“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.