บทที่ บทที่ 25 · 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. Time, it is true, would steal away her

grief, and bury it and the best of her heart in the same grave. But

Destiny itself, methought, in its kindliest mood, could do no better

for Zenobia, in the way of quick relief; than to cause the impending

rock to impend a little farther, and fall upon her head. So I leaned

against a tree, and listened to her sobs, in unbroken silence. She was

half prostrate, half kneeling, with her forehead still pressed against

the rock. Her sobs were the only sound; she did not groan, nor give

any other utterance to her distress. It was all involuntary.

At length she sat up, put back her hair, and stared about her with a

bewildered aspect, as if not distinctly recollecting the scene through

which she had passed, nor cognizant of the situation in which it left

her. Her face and brow were almost purple with the rush of blood.

They whitened, however, by and by, and for some time retained this

deathlike hue. She put her hand to her forehead, with a gesture that

made me forcibly conscious of an intense and living pain there.

Her glance, wandering wildly to and fro, passed over me several times,

without appearing to inform her of my presence. But, finally, a look

of recognition gleamed from her eyes into mine.

"Is it you, Miles Coverdale?" said she, smiling. "Ah, I perceive what

you are about! You are turning this whole affair into a ballad. Pray

let me hear as many stanzas as you happen to have ready."

"Oh, hush, Zenobia!" I answered. "Heaven knows what an ache is in my

soul!"

"It is genuine tragedy, is it not?" rejoined Zenobia, with a sharp,

light laugh. "And you are willing to allow, perhaps, that I have had

hard measure. But it is a woman's doom, and I have deserved it like a

woman; so let there be no pity, as, on my part, there shall be no

complaint. It is all right, now, or will shortly be so. But, Mr.

Coverdale, by all means write this ballad, and put your soul's ache

into it, and turn your sympathy to good account, as other poets do, and

as poets must, unless they choose to give us glittering icicles instead

of lines of fire. As for the moral, it shall be distilled into the

final stanza, in a drop of bitter honey."

"What shall it be, Zenobia?" I inquired, endeavoring to fall in with

her mood.

"Oh, a very old one will serve the purpose," she replied. "There are

no new truths, much as we have prided ourselves on finding some. A

moral? Why, this: That, in the battlefield of life, the downright

stroke, that would fall only on a man's steel headpiece, is sure to

light on a woman's heart, over which she wears no breastplate, and

whose wisdom it is, therefore, to keep out of the conflict. Or, this:

That the whole universe, her own sex and yours, and Providence, or

Destiny, to boot, make common cause against the woman who swerves one

hair's-breadth out of the beaten track. Yes; and add (for I may as

well own it, now) that, with that one hair's-breadth, she goes all

astray, and never sees the world in its true aspect afterwards."

"This last is too stern a moral," I observed. "Cannot we soften it a

little?"

"Do it if you like, at your own peril, not on my responsibility," she

answered. Then, with a sudden change of subject, she went on: "After

all, he has flung away what would have served him better than the poor,

pale flower he kept. What can Priscilla do for him? Put passionate

warmth into his heart, when it shall be chilled with frozen hopes?

Strengthen his hands, when they are weary with much doing and no

performance? No! but only tend towards him with a blind, instinctive

love, and hang her little, puny weakness for a clog upon his arm! She

cannot even give him such sympathy as is worth the name. For will he

never, in many an hour of darkness, need that proud intellectual

sympathy which he might have had from me?--the sympathy that would

flash light along his course, and guide, as well as cheer him? Poor

Hollingsworth! Where will he find it now?"

"Hollingsworth has a heart of ice!" said I bitterly. "He is a wretch!"

"Do him no wrong," interrupted Zenobia, turning haughtily upon me.

"Presume not to estimate a man like Hollingsworth. It was my fault,

all along, and none of his. I see it now! He never sought me. Why

should he seek me? What had I to offer him? A miserable, bruised, and

battered heart, spoilt long before he met me. A life, too, hopelessly

entangled with a villain's! He did well to cast me off. God be

praised, he did it! And yet, had he trusted me, and borne with me a

little longer, I would have saved him all this trouble."

She was silent for a time, and stood with her eyes fixed on the ground.

Again raising them, her look was more mild and calm.

"Miles Coverdale!" said she.

"Well, Zenobia," I responded. "Can I do you any service?"

"Very little," she replied. "But it is my purpose, as you may well

imagine, to remove from Blithedale; and, most likely, I may not see

Hollingsworth again. A woman in my position, you understand, feels

scarcely at her ease among former friends. New faces,--unaccustomed

looks,--those only can she tolerate. She would pine among familiar

scenes; she would be apt to blush, too, under the eyes that knew her

secret; her heart might throb uncomfortably; she would mortify herself,

I suppose, with foolish notions of having sacrificed the honor of her

sex at the foot of proud, contumacious man. Poor womanhood, with its

rights and wrongs! Here will be new matter for my course of lectures,

at the idea of which you smiled, Mr. Coverdale, a month or two ago.

But, as you have really a heart and sympathies, as far as they go, and

as I shall depart without seeing Hollingsworth, I must entreat you to

be a messenger between him and me."

"Willingly," said I, wondering at the strange way in which her mind

seemed to vibrate from the deepest earnest to mere levity. "What is

the message?"

"True,--what is it?" exclaimed Zenobia. "After all, I hardly know. On

better consideration, I have no message. Tell him,--tell him something

pretty and pathetic, that will come nicely and sweetly into your

ballad,--anything you please, so it be tender and submissive enough.

Tell him he has murdered me! Tell him that I'll haunt him! "--She

spoke these words with the wildest energy.--"And give him--no, give

Priscilla--this!"

Thus saying, she took the jewelled flower out of her hair; and it

struck me as the act of a queen, when worsted in a combat, discrowning

herself, as if she found a sort of relief in abasing all her pride.

"Bid her wear this for Zenobia's sake," she continued. "She is a

pretty little creature, and will make as soft and gentle a wife as the

veriest Bluebeard could desire. Pity that she must fade so soon! These

delicate and puny maidens always do. Ten years hence, let

Hollingsworth look at my face and Priscilla's, and then choose betwixt

them. Or, if he pleases, let him do it now."

How magnificently Zenobia looked as she said this! The effect of her

beauty was even heightened by the over-consciousness and

self-recognition of it, into which, I suppose, Hollingsworth's scorn

had driven her. She understood the look of admiration in my face;

and--Zenobia to the last--it gave her pleasure.

"It is an endless pity," said she, "that I had not bethought myself of

winning your heart, Mr. Coverdale, instead of Hollingsworth's. I think

I should have succeeded, and many women would have deemed you the

worthier conquest of the two. You are certainly much the handsomest

man. But there is a fate in these things. And beauty, in a man, has

been of little account with me since my earliest girlhood, when, for

once, it turned my head. Now, farewell!"

"Zenobia, whither are you going?" I asked.

"No matter where," said she. "But I am weary of this place, and sick

to death of playing at philanthropy and progress. Of all varieties of

mock-life, we have surely blundered into the very emptiest mockery in

our effort to establish the one true system. I have done with it; and

Blithedale must find another woman to superintend the laundry, and you,

Mr. Coverdale, another nurse to make your gruel, the next time you fall

ill. It was, indeed, a foolish dream! Yet it gave us some pleasant

summer days, and bright hopes, while they lasted. It can do no more;

nor will it avail us to shed tears over a broken bubble. Here is my

hand! Adieu!"

She gave me her hand with the same free, whole-souled gesture as on the

first afternoon of our acquaintance, and, being greatly moved, I

bethought me of no better method of expressing my deep sympathy than to

carry it to my lips. In so doing, I perceived that this white hand--so

hospitably warm when I first touched it, five months since--was now

cold as a veritable piece of snow.

"How very cold!" I exclaimed, holding it between both my own, with the

vain idea of warming it. "What can be the reason? It is really

deathlike!"

"The extremities die first, they say," answered Zenobia, laughing. "And

so you kiss this poor, despised, rejected hand! Well, my dear friend,

I thank you. You have reserved your homage for the fallen. Lip of man

will never touch my hand again. I intend to become a Catholic, for the

sake of going into a nunnery. When you next hear of Zenobia, her face

will be behind the black veil; so look your last at it now,--for all is

over. Once more, farewell!"

She withdrew her hand, yet left a lingering pressure, which I felt long

afterwards. So intimately connected as I had been with perhaps the

only man in whom she was ever truly interested, Zenobia looked on me as

the representative of all the past, and was conscious that, in bidding

me adieu, she likewise took final leave of Hollingsworth, and of this

whole epoch of her life. Never did her beauty shine out more

lustrously than in the last glimpse that I had of her. She departed,

and was soon hidden among the trees. But, whether it was the strong

impression of the foregoing scene, or whatever else the cause, I was

affected with a fantasy that Zenobia had not actually gone, but was

still hovering about the spot and haunting it. I seemed to feel her

eyes upon me. It was as if the vivid coloring of her character had

left a brilliant stain upon the air. By degrees, however, the

impression grew less distinct. I flung myself upon the fallen leaves

at the base of Eliot's pulpit. The sunshine withdrew up the tree

trunks and flickered on the topmost boughs; gray twilight made the wood

obscure; the stars brightened out; the pendent boughs became wet with

chill autumnal dews. But I was listless, worn out with emotion on my

own behalf and sympathy for others, and had no heart to leave my

comfortless lair beneath the rock.

I must have fallen asleep, and had a dream, all the circumstances of

which utterly vanished at the moment when they converged to some

tragical catastrophe, and thus grew too powerful for the thin sphere of

slumber that enveloped them. Starting from the ground, I found the

risen moon shining upon the rugged face of the rock, and myself all in

a tremble.

XXVII.