University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

THE scenery of the South was in the full glory of
June, when Mr. Fitzgerald, Rosa, and Floracita were
floating up the Savannah River in a boat manned by negroes,
who ever and anon waked the stillness of the woods
with snatches of wild melody. They landed on a sequestered
island which ocean and river held in their arms.
Leaving the servants to take care of the luggage, they
strolled along over a carpet of wild-flowers, through winding
bridle-paths, where glances of bright water here and
there gleamed through the dark pines that were singing
their sleepy chorus, with its lulling sound of the sea, and
filling the air with their aromatic breath. Before long,
they saw a gay-colored turban moving among the green
foliage, and the sisters at once exclaimed, “Tulipa!”

“Dear Gerald, you did n't tell us Tulee was here,” said
Rosa.

“I wanted to give you a pleasant surprise,” he replied.

She thanked him with a glance more expressive than
words. Tulipa, meanwhile, was waving a white towel with
joyful energy, and when she came up to them, she half
smothered them with hugs and kisses, exclaiming: “The
Lord bless ye, Missy Rosy! The Lord bless ye, Missy
Flory! It does Tulee's eyes good to see ye agin.” She
eagerly led the way through flowering thickets to a small
lawn, in the midst of which was a pretty white cottage.

It was evident at a glance that she, as well as the master
of the establishment, had done her utmost to make the interior

of the dwelling resemble their old home as much as
possible. Rosa's piano was there, and on it were a number
of books which their father had given them. As Floracita
pointed to the ottomans their mother had embroidered, and
the boxes and table she had painted, she said: “Our good
friend the Signor sent those. He promised to buy them.”

“He could not buy them, poor man!” answered Fitzgerald,
“for he was in prison at the time of the auction;
but he did not forget to enjoin it upon me to buy them.”

A pleasant hour was spent in joyful surprises over
pretty novelties and cherished souvenirs. Rosa was full
of quiet happiness, and Floracita expressed her satisfaction
in lively little gambols. The sun was going down when
they refreshed themselves with the repast Tulipa had provided.
Unwilling to invite the merciless mosquitoes, they
sat, while the gloaming settled into darkness, playing and
singing melodies associated with other times.

Floracita felt sorry when the hour of separation for the
night came. Everything seemed so fearfully still, except
the monotonous wash of the waves on the sea-shore! And
as far as she could see the landscape by the light of a bright
little moon-sickle, there was nothing but a thick screen of
trees and shrubbery. She groped her way to her sleeping-apartment,
expecting to find Tulee there. She had been
there, and had left a little glimmering taper behind a screen,
which threw a fantastic shadow on the ceiling, like a face
with a monstrous nose. It affected the excitable child like
some kind of supernatural presence. She crept to the
window, and through the veil of the mosquito-bar she
dimly saw the same thick wall of greenery. Presently
she espied a strange-looking long face peering out from its
recesses. On their voyage home from Nassau, Gerald had

sometimes read aloud to them from “The Midsummer
Night's Dream.” Could it be that there were such creatures
in the woods as Shakespeare described? A closet
adjoining her room had been assigned to Tulee. She
opened the door and said, “Tulee, are you there? Why
don't you come?” There was no answer. Again she gave
a timid look at the window. The long face moved, and
a most unearthly sound was heard. Thoroughly frightened,
she ran out, calling, “Tulee! Tulee!” In the darkness,
she ran against her faithful attendant, and the sudden
contact terrified her still more.

“It's only Tulee. What is the matter with my little
one?” said the negress. As she spoke, the fearful sound
was heard again.

“O Tulee, what is that?” she exclaimed, all of a
tremble.

“That is only Jack,” she replied.

“Who's Jack?” quickly asked the nervous little
maiden.

“Why, the jackass, my puppet,” answered Tulee.
“Massa Gerald bought him for you and Missy Rosy to
ride. In hot weather there 's so many snakes about in
the woods, he don't want ye to walk.”

“What does he make that horrid noise for?” asked
Flora, somewhat pacified.

“Because he was born with music in him, like the rest
of ye,” answered Tulee, laughing.

She assisted her darling to undress, arranged her pillows,
and kissed her cheek just as she had kissed it ever since
the rosy little mouth had learned to speak her name. Then
she sat by the bedside talking over things that had happened
since they parted.

“So you were put up at auction and sold!” exclaimed
Flora. “Poor Tulee! how dreadfully I should have felt
to see you there! But Gerald bought you; and I suppose
you like to belong to him.”

“Ise nothin' to complain of Massa Gerald,” she answered;
“but I'd like better to belong to myself.”

“So you'd like to be free, would you?” asked Flora.

“To be sure I would,” said Tulee. “Ye like it yerself,
don't ye, little missy?”

Then, suddenly recollecting what a narrow escape her
young lady had had from the auction-stand, she hastened
with intuitive delicacy to change the subject. But the
same thought had occurred to Flora; and she fell asleep,
thinking how Tulee's wishes could be gratified.

When morning floated upward out of the arms of night,
in robe of brightest saffron, the aspect of everything was
changed. Floracita sprang out of bed early, eager to explore
the surroundings of their new abode. The little
lawn looked very beautiful, sprinkled all over with a variety
of wild-flowers, in whose small cups dewdrops glistened,
prismatic as opals. The shrubbery was no longer a dismal
mass of darkness, but showed all manner of shadings of
glossy green leaves, which the moisture of the night had
ornamented with shimmering edges of crystal beads. She
found the phantom of the night before browsing among
flowers behind the cottage, and very kindly disposed to
make her acquaintance. As he had a thistle blossom sticking
out of his mouth, she forthwith named him Thistle.
She soon returned to the house with her apron full of vines,
and blossoms, and prettily tinted leaves. “See, Tulee,” said
she, “what a many flowers! I'm going to make haste and
dress the table, before Gerald and Rosa come to breakfast.”

They took graceful shape under her nimble fingers, and,
feeling happy in her work, she began to hum,

“Whisper low!” sang Gerald, stealing up behind her,
and making her start by singing into her very ear; while
Rosa exclaimed, “What a fairy-land you have made here,
with all these flowers, pichoncita mia.”

The day passed pleasantly enough, with some ambling
along the bridle-paths on Thistle's back, some reading
and sleeping, and a good deal of music. The next day,
black Tom came with a barouche, and they took a drive
round the lovely island. The cotton-fields were all abloom
on Gerald's plantation, and his stuccoed villa, with spacious
veranda and high porch, gleamed out in whiteness among
a magnificent growth of trees, and a garden gorgeous with
efflorescence. The only drawback to the pleasure was,
that Gerald charged them to wear thick veils, and never to
raise them when any person was in sight. They made no
complaint, because he told them that he should be deeply
involved in trouble if his participation in their escape should
be discovered; but, happy as Rosa was in reciprocated love,
this necessity of concealment was a skeleton ever sitting at
her feast; and Floracita, who had no romantic compensation
for it, chafed under the restraint. It was dusk when
they returned to the cottage, and the thickets were alive
with fire-flies, as if Queen Mab and all her train were out
dancing in spangles.

A few days after was Rosa's birthday, and Floracita
busied herself in adorning the rooms with flowery festoons.
After breakfast, Gerald placed a small parcel in the hand
of each of the sisters. Rosa's contained her mother's diamond

ring, and Flora's was her mother's gold watch, in
the back of which was set a small-locket-miniature of her
father. Their gratitude took the form of tears, and the
pleasure-loving young man, who had more taste for gayety
than sentiment, sought to dispel it by lively music. When
he saw the smiles coming again, he bowed playfully, and
said: “This day is yours, dear Rosa. Whatsoever you
wish for, you shall have, if it is attainable.”

“I do wish for one thing,” she replied promptly. “Floracita
has found out that Tulee would like to be free. I
want you to gratify her wish.”

“Tulee is yours,” rejoined he. “I bought her to attend
upon you.”

“She will attend upon me all the same after she is
free,” responded Rosa; “and we should all be happier.”

“I will do it,” he replied. “But I hope you won't
propose to make me free, for I am happier to be your
slave.”

The papers were brought a few days after, and Tulee
felt a great deal richer, though there was no outward
change in her condition.

As the heat increased, mosquitoes in the woods and
sand-flies on the beach rendered the shelter of the house
desirable most of the time. But though Fitzgerald had
usually spent the summer months in travelling, he seemed
perfectly contented to sing and doze and trifle away his
time by Rosa's side, week after week. Floracita did not
find it entertaining to be a third person with a couple
of lovers. She had been used to being a person of consequence
in her little world; and though they were very
kind to her, they often forgot that she was present, and

never seemed to miss her when she was away. She had
led a very secluded life from her earliest childhood, but she
had never before been so entirely out of sight of houses and
people. During the few weeks she had passed in Nassau,
she had learned to do shell-work with a class of young
girls; and it being the first time she had enjoyed such companionship,
she found it peculiarly agreeable. She longed
to hear their small talk again; she longed to have Rosa to
herself, as in the old times; she longed for her father's caresses,
for Madame Guirlande's brave cheerfulness, for the
Signor's peppery outbursts, which she found very amusing;
and sometimes she thought how pleasant it would be to
hear Florimond say that her name was the prettiest in the
world. She often took out a pressed geranium blossom,
under which was written “Souvenir de Florimond”; and
she thought his name was very pretty too. She sang
Moore's Melodies a great deal; and when she warbled,
she sighed, and thought to herself, “Ah! if I only had a
friend to love best!” She almost learned “Lalla Rookh”
by heart; and she pictured herself as the Persian princess
listening to a minstrel in Oriental costume, but with a very
German face. It was not that the child was in love, but
her heart was untenanted; and as memories walked through
it, it sounded empty.

Tulee, who was very observing where her affections
were concerned, suspected that she was comparing her
own situation with that of Rosa. One day, when she
found her in dreamy revery, she patted her silky curls,
and said: “Does she feel as if she was laid by, like a fifth

wheel to a coach? Never mind! My little one will
have a husband herself one of these days.”

Without looking up, she answered, very pensively: “Do
you think I ever shall, Tulee? I don't see how I can, for
I never see anybody.”

Tulipa took the little head between her black hands, and,
raising the pretty face toward her, replied: “Yes, sure,
little missy. Do ye s'pose ye had them handsome eyes
for nothin' but to look at the moon? But come, now, with
me, and feed Thistle. I'm going to give him a pailful
of water. Thistle knows us as well as if he was a Christian.”

Jack Thistle was a great resource for Tulee in her isolation,
and scarcely less so for Flora. She often fed him
from her hand, decorated him with garlands, talked to him,
and ambled about with him in the woods and on the sea-shore.
The visits of black Tom also introduced a little
variety into their life. He went back and forth from Savannah
to procure such articles as were needed at the
cottage, and he always had a budget of gossip for Tulee.
Tom's Chloe was an expert ironer; and as Mr. Fitzgerald
was not so well pleased with Tulee's performances of that
kind, baskets of clothes were often sent to Chloe, who was
ingenious in finding excuses for bringing them back herself.
She was a great singer of Methodist hymns and negro
songs, and had wonderful religious experiences to tell.
To listen to her and Tom was the greatest treat Tulee
had; but as she particularly prided herself on speaking
like white people, she often remarked that she could n't
understand half their “lingo.” Floracita soon learned it
to perfection, and excited many a laugh by her imitations.

Tulee once obtained Rosa's permission to ride back with

Tom, and spend a couple of hours at his cabin near “the
Grat Hus,” as he called his master's villa. But when Mr.
Fitzgerald heard of it, he interdicted such visits in the future.
He wished to have as little communication as possible
between the plantation and the lonely cottage; and if
he had overheard some of the confidences between Chloe
and Tulee, he probably would have been confirmed in the
wisdom of such a prohibition. But Tom was a factotum
that could not be dispensed with. They relied upon him
for provisions, letters, and newspapers.

Three or four weeks after their arrival he brought a box
containing a long letter from Madame Guirlande, and the
various articles she had saved for the orphans from the
wreck of their early home. Not long afterward another
letter came, announcing the marriage of Madame and the
Signor. Answering these letters and preparing bridal
presents for their old friends gave them busy days. Gerald
sometimes ordered new music and new novels from
New York, and their arrival caused great excitement.
Floracita's natural taste for drawing had been cultivated
by private lessons from a French lady, and she now used
the pretty accomplishment to make likenesses of Thistle
with and without garlands, of Tulee in her bright turban,
and of Madame Guirlande's parrot, inscribed, “Bon jour,
jolie Manon!”

One day Rosa said: “As soon as the heat abates, so that
we can use our needles without rusting, we will do a good
deal of embroidery, and give it to Madame. She sells such
articles, you know; and we can make beautiful things of
those flosses and chenilles the good soul saved for us.”

“I like that idea,” replied Flora. “I've been wanting
to do something to show our gratitude.”

There was wisdom as well as kindness in the plan,
though they never thought of the wisdom. Hours were
whiled away by the occupation, which not only kept their
needles from rusting, but also their affections and artistic
faculties.

As the tide of time flowed on, varied only by these little
eddies and ripples, Gerald, though always very loving with
Rosa, became somewhat less exclusive. His attentions
were more equally divided between the sisters. He often
occupied himself with Floracita's work, and would pick
out the shades of silk for her, as well as for Rosa. He
more frequently called upon her to sing a solo, as well as
to join in duets and trios. When the weather became
cooler, it was a favorite recreation with him to lounge at
his ease, while Rosa played, and Floracita's fairy figure
floated through the evolutions of some graceful dance.
Sometimes he would laugh, and say: “Am I not a lucky
dog? I don't envy the Grand Bashaw his Circassian
beauties. He 'd give his biggest diamond for such a
dancer as Floracita; and what is his Flower of the World
compared to my Rosamunda?”

Floracita, whose warm heart always met affection as
swiftly as one drop of quicksilver runs to another, became
almost as much attached to him as she was to Rosa. “How
kind Gerald is to me!” she would say to Tulee. “Papa
used to wish we had a brother; but I did n't care for one
then, because he was just as good for a playmate. But
now it is pleasant to have a brother.”

To Rosa, also, it was gratifying to have his love for her
overflow upon what was dearest to her; and she would
give him one of her sweetest smiles when he called her
sister “Mignonne” or “Querida.” To both of them the

lonely island came to seem like a happy home. Floracita
was not so wildly frolicsome as she was before those stunning
blows fell upon her young life; but the natural buoyancy
of her spirits began to return. She was always
amusing them with “quips and cranks.” If she was out
of doors, her return to the house would be signalized by
imitations of all sorts of birds or musical instruments; and
often, when Gerald invited her to “trip it on the light, fantastic
toe,” she would entertain him with one of the negroes'
clumsy, shuffling dances. Her sentimental songs fell
into disuse, and were replaced by livelier tunes. Instead
of longing to rest in the “sweet vale of Avoca,” she was
heard musically chasing “Figaro here! Figaro there!
Figaro everywhere!”

Seven months passed without other material changes
than the changing seasons. When the flowers faded, and
the leafless cypress-trees were hung with their pretty pendulous
seed-vessels, Gerald began to make longer visits to
Savannah. He was, however, rarely gone more than a
week; and, though Rosa's songs grew plaintive in his absence,
her spirits rose at once when he came to tell how
homesick he had been. As for Floracita, she felt compensated
for the increased stillness by the privilege of having
Rosa all to herself.

One day in January, when he had been gone from home
several days, she invited Rosa to a walk, and, finding her
desirous to finish a letter to Madame Guirlande, she threw
on her straw hat, and went out half dancing, as she was
wont to do. The fresh air was exhilarating, the birds were
singing, and the woods were already beautified with every
shade of glossy green, enlivened by vivid buds and leaflets
of reddish brown. She gathered here and there a pretty

sprig, sometimes placing them in her hair, sometimes in
her little black silk apron, coquettishly decorated with cherry-colored
ribbons. She stopped before a luxuriant wild
myrtle, pulling at the branches, while she sang,
Her song was suddenly interrupted by a clasp round the
waist, and a warm kiss on the lips.

“O Gerald, you 've come back!” she exclaimed. “How
glad Rosa will be!”

“And nobody else will be glad, I suppose?” rejoined
he. “Won't you give me back my kiss, when I've been
gone a whole week?”

“Certainly, mon bon frère,” she replied; and as he inclined
his face toward her, she imprinted a slight kiss on
his cheek.

“That's not giving me back my kiss,” said he. “I
kissed your mouth, and you must kiss mine.”

“I will if you wish it,” she replied, suiting the action to
the word. “But you need n't hold me so tight,” she
added, as she tried to extricate herself. Finding he did
not release her, she looked up wonderingly in his face, then
lowered her eyes, blushing crimson. No one had ever
looked at her so before.

“Come, don't be coy, ma petite,” said he.

She slipped from him with sudden agility, and said somewhat
sharply: “Gerald, I don't want to be always called
petite; and I don't want to be treated as if I were a child.
I am no longer a child. I am fifteen. I am a young lady.”

“So you are, and a very charming one,” rejoined he,
giving her a playful tap on the cheek as he spoke.

“I am going to tell Rosa you have come,” said she; and
she started on the run.

When they were all together in the cottage she tried not
to seem constrained; but she succeeded so ill that Rosa
would have noticed it if she had not been so absorbed in
her own happiness. Gerald was all affection to her, and
full of playful raillery with Flora, — which, however, failed
to animate her as usual.

From that time a change came over the little maiden,
and increased as the days passed on. She spent much of
her time in her own room; and when Rosa inquired why
she deserted them so, she execused herself by saying she
wanted to do a great deal of shell-work for Madame Guirlande,
and that she needed so many boxes they would be
in the way in the sitting-room. Her passion for that work
grew wonderfully, and might be accounted for by the fascination
of perfect success; for her coronets and garlands
and bouquets and baskets were arranged with so much
lightness and elegance, and the different-colored shells were
so tastefully combined, that they looked less like manufactured
articles than like flowers that grew in the gardens of
the Nereids.

Tulee wondered why her vivacious little pet had all of a
sudden become so sedentary in her habits, — why she never
took her customary rambles except when Mr. Fitzgerald
was gone, and even then never without her sister. The
conjecture she formed was not very far amiss, for Chloe's
gossip had made her better acquainted with the character
of her master than were the other inmates of the cottage;
but the extraordinary industry was a mystery to her. One
evening, when she found Floracita alone in her room at
dusk, leaning her head on her hand and gazing out of the

window dreamily, she put her hand on the silky head and
said, “Is my little one homesick?”

“I have no home to be sick for,” she replied, sadly.

“Is she lovesick then?”

“I have no lover,” she replied, in the same desponding
tone.

“What is it, then, my pet? Tell Tulee.”

“I wish I could go to Madame Guirlande,” responded
Flora. “She was so kind to us in our first troubles.”

“It would do you good to make her a visit,” said Tulee,
“and I should think you might manage to do it somehow.”

“No. Gerald said, a good while ago, that it would be
dangerous for us ever to go to New Orleans.”

“Does he expect to keep you here always?” asked Tulee.
“He might just as well keep you in a prison, little bird.”

“O, what's the use of talking, Tulee!” exclaimed she,
impatiently. “I have no friends to go to, and I must stay
here.” But, reproaching herself for rejecting the sympathy
so tenderly offered, she rose and kissed the black cheek
as she added, “Good Tulee! kind Tulee! I am a little
homesick; but I shall feel better in the morning.”

The next afternoon Gerald and Rosa invited her to join
them in a drive round the island. She deelined, saying
the box that was soon to be sent to Madame was not quite
full, and she wanted to finish some more articles to put in
it. But she felt a longing for the fresh air, and the intense
blue glory of the sky made the house seem prison-like. As
soon as they were gone, she took down her straw hat and
passed out, swinging it by the strings. She stopped on the
lawn to gather some flame-colored buds from a Pyrus Japonica,
and, fastening them in the ribbons as she went, she
walked toward her old familiar haunts in the woods.

It was early in February, but the warm sunshine brought
out a delicious aroma from the firs, and golden garlands of
the wild jasmine, fragrant as heliotrope, were winding
round the evergreen thickets, and swinging in flowery festoons
from the trees. Melancholy as she felt when she
started from the cottage, her elastic nature was incapable
of resisting the glory of the sky, the beauty of the earth,
the music of the birds, and the invigorating breath of the
ocean, intensified as they all were by a joyful sense of
security and freedom, growing out of the constraint that
had lately been put upon her movements. She tripped
along faster, carolling as she went an old-fashioned song
that her father used to be often humming:—

The walk changed to hopping and dancing, as she warbled
various snatches from ballets and operas, settling at last
upon the quaint little melody, “Once on a time there was
a king,” and running it through successive variations.

A very gentle and refined voice, from behind a clump
of evergreens, said, “Is this Cinderella coming from the
ball?”

She looked up with quick surprise, and recognized a
lady she had several times seen in Nassau.

“And it is really you, Señorita Gonsalez!” said the lady.
“I thought I knew your voice. But I little dreamed of
meeting you here. I have thought of you many times
since I parted from you at Madame Conquilla's store of
shell-work. I am delighted to see you again.”

“And I am glad to see you again, Mrs. Delano,” replied

Flora; “and I am very much pleased that you remember
me.”

“How could I help remembering you?” asked the lady.
“You were a favorite with me from the first time I saw
you, and I should like very much to renew our acquaintance.
Where do you live, my dear?”

Covered with crimson confusion, Flora stammered out:
“I don't live anywhere, I'm only staying here. Perhaps I
shall meet you again in the woods or on the beach. I hope
I shall.”

“Excuse me,” said the lady. “I have no wish to intrude
upon your privacy. But if you would like to call
upon me at Mr. Welby's plantation, where I shall be for
three or four weeks, I shall always be glad to receive you.”

“Thank you,” replied Flora, still struggling with embarrassment.
“I should like to come very much, but I don't
have a great deal of time for visiting.”

“It's not common to have such a pressure of cares and
duties at your age,” responded the lady, smiling. “My
carriage is waiting on the beach. Trusting you will find
a few minutes to spare for me, I will not say adieu, but
au revoir.”

As she turned away, she thought to herself: “What a
fascinating child! What a charmingly unsophisticated way
she took to tell me she would rather not have me call on
her! I observed there seemed to be some mystery about
her when she was in Nassau. What can it be? Nothing
wrong, I hope.”

Floracita descended to the beach and gazed after the
carriage as long as she could see it. Her thoughts were
so occupied with this unexpected interview, that she took
no notice of the golden drops which the declining sun was

showering on an endless procession of pearl-crested waves;
nor did she cast one of her customary loving glances at the
western sky, where masses of violet clouds, with edges of
resplendent gold, enclosed lakes of translucent beryl, in
which little rose-colored islands were floating. She retraced
her steps to the woods, almost crying. “How
strange my answers must appear to her!” murmured she.
“How I do wish I could go about openly, like other people!
I am so tired of all this concealment!” She neither
jumped, nor danced, nor sung, on her way homeward.
She seemed to be revolving something in her mind
very busily.

After tea, as she and Rosa were sitting alone in the twilight,
her sister, observing that she was unusually silent,
said, “What are you thinking of, Mignonne?”

“I am thinking of the time we passed in Nassau,” replied
she, “and of that Yankee lady who seemed to take
such a fancy to me when she came to Madame Conquilla's
to look at the shell-work.

“I remember your talking about her,” rejoined Rosa.
“You thought her beautiful.”

“Yes,” said Floracita, “and it was a peculiar sort of
beauty. She was n't the least like you or Mamita. Everything
about her was violet. Her large gray eyes sometimes
had a violet light in them. Her hair was not exactly
flaxen, it looked like ashes of violets. She always wore
fragrant violets. Her ribbons and dresses were of some
shade of violet; and her breastpin was an amethyst set with
pearls. Something in her ways, too, made me think of a
violet. I think she knew it, and that was the reason she
always wore that color. How delicate she was! She must
have been very beautiful when she was young.”

“You used to call her the Java sparrow,” said Rosa.

“Yes, she made me think of my little Java sparrow,
with pale fawn-colored feathers, and little gleams of violet
on the neck,” responded Flora.

“That lady seems to have made a great impression on
your imagination,” said Rosa; and Floracita explained
that it was because she had never seen anything like her.
She did not mention that she had seen that lady on the
island. The open-hearted child was learning to be reticent.

A few minutes afterward, Rosa exclaimed, “There's
Gerald coming!” Her sister watched her as she ran out
to meet him, and sighed, “Poor Rosa!”