Some few years have elapsed since the events took place which we shall endeavour to describe; but the white cliffs of our island change little with the lapse of time, though the sea does make its encroachments ever and anon when the wind has been blowing pretty steady from the south-west for a fortnight or so, and the same scene may be witnessed any fine day towards the middle of August as that which we are about to contrast with the dulness, closeness, and confinement of the great town-house in Grosvenor Square.
First, we must imagine a real summer’s day, such a day as in our island we seldom enjoy till summer has well-nigh given place to autumn, but which, when it does come, is worth waiting for. Talk of climate! a real fine day in England, like a really handsome Englishwoman, beats creation. Well, we must imagine one of these bright, hot, hay-making days, almost too warm and dusty ashore, but enjoyable beyond conception on the calm and oily waves, unruffled by the breeze, and literally as smooth as glass. A sea-bird occasionally dips her wing on the surface, and then flaps lazily away, as if she too was as much inclined to go to sleep as yonder moveless fleet of lugger, brig, bark, and schooner, with their empty sails, and their heads all round the compass. There is a warm haze towards the land, and the white houses of St. Swithin’s seem to glow and sparkle in the heat, whilst to seaward a modified sort of mirage would make one fancy one could plainly distinguish the distant coast of France.
Ashore, in those great houses, people are panting, and gasping, and creating thorough draughts that fill their rooms with a small white dust of a destructive tendency to all personal property. The children up-stairs are running about in linen under-garments, somewhat more troublesome than usual, with a settled flush on their little peach-like cheeks, and the shining streets are deserted, save by the perspiring pot-boy, and the fly-men drinking beer in their shirt sleeves. Only afloat is there a chance of being cool; and sailing-boat, gig, dinghy, and cobble, all are in requisition for the throng of amateur mariners, rushing like ducklings to the refreshing element.
It was on just such a day as this that Mrs. Kettering found it extremely difficult to “trim the boat.” A mile or so from the shore, that boat was slowly progressing, impelled by the unequal strength of her nephew Charles, commonly called “Cousin Charlie,” and its worthy proprietor, a fine specimen of the genus “seaman,” who certainly had a Christian name, and probably a patronymic, but had sunk both distinctions under the sobriquet of “Hairblower,” by which appellation alone he was acknowledged by gentle and simple, bold and timid, delicate ladies and bluff fishermen, along many a mile of sea-board, up and down from St. Swithin’s.
“The least thing further, Master Charles,” said Hairblower, ever and anon pulling the stripling’s efforts round with one hand. “Don’t ye disturb, madam—don’t ye move, Miss Blanche; it’s not your weight that makes her roll.” And again he moistened the large, strong hand, and turned to look out ahead.
In vain Mrs. Kettering shut up her parasol, and shifted her seat; in vain she disposed her ample figure, first in one uncomfortable position, then in another; she could not “trim the boat,” and the reason was simple enough. Mrs. Kettering’s weight was that of a lady who had all her life been “a fine woman,” and was now somewhat past maturity; whilst her daughter and only child, “Blanche,” the occupant of the same bench, had but just arrived at that period when the girl begins to lengthen out into the woman, and the slight, lanky figure, not without a grace peculiar to itself, is nevertheless as delicate as a gossamer, and as thin as its own gauzy French bonnet.
Mother and daughter were but little alike, save in their sweet and rather languid tone of voice—no trifling charm in that sex which is somewhat prone, especially under excitement, to pitch its organ in too high a key. Mrs. Kettering was dark and brown of complexion, with sparkling black eyes, and a rich colour, much heightened by the heat. Not very tall in stature, but large and square of frame, well-filled out besides by a good appetite, a good digestion, and, though nervous and excitable, a good temper. Blanche, on the contrary, with her long violet eyes, her curving dark eyelashes, and golden-brown hair, was so slight of frame and delicate of tint as to warrant her mother’s constant alarm for her health; not that there was any real cause for anxiety, but mamma loved to fidget, if not about “dear Blanche,” about something belonging to her; and failing these, had a constant fund of worry in the exploits and escapades of graceless “Cousin Charlie.”
“Now, Charlie, my own dear boy” (Mrs. K. was very fond of Charlie), “I know you must be over-heating yourself—nothing so bad for growing lads. Mr. Hairblower, pray don’t let him row so hard.”
“Gammon, aunt,” was Charlie’s irreverent reply. “Wait till we get her head round with the flood; we’ll make her speak to it, won’t we, Hairblower?”
“Well, Master Charles,” said the jolly tar, “I think as you and me could pull her head under, pretty nigh,—howsoever, we be fairish off for time, and the day’s young yet.”