“Nevertheless, it may procure a delay, by rescuing my mother from the immediate embarrassments in which this sudden change in the aspect of her affairs has plunged her,” said Perdita: “for, to speak candidly to you, her solicitor has been advancing her a regular income during the time that the suit has lasted;—and now, since all hope of gaining it is destroyed, no farther supplies can be expected from that quarter.”
“Yes—it may procure a delay,” said Charles, in a musing tone; “and with leisure to reflect calmly—deliberately—much may be done! O Perdita—never, never could I see you thus sacrificed to a man whom you would abhor!”
“Generous friend—’twas heaven who sent you to me!” exclaimed the young woman, drooping her head upon his breast, and weeping,—weeping tears of gratitude, as he fondly believed.
He threw his arms around her—he pressed her to his heart—he clasped her with such fervour that the embrace was passionately violent—he strained her as it were to the seat of his very soul: then, hastily loosening his hold, he raised her face—her warm, blushing face—and on her lips he imprinted a thousand rapturous kisses,—those lips that were literally glued to his own. He looked into her eyes, and read love, desire, and passion in those orbs, now melting with languor and wantonness;—for Perdita herself had almost entirely lost all power of self-controul, and clung to him as if inviting the full extreme of voluptuous enjoyment. He felt her bosom heaving against his chest; and, maddened with excitement, his daring hand invaded the treasures of those swelling, palpitating globes, so snowy in their whiteness—so warm with their licentious fires.
But at that instant Perdita recovered her presence of mind: and it flashed to her memory that it was no part of her scheme to surrender herself completely up to him until she had ensnared his affections so fully—so inextricably, that all subsequent escape or estrangement, through repentance and remorse, should be impossible.
Accordingly—wresting herself from his embrace, and retreating to the farther end of the sofa, she hastily arranged her cap and dishevelled hair—drew the wrapper over her breast—and, turning upon him eyes that still seemed to swim in liquid languor, said in a half-reproachful manner, “Oh! Charles—is this friendship? would you ruin me?”
“Sweetest—dearest creature,” exclaimed the young man, “did I not tell you yester-night that friendship was a sentiment dangerous for us to feel, and a word perilous for our tongues to utter? O Perdita—it is not friendship that I feel for you: ’tis love—ardent, sincere, and devoted love! And ’twas not friendship at first sight that I experienced for you the moment I last evening set foot in this room: but ’twas love—love, my Perdita—such love as never before did man entertain for woman!”
“And it was because I love you, Charles,” murmured Perdita, in her softest, tenderest tones, “that I loathe and abhor the idea of that union which my mother has so inconsiderately—so rashly—so cruelly planned for me!”
“You love me, Perdita!” ejaculated the young man, wild with joy: “oh! thanks—ten thousand thanks for that assurance, my own sweet Perdita! I was happy in the possession of your friendship: but I am now mad—demented in the confidence of owning your love! For the love of such a being as yourself is something that would make a paradise of the blackest and most barren desert on the face of the earth! Is it possible, then, that I possess your love, Perdita—dearest Perdita? Oh! tell me so once more: it is so delicious to hear such an avowal from your lips!”
“Yes, Charles—I love you—I do indeed love you,” replied the young woman, throwing as much softness into her melting tones, as much witchery into her manner, and as much voluptuous languor into her glances as she possibly could.