“No: it sails to-morrow morning,” was the answer.
He hastened instantly to make inquiries for Mr. Hartley. No such person could be found, no such gentleman was to be heard of any where. Hartley, he was sure, was the name which the jeweller mentioned to him, but it was in vain that he repeated it; no Mr. Hartley was to be heard of at Portsmouth, except a pawnbroker. At last, a steward of one of the West Indiamen recollected that a gentleman of that name came over with him in the Effingham, and that he talked of returning in the same vessel to the West Indies, if he should ever leave England again.
“But we have heard nothing of him since, sir,” said the steward. “No passage is taken for him with us.”
“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 passengers, 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?”