 | CHAPTER X. A romance of the republic |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
ROSABELLA had never experienced such loneliness
as in the months that followed. All music was saddened
by far-off echoes of past accompaniments. Embroidery
lost its interest with no one to praise the work, or to be
consulted in the choice of colors and patterns. The books
Gerald occasionally sent were of a light character, and
though they served to while away a listless hour, there was
nothing in them to strengthen or refresh the soul. The isolation
was the more painful because there was everything
around her to remind her of the lost and the absent. Flora's
unfinished embroidery still remained in the frame, with
the needle in the last stitch of a blue forget-me-not. Over
the mirror was a cluster of blush-roses she had made. On
the wall was a spray of sea-moss she had pressed and surrounded
with a garland of small shells. By the door was
a vine she had transplanted from the woods; and under a
tree opposite was a turf seat where she used to sit sketching
the cottage, and Tulee, and Thistle, and baskets of
wild-flowers she had gathered. The sight of these things
continually brought up visions of the loving and beautiful
child, who for so many years had slept nestling in her
arms, and made the days tuneful with her songs. Then
there was Gerald's silent flute, and the silken cushion she
had embroidered for him, on which she had so often seen
him reposing, and thought him handsome as a sleeping
Adonis. A letter from him made her cheerful for days;
but they did not come often, and were generally brief.
master's orders; but she found solitary drives so little refreshing
to body or mind that she was often glad to avail
herself of Tulee's company.
So the summer wore away, and September came to produce
a new aspect of beauty in the landscape, by tinging
the fading flowers and withering leaves with various shades
of brown and crimson, purple and orange. One day, early
in the month, when Tom came with the carriage, she told
him to drive to Magnolia Lawn. She had long been wishing
to revisit the scene where she had been so happy on
that bright spring day; but she had always said to herself,
“I will wait till Gerald comes.” Now she had grown so
weary with hope deferred, that she felt as if she could wait
no longer.
As she rode along she thought of improvements in the
walks that she would suggest to Gerald, if they ever went
there to live, as he had intimated they might. The servants
received her with their usual respectful manner and
wondering looks; but when she turned back to ask some
question, she saw them whispering together with an unusual
appearance of excitement. Her cheeks glowed with
a consciousness that her anomalous position was well calculated
to excite their curiosity; and she turned away,
thinking how different it had been with her mother,—how
sheltered and protected she had always been. She remembered
how very rarely her father left home, and how he
always hastened to return. She stood awhile on the veranda,
thinking sadly, “If Gerald loves me as Papasito
loved Mamita, how can he be contented to leave me so
much?” With a deep sigh she turned and entered the
house through an open window. The sigh changed at
transformation since she last saw it. The woodwork
had been freshly painted, and the walls were covered
with silvery-flowered paper. Over curtains of embroidered
lace hung a drapery of apple-green damask, ornamented
with deep white-silk fringe and heavy tassels. “How kind
of Gerald!” murmured she. “He has done this because I
expressed a wish to live here. How ungrateful I was to
doubt him in my thoughts!”
She passed into the chamber, where she found a white
French bedstead, on which were painted bouquets of roses.
It was enveloped in roseate lace drapery, caught up at the
centre in festoons on the silver arrow of a pretty little
Cupid. From silver arrows over the windows there fell
the same soft, roseate folds. Her whole face was illuminated
with happiness as she thought to herself: “Ah! I
know why everything has a tinge of roses. How kind of
him to prepare such a beautiful surprise for me!”
She traversed the garden walks, and lingered long in the
sequestered bower. On the floor was a bunch of dried
violets which he had placed in her belt on that happy day.
She took them up, kissed them fervently, and placed them
near her heart. That heart was lighter than it had been
for months. “At last he is going to acknowledge me as
his wife,” thought she. “How happy I shall be when
there is no longer any need of secrecy!”
The servants heard her singing as she traversed the garden,
and gathered in groups to listen; but they scattered
as they saw her approach the house.
“She's a mighty fine lady,” said Dinah, the cook.
“Mighty fine lady,” repeated Tom; “an' I tell yer
she 's married to Massa, an' she 's gwine to be de Missis.”
Venus, the chambermaid, who would have passed very
well for a bronze image of the sea-born goddess, tossed her
head as she replied: “Dunno bout dat ar. Massa does a
heap o' courtin' to we far sex.”
“How yer know dat ar?” exclaimed Dinah. “Whar
d'yer git dem year-rings?” And then there was a general
titter.
Rosabella, all unconscious in her purity, came up to Tom
while the grin was still upon his face, and in her polite
way asked him to have the goodness to bring the carriage.
It was with great difficulty that she could refrain from outbursts
of song as she rode homeward; but Gerald had particularly
requested her not to sing in the carriage, lest her
voice should attract the attention of some one who chanced
to be visiting the island.
Her first words when she entered the cottage were: “O
Tulee, I am so happy! Gerald has fitted up Magnolia
Lawn beautifully, because I told him I wished we could
live there. He said, that day we were there, that he would
try to make some arrangement with Papasito's creditors,
and I do believe he has, and that I shall not have to
hide much longer. He has been fitting up the house as if
it were for a queen. Is n't he kind?”
Tulee, who listened rather distrustfully to praises bestowed
on the master, replied that nobody could do anything
too good for Missy Rosy.
“Ah, Tulee, you have always done your best to spoil
me,” said she, laying her hand affectionately on the shoulder
of her petted servant, while a smile like sunshine mantled
her face. “But do get me something to eat. The ride
has made me hungry.”
“Ise glad to hear that, Missy Rosy. I begun to think
'em over wi' yer fork, and ate one or two monthfuls, without
knowing what ye was eatin'.”
“I've been pining for Gerald, Tulee; and I've been
afraid sometimes that he did n't love me as he used to do.
But now that he has made such preparations for us to live
at Magnolia Lawn, I am as happy as a queen.”
She went off singing, and as Tulee looked after her she
murmured to herself: “And what a handsome queen she'd
make! Gold ain't none too good for her to walk on. But
is it the truth he told her about settling with the creditors?
There's never no telling anything by what he says. Do
hear her singing now! It sounds as lively as Missy Flory.
Ah! that was a strange business. I wonder whether the
little darling is dead.”
While she was preparing supper, with such cogitations
passing through her mind, Rosa began to dash off a letter,
as follows:—
“Dearly Beloved,—I am so happy that I cannot
wait a minute without telling you about it. I have done a
naughty thing, but, as it is the first time I ever disobeyed
you, I hope you will forgive me. You told me never to
go to the plantation without you. But I waited and waited,
and you did n't come; and we were so happy there,
that lovely day, that I longed to go again. I knew it
would be very lonesome without you; but I thought it
would be some comfort to see again the places where we
walked together, and sang together, and called each other
all manner of foolish fond names. Do you remember how
many variations you rung upon my name, — Rosabella,
Rosalinda, Rosamunda, Rosa Regina? How you did pelt
the garden bower? How we sang together the old-fashioned
canzonet, `Love in thine eyes forever plays'? And
how the mocking-bird imitated your guitar, while you were
singing the Don Giovanni serenade?
“I was thinking this all over, as I rode alone over the
same ground we traversed on that happy day. But it was
so different without the love-light of your eyes and the
pressure of your dear hand, that I felt the tears gathering,
and had all manner of sad thoughts. I feared you did n't
care for me as you used to do, and were finding it easy to
live without me. But when I entered the parlor that
overlooks the beautiful lawn, all my doubts vanished.
You had encouraged me to hope that it might be our
future home; but I little dreamed it was to be so soon, and
that you were preparing such a charming surprise for me.
Don't be vexed with me, dearest, for finding out your secret.
It made me so happy! It made the world seem like Paradise.
Ah! I knew why everything was so rose-colored.
It was so like you to think of that! Then everything is so
elegant! You knew your Rosamunda's taste for elegance.
“But Tulee summons me to supper. Dear, good, faithful
Tulee! What a comfort she has been to me in this
lonesome time!
“Now I have come back to the pretty little writing-desk
you gave me, and I will finish my letter. I feel as if I
wanted to write to you forever, if I can't have you to talk
to. You can't imagine how lonesome I have been. The
new music you sent me was charming; but whatever I
practised or improvised took a solemn and plaintive character,
like the moaning of the sea and the whispering of
is no other voice to lean upon, and no appreciating ear to
listen for the coming chords. I have even found it a relief
to play and sing to Tulee, who is always an admiring listener,
if not a very discriminating one; and as for Tom, it
seems as if the eyes would fly out of his head when I play
to him. I have tried to take exercise every day, as you
advised; but while the hot weather lasted, I was afraid of
snakes, and the mosquitoes and sand-flies were tormenting.
Now it is cooler I ramble about more, but my loneliness
goes everywhere with me. Everything is so still here,
that it sometimes makes me afraid. The moonlight looks
awfully solemn on the dark pines. You remember that dead
pine-tree? The wind has broken it, and there it stands in
front of the evergreen grove, with two arms spread out,
and a knot like a head with a hat on it, and a streamer of
moss hanging from it. It looks so white and strange in
the moonlight, that it seems as if Floracita's spirit were
beckoning to me.
“But I did n't mean to write about sad things. I don't
feel sad now; I was only telling you how lonely and
nervous I had been, that you might imagine how much
good it has done me to see such kind arrangements at
Magnolia Lawn. Forgive me for going there, contrary
to your orders. I did so long for a little variety! I
couldn't have dreamed you were planning such a pleasant
surprise for me. Sha' n't we be happy there, calling one
another all the old foolish pet names? Dear, good Gerald,
I shall never again have any ungrateful doubts of your love.
“Adios, luz de mes ojos. Come soon to
That evening the plash of the waves no longer seemed
like a requiem over her lost sister; the moonlight gave
poetic beauty to the pines; and even the blasted tree, with
its waving streamer of moss, seemed only another picturesque
feature in the landscape; so truly does Nature give
us back a reflection of our souls.
She waked from a refreshing sleep with a consciousness
of happiness unknown for a long time. When Tom came
to say he was going to Savannah, she commissioned him to
go to the store where her dresses were usually ordered,
and buy some fine French merino. She gave him very
minute directions, accompanied with a bird-of-paradise
pattern. “That is Gerald's favorite color,” she said to
herself. “I will embroider it with white floss-silk, and tie
it with white silk cord and tassels. The first time we
breakfast together at Magnolia Lawn I will wear it, fastened
at the throat with that pretty little knot of silver
filigree he gave me on my birthday. Then I shall look
as bridal as the home he is preparing for me.”
The embroidery of this dress furnished pleasant occupation
for many days. When it was half finished, she tried
it on before the mirror, and smiled to see how becoming
was the effect. She queried whether Gerald would like
one or two of Madame Guirlande's pale amber-colored artificial
nasturtiums in her hair. She placed them coquettishly
by the side of her head for a moment, and laid them
down, saying to herself: “No; too much dress for the
morning. He will like better the plain braids of my hair
with the curls falling over them.” As she sat, hour after
hour, embroidering the dress which was expected to
produce such a sensation, Tulee's heart was gladdened
by hearing her sing almost continually. “Bless her
times.”
But when a fortnight passed without an answer to her
letter, the showers of melody subsided. Shadows of old
doubts began to creep over the inward sunshine; though
she tried to drive them away by recalling Gerald's promise
to try to secure her safety by making a compromise with
her father's creditors. And were not the new arrangements
at Magnolia Lawn a sign that he had accomplished
his generous purpose? She was asking herself that question
for the hundredth time, as she sat looking out on the
twilight landscape, when she heard a well-known voice approaching,
singing, “C'est l'amour, l'amour, l'amour, qui
fait le monde à la ronde”; and a moment after she was
folded in Gerald's arms, and he was calling her endearing
names in a polyglot of languages, which he had learned
from her and Floracita.
“So you are not very angry with me for going there
and finding out your secret,” inquired she.
“I was angry,” he replied; “but while I was coming to
you all my anger melted away.”
“And you do love me as well as ever,” said she. “I
thought perhaps so many handsome ladies would fall in love
with you, that I should not be your Rosa munda any more.”
“I have met many handsome ladies,” responded he,
“but never one worthy to bear the train of my Rosa Regina.”
Thus the evening passed in conversation more agreeable
to them than the wittiest or the wisest would have been.
But it has been well said, “the words of lovers are like the
rich wines of the South, — they are delicious in their native
soil, but will not bear transportation.”
The next morning he announced the necessity of returning
to the North to complete some business, and said he
must, in the mean time, spend some hours at the plantation.
“And Rosa dear,” added he, “I shall really be angry with
you if you go there again unless I am with you.”
She shook her finger at him, and said, with one of her
most expressive smiles: “Ah, I see through you! You
are planning some more pleasant surprises for me. How
happy we shall be there! As for that rich uncle of yours,
if you will only let me see him, I will do my best to make
him love me, and perhaps I shall succeed.”
“It would be wonderful if you did not, you charming
enchantress,” responded he. He folded her closely, and
looked into the depths of her beautiful eyes with intensity,
not unmingled with sadness.
A moment after he was waving his hat from the shrubbery;
and so he passed away out of her sight. His sudden
reappearance, his lavish fondness, his quick departure,
and the strange earnestness of his farewell look, were remembered
like the flitting visions of a dream.
| CHAPTER X. A romance of the republic | |