Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “What can make you so much afraid of me, my sweet girl?”

  “I am not afraid of you — but — of myself,” said Virginia, sighing.

  Mrs. Ormond read the following passage:

  “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.”

  “And your heart told you that it was?”

  “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.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes; quite impossible. So do not blame yourself for it.”

  “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.”

  “That is exactly what I feel about Mr. Hervey.”

  “That we can never love him enough.”

  “Ah! that is precisely what I feel for Mr. Hervey.”

  “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.”

  “Some time or other! Does not he wish it now?”

  “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 am not at all sleepy,” said the indulgent Mrs. Ormond.

  “Nor I,” said Virginia,

  “Now, then,” said Mrs. Ormond, “for these doubts and fears.”

  “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.”

  “To be sure you do.”

  “And is not that wrong? Would not Mr. Hervey be displeased if he knew it?”

  “Why should he?”

  “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.”

  “I am glad of it — but I see it very often in my dreams.”

  “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.

  “But sometimes, in my dreams, it speaks to me.”

  “And what does it say?”

  “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?”

  “No.”

  “And do you never see Mr. Hervey in these dreams?”

  “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.”

  “No; because he has never done all this in reality.”

  “No; and I wonder how I come to dream of such things.”

  “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.”

  “I shall be ashamed to see him after what has passed,” said Virginia.

  “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—”

  “What, my dear?”

  “That, perhaps, Mr. Hervey would marry me.”

  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?”

  “What he said, I suppose.”

  “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.”

  “Well, my love, well, what would you say?”

  “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.”

  “Will it? Then I will try to be very gay.”

  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.”

  “He is very good, too good,” said Virginia, sobbing.

  “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.”

  “Oh, that you need not assure me,” said Mrs. Ormond.

  “But I do not wish to marry him — I do not wish to marry.”

  “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.

  “My love, you have been dreaming frightfully,” said Mrs. Ormond.

  “Is it all a dream?” cried Virginia, looking round fearfully.

  “All a dream, my dear!” said Mrs. Ormond, taking her hand.

  “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.”

  “Such as you saw in the prints of that book?”

  “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.”

  “Just as you are in your picture?”

  “Yes: but Paul was seated beside me.”

  “Paul!” said Mrs. Ormond, smiling: “that is Mr. Hervey.”

  “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—”

  “Clarence Hervey?” said Mrs. Ormond.

  “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.