“You don’t seem to like that,” said Virginia; and then putting another drawing into his hands, “perhaps this may please you better.”
“They are beautiful; they are surprisingly well done!” exclaimed he.
“I knew he would like them! I told you so!” cried Mrs. Ormond, in a triumphant tone.
“You see,” said Virginia, “that though you have heard scarcely a syllable from Miss St. Pierre’s lips since your return, yet she has not been unmindful of your wishes in your absence. You told her, some time ago, that you wished she would try to improve in drawing. She has done her best. But do not trouble yourself to look at them any longer,” said Virginia, taking one of her drawings from his hand; “I merely wanted to show you that, though I have no genius, I have some—”
Her voice faltered so that she could not pronounce the word gratitude.
Mrs. Ormond pronounced it for her; and added, “I can answer for it, that Virginia is not ungrateful.”
“Ungrateful!” repeated Clarence; “who ever thought her so? Why did you put these ideas into her mind?”
Virginia, resting her head on Mrs. Ormond’s shoulder, wept bitterly.
“You have worked upon her sensibility till you have made her miserable,” cried Clarence, angrily. “Virginia, listen to me: look at me,” said he, affectionately taking her hand; but she pressed closer to Mrs. Ormond, and would not raise her head. “Do not consider me as your master—your tyrant; do not imagine that I think you ungrateful!”
“Oh, I am—I am—I am ungrateful to you,” cried she, sobbing; “but Mrs. Ormond never told me so; do not blame her: she has never worked upon my sensibility. Do you think,” said she, looking up, while a transient expression of indignation passed over her countenance, “do you think I cannot feel without having been taught?”