“That the likeness is certainly striking—but this seems to be a fancy piece.”
“A fancy piece,” repeated Mr. Hartley, with terror: “why then did you bring me here?—A fancy piece!”
“No, sir; it is a portrait,” said Clarence; “and if you will be calm, I will tell you more.”
“I will be calm—only is she alive?”
“The lady, of whom this is the portrait, is alive,” replied Clarence Hervey, who was obliged to exert his utmost command over himself, to maintain that composure which he saw was necessary; “the lady, of whom this is the portrait, is alive, and you shall see her to-morrow.”
“Oh, why not now? Cannot I see her now? I must see her to-night—this instant, sir!”
“It is impossible,” said Mr. Hervey, “that you should see her this instant, for she is some miles off, at Twickenham.”
“It is too late to go thither now; you cannot think of it, Mr. Hartley,” continued Dr. X——, in a tone of command, to which he yielded more readily than to reason.
Clarence had the presence of mind to recollect that it would be necessary to prepare poor Virginia for this meeting, and he sent a messenger immediately to request that Mrs. Ormond would communicate the intelligence with all the caution in her power.
The next morning, Mr. Hartley and Mr. Hervey set off together for Twickenham. In their way thither Clarence gradually confirmed Mr. Hartley in the belief that Virginia was his daughter, by relating all the circumstances that he had learned from her grandmother, and from Mrs. Smith, the farmer’s wife, with whom she had formerly been acquainted: the name, the age, every particular, as it was disclosed, heightened his security and his joy.