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.