Valerie

“‘No, miss,’ she replied, ‘you know I never have.’

“‘Well, it was having the small-pox at the same time that she was confined, that has caused her death, and that was the reason why I did not send for you to come up and assist.’

“‘My daughter made no answer, for Miss Barbara was of a haughty temper, and she was afraid of her; but she did not forget that the doctor had told the landlady that Miss Barbara had stated the lady to be her sister. My daughter had thought it very odd that Miss Barbara had not told her, during their journey, where she was going, and who she was going to see, for Miss Barbara had wrapped herself up in her cloak, and pretended to be asleep during the whole time, only waking up to pay the post-boys; but Miss Barbara was of a very violent temper, and had, since her sister’s marriage, been much worse than before; indeed, some said that she was a little mad, and used to walk at moonlights.

“‘When they arrived at the hotel, Miss Barbara went to bed, and insisted upon my daughter sleeping in the same room, as she was afraid of being alone in an hotel. My daughter thought over the business as she lay in bed, and at last resolved to ascertain the truth; so she got up early the next morning, and walked to the lodging-house, and when the door was opened by the landlady, pretended to come from her mistress to inquire how the infant was. The reply was that it was doing well; and then a conversation took place, in which my daughter found out that the lady did not die of the small-pox, as Miss Barbara had stated. The landlady asked my daughter if she would not like to come up and look at the corpse. My daughter consented, as it was what she was about to request, and when she went up, sure enough it was poor Mrs Dempster, Miss Ellen that was, who had run away with the colonel.

“‘An’t it a pity, ma’am,’ said the landlady, ‘her husband died only two months ago, and they say he was so handsome a man; indeed, he must have been, for here’s his picture, which the poor lady wore round her neck.’

“‘When your aunt had satisfied herself, and cried a little over the body, for she was very fond of Miss Ellen, she went back to the hotel as fast as she could, and getting a jug of warm water from the kitchen, she went into Miss Barbara’s room, and had just time to throw off her bonnet and shawl, when Miss Barbara woke up and asked who was there.

“‘It’s me, miss,’ replied my daughter, ‘I’ve just gone down for some warm water for you, for it’s past nine o’clock, and I thought you would like to be up early.’

“‘Yes, I must get up, Martha, for I intend to return home to-day. It’s no use waiting here. I will have breakfast, and then walk to the lodgings and give directions. You may pack up in the meantime, for I suppose you do not wish to go with me.’

“‘Oh, no, miss,’ replied your aunt, ‘I am frightened out of my wits at having been in the house already, now that I know that the lady died of the small-pox.’

“Well, Miss Barbara went away after breakfast and remained for two or three hours, when she returned, a servant bringing the baby with her. My daughter had packed up everything, and in half-an-hour they were on the road back, the baby with them in my daughter’s arms. Now, you see, if it had not been for the accidental remark of the doctor’s in your aunt’s presence, she would have been completely deceived by Miss Barbara, and never would have known whose child it was; but your aunt kept her own counsel; indeed, she was afraid to do otherwise.

“‘As they went home, Miss Barbara talked a great deal to your aunt, telling her that this Mrs Bedingfield was a great friend of hers, with whom she had corresponded for years after they had left school; that her husband had been killed in a duel a short time before, that he was a gambler, and a man of very bad character, nevertheless she had promised Mrs Bedingfield before she died, that she would take care of the child, and that she would do so. She then said, “Martha, I should like your mother to take charge of it, do you think that she would? but it must be a secret, for my father would be very angry with me, and besides, there might be unpleasant reports.” Your aunt replied, “that she thought that her mother would,” and then Miss Barbara proposed that your aunt should get out of the chaise when they stopped to change horses at the last stage, when it was dark, and no one could perceive it, and walk with the infant until she could find some conveyance to my house.

“‘This was done, the child was brought to your grandmother, who is now in heaven, and then your aunt made known to us what she had discovered, and whose child it was. I was very angry, and if I had not been laid up at the time with the rheumatism, would have gone right into Sir Alexander’s room, and told him who the infant was, but I was over-ruled by your grandmother and your aunt, who then went away and walked to the hall. So we agreed that we would say exactly what Miss Barbara said to us when she came over to us on the next day.’”

“Well, then, Lionel, I have to congratulate you on being the son of a gentleman, and the nephew of Lady R—. I wish you joy with all my heart,” said I, extending my hand.

“Thank you, Miss Valerie. It is true that I am so, but proofs are still to be given; but of that hereafter.”

“Lionel, you have been standing all this while. I think it would be most uncourteous if I did not request you to take a chair.” Lionel did so, and then proceeded with the old man’s narrative.

“‘About a month after this, Sir Richard R— came down, and after three weeks was accepted by Miss Barbara. It was a hasty match everyone thought, especially as the news of Mrs Dempster’s death had, as it was reported, been received by letter, and all the family had gone into mourning. Poor old Sir Alexander never held up his head afterwards, and in two months more he was carried to the family vault. Your aunt then came home to us, and as you have heard, married poor Green, who was killed in a poaching business about three months after his marriage. Then came your poor grandmother’s death of a quinsy, and so I was left alone with your aunt Green, who then took charge of the child, who had been christened by the name of Lionel Bedingfield. There was some talk about the child, and some wonders whose it could be; but after the death of Sir Alexander, and Miss Barbara had gone away with her husband, nothing more was thought or said about it. And now, boy, I’ve talked enough for to-day, to-morrow I’ll tell you the rest of the history.

“Perhaps, Miss Valerie, you think the same of me, and are tired with listening,” observed Lionel.

“Not at all; and I have leisure now which I may not have another time; besides your visits, if so frequent, may cause inquiries, and I shall not know what to say.”

“Well, then, I’ll finish my story this morning, Miss Valerie. The next day, old Roberts continued: ‘It was about three months after Sir Alexander’s death, when her brother, the new baronet, came down to Culverwood Hall, that Miss Barbara made her appearance again as Lady R—. Your grandmother was just buried, and poor Green had not been dead more than a month. Your aunt, who was much afflicted at the loss of her husband, and was of course very grave and serious, began to agree with me that it would be very wicked of us, knowing whose child it was, to keep the secret. Moreover, you aunt had become very fond of the infant, for it in a manner consoled her for the loss of her husband. Lady R— came to the cottage to see us, and we then both told her that we did not like to keep secret the child’s parentage, as it was doing a great injustice, if injustice had not been done already. Lady R— was very much frightened at what we said, and begged very hard that we would not expose her. She would be ruined, she said, in the opinion of her husband, and also of her own relations. She begged and prayed so hard, and made a solemn promise to us, that she would do justice to the child as soon as she could with prudence, that she overcame our scruples, and we agreed to say nothing at present. She also put a bank-note for 50 pounds into my daughter’s hands to defray expenses and pay for trouble, and told her that the same amount would be paid every year until the child was taken away.

“‘I believe this did more to satisfy our scruples than anything else. It ought not to have done so, but we were poor, and money is a great temptation. At all events, we were satisfied with Lady R—’s promise, and with her liberality; and from that time till the child was seven years old we received the money, and had charge of the boy. He was then taken away and sent to school, but where we did not know for some time. Lady R— was still very liberal to us, always stating her intention of acknowledging the child to be her nephew. At last my daughter was summoned to London, and sent to the school for the boy; Lady R— stating it to be her intention of keeping him at her own house, now that her husband was dead. This rejoiced us very much; but we had no idea that it was as a servant that he was to be employed, as your aunt afterwards found out, when she went up to London and called unexpectedly upon Lady R—. However, Lady R— said that what she was doing was for the best, and was more liberal than usual; and that stopped our tongues.

“‘Three years back your aunt left this place to find employment in London, and has resided there ever since as a clear-starcher and getter-up of lace; but she often sends me down money, quite sufficient to pay for all the few comforts and expenses required by a bedridden old man. There, Harry, now I’ve told you the whole story; and I am glad that I am able to do so, and that at last she has done justice to the lad, and there is no further a load upon my conscience, which often caused me to lay down my Bible, when I was reading, and sigh.’

“‘But,’ said I, ‘are you sure that she has acknowledged him as her nephew?’

“‘Am I sure! Why, did not you say so?’

“‘No; I only said that he was with her, travelling in her company.’

“‘Well, but—I understood you that it was all right.’

“‘It may be all right,’ replied I, ‘but how can I tell? I only saw them together. Lady R— may still keep her secret, for all I can say to the contrary. I don’t wonder at its being a load on your mind. I shouldn’t be able to sleep at nights; and, as for my reading my Bible, I should think it wicked to do so, with the recollection always before me, that I had been a party in defrauding a poor boy of his name, and, perhaps fortune.’

“‘Dear me! dear me! I’ve often thought as much, Harry.’

“‘Yes, grandfather, and, as you say, on the brink of the grave. Who knows but you may be called away this very night?’

“‘Yes, yes, who knows, boy,’ replied the old man, looking rather terrified; ‘but what shall I do?’

“‘I know what I would do,’ replied I. ‘I’d make a clean breast of it at once. I’d send for the minister and a magistrate, and state the whole story upon affidavit. Then you will feel happy again, and ease your mind, and not before.’

“‘Well, boy, I believe you are right, I’ll think about it. Leave me now.’

“‘Think about your own soul, sir—think of your own danger, and do not mind Lady R—. There can be but a bad reason for doing such an act of injustice. I will come again in an hour, sir, and then you will let me know your decision. Think about what the Bible says about those who defraud the widow and orphan. Good-bye for the present.’

“‘No, stop, boy, I’ve made up my mind. You may go to Mr Sewell, the clergyman, he often calls to see me, and I can speak to him. I’ll tell him.’

“I did not wait for the old man to alter his mind, but hastened as fast as I could to the parsonage-house, which was not four hundred yards distant. I went to the door and asked for Mr Sewell, who came out to me. I told him that old Roberts wanted to see him immediately, as he had an important confession to make.

“‘Is the old man going, then? I did not hear that he was any way dangerously ill?’

“‘No, sir, he is in his usual health, but he has something very heavy on his conscience, and he begs your presence immediately that he may reveal an important secret.’

“‘Well, my lad, go back to him and say that I will be there in two hours. You are his grandson, I believe?’

“‘I will go and tell him, sir,’ replied I, evading the last question.

“I returned to old Roberts, and informed him that the clergyman would be with him in an hour or two, but I found the old man already hesitating and doubting again:—

“‘You didn’t tell him what it was for, did you? for perhaps—’

“‘Yes, I did. I told him you had an important secret to communicate that lay heavy on your conscience.’

“‘I’m sadly puzzled,’ said the old man, musing.

“‘Well,’ replied I, ‘I’m not puzzled; and if you don’t confess, I must. I won’t have my conscience loaded, poor fellow that I am; and if you choose to die with the sin upon you of depriving the orphan, I will not.’

“‘I’ll tell—tell it all—it’s the best way,’ replied old Roberts, after a pause.

“‘There now,’ said I, ‘the best thing to be done is for me to get paper and pen, and write it all down for Mr Sewell to read when he comes; then you need not have to repeat it all again.’

“‘Yes, that will be best, for I couldn’t face the clergyman.’

“‘Then how can you expect to face the Almighty?’ replied I.

“‘True—very true: get the paper,’ said he.

“I went to the inn and procured writing materials, and then returned and took down his confession of what I have now told you, Miss Valerie. When Mr Sewell came, I had just finished it, and I then told him that I had written it down, and handed it to him to read. Mr Sewell was much surprised and shocked, and said to Roberts, ‘You have done right to make this confession, Roberts, for it may be most important; but you must now swear to it in the presence of a magistrate and me. Of course, you have no objection?’

“‘No, sir; I’m ready to swear to the truth of every word.’

“‘Well, then, let me see. Why, there is no magistrate near us just now but Sir Thomas Moystyn; and as it concerns his own nephew, there cannot be a more proper person. I will go up to the Hall immediately, and ask him to come with me to-morrow morning.’

“Mr Sewell did so; and the next day, he and Sir Thomas Moystyn came down in a phaeton, and went up to old Roberts. I rather turned away, that my uncle, as he now proves to be, might not, when I was regularly introduced to him, as I hope to be, as his nephew, recognise me as the sailor lad who passed off as the grandson of old Roberts.”

“Then, you admit that you have been playing a very deceitful game?”

“Yes, Miss Valerie. I have a conscience; and I admit that I have been playing what may be called an unworthy game; but when it is considered how much I have at stake, and how long I have been defrauded of my rights by the duplicity of others, I think I may be excused if I have beat them at their own weapons.”

“I admit that there is great truth in your observations, Lionel; and that is all the answer I shall give.”

“I remained outside the door while old Roberts signed the paper, and the oath was administered. Sir Thomas put many questions afterwards. He inquired the residence of his daughter, Mrs Green, and then they both went away. As soon as they were gone, I went in to old Roberts, and said, ‘Well now, sir, do you not feel happier that you have made the confession?’

“‘Yes,’ replied he, ‘I do, boy; but still I am scared when I think of Lady R— and your aunt Green; they’ll be so angry.’

“‘I’ve been thinking that I had better go up to Mrs Green,’ I said, ‘and prepare her for it. I can pacify her, I’m sure, when I explain matters. I must have gone away the day after to-morrow, and I’ll go up to London to-morrow.’

“‘Well, perhaps it will be as well,’ replied old Roberts, ‘and yet I wish you could stay and talk to me—I’ve no one to talk to me now.’

“Thinks I, I have made you talk to some purpose, and have no inclination to sit by your bed-side any longer; however, I kept up the appearance to the last, and the next morning set off for London. I arrived three days before I saw you first, which gave me time to change my sailor’s dress for the suit I now wear. I have not yet been to Mrs Green, for I thought I would just see you, and ask your advice. And now, Miss Valerie, you have my whole history.”

“I once more congratulate you, with all my heart,” replied I, offering my hand to Lionel. He kissed it respectfully, and as he was in the act, one of the maids opened the door, and told me that Lady M— had been some time waiting to see me. I believe I coloured up, although I had no cause for blushing; and wishing Lionel good-bye, I desired him to call on Sunday afternoon, and I would remain at home to see him.

It was on Thursday that this interview took place with Lionel, and on the Saturday I received a letter from Lady R—’s solicitor, by which I was shocked by the information of her ladyship having died at Caudebec, a small town on the river Seine; and begging to know whether I could receive him that afternoon, as he was anxious to communicate with me. I answered by the person who brought the letter, that I would receive him at three o’clock; and he made his appearance at the hour appointed.

He informed me that Lady R— had left Havre in a fishing boat, with the resolution of going up to Paris by that strange conveyance; and having no protection from the weather, she had been wet for a whole day, without changing her clothes; and, on her arrival at Caudebec, had been taken with a fever, which, from the ignorance of the faculty in that sequestered place, had proved fatal. Her maid had just written the intelligence, enclosing the documents from the authorities substantiating the fact.

“You are not, perhaps, aware, miss, that you are left her executrix.”

“I her executrix!” exclaimed I, with astonishment.

“Yes,” replied Mr Selwyn. “Before she left town, she made an alteration in her will; and stated to me that you would be able to find the party most interested in it, and that you had a document in your hands which would explain everything.”

“I have a sealed paper which she enclosed to me, desiring I would not open it, unless I heard of her death, or had her permission.”

“It must be that to which she refers, I presume,” replied he. “I have the will in my pocket: it will be as well to read it to you, as you are her executrix.”

Mr Selwyn then produced the will, by which Lionel Dempster, her nephew, was left her sole heir; and by a codicil, she had, for the love she bore me, as she stated in her own handwriting, left me 500 pounds as her executrix, and all her jewels and wearing apparel.

“I congratulate you on your legacy, Miss de Chatenoeuf,” said he; “and now, perhaps, you can tell me where I can find this nephew; for I must say it is the first that I ever heard of him.”

“I believe that I can point him out, sir,” replied I; “but the most important proofs, I suspect, are to be found in the paper which I have not yet read.”

“I will then, if you please, no longer trespass on you,” said Mr Selwyn, “when you wish me to call again, you will oblige me by sending word, or writing by post.”

The departure of Mr Selwyn was quite a relief to me. I longed to be alone, that I might be left to my own reflections, and also that I might peruse the document which had been confided to me by poor Lady R—. I could not help feeling much shocked at her death—more so, when I considered her liberality towards me, and the confidence she reposed in one with whom she had but a short acquaintance. It was like her, nevertheless; who but Lady R— would ever have thought of making a young person so unprotected and so unacquainted as I was with business—a foreigner to boot—the executrix of her will; and her death occasioned by such a mad freak—and Lionel now restored to his position and his fortune—altogether it was overwhelming, and after a time I relieved myself with tears. I was still with my handkerchief to my eyes when Lady M— came into the room.

“Crying, Miss Chatenoeuf,” said her ladyship, “it is at the departure of a very dear friend.”

There was a sort of sneer on her face as she said this; and I replied—

“Yes, my lady, it is for the departure of a dear friend, for Lady R— is dead.”

“Mercy, you don’t say so; and what are these gentlemen who have been calling upon you?”

“One is her solicitor, madam,” replied I, “and the other is a relative of hers.”

“A relation; but what has the solicitor called upon you for? if it is not an intrusive question.”

“No, my lady; Lady R— has appointed me her executrix.”

“Executrix! well, I now do believe that Lady R— was mad!” exclaimed Lady M—. “I wanted you to come up to my boudoir to consult you about the pink satin dress, but I fear your important avocation will not allow you at present, so I will leave you till you are a little recovered.”

“I thank you, my lady,” said I, “I will be more myself to-morrow, and will then be at your disposal.”

Her ladyship then left the room. I was not pleased at her manner, which was very different from her usual courtesy towards me, but I was not in a state of mind to weigh well all that she said, or how she said it. I hastened to my room to look for the paper which Lady R— had enclosed to me previous to her departure. I will give the whole contents to my readers.

“My dear Valerie,

“I will not attempt to account for the extreme predilection which I, an old woman in comparison, immediately imbibed for you before we had been an hour in company. Some feelings are unaccountable and inexplicable, but I felt a sympathy, a mesmeric attraction, if I may use the term, which was uncontrollable at our first meeting, and which increased every day during our residence together. It was not the feeling of a mother towards a child—at least I think not, for it was mingled with a certain degree of awe and presentiment of evil if ever we parted again. I felt as if you were my fate, and never has this feeling departed from me. On the contrary, now that we separate, it has become stronger than ever. How little do we know of the mysteries of the mind as well as of the body! We know that we are fearfully and wonderfully made, and that is all. That there are influences and attractions uncontrollable and unexplained I feel certain. Often have I reflected and wondered on this as I have lain in bed and meditated ‘even to madness,’ but have been unable to remove the veil. (Alas, poor Lady R—, thought I, I doubt it not, you were madder than I thought you were.) Imagine, then, my grief and horror when I found that you were determined to leave me, dear Valerie. It was to me as the sentence of death; but I felt that I could not resist; it was my fate, and who can oppose its decrees? It would indeed have pained your young and generous heart if you knew how I suffered, and still suffer from your desertion; but I considered it as a judgment on me—a visitation upon me for the crimes of my early years, and which I am now about to confide to you, as the only person in whom I feel confidence, and that justice may be done to one whom I have greatly injured. I would not die without reparation, and that reparation I entrust to you, as from my own pen I can explain that without which, with all my good intentions towards the party, reparation might be difficult. But I must first make you acquainted with the cause of crime, and to do this you must hear the events of my early life.

“My father, Sir Alexander Moystyn, had four children, two sons and two daughters. I was the first-born, then my two brothers, and afterwards, at an interval, my sister, so that there was a difference of eight years between me and my sister, Ellen. Our mother died in giving birth to Ellen; we grew up, my brothers went to Eton and college. I remained the sole mistress of my father’s establishment. Haughty by nature, and my position, the power it gave me, the respect I received—and if you will look at the miniature I enclose with this, I may, without vanity, add, my beauty, made me imperious and tyrannical. I had many advantageous offers, which I rejected, before I was twenty years of age. My power with my father was unbounded, his infirmities kept him for a long time a prisoner in his room, and my word was law to him, as well as to the whole household. My sister Ellen, still a child, I treated with harshness—first, I believe, because she promised to rival me in good looks; and secondly, because my father showed greater affection towards her than I liked. She was meek in temper, and never complained. Time past—I refused many offers of marriage. I did not like to resign my position for the authority of a husband, and I had reached my twenty-fifth year, and my sister, Ellen, was a lovely girl of seventeen, when it was fated that all should be changed.