Rosa came out of her swoon in a slow fever accompanied with delirium.
Tulee was afraid to leave her long enough to go to the plantation in
search of Tom; and having no medicines at hand, she did the best thing
that could have been done. She continually moistened the parched
tongue with water, and wiped the hot skin with wet cloths. While she
was doing this, tears fell on her dear young mistress, lying there
so broken and helpless, talking incoherently about her father and
Floracita, about being a slave and being sold. This continued eight or
ten days, during which she never seemed to recognize Tulee's presence,
or to be conscious where she was. She was never wild or troublesome,
but there were frequent restless motions, and signs of being afraid
of something. Then such a heavy drowsiness came over her, that it
was difficult to arouse her sufficiently to swallow a spoonful of
nourishment. She slept, and slept, till it seemed as if she would
sleep forever. "Nature, dear goddess," was doing the best she could
for the poor weak body, that had been so racked by the torture of the
soul.
Three weeks passed before Mr. Fitzgerald again made his appearance
at the lonely cottage. He had often thought of Rosa meanwhile, not
without uneasiness and some twinges of self-reproach. But considering
the unlucky beginning of his honeymoon at Magnolia Lawn, he deemed it
prudent to be very assiduous in his attentions to his bride. He took
no walks or drives without her, and she seemed satisfied with his
entire devotion; but a veiled singing shadow haunted the chambers of
her soul. When she and her husband were occupied with music, she half
expected the pauses would be interrupted by another voice; nor was
he free from fears that those wandering sounds would come again. But
annoyed as he would have been by the rich tones of that voice once
so dear to him, his self-love was piqued that Rosa took no steps to
recall him. He had such faith in his power over her, that he had been
daily hoping for a conciliatory note. Tom had been as attentive to the
invalid as his enslaved condition would admit; but as Tulee said very
decidedly that she didn't want Massa Fitzgerald to show his face
there, he did not volunteer any information. At last, his master said
to him one day, "You've been to the cottage, I suppose, Tom?"
"Yes, Massa."
"How are they getting on there?"
"Missy Rosy hab bin bery sick, but she done better now."
"Why didn't you tell me, you black rascal?"
"Massa hab neber ax me," replied Tom.
Mr. Fitzgerald found some food for vanity in this news. He presumed
the illness was caused by love for him, which Rosa found herself
unable to conquer. This idea was very pleasant to him; for it was not
easy to relinquish the beautiful young creature who had loved him so
exclusively. Making a pretext of business, he mounted his horse and
rode off; throwing a farewell kiss to his bride as he went. For
greater security, he travelled a few moments in another direction, and
then sought the sequestered cottage by a circuitous route. Tulee was
vexed at heart when she heard him, as he came through the woods,
humming, "_C'est l'amour, l'amour_"; and when he entered the cottage,
she wished she was a white man, that she could strike him. But when he
said, "Tulee, how is your mistress?" she civilly answered, "Better,
Massa."
He passed softly into Rosa's room. She was lying on the bed, in a
loose white robe, over which fell the long braids of her dark hair.
The warm coloring had entirely faded from her cheeks, leaving only
that faintest reflection of gold which she inherited from her mother;
and the thinness and pallor of her face made her large eyes seem
larger and darker. They were open, but strangely veiled; as if shadows
were resting on the soul, like fogs upon a landscape. When Gerald bent
over her, she did not see him, though she seemed to be looking at him.
He called her by the tenderest names; he cried out in agony, "O Rosa,
speak to me, darling!" She did not hear him. He had never before been
so deeply moved. He groaned aloud, and, covering his face with his
hands, he wept.
When Tulee, hearing the sound, crept in to see whether all was well
with her mistress, she found him in that posture. She went out
silently, but when she was beyond hearing she muttered to herself,
"Ise glad he's got any human feelin'."
After the lapse of a few moments, he came to her, saying, "O Tulee, do
you think she's going to die? Couldn't a doctor save her?"
"No, Massa, I don't believe she's going to die," replied Tulee; "but
she'll be very weak for a great while. I don't think all the doctors
in the world could do poor Missy Rosy any good. It's her soul that's
sick, Massa; and nobody but the Great Doctor above can cure that."
Her words cut him like a knife; but, without any attempt to excuse the
wrong he had done, he said: "I am going to Savannah for the winter. I
will leave Tom and Chloe at the plantation, with instructions to do
whatever you want done. If I am needed, you can send Tom for me."
The melancholy wreck he had seen saddened him for a day or two; those
eyes, with their mysterious expression of somnambulism, haunted him,
and led him to drown uncomfortable feelings in copious draughts of
wine. But, volatile as he was impressible, the next week saw him the
gayest of the gay in parties at Savannah, where his pretty little
bride was quite the fashion.
At the cottage there was little change, except that Chloe, by
her master's permission, became a frequent visitor. She was an
affectionate, useful creature, with good voice and ear, and a little
wild gleam of poetry in her fervid eyes. When she saw Rosa lying there
so still, helpless and unconscious as a new-born babe, she said,
solemnly, "De sperit hab done gone somewhar." She told many stories of
wonderful cures she had performed by prayer; and she would kneel by
the bedside, hour after hour, holding the invalid's hand, praying,
"O Lord, fotch back de sperit! Fotch back de sperit! Fotch back de
sperit!" she would continue to repeat in ascending tones, till they
rose to wild imploring. Tulee, looking on one day, said, "Poor Missy
Rosy don't hear nothin' ye say, though ye call so loud."
"De good Lord up dar, He hars," replied Chloe, reverently pointing
upward; and she went on with the vehement repetition. These
supplications were often varied with Methodist hymns and negro
melodies, of which the most common refrain was, "O glory! glory!
glory!" But whether singing or praying, she made it a point to hold
the invalid's hand and look into her eyes. For a long while, the
spirit that had gone somewhere showed no signs of returning, in
obedience to the persevering summons. But after several weeks had
elapsed, there was a blind groping for Chloe's hand; and when it was
found, Tulee thought she perceived something like a little flickering
gleam flit over the pale face. Still, neither of the nurses was
recognized; and no one ever knew what the absent soul was seeing and
hearing in that mysterious somewhere whither it had flown. At last,
Chloe's patient faith was rewarded by a feeble pressure of her hand.
Their watchfulness grew more excited; and never did mother welcome the
first gleam of intelligence in her babe with more thrilling joy, than
the first faint, quivering smile on Rosa's lips was welcomed by those
anxious, faithful friends. The eyes began to resume their natural
expression. The fog was evidently clearing away from the soul, and
the sunshine was gleaming through. The process of resuscitation was
thenceforth constant, though very slow. It was three months after
those cruel blows fell upon her loving heart before she spoke and
feebly called them by their names. And not until a month later was
she able to write a few lines to quiet the anxiety of Madame and the
Signor.
A few days before her last ghostly visit to Magnolia Lawn, she
had written them a very joyful letter, telling them of Gerald's
preparations to acknowledge her as his wife, and make her the mistress
of his beautiful home. They received the tidings with great joy, and
answered with hearty congratulations. The Signor was impatient
to write to Mr. King; but Madame, who had learned precaution and
management by the trials and disappointments of a changing life,
thought it best to wait till they could inform him of the actual fact.
As Rosa had never been in the habit of writing oftener than once in
four or five weeks, they felt no uneasiness until after that time had
elapsed; and even then they said to each other, "She delays writing,
as we do, until everything is arranged." But when seven or eight weeks
had passed, Madame wrote again, requesting an immediate answer. Owing
to the peculiar position of the sisters, letters to them had always
been sent under cover to Mr. Fitzgerald; and when this letter arrived,
he was naturally curious to ascertain whether Madame was aware of his
marriage. It so happened that it had not been announced in the only
paper taken by the Signor; and as they lived in a little foreign
world of their own, they remained in ignorance of it. Having read the
letter, Mr. Fitzgerald thought, as Rosa was not in a condition to read
it, it had better be committed to the flames. But fearing that Madame
or the Signor might come to Savannah in search of tidings, and that
some unlucky accident might bring them to speech of his bride, he
concluded it was best to ward off such a contingency. He accordingly
wrote a very studied letter to Madame, telling her that, with her
knowledge of the world, he supposed she must be well aware that the
daughter of a quadroon slave could not be legally recognized as the
wife of a Southern gentleman; that he still loved Rosa better than any
other woman, but wishing for legal heirs to his hereditary estate, it
was necessary for him to marry. He stated that Rosa was recovering
from a slow fever, and had requested him to say that they must not
feel anxious about her; that she had everything for her comfort, had
been carefully attended by two good nurses, was daily getting better,
and would write in a few weeks; meanwhile, if anything retarded her
complete recovery, he would again write.
This letter he thought would meet the present emergency. His plans
for the future were unsettled. He still hoped that Rosa, alone and
unprotected as she was, without the legal ownership of herself, and
subdued by sickness and trouble, would finally accede to his terms.
She, in her unconscious state, was of course ignorant of this
correspondence. For some time after she recognized her nurses, she
continued to be very drowsy, and manifested no curiosity concerning
her condition. She was as passive in their hands as an infant, and
they treated her as such. Chloe sung to her, and told her stories,
which were generally concerning her own remarkable experiences; for
she was a great seer of visions. Perhaps she owed them to gifts of
imagination, of which culture would have made her a poet; but to her
they seemed to be an objective reality. She often told of seeing
Jesus, as she walked to and from the plantation. Once she had met him
riding upon Thistle, with a golden crown upon his head. One evening he
had run before her all the way, as a very little child, whose shining
garments lighted up all the woods.
Four months after the swift destruction of her hopes, Rosa, after
taking some drink from Tulee's hand, looked up in her face, and said,
"How long have I been sick, dear Tulee?"
"No matter about that, darling," she replied, patting her head fondly.
"Ye mustn't disturb your mind 'bout that."
After a little pause, the invalid said, "But tell me how long."
"Well then, darling, I didn't keep no 'count of the time; but Tom says
it's February now."
"Yer see, Missy Rosy," interposed Chloe, "yer sperit hab done gone
somewhar, an' yer didn't know nottin'. But a booful angel, all in
white, tuk yer by de han' an' toted yer back to Tulee an' Chloe. Dat
ar angel hab grat hansum eyes, an' she tole me she war yer mudder;
an' dat she war gwine to be wid yer allers, cause twar de will ob de
Lord."
Rosa listened with a serious, pleased expression in her face; for the
words of her simple comforter inspired a vague consciousness of some
supernatural presence surrounding her with invisible protection.
A few hours after, she asked, with head averted from her attendant,
"Has any one been here since I have been ill?"
Anxious to soothe the wounded heart as much as possible, Tulee
answered: "Massa Gerald come to ask how ye did; and when he went to
Savannah, he left Tom and Chloe at the plantation to help me take care
of ye."
She manifested no emotion; and after a brief silence she inquired
for letters from Madame. Being informed that there were none, she
expressed a wish to be bolstered up, that she might try to write a few
lines to her old friend. Chloe, in reply, whispered something in her
ear, which seemed to surprise her. Her cheeks flushed, the first
time for many a day; but she immediately closed her eyes, and tears
glistened on the long, dark lashes. In obedience to the caution of
her nurses, she deferred any attempt to write till the next week. She
remained very silent during the day, but they knew that her thoughts
were occupied; for they often saw tears oozing through the closed
eyelids.
Meanwhile, her friends in New Orleans were in a state of great
anxiety. Mr. Fitzgerald had again written in a strain very similar to
his first letter, but from Rosa herself nothing had been received.
"I don't know what to make of this," said Madame. "Rosa is not a
girl that would consent to a secondary position where her heart was
concerned."
"You know how common it is for quadroons to accede to such double
arrangements," rejoined the Signor.
"Of course I am well aware of that," she replied; "but they are
educated, from childhood, to accommodate themselves to their
subordinate position, as a necessity that cannot be avoided. It was
far otherwise with Rosa. Moreover, I believe there is too much of
Grandpa Gonsalez in her to submit to anything she deemed dishonorable.
I think, my friend, somebody ought to go to Savannah to inquire into
this business. If you should go, I fear you would get into a duel.
You know dear Floracita used to call you Signor Pimentero. But Mr.
Fitzgerald won't fight _me_, let me say what I will. So I think I had
better go."
"Yes, you had better go. You're a born diplomate, which I am not,"
replied the Signor.
Arrangements were accordingly made for going in a day or two; but they
were arrested by three or four lines from Rosa, stating that she was
getting well, that she had everything for her comfort, and would write
more fully soon. But what surprised them was that she requested them
to address her as Madame Gonsalez, under cover to her mantuamaker in
Savannah, whose address was given.
"That shows plainly enough that she and Fitzgerald have dissolved
partnership," said Madame; "but as she does not ask me to come, I will
wait for her letter of explanation." Meanwhile, however, she wrote
very affectionately in reply to the brief missive, urging Rosa to come
to New Orleans, and enclosing fifty dollars, with the statement that
an old friend of her father's had died and left a legacy for his
daughters. Madame had, as Floracita observed, a talent for arranging
the truth with variations.
The March of the Southern spring returned, wreathed with garlands, and
its pathway strewn with flowers. She gave warm kisses to the firs and
pines as she passed, and they returned her love with fragrant sighs.
The garden at Magnolia Lawn had dressed itself with jonquils,
hyacinths, and roses, and its bower was a nest of glossy greenery,
where mocking-birds were singing their varied tunes, moving their
white tail-feathers in time to their music. Mrs. Fitzgerald, who was
not strong in health, was bent upon returning thither early in the
season, and the servants were busy preparing for her reception. Chloe
was rarely spared to go to the hidden cottage, where her attendance
upon Rosa was no longer necessary; but Tom came once a week, as he
always had done, to do whatever jobs or errands the inmates required.
One day Tulee was surprised to hear her mistress ask him whether
Mr. Fitzgerald was at the plantation; and being answered in the
affirmative, she said, "Have the goodness to tell him that Missy Rosy
would like to see him soon."
When Mr. Fitzgerald received the message, he adjusted his necktie at
the mirror, and smiled over his self-complacent thoughts. He had hopes
that the proud beauty was beginning to relent. Having left his wife in
Savannah, there was no obstacle in the way of his obeying the summons.
As he passed over the cottage lawn, he saw that Rosa was sewing at the
window. He slackened his pace a little, with the idea that she might
come out to meet him; but when he entered the parlor, she was still
occupied with her work. She rose on his entrance, and moved a chair
toward him; and when he said, half timidly, "How do you do now, dear
Rosa?" she quietly replied, "Much better, I thank you. I have sent for
you, Mr. Fitzgerald, to ask a favor."
"If it is anything in my power, it shall be granted," he replied.
"It is a very easy thing for you to do," rejoined she, "and very
important to me. I want you to give me papers of manumission."
"Are you so afraid of me?" he asked, coloring as he remembered a
certain threat he had uttered.
"I did not intend the request as any reproach to you," answered she,
mildly; "but simply as a very urgent necessity to myself. As soon
as my health will permit, I wish to be doing something for my own
support, and, if possible, to repay you what you expended for me and
my sister."
"Do you take me for a mean Yankee," exclaimed he indignantly, "that
you propose such an account of dollars and cents?"
"I expressed my own wishes, not what I supposed you would require,"
replied she. "But aside from that, you can surely imagine it must be
painful to have my life haunted by this dreadful spectre of slavery."
"Rosa," said he earnestly, "do me the justice to remember that I did
not purchase you as a slave, or consider you a slave. I expended money
with all my heart to save my best-beloved from misfortune."
"I believe those were your feelings then," she replied. "But let the
past be buried. I simply ask you now, as a gentleman who has it in his
power to confer a great favor on an unprotected woman, whether you
will manumit me."
"Certainly I will," answered he, much discomposed by her cool business
tone.
She rose at once, and placed the writing-desk before him. It was the
pretty little desk he had given her for a birthday present.
He put his finger on it, and, looking up in her face, with one of his
old insinuating glances, he said, "Rosa, do you remember what we said
when I gave you this?"
Without answering the question, she said, "Will you have the goodness
to write it now?"
"Why in such haste?" inquired he. "I have given you my promise, and do
you suppose I have no sense of honor?"
A retort rose to her lips, but she suppressed it. "None of us can be
sure of the future," she replied. "You know what happened when my dear
father died." Overcome by that tender memory, she covered her eyes
with her hand, and the tears stole through her fingers.
He attempted to kiss away the tears, but she drew back, and went on to
say: "At that time I learned the bitter significance of the law, 'The
child shall follow the condition of the mother.' It was not mainly on
my own account that I sent for you, Mr. Fitzgerald. I wish to secure
my child from such a dreadful contingency as well-nigh ruined me and
my sister." She blushed, and lowered her eyes as she spoke.
"O Rosa!" he exclaimed. The impulse was strong to fold her to his
heart; but he could not pass the barrier of her modest dignity.
After an embarrassed pause, she looked up bashfully, and said,
"Knowing this, you surely will not refuse to write it now."
"I must see a lawyer and obtain witnesses," he replied.
She sighed heavily. "I don't know what forms are necessary," said she.
"But I beg of you to take such steps as will make me perfectly secure
against any accidents. And don't delay it, Mr. Fitzgerald. Will you
send the papers next week?"
"I see you have no confidence in me," replied he, sadly. Then,
suddenly dropping on his knees beside her, he exclaimed, "O Rosa,
don't call me Mr. again. Do call me Gerald once more! Do say you
forgive me!"
She drew back a little, but answered very gently: "I do forgive you,
and I hope your innocent little wife will never regret having loved
you; for that is a very bitter trial. I sincerely wish you may be
happy; and you may rest assured I shall not attempt to interfere
with your happiness. But I am not strong enough to talk much. Please
promise to send those papers next week."
He made the promise, with averted head and a voice that was slightly
tremulous.
"I thank you," she replied; "but I am much fatigued, and will bid you
good morning." She rose to leave the room, but turned back and added,
with solemn earnestness, "I think it will be a consolation on your
death-bed if you do not neglect to fulfil Rosa's last request." She
passed into the adjoining room, fastened the door, and threw herself
on the couch, utterly exhausted. How strange and spectral this meeting
seemed! She heard his retreating footsteps without the slightest
desire to obtain a last glimpse of his figure. How entirely he had
passed out of her life, he who so lately was _all_ her life!
The next day Rosa wrote as follows to Madame and the Signor:--
"Dearest and best friends,--It would take days to explain to you all
that has happened since I wrote you that long, happy letter; and at
present I have not strength to write much. When we meet we will talk
about it more fully, though I wish to avoid the miserable particulars
as far as possible. The preparations I so foolishly supposed were
being made for me were for a rich Northern bride,--a pretty,
innocent-looking little creature. The marriage with me, it seems, was
counterfeit. When I discovered it, my first impulse was to fly to you.
But a strange illness came over me, and I was oblivious of everything
for four months. My good Tulee and a black woman named Chloe brought
me back to life by their patient nursing. I suppose it was wrong, but
when I remembered who and what I was, I felt sorry they didn't let
me go. I was again seized with a longing to fly to you, who were as
father and mother to me and my darling little sister in the days of
our first misfortune. But I was too weak to move, and I am still far
from being able to bear the fatigue of such a journey. Moreover, I am
fastened here for the present by another consideration. Mr. Fitzgerald
says he bought us of papa's creditors, and that I am his slave. I have
entreated him, for the sake of our unborn child, to manumit me, and he
has promised to do it. If I could only be safe in New Orleans, it is
my wish to come and live with you, and find some way to support myself
and my child. But I could have no peace, so long as there was the
remotest possibility of being claimed as slaves. Mr. Fitzgerald may
not mean that I shall ever come to harm; but he may die without
providing against it, as poor papa did. I don't know what forms are
necessary for my safety. I don't understand how it is that there is no
law to protect a defenceless woman, who has done no wrong. I will
wait here a little longer to recruit my strength and have this matter
settled. I wish it were possible for you, my dear, good mother, to
come to me for two or three weeks in June; then perhaps you could take
back with you your poor Rosa and her baby, if their lives should be
spared. But if you cannot come, there is an experienced old negress
here, called Granny Nan, who, Tulee says, will take good care of me.
I thank you for your sympathizing, loving letter. Who could papa's
friend be that left me a legacy? I was thankful for the fifty dollars,
for it is very unpleasant to me to use any of Mr. Fitzgerald's money,
though he tells Tom to supply everything I want. If it were not for
you, dear friends, I don't think I should have courage to try to live.
But something sustains me wonderfully through these dreadful trials.
Sometimes I think poor Chloe's prayers bring me help from above; for
the good soul is always praying for me.
"Adieu. May the good God bless you both.
"Your loving and grateful
"ROSABELLA."
* * * * *
Week passed after week, and the promised papers did not come. The
weary days dragged their slow length along, unsoothed by anything
except Tulee's loving care and Madame's cheering letters. The piano
was never opened; for all tones of music were draped in mourning, and
its harmonies were a funeral march over buried love. But she enjoyed
the open air and the fragrance of the flowers. Sometimes she walked
slowly about the lawn, and sometimes Tulee set her upon Thistle's
back, and led him round and round through the bridle-paths. But out
of the woods that concealed their nest they never ventured, lest they
should meet Mrs. Fitzgerald. Tulee, who was somewhat proud on her
mistress's account, was vexed by this limitation. "I don't see why ye
should hide yerself from her," said she. "Yese as good as she is; and
ye've nothin' to be shamed of."
"It isn't on my own account that I wish to avoid her seeing me,"
replied Rosa. "But I pity the innocent young creature. She didn't know
of disturbing my happiness, and I should be sorry to disturb hers."
As the weeks glided away without bringing any fulfilment of
Fitzgerald's promise, anxiety changed to distrust. She twice requested
Tom to ask his master for the papers he had spoken of, and received
a verbal answer that they would be sent as soon as they were ready.
There were greater obstacles in the way than she, in her inexperience,
was aware of. The laws of Georgia restrained humane impulses by
forbidding the manumission of a slave. Consequently, he must either
incur very undesirable publicity by applying to the legislature for a
special exception in this case, or she must be manumitted in another
State. He would gladly have managed a journey without the company of
his wife, if he could thereby have regained his former influence with
Rosa; but he was disinclined to take so much trouble to free her
entirely from him. When he promised to send the papers, he intended to
satisfy her with a sham certificate, as he had done with a counterfeit
marriage; but he deferred doing it, because he had a vague sense of
satisfaction in being able to tantalize the superior woman over whom
he felt that he no longer had any other power.