The Blithedale Romance - Page 3/170

"I wonder, sir," said he, "whether you know a lady whom they call

Zenobia?"

"Not personally," I answered, "although I expect that pleasure

to-morrow, as she has got the start of the rest of us, and is already a

resident at Blithedale. But have you a literary turn, Mr. Moodie? or

have you taken up the advocacy of women's rights? or what else can have

interested you in this lady? Zenobia, by the bye, as I suppose you

know, is merely her public name; a sort of mask in which she comes

before the world, retaining all the privileges of privacy,--a

contrivance, in short, like the white drapery of the Veiled Lady, only

a little more transparent. But it is late. Will you tell me what I

can do for you?"

"Please to excuse me to-night, Mr. Coverdale," said Moodie. "You are

very kind; but I am afraid I have troubled you, when, after all, there

may be no need. Perhaps, with your good leave, I will come to your

lodgings to-morrow morning, before you set out for Blithedale. I wish

you a good-night, sir, and beg pardon for stopping you."

And so he slipt away; and, as he did not show himself the next morning,

it was only through subsequent events that I ever arrived at a

plausible conjecture as to what his business could have been. Arriving

at my room, I threw a lump of cannel coal upon the grate, lighted a

cigar, and spent an hour in musings of every hue, from the brightest to

the most sombre; being, in truth, not so very confident as at some

former periods that this final step, which would mix me up irrevocably

with the Blithedale affair, was the wisest that could possibly be

taken. It was nothing short of midnight when I went to bed, after

drinking a glass of particularly fine sherry on which I used to pride

myself in those days. It was the very last bottle; and I finished it,

with a friend, the next forenoon, before setting out for Blithedale.