"It was but too true. It appeared that Colonel Dempster, who had been informed by my brother of my temper and disposition, and who was aware that without paying court to me, his visit would not be extended, and who had fallen in love with Ellen almost as soon as he saw her, had practised this dissimulation towards me to enable him, without my knowledge, to gain my sister's affections; that his mornings were not spent in shooting with my brother, as was supposed, but in my sister Ellen's company; my brother, to whom he had acknowledged his attachment, conniving with him to deceive me. A letter from the colonel to my father, excusing himself for the step he had taken, and requesting him to pardon his daughter, was brought in the same morning and read by me. 'Very foolish of him,' said my father; 'what is the use of stealing what you may have for asking. He might have had Ellen if he had spoken to me; but I always thought that he was courting you, Barbara.'

"This letter, proving the truth of the report, was too much for me; I fell down at my father's feet in a violent fit, and was carried to my bed. The next day I was seized with a brain fever, and it was doubtful if ever my reason would return. But it did gradually, and, after a confinement to my room of three months, I recovered both health and reason; partially, I may say, for I doubt not but that the shock I then received has had a lasting effect upon me, and that it has caused me to be the unsettled, restless, wandering thing that I now am, only content when in motion, and using my pen to create an artificial excitement. I believe most people are a little cracked before they begin to write. I will not assert that it is a proof of madness, but it is a proof that a very little more would make them mad. Shakespeare says 'the lover, the lunatic, and the poet, are of an imagination all compact.' It matters little whether it is prose or poetry; there is often more imagination and more poetry in prose than in rhyme. But to proceed—

"I arose with but one feeling—that of revenge; I say but one feeling, alas! I had forgotten to mention hatred, the parent of that revenge. I felt myself mortified and humiliated, cruelly deceived and mocked. My love for him was now turned to abhorrence, and my sister was an aversion. I felt that I never could forgive her. My father had not replied to the colonel's letter; indeed, the gout in his hand prevented him, or he would probably have done so long before I left my room. Now that I was once more at his side, he said to me,

"'Barbara, I think it is high time to forgive and forget. I would have answered the colonel's letter before, but I could not. Now we must write and ask them to come and pay us a visit.'

"I sat down and wrote the letter, not according to his dictation, which was all kindness, but stating that my father would never forgive him or my sister, and requested all correspondence might cease, as it would be useless.

"'Read what you have said, Barbara.'

"I read the letter as if it was written according to his wishes.

"'That will do, dearest—they'll come back fast enough. I long to have Ellen in my arms again—she was very precious to me that child, for she cost the life of your dear mother. I want to ask her why she ran away. I really believe that it was more from fear of your anger than of mine, Barbara.'

"I made no reply, but folded the letter and sealed it. As I always opened the post-bag, I prevented my father from ever receiving the many letters written by my poor sister, imploring his forgiveness, and did all I could to excite his anger against her. At last I found out from her letters, that they had gone to the continent. Months passed. My poor father fretted sadly at the silence of Ellen, and the supposed rejection of his kind overtures. His unhappy state of mind had evidently an effect upon his body; he grew weaker and more querulous every day. At last a letter arrived from Ellen, which I now blush to say, gave me inexpressible joy. It announced the death of her husband— a trifling wound on the thumb having terminated in locked-jaw and death.

"'He is dead, then,' thought I; 'if I lost him, she has no longer possession of him.'

"Alas! what a demon had taken possession of me! The letter further said, that she was coming over directly, and that she expected to be shortly confined. This letter was addressed to me, and not to my father. The death of her husband did not diminish my hatred against my sister; on the contrary, I felt as if I had her now in my power, and that my revenge upon her was about to be accomplished. After meditating upon what course I should pursue, I determined to write to her. I did so, stating that my father's anger was not to be appeased; that I had tried all I could to soften his wrath, but in vain; that he was growing weaker every day, and I thought her rash conduct had been the cause of it; that I did not think that he could last much longer, and I would make another appeal to him in her favour, which the death of her husband would probably occasion to be more successful.

"In a fortnight I had a reply, in which my poor sister invoked blessings on my head for my supposed kindness, and told me that she was in England, and expected every hour to be confined; that she was ill in body and in spirits, and did not think that she could get over it. She begged me, by the remembrance of our mother, who died giving her birth, that I would come to her. Surely I might have forgiven my enmity after all that the poor girl had suffered; but my heart was steeled.

"On consideration, I now thought proper to tell my father that Colonel Dempster was dead, and my sister returned to England,—adding her request that I would attend her in her confinement, and my willingness so to do. My poor father was much shocked, and begged me in a tremulous voice to set off immediately. I promised so to do, but requested that he would not say a word to anyone as to the cause of my absence until he heard from me, as it would occasion much talk among the servants, and perhaps ill-natured remarks might be made. He promised, and I departed, with a maid who had been my nurse, and upon whose secrecy I thought I could rely. What my intentions were, I can hardly say; all I knew was, that my revenge was not satiated, and I would leave no opportunity of wreaking it that offered.

"I found my sister in the very pangs of labour, heartbroken at the supposed resentment of my father, and his refusal of his forgiveness. I did not alleviate her misery by telling her the truth, which I might have done. I was indeed a demon, or possessed by one.

"She died giving birth to a boy. I then felt sorrow, until I looked at the child, and saw that it was the image of the colonel—the man who had caused me such misery. Again my passions were roused, and I vowed that the child should never know his father. I made my maid believe that the lady I visited was an old school-fellow, and never mentioned my sister's name, at least I thought so at the time, but I afterwards found that I had not deceived her. I persuaded her to take the child to her father's, saying that I had promised my friend on her death-bed that I would take care of it, but that it must be a secret, or invidious remarks would be made. I then returned to Culverwood Hall, dropping my nurse and the child on my way, and reported to my father my sister's death, of course concealing that the child was living. Sir Alexander was much affected, and wept bitterly; indeed, from that day he rapidly declined.

"I had now satiated my revenge, and was sorry when I had done so. Until then I had been kept up by excitement, now all excitement was over, and I had time for reflection; I was miserable, and in a state of constant warfare with my conscience; but, in vain, the more I reflected, the more I was dissatisfied with myself, and would have given worlds that I could recall what I had done.

"At this time, Sir Richard R—came down on a visit. He admired me, proposed, and was accepted, chiefly that I might remove from the hall, than for any other cause. I thought that new scenes and change of place would make me forget, but I was sadly mistaken. I went away with my husband, and as soon as I was away, I was in a constant fright lest my nurse should betray me to my father, and begged Sir Richard to shorten his intended tour and allow me to return to the hall, as the accounts of my father's health were alarming. My husband consented, and I had not been at the hall more than a fortnight, when my father's death relieved me from further anxiety on that score.

"Another fear now possessed me; I saw by my father's will that he had left 5,000 pounds to me, and also to my sister, in case of one dying, the survivor to have both sums, but the same cause of alarm was in my great aunt's will. My great aunt had left 10,000 pounds to me, and 10,000 pounds to my sister Ellen, to be settled upon us at our marriage, and in case of either dying without issue, the survivor to be legatee. Thus in two instances, by concealing the birth of the child, I was depriving it of its property, and obtaining it for myself. That I was ignorant of these points is certain, and unfortunate it was that it was so, for had I known it, I would not have dared to conceal the birth of the child, lest I should have been accused of having done so for pecuniary considerations, and I well knew, that if betrayed by my nurse, such would be the accusation made against me. I would willingly even now, have acknowledged the child as my nephew, but knew not how to do so, as my husband had possession of the money, and I dared not confess the crime that I had been guilty of. If ever retribution fell upon any one, it fell upon me. My life was one of perfect misery, and when I found that my nurse and her father objected to keeping the secret any longer, I thought I should have gone distracted. I pointed out to them the ruin they would entail upon me, and gave my solemn promise that I would see justice done to the child. This satisfied them. For several years I lived an unhappy life with my husband, until I was at last relieved by his death. You may ask how it was that I did not acknowledge the child at his death; the fact was, that I was afraid. I had put him to school, and he was then twelve or thirteen years old. I removed him to my own house, with the intention of so doing, and because my nurse and her father reminded me of my promise; but when he was in my house, I could not see my way, or how I could tell the story without acknowledging my guilt, and this pride prevented.

"I remained thus irresolute, every day putting off the confession, till the boy, from first being allowed to remain in the drawing-room, sank down into the kitchen. Yes, Valerie, Lionel, the page, the lacquey, is Lionel Dempster, my nephew. I said that I could not bear to make the avowal, and such is the case. At last I satisfied myself that what I did was for the boy's good. Alas! how easy we satisfy ourselves when it suits our views. I had left him my property, I had educated him, and I said, by being brought up in a humble position, he will be cured of pride, and will make a better man. Bad reasoning, I acknowledge.

"Valerie, I have left you my executrix, for even after my death I would as much as possible avoid exposure. I would not be the tale of the town, even for a fortnight, and it certainly will not help Lionel, when it is known to all the world that he has served as a footman. My solicitor knows not who my nephew is, but is referred to you to produce him. In a small tin box in the closet of my bedroom, you will find all the papers necessary for his identification, and also the names and residence of the parties who have been my accomplices in this deed; also all the intercepted letters of my poor sister's. You must be aware that Lionel is not only entitled to the property I have left him, but also to his father's property, which, in default of heirs, passed away to others. Consult with my solicitor to take such steps as are requisite, without inculpating me more than is necessary; but if required, let all be known to my shame, rather than the lad should not be put in possession of his rights.

"You will, I am afraid, hate my memory after this sad disclosure; but in my extenuation recall to mind how madly I loved, how cruelly I was deceived. Remember, also, that if not insane, I was little better at the time I was so criminal; and may it prove to you a lesson how difficult it is, when once you have stepped aside into the path of error ever to recover the right track.

"You now know all my sufferings, all my crimes. You now know why I have been, not without truth, considered as a person eccentric to folly, and occasionally on the verge of madness. Forgive me and pity me, for I have indeed been sufficiently punished by an ever torturing conscience!

"Barbara R—."



CHAPTER NINE.

I put the papers down on the table as soon as I had finished them, and for a long while was absorbed in meditation.

"Is it possible," thought I, "that love disappointed can turn to such fury—can so harden the heart to all better feelings—induce a woman to shorten the days of her parent—to allow a sister to remain in painful error on her death-bed, and wreak vengeance upon an innocent being, regardless of all justice? Grant, then, that I may never yield to such a passion! Who would have ever imagined, that the careless, eccentric Lady R—had such a load of crime weighing her down, and daily and hourly reminded of it by the presence of the injured party? How callous she must have become by habit, to still delay doing an act of justice—how strange that the fear of the world and its opinion should be greater than the fear of God!"

This last remark proved how little I yet knew of the world, and then my thoughts went in a different direction. As I have already said, I had been brought up as a Catholic; but, after my grandmother's death, I had little encouragement or example shown me in religious duties. Now, having been more than two years in England, and continually with Protestants, I had gone to the established Protestant church with those I resided with at first; because I considered it better to go to that church, although I knew it to be somewhat at variance with my own, rather than go to no church at all, and by habit I was gradually inclining to Protestantism; but now the idea came across my mind, if Lady R—had confessed as we Catholics do, this secret could not have been kept so long; and, if she withheld herself from the confessional, had her agents been Catholics, the secret would have been divulged to the priest by them, and justice would have been done to Lionel; and, having made this reflection, I felt as it were, that I was again a sincere Catholic.

After a little more reflection, I put away the papers, wrote a letter to Mr Selwyn, the solicitor, requesting that he would call upon me the following morning, and then went down to Lady M—.

"I suppose that we shall not have much of the pleasure of your company, Miss de Chatenoeuf," said her ladyship, "now that you have such a novel occupation?"

"It is a very distressing one," replied I, "and I wish Lady R—had not paid me such a compliment. Might I trespass upon your ladyship's kindness to request the loan of the carriage for half-an-hour to obtain some papers from Lady R—'s house in Baker Street?"

"Oh, certainly," replied her ladyship. "Pray have you seen Lady R—'s will?"

"Yes, madame."

"And how has she disposed of her property?"

"She has left it all to her nephew, Lady M—."

"Nephew! I never heard her speak of a nephew before. Sir Richard had no nephews or nieces, for he was an only son, and the title has now gone into the Vivian branch, and I never heard of her having a nephew. And what has she left you, mademoiselle, if it is not asking too much?"

"Lady R—has left me 500 pounds, my lady."

"Indeed! well then, she pays you for your trouble. But really, Miss de Chatenoeuf, I do wish you could put off this business until after the marriages. I am so hurried and worried that I really do not know which way to turn, and really I have felt your loss these last two days more than you can imagine. You are so clever, and have so much taste, that we cannot get on without you. It's all your own fault," continued her ladyship, playfully, "you are so good-natured, and have made us so dependent upon you, that we cannot let you off now. Nothing in the trousseaux is approved of, unless stamped by the taste of Mademoiselle Valerie de Chatenoeuf. Now, a week cannot make a great difference, and lawyers love delay: will you oblige me, therefore, by leaving Lady R—'s affairs for the present?"

"Certainly, Lady M—," replied I. "I will stop a letter I was about to send to her solicitor, and write another to the effect you wish, and I will not repeat my request for the carriage until after the marriages have taken place."

"Many thanks," replied her ladyship, and I went out, took my letter from the hall table, and wrote another to Mr Selwyn, stating that I could not enter into any business until the following week, when I should be prepared to receive him.

I wrote another to the same effect to Lionel, requesting him not to call again, but that I would write and let him know where to meet me as soon as I was more at leisure.

Indeed I was glad that Lady M—had made the request, as the trouble and chattering and happy faces which were surrounding the trousseaux, and the constant employment and appeals made to me, drove away the melancholy which Lady R—'s affairs had occasioned me. I succeeded to a great degree in recovering my spirits, and exerted myself to my utmost, so that everything was complete and satisfactory to all parties two days before the wedding was to take place.

At last, the morning came. The brides were dressed and went down into the drawing-room, frightened and perplexed, but their tears had been shed above. The procession of carriages moved on to Hanover Square; there was a bishop of course, and the church was filled with gay and tastefully-dressed women. The ceremony was performed, and the brides were led into the vestry-room to recover, and receive kisses and congratulations. Then came the banquet, which nobody hardly tasted except the bishop, who had joined too many couples in his lifetime to have his appetite at all affected by the ceremony, and some two or three others who were old stagers on the road of life, and who cared little whether it was a wedding-breakfast, or refreshments after a funeral.

At last, after a most silent entertainment, the brides retired to change their dresses, and, when they re-appeared, they were handed into the carriages of their respective bridegrooms as soon as they could be torn away from the kisses and tears of Lady M—, who played the part of a bereaved mother to perfection. No one to have seen her then, raving like another Niobe, would have imagined that all her thoughts and endeavours and manoeuvres, for the last three years, had been devoted to the sole view of getting them off; but Lady M—was a perfect actress, and this last scene was well got up.

As her daughters were led down to the carriages, I thought that she was going to faint; but it appeared, on second thoughts, that she wished first to see the girls depart in their gay equipages; she therefore tottered to the window, saw them get in, looked at Newman's greys and gay postillions—at the white and silver favours—the dandy valet and smart lady's-maid in each rumble. She saw them start at a rattling pace, watched them till they turned the corner of the square, and then— and not till then—fell senseless in my arms, and was carried by the attendants into her own room.

After all, the poor woman must have been very much worn out, for she had been for the last six weeks in a continual worry lest any contre-temps should happen, which might have stopped or delayed the happy consummation.

The next morning her ladyship did not leave her room, but sent word down that the carriage was at my service; but I was fatigued and worn out, and declined it for that day. I wrote to Lionel and to Mr Selwyn, desiring them to meet me in Baker Street, at two o'clock the next day; and then passed the day quietly, in company with Amy, the third daughter of Lady M—, whom I have before mentioned. She was a very sweet, unaffected girl; and I was more partial to her than to her sisters, who had been just married. I had paid great attention to her, for she had a fine voice, and did credit to my teaching, and there was a great intimacy between us, arising on my part from my admiration of her ingenuous and amiable disposition, which even her mother's example to the contrary could not spoil.

After some conversation relative to her sisters and their husbands, she said, "I hardly know what to do, Valerie. I love you too well to be a party to your being ill-treated, and yet I fear that you will be pained if I tell you what I have heard about you. I know also that you will not stay, if I do tell you, and that will give me great pain; but that is a selfish feeling which I could overcome. What I do not like is hurting your feelings. Now, tell me candidly, ought I to tell you, or not?"

"I will give you my opinion candidly," replied I. "You have said too little or too much. You speak of my being ill-treated; certainly, I should wish to guard against that, although I cannot imagine who is my enemy."

"Had I not heard it, I could not have believed it either," replied she. "I thought that you had come here on a visit as a friend; but what makes me think that I ought to tell you is, that there will be something said against your character, which I am sure, must be false."

"Now, indeed, I must request that you will tell me everything, and soften nothing down, but tell me the whole truth. Who is it that intends to attack my character?"

"I am sorry—very sorry to say, it is mamma," replied she, wiping away a tear.

"Lady M—!" exclaimed I.

"Yes," replied she; "but now you must listen to all I have to say. I am sure that I am doing right in telling you, and therefore nothing shall prevent me. I love my mother—what a sad thing it is that I cannot respect her! I was in the dressing-room, when my mother was lying on the sofa in her bedroom this morning, when her great friend, Mrs Germane, came up. She sat talking with my mother for some time, and they appeared either to forget or not to care if I heard them; for at last your name was mentioned.

"'Well, she does dress you and your girls beautifully, I must say,' said Mrs Germane. 'Who is she? They say that she is of a good family; and how came she to live with you as a milliner?'

"'My dear Mrs Germane, that she does live with me as a milliner is true, and it was for that reason only I invited her to the house; but she is not aware that I retain her in that capacity. She is, I understand from Mrs Bathurst, of a noble family in France, thrown upon the world by circumstances, very talented, and very proud. Her extreme taste in dress I discovered when she was living with Mrs Bathurst; and, when I found that she was about, through my management, to leave Lady R—, I invited her here as a sort of friend, and to stay with my daughters—not a word did I mention about millinery; I had too much tact for that. Even when her services were required, I made it appear as her own offer, and expressed my thanks for her condescension, and since that, by flattery and management, she has continued to dress my daughters for me; and, I must say, that I do believe it has been owing to her exquisite taste that my daughters have gone off so well.'

"'Well, you have managed admirably,' replied Mrs Germane; 'but, my dear Lady M—, what will you do with her now?'

"'Oh,' replied Lady M—, 'as Amy will now come out, I shall retain her in my employ until she is disposed of; and then—'

"'Yes, then will be the difficulty,' replied Mrs Germane; 'after having allowed her to live so long with you as a visitor, I may say, how will you get rid of her?'

"'Why, I was puzzling myself about that, and partly decided that it should be done by mortifying her, and wounding her feelings, for she is very proud; but, fortunately, I have found out something which I shall keep to myself, until the time comes, and then I can dismiss her at a moment's warning.'

"'Indeed!' said Mrs Germane, 'what could you have found out?'

"'Well, I will tell you; but you must not mention it again. My maid entered the room the other day, when mademoiselle was receiving a young man who called upon her, and she found them kissing.'

"'You don't say so!'

"'Yes, a kiss was given, and my maid saw it. Now, I can easily make it appear that my maid never mentioned it to me till the time that it may be convenient to make use of it, and then I can send her away; and if any questions are asked, hint at a little impropriety of conduct.'

"'And very properly too,' replied Mrs Germane. 'Had I not better hint a little beforehand to prepare people?'

"'Why, it may be as well, perhaps; but be cautious, very cautious, my dear Mrs Germane.'

"Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, I am sorry that I am obliged, in doing my duty to you, to expose mamma," said Amy, rising up from her chair; "but I am sure that you could not be guilty of any impropriety, and I will not allow you to be accused of it, if it is to be prevented."

"Many thanks," replied I. "My dear Amy, you have behaved like a kind friend. I have only, in duty to myself, to clear up the charge against me, of impropriety. You must not imagine me guilty of that. It is true that your mother's maid did come in when a young lad of seventeen, who was grateful to me for the interest I took in his welfare, and who was taking leave of me at the time, did raise my hand to his lips and kiss it, and, had he done so before your mother, I should not have prevented it. This was the kiss which, as your mother asserts, passed between us, and this is the only impropriety that took place. Oh, what a sad, treacherous, selfish, wicked world this is!" cried I, throwing myself on the sofa, and bursting into tears.

Amy was making every attempt to console me, and blaming herself for having made the communication, when Lady M—came downstairs into the room.

"What is all this—what a scene!" exclaimed she. "Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, have you had any bad news?"

"Yes, my lady," replied I, "so bad that I am under the necessity of leaving you directly."

"Indeed! may I inquire what has happened?"

"No, my lady, it is not in my power to tell you. I have only to repeat, that I must, with your permission, leave this house to-morrow morning."

"Well, mademoiselle," replied her ladyship, "I do not want to pry into your secrets, but this I must say, that where there is concealment, there must be wrong; but I have lately discovered so much, that I do not wonder at concealment—nor am I, indeed, surprised at your wish to leave me."

"Lady M—," replied I, haughtily, "I have never done anything during the time that I have been under your roof which I have to blush for—nor indeed anything that requires concealment. This I can proudly say. If I conceal now, it is to spare others, and, I may add, to spare you. Do not oblige me to say more in presence of your daughter. It will be sufficient for me to hint to you, that I am now aware why I was invited to your house, and what are your plans for dismissing me when it suits you."

"Eaves-dropping, then, is a portion of your character, mademoiselle," cried Lady M—, colouring up to the temples.

"No, madam, such is not the case, and that is all the answer I shall give; it is sufficient for you that you are exposed, and I do not envy your present feelings. I have only to repeat, that I shall leave this house to-morrow morning, and I will not further trouble your ladyship with my company."

I then walked out of the room, and as I passed Lady M—, and observed her confusion and vexation, I felt that it was she who was humiliated, and not me. I went up to my room and commenced my preparations for immediate departure, and had been more than an hour busy in packing up, when Amy came into my room.

"Oh, Valerie, how sorry I am—but you have behaved just as I think that you ought to have done; and how very kind of you not to say that I told you. My mother was so angry after you left; said that the maids must have been listening, and declares she will give them all warning; but I know that she will not do that. She spoke about your meeting a young man, and kissing going on; but you have already explained all that."

"Amy," replied I, "after I am gone, take an opportunity of saying to Lady M—, that you mentioned this to me, and tell her that my reply was, if Lady M—knew who that young man was, how he is connected, and how large a fortune he will inherit, she would be very glad to see him kiss one of her daughter's hands with a different feeling from that which induced him to kiss mine."

"I will, depend upon it," said Amy, "and then mamma will think that she has lost a good husband for me."

"She will meet him some of these days," replied I; "and what is more, he will defend me from any attack made on that score."

"I will tell her that, also," said Amy, "it will make her careful of what she says."

One of the servants then knocked at the door, and said, that Lady M— wished to see Miss Amy.

"Wish me good-bye now," said I, "for you may not be permitted to see me again."

The dear girl embraced me cordially, and, with tears in her eyes, left the room. I remained till I had finished packing, and then sat down. Shortly afterwards her ladyship's maid came in, and delivered me an envelope from her ladyship, enclosing the salary due to me, with Lady M—'s compliments written outside.

I saw no more of Lady M—or her daughter that evening. I went to bed, and, as in my former changes, I reflected what steps I should take. As for the treatment I had received, I was now to a certain degree hardened to it, and my feelings certainly were not so acute as when, the first time, I had received a lesson of what I might expect through life from the heartlessness and selfishness of the world; but in the present case there was a difficulty which did not exist in the former—I was going away without knowing where I was to go. After a little thought, I determined that I would seek Madame Gironac, and ascertain whether she could not receive me until I had decided upon my future plans.

My thoughts then recurred to other points. I recollected that I had to meet Mr Selwyn and Lionel in Baker Street, and I resolved that I would go there with my effects early the next morning and leave them in charge of the cook, who was taking care of the house. I calculated also the money that I had in possession and in prospect. I had such a good stock of clothes when I came to England with Madame Bathurst, that I had no occasion, during the two years and more that I had now been in England, to make any purchases of consequence—indeed, I had not expended more than the twenty pounds I had brought with me. I had received some few presents from Lady M—and Madame Bathurst, and a great many from Lady R—. Altogether, I calculated that I had about two hundred and sixty pounds in my desk, for Lady R—had given me one hundred pounds for only a portion of the year; then there was the five hundred pounds which she had left me, besides her wearing apparel and trinkets, which last I knew to be of value. It was a little fortune to one in my position, and I resolved to consult Mr Selwyn as to the best way of disposing of it. Having wound up my meditations with the most agreeable portion of them, I fell asleep, and in the morning woke up refreshed.

Lady M—'s maid, who had always been partial to me, for I had taught her many things valuable to a lady's-maid, came in early, and said that she knew that I was going away, which she regretted very much. I replied that I should leave as soon as possible, but I wanted some breakfast. This she brought up to my room.

I had not finished when Amy came in the room and said, "I have permission to come and wish you good-bye, Valerie. I told mamma what you said about the person who was seen to kiss your hand. She acknowledges now that it was your hand that was kissed, and she was so astonished, for she knows that you never tell stories; and, what do you think, she desired me to find out what was the young gentleman's name that had so large a fortune. I said I would if I could, and so I will, by asking you outright, not by any other means. I don't want to know his name," continued she, laughing, "but I'm sure mamma has in her mind fixed upon him for a husband for me, and would now give the world that you were not going away, that through you he might be introduced to her."

"I cannot tell you, my dear," replied I. "I am not at liberty to mention it at present, otherwise I would with pleasure. I am going now. May God bless you, my dearest, and may you always continue to be the same frank and amiable creature that you are now! I leave you with regret, and I pray earnestly for your happiness. You have made me very happy by telling me that your mamma acknowledges that it was my hand that was kissed, after that, she will hardly attempt to injure me, as she proposed."

"Oh no, Valerie, I think she is afraid to do so now. This young man of fortune has made her think differently. He would, of course, protect you from slander, and expose her, if she attempted it. Then, good-bye."

We embraced, and then I ordered a hackney-coach to be called, and drove with my luggage to Baker Street. The cook welcomed me, saying that she expected my coming, as Mr Selwyn had called to tell her of Lady R—'s death, and that when she asked to whom she was to look for her wages, he had told her that I was the person who was to settle all her ladyship's affairs, as everything was left on my hands. She showed me a letter from Martha, Lady R—'s maid, by which I found that they would probably arrive in Baker Street that very day, with all her ladyship's effects.

"I suppose you will sleep here, miss?" said the cook, "I have aired your bed, and your room is all ready."

I replied that I wished to do so for a night or two, at all events, as I had a good deal to attend to, but that Mr Selwyn would call at one o'clock, and that I would speak to him on the subject.

I had requested Lionel to call at twelve, an hour previous to Mr Selwyn, that I might make him acquainted with the contents of Lady R—'s papers addressed to me. He was punctual to the time, and I shook hands with him, saying, "Lionel, I congratulate you, at now having proofs of your being the nephew of Lady R—, and also at her having left you considerable property. You will be surprised to hear that she has appointed me her executrix."

"I am not at all surprised," replied Lionel; "I am sure she has done a wise thing at last."

"That is more than I am," replied I, "but I appreciate the compliment. But, Lionel, there is no time to be lost, as Mr Selwyn, the lawyer, is coming here at one o'clock, and before he comes I wish you to read over Lady R—'s confession, if I may so call it, which will explain the motives of her conduct towards you. I am afraid that it will not extenuate her conduct, but recollect that she has now made all the reparation in her power, and that we must forgive as we hope to be forgiven. Sit down and read these papers, while I unpack one or two of my boxes upstairs."

"The last time that we were here, I corded them up for you, Miss Valerie; I hope that you will allow me to assist you again."

"Thank you, but you will have no time to read what Lady R—has said, and the cook and I can manage without you."

I then left the room and went upstairs. I was still busy in my room when a knock at the street door announced the arrival of Mr Selwyn, and I went down into the drawing-room to meet him. I asked Lionel, who was walking up and down the room, whether he had finished the papers, and he replied by a nod of the head. The poor lad appeared very miserable, but Mr Selwyn entered, and I could not say more to him.

"I hope I have not kept you waiting, Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf," said he.

"No, indeed. I came here at ten o'clock, for I have left Lady M—, and I may as well ask at once whether there is any objection to my taking a bed in this house for a few nights?"

"Objection! Why, mademoiselle, you are sole executrix, and everything is at present yours in fact, for the time. You have, therefore, a right to take possession until he appears, and the will is proved."

"The hero is before you, Mr Selwyn. Allow me to introduce you to Mr Lionel Dempster, the nephew of Lady R—"

Mr Selwyn bowed to Lionel, and congratulated him upon his accession to the property.

Lionel returned the salute, and then said, "Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf I am convinced that in this case Mr Selwyn must have been made a party to all that has occurred. The reading of these papers has rather disturbed me, and it would be painful to me to hear everything repeated in my presence. With your permission, I will walk out for an hour, and leave you to explain everything to Mr Selwyn, for I am sure that I shall need his advice. Here is the confession of old Roberts which I shall leave for his perusal. Good-morning, then, for the present."

So saying, Lionel took up his hat and quitted the room.

"He is a very prepossessing young man," observed Mr Selwyn. "What a fine eye he has!"

"Yes," replied I, "and now that he has so large a property, others will find out that he is a prepossessing young man with fine eyes; but sit down, Mr Selwyn, for you have to listen to a very strange narrative."

When he had finished it, he laid it down on the table, saying, "This is perhaps the strangest history that has ever come to my knowledge during thirty years of practice. And so she brought him up as a footman. I now recognise him again as the lad who has so often opened the door for me, but I confess I never should have done so if I had not heard what you have now communicated."

"He was always much above his position," replied I. "He is very clever and very amusing; at least I found him so when he served me in his menial capacity, and certainly was much more intimate with him than I ever thought I could be with a servant. At all events, his education has not been neglected."

"Strange! very strange!" observed Mr Selwyn, "this is a curious world; but I fear that his history cannot be kept altogether a secret, for you must recollect, mademoiselle, that his father's property must be claimed, and no doubt it will be disputed. I must go to Doctor's Commons and search out the will at once of Colonel Dempster; he intends, as I presume he does by what he said just now, to employ me. After all, it will, if known, be but a nine days' wonder, and do him no harm, for he proves his birth by his appearance, and his breeding is so innate as to have conquered all his disadvantages."

"When I knew him as a servant, I thought him an intelligent and witty lad, but I never could have believed that he would have become so improved in such a short time: not only his manners, but his language is so different."

"It was in him," replied Mr Selwyn; "as a domestic the manners and language of a gentleman would have been out of place, and he did not attempt them; now that he knows his position, he has called them forth. We must find out this Mrs Green, and have her testimony as soon as possible. Of course, after the deposition of old Roberts, Sir Thomas Moystyn will not be surprised when I communicate to him the confession of Lady R—, and the disposition of her property. In fact, the only difficulty will be in the recovery of the property of his father, Colonel Dempster, and—"

A knock at the street door announced the return of Lionel. When he entered the room, Mr Selwyn said, "Mr Dempster, that you are the nephew of Lady R—, to whom she has bequeathed her property, and what was your own, is sufficiently established in my opinion. I will, therefore, with your permission, read her ladyship's will."

Lionel took a seat, and the will was read. When it was finished, Mr Selwyn said, "Having been Lady R—'s legal adviser for many years I am able to tell you, within a trifle, what property you will receive. There are 57000 three per cents; this house and furniture, which I purchased the lease of for her, and which is only saddled with a ground-rent for the next forty years; and I find, a balance of 1200 pounds at the banker's. Your father's property, Mr Dempster, of course, I know nothing about, but will ascertain this to-morrow by going to Doctors' Commons. I think I may venture to assure the executrix, that she will run no risk in allowing you to take any sum of money you may require from the balance in the bank, as soon as the will is proved, which had better be done to-morrow, if it suits Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf."

"Certainly," replied I; "I am anxious to get rid of my trust as soon as possible, and give Mr Dempster possession. There is a tin box of papers, Mr Selwyn, which I cannot get at till the return of Lady R—'s maid, as the keys are with Lady R—'s effects which she is bringing home with her."

"Yes, they will no doubt be important," replied Mr Selwyn: "and now, Mr Dempster, if you are in want of any ready cash, I shall be your banker with pleasure till you can have possession of your own."

"I thank you, sir, I am not in want of any," replied Lionel, "for the present; but, as soon as I may be permitted to have money from the bank I shall be glad, as it is not my intention to remain in England."

"Indeed!" exclaimed I.

"No, Mademoiselle Valerie," said Lionel. "I am but too well aware of many deficiencies which must arise from the position I have been so long in, not to wish to remedy them as soon as possible, and, before I appear as the heir of Lady R—, it is my intention, as soon as I can, to go to Paris, and remain there for two years, or, perhaps, until I am of age; and I think in that time to improve myself, and make myself more what the son of Colonel Dempster should be. I am young yet, and capable of instruction."

"You propose a very proper step, Mr Dempster," said Mr Selwyn; "and during your absence all legal proceedings will be over, and, if the whole affair is made public, it will be forgotten again by the time that you propose to return. I am sure that the executrix will be most happy to forward such very judicious arrangements. I will now take my leave, and beg Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf to meet me at Doctors' Commons at three o'clock to-morrow; that will give me time to look for Colonel Dempster's will. Good-morning, mademoiselle; good-morning, Mr Dempster."

Mr Selwyn went out, and left us alone.

"May I ask, Miss Valerie, whether you have left Lady M—?"

"Yes," replied I; and I told him what had passed, adding, "I stay here for a night or two, and shall go then to Madame Gironac's."

"Why not stay here altogether? I hope you will. I shall go abroad as soon as possible."

"Yes, and you are right in so doing; but, Lionel, you forget that my duty as executrix will be to make the best of the estate for you until you are of age, and this house must be let furnished; Mr Selwyn told me so, while you were away; besides, I am not a young lady of fortune, but one most unfortunately dependent upon the caprices of others, and I must submit to my fate."

Lionel made no reply for some little while, and then he said, "I am very glad that Lady R—has showed the high opinion she had of you, but I cannot forgive her treatment of my mother. It was too cruel; but I had better not talk any more about it; and I am sure, Miss Valerie, you must be anxious to be alone. Good afternoon, Miss Valerie."

"Good-bye, Lionel, for the present," replied I. "By-the-bye, did the cook recognise you?"

"Yes; and I told her that I had given up going out to service."

"I think that you had better not come here, Lionel, till I have dismissed Lady R—'s maid, which I shall do the day after her arrival. I will meet you at Mr Selywn's office—it will be better."

To this Lionel agreed, and we parted.

The next day the will was proved, and Mr Selwyn then informed us that he had found the will of the late Colonel Dempster, which had left his property to his child unborn, as might be supposed, with a jointure on the estate, which was entailed. The will, in consequence of the supposed non-existence of Lionel, had been proved by the next of kin, a gentleman of large property, and of whom report spoke highly. It was the intention of Mr Selwyn to communicate with him directly. The probate-duty, etcetera, had required a large portion of the 1200 pounds left in the bank, but there was still enough to meet all Lionel's wants for a year, if he wished to go abroad immediately, and another dividend would be due in a month, so that there could be no difficulty. Mr Selwyn explained all this as we drove to his chambers, where I signed some papers at his request, and Lionel received a check on the bank, and I sent, by Mr Selwyn, instructions to meet his drafts for the future.

This affair being arranged, Lionel stated his intention of quitting immediately for Paris. He said that he would go for his passport that afternoon, as there was time enough left for him to give in his name at the office; and that he would call to-morrow afternoon to bid me farewell. He then took his leave, and left me with Mr Selwyn, with whom I had a long conversation, during which I stated to him that I had some money of my own, as well as what had been left me by Lady R—, which I wished to put in safety. He recommended that I should lodge what I then had at a banker's, and, as soon as I had received the rest, he would look out for a good mortgage for me. He then handed me into a coach, and bade me farewell, stating that he would call on the day after the morrow, at three o'clock, as by that time Lady R—'s maid must have arrived, and I should have obtained possession of the key of the tin box, the papers in which he was anxious to examine.

On my return to Baker Street, I found that Lady R—'s maid had arrived, and I, of course, immediately took possession of everything. I then paid her her wages, and dismissed her, giving her permission to remain and sleep in the house, and promising her a character. It appeared very summary to dismiss her so soon, but I was anxious she should not see Lionel, and I told her that, as executrix, I was not warranted in keeping her a day longer than was necessary, as I was answerable for all expenses. Having now the keys, I was able to examine everything. I first found the tin box, with various papers in it; among others a packet, on which was written, "Papers relative to my sister Ellen and her child." I thought I would not open them till Mr Selwyn was present, as it might appear as if I was curious, so I laid them aside. I then despatched the cook with a note to Madame Gironac, requesting that she would come and spend the evening with me, as I had much to communicate to her. Indeed, I felt dull alone in such a large house, and I also felt the want of a sincere friend to talk with.

Having nothing better to do, I opened the various drawers and cupboards which contained the apparel, etcetera, of Lady R—, and found such a mass of things that I was astonished. In her whimsical way, she had at times purchased silks and various jewels, which she had never made use of, but thrown on one side. There were more stuffs for making up dresses than dresses made up,—I should say nearly double. I found one large bundle of point-lace, some of it of great beauty, which I presume had belonged to her mother; and of other laces there was a great quantity. The jewels which she had taken abroad with her were very few, and such as she wore in common; her diamonds, and all that was of value, I knew she had sent to her banker's a day or two previous to her departure, and I thought I would wait till I had seen Mr Selwyn again before I claimed them.

Madame Gironac came as requested, and I then communicated to her all that had taken place. She was delighted at my good fortune, and said she hoped that I would now come and live with them, as I had the means of living, without being subject to the caprices of others, but I could give no answer till I knew what my property might amount to. All I could promise was, to go to her as soon as I had finished my business in Baker Street, and then I would afterwards decide what steps it would be advisable for me to take.

After a long conversation, during which Madame Gironac was as lively as ever, we separated, Madame Gironac promising to come and pass the next day with me, and assist me in looking over Lady R—'s wardrobe. During the afternoon, I had selected a good many of Lady R—'s dresses, and some which did not please my taste, or had been much worn, I gave to her maid, on the following morning, before her departure. This pleased her very much, as she knew that her mistress's wardrobe had been bequeathed to me, and did not expect to obtain any portion of it; but the drawers and closets were so loaded, that I could well afford to be generous. Madame Gironac came to breakfast the next morning, accompanied by her husband, who was delighted to see me, and having as usual quarrelled, after their fashion, he bounced out of the room, declaring that he never would see that odious little woman any more.

"Oh, Monsieur Gironac, you forget you promised to come and dine here."

"Well, well, so I did; but, Mademoiselle Valerie, that promise has prevented a separation."

"It is very unlucky that you asked him, Mademoiselle Valerie," replied his wife, "all my hopes are destroyed. Good-bye, Monsieur Gironac, and be grateful that you have been prevented from committing a folly; now go, we are to be very busy, and don't want you."

"I will go, madame; and hear me," said Monsieur Gironac, with mock solemnity; "as I live, I will not return—till dinner-time."

He then bounced out of the room. We then proceeded to sort and arrange. Madame Gironac, who was a good judge, stated the laces to be worth at least 200 pounds, and the other articles, such as silks, etcetera, with the dresses and lace, at about 100 pounds more. The laces and silks not made up she proposed selling for me, which she said that she could to various customers, and the dresses and lace she said could be disposed of to a person she knew, who gained her livelihood by re-making up such things.

We were thus employed, when Lionel called. He had obtained his passport, and had come to wish me good-bye. When he rose to say farewell, he said, "Miss Valerie, I can hardly say what my feelings are towards you. Your kindness to me when I was a supposed footman, and the interest you always took in anything concerning me, have deeply impressed me with gratitude, but I feel more. You are much too young for my mother, but I feel the reverence of a son, and if I did dare to use the expression, I feel towards you, what I think are the feelings that a brother should have towards a sister."

"I am flattered by your saying so, Lionel," replied I. "You are now in a much higher position, or rather soon will be, than I shall ever obtain in this world, and that you have such feelings towards me for any little kindness I have shown to you, is highly creditable to your heart. Have you any letters of introduction to anyone in Paris? but now I think of it, you cannot well have."

"No," replied he; "I may have by and bye, but how could I possibly obtain one at present?"

A thought struck me.

"Well, Lionel, you do not know my history; but I was once very intimate with a lady at Paris, and, although we parted bad friends, she has since written kindly to me, and I believe her to have been sincere in so doing. I will give you a letter of introduction to her, but do not blame me if I have been deceived in her a second time."

I went to the table and wrote the following short note—

"My dear Madame D'Albret,—

"This letter will be presented to you by a Mr Lionel Dempster, a young Englishman of fortune, and a great friend of mine. He is going to reside at Paris to improve himself, until he comes of age; and I give him this introduction to you for two reasons; the first, because I want to prove to you that, although my feelings would not permit me to accept your last kind offer, I have long forgotten and forgiven any little injustice you did me: and the second, because I feel convinced that in your society, and that which you keep, he will gain more advantage than perhaps in any other in Paris.—Yours with esteem,—

"Valerie de Chatenoeuf."

"There, Lionel, this may be of use to you; if not, write and let me know. You will of course let me hear from you occasionally?"

"May Heaven preserve you, Miss Valerie!" replied Lionel. "I only hope the time may arrive when I may be able to prove my gratitude."

Lionel kissed my hand, and the tears rolled down his cheeks as he quitted the room.

"He is a charming young man," said Madame Gironac, as soon as the door was shut.

"He is a very superior young man in my opinion," replied I; "and I am most anxious that he should do well. I did not think it possible that I ever could have written again to Madame d'Albret, but my good-will towards him induced me. There is Monsieur Gironac's knock, so now for a quarrel, or a reconciliation, which is it to be?"

"Oh, we must reconcile first, and then have a quarrel afterwards: that is the established rule."

Monsieur Gironac soon joined us. We passed a very lively evening, and it was arranged that I should in three days take up my quarters at their house.

The next day Mr Selwyn called at the time appointed, and I made over to him the box and papers. He told me that he had seen Mrs Green, and had had her full confession of what took place, in corroboration of all that was stated by Lady R—and old Roberts, and that he had written to Mr Armiger Dempster, who had succeeded to the property of Lionel's father.

I then told him that I wished to go with him to the bank, to lodge the money I then had, and to obtain Lady R—'s jewel-case which was deposited there.

"Nothing like the time present," said Mr Selwyn; "my carriage is at the door. I will have the pleasure of taking you there and then returning with you. But I have another appointment, and must be so impolite as to request that you will hurry your toilet as much as possible."

This was done, and in an hour I had lodged my money and obtained the jewel-case.

Mr Selwyn took me back again, and, having put the tin box into the carriage, wished me farewell.

I told him that I was about to take up my residence with the Gironacs, gave him their address, and then we parted.

That evening I opened the jewel-case and found it well stocked. The value of its contents I could not possibly be acquainted with, but that so many diamonds and other stones were of value I knew well. I placed the other caskets of Lady R—in the case, and then proceeded to make up my packages ready for transportation to Madame Gironac's, for there were a great many trunks full. I occupied myself with this for the remainder of the time that I was in Baker Street, and when Monsieur Gironac and his wife called, according to promise, to take me to their home, it required two coaches, and well loaded, to take all the luggage; a third conveyed Monsieur and Madame Gironac, myself, and the jewel-case. I found a very cheerful room prepared for me, and I had the pleasant feeling, as we sat down to our small dinner, that I had a home.

Madame Gironac was indefatigable in her exertions, and soon disposed of all the laces and wardrobe that I had decided upon parting with, and I paid the sum that they realised, viz., 310 pounds, into the banker's. The disposal of the jewels was a more difficult affair, but they were valued by a friend of Monsieur Gironac's, who had once been in the trade, at 630 pounds. After many attempts to dispose of them more favourably, I succeeded in obtaining for them the sum of 570 pounds.

Mr Selwyn had called upon me once or twice, and I had received my legacy with interest; deducting the legacy duty of 50 pounds, it came to 458 pounds. I had, therefore, the following sums in all: 230 pounds of my savings; 310 pounds for the wardrobe and laces, 570 pounds for the jewels, and 458 pounds for the legacy, amounting in all to 1568 pounds. Who would have imagined three months before, that I should ever have possessed such a sum? I did not, certainly.

Mr Selwyn, as soon as he knew what sum I had to dispose of, viz., 1500 pounds, for I had retained the 68 pounds for my expenses, procured me a mortgage at five per cent, on excellent landed security; and thus did the poor forlorn Valerie possess an income of 75 pounds per annum.

As soon as this was all arranged, I felt a tranquillity I had not known before. I was now independent. I could work, it is true, if I felt inclined, and had an opportunity. I could, however, do without work. The Gironacs, finding that I insisted upon paying for my board, and knowing that I could now afford it, agreed to receive forty pounds per annum—more they would not listen to. Oh! what a balm to the feelings is the consciousness of independence, especially to one who had been treated as I had been. There were two situations to which I had taken a violent abhorrence—that of a governess, and now that of a milliner; and I thanked Heaven that I was no longer under any fear of being driven into either of those unfortunate employments. For the first month that I remained with the Gironacs, I absolutely did nothing but enjoy my emancipation; after that, I began to talk over matters with Monsieur Gironac, who pointed out to me, that now that I could live upon my own means, I should endeavour to increase them, so as to be still more at my ease.

"What do you propose that I should do, then, monsieur," replied I.

"I should propose that you establish yourself as a music-mistress, and give lessons on the pianoforte and singing. By degrees, you will get a connection, and you will still be your own mistress."

"And when you have nothing else to do, mademoiselle, you must make flowers in wax," said Madame Gironac. "You make them so well, that I can always sell yours when I cannot my own."

"I must not interfere with you, Elise," said I; "that would be very ungrateful on my part."

"Pooh—nonsense—there are customers enough for us both."

I thought this advice to be very good, and made up my mind to follow it. I had not money sufficient to purchase a piano just then, as it would be five months before the half-year's interest of the mortgage would be due; so I hired one from a dealer with whom Monsieur Gironac was intimate, and practised several hours every day. Fortune appeared inclined to favour me, for I obtained employment from four different channels.

The first and most important was this: I went every Sunday to the Catholic Chapel with Madame Gironac, and of course I joined in the singing. On the third Sunday as I was going out, I was touched on the arm by one of the priests, who requested to speak with me in the vestry. Madame Gironac and I followed him, and he requested us to sit down.

"Who have I the pleasure of addressing?" said he to me.

"Mademoiselle de Chatenoeuf, sir," replied I.

"I am not aware of your circumstances, mademoiselle," said he, "but the name is one well known in France. Still those who hold our best names are very often not in affluent circumstances in this country. I trust, let it be as it may, that you will not be offended, but the fact is, your singing has been much admired, and we would wish for your service, gratuitous, if you are in good circumstances, but well paid for, if you are not, in the choir."

"Mademoiselle Chatenoeuf is not, I am sorry to say, in good circumstances, monsieur," replied Madame Gironac.

"Then I will promise that she shall be well rewarded for her exertions, if she will consent to sing in the chapel—but do you consent?"

"I have no objection, sir," replied I.

"Allow me, then, to call the gentleman who presides over the choir," said the priest, going out.

"Accept by all means, Mademoiselle Valerie. It will be an introduction for you as a music-mistress, and very advantageous."

"I agree with you," replied I, "and I like singing sacred music."

The priest returned with a gentleman, who told me that he had listened with great pleasure to my singing, and begged, as a favour, that I would sing him a solo, which he had brought with him.

As I could sing at sight, I did so. He was satisfied, and it was agreed that I should come on Saturday, at twelve, to practice with the rest of the choir. The following Sunday I sang with them, and also sang the solos. After the service was over, I received three guineas for my performance, and was informed that a similar sum would be given to me every Sunday on which I sang. My voice was much admired; and, when it was known that I gave lessons, I very soon had engagements from many Catholic families. My charges to them were moderate, five shillings a lesson of one hour.

The next channel was through Monsieur and Madame Gironac. He recommended me to a gentleman whom he taught, as a music-mistress for his sisters and daughters, and she to all her various customers and employers. I soon obtained several pupils by her exertions. The third was from an intimacy I had formed with an acquaintance of Madame Gironac, with a Mademoiselle Adele Chabot, who was of a good French family, but earning her livelihood as a French teacher in one of the most fashionable schools in Kensington.

Through her recommendation, I obtained the teaching of the young ladies at the school, but of her more hereafter. The fourth channel was through the kindness of Mr Selwyn, the lawyer, to whom I shall now again revert. I had several visits from Mr Selwyn after I had left Baker Street, and on one of these he informed me, that upon the proofs of Lionel Dempster's identity being examined by the legal advisers of Mr Dempster, of Yorkshire, they were considered so positive that the aforenamed gentleman immediately came to terms, agreeing to give up the property to Lionel, provided, in consequence of the great improvements he had made, he was not come upon for arrears of income arising from it. That Mr Selwyn advised this offer to be accepted, as it would prevent any exposure of Lady R—, and the circumstances under which Lionel had been brought up, from being made public. Lionel had written to say that he was anxious that any sacrifice should be made rather than the affair should be exposed; and the terms were consented to, and Lionel came into possession of further property, to the amount of 900 pounds per annum. As we became more intimate, Mr Selwyn asked me many particulars relative to myself, and, by his habit of cross-examining, soon gained the best portion of my history; only one point I did not mention to him,—that my family supposed that I was dead.



CHAPTER TEN.

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.

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."

"Oh, Valerie, how fortunate it was that I came to Mrs Bradshaw's," said Caroline, "and that I met you! I should have been moped, that is certain, if I had not, but now I'm so happy—that's Monsieur Gironac's knock, I'm sure."

But Caroline was wrong, for it was Mademoiselle Chabot, of whom I have before spoken, who made her appearance. Mademoiselle Chabot was an acquaintance of Madame Gironac, and it was through my having become intimate with her, that I obtained the teaching of Mrs Bradshaw's. Adele Chabot was a very pretty person, thoroughly French, and dressed with great taste. She was the resident French teacher in Mrs Bradshaw's establishment; and, although twenty-five years old, did not look more than eighteen; she was very amusing and rather wild, although she looked very demure. I never thought that there was anything wrong in Adele, but, at the same time, I did not consider that Caroline would derive any good from her company, as Caroline required to be held in check as it was. But, as is usually the case, the more I attempted to check any intimacy between them, the more intimate they became. Adele was of a good family; her father had fallen at Montmartre, when the allies entered Paris after the Battle of Waterloo: but the property left was very small to be divided among a large family, and consequently Adele had first gone out as a governess at Paris, and ultimately accepted the situation she now held. She spoke English remarkably well, indeed, better than I ever heard it spoken by a Frenchwoman, and everybody said so as well as me.

"Well, Adele, I thought you were at Brighton," said Caroline.

"I was yesterday, and I am here to-day; I am come to dine with you," replied Adele, taking off her bonnet and shawl, and smoothing her hair before the glass. "Where's Madame Gironac?"

"Gone out to give a lesson in flower-making," replied I. "Yes, she is like the little busy bees, always on the wing, and, as the hymn says, 'How neat she spread her wax!' and Monsieur, where is he?"

"Gone out to give a lesson, also," replied I. "Yes, he's like the wind, always blowing, one hour the flute, another the French horn, then the bassoon or the bugle, always blowing and always shifting from one point to the other; never a calm with him, for when he comes home there's a breeze with his wife, a l'aimable, to be sure."

"Yes," replied Caroline, "always blowing, but never coming to blows."

"You are witty, Mademoiselle Caroline," said Adele, "with your paradox. Do you know that I had an adventure at Brighton, and I am taken for you, by a very fashionable young man?"

"How can you have been taken for me?" said Caroline. "The gentleman wished to find out who I was, and I would not tell him. He inquired of the chambermaid of the lodging-house, and bribed her, I presume, for the next day she came up to my room and asked me for my card, that her mistress might write my name down correctly in the book. I knew that the mistress had not sent her, as I had, by her request, entered my own name in the book three days before, and I was therefore certain that it was to find out who I was for the gentleman who followed me everywhere. I recollected that I had a card of yours in my case, and I gave it to her very quietly, and she walked off with it. The next day, when I was at the library, the gentleman addressed me by your name; I told him that it was not my name, and requested that he would not address me again. When I left Brighton yesterday, I discovered the chambermaid copying the addresses I had put on my trunks, which was your name, at Mrs Bradshaw's; so now I think we shall have some fun."