University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
A MONSTER OF INGRATITUDE.

MRS. GENTRY had attired herself in her new spring
costume, a feuillemorte silk, with a bonnet trimmed to
match, of the frightful coal-hod shape, with sable roses and a
bristling ruche. It was just such a bonnet as Proserpine,
Queen of the Shades, might have chosen for a stroll with Pluto
along the shore of Lake Avernus.

After many satisfactory glances in the mirror, Mrs. Gentry
sat down and trotted her right foot impatiently. Tarquin, entering,
announced the carriage.

“Well, go to Miss Ellen, and ask when she 'll be ready.”

Five minutes Mrs. Gentry waited, while the horses, pestered
by stinging insects, dashed their hoofs against the pavements.
At last Tarquin returned with the report that Miss Ellen's
room was empty.

“Has Pauline looked for her?”

“Yes, missis.”

“Ask Esha if she has seen her.”

Pauline, standing at the head of the stairs, put the question,
and Esha replied testily from the kitchen: “Don't know
nuffin 'bout her. Hab suffin better ter do dan look af'r all de
school-gals in dis house.”

Pauline turned from the old heathen in despair, and suggested
that perhaps Miss Ellen had stepped out to buy a ribbon
or some hair-pins.

Mrs. Gentry waxed angry. “O, but she 'll be come up
with!” This was the teacher's favorite form of consolation.
The Abolitionists would be come up with. Abe Lincoln would
be come up with. General Scott would be come up with.
Everybody who offended Mrs. Gentry would be come up with,
— if not in this world, why then in some other.

An hour passed. She began to get seriously alarmed. She
sent away the carriage. Hardly had it gone, when a second
vehicle drew up before the door, and out of it stepped Mr.
Ratcliff. She met him in the parlor, and, fearing to tell the
truth, merely remarked, that Ellen was out making a few purchases.

“When will she be back?”

“Perhaps not till dinner-time.”

“Then I 'll call to-morrow at this hour.”

Mrs. Gentry passed the day in a state of wretched anxiety.
She sent out messengers. She interested a policeman in the
search. But no trace of the fugitive! Mrs. Gentry was in
despair. If Ellen had not been a slave, her disappearance
would have been comparatively a small matter. If it had been
somebody's free-born daughter who had absconded, it would n't
have been half so bad. But here was a slave! One whose
flight would lay open to suspicion the teacher's allegiance to the
institution! Intolerable! Of course it was no concern of hers
to what fate that slave was about to be consigned.

Ah! sister of the South, — (and I have known many, the
charms of whose persons and manners I thought incomparable,)
— a woman whose own virtue is not rooted in sand, cannot, if
she thinks and reasons, fail to shudder at a system which sends
other women, perhaps as innocent and pure as she herself, to
be sold to brutal men at auctions. And yet, if any one had
told Mrs. Gentry she was no better than a procuress, both she
and the Rev. Dr. Palmer would have thought it an impious
aspersion.

At the appointed hour Ratcliff appeared. Mrs. Gentry's
toilet that day was appropriate to the calamitous occasion. She
was dressed in a black silk robe intensely flounced, and decorated
around the bust with a profluvium of black lace that might
have melted the heart of a Border-ruffian. She entered the
parlor, tragically shaking out a pocket handkerchief with an
edging of black.

“O Mr. Ratcliff! Mr. Ratcliff!” she exclaimed, rushing forward,
then checking herself melodramatically, and seizing the
back of a chair, as if for support.

“Well, madam, what 's the matter?”

“That heartless, — that ungrateful girl!”

“What of her?”

Mrs. Gentry answered by applying her handkerchief to her
eyes very much as Mrs. Siddons used to do in Belvidera.

“Come, madam,” interrupted Ratcliff, “my time is precious.
No damned nonsense, if you please. To the point. What has
happened?”

Rudely shocked into directness by these words, Mrs. Gentry
replied: “She has disappeared, — r-r-run away!”

“Damnation!” was Ratcliff's concise and emphatic comment.
He started up and paced the room. “This is a
damned pretty return for my confidence, madam.”

“O, she 'll be come up with, — she 'll be come up with!”
sobbed Mrs. Gentry.

“Come up with, — where?”

“In the next world, if not in this.”

“Pooh! When did she disappear?”

“Yesterday, while I was waiting for her to go out to buy
her new dresses. O the ingratitude!”

“Have you made no search for her?”

“Yes, I 've made every possible inquiry. I 've paid ten
dollars to a police-officer to look her up. O the ingratitude of
the world! But she 'll be come up with!”

“Did you let her know that I was her master?”

“Yes, 't was only yesterday I imparted the information.”

“How did she receive it?”

“She was a little startled at first, but soon seemed reconciled,
even pleased with the idea of her new wardrobe.”

“Have you closely questioned your domestics?”

“Yes. They know nothing. She must have slipped unobserved
out of the house.”

“Is there any one among them with whom she was more
familiar than with another?”

“She used to read the Bible to old Esha, by my direction.”

“Call up old Esha. I would like to question her.”

Esha soon appeared, her bronzed face glistening with perspiration
from the kitchen fire, — the never-failing bright-colored
Madras handkerchief on her head.

“Esha,” said Mr. Ratcliff, “have you ever seen me before?”

“Yes, Massa Ratcliff, of'n. Lib'd on de nex' plantation to
yourn. I 'longed to Massa Peters wunst. But he 'm dead
and gone.”

“Do you know what an oath is, Esha?”

“Yes, massa, it 's when one swar he know dis or dunno dat.”

“Very well. Do you know what becomes of her who swears
falsely?”

“O yes, massa; she go to de lake of brimstone and fire,
whar' she hab bad time for eber and eber, Amen.”

“Are you a Christian, Esha?”

“I 'ze notin' else, Massa Ratcliff.”

“Well, Esha, here 's the Holy Bible. Take it in your left
hand, kiss the book, and then hold up your right hand.”

Esha went through the required form.

“You do solemnly swear, as you hope to be saved from the
torments of hell through all eternity, that you will truly answer,
to the best of your knowledge and belief, the questions I
may put to you. And if you lie, may the Lord strike you
dead. Now kiss the book again, to show you take the oath.”

Esha kissed the book, and returned it to the table.

“Now, then, do you know anything of the disappearance of
this girl, Ellen Murray?”

“Nuffin, massa, nuffin at all.”

“Did she ever tell you she meant to leave this house?”

“Nebber, massa! She nebber tell me any sich ting.”

“Did she have any talk with you yesterday?”

“Not a bressed word did dat chile say to me 'cep ter scole
me 'cause I did n't do up her Organdy muslin nice as she
'spected. De little hateful she-debble! How can dis ole nig
do eb'ry ting all at wunst, and do 't well, should like ter know?
It 's cook an' wash an' iron, an' iron an' wash an' —”

“There! That will do, Esha. You can go.”

“Yes, Massa Ratcliff.”

Stealing into the next room, Esha listened at the folding-doors.

“She knows nothing, — that 's very clear,” said Ratcliff.
He went to the window, and looked out in silence a full minute;
then, coming back, added: “Stop snivelling, madam. I 'm not
a fool. I 've seen women before now. This girl must be

found, — found if it costs me ten thousand dollars. And you
must aid in the search. If I find her, — well and good. If I
don't find her, you shall suffer for it. This is what I mean to
do: I shall have copies of her photograph put in the hands of
the best detectives in the city. I shall pay them well in advance,
and promise five hundred dollars to the one that finds
her. They 'll come to you. You must give them all the information
you can, and lend them your servants to identify the
girl. This old Esha plainly has a grudge against her, and may
be made useful in hunting her up. Let her go out daily for
that purpose. Tell all your pupils to be on the watch. I 'll
break up your school if she is n't found. Do you understand?”

“I 'll do all I can, sir, to have her caught.”

“That will be your most prudent course, madam.”

And Ratcliff, with more exasperation in his face than his
words had expressed, quitted the house.

“The brute!” muttered Mrs. Gentry, as through the blinds
she saw him enter his barouche, and drive off. “He treated
me as if I 'd been a drab. But he 'll be come up with, — he
will!”

Esha crept down into the kitchen, with thoughts intent on
what she had heard.