 | CHAPTER XIII. A romance of the republic |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
IF Flora could have known all this, the sisters would
have soon been locked in each other's arms; but while
she supposed that Rosa still regarded Mr. Fitzgerald with
perfect love and confidence, no explanation of her flight
could be given. She did indeed need to be often reminded
by Mrs. Delano that it would be the most unkind thing
toward her sister, as well as hazardous to herself, to attempt
any communication. Notwithstanding the tenderest
care for her comfort and happiness, she could not help being
sometimes oppressed with homesickness. Her Boston
home was tasteful and elegant, but everything seemed
foreign and strange. She longed for Rosa and Tulee, and
Madame and the Signor. She missed what she called the
olla-podrida phrases to which she had always been accustomed;
and in her desire to behave with propriety, there
was an unwonted sense of constraint. When callers came,
she felt like a colt making its first acquaintance with harness.
She endeavored to conceal such feelings from her
kind benefactress; but sometimes, if she was surprised in
tears, she would say apologetically, “I love you dearly,
Mamita Lila; but it is dreadful to be so far away from
anybody that ever knew anything about the old times.”
“But you forget that I do know something about them,
darling,” replied Mrs. Delano. “I am never so happy as
when you are telling me about your father. Perhaps by
and by, when you have become enough used to your new
home to feel as mischievous as you are prone to be, you
so sweet in life as love's old dream.' ”
It was beautiful to see how girlish the sensible and serious
lady became in her efforts to be companionable to her
young protégée. Day after day, her intimate friends found
her playing battledoor or the Graces, or practising pretty
French romanzas, flowery rondeaux, or lively dances. She
was surprised at herself; for she had not supposed it possible
for her ever to take an interest in such things after her
daughter died. But, like all going out of self, these efforts
brought their recompense.
She always introduced the little stranger as “Miss Flora
Delano, my adopted daughter.” To those who were curious
to inquire further, she said: “She is an orphan, in
whom I became much interested in the West Indies. As
we were both very much alone in the world, I thought the
wisest thing we could do would be to cheer each other's
loneliness.” No allusion was ever made to her former
name, for that might have led to inconvenient questions
concerning her father's marriage; and, moreover, the lady
had no wish to resuscitate the little piece of romance in
her own private history, now remembered by few.
It was contrary to Mrs. Delano's usual caution and deliberation
to adopt a stranger so hastily; and had she been
questioned beforehand, she would have pronounced it impossible
for her to enter into such a relation with one allied
to the colored race, and herself a slave. But a strange
combination of circumstances had all at once placed her in
this most unexpected position. She never for one moment
regretted the step she had taken; but the consciousness of
having a secret to conceal, especially a secret at war with
the conventional rules of society, was distasteful to her, and
the genuineness of Rosa's marriage, though she deemed it
best not to impart such doubts to Flora. If Mr. Fitzgerald
should marry another, she foresaw that it would be her
duty to assist in the reunion of the sisters, both of whom
were slaves. She often thought to herself, “In what a
singular complication I have become involved! So strange
for me, who have such an aversion to all sorts of intrigues
and mysteries.” With these reflections were mingled anxieties
concerning Flora's future. Of course, it would not
be well for her to be deprived of youthful companionship;
and if she mixed with society, her handsome person, her
musical talent, and her graceful dancing would be sure to
attract admirers. And then, would it be right to conceal
her antecedents? And if they should be explained or accidentally
discovered, after her young affections were engaged,
what disappointment and sadness might follow!
But Flora's future was in a fair way to take care of
itself. One day she came flying into the parlor with her
face all aglow. “O Mamita Lila,” exclaimed she, “I
have had such a pleasant surprise! I went to Mr. Goldwin's
store to do your errand, and who should I find there
but Florimond Blumenthal!”
“And, pray, who is Florimond Blumenthal?” inquired
Mrs. Delano.
“O, have n't I told you? I thought I had told you all
about everybody and everything. He was a poor orphan,
that papa took for an errand-boy. He sent him to school,
and afterward he was his clerk. He came to our house
often when I was a little girl; but after he grew tall, papa
used to send an old negro man to do our errands. So I
did n't see him any more till cher papa died. He was very
baskets I told you of. Is n't it funny? They drove
him away from New Orleans because they said he was an
Abolitionist, and that he helped us to escape, when he
did n't know anything at all about it. He said he heard
we had gone to the North. And he went looking all round
in New York, and then he came to Boston, hoping to see
us or hear from us some day; but he had about done expecting
it when I walked into the store. You never saw
anybody so red as he was, when he held out his hand and
said, in such a surprised way, `Miss Royal, is it you?'
Just out of mischief, I told him very demurely that my
name was Delano. Then he became very formal all at
once, and said, `Does this silk suit you, Mrs. Delano?'
That made me laugh, and blush too. I told him I was n't
married, but a kind lady in Summer Street had adopted
me and given me her name. Some other customers came
up to the counter, and so I had to come away.”
“Did you ask him not to mention your former name?”
inquired Mrs. Delano.
“No, I had n't time to think of that,” replied Flora;
“but I will ask him.”
“Don't go to the store on purpose to see him, dear.
Young ladies should be careful about such things,” suggested
her maternal friend.
Two hours afterward, as they returned from a carriage-drive,
Flora had just drawn off her gloves, when she began
to rap on the window, and instantly darted into the street.
Mrs. Delano, looking out, saw her on the opposite sidewalk,
in earnest conversation with a young gentleman.
When she returned, she said to her: “You should n't rap
on the windows to young gentlemen, my child. It has n't
a good appearance.”
“I did n't rap to young gentlemen,” replied Flora. “It
was only Florimond. I wanted to tell him not to mention
my name. He asked me about my sister, and I told him
she was alive and well, and I could n't tell him any more
at present. Florimond won't mention anything I request
him not to, — I know he won't.”
Mrs. Delano smiled to herself at Flora's quick, off-hand
way of doing things. “But after all,” thought she, “it is
perhaps better settled so, than it would have been with
more ceremony.” Then speaking aloud, she said, “Your
friend has a very blooming name.”
“His name was Franz,” rejoined Flora; “but Mamita
called him Florimond, because he had such pink cheeks;
and he liked Mamita so much, that he always writes his
name Franz Florimond. We always had so many flowery
names mixed up with our olla-podrida talk. Your name
is flowery too. I used to say Mamita would have called
you Lady Viola; but violet colors and lilac colors are
cousins, and they both suit your complexion and your
name, Mamita Lila.”
After dinner, she began to play and sing with more
gayety than she had manifested for many a day. While
her friend played, she practised several new dances with
great spirit; and after she had kissed good-night, she went
twirling through the door, as if music were handing her
out.
Mrs. Delano sat awhile in revery. She was thinking
what a splendid marriage her adopted daughter might
make, if it were not for that stain upon her birth. She
was checked by the thought: “How I have fallen into the
world's ways, which seemed to me so mean and heartless
when I was young! Was I happy in the splendid marriage
I judge her father felt painfully the anomalous
position of his handsome daughters. Alas! if I had not
been so weak as to give him up, all this miserable entanglement
might have been prevented. So one wrong produces
another wrong; and thus frightfully may we affect
the destiny of others, while blindly following the lead of
selfishness. But the past, with all its weaknesses and sins,
has gone beyond recall; and I must try to write a better
record on the present.”
As she passed to her sleeping-room, she softly entered
the adjoining chamber, and, shading the lamp with her
hand, she stood for a moment looking at Flora. Though
it was but a few minutes since she was darting round like
a humming-bird, she was now sleeping as sweetly as a
babe. She made an extremely pretty picture in her slumber,
with the long dark eyelashes resting on her youthful
cheek, and a shower of dark curls falling over her arm.
“No wonder Alfred loved her so dearly,” thought she.
“If his spirit can see us, he must bless me for saving his
innocent child.” Filled with this solemn and tender
thought, she knelt by the bedside, and prayed for blessing
and guidance in the task she had undertaken.
The unexpected finding of a link connected with old
times had a salutary effect on Flora's spirits. In the
morning, she said that she had had pleasant dreams about
Rosabella and Tulee, and that she did n't mean to be homesick
any more. “It's very ungrateful,” added she, “when
my dear, good Mamita Lila does so much to make me
happy.”
“To help you keep your good resolution, I propose that
we go to the Athenæum,” said Mrs. Delano, smiling.
Flora had never been in a gallery of paintings, and she
was as much pleased as a little child with a new picture-book.
Her enthusiasm attracted attention, and visitors
smiled to see her clap her hands, and to hear her little
shouts of pleasure or of fun. Ladies said to each other,
“It's plain that this lively little adoptée of Mrs. Delano's
has never been much in good society.” And gentlemen
answered, “It is equally obvious that she has never kept
vulgar company.”
Mrs. Delano's nice ideas of conventional propriety were
a little disturbed, and she was slightly annoyed by the attention
they attracted. But she said to herself, “If I am
always checking the child, I shall spoil the naturalness
which makes her so charming.” So she quietly went on
explaining the pictures, and giving an account of the
artists.
The next day it rained; and Mrs. Delano read aloud
“The Lady of the Lake,” stopping now and then to explain
its connection with Scottish history, or to tell what
scenes Rossini had introduced in La Donna del Lago,
which she had heard performed in Paris. The scenes of
the opera were eagerly imbibed, but the historical lessons
rolled off her memory, like water from a duck's back. It
continued to rain and drizzle for three days; and Flora,
who was very atmospheric, began to yield to the dismal
influence of the weather. Her watchful friend noticed the
shadow of homesickness coming over the sunlight of her
eyes, and proposed that they should go to a concert. Flora
objected, saying that music would make her think so much
of Rosabella, she was afraid she should cry in public.
But when the programme was produced, she saw nothing
associated with her sister, and said, “I will go if you wish
She felt very indifferent about going; but when Mr. Wood
came forward, singing, “The sea, the sea, the open sea!”
in tones so strong and full that they seemed the voice of
the sea itself, she was half beside herself with delight. She
kept time with her head and hands, with a degree of animation
that made the people round her smile. She, quite
unconscious of observation, swayed to the music, and ever
and anon nodded her approbation to a fair-faced young
gentleman, who seemed to be enjoying the concert very
highly, though not to such a degree as to be oblivious of
the audience.
Mrs. Delano was partly amused and partly annoyed.
She took Flora's hand, and by a gentle pressure, now and
then, sought to remind her that they were in public; but
she understood it as an indication of musical sympathy,
and went on all the same.
When they entered the carriage to return home, she
drew a long breath, and exclaimed, “O Mamita, how I
have enjoyed the concert!”
“I am very glad of it,” replied her friend. “I suppose
that was Mr. Blumenthal to whom you nodded several
times, and who followed you to the carriage. But, my
dear, it is n't the custom for young ladies to keep nodding
to young gentlemen in public places.”
“Is n't it? I did n't think anything about it,” rejoined
Flora. “But Florimond is n't a gentleman. He's an old
acquaintance. Don't you find it very tiresome, Mamita, to
be always remembering what is the custom? I'm sure I
shall never learn.”
When she went singing up stairs that night, Mrs. Delano
smiled to herself as she said, “What am I to do with this
in all my serious pursuits and quiet ways! But there is
something singularly refreshing about the artless little
darling.”
Warm weather was coming, and Mrs. Delano began to
make arrangements for passing the summer at Newport;
but her plans were suddenly changed. One morning Flora
wished to purchase some colored crayons to finish a drawing
she had begun. As she was going out, her friend said
to her, “The sun shines so brightly, you had better wear
your veil.”
“O, I've been muffled up so much, I do detest veils,”
replied Flora, half laughingly and half impatiently. “I
like to have a whole world full of air to breathe in. But
if you wish it, Mamita Lila, I will wear it.”
It seemed scarcely ten minutes after, when the door-bell
was rung with energy, and Flora came in nervously agitated.
“O Mamita!” exclaimed she, “I am so glad you advised
me to wear a veil. I met Mr. Fitzgerald in this very
street. I don't think he saw me, for my veil was close,
and as soon as I saw him coming I held my head down.
He can't take me here in Boston, and carry me off, can he?”
“He shall not carry you off, darling; but you must not
go in the street, except in the carriage with me. We will
sit up stairs, a little away from the windows; and if I read
aloud, you won't forget yourself and sing at your embroidery
or drawing, as you are apt to do. It's not likely he will
remain in the city many days, and I will try to ascertain
his movements.”
Before they had settled to their occupations, a ring at
the door made Flora start, and quickened the pulses of her
less excitable friend. It proved to be only a box of flowers
presence of an undefined danger, the nature and extent of
which she did not understand, opened her writing-desk and
wrote the following note:—
“Dear Sir, — If you can spare an hour this evening to
talk with me on a subject of importance, you will greatly
oblige yours,
A servant was sent with the note, and directed to admit
no gentleman during the day or evening, without first
bringing up his name.
While they were lingering at the tea-table, the door-bell
rang, and Flora, with a look of alarm, started to run up
stairs. “Wait a moment, till the name is brought in,”
said her friend. “If I admit the visitor, I should like to
have you follow me to the parlor, and remain there ten or
fifteen minutes. You can then go to your room, and when
you are there, dear, be careful not to sing loud. Mr. Fitzgerald
shall not take you from me; but if he were to find
out you were here, it might give rise to talk that would be
unpleasant.”
The servant announced Mr. Willard Percival; and a
few moments afterward Mrs. Delano introduced her protégée.
Mr. Percival was too well bred to stare, but the
handsome, foreign-looking little damsel evidently surprised
him. He congratulated them both upon the relation between
them, and said he need not wish the young lady
happiness in her new home, for he believed Mrs. Delano
always created an atmosphere of happiness around her.
the room. When she had gone, Mr. Percival remarked,
“That is a very fascinating young person.”
“I thought she would strike you agreeably,” replied
Mrs. Delano. “Her beauty and gracefulness attracted me
the first time I saw her; and afterward I was still more
taken by her extremely naïve manner. She has been
brought up in seclusion as complete as Miranda's on the
enchanted island; and there is no resisting the charm of
her impulsive naturalness. But, if you please, I will now
explain the note I sent to you this morning. I heard some
months ago that you had joined the Anti-Slavery Society.”
“And did you send for me hoping to convert me from the
error of my ways?” inquired he, smiling.
“On the contrary, I sent for you to consult concerning a
slave in whom I am interested.”
“You, Mrs. Delano!” he exclaimed, in a tone of great
surprise.
“You may well think it strange,” she replied, “knowing,
as you do, how bitterly both my father and my husband
were opposed to the anti-slavery agitation, and how entirely
apart my own life has been from anything of that sort.
But while I was at the South this winter, I heard of a case
which greatly interested my feelings. A wealthy American
merchant in New Orleans became strongly attached to a
beautiful quadroon, who was both the daughter and the
slave of a Spanish planter. Her father became involved
in some pecuniary trouble, and sold his daughter to the
American merchant, knowing that they were mutually attached.
Her bondage was merely nominal, for the tie of
affection remained constant between them as long as she
lived; and he would have married her if such marriages
carelessness, he neglected to manumit her. She left two
handsome and accomplished daughters, who always supposed
their mother to be a Spanish lady, and the wedded
wife of their father. But he died insolvent, and, to their
great dismay, they found themselves claimed as slaves under
the Southern law, that `the child follows the condition
of the mother.' A Southern gentleman, who was in love
with the eldest, married her privately, and smuggled them
both away to Nassau. After a while he went there to meet
them, having previously succeeded in buying them of the
creditors. But his conduct toward the younger was so
base, that she absconded. The question I wish to ask of
you is, whether, if he should find her in the Free States,
he could claim her as his slave, and have his claim allowed
by law.”
“Not if he sent them to Nassau,” replied Mr. Percival.
“British soil has the enviable distinction of making free
whosoever touches it.”
“But he afterward brought them back to an island
between Georgia and South Carolina,” said Mrs. Delano.
“The eldest proved a most loving and faithful wife, and to
this day has no suspicion of his designs with regard to her
sister.”
“If he married her before he went to Nassau, the ceremony
is not binding,” rejoined Mr. Percival; “for no marriage
with a slave is legal in the Southern States.”
“I was ignorant of that law,” said Mrs. Delano, “being
very little informed on the subject of slavery. But I suspected
trickery of some sort in the transaction, because he
proved himself so unprincipled with regard to the sister.”
“And where is the sister?” inquired Mr. Percival.
“I trust to your honor as a gentleman to keep the secret
from every mortal,” answered Mrs. Delano. “You have
seen her this evening.”
“Is it possible,” he exclaimed, “that you mean to say
she is your adopted daughter?”
“I did mean to say that,” she replied. “I have placed
great confidence in you; for you can easily imagine it
would be extremely disagreeable to me, as well as to her,
to become objects of public notoriety.”
“Your confidence is a sacred deposit,” answered he.
“I have long been aware that the most romantic stories in
the country have grown out of the institution of slavery;
but this seems stranger than fiction. With all my knowledge
of the subject, I find it hard to realize that such a
young lady as that has been in danger of being sold on the
auction-block in this republic. It makes one desirous to
conceal that he is an American.”
“My principal reason for wishing to consult you,” said
Mrs. Delano, “is, that Mr. Fitzgerald, the purchaser of
these girls, is now in the city, and Flora met him this
morning. Luckily, she was closely veiled, and he did not
recognize her. I think it is impossible he can have obtained
any clew to my connivance at her escape, and yet I
feel a little uneasy. I am so ignorant of the laws on this
subject, that I don't know what he has the power to do if he
discovers her. Can he claim her here in Boston?”
“He could claim her and bring her before the United
States Court,” replied Mr. Percival; “but I doubt whether
he would do it. To claim such a girl as that for a slave,
would excite general sympathy and indignation, and put
too much ammunition into the hands of us Abolitionists.
Besides, no court in the Free States could help deciding
should discover her whereabouts, I shouldn't wonder if
attempts were made to kidnap her; for men of his character
are very unscrupulous, and there are plenty of caitiffs
in Boston ready to do any bidding of their Southern masters.
If she were conveyed to the South, though the courts
ought to decide she was free, it is doubtful whether they
would do it; for, like Achilles, they scorn the idea that
laws were made for such as they.”
“If I were certain that Mr. Fitzgerald knew of her being
here, or that he even suspected it,” said Mrs. Delano,
“I would at once take measures to settle the question by
private purchase; but the presumption is that he and the
sister suppose Flora to be dead, and her escape cannot be
made known without betraying the cause of it. Flora has
a great dread of disturbing her sister's happiness, and she
thinks that, now she is away, all will go well. Another difficulty
is, that, while the unfortunate lady believes herself
to be his lawful wife, she is really his slave, and if she
should offend him in any way he could sell her. It troubles
me that I cannot discover any mode of ascertaining whether
he deserts her or not. He keeps her hidden in the woods
in that lonely island, where her existence is unknown, except
to a few of his negro slaves. The only white friends
she seems to have in the world are her music teacher and
French teacher in New Orleans. Mr. Fitzgerald has impressed
it upon their minds that the creditors of her father
will prosecute him, and challenge him, if they discover that
he first conveyed the girls away and then bought them at
reduced prices. Therefore, if I should send an agent to
New Orleans at any time to obtain tidings of the sister,
those cautious friends would doubtless consider it a trap of
the creditors, and would be very secretive.”
“It is a tangled skein to unravel,” rejoined Mr. Pereival.
“I do not see how anything can be done for the sister,
under present circumstances.”
“I feel undecided what course to pursue with regard to
my adopted daughter,” said Mrs. Delano. “Entire seclusion
is neither cheerful nor salutary at her age. But her
person and manners attract attention and excite curiosity.
I am extremely desirous to keep her history secret, but I
already find it difficult to answer questions without resorting
to falsehood, which is a practice exceedingly abhorrent
to me, and a very bad education for her. After this meeting
with Mr. Fitzgerald, I cannot take her to any public
place without a constant feeling of uneasiness. The fact is,
I am so unused to intrigues and mysteries, and I find it so
hard to realize that a young girl like her can be in such a
position, that I am bewildered, and need time to settle my
thoughts upon a rational basis.”
“Such a responsibility is so new to you, so entirely foreign
to your habits, that it must necessarily be perplexing,”
replied her visitor. “I would advise you to go abroad for
a while. Mrs. Pereival and I intend to sail for Europe
soon, and if you will join us we shall consider ourselves
fortunate.”
“I accept the offer thankfully,” said the lady. “It will
help me out of a present difficulty in the very way I was
wishing for.”
When the arrangement was explained to Flora, with a
caution not to go in the streets, or show herself at the windows
meanwhile, she made no objection. But she showed
her dimples with a broad smile, as she said, “It is written
in the book of fate, Mamita Lila, `Always hiding or running
away.' ”
| CHAPTER XIII. A romance of the republic | |