Valerie

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.

“To punish her,” I replied, “Oh, no, there can be no hurry; I shall be down at Kew in a fortnight or three weeks, I will take it with me then.”

“But my note, thanking Mr Selwyn, will be of very long date,” replied Caroline, “and I want the other piece of music belonging to me which I left at Kew.”

“Well, Caroline, you cannot expect me to be carrying your messages and going to the chambers of a handsome young Chancery-barrister. By-the-bye, I had a note from him this morning, telling me that his father is advanced to the bench. What does that mean?”

“That his father is made a judge. Is that all he said?” replied Caroline, carelessly.

“Why, now I think of it, he said that he would call upon me to-morrow, so I can give him this music when he calls.”

At this intelligence Caroline’s face brightened up, and she went away. Mr Selwyn called the next day, and I delivered the music and the note. He informed me that he had now all his father’s private as well as Chancery business, and wished to know whether he was to consider himself my legal adviser. I replied, “Certainly; but that he could not expect the business of a teacher of music to be very profitable.”

“No, nor do I intend that it shall be, but it will be a great pleasure,” replied he, very gallantly. “I hope you have some money to put by.”

“Yes,” replied I, “I have some, but not quite enough; by the end of the year I hope to have 500 pounds.”

“I am glad that you have told me, as a profitable investment may occur before that time, and I will secure it for you.”

He asked permission to read Caroline’s note, and then said that he would find the other piece of music, and leave it at Monsieur Gironac’s in the course of a day or two—after which he took his leave. I received that evening a letter from Lionel, which had a great effect upon me. In it, he stated that at the fencing-school he had made acquaintance with a young officer, a Monsieur Auguste de Chatenoeuf,—that he had mentioned to him that he knew a lady of his name in England; that the officer had asked him what the age of the lady might be, and he had replied.

“Strange,” said the officer; “I had a very dear sister, who was supposed to be drowned, although the body was never found. Can you tell me the baptismal name of the lady you mention?”

“It then occurred to me,” continued Lionel, “that I might be imprudent if I answered, and I therefore said that I did not know, but I thought you had been called by your friends, Annette.”

“‘Then it cannot be she,’ replied he, ‘for my sister’s name was Valerie. But she may have changed her name—describe to me her face and figure.’

“As I at once felt certain that you were the party, and was aware, that the early portion of your life was never referred to by you, I thought it advisable to put him off the scent, until I had made this communication. I therefore replied, ‘That’ (excuse me) ‘you were very plain, with a pug nose, and very short and fat.’

“‘Then it must be somebody else,’ replied the officer. ‘You made my heart beat when you first spoke about her, for I loved my sister dearly, and have never ceased to lament her loss.’

“He then talked a great deal of you, and gave me some history of your former life. I took the opportunity to ask whether your unnatural mother was alive, and he said, ‘Yes, and that your father was also alive and well.’

“I did not dare to ask more. Have I done right or wrong, my dear Mademoiselle Chatenoeuf? If wrong, I can easily repair the error. Your brother, for such I presume he is, I admire very much. He is very different from the officers of the French army in general, quite subdued, and very courteous, and there is a kind spirit in all he says, which makes me like him more. You have no idea of the feeling he showed, when he talked about you—that is, if it is you—which I cannot but feel almost certain that it is. One observation of his, I think it right to make known to you, which is, that he told me that since your supposed death, your father had never held up his head; indeed, he said that he had never seen him smile since.”

The above extract from Lionel’s letter created such a revulsion, that I was obliged to retire to my chamber to conceal my agitated feelings from Madame Gironac. I wept bitterly for some time. I thought of what my poor father must have suffered, and the regrets of poor Auguste at my supposed death; and I doubted whether I was justified in the act I had committed, by the treatment I had received from my mother. If she had caused me so much pain, was I right in having given so much to others who loved me? My poor father, he had never smiled since! Should I permit him to wear out his days in sorrowing for my loss—oh, no! I no longer felt any animosity against others who had ill-treated me. Surely, I could forgive even my mother, if not for love of her, at all events for love of my father and my brother. Yes, I would do so, I was now independent of my mother and all the family. I had nothing to fear from her; I could assist my family, if they required it.

Such were my first feelings—but then came doubts and fears. Could not my mother claim me? insist upon my living with her? prevent my earning my livelihood? or if I did employ myself, could she not take from me all my earnings? Yes, by the law of France, I thought she could. Then again, would she forgive me the three years of remorse? the three years during which she had been under the stigma of having, by her barbarity, caused her child to commit self-destruction? the three years of reproach which she must have experienced from my father’s clouded brow? Would she ever forgive me for having obtained my independence by the very talents which she would not allow me to cultivate? No, never, unless her heart was changed.

After many hours of reflection, I resolved that I would make known my existence to Auguste, and permit him to acquaint my father, under a promise of secrecy, but that I would not trust myself in France, or allow my mother to be aware of my existence, until I could ascertain what her power might be over me. But before I decided upon any thing, I made up my mind that I would make a confidant, and obtain the opinion of Judge Selwyn. By the evening’s post I wrote a note to him, requesting that he would let me know when I might have an interview.

An answer arrived the next day, stating, that Judge Selwyn would call and take me down with him to Kew, where I should sleep, and return to town with him on the following morning. This suited me very well, and, as soon as the carriage was off the stones, I said that I was now about to confide to him that portion of my life with which he was unacquainted, and ask his advice how I ought to proceed, in consequence of some intelligence lately communicated by Lionel. I then went into the whole detail, until I arrived at my being taken away from the barracks by Madame d’Albret; the remainder of my life he knew sufficient of, and I then gave him Lionel’s letter to read, and when he had done so, I stated to him what my wishes and what my fears were, and begged him to decide for me what was best to be done.

“This is an eventful history, Valerie,” said the old gentleman. “I agree with you on the propriety of making your existence known to your brother, and also to your father, who has been sufficiently punished for his cowardice. Whether your father will be able to contain his secret, I doubt very much; and from what you have told me of your mother, I should certainly not trust myself in France. I am not very well informed of the laws of the country, but it is my impression that children are there under the control of their parents until they are married. Go to France I therefore would not, unless it were as a married woman: then you will be safe. When does Lionel come over?”

“He will come at any time if I say I wish it.”

“Then let him come over, and invite your brother to come with him, then you can arrange with him. I really wish you were married, Valerie, and I wish also that my son was married; I should like to be a grandfather before I die.”

“With respect to my marrying, sir, I see little chance of that; I dislike the idea, and, in fact, it would be better to be with my mother at once, for I prefer an old tyranny to a new one.”

“It does not follow, my dear Valerie; depend upon it there are many happy marriages. Am I a tyrant in my own house? Does my wife appear to be a slave?”

“There are many happy exceptions, my dear sir,” replied I. “With respect to your son’s marrying, I think you need not despair of that; for it is my opinion that he very soon will be—but this is a secret, and I must say no more.”

“Indeed,” replied the judge, “I know of no one, and he would hardly marry without consulting me.”

“Yes, sir, I think that he will, and I shall advise him so to do—as it is necessary that nothing should be known till it is over. Trust to me, sir, that if it does take place, you will be quite satisfied with the choice which he makes; but I must have your pledge not to say one word about it. You might spoil all.”

The old judge fell back in his carriage in a reverie, which lasted some little while, and then said, “Valerie, I believe that I understand you now. If it is as I guess, I certainly agree with you that I will ask no more questions, as I should for many reasons not wish it to appear that I know any thing about it.”

Soon afterwards we arrived at Kew, and, after a pleasant visit, on the following morning early, I returned to town with the judge. I then wrote to Lionel, making known to him as much as was necessary, under pledge of secrecy, and stating my wish that he should follow up my brother’s acquaintance, and the next time that he came over, persuade him to accompany him, but that he was not to say any thing to him relative to my being his sister, on any account whatever.

Young Selwyn called the same day that I came from Kew, with the piece of music which was missing. I made no remarks upon the fact, that the music might have been delivered to me by his sister, because I felt assured that it contained a note more musical than any in the score; I gave it to Caroline, and a few days afterwards, observing that she was pale and restless, I obtained permission for her to go out with me for the day. Mr Selwyn happened to call a few minutes after our arrival at Madame Gironac’s, and that frequently occurred for nearly two months, when the time arrived that she was to be removed from the school.

The reader will, of course, perceive that I was assisting this affair as much as I could. I admit it; and I did so out of gratitude to Mr Selwyn’s father, for his kindness to me. I knew Caroline to be a good girl, and well suited to Mr Selwyn; I knew that she must eventually have a very large fortune; and, provided that her father and mother would not be reconciled to their daughter after the marriage, that Mr Selwyn had the means, by his practice, of supporting her comfortably without their assistance. I considered that I did a kindness to Caroline and to Mr Selwyn, and therefore did not hesitate; besides, I had other ideas on the subject, which eventually turned out as I expected, and proved that I was right.

On the last day of September, Caroline slipped out, and followed me to Madame Gironac’s; Mr Selwyn was ready with the licence. We walked to church, the ceremony was performed, and Mr Selwyn took his bride down to his father’s house at Kew. The old judge was somewhat prepared for the event, and received her very graciously. Mrs Selwyn and his sisters were partial to Caroline, and followed the example of the judge. Nothing could pass off more quietly or more pleasantly. For reasons which I did not explain, I requested Mr Selwyn, for the present, not to make known his marriage to Caroline’s parents, as I considered it would be attended with great and certain advantage; and he promised me that he would not only be silent upon the subject, but that all his family should be equally so.

If Mrs Bradshaw required two bottles of eau-de-Cologne and water to support her when she heard of the elopement of Adèle Chabot, I leave the reader to imagine how many she required, when an heiress entrusted to her charge had been guilty of a similar act.

As Caroline had not left with me, I was not implicated, and the affair was most inscrutable. She had never been seen walking, or known to correspond with any young man. I suggested to Mrs Bradshaw that it was the fear of her father removing her from her protection which had induced her to run away, and that most probably she had gone to her aunt Bathurst’s. Upon this hint, she wrote to Mr Stanhope, acquainting him with his daughter’s disappearance, and giving it as her opinion that she had gone to her aunt’s, being very unwilling to return home. Mr Stanhope was furious; he immediately drove to Madame Bathurst’s, whom he had not seen for a long time, and demanded his daughter. Madame Bathurst declared that she knew nothing about her. Mr Stanhope expressed his disbelief, and they parted in high words.

A few days afterwards, the Colonel and Adèle came to town, the three months acceded to her wishes having expired; and now I must relate what I did not know till some days afterwards, when I saw Adèle, and who had the narrative from her husband.

It appeared, that as soon as the Colonel arrived in London, still persuaded that he had married Caroline Stanhope, and not Adèle Chabot, without stating his intention to her, he went to Grosvenor Square, and requested to see Mr Stanhope. This was about a fortnight after Caroline’s elopement with Mr Selwyn. He was admitted, and found Mr and Mrs Stanhope in the drawing-room. He had sent up his card, and Mr Stanhope received him with great hauteur.

“What may your pleasure be with me, sir?” (looking at the card). “Colonel Jervis, I think you call yourself?”

Now, Colonel Jervis was a man well known about town, and, in his own opinion, not to know him argued yourself unknown; he was, therefore, not a little angry at this reception, and being a really well-bred man, was also much startled with the vulgarity of both parties.

“My name, Mr Stanhope, as you are pleased to observe,” said the Colonel, with hauteur, “is Jervis, and my business with you is relative to your daughter.”

“My daughter, sir?”

“Our daughter! Why, you don’t mean to tell us that you have run away with our daughter?” screamed Mrs Stanhope.

“Yes, madam, such is the fact; she is now my wife, and I trust that she is not married beneath herself.”

“A Colonel!—a paltry Colonel!—a match for my daughter! Why, with her fortune she might have married a Duke,” screamed Mrs Stanhope. “I’ll never speak to the wretch again. A Colonel, indeed! I suppose a Militia-Colonel. I daresay you are only a Captain, after all. Well, take her to barracks, and to barracks yourself. You may leave the house. Not a penny—no, not a penny do you get. Does he, Stanhope?”

“Not one half a farthing,” replied Mr Stanhope, pompously. “Go, sir; Mrs Stanhope’s sentiments are mine.”

The Colonel, who was in a towering passion at the treatment he received, now started up, and said, “Sir and Madam, you appear to me not to understand the usages of good society, and I positively declare, that had I been aware of the insufferable vulgarity of her parents, nothing would have induced me to marry the daughter. I tell you this, because I care nothing for you. You are on the stilts at present, but I shall soon bring you to your senses; for know, Sir and Madam, although I did elope with and married your daughter, the marriage is not legal, as she was married under a false name, and that was her own act—not mine. You may, therefore, prepare to receive your daughter back, when I think fit to send her—disgraced and dishonoured; and then try if you can match her with a Duke. I leave you to digest this piece of information, and now wish you good-morning. You have my address, when you feel inclined to apologise, and do me the justice which I shall expect before a legal marriage takes place.”