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.
CHAPTER III.
THE last chapter was parenthetical, this takes up the broken thread of the story.
Breakfast over, and her sisters gone their several ways, Lucy Charlmont seized the ‘Times’ Supplement and read the Hartley-Durham paragraph over to herself: — ’On Monday the 13th, at the. parish church, Fenton, by the Rev. James Durham, uncle of the bride, Alan Hartley, Esq., of the Woodlands, Gloucestershire, to Everilda Stella, only child and presumptive heiress of George Durham, Esq., of Orpingham Place, in the same county.’
There remained no lurking-place for doubt. Mr. Hartley, — ’ her ‘Mr. Hartley, as Jane dubbed him, — had married Everilda Stella, a presumptive heiress. Thus concluded Lucy’s one romance.
Poor Lucy! the romance had been no fault of hers, perhaps not even a folly: it had arisen thus. When Miss Charlmont was twenty-one Lucy was eighteen, and had formally come out under her sister’s wing; thenceforward going with her to balls and parties from time to time, and staying with her at friends’ houses in town or country. This paying visits had entailed the necessity of Jane’s having a governess. Miss Drum had by that time ‘relinquished tuition,’ as she herself phrased it, and retired on a comfortable competence earned by her own exertions; therefore, to Miss Drum’s school Jane could not go. Lucy, when the subject was started, declared, with affectionate impulsiveness, that she would not pay visits at all, or else that she and Catherine might pay them separately; but Catherine, who considered herself in the place of mother to both her sisters, and whose standard of justice to both alike was inflexible, answered, ‘My dear’ — when Miss Charlmont said ‘my dear’ it ended a discussion — ’ My dear, Jane must have a governess. She shall always be with us in the holidays, and shall leave the schoolroom for good when she is eighteen, and old enough to enter society; but at present I must think of you and your prospects.’ So Jane had a fashionable governess, fresh from a titled family, and versed in accomplishments and the art of dress, whilst Catherine commenced her duties as chaperone. Lucy thought that her sister, handsomer than herself and not much older, might have prospects too, and tried hard to discover chances for her; but Catherine nursed no such fancies on her own account. Her promise to her dying mother, that some one of them should always be on the spot at Brompton-on-Sea, literally meant at the moment, she reso
lved as literally to fulfil, even whilst she felt that only by one not fully in her right mind could such a promise have been exacted. Grave and formal in manner, dignified in person, and in disposition reserved, though amiable, she never seemed to notice, or to return, attentions paid her by any man of her acquaintance; and if one of these ever committed himself so far as to hazard an offer, she kept his secret and her own.
Lucy, meanwhile, indulged on her own account the usual hopes and fears of a young woman. At first all parties and visits were delightful, one not much less so than another then a difference made itself felt between them; some parties turned out dull, and some visits tedious. The last year of Lucy’s going everywhere with Catherine, before, that is, she began dividing engagements with Jane, — for until Lucy should be turned thirty, self-chaperoning was an inadmissible enormity in Miss Charlmont’s eyes, in spite of what she had herself done; as she said, her own had been an exceptional case, — in that last year the two sisters had together spent a month with Dr. Tyke, whose wife had been before marriage another Lucy Charlmont, and a favourite cousin of their father’s: concerning her, tradition even hinted that, in bygone years, she had refused the penniless army surgeon.
Be this as it may, at Mrs. Tyke’s house in London, the sisters spent one certain June, and then and there Lucy ‘met her fate,’ as with a touch of sentiment, bordering on sentimentality, she recorded in her diary one momentous first meeting. Alan Hartley was a nephew of Dr.
Tyke’s — handsome, and clever on the surface, if not deep within. He had just succeeded his father at the Woodlands, had plenty of money, no profession, and no hindrance to idling away any amount of time with any pretty woman who was pleasant company. Such a woman was Lucy Charlmont. He harboured no present thoughts of marriage, but she did; he really did pay just as much attention to a dozen girls elsewhere, but she judged by his manner to herself, and drew from it a false conclusion. That delightful June came to an end, and he had not spoken; but two years later occurred a second visit, as pleasant and as full of misunderstanding as the first. Meanwhile, she had refused more than one offer. Poor Lucy Charlmont: her folly, even if it was folly, had not been very blameable.
The disenchantment came no less painfully than unexpectedly: and Lucy, ready to cry, but ashamed of crying for such a cause, thrust the Supplement out of sight, and sitting down, forced herself to face the inevitable future. One thing was certain, she could not meet Alan — in her thoughts he had long been Alan, and now it cost her an effort of recollection to stiffen him back into Mr. Hartley — she must not meet Mr. Hartley till she could reckon on seeing him and his wife with friendly composure. Oh! why — why — why had she all along misunderstood him, and he never understood her? Not to meet him, it would be necessary, to decline the invitation from Mrs. Tyke, which she had looked forward to and longed for during weeks past, and which, in the impartial judgment of Miss Charlmont, it was her turn, not Jane’s, to accept; which, moreover, might arrive ‘by any post. Jane she knew would be ready enough to pay a visit out of turn, but Catherine would want a reason; and what reason could she give? On one point, however, she was determined, that, with or without her reasons being accepted as reasonable, go she would not. Then came the recollection of a cracker she had pulled with him, and kept in her pocket-book ever since; and of a card he had left for her and her sister, or, as she had fondly fancied, mainly for herself, before the last return from Mrs. Tyke’s to Brompton-on-Sea. Treasures no longer to be treasured, despoiled treasures, — she denied herself the luxury of a sigh, as she thrust them between the bars of the grate and watched them burn.
CHAPTER IV.
‘LUCY, Jane,’ said Miss Charlmont, some days afterwards, addressing her sisters, and holding up an open letter, — ’ Mrs. Tyke has sent a very kind invitation, asking me, with one of you, to stay a month at her house, and to fix the day. It is your turn, Lucy; so, if you have no objection, I shall write, naming next Thursday for our journey to London. Jane, I shall ask Miss Drum to stay with you during our absence; I think she will be all the better for a change, and there is no person more fit to have the charge of you. So don’t be ‘dull, dear, till we come back.’
But Jane pouted, and said in a cross tone, ‘Really, sister, you need not settle everything now for me, as if I were a baby. I don’t want Miss Drum, who is as old as the hills and as solemn. Can’t you write to Mrs. Tyke and say, that I cannot be left alone here? What difference could it make in her large house?’
For once Catherine answered her favourite sister with severity, ‘Jane, you know why it is impossible for us all to leave home together. This is the last year you will be called upon to remain behind, for after Lucy’s next birthday it is agreed between us that she will take turns with me in chaperoning you. Do not make what may be our last excursion together unpleasant by your unkindness.’
Still Jane was not silenced. ‘At any rate, it need not be Miss Drum. I will stay here alone, or I will have somebody more amusing than Miss Drum.’
Before Catherine could reply, Lucy with an effort struck into the dispute. ‘Jane,, don’t speak like that to our sister; I should be ashamed to speak to her so. Still, Catherine,’ she continued, without noticing a muttered retort from the other, ‘after all, I am going to sidè with Jane on the main point, and ask you to take her to Notting Hill, and leave me at home to keep house with dear old Miss Drum. This really was my own wish before Jane spoke, so pray let us not say another word on the subject.’
But Catherine saw how pale and languid she looked, and stood firm. ‘No, Lucy, that would be unreasonable; Jane ought not to have made any difficulty. You have lost your colour lately and your appetite, and need a change more than either of us.’ I shall write to Mrs. Tyke, promising her and the doctor your company next Thursday; Jane will make up her mind like a good girl, and I am sure you, my dear, will oblige me by not withholding your assent.’
For the first time ‘my dear’ did not close the debate. ‘Catherine,’ said Lucy, earnestly, whilst, do what she would, tears gathered in her eyes, ‘I am certain you will not press me further, when I assure you that I do not feel equal to paying this visit. I have felt weak lately,’ she went on hurriedly, ‘and I cannot tell you how much I long-for-the quiet of a month at home rather than in that perpetual bustle. Merely for my own sake, Jane must go.’
Catherine said no more just then; but later, alone with Lucy, resumed the subject so far as to ask whether she continued in the same mind, and answered her flurried ‘yes’ by no word of remonstrance, but by an affectionate kiss. This was all which passed between them; neither then nor afterwards did the younger sister feel certain whether Catherine had or had not guessed her secret.
Miss Drum was invited to stay with Lucy in her solitude, and gladly accepted the invitation. Lucy was her favourite, and when they were together, they petted each other very tenderly.
Jane, having gained her point, recovered her good humour, and lost no time in exposing the deficiencies of her wardrobe. ‘Sister,’ she said, smiling her prettiest and most coaxing smile, ‘you can’t think how poor I am, and how few clothes I’ve got.’
Catherine, trying to appear serenely unconscious of the drift of this speech, replied, ‘Let us look over your wardrobe, dear, and we will bring it into order. Lucy will help, I know, and we can have Miss Smith to work here too, if necessary.’
‘Oh dear, no!’ cried Jane; ‘there is no looking over what does not exist. If it comes to furbishing up old tags and rags, here I stay. Why, you’re as rich as Jews, you and Lucy, and could give me five pounds a-piece without ever missing it; and not so much of a gift either, for I’m sure poor papa would never have left me such a beggar if he had known about me.’
This argument had been used more than once before. Catherine looked hurt. Lucy said, ‘You should remember that you have exactly the same allowance for dress and pocket-money that we have ourselves, and we both make it do.’
‘Of course,’ retorted Jane, with latent spitefulness; ‘and whe
n I’m as old and wise as you two, I may manage as well; but at present it is different. Besides, if I spend most on dress, you spend most on books and music, and dress is a great deal more amusing. And if I dressed like an old fright, I should like to know who’d look at me. You don’t want me to be another old maid, I suppose.’
Lucy flushed up, and tried to keep her temper in silence: her sore point had been touched. Catherine, accustomed in such cases to protest first and yield afterwards, but half ashamed that Lucy’s eye should mark the process from beginning to end, drew Jane out of the room, and with scarcely a word more wrote her a cheque for ten pounds, and dropped the subject of looking over her wardrobe.
An hour after the sisters had started for London, Miss Drum arrived to take their place.
Miss Drum was tall in figure, rather slim and well preserved, with pale complexion, hair, and eyes, and an unvarying tone of voice. She was mainly describable by negatives. She was neither unladylike, nor clever, nor deficient in education. She was old, but not very infirm; and neither an altogether obsolete nor a youthful dresser, though with some tendency towards the former style. Propriety was the most salient of her attributes, and was just too salient to be perfect. She was not at all amusing; in fact, rather tiresome, with an unflagging intention of being agreeable. From her Catherine acquired a somewhat old-fashioned formality; from her, also, high principles, and the instinct of self-denial. And because unselfishness, itself a negative, was Miss Drum’s characteristic virtue, and because her sympathy, however prosy in expression, was sterling in quality, therefore Lucy, sore with unavowed heart-sorrow, could bear her companionship, and run down to welcome her at the door with affectionate cordiality.
Delphi Complete Poetical Works of Christina Rossetti Page 82