"Seventeen!--is she only seventeen?" cried Clarence, with a mixture of surprise and disappointment in his countenance--"Only seventeen! Why she is but a child still."

"Quite a child," said Mrs. Ormond; "and so much the better."

"So much the worse, I think," said Clarence. "But are you sure she's only seventeen?--she must be mistaken--she must be eighteen, at least."

"G.o.d forbid!"

"G.o.d forbid!--Why, Mrs. Ormond?"

"Because, you know, we have a year more before us."

"That may be a very satisfactory prospect to you," said Mr. Hervey, smiling.

"And to you, surely," said Mrs. Ormond; "for, I suppose, you would be glad that your wife should, at least, know the common things that every body knows."

"As to that," said Clarence, "I should be glad that my wife were ignorant of what _every body knows_. Nothing is so tiresome to a man of any taste or abilities as _what every body knows_. I am rather desirous to have a wife who has an uncommon than a common understanding."

"But you would choose, would not you," said Mrs. Ormond, hesitating with an air of great deference, "that your wife should know how to write?"

"To be sure," replied Clarence, colouring. "Does not Virginia know how to write?"

"How should she?" said Mrs. Ormond: "it is no fault of hers, poor girl--she was never taught. You know it was her grandmother's notion that she should not learn to write, lest she should write love-letters."

"But _you_ promised that she should be taught to write, and I trusted to you, Mrs. Ormond."

"She has been here only two months, and all that time, I am sure, I have done every thing in my power; but when a person comes to be sixteen or seventeen, it is up-hill work."

"I will teach her myself," cried Clarence: "I am sure she may be taught any thing."

"By you," said Mrs. Ormond, smiling; "but not by me."

"You have no doubts of her capacity, surely?"

"I am no judge of capacity, especially of the capacity of those I love; and I am grown very fond of Virginia; she is a charming, open-hearted, simple, affectionate creature. I rather think it is from indolence that she does not learn, and not from want of abilities."

"All indolence arises from want of excitement," said Clarence: "if she had proper motives, she would conquer her indolence."

"Why, I dare say, if I were to tell her that she would never have a letter from Mr. Hervey till she is able to write an answer, she would learn to write very expeditiously; but I thought that would not be a proper motive, because you forbade me to tell her your future views. And indeed it would be highly imprudent, on your account, as well as hers, to give her any hint of that kind: because you might change your mind, before she's old enough for you to think of her seriously, and then you would not know what to do with her; and after entertaining hopes of becoming your wife, she would be miserable, I am sure, with that affectionate tender heart of hers, if you were to leave her. Now that she knows nothing of the matter, we are all safe, and as we should be."

Though Clarence Hervey did not at this time foresee any great probability of his changing his mind, yet he felt the good sense and justice of Mrs. Ormond's suggestions; and he was alarmed to perceive that his mind had been so intoxicated as to suffer such obvious reflections to escape his attention. Mrs. Ormond, a woman whom he had been accustomed to consider as far his inferior in capacity, he now felt was superior to him in prudence, merely because she was undisturbed by pa.s.sion. He resolved to master his own mind: to consider that it was not a mistress, but a wife he wanted in Virginia; that a wife without capacity or without literature could never be a companion suited to him, let her beauty or sensibility be ever so exquisite and captivating. The happiness of his life and of hers were at stake, and every motive of prudence and delicacy called upon him to command his affections. He was, however, still sanguine in his expectations from Virginia's understanding, and from his own power of developing her capacity. He made several attempts, with the greatest skill and patience; and his fair pupil, though she did not by any means equal his hopes, astonished Mrs. Ormond by her comparatively rapid progress.

"I always believed that you could make her any thing you pleased," said she. "You are a tutor who can work miracles with Virginia."

"I see no miracles," replied Clarence; "I am conscious of no such power.

I should be sorry to possess any such influence, until I am sure that it would be for our mutual happiness."

Mr. Hervey then conjured Mrs. Ormond, by all her attachment to him and to her pupil, never to give Virginia the most distant idea that he had any intentions of making her his wife. She promised to do all that was in her power to keep this secret, but she could not help observing that it had already been betrayed, as plainly as looks could speak, by Mr.

Hervey himself. Clarence in vain endeavoured to exculpate himself from this charge: Mrs. Ormond brought to his recollection so many instances of his indiscretion, that it was substantiated even in his own judgment, and he was amazed to find that all the time he had put so much constraint upon his inclinations, he had, nevertheless, so obviously betrayed them. His surprise, however, was at this time unmixed with any painful regret; he did not foresee the probability that he should change his mind; and notwithstanding Mrs. Ormond a.s.sured him that Virginia's sensibility had increased, he was persuaded that she was mistaken, and that his pupil's heart and imagination were yet untouched. The innocent openness with which she expressed her affection for him confirmed him, he said, in his opinion. To do him justice, Clarence had none of the presumption which too often characterizes men who have been successful, as it is called, with the fair s.e.x. His acquaintance with women had increased his persuasion that it is difficult to excite genuine love in the heart; and with respect to himself, he was upon this subject astonishingly incredulous. It was scarcely possible to convince him that he was beloved.

Mrs. Ormond, piqued upon this subject, determined to ascertain more decisively her pupil's sentiments.

"My dear," said she, one day to Virginia, who was feeding her bullfinch, "I do believe you are fonder of that bird than of any thing in the world--fonder of it, I am sure, than of me."

"Oh! you cannot think so," said Virginia, with an affectionate smile.

"Well! fonder than you are of Mr. Hervey, you will allow, at least?"

"No, indeed!" cried she, eagerly: "how can you think me so foolish, so childish, so ungrateful, as to prefer a little worthless bird to him--" (the bullfinch began to sing so loud at this instant, that her enthusiastic speech was stopped). "My pretty bird," said she, as it perched upon her hand, "I love you very much, but if Mr. Hervey were to ask it, to wish it, I would open that window, and let you fly; yes, and bid you fly away far from me for ever. Perhaps he does wish it?--Does he?--Did he tell you so?" cried she, looking earnestly in Mrs. Ormond's face, as she moved towards the window.

Mrs. Ormond put her hand upon the sash, as Virginia was going to throw it up--

"Gently, gently, my love--whither is your imagination carrying you?"

"I thought _something_ by your look," said Virginia, blushing.

"And I thought _something_, my dear Virginia," said Mrs. Ormond, smiling.

"What did you think?--What _could_ you think?"

"I cannot--I mean, I would rather not at present tell you. But do not look so grave; I will tell you some time or other, if you cannot guess."

Virginia was silent, and stood abashed.

"I am sure, my sweet girl," said Mrs. Ormond, "I do not mean, by any thing I said, to confuse or blame you. It is very natural that you should be grateful to Mr. Hervey, and that you should admire, and, _to a certain degree, love_ him."

Virginia looked up delighted, yet with some hesitation in her manner.

"He is, indeed," said Mrs. Ormond, "one of the first of human beings: such even _I_ have always thought him; and I am sure I like you the better, my dear, for your sensibility," said she, kissing Virginia as she spoke; "only we must take care of it, or this tenderness might go too far."

"How so?" said Virginia, returning her caresses with fondness: "can I love you and Mr. Hervey too much?"

"Not me."

"Nor him, I'm sure--he is so good, so very good! I am afraid that I do not love him _enough_," said she, sighing. "I love him enough when he is absent, but not when he is present. When he is near I feel a sort of fear mixed with my love. I wish to please him very much, but I should not quite like that he should show his love for me as you do--as you did just now."

"My dear, it would not be proper that he should; you are quite right not to wish it."

"Am I? I was afraid that it was a sign of my not liking him as much as I ought."

"Ah, my poor child! you love him full as much as you ought."

"Do you think so? I am glad of it," said Virginia, with a look of such confiding simplicity, that her friend was touched to the heart.

"I do think so, my love," said Mrs. Ormond; "and I hope I shall never be sorry for it, nor you either. But it is not proper that we should say any more upon this subject now. Where are your drawings? Where is your writing? My dear, we must get forward with these things as fast as we can. That is the way to please Mr. Hervey, I can tell you."

Confirmed by this conversation in her own opinion, Mrs. Ormond was satisfied. From delicacy to her pupil, she did not repeat all that had pa.s.sed to Mr. Hervey, resolving to wait till the _proper_ moment. "She is too young and too childish for him to think of marrying her yet, for a year or two," thought she; "and it is better to repress her sensibility till her education is more finished; by that time Mr. Hervey will find out his mistake."

In the mean time she could not help thinking that he was blind, for he continued steady in his belief of Virginia's indifference.