A Romance of the Republic | Page 7

once suggested, "Petit blanc, mon bon frère." He recalled the words so
carelessly uttered, "Of course not, for she was a quadroon," and they
seemed to make harsh discord with the refrain of the song. He
remembered the vivid flush that passed over Rosa's face while her
playful sister teased her with that tuneful badinage. It seemed to him
that Mr. Fitzgerald was well aware of his power, for he had not
attempted to conceal his consciousness of the singer's mischievous
intent. This train of thought was arrested by the inward question, "What
is it to me whether he marries her or not?" Impatiently he touched his
horse with the whip, as if he wanted to rush from the answer to his own
query.
He had engaged to meet Mr. Royal at his counting-house, and he was
careful to keep the appointment. He was received with parental
kindness slightly tinged with embarrassment. After some conversation
about business, Mr. Royal said: "From your silence concerning your
visit to my house last evening, I infer that Mr. Fitzgerald has given you
some information relating to my daughters' history. I trust, my young
friend, that you have not suspected me of any intention to deceive or
entrap you. I intended to have told you myself; but I had a desire to
know first how my daughters would impress you, if judged by their
own merits. Having been forestalled in my purpose, I am afraid
frankness on your part will now be difficult."
"A feeling of embarrassment did indeed prevent me from alluding to
my visit as soon as I met you this morning," replied Alfred; "but no
circumstances could alter my estimate of your daughters. Their beauty
and gracefulness exceed anything I have seen."

"And they are as innocent and good as they are beautiful," rejoined the
father. "But you can easily imagine that my pride and delight in them is
much disturbed by anxiety concerning their future. Latterly, I have
thought a good deal about closing business and taking them to France
to reside. But when men get to be so old as I am, the process of being
transplanted to a foreign soil seems onerous. If it were as well for them,
I should greatly prefer returning to my native New England."
"They are tropical flowers," observed Alfred. "There is nothing
Northern in their natures."
"Yes, they are tropical flowers," rejoined the father, "and my wish is to
place them in perpetual sunshine. I doubt whether they could ever feel
quite at home far away from jasmines and orange-groves. But climate
is the least of the impediments in the way of taking them to New
England. Their connection with the enslaved race is so very slight, that
it might easily be concealed; but the consciousness of practising
concealment is always unpleasant. Your father was more free from
prejudices of all sorts than any man I ever knew. If he were living, I
would confide all to him, and be guided implicitly by his advice. You
resemble him so strongly, that I have been involuntarily drawn to open
my heart to you, as I never thought to do to so young a man. Yet I find
the fulness of my confidence checked by the fear of lowering myself in
the estimation of the son of my dearest friend. But perhaps, if you knew
all the circumstances, and had had my experience, you would find some
extenuation of my fault. I was very unhappy when I first came to New
Orleans. I was devotedly attached to a young lady, and I was rudely
repelled by her proud and worldly family. I was seized with a vehement
desire to prove to them that I could become richer than they were. I
rushed madly into the pursuit of wealth, and I was successful; but
meanwhile they had married her to another, and I found that wealth
alone could not bring happiness. In vain the profits of my business
doubled and quadrupled. I was unsatisfied, lonely, and sad.
Commercial transactions brought me into intimate relations with Señor
Gonsalez, a Spanish gentleman in St. Augustine. He had formed an
alliance with a beautiful slave, whom he had bought in the French West
Indies. I never saw her, for she died before my acquaintance with him;

but their daughter, then a girl of sixteen, was the most charming
creature I ever beheld. The irresistible attraction I felt toward her the
first moment I saw her was doubtless the mere fascination of the senses;
but when I came to know her more, I found her so gentle, so tender, so
modest, and so true, that I loved her with a strong and deep affection. I
admired her, too, for other reasons than her beauty; for she had many
elegant accomplishments, procured