CHAPTER 18 THE WANDERERS The night on which Charles Hatfield made the important discoveries detailed in the preceding chapter was marked by other events of a scarcely less interesting nature. It was about eleven o'clock, the weather was intensely warm, and not a breath of air agitated the foliage on the wayside, as two females toiled slowly and painfully along the high road between Dartford and Shooters Hill. One was a hideous old Harrodon, whose years could not have been less than sixty-two or sixty-three, and yet, though her form once tall, symmetrical and on a large scale was bowed with age and sufferings, she still possessed considerable physical energy. The countenance was weather-beaten and tanned to suction extreme that, had she been dressed in male attire, no delicacy nor feminine castor features would have betrayed her real sex. Her short, grizzled locks were confined by an old kerchief wound round her head in a gypsy fashion, and her garb notated the utmost punery and distress. Not only did she leave upon the mind the disagreeable impression of revolting ugliness, but her look was sinister and repulsive. The wrinkles beneath her eyes and about her closely compressed lips bespoke a ferocious and determined character, a sole resolute and nerve to every evil purpose, and the acute observer might also mark in that countenance traces of those stormy and impetuous passions which had influenced her early years. Her companion was a young woman of about nineteen, and though she was dressed almost as wretchedly as the old harridan, yet how different was the form which those rags covered. For her figure, though full even to a maturity beyond her years, was exquisitely modelled, a waist not ridiculously small, but still small enough to develop in all their voluptuous proportions the swelling hips and fine bust. Cloth in stockings covered with darnes, and short with large clumsy shoes, were limbs and feet that for symmetry might have been envied by a queen, and, as if anxious in the depths of her punery to preserve her charms as completely as possible, she wore an old pair of gloves upon her beautifully sculptured hands. Then her face, though sunburnt, was of a beauty which even an anchorite must have turned to admire, yet a beauty of a bold and masculine style, and stamping her rather as a very handsome than as a very lovely woman. Her features were of Roman caste, the strong facial aquiline denoting of a luptuous and profoundly sensual disposition. Her fine large grey eyes looked boldly and wantonly from beneath dark brows majestically arched and almost meeting between the temples, and above which rose the high straight wide forehead crowned with intelligence. Her hair was of a dark brown and singularly luxuriant glossy and silken, and it was evident that not even the bitter miseries of poverty rendered her indifferent to the care which that glorious covering required to maintain its splendour unimpaired. Her mouth was small, the upper lip thin, the lower one fuller, but not pouting. Her teeth, the least thing large, were nevertheless perfectly regular and of pearly whiteness, and her chin was prominent, but well rounded. The general expression of her countenance was indicative of strong passions and fierce desires, great resolution of purpose, and something approaching even to a resolute sternness of purpose, amounting almost to implacability. She was not above the middle height, and her carriage was more commanding than graceful. At the same time, it would have struck a beholder that were she attired in a befitting manner her gait and gestures would have been characterised by nothing positively inelegant. The reader will perceive that great, in many respects, was the contrast between the mother and daughter, for in such close relationship did the two females stand to each other, but in some points there was a marked resemblance. For instance, the countenances of both indicated strong passions and indomitable resolution. Both were totally devoid of all moral principle, though they could simulate the sanctity of anchorites to suit their purposes or serve their interests, and both could be implacable enemies, while friendship was a mere name at which their lips would curl into a sneer. In spite of her natural energies and the somewhat substantial remains of physical strength, the old woman dragged herself slowly and painfully along the road towards London, while her daughter exhibited scarcely less evident symptoms of fatigue, approaching almost to total exhaustion. Perdita, said the Harrodon, suddenly breaking a silence that had been of long duration. Perdita, she repeated, We cannot reach London this night. It will be impossible. I feel it will be impossible. Then we must lie down by the roadside and perish with hunger, answered the young woman, who bore, it seemed, the singular Christian name of Perdita. We have above spoken of contrast and resemblances in respect to these two females, who are destined to play no unimportant part in the forthcoming chapters of our narrative. But we must pause to observe that it would be impossible to conceive a greater discrepancy in tones than that which marked the voices of mother and daughter. The voice of the old woman was masculine, hoarse, disagreeable, and grating to the ear, and although she spoke the English language with the most grammatical punctuality, and there was nothing positively vulgar in her manner of speech, yet the impression it seemed to calculate to produce upon a stranger was singularly unpleasant. On the other hand, the whole sphere of harmony has known nothing more melodious than the voice of Perdita, a voice which was capable of many modulations, each characterised by a charm peculiar to itself, for whatever she was speaking in indignation or in softness, in outbursting passion or in dogged ill humour, still were the tones of that voice metallic, rich and flowing. The heartless wretches, exclaimed the old woman, again breaking an interval of silence, to thrust us on shore a deal with only a shilling in our pockets. This is not the least hardship we have ever endured, mother, said Perdita, rather in a tone of remonstrance than consolation. For my part, I have scarcely ever seen anything but privation and misery. You ungrateful wretch! ejaculated the Harrodon furiously. When I had but a morsel of bread to give you, did I ever take a portion for myself? For you, Perdita? she continued, speaking in a milder and even more tender tone. For you, I have gone through sufferings unknown and unheard of in this country. For you, I have toiled beneath the scorching South Australian sun of summer, and amidst anointing damse of a South Australian winter. Yes, for years and years have I toiled on, toiled on, that your beauty might not be impaired by want or privation, at least that you might endure as little want and privation as possible. Well, well, cried the young woman, somewhat softened by her mother's words, don't let us look back to the past. We are now in England, and you say that we are not many miles from London. Good! We will endeavour to sustain each other's courage and strength to reach the fine city where you hope to change our rags into silks and satins, and fill our empty pockets with gold. Yes, and you shall see whether I have deceived you, Perdita, exclaimed the Harrodon, in a tone partaking of enthusiasm. Nearly nineteen years have elapsed since I last saw the mighty Metropolis. And unless its people be much changed, there is a fortune to be made by an experienced woman and a beautiful girl, leagueed together. And you are the experienced woman, mother, said Perdita, actually seeking a compliment, for an ordinate vanity was amongst her failings. Yes, and you are the beautiful girl, and you know it, returned the old Harrodon. Being of accord as we are together, it is impossible that we can fail to accomplish our grand designs. Why was it that I implored you to not accept the offers of marriage which needy settlers made you in New South Wales? Because your charms can command thousands of pounds in London. Whereas, in that frightful colony, all you could have hoped to gain was what is termed a comfortable position. And to one possessing your notions, your pride, your strong passions, your soaring disposition, I, and to one endowed with your loveliness too, a mere home is not sufficient. You require luxuries, although you have never yet tasted them. Fine clothes, although you have never yet worn them. A splendid equippage, although you have never yet known the use of one. It was for this that I brought you to England. It was for this that I besought you to contract no marriage in the colony. It was for this that I conjured you to abstain from any connection that might become permanent. I am well aware of your motives, mother, said Perdita. In a word, she added with a strange mixture of pride and irony, you considered my beauty to be more marketable in London than in New South Wales, and after all that you have told me of the English people and England's capital, I am inclined to believe that you have not misled me. But supposing that I contract some splendid marriage in London, that I find my way into the highest circles, and that I become the belle of the great city, will there not be the constant risk the ever imminent chance of falling in with the offices of some of those regiments which have returned from Sydney or Botany Bay? I see now that you scarcely understand me, that we do not altogether comprehend each other, interrupted the old woman impatiently. There is no need for you to count only on the chance of making a good match. It is indeed far more probable that you may ensnare some young gentleman of birth, family, and fortune, or some old voluptuary of immense wealth, and there is more to be gained as the mistress of one of these than as a wife. Do not marry, Perdita. Do not dream of marriage. Remain independent. And the moment you have ruined one lover, you can take another. There, that is plain speaking. And now do you comprehend me. Perfectly, answered the young woman, then, under the influence of wants and thoughts which rushed to her imagination, she said, Yes, I comprehend you. And I confess that your views now become more suitable to mine. I could not chain myself to one individual, with any hope of being faithful to him. Love is a passion which will never obtain over me that influence which it so often exercises over the weak, the simple-minded, or the infatuated. Be not too confident on that point, Perdita, said the old woman. In Sydney, in Botany Bay, your amours were only the result of a warm temperament, for carefully as I watched over you. Now, mother, let us have no moral teachings from your lips, exclaimed the young woman, in an imperious and authoritative tone. For you had been so very immaculate yourself, I should never have beheld the light of day. Neither would you have passed some eighteen or nineteen years of your life in a penal colony, and such a colony as it is. Why, let a pretty girl be hemmed in by all the precautions which a parent can imagine. Circumstances must inevitably lead her astray in South Australia. And you, you who know all this so well, can you wonder if I was seduced at the early age of thirteen? And if from that period until your pardon arrived and we embarked to return home, I have not failed to indulge my fancy without hesitation, on the one side I obeyed your instructions, I accepted no offer of marriage, and lived with no man permanently as his mistress, but on the other I hesitated not to intrigue with the gayest and most dashing officers. Enough, enough! ejaculated the mother, who, bad as she herself was, felt a cold chill come over her at this open, audacious, and unblushing avowal of her daughter's depravity. A depravity that was not, however, unknown, either in circumstances or extent to the old woman. Give me your arm, Padita. Assist me to mount this hill, for I am ready to drop. There, you are a good girl. Ah, Padita! I was once young and beautiful as you are now, well informed too, and elegant in a carriage. I was a lady in every sense of the word, as far as outward appearance and manners went. But now, oh, how altered am I? My toothless mouth was once filled with pearls as white as yours, my bust was as voluptuous and as firm, my figure was upright, my feet and ankles as delicate, and my step as light. Ah, that was many, many years ago, Padita. Shall you not be glad, mother, to visit London again? demanded the young woman. Yes, but it is the only city in the world where adventurises like ourselves, beggars, I may say, are certain to succeed. Oh, you have no idea of what a pandemonium is the great metropolis of England, exclaimed the Harrodon, with strange emphasis. It is a furnace in which millions of passions, interests and ideas are ever boiling, boiling madly, and as if in rage. It is a scene of immense inequity and of boundless luxury, of wondrous intrigues and ineffable enjoyments. Oh, how I long to plunge headlong into that fine city, cried Padita. It is a vortex that will suit my disposition well. And play your card, as I shall prompt, observed the mother, and you will speedily be the mistress of all the pleasures which London can afford. But, oh, I am ready to drop with weariness. I am dying with hunger and thirst, Padita, and not a penny of wheat to purchase a morsel of bread. I see a strong light yonder, their mother, in that by-lane, said the young woman. Shall we repair to that direction? Perhaps it may be a hospitable cottage? No. It is a gypsy's encampment. I can distinguish the cart and the tent, interrupted the old wretch. But the gypsy race are good and generous, and they will not refuse us a morsel of bread and a cup of water. The two wanderers accordingly proceeded towards the strong light which Padita had first discovered, and which proved to be, as her mother had surmised, the fire of a gypsy encampment situated in a by-lane. As they approached, they observed a female form crouching over the blazing faggots, in spite of the intense sultriness of the weather, and apparently watching with attention a huge cauldron that was suspended above the fire in the usual gypsy fashion. When Padita and her mother drew nearer still, they obtained a more perfect view of that female, whose countenance was thrown out in strong relief by the lurid flame, and they now perceived that she was a very old woman, bent down with the weight of years, but having nothing in her appearance of that weird light character which so generally marks gypsy women of advanced age. She seemed to be all alone in the encampment at the time, and her attitude, which had at first struck the wanderers as being that of a person watching the culinary process, now ashamed a more thoughtful and serious character. Good dame! said Padita. We are sinking with fatigue and famishing through want, and we crave your hospitality. Ah! A woman as old as myself, doubtless! exclaimed the gypsy crone, surveying Padita's mother with attention. Come, sit down. You are welcome, you are welcome. I am all by myself for the present. My people have gone to a short distance on business of their own, but that is of no matter to you, young woman. She continued, addressing herself to Padita. You are strong and active. I was once so myself. Ascend into the cart, you will find wooden bowls and spoons, and help yourselves to the contents of the pot. There will be enough for my people when they come back. The old gypsy spoke in so strange, vague, and peculiar a manner that the wanderers were both impressed with the idea that she must be in her dotage, and the rapid look of intelligence which passed between mother and daughter showed that they had simultaneously entertained the same idea. Padita, however, hastened to obey the directions which she had received, and returning with the utensils, she and her mother commenced a hearty meal upon the broth and soddened poultry and meat which the cauldron contained. While the two wanderers were thus employed, the old gypsy began rocking herself to and fro, and uttering her thoughts aloud. First she addressed herself to her guests. Then, by degrees forgetting their presence, and becoming more and more enshrouded in the mists of her own failing mind, she still continued her musings in an audible tone. An old woman and a young one, eh? Then you are doubtless mother and daughter. I wish that I had a daughter so comely to look upon as yourself, my pretty dear. But I should not like her to be quite so bold in her demeanour as yourself. You are very lovely, and yet me think she was scarcely as virtuous as you are beautiful. Oh! Now the red blood mantles in your cheeks, but do not take offence, to her a sorry deed on my part to off-insult to those who share my hospitality. Yes, I wish that I had a daughter who would love me at my old age. My own people neglect me. They leave me alone, for many long hours together. And then I have no other companions but my own thoughts. And strange companions are they at times, I can assure you. Let me see. What was I thinking of when you came up? Oh, I remember now, yes, I remember now. Fifty years ago—no, it was about forty-nine. I nursed a male child. The child of Octavia Manners and the Earl of Ellingham. I do not mean this present Earl, no, no. It was the late Earl. The child had a peculiar mark on the right arm. It was near the shoulder.  But the child again fell in my way, egyptia had it in keeping. Ah, I love that child. I would have adopted it as my own. For seven years did I retain the boy with me, the dear boy, whom he thinks I see now. But the wretches, they sent him away, they lost him in Winchester, cast him off purposely in the wide world. Oh, how I regretted that dear, flaxen-headed boy.  Heaven only knows how many. I cannot stop to count them now. But it must have been twenty or twenty-one years ago that I met the flaxen-headed boy. Boy? No, no. He was a man, a fine, dashing, jovial, rollicking man. Yes, and woe is me, a highway robber. By this time the two wanderers, who had not lost a single word of all that the gypsy crone was thus uttering aloud in her musings, became interested in the wild, yet still connected history which she was relating, a history that was revealed by the development of our own thoughts and reminiscences, and which she seemed to experience a pleasing pain in reciting. But it was the elder of the two listeners, Perdita's mother, who paid the deepest and most particular attention to the crone's audible meditations, and who seemed to experience a pre-sentiment that they were furnishing a subject which might be turned to her own and her daughter's advantage. Yes, yes, continued the old gypsy. We met in Hampshire, and circumstances revealed him to me. The mark on the arm then proved that it was indeed he. I told him the history of his birth, and he expressed his intention to visit London and seek to recover from old death. That was the villain Benjamin Bones, the money of which he had been plundered. Alas, poor Tom Rain, you went to the great city to meet your doom. You were captured, you were tried, you were cast for death, and you were hanged on the roof of horsemonger Lane jail. Yes, I saw it all with my own eyes. For I was amidst the crowd, drawn hither by God alone can tell what strange infatuation. And if in deep anguish that rent my heart there was a single gleam of joy, a single gleam, however faint, was to mark how boldly you died, my brave Tom Rain. Die, died! exclaimed the old gypsy, now speaking with thrilling emphasis. No, no, you did not die! Me thought, however, as did the rest of the multitude, that you were indeed no more. And for years, for many years, for nineteen years have I held that same belief. And during that interval oft, oft have I thought of thee, thought of thee as once I knew thee, Tom Rain, a flaxen-headed boy, and before thou disbare the name of Rainford. Yes, I have thought of thee, I, and wept bitterly, bitterly. But, am I dreaming? Am I becoming crazy? Or is it indeed true, the ten days ago, when in London, I saw thee, yes, thee, alive, and in the full enjoyment of health and wealth? Ah! I recollect. It was not a dream, no, no, I saw thee, and I recognised thee, too. Disguise, though thou wert, for not even the hair died black, nor the change affected by time, nor the plain and unassuming garb, no, nor could deceive me, Tom Rain, in respect to you. I beheld you in a carriage with your half-brother, the Earl of Ellingham, and with a fine young man whose countenance was of a glorious beauty. These words suddenly made Perdita as attentive and interested a listener as her mother, both having by this time finished their hearty meal. Yes, a young man divinely handsome, continued the gypsy crone, rocking herself to and fro, with a countenance that would ensnare any young female heart. And I made inquiries, and I learned that my Tom Rain was now Mr. Hatfield, and that this young man was his nephew. Oh! I knew it was Tom Rain. But how came he thus alive? By what means was he resuscitated? Who snatched him from the grave? No, no.  I know full well that it was he. I could not be mistaken. And yet, it is impossible to say how he was snatched from death. He is married, too, married to Lady Georgiana Hatfield, whose name he has taken. And they are now all dwelling together at that mansion of the Earl of Ellingham in Pal Mal. I longed to go hither and tell Tom Rain—no, Mr. Hatfield, I mean—that I had recognized him. Tell him that in me he beheld the Miranda whom he once knew. But my people laughed at me. They told me that I was in my dotage, that I was dreaming. I, who have intellects as keen as ever, and sight so sharp that I knew my dearly beloved Tom Rain in spite of his dyed hair, and his changed aspect. Then my people forced me away with them, but they cannot prevent me from thinking of Tom Rain as much and as often as I choose. The gypsy crone ceased, and now she seemed to become suddenly aware again that she was not alone. But not reflecting that she had been speaking aloud the whole time, and that her two guests had overheard every syllable she had uttered, she turned towards them, making some remark of a perfectly indifferent character. It was easy to perceive that the poor old creature was half-demented, in spite of her self-gratulation on the keenness of her intellects. But Perdita's mother was sharp and far-seeing enough to know that many important truths were evidently commingled with the gypsy's rhapsodical reminiscences. You have journeyed far today? said Miranda, for such indeed was the crone's name. Many miles! repiled Perdita's mother. But now that we are refreshed through your kindness, we shall push more speedily on to London. Ah! you are taking that pretty child of yours to the great city, which we gypsies abhor and never visit unless on urgent occasions, observed Miranda. What is your name, young woman? Perdita was the answer. Perdita! repeated the gypsy. That is a strange name. We have singular names amongst our race, but I never before heard so remarkable a one as that which you bear. What does it mean? Have names any meaning at all? demanded Perdita's mother, in a tone of impatience. But come, daughter! Let us thank this good woman and be off! The gypsy was, however, again rocking herself to and fro before the fire, and seemed to have relaxed into her profound reverie, save that this time she did not give audible utterance to her musings. She was, however, so much absorbed in thought that she did not hear the thanks that were tended by the wanderers, nor mark their departure. Section 19 of Mysteries of London, Volume 4 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Brian Keenan Mysteries of London, Volume 4 by George W. M. Reynolds The journey continued and concluded. Perdita and her mother exchanged not a word until they reached the high road once more, but when their faces were again turned towards London, the latter exclaimed in a tone of chuckling triumph, towards a lucky chance which threw us in with that gypsy. Yes, mother, as far as obtaining a good meal was concerned, replied Perdita. Silly child, it was the old Crohn's talk that elicited the remark which I just made.  Did nothing strike you? Yes, her description of a young man of such divine beauty made so strong an impression upon me that my very veins appeared to run with lightning, interrupted Perdita. Ah, cried her mother, evidently struck by a sudden thought. You were pleased with her allusion to that handsome young gentleman? Well, Perdita, trust me when I declare emphatically that this same young gentleman shall sue at your feet for those favors which unasked you would this moment bestow upon him.  You never saw this young man. You know nothing of him.  We know enough, Perdita, to compel a whole family to implore our forbearance and our mercy, to reduce that Mr. Hatfield, Lady Georgiana, and their nephew to the necessity of beseeching our silence on their bended knees. Do you really put faith in the roto montade of that gypsy about the identity of the Mr. Hatfield of whom she spoke with a certain Tom Reign, who had been hanged, demanded Perdita impatiently? Yes, because I know what to be true, ejaculated her mother. Listen, Perdita, you were not born at that time, but it was only a few months before your birth when the whole metropolis was astounded by the sudden discovery that Tom Reign, the highwayman, was indeed alive. I was in London at the time. In Newgate, mother, asked her daughter, as coolly as if it were the most commonplace question. Yes, in Newgate, if you must have me be particular in every detail, answered the old Herodin bitterly. Where I was born, remarked Perdita. One of the first places I shall request you to show me will be that same Newgate. But go on, I am listening attentively. Well, then, I was in Newgate at the time that all London was astounded by certain discoveries relative to this same Tom Reignford. All brought about in consequence of a dreadful murder committed by that very Benjamin Bones, whom you heard the Gypsy mention. The story is too long to tell you now, but you shall have it shortly in its fullest details, for it may regard our interests more nearly than you at present imagine. One fact I must however state, which is that Thomas Reignford was a famous highwayman who was hanged, and that by some means which never transpired, he was rescued from death, resuscitated in fine. He received the royal pardon for all the deeds he had committed in opposition to the laws, and what afterwards became of him I knew not. Because you had to leave England in pursuance of your sentence, I suppose, Mother, added Perdita inquiringly. Precisely so. And now Chance throws us in the way of an old crone who, in the audible musings of dotage, informs us that this same Tom Reign is actually living under a feigned name, I, and at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham. It is clear that the Gypsy had never heard of the wondrous fact that Reignford appeared in London disguised as a Blackamore, only a few months after his execution, as I may call it. It is evident that the circumstance of his having survived the scaffold was unknown to her and to her companions. Thus was she struck with amazement and surprise, as well she might be under such circumstances, when she beheld him and Lord Ellingham's carriage. But Gypsies go so little into great cities and towns, hold so little intercourse with any save their own people, and are so little curious in respect to matters which do not immediately concern themselves, that it is not surprising if the old Gypsy had never heard reported the well-known fact of Reignford's resuscitation. Then you presume that this Reignford is now living, honorably and respectably in London, under the name Hatfield, said Perdita inquiringly, and you mean to use your knowledge of his real name to work out our particular aims? You now comprehend me, daughter, return the old woman, and you may perhaps begin to understand how his nephew shall become bound to you by silken cords. I have set my mind upon that handsome young man, said Perdita emphatically, and believe me, I shall admit nothing that will tend to gratify my passion. Wanton, voluptuous even as I was, muttered the Herod into herself. I, licentious and depraved as was her father. What are you mumbling to yourself, mother? demanded Perdita. Something about me, I warrant. No harm, no harm, responded the wretch hastily. But, to return to the subject of our conversation, Perdita, what do you think of our prospects now? Knowing all we do of this Mr. Hatfield, and able as we are to overwhelm him, his titled wife, and his nephew in disgrace, if we choose to utter a single word. I think that all will go well enough in respect to money, for that we have the means of extorting, said Perdita. But I cannot see how, by such a course, we shall do otherwise than discuss the nephew, and make an enemy of him. Ah, short-sighted girl, ejaculated her mother. We must not commence with extortion. I know that Lady Georgiana Hatfield was very rich when I was a resident in London years ago. And it is not probable that she has become poor since. Then again this Hatfield, or Rainford, must be on intimate terms with the Earl of Ellingham, since he and his family are residing at that nobleman's mansion. All this denotes that the young man can command ample funds at will. And the young man then must be ensnared by your wiles. But if you surrender yourself to him immediately. Trust me for knowing how to play my cards well, interrupted Perdita impatiently. But on our arrival in London tonight, where are we to find a dwelling-place? How are we to clothe ourselves decently to-morrow? How, in a word, are we to live until all these grand schemes begin to work? You shall see Perdita, answered her mother. During my long sojourn in Australia, one person in England wrote to me frequently. One person sent me sums of money occasionally. Otherwise, Perdita, after I obtained my ticket of leave, we should have starved. For the labour of my hands, severely as I toiled, produced not sufficient to maintain us both. This one person lives in London. I know his address, and to his door must we first repair, before we can even procure the wherewith to obtain a bed. Is it the friend who, as you told me, interested himself to procure your pardon? demanded Perdita. The friend, the relation you mean, said her mother hastily. Yes, he is my relation. The only one I possess in the world, save yourself, if a daughter can be called by that name. The conversation, which may have served to throw additional light upon the depraved character of these two women, was interrupted by the necessity of stepping to the side of the road to permit a cart, which was on the point of overtaking them, to pass. The vehicle was driven along at a rapid pace by a sturdy, good-natured butcher. And as it was whisking by the two females, the pure moonlight falling fully on the handsome countenance of Perdita, enabled the man to catch a glimpse of the surpassing beauty of that face. Instantly pulling up he said, Alloa, my good women, you were out late, or rather early, for it is two o'clock in the morning. We are very tired, and are anxious to reach London as soon as possible, replied Perdita's mother. I am going, as one may say, right through London, observe the butcher. In fact, to Oxford Street. And if you like to have a ride, both of you, I'll put you down at the nearest point to where your business leads you. The old woman greedily snapped at the offer, and the good-natured butcher helped her daughter and herself into the cart, which immediately drove on again at a spanking pace. And now full soon did the myriad lights of London greet the eyes of the travellers. And Perdita felt her heart dilate with ineffable emotions as she drew near that sovereign city of a thousand towers, pinnacles, and spires. That mighty Babylon in which all her hopes, her aims, her ambitious views were centred. A misty haze of light, resembling a faintly illuminated fog, appeared to hang over the vast metropolis. And as the vehicle approached nearer and nearer still, the countless dwellings began to stand out in relief from the bosom of that dimly lustrous shroud. On, on the travellers go. The houses are scattered along the road, but in a short time they become continuous ranges of habitations. And now it may be eerily said that the wheels of the cart rattle on the pavement of London. But a feeling of disappointment seizes upon Perdita. Instead of lordly mansions, she sees dingy-looking tenements of no considerable size, and presenting anything but an imposing appearance, especially at that somber hour. Nevertheless, the farther she advances, the more satisfied does she become. And now the travellers reach that great junction point for crossroads, where stands the elephant in castle. The tap is open. The butcher stops, alights, and disappears inside the establishment. In a few minutes he returns with a steaming hot glass of brandy and water. For a good-natured fellow is this butcher, and he kindly proffers it to the two females. It was not because Perdita was so handsome that he did it. No, it was through pure kindness, and as much for the sake of her mother as of herself. Nor did the two females require much pressing to partake of the welcome beverage, and while they were drinking their glass, their good-hearted friend hurried back to the tap to enjoy his own reeking jorum. And now away they speed again, up the Waterloo Road, over the bridge. Then and there it was that a splendid and soul-stirring spectacle burst upon the sight of Perdita. For an instant her admiration was riveted to that magnificent piece of masonry, constituting the finest viaduct of the kind in the whole world. But in the next she threw her glances right and left, embracing thus rapidly all the splendid features of a scene bathed in silver by the cloudless lamp of night. The bosom of the mighty Thames reflected the lights on the banks and the bridges, those very lights tracing the course of the proud stream and marking its ample width. Then her looks dwelt on the mighty dome of St. Paul's, rearing its colossal head to the deep purple summer sky. And lastly they ran rapidly along the northern shore, embracing each point of interest, until they stopped at the new houses of parliament, so gleamingly white in the chaste luster of the moon. Yes, mother, she whispered, in an exulting tone, this is indeed a stupendous city. You have seen nothing of it as yet, was the reply. But here we must alight, added the old woman, the moment the card reached the strand. The wanderers accordingly descended, and, having proffered their hearty thanks to the Butcher for his kindness, they continued their journey on foot, their way now lying in the direction of Brompton. Along the strand they proceeded, through Spring Gardens, into St. James's Park, Perdita admiring the fine buildings which she passed, for the morning was now breaking, and each grand feature of that part of the metropolis emerged slowly and majestically from obscurity. Perdita's mother, in pointing out Carleton House to her daughter, observed, when I was last in England, George IV was king, and that was his favorite residence. They proceeded through the park, and now Perdita beheld the abode of the Queen of England, that palace on which so much of the country's money has been shamefully squandered, and with the arrangements of which her majesty is still dissatisfied. God help Victoria if she cannot contrive to make herself comfortable at Buckingham House. We sincerely hope that she will always find such quarters gratuitously provided for her, and that she will learn not to grumble at them. Contrast that palace with the working man's home, and then let us see whether Parliament would be justified in voting another sixpence to enlarge or improve the sovereign residence. Oh, how loathsome! How revolting to our mind are the caprices, the selfishness, and the insolence of royalty. The two wanderers now entered the spacious district of Pimlico, which they traversed painfully, for they had become almost as wearied as when they were toiling on between Dartford and Shooters Hill.  In less than twenty minutes now was the answer. We shall reach the place whither we are bound. And suppose your nephew should not be in London, said Perdita. Ah, now you have touched the very cord which vibrates with anguish to my heart's core, exclaimed the old woman. But let us not yield to despondency, she added, almost immediately. No, it is useless to meet evils half-way, observed Perdita. The two proceeded in silence for upwards of a quarter of an hour, until they reached a particular part of Brompton, when the elder wanderer said, It must be somewhere about here that he lives. Ah, number seven, yes, this is the house Perdita, she added, indicating a beautiful cottage residence, standing alone in the midst of a pleasant garden. But it will be useless for you to accompany me, continued the hag. On the contrary, many reasons which I will hereafter explain, render it advisable that my nephew should not come to know you by sight. Just as you please, mother, said Perdita, in the quiet way which was habitual to her, when she had no inclination either on one side or the other. There is a large stone at the angle of the road yonder. I will rest there until you return. Do so, replied the old woman, and, having paused for a few moments to dwell admiringly on the fine symmetry of her daughter's form, as Perdita repaired slowly towards the point indicated, the heredon advanced to the door of the house in which her relation dwelt. She knocked and rang, and in a few minutes a servant maid, throwing open a window, inquired who it was that came at such an unseasonable hour. Is your master at home, demanded the old woman. He is, but thank God, ejaculated the visitor, considerably relieved by this announcement. You must inform him that an elderly female wishes to speak to him on particular business. I cannot venture to disturb him, answered the servant. Combat eight o'clock, master and mrs. will be up then. At this moment another window was opened, and a gentleman who had evidently slipped on a dressing-gown in great haste appeared at the casement, exclaiming, I will see you now, at once. And in less than a minute the old woman was admitted into the dwelling by the gentleman who had thus addressed her. Not a word was uttered. Merely hasty glances of recognition were exchanged, and those looked dubious on her part, and reserved on his. Until they entered a parlor, the door of which the gentleman carefully closed, while his visitress sank exhausted upon a sofa. I am returned at last, clearance, she said, in a low and hoarse voice. For she was now evidently much moved at finding herself in the presence of her relative. And by no means so confident as she had appeared to her daughter, with regard to the reception she was likely to experience. Yes, returned against my express desire, against the solemn promise that you sent me to remain in the colony if I procured your pardon, exclaimed Mr. Villiers, for it was he, in a reproachful tone. Would you have had me bury myself in that horrible place of exile, demanded his aunt, Mrs. Torrance, or Mrs. Slingsby, or whatever she now denominated herself? I would have had you keep your pledge so sacredly given, replied Clarence. And on my side I should have fulfilled my engagement by remitting you forty pounds every half year. Why? Why have you come back to England? Because I would sooner die than remain in a colony where I have endured so much, responded the woman. Yes, you have endured much indeed, said Mr. Villiers, still more bitterly than before. But it has been your own fault. Do you remember the interviews I had with you in prison, both prior and subsequent to your condemnation? Did you not exhibit every sign of the deepest contrition, utter every possible vow of amendment? And what were the results? Arrived in the colony, you became unruly, profligate, a perfect scandal where all is scandalous, shameless where everything is shameful. Listen to me, Clarence, exclaimed his aunt, rising from the sofa and advancing towards him. It is so easy to reproach, but not so easy to admit of extenuation for guilt. As God as my judge, my penitence in Newgate was sincere, my contrition unfaigned. I even longed for the hour of my departure to arrive, that I might forever quit a country where I had played so vile a part, and to some extent retrieve my character in a penal colony. But when I set foot on board the convict ship, I found myself thrown into the depths of a very sink of immorality, plunged into an infernal stew of profligacy, from which escape was impossible. I threw myself on my knees before the surgeon, and implored him to remove me from that dreadful assemblage of fiends and female-shape. He laughed at me, and bade me return to my place. Then my companions abused and ill-treated me for having dared to complain. And the babe which I bore in my arms was made the subject of the bitterest taunts and most cutting jives. I had named her Perdita, as you well know, that her lost and hopeless condition, through the infamy of her mother, might ever be retained fresh in my memory, and that the necessity of toiling hard and honourably for her might be impressed on my soul, even by the warning nature of that very name. But, oh, those wretches, with whom I was forced to associate, leveled the most cruel jeers and jests against me on account of that innocent babe, because she was born in Newgate.  My God, what bitter tears I shed on board that convict ship! Tears which seemed to sear my very countenance as they fell, so scalding were they. Then the frightful scenes which were enacted in our cabin, the quarrelling that took place, the imprecations that accompanied even the simplest remark, the obscene tales that were told, oh, it was horrible, horrible. I struggled against the contamination as mortal being never struggled before. But it was like a combat between a drowning person and the fury of a well-ming torrent, a vain, ineffectual, and useless fight, in which I felt myself to be completely powerless. Until in despair I resigned myself to the flood that was whirling me along in its triumphant course. And I found relief even in drinking of that feculent, fetid stream from which there was no escape. Yes. Thus was I drawn down into the whirlpool of immoralities and profligacies on the brink of which the law placed me. And if my vows of contrition, my asseverations of penitence proved so many delusions, you must blame the system to which I was subjected, and not myself. And do you mean, then, to inform me that you endeavored to be moral, reserved, pious, and tranquil on board the convict ship, but that it was impossible to avoid being dragged into the common abyss of depravity, demanded Clarence, now speaking in a mild and even compassionate tone? Most solemnly do I swear that such is the fact, exclaimed his aunt, with an emphasis which spoke volumes in favor of her sincerity. Then are you to be pitied, poor woman, said Clarence, and the government of that day most bear all the blame of your relapse and subsequent depravity. But where is your daughter Perdita? She is in the neighborhood, waiting for me, was the answer. I did not choose to bring her beneath your roof. Indeed, not save necessity. Necessity the most stern should have led me hither. The accounts which I received from a correspondent at Sydney spoke, alas, most unfavorably of your daughter, observed Clarence. My God, could you not at least have saved her from entering the paths that lead to perdition? Behold, now, how ready you are to blame me, cried his aunt in a voice expressive of vexation. I was allotted as a servant to a free settler in the penal colony, and the man made me his mistress. There was no compliance on my part in the first instance, twas absolute compulsion. Then I yielded to my fate, seeing that it was useless to contend against it. I had to work hard all day, and the moment Perdita was able to run alone, she played in the streets with the other poor children of Sydney. I could not prevent it, do all I would to endeavor to keep her indoors. Well, at last I obtained a ticket of leave, and tried to earn a livelihood by the toil of my own hands. But to do this I was compelled to be out all day, and then where was Perdita? Where was she almost screamed the woman, becoming much excited? Why, lost, as her name implies. Not lost as you lose an object and confine it no more, but lost morally, irretrievably lost. Tis true that I imparted to her as much knowledge as I myself possessed, or had leisure to instill into her. And that to do this I deprived myself of my natural rest. But how could I teach her virtue? How could I read the Bible with her? My story was known throughout the colony. And Perdita learned before even she had intelligence to understand the meaning of the facts, that she was a bastard. Born in Newgate, the great criminal prison of London, and that her mother was everything infamous and vile. My God, circumstances would not allow me to nurture her in moral ways, even if I had possessed the inclination. But by the time she was old enough to learn, I had myself become as deeply steeped in profligacy as any other woman in the colony. Can you wonder, then, that she soon fell into the ways of vice? Beautiful as she was, and is, she soon attracted notice. And your fine English officers, the gentlemen sent out to protect the colony, they were the authors of her ruin, and they encouraged her in a career of infamy. Oh, Clarence, it is a frightful thing for me to stand before you. You who are my own nephew, and have to make such horrible revelations. But you reproach me for my own wickedness. You would seek to represent me as the cause of my daughter's wickedness. And I am forced to explain to you the appalling nature of the influences acting upon us, and the circumstances surrounding us. Now. Now I could weep in humiliation. But an hour hence I shall be obdurate and hardened as ever. The world has made me so. And now what do you propose to do, inquired Clarence? It is impossible for me even to advise you in the frightful position in which you are placed, and since you have acted so completely in opposition to my counsel by returning to England. Pecuniary assistance, that I can afford you to a limited amount. Give me fifty guineas, Clarence, and you shall never see me more, interrupted his aunt. I will spare you a hundred, answered the generous-hearted young man. And, quitting the room, he returned in a few minutes, bringing the money in a bag. Here, he said, take that, my poor aunt, and may God make it prosper in your hands. But, oh, suffer not your daughter to continue in the ways of vice and depravity. Remember that she possesses an immortal soul, and that there is another world in which an account must be given for the conduct pursued in this. The old woman made no answer. But, clutching the bag eagerly, she secured it amongst her tattered garments. Then, ashamed of the greedy impatience which she had manifested, and seeking to avert her nephew's attention from the fact by turning the conversation into another channel, she said, I hope you continue to enjoy that happiness, Clarence, which yourself and your excellent Adelaide so much deserve. Thank God my felicity is as complete as man's can be in this world, was the reply. Having now for upwards of nineteen years held the good situation which my kind patron, the Earl of Ellingham, gave me. I have enjoyed a certain means of existence, have acquired influential friends, and have been enabled to rear my sons and daughters in a way which I hope will be salutary to them on their entrance into life. And that man, my husband, have you heard of him lately, inquired Villiers' aunt, in a low tone and hesitating way? Never since the occasion, and that is now nine years ago, when he wrote to announce the death of poor Rosamond at Geneva. I mentioned that fact to you in a letter which accompanied one of the remittances I made to Sidney on your behalf. And from that time you have received no tidings of my husband? Not once, replied Villiers. Whether he be alive or dead, what has become of him I cannot tell you. This uncertainty relative to her father's fate is a cause of uneasiness to Adelaide. But every state and station in life has its annoyances and its sorrows. Poor Rosamond, she fell into a slow decline shortly after leaving England, and for nearly ten years did she linger on, wasting away. Adelaide and I saw her once during that period. We visited Switzerland on purpose. Then how deeply was my wife shocked when she beholded the wreck that remained of her once lovely and blooming sister. But I cannot dwell upon that episode in our lives. No, no, exclaimed Perdita's mother, now in haste to depart. I will not distress you, she added, with a hypocritical appearance of sympathy, by exacting the painful narrative from you. Farewell, Clarence, farewell. The generous hearted Villiers proffered his hand to his aunt. That aunt who was once so fine a woman, so elegantly dressed, and the mistress of a splendid mansion.  For a few instance, her heart swelled with profound emotions as she pressed that hand which was thus kindly extended to her, and tears rose to the very brims of her eyes, but did not run over. Then she hurried away from his presence. And the moment she set foot on the threshold of the dwelling, or rather when its door closed behind her, she subdued the feelings that had well nigh overpowered her, and gave all her attention, all her interests, all her thoughts to the precious bag which she had concealed amongst her garments. Well, mother, I thought you were never coming back, cried Perdita, in a reproachful tone. Then, perceiving by the old woman's countenance that she had good news, she allowed her own to brighten up, as she hurried to meet her. Perdita, we have now the means—of obtaining shelter and a breakfast, I hope—of purchasing good clothes, taking fine lodgings. Oh, then, your nephew, or relation of some kind whatever he may be, has behaved well, cried the young woman, overjoyed by this intelligence.  Then, again concealing it beneath her rags, she said, Become, Perdita, let us betake ourselves to another quarter of the town, for I have promised Clarence failures that he shall see my face no more. The old hag and the handsome young woman retraced their way into the heart of London. And, arriving in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, they entered an early breakfast-house, where they partook of a copious meal, to which appetite and good spirits enabled them to do honour. The repast being dispatched, the elder of the two wanderers had a few minutes whispering conversation with the landlady of the establishment. The result of which was that a bedroom was speedily placed at the disposal of the guests, who retired to partake of a few hours' most necessary repose. It was near midday, when the mother and daughter rose. And then another interview with the landlady was shortly followed, in obedience to the instructions given her, by the arrival of a woman who sold second-hand female apparel, and who came laden with band-boxes. The contents thereof were speedily examined, and the wanderers, having selected the articles which seemed most appropriate for their temporary use, the slop seller was well paid and dismissed. And now Perdita and her parent began to assume each a very different appearance from that which they had so recently worn. Copious ablutions and decent clothing made the elder less revoltingly ugly, and the younger more strikingly beautiful. As they thus performed their toilet together in the little chamber of the coffee-house, the mother surveyed, with pride and admiration, the features and form of her daughter, calculating at the same time how large a fortune the judicious sale of such loveliness was likely to amass. While on her side, the young woman stood in superb complacency before the glass, exercising a thousand little arts to render the details of her toilet as perfect as circumstances would admit. Perdita's dark brown hair was combed out with the utmost care, and arranged in simple bands, glossy and massive on either side of her fine forehead. By chance she had obtained from the second-hand dealer a gown which precisely fitted her, and which, being very low in the body, displayed her full and swelling bust to its greatest advantage. The darned stockings and the clumsy shoes wore superseded by more fitting articles. And now the robust leg, the slender ankle, and the long narrow foot were as faultless in proportion as if a sculptor had modeled them to his own exquisite but voluptuous taste. A neat straw bonnet and an ample shawl completed her attire. And now well, but by no means splendidly nor elegantly dressed, Perdita appeared a creature so exceedingly handsome that even her mother was surprised as much as she was delighted. And, as for the old woman herself, she had assumed an air of greater respectability than at first might have appeared possible, seeing that her look was sinister and repulsive, and her countenance so weather-beaten and marred by suffering. Fourth went the mother and daughter into the streets of London, and their first care was to purchase a variety of articles of attire of a far better kind than that which they had just procured. Likewise a little jewelry and the necessary paraphernalia of the toilet. The goods were all sent to the coffee house where they had hired a chamber, and a couple of large trunks were the last objects they bought, and which were dispatched to the same place. These matters having been accomplished, the old woman conducted her daughter into the fashionable quarter of Regent Street, and there Perdita beheld enough to excite her wonder and her admiration. The magnificent shops, the fine buildings, the splendid equipotches, and the handsomely dressed gentleman on horseback all shared her attention in their turns, nor was she an observer unobserved. For many an old voluptuary and stripling gallant paused to bestow a second glance upon the plainly but decently dressed young female who so countenance was so strikingly beautiful, and in whose looks there was a subdued wantoness and gendering the most voluptuous sensations. To Perdita's mother how altered did London seem? Here was a street which she had never seen before. There a street had been pulled down to make way for some great thoroughfare. Here buildings once familiar had disappeared. There strange edifices had sprung up. In Regent Street she looked for the shops at which she had been accustomed to deal long years before, when she dwelt in the immediate neighborhood, and when she was deemed a saint. But most of the establishments she sought had changed their proprietors and their nature, a grocers having become a booksellers, a milleners, a china warehouse, and so on. She had a great mind to pass into Burlington Street, but she had not quite the necessary courage to do that, at least for the present. Having threaded Regent Street from Oxford Circus to Waterloo Place, the two women turned into Palmall West, along which they proceeded for a short distance. When the mother suddenly clasped her daughter's arm almost violently, exclaiming in a hasty whisper at the same time, this is the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham. Scarcely were these words uttered, when the door was opened, and forth came Charles Hatfield. Passing by the two females without noticing that he had immediately become the object of their most earnest attention, and indeed without observing them at all, so deeply was he absorbed in thought. He moved on at a slow and uncertain pace, as if he had merely come out to seek the fresh air, and having no particular destination. Yes, he had indeed become the signature of attraction on the part of the old woman and her daughter, the former devouring him with her eyes in order to read his character and disposition in his countenance, and assure herself from that physiognomical perusal that he was fitted for her purpose, and the latter embracing with a look of ardent, wanton scrutiny every feature of his fine face and every proportion of his symmetrical form. He passed on, and for a few minutes the mother and daughter preserved a deep silence, each occupied with her own thoughts. That young man may be rendered pliant and docile according to our will, said the old woman at length. He is beyond all doubt the one whom the gypsy alluded to in such glowing colors, observed Perdita, with a voluptuous langer in the eyes, a flushing of the cheeks, and a slow but deep heaving of the bosom. And he has something on his mind, that is clear, added the old woman. Which we will soon make him devolage to us, said Perdita. But how do you intend to proceed in order to form his acquaintance? Oh, nothing is more easy, returned her mother. In the first place we must take handsome lodgings. I know of a nice, quiet, retired street in the neighborhood. Come along, Perdita, we must not waste valuable time. The two women repaired direct to Suffolk Street, Palmall East, and in the window of a house of handsome appearance they saw a card announcing furnished apartments to be led. The lodgings were speedily inspected and hired, the prepayment of a month's rent immediately ensuring the good opinion of the landlady and rendering references unnecessary. Back to the coffee house in the vicinity of Covent Garden did the wanderers hasten, and in a few minutes all their packages and new purchases were transported to a hackney coach, which was fetched from the nearest stand. The coffee housekeeper was liberally rewarded, and a handsome fee was bestowed upon the driver of the vehicle to induce him to state, in case of being questioned in Suffolk Street, that he had brought the ladies from some respectable hotel. All these matters being arranged, the mother and daughter proceeded in the hackney coach to their new lodgings, where they at once took up their quarters under the imposing name of Mrs. and Miss Fitz-Harding. Had the worthy butcher, who a few hours previously took pity on the two ragged, sinking mendicants, and sustained their strength and courage by means of hot brandy and water at the Elephant and Castle, had he now beheld Mrs. and Miss Fitz-Harding sitting down elegantly attired at a well-spread dinner table, and at the fashionable time of six in the evening, he would not for an instant have supposed that the way- worn beggars of the morning's adventure and the ladies of Suffolk Street, Paul Mall, were identical. Or if, by chance, he should have recognized Perdita's handsome countenance, he would have thought that the delusions of enchantment had been practiced upon him or her. And now we have prepared the way, with due prefatory explanation, for one of the most striking and remarkable episodes in this narrative, an episode showing how Perdita's arts and Perdita's beauty accomplished aims which women of less enterprise than herself and her mother would have deemed impossible. Oh fatal influence, that influence which the depraved and wanton Perdita wielded by means of her transcendent charms. End of section 19, recording by Brian Keenan. Section 20 of mysteries of London, Volume 4. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Stephen Seidel. Mysteries of London, Volume 4 by George W. M. Reynolds. The Advertising Agent. On the day after the one, the incidents of which have just been related, Mr. Bubbleton's styles called precisely as the clock struck 11 in the forenoon, upon an advertising agent dwelling in the immediate vicinity of Cornhill. The agent, knowing that Mr. Stiles was a registered promoter of a scheme which had obtained the patronage of the high and mighty Mr. Podson, was particularly civil and urbane. And having ballad him into the private office and presented him with a chair, he said, Now, Mr. Stiles sir, what can I do for you? I intend to give the newspapers a round of advertisements, answered the city gentleman, pulling out his prospectuses. Softly, softly, my dear sir, exclaimed the agent, you must be guided by me in this. If you went to the generality of agents they would say, Oh, advertised by all means in every paper in existence. But I, Mr. Stiles, am a little more conscientious. There are some journals, in fact, which are perfectly useless as advertising media. It would be money completely thrown away. I am much obliged to you for your kindness, said Mr. Stiles. Of course we shall advertise in the times. As a matter of course, cried the agent, tis the great daily leviathan which everybody sees, no matter what his politics may be. The morning chronicle, too, is a good medium. And the herald, post, and advertiser must likewise be included. And it would be folly to admit the sun, globe, and standard. Well, what about the daily news in the express? asked Mr. Stiles, apparently astonished that no reference should have been made to those print. The daily news, ejaculated the agent, in perfect wonderment. The express, he cried, in horrified amazement. Excuse me, my dear friend, but are you mad? Have you taken leave of your senses? I hope not, responded Mr. Stiles, in his usual calm business. What makes you think so? What makes me think so, repeated the agent. Why, the idea that you should, for an instant, entertain the notion of advertising in those contemptible abortions. They are a perfect disgrace to the newspaper literature, sir, proceeded the agent, who was speaking conscientiously, and indeed truly. Did you ever happen to read the daily news? I have never seen the paper in my life, answered Mr. Stiles. I had only heard of it. And you are not likely to see it, returned the agent, unless you go into the heart of whopping or explore the back slums of Whitechapel. No respectable newsman keeps it. Not that newsmen are more particular than other shopkeepers. But they only keep what they can sell, Mr. Stiles. As for the express, it is a regular cheat of an evening paper, made up entirely of the articles in the daily newspaper literature. And it is a regular cheat of an evening paper, made up entirely of the articles in the daily news, without even having the bad grammar and the typographical errors corrected. But both prints are the most contemptible three-penny things I ever saw in my life. And one would be inclined to fancy that all the real newspaper talent had been absorbed by the pre-existing journals, leaving only the meanest literary scrubs in London to do the news and the express. So it was, replied the advertising agent, but the name of Charles Dickens was rather damnatory than useful to a newspaper speculation. Everyone must admit that Boz is a great novelist, a very great novelist indeed, the fielding of his age. But he is totally incapable of writing for a newspaper. The proprietors of the newspaper are the people of the newspaper. They are the people of the newspaper. They are the people of the newspaper. The proprietors of the news made a tremendous splash with his name, but they only created a quagmire for themselves to flounder in. When their paper was first coming out, everybody thought it was to do wonders, the times was to lose half its subscribers, and the chronicle was to be ruined altogether. But alas, never did so laboring a mountain produce such a contemptible mouse. And people began to fancy that the wags engaged on punch and started the daily news as a grand parody on the newspaper press. The leaders were rubbish, the criticism of new works mere nonsense, the dramatic reviews utter balderdash. It however seems that in the lowest depths there is a deeper still even with the bathos of journalists. For when the news tumbled down, which it soon did, to a two-penny half-penny print, the rubbish, the nonsense, and the balderdash became more astounding still.  He undertakes to review a whole batch of cheap publications in a lump. But what he calls reviewing is nothing else than abusing the works with an insolence so cool and a rashness so indiscriminate that he must be as consummate a coxcomb as he is an unprincipled ruffian. The news affects a moral tone and entrusts its conscience to this half-bafoon half-barbarian in the hope that the lucubrations of the ungrammatical scribe may acquire for it the reputation of a serious, sober and sedate journal. The despicable being to whom I allude is the son of the proprietor of the asinam, a paper which bullwar mulled and exposed so terribly in one of his admirable novels many years ago. The articles in the asinam may be termed twaddled upon stilts. You are really very inveterate in your denunciations of these prints, observed Mr. Stiles, who, having an hour to spare, did not experience any impatience in listening to the agent's remarks. But not at all, inveterate, only justly indignant was the answer. I am indignant because I admire the newspaper press of Great Britain. I am proud of it. I glory in belonging to the country which possesses it. And therefore, when I see journalism prostituted to the lowest and meanest purposes, when I behold such despicable abortions as the daily news and the express daring to show themselves in that sphere where respectability and talent alone existed until those three-penny things made their appearance, I am angry, I am disgusted. Only see how the news has been tinkered and hacked about with the idea of making it a property. First it was five pence, then it was two pence, half penny. Next it was three pence. And yet with all this derogatory, experimentalizing, the owners have failed to make it a property. What a miserable thing does it look with its beggarly three columns of advertisements. The Times has as many in a day as the news has had altogether since its sickly existence began. The very parliamentary reporters engaged upon the news are ashamed of their connection with such a scurvy affair. And the doorkeeper of the gallery of the House of Commons looks on them with a kind of commiseration, knowing how degrading it must be to their feelings to take their places in the seats allotted to the representatives of that three-penny hodgepodge. You never see the news quoted from, nor alluded to by its contemporaries. It is not recognized as a member of the newspaper press. It has tried all imaginable kinds of maneuvers to force itself into notoriety, sometimes carrying favor with the superior journals and at others abusing them, but all to no purpose. Its contemporaries will not notice it. They will not be bullied nor coaxed into such condescension. Why, would you believe that the very editor is hardly ashamed of his post? But he knows that if he resigned it, he should be compelled to relapse into the lowest walks of penny aligning once he was dragged forth to conduct the thing. How is it possible that such a contemptible journal continues in existence, asked Mr. Stiles? There, now you puzzle me indeed, exclaimed the advertising agent. The question you have put to me involves one of the greatest mysteries of London, and I am quite incapable of affording you the solution. Time will, however, show, for in this case, time must clear up all doubts and uncertainty regarding the matter. For the present, however, take my advice and refrain from advertising in a paper which is contemptible in circulation and influence, scurrilous or hypocritical according to circumstances in its literary articles, and wishy-washy in the extreme of its leaders. Well, I am excessively obliged to you for this most useful warning, observed Mr. Bubbleton Stiles. You have nothing to say against the weekly dispatch, the Sunday Times, Bell's Life in London. All good papers, exclaimed the advertising agent. But here is a list of those metropolitan and provincial journals in which I should recommend you to advertise. I placed myself entirely in your hands, answered the promoter of the grandest railway scheme ever devised, and, thrusting his hands into his breeches' pockets, he rattled a little silver in a great many half-pants, saying, shall I give you a hundred or so in advance, or will you send in the account? Pray do not think of offering any sum in advance, Mr. Stiles. My dear Mr. Stiles, cried the agent. It is but a trifle. Three hundred guineas will cover the outlay for this first batch of advertisements, and I will send my little account to the secretary when the board meets. Very good, rejoined the promoter. And, having come to this excellent understanding, the two gentlemen parted. Mr. Stiles be taking himself to Garroway's Coffee House, where he ate his lunch standing at the bar, and, afterwards, returning to his office at Crosby Hall Chambers. End of Section 20. Section 21 of Mysteries of London, Volume 4. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rita Butros. Mysteries of London, Volume 4, by George W. M. Reynolds. Perdita. A week had elapsed since the arrival of Mrs. and Miss Fitzhardinge in the Great Metropolis, and as yet they appeared to be no nearer to an acquaintanceship with Charles Hatfield than they were on the day when they first beheld him issue from Lord Ellingham's mansion. For that it was he whom they had seen on the occasion alluded to, the mother had satisfactorily ascertained. Indeed, the old woman had not been idle. Every evening, for a couple of hours, did she watch in the immediate vicinity of the Earl's Dwelling to obtain an interview with the young man, but he did not appear to go out after dusk. Mrs. Fitzhardinge accordingly began to think of changing her tactics and endeavoring to catch him in the daytime when fortune at last favored her views. For, on the eighth night of her loiterings in Palmall, she had the satisfaction of seeing him sally forth shortly after nine o'clock. Unhesitatingly accosting him, she said, "'Mr. Hatfield, will you accord me your attention "'for a few moments?' The young man turned towards her and beheld a very ugly, plainly attired old lady. He nevertheless answered her respectfully because she had addressed him in a manner denoting genteel breeding. We should observe, too, that she had purposely assumed a humble apparel on the occasion of these evening watchings in order to avoid the chance of attracting the attention of passersby or policemen who would naturally have wondered to see a handsomely apparel person, thus loitering about. "'Certainly, Madam,' replied Charles, "'I will listen to anything you may have to say to me. "'Will you walk into the house which I have just left "'to the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham? "'I know well who lives there, Mr. Hatfield,' "'answered the old woman, "'and it is precisely because I wish to speak to you alone "'that I have accosted you in the street. "'Can you pardon such boldness? "'If your business with me be of importance, Madam,' said Charles, "'no apology can be necessary on your part. "'Yes, my business is indeed of importance,' returned Mrs. Fitzhardinge, "'with mysterious emphasis, but I cannot speak to you here. "'I have already requested you to accompany me "'to the house where I am residing "'with my relatives and friends,' said Charles, "'with the least indication of impatience in his manner. "'And I have already assured you "'that I am anxious to converse with you alone,' responded the old woman, "'nothing daunted. "'Do not mistrust me, sir. "'Do not suppose that I have accosted you "'for the purpose of soliciting any assistance "'of a pecuniary kind. "'Then, Madam, what do you require of me?' asked Charles hastily. "'Ten minutes private conversation "'on matters of importance, of deep importance to yourself,' replied Mrs. Fitzhardinge, "'as rapidly and as firmly as the other had spoken. "'Then, before he had time to make any rejoinder,' she added, "'for your own sake, Mr. Hatfield, "'if for no other consideration, "'you will accompany me to my dwelling, "'which is close at hand. "'What?' you hesitate. "'Then continue to cherish the secret grief, "'which weighs upon your mind. "'Oh, what did you say?' ejaculated the young man, "'starting as if a cord had been touched "'so as to vibrate to his very heart's core. "'I mean that if you refuse to accompany me, "'you will repent the loss of an opportunity "'to receive revelations nearly concerning yourself, "'and which opportunity may not speedily occur again.' "'As Mrs. Fitzhardinge uttered these words, "'she fixed a strange, mysterious, "'and almost ominous look upon Charles Hatfield, "'who was bewildered and amazed by her language. "'The old woman had dealt her random shots with good effect, "'and she experienced an inward triumph at her skill "'and a sure conviction of its success. "'Who are you, and what do you know of me?' "'demanded Charles, breaking silence abruptly "'after more than a minute's pause, "'and speaking in a tone of earnestness "'denoting mingled suspense, wonder, and curiosity. "'My name is Fitzhardinge,' replied the old woman, "'and I know all, everything concerning you, "'I, much more than you can possibly suspect. "'But not another word of explanation will I utter here, "'and you may now decide whether you will at once "'accompany me.  "'Five minutes will take us thither,' was the answer. "'The old woman and the young gentleman "'now proceeded in silence towards Suffolk Street, Palmall, "'the latter wondering who his companion might be, "'what she could possibly have to communicate to him, "'and how she had acquired the information "'which she alleged to be so important "'and was about to impart. "'He naturally associated the promised revelations "'with the mysterious circumstances "'which he had so recently fathomed "'by means of the letters and manuscripts found "'in the secret recess of the library "'at Lord Ellingham's mansion. "'And yet he was at a loss to conceive "'how a Mrs. Fitzhardinge, whose name was entirely strange "'to him, could possibly have any connection "'with his own family affairs. "'At one moment he fancied that the proceeding "'on her part was nothing more nor less "'than a plot to inveigle him to some den "'for predatory purposes, for he had heard "'that London abounded in such horrible places "'and also in persons who adopted every kind of strategy "'to lure the unwary into those fatal snares. "'But when he considered the quarter "'of the great metropolis in which his companion "'evidently resided, as she had assured him "'that her abode was only a few minutes walk "'from the spot where she had first accosted him, "'when he again noticed the respectability "'of her appearance and reflected that there was "'something superior in her manners, language, and address. "'And lastly, when he remembered that amidst "'circumstances so complicated and mysterious "'as those which regarded his own family, "'it was highly possible for that aged female "'to be interested in them in some way or another, "'he blamed himself for his misgivings "'and resolved to see the end of the adventure. "'Scarsely was his mind thus made up "'when Mrs. Fitz-Hartinge turned into Suffolk Street, "'and in less than another minute she knocked "'in an authoritative manner at the door of a handsome house. "'The summons was instantaneously responded to "'by a respectable female servant, "'and Charles Hatfield followed the old lady up, "'a wide staircase lighted by a lamp, "'which a statue and a niche held in its hand. "'On reaching the first landing, "'Mrs. Fitz-Hartinge threw open a door, saying, "'walk into this room, Mr. Hatfield. "'I will join you in a few moments.' "'Charles entered, and the door immediately closed behind him. "'The young man found himself in a well-furnished apartment, "'in which the light of the wax candles placed upon the mantel "'was reflected in a handsome mirror. "'The atmosphere was rendered perfumed and refreshing "'by vases of fresh flowers tastefully disposed around, "'and on a side table stood a large globe filled "'with the clearest water in which gold and silver fish "'were disporting. "'The curtains were closed over the windows, "'but still the room was cool and the air grateful "'in that sultry summer season.' "'These observations were made at a rapid glance, "'and then Charles Hatfield's looks were concentrated "'in the synazir which instantly absorbed all interest, "'all attention. "'Four, half sitting, half reclining upon the sofa, "'was a being of such transcendent beauty "'that never in the wildest of his dreams "'had he conceived the like. "'When reading a novel or a poem, "'his imagination had often depicted to itself "'the semblance of the heroine, "'and this mental portraiture was invariably drawn "'with the utmost perfection of form and feature, "'which impassioned and enthusiastic youth could devise. "'But no flight, no soaring of that fervent imagination "'had ever yet idealized such dazzling, brilliant charms "'as those which now met his astonished gaze. "'Charms that intoxicated while they delighted, "'and that ravaged while they infused a warm voluptuousness "'into the soul of the beholder. "'And in soothe, well-might Charles Hatfield "'experience ineffable feelings and tender emotions "'as he contemplated the fiend in an angel's shape "'that was half reclining on the sofa. "'For Perdita was surpassingly lovely on this occasion. "'She was attired in a light pink muslin dress "'made very low in the body, "'so that her neck and shoulders were set off "'in all their dazzling whiteness "'against the deep purple velvet of the sofa. "'And her full-swelling firm bosom was more than half revealed. "'Her hair was arranged in long ringlets, "'glittering like hyperions, luxuriant, "'and sweeping those glowing globes "'that appeared to heave to their caresses. "'Her large gray eyes beamed with voluptuous langer, "'although a brilliant light shone in the depths "'of the dark pupils.  "'The slightly sunburnt tinge of her face "'appeared to be the rich hue of an Italian complexion, "'the carnation glow of health and youth, "'and warm blood animating her cheeks. "'Then her arms were naked, "'those arms which were dazzlingly white, robust, "'and yet admirably modeled, "'and which seemed ready to stretch out "'and clasp a favored lover to the panting breast. "'One foot was raised on the sofa, "'the other rested on an ottoman, "'and thus, as Charles Hatfield's eyes "'swept the rich and fine proportions, "'the undulating contours of that splendid form, "'it seemed to him, as if a halo of voluptuousness "'surrounded this enchanted being, "'a very perfume of beauty enveloped her "'in its intoxicating influence. "'She had heard him ascending the stairs, "'and she had purposely placed herself in an attitude "'which should seem as if he had disturbed her unexpectedly, "'and thus serve as an apology "'for the negligent abandonment of Lim, "'which gave to her position an air alike, "'wanton and lascivious. "'While she, therefore, affected to gaze on him "'and soft surprise, he was intently devouring her "'with looks of unfaigned amazement. "'And while she still retained that voluptuous attitude "'as if unwittingly, he was riveted to the spot near the door "'where he had stopped short on first catching sight of her.  "'And during that time, Perdita had an opportunity "'of surveying the young man's handsome appearance "'with even more searching scrutiny "'than when she had seen him in Palmall "'the very day of her arrival in London. "'While on his side, Charles Hatfield had leisure "'to scan a combination of charms, "'such as transcended all his ideal creations "'and which had he beheld them in a picture, "'he would have declared to be impossible of realization. "'Again, must we observe how different was this "'elegantly attired, captivating creature "'as she now appeared from the ragged, way-worn wanderer "'that she was when first we introduced her to our readers? "'But, oh, dangerous, trebly, dangerous Perdita, "'a snake with the loveliest skin, "'a demon with the most heavenly form, "'utter, profligacy, and the most witching guise. "'And now the young man who has been brought within "'the sphere of this perilous influence "'recovers his self-possession "'so far as to be able to stammer forth an apology "'for what he conceives to be an intrusion occasioned "'by some strange mistake. "'No excuse is necessary, sir,' replies Perdita. "'The lady whom you state to have conducted you hither "'is my mother, and she has doubtless sought "'her chamber for a few minutes to change her attire. "'Pray be seated.' "'But Charles Hatfield, once more, stood still, "'riveted to the spot, after having advanced "'a few paces towards Perdita. "'For the sound of her voice, so sweetly musical, "'so enchantingly harmonious, appeared to inspire him "'with ecstatic emotions and infuse an ineffable delight "'into his very soul. "'Then Perdita arose from the sofa "'and, indicating a chair close by, "'again invited the young man to be seated, "'accomplishing this courtesy "'with so ravishing a grace and such a charming smile, "'that he felt himself intoxicated, bewildered, "'enchanted by the magic of her beauty, "'the melody of her silver tones, "'and the soft persuasion of her manner. "'For the consciousness of almost superhuman beauty "'had rendered Perdita emulative of every art "'and taught her to study every movement "'which might invest her with a winning way "'and a witching power. "'And thus the singular young woman "'had acquired a politeness so complete "'that it seemed intuitive and a polish so refined "'that it appeared to have been gained "'by long and unverified association "'with the highest classes.' "'Sinking into the chair, thus gracefully afforded him, "'Charles Hatfield could not take his eyes "'off the magnificent creature "'who remained standing for a few seconds "'after he was seated. "'For, affecting to alter the position "'of one of the wax candles on the mantle, "'as if it were too near the mirror, "'she placed herself in such an attitude "'that the young man might obtain a perfect view "'of the flowing outlines of her glorious form. "'The splendid arching of the swan-like neck, "'the luxurious fullness of the bust, "'the tapering slenderness of the waist, "'the plump and rounded arms, "'the large projecting hips, "'and the finely proportioned feet and ankles. "'The effect, thus produced by the artful designing creature, "'whose voluptuous position seemed all-natural "'and all-unstudied, "'was precisely that which she had intended, "'for Charles Hatfield experienced "'a delirium of emotions till then unknown, "'and he felt that he could almost spring from his seat, "'catch that bewitching form in his arms, "'and, covering her with kisses, exclaim, "'pardon me, but I am mad intoxicated, "'raving with passion. "'My mother will not be many minutes, sir,' said Perdita, "'now returning to her seat upon the sofa, "'and in the meantime I must solicit you "'to exercise your patience, "'for I am afraid you will find me but a dull companion.' "'Impossible!' cried Charles enthusiastically, "'then, fearing that he had spoken in two, "'decided and earnest a manner "'to one who was a perfect stranger. "'He added in a more subdued and reserved tone, "'but perhaps I am intruding on your privacy, "'as I am afraid that when I entered I, "'I mean I fear that I disturbed you.  "'But since I have been in London, "'I have experienced a heaviness in the atmosphere "'that engenders indolence, "'for I have hitherto been accustomed to the country.' "'Then you have not resided long in London,' "'Miss Fiss Hardinge,' said Charles, "'hazarding this mode of address "'with the determination of ascertaining "'whether the beautiful young woman were married or single?' "'We have only been in this city for one week,' "'she replied, in an acquiescent way, "'which convinced him that she had not changed "'the parental name by means of wedlock, "'a discovery that infused a secret glow of pleasure "'into his very soul, "'though at the same instant his heart smote him "'as if he were already playing a treacherous part "'in respect to Lady Frances Ellingham. "'No,' continued Perdita, "'we have not long resided in London. "'Urgent affairs have compelled my mother "'to visit the capital, "'and as our stay is likely to be "'of considerable duration, "'we are about to take a house. "'For my part, I am not sorry "'that we are thus to settle in London. "'For in spite of its oppressive atmosphere, "'its smoke and its noise, it has many attractions. "'You have already seen enough, then, "'to induce you prefer London "'to the country Misfits Hardinge,' said Charles, "'now admiring the fine aquiline profile "'of which he was suffered to obtain a perfect view, "'as Perdita half averted her looks on purpose, "'though quite in a natural manner. "'I have seen enough to render me an enthusiastic admirer "'of your great city,' she replied, "'now turning her full countenance upon him, "'and smiling so as to display her brilliant teeth. "'But I am anxious to behold more, "'and my wish cannot very readily be gratified. "'For save our attorney, we have no acquaintances, "'no friends in London. "'We are perfect strangers here, "'and we cannot very well ask our solicitor "'to escort us to the theatre "'and to those places of amusement, "'which ladies would hardly choose to visit "'unless accompanied and protected by a gentleman. "'Is it possible that you, Misfits Hardinge, "'should have to experience the want "'of such a chaperone?' demanded Charles Hatfield, "'again, hurried by his enthusiasm "'into language too little reserved and distant "'for a perfect stranger to address to a young lady, "'at least so he thought and feared immediately "'after he had made the observation?' "'It is very possible,' replied Perdita, "'in a mild and almost plaintive tone. "'In the country we had numerous friends, "'but here,' and the artful creature stopping short, "'stooped down to pick up her handkerchief "'as if to apply it to her eyes. "'At the same instant, Charles, obeying "'the impulse of polite attention, "'bent down also to save the lady the trouble "'and perform the little act of courtesy, "'when their hair, their very cheeks, came in contact, "'accidentally as the confused and bewildered "'Charles imagined, but intentionally "'on the part of the wanton and astute Perdita. "'And that contact, oh, it was thrilling in the extreme, "'and Charles Hatfield felt as if his veins "'ran with liquid fire, for the perfume exhaled "'from the lady's hair, the velvety feeling "'of the luxuriant curls, the softness "'and the warmth of her carnation cheek, "'and then the view which he could not possibly "'avoid for a moment, obtaining of the glowing breast, "'which her stooping posture completely revealed, "'all this was sufficient to madden him with passion "'and excite him to a degree when all self-command "'becomes nearly impossible. "'But he still possessed a sufficiency of mental energy "'to control himself, and stammering forth "'and awkward apology, he hurriedly observed, "'would you not think me too bold, Ms. Fitzheartinge, "'I should be proud to offer my services "'as a chaperone to yourself and your mother,' "'he added, for decency's sake.' "'The instant this offer was made, "'made without the least forethought "'and in the confusion of the young man's mind "'arising from the incidents just related, "'he repented of his rashness, "'he would have given worlds to be able "'to recall the proposal, for in a moment "'to his mind flashed the image "'of the lovely Lady Frances Ellingham, "'the reflection that he was offering his attentions "'to a young person totally unknown to him, "'the remembrance that he had many matters of importance "'to occupy his leisure, "'and the general impression that he had committed himself "'in a most singularly foolish and inconsiderate manner. "'Predita saw what was passing in his mind, "'at least she perceived that he repented of the proposal "'which he had precipitately made "'and which it had rejoiced her so much to receive, "'and she resolved to conquer his scruples, "'overcome his repugnance, "'and confirm him in the act of vesselage "'to which her transcendent charms "'and her wanton arts had already prompted him. "'Laying her soft warm hand upon his "'and approaching her countenance so near to his own "'that her fragrant breath fanned his cheek, "'she said, in a tone apparently of deep emotion, "'Mr. Hatfield, this proposal is so generous, "'so kind, so unexpected, "'that I know not how to answer you, "'otherwise than by expressing my sincere gratitude. "'And yet, so frankly have you made the offer "'that it would be a miserable affectation on my part "'to hesitate or to appear less candid and open "'in accepting it. "'I do therefore accept it, my dear sir, "'and with renewed thanks. "'And think not, in constituting yourself the friend, "'for in such a light must I henceforth consider you "'of misfits' heartinge, "'you are doing ought derogatory to yourself. "'No, for my mother is descended "'from an old and illustrious family, "'a family which has enumerated amongst its members "'personages of rank, eminence, and renown, "'and should the chancery suit, "'which she has come to London to prosecute, "'result favorable to her, "'she will recover an enormous fortune "'that has been accumulating for years "'through remaining in a dormant state.' "'While Perdita was delivering this tissue of falsehoods "'with an air of the most profound sincerity, "'she still kept her hand upon that of the young man, "'still retained her countenance near his own, "'and likewise fixed upon him looks at once, "'languishing, tender, and voluptuous. "'Again did he lose all power of sober reflection "'and completely yielding to the influence "'which the siren had and so short a time gained over him. "'He said, I shall be proud and delighted to act "'as your escort misfits hardinge, "'but you just now addressed me by my name, "'and yet I thought you were unprepared "'for my presence here this evening.' "'I was well aware that my mother wished to see you "'on particular business,' said Perdita, "'having already replied for every question "'that might be put to her, "'and therefore when I saw you enter the room, "'I concluded that you must be Mr. Charles Hatfield. "'And are you acquainted with the nature of the business "'concerning which Mrs. Fitzhardinge desired "'to speak with me?' inquired the young man, "'wondering why the old lady did not make her appearance. "'Yes, I am well informed on that subject, "'returned Perdita, but pray, "'do not ask me to talk to you on business, "'I detest the very name, "'and now perhaps you will consider me "'a silly, flighty, volatile creature. "'I consider you to be an angel of beauty,' exclaimed Charles, "'unable to restrain the raptures "'which hurried him on to this impassioned ejaculation. "'I was told before I came to London "'that the gentlemen of the great metropolis "'were very fond of paying silly young ladies "'vain and empty compliments,' said Perdita, "'looking with good-humored arch-ness at her companion, "'while her eyes beamed with wickedness "'and her bosom heaved visibly.  "'No, not precisely the first,' responded Perdita, "'with a naivete, so admirably assumed "'that her companion believed it to be completely genuine. "'There was a young gentleman, or rather a nobleman, "'but I must not mention his name in the country, "'who offered me his hand, "'and he paid me many very fine compliments. "'And you accepted the proposal? "'You are engaged to him?' exclaimed Charles "'with a strange fluttering of the heart. "'Neither the one nor the other,' answered Perdita, "'I could not love him, and therefore I declined the honor. "'My mother was angry with me "'and talked a great deal about the excellence "'of the match and so forth, but I was obstinate. "'Yes, very obstinate,' Mr. Hatfield,' she said, "'archly, for never, never,' she continued, "'her tone suddenly becoming earnest and her manner serious. "'Never could I bestow my hand, "'where I cannot likewise give my heart.' "'And you have resolved wisely,' "'Misfits Hardinge, exclaimed Charles, "'matrimony without sincere affection "'can afford no promise of happiness, "'but one so beautiful as yourself, "'impressed, too, with such sterling sentiments "'and harboring such pure principles. "'Oh, you will prove indeed a treasure to the man "'who is fortunate enough to secure your heart and hand.' "'Again, you compliment me,' Mr. Hatfield said, "'Perdita, looking down and blushing, "'for even her very blushes, she could command at pleasure. "'In reference, however, to the observation you have just made, "'I should remark that I have never yet met "'with one of your sex whom I could comprehend fully "'and who could understand me. "'I admire openness, candor, and sincerity, "'that general frankness, too, "'which at once establishes friendship "'and dissipates cold formality, "'for I believe that the tremors of ceremonial politeness "'positively spoil the heart, "'tutoring it to curb its enthusiasm "'where enthusiasm would be so natural. "'I know not how to express myself clearly, "'but what I mean to imply is this, "'that I am a believer in the possibility "'of friendship at first sight.' "'And of love at first sight also?' "'Exclaim Charles Hatfield in an impassioned tone.' "'Yes, and of love at first sight also,' repeated Perdita, "'again hanging down her head, "'again commanding a deep blush "'and likewise speaking in a low-melting tone "'of deep emotion, as she drew alongside.' "'Was it that possibility of experiencing "'the feeling of friendship at first sight "'which led you to accept my proposed services "'as an escort to the places of public amusement "'enquired Charles? "'Wherefore do you seek thus to probe "'the secret feelings of my soul?' asked Perdita, "'turning upon him a look indicative "'of mingled pleasure and amazement. "'Have I offended you by the question, "'charming lady?' exclaimed Charles? "'Oh, I do not so readily take offense, "'Mr. Hatfield' cried Perdita, "'but Frank candid and ingenuous, "'though I believe myself to be, "'I still have my little feelings of pride, "'and I could not think of making an avowal "'to a gentleman otherwise than as a reciprocity. "'Then were I to declare sincerely and solemnly "'and on my honor as a man "'that it was a sentiment of friendship, "'experience at first sight, "'and according to your own doctrine, "'which prompted me to offer my services "'as a chaperon,' said Charles hastily "'and enthusiastically, "'would you deign to answer my question?  "'He thought, too, of Lady Frances Ellingham.' "'And Perdita again perceived that he hesitated, "'and instantly had recourse to a new artifice "'to display her charms to their utmost advantage. "'Stooping down, she affected to arrange the ottoman "'in the most convenient manner for her feet. "'But in this attitude, which seemed so natural, "'ingenuous and artless, "'she revealed so much of the treasures of her bosom "'that no room was left for imaginings, "'and Charles Hatfield felt himself seized with a delirium "'in which he would have made over his soul to Satan, "'had such been the price demanded "'for the possession of Perdita.' "'Miss Fitzhardinge,' he said, "'his voice almost subdued and his tongue parched "'through the maddening fierceness of passion. "'On my honor as a gentleman, "'I swear that the offer I air now made you "'was dictated by a feeling of friendship. "'Yes, of a friendship that sprang up in my soul "'in a single instant, that took birth in a moment, "'a friendship that prompted me to declare "'how proud and delighted I should be to act as your escort, "'for I am candid, frank and ingenuous, "'as I perceive you to be, "'and I will give you another proof "'of the existence of these qualities "'in respect to myself, even at the risk of offending you. "'From the first moment that I set foot in this room "'until now, I have experienced emotions "'such as I never felt before. "'In my delirium I apostrophized you as an angel of beauty, "'and an angel of beauty must you indeed be "'to exercise such prompt, such speedy, "'such witching influence as that which has enthralled me. "'For it appears as if there were a spell upon me, "'an enchantment from which there is no escape. "'Sweet lady, pardon me for having spoken thus, frankly.  "'She said, you have made a certain avowal, "'and you have a right to expect a candid "'and unreserved reply from me. "'Then learn, Mr. Hatfield, "'that never should I have accepted your services "'as a chaperon, never should we have talked thus familiarly. "'Never would you have been suffered to read "'so much of my disposition "'as within the last half hour you have learned. "'Had not I likewise experienced a feeling of friendship "'at first sight for you.'" Oh my God, this is happiness so unhoped, so unlooked for, so unexpected, that I am bewildered, dazzled, amazed, remembered the young man, a mist obscuring his brain, and yet a glorious lustrous golden mist through which he seemed to catch glimpses of paradise. Friendship, did you say, charming lady? Yet is not friendship a dangerous word for lips like ours to breathe and a dangerous sentiment for hearts like ours to feel? You speak as if you were under an apprehension that you are doing wrong. Said Perdita, in a tone of soft reproach. Oh, is this candor and frankness? If you regret that you have pledged me your friendship, for such I augur of your words, I release you, Mr. Hatfield, from the bond. Nay, I should be too proud to ask you to adhere to it. And now the young man beheld the fascinating woman in a new faces of her charms, for with that ready versatility of aspect and demeanor, which she had so completely at her command, she suddenly invested herself with all the majesty of sublime haughtiness, no longer melting tender wanton and voluptuous as Venus, but terrible, domineering superb and imperious as Juno, no longer wearing this cestus of the goddess of love, but grasping as the queen of heaven, the thunders of Olympian jove. Her eyes flashed fire, her cheeks flushed, her nostrils dilated, her lip curled, her neck arched proudly rather than gracefully, her bosom heaved as if it would burst the low corsage, which only half restrained it, and her very form seemed to draw itself up into a height, which even as she sat and of middling stature as she was, appeared colossal at that moment to the astounded gaze of the young man. Never was Artifice more successful, never was Triumph more complete on one side, never was Defeat more signal, never was Humiliation more contrite or the other, for overwhelmed as it were by the sovereign majesty of that anger which he believed himself to have provoked, Charles Hatfield fell upon his knees before the haughty beauty and seizing both her hands in his, he extravagantly devoured them with kisses, proclaiming, pardon, pardon. Yes, yes, it is as frankly accorded as sincerely demanded exclaimed Perdita, not offering to withdraw her hands from the lips which were now glued to them, and in an instant her whole manner and appearance changed again, and when Charles Hatfield ventured to look up into the siren's face, he saw her bending over him with cheeks flushed, it is true, but not by anger and with eyes that seemed to swim in wanton liquid langer. Rising from his supply and posture and now taking a seat by the side of Perdita on the sofa, relinquishing her hands at the same time, for fear of giving offence by retaining them, the infatuated young man, drunk with passion, said in a low murmuring tone, we have not been acquainted more than one hour and we have exchanged vows of friendship, is it not so? Yes, if you do not repent now and never will repent of that pledge on your part, answered the dangerous young woman who thus conducted her designing machinations with such consummate skill. No, never, never, cried Hatfield, and now we know each other as well as if we had been intimate since our infancy. To you then, henceforth, I am Charles and you are to me Perdita, said she. Oh, beautiful, singular, and yet ominous name exclaimed the young gentleman. Yes, you are my friend, my dear friend Perdita. And now Perdita, I will avail myself of this romantic yet not the less sincere friendship that is established between us to ask you what caprice or fancy gave you so remarkable a Christian name. Because in my infancy, shortly after my birth and before I was baptized, I was lost or rather stolen by gypsies, answered Perdita, investing herself and her history with as much of the charm of mysticism as possible. And when I was recovered from the kidnappers by my parents, they christened me Perdita or the lost one. Everything connected with you seems to be imbued with deep and enthralling interest, my dear friend, said Charles. A supernatural halo appears to surround you. Your beauty is of a nature so superior to ought of female loveliness that I ever before be held. Your voice has something so indescribably melting and musical that it awakens echoes in the inmost recesses of the soul. Your history is strange, wild and impressive in its very commencement. Your disposition is characterized by a frankness and candor so generous that it inspires and reciprocates profound friendship. The instant it meets a kindred spirit and then there is about you a something so witching, so captivating, so enchanting that the best and most virtuous of men would lose all sense of duty. Did you, sweet siren, that you are undertake to lead them astray? If I have indeed found a kindred spirit in you, Charles, said Perdita, taking his hand and pressing it as if in grateful and innocent rapture to her heaving bosom, an act which only tended to inflame the young man almost to madness, I shall have gained that which I have long sought and never yet found for my heart has hitherto been as complete a stranger to a sincere friendship as to love. When I spoke ere now of our friends in the country, I meant those acquaintances whom custom denominates by the other title. Perdita, my friend Perdita, the amity that we have pledged each other shall be eternal, exclaimed Charles in an impassioned tone. And you will return to visit me tomorrow, said the young woman, her fine gray eyes beaming with an unsettled bluster as if the mingled voluptuousness of day and night met in those splendid, eloquent orbs. Yes, oh yes, cried Charles, as if it were unnecessary to have asked the question. And now I shall leave you Perdita. I shall depart to feast my imagination on the pleasures of this interview. Thus speaking, the young man pressed Perdita's hand to his lips and hurried from the room, intoxicated with a delirium of bliss and scarcely conscious of where he was or wither he was going. End of section 21.