“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.”
“But you were a child then, you know, my love,” said Mrs. Ormond.
“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.”
“They are beautiful; they are surprisingly well done!” exclaimed he.
“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—”
Her voice faltered so that she could not pronounce the word gratitude.
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?”
Virginia, resting her head on Mrs. Ormond’s shoulder, wept bitterly.
“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?”
Clarence uttered a deep sigh.
“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.”
“But if he sees you miserable, Virginia?”
“Then he shall not see it,” said she, wiping the tears from her face.
“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.”
“Amiable, charming, generous girl!” cried Clarence.
“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.”
“You have told her so! — Did I not charge you, Mrs. Ormond — —”
“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.
When he had finished it, he put it into Mrs. Ormond’s hands.
“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.
From Dr. X —— he thought he could obtain full information, and he hastened immediately to town. When he got to Clifford-street, he found that the doctor was not at home; his servant said, he might probably be met with at Mrs. Margaret Delacour’s, as he usually finished his morning rounds at her house. Thither Mr. Hervey immediately went.
The first sound that he heard, as he went up her stairs, was the screaming of a macaw; and the first person he saw, through the open door of the drawing-room, was Helena Delacour. She was standing with her back to him, leaning over the macaw’s cage, and he heard her say in a joyful tone, “Yes, though you do scream so frightfully, my pretty macaw, I love you as well as Marriott ever did. When my dear, good Miss Portman, sent this macaw — My dear aunt! here’s Mr. Hervey! — you were just wishing to see him.”
“Mr. Hervey,” said the old lady, with a benevolent smile, “your little friend Helena tells you truth; we were just wishing for you. I am sure it will give you pleasure to hear that I am at last a convert to your opinion of Lady Delacour. She has given up all those that I used to call her rantipole acquaintance. She has reconciled herself to her husband, and to his friends; and Helena is to go home to live with her. Here is a charming note I have just received from her! Dine with me on Thursday next, and you will meet her ladyship, and see a happy family party. You have had some share in the reformation, I know, and that was the reason I wished that you should be with us on Thursday. You see I am not an obstinate old woman, though I was cross the first day I saw you at Lady Anne Percival’s. I found I was mistaken in your character, and I am glad of it. But this note of Lady Delacour’s seems to have struck you dumb.”
There were, indeed, a few words in this note, which deprived him, for some moments, of all power of utterance.
“The report you have heard (unlike most other reports) is perfectly well founded: Mr. Vincent, Belinda’s admirer, is here. I will bring him with us on Thursday.”
Mr. Hervey was relieved from the necessity of accounting to Mrs. Delacour for his sudden embarrassment, by the entrance of Dr. X —— and another gentleman, of whom, in the confusion of his mind, Clarence did not at first take any notice. Dr. X —— , with his usual mixture of benevolence and raillery, addressed himself to Clarence, whilst the stranger took out of his pocket some papers, and in a low voice entered earnestly into conversation with Mrs. Delacour.
“Now, tell me, if you can, Clarence,” said Dr. X —— , “which of your three mistresses you like best? I think I left you some months ago in great doubt upon this subject: are you still in that philosophic state?”
“No,” said Clarence; “all doubts are over — I am going to be married.”
“Bravo! — But you look as if you were going to be hanged. May I, as it will so soon be in the newspaper, may I ask the name of the fair lady?”
“Virginia St. Pierre. You shall know her history and mine when we are alone,” said Mr. Hervey, lowering his voice.
“You need not lower your voice,” said Dr. X —— , “for Mrs. Delacour is, as you see, so much taken up with her own affairs, that she has no curiosity for those of her neighbours; and Mr. Hartley is as busy as—”
“Mr. who? Mr. Hartley did you say?” interrupted Clarence, eagerly turning his eyes upon the stranger, who was a middle-aged gentleman, exactly answering the description of the person who had been at the Asylum in search of his daughter.
“Mr. Hartley! yes. What astonishes you so much?” said X —— , calmly. “He is a West Indian. I met him in Cambridgeshire last summer, at his friend Mr. Horton’s; he has been very generous to the poor people who suffered by the fire, and he is now consulting with Mrs. Delacour, who has an estate adjoining to Mr. Horton’s, about her tenants, whose houses in the village were burnt. Now I have, in as few words and parentheses as possible, told you all I know of Mr. Hartley’s history; but your curiosity still looks voracious.”
“I want to know whether he has a miniature?” said Clarence, hastily. “Introduce me to him, for Heaven’s sake, directly!”
“Mr. Hartley,” cried the doctor, raising his voice, “give me leave to introduce my friend Mr. Hervey to you, and to your miniature picture, if you have one.”
Mr. Hartley sighed profoundly as he drew from his bosom a small portrait, which he put into Mr. Hervey’s hands, saying, “Alas! sir, you cannot, I fear, give me any tidings of the original; it is the picture of a daughter, whom I have never seen since she was an infant — whom I never shall see again.”
Clarence instantly knew it to be Virginia; but as he was upon the point of making some joyful exclamation, he felt Dr. X —— touch his shoulder, and looking up at Mr. Hartley, he saw in his countenance such strong workings of passion, that he prudently suppressed his own emotion, and calmly said, “It would be cruel, sir, to give you false hopes.”
“It would kill me — it would kill me, sir! — or worse! — worse! a thousand times worse!” cried Mr. Hartley, putting his hand to his forehead. “What,” continued he impatiently, “what was the meaning of the look you gave, when you first saw that picture? Speak, if you have any humanity! Did you ever see any one that resembles that picture?”
“I have seen, I think, a picture,” said Clarence Hervey, “that has some resemblance to it.”
“When? where?—”
“My good sir,” said Dr. X —— , “let me recommend it to you to consider that there is scarcely any possibility of judging, from the features of children, of what their faces may be when they grow up. Nothing can be more fallacious than these accidental resemblances between the pictures of children and of grown-up people.”
Mr. Hartley’s countenance fell.
“But,” added Clarence Hervey, “you will perhaps, sir, think it worth your while to see the picture of which I speak: you can see it at Mr. F — —’s, the painter, in Newman-street; and I will accompany you thither whenever you please.”
“This moment, if you would have the goodness: my carriage is at the door; and Mrs. Delacour will be so kind to excuse — —”
“Oh, make no apologies to me at such a time as this,” said Mrs. Delacour. “Away with you, gentlemen, as soon as you please; upon condition, that if you have any good news to tell, some of you will remember, in the midst of your joy, that such an old woman as Mrs. Margaret Delacour exists, who loves to hear good news of those who d
eserve it.”
“It was so late in the day when they got to Newman-street, that they were obliged to light candles. Trembling with eagerness, Mr. Hartley drew near, while Clarence held the light to the picture.
“It is so like,” said he, looking at his miniature, “that I dare not believe my senses. Dr. X —— , pray do you look. My head is so dizzy, and my eyes so —— What do you think, sir? What do you say, doctor?”
“That the likeness is certainly striking — but this seems to be a fancy piece.”
“A fancy piece,” repeated Mr. Hartley, with terror: “why then did you bring me here? — A fancy piece!”
“No, sir; it is a portrait,” said Clarence; “and if you will be calm, I will tell you more.”
“I will be calm — only is she alive?”
“The lady, of whom this is the portrait, is alive,” replied Clarence Hervey, who was obliged to exert his utmost command over himself, to maintain that composure which he saw was necessary; “the lady, of whom this is the portrait, is alive, and you shall see her to-morrow.”
“Oh, why not now? Cannot I see her now? I must see her to-night — this instant, sir!”
“It is impossible,” said Mr. Hervey, “that you should see her this instant, for she is some miles off, at Twickenham.”
“It is too late to go thither now; you cannot think of it, Mr. Hartley,” continued Dr. X —— , in a tone of command, to which he yielded more readily than to reason.
Clarence had the presence of mind to recollect that it would be necessary to prepare poor Virginia for this meeting, and he sent a messenger immediately to request that Mrs. Ormond would communicate the intelligence with all the caution in her power.
The next morning, Mr. Hartley and Mr. Hervey set off together for Twickenham. In their way thither Clarence gradually confirmed Mr. Hartley in the belief that Virginia was his daughter, by relating all the circumstances that he had learned from her grandmother, and from Mrs. Smith, the farmer’s wife, with whom she had formerly been acquainted: the name, the age, every particular, as it was disclosed, heightened his security and his joy.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 59
