Valerie

“But, sir,” replied I, “your conduct is at variance with your language; why else such kindness shown to me, a perfect stranger, and one without claims upon you?”

“You over-rate my little attention, my dear Valerie; but that proves that you have a grateful heart. I speak of myself as when in contact with the world. You forget that I have domestic ties to which the heart is ever fresh. Were it not for home and the natural affections, we men would be brutes indeed. The heart, when in conflict with the world, may be compared to a plant scorched by the heat of the sun; but, in the shade of domestic repose, it again recovers its freshness for the time.”

I have stated, that through the recommendation and influence of a Mademoiselle Adèle Chabot, I taught music at an establishment for young ladies at Kensington. It was what is called a finishing-school. The terms were very high, and the young ladies did not always sit down to boiled mutton; but, from what I learnt from Adèle, in other points it was not better than schools in general; but it had a reputation, and that was sufficient.

One day, I was informed by Mrs Bradshaw, the proprietress of the establishment, that I was to have a new pupil the next quarter, which was very near; and when it did arrive, and the young lady was brought in, who should it be but Caroline, my former companion and pupil at Madame Bathurst’s?

“Valerie!” exclaimed she, rushing into my arms.

“My dear Caroline, this is an unexpected pleasure,” said I; “but how came you here?”

“I will tell you some day,” replied Caroline, not wishing to talk about her family while the teacher, who came in with her, was present.

“I hope Madame Bathurst is well?” inquired I.

“Quite well, when I saw her last,” said Caroline.

“Well, my dear, we must work, and not talk, for my time is valuable,” said I; “so sit down, and let me hear whether you have improved since I last gave you a lesson.”

The teacher then left the room, and Caroline, having run over a few bars, stopped, and said, “I never can play till I have talked to you, Valerie. You asked me how I came here. At my own request; or, if a girl may use such language, because I insisted upon it. I was so uncomfortable at home, that I could bear it no longer. I must speak against my father and mother—I cannot help it; for it is impossible to be blind; they are so strange, so conceited, so spoiled by prosperity, so haughty and imperious, and so rude and uncouth to any whom they consider beneath them, that it is painful to be in their company. Servants will not remain a month in the house—there is nothing but exchange, and everything is uncomfortable. After having lived with my aunt Bathurst, who you will acknowledge to be a lady in every respect, I really thought that I was in a Hôpital de Fous. Such assumption, such pretension, such absurdities, to all which they wished to make me a party. I have had a wilderness of governesses, but not one would or could submit to the humiliations which they were loaded with. At last, by rebelling in every way, I gained my point, and have escaped to school. I feel that I ought not to speak disparagingly of my parents, but still I must speak the truth to you, although I would say nothing to others; so do not be angry with me, Valerie.”

“I am more sorry that it is so, than that you should tell me of it, Caroline; but from what I saw during my short visit, I can fully give credit to all you have said.”

“But is it not a hard case, Valerie, when you cannot respect your parents?” replied Caroline, putting her handkerchief to her eyes.

“It is, my dear; but still on the whole, it is perhaps for the best. You were taken from your parents, and were well brought up; you return to them, and find them many degrees below you in the scale of refinement, and therefore you cannot respect them. Now, if you had never left them, you would, of course, have remained down at their level, and would have respected them, having imbibed the same opinions, and perceiving nothing wrong in their conduct. Now which of the two would you prefer, if you had the power to choose?”

“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.”