A Romance of the Republic - Lydia Maria Francis Child
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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 and more
absent from the cottage, and made few professions 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 couldn'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 no desire to
mix with the world, but it is necessary for you, 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 didn'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. With ready gallantry he
responded aloud, "I think so 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 shrubs, 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 shouldn'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 snatches of familiar
songs. The servants who brought in 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 tossed its white foam-garland on the shore. The sun 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.
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. Tom came with the carriage once a week,
according to his 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 once to a bright
smile. The parlor had undergone a wondrous 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.
Isn'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 't want no use to
cook nice tidbits for ye, if ye jist turned 'em over wi' yer fork, and
ate one or two mouthfuls, without knowing what ye was eatin'."
"I've been pining for Gerald, Tulee; and I've been afraid sometimes
that he didn'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 didn'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 me with roses! Do you remember how happy we were in 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 didn'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 the
pines. One's own voice sounds so solitary when there 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 didn'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
"Your grateful and loving
"ROSA."
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 dear heart!" exclaimed she; "that
sounds like the old 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 a 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.
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."