A Romance of the Republic by Lydia Maria Francis Child (page 5)

with the desolation, when Mr. Jacobs came back with a mule and a small cart, which he said was the best conveyance he could procure. The jolting over hillocks, and the occasional grunts of the mule, made it an amusing ride; but it was a fruitless one. The plantation negroes were sowing cotton, but all Mr. Fitzgerald’s household servants were leased out in Savannah during his absence in Europe. The white villa at Magnolia Lawn peeped out from its green surroundings; but the jalousies were closed, and the tracks on the carriage-road were obliterated by rains.

Hiring a negro to go with them to take back the cart, they made the best of their way to the boat, which was waiting for them. Fatigued and disconsolate with their fruitless search, they felt little inclined to talk as they glided over the bright waters. The negro boatmen frequently broke in upon the silence with some simple, wild melody, which they sang in perfect unison, dipping their oars in rhythm. When Savannah came in sight, they urged the boat faster, and, improvising words to suit the occasion, they sang in brisker strains:–

“Row, darkies, row!
See de sun down dar am creepin’; Row, darkies, row!
Hab white ladies in yer keepin’; Row, darkies, row!”

With the business they had on hand, Mrs. Delano preferred not to seek her friends in the city, and they took lodgings at a hotel. Early the next morning, Mr. Jacobs was sent out to ascertain the whereabouts of Mr. Fitzgerald’s servants; and Mrs. Delano proposed that, during his absence, they should drive to The Pines, which she described as an extremely pleasant ride. Flora assented, with the indifference of a preoccupied mind. But scarcely had the horses stepped on the thick carpet of pine foliage with which the ground was strewn, when she eagerly exclaimed, “Tom! Tom!” A black man, mounted on the seat of a carriage that was passing them, reined in his horses and stopped.

“Keep quiet, my dear,” whispered Mrs. Delano to her companion, “till I can ascertain who is in the carriage.”

“Are you Mr. Fitzgerald’s Tom?” she inquired.

“Yes, Missis,” replied the negro, touching his hat.

She beckoned him to come and open her carriage-door, and, speaking in a low voice, she said: “I want to ask you about a Spanish lady who used to live in a cottage, not far from Mr. Fitzgerald’s plantation. She had a black servant named Tulee, who used to call her Missy Rosy. We went to the cottage yesterday, and found it shut up. Can you tell us where they have gone?”

Tom looked at them very inquisitively, and answered, “Dunno, Missis.”

“We are Missy Rosy’s friends, and have come to bring her some good news. If you can tell us anything about her, I will give you this gold piece.”

Tom half stretched forth his hand to take the coin, then drew it back, and repeated, “Dunno, Missis.”

Flora, who felt her heart rising in her throat, tossed back her veil, and said, “Tom, don’t you know me?”

The negro started as if a ghost had risen before him.

“Now tell me where Missy Rosy has gone, and who went with her,” said she, coaxingly.

“Bress yer, Missy Flory! _am_ yer alive!” exclaimed the bewildered negro.

Flora laughed, and, drawing off her glove, shook hands with him. “Now you know I’m alive, Tom. But don’t tell anybody. Where’s Missy Rosy gone.”

“O Missy,” replied Tom, “dar am heap ob tings to tell.”

Mrs. Delano suggested that it was not a suitable place; and Tom said he must go home with his master’s carriage. He told them he had obtained leave to go and see his wife Chloe that evening; and he promised to come to their hotel first. So, with the general information that Missy Rosy and Tulee were safe, they parted for the present.

Tom’s communication in the evening was very long, and intensely interesting to his auditors; but it did not extend beyond a certain point. He told of Rosa’s long and dangerous illness; of Chloe’s and Tulee’s patient praying and nursing; of the birth of the baby; of the sale to Mr. Bruteman; and of the process by which she escaped with Mr. Duroy. Further than that he knew nothing. He had never been in New Orleans afterward, and had never heard Mr. Fitzgerald speak of Rosa.

At that crisis in the conversation, Mrs. Delano summoned Mr. Jacobs, and requested him to ascertain when a steamboat would go to New Orleans. Flora kissed her hand, with a glance full of gratitude. Tom looked at her in a very earnest, embarrassed way, and said: “Missis, am yer one ob dem Ab-lish-nishts dar in de Norf, dat Massa swars ’bout?”

Mrs. Delano turned toward Flora with a look of perplexity, and, having received an interpretation of the question, she smiled as she answered: “I rather think I am half an Abolitionist, Tom. But why do you wish to know?”

Tom went on to state, in “lingo” that had to be frequently explained, that he wanted to run away to the North, and that he could manage to do it if it were not for Chloe and the children. He had been in hopes that Mrs. Fitzgerald would have taken her to the North to nurse her baby while she was gone to Europe. In that case, he intended to follow after; and he thought some good people would lend them money to buy their little ones, and, both together, they could soon work off the debt. But this project had been defeated by Mrs. Bell, who brought a white nurse from Boston, and carried her infant grandson back with her.

“Yer see, Missis,” said Tom, with a sly look, “dey tinks de niggers don’t none ob ’em wants dare freedom, so dey nebber totes ’em whar it be.”

Ever since that disappointment had occurred, he and his wife had resolved themselves into a committee of ways and means, but they had not yet devised any feasible mode of escape. And now they were thrown into great consternation by the fact that a slave-trader had been to look at Chloe, because Mr. Fitzgerald wanted money to spend in Europe, and had sent orders to have some of his negroes sold.

Mrs. Delano told him she didn’t see how she could help him, but she would think about it; and Flora, with a sideway inclination of the head toward her, gave Tom an expressive glance, which he understood as a promise to persuade her. He urged the matter no further, but asked what time it was. Being told it was near nine o’clock, he said he must hasten to Chloe, for it was not allowable for negroes to be in the street after that hour.

He had scarcely closed the door, before Mrs. Delano said, “If Chloe is sold, I must buy her.”

“I thought you would say so,” rejoined Flora.

A discussion then took place as to ways and means, and a strictly confidential letter was written to a lawyer from the North, with whom Mrs. Delano was acquainted, requesting him to buy the woman and her children for her, if they were to be sold.

It happened fortunately that a steamer was going to New Orleans the next day. Just as they were going on board, a negro woman with two children came near, and, dropping a courtesy, said: “Skuse, Missis. Dis ere’s Chloe. Please say Ise yer nigger! Do, Missis!”

Flora seized the black woman’s hand, and pressed it, while she whispered: “Do, Mamita! They’re going to sell her, you know.”

She took the children by the hand, and hurried forward without waiting for an answer. They were all on board before Mrs. Delano had time to reflect. Tom was nowhere to be seen. On one side of her stood Chloe, with two little ones clinging to her skirts, looking at her imploringly with those great fervid eyes, and saying in suppressed tones, “Missis, dey’s gwine to sell me away from de chillen”; and on the other side was Flora, pressing her hand, and entreating, “Don’t send her back, Mamita! She was _so_ good to poor Rosa.”

“But, my dear, if they should trace her to me, it would be a very troublesome affair,” said the perplexed lady.

“They won’t look for her in New Orleans. They’ll think she’s gone North,” urged Flora.

During this whispered consultation, Mr. Jacobs approached with some of their baggage. Mrs. Delano stopped him, and said: “When you register our names, add a negro servant and her two children.”

He looked surprised, but bowed and asked no questions. She was scarcely less surprised at herself. In the midst of her anxiety to have the boat start, she called to mind her former censures upon those who helped servants to escape from Southern masters, and she could not help smiling at the new dilemma in which she found herself.

The search in New Orleans availed little. They alighted from their carriage a few minutes to look at the house where Flora was born. She pointed out to Mrs. Delano the spot whence her father had last spoken to her on that merry morning, and the grove where she used to pelt him with oranges; but neither of them cared to enter the house, now that everything was so changed. Madame’s house was occupied by strangers, who knew nothing of the previous tenants, except that they were said to have gone to Europe to live. They drove to Mr. Duroy’s, and found strangers there, who said the former occupants had all died of yellow-fever,–the lady and gentleman, a negro woman, and a white baby. Flora was bewildered to find every link with her past broken and gone. She had not lived long enough to realize that the traces of human lives often disappear from cities as quickly as the ocean closes over the tracks of vessels. Mr. Jacobs proposed searching for some one who had been in Mr. Duroy’s employ; and with that intention, they returned to the city. As they were passing a house where a large bird-cage hung in the open window, Flora heard the words, “_Petit blanc, mon bon frere! Ha! ha_!”

She called out to Mr. Jacobs, “Stop! Stop!” and pushed at the carriage door, in her impatience to get out.

“What _is_ the matter, my child?” inquired Mrs. Delano.

“That’s Madame’s parrot,” replied she; and an instant after she was ringing at the door of the house. She told the servant they wished to make some inquiries concerning Signor and Madame Papanti, and Monsieur Duroy; and she and Mrs. Delano were shown in to wait for the lady of the house. They had no sooner entered, than the parrot flapped her wings and cried out, “_Bon jour, joli petit diable_!” And then she began to whistle and warble, twitter and crow, through a ludicrous series of noisy variations. Flora burst into peals of laughter, in the midst of which the lady of the house entered the room. “Excuse me, Madame,” said she. “This parrot is an old acquaintance of mine. I taught her to imitate all sorts of birds, and she is showing me that she has not forgotten my lessons.”

“It will be impossible to hear ourselves speak, unless I cover the cage,” replied the lady.

“Allow me to quiet her, if you please,” rejoined Flora. She opened the door of the cage, and the bird hopped on her arm, flapping her wings, and crying, “_Bon jour! Ha! ha_!”

“_Taisez vous, jolie Manon_,” said Flora soothingly, while she stroked the feathery head. The bird nestled close and was silent.

When their errand was explained, the lady repeated the same story they had already heard about Mr. Duroy’s family.

“Was the black woman who died there named Tulee?” inquired Flora.

“I never heard her name but once or twice,” replied the lady. “It was not a common negro name, and I think that was it. Madame Papanti had put her and the baby there to board. After Mr. Duroy died, his son came home from Arkansas to settle his affairs. My husband, who was one of Mr. Duroy’s clerks, bought some of the things at auction; and among them was that parrot.”

“And what has become of Signor and Madame Papanti?” asked Mrs. Delano.

The lady could give no information, except that they had returned to Europe. Having obtained directions where to find her husband, they thanked her, and wished her good morning.

Flora held the parrot up to the cage, and said, “_Bon jour, jolie Manon_!”

“_Bon jour_!” repeated the bird, and hopped upon her perch.

After they had entered the carriage, Flora said: “How melancholy it seems that everybody is gone, except _Jolie Manon_! How glad the poor thing seemed to be to see me! I wish I could take her home.”

“I will send to inquire whether the lady will sell her,” replied her friend.

“O Mamita, you will spoil me, you indulge me so much,” rejoined Flora.

Mrs. Delano smiled affectionately, as she answered: “If you were very spoilable, dear, I think that would have been done already.”

“But it will be such a bother to take care of Manon,” said Flora.

“Our new servant Chloe can do that,” replied Mrs. Delano. “But I really hope we shall get home without any further increase of our retinue.”

From the clerk information was obtained that he heard Mr. Duroy tell Mr. Bruteman that a lady named Rosabella Royal had sailed to Europe with Signor and Madame Papanti in the ship Mermaid. He added that news afterward arrived that the vessel foundered at sea, and all on board were lost.

With this sorrow on her heart, Flora returned to Boston. Mr. Percival was immediately informed of their arrival, and hastened to meet them. When the result of their researches was told, he said: “I shouldn’t be disheartened yet. Perhaps they didn’t sail in the Mermaid. I will send to the New York Custom-House for a list of the passengers.”

Flora eagerly caught at that suggestion; and Mrs. Delano said, with a smile: “We have some other business in which we need your help. You must know that I am involved in another slave case. If ever a quiet and peace-loving individual was caught up and whirled about by a tempest of events, I am surely that individual. Before I met this dear little Flora, I had a fair prospect of living and dying a respectable and respected old fogy, as you irreverent reformers call discreet people. But now I find myself drawn into the vortex of abolition to the extent of helping off four fugitive slaves. In Flora’s case, I acted deliberately, from affection and a sense of duty; but in this second instance I was taken by storm, as it were. The poor woman was aboard before I knew it, and I found myself too weak to withstand her imploring looks and Flora’s pleading tones.” She went on to describe the services Chloe had rendered to Rosa, and added: “I will pay any expenses necessary for conveying this woman to a place of safety, and supplying all that is necessary for her and her children, until she can support them; but I do not feel as if she were safe here.”

“If you will order a carriage, I will take them directly to the house of Francis Jackson, in Hollis Street,” said Mr. Percival. “They will be safe enough under the protection of that honest, sturdy friend of freedom. His house is the depot of various subterranean railroads; and I pity the slaveholder who tries to get on any of his tracks. He finds himself ‘like a toad under a harrow, where ilka tooth gies him a tug,’ as the Scotch say.”

While waiting for the carriage, Chloe and her children were brought in. Flora took the little ones under her care, and soon had their aprons filled with cakes and sugarplums. Chloe, unable to restrain her feelings, dropped down on her knees in the midst of the questions they were asking her, and poured forth an eloquent prayer that the Lord would bless these good friends of her down-trodden people.

When the carriage arrived, she rose, and, taking Mrs. Delano’s hand, said solemnly: “De Lord bress yer, Missis! De Lord bress yer! I seed yer once fore ebber I knowed yer. I seed yer in a vision, when I war prayin’ to de Lord to open de free door fur me an’ my chillen. Ye war an angel wid white shiny wings. Bress de Lord! ‘T war Him dat sent yer.–An’ now, Missy Flory, de Lord bress yer! Ye war allers good to poor Chloe, down dar in de prison-house. Let me gib yer a kiss, little Missy.”

Flora threw her arms round the bended neck, and promised to go and see her wherever she was.

When the carriage rolled away, emotion kept them both silent for a few minutes. “How strange it seems to me now,” said Mrs. Delano, “that I lived so many years without thinking of the wrongs of these poor people! I used to think prayer-meetings for slaves were very fanatical and foolish. It seemed to me enough that they were included in our prayer for ‘all classes and conditions of men’; but after listening to poor Chloe’s eloquent outpouring, I am afraid such generalizing will sound rather cold.”

“Mamita,” said Flora, “you know you gave me some money to buy a silk dress. Are you willing I should use it to buy clothes for Chloe and her children?”

“More than willing, my child,” she replied. “There is no clothing so beautiful as the raiment of righteousness.”

The next morning, Flora went out to make her purchases. Some time after, Mrs. Delano, hearing voices near the door, looked out, and saw her in earnest conversation with Florimond Blumenthal, who had a large parcel in his arms. When she came in, Mrs. Delano said, “So you had an escort home?”

“Yes, Mamita,” she replied; “Florimond would bring the parcel, and so we walked together.”

“He was very polite,” said Mrs. Delano; “but ladies are not accustomed to stand on the doorstep talking with clerks who bring bundles for them.”

“I didn’t think anything about that,” rejoined Flora. “He wanted to know about Rosa, and I wanted to tell him. Florimond seems just like a piece of my old home, because he loved papa so much. Mamita Lila, didn’t you say papa was a poor clerk when you and he first began to love one another?”

“Yes, my child,” she replied; and she kissed the bright, innocent face that came bending over her, looking so frankly into hers.

When she had gone out of the room, Mrs. Delano said to herself, “That darling child, with her strange history and unworldly ways, is educating me more than I can educate her.”

A week later, Mr. and Mrs. Percival came, with tidings that no such persons as Signor and Madame Papanti were on board the Mermaid; and they proposed writing letters of inquiry forthwith to consuls in various parts of Italy and France.

Flora began to hop and skip and clap her hands. But she soon paused, and said, laughingly: “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. Mamita often tells me I was brought up in a bird-cage; and I ask her how then can she expect me to do anything but hop and sing. Excuse me. I forgot Mamita and I were not alone.”

“You pay us the greatest possible compliment,” rejoined Mr. Percival.

And Mrs. Percival added, “I hope you will always forget it when we are here.”

“Do you really wish it?” asked Flora, earnestly. “Then I will.”

And so, with a few genial friends, an ever-deepening attachment between her and her adopted mother, a hopeful feeling at her heart about Rosa, Tulee’s likeness by her bedside, and Madame’s parrot to wish her _Bon jour_! Boston came to seem to her like a happy home.

CHAPTER XXIII.

About two months after their return from the South, Mr. Percival called one evening, and said: “Do you know Mr. Brick, the police-officer? I met him just now, and he stopped me. ‘There’s plenty of work for you Abolitionists now-a-days,’ said he. ‘There are five Southerners at the Tremont, inquiring for runaways, and cursing Garrison. An agent arrived last night from Fitzgerald’s plantation,–he that married Bell’s daughter, you know. He sent for me to give me a description of a nigger that had gone off in a mysterious way to parts unknown. He wanted me to try to find the fellow, and, of course, I did; for I always calculate to do my duty, as the law directs. So I went immediately to Father Snowdon, and described the black man, and informed him that his master had sent for him, in a great hurry. I told him I thought it very likely he was lurking somewhere in Belknap Street; and if he would have the goodness to hunt him up, I would call, in the course of an hour or two, to see what luck he had.'”

“Who is Father Snowdon?” inquired Mrs. Delano.

“He is the colored preacher in Belknap Street Church,” replied Mr. Percival, “and a remarkable man in his way. He fully equals Chloe in prayer; and he is apt to command the ship Buzzard to the especial attention of the Lord. The first time I entered his meeting, he was saying, in a loud voice, ‘We pray thee, O Lord, to bless her Majesty’s good ship, the Buzzard; and if there’s a slave-trader now on the coast of Africa, we pray thee, O Lord, to blow her straight under the lee of the Buzzard.’ He has been a slave himself, and he has perhaps helped off more slaves than any man in the country. I doubt whether Garrick himself had greater power to disguise his countenance. If a slaveholder asks him about a slave, he is the most stolid-looking creature imaginable. You wouldn’t suppose he understood anything, or ever _could_ understand anything. But if he meets an Abolitionist a minute after, his black face laughs all over, and his roguish eyes twinkle like diamonds, while he recounts how he ‘come it’ over the Southern gentleman. That bright soul of his is a jewel set in ebony.”

“It seems odd that the police-officer should apply to _him_ to catch a runaway,” said Mrs. Delano.

“That’s the fun of it,” responded Mr. Percival. “The extinguishers are themselves taking fire. The fact is, Boston policemen don’t feel exactly in their element as slave-hunters. They are too near Bunker Hill; and on the Fourth of July they are reminded of the Declaration of Independence, which, though it is going out of fashion, is still regarded by a majority of the people as a venerable document. Then they have Whittier’s trumpet-tones ringing in their ears,–

“‘No slave hunt in _our_ borders! no pirate on _our_ strand! No fetters in the Bay State! no slave upon _our_ land!'”

“How did Mr. Brick describe Mr. Fitzgerald’s runaway slave?” inquired Flora.

“He said he was tall and very black, with a white scar over his right eye.”

“That’s Tom!” exclaimed she. “How glad Chloe will be! But I wonder he didn’t come here the first thing. We could have told him how well she was getting on in New Bedford.”

“Father Snowdon will tell him all about that,” rejoined Mr. Percival. “If Tom was in the city, he probably kept him closely hidden, on account of the number of Southerners who have recently arrived; and after the hint the police-officer gave him, he doubtless hustled him out of town in the quickest manner.”

“I want to hurrah for that policeman,” said Flora; “but Mamita would think I was a very rude young lady, or rather that I was no lady at all. But perhaps you’ll let me _sing_ hurrah, Mamita?”

Receiving a smile for answer, she flew to the piano, and, improvising an accompaniment to herself, she began to sing hurrah! through all manner of variations, high and low, rapidly trilled and slowly prolonged, now bursting full upon the ear, now receding in the distance. It was such a lively fantasia, that it made Mr. Percival laugh, while Mrs. Delano’s face was illuminated by a quiet smile.

In the midst of the merriment, the door-bell rang. Flora started from the piano, seized her worsted-work, and said, “Now, Mamita, I’m ready to receive company like a pink of propriety.” But the change was so sudden, that her eyes were still laughing when Mr. Green entered an instant after; and he again caught that archly demure expression which seemed to him so fascinating. The earnestness of his salutation was so different from his usual formal politeness, that Mrs. Delano could not fail to observe it. The conversation turned upon incidents of travel after they had parted so suddenly. “I shall never cease to regret,” said he, “that you missed hearing La Senorita Campaneo. She was a most extraordinary creature. Superbly handsome; and do you know, Miss Delano, I now and then caught a look that reminded me very much of you. Unfortunately, you have lost your chance to hear her. For Mr. King, the son of our Boston millionnaire, who has lately been piling up money in the East, persuaded her to quit the stage when she had but just started in her grand career. All the musical world in Rome were vexed with him for preventing her re-engagement. As for Fitzgerald, I believe he would have shot him if he could have found him. It was a purely musical disappointment, for he was never introduced to the fascinating Senorita; but he fairly pined upon it. I told him the best way to drive off the blue devils would be to go with me and a few friends to the Grotta Azzura. So off we started to Naples, and thence to Capri. The grotto was one of the few novelties remaining for me in Italy. I had heard much of it, but the reality exceeded all descriptions. We seemed to be actually under the sea in a palace of gems. Our boat glided over a lake of glowing sapphire, and our oars dropped rubies. High above our heads were great rocks of sapphire, deepening to lapis-lazuli at the base, with here and there a streak of malachite.”

“It seems like Aladdin’s Cave,” remarked Flora.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Green; “only it was Aladdin’s Cave undergoing a wondrous ‘sea change.’ A poetess, who writes for the papers under the name of Melissa Mayflower, had fastened herself upon our party in some way; and I suppose she felt bound to sustain the reputation of the quill. She said the Nereids must have built that marine palace, and decorated it for a visit from fairies of the rainbow.”

“That was a pretty thought,” said Flora. “It sounds like ‘Lalla Rookh.'”

“It was a pretty thought,” rejoined the gentleman, “but can give you no idea of the unearthly splendor. I thought how you would have been delighted if you had been with our party. I regretted your absence almost as much as I did at the opera. But the Blue Grotto, wonderful as it was, didn’t quite drive away Fitzgerald’s blue devils, though it made him forget his vexations for the time. The fact is, just as we started he received a letter from his agent, informing him of the escape of a negro woman and her two children; and he spent most of the way back to Naples swearing at the Abolitionists.”

Flora, the side of whose face was toward him, gave Mrs. Delano a furtive glance full of fun; but he saw nothing of the mischief in her expressive face, except a little whirlpool of a dimple, which played about her mouth for an instant, and then subsided. A very broad smile was on Mr. Percival’s face, as he sat examining some magnificent illustrations of the Alhambra. Mr. Green, quite unconscious of the by-play in their thoughts, went on to say, “It is really becoming a serious evil that Southern gentlemen have so little security for that species of property.”

“Then you consider women and children _property_?” inquired Mr. Percival, looking up from his book.

Mr. Green bowed with a sort of mock deference, and replied: “Pardon me, Mr. Percival, it is so unusual for gentlemen of your birth and position to belong to the Abolition troop of rough-riders, that I may be excused for not recollecting it.”

“I should consider my birth and position great misfortunes, if they blinded me to the plainest principles of truth and justice,” rejoined Mr. Percival.

The highly conservative gentleman made no reply, but rose to take leave.

“Did your friends the Fitzgeralds return with you?” inquired Mrs. Delano.

“No,” replied he. “They intend to remain until October, Good evening, ladies. I hope soon to have the pleasure of seeing you again.” And with an inclination of the head toward Mr. Percival, he departed.

“Why did you ask him that question?” said Flora. “Are you afraid of anything?”

“Not in the slightest degree,” answered Mrs. Delano. “If, without taking much trouble, we can avoid your being recognized by Mr. Fitzgerald, I should prefer it, because I do not wish to have any conversation with him. But now that your sister’s happiness is no longer implicated, there is no need of caution. If he happens to see you, I shall tell him you sought my protection, and that he has no legal power over you.”

The conversation diverged to the Alhambra and Washington Irving; and Flora ended the evening by singing the Moorish ballad of “Xarifa,” which she said always brought a picture of Rosabella before her eyes.

The next morning, Mr. Green called earlier than usual. He did not ask for Flora, whom he had in fact seen in the street a few minutes before. “Excuse me, Mrs. Delano, for intruding upon you at such an unseasonable hour,” said he. “I chose it because I wished to be sure of seeing you alone. You must have observed that I am greatly interested in your adopted daughter.”

“The thought has crossed my mind,” replied the lady; “but I was by no means certain that she interested you more than a very pretty girl must necessarily interest a gentleman of taste.”

“Pretty!” repeated he. “That is a very inadequate word to describe the most fascinating young lady I have ever met. She attracts me so strongly, that I have called to ask your permission to seek her for a wife.”

Mrs. Delano hesitated for a moment, and then answered, “It is my duty to inform you that she is not of high family on the father’s side; and on the mother’s, she is scarcely what you would deem respectable.”

“Has she vulgar, disagreeable relations, who would be likely to be intrusive?” he asked.

“She has no relative, near or distant, that I know of,” replied the lady.

“Then her birth is of no consequence,” he answered. “My family would be satisfied to receive her as your daughter. I am impatient to introduce her to my mother and sisters, who I am sure will be charmed with her.”

Mrs. Delano was embarrassed, much to the surprise of her visitor, who was accustomed to consider his wealth and social position a prize that would be eagerly grasped at. After watching her countenance for an instant, he said, somewhat proudly: “You do not seem to receive my proposal very cordially, Mrs. Delano. Have you anything to object to my character or family?”

“Certainly not,” replied the lady. “My doubts are concerning my daughter.”

“Is she engaged, or partially engaged, to another?” he inquired.

“She is not,” rejoined Mrs. Delano; “though I imagine she is not quite ‘fancy free.'”

“Would it be a breach of confidence to tell me who has been so fortunate as to attract her?”

“Nothing of the kind has ever been confided to me.” answered the lady. “It is merely an imagination of my own, and relates to a person unknown to you.”

“Then I will enter the lists with my rival, if there is one,” said he. “Such a prize is not to be given up without an effort. But you have not yet said that I have your consent.”

“Since you are so persistent,” rejoined Mrs. Delano, “I will tell you a secret, if you will pledge your honor, as a gentleman, never to repeat it, or hint at it, to any mortal.”

“I pledge my honor,” he replied, “that whatever you choose to tell me shall be sacred between us.”

“It is not pleasant to tell the story of Flora’s birth,” responded she; “but under present circumstances it seems to be a duty. When I have informed you of the facts, you are free to engage her affections if you can. On the paternal side, she descends from the French gentry and the Spanish nobility; but her mother was a quadroon slave, and she herself was sold as a slave.”

Mr. Green bowed his head upon his hand, and spoke no word. Drilled to conceal his emotions, he seemed outwardly calm, though it cost him a pang to relinquish the captivating young creature, who he felt would have made his life musical, though by piquant contrast rather than by harmony. After a brief, troubled silence, he rose and walked toward the window, as if desirous to avoid looking the lady in the face. After a while, he said, slowly, “Do you deem it quite right, Mrs. Delano, to pass such a counterfeit on society?”

“I have attempted to pass no counterfeit on society,” she replied, with dignity. “Flora is a blameless and accomplished young lady. Her beauty and vivacity captivated me before I knew anything of her origin; and in the same way they have captivated you. She was alone in the world, and I was alone; and we adopted each other. I have never sought to introduce her into society; and so far as relates to yourself, I should have told you these facts sooner if I had known the state of your feelings; but so long as they were not expressed, it would scarcely have been delicate for me to take them for granted.”

“Very true,” rejoined the disenchanted lover. “You certainly had a right to choose a daughter for yourself; though I could hardly have imagined that any amount of attraction would have overcome _such_ obstacles in the mind of a lady of your education and refined views of life. Excuse my using the word ‘counterfeit.’ I was slightly disturbed when it escaped me.”

“It requires no apology,” she replied. “I am aware that society would take the same view of my proceeding that you do. As for my education, I have learned to consider it as, in many respects, false. As for my views, they have been greatly modified by this experience. I have learned to estimate people and things according to their real value, not according to any merely external accidents.”

Mr. Green extended his hand, saying: “I will bid you farewell, Mrs. Delano; for, under existing circumstances, it becomes necessary to deny myself the pleasure of again calling upon you. I must seek to divert my mind by new travels, I hardly know where. I have exhausted Europe, having been there three times. I have often thought I should like to look on the Oriental gardens and bright waters of Damascus. Everything is so wretchedly new, and so disagreeably fast, in this country! It must be refreshing to see a place that has known no changes for three thousand years.”

They clasped hands with mutual adieus; and the unfortunate son of wealth, not knowing what to do in a country full of noble work, went forth to seek a new sensation in the slow-moving caravans of the East.

A few days afterward, when Flora returned from taking a lesson in oil-colors, she said: “How do you suppose I have offended Mr. Green? When I met him just now, he touched his hat in a very formal way, and passed on, though I was about to speak to him.”

“Perhaps he was in a hurry,” suggested Mrs. Delano.

“No, it wasn’t that,” rejoined Flora. “He did just so day before yesterday, and he can’t always be in a hurry. Besides, you know he is never in a hurry; he is too much of a gentleman.”

Her friend smiled as she answered, “You are getting to be quite a judge of aristocratic manners, considering you were brought up in a bird-cage.”

The young girl was not quite so ready as usual with a responsive smile. She went on to say, in a tone of perplexity: “What _can_ have occasioned such a change in his manner? You say I am sometimes thoughtless about politeness. Do you think I have offended him in any way?”

“Would it trouble you very much if you had?” inquired Mrs. Delano.

“Not _very_ much,” she replied; “but I should be sorry if he thought me rude to him, when he was so very polite to us in Europe. What is it, Mamita? I think you know something about it.”

“I did not tell you, my child,” replied she, “because I thought it would be unpleasant. But you keep no secrets from me, and it is right that I should be equally open-hearted with you. Did you never suspect that Mr. Green was in love with you?”

“The thought never occurred to me till he called here that first evening after his return from Europe. Then, when he took my hand, he pressed it a little. I thought it was rather strange in such a formal gentleman; but I did not mention it to you, because I feared you would think me vain. But if he is in love with me, why don’t he tell me so? And why does he pass me without speaking?”

Her friend replied: “He deemed it proper to tell me first, and ask my consent to pay his addresses to you. As he persisted very urgently, I thought it my duty to tell him, under the seal of secrecy, that you were remotely connected with the colored race. The announcement somewhat disturbed his habitual composure. He said he must deny himself the pleasure of calling again. He proposes to go to Damascus, and there I hope he will forget his disappointment.”

Flora flared up as Mrs. Delano had never seen her. She reddened to the temples, and her lip curled scornfully. “He is a mean man!” she exclaimed. “If he thought that I myself was a suitable wife for his serene highness, what had my great-grandmother to do with it? I wish he had asked me to marry him. I should like to have him know I never cared a button about him; and that, if I didn’t care for him, I should consider it more shameful to sell myself for his diamonds, than it would have been to have been sold for a slave by papa’s creditors when I couldn’t help myself. I am glad you don’t feel like going into parties, Mamita; and if you ever do feel like it, I hope you will leave me at home. I don’t want to be introduced to any of these cold, aristocratic Bostonians.”

“Not all of them cold and aristocratic, darling,” replied Mrs. Delano. “Your Mamita is one of them; and she is becoming less cold and aristocratic every day, thanks to a little Cinderella who came to her singing through the woods, two years ago.”

“And who found a fairy godmother,” responded Flora, subsiding into a tenderer tone. “It _is_ ungrateful for me to say anything against Boston; and with such friends as the Percivals too. But it does seem mean that Mr. Green, if he really liked me, should decline speaking to me because my great-grandmother had a dark complexion. I never knew the old lady, though I dare say I should love her if I did know her. Madame used to say Rosabella inherited pride from our Spanish grandfather. I think I have some of it, too; and it makes me shy of being introduced to your stylish acquaintance, who might blame you if they knew all about me. I like people who do know all about me, and who like me because I am I. That’s one reason why I like Florimond. He admired my mother, and loved my father; and he thinks just as well of me as if I had never been sold for a slave.”

“Do you always call him Florimond?” inquired Mrs. Delano.

“I call him Mr. Blumenthal before folks, and he calls me Miss Delano. But when no one is by, he sometimes calls me Miss Royal, because he says he loves that name, for the sake of old times; and then I call him Blumen, partly for short, and partly because his cheeks are so pink, it comes natural. He likes to have me call him so. He says Flora is the _Goettinn der Blumen_ in German, and so I am the Goddess of Blumen.”

Mrs. Delano smiled at these small scintillations of wit, which in the talk of lovers sparkle to them like diamond-dust in the sunshine.

“Has he ever told you that he loved _you_ as well as your name?” asked she.

“He never said so, Mamita; but I think he does,” rejoined Flora.

“What reason have you to think so?” inquired her friend.

“He wants very much to come here,” replied the young lady; “but he is extremely modest. He says he knows he is not suitable company for such a rich, educated lady as you are. He is taking dancing-lessons, and lessons on the piano, and he is studying French and Italian and history, and all sorts of things. And he says he means to make a mint of money, and then perhaps he can come here sometimes to see me dance, and hear me play on the piano.”

“I by no means require that all my acquaintance should make a mint of money,” answered Mrs. Delano. “I am very much pleased with the account you give of this young Blumenthal. When you next see him, give him my compliments, and tell him I should be happy to become acquainted with him.”

Flora dropped on her knees and hid her face in her friend’s lap. She didn’t express her thanks in words, but she cried a little.

“This is more serious than I supposed,” thought Mrs. Delano.

A fortnight afterward, she obtained an interview with Mr. Goldwin, and asked, “What is your estimate of that young Mr. Blumenthal, who has been for some time in your employ?”

“He is a modest young man, of good habits,” answered the merchant; “and of more than common business capacity.”

“Would you be willing to receive him as a partner?” she inquired.

“The young man is poor,” rejoined Mr. Goldwin; “and we have many applications from those who can advance some capital.”

“If a friend would loan him ten thousand dollars for twenty years, and leave it to him by will in case she should die meanwhile, would that be sufficient to induce you?” said the lady.

“I should be glad to do it, particularly if it obliges you, Mrs. Delano,” responded the merchant; “for I really think him a very worthy young man.”

“Then consider it settled,” she replied. “But let it be an affair between ourselves, if you please; and to him you may merely say that a friend of his former employer and benefactor wishes to assist him.”

When Blumenthal informed Flora of this unexpected good-fortune, they of course suspected from whom it came; and they looked at each other, and blushed.

Mrs. Delano did not escape gossiping remarks. “How she has changed!” said Mrs. Ton to Mrs. Style. “She used to be the most fastidious of exclusives; and now she has adopted nobody knows whom, and one of Mr. Goldwin’s clerks seems to be on the most familiar footing there. I should have no objection to invite the girl to my parties, for she is Mrs. Delano’s _adoptee_, and she would really be an ornament to my rooms, besides being very convenient and an accomplished musician; but, of course, I don’t wish my daughters to be introduced to that nobody of a clerk.”

“She has taken up several of the Abolitionists too,” rejoined Mrs. Style. “My husband looked into an anti-slavery meeting the other evening, partly out of curiosity to hear what Garrison had to say, and partly in hopes of obtaining some clew to a fugitive slave that one of his Southern friends had written to him about. And who should he see there, of all people in the world, but Mrs. Delano and her _adoptee_, escorted by that young clerk. Think of her, with her dove-colored silks and violet gloves, crowded and jostled by Dinah and Sambo! I expect the next thing we shall hear will be that she has given a negro party.”

“In that case, I presume she will choose to perfume her embroidered handkerchiefs with musk, or pachouli, instead of her favorite breath of violets,” responded Mrs. Ton.

And, smiling at their wit, the fashionable ladies parted, to quote it from each other as among the good things they had recently heard.

Only the faint echoes of such remarks reached Mrs. Delano; though she was made to feel, in many small ways, that she had become a black sheep in aristocratic circles. But these indications passed by her almost unnoticed, occupied as she was in earnestly striving to redeem the mistakes of the past by making the best possible use of the present.

PART SECOND.

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 _every_thing 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 Senorita; 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 wouldn’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?”

“Certainty 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 couldn’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 gas-light 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 hadn’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 hadn’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 Petraea 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, ‘Isn’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 isn’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.

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 windows 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 Senorita, 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 _debut_ 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 Senorita’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 disturbs 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 Senorita 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 _prononce_ 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 Circassian 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 Senorita.”

“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.

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 safely 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 beau. “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 reigns 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 slave. That might, perhaps, bring him to a realizing sense of the state of things.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

A few 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-natured 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.”