Forty years before the commencement of this story, William Charlmont,
an Indian army-surgeon, penniless, except for his pay, had come
unexpectedly into some hundreds a-year, left him by a maiden
great-aunt, who had seen him but once, and that when he was five
years old, on which occasion she boxed his ears for misspelling
‘elephant.’ His stoicism under punishment, for he neither roared nor
whined, may have won her heart; at any rate, from whatever motive,
she, years afterwards, disappointed three nephews and a female first
cousin by leaving every penny she was worth to him. This moderate
accession of fortune justified him in consulting both health and
inclination by exchanging regimental practice in India for general
practice in England: and a combination of apparently trifling
circumstances led him, soon after his return home, to settle at the
then infant watering-place of Brompton-on-Sea, of which the
reputation had just been made by a royal duke’s visit; and the tide
of fashion was setting to its shore.
The house in which our story opens then stood alone, and belonged to
a clergyman’s widow. As she possessed, besides, an only daughter, and
but a small life annuity—nothing more—she sought for a lodger, and
was glad to find one in the new medical practitioner. The widow, Mrs.
Turner, was, and felt herself to be, no less a gentlewoman when she
let lodgings than when with her husband and child she had occupied
the same house alone; no less so when after breakfast she donned a
holland apron and helped Martha, the maid, to make Mr. Charlmont’s
bed, than when in old days she had devoted her mornings to visiting
and relieving her poorer neighbours.
Her daughter, Kate, felt their altered fortunes more painfully; and
showed, sometimes by uncomfortable bashfulness, sometimes by anxious
self-assertion, how much importance she attached to the verdict of
Mrs. Grundy. Her mother’s holland apron was to her a daily
humiliation, and single-handed Martha an irritating shortcoming. She
chilled old friends by declining invitations, because her wardrobe
lacked variety, and shunned new acquaintances lest they should call
at some moment when herself or her mother might have to answer the
door. A continual aim at false appearances made her constrained and
affected; and persons who would never have dwelt upon the fact that
Mrs. Turner let lodgings, were certain to have it recalled to mind by
Miss Turner’s uneasiness.
But Kate owned a pretty face, adorned by a pink-and-white complexion,
most refreshing to eyes that had ached under an Indian sun. At first
Mr. Charlmont set her down as merely affected and silly; then he
began to dwell on the fact that, however silly and affected, she was
indisputably pretty; next he reflected that reverses of fortune
deserve pity and demand every gentleman’s most courteous
consideration. In himself such consideration at once took the form of
books lent from his library; of flowers for the drawing-room, and
fruit for dessert. Kate, to do her justice, was no flirt, and saw
without seeing his attentions; but her more experienced mother
seeing, pondered, and seized, or made, an opportunity for checking
her lodger’s intimacy. Mr. Charlmont, however, was not to be
rebuffed; opposition made him earnest, whilst the necessity of
expressing his feelings gave them definiteness: and not many months
later Kate, with the house for her dowry, became Mrs. William
Charlmont, the obnoxious lodger developed into an attached and dear
husband, and Mrs. Turner retired on the life annuity to finish her
days in independence.
A few years passed in hopes and disappointments. When hope had
dwindled to despondency a little girl came—Catherine; after another
few years a second girl, named Lucy in memory of her grandmother
Turner, who had not lived to see her namesake. Then more years passed
without a baby; and in due course the sisters were sent to Miss
Drum’s school as day-boarders, their mother having become ailing and
indolent.
Time went on, and the girls grew wiser and prettier—Catherine very
pretty. When she was nearly twelve years old, Mr. Charlmont said one
evening to his wife, ‘I have made my will, Kate, and left everything
to you in the first instance, and between the children after you.’
And she answered, blushing—she was still comely, and a blush became
her:—‘O William, but suppose another baby should come.’ ‘Well, I
should make my will over again,’ he replied: but he did not guess why
his wife blushed and spoke eagerly; he had quite given up such hopes.
Mr. Charlmont was fond of boating, and one day, when the girls were
at home for the Easter holidays, he offered to take them both for a
row; but Catherine had a bad cold, and as Lucy was not a good sailor,
he did not care to take charge of her without her sister. His wife
never had liked boating. Thus it was that he went alone. The morning
was dull and chilly; but there was no wind, and the sea was almost
smooth. He took dinner and fishing tackle in the boat with him, and
gave notice that he should not be at home till the evening.
No wind, no sun; the day grew duller and duller, dimmer and dimmer. A
smoke-like fog, beginning on land, spread from the cliffs to the
beach, from the beach over the water’s edge; further and further it
spread, beyond sight; it might be for miles over the sea. No wind
blew to shift the dense fog which hid seamarks and landmarks alike.
As day waned towards evening, and darkness deepened, all the
fisher-folk gathered on the beach in pain and fear for those at sea.
They lit a bonfire, they shouted, they fired off an old gun or two,
such as they could get together, and still they watched, and feared,
and hoped. Now one boat came in, now another; some guided by the
glare, some by the sound of the firing: at last, by midnight, every
boat had come in safe, except Mr. Charlmont’s.
As concerned him, that night was only like all nights and all days
afterwards; for neither man, nor boat, nor waif, nor stray from
either, ever drifted ashore.
Mrs. Charlmont took the news of her husband’s disappearance very
quietly indeed. She did not cry or fret, or propose any measures for
finding him; but she bade Catherine be sure to have tea ready when he
came in. This she repeated every day, and often in the day; and would
herself sit by a window looking out towards the sea, smiling and
cheerful. If any one spoke to her she would answer at random, but
quite cheerfully. She rose or went to bed when her old nurse called
her, she ate and drank when food was set before her; but she
originated nothing, and seemed indifferent to everything except the
one anxiety, that tea should be ready for her husband on his return.
The holidays over, Lucy went back to Miss Drum’s, trudging to and fro
daily; but Catherine stayed at home to keep house and sit with her
poor dazed mother.
A few months and the end came. One night nurse insisted with unusual
determination on the girls going to bed early; but before daybreak
Catherine was roused out of her sleep to see a new little sister and
her dying mother.
Life was almost gone, and with the approach of death a sort of
consciousness had returned. Mrs. Charlmont looked hard at Catherine,
who was crying bitterly, and taking her hand said distinctly:
‘Catherine, promise to stay here ready for your father when he comes
on shore—promise some of you to stay here: don’t let him come on
shore and find me gone and no one—don’t let the body come on shore
and find us all gone and no one—promise me, Catherine!’
And Catherine promised.
Mr. Charlmont died a wealthy man. He had enjoyed a large lucrative
practice, and had invested his savings profitably: by his will, and
on their mother’s death, an ample provision remained for his
daughters. Strictly speaking, it remained for Catherine and Lucy: the
baby, Jane, was unavoidably left dependent on her sisters; but on
sisters who, in after-life, never felt that their own right to their
father’s property was more obvious or more valid than hers.
Mr. Charlmont had appointed but one trustee for his daughters—Mr.
Drum, only brother of their schoolmistress, a thoroughly honest
lawyer, practising and thriving in Brompton-on-Sea; a man somewhat
younger than himself, who had speculated adroitly both with him and
for him. On Mrs. Charlmont’s death, Mr. Drum proposed sending the two
elder girls to a fashionable boarding-school near London, and letting
nurse, with a wet-nurse under her, keep house in the old home with
baby: but Catherine set her face against this plan, urging her
promise to her dying mother as a reason for not going away; and so
held to her point that Mr. Drum yielded, and agreed that the girls,
who could not bear to be parted, should continue on the same terms as
before at his sister’s school. Miss Drum, an intimate friend of their
mother’s, engaged to take them into such suitable society as might
offer until Catherine should come of age; and as she resided within
two minutes’ walk of their house, this presented no difficulty. At
twenty one, under their peculiar circumstances, Catherine was to be
considered old enough to chaperone her sisters. Nurse, a respectable
elderly woman, was to remain as housekeeper and personal attendant on
the children; and a wet-nurse, to be succeeded by a nursery-girl,
with two other maids, completed the household.
Catherine, though only in her thirteenth year, already looked grave,
staid, and tall enough for a girl of sixteen, when these arrangements
were entered into. The sense of responsibility waxed strong within
her, and with the motherly position came something of the motherly
instinct of self-postponement to her children.