The Blithedale Romance - Page 153/170

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.