Charles Montfort-Withington, M.P.
Blankshire,
England.
“Pray be seated, Mr. Withington,” she said, as she placed a chair for her visitor. “I am William’s mother; he will be in very soon.”
Mr. Withington thanked her, and having seated himself, glided easily into conversation; at the same time his keen eye noted his surroundings. Nothing in the quiet, unpretentious, shaded room escaped him. The large glass bowl of flowers—sweet peas and nasturtiums predominating—filled the room with fragrance; there were three or four watercolor paintings set in simple frames—pictures of rural scenes. The few choice pieces of china and bric-a-brac which adorned the mantel, the open piano, the general good taste, even elegance of the apartment, appealed strongly to the artistic sense of the cultured gentleman who had been reared in the luxury of ample wealth. Mrs. Smith herself was a revelation to him. By what art of necromancy had such a distinguished woman been evolved from among the brutalized aftermath of slavery?
“I had the pleasure of meeting your son and conversing with him at the annual dinner of the Canterbury Club in February last. I was much impressed with his views on the condition of the Negroes in this country. Being interested in every phase of racial development which bears upon the science of political economy, I felt that after my Canadian business was settled I would try and meet him again. I intended to write and ask him to meet me at the Vendome, but on second thoughts I concluded to try and see him in his own home.”
“He will feel greatly flattered at your kind remembrance,” Mrs. Smith replied.
“Are you aware, madam, that your son possesses rare intellectual gifts?” he continued, after a slight pause. “I must confess to a feeling of curiosity to learn how such characters are nourished among a people like yours.”
Mrs. Smith looked at him thoughtfully a moment, and then said:
“Sir, it would afford me great pleasure to give you a sketch of his life so far, if you would care to listen.”
“It is what I desire most to hear.”
The great man listened to her humble story with marked attention, as she related the history of early struggles which her husband and she had braved for the maintenance and education of their children. It was a story common enough among Negroes ambitious to avail themselves of the privileges which were now open to them—a story of faithful fathers bearing insult and injury to keep the meanly paid employment; of mothers “spending weary days and nights over the washtub and ironing-board in order to get money to educate their children.” It seemed marvelous to the listener. As she closed, he said impressively:
“Your story is a revelation to me, madam. Are there many histories like yours among your people? In what a different light you would appear as a race, if the statements made by your detractors could be stripped of calumny and deception. Believe me, you have my heartfelt sympathy, and I shall do all that I can to promote kindly feelings in England for our unfortunate black brother in America. And it is against such spirits of nobility and self-sacrifice that many would close the entrance door to the higher education of the century! Blind and foolish prejudice! Monstrous injustice!” He paused a moment to collect himself and overcome his indignation.
“Madam, how is it that you maintain so excellent an address and manner? and from whom, may I ask, without being considered impertinent, did you inherit your superior intelligence?”
“Ah, sir; that is a sad story connected with the lives of those long since passed away.”
“But you seem perfectly happy.”
“Yes; but it is the happiness chastened by wrongs endured and grief subdued.” She paused as though forgetful of her visitor, and then resumed in a low tone:
“Yes; there are strangely tangled threads in the lives of many colored families—I use the word ‘colored’ because these stories occur mostly among those of mixed blood. But few have a stranger or more romantic history than my father’s—Will’s grandfather; I never speak of it for fear of ridicule. I was attracted by the name of Montfort on your card. It is uncommon; I was a Montfort before marriage.”
Mr. Withington uttered an exclamation which was unheeded by the woman before him, who was lost in the clouds of the past. His face wore an expression of intense interest. Presently she continued:
“It is a homely subject to introduce to one familiar with the sorrows of the wealthy and prosperous alone; but it teaches that misfortune is the common lot of all mankind.”
“I await your story with anxiety.” And truly it seemed so, for Mr. Withington had left his seat and was pacing slowly up and down the room. Mrs. Smith began her tale like one who describes a vision passing before her eyes. She told it in almost the exact words of the story which we have given as the first part of this narrative. In the midst of the recital Will entered the room from another door, and paused in astonishment at the scene before him. Mr. Withington shook hands with him noiselessly, and signed him to keep silence and not disturb the speaker. His own emotion was intense; tears trembled in his eyes; his bosom heaved; his countenance was pale and distressed. When she had finished he said:
“And have you no proofs of this story—no letters?”
“Alas, nothing! Poor father destroyed all in a fit of despondency when his brother’s letters ceased to come. Then he lost his little property, and after that he removed to Boston. I believe my father died of a broken heart. God did not intend that his wrongs should be righted.” As she finished, the tears were streaming from her eyes.
Mr. Withington ceased his nervous promenade, and taking both her hands in his, replied solemnly:
“Not so,
