A Romance of the Republic - Lydia Maria Francis Child
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"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 never seemed to miss her when she was away. She had 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,
"Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friend I love best!"
she sighed, and thought to herself, "Ah! if I only _had_ a 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
wheel to a coach? Never mind! My little one will 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
couldn'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 Tom, and spend
a couple of hours at his cabin near "the 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 didn'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 lonely island came to seem like a happy home.
Floracita 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 sprig, sometimes
placing them in her hair, sometimes in 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 hollow drum beats to bed,
When the little fifer hangs his head,
When is mute the Moorish flute--"
Her song was suddenly interrupted by a clasp round the 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 frere_," 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 needn'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 excused 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 window dreamily, she put her hand on the silky head and 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 declined, 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:--
"Begone, dull care!
I prithee begone from me!
Begone, dull care!
Thou and I shall never agree!"
The walk changed to hopping and dancing, as she warbled 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, Senorita 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 Flora; "and I
am very much pleased that you remember 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 showering on an endless procession of
pearl-crested waves; 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
wasn'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!"
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
wouldn'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 air of lightness and grace.
I used to think shell-work 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 didn'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 wouldn'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 didn'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 couldn'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 for wanting to earn some money. You
used to admire 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."