"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?




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