CHAPTER CXLV.

A MYSTERIOUS OCCURRENCE.--THE JOURNEY CONTINUED.

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_.