"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 a.s.sisting 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 a.s.sure you, Virginia, that I make no claim upon your grat.i.tude? 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 pa.s.ses 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."