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 thoroughbred 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 contra-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 penance 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.