"Algernon, my heart is breaking, and my selfish pen lingers amongst its sorrows, instead of exercising what little energy remains in the endeavour to recal you from a road which will lead to destruction if you continue to pursue its course. You have fallen amongst evil advisers, who are beginning their work by shaking those principles which Mr. Playfair says are our only pillars of strength—our only rock and refuge in the hour of temptation. Your self-denying parents intend to sacrifice the joy of holding you in their arms this summer, that you may profit by Lord Turnstock's invitation to accompany him on the Continent—profit did I say? Alas! how foreign from my thoughts is the idea which that word conveys. No, dear Algernon, you will never gain by his example, and I weep as I contemplate your growing attachment to his society. I find in all your letters now something that spoils the pleasure which I used to feel in talking to you. Why is this, unless because the sympathy which was wont to knit our pursuits is fading away?
"You tell me, too, that I must change; you say that I am a rustic—that I am not skilled in music—that I am too independent, and want that softness (perhaps from your description I should rather call it langour), which you tell me is the most attractive feature of female character. Alas! that I am very imperfect and very ignorant, a very cursory glance into my own heart too fatally convinces me every day; but my self reproach does not fall where you would point it. Why should I desire to be no longer a rustic? Is not the retirement in which I live better suited to the unhappy—the nameless orphan, than those scenes in which 'Who is she?' would be the brand of degradation? Is not my simple song, to which you once loved to sit and listen, adapted to my lowly lot, and the natural language of a sorrowing heart? Why should I regret that I am not versed in the mechanism of instrumental music. What have I to do with an admiring audience?
"Yet do not believe me insensible to the charms of melody. I am young, and might improve with opportunity. To make the harp respond to the sadness which dwells within, would be a delightful companionship, but it is denied to me, and I must not repine. Oh no, there is but one murmur in my breast, but one murmur on my tongue, and from my pen.
"Why am I thus forsaken? Why this homeless, houseless, friendless thing? This is the rankling thorn—the sharp arrow which festers and corrodes my vitals—which haunts me in visions of the night, and paralyzes every energy of soul by day. All other ills I can bear; and believe that they are good for me. You tell me that the pretty folly, the imploring weakness, the passive non-resistance of Lord Turnstock's sister, are fascinating; and you want me to copy without having seen the original. Much as I love to try and please you, and grateful as I feel for your wish to render me more capable of doing so, I cannot promise docility in this respect. Dear Mr. Playfair's words are engraven on my memory, and his very last letter repeats them. He bids me follow nature, and avoid every species of affectation. He reminds me that there are two glossaries which interpret the same words by different methods; that the timid supplication, the credulous innocence, the nervous sensibility, so captivating in a young beauty, are explained by far other terms in wives, sisters, daughters, and known in them by the harsher epithets of troublesome helplessness, ignorance, and fatiguing egotism, when the vapouring dreams of a youthful gallant are sobered into the honest but too often uncourteous phrase of husband, father, brother.
"This advice may seem to have no application to one who is a stranger to all the endearing relations of life, who has never known the blessing of those tender ties which bind the heart in sweet, yet wholesome, bondage; but truth is always the same. Let me pursue my homely track unseen. It will lead me to the quiet grave, where all my sorrows will have an end, but oh! my dearest Algernon, beware of the vortex into which you are gliding; your parents can not supply your increasing demands upon their resources. They already feel your extravagance. Fly temptation, while it is still in your power to break the spell. You are undone if you accompany the Marquess. Oh! do not plunge us in despair. Mr. Playfair has the worst opinion of your associates, and I believe has written a warning letter to your father, suggested by his knowledge of Lord Turnstock's general character; I write in secret, and this will reach you by a private hand; farewell," &c.
Zoé's voice would once have roused Algernon to any enterprise, or deterred him from any undertaking; but though he loved her better than all things else, she was distant, pleasure present. Her melancholy forebodings cast a gloom over his mind, and at length grew so distasteful, that he resolved to adopt a new language in his correspondence with her; pretending to be influenced by her advice, he promised to be on his guard against the allurements which she dreaded, assuring her that, sensible of the errors into which young men might be led, he designed to be very particular in his selection of acquaintance, should he feel himself so far engaged to accompany his friends to the Continent, that he could not break through the arrangement. The heart is of easy faith, when it wishes to believe, and the innocent Zorilda, who knew nothing of the world, except what she had heard of its snares from the instructor of her youth, seized with joy on the happy omen; and the roses of health again bloomed on her pallid cheek, with all the freshness of spring.
"Beloved Algernon," she would exclaim, while training the jessamine which was taught to decorate his favourite seat, or visiting with thoughtful tenderness the animals committed to her care, "you will never be led away from these pure delights. The blandishments of vice shall vainly attempt to dazzle, and its wicked artifices to entangle, my Algernon, who will return unpolluted by the influence of bad example. These sweet flowers will have new charms for him, and I shall proudly deliver up my trust when I show him these birds of brilliant wing, his dogs, and all his play-fellows so grown, so beautified, under my guardianship."
Zorilda's hours now glided swiftly as the weaver's shuttle. She was full of employment, and Algernon was the inspiring object of all she did or imagined; improving daily in loveliness of face and form, and glowing with animation, she seemed by her presence to cheer creation, and, like the blessed sun, to dispel every cloud that gathered on the horizon.
While Algernon was away from home, his mother, who never reflected much on any thing, the immediate pressure of which on her external senses did not force itself upon her mind, resumed her cheerfulness, and finding in Zorilda all that the sweetest filial duty could bestow, treated her once more with as much affection as her selfish nature could feel. Mr. Hartland loved her as a daughter, and amongst the dependents of every degree she was considered as an angel of light who had descended from Heaven, to shower mercy and consolation on the poor, the sick, and the afflicted. As Zorilda avoided strangers with the greatest anxiety, she was seldom seen, and as she never left Henbury, except to go to the parish church, in which a curtain round the pew where she sat, and a veil on her bonnet, afforded all the privacy which she sought, it is not surprising that the fame of her beauty had not gone much abroad.
While Algernon was absent too, the motive for seeing company being removed, the family assumed more than their usual habits of economy, to enable Mrs. Hartland to indulge her vanity, in providing for the excesses of her son, whose constantly increasing demands were founded on false pretences; and his parents were imposed upon, by a belief that they were aiding his advancement in life, while in reality they ministered to every species of extravagance. Zorilda was the presiding genius, who by her skill and activity achieved all Mrs. Hartland's purposes without compromising a single duty; and though every expense was regulated with the strictest attention, the interests of those whose claims on benevolence had ever been accredited, were not forgotten; and this admirable girl contrived to transfer to her friends the praises which were due to herself alone. The cultivation of her mind was her sole recreation: a fine talent for drawing, diversified her amusements, and had it not been for the thorn at the heart, which busy occupation sometimes concealed, but which no effort could extract, her life might have presented as near a resemblance to what may be imagined of higher spirits, whose existence is compounded of love and knowledge, as had ever been witnessed on earth.