The Project Gutenberg eBook, Tales of My Time, Vol. II (of 3), by William Pitt Scargill

TALES
OF
MY TIME.

BY THE

AUTHOR OF BLUE-STOCKING HALL.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.
WHO IS SHE?
THE YOUNG REFORMERS.

LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1829.

J. B. NICHOLS AND SON
25, Parliament Street.

CONTENTS

TALES OF MY TIME.

CHAPTER X.

"Les vrais evènemens de la Vie sont quelquefois, beaucoup plus incroyable que ceux que l'Imagination presente à l'Esprit."

L'Abbe Prevôt.

There are some whose lot it is to pace the dull and beaten round of daily life like a sort of moral turn-spit, unconscious of the stages by which they travel from the cradle to the tomb. To these the extraordinary accidents and romantic coincidences, which occasionally chequer and diversify the flat road of human existence in the history of other men, appear incredible as the Arabian Nights' Entertainment; yet Fiction, in her most fantastic mood, does not leave the common average of events farther behind than reality is continually doing. Zorilda's was no common fate, and it pursued her to the grave.

Rachel's schemes had prospered so entirely that, by the time that she and her young mistress reached the great northern line, no farther anxiety attended their progress, and they journied onwards without apprehension. They stopped in the first large town, and found no difficulty in procuring pecuniary supplies at the Bank. So far all proceeded smoothly; but the pale cheek, and smileless eye, bore witness to that grief which "doth not speak" but "whispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break."

There is sorrow which lies too deep for the landscape or the breeze. Neither air nor scene can reach its dwelling; and the change of both, which proves a sovereign balm to light afflictions, brought no healing to Zorilda's heart. It had not been always thus. There was a time when her glad eye hailed the rising sun with answering ray; and her young spirit, all alive to the charms of undefined but sparkling anticipation, which dresses the future in bright ideal glories, could carol with the lark at early dawn. Alive, with more than common enthusiasm, to the beauties of nature, every opening bud and blossom had once inspired joy; but the charm was broken, sunshine and spring only seemed now to mock her grief, while one exclusive torturing thought occupied every avenue of sense. Algernon was false—Algernon was unworthy—and the affection which could no longer flow in unresisted tide towards him, returned with all the overwhelming force of a back-water current into her bosom.

It is maintained by some writers that woman's love ought to cling blindly to its object, and survive every trial. A true and devoted attachment is indeed proof against every attack which can assail it from without. The female breast can endure the rudest shocks of adversity, and outlive the severest reverses of fortune—it can preserve its bloom within the walls of a prison, and its warmth amid Siberian snows—but it is a vulgar love which grasps at the empty casket, after the gem which it contained is thrown away. Zorilda's soul was incapable of harbouring any but pure and exalted sentiments, which when driven from the cherished object on whom they rested, came back with oppressive weight upon her widowed breast.

After a day's journey, which had been rendered particularly fatiguing from bad horses, our travellers reached the town of——. They arrived late, and found that every room at the inn was occupied. There was no second, and upon inquiring for private lodgings, the landlady of the Greyhound assured them that it was quite vain to hope for a bed any where. Young Squire Macdonald had just come of age. He was eldest son to Sir Herbert, and heir to immense estates. The great house was undergoing repairs, and therefore a splendid ball, which it was impossible to give on the present joyful occasion at the family mansion, was to assemble all the surrounding gentry that night at the inn. The company was to be as numerous as possible, to secure popularity, and, "in fact," the landlady added, with a broad grin, "our powers of accommodation are the only limits to Sir Herbert's hospitality on this happy event."

What was to be done? Nothing in nature could be less accordant with the feelings of Zorilda than the sound of mirth and revelry; but the night was dark, and she feared to proceed any farther. The next stage too was long, and lay over a dreary moor. The landlady also protested that she had not a horse in the stables which was not nearly "jaded to death."

"Only allow me to remain under the protection of your roof," said Zorilda, "I shall not require any care or attendance." "I am sure," replied the landlady, "I never was so puzzled in all my life. If it was my sister, I could neither promise her a bed or a mutton chop. Even now, while I stand talking, I assure you, Ma'am, that I am wanted in half a dozen different places."

"I am sure of it," answered Zorilda; "but I can do without a bed and mutton chop. Only take me in. Put me any where, but pray do not refuse me."

The landlady was mollified, and promised to do her best, but gave fair warning that that best would prove a sorry sort of welcome to weary travellers.

Zorilda drew her veil closely over her face, and wrapping Rachel's large cloak round her person descended from the carriage, and following the woman of the house through a long stone entry and up a wide stair-case, which were lighted up and decorated with laurel branches, was ushered into a miserable scrap of an apartment, if indeed such a cage might be dignified with the style of one. There was neither table nor chair in it, but both were to be brought in a few minutes.

"Here, Ma'am, is the only cranny that I have to offer you, and I am very sorry for it," said the landlady. "I should not have even this to give you but for an accident to one of our gutters, and you see this wall is ruined by the deluge of water that came down upon it. I sent to London for paper, which did not come in time, so here you perceive I have been obliged to knock up a few boards, in the greatest hurry you can imagine, into a sort of partition, which I have hung all over with drapery, on the other side, to hide the new timber. There are only a few gentlemen in the house, who are sitting at their wine below stairs; and before the company assembles you could just step here into the ball-room, and I think you will say that it is well contrived and tasty."

"I am obliged to you," answered Zorilda, "and am sure that all your arrangements are made in the best manner, but I will take possession of my quarters, and only wish that they were farther removed from the gay revels which are soon to begin. This is a thin partition, I hope at least that it is secure.

"Oh! bless you, yes, Ma'am. You will see nothing of the company. I wish I could guard you as well from hearing them," answered the landlady, whose houshold cares now "called her hence;" and who added, as she tripped out of the room, "you will have little quiet or comfort, but you can lock your door on the inside, and when the hurry of supper is over, if I can, I will get you a mattress."

Zorilda cared little about want of comfort, but she wished herself far from the riotous scene in which the sense of hearing, if not of sight, was soon to be involved.

Rachel exerted herself to do as much for her mistress' accommodation, as the case would admit. A small table and an arm-chair were provided, and "now, my dear child," said the kind hearted creature, "that I have at last seen you fairly seated, I will go and see if I cannot fetch you a cup of hot coffee, and a nice dry toast." Carriages arrived, and the company poured in like a torrent. A band of music began to play. Zorilda had never heard so full a harmony of instruments since she left her native country, and the effect was magical. The musicians gave a popular Spanish air, to which, when an infant of three years old, she had often danced with a little pair of castanets. The stores of memory seemed suddenly unlocked. Her nurse, her cottage, the grove of chestnuts, the kind visitor whom she called her father, all were pictured in her mind's eye with the most vivid colouring, and as if called by fairy wand from a world of shadows to live again on earth.

"Oh! why cannot I remember thee, beloved mother," she exclaimed, as opening her precious packet which lay folded in her bosom, she pressed the lovely image to her breast; "but no sound of melody can, with mysterious power, strike upon that chord, and draw forth strains of 'linked sweetness.' I was too young when torn from this snowy pillow, to see, to feel the heavenly mildness of that eye, the tender pathos of that smile."

The rooms filled, and all the "laughter loving Gods" were busy in producing such a din, that Zorilda's head ached from an uproar so uncongenial with her spirits.

"Can this be pleasure?" said she, as she listened to the vapid jest, the unmeaning laugh, the idle listless talk, which, penetrating the thin screen that separated her from the throng, came upon her unwilling ear. "Yes, these are the joys of which Algernon used to tell me, and joys perhaps they might have seemed, if tasted in his society; but I resemble the blind who live within, and imagination, which is most active when things external are shut out, weaves her web of 'sweet and bitter fancies,' which are little accordant with the world's opinions."

Rachel returned, but desirous to pursue her thoughts in solitude, Zorilda sent her to amuse herself with staring at all the fine dresses and equipages, which formed in her estimation, the most magnificent spectacle she had ever looked upon; and much did she wish if possible, to inspire her young mistress with a single spark of her own curiosity to witness so splendid a pageant.

Once more alone in her cell, Zorilda endeavoured to abstract her mind from the noisy scene. She took out her mother's diamond cross, and having kissed, she pinned it to her breast.

"I will wear you always," said she, "next my heart, but it shall be unseen. When I reach Drumcairn, I will have a ribband and suspend it round my neck. This bracelet, too. These are my jewels, and they are gems of more worth than Potosi's mines could furnish, or Golconda has ever sent forth."

She had laid aside her cloak and veil. Her beautiful hair, which was only restrained by a tortoise-shell comb from falling over her shoulders, curled in rich profusion over her ivory throat and forehead. The air of evening had fanned a rose-bud tint upon her cheek, and a black silk dress which folded across the bosom, formed the simple costume of her, whom only the thickness of a half-inch board concealed from that mirthful multitude, over whom in mingling, she would have reigned queen paramount, in loveliness and grace.

Amongst the papers which lay before her, was the letter which she had picked up in the walk at Henbury, when she had been startled by a rustling in the bushes behind where she sat. The idea struck her as she now looked over it again, with relation to other parts of her history since developed, that a father's care might watch at distance over her destiny. He was an English nobleman, perhaps, nay probably, a married man, and withheld not only by a sense of the wrongs which he had inflicted, but, also by existing family interests, from revealing himself to his injured child. This conjecture was little soothing; on the contrary, a cold tremor ran through her frame at thoughts of him who basely deceived, and then deserted those to whom he was bound by the most powerful ties of nature as well as moral obligation.

"Alas!" said she, "as my father, whoever, or wherever he may be, I owe him reverence; but may I be spared the necessity of paying a tribute which could never be animated by affection! Better remain the unknown, despised 'Who is she?' than obtain a name and place in society at the cost of incurring Heaven's displeasure by violating the first of earthly duties."

As she uttered these words within her heart, her eyes were raised upwards, and her hands clasped in a posture of supplication.

At this instant a heavy crash, as if one of the dancers had fallen with great force against the weak partition, levelled the frail screen, which went to pieces, and came in fragments to the ground.

What a scene was now unveiled! Zorilda narrowly escaped receiving on her head a piece of the timber, which laid the table at which she had been sitting prostrate at her feet, and together with it, the now scattered contents of her sacred packet.

The male part of the assembly rushed simultaneously forward to offer assistance, while, terrified and amazed, our heroine started from her seat, the most beautiful object that had ever graced a ball-room, revealing too

"the sparkling cross she wore,
Which saints might kiss, and infidels adore."

One gathered up the loose sheets of the narrative; another found the bracelets; and a third, who had seized the miniature, glancing at it before he presented it to the owner, uttered an involuntary ejaculation, and stood like one transfixed; but instantaneously recovering his presence of mind, he advanced, and grasping the hand which was extended to receive the portrait, with frenzied fervour, restored the treasure trove, and darted out of the room. The words which he had spoken, though probably not caught by others in the confusion of the moment, reached Zorilda's ear, for her eyes were intently fixed on him whom she saw take up her picture from the floor; and the exclamation, "Oh! my daughter!" reverberating through every nerve, she felt her knees refuse their office, and tottering backwards, she fell into the arm-chair, almost bereft of sense; yet dreading the effect of her emotion, and fearful of losing again any part of what she prized more than life itself, she seemed suddenly invigorated, and hastily folding her packet once more to her bosom, she waved her head gracefully in acknowledgment of gratitude for polite attention, and pressed towards the door, which was opened for her by one of the many who were only anxious to try who should be foremost in affording aid. Numberless arms were proffered to support her, but declined, and with such an air of sincerity, as forbade all farther solicitations.

The waiters who had heard the crash, came running from all parts of the house, and Rachel was not wanting in the train, who flew to inquire what had happened. Zorilda seized her arm, and desired to be shown immediately to the landlady's apartment. Thither she was conveyed, quite exhausted.

"I must leave this place," said she, "before the dawn of day. Offer any thing as a bribe for fresh horses, but procure me the means of quitting this inn before the company break up; here I cannot stay, and the repose which this dreadful uproar denies, may be found at no great distance. I am not well, and my brain will become disordered if I cannot find quiet. Dear Rachel use your best diligence."

Rachel left the room; and as there are few things which money cannot procure, an offer of double fare soon produced the promise of as fine a pair of horses as ever ran in harness, which it was now recollected could be had at break of day. Ere long, she returned with the news, and with a story to boot.

"Lord o' mercy, my dear, but I have had my own share of trouble since I left you here, less than half an hour ago. There is all the whole town, I believe, in a ferment about you. 'Who is she? Who is she?' says one: 'Who is she? Where does she come from? Where is she going?' says another. I thought they would tear me to pieces among them. 'Is she a foreigner? Spanish, French, or Italian?' Now all along we forgot to settle what name you should bear, and it came into my head, that it would not be any way creditable to be without one, so when they let me speak, I answered fair and softly, that you were Miss Gordon, going home to your relations in Scotland; that you were in trouble about one of them lately dead, and wished to be as private as could be. I had fifty offers of carriages from both ladies and gentlemen, and one and all they say, that such a beauty as yourself they never beheld. One young gentleman followed after me, when I returned thanks, and refused the rest; and sure I was ready to sink into the earth with consternation when he called me by my own name, given me at my baptism fifty-two years ago. 'Rachel,' says he, as plain as you ever spoke the word: 'Rachel,' says he, 'your lady is not unknown to me. If I may have the honour of seeing her, but for a moment, I will give her a letter which she dropped in her way from the ball-room, and entreat her to accept my best services in any manner that may be most useful.'

"'Sir,' says I, 'you have the advantage of me, but I am much obliged, and will let my mistress know all you say;' so here's the message, and I am to take back your answer; but like a noodle, I forgot to ask whose compliments I was to bring you."

"Never mind, never mind;" answered Zorilda, in great agitation; "I do not know any body; nor will I see any person. Go back; request the gentleman to give you whatever letter of mine he has found, and decline all farther communication. Be civil, but firm, and bring me no farther offers of assistance, which I do not intend to accept."

Rachel saw that there was no use in attempting to alter this determination, and though she would have been well pleased to convey a more conciliatory reply, she thought it prudent to do as she was desired without farther comment. The young gentleman waited her return, and Rachel acquitted herself of her task, mitigating the severity of a refusal, by assuring him how grateful her Lady felt for his politeness.

"Give her back her letter then," said the stranger, who, during the interval of Rachel's absence, had asked for a sheet of paper, and inclosed it with these words:

"For worlds I would not be thought an intruder by Zorilda, and I therefore submit to her decision, which I anticipate. The letter accidentally dropped in the hurry of her retreat is now restored—extraordinary coincidence—by its writer; and he who now returns it is no other than the unseen guardian, who has for some time past watched unperceived, and been the fortunate means of saving much disquiet to her, who, once seen, must be remembered for ever."

"Unaccountable, intricate, bewildering destiny!" exclaimed Zorilda. "Can it be possible? Have I met my father? Was it he who grasped my hand? Have I refused a parent's request; and is it he who returns the letter, which, by a mysterious allotment of Providence (for who but the infidel talks of chance) has been directed to his hand?"

"Put such a notion out of your head, my dear young lady," replied Rachel, who stood behind, and of whose presence Zorilda was unconscious when she spoke aloud. "No, no; the young gentleman who gave me that letter for you might be your brother indeed, and not much older than yourself; but as to being your father, you need not perplex yourself on that score. You have enough to be unhappy about, my poor dear, without such fancies. If it was the poor gentleman who was taken sick, and came out of the ball-room ready to faint, and drank a glass of water, and ordered his carriage in the greatest hurry, and looked like one possessed of an evil spirit; if he was the person that gave me the letter, it would be quite a different affair, for though a very fine man, tall as a may-pole, and straight as an arrow, he could not be less than forty, and a Lord into the bargain—Lord, Lord—something beginning with——."

"Oh! no more guessing," interrupted Zorilda, "what have I to do with any one? Make no inquiry, I charge you, I know enough. Hasten my departure."

When Rachel disappeared to collect her luggage and pay the bill, Zorilda, still pondering on the events of the evening, now conjectured, that the young unknown, to whom she was indebted for some unexplained benefit, must be the person against whose attempts to write to, or speak with her, Algernon had given her an impressive caution when he was going to Marchdale Court. "Alas!" said she, "he need not have feared a rival; but it is past. These feverish uncertainties will soon have an end; and my beloved friend, whose name is now my shield and safeguard, will discover some retreat in which I may hide my head and bury my sorrows."

The riot began to subside, the music ceased, the last carriage rolled from the door, and a silvery streak along the eastern horizon gave notice of the coming day, when Zorilda's post-chaise was ready to receive her.

"Since I have been delayed till after the departure of these people," said she, "I will make a little alteration in my route in hopes to get rid of them. You see this map, Rachel, look; we will turn into this road. It cannot make the difference of more than five or six miles; and here you see we shall come again into the exact line of our journey when all this crowd of revellers will have reached their several homes." "You were always knowing in maps, and such like," answered Rachel. "I know nothing but to desire the post-boy to drive whichever way you bid me; only take care not to go into any bye place, where you will not find a chaise or horses to take you on."

"We will lie by for the day then at the next stage," replied Zorilda, "and perhaps it will be no harm to do so; at all events, Rachel, I am very ill. Come, let us be gone."

So saying, she hurried down stairs along the squalid scene of departed festivity, assailed at every step by an expiring lamp, or the remains of a wassail bowl, at which the servants had been liberally plied. Sick and weary, Zorilda threw herself into the carriage, and blessed the morning air, which breathed "wooingly" upon her senses, and dispelled the horrible atmosphere of the inn.

An officious hostler stood at the horses' heads to prove that their fire required to be restrained; but the fact was, that it was with difficulty they could be urged from the door. Zorilda desired that they might not be pushed beyond their strength; and the postilion, making a virtue of necessity, assuring her at the same time that his "cattle" could easily go at the rate of ten miles an hour, condescended to let them go at the only pace of which they were capable, a snail-slow walk, by which, in course of time, they arrived at a house seven miles on the stage of fifteen which they had to go. Here the horses were to bait; and precisely as the driver flourished his whip, to bring his tired beasts up to the door with some sort of eclat, a heavy waggon, which had just descended a steep hill in the opposite direction, came in such violent contact with the wheels of Zorilda's chaise as to overturn it in an instant into a deep ditch by the road side.

The people of the house ran to assist the travellers; but Zorilda had fainted from the agony of a dislocated wrist, and it was some time before she could be extricated from her perilous situation. At length she was conveyed into the house, and laid upon a bed; while Rachel, almost distracted with apprehension, implored every body whom she met to go for a surgeon. None was to be had nearer than the town which they had left in the morning, and the only expedient was to send off a man and horse, but there was no horse in the stable at this poor place, and all that remained was to dispatch the post-boy with one of his tired steeds back again. In the interim the dislocated joint might become inflamed, and the greatest difficulty occur in replacing it. Zorilda continued insensible; Rachel ran nearly frantic out of the house to way lay the passengers, if any were haply going the road, who could assist her in this distress. A horseman advanced.

"Thank God!" exclaimed Rachel; "I will tell him what has happened, and he will be a swifter messenger, if he will undertake the thing, than this looby and his jaded beast."

Running to meet the gentleman, who approached at a swinging trot, what was the poor woman's joyful surprise to recognise the young man who had restored the letter, and whom she left only a few short hours preceding, at the inn where the ball had been given.

No time was lost, and even Rachel, loquacious as was her usual habit, was brief on this occasion. The stranger alighted in an instant, and only employing the precaution of charging Rachel on no account to divulge either to Miss Gordon, or to any one whomsoever, her previous acquaintance with him, flew to the apartment in which Zorilda, suffering tortures of pain, had just opened her eyes on the women who were rubbing her forehead, applying burnt feathers to her nostrils, and trying whatever other scanty means the place supplied, to restore animation. The young gentleman, whom the patient at once concluded to be a medical practitioner, immediately pulled the injured limb, and with a powerful and skilful effort replaced the joint. Then, calling for vinegar and spirits, he bathed the hand and arm, which he bound, and leaving Rachel to prepare for accompanying her mistress to his father's house, which was, he said close at hand, and from whence he would immediately despatch a carriage for her conveyance thither. He re-mounted his horse with the rapidity of lightning, and disappeared in an instant.

Before it was possible to imagine that he could have ridden a mile and back again, he returned with the family coach, in which his sister had brought cushions, shawls, pillows, and all sorts of accommodation for the invalid, whose acute pain and fever, added to the tears of Rachel, induced her to submit without resistance. Zorilda suffered herself to be placed in the coach, and conveyed to Sir Godfrey Cecil's splendid abode, where, leaving her under medical care, we must digress for a little while to explain some circumstances connected with the family amongst whom, she was now introduced by the singular course of her fortunes.

CHAPTER XI.

"I was born so high
Our eiry buildeth in the cedar top,
And dallies with the winds, and scorns the sun."

Shakspeare.

Sir Godfrey Cecil derived De Lacy castle, with the immense estates which descended to him along with this noble remnant of feudal pride, through a long line of ancestors, whose gaunt effigies, clad in shining mail, lined the great baronial hall, whose banners waved upon his chapel walls, and whose proud escutcheons were engraved upon those last records of departed grandeur which still proclaim amid all the pomp of heraldry, that dust hath to dust returned.

Sir Godfrey had married early into the ancient house of the De Burgho's and as he pored with constantly renewed delight over the pages of Froissart, it was his favourite boast that every name distinguished by that immortal chronicler, was allied to him or to his consort the Lady Grace. In fine there were few failures in the moral code for which, though himself a man of the correctest conduct, he could not have more easily found excuse, than for obscurity of birth.

Lady Grace paid the same devotion to hereditary honours, and the general bearing of her tastes and pursuits was in perfect accordance with those of her husband. She knew the quarterings of every shield, and there was not a crest throughout the land with the device and history of which Lady Grace Cecil was unacquainted. Sir Godfrey and his wife, therefore, lived in all the harmony of kind intercourse, and mutual appeal upon those subjects which interested them both most nearly; and were the best friends imaginable, till any accidental occurrence produced, or led to competition between the merits of a Cecil and De Burgho. Angry looks and taunting speech would then interrupt domestic harmony; but, as such conflicts did not frequently happen, Sir Godfrey and Lady Grace might be fairly called a very happy couple. Making allowance for this single foible, they were deservedly entitled to the character which they held for all those qualities which ought to adorn exalted birth. They were people of lofty principle, unsullied honour, and boundless munificence.

It was Sir Godfrey's rule that station makes the man, and one of the first maxims which he endeavoured to impress on the minds of his children was, that every individual whose fortune it was to be greatly born, owed it to his pedigree not to disgrace the armorial bearings committed to his safe custody, by a mean thought or sordid action.

It was an apparent anomaly at De Lacy castle that, though known to be as proud as Lucifer, the affability of Sir Godfrey and his Lady was a continual topic of popular praise. The truth was, that they were real aristocrats. It was not the paltry distinction of a new title, nor the accidental acquisition of wealth, which they held in esteem. Poverty was no crime in their eyes. Alfred, turning the old woman's cakes at the fire, was as truly great in their contemplation, as Alfred dressed in ermined robes, and seated on his kingly throne; but woe to the Parvenû who entered their presence, however studded over with stars and garters. They would give gold to the needy, pity and protection to the friendless, but honour was denied to all who could not boast of ancient descent, and he who was not able to trace his lineage to at least the time of William the Conqueror, had little chance of rendering himself a welcome visitor, at the proud baronial residence to which we have just introduced our readers.

Sir Godfrey and Lady Grace had an only son and daughter, and never were two young persons more deserving of parental tenderness than Clara and Lionel Cecil, who were at once "their father's pride and mother's joy." The difficulties which raised a barrier to sending their affections abroad, had the happy effect of concentrating them at home; and the mutual attachment of this interesting brother and sister was a source of unfailing delight to themselves, and of admiration to all who witnessed its pleasing influence upon their manners and dispositions, to which were added the attractions of fine talent and external beauty.

We are often led to observe how puny are the efforts of little man, with all his free-will, to alter or disturb the general laws of providence. If pride, for instance, always engendered pride, and continued an increasing quality, this earthly theatre would soon be too small for the pretensions of an inflated few, but fortunately excess of every kind carries its antidote along with the bane, and re-action is frequently as favourable to the growth of moral excellence as direct example; hence a profligate father is not always permitted to entail a curse upon his offspring, who, disgusted by his evil courses, start into an opposite track themselves. The miser is often followed by a liberal son. The spendthrift succeeded by one of economical habits. An age of infidelity gives birth to a generation of believers; one of fanaticism, to rational inquiry, and thus while we are still invariably taught that motives alone constitute virtue in individual character, we perceive that limits are set to the consequences of human vice; and all things are so ordered as to work together for good upon the great scale of creation. A striking confirmation of this remark was exhibited by the children of the house of Cecil, who, though they entertained the sincerest veneration and affection for their parents, were rather inclined to take the opposite extreme of family pride, and value too little that which they heard so much overrated every day.

Lionel Cecil enjoyed every advantage which wealth could impart, and repaid the care which was bestowed upon his education, by making a distinguished figure both at Eton and Oxford. To a noble exterior, and splendid abilities, he added all the lighter accomplishments, which shine in mixed society. Full of youthful manliness and grace, the natural gaiety of his spirits was tempered by such a gentleness of disposition, as served to soften, without enervating his character. Never having had a brother, Clara was the companion of his infant sports, and the friend of riper years. The most perfect confidence subsisted between these amiable young people who were twins in affection, though Lionel was somewhat older than his sister.

Now it so happened that young Cecil made one of a shooting party, which our readers may remember at Thornton Abbey; and dined at Henbury, in company with the Marquis of Turnstock and a few others, invited thither by Algernon Hartland. The exquisite beauty of Zorilda, heightened by that shrinking timidity which shunned the admiration which it excited, had struck a lively impression on his feelings, which time had not effaced from memory. The little he had heard her speak, was addressed to Mr. Playfair, but the pathetic sweetness of her voice lived on his ear, as her image did in his heart. She looked unhappy, and Lionel would have given a diadem to know the subject of her sorrows, and remove it. As he gazed upon her perfections, he wished for those days of chivalry, of which his father loved to tell the gallant feats performed by his ancestors, and thought that no such lovely Lady as Zorilda, had ever smiled upon true knight in the olden time.

The inquiries which were prompted by curiosity, met with such reply as to stimulate romance in the moment of arresting hope. "Who is she?" "Nobody knows." What an answer for the only son, heir, and representative of the proudest family in England! "Whence comes she?" "From a gipsey camp. How she got there no one can tell."

Lionel was too honourable to cherish an idea of clandestine love, and too good to make his parents miserable. He must, therefore, banish the idle vision, and shake off the sudden fascination which entangled his heart. This determination was aided after his return to Oxford, by certain observations on the manner of young Hartland, whenever Lord Turnstock rallied him on the subject of Zorilda's beauty, which had not been carelessly remarked by the Marquess as circumstances proved in the sequel. From some indications which were exhibited on such occasions, Lionel concluded that an engagement already subsisted between Algernon and the charming Spaniard.

When this conviction stole upon his mind he gave a sigh, and could not refrain from saying to himself, "How happy are those, who, free to follow the bent of inclination, may taste the sweets of mutual love unshackled by these bonds, these galling chains of feudal despotism!"

This sigh, however, was the last. Lionel resolved to hold no dalliance with his duty, and with a manly resolution he plucked from his breast the forbidden thought, and had forgotten the short-lived dream which, for a time, murdered his repose, when Lord Turnstock arrived from the Continent. Lionel had never liked him, and now less than ever; he spoke of his former friend and ally Hartland in terms of unmeasured hatred and contempt, and one evening let out in convivial openness, that he was planning a good trick to vex him, adding, in a careless way, "by the bye, can any one tell me of that Spanish girl, that handsome gipsey who lives at Hartland's house? I have some business to transact with her."

These words were repeated accidentally to Cecil by one of the party, who thought that he could perceive some connection between the "good trick," and the Spanish gipsey. Cecil thought so too, and resolved, as far as he was able, to avert danger from Zorilda by giving her such warning as to put her effectually on her guard, till the arrival of her lover should place her in security.

With this generous design, Lionel set out on a visit of a few days to Thornton Abbey, having had the satisfaction of seeing Lord Turnstock unexpectedly called in another direction by the death of a relation, from whom he hoped for a legacy. Cecil justly surmised, that this would give a new turn to the Marquess' thoughts, for a short time at least, and afford him the desired opportunity of frustrating any scheme inimical to Zorilda's safety. When he reached the neighbourhood of Henbury he made himself acquainted with Zorilda's daily habits, and conveyed the letter before mentioned in the manner already described. Clara was the only person to whom he had ever spoken of Zorilda, with whom his late meeting at the ball was purely accidental; and for her sake, as well as his own, he now wished with scrupulous care to suppress every hint of his having been the person who sent her a message through Rachel at the inn. Such intelligence might produce embarrassment on her part, and render her anxious to leave De Lacy castle before her health was sufficiently re-established to encounter a journey; and for himself, the slightest acknowledgment of former acquaintance with, or interest concerning Zorilda, would infallibly awaken alarm in the minds of Sir Godfrey and Lady Grace.

Secrecy being therefore determined upon, an able surgeon was immediately sent for, who found his patient extremely feverish. After bandaging the injured wrist, and administering a composing draught, he ordered perfect quiet, and took his leave, promising to pay an early visit on the following day. Nothing could surpass the kindness with which the sick stranger was treated by the whole family, and she had been nearly twelve hours under the roof before Lady Grace asked, "Who is she?"

"Some Miss Gordon," answered Clara, "returning to her family in Scotland.

"The name is a good one," replied Lady Cecil. "Did you hear, my love, whether she is of the—-"

"Her maid, I believe," said Miss Cecil, hastily, "is no genealogist. She looks like an old heir-loom in the shape of a nurse, who has been more conversant with swaddling-clothes than coats of arms; but I am sure that Miss Gordon must be of a good stock, she is so pretty and so elegant."

"That is a fallacious test, as I have often told you," rejoined Lady Cecil. "To be sure it little signifies when we are merely called upon to relieve distress, what rank the sufferer holds in the Herald's Court. We reserve that inquiry for our friendships and alliances."

Clara being afraid of displeasing her mother by an ill-timed remark on the possibility of giving one's confidence, and affection too, without referring to her mother's favourite volume, entitled, "Norroy King at Arms," contented herself with assenting to the first branch of her proposition, while the latter was left undisputed, and went to inquire whether there was any thing that she could do for her guest.

On the surgeon's return next day Zorilda's fever had greatly increased, and the accident which she had met with only appeared its accelerating, not original cause. Her mind was the real seat of malady. The unkindness of Lady Marchdale, and the perfidy of her once beloved Algernon, preyed upon her innocent heart, while the occurrence of such strange events as she had lately experienced, confused her head. On the third day of her illness she became delirious, and raved incessantly of all that weighed upon her spirit, but so incoherently, that none who was ignorant of her story could draw any collected evidence from the wild and whirling words which she uttered. The name of Algernon, however, escaped her lips so often as to convince young Cecil, to whom his sister reported all she heard, that a deep attachment existed in Zorilda's breast, of which Lord Hautonville was the object.

"Alas!" said Lionel, "the sweet girl has little knowledge of the man to whom she has betrothed her guileless heart. Her pure mind arrays the image of its devotion in the colours of her own glowing fancy, and represents the object of her love as he should be, not as he is. I would not have you, my Clara, married to Lord Hautonville though he wore a crown imperial, and could trace his pedigree through a forest, instead of a single tree."

"I neither love crowns nor pedigrees for myself," replied Clara; "but we must not let the artless Zorilda be deceived. We must devise means of snatching her from future misery, if you know the object of her regards to be unworthy of them."

"It is a delicate task," answered Cecil, "but she may perhaps have made discoveries, the pain of which now presses on her feeble frame. I have questioned her attendant, who is a niggard of her information, or ignorant of what I want to know. Yet still I can gather, that this lovely creature has been harshly treated by Lady Marchdale, whose aversion to the idea of her son's alliance with the friendless Zorilda, I conclude to be the cause of a manner so contrary to her former kindness. Perhaps the noble minded stranger may have set out upon this journey to remove all solicitude from the minds of her benefactors, and make a sacrifice of her own inclination to her sense of honour and virtue; but what a man must he be, who, knowing himself in possession of Zorilda's affections, can thus basely desert her?"

"He may not know of the sacrifice," said Clara. "Upon proposing to the old nurse to write to Miss Gordon's friends, and inform them of her present situation, she conjured me to preserve an inviolable secrecy respecting her, alleging the probable speedy termination of her illness, and the fear of alarming her relations, as the pretext for silence; but so extraordinary was the poor woman's vehemence, so urgent her entreaty, that I could not help feeling that 'more was meant than met the ear.'"

A physician who was called concurred with surgeon Crump, that no danger of contagion was to be dreaded, and Clara took advantage of this assurance to bestow the tenderest care on her guest, frequently stealing from her own room at night, to take Rachel's post and send her to bed.

Zorilda's illness was both tedious and alarming, and several weeks elapsed before her medical attendants pronounced their patient convalescent. Such a time however arrived, and the benevolence which offered asylum to distress now met its full reward. The doctors, however, insisted particularly on the utmost caution, and to Zorilda's earnest prayer to be told how soon she might resume her journey, constantly replied, that as a relapse would probably be fatal, she owed it to her friends as well as to herself to avoid the risk of one. She was permitted however to leave her chamber, and enjoy the society of her kind hosts in an adjoining dressing-room, where she received the most friendly congratulations on her recovery. Sir Godfrey, who had not seen his fair ward till now, was fascinated by her beauty, which late illness had only rendered more touching: and whatever impression was made by Zorilda's exterior form, was confirmed by her manners and conversation. Gratitude called upon her for every exertion to repay such kindness as she had found, and ere many days were past, that which at first was effort, became inclination.

Armed with the honourable determination to preserve his heart from all entanglement, under the full persuasion that Zorilda's was already attached to another object, Lionel gave himself freely up to the charms of an intercourse, rendered the more seductive from the supposed security of the case, and Zorilda's dressing-room became the scene of all that delicate attention and polished taste could devise for her amusement. Clara had her harp and guitar transported thither, and delighted her young friend by the sweetest music, when she feared that conversation might exhaust her, while Lionel came laden with fresh stores of books and fine prints with which to beguile the hours, which flew on golden pinion.

One day, on the return of Clara and her brother from attending Sir Godfrey and Lady Cecil in a visit of ceremony, Zorilda, who believing them all absent had been singing some of her softest melodies to the guitar, was surprised by her young friends, who stood for a long time outside the door of her apartment, held in bondage there by the captivation of her plaintive voice. This discovery opened a new source of attraction, and Clara, who loved nothing in creation like Lionel, began to grow uneasy lest society so congenial, and becoming each day more and more ensnaring, should produce too much present gratification for his future repose.

"I almost wish the day of parting were arrived," said she, as she held her brother's arm in a stroll in the pleasure-grounds. "This Spanish Syren will become too necessary to us, and we shall not know how to live without her."

Lionel started, and seemed to feel the truth of Clara's apprehension, but instantly repressing the emotion which her remark had excited, he answered with an assumed firmness, which imposed upon his sister as well as himself,

"She would indeed be a dangerous visitor here, were not the certainty that her affections are pre-occupied a perfect safeguard against the sorcery of such loveliness and modesty as never before appeared in union with such various talents. Zorilda is a wonder of nature, but I never look on her without repeating my lesson—that she belongs to another; that with Lady Hautonville I have no other bond than that which a singular coincidence of romantic circumstances has thrown in my way. She is a stranger here, and will depart hence, leaving, it may be, such a standard of female excellence in one's mind, as to increase the difficulties of falling in love elsewhere; but as I am in no haste to marry, and our good father has no crotchet in his head for me, you may set your anxieties to sleep, and let us not be over wise in our prudence."

Clara was satisfied and returned to Zorilda's dressing-room, lightened of a weight which had oppressed her.

The security which Lionel only imagined, was real in Zorilda's instance. Her soul was fortified by feelings of pain so deeply seated, that though the happiness of companionship, and the sympathy of kindness, such as she now experienced, had power to soothe, they had none to change her heart, which was sealed, by her misfortunes, to every impression of a dangerous sort; while the total absence of vanity in her character, precluded all suspicion of that effect which she produced on others. Increasing strength extended the permission of indulgence, and the invalid was allowed to take the air.

The gardens and grounds around De Lacy castle were worthy of that sumptuous edifice, which stood in the midst of scenery rendered doubly delightful in Zorilda's eyes by her long confinement; and the enthusiastic admiration which she bestowed upon the surrounding landscape, flattered the pride of Sir Godfrey as much as it excited a tenderer interest in the mind of his son. Time rolled on, and Zorilda, who saw how genuine was the expression of sorrow in Clara's countenance, whenever she spoke of departure, had refrained from questioning her physician. Her hand was still too weak to hold a pen; and she had, for obvious reasons, declined all offers of informing her Scotch friends, through any other medium, of her situation. Nay, she even rejoiced, on one account, that they were as ignorant of her present retreat as the family of Henbury, since, should the latter desire to pursue or recall her, what so natural as to apply for information concerning movements to the only persons with whom she had ever formed a bond of friendship?

But Zorilda was not insensible to the extraordinary appearance which her neglected condition must wear in the eyes of her hosts, who did frequently express their astonishment that no letters arrived for their guest. At length our heroine, struggling to overcome the reluctance with which she resolved on tearing herself from those whose truth and tenderness had won upon her heart, producing the fullest return of all that she had to give, imparted to Miss Cecil her fixed design to pursue her purpose, and set out in a few days for Scotland, adding,

"My beloved Clara will not endeavour to dissuade me any longer from doing what she would herself feel to be right and necessary, were our situations reversed; what must Sir Godfrey and Lady Cecil think of a deserted wanderer, thus apparently bereft of all the natural ties that bind to house, to home, to kindred?"

"They have been prevented from wondering much upon this subject," answered Clara, "by my brother's care, and my own, to assure them that you are incapable of any but the highest and the best motives for concealment. That none but parents possess such rights as to make it strange that, in default of their claims, of which perhaps death may have deprived you, your silence respecting an accident which has blessed us with your society during a few short weeks, has spared the feelings of more distant relatives, who may expect with less solicitude than would be a father or a mother's portion. Am I right? And if I am, have we no claims to urge? Oh, Zorilda! I know not how to part with you."

"Dear generous being!" exclaimed Zorilda, embracing her friend. "Such confidence must and shall be requited. Yes, you shall one day be made acquainted with the mysterious circumstances."

At this moment, a tap at the dressing-room door, was followed by the entrance of Lady Cecil, leaning on the arm of her son.

"I will ask Miss Gordon myself," said the former, as if in continuation of preceding discourse with Lionel.

"We were just talking, my dear, of your uncommon name, which I maintain is Spanish, and as you know that I am a bit of a genealogist, I have been puzzling my brain to recollect how it happened to fall amongst the Gordons. Now that you are able to speak without fatigue, you shall tell us all about it. I dare say that there is some romantic tale of other days which I shall delight to hear, though I much wonder that my excellent friend of Drumcairn—"

"Drumcairn! Good Heavens do you know the Gordons of Drumcairn?" interrupted Zorilda, whose sudden surprise sent a vivid blush into her cheeks, which was followed by the lily's hue.

"To be sure I do. The Gordons of Drumcairn? They were here last summer. Mr. Gordon is one of my oldest friends, one of the best families in Europe. How is he related to you, my dear? I am so glad that I happened to mention Drumcairn!"

"It is to Drumcairn that I am going," said Zorilda, deeply agitated.

"Well, well, this is really quite a hit," answered Lady Cecil, "and I see that you are as much struck by the coincidence as I am. But how can all this be? You are not niece to my good friend; for, if I remember rightly, his brother left only two sons behind him. Then for his sisters; the elder, Janet, married a Mackensie; and the younger a Stuart. How do you stand, my dear, with respect to the Drumcairn branch? I am quite charmed to find out who you are, and you have the Gordon features too."

Zorilda never was formed for dissimulation of any kind, and, though she met a glance of transport from Clara's eye, and felt an answering gleam of joy from Lionel's countenance, she quickly dispelled both the one and the other by confessing the truth.

"The family of Drumcairn are not related to me at all, except by the tenderest friendship on their parts towards a solitary orphan," replied Zorilda.

Lady Cecil drew back, and with less beaming aspect, looked steadily at her blushing guest.

"I beg your pardon, my young friend," said she, "perhaps I distress you; but I thought I knew every Gordon in the world," and with a half disdainful, half incredulous air, added, "perhaps it is better to inquire no farther; all people do not trouble their heads about relationship after my fashion, you have no taste for heraldry I suppose."

So saying, Lady Cecil rose from her chair to leave the room, when Zorilda caught her hand, and bursting into tears drew it towards her lips.

"Accept, oh, accept the most grateful tribute of a broken heart. I have no right to the name of Gordon, and never assumed it. You shall not be deceived as the base return for all your goodness. Dear Madam, I am, it is true, without a name, and know little of a science with which I have no concern; but I have a glowing sense of all I owe to your generous hospitality; and alas! I can only repay it by lowering myself in your esteem. In two days I shall quit your princely abode, and may never have the happiness of beholding you again. Before I leave De Lacy castle Miss Cecil shall be put in possession of my sad, my romantic story."

Zorilda's emotion would scarcely permit her to utter these words. Lady Cecil appeared agitated also. She was naturally enough shocked by any appearance of deception in one whom she had harboured so long under the roof with her only daughter. Yet the purity and candour of Zorilda's whole deportment, seemed to repel all doubt. Again, she felt glad that one day more would conclude the adventure, and while she rejoiced in getting rid of one in whose station in society she was disappointed, she felt it a pity to spoil preceding kindness by a cold farewell.

Perhaps the most awkward and angry feeling in Lady Cecil's mind, arose at this instant from the recollection that she had laid herself open to a smile of ridicule, by her discovery of that strong likeness to the Gordon physiognomy, for which it now appeared there was no foundation. In short, whatever were the combination, her feelings were not pleasant, and beckoning to her son, whose countenance betrayed the deep interest which he took in the scene, she slightly inclined her head, and left the room.

"I have lost your mother's favour," said Zorilda, as she leaned on the bosom of her weeping friend, "but I must not repine. "Who is she?" was the brand set on the frontlet which bound my infant brows, and it is indelible. Will Clara, too, cast me off, and hate me because I have none other to love and shelter me?"

"I would give my life for you," replied her friend, "and so would—" but, suddenly pausing, Zorilda entreated her to leave the apartment. "My time is short," added she, "and I must set all things in order for my departure. You shall have my narrative to-night, for I am resolved to go to-morrow; read it to your family, and return it to me before you retire to rest. I will avoid seeing Sir Godfrey and Lady Cecil again; my presence can only distress them; but my gratitude will only end with life, and memory, my Clara, will not be exercised in far distant retrospects. My days will be few, and sorrowful: I feel it here (as she laid her hand upon her heart), and Zorilda will soon have passed away like an evening shadow."

A fond embrace was all the comfort which Clara could impart, and she withdrew with feelings of wonder, sympathy, and admiration, too big for expression.

Rachel received orders to prepare for the journey, and never felt less inclined to obey than upon this occasion. She could have spent the remnant of her days well pleased in the luxurious ease of De Lacy castle, and had been long indulging a secret hope that two people, so formed for each other as its young Lord and her gentle mistress, should one day conclude the romance which brought them together in the usual way, by a happy union. Rachel loved a novel, next to her tea, better than any earthly solace, and had found rich stores of literary food, as well as Congo, at the castle; but in all her reading she had never stumbled upon a single instance in which faithful love was not rewarded. Now, that Lionel loved Zorilda was her firm persuasion, not only because Rachel could not imagine any one secure against the attractions of her mistress, but she had too much sagacity, not to interpret the thousand kind attentions which she received herself from Mr. Cecil, as well as the pleasure which he seemed to feel in talking of Zorilda's improved health and appearance.

But Rachel buried these happy thoughts in her own breast, as, though Zorilda's manners were of dove-like softness, there was a native dignity in her demeanour which repelled all attempt at vulgar familiarity; and Rachel had sufficient tact to know exactly how far she might go, and where it was prudent to stop. She had never ventured therefore upon the slightest allusion to her hopes, and now set about the performance of her task with silent reluctance, while Zorilda endeavoured to compose her thoughts, and throw together a few brief outlines of her story, from the time of her removal from the gipsey camp to Henbury, by way of supplement to the narrative communicated to her by Mr. Playfair.

Nothing was suppressed in her artless and affecting sketch, except the attachment between her and Algernon. This was a sacred theme. She alleged no motives, therefore, for Lady Marchdale's changed regards, and only stated, that having been conscious of altered feelings towards her, she could no longer endure to be a burthen on the kindness of her former friends, and had consequently resolved on sparing them all farther solicitude on her account, though circumstances of a peculiar nature prevented her from revealing her intentions, or informing her late benefactors of her retreat, till her future way of life should have assumed some fixed shape and character.

On leaving Zorilda, Clara had quitted the house to indulge in a solitary ramble the grief with which she felt oppressed as she contemplated the approaching separation from one who had become so dear to her, and whom she was forced into the painful belief was likely to prove a source of misery to her brother. "Alas!" said she, soliloquizing as she wandered onwards, "he loves her, and the more devotedly, because his generous soul disdained to acknowledge danger while honour imposed silence on his wishes. He will be silent still, but he will be unhappy."

While Clara pondered these melancholy forebodings, Lionel was seeking for her, and at length overtook his sister, pale and breathless, with a newspaper in his hand.

"Here, Clara," said he, "is something strange. It struck my father, who brought it just now to me. I felt little appetite for news, but feared to offend, if I refused to look at what excited his curiosity, and my attention was soon arrested. I am certain that I know all the actors in this horrible catastrophe, and that it is interwoven with Zorilda's fate."

Clara snatched the paper, and read aloud the following paragraph:

"For obvious reasons of a delicate nature, we forbear from alluding openly to the noble individuals who are involved in the tragical circumstances at which we glanced in a former number. Subsequent information, we regret to say, from an authentic source, leaves no doubt as to the painful fact, that a young nobleman, Lord H., whose family has been recently exalted by succession to the peerage, has shot a nobleman, with whom not long since he was considered as being closely lié, and who now lies dangerously ill at Brussels. The cause of this lamentable occurrence continues to be wrapped in the profoundest mystery, but immediately after the dreadful act, the unhappy perpetrator made a voluntary surrender of himself to the civil authorities, to abide his trial; and it is rumoured, that his noble parents, of whom he is the only child, have set out for the Netherlands, plunged in the severest affliction. As a little time must fully develop this dark transaction, we shall abstain from any comment upon it, under present circumstances."

"It is, indeed, a terrible story, if true; but what reference can it have to Zorilda?" asked Clara, eagerly.

"I see it plainly," answered Lionel. "The recent succession; the former intimate friendship, and present enmity; an only child; the letter H, which is given as an initial; every circumstance, in short, to my mind, points out Lord Hautonville as the unfortunate young gentleman who has killed the Marquess of Turnstock."

"You may be wrong," said Clara, "and all these signs may belong to some other persons. What does my father say?"

"Oh, nothing. He has no suspicion at all about the matter, and is unacquainted with the actors in this tragedy altogether."

"And did you hint your own surmise?"

"No; I thought it better to conceal the entire from Zorilda, who, as she does not dine below stairs, will not be liable to hear any discussion which might alarm her. If the truth be as I suppose, nay, as some unaccountable internal evidence assures me it is, she will soon be made acquainted with the fatal particulars, but I wanted to consult you on the possibility of detaining her here, by informing the rulers of my conjecture."

"Dismiss the idea from your mind," said Clara: "The greatest kindness we can now show this dear girl, is to hasten her departure, or at least not retard it. The tide has turned; my mother has infused her doubts into my father's mind, and they are both restlessly impatient till she is gone. I saw the whole train on fire before I left the house, though there hardly seemed time to have put the match to it; but it is evident that previous doubts only required the slightest grain of probability to decide the question against our sweet forlorn Zorilda, and her confession that she does not belong to the house of Gordon has ruined her. My only hope is in the effect which may be produced by the recital of her history, which we are to have this evening, and for which I am myself burning with impatience. Who can she be? and, who are the parents who could cast such a creature on the merciless world?"

"I long to know as much as you can do," answered Lionel; "and believe that you counsel prudently. We must let things work and wait the issue."

"She must go," replied Clara; "and it will be better for her—for us all, that she should do so. We must not censure those, who with more experience of life, and less enthusiasm than you and I possess, are slower in deciding on merit. I would not have Zorilda stay for all the indulgence of her society to myself. She would be looked on with an evil eye, and watched with jealous apprehension."

"And would defy all scrutiny to detect one dissembled thought," said Lionel, with warmth.

"Yes; but we must not detain her here to be suspected. We must let her go to Drumcairn; and the attachment of the Gordons towards her will be better proof of her deserts than all that you and I could assert in her favour."

Lionel, seized with avidity on this view, which seemed to open into a new vista of hope, that sparkled in his eye. "Come," said he, "let us return. We must caution Rachel not to suffer a newspaper to fall in her mistress' way till she reaches the end of her journey. Alas! that journey! Oh Clara! we shall feel an aching void when she is gone!"

The brother and sister returned home, and instructed Rachel in her lesson.

Clara and her friend passed the greater part of the day together in mutual regrets at parting—professions of unalterable attachment, and promises of future correspondence. Lionel made but one attempt to interrupt the tête-à-tête; and then exhibited so much emotion, in spite of all his efforts at concealment, that Zorilda became embarrassed; and Clara, dreading some painful eclaircissement, prevailed on her brother, by a supplicating look, to leave the room.

When Lionel was gone, Zorilda, blushing violently, and taking Clara's hand, entreated her to grant the request which she was going to make.

"Your kind brother and you will be desirous to perform the duties of hospitality to the last hour; but you must indulge my wishes. I cannot see either of you in the morning. You will deliver the packet, which I am to entrust to your care this evening, into my hands here in this dressing-room before you go to bed; but I conjure you to prevent me from seeing any of your family after they have become acquainted with my history. I feel unspeakable pain at confiding the strange events of my life to your parents; but I am impelled by gratitude to assure them, as far as I can, that they have not thrown away their charity upon an impostor. I feel it due also to myself to prove, that I am not willingly or needlessly a young female adventurer, assuming an air of mystery and romance to win upon curiosity or benevolence. Alas! I am truly what I seem. I may be spurned with contempt, but I will try and make myself believed. Promise—faithfully promise, that I shall see none but yourself after the reading of my narrative."

Clara felt the energy with which this petition was urged; and the quickness of her penetration unravelled the true cause of Zorilda's earnestness. Lionel's looks and manners, though guarded by the strictest care, betrayed those feelings which are never more powerfully expressed than when they most assiduously seek to avoid all expression. Zorilda had long resisted every demonstration; but there is a language which those who have felt the influence of a strong attachment within their own breasts, cannot, if they would, misunderstand; and Zorilda had been forced into a reluctant conviction, that she was dear to Lionel. A conviction, the more painful, because he was, of all earthly beings, the man in whose breast it was most agonizing to her heart to plant a thorn. Lionel's was, in fact, of all human characters, that which, most resembling Zorilda's, would have drawn upon every sympathy of her nature, had not her pre-occupied affections been sealed to every sentiment which might shake their rooted hold. She had, it is true, too keen a sense of moral perfection not to perceive young Cecil's merit in its full extent. She had sometimes caught herself in making involuntary comparisons between Algernon and him. She had even started from herself, as she had once mentally exclaimed, "Oh did he but resemble Lionel!" The sentence was never finished, even in her heart; and the aspiration so pure that angels might have witnessed it, seemed, to the scrupulous sensibility of Zorilda's soul, a species of inconstancy towards the idol whom she had worshipped from earliest, happiest, purest infancy, for which she had found it difficult to forgive herself. Algernon existed no longer for her, but his image was enshrined in her memory; and though he had ceased to be worthy of her love, she never dreamed of bestowing it upon another.

"Why did I refuse to tie myself by a vow?" would she sometimes say as she mused on the past, "but because the free-will offering of a broken heart is as certain as a sickly bond could make it."

But Zorilda began to perceive that Lionel loved her, and dreaded nothing so much as a disclosure of feelings which she could not repay in kind. She was therefore urgent in her entreaty to Clara, that she might be allowed to glide away unnoticed, and her friend easily promised for herself. The bitterness of a farewell, perhaps for ever, was too deeply felt, to make her anxious to pronounce it.

The evening hour arrived, and Zorilda put her packet into the hands of Miss Cecil, who hastened to the library where her father, mother, and brother were assembled. The narrative was read; the diamond cross examined, the miniature admired; the whole pondered; but very different were the feelings which these interesting memoranda produced in the minds of the old and the young. Sir Godfrey and his Lady were evidently displeased, and though they did not refuse their pity, it was mingled with distrust.

"The story is very extraordinary," said Lady Cecil, "and may be correctly told; but there is something so undefined in the whole narration, that after all the mind is left in utter confusion. After all, we are not informed who she is, nor who her parents were; nor is there any elucidation of her conduct in quitting the asylum of her youth. There is a cloud hanging over her desertion of those tried friends and early benefactors, which requires clearing up."

"Yes," answered Sir Godfrey, "the nature of her offence must have been serious to call for a change of manner on the part of Lady Marchdale; and I confess that my opinion of this wandering damsel is not improved, though many charitable allowances may be made; but I fear there is something of the gipsey about her still. I do not like these heroines, and am very glad that without committing an act of harshness, we shall get rid of her to-morrow. Clara, my love, you are young and enthusiastic. I know how much you have been feeling for this stranger, whose beauty has irresistibly inspired an interest in her favour, to which perhaps she is not justly entitled. Your mother very properly remarks that a cloud at present hangs over her character, and till we learn what reception she meets with at Drumcairn, whither she says that she is going, I must insist on your avoiding all sort of correspondence with this giddy girl. If the Gordons continue their friendship towards her, I shall have no objection to your writing to her now and then hereafter, if you wish it."

Clara sighed, and bowed her head in token of submission to parental authority; but Lionel, eager only to justify Zorilda, exclaimed, "What Sir! must a helpless stranger be condemned unheard? Cannot a case be easily imagined, which, far from imparting censure to the conduct of your guest, raises every feeling of admiration for the noble principle which governs her every thought, as well as action? Suppose, for a moment that her uncommon attractions had inspired sentiments in the breast of Lord Hautonville, more powerful than those which knit the hearts of children at that early age when first the lovely little Spaniard was brought home to be his play-fellow, may it not be that the high minded Zorilda, fearing that those to whom she owed every thing might not approve a union which the cold maxims of worldly prudence calls unequal, has left the asylum of her youth—perhaps the scene of her fondest affections, to give an exalted proof of gratitude, by the sacrifice of all her earthly happiness. Such magnanimity would be in perfect accordance with all that I know of Miss Gordon's character."

"Upon my word, Mr. Lionel," replied Sir Godfrey, "you are apparently a practised advocate. Either you know more of Miss Gordon's affairs, or conjecture takes a wonderfully favourable turn for her acquittal." The name of Gordon was pronounced with emphasis, while Sir Godfrey's countenance wore an expression of the most bitterly sarcastic scrutiny. Lionel coloured, and, hurried forward by his feelings, would instantly have betrayed all that he knew of Henbury and its inhabitants, if a beseeching look from Clara had not arrested the recital. Suddenly recovering himself, he told his father that the laws of the land required delinquency to be proved before guilt is imputed, and that he had done no more than suggest a probable case.

"A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind, they say," replied Sir Godfrey, with a sneer. "I suppose that your own heart is the storehouse of your probabilities. Lionel, this is not a subject to be trifled with. I must have some serious conversation with you, and desire that you will meet me here to-morrow after breakfast. In the meantime you may consult your pillow upon some topics connected with this letter, which I received to-day from the Duke of Kingsbury."

So saying, Sir Godfrey quitted the room, Lady Cecil retired, and Clara employed a moment's interval before she followed her mother, in pressing the necessity of secrecy and discretion on Lionel's mind, and imploring him to recollect Zorilda's request that she might be suffered to depart on the following morrow without observation.

"I will open the last gate of the great avenue, nothing shall prevent me from taking our farewell look," said Lionel, "and so good night."

Clara having listened to a lecture from Lady Cecil on the folly of yielding to benevolent feelings, without considering consequences, and heard how severely she reproached herself for having permitted a nameless wanderer to sleep a night beneath her roof, hastened to her friend's apartment. Zorilda rose to meet her, and as Clara restored the packet, a long and tender embrace conveyed more eloquently than language is capable of doing, the impression which it had made upon her heart. Not a word was spoken, but a thousand promises of unalterable love were interchanged, in the tears which choked their utterance.

The earliest dawn, found Zorilda stealing softly along the little velvet lawn which skirted Clara's garden, from which as she passed, she gathered a wild honeysuckle which seemed to have strayed over the paling on purpose to breathe its fragrant adieus at her feet.

"Balm of the wilderness! that floats upon the pilgrim's path! what desert too revolting, what solitude too dreary for thy errant charities? Emblem of the brief and honied dream of kindness here, too sweet for more than passing breath upon the gale, thy farewell shall exhale upon Zorilda's grateful bosom."

Thus apostrophizing the trailing wreath, she pulled one of its golden flowers, which, placing next her heart, and casting one fond, lingering look at the turrets of De Lacy, she reached the carriage, in which Rachel was already seated, and ordering the postilion to keep along a narrow green lane at the back of the castle, as if actuated by some hidden impulse to avoid the great avenue, the travellers gained the high road, at the distance of more than a mile from the principal entrance, where Lionel waited their approach, with feelings of sorrow and agitation not to be described. He loitered for an hour amongst the cedars, which formed a dark screen round the porter's-lodge, before the truth struck upon his mind. Starting then, as if from sleep, he dashed across the park, and gaining the narrow lane by which Zorilda had left his father's lordly abode, he needed not to ask a question. The fresh traces of her recent departure told their own story; and a sensation of inexpressible agony followed the assurance that Zorilda was gone. The first impulse was to mount his horse, and pursue the lovely fugitive; but Clara's anxious eye had watched her friend's device, and seen her brother return from his fruitless endeavour to obtain a parting glimpse of her whose image was engraven in his inmost heart; and she hastened towards him.

"Beware, dearest Lionel," said his weeping sister; "intrude not on Zorilda's grief. She has effected her retreat in this manner to avoid giving and receiving pain; we must respect her purpose; remember what affliction is yet in store for this young martyr when she knows the horrible tidings of her lover's present situation."

Lionel shuddered involuntarily as Clara uttered the word "lover," and, suffering himself to be led by Clara's arm, accompanied her in sullen apathy towards the house.

"My father will expect you presently in the study. Have you looked at the letter which he gave you last night?" said Clara.

Lionel had never bestowed a thought upon it, and now feeling in his pocket, drew it out, and dashed it on the ground.

"I am in no humour to read letters; there! give it back to Sir Godfrey, I cannot keep his appointment now." Saying these words, he disengaged himself from his sister's hold, and would have turned into another walk, but she seized, and, forcibly detaining him, entreated earnestly for Zorilda's sake that he would be calm. "You may injure her by this violence," said Clara; "what, if my father, irritated by your altered temper, should accuse, and wound her gentle spirit by some rude charge of having practised on your affections?"

This argument had its effect. Lionel paused, and pressing Clara's hand, "Be ever thus," said he, "my guardian angel; read this letter to me, I will be advised by you, and curb this impetuous nature." Clara opened and read a formal composition, announcing, with a good deal of the vieille cour pomp, that the duke and all his family were returned to the country, and anticipated with pleasure a renewal of intercourse with De Lacy castle. The concluding paragraph, in form of a postscript, ran thus:

"I assure you that I have heard your son's praises loudly rung since I had the good fortune to see you last, and beg that you will bring him with you, when you visit Beaumont."

"My father thinks largely of my vanity, it would seem," said Lionel; "what has this complimentary stuff to do with me? My head is not likely to be made giddy with this sort of thing."

"The Duke has daughters, and my poor father's eye, like that of the poet, 'in a fine frenzy-rolling,' glances from earth to heaven, and beholds the arms of Beaumont quartered with those of De Lacy," replied Clara.

"Poetry, indeed! for he will be solely indebted to his imagination for such a sight," answered Lionel; "but I hope that he has more common sense than to buoy himself up with hope so absurd, upon the ground of this piece of frothy ceremony."

"We shall see," said Clara; and the event proved that she was right. Lionel repaired to his father's study, and found him pacing up and down the room, with knit brow, and hands behind his back, as if pondering some affair of weighty issue.

"Good morrow, Sir; you wished, I think, to see me here, and I am come to return the letter, which kindly informs us that we may have the notable privilege of leaving cards for the Duke of Kingsbury."

"Cease with your idle sarcasms, Lionel," said Sir Godfrey, "and sit down while you hear what I have to say. I shall not dwell long upon the past, nor sully an act of benevolence, by regretting that mine induced me to give temporary shelter to a houseless stranger. We are not gifted with second sight, and must be sometimes liable to err through the impossibility of foreseeing consequences. This female adventurer has shared our bounty, and I will not grudge her the services which have been rendered, but rejoice that she is gone; and as you were yourself the person to suggest a reason fully sufficient to account for her elopement from Lord Marchdale's family, it is not my purpose, without knowledge of the facts, to injure the character of one who has probably no other reliance for support. It is enough for me, that if her noble host did really anticipate so horrible a degradation as an attachment on the part of their only son, towards the nameless foundling of Hazlewood-moor; it is quite, I repeat, sufficient for me to be assured that you possess sense enough to enter into their feelings, and perceive ground for such a change of manner towards the object of their alarm, as to make her either from honour or policy, resolve on removing herself from Henbury."

"Sir," answered Lionel, "I pretend not to combat your feelings, or those of Lord Marchdale, if he concurs in your sentiments. I must only declare against any participation in them myself, and assure you that I consider Lord Hautonville much more honoured by, than honouring the lovely companion of his youth, by any attachment which may subsist between them."

"Silly, silly," said Sir Godfrey, with an impatient tone; "I thought such folly had been obsolete, and am sorry that a remnant of the old leaven should be found under my roof. But let Lord Marchdale and his son settle their own affairs; we need not meddle in them. My business with you at present is, I am happy to say, of a far different kind, and I must, by way of preface, inform you, my dear boy, that much of the comfort which your mother and I venture to look for during our future life, depends on your coinciding with our views for your welfare. To be brief, I have had it from undoubted authority, that no event could be half so agreeable to the Duke and Duchess of Kingsbury, as an alliance with De Lacy castle, nor can I wonder at this. The Duke has several children, and small means to provide for them suitably in life, while a union with my son would not only confer wealth upon his house, but bring accession (Sir Godfrey drew up his shirt collar at both sides, as he spoke) of those honours which every sensible man desires to see added to his family escutcheon. In point of birth-right, I thank my stars, I do not yield to any dukedom in Great Britain. Lady Jessie and Lady Emmiline are charming persons; and I have, as I said before, solid foundation for believing——."

"Pardon me, Sir, for interrupting you," said Lionel; "I cannot allow you to proceed any farther in a speculation at which my mind revolts. I will endeavour to meet your wishes in all reasonable requirements, and hope that I shall never be tempted to bring dishonour on your house; but I cannot consent to barter my liberty for the indulgence of ambition, which, forgive me for saying, I despise. Were man created for no higher purpose than to serve as a block on which to hang armorial emblazonments, all his intellect, tastes, and affections are an affair of cumbrous supererogation; but if happiness be his aim and object, and if I cannot find mine in the Heralds' Office, I should certainly be a fool to seek it there. It could never occur to my imagination to interpret a civil letter from the Duke, as you have done; but believe me, that were his Grace of Kingsbury to forget so far what is due to his own pride and his daughter's delicacy, as to make an unequivocal declaration in my favour, nothing could possibly be so repugnant to my feelings as to act upon such a hint."

Just as Sir Godfrey, whose angry eye boded no very soft answer, was going to reply, the footman announced his agent; and we may be allowed to hope that the intelligence which he had to communicate of having let some farms, which were out of lease, at an advance of several hundreds a year, had the good fortune to act on the Baronet's temper like oil on the troubled ocean's wave. Lionel was glad to adjourn; and would have been well pleased had it been sine die, but another conference was decreed by Sir Godfrey, the result of which we must leave in doubt to attend Zorilda to Drumcairn, where she arrived without farther accident or adventure.

As hills rise into height upon our approach, from what in the distance had appeared a level plain, so did a thousand scruples occur to her mind in drawing near to the residence of her friend, which till then had never distressed her. Nothing but the journey thither had previously perplexed our heroine in the thought of seeking an asylum at Drumcairn; but she now questioned her title to the boon. She had not announced her purpose, and was an unexpected visitor; perhaps might prove an unwelcome intruder. She had few opportunities of corresponding with Mrs. Gordon, who might have forgotten her general invitation. Mr. Gordon, too, might not desire her company. Oppressed by such reflections, Zorilda ordered the postilion to halt at a little village within a mile of Drumcairn; and having alighted at a small neat quiet inn, she wrote a note to Mrs. Gordon.

As soon as possible, after sending it off, she was folded in the arms of that excellent woman, who flew to greet the travellers, accompanied by her husband, whose salutations were fully as sincere, if not quite so rapturous, as those of his partner.

The joy of this meeting was enhanced to Mrs. Gordon by the uneasiness which she had felt since a few lines from Lady Marchdale had mentioned Zorilda's departure, and made rather a haughty demand, whether she had not directed her flight towards Aberdeenshire. Mrs. Gordon had answered her sister's letter; and in much earnestness had begged for farther particulars of an event so unaccountable; but Lady Marchdale was too selfishly absorbed by her own cares to think of distant friends, and not a line from Henbury, though repeatedly solicited, had thrown light upon any thing which was passing there. Both Mr. and Mrs. Gordon had seen the newspaper paragraph to which allusion was made at De Lacy castle; but as they were only slightly acquainted with their nephew's associates, and knew still less of his habits of life, it so happened that they were never struck with any application of the direful circumstances which were related in the public prints; and even had suspicion attached to the story, the silence of the family at Henbury would have completely banished it.

A few short hours put the friends mutually in possession of all that either had to unfold. Zorilda's history made the liveliest impression on the kind hearts to which it was revealed; and was followed by a solemn proffer of the most affectionate adoption.

"Let me henceforward be the fond, though imperfect, representative of that mother whom you have lost, while I shall find in my beloved Zoé such a daughter as I have often vainly longed to press to my bosom," said Mrs. Gordon. Zorilda's heart was too full for the lips to speak, but she looked all that a sinking spirit could express.

Though dreading pursuit, Zorilda had cherished a secret hope, that on reaching Scotland she might hear of Henbury; and learn what effects had been produced there by her sudden disappearance. This hope had greater influence in supporting her exertions than she was aware of, till disappointment crushed every energy of her soul. She had reached the goal—she had arrived at that haven of rest which had long been the end and aim of her desires, and now experienced the inefficacy of external things to restore peace to the lacerated heart. Nothing which the tenderest feeling could suggest was left undone, yet Zorilda drooped in spite of every effort to repay the kindness of those around her, by answering endeavours on her part.

Drumcairn was the very sum and centre of domestic bliss, and presented a scene of happiness and concord, which seemed to realize the beautiful vision of an earthly Elysium. The landscape without was wildly picturesque; and within, whatever was best, wisest, and most tasteful, lent its aid to diversify the social resources. How blessed could Zorilda have felt in such a home; and what a gem would she have added to its attractions were not the secret poison carrying on its latent destruction, and gradually undermining health and strength!

When the first agitation of meeting was over, Mrs. Gordon invited her young friend to assist her in the charitable labours which employed much of her time. Zorilda learned, in these pious exercises, that numbers of her fellow creatures were as miserable as herself. She soon discovered that she was not the only houseless orphan; but that thousands wept the bereavement of parents, lovers, friends. Her mind at last began to taste a heavenly pleasure in her new occupations. To pour the balm of comfort into the wounded spirit; to teach the young to live, the sick and old to die, became her principal delight; and her days were chiefly dedicated to those duties of active goodness, in which the selfishness of sorrow gradually gives way to that peace which is ever sure to spring from the pure source of practical religion. She would often start from the recollections of past time, and rush to employment from the stings of memory.

Sometimes it grieved her that no word of soothing friendship found its way to her from De Lacy castle. A letter from Clara, to say that her affection had not suffered diminution from acquaintance with the events which she confided to her knowledge would have been a consolation; but Zorilda was making rapid progress in the belief that there is no trial of life which is not sent for some purpose of mercy, and her beloved guide and instructress never failed to improve every opportunity of tracing divine goodness in the bitterest dispensations.

We will now leave the young saint pursuing her celestial path, while we travel back to look upon a very different scene.

CHAPTER XII.

"I see with boding heart the near approach
Of an ill-starred, unblessed catastrophe."

Wallenstein.

The consternation of Lord and Lady Marchdale was unutterable, when, on awakening in the morning they learned that Lord Hautonville had taken flight, leaving only a verbal message to say, that sudden business had carried him to London, from whence he hoped speedily to return; and not a little was the vexation of this abrupt departure aggravated in the minds of his parents, by a persuasion that he had gone in quest of Zorilda.

What rage, anxiety, and confusion of counsels, succeeded, it is impossible to describe. At length, after a stormy discussion, embittered by much of mutual crimination, it was determined that the whole family should pack up for the metropolis; but as more elaborate preparations were necessary for the elders than was required by their son, some days elapsed before Henbury was deserted by its inhabitants, who little thought as they drove through the outer gate, that they were destined to meet no more within its once cheerful precincts.

On reaching Marchdale-house, they learned that Lord Hautonville had been there, but was gone: and all the information which his parents could obtain respecting the object or motive of his short stay and hurried departure, was from the housekeeper, an utter stranger to the new comers, and one who appeared by no means overjoyed at the change. This woman reported that the young lord seemed to be in the greatest possible agitation, and that his sole care was to find the Marquess of Turnstock, for whom he made inquiry with vehement solicitude; but finding that his lordship had set out for the continent, Lord Hautonville left town immediately, Mrs. Hobson could not tell with what intent. It was some relief to the anxious parents to learn that Lord Turnstock was the object of their son's pursuit; and though it mortified them that he should absent himself without giving the slightest intimation of his designs, and particularly at a period when his presence was more than ever necessary at home, they endeavoured to tranquillize their apprehensions, by the flattering unction which they laid to their hearts, that he had only followed his friend into the country upon some scheme of amusement.

Letters were dispatched to recall the truant, and the Earl and his Countess were involved directly in all the bustle of legal affairs and visits of etiquette. When the time had expired which ought in due course to have brought an answer from Lord Hautonville, the arrival of the post became a subject of restless inquiry, but no letter arrived; and as it often happens that the most obvious measures do not occur to our minds first in the order of time, several days elapsed before Lord Marchdale, applying in the right place, heard from the Marquess's banker that he was gone to Brussels.

During this interval Lord Hautonville, who had taken his friend Col. Clapham along with him, passed over to Ostend. On reaching Brussels he was maddened almost to fury by finding that his enemy had gone upon an excursion, and would not return for a few days. Feeding on his meditated revenge, and suffering imagination to supply all the facts which were necessary to goad him to the rashest acts of desperation, every moment appeared a century, till Lord Turnstock unsuspectingly drove to the door of the Hotel de Belle Vue, where he was saluted, as soon as he alighted from his carriage, by a challenge from his quondam ally, delivered by the hands of Col. Clapham.

Lord Hautonville had had his suspicions so convincingly corroborated by the answers which he received to certain inquiries concerning the Marquess, that he did not condescend to enter into the slightest explanation relative to the nature of the supposed insult for which he sought revenge; and the latter, in utter ignorance of the cause of offence, could not suppress an involuntary smile, as he returned the challenge to Colonel Clapham, and desired him to tell his friend that it was not his custom to fight with madmen.

An answer so irritating, heightened by the sarcastic air with which it was accompanied, was not calculated to appease; and as it lost nothing in its transit (the second feeling himself now nearly as much enraged as the principal), the message was conveyed in such exaggerated colours, as to deprive Lord Hautonville, for the moment of all self-control. He seized his pistols, rushed into the streets, arrived at the Hotel de Belle Vue, darted into the room where the Marquess was going to dine, and taking a deliberate aim, shot him through the body, without uttering a word. The Marquess fell, the report of a pistol brought numbers of people together; and before Colonel Clapham overtook his friend, he was a prisoner. Surgical aid was immediately obtained, the wounded man removed to bed, his wounds examined, dressed, and pronounced dangerous.

Returning reason made Lord Hautonville speedily sensible of the awful situation in which he had placed himself; rendered more horrible by the assurance that he had no foundation for his conjectures, and therefore not even the excuse of injurious treatment for the dreadful act which he had perpetrated.

Colonel Clapham's first care was to write to England, and apprise the unhappy parents of their son's condition; advising the utmost secrecy respecting the circumstances of this tragical event, and their immediate presence in Brussels, accompanied by whatever confidential legal adviser they considered most likely to give a favourable turn to the aspect of affairs.

The agonies of despair into which Lord and Lady Marchdale were thrown by the dreadful intelligence, almost deprived them of life, and some days elapsed before the unfortunate pair recovered sufficient bodily strength to undertake their mournful expedition. This interval was long enough to put them in possession of the fact that Lord Hautonville's debts amounted to a much larger sum than he had any prospect of being enabled to repay; and several of them revealed the truth that he was a determined gambler, and lived amongst a set remarkable in every way for habits of such dissipation as lead to inevitable destruction.

But who shall attempt to pourtray the feelings of the miserable culprit, when informed by Colonel Clapham that his jealousy was groundless as it had been vindictive; and that the marquess knew nothing whatsoever respecting the elopement of Zorilda. Grief, contrition, self-reproach, despair, took alternate possession of his soul, and he would have laid down millions to insure that life of which but a few hours before he was resolved, at the probable sacrifice of his own, on the cruel extermination.

The solitude of a prison is a powerful preacher to the human soul! Conscience now called up a grisly train of terrifying spectres; and a review of the past rose in hideous contrast with the fate which might have awaited him. Mr. Playfair's counsels, illustrated in the lovely singleness and purity of Zorilda's character, came upon his memory and made him tremble. What a difference between the beloved, the cherished heir of a noble house, and the forlorn captive, whose ignominious end was perhaps destined to pay the forfeit of a murderous deed. The cold dews of death stood now upon that brow on which pride and pleasure were wont to keep perpetual jubilee; and a livid paleness overspread that cheek so lately animated by the flush of enterprize.

Of what avail were resolutions now? The accounts from hour to hour, of the hapless victim's condition, though sufficiently fluctuating to keep the balance trembling between hope and fear, afforded little comfort. If a momentary ray cheered the prospect, it was extinguished in the next instant. Amendment was not progressive, and those transient gleams, which were quenched successively in thicker gloom, only added poignance to despair. In the visions of horror which haunted the mind of Algernon, thoughts of those afflicted parents who were on their way to the scene of sorrow and humiliation continually mingled; and, as if the cup of grief could not be full unless it overflowed, he was now enlightened, and could explain Zorilda's disappearance. He was now able to perceive in her secret departure, the same noble self-denying spirit which had always distinguished every action of her life; and to curse the ungoverned passion which had hurried him into irretrievable ruin. A sudden frenzy would seize his frame, when scenes of early mutual love, and childish innocence, glanced across memory in the prison's darksome solitude, to torture his imagination—but more was still to be endured.

The marquess preserved his senses throughout the lingering agonies which he was doomed to suffer—the most earnest supplication for pardon on the one side, and assurance of forgiveness on the other, were interchanged too late for any purpose connected with this world's futurities. The horrors of suspense, operating on irritable nerves, and temper unsubdued, were too powerful for successful conflict against them; and Algernon Hartland, so lately the pride and boast of a noble house, consumed by fever and tortured by remorse, breathed his last, in the same hour which brought Lord and Lady Marchdale to the hotel which contained the victim of their son's infuriate jealousy, apparently languishing also on the confines of the tomb.

The veil of Timanthes must be drawn over feelings too terrible for description. The die was cast. "Take me to the prison. I will see my darling, and expire within his cell," said the wretched mother, who would not listen to any attempt at dissuading her from the dreadful purpose of visiting the remains of her son. Colonel Clapham conducted her, and with preternatural firmness she hastened forward; but the sight which burst upon her senses, when she reached the dreary chamber in which he lay, was the last on which her tearless eyes ever rested. The mother's heart had received its death dart, and her whole soul appeared to undergo a sudden change. Not a cry escaped her. Kneeling calmly down by the bed-side, and pressing to her bosom the clay-cold hand of Algernon her beloved—once "beautiful and brave"—her countenance assumed an unwonted expression of heavenly peace. Her husband stood with folded arms, behind her, and groaned heavily. She looked round, and taking his hand also, laid it upon that of her departed child; then raising her eyes, she exclaimed with fervor, "Lord forgive me—Thy will be done!" After uttering which word, one short convulsive sigh set the spirit free.

Stunned and transfixed, the miserable survivor bent over the bed of death, like one who had been petrified in that attitude, and scarcely preserved consciousness of the scene which surrounded him. At this awful moment, Mr. Playfair entered the chamber. That excellent man had accidentally met with a friend who prevailed on him to alter his original design of proceeding directly to Switzerland, and visit first the far-famed plain of Waterloo. No sooner had he arrived at Brussels, than the fearful tale which was in every mouth, met his ear. He quickly recognised the dramatis personæ in this horrible tragedy, and hastened to inform himself of all its particulars. The case admitted of no earthly comfort, and he wept with heartfelt bitterness over the misfortunes of those unhappy parents whom he followed to the prison.

"Vain titles of worldly greatness! how little is it in your power to confer happiness!" ejaculated this true friend, as he hastened after the sufferers. What a spectacle presented itself when he reached the gloomy pile, and gained the dismal scene of death just in time to hear the pious aspiration which bore a mother's spirit to the eternal world! He knelt, and prayed aloud for heaven's mercy on him who stood, like the scathed oak of the forest, a sad monument of solitary existence, when the pelting of the pitiless storm has levelled all things else in desolation and destruction at its feet.

Lord Marchdale was removed insensible from the prison, and a shock of paralysis for a time shed the poppies of oblivion over his senses, and spared him for more tranquil days to come. Colonel Clapham, who was deeply affected, and began to reproach himself as the principal actor in the late catastrophe, now delivered into Mr. Playfair's hands two letters with which his poor friend had entrusted him the day before his death, when he felt his last hour drawing near. One was addressed to his parents, the other to Zorilda; and he desired that they might be safely conveyed when he should be no more.

"You will be the fittest medium for the performance of this charge. How can I appear again in the presence of those from whom I might have averted the calamity which bows them broken-hearted to the earth? Oh, Mr. Playfair, had I not fanned the flame, which I might at least have endeavoured to extinguish; had I not used all my influence to provoke and aggravate the feelings of my poor friend, instead of trying to assuage them, how different might not have been the result? But I am punished as I deserve. His untimely end is my work, and I shall never cease during my life, to be haunted by his dying image, when he called upon the grim tyrant to terminate his misery, and relieve him from the anguish of anticipating an ignominious end."

Mr. Playfair did not fail to improve the feeling which had been awakened in Colonel Clapham's mind, not by laying flattering unction to his criminal conduct, but by encouraging such repentance for the past as should effectually guard, during the remainder of his life against its recurrence. While he continued to take advantage of the opportunity to impress wholesome truths upon a softened heart, a message was brought from Lord Turnstock's apartment to say that the physicians who had just been holding consultation, were of opinion that a favourable crisis had taken place in the night; and it was the earnest desire of the marquess to have the joyful tidings communicated, without a moment's delay, to the prisoner. What indescribable rapture would the intelligence have imparted a little week before! Then might it have poured the balsam of returning health into the fevered veins—the balm of stillness into the agitated breast—and whispered peace to the withered spirit; but it came not till the dull cold ear was deaf to the voice of the charmer—till the heart had ceased to beat, and the weary pulses to flutter.

The mother and her son were laid in the same grave, and Mr. Playfair and Colonel Clapham attended the sad procession as chief mourners. It was a sight which struck upon all who witnessed it, and was not soon forgotten. Lord Marchdale continued in a doubtful state, and some time elapsed ere it was considered safe to move him. During this interval the favourable change in Lord Turnstock's condition was sufficiently confirmed to admit of his being visited by Colonel Clapham, who gradually prepared his mind for the dreadful events which had occurred. Informed, at length, of the whole truth, he expressed an eager desire to see Mr. Playfair, who obeyed the summons with readiness, anxious on his part to turn present circumstances to account, and work a salutary impression on him, who of all people living had exercised the most destructive influence on the character of the departed.

The meeting was solemn and affecting. Though death seemed no longer in immediate prospect, the marquess was assured by his medical attendants that nothing short of the most patient temperance and long continued caution, could afford the slightest hope of restoration, and he therefore saw before him so much of uncertainty in the prospect as to furnish scope for deep reflection.

It occurred to Mr. Playfair, that no language which he could possibly employ, would be so efficacious in giving a right turn to meditation, as the last words of one who had lived long enough to retract every principle on which his actions had been governed, and he therefore determined on seizing an opportunity which could never return, of making Algernon speak from the tomb. Well assured that those to whom the letters which he possessed were addressed, would approve such use of their contents, he drew the packet which was unsealed from his bosom, and read as follows:

"TO THE EARL AND COUNTESS OF MARCHDALE.

"Alas! my parents; my soul sickens as I trace these empty titles, which seem but 'unreal mockery' when applied to you. 'How are the mighty fallen!' Oh! my father, my poor mother—here is the fulfilment of your prophetic vision. Here, in this damp and chilly cell, is the end of all your ambition. I feel as if you were now on your way to this place, but you will come too late. The vapour is dissolved, the bubble bursts; the halter and the block would present the only alternative for your unhappy son were life prolonged; but Heaven has heard the captive's prayer, and death approaches with friendly speed to save you from shame, and restrain the hand of Algernon from self-destruction.

"Horrible idea! yet it might have been so. The same ungovernable passions which raised the murderous blow against another's existence, might have urged to suicide under increasing temptation. Weep not for him who is taken from evil to come. My parents! had you been less aspiring, had you known that true happiness, but—forbear, my pen!—I leave no brethren to benefit by my dying counsels. My own impetuous temper, my own devouring selfishness, have been my bane. Try to forget that I have ever been. Recall that angel whom you have banished; she will speak peace to your troubled souls. Farewell, my dear father; and oh, my mother, may Heaven support you in this season of trial! prays your expiring

"Algernon"

"TO ZORILDA.

"First and last beloved, I dedicate to you this solemn pause between time and eternity. Life is ebbing fast. Oh! Zorilda, I die, and die for you. However unworthy of your regard, however wandering and irregular my course, you have still been the polar star towards which my unsettled spirit ever returned, and no scheme for future happiness ever occupied my thoughts, of which you were not the soul and centre. While living in sin, I dreamed of a virtuous hereafter, when guided by you, I should reform and taste of quiet bliss.

"Arrogant delusion! I leaned presumptuously on that love which I was daily forfeiting, and dared to believe that Zorilda, whose soul was all purity, would still bestow her affection on one who had ceased to merit it. Alas! I know that you love me no longer. Why should I repine in this sad hour? No, while life continued, I could ill endure to relinquish the hold which I once possessed on that dear heart, and my selfish endeavour to bind you by a vow to refuse all besides, that of which I was myself undeserving, was justly punished by your refusal.

"Zorilda, beloved Zorilda! I feel my heart new opened, I see with other eyes, and despise the thing I have been; resolution can now avail me nothing in this world; but He who sees my tears of contrite humiliation, will hear the suppliant's prayer, even in the eleventh hour. Farewell! If the memory of our fond attachment in happy youthful days, may shed kind influence on a last request, console I entreat you those unfortunate beings who are soon to be left childless. Bid them not grieve for me. I have requited their affection with ingratitude, and leave them nothing in my bereavement but a hollow sounding name, like those gorgeous plumes which wave their feathered honours on the hearse to mock the dead. Oh! 'had I served my God with half the zeal' that ministered to my guilty pleasures! but the past is buried with the years beyond the flood. I have your prayers, I know I have, unworthy as I am, and Zorilda's prayers will reach the throne of mercy.

"My sand is nearly run. The king of terrors beckons to me. A little while, a few brief moments, and I shall awake in the invisible world, from whose bourne none hath ever returned to unfold its mysteries. Strength fails. Cold dews creep over my frame. Think of me sometimes. First and last beloved, farewell for ever."

When Mr. Playfair ceased to read, he found Lord Turnstock drowned in tears. His own flowed plenteously; and, taking the sick man's hand, "My Lord," said he, "let us not be ashamed, and call this weakness. There are tears which refresh the soul like dews of heaven. May yours be of this blessed nature! May you expiate past error, by seeking your future portion in a new course; and may our dear departed Hartland be the Mentor of your youth; the guide of your pilgrimage; the beacon of your way!"

"Will you henceforward be my friend?" answered the Marquess, with deep emotion. "I have learned a lesson, but impressions wear away, and vows made in pain are speedily forgotten. Let me be your pupil; direct me; warn me; counsel me."

The bond was sealed. Lord Marchdale was pronounced capable of undertaking a journey; and Mr. Playfair, who had surrendered all his own plans to devote himself to the purposes of benevolence, accompanied the poor solitary Earl to England; but his chief concern was for Zorilda. "How shall I break these fatal tidings, without endangering her life?" was a question continually present to the mind of her friend.

The travellers arrived at Henbury, and Mr. Playfair felt as a man of humane and tender feeling would naturally do, in placing his charge in that whilom abode of quiet cheerfulness, where its unfortunate master had long enjoyed the happiness of domestic peace in private life, under the care of an old servant, who had passed her youthful days in his family. Lord Marchdale was spared such anguish, as more acute sensibility could not have survived by the nature of his malady. Naturally phlegmatic, disease now rendered him more than ordinarily torpid; and he used to forget at times not only the extent of his deprivation, but the manner. At such moments it was affecting to hear him address his wife and son as if they were present, or speak of them as if he expected their return from a ride or a walk. Influenced, too, by the necromancy of association, he never passed by a shrub or flower, which had been planted by Zorilda's hand, without muttering the name of Zoé.

When Mr. Playfair had made all necessary arrangement for the bodily comfort of the invalid, he set out for Scotland, meditating sorrowfully as he proceeded, on the afflicting dispensations which it was his painful task to communicate at Drumcairn. Arrived at the same village where Zorilda had paused to consider of the reception which she was likely to receive, he wrote to Mr. Gordon, requesting a private interview at the inn. The dreadful particulars were soon unfolded; and Mr. Playfair discovered that his tale of woe was not altogether unexpected. Mr. and Mrs. Gordon had so repeatedly seen paragraphs in the public prints, touching on late events at Brussells with more or less obscurity, that their attention was at length awakened to some fancied coincidences with the Henbury family, and anxiety was daily on the increase, from Lady Marchdale's unusual silence. Her sister had written over and over entreating a letter, but not a line was received in reply.

The extreme delicacy of Zorilda's health made all excitement hazardous; and though she secretly pined with solicitude to be informed of all that passed in her absence, she could not bear to make inquiry, and trusted to a voluntary mention of the next intelligence which might arrive, trying to force her mind into tranquillity, but in vain. Her cheek sometimes glowed with momentary bloom, and her eyes sparkled with a transient ray of light and brilliancy; but it was fever which lighted up these evanescent fires, consuming as they were vivid.

Her kind friends, who watched her tender frame with parental vigilance, and perceived the silent progress of the destroying angel, resolved on avoiding to impart their own apprehensions, or communicate the suspicions which began to alarm them, to Zorilda, who, in addition to her too evidently declining health, "has now to sustain," said Mr. Gordon, "a trying scene, which as yet she has neither had strength nor fortitude to encounter."

"Within the last two days," continued he, "she has received a disclosure of the deepest interest from the rich and powerful Earl of Pierrepoint, who turns out to be no other than Zorilda's father. I have brought his letter in my pocket, knowing how affectionately you participate in the concerns of our dear child."

Mr. Gordon then read as follows:

"Zorilda, these lines come from a parent's hand. Will you receive them with feeling answering to that which now sues for your forgiveness, and dictates a request that you will name the earliest moment for an interview with one for whom you have had little reason to entertain any sentiment save that of aversion. Since we last met, when an involuntary exclamation on my part proclaimed the relation subsisting between you and me, I have lost an amiable and high-born partner, who, after the marriage of my two daughters, now advantageously settled, was the only remaining bar to my acknowledgment of you. Had I claimed you before, I must have revealed a part of my early history, which might have injured others without benefiting you.

"Let me now taste the blessing of offering such expiation as is yet in my power, to the manes of that angel who was your mother. You will not withhold your aid in restoring the memory of her whose portrait you bear, whose living image you are, to the rights and privileges of a wife and mother, which can only be accomplished by your returning to the protection of your father's house, and assuming his name. In the eye of Heaven, as well as according to an accredited form of Christian ritual, my marriage, of which you are the sole pledge, was duly solemnized, and wanted only such circumstances to give it legality, as I basely took advantage of, to desert the wife of my bosom, and the child of my hopes. Urged to the unnatural deed by the unrelenting voice of worldly ambition, I lent myself to the views of family aggrandisement, and have been wretched all my life. United to another before the death of her whom I shall never cease to mourn, I could not adopt you as my legitimate offspring, without invalidating my second engagement; and to have brought you forward as less than my lawful progeny, would have but added fresh insult to the wrongs which you had already experienced at my hands.

"Zorilda, beloved child, a father supplicates forgiveness at your feet. Will you refuse pardon to such a petitioner? I have sought you at De Lacy castle, and sought you as my daughter. If my penetration do not greatly err, there is one of that family to whom you are an object of no common interest. Should my suspicions prove correct, to what joy may I not yet look forward? I have already obtained my sovereign's permission to add a title to your name; and twenty thousand pounds are ready for my dear girl, when I may be called upon to bestow the hand of Lady Zorilda Fitzhugh on Lionel Cecil, the man in all England most worthy of her heart.

"Return me one line by the messenger, and say when you will see your

"Father."

"This letter," said Mr. Gordon, "was immediately followed by one of the most enraptured congratulations from Miss Cecil, who it appears has been hitherto obliged to neglect her friend in compliance with Sir Godfrey's commands. What a metamorphosis will not worldly consideration effect! The despised, the slighted Zorilda receives homage now from the proudest pair in Great Britain. Sir Godfrey and Lady Cecil condescend to add their testimony to the merits of her who was so lately shaken from their presence as unworthy of the least regard: and I agree with Lord Pierrepoint in foreseeing that ere long an alliance will be solicited. Oh; that I might live to witness a union which could not fail of being blessed! But what a tale have you to impart! Alas, Zorilda!—and my poor Eugenia too. However dissimilar the character of Lady Marchdale and my wife, a sister and a nephew are not to be relinquished without a cruel pang, in this case pointed with tenfold acuteness from the awful manner of their death. Come, we have a dreadful duty to perform, and must commence the task."

Mrs. Gordon, who had long anticipated some unknown ill, was gradually informed of the terrible truth. Horror and astonishment at first forbid the relief of tears, and sent a frightful tremor through her frame; but tenderer feelings at length found vent, and a burst of natural sorrow came to her aid, and eased the suffocating oppression of her heart. Too habitually thoughtful of others' woe to indulge her own exclusively, this excellent woman after a short silence exclaimed, "Oh! may I join in the pious prayer of my dear departed sister, and say from the deep of my heart, 'Thy will be done!' This blow will fall heavily on my poor Zoé. It is to her that we should principally direct our attention, and as her father is to be here to-morrow, my counsel is to delay breaking this intelligence to her till after that so much dreaded interview. In the mean time I will talk to her of my own fears and ominous forebodings."

This advice was approved, and Mrs. Gordon subdued her own feelings sufficiently to visit Zorilda's bed-chamber, in which she had requested permission to remain all day, with calmness, and even an appearance of tender cheerfulness, while she endeavoured to strengthen a mind which had so much in prospect to endure.

"You must give a filial welcome to your father, my love, and bless the Almighty, who has sent such a host of kindness and protection in an hour of greatest need. He was beloved by the mother whose loss you deplore, and if the temptations of wealth and power were too strong for his wavering virtue to conquer, remember that he is now making all the reparation which such a case as yours will admit, and your duty is not only to receive the penitent with full pardon, but open your heart to the gracious influence of parental affection."

"It is not the creature's part to murmur, I know, dearest friend," answered Zorilda; "but so mysteriously woven is the web of my fate, that I am not allowed to see and believe, but faith is continually called upon, and much as I desire to stand firmly in the optimist's creed, which you are always enforcing, I find my rebellious spirit too frequently resisting conviction. I did indeed perceive how mercifully was this blessed asylum opened to me; when obliged to leave De Lacy castle I could not return to the home of my youth; but how can I rejoice now in any event which is likely to remove me from you and this peaceful retreat? How am I to bear the burthen of a sick and sorrowful soul in a world of gay smiles, enter upon a new sphere for which I am ill suited, encounter strangers whom I can never love, and give up those employments in which, by being suffered to do some little good, I learn submission to my own misfortunes? How can I leave this abode of rest, and cease to hear your dear voice? How shall I mingle in the scenes of what the world calls pleasure, with a breaking heart and failing health; or learn the joyless task of dressing my poor face in artificial gladness, while the asp is feeding on my life-blood? I have tried to pray, but I can only weep."

"Child of my adoption," answered Zorilda's sweet comforter, "be still and wait events. Is it nothing that your mother's fame is brought out before mankind like 'unsmutched snow?' Nothing that the haughty souls of De Lacy yield to evidence, and recognise the daughter of proud Pierrepoint in the houseless adventurer, the wandering gipsey? Is there no balm in Clara's friendship, lately sealed, and now allowed to flow towards you?—no soothing in the still tenderer accents of——"

"I am ungrateful, hard, unthankful, I know I am, for many goods; yet could you look into this breast, and see all that passes there, you would pity more than censure me," replied Zorilda.

"And will that Being, whose penetrating glance reads the inmost soul, who knows all our frailty, all our weakness, pity less than I should do? Believe it not. You will not be tried beyond the bounds of mercy, though you know not how much is still to be endured. My mind misgives me, and this long silence of my sister's fills me with vague, yet sad prognostics; I dread the arrival of letters, and feel my mind almost superstitiously inclined to evil augury."

"How unlike you!" said Zorilda, "If you are scared by omens and portents, what wonder that I should tremble; dearest friend, tell me your fears."

"They have no shape," answered Mrs. Gordon, "but come not the less affrightingly because they are undefined. When I contemplate the materials of which my family are composed, have I not continual reason to dread the consequences of ungoverned passion, self indulgence, and pride, now inflated by the prosperous gales of fortune? What may I not apprehend as the result of Algernon's violent temper, unaccustomed to restraint, and now let loose to tyrannize with wider scope, subduing all things to his purposes? My poor sister, too, so blind in her attachments, so precipitate in her aversions, so little calculated for the enlarged sphere of action to which she is called, so ill prepared to meet with disappointment, so soured by late occurrences; what comfort should I have in considering the elevation of those for whom I am so deeply interested, to a station which will only furnish increased temptation to err, and render every fault and failing more conspicuous, were it not for my firm trust in Him who rules our destinies, and who alone is acquainted with the issue of events, after which we vainly strain our short sighted organs?"

"Forgive me," replied Zorilda, "for the indulgence of my morbid discontent. 'I will arise and go to my father,' I will try to follow, not presumptuously lead, the ordinances of Providence; you shall not find me deaf to your instructions. Dispose of me. The tide of strength is ebbing in my veins, and perhaps the mind partakes of the body's weakness, for I was not always thus, but in all things I will endeavour to obey your counsels; guide, direct me; tell me all that I shall say and do in this dread hour of meeting; yet if my father should prove an austere man, I am afraid that it will little avail me to con over my lesson."

Zorilda knew nothing of Mr. Playfair's arrival, and it was resolved to conceal his presence from her till after Lord Pierrepoint's visit.

The appointed hour drew near, and the flush of anxiety had lighted up that cheek on which the lily had lately begun to usurp the rose's dominion, and the blending of sorrow with timid solicitude, imparted the most angelic expression to the countenance of her who now, with beating heart, heard her father's carriage wheels approach the door.

Lord Pierrepoint's exterior was highly favourable; tall, graceful, and still in the meridian of life, there was something singularly prepossessing in his appearance. To fine features, was added that charm of polished refinement without which no beauty can be attractive, and accompanied by which, no physiognomy can be destitute of power to please. A melodious voice, and insinuating gentleness of manner, finished the impression which Lord Pierrepoint's first abord never failed to make upon strangers, but who shall attempt to describe the effect of such a union of qualities in delightful contrast with all that her fears had suggested, on the tender heart of his lovely daughter? The scene of such a meeting can only be represented in the imagination. Feelings so electric, transitions so rapid, silence so eloquent, may be felt, but not pourtrayed.

Locked in each other's arms, one moment's embrace seemed to annihilate an age of doubt, and banish from Zorilda's bosom every sentiment except that of filial love and admiration; while the father hung spell-bound over his treasure. Drawing her close to his breast, and then receding, as if

"——to view,
If such a bliss indeed were true,"

he continued to clasp her again and again to his heart in silent rapture.

When the first strong instinctive emotions of nature had in some degree subsided, Lord Pierrepoint remarked, with much uneasiness, the delicacy of his daughter's complexion, which underwent a thousand aspects, mutable as the dolphin tints or the sun's varying hues upon the snows of Mont Blanc.

"I must lose no time in snatching my darling," said the fond parent, "from this northern climate. My Zorilda shall invoke the warmer beams and softer breezes of an Italian sky. We will prepare immediately for the voyage."

A deep hectic blush overspread Zorilda's face, as thoughts of leaving Drumcairn flashed across her mind; but dreading to hurt her father's feelings, by seeming averse to any scheme proposed by his affection, she made no reply, except by a faint smile, like that transient glow which glances hastily through the misty curtain on the grey mountain's side, and is followed by a thicker veil, gathering as if to repel the bright intrusion. But associations of another kind arose in Lord Pierrepoint's mind, and pressing his daughter's hand, he added, "I do not mean to hurry you, my love. You are, I grieve to see, not equal to any great exertion. Farewell, dearest, I will return to-morrow, and we will then consult upon the answer which you wish me to give to Sir Godfrey Cecil."

So saying, he put a letter, of which the seal was broken, upon the table, kissed his dear girl's alabaster forehead, and hastened out of the room.

"All powerful force of nature?" exclaimed Zorilda, as she strained her eyes towards the door which had closed upon her father, "who could have believed this miracle? My heart follows him, and echoes every retiring footstep. Is this the formidable being whose anticipated presence banished sleep from my eyelids, whose dreaded voice arrested every pulse, while yet it sounded only in the ear of fancy? What a transformation in an instant of time! I can scarcely believe in my own identity, as I reckon the hours till his return. Poor Sir Godfrey! Here is the world—the cold heartless world, which encumbers with help when there is no farther need of assistance. What have we here? No doubt a complimentary address. Perchance an invitation to De Lacy castle—but I must not forget that De Lacy's walls afforded me kind refuge in an hour of adversity." Zorilda sighed, as she slowly unfolded the following letter:

"MY DEAR LORD,

"Amongst the numberless congratulations which your Lordship may expect to receive on the joyful event of reunion with your charming daughter, none more sincere can be offered to your acceptance, than I have now the honour to present from De Lacy castle. We have the good fortune here to be acquainted with the perfections which it is your Lordship's happy lot to possess in the Lady Zorilda Fitzhugh; and are therefore enabled to judge of your feelings in receiving such a child to your bosom, and restoring her to that exalted station in society which will henceforward be adorned by her talents and virtue. Lady Cecil and I have often said of our distinguished guest, that such a noble bearing bespoke high birth, and we are not mistaken.

"It will not surprise your Lordship to learn that younger eyes have been fascinated, and hearts impressed by attractions which even the aged cannot behold unmoved. You know my son's pretensions, and if you think them worthy of alliance with your Lordship's house, nothing shall be wanting on my part to facilitate an event so desirable to me as a union between our families. I have long been aware of my son's deep admiration of the Lady Zorilda, but so entirely averse is he to revealing his sentiments at the present juncture, that I risk his displeasure in making an avowal to which I am urged by the high sense that I entertain of those qualifications which must render your daughter an object of universal competition.

"I have the honour to be, my Lord, your Lordship's sincere friend, and most obedient humble servant,

Godfrey Cecil."

"Pompous treachery!" exclaimed Zorilda, as she folded the letter. "How grateful to his ear the tinkling bell of Ladyship, appended to this

'——Jonah's Gourd,
An overnight creation of court favour,
With which an undistinguishable case
Makes baron, or makes prince.'

"I hate this greedy haste which, fearful of forestalment, thus violates all delicacy, and would compromise the feelings of his pure and nobleminded son, to compass his proud ends—but we are going to Italy. Perhaps, too, this is for the best. If I must leave dear Drumcairn, at least it will be some recompense that I shall quit these harpies, who, like Sir Godfrey, hover round the well spread board, and force their unneeded praise where fortune smiles."

Mrs. Gordon's entrance interrupted this soliloquy. "I left you, my dear one, to meet your trial alone, because my presence might have embarrassed your father."

"Yes he is my father. I feel the sacred bond drawn tight across my heart, which almost beat itself to death, like a poor bird against its prison wires, in terror of his approach. You say truly, my monitress, that we are for ever prone to take trouble at interest. Aye, and usurious interest too—we raise ghosts and then wonder that they haunt us. But my dear father talks of Italy, and thinks that her classic shores bear healing on their gales. Alas! he knows not how deep the mine—how industrious the sappers. The 'sweet South' can do nought for me. No breeze, however balmy, 'can minister unto the mind diseased.' I have a longer journey before me than to Nice or Pisa."

Mrs. Gordon had hitherto controlled her feelings, but, overcome by the prophetic melancholy which accompanied the last words of Zorilda, she burst into tears, and, covering her face with her hands, remained for some time unable to speak.

"Kindest, dearest friend," said Zorilda, "I meant only to familiarize your mind to what I feel must come to pass ere long—but I am always doing wrong. The idea of death is so welcome to me that I forget its sorrowful effect on others, and have grieved my best and dearest Mrs. Gordon. Oh think no more of my Cassandra propensities; let us speak of something else. I did not hear my father's carriage drive from your door. Surely he cannot still be here?"