“And suppose your nephew should not be in London?” said Perdita.
“Ah! now you have touched the very chord which vibrates with anguish to my heart’s core!” exclaimed the old woman. “But let us not yield to despondency,” she added, almost immediately.
“No—it is useless to meet evils half way,” observed Perdita.
The two proceeded in silence for upwards of a quarter of an hour, until they reached a particular part of Brompton, when the elder wanderer said, “It must be somewhere about here that he lives. Ah! Number Seven! Yes—this is the house, Perdita!” she added, indicating a beautiful cottage-residence, standing alone in the midst of a pleasant garden. “But it will be useless for you to accompany me,” continued the hag: “on the contrary, many reasons, which I will hereafter explain, render it advisable that my nephew should not come to know you by sight.”
“Just as you please, mother,” said Perdita, in the quiet way which was habitual to her when she had no inclination either on one side or the other. “There is a large stone at the angle of the road yonder: I will rest there until you return.”
“Do so,” replied the old woman; and, having paused for a few moments to dwell admiringly on the fine symmetry of her daughter’s form as Perdita repaired slowly towards the point indicated, the harridan advanced to the door of the house in which her relation dwelt.
She knocked and rang;—and in a few minutes a servant-maid, throwing open a window, enquired who it was that came at such an unseasonable hour.
“Is your master at home?” demanded the old woman.
“He is: but——”
“Thank God!” ejaculated the visitor, considerably relieved by this announcement. “You must inform him that an elderly female wishes to speak to him on particular business——”