“Had not you better draw the curtain again before that picture,” said Miss Portman, “lest she should see it the moment she opens her eyes?”
Virginia came slowly to her recollection, saw Lady Delacour drawing the curtain before the picture, then fixed her eyes upon Clarence Hervey, without uttering a word.
“Are you better now?” said he, in a gentle tone.
“Oh, do not speak—do not look so kindly!” cried Virginia. “I am well—quite well—better than I deserve to be;” and she pressed Belinda’s hand, as if to thank her for assisting and supporting her.
“We may safely leave her now,” whispered Belinda to Lady Delacour; “we are strangers, and our presence only distresses her.”
They withdrew. But the moment Virginia found herself alone with Mr. Hervey, she was seized with a universal tremor; she tried to speak, but could not articulate. At last she burst into a flood of tears; and when this had in some measure relieved her, she threw herself upon her knees, and clasping her hands, exclaimed, as she looked up to heaven—
“Oh, if I knew what I ought to do!—if I knew what I ought to say!”
“Shall I tell you, Virginia? And will you believe me?”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
“You ought to say—the truth, whatever it may be.”