----"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.