But scarcely had these thoughts passed through his brain, when his heart smote him painfully--severely,--reproaching him with his treachery towards Lady Frances Ellingham, and suggesting a comparison between the retiring, bashful beauty of this charming young creature, and the warm, impassioned, bold loveliness of the syren Perdita. The more Charles Hatfield pondered upon the strange scene that had taken place in Suffolk Street, the less satisfied did he feel with himself. He saw that his conduct had been rash, precipitate, and thoughtless;--and yet there was something so pleasurable in what he blamed himself for, that he was not altogether contrite. Indeed, he felt--he admitted to his own secret soul, that had he the power of recalling the last two hours, he should act precisely in the same manner over again. For when he thought of Perdita,--remembered her witcheries--dwelt on her faultless charms--and recalled to mind the mystic fascination of her language and the delicious tones of her voice,--his imagination grew inflamed--his blood ran rapidly and hotly in his veins--and it seemed that were she Satan in female shape, he could sell his soul to her! It was late when he returned to Ellingham House; and he repaired at once to his chamber. But he could not sleep: the image of Perdita haunted him;--and were it not so unseasonable an hour he would have returned to Suffolk Street under pretence of soliciting the promised revelations from Mrs. Fitzhardinge. When he retired to rest, and sleep did at last visit his eyes, that beauteous image followed him in his dreams. He thought that he was seated by the side of the witching fair one on the sofa, and that she was reclining, half-embraced, on his breast, with her countenance, flushed and wanton in expression, upturned towards his own. This delicious position appeared to last for a long--long time, neither uttering a word, but drinking deep draughts of love from each other’s eyes. Then he fancied that he stooped to press his lips to her delicious mouth;--but at that instant the lovely face changed--elongating, and undergoing so horrible a transformation that his eyes were fixed in appalling fascination upon it,--while, at the same time, he became sensible that the soft and supple form which he held in his arms was undergoing a rapid and signal change likewise,--till the whole being, lately so charming, so tender, and so loving, was changed into a hideous serpent. A terrible cry escaped him--and he awoke! The rays of the gorgeous sun were streaming in at the window, as Charles Hatfield started from his slumber; and, to his surprise, he found his father standing by the side of the bed. “You have been labouring under the influence of an unpleasant dream, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, taking his son’s hand. “Yes--’twas indeed a hideous dream!” exclaimed the young man, shuddering at the idea which still pursued him.