"What a fool I am!" said she; "shall I fear my old and faithful companions, and start at a bird? But hah! what is here? a letter, and for me!" She seized the paper with trembling haste, and casting a timid glance around, hurried breathlessly back to the shrubbery from which she had strayed, and closed its gate before she dared venture to break the seal, and read the following lines:
"Zorilda,
"There is one at least in the world who asks not 'Who is she?' but who knows you to be virtuous, lovely, and unhappy; one who can behold in you the pedigree of a noble soul, whencesoever it be derived; who has gazed more than once unseen upon your streaming eyes uplifted in prayer to Heaven; and listened to those sighs which rend your heart, yet without intrusion on your sorrows. The friend who now addresses you, has not taken advantage of his situation to possess himself of your secrets, if you have any which you desire should be unrevealed, and his motive in thus alarming, is to warn you against dangers which threaten your peace. Walk no more beyond the enclosure of your shrubbery, till you bear from your unknown guardian that you are safe in doing so; and rely on the fidelity of one, who cannot tell you more at present than that he is devoted to your interests, over which he watches with constant vigilance. Beware of wandering by moonlight, and alone."
Zorilda was nearly overcome with terror and astonishment. Unused to consider herself an object of interest to any one, the liveliest gratitude would have possessed her unsuspecting heart, if the dread of some impending ill did not predominate over every calmer feeling. From whence came the warning which she had just received? It was not the hand-writing of Mr. Playfair, and if it were, why should he be thus mysterious? He would have pointed explicitly to the approaching danger, and as openly advised the best means of avoiding it. This anonymous intimation was perhaps itself a snare; yet it prescribed caution, and seemed to be dictated by truth and kindness.
"What shall I do? Oh whither shall I turn for counsel?" said Zorilda. "If I tell Mr. Hartland, what profit will accrue? He cannot lock me up, nor place a guard in attendance on my steps. Mrs. Hartland would call me a heroine of romance, and I should be derided, ridiculed, insulted. What a time is this to have lost the true friends who would have been my pilots! But God is every where, He will direct me, if with a single heart, I implore His heavenly guidance."
The sound of hasty footsteps put an end to Zorilda's reflections. She folded the paper quickly, over which she had been musing, and had scarcely time to conceal it, when Rachel, a faithful domestic already introduced to the reader, ran towards her, out of breath—
"Miss Zoé, Miss Zoé, make no delay; my mistress is calling for you, and angry that you cannot be found. Master is from home too; not expected till dinner, which is ordered an hour later than usual, and we have been put into a great flutterment by news at the house; but I am not to tell you any thing about it, only to find, and send you in, without loss of time."
Zorilda trembled so exceedingly, that she could hardly obey the summons, and immediately concluded, that whatever circumstances had occurred in her absence, bore some reference to the mysterious communication which had been made to her. Bewildered by the variety of alarms which thronged upon her mind, she advanced with breathless agitation, and having reached the house, heard Mrs. Hartland's voice loudly employed in giving directions to have a horse saddled, and a servant in readiness to set off in quest of her husband, who had gone that morning to attend a board of magistrates at some distance from Henbury.
Zorilda, pale as death, gained the apartment from whence she heard these orders issuing, and felt sinking with apprehension and exhaustion, when she was met by a countenance in which exultation, impatience, resentment, and solicitude struggled for mastery.
"Where is it that you hide yourself in this unfeeling manner?" said Mrs. Hartland, with impetuous eagerness. "Is it not too provoking that I should be left alone, and that nobody can be found in a moment of such agitation as the present. Lord Marchdale lies at the point of death. He has had a paralytic stroke, and is speechless. Mr. Humphries, the head steward, who has long been in our interests, has sent off an express to give secret intelligence of the event; and here, by the most unlucky chance imaginable, my son is far away, and I know not how to direct to him. Mr. Hartland, who hardly ever leaves home, is absent; and even you too are moping idly in some hole or corner, and can nowhere be found. You have no personal interest, it is true, in the matter, but it is intolerable that you should be out of the way when my hand shakes so that I cannot hold a pen."