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."
"They visited it in spring, when it really does look like Paradise,"
replied he. "It has its beauties now; but this is not the favorable
season for seeing it; and after we have been here a few days, I think
we had better return to Savannah, and come again when the lawn is
carpeted with flowers."
"I see your mind is bent upon not staying here," answered she; "and I
suppose it _would_ be rather tiresome to have no other company than
your stupid little Lily Bell."
She spoke with a pouting affectation of reproach, and he exclaimed,
"Lily, darling!" as he passed his arm round her slender waist, and,
putting aside a shower of pale yellowish ringlets, gazed fondly into
the blue eyes that were upturned to his.
They were interrupted by the entrance of Venus, who came to ask their
orders. "Tell them to serve supper at seven, and then come and show
your mistress to her dressing-room," he said. As she retired, he
added: "Now she'll have something to tell of. She'll be proud enough
of being the first to get a full sight of the new Missis; and it _is_
a sight worth talking about."
With a gratified smile, she glanced at the pier-glass which reflected
her graceful little figure, and, taking his arm, she walked slowly
round the room, praising the tasteful arrangements. "Everything has
such a bridal look!" she said.
"Of course," replied he; "when I have such a fair Lily Bell for a
bride, I wish to have her bower pearly and lily-like. But here is
Venus come to show you to your dressing-room. I hope you will like the
arrangements up stairs also."
She kissed her hand to him as she left the room, and he returned the
salute. When she had gone, he paced slowly up and down for a few
moments. As he passed the piano, he touched the keys in a rambling
way. The tones he brought out were a few notes of an air he and
Rosabella had sung in that same room a few months before. He turned
abruptly from the instrument, and looked out from the window in the
direction of the lonely cottage, Nothing was visible but trees and a
line of the ocean beyond. But the chambers of his soul were filled
with visions of Rosa. He thought of the delightful day they had spent
together, looking upon these same scenes; of their songs and caresses
in the bower; of her letter, so full of love and glad surprise at the
bridal arrangements she supposed he had made for her, "I really hope
Lily won't insist upon staying here long," thought he; "for it is
rather an embarrassing position for me."
He seated himself at the piano and swept his hand up and down the
keys, as if trying to drown his thoughts in a tempest of sound. But,
do what he would, the thoughts spoke loudest; and after a while he
leaned his head forward on the piano, lost in revery.
A soft little hand touched his head, and a feminine voice inquired,
"What are you thinking of, Gerald?"
"Of you, my pearl," he replied, rising hastily, and stooping to
imprint a kiss on the forehead of his bride.
"And pray what were you thinking about _me_?" she asked.
"That you are the greatest beauty in the world, and that I love you
better than man ever loved woman," rejoined he. And so the game of
courtship went on, till it was interrupted by a summons to supper.
When they returned some time later, the curtains were drawn and
candles lighted. "You have not yet tried the piano," said he, as he
placed the music-stool.
She seated herself, and, after running up and down the keys, and
saying she liked the tone of the instrument, she began to play and
sing "Robin Adair." She had a sweet, thin voice, and her style of
playing indicated rather one who had learned music, than one whose
soul lived in its element. Fitzgerald thought of the last singing he
had heard at that piano; and without asking for another song, he began
to sing to her accompaniment, "Drink to me only with thine eyes." He
had scarcely finished the line, "Leave a kiss within the cup, and
I'll not ask for wine," when clear, liquid tones rose on the air,
apparently from the veranda; and the words they carried on their wings
were these:--
"Down in the meadow, 'mong the clover,
I walked with Nelly by my side.
Now all those happy days are over,
Farewell, my dark Virginia bride.
Nelly was a lady;
Last night she died.
Toll the bell for lovely Nell,
My dark Virginia bride."
The bride listened intensely, her fingers resting lightly on the keys,
and when the sounds--died away she started up, exclaiming, "What a
voice! I never heard anything like it."
She moved eagerly toward the veranda, but was suddenly arrested by her
husband. "No, no, darling," said he. "You mustn't expose yourself to
the night air."
"Then do go out yourself and bring her in," urged she. "I must hear
more of that voice. Who is she?"
"One of the darkies, I suppose," rejoined he. "You know they all have
musical gifts."
"Not such gifts as that, I imagine," she replied. "Do go out and bring
her in."
She was about to draw the curtain aside to look out, when he nervously
called her attention to another window. "See here!" he exclaimed. "My
people are gathering to welcome their new missis. In answer to Tom's
request, I told him I would introduce you to them to-night. But you
are tired, and I am afraid you will take cold in the evening air; so
we will postpone the ceremony until to-morrow."
"O, no," she replied, "I would prefer to go now. How their black faces
will shine when they see the glass beads and gay handkerchiefs I have
brought for them! Besides, I want to find out who that singer is. It's
strange you don't take more interest in such a voice as that, when
you are so full of music. Will you have the goodness to ring for my
shawl?"
With a decision almost peremptory in its tone, he said, "No; I had
rather you would _not_ go out." Seeing that his manner excited some
surprise, he patted her head and added: "Mind your husband now, that's
a good child. Amuse yourself at the piano while I go out."
She pouted a little, but finished by saying coaxingly, "Come back
soon, dear." She attempted to follow him far enough to look out on the
veranda, but he gently put her back, and, kissing his hand to her,
departed. She raised a corner of the curtain and peeped out to catch
the last glimpse of his figure. The moon was rising, and she could see
that he walked slowly, peering into spots of dense shadow or thickets
of shrubbery, as if looking for some one. But all was motionless and
still, save the sound of a banjo from the group of servants. "How I
wish I could hear that voice again!" she thought to herself. "It's
very singular Gerald should appear so indifferent to it. What can be
the meaning of it?"
She pondered for a few minutes, and then she tried to play; but not
finding it entertaining without an auditor, she soon rose, and,
drawing aside one of the curtains, looked out upon the lovely night.
The grand old trees cast broad shadows on the lawn, and the shrubbery
of the garden gleamed in the soft moonlight. She felt solitary
without any one to speak to, and, being accustomed to have her whims
gratified, she was rather impatient under the prohibition laid upon
her. She rung the bell and requested Venus to bring her shawl. The
obsequious dressing-maid laid it lightly on her shoulders, and holding
out a white nubia of zephyr worsted, she said, "P'r'aps missis would
like to war dis ere." She stood watching while her mistress twined the
gossamer fabric round her head with careless grace. She opened the
door for her to pass out on the veranda, and as she looked after her
she muttered to herself, "She's a pooty missis; but not such a gran'
hansom lady as turrer." A laugh shone through her dark face as she
added, "'T would be curus ef she should fine turrer missis out dar."
As she passed through the parlor she glanced at the large mirror,
which dimly reflected her dusky charms, and said with a smile: "Massa
knows what's hansome. He's good judge ob we far sex."
The remark was inaudible to the bride, who walked up and down the
veranda, ever and anon glancing at the garden walks, to see if Gerald
were in sight. She had a little plan of hiding among the vines when
she saw him coming, and peeping out suddenly as he approached. She
thought to herself she should look so pretty in the moonlight, that he
would forget to chide her. And certainly she was a pleasant vision.
Her fairy figure, enveloped in soft white folds of muslin, her
delicate complexion shaded by curls so fair that they seemed a portion
of the fleecy nubia, were so perfectly in unison with the mild
radiance of the evening, that she seemed like an embodied portion of
the moonlight. Gerald absented himself so long that her little plan
of surprising him had time to cool. She paused more frequently in
her promenade, and looked longer at the distant sparkle of the sea.
Turning to resume her walk, after one of these brief moments of
contemplation, she happened to glance at the lattice-work of the
veranda, and through one of its openings saw a large, dark eye
watching her. She started to run into the house, but upon second
thought she called out, "Gerald, you rogue, why didn't you speak to
let me know you were there?" She darted toward the lattice, but the
eye disappeared. She tried to follow, but saw only a tall shadow
gliding away behind the corner of the house. She pursued, but found
only a tremulous reflection of vines in the moonlight. She kept on
round the house, and into the garden, frequently calling out, "Gerald!
Gerald!" "Hark! hark!" she murmured to herself, as some far-off tones
of "Toll the bell" floated through the air. The ghostly moonlight,
the strange, lonely place, and the sad, mysterious sounds made her a
little afraid. In a more agitated tone, she called Gerald again. In
obedience to her summons, she saw him coming toward her in the
garden walk. Forgetful of her momentary fear, she sprang toward him,
exclaiming: "Are you a wizard? How did you get there, when two minutes
ago you were peeping at me through the veranda lattice?"
"I haven't been there," he replied; "but why are you out here, Lily,
when I particularly requested you to stay in the house till I came?"
"O, you were so long coming, that I grew tired of being alone. The
moonlight looked so inviting that I went out on the veranda to watch
for you; and when I saw you looking at me through the lattice, I ran
after you, and couldn't find you."
"I haven't been near the lattice," he replied. "If you saw somebody
looking at you, I presume it was one of the servants peeping at the
new missis."
"None of your tricks!" rejoined she, snapping her fingers at him
playfully. "It was _your_ eye that I saw. If it weren't for making you
vain, I would ask you whether your handsome eyes could be mistaken for
the eyes of one of your negroes. But I want you to go with me to that
bower down there."
"Not to-night, dearest," said he. "I will go with you to-morrow."
"Now is just the time," persisted she. "Bowers never look so pretty
as by moonlight. I don't think you are very gallant to your bride to
refuse her such a little favor."
Thus urged, he yielded, though reluctantly, to her whim. As she
entered the bower, and turned to speak to him, the moonlight fell full
upon her figure. "What a pretty little witch you are!" he exclaimed.
"My Lily Bell, my precious pearl, my sylph! You look like a spirit
just floated down from the moon."
"All moonshine!" replied she, with a smile.
He kissed the saucy lips, and the vines which had witnessed other
caresses in that same bower, a few months earlier, whispered to each
other, but told no tales. She leaned her head upon his bosom, and
looking out upon the winding walks of the garden, so fair and peaceful
in sheen and shadow, she said that her new home was more beautiful
than she had dreamed. "Hark!" said she, raising her head suddenly, and
listening. "I thought I heard a sigh."
"It was only the wind among the vines," he replied. "Wandering about
in the moonlight has made you nervous."
"I believe I _was_ a little afraid before you came," said she. "That
eye looking at me through the lattice gave me a start; and while I was
running after your shadow, I heard that voice again singing, 'Toll the
bell.' I wonder how you can be so indifferent about such a remarkable
voice, when you are such a lover of music."
"I presume, as I told you before, that it was one of the darkies,"
rejoined he. "I will inquire about it to-morrow."
"I should sooner believe it to be the voice of an angel from heaven,
than a darky," responded the bride. "I wish I could hear it again
before I sleep."
In immediate response to her wish, the full rich voice she had invoked
began to sing an air from "Norma," beginning, "O, how his art deceived
thee!"
Fitzgerald started so suddenly, he overturned a seat near them.
"Hush!" she whispered, clinging to his arm. Thus they stood in
silence, she listening with rapt attention, he embarrassed and
angry almost beyond endurance. The enchanting sounds were obviously
receding.
"Let us follow her, and settle the question who she is," said Lily,
trying to pull him forward. But he held her back strongly.
"No more running about to-night," he answered almost sternly. Then,
immediately checking himself, he added, in a gentler tone: "It is
imprudent in you to be out so long in the evening air; and I am really
very tired, dear Lily. To-morrow I will try to ascertain which of the
servants has been following you round in this strange way."
"Do you suppose any servant could sing _that_?" she exclaimed.
"They are nearly all musical, and wonderfully imitative," answered he.
"They can catch almost anything they hear." He spoke in a nonchalant
tone, but she felt his arm tremble as she leaned upon it. He had never
before made such an effort to repress rage.
In tones of tender anxiety, she said: "I am afraid you are very tired,
dear. I am sorry I kept you out so long."
"I am rather weary," he replied, taking her hand, and holding it in
his. He was so silent as they walked toward the house, that she feared
he was seriously offended with her.
As they entered the parlor she said, "I didn't think you cared about
my not going out, Gerald, except on account of my taking cold; and
with my shawl and nubia I don't think there was the least danger of
that. It was such a beautiful night, I wanted to go out to meet you,
dear."
He kissed her mechanically, and replied, "I am not offended, darling."
"Then, if the blue devils possess you, we will try Saul's method of
driving them away," said she. She seated herself at the piano, and
asked him whether he would accompany her with voice or flute. He tried
the flute, but played with such uncertainty, that she looked at him
with surprise. Music was the worst remedy she could have tried to
quiet the disturbance in his soul; for its voice evoked ghosts of the
past.
"I am really tired, Lily," said he; and, affecting a drowsiness he did
not feel, he proposed retiring for the night.
The chamber was beautiful with the moon shining through its
rose-tinted drapery, and the murmur of the ocean was a soothing
lullaby. But it was long before either of them slept; and when they
slumbered, the same voice went singing through their dreams. He was in
the flowery parlor at New Orleans, listening to "The Light of other
Days"; and she was following a veiled shadow through a strange garden,
hearing the intermingled tones of "Norma" and "Toll the bell."
It was late in the morning when she awoke. Gerald was gone, but
a bouquet of fragrant flowers lay on the pillow beside her. Her
dressing-gown was on a chair by the bedside, and Venus sat at the
window sewing.
"Where is Mr. Fitzgerald?" she inquired.
"He said he war gwine to turrer plantation on business. He leff dem
flower dar, an' tole me to say he 'd come back soon."
The fair hair was neatly arranged by the black hands that contrasted
so strongly with it. The genteel little figure was enveloped in a
morning-dress of delicate blue and white French cambric, and the
little feet were ensconced in slippers of azure velvet embroidered
with silver. The dainty breakfast, served on French porcelain, was
slowly eaten, and still Gerald returned not. She removed to the
chamber window, and, leaning her cheek on her hand, looked out upon
the sun-sparkle of the ocean. Her morning thought was the same with
which she had passed into slumber the previous night. How strange it
was that Gerald would take no notice of that enchanting voice! The
incident that seemed to her a charming novelty had, she knew not why,
cast a shadow over the first evening in their bridal home.