Perdita bowed slightly: and quitted the room,—not in haste—but with stately demeanour and measured tread, as if she were merely a consenting party to a business-transaction, and not a vanquished one on whom conditions had been imposed.
The moment the door closed behind her, Mr. Hatfield said to his son, “That woman is indeed a prodigy of beauty, and a very demon at heart. What an angelic creature would she have been were she as pure and virtuous as she is lovely!”
“Ah! my dear father,” returned Charles, who appeared to be completely spirit-broken and overwhelmed by the terrible occurrences and revelations of this memorable morning,—“you can now comprehend, perhaps,—at least to some extent,—the nature of that infatuation which I experienced in respect to this singular being. The world has never seen her equal for beauty and for wickedness.”
“The sooner you are removed from the sphere of her fatal influence, the better,” observed Mr. Hatfield. “When she re-appears, do you quit the room, and hasten as much as possible your preparations to depart with me.”
“Fear not, my dear father,” responded Charles, “that I shall, of my own accord, interpose any delay. But the papers—she will surrender them——”
“As a matter of course. You may have observed,” added the parent, “that, in spite of her haughty coldness, she was subdued and vanquished.”
At this instant the door opened, and Perdita returned, bearing her writing-desk in her hands.
Her countenance, though flushed, and thus presenting a striking contrast to its colourless appearance some time before, gave no indication of the nature of her feelings: impossible was it to judge of the emotions that might occupy her bosom, by that which is wont to be denominated the mirror of the soul.
Her step was still measured and stately, while her attitude was graceful; and, as she advanced towards the table—passing through the golden flood of lustre that filled the room—the waving of her white drapes; gave an additional charm to the undulating nature of her motion.
From beneath her richly fringed lids, while affecting to keep her eyes half bent downward as if on the rose-wood desk which she carried, she darted a rapid glance at Mr. Hatfield—and then her look dwelt the least thing more lingeringly on her husband, who had risen from his seat and was leaning on the mantel.