CHAPTER VIII.

----"I'm sorry That he approves the common liar, Fame, Who speaks him thus at Rome."

SHAKSPEARE.

How wisely, how mercifully is the future hidden from our view! Who could bear to look into the book of fate, and see the blighted hopes, the unfulfilled expectations, which await all human dreamers? But though ever ready with sufficient vain glory to refer each prosperous issue to our own prudence and sagacity, we cautiously avoid to charge ourselves with the least co-operation in unfortunate results. Success constitutes the hero, and it is with the triumphant only that we desire to identify ourselves.

Algernon was now sent forth to make his _debut_ in society, and we shall see how strictly his progress coincides with the previous training of his mind.

He loved Zorilda with as much fervour as his nature would permit, and therefore his tears flowed in copious stream as he bid her farewell. Poor Mrs. Hartland ascribed the grief of her son to his separation from her maternal arms. She loved him with entireness of senseless devotion, and fondly flattered herself that she was in return the principal object of his affections. "Dear boy, he will in vain look round for his indulgent mother," sobbed the afflicted parent; but even the love of Zorilda, which was by far the most powerful impression on Algernon's heart, did not long exclude the joy which gained upon his short-lived sorrow with every mile of increasing distance from Henbury. He was going to be his own master in a wider sense than he had ever experienced. He might do _as he pleased_. Mr. Playfair's vigilant eye would no longer watch every movement, and he should meet again with the associates whose short sojournment in the neighbourhood of his father's house had given him so much pleasure, besides forming many other similar acquaintances. It was not Algernon's design from the first to distinguish himself in any kind of scholarship. The assiduity of his tutor had done something, but even the best talents will not achieve learning unaccompanied by application. Young Hartland intended to render his college course as little irksome as possible, and possessed the means of realizing his views. There is no description of person, generally speaking, so well supplied with money as an only son of a private family, in whom, as the sole object of pride and solicitude, all parental effort is concentrated.

While the young nobleman issues forth depending on his title, and frequently on that alone for consideration; the child, it may be, of a half ruined house, hemmed in on every side by mortgages and bonds, and relying on Jewish facilities of accommodation for keeping up the present ball, to the destruction of future competency; the _son and heir_ of _middle_ life sets out with purse well lined. He has no "lordship" with which to gild poverty, but must pay his way, and transfer to his pocket the popularity which he is not provided with any other secret for securing to his person. Algernon was plentifully supplied, and as soon as he found himself unrestrained by the expostulations of Mr. Playfair, he began to spend so lavishly that his rooms were soon the favourite lounge, and he found his acquaintance universally courted. His vanity was flattered, and he never suspected the reality of the case, but gave into the delusive belief that he was sought after for his agreeable qualifications. He wrote letters to his mother which delighted her. They spoke of viscounts, earls, and marquesses, as the familiar companions of his hours; and generally concluded with reminding her that such excellent society as it was his good fortune to have got into, had only one counteracting evil attending on its pleasures, which was expense.

"How considerate is our dear fellow!" said Mrs. Hartland; "but he must not be fettered by too rigid an economy in the opening scene. Frugality, if necessary, may come hereafter; but first impressions are of the highest importance, and the most useful connections are often made in school and college days. A private education has hitherto deprived my son of this advantage, and it is therefore doubly requisite to stretch a point at present, and supply him liberally. I have foreseen all this, and laid by a little _preserve_. We may pinch at home, and ought to do so, that we may not be said to burn our candle at both ends; but our boy must be enabled to hold up his head amongst the best of them."

Mr. Hartland groaned assent, and the amiable Zoé rejoiced in an opportunity of contributing her mite to Algernon's comfort at Oxford, by courting all sorts of privation at Henbury during his absence.

It is not surprising that an _outfit_ regulated by these principles, inspired a belief of riches, and obtained for the freshman such a reputation for affluence that he was surrounded at once as a honey-pot is by flies; while credulity supports the illusion from one generation to another, that a titled herd collected by such means, are to be the props of after life, compensating by future patronage for the loss of independence incurred in the pursuit of their friendship. The bubble bursts, the gull is undeceived, but as experience seldom rectifies the confidence of hope, a few exceptions are always sufficient to make men reject the general rule, and expect to find themselves added to the "glorious minority" of fortune's favoured exceptions. Alas! the prizes are few, and the blanks are many in the lottery of life, and those are the wisest who speculate the least on lucky _chances_.

Algernon was quickly initiated, and became the soul and centre of every scheme which had pleasure for its aim and object. He gave the best champagne, pulled the best oar, rode the best horse, was always ready to take up a bet, or accept a boxing challenge, and wasted twice as much money as any one else thought of expending, in whatever was the amusement of the day; seeming to render compensation to himself for the long fast which he had undergone, by devouring pleasure not only with a knife and fork, but a spoon to boot. He wrote frequently to Zorilda, and received letters from her in return.

Mrs. Hartland fretted at the correspondence, but had encouraged her son in the habit of assuming authority to such a degree, that she feared to resist his will; and was obliged to tolerate what she had lost all power to control.

Algernon's letters were at first filled with wishes and laments; the pain of parting; the joy of re-union; interspersed with animated accounts of new scenes and associates. After a time he became less punctual, and proposed that Zoé should not balance too strictly the debtor and creditor sides of their correspondence, but write without waiting for replies, alleging occupation at his studies as a cause for the request. Whatever Algernon suggested was right in Zoé's opinion, and as she was only called on to renounce a self-indulgence, though the greatest which she could enjoy while separated from her friend, she acquiesced without a murmur, though not without a sigh.

A longer silence than usual occurred, and Zoé could not sleep from agitation, fearing that indisposition might occasion the delay. At last the often-wished-for packet arrived; but though well filled, and giving details of what Algernon called "pleasant parties," it was the least satisfactory which Zorilda had ever received. She read it over and over, yet was less pleased at each re-perusal. We shall give our readers an opportunity of trying how far they sympathize with poor Zoé's feelings, by transcribing this letter as a specimen of our young Oxonian's improvement since he quitted home:

"Dearest Zoé,

"I am guilty of a long pause, and you are very angry; but you little know how my time is taken up. We have had several rowing matches, and I have been taking lessons from some of the _fancy_. Every day confirms the disagreeable conviction that I am half a century behind my contemporaries. What a cursed folly it is not to send boys to a public school! If I had been despatched to Eton instead of having been tied to my mother's apron-string all my days, I should not have everything to learn, as is my case at present. However, they say I am an apt scholar, and I do not despair of being soon up with the best of them here.

"The little Marquess did not return till ten days ago. He received me quite like a brother, and we are a great deal together. He says he should not know me again, I have lost so much of the '_country bumpkin_' already. By the bye, we had a very pleasant party at his rooms the other night, but you cannot imagine how foolish I was made to look, about you.

"I wish to heaven you had a name, for it is quite confounding to be asked at every turn, 'Who is she?' without being able to get rid of farther inquiry, by such a simple answer as can be given of every body except yourself from the royal family down to one's washerwoman. If I knew the name of the gipsey from whom my good papa and mamma ran away with you, I would call you after her; but I assure you that rather than encounter another such attack as I have endured in your service, I shall christen you, so prepare for being called Miss Hazlemoor, or Moor, if you like the monosyllable better, on the principle of the old song which Rachael sings, with a line in it something like this following:

"For the least said, the sooner amended;"

and amended it will all be one of these days, when I marry you. It will little signify when you are my wife--_perchance_ a titled one--what name you were known by before. Do not be cast down, my pretty Zo. I have promised, you know, to raise you from your present obscurity, and I can tell you, it is no small proof of my love, that I do not mean to forget my engagement; but I must tell you how they fell upon me the other night.

"Turnstock gave champagne, and some five or six assembled by appointment at his rooms. We were going on very gaily, when my evil genius put it into the Marquess's head to turn shortly round, and say to me, 'Hartland, who the devil is that fair enchantress whom your mother has got _cooped_ up at Henbury; not your _sister_, I presume, eh?'

"Unprepared for the question, I was completely at a nonplus, and losing all presence of mind, I hummed, and hawed, and stammered out--Zorilda.

"'A fine romantic appellation truly,' said his Lordship; 'Donna Zorilda! but to what noble house does she belong?'

"'I cannot tell,' answered I. 'To tell you the truth, a mystery hangs over her birth which I am not permitted to unravel.'

"'Oh! I cry you mercy,' replied the Marquess; 'I shall not make further inquisition; I see how it is, 'A rose by any other name would smell as sweet;' so says the poet. A little mystery, they say is never _amiss_. Now it _is a Miss_, and nobody knows _who_, upon the present occasion; but n'importe; Zorilda is a lovely girl; and Zoé, as your servants call her, is better still, associated, as are those three letters, with all the nectar and ambrosia of Grecian song. We will place the Amaranth wreath on Zoé's brow, and drink to her health in a bumper of champagne. Come, Hartland, fill your glass. You shall not undergo any farther catechism. You are too wise a man to marry an 'inexpressive she:' and as for a little of the doubtful in any other relation of life, there is no need of taking it to heart.'

"Now I know that all this sort of thing will fret and vex you, but never mind, we will talk of other matters. Turnstock is uncommonly clever, and I can assure you that we have often very deep conversation. He brought a young man with him from town who received his education here, but as he wants money and has plenty of brains, he has taken to writing for the Reviews. The little Marquess talks of getting up a periodical here under his own inspection. It is to be called 'The Freeman;' so if you see it advertised you will know whence it springs. We had a sort of _rehearsal_ last night, when some contributions were brought in. A friend of mine had a hit against his Lordship which made me laugh. The former brought an Essay on the Paradise Lost, which was read, but the Marquess condemned it. 'No, Caulfield, that will not do,' said he. 'I do not patronize your sentiments on Milton. You must try your pen at something else.'

"'I thought, my Lord,' answered Caulfield, 'that we were to write for the _Freeman_, but I find that it is for the _Bondsman_.'

"'Free or Bond, I shall not insert your Essay, my good fellow,' answered his Lordship. 'I mean to have this my own way. I set my face against all prosing; not a word of any poet older than Byron of immortal fame; and I will give a prize of his works, bound in russia, to whoever brings me the best satire on our modern novels, which are growing so decidedly moral, metaphysical, and soporific, that I would as lief sit down to Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity as open a volume of any of the last half dozen which have issued from the press. I think I shall write a novel myself, and call it 'Re-action; or, the Extinguisher.'

"You would not like any of my friends I am afraid, who are certainly not _religious_ men. The Marquess cavils at holy writ: I was going to stand up its advocate, but found it better to hold my tongue. There are many good people here, but Turnstock calls them _Spoonies_, and I do not feel any ambition to be ridiculed as one of the fraternity. Remember that I am only talking of my own set; so my father need not take alarm, and accuse me of a libel on his favourite Oxford. Things, however, are changed every where since his day. The Marquess declares that religion is only a political consideration now with strong heads. The march of mind, he says, has outstripped superstition and all her train. I do not say that he is right, for I am not much versed as yet in matters of this nature. The miserable error of bringing me up at home has prevented me, amongst many other things, from knowing what general opinion really is. In fact, Turnstock, who gives me more insight into these subjects than any one else, and who ought to be good authority, is eloquent in decrying all narrow limitations of sect or nation. He says that all mankind should be considered as a great family, claiming equal rights, and entitled to equal privileges; that all qualifications which exclude any individual from the attainment of power are infractions of natural justice; and all religious establishments are the offspring of persecution. He speaks beautifully, and uses very convincing arguments. For instance, he says, that to be born and to die are common to the whole created species, and no favour or partiality distinguishes one man from another in these two extreme events. The same pangs usher every mortal into existence--helpless, naked, and like his fellows in all things. Death again sweeps away irrespectively the beggar and the king, who both lie down in the grave where all their thoughts perish, and both are resolved alike into dust. 'What right then,' reasons Turnstock, 'has man to play such antic tricks before high heaven, and parcel out the intermediate term so unequally in his generation, that some shall lord it triumphantly, while others starve? Some rule with tyrannous sway, while thousands cringe in chains, and are forced to obey the few who usurp dominion over them?' I wish that you could hear him declaim upon these topics. Caulfield, who is always ready with some vexatious question or remark, but who had listened, as I thought, with as much satisfaction as I did myself to the whole harangue yesterday evening, asked rudely enough at its close, 'And pray, good my Lord, why are you the Marquess of Turnstock? Your guardians went through a tedious litigation to procure the title for you which another claimed, and fiercely contested. Though not called, like Cincinnatus, exactly from the plough, your Lordship's situation now is very different from what it was. Yet you do not object to these inequalities in your own case!'

"Turnstock looked contemptuously round, and silenced the inquirer in a summary manner, 'Pooh, pooh, Caulfield. You are like a fly, for ever buzzing in one's ears. It is a pity you do not enter at Cambridge, _ad eundem_; you are a _Wrangler_ without the trouble of learning, and all competitors will make way for you.'

"There was a great laugh against Caulfield, and so ended the dispute. I have enlisted under Turnstock's banner. I like his Epicurean philosophy, and think that his doctrines would tend to render mankind a far happier race than they are. Remember what I told you about writing with lemon-juice, and be sure to hold all my letters to the fire after you have read them through. Like Janus we must wear two faces, you know, while we are watched. A day will come when we may defy all vigilance, and interchange our thoughts in ink of any colour. Farewell, my Zoé, how I long to see you!" &c.

Zorilda vainly attempted to counteract the influences which she found increasing reason to perceive were exercised over Algernon's mind to the injury of his character. Her young heart poured forth its entreating eloquence, but the poison had begun to work, and she had not sufficient power to arrest its deadly progress. In vain did she appeal to the memory of happier days in strains like the following, which we extract from one of her letters:

"Oh, my Algernon! is it for this that I have submitted to the mean device of dissimulation, and joined in a plot to deceive your mother by writing that which she is not to see? When I complied with your proposal to adopt this mode of frustrating her penetration, it was that I might spare her pain, and exert the power which I fondly imagined I possessed over your mind to your advantage, by constantly reminding you of the lessons which our dear and valued preceptor left us as a parting legacy. Algernon, I am punished for forgetting that we must not do evil in hope of future good. Yet after once o'erstepping the barrier which separates truth from falsehood, the noble ingenuousness of virtue for the mean accommodations of artifice, how difficult to regain the track of probity and honour! I feel with bitterness, how greatly I have erred; yet before I for ever abjure this dishonest method of conveying to you my secret thoughts, I will for once express the anguish of my heart, as I trace in your altered language a different Algernon from him who was the brother of my infant years, the beloved friend of riper age. Have _you_, too, become ashamed of the nameless Zorilda? and do _you_ ask 'Who is she?' with scornful reproach? Then indeed is my cup of affliction filled to overflowing. Talk no more of a day to come, when raised to the dignity of your wife. That question, which has been the blight of my Spring--the spectre of my solitude--the besetting demon of a ceaseless persecution; shall no longer scare me with humiliation and debasement. Zorilda will never purchase repose at Algernon's cost. How can such things be? Does not true affection identify itself with the object on which it rests? Would not 'Who was she?' be a death knell of my happiness still more appalling to my heart than the inquiry which now condemns me _alone_ to obscurity and shame! Never will I repay by base ingratitude the kindness which fostered a houseless child of want. I will fulfil my sad destiny, and pray for courage to meet the sting which awaits me. I shall be assisted from above, and Mr. Playfair's counsel will support my tottering steps. The path of duty is often one of difficulty and fatigue, but it is safe. There are no precipices along the way.

"Algernon, my heart is breaking, and my selfish pen lingers amongst its sorrows, instead of exercising what little energy remains in the endeavour to recal you from a road which will lead to destruction if you continue to pursue its course. You have fallen amongst evil advisers, who are beginning their work by shaking those principles which Mr. Playfair says are our only pillars of strength--our only rock and refuge in the hour of temptation. Your self-denying parents intend to sacrifice the joy of holding you in their arms this summer, that you may profit by Lord Turnstock's invitation to accompany him on the Continent--_profit_ did I say? Alas! how foreign from my thoughts is the idea which that word conveys. No, dear Algernon, you will never gain by his example, and I weep as I contemplate your growing attachment to his society. I find in all your letters now something that spoils the pleasure which I used to feel in talking to you. Why is this, unless because the sympathy which was wont to knit our pursuits is fading away?

"You tell me, too, that I must change; you say that I am a rustic--that I am not skilled in music--that I am too independent, and want that softness (perhaps from your description I should rather call it langour), which you tell me is the most attractive feature of female character. Alas! that I am very imperfect and very ignorant, a very cursory glance into my own heart too fatally convinces me every day; but my self reproach does not fall where you would point it. Why should I desire to be no longer a rustic? Is not the retirement in which I live better suited to the unhappy--the nameless orphan, than those scenes in which 'Who is she?' would be the brand of degradation? Is not my simple song, to which you once loved to sit and listen, adapted to my lowly lot, and the natural language of a sorrowing heart? Why should I regret that I am not versed in the mechanism of instrumental music. What have I to do with an admiring audience?

"Yet do not believe me insensible to the charms of melody. I am young, and might improve with opportunity. To make the harp respond to the sadness which dwells within, would be a delightful companionship, but it is denied to me, and I must not repine. Oh no, there is but one murmur in my breast, but one murmur on my tongue, and from my pen.

"Why am I thus forsaken? Why this homeless, houseless, friendless thing? This is the rankling thorn--the sharp arrow which festers and corrodes my vitals--which haunts me in visions of the night, and paralyzes every energy of soul by day. All other ills I can bear; and believe that they are good for me. You tell me that the pretty folly, the imploring weakness, the passive non-resistance of Lord Turnstock's sister, are fascinating; and you want me to copy without having seen the original. Much as I love to try and please you, and grateful as I feel for your wish to render me more capable of doing so, I cannot promise docility in this respect. Dear Mr. Playfair's words are engraven on my memory, and his very last letter repeats them. He bids me follow nature, and avoid every species of affectation. He reminds me that there are two glossaries which interpret the same words by different methods; that the timid supplication, the credulous innocence, the nervous sensibility, so captivating in a young beauty, are explained by far other terms in wives, sisters, daughters, and known in them by the harsher epithets of troublesome helplessness, ignorance, and fatiguing egotism, when the vapouring dreams of a youthful gallant are sobered into the honest but too often uncourteous phrase of husband, father, brother.

"This advice may seem to have no application to one who is a stranger to _all_ the endearing relations of life, who has never known the blessing of those tender ties which bind the heart in sweet, yet wholesome, bondage; but truth is always the same. Let me pursue my homely track unseen. It will lead me to the quiet grave, where all my sorrows will have an end, but oh! my dearest Algernon, beware of the vortex into which _you_ are gliding; your parents can not supply your increasing demands upon their resources. They already feel your extravagance. Fly temptation, while it is still in your power to break the spell. You are undone if you accompany the Marquess. Oh! do not plunge us in despair. Mr. Playfair has the worst opinion of your associates, and I believe has written a warning letter to your father, suggested by his knowledge of Lord Turnstock's general character; I write in secret, and this will reach you by a private hand; farewell," &c.

Zoé's voice would once have roused Algernon to any enterprise, or deterred him from any undertaking; but though he loved her better than all things else, she was distant, pleasure present. Her melancholy forebodings cast a gloom over his mind, and at length grew so distasteful, that he resolved to adopt a new language in his correspondence with her; pretending to be influenced by her advice, he promised to be on his guard against the allurements which she dreaded, assuring her that, sensible of the errors into which young men might be led, he designed to be very particular in his selection of acquaintance, should he feel himself so far engaged to accompany his friends to the Continent, that he could not break through the arrangement. The heart is of easy faith, when it wishes to believe, and the innocent Zorilda, who knew nothing of the world, except what she had heard of its snares from the instructor of her youth, seized with joy on the happy omen; and the roses of health again bloomed on her pallid cheek, with all the freshness of spring.

"Beloved Algernon," she would exclaim, while training the jessamine which was taught to decorate his favourite seat, or visiting with thoughtful tenderness the animals committed to her care, "you will never be led away from these pure delights. The blandishments of vice shall vainly attempt to dazzle, and its wicked artifices to entangle, my Algernon, who will return unpolluted by the influence of bad example. These sweet flowers will have new charms for him, and I shall proudly deliver up my trust when I show him these birds of brilliant wing, his dogs, and all his play-fellows so grown, so beautified, under my guardianship."

Zorilda's hours now glided swiftly as the weaver's shuttle. She was full of employment, and Algernon was the inspiring object of all she did or imagined; improving daily in loveliness of face and form, and glowing with animation, she seemed by her presence to cheer creation, and, like the blessed sun, to dispel every cloud that gathered on the horizon.

While Algernon was away from home, his mother, who never reflected much on any thing, the immediate pressure of which on her external senses did not force itself upon her mind, resumed her cheerfulness, and finding in Zorilda all that the sweetest filial duty could bestow, treated her once more with as much affection as her selfish nature could feel. Mr. Hartland loved her as a daughter, and amongst the dependents of every degree she was considered as an angel of light who had descended from Heaven, to shower mercy and consolation on the poor, the sick, and the afflicted. As Zorilda avoided strangers with the greatest anxiety, she was seldom seen, and as she never left Henbury, except to go to the parish church, in which a curtain round the pew where she sat, and a veil on her bonnet, afforded all the privacy which she sought, it is not surprising that the fame of her beauty had not gone much abroad.

While Algernon was absent too, the motive for seeing company being removed, the family assumed more than their usual habits of economy, to enable Mrs. Hartland to indulge her vanity, in providing for the excesses of her son, whose constantly increasing demands were founded on false pretences; and his parents were imposed upon, by a belief that they were aiding his advancement in life, while in reality they ministered to every species of extravagance. Zorilda was the presiding genius, who by her skill and activity achieved all Mrs. Hartland's purposes without compromising a single duty; and though every expense was regulated with the strictest attention, the interests of those whose claims on benevolence had ever been accredited, were not forgotten; and this admirable girl contrived to transfer to her friends the praises which were due to herself alone. The cultivation of her mind was her sole recreation: a fine talent for drawing, diversified her amusements, and had it not been for the thorn at the heart, which busy occupation sometimes concealed, but which no effort could extract, her life might have presented as near a resemblance to what may be imagined of higher spirits, whose existence is compounded of love and knowledge, as had ever been witnessed on earth.

Algernon went abroad with his friend the Marquess without returning home to take leave; and Mrs. Hartland revelled in all the novelty of an heroic act of self-denial, which would bring about the accomplishment of her object in the natural death, as she prognosticated, of that attachment which was the bane of her ambition.

It was many years since Mrs. Gordon, the younger sister of Mrs. Hartland, had visited her friends in England; and low spirits occasioned by her son's departure having been urged by his mother as an additional plea in her present invitation, it obtained a favourable answer; and the pleasure of a family meeting in prospect in some degree compensated for the privation to which she had condemned herself; while Zorilda, whose eye governed every department, found in making preparation for the coming guests a source of added employment which helped to banish painful thoughts. She had heard much of Mrs. Gordon from Mr. Playfair, and longed, with eager curiosity, to see with her own eyes one of whom he spoke with such enthusiastic admiration, and of whom she could only remember how kind she was to a gipsey child. At _that_ time Zorilda was a prodigal of friendship, because she did not want any larger store than Henbury supplied; but she felt now, that if indeed Mrs. Gordon were to prove such a being as she had been represented, her society would be a jewel above all price.

The Gordons arrived, and Mr. Playfair's portrait was not exaggerated. Much has been said against those sudden and sentimental attachments, to which the female sex is accused of being especially addicted: and we are not desirous of weakening the force of ridicule, which is justly ascribable to vows of eternal friendship made at sight; but there is a sympathy between kindred souls, which, as it will always exist in nature, we may be permitted to hope will escape condemnation, and never be confounded with the transitory illusions of romance. Such a sympathy almost immediately drew Mrs. Gordon and Zorilda to each other, and every day's experience confirmed the mutual attraction. Mr. and Mrs. Gordon inspired the idea of having been shut up in an ark with a chosen band, and "all appliances and means to boot," for preserving every intellectual and social energy in constant play, untainted by the vices or the follies of a surrounding world.

It may be imagined by some, who hold a widely extended intercourse with mankind to be requisite to liberal views and enlightened understandings, that such a description must necessarily imply narrow minds, and limited information; but nothing could be more mistaken than such a conclusion. In our present state of civilization, dark and secluded must be that recess into which books and opinions do not find their way, and perhaps it may be truly said of various kinds of knowledge, that it is not unusually found in an inverse proportion with the distance from its source. Whatever may be the truth, as a general remark, the fact was, that in the particular instance with which we are concerned at present, the Scotch visitors who now added to the family circle at Henbury, appeared to Zorilda to be no other than the genii of some more favoured planet, invested with the keys of all those sacred stores from which the best possessions of mankind are derived. Her clear intelligence and brilliant fancy, which had never before "sparkled in collision," now expanded in a congenial atmosphere, and the innocent Zoé was surprised by the powers of comprehension awakened in her mind by the talisman of such society as she enjoyed for the first time in her short life.

Mr. Playfair had been a mine of intellect, but the parental interest which he felt for his pupil, induced caution in the encouragement of those quick sensibilities which he foresaw would prove the bane of her happiness. He had therefore always led her to such studies as exercised her reason more than her imagination; and had endeavoured to repress every tendency to excitement in a character of such refined texture and vivid glow, that he dreaded its future contact with a world in which so little would be found in sympathy with its delicate structure. What rapture, was it not natural to think, did Zorilda now experience in meeting with her _beau ideal_ of female friendship in Mrs. Gordon, of whom she became almost a worshipper!

No human beings, born in the Antipodes of each other, could be more entirely unlike than Mrs. Hartland and her sister. The latter, who was by some years the younger of the two, had lived from her childhood with an uncle who resided in Edinburgh, and held a high place amongst the literati of his time. Under the auspices of this relation, who was equally distinguished by his learning and worth, Eugenia Robinson had enjoyed advantages which few young females possess, and of which still fewer at the present day, are inclined to avail themselves when offered. Mingling continually in company with men whose conversation bore testimony to their genius and pursuits, she had opportunity for indulging a thirst after all manner of solidly valuable acquisition, without, happily for herself, incurring any of those stupid taunts with which ignorance so frequently and successfully frightens away a spirit of inquiry, or on the other hand attracting that sickly applause, which, by flattering human weakness, often substitutes a contemptible vanity for the genuine desire of improvement in mental cultivation.

Eugenia Robinson was not set up as a prodigy, nor was there the slightest parade in her education; but she lived in a capital where it is still the fashion to wear heads and hearts, and where she therefore found that she might think without being called a _Blue_, and feel without being styled a _romancer_. In the midst of that society which her uncle brought together at his house, Eugenia met Mr. Gordon, and after a time, marriage cemented a union which had long been acknowledged by reciprocal preference, before it was confirmed at the altar. Never did Hymen's torch light home a happier pair, and the flame is not extinguished, but burns more purely and brightly in the tranquil atmosphere of domestic life, than while it was hurried to and fro, along the varying currents of hope and fear.

The wise man's prayer, "give me neither poverty nor riches," was granted to them, and retiring to Drumcairn, a pleasant spot in Aberdeenshire, they realized all that poets dream of conjugal felicity. They had no children, but this was not a source of repining, first because they firmly believed that every dispensation of Heaven is ordered by unerring judgment, while that of mortal man is fallible and short sighted; and secondly, because they were happy in each other, and there was no craving void for vain wishes to occupy. Their days were passed in the exercise of practical benevolence, not wasted in the busy idleness of fashionable life; and their amusements were inspired by rural objects, music, in which Mrs. Gordon was a proficient, and an excellent library, which was constantly augmenting its stores, by the addition of every new book worthy of a place upon its shelves.

Contentment, activity, and independence brought forth all their fruit at Drumcairn, and Zorilda, who had felt through secret instinct that such things _might_ be, though she had never seen them, opened her whole soul to the genial influence of her new associates, as the butterfly unfolds its radiant wing to the sunbeam.

Mrs. Gordon understood her thoughts before they found expression, and entered into all her feelings while yet she believed them hidden in her own breast; sympathizing or repressing, correcting or informing, as acquaintance increased, and occasion suggested; but the grateful heart of our gentle Zoé was not estranged from its early ties by the novelty of that enchantment which an ardent mind experiences in gazing, for the first time, on its own image in the bosom of a friend; like that of Eve reflected from the clear waters of Paradise, when newly awakened from sleep, she approached with timid step, now advancing, now retiring, to grasp the lovely form which gave a second self to view. Zorilda, in the retirement of her chamber, often breathed the silent murmur, "Oh why do sisters differ thus?" but her heart replied, that Mrs. Hartland deserved her gratitude, and she was Algernon's mother. Her innocent prayers were then sent up to Heaven for strength to perform her course in the path of duty, and she would fall into a rosy slumber, dreaming of happy virtuous love and devoted friendship.

The character of Mr. Gordon resembled that of her friend and tutor, which quickly secured him a place in her affections. She was charmed with the clearness of his views, and the straight forward integrity of his practice; but the more Zorilda was captivated by society thus congenial, the more sedulously did she endeavour, by redoubled attention, to avoid exhibiting to her benefactors how much they lost by comparison with their guests. Every moment which could be snatched from those cares which Zorilda never neglected, was employed in cultivating the present opportunity of enjoyment; and Mrs. Hartland secretly triumphed in the fulfilment of her project. She saw, in the mutual attachment of her sister and her ward, the future feasibility of sending the latter off to Scotland, should Algernon's travels not have effaced all dangerous recollections; and in this view she had for the first time an appearance of unselfishness by promoting a companionship which afforded gratification to those around her. Pride prevented her from divulging her fears.

"If," said she to herself, "my son is cured of his childish folly, there is no use in exposing it. If, on the other hand, he should relapse into any nonsense, it will be time enough to act. 'Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof.' I might restrain my sister's affection for Zoé were I to clog it with future demands, so I will let things work their own way, and take advantage of results as occasion may require."

This was Mrs. Hartland's policy; Zorilda had other motives for her silence, and a tremulous delicacy of feeling prevented her from reposing in the bosom of her dearest friend those hopes and fears which disturbed the serenity of her own; but Mrs. Gordon knew human nature, and her sister's individual character. The first taught her to believe it very possible that her nephew might not be proof against such attractions as those of her young friend, while the latter assured her that nothing could be less consonant with the wishes of his mother than that Zorilda should exercise any influence over his affections. These abstract surmises were brought to clearer testimony by a conversation after dinner one day, which turned on genealogy.

"There is nothing like a good family," said Mrs. Hartland; "even money is not of so much consequence; and for my part I would rather see my only child dead at my feet than that he should bring disgrace upon himself and all belonging to him by marrying any one of low birth."

Though Zorilda had resolved to command her actions, she had no power to control her looks; and the sudden transition from a crimson blush to deadly pale, expressed more than she wished to communicate, and revealed sentiments which no force of language could contradict.

"My love," said Mrs. Gordon, as she rose hastily from her chair, and went towards Zorilda, "I told you that you had walked too far. I saw that you were greatly fatigued. You are quite overcome now by the heat of this room, and must come with me directly into the fresh air." Zoé pressed the hand which was extended towards her, and accompanied her kind conductress.

When relieved from the restraint of observation on the part of those who knew all her little history, she burst into tears; and when the soothing caresses of Mrs. Gordon had tranquillized her spirits sufficiently to permit of utterance, her first anxiety was to explain her emotion without touching on its principal spring.

"Oh!" exclaimed Zorilda, "what a misfortune, is it not? to be thus a prey to the most agonizing sensations upon a subject altogether beyond the scope of my power to elucidate or control! I am ashamed of my weakness, of my rebellion against that Almighty Being who decrees my trials, who my bible teaches me to believe, 'loveth whom He chasteneth, and scourgeth the son whom he would save.' Is it a crime to be thus forlorn; the sport of every wind, or like the wreck of some sea-foundered skiff, a severed fragment floating on the ocean of life, unknown, unclaimed, unacknowledged? Alas! I have tried to school my warring soul, and bend it to its burthen. I have prayed to Him who can alone strengthen our frail nature, but I have prayed in vain; I am not heeded. I am an outcast in Heaven as on earth."

"Beloved child," replied the tender friend, who now sought to pour balsam on a wounded spirit, "you pray not yet in fulness of _trust_; you importune, but you do not confide. It is sometimes permitted us to understand the discipline inflicted by Him who desireth not the death of a sinner, who will never allow us to be tempted beyond our power to endure. In Heaven there are no pedigrees; God will have your whole heart, give it freely to Him who gives you all. Bless Him for the dangers which you have escaped; His mercy has snatched you from the perils which encompassed your infant head, and a day may come----"

"Never! never!" answered Zorilda, "it is a vain hope. Perhaps I shewed less presence of mind to day than I might have summoned to my aid on another occasion, because that long walk, which you, dearest Mrs. Gordon, chid me for adventuring, was undertaken this morning in quest of some information respecting my hapless tale. While resting yesterday beneath the hawthorn hedge, I overheard a labourer telling our gardener that a young man had lately come into the neighbourhood to marry one of our farmers' daughters, and professed to have seen me in former days, as well as to know how I fell into the hands of a gipsey horde. Breathless and agitated I listened with the deepest attention, but the men were walking forward, and I caught no more of their conversation. On my return to the house I consulted with Rachael, that faithful creature who was placed by the kindness of Mrs. Hartland to watch over my tender years. She loves me dearly, and her affection has often been a refuge for my sorrows. She knew at once, by my account, who the person was to whom the labourer alluded, and promised to make minute inquiry; but my impatience would not brook delay, and after a sleepless night, I set off, accompanied by her, at early dawn to see and speak myself to the stranger. Buoyed up at one moment by hope; at another, trembling with fear, I flew along, regardless of distance, and reached the cottage were he was to be found; I saw, and conversed with him. My curiosity has been punished. Alas! the little he could tell, has only served to add bitterness to my former ignorance. He told me that he pursued the gipsey group, to which I afterwards belonged, for the purpose of obtaining payment for a horse from the very man who purchased me, and who was the greatest rogue of the whole party, as also their chief. At length my informer found these wild people encamped upon the southern coast, and while he remained to transact his own business, he witnessed a negotiation, which put the lawless band in possession of the miserable Zoé. A woman, dressed in mean attire, and having the appearance of a soldier's wife, offered me for sale. The bargain was made. The man who bought me inquired my name, and the unfeeling wretch who could so barter her weeping infant for a sum of money, replied, 'You may call her Zorilda. I have just landed with her from Spain, and the sooner you change your quarters the better.' The gipsey chief next inquired of the woman whether she had a husband, fearing that the father might follow, to reclaim his child. 'No, no,' answered the she wolf, whom, I am now tortured by supposing to have been my mother; 'he is laid low enough. He was killed, and will not rise from the grave to trouble you. I must not linger here. Hide the child till you arrive in another part of the country, and set off with your prize as fast as you can.'

"This is the sum and substance of all the information I could glean. The woman who made traffic of her offspring, would not tell the gipsies to what regiment her husband belonged, nor mention his name. I have, therefore, not the slightest clue by which to make further scrutiny, and the only knowledge which I have gained, deprives me of the humble consolation which I before enjoyed, of dreaming that I was once folded in the arms of an adoring parent, who, however lowly her lot of life, still loved and pressed me to a mother's bosom. The keenness of this disappointment, and the certainty that the moral qualities of her who gave me birth were as debased as her station, peculiarly unfitted me to bear with calmness the sentence which Mrs. Hartland pronounced to-day upon a vulgar origin.

"Oh, why are my feelings so acute? Sprung from the lowest abyss, the very dregs of my species, why are my thoughts so proud? Why is my will thus rebellious? If, like the humble hind who tills the earth, I could be satisfied with the rank assigned by Providence, I could be happy; I could raise my hands to heaven, and bless my creator in the temple of nature; bend to my rustic toil, and repose in peace; but there is a war within, which murders rest. I feel as if I had been formed for another destiny, and my spirit cannot submit in meekness to this degradation."

"My Zorilda," answered Mrs. Gordon, "you have not reduced religion to practice, and your trials have been sufficient to render the task of obedience severe; but it must be learned. The morbid sensibility which you encourage blinds your understanding, and you draw false conclusions. The inference which _I_ derive from your dialogue with the stranger this morning is directly opposite to that which you deduce. The soldier's wife was not your mother. Nay, I should decide against her having even been your nurse. The strong instincts of nature are seldom violated, and amid all the depravity of human kind there are few instances of such unnatural character as you take for granted in the present case. Zorilda is not a name by which an English soldier's wife would have been likely to call her daughter; neither would a woman who sold her own child, and whose husband was no longer living to upbraid her, or seek its recovery, have had any apparent motive for the concealment which she desired, in the speedy decampment of the gipsies. Be assured that you are rather the offspring of Spanish parents, probably of rank and consideration. Silk and velvet, of which materials your dress was made when first my sister saw you, are not the common manufactures which clothe inferior people. Who has had the misfortune to lose you, is a mystery which I wish we were enabled to solve, but all that I _do_ know convinces me that you are not the child of her who sold you to the gipsey gang."

"Dear and kind friend," exclaimed Zorilda, "how grateful am I for the tender feeling with which you try to mitigate my pain. I will not repel your efforts--I will adopt your creed--it shall be mine, and I will endeavour to believe that I was indeed stolen from my home by the cruel being who passed me again into stranger hands. But what a fate is mine, when such a surmise is the best consolation which can be offered. Had I been left in my native land, though torn from all I loved, I might have been brought up in the religion of my ancestors, and found an asylum in some friendly convent. You have no such refuge here for the unhappy."

"All England is the refuge of the destitute," replied Mrs. Gordon; "her bounteous shores have been pressed by royal fugitives, and this glorious land, this favoured soil, has sheltered kings as well as slaves from the tyranny of other climes. Shall my Zoé repine at having imbibed the doctrines of a purer faith than that of Spain? The heart may freely dedicate itself to God without the call of matin or of vesper bell. We have altars every where, and do not want the convent's gloomy pile to enshrine our prayers. Those sad receptacles are frequently the scene of guilt, and the prison walls of the religious recluse, too often contain devotion of every kind but that to Heaven."

"Oh forgive my impetuosity; I stand convicted of my error. Be my counsellor; speak peace to a wounded spirit, and you shall find in Zorilda a docile as well as a grateful heart," said the lovely Spaniard, with an expression of countenance so contrite, so imploring, as to touch Mrs. Gordon to the soul; but afraid of indulging affection which would be soon interrupted by her own departure from Henbury, she repressed the tear which rose to her eye, and looking at her young and beautiful companion with an air of encouraging kindness, she kissed, raised her gently from the seat on which they had been conversing, and leading her towards the house, emphatically uttered those inspired words of the royal Psalmist, "Whom have I in Heaven but thee; and whom do I desire on earth beside thee?" adding, "When we can answer this passionate and affecting inquiry with sincerity, and feel that there is no idol dividing the empire of our hearts with that being who will not reign over a disputed kingdom, then, and not till then, shall the distracted bosom find repose."

Zorilda started, coloured violently, and looked as if her heart would burst its prison without permission from her will, but just as her lips were going to obey its impulse, she checked the accents as they were escaping, and after a momentary pause, during which a short but dreadful conflict seemed to convulse her frame, she caught the arm of her friend, and calling up all the fortitude of virtuous resolution to her aid, exclaimed--

"Yes! be it so; God is the orphan's portion. He is the defender of the fatherless. You have touched a hidden chord. The world is of Proteus form; and even in such seclusion as this, its roses or its thorns can occupy the imagination, and divert the soul from its devotion to the Supreme. I will bind your words upon my heart! I will remember that within my own breast there is an altar of dedication to receive my vows. The offering only is wanting to complete the sacrifice, and you have furnished the test by which I am to seek the victim."

"Make no vows, my child," said Mrs. Gordon; "freedom is with noble minds the straitest bondage. Endure your trials; kiss the rod. Believe that affliction comes not from the dust; it is sent from on high to purify and exalt. The murmur of irritability, and the gloomy silence of a sullen temper, are alike remote from that submission which your God requires to fit you for the glorious society of angels. Should an earthly friend be wanted by my Zoé, while I live, remember Drumcairn, and fly to its peaceful retreat."

These words sank too deeply for reply. The Gordons returned to Scotland; and in an hour after they drove from the door. While Zorilda was plunged in the deepest grief and lamentation, a letter arrived to announce the approach of Algernon.