University of Virginia Library

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

bell, the door was opened by a comely young negress, with
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

within her sparkling black eyes, a mouth like “Cupid's
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

his host. “Flowers everywhere! Natural flowers, artificial
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

darted to the window, and, peering forth into the twilight,
she looked back roguishly at her sister, and began to
sing:—

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:—

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

him. In answer to her look, he added, in a gentler tone,
“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.

He patted the glossy head that nestled lovingly on his
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,

complaining Russian melodies, novelties which Mr. Fitzgerald
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

visitors felt they had stayed too long, and yet they lingered.
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

companion, who answered, in a grave and somewhat cold
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,

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.