University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

IN less than three weeks after that tender parting, an elegant
barouche stopped in front of Magnolia Lawn, and
Mr. Fitzgerald assisted a very pretty blonde young lady to
alight from it. As she entered the parlor, wavering gleams
of sunset lighted up the pearl-colored paper, softened by
lace-shadows from the windows. The lady glanced round
the apartment with a happy smile, and, turning to the window,
said: “What a beautiful lawn! What superb trees!”

“Does it equal your expectations, dear?” he asked.
“You had formed such romantic ideas of the place, I
feared you might be disappointed.”

“I suppose that was the reason you tried to persuade
me to spend our honeymoon in Savannah,” rejoined she.
“But we should be so bored with visitors. Here, it seems
like the Garden of Eden, when Adam and Eve had it all
to themselves, before the serpent went there to make mischief.
I had heard father and mother tell so much about
Magnolia Lawn that I was eager to see it.”

“They visited it in spring, when it really does look like
Paradise,” replied he. “It has its beauties now; but this
is not the favorable season for seeing it; and after we have
been here a few days, I think we had better return to Savannah,
and come again when the lawn is carpeted with
flowers.”

“I see your mind is bent upon not staying here,” answered
she; “and I suppose it would be rather tiresome
to have no other company than your stupid little Lily Bell.”

She spoke with a pouting affectation of reproach, and he
exclaimed, “Lily, darling!” as he passed his arm round her
slender waist, and, putting aside a shower of pale yellowish
ringlets, gazed fondly into the blue eyes that were upturned
to his.

They were interrupted by the entrance of Venus, who
came to ask their orders. “Tell them to serve supper at
seven, and then come and show your mistress to her dressing-room,”
he said. As she retired, he added: “Now she'll
have something to tell of. She'll be proud enough of being
the first to get a full sight of the new Missis; and it is
a sight worth talking about.”

With a gratified smile, she glanced at the pier-glass
which reflected her graceful little figure, and, taking his
arm, she walked slowly round the room, praising the tasteful
arrangements. “Everything has such a bridal look!”
she said.

“Of course,” replied he; “when I have such a fair Lily
Bell for a bride, I wish to have her bower pearly and lily-like.
But here is Venus come to show you to your dressing-room.
I hope you will like the arrangements up stairs
also.”

She kissed her hand to him as she left the room, and he
returned the salute. When she had gone, he paced slowly
up and down for a few moments. As he passed the piano,
he touched the keys in a rambling way. The tones he
brought out were a few notes of an air he and Rosabella
had sung in that same room a few months before. He
turned abruptly from the instrument, and looked out from
the window in the direction of the lonely cottage. Nothing
was visible but trees and a line of the ocean beyond. But
the chambers of his soul were filled with visions of Rosa.

He thought of the delightful day they had spent together,
looking upon these same scenes; of their songs and caresses
in the bower; of her letter, so full of love and glad surprise
at the bridal arrangements she supposed he had made for
her. “I really hope Lily wont insist upon staying here
long,” thought he; “for it is rather an embarrassing position
for me.”

He seated himself at the piano and swept his hand up
and down the keys, as if trying to drown his thoughts in a
tempest of sound. But, do what he would, the thoughts
spoke loudest; and after a while he leaned his head forward
on the piano, lost in revery.

A soft little hand touched his head, and a feminine voice
inquired, “What are you thinking of, Gerald?”

“Of you, my pearl,” he replied, rising hastily, and stooping
to imprint a kiss on the forehead of his bride.

“And pray what were you thinking about me?” she
asked.

“That you are the greatest beauty in the world, and that
I love you better than man ever loved woman,” rejoined he.
And so the game of courtship went on, till it was interrupted
by a summons to supper.

When they returned some time later, the curtains were
drawn and candles lighted. “You have not yet tried the
piano,” said he, as he placed the music-stool.

She seated herself, and, after running up and down the
keys, and saying she liked the tone of the instrument, she
began to play and sing “Robin Adair.” She had a sweet,
thin voice, and her style of playing indicated rather one
who had learned music, than one whose soul lived in its
element. Fitzgerald thought of the last singing he had
heard at that piano; and without asking for another song,

he began to sing to her accompaniment, “Drink to me only
with thine eyes.” He had scarcely finished the line, “Leave
a kiss within the cup, and I'll not ask for wine,” when clear,
liquid tones rose on the air, apparently from the veranda;
and the words they carried on their wings were these:—

The bride listened intensely, her fingers resting lightly
on the keys, and when the sounds died away she started
up, exclaiming, “What a voice! I never heard anything
like it.”

She moved eagerly toward the veranda, but was suddenly
arrested by her husband. “No, no, darling,” said
he. “You mustn't expose yourself to the night air.”

“Then do go out yourself and bring her in,” urged she.
“I must hear more of that voice. Who is she?”

“One of the darkies, I suppose,” rejoined he. “You
know they all have musical gifts.”

“Not such gifts as that, I imagine,” she replied. “Do
go out and bring her in.”

She was about to draw the curtain aside to look out,
when he nervously called her attention to another window.
“See here!” he exclaimed. “My people are gathering to
welcome their new missis. In answer to Tom's request,
I told him I would introduce you to them to-night. But
you are tired, and I am afraid you will take cold in the

evening air; so we will postpone the ceremony until to-morrow.”

“O, no,” she replied, “I would prefer to go now. How
their black faces will shine when they see the glass beads
and gay handkerchiefs I have brought for them! Besides,
I want to find out who that singer is. It's strange you
don't take more interest in such a voice as that, when you
are so full of music. Will you have the goodness to ring
for my shawl?”

With a decision almost peremptory in its tone, he said,
“No; I had rather you would not go out.” Seeing that
his manner excited some surprise, he patted her head and
added: “Mind your husband now, that's a good child.
Amuse yourself at the piano while I go out.”

She pouted a little, but finished by saying coaxingly,
“Come back soon, dear.” She attempted to follow him
far enough to look out on the veranda, but he gently put
her back, and, kissing his hand to her, departed. She
raised a corner of the curtain and peeped out to catch the
last glimpse of his figure. The moon was rising, and she
could see that he walked slowly, peering into spots of dense
shadow or thickets of shrubbery, as if looking for some
one. But all was motionless and still, save the sound of a
banjo from the group of servants. “How I wish I could
hear that voice again!” she thought to herself. “It's very
singular Gerald should appear so indifferent to it. What
can be the meaning of it?”

She pondered for a few minutes, and then she tried to
play; but not finding it entertaining without an auditor, she
soon rose, and, drawing aside one of the curtains, looked
out upon the lovely night. The grand old trees cast broad
shadows on the lawn, and the shrubbery of the garden

gleamed in the soft moonlight. She felt solitary without
any one to speak to, and, being accustomed to have her
whims gratified, she was rather impatient under the prohibition
laid upon her. She rung the bell and requested
Venus to bring her shawl. The obsequious dressing-maid
laid it lightly on her shoulders, and holding out a white
nubia of zephyr worsted, she said, “P'r'aps missis would
like to war dis ere.” She stood watching while her mistress
twined the gossamer fabric round her head with careless
grace. She opened the door for her to pass out on the
veranda, and as she looked after her she muttered to herself,
“She's a pooty missis; but not such a gran' hansom
lady as turrer.” A laugh shone through her dark face as
she added, “'T would be curus ef she should fine turrer
missis out dar.” As she passed through the parlor she
glanced at the large mirror, which dimly reflected her
dusky charms, and said with a smile: “Massa knows
what's hansome. He's good judge ob we far sex.”

The remark was inaudible to the bride, who walked up
and down the veranda, ever and anon glancing at the garden
walks, to see if Gerald were in sight. She had a little
plan of hiding among the vines when she saw him coming,
and peeping out suddenly as he approached. She thought
to herself she should look so pretty in the moonlight, that
he would forget to chide her. And certainly she was a
pleasant vision. Her fairy figure, enveloped in soft white
folds of muslin, her delicate complexion shaded by curls so
fair that they seemed a portion of the fleecy nubia, were so
perfectly in unison with the mild radiance of the evening,
that she seemed like an embodied portion of the moonlight.
Gerald absented himself so long that her little plan of surprising
him had time to cool. She paused more frequently

in her promenade, and looked longer at the distant sparkle
of the sea. Turning to resume her walk, after one of these
brief moments of contemplation, she happened to glance at
the lattice-work of the veranda, and through one of its
openings saw a large, dark eye watching her. She started
to run into the house, but upon second thought she called
out, “Gerald, you rogue, why did n't you speak to let me
know you were there?” She darted toward the lattice,
but the eye disappeared. She tried to follow, but saw only
a tall shadow gliding away behind the corner of the house.
She pursued, but found only a tremulous reflection of vines
in the moonlight. She kept on round the house, and into
the garden, frequently calling out, “Gerald! Gerald!”
“Hark! hark!” she murmured to herself, as some far-off
tones of “Toll the bell” floated through the air. The
ghostly moonlight, the strange, lonely place, and the sad,
mysterious sounds made her a little afraid. In a more
agitated tone, she called Gerald again. In obedience to
her summons, she saw him coming toward her in the garden
walk. Forgetful of her momentary fear, she sprang
toward him, exclaiming: “Are you a wizard? How did
you get there, when two minutes ago you were peeping at
me through the veranda lattice?”

“I have n't been there,” he replied; “but why are you
out here, Lily, when I particularly requested you to stay
in the house till I came?”

“O, you were so long coming, that I grew tired of being
alone. The moonlight looked so inviting that I went out
on the veranda to watch for you; and when I saw you
looking at me through the lattice, I ran after you, and
could n't find you.”

`I have n't been near the lattice,” he replied. “If you

saw somebody looking at you, I presume it was one of the
servants peeping at the new missis.”

“None of your tricks!” rejoined she, snapping her fingers
at him playfully. “It was your eye that I saw. If it
were n't for making you vain, I would ask you whether
your handsome eyes could be mistaken for the eyes of one
of your negroes. But I want you to go with me to that
bower down there.”

“Not to-night, dearest,” said he. “I will go with you
to-morrow.”

“Now is just the time,” persisted she. “Bowers never
look so pretty as by moonlight. I don't think you are very
gallant to your bride to refuse her such a little favor.”

Thus urged, he yielded, though reluctantly, to her whim.
As she entered the bower, and turned to speak to him, the
moonlight fell full upon her figure. “What a pretty little
witch you are!” he exclaimed. “My Lily Bell, my precious
pearl, my sylph! You look like a spirit just floated
down from the moon.”

“All moonshine!” replied she, with a smile.

He kissed the saucy lips, and the vines which had witnessed
other caresses in that same bower, a few months
earlier, whispered to each other, but told no tales. She
leaned her head upon his bosom, and looking out upon the
winding walks of the garden, so fair and peaceful in sheen
and shadow, she said that her new home was more beautiful
than she had dreamed. “Hark!” said she, raising
her head suddenly, and listening. “I thought I heard a
sigh.”

“It was only the wind among the vines,” he replied.
“Wandering about in the moonlight has made you nervous.”

“I believe I was a little afraid before you came,” said
she. “That eye looking at me through the lattice gave
me a start; and while I was running after your shadow, I
heard that voice again singing, `Toll the bell.' I wonder
how you can be so indifferent about such a remarkable
voice, when you are such a lover of music.”

“I presume, as I told you before, that it was one of the
darkies,” rejoined he. “I will inquire about it to-morrow.”

“I should sooner believe it to be the voice of an angel
from heaven, than a darky,” responded the bride. “I
wish I could hear it again before I sleep.”

In immediate response to her wish, the full rich voice
she had invoked began to sing an air from “Norma,” beginning,
“O, how his art deceived thee!”

Fitzgerald started so suddenly, he overturned a seat near
them. “Hush!” she whispered, clinging to his arm. Thus
they stood in silence, she listening with rapt attention, he
embarrassed and angry almost beyond endurance. The
enchanting sounds were obviously receding.

“Let us follow her, and settle the question who she is,”
said Lily, trying to pull him forward. But he held her
back strongly.

“No more running about to-night,” he answered almost
sternly. Then, immediately checking himself, he added, in
a gentler tone: “It is imprudent in you to be out so long
in the evening air; and I am really very tired, dear Lily.
To-morrow I will try to ascertain which of the servants
has been following you round in this strange way.”

“Do you suppose any servant could sing that?” she
exclaimed.

“They are nearly all musical, and wonderfully imitative,”
answered he. “They can catch almost anything

they hear.” He spoke in a nonchalant tone, but she felt
his arm tremble as she leaned upon it. He had never before
made such an effort to repress rage.

In tones of tender anxiety, she said: “I am afraid
you are very tired, dear. I am sorry I kept you out
so long.”

“I am rather weary,” he replied, taking her hand, and
holding it in his. He was so silent as they walked toward
the house, that she feared he was seriously offended with
her.

As they entered the parlor she said, “I did n't think
you cared about my not going out, Gerald, except on account
of my taking cold; and with my shawl and nubia I
don't think there was the least danger of that. It was such
a beautiful night, I wanted to go out to meet you, dear.”

He kissed her mechanically, and replied, “I am not
offended, darling.”

“Then, if the blue devils possess you, we will try Saul's
method of driving them away,” said she. She seated herself
at the piano, and asked him whether he would accompany
her with voice or flute. He tried the flute, but
played with such uncertainty, that she looked at him with
surprise. Music was the worst remedy she could have
tried to quiet the disturbance in his soul; for its voice
evoked ghosts of the past.

“I am really tired, Lily,” said he; and, affecting a drowsiness
he did not feel, he proposed retiring for the night.

The chamber was beautiful with the moon shining through
its rose-tinted drapery, and the murmur of the ocean was a
soothing lullaby. But it was long before either of them
slept; and when they slumbered, the same voice went
singing through their dreams. He was in the flowery parlor

at New Orleans, listening to “The Light of other Days”;
and she was following a veiled shadow through a strange
garden, hearing the intermingled tones of “Norma” and
“Toll the bell.”

It was late in the morning when she awoke. Gerald
was gone, but a bouquet of fragrant flowers lay on the pillow
beside her. Her dressing-gown was on a chair by the
beside, and Venus sat at the window sewing.

“Where is Mr. Fitzgerald?” she inquired.

“He said he war gwine to turrer plantation on business.
He leff dem flower dar, an' tole me to say he 'd come back
soon.”

The fair hair was neatly arranged by the black hands that
contrasted so strongly with it. The genteel little figure
was enveloped in a morning-dress of delicate blue and
white French cambric, and the little feet were ensconced
in slippers of azure velvet embroidered with silver. The
dainty breakfast, served on French porcelain, was slowly
eaten, and still Gerald returned not. She removed to the
chamber window, and, leaning her cheek on her hand, looked
out upon the sun-sparkle of the ocean. Her morning
thought was the same with which she had passed into slumber
the previous night. How strange it was that Gerald
would take no notice of that enchanting voice! The incident
that seemed to her a charming novelty had, she knew
not why, cast a shadow over the first evening in their
bridal home.