollection of those charms which had plunged him into a perfect delirium of passion;—and the more he thought on the witching loveliness of Perdita, the less inclined was he to resign her.
Then came the almost inevitable results of the sophistry which the designing woman had called to her aid,—results which may be explained the more completely by following the current of the young man’s thoughts.
“After all, I am not indissolubly bound to Perdita—nor has she for ever linked her destiny with mine. No marriage ceremony has taken place between us—nor will any. I am not inextricably fastened to her apron-strings. And yet—and yet, is it honourable of me to make such calculations, the inferences to be drawn from which I am ashamed even to express to my own secret self? No—no: because no legal ties exist between us, I am the more imperiously bound to remain faithfully attached to her! Beautiful—enchanting—mysterious Perdita, how hast thou enthralled me! But—my God! am I not your willing slave?—do I not accept the yoke which thou hast thrown upon me?—would I release myself from those silken chains, even were I able? No—ten thousand times no, my adored—my worshipped Perdita! I care not whether thou dost exercise a supernatural enchantment over me: if thou art Satan in a female shape—or a serpent, as my dream appeared to give warning—I cannot cease to love thee,—no—never—never!”
But what of Lady Frances Ellingham? Oh! it was rash—it was indiscreet of him to solicit her hand;—but had he not acted in pursuance of the advice of his father?—and had he gone so far as to be unable to retreat?
Alas! Charles Hatfield, the sophistry of Perdita has rendered thee sophistical, until thou dost stand on the very threshold of—villainy!
Reckless art thou of the whisperings of conscience:—thou art infatuated with the fatal beauty of thy Perdita—and the hope, the burning hope of tasting in her arms the pleasures of paradise, renders thee studious only to subdue the remorse that whispers to thee the name of the outraged Lady Frances Ellingham!
Having wandered in the park for upwards of half an hour, Charles Hatfield bethought himself of the promise to send the amount of his savings to his beauteous Perdita; and, hastening home, he sought his chamber, which he reached unperceived by any one save the domestic who gave him admission. That he was thus unobserved, was a source of satisfaction,—inasmuch as he felt that his cheeks were flushed, and he feared lest his appearance might seem singular.
Opening his desk he took from a secret drawer the Bank-notes which constituted his savings; and enveloping them in a sheet of paper, he issued forth again to leave the parcel at the house in Suffolk Street. This being done, Charles returned to the park, where he roamed about until the hour arrived when it was necessary for him to return home in order to dress for dinner.
The reader must not forget that a splendid banquet was to take place that evening at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham,—a banquet given in honour of the Prince of Montoni, and at which his Royal Highness was to be present.
As the hour approached, Charles Hatfield felt his heart beat; and all his admiration of the illustrious hero revived;—so that his mind was labouring under no inconsiderable degree of excitement, as he thought of Perdita on the one hand—the Prince on the other—and also of Lady Frances Ellingham!
The entertainment was of the most splendid description—worthy of the hospitality and taste of the noble host and hostess.
The Prince of Montoni was dressed in plain clothes: but on his breast gleamed the star denoting his rank; and on his left leg he wore the English Garter, his Royal Highness having been admitted on the previous day a member of that illustrious Order.
He was seated on the right of the Countess of Ellingham, Lady Frances being next to him, and Charles Hatfield occupying the place immediately following. In addition to these personages and the Earl of Ellingham, Mr. Hatfield, and Lady Georgiana there were Sir John Lascelles, Clarence Villiers and Adelais, and the select few who had been invited to the banquet on this occasion.
The Prince was naturally of a modest and unassuming disposition,—though endowed with ample dignity to maintain his lofty rank and honourably fill his high position,—yet bearing himself so condescendingly and affably, that every one felt completely at ease in his presence. Even Sir John Lascelles, who had grown somewhat morose, and difficult to please in his old age, was quite delighted with the youthful hero, whose conversation was characterised by so much sound sense and such a total absence of obtrusiveness.
Charles Hatfield was delighted at the thought of being once more in company with the object of his worship; and he seemed to hang upon every word that fell from the lips of the Prince of Montoni, as if he were listening to a demigod.