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!