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