I watched Priscilla, wondering what judgment she would
pass between Zenobia and Hollingsworth; how interpret his behavior,
so as to reconcile it with true faith both towards her sister and
herself; how compel her love for him to keep any terms whatever with
her sisterly affection! But, in truth, there was no such difficulty
as I imagined. Her engrossing love made it all clear. Hollingsworth
could have no fault. That was the one principle at the centre of the
universe. And the doubtful guilt or possible integrity of other
people, appearances, self-evident facts, the testimony of her own
senses,--even Hollingsworth's self-accusation, had he volunteered it,--
would have weighed not the value of a mote of thistledown on the
other side. So secure was she of his right, that she never thought
of comparing it with another's wrong, but left the latter to itself.
Hollingsworth drew her arm within his, and soon disappeared with her
among the trees. I cannot imagine how Zenobia knew when they were
out of sight; she never glanced again towards them. But, retaining a
proud attitude so long as they might have thrown back a retiring look,
they were no sooner departed,--utterly departed,--than she began
slowly to sink down. It was as if a great, invisible, irresistible
weight were pressing her to the earth. Settling upon her knees, she
leaned her forehead against the rock, and sobbed convulsively; dry
sobs they seemed to be, such as have nothing to do with tears.
Pages:
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266