 | CHAPTER XVI. A romance of the republic |  |
16. CHAPTER XVI.
MADAME'S anxiety was much diminished after she
began to receive letters in Rosa's own handwriting;
but, knowing the laws of Georgia, and no longer doubtful
concerning Fitzgerald's real character, she placed small reliance
upon his promise of manumission. “This is another
of his deceptions,” said she to the Signor. “I have been
thinking a good deal about the state of things, and I am
convinced there will be no security in this country for that
poor girl. You have been saying for some time that you
wanted to see your beautiful Italy again, and I have the
same feeling about my beautiful France. We each of us
have a little money laid up; and if we draw upon the fund
Mr. King has deposited, we can take Rosabella to Europe
and bring her out as a singer.”
“She would have a great career, no doubt,” replied the
Signor; “and I was going to suggest such a plan to you.
But you would have to change your name again on my account,
Madame; for I was obliged to leave Italy because I
was discovered to be one of the Carbonari; and though
fifteen years have elapsed, it is possible the watchful authorities
have not forgotten my name.”
“That's a trifling obstacle,” resumed Madame. “You
had better give notice to your pupils at once that you intend
to leave as soon as present engagements are fulfilled.
I will use up my stock for fancy articles, and sell off as fast
as possible, that we may be ready to start for Europe as soon
as Rosa has sufficient strength.”
This resolution was immediately acted upon; but the
fates were unpropitious to Madame's anticipated visit to the
lonely island. A few days before her intended departure,
the Signor was taken seriously ill, and remained so for two
or three weeks. He fretted and fumed, more on her account
than his own, but she, as usual, went through the
trial bravely. She tried to compensate Rosa for the disappointment,
as far as she could, by writing frequent letters,
cheerful in tone, though prudently cautious concerning
details. Fearing that Mr. Fitzgerald's suspicions might be
excited by an apparent cessation of correspondence, she
continued to write occasionally under cover to him, in a
style adapted to his views, in case he should take a fancy
to open the letters. The Signor laughed, and said, “Your
talent for diplomacy is not likely to rust for want of use,
Madame.” Even Rosa, sad at heart as she was, could not
help smiling sometimes at the totally different tone of the
letters which she received under different covers.
She had become so accustomed to passive endurance,
that no murmur escaped her when she found that her only
white friend could not come to her, as she had expected.
Granny Nan boasted of having nursed many grand white
ladies, and her skill in the vocation proved equal to her
pretensions. Only her faithful Tulee and the kind old colored
mammy were with her when, hovering between life
and death, she heard the cry that announced the advent of
a human soul. Nature, deranged by bodily illness and
mental trouble, provided no nourishment for the little one;
but this, which under happier circumstances would have
been a disappointment, called forth no expressions of regret
from the patient sufferer. When Tulee held the babe before
her in its first dress, she smiled faintly, but immediately
with the helpless little creature nestling in her arms, the
one consoling reflection was that she had not given birth to
a daughter. A chaos of thoughts were revolving through
her mind; the theme of all the variations being how different
it was from what it might have been, if the ideal of
her girlhood had not been shattered so eruelly. Had it
not been for that glimmering light in the future which
Madame so assiduously presented to her view, courage
would have forsaken her utterly. As it was, she often listened
to the dash of the sea with the melaucholy feeling
that rest might be found beneath its waves. But she was
still very young, the sky was bright, the earth was lovely,
and she had a friend who had promised to provide a safe
asylum for her somewhere. She tried to regain her
strength, that she might leave the island, with all its sad
reminders of departed happiness. Thinking of this, she
rose one day and wandered into the little parlor to take a
sort of farewell look. There was the piano, so long unopened,
with a whole epic of love and sorrow in its remembered
tones; the pretty little table her mother had painted;
the basket she had received from her father after his
death; Floracita's paintings and mosses; and innumerable
little tokens of Gerald's love. Walking round slowly and
feebly in presence of all those memories, how alone she
felt, with none to speak to but Tulee and the old colored
mammy,—she, who had been so tenderly cared for by her
parents, so idolized by him to whom she gave her heart!
She was still gazing pensively on these souvenirs of the
past, when her attention was arrested by Tom's voice, saying:
“Dar's a picaninny at de Grat Hus. How's turrer
picaninny?”
The thought rushed upon her, “Ah, that baby had a
father to welcome it and fondle it; but my poor babe—”
A sensation of faintness came over her; and, holding on by
the chairs and tables, she staggered back to the bed she
had left.
Before the babe was a fortnight old, Tom announced
that he was to accompany his master to New Orleans,
whither he had been summoned by business. The occasion
was eagerly seized by Rosa to send a letter and some
small articles to Madame and the Signor. Tulee gave him
very particular directions how to find the house, and charged
him over and over again to tell them everything. When
she cautioned him not to let his master know that he carried
anything, Tom placed his thumb on the tip of his nose,
and moved the fingers significantly, saying: “Dis ere nigger
ha'n't jus' wakum'd up. Bin wake mos' ob de time
sense twar daylight.” He foresaw it would be difficult to
execute the commission he had undertaken; for as a slave
he of course had little control over his own motions. He,
however, promised to try; and Tulee told him she had
great confidence in his ingenuity in finding out ways and
means.
“An' I tinks a heap o' ye, Tulee. Ye knows a heap
more dan mos' niggers,” was Tom's responsive compliment.
In his eyes Tulee was in fact a highly accomplished person;
for though she could neither read nor write, she had
caught the manners and speech of white people, by living
almost exclusively with them, and she was, by habit, as
familiar with French as English, beside having a little
smattering of Spanish. To have his ingenuity praised by
her operated as a fillip upon his vanity, and he inwardly
resolved to run the risk of a flogging, rather than fail to do
Rosa, whose beauty and kindliness had won his heart, before
his sympathy had been called out by her misfortunes.
But none of them foresaw what important consequences
would result from his mission.
The first day he was in New Orleans, he found no hour
when he could be absent without the liability of being
called for by his master. The next day Mr. Bruteman
dined with his master, and Tom was in attendance upon
the table. Their conversation was at first about cotton
crops, the prices of negroes, and other business matters, to
which Tom paid little attention. But a few minutes afterward
his ears were wide open.
“I suppose you came prepared to pay that debt you
owe me,” said Mr. Bruteman.
“I am obliged to ask an extension of your indulgence,”
replied Mr. Fitzgerald. “It is not in my power to raise
that sum just now.”
“How is that possible,” inquired Mr. Bruteman, “when
you have married the daughter of a Boston nabob?”
“The close old Yankee keeps hold of most of his money
while he lives,” rejoined his companion; “and Mrs. Fitzgerald
has expensive tastes to be gratified.”
“And do you expect me to wait till the old Yankee
dies?” asked Mr. Bruteman. “Gentlemen generally consider
themselves bound to be prompt in paying debts of
honor.”
“I'll pay you as soon as I can. What the devil can
you ask more?” exclaimed Fitzgerald. “It seems to me
it's not the part of a gentleman to play the dun so continually.”
They had already drank pretty freely; but Mr. Bruteman
glass to the speedy replenishing of your purse.” They
poured full bumpers, touched glasses, and drank the contents.
There was a little pause, during which Mr. Bruteman
sat twirling his glass between thumb and finger, with looks
directed toward his companion. All at once he said,
“Fitzgerald, did you ever find those handsome octoroon
girls?”
“What octoroon girls?” inquired the other.
“O, you disremember them, do you?” rejoined he. “I
mean how did that bargain turn out that you made with
Royal's creditors? You seemed to have small chance of
finding the girls; unless, indeed, you hid them away first,
for the purpose of buying them for less than half they
would have brought to the creditors, — which, of course, is
not to be supposed, because no gentleman would do such a
thing.”
Thrown off his guard by too much wine, Fitzgerald
vociferated, “Do you mean to insinuate that I am no
gentleman?”
Mr. Bruteman smiled, as he answered: “I said such a
thing was not to be supposed. But come, Fitzgerald, let
us understand one another. I'd rather, a devilish sight,
have those girls than the money you owe me. Make them
over to me, and I'll cancel the debt. Otherwise, I shall
be under the necessity of laying an attachment on some of
your property.”
There was a momentary silence before Mr. Fitzgerald
answered, “One of them is dead.”
“Which one?” inquired his comrade.
“Flora, the youngest, was drowned.”
“And that queenly beauty, where is she? I don't know
that I ever heard her name.”
“Rosabella Royal,” replied Fitzgerald. “She is living
at a convenient distance from my plantation.”
“Well, I will be generous,” said Bruteman. “If you
will make her over to me, I will cancel the debt.”
“She is not in strong health at present,” rejoined Fitzgerald.
“She has a babe about two weeks old.”
“You know you have invited me to visit your island two
or three weeks hence,” replied Bruteman; “and then I
shall depend upon you to introduce me to your fair Rosamond.
But we will draw up the papers and sign them
now, if you please.”
Some jests unfit for repetition were uttered by the creditor,
to which the unhappy debtor made no reply. When
he called Tom to bring paper and ink, the observing servant
noticed that he was very pale, though but a few moments
before his face had been flushed.
That night, he tried to drown recollection in desperate
gambling and frequent draughts of wine. Between one
and two o'clock in the morning, his roisterous companions
were led off by their servants, and he was put into bed by
Tom, where he immediately dropped into a perfectly senseless
sleep.
As soon as there was sufficient light, Tom started for the
house of the Signor; judging that he was safe from his
master for three hours at least. Notwithstanding the
earliness of the hour, Madame made her appearance in a
very few moments after her servant informed her who was
in waiting, and the Signor soon followed. In the course
of the next hour and a half an incredible amount of talking
was done in negro “lingo” and broken English. The
cursing slavery, and sending Fitzgerald to the Devil in a
volley of phrases hard enough in their significance, though
uttered in soft-flowing Italian.
“Swearing does no good, my friend,” said Madame; “besides,
there is n't time for it. Rosabella must be brought
away immediately. Bruteman will be on the alert, you
may depend. She slipped through his fingers once, and he
won't trust Fitzgerald again.”
The Signor cooled down, and proposed to go for her
himself. But that was overruled, in a very kind way, by
his prudent wife, who argued that he was not well enough
for such an exciting adventure, or to be left without her
nursing, when his mind would be such a prey to uneasiness.
It was her proposition to send at once for her
cousin Duroy, and have him receive very particular directions
from Tom how to reach the island and find the cottage.
Tom said he did n't know whether he could get
away for an hour again, because his master was always
very angry if he was out of the way when called; but if
Mr. Duroy would come to the hotel, he would find chances
to tell him what to do. And that plan was immediately
carried into effect.
While these things were going on in New Orleans, Mrs.
Fitzgerald was taking frequent drives about the lovely
island with her mother, Mrs. Bell; while Rosa was occasionally
perambulating her little circuit of woods on the
back of patient Thistle. One day Mrs. Fitzgerald and her
mother received an invitation to the Welby plantation, to
meet some Northern acquaintances who were there; and
as Mrs. Fitzgerald's strength was not yet fully restored,
Mrs. Welby proposed that they should remain all night.
master's new-born heir, and was consequently tied so closely
that she could find no chance to go to the cottage, whose
inmates she had a great longing to see. But when master
and mistress were both gone, she thought she might take
her freedom for a while without incurring any great risk.
The other servants agreed to keep her secret, and Joe the
coachman promised to drive her most of the way when he
came back with the carriage. Accordingly, she made her
appearance at the cottage quite unexpectedly, to the great
joy of Tulee.
When she unwrapped the little black-haired baby from
its foldings of white muslin, Tulee exclaimed: “He looks
jus' like his good-for-nothing father; and so does Missy
Rosy's baby. I'm 'fraid 't will make poor missy feel bad
to see it, for she don't know nothin' 'bout it.”
“Yes I do, Tulee,” said Rosa, who had heard Chloe's
voice, and gone out to greet her. “I heard Tom tell you
about it.”
She took up the little hand, scarcely bigger than a
bird's claw, and while it twined closely about her finger,
she looked into its eyes, so like to Gerald's in shape and
color. She was hoping that those handsome eyes might
never be used as his had been, but she gave no utterance
to her thoughts. Her manner toward Chloe was
full of grateful kindness; and the poor bondwoman had
some happy hours, playing free for a while. She laid the
infant on its face in her lap, trotting it gently, and patting
its back, while she talked over with Tulee all the affairs at
the “Grat Hus.” And when the babe was asleep, she
asked and obtained Rosa's permission to lay him on her bed
beside his little brother. Then poor Chloe's soul took
prayed, and sang her fervent hymns, and told of her visions
and revelations, she experienced satisfaction similar to that
of a troubadour, or palmer from Holy Land, with an admiring
audience listening to his wonderful adventures.
While she was thus occupied, Tulee came in hastily to
say that a stranger gentleman was coming toward the
house. Such an event in that lonely place produced general
excitement, and some consternation. Rosa at once
drew her curtain and bolted the door. But Tulee soon
came rapping gently, saying, “It's only I, Missy Rosy.”
As the door partially opened, she said, “It's a friend
Madame has sent ye.” Rosa, stepping forward, recognized
Mr. Duroy, the cousin in whose clothes Madame had escaped
with them from New Orleans. She was very
slightly acquainted with him, but it was such a comfort to
see any one who knew of the old times that she could
hardly refrain from throwing herself on his neck and bursting
into tears. As she grasped his hand with a close pressure,
he felt the thinness of her emaciated fingers. The
paleness of her cheeks, and the saddened expression of her
large eyes, excited his compassion. He was too polite to
express it in words, but it was signified by the deference
of his manner and the extreme gentleness of his tones.
He talked of Madame's anxious love for her, of the Signor's
improving health, of the near completion of their plan for
going to Europe, and of their intention to take her with
them. Rosa was full of thankfulness, but said she was as
yet incapable of much exertion. Mr. Duroy went on to
speak of Tom's visit to Madame; and slowly and cautiously
he prepared the way for his account of the conversation
between Mr. Fitzgerald and Mr. Bruteman. But
and her hands were clenched. When he came to the interchange
of writings, she sprung to her feet, and, clutching
his arm convulsively, exclaimed, “Did he do that?” Her
eyes were like a flame, and her chest heaved with the
quick-coming breath.
He sought to draw her toward him, saying in soothing
tones, “They shall not harm you, my poor girl. Trust to
me, as if I were your father.” But she burst from him
impetuously, and walked up and down rapidly; such a
sudden access of strength had the body received from the
frantic soul.
“Try not to be so much agitated,” said he. “In a very
short time you will be in Europe, and then you will be
perfectly safe.”
She paused an instant in her walk, and, with a strange
glare in her eyes, she hissed out, “I hate him.”
He laid his hand gently upon her shoulder, and said: “I
want very much that you should try to be calm. Some
negroes are coming with a boat at daybreak, and it is
necessary we should all go away with them. You ought
to rest as much as possible beforehand.”
“Rest!” repeated she with bitter emphasis. And
clenching her teeth hard, she again said, “I hate him!”
Poor Rosa! It had taken a mountain-weight of wrong
so to crush out all her gentleness.
Mr. Duroy became somewhat alarmed. He hastened to
the kitchen and told Chloe to go directly to Miss Rosa.
He then briefly explained his errand to Tulee, and told her
to prepare for departure as fast as possible. “But first go
to your mistress,” said he; “for I am afraid she may
go crazy.”
The sufferer yielded more readily to Tulee's accustomed
influence than she had done to that of Mr. Duroy. She
allowed herself to be laid upon the bed; but while her forehead
and temples were being bathed, her heart beat violently,
and all her pulses were throbbing. It was, however,
necessary to leave her with Chloe, who knelt by the bedside,
holding her hand, and praying in tones unusually low
for her.
“I'm feared for her,” said Tulee to Mr. Duroy. “I
never see Missy Rosy look so wild and strange.”
A short time after, when she looked into the room, Rosa's
eyes were closed. She whispered to Chloe: “Poor Missy's
asleep. You can come and help me a little now.”
But Rosa was not in the least drowsy. She had only
remained still, to avoid being talked to. As soon as her
attendants had withdrawn, she opened her eyes, and, turning
toward the babes, she gazed upon them for a long
time. There they lay side by side, like twin kittens.
But ah! thought she, how different is their destiny! One
is born to be cherished and waited upon all his days, the
other is an outcast and a slave. My poor fatherless babe!
He would n't manumit us. It was not thoughtlessness.
He meant to sell us. “He meant to sell us,” she repeated
aloud; and again the wild, hard look came into her
eyes. Such a tempest was raging in her soul, that she felt
as if she could kill him if he stood before her. This savage
paroxysm of revenge was followed by thoughts of suicide.
She was about to rise, but hearing the approach of
Tulee, she closed her eyes and remained still.
Language is powerless to describe the anguish of that
lacerated soul. At last the storm subsided, and she fell
into a heavy sleep.
Meanwhile the two black women were busy with arrangements
for the early flight. Many things had been
already prepared with the expectation of a summons to
New Orleans, and not long after midnight all was in readiness.
Chloe, after a sound nap on the kitchen floor, rose
up with the first peep of light. She and Tulee hugged each
other, with farewell kisses and sobs. She knelt by Rosa's
bedside to whisper a brief prayer, and, giving her one long,
lingering look, she took up her baby, and set off for the
plantation, wondering at the mysterious ways of Providence.
They deferred waking Rosa as long as possible, and when
they roused her, she had been so deeply sunk in slumber
that she was at first bewildered. When recollection returned,
she looked at her babe. “Where's Chloe?” she
asked.
“Gone back to the plantation,” was the reply.
“O, I am so sorry!” sighed Rosa.
“She was feared they would miss her,” rejoined Tulee.
“So she went away as soon as she could see. But she
prayed for ye, Missy Rosy; and she told me to say poor
Chloe would never forget ye.”
“O, I'm so sorry!” repeated Rosa, mournfully.
She objected to taking the nourishment Tulee offered,
saying she wanted to die. But Mr. Duroy reminded her
that Madame was longing to see her, and she yielded to that
plea. When Tulee brought the same travelling-dress in
which she had first come to the cottage, she shrunk from it at
first, but seemed to remember immediately that she ought
not to give unnecessary trouble to her friends. While she
was putting it on, Tulee said, “I tried to remember to put
up everything ye would want, darling.”
“I don't want anything,” she replied listlessly. Then,
she added, “Don't let me ever see anything that came from
him!” She spoke so sternly, that Tulee, for the first time
in her life, was a little afraid of her.
The eastern sky was all of a saffron glow, but the golden
edge of the sun had not yet appeared above the horizon,
when they entered the boat which was to convey them to
the main-land. Without one glance toward the beautiful
island where she had enjoyed and suffered so much, the unhappy
fugitive nestled close to Tulee, and hid her face on
her shoulder, as if she had nothing else in the world to
cling to.
A week later, a carriage stopped before Madame's door,
and Tulee rushed in with the baby on her shoulder, exclaiming,
“Nous voici!” while Mr. Duroy was helping
Rosa to alight. Then such huggings and kissings, such
showers of French from Madame, and of mingled French
and Italian from the Signor, while Tulee stood by, throwing
up her hand, and exclaiming, “Bless the Lord! bless the
Lord!” The parrot listened with ear upturned, and a
lump of sugar in her claw, then overtopped all their voices
with the cry of “Bon jour, Rosabella! je suis enchantée.”
This produced a general laugh, and there was the faint
gleam of a smile on Rosa's face, as she looked up at the
cage and said, “Bon jour, jolie Manon!” But she soon
sank into a chair with an expression of weariness.
“You are tired, darling,” said Madame, as she took off
her bonnet and tenderly put back the straggling hair.
“No wonder, after all you have gone through, my poor
child!”
Rosa clasped her round the neck, and murmured, “O
my dear friend, I am tired, so tired!”
Madame led her to the settee, and arranged her head
comfortably on its pillows. Then, giving her a motherly
kiss, she said, “Rest, darling, while Tulee and I look after
the boxes.”
When they had all passed into another room, she threw
up her hands and exclaimed: “How she's changed! How
thin and pale she is! How large her eyes look! But
she's beautiful as an angel.”
“I never see Missy Rosy but once when she was n't
beautiful as an angel,” said Tulee; “and that was the night
Massa Duroy told her she was sold to Massa Bruteman.
Then she looked as if she had as many devils as that Mary
Magdalene Massa Royal used to read about o' Sundays.”
“No wonder, poor child!” exclaimed Madame. “But
I hope the little one is some comfort to her.”
“She ha'n't taken much notice of him, or anything
else, since Massa Duroy told her that news,” rejoined
Tulee.
Madame took the baby and tried to look into its face as
well as the lopping motions of its little head would permit.
“I shouldn't think she'd have much comfort in looking at
it,” said she; “for it's the image of its father; but the poor
little dear ain't to blame for that.”
An animated conversation followed concerning what had
happened since Tulee went away,—especially the disappearance
of Flora. Both hinted at having entertained
similar suspicions, but both had come to the conclusion that
she could not be alive, or she would have written.
Rosa, meanwhile, left alone in the little parlor, where
she had listened so anxiously for the whistling of Ça ira,
was scarcely conscious of any other sensation than the luxury
of repose, after extreme fatigue of body and mind.
The parrot swung in the same gilded ring in
her cage. Madame's table, with its basket of chenilles,
stood in the same place, and by it was her enamelled snuffbox.
Rosa recognized a few articles that had been purchased
at the auction of her father's furniture; — his arm-chair,
and the astral lamp by which he used to sit to read
his newspaper; a sewing-chair that was her mother's; and
one of Flora's embroidered slippers, hung up for a watch-case.
With these memories floating before her drowsy
eyes, she fell asleep, and slept for a long time. As her
slumbers grew lighter, dreams of father, mother, and sister
passed through various changes; the last of which was that
Flora was puzzling the mocking-birds. She waked to the
consciousness that some one was whistling in the room.
“Who is that!” exclaimed she; and the parrot replied
with a tempest of imitations. Madame, hearing the noise,
came in, saying: “How stupid I was not to cover the
cage! She is so noisy! Her memory is wonderful. I
don't think she'll ever forget a note of all the mélange
dear Floracita took so much pains to teach her.”
She began to call up reminiscences of Flora's incessant
mischief; but finding Rosa in no mood for anything gay,
she proceeded to talk over the difficulties of her position,
concluding with the remark: “To-day and to-night you
must rest, my child. But early to-morrow you and the
Signor will start for New York, whence you will take passage
to Marseilles, under the name of Signor Balbino and
daughter.”
“I wish I could stay here, at least for a little while,”
sighed Rosa.
“It's never wise to wish for what cannot be had,” rejoined
to obtain your freedom; and it is doubtful whether
we could secure it at all, for Bruteman won't give you up
if he can avoid it. The voyage will recruit your strength,
and it will do you good to be far away from anything that
reminds you of old troubles. I have nothing left to do but
to dispose of my furniture, and settle about the lease of
this house. You will wait at Marseilles for me. I shall
be uneasy till I have the sea between me and the agents of
Mr. Bruteman, and I shall hurry to follow after you as
soon as possible.”
“And Tulee and the baby?” asked Rosa.
“Yes, with Tulee and the baby,” replied Madame.
“But I shall send them to my cousin's to-morrow, to be
out of the way of being seen by teh neighbors. He lives
off the road, and three miles out. They'll be nicely out
of the way there.”
It was all accomplished as the energetic Frenchwoman
had planned. Rosa was whirled away, without time to
think of anything. At parting, she embraced Tulee, and
looked earnestly in the baby's face, while she stroked his
shining black hair. “Good by, dear, kind Tulee,” said
she. “Take good care of the little one.”
At Philadelphia, her strength broke down, and they were
detained three days. Consequently, when they arrived in
New York, they found that the Mermaid, in which they
expected to take passage, had sailed. The Signor considered
it imprudent to correspond with his wife on the subject,
and concluded to go out of the city and wait for
the next vessel. When they went on board, they found
Madame, and explained to her the circumstances.
“I am glad I did n't know of the delay,” said she; “for
without anybody's coming to make inquiries.”
“But where are Tulee and the baby? Are they down
below?” asked Rosa.
“No, dear, I did n't bring them.”
“O, how came you to leave them?” said Rosa. “Something
will happen to them.”
“I have provided well for their safety,” rejoined Madame.
“The reason I did it was this. We have no certain
home or prospects at present; and I thought we had
better be settled somewhere before the baby was brought.
My cousin is coming to Marseilles in about three months,
and he will bring them with him. His wife was glad to
give Tulee her board, meanwhile, for what work she could
do. I really think it was best, dear. The feeble little thing
will be stronger for the voyage by that time; and you
know Tulee will take just as good care of it as if it were
her own.”
“Poor Tulee!” sighed Rosa. “Was she willing to be
left?”
“She did n't know when I came away,” replied Madame.
Rosa heaved an audible groan, as she said: “I am so
sorry you did this, Madame! If anything should happen to
them, it would be a weight on my mind as long as I live.”
“I did what I thought was for the best,” answered
Madame. “I was in such a hurry to get away, on your
account, that, if I had n't all my wits about me, I hope you
will excuse me. But I think myself I made the best arrangement.”
Rosa, perceiving a slight indication of pique in her tone,
hastened to kiss her, and call her her best and dearest
friend. But in her heart she mourned over what she considered,
management of Madame.
After Tom's return from New Orleans, he continued to
go to the cottage as usual, and so long as no questions were
asked, he said nothing; but when his master inquired how
they were getting on there, he answered that Missy Rosy
was better. When a fortnight had elapsed, he thought the
fugitives must be out of harm's way, and he feared Mr.
Bruteman might be coming soon to claim his purchase.
Accordingly he one day informed his master, with a great
appearance of astonishment and alarm, that the cottage was
shut up, and all the inmates gone.
Fitzgerald's first feeling was joy; for he was glad to be
relieved from the picture of Rosa's horror and despair,
which had oppressed him like the nightmare. But he
foresaw that Bruteman would suspect him of having forewarned
her, though he had solemnly pledged himself not
to do so. He immediately wrote him the tidings, with expressions
of surprise and regret. The answer he received
led to a duel, in which he received a wound in the shoulder,
that his wife always supposed was occasioned by a
fall from his horse.
When Mr. Bruteman ascertained that Madame and the
Signor had left the country, he at once conjectured that the
fugitive was with them. Having heard that Mr. Duroy
was a relative, he waited upon him, at his place of business,
and was informed that Rosabella Royal had sailed for
France, with his cousin, in the ship Mermaid. Not long
after, it was stated in the ship news that the Mermaid
had foundered at sea, and all on board were lost.
| CHAPTER XVI. A romance of the republic | |