Valerie

“I did not see him again until at the horticultural fête, when I was talking to Madame Bathurst. He had told me that he was an officer in the army, but he did not mention his name. You recollect what Madame Bathurst said about him, and who he was. Since you have been at Richmond, he has contrived to see me every day, and I will confess that latterly I have not been unwilling to meet him, for every day I have been more pleased with him. On our first meeting after the fête, I told him that he still supposed me to be Caroline Stanhope, and that seeing me walking with Caroline’s aunt had confirmed him in his idea, but I assured him that I was Adèle Chabot, a girl without fortune, and not, as he supposed a great heiress. His answer was that any acquaintance of Madame Bathurst’s must be a lady, and that he had never inquired or thought about my fortune. That my having none would prove the disinterestedness of his affection for me, and that he required me and nothing more. I have seen him every day almost since then; he has given me his name and made proposals to me, notwithstanding my reiterated assertions that I am Adèle Chabot, and not Caroline Stanhope. One thing is certain, that I am very much attached to him, and if I do not marry him I shall be very miserable for a long time,” and here Adèle burst into tears.

“But why do you grieve, Adèle?” said I, “You like him, and he offers to marry you. My advice is very simple,—marry him.”

“Yes,” replied Adèle, “if all was as it seems. I agree with you that my course is clear; but, notwithstanding his repeated assertions that he loves me as Adèle Chabot, I am convinced in my own mind that he still believes me to be Caroline Stanhope. Perhaps he thinks that I am a romantic young lady who is determined to be married pour ses beaux yeux alone, and conceals her being an heiress on that account, and he therefore humours me by pretending to believe that I am a poor girl without a shilling. Now, Valerie, here is my difficulty. If I were to marry him, as he proposes, when he comes to find out that he has been deceiving himself, and that I am not the heiress, will he not be angry, and perhaps disgusted with me—will he not blame me instead of himself, as people always do, and will he not ill-treat me? If he did, it would break my heart, for I love him—love him dearly. Then, on the other hand, I may be wrong, and he may be, as he says, in love with Adèle Chabot, so that I shall have thrown away my chance of happiness from an erroneous idea. What shall I do, Valerie? Do advise me.”

“Much will depend on the character of the man, Adèle. You have some insight into people’s characters, what idea have you formed of his?”

“I hardly can say, for when men profess to be in love they are such deceivers. Their faults are concealed, and they assume virtues which they do not possess. On my first meeting with him, I thought that he was a proud man—perhaps I might say a vain man—but, since I have seen more of him, I think I was wrong.”

“No, Adèle, depend upon it you were right; at that time you were not blinded as you are now. Do you think him a good-tempered man?”

“Yes, I firmly believe that he is. I made a remark at Brighton: a child that had its fingers very dirty ran out to him, and as it stumbled printed the marks of its fingers upon his white trousers, so that he was obliged to return home and change them. Instead of pushing the child away, he saved it from falling, saying, ‘Well, my little man, it’s better that I should change my dress than that you should have broken your head on the pavement.’”

“Well, Adèle, I agree with you that it is a proof of great good temper.”

“Well, then, Valerie, what do you think?”

“I think that it is a lottery; but all marriages are lotteries, with more blanks than prizes. You have done all you can to undeceive him, if he still deceives himself. You can do no more. I will assume that he does deceive himself, and that disappointment and irritation will be the consequence of his discovery that you have been telling the truth. If he is a vain man, he will not like to acknowledge to the world that he has been his own dupe. If he is a good-hearted man, he will not long continue angry; but, Adèle, much depends upon yourself. You must forbear all recrimination—you must exert all your talents of pleasing to reconcile him to his disappointment; and, if you act wisely, you will probably succeed: indeed, unless the man is a bad-hearted man, you must eventually succeed. You best know your own powers, and must decide for yourself.”

“It is that feeling—that almost certain feeling that I shall be able to console him for his disappointment, that impels me on. Valerie, I will make him love me, I am determined.”

“And when a woman is determined on that point, she invariably succeeds in the end, Adèle. This is supposing that he is deceiving himself, which may not be the case, Adèle, for I do think you have sufficient attractions to make a man love you for yourself alone; and recollect that such may be the case in the present instance. It may be that at first he followed you as an heiress, and has since found out that if not an heiress, you are a very charming woman, and has in consequence been unable to resist your influence. However, there is only one to whom the secrets of the heart are known. I consider that you have acted honourably, and if you choose to risk the hazard of the die, no one can attach blame to you.”

“Thank you, Valerie, you have taken a great load off my heart. If you think I am not doing wrong, I will risk every thing.”

“Well, Adèle, let you decide how you may, I hope you will prosper. For my part, I would not cross the street for the best man that ever was created. As friends, they are all very well; as advisers in some cases they are useful; but, when you talk of marrying one, and becoming his slave, that is quite another affair. What were you and Caroline talking about so earnestly in the corner?”

“I will confess the truth, it was of love and marriage, with an episode about Mr Charles Selwyn, of whom Caroline appears to have a very good opinion.”

“Well, Adèle, I must go down again now. If you wish any advice at any future time, such as it is, it is at your service. You are making ‘A Bold Stroke for a Husband’ that’s certain. However, the title of another play is ‘All’s Well that Ends Well.’”

“Well, I will follow out your playing upon plays, Valerie, by saying that with you ‘Love’s Labour’s Lost.’”

“Exactly,” replied I, “because I consider it ‘Much Ado About Nothing.’”

The next day, Lionel came to bid me farewell, as he was returning to Paris. During our sojourn at Madame Bathurst’s, he had been down to see his uncle, and had been very kindly received. I wrote to Madame d’Albret, thanking her for her presents, which, valuable as they were, I would not return after what she had said, and confided to Lionel a box of the flowers in wax that I was so successful in imitating, and which I requested her to put on her side table in remembrance of me. Mr Selwyn sent the carriage at the time appointed, and we went down to Kew, where I was as kindly received as before.

What Adèle told me of the conversation between Caroline and her made me watchful, and before our visit was out I had made up my mind that there was a mutual feeling between her and young Mr Selwyn. When we were going away, this was confirmed, but I took no notice. But, although I made no remark, this commencement of an attachment between Caroline and him occupied my mind during the whole of our journey to town.

In Caroline’s position, I was not decided if I would encourage it and assist it. Charles Selwyn was a gentleman by birth and profession, a very good-looking and very talented young man. All his family were amiable, and he himself remarkably kind-hearted and well-disposed. That Caroline was not likely to return to her father’s house, where I felt assured that she was miserable, was very evident, and that she would soon weary of the monotony of a school at her age was also to be expected. There was, therefore, every probability that she would, if she found an opportunity, run away, as she stated to me she would, and it was ten chances to one that in so doing she would make an unfortunate match, either becoming the prey of some fortune-hunter, or connecting herself with some thoughtless young man.

Could she do better than marry Mr Selwyn? Certainly not. That her father and mother, who thought only of dukes and earls, would give their consent, was not very likely. Should I acquaint Madame Bathurst? That would be of little use, as she would not interfere. Should I tell Mr Selwyn’s father? No. If a match at all, it must be a runaway match, and Mr Selwyn, senior, would never sanction any thing of the kind. I resolved, therefore, to let the affair ripen as it might. It would occupy Caroline, and prevent her doing a more foolish thing, even if it were to be ultimately broken off by unforeseen circumstances. Caroline was as much absorbed by her own thoughts as I was during the ride, and not a syllable was exchanged between us till we were roused by the rattling over the stones.

“My dear Caroline, what a reverie you have been in,” said I.

“And you, Valerie.”

“Why I have been thinking; certainly, when I cannot have a more agreeable companion, I amuse myself with my own thoughts.”

“Will you tell me what you have been thinking about?”

“Yes, Caroline, provided you will be equally confiding.”

“I will, I assure you.”

“Well, then, I was thinking of a gentleman.”

“And so was I,” replied Caroline.

“Mine was a very handsome, clever young man.”

“And so was mine,” replied she.

“But I am not smitten with him,” continued I.

“I cannot answer that question,” replied Caroline, “because I do not know who you were thinking about.”

“You must answer the question as to the gentleman you were thinking of, Caroline. I repeat that I am not smitten with him, and that his name is Mr Charles Selwyn.”

“I was also thinking of Mr Charles Selwyn,” replied Caroline.

“And you are not smitten with him any more than I am, or he is with you?” continued I, smiling, and looking her full in the face.

Caroline coloured, and said, “I like him very much from what I have seen of him, Valerie; but recollect our acquaintance has been very short.”

“A very proper answer, my dear Caroline, and given with due maidenly decorum—but here we are; and there is Madame Gironac nodding to us from the window.”

The next day, Caroline went back to Mrs Bradshaw’s, and I did not see her till the music-lesson of Wednesday afterwards. Caroline, who had been watching for me, met me at the door.

“Oh! Valerie, I have a great deal to tell. In the first place, the establishment is in an uproar at the disappearance of Adèle Chabot, who has removed her clothes, and gone off without beat of drum. One of the maids states that she has several times seen her walking and talking with a tall gentleman, and Mrs Bradshaw thinks that the reputation of her school is ruined by Adèle’s flight. She has drunk at least two bottles of eau-de-Cologne and water to keep off the hysterics, and is now lying on the sofa, talking in a very incoherent way. Miss Phipps says she thinks her head is affected.”

“I should think it was,” replied I. “Well, is that all?”

“All! why, Valerie, you appear to think nothing of an elopement. All! why is it not horrible?”

“I do not think it very horrible, Caroline; but I am glad to find that you have such correct ideas on that point, as it satisfies me that nothing would induce you to take such a step.”

“Well,” replied Caroline, quickly, “what I had also to communicate is, that I have seen my father, who informed me that on their return from Brighton in October, they expect that I will come home. He said that it was high time that I was settled in life, and that I could not expect to be married if I remained at a boarding-school.”

“Well, and what did you say?”

“I said that I did not expect to be married, and I did not wish it; that I thought my education was far from complete, and that I wished to improve myself.”

“Well?”

“Then he said that he should submit to my caprices no longer, and that I should go back in October, as he had decided.”

“Well?”

“Well, I said no more, and he went away.”

Having received all this intelligence, I went up stairs. I found Mrs Bradshaw crying bitterly, and she threw herself into my arms.

“Oh, Mademoiselle Chatenoeuf!—the disgrace!—the ruin!—I shall never get over it,” exclaimed she.

“I see no disgrace or ruin, Mrs Bradshaw. Adèle has told me that a gentleman had proposed marriage to her, and asked my advice.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs Bradshaw.

“Yes.”

“Well, that alters the case; but still, why did she leave in this strange way?”

“I presume the gentleman did not think it right that she should marry out of a young ladies’ establishment, madam.”

“Very true: I did not think of that.”

“After all, what is it? Your French teacher is married—surely that will not injure your establishment?”

“No, certainly—why should it?—but the news came upon me so abruptly, that it quite upset me. I will lie down a little, and my head will soon be better.”

Time went on; so did the school. Miss Adèle, that was, sent no wedding-cake, much to the astonishment of the young ladies; and it was not till nearly three weeks afterwards that I had a letter from Adèle Chabot, now Mrs Jervis. But, before I give the letter to my readers, I must state, that Mr Selwyn, junior, had called upon me the day before Caroline went to school, and had had a long conversation with her, while I went out to speak with Madame Gironac on business: further, that Mr Selwyn, junior, called upon me a few days afterwards, and after a little common-place conversation, à l’anglaise, about the weather, he asked after Miss Caroline Stanhope, and then asked many questions. As I knew what he wished, I made to him a full statement of her position, and the unpleasant predicament in which she was placed. I also stated my conviction that she was not likely to make a happy match, if her husband were selected by her father and mother; and how much I regretted it, as she was a very amiable, kind-hearted girl, who would make an excellent wife to anyone deserving of her. He thought so, too, and professed great admiration of her; and having, as he thought, pumped me sufficiently, he took his leave.

A few days afterwards, he came upon some pretended message from his father, and then I told him that she was to be removed in October. This appeared to distress him; but he did not forget to pull out of his pocket a piece of music, sealed up, telling me that, by mistake, Caroline had left two pieces of music at Kew, and had taken away one belonging to his sister Mary; that he returned one, but the other was mislaid, and would be returned as soon as it was found; and would I oblige him so far as to request Miss Stanhope to send him the piece of music belonging to his sister, if she could lay her hand upon it?

“Well, I will do your bidding, Mr Selwyn,” replied I; “it is a very proper message for a music-mistress to take; and I will also bring back your sister’s music, when Caroline gives it me, and you can call here for it. If I am out, you can ask Madame Gironac to give it to you.” Upon which, with many thanks and much gratitude for my kindness, Mr Selwyn withdrew.

Having made all this known to the reader, he shall now have the contents of Adèle’s letter.

Chapter Eleven

We must now read Adèle’s letter.

“My dear Valerie,—The die is cast, and I have now a most difficult game to play. I have risked all upon it, and the happiness of my future life is at stake. But let me narrate what has passed since I made you my confidante. Of course, you must know the day on which I was missing. On that day I walked out with him, and we were in a few minutes joined by a friend of his, whom he introduced as Major Argat. After proceeding about one hundred yards farther we arrived at a chapel, the doors of which were open, and the verger looking out, evidently expecting somebody.

“‘My dear angel,’ said the Colonel, ‘I have the licence in my pocket; I have requested the clergyman to attend, he is now in the chapel, and all is ready. My friend will be a witness, and there are others in attendance. You have said that you love me, trust yourself to me. Prove now that you are sincere, and consent at once that our hands as well as our hearts be united.’

“Oh! how I trembled. I could not speak. The words died away upon my lips. I looked at him imploringly. He led me gently, for my resistance was more in manner than in effect, and I found myself within the chapel, the verger bowing as he preceded us, and the clergyman waiting at the altar. To retreat appeared impossible; indeed I hardly felt as if I wished it, but my feelings were so excited that I burst into tears. What the clergyman may have thought of my conduct, and my being dressed so little like a bride, I know not, but the Colonel handed the licence to his friend, who took it to the clergyman while I was recovering myself. At last we went up to the altar, my head swam, and I hardly knew what was said, but I repeated the responses, and I was—a wife. When the ceremony was over, and I was attempting to rise from my knees, I fell, and was carried by the Colonel into the vestry, where I remained on a chair trembling with fear. After a time, the colonel asked me if I was well enough to sign my name to the marriage register, and he put the pen in my hand. I could not see where to sign, my eyes were swimming with tears. The clergyman guided my hand to the place, and I wrote Adèle Chabot. The knowledge what the effect of this signature might possibly have upon my husband quite overcame me, and I sank my head down upon my hands upon the table.

“‘I will send for a glass of water, sir,’ said the clergyman leaving the vestry to call the verger, or clerk, ‘the lady is fainting.’

“After he went out, I heard the Colonel and his friend speaking in low tones apart. Probably they thought that I was not in a condition to pay attention to them,—but I had too much at stake.

“‘Yes,’ replied the Colonel, ‘she has signed, as you say, but she hardly knows what she is about. Depend upon it, it is as I told you.’

“I did not hear the Major’s reply, but I did what the Colonel said.

“‘It’s all the better; the marriage will not be legal, and I can bring the parents to my own terms.’

“All doubt was now at an end. He had married me convinced, and still convinced that I was Caroline Stanhope, and not Adèle Chabot, and he had married me supposing that I was an heiress. My blood ran cold, and in a few seconds I was senseless, and should have fallen under the table had they not perceived that I was sinking, and ran to my support. The arrival of the clergyman with the water recovered me. My husband whispered to me that it was time to go, and that a carriage was at the door. I do not recollect how I left the church; the motion of the carriage first roused me up, and a flood of tears came to my relief. How strange is it, Valerie, that we should be so courageous and such cowards at the same time. Would you believe when I had collected myself, with a certain knowledge that my husband had deceived himself—a full conviction of the danger of my position when he found out his mistake, and that my future happiness was at stake—I felt glad that the deed was done, and would not have been unmarried again for the universe. As I became more composed, I felt that it was time to act. I wiped away my tears and said, as I smiled upon my husband, who held my hand in his, ‘I know that I have behaved very ill, and very foolishly, but I was so taken by surprise.’

“‘Do you think that I love you the less for showing so much feeling, my dearest?’ he replied, ‘no, no, it only makes you still more dear to me, as it convinces me what a sacrifice you have made for my sake.’

“Now, Valerie, could there be a prettier speech, or one so apparently sincere, from a newly-married man to his bride, and yet recollect what he said to his friend not a quarter of an hour before, about having my parents in his power by the marriage not being legal? I really am inclined to believe that we have two souls, a good and an evil one, continually striving for the mastery; one for this world, and the other for the next, and that the evil one will permit the good one to have its influence, provided that at the same time it has its own or an equal share in the direction of us. For instance, I believe the colonel was sincere in what he said, and really does love me, supposing me to be Caroline Stanhope, with the mundane advantages to be gained by the marriage, and that these better feelings of humanity are allowed to be exercised, and not interfered with by the adverse party, who is satisfied with its own Mammon share. But the struggle is to come when the evil spirit finds itself defrauded of its portion, and then attempts to destroy the influence of the good. He does love me now, and would have continued to love me, if disappointment will not tear up his still slightly-rooted affections. Now comes my task to cherish and protect it, till it has taken firm root, and all that woman can do shall be done. I felt that all that I required was time.

“‘Where are we going?’ said I.

“‘About twenty miles from London,’ replied my husband, ‘after which, that is to-morrow, you shall decide upon our future plans.’

“‘I care not where,’ replied I, ‘with you place is indifferent, only do not refuse me the first favour that I request of you.’

“‘Depend upon it I will not,’ replied he.

“‘It is this, dearest, take me where you will, but let it be three months before we return or come near London. You must feel my reason for making this request.’

“‘I grant it with pleasure,’ replied he, ‘for three months I am yours, and yours only. We will live for one another.’

“‘Yes, and never let us mention any thing about future prospects, but devote the three months to each other.’

“‘I understand you,’ replied the colonel, ‘and I promise you it shall be so. I will have no correspondence even—there shall be nothing to annoy you or vex you in any way.’

“‘For three months,’ said I, extending my hand.

“‘Agreed,’ said he, ‘and to tell you the truth, it would have been my own feeling, had it not been yours. When you strike iron, you should do it when it is hot, but when you have to handle it, you had better wait till it is cool; you understand me, and now the subject is dropped.’

“My husband has adhered most religiously to his word up to the present time, as you will see by the date of this letter. We are now visiting the lakes of Cumberland. Never could a spot be better situated for the furtherance of my wishes. The calm repose and silent beauty of these waters must be reflected upon the mind of any one of feeling, which the colonel certainly does not want, and when you consider that I am exerting all the art which poor woman has to please, I do hope and pray to heaven that I may succeed in entwining myself round his heart before his worldly views are destroyed by disappointment. Pray for me, dear Valerie—pray for one who loves you dearly, and who feels that the whole happiness of her life is at stake.—Yours,—

“Adèle.”

“So far all goes well, my dear Adèle,” thought I, “but we have yet to see the end. I will pray for you with all my heart, for you deserve to be happy, and none can be more fascinating than you, when you exert yourself. What is it in women that I do not feel which makes them so mad after the other sex? Instinct, certainly, for reason is against it. Well, I have no objection to help others to commit the folly, provided that I am not led into it myself.” Such were my reflections, as I closed the letter from Adèle.

A few days afterwards I received a note from Mr Selwyn, junior, informing me that his father had been made a puisne judge. What that was I did not know, except that he was a judge on the bench, of some kind. He also stated his intention of calling upon me on the next day.

“Yes,” thought I, “to receive the music from Caroline. Of course, she will return it to me when I give her a lesson to-day.”

I was right in my supposition. Caroline brought me a piece of music with a note, saying, “Here is the music belonging to Miss Selwyn, Valerie; will you take an opportunity of returning it to her? Any time will do; I presume she is in no hurry,” and Caroline coloured up, when her eyes met mine.