A Romance of the Republic | Page 6

to his experience, like Spanish or Italian
beauty. Yet he felt painfully the false position in which they were
placed by the unreasoning prejudice of society.
Though he had had a fatiguing day, when he entered his chamber he
felt no inclination to sleep. As he slowly paced up and down the room,
he thought to himself, "My good mother shares the prejudice. How
could I introduce them to _her_?" Then, as if impatient with himself, he
murmured, in a vexed tone, "Why should I think of introducing them to
my mother? A few hours ago I didn't know of their existence."
He threw himself on the bed and tried to sleep; but memory was too
busy with the scene of enchantment he had recently left. A catalpa-tree
threw its shadow on the moon-lighted curtain. He began to count the
wavering leaves, in hopes the monotonous occupation would induce
slumber. After a while he forgot to count; and as his spirit hovered
between the inner and the outer world, Floracita seemed to be dancing
on the leaf shadows in manifold graceful evolutions. Then he was
watching a little trickling fountain, and the falling drops were tones of
"The Light of other Days." Anon he was wandering among flowers in
the moonlight, and from afar some one was heard singing "Casta Diva."
The memory of that voice,
"While slept the limbs and senses all, Made everything seem musical."
Again and again the panorama of the preceding evening revolved
through the halls of memory with every variety of fantastic change. A
light laugh broke in upon the scenes of enchantment, with the words,
"Of course not, for she was a quadroon." Then the plaintive melody of
"Toll the bell" resounded in his ears; not afar off, but loud and clear, as
if the singer were in the room. He woke with a start, and heard the
vibrations of a cathedral bell subsiding into silence. It had struck but

twice, but in his spiritual ear the sounds had been modulated through
many tones. "Even thus strangely," thought he, "has that rich, sonorous
voice struck into the dream of my life,"
Again he saw those large, lustrous eyes lowering their long-fringed
veils under the ardent gaze of Gerald Fitzgerald. Again he thought of
his mother, and sighed. At last a dreamless sleep stole over him, and
both pleasure and pain were buried in deep oblivion.

CHAPTER II.
The sun was up before he woke. He rose hastily and ordered breakfast
and a horse; for he had resolved the day before upon an early ride. A
restless, undefined feeling led him in the same direction he had taken
the preceding evening. He passed the house that would forevermore be
a prominent feature in the landscape of his life. Vines were gently
waving in the morning air between the pillars of the piazza, where he
had lingered entranced to hear the tones of "Buena Notte." The bright
turban of Tulipa was glancing about, as she dusted the blinds. A
peacock on the balustrade, in the sunshine, spread out his tail into a
great Oriental fan, and slowly lowered it, making a prismatic shower of
topaz, sapphires, and emeralds as it fell. It was the first of March; but as
he rode on, thinking of the dreary landscape and boisterous winds of
New England at that season, the air was filled with the fragrance of
flowers, and mocking-birds and thrushes saluted him with their songs.
In many places the ground was thickly strewn with oranges, and the
orange-groves were beautiful with golden fruit and silver flowers
gleaming among the dark glossy green foliage. Here and there was the
mansion of a wealthy planter, surrounded by whitewashed slave-cabins.
The negroes at their work, and their black picaninnies rolling about on
the ground, seemed an appropriate part of the landscape, so tropical in
its beauty of dark colors and luxuriant growth.
He rode several miles, persuading himself that he was enticed solely by
the healthy exercise and the novelty of the scene. But more alluring
than the pleasant landscape and the fragrant air was the hope that, if he

returned late, the young ladies might be on the piazza, or visible at the
windows. He was destined to be disappointed. As he passed, a curtain
was slowly withdrawn from one of the windows and revealed a vase of
flowers. He rode slowly, in hopes of seeing a face bend over the
flowers; but the person who drew the curtain remained invisible. On the
piazza nothing was in motion, except the peacock strutting along,
stately as a court beauty, and drawing after him his long train of
jewelled plumage. A voice, joyous as a bobolink's, sounded apparently
from the garden. He could not hear the words, but the lively tones at