A Romance of the Republic Part 13

"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 quant.i.ties 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 a.s.sociations 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 a.s.sented, 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, l.u.s.trous 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 cl.u.s.ter of negro huts. Black picaninnies were rolling about in the gra.s.s, 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 s.p.a.cious 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 s.p.a.ce."

"Perhaps we will some time or other, my love," responded he.

She smiled, and touched the keys, while she sang s.n.a.t.c.hes of familiar songs. The servants who brought in refreshments wondered at her beauty, and clear, ringing voice. Many dark faces cl.u.s.tered 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 Ma.s.sa 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 Ma.s.sa 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 Na.s.sau, 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 ma.s.sive 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 sh.o.r.e. 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 pa.s.sed 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 ma.n.u.script, 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 st.i.tch of a blue forget-me-not. Over the mirror was a cl.u.s.ter 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 sh.e.l.ls. 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 ta.s.sels. "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 pa.s.sed 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 Ma.s.sa, an' she's gwine to be de Missis."

Venus, the chambermaid, who would have pa.s.sed very well for a bronze image of the sea-born G.o.ddess, tossed her head as she replied: "Dunno bout dat ar. Ma.s.sa does a heap o' courtin' to we far s.e.x."

"How yer know dat ar?" exclaimed Dinah. "Whar d' yer git dem year-rings?" And then there was a general t.i.tter.

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 n.o.body 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 pa.s.sing 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.