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 chastity, and inspired enthusiastic admiration of honour, generosity, truth, and all the noble 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 passion 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 circumstances 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 passage:
“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 passion 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.