The Complete Works of Nathaniel Hawthorne (Illustrated Edition). Nathaniel Hawthorne
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this was all absurdity, or mostly so. But, after every possible deduction, there remained certain very mysterious points about the stranger’s character, as well as the connection that he established with Priscilla. Its nature at that period was even less understood than now, when miracles of this kind have grown so absolutely stale, that I would gladly, if the truth allowed, dismiss the whole matter from my narrative.
We must now glance backward, in quest of the beautiful daughter of Fauntleroy’s prosperity. What had become of her? Fauntleroy’s only brother, a bachelor, and with no other relative so near, had adopted the forsaken child. She grew up in affluence, with native graces clustering luxuriantly about her. In her triumphant progress towards womanhood, she was adorned with every variety of feminine accomplishment. But she lacked a mother’s care. With no adequate control, on any hand (for a man, however stern, however wise, can never sway and guide a female child), her character was left to shape itself. There was good in it, and evil. Passionate, self-willed, and imperious, she had a warm and generous nature; showing the richness of the soil, however, chiefly by the weeds that flourished in it, and choked up the herbs of grace. In her girlhood her uncle died. As Fauntleroy was supposed to be likewise dead, and no other heir was known to exist, his wealth devolved on her, although, dying suddenly, the uncle left no will. After his death there were obscure passages in Zenobia’s history. There were whispers of an attachment, and even a secret marriage, with a fascinating and accomplished but unprincipled young man. The incidents and appearances, however, which led to this surmise soon passed away, and were forgotten.
Nor was her reputation seriously affected by the report. In fact, so great was her native power and influence, and such seemed the careless purity of her nature, that whatever Zenobia did was generally acknowledged as right for her to do. The world never criticised her so harshly as it does most women who transcend its rules. It almost yielded its assent, when it beheld her stepping out of the common path, and asserting the more extensive privileges of her sex, both theoretically and by her practice. The sphere of ordinary womanhood was felt to be narrower than her development required.
A portion of Zenobia’s more recent life is told in the foregoing pages. Partly in earnest, — and, I imagine, as was her disposition, half in a proud jest, or in a kind of recklessness that had grown upon her, out of some hidden grief, — she had given her countenance, and promised liberal pecuniary aid, to our experiment of a better social state. And Priscilla followed her to Blithedale. The sole bliss of her life had been a dream of this beautiful sister, who had never so much as known of her existence. By this time, too, the poor girl was enthralled in an intolerable bondage, from which she must either free herself or perish. She deemed herself safest near Zenobia, into whose large heart she hoped to nestle.
One evening, months after Priscilla’s departure, when Moodie (or shall we call him Fauntleroy?) was sitting alone in the state-chamber of the old governor, there came footsteps up the staircase. There was a pause on the landing-place. A lady’s musical yet haughty accents were heard making an inquiry from some denizen of the house, who had thrust a head out of a contiguous chamber. There was then a knock at Moodie’s door. “Come in!” said he.
And Zenobia entered. The details of the interview that followed being unknown to me, — while, notwithstanding, it would be a pity quite to lose the picturesqueness of the situation, — I shall attempt to sketch it, mainly from fancy, although with some general grounds of surmise in regard to the old man’s feelings.
She gazed wonderingly at the dismal chamber. Dismal to her, who beheld it only for an instant; and how much more so to him, into whose brain each bare spot on the ceiling, every tatter of the paper-hangings, and all the splintered carvings of the mantelpiece, seen wearily through long years, had worn their several prints! Inexpressibly miserable is this familiarity with objects that have been from the first disgustful.
“I have received a strange message,” said Zenobia, after a moment’s silence, “requesting, or rather enjoining it upon me, to come hither. Rather from curiosity than any other motive, — and because, though a woman, I have not all the timidity of one, — I have complied. Can it be you, sir, who thus summoned me?”
“It was,” answered Moodie.
“And what was your purpose?” she continued. “You require charity, perhaps? In that case, the message might have been more fitly worded. But you are old and poor, and age and poverty should be allowed their privileges. Tell me, therefore, to what extent you need my aid.”
“Put up your purse,” said the supposed mendicant, with an inexplicable smile. “Keep it, — keep all your wealth, — until I demand it all, or none! My message had no such end in view. You are beautiful, they tell me; and I desired to look at you.”
He took the one lamp that showed the discomfort and sordidness of his abode, and approaching Zenobia held it up, so as to gain the more perfect view of her, from top to toe. So obscure was the chamber, that you could see the reflection of her diamonds thrown upon the dingy wall, and flickering with the rise and fall of Zenobia’s breath. It was the splendor of those jewels on her neck, like lamps that burn before some fair temple, and the jewelled flower in her hair, more than the murky, yellow light, that helped him to see her beauty. But he beheld it, and grew proud at heart; his own figure, in spite of his mean habiliments, assumed an air of state and grandeur.
“It is well,” cried old Moodie. “Keep your wealth. You are right worthy of it. Keep it, therefore, but with one condition only.”
Zenobia thought the old man beside himself, and was moved with pity.
“Have you none to care for you?” asked she. “No daughter? — no kind-hearted neighbor? — no means of procuring the attendance which you need? Tell me once again, can I do nothing for you?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “I have beheld what I wished. Now leave me. Linger not a moment longer, or I may be tempted to say what would bring a cloud over that queenly brow. Keep all your wealth, but with only this one condition: Be kind — be no less kind than sisters are — to my poor Priscilla!”
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!
XXIII. A VILLAGE HALL
Well, I betook myself away, and wandered up and down, like an exorcised spirit that had been driven from its old haunts after a mighty struggle. It takes down the solitary pride of man, beyond most other things, to find the impracticability of flinging aside affections that have grown irksome. The bands that were silken once