To dissipate his own mind, and to give time for the development of hers, he now, according to his resolution, left his pupil to the care of Mrs.

Ormond, and mixed as much as possible in gay and fashionable company. It was at this period that he renewed his acquaintance with Lady Delacour, whom he had seen and admired before he went abroad. He found that his gallantry, on the famous day of the battle between the turkeys and pigs, was still remembered with grat.i.tude by her ladyship; she received him with marked courtesy, and he soon became a constant visitor at her house. Her wit entertained, her eloquence charmed him, and he followed, admired, and _gallanted_ her, without scruple, for he considered her merely as a coquette, who preferred the glory of conquest to the security of reputation. With such a woman he thought he could amuse himself without danger, and he every where appeared the foremost in the public train of her ladyship's admirers. He soon discovered, however, that her talents were far superior to what are necessary for playing the part of a fine lady; his visits became more and more agreeable to him, and he was glad to feel, that, by dividing his attention, his pa.s.sion for Virginia insensibly diminished, or, as he said to himself, became more reasonable. In conversing with Lady Delacour, his faculties were always called into full play; in talking to Virginia, his understanding was pa.s.sive: he perceived that a large proportion of his intellectual powers, and of his knowledge, was absolutely useless to him in her company; and this did not raise her either in his love or esteem. Her simplicity and navete, however, sometimes relieved him, after he had been fatigued by the extravagant gaiety and _glare_ of her ladyship's manners; and he reflected that the coquetry which amused him in an acquaintance would be odious in a wife: the perfect innocence of Virginia promised security to his domestic happiness, and he did not change his views, though he was less eager for the period of their accomplishment. "I cannot expect every thing that is desirable," said he to himself: "a more brilliant character than Virginia's would excite my admiration, but could not command my confidence."

It was whilst his mind was in this situation that he became acquainted with Belinda. At first, the idea of her having been I educated by the match-making Mrs. Stanhope prejudiced him against her; but as he had opportunities of observing her conduct, this prepossession was conquered, and when she had secured his esteem, he could no longer resist her power over his heart. In comparison with Belinda, Virginia appeared to him but an insipid, though innocent child: the one he found was his equal, the other his inferior; the one he saw could be a companion, a friend to him for life, the other would merely be his pupil, or his plaything. Belinda had cultivated taste, an active understanding, a knowledge of literature, the power and the habit of conducting herself; Virginia was ignorant and indolent, she had few ideas, and no wish to extend her knowledge; she was so entirely unacquainted with the world, that it was absolutely impossible she could conduct herself with that discretion, which must be the combined result of reasoning and experience. Mr. Hervey had felt gratuitous confidence in Virginia's innocence; but on Belinda's prudence, which he had opportunities of seeing tried, he gradually learned to feel a different and a higher species of reliance, which it is neither in our power to bestow nor to refuse. The virtues of Virginia sprang from sentiment; those of Belinda from reason.

Clarence, whilst he made all these comparisons, became every day more wisely and more fondly attached to Belinda; and at length he became desirous to change the nature of his connexion with Virginia, and to appear to her only in the light of a friend or a benefactor. He thought of giving her a suitable fortune and of leaving her under the care of Mrs. Ormond, till some method of establishing her in the world should occur. Unfortunately, just at the time when Mr. Hervey formed this plan, and before it was communicated to Mrs. Ormond, difficulties arose which prevented him from putting it into execution.

Whilst he had been engaged in the gay world at Lady Delacour's, his pupil had necessarily been left much to the management of Mrs. Ormond.

This lady, with the best possible intentions, had not that reach of mind and variety of resource necessary to direct the exquisite sensibility and ardent imagination of Virginia: the solitude in which she lived added to the difficulty of the task. Without companions to interest her social affections, without real objects to occupy her senses and understanding, Virginia's mind was either perfectly indolent, or _exalted_ by romantic views, and visionary ideas of happiness. As she had never seen any thing of society, all her notions were drawn from books; the severe restrictions which her grandmother had early laid upon the choice of these seemed to have awakened her curiosity, and to have increased her appet.i.te for books--it was insatiable. Reading, indeed, was now almost her only pleasure; for Mrs. Ormond's conversation was seldom entertaining, and Virginia had no longer those occupations which filled a portion of her day at the cottage.

Mr. Hervey had cautioned Mrs. Ormond against putting _common_ novels into her hands, but he made no objection to romances: these, he thought, breathed a spirit favourable to female virtue, exalted the respect for chast.i.ty, and inspired enthusiastic admiration of honour, generosity, truth, and all the n.o.ble qualities which dignify human nature. Virginia devoured these romances with the greatest eagerness; and Mrs. Ormond, who found her a prey to ennui when her fancy was not amused, indulged her taste; yet she strongly suspected that they contributed to increase her pa.s.sion for the only man who could, in her imagination, represent a hero.

One night Virginia found, in Mrs. Ormond's room, a volume of St.

Pierre's Paul and Virginia. She knew that her own name had been taken from this romance; Mr. Hervey had her picture painted in this character; and these circ.u.mstances strongly excited her curiosity to read the book.

Mrs. Ormond could not refuse to let her have it; for, though it was not an ancient romance, it did not exactly come under the description of a common novel, and Mr. Hervey was not at hand to give his advice.

Virginia sat down instantly to her volume, and never stirred from the spot till she had nearly finished it.

"What is it that strikes your fancy so much? What are you considering so deeply, my love?" said Mrs. Ormond, observing, that she seemed lost in thought. "Let us see, my dear," continued she, offering to take the hook, which hung from her hand. Virginia started from her reverie, but held the volume fast.--"Will not you let me read along with you?" said Mrs. Ormond. "Won't you let me share your pleasure?"

"It was not pleasure that I felt, I believe," said Virginia. "I would rather you should not see just that particular part that I was reading; and yet, if you desire it," added she, resigning the book reluctantly.

"What can make you so much afraid of me, my sweet girl?"

"I am not afraid of you--but--of myself," said Virginia, sighing.

Mrs. Ormond read the following pa.s.sage:

"She thought of Paul's friendship, more pure than the waters of the fountain, stronger than the united palms, and sweeter than the perfume of flowers; and these images, in night and in solitude, gave double force to the pa.s.sion which she nourished in her heart. She suddenly left the dangerous shades, and went to her mother, to seek protection against herself. She wished to reveal her distress to her; she pressed her hands, and the name of Paul was on her lips; but the oppression of her heart took away all utterance, and, laying her head upon her mother's bosom, she only wept."

"And am I not a mother to you, my beloved Virginia?" said Mrs. Ormond.

"Though I cannot express my affection in such charming language as this, yet, believe me, no mother was ever fonder of a child."

Virginia threw her arms round Mrs. Ormond, and laid her head upon her friend's bosom, as if she wished to realize the illusion, and to be the Virginia of whom she had been reading.

"I know all you think, and all you feel: I know," whispered Mrs. Ormond, "the name that is on _your_ lips."

"No, indeed, you do not; you cannot," cried Virginia, suddenly raising her head, and looking up in Mrs. Ormond's face, with surprise and timidity: "how could you possibly know _all_ my thoughts and feelings? I never told them to you; for, indeed, I have only confused ideas floating in my imagination from the books I have been reading. I do not distinctly know my own feelings."

"This is all very natural, and a proof of your perfect innocence and simplicity, my child. But why did the pa.s.sage you were reading just now strike you so much?"

"I was only considering," said Virginia, "whether it was the description of--love."

"And your heart told you that it was?"

"I don't know," said she, sighing. "But of this I am certain, that I had not the name, which you were thinking of, upon my lips."

Ah! thought Mrs. Ormond, she has not forgotten how I checked her sensibility some time ago. Poor girl! she is become afraid of me, and I have taught her to dissemble; but she betrays herself every moment.

"My dear," said Mrs. Ormond, "you need not fear me--I cannot blame you: in your situation, it is impossible that you could help loving Mr.

Hervey."

"Is it?"

"Yes; quite impossible. So do not blame yourself for it."

"No, I do not blame myself for that. I only blame myself for not loving him _enough_, as I told you once before."

"Yes, my dear; and the oftener you tell me so, the more I am convinced of your affection. It is one of the strongest symptoms of love, that we are unconscious of its extent. We fancy that we can never do too much for the beloved object."

"That is exactly what I feel about Mr. Hervey."

"That we can never love him enough."

"Ah! that is precisely what I feel for Mr. Hervey."

"And what you ought--I mean, what it is natural you should feel; and what he will himself, I hope, indeed I dare say, some time or other wish, and be glad that you should feel."

"Some time or other! Does not he wish it now?"

"I--he--my dear, what a question is that? And how shall I answer it? We must judge of what he feels by what he expresses: when he expresses love for you, it will then be the time to show yours for him."

"He has always expressed love for me, I think," said Virginia--"always, till lately," continued she; "but lately he has been away so much, and when he comes home, he does not look so well pleased; so that I was afraid he was angry with me, and that he thought me ungrateful."

"Oh, my love, do not torment yourself with these vain fears! And yet I know that you cannot help it."

"Since you are so kind, so very kind to me," said Virginia, "I will tell you all my fears and doubts. But it is late--there! the clock struck one. I will not keep you up."

"I am not at all sleepy," said the indulgent Mrs. Ormond.

"Nor I," said Virginia,

"Now, then," said Mrs. Ormond, "for these doubts and fears."

"I was afraid that, perhaps, Mr. Hervey would be angry if he knew that I thought of any thing in the world but him."

"Of what else do you think?--Of nothing else from morning till night, that I can see."

"Ah, then you do not see into my mind. In the daytime often think of those heroes, those charming heroes, that I read of in the books you have given me."

"To be sure you do."

"And is not that wrong? Would not Mr. Hervey be displeased if he knew it?"

"Why should he?"

"Because they are not quite like him. I love some of them better than I do him, and he might think that _ungrateful_."

How naturally love inspires the idea of jealousy, thought Mrs. Ormond.

"My dear," said she, "you carry your ideas of delicacy and grat.i.tude to an extreme; but it is very natural you should: however, you need not be afraid; Mr. Hervey cannot be jealous of those charming heroes, that never existed, though they are not quite like him."