“I had not seen Belinda Portman then.”
“And I wish to Heaven you never had seen her! But oh, surely, Mr. Hervey, you will not desert my Virginia!—Must her health, her happiness, her reputation, all be the sacrifice?”
“Reputation! Mrs. Ormond.”
“Reputation, Mr. Hervey: you do not know in what a light she is considered here; nor did I till lately. But I tell you her reputation is injured—fatally injured. It is whispered, and more than whispered everywhere, that she is your mistress. A woman came here the other day with the bullfinch, and she looked at me, and spoke in such an extraordinary way, that I was shocked more than I can express. I need not tell you all the particulars; it is enough that I have made inquiries, and am sure, too sure, of what I say, that nothing but your marriage with Virginia can save her reputation; or—”
Mrs. Ormond stopped short, for at this instant Virginia entered the room, walking in her slow manner, as if she were in a deep reverie.
“Since my return,” said Clarence, in an embarrassed voice, “I have scarcely heard a syllable from Miss St. Pierre’s lips.”
“Miss St. Pierre!—He used to call me Virginia,” said she, turning to Mrs. Ormond: “he is angry with me—he used to call me Virginia.”
“But you were a child then, you know, my love,” said Mrs. Ormond.
“And I wish I was still a child,” said Virginia, Then, after a long pause, she approached Mr. Hervey with extreme timidity, and, opening a portfolio which lay on the table, she said to him, “If you are at leisure—if I do not interrupt you—would you look at these drawings; though they are not worth your seeing, except as proofs that I can conquer my natural indolence?”
The drawings were views which she had painted from memory, of scenes in the New Forest, near her grandmother’s cottage. That cottage was drawn with an exactness that proved how fresh it was in her remembrance. Many recollections rushed forcibly into Clarence Hervey’s mind at the sight of this cottage. The charming image of Virginia, as it first struck his fancy,—the smile, the innocent smile, with which she offered him the finest rose in her basket,—the stern voice in which her grandmother spoke to her,—the prophetic fears of her protectress,—the figure of the dying woman,—the solemn promise he made to her,—all recurred, in rapid succession, to his memory.