The clock struck twelve as he quitted the house;—and it was impossible to conceal from himself the fact that he was rejoiced at having an excuse to call upon Perdita.
Then, as he proceeded with some degree of rapidity towards Suffolk Street, he could not possibly prevent his imagination from indulging in exciting conjectures how Perdita would be dressed—how she would look by day-light—and how she would receive him when she observed his studied coolness and his constraint of manner.
“Poor girl!” he murmured to himself: “if she really hoped to find a sincere friend in me, how will she bear the disappointment which is in store for her? It grieves me—Oh! it grieves me to be compelled to inflict a wound upon her gentle heart; but duty—yes, my duty towards Lady Frances leaves me no alternative.”
With a beating heart he knocked at the door;—and in less than a minute he was conducted to the drawing-room, where Perdita was waiting to receive him.
The young lady was dressed in an elegant morning wrapper; and, the weather being intensely hot, the ribbands which should have fastened it round her neck, were left untied, so that it remained open at the bosom. Her hair was arranged in bands, and she wore a cap of the slightest material, but the snowy whiteness of which enhanced the glossy richness of those luxuriant masses that crowned her fine forehead. Her large grey eyes, with their dark pupils, were as bright and lustrous as on the preceding evening; and the noon-day sun detracted not from the exquisite whiteness of the neck and shoulders, and the healthy hues of the complexion of the countenance, which had shone to such advantage by candle-light.
No: Perdita was as ravishingly beautiful on this occasion, as on the former;—and there was a freshness—yes, even an appearance of virgin freshness, about her, matured and developed as her charms were, which counteracted the impression that her wanton looks and the forwardness of her manner might otherwise have created in respect to her virtue. Her depravity in Australia had not impaired her loveliness, nor marred the youthfulness of her beauty: her face—her figure afforded not an intimation that she had been steeped in licentious enjoyments from the age of thirteen until she embarked on board the ship that wafted her to England.
The moment Charles Hatfield entered the room, he was struck by the enchanting loveliness of Perdita as much as he had been on the preceding evening—indeed, as completely as if this were the first time that he had ever seen her. For an instant he stopped short as if he dared not proceed farther within the sphere of that Circean influence which a warning voice within his soul seemed to declare was alluring him on to total destruction but, fascinated as is the tremulous bird by the eye of the serpent, he advanced towards the beautiful creature who rose from the sofa to receive him.
Then as he felt her warm hand in his,—as her countenance beamed upon him in all the glory of its loveliness,—as her soft, musical, and delicious voice flowed upon his ear, borne on a breath fragrant as the perfume of flowers, and issuing from lips that seemed to have robbed the rose of its tint,—he felt his stern resolves thawing within him, and experienced the impossibility of manifesting coolness towards a creature of such exquisite charms and such rare fascinations.
“I thank you, my dear friend, for this punctuality,” she said, gently drawing him to a seat by her side on the sofa, when she resumed her place. “Have you thought of all that passed between us last evening?—and have you reflected that we played the part of silly children in pledging eternal friendship, total strangers as we were to each other?—or did you regard the proceeding as a natural and solemn compact, to be inviolably maintained?”
“Wherefore these questions, Perdita?” enquired Charles, dazzled by the impassioned looks that were fixed upon him. “Have you yourself repented——”