"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 pa.s.sengers, 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 embarra.s.sed 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 p.r.o.nounce the word _grat.i.tude_.

Mrs. Ormond p.r.o.nounced 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.e.x 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 compa.s.sion 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,"