The Blithedale Romance

to which Hollingsworth’s kindly hand had impelled her. The cloak falling partly off, she was seen to be a very young woman dressed in a poor but decent gown, made high in the neck, and without any regard to fashion or smartness. Her brown hair fell down from beneath a hood, not in curls but with only a slight wave; her face was of a wan, almost sickly hue, betokening habitual seclusion from the sun and free atmosphere, like a flower-shrub that had done its best to blossom in too scanty light. To complete the pitiableness of her aspect, she shivered either with cold, or fear, or nervous excitement, so that you might have beheld her shadow vibrating on the fire-lighted wall. In short, there has seldom been seen so depressed and sad a figure as this young girl’s; and it was hardly possible to help being angry with her, from mere despair of doing anything for her comfort. The fantasy occurred to me that she was some desolate kind of a creature, doomed to wander about in snowstorms; and that, though the ruddiness of our window panes had tempted her into a human dwelling, she would not remain long enough to melt the icicles out of her hair. Another conjecture likewise came into my mind. Recollecting Hollingsworth’s sphere of philanthropic action, I deemed it possible that he might have brought one of his guilty patients, to be wrought upon and restored to spiritual health by the pure influences which our mode of life would create.

As yet the girl had not stirred. She stood near the door, fixing a pair of large, brown, melancholy eyes upon Zenobia⁠—only upon Zenobia!⁠—she evidently saw nothing else in the room save that bright, fair, rosy, beautiful woman. It was the strangest look I ever witnessed; long a mystery to me, and forever a memory. Once she seemed about to move forward and greet her⁠—I know not with what warmth or with what words⁠—but, finally, instead of doing so, she dropped down upon her knees, clasped her hands, and gazed piteously into Zenobia’s face. Meeting no kindly reception, her head fell on her bosom.

I never thoroughly forgave Zenobia for her conduct on this occasion. But women are always more cautious in their casual hospitalities than men.

“What does the girl mean?” cried she in rather a sharp tone. “Is she crazy? Has she no tongue?”

And here Hollingsworth stepped forward.

“No wonder if the poor child’s tongue is frozen in her mouth,” said he; and I think he positively frowned at Zenobia. “The very heart will be frozen in her bosom, unless you women can warm it, among you, with the warmth that ought to be in your own!”

Hollingsworth’s appearance was very striking at this moment. He was then about thirty years old, but looked several years older, with his great shaggy head, his heavy brow, his dark complexion, his abundant beard, and the rude strength with which his features seemed to have been hammered out of iron, rather than chiselled or moulded from any finer or softer material. His figure was not tall, but massive and brawny, and well befitting his original occupation; which⁠—as the reader probably knows⁠—was that of a blacksmith. As for external polish, or mere courtesy of manner, he never possessed more than a tolerably educated bear; although, in his gentler moods, there was a tenderness in his voice, eyes, mouth, in his gesture, and in every indescribable manifestation, which few men could resist and no woman. But he now looked stern and reproachful; and it was with that inauspicious meaning in his glance that Hollingsworth first met Zenobia’s eyes, and began his influence upon her life.

To my surprise, Zenobia⁠—of whose haughty spirit I had been told so many examples⁠—absolutely changed color, and seemed mortified and confused.

“You do not quite do me justice, Mr. Hollingsworth,” said she almost humbly. “I am willing to be kind to the poor girl. Is she a protégée of yours? What can I do for her?”

“Have you anything to ask of this lady?” said Hollingsworth kindly to the girl. “I remember you mentioned her name before we left town.”

“Only that she will shelter me,” replied the girl tremulously. “Only that she will let me be always near her.”

“Well, indeed,” exclaimed Zenobia, recovering herself and laughing, “this is an adventure, and well-worthy to be the first incident in our life of love and free-heartedness! But I accept it, for the present, without further question, only,” added she, “it would be a convenience if we knew your name.”

“Priscilla,” said the girl; and it appeared to me that she hesitated whether to add anything more, and decided in the negative. “Pray do not ask me my other name⁠—at least not yet⁠—if you will be so kind to a forlorn creature.”

Priscilla!⁠—Priscilla! I repeated the name to myself three or four times; and in that little space, this quaint and prim cognomen had so amalgamated itself with my idea of the girl, that it seemed as if no other name could have adhered to her for a moment. Heretofore the poor thing had not shed any tears; but now that she found herself received, and at least temporarily established, the big drops began to ooze out from beneath her eyelids as if she were full of them. Perhaps it showed the iron substance of my heart, that I could not help smiling at this odd scene of unknown and unaccountable calamity, into which our cheerful party had been entrapped without the liberty of choosing whether to sympathize or no. Hollingsworth’s behavior was certainly a great deal more creditable than mine.

“Let us not pry further into her secrets,” he said to Zenobia and the rest of us, apart; and his dark, shaggy face looked really beautiful with its expression of thoughtful benevolence. “Let us conclude that Providence has sent her to us, as the first-fruits of the world, which we have undertaken to make happier than we find it. Let us warm her poor, shivering