CHAPTER I.

Ten amor el arco quedo. Que soy niña y tengo miedo.—_Spanish Romance._

In a small but neat drawing-room, in the principal town of ——shire, Captain Wareham and his family were assembled at breakfast. Captain Wareham himself was sitting with the newspaper in his hand, his back half turned to the breakfast-table, and his feet resting on the fender; Caroline, his eldest daughter, was presiding over the tea-pot; Ellen, the second, was patiently waiting till the tea _had brewed_; the two elder boys were kicking at each other’s legs under the table; the youngest daughter was strumming away at a most unmusical piano-forte; and the youngest boy was amusing himself by adorning the slate, on which he was supposed to be doing a sum, with specimens of the graphic art, in the shape of helmeted knights and galloping war-horses.

“Caroline,” said Captain Wareham, “do not give me water bewitched, by way of tea, this morning, I entreat!”

“I hope it will be good, papa: the water does boil to-day.”

Captain Wareham took his tea, and having added the cream and sugar, tasted it.

“Caroline, you have let the tea stand too long! You know I hate it when it gets that rough disagreeable taste.”

“Shall I put in a little water, papa? It is very easy to make it weaker.”

“No! there is no use in doing that. If the tea is once too strong, you cannot make it right by adding water. Give me the toast.”

Ellen handed him the toast.

“It is all cold and tough. I cannot eat it!”

“It has been here so long, dear papa; but you were so busy with the newspaper, I did not like to interrupt you.”

“You know I hate cold toast!”

“Shall I ring, and ask for some more?”

“Ask for more! I never can teach any of my children that people who are poor must conform to their means. One would think I was made of gold, to hear the wasteful manner in which you talk!”

“Shall I toast it afresh, papa?” interrupted Ellen; “that will make it almost as good as ever again.”

“No, no! be quiet, child. How you pester me! Do you not see I am reading the newspaper? There is no possibility of understanding a word one reads, you all keep up such a clatter!”

George, who all this time had continued his attempts to reach Henry’s feet, as they sat at opposite ends of the table, at length gave it a tremendous shake.

“Do be quiet, boys!” exclaimed Captain Wareham, in a voice of thunder; “and do stop that eternal strumming at the piano-forte—give one some peace, Matilda!”

Matilda, delighted to be released, jumped up from her half-finished tune, and ran to assist James in his labours at the slate.

“Caroline, why do you set Matilda to practise just at breakfast-time?”

“Why, papa, you said Miss Patterson was to come at ten o’clock for the future; and you said Matilda should practise an hour before she came; so I did not very well know how to help it.”

“Nonsense! You always contrive to do the disagreeable thing.”

He turned round, and was again absorbed in the important intelligence contained in the newspaper; for at that time Buonaparte had just returned from Egypt, and the proceedings in France were watched by all Europe with intense anxiety and interest. The second dish of tea remained by his side untasted.

After about a quarter of an hour he turned angrily to Caroline, saying—

“Why on earth do you not send away the breakfast things? Nothing shortens the day so much as letting the breakfast remain late upon the table—this is another thing I can never teach you!”

“I thought you might wish to drink your tea, papa,” answered Caroline, timidly.

“I do not want any more; it is so horribly bad!” he replied. “And now, I suppose, we must have the weekly bills, and I must give you some money!”

Caroline’s spirit sank within her. The first Monday in every month was to her a weary day; and she anticipated that this would indeed be black Monday, as papa did not seem to be quite well.

The apparatus for the morning repast was removed. Caroline brought the household book and the bills, and presented them one by one to her father, who was horrified at the amount of each.

“Why, here is beef again!—there is no occasion to feed the whole family on beef! If the servants have their beef on Sunday, surely that is enough. You know, Caroline, I can scarcely afford to live as I do, and yet it seems you become every day more expensive in your housekeeping.”

“I am very sorry, papa, but you told me to have some luncheon in case the Jenkinsons called last Wednesday; and you have often said you hated cold mutton, and that it was painful to you that any one should imagine you were inhospitable; and I thought it did not make much difference, and there would be the cold beef, which always looks handsome.”

“So, I suppose you mean to imply it is my fault that the bills are high. I am sure no man can spend less upon himself than I do! I wish you would tell me where to get the money, that is all!”

The entrance of Miss Patterson, a prim, middle-aged lady, who came for a few hours every day to superintend Matilda’s education, put an end to the discussion. Captain Wareham paid the money without another word, took his hat and stick, and sallied forth to avoid the infliction of Miss Patterson, the music, &c.

Captain Wareham was a half-pay officer, with a broken constitution, and a very limited income. He had taken up his abode in the county town, that his eldest daughter might have the advantage of going to the winter balls; his second, that of receiving some finishing lessons in singing from the organist of the cathedral; his third, that of having a day-governess; and his youngest boy that of attending an excellent school, as a day scholar.

He was a dignified-looking man, very tall and thin, with a high pale forehead, light eyes and hair, and there was altogether something melancholy and gentlemanly in his appearance. His connections were good, his conduct irreproachable, and he maintained an uncomplaining reserve upon the subject of his pecuniary embarrassments, which gained him the respect and consideration of the surrounding squirearchy. Whether his difficulties on the score of money might not be the true cause of the captious temper which rendered his home any thing but a happy one, either to himself or to his family, is another question. In society he was courteous and polished, his daughters were gentle and dutiful, and although among the gossip of a country town an unauthenticated rumour now and then prevailed that Captain Wareham was a tyrant at home, he upon the whole bore the character of an exemplary man.

Mrs. Wareham had died just as her eldest daughter had attained the age of womanhood, and upon her death the care of the younger children devolved upon Caroline. Caroline was by nature indolent and sweet-tempered. It was to her a most wearisome duty to inspect the bills, and to see that the lessons were prepared by the time the day governess arrived. She was pretty, and her very indolence gave her something fashionable in manner,—at least, it prevented any thing approaching a bustling fussiness, which is in itself essentially vulgar. She was much admired by the beaux of the neighbourhood, though there is a vast difference between admiring and proposing to a pretty pennyless girl.

As she considered marriage the one and only means of escaping from a home and mode of life exceedingly distasteful to her, she did not discourage the admiration of those who paid her any attention. Several had appeared to be deeply smitten, but still the magic words upon which her future fate rested had never passed their lips, and she was gradually becoming hopeless and distrustful. Her second sister, Ellen, was now seventeen, and was to make her appearance at the next county ball.

On the morning after our opening scene, Captain Wareham was returning from his usual stroll, when, as he mounted the steps, a neat little damsel, with a milliner’s wicker basket on her arm, tripped lightly down them, dropping a graceful, coquettish curtsey as she passed. Captain Wareham wore a discontented aspect as he entered the drawing-room. “Caroline, was not that Miss Simperkin’s girl whom I met at the door?”

“Yes, papa, she has been trying on Ellen’s ball-dress for to-morrow night.”

“And so you run me up bills at the milliner’s, do you?”

“This is Ellen’s first ball, papa,” answered Caroline in a deprecating tone, “and you know you are always annoyed if I do not look as nice as other girls, and so I thought you would wish Ellen to make a favourable impression at first. I have the beautiful gauze my aunt gave me, and I felt sure you would not like to see Ellen less well-dressed than me.”

“Ah, well, I suppose it cannot be helped. I do not wish people to pity you for being shabbily dressed. I hate to be pitied.”

At this moment a carriage and four drove up to the door. Ellen ran to the window.

“Oh, Caroline! it is Lady Besville and her daughters; run and take off that black apron. Dear me! the room is all in confusion with Matilda’s lesson-books. There, put away the slate and the backboard.”

Ellen inherited something of her father’s sensitiveness to the _qu’en dira-t-on_ of the world.

“I wish it was summer,” whispered Caroline, “or that papa could afford us two fires.”

The room was rendered tolerably tidy for the reception of Lady Besville, who always paid an annual visit to the Wareham family, although she was not in the habit of visiting the other country town gentry. It was a sort of tribute to the respectability of their conduct and of their connexions.

Lady Besville was duly astonished at Matilda’s growth, she admired the stoutness of James, asked Ellen if she enjoyed the thoughts of her first ball, and said all the sweet little nothings, which are civilities and attentions, from the great to the little.

Captain Wareham pressed some luncheon upon her ladyship; she owned she was very hungry, having had a long drive. Captain Wareham rang the bell with a vigorous pull, as if he felt assured a sumptuous repast only waited to be sent for, and in an easy and confident tone desired the one footman (who, if it had not been for his plush breeches and white stockings, would have been a footboy) to bring the luncheon.

Caroline knew the servants had just devoured the last morsel of cold meat; she saw the look of blank dismay with which her father’s order was received by John, and she sat uneasily in her chair, wondering what would happen. She could not leave the room, it would look so odd; and she scarcely knew whether to rejoice, or to grieve, when she saw her father depart, ostensibly in search of a pamphlet on the times, which he particularly recommended to Lord Besville’s perusal, but in fact, as Caroline believed, to take some energetic measures upon the subject of luncheon. She dreaded his coming to the knowledge of the unprovided state of the larder, and, on the other hand, she equally dreaded having her housekeeping brought to utter shame before strangers. Poor Caroline! she was not by nature a manager. She was meek and gentle, and, perhaps, if she had not been frightened, might have succeeded as well as her neighbours, but she always felt she should do wrong, and never ventured to do right. There is a certain portion of decision necessary even in the ordering of dinner, and choosing between a leg of mutton and a shoulder.

Captain Wareham, after a small delay, returned with the pamphlet, and he conversed with fluency and eagerness upon its contents. Ellen, meanwhile, had become tolerably intimate with Lady Harriet, who was also to make her first appearance at the approaching ball; and Caroline listened with a face expressive of much interest to the discussion upon the fates of nations, while she secretly revolved in her mind what would be the cook’s resource in this unforeseen exigency. The half-hour which thus elapsed seemed to her interminable; she thought Lady Besville would be quite tired of waiting, and she saw her begin to fidget on her chair, and to look towards the window.

At this critical juncture Caroline heard the jingle of one glass against another, as John mounted the stairs. This delightful promise of a forthcoming repast of some sort or another, was to her ears as the horn of a German post-boy, when he approaches the town, to the benighted traveller, or as the tinkling of the camel-bells of a caravan to a solitary pilgrim in the desert.

The door opened—the tray entered—Caroline cast a trembling, furtive glance: to her delight and astonishment, she beheld a tongue, a fowl, a dish of puffs, some cakes, some fruit, and wine. She breathed more freely, and performed her part of hostess with ease and quietness. The Besvilles did ample justice to the meal, and departed impressed with the comfortable and respectable manner in which Captain Wareham lived, the good-breeding of Caroline, and the good-humour and liveliness of her father.

But Caroline’s troubles were to come. Captain Wareham reproached her for having no cold meat, and told her how he had been obliged to send, in one direction to the eating-house to buy a cold fowl at twice its value—to the pastry-cook for some puffs—to the fruiterers for some fruit, to conceal her bad housekeeping. “You would not have people go away from one’s house hungry, would you? Though I am poor, I cannot submit to that.”

Caroline knew that to remind him of what he had said the day before would only increase his wrath, and she bore it in unreplying meekness, while she secretly wondered whether Mr. Weston was likely to be more serious in his attentions than Major Barton had proved.

The momentous evening arrived: Captain Wareham looked with paternal pride at his two daughters, as he led them into the ball-room—the fair and delicate Caroline, with her small but beautifully rounded form, her regular features, and her alabaster skin, and the tall and sylph-like Ellen, whose beauty was of a loftier character. Her straight and clearly-defined eyebrows, her broad white forehead, and her noble cast of countenance, were softened and subdued by a pensive grace which rendered her appearance as interesting as it was striking. The full white eyelids were fringed with long and black eyelashes which almost swept her cheeks; and when she raised those eyes, there was a liquid lustre in the depth of their dark blue, which might have found its way to the coldest heart.

Mr. Cresford, a young and wealthy London merchant, was not one whose coldness rendered him proof against these same eyes. On the contrary, he was an impassioned and impetuous youth, who fell in love with Ellen at first sight, danced with her all night, sat by her at supper, and never left her side till he had handed her to her carriage.

The next morning the sisters were preparing to take their accustomed exercise, and Ellen had put on her common straw bonnet, when Caroline remonstrated.

“It is quite fine, you may just as well wear your Sunday bonnet to-day.”

“This will do very well for the garden. I promised Will Pollard to help him to pot the geraniums for the winter.”

“Surely, Ellen, you are not going to poke about in our little confined garden. Do let us walk into the town. There are all the people we met at the ball last night; we shall be sure to see some of them.”

“But I promised the gardener to help him. You know papa cannot afford to have him more than three days in the week, and if we do not assist him a little, the garden can never look nice.”

“Any other day will do just as well for your gardening. Now do, dear Ellen, let us take a good long walk, it will refresh us after the ball. I never knew you unwilling to oblige anybody before. Besides, I must go to the shop to buy some things for George, before he returns to school; and I want you to help me. It is so difficult to give poor papa satisfaction. I am sure I do my very best, but I do get so wearied, and so worried at home, what with the housekeeping, and the lessons, and having to keep the boys’ things in order, and never being able to do any thing right, that I want a little relaxation.”

Ellen yielded, for she often pitied Caroline, who was decidedly not made for the lot which had befallen her. She put on her best bonnet, and the three sisters sallied forth. From the shop they walked along the river-side, under the shade of some spreading elms, which made this terrace the favourite resort of the inhabitants of ——. They had not long been there before Mr. Cresford joined them.

He walked by Ellen’s side, and any acute observer might have perceived, by the obsequious air, the flushed cheek, and the agitation of his whole demeanour, that his was not a common-place flirtation to kill an idle morning, but that his feelings were deeply interested. Ellen was shy and reserved, but her reserve only increased the ardour of the passion which had so suddenly been awakened in his breast.

The next day Ellen could not be persuaded to extend their walk beyond their own garden.

“When Mr. Cresford is gone away, Caroline, we will walk wherever you please, but I do not like appearing to seek him.”

“Why do you dislike him? He is evidently smitten with you.”

“I do not dislike him particularly, but I think I am more comfortable and happy gardening with Will Pollard; and if I liked to meet him ever so much, I had rather die than appear to seek him, or any body else.”

“So would I, Ellen!” cried little Matilda; “when I grow up, I will be so proud! it shall never be said that I care for anybody.”

“I am sure I should be sorry to do any thing forward,” answered Caroline, “only one must take the air sometimes. Perhaps, however, you are both right, and I am sure I would not have any girl care for any man, till she is quite sure of him, and it is very difficult to know when they are in earnest.”