"I will be calm--only is she alive?"

"The lady, of whom this is the portrait, is alive," replied Clarence Hervey, who was obliged to exert his utmost command over himself, to maintain that composure which he saw was necessary; "the lady, of whom this is the portrait, is alive, and you shall see her to-morrow."

"Oh, why not now? Cannot I see her now? I must see her to-night--this instant, sir!"

"It is impossible," said Mr. Hervey, "that you should see her this instant, for she is some miles off, at Twickenham."

"It is too late to go thither now; you cannot think of it, Mr. Hartley,"

continued Dr. X----, in a tone of command, to which he yielded more readily than to reason.

Clarence had the presence of mind to recollect that it would be necessary to prepare poor Virginia for this meeting, and he sent a messenger immediately to request that Mrs. Ormond would communicate the intelligence with all the caution in her power.

The next morning, Mr. Hartley and Mr. Hervey set off together for Twickenham. In their way thither Clarence gradually confirmed Mr.

Hartley in the belief that Virginia was his daughter, by relating all the circ.u.mstances that he had learned from her grandmother, and from Mrs. Smith, the farmer's wife, with whom she had formerly been acquainted: the name, the age, every particular, as it was disclosed, heightened his security and his joy.

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 circ.u.mstance 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 grat.i.tude 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 circ.u.mstances 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 advertis.e.m.e.nts 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 grat.i.tude 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 better 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.