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

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

"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?"

"He is still here, my Zorilda, and listening to a tale of woe which concerns us all; but my child, Heaven has sent you support in this dear and newly found relation. May you rest on him as on a pillar of strength, and be enabled to stand firm under divine assistance! I too have been a Cassandra, but you must hear the dismal story from other lips. I cannot tell it to you."

"You have given me a clue," said Zorilda, who turned as pale as ashes, "which too fatally directs my imagination, though not perhaps through every winding of the labyrinth. Speak, oh speak! you need not fear to trust me; I can bear to hear. Yes, I can bear to hear even that Algernon—my once loved——"

The words which Zorilda would have uttered died upon her lips, and she fell senseless at Mrs. Gordon's feet.

When she recovered recollection, she found herself laid on a sofa, while Mr. Playfair kneeled at her side, invoking heavenly mercy in her behalf. He had put every one out of the room, and took upon himself the task of preparing her for a full disclosure; but Zorilda's quick eye and mind anticipated the conclusion, and she was in possession of the whole ere it was designed that she should be informed of more than half the direful narrative.

Mr. Playfair did not give Algernon's letter till after imagination was so wrought upon, that even that dreadful document by realizing the horrors of the scene which it exhibited, prevented reason from deserting her throne to wander irretrievably into the wild regions of maniac desolation.

"It is done!" said Zorilda; "it is finished. Lord, thou wouldst have my whole heart, and it is thine! 'Whom have I in heaven but thee, and whom do I desire on earth beside thee.' I can say this now—Hah! killed by his hand! a murderer! But he is pardoned. Oh say not that forgiveness is impossible!

Tell me not that he did not repent the act."

A violent shuddering came over her whole frame, from which suddenly starting up, she gazed round the room, and asked for Mrs. Gordon, who waited but the slightest movement in the apartment to open the door, and heedless of her own affliction, fly to the aid of sorrow yet greater than that which she suffered.

But there was now no longer any apparent weakness to combat—no excess of feeling to assuage—all was still.

"My friend," said Zorilda, in a firm voice, as she held her hand to Mrs. Gordon, "help me to shake off this lethargy. God has given me duties to perform. I must no longer be a useless torpid thing. Where is my father?"

Lord Pierrepoint had lingered to wait the event, and now stole softly into his daughter's apartment. Surprised and delighted by her unexpected fortitude, he determined to indulge every wish which she might express, in the hope by doing so to restore her soon to a sufficient measure of health and tranquillity for the undertaking which he meditated. "A warm climate will strengthen, and a gradual introduction to society, the charms of which are unknown to her, will do the rest," said he in a whisper.

Mrs. Gordon shook her head, but did not contradict these visions of hope.

"My father will not refuse his child's request," said Zorilda, who raised her beautiful eyes as he drew near the couch on which she leaned; "he will conduct me to the home of my youth. I have another father there, who needs my consolation. Shall I not offer him all that I have to bestow?"

"My Zorilda shall do every thing that may contribute to her peace," answered Lord Pierrepoint. "I will give immediate orders for the journey."

A gleam of short-lived irradiation shot across the pale cheek of Zorilda, who pressed her parent's hand in mute acknowledgment of his goodness, but Mrs. Gordon interposed.

"My Zorilda," said she, "has other claims upon her heart, and she will not neglect to fulfil them. Something is due to her poor friends at Drumcairn, and she will not desert them in this moment of heaviness. I too must share with her the task of watching and comforting my poor brother. Why not bring him here? The change of scene will assist our cares for him, and my ZoÉ will recover faster in the repose of this chamber than in the excitement of a journey, for the fatigues of which she is not strong enough at present."

Zorilda sighed in silence, when she perceived by the expression of her father's countenance how much he preferred this arrangement to her plan. Mr. Playfair warmly seconded the measure proposed by Mrs. Gordon, and offered to attend Lord Pierrepoint on the following day. They commenced their route at an early hour, promising to return as quickly as circumstances would admit; bringing their invalid charge along with them to Scotland.

Zorilda's fervid bloom and tearless eye would have led an ignorant observer to believe that some secret source of joy poured the soft springs of consolation over her withered spirit, and that hope still fluttered in the distance. Hope and faith were indeed whispering peace, but they were not of this world; they were celestial visitants, and Mrs. Gordon was not deceived. Zorilda had forced her friend to bed, and entreated to be left in solitude herself. On entering her room in the morning, Mrs. Gordon, who had not slept, found her beloved adopted child already up, her head reclining on her hand, papers and writing implements scattered around.

"My mother," said she, "I have been busy making my will. You must take care of my poor pensioners. You will be my almoner. You know that I have a little fortune in bank. I am setting my house in order, and long to be gone."

Mrs. Gordon could not reply. Zorilda rose and threw her arms affectionately round the neck of her who was truly a mother to her in tenderness. "I will not afflict you any more," said she, "by touching on these subjects which distress you. Yet were you to know how sweet are the thoughts of death, you would not grieve. It was you too who first imparted to my soul that strength in which I am now permitted to pass through the dark valley; you taught me to lean on the staff which is now sustaining my footsteps: and will you repent you of the good you have performed, and mourn over the happy work which you have accomplished?

"I cannot tell how it is, but I feel assured that the conflict will speedily be ended. How simple, how beautiful is the religion which teaches how to die! and how little does it resemble the eloquent declamations, the fine spun arguments, the perplexing subtleties, with which we puzzle comprehension and estrange the affections, while 'redolent of life' we waste our intellectual prime in the labyrinths of metaphysical lore, and talk ourselves far away from God. My mother, I am about to depart, and shall soon be removed beyond the confines of sense. Pray for me, not that I should tarry here, but be received amidst the countless millions of the blessed."

Mrs. Gordon was called away upon urgent business, and Zorilda, having thrown on a cloak, glided secretly down the back stairs, and passing up a path lined with cypress, gained the church-yard, which had long been her favourite haunt. It was a romantic spot, in which she loved to listen to the sullen roar of the gathering storm, or the melancholy sighing of the sea breezes as they whistled through the long wiry grass which waved upon the walls of a ruined abbey overhung with ivy, that still outlived the wreck of time, and stood a monument of former days. An ancient yew tree, which tossed its old fantastic roots high in air, with flattened crown, over which the northern blast from Kinnaird's head swept nippingly, overshadowed a gloomy corner of this wild and desolate cemetery. Thither Zorilda bent her steps. Pausing as she approached the spot, the curlieu's plaintive wail struck upon her ear.

"Hah! that is my funeral knell! it is a gracious and a cheering sound; a requiem of welcome omen."

She turned round an angle of the old building, as she mused, and reaching her accustomed rocky seat, beneath the yew tree's matted roof, "This," said she, "shall be my resting place! Ocean! thou image of eternity! thy breath is balmy, and wafts freedom to my bosom. Here will I trace the simple memorial which shall mark my grave. Ambition! but for thee, how different had been my fate; but the pilot who guided my bark, can never err. I have required long discipline to teach me; but at last I see the heavenly scheme which comprehends a wider range than this poor nether sphere can supply. Why is it so difficult to justify the ways of God to man, but that we seek results on faith, which are furnished only in a higher scene. My father, I acknowledge my stubbornness and stupidity. Thou hast dealt with me thus, that we might meet in the mansions of glory, where all tears shall be wiped away. What are the brief enjoyments of this fleeting world, when compared with the celestial communion of those who are purified in the furnace of affliction! Yes, we shall meet father, mother, Algernon! Oh! my burning brow; my beating heart. How I long for the green pastures and refreshing waters, which are promised to the weary pilgrim! Had I been what the world calls happy, I should have loved it too well, and built my tabernacle on its unstable sands. My God resolved to bring me home to more abiding felicity than I could have known below; there, I grow faint: this feeble outline is all that I can sketch, but Lionel shall finish it. That dear friend shall perform Zorilda's last earthly purpose, and place this memento where she lies. Oh that I were already laid beneath the verdant turf! but my tarrying will not be long—my strength is exhausted."

She made an effort to rise, but her bending limbs refused their office. Her eyes grew dim, and unable to recover herself, she fell back into the arms of him, whose name she had just pronounced.

"Adored Zorilda! thy Lionel is here, and Clara is at this moment seeking her best beloved friend at Drumcairn. Oh speak! Raise those precious eye-lids, and look on one who is devoted to thee! Speak, oh say but one word, and relieve this agony of dread!"

She heard not; saw not; felt not. She had fallen asleep to wake no more, and at her feet the pencil lay, with which she had just traced an urn, veiled in clouds, through which the name of Zorilda was faintly discernible, and on its pedestal were engraved the words,

"Who was she?"
"What is she?"