Conscious that his views were honourable, anticipating the generous pleasure he should have in showing his superiority to all mercenary considerations and worldly prejudices, in the choice of a wife, he indulged, with a species of pride, his increasing attachment to Virginia; but he was not sensible of the rapid progress of the passion, till he was suddenly awakened by a few simple observations of Mrs. Ormond.
“This is Virginia’s birthday — she tells me she is seventeen to-day.”
“Seventeen! — is she only seventeen?” cried Clarence, with a mixture of surprise and disappointment in his countenance—”Only seventeen! Why she is but a child still.”
“Quite a child,” said Mrs. Ormond; “and so much the better.”
“So much the worse, I think,” said Clarence. “But are you sure she’s only seventeen? — she must be mistaken — she must be eighteen, at least.”
“God forbid!”
“God forbid! — Why, Mrs. Ormond?”
“Because, you know, we have a year more before us.”
“That may be a very satisfactory prospect to you,” said Mr. Hervey, smiling.
“And to you, surely,” said Mrs. Ormond; “for, I suppose, you would be glad that your wife should, at least, know the common things that every body knows.”
“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.”
“By you,” said Mrs. Ormond, smiling; “but not by me.”
“You have no doubts of her capacity, surely?”
“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.”
“Oh! you cannot think so,” said Virginia, with an affectionate smile.
“Well! fonder than you are of Mr. Hervey, you will allow, at least?”
“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.
Mrs. Ormond put her hand upon the sash, as Virginia was going to throw it up —
“Gently, gently, my love — whither is your imagination carrying you?”
“I thought something by your look,” said Virginia, blushing.
“And I thought something, my dear Virginia,” said Mrs. Ormond, smiling.
“What did you think? — What could you think?”
“I cannot — I mean, I would rather not at present tell you. But do not look so grave; I wi
ll tell you some time or other, if you cannot guess.”
Virginia was silent, and stood abashed.
“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.”
Virginia looked up delighted, yet with some hesitation in her manner.
“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?”
“Not me.”
“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.”
“Ah, my poor child! you love him full as much as you 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.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 56
