Upon breaking away from the presence of his father, in the manner already described, Charles Hatfield hurried to the house in Suffolk Street; and bursting into the room where Mrs. Fitzhardinge and Perdita were seated at breakfast, he exclaimed, “I have at length thrown off all allegiance to my parents;—and I must now act wholly and solely for my own interests.”

“Not altogether for your own, Charles—dear Charles,” said Perdita, fixing upon him a plaintive and half-reproachful look, which made her appear ravishingly beautiful in his eyes.

“No—not altogether for myself will I act,” he cried, embracing her tenderly: “but for thee also, my angel—yes, for thee whom I love—adore—worship!”

“What has occurred this morning to render your lordship thus agitated?” enquired Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

“Oh! a quarrel with my father,” exclaimed Charles, who, in the enthusiasm of his blind devotion to Perdita, had forgotten the old woman’s presence. “He has played the part of a spy upon me—he has followed me to your door—he knows that I visit you—and he will doubtless endeavour to cause a breach between us!”

“Let us depart hence—now—at a moment’s warning!” cried Perdita. “We have ample funds for the purpose. Last night a money-lender discounted your note, Charles: and I have the proceeds safe in my own keeping.”

“Fortune favours us, then!” said the infatuated young man. “Yes—we will depart without delay: we will hasten to some retired place where we can deliberate, fearless of interruption, on the course which it will now be necessary for me to pursue.”

“I will hasten to order a past-chaise,” observed Mrs. Fitzhardinge. “This task had better be performed by myself—so that we may leave behind us no trace of the route we shall have taken.”

“Thanks—a thousand thanks, my dear madam!” cried Charles: then, when the old woman had left the room, he caught Perdita in his arms and pressing her fondly to his bosom, said, “My parents are resolved to force me into a marriage with Lady Frances Ellingham—they would separate me from you——”

“Oh! Charles—were such a destiny in store for me,” said Perdita, affecting to be melted to tears, “I should not be able to bear up against the misfortune. For on you are all my hopes now fixed,—to you have I given my heart—irrevocably given it;—and were you the veriest mendicant on the face of the earth, I would never cease to love you as now I love!”

“Adored Perdita!” cried the young man, enraptured by the tender words and the enchanting manner of the syren, as he strained her to his breast and imprinted a thousand kisses on her brow, her cheeks, and her lips. “Oh! never—never could I prove faithless to thee, my beloved Perdita! Would that you were mine indissolubly—that you were mine by the rites of the Church and the sanction of the law;—for then we might defy the world to separate us!”

“Would you have me renounce the peculiar opinions which I have formed?” asked Perdita, her heart palpitating with joy—for the young man had thus, of his own accord, broached the delicate subject on which she longed to speak, yet knew not how to begin. “Because, if such be your wish, my beloved Charles, I will make even the sacrifice of my strongest prejudices to your heart’s desire——”

“Now, indeed, do I know that you love me, sweetest—dearest girl!” interrupted Charles, experiencing ineffable happiness at the idea of possessing the beauteous Perdita on terms which would not render him ashamed of his connexion. “Yes—yes: I do demand that sacrifice at your hands;—and, if you yield to my wishes in this respect, I shall receive your assent as the most eloquent—the most convincing proof of the attachment you avow! And, moreover, Perdita—dearest, dearest Perdita—I shall be so rejoiced to place a coronet on that fair brow of thine,—so proud to present thee to the world as my wife! Never—never will enraptured husband have experienced a triumph so complete as that which will be mine, when I shall conduct thee—so radiant, so dazzling in thy beauty—amongst the friends whom the declaration of my rank will gather around me,—and when I shall introduce thee, adored one, as the Viscountess Marston! Yes—I shall indeed be proud of thee, my angel;—and now—will you not breathe the word that is to promise me all this triumph and all this joy?—will you not say, ‘Charles, for thy sake, I will accompany thee to the altar, and wed thee according to the rites of the Protestant Church and the exigences of the community!’”

“Oh! not for another instant can I hesitate, my well beloved—my handsome—my generous Charles!” exclaimed the syren, casting her arms round his neck, and pressing him as if in rapture to her glowing bosom: then, in the sweetest, most dulcet intonations of her melodious voice, she said, “Yes—Charles, for thy sake, I will accompany thee to the altar, and will wed thee according to the rites of the Protestant Church and the usages of that society in which we live!”

“Now am I supremely happy!” cried Charles Hatfield, his tone and manner fully corroborating his words. “We will repair to Paris, my beloved Perdita—for there we can be united by the chaplain of the British Embassy without an instant’s unnecessary delay; and thence also can I write to my father, solemnly and formally calling upon him to assert his right to the peerage which he has so long permitted his younger brother to usurp. And in Paris my Perdita will be the cynosure of all interest——”

“Oh! yes—let us visit that delightful city of which I have heard so much!” interrupted the young woman, her eyes gleaming resplendently with the pleasing sensations excited by the idea. “But I must now leave you for a moment, to prepare for this sudden journey—as my mother cannot be long before she returns.”

Perdita rose from the sofa, and hastened from the room, kissing her hand with playful fondness to her lover as she crossed the threshold. Even that simple action on her part excited the most ravishing feelings in his soul;—for as she thus turned round for an instant ere the door closed behind her, his looks swept all the fulness—all the contours—all the rich proportions of her voluptuous form,—while the morning sun-light, rosy from the hues of the hangings through which it penetrated, shone on her beauteous countenance, giving splendour to the fine large eyes, freshness to the vermilion lips, and a halo to her glossy hair!

She disappeared; and Charles, who had risen from his seat simultaneously with herself, advanced to the window. The street was quiet;—but the sounds of the rapid vehicles in Cockspur Street met his ears;—and he wondered whether the post-chaise were yet approaching the dwelling.

This idea led him to ponder on the step which he was about to take;—and a sensation of sadness slowly crept upon him, as he reflected that he was on the point of leaving his home—abandoning his parents and friends! The recollection of his mother smote him—smote him painfully;—and yet he did not seek by inward, silent reasoning to improve this better state of feeling, and act upon its warnings. No:—with that perverseness which so frequently characterises those who are on the point of adopting a measure which they secretly know to be injudicious and unwisely precipitate—even if no worse,—he sought in sophistry and specious mental argument an apology for his conduct. Again he reminded himself that his parents had acted unnaturally towards him,—and that their uniform conduct in this respect had now been followed up by harshness, upbraidings, menaces, and espionnage, on the part of his father. Then he feasted his imagination with the thoughts of possessing Perdita:—in a few days she would be his—irrevocably his, and in a manner which would enable him to present her proudly to the world as his wedded wife. From this strain of meditations he glided into glorious, gorgeous, visions of future greatness:—the words, “My Lord,” and “Your Lordship,” only so recently addressed to him, sounded like delicious music in his ears;—and his painful reflections were subdued by the feelings of triumph now once more awakened within him. Love—ambition—hope,—all—all his yearnings, all his cravings were now on the point of being gratified: he should cast off that parental yoke which had latterly weighed so heavily upon him;—he was about to visit Paris—he would appear as a Viscount, and with a beauteous bride, in the sphere of fashion the most refined, elegance the most perfect, and civilisation the most consummate,—and he already fancied himself walking in the delicious gardens of the Tuileries, with Perdita—the observed of all observers—leaning fondly on his arm!

These visions—sweeping like a gorgeous pageantry through his excited imagination—brought him to that state of mind, in which all regrets were banished—all remorse was forgotten;—and when Perdita returned to the apartment, ready attired for the journey, he flew towards her—he wound his arms around her wasp-like waist, and pressed her enthusiastically to his bosom.

This was the first time that he had seen her in a walking-dress;—and he thought that she even appeared more ravishingly beautiful than when in her morning dÉshabillÉe, or her drawing-room garb. The pink crape bonnet, adorned with artificial flowers, set off her fine countenance with such admirable effect:—the flowing drapery of the elegant summer-shawl meandered over the proportions of the symmetrical form—developing each contour with its wavy undulations:—and the straw-coloured kid gloves, fitting tightly to a fault, described the shape of the beautiful tapering fingers.

“You are lovely beyond the loveliness of woman!” murmured Charles Hatfield, surveying her with an admiration the most unfeigned—the most sincere.

“And you, Charles—are not you my own handsome, dearly beloved Charles—so soon to be my husband?” asked Perdita. “You said just now that you should be proud to present me as your wife to your friends:—Oh! I feel—yes, I feel that I shall also be proud to be so presented. My mind seems to have undergone a complete change since I made you that promise to wed you at the altar;—and you must forget, dear Charles, that I ever wished it otherwise!”

Hatfield, for all answer, impressed a burning kiss upon her rosy lips;—and the young woman’s eyes became soft and melting in expression—voluptuous and languid with desire.

At this instant her mother returned, with the announcement that the post-chaise would be at the door in less than a quarter of an hour; and the old woman hastened to the bed-rooms to pack up the trunks. Her daughter, who kept the purse, then gave her the necessary money to liquidate all liabilities due to the landlady of the house; and while this was being done, Perdita placed the gold and Bank-notes in Charles’s hand, saying, “In the excitement of the morning’s incidents I forgot to tender you this amount before.”

“Henceforth all that I have is yours equally, my beloved,” said the young man, as he secured the money about his person.

The post-chaise-and-four now appeared; and while the trunks were being strapped on to the vehicle, Mrs. Fitzhardinge superintended the process, apparently with the bustling officiousness of an old woman of particular habits, but in reality to prevent any communication between the post-boys and the people of the dwelling;—for she knew how inquisitive lodging-house keepers were apt to be, and that postilions were proportionately communicative.

At length all the arrangements were completed;—Charles handed his Perdita into the vehicle—manifested the same politeness towards the old mother—and then entered it himself. Mrs. Fitzhardinge had placed herself with her back to the horses, on an imperious sign from Perdita to that effect;—so that the young couple were next to each other on the same seat.

The post-chaise rolled rapidly away from Suffolk Street, and passed down Whitehall towards Westminster Bridge. So long as the wheels rattled over the stones, but little conversation took place inside the vehicle,—though Charles and Perdita conveyed to each other many tender assurances by means of the eloquent language of the eyes and the pressure of hands. When, however, the chaise emerged from the more crowded, thoroughfares of the metropolis, and entered upon the Dover Road, the travelling party were enabled to discourse at ease.

The day was very sultry;—but the upper part of the barouche was now thrown open; and the speed at which they travelled, created a current of air that mitigated the intensity of the heat. However, Perdita put up her parasol; and as the faces of the happy pair were not very far apart, the silk canopy, circumscribed though it were, shaded those fine countenances which really seemed made to be side by side with each other,—both being so handsome!

For a short time the conversation was general amongst the three:—gradually, however, Mrs. Fitzhardinge was, as it were, excluded from its range—not rudely so,—but because it became of a tender description between the young gentleman and her daughter;—and then it languished somewhat, inasmuch as the old woman was a restraint upon them.

At length there was a pause altogether; but still Charles and Perdita felt no weariness in each other’s society. They gazed on each other—drinking draughts of love in each other’s looks,—and often pressing each other’s hands

For Perdita really loved the young man,—loved him with a deep and ardent affection, of which however sensuality formed no inconsiderable portion. Nevertheless, she did love him after the fashion of her own heart;—and thus to some extent the snarer had become ensnared!

It was in a humour of melting and voluptuous languor, that, suddenly breaking the silence noticed above, Perdita said in her soft, dulcet tones, “Charles, how delicious is it to travel in this manner! Do you know that I feel as if I should like you to repeat to me a piece of poetry—or tell me some interesting tale—for it is so sweet to hear the sound of your voice. But if you thus gratify my caprice—this whim of the moment—let the theme of your recitation be love!”

“I will endeavour to please you, my charmer,” returned the young man;—“and at this moment I bethink me of a Love Story that I wrote myself some few years ago—one day, when the mania for scribbling suddenly seized upon me.”

“Oh! that will be truly delightful!” exclaimed Perdita. “A story of your own composition! Begin, Charles—dear Charles: I am dying to hear this specimen of your abilities.”

“I am afraid it will prove but a poor one,” returned Hatfield. “At the same time, such as it is, I will repeat it.”

Mrs. Fitzhardinge, having overheard this dialogue, intimated the pleasure she should experience in listening to the tale;—and as the chaise was now rolling along a road rendered, as it were, soft by the accumulation of the dust of summer, Charles was not compelled to pitch his voice to a key unpleasantly high, in relating the ensuing narrative.