Valerie

“Most certainly to be as I am,” replied Caroline, “but I cannot but grieve that my parents should not have been like my aunt Bathurst.”

“I agree with you in that feeling, but what is—is, and we must make the best of it. You must excuse your parents’ faults as much as you can, since your education will not permit you to be blind to them, and you must treat them with respect from a sense of duty.”

“That I have always done,” replied Caroline; “but it too often happens that I have to decide between the respect I would show to my parents, and a sense of justice or a love of truth opposed to it—that is the greatest difficulty.”

“Very true,” replied I, “and in such cases you must act according to the dictates of your own conscience.”

“Well,” replied Caroline, “I think I have done wisely in getting away altogether. I have seen little of my aunt Bathurst, since you took me to my father’s house; for, although some advances were made towards a reconciliation, as soon as my aunt was told that my father and mother had stated that I had been most improperly brought up by her, she was so angry at the false accusation, that all intercourse is broken off, I fear, for ever. Oh, how I have longed to be with my aunt again! But Valerie, I never heard why you left her. Some one did say that you had gone, but why was not known.”

“I went away, Caroline, because I was no longer of any use in the house after you had been removed, and I did not choose to be an incumbrance to your aunt. I preferred gaining my livelihood by my own exertions, as I am now doing, and to which resolution on my part, I am indebted for the pleasure of our again meeting.”

“Ah, Valerie, I never loved you so much as I did after I had lost you,” said Caroline.

“That is generally the case, my dear,” replied I; “but now if you please, we will try this sonata. We shall have plenty of time for talking, as we shall meet twice a week.”

Caroline played the sonata, and then dropping her fingers on the keys, said, “Now, Valerie, do you know what was one of my wild dreams which assisted in inducing me to come here? I’ll tell you. I know that I shall never find a husband at my father’s house. All well-bred people, if they once go there, do not go a second time, and, whatever may be the merits of the daughter, they have no time to find them out, and leave the house, with the supposition that she, having been educated in so bad a school, must be unworthy of notice. Now I mean, if I can, to elope from school, that is if I can find a gentleman to my fancy—not to Gretna Green but as soon as I am married, to go to my aunt Bathurst direct, and you know that once under a husband’s protection, my father and mother have no control over me. Will you assist my views, Valerie? It’s the only chance I have of happiness.”

“A very pretty confession for a young lady, not yet eighteen,” replied I; “and a very pretty question to put to me, who have been your governess, Caroline. I am afraid that you must not look to me for assistance, but consider it, as you termed it at first, a wild dream.”

“Nevertheless, dreams come true sometimes,” replied Caroline, laughing; “and all I require is birth and character: you know that I must have plenty of money.”

“But, my dear Caroline, it is not people of birth and character who prowl round boarding-schools in search of heiresses.”

“I know that; and that was why I asked you to help me. At all events, I’ll not leave this place till I am married, or going to be married, that’s certain, if I stay here till I’m twenty-five.”

“Well, do not make rash resolutions; but surely, Caroline, you have not reason to complain of your parents’ treatment; they are kind and affectionate towards you.”

“Indeed they are not, nor were they from the time that I returned to them with you. They try by force to make me espouse their own incorrect notions of right and wrong, and it is one scene of daily altercation. They abuse and laugh at aunt Bathurst, I believe on purpose to vex me; and, having never lived with them from my infancy, of course, when I met them I had to learn to love them. I was willing so to do, notwithstanding their unkindness to my aunt, whom I love so dearly, but they would not let me; and now I really believe that they care little about me, and would care nothing, if I were not their only daughter, for you know, perhaps, that both my brothers are now dead?”

“I knew that one was,” replied I.

“The other, William, died last year,” replied Caroline; “his death was a release, poor fellow, as he had a complaint in the spine for many years. Do you know what I mean to do? I shall write to aunt Bathurst, to come and see me.”

“Well, I think you will be right in so doing; but will not your father and mother come to you?”

“No, for they are very angry, and say, that until I come to my senses, and learn the difference between people, who are somebodies, and people who are nobodies, they will take no notice of me; and that I may remain here till I am tired; which they think I shall soon be, and write to come back again. The last words of my father, when he brought me here and left me, were,—‘I leave you here to come to your senses.’ He was white with anger: but I do not wish to talk any more about them.”

“And your time is up, Caroline; so you must go and make room for another pupil. Miss Greaves is the next.”

Shortly after my meeting with Caroline, I received a letter from Lionel, stating that it was his intention to come over to England for a fortnight, and asking whether he could execute any commissions for me in Paris, previous to his departure. He also informed me that he had received a very kind letter, from his uncle the baronet, who had had several interviews with Mr Selwyn, and who was fully satisfied with his identity, and acknowledged him as his nephew. This gave me great pleasure. I replied to his letter, stating that I should be most happy to see him, but that as for commissions I was too poor to give him any. Madame d’Albret had sent her kind souvenirs to me in Lionel’s letter, and I returned them in my reply. Indeed, now that I was earning a livelihood, and by my own exertions, I felt that I was every day adding to my means and future independence, a great change, I may safely say for the better, took place in me. My pride was lessened, that is, my worst pride was superseded by a more honest one. I had a strange revulsion in feeling towards Madame d’Albret, Madame Bathurst and Lady M—, and I felt that I could forgive them all. I was no longer brooding over my dependent position, fancying, perhaps, insults never intended, or irritated by real slights. Everything was couleur de rose with me, and that couleur was reflected upon everything.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Valerie,” said Madame Gironac to me one day, “I had no idea when I first made your acquaintance that you were so witty. My husband and all the gentlemen say that you have plus d’esprit than any woman they ever conversed with.”

“When I first knew you, Annette, I was not happy, now I am happy, almost too happy, and that is the reason I am so gay.”

“And I don’t think you hate the men so much as you did,” continued she.

“I am in a humour to hate nobody,” replied I.

“That is true; and, Mademoiselle Valerie, you will marry one of these days; mind,” continued she, putting up her finger, “I tell you so.”

“And I tell you, no,” replied I. “I think there is only one excuse for a woman marrying, which is, when she requires some one to support her; that is not my case, for I thank Heaven I can support myself.”

“Nous verrons” replied Madame Gironac.

Caroline did, however, find the restraint of a school rather irksome, and wished very much to go out with me. When the holidays arrived, and the other young ladies had gone home, I spoke to Mrs Bradshaw, and as she was very partial to me, and knew my former relations with Caroline, she gave her consent. Shortly afterwards, Mrs Bradshaw accepted an invitation to pass three weeks with some friends, and I then proposed that Caroline should pass the remainder of the holidays with me, to which Mrs Bradshaw also consented, much to Caroline’s delight. Madame Gironac had made up a bed for her in my room, and we were a very merry party.

A few days after Caroline came to the house, Lionel made his appearance. I should hardly have believed it possible that he could have so improved in appearance in so short a time. He brought me a very kind letter from Madame d’Albret, in which she begged, as a proof of my having forgiven her, that I would not refuse a few presents she had sent by Lionel. They were very beautiful and expensive, and, when I had had some conversation with Lionel, I made up my mind that I would not return them, which certainly I at first felt more inclined to do than to keep them. When Lionel took leave, promising to come to dinner, Caroline asked me who that gentlemanly young man was. I replied, “that it was a Mr Lionel Dempster, the nephew of Lady R—,” but further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of young Mr Selwyn, who came with a message from his father inviting me to Kew. I declined the invitation, on the plea of Caroline being with me. Mr Selwyn remained some time conversing with me, and at last inquired if I should like to go to the next meeting at the Horticultural Gardens, at the same time offering me two tickets. As I was anxious to see the gardens, I accepted them. He told me that his father would call for us, and his mother and sisters were to be there, and then he took leave.

“Who is Mr Selwyn?” inquired Caroline.

I told her.

“Well,” said she, “I have seen two nice young men this morning; I don’t know which I like best, but I think Mr Selwyn is the more manly of the two.”

“I should think so, too, Caroline,” replied I; “Mr Selwyn is twenty-four years old, I believe, and Mr Dempster is younger, I think, than you are.”

“I did not think he was so young; but, Valerie, are we not to go to the National Gallery?”

“Yes, when Monsieur Gironac comes home to escort us; we may as well put on our bonnets, for he will be here in a few minutes.”

“Oh, Valerie, how fortunate it was that I came to Mrs Bradshaw’s,” said Caroline, “and that I met you! I should have been moped, that is certain, if I had not, but now I’m so happy—that’s Monsieur Gironac’s knock, I’m sure.”

But Caroline was wrong, for it was Mademoiselle Chabot, of whom I have before spoken, who made her appearance. Mademoiselle Chabot was an acquaintance of Madame Gironac, and it was through my having become intimate with her, that I obtained the teaching of Mrs Bradshaw’s. Adèle Chabot was a very pretty person, thoroughly French, and dressed with great taste. She was the resident French teacher in Mrs Bradshaw’s establishment; and, although twenty-five years old, did not look more than eighteen; she was very amusing and rather wild, although she looked very demure. I never thought that there was anything wrong in Adèle, but, at the same time, I did not consider that Caroline would derive any good from her company, as Caroline required to be held in check as it was. But, as is usually the case, the more I attempted to check any intimacy between them, the more intimate they became. Adèle was of a good family; her father had fallen at Montmartre, when the allies entered Paris after the Battle of Waterloo: but the property left was very small to be divided among a large family, and consequently Adèle had first gone out as a governess at Paris, and ultimately accepted the situation she now held. She spoke English remarkably well, indeed, better than I ever heard it spoken by a Frenchwoman, and everybody said so as well as me.

“Well, Adèle, I thought you were at Brighton,” said Caroline.

“I was yesterday, and I am here to-day; I am come to dine with you,” replied Adèle, taking off her bonnet and shawl, and smoothing her hair before the glass. “Where’s Madame Gironac?”

“Gone out to give a lesson in flower-making,” replied I. “Yes, she is like the little busy bees, always on the wing, and, as the hymn says, ‘How neat she spread her wax!’ and Monsieur, where is he?”

“Gone out to give a lesson, also,” replied I. “Yes, he’s like the wind, always blowing, one hour the flute, another the French horn, then the bassoon or the bugle, always blowing and always shifting from one point to the other; never a calm with him, for when he comes home there’s a breeze with his wife, à l’aimable, to be sure.”

“Yes,” replied Caroline, “always blowing, but never coming to blows.”

“You are witty, Mademoiselle Caroline,” said Adèle, “with your paradox. Do you know that I had an adventure at Brighton, and I am taken for you, by a very fashionable young man?”

“How can you have been taken for me?” said Caroline. “The gentleman wished to find out who I was, and I would not tell him. He inquired of the chambermaid of the lodging-house, and bribed her, I presume, for the next day she came up to my room and asked me for my card, that her mistress might write my name down correctly in the book. I knew that the mistress had not sent her, as I had, by her request, entered my own name in the book three days before, and I was therefore certain that it was to find out who I was for the gentleman who followed me everywhere. I recollected that I had a card of yours in my case, and I gave it to her very quietly, and she walked off with it. The next day, when I was at the library, the gentleman addressed me by your name; I told him that it was not my name, and requested that he would not address me again. When I left Brighton yesterday, I discovered the chambermaid copying the addresses I had put on my trunks, which was your name, at Mrs Bradshaw’s; so now I think we shall have some fun.”

“But, my dear Adèle, you have not been prudent; you may compromise Caroline very much,” said I; “recollect that men talk, and something unpleasant may occur from this want of discretion on your part.”

“Be not afraid, Valerie; I conducted myself with such prudery that an angel’s character could not suffer.”

“I do not mean to hint otherwise, Adèle, but still you must acknowledge that you have done an imprudent thing.”

“Well, I do confess it, but, Valerie, every one has not your discretion and good sense. At all events, if I see or hear any more of the gentleman I can undo it again,—but that is not very likely.”

“We have had two gentlemen here to-day, Adèle,” said Caroline, “and one dines with us.”

“Indeed; well, I’m in demi-toilette, and must remain so, for I cannot go all the way back to Mrs Bradshaw’s to dress.”

“He is a very handsome young man, is he not, Valerie?”

“Yes,” replied I, “and of large fortune, too.”

“Well, I shall not have a fair chance, then,” said Adèle, “for go back I cannot.”

“Now, Adèle, you know how much more becoming the demi-toilette is to you than the evening dress,” replied Caroline, “so don’t pretend to deny it.”

“I deny nothing and I admit nothing,” replied Adèle, laughing, “except that I am a woman, and now draw your own inferences and conclusions—ce m’est égal.”

We had a very pleasant dinner-party. Adèle tried to flirt with Lionel, but it was in vain. He had no attentions to throw away, except upon me; once he whispered, “I should not feel strange at being seated with others, but to be by your side does make me awkward. Old habits are strong, and every now and then I find myself jumping up to change your plate.”

“It’s a great pleasure to me, Lionel, to find you in the position you are entitled to from your birth. You will soon sit down with people of more consequence than Valerie de Chatenoeuf.”

“But never with anyone that I shall esteem or respect so much, be they who they may,” replied Lionel.

During dinner, I mentioned that Mr Selwyn had called and engaged Caroline and me to go to the Horticultural fête.

“I wish Madame Gironac was going,” continued I, “she is so fond of flowers.”

“Never mind, my dear Valerie, I will stay at home and earn some money.”

“Madame,” cried Monsieur Gironac, pretending to be very angry, and striking with his fist on the table so as to make all the wine glasses ring, “you shall do no such thing. You shall not always oppose my wishes. You shall not stay at home and earn some money. You shall go out and spend money. Yes, madame, I will be obeyed; you shall go to the Horticultural fête, and I invite Monsieur Lionel, and Mademoiselle Adèle to come with us that they may witness that I am the master. Yes, madame, resistance is useless. You shall go in a remise de ver, or glass-coach, as round as a pumpkin, but you shall not go in glass slippers, like Cinderella, because they are not pleasant to walk in. How Cinderella danced in them has always been a puzzle to me, ever since I was a child, and of what kind of glass they were made of.”

“Perhaps isinglass,” said Lionel.

“No, sir, not isinglass; it must have been fairy glass; but never mind. I ask you, Madame Gironac, whether you intend to be an obedient wife, or intend to resist my commands?”

“Barbare,” replied Madame Gironac, “am I then to be forced to go to a fête! ah, cruel man, you’ll break my heart; but I submit to my unhappy destiny. Yes, I will go in the remise de ver: pity me, my good friends, but you don’t know that man.”

“I am satisfied with your obedience, madame, and now I permit you to embrace me.”

Madame Gironac, who was delighted at the idea of going to the fête, ran to her husband, and kissed him over and over again. Adèle and Lionel accepted Monsieur Gironac’s invitation, and thus was the affair settled in Monsieur Gironac’s queer way.

The day of the Horticultural fête arrived. It was a lovely morning. We were all dressed and the glass-coach was at the door, when Mr Selwyn arrived in his carriage, and Caroline and I stepped in. I introduced Caroline, who was remarkably well-dressed, and very pretty. Mr Selwyn had before told me that he was acquainted with Madame Bathurst, having met her two or three times, and sat by her at a dinner-party. He appeared much pleased with Caroline, but could not make out how she was in my company. Of course, he asked no questions before her.

On our arrival at the gardens, we found young Mr Selwyn waiting at the entrance to take us to Mrs Selwyn and his sisters, who had come from their house at Kew. About half-an-hour afterwards, we fell in with Monsieur Gironac, madame, Adèle, and Lionel. Mr Selwyn greeted Lionel warmly, introducing him to his family; and, on my presenting the Gironacs and Adèle, was very polite and friendly, for he knew from me how kind they had been. Adèle Chabot never looked so well; her costume was most becoming; she had put on her air mutiné, and was admired by all that passed us. We were all grouped together close to the band, when who should appear right in front of us but Madame Bathurst. At that time, Caroline was on the one arm of Mr Selwyn, and I on the other.

“Caroline!” exclaimed Madame Bathurst, “and you here!” turning to me.

While she remained in astonishment, Caroline ran up and kissed her.

“You recollect, Mr Selwyn, aunt, do you not?”

“Yes,” said Madame Bathurst, returning the salute of Mr Selwyn, “but still I am surprised.”

“Come with me, aunt, and I will tell you all about it.”

Caroline then walked to a seat at a little distance, sat down, and entered into conversation with Madame Bathurst. In a few minutes, Madame Bathurst rose, and came up to our party, with Caroline on her arm.

She first thanked Mr Selwyn for his kindness in bringing her niece to the fête, and then turning to me, said with some emotion, as she offered her hand, “Valerie, I hope we are friends. We have mistaken each other.”

I felt all my resentment gone, and took her offered hand.

She then led me aside and said, “I must beg your pardon, Valerie, I did not—”

“Nay,” replied I, interrupting her, “I was too hasty and too proud.”

“You are a good kind-hearted girl, Valerie—but let us say no more about it. Now introduce me to your friends.”

I did so. Madame Bathurst was most gracious, and appeared very much struck with Adèle Chabot, and entered into conversation with her, and certainly Adèle would not have been taken for a French teacher by her appearance. There was something very aristocratic about her. While they were in converse, a very gentlemanlike man raised his hat to Madame Bathurst, as I thought, and passed on. Adèle coloured up, I observed, as if she knew him, but did not return the salute, which Madame Bathurst did.

“Do you know that gentleman, Mademoiselle Chabot?” inquired Caroline. “I thought he bowed to you, and not to aunt.”

“I have seen him before,” replied Adèle, carelessly, “but I forget his name.”

“Then I can tell you,” added Madame Bathurst, “It is Colonel Jervis, a very fashionable man, but not a very great favourite of mine, not that I have any thing to accuse him of, particularly, except that he is said to be a very worldly man.”

“Is he of good family?” inquired Adèle.

“Oh, yes, unexceptionable on that point; but it is time for me to go. There it my party coming down the walk. Caroline, dear, I will call upon you to-morrow at three o’clock, and then we will make our arrangements.”

Madame Bathurst then bade adieu to Mr Selwyn, and the rest, saying to me, “Au revoir, Valerie.”

Shortly afterwards, we agreed to leave. As Mr Selwyn was returning to Kew, I would not accept the offer of his carriage to take Caroline and me to London, the glass-coach, round as a pumpkin, would hold six, and we all went away together.

I was very much pleased at thus meeting with Madame Bathurst, and our reconciliation, and quite as much so for Caroline’s sake; for, although she had at first said that she would write to her aunt, she had put it off continually for reasons which she had never expressed to me. I rather think that she feared her aunt might prove a check on her, and I was, therefore, very glad that they had met, as now Madame Bathurst would look after her.

During the evening, I observed that Adèle and Caroline had a long conversation sotto voce. I suspected that the gentleman, at whose appearance she had coloured up, was the subject of it. The next day Madame Bathurst called, and heard a detailed account of all that had passed from Caroline and from me since we had parted. She said that as Caroline was put to the school by her father, of course she could not remove her, but that she would call and see her as often as she could. She congratulated me upon my little independence, and trusted that we should ever be on friendly terms, and that I would come and visit her whenever my avocations would permit me. As there were still three weeks of the holidays remaining, she proposed that we should come and pass a portion of the time with her at a villa which she had upon the banks of the Thames.

She said that Caroline’s father and mother were down at Brighton, giving very gay parties. Having arranged the time that the carriage should come for us on the following day, she kissed us both affectionately, and went away.

The next day we were at Richmond in a delightful cottage ornée; and there we remained for more than a fortnight. To me it was a time of much happiness, for it was like the renewal of old times, and I was sorry when the visit was over.

On my return, I found a pressing invitation for Caroline and me to go to Kew, and remain two or three days; and, as we had still time to pay the visit, it was accepted; but, before we went Adèle came to see us, and, after a little general conversation, requested that she might speak to me in my own room.

“Valerie,” said Adèle, as soon as we were seated, “I know that you think me a wild girl, and perhaps I am so; but I am not quite so wild as I thought myself, for now that I am in a critical position, I come to you for advice, and for advice against my own feelings, for I tell you frankly, that I am very much in love—and moreover—which you may well suppose, most anxious to be relieved from the detestable position of a French teacher in a boarding-school. I now have the opportunity, and yet I dread to avail myself of it, and I therefore come to you, who are so prudent and so sage, to request, after you have heard what I have to impart, you will give me your real opinion as to what I ought to do. You recollect I told you a gentleman had followed me at Brighton, and how for mere frolic, I had led him to suppose that I was Caroline Stanhope, I certainly did not expect to see him again, but I did three days after I came up from Brighton. The girl had evidently copied the address on my trunk for him, and he followed me up, and he accosted me as I was walking home. He told me that he had never slept since he had first seen me, and that he was honourably in love with me. I replied that he was mistaken in supposing that I was Caroline Stanhope; that my name was Adèle Chabot, and that now that I had stated the truth to him he would alter his sentiments. He declared that he should not, pressed me to allow him to call, which I refused, and such was our first interview.”