ELLEN WAREHAM.
CHAPTER I.
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.”
CHAPTER II.
Mr. Cresford soon found some excuse for calling upon Captain Wareham, and in the course of his visit contrived to give himself a commission to execute, which justified another visit, another and another.
Captain Wareham thought the symptoms were auspicious, and entertained some hope of honourably disposing of one daughter in marriage, but Caroline, profiting by her own experience, warned Ellen not to place any reliance on these signs of preference.
“You do not know the world yet, Ellen,” she said; “you do not know how often the same sort of thing has happened to me. Remember Major Barton last winter, and poor Mr. Astell—however, I do think he would have proposed if he had lived. Talk to Mr. Cresford as much as you please, for, as my aunt says, ‘nothing can come of nothing,’ but do not let yourself like him, till he has actually proposed. Remember what I have already told you, a woman cannot guess whether a man is in earnest or not, till he does propose.”
Ellen thought her sister was very prudent and sensible, and she resolved to follow her advice. Nor did she find the task a difficult one.
Mr. Cresford, although handsome, was not pleasing, and the very vehemence of his love rather alarmed and confused the young Ellen. This was the season of gaity at ——, and there were frequent dinners and parties among the canons and prebends. Caroline regularly asked Ellen every night, whether Mr. Cresford had proposed, and for ten days Ellen answered, “No, not quite.” Caroline continued her warnings, and Ellen her watch over her heart.
At length Mr. Cresford waited one morning upon Captain Wareham, and in good set terms asked him for his daughter’s hand. Captain Wareham accepted his proposal, and informed Ellen of the event.
There did not seem to exist a doubt in any of their minds as to what her answer would be. The whole question had been from the beginning, whether or not he would come to the point, and the lady’s privilege of saying no, seemed in that family to be utterly forgotten. Ellen was too young and too timid to discover it for herself, and she found herself the affianced wife of a man, whom a fortnight before she had never seen, and whom, during that fortnight, she had been taking care not to prefer.
The affair was decided. The lover was all rapture—Captain Wareham all satisfaction—Caroline all surprise that Mr. Cresford should have behaved in so gentlemanlike a manner, not keeping her sister in any uncertainty, but setting her mind at ease at once. She was too good-natured and too affectionate, to feel any thing like envy, but she wished Captain Barton had behaved in the same noble manner to her.
Ellen was surprised not to find herself happier on so quickly arriving at that result, which had been the object of her sister’s wishes for six years and a half. But she was afraid of Mr. Cresford. He was easily hurt, easily offended; he was expecting, and jealous; he would not allow her to go to any more of the balls; he scarcely liked to see her acknowledge, much less shake hands with, any of her former acquaintance. Ellen was subdued, rather than elated, by her approaching nuptials. Caroline one day remarked upon her unusual seriousness, and asked her if she and Mr. Cresford had not had a lovers’ quarrel.
“Oh, no,” replied Ellen; “but it is difficult, you know, sister, to love a person all at once, particularly when one has been trying not to like him at all. However, I dare say I shall soon, when I am more accustomed to him. It is not easy to do just right; for a girl is not to like a man till he proposes, and then she ought to love him very much as soon as ever she is going to be married to him.”
Mr. Cresford was the only son of wealthy parents, and was accustomed to find his wishes laws to those around him. His father had died when he was barely twenty-one, and had left him at the head of a thriving mercantile house.
He fell in love with Ellen at first sight,—he proposed at once, had been accepted, and, following the course of his own impetuous passions, was now eager that the wedding-day should be fixed. Captain Wareham had no wish to postpone it, and in three weeks more Ellen left the paternal roof as the wife of Mr. Cresford.
She was astounded and confused at the whole thing; she had not been allowed time to become attached to him, even if he had been all a maiden’s imagination could picture in its happiest day-dream. But there was a want of refinement in the headlong course of his love, a want of consideration; in fact, there was a selfishness, which did not win its way to the heart of a very modest, very young, and very sensitive girl.
In London she found herself surrounded by all the luxuries of life. She had an excellent house, a handsome equipage. He showered presents upon her—jewels and trinkets without number,—each new ornament daily invented to satisfy the caprice of the idle and the wealthy. His delight was to see his lovely bride’s beauty set off to the utmost advantage. But she must be decked out for him alone; he was annoyed if any other eyes seemed to dwell with gratification upon the loveliness which he had taken such pleasure in adorning.
Cresford had a large circle of acquaintance, not, perhaps, in the first style of fashion, but among gentlemanlike and agreeable people; persons with intellects as well cultivated, minds as refined, manners as essentially well-bred, as can be found in the highest coteries, though perhaps one of the initiated might perceive the want of that nameless grace which more than compensates for a certain coldness frequently pervading the most select réunions. The very fashionable are exceedingly afraid of each other. They may sometimes have been accused of insolence towards those whom they consider in a grade below themselves, but their worst enemies cannot say they do not stand in awe of each other. There was in Ellen a gentle dignity, which, combined with her extraordinary beauty, would have caused her to be distinguished in any society: of course, therefore, in this she could not but excite notice and admiration. Yet proud as Cresford was of her, anxious as he was to show to the world how lovely was the bride he had chosen for himself, he never returned from a party or an assembly without a cloud on his brow, and something restless and suspicious in his manner.
She began to fear he was constitutionally jealous. Others came to the same conclusion. Young men in all ranks of life find peculiar pleasure in tormenting a jealous husband; and not all the shrinking modesty of Ellen’s manners could prevent their openly showing the admiration they felt. She hoped, by the extreme quietness of her behaviour, to give him no cause for disquiet; but though she might avoid affording him any opportunity of blaming her, she could not prevent his being irritable and violent whenever they had mixed in any society.
She would gladly have led a very retired life, she would fain have dressed herself in a homely and unpretending style,—her whole object was to escape notice; but such was the nature of his love for her, that he was not satisfied unless her charms were set off by every ornament; and his fear of being laughed at was such, that he would not give occasion for saying he shut up his beautiful wife. Ellen was consequently obliged to mix in the world, and she learned to set a strict watch over her very looks, and to be tremblingly alive to the on dits of society. She, as well as her sister Caroline, was timid in her nature; she was, moreover, shy and reserved upon all subjects connected with the feelings, and she dreaded lest his jealous fancies should ever openly burst forth, and bring blame or ridicule on either of them. She had at times stood in awe of her father, but the fear she felt of her husband was more constant and unceasing.
Still she had been accustomed to humour and to yield to a captious temper, and she considered that it was the lot of women to bear with the caprices of men. She frequently reminded herself of the gratitude she was bound to feel towards him, for having taken her portionless from her father, and for the unbounded command of money which he allowed her. She excused his jealousy on account of the passionate love he evinced for her, and she concluded the two feelings were necessarily inseparable.
His generosity on the subject of money afforded her one great pleasure, that of making various presents to her sisters, and of assisting her family in divers manners. He took her eldest brother into his mercantile establishment, and she rejoiced in having thus been the means of relieving her father from one care which pressed most heavily upon his mind.
They had been married about four years, and Ellen was the mother of two lovely children, when the peace concluded between France and England, at the period when Buonaparte was First Consul, enabled the English to flock abroad. To Mr. Cresford it was a matter of great importance to conclude some arrangement with foreign merchants. For this purpose he made up his mind to leave his wife for a month or two.
It was, however, most unwillingly that he tore himself away: it seemed as if some presentiment warned him not to depart. He postponed his journey from day to day, from week to week. At length his correspondents became impatient, and the day was fixed. He took Ellen and his children to reside with Captain Wareham during his absence, and she willingly promised to live in the strictest seclusion till his return; but it was with a melancholy foreboding that he bade her adieu, and he returned again and again to take one more last lingering look at her beautiful face, as though he felt he might never again thus gaze on it.
CHAPTER III.
Caroline was now seven-and-twenty, and she had many histories to pour into Ellen’s ear of the deceitful conduct of sundry naval or military heroes, and briefless barristers. One old nabob had laid his fortune at her feet, but he was too disagreeable, and she preferred even the eternal household bills, and the last finish of Matilda’s education, and the increased peevishness of her father’s temper to being the wife of Mr. Pierson.
But there was a person—a most amiable man—a clergyman, who had long appeared to prefer her—who did not pay her compliments, but who often visited them in their quiet home, and who admired her for qualities which had never attracted the notice of the captains nor the majors—her patience, her sweet temper, and her absence of selfishness. She owned to Ellen that, if circumstances ever enabled him to come forward, she should rejoice in the chances which had prevented her marrying earlier.
In the course of a short time Ellen had an opportunity of becoming personally acquainted with Mr. Allenham, and she thought her sister would indeed be a fortunate woman if she should ever become his wife.
To Ellen his intentions seemed manifest; but Caroline, who had so often been deceived, scarcely ventured to believe what she so much wished: all pleasure in the society of others was, however, completely gone, and she sighed to fix the affections which had so long been without a resting-place upon a person for whom she could feel entire respect, and in whom she could place complete reliance. Caroline was now as little inclined to mix in the world as Ellen, and Mr. Cresford would have been satisfied, if he could have witnessed the retirement in which they lived.
He had not been gone more than a month, when the sudden renewal of hostilities gave rise to the greatest alarm among those who had friends upon the Continent. Still, no one was prepared for that gross violation of all the usual courtesies between civilised nations, of all the charities of human life, which astounded the European world, when Buonaparte detained the harmless traveller, the peaceable merchant, and doomed them to drag out the best years of their lives in weary, unprofitable imprisonment at Verdun, or in the fortress of La Bitche.
At first no one could believe that this would last; they all looked to a speedy termination of their captivity. Ellen received letters from her husband, who was among the detenus at Verdun, which filled her with pity and alarm. His jealousy, which could not be completely lulled when his virtuous and modest wife was constantly under his own eye, now raged like a devouring flame. He threatened to commit some crime which could only be atoned by his life, rather than endure the living death which consumed him. He braved the authorities—he would not accept his parole—he would not preclude himself from attempting every means in his power to again see the wife whom he adored. His letters were written in a state of mind bordering on distraction. In vain Ellen described to him her quiet mode of existence, entreated him to wait with patience till he could return in health and safety to his family, and promised faithfully to continue in the seclusion which he had prescribed. She communicated to him her intention of taking a cottage near her father and sisters, where the children might have the benefit of country air, and where she might be in some measure under the protection of her father without joining in the society of the town.
The other partners in Mr. Cresford’s house were now obliged to transact the business. All that could be done was to await the events which time might bring forth, and meanwhile to take every opportunity of transmitting to him funds which might enable him to exist in such comfort as might be found within the walls of a prison.
Ellen never deviated from the line of conduct which she had marked out for herself. She felt perfectly confident that her husband would soon return, and she so dreaded what might be his anger if he heard of her having joined in any the most innocent amusement, that she never left her home except to visit her father, and she never received any one except her own immediate relations. She shrank from the appearance, or the suspicion, of the slightest impropriety with as much sensitive horror as many would from any actual breach of decorum.
The even tenor of Ellen’s monotonous life was one day most agreeably broken in upon by the entrance of Caroline, who, with a face of joyous mystery, made her appearance at her sister’s cottage immediately after breakfast.
“I have such news for you, Ellen. You have been right all along, and Mr. Allenham has proposed. He came to dinner yesterday, and told papa that his uncle’s friend, Lord Coverdale, had presented him to the living of Longbury, and that he might now look forward to possessing a competency, and that he had long been attached to me; and then he says that the house is a very nice one, and that he is to remove to it from his curacy in about six months.”
“But you do not tell me what answer you have given him,” replied Ellen, smiling.
“Oh, Ellen, do not laugh at me; it would be affectation in me to pretend I am not very, very happy at the prospect before me. You know well enough that I have long preferred him to any one, but you cannot guess how ardently I wish I had never before fancied myself in love. All that has gone before seems to me now like a dream. My former likings have been nothing compared to this. Still I would give the world that my heart was quite, quite fresh and pure; that I could have given it to him wholly and solely. I envy you, Ellen, having married so early that your feelings had never been tampered with, as mine have been.”
Ellen was surprised at the warmth with which Caroline spoke, and thought in her heart that she had never felt all this for Mr. Cresford. Caroline resumed—
“I wonder how a being so good, so superior, so excellent as Mr. Allenham can have ever found any thing to please him, in such a poor, weak, frivolous creature as I am! I do feel so grateful to him! And I am sure if the devotion of my life can render me worthy of him, I may deserve him in that manner, though I can in no other.”
Ellen was astonished at this burst of feeling in her sister. She had seen her, as she believed, in love before, that is to say, she had seen her pleased and flattered by the attentions of men; she had seen her ardently desiring to get away from her home, and she had seen her unhappy when a flirtation ended in nothing; but she had never before seen her love with all the devotion of which an affectionate heart is capable. A real true attachment exalts and refines the mind, and Mr. Allenham was a person with whom no one could associate without becoming better.
The meekness and forbearance with which Caroline bore the eternal worry of her father’s temper, the asperity of which had increased with years, first attracted him; he admired her beauty (for a woman of seven-and-twenty, provided she enjoys good health, is as pretty as ever she was), and her evident pleasure in his preference, which, when it is accompanied with modesty, proves an almost irresistible charm to most men, combined to fix his affections. Her kind manner to all inferiors, and her gentle attention to any of the poor with whom she was brought in contact, satisfied his reason that she would make the best of wives for a clergyman. Nor was he mistaken in this expectation.
But Captain Wareham, whose disposition inclined him to look on the dark side of every picture, now felt somewhat unhappy at the thoughts of losing the daughter who had been so long accustomed to his ways; although he had often been bitterly disappointed at Caroline’s failing to make a good establishment; a disappointment which he had been at no pains to conceal, and which did not contribute to make her own fall more lightly upon the poor girl.
“I suppose you must marry Mr. Allenham, Caroline; but what is to become of me?” he one day said, in a desponding tone. “How can a man see to all the details of a household, and the boys, and everything?”
“Why, papa, you always said I was but a bad housekeeper,” replied Caroline, who, in her new-born happiness and brightened prospects, had found a certain degree of courage, and sometimes ventured to reply half playfully to her father’s lamentations; “you will do all the better without me, I dare say.”
“No, no! I shan’t! You have been a good girl, Caroline, and I shall not be able to do at all well without you. You will all marry, and I shall be left alone in my old age.”
“Why, papa,” interrupted Matilda, “I have heard you regret a hundred times that Caroline did not marry, and say that it preyed upon your mind to think that we were unprovided for; and that if we were but married, you should be quite happy.”
“In the meantime, my dear papa,” said Caroline, “Matilda can take my place. She is seventeen now, and I was not older when my poor mother died.”
“Ah! but she is not so steady as you were. I cannot manage you, Matilda, as I can Caroline,” answered Captain Wareham, in whose estimation Caroline had risen wonderfully, now he was going to lose her.
“Well, then, I will manage you, papa, and that will be much best,” replied the blunt and light-hearted Matilda, who was not easily either daunted or vexed. “I am so glad Caroline is going to marry that dear, good Mr. Allenham, that I shall not mind casting up those abominable bills. But I will tell you what, papa, you must not scold me as you do Caroline; I shall never bear it as she has done.”
Caroline looked at Matilda, and tried to silence her, but without effect. And, strange to say, Captain Wareham would bear from Matilda jokes, and even lectures, which he would never have endured from her elder sisters. The fact was, that Matilda had a high spirit. She meant no harm; she did not mind a sharp word; and she gradually obtained a sort of mastery over her father.
The marriage was not to take place till Mr. Allenham was settled at Longbury, but all things proceeded placidly and cheerfully with the Wareham family, except that the letters which Ellen received from Mr. Cresford were more and more distressing. They were written in a state of dreadfully low spirits. He complained of mental and bodily miseries. Still she was little prepared for the shock which awaited her, when one morning she read in the papers an official return from the depôt at Verdun, and among the deaths she saw the name of Charles Cresford, Esq.
CHAPTER IV.
The shriek which Ellen involuntarily uttered brought her maid to her assistance. Her father and sister were sent for, and soon arrived to support and to console her.
Though she had never been able to return the passionate love which her husband had evinced for her, though she had never loved him as she was capable of loving, still she was dutifully attached to him, and she mourned for him with sincerity and truth. She expected to receive some parting word, some last injunctions, from one who had been so fervently devoted to her. But nothing of the kind ever reached her. She had no friends among the detenus to whom she could write, and she was obliged to rest contented with no farther details of the melancholy event than the report of Colonel Eversham, who had been one of those who followed his remains to the grave, and who had, soon afterwards, effected his own return to England. He told her that Cresford had made various and desperate attempts to escape, which had all failed, and that his friends attributed his illness to mental agitation, as he did not seem to labour under any particular or positive complaint.
She heard with some satisfaction that his remains had been decently deposited in the Protestant burying-ground without the town, and that a considerable number of the most respectable of his fellow prisoners had attended his funeral. She grieved sincerely for his untimely fate, and she felt it the more from the belief that his passion for her, and the jealous feelings which he could not master, had, in all probability, hastened his end.
By her marriage settlements she was entitled to a handsome jointure, for poor Cresford was noble and generous with regard to money, and did not dole out the jointure of the wife according to the fortune she brought, but proportioned it to his capabilities of providing for her. The partners preserved a share in the business for her son, and her daughter was also amply portioned.
Ellen continued to live in the pretty cottage in which she had for some time resided. After a short delay the marriage of Caroline and Mr. Allenham took place, and all things resumed the even tenor of their course. Ellen found pleasure in the society of her children, whose opening intelligence rendered them each day more capable of becoming her companions, and she devoted herself to the pleasing task of leading their young hearts and minds in the right way.
At the end of the first six months of her widowhood she paid a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Allenham, and it was a cordial to her heart to see poor Caroline, who had always been frightened and subdued at home, the joyous creature she now was. Her adoration of her husband knew no bounds; she thought him the best, the cleverest, the wisest of human beings. Her loving heart had at length found its proper resting-place, and her humble service and devotion would have made any man, except Mr. Allenham, appear in the light of a tyrant. But he was so gentle and so kind, he smiled so gratefully at the little attentions which she incessantly paid him, he so habitually preserved towards her the sort of polished deference with which a man should always treat a woman (in manner, at least, though he need not the more yield to her in deeds and actions), that Ellen began to think it was possible for matrimony to be a much happier state than she had found it.
It was not long after her arrival at Longbury, that she was one day walking with her sister and her children in a retired green lane, which was nearly bowered over by the trees on each side, when a gentleman on horseback approached. A widow in her weeds is always an object of some interest, and the horseman was wondering who that graceful creature could be,—he was watching the sportive boundings of her children, without attending to his own path, when a bough knocked off his hat just as he was about to pass, and was trying to ascertain whether the face corresponded with the form he admired. The little boy ran to pick it up, and advanced fearlessly towards the horse. Ellen turned round, half alarmed for her child. The stranger leaped to the ground to receive the hat, saying at the same time, “Thank you, my fine fellow; you are a brave boy.”
Ellen looked up with a pleased smile at the commendation of her darling George, and the stranger thought he had never in his life seen so beautiful a vision as that of the young widow with her close cap, her marble forehead, her straight-marked eyebrows, and those lustrous eyes, which gleamed so softly from beneath the hanging crape of her widow’s bonnet. He bowed with profound respect, remounted his horse, and rode on.
He longed to look back, but there was something so serenely pure and holy in the expression of her countenance, that he felt it would be almost sacrilege to betray even common admiration.
Caroline, whose career as a country town beauty had made her somewhat alive to the glances of passers by, could not help saying to Ellen, “That gentleman seemed quite struck when you turned round; I saw him give a start of surprise, and the colour came into his face.”
“Oh, Caroline, how can you talk in that manner? there is something horrid in the notion of a widow exciting any feeling but pity.” Ellen’s delicacy shrank from such an idea, and they proceeded on their way in silence.
The stranger was a visitor at Lord Coverdale’s, and at dinner he mentioned having seen this lovely widow in the green lane. “Oh, it must have been Mrs. Cresford,” said Lady Coverdale; “she is our clergyman’s sister-in-law, and they say she is very handsome. I am dying to see her, but she never appears when I call on Mrs. Allenham. Her husband was one of the detenus, and the poor man died six or seven months ago in France.”
Mr. Hamilton left Coverdale Park the next day, but