Tales of My Time, Vol. 2 (of 3) Who Is She? [concluded]; The Young Reformers

"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.