 | A romance of the republic |  |
1. PART FIRST.
1. CHAPTER I.
“WHAT are you going to do with yourself this
evening, Alfred?” said Mr. Royal to his companion,
as they issued from his counting-house in New
Orleans. “Perhaps I ought to apologize for not calling
you Mr. King, considering the shortness of our acquaintance;
but your father and I were like brothers in our
youth, and you resemble him so much, I can hardly realize
that you are not he himself, and I still a young man. It
used to be a joke with us that we must be cousins, since he
was a King and I was of the Royal family. So excuse me
if I say to you, as I used to say to him, What are you
going to do with yourself, Cousin Alfred?”
“I thank you for the friendly familiarity,” rejoined the
young man. “It is pleasant to know that I remind you
so strongly of my good father. My most earnest wish is
to resemble him in character as much as I am said to resemble
him in person. I have formed no plans for the
evening. I was just about to ask you what there was best
worth seeing or hearing in the Crescent City.”
“If I should tell you I thought there was nothing better
worth seeing than my daughters, you would perhaps excuse
a father's partiality,” rejoined Mr. Royal.
“Your daughters!” exclaimed his companion, in a tone
of surprise. “I never heard that you were married.”
A shadow of embarrassment passed over the merchant's
face, as he replied, “Their mother was a Spanish lady,—
a stranger here, — and she formed no acquaintance. She
was a woman of a great heart and of rare beauty. Nothing
can ever make up her loss to me; but all the joy that remains
in life is centred in the daughters she has left me. I
should like to introduce them to you; and that is a compliment
I never before paid to any young man. My home
is in the outskirts of the city; and when we have dined at
the hotel, according to my daily habit, I will send off a few
letters, and then, if you like to go there with me, I will call
a carriage.”
“Thank you,” replied the young man; “unless it is your
own custom to ride, I should prefer to walk. I like the
exercise, and it will give a better opportunity to observe
the city, which is so different from our Northern towns
that it has for me the attractions of a foreign land.”
In compliance with this wish, Mr. Royal took him
through the principal streets, pointing out the public buildings,
and now and then stopping to smile at some placard
or sign which presented an odd jumble of French and
English. When they came to the suburbs of the city, the
aspect of things became charmingly rural. Houses were
scattered here and there among trees and gardens. Mr.
Royal pointed out one of them, nestled in flowers and half
encircled by an orange-grove, and said. “That is my home.
When I first came here, the place where it stands was a
field of sugar-canes; but the city is fast stretching itself
into the suburbs.”
They approached the dwelling, and in answer to the
a turban of bright colors on her head and golden hoops in
her ears. Before the gentlemen had disposed of their hats
and canes, a light little figure bounded from one of the
rooms, clapping her hands, and exclaiming, “Ah, Papasito!”
Then, seeing a stranger with him, she suddenly
stood still, with a pretty look of blushing surprise.
“Never mind, Mignonne,” said her father, fondly patting
her head. “This is Alfred Royal King, from Boston; my
namesake, and the son of a dear old friend of mine. I
have invited him to see you dance. Mr. King, this is my
Floracita.”
The fairy dotted a courtesy, quickly and gracefully as a
butterfly touching a flower, and then darted back into the
room she had left. There they were met by a taller young
lady, who was introduced as “My daughter Rosabella.”
Her beauty was superlative and peculiar. Her complexion
was like a glowing reflection upon ivory from gold in
the sunshine. Her large brown eyes were deeply fringed,
and lambent with interior light. Lustrous dark brown
hair shaded her forehead in little waves, slight as the rippling
of water touched by an insect's wing. It was arranged
at the back of her head in circling braids, over
which fell clusters of ringlets, with moss-rose-buds nestling
among them. Her full, red lips were beautifully shaped,
and wore a mingled expression of dignity and sweetness.
The line from ear to chin was that perfect oval which artists
love, and the carriage of her head was like one born
to a kingdom.
Floracita, though strikingly handsome, was of a model
less superb than her elder sister. She was a charming
little brunette, with laughter always lurking in ambush
bow carved in coral,” and dimples in her cheeks, that well
deserved their French name, berceaux d'amour.
These radiant visions of beauty took Alfred King so
much by surprise, that he was for a moment confused.
But he soon recovered self-possession, and, after the usual
salutations, took a seat offered him near a window overlooking
the garden. While the commonplaces of conversation
were interchanged, he could not but notice the floral
appearance of the room. The ample white lace curtains
were surmounted by festoons of artificial roses, caught up
by a bird of paradise. On the ceiling was an exquisitely
painted garland, from the centre of which hung a tasteful
basket of natural flowers, with delicate vine-tresses drooping
over its edge. The walls were papered with bright
arabesques of flowers, interspersed with birds and butter-flies.
In one corner a statuette of Flora looked down upon
a geranium covered with a profusion of rich blossoms. In
the opposite corner, ivy was trained to form a dark background
for Canova's “Dancer in Repose,” over whose arm
was thrown a wreath of interwoven vines and orange-blossoms.
On brackets and tables were a variety of natural
flowers in vases of Sevres china, whereon the best
artists of France had painted flowers in all manner of
graceful combinations. The ottomans were embroidered
with flowers. Rosabella's white muslin dress was trailed
all over with delicately tinted roses, and the lace around
the corsage was fastened in front with a mosaic basket of
flowers. Floracita's black curls fell over her shoulders
mixed with crimson fuchsias, and on each of her little slippers
was embroidered a bouquet.
“This is the Temple of Flora,” said Alfred, turning to
flowers, painted flowers, embroidered flowers, and human
flowers excelling them all,”—glancing at the young
ladies as he spoke.
Mr. Royal sighed, and in an absent sort of way answered,
“Yes, yes.” Then, starting up, he said abruptly,
“Excuse me a moment; I wish to give the servants some
directions.”
Floracita, who was cutting leaves from the geranium,
observed his quick movement, and, as he left the room,
she turned toward their visitor and said, in a childlike,
confidential sort of way: “Our dear Mamita used to
call this room the Temple of Flora. She had a great
passion for flowers. She chose the paper, she made the
garlands for the curtains, she embroidered the ottomans,
and painted that table so prettily. Papasito likes to have
things remain as she arranged them, but sometimes they
make him sad; for the angels took Mamita away from us
two years ago.”
“Even the names she gave you are flowery,” said Alfred,
with an expression of mingled sympathy and admiration.
“Yes; and we had a great many flowery pet-names
beside,” replied she. “My name is Flora, but when she
was very loving with me she called me her Floracita, her
little flower; and Papasito always calls me so now. Sometimes
Mamita called me Pensée Vivace.”
“In English we call that bright little flower Jump-up-and-kiss-me,”
rejoined Alfred, smiling as he looked down
upon the lively little fairy.
She returned the smile with an arch glance, that seemed
to say, “I sha' n't do it, though.” And away she skipped
to meet her father, whose returning steps were heard.
“You see I spoil her,” said he, as she led him into the
room with a half-dancing step. “But how can I help it?”
Before there was time to respond to this question, the
negress with the bright turban announced that tea was ready.
“Yes, Tulipa, we will come,” said Floracita.
“Is she a flower too?” asked Alfred.
“Yes, she 's a flower, too,” answered Floracita, with a
merry little laugh. “We named her so because she always
wears a red and yellow turban; but we call her Tulee, for
short.”
While they were partaking of refreshments, she and her
father were perpetually exchanging badinage, which, childish
as it was, served to enliven the repast. But when she
began to throw oranges for him to catch, a reproving glance
from her dignified sister reminded her of the presence of
company.
“Let her do as she likes, Rosa dear,” said her father.
“She is used to being my little plaything, and I can't spare
her to be a woman yet.”
“I consider it a compliment to forget that I am a stranger,”
said Mr. King. “For my own part, I forgot it entirely
before I had been in the house ten minutes.”
Rosabella thanked him with a quiet smile and a slight
inclination of her head. Floracita, notwithstanding this
encouragement, paused in her merriment; and Mr. Royal
began to talk over reminiscences connected with Alfred's
father. When they rose from table, he said, “Come here,
Mignonne! We won't be afraid of the Boston gentleman,
will we?” Floracita sprang to his side. He passed his
arm fondly round her, and, waiting for his guest and his
elder daughter to precede them, they returned to the room
they had left. They had scarcely entered it, when Floracita
she looked back roguishly at her sister, and began to
sing:—
En ces lieux est venu.
Oui! oui! c'est lui même!
C'est lui! je l'ai vue!
Petit blanc! mon bon frère!
Ha! ha! petit blanc si doux!”
The progress of her song was checked by the entrance
of a gentleman, who was introduced to Alfred as Mr. Fitzgerald
from Savannah. His handsome person reminded
one of an Italian tenor singer, and his manner was a graceful
mixture of hauteur and insinuating courtesy. After a
brief interchange of salutations, he said to Floracita, “I
heard some notes of a lively little French tune, that went
so trippingly I should be delighted to hear more of it.”
Floracita had accidentally overheard some half-whispered
words which Mr. Fitzgerald had addressed to her
sister, during his last visit, and, thinking she had discovered
an important secret, she was disposed to use her power
mischievously. Without waiting for a repetition of his
request, she sang:—
Ha! ha! petit blanc si doux!
Il n'y a rien sur la terre
De si joli que vous”
While she was singing, she darted roguish glances at her
sister, whose cheeks glowed like the sun-ripened side of a
golden apricot. Her father touched her shoulder, and said
in a tone of annoyance, “Don't sing that foolish song,
Mignonne!” She turned to him quickly with a look of
surprise; for she was accustomed only to endearments from
“You know I told you I wanted my friend to see you
dance. Select one of your prettiest, ma petite, and Rosabella
will play it for you.”
Mr. Fitzgerald assiduously placed the music-stool, and
bent over the portfolio while Miss Royal searched for the
music. A servant lighted the candelabra and drew the
curtains. Alfred, glancing at Mr. Royal, saw he was
watching the pair who were busy at the portfolio, and
that the expression of his countenance was troubled. His
eyes, however, soon had pleasanter occupation; for as soon
as Rosa touched the piano, Floracita began to float round
the room in a succession of graceful whirls, as if the music
had taken her up and was waltzing her along. As she
passed the marble Dancing Girl, she seized the wreath
that was thrown over its arm, and as she went circling
round, it seemed as if the tune had become a visible spirit,
and that the garland was a floating accompaniment to its
graceful motions. Sometimes it was held aloft by the
right hand, sometimes by the left; sometimes it was a
whirling semicircle behind her; and sometimes it rested
on her shoulders, mingling its white orange buds and blossoms
with her shower of black curls and crimson fuchsias.
Now it was twined round her head in a flowery crown,
and then it gracefully unwound itself, as if it were a thing
alive. Ever and anon the little dancer poised herself for
an instant on the point of one fairy foot, her cheeks glowing
with exercise and dimpling with smiles, as she met her
father's delighted gaze. Every attitude seemed spontaneous
in its prettiness, as if the music had made it without
her choice. At last she danced toward her father, and
sank, with a wave-like motion, on the ottoman at his feet.
knee, and drawing a long breath, as if oppressed with happiness,
he murmured, “Ah, Mignonne!”
The floating fairy vision had given such exquisite pleasure,
that all had been absorbed in watching its variations.
Now they looked at each other and smiled. “You would
make Taglioni jealous,” said Mr. Fitzgerald, addressing
the little dancer; and Mr. King silently thanked her with
a very expressive glance.
As Rosabella retired from the piano, she busied herself
with rearranging a bouquet she had taken from one of the
vases. When Mr. Fitzgerald stationed himself at her side,
she lowered her eyes with a perceptibly deepening color.
On her peculiar complexion a blush showed like a roseate
cloud in a golden atmosphere. As Alfred gazed on the
long, dark, silky fringes resting on those warmly tinted
cheeks, he thought he had never seen any human creature
so superbly handsome.
“Nothing but music can satisfy us after such dancing,”
said Mr. Fitzgerald. She looked up to him with a smile;
and Alfred thought the rising of those dark eyelashes surpassed
their downcast expression, as the glory of morning
sunshine excels the veiled beauty of starlight.
“Shall I accompany you while you sing, `How brightly
breaks the morning'?” asked she.
“That always sings itself into my heart, whenever you
raise your eyes to mine,” replied he, in a low tone, as he
handed her to the piano.
Together they sang that popular melody, bright and
joyful as sunrise on a world of blossoms. Then came a
Tyrolese song, with a double voice, sounding like echoes
from the mountains. This was followed by some tender,
had brought on a preceding visit. Feeling they
were too much engrossed with each other, she said politely,
“Mr. King has not yet chosen any music.”
“The moon becomes visible through the curtains,” replied
he. “Perhaps you will salute her with `Casta
Diva.' ”
“That is a favorite with us,” she replied. “Either
Flora or I sing it almost every moonlight night.”
She sang it in very pure Italian. Then turning round on
the music-stool she looked at her father, and said, “Now,
Papasito querido, what shall I sing for you?”
“You know, dear, what I always love to hear,” answered
he.
With gentle touch, she drew from the keys a plaintive
prelude, which soon modulated itself into “The Light of
other Days.” She played and sang it with so much feeling,
that it seemed the voice of memory floating with
softened sadness over the far-off waters of the past. The
tune was familiar to Alfred, but it had never sung itself
into his heart, as now. “I felt as I did in Italy, listening
to a vesper-bell sounding from a distance in the stillness
of twilight,” said he, turning toward his host.
“All who hear Rosabella sing notice a bell in her
voice,” rejoined her father.
“Undoubtedly it is the voice of a belle,” said Mr. Fitzgerald.
Her father, without appearing to notice the commonplace
pun, went on to say, “You don't know, Mr. King,
what tricks she can play with her voice. I call her a musical
ventriloquist. If you want to hear the bell to perfection,
ask her to sing `Toll the bell for lovely Nell.' ”
“Do give me that pleasure,” said Alfred, persuasively.
She sang the pathetic melody, and with voice and piano
imitated to perfection the slow tolling of a silver-toned
bell. After a short pause, during which she trifled with
the keys, while some general remarks were passing, she
turned to Mr. Fitzgerald, who was leaning on the piano,
and said, “What shall I sing for you?” It was a simple
question, but it pierced the heart of Alfred King with a
strange new pain. What would he not have given for
such a soft expression in those glorious eyes when she
looked at him!
“Since you are in a ventriloqual mood,” answered Mr.
Fitzgerald, “I should like to hear again what you played
the last time I was here, — Agatha's Moonlight Prayer,
from Der Freyschütz.”
She smiled, and with voice and instrument produced the
indescribably dreamy effect of the two flutes. It was the
very moonlight of sound.
“This is perfectly magical,” murmured Alfred. He
spoke in a low, almost reverential tone; for the spell of
moonlight was on him, and the clear, soft voice of the
singer, the novelty of her peculiar beauty, and the surpassing
gracefulness of her motions, as she swayed gently
to the music of the tones she produced, inspired him with
a feeling of poetic deference. Through the partially open
window came the lulling sound of a little trickling fountain
in the garden, and the air was redolent of jasmine and
orange-blossoms. On the pier-table was a little sleeping
Cupid, from whose torch rose the fragrant incense of a
nearly extinguished pastille. The pervasive spirit of
beauty in the room, manifested in forms, colors, tones, and
motions, affected the soul as perfume did the senses. The
Alfred examined the reclining Cupid, and praised the
gracefulness of its outline.
“Cupid could never sleep here, nor would the flame of
his torch ever go out,” said Mr. Fitzgerald; “but it is time
we were going out.”
The young gentlemen exchanged parting salutations
with their host and his daughters, and moved toward the
door. But Mr. Fitzgerald paused on the threshold to say,
“Please play us out with Mozart's `Good Night.' ”
“As organists play worshippers out of the church,” added
Mr. King.
Rosabella bowed compliance, and, as they crossed the
outer threshold, they heard the most musical of voices
singing Mozart's beautiful little melody, “Buena Notte,
amato bene.” The young men lingered near the piazza
till the last sounds floated away, and then they walked
forth in the moonlight, — Fitzgerald repeating the air in a
subdued whistle.
His first exclamation was, “Is n't that girl a Rose
Royal?”
“She is, indeed,” replied Mr. King; “and the younger
sister is also extremely fascinating.”
“Yes, I thought you seemed to think so,” rejoined his
companion. “Which do you prefer?”
Shy of revealing his thoughts to a stranger, Mr. King
replied that each of the sisters was so perfect in her way,
the other would be wronged by preference.
“Yes, they are both rare gems of beauty,” rejoined Fitzgerald.
“If I were the Grand Bashaw, I would have them
both in my harem.”
The levity of the remark jarred on the feelings of his
tone, “I saw nothing in the manners of the young ladies to
suggest such a disposition of them.”
“Excuse me,” said Fitzgerald, laughing. “I forgot you
were from the land of Puritans. I meant no indignity to
the young ladies, I assure you. But when one amuses
himself with imagining the impossible, it is not worth while
to be scrupulous about details. I am not the Grand
Bashaw; and when I pronounced them fit for his harem,
I merely meant a compliment to their superlative beauty.
That Floracita is a mischievous little sprite. Did you ever
see anything more roguish than her expression while she
was singing `Petit blanc, mon bon frère'?”
“That mercurial little song excited my curiosity,” replied
Alfred. “Pray what is its origin?”
“I think it likely it came from the French West Indies,”
said Fitzgerald. “It seems to be the love-song of a young
negress, addressed to a white lover. Floracita may have
learned it from her mother, who was half French, half
Spanish. You doubtless observed the foreign sprinkling
in their talk. They told me they never spoke English
with their mother. Those who have seen her describe her
as a wonderful creature, who danced like Taglioni and sang
like Malibran, and was more beautiful than her daughter
Rosabella. But the last part of the story is incredible. If
she were half as handsome, no wonder Mr. Royal idolized
her, as they say he did.”
“Did he marry her in the French Islands?” inquired
Alfred.
“They were not married,” answered Fitzgerald. “Of
course not, for she was a quadroon. But here are my
lodgings, and I must bid you good night.”
These careless parting words produced great disturbance
in the spirit of Alfred King. He had heard of those
quadroon connections, as one hears of foreign customs,
without any realizing sense of their consequences. That
his father's friend should be a partner in such an alliance,
and that these two graceful and accomplished girls should
by that circumstance be excluded from the society they
would so greatly ornament, surprised and bewildered him.
He recalled that tinge in Rosa's complexion, not golden,
but like a faint, luminous reflection of gold, and that slight
waviness in the glossy hair, which seemed to him so becoming.
He could not make these peculiarities seem less beautiful
to his imagination, now that he knew them as signs of
her connection with a proscribed race. And that bewitching
little Floracita, emerging into womanhood, with the auroral
light of childhood still floating round her, she seemed
like a beautiful Italian child, whose proper place was among
fountains and statues and pictured forms of art. The skill
of no Parisian coiffeur could produce a result so pleasing
as the profusion of raven hair, that would roll itself into
ringlets. Octoroons! He repeated the word to himself,
but it did not disenchant him. It was merely something
foreign and new to his experience, like Spanish or Italian
beauty. Yet he felt painfully the false position in which
they were placed by the unreasoning prejudice of society.
Though he had had a fatiguing day, when he entered
his chamber he felt no inclination to sleep. As he slowly
paced up and down the room, he thought to himself, “My
good mother shares the prejudice. How could I introduce
them to her?” Then, as if impatient with himself, he
murmured, in a vexed tone, “Why should I think of introducing
them to my mother? A few hours ago I did n't
know of their existence.”
He threw himself on the bed and tried to sleep; but
memory was too busy with the scene of enchantment he
had recently left. A catalpa-tree threw its shadow on the
moon-lighted curtain. He began to count the wavering
leaves, in hopes the monotonous occupation would induce
slumber. After a while he forgot to count; and as his spirit
hovered between the inner and the outer world, Floracita
seemed to be dancing on the leaf shadows in manifold
graceful evolutions. Then he was watching a little trickling
fountain, and the falling drops were tones of “The
Light of other Days.” Anon he was wandering among
flowers in the moonlight, and from afar some one was heard
singing “Casta Diva.” The memory of that voice,
Made everything seem musical.”
Again and again the panorama of the preceding evening
revolved through the halls of memory with every variety
of fantastic change. A light laugh broke in upon the
scenes of enchantment, with the words, “Of course not,
for she was a quadroon.” Then the plaintive melody of
“Toll the bell” resounded in his ears; not afar off, but
loud and clear, as if the singer were in the room. He
woke with a start, and heard the vibrations of a cathedral
bell subsiding into silence. It had struck but twice, but in
his spiritual ear the sounds had been modulated through
many tones. “Even thus strangely,” thought he, “has
that rich, sonorous voice struck into the dream of my life.”
Again he saw those large, lustrous eyes lowering their
long-fringed veils under the ardent gaze of Gerald Fitzgerald.
Again he thought of his mother, and sighed. At
last a dreamless sleep stole over him, and both pleasure
and pain were buried in deep oblivion.
2. CHAPTER II.
THE sun was up before he woke. He rose hastily
and ordered breakfast and a horse; for he had resolved
the day before upon an early ride. A restless,
undefined feeling led him in the same direction he had
taken the preceding evening. He passed the house that
would forevermore be a prominent feature in the landscape
of his life. Vines were gently waving in the morning
air between the pillars of the piazza, where he had
lingered entranced to hear the tones of “Buena Notte.”
The bright turban of Tulipa was glancing about, as she
dusted the blinds. A peacock on the balustrade, in the
sunshine, spread out his tail into a great Oriental fan, and
slowly lowered it, making a prismatic shower of topaz,
sapphires, and emeralds as it fell. It was the first of
March; but as he rode on, thinking of the dreary landscape
and boisterous winds of New England at that season,
the air was filled with the fragrance of flowers, and
mocking-birds and thrushes saluted him with their songs.
In many places the ground was thickly strewn with oranges,
and the orange-groves were beautiful with golden fruit and
silver flowers gleaming among the dark glossy green foliage.
Here and there was the mansion of a wealthy planter,
surrounded by whitewashed slave-cabins. The negroes
at their work, and their black picaninnies rolling about on
the ground, seemed an appropriate part of the landscape,
so tropical in its beauty of dark colors and luxuriant
growth.
He rode several miles, persuading himself that he was
enticed solely by the healthy exercise and the novelty of
the scene. But more alluring than the pleasant landscape
and the fragrant air was the hope that, if he returned late,
the young ladies might be on the piazza, or visible at the
windows. He was destined to be disappointed. As he
passed, a curtain was slowly withdrawn from one of the
windows and revealed a vase of flowers. He rode slowly,
in hopes of seeing a face bend over the flowers; but the
person who drew the curtain remained invisible. On the
piazza nothing was in motion, except the peacock strutting
along, stately as a court beauty, and drawing after him his
long train of jewelled plumage. A voice, joyous as a bobolink's,
sounded apparently from the garden. He could
not hear the words, but the lively tones at once suggested,
“Petit blanc, mon bon frère.” He recalled the words so
carelessly uttered, “Of course not, for she was a quadroon,”
and they seemed to make harsh discord with the
refrain of the song. He remembered the vivid flush that
passed over Rosa's face while her playful sister teased her
with that tuneful badinage. It seemed to him that Mr.
Fitzgerald was well aware of his power, for he had not
attempted to conceal his consciousness of the singer's mischievous
intent. This train of thought was arrested by the
inward question, “What is it to me whether he marries her
or not?” Impatiently he touched his horse with the whip,
as if he wanted to rush from the answer to his own query.
He had engaged to meet Mr. Royal at his counting-house,
and he was careful to keep the appointment. He
was received with parental kindness slightly tinged with
embarrassment. After some conversation about business,
Mr. Royal said: “From your silence concerning your visit
given you some information relating to my daughters' history.
I trust, my young friend, that you have not suspected
me of any intention to deceive or entrap you. I
intended to have told you myself; but I had a desire to
know first how my daughters would impress you, if judged
by their own merits. Having been forestalled in my purpose,
I am afraid frankness on your part will now be difficult.”
“A feeling of embarrassment did indeed prevent me
from alluding to my visit as soon as I met you this morning,”
replied Alfred; “but no circumstances could alter
my estimate of your daughters. Their beauty and gracefulness
exceed anything I have seen.”
“And they are as innocent and good as they are beautiful,”
rejoined the father. “But you can easily imagine
that my pride and delight in them is much disturbed by
anxiety concerning their future. Latterly, I have thought
a good deal about closing business and taking them to
France to reside. But when men get to be so old as I am,
the process of being transplanted to a foreign soil seems
onerous. If it were as well for them, I should greatly prefer
returning to my native New England.”
“They are tropical flowers,” observed Alfred. “There
is nothing Northern in their natures.”
“Yes, they are tropical flowers,” rejoined the father,
“and my wish is to place them in perpetual sunshine. I
doubt whether they could ever feel quite at home far away
from jasmines and orange-groves. But climate is the
least of the impediments in the way of taking them to New
England. Their connection with the enslaved race is so
very slight, that it might easily be concealed; but the consciousness
Your father was more free from prejudices of all sorts than
any man I ever knew. If he were living, I would confide
all to him, and be guided implicitly by his advice. You
resemble him so strongly, that I have been involuntarily
drawn to open my heart to you, as I never thought to do
to so young a man. Yet I find the fulness of my confidence
checked by the fear of lowering myself in the estimation
of the son of my dearest friend. But perhaps, if you
knew all the circumstances, and had had my experience,
you would find some extenuation of my fault. I was very
unhappy when I first came to New Orleans. I was devotedly
attached to a young lady, and I was rudely repelled
by her proud and worldly family. I was seized with a
vehement desire to prove to them that I could become
richer than they were. I rushed madly into the pursuit
of wealth, and I was successful; but meanwhile they had
married her to another, and I found that wealth alone
could not bring happiness. In vain the profits of my business
doubled and quadrupled. I was unsatisfied, lonely,
and sad. Commercial transactions brought me into intimate
relations with Señor Gonsalez, a Spanish gentleman
in St. Augustine. He had formed an alliance with a beautiful
slave, whom he had bought in the French West Indies.
I never saw her, for she died before my acquaintance
with him; but their daughter, then a girl of sixteen, was
the most charming creature I ever beheld. The irresistible
attraction I felt toward her the first moment I saw her was
doubtless the mere fascination of the senses; but when I
came to know her more, I found her so gentle, so tender,
so modest, and so true, that I loved her with a strong and
deep affection. I admired her, too, for other reasons than
procured by her father's fond indulgence during two years'
residence in Paris. He was wealthy at that time; but he
afterward became entangled in pecuniary difficulties, and
his health declined. He took a liking to me, and proposed
that I should purchase Eulalia, and thus enable him to
cancel a debt due to a troublesome creditor whom he suspected
of having an eye upon his daughter. I gave him a
large sum for her, and brought her with me to New Orleans.
Do not despise me for it, my young friend. If it had
been told to me a few years before, in my New England
home, that I could ever become a party in such a transaction,
I should have rejected the idea with indignation.
But my disappointed and lonely condition rendered me an
easy prey to temptation, and I was where public opinion
sanctioned such connections. Besides, there were kindly
motives mixed up with selfish ones. I pitied the unfortunate
father, and I feared his handsome daughter might
fall into hands that would not protect her so carefully as I
resolved to do. I knew the freedom of her choice was not
interfered with, for she confessed she loved me.
“Señor Gonsalez, who was more attached to her than to
anything else in the world, soon afterward gathered up the
fragments of his broken fortune, and came to reside near
us. I know it was a great satisfaction to his dying
hours that he left Eulalia in my care, and the dear girl
was entirely happy with me. If I had manumitted her,
carried her abroad, and legally married her, I should have
no remorse mingled with my sorrow for her loss. Loving
her faithfully, as I did to the latest moment of her life, I now
find it difficult to explain to myself how I came to neglect
such an obvious duty. I was always thinking that I would
would have been void, according to the laws of Louisiana;
and, being immersed in business, I never seemed to find
time to take her abroad. When one has taken the first
wrong step, it becomes dangerously easy to go on in the
same path. A man's standing here is not injured by such
irregular connections; and my faithful, loving Eulalia
meekly accepted her situation as a portion of her inherited
destiny. Mine was the fault, not hers; for I was free to
do as I pleased, and she never had been. I acted in opposition
to moral principles, which the education of false circumstances
had given her no opportunity to form. I had
remorseful thoughts at times, but I am quite sure she was
never troubled in that way. She loved and trusted me
entirely. She knew that the marriage of a white man with
one of her race was illegal; and she quietly accepted the
fact, as human beings do accept what they are powerless
to overcome. Her daughters attributed her olive complexion
to a Spanish origin; and their only idea was, and
is, that she was my honored wife, as indeed she was in the
inmost recesses of my heart. I gradually withdrew from
the few acquaintances I had formed in New Orleans; partly
because I was satisfied with the company of Eulalia and
our children, and partly because I could not take her with
me into society. She had no acquaintances here, and we
acquired the habit of living in a little world by ourselves,—
a world which, as you have seen, was transformed into a
sort of fairy-land by her love of beautiful things. After I
lost her, it was my intention to send the children immediately
to France to be educated. But procrastination is
my besetting sin; and the idea of parting with them was so
painful, that I have deferred and deferred it. The suffering
the wrong I did their mother. When I think how beautiful,
how talented, how affectionate, and how pure they
are, and in what a cruel position I have placed them, I
have terrible writhings of the heart. I do not think I am
destined to long life; and who will protect them when I
am gone?”
A consciousness of last night's wishes and dreams made
Alfred blush as he said, “It occurred to me that your
eldest daughter might be betrothed to Mr. Fitzgerald.”
“I hope not,” quickly rejoined Mr. Royal. “He is not
the sort of man with whom I would like to intrust her
happiness. I think, if it were so, Rosabella would have
told me, for my children always confide in me.”
“I took it for granted that you liked him,” replied Alfred;
“for you said an introduction to your home was a
favor you rarely bestowed.”
“I never conferred it on any young man but yourself,”
answered Mr. Royal, “and you owed it partly to my memory
of your honest father, and partly to the expression of
your face, which so much resembles his.” The young
man smiled and bowed, and his friend continued: “When
I invited you, I was not aware Mr. Fitzgerald was in
the city. I am but slightly acquainted with him, but I
conjecture him to be what is called a high-blood. His
manners, though elegant, seem to me flippant and audacious.
He introduced himself into my domestic sanctum;
and, as I partook of his father's hospitality years ago, I
find it difficult to eject him. He came here a few months
since, to transact some business connected with the settlement
of his father's estate, and, unfortunately, he heard
Rosabella singing as he rode past my house. He made
heard, I conjecture that he has learned more of my private
history than I wished to have him know. He called without
asking my permission, and told my girls that his father
was my friend, and that he had consequently taken the
liberty to call with some new music, which he was very
desirous of hearing them sing. When I was informed of
this, on my return home, I was exceedingly annoyed; and
I have ever since been thinking of closing business as soon
as possible, and taking my daughters to France. He called
twice again during his stay in the city, but my daughters
made it a point to see him only when I was at home. Now
he has come again, to increase the difficulties of my position
by his unwelcome assiduities.”
“Unwelcome to you,” rejoined Alfred; “but, handsome
and fascinating as he is, they are not likely to be unwelcome
to your daughters. Your purpose of conveying them
to France is a wise one.”
“Would I had done it sooner!” exclaimed Mr. Royal.
“How weak I have been in allowing circumstances to drift
me along!” He walked up and down the room with agitated
steps; then, pausing before Alfred, he laid his hand
affectionately on his shoulder, as he said, with solemn
earnestness, “My young friend, I am glad your father did
not accept my proposal to receive you into partnership.
Let me advise you to live in New England. The institutions
around us have an effect on character which it is difficult
to escape entirely. Bad customs often lead well-meaning
men into wrong paths.”
“That was my father's reason for being unwilling I
should reside in New Orleans,” replied Alfred. “He said
it was impossible to exaggerate the importance of social
of Turkish women when he was in the environs of
Constantinople. They were wrapped up like bales of cloth,
with two small openings for their eyes, mounted on camels,
and escorted by the overseer of the harem. The animal
sound of their chatter and giggling, as they passed him,
affected him painfully; for it forced upon him the idea
what different beings those women would have been if
they had been brought up amid the free churches and free
schools of New England. He always expounded history
to me in the light of that conviction; and he mourned that
temporary difficulties should prevent lawgivers from checking
the growth of evils that must have a blighting influence
on the souls of many generations. He considered
slavery a cumulative poison in the veins of this Republic,
and predicted that it would some day act all at once with
deadly power.”
“Your father was a wise man,” replied Mr. Royal, “and
I agree with him. But it would be unsafe to announce it
here; for slavery is a tabooed subject, except to talk in
favor of it.”
“I am well aware of that,” rejoined Alfred. “And now
I must bid you good morning. You know my mother is
an invalid, and I may find letters at the post-office that
will render immediate return necessary. But I will see
you again; and hereafter our acquaintance may perhaps
be renewed in France.”
“That is a delightful hope,” rejoined the merchant, cordially
returning the friendly pressure of his hand. As he
looked after the young man, he thought how pleasant it
would be to have such a son; and he sighed deeply over
the vision of a union that might have been, under other
friend. Alfred, as he walked away, was conscious of that
latent, unspoken wish. Again the query began to revolve
through his mind whether the impediments were really insurmountable.
There floated before him a vision of that
enchanting room, where the whole of life seemed to be
composed of beauty and gracefulness, music and flowers.
But a shadow of Fitzgerald fell across it, and the recollection
of Boston relatives rose up like an iceberg between
him and fairy-land.
A letter informing him of his mother's increasing illness
excited a feeling of remorse that new acquaintances had
temporarily nearly driven her from his thoughts. He resolved
to depart that evening; but the desire to see Rosabella
again could not be suppressed. Failing to find Mr.
Royal at his counting-room or his hotel, he proceeded to
his suburban residence. When Tulipa informed him that
“massa” had not returned from the city, he inquired for
the young ladies, and was again shown into that parlor
every feature of which was so indelibly impressed upon
his memory. Portions of the music of Cenerentola lay
open on the piano, and the leaves fluttered softly in a gentle
breeze laden with perfumes from the garden. Near by
was swinging the beaded tassel of a book-mark between
the pages of a half-opened volume. He looked at the
title and saw that it was Lalla Rookh. He smiled, as he
glanced round the room on the flowery festoons, the graceful
tangle of bright arabesques on the walls, the Dancing
Girl, and the Sleeping Cupid. “All is in harmony with
Canova, and Moore, and Rossini,” thought he. “The Lady
in Milton's Comus has been the ideal of my imagination;
and now here I am so strangely taken captive by —”
Rosabella entered at that moment, and almost startled
him with the contrast to his ideal. Her glowing Oriental
beauty and stately grace impressed him more than ever.
Floracita's fairy form and airy motions were scarcely less
fascinating. Their talk was very girlish. Floracita had
just been reading in a French paper about the performance
of La Bayadère, and she longed to see the ballet brought
out in Paris. Rosabella thought nothing could be quite so
romantic as to float on the canals of Venice by moonlight
and listen to the nightingales; and she should so like to
cross the Bridge of Sighs! Then they went into raptures
over the gracefulness of Rossini's music, and the brilliancy
of Auber's. Very few and very slender thoughts were
conveyed in their words, but to the young man's ear they
had the charm of music; for Floracita's talk went as trippingly
as a lively dance, and the sweet modulations of
Rosabella's voice so softened English to Italian sound, that
her words seemed floating on a liquid element, like goldfish
in the water. Indeed, her whole nature seemed to partake
the fluid character of music. Beauty born of harmonious
sound “had passed into her face,” and her motions reminded
one of a water-lily undulating on its native element.
The necessity of returning immediately to Boston was
Alfred's apology for a brief call. Repressed feeling imparted
great earnestness to the message he left for his
father's friend. While he was uttering it, the conversation
he had recently had with Mr. Royal came back to him
with painful distinctness. After parting compliments were
exchanged, he turned to say, “Excuse me, young ladies,
if, in memory of our fathers' friendship, I beg of you to
command my services, as if I were a brother, should it
ever be in my power to serve you.”
Rosabella thanked him with a slight inclination of her
graceful head; and Floracita, dimpling a quick little
courtesy, said sportively, “If some cruel Blue-Beard
should shut us up in his castle, we will send for you.”
“How funny!” exclaimed the volatile child, as the door
closed after him. “He spoke as solemn as a minister; but
I suppose that's the way with Yankees. I think cher papa
likes to preach sometimes.”
Rosabella, happening to glance at the window, saw that
Alfred King paused in the street and looked back. How
their emotions would have deepened could they have foreseen
the future!
3. CHAPTER III.
A YEAR passed away, and the early Southern spring
had again returned with flowers and fragrance. After
a day in music and embroidery, with sundry games
at Battledoor and The Graces with her sister, Floracita
heard the approaching footsteps of her father, and, as usual,
bounded forth to meet him. Any one who had not seen
him since he parted from the son of his early New England
friend would have observed that he looked older and more
careworn; but his daughters, accustomed to see him daily,
had not noticed the gradual change.
“You have kept us waiting a little, Papasito,” said
Rosabella, turning round on the music-stool, and greeting
him with a smile.
“Yes, my darling,” rejoined he, placing his hand fondly
on her head. “Getting ready to go to Europe makes a
deal of work.”
“If we were sons, we could help you,” said Rosabella.
“I wish you were sons!” answered he, with serious emphasis
and a deep sigh.
Floracita nestled close to him, and, looking up archly in
his face, said, “And pray what would you do, papa, without
your nightingale and your fairy, as you call us?”
“Sure enough, what should I do, my little flower?”
said he, as with a loving smile he stooped to kiss her.
They led him to the tea-table; and when the repast was
ended, they began to talk over their preparations for leaving
home.
“Cher papa, how long before we shall go to Paris?”
inquired Floracita.
“In two or three weeks, I hope,” was the reply.
“Won't it be delightful!” exclaimed she. “You will
take us to see ballets and everything.”
“When I am playing and singing fragments of operas,”
said Rosabella, “I often think to myself how wonderfully
beautiful they would sound, if all the parts were brought
out by such musicians as they have in Europe. I should
greatly enjoy hearing operas in Paris; but I often think,
Papasito, that we can never be so happy anywhere as we
have been in this dear home. It makes me feel sad to
leave all these pretty things, — so many of them ——”
She hesitated, and glanced at her father.
“So intimately associated with your dear mother, you
were about to say,” replied he. “That thought is often
present with me, and the idea of parting with them pains
me to the heart. But I do not intend they shall ever be
handled by strangers. We will pack them carefully and
leave them with Madame Guirlande; and when we get
settled abroad, in some nice little cottage, we will send for
them. But when you have been in Paris, when you have
seen the world and the world has seen you, perhaps you
won't be contented to live in a cottage with your old Papasito.
Perhaps your heads will become so turned with flattery,
that you will want to be at balls and operas all the
time.”
“No flattery will be so sweet as yours, cher papa,” said
Floracita.
“No indeed!” exclaimed Rosa. But, looking up, she
met his eye, and blushed crimson. She was conscious of
having already listened to flattery that was at least more
and felt a renewal of pain that unexpected entanglements
had prevented his going to Europe months ago. He
tenderly pressed her hand, that lay upon his knee, and
looked at her with troubled earnestness, as he said, “Now
that you are going to make acquaintance with the world,
my daughters, and without a mother to guide you, I want
you to promise me that you will never believe any gentleman
sincere in professions of love, unless he proposes marriage,
and asks my consent.”
Rosabella was obviously agitated, but she readily replied,
“Do you suppose, Papasito, that we would accept a lover
without asking you about it? When Mamita querida died,
she charged us to tell you everything; and we always do.”
“I do not doubt you, my children,” he replied; “but
the world is full of snares; and sometimes they are so covered
with flowers, that the inexperienced slip into them
unawares. I shall try to shield you from harm, as I always
have done; but when I am gone—”
“O, don't say that!” exclaimed Floracita, with a quick,
nervous movement.
And Rosabella looked at him with swimming eyes, as
she repeated, “Don't say that, Papasito querido!”
He laid a hand on the head of each. His heart was
very full. With solemn tenderness he tried to warn them
of the perils of life. But there was much that he was
obliged to refrain from saying, from reverence for their
inexperienced purity. And had he attempted to describe
the manners of a corrupt world, they could have had no
realizing sense of his meaning; for it is impossible for
youth to comprehend the dangers of the road it is to travel.
The long talk at last subsided into serious silence.
softy, “Would n't you like to hear some music before you
go to bed, Papasito mio?”
He nodded assent, and she moved to the piano. Their
conversation had produced an unusually tender and subdued
state of feeling, and she sang quietly many plaintive
melodies that her mother loved. The fountain trickling in
the garden kept up a low liquid accompaniment, and the
perfume of the orange-groves seemed like the fragrant
breath of the tones.
It was late when they parted for the night. “Bon soir,
cher papa,” said Floracita, kissing her father's hand.
“Buenas noches, Papasito querido,” said Rosabella, as
she touched his cheek with her beautiful lips.
There was moisture in his eyes as he folded them to his
heart and said, “God bless you! God protect you, my dear
ones!” Those melodies of past times had brought their
mother before him in all her loving trustfulness, and his
soul was full of sorrow for the irreparable wrong he had
done her children.
The pensive mood, that had enveloped them all in a
little cloud the preceding evening, was gone in the morning.
There was the usual bantering during breakfast, and
after they rose from table they discussed in a lively manner
various plans concerning their residence in France.
Rosabella evidently felt much less pleasure in the prospect
than did her younger sister; and her father, conjecturing
the reason, was the more anxious to expedite their departure.
“I must not linger here talking,” said he. “I must
go and attend to business; for there are many things to be
arranged before we can set out on our travels.”
“Hasta luego, Papasito mio,” said Rosabella, with an
affectionate smile.
“Au revoir, cher papa,” said Floracita, as she handed
him his hat.
He patted her head playfully as he said, “What a
polyglot family we are! Your grandfather's Spanish,
your grandmother's French, and your father's English, all
mixed up in an olla podrida. Good morning, my darlings.”
Floracita skipped out on the piazza, calling after him,
“Papa, what is polyglot?”
He turned and shook his finger laughingly at her, as he
exclaimed, “O, you little ignoramus!”
The sisters lingered on the piazza, watching him till he
was out of sight. When they re-entered the house, Floracita
occupied herself with various articles of her wardrobe;
consulting with Rosa whether any alterations would be
necessary before they were packed for France. It evidently
cost Rosa some effort to attend to her innumerable
questions, for the incessant chattering disturbed her revery.
At every interval she glanced round the room with a
sort of farewell tenderness. It was more to her than the
home of a happy childhood; for nearly all the familiar
objects had become associated with glances and tones, the
memory of which excited restless longings in her heart.
As she stood gazing on the blooming garden and the little
fountain, whose sparkling rills crossed each other in the
sunshine like a silvery network strung with diamonds, she
exclaimed, “O Floracita, we shall never be so happy anywhere
else as we have been here.”
“How do you know that, sistita mia?” rejoined the
lively little chatterer. “Only think, we have never been
to a ball! And when we get to France, Papasito will go
everywhere with us. He says he will.”
“I should like to hear operas and see ballets in Paris,”
said Rosabella; “but I wish we could come back here before
long.”
Floracita's laughing eyes assumed the arch expression
which rendered them peculiarly bewitching, and she began
to sing,—
Ha! ha! petit blanc si doux!
Il n'y a rien sur la terre
De si joli que vous.
“Un petit blanc que j'aime—”
A quick flush mantled her sister's face, and she put her
hand over the mischievous mouth, exclaiming, “Don't,
Flora! don't!”
The roguish little creature went laughing and capering
out of the room, and her voice was still heard singing,—
“Un petit blanc que j'aime.”
The arrival of Signor Papanti soon summoned her to
rehearse a music lesson. She glanced roguishly at her
sister when she began; and as she went on, Rosa could
not help smiling at her musical antics. The old teacher
bore it patiently for a while, then he stopped trying to accompany
her, and, shaking his finger at her, said, “Diavolessa!”
“Did I make a false note?” asked she, demurely.
“No, you little witch, you can't make a false note. But
how do you suppose I can keep hold of the tail of the Air,
if you send me chasing after it through so many capricious
variations? Now begin again, da capo.”
The lesson was recommenced, but soon ran riot again.
The Signor became red in the face, shut the music-book
with a slam, and poured forth a volley of wrath in Italian.
When she saw that he was really angry, she apologized,
and promised to do better. The third time of trying, she
acquitted herself so well that her teacher praised her; and
when she bade him good morning, with a comic little
courtesy, he smiled good-naturedly, as he said, “Ah, Malizietta!”
“I knew I should make Signor Pimentero sprinkle some
pepper,” exclaimed she, laughing, as she saw him walk
away.
“You are too fond of sobriquets,” said Rosa. “If you
are not careful, you will call him Signor Pimentero to his
face, some day.”
“What did you tell me that for?” asked the little rogue.
“It will just make me do it. Now I am going to pester
Madame's parrot.”
She caught up her large straw hat, with flying ribbons,
and ran to the house of their next neighbor, Madame
Guirlande. She was a French lady, who had given the
girls lessons in embroidery, the manufacture of artificial
flowers, and other fancy-work. Before long, Floracita returned
through the garden, skipping over a jumping-rope.
“This is a day of compliments,” said she, as she entered
the parlor, “Signor Pimentero called me Diavolessa;
Madame Guirlande called me Joli petit diable; and the
parrot took it up, and screamed it after me, as I came
away.”
“I don't wonder at it,” replied Rosa. “I think I never
saw even you so full of mischief.”
Her frolicsome mood remained through the day. One
moment she assumed the dignified manner of Rosabella,
and, stretching herself to the utmost, she stood very erect,
giving sage advice. The next, she was impersonating a
in the garden, she went to the window and taxed
his powers to the utmost, by running up and down difficult
roulades, interspersed with the talk of parrots, the shrill
fanfare of trumpets, and the deep growl of a contra-fagotto.
The bird produced a grotesque fantasia in his efforts to
imitate her. The peacock, as he strutted up and down the
piazza, trailing his gorgeous plumage in the sunshine, ever
and anon turned his glossy neck, and held up his ear to
listen, occasionally performing his part in the charivari by
uttering a harsh scream. The mirthfulness of the little
madcap was contagious, and not unfrequently the giggle of
Tulipa and the low musical laugh of Rosabella mingled
with the concert.
Thus the day passed merrily away, till the gilded Flora
that leaned against the timepiece pointed her wand toward
the hour when their father was accustomed to return.
4. CHAPTER IV.
FLORACITA was still in the full career of fun, when
footsteps were heard approaching; and, as usual, she
bounded forth to welcome her father. Several men, bearing
a palanquin on their shoulders, were slowly ascending
the piazza. She gave one glance at their burden, and uttered
a shrill scream. Rosabella hastened to her in great
alarm. Tulipa followed, and quickly comprehending that
something terrible had happened, she hurried away to
summon Madame Guirlande. Rosabella, pale and trembling,
gasped out, “What has happened to my father?”
Franz Blumenthal, a favorite clerk of Mr. Royal's, replied,
in a low, sympathizing tone, “He was writing letters
in the counting-room this afternoon, and when I went in to
speak to him, I found him on the floor senseless. We
called a doctor immediately, but he failed to restore him.”
“O, call another doctor!” said Rosa, imploringly; and
Floracita almost shrieked, “Tell me where to go for a
doctor.”
“We have already summoned one on the way,” said
young Blumenthal, “but I will go to hasten him”;—and,
half blinded by his tears, he hurried into the street.
The doctor came in two minutes, and yet it seemed an
age. Meanwhile the wretched girls were chafing their father's
cold hands, and holding sal-volatile to his nose, while
Madame Guirlande and Tulipa were preparing hot water
and hot cloths. When the physician arrived, they watched
his countenance anxiously, while he felt the pulse and laid
and said, “Nothing can be done. He is dead.”
Rosabella fell forward, fainting, on the body. Floracita
uttered shriek upon shriek, while Madame Guirlande and
Tulipa vainly tried to pacify her. The doctor at last persuaded
her to swallow some valerian, and Tulipa carried
her in her arms and laid her on the bed. Madame Guirlande
led Rosa away, and the two sisters lay beside each
other, on the same pillows where they had dreamed such
happy dreams the night before. Floracita, stunned by the
blow that had fallen on her so suddenly, and rendered
drowsy by the anodyne she had taken, soon fell into an
uneasy slumber, broken by occasional starts and stifled
sobs. Rosabella wept silently, but now and then a shudder
passed over her, that showed how hard she was struggling
with grief. After a short time, Flora woke up
bewildered. A lamp was burning in the farther part of
the room, and Madame Guirlande, who sat there in spectacles
and ruffled cap, made a grotesque black shadow on
the wall. Floracita started up, screaming, “What is
that?” Madame Guirlande went to her, and she and
Rosa spoke soothingly, and soon she remembered all.
“O, let me go home with you,” she said to Madame
“I am afraid to stay here.”
“Yes, my children,” replied the good Frenchwoman.
“You had better both go home and stay with me to-night.”
“I cannot go away and leave him alone,” murmured
Rosa, in tones almost inaudible.
“Franz Blumenthal is going to remain here,” replied
Madame Guirlande, “and Tulipa has offered to sit up all
night. It is much better for you to go with me than to
stay here, my children.”
Thus exhorted, they rose and began to make preparations
for departure. But all at once the tender good-night
of the preceding evening rushed on Rosa's memory, and she
sank down in a paroxysm of grief. After weeping bitterly
for some minutes, she sobbed out, “O, this is worse than
it was when Mamita died. Papasito was so tender with
us then; and now we are all alone.”
“Not all alone,” responded Madame. “Jesus and the
Blessed Virgin are with you.”
“O, I don't know where they are!” exclaimed Flora, in
tones of wild agony. “I want my Papasito! I want to die
and go to my Papasito.”
Rosabella folded her in her arms, and they mingled their
tears together, as she whispered: “Let us try to be tranquil,
Sistita. We must not be troublesome to our kind
friend. I did wrong to say we were all alone. We have
always a Father in heaven, and he still spares us to love
each other. Perhaps, too, our dear Papasito is watching
over us. You know he used to tell us Mamita had become
our guardian angel.”
Floracita kissed her, and pressed her hand in silence.
Then they made preparations to go with their friendly
neighbor; all stepping very softly, as if afraid of waking
the beloved sleeper.
The sisters had lived in such extreme seclusion, that
when sorrow came upon them, like the sudden swoop and
swift destruction of a tropical storm, they had no earthly
friend to rely upon but Madame Guirlande. Only the day
before, they had been so rich in love, that, had she passed
away from the earth, it would have made no distressing
change in their existence. They would have said, “Poor
Madame Guirlande! She was a good soul. How patient
would have danced and sung the same as ever. But one
day had so beggared them in affection, that they leaned
upon her as their only earthly support.
After an almost untasted breakfast, they all went back to
the desolated home. The flowery parlor seemed awfully
lonesome. The piano was closed, the curtains drawn, and
their father's chair was placed against the wall. The murmur
of the fountain sounded as solemn as a dirge, and memories
filled the room like a troop of ghosts. Hand in hand,
the bereaved ones went to kiss the lips that would speak to
them no more in this world. They knelt long beside the
bed, and poured forth their breaking hearts in prayer.
They rose up soothed and strengthened, with the feeling
that their dear father and mother were still near them.
They found a sad consolation in weaving garlands and
flowery crosses, which they laid on the coffin with tender
reverence.
When the day of the funeral came, Madame Guirlande
kept them very near her, holding a hand of each. She had
provided them with long veils, which she requested them
not to remove; for she remembered how anxiously their
father had screened their beauty from the public gaze.
A number of merchants, who had known and respected Mr.
Royal, followed his remains to the grave. Most of them
had heard of his quadroon connection, and some supposed
that the veiled mourners might be his daughters; but such
things were too common to excite remark, or to awaken
much interest. The girls passed almost unnoticed; having,
out of respect to the wishes of their friend, stifled their
sobs till they were alone in the carriage with her and their
old music-teacher.
The conviction that he was not destined to long life,
which Mr. Royal had expressed to Alfred King, was
founded on the opinion of physicians that his heart was
diseased. This furnished an additional motive for closing
his business as soon as possible, and taking his children to
France. But the failure of several houses with which he
was connected brought unexpected entanglements. Month
by month, these became more complicated, and necessarily
delayed the intended emigration. His anxiety concerning
his daughters increased to an oppressive degree, and aggravated
the symptoms of his disease. With his habitual
desire to screen them from everything unpleasant, he unwisely
concealed from them both his illness and his pecuniary
difficulties. He knew he could no longer be a rich
man; but he still had hope of saving enough of his fortune
to live in a moderate way in some cheap district of France.
But on the day when he bade his daughters good morning
so cheerfully, he received a letter informing him of another
extensive failure, which involved him deeply. He was
alone in his counting-room when he read it; and there
Franz Blumenthal found him dead, with the letter in his
hand. His sudden exit of course aroused the vigilance of
creditors, and their examination into the state of his affairs
proved anything but satisfactory.
The sisters, unconscious of all this, were undisturbed by
any anxiety concerning future support. The necessity of
living without their father's love and counsel weighed heavily
on their spirits; but concerning his money they took
no thought. Hitherto they had lived as the birds do, and
it did not occur to them that it could ever be otherwise.
The garden and the flowery parlor, which their mother had
created and their father had so dearly loved, seemed almost
had been hard to think of leaving them, even for the attractions
of Paris; and now that dream was over, it seemed a
necessity of their existence to live on in the atmosphere of
beauty to which they had always been accustomed. But
now that the sunshine of love had vanished from it, they
felt lonely and unprotected there. They invited Madame
Guirlande to come and live with them on what terms she
chose; and when she said there ought to be some elderly
man in the house, they at once suggested inviting their
music-teacher. Madame, aware of the confidence Mr. Royal
had always placed in him, thought it was the best arrangement
that could be made, at least for the present. While
preparations were being made to effect this change, her
proceedings were suddenly arrested by tidings that the
house and furniture were to be sold at auction, to satisfy
the demands of creditors. She kept back the unwelcome
news from the girls, while she held long consultations with
Signor Papanti. He declared his opinion that Rosabella
could make a fortune by her voice, and Floracita by
dancing.
“But then they are so young,” urged Madame,—“one
only sixteen, the other only fourteen.”
“Youth is a disadvantage one soon outgrows,” replied
the Signor. “They can't make fortunes immediately, of
course; but they can earn a living by giving lessons. I
will try to open a way for them, and the sooner you prepare
them for it the better.”
Madame dreaded the task of disclosing their poverty, but
she found it less painful than she had feared. They had
no realizing sense of what it meant, and rather thought that
giving lessons would be a pleasant mode of making time
of things, kept a watchful lookout for their interests.
Before an inventory was taken, she gathered up and hid
away many trifling articles which would be useful to them,
though of little or no value to the creditors. Portfolios of
music, patterns for drawings, boxes of paint and crayons,
baskets of chenille for embroidery, and a variety of other
things, were safely packed away out of sight, without the
girls' taking any notice of her proceedings.
During her father's lifetime, Floracita was so continually
whirling round in fragmentary dances, that he often told
her she rested on her feet less than a humming-bird. But
after he was gone, she remained very still from morning till
night. When Madame spoke to her of the necessity of
giving dancing-lessons, it suggested the idea of practising.
But she felt that she could not dance where she had been
accustomed to dance before him; and she had not the heart
to ask Rosa to play for her. She thought she would try, in
the solitude of her chamber, how it would seem to give
dancing-lessons. But without music, and without a spectator,
it seemed so like the ghost of dancing that after a few
steps the poor child threw herself on the bed and sobbed.
Rosa did not open the piano for several days after the
funeral; but one morning, feeling as if it would be a relief
to pour forth the sadness that oppressed her, she began to
play languidly. Only requiems and prayers came. Half
afraid of summoning an invisible spirit, she softly touched
the keys to “The Light of other Days.” But remembering
it was the very last tune she ever played to her father,
she leaned her head forward on the instrument, and wept
bitterly.
While she sat thus the door-bell rang, and she soon became
gave a sudden leap; for her first thought was of Gerald
Fitzgerald. She raised her head, wiped away her tears,
and rose to receive the visitor. Three strangers entered.
She bowed to them, and they, with a little look of surprise,
bowed to her. “What do you wish for, gentlemen?” she
asked.
“We are here concerning the settlement of Mr. Royal's
estate,” replied one of them. “We have been appointed to
take an inventory of the furniture.”
While he spoke, one of his companions was inspecting
the piano, to see who was the maker, and another was
examining the timepiece.
It was too painful; and Rosa, without trusting herself to
speak another word, walked quietly out of the room, the
gathering moisture in her eyes making it difficult for her
to guide her steps.
“Is that one of the daughters we have heard spoken of?”
inquired one of the gentlemen.
“I judge so,” rejoined his companion. “What a royal
beauty she is! Good for three thousand, I should say.”
“More likely five thousand,” added the third. “Such a
fancy article as that don't appear in the market once in
fifty years.”
“Look here!” said the first speaker. “Do you see that
pretty little creature crossing the garden? I reckon that's
the other daughter.”
“They'll bring high prices,” continued the third speaker.
“They're the best property Royal has left. We may count
them eight or ten thousand, at least. Some of our rich
fanciers would jump at the chance of obtaining one of them
for that price.” As he spoke, he looked significantly at
concerning their pecuniary value.
All unconscious of the remarks she had elicited, Rosa
retired to her chamber, where she sat at the window
plunged in mournful revery. She was thinking of various
articles her mother had painted and embroidered, and
how her father had said he could not bear the thought of
their being handled by strangers. Presently Floracita
came running in, saying, in a flurried way, “Who are those
men down stairs, Rosa?”
“I don't know who they are,” replied her sister. “They
said they came to take an inventory of the furniture. I
don't know what right they have to do it. I wish Madame
would come.”
“I will run and call her,” said Floracita.
“No, you had better stay with me,” replied Rosa. “I
was just going to look for you when you came in.”
“I ran into the parlor first, thinking you were there,”
rejoined Floracita. “I saw one of those men turning
over Mamita's embroidered ottoman, and chalking something
on it. How dear papa would have felt if he had
seen it! One of them looked at me in such a strange
way! I don't know what he meant; but it made me want
to run away in a minute. Hark! I do believe they have
come up stairs, and are in papa's room. They won't come
here, will they?”
“Bolt the door!” exclaimed Rosa; and it was quickly
done. They sat folded in each other's arms, very much
afraid, though they knew not wherefore.
“Ah!” said Rosa, with a sigh of relief, “there is Madame
coming.” She leaned out of the window, and beckoned to
her impatiently.
Her friend hastened her steps; and when she heard of
the strangers who were in the house, she said, “You had
better go home with me, and stay there till they are
gone.”
“What are they going to do?” inquired Floracita.
“I will tell you presently,” replied Madame, as she led
them noiselessly out of the house by a back way.
When they entered her own little parlor, the parrot
called out, “Joli petit diable!” and after waiting for the
old familiar response, “Bon jour, jolie Manon!” she began
to call herself “Jolie Manon!” and to sing, “Ha!
ha! petit blanc, mon bon frère!” The poor girls had no
heart for play; and Madame considerately silenced the
noisy bird by hanging a cloth over the cage.
“My dear children,” said she, “I would gladly avoid
telling you anything calculated to make you more unhappy.
But you must know the state of things sooner or
later, and it is better that a friend should tell you. Your
father owned money to those men, and they are seeing what
they can find to sell in order to get their pay.”
“Will they sell the table and boxes Mamita painted,
and the ottomans she embroidered?” inquired Rosa,
anxiously.
“Will they sell the piano that papa gave to Rosa for a
birthday present?” asked Flora.
“I am afraid they will,” rejoined Madame.
The girls covered their faces and groaned.
“Don't be so distressed, my poor children,” said their
sympathizing friend. “I have been trying to save a little
something for you. See here!” And she brought forth
some of the hidden portfolios and boxes, saying, “These
will be of great use to you, my darlings, in helping you to
auction.”
They thanked their careful friend for her foresight.
But when she brought forward their mother's gold watch
and diamond ring, Rosa said, “I would rather not keep
such expensive things, dear friend. You know our dear
father was the soul of honor. It would have troubled him
greatly not to pay what he owed. I would rather have
the ring and the watch sold to pay his debts.”
“I will tell the creditors what you say,” answered
Madame, “and they will be brutes if they don't let you keep
your mother's things. Your father owed Signor Papanti a
little bill, and he says he will try to get the table and boxes,
and some other things, in payment, and then you shall
have them all. You will earn enough to buy another
piano by and by, and you can use mine, you know; so
don't be discouraged, my poor children.”
“God has been very good to us to raise us up such
friends as you and the Signor,” replied Rosa. “You don't
know how it comforts me to have you call us your children,
for without you we should be all alone in the world.”
5. CHAPTER V.
SUCH sudden reverses, such overwhelming sorrows, mature
characters with wonderful rapidity. Rosa, though
formed by nature and habit to cling to others, soon began
to form plans for future support. Her inexperienced mind
foresaw few of the difficulties involved in the career her
friends had suggested. She merely expected to study and
work hard; but that seemed a trifle, if she could avoid for
herself and her sister the publicity which their father had
so much dreaded.
Floracita, too, seemed like a tamed bird. She was
sprightly as ever in her motions, and quick in her gestures;
but she would sit patiently at her task of embroidery,
hour after hour, without even looking up to answer
the noisy challenges of the parrot. Sometimes the sisters,
while they worked, sang together the hymns they had
been accustomed to sing with their father on Sundays;
and memory of the missing voice imparted to their tones a
pathos that no mere skill could imitate.
One day, when they were thus occupied, the door-bell
rang, and they heard a voice, which they thought they
recognized, talking with Madame. It was Franz Blumenthal.
“I have come to bring some small articles for the
young ladies,” said he. “A week before my best friend
died, a Frenchwoman came to the store, and wished to
sell some fancy-baskets. She said she was a poor widow;
and Mr. Royal, who was always kind and generous, commissioned
her to make two of her handsomest baskets, and
placed them in my hands to-day, and I have brought them
myself in order to explain the circumstances.”
“Are they paid for?” inquired Madame.
“I have paid for them,” replied the young man, blushing
deeply; “but please not to inform the young ladies of that
circumstance. And, Madame, I have a favor to ask of you.
Here are fifty dollars. I want you to use them for the
young ladies without their knowledge; and I should like
to remit to you half my wages every month for the same
purpose. When Mr. Royal was closing business, he wrote
several letters of recommendation for me, and addressed
them to well-established merchants. I feel quite sure of
getting a situation where I can earn more than I need for
myself.”
“Bon garçon!” exclaimed Madame, patting him on the
shoulder. “I will borrow the fifty dollars; but I trust we
shall be able to pay you before many months.”
“It will wound my feelings if you ever offer to repay
me,” replied the young man. “My only regret is, that I
cannot just now do any more for the daughters of my best
friend and benefactor, who did so much for me when I was
a poor, destitute boy. But would it be asking too great a
favor, Madame, to be allowed to see the young ladies, and
place in their hands these presents from their father?”
Madame Guirlande smiled as she thought to herself,
“What is he but a boy now? He grows tall though.”
When she told her protégées that Franz Blumenthal
had a message he wished to deliver to them personally,
Rosa said, “Please go and receive it, Sistita. I had
rather not leave my work.”
Floracita glanced at the mirror, smoothed her hair a little,
was awaiting her appearance with a good deal of trepidation.
He had planned a very nice little speech to make;
but before he had stammered out all the story about
the baskets, he saw an expression in Flora's face which
made him feel that it was indelicate to intrude upon her
emotion; and he hurried away, scarcely hearing her
choked voice as she said, “I thank you.”
Very reverently the orphans opened the box which contained
the posthumous gifts of their beloved father. The
baskets were manufactured with exquisite taste. They
were lined with quilled apple-green satin. Around the
outside of one was the name of Rosabella embroidered in
flowers, and an embroidered garland of roses formed the
handle. The other bore the name of Floracita in minute
flowers, and the handle was formed of Pensees vivaces.
They turned them round slowly, unable to distinguish the
colors through their swimming tears.
“How like Papasito, to be so kind to the poor woman,
and so thoughtful to please us,” said Rosabella. “But he
was always so.”
“And he must have told her what flowers to put on the
baskets,” said Floracita. “You know Mamita often called
me Pensée vivace. O, there never was such a Papasito!”
Notwithstanding the sadness that invested tokens coming
as it were from the dead, they inspired a consoling consciousness
of his presence; and their work seemed pleasanter
all the day for having their little baskets by them.
The next morning witnessed a private conference between
Madame and the Signor. If any one had seen them
without hearing their conversation, he would certainly have
in a tragedy.
The fiery Italian rushed up and down the room, plucking
his hair; while the Frenchwoman ever and anon threw
up her hands, exclaiming, “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!”
When the violence of their emotions had somewhat
abated, Madame said, “Signor, there must be some mistake
about this. It cannot be true. Mr. Royal would
never have left things in such a way.”
“At your request,” replied the Signor, “I went to one
of the creditors, to ask whether Mr. Royal's family could
not be allowed to keep their mother's watch and jewels.
He replied that Mr. Royal left no family; that his daughters
were slaves, and, being property themselves, they
could legally hold no property. I was so sure my friend
Royal would not have left things in such a state, that
I told him he lied, and threatened to knock him down.
He out with his pistol; but when I told him I had left
mine at home, he said I must settle with him some other
time, unless I chose to make an apology. I told him I
would do so whenever I was convinced that his statement
was true. I was never more surprised than when he told
me that Madame Royal was a slave. I knew she was a
quadroon, and I supposed she was a placée, as so many of
the quadroons are. But now it seems that Mr. Royal
bought her of her father; and he, good, easy man, neglected
to manumit her. He of course knew that by law
`the child follows the condition of the mother,' but I suppose
it did not occur to him that the daughters of so rich a
man as he was could ever be slaves. At all events, he
neglected to have manumission papers drawn till it was too
late; for his property had become so much involved that
from creditors.”
Madame swung back and forth in the vehemence of her
agitation, exclaiming, “What is to be done? What is to
be done?”
The Italian strode up and down the room, clenching his
fist, and talking rapidly. “To think of that Rosabella!”
exclaimed he, — “a girl that would grace any throne in
Europe! To think of her on the auction-stand, with a
crowd of low-bred rascals staring at her, and rich libertines,
like that Mr. Bruteman — Pah! I can't endure
to think of it. How like a satyr he looked while he was
talking to me about their being slaves. It seems he got
sight of them when they took an inventory of the furniture.
And that handsome little witch, Floracita, whom
her father loved so tenderly, to think of her being bid off
to some such filthy wretch! But they sha' n't have 'em!
They sha' n't have 'em! I swear I'll shoot any man that
comes to take 'em.” He wiped the perspiration from his
forehead, and rushed round like a tiger in a cage.
“My friend,” replied Madame, “they have the law on
their side; and if you try to resist, you will get yourself
into trouble without doing the girls any good. I'll tell you
what we must do. We must disguise them, and send them
to the North.”
“Send them to the North!” exclaimed the Italian.
“Why, they'd no more know how to get there than a
couple of kittens.”
“Then I must go with them,” replied Madame; “and
they must be got out of this house before another day; for
now that we know of it, we shall be watched.”
The impetuous Italian shook her hand cordially. “You
march up to the cannon's mouth than tell them such news
as this.”
The bewildered Frenchwoman felt the same dread of the
task before her; but she bravely said, “What must be done,
can be done.”
After some further talk with the Signor concerning
ways and means, she bade him good morning, and sat still
for a moment to collect her thoughts. She then proceeded
to the apartment assigned to the orphans. They were occupied
with a piece of embroidery she had promised to sell
for them. She looked at the work, praised the exactness
of the stitches and the tasteful shading of the flowers; but
while she pointed out the beauties of the pattern, her hand
and voice trembled.
Rosabella noticed it, and, looking up, said, “What
troubles you, dear friend?”
“O, this is a world of trouble,” replied Madame, “and
you have had such a storm beating on your young heads,
that I wonder you keep your senses.”
“I don't know as we could,” said Rosa, “if the good
God had not given us such a friend as you.”
“If any new trouble should come, I trust you will try to
keep up brave hearts, my children,” rejoined Madame.
“I don't know of any new trouble that can come to us
now,” said Rosa, “unless you should be taken from us, as
our father was. It seems as if everything else had happened
that could happen.”
“O, there are worse things than having me die,” replied
Madame.
Floracita had paused with her thread half drawn through
her work, and was looking earnestly at the troubled countenance
has happened. What is it?”
“I will tell you,” said Madame, “if you will promise not
to scream or faint, and will try to keep your wits collected,
so as to help me think what is best to be done.”
They promised; and, watching her countenance with an
expression of wonder and anxiety, they waited to hear what
she had to communicate. “My dear children,” said she,
“I have heard something that will distress you very much.
Something neither you nor I ever suspected. Your mother
was a slave.”
“Our mother a slave!” exclaimed Rosa, coloring vehemently.
“Whose slave could she be, when she was Papasito's
wife, and he loved her so? It is impossible, Madame.”
“Your father bought her when she was very young, my
dear; but I know very well that no wife was ever loved
better than she was.”
“But she always lived with her own father till she married
papa,” said Floracita. “How then could she be his
slave?”
“Her father got into trouble about money, my dear; and
he sold her.”
“Our Grandpapa Gonsalez sold his daughter!” exclaimed
Rosa. “How incredible! Dear friend, I wonder
you can believe such things.”
“The world is full of strange things, my child,—stranger
than anything you ever read in story-books.”
“If she was only Papasito's slave,” said Flora, “I don't
think Mamito found that any great hardship.”
“She did not, my dear. I don't suppose she ever
thought of it; but a great misfortune has grown out of it.”
“What is it?” they both asked at once.
Their friend hesitated. “Remember, you have promised
to be calm,” said she. “I presume you don't know that,
by the laws of Louisiana, `the child follows the condition
of the mother.' The consequence is, that you are slaves,
and your father's creditors claim a right to sell you.”
Rosabella turned very pale, and the hand with which she
clutched a chair trembled violently. But she held her
head erect, and her look and tone were very proud, as she
exclaimed, “We become slaves! I will die rather.”
Floracita, unable to comprehend this new misfortune,
looked from one to the other in a bewildered way. Nature
had written mirthfulness in the shape of her beautiful eyes,
which now contrasted strangely with their startled and sad
expression.
The kind-hearted French woman bustled about the room,
moving chairs, and passing her handkerchief over boxes,
while she tried hard to swallow the emotions that choked
her utterance. Having conquered in the struggle, she
turned toward them, and said, almost cheerfully: “There's
no need of dying, my children. Perhaps your old friend
can help you out of this trouble. We must disguise ourselves
as gentlemen, and start for the North this very
evening.”
Floracita looked at her sister, and said, hesitatingly:
“Could n't you write to Mr. Fitzgerald, and ask him to
come here? Perhaps he could help us.”
Rosa's cheeks glowed, as she answered proudly: “Do
you think I would ask him to come? I would n't do such
a thing if we were as rich and happy as we were a little
while ago; and certainly I would n't do it now.”
“There spoke Grandpa Gonsalez!” said Madame. “How
grand the old gentleman used to look, walking about so
in a hurry, my children. Signor Papanti has promised to
send the disguises, and we must select and pack such things
as it is absolutely necessary we should carry. I am sorry
now that Tulee is let out in the city, for we need her help.
“She must go with us,” said Flora. “I can't leave
Tulee.”
“We must do as we can,” replied Madame. “In this
emergency we can't do as we would. We are all white,
and if we can get a few miles from here, we shall have no
further trouble. But if we had a negro with us, it would
lead to questions, perhaps. Besides, we have n't time to
disguise her and instruct her how to perform her part.
The Signor will be a good friend to her; and as soon as we
can earn some money, we will send and buy her.”
“But where can we go when we get to the North?”
asked Rosa.
“I will tell you,” said Floracita. “Don't you remember
that Mr. King from Boston, who came to see us a year
ago? His father was papa's best friend, you know; and
when he went away, he told us if ever we were in trouble,
to apply to him, as if he were our brother.”
“Did he?” said Madame. “That lets in a gleam of
light. I heard your father say he was a very good young
man, and rich.”
“But Papasito said, some months ago, that Mr. King
had gone to Europe with his mother, on account of her
health,” replied Rosa. “Besides, if he were at home, it
would be very disagreeable to go to a young gentleman as
beggars and runaways, when he was introduced to us as
ladies.”
“You must put your pride in your pocket for the present,
her under the chin. “If this Mr. King is absent, I will
write to him. They say there is a man in Boston, named
William Lloyd Garrison, who takes great interest in slaves.
We will tell him our story, and ask him about Mr. King.
I did think of stopping awhile with relatives in New York.
But it would be inconvenient for them, and they might not
like it. This plan pleases me better. To Boston we will
go. The Signor has gone to ask my cousin, Mr. Duroy, to
come here and see to the house. When I have placed you
safely, I will come back slyly to my cousin's house, a few
miles from here, and with his help I will settle up my
affairs. Then I will return to you, and we will all go to
some secure place and live together. I never starved yet,
and I don't believe I ever shall.”
The orphans clung to her, and kissed her hands, as they
said: “How kind you are to us, dear friend! What shall
we ever do to repay you?”
“Your father and mother were generous friends to me,”
replied Madame; “and now their children are in trouble, I
will not forsake them.”
As the good lady was to leave her apartments for an
indefinite time, there was much to be done and thought of,
beside the necessary packing for the journey. The girls
tried their best to help her, but they were continually proposing
to carry something because it was a keepsake from
Mamita or Papasito.
“This is no time for sentiment, my children,” said
Madame. “We must not take anything we can possibly
do without. Bless my soul, there goes the bell! What if
it should be one of those dreadful creditors come here to
peep and pry? Run to your room, my children, and bolt
the door.”
A moment afterward, she appeared before them smiling,
and said: “There was no occasion for being so frightened,
but I am getting nervous with all this flurry. Come back
again, dears. It is only Franz Blumenthal.”
“What, come again?” asked Rosa. “Please go, Floracita,
and I will come directly, as soon as I have gathered
up these things that we must carry.”
The young German blushed like a girl as he offered two
bouquets, one of heaths and orange-buds, the other of
orange-blossoms and fragrant geraniums; saying as he did
so, “I have taken the liberty to bring some flowers, Miss
Floracita.”
“My name is Miss Royal, sir,” she replied, trying to
increase her stature to the utmost. It was an unusual
caprice in one whose nature was so childlike and playful;
but the recent knowledge that she was a slave had made
her, for the first time, jealous of her dignity. She took it
into her head that he knew the humiliating fact, and presumed
upon it.
But the good lad was as yet unconscious of this new
trouble, and the unexpected rebuke greatly surprised him.
Though her slight figure and juvenile face made her attempt
at majesty somewhat comic, it was quite sufficient to
intimidate the bashful youth; and he answered, very meekly:
“Pardon me, Miss Royal. Floracita is such a very
pretty name, and I have always liked it so much, that I
spoke it before I thought.”
The compliment disarmed her at once; and with one of
her winning smiles, and a quick little courtesy, she said:
“Do you think it's a pretty name? You may call me
Floracita, if you like it so much.”
“I think it is the prettiest name in the world,” replied
everything so sweetly! Do you remember she used to call
me Florimond when I was a little boy, because, she said,
my face was so florid? Now I always write my name
Franz Florimond Blumenthal, in memory of her.”
“I will always call you Florimond, just as Mamita did,”
said she.
Their very juvenile tête-à-tête was interrupted by the
entrance of Madame with Rosa, who thanked him graciously
for her portion of the flowers, and told him her
father was so much attached to him that she should always
think of him as a brother.
He blushed crimson as he thanked her, and went away
with a very warm feeling at his heart, thinking Floracita
a prettier name than ever, and happily unconscious that he
was parting from her.
He had not been gone long when the bell rang again,
and the girls again hastened to hide themselves. Half an
hour elapsed without their seeing or hearing anything of
Madame; and they began to be extremely anxious lest
something unpleasant was detaining her. But she came
at last, and said, “My children, the Signor wants to speak to
you.”
They immediately descended to the sitting-room, where
they found the Signor looking down and slowly striking
the ivory head of his cane against his chin, as he was wont
to do when buried in profound thought. He rose as they
entered, and Rosa said with one of her sweetest smiles,
“What is it you wish, dear friend?” He dropped a thin
cloak from his shoulders and removed his hat, which
brought away a grizzled wig with it, and Mr. Fitzgerald
stood smiling before them.
The glad surprise excited by this sudden realization of a
latent hope put maidenly reserve to flight, and Rosa
dropped on her knees before him, exclaiming, “O Gerald,
save us!”
He raised her tenderly, and, imprinting a kiss on her
forehead, said: “Save you, my precious Rose? To be
sure I will. That's what I came for.”
“And me too,” said Flora, clinging to him, and hiding
her face under his arm.
“Yes, and you too, mischievous fairy,” replied he, giving
her a less ceremonious kiss than he had bestowed on
her sister. “But we must talk fast, for there is a great
deal to be done in a short time. I was unfortunately absent
from home, and did not receive the letter informing me
of your good father's death so soon as I should otherwise
have done. I arrived in the city this morning, but have
been too busy making arrangements for your escape to
come here any earlier. The Signor and I have done the
work of six during the last few hours. The creditors are
not aware of my acquaintance with you, and I have assumed
this disguise to prevent them from discovering it.
The Signor has had a talk with Tulee, and told her to keep
very quiet, and not tell any mortal that she ever saw me at
your father's house. A passage for you and Madame is
engaged on board a vessel bound to Nassau, which will
sail at midnight. Soon after I leave this house, Madame's
cousin, Mr. Duroy, will come with two boys. You and
Madame will assume their dresses, and they will put on
some clothes the Signor has already sent, in such boxes as
Madame is accustomed to receive, full of materials for her
flowers. All, excepting ourselves, will suppose you have
gone North, according to the original plan, in order that
When I go by the front of the house whistling Ça ira,
you will pass through the garden to the street in the rear,
where you will find my servant with a carriage, which will
convey you three miles, to the house of one of my friends.
I will come there in season to accompany you on board the
ship.”
“O, how thoughtful and how kind you are!” exclaimed
Rosa. “But can't we contrive some way to take poor
Tulee with us?”
“It would be imprudent,” he replied. “The creditors
must be allowed to sell her. She knows it, but she has
my assurance that I will take good care of her. No harm
shall come to Tulee, I promise you. I cannot go with you
to Nassau; because, if I do, the creditors may suspect my
participation in the plot. I shall stay in New Orleans a
week or ten days, then return to Savannah, and take an
early opportunity to sail for Nassau, by the way of New
York. Meanwhile, I will try to manage matters so that
Madame can safely return to her house. Then we will
decide where to make a happy home for ourselves.”
The color forsook Rosa's cheeks, and her whole frame
quivered, as she said, “I thank you, Gerald, for all this
thoughtful care; but I cannot go to Nassau, — indeed I
cannot!”
“Cannot go!” exclaimed he. “Where will you go, then?”
“Before you came, Madame had made ready to take us
to Boston, you know. We will go there with her.”
“Rosa, do you distrust me?” said he reproachfully.
“Do you doubt my love?”
“I do not distrust you,” she replied; but” — she
looked down, and blushed deeply as she added — “but I
any gentleman unless I was married to him.”
“But, Rosa dear, your father did not foresee such a
state of things as this. Everything is arranged, and there
is no time to lose. If you knew all that I know, you
would see the necessity of leaving this city before to-morrow.”
“I cannot go with you,” she repeated in tones of the
deepest distress, — “I cannot go with you, for I promised
my dear father the night before he died.”
He looked at her for an instant, and then, drawing her
close to him, he said: “It shall be just as you wish, darling.
I will bring a clergyman to the house of my friend, and
we will be married before you sail.”
Rosa, without venturing to look up, said, in a faltering
tone: “I cannot bear to bring degradation upon you, Gerald.
It seems wrong to take advantage of your generous
forgetfulness of yourself. When you first told me you loved
me, you did not know I was an octoroon, and a — slave.”
“I knew your mother was a quadroon,” he replied; “and
as for the rest, no circumstance can degrade you, my Rose
Royal.”
“But if your plan should not succeed, how ashamed
you would feel to have us seized!” said she.
“It will succeed, dearest. But even if it should not,
you shall never be the property of any man but myself.”
“Property!” she exclaimed in the proud Gonsalez tone,
striving to withdraw herself from his embrace.
He hastened to say: “Forgive me, Rosabella. I am so
intoxicated with happiness that I cannot be careful of my
words. I merely meant to express the joyful feeling that
you would be surely mine, wholly mine.”
While they were talking thus, Floracita had glided out
of the room to carry the tidings to Madame. The pressure
of misfortune had been so heavy upon her, that, now it was
lifted a little, her elastic spirit rebounded with a sudden
spring, and she felt happier than she had ever thought of
being since her father died. In the lightness of her heart
she began to sing, “Petit blanc, mon bon frère!” but she
stopped at the first line, for she recollected how her father
had checked her in the midst of that frisky little song;
and now that she knew they were octoroons, she partly
comprehended why it had been disagreeable to him. But
the gayety that died out of her voice passed into her steps.
She went hopping and jumping up to Madame, exclaiming:
“What do you think is going to happen now? Rosabella
is going to be married right off. What a pity she can't be
dressed like a bride! She would look so handsome in
white satin and pearls, and a great lace veil! But here
are the flowers Florimond brought so opportunely. I will
put the orange-buds in her hair, and she shall have a bouquet
in her hand.”
“She will look handsome in anything,” rejoined Madame.
“But tell me about it, little one.”
After receiving Flora's answers to a few brief questions,
she stationed herself within sight of the outer door, that
she might ask Fitzgerald for more minute directions concerning
what they were to do. He very soon made his
appearance, again disguised as the Signor.
After a hurried consultation. Madame said: “I do hope
nothing will happen to prevent our getting off safely.
Rosabella has so much Spanish pride, I verily believe she
would stab herself rather than go on the auction-stand.”
“Heavens and earth! don't speak of that!” exclaimed
beautiful rose to be trampled by swine. If we fail, I will
buy them if it costs half my fortune. But we shall not
fail. Don't let the girls go out of the door till you hear
the signal.”
“No danger of that,” she replied. “Their father always
kept them like wax flowers under a glass cover.
They are as timid as hares.” Before she finished the
words, he was gone.
Rosabella remained where he had left her, with her
head bowed on the table. Floracita was nestling by her
side, pouring forth her girlish congratulations. Madame
came in, saying, in her cheerly way: “So you are going to
be married to night! Bless my soul, how the world whirls
round!”
“Is n't God very good to us?” asked Rosa, looking up.
“How noble and kind Mr. Fitzgerald is, to wish to marry
me now that everything is so changed!”
“You are not changed, darling,” she replied; “except
that I think you are a little better, and that seemed unnecessary.
But you must be thinking, my children,
whether everything is in readiness.”
“He told us we were not to go till evening, and it is n't
dark yet,” said Floracita. “Could n't we go into Papasito's
garden one little minute, and take one sip from the
fountain, and just one little walk round the orange-grove?”
“It would n't be safe, my dear. There's no telling
who may be lurking about. Mr. Fitzgerald charged me
not to let you go out of doors. But you can go to my
chamber, and take a last look of the house and garden.”
They went up stairs, and stood, with their arms around
many times we have walked in that little grove, hand in
hand with Mamita and Papasito! and now they are both
gone,” sighed Rosa.
“Ah, yes,” said Flora; “and now we are afraid to go
there for a minute. How strangely everything has changed!
We don't hear Mamita's Spanish and papa's English any
more. We have nobody to talk olla podrida to now. It's
all French with Madame, and all Italian with the Signor.”
“But what kind souls they are, to do so much for us!”
responded Rosa. “If such good friends had n't been
raised up for us in these dreadful days, what should we
have done?”
Here Madame came hurrying in to say, “Mr. Duroy and
the boys have come. We must change dresses before the
whistler goes by.”
The disguises were quickly assumed; and the metamorphosis
made Rosa both blush and smile, while her volatile
sister laughed outright. But she checked herself immediately,
saying: “I am a wicked little wretch to laugh, for
you and your friends may get into trouble by doing all this
for us. What shall you tell them about us when you get
back from Nassau?”
“I don't intend to tell them much of anything,” replied
Madame. “I may, perhaps, give them a hint that one of
your father's old friends invited you to come to the North,
and that I did not consider it my business to hinder you.”
“O fie, Madame!” said Floricita; “what a talent you
have for arranging the truth with variations!”
Madame tried to return a small volley of French pleasantry;
but the effort was obviously a forced one. The
pulses of her heart were throbbing with anxiety and fear;
when at last the whistled tones of Ca ira were heard.
“Now don't act as if you were afraid,” whispered Madame,
as she put her hand on the latch of the door. “Go
out naturally. Remember I am my cousin, and you are
the boys.”
They passed through the garden into the street, feeling
as if some rough hand might at any instant seize them.
But all was still, save the sound of voices in the distance.
When they came in sight of the carriage, the driver began
to bum carelessly to himself, “Who goes there? Stranger,
quickly tell!”
“A friend. Good night,” — sang the disguised Madame,
in the same well-known tune of challenge and reply. The
carriage door was instantly opened, they entered, and the
horses started at a brisk pace. At the house where the
driver stopped, they were received as expected guests.
Their disguises were quickly exchanged for dresses from
their carpet-bags, which had been conveyed out in Madame's
boxes, and smuggled into the carriage by their invisible
protector. Flora, who was intent upon having things
seem a little like a wedding, made a garland of orange-buds
for her sister's hair, and threw over her braids a white gauze
scarf. The marriage ceremony was performed at half past
ten; and at midnight Madame was alone with her protégées
in the cabin of the ship Victoria, dashing through the dark
waves under a star-bright sky.
6. CHAPTER VI.
MR. FITZGERALD lingered on the wharf till the
vessel containing his treasure was no longer visible.
Then he returned to the carriage, and was driven to his
hotel. Notwithstanding a day of very unusual excitement
and fatigue, when he retired to rest he felt no inclination to
sleep. Rosabella floated before him as he had first seen
her, a radiant vision of beauty surrounded by flowers. He
recalled the shy pride and maidenly modesty with which
she had met his ardent glances and impassioned words.
He thought of the meek and saddened expression of her
face, as he had seen it in these last hurried interviews, and
it seemed to him she had never appeared so lovely. He
remembered with a shudder what Madame Guirlande had
said about the auction-stand. He was familiar with such
scenes, for he had seen women offered for sale, and had himself
bid for them in competition with rude, indecent crowds.
It was revolting to his soul to associate the image of Rosa
with such base surroundings; but it seemed as if some
fiend persisted in holding the painful picture before him.
He seemed to see her graceful figure gazed at by a brutal
crowd, while the auctioneer assured them that she was warranted
to be an entirely new and perfectly sound article,—
a moss rosebud from a private royal garden,—a diamond fit
for a king's crown. And men, whose upturned faces were
like greedy satyrs, were calling upon her to open her ruby
lips and show her pearls. He turned restlessly on his pillow
with a muttered oath. Then he smiled as he thought
had acquired complete control of her destiny. From the
first moment he heard of her reverses, he had felt that her
misfortunes were his triumph. Madly in love as he had
been for more than a year, his own pride, and still more the
dreaded scorn of proud relatives, had prevented him from
offering marriage; while the watchful guardianship of her
father, and her dutiful respect to his wishes, rendered any
less honorable alliance hopeless. But now he was her sole
protector; and though he had satisfied her scruples by marriage,
he could hide her away and keep his own secret;
while she, in the fulness of her grateful love, would doubtless
be satisfied with any arrangement he chose to make.
But there still remained some difficulties in his way. He
was unwilling to leave his own luxurious home and exile
himself in the British West Indies; and if he should bring
the girls to Georgia, he foresaw that disastrous consequences
might ensue, if his participation in their elopement should
ever be discovered, or even suspected. “It would have
been far more convenient to have bought them outright,
even at a high price,” thought he; “but after the Signor repeated
to me that disgusting talk of Bruteman's, there could
be no mistake that he had his eye fixed upon them; and it
would have been ruinous to enter into competition with
such a wealthy roué as he is. He values money no more
than pebble-stones, when he is in pursuit of such game.
But though I have removed them from his grasp for the
present, I can feel no security if I bring them back to this
country. I must obtain a legal ownership of them; but
how shall I manage it?” Revolving many plans in his
mind, he at last fell asleep.
His first waking thought was to attend a meeting of the
found ten or twelve persons present, some of gentlemanly
appearance, others hard-looking characters. Among them,
and in singular contrast with their world-stamped faces,
was the ingenuous countenance of Florimond Blumenthal.
Three hundred dollars of his salary were due to him, and
he hoped to secure some portion of the debt for the benefit
of the orphans. A few individuals, who knew Mr. Fitzgerald,
said, “What, are you among the creditors?”
“I am not a creditor,” he replied, “but I am here to
represent the claims of Mr. Whitwell of Savannah, who,
being unable to be present in person, requested me to lay
his accounts before you.”
He sat listening to the tedious details of Mr. Royal's
liabilities, and the appraisement of his property, with an
expression of listless indifference; often moving his fingers
to a tune, or making the motion of whistling, without the
rudeness of emitting a sound.
Young Blumenthal, on the contrary, manifested the absorbed
attention of one who loved his benefactor, and was
familiar with the details of his affairs. No notice was
taken of him, however, for his claim was small, and he was
too young to be a power in the commercial world. He
modestly refrained from making any remarks; and having
given in his account, he rose to take his hat, when his attention
was arrested by hearing Mr. Bruteman say: “We
have not yet mentioned the most valuable property Mr.
Royal left. I allude to his daughters.”
Blumenthal sank into his chair again, and every vestige
of color left his usually blooming countenance; but though
Fitzgerald was on tenter-hooks to know whether the escape
was discovered, he betrayed no sign of interest.
Mr. Bruteman went on to say, “We appraised them at
six thousand dollars.”
“Much less than they would bring at auction,” observed
Mr. Chandler, “as you would all agree, gentlemen, if you
had seen them; for they are fancy articles, A No. 1.”
“Is it certain the young ladies are slaves?” inquired
Blumenthal, with a degree of agitation that attracted attention
toward him.
“It is certain,” replied Mr. Bruteman. “Their mother
was a slave, and was never manumitted.”
“Could n't a subscription be raised, or an appeal be
made to some court in their behalf?” asked the young
man, with constrained calmness in his tones, while the expression
of his face betrayed his inward suffering. “They
are elegant, accomplished young ladies, and their good
father brought them up with the greatest indulgence.”
“Perhaps you are in love with one or both of them,”
rejoined Mr. Bruteman. “If so, you must buy them at
auction, if you can. The law is inexorable. It requires
that all the property of an insolvent debtor should be disposed
of at public sale.”
“I am very slightly acquainted with the young ladies,”
said the agitated youth; “but their father was my benefactor
when I was a poor destitute orphan, and I would sacrifice
my life to save his orphans from such a dreadful calamity.
I know little about the requirements of the law,
gentlemen, but I implore you to tell me if there is n't some
way to prevent this. If it can be done by money, I will
serve any gentleman gratuitously any number of years he
requires, if he will advance the necessary sum.”
“We are not here to talk sentiment my lad,” rejoined
Mr. Bruteman. “We are here to transact business.”
“I respect this youth for the feeling he has manifested
toward his benefactor's children,” said a gentleman named
Ammidon. “If we could enter into some mutual agreement
to relinquish this portion of the property, I for one
should be extremely glad. I should be willing to lose
much more than my share, for the sake of bringing about
such an arrangement. And, really, the sale of such girls
as these are said to be is not very creditable to the country.
If any foreign travellers happen to be looking on,
they will make great capital out of such a story. At all
events, the Abolitionists will be sure to get it into their
papers, and all Europe will be ringing changes upon it.”
“Let'em ring!” fiercely exclaimed Mr. Chandler. “I
don't care a damn about the Abolitionists, nor Europe
neither. I reckon we can manage our own affairs in this
free country.”
“I should judge by your remarks that you were an Abolitionist
yourself, Mr. Ammidon,” said Mr. Bruteman. “I
am surprised to hear a Southerner speak as if the opinions
of rascally abolition-amalgamationists were of the slightest
consequence. I consider such sentiments unworthy any
Southern gentleman, sir.”
Mr. Ammidon flushed, and answered quickly, “I allow
no man to call in question my being a gentleman, sir.”
“If you consider yourself insulted you know your remedy,”
rejoined Mr. Bruteman. “I give you your choice
of place and weapons.”
Mr. Fitzgerald consulted his watch, and two or three
others followed his example.
“I see,” said Mr. Ammidon, “that gentlemen are desirous
to adjourn.”
“It is time that we did so,” rejoined Mr. Bruteman.
and they are probably now lodged in jail. At our next
meeting we will decide upon the time of sale.”
Young Blumenthal rose and attempted to go out; but a
blindness came over him, and he staggered against the wall.
“I reckon that youngster's an Abolitionist,” muttered
Mr. Chandler. “At any rate, he seems to think there's a
difference in niggers,—and all such ought to have notice
to quit.”
Mr. Ammidon called for water, with which he sprinkled
the young man's face, and two or three others assisted to
help him into a carriage.
Another meeting was held the next day, which Mr.
Fitzgerald did not attend, foreseeing that it would be a
stormy one. The result of it was shown in the arrest and
imprisonment of Signor Papanti, and a vigilant search for
Madame Guirlande. Her cousin, Mr. Duroy, declared
that he had been requested to take care of her apartments
for a few weeks, as she was obliged to go to New York on
business; that she took her young lady boarders with her,
and that was all he knew. Despatches were sent in hot
haste to the New York and Boston police, describing the
fugitives, declaring them to be thieves, and demanding that
they should be sent forthwith to New Orleans for trial.
The policeman who had been employed to watch Madame's
house, and who had been induced to turn his back for a
while by some mysterious process best known to Mr. Fitzgerald,
was severely cross-examined and liberally pelted
with oaths. In the course of the investigations, it came
out that Florimond Blumenthal had visited the house on
the day of the elopement, and that toward dusk he had
been seen lingering about the premises, watching the windows.
in helping off two valuable slaves. The consequence
was that he received a written intimation that, if he valued
his neck, he had better quit New Orleans within twenty-four
hours, signed Judge Lynch.
Mr. Fitzgerald appeared to take no share in the excitement.
When he met any of the creditors, he would sometimes
ask, carelessly, “Any news yet about those slaves of
Royal's?” He took occasion to remark to two or three
of them, that, Signor Papanti being an old friend of his, he
had been to the prison to see him; that he was convinced
he had no idea where those girls had gone; he was only
their music-teacher, and such an impetuous, peppery man,
that they never would have thought of trusting him with any
important secret. Having thus paved the way, he came
out with a distinct proposition at the next meeting. “I
feel a great deal of sympathy for Signor Papanti,” said he.
“I have been acquainted with him a good while, and have
taken lessons of him, both in music and Italian; and I like
the old gentleman. He is getting ill in prison, and he can
never tell you any more than he has told you. Doubtless
he knew that Madame intended to convey those girls to
the North if she possibly could; but I confess I should
have despised him if he had turned informer against the
daughters of his friend, who had been his own favorite pupils.
If you will gratify me by releasing him, I will make
you an offer for those girls, and take my chance of ever
finding them.”
“What sum do you propose to offer?” inquired the
creditors.
“I will pay one thousand dollars if you accede to my
terms.”
“Say two thousand, and we will take the subject under
consideration,” they replied.
“In that case I must increase my demands,” said he.
“I have reason to suspect that my friend the Signor would
like to make a match with Madame Guirlande. If you
will allow her to come back to her business and remain
undisturbed, and will make me a sale of these girls, I don't
care if I do say two thousand.”
“He has told you where they are!” exclaimed Mr.
Bruteman, abruptly; “and let me tell you, if you know
where they are, you are not acting the part of a gentleman.”
“He has not told me, I assure you, nor has he given
me the slightest intimation. It is my firm belief that he
does not know. But I am rather fond of gambling, and
this is such a desperate throw, that it will be all the more
exciting. I never tried my luck at buying slaves running,
and I have rather a fancy for experimenting in that game
of chance. And I confess my curiosity has been so excited
by the wonderful accounts I have heard of those nonpareil
girls, that I should find the pursuit of them a stimulating
occupation. If I should not succeed, I should at least have
the satisfaction of having done a good turn to my old
Italian friend.”
They asked more time to reflect upon it, and to hear
from New York and Boston. With inward maledictions
on their slowness, he departed, resolving in his own mind
that nothing should keep him much longer from Nassau,
come what would.
As he went out, Mr. Chandler remarked: “It's very
much like him. He's always ready to gamble in anything.”
“After all, I have my suspicion that he's got a clew to
the mystery somehow, and that he expects to find those
handsome wenches,” said Mr. Bruteman. “I'd give a
good deal to baffle him.”
“It seems pretty certain that we cannot obtain any clew,”
rejoined Mr. Ammidon, “and we have already expended
considerable in the effort. If he can be induced to offer
two thousand five hundred, I think we had better accept it.”
After a week's absence in Savannah and its vicinity,
making various arrangements for the reception of the sisters,
Mr. Fitzgerald returned to New Orleans, and took
an early opportunity to inform the creditors that he should
remain a very short time. He made no allusion to his
proposed bargain, and when they alluded to it he affected
great indifference.
“I should be willing to give you five hundred dollars to
release my musical friend,” said he. “But as for those
daughters of Mr. Royal, it seems to me, upon reflection, to
be rather a quixotic undertaking to go in pursuit of them.
You know it's a difficult job to catch a slave after he gets
to the North, if he's as black as the ace of spades; and all
Yankeedom would be up in arms at any attempt to seize
such white ladies. Of course, I could obtain them in no
other way than by courting them and gaining their good-will.”
Mr. Bruteman and Mr. Chandler made some remarks
unfit for repetition, but which were greeted with shouts of
laughter. After much dodging and doubling on the financial
question, Fitzgerald agreed to pay two thousand five
hundred dollars, if all his demands were complied with.
The papers were drawn and signed with all due formality.
He clasped them in his pocket-book, and walked off with an
elastic step, saying, “Now for Nassau!”
7. CHAPTER VII.
THE scenery of the South was in the full glory of
June, when Mr. Fitzgerald, Rosa, and Floracita were
floating up the Savannah River in a boat manned by negroes,
who ever and anon waked the stillness of the woods
with snatches of wild melody. They landed on a sequestered
island which ocean and river held in their arms.
Leaving the servants to take care of the luggage, they
strolled along over a carpet of wild-flowers, through winding
bridle-paths, where glances of bright water here and
there gleamed through the dark pines that were singing
their sleepy chorus, with its lulling sound of the sea, and
filling the air with their aromatic breath. Before long,
they saw a gay-colored turban moving among the green
foliage, and the sisters at once exclaimed, “Tulipa!”
“Dear Gerald, you did n't tell us Tulee was here,” said
Rosa.
“I wanted to give you a pleasant surprise,” he replied.
She thanked him with a glance more expressive than
words. Tulipa, meanwhile, was waving a white towel with
joyful energy, and when she came up to them, she half
smothered them with hugs and kisses, exclaiming: “The
Lord bless ye, Missy Rosy! The Lord bless ye, Missy
Flory! It does Tulee's eyes good to see ye agin.” She
eagerly led the way through flowering thickets to a small
lawn, in the midst of which was a pretty white cottage.
It was evident at a glance that she, as well as the master
of the establishment, had done her utmost to make the interior
possible. Rosa's piano was there, and on it were a number
of books which their father had given them. As Floracita
pointed to the ottomans their mother had embroidered, and
the boxes and table she had painted, she said: “Our good
friend the Signor sent those. He promised to buy them.”
“He could not buy them, poor man!” answered Fitzgerald,
“for he was in prison at the time of the auction;
but he did not forget to enjoin it upon me to buy them.”
A pleasant hour was spent in joyful surprises over
pretty novelties and cherished souvenirs. Rosa was full
of quiet happiness, and Floracita expressed her satisfaction
in lively little gambols. The sun was going down when
they refreshed themselves with the repast Tulipa had provided.
Unwilling to invite the merciless mosquitoes, they
sat, while the gloaming settled into darkness, playing and
singing melodies associated with other times.
Floracita felt sorry when the hour of separation for the
night came. Everything seemed so fearfully still, except
the monotonous wash of the waves on the sea-shore! And
as far as she could see the landscape by the light of a bright
little moon-sickle, there was nothing but a thick screen of
trees and shrubbery. She groped her way to her sleeping-apartment,
expecting to find Tulee there. She had been
there, and had left a little glimmering taper behind a screen,
which threw a fantastic shadow on the ceiling, like a face
with a monstrous nose. It affected the excitable child like
some kind of supernatural presence. She crept to the
window, and through the veil of the mosquito-bar she
dimly saw the same thick wall of greenery. Presently
she espied a strange-looking long face peering out from its
recesses. On their voyage home from Nassau, Gerald had
Night's Dream.” Could it be that there were such creatures
in the woods as Shakespeare described? A closet
adjoining her room had been assigned to Tulee. She
opened the door and said, “Tulee, are you there? Why
don't you come?” There was no answer. Again she gave
a timid look at the window. The long face moved, and
a most unearthly sound was heard. Thoroughly frightened,
she ran out, calling, “Tulee! Tulee!” In the darkness,
she ran against her faithful attendant, and the sudden
contact terrified her still more.
“It's only Tulee. What is the matter with my little
one?” said the negress. As she spoke, the fearful sound
was heard again.
“O Tulee, what is that?” she exclaimed, all of a
tremble.
“That is only Jack,” she replied.
“Who's Jack?” quickly asked the nervous little
maiden.
“Why, the jackass, my puppet,” answered Tulee.
“Massa Gerald bought him for you and Missy Rosy to
ride. In hot weather there 's so many snakes about in
the woods, he don't want ye to walk.”
“What does he make that horrid noise for?” asked
Flora, somewhat pacified.
“Because he was born with music in him, like the rest
of ye,” answered Tulee, laughing.
She assisted her darling to undress, arranged her pillows,
and kissed her cheek just as she had kissed it ever since
the rosy little mouth had learned to speak her name. Then
she sat by the bedside talking over things that had happened
since they parted.
“So you were put up at auction and sold!” exclaimed
Flora. “Poor Tulee! how dreadfully I should have felt
to see you there! But Gerald bought you; and I suppose
you like to belong to him.”
“Ise nothin' to complain of Massa Gerald,” she answered;
“but I'd like better to belong to myself.”
“So you'd like to be free, would you?” asked Flora.
“To be sure I would,” said Tulee. “Ye like it yerself,
don't ye, little missy?”
Then, suddenly recollecting what a narrow escape her
young lady had had from the auction-stand, she hastened
with intuitive delicacy to change the subject. But the
same thought had occurred to Flora; and she fell asleep,
thinking how Tulee's wishes could be gratified.
When morning floated upward out of the arms of night,
in robe of brightest saffron, the aspect of everything was
changed. Floracita sprang out of bed early, eager to explore
the surroundings of their new abode. The little
lawn looked very beautiful, sprinkled all over with a variety
of wild-flowers, in whose small cups dewdrops glistened,
prismatic as opals. The shrubbery was no longer a dismal
mass of darkness, but showed all manner of shadings of
glossy green leaves, which the moisture of the night had
ornamented with shimmering edges of crystal beads. She
found the phantom of the night before browsing among
flowers behind the cottage, and very kindly disposed to
make her acquaintance. As he had a thistle blossom sticking
out of his mouth, she forthwith named him Thistle.
She soon returned to the house with her apron full of vines,
and blossoms, and prettily tinted leaves. “See, Tulee,” said
she, “what a many flowers! I'm going to make haste and
dress the table, before Gerald and Rosa come to breakfast.”
feeling happy in her work, she began to hum,
“How brightly breaks the morning!”
“Whisper low!” sang Gerald, stealing up behind her,
and making her start by singing into her very ear; while
Rosa exclaimed, “What a fairy-land you have made here,
with all these flowers, pichoncita mia.”
The day passed pleasantly enough, with some ambling
along the bridle-paths on Thistle's back, some reading
and sleeping, and a good deal of music. The next day,
black Tom came with a barouche, and they took a drive
round the lovely island. The cotton-fields were all abloom
on Gerald's plantation, and his stuccoed villa, with spacious
veranda and high porch, gleamed out in whiteness among
a magnificent growth of trees, and a garden gorgeous with
efflorescence. The only drawback to the pleasure was,
that Gerald charged them to wear thick veils, and never to
raise them when any person was in sight. They made no
complaint, because he told them that he should be deeply
involved in trouble if his participation in their escape should
be discovered; but, happy as Rosa was in reciprocated love,
this necessity of concealment was a skeleton ever sitting at
her feast; and Floracita, who had no romantic compensation
for it, chafed under the restraint. It was dusk when
they returned to the cottage, and the thickets were alive
with fire-flies, as if Queen Mab and all her train were out
dancing in spangles.
A few days after was Rosa's birthday, and Floracita
busied herself in adorning the rooms with flowery festoons.
After breakfast, Gerald placed a small parcel in the hand
of each of the sisters. Rosa's contained her mother's diamond
the back of which was set a small-locket-miniature of her
father. Their gratitude took the form of tears, and the
pleasure-loving young man, who had more taste for gayety
than sentiment, sought to dispel it by lively music. When
he saw the smiles coming again, he bowed playfully, and
said: “This day is yours, dear Rosa. Whatsoever you
wish for, you shall have, if it is attainable.”
“I do wish for one thing,” she replied promptly. “Floracita
has found out that Tulee would like to be free. I
want you to gratify her wish.”
“Tulee is yours,” rejoined he. “I bought her to attend
upon you.”
“She will attend upon me all the same after she is
free,” responded Rosa; “and we should all be happier.”
“I will do it,” he replied. “But I hope you won't
propose to make me free, for I am happier to be your
slave.”
The papers were brought a few days after, and Tulee
felt a great deal richer, though there was no outward
change in her condition.
As the heat increased, mosquitoes in the woods and
sand-flies on the beach rendered the shelter of the house
desirable most of the time. But though Fitzgerald had
usually spent the summer months in travelling, he seemed
perfectly contented to sing and doze and trifle away his
time by Rosa's side, week after week. Floracita did not
find it entertaining to be a third person with a couple
of lovers. She had been used to being a person of consequence
in her little world; and though they were very
kind to her, they often forgot that she was present, and
led a very secluded life from her earliest childhood, but she
had never before been so entirely out of sight of houses and
people. During the few weeks she had passed in Nassau,
she had learned to do shell-work with a class of young
girls; and it being the first time she had enjoyed such companionship,
she found it peculiarly agreeable. She longed
to hear their small talk again; she longed to have Rosa to
herself, as in the old times; she longed for her father's caresses,
for Madame Guirlande's brave cheerfulness, for the
Signor's peppery outbursts, which she found very amusing;
and sometimes she thought how pleasant it would be to
hear Florimond say that her name was the prettiest in the
world. She often took out a pressed geranium blossom,
under which was written “Souvenir de Florimond”; and
she thought his name was very pretty too. She sang
Moore's Melodies a great deal; and when she warbled,
In thy bosom of shade, with the friend I love best!”
friend to love best!” She almost learned “Lalla Rookh”
by heart; and she pictured herself as the Persian princess
listening to a minstrel in Oriental costume, but with a very
German face. It was not that the child was in love, but
her heart was untenanted; and as memories walked through
it, it sounded empty.
Tulee, who was very observing where her affections
were concerned, suspected that she was comparing her
own situation with that of Rosa. One day, when she
found her in dreamy revery, she patted her silky curls,
and said: “Does she feel as if she was laid by, like a fifth
have a husband herself one of these days.”
Without looking up, she answered, very pensively: “Do
you think I ever shall, Tulee? I don't see how I can, for
I never see anybody.”
Tulipa took the little head between her black hands, and,
raising the pretty face toward her, replied: “Yes, sure,
little missy. Do ye s'pose ye had them handsome eyes
for nothin' but to look at the moon? But come, now, with
me, and feed Thistle. I'm going to give him a pailful
of water. Thistle knows us as well as if he was a Christian.”
Jack Thistle was a great resource for Tulee in her isolation,
and scarcely less so for Flora. She often fed him
from her hand, decorated him with garlands, talked to him,
and ambled about with him in the woods and on the sea-shore.
The visits of black Tom also introduced a little
variety into their life. He went back and forth from Savannah
to procure such articles as were needed at the
cottage, and he always had a budget of gossip for Tulee.
Tom's Chloe was an expert ironer; and as Mr. Fitzgerald
was not so well pleased with Tulee's performances of that
kind, baskets of clothes were often sent to Chloe, who was
ingenious in finding excuses for bringing them back herself.
She was a great singer of Methodist hymns and negro
songs, and had wonderful religious experiences to tell.
To listen to her and Tom was the greatest treat Tulee
had; but as she particularly prided herself on speaking
like white people, she often remarked that she could n't
understand half their “lingo.” Floracita soon learned it
to perfection, and excited many a laugh by her imitations.
Tulee once obtained Rosa's permission to ride back with
Grat Hus,” as he called his master's villa. But when Mr.
Fitzgerald heard of it, he interdicted such visits in the future.
He wished to have as little communication as possible
between the plantation and the lonely cottage; and if
he had overheard some of the confidences between Chloe
and Tulee, he probably would have been confirmed in the
wisdom of such a prohibition. But Tom was a factotum
that could not be dispensed with. They relied upon him
for provisions, letters, and newspapers.
Three or four weeks after their arrival he brought a box
containing a long letter from Madame Guirlande, and the
various articles she had saved for the orphans from the
wreck of their early home. Not long afterward another
letter came, announcing the marriage of Madame and the
Signor. Answering these letters and preparing bridal
presents for their old friends gave them busy days. Gerald
sometimes ordered new music and new novels from
New York, and their arrival caused great excitement.
Floracita's natural taste for drawing had been cultivated
by private lessons from a French lady, and she now used
the pretty accomplishment to make likenesses of Thistle
with and without garlands, of Tulee in her bright turban,
and of Madame Guirlande's parrot, inscribed, “Bon jour,
jolie Manon!”
One day Rosa said: “As soon as the heat abates, so that
we can use our needles without rusting, we will do a good
deal of embroidery, and give it to Madame. She sells such
articles, you know; and we can make beautiful things of
those flosses and chenilles the good soul saved for us.”
“I like that idea,” replied Flora. “I've been wanting
to do something to show our gratitude.”
There was wisdom as well as kindness in the plan,
though they never thought of the wisdom. Hours were
whiled away by the occupation, which not only kept their
needles from rusting, but also their affections and artistic
faculties.
As the tide of time flowed on, varied only by these little
eddies and ripples, Gerald, though always very loving with
Rosa, became somewhat less exclusive. His attentions
were more equally divided between the sisters. He often
occupied himself with Floracita's work, and would pick
out the shades of silk for her, as well as for Rosa. He
more frequently called upon her to sing a solo, as well as
to join in duets and trios. When the weather became
cooler, it was a favorite recreation with him to lounge at
his ease, while Rosa played, and Floracita's fairy figure
floated through the evolutions of some graceful dance.
Sometimes he would laugh, and say: “Am I not a lucky
dog? I don't envy the Grand Bashaw his Circassian
beauties. He 'd give his biggest diamond for such a
dancer as Floracita; and what is his Flower of the World
compared to my Rosamunda?”
Floracita, whose warm heart always met affection as
swiftly as one drop of quicksilver runs to another, became
almost as much attached to him as she was to Rosa. “How
kind Gerald is to me!” she would say to Tulee. “Papa
used to wish we had a brother; but I did n't care for one
then, because he was just as good for a playmate. But
now it is pleasant to have a brother.”
To Rosa, also, it was gratifying to have his love for her
overflow upon what was dearest to her; and she would
give him one of her sweetest smiles when he called her
sister “Mignonne” or “Querida.” To both of them the
was not so wildly frolicsome as she was before those stunning
blows fell upon her young life; but the natural buoyancy
of her spirits began to return. She was always
amusing them with “quips and cranks.” If she was out
of doors, her return to the house would be signalized by
imitations of all sorts of birds or musical instruments; and
often, when Gerald invited her to “trip it on the light, fantastic
toe,” she would entertain him with one of the negroes'
clumsy, shuffling dances. Her sentimental songs fell
into disuse, and were replaced by livelier tunes. Instead
of longing to rest in the “sweet vale of Avoca,” she was
heard musically chasing “Figaro here! Figaro there!
Figaro everywhere!”
Seven months passed without other material changes
than the changing seasons. When the flowers faded, and
the leafless cypress-trees were hung with their pretty pendulous
seed-vessels, Gerald began to make longer visits to
Savannah. He was, however, rarely gone more than a
week; and, though Rosa's songs grew plaintive in his absence,
her spirits rose at once when he came to tell how
homesick he had been. As for Floracita, she felt compensated
for the increased stillness by the privilege of having
Rosa all to herself.
One day in January, when he had been gone from home
several days, she invited Rosa to a walk, and, finding her
desirous to finish a letter to Madame Guirlande, she threw
on her straw hat, and went out half dancing, as she was
wont to do. The fresh air was exhilarating, the birds were
singing, and the woods were already beautified with every
shade of glossy green, enlivened by vivid buds and leaflets
of reddish brown. She gathered here and there a pretty
her little black silk apron, coquettishly decorated with cherry-colored
ribbons. She stopped before a luxuriant wild
myrtle, pulling at the branches, while she sang,
When the little fifer hangs his head,
When is mute the Moorish flute—”
waist, and a warm kiss on the lips.
“O Gerald, you 've come back!” she exclaimed. “How
glad Rosa will be!”
“And nobody else will be glad, I suppose?” rejoined
he. “Won't you give me back my kiss, when I've been
gone a whole week?”
“Certainly, mon bon frère,” she replied; and as he inclined
his face toward her, she imprinted a slight kiss on
his cheek.
“That's not giving me back my kiss,” said he. “I
kissed your mouth, and you must kiss mine.”
“I will if you wish it,” she replied, suiting the action to
the word. “But you need n't hold me so tight,” she
added, as she tried to extricate herself. Finding he did
not release her, she looked up wonderingly in his face, then
lowered her eyes, blushing crimson. No one had ever
looked at her so before.
“Come, don't be coy, ma petite,” said he.
She slipped from him with sudden agility, and said somewhat
sharply: “Gerald, I don't want to be always called
petite; and I don't want to be treated as if I were a child.
I am no longer a child. I am fifteen. I am a young lady.”
“So you are, and a very charming one,” rejoined he,
giving her a playful tap on the cheek as he spoke.
“I am going to tell Rosa you have come,” said she; and
she started on the run.
When they were all together in the cottage she tried not
to seem constrained; but she succeeded so ill that Rosa
would have noticed it if she had not been so absorbed in
her own happiness. Gerald was all affection to her, and
full of playful raillery with Flora, — which, however, failed
to animate her as usual.
From that time a change came over the little maiden,
and increased as the days passed on. She spent much of
her time in her own room; and when Rosa inquired why
she deserted them so, she execused herself by saying she
wanted to do a great deal of shell-work for Madame Guirlande,
and that she needed so many boxes they would be
in the way in the sitting-room. Her passion for that work
grew wonderfully, and might be accounted for by the fascination
of perfect success; for her coronets and garlands
and bouquets and baskets were arranged with so much
lightness and elegance, and the different-colored shells were
so tastefully combined, that they looked less like manufactured
articles than like flowers that grew in the gardens of
the Nereids.
Tulee wondered why her vivacious little pet had all of a
sudden become so sedentary in her habits, — why she never
took her customary rambles except when Mr. Fitzgerald
was gone, and even then never without her sister. The
conjecture she formed was not very far amiss, for Chloe's
gossip had made her better acquainted with the character
of her master than were the other inmates of the cottage;
but the extraordinary industry was a mystery to her. One
evening, when she found Floracita alone in her room at
dusk, leaning her head on her hand and gazing out of the
said, “Is my little one homesick?”
“I have no home to be sick for,” she replied, sadly.
“Is she lovesick then?”
“I have no lover,” she replied, in the same desponding
tone.
“What is it, then, my pet? Tell Tulee.”
“I wish I could go to Madame Guirlande,” responded
Flora. “She was so kind to us in our first troubles.”
“It would do you good to make her a visit,” said Tulee,
“and I should think you might manage to do it somehow.”
“No. Gerald said, a good while ago, that it would be
dangerous for us ever to go to New Orleans.”
“Does he expect to keep you here always?” asked Tulee.
“He might just as well keep you in a prison, little bird.”
“O, what's the use of talking, Tulee!” exclaimed she,
impatiently. “I have no friends to go to, and I must stay
here.” But, reproaching herself for rejecting the sympathy
so tenderly offered, she rose and kissed the black cheek
as she added, “Good Tulee! kind Tulee! I am a little
homesick; but I shall feel better in the morning.”
The next afternoon Gerald and Rosa invited her to join
them in a drive round the island. She deelined, saying
the box that was soon to be sent to Madame was not quite
full, and she wanted to finish some more articles to put in
it. But she felt a longing for the fresh air, and the intense
blue glory of the sky made the house seem prison-like. As
soon as they were gone, she took down her straw hat and
passed out, swinging it by the strings. She stopped on the
lawn to gather some flame-colored buds from a Pyrus Japonica,
and, fastening them in the ribbons as she went, she
walked toward her old familiar haunts in the woods.
It was early in February, but the warm sunshine brought
out a delicious aroma from the firs, and golden garlands of
the wild jasmine, fragrant as heliotrope, were winding
round the evergreen thickets, and swinging in flowery festoons
from the trees. Melancholy as she felt when she
started from the cottage, her elastic nature was incapable
of resisting the glory of the sky, the beauty of the earth,
the music of the birds, and the invigorating breath of the
ocean, intensified as they all were by a joyful sense of
security and freedom, growing out of the constraint that
had lately been put upon her movements. She tripped
along faster, carolling as she went an old-fashioned song
that her father used to be often humming:—
I prithee begone from me!
Begone, dull care!
Thou and I shall never agree!”
various snatches from ballets and operas, settling at last
upon the quaint little melody, “Once on a time there was
a king,” and running it through successive variations.
A very gentle and refined voice, from behind a clump
of evergreens, said, “Is this Cinderella coming from the
ball?”
She looked up with quick surprise, and recognized a
lady she had several times seen in Nassau.
“And it is really you, Señorita Gonsalez!” said the lady.
“I thought I knew your voice. But I little dreamed of
meeting you here. I have thought of you many times
since I parted from you at Madame Conquilla's store of
shell-work. I am delighted to see you again.”
“And I am glad to see you again, Mrs. Delano,” replied
me.”
“How could I help remembering you?” asked the lady.
“You were a favorite with me from the first time I saw
you, and I should like very much to renew our acquaintance.
Where do you live, my dear?”
Covered with crimson confusion, Flora stammered out:
“I don't live anywhere, I'm only staying here. Perhaps I
shall meet you again in the woods or on the beach. I hope
I shall.”
“Excuse me,” said the lady. “I have no wish to intrude
upon your privacy. But if you would like to call
upon me at Mr. Welby's plantation, where I shall be for
three or four weeks, I shall always be glad to receive you.”
“Thank you,” replied Flora, still struggling with embarrassment.
“I should like to come very much, but I don't
have a great deal of time for visiting.”
“It's not common to have such a pressure of cares and
duties at your age,” responded the lady, smiling. “My
carriage is waiting on the beach. Trusting you will find
a few minutes to spare for me, I will not say adieu, but
au revoir.”
As she turned away, she thought to herself: “What a
fascinating child! What a charmingly unsophisticated way
she took to tell me she would rather not have me call on
her! I observed there seemed to be some mystery about
her when she was in Nassau. What can it be? Nothing
wrong, I hope.”
Floracita descended to the beach and gazed after the
carriage as long as she could see it. Her thoughts were
so occupied with this unexpected interview, that she took
no notice of the golden drops which the declining sun was
nor did she cast one of her customary loving glances at the
western sky, where masses of violet clouds, with edges of
resplendent gold, enclosed lakes of translucent beryl, in
which little rose-colored islands were floating. She retraced
her steps to the woods, almost crying. “How
strange my answers must appear to her!” murmured she.
“How I do wish I could go about openly, like other people!
I am so tired of all this concealment!” She neither
jumped, nor danced, nor sung, on her way homeward.
She seemed to be revolving something in her mind
very busily.
After tea, as she and Rosa were sitting alone in the twilight,
her sister, observing that she was unusually silent,
said, “What are you thinking of, Mignonne?”
“I am thinking of the time we passed in Nassau,” replied
she, “and of that Yankee lady who seemed to take
such a fancy to me when she came to Madame Conquilla's
to look at the shell-work.
“I remember your talking about her,” rejoined Rosa.
“You thought her beautiful.”
“Yes,” said Floracita, “and it was a peculiar sort of
beauty. She was n't the least like you or Mamita. Everything
about her was violet. Her large gray eyes sometimes
had a violet light in them. Her hair was not exactly
flaxen, it looked like ashes of violets. She always wore
fragrant violets. Her ribbons and dresses were of some
shade of violet; and her breastpin was an amethyst set with
pearls. Something in her ways, too, made me think of a
violet. I think she knew it, and that was the reason she
always wore that color. How delicate she was! She must
have been very beautiful when she was young.”
“You used to call her the Java sparrow,” said Rosa.
“Yes, she made me think of my little Java sparrow,
with pale fawn-colored feathers, and little gleams of violet
on the neck,” responded Flora.
“That lady seems to have made a great impression on
your imagination,” said Rosa; and Floracita explained
that it was because she had never seen anything like her.
She did not mention that she had seen that lady on the
island. The open-hearted child was learning to be reticent.
A few minutes afterward, Rosa exclaimed, “There's
Gerald coming!” Her sister watched her as she ran out
to meet him, and sighed, “Poor Rosa!”
8. CHAPTER VIII.
A WEEK later, when Gerald had gone to Savannah
and Rosa was taking her daily siesta, Floracita filled
Thistle's panniers with several little pasteboard boxes, and,
without saying anything to Tulee, mounted and rode off in
a direction she had never taken, except in the barouche.
She was in search of the Welby plantation.
Mrs. Delano, who was busy with her crochet-needle
near the open window, was surprised to see a light little figure
seated on a donkey riding up the avenue. As soon as
Floracita dismounted, she recognized her, and descended
the steps of the piazza to welcome her.
“So you have found the Welby plantation,” said she.
“I thought you would n't have much difficulty, for there
are only two plantations on the island, this and Mr. Fitzgerald's.
I don't know that there are any other dwellings
except the huts of the negroes.” She spoke the last rather
in a tone of inquiry; but Flora merely answered that she
had once passed the Welby plantation in a barouche.
As the lady led the way into the parlor, she said, “What
is that you have in your hand, my dear?”
“You used to admire Madame Conquilla's shell-work,”
replied Flora, “and I have brought you some of mine, to
see whether you think I succeed tolerably in my imitations.”
As she spoke, she took out a small basket and
poised it on her finger.
“Why, that is perfectly beautiful!” said Mrs. Delano.
“I don't know how you could contrive to give it such an
heavy, and rather vulgar, till I saw those beautiful productions
at Nassau. But you excel your teacher, my dear
Miss Gonsalez. I should think the sea-fairies made this.”
Four or five other articles were brought forth from the
boxes and examined with similar commendation. Then
they fell into a pleasant chat about their reminiscences of
Nassau; and diverged from that to speak of the loveliness
of their lonely little island, and the increasing beauty of the
season. After a while, Flora looked at her watch, and
said, “I must not stay long, for I did n't tell anybody I
was going away.”
Mrs. Delano, who caught a glimpse of the medallion inserted
in the back, said: “That is a peculiar little watch.
Have you the hair of some friend set in it?”
“No,” replied Flora. “It is the likeness of my father.”
She slipped the slight chain from her neck, and placed the
watch in the lady's hand. Her face flushed as she looked
at it, but the habitual paleness soon returned.
“You were introduced to me as a Spanish young lady,”
said she, “but this face is not Spanish. What was your
father's name?”
“Mr. Alfred Royal of New Orleans,” answered Flora.
“But your name is Gonsalez,” said she.
Flora blushed crimson with the consciousness of having
betrayed the incognito assumed at Nassau. “Gonsalez
was my mother's name,” she replied, gazing on the floor
while she spoke.
Mrs. Delano looked at her for an instant, then, drawing
her gently toward her, she pressed her to her side, and
said with a sigh, “Ah, Flora, I wish you were my
daughter.”
“O, how I wish I was!” exclaimed the young girl,
looking up with a sudden glow; but a shadow immediately
clouded her expressive face, as she added, “But you
would n't want me for a daughter, if you knew everything
about me.”
The lady was obviously troubled. “You seem to be surrounded
by mysteries, my little friend,” responded she. “I
will not ask you for any confidence you are unwilling to
bestow. But I am a good deal older than you, and I know
the world better than you do. If anything troubles you, or
if you are doing anything wrong, perhaps if you were to
tell me, I could help you out of it.”
“O, no, I'm not doing anything wrong,” replied Floracita,
eagerly. “I never did anything wrong in my life.”
Seeing a slight smile hovering about the lady's lips, she
made haste to add: “I did n't mean exactly that. I mean
I never did anything very wrong. I'm cross sometimes,
and I have told some fibititas; but then I could n't seem
to help it, things were in such a tangle. It comes more
natural to me to tell the truth.”
“That I can readily believe,” rejoined Mrs. Delano.
“But I am not trying to entrap your ingenuousness into a
betrayal of your secrets. Only remember one thing; if
you ever do want to open your heart to any one, remember
that I am your true friend, and that you can trust me.”
“O, thank you! thank you!” exclaimed Flora, seizing
her hand and kissing it fervently.
“But tell me one thing, my little friend,” continued
Mrs. Delano. “Is there anything I can do for you now?”
“I came to ask you to do something for me,” replied
Flora; “but you have been so kind to me, that it has made
me almost forget my errand. I have very particular reasons
the shell-work in Nassau so much, that I thought, if
you liked mine, you might be willing to buy it, and that
perhaps you might have friends who would buy some. i
have tried every way to think how I could manage to sell
my work.”
“I will gladly buy all you have,” rejoined the lady,
“and I should like to have you make me some more;
especially of these garlands of rice-shells, trembling so
lightly on almost invisible silver wire.”
“I will make some immediately,” replied Flora. “But
I must go, dear Mrs. Delano. I wish I could stay longer,
but I cannot.”
“When will you come again?” asked the lady.
“I can't tell,” responded Flora, “for I have to manage
to come here.”
“That seems strange,” said Mrs. Delano.
“I know it seems strange,” answered the young girl,
with a kind of despairing impatience in her tone. “But
please don't ask me, for everything seems to come right out
to you; and I don't know what I ought to say, indeed I don't.”
“I want you to come again as soon as you can,” said
Mrs. Delano, slipping a gold eagle into her hand. “And
now go, my dear, before you tell me more than you wish
to.”
“Not more than I wish,” rejoined Floracita; “but more
than I ought. I wish to tell you everything.”
In a childish way she put up her lips for a kiss, and the
lady drew her to her heart and caressed her tenderly.
When Flora had descended the steps of the piazza, she
turned and looked up. Mrs. Delano was leaning against one
of the pillars, watching her departure. Vines of gossamer
and violet-tinted dress looked lovely among those aerial
arabesques of delicate green. The picture impressed Flora
all the more because it was such a contrast to the warm
and gorgeous styles of beauty to which she had been accustomed.
She smiled and kissed her hand in token of
farewell; the lady returned the salutation, but she thought
the expression of her face was sad, and the fear that this
new friend distrusted her on account of unexplained mysteries
haunted her on her way homeward.
Mrs. Delano looked after her till she and her donkey
disappeared among the trees in the distance. “What a
strange mystery is this!” murmured she. “Alfred Royal's
child, and yet she bears her mother's name. And why does
she conceal from me where she lives? Surely, she cannot
be consciously doing anything wrong, for I never saw such
perfect artlessness of look and manner.” The problem occupied
her thoughts for days after, without her arriving at
any satisfactory conjecture.
Flora, on her part, was troubled concerning the distrust
which she felt must be excited by her mysterious position,
and she was continually revolving plans to clear herself from
suspicion in the eyes of her new friend. It would have
been an inexpressible consolation if she could have told
her troubles to her elder sister, from whom she had never
concealed anything till within the last few weeks. But,
alas! by the fault of another, a barrier had arisen between
them, which proved an obstruction at every turn of their daily
intercourse; for while she had been compelled to despise
and dislike Gerald, Rosa was always eulogizing his noble
and loving nature, and was extremely particular to have his
slightest wishes obeyed. Apart from any secret reasons for
it would not do to confess her visit to Mrs. Delano; for
Gerald had not only forbidden their making any acquaintances,
but he had also charged them not to ride or walk in
the direction of either of the plantations unless he was with
them.
Day after day, as Flora sat at work upon the garlands
she had promised, she was on the watch to elude his vigilance;
but more than a week passed without her finding
any safe opportunity. At last Gerald proposed to gratify
Rosa's often-expressed wish, by taking a sail to one of the
neighboring islands. They intended to make a picnic of
it, and return by moonlight. Rosa was full of pleasant anticipations,
which, however, were greatly damped when her
sister expressed a decided preference for staying at home.
Rosa entreated, and Gerald became angry, but she persisted
in her refusal. She said she wanted to use up all her
shells, and all her flosses and chenilles. Gerald swore
that he hated the sight of them, and that he would throw
them all into the sea if she went on wearing her beautiful
eyes out over them. Without looking up from her work,
she coolly answered, “Why need you concern yourself about
my eyes, when you have a wife with such beautiful eyes?”
Black Tom and Chloe and the boat were in waiting, and
after a flurried scene they departed reluctantly without her.
“I never saw any one so changed as she is,” said Rosa.
“She used to be so fond of excursions, and now she wants
to work from morning till night.”
“She's a perverse, self-willed, capricious little puss.
She's been too much indulged. She needs to be brought
under discipline,” said Gerald, angrily whipping off a blossom
with his rattan as they walked toward the boat.
As soon as they were fairly off, Flora started on a second
visit to the Welby plantation. Tulee noticed all this
in silence, and shook her head, as if thoughts were brooding
there unsafe for utterance.
Mrs. Delano was bending over her writing-desk finishing
a letter, when she perceived a wave of fragrance, and,
looking up, she saw Flora on the threshold of the open
door, with her arms full of flowers.
“Excuse me for interrupting you,” said she, dropping
one of her little quick courtesies, which seemed half frolic,
half politeness. “The woods are charming to-day. The
trees are hung with curtains of jasmine, embroidered all
over with golden flowers. You love perfumes so well, I
could n't help stopping by the way to load Thistle with an
armful of them.”
“Thank you, dear,” replied Mrs. Delano. “I rode out
yesterday afternoon, and I thought I had never seen anything
so beautiful as the flowery woods and the gorgeous
sunset. After being accustomed to the splendor of these
Southern skies, the Northern atmosphere will seem cold
and dull.”
“Shall you go to the North soon?” inquired Flora,
anxiously.
“I shall leave here in ten or twelve days,” she replied;
“but I may wait a short time in Savannah, till March has
gone; for that is a blustering, disagreeable month in New
England, though it brings you roses and perfume. I
came to Savannah to spend the winter with my friends,
Mr. and Mrs. Welby; but I have always taken a great
fancy to this island, and when they were suddenly called
away to Arkansas by the illness of a son, I asked their
permission to come here for a few weeks and watch the
to solitude since I lost a darling daughter, who died
two years ago. If she had lived, she would have been
about your age.”
“I am so sorry you are going away,” said Flora. “It
seems as if I had always known you. I don't know what
I shall do without you. But when you go back among
your friends, I suppose you will forget all about poor little
me.”
“No, my dear little friend, I shall never forget you,”
she replied; “and when I come again, I hope I shall find
you here.”
“I felt troubled when I went away the other day,” said
Flora. “I thought you seemed to look sadly after me, and
I was afraid you thought I had done something wicked,
because I said you would n't wish I were your daughter if
you knew everything about me. So I have come to tell
you my secrets, as far as I can without betraying other
people's. I am afraid you won't care anything more about
me after I have told you; but I can't help it if you don't.
Even that would be better than to have you suspect me of
being bad.”
Mrs. Delano drew an ottoman toward her, and said,
“Come and sit here, dear, and tell me all about it, the
same as if I were your mother.”
Floracita complied; and resting one elbow on her knee,
and leaning her cheek upon the hand, she looked up timidly
and wistfully into the friendly face that was smiling
serenely over her. After a moment's pause, she said
abruptly: “I don't know how to begin, so I won't begin
at all, but tell it right out. You see, dear Mrs. Delano, I
am a colored girl.”
The lady's smile came nearer to a laugh than was usual
with her. She touched the pretty dimpled cheek with her
jewelled finger, as she replied: “O, you mischievous little
kitten! I thought you were really going to tell me something
about your troubles. But I see you are hoaxing me.
I remember when you were at Madame Conquilla's you always
seemed to be full of fun, and the young ladies there
said you were a great rogue.”
“But this is not fun; indeed it is not,” rejoined Flora.
“I am a colored girl.”
She spoke so earnestly that the lady began to doubt the
evidence of her own eyes. “But you told me that Mr.
Alfred Royal was your father,” said she.
“So he was my father,” replied Flora; “and the kindest
father that ever was. Rosa and I were brought up like
little princesses, and we never knew that we were colored.
My mother was the daughter of a rich Spanish gentleman
named Gonsalez. She was educated in Paris, and was
elegant and accomplished. She was handsomer than Rosa;
and if you were to see Rosa, you would say nobody could
be handsomer than she is. She was good, too. My father
was always saying she was the dearest and best wife in the
world. You don't know how he mourned when she died.
He could n't bear to have anything moved that she had
touched. But cher papa died very suddenly; and first
they told us that we were very poor, and must earn our
living; and then they told us that our mother was a slave,
and so, according to law, we were slaves too. They would
have sold us at auction, if a gentleman who knew us when
papa was alive had n't smuggled us away privately to
Nassau. He had been very much in love with Rosa for
a good while; and he married her, and I live with them.
should get into lawsuits and duels and all sorts of troubles
with papa's creditors if they should find out that he helped
us off. And that was the reason I was called Señorita Gonsalez
in Nassau, though my real name is Flora Royal.”
She went on to recount the kindness of Madame Guirlande,
and the exciting particulars of their escape; to all of
which Mrs. Delano listened with absorbed attention. As
they sat thus, they made a beautiful picture. The lady,
mature in years, but scarcely showing the touch of time,
was almost as fair as an Albiness, with serene lips, and a
soft moonlight expression in her eyes. Every attitude and
every motion indicated quietude and refinement. The
young girl, on the contrary, even when reclining, seemed
like impetuosity in repose for a moment, but just ready to
spring. Her large dark eyes laughed and flashed and
wept by turns, and her warmly tinted face glowed like the
sunlight, in its setting of glossy black hair. The lady
looked down upon her with undisguised admiration while
she recounted their adventures in lively dramatic style,
throwing in imitations of the whistling of Ça ira, and the
tones of the coachman as he sang, “Who goes there?”
“But you have not told me,” said Mrs. Delano, “who
the gentleman was that married your sister. Ah, I see
you hesitate. No matter. Only tell me one thing, — is he
kind to you?”
Flora turned red and pale, and red again.
“Let that pass, too,” said the lady. “I asked because
I wished to know if I could help you in any way. I see
you have brought some more boxes of shell-work, and by
and by we will examine them. But first I want to tell
you that I also have a secret, and I will confide it to you
dear, when your father and I were young, we were in love
with each other, and I promised to be his wife.”
“So you might have been my Mamita!” exclaimed Floracita,
impetuously.
“No, not your Mamita, dear,” replied Mrs. Delano, smiling.
“You call me the Java sparrow, and Java sparrows
never hatch gay little humming-birds or tuneful mocking-birds.
I might tell you a long story about myself, dear;
but the sun is declining, and you ought not to be out after
dusk. My father was angry about our love, because Alfred
was then only a clerk with a small salary. They carried
me off to Europe, and for two years I could hear nothing
from Alfred. Then they told me he was married; and after
a while they persuaded me to marry Mr. Delano. I ought
not to have married him, because my heart was not in it.
He died and left me with a large fortune and the little
daughter I told you of. I have felt very much alone since
my darling was taken from me. That void in my heart
renders young girls very interesting to me. Your looks
and ways attracted me when I first met you; and when
you told me Alfred Royal was your father, I longed to
clasp you to my heart. And now you know, my dear
child, that you have a friend ever ready to listen to any
troubles you may choose to confide, and desirous to remove
them if she can.”
She rose to open the boxes of shell-work; but Flora
sprung up, and threw herself into her arms, saying, “My
Papasito sent you to me, — I know he did.”
After a few moments spent in silent emotion, Mrs.
Delano again spoke of the approaching twilight, and with
mutual caresses they bade each other adieu.
Four or five days later, Floracita made her appearance
at the Welby plantation in a state of great excitement.
She was in a nervous tremor, and her eyelids were swollen
as if with much weeping. Mrs. Delano hastened to enfold
her in her arms, saying: “What is it, my child? Tell
your new Mamita what it is that troubles you so.”
“O, may I call you Mamita?” asked Flora, looking up
with an expression of grateful love that warmed all the
fibres of her friend's heart. “O, I do so need a Mamita!
I am very wretched; and if you don't help me, I don't
know what I shall do!”
“Certainly, I will help you, if possible, when you have
told me your trouble,” replied Mrs. Delano.
“Yes, I will tell,” said Flora, sighing. “Mr. Fitzgerald
is the gentleman who married my sister; but we don't live
at his plantation. We live in a small cottage hidden away
in the woods. You never saw anybody so much in love
as he was with Rosa. When we first came here, he was
never willing to have her out of his sight a moment. And
Rosa loves him so! But for these eight or ten weeks past
he has been making love to me; though he is just as affectionate
as ever with Rosa. When she is playing to him,
and I am singing beside her, he keeps throwing kisses to
me behind her back. It makes me feel so ashamed that I
can't look my sister in the face. I have tried to keep out
of his way. When I am in the house I stick to Rosa like
a burr; and I have given up riding or walking, except
when he is away. But there's no telling when he is away.
He went away yesterday, and said he was going to Savannah
to be gone a week; but this morning, when I went
into the woods behind the cottage to feed Thistle, he was
lurking there. He seized me, and held his hand over my
Rosa and I were his slaves; that he bought us of papa's
creditors, and could sell us any day. And he says he will
carry me off to Savannah and sell me if I don't treat him
better. He would not let me go till I promised to meet
him in Cypress Grove at dusk to-night. I have been trying
to earn money to go to Madame Guirlande, and get
her to send me somewhere where I could give dancing-lessons,
or singing-lessons, without being in danger of being
taken up for a slave. But I don't know how to get to
New Orleans alone; and if I am his slave, I am afraid he
will come there with officers to take me. So, dear new
Mamita, I have come to you, to see if you can't help me to
get some money and go somewhere.”
Mrs. Delano pressed her gently to her heart, and responded
in tones of tenderest pity: “Get some money and
go somewhere, you poor child! Do you think I shall let
dear Alfred's little daughter go wandering alone about the
world? No, darling, you shall live with me, and be my
daughter.”
“And don't you care about my being colored and a
slave?” asked Floracita, humbly.
“Let us never speak of that,” replied her friend. “The
whole transaction is so odious and wicked that I can't
bear to think of it.”
“I do feel so grateful to you, my dear new Mamita, that
I don't know what to say. But it tears my heart in two
to leave Rosa. We have never been separated for a day
since I was born. And she is so good, and she loves me
so! And Tulee, too. I did n't dare to try to speak to
her. I knew I should break down. All the way coming
here I was frightened for fear Gerald would overtake me
and Tulee, not knowing when I should see them again,
that I could n't see; and if Thistle had n't known the way
himself, I should n't have got here. Poor Thistle! It
seemed as if my heart would break when I threw the
bridle on his neck and left him to go back alone; I did n't
dare to hug him but once, I was so afraid. O, I am so
glad that you will let me stay here!”
“I have been thinking it will not be prudent for you to
stay here, my child,” replied Mrs. Delano. “Search will
be made for you in the morning, and you had better be out
of the way before that. There are some dresses belonging
to Mrs. Welby's daughter in a closet up stairs. I will
borrow one of them for you to wear. The boat from Beaufort
to Savannah will stop here in an hour to take some
freight. We will go to Savannah. My colored laundress
there has a chamber above her wash-room where you will
be better concealed than in more genteel lodgings. I will
come back here to arrange things, and in a few days I will
return to you and take you to my Northern home.”
The necessary arrangements were soon made; and when
Flora was transformed into Miss Welby, she smiled very
faintly as she remarked, “How queer it seems to be always
running away.”
“This is the last time, my child,” replied Mrs. Delano.
“I will keep my little bird carefully under my wings.”
When Flora was in the boat, hand in hand with her new
friend, and no one visible whom she had ever seen before,
her excitement began to subside, but sadness increased.
In her terror the poor child had scarcely thought of anything
except the necessity of escaping somewhere. But
when she saw her island home receding from her, she began
to realize the importance of the step she was taking.
was embowered, and she had a longing to see even a little
whiff of smoke from Tulee's kitchen. But there was no
sign of life save a large turkey-buzzard, like a black vulture,
sailing gracefully over the tree-tops. The beloved
sister, the faithful servant, the brother from whom she had
once hoped so much, the patient animal that had borne her
through so many pleasant paths, the flowery woods, and
the resounding sea, had all vanished from her as suddenly
as did her father and the bright home of her childhood.
The scenes through which they were passing were beautiful
as Paradise, and all nature seemed alive and jubilant.
The white blossoms of wild-plum-trees twinkled among
dark evergreens, a vegetable imitation of starlight. Widespreading
oaks and superb magnolias were lighted up with
sudden flashes of color, as scarlet grosbeaks flitted from
tree to tree. Sparrows were chirping, doves cooing, and
mocking-birds whistling, now running up the scale, then
down the scale, with an infinity of variations between.
The outbursts of the birds were the same as in seasons that
were gone, but the listener was changed. Rarely before
had her quick musical ear failed to notice how they would
repeat the same note with greater or less emphasis, then
flat it, then sharp it, varying their performances with all
manner of unexpected changes. But now she was merely
vaguely conscious of familiar sounds, which brought before
her that last merry day in her father's house, when Rosabella
laughed so much to hear her puzzle the birds with
her musical vagaries. Memory held up her magic mirror,
in which she saw pictured processions of the vanished
years. Thus the lonely child, with her loving, lingering
looks upon the past, was floated toward an unknown future
with the new friend a kind Providence had sent her.
9. CHAPTER IX.
ROSA was surprised at the long absence of her sister;
and when the sun showed only a narrow golden edge
above the horizon, she began to feel anxious. She went to
the kitchen and said, “Tulee, have you seen anything of
Floracita lately? She went away while I was sleeping.”
“No, missy,” she replied. “The last I see of her was
in her room, with the embroidery-frame before her. She
was looking out of the window, as she did sometimes, as if
she was looking nowhere. She jumped up and hugged
and kissed me, and called me `Dear Tulee, good Tulee.'
The little darling was always mighty loving. When I
went there again, her needle was sticking in her work, and
her thimble was on the frame, but she was gone. I don't
know when she went away. Thistle's come back alone;
but he does that sometimes when little missy goes rambling
round.”
There was no uneasiness expressed in her tones, but,
being more disquieted than she wished to acknowledge,
she went forth to search the neighboring wood-paths and
the sea-shore. When she returned, Rosa ran out with the
eager inquiry, “Is she anywhere in sight?” In reply to
the negative answer, she said: “I don't know what to make
of it. Have you ever seen anybody with Floracita since
we came here?”
“Nobody but Massa Gerald,” replied Tulee.
“I wonder whether she was discontented here,” said
Rosa. “I don't see why she should be, for we all loved
been his own sister. But she has n't seemed like herself
lately; and this forenoon she hugged and kissed me ever so
many times, and cried. When I asked her what was the
matter, she said she was thinking of the pleasant times
when Papasito querido was alive. Do you think she was
unhappy?”
“She told me once she was homesick for Madame Guirlande,”
replied Tulee.
“Did she? Perhaps she was making so many things for
Madame because she meant to go there. But she could n't
find her way alone, and she knew it would be very dangerous
for either of us to go to New Orleans.”
Tulee made no reply. She seated herself on a wooden
bench by the open door, swinging her body back and forth
in an agitated way, ever and anon jumping up and looking
round in all directions. The veil of twilight descended
upon the earth, and darkness followed. The two inmates
of the cottage felt very miserable and helpless, as they sat
there listening to every sound. For a while nothing was
heard but the dash of the waves, and the occasional hooting
of an owl. The moon rose up above the pines, and
flooded earth and sea with silvery splendor.
“I want to go to the plantation and call Tom,” said
Rosa; “and there is such bright moonshine we might go,
but I am afraid Gerald would be displeased.”
Tulee at once volunteered to bring out Thistle, and to
walk beside her mistress.
Both started at the sound of footsteps. They were not
light enough for Floracita, but they thought it might be
some one bringing news. It proved to be the master of
the house.
“Why, Gerald, how glad I am! I thought you were in
Savannah,” exclaimed Rosa. “Have you seen anything
of Floracita?”
“No. Is n't she here?” inquired he, in such a tone of
surprise, that Tulee's suspicions were shaken.
Rosa repeated the story of her disappearance, and concluded
by saying, “She told Tulee she was homesick to go
to Madame.”
“She surely would n't dare to do that,” he replied.
“Massa Gerald,” said Tulee, and she watched him
closely while she spoke, “there's something I did n't tell
Missy Rosy, 'cause I was feared it would worry her. I
found this little glove of Missy Flory's, with a bunch of
sea-weed, down on the beach; and there was marks of her
feet all round.”
Rosa uttered a cry. “O heavens!” she exclaimed, “I
saw an alligator a few days ago.”
An expression of horror passed over his face. “I've
cautioned her not to fish so much for shells and sea-mosses,”
said he; “but she was always so self-willed.”
“Don't say anything against the little darling!” implored
Rosa. “Perhaps we shall never see her again.”
He spoke a few soothing words, and then took his hat,
saying, “I am going to the sea-shore.”
“Take good care of yourself, dear Gerald!” cried
Rosa.
“No danger 'bout that,” muttered Tulee, as she walked
out of hearing. “There's things with handsomer mouths
than alligators that may be more dangerous. Poor little
bird! I wonder where he has put her.”
His feelings as he roamed on the beach were not to be
envied. His mind was divided between the thoughts that
That she had escaped from his persecutions by flight
he could not believe; for he knew she was entirely unused
to taking care of herself, and felt sure she had no one to
help her. He returned to say that the tide had washed
away the footprints, and that he found no vestige of the
lost one.
At dawn he started for the plantation, whence, after
fruitless inquiries, he rode to the Welby estate. Mrs. Delano
had requested the household servants not to mention
having seen a small young lady there, and they had nothing
to communicate.
He resolved to start for New Orleans as soon as possible.
After a fortnight's absence he returned, bringing grieved
and sympathizing letters from the Signor and Madame;
and on the minds of all, except Tulee, the conviction settled
that Floracita was drowned. Hope lingered long
in her mind. “Wherever the little pet may be, she 'll
surely contrive to let us know,” thought she. “She ain't
like the poor slaves when they 're carried off. She can
write.” Her mistress talked with her every day about the
lost darling; but of course such suspicions were not to be
mentioned to her. Gerald, who disliked everything mournful,
avoided the subject entirely; and Rosabella, looking
upon him only with the eyes of love, considered it a sign
of deep feeling, and respected it accordingly.
But, blinded as she was, she gradually became aware
that he did not seem exactly like the same man who first
won her girlish love. Her efforts to please him were not
always successful. He was sometimes moody and fretful.
He swore at the slightest annoyance, and often flew into
paroxysms of anger with Tom and Tulee. He was more
of regret for such frequent separations. Some weeks
after Flora's disappearance, he announced his intention to
travel in the North during the summer months. Rosabella
looked up in his face with a pleading expression, but
pride prevented her from asking whether she might accompany
him. She waited in hopes he would propose it;
but as he did not even think of it, he failed to interpret
the look of disappointment in her expressive eyes, as she
turned from him with a sigh.
“Tom will come with the carriage once a week,” said
he; “and either he or Joe will be here every night.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
But the tone was so sad that he took her hand with the
tenderness of former times, and said, “You are sorry to
part with me, Bella Rosa?”
“How can I be otherwise than sorry,” she asked,
“when I am all alone in the world without you? Dear
Gerald, are we always to live thus? Will you never acknowledge
me as your wife?”
“How can I do it,” rejoined he, “without putting myself
in the power of those cursed creditors? It is no fault of
mine that your mother was a slave.”
“We should be secure from them in Europe,” she replied.
“Why could n't we live abroad?”
“Do you suppose my rich uncle would leave me a cent
if he found out I had married the daughter of a quadroon?”
rejoined he. “I have met with losses lately, and
I can't afford to offend my uncle. I am sorry, dear, that
you are dissatisfied with the home I have provided for
you.”
“I am not dissatisfied with my home,” said she. “I have
and these separations are dreadful.”
His answer was: “I will write often, dearest, and I will
send you quantities of new music. I shall always be looking
forward to the delight of hearing it when I return.
You must take good care of your health, for my sake. You
must go ambling about with Thistle every day.”
The suggestion brought up associations that overcame
her at once. “O how Floracita loved Thistle!” she exclaimed.
“And it really seems as if the poor beast misses
her. I am afraid we neglected her too much, Gerald.
We were so taken up with our own happiness, that we
did n't think of her so much as we ought to have done.”
“I am sure I tried to gratify all her wishes,” responded
he. “I have nothing to reproach myself with, and certainly
you were always a devoted sister. This is a morbid
state of feeling, and you must try to drive it off. You
said a little while ago that you wanted to see how the plantation
was looking, and what flowers had come out in the
garden. Shall I take you there in the barouche to-morrow?”
She gladly assented, and a few affectionate words soon
restored her confidence in his love.
When the carriage was brought to the entrance of the
wood the next day, she went to meet it with a smiling face
and a springing step. As he was about to hand her in, he
said abruptly, “You have forgotten your veil.”
Tulee was summoned to bring it. As Rosa arranged it
round her head, she remarked, “One would think you were
ashamed of me, Gerald.”
The words were almost whispered, but the tone sounded
more like a reproach than anything she had ever uttered.
much of my treasure that I want to keep it all to myself.”
He was very affectionate during their drive; and this,
combined with the genial air, the lovely scenery, and the
exhilaration of swift motion, restored her to a greater
sense of happiness than she had felt since her darling sister
vanished so suddenly.
The plantation was in gala dress. The veranda was almost
covered with the large, white, golden-eyed stars of the
Cherokee rose, gleaming out from its dark, lustrous foliage.
The lawn was a sheet of green velvet embroidered with
flowers. Magnolias and oaks of magnificent growth ornamented
the extensive grounds. In the rear was a cluster
of negro huts. Black picaninnies were rolling about in the
grass, mingling their laughter with the songs of the birds.
The winding paths of the garden were lined with flowering
shurbs, and the sea sparkled in the distance. Wherever
the eye glanced, all was sunshine, bloom, and verdure.
For the first time, he invited her to enter the mansion.
Her first movement was toward the piano. As she opened
it, and swept her hand across the keys, he said: “It is
sadly out of tune. It has been neglected because its owner
had pleasanter music elsewhere.”
“But the tones are very fine,” rejoined she. “What a
pity it should n't be used!” As she glanced out of the
window on the blooming garden and spacious lawn, she
said: “How pleasant it would be if we could live here!
It is so delightful to look out on such an extensive
open space.”
“Perhaps we will some time or other, my love,” responded
he.
She smiled, and touched the keys, while she sang
refreshments wondered at her beauty, and clear, ringing
voice. Many dark faces clustered round the crack of the
door to obtain a peep; and as they went away they exchanged
nudges and winks with each other. Tom and
Chloe had confidentially whispered to some of them the existence
of such a lady, and that Tulee said Massa married
her in the West Indies; and they predicted that she would
be the future mistress of Magnolia Lawn. Others gave it
as their opinion, that Massa would never hide her as he
did if she was to be the Missis. But all agreed that she
was a beautiful, grand lady, and they paid her homage accordingly.
Her cheeks would have burned to scarlet flame
if she had heard all their comments and conjectures; but
unconscious of blame or shame, she gave herself up to the
enjoyment of those bright hours.
A new access of tenderness seemed to have come over
Fitzgerald; partly because happiness rendered her beauty
more radiant, and partly because secret thoughts that were
revolving in his mind brought some twinges of remorse.
He had never seemed more enamored, not even during the
first week in Nassau, when he came to claim her as his
bride. Far down in the garden was an umbrageous walk,
terminating in a vine-covered bower. They remained
there a long time, intertwined in each other's arms, talking
over the memories of their dawning consciousness of love,
and singing together the melodies in which their voices had
first mingled.
Their road home was through woods and groves festooned
with vines, some hanging in massive coils, others
light and aerial enough for fairy swings; then over the
smooth beach, where wave after wave leaped up and
was sinking in a golden sea, and higher toward the zenith
little gossamer clouds blushingly dissolved in the brilliant
azure, and united again, as if the fragrance of roses had
floated into form.
When they reached the cottage, Rosa passed through the
silent little parlor with swimming eyes, murmuring to herself:
“Poor little Floracita! how the sea made me think
of her. I ought not to have been so happy.”
But memory wrote the record of that halcyon day in
illuminated manuscript, all glowing with purple and gold,
with angel faces peeping through a graceful network of
flowers.
10. CHAPTER X.
ROSABELLA had never experienced such loneliness
as in the months that followed. All music was saddened
by far-off echoes of past accompaniments. Embroidery
lost its interest with no one to praise the work, or to be
consulted in the choice of colors and patterns. The books
Gerald occasionally sent were of a light character, and
though they served to while away a listless hour, there was
nothing in them to strengthen or refresh the soul. The isolation
was the more painful because there was everything
around her to remind her of the lost and the absent. Flora's
unfinished embroidery still remained in the frame, with
the needle in the last stitch of a blue forget-me-not. Over
the mirror was a cluster of blush-roses she had made. On
the wall was a spray of sea-moss she had pressed and surrounded
with a garland of small shells. By the door was
a vine she had transplanted from the woods; and under a
tree opposite was a turf seat where she used to sit sketching
the cottage, and Tulee, and Thistle, and baskets of
wild-flowers she had gathered. The sight of these things
continually brought up visions of the loving and beautiful
child, who for so many years had slept nestling in her
arms, and made the days tuneful with her songs. Then
there was Gerald's silent flute, and the silken cushion she
had embroidered for him, on which she had so often seen
him reposing, and thought him handsome as a sleeping
Adonis. A letter from him made her cheerful for days;
but they did not come often, and were generally brief.
master's orders; but she found solitary drives so little refreshing
to body or mind that she was often glad to avail
herself of Tulee's company.
So the summer wore away, and September came to produce
a new aspect of beauty in the landscape, by tinging
the fading flowers and withering leaves with various shades
of brown and crimson, purple and orange. One day, early
in the month, when Tom came with the carriage, she told
him to drive to Magnolia Lawn. She had long been wishing
to revisit the scene where she had been so happy on
that bright spring day; but she had always said to herself,
“I will wait till Gerald comes.” Now she had grown so
weary with hope deferred, that she felt as if she could wait
no longer.
As she rode along she thought of improvements in the
walks that she would suggest to Gerald, if they ever went
there to live, as he had intimated they might. The servants
received her with their usual respectful manner and
wondering looks; but when she turned back to ask some
question, she saw them whispering together with an unusual
appearance of excitement. Her cheeks glowed with
a consciousness that her anomalous position was well calculated
to excite their curiosity; and she turned away,
thinking how different it had been with her mother,—how
sheltered and protected she had always been. She remembered
how very rarely her father left home, and how he
always hastened to return. She stood awhile on the veranda,
thinking sadly, “If Gerald loves me as Papasito
loved Mamita, how can he be contented to leave me so
much?” With a deep sigh she turned and entered the
house through an open window. The sigh changed at
transformation since she last saw it. The woodwork
had been freshly painted, and the walls were covered
with silvery-flowered paper. Over curtains of embroidered
lace hung a drapery of apple-green damask, ornamented
with deep white-silk fringe and heavy tassels. “How kind
of Gerald!” murmured she. “He has done this because I
expressed a wish to live here. How ungrateful I was to
doubt him in my thoughts!”
She passed into the chamber, where she found a white
French bedstead, on which were painted bouquets of roses.
It was enveloped in roseate lace drapery, caught up at the
centre in festoons on the silver arrow of a pretty little
Cupid. From silver arrows over the windows there fell
the same soft, roseate folds. Her whole face was illuminated
with happiness as she thought to herself: “Ah! I
know why everything has a tinge of roses. How kind of
him to prepare such a beautiful surprise for me!”
She traversed the garden walks, and lingered long in the
sequestered bower. On the floor was a bunch of dried
violets which he had placed in her belt on that happy day.
She took them up, kissed them fervently, and placed them
near her heart. That heart was lighter than it had been
for months. “At last he is going to acknowledge me as
his wife,” thought she. “How happy I shall be when
there is no longer any need of secrecy!”
The servants heard her singing as she traversed the garden,
and gathered in groups to listen; but they scattered
as they saw her approach the house.
“She's a mighty fine lady,” said Dinah, the cook.
“Mighty fine lady,” repeated Tom; “an' I tell yer
she 's married to Massa, an' she 's gwine to be de Missis.”
Venus, the chambermaid, who would have passed very
well for a bronze image of the sea-born goddess, tossed her
head as she replied: “Dunno bout dat ar. Massa does a
heap o' courtin' to we far sex.”
“How yer know dat ar?” exclaimed Dinah. “Whar
d'yer git dem year-rings?” And then there was a general
titter.
Rosabella, all unconscious in her purity, came up to Tom
while the grin was still upon his face, and in her polite
way asked him to have the goodness to bring the carriage.
It was with great difficulty that she could refrain from outbursts
of song as she rode homeward; but Gerald had particularly
requested her not to sing in the carriage, lest her
voice should attract the attention of some one who chanced
to be visiting the island.
Her first words when she entered the cottage were: “O
Tulee, I am so happy! Gerald has fitted up Magnolia
Lawn beautifully, because I told him I wished we could
live there. He said, that day we were there, that he would
try to make some arrangement with Papasito's creditors,
and I do believe he has, and that I shall not have to
hide much longer. He has been fitting up the house as if
it were for a queen. Is n't he kind?”
Tulee, who listened rather distrustfully to praises bestowed
on the master, replied that nobody could do anything
too good for Missy Rosy.
“Ah, Tulee, you have always done your best to spoil
me,” said she, laying her hand affectionately on the shoulder
of her petted servant, while a smile like sunshine mantled
her face. “But do get me something to eat. The ride
has made me hungry.”
“Ise glad to hear that, Missy Rosy. I begun to think
'em over wi' yer fork, and ate one or two monthfuls, without
knowing what ye was eatin'.”
“I've been pining for Gerald, Tulee; and I've been
afraid sometimes that he did n't love me as he used to do.
But now that he has made such preparations for us to live
at Magnolia Lawn, I am as happy as a queen.”
She went off singing, and as Tulee looked after her she
murmured to herself: “And what a handsome queen she'd
make! Gold ain't none too good for her to walk on. But
is it the truth he told her about settling with the creditors?
There's never no telling anything by what he says. Do
hear her singing now! It sounds as lively as Missy Flory.
Ah! that was a strange business. I wonder whether the
little darling is dead.”
While she was preparing supper, with such cogitations
passing through her mind, Rosa began to dash off a letter,
as follows:—
“Dearly Beloved,—I am so happy that I cannot
wait a minute without telling you about it. I have done a
naughty thing, but, as it is the first time I ever disobeyed
you, I hope you will forgive me. You told me never to
go to the plantation without you. But I waited and waited,
and you did n't come; and we were so happy there,
that lovely day, that I longed to go again. I knew it
would be very lonesome without you; but I thought it
would be some comfort to see again the places where we
walked together, and sang together, and called each other
all manner of foolish fond names. Do you remember how
many variations you rung upon my name, — Rosabella,
Rosalinda, Rosamunda, Rosa Regina? How you did pelt
the garden bower? How we sang together the old-fashioned
canzonet, `Love in thine eyes forever plays'? And
how the mocking-bird imitated your guitar, while you were
singing the Don Giovanni serenade?
“I was thinking this all over, as I rode alone over the
same ground we traversed on that happy day. But it was
so different without the love-light of your eyes and the
pressure of your dear hand, that I felt the tears gathering,
and had all manner of sad thoughts. I feared you did n't
care for me as you used to do, and were finding it easy to
live without me. But when I entered the parlor that
overlooks the beautiful lawn, all my doubts vanished.
You had encouraged me to hope that it might be our
future home; but I little dreamed it was to be so soon, and
that you were preparing such a charming surprise for me.
Don't be vexed with me, dearest, for finding out your secret.
It made me so happy! It made the world seem like Paradise.
Ah! I knew why everything was so rose-colored.
It was so like you to think of that! Then everything is so
elegant! You knew your Rosamunda's taste for elegance.
“But Tulee summons me to supper. Dear, good, faithful
Tulee! What a comfort she has been to me in this
lonesome time!
“Now I have come back to the pretty little writing-desk
you gave me, and I will finish my letter. I feel as if I
wanted to write to you forever, if I can't have you to talk
to. You can't imagine how lonesome I have been. The
new music you sent me was charming; but whatever I
practised or improvised took a solemn and plaintive character,
like the moaning of the sea and the whispering of
is no other voice to lean upon, and no appreciating ear to
listen for the coming chords. I have even found it a relief
to play and sing to Tulee, who is always an admiring listener,
if not a very discriminating one; and as for Tom, it
seems as if the eyes would fly out of his head when I play
to him. I have tried to take exercise every day, as you
advised; but while the hot weather lasted, I was afraid of
snakes, and the mosquitoes and sand-flies were tormenting.
Now it is cooler I ramble about more, but my loneliness
goes everywhere with me. Everything is so still here,
that it sometimes makes me afraid. The moonlight looks
awfully solemn on the dark pines. You remember that dead
pine-tree? The wind has broken it, and there it stands in
front of the evergreen grove, with two arms spread out,
and a knot like a head with a hat on it, and a streamer of
moss hanging from it. It looks so white and strange in
the moonlight, that it seems as if Floracita's spirit were
beckoning to me.
“But I did n't mean to write about sad things. I don't
feel sad now; I was only telling you how lonely and
nervous I had been, that you might imagine how much
good it has done me to see such kind arrangements at
Magnolia Lawn. Forgive me for going there, contrary
to your orders. I did so long for a little variety! I
couldn't have dreamed you were planning such a pleasant
surprise for me. Sha' n't we be happy there, calling one
another all the old foolish pet names? Dear, good Gerald,
I shall never again have any ungrateful doubts of your love.
“Adios, luz de mes ojos. Come soon to
That evening the plash of the waves no longer seemed
like a requiem over her lost sister; the moonlight gave
poetic beauty to the pines; and even the blasted tree, with
its waving streamer of moss, seemed only another picturesque
feature in the landscape; so truly does Nature give
us back a reflection of our souls.
She waked from a refreshing sleep with a consciousness
of happiness unknown for a long time. When Tom came
to say he was going to Savannah, she commissioned him to
go to the store where her dresses were usually ordered,
and buy some fine French merino. She gave him very
minute directions, accompanied with a bird-of-paradise
pattern. “That is Gerald's favorite color,” she said to
herself. “I will embroider it with white floss-silk, and tie
it with white silk cord and tassels. The first time we
breakfast together at Magnolia Lawn I will wear it, fastened
at the throat with that pretty little knot of silver
filigree he gave me on my birthday. Then I shall look
as bridal as the home he is preparing for me.”
The embroidery of this dress furnished pleasant occupation
for many days. When it was half finished, she tried
it on before the mirror, and smiled to see how becoming
was the effect. She queried whether Gerald would like
one or two of Madame Guirlande's pale amber-colored artificial
nasturtiums in her hair. She placed them coquettishly
by the side of her head for a moment, and laid them
down, saying to herself: “No; too much dress for the
morning. He will like better the plain braids of my hair
with the curls falling over them.” As she sat, hour after
hour, embroidering the dress which was expected to
produce such a sensation, Tulee's heart was gladdened
by hearing her sing almost continually. “Bless her
times.”
But when a fortnight passed without an answer to her
letter, the showers of melody subsided. Shadows of old
doubts began to creep over the inward sunshine; though
she tried to drive them away by recalling Gerald's promise
to try to secure her safety by making a compromise with
her father's creditors. And were not the new arrangements
at Magnolia Lawn a sign that he had accomplished
his generous purpose? She was asking herself that question
for the hundredth time, as she sat looking out on the
twilight landscape, when she heard a well-known voice approaching,
singing, “C'est l'amour, l'amour, l'amour, qui
fait le monde à la ronde”; and a moment after she was
folded in Gerald's arms, and he was calling her endearing
names in a polyglot of languages, which he had learned
from her and Floracita.
“So you are not very angry with me for going there
and finding out your secret,” inquired she.
“I was angry,” he replied; “but while I was coming to
you all my anger melted away.”
“And you do love me as well as ever,” said she. “I
thought perhaps so many handsome ladies would fall in love
with you, that I should not be your Rosa munda any more.”
“I have met many handsome ladies,” responded he,
“but never one worthy to bear the train of my Rosa Regina.”
Thus the evening passed in conversation more agreeable
to them than the wittiest or the wisest would have been.
But it has been well said, “the words of lovers are like the
rich wines of the South, — they are delicious in their native
soil, but will not bear transportation.”
The next morning he announced the necessity of returning
to the North to complete some business, and said he
must, in the mean time, spend some hours at the plantation.
“And Rosa dear,” added he, “I shall really be angry with
you if you go there again unless I am with you.”
She shook her finger at him, and said, with one of her
most expressive smiles: “Ah, I see through you! You
are planning some more pleasant surprises for me. How
happy we shall be there! As for that rich uncle of yours,
if you will only let me see him, I will do my best to make
him love me, and perhaps I shall succeed.”
“It would be wonderful if you did not, you charming
enchantress,” responded he. He folded her closely, and
looked into the depths of her beautiful eyes with intensity,
not unmingled with sadness.
A moment after he was waving his hat from the shrubbery;
and so he passed away out of her sight. His sudden
reappearance, his lavish fondness, his quick departure,
and the strange earnestness of his farewell look, were remembered
like the flitting visions of a dream.
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.
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,
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:—
I walked with Nelly by my side.
Now all those happy days are over,
Farewell, my dark Virginia bride.
Nelly was a lady;
Last night she died.
Toll the bell for lovely Nell,
My dark Virginia bride.”
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
“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
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
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
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
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
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.
12. CHAPTER XII.
MR. FITZGERALD had ordered his horse to be
saddled at an earlier hour than Tom had ever
known him to ride, except on a hunting excursion, and in
his own mind he concluded that his master would be asleep
at the hour he had indicated. Before he stretched himself
on the floor for the night, he expressed this opinion to the
cook by saying, “Yer know, Dinah, white folks is allers
mighty wide awake de night afore dey gits up.”
To his surprise, however, Mr. Fitzgerald made his appearance
at the stable just as he was beginning to comb
the horse. “You lazy black rascal,” he exclaimed, “did n't
I order you to have the horse ready by this time?”
“Yes, Massa,” replied Tom, sheering out of the way of
the upraised whip; “but it peers like Massa's watch be
leetle bit faster dan de sun dis ere mornin'.”
The horse was speedily ready, and Tom looked after his
master as he leaped into the saddle and dashed off in the
direction of the lonely cottage. There was a grin on his
face as he muttered, “Reckon Missis don't know whar yer
gwine.” He walked toward the house, whistling, “Nelly
was a lady.”
“Dat ar war gwine roun' an' roun' de hus las' night, jes
like a sperit. 'Twar dat ar Spanish lady,” said Dinah.
“She sings splendiferous,” rejoined Tom, “an' Massa
liked it more dan de berry bes bottle ob wine.” He ended
by humming, “Now all dem happy days am ober.”
“Better not let Massa hear yer sing dat ar,” said Dinah.
“He make yer sing nudder song.”
“She's mighty gran' lady, an' a bery perlite missis, an'
Ise sorry fur her,” replied Tom.
Mr. Fitzgerald had no sense of refreshment in his morning
ride. He urged his horse along impatiently, with brow
contracted and lips firmly compressed. He was rehearsing
in his mind the severe reprimand he intended to bestow
upon Rosa. He expected to be met with tears and reproaches,
to which he would show himself hard till she
made contrite apologies for her most unexpected and provoking
proceedings. It was his purpose to pardon her at
last, for he was far enough from wishing to lose her; and
she had always been so gentle and subnissive, that he entertained
no doubt the scene would end with a loving
willingness to accept his explanations, and believe in his
renewed professions. “She loves me to distraction, and
she is entirely in my power,” thought he. “It will be
strange indeed if I cannot mould her as I will.”
Arrived at the cottage, he found Tulee washing on a
bench outside the kitchen. “Good morning, Tulee,” said
he. “Is your mistress up yet?”
“Missy Rosy ha'n't been asleep,” she answered in a
very cold tone, without looking up from her work.
He entered the house, and softly opened the door of
Rosa's sleeping apartment. She was walking slowly, with
arms crossed, looking downward, as if plunged in thought.
Her extreme pallor disarmed him, and there was no hardness
in his tone when he said, “Rosabella!”
She started, for she had supposed the intruder was Tulee.
With head proudly erect, nostrils dilated, and eyes that
flashed fire, she exclaimed, “How dare you come here?”
This reception was so entirely unexpected, that it disconcerted
him; and instead of the severe reproof he had
I always thought you the soul of honor. When we parted,
you promised not to go to the plantation unless I was
with you. Is this the way you keep your word?”
“You talk of honor and promises!” she exclaimed.
The sneer conveyed in the tones stung him to the quick.
But he made an effort to conceal his chagrin, and said, with
apparent calmness: “You must admit it was an unaccountable
freak to start for the plantation in the evening, and
go wandering round the grounds in that mysterious way.
What could have induced you to take such a step?”
“I accidentally overheard Tom telling Tulee that you
were to bring home a bride from the North yesterday. I
could not believe it of you, and I was too proud to question
him. But after reflecting upon it, I chose to go and see
for myself. And when I had seen for myself, I wished
to remind you of that past which you seemed to have forgotten.”
“Course on Tom!” he exclaimed. “He shall smart for
this mischief.”
“Don't be so unmanly as to punish a poor servant for
mentioning a piece of news that interested the whole plantation,
and which must of course be a matter of notoriety,”
she replied very quietly. “Both he and Tulee were delicate
enough to conceal it from me.”
Fitzgerald felt embarrassed by her perfect self-possession.
After a slight pause, during which she kept her face
averted from him, he said: “I confess that appearances are
against me, and that you have reason to feel offended. But
if you knew just how I was situated, you would, perhaps,
judge me less harshly. I have met with heavy losses
lately, and I was in danger of becoming bankrupt unless I
father of this young lady is rich, and she fell in love
with me. I have married her; but I tell you truly, dear
Rosa, that I love you more than I ever loved any other
woman.”
“You say she loved you, and yet you could deceive her
so,” she replied. “You could conceal from her that you
already had a wife. When I watched her as she walked
on the veranda I was tempted to reveal myself, and disclose
your baseness.”
Fitzgerald's eyes flashed with sudden anger, as he vociferated,
“Rosa, if you ever dare to set up any such
claim —”
“If I dare!” she exclaimed, interrupting him in a tone
of proud defiance, that thrilled through all his nerves.
Alarmed by the strength of character which he had
never dreamed she possessed, he said: “In your present
state of mind, there is no telling what you may dare to
do. It becomes necessary for you to understand your true
position. You are not my wife. The man who married
us had no legal authority to perform the ceremony.”
“O steeped in falsehood to the lips!” exclaimed she.
“And you are the idol I have worshipped!”
He looked at her with astonishment not unmingled with
admiration. “Rosa, I could not have believed you had
such a temper,” rejoined he. “But why will you persist
in making yourself and me unhappy? As long as my wife
is ignorant of my love for you, no harm is done. If you
would only listen to reason, we might still be happy. I
could manage to visit you often. You would find me as
affectionate as ever; and I will provide amply for you.”
“Provide for me?” she repeated slowly, looking him
in me, Mr. Fitzgerald, that has led you to suppose I would
consent to sell myself?”
His susceptible temperament could not withstand the
regal beauty of her proud attitude and indignant look.
“O Rosa,” said he, “there is no woman on earth to be
compared with you. If you only knew how I idolize you
at this moment, after all the cruel words you have uttered,
you surely would relent. Why will you not be reasonable,
dearest? Why not consent to live with me as your mother
lived with your father?”
“Don't wrong the memory of my mother,” responded
she hastily. “She was too pure and noble to be dishonored
by your cruel laws. She would never have entered
into any such base and degrading arrangement as you propose.
She could n't have lived under the perpetual shame
of deceiving another wife. She could n't have loved my
father, if he had deceived her as you have deceived me.
She trusted him entirely, and in return he gave her his
undivided affection.”
“And I give you undivided affection,” he replied. “By
all the stars of heaven, I swear that you are now, as you
always have been, my Rosa Regina, my Rosa munda.”
“Do not exhaust your oaths,” rejoined she, with a contemptuous
curl of the lip. “Keep some of them for your
Lily Bell, your precious pearl, your moonlight sylph.”
Thinking the retort implied a shade of jealousy, he felt
encouraged to persevere. “You may thank your own imprudence
for having overheard words so offensive to you,”
responded he. “But Rosa, dearest, you cannot, with all
your efforts, drive from you the pleasant memories of our
love. You surely do not hate me?”
“No, Mr. Fitzgerald; you have fallen below hatred. I
despise you.”
His brow contracted, and his lips tightened. “I cannot
endure this treatment,” said he, in tones of suppressed rage.
“You tempt me too far. You compel me to humble your
pride. Since I cannot persuade you to listen to expostulations
and entreaties, I must inform you that my power over
you is complete. You are my slave. I bought you of
your father's creditors before I went to Nassau. I can sell
you any day I choose; and, by Jove, I will, if —”
The sudden change that came over her arrested him.
She pressed one hand hard upon her heart, and gasped for
breath. He sank at once on his knees, crying, “O, forgive
me, Rosa! I was beside myself.”
But she gave no sign of hearing him; and seeing her
reel backward into a chair, with pale lips and closing eyes,
he hastened to summon Tulee. Such remorse came over
him that he longed to wait for her returning consciousness.
But he remembered that his long absence must excite surprise
in the mind of his bride, and might, perhaps, connect
itself with the mysterious singer of the preceding evening.
Goaded by contending feelings, he hurried through the
footpaths whence he had so often kissed his hand to Rosa
in fond farewell, and hastily mounted his horse without one
backward glance.
Before he came in sight of the plantation, the perturbation
of his mind had subsided, and he began to think himself
a much-injured individual. “Plague on the caprices
of women!” thought he. “All this comes of Lily's taking
the silly, romantic whim of coming here to spend the honeymoon.
And Rosa, foolish girl, what airs she assumes! I
wanted to deal generously by her; but she rejected all my
all the Americas. There's a devilish deal more of the
Spanish blood in her than I thought for. Pride becomes
her wonderfully; but it won't hold out forever. She'll
find that she can't live without me. I can wait.”
Feeling the need of some safety-valve to let off his vexation,
he selected poor Tom for that purpose. When the
obsequious servant came to lead away the horse, his master
gave him a sharp cut of the whip, saying, “I'll teach you
to tell tales again, you black rascal!” But having a dainty
aversion to the sight of pain, he summoned the overseer,
and consigned him to his tender mercies.
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.' ”
14. CHAPTER XIV.
ALFRED R. KING, when summoned home to Boston
by the illness of his mother, had, by advice of
physicians, immediately accompanied her to the South of
France, and afterward to Egypt. Finding little benefit
from change of climate, and longing for familiar scenes and
faces, she urged her son to return to New England, after a
brief sojourn in Italy. She was destined never again to
see the home for which she yearned. The worn-out garment
of her soul was laid away under a flowery mound in
Florence, and her son returned alone. During the two
years thus occupied, communication with the United States
had been much interrupted, and his thoughts had been so
absorbed by his dying mother, that the memory of that
bright evening in New Orleans recurred less frequently
than it would otherwise have done. Still, the veiled picture
remained in his soul, making the beauty of all other
women seem dim. As he recrossed the Atlantic, lonely
and sad, a radiant vision of those two sisters sometimes
came before his imagination with the distinctness of actual
presence. As he sat silently watching the white streak
of foam in the wake of the vessel, he could see, as in a
mirror, all the details of that flowery parlor; he could hear
the continuous flow of the fountain in the garden, and the
melodious tones of “Buena Notte, amato bene.”
Arrived in Boston, his first inquiry of the merchants
was whether they had heard anything of Mr. Royal. He
received the news of his death with a whirl of emotions.
questions would of course be unavailing, since their existence
was entirely unknown at the North. That Mr. Royal
had died insolvent, and his property had been disposed of
at auction, filled him with alarm. It instantly occurred to
him how much power such circumstances would place in
the hands of Mr. Fitzgerald. The thought passed through
his mind, “Would he marry Rosabella?” And he seemed
to hear a repetition of the light, careless tones, “Of course
not, — she was a quadroon.” His uneasiness was too strong
to be restrained, and the second day after his arrival he
started for New Orleans.
He found the store of his old friend occupied by strangers,
who could only repeat what he had already heard. He
rode out to the house where he had passed that never-tobe-forgotten
evening. There all was painfully changed.
The purchasers had refurnished the house with tasteless
gewgaws, and the spirit of gracefulness had vanished.
Their unmodulated voices grated on his ear, in contrast
with the liquid softness of Rosabella's tones, and the merry,
musical tinkling of Floracita's prattle. All they could tell
him was, that they heard the quadroons who used to be
kept there by the gentleman that owned the house had
gone to the North somewhere. A pang shot through his
soul as he asked himself whether they remembered his offer
of assistance, and had gone in search of him. He turned
and looked back upon the house, as he had done that farewell
morning, when he assured them that he would be a
brother in time of need. He could hardly believe that all
the life and love and beauty which animated that home
had vanished into utter darkness. It seemed stranger
than the changes of a dream.
Very sad at heart, he returned to the city and sought
out a merchant with whom his father had been accustomed
to transact business. “Mr. Talbot,” said he, “I have come
to New Orleans to inquire concerning the affairs of the late
Mr. Alfred Royal, who was a particular friend of my
father. I have been surprised to hear that he died insolvent;
for I supposed him to be wealthy.”
“He was generally so considered,” rejoined Mr. Talbot.
“But he was brought down by successive failures, and
some unlucky investments, as we merchants often are, you
know.”
“Were you acquainted with him,” asked Alfred.
“I knew very little of him, except in the way of business,”
replied the merchant. “He was disinclined to
society, and therefore some people considered him eccentric;
but he had the reputation of being a kind-hearted,
honorable man.”
“I think he never married,” said Alfred, in a tone of
hesitating inquiry, which he hoped might lead to the subject
he had at heart.
But it only elicited the brief reply, “He was a bachelor.”
“Did you ever hear of any family not legitimated by
law?” inquired the young man.
“There was a rumor about his living somewhere out of
the city with a handsome quadroon,” answered the merchant.
“But such arrangements are so common here, they
excite no curiosity.”
“Can you think of any one who had intimate relations
with him, of whom I could learn something about that connection?”
“No, I cannot. As I tell you, he never mixed with
society, and people knew very little about him. Ha!
give you some information. Hallo, Signor Papanti!”
The Italian, who was thus hailed, halted in his quick
walk, and, being beckoned to by Mr. Talbot, crossed the
street and entered the store.
“I think you brought a bill against the estate of the late
Mr. Alfred Royal for lessons given to some quadroon girls.
Did you not?” inquired the merchant.
Having received an answer in the affirmative, he said:
“This is Mr. King, a young gentleman from the North,
who wishes to obtain information on that subject. Perhaps
you can give it to him.”
“I remember the young gentleman,” replied the Signor.
“Mr. Royal did introduce me to him at his store.”
The two gentlemen thus introduced bade Mr. Talbot
good morning, and walked away together, when Mr. King
said, “My father and Mr. Royal were as brothers, and
that is the reason I feel interested to know what has become
of his daughters.”
The Italian replied, “I will tell you, sir, because Mr.
Royal told me you were an excellent man, and the son of
his old friend.”
Rapid questions and answers soon brought out the principal
features of the sisters' strange history. When it came
to the fact of their being claimed as slaves, Mr. King
started. “Is such a thing possible in this country?” he
exclaimed. “Girls so elegant and accomplished as they
were!”
“Quite possible, sir,” responded the Signor. “I have
known several similar instances in this city. But in this
case I was surprised, because I never knew their mother
was a slave. She was a singularly handsome and ladylike
woman.”
“How was it possible that Mr. Royal neglected to manumit
her?” inquired the young man.
“I suppose he never thought of her otherwise than as
his wife, and never dreamed of being otherwise than rich,”
rejoined the Signor. “Besides, you know how often death
does overtake men with their duties half fulfilled. He did
manumit his daughters a few months before his decease;
but it was decided that he was then too deeply in debt to
have a right to dispose of any portion of his property.”
“Property!” echoed the indignant young man. “Such
a term applied to women makes me an Abolitionist.”
“Please not to speak that word aloud,” responded the
Italian. “I was in prison several weeks on the charge of
helping off those interesting pupils of mine, and I don't
know what might have become of me, if Mr. Fitzgerald
had not helped me by money and influence. I have my
own opinions about slavery, but I had rather go out of
New Orleans before I express them.”
“A free country indeed!” exclaimed the young man,
“where one cannot safely express his indignation against
such enormities. But tell me how the girls were rescued
from such a dreadful fate; for by the assurance you gave
me at the outset that they needed no assistance, I infer that
they were rescued.”
He listened with as much composure as he could to the
account of Mr. Fitzgerald's agency in their escape, his marriage,
Rosabella's devoted love for him, and her happy
home on a Paradisian island. The Signor summed it up
by saying, “I believe her happiness has been entirely
without alloy, except the sad fate of her sister, of which
we heard a few weeks ago.”
“What has happened to her?” inquired Alfred, with
eager interest.
“She went to the sea-shore to gather mosses, and never
returned,” replied the Signor. “It is supposed she slipped
into the water and was drowned, or that she was seized by
an alligator.”
“O horrid!” exclaimed Alfred. “Poor Floracita! What
a bright, beaming little beauty she was! But an alligator's
mouth was a better fate than slavery.”
“Again touching upon the dangerous topic!” rejoined
the Signor. “If you stay here long, I think you and the
prison-walls will become acquainted. But here is what
used to be poor Mr. Royal's happy home, and yonder is
where Madame Papanti resides, — the Madame Guirlande
I told you of, who befriended the poor orphans
when they had no other friend. Her kindness to them,
and her courage in managing for them, was what first put
it in my head to ask her to be my wife. Come in and have
a tête-à-tête with her, sir. She knew the girls from the
time they were born, and she loved them like a mother.”
Within the house, the young man listened to a more
prolonged account, some of the details of which were new,
others a repetition. Madame dwelt with evident satisfaction
on the fact that Rosa, in the midst of all her peril, refused
to accept the protection of Mr. Fitzgerald, unless she
were married to him; because she had so promised her
father, the night before he died.
“That was highly honorable to her,” replied Mr. King;
“but marriage with a slave is not valid in law.”
“So the Signor says,” rejoined Madame. “I was so
frightened and hurried, and I was so relieved when a protector
offered himself, that I did n't think to inquire anything
about it. Before Mr. Fitzgerald made his appearance,
we had planned to go to Boston in search of you.”
“Of me!” he exclaimed eagerly. “O, how I wish you
had, and that I had been in Boston to receive you!”
“Well, I don't know that anything better could be done
than has been done,” responded Madame. “The girls
were handsome to the perdition of their souls, as we say in
France; and they knew no more about the world than two
blind kittens. Their mother came here a stranger, and
she made no acquaintance. Thus they seemed to be left
singularly alone when their parents were gone. Mr. Fitzgerald
was so desperately in love with Rosabella, and she
with him, that they could not have been kept long apart
any way. He has behaved very generously toward them.
By purchasing them, he has taken them out of the power
of the creditors, some of whom were very bad men. He
bought Rosa's piano, and several other articles to which
they were attached on their father's and mother's account,
and conveyed them privately to the new home he had provided
for them. Rosabella always writes of him as the
most devoted of husbands; and dear little Floracita used to
mention him as the kindest of brothers. So there seems
every reason to suppose that Rosa will be as fortunate as
her mother was.”
“I hope so,” replied Mr. King. “But I know Mr.
Royal had very little confidence in Mr. Fitzgerald; and
the brief acquaintance I had with him impressed me with
the idea that he was a heartless, insidious man. Moreover,
they are his slaves.”
“They don't know that,” rejoined Madame. “He has
had the delicacy to conceal it from them.”
“It would have been more delicate to have recorded
their manumission,” responded Mr. King.
“That would necessarily involve change of residence,”
manumission of slaves within the State.”
“What blasphemy to call such cruel enactments by the
sacred name of law!” replied the young man. “As well
might the compacts of robbers to secure their plunder be
called law. The walls have no ears or tongues, Signor,”
added he, smiling; “so I think you will not be thrust in
jail for having such an imprudent guest. But, as I was
saying, I cannot help having misgivings concerning the
future. I want you to keep a sharp lookout concerning
the welfare of those young ladies, and to inform me from
time to time. Wheresoever I may happen to be, I will
furnish you with my address, and I wish you also to let me
know where you are to be found, if you should change
your residence. My father and Mr. Royal were like
brothers when they were young men, and if my father
were living he would wish to protect the children of his
friend. The duty that he would have performed devolves
upon me. I will deposit five thousand dollars with Mr.
Talbot, for their use, subject to your order, should any
unhappy emergency occur. I say their use, bearing in
mind the possibility that Floracita may reappear, though
that seems very unlikely. But, my friends, I wish to bind
you, by the most solemn promise, never to mention my
name in connection with this transaction, and never to
give any possible clew to it. I wish you also to conceal
my having come here to inquire concerning them. If they
ever need assistance, I do not wish them to know or conjecture
who their benefactor is. If you have occasion to
call for the money, merely say that an old friend of their
father's deposited it for their use.”
“I will solemnly pledge myself to secrecy,” answered
safe with women, I believe Madame may be trusted to any
extent, where the welfare of these girls is concerned.”
“I think you might say rather more than that, my
friend,” rejoined Madame. “But that will do. I promise
to do in all respects as the young gentleman has requested,
though I trust and believe that his precautions will prove
needless. Mr. Fitzgerald is very wealthy, and I cannot
suppose it possible that he would ever allow Rosabella to
want for anything.”
“That may be,” replied Mr. King. “But storms come
up suddenly in the sunniest skies, as was the case with
poor Mr. Royal. If Mr. Fitzgerald's love remains constant,
he may fail, or he may die, without making provision
for her manumission or support.”
“That is very true,” answered the Signor. “How much
forecast you Yankees have!”
“I should hardly deserve that compliment, my friends,
if I failed to supply you with the necessary means to carry
out my wishes.” He put two hundred dollars into the
hands of each, saying, “You will keep me informed on the
subject; and if Mrs. Fitzgerald should be ill or in trouble,
you will go to her.”
They remonstrated, saying it was too much. “Take it
then for what you have done,” replied he.
When he had gone, Madame said, “Do you suppose he
does all this on account of the friendship of their fathers?”
“He's an uncommon son, if he does,” replied the Signor.
“But I'm glad Rosabella has such a firm anchor to
the windward if a storm should come.”
Mr. King sought Mr. Talbot again, and placed five thousand
dollars in his hands, with the necessary forms and instructions,
render a larger sum necessary, please to advance it, and
draw on me. I am obliged to sail for Smyrna soon, on
business, or I would not trouble you to attend to this.”
Mr. Talbot smiled significantly, as he said, “These
young ladies must be very charming, to inspire so deep
an interest in their welfare.”
The young man, clad in the armor of an honest purpose,
did not feel the point of the arrow, and answered quietly:
“They are very charming. I saw them for a few hours
only, and never expect to see them again. Their father
and mine were very intimate friends, and I feel it a duty to
protect them from misfortune if possible.” When the business
was completed, and they had exchanged parting salutations,
he turned back to say, “Do you happen to know
anything of Mr. Fitzgerald of Savannah?”
“I never had any acquaintance with him,” replied Mr.
Talbot; “but he has the name of being something of a
roué, and rather fond of cards.”
“Can the death of Floracita be apocryphal?” thought
Alfred. “Could he be capable of selling her? No. Surely
mortal man could not wrong that artless child.”
He returned to his lodgings, feeling more fatigued and
dispirited than usual. He had done all that was possible
for the welfare of the woman who had first inspired him
with love; but O, what would he not have given for such
an opportunity as Fitzgerald had! He was obliged to
confess to himself that the utter annihilation of his hope
was more bitter than he had supposed it would be. He no
longer doubted that he would have married her if he could,
in full view of all her antecedents, and even with his mother's
prejudices to encounter. He could not, however, help
she was from what I had previously resolved to choose!
How wisely I have talked to young men about preferring
character to beauty! And lo! I found myself magnetized
at first sight by mere beauty!”
But manly pride rebelled against the imputation of such
weakness. “No, it was not mere outward beauty,” he said
to himself. “True, I had no opportunity of becoming acquainted
with the qualities of her soul, but her countenance
unmistakably expressed sweetness, modesty, and dignity,
and the inflexions of her voice were a sure guaranty for
refinement.”
With visions of past and future revolving round him, he
fell asleep and dreamed he saw Rosabella alone on a plank,
sinking in a tempestuous sea. Free as he thought himself
from superstition, the dream made an uncomfortable impression
on him, though he admitted that it was the natural
sequence of his waking thoughts.
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
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
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
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
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
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'.
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
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
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:—
“Dearest and best Friends,—It would take days
to explain to you all that has happened since I wrote
you that long, happy letter; and at present I have not
strength to write much. When we meet we will talk
about it more fully, though I wish to avoid the miserable
particulars as far as possible. The preparations I
so foolishly supposed were being made for me were for
a rich Northern bride,—a pretty, innocent-looking little
creature. The marriage with me, it seems, was counterfeit.
When I discovered it, my first impulse was to
fly to you. But a strange illness came over me, and
I was oblivious of everything for four months. My good
Tulee and a black woman named Chloe brought me back
to life by their patient nursing. I suppose it was wrong,
but when I remembered who and what I was, I felt sorry
they did n't let me go. I was again seized with a longing
to fly to you, who were as father and mother to me and my
darling little sister in the days of our first misfortune.
But I was too weak to move, and I am still far from being
able to bear the fatigue of such a journey. Moreover, I
am fastened here for the present by another consideration.
Mr. Fitzgerald says he bought us of papa's creditors, and
that I am his slave. I have entreated him, for the sake
of our unborn child, to manumit me, and he has promised
to do it. If I could only be safe in New Orleans, it is my
wish to come and live with you, and find some way to support
myself and my child. But I could have no peace, so
long as there was the remotest possibility of being claimed
as slaves. Mr. Fitzgerald may not mean that I shall ever
come to harm; but he may die without providing against
it, as poor papa did. I don't know what forms are necessary
for my safety. I don't understand how it is that there
wrong. I will wait here a little longer to recruit my
strength and have this matter settled. I wish it were possible
for you, my dear, good mother, to come to me for two
or three weeks in June; then perhaps you could take back
with you your poor Rosa and her baby, if their lives should
be spared. But if you cannot come, there is an experienced
old negress here, called Granny Nan, who, Tulee says, will
take good care of me. I thank you for you sympathizing,
loving letter. Who could papa's friend be that left me a
legacy? I was thankful for the fifty dollars, for it is very
unpleasant to me to use any of Mr. Fitzgerald's money,
though he tells Tom to supply everything I want. If it
were not for you, dear friends, I don't think I should have
courage to try to live. But something sustains me wonderfully
through these dreadful trials. Sometimes I think
poor Chloe's prayers bring me help from above; for the
good soul is always praying for me.
“Adieu. May the good God bless you both.
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
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.
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.
17. CHAPTER XVII.
While Rosabella had been passing through these
dark experiences, Flora was becoming more and
more accustomed to her new situation. She strove bravely
to conceal the homesickness which she could not always
conquer; but several times, in the course of their travels,
Mrs. Delano noticed moisture gathering on her long black
eyelashes when she saw the stars and stripes floating
from the mast of a vessel. Once, when a rose was given
her, she wept outright; but she soon wiped her eyes, and
apologized by saying: “I wonder whether a Pensee-Vivace
makes Rosa feel as I do when I see a rose? But what an
ungrateful child I am, when I have such a dear, kind, new
Mamita!” And a loving smile again lighted up her swimming
eyes,—those beautiful April eyes of tears and sunshine,
that made rainbows in the heart.
Mrs. Delano wisely kept her occupied with a succession
of teachers and daily excursions. Having a natural genius
for music and drawing, she made rapid progress in both
during a residence of six months in England, six months
in France, and three months in Switzerland. And as Mr.
and Mrs. Percival were usually with them, she picked up,
in her quick way, a good degree of culture from the daily
tone of conversation. The one drawback to the pleasure of
new acquisitions was that she could not share them with
Rosa.
One day, when she was saying this, Mrs. Delano replied:
“We will go to Italy for a short time, and then
over a good deal with Mr. Percival, and I think I
should know how to guard against any contingency that
may occur. And as you are so anxious about your sister,
I have been revolving plans for taking you back to the
island, to see whether we can ascertain what is going on in
that mysterious cottage.”
From that time there was a very perceptible increase of
cheerfulness in Flora's spirits. The romance of such an
adventure hit her youthful fancy, while the idea of getting
even a sly peep at Rosa filled her with delight. She imagined
all sorts of plans to accomplish this object, and often
held discussions upon the propriety of admitting Tulee
to their confidence.
Her vivacity redoubled when they entered Italy. She
was herself composed of the same materials of which Italy
was made; and without being aware of the spiritual relationship,
she at once felt at home there. She was charmed
with the gay, impulsive people, the bright costumes, the
impassioned music, and the flowing language. The clear,
intense blue of the noonday sky, and the sun setting in a
glowing sea of amber, reminded her of her Southern home;
and the fragrance of the orange-groves was as incense
waved by the memory of her childhood. The ruins of
Rome interested her less than any other features of the
landscape; for, like Bettini, she never asked who any of
the ancients were, for fear they would tell her. The play
of sunshine on the orange-colored lichens interested her
more than the inscriptions they covered; and while their
guide was telling the story of mouldering arches, she was
looking through them at the clear blue sky and the soft
outline of the hills.
One morning they rode out early to spend a whole day
at Albano; and every mile of the ride presented her with
some charming novelty. The peasants who went dancing
by in picturesque costumes, and the finely formed women
walking erect with vases of water on their heads, or drawing
an even thread from their distaffs, as they went singing
along, furnished her memory with subjects for many a
picture. Sometimes her exclamations would attract the
attention of a group of dancers, who, pleased with an exuberance
of spirits akin to their own, and not unmindful of
forthcoming coin, would beckon to the driver to stop, while
they repeated their dances for the amusement of the Signorina.
A succession of pleasant novelties awaited her at
Albano. Running about among the ilex-groves in search
of bright mosses, she would come suddenly in front of an
elegant villa, with garlands in stucco, and balconies gracefully
draped with vines. Wandering away from that, she
would utter a little cry of joy at the unexpected sight of
some reclining marble nymph, over which a little fountain
threw a transparent veil of gossamer sparkling with diamonds.
Sometimes she stood listening to the gurgling and
dripping of unseen waters; and sometimes melodies floated
from the distance, which her quick ear caught at once, and
her tuneful voice repeated like a mocking-bird. The childlike
zest with which she entered into everything, and made
herself a part of everything, amused her quiet friend, and
gave her even more pleasure than the beauties of the landscape.
After a picnic repast, they ascended Monte Cavo, and
looked down on the deep basins of the lakes, once blazing
with volcanic fire, now full of water blue as the sky
it reflected; like human souls in which the passions have
truths in which the heavens are mirrored. As Mrs.
Delano pointed out various features in the magnificent
panorama around them, she began to tell Flora of scenes
in the Æneid with which they were intimately connected.
The young girl, who was serious for the moment, dropped
on the grass to listen, with elbows on her friend's lap, and
her upturned face supported by her hands. But the lecture
was too grave for her mercurial spirit; and she soon
sprang up, exclaiming: “O Mamita Lila, all those people
were dead and buried so long ago! I don't believe the
princess that Æneas was fighting about was half as handsome
as that dancing Contadina from Frascati, with a scarlet
bodice and a floating veil fastened among her black
braids with a silver arrow. How her eyes sparkled, and
her cheeks glowed! And the Contadino who was dancing
with her, with those long streamers of red ribbon flying
round his peaked hat, he looked almost as handsome as she
did. How I wish I could see them dance the saltarello
again! O Mamita Lila, as soon as we get back to Rome,
do buy a tambourine.” Inspired by the remembrance, she
straightway began to hum the monotonous tune of that
grasshopper dance, imitating the hopping steps and the
quick jerks of the arms, marking the time with ever-increasing
rapidity on her left hand, as if it were a tambourine.
She was so aglow with the exercise, and so graceful
in her swift motions, that Mrs. Delano watched her with
admiring smiles. But when the extempore entertainment
came to a close, she thought to herself: “It is a hopeless
undertaking to educate her after the New England pattern.
One might as well try to plough with a butterfly, as to
teach her ancient history.”
When they had wandered about a little while longer,
happy as souls newly arrived in the Elysian Fields, Mrs.
Delano said: “My child, you have already gathered mosses
enough to fill the carriage, and it is time for us to return.
You know twilight passes into darkness very quickly here.”
“Just let me gather this piece of golden lichen,” pleaded
she. “It will look so pretty among the green moss, in the
cross I am going to make you for Christmas.”
When all her multifarious gleanings were gathered up,
they lingered a little to drink in the beauty of the scene before
them. In the distance was the Eternal City, girdled by
hills that stood out with wonderful distinctness in the luminous
atmosphere of that brilliant day, which threw a golden
veil over all its churches, statues, and ruins. Before they had
gone far on their homeward ride, all things passed through
magical changes. The hills were seen in vapory visions,
shifting their hues with opaline glances; and over the green,
billowy surface of the broad Campagna was settling a prismatic
robe of mist, changing from rose to violet. Earth
seemed to be writing, in colored notes, with tenderest modulations,
her farewell hymn to the departing God of Light.
And the visible music soon took voice in the vibration of
vesper-bells, in the midst of which they entered Rome.
Flora, who was sobered by the solemn sounds and the darkening
landscape, scarcely spoke, except to remind Mrs.
Delano of the tambourine as they drove through the
crowded Corso; and when they entered their lodgings in
Via delle Quattro Fontane, she passed to her room without
any of her usual skipping and singing. When they met
again at supper her friend said: “Why so serious? Is my
little one tired?”
“I have been thinking, Mamita, that something is going
merry something happens.”
“I should think something would happen very often
then,” rejoined Mrs. Delano with a smile, to which she responded
with her ready little laugh. “Several visitors
called while we were gone,” said Mrs. Delano. “Our rich
Boston friend, Mr. Green, has left his card. He follows us
very diligently.” She looked at Flora as she spoke; but
though the light from a tall lamp fell directly on her face,
she saw no emotion, either of pleasure or embarrassment.
She merely looked up with a smile, as she remarked:
“He always seems to be going round very leisurely in
search of something to entertain him. I wonder whether
he has found it yet.”
Though she was really tired with the exertions of the
day, the sight of the new tambourine, after supper, proved
too tempting; and she was soon practising the saltarello
again, with an agility almost equal to that of the nimble
Contadina from whom she had learned it. She was whirling
round more and more swiftly, as if fatigue were a thing
impossible to her, when Mr. Green was announced; and a
very stylishly dressed gentleman, with glossy shirt-bosom
and diamond studs, entered the room. She had had scarcely
time to seat herself, and her face was still flushed with exercise,
while her dimples were revealed by a sort of shy
smile at the consciousness of having been so nearly caught
in her rompish play by such an exquisite. The glowing
cheek and the dimpling smile were a new revelation to Mr.
Green; for he had never interested her sufficiently to call
out the vivacity which rendered her so charming.
Mrs. Delano noticed his glance of admiration, and the
thought occurred, as it had often done before, what an embarrassing
marriage to her protegée.
“I called this morning,” said he, “and found you had
gone to Albano. I was tempted to follow, but thought it
likely I should miss you. It is a charming drive.”
“Everything is charming here, I think,” rejoined Flora.
“Ah, it is the first time you have seen Rome,” said he.
“I envy you the freshness of your sensations. This is the
third time I have been here, and of course it palls a little
upon me.”
“Why don't you go to some new place then?” inquired
Flora.
“Where is there any new place?” responded he languidly.
“To be sure, there is Arabia Petræa, but the accommodations
are not good. Besides, Rome has attractions
for me at present; and I really think I meet more acquaintances
here than I should at home. Rome is beginning to
swarm with Americans, especially with Southerners. One
can usually recognize them at a glance by their unmistakable
air of distinction. They are obviously of porcelain
clay, as Willis says.”
“I think our New England Mr. Percival is as polished
a gentleman as any I have seen,” observed Mrs.
Delano.
“He is a gentleman in manners and attainments, I admit,”
replied Mr. Green; “but with his family and education,
what a pity it is he has so disgraced himself.”
“Pray what has he done?” inquired the lady.
“Did n't you know he was an Abolitionist?” rejoined
Mr. Green. “It is a fact that he has actually spoken at
their meetings. I was surprised to see him travelling with
you in England. It must be peculiarly irritating to the
agitators. Really, unless something effectual can be done
to stop that frenzy, I fear Southern gentlemen will be unable
to recover a fugitive slave.”
Flora looked at Mrs. Delano with a furtive, sideway
glance, and a half-smile on her lips. Her impulse was to
jump up, dot one of her quick courtesies, and say: “I am
a fugitive slave. Please, sir, don't give me up to any of
those distinguished gentlemen.”
Mr. Green noticed her glance, and mistook it for distaste
of his theme. “Pardon me, ladies,” said he, “for introducing
a subject tabooed in polite society. I called for a
very different purpose. One novelty remains for me in
Rome. I have never seen the statues of the Vatican by
torchlight. Some Americans are forming a party for that
purpose to-morrow evening, and if you would like to join
them, it will give me great pleasure to be your escort.”
Flora, being appealed to, expressed acquiescence, and
Mrs. Delano replied: “We will accept your invitation with
pleasure. I have a great predilection for sculpture.”
“Finding myself so fortunate in one request encourages
me to make another,” rejoined Mr. Green. “On the evening
following Norma is to be brought out, with a new
prima donna, from whom great things are expected. I
should be much gratified if you would allow me to procure
tickets and attend upon you.”
Flora's face lighted up at once. “I see what my musical
daughter wishes,” said Mrs. Delano. “We will therefore
lay ourselves under obligations to you for two evenings'
entertainment.”
The gentleman, having expressed his thanks, bade them
good evening.
Flora woke up the next morning full of pleasant anticipations.
When Mrs. Delano looked in upon her, she found
her already dressed, and busy with a sketch of the dancing
couple from Frascati. “I cannot make them so much alive
as I wish,” said she, “because they are not in motion. No
picture can give the gleamings of the arrow or the whirlings
of the veil. I wish we could dress like Italians. How
I should like to wear a scarlet bodice, and a veil fastened
with a silver arrow.”
“If we remained till Carnival, you might have that
pleasure,” replied Mrs. Delano; “for everybody masquerades
as they like at that time. But I imagine you would
hardly fancy my appearance in scarlet jacket, with laced
sleeves, big coral necklace, and long ear-rings, like that old
Contadina we met riding on a donkey.”
Flora laughed. “To think of Mamita Lila in such costume!”
exclaimed she. “The old Contadina would make
a charming picture; but a picture of the Campagna, sleepy
with purple haze, would be more like you.”
“Am I then so sleepy?” inquired her friend.
“O, no, not sleepy. You know I don't mean that. But
so quiet; and always with some sort of violet or lilac cloud
for a dress. But here comes Carlina to call us to breakfast,”
said she, as she laid down her crayon, and drummed
the saltarello on her picture while she paused a moment to
look at it.
As Mrs. Delano wished to write letters, and Flora expected
a teacher in drawing, it was decided that they should
remain at home until the hour arrived for visiting the Vatican.
“We have been about sight-seeing so much,” said
Mrs. Delano, “that I think it will be pleasant to have a
quiet day.” Flora assented; but as Mrs. Delano wrote,
rapid thumps on the tambourine might be heard, indicating
that the saltarello was again in rehearsal. If a
piffero strolled through the street, the monotonous drone of
his bagpipe was reproduced in most comical imitation; and
anon there was a gush of bird-songs, as if a whole aviary
were in the vicinity. Indeed, no half-hour passed without
audible indication that the little recluse was in merry mood.
At the appointed time Mr. Green came to conduct them
to the Vatican. They ascended the wide slopes, and passed
through open courts into long passages lined with statues,
and very dimly lighted with occasional lamps. Here and
there a marble figure was half revealed, and looked so
spectral in the gloaming that they felt as if they were entering
the world of spirits. Several members of the party
preceded them, and all seemed to feel the hushing influence,
for they passed on in silence, and stepped softly as they
entered the great Palace of Art. The torch-bearers were
soon in readiness to illuminate the statues, which they did
by holding a covered light over each, making it stand out
alone in the surrounding darkness, with very striking effects
of light and shadow. Flora, who was crouched on a low
seat by the side of Mrs. Delano, gazed with a reverent,
half-afraid feeling on the thoughtful, majestic looking Minerva
Medica. When the graceful vision of Venus Anadyomene
was revealed, she pressed her friend's hand, and
the pressure was returned. But when the light was held
over a beautiful Cupid, the face looked out from the
gloom with such an earnest, childlike expression, that she
forgot the presence of strangers, and impulsively exclaimed,
“O Mamita, how lovely!”
A gentleman some little distance in front of them turned
movement of the torch-bearer threw the light full upon
him for an instant. Flora hid her face in the lap of Mrs.
Delano, who attributed the quick action to her shame at
having spoken so audibly. But placing her hand caressingly
on her shoulder, she felt that she was trembling violently.
She stooped toward her, and softly inquired, “What
is the matter, dear?”
Flora seized her head with both hands, and, drawing it
closer, whispered: “Take me home, Mamita! Do take me
right home!”
Wondering what sudden caprice had seized the emotional
child, she said, “Why, are you ill, dear?”
Flora whispered close into her ear: “No, Mamita. But
Mr. Fitzgerald is here.”
Mrs. Delano rose very quietly, and, approaching Mr.
Green, said: “My daughter is not well, and we wish to
leave. But I beg you will return as soon as you have
conducted us to the carriage.”
But though he was assured by both the ladies that nothing
alarming was the matter, when they arrived at their
lodgings he descended from the driver's seat to assist them
in alighting. Mrs. Delano, with polite regrets at having
thus disturbed his pleasure, thanked him, and bade him
good evening. She hurried after Flora, whom she found
in her room, weeping bitterly. “Control your feelings, my
child,” said she. “You are perfectly safe here in Italy.”
“But if he saw me, it will make it so very unpleasant
for you, Mamita.”
“He could n't see you; for we were sitting in very deep
shadow,” replied Mrs. Delano. “But even if he had seen
you, I should know how to protect you.”
“But what I am thinking of,” said Floracita, still weeping,
“is that he may have brought Rosa with him, and I
can't run to her this very minute. I must see her! I will
see her! If I have to tell ever so many fibititas about the
reason of my running away.”
“I would n't prepare any fibititas at present,” rejoined
Mrs. Delano. “I always prefer the truth. I will send for
Mr. Percival, and ask him to ascertain whether Mr. Fitzgerald
brought a lady with him. Meanwhile, you had better
lie down, and keep as quiet as you can. As soon as I
obtain any information, I will come and tell you.”
When Mr. Percival was informed of the adventure at
the Vatican, he sallied forth to examine the lists of arrivals;
and before long he returned with the statement that
Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald were registered among the newcomers.
“Flora would, of course, consider that conclusive,”
said he; “but you and I, who have doubts concerning
that clandestine marriage, will deem it prudent to
examine further.”
“If it should prove to be her sister, it will be a very
embarrassing affair,” rejoined Mrs. Delano.
Mr. Percival thought it very unlikely, but said he would
ascertain particulars to-morrow.
With that general promise, without a knowledge of the
fact already discovered, Flora retired to rest; but it was
nearly morning before she slept.
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
THOUGH Flora had been so wakeful the preceding
night, she tapped at Mrs. Delano's door very early
the next morning. “Excuse me for coming before you
were dressed,” said she; “but I wanted to ask you how
long you think it will be before Mr. Percival can find out
whether Mr. Fitzgerald has brought Rosa with him.”
“Probably not before noon,” replied Mrs. Delano, drawing
the anxious little face toward her, and imprinting on it
her morning kiss. “Last evening I wrote a note to Mr.
Green, requesting him to dispose of the opera tickets to
other friends. Mr. Fitzgerald is so musical, he will of
course be there; and whether your sister is with him or
not, you will be in too nervous a state to go to any public
place. You had better stay in your room, and busy yourself
with books and drawings, till we can ascertain the state
of things. I will sit with you as much as I can; and when
I am absent you must try to be a good, quiet child.”
“I will try to be good, because I don't want to trouble you,
Mamita Lila; but you know I can't be quiet in my mind.
I did long for the opera; but unless Mr. Fitzgerald brought
Rosa with him, and I could see her before I went, it would
almost kill me to hear Norma; for every part of it is associated
with her.”
After breakfast, Mrs. Delano sat some time in Flora's
room, inspecting her recent drawings, and advising her to
work upon them during the day, as the best method of
restraining restlessness. While they were thus occupied,
accompanied with a note for the elder lady, expressing Mr.
Green's great regret at being deprived of the pleasure of
their company for the evening.
“I am sorry I missed seeing him,” thought Mrs. Delano;
“for he is always so intimate with Southerners, I dare say
he would know all about Mr. Fitzgerald; though I should
have been at a loss how to introduce the inquiry.”
Not long afterward Mr. Percival called, and had what
seemed to Flora a very long private conference with Mrs.
Delano. The information he brought was, that the lady
with Mr. Fitzgerald was a small, slight figure, with yellowish
hair and very delicate complexion.
“That is in all respects the very opposite of Flora's
description of her sister,” rejoined Mrs. Delano.
Their brief conversation on the subject was concluded by
a request that Mr. Percival would inquire at Civita Vecchia
for the earliest vessels bound either to France or England.
Mrs. Delano could not at once summon sufficient resolution
to recount all the particulars to Flora; to whom she
merely said that she considered it certain that her sister
was not with Mr. Fitzgerald.
“Then why can't I go right off to the United States to-day?”
exclaimed the impetuous little damsel.
“Would you then leave Mamita Lila so suddenly?” inquired
her friend; whereupon the emotional child began
to weep and protest. This little scene was interrupted by
Carlina with two visiting-cards on a silver salver. Mrs.
Delano's face flushed unusually as she glanced at them.
She immediately rose to go, saying to Flora: “I must see
these people; but I will come back to you as soon as I can.
Don't leave your room, my dear.”
In the parlor, she found a gentleman and lady, both
handsome, but as different from each other as night and
morning. The lady stepped forward and said: “I think
you will recollect me; for we lived in the same street in
Boston, and you and my mother used to visit together.”
“Miss Lily Bell,” rejoined Mrs. Delano, offering her
hand. “I had not heard you were on this side the Atlantic.”
“Not Miss Bell now, but Mrs. Fitzgerald,” replied the
fair little lady. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Fitzgerald.”
Mrs. Delano bowed, rather coldly; and her visitor continued:
“I was so sorry I did n't know you were with the
Vatican party last night. Mr. Green told us of it this
morning, and said you were obliged to leave early, on account
of the indisposition of Miss Delano. I hope she has
recovered, for Mr. Green has told me so much about her
that I am dying with curiosity to see her.”
“She is better, I thank you, but not well enough to see
company,” replied Mrs. Delano.
“What a pity she will be obliged to relinquish the
opera to-night!” observed Mr. Fitzgerald. “I hear she is
very musical; and they tell wonderful stories about this
new prima donna. They say she has two more notes in
the altissimo scale than any singer who has been heard
here, and that her sostenuto is absolutely marvellous.”
Mrs. Delano replied politely, expressing regret that she
and her daughter were deprived of the pleasure of hearing
such a musical genius. After some desultory chat concerning
the various sights in Rome, the visitors departed.
“I'm glad your call was short,” said Mr. Fitzgerald.
“That lady is a perfect specimen of Boston ice.”
Whereupon his companion began to rally him for want
of gallantry in saying anything disparaging of Boston.
Meanwhile Mrs. Delano was pacing the parlor in a disturbed
state of mind. Though she had foreseen such a
contingency as one of the possible consequences of adopting
Flora, yet when it came so suddenly in a different
place, and under different circumstances from any she had
thought of, the effect was somewhat bewildering. She
dreaded the agitation into which the news would throw
Flora, and she wanted to mature her own future plans before
she made the announcement. So, in answer to Flora's
questions about the visitors, she merely said a lady from
Boston, the daughter of one of her old acquaintances, had
called to introduce her husband. After dinner, they spent
some time reading Tasso's Aminta together; and then Mrs.
Delano said: “I wish to go and have a talk with Mr. and
Mrs. Percival. I have asked him to inquire about vessels
at Civita Vecchia; for, under present circumstances, I presume
you would be glad to set out sooner than we intended
on that romantic expedition in search of your sister.”
“O, thank you! thank you!” exclaimed Flora, jumping
up and kissing her.
“I trust you will not go out, or sing, or show yourself at
the windows while I am gone,” said Mrs. Delano; “for
though Mr. Fitzgerald can do you no possible harm, it
would be more agreeable to slip away without his seeing
you.”
The promise was readily and earnestly given, and she
proceeded to the lodgings of Mr. and Mrs. Percival in the
next street. After she had related the experiences of the
morning, she asked what they supposed had become of
Rosabella.
“It is to be hoped she does not continue her relation
with that base man if she knows of his marriage,” said
Mrs. Percival; “for that would involve a moral degradation
painful for you to think of in Flora's sister.”
“If she has ceased to interest his fancy, very likely he
may have sold her,” said Mr. Percival; “for a man who
could entertain the idea of selling Flora, I think would sell
his own Northern wife, if the law permitted it and circumstances
tempted him to it.”
“What do you think I ought to do in the premises?”
inquired Mrs. Delano.
“I would hardly presume to say what you ought to do,”
rejoined Mrs. Percival; “but I know what I should do, if
I were as rich as you, and as strongly attached to Flora.”
“Let me hear what you would do,” said Mrs. Delano.
The prompt reply was: “I would go in search of her.
And if she was sold, I would buy her and bring her home,
and be a mother to her.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Delano, warmly pressing her
hand. “I thought you would advise what was kindest and
noblest. Money really seems to me of very little value,
except as a means of promoting human happiness. And
in this case I might perhaps prevent moral degradation,
growing out of misfortune and despair.”
After some conversation concerning vessels that were
about to sail, the friends parted. On her way homeward,
she wondered within herself whether they had any suspicion
of the secret tie that bound her so closely to these
unfortunate girls. “I ought to do the same for them without
that motive,” thought she; “but should I?”
Though her call had not been very long, it seemed so to
Flora, who had latterly been little accustomed to solitude.
watching the crowd on Monte Pincio;—children chasing
each other, or toddling about with nurses in bright-red
jackets; carriages going round and round, ever and anon
bringing into the sunshine gleams of gay Roman scarfs, or
bright autumnal ribbons fluttering in the breeze. She had
enjoyed few things more than joining that fashionable
promenade to overlook the city in the changing glories of
sunset. But now she cared not for it. Her thoughts were
far away on the lonely island. As sunset quickly faded
into twilight, carriages and pedestrians wound their way
down the hill. The noble trees on its summit became
solemn silhouettes against the darkening sky, and the
monotonous trickling of the fountain in the court below
sounded more distinct as the street noises subsided. She
was growing a little anxious, when she heard soft footfalls
on the stairs, which she at once recognized and hastened to
meet. “O, you have been gone so long!” she exclaimed.
Happy, as all human beings are, to have another heart so
dependent on them, the gratified lady passed her arm round
the waist of the loving child, and they ascended to their
rooms like two confidential school-girls.
After tea, Mrs. Delano said, “Now I will keep my
promise of telling you all I have discovered.” Flora ran
to an ottoman by her side, and, leaning on her lap, looked
up eagerly into her face. “You must try not to be excitable,
my dear,” said her friend; “for I have some unpleasant
news to tell you.”
The expressive eyes, that were gazing wistfully into
hers while she spoke, at once assumed that startled, melancholy
look, strangely in contrast with their laughing shape.
Her friend was so much affected by it that she hardly
murmured, “Is she dead?”
“I have heard no such tidings, darling,” she replied.
“But Mr. Fitzgerald has married a Boston lady, and they
were the visitors who came here this morning.”
Flora sprung up and pressed her hand on her heart, as
if a sharp arrow had hit her. But she immediately sank
on the ottoman again, and said in tones of suppressed agitation:
“Then he has left poor Rosa. How miserable she
must be! She loved him so! O, how wrong it was for
me to run away and leave her! And only to think how I
have been enjoying myself, when she was there all alone,
with her heart breaking! Can't we go to-morrow to look
for her, dear Mamita?”
“In three days a vessel will sail for Marseilles,” replied
Mrs. Delano. “Our passage is taken; and Mr. and Mrs.
Percival, who intended to return home soon, are kind
enough to say they will go with us. I wish they could
accompany us to the South; but he is so well known as
an Abolitionist that his presence would probably cause unpleasant
interruptions and delays, and perhaps endanger
his life.”
Flora seized her hand and kissed it, while tears were
dropping fast upon it. And at every turn of the conversation,
she kept repeating, “How wrong it was for me to run
away and leave her!”
“No, my child,” replied Mrs. Delano, “you did right in
coming to me. If you had stayed there, you would have
made both her and yourself miserable, beside doing what
was very wrong. I met Mr. Fitzgerald once on horseback,
while I was visiting at Mr. Welby's plantation; but
I never fairly saw him until to-day. He is so very handsome,
rather remarkable he did not gain a bad power over you by
his insinuating flattery, when you were so very young and
inexperienced.”
The guileless little damsel looked up with an expression
of surprise, and said: “How could I bear to have him
make love to me, when he was Rosa's husband? He is so
handsome and fascinating, that, if he had loved me instead
of Rosa, in the beginning, I dare say I should have been as
much in love with him as she was. I did dearly love him
while he was a kind brother; but I could n't love him so.
It would have killed Rosa if I had. Besides, he told falsehoods;
and papa taught us to consider that as the meanest
of faults. I have heard him tell Rosa he never loved anybody
but her, when an hour before he had told me he loved
me better than Rosa. What could I do but despise such a
man? Then, when he threatened to sell me, I became
dreadfully afraid of him.” She started up, as if struck by
a sudden thought, and exclaimed wildly, “What if he has
sold Rosa?”
Her friend brought forward every argument and every
promise she could think of to pacify her; and when she
had become quite calm, they sang a few hymns together,
and before retiring to rest knelt down side by side and
prayed for strength and guidance in these new troubles.
Flora remained a long time wakeful, thinking of Rosa
deserted and alone. She had formed many projects concerning
what was to be seen and heard and done in Rome;
but she forgot them all. She did not even think of the
much-anticipated opera, until she heard from the street
snatches of Norma, whistled or sung by the dispersing
audience. A tenor voice passed the house singing, Vieni
sing that duet together. And in those latter days how languishingly
he used to look at me, behind her back, while he
sang passionately, `Ah, deh cedi, cedi a me!' And poor
cheated Rosa would say, `Dear Gerald, how much heart
you put into your voice!' O shame, shame! What could
I do but run away? Poor Rosa! How I wish I could
hear her sing `Casta Diva,' as she used to do when we sat
gazing at the moon shedding its soft light over the pines in
that beautiful lonely island.”
And so, tossed for a long while on a sea of memories,
she finally drifted into dream-land.
19. CHAPTER XIX.
While Flora was listlessly gazing at Monte Pincio
from the solitude of her room in the Via delle
Quattro Fontane, Rosabella was looking at the same object,
seen at a greater distance, over intervening houses, from
her high lodgings in the Corso. She could see the road
winding like a ribbon round the hill, with a medley of
bright colors continually moving over it. But she was absorbed
in revery, and they floated round and round before
her mental eye, like the revolving shadows of a magic
lantern.
She was announced to sing that night, as the new Spanish
prima donna, La Señorita Rosita Campaneo; and
though she had been applauded by manager and musicians
at the rehearsal that morning, her spirit shrank from the
task. Recent letters from America had caused deep melancholy;
and the idea of singing, not con amore, but as a
performer before an audience of entire strangers, filled her
with dismay. She remembered how many times she and
Flora and Gerald had sung together from Norma; and an
oppressive feeling of loneliness came over her. Returning
from rehearsal, a few hours before, she had seen a young
Italian girl, who strongly reminded her of her lost sister.
“Ah!” thought she, “if Flora and I had gone out into the
world together, to make our own way, as Madame first intended,
how much sorrow and suffering I might have been
spared!” She went to the piano, where the familiar music
of Norma lay open before her, and from the depths of her
last tone passed sighingly away, and as her hands lingered
on the keys, she murmured, “Will my heart pass into it
there, before that crowd of strange faces, as it does here?”
“To be sure it will, dear,” responded Madame, who had
entered softly and stood listening to the last strains.
“Ah, if all would hear with your partial ears!” replied
Rosabella, with a glimmering smile. “But they
will not. And I may be so frightened that I shall lose my
voice.”
“What have you to be afraid of, darling?” rejoined Madame.
“It was more trying to sing at private parties of
accomplished musicians, as you did in Paris; and especially
at the palace, where there was such an élite company. Yet
you know that Queen Amelia was so much pleased with
your performance of airs from this same opera, that she
sent you the beautiful enamelled wreath you are to wear to-night.”
“What I was singing when you came in wept itself out
of the fulness of my heart,” responded Rosabella. “This
dreadful news of Tulee and the baby unfits me for anything.
Do you think there is no hope it may prove untrue?”
“You know the letter explicitly states that my cousin
and his wife, the negro woman, and the white baby, all died
of yellow-fever,” replied Madame. “But don't reproach
me for leaving them, darling. I feel badly enough about
it, already. I thought it would be healthy so far out of
the city; and it really seemed the best thing to do with the
poor little bambino, until we could get established somewhere.”
“I did not intend to reproach you, my kind friend,”
But I had a heavy presentiment of evil when you first told
me they were left. This news makes it hard for me to
keep up my heart for the efforts of the evening. You
know I was induced to enter upon this operatic career
mainly by the hope of educating that poor child, and providing
well for the old age of you and Papa Balbino, as I
have learned to call my good friend, the Signor. And
poor Tulee, too, — how much I intended to do for her! No
mortal can ever know what she was to me in the darkest
hours of my life.”
“Well, poor Tulee's troubles are all over,” rejoined
Madame, with a sigh; “and bambinos escape a great deal
of suffering by going out of this wicked world. For, between
you and I, dear, I don't believe one word about the
innocent little souls staying in purgatory on account of not
being baptized.”
“O, my friend, if you only knew!” exclaimed Rosa,
in a wild, despairing tone. But she instantly checked herself,
and said: “I will try not to think of it; for if I do, I
shall spoil my voice; and Papa Balbino would be dreadfully
mortified if I failed, after he had taken so much pains
to have me brought out.”
“That is right, darling,” rejoined Madame, patting her
on the shoulder. “I will go away, and leave you to rehearse.”
Again and again Rosa sang the familiar airs, trying to
put soul into them, by imagining how she would feel if she
were in Norma's position. Some of the emotions she
knew by her own experience, and those she sang with her
deepest feeling.
“If I could only keep the same visions before me that I
herself; “for now, when I sing `Casta Diva,' I seem to be
sitting with my arm round dear little Flora, watching the
moon as it rises above the dark pines on that lonely
island.”
At last the dreaded hour came. Rosa appeared on the
stage with her train of priestesses. The orchestra and the
audience were before her; and she knew that Papa and
Mamma Balbino were watching her from the side with anxious
hearts. She was very pale, and her first notes were
a little tremulous. But her voice soon became clear and
strong; and when she fixed her eyes on the moon, and
sang “Casta Diva,” the fulness and richness of the tones
took everybody by surprise.
“Bis! Bis!” cried the audience; and the chorus was not
allowed to proceed till she had sung it a second and third
time. She courtesied her acknowledgments gracefully.
But as she retired, ghosts of the past went with her; and
with her heart full of memories, she seemed to weep in
music, while she sang in Italian, “Restore to mine affliction
one smile of love's protection.” Again the audience
shouted, “Bis! Bis!”
The duet with Adalgisa was more difficult; for she had
not yet learned to be an actress, and she was embarrassed
by the consciousness of being an object of jealousy to the
seconda donna, partly because she was prima, and partly
because the tenor preferred her. But when Adalgisa
sang in Italian the words, “Behold him!” she chanced to
raise her eyes to a box near the stage, and saw the faces
of Gerald Fitzgerald and his wife bending eagerly toward
her. She shuddered, and for an instant her voice failed
her. The audience were breathless. Her look, her attitude,
A glance at the foot-lights and at the orchestra recalled
the recollection of where she was, and by a strong effort
she controlled herself; though there was still an agitation
in her voice, which the audience and the singers thought to
be the perfection of acting. Again she glanced at Fitzgerald,
and there was terrible power in the tones with
which she uttered, in Italian, “Tremble, perfidious one!
Thou knowest the cause is ample.”
Her eyes rested for a moment on Mrs. Fitzgerald, and
with a wonderful depth of pitying sadness, she sang, “O,
how his art deceived thee!”
The wish she had formed was realized. She was enabled
to give voice to her own emotions, forgetful of the
audience for the time being. And even in subsequent
scenes, when the recollection of being a performer returned
upon her, her inward excitation seemed to float her onward,
like a great wave.
Once again her own feelings took her up, like a tornado,
and made her seem a wonderful actress. In the scene
where Norma is tempted to kill her children, she fixed her
indignant gaze full upon Fitzgerald, and there was an indescribable
expression of stern resolution in her voice, and
of pride in the carriage of her queenly head, while she
sang: “Disgrace worse than death awaits them. Slavery?
No! never!”
Fitzgerald quailed before it. He grew pale, and slunk
back in the box. The audience had never seen the part
so conceived, and a few criticised it. But her beauty and
her voice and her overflowing feeling carried all before her;
and this, also, was accepted as a remarkable inspiration of
theatrical genius.
When the wave of her own excitement was subsiding,
the magnetism of an admiring audience began to affect her
strongly. With an outburst of fury, she sang, “War!
War!” The audience cried, “Bis! Bis!” and she sang
it as powerfully the second time.
What it was that had sustained and carried her through
that terrible ordeal, she could never understand.
When the curtain dropped, Fitzgerald was about to rush
after her; but his wife caught his arm, and he was obliged
to follow. It was an awful penance he underwent, submitting
to this necessary restraint; and while his soul was
seething like a boiling caldron, he was obliged to answer
evasively to Lily's frequent declaration that the superb
voice of this Spanish prima donna was exactly like the
wonderful voice that went wandering round the plantation,
like a restless ghost.
Papa and Mamma Balbino were waiting to receive the
triumphant cantatrice, as she left the stage. “Brava!
Brava!” shouted the Signor, in a great fever of excitement;
but seeing how pale she looked, he pressed her hand
in silence, while Madame wrapped her in shawls. They
lifted her into the carriage as quickly as possible, where
her head drooped almost fainting on Madame's shoulder.
It required them both to support her unsteady steps, as
they mounted the stairs to their lofty lodging. She told
them nothing that night of having seen Fitzgerald; and,
refusing all refreshment save a sip of wine, she sank on
the bed utterly exhausted.
20. CHAPTER XX.
She slept late the next day, and woke with a feeling
of utter weariness of body and prostration of spirit.
When her dressing-maid Giovanna came at her summons,
she informed her that a gentleman had twice called to see
her, but left no name or card. “Let no one be admitted
to-day but the manager of the opera,” said Rosa. “I will
dress now; and if Mamma Balbino is at leisure, I should
like to have her come and talk with me while I breakfast.”
“Madame has gone out to make some purchases,” replied
Giovanna. “She said she should return soon, and
charged me to keep everything quiet, that you might sleep.
The Signor is in his room waiting to speak to you.”
“Please tell him I have waked,” said Rosa; “and as soon
as I have dressed and breakfasted, ask him to come to me.”
Giovanna, who had been at the opera the preceding
evening, felt the importance of her mission in dressing the
celebrated Señorita Rosita Campaneo, of whose beauty and
gracefulness everybody was talking. And when the process
was completed, the cantatrice might well have been
excused if she had thought herself the handsomest of
women. The glossy dark hair rippled over her forehead
in soft waves, and the massive braids behind were intertwisted
with a narrow band of crimson velvet, that glowed
like rubies where the sunlight fell upon it. Her morning
wrapper of fine crimson merino, embroidered with gold-colored
silk, was singularly becoming to her complexion,
softened as the contact was by a white lace collar fastened
seated before the mirror, and though her own Spanish
taste had chosen the strong contrast of bright colors, she
took no notice of the effect produced. Her face was turned
toward the window, and as she gazed on the morning sky,
all unconscious of its translucent brilliancy of blue, there
was an inward-looking expression in her luminous eyes
that would have made the fortune of an artist, if he could
have reproduced her as a Sibyl. Giovanna looked at her
with surprise, that a lady could be so handsome and so
beautifully dressed, yet not seem to care for it. She
lingered a moment contemplating the superb head with an
exultant look, as if it were a picture of her own painting,
and then she went out noiselessly to bring the breakfast-tray.
The Señorita Campaneo ate with a keener appetite than
she had ever experienced as Rosabella the recluse; for the
forces of nature, exhausted by the exertions of the preceding
evening, demanded renovation. But the services of
the cook were as little appreciated as those of the dressing-maid;
the luxurious breakfast was to her simply food.
The mirror was at her side, and Giovanna watched curiously
to see whether she would admire the effect of the
crimson velvet gleaming among her dark hair. But she
never once glanced in that direction. When she had eaten
sufficiently, she sat twirling her spoon and looking into the
depths of her cup, as if it were a magic mirror revealing all
the future.
She was just about to say, “Now you may call Papa
Balbino,” when Giovanna gave a sudden start, and exclaimed,
“Signorita! a gentleman!”
And ere she had time to look round, Fitzgerald was
kneeling at her feet. He seized her hand and kissed it
do say you forgive me! I am suffering the tortures
of the damned.”
The irruption was so sudden and unexpected, that for an
instant she failed to realize it. But her presence of mind
quickly returned, and, forcibly withdrawing the hand to
which he clung, she turned to the astonished waiting-maid
and said quite calmly, “Please deliver immediately the
message I spoke of.”
Giovaona left the room and proceeded directly to the
adjoining apartment, where Signor Balbino was engaged
in earnest conversation with another gentleman.
Fitzgerald remained kneeling, still pleading vehemently
for forgiveness.
“Mr. Fitzgerald,” said she, “this audacity is incredible.
I could not have imagined it possible you would presume
ever again to come into my presence, after having sold me
to that infamous man.”
“He took advantage of me, Rosa. I was intoxicated
with wine, and knew not what I did. I could not have
done it if I had been in my senses. I have always loved
you as I never loved any other woman; and I never loved
you so wildly as now.”
“Leave me!” she exclaimed imperiously. “Your being
here does me injury. If you have any manhood in you,
leave me!”
He strove to clutch the folds of her robe, and in frenzied
tones cried out: “O Rosabella, don't drive me from
you! I can't live without—”
A voice like a pistol-shot broke in upon his sentence:
“Villain! Deceiver! What are you doing here? Out
of the house this instant!”
Fitzgerald sprung to his feet, pale with range, and encountered
the flashing eyes of the Signor. “What right
have you to order me out of the house?” said he.
“I am her adopted father,” replied the Italian; “and no
man shall insult her while I am alive.”
“So you are installed as her protector!” retorted Fitzgerald,
sneeringly. “You are not the first gallant I have
known to screen himself behind his years.”
“By Jupiter!” vociferated the enraged Italian; and he
made a spring to clutch him by the throat.
Fitzgerald drew out a pistol. With a look of utter
distress, Rosa threw herself between them, saying, in imploring
accents, “Will you go?”
At the same moment, a hand rested gently on the
Signor's shoulder, and a manly voice said soothingly, “Be
calm, my friend.” Then, turning to Mr. Fitzgerald, the
gentleman continued: “Slight as our acquaintance is, sir, it
authorizes me to remind you that scenes like this are unfit
for a lady's apartment.”
Fitzgerald slowly replaced his pistol, as he answered
coldly: “I remember your countenance, sir, but I don't recollect
where I have seen it, nor do I understand what right
you have to intrude here.”
“I met you in New Orleans, something more than four
years ago,” replied the stranger; “and I was then introduced
to you by this lady's father, as Mr. Alfred King of
Boston.”
“O, I remember,” replied Fitzgerald, with a slight curl
of his lip. “I thought you something of a Puritan then;
but it seems you are her protector also.”
Mr. King colored to the temples; but he replied calmly:
“I know not whether Miss Royal recognizes me; for
at her father's house.”
“I do recognize you,” replied Rosabella; “and as the
son of my father's dearest friend, I welcome you.”
She held out her hand as she spoke, and he clasped it
for an instant. But though the touch thrilled him, he betrayed
no emotion. Relinquishing it with a respectful
bow, he turned to Mr. Fitzgerald, and said: “You have
seen fit to call me a Puritan, and may not therefore accept
me as a teacher of politeness; but if you wish to sustain
the character of a eavalier, you surely will not remain in a
lady's house after she has requested you to quit it.”
With a slight shrug of his shoulders, Mr. Fitzgerald took
his hat, and said, “Where ladies command, I am of course
bound to obey.”
As he passed out of the door, he turned toward Rosabella,
and, with a low bow, said, “Au revoir!”
The Signor was trembling with anger, but succeeded in
smothering his half-uttered anathemas. Mr. King compressed
his lips tightly for a moment, as if silence were a
painful effort. Then, turning to Rosa, he said: “Pardon
my sudden intrusion, Miss Royal. Your father introduced
me to the Signor, and I last night saw him at the opera.
That will account for my being in his room to-day.” He
glanced at the Italian with a smile, as he added: “I heard
very angry voices, and I thought, if there was to be a duel,
perhaps the Signor would need a second. You must be
greatly fatigued with exertion and excitement. Therefore,
I will merely congratulate you on your brilliant success last
evening, and wish you good morning.”
“I am fatigued,” she replied; “but if I bid you good
morning now, it is with the hope of seeing you again soon.
father loved is too pleasant to be willingly relinquished.”
“Thank you,” he said. But the simple words were uttered
with a look and tone so deep and earnest, that she
felt the color rising to her cheeks.
“Am I then still capable of being moved by such tones?”
she asked herself, as she listened to his departing footsteps,
and, for the first time that morning, turned toward the mirror
and glanced at her own flushed countenance.
“What a time you've been having, dear!” exclaimed
Madame, who came bustling in a moment after. “Only to
think of Mr. Fitzgerald's coming here! His impudence
goes a little beyond anything I ever heard of. Wasn't it
lucky that Boston friend should drop down from the skies,
as it were, just at the right minute; for the Signor's such
a flash-in-the-pan, there's no telling what might have happened.
Tell me all about it, dear.”
“I will tell you about it, dear mamma,” replied Rosa;
“but I must beg you to excuse me just now; for I am
really very much flurried and fatigued. If you hadn't
gone out, I should have told you this morning, at breakfast,
that I saw Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald at the opera, and
that I was singing at them in good earnest, while people
thought I was acting. We will talk it all over some time;
but now I must study, for I shall have hard work to keep
the ground I have gained. You know I must perform
again to-night. O, how I dread it!”
“You are a strange child to talk so, when you have
turned everybody's head,” responded Madame.
“Why should I care for everybody's head?” rejoined
the successful cantatrice. But she thought to herself: “I
shall not feel, as I did last night, that I am going to sing
me sing to my dear father. I must try to recall the intonations
that came so naturally last evening, and see whether
I can act what I then felt. She seated herself at the piano,
and began to sing, “Oh, di qual sei tu vittima.” Then,
shaking her head slowly, she murmured: “No; it doesn't
come. I must trust to the inspiration of the moment. But
it is a comfort to know they will not all be strangers.”
Mr. King took an opportunity that same day to call on
Mr. Fitzgerald. He was very haughtily received; but,
without appearing to notice it, he opened his errand by
saying, “I have come to speak with you concerning Miss
Royal.”
“All I have to say to you, sir,” replied Mr. Fitzgerald,
“is, that neither you nor any other man can induce me to
give up my pursuit of her. I will follow her wherever she
goes.”
“What possible advantage can you gain by such a
course?” inquired his visitor. “Why uselessly expose
yourself to disagreeable notoriety, which must, of course,
place Mrs. Fitzgerald in a mortifying position?”
“How do you know my perseverance would be useless?”
asked Fitzgerald. “Did she send you to tell me so?”
“She does not know of my coming,” replied Mr. King.
“I have told you that my acquaintance with Miss Royal
is very slight. But you will recollect that I met her in
the freshness of her young life, when she was surrounded
by all the ease and elegance that a father's wealth and tenderness
could bestow; and it was unavoidable that her
subsequent misfortunes should excite my sympathy. She
has never told me anything of her own history, but from
allude to them; but after suffering all she has suffered,
now that she has bravely made a stauding-place for herself,
and has such an arduous career before her, I appeal to your
sense of honor, whether it is generous, whether it is manly,
to do anything that will increase the difficulties of her
position.”
“It is presumptuous in you, sir, to come here to teach me
what is manly,” rejoined Fitzgerald.
“I merely presented the case for the verdict of your own
conscience,” answered his visitor; “but I will again take
the liberty to suggest for your consideration, that if you
persecute this unfortunate young lady with professions you
know are unwelcome, it must necessarily react in a very
unpleasant way upon your own reputation, and consequently
upon the happiness of your family.”
“You mistook your profession, sir. You should have
been a preacher,” said Fitzgerald, with a sarcastic smile.
“I presume you propose to console the lady for her misfortunes;
but let me tell you, sir, that whoever attempts to
come between me and her will do it at his peril.”
“I respect Miss Royal too much to hear her name used
in any such discussion,” replied Mr. King. “Good morning,
sir.”
“The mean Yankee!” exclaimed the Southerner, as he
looked after him. “If he were a gentleman he would
have challenged me, and I should have met him like a
gentleman; but one does n't know what to do with such
cursed Yankee preaching.”
He was in a very perturbed state of mind. Rosabella
had, in fact, made a much deeper impression on him than
any other woman had ever made. And now that he saw
on the flickering flame of his expiring passion. Her disdain
piqued his vanity, while it produced the excitement
of difficulties to be overcome. He was exasperated beyond
measure, that the beautiful woman who had depended solely
upon him should now be surrounded by protectors. And
if he could regain no other power, he was strongly tempted
to exert the power of annoyance. In some moods, he
formed wild projects of waylaying her, and carrying her
off by force. But the Yankee preaching, much as he despised
it, was not without its influence. He felt that it
would be most politic to keep on good terms with his rich
wife, who was, besides, rather agreeable to him. He concluded,
on the whole, that he would assume superiority to
the popular enthusiasm about the new prima donna; that
he would coolly criticise her singing and her acting, while
he admitted that she had many good points. It was a hard
task he undertook; for on the stage Rosabella attracted
him with irresistible power, to which was added the magnetism
of the admiring audience. After the first evening,
she avoided looking at the box where he sat; but he had
an uneasy satisfaction in the consciousness that it was impossible
she could forget he was present and watching
her.
The day after the second appearance of the Señorita
Campaneo, Mrs. Delano was surprised by another call from
the Fitzgeralds.
“Don't think we intend to persecute you,” said the little
lady. “We merely came on business. We have just
heard that you were to leave Rome very soon; but Mr.
Green seemed to think it could n't be so soon as was said.”
“Unexpected circumstances make it necessary for me to
expect to sail day after to-morrow.”
“What a pity your daughter should go without hearing
the new prima donna!” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzgerald. “She
is really a remarkable creature. Everybody says she is as
beautiful as a houri. And as for her voice, I never heard
anything like it, except the first night I spent on Mr. Fitzgerald's
plantation. There was somebody wandering about
in the garden and groves who sang just like her. Mr. Fitzgerald
didn't seem to be much struck with the voice, but I
could never forget it.”
“It was during our honeymoon,” replied her husband;
“and how could I be interested in any other voice, when I
had yours to listen to?”
His lady tapped him playfully with her parasol, saying:
“O, you flatterer! But I wish I could get a chance to
speak to this Señorita. I would ask her if she had ever
been in America.”
“I presume not,” rejoined Mr. Fitzgerald. “They say
an Italian musician heard her in Andalusia, and was so
much charmed with her voice that he adopted her and
educated her for the stage; and he named her Campaneo,
because there is such a bell-like echo in her voice sometimes.
Do you think, Mrs. Delano, that it would do your
daughter any serious injury to go with us this evening?
We have a spare ticket; and we would take excellent
care of her. If she found herself fatigued, I would attend
upon her home any time she chose to leave.”
“It would be too exciting for her nerves,” was Mrs.
Delano's laconic answer.
“The fact is,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald, “Mr. Green has
told us so much about her, that we are extremely anxious
Rome, and he wishes she could join our party. I wish we
could persuade you to leave her with us. I can assure you
Mr. Fitzgerald is a most agreeable and gallant protector to
ladies. And then it is such a pity, when she is so musical,
that she should go without hearing this new prima donna.”
“Thank you,” rejoined Mrs. Delano; “but we have
become so much attached to each other's society, that I
don't think either of us could be happy separated. Since
she cannot hear this musical wonder, I shall not increase
her regrets by repeating your enthusiastic account of what
she has missed.”
“If you had been present at her début, you would n't
wonder at my enthusiasm,” replied the little lady. “Mr.
Fitzgerald is getting over the fever a little now, and undertakes
to criticise. He says she overacted her part;
that she `tore a passion to tatters,' and all that. But I
never saw him so excited as he was then. I think she
noticed it; for she fixed her glorious dark eyes directly
upon our box while she was singing several of her most
effective passages.”
“My dear,” interrupted her husband, “you are so opera-mad,
that you are forgetting the object of your call.”
“True,” replied she. “We wanted to inquire whether
you were certainly going so soon, and whether any one had
engaged these rooms. We took a great fancy to them.
What a desirable situation! So sunny! Such a fine view
of Monte Pincio and the Pope's gardens!”
“They were not engaged last evening,” answered Mrs.
Delano.
“Then you will secure them immediately, won't you,
dear?” said the lady, appealing to her spouse.
With wishes that the voyage might prove safe and
pleasant, they departed. Mrs. Delano lingered a moment
at the window, looking out upon St. Peter's and the Etruscan
Hills beyond, thinking the while how strangely the
skeins of human destiny sometimes become entangled with
each other. Yet she was unconscious of half the entanglement.
21. CHAPTER XXI.
THE engagement of the Señorita Rosita Campaneo
was for four weeks, during which Mr. King called
frequently and attended the opera constantly. Every personal
interview, and every vision of her on the stage, deepened
the impression she made upon him when they first
met. It gratified him to see that, among the shower of
bouquets she was constantly receiving, his was the one she
usually carried; nor was she unobservant that he always
wore a fresh rose. But she was unconscious of his continual
guardianship, and he was careful that she should remain
so. Every night that she went to the opera and
returned from it, he assumed a dress like the driver's, and
sat with him on the outside of the carriage,—a fact known
only to Madame and the Signor, who were glad enough to
have a friend at hand in case Mr. Fitzgerald should attempt
any rash enterprise. Policemen were secretly employed to
keep the cantatrice in sight, whenever she went abroad for
air or recreation. When she made excursions out of the
city in company with her adopted parents, Mr. King was
always privately informed of it, and rode in the same direction;
at a sufficient distance, however, not to be visible to
her, or to excite gossiping remarks by appearing to others
to be her follower. Sometimes he asked himself: “What
would my dear prudential mother say, to see me leaving
my business to agents and clerks, while I devote my life to
the service of an opera-singer?—an opera-singer, too, who
has twice been on the verge of being sold as a slave, and
though such queries jostled against conventional ideas received
from education, they were always followed by the
thought: “My dear mother has gone to a sphere of wider
vision, whence she can look down upon the merely external
distinctions of this deceptive world. Rosabella must be
seen as a pure, good soul, in eyes that see as the angels do;
and as the defenceless daughter of my father's friend, it is
my duty to protect her.” So he removed from his more
eligible lodgings in the Piazza di Spagna, and took rooms
in the Corso, nearly opposite to hers, where day by day he
continued his invisible guardianship.
He had reason, at various times, to think his precautions
were not entirely unnecessary. He had several times seen
a figure resembling Fitzgerald's lurking about the opera-house,
wrapped in a cloak, and with a cap very much
drawn over his face. Once Madame and the Signor, having
descended from the carriage, with Rosa, to examine the
tomb of Cecilia Metella, were made a little uneasy by the
appearance of four rude-looking fellows, who seemed bent
upon lurking in their vicinity. But they soon recognized
Mr. King in the distance, and not far from him the disguised
policemen in his employ. The fears entertained by
her friends were never mentioned to Rosa, and she appeared
to feel no uneasiness when riding in daylight with
the driver and her adopted parents. She was sometimes a
little afraid when leaving the opera late at night; but there
was a pleasant feeling of protection in the idea that a friend
of her father's was in Rome, who knew better than the Signor
how to keep out of quarrels. That recollection also
operated as an additional stimulus to excellence in her art.
This friend had expressed himself very highly gratified by
increased her anxiety to sustain herself at the height she
had attained. In some respects that was impossible; for
the thrilling circumstances of the first evening could not
again recur to set her soul on fire. Critics generally said
she never equalled her first acting; though some maintained
that what she had lost in power she had gained in a
more accurate conception of the character. Her voice was
an unfailing source of wonder and delight. They were
never weary of listening to that volume of sound, so full
and clear, so flexible in its modulations, so expressive in its
intonations.
As the completion of her engagement drew near, the
manager was eager for its renewal; and finding that she
hesitated, he became more and more liberal in his offers.
Things were in this state, when Mr. King called upon
Madame one day while Rosa was absent at rehearsal.
“She is preparing a new aria for her last evening, when
they will be sure to encore the poor child to death,” said
Madame. “It is very flattering, but very tiresome; and
to my French ears their `Bis! Bis!' sounds too much
like a hiss.”
“Will she renew her engagement, think you?” inquired
Mr. King.
“I don't know certainly,” replied Madame. “The manager
makes very liberal offers; but she hesitates. She
seldom alludes to Mr. Fitzgerald, but I can see that his
presence is irksome to her; and then his sudden irruption
into her room, as told by Giovanna, has given rise to some
green-room gossip. The tenor is rather too assiduous in
his attentions, you know; and the seconda donna is her
enemy, because she has superseded her in his affections.
her she will have to encounter very much the same
anywhere.”
“Madame,” said the young man, “you stand in the place
of a mother to Miss Royal; and as such, I have a favor to
ask of you. Will you, without mentioning the subject to
her, enable me to have a private interview with her to-morrow
morning?”
“You are aware that it is contrary to her established
rule to see any gentleman, except in the presence of myself
or Papa Balbino. But you have manifested so much
delicacy, as well as friendliness, that we all feel the utmost
confidence in you.” She smiled significantly as she added:
“If I slip out of the room, as it were by accident, I don't
believe I shall find it very difficult to make my peace with
her.”
Alfred King looked forward to the next morning with
impatience; yet when he found himself, for the first time,
alone with Rosabella, he felt painfully embarrassed. She
glanced at the fresh rose he wore, but could not summon
courage to ask whether roses were his favorite flowers.
He broke the momentary silence by saying: “Your performances
here have been a source of such inexpressible
delight to me, Miss Royal, that it pains me to think of such
a thing as a last evening.”
“Thank you for calling me by that name,” she replied.
“It carries me back to a happier time. I hardly know
myself as La Señorita Campaneo. It all seems to me so
strange and unreal, that, were it not for a few visible links
with the past, I should feel as if I had died and passed
into another world.”
“May I ask whether you intend to renew your engagement?”
inquired he.
She looked up quickly and earnestly, and said, “What
would you advise me?”
“The brevity of our acquaintance would hardly warrant
my assuming the office of adviser,” replied he modestly.
The shadow of a blush flitted over her face, as she answered,
in a bashful way: “Excuse me if the habit of associating
you with the memory of my father makes me forget
the shortness of our acquaintance. Beside, you once
asked me if ever I was in trouble to call upon you as I
would upon a brother.”
“It gratifies me beyond measure that you should remember
my offer, and take me at my word,” responded he.
“But in order to judge for you, it is necessary to know
something of your own inclinations. Do you enjoy the
career on which you have entered?”
“I should enjoy it if the audience were all my personal
friends,” answered she. “But I have lived such a very
retired life, that I cannot easily become accustomed to publicity;
and there is something I cannot exactly define, that
troubles me with regard to operas. If I could perform
only in pure and noble characters, I think it would inspire
me; for then I should represent what I at least wish to be;
but it affects me like a discord to imagine myself in positions
which in reality I should scorn and detest.”
“I am not surprised to hear you express this feeling,”
responded he. “I had supposed it must be so. It seems
to me the libretti of operas are generally singularly ill conceived,
both morally and artistically. Music is in itself so
pure and heavenly, that it seems a desecration to make it
the expression of vile incidents and vapid words. But is
the feeling of which you speak sufficiently strong to induce
you, and devote yourself to concert-singing?”
“There is one thing that makes me hesitate,” rejoined
she. “I wish to earn money fast, to accomplish certain
purposes I have at heart. Otherwise, I don't think I care
much for the success you call so brilliant. It is certainly
agreeable to feel that I delight the audience, though they
are strangers; but their cries of `Bis! Bis!' give me
less real pleasure than it did to have Papasito ask me to
sing over something that he liked. I seem to see him
now, as he used to listen to me in our flowery parlor. Do
you remember that room, Mr. King?”
“Do I remember it?” he said, with a look and emphasis
so earnest that a quick blush suffused her eloquent face.
“I see that room as distinctly as you can see it,” he continued.
“It has often been in my dreams, and the changing
events of my life have never banished it from my
memory for a single day. How could I forget it, when
my heart there received its first and only deep impression.
I have loved you from the first evening I saw you. Judging
that your affections were pre-engaged, I would gladly
have loved another, if I could; but though I have since
met fascinating ladies, none of them have interested me
deeply.”
An expression of pain passed over her face while she
listened, and when he paused she murmured softly, “I am
sorry.”
“Sorry!” echoed he. “Is it then impossible for me to
inspire you with sentiments similar to my own?”
“I am sorry,” she replied, “because a first, fresh love,
like yours, deserves better recompense than it could receive
from a bruised and worn-out heart like mine. I can
too deeply.”
“I do not wish you to experience the illusion of love
again,” he replied. “But my hope is that the devotion of
my life may enable you to experience the true and tender
reality.” He placed his hand gently and timidly upon
hers as he spoke, and looked in her face earnestly.
Without raising her eyes she said, “I suppose you are
aware that my mother was a slave, and that her daughters
inherited her misfortune.”
“I am aware of it,” he replied. “But that only makes
me ashamed of my country, not of her or of them. Do
not, I pray you, pain yourself or me by alluding to any of
the unfortunate circumstances of your past life, with the
idea that they can depreciate your value in my estimation.
From Madame and the Signor I have learned the whole
story of your wrongs and your sufferings. Fortunately,
my good father taught me, both by precept and example, to
look through the surface of things to the reality. I have
seen and heard enough to be convinced that your own
heart is noble and pure. Such natures cannot be sullied
by the unworthiness of others; they may even be improved
by it. The famous Dr. Spurzheim says, he who would
have the best companion for his life should choose a woman
who has suffered. And though I would gladly have
saved you from suffering, I cannot but see that your character
has been elevated by it. Since I have known you
here in Rome, I have been surprised to observe how the
young romantic girl has ripened into the thoughtful, prudent
woman. I will not urge you for an answer now, my
dear Miss Royal. Take as much time as you please to
reflect upon it. Meanwhile, if you choose to devote your
to serve you in any way that a brother could under similar
circumstances. If you prefer to be a concert-singer,
my father had a cousin who married in England, where
she has a good deal of influence in the musical world. I
am sure she would take a motherly interest in you, both
for your own sake and mine. Your romantic story, instead
of doing you injury in England, would make you a great
lioness, if you chose to reveal it.”
“I should dislike that sort of attention,” she replied
hastily. “Do not suppose, however, that I am ashamed of
my dear mother, or of her lineage; but I wish to have any
interest I excite founded on my own merits, not on any
extraneous circumstance. But you have not yet advised
me whether to remain on the stage or to retire from it.”
“If I presumed that my opinion would decide the point,”
rejoined he, “I should be diffident about expressing it in a
case so important to yourself.”
“You are very delicate,” she replied. “But I conjecture
that you would be best pleased if I decided in favor
of concert-singing.”
While he was hesitating what to say, in order to leave
her in perfect freedom, she added: “And so, if you will
have the goodness to introduce me to your relative, and
she is willing to be my patroness, I will try my fortune in
England. Of course she ought to be informed of my
previous history; but I should prefer to have her consider
it strictly confidential. And now, if you please, I will say,
Au revoir; for Papa Balbino is waiting for some instructions
on matters of business.”
She offered her hand with a very sweet smile. He
elasped it with a slight pressure, bowed his head upon it
dearest of women. You send me away a happy man; for
hope goes with me.”
When the door closed after him, she sank into a chair,
and covered her face with both her hands. “How different
is his manner of making love from that of Gerald,”
thought she. “Surely, I can trust this time. O, if I was
only worthy of such love!”
Her revery was interrupted by the entrance of Madame
and the Signor. She answered their inquisitive looks by
saying, rather hastily, “When you told Mr. King the particulars
of my story, did you tell him about the poor little
bambino I left in New Orleans?”
Madame replied, “I mentioned to him how the death of
the poor little thing afflicted you.”
Rosa made no response, but occupied herself with selecting
some pieces of music connected with the performance
at the opera.
The Signor, as he went out with the music, said, “Do
you suppose she did n't want him to know about the bambino?”
“Perhaps she is afraid he will think her heartless for
leaving it,” replied Madame. “But I will tell her I took
all the blame on myself. If she is so anxious about his
good opinion, it shows which way the wind blows.”
The Señorita Rosita Campaneo and her attendants had
flitted, no one knew whither, before the public were informed
that her engagement was not to be renewed. Rumor
added that she was soon to be married to a rich American,
who had withdrawn her from the stage.
“Too much to be monopolized by one man,” said Mr.
Green to Mr. Fitzgerald. “Such a glorious creature belongs
to the world.”
“Who is the happy man?” inquired Mrs. Fitzgerald.
“They say it is King, that pale-faced Puritan from Boston,”
rejoined her husband. “I should have given her
credit for better taste.”
In private, he made all possible inquiries; but merely
succeeded in tracing them to a vessel at Civita Vecchia,
bound to Marseilles.
To the public, the fascinating prima donna, who had
rushed up from the horizon like a brilliant rocket, and
disappeared as suddenly, was only a nine-days wonder.
Though for some time after, when opera-goers heard any
other cantatrice much lauded, they would say: “Ah, you
should have heard the Campaneo! Such a voice! She
rose to the highest D as easily as she breathed. And such
glorious eyes!”
22. CHAPTER XXII.
WHILE Rosabella was thus exchanging the laurel
crown for the myrtle wreath, Flora and her friend
were on their way to search the places that had formerly
known her. Accompanied by Mr. Jacobs, who had long
been a steward in her family, Mrs. Delano passed through
Savannah, without calling on her friend Mrs. Welby, and
in a hired boat proceeded to the island. Flora almost flew
over the ground, so great was her anxiety to reach the cottage.
Nature, which pursues her course with serene indifference
to human vicissitudes, wore the same smiling aspect
it had worn two years before, when she went singing
through the woods, like Cinderella, all unconscious of the
beneficent fairy she was to meet there in the form of a
new Mamita. Trees and shrubs were beautiful with young,
glossy foliage. Pines and firs offered their aromatic incense
to the sun. Birds were singing, and bees gathering
honey from the wild-flowers. A red-headed woodpecker
was hammering away on the umbrageous tree under which
Flora used to sit while busy with her sketches. He cocked
his head to listen as they approached, and, at first sight of
them, flew up into the clear blue air, with undulating swiftness.
To Flora's great disappointment, they found all the
doors fastened; but Mr. Jacobs entered by a window and
opened one of them. The cottage had evidently been deserted
for a considerable time. Spiders had woven their
tapestry in all the corners. A pane had apparently been
cut out of the window their attendant had opened, and it
which Flora had made to support a vase of flowers,
was a deserted nest, bedded in soft green moss, which hung
from it in irregular streamers and festoons.
“How pretty!” said Mrs. Delano. “If the little creature
had studied the picturesque, she could n't have devised
anything more graceful. Let us take it, bracket and all,
and carry it home carefully.”
“That was the very first shell-work I made after we
came from Nassau,” rejoined Flora. “I used to put fresh
flowers on it every morning, to please Rosa. Poor Rosa!
Where can she be?”
She turned away her head, and was silent for a moment
Then, pointing to the window, she said: “There's that
dead pine-tree I told you I used to call Old Man of the
Woods. He is swinging long pennants of moss on his
arms, just as he did when I was afraid to look at him in
the moonlight.”
She was soon busy with a heap of papers swept into a
corner of the room she used to occupy. They were covered
with sketches of leaves and flowers, and embroidery-patterns,
and other devices with which she had amused
herself in those days. Among them she was delighted to
find the head and shoulders of Thistle, with a garland round
his neck. In Rosa's sleeping-room, an old music-book,
hung with cobwebs, leaned against the wall.
“O Mamita Lila, I am glad to find this!” exclaimed
Flora. “Here is what Rosa and I used to sing to dear
papa when we were ever so little. He always loved old-fashioned
music. Here are some of Jackson's canzonets,
that were his favorites.” She began to hum, “Time has
not thinned my flowing hair.” “Here is Dr. Arne's
And here is what he always liked to have us sing
to him at sunset. We sang it to him the very night before
he died.” She began to warble, “Now Phæbus sinketh
in the west.” “Why, it seems as if I were a little girl
again, singing to Papasito and Mamita,” said she.
Looking up, she saw that Mrs. Delano had covered her
face with her handkerchief; and closing the music-book,
she nestled to her side, affectionately inquiring what had
troubled her. For a little while her friend pressed her
hand in silence.
“O darling,” said she, “what a strange, sad gift is menory!
I sang that to your father the last time we ever saw
the sunset together; and perhaps when he heard it he
used to see me sometimes, as plainly as I now see him. It
is consoling to think he did not quite forget me.”
“When we go home, I will sing it to you every evening
if you would like it, Mamita Lila,” said Flora.
Her friend patted her head fondly, and said: “You must
finish your researches soon, darling; for I think we had
better go to Magnolia Lawn to see if Tom and Chloe can
be found.”
“How shall we get there? It's too far for you to walk,
and poor Thistle's gone,” said Flora.
“I have sent Mr. Jacobs to the plantation,” replied Mrs.
Delano, “and I think he will find some sort of vehicle.
Meanwhile, you had better be getting together any little
articles you want to carry away.”
As Flora took up the music-book, some of the loose
leaves fell out, and with them came a sketch of Tulee's
head, with the large gold hoops and the gay turban.
“Here's Tulee!” shouted Flora. “It is n't well drawn,
and frame it, and hang it by my bedside, where I can see
it every morning. Dear, good Tulee! How she jumped
up and kissed us when we first arrived here. I suppose
she thinks I am dead, and has cried a great deal about little
Missy Flory. O, what wouldn't I give to see her!”
She had peeped about everywhere, and was becoming
very much dispirited with the desolation, when Mr. Jacobs
came back with a mule and a small cart, which he said
was the best conveyance he could procure. The jolting
over hillocks, and the occasional grunts of the mule, made
it an amusing ride; but it was a fruitless one. The plantation
negroes were sowing cotton, but all Mr. Fitzgerald's
household servants were leased out in Savannah during his
absence in Europe. The white villa at Magnolia Lawn
peeped out from its green surroundings; but the jalousies
were closed, and the tracks on the carriage-road were
obliterated by rains.
Hiring a negro to go with them to take back the cart,
they made the best of their way to the boat, which was
waiting for them. Fatigued and disconsolate with their
fruitless search, they felt little inclined to talk as they
glided over the bright waters. The negro boatmen frequently
broke in upon the silence with some simple, wild
melody, which they sang in perfect unison, dipping their
oars in rhythm. When Savannah came in sight, they
urged the boat faster, and, improvising words to suit the
occasion, they sang in brisker strains:—
See de sun down dar am creepin';
Row, darkies, row!
Hab white ladies in yer keepin';
Row, darkies, row!”
With the business they had on hand, Mrs. Delano preferred
not to seek her friends in the city, and they took lodgings
at a hotel. Early the next morning, Mr. Jacobs was sent
out to ascertain the whereabouts of Mr. Fitzgerald's servants;
and Mrs. Delano proposed that, during his absence,
they should drive to The Pines, which she described as an
extremely pleasant ride. Flora assented, with the indifference
of a preoccupied mind. But scarcely had the horses
stepped on the thick carpet of pine foliage with which the
ground was strewn, when she eagerly exclaimed, “Tom!
Tom!” A black man, mounted on the seat of a carriage
that was passing them, reined in his horses and stopped.
“Keep quiet, my dear,” whispered Mrs. Delano to her
companion, “till I can ascertain who is in the carriage.”
“Are you Mr. Fitzgerald's Tom?” she inquired.
“Yes, Missis,” replied the negro, touching his hat.
She beckoned him to come and open her carriage-door,
and, speaking in a low voice, she said: “I want to ask you
about a Spanish lady who used to live in a cottage, not far
from Mr. Fitzgerald's plantation. She had a black servant
named Tulee, who used to call her Missy Rosy. We
went to the cottage yesterday, and found it shut up. Can
you tell us where they have gone?”
Tom looked at them very inquisitively, and answered,
“Dunno, Missis.”
“We are Missy Rosy's friends, and have come to bring
her some good news. If you can tell us anything about
her, I will give you this gold piece.”
Tom half stretched forth his hand to take the coin, then
drew it back, and repeated, “Dunno, Missis.”
Flora, who felt her heart rising in her throat, tossed back
her veil, and said, “Tom, don't you know me?”
The negro started as if a ghost had risen before him.
“Now tell me where Missy Rosy has gone, and who
went with her,” said she, coaxingly.
“Bress yer, Missy Flory! am yer alive!” exclaimed the
bewildered negro.
Flora laughed, and, drawing off her glove, shook hands
with him. “Now you know I'm alive, Tom. But don't
tell anybody. Where's Missy Rosy gone.”
“O Missy,” replied Tom, “dar am heap ob tings to
tell.”
Mrs. Delano suggested that it was not a suitable place;
and Tom said he must go home with his master's carriage.
He told them he had obtained leave to go and see his wife
Chloe that evening; and he promised to come to their hotel
first. So, with the general information that Missy Rosy
and Tulee were safe, they parted for the present.
Tom's communication in the evening was very long, and
intensely interesting to his auditors; but it did not extend
beyond a certain point. He told of Rosa's long and dangerous
illness; of Chloe's and Tulee's patient praying and
nursing; of the birth of the baby; of the sale to Mr.
Bruteman; and of the process by which she escaped with
Mr. Duroy. Further than that he knew nothing. He had
never been in New Orleans afterward, and had never
heard Mr. Fitzgerald speak of Rosa.
At that crisis in the conversation, Mrs. Delano summoned
Mr. Jacobs, and requested him to ascertain when a
steamboat would go to New Orleans. Flora kissed her
hand, with a glance full of gratitude. Tom looked at her
in a very earnest, embarrassed way, and said: “Missis, am
yer one ob dem Ab-lish-nishts dar in de Norf, dat Massa
swars 'bout?”
Mrs. Delano turned toward Flora with a look of perplexity,
and, having received an interpretation of the question,
she smiled as she answered: “I rather think I am
half an Abolitionist, Tom. But why do you wish to
know?”
Tom went on to state, in “lingo” that had to be frequently
explained, that he wanted to run away to the
North, and that he could manage to do it if it were not
for Chloe and the children. He had been in hopes that
Mrs. Fitzgerald would have taken her to the North to
nurse her baby while she was gone to Europe. In that
case, he intended to follow after; and he thought some
good people would lend them money to buy their little
ones, and, both together, they could soon work off the
debt. But this project had been defeated by Mrs. Bell,
who brought a white nurse from Boston, and carried her
infant grandson back with her.
“Yer see, Missis,” said Tom, with a sly look, “dey tinks
de niggers don't none ob 'em wants dare freedom, so dey
nebber totes 'em whar it be.”
Ever since that disappointment had occurred, he and his
wife had resolved themselves into a committee of ways and
means, but they had not yet devised any feasible mode of
escape. And now they were thrown into great consternation
by the fact that a slave-trader had been to look at
Chloe, because Mr. Fitzgerald wanted money to spend in
Europe, and had sent orders to have some of his negroes
sold.
Mrs. Delano told him she did n't see how she could help
him, but she would think about it; and Flora, with a sideway
inclination of the head toward her, gave Tom an
expressive glance, which he understood as a promise to
what time it was. Being told it was near nine o'clock, he
said he must hasten to Chloe, for it was not allowable for
negroes to be in the street after that hour.
He had scarcely closed the door, before Mrs. Delano said,
“If Chloe is sold, I must buy her.”
“I thought you would say so,” rejoined Flora.
A discussion then took place as to ways and means, and
a strictly confidential letter was written to a lawyer from
the North, with whom Mrs. Delano was acquainted, requesting
him to buy the woman and her children for her,
if they were to be sold.
It happened fortunately that a steamer was going to
New Orleans the next day. Just as they were going on
board, a negro woman with two children came near, and,
dropping a courtesy, said: “Skuse, Missis. Dis ere 's
Chloe. Please say Ise yer nigger! Do, Missis!”
Flora seized the black woman's hand, and pressed it,
while she whispered: “Do, Mamita! They're going to
sell her, you know.”
She took the children by the hand, and hurried forward
without waiting for an answer. They were all on board
before Mrs. Delano had time to reflect. Tom was nowhere
to be seen. On one side of her stood Chloe, with
two little ones clinging to her skirts, looking at her imploringly
with those great fervid eyes, and saying in suppressed
tones, “Missis, dey's gwine to sell me away from de chillen”;
and on the other side was Flora, pressing her hand,
and entreating, “Don't send her back, Mamita! She was
so good to poor Rosa.”
“But, my dear, if they should trace her to me, it would
be a very troublesome affair,” said the perplexed lady.
“They won't look for her in New Orleans. They 'll
think she's gone North,” urged Flora.
During this whispered consultation, Mr. Jacobs approached
with some of their baggage. Mrs. Delano
stopped him, and said: “When you register our names,
add a negro servant and her two children.”
He looked surprised, but bowed and asked no questions.
She was scarcely less surprised at herself. In the midst
of her anxiety to have the boat start, she called to mind
her former censures upon those who helped servants to
escape from Southern masters, and she could not help
smiling at the new dilemma in which she found herself.
The search in New Orleans availed little. They alighted
from their carriage a few minutes to look at the house
where Flora was born. She pointed out to Mrs. Delano
the spot whence her father had last spoken to her on that
merry morning, and the grove where she used to pelt him
with oranges; but neither of them cared to enter the house,
now that everything was so changed. Madame's house
was occupied by strangers, who knew nothing of the previous
tenants, except that they said to have gone to
Europe to live. They drove to Mr. Duroy's, and found
strangers there, who said the former occupants had all died
of yellow-fever,—the lady and gentleman, a negro woman,
and a white baby. Flora was bewildered to find every
link with her past broken and gone. She had not lived
long enough to realize that the traces of human lives often
disappear from cities as quickly as the ocean closes over
the tracks of vessels. Mr. Jacobs proposed searching for
some one who had been in Mr. Duroy's employ; and with
that intention, they returned to the city. As they were
passing a house where a large bird-cage hung in the open
frère! Ha! ha!”
She called out to Mr. Jacobs, “Stop! Stop!” and
pushed at the carriage door, in her impatience to get out.
“What is the matter, my child?” inquired Mrs. Delano.
“That's Madame's parrot,” replied she; and an instant
after she was ringing at the door of the house. She told
the servant they wished to make some inquiries concerning
Signor and Madame Papanti, and Monsieur Duroy; and
she and Mrs. Delano were shown in to wait for the lady of
the house. They had no sooner entered, than the parrot
flapped her wings and cried out, “Bon jour, joli petit
diable!” And then she began to whistle and warble,
twitter and crow, through a ludicrous series of noisy variations.
Flora burst into peals of laughter, in the midst of
which the lady of the house entered the room. “Excuse
me, Madame,” said she. “This parrot is an old acquaintance
of mine. I taught her to imitate all sorts of birds, and
she is showing me that she has not forgotten my lessons.”
“It will be impossible to hear ourselves speak, unless I
cover the cage,” replied the lady.
“Allow me to quiet her, if you please,” rejoined Flora.
She opened the door of the cage, and the bird hopped on
her arm, flapping her wings, and crying, “Bon jour!
Ha! ha!”
“Taisez vous, jolie Manon,” said Flora soothingly, while
she stroked the feathery head. The bird nestled close and
was silent.
When their errand was explained, the lady repeated the
same story they had already heard about Mr. Duroy's
family.
“Was the black woman who died there named Tulee?”
inquired Flora.
“I never heard her name but once or twice,” replied the
lady. “It was not a common negro name, and I think that
was it. Madame Papanti had put her and the baby there
to board. After Mr. Duroy died, his son came home from
Arkansas to settle his affairs. My husband, who was one
of Mr. Duroy's clerks, bought some of the things at auction;
and among them was that parrot.”
“And what has become of Signor and Madame Papanti?”
asked Mrs. Delano.
The lady could give no information, except that they had
returned to Europe. Having obtained directions where to
find her husband, they thanked her, and wished her good
morning.
Flora held the parrot up to the cage, and said, “Bon
jour, jolie Manon!”
“Bon jour!” repeated the bird, and hopped upon her
perch.
After they had entered the carriage, Flora said: “How
melancholy it seems that everybody is gone, except Jolie
Manon! How glad the poor thing seemed to be to see
me! I wish I could take her home.”
“I will send to inquire whether the lady will sell her,”
replied her friend.
“O Mamita, you will spoil me, you indulge me so
much,” rejoined Flora.
Mrs. Delano smiled affectionately, as she answered: “If
you were very spoilable, dear, I think that would have
been done already.”
“But it will be such a bother to take care of Manon,”
said Flora.
“Our new servant, Chloe can do that,” replied Mrs.
Delano. “But I really hope we shall get home without
any further increase of our retinue.”
From the clerk information was obtained that he heard
Mr. Duroy tell Mr. Bruteman that a lady named Rosabella
Royal had sailed to Europe with Signor and Madame Papanti
in the ship Mermaid. He added that news afterward
arrived that the vessel foundered at sea, and all on
board were lost.
With this sorrow on her heart, Flora returned to Boston.
Mr. Percival was immediately informed of their arrival,
and hastened to meet them. When the result of their
researches was told; he said: “I shouldn't be disheartened
yet. Perhaps they didn't sail in the Mermaid. I will
send to the New York Custom-House for a list of the passengers.”
Flora eagerly caught at that suggestion; and Mrs. Delano
said, with a smile: “We have some other business in
which we need your help. You must know that I am involved
in another slave case. If ever a quiet and peace-loving
individual was caught up and whirled about by a
tempest of events, I am surely that individual. Before I
met this dear little Flora, I had a fair prospect of living
and dying a respectable and respected old fogy, as you irreverent
reformers call discreet people. But now I find
myself drawn into the vortex of abolition to the extent of
helping off four fugitive slaves. In Flora's case, I acted
deliberately, from affection and a sense of duty; but in this
second instance I was taken by storm, as it were. The
poor woman was aboard before I knew it, and I found myself
too weak to withstand her imploring looks and Flora's
pleading tones.” She went on to describe the services
expenses necessary for conveying this woman to a place of
safety, and supplying all that is necessary for her and her
children, until she can support them; but I do not feel as
if she were safe here.”
“If you will order a carriage, I will take them directly
to the house of Francis Jackson, in Hollis Street,” said Mr.
Percival. “They will be safe enough under the protection
of that honest, sturdy friend of freedom. His house is the
depot of various subterranean railroads; and I pity the
slaveholder who tries to get on any of his tracks. He finds
himself `like a toad under a harrow, where ilka tooth gies
him a tug,' as the Scotch say.”
While waiting for the carriage, Chloe and her children
were brought in. Flora took the little ones under her care,
and soon had their aprons filled with cakes and sugar-plums.
Chloe, unable to restrain her feelings, dropped
down on her knees in the midst of the questions they were
asking her, and poured forth an eloquent prayer that the
Lord would bless these good friends of her down-trodden
people.
When the carriage arrived, she rose, and, taking Mrs.
Delano's hand, said solemnly: “De Lord bress yer, Missis!
De Lord bress yer! I seed yer once fore ebber I knowed
yer. I seed yer in a vision, when I war prayin' to de Lord
to open de free door fur me an' my chillen. Ye war an
angel wid white shiny wings. Bress de Lord! 'T war
Him dat sent yer.—An' now, Missy Flory, de Lord bress
yer! Ye war allers good to poor Chloe, down dar in de
prison-house. Let me gib yer a kiss, little Missy.”
Flora threw her arms round the bended neck, and promised
to go and see her wherever she was.
When the carriage rolled away, emotion kept them both
silent for a few minutes. “How strange it seems to me
now,” said Mrs. Delano, “that I lived so many years without
thinking of the wrongs of these poor people! I used
to think prayer-meetings for slaves were very fanatical and
foolish. It seemed to me enough that they were included
in our prayer for `all classes and conditions of men'; but
after listening to poor Chloe's eloquent outpouring, I am
afraid such generalizing will sound rather cold.”
“Mamita,” said Flora, “you know you gave me some
money to buy a silk dress. Are you willing I should use
it to buy clothes for Chloe and her children?”
“More than willing, my child,” she replied. “There is
no clothing so beautiful as the raiment of righteousness.”
The next morning, Flora went out to make her purchases.
Some time after, Mrs. Delano, hearing voices near
the door, looked out, and saw her in earnest conversation
with Florimond Blumenthal, who had a large parcel in his
arms. When she came in, Mrs. Delano said, “So you had
an escort home?”
“Yes, Mamita,” she replied; “Florimond would bring
the parcel, and so we walked together.”
“He was very polite,” said Mrs. Delano; “but ladies
are not accustomed to stand on the doorstep talking with
clerks who bring bundles for them.”
“I did n't think anything about that,” rejoined Flora.
“He wanted to know about Rosa, and I wanted to tell
him. Florimond seems just like a piece of my old home,
because he loved papa so much. Mamita Lila, did n't you
say papa was a poor clerk when you and he first began to
love one another?”
“Yes, my child,” she replied; and she kissed the bright,
into hers.
When she had gone out of the room, Mrs. Delano said
to herself, “That darling child, with her strange history
and unworldly ways, is educating me more than I can educate
her.”
A week later, Mr. and Mrs. Percival came, with tidings
that no such persons as Signor and Madame Papanti were
on board the Mermaid; and they proposed writing letters
of inquiry forthwith to consuls in various parts of Italy
and France.
Flora began to hop and skip and clap her hands. But
she soon paused, and said, laughingly: “Excuse me, ladies
and gentlemen. Mamita often tells me I was brought up
in a bird-cage; and I ask her how then can she expect me
to do anything but hop and sing. Excuse me. I forgot
Mamita and I were not alone.”
“You pay us the greatest possible compliment,” rejoined
Mr. Percival.
And Mrs. Percival added, “I hope you will always forget
it when we are here.”
“Do you really wish it?” asked Flora, earnestly. “Then
I will.”
And so, with a few genial friends, an ever-deepening attachment
between her and her adopted mother, a hopeful
feeling at her heart about Rosa, Tulee's likeness by her
bedside, and Madame's parrot to wish her Bon jour!
Boston came to seem to her like a happy home.
23. CHAPTER XXIII.
ABOUT two months after their return from the South,
Mr. Percival called one evening, and said: “Do you
know Mr. Brick, the police-officer? I met him just now, and
he stopped me. `There's plenty of work for you Abolitionists
now-a-days,' said he. `There are five Southerners at the
Tremont, inquiring for runaways, and cursing Garrison.
An agent arrived last night from Fitzgerald's plantation,—
he that married Bell's daughter, you know. He sent for me
to give me a description of a nigger that had gone off in a
mysterious way to parts unknown. He wanted me to try
to find the fellow, and, of course, I did; for I always calculate
to do my duty, as the law directs. So I went immediately
to Father Snowdon, and described the black
man, and informed him that his master had sent for him, in
a great hurry. I told him I thought it very likely he was
lurking somewhere in Belknap Street; and if he would
have the goodness to hunt him up, I would call, in the
course of an hour or two, to see what luck he had.' ”
“Who is Father Snowdon?” inquired Mrs. Delano.
“He is the colored preacher in Belknap Street Church,”
replied Mr. Percival, “and a remarkable man in his way.
He fully equals Chloe in prayer; and he is apt to commend
the ship Buzzard to the especial attention of the
Lord. The first time I entered his meeting, he was saying,
in a loud voice, `We pray thee, O Lord, to bless her
Majesty's good ship, the Buzzard; and if there's a slave-trader
now on the coast of Africa, we pray thee, O
He has been a slave himself, and he has perhaps
helped off more slaves than any man in the country.
I doubt whether Garrick himself had greater power to disguise
his countenance. If a slaveholder asks him about a
slave, he is the most stolid-looking creature imaginable.
You wouldn't suppose he understood anything, or ever
could understand anything. But if he meets an Abolitionist
a minute after, his black face laughs all over, and his
roguish eyes twinkle like diamonds, while he recounts how
he `come it' over the Southern gentleman. That bright
soul of his is a jewel set in ebony.”
“It seems odd that the police-officer should apply to
him to catch a runaway,” said Mrs. Delano.
“That's the fun of it,” responded Mr. Percival. “The
extinguishers are themselves taking fire. The fact is, Boston
policemen don't feel exactly in their element as slave-hunters.
They are too near Bunker Hill; and on the
Fourth of July they are reminded of the Declaration of
Independence, which, though it is going out of fashion, is
still regarded by a majority of the people as a venerable
document. Then they have Whittier's trumpet-tones ringing
in their ears,—
No fetters in the Bay State! no slave upon our land!' ”
“How did Mr. Brick describe Mr. Fitzgerald's runaway
slave?” inquired Flora.
“He said he was tall and very black, with a white scar
over his right eye.”
“That's Tom!” exclaimed she. “How glad Chloe will
be! But I wonder he didn't come here the first thing.
New Bedford.”
“Father Snowdon will tell him all about that,” rejoined
Mr. Percival. “If Tom was in the city, he probably kept
him closely hidden, on account of the number of Southerners
who have recently arrived; and after the hint the police-officer
gave him, he doubtless hustled him out of town
in the quickest manner.”
“I want to hurrah for that policeman,” said Flora; “but
Mamita would think I was a very rude young lady, or
rather that I was no lady at all. But perhaps you'll let
me sing hurrah, Mamita?”
Receiving a smile for answer, she flew to the piano, and,
improvising an accompaniment to herself, she began to
sing hurrah! through all manner of variations, high and
low, rapidly trilled and slowly prolonged, now bursting
full upon the ear, now receding in the distance. It was
such a lively fantasia, that it made Mr. Percival laugh,
while Mrs. Delano's face was illuminated by a quiet
smile.
In the midst of the merriment, the door-bell rang. Flora
started from the piano, seized her worsted-work, and said,
“Now, Mamita, I'm ready to receive company like a pink
of propriety.” But the change was so sudden, that her eyes
were still laughing when Mr. Green entered an instant
after; and he again caught that archly demure expression
which seemed to him so fascinating. The earnestness of
his salutation was so different from his usual formal politeness,
that Mrs. Delano could not fail to observe it. The
conversation turned upon incidents of travel after they had
parted so suddenly. “I shall never cease to regret,” said
he, “that you missed hearing La Señorita Campaneo.
and do you know, Miss Delano, I now and then
caught a look that reminded me very much of you. Unfortunately,
you have lost your chance to hear her. For
Mr. King, the son of our Boston millionnaire, who has lately
been piling up money in the East, persuaded her to quit
the stage when she had but just started in her grand career.
All the musical world in Rome were vexed with
him for preventing her re-engagement. As for Fitzgerald,
I believe he would have shot him if he could have found
him. It was a purely musical disappointment, for he was
never introduced to the fascinating Señorita; but he fairly
pined upon it. I told him the best way to drive off the
blue devils would be to go with me and a few friends to
the Grotta Azzura. So off we started to Naples, and
thence to Capri. The grotto was one of the few novelties-remaining
for me in Italy. I had heard much of it, but the
reality exceeded all descriptions. We seemed to be actually
under the sea in a palace of gems. Our boat glided
over a lake of glowing sapphire, and our oars dropped
rubies. High above our heads were great rocks of sapphire,
deepening to lapis-lazuli at the base, with here and
there a streak of malachite.”
“It seems like Aladdin's Cave,” remarked Flora.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Green; “only it was Aladdin's Cave
undergoing a wondrous `sea change.' A poetess, who writes
for the papers under the name of Melissa Mayflower, had
fastened herself upon our party in some way; and I suppose
she felt bound to sustain the reputation of the quill.
She said the Nereids must have built that marine palace,
and decorated it for a visit from fairies of the rainbow.”
“That was a pretty thought,” said Flora. “It sounds
like `Lalla Rookh.' ”
“It was a pretty thought,” rejoined the gentleman, “but
can give you no idea of the unearthly splendor. I thought
how you would have been delighted if you had been with
our party. I regretted your absence almost as much as I
did at the opera. But the Blue Grotto, wonderful as it
was, didn't quite drive away Fitzgerald's blue devils,
though it made him forget his vexations for the time. The
fact is, just as we started he received a letter from his
agent, informing him of the escape of a negro woman and
her two children; and he spent most of the way back to
Naples swearing at the Abolitionists.”
Flora, the side of whose face was toward him, gave Mrs.
Delano a furtive glance full of fun; but he saw nothing of
the mischief in her expressive face, except a little whirlpool
of a dimple, which played about her mouth for an instant,
and then subsided. A very broad smile was on
Mr. Percival's face, as he sat examining some magnificent
illustrations of the Alhambra. Mr. Green, quite unconscious
of the by-play in their, thoughts, went on to
say, “It is really becoming a serious evil that Southern
gentlemen have so little security for that species of property.”
“Then you consider women and children property?”
inquired Mr. Percival, looking up from his book.
Mr. Green bowed with a sort of mock deference, and
replied: “Pardon me, Mr. Percival, it is so unusual for
gentlemen of your birth and position to belong to the
Abolition troop of rough-riders, that I may be excused for
not recollecting it.”
“I should consider my birth and position great misfortunes,
and justice,” rejoined Mr. Percival.
The highly conservative gentleman made no reply, but
rose to take leave.
“Did your friends the “Fitzgeralds return with you?”
inquired Mrs. Delano.
“No,” replied he. “They intend to remain until October.
Good evening, ladies. I hope soon to have the
pleasure of seeing you again.” And with an inclination
of the head toward Mr. Percival, he departed.
“Why did you ask him that question?” said Flora.
“Are you afraid of anything?”
“Not in the slightest degree,” answered Mrs. Delano.
“If, without taking much trouble, we can avoid your being
recognized by Mr. Fitzgerald, I should prefer it, because I
do not wish to have any conversation with him. But now
that your sister's happiness is no longer implicated, there
is no need of caution. If he happens to see you, I shall
tell him you sought my protection, and that he has no legal
power over you.”
The conversation diverged to the Alhambra and Washington
Irving; and Flora ended the evening by singing the
Moorish ballad of “Xarifa,” which she said always brought
a picture of Rosabella before her eyes.
The next morning, Mr. Green called earlier than usual.
He did not ask for Flora, whom he had in fact seen in the
street a few minutes before. “Excuse me, Mrs. Delano,
for intruding upon you at such an unseasonable hour,” said
he. “I chose it because I wished to be sure of seeing you
alone. You must have observed that I am greatly interested
in your adopted daughter.”
“The thought has crossed my mind,” replied the lady;
more than a very pretty girl must necessarily interest a
gentleman of taste.”
“Pretty!” repeated he. “That is a very inadequate
word to describe the most fascinating young lady I have
ever met. She attracts me so strongly, that I have called
to ask your permission to seek her for a wife.”
Mrs. Delano hesitated for a moment, and then answered,
“It is my duty to inform you that she is not of high family
on the father's side; and on the mother's, she is scarcely
what you would deem respectable.”
“Has she vulgar, disagreeable relations, who would be
likely to be intrusive?” he asked.
“She has no relative, near or distant, that I know of,”
replied the lady.
“Then her birth is of no consequence,” he answered.
“My family would be satisfied to receive her as your
daughter. I am impatient to introduce her to my mother
and sisters, who I am sure will be charmed with her.”
Mrs. Delano was embarrassed, much to the surprise of
her visitor, who was accustomed to consider his wealth and
social position a prize that would be eagerly grasped at.
After watching her countenance for an instant, he said,
somewhat proudly: “You do not seem to receive my proposal
very cordially, Mrs. Delano. Have you anything to
object to my character or family?”
“Certainly not,” replied the lady. “My doubts are
concerning my daughter.”
“Is she engaged, or partially engaged, to another?” he
inquired.
“She is not,” rejoined Mrs. Delano; “though I imagine
she is not quite `fancy free.' ”
“Would it be a breach of confidence to tell me who has
been so fortunate as to attract her?”
“Nothing of the kind has ever been confided to me,” answered
the lady. “It is merely an imagination of my own,
and relates to a person unknown to you.”
“Then I will enter the lists with my rival, if there is
one,” said he. “Such a prize is not to be given up without
an effort. But you have not yet said that I have your
consent.”
“Since you are so persistent,” rejoined Mrs. Delano, “I
will tell you a secret, if you will pledge your honor, as a
gentleman, never to repeat it, or hint at it, to any mortal.”
“I pledge my honor,” he replied, “that whatever you
choose to tell me shall be sacred between us.”
“It is not pleasant to tell the story of Flora's birth,”
responded she; “but under present circumstances it seems
to be a duty. When I have informed you of the facts, you
are free to engage her affections if you can. On the paternal
side, she descends from the French gentry and the
Spanish nobility; but her mother was a quadroon slave,
and she herself was sold as a slave.”
Mr. Green bowed his head upon his hand, and spoke no
word. Drilled to conceal his emotions, he seemed outwardly
calm, though it cost him a pang to relinquish the
captivating young creature, who he felt would have made
his life musical, though by piquant contrast rather than
by harmony. After a brief, troubled silence, he rose and
walked toward the window, as if desirous to avoid looking
the lady in the face. After a while, he said, slowly, “Do
you deem it quite right, Mrs. Delano, to pass such a counterfeit
on society?”
“I have attempted to pass no counterfeit on society,” she
young lady. Her beauty and vivacity captivated
me before I knew anything of her origin; and in the same
way they have captivated you. She was alone in the
world, and I was alone; and we adopted each other. I
have never sought to introduce her into society; and so
far as relates to yourself, I should have told you these facts
sooner if I had known the state of your feelings; but so
long as they were not expressed, it would scarcely have
been delicate for me to take them for granted.”
“Very true,” rejoined the disenchanted lover. “You
certainly had a right to choose a daughter for yourself;
though I could hardly have imagined that any amount
of attraction would have overcome such obstacles in the
mind of a lady of your education and refined views of life.
Excuse my using the word `counterfeit.' I was slightly
disturbed when it escaped me.”
“It requires no apology.” she replied. “I am aware
that society would take the same view of my proceeding
that you do. As for my education, I have learned to consider
it as, in many respects, false. As for my views, they
have been greatly modified by this experience. I have
learned to estimate people and things according to their real
value, not according to any merely external accidents.”
Mr. Green extended his hand, saying: “I will bid you
farewell, Mrs. Delano; for, under existing circumstances,
it becomes necessary to deny myself the pleasure of again
calling upon you. I must seek to divert my mind by new
travels, I hardly know where. I have exhausted Europe,
having been there three times. I have often thought I
should like to look on the Oriental gardens and bright waters
of Damascus. Everything is so wretchedly new, and
to see a place that has known no changes for three thousand
years.”
They clasped hands with mutual adieus; and the unfortunate
son of wealth, not knowing what to do in a country
full of noble work, went forth to seek a new sensation in
the slow-moving caravans of the East.
A few days afterward, when Flora returned from taking
a lesson in oil-colors, she said: “How do you suppose I
have offended Mr. Green? When I met him just now,
he touched his hat in a very formal way, and passed on,
though I was about to speak to him.”
“Perhaps he was in a hurry,” suggested Mrs. Delano.
“No, it was n't that,” rejoined Flora. “He did just so
day before yesterday, and he can't always be in a hurry.
Besides, you know he is never in a hurry; he is too much
of a gentleman.”
Her friend smiled as she answered, “You are getting to
be quite a judge of aristocratic manners, considering you
were brought up in a bird-cage.”
The young girl was not quite so ready as usual with a
responsive smile. She went on to say, in a tone of perplexity:
“What can have occasioned such a change in his
manner? You say I am sometimes thoughtless about
politeness. Do you think I have offended him in any
way?”
“Would it trouble you very much if you had?” inquired
Mrs. Delano.
“Not very much,” she replied; “but I should be sorry
if he thought me rude to him, when he was so very polite
to us in Europe. What is it, Mamita? I think you know
something about it.”
“I did not tell you, my child,” replied she, “because I
thought it would be unpleasant. But you keep no secrets
from me, and it is right that I should be equally open-hearted
with you. Did you never suspect that Mr. Green
was in love with you?”
“The thought never occurred to me till he called here
that first evening after his return from Europe. Then,
when he took my hand, he pressed it a little. I thought it
was rather strange in such a formal gentleman; but I did
not mention it to you, because I feared you would think me
vain. But if he is in love with me, why don't he tell me
so? And why does he pass me without speaking?”
Her friend replied: “He deemed it proper to tell me
first, and ask my consent to pay his addresses to you. As
he persisted very urgently, I thought it my duty to tell him,
under the seal of secrecy, that you were remotely connected
with the colored race. The announcement somewhat disturbed
his habitual composure. He said he must deny
himself the pleasure of calling again. He proposes to go
to Damascus, and there I hope he will forget his disappointment.”
Flora flared up as Mrs. Delano had never seen her.
She reddened to the temples, and her lip curled scornfully.
“He is a mean man!” she exclaimed. “If he
thought that I myself was a suitable wife for his serene
highness, what had my great-grandmother to do with it?
I wish he had asked me to marry him. I should like to
have him know I never cared a button about him; and
that, if I did n't care for him, I should consider it more
shameful to sell myself for his diamonds, than it would have
been to have been sold for a slave by papa's creditors when
I could n't help myself. I am glad you don't feel like
I hope you will leave me at home. I don't want to be introduced
to any of these cold, aristocratic Bostonians.”
“Not all of them cold and aristocratic, darling,” replied
Mrs. Delano. “Your Mamita is one of them; and she is
becoming less cold and aristocratic every day, thanks to a
little Cinderella who came to her singing through the
woods, two years ago.”
“And who found a fairy godmother,” responded Flora,
subsiding into a tenderer tone. “It is ungrateful for me
to say anything against Boston; and with such friends as
the Percivals too. But it does seem mean that Mr. Green,
if he really liked me, should decline speaking to me because
my great-grandmother had a dark complexion. I
never knew the old lady, though I dare say I should love
her if I did know her. Madame used to say Rosabella inherited
pride from our Spanish grandfather. I think I
have some of it, too; and it makes me shy of being introduced
to your stylish acquaintance, who might blame you
if they knew all about me. I like people who do know all
about me, and who like me because I am I. That's one
reason why I like Florimond. He admired my mother,
and loved my father; and he thinks just as well of me as
if I had never been sold for a slave.”
“Do you always call him Florimond?” inquired Mrs.
Delano.
“I call him Mr. Blumenthal before folks, and he calls
me Miss Delano. But when no one is by, he sometimes
calls me Miss Royal, because he says he loves that name,
for the sake of old times; and then I call him Blumen,
partly for short, and partly because his cheeks are so pink,
it comes natural. He likes to have me call him so. He
am the Goddess of Blumen.
Mrs. Delano smiled at these small scintillations of wit,
which in the talk of lovers sparkle to them like diamond-dust
in the sunshine.
“Has he ever told you that he loved you as well as your
name?” asked she.
“He never said so, Mamita; but I think he does,” rejoined
Flora.
“What reason have you to think so?” inquired her
friend.
“He wants very much to come here,” replied the young
lady; “but he is extremely modest. He says he knows he
is not suitable company for such a rich, educated lady as
you are. He is taking dancing-lessons, and lessons on the
piano, and he is studying French and Italian and history,
and all sorts of things. And he says he means to make a
mint of money, and then perhaps he can come here sometimes
to see me dance, and hear me play on the piano.”
“I by no means require that all my acquaintance should
make a mint of money,” answered Mrs. Delano. “I am
very much pleased with the account you give of this young
Blumenthal. When you next see him, give him my compliments,
and tell him I should be happy to become acquainted
with him.”
Flora dropped on her knees and hid her face in her
friend's lap. She did n't express her thanks in words, but
she cried a little.
“This is more serious than I supposed,” thought Mrs.
Delano.
A fortnight afterward, she obtained an interview with
Mr. Goldwin, and asked, “What is your estimate of that
your employ?”
“He is a modest young man, of good habits,” answered
the merchant; “and of more than common business capacity.”
“Would you be willing to receive him as a partner?”
she inquired.
“The young man is poor,” rejoined Mr. Goldwin; “and
we have many applications from those who can advance
some capital.”
“If a friend would loan him ten thousand dollars for
twenty years, and leave it to him by will in case she should
die meanwhile, would that be sufficient to induce you?”
said the lady.
“I should be glad to do it, particularly if it obliges you,
Mrs. Delano,” responded the merchant; “for I really think
him a very worthy young man.”
“Then consider it settled,” she replied. “But let it be
an affair between ourselves, if you please; and to him you
may merely say that a friend of his former employer and
benefactor wishes to assist him.”
When Blumenthal informed Flora of this unexpected
good-fortune, they of course suspected from whom it came;
and they looked at each other, and blushed.
Mrs. Delano did not escape gossiping remarks. “How
she has changed!” said Mrs. Ton to Mrs. Style. “She
used to be the most fastidious of exclusives; and now she
has adopted nobody knows whom, and one of Mr. Goldwin's
clerks seems to be on the most familiar footing there.
I should have no objection to invite the girl to my parties,
for she is Mrs. Delano's adoptée, and she would really be
an orhament to my rooms, besides being very convenient
my daughters to be introduced to that nobody of a clerk.”
“She has taken up several of the Abolitionists too,” rejoined
Mrs. Style. “My husband looked into an anti-slavery
meeting the other evening, partly out of curiosity
to hear what Garrison had to say, and partly in hopes of
obtaining some clew to a fugitive slave that one of his
Southern friends had written to him about. And who
should he see there, of all people in the world, but Mrs.
Delano and her adoptée, escorted by that young clerk.
Think of her, with her dove-colored silks and violet gloves,
crowded and jostled by Dinah and Sambo! I expect the
next thing we shall hear will be that she has given a negro
party.”
“In that case, I presume she will choose to perfume her
embroidered handkerchiefs with musk, or pachouli, instead
of her favorite breath of violets,” responded Mrs. Ton.
And, smiling at their wit, the fashionable ladies parted,
to quote it from each other as among the good things they
had recently heard.
Only the faint echoes of such remarks reached Mrs.
Delano; though she was made to feel, in many small ways,
that she had become a black sheep in aristocratic circles.
But these indications passed by her almost unnoticed,
occupied as she was in earnestly striving to redeem the
mistakes of the past by making the best possible use of the
present.
| A romance of the republic | |