The sunbeams seemed to kiss her flowing hair,—seemed to play with the exquisitely modelled arm that lay completely exposed,—seemed also to revel in the treasures of her naked bosom, so firm, so rounded, and so regularly heaving.
Sleep likewise sealed the eyes of Charles Hatfield: smiles likewise played open his lips;—and his countenance appeared a perfect specimen of god-like beauty incarnate in man.
Yes: they were a handsome pair;—and so far there was a remarkable fitness in their union—but in naught beside!
In perfect happiness had they sunk into the profound slumber which still enwrapped them;—for, on the one side, Charles Hatfield had become possessed of that woman of glorious loveliness who had enchanted—captivated—enthralled his very soul;—and, on the other, Perdita believed herself to have gained the title of Vicountess Marston already, and to have that of Countess of Ellingham in perspective.
It was nine o’clock in the morning—the morning succeeding the bridal night: and thus were the newly-wedded pair still sleeping in the nuptial couch.
Presently the door opened, and Rosalie entered the room,—Rosalie, naturally so gay, blythe, and full of spirits—but now with a cloud upon her brow, and evident anxiety in her manner.
Advancing towards the bed, she paused—gazed for a few moments upon the sleepers—and murmured to herself in French, “How handsome and how serenely happy they appear to be! What a pity it is to awake them!”—then, after another short pause, she said hurriedly, “And yet it must be—for the stranger is imperative.”
Thus speaking, she touched Charles Hatfield gently on the arm; and he woke up, with a start. But Rosalie immediately put her finger to her lip to enjoin silence; and the young man, now completely aroused, surveyed her with mingled surprise and anger,—surprise at her mysterious behaviour, and anger at her intrusion.
“Hush!” she said, in a low but emphatic tone. “A gentleman insists upon seeing you—and, as his manner is so curious, I thought I had better awake you first, sir,” she added, glancing significantly towards her mistress, who still slept on.
“A gentleman!” repeated Charles, a suspicion—almost a certainty of the real truth flashing to his mind: “describe him!”—and he also spoke in a whisper, though with emphasis.