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.”
“Do you know this gentleman’s name, or where he lives?” said Clarence.
“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.
“Has the West India fleet sailed?”
“No: it sails to-morrow morning,” was the answer.
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.”
“I am sorry for it,” said Clarence.
“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?”
“I had not seen Belinda Portman then.”
“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! Mrs. Ormond.”
“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.”
“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
deserve 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.
For some time Mr. Hartley’s mind was so intent that he could not listen
to any thing, but at last Clarence engaged his attention and suspended
his anxiety, by giving him a history of his own connexion with Virginia,
from the day of his first discovering her in the New Forest, to the
letter which he had just written, to offer her his hand. The partiality
which it was suspected Virginia felt for him was the only circumstance
which he suppressed, because, notwithstanding all Mrs. Ormond had
said, and all he had himself heard and seen, his obstinate incredulity
required confirmation under her own hand, or positively from her own
lips. He still fancied it was possible that change of situation might
alter her views and sentiments; and he earnestly entreated that she
might be left entirely to her own decision. It was necessary to make
this stipulation with her father; for in the excess of his gratitude
for the kindness which Clarence had shown to her, he protested that he
should look upon her as a monster if she did not love him: he added,
that if Mr. Hervey had not a farthing, he should prefer him to every man
upon earth; he, however, promised that he would conceal his wishes, and
that his daughter should act entirely from the dictates of her own mind.
In the fulness of his heart, he told Clarence all those circumstances
of his conduct towards Virginia’s mother which had filled his soul
with remorse. She was scarcely sixteen when he ran away with her from
a boarding-school; he was at that time a gay officer, she a sentimental
girl, who had been spoiled by early novel-reading. Her father had a
small place at court, lived beyond his fortune, educated his daughter,
to whom he could give no portion, as if she were to be heiress to a
large estate; then died, and left his widow absolutely in penury. This
widow was the old lady who lived in the cottage in the New Forest. It
was just at the time of her husband’s death, and of her own distress,
that she heard of the elopement of her daughter from school. Mr.
Hartley’s parents were so much incensed by the match, that he was
prevailed upon to separate from his wife, and to go abroad, to push
his fortune in the army. His marriage had been secret: his own friends
disavowed it, notwithstanding the repeated, urgent entreaties of his
wife and of her mother, who was her only surviving relation. His wife,
on her death-bed, wrote to urge him to take charge of his daughter; and,
to make the appeal stronger to his feelings, she sent him a picture
of his little girl, who was then about four years old. Mr. Hartley,
however, was intent upon forming a new connexion with the rich widow
of a planter in Jamaica. He married the widow, took possession of her
fortune, and all his affections soon were fixed upon a son, for whom
he formed, even from the moment of his birth, various schemes of
aggrandizement. The boy lived till he was about ten years old, when he
caught a fever, which at that time raged in Jamaica, and, after a few
days’ illness, died. His mother was carried off by the same disease;
and Mr. Hartley, left alone in the midst of his wealth, felt how
insufficient it was to happiness. Remorse now seized him; he returned to
England in search of his deserted daughter. To this neglected child he
now looked forward for the peace and happiness of the remainder of his
life. Disappointment in all his inquiries for some months preyed
upon his spirits to such a degree, that his intellects were at times
disordered; this derangement was the cause of his not sooner recovering
his child. He was in confinement during the time that Clarence Hervey’s
advertisements were inserted in the papers; and his illness was also the
cause of his not going to Portsmouth, and sailing in the Effingham, as
he had originally intended. The history of his connexion with Mr. Horton
would be uninteresting to the reader; it is enough to say, that he was
prevailed upon, by that gentleman, to spend some time in the country
with him, for the recovery of his health; and it was there that he
became acquainted with Dr. X----, who introduced him, as we have seen,
to Mrs. Margaret Delacour, at whose house he met Clarence Hervey. This
is the most succinct account that we can give of him and his affairs.
His own account was ten times as long; but we spare our readers his
incoherences and reflections, because, perhaps, they are in a hurry to
get to Twickenham, and to hear of his meeting with Virginia.
Mrs. Ormond found it no easy task to prepare Virginia for the sight of
Mr. Hartley. Virginia had scarcely ever spoken of her father; but the
remembrance of things which she had heard of him from her grandmother
was fresh in her mind; she had often pictured him in her fancy, and
she had secretly nourished the hope that she should not for ever be a
_deserted child_. Mrs. Ormond had observed, that in those romances, of
which she was so fond, every thing that related to children who were
deserted by their parents affected her strongly.
The belief in what the French call _la force du sang_ was suited to
her affectionate temper and ardent imagination, and it had taken full
possession of her mind. The eloquence of romance persuaded her that
she should not only discover but love her father with intuitive filial
piety, and she longed to experience those yearnings of affection of
which she had read so much.
The first moment that Mrs. Ormond began to speak of Mr. Clarence
Hervey’s hopes of discovering her father, she was transported with joy.
“My _father_!--How delightful that word _father_ sounds!--_My_
father?--May I say _my_ father?--And will he own me, and will he love
me, and will he give me his blessing, and will he fold me in his arms,
and call me his daughter, his dear daughter?--Oh, how I shall love him!
I will make it the whole business of my life to please him!”
“The _whole_ business?” said Mrs. Ormond, smiling.
“Not the whole,” said Virginia; “I hope my father will like Mr. Hervey.
Did not you say that he is rich? I wish that my father may be _very_
rich.”
“That is the last wish that I should have expected to hear from you, my
Virginia.”
“But do you not know why I wish it?--that I may show my gratitude to Mr.
Hervey.”
“My dear child,” said Mrs. Ormond, “these are most generous sentiments,
and worthy of you; but do not let your imagination run away with you at
this rate--Mr. Hervey is rich enough.”
“I wish he were poor,” said Virginia, “that I might make him rich.”
“He would not love you the better, my dear,” said Mrs. Ormond, “if
you had the wealth of the Indies. Perhaps your father may not be rich;
therefore do not set your heart upon this idea.”
Virginia sighed: fear succeeded to hope, and her imagination immediately
reversed the bright picture that it had drawn.
“But I am afraid,” said she, “that this gentleman is not my father--how
disappointed I shall be! I wish you had never told me all this, my dear
Mrs. Ormond.”
“I would not have told it to you, if Mr. Hervey had not desired that I
should; and you maybe sure he would not have desired it, unless he had
good reason to believe that you would not be disappointed.”
“But he is not sure--he does not say he is quite sure. And, even if I
were quite certain of his being my father, how can I be certain that he
will not disown me--he, who has deserted me so long? My grandmother, I
remember, often used to say that he had no natural affection.”
“Your grandmother was mistaken, then; for he has been searching for
his child all over England, Mr. Hervey says; and he has almost lost his
senses with grief and with remorse!”
“Remorse!”
“Yes, remorse, for having so long deserted you: he fears that you will
hate him.”
“Hate him!--is it possible to hate a father?” said Virginia.
“He dreads that you should never forgive him.”
“Forgive him!--I have read of parents forgiving their children, but
I never remember to have read of a daughter forgiving her father.
_Forgive!_ you should not have used that word. I cannot _forgive_ my
father: but I can love him, and I will make him quite forget all his
sorrows--I mean, all his sorrows about me.”
After this conversation Virginia spent her time in imagining what sort
of person her father would be; whether he was like Mr. Hervey; what
words he would say; where he would sit; whether he would sit beside her;
and, above all, whether he would give her his blessing.
“I am afraid,” said she, “of liking my father better than _any body
else_.”
“No danger of that, my dear,” said Mrs. Ormond, smiling.
“I am glad of it, for it would be very wrong and _ungrateful_ to like
any thing in this world so well as Mr. Hervey.”
The carriage now came to the door: Mrs. Ormond instantly ran to the
window, but Virginia had not power to move--her heart beat violently.
“Is he come?” said she.
“Yes, he is getting out of the carriage this moment!”
Virginia stood with her eyes eagerly fixed upon the door: “Hark!” said
she, laying her hand upon Mrs. Ormond’s arm, to prevent her from moving:
“Hush! that we may hear his voice.”
She was breathless--no voice was to be heard: “They are not coming,”
said she, turning as pale as death. An instant afterwards her colour
returned--she heard the steps of two people coming up the stairs.
“His step!--Do you hear it?--Is it my father?”
Virginia’s imagination was worked to the highest pitch; she could
scarcely sustain herself: Mrs. Ormond supported her. At this instant her
father appeared.
“My child!--the image of her mother!” exclaimed he, stopping short: he
sunk upon a chair.
“My father!” cried Virginia, springing forward, and throwing herself at
his feet.
“The voice of her mother!” said Mr. Hartley. “My daughter!--My long lost
child!”
He tried to raise her, but could not; her arms were clasped round his
knee, her face rested upon it, and when he stooped to kiss her cheek, he
found it cold--she had fainted.
When she came to her senses, and found herself in her father’s arms, she
could scarcely believe that it was not a dream.
“Your blessing!--give me your blessing, and then I shall know that you
are indeed my father!” cried Virginia, kneeling to him, and looking up
with an enthusiastic expression of filial piety in her countenance.
“God bless you, my sweet child!” said he, laying his hand upon her; “and
God forgive your father!”
“My grandmother died without giving me her blessing,” said Virginia;
“but now I have been blessed by my father! Happy, happy moment!--O that
she could look down from heaven, and see us at this instant!”
Virginia was so much astonished and overpowered by this sudden discovery
of a parent, and by the novelty of his first caresses, that after the
first violent effervescence of her sensibility was over, she might,
to an indifferent spectator, have appeared stupid and insensible. Mrs.
Ormond, though far from an indifferent spectator, was by no means a
penetrating judge of the human heart: she seldom saw more than the
external symptoms of feeling, and she was apt to be rather impatient
with her friends if theirs did not accord with her own.
“Virginia, my dear,” said she, in rather a reproachful tone, “Mr.
Hervey, you see, has left the room, on purpose to leave you at full
liberty to talk to your father; and I am going--but you are so silent!”
“I have so much to say, and my heart is so full!” said Virginia.
“Yes, I know you told me of a thousand things that you had to say to
your father, before you saw him.”
“But now I see him, I have forgotten them all. I can think of nothing
but of him.”
“Of him and Mr. Hervey,” said Mrs. Ormond.
“I was not thinking of Mr. Hervey at that moment,” said Virginia,
blushing.
“Well, my love, I will leave you to think and talk of what you please,”
said Mrs. Ormond, smiling significantly as she left the room.
Mr. Hartley folded his daughter in his arms with the fondest expressions
of parental affection, and he was upon the point of telling her how much
he approved of the choice of her heart; but he recollected his promise,
and he determined to sound her inclinations farther, before he even
mentioned the name of Clarence Hervey.
He began by painting the pleasures of the world, that world from which
she had hitherto been secluded.
She heard him with simple indifference: not even her curiosity was
excited.
He observed, that though she had no curiosity to see, it was natural
that she must have some pleasure in the thoughts of being seen.
“What pleasure?” said Virginia.
“The pleasure of being admired and loved: beauty and grace such as
yours, my child, cannot be seen without commanding admiration and love.”
“I do not want to be admired,” replied Virginia, “and I want to be loved
by those only whom I love.”
“My dearest daughter, you shall be entirely your own mistress; I will
never interfere, either directly or indirectly, in the disposal of your
heart.”
At these last words, Virginia, who had listened to all the rest unmoved,
took her father’s hand, and kissed it repeatedly.
“Now that I have found you, my darling child, let me at least make you
happy, if I can--it is the only atonement in my power; it will be the
only solace of my declining years. All that wealth can bestow--”
“Wealth!” interrupted Virginia: “then you have wealth?”
“Yes, my child--may it make you happy! that is all the enjoyment I
expect from it: it shall all be yours.”
“And may I do what I please with it?--Oh, then it will indeed make me
happy. I will give it all, all to Mr. Hervey. How delightful to have
something to _give_ to Mr. Hervey!”
“And had you never any thing to give to Mr. Hervey till now?”
“Never! never! he has given me every thing. Now--oh, joyful day!--I can
prove to him that Virginia is not ungrateful!”
“Dear, generous girl,” said her father, wiping the tears from his eyes,
“what a daughter have I found! But tell me, my child,” continued he,
smiling, “do you think Mr. Hervey will be content if you give him only
your fortune? Do you think that he would accept the fortune without the
heart? Nay, do not turn away that dear blushing face from me; remember
it is _your father_ who speaks to you. Mr. Hervey will not take your
fortune without yourself, I am afraid: what shall we do? Must I refuse
him your hand?”
“Refuse him! do you think that I could refuse him any thing, who
has given me every thing?--I should be a monster indeed! There is no
sacrifice I would not make, no exertion of which I am not capable, for
Mr. Hervey’s sake. But, my dear father,” said she, changing her tone,
“he never asked for my hand till yesterday.”
But he had won your heart long ago, I see, thought her father.
“I have written an answer to his letter; will you look at it, and tell
me if you approve of it?”
“I do approve of it, my darling child: I will not read it--I know what
it must be: he has a right to the preference he has so nobly earned.”
“Oh, he has--he has, indeed!” cried Virginia, with an expression
of strong feeling; “and now is the time to show him that I am not
ungrateful.”
“How I love you for this, my child!” cried her father, fondly embracing
her. “This is exactly what I wished, though I did not dare to say so
till I was sure of your sentiments. Mr. Hervey charged me to leave you
entirely to yourself; he thought that your new situation might perhaps
produce some change in your sentiments: I see he was mistaken; and I am
heartily glad of it. But you are going to say something, my dear; do not
let me interrupt you.”
“I was only going to beg that you would give this letter, my dear
father, to Mr. Hervey. It is an answer to one which he wrote to me
when I was poor”--_and deserted_, she was near saying, but she stopped
herself.
“I wish,” continued she, “Mr. Hervey should know that my sentiments are
precisely the same now that they have always been. Tell him,” added she,
proudly, “that he did me injustice by imagining that my sentiments could
alter with my situation. He little knows Virginia.” Clarence at this
moment entered the room, and Mr. Hartley eagerly led his daughter to
meet him.
“Take her hand,” cried he; “you have her heart--you deserve it; and
she has just been very angry with me for doubting. But read her
letter,--that will speak better for her, and more to your satisfaction,
no doubt, than I can.”
Virginia hastily put the letter into Mr. Hervey’s hand, and, breaking
from her father, retired to her own apartment.
With all the trepidation of a person who feels that the happiness of his
life is to be decided in a few moments, Clarence tore open Virginia’s
letter, and, conscious that he was not able to command his emotion, he
withdrew from her father’s inquiring eyes. Mr. Hartley, however, saw
nothing in this agitation but what he thought natural to a lover, and
he was delighted to perceive that his daughter had inspired so strong a
passion.
Virginia’s letter contained but these few lines:
“Most happy shall I be if the whole of my future life can prove to you
how deeply I feel your goodness.
“VIRGINIA ST. PIERRE.”
[_End of C. Hervey’s packet_.]
An acceptance so direct left Clarence no alternative: his fate was
decided. He determined immediately to force himself to see Belinda and
Mr. Vincent; for he fancied that his mind would be more at ease when he
had convinced himself by ocular demonstration that she was absolutely
engaged to another; that, consequently, even if he were free, he could
have no chance of gaining her affections. There are moments when we
desire the conviction which at another time would overwhelm us with
despair: it was in this temper that Mr. Hervey paid his visit to Lady
Delacour; but we have seen that he was unable to support for many
minutes that philosophic composure to which, at his first entrance
into the room, he had worked up his mind. The tranquillity which he had
expected would be the consequence of this visit, he was farther than
ever from obtaining. The extravagant joy with which Lady Delacour
received him, and an indescribable something in her manner when she
looked from him to Belinda, and from Belinda to Mr. Vincent, persuaded
him her ladyship wished that he were in Mr. Vincent’s place. The idea
was so delightful, that his soul was entranced, and for a few minutes
Virginia, and every thing that related to her, vanished from his
remembrance. It was whilst he was in this state that Lady Delacour (as
the reader may recollect) invited him into her lord’s dressing-room,
to tell her the contents of the packet, which had not then reached her
hands. The request suddenly recalled him to his senses, but he felt
that he was not at this moment able to trust himself to her ladyship’s
penetration; he therefore referred her to his letter for that
explanation which he dreaded to make in person, and he escaped from
Belinda’s presence, resolving never more to expose himself to such
danger.
What effect his packet produced on Lady Delacour’s mind and on
Belinda’s, we shall not at present stop to inquire; but having brought
up Clarence Hervey’s affairs to the present day, we shall continue his
history.