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 prescribe 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 overshadowing; 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.