University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

ROSA came out of her swoon in a slow fever accompanied
with delirium. Tulee was afraid to leave her
long enough to go to the plantation in search of Tom; and
having no medicines at hand, she did the best thing that
could have been done. She continually moistened the
parched tongue with water, and wiped the hot skin with
wet cloths. While she was doing this, tears fell on her
dear young mistress, lying there so broken and helpless,
talking incoherently about her father and Floracita, about
being a slave and being sold. This continued eight or ten
days, during which she never seemed to recognize Tulee's
presence, or to be conscious where she was. She was
never wild or troublesome, but there were frequent
restless motions, and signs of being afraid of something.
Then such a heavy drowsiness came over her, that it was
difficult to arouse her sufficiently to swallow a spoonful
of nourishment. She slept, and slept, till it seemed as if
she would sleep forever. “Nature, dear goddess,” was doing
the best she could for the poor weak body, that had
been so racked by the torture of the soul.

Three weeks passed before Mr. Fitzgerald again made
his appearance at the lonely cottage. He had often thought
of Rosa meanwhile, not without uneasiness and some twinges
of self-reproach. But considering the unlucky beginning
of his honeymoon at Magnolia Lawn, he deemed it
prudent to be very assiduous in his attentions to his bride.
He took no walks or drives without her, and she seemed

satisfied with his entire devotion; but a veiled singing
shadow haunted the chambers of her soul. When she and
her husband were occupied with music, she half expected
the pauses would be interrupted by another voice; nor was
he free from fears that those wandering sounds would come
again. But annoyed as he would have been by the rich
tones of that voice once so dear to him, his self-love was
piqued that Rosa took no steps to recall him. He had
such faith in his power over her, that he had been daily
hoping for a conciliatory note. Tom had been as attentive
to the invalid as his enslaved condition would admit; but
as Tulee said very decidedly that she didn't want Massa
Fitzgerald to show his face there, he did not volunteer any
information. At last, his master said to him one day,
“You've been to the cottage, I suppose, Tom?”

“Yes, Massa.”

“How are they getting on there?”

“Missy Rosy hab bin bery sick, but she done better
now.”

“Why didn't you tell me, you black rascal?”

“Massa hab neber ax me,” replied Tom.

Mr. Fitzgerald found some food for vanity in this news.
He presumed the illness was caused by love for him, which
Rosa found herself unable to conquer. This idea was very
pleasant to him; for it was not easy to relinquish the beautiful
young creature who had loved him so exclusively.
Making a pretext of business, he mounted his horse and
rode off; throwing a farewell kiss to his bride as he went.
For greater security, he travelled a few moments in another
direction, and then sought the sequestered cottage by a circuitous
route. Tulee was vexed at heart when she heard
him, as he came through the woods, humming, “C'est

l'amour, l'amour”; and when he entered the cottage, she
wished she was a white man, that she could strike him.
But when he said, “Tulee, how is your mistress?” she
civilly answered, “Better, Massa.”

He passed softly into Rosa's room. She was lying on
the bed, in a loose white robe, over which fell the long
braids of her dark hair. The warm coloring had entirely
faded from her cheeks, leaving only that faintest reflection
of gold which she inherited from her mother; and the thinness
and pallor of her face made her large eyes seem larger
and darker. They were open, but strangely veiled; as if
shadows were resting on the soul, like fogs upon a landscape.
When Gerald bent over her, she did not see him,
though she seemed to be looking at him. He called her
by the tenderest names; he cried out in agony, “O Rosa,
speak to me, darling!” She did not hear him. He had
never before been so deeply moved. He groaned aloud,
and, covering his face with his hands, he wept.

When Tulee, hearing the sound, crept in to see whether
all was well with her mistress, she found him in that posture.
She went out silently, but when she was beyond
hearing she muttered to herself, “Ise glad he's got any
human feelin'.”

After the lapse of a few moments, he came to her, saying,
“O Tulee, do you think she's going to die? Couldn't
a doctor save her?”

“No, Massa, I don't believe she's going to die,” replied
Tulee; “but she'll be very weak for a great while. I
don't think all the doctors in the world could do poor Missy
Rosy any good. It's her soul that's sick, Massa; and
nobody but the Great Doctor above can cure that.”

Her words cut him like a knife; but, without any attempt

to excuse the wrong he had done, he said: “I am
going to Savannah for the winter. I will leave Tom and
Chloe at the plantation, with instructions to do whatever
you want done. If I am needed, you can send Tom for
me.”

The melancholy wreck he had seen saddened him for a
day or two; those eyes, with their mysterious expression
of somnambulism, haunted him, and led him to drown uncomfortable
feelings in copious draughts of wine. But,
volatile as he was impressible, the next week saw him the
gayest of the gay in parties at Savannah, where his pretty
little bride was quite the fashion.

At the cottage there was little change, except that Chloe,
by her master's permission, became a frequent visitor. She
was an affectionate, useful creature, with good voice and
ear, and a little wild gleam of poetry in her fervid eyes.
When she saw Rosa lying there so still, helpless and unconscious
as a new-born babe, she said, solemnly, “De
sperit hab done gone somewhar.” She told many stories
of wonderful cures she had performed by prayer; and she
would kneel by the bedside, hour after hour, holding the
invalid's hand, praying, “O Lord, fotch back de sperit!
Fotch back de sperit! Fotch back de sperit!” she would
continue to repeat in ascending tones, till they rose to wild
imploring. Tulee, looking on one day, said, “Poor Missy
Rosy don't hear nothin' ye say, though ye call so loud.”

“De good Lord up dar, He hars,” replied Chloe, reverently
pointing upward; and she went on with the vehement
repetition. These supplications were often varied
with Methodist hymns and negro melodies, of which the
most common refrain was, “O glory! glory! glory!”
But whether singing or praying, she made it a point to

hold the invalid's hand and look into her eyes. For a long
while, the spirit that had gone somewhere showed no signs
of returning, in obedience to the persevering summons.
But after several weeks had elapsed, there was a blind
groping for Chloe's hand; and when it was found, Tulee
thought she perceived something like a little flickering
gleam flit over the pale face. Still, neither of the nurses
was recognized; and no one ever knew what the absent
soul was seeing and hearing in that mysterious somewhere
whither it had flown. At last, Chloe's patient faith was
rewarded by a feeble pressure of her hand. Their watchfulness
grew more excited; and never did mother welcome
the first gleam of intelligence in her babe with more thrilling
joy, than the first faint, quivering smile on Rosa's lips
was welcomed by those anxious, faithful friends. The eyes
began to resume their natural expression. The fog was
evidently clearing away from the soul, and the sunshine
was gleaming through. The process of resuscitation was
thenceforth constant, though very slow. It was three
months after those cruel blows fell upon her loving heart
before she spoke and feebly called them by their names.
And not until a month later was she able to write a few
lines to quiet the anxiety of Madame and the Signor.

A few days before her last ghostly visit to Magnolia
Lawn, she had written them a very joyful letter, telling
them of Gerald's preparations to acknowledge her as his
wife, and make her the mistress of his beautiful home.
They received the tidings with great joy, and answered
with hearty congratulations. The Signor was impatient to
write to Mr. King; but Madame, who had learned precaution
and management by the trials and disappointments
of a changing life, thought it best to wait till they could

inform him of the actual fact. As Rosa had never been in
the habit of writing oftener than once in four or five weeks,
they felt no uneasiness until after that time had elapsed;
and even then they said to each other, “She delays writing,
as we do, until everything is arranged.” But when
seven or eight weeks had passed, Madame wrote again,
requesting an immediate answer. Owing to the peculiar
position of the sisters, letters to them had always been sent
under cover to Mr. Fitzgerald; and when this letter arrived,
he was naturally curious to ascertain whether Madame
was aware of his marriage. It so happened that it had not
been announced in the only paper taken by the Signor; and
as they lived in a little foreign world of their own, they
remained in ignorance of it. Having read the letter, Mr.
Fitzgerald thought, as Rosa was not in a condition to read
it, it had better be committed to the flames. But fearing
that Madame or the Signor might come to Savannah in
search of tidings, and that some unlucky accident might
bring them to speech of his bride, he concluded it was best
to ward off such a contingency. He accordingly wrote a
very studied letter to Madame, telling her that, with her
knowledge of the world, he supposed she must be well
aware that the daughter of a quadroon slave could not be
legally recognized as the wife of a Southern gentleman;
that he still loved Rosa better than any other woman, but
wishing for legal heirs to his hereditary estate, it was necessary
for him to marry. He stated that Rosa was recovering
from a slow fever, and had requested him to say that
they must not feel anxious about her; that she had everything
for her comfort, had been carefully attended by two
good nurses, was daily getting better, and would write in a
few weeks; meanwhile, if anything retarded her complete
recovery, he would again write.

This letter he thought would meet the present emergency.
His plans for the future were unsettled. He still
hoped that Rosa, alone and unprotected as she was, without
the legal ownership of herself, and subdued by sickness
and trouble, would finally accede to his terms.

She, in her unconscious state, was of course ignorant of
this correspondence. For some time after she recognized
her nurses, she continued to be very drowsy, and manifested
no curiosity concerning her condition. She was as
passive in their hands as an infant, and they treated her as
such. Chloe sung to her, and told her stories, which were
generally concerning her own remarkable experiences; for
she was a great scer of visions. Perhaps she owed them to
gifts of imagination, of which culture would have made her
a poet; but to her they seemed to be an objective reality.
She often told of seeing Jesus, as she walked to and from
the plantation. Once she had met him riding upon Thistle,
with a golden crown upon his head. One evening he had
run before her all the way, as a very little child, whose
shining garments lighted up all the woods.

Four months after the swift destruction of her hopes,
Rosa, after taking some drink from Tulee's hand, looked
up in her face, and said, “How long have I been sick, dear
Tulee?”

“No matter about that, darling,” she replied, patting her
head fondly. “Ye must n't disturb your mind 'bout that.”

After a little pause, the invalid said, “But tell me how
long.”

“Well then, darling, I did n't keep no 'count of the time;
but Tom says it's February now.”

“Yer see, Missy Rosy,” interposed Chloe, “yer sperit
hab done gone somewhar, an' yer did n't know nottin'.

But a booful angel, all in white, tuk yer by de han' an'
toted yer back to Tulee an' Chloe. Dat ar angel hab grat
hansum eyes, an' she tole me she war yer mudder; an' dat
she war gwine to be wid yer allers, cause twar de will ob
de Lord.”

Rosa listened with a serious, pleased expression in her
face; for the words of her simple comforter inspired a
vague consciousness of some supernatural presence surrounding
her with invisible protection.

A few hours after, she asked, with head averted from her
attendant, “Has any one been here since I have been
ill?”

Anxious to soothe the wounded heart as much as possible,
Tulee answered: “Massa Gerald come to ask how ye
did; and when he went to Savannah, he left Tom and
Chloe at the plantation to help me take care of ye.”

She manifested no emotion; and after a brief silence she
inquired for letters from Madame. Being informed that
there were none, she expressed a wish to be bolstered up,
that she might try to write a few lines to her old friend.
Chloe, in reply, whispered something in her ear, which
seemed to surprise her. Her cheeks flushed, the first time
for many a day; but she immediately closed her eyes, and
tears glistened on the long, dark lashes. In obedience to
the caution of her nurses, she deferred any attempt to write
till the next week. She remained very silent during the
day, but they knew that her thoughts were occupied; for
they often saw tears oozing through the closed eyelids.

Meanwhile, her friends in New Orleans were in a state
of great anxiety. Mr. Fitzgerald had again written in a
strain very similar to his first letter, but from Rosa herself
nothing had been received.

“I don't know what to make of this,” said Madame.
“Rosa is not a girl that would consent to a secondary position
where her heart was concerned.”

“You know how common it is for quadroons to accede
to such double arrangements,” rejoined the Signor.

“Of course I am well aware of that,” she replied; “but
they are educated, from childhood, to accommodate themselves
to their subordinate position, as a necessity that cannot
be avoided. It was far otherwise with Rosa. Moreover,
I believe there is too much of Grandpa Gonsalez in
her to submit to anything she deemed dishonorable. I
think, my friend, somebody ought to go to Savannah to inquire
into this business. If you should go, I fear you would
get into a duel. You know dear Floracita used to call you
Signor Pimentero. But Mr. Fitzgerald won't fight me,
let me say what I will. So I think I had better go.”

“Yes, you had better go. You're a born diplomate,
which I am not,” replied the Signor.

Arrangements were accordingly made for going in a day
or two; but they were arrested by three or four lines from
Rosa, stating that she was getting well, that she had everything
for her comfort, and would write more fully soon.
But what surprised them was that she requested them to
address her as Madame Gonsalez, under cover to her mantuamaker
in Savannah, whose address was given.

“That shows plainly enough that she and Fitzgerald
have dissolved partnership,” said Madame; “but as she
does not ask me to come, I will wait for her letter of explanation.”
Meanwhile, however, she wrote very affectionately
in reply to the brief missive, urging Rosa to come
to New Orleans, and enclosing fifty dollars, with the statement
that an old friend of her father's had died and left

a legacy for his daughters. Madame had, as Floracita
observed, a talent for arranging the truth with variations.

The March of the Southern spring returned, wreathed
with garlands, and its pathway strewn with flowers. She
gave warm kisses to the firs and pines as she passed, and
they returned her love with fragrant sighs. The garden
at Magnolia Lawn had dressed itself with jonquils, hyacinths,
and roses, and its bower was a nest of glossy greenery,
where mocking-birds were singing their varied tunes,
moving their white tail-feathers in time to their music.
Mrs. Fitzgerald, who was not strong in health, was bent
upon returning thither early in the season, and the servants
were busy preparing for her reception. Chloe was rarely
spared to go to the hidden cottage, where her attendance
upon Rosa was no longer necessary; but Tom came once a
week, as he always had done, to do whatever jobs or errands
the inmates required. One day Tulee was surprised
to hear her mistress ask him whether Mr. Fitzgerald was
at the plantation; and being answered in the affirmative,
she said, “Have the goodness to tell him that Missy Rosy
would like to see him soon.”

When Mr. Fitzgerald received the message, he adjusted
his necktie at the mirror, and smiled over his self-complacent
thoughts. He had hopes that the proud beauty was
beginning to relent. Having left his wife in Savannah,
there was no obstacle in the way of his obeying the summons.
As he passed over the cottage lawn, he saw that
Rosa was sewing at the window. He slackened his pace
a little, with the idea that she might come out to meet
him; but when he entered the parlor, she was still occupied
with her work. She rose on his entrance, and moved

a chair foward him; and when he said, half timidly, “How
do you do now, dear Rosa?” she quietly replied, “Much
better, I thank you. I have sent for you, Mr. Fitzgerald,
to ask a favor.”

“If it is anything in my power, it shall be granted,” he
replied.

“It is a very easy thing for you to do,” rejoined she,
“and very important to me. I want you to give me papers
of manumission.”

“Are you so afraid of me?” he asked, coloring as he
remembered a certain threat he had uttered.

“I did not intend the request as any reproach to you,”
answered she, mildly; “but simply as a very urgent necessity
to myself. As soon as my health will permit, I
wish to be doing something for my own support, and, if
possible, to repay you what you expended for me and my
sister.”

“Do you take me for a mean Yankee,” exclaimed he indignantly,
“that you propose such an account of dollars
and cents?”

“I expressed my own wishes, not what I supposed you
would require,” replied she. “But aside from that, you
can surely imagine it must be painful to have my life
haunted by this dreadful spectre of slavery.”

“Rosa,” said he earnestly, “do me the justice to remember
that I did not purchase you as a slave, or consider you
a slave. I expended money with all my heart to save my
best-beloved from misfortune.”

“I believe those were your feelings then,” she replied.
“But let the past be buried. I simply ask you now, as a
gentleman who has it in his power to confer a great favor
on an unprotected woman, whether you will manumit me.”

“Certainly I will,” answered he, much discomposed by
her cool business tone.

She rose at once, and placed the writing-desk before him.
It was the pretty little desk he had given her for a birthday
present.

He put his finger on it, and, looking up in her face,
with one of his old insinuating glances, he said, “Rosa,
do you remember what we said when I gave you this?”

Without answering the question, she said, “Will you
have the goodness to write it now?”

“Why in such haste?” inquired he. “I have given
you my promise, and do you suppose I have no sense of
honor?”

A retort rose to her lips, but she suppressed it. “None
of us can be sure of the future,” she replied. “You know
what happened when my dear father died.” Overcome by
that tender memory, she covered her eyes with her hand,
and the tears stole through her fingers.

He attempted to kiss away the tears, but she drew
back, and went on to say: “At that time I learned the
bitter significance of the law, `The child shall follow the
condition of the mother.' It was not mainly on my own
account that I sent for you, Mr. Fitzgerald. I wish to
secure my child from such a dreadful contingency as well-nigh
ruined me and my sister.” She blushed, and lowered
her eyes as she spoke.

“O Rosa!” he exclaimed. The impulse was strong to
fold her to his heart; but he could not pass the barrier of
her modest dignity.

After an embarrassed pause, she looked up bashfully,
and said, “Knowing this, you surely will not refuse to write
it now.”

“I must see a lawyer and obtain witnesses,” he replied.

She sighed heavily. “I don't know what forms are
necessary,” said she. “But I beg of you to take such
steps as will make me perfectly secure against any accidents.
And don't delay it, Mr. Fitzgerald. Will you
send the papers next week?”

“I see you have no confidence in me,” replied he, sadly.
Then, suddenly dropping on his knees beside her, he exclaimed,
“O Rosa, don't call me Mr. again. Do call me
Gerald once more! Do say you forgive me!”

She drew back a little, but answered very gently: “I
do forgive you, and I hope your innocent little wife will
never regret having loved you; for that is a very bitter
trial. I sincerely wish you may be happy; and you may
rest assured I shall not attempt to interfere with your happiness.
But I am not strong enough to talk much. Please
promise to send those papers next week.”

He made the promise, with averted head and a voice that
was slightly tremulous.

“I thank you,” she replied; “but I am much fatigued,
and will bid you good morning.” She rose to leave the
room, but turned back and added, with solemn earnestness,
“I think it will be a consolation on your death-bed if you
do not neglect to fulfil Rosa's last request.” She passed
into the adjoining room, fastened the door, and threw herself
on the couch, utterly exhausted. How strange and
spectral this meeting seemed! She heard his retreating
footsteps without the slightest desire to obtain a last glimpse
of his figure. How entirely he had passed out of her life,
he who so lately was all her life!

The next day Rosa wrote as follows to Madame and
the Signor:—

Week passed after week, and the promised papers did
not come. The weary days dragged their slow length
along, unsoothed by anything except Tulee's loving care
and Madame's cheering letters. The piano was never
opened; for all tones of music were draped in mourning,
and its harmonies were a funeral march over buried love.
But she enjoyed the open air and the fragrance of the
flowers. Sometimes she walked slowly about the lawn,
and sometimes Tulee set her upon Thistle's back, and led
him round and round through the bridle-paths. But out

of the woods that concealed their nest they never ventured,
lest they should meet Mrs. Fitzgerald. Tulee, who was
somewhat proud on her mistress's account, was vexed by
this limitation. “I don't see why ye should hide yerself
from her,” said she. “Yese as good as she is; and ye've
nothin' to be shamed of.”

“It is n't on my own account that I wish to avoid her
seeing me,” replied Rosa. “But I pity the innocent young
creature. She did n't know of disturbing my happiness,
and I should be sorry to disturb hers.”

As the weeks glided away without bringing any fulfilment
of Fitzgerald's promise, anxiety changed to distrust.
She twice requested Tom to ask his master for the papers
he had spoken of, and received a verbal answer that they
would be sent as soon as they were ready. There were
greater obstacles in the way than she, in her inexperience,
was aware of. The laws of Georgia restrained humane
impulses by forbidding the manumission of a slave. Consequently,
he must either incur very undesirable publicity
by applying to the legislature for a special exception in this
case, or she must be manumitted in another State. He
would gladly have managed a journey without the company
of his wife, if he could thereby have regained his former influence
with Rosa; but he was disinclined to take so much
trouble to free her entirely from him. When he promised
to send the papers, he intended to satisfy her with a sham
certificate, as he had done with a counterfeit marriage; but
he deferred doing it, because he had a vague sense of satisfaction
in being able to tantalize the superior woman over
whom he felt that he no longer had any other power.