She said that Caroline’s father and mother were down at Brighton, giving very gay parties. Having arranged the time that the carriage should come for us on the following day, she kissed us both affectionately, and went away.
The next day we were at Richmond in a delightful cottage ornée; and there we remained for more than a fortnight. To me it was a time of much happiness, for it was like the renewal of old times, and I was sorry when the visit was over.
On my return, I found a pressing invitation for Caroline and me to go to Kew, and remain two or three days; and, as we had still time to pay the visit, it was accepted; but, before we went Adèle came to see us, and, after a little general conversation, requested that she might speak to me in my own room.
“Valerie,” said Adèle, as soon as we were seated, “I know that you think me a wild girl, and perhaps I am so; but I am not quite so wild as I thought myself, for now that I am in a critical position, I come to you for advice, and for advice against my own feelings, for I tell you frankly, that I am very much in love—and moreover—which you may well suppose, most anxious to be relieved from the detestable position of a French teacher in a boarding-school. I now have the opportunity, and yet I dread to avail myself of it, and I therefore come to you, who are so prudent and so sage, to request, after you have heard what I have to impart, you will give me your real opinion as to what I ought to do. You recollect I told you a gentleman had followed me at Brighton, and how for mere frolic, I had led him to suppose that I was Caroline Stanhope, I certainly did not expect to see him again, but I did three days after I came up from Brighton. The girl had evidently copied the address on my trunk for him, and he followed me up, and he accosted me as I was walking home. He told me that he had never slept since he had first seen me, and that he was honourably in love with me. I replied that he was mistaken in supposing that I was Caroline Stanhope; that my name was Adèle Chabot, and that now that I had stated the truth to him he would alter his sentiments. He declared that he should not, pressed me to allow him to call, which I refused, and such was our first interview.”
“I did not see him again until at the horticultural fête, when I was talking to Madame Bathurst. He had told me that he was an officer in the army, but he did not mention his name. You recollect what Madame Bathurst said about him, and who he was. Since you have been at Richmond, he has contrived to see me every day, and I will confess that latterly I have not been unwilling to meet him, for every day I have been more pleased with him. On our first meeting after the fête, I told him that he still supposed me to be Caroline Stanhope, and that seeing me walking with Caroline’s aunt had confirmed him in his idea, but I assured him that I was Adèle Chabot, a girl without fortune, and not, as he supposed a great heiress. His answer was that any acquaintance of Madame Bathurst’s must be a lady, and that he had never inquired or thought about my fortune. That my having none would prove the disinterestedness of his affection for me, and that he required me and nothing more. I have seen him every day almost since then; he has given me his name and made proposals to me, notwithstanding my reiterated assertions that I am Adèle Chabot, and not Caroline Stanhope. One thing is certain, that I am very much attached to him, and if I do not marry him I shall be very miserable for a long time,” and here Adèle burst into tears.
“But why do you grieve, Adèle?” said I, “You like him, and he offers to marry you. My advice is very simple,—marry him.”
“Yes,” replied Adèle, “if all was as it seems. I agree with you that my course is clear; but, notwithstanding his repeated assertions that he loves me as Adèle Chabot, I am convinced in my own mind that he still believes me to be Caroline Stanhope. Perhaps he thinks that I am a romantic young lady who is determined to be married pour ses beaux yeux alone, and conceals her being an heiress on that account, and he therefore humours me by pretending to believe that I am a poor girl without a shilling. Now, Valerie, here is my difficulty. If I were to marry him, as he proposes, when he comes to find out that he has been deceiving himself, and that I am not the heiress, will he not be angry, and perhaps disgusted with me—will he not blame me instead of himself, as people always do, and will he not ill-treat me? If he did, it would break my heart, for I love him—love him dearly. Then, on the other hand, I may be wrong, and he may be, as he says, in love with Adèle Chabot, so that I shall have thrown away my chance of happiness from an erroneous idea. What shall I do, Valerie? Do advise me.”
“Much will depend on the character of the man, Adèle. You have some insight into people’s characters, what idea have you formed of his?”
“I hardly can say, for when men profess to be in love they are such deceivers. Their faults are concealed, and they assume 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, Adèle, 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?”