University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

ROSA was surprised at the long absence of her sister;
and when the sun showed only a narrow golden edge
above the horizon, she began to feel anxious. She went to
the kitchen and said, “Tulee, have you seen anything of
Floracita lately? She went away while I was sleeping.”

“No, missy,” she replied. “The last I see of her was
in her room, with the embroidery-frame before her. She
was looking out of the window, as she did sometimes, as if
she was looking nowhere. She jumped up and hugged
and kissed me, and called me `Dear Tulee, good Tulee.'
The little darling was always mighty loving. When I
went there again, her needle was sticking in her work, and
her thimble was on the frame, but she was gone. I don't
know when she went away. Thistle's come back alone;
but he does that sometimes when little missy goes rambling
round.”

There was no uneasiness expressed in her tones, but,
being more disquieted than she wished to acknowledge,
she went forth to search the neighboring wood-paths and
the sea-shore. When she returned, Rosa ran out with the
eager inquiry, “Is she anywhere in sight?” In reply to
the negative answer, she said: “I don't know what to make
of it. Have you ever seen anybody with Floracita since
we came here?”

“Nobody but Massa Gerald,” replied Tulee.

“I wonder whether she was discontented here,” said
Rosa. “I don't see why she should be, for we all loved

her dearly; and Gerald was as kind to her as if she had
been his own sister. But she has n't seemed like herself
lately; and this forenoon she hugged and kissed me ever so
many times, and cried. When I asked her what was the
matter, she said she was thinking of the pleasant times
when Papasito querido was alive. Do you think she was
unhappy?”

“She told me once she was homesick for Madame Guirlande,”
replied Tulee.

“Did she? Perhaps she was making so many things for
Madame because she meant to go there. But she could n't
find her way alone, and she knew it would be very dangerous
for either of us to go to New Orleans.”

Tulee made no reply. She seated herself on a wooden
bench by the open door, swinging her body back and forth
in an agitated way, ever and anon jumping up and looking
round in all directions. The veil of twilight descended
upon the earth, and darkness followed. The two inmates
of the cottage felt very miserable and helpless, as they sat
there listening to every sound. For a while nothing was
heard but the dash of the waves, and the occasional hooting
of an owl. The moon rose up above the pines, and
flooded earth and sea with silvery splendor.

“I want to go to the plantation and call Tom,” said
Rosa; “and there is such bright moonshine we might go,
but I am afraid Gerald would be displeased.”

Tulee at once volunteered to bring out Thistle, and to
walk beside her mistress.

Both started at the sound of footsteps. They were not
light enough for Floracita, but they thought it might be
some one bringing news. It proved to be the master of
the house.

“Why, Gerald, how glad I am! I thought you were in
Savannah,” exclaimed Rosa. “Have you seen anything
of Floracita?”

“No. Is n't she here?” inquired he, in such a tone of
surprise, that Tulee's suspicions were shaken.

Rosa repeated the story of her disappearance, and concluded
by saying, “She told Tulee she was homesick to go
to Madame.”

“She surely would n't dare to do that,” he replied.

“Massa Gerald,” said Tulee, and she watched him
closely while she spoke, “there's something I did n't tell
Missy Rosy, 'cause I was feared it would worry her. I
found this little glove of Missy Flory's, with a bunch of
sea-weed, down on the beach; and there was marks of her
feet all round.”

Rosa uttered a cry. “O heavens!” she exclaimed, “I
saw an alligator a few days ago.”

An expression of horror passed over his face. “I've
cautioned her not to fish so much for shells and sea-mosses,”
said he; “but she was always so self-willed.”

“Don't say anything against the little darling!” implored
Rosa. “Perhaps we shall never see her again.”

He spoke a few soothing words, and then took his hat,
saying, “I am going to the sea-shore.”

“Take good care of yourself, dear Gerald!” cried
Rosa.

“No danger 'bout that,” muttered Tulee, as she walked
out of hearing. “There's things with handsomer mouths
than alligators that may be more dangerous. Poor little
bird! I wonder where he has put her.”

His feelings as he roamed on the beach were not to be
envied. His mind was divided between the thoughts that

she had committed suicide, or had been drowned accidentally.
That she had escaped from his persecutions by flight
he could not believe; for he knew she was entirely unused
to taking care of herself, and felt sure she had no one to
help her. He returned to say that the tide had washed
away the footprints, and that he found no vestige of the
lost one.

At dawn he started for the plantation, whence, after
fruitless inquiries, he rode to the Welby estate. Mrs. Delano
had requested the household servants not to mention
having seen a small young lady there, and they had nothing
to communicate.

He resolved to start for New Orleans as soon as possible.
After a fortnight's absence he returned, bringing grieved
and sympathizing letters from the Signor and Madame;
and on the minds of all, except Tulee, the conviction settled
that Floracita was drowned. Hope lingered long
in her mind. “Wherever the little pet may be, she 'll
surely contrive to let us know,” thought she. “She ain't
like the poor slaves when they 're carried off. She can
write.” Her mistress talked with her every day about the
lost darling; but of course such suspicions were not to be
mentioned to her. Gerald, who disliked everything mournful,
avoided the subject entirely; and Rosabella, looking
upon him only with the eyes of love, considered it a sign
of deep feeling, and respected it accordingly.

But, blinded as she was, she gradually became aware
that he did not seem exactly like the same man who first
won her girlish love. Her efforts to please him were not
always successful. He was sometimes moody and fretful.
He swore at the slightest annoyance, and often flew into
paroxysms of anger with Tom and Tulee. He was more

and more absent from the cottage, and made few professions
of regret for such frequent separations. Some weeks
after Flora's disappearance, he announced his intention to
travel in the North during the summer months. Rosabella
looked up in his face with a pleading expression, but
pride prevented her from asking whether she might accompany
him. She waited in hopes he would propose it;
but as he did not even think of it, he failed to interpret
the look of disappointment in her expressive eyes, as she
turned from him with a sigh.

“Tom will come with the carriage once a week,” said
he; “and either he or Joe will be here every night.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

But the tone was so sad that he took her hand with the
tenderness of former times, and said, “You are sorry to
part with me, Bella Rosa?”

“How can I be otherwise than sorry,” she asked,
“when I am all alone in the world without you? Dear
Gerald, are we always to live thus? Will you never acknowledge
me as your wife?”

“How can I do it,” rejoined he, “without putting myself
in the power of those cursed creditors? It is no fault of
mine that your mother was a slave.”

“We should be secure from them in Europe,” she replied.
“Why could n't we live abroad?”

“Do you suppose my rich uncle would leave me a cent
if he found out I had married the daughter of a quadroon?”
rejoined he. “I have met with losses lately, and
I can't afford to offend my uncle. I am sorry, dear, that
you are dissatisfied with the home I have provided for
you.”

“I am not dissatisfied with my home,” said she. “I have

no desire to mix with the world, but it is necessary for you,
and these separations are dreadful.”

His answer was: “I will write often, dearest, and I will
send you quantities of new music. I shall always be looking
forward to the delight of hearing it when I return.
You must take good care of your health, for my sake. You
must go ambling about with Thistle every day.”

The suggestion brought up associations that overcame
her at once. “O how Floracita loved Thistle!” she exclaimed.
“And it really seems as if the poor beast misses
her. I am afraid we neglected her too much, Gerald.
We were so taken up with our own happiness, that we
did n't think of her so much as we ought to have done.”

“I am sure I tried to gratify all her wishes,” responded
he. “I have nothing to reproach myself with, and certainly
you were always a devoted sister. This is a morbid
state of feeling, and you must try to drive it off. You
said a little while ago that you wanted to see how the plantation
was looking, and what flowers had come out in the
garden. Shall I take you there in the barouche to-morrow?”

She gladly assented, and a few affectionate words soon
restored her confidence in his love.

When the carriage was brought to the entrance of the
wood the next day, she went to meet it with a smiling face
and a springing step. As he was about to hand her in, he
said abruptly, “You have forgotten your veil.”

Tulee was summoned to bring it. As Rosa arranged it
round her head, she remarked, “One would think you were
ashamed of me, Gerald.”

The words were almost whispered, but the tone sounded
more like a reproach than anything she had ever uttered.

With ready gallantry he responded aloud, “I think so
much of my treasure that I want to keep it all to myself.”

He was very affectionate during their drive; and this,
combined with the genial air, the lovely scenery, and the
exhilaration of swift motion, restored her to a greater
sense of happiness than she had felt since her darling sister
vanished so suddenly.

The plantation was in gala dress. The veranda was almost
covered with the large, white, golden-eyed stars of the
Cherokee rose, gleaming out from its dark, lustrous foliage.
The lawn was a sheet of green velvet embroidered with
flowers. Magnolias and oaks of magnificent growth ornamented
the extensive grounds. In the rear was a cluster
of negro huts. Black picaninnies were rolling about in the
grass, mingling their laughter with the songs of the birds.
The winding paths of the garden were lined with flowering
shurbs, and the sea sparkled in the distance. Wherever
the eye glanced, all was sunshine, bloom, and verdure.

For the first time, he invited her to enter the mansion.
Her first movement was toward the piano. As she opened
it, and swept her hand across the keys, he said: “It is
sadly out of tune. It has been neglected because its owner
had pleasanter music elsewhere.”

“But the tones are very fine,” rejoined she. “What a
pity it should n't be used!” As she glanced out of the
window on the blooming garden and spacious lawn, she
said: “How pleasant it would be if we could live here!
It is so delightful to look out on such an extensive
open space.”

“Perhaps we will some time or other, my love,” responded
he.

She smiled, and touched the keys, while she sang

snatches of familiar songs. The servants who brought in
refreshments wondered at her beauty, and clear, ringing
voice. Many dark faces clustered round the crack of the
door to obtain a peep; and as they went away they exchanged
nudges and winks with each other. Tom and
Chloe had confidentially whispered to some of them the existence
of such a lady, and that Tulee said Massa married
her in the West Indies; and they predicted that she would
be the future mistress of Magnolia Lawn. Others gave it
as their opinion, that Massa would never hide her as he
did if she was to be the Missis. But all agreed that she
was a beautiful, grand lady, and they paid her homage accordingly.
Her cheeks would have burned to scarlet flame
if she had heard all their comments and conjectures; but
unconscious of blame or shame, she gave herself up to the
enjoyment of those bright hours.

A new access of tenderness seemed to have come over
Fitzgerald; partly because happiness rendered her beauty
more radiant, and partly because secret thoughts that were
revolving in his mind brought some twinges of remorse.
He had never seemed more enamored, not even during the
first week in Nassau, when he came to claim her as his
bride. Far down in the garden was an umbrageous walk,
terminating in a vine-covered bower. They remained
there a long time, intertwined in each other's arms, talking
over the memories of their dawning consciousness of love,
and singing together the melodies in which their voices had
first mingled.

Their road home was through woods and groves festooned
with vines, some hanging in massive coils, others
light and aerial enough for fairy swings; then over the
smooth beach, where wave after wave leaped up and

tossed its white foam-garland on the shore. The sun
was sinking in a golden sea, and higher toward the zenith
little gossamer clouds blushingly dissolved in the brilliant
azure, and united again, as if the fragrance of roses had
floated into form.

When they reached the cottage, Rosa passed through the
silent little parlor with swimming eyes, murmuring to herself:
“Poor little Floracita! how the sea made me think
of her. I ought not to have been so happy.”

But memory wrote the record of that halcyon day in
illuminated manuscript, all glowing with purple and gold,
with angel faces peeping through a graceful network of
flowers.