 | CHAPTER XXX. A romance of the republic |  |
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
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
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,
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
| CHAPTER XXX. A romance of the republic | |