“You must leave me now, Charles,” she said; “for my mother cannot be long ere she comes back. To-morrow, at mid-day, I shall be again alone--for I am aware that she will have to pay another visit to her attorney. Come, then, at that hour--and I will tell you all that has passed between my parent and myself.” “Not an instant later than twelve to-morrow shall I be!” exclaimed Charles. “And now,--forgive me for returning for a moment to worldly affairs--quitting the paradise of happiness to which you have raised me, my Perdita,--but in respect to the small sum----” “Oh! I had forgotten all our arrangements with regard to that matter,” said Perdita: “and, indeed--I detest and abominate money-affairs. But now--as your wife, dearest Charles--I may mention my wishes on that head without a blush. I should therefore be pleased if you could forward the amount to me in the course of the afternoon; and I will use it to the best possible advantage with my mother.” “In less than an hour it shall be here in an envelope, sealed, and addressed to yourself,” said Charles. “Farewell, my sweet Perdita--farewell, until to-morrow!” They embraced each other fervently; and Charles Hatfield took his departure. Before he returned home, he walked into the park to collect his scattered thoughts and acquire some degree of composure. His perfidy--his infamous treachery towards Lady Frances now burst upon him in all its hideousness. That very morning had he demanded his cousin’s hand in marriage;--and within an hour afterwards he had solemnly contracted a strange and scarcely comprehensible union with Perdita Fitzhardinge. His conduct seemed vile in the extreme: his heart, smote him painfully. Yet was he so completely infatuated with Perdita, that he could not calmly contemplate the idea of breaking with her for ever. He was like a gambler who loathes himself for his ready yielding to a ruinous vice--but who nevertheless returns with renewed zest to the gaming-table. For Charles thought of the happiness which he had so nearly attained on this eventful day, and which he felt assured must await him on the morrow:--he could not banish from his imagination the recollection of those charms which had plunged him into a perfect delirium of passion;--and the more he thought on the witching loveliness of Perdita, the less inclined was he to resign her. Then came the almost inevitable results of the sophistry which the designing woman had called to her aid,--results which may be explained the more completely by following the current of the young man’s thoughts.