It must not be supposed that this long tale was related without an interval of rest. When it broke off at the end of the hundred and forty-second chapter, the travellers were just on the point of entering Rochester, where they lunched; and, after this brief halt, they pursued their journey, Charles resuming the thread of his narrative, to which Perdita listened with deep interest.

The young woman experienced an ineffable pleasure in drinking in with her ears the rich tones of her lover’s voice; and the pathetic nature of his story increased the tenderness which she felt for him. She, who had defied the influence of the blind deity, was wounded by his shaft; and the more she saw of Charles Hatfield, the less selfish became her passion—the more sincere her attachment.

Mrs. Fitzhardinge read, with a keen eye, all that was passing in her daughter’s mind; and there were moments when she could scarcely restrain her rage at the idea that Perdita had succeeded so skilfully in throwing her into the back-ground. But the old woman resolved to abide her time—in the hope that circumstances might yet enable her to resume her sway, and compel the enamoured couple to bend to the dictates of her will.

The journey was pursued in safety, and in freedom from any unpleasant interruption, until the post-chaise entered the town of Dover. Then the travellers were to pass the night; and thence they were to embark on the ensuing morning for Calais.

They took up their quarters at an hotel, where an excellent dinner was provided; and in the evening Charles Hatfield and Perdita rambled together upon the beach, Mrs. Fitzhardinge remaining at the inn on the plea of fatigue, but in reality because her daughter made her a private sign to intimate that her company was not needed.

It was a summer evening of surpassing loveliness: the sea was calm and tranquil in its mighty bed, agitated only at its margin when wavelets, so small that they might almost be denominated ripples, murmured on the beach;—and the western horizon was gorgeous with purple, and orange, and gold—the swathing robes of the setting sun.

There were many ladies and gentlemen walking on the Marine Parade, and enjoying the freshness of the air after the oppressive heat of the sultry day. Amongst the loungers, several officers belonging to the garrison were conspicuous by their scarlet coats; and giddy, silly young ladies of sixteen or seventeen felt themselves supremely happy if they could only secure the attentions of these military beaux.

Here and there were long seats, painted green, and occupied by ladies, their male companions standing in lounging attitudes; and the conversation that occupied these groups was for the most part of a frivolous nature,—for people at watering places only seek to kill time, and not to use it for intellectual purposes.

On one of the benches just alluded to, was placed a middle-aged mamma with her three marriageable daughters, who were pretty, chatty, agreeable girls, according to the general meaning of the epithets: at all events, whenever Mrs. Matson appeared on the Parade with the three Misses Matson, the officers were sure to steal away from other groups or parties in order to join the new-comers—to the immense gratification of the objects of this preference, and to the huge mortification of the Jones’s, the Smiths, the Jenkins, the Greens, and the Browns.

“Were you at Lady Noakes’s last evening, Captain Phinnikin?” enquired the eldest Miss Matson of a gallant officer of some four or five and twenty, who was lounging near her.

“No—not I, faith!” was the reply given in a drawling tone, as if the gallant officer aforesaid were a martyr to that dreadful malady termed ennui. “Lady Noakes’s parties are such slow affairs—I have quite abjured them. Besides,” he added, suddenly recollecting that this was an excellent opportunity to throw in a compliment, “I knew you weren’t to be there.”

“Oh! dear, no!” exclaimed Miss Julia Matson—the second of the marriageable sisters: “one does meet such strange people at her ladyship’s, that we really could not think of accepting the invitation.”

“Well, but you must recollect, my dear,” observed Mrs. Matson, in a tone which seemed to be of mild reproof, “that poor dear Lady Noakes is only the widow of a brewer who was mayor of Deal or Sandwich, I forget which, and was knighted by William the Fourth for taking up some address to his Majesty.”

“That’s all!” said Miss Anna-Maria Matson, the third sister: “and therefore I am sure no one need be surprised that Lady Noakes is glad to fill her rooms with any body she can get.”

“Well, I was there last night,” observed another young officer—a lieutenant in the same regiment with Captain Phinnikin, and who formed one of the group at present occupying our attention: “and I must say that the supper was excellent.”

“Oh! but, Mr. Pink,” exclaimed the eldest Miss Matson, reproachfully, “it is so very easy to give a good supper—but not so easy to make the evening agreeable.”

“Granted!” rejoined the lieutenant: “and I must candidly admit that no parties are so agreeable as those at your house.”

“Flatterer!” cried Miss Matson, with a sweet smile. “I suppose the Browns were at her ladyship’s last night.”

“Oh! certainly. You meet them every where.”

“And, faith! Miss Amelia Brown is a deuced pleasant girl—deuced pleasant,” observed Captain Phinnikin.

“Well, I really never could see any thing particular in her,” said the eldest Miss Matson. “Besides—you know what her grandfather is?” she added, sinking her voice to a confidential tone, and hastily glancing around to assure herself that the object of her remark was not nigh enough to overhear her.

“’Pon my honour, I never heard!” responded Captain Phinnikin.

“They do say—but mind, I will not assert it on my own authority,” continued Miss Matson,—“at the same time, I believe it is pretty well ascertained——”

“Oh! certainly—beyond all doubt,” exclaimed Miss Julia, tossing her head contemptuously.

“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.