"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.
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