“I wish he were poor,” said Virginia, “that I might make him rich.”
“He would not love you the better, my dear,” said Mrs. Ormond, “if you had the wealth of the Indies. Perhaps your father may not be rich; therefore do not set your heart upon this idea.”
Virginia sighed: fear succeeded to hope, and her imagination immediately reversed the bright picture that it had drawn.
“But I am afraid,” said she, “that this gentleman is not my father—how disappointed I shall be! I wish you had never told me all this, my dear Mrs. Ormond.”
“I would not have told it to you, if Mr. Hervey had not desired that I should; and you maybe sure he would not have desired it, unless he had good reason to believe that you would not be disappointed.”
“But he is not sure—he does not say he is quite sure. And, even if I were quite certain of his being my father, how can I be certain that he will not disown me—he, who has deserted me so long? My grandmother, I remember, often used to say that he had no natural affection.”
“Your grandmother was mistaken, then; for he has been searching for his child all over England, Mr. Hervey says; and he has almost lost his senses with grief and with remorse!”
“Remorse!”
“Yes, remorse, for having so long deserted you: he fears that you will hate him.”
“Hate him!—is it possible to hate a father?” said Virginia.