She led the way to Mrs. Delacour’s dressing-room, and all the company followed.
“Now, what do you expect to see?” said she, putting the key into the door.
After waiting some moments for a reply, but in vain, she threw open the door, and they saw, hung before the wall opposite to them, a green curtain.
“I thought, my dear Clarence,” resumed Lady Delacour, “that no present could be more agreeable to you than a companion for your Virginia. Does this figure,” continued she, drawing back the curtain, “does this figure give you the idea of Paul?”
“Paul!” said Clarence; “it is a naval officer in full uniform: what can your ladyship mean?”
“Virginia perhaps will know what I mean, if you will only stand out of her way, and let her see the picture.”
At these words Clarence made way for Virginia: she turned her eyes upon the picture, uttered a piercing shriek, and fell senseless upon the floor.
“Take it coolly,” said Lady Delacour, “and she will come to her senses presently. Young ladies must shriek and faint upon certain occasions; but men (looking at Clarence Hervey) need not always be dupes. This is only a scene; consider it as such, and admire the actress as I do.”
“Actress! Oh, she is no actress!” cried Mrs. Ormond.
Clarence Hervey raised her from the ground, and Belinda sprinkled water over her face.
“She’s dead! — she’s dead! Oh, my sweet child! she’s dead!” exclaimed Mrs. Ormond, trembling so violently, that she could not sustain Virginia.
“She is no actress, indeed,” said Clarence Hervey: “her pulse is gone!”
Lady Delacour looked at Virginia’s pale lips, touched her cold hands, and with a look of horror cried out, “Good Heavens! what have I done? What shall we do with her?”
“Give her air — give her air, air, air!” cried Belinda.
“You keep the air from her, Mrs. Ormond,” said Mrs. Delacour. “Let us leave her to Miss Portman; she has more presence of mind than any of us.” And as she spoke she forced Mrs. Ormond away with her out of the room.
“If Mr. Hartley should come, keep him with you, Mrs. Delacour,” said Clarence Hervey. “Is her pulse quite gone?”
“No; it beats stronger and stronger,” said Belinda.
“Her colour is returning,” said Lady Delacour. “There! raise her a little, dear Belinda; she is coming to herself.”
“Had not you better draw the curtain again before that picture,” said Miss Portman, “lest she should see it the moment she opens her eyes?”
Virginia came slowly to her recollection, saw Lady Delacour drawing the curtain before the picture, then fixed her eyes upon Clarence Hervey, without uttering a word.
“Are you better now?” said he, in a gentle tone.
“Oh, do not speak — do not look so kindly!” cried Virginia. “I am well — quite well — better than I deserve to be;” and she pressed Belinda’s hand, as if to thank her for assisting and supporting her.
“We may safely leave her now,” whispered Belinda to Lady Delacour; “we are strangers, and our presence only distresses her.”
They withdrew. But the moment Virginia found herself alone with Mr. Hervey, she was seized with a universal tremor; she tried to speak, but could not articulate. At last she burst into a flood of tears; and when this had in some measure relieved her, she threw herself upon her knees, and clasping her hands, exclaimed, as she looked up to heaven —
“Oh, if I knew what I ought to do! — if I knew what I ought to say!”
“Shall I tell you, Virginia? And will you believe me?”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
“You ought to say — the truth, whatever it may be.”
“But you will think me the most ungrateful of human beings?”
“How often must I assure you, Virginia, that I make no claim upon your gratitude? Speak to me — I conjure you, as you value your happiness and mine — speak to me without disguise! What is all this mystery? Why should you fear to let me know what passes in your heart? Why did you shriek at the sight of that picture?”
“Oh, forgive me! forgive me!” cried Virginia: she would have sunk at his feet, if he had not prevented her.
“I will — I can forgive any thing but deceit. Do not look at me with so much terror, Virginia — I have not deserved it: my wish is to make you happy. I would sacrifice even my own happiness to secure yours; but do not mislead me, or you ruin us both. Cannot you give me a distinct answer to this simple question — Why did you shriek at the sight of that picture?”
“Because — but you will call me ‘perfidious, ungrateful Virginia!’ — because I have seen that figure — he has knelt to me — he has kissed my hand — and I —— —”
Clarence Hervey withdrew his arms, which had supported her, and placing her upon a sofa, left her, whilst he walked up and down the room for some minutes in silence.
“And why, Virginia,” said he, stopping short, “was it necessary to conceal all this from me? Why was it necessary to persuade me that I was beloved? Why was it necessary that my happiness should be the sacrifice?”
“It shall not! — it shall not! Your happiness shall not be the sacrifice. Heaven is my witness, that there is no sacrifice I would not make for you. Forgive me that shriek! I could not help fainting, indeed! But I will be yours — I ought to be yours; and I am not perfidious — I am not ungrateful: do not look upon me as you did in my dream!”
“Do not talk to me of dreams, my dear Virginia; this is no time for trifling; I ask no sacrifice from you — I ask nothing but truth.”
“Truth! Mrs. Ormond knows all the truth: I have concealed nothing from her.”
“But she has concealed every thing from me,” cried Clarence; and, with a sudden impulse of indignation, he was going to summon her, but when his hand was upon the lock of the door he paused, returned to Virginia, and said, “Let me hear the truth from your lips: it is all I shall ever ask from you. How — when — where did you see this man?”
“What man?” said Virginia, looking up, with the simple expression of innocence in her countenance.
Clarence pointed to the picture.
“At the village in the New Forest, at Mrs. Smith’s house,” said Virginia, “one evening when I walked with her from my grandmother’s cottage.”
“And your grandmother knew of this?”
“Yes,” said Virginia, blushing, “and she was very much displeased.”
“And Mrs. Ormond knew of this?” pursued Clarence.
“Yes; but she told me that you would not be displeased at it.”
Mr. Hervey made another hasty step toward the door, but restraining his impetuous temper, he again stopped, and leaning ever the back of a chair, opposite to Virginia, waited in silence for her to proceed. He waited in vain.
“I do not mean to distress you, Miss Hartley,” said he.
She burst into tears. “I knew, I knew,” cried she, “that you would be displeased; I told Mrs. Ormond so. I knew you would never forgive me.”
“In that you were mistaken,” said Clarence, mildly; “I forgive you without difficulty, as I hope you may forgive yourself: nor can it be my wish to extort from you any mortifying confessions. But, perhaps, it may yet be in my power to serve you, if you will trust to me. I will myself speak to your father. I will do every thing to secure to you the object of your affections, if you will, in this last moment of our connexion, treat me with sincerity, and suffer me to be your friend.”
Virginia sobbed so violently for some time, that she could not speak: at last she said, “You are — you are the most generous of men! You have always been my best friend! I am the most ungrateful of human beings! But I am sure I never wished, I never intended, to deceive you. Mrs. Ormond told me—”
“Do not speak of her at present, or perhaps I may lose my temper,” interrupted Clarence in an altered voice: “only tell me — I conjure you, tell me — in one word, who is this man I and where is he to be found?”
“I do not know. I do not understand you,” said Virginia.
“You do not know! You will not trust me. Then I must leave you to — to Mr. Hartley.”
“Do not leave me — oh, do not leave me in anger!” cried Virginia, clinging to him. “Not trust you! — I! — not trust you! Oh, what can you mean? I have no confessions to make! Mrs. Ormond knows every thought of my mind, and so shall you, if you will only hear me. I do not know who this man is, I assure you; nor where he is to be found.”
“And yet you love him? Can you love a man whom you do not know, Virginia?”
“I only love his figure, I believe,” said Virginia.
“His figure!”
“Indeed I am quite bewildered,” said Virginia, looking round wildly; “I know not what I feel.”
“If you permitted this man to kneel to you, to kiss your hand, surely you must know that you love him, Virginia?”
“But that was only in a dream; and Mrs. Ormond said — —”
“Only a dream! But you met him at Mrs. Smith’s, in the New Forest?”
“That was only a picture.”
“Only a picture! — but you have seen the original?”
“Never — never in my life; and I wish to Heaven I had never, never seen the fatal picture! the image haunts me day and night. When I read of heroes in the day, that figure rises to my view, instead of yours. When I go to sleep at night, I see it, instead of yours, in my dreams; it speaks to me, it kneels to me. I long ago told Mrs. Ormond this, but she laughed at me. I told her of that frightful dream. I saw you weltering in your blood; I tried to save you, but could not. I heard you say, ‘Perfidious, ungrateful Virginia! you are the cause of my death!’ Oh, it was the most dreadful night I ever passed! Still this figure, this picture, was before me; and he was the knight of the white plumes; and it was he who stabbed you; but when I wished him to be victorious, I did not know that he was fighting against you. So Mrs. Ormond told me that I need not blame myself; and she said that you were not so foolish as to be jealous of a picture; but I knew you would be displeased — I knew you would think me ungrateful — I knew you would never forgive me.”
Whilst Virginia rapidly uttered all this, Clarence marked the wild animation of her eyes, the sudden changes of her countenance; he recollected her father’s insanity; every feeling of his mind gave way to terror and pity; he approached her with all the calmness that he could assume, took both her hands, and holding them in his, said, in a soothing voice —
“My dear Virginia, you are not ungrateful. I do not think you so. I am not displeased with you. You have done nothing to displease me. Compose yourself, dear Virginia.”
“I am quite composed, now you again call me dear Virginia. Only I am afraid, as I always told Mrs. Ormond, that I do not love you enough; but she said that I did, and that my fear was the strongest proof of my affection.”
Virginia now spoke in so consistent a manner that Clarence could not doubt that she was in the clear possession of her understanding. She repeated to him all that she had said to Mrs. Ormond; and he began to hope that, without any intention to deceive, Mrs. Ormond’s ignorance of the human heart led her into a belief that Virginia was in love with him; whilst, in fact, her imagination, exalted by solitude and romance, embodied and became enamoured of a phantom.
“I always told Mrs. Ormond that she was mistaken,” said Clarence. “I never believed that you loved me, Virginia, till — (he paused and carefully examined her countenance) — till you yourself gave me reason to think so. Was it only a principle of gratitude, then, that dictated your answer to my letter?”
She looked irresolute: and at last, in a low voice, said, “If I could see, if I could speak to Mrs. Ormond —— —”
“She cannot tell what are the secret feelings of your heart, Virginia. Consult no Mrs. Ormond. Consult no human creature but yourself.”
“But Mrs. Ormond told me that you loved me, and that you had educated me to be your wife.”
Mr. Hervey made an involuntary exclamation against Mrs. Ormond’s folly.
“How, then, can you be happy,” continued Virginia, “if I am so ungrateful as to say I do not love you? That I do not love you! — Oh! that I cannot say; for I do love you better than any one living except my father, and with the same sort of affection that I feel for him. You ask me to tell you the secret feelings of my heart: the only secret feeling of which I am conscious is — a wish not to marry, unless I could see in reality such a person as —— But that I knew was only a picture, a dream; and I thought that I ought at least to sacrifice my foolish imaginations to you, who have done so much for me. I knew that it would be the height of ingratitude to refuse you; and besides, my father told me that you would not accept of my fortune without my hand, so I consented to marry you: forgive me, if these were wrong motives — I thought them right. Only tell me what I can do to make you happy, as I am sure I wish to do; to that wish I would sacrifice every other feeling.”
“Sacrifice nothing, dear Virginia. We may both be happy without making any sacrifice of our feelings,” cried Clarence. And, transported at regaining his own freedom, Virginia’s simplicity never appeared to him so charming as at this moment. “Dearest Virginia, forgive me for suspecting you for one instant of any thing unhandsome. Mrs. Ormond, with the very best intentions possible, has led us both to the brink of misery. But I find you such as I always thought you, ingenuous, affectionate, innocent.”
“And you are not angry with me?” interrupted Virginia, with joyful eagerness; “and you will not think me ungrateful? And you will not be unhappy? And Mrs. Ormond was mistaken? And you do not wish that I should love you, that I should be your wife, I mean? Oh, don’t deceive me, for I cannot help believing whatever you say.”
Clarence Hervey, to give her a convincing proof that Mrs. Ormond had misled her as to his sentiments, immediately avowed his passion for Belinda.
“You have relieved me from all doubt, all fear, all anxiety,” said Virginia, with the sweetest expression of innocent affection in her countenance. “May you be as happy as you deserve to be! May Belinda — is not that her name? — May Belinda—”
At this moment Lady Delacour half opened the door, exclaiming—”Human patience can wait no longer!”
“Will you trust me to explain for you, dear Virginia?” said Clarence.
“Most willingly,” said Virginia, retiring as Lady Delacour advanced. “Pray leave me here alone, whilst you, who are used to talk before strangers, speak for me.”
“Dare you venture, Clarence,” said her ladyship, as she closed the door, “to leave her alone with that picture? You are no lover, if you be not jealous.”
“I am not jealous,” said Clarence, “yet I am a lover — a passionate lover.”
“A passionate lover!” cried Lady Delacour, stopping short as they were crossing the antechamber:—”then I have done nothing but mischief. In love with Virginia? I will not — cannot believe it.”
“In love with Belinda! — Cannot you, will not you believe it?”
“My dear Clarence, I never doubted it for an instant. But are you at liberty to own it to any body but me?”
“I am at liberty to declare it to all the world.”
“You transport me with joy! I will not keep you from her a second. But stay — I am sorry to tell you, that, as she informed me this morning, her heart is not at present inclined to love. And here is Mrs. Margaret Delacour, poor wretch, in this room, dying with curiosity. Curiosity is as ardent as love, and has as good a claim to compassion.”
As he entered the room, where there were only Mrs. Margaret Delacour and Belinda, Clarence Hervey’s first glance, rapid as it was, explained his heart.
Belinda put her arm within Lady Delacour’s, trembling so that she could scarcely stand. Lady Delacour pressed her hand, and was perfectly silent.
“And what is Miss Portman to believe,” cried Mrs. Margaret Delacour, “when she has seen you on the very eve of marriage with another lady?”
/> “The strongest merit I can plead with such a woman as Miss Portman is, that I was ready to sacrifice my own happiness to a sense of duty. Now that I am at liberty — —”
“Now that you are at liberty,” interrupted Lady Delacour, “you are in a vast hurry to offer your whole soul to a lady, who has for months seen all your merits with perfect insensibility, and who has been, notwithstanding all my operations, stone blind to your love.”
“The struggles of my passion cannot totally have escaped Belinda’s penetration,” said Clarence; “but I like her a thousand times the better for not having trusted merely to appearances. That love is most to be valued which cannot be easily won. In my opinion there is a prodigious difference between a warm imagination and a warm heart.”
“Well,” said Lady Delacour, “we have all of us seen Pamela maritata — let us now see Belinda in love, if that be possible. If! forgive me this last stroke, my dear — in spite of all my raillery, I do believe that the prudent Belinda is more capable of feeling real permanent passion than any of the dear sentimental young ladies, whose motto is
‘All for love, or the world well lost.’”
“That is just my opinion,” said Mrs. Margaret Delacour.
“But pray, what is become of Mr. Hartley?” looking round: “I do not see him.”
“No: for I have hid him,” said Lady Delacour: “he shall be forthcoming presently.”
“Dear Mr. Clarence Hervey, what have you done with my Virginia?” said Mrs. Ormond, coming into the room.
“Dear Mrs. Ormond, what have you done with her?” replied Clarence. “By your mistaken kindness, by insisting upon doing us both good against our wills, you were very near making us both miserable for life. But I blame nobody; I have no right to blame any one so much as myself. All this has arisen from my own presumption and imprudence. Nothing could be more absurd than my scheme of educating a woman in solitude to make her fit for society. I might have foreseen what must happen, that Virginia would consider me as her tutor, her father, not as her lover, or her husband; that with the most affectionate of hearts, she could for me feel nothing but gratitude.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 66