XXII. FAUNTLEROY
Five-and-twenty years ago, at the epoch of this story, there dwelt in
one of the Middle States a man whom we shall call Fauntleroy; a man
of wealth, and magnificent tastes, and prodigal expenditure. His
home might almost be styled a palace; his habits, in the ordinary
sense, princely. His whole being seemed to have crystallized itself
into an external splendor, wherewith he glittered in the eyes of the
world, and had no other life than upon this gaudy surface. He had
married a lovely woman, whose nature was deeper than his own. But
his affection for her, though it showed largely, was superficial,
like all his other manifestations and developments; he did not so
truly keep this noble creature in his heart, as wear her beauty for
the most brilliant ornament of his outward state. And there was born
to him a child, a beautiful daughter, whom he took from the
beneficent hand of God with no just sense of her immortal value, but
as a man already rich in gems would receive another jewel. If he
loved her, it was because she shone.
After Fauntleroy had thus spent a few empty years, coruscating
continually an unnatural light, the source of it--which was merely
his gold--began to grow more shallow, and finally became exhausted.
He saw himself in imminent peril of losing all that had heretofore
distinguished him; and, conscious of no innate worth to fall back
upon, he recoiled from this calamity with the instinct of a soul
shrinking from annihilation.
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