"Come hither, Priscilla," said Zenobia. "I have something to say to
you."
She spoke in little more than a whisper. But it is strange how
expressive of moods a whisper may often be. Priscilla felt at once
that something had gone wrong.
"Are you angry with me?" she asked, rising slowly, and standing before
Zenobia in a drooping attitude. "What have I done? I hope you are not
angry!"
"No, no, Priscilla!" said Hollingsworth, smiling. "I will answer for
it, she is not. You are the one little person in the world with whom
nobody can be angry!"
"Angry with you, child? What a silly idea!" exclaimed Zenobia,
laughing. "No, indeed! But, my dear Priscilla, you are getting to be
so very pretty that you absolutely need a duenna; and, as I am older
than you, and have had my own little experience of life, and think
myself exceedingly sage, I intend to fill the place of a maiden aunt.
Every day, I shall give you a lecture, a quarter of an hour in length,
on the morals, manners, and proprieties of social life. When our
pastoral shall be quite played out, Priscilla, my worldly wisdom may
stand you in good stead."
"I am afraid you are angry with me!" repeated Priscilla sadly; for,
while she seemed as impressible as wax, the girl often showed a
persistency in her own ideas as stubborn as it was gentle.
"Dear me, what can I say to the child!" cried Zenobia in a tone of
humorous vexation. "Well, well; since you insist on my being angry,
come to my room this moment, and let me beat you!"
Zenobia bade Hollingsworth good-night very sweetly, and nodded to me
with a smile. But, just as she turned aside with Priscilla into the
dimness of the porch, I caught another glance at her countenance. It
would have made the fortune of a tragic actress, could she have
borrowed it for the moment when she fumbles in her bosom for the
concealed dagger, or the exceedingly sharp bodkin, or mingles the
ratsbane in her lover's bowl of wine or her rival's cup of tea. Not
that I in the least anticipated any such catastrophe,--it being a
remarkable truth that custom has in no one point a greater sway than
over our modes of wreaking our wild passions. And besides, had we been
in Italy, instead of New England, it was hardly yet a crisis for the
dagger or the bowl.
It often amazed me, however, that Hollingsworth should show himself so
recklessly tender towards Priscilla, and never once seem to think of
the effect which it might have upon her heart. But the man, as I have
endeavored to explain, was thrown completely off his moral balance, and
quite bewildered as to his personal relations, by his great excrescence
of a philanthropic scheme. I used to see, or fancy, indications that
he was not altogether obtuse to Zenobia's influence as a woman. No
doubt, however, he had a still more exquisite enjoyment of Priscilla's
silent sympathy with his purposes, so unalloyed with criticism, and
therefore more grateful than any intellectual approbation, which always
involves a possible reserve of latent censure. A man--poet, prophet,
or whatever he may be--readily persuades himself of his right to all
the worship that is voluntarily tendered. In requital of so rich
benefits as he was to confer upon mankind, it would have been hard to
deny Hollingsworth the simple solace of a young girl's heart, which he
held in his hand, and smelled too, like a rosebud. But what if, while
pressing out its fragrance, he should crush the tender rosebud in his
grasp!