Valerie

These were tears of affection, of softness, almost of joy. They flowed noiselessly and gently, and they relieved me, for my heart was very full; and, when I was relieved, I bathed my face, and arranged my hair, and descended the staircase almost merrily to join the merry company in the garden.

I found on my joining them, that the Count de Chavannes had already completely gained the good graces, not only of Caroline and her young sisters-in-law, but of Mr Selwyn and the Judge also.

He had come down to Kew with the particular purpose of engaging my brother and Lionel to accompany him, on the next day but one, to Wormwood Scrubs, where there was to be a grand review, in honour of some foreign prince or other, of two or three regiments of light cavalry, with horse-artillery and rockets. It was to conclude with a sham fight, and which he thought would interest Auguste as a military man, and especially one who had commenced his service in the hussars, though he had been subsequently transferred into the line.

This plan had been discussed and talked over, until the ladies, having expressed a laughing desire to see the spectacle, it was decided that Caroline, the two Miss Selwyns and myself, escorted by Lionel, in the rumble, should go down to the review in the Judge’s carriage, Auguste and the Count accompanying us en cavalier, and that after the order of the day should be concluded, the whole party, including the Count, should return to dinner at Kew.

On the day following, as I did not think it either wise or correct to neglect my pupils, my chapel, or Mrs Bradshaw’s school, although I had sent satisfactory reasons for taking one week’s leave of absence, we were all to return to town; I to good Monsieur Gironac’s, Auguste and Lionel to the lodgings of the latter in Suffolk Street.

Monsieur de Chavannes did not stay long after I made my appearance, not wishing either to be, or to appear, de trop on a first visit; nor had he any opportunity of addressing more than a few common-place observations to me, had he desired to do so. Still I observed the same peculiarity in his manner towards me, as distinct as possible from the sort of proud humility, half badinage, half earnest, which he put on in talking with other ladies.

To me he observed a tone of serious softness, with something of earnest deference to everything that fell from my lips, however light or casual, for which he seemed to watch with the utmost eagerness.

He never joked with me, though he was doing so continually with the others; not that he was in the least degree grave or formal, much less stiff or affected; but rather that he seemed desirous of proving to me that he was not a mere butterfly of society, but had deeper ideas, and higher aspirations, than the every day world around us.

When he was going away, he for the first time put out his hand to me à l’anglaise, and as I shook hands with him, our eyes met once more, and I believe I again blushed a little; for though he dropped his gaze instantly, and bowed low, taking off his hat, he pressed my fingers very gently, ere he let them fall, and then turning to take his leave of the Judge and Mr Selwyn, who had just joined us, mounted his horse—a very fine hunter, by the way, which he sat admirably—again bowed low, and cantered off, followed by his groom, as well mounted as himself.

He was not well out of sight, before, as usual, he became the topic of general discussion.

“What a charming person,” said Caroline. “So full of spirit and vivacity, and yet so evidently a man of mind and good feeling. Where did you pick him up, Valerie?”

“He is an old friend, I told you, of Monsieur Gironac’s, and was calling there by accident when he met Auguste, and since that he has been exceedingly kind and civil to him. That is the whole I know about him.”

“Well, he is very handsome,” said Caroline; “don’t you think so, Valerie?”

“Yes,” I answered, quite composedly, “very handsome, a little effeminate-looking, perhaps.”

“Oh! no, not in the least,” said Caroline; “or if he is, so quick and clever and spirited-looking that it quite takes all that away.”

“Caroline,” said Selwyn, laughing, “you have no right to have eyes to see, or ears to hear, or mind to comprehend beauty, or wit, or any other good quality, in any one save me, your lord and master.”

“You, you monster!” she replied, laughing gaily, “I never thought you one bit handsome, or witty, or dreamed that you had one good quality. I only married you, you know as well as I do, to get away from school, and from the atrocious tyranny of my music-mistress there. You need not look fie! at me, Valerie, for I’m too big to be put in the corner, now, and he won’t let you whip me.”

“I think he ought to whip you, himself, baby,” replied the Judge, who had grown very fond of her; and, in truth, she was a very loveable little person in her way, and made her husband a very happy man.

“Now, Judge Selwyn,” interposed I, “do you remember a conversation we once had together, in which you endeavoured to force me to believe that men in general, and you in particular, were not tyrants to your wives and families, and now do I hear you giving your son such advice as that? Alas! what can make women so insane?”

“Don’t you know? Can’t you guess? Mademoiselle Valerie?” asked the old Judge, smiling slily, and with the least possible wink of his eye, when some of the others were looking at us, and then he added in a lower voice, “perhaps it will be your turn soon. I think you will soon be able to go to France without much fear of your mother’s persecution. Come,” he continued, offering me his arm, as the others had now moved a little way apart, “come and take a turn with me in the cedar-walk till dinner’s ready; I want to talk to you, for who knows when one will get another opportunity.”

I took his arm without reply, though my heart beat very fast, and I felt uncomfortable, knowing as I did perfectly well beforehand what he was going to say to me.

We turned into the cedar-walk, which was a long shadowy aisle, or bower, overhung with magnificent cedars of Lebanon, running parallel with the banks of the noble river, and so still and secluded that no more proper place could be found for a private consultation.

“Well,” said the old man, speaking gently, but not looking at me, perhaps for fear of embarrassing me by his eye, “you know I am in some sort, not only your legal adviser, but your self-constituted guardian, and father confessor—so now, without farther preamble, who is he, Valerie?”

“I will not affect to misunderstand you, Judge, though, upon my word, you are entirely mistaken in your conjecture.”

“Upon your word! entirely mistaken! I think, not—I am sure, not.”

“You are, indeed. I have not seen him above four times, nor spoken fifty words to him.”

“Never mind, never mind—who is he?”

“An acquaintance of Monsieur Gironac’s, Monsieur le Comte de Chavannes. His father emigrated hither during the revolution, engaged in commerce, and made a fortune of some 40,000 pounds. At the restoration, the old Count returned to France, and was made by Louis XVIII a Colonel of the Legion of Honour, and died shortly afterwards. There is an estate, I believe, in Brittany, but Monsieur de Chavannes, who was at school here, and has passed all his younger days in this country, is more an Englishman than a Frenchman, and only visits France at rare intervals. That is all I know about him, and that only by accident, Monsieur Gironac having told me, in his lively way, what I should not have dreamed of inquiring.”

“Very proper, indeed—and very good so far, but one would like to know something definite about a man before taking him for one’s husband.”

“I should think so, indeed, Judge; but as I am not going to take him for my husband, I am quite contented with knowing what I do know of him.”

“And what do you know?—of yourself,—I speak of your own knowledge? No hearsay evidence in the case.”

“Nothing more than that he is lively and agreeable, that he has very good manners, and seems very good-natured—I might say, he has been very good-natured to Auguste, poor fellow.”

“Poor fellow! Yes,” answered the Judge. “But men are very apt to be good-natured to poor fellows, who have got nice sisters, with whom they are in love.”

“I dare say, Judge. But to reply in your own phraseology—that is no case in point; for granting that Auguste’s sister is nice, which I will not be so modest as to gainsay, Monsieur de Chavannes is not the least in love with her.”

“Perhaps, not.”

“Certainly, not.”

“Well, be it so? What else do you know about him?”

“Nothing, Judge Selwyn.”

“Nothing of his character, his principles, his morals, or his habits?”

“Really, Judge, one would think, to hear you, that I was going to hire a footman—which I am much too poor to do—and that Monsieur de Chavannes had applied for the place. What on earth have I to do with the young gentleman’s character or principles? I know that he is very gentlemanlike, and is neither a coxcomb nor a pedant, which is refreshing in these days.”

“And, as Caroline says, very handsome, eh?”

“Yes, I think he is handsome,” I replied. “But that has nothing to do with it.”

“Not much, truly,” said the Judge drily. “And this is all you know?”

“Or desire to know. It seems to me quite enough to know of an acquaintance of a few days’ standing.”

“Well—well,” he answered, shaking his head a little.

“Well. He is all that you say. A very fine young man, he seems. I like him. Well, I will make inquiries.”

“Not on my account, I intreat, Judge Selwyn,”—said I, interrupting him eagerly.

“Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf,” he said drily, though half in jest, “my head is an old one, yours a very young one. I know young folks are apt to think old heads good for nothing.”

“I do not, I am sure,” interrupted I, again. “I do not, indeed.”

“Nor I, Valerie,”—he answered, interrupting me in his turn, with a good-natured smile. “So you shall let me have my way in this matter. But, to relieve you, my dear, permit me to observe that I have two daughters of my own, and one young son, besides Charles, who is old enough to take care of himself; and, though I am very glad to ask a young man to dine in my house who has, as you observe, very good manners, and is neither a fool nor a coxcomb, I am not at all willing that he should become what you call an habitué, until I know something of his character and principles. And now, as the dressing-bell has rung these ten minutes, and it will take you at least half-an-hour to beautify your little person, I advise you to make the most of your time. And by all means, Valerie, stick to your resolution—never marry, my dear, never marry; for all men are tyrants.”