And, it may be, after Zenobia withdrew, Fauntleroy paced his gloomy

chamber, and communed with himself as follows,--or, at all events, it

is the only solution which I can offer of the enigma presented in his

character:--"I am unchanged,--the same man as of yore!" said he. "True,

my brother's wealth--he dying intestate--is legally my own. I know it;

yet of my own choice, I live a beggar, and go meanly clad, and hide

myself behind a forgotten ignominy. Looks this like ostentation? Ah!

but in Zenobia I live again! Beholding her, so beautiful,--so fit to

be adorned with all imaginable splendor of outward state,--the cursed

vanity, which, half a lifetime since, dropt off like tatters of once

gaudy apparel from my debased and ruined person, is all renewed for her

sake. Were I to reappear, my shame would go with me from darkness into

daylight. Zenobia has the splendor, and not the shame. Let the world

admire her, and be dazzled by her, the brilliant child of my

prosperity! It is Fauntleroy that still shines through her!" But

then, perhaps, another thought occurred to him.

"My poor Priscilla! And am I just to her, in surrendering all to this

beautiful Zenobia? Priscilla! I love her best,--I love her only!--but

with shame, not pride. So dim, so pallid, so shrinking,--the daughter

of my long calamity! Wealth were but a mockery in Priscilla's hands.

What is its use, except to fling a golden radiance around those who

grasp it? Yet let Zenobia take heed! Priscilla shall have no wrong!"

But, while the man of show thus meditated,--that very evening, so far

as I can adjust the dates of these strange incidents,--Priscilla poor,

pallid flower!--was either snatched from Zenobia's hand, or flung

wilfully away!




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