“Priscilla,” I inquired, lowering my voice, “when do you go back to Blithedale?”

“Whenever they please to take me,” said she.

“Did you come away of your own free will?” I asked.

“I am blown about like a leaf,” she replied.  “I never have any free will.”

“Does Hollingsworth know that you are here?” said I.

“He bade me come,” answered Priscilla.

She looked at me, I thought, with an air of surprise, as if the idea were incomprehensible that she should have taken this step without his agency.

“What a gripe this man has laid upon her whole being!” muttered I between my teeth.

“Well, as Zenobia so kindly intimates, I have no more business here.  I wash my hands of it all.  On Hollingsworth’s head be the consequences!  Priscilla,” I added aloud, “I know not that ever we may meet again.  Farewell!”

As I spoke the word, a carriage had rumbled along the street, and stopt before the house.  The doorbell rang, and steps were immediately afterwards heard on the staircase.  Zenobia had thrown a shawl over her dress.

“Mr. Coverdale,” said she, with cool courtesy, “you will perhaps excuse us.  We have an engagement, and are going out.”

“Whither?” I demanded.

“Is not that a little more than you are entitled to inquire?” said she, with a smile.  “At all events, it does not suit me to tell you.”

The door of the drawing-room opened, and Westervelt appeared.  I observed that he was elaborately dressed, as if for some grand entertainment.  My dislike for this man was infinite.  At that moment it amounted to nothing less than a creeping of the flesh, as when, feeling about in a dark place, one touches something cold and slimy, and questions what the secret hatefulness may be.  And still I could not but acknowledge that, for personal beauty, for polish of manner, for all that externally befits a gentleman, there was hardly another like him.  After bowing to Zenobia, and graciously saluting Priscilla in her corner, he recognized me by a slight but courteous inclination.

“Come, Priscilla,” said Zenobia; “it is time.  Mr. Coverdale, good-evening.”

As Priscilla moved slowly forward, I met her in the middle of the drawing-room.

“Priscilla,” said I, in the hearing of them all, “do you know whither you are going?”

“I do not know,” she answered.

“Is it wise to go, and is it your choice to go?” I asked.  “If not, I am your friend, and Hollingsworth’s friend.  Tell me so, at once.”

“Possibly,” observed Westervelt, smiling, “Priscilla sees in me an older friend than either Mr. Coverdale or Mr. Hollingsworth.  I shall willingly leave the matter at her option.”