_ Hollingsworth was in his ordinary working-dress. Priscilla wore a
pretty and simple gown, with a kerchief about her neck, and a calash,
which she had flung back from her head, leaving it suspended by the
strings. But Zenobia (whose part among the maskers, as may be
supposed, was no inferior one) appeared in a costume of fanciful
magnificence, with her jewelled flower as the central ornament of
what resembled a leafy crown, or coronet. She represented the
Oriental princess by whose name we were accustomed to know her. Her
attitude was free and noble; yet, if a queen's, it was not that of a
queen triumphant, but dethroned, on trial for her life, or, perchance,
condemned already. The spirit of the conflict seemed, nevertheless,
to be alive in her. Her eyes were on fire; her cheeks had each a
crimson spot, so exceedingly vivid, and marked with so definite an
outline, that I at first doubted whether it were not artificial. In
a very brief space, however, this idea was shamed by the paleness
that ensued, as the blood sunk suddenly away. Zenobia now looked
like marble.
One always feels the fact, in an instant, when he has intruded on
those who love, or those who hate, at some acme of their passion that
puts them into a sphere of their own, where no other spirit can
pretend to stand on equal ground with them. I was confused,--
affected even with a species of terror,--and wished myself away.
The intenseness of their feelings gave them the exclusive property of
the soil and atmosphere, and left me no right to be or breathe there.
"Hollingsworth,--Zenobia,--I have just returned to Blithedale," said
I, "and had no thought of finding you here. We shall meet again at
the house. I will retire."
"This place is free to you," answered Hollingsworth.
"As free as to ourselves," added Zenobia. "This long while past, you
have been following up your game, groping for human emotions in the
dark corners of the heart. Had you been here a little sooner, you
might have seen them dragged into the daylight. I could even wish to
have my trial over again, with you standing by to see fair play! Do
you know, Mr. Coverdale, I have been on trial for my life?"
She laughed, while speaking thus. But, in truth, as my eyes wandered
from one of the group to another, I saw in Hollingsworth all that an
artist could desire for the grim portrait of a Puritan magistrate
holding inquest of life and death in a case of witchcraft; in Zenobia,
the sorceress herself, not aged, wrinkled, and decrepit, but fair
enough to tempt Satan with a force reciprocal to his own; and, in
Priscilla, the pale victim, whose soul and body had been wasted by
her spells. Had a pile of fagots been heaped against the rock, this
hint of impending doom would have completed the suggestive picture.
"It was too hard upon me," continued Zenobia, addressing
Hollingsworth, "that judge, jury, and accuser should all be
comprehended in one man! I demur, as I think the lawyers say, to the
jurisdiction. But let the learned Judge Coverdale seat himself on
the top of the rock, and you and me stand at its base, side by side,
pleading our cause before him! There might, at least, be two
criminals instead of one."
"You forced this on me," replied Hollingsworth, looking her sternly
in the face. "Did I call you hither from among the masqueraders
yonder? Do I assume to be your judge? No; except so far as I have
an unquestionable right of judgment, in order to settle my own line
of behavior towards those with whom the events of life bring me in
contact. True, I have already judged you, but not on the world's
part,--neither do I pretend to pass a sentence!"
"Ah, this is very good!" cried Zenobia with a smile. "What strange
beings you men are, Mr. Coverdale!--is it not so? It is the simplest
thing in the world with you to bring a woman before your secret
tribunals, and judge and condemn her unheard, and then tell her to go
free without a sentence. The misfortune is, that this same secret
tribunal chances to be the only judgment-seat that a true woman
stands in awe of, and that any verdict short of acquittal is
equivalent to a death sentence!"
The more I looked at them, and the more I heard, the stronger grew my
impression that a crisis had just come and gone. On Hollingsworth's
brow it had left a stamp like that of irrevocable doom, of which his
own will was the instrument. In Zenobia's whole person, beholding
her more closely, I saw a riotous agitation; the almost delirious
disquietude of a great struggle, at the close of which the vanquished
one felt her strength and courage still mighty within her, and longed
to renew the contest. My sensations were as if I had come upon a
battlefield before the smoke was as yet cleared away.
And what subjects had been discussed here? All, no doubt, that for
so many months past had kept my heart and my imagination idly
feverish. Zenobia's whole character and history; the true nature of
her mysterious connection with Westervelt; her later purposes towards
Hollingsworth, and, reciprocally, his in reference to her; and,
finally, the degree in which Zenobia had been cognizant of the plot
against Priscilla, and what, at last, had been the real object of
that scheme. On these points, as before, I was left to my own
conjectures. One thing, only, was certain. Zenobia and
Hollingsworth were friends no longer. If their heartstrings were
ever intertwined, the knot had been adjudged an entanglement, and was
now violently broken.
But Zenobia seemed unable to rest content with the matter in the
posture which it had assumed.
"Ah! do we part so?" exclaimed she, seeing Hollingsworth about to
retire.
"And why not?" said he, with almost rude abruptness. "What is there
further to be said between us?"
"Well, perhaps nothing," answered Zenobia, looking him in the face,
and smiling. "But we have come many times before to this gray rock,
and we have talked very softly among the whisperings of the
birch-trees. They were pleasant hours! I love to make the latest of
them, though not altogether so delightful, loiter away as slowly as
may be. And, besides, you have put many queries to me at this, which
you design to be our last interview; and being driven, as I must
acknowledge, into a corner, I have responded with reasonable
frankness. But now, with your free consent, I desire the privilege
of asking a few questions, in my turn."
"I have no concealments," said Hollingsworth.
"We shall see," answered Zenobia. "I would first inquire whether you
have supposed me to be wealthy?"
"On that point," observed Hollingsworth, "I have had the opinion
which the world holds."
"And I held it likewise," said Zenobia. "Had I not, Heaven is my
witness the knowledge should have been as free to you as me. It is
only three days since I knew the strange fact that threatens to make
me poor; and your own acquaintance with it, I suspect, is of at least
as old a date. I fancied myself affluent. You are aware, too, of
the disposition which I purposed making of the larger portion of my
imaginary opulence,--nay, were it all, I had not hesitated. Let me
ask you, further, did I ever propose or intimate any terms of compact,
on which depended this--as the world would consider it--so important
sacrifice?"
"You certainly spoke of none," said Hollingsworth.
"Nor meant any," she responded. "I was willing to realize your dream
freely,--generously, as some might think,--but, at all events, fully,
and heedless though it should prove the ruin of my fortune.
If, in your own thoughts, you have imposed any conditions of this
expenditure, it is you that must be held responsible for whatever is
sordid and unworthy in them. And now one other question. Do you
love this girl?"
"O Zenobia!" exclaimed Priscilla, shrinking back, as if longing for
the rock to topple over and hide her.
"Do you love her?" repeated Zenobia.
"Had you asked me that question a short time since," replied
Hollingsworth, after a pause, during which, it seemed to me, even the
birch-trees held their whispering breath, "I should have told
you--'No!' My feelings for Priscilla differed little from those of an
elder brother, watching tenderly over the gentle sister whom God has
given him to protect."
"And what is your answer now?" persisted Zenobia.
"I do love her!" said Hollingsworth, uttering the words with a deep
inward breath, instead of speaking them outright. "As well declare
it thus as in any other way. I do love her!"
"Now, God be judge between us," cried Zenobia, breaking into sudden
passion, "which of us two has most mortally offended Him! At least,
I am a woman, with every fault, it may be, that a woman ever had,--
weak, vain, unprincipled (like most of my sex; for our virtues,
when we have any, are merely impulsive and intuitive), passionate,
too, and pursuing my foolish and unattainable ends by indirect and
cunning, though absurdly chosen means, as an hereditary bond-slave
must; false, moreover, to the whole circle of good, in my reckless
truth to the little good I saw before me,--but still a woman! A
creature whom only a little change of earthly fortune, a little
kinder smile of Him who sent me hither, and one true heart to
encourage and direct me, might have made all that a woman can be!
But how is it with you? Are you a man? No; but a monster! A cold,
heartless, self-beginning and self-ending piece of mechanism!"
"With what, then, do you charge me!" asked Hollingsworth, aghast, and
greatly disturbed by this attack. "Show me one selfish end, in all I
ever aimed at, and you may cut it out of my bosom with a knife!"
"It is all self!" answered Zenobia with still intenser bitterness.
"Nothing else; nothing but self, self, self! The fiend, I doubt not,
has made his choicest mirth of you these seven years past, and
especially in the mad summer which we have spent together. I see it
now! I am awake, disenchanted, disinthralled! Self, self, self!
You have embodied yourself in a project. You are a better
masquerader than the witches and gypsies yonder; for your disguise is
a self-deception. See whither it has brought you! First, you aimed
a death-blow, and a treacherous one, at this scheme of a purer and
higher life, which so many noble spirits had wrought out. Then,
because Coverdale could not be quite your slave, you threw him
ruthlessly away. And you took me, too, into your plan, as long as
there was hope of my being available, and now fling me aside again, a
broken tool! But, foremost and blackest of your sins, you stifled
down your inmost consciousness!--you did a deadly wrong to your own
heart!--you were ready to sacrifice this girl, whom, if God ever
visibly showed a purpose, He put into your charge, and through whom
He was striving to redeem you!"
"This is a woman's view," said Hollingsworth, growing deadly pale,--
"a woman's, whose whole sphere of action is in the heart, and who
can conceive of no higher nor wider one!"
"Be silent!" cried Zenobia imperiously. "You know neither man nor
woman! The utmost that can be said in your behalf--and because I
would not be wholly despicable in my own eyes, but would fain excuse
my wasted feelings, nor own it wholly a delusion, therefore I say
it--is, that a great and rich heart has been ruined in your breast.
Leave me, now. You
have done with me, and I with you. Farewell!"
"Priscilla," said Hollingsworth, "come." Zenobia smiled; possibly I
did so too. Not often, in human life, has a gnawing sense of injury
found a sweeter morsel of revenge than was conveyed in the tone with
which Hollingsworth spoke those two words. It was the abased and
tremulous tone of a man whose faith in himself was shaken, and who
sought, at last, to lean on an affection. Yes; the strong man bowed
himself and rested on this poor Priscilla! Oh, could she have failed
him, what a triumph for the lookers-on!
And, at first, I half imagined that she was about to fail him. She
rose up, stood shivering like the birch leaves that trembled over her
head, and then slowly tottered, rather than walked, towards Zenobia.
Arriving at her feet, she sank down there, in the very same attitude
which she had assumed on their first meeting, in the kitchen of the
old farmhouse. Zenobia remembered it.
"Ah, Priscilla!" said she, shaking her head, "how much is changed
since then! You kneel to a dethroned princess. You, the victorious
one! But he is waiting for you. Say what you wish, and leave me."
"We are sisters!" gasped Priscilla.
I fancied that I understood the word and action. It meant the
offering of herself, and all she had, to be at Zenobia's disposal.
But the latter would not take it thus.
"True, we are sisters!" she replied; and, moved by the sweet word,
she stooped down and kissed Priscilla; but not lovingly, for a sense
of fatal harm received through her seemed to be lurking in Zenobia's
heart. "We had one father! You knew it from the first; I, but a
little while,--else some things that have chanced might have been
spared you. But I never wished you harm. You stood between me and
an end which I desired. I wanted a clear path. No matter what I
meant. It is over now. Do you forgive me?"
"O Zenobia," sobbed Priscilla, "it is I that feel like the guilty one!"
"No, no, poor little thing!" said Zenobia, with a sort of contempt.
"You have been my evil fate, but there never was a babe with less
strength or will to do an injury. Poor child! Methinks you have but
a melancholy lot before you, sitting all alone in that wide,
cheerless heart, where, for aught you know,--and as I, alas! believe,--
the fire which you have kindled may soon go out. Ah, the thought
makes me shiver for you! What will you do, Priscilla, when you find
no spark among the ashes?"
"Die!" she answered.
"That was well said!" responded Zenobia, with an approving smile.
"There is all a woman in your little compass, my poor sister.
Meanwhile, go with him, and live!"
She waved her away with a queenly gesture, and turned her own face to
the rock. I watched Priscilla, wondering what judgment she would
pass between Zenobia and Hollingsworth; how interpret his behavior,
so as to reconcile it with true faith both towards her sister and
herself; how compel her love for him to keep any terms whatever with
her sisterly affection! But, in truth, there was no such difficulty
as I imagined. Her engrossing love made it all clear. Hollingsworth
could have no fault. That was the one principle at the centre of the
universe. And the doubtful guilt or possible integrity of other
people, appearances, self-evident facts, the testimony of her own
senses,--even Hollingsworth's self-accusation, had he volunteered it,--
would have weighed not the value of a mote of thistledown on the
other side. So secure was she of his right, that she never thought
of comparing it with another's wrong, but left the latter to itself.
Hollingsworth drew her arm within his, and soon disappeared with her
among the trees. I cannot imagine how Zenobia knew when they were
out of sight; she never glanced again towards them. But, retaining a
proud attitude so long as they might have thrown back a retiring look,
they were no sooner departed,--utterly departed,--than she began
slowly to sink down. It was as if a great, invisible, irresistible
weight were pressing her to the earth. Settling upon her knees, she
leaned her forehead against the rock, and sobbed convulsively; dry
sobs they seemed to be, such as have nothing to do with tears. _