 | XX.
THEY VANISH. The Blithedale romance |  |
20. XX.
THEY VANISH.
Priscilla immediately answered the summons, and
made her appearance through the door of the boudoir.
I had conceived the idea, which I now recognized as a
very foolish one, that Zenobia would have taken measures
to debar me from an interview with this girl, between
whom and herself there was so utter an opposition
of their dearest interests, that, on one part or the other, a
great grief, if not likewise a great wrong, seemed a matter
of necessity. But, as Priscilla was only a leaf floating
on the dark current of events, without influencing
them by her own choice or plan, — as she probably
guessed not whither the stream was bearing her, nor
perhaps even felt its inevitable movement, — there could
be no peril of her communicating to me any intelligence
with regard to Zenobia's purposes.
On perceiving me, she came forward with great quietude
of manner; and when I held out my hand, her own
moved slightly towards it, as if attracted by a feeble
degree of magnetism.
“I am glad to see you, my dear Priscilla,” said I, still
holding her hand; “but everything that I meet with,
now-a-days, makes me wonder whether I am awake.
You, especially, have always seemed like a figure in a
dream, and now more than ever.”
“O, there is substance in these fingers of mine,” she
and then taking away her own. “Why do you call me
a dream? Zenobia is much more like one than I; she
is so very, very beautiful! And, I suppose,” added Priscilla,
as if thinking aloud, “everybody sees it, as I do.”
But, for my part, it was Priscilla's beauty, not Zenobia's,
of which I was thinking at that moment. She
was a person who could be quite obliterated, so far as
beauty went, by anything unsuitable in her attire; her
charm was not positive and material enough to bear up
against a mistaken choice of color, for instance, or fashion.
It was safest, in her case, to attempt no art of
dress; for it demanded the most perfect taste, or else
the happiest accident in the world, to give her precisely
the adornment which she needed. She was now dressed
in pure white, set off with some kind of a gauzy fabric,
which — as I bring up her figure in my memory, with a
faint gleam on her shadowy hair, and her dark eyes bent
shyly on mine, through all the vanished years — seems
to be floating about her like a mist. I wondered what
Zenobia meant by evolving so much loveliness out of
this poor girl. It was what few women could afford to
do; for, as I looked from one to the other, the sheen and
splendor of Zenobia's presence took nothing from Priscilla's
softer spell, if it might not rather be thought to
add to it.
“What do you think of her?” asked Zenobia.
I could not understand the look of melancholy kindness
with which Zenobia regarded her. She advanced a
step, and beckoning Priscilla near her, kissed her cheek;
then, with a slight gesture of repulse, she moved to the
other side of the room. I followed.
“She is a wonderful creature,” I said. “Ever since
she came among us, I have been dimly sensible of just
this charm which you have brought out. But it was
never absolutely visible till now. She is as lovely as a
flower!”
“Well, say so, if you like,” answered Zenobia. “You
are a poet, — at least, as poets go, now-a-days, — and
must be allowed to make an opera-glass of your imagination,
when you look at women. I wonder, in such Arcadian
freedom of falling in love as we have lately
enjoyed, it never occurred to you to fall in love with
Priscilla. In society, indeed, a genuine American never
dreams of stepping across the inappreciable air-line which
separates one class from another. But what was rank
to the colonists of Blithedale?”
“There were other reasons,” I replied, “why I should
have demonstrated myself an ass, had I fallen in love
with Priscilla. By the by, has Hollingsworth ever seen
her in this dress?”
“Why do you bring up his name at every turn?”
asked Zenobia, in an under tone, and with a malign look
which wandered from my face to Priscilla's. “You
know not what you do! It is dangerous, sir, believe
me, to tamper thus with earnest human passions, out of
your own mere idleness, and for your sport. I will
endure it no longer! Take care that it does not happen
again! I warn you!”
“You partly wrong me, if not wholly,” I responded.
“It is an uncertain sense of some duty to perform, that
brings my thoughts, and therefore my words, continually
to that one point.”
“O, this stale excuse of duty!” said Zenobia, in a whisper
a serpent. “I have often heard it before, from those who
sought to interfere with me, and I know precisely what
it signifies. Bigotry; self-conceit; an insolent curiosity;
a meddlesome temper; a cold-blooded criticism, founded
on a shallow interpretation of half-perceptions; a monstrous
scepticism in regard to any conscience or any wisdom,
except one's own; a most irreverent propensity to
thrust Providence aside, and substitute one's self in its
awful place; — out of these, and other motives as miserable
as these, comes your idea of duty! But, beware,
sir! With all your fancied acuteness, you step blindfold
into these affairs. For any mischief that may
follow your interference, I hold you responsible!”
It was evident that, with but a little further provocation,
the lioness would turn to bay; if, indeed, such were
not her attitude already. I bowed, and, not very well
knowing what else to do, was about to withdraw. But,
glancing again towards Priscilla, who had retreated into
a corner, there fell upon my heart an intolerable burthen
of despondency, the purport of which I could not tell,
but only felt it to bear reference to her. I approached
her, and held out my hand; a gesture, however, to
which she made no response. It was always one of her
peculiarities that she seemed to shrink from even the
most friendly touch, unless it were Zenobia's or Hollingsworth's.
Zenobia, all this while, stood watching us, but
with a careless expression, as if it mattered very little
what might pass.
“Priscilla,” I inquired, lowering my voice, “when do
you go back to Blithedale?”
“Whenever they please to take me,” said she.
“Did you come away of your own free will?” I
asked.
“I am blown about like a leaf,” she replied. “I
never have any free will.”
“Does Hollingsworth know that you are here?”
said I.
“He bade me come,” answered Priscilla.
She looked at me, I thought, with an air of surprise,
as if the idea were incomprehensible that she should
have taken this step without his agency.
“What a gripe this man has laid upon her whole
being!” muttered I, between my teeth. “Well, as
Zenobia so kindly intimates, I have no more business
here. I wash my hands of it all. On Hollingsworth's
head be the consequences! Priscilla,” I added, aloud,
“I know not that ever we may meet again. Farewell!”
As I spoke the word, a carriage had rumbled along the
street, and stopt before the house. The door-bell rang,
and steps were immediately afterwards heard on the
staircase. Zenobia had thrown a shawl over her dress.
“Mr. Coverdale,” said she, with cool courtesy, “you
will perhaps excuse us. We have an engagement, and
are going out.”
“Whither?” I demanded.
“Is not that a little more than you are entitled to
inquire?” said she, with a smile. “At all events, it
does not suit me to tell you.”
The door of the drawing-room opened, and Westervelt
appeared. I observed that he was elaborately
dressed, as if for some grand entertainment. My dislike
for this man was infinite. At that moment it amounted
to nothing less than a creeping of the flesh, as when,
feeling about in a dark place, one touches something
may be. And still I could not but acknowledge
that, for personal beauty, for polish of manner, for all
that externally befits a gentleman, there was hardly
another like him. After bowing to Zenobia, and graciously
saluting Priscilla in her corner, he recognized
me by a slight but courteous inclination.
“Come, Priscilla,” said Zenobia; “it is time. Mr.
Coverdale, good-evening.”
As Priscilla moved slowly forward, I met her in the
middle of the drawing-room.
“Priscilla,” said I, in the hearing of them all, “do
you know whither you are going?”
“I do not know,” she answered.
“Is it wise to go, and is it your choice to go?” I
asked. “If not, I am your friend, and Hollingsworth's
friend. Tell me so, at once.”
“Possibly,” observed Westervelt, smiling, “Priscilla
sees in me an older friend than either Mr. Coverdale or
Mr. Hollingsworth. I shall willingly leave the matter
at her option.”
While thus speaking, he made a gesture of kindly
invitation, and Priscilla passed me, with the gliding
movement of a sprite, and took his offered arm. He
offered the other to Zenobia; but she turned her proud
and beautiful face upon him, with a look which — judging
from what I caught of it in profile — would undoubtedly
have smitten the man dead, had he possessed any
heart, or had this glance attained to it. It seemed to
rebound, however, from his courteous visage, like an
arrow from polished steel. They all three descended
the stairs; and when I likewise reached the street-door,
the carriage was already rolling away.
| XX.
THEY VANISH. The Blithedale romance | |