One day he came, accompanied by Mrs Selwyn, who joined him very
earnestly in requesting me to pass a day or two with them at their
country house at Kew. I accepted the invitation, and they called for me
in their carriage on their way down. It was summer time, and I was very
glad to be out of London for a day or two. I found a charming family of
two sons and three daughters, grown up, and who appeared very
accomplished. Mr Selwyn then, for the first time, asked me whether I
was settled or not.
I told him no,--that I was giving lessons in music--that I sang at the
chapel, and that I was laying by money.
He said I was right, and that he hoped to be able to procure me pupils;
"But now," said he, "as I did not know that you had a voice, I must be
permitted to hear it, as otherwise I shall not be able to make my
report."
I sat down immediately and sang, and he and Mrs Selwyn, as well as the
daughters, were highly pleased with my performance. During my stay, Mr
Selwyn treated me in, I may say, almost a parental manner, and extracted
something more from me relative to my previous life, and he told me that
he thought I had done wisely in remaining independent, and not again
trusting to Lady M--or Madame d'Albret. I went afterwards several times
to their town house, being invited to evening parties, and people who
were there and heard my singing, sent for me to teach their daughters.
In six months after I had taken up my residence with the Gironacs, I was
in flourishing circumstances. I had twenty-eight pupils, ten at five
shillings per lesson, and eight at seven shillings, and they took
lessons twice a week. I had also a school for which I received about
five guineas per week, and the singing at the chapel, for which I
received three. In fact, I was receiving about eighteen pounds a week
during the winter season; but it must be confessed that I worked hard
for it, and expended two or three pounds a week in coach hire.
Nevertheless, although I now spent more money on my appearance, and had
purchased a piano, before the year was over I had paid 250 pounds into
Mr Selwyn's hands to take care of for me. When I thought of what might
have still been my position had it not been for the kindness of poor
Lady R--; when I reflected how I had been cast upon the world, young and
friendless, by Madame d'Albret, and that I was now making money rapidly
by my own exertions, and that at such an early age (for I was but little
past twenty years old), had I not reason to be grateful? I was so, and
most truly so, and moreover, I was happy, truly happy. All my former
mirth and vivacity, which had been checked during my sojourn in England,
returned. I improved every day in good looks, at least so everybody
told me but Mr Selwyn; and I gained that, which to a certain degree my
figure required, more roundness and expansion. And this was the poor
Valerie, supposed to have been drowned in the river Seine!
I forgot to say, that about three weeks after Lionel went to Paris, I
received a letter from Madame d'Albret, in which she thanked me warmly
for my having introduced the young Englishman to her, as she took it as
a proof of my really having forgiven her what she never should forgive
herself. She still indulged the hope that she might one day embrace me.
With respect to Lionel, she said that he appeared a modest, unassuming
young lad, and that it should not be her fault if he did not turn out an
accomplished gentleman; that he had already the best fencing and
music-masters, and was working very hard at the language. As soon as he
could speak French tolerably, he was to commence German and Italian.
She had procured him a _pension_ in an excellent French family, and he
appeared to be very happy.
I could not help reflecting, as I read the contents of this letter, upon
the change which had taken place in Lionel Dempster, as soon as he found
himself established in his rights. From an impudent, talkative page, he
at once became a modest, respectful, and silent young man. What could
have caused this change? Was it because, when a page, he felt himself
above his condition; and now, that he had gained a name and fortune,
that he felt himself beneath it? I decided, when I remembered how
anxious he was to improve himself, that such was the case; and I further
inferred that it showed a noble, generous, and sensitive mind. And I
now felt very glad that I had written to Madame d'Albret, and all my
objections to seeing her again were removed; why so? because I was
independent. It was my dependence that made me so proud and
unforgiving. In fact, I was on better terms with the world, now that I
had somewhat raised myself in it. I was one day talking over my life
with Mr Selwyn, and after pointing out how I had been taken in by my
ignorance and confidence, how much wiser I had become already from
experience, and my hopes that I should one day cease to be a dupe, he
replied, "My dear Miss Valerie, do not say so. To have been a dupe is
to have lived; we are dupes when we are full of the hope and warmth of
youth. I am an old man; my profession has given me great knowledge of
the world; knowledge of the world has made me cautious and indifferent,
but this has not added to my happiness, although it may have saved my
pocket. No, no; when we arrive at that point, when we warm before no
affection, doubting its truth; when we have gained this age-bought
experience, which has left our hearts as dry as the remainder biscuits
after a long voyage--there is no happiness in this, Valerie. Better to
be deceived, and trust again. I almost wish that I could now be the
dupe of a woman or a false friend, for I should then feel as if I were
young again."
"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 Adele 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 Adele, 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 _Hopital 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.