She placed it in her bosom, and then, looking at the diamonds, said, “They are pretty, sparkling things—what are they? of what use are they?” and she looked with more curiosity and admiration at the manner in which the earring shut and opened than at the diamonds. Clarence was charmed with her. When Mrs. Ormond told her that these things were to hang in her ears, she laughed and said, “How! how can I make them hang?”
“Have you never observed that I wear earrings?” said Mrs. Ormond.
“Ay! but yours are not like these, and—let me look—I never saw how you fastened them—let me look—oh! you have holes in your ears; but I have none in mine.”
Mrs. Ormond told her that holes could easily be made in her ears, by running a steel pin through them. She shrunk back, defending her ear with one hand, and pushing the diamonds from her with the other, exclaiming, “Oh, no, no!—unless,” added she, changing her tone, and turning to Clarence, “unless you wish it:—if you bid me, I will.”
Clarence was scarcely master of himself at this instant; and it was with the utmost difficulty that he could reply to her with that dispassionate calmness which became his situation and hers. And yet there was more of ignorance and timidity, perhaps, than of sound sense or philosophy in Virginia’s indifference to diamonds; she did not consider them as ornaments that would confer distinction upon their possessor, because she was ignorant of the value affixed to them by society. Isolated in the world, she had no excitements to the love of finery, no competition, no means of comparison, or opportunities of display; diamonds were consequently as useless to her as guineas were to Robinson Crusoe on his desert island. It could not justly be said that he was free from avarice, because he set no value on the gold; or that she was free from vanity, because she rejected the diamonds. These reflections could not possibly have escaped a man of Clarence Hervey’s abilities, had he not been engaged in defence of a favourite system of education, or if his pupil had not been quite so handsome. Virginia’s absolute ignorance of the world frequently gave an air of originality to her most trivial observations, which made her appear at once interesting and entertaining. All her ideas of happiness were confined to the life she had led during her childhood; and as she had accidentally lived in a beautiful situation in the New Forest, she appeared to have an instinctive taste for the beauties of nature, and for what we call the picturesque. This taste Mr. Hervey perceived, whenever he showed her prints and drawings, and it was a fresh source of delight and self-complacency to him. All that was amiable or estimable in Virginia had a double charm, from the secret sense of his penetration, in having discovered and appreciated the treasure. The affections of this innocent girl had no object but himself and Mrs. Ormond, and they were strong, perhaps, in proportion as they were concentrated. The artless familiarity of her manner, and her unsuspicious confidence, amounting almost to credulity, had irresistible power over Mr. Hervey’s mind; he felt them as appeals at once to his tenderness and his generosity. He treated her with the utmost delicacy, and his oath was never absent from his mind: but he felt proudly convinced, that if he had not been bound by any such solemn engagement, no temptation could have made him deceive and betray confiding innocence.
Conscious that his views were honourable, anticipating the generous pleasure he should have in showing his superiority to all mercenary considerations and worldly prejudices, in the choice of a wife, he indulged, with a species of pride, his increasing attachment to Virginia; but he was not sensible of the rapid progress of the passion, till he was suddenly awakened by a few simple observations of Mrs. Ormond.
“This is Virginia’s birthday—she tells me she is seventeen to-day.”
“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.”