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?”