 | CHAPTER II. A romance of the republic |  |
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passed, a curtain was slowly withdrawn from one of the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!
| CHAPTER II. A romance of the republic | |