“I never heard it contradicted!” added Miss Anna-Maria.
“What do they say the grandfather is?” demanded Captain Phinnikin.
Again did Miss Matson look anxiously around: then, lowering her voice to a whisper, and assuming as mysterious an air as possible, she said, “A hatter!”
“Oh! you naughty, gossiping girls!” cried Mrs. Matson, shaking her head with an affected deprecation of her daughters’ scandal-loving propensities, but in reality enjoying the tittle-tattle.
“Well, ma,” said Miss Julia, “I am sure there is no harm in telling the truth; and I thought that every one knew what Miss Brown’s grandfather was—just the same as it’s no secret about the Greens being related to a soap-boiler.”
“Hush! my dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Matson, putting her finger to her lip: “we really must not pull people to pieces in this way. At the same time I candidly confess that it is annoying to find so many low persons at the very watering-place which we chose for the summer. I don’t wish to be severe upon any body; but if Mr. Thompson, who is known to be a retired draper, will allow people to address their letters to him as Thomas Thompson, Esquire, he must expect to be talked about.”
“And then those Miss Thompsons who give themselves such airs!” cried the eldest Miss Matson, with an indignant gesture.
“I am sure they made quite frights of themselves last Sunday at church,” added Miss Julia, “with their dresses after the latest Parisian fashion!”
“Besides, pink bonnets don’t at all become their dark complexions,” observed Miss Anna-Maria.
“Ladies must have very good complexions indeed, for pink bonnets to suit them,” drawled forth Captain Phinnikin, smiling languidly at the same time;—for the three Misses Matson all wore bonnets of a roseate hue—a fact which they appeared to have entirely forgotten while speaking of the Misses Thompson.
At this moment, Lieutenant Pink uttered an ejaculation of surprise; and the rest of the group, turning their eyes in the same direction in which his were bent, beheld a very handsome young gentleman to whose arm hung a young lady of marvellous beauty.
“They are strangers here,” observed Miss Matson the elder.
“New-comers,” continued Miss Julia.
“But nothing very particular, I dare say,” added Miss Anna-Maria.
And having thus expressed themselves, the three sisters turned towards the officers; but they were much piqued and annoyed to find that those two gallant gentlemen were still surveying the attractive couple with the deepest interest.
“That face is familiar to me, Pink,” cried Captain Phinnikin.
“And to me also. But where I have seen it before, I cannot recollect,” observed the lieutenant. “Upon my soul, she is a magnificent woman!”
“A splendid creature!” ejaculated the captain, forgetting his habitual drawl for a moment. “Faith! I remember——and yet—no—it is impossible!”
“Yes—it is impossible—it cannot be!” cried Mr. Pink, as if divining and echoing the other’s thoughts. “But I am sure I have seen her before! And will you believe me, Phinnikin, when I assure you that, at the first glance, I thought——”
“Egad! it is her profile—her figure!” cried the captain, pursuing the train of his own thoughts, as his eyes followed the young couple who were passing leisurely along at a little distance, and quite unconscious of the interest that one of them at least was creating.
“Well—it strikes me that it is the same!” observed the lieutenant, his amazement every moment becoming greater, and his uncertainty less.
“Who do you take her to be?” demanded Phinnikin, turning abruptly towards his brother-officer.
“Perdita,” responded the lieutenant, without hesitation.
“And yet—in England—so changed too, in circumstances—and in company with that genteel young fellow——”
“All those things occurred to me likewise,” interrupted Mr. Pink.
“Let us convince ourselves!” cried the captain; and the military gentlemen, with a somewhat abrupt and unceremonious bow to the Matson family, walked away together, arm-in-arm.
“Well, I never!” exclaimed the eldest Miss Matson, now tossing her head more indignantly than on any previous occasion, yet looking wistfully after the two really handsome and elegant, though conceited and coxcombical young officers, whose fine figures were rapidly receding along the parade.
“I could not have supposed that Captain Phinnikin would have been guilty of such rudeness!” said Miss Julia.
“Oh! as for the captain—I was prepared for any thing with him,” observed Miss Anna-Maria: “but it’s Mr. Pink that I’m astonished at!”
“I am sure the captain is the best behaved of the two,” exclaimed Julia.
“That shows your ignorance, Miss,” said Anna-Maria, tartly.
“I know what’s genteel as well as you, I should hope,” retorted Julia.
“Don’t be cross, my love,” said Anna-Maria, affecting a soothing tone.
“And don’t you pretend to know better than one two years older than yourself,” cried Julia. “As for you,” she continued, addressing herself to her eldest sister, “I was quite surprised to hear how you went on about the Browns and the Thompsons. How foolish we should all look if it were found out that Uncle Ben was a pawnbroker in Lambeth Marsh——”
“Hush! girls—hush! Drat your tongues—how they are going!” interrupted Mrs. Matson, in a hoarse and hasty whisper.
“I am sure, ma, Julia talked as much about the Browns and the Thompsons as I did,” said the eldest daughter; “and now she is trying to quarrel with me about it. But here come the Thompsons,” she added abruptly, as her eyes wandered along the parade.
Mrs. Matson and the three young ladies all smoothed their countenances in a moment; and nothing could be more amiable, affable, or charming than the manner in which they rose simultaneously to greet the Misses Thompson—two tall, handsome, well-dressed, and really most genteel girls, let their father have been what he might.
“Oh! my dear Miss Thompson,” cried the eldest Miss Matson, “I am so delighted to see you! How well you are looking, to be sure!”
“We were talking about you only a few minutes ago, to Captain Phinnikin and Mr. Pink,” said Julia; “and we were admiring those dears of bonnets that you wore last Sunday at church.”
“I am glad you liked them,” responded the elder Miss Thompson. “But how happened it that you were not at Lady Noakes’s last night?”
“Well—we don’t mind telling you, dear,” said Miss Matson the elder: “the truth is that we were not invited; and I suppose it must have been an oversight of her ladyship.”
“Her ladyship was quite surprised that you were not present,” returned Miss Thompson: “she assured me that a card had been duly forwarded to you.”
“Oh! how provoking!” cried all three Misses Matson at the same moment, and as it were in the same breath. “The invitation must have miscarried somehow or another. We would not have been absent for the world if we had received the card.”
“But, my dear Miss Thompson,” continued the eldest Miss Matson, “as you and your dear sister are so intimate with Lady Noakes, perhaps you would just hint that the invitation did miscarry——”
“Oh! certainly,” replied the good-natured young lady thus appealed to. “But we must say good bye now—for we promised papa not to stay out late, and it is already near eight o’clock.”
“How is that dear good soul, Mr. Thompson?” asked Mrs. Matson. “I was speaking of him to Captain Phinnikin and Mr. Pink just now, and saying what great respect we all entertained for him.”
“Thank you, my dear madam—papa is quite well,” returned Miss Thompson. “But we must really say good bye, for we expect the Greens to drop into supper presently——”
“Delightful girls, the Miss Greens!” exclaimed Mrs. Matson; “and very well connected, I have heard.”
“Oh! certainly—their uncle is a Member of Parliament,” responded Miss Thompson. “But good bye.”
“Good bye,” repeated her sister; and away they went—happy, joyous, kind-hearted, and good girls, who would not have suffered their tongues to utter a word of scandal,—thus proving a striking contrast with the Matson family.
“What a vulgar buoyancy of spirits the eldest Miss Thompson always has!” exclaimed the senior of the three sisters, after a pause. “I really can scarcely seem commonly polite to her.”
“And the youngest is just like her in that respect,” observed Julia.
“They are the rudest and worst-behaved girls in Dover, except the Miss Greens,” added Mrs. Matson.
“Well,” said Anna-Maria, “since I have heard that the Greens are related to a Member of Parliament, I don’t fancy them to be so vulgar as I used to do. Oh! what a thing it would be to get acquainted with a Member, and have him at our parties next winter! Wouldn’t the Snipsons be in a way?”
“And the Styles’s!” added Julia.
“Yes—and the Tubleys, who are so proud of their Irish Member!” exclaimed the eldest Miss Matson. “Oh! ma, let us make up to the Greens and get as friendly with them as possible; so that we may be on visiting terms with them when we go back to London—and then we shall be introduced to their uncle, the Member.”
“By all means,” said Mrs. Matson, charmed with the suggestion. “I will persuade your papa to allow us to give a party next week, on purpose for the Greens.”
In the meantime Captain Phinnikin and Mr. Pink had proceeded somewhat rapidly along the Marine Parade, until they had reached the extremity, when they turned, and walked more slowly, so as to meet Charles Hatfield and Perdita.
“To-morrow, at this time,” said the infatuated young man, as the syren leant confidingly upon his arm, “we shall be far on our road to Paris: and within three days from this moment, my beloved one, you will be mine! Oh! I believe firmly that we were intended for each other—and therefore happiness awaits us!”
“To be with you, Charles, is happiness indeed,” returned Perdita, with that melting softness of tone which gave her words so exquisite a charm, and made every chord in her lover’s heart thrill with rapture: then, casting upon him a sweet glance which drank in his own, she said, “I am rejoiced that we have taken this decided step—for in London, I was so fearful that your relatives might adopt means to separate you from me!”
“No—that could not be, dearest Perdita,” he observed: “for I am of an age at which no parental despotism could be legally enforced; and I have acquainted you with every thing that has already passed between my father and myself. Were I a weak-minded boy, I should perhaps have yielded to his threats or to my mother’s entreaties: but I have chosen to act for myself and on my own responsibility—and I do not repent the decision.”
“And never—never shall you repent, my beloved Charles,” murmured Perdita, with no affectation of feeling, but under the influence of that passionate tenderness which she in reality experienced towards the young man. “And, oh! how delightful is it to be your companion in such a delicious evening walk as this—by the scarcely rippling sea—and at the hour when the sun is sinking to its ocean-bed!”
“Yes;—and while with you, my Perdita,” responded Charles, “I seem to feel as if we two were alone together—sole witnesses of the scene! I observe not the other loungers: I see only my Perdita—hear only her voice!”
At this moment his fair companion, to whom he was addressing those words of heart-felt tenderness, appeared to start violently; for his arm to which she clung was suddenly jerked by her hand with some degree of force. Charles instinctively raised his head, which had been bent partially towards her ear; and glancing straight before him, he beheld two officers staring most rudely, as he thought, at his well-beloved and beauteous Perdita.
“What means this insolence?” he exclaimed, in a tone of irritation.
“Let us turn back, Charles—dearest Charles” murmured Perdita, in a faint and tremulous tone; and she wheeled him round, as it were, with extraordinary alacrity.
A load burst of laughter on the part of the officers met their ears; and Charles, uttering an ejaculation of rage, was about to relinquish his fair companion’s arm and rush back to demand an explanation, when Perdita said, “In the name of heaven, molest them not—I implore you!”
And she hurried him away.
“My God! Perdita,” he said, when they were at some distance from the spot where the officers had stopped short to gaze upon Perdita, and where their complete recognition of her had betrayed them into an act of rudeness which they almost immediately afterwards regretted—for they felt that they had no right to insult the young woman by laughing at her altered circumstances: “my God! Perdita,” said Charles, labouring under a painful state of excitement; “what means this conduct of those unmannerly fellows? and wherefore will you not permit me to chastise them?”
“Would you expose me to the ridicule of all the persons assembled on the Parade?” demanded Perdita, who had now recovered her presence of mind—at least sufficiently to feel the necessity of immediately allaying her lover’s excitement.
“But those officers insulted you—insulted you grossly, Perdita!” cried Charles, who did not, however, entertain the remotest suspicion prejudicial to the young woman, but merely felt deeply indignant at an insolence which he could not understand, and which was so completely unprovoked.
“They insulted us—they insulted you as well as myself, Charles,” answered Perdita, hastily: “it was because you were bending, as it were, over me while you spoke—because your head was approached so close to my ear—and because I was listening with such unconcealed delight to your tender words! They saw that we were lovers—that we felt as if we were alone even amidst the crowd of loungers——”
“Yes: it must have been as you say!” cried Charles, receiving Perdita’s ingenious explanation as natural and conclusive, and now absolutely wondering at his own stupidity in not penetrating the matter before.
“You may conceive,” resumed the artful girl, “how ashamed and bewildered I suddenly felt, when, on raising my eyes, I saw the two officers standing still only a dozen yards in advance, and gazing upon us in the rudest possible manner. I instantly understood the truth: women, dear Charles, are sometimes more sharp-sighted than your sex. It flashed to my mind that our manner had betrayed that we were lovers; and hence my emotions! And can you wonder, my beloved Charles, if I hurried you away from a scene where you incurred the chance of becoming involved in a quarrel with those fire-eaters?”
“In good truth, my Perdita,” said Hatfield, now smiling, “they seemed to me—if I might judge by the short glimpse I had of them—to be rather fitted for the drawing-room than to smell gunpowder.”
“Oh! that may be,” exclaimed the young woman, her voice still continuing tremulous and her manner imploring: “nevertheless, I would not for the world that you should fall into danger! Consider, Charles, how dreadful would be my feelings, were I to know that you were about to fight a duel! Oh! my blood runs cold in my veins when I think of it! But were you to fall in such hostile meeting——Ah! my God, what would become of your unhappy, wretched Perdita?”
“Dearest—sweetest girl!” cried the enraptured young man: “how blest am I in the possession of such a love as thine!”
And he gazed tenderly upon her as he spoke, pressing her arm at the same time with his own: for now her countenance was flushed with the emotions that agitated in her bosom; and, as the rays of the setting sun played upon her face, she seemed lovely beyond all possibility of description.
They returned to the hotel; and, having partaken of supper, sought their respective chambers at a somewhat early hour—for Mrs. Fitzhardinge and Perdita complained of fatigue, and Charles knew that the ensuing day’s travelling would prove even more wearisome still.
The reader has seen how artfully the young woman contrived to find an explanation for the untoward and menacing event which had occurred upon the Marine Parade. The real truth was that while Charles was pouring words of tenderness and love into the ears of Perdita, she suddenly raised her eyes, and was horror-struck at beholding the countenances—too well-known countenances—of Captain Phinnikin and Lieutenant Pink. For their regiment had been stationed at Sydney; and those two officers had enjoyed the favours of the beautiful and voluptuous Perdita. She saw that she was recognised; and for a moment the chances were equal whether she should sink beneath the blow, as if struck by a thunder-bolt—or whether she should recover her presence of mind. The latter alternative favoured her on this occasion; and her sophistry, her demonstrations of tenderness, and the horror which she expressed at the idea of a duel, succeeded in completely pacifying her lover.
Our travellers rose early in the morning; for the French mail steamer, Le Courier, was to start for Calais at nine o’clock.
Breakfast over, Charles Hatfield and Perdita walked down to the pier at twenty minutes to nine—Mrs. Fitzhardinge, who was determined to make herself as busy and also as necessary as possible, remaining behind to see that the baggage was safely consigned to the porter in readiness to convey it.
The weather was delightful; and the fresh sea breeze, with its saline flavour, seemed to waft invigorating influences upon its wing. Charles and his beloved were in high spirits; although Perdita threw ever and anon an anxious glance around, to assure herself that the dreaded officers, who had caused her so much alarm on the preceding evening, were not near to renew that terror. Every thing was satisfactory in this respect; and never had the heart of the young woman been more elate, than when she stepped upon the deck of the gallant steamer, which was already puffing off its fleecy vapour with a snorting noise, as if it were a steed impatient of delay.
Seating themselves upon a bench, Charles and Perdita were soon absorbed in a conversation of a tender nature; and, forgetful of every thing save the topic of their discourse, they noticed not the lapse of time until they happened to perceive the captain standing on one of the paddle-boxes, and heard the orders which he gave to the busy French sailors.
These symptoms of immediate departure instantaneously aroused the attention of Charles and Perdita to the fact that Mrs. Fitzhardinge had not joined them.
“Where is my mother?” demanded the latter, embracing with a rapid glance the entire range of the deck, and unable to discover the object of her search amongst the passengers scattered about the vessel.
“Wait here one moment, dearest—and I will see,” said Charles; and he hastened forward, thinking that perhaps the funnel might conceal the old woman from their view.
But she was not to be found; although a glance at the piles of baggage in the immediate vicinity of the chimney showed him his companions’ boxes, together with a portmanteau of necessaries which he had purchased for himself on the preceding evening.
Yes: there was the baggage—but where was Mrs. Fitzhardinge?
What could have become of her?
Perhaps she had descended to the cabin.
This idea seemed probable; and Charles was about to hurry back to the bench where he had left Perdita, when she joined him, saying, “I have been into the cabin; and my mother is not there.”
Before Charles had time to make any reply, a porter in his white frock approached him, and, touching his hat, said, “Please, sir, are these your things?”—pointing to the boxes.
“Yes,” answered Hatfield: “but where is the lady who was giving you instructions about them when we left the hotel?”
“Please, sir, she came after me as far as the beginning of the pier,” returned the porter; “and there, as I happened to look round, I saw her speaking to two men. I went on—looked round again, and could see nothing more of her.”
“This is most extraordinary!” exclaimed Hatfield.
“I cannot comprehend it,” observed Perdita: then, suddenly struck by the idea that Charles might propose to land and search after the old woman, she added hastily, “But we need not alarm ourselves: if any thing has happened to detain my mother a short time, she will doubtless follow us by the next boat.”
At this moment the huge paddle-wheels began to turn—Charles hastily tossed the porter half-a-crown—and the man leapt on the pier in company with several others of his own calling,—while the steamer moved away with stately steadiness of pace.
Perdita and Charles Hatfield paced the deck, arm in arm, and conversing on the unaccountable disappearance of Mrs. Fitzhardinge. The latter could conjecture no possible key to the mystery: nor did Perdita offer any suggestive clue—although she thought it probable that her mother, having lost her despotic authority, had withdrawn, in a moment of ill-temper, from the company of those whom she could not hope to reduce to the condition of slaves. But the young woman said to herself, “She will soon repent of her folly and rejoin us;”—while to Charles she expressed an uneasiness and an apprehension lest any accident should have befallen her mother.
On sped the steamer: the harbour is cleared—and now she enters upon the expanse of green water, over which she walks “like a thing of life,”—the huge paddles raising a swell, which, covered with foam, marks the pathway of the gallant vessel.
On—on she went;—and now the white cliffs of Albion diminish and grow dim in the distance,—while, still far ahead, the coast of France, like a long brown streak in the horizon, appears in view!
And, oh! may that green sea never waft a hostile navy from one shore to the other;—may the peace which now subsists between the two greatest nations in the universe, remain undisturbed! Let France and England continue rivals,—not in the art of war,—but in the means of developing every element of civilisation and progress. Such a striving—such a race between the two, will be glorious indeed; and the whole world will experience the benefit.
Shame, then, to those alarmists who are now endeavouring to spread terror and dismay throughout the British Islands, by their calculations of the facility with which the French may invade us, and by their predictions of the consequences of such an invasion.
Well aware are we that were France to entertain the project, its realization would be easy;—for with our navy dispersed over the world, our coast-defences so few and far-between, and our totally insufficient army, we have no means of resisting an invading force of eighty or a hundred thousand men so admirably disciplined as the soldiers of France.
But neither Louis-Philippe nor his Government entertains the remotest idea of disturbing the peace of the world;—and it is madness—it in wickedness on the part of the public journals and of pamphleteers to write for the very purpose of creating an impression that an invasion by the French is imminent.
A terrible panic has been raised throughout the length and breadth of the land;—and with sorrow do we record the fact that the Duke of Wellington has placed himself at the head of the alarmists!
To consummate the folly, all that is now required is—what?
To give Prince Albert the command of the Army!
----Or rather, O Englishmen! does not the apprehension of danger from an invasion by a foreign power lay bare, in all its nakedness, the monstrous folly—the astounding absurdity of suddenly elevating that young and inexperienced man to the rank of a Field-Marshal?
A Field-Marshal, who has never smelt powder save in the heartless, inhuman cruelty of a battue of game,—and who has never in his life seen a shot fired in anger!
England does not require such a Drawing-Room Field-Marshal: she wants a Captain-General who, if need be, can compete with such a man as Bugeaud.
But where will Royal Folly stop?—and when will any statesman have the courage to resist the childish caprices of the Queen?
In the same newspapers which are constantly telling us that the French meditate an invasion—that if the Cuirassiers enter London on the east, the best thing the Horse-Guards can do, will be to march out on the west—that the conquerors will be sure to levy contributions upon us, demand the settlement of old scores, strip us of our colonies, and humiliate us in every way,—in the very same journals which tell us all this, we read that the Queen it anxious for Prince Albert to become Commander-in-Chief, the Duke of Wellington retiring to make room for him!
Merciful heavens! is such a monstrous absurdity to be consummated? Is that grey-headed veteran, who won the field of Waterloo, to be superseded by a mere boy? Much as we have disliked the Duke of Wellington as a politician, yet we have felt proud of him as our national hero;—and no words can convey an idea of the disgust with which we perused the paragraph intimating that this mighty warrior was to be put upon the shelf, to make way for a Prince who knows no more of military matters than he does of the hieroglyphics on the Pyramids of Egypt.
If the Duke be desirous of withdrawing into private life, let him be succeeded by some great Captain who knows what hard blows in the field are—let his place be supplied by one of his own companions-in-arms.
Have we none of the heroes of the Peninsular battles still alive?—have we no names rendered glorious by victories achieved on the banks of the Sutlej?
It would be an insult the most glaring—the most flagrant, to all the illustrious chieftains alluded to, were a young man who never saw an angry shot fired, to be placed in authority over their heads! Already have the great warriors of England been sufficiently humiliated by the elevation of that young man to the rank of Field-Marshal:—but really if the English Court be allowed to “play at soldiers” in this disgraceful manner, it is no wonder that such men as the Duke of Wellington should look with apprehension at the consequences of a French invasion.
Prince Albert may be very resolute and very determined in worrying a poor otter with his dogs,—or he may be desperately brave in firing vollies of small shot upon harmless birds: but as for his capacity or his courage to lead an army——the idea is ridiculous!
The English people have not gone stark, staring mad—even if some few of their rulers have: and most sincerely do we hope that, if the attempt to raise Prince Albert to the post of Commander-in-Chief be persisted in, the country will oppose it by all moral and legal means,—by memorial, petition, and remonstrance,—by public meetings and the omnipotent voice of the public press,—in fine, by an universal agitation such as that which knocked down the Corn-Laws!
For the consummation of so astounding an absurdity will prove the ruin of the British Army!
Surely it is not in civilised England, and in the middle of the nineteenth century, that Royalty is to play its fantastic tricks, and use all our grandest institutions as playthings? If so, we shall have the Prince of Wales created on Admiral very shortly, and Dr. Howley may resign the Archbishopric of Canterbury to little Prince Ernest Alfred. And why not? Such appointments would be quite as rational as that of Prince Albert to the post of Commander-in-Chief.
Let not our readers suppose that we seek to bring Princes into ridicule: they have a right to be Princes, if the people are foolish enough to let them; but when they make themselves ridiculous by grasping at offices for which they are totally unfitted, it is time for us to speak out.
We are inspired by no awe and entertain no solemn terror in dealing with Royalty: for, after all, royal persons are only human creatures, as well as we—and they seldom possess the good feelings and sterling qualities which are to be found in honest, hard-working, enlightened mechanics.
After a most agreeable voyage of two hours and a half, the French steam-packet entered Calais harbour.
Charles and Perdita proceeded to Dessin’s Hotel; and there they determined to wait at least a few hours until the arrival of an English steamer which was to leave Dover about a couple of hours later than Le Courier.
During this interval Charles bethought himself that, should Mrs. Fitzhardinge not join them in the course of the day, Perdita and himself would be compelled to continue their journey to Paris; and, with a due sense of delicacy towards her who was to become his wife, he saw the impropriety of their travelling alone together. He accordingly intimated to Perdita the necessity of procuring for her a lady’s-maid without delay; and though she would have much preferred that herself and lover should be the sole occupants of the interior of the post-chaise, she nevertheless comprehended that the expression of such a wish on her part would give him but a poor idea of her modesty. She therefore assented to his proposal with apparent cheerfulness, and thanked him for his kind consideration.
By the agency of Madame Dessin, the landlady of the hotel, a French lady’s-maid, who understood English, was speedily obtained and engaged; and Perdita was now by no means displeased to find herself elevated to the position of a woman of some consequence. She, who but a short time before had entered London in a butcher’s cart and clad in the meanest apparel, was now provided with a special attendant and could choose dresses of the latest fashion and the costliest material.
The lady’s-maid was a pretty young woman of about three and twenty, with fine hair and eyes, good teeth, and a beautiful figure; and her attire was of the most tasteful, though quiet and unassuming, description. Her manners were very agreeable, and would be termed lady-like in this country: but, beneath a modest and innocent-looking exterior, she concealed a disposition for intrigue and no small amount of subtlety. At the same time, Rosalie—for that was her name—would not for the world seek to lead a virtuous mistress astray; and to such virtuous mistress she would doubtless prove an excellent, faithful, and trust-worthy servant. But should she have to deal with a mistress given to gallantry, then Rosalie would cheerfully exercise all her arts of duplicity—all her little cunning machinations—and all her aptitude for the management of an intrigue, and would take delight in enabling her lady to deceive a husband or a lover.
Such was the young person who now became Perdita’s attendant: but it must be observed that the character of Rosalie, as far as it was known to the landlady of the hotel, was unimpeachable:—that is to say, she bore the reputation of honesty, cleanliness, a perfect knowledge of her duties—in fine, all those qualifications which are sought and required in an upper servant of her description.
Having waited until the arrival of the English packet, and finding that Mrs. Fitzhardinge did not make her appearance, Charles, to whom her absence was unaccountable and bewildering to a degree, ordered the post-chaise to be got ready; and, while this was being done, he proceeded with Perdita to the British Consul’s to obtain passports. Finally, at about five o’clock in the afternoon, our travellers took their departure from Dessin’s Hotel in a chaise and four—Rosalie occupying a seat inside, for the sake of appearances.
Oh! had Charles Hatfield known that the young woman—his intended bride—for whose reputation he manifested so much delicate care,—had he known that she was so thoroughly polluted in body and mind,—could he have heard the history which the two officers at Dover might have told of her, had they chosen—he would have been shocked and horrified,—he would have spurned her from him—and all his ardent, enthusiastic love, amounting to an adoration and a worship, would have changed into feelings of abhorrence, loathing, and hate.
But he believed her to be pure and virtuous,—possessing some strange, wayward, and eccentric notions, it is true,—and yet endowed with a spirit so plastic and ductile as to yield willingly to good counsel and to be ready to sacrifice any peculiarity of opinion to the man whom she loved.
It is likewise true that he remembered how she had permitted him, in moments of impassioned tenderness, to toy with her—to press her glowing bosom—to glue his lips to hers, as if she herself would on those occasions accord even more: but he likewise recollected how invariably she started from his arms—withdrew herself from his embrace—and manifested a suddenly resuscitated presence of mind, when he had grown too bold and, maddened with desire, had sought the last favour which a woman, in amorous dalliance, can bestow. He therefore reasoned that, although her naturally warm temperament had led her to bestow upon him such unequivocal proofs of her love, yet that a virgin pride and a maiden’s prudence had enabled her in every instance to triumph over temptation;—and this belief enhanced his profound admiration of her character.
But from the moment that Charles had first beheld Perdita, his brain had been in an incessant state of excitement,—an intoxication, an elysian delirium which made Perdita on angel of beauty and almost of excellence in his eyes:—and those fervent caresses which he had been permitted to bestow upon her, and those slight foretastes of the most voluptuous enjoyments which he had been allowed to snatch, had only tended to sustain that excitement—increase the dreamy delights of that intoxication—and enhance the bliss of that continuous delirium.
Then, in addition to the fascinating influence of the syren—in addition to the enthralling witchery which her charms, her arts, her conversation, and the silver sounds of her dulcet voice exercised over him,—were his ambitious hopes, his soaring aspirations!
All these circumstances had combined to unsettle, if not altogether change, in an incredibly short space, a disposition naturally good—a mind naturally energetic and powerful: and then those unhappy scenes with his father, when neither fully understood the meaning and drift of the other’s observations, had aided to produce an excitement which was thus hurrying the young man along apparently to his utter ruin!
Unless, indeed, some good angel should yet intervene, ere it be too late——
But we must not anticipate.
On the contrary, let us return, from this partial though not unnecessary digression, to the thread of our narrative,—so that we may all the sooner be enabled to bring our readers back to that metropolis—that mighty London, of which we have still so many Mysteries to unfold!
The travellers pursued their journey all night, Charles being anxious to reach the French capital with the least possible delay, and Perdita seconding him fully in the wish.
Let us therefore succinctly state that in the morning they breakfasted at Amiens—in the afternoon they dined at Beauvais—and at ten o’clock in the evening they entered the splendid city of Paris.
Did our limits and the nature of the tale permit us, we would here gladly pause for a few minutes to describe that peerless capital which we know and love so well: but this may not be;—and we therefore hasten to state that Charles and Perdita, attended by Rosalie, proceeded to a respectable family hotel, where they hired a handsome suite of apartments.
And now for an important event in this section of our narrative,—an event which nevertheless may be related in a few words!
For, at eleven o’clock on the morning following their arrival in Paris, Charles Hatfield, claiming to be Viscount Marston, and Perdita Fitzhardinge were united in the bonds of matrimony, at the British Ambassador’s Chapel in the Rue Saint Honoré, and by the Chaplain to the Embassy.
In the meantime certain little incidents had occurred in London, which we must faithfully chronicle before we proceed with the adventures of the newly married couple,—adventures, which, could Charles have possibly foreseen——
But we were for a moment oblivious of the scenes that require our attention in London, and which took place while Charles Hatfield and Perdita were as yet on their way to Paris.
Charterhouse Square—situate between Aldersgate Street and St. John Street (Smithfield)—has a mournful, gloomy, and sombre appearance, which even the green foliage in the circular enclosure cannot materially relieve. The houses are for the most part of antiquated structure and dingy hue—the windows and front-doors are small—and, pass by them when you will, you never behold a human countenance at any one of the casements. The curtains and the blinds,—and, in the winter time, glimpses of the fires burning in the parlours,—these are, to a certain extent, symptoms that the houses are tenanted: but no farther signs of the fact can be discovered. Often and often as we have passed through that Square, we never beheld a soul coming out of, nor going into, any one of the gloomy abodes: we have observed a baker’s boy and a butcher’s ditto hurrying rapidly round—but never could satisfy ourselves that either of them had any particular business there, for they did not knock at a single door;—and on one—and only one occasion—when we met a two-penny post-man in the Square, he seemed to be as much astonished at finding himself in that quarter as we were to encounter him there. As for the beadle—his occupation seems to consist of lounging about, switching a cane, strolling into the Fox and Anchor public-house, and chatting for half-an-hour at a time with the very sober-looking porter of the Charter House.
There is a something really solemn and awful in the silence of that Square,—not a silence and a repose which seem to afford relief to the mind and rest to the ear after escaping from the tremendous din of the crowded streets,—but a silence that strikes like a chill to the heart. Whence arises this sensation?—is it because, while traversing the Square, we are reminded that in the vast cloistral building to the north are pent up eighty old men—the Poor Brothers of the Charter House,—eighty denizens of a Protestant Monastery in the very heart of civilised London,—eighty worn-out and decrepid persons who drag out the wretched remnant of their lives beneath the iron sway of a crushing ecclesiastical discipline! Does the silence of the Square borrow its solemnity from that far more awful silence which reigns within the Charter House itself,—a silence so awe-inspiring—so dead—so tomb-like, that even in the noon of a hot summer-day, the visitor shudders with a cold feeling creeping over him as he crosses the cloistral enclosure!
The reader will probably remember that, when Mr. Bubbleton Styles had propounded his grand Railway scheme to Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis, he gave each of those gentlemen a ten-pound note, desiring them to take respectable lodgings, and refer, if necessary, to him. We know not precisely how it happened that the gallant officer and his friend should have selected Charterhouse Square as the place most likely to suit them with regard to apartments; but thither they assuredly did repair—and in that gloomy quarter did they hire three rooms: namely, a parlour on the first floor, and two bed-chambers on the second. The landlady of the house was a widow; and, having some small pittance in the shape of regular income, eked out by letting a portion of her abode. She was an elderly woman—tall, starch, and prim—and very particular in obtaining good references—or, at least, what she considered to be good ones—respecting any applicants for her apartments; and therefore, previously to admitting Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis into her house, she had sought all possible information concerning them at the hands of Mr. Styles. His account was satisfactory, and the two gentlemen were thereupon duly installed in their lodgings at Mrs. Rudd’s, Charterhouse Square.
The first two or three days passed comfortably enough, because the captain and Frank, having ready money in their pockets, took their dinner and supper—aye, and their grog too—at some convenient tavern,—troubling Mrs. Rudd only in reference to their breakfast, which she cheerfully prepared for them, because she thereby obtained whole and sole controul over their groceries. She was a very pious woman, and attended a Methodist Chapel regularly every Sunday; but being, as she often expressed herself, “a lone widow,” she thought there was no harm in using her lodgers’ tea, sugar, and butter for her own repasts. “Heaven was very good to her,” she would often tell her neighbours, “and enabled her to make the most of her little means:” she might have added—“and of her lodgers’ also.”
The captain and Frank, however, soon began to find that their evening entertainments at the tavern were very expensive; and, as they could not again draw upon Mr. Styles for some time—all his resources being required for the promotion of the railway—they resolved to economise. The best method of carrying this object into effect, was to take their dinner, supper, and poteen at home; and Mrs. Rudd, on being sounded in respect to the plan, willingly assented—for the excellent woman felt assured that her lodgers would not miss a slice or two off a cold joint any more than they noticed the marvellous disappearance of their groceries. So the captain and his friend became more domestic; and as Frank did not get particularly drunk on the two first evenings, Mrs. Rudd had no complaints to make.
But at last she began to suspect that she had some ground for doubting the steadiness of her lodgers. It was on a Sunday evening, and the worthy woman had just returned from chapel, where she had heard a most refreshing and savoury discourse by the Reverend Mr. Flummery,—when, on crossing the threshold of the house door, and while still ruminating on the truly Christian manner in which the eloquent minister had promised hell-flames to all heathens,—she was suddenly startled by hearing a terrific noise proceeding from up-stairs.
She paused—and listened!
Yes: the sound did emanate from above; and most strange sounds they were, too. Deeply disgusted—nay, profoundly shocked at this desecration of the Sabbath, Mrs. Rudd crept up stairs; and the nearer she drew to the parlour-door, the more convinced did she become that Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Curtis were fighting a single combat with the shovel and poker. The conflict was, however, only in fun: for the clash of the fire-irons was accompanied by tremendous shouts of laughter, and such ejaculations as these:—“There, be Jasus! I have ye again, Frank! Blood and thunther, keep up your guar-r-d, man! Now, would ye be afther a feint? Be the powers! and ye can’t touch me at all, at all! Hit hard, me friend—niver mind the damned ould poker-r-r—the ould woman is at chapel!”
Mrs. Rudd was astounded—stupefied. Was it possible that these were the lodgers whom Mr. Styles—a respectable “City man”—had recommended as the very patterns of quietness and steadiness? Why, if she had let her rooms to two Bedlamites, things could not have been worse! She was positively afraid to go in to remonstrate; and, having recovered the use of those limbs which wonder had for several minutes paralysed, she hurried down stairs to consider what was best to be done, while supping off her racketty lodgers’ cold joint.
That same night Frank Curtis got so gloriously inebriated, that he threw up his bed-room window and treated the whole Square to a specimen of his vocal powers—singing some favourite Bacchanalian song, and introducing the most terrific yells by way of variations. The captain, who had also imbibed a little too much, soon after threw up his window, and exerted all the powers of his lungs in chorus with his friend; so that the deep, solemn, and awe-inspiring silence of Charterhouse Square was broken in a fashion that seemed to surprise the very echoes themselves. Without any figure of speech, it is certain that the inhabitants were surprised; for their night, usually passed in such death-like tranquillity, was unexpectedly and suddenly “made hideous;” and several nervous old ladies, dwelling in the neighbourhood, fancied that the frightful yells were warnings of fire, and went off into strong hysterics.
Vainly did Mrs. Rudd knock first at the captain’s door—then at Frank’s: they heard her not—or, if they did, took no heed of her remonstrances;—and when the beadle, who had been aroused from his bed, came and thundered at the front-door, the two lodgers simultaneously emptied their water-pitchers on his head. Then, satisfied with this exploit, they closed their windows and retired to rest.
When they descended to their parlour to breakfast in the morning, Mrs. Rudd acquainted them, in a tone evincing the most violent concentration of rage, that she could not possibly think of harbouring Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Curtis any longer. But, to her amazement, they both swore that they were perfectly innocent of the disturbance of the previous night,—alleging that they themselves were as much annoyed by the row as the landlady herself. Mrs. Rudd could scarcely believe her ears: had she been dreaming? No: the noise had really taken place—for her lodgers admitted that they had heard it—though, to use a common phrase, they swore “eyes and limbs” that they had not made it. However, she gave them a week’s warning, and then calmly reminded them that a week’s rent was already due; whereupon Captain O’Blunderbuss flew into a terrific rage at the idea of “the maneness of the woman in spaking of such a thrifle!” Mrs. Rudd was frightened, and turned in an appealing manner to Mr. Frank Curtis, who declared point blank that the captain was cashier, and that she must draw upon him: but, finding that the gallant officer was a cashier without cash, Mrs. Rudd was compelled to retire—muttering something about her being “a lone widow,” and intimating a hope that the two weeks’ rent would be paid “all in a lump” on the following Monday morning.
The captain and Mr. Curtis now completely threw off the mask. They no longer affected even to be “steady, quiet men of regular habits,” as Mr. Styles had represented them; but they drank poteen “till all was blue,” as Frank Curtis said—or, in the language of the gallant officer, “till they couldn’t see a hole through a lath-er.” The disturbances they created at night were hideous; and poor Mrs. Rudd received from all her neighbours the most positive threats that they would indict her house as a nuisance. At last, in the depth of her despair, she had recourse to that excellent man, the Reverend Mr. Flummery; and the Reverend Mr. Flummery, having heard her sad tale, undertook to go in person and remonstrate with “these men of Belial.”
Accordingly, one afternoon, just as the captain and Frank had finished a couple of bottles of stout by way of giving themselves an appetite for dinner, they were somewhat surprised when the parlour-door was thrown open, and in walked a short, podgy, red-faced man, dressed in deep black. Still more amazed were they when he announced himself as the Reverend Emanuel Flummery, and stated that he had come to remonstrate with them on their behaviour towards “a lone widow.” The captain, winking at Curtis, desired the minister to be seated, and proposed to discuss the business over another bottle of stout. His reverence thought there was something so affable in the offer, that it would be churlish to refuse it; and he accordingly gave his assent. The stout was produced; and Mr. Flummery, being thirsty and hot, enjoyed it excessively.
He then began a long remonstrance with the two gentlemen—the gist of which was that Mrs. Rudd would be very much obliged to them if they would pay their rent and remove to other lodgings. The captain and Frank pretended to listen with attention; and the reverend minister, finding them in such a tractable humour, as he supposed, did not choose to mar the harmony of the interview by declining a second bottle of stout. Talking had renewed his thirst—and, moreover, if there were one special beverage which the Reverend Emanuel Flummery loved more than another, it was Guinness’s stout. Accordingly, he emptied his tumbler, and then continued his remonstrance and his representations, in which, however he was cut short by a sudden pain in the stomach—doubtless produced by the effervescent malt liquor. The captain was prompt with a remedy; and Mr. Flummery had swallowed a good dram of whiskey before an eye could twinkle thrice. Thus cheered, and finding the two gentlemen most docile and respectful, his reverence consented to partake of a hot glass of toddy with them, just to convince them that he was inclined to be friendly;—and this one glass led to a second—and then Frank Curtis cunningly brewed him a third, while the reverend minister was expatiating upon the good qualities of Mrs. Rudd. In fine, Mr. Emanuel Flummery became so much disguised in liquor, that, when he took his leave, he swore the captain and Frank Curtis were two excellent gentlemen—begged them not to put themselves to any inconvenience in moving—and assured them that he would make it all right with the landlady.