Tales and Novels,, by Maria Edgeworth.

“As to that,” said Clarence, “I should be glad that my wife were ignorant of what every body knows. Nothing is so tiresome to a man of any taste or abilities as what every body knows. I am rather desirous to have a wife who has an uncommon than a common understanding.”

“But you would choose, would not you,” said Mrs. Ormond, hesitating with an air of great deference, “that your wife should know how to write?”

“To be sure,” replied Clarence, colouring. “Does not Virginia know how to write?”

“How should she?” said Mrs. Ormond: “it is no fault of hers, poor girl—she was never taught. You know it was her grandmother’s notion that she should not learn to write, lest she should write love-letters.”

“But you promised that she should be taught to write, and I trusted to you, Mrs. Ormond.”

“She has been here only two months, and all that time, I am sure, I have done every thing in my power; but when a person comes to be sixteen or seventeen, it is up-hill work.”

“I will teach her myself,” cried Clarence: “I am sure she may be taught any thing.”

“I am no judge of capacity, especially of the capacity of those I love; and I am grown very fond of Virginia; she is a charming, open-hearted, simple, affectionate creature. I rather think it is from indolence that she does not learn, and not from want of abilities.”

“All indolence arises from want of excitement,” said Clarence: “if she had proper motives, she would conquer her indolence.”

“Why, I dare say, if I were to tell her that she would never have a letter from Mr. Hervey till she is able to write an answer, she would learn to write very expeditiously; but I thought that would not be a proper motive, because you forbade me to tell her your future views. And indeed it would be highly imprudent, on your account, as well as hers, to give her any hint of that kind: because you might change your mind, before she’s old enough for you to think of her seriously, and then you would not know what to do with her; and after entertaining hopes of becoming your wife, she would be miserable, I am sure, with that affectionate tender heart of hers, if you were to leave her. Now that she knows nothing of the matter, we are all safe, and as we should be.”

Though Clarence Hervey did not at this time foresee any great probability of his changing his mind, yet he felt the good sense and justice of Mrs. Ormond’s suggestions; and he was alarmed to perceive that his mind had been so intoxicated as to suffer such obvious reflections to escape his attention. Mrs. Ormond, a woman whom he had been accustomed to consider as far his inferior in capacity, he now felt was superior to him in prudence, merely because she was undisturbed by passion. He resolved to master his own mind: to consider that it was not a mistress, but a wife he wanted in Virginia; that a wife without capacity or without literature could never be a companion suited to him, let her beauty or sensibility be ever so exquisite and captivating. The happiness of his life and of hers were at stake, and every motive of prudence and delicacy called upon him to command his affections. He was, however, still sanguine in his expectations from Virginia’s understanding, and from his own power of developing her capacity. He made several attempts, with the greatest skill and patience; and his fair pupil, though she did not by any means equal his hopes, astonished Mrs. Ormond by her comparatively rapid progress.

“I always believed that you could make her any thing you pleased,” said she. “You are a tutor who can work miracles with Virginia.”

“I see no miracles,” replied Clarence; “I am conscious of no such power. I should be sorry to possess any such influence, until I am sure that it would be for our mutual happiness.”

Mr. Hervey then conjured Mrs. Ormond, by all her attachment to him and to her pupil, never to give Virginia the most distant idea that he had any intentions of making her his wife. She promised to do all that was in her power to keep this secret, but she could not help observing that it had already been betrayed, as plainly as looks could speak, by Mr. Hervey himself. Clarence in vain endeavoured to exculpate himself from this charge: Mrs. Ormond brought to his recollection so many instances of his indiscretion, that it was substantiated even in his own judgment, and he was amazed to find that all the time he had put so much constraint upon his inclinations, he had, nevertheless, so obviously betrayed them. His surprise, however, was at this time unmixed with any painful regret; he did not foresee the probability that he should change his mind; and notwithstanding Mrs. Ormond assured him that Virginia’s sensibility had increased, he was persuaded that she was mistaken, and that his pupil’s heart and imagination were yet untouched. The innocent openness with which she expressed her affection for him confirmed him, he said, in his opinion. To do him justice, Clarence had none of the presumption which too often characterizes men who have been successful, as it is called, with the fair sex. His acquaintance with women had increased his persuasion that it is difficult to excite genuine love in the heart; and with respect to himself, he was upon this subject astonishingly incredulous. It was scarcely possible to convince him that he was beloved.

Mrs. Ormond, piqued upon this subject, determined to ascertain more decisively her pupil’s sentiments.

“My dear,” said she, one day to Virginia, who was feeding her bullfinch, “I do believe you are fonder of that bird than of any thing in the world—fonder of it, I am sure, than of me.”

“No, indeed!” cried she, eagerly: “how can you think me so foolish, so childish, so ungrateful, as to prefer a little worthless bird to him—” (the bullfinch began to sing so loud at this instant, that her enthusiastic speech was stopped). “My pretty bird,” said she, as it perched upon her hand, “I love you very much, but if Mr. Hervey were to ask it, to wish it, I would open that window, and let you fly; yes, and bid you fly away far from me for ever. Perhaps he does wish it?—Does he?—Did he tell you so?” cried she, looking earnestly in Mrs. Ormond’s face, as she moved towards the window.

“I cannot—I mean, I would rather not at present tell you. But do not look so grave; I will tell you some time or other, if you cannot guess.”

“I am sure, my sweet girl,” said Mrs. Ormond, “I do not mean, by any thing I said, to confuse or blame you. It is very natural that you should be grateful to Mr. Hervey, and that you should admire, and, to a certain degree, love him.”

“He is, indeed,” said Mrs. Ormond, “one of the first of human beings: such even I have always thought him; and I am sure I like you the better, my dear, for your sensibility,” said she, kissing Virginia as she spoke; “only we must take care of it, or this tenderness might go too far.”

“How so?” said Virginia, returning her caresses with fondness: “can I love you and Mr. Hervey too much?”

“Nor him, I’m sure—he is so good, so very good! I am afraid that I do not love him enough,” said she, sighing. “I love him enough when he is absent, but not when he is present. When he is near I feel a sort of fear mixed with my love. I wish to please him very much, but I should not quite like that he should show his love for me as you do—as you did just now.”

“My dear, it would not be proper that he should; you are quite right not to wish it.”

“Am I? I was afraid that it was a sign of my not liking him as much as I ought.”

“Do you think so? I am glad of it,” said Virginia, with a look of such confiding simplicity, that her friend was touched to the heart.

“I do think so, my love,” said Mrs. Ormond; “and I hope I shall never be sorry for it, nor you either. But it is not proper that we should say any more upon this subject now. Where are your drawings? Where is your writing? My dear, we must get forward with these things as fast as we can. That is the way to please Mr. Hervey, I can tell you.”

Confirmed by this conversation in her own opinion, Mrs. Ormond was satisfied. From delicacy to her pupil, she did not repeat all that had passed to Mr. Hervey, resolving to wait till the proper moment. “She is too young and too childish for him to think of marrying her yet, for a year or two,” thought she; “and it is better to repress her sensibility till her education is more finished; by that time Mr. Hervey will find out his mistake.”

In the mean time she could not help thinking that he was blind, for he continued steady in his belief of Virginia’s indifference.

To dissipate his own mind, and to give time for the development of hers, he now, according to his resolution, left his pupil to the care of Mrs. Ormond, and mixed as much as possible in gay and fashionable company. It was at this period that he renewed his acquaintance with Lady Delacour, whom he had seen and admired before he went abroad. He found that his gallantry, on the famous day of the battle between the turkeys and pigs, was still remembered with gratitude by her ladyship; she received him with marked courtesy, and he soon became a constant visitor at her house. Her wit entertained, her eloquence charmed him, and he followed, admired, and gallanted her, without scruple, for he considered her merely as a coquette, who preferred the glory of conquest to the security of reputation. With such a woman he thought he could amuse himself without danger, and he every where appeared the foremost in the public train of her ladyship’s admirers. He soon discovered, however, that her talents were far superior to what are necessary for playing the part of a fine lady; his visits became more and more agreeable to him, and he was glad to feel, that, by dividing his attention, his passion for Virginia insensibly diminished, or, as he said to himself, became more reasonable. In conversing with Lady Delacour, his faculties were always called into full play; in talking to Virginia, his understanding was passive: he perceived that a large proportion of his intellectual powers, and of his knowledge, was absolutely useless to him in her company; and this did not raise her either in his love or esteem. Her simplicity and naïvete, however, sometimes relieved him, after he had been fatigued by the extravagant gaiety and glare of her ladyship’s manners; and he reflected that the coquetry which amused him in an acquaintance would be odious in a wife: the perfect innocence of Virginia promised security to his domestic happiness, and he did not change his views, though he was less eager for the period of their accomplishment. “I cannot expect every thing that is desirable,” said he to himself: “a more brilliant character than Virginia’s would excite my admiration, but could not command my confidence.”

It was whilst his mind was in this situation that he became acquainted with Belinda. At first, the idea of her having been educated by the match-making Mrs. Stanhope prejudiced him against her; but as he had opportunities of observing her conduct, this prepossession was conquered, and when she had secured his esteem, he could no longer resist her power over his heart. In comparison with Belinda, Virginia appeared to him but an insipid, though innocent child: the one he found was his equal, the other his inferior; the one he saw could be a companion, a friend to him for life, the other would merely be his pupil, or his plaything. Belinda had cultivated taste, an active understanding, a knowledge of literature, the power and the habit of conducting herself; Virginia was ignorant and indolent, she had few ideas, and no wish to extend her knowledge; she was so entirely unacquainted with the world, that it was absolutely impossible she could conduct herself with that discretion, which must be the combined result of reasoning and experience. Mr. Hervey had felt gratuitous confidence in Virginia’s innocence; but on Belinda’s prudence, which he had opportunities of seeing tried, he gradually learned to feel a different and a higher species of reliance, which it is neither in our power to bestow nor to refuse. The virtues of Virginia sprang from sentiment; those of Belinda from reason.

Clarence, whilst he made all these comparisons, became every day more wisely and more fondly attached to Belinda; and at length he became desirous to change the nature of his connexion with Virginia, and to appear to her only in the light of a friend or a benefactor. He thought of giving her a suitable fortune and of leaving her under the care of Mrs. Ormond, till some method of establishing her in the world should occur. Unfortunately, just at the time when Mr. Hervey formed this plan, and before it was communicated to Mrs. Ormond, difficulties arose which prevented him from putting it into execution.

Whilst he had been engaged in the gay world at Lady Delacour’s, his pupil had necessarily been left much to the management of Mrs. Ormond. This lady, with the best possible intentions, had not that reach of mind and variety of resource necessary to direct the exquisite sensibility and ardent imagination of Virginia: the solitude in which she lived added to the difficulty of the task. Without companions to interest her social affections, without real objects to occupy her senses and understanding, Virginia’s mind was either perfectly indolent, or exalted by romantic views, and visionary ideas of happiness. As she had never seen any thing of society, all her notions were drawn from books; the severe restrictions which her grandmother had early laid upon the choice of these seemed to have awakened her curiosity, and to have increased her appetite for books—it was insatiable. Reading, indeed, was now almost her only pleasure; for Mrs. Ormond’s conversation was seldom entertaining, and Virginia had no longer those occupations which filled a portion of her day at the cottage.

Mr. Hervey had cautioned Mrs. Ormond against putting common novels into her hands, but he made no objection to romances: these, he thought, breathed a spirit favourable to female virtue, exalted the respect for chastity, and inspired enthusiastic admiration of honour, generosity, truth, and all the noble qualities which dignify human nature. Virginia devoured these romances with the greatest eagerness; and Mrs. Ormond, who found her a prey to ennui when her fancy was not amused, indulged her taste; yet she strongly suspected that they contributed to increase her passion for the only man who could, in her imagination, represent a hero.

One night Virginia found, in Mrs. Ormond’s room, a volume of St. Pierre’s Paul and Virginia. She knew that her own name had been taken from this romance; Mr. Hervey had her picture painted in this character; and these circumstances strongly excited her curiosity to read the book. Mrs. Ormond could not refuse to let her have it; for, though it was not an ancient romance, it did not exactly come under the description of a common novel, and Mr. Hervey was not at hand to give his advice. Virginia sat down instantly to her volume, and never stirred from the spot till she had nearly finished it.

“What is it that strikes your fancy so much? What are you considering so deeply, my love?” said Mrs. Ormond, observing, that she seemed lost in thought. “Let us see, my dear,” continued she, offering to take the hook, which hung from her hand. Virginia started from her reverie, but held the volume fast.—“Will not you let me read along with you?” said Mrs. Ormond. “Won’t you let me share your pleasure?”

“It was not pleasure that I felt, I believe,” said Virginia. “I would rather you should not see just that particular part that I was reading; and yet, if you desire it,” added she, resigning the book reluctantly.

“She thought of Paul’s friendship, more pure than the waters
of the fountain, stronger than the united palms, and sweeter than
the perfume of flowers; and these images, in night and in
solitude, gave double force to the passion which she nourished
in her heart. She suddenly left the dangerous shades, and
went to her mother, to seek protection against herself. She
wished to reveal her distress to her; she pressed her hands, and
the name of Paul was on her lips; but the oppression of her
heart took away all utterance, and, laying her head upon her
mother’s bosom, she only wept.”

“And am I not a mother to you, my beloved Virginia?” said Mrs. Ormond. “Though I cannot express my affection in such charming language as this, yet, believe me, no mother was ever fonder of a child.”

Virginia threw her arms round Mrs. Ormond, and laid her head upon her friend’s bosom, as if she wished to realize the illusion, and to be the Virginia of whom she had been reading.

“I know all you think, and all you feel: I know,” whispered Mrs. Ormond, “the name that is on your lips.”

“No, indeed, you do not; you cannot,” cried Virginia, suddenly raising her head, and looking up in Mrs. Ormond’s face, with surprise and timidity: “how could you possibly know all my thoughts and feelings? I never told them to you; for, indeed, I have only confused ideas floating in my imagination from the books I have been reading. I do not distinctly know my own feelings.”

“This is all very natural, and a proof of your perfect innocence and simplicity, my child. But why did the passage you were reading just now strike you so much?”

“I was only considering,” said Virginia, “whether it was the description of—love.”

“I don’t know,” said she, sighing. “But of this I am certain, that I had not the name, which you were thinking of, upon my lips.”

Ah! thought Mrs. Ormond, she has not forgotten how I checked her sensibility some time ago. Poor girl! she is become afraid of me, and I have taught her to dissemble; but she betrays herself every moment.

“My dear,” said Mrs. Ormond, “you need not fear me—I cannot blame you: in your situation, it is impossible that you could help loving Mr. Hervey.”

“No, I do not blame myself for that. I only blame myself for not loving him enough, as I told you once before.”

“Yes, my dear; and the oftener you tell me so, the more I am convinced of your affection. It is one of the strongest symptoms of love, that we are unconscious of its extent. We fancy that we can never do too much for the beloved object.”

“And what you ought—I mean, what it is natural you should feel; and what he will himself, I hope, indeed I dare say, some time or other wish, and be glad that you should feel.”

“I—he—my dear, what a question is that? And how shall I answer it? We must judge of what he feels by what he expresses: when he expresses love for you, it will then be the time to show yours for him.”

“He has always expressed love for me, I think,” said Virginia—“always, till lately,” continued she; “but lately he has been away so much, and when he comes home, he does not look so well pleased; so that I was afraid he was angry with me, and that he thought me ungrateful.”

“Oh, my love, do not torment yourself with these vain fears! And yet I know that you cannot help it.”

“Since you are so kind, so very kind to me,” said Virginia, “I will tell you all my fears and doubts. But it is late—there! the clock struck one. I will not keep you up.”

“I was afraid that, perhaps, Mr. Hervey would be angry if he knew that I thought of any thing in the world but him.”

“Of what else do you think?—Of nothing else from morning till night, that I can see.”

“Ah, then you do not see into my mind. In the daytime often think of those heroes, those charming heroes, that I read of in the books you have given me.”

“Because they are not quite like him. I love some of them better than I do him, and he might think that ungrateful.”

How naturally love inspires the idea of jealousy, thought Mrs. Ormond. “My dear,” said she, “you carry your ideas of delicacy and gratitude to an extreme; but it is very natural you should: however, you need not be afraid; Mr. Hervey cannot be jealous of those charming heroes, that never existed, though they are not quite like him.”

“I am very glad that he would not think me ungrateful—but if he knew that I dream of them sometimes?”

“He would think you dreamed, as all people do, of what they think of in the daytime.”

“And he would not be angry? I am very glad of it. But I once saw a picture—”

“I know you did—well,” said Mrs. Ormond, “and your grandmother was frightened because it was the picture of a man—hey? If she was not your grandmother, I should say that she was a simpleton. I assure you, Mr. Hervey is not like her, if that is what you mean to ask. He would not be angry at your having seen fifty pictures.”

“Well, if you had seen more pictures, you would not see this so often. It was the first you ever saw, and very naturally you remember it, Mr. Hervey would not be angry at that,” said Mrs. Ormond, laughing.

“The same sort of things that those heroes I read of say to their mistresses.”

“And do you never, in your dreams, hear Mr. Hervey say this sort of things?”

“Sometimes; but he does not speak to me; he does not look at me with the same sort of tenderness, and he does not throw himself at my feet.”

“So do I; but you have read and thought of them, it is plain. Now go to sleep, there’s my good girl; that is the best thing you can do at present—go to sleep.”

It was not long after this conversation that Sir Philip Baddely and Mr. Rochfort scaled the garden wall, to obtain a sight of Clarence Hervey’s mistress. Virginia was astonished, terrified, and disgusted, by their appearance; they seemed to her a species of animals for which she had no name, and of which she had no prototype in her imagination. That they were men she saw; but they were clearly not Clarence Herveys: they bore still less resemblance to the courteous knights of chivalry. Their language was so different from any of the books she had read, and any of the conversations she had heard, that they were scarcely intelligible. After they had forced themselves into her presence, they did not scruple to address her in the most unceremonious manner. Amongst other rude things, they said, “Damme, my pretty dear, you cannot love the man that keeps you prisoner in this manner, hey? Damme, you’d better come and live with one of us. You can’t love this tyrant of a fellow.”

“He is not a tyrant—I do love him as much as I detest you,” cried Virginia, shrinking from him with looks of horror.

“Damme! good actress! Put her on the stage when he is tired of her. So you won’t come with us?—Good bye, till we see you again. You’re right, my girl, to be upon your good behaviour; may be you may get him to marry you, child!”

Virginia, upon hearing this speech, turned from the man who insulted her with a degree of haughty indignation, of which her gentle nature had never before appeared capable.

Mrs. Ormond hoped, that after the alarm was over, the circumstance would pass away from her pupil’s mind; but on the contrary, it left the most forcible impression. Virginia became silent and melancholy, and whole hours were spent in reverie. Mrs. Ormond imagined, that notwithstanding Virginia’s entire ignorance of the world, she had acquired from books sufficient knowledge to be alarmed at the idea of being taken for Clarence Hervey’s mistress. She touched upon this subject with much delicacy, and the answers that she received confirmed her opinion. Virginia had been inspired by romances with the most exalted notions of female delicacy and honour! but from her perfect ignorance, these were rather vague ideas than principles of conduct.

“We shall see Mr. Hervey to-morrow; he has written me word that he will come from town, and spend the day with us.”

“You have no cause for shame, my dear; Mr. Hervey will try to discover the persons who insulted you, and he will punish them. They will never return here; you need not fear that. He is willing and able to protect you.”

“Yes of that I am sure. But what did that strange man mean, when he said—”

Virginia pronounced these words with difficulty. Mrs. Ormond was silent, for she was much embarrassed. Virginia having conquered her first difficulty, seemed resolute to obtain an answer.

“You do not speak to me! Will you not tell me, dear Mrs. Ormond,” said she, hanging upon her fondly, “what did he mean?”

“But he said, that if I behaved well, I might get Mr. Hervey to marry me. What did he mean by that?” said Virginia, in an accent of offended pride.

“He spoke very rudely and improperly; but it is not worth while to think of what he said, or what he meant.”

“But, dear Mrs. Ormond, do not go away from me now: I never so much wished to speak to you in my whole life, and you turn away from me.”

“Tell me one thing, only one thing, and you will set my heart at ease. Does Mr. Hervey wish me to be his wife?”

“I cannot tell you that, my dearest Virginia. Time will show us. Perhaps his heart has not yet decided.”

“I wish it would decide,” said Virginia, sighing deeply; “and I wish that strange man had not told me any thing about the matter; it has made me very unhappy.”

She covered her eyes with her hand, but the tears trickled between her fingers, and rolled fast down her arm. Mrs. Ormond, quite overcome by the sight of her distress, was no longer able to keep the secret with which she had been entrusted by Clarence Hervey. And after all, thought she, Virginia will hear it from himself soon. I shall only spare her some unnecessary pain; it is cruel to see her thus, and to keep her in suspense. Besides, her weakness might be her ruin, in his opinion, if it were to extinguish all her energy, and deprive her of the very power of pleasing. How wan she looks, and how heavy are those sleepless eyes! She is not, indeed, in a condition to meet him, when he comes to us to-morrow: if she had some hopes, she would revive and appear with her natural ease and grace.

“My sweet child,” said Mrs. Ormond, “I cannot bear to see you so melancholy; consider, Mr. Hervey will be with us to-morrow, and it will give him a great deal of pain to see you so.”

Mrs. Ormond was so delighted to see Virginia smile, that she could not forbear adding, “The strange man was not wrong in every thing he said; you will, one of these days, be Mr. Hervey’s wife.”

“That, I am sure,” said Virginia, bursting again into tears, “that, I am sure, I do not wish, unless he does.”

“He does, he does, my dear—do not let this delicacy of yours, which has been wound up too high, make you miserable. He thought of you, he loved you long and long ago.”

“Nay, what is more—for I can keep nothing from you—he has been educating you all this time on purpose for his wife, and he only waits till your education is finished, and till he is sure that you feel no repugnance for him.”

“I should be very ungrateful if I felt any repugnance for him,” said Virginia; “I feel none.”

“You are a modest girl to say so; and this modesty will make you ten times more amiable, especially in Mr. Hervey’s eyes. Heaven forbid that I should lessen it!”

The next morning Virginia, who always slept in the same room with Mrs. Ormond, wakened her, by crying out in her sleep, with a voice of terror, “Oh, save him!—save Mr. Hervey!—Mr. Hervey!—forgive me! forgive me!”

Mrs. Ormond drew back the curtain, and saw Virginia lying fast asleep; her beautiful face convulsed with agony.

“He’s dead!—Mr. Hervey!” cried she, in a voice of exquisite distress: then starting up, and stretching out her arms, she uttered a piercing cry, and awoke.

“I am very, very glad of it!—Let me breathe. It was, indeed, a frightful dream!”

“Your hand still trembles,” said Mrs. Ormond; “let me put back this hair from your poor face, and you will grow cool, and forget this foolish dream.”

“No; I must tell it you. I ought to tell it you. But it was all so confused, I can recollect only some parts of it. First, I remember that I thought I was not myself, but the Virginia that we were reading of the other night; and I was somewhere in the Isle of France. I thought the place was something like the forest where my grandmother’s cottage used to be, only there were high mountains and rocks, and cocoa-trees and plantains.”

“Yes; only beautiful, beautiful beyond description! And it was moonlight, brighter and clearer than any moonlight I ever before had seen; and the air was fresh yet perfumed; and I was seated under the shade of a plane-tree, beside Virginia’s fountain.”

“No; not Mr. Hervey’s face, though it spoke with his voice—this is what I thought that I must tell you. It was another figure: it seemed a real living person: it knelt at my feet, and spoke to me so kindly, so tenderly; and just as it was going to kiss my hand, Mr. Hervey appeared, and I started terribly, for I was afraid he would be displeased, and that he would think me ungrateful; and he was displeased, and he called me ungrateful Virginia, and frowned, and then I gave him my hand, and then every thing changed, I do not know how suddenly, and I was in a place like the great print of the cathedral, which Mr. Hervey showed me; and there were crowds of people—I was almost stifled. You pulled me on, as I remember; and Mr. Moreton was there, standing upon some steps by what you called the altar; and then we knelt down before him, and Mr. Hervey was putting a ring on my finger; but there came suddenly from the crowd that strange man, who was here the other day, and he dragged me along with him, I don’t know how or where, swiftly down precipices, whilst I struggled, and at last fell. Then all changed again, and I was in a magnificent field, covered with cloth of gold, and there were beautiful ladies seated under canopies; and I thought it was a tournament, such as I have read of, only more splendid; and two knights, clad in complete armour, and mounted on fiery steeds, were engaged in single combat; and they fought furiously, and I thought they were fighting for me. One of the knights wore black plumes in his helmet, and the other white; and, as he was passing by me, the vizor of the knight of the white plumes was raised, and I saw it was—”

“No; still the same figure that knelt to me; and I wished him to be victorious. And he was victorious. And he unhorsed his adversary, and stood over him with his drawn sword; and then I saw that the knight in the black plumes was Mr. Hervey, and I ran to save him, but I could not. I saw him weltering in his blood, and I heard him say, ‘Perfidious, ungrateful Virginia! you are the cause of my death!’—and I screamed, I believe, and that awakened me.”

“Well, it is only a dream, my love,” said Mrs. Ormond; “Mr. Hervey is safe: get up and dress yourself, and you will soon see him.”

“But was it not wrong and ungrateful to wish that the knight in the white plumes should be victorious?”

“Your poor little head is full of nothing but these romances, and love for Mr. Hervey. It is your love for him that makes you fear that he will be jealous. But he is not so simple as you are. He will forgive you for wishing that the knight in the white plumes should be victorious, especially as you did not know that the other knight was Mr. Hervey. Come, my love, dress yourself, and think no more of these foolish dreams, and all will go well.”

CHAPTER XXVII. — A DISCOVERY.

Instead of the open, childish, affectionate familiarity with which Virginia used to meet Clarence Hervey, she now received him with reserved, timid embarrassment. Struck by this change in her manner, and alarmed by the dejection of her spirits, which she vainly strove to conceal, he eagerly inquired, from Mrs. Ormond, into the cause of this alteration.

Mrs. Ormond’s answers, and her account of all that had passed during his absence, increased his anxiety. His indignation was roused by the insult which Virginia had been offered by the strangers who had scaled the garden-wall. All his endeavours to discover who they were proved ineffectual; but, lest they should venture to repeat their visit, he removed her from Windsor, and took her directly to Twickenham. Here he stayed with her and Mrs. Ormond some days, to determine, by his own observation, how far the representations that had been made to him were just. Till this period he had been persuaded that Virginia’s regard for him was rather that of gratitude than of love; and with this opinion, he thought that he had no reason seriously to reproach himself for the imprudence with which he had betrayed the partiality that he felt for her in the beginning of their acquaintance. He flattered himself that even should she have discerned his intentions, her heart would not repine at any alteration in his sentiments; and if her happiness were uninjured, his reason told him that he was not in honour bound to constancy. The case was now altered. Unwilling as he was to believe, he could no longer doubt. Virginia could neither meet his eyes nor speak to him without a degree of embarrassment which she had not sufficient art to conceal: she trembled whenever he came near her, and if he looked grave, or forbore to take notice of her, she would burst into tears. At other times, contrary to the natural indolence of her character, she would exert herself to please him with surprising energy: she learned every thing that he wished; her capacity seemed suddenly to unfold. For an instant, Clarence flattered himself that both her fits of melancholy and of exertion might arise from a secret desire to see something of that world from which she had been secluded. One day he touched upon this subject, to see what effect it would produce; but, contrary to his expectations, she seemed to have no desire to quit her retirement: she did not wish, she said, for amusements such as he described; she did not wish to go into the world.

It was during the time of his passion for her that Clarence had her picture painted in the character of St. Pierre’s Virginia. It happened to be in the room in which they were now conversing, and when she spoke of loving a life of retirement, Clarence accidentally cast his eyes upon the picture, and then upon Virginia. She turned away—sighed deeply; and when, in a tone of kindness, he asked her if she were unhappy, she hid her face in her hands, and made no answer.

Mr. Hervey could not be insensible to her distress or to her delicacy. He saw her bloom fading daily, her spirits depressed, her existence a burden to her, and he feared that his own imprudence had been the cause of all this misery.

“I have taken her out of a situation in which she might have spent her life usefully and happily; I have excited false hopes in her mind, and now she is a wretched and useless being. I have won her affections; her happiness depends totally upon me; and can I forsake her? Mrs. Ormond says, that she is convinced Virginia would not survive the day of my marriage with another. I am not disposed to believe that girls often die or destroy themselves for love; nor am I a coxcomb enough to suppose that love for me must be extraordinarily desperate. But here’s a girl, who is of a melancholy temperament, who has a great deal of natural sensibility, whose affections have all been concentrated, who has lived in solitude, whose imagination has dwelt, for a length of time, upon a certain set of ideas, who has but one object of hope; in such a mind, and in such circumstances, passion may rise to a paroxysm of despair.”

Pity, generosity, and honour, made him resolve not to abandon this unfortunate girl; though he felt that every time he saw Virginia, his love for Belinda increased. It was this struggle in his mind betwixt love and honour which produced all the apparent inconsistency and irresolution that puzzled Lady Delacour and perplexed Belinda. The lock of beautiful hair, which so unluckily fell at Belinda’s feet, was Virginia’s; he was going to take it to the painter, who had made the hair in her picture considerably too dark. How this picture got into the exhibition must now be explained.

Whilst Mr. Hervey’s mind was in that painful state of doubt which has just been described, a circumstance happened that promised him some relief from his embarrassment. Mr. Moreton, the clergyman who used to read prayers every Sunday for Mrs. Ormond and Virginia, did not come one Sunday at the usual time: the next morning he called on Mr. Hervey, with a face that showed he had something of importance to communicate.

“I have hopes, my dear Clarence,” said he, “that I have found out your Virginia’s father. Yesterday, a musical friend of mine persuaded me to go with him to hear the singing at the Asylum for children in St. George’s Fields. There is a girl there who has indeed a charming voice—but that’s not to the present purpose. After church was over, I happened to be one of the last that stayed; for I am too old to love bustling through a crowd. Perhaps, as you are impatient, you think that’s nothing to the purpose; and yet it is, as you shall hear. When the congregation had almost left the church, I observed that the children of the Asylum remained in their places, by order of one of the governors; and a middle-aged gentleman went round amongst the elder girls, examined their countenances with care, and inquired with much anxiety their ages, and every particular relative to their parents. The stranger held a miniature picture in his hand, with which he compared each face. I was not near enough to him,” continued Mr. Moreton, “to see the miniature distinctly: but from the glimpse I caught of it, I thought that it was like your Virginia, though it seemed to be the portrait of a child but four or five years old. I understand that this gentleman will be at the Asylum again next Sunday; I heard him express a wish to see some of the girls who happened last Sunday to be absent.”

“I know nothing of him,” replied Mr. Moreton, “except that he seems fond of painting; for he told one of the directors, who was looking at his miniature, that it was remarkably well painted, and that, in his happier days, he had been something of a judge of the art.”

Impatient to see the stranger, who, he did not doubt, was Virginia’s father, Clarence Hervey went the next Sunday to the Asylum; but no such gentleman appeared, and all that he could learn respecting him was, that he had applied to one of the directors of the institution for leave to see and question the girls, in hopes of finding amongst them his lost daughter; that in the course of the week, he had seen all those who were not at the church the last Sunday. None of the directors knew any thing more concerning him; but the porter remarked, that he came in a very handsome coach, and one of the girls of the Asylum said that he gave her half a guinea, because she was a little like his poor Rachel, who was dead; but that he had added, with a sigh, “This cannot be my daughter, for she is only thirteen, and my girl, if she be now living, must be nearly eighteen.”

The age, the name, every circumstance confirmed Mr. Hervey in the belief that this stranger was the father of Virginia, and he was disappointed and provoked by having missed the opportunity of seeing or speaking to him. It occurred to Clarence that the gentleman might probably visit the Foundling Hospital, and thither he immediately went, to make inquiries. He was told that a person, such as he described, had been there about a month before, and had compared the face of the oldest girls with a little picture of a child: that he gave money to several of the girls, but that they did not know his name, or any thing more about him.

Mr. Hervey now inserted proper advertisements in all the papers, but without producing any effect. At last, recollecting what Mr. Moreton told him of the stranger’s love of pictures, he determined to put his portrait of Virginia into the exhibition, in hopes that the gentleman might go there and ask some questions about it, which might lead to a discovery. The young artist, who had painted this picture, was under particular obligations to Clarence, and he promised that he would faithfully comply with his request, to be at Somerset-house regularly every morning, as soon as the exhibition opened; that he would stay there till it closed, and watch whether any of the spectators were particularly struck with the portrait of Virginia. If any person should ask questions respecting the picture, he was to let Mr. Hervey know immediately, and to give the inquirer his address.

Now it happened that the very day when Lady Delacour and Belinda were at the exhibition, the painter called Clarence aside, and informed him that a gentleman had just inquired from him very eagerly, whether the picture of Virginia was a portrait. This gentleman proved to be not the stranger who had been at the Asylum, but an eminent jeweller, who told Mr. Hervey that his curiosity about the picture arose merely from its striking likeness to a miniature, which had been lately left at his house to be new set. It belonged to a Mr. Hartley, a gentleman who had made a considerable fortune in the West Indies, but who was prevented from enjoying his affluence by the loss of an only daughter, of whom the miniature was a portrait, taken when she was not more than four or five years old. When Clarence heard all this, he was extremely impatient to know where Mr. Hartley was to be found; but the jeweller could only tell him that the miniature had been called for the preceding day by Mr. Hartley’s servant, who said his master was leaving town in a great hurry to go to Portsmouth, to join the West India fleet, which was to sail with the first favourable wind.

Clarence determined immediately to follow him to Portsmouth: he had not a moment to spare, for the wind was actually favourable, and his only chance of seeing Mr. Hartley was by reaching Portsmouth as soon as possible. This was the cause of his taking leave of Belinda in such an abrupt manner: painful indeed were his feelings at that moment, and great the difficulty he felt in parting with her, without giving any explanation of his conduct, which must have appeared to her capricious and mysterious. He was aware that he had explicitly avowed to Lady Delacour his admiration of Miss Portman, and that in a thousand instances he had betrayed his passion. Yet of her love he dared not trust himself to think, whilst his affairs were in this doubtful state. He had, it is true, some faint hopes that a change in Virginia’s situation might produce an alteration in her sentiments, and he resolved to decide his own conduct by the manner in which she should behave, if her father should be found, and she should become heiress to a considerable fortune. New views might then open to her imagination: the world, the fashionable world, in all its glory, would be before her; her beauty and fortune would attract a variety of admirers, and Clarence thought that perhaps her partiality for him might become less exclusive, when she had more opportunities of choice. If her love arose merely from circumstances, with circumstances it would change; if it were only a disease of the imagination, induced by her seclusion from society, it might be cured by mixing with the world; and then he should be at liberty to follow the dictates of his own heart, and declare his attachment to Belinda. But if he should find that change of situation made no alteration in Virginia’s sentiments, if her happiness should absolutely depend upon the realization of those hopes which he had imprudently excited, he felt that he should be bound to her by all the laws of justice and honour; laws which no passion could tempt him to break. Full of these ideas, he hurried to Portsmouth in pursuit of Virginia’s father. The first question he asked, upon his arrival there, may easily be guessed.

He hastened instantly to make inquiries for Mr. Hartley. No such person could be found, no such gentleman was to be heard of any where. Hartley, he was sure, was the name which the jeweller mentioned to him, but it was in vain that he repeated it; no Mr. Hartley was to be heard of at Portsmouth, except a pawnbroker. At last, a steward of one of the West Indiamen recollected that a gentleman of that name came over with him in the Effingham, and that he talked of returning in the same vessel to the West Indies, if he should ever leave England again.

“But we have heard nothing of him since, sir,” said the steward. “No passage is taken for him with us.”

“And my life to a china orange,” cried a sailor who was standing by, “he’s gone to kingdom come, or more likely to Bedlam, afore this; for he was plaguy crazy in his timbers, and his head wanted righting, I take it, if it was he, Jack, who used to walk the deck, you know, with a bit of a picture in his hand, to which he seemed to be mumbling his prayers from morning to night. There’s no use in sounding for him, master; he’s down in Davy’s locker long ago, or stowed into the tight waistcoat before this time o’day.”

Notwithstanding this knowing sailor’s opinion, Clarence would not desist from his sounding; because having so lately heard of him at different places, he could not believe that he was gone either into Davy’s locker or to Bedlam. He imagined that, by some accident, Mr. Hartley had been detained upon the road to Portsmouth; and in the expectation that he would certainly arrive before the fleet should sail, Clarence waited with tolerable patience. He waited, however, in vain; he saw the Effingham and the whole fleet sail—no Mr. Hartley arrived. As he hailed one of the boats of the Effingham, which was rowing out with some passengers, who had been too late to get on board, his friend the sailor answered, “We’ve no crazy man here: I told you, master, he’d never go out no more in the Effingham. He’s where I said, master, you’ll find, or nowhere.”

Mr. Hervey remained some days at Portsmouth, after the fleet had sailed, in hopes that he might yet obtain some information; but none could be had; neither could any farther tidings be obtained from the jeweller, who had first mentioned Mr. Hartley. Despairing of success in the object of his journey, he, however, determined to delay his return to town for some time, in hopes that absence might efface the impression which had been made on the heart of Virginia. He made a tour along the picturesque coasts of Dorset and Devonshire, and it was during this excursion that he wrote the letters to Lady Delacour which have so often been mentioned. He endeavoured to dissipate his thoughts by new scenes and employments, but all his ideas involuntarily centred in Belinda. If he saw new characters, he compared them with hers, or considered how far she would approve or condemn them. The books that he read were perused with a constant reference to what she would think or feel; and during his whole journey he never beheld any beautiful prospect, without wishing that it could at the same instant be seen by Belinda. If her name were mentioned but once in his letters, it was because he dared not trust himself to speak of her; she was for ever present to his mind: but while he was writing to Lady Delacour, her idea pressed more strongly upon his heart; he recollected that it was she who first gave him a just insight into her ladyship’s real character; he recollected that she had joined with him in the benevolent design of reconciling her to Lord Delacour, and of creating in her mind a taste for domestic happiness. This remembrance operated powerfully to excite him to fresh exertions, and the eloquence which touched Lady Delacour so much in these “edifying” letters, as she called them, was in fact inspired by Belinda.

Whenever he thought distinctly upon his future plans, Virginia’s attachment, and the hopes which he had imprudently inspired, appeared insuperable obstacles to his union with Miss Portman; but, in more sanguine moments, he flattered himself with a confused notion that these difficulties would vanish. Great were his surprise and alarm when he received that letter of Lady Delacour’s, in which she announced the probability of Belinda’s marriage with Mr. Vincent. In consequence of his moving from place to place in the course of his tour, he did not receive this letter till nearly a fortnight after it should have come to his hands. The instant he received it he set out on his way home; he travelled with all that expedition which money can command in England: his first thought and first wish when he arrived in town were to go to Lady Delacour’s; but he checked his impatience, and proceeded immediately to Twickenham, to have his fate decided by Virginia. It was with the most painful sensations that he saw her again. The accounts which he received from Mrs. Ormond convinced him that absence had produced none of the effects which he expected on the mind of her pupil. Mrs. Ormond was naturally both of an affectionate disposition and a timid temper; she had become excessively fond of Virginia, and her anxiety was more than in proportion to her love; it sometimes balanced and even overbalanced her regard and respect for Clarence Hervey himself. When he spoke of his attachment to Belinda, and of his doubts respecting Virginia, she could no longer restrain her emotion.

“Oh, indeed, Mr. Hervey,” said she, “this is no time for reasoning and doubting. No man in his senses, no man who is not wilfully blind, could doubt her being distractedly fond of you.”

“And why—oh, why, Mr. Hervey? Don’t you recollect the time when you were all impatience to call her yours,—when you thought her the most charming creature in the whole world?”

“And I wish to Heaven you never had seen her! But oh, surely, Mr. Hervey, you will not desert my Virginia!—Must her health, her happiness, her reputation, all be the sacrifice?”

“Reputation, Mr. Hervey: you do not know in what a light she is considered here; nor did I till lately. But I tell you her reputation is injured—fatally injured. It is whispered, and more than whispered everywhere, that she is your mistress. A woman came here the other day with the bullfinch, and she looked at me, and spoke in such an extraordinary way, that I was shocked more than I can express. I need not tell you all the particulars; it is enough that I have made inquiries, and am sure, too sure, of what I say, that nothing but your marriage with Virginia can save her reputation; or—”

Mrs. Ormond stopped short, for at this instant Virginia entered the room, walking in her slow manner, as if she were in a deep reverie.

“Since my return,” said Clarence, in an embarrassed voice, “I have scarcely heard a syllable from Miss St. Pierre’s lips.”

“Miss St. Pierre!—He used to call me Virginia,” said she, turning to Mrs. Ormond: “he is angry with me—he used to call me Virginia.”

“And I wish I was still a child,” said Virginia, Then, after a long pause, she approached Mr. Hervey with extreme timidity, and, opening a portfolio which lay on the table, she said to him, “If you are at leisure—if I do not interrupt you—would you look at these drawings; though they are not worth your seeing, except as proofs that I can conquer my natural indolence?”

The drawings were views which she had painted from memory, of scenes in the New Forest, near her grandmother’s cottage. That cottage was drawn with an exactness that proved how fresh it was in her remembrance. Many recollections rushed forcibly into Clarence Hervey’s mind at the sight of this cottage. The charming image of Virginia, as it first struck his fancy,—the smile, the innocent smile, with which she offered him the finest rose in her basket,—the stern voice in which her grandmother spoke to her,—the prophetic fears of her protectress,—the figure of the dying woman,—the solemn promise he made to her,—all recurred, in rapid succession, to his memory.

“You don’t seem to like that,” said Virginia; and then putting another drawing into his hands, “perhaps this may please you better.”

“I knew he would like them! I told you so!” cried Mrs. Ormond, in a triumphant tone.

“You see,” said Virginia, “that though you have heard scarcely a syllable from Miss St. Pierre’s lips since your return, yet she has not been unmindful of your wishes in your absence. You told her, some time ago, that you wished she would try to improve in drawing. She has done her best. But do not trouble yourself to look at them any longer,” said Virginia, taking one of her drawings from his hand; “I merely wanted to show you that, though I have no genius, I have some—”

Mrs. Ormond pronounced it for her; and added, “I can answer for it, that Virginia is not ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful!” repeated Clarence; “who ever thought her so? Why did you put these ideas into her mind?”

“You have worked upon her sensibility till you have made her miserable,” cried Clarence, angrily. “Virginia, listen to me: look at me,” said he, affectionately taking her hand; but she pressed closer to Mrs. Ormond, and would not raise her head. “Do not consider me as your master—your tyrant; do not imagine that I think you ungrateful!”

“Oh, I am—I am—I am ungrateful to you,” cried she, sobbing; “but Mrs. Ormond never told me so; do not blame her: she has never worked upon my sensibility. Do you think,” said she, looking up, while a transient expression of indignation passed over her countenance, “do you think I cannot feel without having been taught?”

“But if you feel too much, my dearest Virginia,—if you give way to your feelings in this manner,” said Mrs. Ormond, “you will make both yourself and Mr. Hervey unhappy.”

“Heaven forbid! The first wish of my soul is—” She paused. “I should be the most ungrateful wretch in the world, if I were to make him unhappy.”

“To imagine that you were unhappy, and that you concealed it from us, would be still worse,” said Clarence.

“But why should you imagine it?” replied Virginia; “you are too good, too kind; but do not fancy that I am not happy: I am sure I ought to be happy.”

“Do you regret your cottage?” said Clarence: “these drawings show how well you remember it.”

Virginia coloured; and, with some hesitation, answered, “Is it my fault if I cannot forget?”

“You were happier then, Virginia, than you are now, you will confess,” said Mrs. Ormond, who was not a woman of refined delicacy, and who thought that the best chance she had of working upon Mr. Hervey’s sense of honour was by making it plain to him how much her pupil’s affections were engaged.

Virginia made no answer to this question, and her silence touched Clarence more than any thing she could have said. When Mrs. Ormond repeated her question, he relieved the trembling girl by saying, “My dear Mrs. Ormond, confidence must be won, not demanded.”

“I have no right to insist upon confessions, I know,” said Mrs. Ormond; “but—”

“Confessions! I do not wish to conceal any thing, but I think sincerity is not always in our sex consistent with—I mean—I don’t know what I mean, what I say, or what I ought to say,” cried Virginia; and she sunk down on a sofa, in extreme confusion.

“Why will you agitate her, Mrs. Ormond, in this manner?” said Mr. Hervey, with an expression of sudden anger. It was succeeded by a look of such tender compassion for Virginia, that Mrs. Ormond rejoiced to have excited his anger; at any price she wished to serve her beloved pupil.

“Do not be in the least apprehensive, my dear Virginia, that we should take ungenerous advantage of the openness and simplicity of your character,” said Mr. Hervey.

“Oh, no, no; I cannot, do not apprehend any thing ungenerous from you; you are, you ever have been, my best, my most generous friend! But I fear that I have not the simplicity of character, the openness that you imagine; and yet, I am sure, I wish, from the bottom of my heart—I wish to do right, if I knew how. But there is not one—no, not one—person in the whole world,” continued she, her eyes moving from Mrs. Ormond to Mr. Hervey, and from him to Mrs. Ormond again, “not one person in the whole world I dare—I ought—to lay my heart open to. I have, perhaps, said more than is proper already. But this I know,” added she, in a firm tone, rising, and addressing herself to Clarence, “you shall never be made unhappy by me. And do not think about my happiness so much,” said she, forcing a smile; “I am, I will be, perfectly happy. Only let me always know your wishes, your sentiments, your feelings, and by them I will, as I ought, regulate mine.”

“Take care,” said Mrs. Ormond; “take care, Virginia, lest you promise more than you can perform. Wishes, and feelings, and sentiments, are not to be so easily regulated.”

“I did not, I believe, say it was easy; but I hope it is possible,” replied Virginia. “I promise nothing but what I am able to perform.”

“I doubt it,” said Mrs. Ormond, shaking her head. “You are—you will be perfectly happy. Oh, Virginia, my love, do not deceive yourself; do not deceive us so terribly. I am sorry to put you to the blush; but—”

“Not a word more, my dear madam, I beg—I insist,” said Mr. Hervey in a commanding tone; but, for the first time in her life, regardless of him, she persisted.

“I only ask you to call to mind, my dearest Virginia,” said she, taking her hand, “the morning that you screamed in your sleep, the morning when you told me the frightful dream—were you perfectly happy then?”

“It is easy to force my thoughts from me,” said Virginia, withdrawing her hand from Mrs. Ormond; “but it is cruel to do so.” And with an air of offended dignity she passed them, and quitted the room.

“I wish to Heaven!” exclaimed Mrs. Ormond, “that Miss Portman was married, and out of the way—I shall never forgive myself! We have used this poor girl cruelly amongst us: she loves you to distraction, and I have encouraged her passion, and I have betrayed her—oh, fool that I was! I told her that she would certainly be your wife.”

“Yes; but I could not help it, when I saw the sweet girl fading away—and, besides, I am sure she thought it, from your manner, long and long before I told it to her. Do you forget how fond of her you were scarce one short year ago? And do you forget how plainly you let her see your passion? Oh, how can you blame her, if she loves you, and if she is unhappy?”

“I blame no one but myself,” cried Clarence; “I must abide by the consequences of my own folly. Unhappy!—she shall not be unhappy; she does not deserve to be so.”

He walked backward and forward, with hasty steps, for some minutes; then sat down and wrote a letter to Virginia.

“Read it—seal it—give it to her—and let her answer be sent to town to me, at Dr. X.‘s, in Clifford-street.”

Mrs. Ormond clasped her hands, in an ecstasy of joy, as she glanced her eye over the letter, for it contained an offer of his hand.

“This is like yourself; like what I always knew you to be, dear Mr. Hervey!” she exclaimed.

But her exclamation was lost upon him. When she looked up, to repeat her praises, she perceived he was gone. After the effort which he had made, he wished for time to tranquillize his mind, before he should again see Virginia. What her answer to this letter would be he could not doubt: his fate was now decided, and he determined immediately to write to Lady Delacour to explain his situation; he felt that he had not sufficient fortitude at this moment to make such an explanation in person. With all the strength of his mind, he endeavoured to exclude Belinda from his thoughts, but curiosity—(for he would suffer himself to call it by no other name)—curiosity to know whether she were actually engaged to Mr. Vincent obtruded itself with such force, that it could not be resisted.