She burst into tears. “I knew, I knew,” cried she, “that you would be displeased; I told Mrs. Ormond so. I knew you would never forgive me.”
“In that you were mistaken,” said Clarence, mildly; “I forgive you without difficulty, as I hope you may forgive yourself: nor can it be my wish to extort from you any mortifying confessions. But, perhaps, it may yet be in my power to serve you, if you will trust to me. I will myself speak to your father. I will do every thing to secure to you the object of your affections, if you will, in this last moment of our connexion, treat me with sincerity, and suffer me to be your friend.”
Virginia sobbed so violently for some time, that she could not speak: at last she said, “You are—you are the most generous of men! You have always been my best friend! I am the most ungrateful of human beings! But I am sure I never wished, I never intended, to deceive you. Mrs. Ormond told me—”
“Do not speak of her at present, or perhaps I may lose my temper,” interrupted Clarence in an altered voice: “only tell me—I conjure you, tell me—in one word, who is this man and where is he to be found?”
“I do not know. I do not understand you,” said Virginia.
“You do not know! You will not trust me. Then I must leave you to—to Mr. Hartley.”
“Do not leave me—oh, do not leave me in anger!” cried Virginia, clinging to him. “Not trust you!—I!—not trust you! Oh, what can you mean? I have no confessions to make! Mrs. Ormond knows every thought of my mind, and so shall you, if you will only hear me. I do not know who this man is, I assure you; nor where he is to be found.”
“And yet you love him? Can you love a man whom you do not know, Virginia?”
“I only love his figure, I believe,” said Virginia.
“His figure!”