XXVI. ZENOBIA AND COVERDALE
Zenobia had entirely forgotten me. She fancied herself alone with
her great grief. And had it been only a common pity that I felt for
her,--the pity that her proud nature would have repelled, as the one
worst wrong which the world yet held in reserve,--the sacredness and
awfulness of the crisis might have impelled me to steal away silently,
so that not a dry leaf should rustle under my feet. I would have
left her to struggle, in that solitude, with only the eye of God upon
her. But, so it happened, I never once dreamed of questioning my
right to be there now, as I had questioned it just before, when I
came so suddenly upon Hollingsworth and herself, in the passion of
their recent debate. It suits me not to explain what was the analogy
that I saw or imagined between Zenobia's situation and mine; nor, I
believe, will the reader detect this one secret, hidden beneath many
a revelation which perhaps concerned me less. In simple truth,
however, as Zenobia leaned her forehead against the rock, shaken with
that tearless agony, it seemed to me that the self-same pang, with
hardly mitigated torment, leaped thrilling from her heartstrings to
my own. Was it wrong, therefore, if I felt myself consecrated to the
priesthood by sympathy like this, and called upon to minister to this
woman's affliction, so far as mortal could?
But, indeed, what could mortal do for her? Nothing! The attempt
would be a mockery and an anguish.
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