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.