Valerie

“‘And how has he grown up?’ said the old man; ‘is he good-looking?’

“‘Very much so, sir,’ replied I, ‘and looks very much like a gentleman.’”

I could not help laughing at this part of Lionel’s story, although I could not but admit the truth. Lionel observed it, and said, “You cannot be surprised at my giving myself a good character, Miss Valerie, for, as they say in the kitchen, it’s all that a poor servant has to depend upon.”

“Go on,” replied I.

“‘He was a very fine child while he lived with us; but he was taken away at six years old, and I have never seen him since.’

“‘Some people say that he is very like Lady R—.’

“‘Well, why should he not be? ay, she was once a very beautiful young person.’

“‘Well, grandfather, I have never heard the rights of that story,’ said I, ‘and now that you are at liberty to tell it, perhaps you will let me have the whole history.’

“‘Well,’ said the old man, ‘as there is no longer a secret, I do not know but that I may. Your aunt Green, you know, was nurse to Lady R—, and remained in the family for years afterwards; for old Sir Alexander Moystyn was confined to his room for years with gout and other complaints, and your aunt Green attended him. It was just as Sir Alexander had recovered from a very bad fit, that Miss Ellen, who was Lady R—’s sister, and years younger than she was, made her runaway match with Colonel Dempster, a very fashionable, gay young man, who had come down here to shoot with the present baronet. Everyone was much surprised at this, for all the talk was that the match would be with the eldest sister, Lady R—, and not the youngest. They went off somewhere abroad. Old Sir Alexander was in a terrible huff about it, and was taken ill again; and Lady R—, who was then Miss Barbara, appeared also much distressed at her sister’s conduct. Well, a year or more passed away, when, one day, Miss Barbara told your aunt Green that she wished her to go with her on a journey, and she set off in the evening with four post-horses, and travelled all night till she arrived at Southampton. There she stopped at a lodging, and got out, spoke to the landlady, and calling my daughter out of the chaise, desired her to remain below while she went upstairs. My daughter was tired of staying so long, for she remained there for five hours, and Miss Barbara did not make her appearance, but they appeared to be very busy in the house, running up and downstairs. At last a grave person, who appeared to be a doctor, came into the parlour, followed by the landlady—in the parlour in which my daughter was sitting.’

“‘It’s all over, Mrs Wilson,’ said he, ‘nothing could save her; but the child will do well, I have no doubt.’

“‘What’s to be done, sir?’

“‘Oh,’ replied the doctor, ‘the lady above stairs told me that she was her sister, so of course we must look to her for all future arrangements.’

“After giving a few directions about the infant, the doctor left the house, and soon after that Miss Barbara came downstairs.

“‘I’m quite worn out, Martha,’ said she, ‘let us go to the hotel as fast as we can. You sent away the carriage, of course. I would it had remained, for I shall hardly be able to walk so far.’

“She took her arm, and as the landlady opened the door, she said, ‘I will call to-morrow, and give directions about the infant, and everything which is necessary.’—‘I never went through such a trying scene,’ said Miss Barbara; ‘she was an old school-fellow of mine, who entreated me to come to her in her distress. She died giving birth to her infant, and it was, I presume, with that presentiment, that she sent for me and entreated me, on her death-bed, to protect the unfortunate child, for she has been cast away by her relations in consequence of her misconduct. You have never had the small-pox, Martha, have you?’

“‘No, miss,’ she replied, ‘you know I never have.’

“‘Well, it was having the small-pox at the same time that she was confined, that has caused her death, and that was the reason why I did not send for you to come up and assist.’

“‘My daughter made no answer, for Miss Barbara was of a haughty temper, and she was afraid of her; but she did not forget that the doctor had told the landlady that Miss Barbara had stated the lady to be her sister. My daughter had thought it very odd that Miss Barbara had not told her, during their journey, where she was going, and who she was going to see, for Miss Barbara had wrapped herself up in her cloak, and pretended to be asleep during the whole time, only waking up to pay the post-boys; but Miss Barbara was of a very violent temper, and had, since her sister’s marriage, been much worse than before; indeed, some said that she was a little mad, and used to walk at moonlights.

“‘When they arrived at the hotel, Miss Barbara went to bed, and insisted upon my daughter sleeping in the same room, as she was afraid of being alone in an hotel. My daughter thought over the business as she lay in bed, and at last resolved to ascertain the truth; so she got up early the next morning, and walked to the lodging-house, and when the door was opened by the landlady, pretended to come from her mistress to inquire how the infant was. The reply was that it was doing well; and then a conversation took place, in which my daughter found out that the lady did not die of the small-pox, as Miss Barbara had stated. The landlady asked my daughter if she would not like to come up and look at the corpse. My daughter consented, as it was what she was about to request, and when she went up, sure enough it was poor Mrs Dempster, Miss Ellen that was, who had run away with the colonel.

“‘An’t it a pity, ma’am,’ said the landlady, ‘her husband died only two months ago, and they say he was so handsome a man; indeed, he must have been, for here’s his picture, which the poor lady wore round her neck.’

“‘When your aunt had satisfied herself, and cried a little over the body, for she was very fond of Miss Ellen, she went back to the hotel as fast as she could, and getting a jug of warm water from the kitchen, she went into Miss Barbara’s room, and had just time to throw off her bonnet and shawl, when Miss Barbara woke up and asked who was there.

“‘It’s me, miss,’ replied my daughter, ‘I’ve just gone down for some warm water for you, for it’s past nine o’clock, and I thought you would like to be up early.’

“‘Yes, I must get up, Martha, for I intend to return home to-day. It’s no use waiting here. I will have breakfast, and then walk to the lodgings and give directions. You may pack up in the meantime, for I suppose you do not wish to go with me.’

“‘Oh, no, miss,’ replied your aunt, ‘I am frightened out of my wits at having been in the house already, now that I know that the lady died of the small-pox.’

“Well, Miss Barbara went away after breakfast and remained for two or three hours, when she returned, a servant bringing the baby with her. My daughter had packed up everything, and in half-an-hour they were on the road back, the baby with them in my daughter’s arms. Now, you see, if it had not been for the accidental remark of the doctor’s in your aunt’s presence, she would have been completely deceived by Miss Barbara, and never would have known whose child it was; but your aunt kept her own counsel; indeed, she was afraid to do otherwise.

“‘As they went home, Miss Barbara talked a great deal to your aunt, telling her that this Mrs Bedingfield was a great friend of hers, with whom she had corresponded for years after they had left school; that her husband had been killed in a duel a short time before, that he was a gambler, and a man of very bad character, nevertheless she had promised Mrs Bedingfield before she died, that she would take care of the child, and that she would do so. She then said, “Martha, I should like your mother to take charge of it, do you think that she would? but it must be a secret, for my father would be very angry with me, and besides, there might be unpleasant reports.” Your aunt replied, “that she thought that her mother would,” and then Miss Barbara proposed that your aunt should get out of the chaise when they stopped to change horses at the last stage, when it was dark, and no one could perceive it, and walk with the infant until she could find some conveyance to my house.

“‘This was done, the child was brought to your grandmother, who is now in heaven, and then your aunt made known to us what she had discovered, and whose child it was. I was very angry, and if I had not been laid up at the time with the rheumatism, would have gone right into Sir Alexander’s room, and told him who the infant was, but I was over-ruled by your grandmother and your aunt, who then went away and walked to the hall. So we agreed that we would say exactly what Miss Barbara said to us when she came over to us on the next day.’”

“Well, then, Lionel, I have to congratulate you on being the son of a gentleman, and the nephew of Lady R—. I wish you joy with all my heart,” said I, extending my hand.

“Thank you, Miss Valerie. It is true that I am so, but proofs are still to be given; but of that hereafter.”

“Lionel, you have been standing all this while. I think it would be most uncourteous if I did not request you to take a chair.” Lionel did so, and then proceeded with the old man’s narrative.

“‘About a month after this, Sir Richard R— came down, and after three weeks was accepted by Miss Barbara. It was a hasty match everyone thought, especially as the news of Mrs Dempster’s death had, as it was reported, been received by letter, and all the family had gone into mourning. Poor old Sir Alexander never held up his head afterwards, and in two months more he was carried to the family vault. Your aunt then came home to us, and as you have heard, married poor Green, who was killed in a poaching business about three months after his marriage. Then came your poor grandmother’s death of a quinsy, and so I was left alone with your aunt Green, who then took charge of the child, who had been christened by the name of Lionel Bedingfield. There was some talk about the child, and some wonders whose it could be; but after the death of Sir Alexander, and Miss Barbara had gone away with her husband, nothing more was thought or said about it. And now, boy, I’ve talked enough for to-day, to-morrow I’ll tell you the rest of the history.

“Perhaps, Miss Valerie, you think the same of me, and are tired with listening,” observed Lionel.

“Not at all; and I have leisure now which I may not have another time; besides your visits, if so frequent, may cause inquiries, and I shall not know what to say.”

“Well, then, I’ll finish my story this morning, Miss Valerie. The next day, old Roberts continued: ‘It was about three months after Sir Alexander’s death, when her brother, the new baronet, came down to Culverwood Hall, that Miss Barbara made her appearance again as Lady R—. Your grandmother was just buried, and poor Green had not been dead more than a month. Your aunt, who was much afflicted at the loss of her husband, and was of course very grave and serious, began to agree with me that it would be very wicked of us, knowing whose child it was, to keep the secret. Moreover, you aunt had become very fond of the infant, for it in a manner consoled her for the loss of her husband. Lady R— came to the cottage to see us, and we then both told her that we did not like to keep secret the child’s parentage, as it was doing a great injustice, if injustice had not been done already. Lady R— was very much frightened at what we said, and begged very hard that we would not expose her. She would be ruined, she said, in the opinion of her husband, and also of her own relations. She begged and prayed so hard, and made a solemn promise to us, that she would do justice to the child as soon as she could with prudence, that she overcame our scruples, and we agreed to say nothing at present. She also put a bank-note for 50 pounds into my daughter’s hands to defray expenses and pay for trouble, and told her that the same amount would be paid every year until the child was taken away.

“‘I believe this did more to satisfy our scruples than anything else. It ought not to have done so, but we were poor, and money is a great temptation. At all events, we were satisfied with Lady R—’s promise, and with her liberality; and from that time till the child was seven years old we received the money, and had charge of the boy. He was then taken away and sent to school, but where we did not know for some time. Lady R— was still very liberal to us, always stating her intention of acknowledging the child to be her nephew. At last my daughter was summoned to London, and sent to the school for the boy; Lady R— stating it to be her intention of keeping him at her own house, now that her husband was dead. This rejoiced us very much; but we had no idea that it was as a servant that he was to be employed, as your aunt afterwards found out, when she went up to London and called unexpectedly upon Lady R—. However, Lady R— said that what she was doing was for the best, and was more liberal than usual; and that stopped our tongues.

“‘Three years back your aunt left this place to find employment in London, and has resided there ever since as a clear-starcher and getter-up of lace; but she often sends me down money, quite sufficient to pay for all the few comforts and expenses required by a bedridden old man. There, Harry, now I’ve told you the whole story; and I am glad that I am able to do so, and that at last she has done justice to the lad, and there is no further a load upon my conscience, which often caused me to lay down my Bible, when I was reading, and sigh.’

“‘But,’ said I, ‘are you sure that she has acknowledged him as her nephew?’

“‘Am I sure! Why, did not you say so?’

“‘No; I only said that he was with her, travelling in her company.’

“‘Well, but—I understood you that it was all right.’

“‘It may be all right,’ replied I, ‘but how can I tell? I only saw them together. Lady R— may still keep her secret, for all I can say to the contrary. I don’t wonder at its being a load on your mind. I shouldn’t be able to sleep at nights; and, as for my reading my Bible, I should think it wicked to do so, with the recollection always before me, that I had been a party in defrauding a poor boy of his name, and, perhaps fortune.’

“‘Dear me! dear me! I’ve often thought as much, Harry.’

“‘Yes, grandfather, and, as you say, on the brink of the grave. Who knows but you may be called away this very night?’

“‘Yes, yes, who knows, boy,’ replied the old man, looking rather terrified; ‘but what shall I do?’

“‘I know what I would do,’ replied I. ‘I’d make a clean breast of it at once. I’d send for the minister and a magistrate, and state the whole story upon affidavit. Then you will feel happy again, and ease your mind, and not before.’

“‘Well, boy, I believe you are right, I’ll think about it. Leave me now.’

“‘Think about your own soul, sir—think of your own danger, and do not mind Lady R—. There can be but a bad reason for doing such an act of injustice. I will come again in an hour, sir, and then you will let me know your decision. Think about what the Bible says about those who defraud the widow and orphan. Good-bye for the present.’

“‘No, stop, boy, I’ve made up my mind. You may go to Mr Sewell, the clergyman, he often calls to see me, and I can speak to him. I’ll tell him.’

“I did not wait for the old man to alter his mind, but hastened as fast as I could to the parsonage-house, which was not four hundred yards distant. I went to the door and asked for Mr Sewell, who came out to me. I told him that old Roberts wanted to see him immediately, as he had an important confession to make.

“‘Is the old man going, then? I did not hear that he was any way dangerously ill?’