"But she loves you now, of course?" suggested I. "And at this very
instant you feel her to be your dearest friend?"
"Why do you ask me that question?" exclaimed Priscilla, as if
frightened at the scrutiny into her feelings which I compelled her to
make. "It somehow puts strange thoughts into my mind. But I do love
Zenobia dearly! If she only loves me half as well, I shall be happy!"
"How is it possible to doubt that, Priscilla?" I rejoined. "But
observe how pleasantly and happily Zenobia and Hollingsworth are
walking together. I call it a delightful spectacle. It truly rejoices
me that Hollingsworth has found so fit and affectionate a friend! So
many people in the world mistrust him,--so many disbelieve and
ridicule, while hardly any do him justice, or acknowledge him for the
wonderful man he is,--that it is really a blessed thing for him to have
won the sympathy of such a woman as Zenobia. Any man might be proud of
that. Any man, even if he be as great as Hollingsworth, might love so
magnificent a woman. How very beautiful Zenobia is! And Hollingsworth
knows it, too."
There may have been some petty malice in what I said. Generosity is a
very fine thing, at a proper time and within due limits. But it is an
insufferable bore to see one man engrossing every thought of all the
women, and leaving his friend to shiver in outer seclusion, without
even the alternative of solacing himself with what the more fortunate
individual has rejected. Yes, it was out of a foolish bitterness of
heart that I had spoken.
"Go on before," said Priscilla abruptly, and with true feminine
imperiousness, which heretofore I had never seen her exercise. "It
pleases me best to loiter along by myself. I do not walk so fast as
you."
With her hand she made a little gesture of dismissal. It provoked me;
yet, on the whole, was the most bewitching thing that Priscilla had
ever done. I obeyed her, and strolled moodily homeward, wondering--as
I had wondered a thousand times already--how Hollingsworth meant to
dispose of these two hearts, which (plainly to my perception, and, as I
could not but now suppose, to his) he had engrossed into his own huge
egotism.
There was likewise another subject hardly less fruitful of speculation.
In what attitude did Zenobia present herself to Hollingsworth? Was it
in that of a free woman, with no mortgage on her affections nor
claimant to her hand, but fully at liberty to surrender both, in
exchange for the heart and hand which she apparently expected to
receive? But was it a vision that I had witnessed in the wood? Was
Westervelt a goblin? Were those words of passion and agony, which
Zenobia had uttered in my hearing, a mere stage declamation? Were they
formed of a material lighter than common air? Or, supposing them to
bear sterling weight, was it a perilous and dreadful wrong which she
was meditating towards herself and Hollingsworth?