University of Virginia Library

2. PART SECOND.

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

An interval of nineteen years elapsed, bringing with
them various changes to the personages of this story.
A year after Mr. Fitzgerald's return from Europe, a feud
sprang up between him and his father-in-law, Mr. Bell,
growing out of his dissipated and spendthrift habits. His
intercourse with Boston was consequently suspended, and
the fact of Flora's existence remained unknown to him.
He died nine years after he witnessed the dazzling apparition
of Rosa in Rome, and the history of his former relation
to her was buried with him, as were several other
similar secrets. There was generally supposed to be something
mysterious about his exit. Those who were acquainted
with Mr. Bell's family were aware that the marriage
had been an unhappy one, and that there was an
obvious disposition to hush inquiries concerning it. Mrs.
Fitzgerald had always continued to spend her summers
with her parents; and having lost her mother about the
time of her widowhood, she became permanently established
at the head of her father's household. She never
in any way alluded to her married life, and always dismissed
the subject as briefly as possible, if any stranger
touched upon it. Of three children, only one, her eldest,
remained. Time had wrought changes in her person.

Her once fairy-like figure was now too short for its fulness,
and the blue eyes were somewhat dulled in expression;
but the fair face and the paly-gold tresses were still very
pretty.

When she had at last succeeded in obtaining an introduction
to Flora, during one of her summer visits to Boston,
she had been very much captivated by her, and was
disposed to rally Mr. Green about his diminished enthusiasm,
after he had fallen in love with a fair cousin of hers;
but that gentleman was discreetly silent concerning the
real cause of his disenchantment.

Mrs. Delano's nature was so much deeper than that of
her pretty neighbor, that nothing like friendship could grow
up between them; but Mrs. Fitzgerald called occasionally,
to retail gossip of the outer world, or to have what she
termed a musical treat.

Flora had long been Mrs. Blumenthal. At the time of
her marriage, Mrs. Delano said she was willing to adopt a
son, but not to part with a daughter; consequently, they
formed one household. As years passed on, infant faces
and lisping voices came into the domestic circle, — fresh
little flowers in the floral garland of Mamita Lila's life.
Alfred Royal, the eldest, was a complete reproduction, in
person and character, of the grandfather whose name he
bore. Rosa, three years younger, was quite as striking a
likeness of her namesake. Then came two little ones, who
soon went to live with the angels. And, lastly, there was
the five-year-old pet, Lila, who inherited her father's blue
eyes, pink cheeks, and flaxen hair.

These children were told that their grandfather was a
rich American merchant in New Orleans, and their grandmother
a beautiful and accomplished Spanish lady; that

their grandfather failed in business and died poor; that his
friend Mrs. Delano adopted their mother; and that they
had a very handsome Aunt Rosa, who went to Europe with
some good friends, and was lost at sea. It was not deemed
wise to inform them of any further particulars, till time
and experience had matured their characters and views
of life.

Applications to American consuls, in various places, for
information concerning Signor and Madame Papanti had
proved unavailing, in consequence of the Signor's change
of name; and Rosabella had long ceased to be anything
but a very tender memory to her sister, whose heart was
now completely filled with new objects of affection. The
bond between her and her adopted mother strengthened
with time, because their influence on each other was mutually
improving to their characters. The affection and
gayety of the young folks produced a glowing atmosphere
in Mrs. Delano's inner life, as their mother's tropical taste
warmed up the interior aspect of her dwelling. The fawn-colored
damask curtains had given place to crimson; and
in lieu of the silvery paper, the walls were covered with
bird-of-paradise color, touched with golden gleams. The
centre-table was covered with crimson, embroidered with
a gold-colored garland; and the screen of the gas-light
was a gorgeous assemblage of bright flowers. Mrs. Delano's
lovely face was even more placid than it had been in
earlier years; but there was a sunset brightness about it,
as of one growing old in an atmosphere of love. The ash-colored
hair, which Flora had fancied to be violet-tinged,
was of a silky whiteness now, and fell in soft curls about
the pale face.

On the day when I again take up the thread of this

story, she was seated in her parlor, in a dress of silvery
gray silk, which contrasted pleasantly with the crimson
chair. Under her collar of Honiton lace was an amethystine
ribbon, fastened with a pearl pin. Her cap of rich
white lace, made in the fashion of Mary Queen of Scots,
was very slightly trimmed with ribbon of the same color,
and fastened in front with a small amethyst set with pearls.
For fanciful Flora had said: “Dear Mamita Lila, don't
have everything about your dress cold white or gray. Do
let something violet or lilac peep out from the snow, for
the sake of `auld lang syne.' ”

The lady was busy with some crochet-work, when a
girl, apparently about twelve years old, came through the
half-opened folding-doors, and settled on an ottoman at her
feet. She had large, luminous dark eyes, very deeply
fringed, and her cheeks were like ripened peaches. The
dark mass of her wavy hair was gathered behind into what
was called a Greek cap, composed of brown network
strewn with gold beads. Here and there very small, thin
dark curls strayed from under it, like the tendrils of a delicate
vine; and nestling close to each ear was a little dark,
downy crescent, which papa called her whisker when he
was playfully inclined to excite her juvenile indignation.

“See!” said she. “This pattern comes all in a tangle.
I have done the stitches wrong. Will you please to help
me, Mamita Lila?”

Mrs. Delano looked up, smiling as she answered, “Let
me see what the trouble is, Rosy Posy.”

Mrs. Blumenthal, who was sitting opposite, noticed with
artistic eye what a charming contrast of beauty there was
between that richly colored young face, with its crown of
dark hair, and that pale, refined, symmetrical face, in its

frame of silver. “What a pretty picture I could make, if
I had my crayons here,” thought she. “How gracefully
the glossy folds of Mamita's gray dress fall over Rosa's
crimson merino.”

She was not aware that she herself made quite as charming
a picture. The spirit of laughter still flitted over her
face, from eyes to dimples; her shining black curls were
lighted up with a rope of cherry colored chenille, hanging
in a tassel at her ear; and her graceful little figure showed
to advantage in a neatly fitting dress of soft brown merino,
embroidered with cherry-colored silk. On her lap was little
Lila, dressed in white and azure, with her fine flaxen
curls tossed about by the motion of riding to “Banbury
Cross.” The child laughed and clapped her hands at every
caper; and if her steed rested for a moment, she called out
impatiently, “More agin, mamma!”

But mamma was thinking of the picture she wanted to
make, and at last she said: “We sha' n't get to Banbury
Cross to-day, Lila Blumen; so you must fall off your horse,
darling, and nursey will take you, while I go to fetch my
crayons.” She had just taken her little pet by the hand to
lead her from the room, when the door-bell rang. “That's
Mrs. Fitzgerald,” said she. “I know, because she always
rings an appoggiatura. Rosen Blumen, take sissy to the
nursery, please.”

While the ladies were interchanging salutations with
their visitor, Rosa passed out of the room, leading her little
sister by the hand. “I declare,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald,
“that oldest daughter of yours, Mrs. Blumenthal, bears a
striking resemblance to the cantatrice who was turning
everybody's head when I was in Rome. You missed
hearing her, I remember. Let me see, what was her

nomme de guerre? I forget; but it was something that signified
a bell, because there was a peculiar ringing in her
voice. When I first saw your daughter, she reminded me
of somebody I had seen; but I never thought who it was
till now. I came to tell you some news about the fascinating
Señorita; and I suppose that brought the likeness to
my mind. You know Mr. King, the son of our rich old
merchant, persuaded her to leave the stage to marry him.
They have been living in the South of France for some
years, but he has just returned to Boston. They have
taken rooms at the Revere House, while his father's house
is being fitted up in grand style for their reception. The
lady will of course be a great lioness. She is to make her
first appearance at the party of my cousin, Mrs. Green.
The winter is so nearly at an end, that I doubt whether
there will be any more large parties this season; and I
would n't fail of attending this one on any account, if it
were only for the sake of seeing her. She was the handsomest
creature I ever beheld. If you had ever seen her,
you would consider it a compliment indeed to be told that
your Rosa resembles her.”

“I should like to get a glimpse of her, if I could without
the trouble of going to a party,” replied Mrs. Blumenthal.

“I will come the day after,” rejoined Mrs. Fitzgerald,
“and tell you how she was dressed, and whether she
looks as handsome in the parlor as she did on the stage.”

After some more chat about reported engagements, and
the probable fashions for the coming season, the lady took
her leave.

When she was gone, Mrs. Delano remarked: “Mrs.
King must be very handsome if she resembles our Rosa.
But I hope Mrs. Fitzgerald will not be so injudicious as to

talk about it before the child. She is free from vanity, and
I earnestly wish she may remain so. By the way, Flora,
this Mr. King is your father's namesake,—the one who,
you told me, called at your house in New Orleans, when
you were a little girl.”

“I was thinking of that very thing,” rejoined Mrs. Blumenthal,
“and I was just going to ask you his Christian
name. I should like to call there to take a peep at his
handsome lady; and see whether he would recollect me.
If he did, it would be no matter. So many years have
passed, and I am such an old story in Boston, that nobody
will concern themselves about me.”

“I also should be rather pleased to call,” said Mrs.
Delano. “His father was a friend of mine; and it was
through him that I became acquainted with your father.
They were inseparable companions when they were young
men. Ah, how long ago that seems! No wonder my hair
is white. But please ring for Rosa, dear. I want to arrange
her pattern before dinner.”

“There's the door-bell again, Mamita!” exclaimed
Flora; “and a very energetic ring it is, too. Perhaps you
had better wait a minute.”

The servant came in to say that a person from the country
wanted to speak with Mrs. Delano; and a tall, stout
man, with a broad face, full of fun, soon entered. Having
made a short bow, he said, “Mrs. Delano, I suppose?”

The lady signified assent by an inclination of the head.

“My name's Joe Bright,” continued he. “No relation
of John Bright, the bright Englishman. Wish I was. I
come from Northampton, ma'am. The keeper of the Mansion
House told me you wanted to get board there in some
private family next summer; and I called to tell you that

I can let you have half of my house, furnished or not, just
as you like. As I'm plain Joe Bright the blacksmith, of
course you won't find lace and damask, and such things as
you have here.”

“All we wish for,” rejoined Mrs. Delano, “is healthy
air and wholesome food for the children.”

“Plenty of both, ma'am,” replied the blacksmith. “And
I guess you'll like my wife. She ain't one of the kind that
raises a great dust when she sweeps. She's a still sort of
body; but she knows a deal more than she tells for.”

After a description of the accommodations he had to
offer, and a promise from Mrs. Delano to inform him of her
decision in a few days, he rose to go. But he stood, hat in
hand, looking wistfully toward the piano. “Would it be
too great a liberty, ma'am, to ask which of you ladies
plays?” said he.

“I seldom play,” rejoined Mrs. Delano, “because my
daughter, Mrs. Blumenthal, plays so much better.”

Turning toward Flora, he said, “I suppose it would be
too much trouble to play me a tune?”

“Certainly not,” she replied; and, seating herself at the
piano, she dashed off, with voice and instrument, “The
Campbells are coming, Oho! Oho!”

“By George!” exclaimed the blacksmith. “You was
born to it, ma'am; that's plain enough. Well, it was just
so with me. I took to music as a Newfoundland pup takes
to the water. When my brother Sam and I were boys, we
were let out to work for a blacksmith. We wanted a fiddle
dreadfully; but we were too poor to buy one; and we
could n't have got much time to play on 't if we had had
one, for our boss watched us as a weasel watches mice.
But we were bent on getting music somehow. The boss

always had plenty of iron links of all sizes, hanging in a
row, ready to be made into chains when wanted. One day,
I happened to hit one of the links with a piece of iron I
had in my hand. `By George! Sam,' said I, `that was Do.'
`Strike again,' says he. `Blow! Sam, blow!' said I. I
was afraid the boss would come in and find the iron cooling
in the fire. So he kept blowing away, and I struck the link
again. `That's Do, just as plain as my name's Sam,' said he.
A few days after, I said, `By George! Sam, I've found Sol.'
`So you have,' said he. `Now let me try. Blow, Joe,
blow!' Sam, he found Re and La. And in the course of
two months we got so we could play Old Hundred. I don't
pretend to say we could do it as glib as you run over the
ivory, ma'am; but it was Old Hundred, and no mistake.
And we played Yankee Doodle, first rate. We called our
instrument the Harmolinks; and we enjoyed it all the more
because it was our own invention. I tell you what, ma'am,
there's music hid away in everything, only we don't know
how to bring it out.”

“I think so,” rejoined Mrs. Blumenthal. “Music is
a sleeping beauty, that needs the touch of a prince to
waken her. Perhaps you will play something for us, Mr.
Bright?” She rose and vacated the music-stool as she
spoke.

“I should be ashamed to try my clumsy fingers in your
presence, ladies,” he replied. “But I'll sing the Star-spangled
Banner, if you will have the goodness to accompany
me.”

She reseated herself, and he lifted up his voice and
sang. When he had done, he drew a long breath, wiped
the perspiration from his face with a bandana handkerchief,
and laughed as he said: “I made the screen of your gaslight

shake, ma'am. The fact is, when I sing that, I have
to put all my heart into it.”

“And all your voice, too,” rejoined Mrs. Blumenthal.

“O, no,” answered he, “I could have put on a good deal
more steam, if I had n't been afraid of drowning the piano.
I'm greatly obliged to you, ladies; and I hope I shall
have the pleasure of hearing you again in my own house.
I should like to hear some more now, but I've stayed too
long. My wife agreed to meet me at a store, and I don't
know what she'll say to me.”

“Tell her we detained you by playing to you,” said Mrs.
Blumenthal.

“O, that would be too much like Adam,” rejoined he.
“I always feel ashamed to look a woman in the face, after
reading that story. I always thought Adam was a mean
cuss to throw off all the blame on Eve.” With a short bow,
and a hasty “Good morning, ladies,” he went out.

His parting remark amused Flora so much, that she
burst into one of her musical peals of laughter; while her
more cautious friend raised her handkerchief to her mouth,
lest their visitor should hear some sound of mirth, and mistake
its import.

“What a great, beaming face!” exclaimed Flora. “It
looks like a sunflower. I have a fancy for calling him
Monsieur Girasol. What a pity Mr. Green had n't longed
for a musical instrument, and been too poor to buy one.
It would have done him so much good to have astonished
himself by waking up a tune in the Harmolinks.”

“Yes,” responded Mrs. Delano, “it might have saved
him the trouble of going to Arabia Petræa or Damascus,
in search of something new. What do you think about
accepting Mr. Bright's offer?”

“O, I hope we shall go, Mamita. The children would
be delighted with him. If Alfred had been here this morning,
he would have exclaimed, `Is n't he jolly?”'

“I think things must go cheerfully where such a sunflower
spirit presides,” responded Mrs. Delano. “And he
is certainly sufficiently au naturel to suit you and Florimond.”

“Yes, he bubbles over,” rejoined Flora. “It is n't the
fashion; but I like folks that bubble over.”

Mrs. Delano smiled as she answered: “So do I. And
perhaps you can guess who it was that made me in love
with bubbling over?”

Flora gave a knowing smile, and dotted one of her comic
little courtesies. “I don't see what makes you and Florimond
like me so well,” said she. “I'm sure I'm neither
wise nor witty.”

“But something better than either,” replied Mamita.

The vivacious little woman said truly that she was
neither very wise nor very witty; but she was a transparent
medium of sunshine; and the commonest glass, filled
with sunbeams, becomes prismatic as a diamond.

25. CHAPTER XXV.

MRS. GREEN'S ball was the party of the season.
Five hundred invitations were sent out, all of them
to people unexceptionable for wealth, or fashion, or some
sort of high distinction, political, literary, or artistic. Smith
had received carte blanche to prepare the most luxurious
and elegant supper possible. Mrs. Green was resplendent
with diamonds; and the house was so brilliantly illuminated,
that the winows of carriages traversing that part
of Beacon Street glittered as if touched by the noonday
sun. A crowd collected on the Common, listening to the
band of music, and watching the windows of the princely
mansion, to obtain glimpses through its lace curtains of
graceful figures revolving in the dance, like a vision of
fairy-land seen through a veil of mist.

In that brilliant assemblage, Mrs. King was the centre
of attraction. She was still a Rose Royal, as Gerald Fitzgerald
had called her twenty-three years before. A very
close observer would have noticed that time had slightly
touched her head; but the general effect of the wavy hair
was as dark and glossy as ever. She had grown somewhat
stouter, but that only rendered her tall figure more majestic.
It still seemed as if the fluid Art, whose harmonies
were always flowing through her soul, had fashioned her
form and was swaying all its motions; and to this natural
gracefulness was now added that peculiar stylishness of
manner, which can be acquired only by familiar intercourse
with elegant society. There was nothing foreign in her

accent, but the modulations of her voice were so musical,
that English, as she spoke it, seemed all vowels and liquid
consonants. She had been heralded as La Señorita, and
her dress was appropriately Spanish. It was of cherry-colored
satin, profusely trimmed with black lace. A mantilla
of very rich transparent black lace was thrown over
her head, and fastened on one side with a cluster of red
fuchsias, the golden stamens of which were tipped with small
diamonds. The lace trimming on the corsage was looped
up with a diamond star, and her massive gold bracelets
were clasped with diamonds.

Mr. Green received her with great empressement; evidently
considering her the “bright particular star” of the
evening. She accepted her distinguished position with the
quietude of one accustomed to homage. With a slight bow
she gave Mr. Green the desired promise to open the ball
with him, and then turned to answer another gentleman,
who wished to obtain her for the second dance. She would
have observed her host a little more curiously, had she
been aware that he once proposed to place her darling
Floracita at the head of that stylish mansion.

Mrs. King's peculiar style of beauty and rich foreign
dress attracted universal attention; but still greater admiration
was excited by her dancing, which was the very soul
of music taking form in motion; and as the tremulous
diamond drops of the fuchsias kept time with her graceful
movements, they sparkled among the waving folds of her
black lace mantilla, like fire-flies in a dark night. She was,
of course, the prevailing topic of conversation; and when
Mr. Green was not dancing, he was called upon to repeat,
again and again, the account of her wonderful début in the
opera at Rome. In the midst of one of these recitals, Mrs.

Fitzgerald and her son entered; and a group soon gathered
round that lady, to listen to the same story from her lips.
It was familiar to her son; but he listened to it with
quickened interest, while he gazed at the beautiful opera-singer
winding about so gracefully in the evolutions of the
dance.

Mr. King was in the same set with his lady, and had
just touched her hand, as the partners crossed over, when
he noticed a sudden flush on her countenance, succeeded
by deadly pallor. Following the direction her eye had
taken, he saw a slender, elegant young man, who, with
some variation in the fashion of dress, seemed the veritable
Gerald Fitzgerald to whom he had been introduced in the
flowery parlor so many years ago. His first feeling was
pain, that this vision of her first lover had power to excite
such lively emotion in his wife; but his second thought
was, “He recalls her first-born son.”

Young Fitzgerald eagerly sought out Mr. Green, and
said: “Please introduce me the instant this dance is ended,
that I may ask her for the next. There will be so many
trying to engage her, you know.”

He was introduced accordingly. The lady politely acceded
to his request, and the quick flush on her face was
attributed by all, except Mr. King, to the heat produced
by dancing.

When her young partner took her hand to lead her to
the next dance, she stole a glance toward her husband, and
he saw that her soul was troubled. The handsome couple
were “the observed of all observers”: and the youth was
so entirely absorbed with his mature partner, that not a
little jealousy was excited in the minds of young ladies.
When he led her to a seat, she declined the numerous invitations

that crowded upon her, saying she should dance no
more that evening. Young Fitzgerald at once professed a
disinclination to dance, and begged that, when she was sufficiently
rested, she would allow him to lead her to the
piano, that he might hear her sing something from Norma,
by which she had so delighted his mother, in Rome.

“Your son seems to be entirely devoted to the queen of
the evening,” said Mr. Green to his cousin.

“How can you wonder at it?” replied Mrs. Fitzgerald.
“She is such a superb creature!”

“What was her character in Rome?” inquired a lady
who had joined the group.

“Her stay there was very short,” answered Mrs. Fitzgerald.
“Her manners were said to be unexceptionable.
The gentlemen were quite vexed because she made herself
so inaccessible.”

The conversation was interrupted by La Campaneo's
voice, singing, “Ah, bello a me ritorno.” The orchestra
hushed at once, and the dancing was suspended, while the
company gathered round the piano, curious to hear the remarkable
singer. Mrs. Fitzgerald had long ceased to allude
to what was once her favorite topic,—the wonderful
resemblance between La Señorita's voice and a mysterious
voice she had once heard on her husband's plantation. But
she grew somewhat pale as she listened; for the tones recalled
that adventure in her bridal home at Magnolia Lawn,
and the fair moonlight vision was followed by dismal spectres
of succeeding years. Ah, if all the secret histories
and sad memories assembled in a ball-room should be at
once revealed, what a judgment night it would be!

Mrs. King had politely complied with the request to
sing, because she was aware that her host and the company

would be disappointed if she refused; but it was known
only to her own soul how much the effort cost her. She
bowed rather languidly to the profuse compliments which
followed her performance, and used her fan as if she felt
oppressed.

“Fall back!” said one of the gentlemen, in a low voice.
“There is too great a crowd round her.”

The hint was immediately obeyed, and a servant was
requested to bring iced lemonade. She soon breathed
more freely, and tried to rally her spirits to talk with Mr.
Green and others concerning European reminiscences.
Mrs. Fitzgerald drew near, and signified to her cousin a
wish to be introduced; for it would have mortified her
vanity, when she afterward retailed the gossip of the ball-room,
if she had been obliged to acknowledge that she was
not presented to la belle lionne.

“If you are not too much fatigued,” said she, “I hope
you will allow my son to sing a duet with you. He would
esteem it such an honor! I assure you he has a fine voice,
and he is thought to sing with great expression, especially
`M' odi! Ah, m' odi!' ”

The young gentleman modestly disclaimed the compliment
to his musical powers, but eagerly urged his mother's
request. As he bent near the cantatrice, waiting for her
reply, her watchful husband again noticed a quick flush
suffusing her face, succeeded by deadly pallor. Gently
moving young Fitzgerald aside, he said in a low tone,
“Are you not well, my dear?”

She raised her eyes to his with a look of distress, and
replied: “No, I am not well. Please order the carriage.”

He took her arm within his, and as they made their way

through the crowd she bowed gracefully to the right and
left, in answer to the lamentations occasioned by her departure.
Young Fitzgerald followed to the hall door to
offer, in the name of Mrs. Green, a beautiful bouquet, enclosed
within an arum lily of silver filigree. She bowed
her thanks, and, drawing from it a delicate tea-rose, presented
it to him. He wore it as a trophy the remainder
of the evening; and none of the young ladies who teased
him for it succeeded in obtaining it.

When Mr. and Mrs. King were in the carriage, he took
her hand tenderly, and said, “My dear, that young man
recalled to mind your infant son, who died with poor
Tulee.”

With a heavy sigh she answered, “Yes, I am thinking
of that poor little baby.”

He held her hand clasped in his; but deeming it most
kind not to intrude into the sanctum of that sad and tender
memory, he remained silent. She spoke no other
word as they rode toward their hotel. She was seeing a
vision of those two babes, lying side by side, on that dreadful
night when her tortured soul was for a while filled with
bitter hatred for the man she had loved so truly.

Mrs. Fitzgerald and her son were the earliest among
the callers the next day. Mrs. King happened to rest her
hand lightly on the back of a chair, while she exchanged
salutations with them, and her husband noticed that the
lace of her hanging sleeve trembled violently.

“You took everybody by storm last evening, Mrs. King,
just as you did when you first appeared as Norma,” said
the loquacious Mrs. Fitzgerald. “As for you, Mr. King,
I don't know but you would have received a hundred challenges,
if gentlemen had known you were going to carry

off the prize. So sly of you, too! For I always heard
you were entirely indifferent to ladies.”

“Ah, well, the world don't always know what it's talking
about,” rejoined Mr. King, smiling. Further remarks
were interrupted by the entrance of a young girl, whom
he took by the hand, and introduced as “My daughter
Eulalia.”

Nature is very capricious in the varieties she produces
by mixing flowers with each other. Sometimes the different
tints of each are blended in a new color, compounded
of both; sometimes the color of one is delicately shaded
into the other; sometimes one color is marked in distinct
stripes or rings upon the other; and sometimes the separate
hues are mottled and clouded. Nature had indulged
in one of her freaks in the production of Eulalia, a maiden
of fifteen summers, the only surviving child of Mr. and
Mrs. King. She inherited her mother's tall, flexile form,
and her long dark eyelashes, eyebrows, and hair; but she
had her father's large blue eyes, and his rose-and-white
complexion. The combination was peculiar, and very
handsome; especially the serene eyes, which looked out
from their dark surroundings like clear blue water deeply
shaded by shrubbery around its edges. Her manners were
a little shy, for her parents had wisely forborne an early introduction
to society. But she entered pleasantly enough
into some small talk with Fitzgerald about the skating parties
of the winter, and a new polka that he thought she
would like to practise.

Callers began to arrive rapidly. There was a line
of carriages at the door, and still it lengthened. Mrs.
King received them all with graceful courtesy, and endeavored
to say something pleasing to each; but in the

midst of it all, she never lost sight of Gerald and Eulalia.
After a short time she beckoned to her daughter
with a slight motion of her fan, and spoke a few words to
her aside. The young girl left the room, and did not return
to it. Fitzgerald, after interchanging some brief
remarks with Mr. King about the classes at Cambridge,
approached the cantatrice, and said in lowered tones: “I
tried to call early with the hope of hearing you sing. But
I was detained by business for grandfather; and even if you
were graciously inclined to gratify my presumptuous wish,
you will not be released from company this morning. May
I say, Au revoir?”

“Certainly,” she replied, looking up at him with an expression
in her beautiful eyes that produced a glow of
gratified vanity. He bowed good morning, with the smiling
conviction that he was a great favorite with the distinguished
lady.

When the last caller had retired, Mrs. King, after exchanging
some general observations with her husband
concerning her impressions of Boston and its people, seated
herself at the window, with a number of Harper's Weekly
in her hand; but the paper soon dropped on her lap, and
she seemed gazing into infinity. The people passing and
repassing were invisible to her. She was away in that
lonely island home, with two dark-haired babies lying near
her, side by side.

Her husband looked at her over his newspaper, now and
then; and observing her intense abstraction, he stepped
softly across the room, and, laying his hand gently upon
her head, said: “Rosa, dear, do memories trouble you so
much that you regret having returned to America?”

Without change of posture, she answered: “It matters

not where we are. We must always carry ourselves with
us.” Then, as if reproaching herself for so cold a response
to his kind inquiry, she looked up at him, and, kissing his
hand, said: “Dear Alfred! Good angel of my life! I
do not deserve such a heart as yours.”

He had never seen such a melancholy expression in
her eyes since the day she first encouraged him to hope
for her affection. He made no direct allusion to the subject
of her thoughts, for the painful history of her early
love was a theme they mutually avoided; but he sought,
by the most assiduous tenderness, to chase away the
gloomy phantoms that were taking possession of her soul.
In answer to his urgent entreaty that she would express
to him unreservedly any wish she might form, she said,
as if thinking aloud: “Of course they buried poor Tulee
among the negroes; but perhaps they buried the baby
with Mr. and Mrs. Duroy, and inscribed something about
him on the gravestone.”

“It is hardly probable,” he replied; “but if it would give
you satisfaction to search, we will go to New Orleans.”

“Thank you,” rejoined she; “and I should like it very
much if you could leave orders to engage lodgings for the
summer somewhere distant from Boston, that we might
go and take possession as soon as we return.”

He promised compliance with her wishes; but the thought
flitted through his mind, “Can it be possible the young
man fascinates her, that she wants to fly from him?”

“I am going to Eulalia now,” said she, with one of her
sweet smiles. “It will be pleasanter for the dear child
when we get out of this whirl of society, which so much dis
turbs our domestic companionship.”

As she kissed her hand to him at the door, he thought to

himself, “Whatever this inward struggle may be, she will
remain true to her pure and noble character.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald, meanwhile, quite unconscious that the
flowery surface she had witnessed covered such agitated
depths, hastened to keep her promise of describing the
party to Mrs. Delano and her daughter.

“I assure you,” said she, “La Señorita looked quite as
handsome in the ball-room as she did on the stage. She is
stouter than she was then, but not so `fat and forty' as I
am. Large proportions suit her stately figure. As for her
dress, I wish you could have seen it. It was splendid, and
wonderfully becoming to her rich complexion. It was
completely Spanish, from the mantilla on her head to the
black satin slippers with red bows and brilliants. She was
all cherry-colored satin, black lace, and diamonds.”

“How I should like to have seen her!” exclaimed Mrs.
Blumenthal, whose fancy was at once taken by the bright
color and strong contrast of the costume.

But Mrs. Delano remarked: “I should think her style
of dress rather too prononcé and theatrical; too suggestive
of Fanny Elsler and the Bolero.”

“Doubtless it would be so for you or I,” rejoined Mrs.
Fitzgerald. “Mother used to say you had a poet lover,
who called you the twilight cloud, violet dissolving into
lilac. And when I was a young lady, some of my admirers
compared me to the new moon, which must, of course,
appear in azure and silver. But I assure you Mrs. King's
conspicuous dress was extremely becoming to her style of
face and figure. I wish I had counted how many gentlemen
quoted, `She walks in beauty like the night.' It became
really ridiculous at last. Gerald and I called upon
her this morning, and we found her handsome in the parlor

by daylight, which is a trying test to the forties, you
know. We were introduced to their only daughter, Eulalia,—a
very peculiar-looking young miss, with sky-blue
eyes and black eyelashes, like some of the Cireassian
beauties I have read off. Gerald thinks her almost as
handsome as her mother. What a fortune that girl will
be! But I have promised ever so many people to tell
them about the party; so I must bid you good by.”

When the door closed after her, Flora remarked, “I
never heard of anybody but my Mamita who was named
Eulalia.”

“Eulalia was a Spanish saint,” responded Mrs. Delano;
“and her name is so very musical that it would naturally
please the ear of La Señorita.”

“My curiosity is considerably excited to see this stylish
lady,” said Flora.

“We will wait a little, till the first rush of visitors has
somewhat subsided, and then we will call,” rejoined Mrs.
Delano.

They called three days after, and were informed that
Mr. and Mrs. King had gone to New Orleans.

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

Strange contrasts occur in human society, even
where there is such a strong tendency toward equality
as there is in New England. A few hours before
Queen Fashion held her splendid court in Beacon Street,
a vessel from New Orleans called “The King Cotton” approached
Long Wharf in Boston. Before she touched the
pier, a young man jumped on board from another vessel
close by. He went directly up to the captain, and said, in
a low, hurried tone: “Let nobody land. You have slaves
on board. Mr. Bell is in a carriage on the wharf waiting
to speak to you.”

Having delivered this message, he disappeared in the
same direction that he came.

This brief interview was uneasily watched by one of
the passengers, a young man apparently nineteen or twenty
years old. He whispered to a yellow lad, who was his
servant, and both attempted to land by crossing the adjoining
vessel. But the captain intercepted them, saying, “All
must remain on board till we draw up to the wharf.”

With desperate leaps, they sprang past him. He tried
to seize them, calling aloud, “Stop thief! Stop thief!”
Some of his sailors rushed after them. As they ran up
State Street, lads and boys, always ready to hunt anything,
joined in the pursuit. A young black man, who was passing
down the street as the crowd rushed up, saw the yellow
lad race by him, panting for breath, and heard him cry,
“Help me!”

The crowd soon turned backward, having caught the
fugitives. The black man hurried after, and as they were
putting them on board the vessel he pushed his way close
to the yellow lad, and again heard him say, “Help me! I
am a slave.”

The black man paused only to look at the name of the
vessel, and then hastened with all speed to the house of
Mr. Willard Percival. Almost out of breath with his
hurry, he said to that gentleman: “A vessel from New
Orleans, named `The King Cotton,' has come up to Long
Wharf. They've got two slaves aboard. They was chasing
'em up State Street, calling out, `Stop thief!' and I
heard a mulatto lad cry, `Help me!' I run after 'em; and
just as they was going to put the mulatto lad aboard the
vessel, I pushed my way close up to him, and he said,
`Help me! I'm a slave.' So I run fast as I could to tell
you.”

“Wait a moment till I write a note to Francis Jackson,
which you must carry as quick as you can,” said Mr. Percival.
“I will go to Mr. Sewall for a writ of habeas corpus.”

While this was going on, the captain had locked the
fugitives in the hold of his vessel, and hastened to the carriage,
which had been waiting for him at a short distance
from the wharf.

“Good evening, Mr. Bell,” said he, raising his hat as he
approached the carriage door.

“Good evening, Captain Kane,” replied the gentleman
inside. “You've kept me waiting so long, I was nearly
out of patience.”

“I sent you word they'd escaped, sir,” rejoined the
captain. “They gave us a run; but we've got 'em fast

enough in the hold. One of 'em seems to be a white man.
Perhaps he's an Abolitionist, that's been helping the nigger
off. It's good enough for him to be sent back to the
South. If they get hold of him there, he'll never have a
chance to meddle with gentlemen's property again.”

“They're both slaves,” replied Mr. Bell. “The telegram
I received informed me that one would pass himself
for a white man. But, captain, you must take 'em
directly to Castle Island. One of the officers there will
lock 'em up, if you tell them I sent you. And you can't
be off too quick; for as likely as not the Abolitionists will
get wind of it, and be raising a row before morning.
There's no safety for property now-a-days.”

Having given these orders, the wealthy merchant bade
the captain good evening, and his carriage rolled away.

The unhappy fugitives were immediately taken from the
hold of the vessel, pinioned fast, and hustled on board a
boat, which urged its swift way through the waters to
Castle Island, where they were safety locked up till further
orders.

“O George, they'll send us back.” said the younger
one. “I wish we war dead.”

George answered, with a deep groan: “O how I have
watched the North Star! thinking always it pointed to a
land of freedom. O my God, is there no place of refuge
for the slave?”

“You are so white, you could have got off, if you hadn't
brought me with you,” sobbed the other.

“And what good would freedom do me without you,
Henny?” responded the young man, drawing his companion
closer to his breast. “Cheer up, honey! I'll try
again; and perhaps we'll make out better next time.”

He tried to talk hopefully; but when yellow Henny, in
her boy's dress, cried herself to sleep on his shoulder, his
tears dropped slowly on her head, while he sat there gazing
at the glittering stars, with a feeling of utter discouragement
and desolation.

That same evening, the merchant who was sending them
back to bondage, without the slightest inquiry into their
case, was smoking his amber-lipped meerschaum, in an
embroidered dressing-gown, on a luxurious lounge; his
daughter, Mrs. Fitzgerald, in azure satin and pearls, was
meandering through the mazes of the dance; and his exquisitely
dressed grandson, Gerald, was paying nearly
equal homage to Mrs. King's lambent eyes and the sparkle
of her diamonds.

When young Fitzgerald descended to a late breakfast,
the morning after the great party, his grandfather was
lolling back in his arm-chair, his feet ensconced in embroidered
slippers, and resting on the register, while he
read the Boston Courier.

“Good morning, Gerald,” said he, “if it be not past
that time of day. If you are sufficiently rested from last
night's dissipation, I should like to have you attend to a
little business for me.”

“I hope it won't take very long, grandfather,” replied
Gerald; “for I want to call on Mrs. King early, before
her rooms are thronged with visitors.”

“That opera-singer seems to have turned your head,
though she is old enough to be your mother,” rejoined Mr.
Bell.

“I don't know that my head was any more turned than
others,” answered the young man, in a slightly offended
tone. “If you call to see her, sir, as mother says you intend

to do, perhaps she will make you feel as if you had a young
head on your shoulders.”

“Likely as not, likely as not,” responded the old gentleman,
smiling complacently at the idea of re-enacting the
bean. “But I wish you to do an errand for me this morning,
which I had rather not put in writing, for fear of accidents,
and which I cannot trust verbally to a servant. I
got somewhat chilled waiting in a carriage near the wharf,
last evening, and I feel some rheumatic twinges in consequence.
Under these circumstances, I trust you will
excuse me if I ask the use of your young limbs to save
my own.”

“Certainly, sir,” replied Gerald, with thinly disguised
impatience. “What is it you want me to do?”

“Two slaves belonging to Mr. Bruteman of New Orleans,
formerly a friend of your father, have escaped in my
ship, `The King Cotton.' The oldest, it seems, is a head
carpenter, and would bring a high price. Bruteman values
them at twenty-five hundred dollars. He is my debtor
to a considerable amount, and those negroes are mortgaged
to me. But independently of that circumstance, it
would be very poor policy, dealing with the South as I do,
to allow negroes to be brought away in my vessels with
impunity. Besides, there is a heavy penalty in all the
Southern States, if the thing is proved. You see, Gerald,
it is every way for my interest to make sure of returning
those negroes; and your interest is somewhat connected
with mine, seeing that the small pittance saved from the
wreck of your father's property is quite insufficient to supply
your rather expensive wants.”

“I think I have been reminded of that often enough,
sir, to be in no danger of forgetting it,” retorted the youth,
reddening as he spoke.

“Then you will perhaps think it no great hardship to
transact a little business for me now and then,” coolly rejoined
the grandfather. “I shall send orders to have these
negroes sold as soon as they arrive, and the money transmitted
to me; for when they once begin to run away, the
disease is apt to become chronic.”

“Have you seen them, sir,” inquired Gerald.

“No,” replied the merchant. “That would have been
unpleasant, without being of any use. When a disagreeable
duty is to be done, the quicker it is done the better.
Captain Kane took'em down to Castle Island last night;
but it won't do for them to stay there. The Abolitionists
will ferret'em out, and be down there with their devilish
habeas corpus. I want you to go on board `The King Cotton,'
take the captain aside, and tell him, from me, to remove
them forthwith from Castle Island, keep them under strong
guard, and skulk round with them in the best hiding-places
he can find, until a ship passes that will take them to New
Orleans. Of course, I need not caution you to be silent
about this affair, especially concerning the slaves being
mortgaged to me. If that is whispered abroad, it will soon
get into the Abolition papers that I am a man-stealer, as
those rascals call the slaveholders.”

The young man obeyed his instructions to the letter;
and having had some difficulty in finding Captain Kane, he
was unable to dress for quite so early a call at the Revere
House as he had intended. “How much trouble these
niggers give us!” thought he, as he adjusted his embroidered
cravat, and took his fresh kid gloves from the box.

When Mr. Blumenthal went home to dine that day, the
ladies of the household noticed that he was unusually serious.

As he sat after dinner, absently playing a silent
tune on the table-cloth, his wife touched his hand with her
napkin, and said, “What was it so long ago, Florimond?”

He turned and smiled upon her, as he answered: “So
my fingers were moving to the tune of `Long, long ago,'
were they? I was not conscious of it, but my thoughts
were with the long ago. Yesterday afternoon, as I was
passing across State Street, I heard a cry of `Stop thief!'
and I saw them seize a young man, who looked like an
Italian. I gave no further thought to the matter, and pursued
the business I had in hand. But to-day I have
learned that he was a slave, who escaped in `The King
Cotton' from New Orleans. I seem to see the poor fellow's
terrified look now; and it brings vividly to mind
something dreadful that came very near happening, long
ago, to a person whose complexion is similar to his. I was
thinking how willingly I would then have given the services
of my whole life for a portion of the money which our
best friend here has enabled me to acquire.”

“What was the dreadful thing that was going to happen,
papa?” inquired Rosa.

“That is a secret between mamma and I,” he replied.
“It is something not exactly suitable to talk with little
girls about, Rosy Posy.” He took her hand, as it lay on
the table, and pressed it affectionately, by way of apology
for refusing his confidence.

Then, looking at Mrs. Delano, he said: “If I had only
known the poor fellow was a slave, I might, perhaps,
have done something to rescue him. But the Abolitionists
are doing what can be done. They procured a writ of
habeas corpus, and went on board `The King Cotton'; but
they could neither find the slaves nor obtain any information

from the captain. They are keeping watch on all
vessels bound South, in which Mr. Goldwin and I are assisting
them. There are at least twenty spies out on the
wharves.”

“I heartily wish you as much success as I have had in
that kind of business,” replied Mrs. Delano with a smile.

“O, I do hope they'll be rescued,” exclaimed Flora.
“How shameful it is to have such laws, while we keep
singing, in the face of the world, about `the land of the
free, and the home of the brave.' I don't mean to sing
that again; for it's false.”

“There'll come an end to this some time or other, as
surely as God regins in the heavens,” rejoined Blumenthal.

Two days passed, and the unremitting efforts of Mr.
Percival and Mr. Jackson proved unavailing to obtain any
clew to the fugitives. After an anxious consultation with
Samuel E. Sewall, the wisest and kindest legal adviser in
such cases, they reluctantly came to the conclusion that
nothing more could be done without further information.
As a last resort, Mr. Percival suggested a personal appeal
to Mr. Bell.

“Rather a forlorn hope that,” replied Francis Jackson.
“He has named his ship for the king that rules over us all,
trampling on freedom of petition, freedom of debate, and
even on freedom of locomotion.”

“We will try,” said Mr. Percival. “It is barely possible
we may obtain some light on the subject.”

Early in the evening they accordingly waited upon the
merchant at his residence. When the servant informed
him that two gentlemen wished to see him on business,

he laid aside his meerschaum and the Courier, and said,
“Show them in.”

Captain Kane had informed him that the Abolitionists
were “trying to get up a row”; but he had not anticipated
that they would call upon him, and it was an unpleasant
surprise when he saw who his visitors were. He bowed
stiffly, and waited in silence for them to explain their business.

“We have called,” said Mr. Percival, “to make some
inquiries concerning two fugitives from slavery, who, it is
said, were found on board your ship, `The King Cotton.' ”

“I know nothing about it,” replied Mr. Bell. “My
captains understand the laws of the ports they sail from;
and it is their business to see that those laws are respected.”

“But,” urged Mr. Percival, “that a man is claimed as a
slave by no means proves that he is a slave. The law
presumes that every man has a right to personal liberty,
until it is proved otherwise; and in order to secure a fair
trial of the question, the writ of habeas corpus has been
provided.”

“It's a great disgrace to Massachusetts, sir, that she
puts so many obstacles in the way of enforcing the laws of
the United States,” replied Mr. Bell.

“If your grandson should be claimed as a slave, I rather
think you would consider the writ of habeas corpus a wise
and just provision,” said the plain-speaking Francis Jackson.
“It is said that this young stranger, whom they
chased as a thief, and carried off as a slave, had a complexion
no darker than his.”

“I take it for granted,” added Mr. Percival, “that you
do not wish for a state of things that would make every

man and woman in Massachusetts liable to be carried off as
slaves, without a chance to prove their right to freedom.”

Mr. Bell answered, in tones of suppressed anger, his
face all ablaze with excitement, “If I could choose who
should be thus carried off, I would do the Commonwealth a
service by ridding her of a swarm of malignant fanatics.”

“If you were to try that game,” quietly rejoined Francis
Jackson, “I apprehend you would find some of the fire
of '76 still alive under the ashes.”

“A man is strongly tempted to argue,” said Mr. Percival,
“when he knows that all the laws of truth and justice
and freedom are on his side; but we did not come here to
discuss the subject of slavery, Mr. Bell. We came to appeal
to your own good sense, whether it is right or safe
that men should be forcibly carried from the city of Boston
without any process of law.”

“I stand by the Constitution,” answered Mr. Bell, doggedly.
“I don't presume to be wiser than the framers of
that venerable document.”

“That is evading the question,” responded Mr. Percival.
“There is no question before us concerning the framers of
the Constitution. The simple proposition is, whether it is
right or safe for men to be forcibly carried from Boston
without process of law. Two strangers have been thus abducted;
and you say it is your captain's business. You
know perfectly well that a single line from you would induce
your captain to give those men a chance for a fair
trial. Is it not your duty so to instruct him?”

A little thrown off his guard, Mr. Bell exclaimed: “And
give an Abolition mob a chance to rescue them? I shall
do no such thing.”

“It is not the Abolitionists who get up mobs,” rejoined

Francis Jackson. “Garrison was dragged through the
streets for writing against slavery; but when Yancey of
Alabama had the use of Faneuil Hall, for the purpose of
defending slavery, no Abolitionist attempted to disturb his
speaking.”

A slight smile hovered about Mr. Percival's lips; for it
was well known that State Street and Ann Street clasped
hands when mobs were wanted, and that money changed
palms on such occasions; and the common rumor was that
Mr. Bell's purse had been freely used.

The merchant probably considered it an offensive insinuation,
for his face, usually rubicund from the effects of
champagne and oysters, became redder, and his lips were
tightly compressed; but he merely reiterated, “I stand by
the Constitution, sir.”

“Mr. Bell, I must again urge it upon your conscience,”
said Mr. Percival, “that you are more responsible than the
captain in this matter. Your captains, of course, act under
your orders, and would do nothing contrary to your expressed
wishes. Captain Kane has, doubtless, consulted
you in this business.”

“That's none of your concern, sir,” retorted the irascible
merchant. “My captains know that I think Southern gentlemen
ought to be protected in their property; and that is
sufficient. I stand by the Constitution, sir. I honor the
reverend gentleman who said he was ready to send his
mother or his brother into slavery, if the laws required it.
That's the proper spirit, sir. You fanatics, with your useless
abstractions about human rights, are injuring trade, and
endangering the peace of the country. You are doing all
you can to incite the slaves to insurrection. I don't pretend
to be wiser than the framers of the Constitution, sir.

I don't pretend to be wiser than Daniel Webster, sir, who
said in Congress that he `would support, to the fullest extent,
any law Southern gentlemen chose to frame for the
recovery of fugitive slaves.' ”

“I wish you a better conscience-keeper,” rejoined Francis
Jackson, rising as he spoke. “I don't see, my friend, that
there's any use in staying here to talk any longer. There's
none so deaf as those that won't hear.”

Mr. Percival rose at this suggestion, and “Good evening”
was exchanged, with formal bows on both sides.
But sturdy Francis Jackson made no bow, and uttered no
“Good evening.” When they were in the street, and the
subject was alluded to by his companion, he simply replied:
“I've pretty much done with saying or doing what
I don't mean. It's a pity that dark-complexioned grandson
of his couldn't be carried off as a salve. That might,
perhaps, bring him to a realizing sense of the state of
things.”

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

AFEW days past the middle of the following May, a
carriage stopped before the house of Mr. Joseph
Bright, in Northampton, and Mrs. Delano, with all the
Blumenthal family, descended from it. Mr. Bright received
them at the gate, his face smiling all over. “You're
welcome, ladies,” said he. “Walk in! walk in! Betsey,
this is Mrs. Delano. This is Mrs. Bright, ladies. Things
ain't so stylish here as at your house; but I hope you'll
find'em comfortable.”

Mrs. Bright, a sensible-looking woman, with great moderation
of manner, showed them into a plainly furnished,
but very neat parlor.

“O, how pleasant this is!” exclaimed Mrs. Blumenthal,
as she looked out of one of the side-windows.

The children ran up to her repeating: “How pleasant!
What a nice hedge, mamma! And see that wall all
covered with pretty flowers!”

“Those are moss-pinks,” said Mrs. Bright. “I think
they are very ornamental to a wall.”

“Did you plant them?” inquired Rosa.

“O, no,” said Mr. Bright, who was bringing in various
baskets and shawls. “That's not our garden; but we have
just as much pleasure looking at it as if it was. A great
Southern nabob lives there. He made a heap o'money
selling women and children, and he's come North to spend
it. He's a very pious man, and deacon of the church.”
The children began to laugh; for Mr. Bright drawled out

his words in solemn tones, and made his broad face look
very comical by trying to lengthen it. “His name is Stillham,”
added he, “but I call him Deacon Steal'em.”

As he passed out, Rosa whispered to her mother, “What
does he mean about a deacon's selling women and children?”

Before an answer could be given, Mr. Bright reappeared
with a bird-cage. “I guess this is a pretty old parrot,”
said he.

“Yes, she is quite old,” replied Mrs. Delano. “But we
are all attached to her; and our house being shut up for the
summer, we were unwilling to trust her with strangers.”

The parrot, conscious of being talked about, turned up
her head sideways, and winked her eye, without stirring
from the corner of the cage, where she was rolled up like
a ball of feathers. Then she croaked out an English
phrase, which she had learned of the children, “Polly
wants a cacker.”

“She shall have a cracker,” said good-nature Mr.
Bright; and Rosa and little Lila were soon furnished with
a cracker and a lump of sugar for Poll.

In a short time they were summoned to tea; and after
enjoying Mrs. Bright's light bread and sweet butter, they
saw no more of their host and hostess for the evening. In
the morning the whole family were up before the hour appointed
for breakfast, and were out in the garden, taking a
look at the environments of their new abode. As Mrs.
Blumenthal was walking among the bushes, Mr. Bright's
beaming face suddenly uprose before her, from where he
was stooping to pluck up some weeds.

“Good morning, ma'am,” said he. “Do hear that old
thief trying to come Paddy over the Lord!”

As he spoke, he pointed his thumb backward toward

Deacon Stillham's house, whence proceeded a very loud
and monotonous voice of prayer.

Mrs. Blumenthal smiled as she inquired, “What did
you mean by saying he sold women and children?”

“Made his money by slave-trading down in Carolina,
ma'am. I reckon a man has to pray a deal to get himself
out of that scrape; needs to pray pretty loud too, or the
voice of women screaming for their babies would get to
the throne afore him. He don't like us over and above
well, 'cause we're Abolitionists. But there's Betsey calling
me; I mustn't stop here talking.”

Mrs. Blumenthal amused her companions by a repetition
of his remarks concerning the Deacon. She was much entertained
by their host's original style of bubbling over, as
she termed it. After breakfast she said: “There he is in
the garden. Let's go and talk with him, Florimond.”

And taking her parasol, she went out, leaning on her
husband's arm.

“So you are an Abolitionist?” said Mr. Blumenthal, as
they stopped near their host.

Mr. Bright tossed his hat on a bush, and, leaning on his
hoe, sang in a stentorian voice: “I am an Abolitionist; I
glory in the name.—There,” said he, laughing, “I let out
all my voice, that the Deacon might hear. He can pray
the loudest; but I reckon I can sing the loudest. I'll tell
you what first made me begin to think about slavery. You
see I was never easy without I could be doing something
in the musical way, so I undertook to teach singing. One
winter, I thought I should like to run away from Jack
Frost, and I looked in the Southern papers to see if any
of 'em advertised for a singing-master. The first thing
my eye lighted on was this advertisement:—

“ `By George!' said I, `that's a description of me. I
didn't know before that I was a mulatto. It'll never do
for me to go there.' So I went to Vermont to teach. I
told 'em I was a runaway slave, and showed 'em the advertisement
that described me. Some of 'em believed me, till
I told 'em it was a joke. Well, it is just as bad for those
poor black fellows as it would have been for me; but that
blue-eyed Joe seemed to bring the matter home to me. It
set me to thinking about slavery, and I have kept thinking
ever since.”

“Not exactly such a silent thinking as the apothecary's
famous owl, I judge,” said Mrs. Blumenthal.

“No,” replied he, laughing. “I never had the Quaker
gift of gathering into the stillness, that's a fact. But I
reckon even that 'pothecary's owl wouldn't be silent if he
could hear and understand all that Betsey has told me about
the goings-on down South. Before I married her, she
went there to teach; but she's a woman o' feeling, and she
couldn't stand it long. But, dear me, if I believed Deacon
Steal'em's talk, I should think it was just about the pleasantest
thing in the world to be sold; and that the niggers
down South had nothing 'pon earth to do but to lick treacle
and swing on a gate. Then he proves it to be a Divine
institution from Scripture, chapter and verse. You may
have noticed, perhaps, that such chaps are always mighty
well posted up about the original designs of Providence;
especially as to who's foreordained to be kept down. He
says God cussed Ham, and the niggers are the descendants

of Ham. I told him if there was an estate of Ham's
left unsettled, I reckoned't would puzzle the 'cutest lawyer
to hunt up the rightful heirs.”

“I think so,” rejoined Mr. Blumenthal, smiling; “especially
when they've become so mixed up that they advertise
runaway negroes with sandy hair, blue eyes, and ruddy
complexion.”

“When the Deacon feels the ground a little shaky under
him,” resumed Mr. Bright, he leans on his minister down
in Carolina, who, he says, is a Northern man, and so pious
that folks come from far and near to get him to pray for
rain in a dry time; thinking the prayers of such a godly
man will be sure to bring down the showers. He says that
man preached a sermon that proved niggers were born to
be servants of servants unto their brethren. I told him I
didn't doubt that part of the prophecy was fulfilled about
their serving their brethren; and I showed him the advertisement
about sandy hair and blue eyes. But as for being
servants of servants, I never heard of slaveholders serving
anybody except — a chap whose name it ain't polite to
mention before ladies. As for that preacher, he put me
in mind of a minister my father used to tell of. He'd been
to a wedding, and when he come home he couldn't light
his lamp. After trying a long spell he found out that the
extinguisher was on it. I told the deacon that ministers
down South had put an extinguisher on their lamp, and
couldn't be expected to raise much of a light from it to
guide anybody's steps.”

“Some of the Northern ministers are not much better
guides, I think,” rejoined Mr. Blumenthal.

“Just so,” replied his host; “ 'cause they've got the
same extinguisher on; and ain't it curious to see 'em puffing

and blowing at the old lamp? I get 'most tired of
talking common sense and common feeling to the Deacon.
You can't get it into him, and it won't stay on him. You
might as well try to heap a peck o' flax-seed. He keeps
eating his own words, too; though they don't seem to agree
with him, neither. He maintains that the slaves are perfectly
contented and happy; and the next minute, if you
quote any of their cruel laws, he tells you they are obliged
to make such laws or else they would rise and cut their
masters' throats. He says blacks and whites won't mix
any more than oil and water; and the next minute he
says if the slaves are freed they'll marry our daughters.
I tell him his arguments are like the Kilkenny cats, that
ate one another up to the tip o' their tails. The Deacon
is sensible enough, too, about many other subjects;
but he nor no other man can saw straight with a crooked
saw.”

“It's an old saying,” rejoined Blumenthal, “that, when
men enter into a league with Satan, he always deserts
them at the tightest pinch; and I've often observed he's
sure to do it where arguments pinch.”

“I don't wonder you are far from being a favorite with
the Deacon,” remarked Flora; “for, according to your own
account, you hit him rather hard.”

“I suppose I do,” rejoined Mr. Bright. “I'm always in
earnest myself; and when I'm sure I'm in the right, I
always drive ahead. I soon get out o' patience trying to
twist a string that ain't fastened at nary eend, as an old
neighbor of my father used to say. I suppose some of us
Abolitionists are a little rough at times; but I reckon the
coarsest of us do more good than the false prophets that
prophesy smooth things.”

“You said Mrs. Bright had been a teacher in the South.
What part of the South was it?” inquired Mrs. Blumenthal.

“She went to Savannah to be nursery governess to
Mrs. Fitzgerald's little girl,” replied he. “But part of the
time she was on an island where Mr. Fitzgerald had a cotton
plantation. I dare say you've heard of him, for he
married the daughter of that rich Mr. Bell who lives in
your street. He died some years ago; at least they suppose
he died, but nobody knows what became of him.”

Flora pressed her husband's arm, and was about to inquire
concerning the mystery, when Mrs. Delano came,
hand in hand with Rosa and Lila, to say that she had
ordered the carriage and wanted them to be in readiness to
take a drive.

They returned to a late dinner; and when they rose from
a long chat over the dessert, Mr. Bright was not to be
found, and his wife was busy; so further inquiries concerning
Mr. Fitzgerald's fate were postponed. Mr. Blumenthal
proposed a walk on Round Hill; but the children
preferred staying at home. Rosa had a new tune she
wanted to practise with her guitar; and her little sister
had the promise of a story from Mamita Lila. So Mr.
Blumenthal and his wife went forth on their ramble alone.
The scene from Round Hill was beautiful with the tender
foliage of early spring. Slowly they sauntered round from
point to point, pausing now and then to look at the handsome
villages before them, at the blooming peach-trees, the
glistening river, and the venerable mountains, with feathery
crowns of violet cloud.

Suddenly a sound of music floated on the air; and they
stood spell-bound, with heads bowed, as if their souls were
hushed in prayer. When it ceased, Mr. Blumenthal drew

a long breath, and said, “Ah! that was our Mendelssohn.”

“How exquisitely it was played,” observed his wife,
“and how in harmony it was with these groves! It sounded
like a hymn in the forest.”

They lingered, hoping again to hear the invisible musician.
As they leaned against the trees, the silver orb of
the moon ascended from the horizon, and rested on the
brow of Mount Holyoke; and from the same quarter
whence Mendelssohn's “Song without Words” had proceeded,
the tones of “Casta Diva” rose upon the air.
Flora seized her husband's arm with a quick, convulsive
grasp, and trembled all over. Wondering at the intensity
of her emotion, he passed his arm tenderly round her waist
and drew her closely to him. Thus, leaning upon his
heart, she listened with her whole being, from the inmost
recesses of her soul, throughout all her nerves, to her very
fingers' ends. When the sounds died away, she sobbed
out: “O, how like Rosa's voice! It seemed as if she had
risen from the dead.”

He spoke soothingly, and in a few minutes they descended
the hill and silently wended their way homeward.
The voice that had seemed to come from another world
invested the evening landscape with mystical solemnity.
The expression of the moon seemed transfigured, like a
great clairvoyant eye, reflecting light from invisible spheres,
and looking out upon the external world with dreamy abstraction.

When they arrived at their lodgings, Flora exclaimed:
“O Mamita Lila, we have heard such heavenly music,
and a voice so wonderfully like Rosa's! I don't believe I
shall sleep a wink to-night.”

“Do you mean the Aunt Rosa I was named for?” inquired
her daughter.

“Yes, Rosen Blumen,” replied her mother; “and I
wish you had gone with us, that you might have an idea
what a wonderful voice she had.”

This led to talk about old times, and to the singing of
various airs associated with those times. When they retired
to rest. Flora fell asleep with those tunes marching
and dancing through her brain; and, for the first time during
many years, she dreamed of playing them to her
father, while Rosabella sang.

The next morning, when the children had gone out to
ramble in the woods with their father, her memory being
full of those old times, she began to say over to the parrot
some of the phrases that formerly amused her father and
Rosabella. The old bird was never talkative now; but
when urged by Flora, she croaked out some of her familiar
phrases.

“I'm glad we brought pauvre Manon with us,” said
Mrs. Blumenthal. “I think she seems livelier since she
came here. Sometimes I fancy she looks like good
Madame Guirlande. Those feathers on her head make
me think of the bows on Madame's cap. Come, jolie
Manon, I'll carry you out doors, where the sun will shine
upon you. You like sunshine, don't you, Manon?”

She took the cage, and was busy fastening it on the
bough of a tree, when a voice from the street said, “Bon
jour, jolie Manon!”

The parrot suddenly flapped her wings, gave a loud
laugh, and burst into a perfect tornado of French and
Spanish phrases: “Bon jour! Buenos dias! Querida mia!
Joli diable! Petit blanc! Ha! ha!”

Surprised at this explosion, Mrs. Blumenthal looked
round to discover the cause, and exclaiming, “Oh ciel!”
she turned deadly pale, and rushed into the house.

“What is the matter, my child? inquired Mrs. Delano,
anxiously.

“O Mamita, I've seen Rosa's ghost,” she replied, sinking
into a chair.

Mrs. Delano poured some cologne on a handkerchief, and
bathed her forehead, while she said, “You were excited
last night by the tune you used to hear your sister sing;
and it makes you nervous, dear.”

While she was speaking, Mrs. Bright entered the room,
saying, “Have you a bottle of sal volatile you can lend
me? A lady has come in, who says she is a little faint.”

“I will bring it from my chamber,” replied Mrs. Delano.
She left the room, and was gone some time. When she
returned, she found Mrs. Blumenthal leaning her head on
the table, with her face buried in her hands. “My child,
I want you to come into the other room,” said Mrs. Delano.
“The lady who was faint is the famous Mrs. King, from
Boston. She is boarding on Round Hill, and I suppose it
was her voice you heard singing. She said she had seen a
lady come into this house who looked so much like a deceased
relative that it made her feel faint. Now don't be
excited, darling; but this lady certainly resembles the
sketch you made of your sister; and it is barely possible—”

Before she could finish the sentence, Flora started up,
and flew into the adjoining room. A short, quick cry, “O
Floracita!” “O Rosabell!” and they were locked in
each other's arms.

After hugging and kissing, and weeping and laughing by

turns, Mrs. King said: “That must have been Madame's
parrot. The sight of her made me think of old times, and
I said, `Bon jour, jolie Manon!' Your back was toward
me, and I should have passed on, if my attention had not
been arrested by her wild outpouring of French and Spanish.
I suppose she knew my voice.”

“Bless the dear old bird!” exclaimed Flora. “It was
she who brought us together again at last. She shall come
in to see you.”

They went out to bring in their old pet. But jolie
Manon was lying on the floor of her cage, with eyes closed
and wings outstretched. The joyful surprise had been
too much for her feeble old nerves. She was dead.

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.

SO you are alive!” exclaimed Rosa, holding her sister
back a little, and gazing upon her face with all her
soul in her eyes.

“Yes, very much alive,” answered Flora, with a smile
that brought out all her dimples.

“But do tell me,” said Rosa, “how you came to go away
so strangely, and leave me to mourn for you as if you
were dead.”

The dimples disappeared, and a shadow clouded Flora's
expressive eyes, as she replied: “It would take a long
while to explain all that, sistita mia. We will talk it over
another time, please.”

Rosa sighed as she pressed her sister's hand, and said:
“Perhaps I have already conjectured rightly about it,
Floracita. My eyes were opened by bitter experiences
after we were parted. Some time I will explain to you
how I came to run to Europe in such a hurry, with
Madame and the Signor.”

“But tell me, the first thing of all, whether Tulee is
dead,” rejoined Flora.

“You know Madame was always exceedingly careful
about expense,” responded Rosa. “Mrs. Duroy was willing
to board Tulee for her work, and Madame thought it
was most prudent to leave her there till we got established
in Europe, and could send for her; and just when we were
expecting her to rejoin us, letters came informing us that
Mr. and Mrs. Duroy and Tulee all died of yellow-fever.

It distresses me beyond measure to think of our having
left poor, faithful Tulee.”

“When we found out that Mr. Fitzgerald had married
another wife,” replied Flora, “my new Mamita kindly volunteered
to go with me in search of you and Tulee. We
went to the cottage, and to the plantation, and to New Orleans.
Everybody I ever knew seemed to be dead or
gone away. But Madame's parrot was alive, and her
chattering led me into a stranger's house, where I heard
that you were lost at sea on your way to Europe; and that
Tulee, with a white baby she had charge of, had died of
yellow-fever. Was that baby yours, dear?”

Rosa lowered her eyes, and colored deeply, as she answered:
“That subject is very painful to me. I can never
forgive myself for having left Tulee and that poor little
baby.”

Flora pressed her sister's hand in silence for a moment,
and then said: “You told me Madame and the Signor
were alive and well. Where are they?”

“They lived with us in Provence,” replied Rosa. “But
when we concluded to return to America, the Signor expressed
a wish to end his days in his native country. So
Mr. King purchased an estate for them near Florence,
and settled an annuity upon them. I had a letter from
Madame a few days ago, and she writes that they are as
happy as rabbits in clover. The Signor is getting quite
old; and if she survives him, it is agreed that she will come
and end her days with us. How it will delight her heart
to hear that you are alive! What a strange fortune we
have had! It seems that Mr. King always loved me, from
the first evening that he spent at our house. Do you remember
how you laughed because he offered to help us if

ever we were in trouble? He knew more about us then
than we knew about ourselves; and he afterward did help
me out of very great troubles. I will tell you all about it
some time. But first I want to know about you. Who is
this new Mamita that you speak of?”

“O, it was wonderful how she came to me when I had
the greatest need of a friend,” answered Flora. “You
must know that she and Papasito were in love with each
other when they were young; and she is in love with his
memory now. I sometimes think his spirit led her to me.
I will show you a picture I have made of Papasito and
Mamita as guardian angels, placing a crown of violets and
lilies of the valley on the head of my new Mamita. When
I had to run away, she brought me to live with her in
Boston; and there I met with an old acquaintance. Do
you remember Florimond Blumenthal?”

“The good German boy that Papasito took such an interest
in?” inquired Rosa. “To be sure I remember
him.”

“Well, he's a good German boy now,” rejoined Flora;
“and I'm Mrs. Blumenthal.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed Rosa. “You look so exactly
as you did when you were such a merry little elf,
that I never thought to inquire whether you were married.
In the joy of this sudden meeting, I forgot how many
years had passed since we saw each other.”

“You will realize how long it has been when you see my
children,” rejoined Flora. “My oldest, Alfred Royal, is
fitting for college. He is the image of cher Papa; and you
will see how Mamita Lila doats upon him. She must have
loved Papasito very much. Then I had a daughter that
died in a few days; then I had my Rosen Blumen, and

you will see who she looks like; then some more came
and went to the angels. Last of all came little Lila, who
looks just like her father,—flaxen hair, pink cheeks, and
great German forget-me-nots for eyes.”

“How I shall love them all!” exclaimed Rosa. “And
you will love our Eulalia. I had a little Alfred and a little
Flora. They came to us in Provence, and we left their
pretty little bodies there among the roses.”

The sisters sat folded in each other's arms, their souls
wandering about among memories, when Mr. Blumenthal
returned from his long ramble with the children. Then,
of course, there was a scene of exclamations and embraces.
Little Lila was shy, and soon ran away to take refuge in
Mamita's chamber; but Rosen Blumen was full of wonder
and delight that such a grand, beautiful lady was the Aunt
Rosa of whom she had heard so much.

“Mamita Lila has stayed away all this time, out of regard
to our privacy,” said Flora; “but now I am going to
bring her.”

She soon returned, arm in arm with Mrs. Delano. Mr.
Blumenthal took her hand respectfully, as she entered, and
said: “This is our dear benefactress, our best earthly
friend.”

“My guardian angel, my darling Mamita,” added Flora.

Mrs. King eagerly stepped forward, and folded her in
her arms, saying, in a voice half stifled with emotion,
“Thank God and you for all this happiness.”

While they were speaking together, Flora held a whispered
consultation with her husband, who soon went forth
in search of Mr. King, with strict injunctions to say merely
that an unexpected pleasure awaited him. He hastened to
obey the summons, wondering what it could mean. There

was no need of introducing him to his new-found relative.
The moment he entered the room, he exclaimed, “Why,
Floracita!”

“So you knew me?” she said, clasping his hand warmly.

“To be sure I did,” he answered. “You are the same
little fairy that danced in the floral parlor.”

“O, I'm a sober matron now,” said she, with a comic
attempt to look demure about the mouth, while her eyes
were laughing. “Here is my daughter Rosa; and I have
a tall lad, who bears two thirds of your regal name.”

The happy group were loath to separate, though it was
only to meet again in the evening at Mr. King's lodgings
on Round Hill. There, memories and feelings, that tried
in vain to express themselves fully in words, found eloquent
utterance in music.

Day after day, and evening after evening, the sisters
met, with a hunger of the heart that could not be satisfied.
Their husbands and children, meanwhile, became mutually
attached. Rosen Blumen, richly colored with her tropical
ancestry and her vigorous health, looked upon her more
ethereal cousin Eulalia as a sort of angel, and seemed to
worship her as such. Sometimes she accompanied her
sweet, bird-like voice with the guitar; sometimes they
sang duets together; and sometimes one played on the
piano, while the other danced with Lila, whose tiny feet
kept time to the music, true as an echo. Not unfrequently,
the pretty little creature was called upon to dance a
pas seul; for she had improvised a dance for herself to
the tune of Yankee Doodle, and it was very amusing to
see how emphatically she stamped the rhythm.

While the young people amused themselves thus, Flora
often brought forward her collection of drawings, which
Rosa called the portfolio of memories.

There was the little fountain in their father's garden, the
lonely cottage on the island, the skeleton of the dead pine-tree,
with the moon peeping through its streamers of moss,
and Thistle with his panniers full of flowers. Among the
variety of foreign scenes, Mrs. King particularly admired
the dancing peasants from Frascati.

“Ah,” said Flora, “I see them now, just as they looked
when we passed them on our beautiful drive to Albano.
It was the first really merry day I had had for a long time.
I was just beginning to learn to enjoy myself without you.
It was very selfish of me, dear Rosa, but I was forgetful
of you, that day. And, only to think of it! if it had not
been for that unlucky apparition of Mr. Fitzgerald, I should
have gone to the opera and seen you as Norma.”

“Very likely we should both have fainted,” rejoined
Rosa, “and then the manager would have refused to let
La Campaneo try her luck again. But what is this, Floracita?”

“That is a group on Monte Pincio,” she replied. “I
sketched it when I was shut up in my room, the day before
you came out in the opera.”

“I do believe it is Madame and the Signor and I,” responded
Rosa. “The figures and the dresses are exactly
the same; and I remember we went to Monte Pincio that
morning, on my return from rehearsal.”

“What a stupid donkey I was, not to know you were so
near!” said Flora. “I should have thought my fingers
would have told me while I was drawing it.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Rosa, “here is Tulee!” Her eyes
moistened while she gazed upon it. “Poor Tulee!” said
she, “how she cared for me, and comforted me, during
those dark and dreadful days! If it had n't been for her

and Chloe, I could never have lived through that trouble.
When I began to recover, she told me how Chloe held my
hand hour after hour, and prayed over me without ceasing.
I believe she prayed me up out of the grave. She said
our Mamita appeared to her once, and told her she was
my guardian angel; but if it had really been our Mamita,
I think she would have told her to tell me you were alive,
Mignonne. When Alfred and I went South, just before
we came here, we tried to find Tom and Chloe. We intend
to go to New Bedford soon to see them. A glimpse
of their good-natured black faces would give me more
pleasure than all the richly dressed ladies I saw at Mrs.
Green's great party.”

“Very likely you'll hear Tom preach when you go to
New Bedford,” rejoined Flora, “for he is a Methodist
minister now; and Chloe, they say, is powerful in prayer
at the meetings. I often smile when I think about the
manner of her coming away. It was so funny that my
quiet, refined Mamita Lila should all at once become a
kidnapper. But here is Rosen Blumen. Well, what now,
Mignonne?”

“Papa says Lila is very sleepy, and we ought to be
going home,” replied the young damsel.

“Then we will kiss good night, sistita mia,” said Mrs.
Blumenthal; “and you will bring Eulalia to us to-morrow.”

On their return home, Mr. Bright called to them over
the garden fence. “I've just had a letter from your
neighbor, Mrs. Fitzgerald,” said he. “She wants to know
whether we can accommodate her, and her father, and her
son with lodgings this summer. I'm mighty glad we can
say we've let all our rooms; for that old Mr. Bell treats
mechanics as if he thought they all had the small-pox, and

he was afraid o' catching it. So different from you, Mr.
Blumenthal, and Mr. King! You ain't afraid to take hold
of a rough hand without a glove on. How is Mrs. King?
Hope she's coming to-morrow. If the thrushes and bobolinks
could sing human music, and put human feeling into
it, her voice would beat 'em all. How romantic that you
should come here to Joe Bright's to find your sister, that
you thought was dead.”

When they had courteously answered his inquiries, he
repeated a wish he had often expressed, that somebody
would write a story about it. If he had been aware of all
their antecedents, he would perhaps have written one himself;
but he only knew that the handsome sisters were
orphans, separated in youth, and led by a singular combination
of circumstances to suppose each other dead.

29. CHAPTER XXIX.

WHEN the sisters were alone together, the next day
after dinner, Flora said, “Rosa, dear, does it pain
you very much to hear about Mr. Fitzgerald?”

“No; that wound has healed,” she replied. “It is
merely a sad memory now.”

“Mrs. Bright was nursery governess in his family before
her marriage,” rejoined Flora. “I suppose you have
heard that he disappeared mysteriously. I think she may
know something about it, and I have been intending to ask
her; but your sudden appearance, and the quantity of
things we have had to say to each other, have driven it out
of my head. Do you object to my asking her to come in
and tell us something about her experiences?”

“I should be unwilling to have her know we were ever
acquainted with Mr. Fitzgerald,” responded Mrs. King.

“So should I,” said Flora. “It will be a sufficient
reason for my curiosity that Mrs. Fitzgerald is our acquaintance
and neighbor.”

And she went out to ask her hostess to come and sit
with them. After some general conversation, Flora said:
“You know Mrs. Fitzgerald is our neighbor in Boston. I
have some curiosity to know what were your experiences
in her family.”

“Mrs. Fitzgerald was always very polite to me,” replied
Mrs. Bright; “and personally I had no occasion to
find fault with Mr. Fitzgerald, though I think the Yankee
schoolma'am was rather a bore to him. The South is a

beautiful part of the country. I used to think the sea-island,
where they spent most of the summer, was as beautiful
as Paradise before the fall; but I never felt at home
there. I didn't like the state of things. It's my theory
that everybody ought to help in doing the work of the
world. There's a great deal to be done, ladies, and it
don't seem right that some backs should be broken with
labor, while others have the spine complaint for want of
exercise. It didn't agree with my independent New England
habits to be waited upon so much. A negro woman
named Venus took care of my room. The first night I
slept at the plantation, it annoyed me to see her kneel
down to take off my stockings and shoes. I told her she
might go, for I could undress myself. She seemed surprised;
and I think her conclusion was that I was no lady.
But all the negroes liked me. They had got the idea,
somehow, that Northern people were their friends, and
were doing something to set them free.”

“Then they generally wanted their freedom, did they?”
inquired Flora.

“To be sure they did,” rejoined Mrs. Bright. “Did
you ever hear of anybody that liked being a slave?”

Mrs. King asked whether Mr. Fitzgerald was a hard
master.

“I don't think he was,” said their hostess. “I have
known him to do very generous and kind things for his
servants. But early habits had made him indolent and
selfish, and he left the overseer to do as he liked. Besides,
though he was a pleasant gentleman when sober, he was
violent when he was intoxicated; and he had become much
addicted to intemperance before I went there. They said
he had been a very handsome man; but he was red and

bloated when I knew him. He had a dissipated circle of
acquaintances, who used to meet at his house in Savannah,
and gamble with cards till late into the night; and the
liquor they drank often made them very boisterous and
quarrelsome. Mrs. Fitzgerald never made any remark,
in my presence, about these doings; but I am sure they
troubled her, for I often heard her walking her chamber
long after she had retired for the night. Indeed, they
made such an uproar, that it was difficult to sleep till they
were gone. Sometimes, after they had broken up, I heard
them talking on the piazza; and their oaths and obscene
jests were shocking to hear; yet if I met any of them the
next day, they appeared like courtly gentlemen. When
they were intoxicated, niggers and Abolitionists seemed
always to haunt their imaginations. I remember one night
in particular. I judged by their conversation that they
had been reading in a Northern newspaper some discussion
about allowing slaveholders to partake of the sacrament.
Their talk was a strange tipsy jumble. If Mr. Bright had
heard it, he would give you a comical account of it. As
they went stumbling down the steps, some were singing
and some were swearing. I heard one of them bawl out,
`God damn their souls to all eternity, they're going to
exclude us from the communion-table.' When I first told
the story to Mr. Bright, I said d—their souls; but he
said that was all a sham, for everybody knew what d—
stood for, and it was just like showing an ass's face to
avoid speaking his name. So I have spoken the word
right out plain, just as I heard it. It was shocking talk to
hear, and you may think it very improper to repeat it, ladies;
but I have told it to give you an idea of the state of
things in the midst of which I found myself.”

Mrs. King listened in sad silence. The Mr. Fitzgerald
of this description was so unlike the elegant young gentleman
who had won her girlish love, that she could not recognize
him as the same person.

“Did Mr. Fitzgerald die before you left?” inquired
Flora.

“I don't know when or how he died,” replied Mrs.
Bright; “but I have my suspicions. Out of regard to
Mrs. Fitzgerald, I have never mentioned them to any one
but my husband; and if I name them to you, ladies, I
trust you will consider it strictly confidential.”

They promised, and she resumed.

“I never pried into the secrets of the family, but I could
not help learning something about them, partly from my own
observation, and inferences drawn therefrom, and partly
from the conversation of Venus, my talkative waiting-maid.
She told me that her master married a Spanish lady, the
most beautiful lady that ever walked the earth; and that he
conveyed her away secretly somewhere after he married the
milk-face, as she called Mrs. Fitzgerald. Venus was still
good-looking when I knew her. From her frequent remarks
I judge that, when she was young, her master thought
her extremely pretty; and she frequently assured me that
he was a great judge `ob we far sex.' She had a handsome
mulatto daughter, whose features greatly resembled his;
and she said there was good reason for it. I used to imagine
Mrs. Fitzgerald thought so too; for she always
seemed to owe this handsome Nelly a grudge. Mr. Fitzgerald
had a body-servant named Jim, who was so genteel
that I always called him `Dandy Jim o' Caroline.' Jim
and Nelly were in love with each other; but their master,
for reasons of his own, forbade their meeting together.

Finding that Nelly tried to elude his vigilance, he sold Jim
to a New Orleans trader, and the poor girl almost cried her
handsome eyes out. A day or two after he was sold, Mr.
Fitzgerald and his lady went to Beaufort on a visit, and
took their little son and daughter with them. The walls
of my sleeping-room were to be repaired, and I was told to
occupy their chamber during their absence. The evening
after they went away, I sat up rather late reading, and
when I retired the servants were all asleep. As I sat before
the looking-glass, arranging my hair for the night, I
happened to glance toward the reflection of the bed, which
showed plainly in the mirror; and I distinctly saw a dark
eye peeping through an opening in the curtains. My heart
was in my throat, I assure you; but I had the presence of
mind not to cry out or to jump up. I continued combing
my hair, occasionally glancing toward the eye. If it be one
of the negroes, thought I, he surely cannot wish to injure
me, for they all know I am friendly to them. I tried to
collect all my faculties, to determine what it was best to do.
I reflected that, if I alarmed the servants, he might be driven
to attack me in self-defence. I began talking aloud to myself,
leisurely taking off my cuffs and collar as I did so, and
laying my breastpin and watch upon the table. `I wish
Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald were not going to stay so long at
Beaufort,' said I. `It is lonesome here, and I don't feel
at home in this chamber. I sha'n't sleep if I go to bed; so
I think I'll read a little longer.' I looked round on the
table and chairs, and added: `There, now! I've left my
book down stairs, and must go for it.' I went down to the
parlor and locked myself in. A few minutes afterward I
saw a dark figure steal across the piazza; and, unless the
moonlight deceived me, it was Dandy Jim. I wondered at it,
because I thought he was on his way to New Orleans. Of
course, there was no sleep for me that night. When the
household were all astir, I went to the chamber again.
My watch and breastpin, which I had left on purpose,
were still lying on the table. It was evident that robbery
had not been the object. I did not mention the adventure
to any one. I pitied Jim, and if he had escaped, I had no
mind to be the means of his recapture. Whatever harm
he had intended, he had not done it, and there was no
probability that he would loiter about in that vicinity. I
had reason to be glad of my silence; for the next day an
agent from the slave-trader arrived, saying that Jim had
escaped, and that they thought he might be lurking near
where his wife was. When Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald returned,
they questioned Nelly, but she averred that she
had not seen Jim, or heard from him since he was sold.
Mr. Fitzgerald went away on horseback that afternoon.
The horse came back in the evening with an empty saddle,
and he never returned. The next morning Nelly was missing,
and she was never found. I thought it right to be
silent about my adventure. To have done otherwise might
have produced mischievous results to Jim and Nelly, and
could do their master no good. I searched the woods in
every direction, but I never came upon any trace of Mr.
Fitzgerald, except the marks of footsteps near the sea, before
the rising of the tide. I had made arrangements
to return to the North about that time; but Mrs. Fitzgerald's
second son was seized with fever, and I stayed
with her till he was dead and buried. Then we all came
to Boston together. About a year after, her little daughter,
who had been my pupil, died.”

“Poor Mrs. Fitzgerald!” said Flora. “I have heard

her allude to her lost children, but I had no idea she had
suffered so much.”

“She did suffer,” replied Mrs. Bright, “though not so
deeply as some natures would have suffered in the same
circumstances. Her present situation is far from being enviable.
Her father is a hard, grasping man, and he was
greatly vexed that her splendid marriage turned out to be
such a failure. It must be very mortifying to her to depend
upon him mainly for the support of herself and son.
I pitied her, and I pitied Mr. Fitzgerald too. He was
selfish and dissipated, because he was brought up with
plenty of money, and slaves to obey everything he chose to
order. That is enough to spoil any man.”

Rosa had listened with downcast eyes, but now she
looked up earnestly and said, “That is a very kind judgment,
Mrs. Bright, and I thank you for the lesson.”

“It is a just judgment,” replied their sensible hostess.
“I often tell Mr. Bright we cannot be too thankful that we
were brought up to wait upon ourselves and earn our own
living. You will please to excuse me now, ladies, for it is
time to prepare tea.”

As she closed the door, Rosa pressed her sister's hand,
and sighed as she said, “O, this is dreadful!”

“Dreadful indeed,” rejoined Flora. “To think of him
as he was when I used to make you blush by singing,
`Petit blanc! mon bon frère!' and then to think what an
end he came to!”

The sisters sat in silence for some time, thinking with
moistened eyes of all that had been kind and pleasant in
the man who had done them so much wrong.

30. CHAPTER XXX.

IF young Fitzgerald had not been strongly inclined to
spend the summer in Northampton, he would have
been urged to it by his worldly-minded mother and grandfather,
who were disposed to make any effort to place him
in the vicinity of Eulalia King. They took possession
of lodgings on Round Hill in June; and though very few
weeks intervened before the college vacation, the time
seemed so long to Gerald, that he impatiently counted the
days. Twice he took the journey for a short visit before
he was established as an inmate of his grandfather's household.
Alfred Blumenthal had a vacation at the same time,
and the young people of the three families were together
almost continually. Songs and glees enlivened their evenings,
and nearly every day there were boating excursions,
or rides on horseback, in which Mr. and Mrs. King and
Mr. and Mrs. Blumenthal invariably joined. No familiarity
could stale the ever fresh charm of the scenery. The
beautiful river, softly flowing in sunlight through richly
cultivated meadows, always seemed to Mr. Blumenthal like
the visible music of Mendelssohn. Mr. King, who had
been in Germany, was strongly reminded of the Rhine and
the Black Forest, while looking on that wide level expanse
of verdure, with its broad band of sparkling silver, framed
in with thick dark woods along the river-range of mountains.
The younger persons of the party more especially enjoyed
watching Mill River rushing to meet the Connecticut, like
an impatient boy let loose for the holidays, shouting, and

laughing, and leaping, on his way homeward. Mrs. Delano
particularly liked to see, from the summit of Mount Holyoke,
the handsome villages, lying so still in the distance, giving
no sign of all the passions, energies, and sorrows that were
seething, struggling, and aching there; and the great stretch
of meadows, diversified with long, unfenced rows of stately
Indian corn, rich with luxuriant foliage of glossy green, alternating
with broad bands of yellow grain, swayed by the
breeze like rippling waves of the sea. These regular lines
of variegated culture, seen from such a height, seemed like
handsome striped calico, which earth had put on for her
working-days, mindful that the richly wooded hills were
looking down upon her picturesque attire. There was
something peculiarly congenial to the thoughtful soul of the
cultured lady in the quiet pastoral beauty of the extensive
scene; and still more in the sense of serene elevation above
the whole, seeing it all dwindle into small proportions, as the
wisdom of age calmly surveys the remote panorama of life.

These riding parties attracted great attention as they
passed through the streets; for all had heard the rumor
of their wealth, and all were struck by the unusual amount
of personal beauty, and the distinguished style of dress.
At that time, the Empress Eugenie had issued her imperial
decree that all the world should shine in “barbaric gold,”—
a fashion by no means distasteful to the splendor-loving
sisters. Long sprays of Scotch laburnum mingled their
golden bells with the dark tresses of Eulalia and Rosen
Blumen; a cluster of golden wheat mixed its shining
threads with Flora's black curls; and a long, soft feather,
like “the raven down of darkness,” dusted with gold,
drooped over the edge of Mrs. King's riding-cap, fastened
to its band by a golden star. Even Mrs. Fitzgerald so far

changed her livery of the moon as to wear golden buds
mixed with cerulean flowers. Mrs. Delano looked cool as
evening among them in her small gray bonnet, with a few
violets half hidden in silver leaves. Old Mr. Bell not unfrequently
joined in these excursions. His white hair, and
long silky white beard, formed a picturesque variety in the
group; while all recognized at a glance the thorough-bred
aristocrat in his haughty bearing, his stern mouth, his cold,
turquoise eyes, and the clenching expression of his hand.
Mrs. King seemed to have produced upon him the effect
Gerald had predicted. No youthful gallant could have
been more assiduous at her bridle-rein, and he seemed to
envy his grandson every smile he obtained from her beautiful
lips.

Both he and Mrs. Fitzgerald viewed with obvious satisfaction
the growing intimacy between that young gentleman
and Eulalia. “Capital match for Gerald, eh?” said
Mr. Bell to his daughter. “They say King's good for
three millions at least,—some say four.”

“And Eulalia is such a lovely, gentle girl!” rejoined
Mrs. Fitzgerald. “I'm very fond of her, and she seems
fond of me; though of course that's on account of my
handsome son.”

“Yes, she's a lovely girl,” replied the old gentleman;
“and Gerald will be a lucky dog if he wins her. But her
beauty isn't to be compared to her mother's. If I were
Emperor of France, and she were a widow, I know who
would have a chance to become Empress.”

But though Mrs. King lived in such an atmosphere of
love, and was the object of so much admiration, with ample
means for indulging her benevolence and her tastes, she
was evidently far from being happy. Flora observed it,

and often queried with her husband what could be the
reason. One day she spoke to Mr. King of the entire absence
of gayety in her sister, and he said he feared young
Mr. Fitzgerald painfully reminded her of her lost son.

Flora reflected upon this answer without being satisfied
with it. “It doesn't seem natural,” said she to her husband.
“She parted from that baby when he was but a few
weeks old, and he has been dead nearly twenty years. She
has Eulalia to love, and a noble husband, who worships the
very ground she treads on. It don't seem natural. I wonder
whether she has a cancer or some other secret disease.”

She redoubled her tenderness, and exerted all her
powers of mimicry to amuse her sister. The young folks
screamed with laughter to see her perform the shuffling
dances of the negroes, or to hear her accompany their singing
with imitations of the growling contre-fagotto, or the
squeaking fife. In vain she filled the room with mocking-birds,
or showed off the accomplishments of the parrot, or
dressed herself in a cap with a great shaking bow, like
Madame Guirlande's, or scolded in vociferous Italian, like
Signor Pimentero. The utmost these efforts could elicit
from her sister was a faint, vanishing smile.

Mr. King noticed all this, and was pained to observe that
his wife's sadness increased daily. He would not himself
have chosen young Fitzgerald as a suitor for his daughter,
fearing he might resemble his father in character as he did
in person; but he was willing to promote their acquaintance,
because the young man seemed to be a favorite with
his lady, and he thought that as a son-in-law he might supply
the loss of her first-born. But, in their rides and other
excursions, he was surprised to observe that Mrs. King
assiduously tried to withdraw Mr. Fitzgerald from her

daughter, and attach him to herself. Her attentions generally
proved too flattering to be resisted; but if the young
man, yielding to attractions more suited to his age, soon returned
to Eulalia, there was an unmistakable expression
of pain on her mother's face. Mr. King was puzzled and
pained by this conduct. Entire confidence had hitherto
existed between them. Why had she become so reserved?
Was the fire of first-love still smouldering in her soul, and
did a delicate consideration for him lead her to conceal it?
He could not believe it, she had so often repeated that to
love the unworthy was a thing impossible for her. Sometimes
another thought crossed his mind and gave him exquisite
torture, though he repelled it instantly: “Could
it possibly be that his modest and dignified wife was in
love with this stripling, who was of an age suitable for her
daughter?” Whatever this mysterious cloud might be that
cast its cold shadow across the sunshine of his home, he
felt that he could not endure its presence. He resolved to
seek an explanation with his wife, and to propose an immediate
return to Europe, if either of his conjectures should
prove true. Returning from a solitary walk, during which
these ideas had been revolving in his mind, he found her in
their chamber kneeling by the bedside, sobbing violently.
With the utmost tenderness he inquired what had grieved
her.

She answered with a wild exclamation, “O Alfred, this
must be stopped!”

“What must be stopped, my dear?” said he.

“Gerald Fitzgerald must not court our daughter,” she
replied.

“I thought it would please you, dearest,” rejoined he.
“The young man has always seemed to be a favorite of

yours. I should not have selected him for our Eulalia, for
fear the qualities of his father might develop themselves
in him; but you must remember that he has not been educated
among slaves. I think we can trust to that to make
a great difference in his character.”

She groaned aloud, and sobbed out: “It must be stopped.
It will kill me.”

He sat down by her side, took her hand, and said very
gravely: “Rosa, you have often told me I was your best
friend. Why then do you not confide to me what it is
that troubles you?”

“O, I cannot! I cannot!” she exclaimed. “I am a
guilty wretch.” And there came a fresh outburst of sobs,
which she stifled by keeping her face hidden in the bedclothes.

“Rosa,” said he, still more gravely, “you must tell me
the meaning of this strange conduct. If an unworthy passion
has taken possession of you, it is your duty to try to
conquer it for your own sake, for my sake, for our daughter's
sake. If you will confide in me, I will not judge you
harshly. I will return to Europe with you, and help you
to cure yourself. Tell me frankly, Rosa, do you love this
young man?”

She looked up suddenly, and, seeing the extreme sadness
of his face, she exclaimed: “O Alfred, if you have thought
that, I must tell you all. I do love Gerald; but it is because
he is my own son.”

“Your son!” he exclaimed, springing up, with the feeling
that a great load was lifted from his heart. He raised
her to his bosom, and kissed her tearful face again and
again. The relief was so sudden, that for an instant he
forgot the strangeness of her declaration. But coming to

his senses immediately, he inquired, “How can it be that
your son passes for Mrs. Fitzgerald's son? And if it be
so, why did you not tell me of it?”

“I ought to have told you when I consented to marry
you,” she replied. “But your protecting love was so
precious to me, that I had not the courage to tell you anything
that would diminish your esteem for me. Forgive
me, dearest. It is the only wrong I have ever done you.
But I will tell you all now; and if it changes your love
for me, I must try to bear it, as a just punishment for the
wrong I have done. You know how Mr. Fitzgerald deserted
me, and how I was stricken down when I discovered
that I was his slave. My soul almost parted from my body
during the long illness that followed. When I came to my
senses, I humbled myself to entreat Mr. Fitzgerald to
emancipate me, for the sake of our unborn child. He
promised to do it, but he did not. I was a mere wreck
when my babe was born, and I had the feeling that I
should soon die. I loved the helpless little thing; and
every time I looked at him, it gave me a pang to think that
he was born a slave. I sent again and again for papers of
manumission, but they never came. I don't know whether
it was mere negligence on the part of Mr. Fitzgerald, or
whether he meant to punish me for my coldness toward
him after I discovered how he had deceived me. I was
weak in body, and much humbled in spirit, after that long
illness. I felt no resentment toward him. I forgave him,
and pitied his young wife. The only thing that bound me
to life was my child. I wanted to recover my strength,
that I might carry him to some part of the world where
slavery could not reach him. I was in that state, when
Madame sent Mr. Duroy to tell me Mr. Fitzgerald was in

debt, and had sold me to that odious Mr. Bruteman, whom
he had always represented to me as the filthiest soul alive.
I think that incredible cruelty and that horrible danger
made me insane. My soul was in a terrible tempest of
hatred and revenge. If Mr. Fitzgerald had appeared before
me, I should have stabbed him. I never had such
feelings before nor since. Unfortunately Chloe had come
to the cottage that day, with Mrs. Fitzgerald's babe, and
he was lying asleep by the side of mine. I had wild
thoughts of killing both the babies, and then killing myself.
I had actually risen in search of a weapon, but I heard my
faithful Tulee coming to look upon me, to see that all was
well, and I lay down again and pretended to be asleep.
While I waited for her to cease watching over me, that
frightful mood passed away. Thank God, I was saved from
committing such horrible deeds. But I was still half frantic
with misery and fear. A wild, dark storm was raging in
my soul. I looked at the two babes, and thought how one
was born to be indulged and honored, while the other was
born a slave, liable to be sold by his unfeeling father or by
his father's creditors. Mine was only a week the oldest,
and was no larger than his brother. They were so exactly
alike that I could distinguish them only by their dress. I
exchanged the dresses, Alfred; and while I did it, I
laughed to think that, if Mr. Fitzgerald should capture me
and the little one, and make us over to Mr. Bruteman, he
would sell the child of his Lily Bell. It was not like me
to have such feelings. I hope I was insane. Do you
think I was?”

He pressed her to his heart as he replied, “You surely
had suffering enough to drive you wild, dearest; and I do
suppose your reason was unsettled by intensity of anguish.”

She looked at him anxiously, as she asked, “Then it
does not make you love me less?”

“No, darling,” he replied; “for I am sure it was not my
own gentle Rosa who had such feelings.”

“O, how I thank you, dear one, for judging me so charitably,”
said she. “I hope it was temporary insanity; and
always when I think it over, it seems to me it must have
been. I fell asleep smiling over the revenge I had taken,
and I slept long and heavily. When I woke, my first wish
was to change the dresses back again; but Chloe had gone
to the plantation with my babe, and Mr. Duroy hurried me
on board the boat before sunrise. I told no one what I
had done; but it filled me with remorse then, and has
troubled me ever since. I resolved to atone for it, as far
as I could, by taking the tenderest care of the little changeling,
and trying to educate him as well as his own mother
could have done. It was that which gave me strength to
work so hard for musical distinction; and that motive stimulated
me to appear as an opera-singer, though the publicity
was distasteful to me. When I heard that the poor
little creature was dead, I was tormented with self-reproach,
and I was all the more unhappy because I could tell no one
of my trouble. Then you came to console and strengthen
me with your blessed love, and I grew cheerful again. If
the changeling had been living at the time you asked me
to marry you, I should have told you all; but the poor little
creature was dead, and there seemed to be no necessity
of confessing the wrong I had done. It was a selfish feeling.
I couldn't bear the thought of diminishing the love
that was so precious to my wounded heart. I have now
told you all, dear husband.”

“Your excuse for concealment is very precious to my

own heart,” he replied. “But I regret you did not tell me
while we were in Europe; for then I would not have returned
to the United States till I was quite sure all obstacles
were removed. You know I never formed the project
until I knew Mr. Fitzgerald was dead.”

“The American gentleman who informed you of his
death led me into a mistake, which has proved disastrous,”
rejoined she. “He said that Mrs. Fitzgerald lost her husband
and son about the same time. I was not aware of
the existence of a second son, and therefore I supposed
that my first-born had died. I knew that you wanted to
spend your old age in your native country, and that you
were particularly desirous to have Eulalia marry in New
England. The dread I had of meeting my child as the son
of another, and seeming to him a stranger, was removed by
his death; and though I shed tears in secret, a load was
lifted from my heart. But the old story of avenging
Furies following the criminal wheresoever he goes seems
verified in my case. On the day of Mrs. Green's ball, I
heard two gentlemen in the Revere House talking about
Mr. Bell; and one of them said to the other that Mrs.
Fitzgerald's second son and her daughter had died, and
that her oldest son was sole heir to Mr. Bell's property.
My first impulse was to tell you all; but because I had so
long concealed my fault, it was all the more difficult to confess
it then. You had so generously overlooked many disagreeable
circumstances connected with my history, that I
found it extremely painful to add this miserable entanglement
to the list. Still, I foresaw that it must be done, and
I resolved to do it; but I was cowardly, and wanted to put
off the evil day. You may remember, perhaps, that at the
last moment I objected to attending that ball; but you

thought it would be rude to disappoint Mrs. Green, merely
because I felt out of spirits. I went, not dreaming of seeing
my son there. I had not looked upon him since the
little black, silky head drooped on my arm while I exchanged
the dresses. You may partly imagine what I
suffered. And now he and Eulalia are getting in love
with each other; and I know not what is to be done.
When you came in, I was praying for strength to seek
your counsel. What can we do, dear? It will be a great
disappointment for you to return to Europe, now that you
have refitted your father's house, and made all your arrangements
to spend the remainder of our days here.”

“I would do it willingly,” he replied, “if I thought it
would avail to separate Gerald and Eulalia. But a voyage
to Europe is nothing now-a-days, to people of their
property. I believe he loves the dear girl; and if he did
not, my reputed millions would prevent his grandfather and
his mother from allowing him to lose sight of her. If we
were to build a castle on the top of Mount Himalaya, they
would scale it, you may depend. I see no other remedy
than to tell Gerald that Eulalia is his sister.”

“O, I cannot tell him!” exclaimed she. “It would be
so dreadful to have my son hate me! And he would hate
me; for I can see that he is very proud.”

In very kind and serious tones he replied: “You know,
dear Rosa, that you expressed a wish the other day to go
to the Catholic church in which your mother worshipped,
because you thought confession and penance would be a
comfort. You have wisely chosen me for your confessor,
and if I recommend pennance I trust you will think it best
to follow my advice. I see how difficult it would be to tell
all your own and your mother's story to so young a man as
Gerald, and he your own son. I will tell him; and I need

not assure you that you will have a loving advocate to
plead your cause with him. But his mother must know
why he relinquishes Eulalia, when he has had so much reason
to think himself in favor both with her and her parents.
Gerald might tell her the mere external facts; but she
could appreciate and understand them much better if told,
as they would be told, by a delicate and loving woman, who
had suffered the wrongs that drove her to madness, and
who repented bitterly of the fault she had committed. I
think you ought to make a full confession to Mrs. Fitzgerald;
and having done that, we ought to do whatever she
chooses to prescribe.”

“It will be a severe penance,” she rejoined; “but I will
do whatever you think is right. If I could have all the
suffering, I would not murmur. But Gerald will suffer and
Eulalia will suffer. And for some weeks I have made you
unhappy. How sad you look, dear.”

“I am a very happy man, Rosa, compared with what I
was before you told me this strange story. But I am very
serious, because I want to be sure of doing what is right in
these difficult premises. As for Gerald and Eulalia, their
acquaintance has been very short, and I don't think they
have spoken of love to each other. Their extreme youth
is also a favorable circumstance. Rochefoucault says, `Absence
extinguishes small passions, and increases great ones.'
My own experience proved the truth of one part of the
maxim; but perhaps Gerald is of a more volatile temperament,
and will realize the other portion.”

“And do you still love me as well as you ever did?”
she asked.

He folded her more closely as he whispered, “I do, darling.”
And for some minutes she wept in silence on his
generous breast.

31. CHAPTER XXXI.

THAT evening young Fitzgerald was closeted two or
three hours with Mr. King. Though the disclosure
was made with the utmost delicacy and caution, the young
man was startled and shocked; for he inherited pride from
both his parents, and he had been educated in the prejudices
of his grandfather. At first he flushed with indignation,
and refused to believe he was so disgraced.

“I don't see that you are disgraced, my young friend,”
replied Mr. King. “The world might indeed so misjudge,
because it is accustomed to look only on externals; but
there is no need that the world should know anything
about it. And as for your own estimate of yourself, you
were Mr. Fitzgerald the gentleman before you knew this
singular story, and you are Mr. Fitzgerald the gentleman
still.”

“I am not so much of a philosopher,” rejoined the
young man. “I shall not find it easy to endure the double
stain of illegitimacy and alliance with the colored race.”

Mr. King regarded him with a friendly smile, as he
answered: “Perhaps this experience, which you find so
disagreeable, may educate you to more wisdom than the
schools have done. It may teach you the great lesson of
looking beneath the surface into the reality of things, my
son. Legally you are illegitimate; but morally you are
not so. Your mother believed herself married to your
father, and through all the vicissitudes of her life she has
proved herself a modest, pure, and noble woman. During

twenty years of intimate acquaintance, I have never known
her to indulge an unworthy thought, or do a dishonorable
action, except that of substituting you for Mr. Fitzgerald's
legal heir. And if I have at all succeeded in impressing
upon your mind the frantic agony of her soul, desolate and
shockingly abused as she was, I think you will agree with
me in considering that an excusable offence; especially as
she would have repaired the wrong a few hours later, if it
had been in her power. With regard to an alliance with
the colored race, I think it would be a more legitimate
source of pride to have descended from that truly great
man, Toussaint L'Ouverture, who was a full-blooded African,
than from that unprincipled filibuster called William
the Conqueror, or from any of his band of robbers, who
transmitted titles of nobility to their posterity. That is the
way I have learned to read history, my young friend, in
the plain sunlight of truth, unchanged by looking at it
through the deceptive colored glasses of conventional prejudice.
Only yesterday you would have felt honored to
claim my highly accomplished and noble-minded wife as a
near relative. She is as highly accomplished and noble-minded
a lady to-day as she was yesterday. The only
difference is, that to-day you are aware her grandmother
had a dark complexion. No human being can be really
stained by anything apart from his own character; but if
there were any blot resting upon you, it would come from
your father. We should remember, however, that He who
made man can alone justly estimate man's temptations.
For myself, I believe that Mr. Fitzgerald's sins were largely
attributable to the system of slavery under which he had
the misfortune to be educated. He loved pleasure, he was
rich, and he had irresponsible power over many of his fellow-beings,
whom law and public opinion alike deprived
of protection. Without judging him harshly, let his career
be a warning to you to resist the first enticements to evil;
and, as one means of doing so, let me advise you never to
place yourself in that state of society which had such a
malign influence upon him.”

“Give me time to think,” rejoined the young man.
“This has come upon me so suddenly that I feel stunned.”

“That I can easily imagine,” replied his friend. “But
I wish you to understand distinctly, that it depends entirely
upon Mrs. Fitzgerald and yourself to decide what is to be
done in relation to this perplexing affair. We are ready
to do anything you wish, or to take any position you preseribe
for us. You may prefer to pass in society merely as
my young friend, but you are my step-son, you know; and
should you at any time of your life need my services, you
may rely upon me as an affectionate father.”

That word brought cherished hopes to Gerald's mind,
and he sighed as he answered, “I thank you.”

“Whatever outward inconveniences may arise from this
state of things,” resumed Mr. King, “we prefer to have
them fall upon ourselves. It is of course desirable that
you and my daughter should not meet at present. Your
vacation has nearly expired, and perhaps you will deem it
prudent to return a little sooner than you intended. We
shall remain here till late in the autumn; and then, if circumstances
render it necessary, we will remove Eulalia to
Cuba, or elsewhere, for the winter. Try to bear this disappointment
bravely, my son. As soon as you feel sufficiently
calm, I would advise you to seek an interview with
your mother. Her heart yearns for you, and the longer
your meeting is deferred, the more embarrassing it will be.”

While this conversation was going on in the parlor, the
two mothers of the young man were talking confidentially
up stairs. The intense curiosity which Mrs. Fitzgerald
had formerly felt was at once renewed when Mrs. King
said, “Do you remember having heard any one singing
about the house and garden at Magnolia Lawn, the first
evening you spent there?”

“Indeed I do,” she replied; “and when I first heard
you in Rome, I repeatedly said your voice was precisely
like that singer's.”

“You might well be reminded of it,” responded Mrs.
King, “for I was the person you heard at Magnolia Lawn,
and these are the eyes that peeped at you through the lattice
of the veranda.”

“But why were you there? And why did you keep
yourself invisible?” inquired Mrs. Fitzgerald.

Rosa hesitated a moment, embarrassed how to choose
words to convey the unwelcome facts. “My dear lady,”
said she, “we have both had very sad experiences. On
my side, they have been healed by time; and I trust it is
the same with you. Will it pain you too much to hear
something disparaging to the memory of your deceased
husband?”

Mrs. Fitzgerald colored very deeply, and remained silent.

“Nothing but an imperious necessity would induce me
to say what I am about to say,” continued Mrs. King;
“not only because I am very reluctant to wound your feelings,
but because the recital is humiliating and painful to
myself. When I peeped at you in your bridal attire, I
believed myself to be Mr. Fitzgerald's wife. Our marriage
had been kept strictly private, he always assuring me that
it was only for a time. But you need not look so alarmed.

I was not his wife. I learned the next morning that I had
been deceived by a sham ceremony. And even if it had
been genuine, the marriage would not have been valid by
the laws of Louisiana, where it was performed; though I
did not know that fact at the time. No marriage with a
slave is valid in that State. My mother was a quadroon
slave, and by the law that `a child follows the condition of
the mother,' I also became a slave.”

“You a slave!” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzgerald, with unfeigned
astonishment. “That is incredible. That goes
beyond any of the stories Abolitionists make up to keep
the country in agitation.”

“Judging by my own experience,” rejoined Mrs. King,
“I should say that the most fertile imagination could invent
nothing more strange and romantic than many of the incidents
which grow out of slavery.”

She then went on to repeat her story in detail; not accusing
Mr. Fitzgerald more than was absolutely necessary
to explain the agonized and frantic state of mind in which
she had changed the children. Mrs. Fitzgerald listened
with increasing agitation as she went on; and when it came
to that avowal, she burst out with the passionate exclamation:
“Then Gerald is not my son! And I love him so!”

Mrs. King took her hand and pressed it gently as she
said: “You can love him still, dear lady, and he will love
you. Doubtless you will always seem to him like his own
mother. If he takes an aversion to me, it will give me
acute pain; but I shall try to bear it meekly, as a part of
the punishment my fault deserves.”

“If you don't intend to take him from me, what was the
use of telling me this dreadful story?” impatiently asked
Mrs. Fitzgerald.

“I felt compelled to do it on Eulalia's account,” responded
Mrs. King.

“Ah, yes!” sighed the lady. “How disappointed he will
be, poor fellow!” After a brief pause, she added, vehemently:
“But whatever you may say, he is my son. I
never will give him up. He has slept in my arms. I
have sung him to sleep. I taught him all his little hymns
and songs. He loves me; and I will never consent to
take a second place in his affections.”

“You shall not be asked to do so, dear lady,” meekly
replied Mrs. King. “I will, as in duty bound, take any
place you choose to assign me.”

Somewhat disarmed by this humility, Mrs. Fitzgerald
said, in a softened tone: “I pity you, Mrs. King. You
have had a great deal of trouble, and this is a very trying
situation you are in. But it would break my heart to give
up Gerald. And then you must see, of course, what an
embarrassing position it would place me in before the
world.”

“I see no reason why the world should know anything
about it,” rejoined Mrs. King. “For Gerald's sake, as
well as our own, it is very desirable that the secret should
be kept between ourselves.”

“You may safely trust my pride for that,” she replied.

“Do you think your father ought to be included in our
confidence,” inquired Mrs. King.

“No indeed,” she replied, hastily. “He never can bear
to hear my poor husband mentioned. Besides, he has had
the gout a good deal lately, and is more irritable than
usual.”

As she rose to go, Mrs. King said: “Then, with the exception
of Eulalia, everything remains outwardly as it was.

Can you forgive me? I do believe I was insane with misery;
and you don't know how I have been haunted with
remorse.”

“You must have suffered terribly,” rejoined Mrs. Fitzgerald,
evading a direct answer to the question. “But we
had better not talk any more about it now. I am bewildered,
and don't know what to think. Only one thing is
fixed in my mind: Gerald is my son.”

They parted politely, but with coldness on Mrs. Fitzgerald's
side. There had arisen in her mind a double dislike
toward Mrs. King, as the first love of her husband, and
as the mother of the elegant young man who was to her
an object of pride as well as fondness. But her chagrin
was not without compensation. Mrs. King's superior
wealth and beauty had been felt by her as somewhat over-shadowing;
and the mortifying circumstances she had now
discovered in her history seemed, in her imagination, to
bring her down below a level with herself. She and
Gerald sat up late into the night, talking over this strange
disclosure. She was rather jealous of the compassion he
expressed for Mrs. King, and of his admiration for her
manners and character; though they mutually declared,
again and again, that they could realize no change whatever
in their relation to each other.

The wise words of Mr. King had not been without their
effect on Gerald. The tumult of emotions gradually subsided,
and he began to realize that these external accidents
made no essential change in himself. The next morning
he requested an interview with Mrs. King, and was received
alone. When he entered, she cast upon him a hesitating,
beseeching look; but when he said, “My mother!”
she flew into his arms, and wept upon his neck.

“Then you do not hate me?” she said, in a voice choked
with emotion. “You are not ashamed to call me mother?”

“It was only yesterday,” he replied, “that I thought
with pride and joy of the possibility that I might some day
call you by that dear name. If I had heard these particulars
without knowing you, they might have repelled me.
But I have admired you from the first moment; I have
lately been learning to love you; and I am familiar with
the thought of being your son.”

She raised her expressive eyes to his with such a look of
love, that he could not refrain from giving her a filial kiss
and pressing her warmly to his heart. “I was so afraid
you would regard me with dislike,” said she. “You can
understand now why it made me so faint to think of singing
`M' odi! Ah, m' odi!' with you at Mrs. Green's party.
How could I have borne your tones of anguish when you
discovered that you were connected with the Borgias?
And how could I have helped falling on your neck when
you sang `Madre mia'? But I must not forget that the
mother who tended your childhood has the best claim to
your affection,” she added mournfully.

“I love her, and always shall love her. It cannot be
otherwise,” rejoined he. “It has been the pleasant habit
of so many years. But ought I not to consider myself a
lucky fellow to have two such mothers? I don't know how
I am to distinguish you. I must call you Rose-mother and
Lily-mother, I believe.”

She smiled as he spoke, and she said, “Then it has not
made you so very unhappy to know that you are my son?”

His countenance changed as he replied: “My only unhappiness
is the loss of Eulalia. That disappointment I
must bear as I can.”

“You are both very young,” rejoined she; “and perhaps
you may see another—”

“I don't want to hear about that now,” he exclaimed
impetuously, moving hastily toward the window, against
which he leaned for a moment. When he turned, he saw
that his mother was weeping; and he stooped to kiss her
forehead, with tender apologies for his abruptness.

“Thank God,” she said, “for these brief moments of
happiness with my son.”

“Yes, they must be brief,” he replied. “I must go
away and stay away. But I shall always think of you
with affection, and cherish the deepest sympathy for your
wrongs and sufferings.”

Again she folded him in her arms, and they kissed and
blessed each other at parting. She gazed after him wistfully
till he was out of sight. “Alas!” murmured she, “he
cannot be a son to me, and I cannot be a mother to him.”
She recalled the lonely, sad hours when she embroidered
his baby clothes, with none but Tulee to sympathize with
her. She remembered how the little black silky head
looked as she first fondled him on her arm; and the tears
began to flow like rain. But she roused in a few moments,
saying to herself: “This is all wrong and selfish. I ought
to be glad that he loves his Lily-mother, that he can live
with her, and that her heart will not be made desolate by
my fault. O Father of mercies! this is hard to bear.
Help me to bear it as I ought!” She bowed her head in
silence for a while; then, rising up, she said: “Have I not
my lovely Eulalia? Poor child! I must be very tender
with her in this trial of her young heart.”

She saw there was need to be very tender, when a farewell
card was sent the next day, with a bouquet of delicate
flowers from Gerald Fitzgerald.

32. CHAPTER XXXII.

THE next morning after these conversations, Mrs.
Blumenthal, who was as yet unconscious of the secret
they had revealed, was singing in the garden, while she
gathered some flowers for her vases. Mr. Bright, who was
cutting up weeds, stopped and listened keeping time on the
handle of his hoe. When Flora came up to him, she
glanced at the motion of his fingers and smiled. “Can't
help it, ma'am,” said he. “When I hear your voice, it's
as much as ever I can do to keep from dancing; but if I
should do that, I should shock my neighbor the Deacon.
Did you see the stage stop there, last night? They've
got visitors from Carolina,—his daughter, and her husband
and children. I reckon I stirred him up yesterday. He
came to my shop to pay for some shoeing he'd had done.
So I invited him to attend our anti-slavery meeting to-morrow
evening. He took it as an insult, and said he
didn't need to be instructed by such sort of men as spoke
at our meetings. `I know some of us are what they call
mudsills down South,' said I; `but it might do you good to
go and hear'em, Deacon. When a man's lamp's out, it's
better to light it by the kitchen fire than to go blundering
about in the dark, hitting himself against everything.' He
said we should find it very convenient if we had slaves
here; for Northern women were mere beasts of burden.
I told him that was better than to be beasts of prey. I
thought afterward I wasn't very polite. I don't mean to
go headlong against other folks' prejudices; but the fact is,

a man never knows with what impetus he is going till he
comes up against a post. I like to see a man firm as a
rock in his opinions. I have a sort of a respect for a rock,
even if it is a little mossy. But when I come across a
post, I like to give it a shaking, to find out whether it's
rotten at the foundation. As to things in general, I calculate
to be an obliging neighbor; but I shall keep a lookout
on these Carolina folks. If they've brought any blacks
with'em, I shall let'em know what the laws of Massachusetts
are; and then they may take their freedom or not,
just as they choose.”

“That's right,” replied Mrs. Blumenthal; “and when
you and the Deacon have another encounter, I hope I shall
be near enough to hear it.”

As she walked away, tying up her bouquet with a spear
of striped grass, she heard him whistling the tune she had
been singing. When she returned to the parlor, she seated
herself near the open window, with a handkerchief, on which
she was embroidering Mrs. Delano's initials. Mr. Bright's
remarks had somewhat excited her curiosity, and from time
to time she glanced toward Deacon Stillham's grounds. A
hawthorn hedge, neatly clipped, separated the two gardens;
but here and there the foliage had died away and left small
open spaces. All at once, a pretty little curly head appeared
at one of these leafy lunettes, and an infantile voice called
out, “You're a Bob-o-lith-o-nitht!”

“Do come here, Mamita Lila, and see this little darling,”
said Flora, laughing.

For a moment she was invisible. Then the cherub face
came peeping out again; and this time the little mouth was
laughing, when it repeated, “You're a Bob-o-lith-o-nitht.”

“Isn't it amusing to hear such an infant trying to abuse

us with a big mouthful of a word, to which she attaches no
meaning?” said Mrs. Delano.

Flora beckoned with her hand, and called out, “Come
in and see the Bobolithonithts, darling.” The little creature
laughed and ran away. At that moment, a bright turban
was seen moving along above the bushes. Then a
black face became visible. Flora sprang up with a quick
cry, and rushed out of the room, upsetting her basket, and
leaving balls and thimble rolling about the floor. Placing
her foot on a stump, she leaped over the hedge like an
opera-dancer, and the next moment she had the negro
woman in her arms, exclaiming: “Bless you, Tulee! You
are alive, after all!”

The black woman was startled and bewildered for an instant;
then she held her off at arm's length, and looked at
her with astonishment, saying: “Bless the Lord! Is it
you, Missy Flory? or is it a sperit? Well now, is it you,
little one?”

“Yes, Tulee; it is I,” she replied. “The same Missy
Flory that used to plague your life out with her tricks.”

The colored woman hugged and kissed, and hugged and
kissed, and laughed and cried; ever and anon exclaiming,
“Bless the Lord!”

Meanwhile, the playful cherub was peeping at Joe Bright
through another hole in the hedge, all unconscious how
pretty her little fair face looked in its frame of green
leaves, but delighted with her own sauciness, as she repeated,
“You're a Bob-o-lith-o-nitht! you're a Bob-o-lith-o-nitht!”
When he tried to kiss her, she scampered away,
but soon reappeared again to renew the fun.

While this by-play was going on, a white servant came
through the Deacon's grounds, and said to Tulee, “Mrs.

Robbem wants you to come to her immediately, and bring
Laura.”

“I must go now, darling,” said Tulee, clasping Flora's
hand with a warm pressure.

“Come again quickly,” said Flora.

“As soon as I can,” she replied, and hurried away with
her little charge.

When Mr. Bright offered his hand to help Mrs. Blumenthal
over the hedge, he burst into a hearty laugh. “Was n't
it funny,” said he, “to hear that baby calling us Bob-o-lith-o-nithts?
They begin education early down South. Before
the summer is out she'll be talking about the cuth o'
Ham, and telling the story of Onethimuth. But they've
found a mare's nest now, Mrs. Blumenthal. The Deacon
will be writing to his Carolina friends how the Massachusetts
ladies hug and kiss niggers.”

Flora smiled as she answered: “I suppose it must seem
strange to them, Mr. Bright. But the fact is, that black
woman tended me when I was a child; and I have n't
seen her for twenty years.”

As soon as she entered the house, she explained the
scene to Mrs. Delano, and then said to her daughter:
“Now, Rosen Blumen, you may leave your drawing and
go to Aunt Rosa, and tell her I want to see her for something
special, and she must come as soon as possible. Don't
tell her anything more. You may stay and spend the day
with Eulalia, if you like.”

“How many mysteries and surprises we have,” observed
Mrs. Delano. “A dozen novels might be made out of your
adventures.”

The hasty summons found Mrs. King still melancholy
with the thought that her newly found son could be no

more to her than a shadow. Glad to have her thoughts
turned in another direction, she sent Rosen Blumen to her
cousin, and immediately prepared to join her sister. Flora,
who was watching for her, ran out to the gate to meet her,
and before she entered the house announced that Tulee
was alive. The little that was known was soon communicated,
and they watched with the greatest anxiety for the
reappearance of Tulee. But the bright turban was seen no
more during the forenoon; and throughout the afternoon
no one but the Deacon and his gardener were visible about
the grounds. The hours of waiting were spent by the sisters
and Mrs. Delano in a full explanation of the secret
history of Gerald Fitzgerald, and Mrs. King's consequent
depression of spirits. The evening wore away without any
tidings from Tulee. Between nine and ten o'clock they
heard the voice of the Deacon loud in prayer. Joe Bright,
who was passing the open window, stopped to say: “He
means his neighbors shall hear him, anyhow. I reckon he
thinks it's a good investment for character. He's a cute
manager, the Deacon is; and a quickster, too, according to
his own account; for he told me when he made up his
mind to have religion, he was n't half an hour about it.
I'd a mind to tell him I should think slave-trading religion
was a job done by contract, knocked up in a hurry.”

“Mr. Bright,” said Flora, in a low voice, “if you see
that colored woman, I wish you would speak to her, and
show her the way in.”

The sisters sat talking over their affairs with their husbands,
in low tones, listening anxiously meanwhile to every
sound. Mr. and Mrs. King were just saying they thought
it was best to return home, when Mr. Bright opened the
door and Tulee walked in. Of course, there was a general

exclaiming and embracing. There was no need of introducing
the husbands, for Tulee remembered them both.
As soon as she could take breath, she said: “I've had such
a time to get here! I've been trying all day, and I could n't
get a chance, they kept such watch of me. At last, when
they was all abed and asleep, I crept down stairs softly,
and come out of the back door, and locked it after me.”

“Come right up stairs with me,” said Rosa. “I want to
speak to you.” As soon as they were alone, she said,
“Tulee, where is the baby?”

“Don't know no more than the dead what's become of
the poor little picaninny,” she replied. “After ye went
away, Missy Duroy's cousin, who was a sea-captain, brought
his baby with a black nurse to board there, because his
wife had died. I remember how ye looked at me when ye
said, `Take good care of the poor little baby.' And I did
try to take good care of him. I toted him about a bit out
doors whenever I could get a chance. One day, just as I
was going back into the house, a gentleman o' horseback
turned and looked at me. I did n't think anything about
it then; but the next day, he come to the house, and he
said I was Mr. Royal's slave, and that Mr. Fitzgerald
bought me. He wanted to know where ye was; and when
I told him ye'd gone over the sea with Madame and the
Signor, he cursed and swore, and said he'd been cheated.
When he went away, Missis Duroy said it was Mr. Bruteman.
I did n't think there was much to be 'fraid of, 'cause
ye'd got away safe, and I had free papers, and the picaninny
was too small to be sold. But I remembered ye
was always anxious about his being a slave, and I was a
little uneasy. One day when the sea-captain came to see
his baby, he was marking an anchor on his own arm with

a needle and some sort of black stuff; and he said 't would
never come out. I thought if they should carry off yer
picaninny, it would be more easy to find him again if he
was marked. I told the captain I had heard ye call him
Gerald; and he said he would mark G. F. on his arm.
The poor little thing worried in his sleep while he was doing
it, and Missis Duroy scolded at me for hurting him.
The next week Massa Duroy was taken with yellow-fever;
and then Missis Duroy was taken, and then the captain's
baby and the black nurse. I was frighted, and tried to
keep the picaninny out doors all I could. One day, when
I'd gone a bit from the house, two men grabbed us and put
us in a cart. When I screamed, they beat me, and swore
at me for a runaway nigger. When I said I was free, they
beat me more, and told me to shut up. They put us in the
calaboose; and when I told 'em the picaninny belonged to
a white lady, they laughed and said there was a great many
white niggers. Mr. Bruteman come to see us, and he said
we was his niggers. When I showed him my free paper,
he said 't want good for anything, and tore it to pieces. O
Missy Rosy, that was a dreadful dark time. The jailer's
wife didn't seem so hard-hearted as the rest. I showed her
the mark on the picaninny's arm, and gave her one of the
little shirts ye embroidered; and I told her if they sold me
away from him, a white lady would send for him. They
did sell me, Missy Rosy. Mr. Robbem, a Caroliny slave-trader
bought me, and he's my massa now. I don't know
what they did with the picaninny. I didn't know how to
write, and I didn't know where ye was. I was always
hoping ye would come for me some time; and at last I
thought ye must be dead.”

“Poor Tulee,” said Rosa. “They wrote that Mr. and

Mrs. Duroy and the black woman and the white baby all
died of yellow-fever; and we didn't know there was any
other black woman there. I've sent to New Orleans, and
I've been there; and many a cry I've had, because we
couldn't find you. But your troubles are all over now.
You shall come and live with us.”

“But I'm Mr. Robbem's slave,” replied Tulee.

“No, you are not,” answered Rosa. “You became free
the moment they brought you to Massachusetts.”

“Is it really so?” said Tulee, brightening up in look
and tone. Then, with a sudden sadness, she added: “I've
got three chil'ren in Carolina. They've sold two on 'em;
but they've left me my little Benny, eight years old.
They would n't have brought me here, if they hadn't
known Benny would pull me back.”

“We'll buy your children,” said Rosa.

“Bless ye, Missy Rosy!” she exclaimed. “Ye's got
the same kind heart ye always had. How glad I am to see
ye all so happy!”

“O Tulee!” groaned Rosa, “I can never be happy till
that poor little baby is found. I've no doubt that wicked
Bruteman sold him.” She covered her face with her
hands, and the tears trickled through her fingers.

“The Lord comfort ye!” said Tulee, “I did all I could
for yer poor little picaninny.”

“I know you did, Tulee,” she replied. “But I am so
sorry Madame didn't take you with us! When she told
me she had left you, I was afraid something bad would
happen; and I would have gone back for you if I could.
But it is too late to talk any more now. Mr. King is waiting
for me to go home. Why can't you go with us to-night?”

“I must go back,” rejoined Tulee. “I've got the key
with me, and I left the picaninny asleep in my bed. I'll
come again to-morrow night, if I can.”

“Don't say if you can, Tulee,” replied Mrs. King. “Remember
you are not a slave here. You can walk away at
mid-day, and tell them you are going to live with us.”

“They'd lock me up and send me back to Caroliny, if I
told 'em so,” said Tulee. “But I'll come, Missy Rosy.”

Rosa kissed the dark cheek she had so often kissed when
they were children together, and they parted for the night.

The next day and the next night passed without a visit
from Tulee. Mr. and Mrs. Bright, who entered into the
affair with the liveliest interest, expressed the opinion that
she had been spirited away and sent South. The sisters
began to entertain a similar fear; and it was decided that
their husbands should call with them the following morning,
to have a talk with Mr. and Mrs. Robbem. But not
long after breakfast, Tulee stole into the back door with the
cherub in her arms.

“O Missy Flory,” said she, “I tried to get here last
night. But Missis Robbem takes a heap o' care o' me.”
She said this with a mischievous smile. “When we was at
the Astor House, she locked up my clothes in her room,
'cause New York was such a dreadful wicked place, she
was 'fraid they'd be stole; and she never let me out o' her
sight, for fear the colored waiters in the hotel would be impudent
to me. Last night she sent me away up into the
cupola to sleep, 'cause she said I could have more room
there. And when I'd got the picaninny asleep, and was
watching for a chance to steal away, she come all the way
up there very softly, and said she'd brought me some hot
drink, 'cause I didn't seem to be well. Then she begun to

advise me not to go near the next house. She told me
Abolitionists was very bad people; that they pretended to
be great friends to colored folks, but all they wanted was
to steal 'em and sell 'em to the West Indies. I told her I
didn't know nothing 'bout Abolitionists; that the lady I
was hugging and kissing was a New Orleans lady that
I used to wait upon when we was picaninnies. She said
if you had the feelings Southern ladies ought to have, you
wouldn't be boarding with Abolitionists. When she went
down stairs I didn't dare to come here, for fear she'd come
up again with some more hot drink. This morning she
told me to walk up street with the picaninny; and she
watched me till I was out o' sight. But I went round and
round and got over a fence, and come through Massa
Bright's barn.”

Mr. and Mrs. King came in as she was speaking; and
she turned to them, saying anxiously, “Do you think,
Massa, if I don't go back with 'em, they 'll let me have my
chil'ren?”

“Don't call me Massa,” replied Mr. King, “I dislike the
sound of it. Speak to me as other people do. I have no
doubt we shall manage it so that you will have your children.
I will lead home this pretty little Tot, and tell them
you are going to stay with us.”

With bonbons and funny talk he gained the favor of
Tot, so that she consented to walk with him. Tulee often
applied her apron to her eyes, as she watched the little
creature holding by his finger, and stepping along in childish
fashion, turning her toes inward. When she disappeared
through the Deacon's front door, she sat down and
cried outright. “I love that little picaninny,” sobbed she.
“I've tended her ever since she was born; and I love her.

She 'll cry for Tulee. But I does want to be free, and I
does want to live with ye, Missy Rosy and Missy Flory.”

Mrs. Robbem met Mr. King as soon as he entered her
father's door, and said in a tone of stern surprise, “Where
is my servant, sir?”

He bowed and answered, “If you will allow me to walk
in for a few moments, I will explain my errand.” As soon
as they were seated he said: “I came to inform you that
Tulee does not wish to go back to Carolina; and that by
the laws of Massachusetts she has a perfect right to remain
here.”

“She's an ungrateful wench!” exclaimed Mrs. Robbem.
“She's always been treated kindly, and she wouldn't have
thought of taking such a step, if she hadn't been put up to
it by meddlesome Abolitionists, who are always interfering
with gentlemen's servants.”

“The simple fact is,” rejoined Mr. King, “Tulee used
to be the playmate and attendant of my wife when both of
them were children. They lived together many years, and
are strongly attached to each other.”

“If your wife is a Southern lady,” replied Mrs. Robbem,
“she ought to be above such a mean Yankee trick as stealing
my servant from me.”

Her husband entered at that moment, and the visitor
rose and bowed as he said, “Mr. Robbem, I presume.”

He lowered his head somewhat stiffly in reply; and his
wife hastened to say, “The Abolitionists have been decoying
Tulee away from us.”

Mr. King repeated the explanation he had already made.

“I thought the wench had more feeling,” replied Mr.
Robbem. “She left children in Carolina. But the fact
is, niggers have no more feeling for their young than so
many pigs.”

“I judge differently,” rejoined Mr. King; “and my
principal motive for calling was to speak to you about those
children. I wish to purchase them for Tulee.”

“She shall never have them, sir.” exclaimed the slave-trader,
fiercely. “And as for you Abolitionists, all I wish
is that we had you down South.”

“Differences of opinion must be allowed in a free country,”
replied Mr. King. “I consider slavery a bad institution,
injurious to the South, and to the whole country.
But I did not come here to discuss that subject. I simply
wish to make a plain business statement to you. Tulee
chooses to take her freedom, and any court in Massachusetts
will decide that she has a right to take it. But, out
of gratitude for services she has rendered my wife, I am
willing to make you gratuitous compensation, provided you
will enable me to buy all her children. Will you name
your terms now, or shall I call again?”

“She shall never have her children.” repeated Mr. Robbem;
“she has nobody but herself and the Abolitionists to
blame for it.”

“I will, however, call again, after you have thought of
it more calmly,” said Mr. King. “Good morning, sir;
good morning, madam.”

His salutations were silently returned with cold, stiff bows.

A second and third attempt was made with no better
success. Tulee grew very uneasy. “They 'll sell my
Benny,” said she. “Ye see they ain't got any heart, 'cause
they's used to selling picaninnies.”

“What, does this Mr. Robbem carry on the Deacon's old
business?” inquired Mr. Bright.

“Yes, Massa,” replied Tulee. “Two years ago, Massa
Stillham come down to Caroliny to spend the winter, and

he was round in the slave-pen as brisk as Massa Robbem,
counting the niggers, and telling how many dollars they
ought to sell for. He had a dreadful bad fever while he
was down there, and I nursed him. He was out of his
head half the time, and he was calling out: `Going! going!
How much for this likely nigger? Stop that wench's squalling
for her brat! Carry the brat off!' It was dreadful to
hear him.”

“I suppose he calculated upon going to heaven if he
died,” rejoined Mr. Bright; “and if he'd gone into the
kingdom with such words in his mouth, it would have been
a heavenly song for the four-and-twenty elders to accompany
with their golden harps.”

“They 'll sell my Benny,” groaned Tulee; “and then I
shall never see him again.”

“I have no doubt Mr. King will obtain your children,”
replied Mr. Bright; “and you should remember that, if you
go back South, just as likely as not they will sell him where
you will never see him or hear from him.”

“I know it, Massa, I know it,” answered she.

“I am not your master,” rejoined he. “I allow no man
to call me master, and certainly not any woman; though I
don't belong to the chivalry.”

His prediction proved true. The Deacon and his son-in-law
held frequent consultations. “This Mr. King is rich
as Crœsus,” said the Deacon; “and if he thinks his wife
owes a debt to Tulee, he 'll be willing to give a round sum
for her children. I reckon you can make a better bargain
with him than you could in the New Orleans market.”

“Do you suppose he'd give five thousand dollars for the
young niggers?” inquired the trader.

“Try him,” said the Deacon.

The final result was that the sum was deposited by Mr.
King, to be paid over whenever Tulee's children made
their appearance; and in due time they all arrived. Tulee
was full of joy and gratitude; but Mr. Bright always maintained
it was a sin and a shame to pay slave-traders so
much for what never belonged to them.

Of course there were endless questions to be asked and
answered between the sisters and their faithful servant;
but all she could tell threw no further light on the destiny
of the little changeling whom she supposed to be Rosa's
own child. In the course of these private conversations,
it came out that she herself had suffered, as all women must
suffer, who have the feelings of human beings, and the
treatment of animals. But her own humble little episode
of love and separation, of sorrow and shame, was whispered
only to Missy Rosy and Missy Flory.

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE probability that the lost child was alive and in
slavery was a very serious complication of existing
difficulties. Thinking it prudent to prepare Gerald's mind
for any contingencies that might occur, Mr. King proceeded
immediately to Boston to have a conference with him. The
young man received the news with unexpected composure.

“It will annoy Lily-mother very much,” said he, “and
on that account I regret it; but so far as I am myself concerned,
it would in some respects be a relief to me to get
out of the false position in which I find myself. Grandfather
Bell has always grumbled about the expense I have
been to him in consequence of my father's loss of fortune,
and of course that adds to the unpleasantness of feeling
that I am practising a fraud upon him. He is just now
peculiarly vexed with me for leaving Northampton so suddenly.
He considers it an unaccountable caprice of mine,
and reproaches me with letting Eulalia slip through my fingers,
as he expresses it. Of course, he has no idea how it
cuts me. This state of things is producing a great change
in my views. My prevailing wish now is to obtain an independent
position by my own exertions, and thus be free
to become familiar with my new self. At present, I feel as
if there were two of me, and that one was an impostor.”

“I heartily approve of your wish to rely upon your own
resources,” replied Mr. King; “and I will gladly assist
you to accomplish it. I have already said you should be
to me as a son, and I stand by my word; but I advise

you, as I would an own son, to devote yourself assiduously
to some business, profession, or art. Never be a gentleman
of leisure. It is the worst possible calling a man can have.
Nothing but stagnation of faculties and weariness of soul
comes of it. But we will talk about your plans hereafter.
The urgent business of the present moment is to obtain
some clew to your missing brother. My conscientious wife
will suffer continual anxiety till he is found. I must go to
New Orleans and seek out Mr. Bruteman, to ascertain
whether he has sold him.”

“Bruteman!” exclaimed the young man, with sudden
interest. “Was he the one who seized that negro woman
and the child?”

“Yes,” rejoined Mr. King. “But why does that excite
your interest?”

“I am almost ashamed to tell you,” replied Gerald.
“But you know I was educated in the prejudices of my
father and grandfather. It was natural that I should be
proud of being the son of a slaveholder, that I should despise
the colored race, and consider abolition a very vulgar
fanaticism. But the recent discovery that I was myself
born a slave has put me upon my thoughts, and made me a
little uneasy about a transaction in which I was concerned.
The afternoon preceding Mrs. Green's splendid ball, where I
first saw my beautiful Rose-mother, two fugitive slaves arrived
here in one of grandfather's ships called `The King
Cotton.' Mr. Bruteman telegraphed to grandfather about
them, and the next morning he sent me to tell Captain Kane
to send the slaves down to the islands in the harbor, and
keep them under guard till a vessel passed that would take
them back to New Orleans. I did his errand, without bestowing
upon the subjects of it any more thought or care

than I should have done upon two bales of cotton. At parting,
Captain Kane said to me, `By George, Mr. Fitzgerald,
one of these fellows looks so much like you, that, if you were
a little tanned by exposure to the sun, I shouldn't know you
apart.' `That's flattering,' replied I, `to be compared to a
negro.' And I hurried away, being impatient to make an
early call upon your lady at the Revere House. I don't
suppose I should ever have thought of it again, if your
present conversation had not brought it to my mind.”

“Do you know whether Mr. Bruteman sold those slaves
after they were sent back?” inquired Mr. King.

“There is one fact connected with the affair which I will
tell you, if you promise not to mention it,” replied the
young man. “The Abolitionists annoyed grandfather a
good deal about those runaways, and he is nervously sensitive
lest they should get hold of it, and publish it in their
papers.” Having received the desired promise, he went on
to say: “Those slaves were mortgaged to grandfather, and
he sent orders to have them immediately sold. I presume
Mr. Bruteman managed the transaction, for they were his
slaves; but I don't know whether he reported the name of
the purchaser. He died two months ago, leaving his affairs
a good deal involved; and I heard that some distant connections
in Mississippi were his heirs.”

“Where can I find Captain Kane?” inquired Mr.
King.

“He sailed for Calcutta a fortnight ago,” rejoined
Gerald.

“Then there is no other resource but to go to New Orleans,
as soon as the weather will permit,” was the reply.

“I honor your zeal,” said the young man. “I wish my
own record was clean on the subject. Since I have taken

the case home to myself, I have felt that it was mean and
wrong to send back fugitives from slavery; but it becomes
painful, when I think of the possibility of having helped to
send back my own brother,—and one, too, whom I have
supplanted in his birthright.”

When Mr. King returned to Northampton, the information
he had obtained sent a new pang to the heart of his
wife. “Then he is a slave!” she exclaimed. “And
while the poor fellow was being bound and sent back to
slavery, I was dancing and receiving homage. Verily the
Furies do pursue me. Do you think it is necessary to tell
Mrs. Fitzgerald of this?”

“In a reverse of cases, I think you would feel that you
ought to be informed of everything,” he replied. “But I
will save you from that portion of the pain. It was most
fitting that a woman should make the first part of the disclosure;
but this new light on the subject can be as well
revealed by myself.”

“Always kind and considerate,” she said. “This news
will be peculiarly annoying to her, and perhaps she will receive
it better from you than from me; for I can see that I
have lost her favor. But you have taught me that it is of
more consequence to deserve favor than to have it; and I
shall do my utmost to deserve a kindly estimate from her.”

“I confess I am somewhat puzzled by this tangle,” rejoined
her husband. “But where there is both the will
and the means to repair a wrong, it will be strange if a
way cannot be found.”

“I would like to sell my diamonds, and all my other expensive
ornaments, to buy that young man,” said she.

“That you can do, if it will be any gratification to you,”

he replied; “but the few thousands I have invested in
jewels for you would go but little way toward the full
remuneration I intend to make, if he can be found. We
will send the young people out of the way this evening,
and lay the case before a family council of the elders. I
should like to consult Blumenthal. I have never known a
man whose natural instincts were so true as his; and his
entire freedom from conventional prejudices reminds me
of my good father. I have great reliance also on Mrs.
Delano's delicate perceptions and quiet good sense. And
our lively little Flora, though she jumps to her conclusions,
always jumps in a straight line, and usually hits the
point.”

As soon as the council was convened, and the subject introduced,
Mrs. Blumenthal exclaimed: “Why, Florimond,
those slaves in `The King Cotton' were the ones you and
Mr. Goldwin tried so hard to help them find.”

“Yes,” rejoined he; “I caught a hasty glimpse of one
of the poor fellows just as they were seizing him with the
cry of `Stop thief!' and his Italian look reminded me so
forcibly of the danger Flora was once in, that I was extremely
troubled about him after I heard he was a slave.
As I recall him to my mind, I do think he resembled young
Fitzgerald. Mr. Percival might perhaps throw some light
on the subject; for he was unwearied in his efforts to rescue
those fugitives. He already knows Flora's history.”

“I should like to have you go to Boston with me and
introduce me to him,” said Mr. King.

“That I will do,” answered Blumenthal. “I think both
Mr. Bell and Mrs. Fitzgerald would prefer to have it all
sink into unquestioned oblivion; but that does not change
our duty with regard to the poor fellow.”

“Do you think they ought to be informed of the present
circumstances?” inquired Mr. King.

“If I were in their position, I should think I ought to
know all the particulars,” replied he; “and the golden rule
is as good as it is simple.”

“Mrs. Fitzgerald has great dread of her father's knowing
anything about it,” responded Rosa; “and I have an
earnest desire to spare her pain as far as possible. It
seems as if she had a right to judge in the premises.”

Mrs. Delano took Mr. Blumenthal's view of the subject,
and it was decided to leave that point for further consideration.
Flora suggested that some difficulties might be removed
by at once informing Eulalia that Gerald was her
brother. But Mrs. Delano answered: “Some difficulties
might be avoided for ourselves by that process; but the
good of the young people is a paramount consideration.
You know none of them are aware of all the antecedents
in their family history, and it seems to me best that they
should not know them till their characters are fully formed.
I should have no objection to telling them of their colored
ancestry, if it did not involve a knowledge of laws and customs
and experiences growing out of slavery, which might,
at this early age, prove unsettling to their principles. Anything
that mystifies moral perceptions is not so easily removed
from youthful minds as breath is wiped from a
mirror.”

“I have that feeling very deeply fixed with regard to
our Eulalia,” observed Mr. King; “and I really see no
need of agitating their young, unconscious minds with
subjects they are too inexperienced to understand. I will
have a talk with Mrs. Fitzgerald, and then proceed to
Boston.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald received the announcement with much
less equanimity than she had manifested on a former occasion.
Though habitually polite, she said very abruptly:
“I was in hopes I should never be troubled any more with
this vulgar subject. Since Mrs. King saw fit to change
the children, let her take care of the one she has chosen.
Of course, it would be very disagreeable to me to have a
son who had been brought up among slaves. If I wished
to make his acquaintance, I could not do it without exciting
a great deal of remark; and there has already been too
much talk about my husband's affairs. But I have no
wish to see him. I have educated a son to my own liking,
and everybody says he is an elegant young man. If you
would cease from telling me that there is a stain in his
blood, I should never be reminded of it.”

“We thought it right to inform you of everything,”
rejoined Mr. King, “and leave you to decide what was to
be done.”

“Then, once for all,” said she, “please leave Gerald and
me in peace; and do what you choose about the other one.
We have had sufficient annoyance already; and I never
wish to hear the subject mentioned again.”

“I accept your decision,” replied Mr. King. “If the
unfortunate young man can be found, I will educate him
and establish him in business, and do the same for him in
all respects that you would have done if he had been your
acknowledged heir.”

“And keep him at a distance from me,” said the perturbed
lady; “for if he resembles Gerald so strongly, it
would of course give rise to unpleasant inquiries and remarks.”

The gentleman bowed, wished her good morning, and

departed, thinking what he had heard was a strange commentary
on natural instincts.

Mr. Percival was of course greatly surprised and excited
when he learned the relation which one of the fugitives
in “The King Cotton” bore to Mr. Bell. “We hear a
good deal about poetical justice,” said he; “but one rarely
sees it meted out in this world. The hardness of the old
merchant when Mr. Jackson and I called upon him was a
thing to be remembered. He indorsed, with warm approbation,
the declaration of the reverend gentleman who professed
his willingness to send his mother or brother into
slavery, if the laws of the United States required it.”

“If our friend Mr. Bright was with us, he would say the
Lord took him at his word,” rejoined Mr. Blumenthal,
smiling.

An earnest discussion ensued concerning the possibilities
of the case, and several days were spent in active investigation.
But all the additional light obtained was from a
sailor, who had been one of the boat's crew that conveyed
the fugitives to the islands in the harbor; and all he could
tell was that he heard them call each other George and
Henry. When he was shown a colored photograph, which
Gerald had just had taken for his Rose-mother, he at once
said that was the one named George.

“This poor fellow must be rescued,” said Mr. King, after
they returned from their unsatisfactory conference with the
sailor. “Mr. Bell may know who purchased him, and a
conversation with him seems to be the only alternative.”

“Judging by my own experience, your task is not to be
envied,” rejoined Mr. Percival. “He will be in a tremendous
rage. But perhaps the lesson will do him good. I
remember Francis Jackson said at the time, that if his

dark-complexioned grandson should be sent into slavery, it
might bring him to a realizing sense of the state of things
he was doing his utmost to encourage.”

The undertaking did indeed seem more formidable to
Mr. King than anything he had yet encountered; but true
to his sense of duty he resolved to go bravely through
with it.

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.

The old merchant received Mr. King with marked
politeness; for though he suspected him of anti-slavery
proclivities, and despised him for that weakness, he
had great respect for a man whose name was as good as
gold, and who was the father of such an eligible match as
Eulalia.

After some discursive conversation, Mr. King said, “I
am desirous to tell you a short story, if you will have patience
to listen to it.”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the old gentleman.

His visitor accordingly began by telling of Mr. Royal's
having formed one of those quadroon alliances so common
in New Orleans; of his having died insolvent; and of his
two handsome octoroon daughters having been claimed as
slaves by his creditors.

“What the deuce do you suppose I care about his octoroon
daughters?” interrupted Mr. Bell, impatiently. “I
was n't one of his creditors.”

“Perhaps you will take some interest in it,” rejoined
Mr. King, “when I tell you that the eldest of them was
married to Mr. Gerald Fitzgerald of Savannah, and that
she is still living.”

“Do you mean the Mr. Fitzgerald who married my
daughter Lily?” inquired he.

“I do mean him,” was the response.

“It's false,” vociferated Mr. Bell, growing almost purple
in the face.

“No, sir, it is not false,” replied Mr. King. “But you
need not be so much excited. The first marriage did not
render the second illegal; first, because a sham ceremony
was performed to deceive the inexperienced girl; and secondly,
because, according to the laws of the South, any
marriage with a slave, however sanctified by religious
forms, is utterly void in law.”

“I consider such a law a very wise provision,” replied
the merchant. “It is necessary to prevent the inferior
race from being put on an equality with their superiors.
The negroes were made to be servants, sir. You may be
an advocate for amalgamation, but I am not.”

“I would simply ask you to observe that the law you so
much approve is not a preventive of amalgamation. Mr.
Fitzgerald married the daughter of the quadroom. The
only effect of the law was to deprive her of a legal right to
his support and protection, and to prevent her son from receiving
any share of his father's property. By another
Southern law, that `the child shall follow the condition of
the mother,' her son became a slave.”

“Well, sir, what interest do you suppose I can take in
all this?” interrupted the merchant. “It's nothing to me,
sir. The South is competent to make her own laws.”

Mr. King begged his attention a little longer. He then
proceeded to tell how Mr. Fitzgerald had treated the octoroon,
at the time of his marriage with Miss Bell; that he
had subsequently sold her to a very base man, in payment
of a debt; that she, terrified and bewildered by the prospect
of such a fate, had, in a moment of frantic revenge,
changed her babe for his daughter's; and that consequently
the Gerald he had been educating as his grandson was in
fact the son of the octoroon, and born a slave.

“Really, sir,” said Mr. Bell, with a satirical smile, “that
story might sell for something to a writer of sensation novels;
but I should hardly have expected to hear it from a
sensible gentleman like yourself. Pray, on whose testimony
do you expect me to believe such an improbable fiction?”

“On that of the mother herself,” replied Mr. King.

With a very contemptuous curl of his lip, Mr. Bell answered:
“And you really suppose, do you, that I can be
induced to disinherit my grandson on the testimony of a
colored woman? Not I, sir. Thank God, I am not infected
with this negro mania.”

“But you have not asked who the woman is,” rejoined
Mr. King; “and without knowing that, you cannot judge
candidly of the value of her testimony.”

“I don't ask, because I don't care,” replied the merchant.
“The negroes are a lying set, sir; and I am no Abolitionist,
that I should go about retailing their lies.”

Mr. King looked at him an instant, and then answered,
very calmly: “The mother of that babe, whose word you
treat so contemptuously, is Mrs. King, my beloved and honored
wife.”

The old merchant was startled from his propriety; and,
forgetful of the gout in his feet, he sprung from his chair,
exclaiming, “The Devil!”

Mr. King, without noticing the abrupt exclamation, went
on to relate in detail the manner of his first introduction to
Miss Royal, his compassion for her subsequent misfortunes,
his many reasons for believing her a pure and noble woman,
and the circumstances which finally led to their marriage.
He expressed his conviction that the children had been
changed in a fit of temporary insanity, and dwelt much on

his wife's exceeding anxiety to atone for the wrong, as far
as possible. “I was ignorant of the circumstance,” said he,
“until the increasing attraction between Gerald and Eulalia
made an avowal necessary. It gives me great pain to
tell you all this; but I thought that, under a reverse of circumstances,
I should myself prefer to know the facts. I
am desirous to do my utmost to repair the mischief done by
a deserted and friendless woman, at a moment when she
was crazed by distress and terror; a woman, too, whose
character I have abundant reason to love and honor. If
you choose to disinherit Gerald, I will provide for his future
as if he were my own son: and I will repay with interest
all the expense you have incurred for him. I hope
that this affair may be kept secret from the world, and that
we may amicably settle it, in such a way that no one will
be materially injured.”

Somewhat mollified by this proposal, the old gentleman
inquired in a milder tone, “And where is the young man
who you say is my daughter's son?”

“Until very recently he was supposed to be dead,” rejoined
Mr. King; “and unfortunately that circumstance led
my wife to think there was no need of speaking to me concerning
this affair at the time of our marriage. But we
now have reason to think he may be living; and that is
why I have particularly felt it my duty to make this unpleasant
revelation.” After repeating Tulee's story, he said,
“You probably have not forgotten that last winter two slaves
escaped to Boston in your ship `The King Cotton'?”

The old merchant started as if he had been shot.

“Try not to be agitated,” said Mr. King. “If we keep
calm, and assist each other, we may perhaps extricate ourselves
from this disagrecable dilemma, without any very

disastrous results. I have but one reason for thinking it
possible there may be some connection between the lost
babe and one of the slaves whom you sent back to his
claimant. The two babes were very nearly of an age, and
so much alike that the exchange passed unnoticed; and
the captain of `The King Cotton' told Gerald that the eldest
of those slaves resembled him so much that he should
not know them apart.”

Mr. Bell covered his face and uttered a deep groan.
Such distress in an old man powerfully excited Mr. King's
sympathy; and moving near to him, he placed his hand on
his and said: “Don't be so much troubled, sir. This is a
bad affair, but I think it can be so managed as to do no
very serious harm. My motive in coming to you at this
time is to ascertain whether you can furnish me with any
clew to that young man. I will myself go in search of
him, and I will take him to Europe and have him educated
in a manner suitable to his condition, as your descendant
and the heir of your property.”

The drawn expression of the old merchant's mouth was
something painful to witness. It seemed as if every nerve
was pulled to its utmost tension by the excitement in his
soul. He obviously had to make a strong effort to speak
when he said, “Do you suppose, sir, that a merchant of
my standing is going to leave his property to negroes?”

“You forget that this young man is pure Anglo-Saxon,”
replied Mr. King.

“I tell you, sir,” rejoined Mr. Bell, “that the mulatto
who was with him was his wife; and if he is proved to be
my grandson, I'll never see him, nor have anything to do
with him, unless he gives her up; not if you educate him
with the Prince Royal of France or England. A pretty

dilemma you have placed me in, sir. My property, it
seems, must either go to Gerald, who you say has negro
blood in his veins, or to this other fellow, who is a slave
with a negro wife.”

“But she could be educated in Europe also,” pleaded
Mr. King; “and I could establish him permanently in lucrative
business abroad. By this arrangement—”

“Go to the Devil with your arrangements!” interrupted
the merchant, losing all command of himself. “If you expect
to arrange a pack of mulatto heirs for me, you are
mistaken, sir.”

He rose up and struck his chair upon the floor with a
vengeance, and his face was purple with rage, as he vociferated:
“I'll have legal redress for this, sir. I'll expose
your wife, sir. I'll lay my damages at a million, sir.”

Mr. King bowed and said, “I will see you again when
you are more calm.”

As he went out, he heard Mr. Bell striding across the
room and thrashing the furniture about. “Poor old gentleman!”
thought he. “I hope I shall succeed in convincing
him how little I value money in comparison with righting
this wrong, as far as possible. Alas! it would never have
taken place had there not been a great antecedent wrong;
and that again grew out of the monstrous evil of slavery.”

He had said to the old merchant, “I will see you again
when you are calmer.” And when he saw him again, he
was indeed calm, for he had died suddenly, of a fit produced
by violent excitement.

35. CHAPTER XXXV.

A FEW weeks after the funeral of Mr. Bell, Gerald
wrote the following letter to Mr. King:—

“My honored and dear Friend,—Lily-mother has decided
to go to Europe this fall, that I may have certain
educational advantages which she has planned for me.
That is the only reason she assigns; but she is evidently
nervous about your investigations, and I think a wish to be
out of the country for the present has had some effect in
producing this decision. I have not sought to influence
her concerning this, or the other important point you wot
of. My desire is to conform to her wishes, and promote
her happiness in any way she chooses. This it is my duty
as well as my pleasure to do. She intends to remain in
Europe a year, perhaps longer. I wish very much to see
you all; and Eulalia might well consider me a very impolite
acquaintance, if I should go without saying good by.
If you do not return to Boston before we sail, I will, with
your permission, make a short call upon you in Northampton.
I thank Rose-mother for her likeness. It will be
very precious to me. I wish you would add your own and
another; for wherever my lot may be cast, you three will
always be among my dearest memories.”

“I am glad of this arrangement,” said Mr. King. “At
their age, I hope a year of separation will prove sufficient.”

The Rose-mother covered the wound in her heart, and
answered, “Yes, it is best.” But the constrained tone of

the letter pained her, and excited her mind to that most
unsatisfactory of all occupations, the thinking over what
might have been. She had visions of her first-born son, as
he lay by her side a few hours before Chloe carried him
away from her sight; and then there rose before her the
fair face of that other son, whose pretty little body was
passing into the roses of Provence. Both of them had
gone out of her life. Of one she received no tidings
from the myusterious world of spirits; while the other was
walking within her vision, as a shadow, the reality of which
was intangible.

Mr. King returned to Boston with his family in season
for Gerald to make the proposed call before he sailed.
There was a little heightening of color when he and Eulalia
met, but he had drilled himself to perform the part of
a polite acquaintance; and as she thought she had been
rather negligently treated of late, she was cased in the
armor of maidenly reserve.

Both Mr. and Mrs. King felt it to be an arduous duty to
call on Mrs. Fitzgerald. That lady, though she respected
their conscientiousness, could not help disliking them.
They had disturbed her relations with Gerald, by suggesting
the idea of another claim upon his affections; and they
had offended her pride by introducing the vulgar phantom
of a slave son to haunt her imagination. She was continually
jealous of Mrs. King; so jealous, that Gerald never
ventured to show her the likeness of his Rose-mother.
But though the discerning eyes of Mr. and Mrs. King real
this in the very excess of her polite demonstrations, other
visitors who were present when they called supposed them
to be her dearest friends, and envied her the distinguished
intimacy.

Such formal attempts at intercourse only increased the
cravings of Rosa's heart, and Mr. King requested Gerald to
grant her a private interview. Inexpressibly precious were
these few stolen moments, when she could venture to call
him son, and hear him call her mother. He brought her
an enamelled locket containing some of his hair, inscribed
with the word “Gerald”; and she told him that to the day
of her death she would always wear it next her heart.
He opened a small morocco case, on the velvet lining of
which lay a lily of delicate silver filigree.

“Here is a little souvenir for Eulalia,” said he.

Her eyes moistened as she replied, “I fear it would not
be prudent, my son.”

He averted his face as he answered: “Then give it to
her in my mother's name. It will be pleasant to me to
think that my sister is wearing it.”

A few days after Gerald had sailed for Europe, Mr.
King started for New Orleans, taking with him his wife
and daughter. An auctioneer was found, who said he had
sold to a gentleman in Natchez a runaway slave named
Bob Bruteman, who strongly resembled the likeness of
Gerald. They proceeded to Natchez and had an interview
with the purchaser, who recognized a likeness between his
slave Bob and the picture of Gerald. He said he had
made a bad bargain of it, for the fellow was intelligent and
artful, and had escaped from him two months ago. In answer
to his queries, Mr. King stated that, if Bob was the
one he supposed, he was a white man, and had friends who
wished to redeem him; but as the master had obtained no
clew to the runaway, he could of course give none. So
their long journey produced no result, except the satisfaction

of thinking that the object of their interest had escaped
from slavery.

It had been their intention to spend the coldest months
at the South, but a volcano had flared up all of a sudden
at Harper's Ferry, and boiling lava was rolling all over
the land. Every Northern man who visited the South
was eyed suspiciously, as a possible emissary of John
Brown; and the fact that Mr. King was seeking to redeem
a runaway slave was far from increasing confidence in
him. Finding that silence was unsatisfactory, and that he
must either indorse slavery or be liable to perpetual provocations
to quarrel, he wrote to Mr. Blumenthal to have
their house in readiness for their return; an arrangement
which Flora and her children hailed with merry shouts
and clapping of hands.

When they arrived, they found their house as warm
as June, with Flora and her family there to receive them,
backed by a small army of servants, consisting of Tulee,
with her tall son and daughter, and little Benny, and Tom
and Chloe; all of whom had places provided for them,
either in the household or in Mr. King's commercial establishment.
Their tropical exuberance of welcome made
him smile. When the hearty hand-shakings were over, he
said to his wife, as they passed into the parlor, “It really
seemed as if we were landing on the coast of Guinea with
a cargo of beads.”

“O Alfred,” rejoined she, “I am so grateful to you for
employing them all! You don't know, and never can
know, how I feel toward these dusky friends; for you never
had them watch over you, day after day, and night after
night, patiently and tenderly leading you up from the valley
of the shadow of death.”

He pressed her hand affectionately, and said, “Inasmuch
as they did it for you, darling, they did it for me.”

This sentiment was wrought into their daily deportment
to their servants; and the result was an harmonious relation
between employer and employed, which it was beautiful
to witness. But there are skeletons hidden away in
the happiest households. Mrs. King had hers, and Tom
and Chole had theirs. The death of Mr. Bell and the absence
of Mrs. Fitzgerald left no one in Boston who would
be likely to recognize them; but they knew that the Fugitive
Slave Act was still in force, and though they relied
upon Mr. King's generosity in case of emergency, they had
an uncomfortable feeling of not being free. It was not so
with Tulee. She had got beyond Mount Pisgah into the
Canaan of freedom; and her happiness was unalloyed. Mr.
King, though kind and liberal to all, regarded her with especial
favor, on account of old associations. The golden
hoops had been taken from her ears when she was in the
calaboose; but he had presented her with another pair,
for he liked to have her look as she did when she opened
for him that door in New Orleans, which had proved an
entrance to the temple and palace of his life. She felt herself
to be a sort of prime minister in the small kingdom,
and began to deport herself as one having authority. No
empress ever had more satisfaction in a royal heir than she
had in watching her Benny trudging to school, with his
spelling-book slung over his shoulder, in a green satchel
Mrs. King had made for him. The stylishness of the establishment
was also a great source of pride to her; and
she often remarked in the kitchen that she had always said
gold was none too good for Missy Rosy to walk upon.
Apart from this consideration, she herself had an Oriental

delight in things that were lustrous and gayly colored.
Tom had learned to read quite fluently, and was accustomed
to edify his household companions with chapters
from the Bible on Sunday evenings. The descriptions of
King Solomon's splendor made a lively impression on Tulee's
mind. When she dusted the spacious parlors, she
looked admiringly at the large mirrors, the gilded circles
of gas lights, and the great pictures framed in crimson and
gold, and thought that the Temple of Solomon could not
have been more grand. She could scarcely believe Mrs.
Delano was wealthy. “She's a beautiful lady,” said she
to Flora; “but if she's got plenty o' money, what makes
her dress so innocent and dull? There's Missy Rosy
now, when she's dressed for company, she looks like the
Queen of Shebee.”

One morning Tulee awoke to look out upon a scene
entirely new to her Southern eyes, and far surpassing
anything she had imagined of the splendor of Solomon's
Temple. On the evening previous, the air had been full
of mist, which, as it grew colder, had settled on the trees
of the Common, covering every little twig with a panoply
of ice. A very light snow had fallen softly during the
night, and sprinkled the ice with a feathery fleece. The
trees, in this delicate white vesture, standing up against a
dark blue sky, looked like the glorified spirits of trees.
Here and there, the sun touched them, and dropped a
shower of diamonds. Tulee gazed a moment in delighted
astonishment, and ran to call Chloe, who exclaimed, “They
looks like great white angels, and Ise feared they'll fly
away 'fore Missis gits up.”

Tulee was very impatient for the sound of Mrs. King's
bell, and as soon as the first tinkle was heard she rushed

into her dressing-room, exclaiming, “O, do come to the
window, Missy Rosy! Sure this is silver land.”

Rosa was no less surprised when she looked out upon
that wonderful vision of the earth, in its transfigured raiment
of snow-glory. “Why, Tulee,” said she, “it is diamond
land. I've seen splendid fairy scenes in the theatres
of Paris, but never anything so brilliant as this.”

“I used to think the woods down South, all covered with
jess'mines, was the beautifullest thing,” responded Tulee;
“but, Lors, Missy Rosy, this is as much handsomer as
Solomon's Temple was handsomer than a meetin'-house.”

But neither the indoor nor the outdoor splendor, nor all
the personal comforts they enjoyed, made this favored band
of colored people forgetful of the brethren they had left in
bondage. Every word about John Brown was sought for
and read with avidity. When he was first taken captive,
Chloe said: “The angel that let Peter out o'prison ha' n't
growed old an' hard o' hearing. If we prays loud enough,
he'll go and open the doors for old John Brown.”

Certainly, it was not for want of the colored people's
praying loud and long enough, that the prisoner was not supernaturally
delivered. They did not relinquish the hope
till the 2d of December: and when that sad day arrived, they
assembled in their meeting-house to watch and pray. All
was silent, except now and then an occasional groan, till
the hands of the clock pointed to the moment of the martyr's
exit from this world. Then Tom poured forth his
soul in a mighty voice of prayer, ending with the agonized
entreaty, “O Lord, thou hast taken away our Moses.
Raise us up a Joshua!” And all cried, “Amen!”

Chloe, who had faith that could walk the stormiest
waves, spoke words of fervent cheer to the weeping congregation.

“I tell ye they ha'n't killed old John Brown,”
said she; “'cause they could n't kill him. The angel
that opened the prison doors for Peter has let him out,
and sent him abroad in a different way from what we
'spected; that's all.”

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.

THROUGH the following year, the political sky grew
ever darker with impending clouds, crinkled with
lightning, and vocal with growlings of approaching thunder.
The North continued to make servile concessions,
which history will blush to record; but they proved unavailing.
The arrogance of slaveholders grew by what it
fed on. Though a conscientious wish to avoid civil war
mingled largely with the selfishness of trade, and the heartless
gambling of politicians, all was alike interpreted by
them as signs of Northern cowardice. At last, the Sumter
gun was heard booming through the gathering storm.
Instantly, the air was full of starry banners, and Northern
pavements resounded with the tramp of horse and the rolling
of artillery wagons. A thrill of patriotic enthusiasm
kindled the souls of men. No more sending back of slaves.
All our cities became at once cities of refuge; for men had
risen above the letter of the Constitution into the spirit of
the Declaration of Independence.

Gerald and his Lily-mother arrived in New York to find
the social atmosphere all aglow. Under its exciting influence,
he wrote to Mr. King:—

“Yesterday, I informed you of our arrival; and now I
write to tell you that they are forming a regiment here to
march to the defence of Washington, and I have joined it.
Lily-mother was unwilling at first. But a fine set of fellows
are joining,—all first-class young gentlemen. I told
Lily-mother she would be ashamed to have me loiter behind

the sons of her acquaintance, and that Mr. Seward said it
was only an affair of sixty days. So she has consented.
I enclose a letter to Rose-mother, to ask her blessing on
my enterprise, which I am quite sure I shall have, together
with your own.”

Thus, with the unreflecting exhilaration of youth, Gerald
went forth to the war, as light of heart as if he had been
joining a boat-race or a hunting excursion; so little did
he comprehend that ferocious system of despotism which
was fastening its fangs on free institutions with the death-grapple
of a bloodhound.

For the next two months, his letters, though hurried,
were frequent, and always cheerful; mostly filled with trifling
gossipings about camp-life, and affectionate remembrances
to those he had left behind. At last, Mr. King
received one of graver import, which ran thus:—

“I have met with a strange adventure. A number of
us were on picket duty, with orders to keep a sharp lookout.
We went pacing back and forth on our allotted
ground, now passing under the shadow of trees, now coming
out into the moonlight. I walked very erect, feeling
myself every inch a soldier. Sometimes I cast scrutinizing
glances into groups of shrubbery, and sometimes I gazed
absently on the sparkling Potomac, while memory was retracing
the events of my life, and recalling the dear ones
connected with them. Just as I reached a large tree which
formed the boundary of my prescribed course, the next
sentinel, whose walk began where mine ended, approached
the same tree, and before he turned again we met face to
face for an instant. I started, and I confess to a momentary
feeling of superstition; for I thought I had seen myself;
and that, you know, is said to be a warning of approaching

death. He could not have seen me very plainly, for I was
in shadow, while he for an instant was clearly revealed by
the moonlight. Anxious to be sure whether I had seen a
vision or a reality, when I again approached the tree I
waited for him; and a second time I saw such a likeness
of myself as I never saw excepting in the mirror. He
turned quickly, and marched away with military promptitude
and precision. I watched him for a moment, as his
erect figure alternately dipped into shadow and emerged
into light. I need not tell you what I was thinking of
while I looked; for you can easily conjecture. The third
time we met, I said, `What is your name?' He replied,
`George Falkner,' and marched away. I write on a drum-head,
in a hurry. As soon as I can obtain a talk with this
duplicate of myself, I will write to you again. But I shall
not mention my adventure to Lily-mother. It would only
make her unhappy.”

Another letter, which arrived a week after, contained
merely the following paragraph on the subject that interested
them most:—

“We soldiers cannot command our own movements or
our time. I have been able to see G. F. but once, and
then our interview was brief. He seemed very reserved
about himself. He says he came from New York; but his
speech is Southern. He talks about `toting' things, and
says he `disremembers.' I shall try to gain his confidence,
and perhaps I shall be able to draw him out.”

A fortnight later he wrote:—

“I have learned from G. F. that the first thing he remembers
of himself is living with an old negress, about ten
miles from New Orleans, with eight other children, of various
shades, but none so white as himself. He judges he

was about nine years old when he was carried to New
Orleans, and let out by a rich man named Bruteman to a
hotel-keeper, to black boots, do errands, &c. One of
the children that the old negress brought up with him
was a mulatto named Henriet. The boys called her Hen,
he said. He used to `tote' her about when she was a
baby, and afterward they used to roll in the mud, and
make mud-pies together. When Hen was twelve years
old, she was let out to work in the same hotel where he
was. Soon afterward, Mr. Bruteman put him out to learn
the carpenter's trade, and he soon became expert at it.
But though he earned five or six dollars a week, and
finally nine or ten, he never received any portion of it;
except that now and then Mr. Bruteman, when he counted
his wages, gave him a fip. I never thought of this side
of the question when I used to hear grandfather talk about
the rights of slaveholders; but I feel now, if this had
been my own case, I should have thought it confounded
hard. He and Hen were very young when they first begun
to talk about being married; but he couldn't bear the
thoughts of bringing up a family to be slaves, and they
watched for an opportunity to run away. After several
plans which proved abortive, they went boldly on board
`The King Cotton,' he as a white gentleman, and she disguised
as his boy servant. You know how that attempt
resulted. He says they were kept two days, with hands
and feet tied, on an island that was nothing but rock.
They suffered with cold, though one of the sailors, who
seemed kind-hearted, covered them with blankets and overcoats.
He probably did not like the business of guarding
slaves; for one night he whispered to G. F., `Can't you
swim?' But George was very little used to the water,
and Hen couldn't swim at all. Besides, he said, the sailors
had loaded guns, and some of them would have fired
upon them, if they had heard them plunge; and even if
by a miracle they had gained the shore, he thought they
would be seized and sent back again, just as they were in
Boston.

“You may judge how I felt, while I listened to this.
I wanted to ask his forgiveness, and give him all my money,
and my watch, and my ring, and everything. After
they were carried back, Hen was sold to the hotel-keeper
for six hundred dollars, and he was sold to a man in
Natchez for fifteen hundred. After a while, he escaped in
a woman's dress, contrived to open a communication with
Hen, and succeeded in carrying her off to New York.
There he changed his woman's dress, and his slave name
of Bob Bruteman, and called himself George Falkner.
When I asked him why he chose that name, he rolled up
his sleeve and showed me G. F. marked on his arm. He
said he didn't know who put them there, but he supposed
they were the initials of his name. He is evidently impressed
by our great resemblance. If he asks me directly
whether I can conjecture anything about his origin, I hardly
know how it will be best to answer. Do write how
much or how little I ought to say. Feeling unsafe in
the city of New York, and being destitute of money, he
applied to the Abolitionists for advice. They sent him to
New Rochelle, where he let himself to a Quaker, called
Friend Joseph Houseman, of whom he hired a small hut.
There, Hen, whom he now calls Henriet, takes in washing
and ironing, and there a babe has been born to them.
When the war broke out he enlisted; partly because he
thought it would help him to pay off some old scores with

slaveholders, and partly because a set of rowdies in the
village of New Rochelle said he was a white man, and
threatened to mob him for living with a nigger wife.
While they were in New York city, he and Henriet were
regularly married by a colored minister. He said he did
it because he hated slavery and couldn't bear to live as
slaves did. I heard him read a few lines from a newspaper,
and he read them pretty well. He says a little boy,
son of the carpenter of whom he learned his trade, gave
him some instruction, and he bought a spelling-book for
himself. He showed me some beef-bones, on which he
practises writing with a pencil. When he told me how
hard he had tried to get what little learning he had, it made
me ashamed to think how many cakes and toys I received
as a reward for studying my spelling-book. He is teaching
an old negro, who waits upon the soldiers. It is funny
to see how hard the poor old fellow tries, and to hear what
strange work he makes of it. It must be `that stolen waters
are sweet,' or slaves would never take so much more
pains than I was ever willing to take to learn to spell out
the Bible. Sometimes I help G. F. with his old pupil;
and I should like to have Mrs. Blumenthal make a sketch
of us, as I sit on the grass in the shade of some tree, helping
the old negro hammer his syllables together. My
New York companions laugh at me sometimes; but I have
gained great favor with G. F. by this proceeding. He is
such an ingenious fellow, that he is always in demand to
make or mend something. When I see how skilful he is
with tools, I envy him. I begin to realize what you once
told me, and which did not please me much at the time,
that being a fine gentleman is the poorest calling a man
can devote himself to.

“I have written this long letter under difficulties, and at
various times. I have omitted many particulars, which I
will try to remember in my next. Enclosed is a note for
Rose-mother. I hold you all in most affectionate remembrance.”

Soon after the reception of this letter, news came of the
defeat at Bull Run, followed by tidings that Gerald was
among the slain. Mr. King immediately waited upon Mrs.
Fitzgerald to offer any services that he could render, and it
was agreed that he should forth with proceed to Washington
with her cousin, Mr. Green. They returned with a long
wooden box, on which was inscribed Gerald's name and
regiment. It was encased in black walnut without being
opened, for those who loved him dreaded to see him, marred
as he was by battle. It was carried to Stone Chapel,
where a multitude collected to pay the last honors to the
youthful soldier. A sheathed sword was laid across the
coffin, on which Mrs. Fitzgerald placed a laurel wreath.
Just above it, Mrs. King deposited a wreath of white roses,
in the centre of which Eulalia timidly laid a white lily.
A long procession followed it to Mount Auburn, with a
band playing Beethoven's Funeral March. Episcopal services
were performed at the grave, which friends and relatives
filled with flowers; and there, by the side of Mr.
Bell, the beautiful young man was hidden away from human
sight. Mr. King's carriage had followed next to Mrs.
Fitzgerald's; a circumstance which the public explained
by a report that the deceased was to have married his
daughter. Mrs. Fitzgerald felt flattered to have it so understood,
and she never contradicted it. After her great
disappointment in her husband, and the loss of her other
children, all the affection she was capable of feeling had

centred in Gerald. But hers was not a deep nature, and
the world held great sway over it. She suffered acutely
when she first heard of her loss; but she found no small
degree of soothing compensation in the praises bestowed on
her young hero, in the pomp of his funeral, and the general
understanding that he was betrothed to the daughter
of the quatro-millionnaire.

The depth of Mrs. King's sorrow was known only to
Him who made the heart. She endeavored to conceal it
as far as possible, for she felt it to be wrong to cast a
shadow over the home of her husband and daughter.
Gerald's likeness was placed in her chamber, where she
saw it with the first morning light; but what were her
reveries while she gazed upon it was told to no one.
Custom, as well as sincere sympathy, made it necessary
for her to make a visit of condolence to Mrs. Fitzgerald.
But she mercly took her hand, pressed it gently, and said,
“May God comfort you.” “May God comfort you, also,”
replied Mrs. Fitzgerald, returning the pressure; and from
that time henceforth the name of Gerald was never mentioned
between them.

After the funeral it was noticed that Alfred Blumenthal
appeared abstracted, as if continually occupied with grave
thoughts. One day, as he stood leaning against the window,
gazing on the stars and stripes that floated across
the street, he turned suddenly and exclaimed: “It is
wrong to be staying here. I ought to be fighting for that
flag. I must supply poor Gerald's place.”

Mrs. Delano, who had been watching him anxiously,
rose up and clasped him round the neck, with stronger
emotion than he had ever seen her manifest. “Must you
go my son?” she said.

He laid his hand very gently on her head as he replied:
“Dearest Mamita, you always taught me to obey the voice
of duty; and surely it is a duty to help in rescuing Liberty
from the bloody jaws of this dragon Slavery.”

She lingered an instant on his breast, then, raising her
tearful face, she silently pressed his hand, while she looked
into those kind and honest eyes, that so strongly reminded
her of eyes closed long ago. “You are right, my son,”
murmured she; “and may God give you strength.”

Turning from her to hide the swelling of his own heart,
Alfred saw his mother sobbing on his father's bosom.
“Dearest mamma,” said he, “Heaven knows it is hard for
me. Do not make it harder.”

“It takes the manhood out of him to see you weep, darling,”
said Mr. Blumenthal. “Be a brave little woman,
and cheerfully give your dearest and best for the country.”

She wiped her eyes, and, fervently kissing Alfred's hand,
replied, “I will. May God bless you, my dear, my only
son!”

His father clasped the other hand, and said, with forced
calmness: “You are right, Alfred. God bless you! And
now, dear Flora, let us consecrate our young hero's resolution
by singing the Battle Song of Körner.”

She seated herself at the piano, and Mrs. Delano joined
in with her weak but very sweet voice, while they sang,
“Father! I call on thee.” But when they came to the
last verse, the voices choked, and the piano became silent.
Rosen Blumen and Lila came in and found them all weeping;
and when their brother pressed them in his arms and
whispered to them the cause of all this sorrow, they cried
as if their hearts were breaking. Then their mother summoned
all her resolution, and became a comforter. While

their father talked to them of the nobility and beauty of
self-sacrifice, she kissed them and soothed them with hopeful
words. Then, turning to Mrs. Delano, she tenderly
caressed her faded hair, while she said: “Dearest Mamita,
I trust God will restore to us our precious boy. I will
paint his picture as St. George slaying the dragon, and you
shall hang it in your chamber, in memory of what he said
to you.”

Alfred, unable to control his emotions, hid himself in the
privacy of his own chamber. He struck his hand wildly
against his forehead, exclaiming, “O my country, great
is the sacrifice I make for thee!” Then, kneeling by the
bed where he had had so many peaceful slumbers, and
dreamed so many pleasant dreams, he prayed fervently
that God would give him strength according to his need.

And so he went forth from his happy home, self-consecrated
to the cause of freedom. The women now had but
one absorbing interest and occupation. All were eager
for news from the army, and all were busy working for
the soldiers.

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.

WHEN Mr. King returned from his mournful journey
to Washington, he said to his wife: “I saw
George Falkner, and was pleased with him. His resemblance
to poor Gerald is wonderful. I could see no difference,
except a firmer expression of the mouth, which I
suppose is owing to his determined efforts to escape from
slavery. Of course, he has not Gerald's gracefulness; but
his bearing seemed manly, and there was no obvious stamp
of vulgarity upon him. It struck me that his transformation
into a gentleman would be an easy process. I was
glad our interview was a hurried one, and necessarily
taken up with details about Gerald's death. It seems he
carried him off in his own arms when he was wounded,
and that he did his utmost to stanch the blood. Gerald
never spoke after the bullet struck him, though he pressed
his hand, and appeared to try to say something. When he
opened his vest to dress the wound, he found this.”

Rosa looked at it, groaned out, “Poor Gerald!” and
covered her face. It was the photograph of Eulalia,
with the upper part shot away. Both remained for some
time with their heads bowed in silence.

After a while, Mr. King resumed: “In answer to Mr.
Green's inquiries concerning the mutilated picture, I replied
that it was a likeness of my daughter; and he answered
that he had heard a marriage was thought of
between them. I was glad he happened to say that, for it
will make it seem natural to George that I should take a

lively interest in him on Gerald's account. The funeral,
and Alfred's departure for the army, have left me little
time to arrange my thoughts on that subject. But I have
now formed definite plans, that I propose we should this
evening talk over at Blumenthal's.”

When the sisters met, and the girls had gone to another
room to talk over their lessons, and imagine what Alfred was
then doing, Mr. King began to speak of George Falkner.

Rosa said: “My first wish is to go to New Rochelle and
bring home Henriet. She ought to be educated in a degree
somewhat suitable to her husband's prospects. I will teach
her to read and write, and give her lessons on the piano.”

“I think that would prove too much for your finely attuned
musical nerves,” rejoined her husband.

“Do you suppose you are going to make all the sacrifices?”
responded she, smiling. “It isn't at all like you
to wish to engross everything to yourself.”

“Rosa has a predilection for penance,” remarked Flora;
“and if she listens daily to a beginner knocking the scales
up hill and down hill, I think it will answer instead of
walking to Jerusalem with peas in her shoes.”

“Before I mention my plans, I should like to hear your
view of the subject, Blumenthal,” said Mr. King.

His brother-in-law replied: “I think Rosa is right about
taking charge of Henriet and educating her. But it seems
to me the worst thing you could do for her or her husband
would be to let them know that they have a claim to
riches. Sudden wealth is apt to turn the heads of much
older people than they are; and having been brought up
as slaves, their danger would be greatly increased. If
Henriet could be employed to sew for you, she might be
gratified with easy work and generous wages, while you

watched over her morals, and furnished her with opportunities
to improve her mind. If George survives the war,
some employment with a comfortable salary might be provided
for him, with a promise to advance him according
to his industry and general good habits. How does that
strike you, Mamita?”

“I agree perfectly with you,” rejoined Mrs. Delano.
“I think it would be far more prudent to have their characters
formed by habits of exertion and self-reliance, before
they are informed that they are rich.”

“It gratifies me to have my own judgment thus confirmed,”
said Mr. King. “You have given the outlines of
a plan I had already formed. But this judicious process
must not, of course, deprive the young man of a single
cent that is due to him. You are aware that Mr. Bell left
fifty thousand dollars to his grandson, to be paid when he
was twenty-two years of age. I have already invested
that sum for George, and placed it in the care of Mr. Percival,
with directions that the interest shall be added to it
from that date. The remainder of Mr. Bell's property,
with the exception of some legacies, was unreservedly left
to his daughter. I have taken some pains to ascertain the
amount, and I shall add a codicil to my will leaving an
equal sum to George. If I survive Mrs. Fitzgerald, the
interest on it will date from her decease; and I shall take
the best legal advice as to the means of securing her property
from any claims, by George or his heirs, after they
are informed of the whole story, as they will be whenever
Mrs. Fitzgerald dies.”

“You are rightly named Royal King,” rejoined Mr. Blumenthal,
“you do things in such princely style.”

“In a style better than that of most royal kings,” replied

he, “for it is simply that of an honest man. If this entanglement
had never happened, I should have done as
much for Gerald; and let me do what I will, Eulalia will
have more money than is good for her. Besides, I rather
expect this arrangement will prove a benefit to myself. I
intend to employ the young man as one of my agents in
Europe; and if he shows as much enterprise and perseverance
in business as he did in escaping from slavery, he
will prove an excellent partner for me when increasing
years diminish my own energies. I would gladly adopt
him, and have him live with us; but I doubt whether such
a great and sudden change of condition would prove salutary,
and his having a colored wife would put obstructions
in his way entirely beyond our power to remove. But the
strongest objection to it is, that such an arrangement would
greatly annoy Mrs. Fitzgerald, whose happiness we are
bound to consult in every possible way.”

“Has she been informed that the young man is found?”
inquired Mrs. Delano.

“No,” replied Mr. King. “It occurred very near the
time of Gerald's death; and we deem it unkind to disturb
her mind about it for some months to come.”

The next week, Mr. and Mrs. King started for New
York, and thence proceeded to New Rochelle. Following
the directions they had received, they hired a carriage at
the steamboat-landing, to convey them to a farm-house a
few miles distant. As they approached the designated
place, they saw a slender man, in drab-colored clothes,
lowering a bucket into the well. Mr. King alighted, and
inquired, “Is this Mr. Houseman's farm, sir?”

“My name is Joseph Houseman,” replied the Quaker.
“I am usually called Friend Joseph.”

Mr. King returned to the carriage, and saying, “This is
the place,” he assisted his lady to alight. Returning to
the farmer, he said: “We have come to ask you about a
young colored woman, named Henriet Falkner. Her husband
rendered service to a dear young friend of ours in the
army, and we would be glad to repay the obligation by
kindness to her.”

“Walk in,” said the Quaker. He showed them into a
neat, plainly furnished parlor. “Where art thou from?”
he inquired.

“From Boston,” was the reply.

“What is thy name?”

“Mr. King.”

“All men are called Mister,” rejoined the Quaker.
“What is thy given name?”

“My name is Alfred Royal King; and this is my wife,
Rosa King.”

“Hast thou brought a letter from the woman's husband?”
inquired Friend Joseph.

“No,” replied Mr. King. “I saw George Falkner in
Washington, a fortnight ago, when I went to seek the body
of our young friend; but I did not then think of coming
here. If you doubt me, you can write to William Lloyd
Garrison or Wendell Phillips, and inquire of them whether
Alfred R. King is capable of deceiving.”

“I like thy countenance, Friend Alfred, and I think
thou art honest,” rejoined the Quaker; “but where colored
people are concerned, I have known very polite and fair-spoken
men to tell falsehoods.”

Mr. King smiled as he answered: “I commend your
caution, Friend Joseph. I see how it is. You suspect we
may be slaveholders in disguise. But slaveholders are just

now too busy seeking to destroy this Republic to have any
time to hunt fugitives; and when they have more leisure,
my opinion is they will find that occupation gone.”

“I should have more hope of that,” replied the farmer,
“if there was not so much pro-slavery here at the North.
And thee knows that the generals of the United States are
continually sending back fugitive slaves to bleed under the
lash of their taskmasters.”

“I honor your scruples, Friend Joseph,” responded Mr.
King; “and that they may be completely removed, we
will wait at the Metropolitan in New York until you have
received letters from Mr. Garrison and Mr. Phillips. And
lest you should think I may have assumed the name of
another, I will give you these to enclose in your letter.”
He opened his pocket-book and took out two photographs.

“I shall ask to have them sent back to me,” replied the
farmer; “for I should like to keep a likeness of thee and
thy Rosa. They will be pleasant to look upon. As soon
as I receive an answer, Friend Alfred, I will call upon thee
at the Metropolitan.”

“We shall be pleased to see you, Friend Joseph,” said
Rosa, with one of her sweetest smiles, which penetrated
the Quaker's soul, as sunshine does the receptive earth.
Yet, when the carriage had rolled away, he harnessed his
sleek horses to the wagon, and conveyed Henriet and her
babe to the house of a Friend at White Plains, till he ascertained
whether these stylish-looking strangers were what
they professed to be.

A few days afterward, Friend Joseph called at the Metropolitan.
When he inquired for the wealthy Bostonian,
the waiter stared at his plain dress, and said, “Your card,
sir.”

“I have no card,” replied the farmer. “Tell him Friend
Joseph wishes to see him.”

The waiter returned, saying, “Walk this way, sir,” and
showed him into the elegant reception-room.

As he sat there, another servant, passing through, looked
at him, and said, “All gentlemen take off their hats in this
room, sir.”

“That may be,” quietly replied the Quaker; “but all
men do not, for thee sees I keep mine on.”

The entrance of Mr. King, and his cordial salutation,
made an impression on the waiters' minds; and when
Friend Joseph departed, they opened the door very obsequiously.

The result of the conference was that Mr. and Mrs. King
returned to Boston with Henriet and her little one.

Tulee had proved in many ways that her discretion
might be trusted; and it was deemed wisest to tell her the
whole story of the babe, who had been carried to the calaboose
with her when Mr. Bruteman's agent seized her.
This confidence secured her as a firm friend and ally of
Henriet, while her devoted attachment to Mrs. King rendered
her secrecy certain. When black Chloe saw the
new-comer learning to play on the piano, she was somewhat
jealous because the same privilege had not been
offered to her children. “I didn't know Missy Rosy
tought thar war sech a mighty difference 'tween black an'
brown,” said she. “I don't see nothin' so drefful pooty in
dat ar molasses color.”

“Now ye shut up,” rejoined Tulee. “Missy Rosy
knows what she's 'bout. Ye see Mr. Fitzgerald was in
love with Missy Eulaly; an' Henret's husban' took care o'
him when he was dying. Mr. King is going to send him

'cross the water on some gran' business, to pay him for't;
and Missy Rosy wants his wife to be 'spectable out there
'mong strangers.”

Henriet proved good-natured and unassuming, and, with
occasional patronage from Tulce, she was generally able to
keep her little boat in smooth water.

When she had been there a few months Mr. King enclosed
to Mrs. Fitzgerald the letters Gerald had written
about George; and a few days afterward he called to explain
fully what he had done, and what he intended to do.
That lady's dislike for her rival was much diminished since
there was no Gerald to excite her jealousy of divided affection.
There was some perturbation in her manner, but
she received her visitor with great politeness; and when
he had finished his statement she said: “I have great respect
for your motives and your conduct; and I am satisfied
to leave everything to your good judgment and kind
feelings. I have but one request to make. It is that this
young man may never know he is my son.”

“Your wishes shall be respected,” replied Mr. King.
“But he so strongly resembles Gerald, that, if you should
ever visit Europe again, you might perhaps like to see
him, if you only recognized him as a relative of your
husband.”

The lady's face flushed as she answered promptly: “No,
sir. I shall never recoguize any person as a relative who
has a colored wife. Much as I loved Gerald, I would
never have seen him again if he had formed such an alliance;
not even if his wife were the most beautiful and
accomplished creature that ever walked the earth.”

“You are treading rather closely upon me, Mrs. Fitzgerald,”
rejoined Mr. King, smiling.

The lady seemed embarrassed, and said she had forgotten
Mrs. King's origin.

“Your son's wife is not so far removed from a colored
ancestry as mine is,” rejoined Mr. King; “but I think you
would soon forget her origin, also, if you were in a country
where others did not think of it. I believe our American
prejudice against color is one of what Carlyle calls `the
phantom dynastics.' ”

“It may be so,” she replied coldly; “but I do not wish
to be convinced of it.”

And Mr. King bowed good morning.

A week or two after this interview, Mrs. Fitzgerald
called upon Mrs. King; for, after all, she felt a certain sort
of attraction in the secret history that existed between
them; and she was unwilling to have the world suppose
her acquaintance had been dropped by so distinguished a
lady. By inadvertence of the servant at the door, she was
shown into the parlor while Henriet was there, with her
child on the floor, receiving directions concerning some
muslin flounces she was embroidering. Upon the entrance
of a visitor, she turned to take up her infant and depart.
But Mrs. King said, “Leave little Hetty here, Mrs. Falkner,
till you bring my basket for me to select the floss you
need.”

Hetty, being thus left alone, scrambled up, and toddled
toward Mrs. King, as if accustomed to an affectionate reception.
The black curls that clustered round her yellow
face shook, as her uncertain steps hastened to a place of
refuge; and when she leaned against her friend's lap, a
pretty smile quivered on her coral lips, and lighted up her
large dark eyes.

Mrs. Fitzgerald looked at her with a strange mixture of
feelings.

“Don't you think she's a pretty little creature?” asked
Mrs. King.

“She might be pretty if the yellow could be washed off,”
replied Mrs. Fitzgerald.

“Her cheeks are nearly the color of your hair,” rejoined
Mrs. King; “and I always thought that beautiful.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald glanced at the mirror, and sighed as she
said: “Ah, yes. My hair used to be thought very pretty
when I was young; but I can see that it begins to fade.”

When Henriet returned and took the child, she looked
at her very curiously. She was thinking to herself, “What
would my father say?” But she asked no questions, and
made no remark.

She had joined a circle of ladies who were sewing and
knitting for the soldiers; and after some talk about the difficulty
she had found in learning to knit socks, and how
fashionable it was for everybody to knit now, she rose to
take leave.

38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.

The months passed on, and brought ever-recurring
demands for more soldiers. Mr. King watched the
progress of the struggle with the deepest anxiety.

One day, when he had seen a new regiment depart for
the South, he returned home in a still more serious mood
than was now habitual to him. After supper, he opened
the Evening Transcript, and read for a while. Then turning
to his wife, who sat near him knitting for the army, he
said, “Dear Rosabella, during all the happy years that I
have been your husband, you have never failed to encourage
me in every good impulse, and I trust you will
strengthen me now.”

With a trembling dread of what was coming, she asked,
“What is it, dear Alfred.”

“Rosa, this Republic must be saved,” replied he, with
solemn emphasis. “It is the day-star of hope to the toiling
masses of the world, and it must not go out in darkness.
It is not enough for me to help with money. I
ought to go and sustain our soldiers by cheering words and
a brave example. It fills me with shame and indignation
when I think that all this peril has been brought upon us
by that foul system which came so near making a wreck
of you, my precious one, as it has wrecked thousands of
pure and gentle souls. I foresee that this war is destined,
by mere force of circumstances, to rid the Republic of that
deadly incubus. Rosa, are you not willing to give me up
for the safety of the country, and the freedom of your
mother's race?”

She tried to speak, but utterance failed her. After a
struggle with herself, she said: “Do you realize how
hard is a soldier's life? You will break down under it,
dear Alfred; for you have been educated in ease and
luxury.”

“My education is not finished,” replied he, smiling, as
he looked round on the elegant and luxurious apartment.
“What are all these comforts and splendors compared with
the rescue of my country, and the redemption of an oppressed
race? What is my life, compared with the life of
this Republic? Say, dearest, that you will give me willingly
to this righteous cause.”

“Far rather would I give my own life,” she said. “But
I will never seek to trammel your conscience, Alfred.”

They spoke together tenderly of the past, and hopefully
of the future; and then they knelt and prayed together.

Some time was necessarily spent in making arrangements
for the comfort and safety of the family during his
absence; and when those were completed, he also went
forth to rescue Liberty from the jaws of the devouring
dragon. When he bade farewell to Flora's family, he
said: “Look after my precious ones, Blumenthal; and if
I never return, see to it that Percival carries out all my
plans with regard to George Falkner.”

Eight or ten weeks later, Alfred Blumenthal was lying
in a hospital at Washington, dangerously wounded and
burning with fever. His father and mother and Mrs. Delano
immediately went to him; and the women remained
until the trembling balance between life and death was determined
in his favor. The soldier's life, which he at first
dreaded, had become familiar to him, and he found a terrible
sort of excitement in its chances and dangers. Mrs.

Delano sighed to observe that the gentle expression of
his countenance, so like the Alfred of her memory, was
changing to a sterner manhood. It was harder than
the first parting to send him forth again into the fiery
hail of battle; but they put strong constraint upon themselves,
and tried to perform bravely their part in the great
drama.

That visit to his suffering but uncomplaining son made
a strong impression on the mind of Mr. Blumenthal. He
became abstracted and restless. One evening, as he sat
leaning his head on his hand, Flora said, “What are you
thinking of, Florimond?”

He answered: “I am thinking, dear, of the agony I suffered
when I hadn't money to save you from the auction-block;
and I am thinking how the same accursed system is
striving to perpetuate and extend itself. The Republic
has need of all her sons to stop its ravages; and I feel
guilty in staying here, while our Alfred is so heroically
offering up his young life in the cause of freedom.”

“I have dreaded this,” she said. “I have seen for days
that it was coming. But, O Florimond, it is hard.”

She hid her face in his bosom, and he felt her heart beat
violently, while he talked concerning the dangers and duties
of the time. Mrs. Delano bowed her head over the
soldier's sock she was knitting, and tears dropped on it
while she listened to them.

The weight that lay so heavily upon their souls was suddenly
lifted up for a time by the entrance of Joe Bright.
He came in with a radiant face, and, bowing all round, said,
“I've come to bid you good by; I'm going to defend the
old flag.” He lifted up his voice and sang,

Flora went to the piano, and accompanied him with instrument
and voice. Her husband soon struck in; and Rosen
Blumen and Lila left their lessons to perform their part in
the spirit-stirring strain. When they had sung the last
line, Mr. Bright, without pausing to take breath, struck
into “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,” and they followed
his lead. He put on all his steam when he came to the
verse,
He emphasized the word shall, and brought his clenched
hand down upon the table so forcibly, that the shade over
the gas-light shook.

In the midst of it, Mrs. Delano stole out of the room. She
had a great respect and liking for Mr. Bright, but he was
sometimes rather too demonstrative to suit her taste. He
was too much carried away with enthusiasm to notice her
noiseless retreat, and he went on to the conclusion of his
song with unabated energy. All earnestness is magnetic.
Mr. and Mrs. Blumenthal, and even the children, caught
his spirit. When the song ended, Mr. Blumenthal drew a
long breath, and said: “One needs strong lungs to accompany
you, Mr. Bright. You sang that like the tramp of a
regiment.”

“And you blazed away like an explosion of artillery,”
rejoined he.

“The fact is,” replied Blumenthal, “the war spirit
pervades the air, and I've caught it. I'm going to join
the army.”

“Are you?” exclaimed Mr. Bright, seizing his hand

with so tight a grip that it made him wince. “I hope
you'll be my captain.”

Mr. Blumenthal rubbed his hand, and smiled as he said,
“I pity the Rebel that you get hold of, Mr. Bright.”

“Ask your pardon. Ask your pardon,” rejoined he.
“But speaking of the tramp of a regiment, here it goes!”
And he struck up “John Brown's Hallelujah.” They
put their souls into it in such a manner, that the spirit of
the brave old martyr seemed marching all through it.

When it came to a conclusion, Mr. Bright remarked:
“Only to think how that incendiary song is sung in Boston
streets, and in the parlors too, when only little more than a
year ago a great mob was yelling after Wendell Phillips,
for speaking on the anniversary of John Brown's execution.
I said then the fools would get enough of slavery
before they'd done with it; and I reckon they're beginning
to find it out, not only the rowdies, but the nabobs
that set 'em on. War ain't a blessing, but it's a mighty
great teacher; that's a fact. No wonder the slavites
hated Phillips. He aims sure and hits hard. No use in
trying to pass off shams upon him. If you bring him anything
that ain't real mahogany, his blows'll be sure to
make the veneering fly. But I'm staying too long. I
only looked in to tell you I was going.” He glanced round
for Mrs. Delano, and added: “I'm afraid I sung too loud
for that quiet lady. The fact is, I'm full of fight.”

“That's what the times demand,” replied Mr. Blumenthal.

They bade him “Good night,” and smiled at each other
to hear his strong voice, as it receded in the distance, still
singing, “His soul is marching on.”

“Now I will go to Mamita,” said Flora. “Her gentle

spirit suffers in these days. This morning, when she saw
a company of soldiers marching by, and heard the boys
hurrahing, she said to me so piteously, `O Flora, these are
wild times.' Poor Mamita! she's like a dove in a tornado.”

“You seemed to be strong as an eagle while you were
singing,” responded her husband.

“I felt like a drenched humming-bird when Mr. Bright
came in,” rejoined she; “but he and the music together
lifted me up into the blue, as your Germans say.”

“And from that height can you say to me, `Obey the
call of duty, Florimond'?”

She put her little hand in his and answered, “I can.
May God protect us all!”

Then, turning to her children, she said: “I am going to
bring Mamita; and presently, when I go away to be alone
with papa a little while, I want you to do everything to
make the evening pleasant for Mamita. You know she
likes to hear you sing, `Now Phœbus sinketh in the west.' ”

“And I will play that Nocturne of Mendelssohn's that
she likes so much,” replied Rosen Blumen. “She says I
play it almost as well as Aunt Rosa.”

“And she likes to hear me sing, `Once on a time there
was a king,' ” said Lila. “She says she heard you singing
it in the woods a long time ago, when she hadn't anybody
to call her Mamita.”

“Very well, my children,” replied their mother. “Do
everything you can to make Mamita happy; for there will
never be such another Mamita.”

During the anxious months that followed Mr. Blumenthal's
departure, the sisters and their families were almost
daily at the rooms of the Sanitary Commission, sewing,

packing, or writing. Henriet had become expert with the
sewing-machine, and was very efficient help; and even
Tulee, though far from skilful with her needle, contrived to
make dozens of hospital slippers, which it was the pride
of her heart to deliver to the ladies of the Commissions.
Chloe added her quota of socks, often elephantine in shape,
and sometimes oddly decorated with red tops and toes;
but with a blessing for “the boys in blue” running through
all the threads. There is no need to say how eagerly they
watched for letters, and what a relief it was to recognize
the writing of beloved hands, feeling each time that it
might be the last.

Mr. King kept up occasional correspondence with the
officers of George Falkner's company, and sent from time
to time favorable reports of his bravery and good habits.
Henriet received frequent letters from him, imperfectly
spelled, but full of love and loyalty.

Two years after Mr. King left his happy home, he was
brought back with a Colonel's shoulder-strap, but with his
right leg gone, and his right arm in a sling. When the
first joy of reunion had expressed itself in caresses and
affectionate words, he said to Rosa, “You see what a
cripple you have for a husband.”

“I make the same reply the English girl did to Commodore
Barclay,” she replied; “ `You're dear as ever to
me, so long as there's body enough to hold the soul.' ”

Eulalia wept tears of joy on her father's neck, while
Flora, and Rosen Blumen, and Lila clasped their arms
round him, and Tulee stood peeping in at the door, waiting
for her turn to welcome the hero home.

“Flora, you see my dancing days are over,” said the
Colonel.

“Never mind, I'll do your dancing,” she replied.
“Rosen Blumen, play uncle's favorite waltz.”

She passed her arm round Eulalia, and for a few moments
they revolved round the room to the circling music.
She had so long been called the life of the family, that she
tried to keep up her claim to the title. But her present
mirthfulness was assumed; and it was contrary to her nature
to act a part. She kissed her hand to her brother-in-law,
and smiled as she whirled out of the room; but she
ran up stairs and pressed the tears back, as she murmured
to herself, “Ah, if I could only be sure Florimond and
Alfred would come back, even mutilated as he is!”

39. CHAPTER XXXIX.

ANOTHER year brought with it what was supposed to
be peace, and the army was disbanded. Husband
and son returned alive and well, and Flora was her young
self again. In the exuberance of her joy she seemed more
juvenile than her girls; jumping from husband to son and
from son to husband, kissing them and calling them all
manner of pet names; embracing Mrs. Delano at intervals,
and exclaiming, “O Mamita, here we are all together
again! I wish my arms were long enough to hug you all
at once.”

“I thank God, my child, for your sake and for my own,”
replied Mrs. Delano. She looked at Alfred, as she spoke,
and the affectionate glance he returned filled her heart with
a deep and quiet joy. The stern shadow of war vanished
from his face in the sunshine of home, and she recognized
the same gentle expression that had been photographed on
her memory long years ago.

When the family from Beacon Street came, a few minutes
later, with welcomes and congratulations, Alfred bestowed
a different sort of glance on his cousin Eulalia, and
they both blushed; as young people often do, without
knowing the reason why. Rosen Blumen and Lila had
been studying with her the language of their father's country;
and when the general fervor had somewhat abated, the
girls manifested some disposition to show off the accomplishment.
“Do hear them calling Alfred Mein lieber
bruder,” said Flora to her husband, “while Rosa and I

are sprinkling them all with pet names in French and
Spanish. What a polyglot family we are! as cher papa
used to say. But, Florimond, did you notice anything peculiar
in the meeting between Alfred and Eulalia?”

“I thought I did,” he replied.

“How will Brother King like it?” she asked. “He
thinks very highly of Alfred; but you know he has a theory
against the marriage of cousins.”

“So have I,” answered Blumenthal; “but nations and
races have been pretty thoroughly mixed up in the ancestry
of our children. What with African and French, Spanish,
American, and German, I think the dangers of too close
relationship are safely diminished.”

“They are a good-looking set, between you and I,” said
Flora; “though they are oddly mixed up. See Eulalia,
with her great blue eyes, and her dark eyebrows and eyelashes.
Rosen Blumen looks just like a handsome Italian
girl. No one would think Lila Blumen was her sister,
with her German blue eyes, and that fine frizzle of curly
light hair. Your great-grandmother gave her the flax, and
I suppose mine did the frizzling.”

This side conversation was interrupted by Mr. King's
saying: “Blumenthal, you haven't asked for news concerning
Mrs. Fitzgerald. You know Mr. Green has been a
widower for some time. Report says that he finds in her
company great consolation for the death of her cousin.”

“That's what I call a capital arrangement,” said Flora;
“and I didn't mean any joke about their money, either.
Won't they sympathize grandly? Won't she be in her
element? Top notch. No end to balls and parties; and
a coat of arms on the coach.”

“The news made me very glad,” observed Rosa; “for

the thought of her loneliness always cast a shadow over my
happiness.”

“Even they have grown a little during the war,” rejoined
Mr. King. “Nabob Green, as they call him, did actually
contribute money for the raising of colored regiments. He
so far abated his prejudice as to be willing that negroes
should have the honor of being shot in his stead; and Mrs.
Fitzgerald agreed with him. That was a considerable advance,
you must admit.”

They went on for some time talking over news, public
and private; not omitting the prospects of Tom's children,
and the progress of Tulee's. But such family chats are
like the showers of manna, delicious as they fall, but incapable
of preservation.

The first evening the families met at the house in Beacon
Street, Mr. Blumenthal expressed a wish to see Henriet,
and she was summoned. The improvement in her
appearance impressed him greatly. Having lived three
years with kindly and judicious friends, who never reminded
her, directly or indirectly, that she was a black
sheep in the social flock, her faculties had developed freely
and naturally; and belonging to an imitative race, she
readily adopted the language and manners of those around
her. Her features were not handsome, with the exception
of her dark, liquid-looking eyes; and her black hair was
too crisp to make a soft shading for her brown forehead.
But there was a winning expression of gentleness in her
countenance, and a pleasing degree of modest ease in her
demeanor. A map, which she had copied very neatly,
was exhibited, and a manuscript book of poems, of her own
selection, written very correctly, in a fine flowing hand.

“Really, this is encouraging,” said Mr. Blumenthal, as

she left the room. “If half a century of just treatment
and free schools can bring them all up to this level, our
battles will not be in vain, and we shall deserve to rank
among the best benefactors of the country; to say nothing
of a corresponding improvement in the white population.”

“Thitherward is Providence leading us,” replied Mr.
King. “Not unto us, but unto God, be all the glory.
We were all of us working for better than we knew.”

Mr. King had written to George Falkner, to inform him
of a situation he had in store for him at Marseilles, and to
request a previous meeting in New York, as soon as he
could obtain his discharge from the army; being in this, as
in all other arrangements, delicately careful to avoid giving
annoyance to Mrs. Fitzgerald. In talking this over with
his wife, he said: “I consider it a duty to go to Marseilles
with him. It will give us a chance to become acquainted
with each other; it will shield him from possible impertinences
on the passage, on Henriet's account; and it will be
an advantage to him to be introduced as my friend to the
American Consul, and some commercial gentlemen of my
acquaintance.”

“I am to go with you, am I not?” asked Rosa. “I am
curious to see this young man, from whom I parted, so
unconscious of all the strange future, when he was a baby
in Tulee's arms.”

“I think you had better not go, dear,” he replied;
“though the loss of your company will deprive me of a
great pleasure. Eulalia would naturally wish to go with
us; and as she knows nothing of George's private history,
it would be unwise to excite her curiosity by introducing
her to such a striking likeness of Gerald. But she might

stay with Rosen Blumen while you go to New York and
remain with me till the vessel sails. If I meet with no accidents,
I shall return in three months; for I go merely to
give George a fair start, though, when there, I shall have
an eye to some other business, and take a run to Italy to
look in upon our good old friends, Madame and the Signor.”

The journey to New York was made at the appointed
time, in company with Henriet and her little one. George
had risen to the rank of lieutenant in the army, and had
acquired a military bearing that considerably increased the
manliness of his appearance. He was browned by exposure
to sun and wind; but he so strongly resembled her
handsome Gerald, that Rosa longed to clasp him to her
heart. His wife's appearance evidently took him by surprise.
“How you have changed!” he exclaimed. “What
a lady you are! I can hardly believe this is the little Hen
I used to make mud pies with.”

She laughed as she answered: “You are changed, too.
If I have improved, it is owing to these kind friends.
Only think of it, George, though Mrs. King is such a handsome
and grand lady, she always called me Mrs. Falkner.”

Mrs. King made several appropriate parting presents
to Henriet and little Hetty. To George she gave a gold
watch, and a very beautiful colored photograph of Gerald,
in a morocco case, as a souvenir of their brief friendship in
the army.

Mr. King availed himself of every hour of the voyage
to gain the confidence of the young man, and to instil some
salutary lessons into his very receptive mind. After they
had become well acquainted, he said: “I have made an
estimate of what I think it will be necessary for you to

spend for rent, food, and clothing; also of what I think it
would be wise for you to spend in improving your education,
and for occasional amusements. I have not done this
in the spirit of dictation, my young friend, but merely with
the wise of helping you by my greater experience of life.
It is important that you should learn to write a good commercial
hand, and also acquire, as soon as possible, a very
thorough knowledge of the French language. For these
you should employ the best teachers that can be found.
Your wife can help you in many ways. She has learned
to spell correctly, to read with fluency and expression, and
to play quite well on the piano. You will find it very
profitable to read good books aloud to each other. I advise
you not to go to places of amusement oftener than once
a fortnight, and always to choose such places as will be
suitable and pleasant for your wife. I like that young men
in my employ should never taste intoxicating drinks, or use
tobacco in any form. Both those habits are expensive,
and I have long ago abjured them as injurious to health.”

The young man bowed, and replied, “I will do as you
wish in all respects, sir; I should be very ungrateful if I
did not.”

“I shall give you eight hundred dollars for the first
year,” resumed Mr. King; “and shall increase your salary
year by year, according to your conduct and capabilities.
If you are industrious, temperate, and economical, there is
no reason why you should not become a rich man in time;
and it will be wise for you to educate yourself, your wife,
and your children, with a view to the station you will have
it in your power to acquire. If you do your best, you may
rely upon my influence and my fatherly interest to help
you all I can.”

The young man colored, and, after a little embarrassed
hesitation, said: “You spoke of a fatherly interest, sir;
and that reminds me that I never had a father. May I
ask whether you know anything about my parents?”

Mr. King had anticipated the possibility of such a question,
and he replied: “I will tell you who your father was,
if you will give a solemn promise never to ask a single
question about your mother. On that subject I have given
a pledge of secrecy which it would be dishonorable for me
to break. Only this much I will say, that neither of your
parents was related to me in any degree, or connected
with me in any way.”

The young man answered, that he was of course very
desirous to know his whole history, but would be glad to
obtain any information, and was willing to give the required
promise, which he would most religiously keep.

Mr. King then went on to say: “Your father was Mr.
Gerald Fitzgerald, a planter in Georgia. You have a
rïght to his name, and I will so introduce you to my friends,
if you wish it. He inherited a handsome fortune, but lost
it all by gambling and other forms of dissipation. He had
several children by various mothers. You and the Gerald
with whom you became acquainted were brothers by the
father's side. You are unmixed white; but you were left
in the care of a negro nurse, and one of your father's
creditors seized you both, and sold you into slavery. Until
a few months before you were acquainted with Gerald,
it was supposed that you died in infancy; and for that
reason no efforts were made to redeem you. Circumstances
which I am not at liberty to explain led to the discovery
that you were living, and that Gerald had learned
your history as a slave. I feel the strongest sympathy

with your misfortunes, and cherish a lively gratitude for
your kindness to my young friend Gerald. All that I have
told you is truth; and if it were in my power, I would
most gladly tell you the whole truth.”

The young man listened with the deepest interest; and,
having expressed his thanks, said he should prefer to be
called by his father's name; for he thought he should feel
more like a man to bear a name to which he knew that he
had a right.

When Mr. King again returned to his Boston home, as
soon as the first eager salutations were over, he exclaimed:
“How the room is decorated with vines and flowers! It
reminds me of that dear floral parlor in New Orleans.”

Did n't you telegraph that you were coming? And is
it not your birthday?” inquired his wife.

He kissed her, and said: “Well, Rosabella, I think you
may now have a tranquil mind; for I believe things have
been so arranged that no one is very seriously injured by
that act of frenzy which has caused you so much suffering.
George will not be deprived of any of his pecuniary
rights; and he is in a fair way to become more of a man
than he would have been if he had been brought up in
luxury. He and Henriet are as happy in their prospects
as two mortals well can be. Gerald enjoyed his short life;
and was more bewildered than troubled by the discovery
that he had two mothers. Eulalia was a tender, romantic
memory to him; and such, I think, he has become to our
child. I don't believe Mrs. Fitzgerald suffered much more
than annoyance. Gerald was always the same to her as a
son; and if he had been really so, he would probably have
gone to the war, and have run the same chance of being
killed.”

“Ah, Alfred,” she replied, “I should never have found
my way out of that wretched entanglement if it had not
been for you. You have really acted toward me the part
of Divine Providence. It makes me ashamed that I have
not been able to do anything in atonement for my own
fault, except the pain I suffered in giving up my Gerald to
his Lily-mother. When I think how that poor babe became
enslaved by my act, I long to sell my diamonds, and
use the money to build school-houses for the freedmen.”

“Those diamonds seem to trouble you, dearest,” rejoined
he, smiling. “I have no objection to your selling them.
You become them, and they become you; but I think
school-houses will shine as brighter jewels in the better
world.”

Here Flora came in with all her tribe; and when the
welcomes were over, her first inquiries were for Madame
and the Signor.

“They are well,” replied Mr. King, “and they seem to
be as contented as tabbies on a Wilton rug. They show
signs of age, of course. The Signor has done being peppery,
and Madame's energy has visibly abated; but her
mind is as lively as ever. I wish I could remember half
the stories she repeated about the merry pranks of your
childhood. She asked a great many questions about Jolie
Manon; and she laughed till she cried while she described,
in dramatic style, how you crazed the poor bird with imitations,
till she called you Joli petit diable.”

“How I wish I had known mamma then! How funny
she must have been!” exclaimed Lila.

“I think you have heard some performances of hers that
were equally funny,” rejoined Mrs. Delano. “I used to
be entertained with a variety of them; especially when we

were in Italy. If any of the pifferari went by, she would
imitate the drone of their bagpipes in a manner irresistibly
comic. And if she saw a peasant-girl dancing, she forthwith
went through the performance to the life.”

“Yes, Mamita,” responded Flora; “and you know I
fancied myself a great musical composer in those days, — a
sort of feminine Mozart; but the qui vive was always the
key I composed in.”

“I used to think the fairies helped you about that, as
well as other things,” replied Mrs. Delano.

“I think the fairies help her now,” said Mr. Blumenthal;
“and well they may, for she is of their kith and kin.”

This playful trifling was interrupted by the sound of the
folding-doors rolling apart; and in the brilliantly lighted
adjoining room a tableau became visible, in honor of the
birthday. Under festoons of the American flag, surmounted
by the eagle, stood Eulalia, in ribbons of red, white, and
blue, with a circle of stars round her head. One hand upheld
the shield of the Union, and in the other the scales
of Justice were evenly poised. By her side stood Rosen
Blumen, holding in one hand a gilded pole surmounted by
a liberty-cap, while her other hand rested protectingly on
the head of Tulee's Benny, who was kneeling and looking
upward in thanksgiving.

Scarcely had the vision appeared before Joe Bright's
voice was heard leading invisible singers through the tune
“Hail to the Chief,” which Alfred Blumenthal accompanied
with a piano. As they sang the last line the striped
festoons fell and veiled the tableau. Then Mr. Bright,
who had returned a captain, appeared with his company,
consisting of Tom and Chloe with their children, and
Tulee with her children, singing a parody composed by
himself, of which the chorus was:—

To increase the effect, the director of ceremonies had
added a flourish of trumpets behind the scenes.

Then the colored band came forward, hand in hand, and
sang together, with a will, Whittier's immortal “Boat
Song”:—

All the family, of all ages and colors, then joined in
singing “The Star-spangled Banner”; and when Mr.
King had shaken hands with them all, they adjourned to the
breakfast-room, where refreshments were plentifully provided.

At last Mr. Bright said: “I don't want to bid you good
night, friends; but I must. I don't generally like to go
among Boston folks. Just look at the trees on the Common.
They're dying because they've rolled the surface
of the ground so smooth. That's just the way in Boston,
I reckon. They take so much pains to make the surface
smooth, that it kills the roots o' things. But when I come
here, or go to Mrs. Blumenthal's, I feel as if the roots o'
things wa'n't killed. Good night, friends. I have n't enjoyed
myself so well since I found Old Hundred and
Yankee Doodle in the Harmolinks.”

The sound of his whistling died away in the streets; the
young people went off to talk over the festival; the
colored troop retired to rest; and the elders of the two
families sat together in the stillness, holding sweet converse
concerning the many strange experiences that had been so
richly crowned with blessings.

A new surprise awaited them, prepared by the good
taste of Mr. Blumenthal. A German Liederkrantz in the
hall closed the ceremonies of the night with Mendelssohn's
“Song of Praise.”

THE END

Cambridge: Stereotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.