A week had elapsed since the arrival of Mrs. and Miss Fitzhardinge in the great metropolis; and as yet they appeared to be no nearer to an acquaintanceship with Charles Hatfield than they were on the day when they first beheld him issue from Lord Ellingham’s mansion;—for that it was he whom they had seen on the occasion alluded to, the mother had satisfactorily ascertained.

Indeed, the old woman had not been idle. Every evening, for a couple of hours, did she watch in the immediate vicinity of the Earl’s dwelling to obtain an interview with the young man: but he did not appear to go out after dusk.

Mrs. Fitzhardinge accordingly began to think of changing her tactics, and endeavouring to catch him in the day-time, when fortune at last favoured her views;—for on the eighth night of her loiterings in Pall Mall, she had the satisfaction of seeing him sally forth shortly after nine o’clock.

Unhesitatingly accosting him, she said, “Mr. Hatfield, will you accord me your attention for a few moments?”

The young man turned towards her, and beheld a very ugly, plainly-attired, old lady: he nevertheless answered her respectfully, because she had addressed him in a manner denoting genteel breeding. We should observe, too, that she had purposely assumed a humble apparel on the occasion of these evening watchings, in order to avoid the chance of attracting the attention of passers-by or policemen, who would naturally have wondered to see a handsomely apparelled person thus loitering about.

“Certainly, madam,” replied Charles: “I will listen to any thing you may have to say to me. Will you walk into the house which I have just left: ’tis the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham.”

“I know well who lives there, Mr. Hatfield,” answered the old woman; “and it is precisely because I wish to speak to you alone, that I have accosted you in the street. Can you pardon such boldness?”

“If your business with me be of importance, madam,” said Charles, “no apology can be necessary on your part.”

“Yes—my business is indeed of importance,” returned Mrs. Fitzhardinge, with mysterious emphasis. “But I cannot speak to you here——”

“I have already requested you to accompany me to the house where I am residing with my relatives and friends,” said Charles, with the least indication of impatience in his manner.

“And I have already assured you that I am anxious to converse with you alone,” responded the old woman, nothing daunted. “Do not mistrust me, sir—do not suppose that I have accosted you for the purpose of soliciting any assistance of a pecuniary kind——”

“Then, madam, what do you require of me?” asked Charles, hastily.

“Ten minutes’ private conversation—on matters of importance—of deep importance to yourself!” replied Mrs. Fitzhardinge, as rapidly and as firmly as the other had spoken: then, before he had time to make any rejoinder, she added, “For your own sake, Mr. Hatfield—if for no other consideration—you will accompany me to my own dwelling, which is close at hand. What! you hesitate? Then continue to cherish the secret grief which weighs upon your mind——”

“Ah! what did you say?” ejaculated the young man, starting as if a chord had been touched so as to vibrate to his very heart’s core.

“I mean that if you refuse to accompany me, you will repent the loss of an opportunity to receive revelations nearly concerning yourself, and which opportunity may not speedily occur again.”

As Mrs. Fitzhardinge uttered these words, she fixed a strange, mysterious, and almost ominous look upon Charles Hatfield, who was bewildered and amazed by her language. The old woman had dealt her random shots with good effect; and she experienced an inward triumph at her skill, and a sure conviction of its success.

“Who are you? and what do you know of me?” demanded Charles, breaking silence abruptly after more than a minute’s pause, and speaking in a tone of earnestness denoting mingled suspense, wonder, and curiosity.

“My name is Fitzhardinge,” replied the old woman; “and I know all—every thing concerning you,—aye, much more than you can possibly suspect. But not another word of explanation will I utter here; and you may now decide whether you will at once accompany me——”

“I will accompany you, madam,” interrupted Charles Hatfield, in a decided manner. “In which direction does your abode lie?”

“Five minutes will take us thither,” was the answer.

The old woman and the young gentleman now proceeded in silence towards Suffolk Street, Pall Mall—the latter wondering who his companion might be, what she could possibly have to communicate to him, and how she had acquired the information which she alleged to be so important and was about to impart. He naturally associated the promised revelations with the mysterious circumstances which he had so recently fathomed by means of the letters and manuscripts found in the secret recess of the library at Lord Ellingham’s mansion;—and yet he was at a loss to conceive how a Mrs. Fitzhardinge, whose name was entirely strange to him, could possibly have any connexion with his own family affairs. At one moment he fancied that the proceeding on her part was nothing more nor less than a plot to inveigle him to some den for predatory purposes: for he had heard that London abounded in such horrible places, and also in persons who adopted every kind of stratagem to lure the unwary into those fatal snares. But when he considered the quarter of the great metropolis in which his companion evidently resided, as she had assured him that her abode was only a few minutes’ walk from the spot where she had first accosted him,—when he again noticed the respectability of her appearance, and reflected that there was something superior in her manners, language, and address,—and lastly, when he remembered that amidst circumstances so complicated and mysterious as those which regarded his own family, it was highly possible for that aged female to be interested in them in some way or another,—he blamed himself for his misgivings, and resolved to see the end of the adventure.

Scarcely was his mind thus made up, when Mrs. Fitzhardinge turned into Suffolk Street; and in less than another minute, she knocked in an authoritative manner at the door of a handsome house. The summons was instantaneously responded to by a respectable female-servant; and Charles Hatfield followed the old lady up a wide stair-case lighted by a lamp which a statue in a niche held in its hand. On reaching the first landing, Mrs. Fitzhardinge threw open a door, saying, “Walk into this room, Mr. Hatfield: I will join you in a few moments.”

Charles entered—and the door immediately closed behind him.

The young man found himself in a well-furnished apartment, in which the light of the wax candles placed upon the mantel was reflected in a handsome mirror. The atmosphere was rendered perfumed and refreshing by vases of fresh flowers tastefully disposed around: and on a side-table stood a large globe filled with the clearest water, in which gold and silver fish were disporting. The curtains were closed over the windows; but still the room was cool and the air grateful in that sultry summer season.

These observations were made at a rapid glance;—and then Charles Hatfield’s looks were concentrated in the cynosure which instantly absorbed all interest—all attention. For, half sitting, half reclining upon the sofa, was a being of such transcendant beauty that never in the wildest of his dreams had he conceived the like. When reading a novel or a poem, his imagination had often depicted to itself the semblance of the heroine—and this mental portraiture was invariably drawn with the utmost perfection of form and feature which impassioned and enthusiastic youth could devise. But no flight—no soaring of that fervid imagination had ever yet idealised such dazzling, brilliant charms as those which now met his astonished gaze,—charms that intoxicated while they delighted, and that ravished while they infused a warm voluptuousness into the soul of the beholder.

And, in sooth, well might Charles Hatfield experience ineffable feelings and tender emotions as he contemplated the fiend in an angel’s shape that was half reclining on the sofa; for Perdita was surpassingly lovely on this occasion! She was attired in a light pink muslin dress, made very low in the body, so that her neck and shoulders were set off in all their dazzling whiteness against the deep purple velvet of the sofa—and her full, swelling, firm bosom was more than half revealed. Her hair was arranged in long ringlets, glittering like hyperions, luxuriant, and sweeping those glowing globes that appeared to heave to their caresses. Her large grey eyes beamed with voluptuous languor, although a brilliant light shone in the depths of the dark pupils;—and her vermilion lips, parted with a smile, displayed the white and even rows of pearls, so faultless in their beauty. The slightly sun-burnt tinge of her face appeared to be the rich hue of an Italian complexion—the carnation glow of health, and youth, and warm blood animating her cheeks. Then her arms were naked,—those arms which were dazzlingly white, robust, and yet admirably modelled, and which seemed ready to stretch out and clasp a favoured lover to the panting breast. One foot was raised on the sofa—the other rested on an ottoman;—and thus, as Charles Hatfield’s eyes swept the rich and fine proportions—the undulating contours of that splendid form, it seemed to him as if a halo of voluptuousness surrounded this enchanting being—a very perfume of beauty enveloped her in its intoxicating influence.

She had heard him ascending the stairs—and she had purposely placed herself in an attitude which should seem as if he had disturbed her unexpectedly, and thus serve as an apology for the negligent abandonment of limb which gave to her position an air alike wanton and lascivious. While she, therefore, affected to gaze on him in soft surprise, he was intently devouring her with looks of unfeigned amazement;—and while she still retained that voluptuous attitude as if unwittingly, he was rivetted to the spot near the door where he had stopped short on first catching sight of her. This dumb-show on the part of both,—artificial with her, and real with him,—lasted for nearly a minute;—and during that time Perdita had an opportunity of surveying the young man’s handsome appearance with even more searching scrutiny than when she had seen him in Pall Mall the very day of her arrival in London,—while, on his side, Charles Hatfield had leisure to scan a combination of charms such as transcended all his ideal creations, and which, had he beheld them in a picture, he would have declared to be impossible of realization.

Again must we observe how different was this elegantly-attired, captivating creature as she now appeared, from the ragged, way-worn wanderer that she was when first we introduced her to our readers! But oh! dangerous—trebly dangerous Perdita,—a snake with the loveliest skin—a demon with the most heavenly form—utter profligacy in the most witching guise!

And now the young man, who has been brought within the sphere of this perilous influence, recovers his self-possession so far as to be able to stammer forth an apology for what he conceives to be an intrusion occasioned by some strange mistake.

“No excuse is necessary, sir,” replies Perdita; “The lady whom you state to have conducted you hither, is my mother; and she has doubtless sought her chamber for a few minutes to change her attire. Pray be seated.”

But Charles Hatfield once more stood still—rivetted to the spot, after having advanced a few paces towards Perdita;—for the sound of her voice, so sweetly musical—so enchantingly harmonious, appeared to inspire him with ecstatic emotions and infuse an ineffable delight into his very soul.

Then Perdita arose from the sofa, and indicating a chair close by, again invited the young man to be seated,—accomplishing this courtesy with so ravishing a grace and such a charming smile, that he felt himself intoxicated—bewildered—enchanted by the magic of her beauty, the melody of her silver tones, and the soft persuasion of her manner. For the consciousness of almost superhuman beauty had rendered Perdita emulative of every art and taught her to study every movement which might invest her with a winning way and a witching power;—and thus this singular young woman had acquired a politeness so complete that it seemed intuitive, and a polish so refined that it appeared to have been gained by long and unvaried association with the highest classes.

Sinking into the chair thus gracefully offered him, Charles Hatfield could not take his eyes off the magnificent creature who remained standing for a few seconds after he was seated; for, affecting to alter the position of one of the wax candles on the mantel, as if it were too near the mirror, she placed herself in such an attitude that the young man might obtain a perfect view of the flowing outlines of her glorious form,—the splendid arching of the swan-like neck—the luxurious fulness of the bust—the tapering slenderness of the waist—the plump and rounded arms—the large, projecting hips—and the finely proportioned feet and ankles.

The effect thus produced by the artful, designing creature, whose voluptuous position seemed all natural and all unstudied, was precisely that which she had intended;—for Charles Hatfield experienced a delirium of emotions till then unknown—and he felt that he could almost spring from his seat, catch that bewitching form in his arms, and, covering her with kisses, exclaim, “Pardon me—but I am mad—intoxicated—raving with passion!”

“My mother will not be many minutes, sir,” said Perdita, now returning to her seat upon the sofa; “and in the meantime I must solicit you to exercise your patience—for I am afraid you will find me but a dull companion.”

“Impossible!” cried Charles, enthusiastically; then fearing that he had spoken in too decided and earnest a manner to one who was a perfect stranger, he added in a more subdued and reserved tone, “But perhaps I am intruding on your privacy, as I am afraid that when I entered—I mean, I fear that I—I disturbed you——”

“I certainly was not aware that my mother expected a visitor this evening,” answered Perdita; “and it is I who should apologise, inasmuch as you caught me in such a lounging, lazy attitude. But since I have been in London I have experienced a heaviness in the atmosphere that engenders indolence—for I have hitherto been accustomed to the country.”

“Then you have not long resided in London, Miss Fitzhardinge?” said Charles, hazarding this mode of address with the determination of ascertaining whether the beautiful young woman were married or single.

“We have only been in this city for one week,” she replied in an acquiescent way which convinced him that she had not changed the parental name by means of wedlock—a discovery that infused a secret glow of pleasure into his very soul, though at the same instant his heart smote him as if he were already playing a treacherous part in respect to Lady Frances Ellingham. “No,” continued Perdita, “we have not long resided in London. Urgent affairs have compelled my mother to visit the capital; and as our stay is likely to be of considerable duration, we are about to take a house. For my part, I am not sorry that we are thus to settle in London: for, in spite of its oppressive atmosphere, its smoke, and its noise, it has many attractions.”

“You have already seen enough, then, to induce you to prefer London to the country, Miss Fitzhardinge?” said Charles, now admiring the fine aquiline profile of which he was suffered to obtain a perfect view, as Perdita half averted her looks on purpose, though quite in a natural manner.

“I have seen enough to render me an enthusiastic admirer of your great city,” she replied, now turning her full countenance upon him, and smiling so as to display her brilliant teeth: “but I am anxious to behold more, and my wish cannot very readily be gratified. For, save our attorney, we have no acquaintances—no friends in London: we are perfect strangers here—and we cannot very well ask our solicitor to escort us to the theatre and to those places of amusement which ladies would hardly choose to visit unless accompanied and protected by a gentleman.”

“Is it possible that you, Miss Fitzhardinge, should have to experience the want of such a chaperon?” demanded Charles Hatfield, again hurried by his enthusiasm into language too little reserved and distant for a perfect stranger to address to a young lady:—at least, so he thought and feared immediately after he had made the observation.

“It is very possible,” replied Perdita, in a mild and almost plaintive tone. “In the country we had numerous friends; but here——”

And the artful creature, stopping short, stooped down to pick up her handkerchief as if to apply it to her eyes:—at the same instant Charles, obeying the impulse of polite attention, bent down also to save the lady the trouble and perform the little act of courtesy, when their hair—their very cheeks came in contact,—accidentally as the confused and bewildered Charles imagined, but intentionally on the part of the wanton and astute Perdita.

And that contact—Oh! it was thrilling in the extreme; and Charles Hatfield felt as if his veins ran with liquid fire;—for the perfume exhaled from the lady’s hair—the velvety feeling of the luxuriant curls—the softness and the warmth of her carnation cheek—and then the view which he could not possibly avoid for a moment obtaining of the glowing breast which her stooping posture completely revealed,—all this was sufficient to madden him with passion and excite him to a degree when all self-command becomes nearly impossible. But he still possessed a sufficiency of mental energy to controul himself; and, stammering forth an awkward apology, he hurriedly observed, “Would you not think me too bold, Miss Fitzhardinge, I should be proud to offer my services as a chaperon to yourself—and your mother,” he added for decency’s sake.

The instant this offer was made,—made without the least forethought and in the confusion of the young man’s mind arising from the incidents just related,—he repented of his rashness: he would have given worlds to be able to recall the proposal. For, in a moment to his mind flashed the image of the lovely Lady Frances Ellingham—the reflection that he was offering his attentions to a young person totally unknown to him—the remembrance that he had many matters of importance to occupy his leisure—and the general impression that he had committed himself in a most singularly foolish and inconsiderate manner.

Perdita saw what was passing in his mind: at least, she perceived that he repented of the proposal which he had so precipitately made, and which it had rejoiced her so much to receive;—and she resolved to conquer his scruples—overcome his repugnance—and confirm him in the act of vassalage to which her transcendent charms and her wanton arts had already prompted him.

Laying her soft warm hand upon his, and approaching her countenance so near to his own that her fragrant breath fanned his cheek, she said, in a tone apparently of deep emotion, “Mr. Hatfield, this proposal is so generous—so kind—so unexpected, that I know not how to answer you otherwise than by expressing my sincere gratitude. And yet—so frankly have you made the offer, that it would be a miserable affectation on my part to hesitate or to appear leas candid and open in accepting it. I do therefore accept it, my dear sir—and with renewed thanks. And think not that in constituting yourself the friend—for in such a light must I henceforth consider you—of Miss Fitzhardinge, you are doing aught derogatory to yourself. No: for my mother is descended from an old and illustrious family,—a family which has enumerated amongst its members personages of rank, eminence, and renown;—and should the Chancery suit which she has come to London to prosecute, result favourably to her, she will recover an enormous fortune that has been accumulating for years through remaining in a dormant state.”

While Perdita was delivering this tissue of falsehoods with an air of the most profound sincerity, she still kept her hand upon that of the young man—still retained her countenance near his own—and likewise fixed upon him looks at once languishing, tender, and voluptuous.

Again did he lose all power of sober reflection and, completely yielding to the influence which the syren had in so short a time gained over him, he said, “I shall be proud and delighted to act as your escort, Miss Fitzhardinge. But you just now addressed me by my name—and yet I thought you were unprepared for my presence here this evening.”

“I was well aware that my mother wished to see you on particular business,” said Perdita, having a ready reply for every question that might be put to her; “and therefore when I saw you enter the room, I concluded that you must be Mr. Charles Hatfield.”

“And are you acquainted with the nature of the business concerning which Mrs. Fitzhardinge desired to speak with me?” inquired the young man, wondering why the old lady did not make her appearance.

“Yes—I am well informed on that subject,” returned Perdita; “but pray do not ask me to talk to you on business! I detest the very name! And now perhaps you will consider me a silly—flighty—volatile creature——”

“I consider you to be an angel of beauty!” exclaimed Charles, unable to restrain the raptures which hurried him on to this impassioned ejaculation.

“I was told before I came to London that the gentlemen of the great metropolis were very fond of paying silly young ladies vain and empty compliments,” said Perdita, looking with good-humoured archness at her companion, while her eyes beamed with wickedness and her bosom heaved visibly.

“Is it the first time that you have been assured of your beauty?” asked Charles, still carried away by an uncontroullable influence.

“No—not precisely the first,” responded Perdita, with a naivetÉ so admirably assumed that her companion believed it to be completely genuine. “There was a young gentleman—or rather a nobleman, but I must not mention his name—in the country, who offered me his hand;—and he paid me many very fine compliments.”

“And you accepted the proposal? you are engaged to him?” exclaimed Charles, with a strange fluttering of the heart.

“Neither the one nor the other,” answered Perdita. “I could not love him—and therefore I declined the honour. My mother was angry with me, and talked a great deal about the excellence of the match and so forth: but I was obstinate—yes, very obstinate, Mr. Hatfield,” she said archly; “for never—never,” she continued, her tone suddenly becoming earnest and her manner serious,—“never could I bestow my hand where I cannot likewise give my heart!”

“And you have resolved wisely, Miss Fitzhardinge!” exclaimed Charles. “Matrimony without sincere affection can afford no promise of happiness. But one so beautiful as yourself—impressed too with such sterling sentiments and harbouring such pure principles—oh, you will prove indeed a treasure to the man who is fortunate enough to secure your heart and hand!”

“Again you compliment me, Mr. Hatfield,” said Perdita, looking down and blushing,—for even her very blushes she could command at pleasure. “In reference, however, to the observation you have just made, I should remark that I have never yet met with one of your sex whom I could comprehend fully and who could understand me. I admire openness, candour and sincerity,—that generous frankness, too, which at once establishes friendship and dissipates cold formality. For I believe that the trammels of ceremonial politeness positively spoil the heart,—tutoring it to curb its enthusiasm where enthusiasm would be so natural! I know not how to express myself clearly; but what I mean to imply is this—that I am a believer in the possibility of friendship at first sight——”

“And of love at first sight also?” exclaimed Charles Hatfleld, in an impassioned tone.

“Yes—and of love at first sight also,” repeated Perdita, again hanging down her head—again commanding a deep blush—and likewise speaking in a low, melting tone of deep emotion, as she drew a long sigh.

“Was it that possibility of experiencing the feeling of friendship at first sight, which led you to accept my proposed services as an escort to the places of public amusement?” enquired Charles.

“Wherefore do you seek thus to probe the secret feelings of my soul?” asked Perdita, turning upon him a look indicative of mingled pleasure and amazement.

“Have I offended you by the question, charming lady?” exclaimed Charles.

“Oh! I do not so readily take offence, Mr. Hatfield,” cried Perdita. “But—frank, candid, and ingenuous though I believe myself to be—I still have my little feelings of pride, and I could not think of making an avowal to a gentleman otherwise than as a reciprocity.”

“Then were I to declare sincerely and solemnly—and on my honour as a man—that it was a sentiment of friendship, experienced at first sight and according to your own doctrine, which prompted me to offer my services as a chaperon,” said Charles, hastily and enthusiastically, “would you deign to answer my question?”

“Such a declaration on your part, sir, would necessarily elicit—nay, demand some kind of a response on mine,” returned the artful beauty, looking down, and tapping the carpet with her foot in such a manner that her ankle peeped from beneath her dress, and the young man’s eyes could catch a glimpse of the exquisitely white skin through the net work of the dainty silk stocking.

Charles hesitated: an avowal of friendship trembled on his tongue—but he thought how dangerous such a confession would be—he thought, too, of Lady Frances Ellingham!

And Perdita again perceived that he hesitated; and instantly had recourse to a new artifice to display her charms to their utmost advantage. Stooping down, she affected to arrange the ottoman in the most convenient manner for her feet;—but, in this attitude which seemed so natural, ingenuous, and artless, she revealed so much of the treasures of her bosom that no room was left for imaginings—and Charles Hatfield felt himself seized with a delirium in which he would have made over his soul to Satan had such been the price demanded for the possession of Perdita.

“Miss Fitzhardinge,” he said, his voice almost subdued and his tongue parched through the maddening fierceness of passion, “on my honour as a gentleman, I swear that the offer I ere now made you was dictated by a feeling of friendship! Yes—of a friendship that sprang up in my soul in a single instant—that took birth in a moment—a friendship that prompted me to declare how proud and delighted I should be to act as your escort! For I am candid, frank, and ingenuous as I perceive you to be,—and I will give you another proof of the existence of these qualities in respect to myself—even at the risk of offending you. From the first moment that I set foot in this room until now, I have experienced emotions such as I never felt before. In my delirium I apostrophised you as an angel of beauty;—and an angel of beauty must you indeed be to exercise such prompt—such speedy—such witching influence as that which has enthralled me. For it appears as if there were a spell upon me—an enchantment, from which there is no escape. Sweet lady, pardon me for having spoken thus frankly——”

“I again assure you that I do not very readily take offence,” answered Perdita: then, laying her hand upon his—for the designing woman sought to excite him almost to madness—and again approaching her countenance so near his own that he could look into the depth of her large, wanton eyes,—she said, “You have made a certain avowal, and you have a right to expect a candid and unreserved reply from me. Then learn, Mr. Hatfield, that never should I have accepted your services as a chaperon—never should we have talked thus familiarly—never would you have been suffered to read so much of my disposition as within the last hour you have learnt—had not I likewise experienced a feeling of friendship at first sight for you!”

“Oh! my God—this is happiness so unhoped—so unlooked for—so unexpected, that I am bewildered-dazzled—amazed!” murmured the young man, a mist obscuring his brain—and yet a glorious, lustrous, golden mist through which he seemed to catch glimpses of paradise. “Friendship did you say, charming lady? Yet is not friendship a dangerous word for lips like ours to breathe—and a dangerous sentiment for hearts like ours to feel?”

“You speak as if you were under an apprehension that you are doing wrong?” said Perdita, in a tone of soft reproach. “Oh! is this candour and frankness? If you regret that you have pledged me your friendship—for such I augur of your words—I release you, Mr. Hatfield, from the bond: nay—I should be too proud to ask you to adhere to it!”

And now the young man beheld the fascinating woman in a new phasis of her charms;—for, with that ready versatility of aspect and demeanour which she had so completely at her command, she suddenly invested herself with all the majesty of sublime haughtiness;—no longer melting, tender, wanton, and voluptuous as Venus—but terrible, domineering, superb, and imperious as Juno,—no longer wearing the cestus of the Goddess of Love—but grasping, as the Queen of Heaven, the thunders of Olympian Jove.

Her eyes flashed fire—her cheeks flushed—her nostrils dilated—her lip curled—her neck arched proudly rather than gracefully—her bosom heaved as if it would burst the low corsage which only half restrained it—and her very form seemed to draw itself up into a height, which, even as she sate and of middling stature as she was, appeared colossal at that moment to the astounded gaze of the young man.

Never was artifice more successful—never was triumph more complete, on one side;—never was defeat more signal—never was humiliation more contrite, on the other. For, overwhelmed as it were by the sovereign majesty of that anger which he believed himself to have provoked, Charles Hatfield fell upon his knees before the haughty beauty, and seizing both her hands in his, he extravagantly devoured them with kisses, exclaiming, “Pardon—pardon!”

“Yes—yes: it is as frankly accorded as sincerely demanded!” exclaimed Perdita, not offering to withdraw her hands from the lips which were now glued to them: and in an instant her whole manner and appearance changed again—and when Charles Hatfield ventured to look up into the syren’s face, he saw her bending over him with cheeks flushed it is true, but not by anger—and with eyes that seemed to swim in wanton, liquid languor.

Rising from his suppliant posture, and now taking a seat by the side of Perdita on the sofa,—relinquishing her hands at the same time, for fear of giving offence by retaining them,—the infatuated young man, drunk with passion, said in a low murmuring tone, “We have not been acquainted more than one hour, and we have exchanged vows of friendship—is it not so?”

“Yes—if you do not repent now, and never will repent of that pledge on your part,” answered the dangerous young woman, who thus conducted her designing machinations with such consummate skill.

“No—never, never!” cried Hatfield. “And now we know each other as well as if we had been intimate since our infancy! To you, then, henceforth I am Charles; and you are to me——”

“Perdita,” said she.

“Oh! beautiful—singular—and yet ominous name!” exclaimed the young gentleman. “Yes—you are my friend—my dear friend Perdita! And now, Perdita, I will avail myself of this romantic yet not the less sincere friendship that is established between us, to ask you what caprice or fancy gave you so remarkable a Christian name?”

“Because in my infancy—shortly after my birth, and before I was baptised—I was lost,—or rather stolen by gipsies,” answered Perdita, investing herself and her history with as much of the charm of mysticism as possible: “and when I was recovered from the kidnappers by my parents, they christened me Perdita—or The Lost One.”

“Every thing connected with you seems to be imbued with deep and enthralling interest, my dear friend,” said Charles: “a supernatural halo appears to surround you! Your beauty is of a nature so superior to aught of female loveliness that I ever before beheld—your voice has something so indescribably melting and musical that it awakens echoes in the inmost recesses of the soul—your history is strange, wild, and impressive in its very commencement—your disposition is characterised by a frankness and candour so generous that it inspires and reciprocates profound friendship the instant it meets a kindred spirit—and then there is about you a something so witching, so captivating, so enchanting, that the best and most virtuous of men would lose all sense of duty, did you—sweet syren that you are—undertake to lead them astray.”

“If I have indeed found a kindred spirit in you, Charles,” said Perdita, taking his hand and pressing it as if in grateful and innocent rapture to her heaving bosom—an act which only tended to inflame the young man almost to madness,—“I shall have gained that which I have long sought, and never yet found. For my heart has hitherto been as complete a stranger to a sincere friendship as to love! When I spoke ere now of our friends in the country, I meant those acquaintances whom custom denominates by the other title.”

“Perdita—my friend Perdita, the amity that we have pledged each other shall be eternal!” exclaimed Charles, in an impassioned tone.

“And you will return to visit me to-morrow?” said the young woman, her fine grey eyes beaming with an unsettled lustre, as if the mingled voluptuousness of day and night met in those splendid, eloquent orbs.

“Yes—oh! yes!” cried Charles, as if it were unnecessary to have asked the question. “And now I shall leave you, Perdita: I shall depart to feast my imagination on the pleasures of this interview.”

Thus speaking, the young man pressed Perdita’s hand to his lips, and hurried from the room, intoxicated with a delirium of bliss, and scarcely conscious of where he was or whither he was going.