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 b
etter 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.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 60