"I hardly can say, for when men profess to be in love they are such deceivers. Their faults are concealed, and they a.s.sume virtues which they do not possess. On my first meeting with him, I thought that he was a proud man--perhaps I might say a vain man--but, since I have seen more of him, I think I was wrong."

"No, Adele, depend upon it you were right; at that time you were not blinded as you are now. Do you think him a good-tempered man?"

"Yes, I firmly believe that he is. I made a remark at Brighton: a child that had its fingers very dirty ran out to him, and as it stumbled printed the marks of its fingers upon his white trousers, so that he was obliged to return home and change them. Instead of pushing the child away, he saved it from falling, saying, 'Well, my little man, it's better that I should change my dress than that you should have broken your head on the pavement.'"

"Well, Adele, I agree with you that it is a proof of great good temper."

"Well, then, Valerie, what do you think?"

"I think that it is a lottery; but all marriages are lotteries, with more blanks than prizes. You have done all you can to undeceive him, if he still deceives himself. You can do no more. I will a.s.sume that he does deceive himself, and that disappointment and irritation will be the consequence of his discovery that you have been telling the truth. If he is a vain man, he will not like to acknowledge to the world that he has been his own dupe. If he is a good-hearted man, he will not long continue angry; but, Adele, much depends upon yourself. You must forbear all recrimination--you must exert all your talents of pleasing to reconcile him to his disappointment; and, if you act wisely, you will probably succeed: indeed, unless the man is a bad-hearted man, you must eventually succeed. You best know your own powers, and must decide for yourself."

"It is that feeling--that almost certain feeling that I shall be able to console him for his disappointment, that impels me on. Valerie, I will make him love me, I am determined."

"And when a woman is determined on that point, she invariably succeeds in the end, Adele. This is supposing that he is deceiving himself, which may not be the case, Adele, for I do think you have sufficient attractions to make a man love you for yourself alone; and recollect that such may be the case in the present instance. It may be that at first he followed you as an heiress, and has since found out that if not an heiress, you are a very charming woman, and has in consequence been unable to resist your influence. However, there is only one to whom the secrets of the heart are known. I consider that you have acted honourably, and if you choose to risk the hazard of the die, no one can attach blame to you."

"Thank you, Valerie, you have taken a great load off my heart. If you think I am not doing wrong, I will risk every thing."

"Well, Adele, let you decide how you may, I hope you will prosper. For my part, I would not cross the street for the best man that ever was created. As friends, they are all very well; as advisers in some cases they are useful; but, when you talk of marrying one, and becoming his slave, that is quite another affair. What were you and Caroline talking about so earnestly in the corner?"

"I will confess the truth, it was of love and marriage, with an episode about Mr Charles Selwyn, of whom Caroline appears to have a very good opinion."

"Well, Adele, I must go down again now. If you wish any advice at any future time, such as it is, it is at your service. You are making 'A Bold Stroke for a Husband' that's certain. However, the t.i.tle of another play is 'All's Well that Ends Well.'"

"Well, I will follow out your playing upon plays, Valerie, by saying that with you 'Love's Labour's Lost.'"

"Exactly," replied I, "because I consider it 'Much Ado About Nothing.'"

The next day, Lionel came to bid me farewell, as he was returning to Paris. During our sojourn at Madame Bathurst's, he had been down to see his uncle, and had been very kindly received. I wrote to Madame d'Albret, thanking her for her presents, which, valuable as they were, I would not return after what she had said, and confided to Lionel a box of the flowers in wax that I was so successful in imitating, and which I requested her to put on her side table in remembrance of me. Mr Selwyn sent the carriage at the time appointed, and we went down to Kew, where I was as kindly received as before.

What Adele told me of the conversation between Caroline and her made me watchful, and before our visit was out I had made up my mind that there was a mutual feeling between her and young Mr Selwyn. When we were going away, this was confirmed, but I took no notice. But, although I made no remark, this commencement of an attachment between Caroline and him occupied my mind during the whole of our journey to town.

In Caroline's position, I was not decided if I would encourage it and a.s.sist it. Charles Selwyn was a gentleman by birth and profession, a very good-looking and very talented young man. All his family were amiable, and he himself remarkably kind-hearted and well-disposed. That Caroline was not likely to return to her father's house, where I felt a.s.sured that she was miserable, was very evident, and that she would soon weary of the monotony of a school at her age was also to be expected. There was, therefore, every probability that she would, if she found an opportunity, run away, as she stated to me she would, and it was ten chances to one that in so doing she would make an unfortunate match, either becoming the prey of some fortune-hunter, or connecting herself with some thoughtless young man.

Could she do better than marry Mr Selwyn? Certainly not. That her father and mother, who thought only of dukes and earls, would give their consent, was not very likely. Should I acquaint Madame Bathurst? That would be of little use, as she would not interfere. Should I tell Mr Selwyn's father? No. If a match at all, it must be a runaway match, and Mr Selwyn, senior, would never sanction any thing of the kind. I resolved, therefore, to let the affair ripen as it might. It would occupy Caroline, and prevent her doing a more foolish thing, even if it were to be ultimately broken off by unforeseen circ.u.mstances. Caroline was as much absorbed by her own thoughts as I was during the ride, and not a syllable was exchanged between us till we were roused by the rattling over the stones.

"My dear Caroline, what a reverie you have been in," said I.

"And you, Valerie."

"Why I have been thinking; certainly, when I cannot have a more agreeable companion, I amuse myself with my own thoughts."

"Will you tell me what you have been thinking about?"

"Yes, Caroline, provided you will be equally confiding."

"I will, I a.s.sure you."

"Well, then, I was thinking of a gentleman."

"And so was I," replied Caroline.

"Mine was a very handsome, clever young man."

"And so was mine," replied she.

"But I am not smitten with him," continued I.

"I cannot answer that question," replied Caroline, "because I do not know who you were thinking about."

"You must answer the question as to the gentleman you were thinking of, Caroline. I repeat that I am not smitten with him, and that his name is Mr Charles Selwyn."

"I was also thinking of Mr Charles Selwyn," replied Caroline.

"And you are not smitten with him any more than I am, or he is with you?" continued I, smiling, and looking her full in the face.

Caroline coloured, and said, "I like him very much from what I have seen of him, Valerie; but recollect our acquaintance has been very short."

"A very proper answer, my dear Caroline, and given with due maidenly decorum--but here we are; and there is Madame Gironac nodding to us from the window."

The next day, Caroline went back to Mrs Bradshaw's, and I did not see her till the music-lesson of Wednesday afterwards. Caroline, who had been watching for me, met me at the door.

"Oh! Valerie, I have a great deal to tell. In the first place, the establishment is in an uproar at the disappearance of Adele Chabot, who has removed her clothes, and gone off without beat of drum. One of the maids states that she has several times seen her walking and talking with a tall gentleman, and Mrs Bradshaw thinks that the reputation of her school is ruined by Adele's flight. She has drunk at least two bottles of eau-de-Cologne and water to keep off the hysterics, and is now lying on the sofa, talking in a very incoherent way. Miss Phipps says she thinks her head is affected."

"I should think it was," replied I. "Well, is that all?"

"All! why, Valerie, you appear to think nothing of an elopement. All!

why is it not horrible?"

"I do not think it very horrible, Caroline; but I am glad to find that you have such correct ideas on that point, as it satisfies me that nothing would induce you to take such a step."

"Well," replied Caroline, quickly, "what I had also to communicate is, that I have seen my father, who informed me that on their return from Brighton in October, they expect that I will come home. He said that it was high time that I was settled in life, and that I could not expect to be married if I remained at a boarding-school."

"Well, and what did you say?"

"I said that I did not expect to be married, and I did not wish it; that I thought my education was far from complete, and that I wished to improve myself."

"Well?"

"Then he said that he should submit to my caprices no longer, and that I should go back in October, as he had decided."

"Well?"

"Well, I said no more, and he went away."

Having received all this intelligence, I went up stairs. I found Mrs Bradshaw crying bitterly, and she threw herself into my arms.

"Oh, Mademoiselle Chatenoeuf!--the disgrace!--the ruin!--I shall never get over it," exclaimed she.

"I see no disgrace or ruin, Mrs Bradshaw. Adele has told me that a gentleman had proposed marriage to her, and asked my advice."