So with Priscilla;
her one possible misfortune was Hollingsworth's unkindness; and that
was destined never to befall her, never yet, at least, for Priscilla
has not died.
But Hollingsworth! After all the evil that he did, are we to leave
him thus, blest with the entire devotion of this one true heart, and
with wealth at his disposal to execute the long-contemplated project
that had led him so far astray? What retribution is there here? My
mind being vexed with precisely this query, I made a journey, some
years since, for the sole purpose of catching a last glimpse of
Hollingsworth, and judging for myself whether he were a happy man or
no. I learned that he inhabited a small cottage, that his way of
life was exceedingly retired, and that my only chance of encountering
him or Priscilla was to meet them in a secluded lane, where, in the
latter part of the afternoon, they were accustomed to walk. I did
meet them, accordingly. As they approached me, I observed in
Hollingsworth's face a depressed and melancholy look, that seemed
habitual; the powerfully built man showed a self-distrustful weakness,
and a childlike or childish tendency to press close, and closer
still, to the side of the slender woman whose arm was within his. In
Priscilla's manner there was a protective and watchful quality, as if
she felt herself the guardian of her companion; but, likewise, a deep,
submissive, unquestioning reverence, and also a veiled happiness in
her fair and quiet countenance.
Pages:
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284