University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
THE YOUNG LADY WITH A CARPET-BAG.

CHILDREN are quick to detect flaws in the genealogy of
their associates. School-girls are quite as exclusive in
their notions as our grown-up leaders of society. Woe to the
candidate for companionship on whose domestic record there
hangs a doubt!

Mrs. Gentry having felt it her duty to inform her pupils that
Clara was not a lady, the latter was thenceforth “left out in the
cold” by the little Brahmins of the seminary. She would sit,
like a criminal, apart from the rest, or in play-hours seek the
company, either of Esha or the mocking-bird.

One circumstance puzzled the other young ladies. They
could not understand why, in the more showy accomplishments
of music, singing, and dancing, more expense should be bestowed
on Clara's education than on theirs. The elegance and variety
of her toilet excited at once their envy and their curiosity.

Clara, finding that she was held back from serious studies,
gave her thoughts to them all the more resolutely, and excelled
in them so far as to shock the conservative notions of Mrs.
Gentry, who thought such acquisitions presumptuous in a slave.
The pupils all tossed their little heads, and turned their backs,
when Clara drew near. All but one. Laura Tremaine prized
Clara's counsels on questions of dress, and defied the jeers and
frowns that would deter her from cultivating the acquaintance
of one suspected of ignoble birth. Something almost like a
friendship grew up between the two. Laura was the only
daughter of a wealthy cotton-broker who resided the greater
part of the year in New Orleans, at the St. Charles Hotel.

The two girls used to stroll through the garden with arms
about each other's waist. One day Clara, in a gush of candor,

not only avowed herself an Abolitionist, but tried to convert
Laura to the heresy. Quelle horreur! There was at once a
cessation of the intimacy, — Laura exacting a recantation
which the little infidel proudly refused.

The disagreement had occurred only a few days before that
flight of Clara's in which we must now follow her. After parting
from Esha, she walked for some distance, ignorant why she
selected one direction rather than another, and having no
clearly defined purpose as to her destination. She had promenaded
thus about an hour, when she saw a barouche approaching.
The occupant, a man, sat leaning lazily back with his feet
up on the opposite cushions. A black driver and footman, both
in livery, filled the lofty front seat. As the vehicle rolled on,
Clara recognized Ratcliff. She shuddered and dropped her veil.

Fortunately he was half asleep, and did not see her.

Whither now? Of two streets she chose the more obscure.
On she walked, and the carpet-bag began to be an encumbrance.
The heat was oppressive. Occasionally a passer-by among the
young men would say to an acquaintance, “Did you notice that
figure?” One man offered to carry the bag. She declined
his aid. On and on she walked. Whither and why? She
could not explain. All at once it occurred to her she was
wasting her strength in an objectless promenade.

Her utterly forlorn condition revealed itself in all its desolateness
and danger. She stopped under the shade of a magnolia-tree,
and, leaning against the trunk, put back her veil, and
wiped the moisture from her face. She had been walking more
than two hours, and was overheated and fatigued. What
should she do? The tears began to flow at the thought that
the question was one for which she had no reply.

Suddenly she looked round with the vague sense that some
one was watching her. She encountered the gaze of a gentleman
who, with an air of mingled curiosity and compassion,
stood observing her grief. He wore a loose frock of buff
nankin, with white vest and pantaloons; and on his head was
a hat of very fine Panama straw. Whether he was young or
old Clara did not remark. She only knew that a face beautiful
from its compassion beamed on her, and that it was the face of
a gentleman.

“Can I assist you?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” replied Clara. “I 'm fatigued, — that 's
all, — and am resting here a few minutes.”

“Here 's a little house tht belongs to me,” said the gentleman,
pointing to a neat though small wooden tenement before
which they were standing. “I do not live here, but the family
who do will be pleased to receive you for my sake. You shall
have a room all to yourself, and rest there till you are refreshed.
Do you distrust me, my child?”

There are faces out of which Truth looks so unequivocally,
that to distrust them seems like a profanation. Clara did not
distrust, and yet she hesitated, and replied through her tears,
“No, I do not distrust you, but I 've no claim on your kindness.”

“Ah! but you have a claim,” said Vance (for it was he);
“you are unhappy, and the unhappy are my brothers and my
sisters. I 've been unhappy myself. I knew one years ago,
young like you, and like you unhappy, and through her also
you have a claim. There! Let me relieve you of that bag.
Now take my arm. Good! This way.” Clara's tears gushed
forth anew at these words, and yet less at the words than at
the tone in which they were uttered. So musical and yet so
melancholy was that tone.

He knocked at the door. It was opened by Madame Bernard,
a spruce little Frenchwoman, who had married a journeyman
printer, and who felt unbounded gratitude to Vance for
his gift of the rent of the little house.

“Is it you, Mr. Vance? We 've been wondering why you
did n't come.”

“Madame Bernard, this young lady is fatigued. I wish her
to rest in my room.”

“The room of Monsieur is always in order. Follow me, my
dear.”

And, taking the carpet-bag, Madame conducted her to the
little chamber, then asked: “Now what will you have, my dear?
A little claret and water? Some fruit or cake?”

“Nothing, thank you. I 'll rest on the sofa awhile. You 're
very kind. The gentleman's name is Vance, is it?”

“Yes; is he not an acquaintance?”

“I never saw him till three minutes ago. He noticed me

resting, and, I fear, weeping in the street, and he asked me in
here to rest.”

“'T was just like him. He 's so good, so generous! He
gives me the rent of this house with the pretty garden attached.
You can see it from the window. Look at the grapes.
He reserves for himself this room, which I daily dust and keep
in order. Poor man! 'T was here he passed the few months
of his marriage, years ago. His wife died, and he bought the
house, and has kept it in repair ever since. This used to be
their sleeping-room. 'T was also their parlor, for they were
poor. There 's their little case of books. Here 's the piano
on which they used to play duets. 'T was a hired piano, and
was returned to the owner; but Mr. Vance found it in an old
warehouse, not long ago, had it put in order, and brought here.
'T is one of Chickering's best; a superb instrument. You
should hear Mr. Vance play on it.”

“Does he play well?” asked Clara, who had almost forgotten
her own troubles in listening to the little woman's gossip.

“Ah! you never heard such playing! I know something
of music. My family is musical. I flatter myself I 'm a
judge. I 've heard Thalberg, Vieuxtemps, Jael, Gottschalk;
and Mr. Vance plays better than any of them.”

“Is he a professor?”

“No, merely an amateur. But he puts a soul into the
notes. Do you play at all, my dear?”

“Yes, I began to learn so early that I cannot recollect the
time when.”

“I thought you must be musical. Just try this instrument,
my dear, that is, if you 're not too tired.”

“Certainly, if 't will oblige you.”

Seating herself at the piano, Clara played, from Donizetti's
Lucia, Edgardo's melodious wail of abandonment and despair,
“L' universo intero e un deserto per me sensa Lucia.”

Mrs. Bernard had opened the door that Vance might hear.
At the conclusion he knocked and entered. “Is this the way
you rest yourself, young pilgrim?” he asked. “You 're a proficient,
I see. You 've been made to practise four hours a
day.”

“Yes, ever since I can remember.”

“So I should think. Now let me hear something in a different
vein.”

Clara, while the blood mounted to her forehead, and her
whole frame dilated, struck into the “Star-spangled Banner,”
playing it with her whole soul, and at the close singing the
refrain,

“But that 's treason!” cried Mrs. Bernard.

“Yes, Mrs. Bernard,” said Vance, “run at once to the police-station.
Tell them to send a file of soldiers. We must have
her arrested.”

“O no, no!” exclaimed Clara, deceived by Vance's grave
acting. Then, seeing her mistake, she laughed, and said:
“That 's too bad. I thought for a moment you were in
earnest.”

“We will spare you this time,” said Vance, with a smile
that made his whole face luminous; “but should outsiders in
the street hear you, they may not be so forbearing. They will
tear our little house down if you 're not careful.”

“I 'll not be so imprudent again,” returned Clara. “Will
you play for me, sir?” And she resumed her seat on the sofa.

Vance played some extemporized variations on the Carnival
of Venice; and Clara, who had regarded Mrs. Bernard's
praises as extravagant, now concluded they were the literal
truth. “Oh!” she exclaimed, naively, “I never heard playing
like that. Do not ask me to play before you again, sir.”

Mrs. Bernard left to attend to the affairs of the cuisine.

“Now, mademoiselle,” said Vance, “what can I do before
I go?”

“All I want,” replied Clara, “is time to arrange some plan.
I left home so suddenly I 'm quite at a loss.”

“Do I understand you 've left your parents?”

“I have no parents, sir.”

“Then a near relation, or a guardian?”

“Neither, sir. I am independent of all ties.”

“Have you no friend to whom you can go for advice?”

“I had a friend, but she gave me up because I 'm an Abolitionist.”

“My poor little lady! An Abolitionist? You? In times
like these? When Sumter has fallen, too? No wonder your
friend has cast you off. Who is she?”

“Miss Laura Tremaine. She lives at the St. Charles. Do
you know her, sir?”

“Slightly. I met her in the drawing-room not long since.
She does not appear unamiable. But why are you an Abolitionist?”

“Because I believe in God.”

Vance felt that this was the summing-up of the whole matter.
He looked with new interest on the “little lady.” In
height she was somewhat shorter than Estelle, — not much over
five feet two and a half. Not from her features, but from the
maturity of their expression, he judged she might have reached
her eighteenth year. Somewhat more of a brunette than
Estelle, and with fine abundant hair of a light brown. Eyes
— he could not quite see their color; but they were vivid,
penetrating, earnest. Features regular, and a profile even
more striking in its beauty than her front face. A figure
straight and slim, but exquisitely rounded, and every movement
revealing some new grace. Where had he seen a face
like it?

After a few moments of contemplation, he said: “Do not
think me impertinently curious. You have been well educated.
You have not had to labor for a living. Are the persons to whom
you 've been indebted for support no longer your friends?”

“They are my worst enemies, and all that has been bestowed
on me has been from hateful motives and calculations.” —
“Now I 'm going to ask a very delicate question. Are you
provided with money?” — “O yes, sir, amply.” — “How
much have you?” — “Twenty dollars.” — “Indeed! Are
you so rich as that? What 's your name?” — “The name
I 've been brought up under is Ellen Murray; but I hate it.”
— “Why so?” — “Because of a dream.” — “A dream! And
what was it?” — “Shall I relate it?” — “By all means.”

“I dreamed that a beautiful lady led me by the hand into a
spacious garden. On one side were fruits, and on the other
side flowers, and in the middle a circle of brilliant verbenas
from the centre of which rose a tall fountain, fed from a high
hill in the neighborhood. And the lady said, `This is your

garden, and your name is not Ellen Murray.' Then she gave
me a letter sealed with blue — no, gray — wax, and said, `Put
this letter on your eyes, and you shall find it there when you
wake. Some one will open it, and your name will be seen
written there, though you may not understand it at first.' `But
am I not awake?' I asked. `O no,' said the lady. `This is
all a dream. But we can sometimes impress those we love in
this way.' `And who are you?' I asked. `That you will
know when you interpret the letter,' she said.”

“And what resulted from the dream?” — “The moment I
waked I put my hand on my eyes. Of course I found no letter.
The next night the lady came again, and said, `The seal
cannot be broken by yourself. Your name is not Ellen Murray,
— remember that.' A third night this dream beset me,
and so forcibly that I resolved to get rid of the name as far as
I could. And so I made my friends call me Darling.”

“Well, Darling, as you —” — “O, but, sir! you must not
call me Darling. That would never do!” — “What can I call
you, then?” — “Call me Miss, or Mademoiselle.” — “Well,
Miss.” — “No, I do not like the sibilation.” — “Will Ma'am
do any better?” — “Not till I 'm more venerable. Call me
Perdita.” — “Perdita what?” — “Perdita Brown, — yes, I
love the name of Brown.”

“Well, Perdita, as you 've not quite made up your mind to
seek the protection of Miss Tremaine, my advice is that you
remain here till to-morrow. Here is a little case filled with
books; and on the shelf of the closet is plenty of old music, —
works of Handel, Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Schubert,
and some of the Italian masters. Do you play Schubert's
Sacred Song?” — “I never heard it.” — “Learn it, then, by all
means. 'T is in that book. Shall I tell Mrs. Bernard you 'll
pass the night here?” — “Do, sir. I 'm very grateful for your
kindness.” — “Good by, Perdita! Should anything detain me
to-morrow, wait till I come. Keep up your four hours' practice.
Madame Bernard is amiable, but a little talkative. I
shall tell her to allow you five hours for your studies. Adieu,
Perdita!”

He held out his hand, and Clara gave hers, and cast down
her eyes. “You 've told me a true story?” said he. “Yes!
I will trust you.”

“Indeed, sir, I 've told you nothing but the truth.”

Yes. She had told the truth, but unhappily not the whole
truth. And yet how she longed to kneel at his feet and confess
all! Various motives withheld her. She was not quite
sure how he had received her antislavery confessions. He
might be a friend of Mr. Ratcliff. There was dismay in the
very possibility. And finally a certain pride or prudence
restrained her from throwing herself on the protection of a
stranger not of her own sex.

And so the golden opportunity was allowed to escape!

Vance lingered for a moment holding her hand, as if to
invite her to a further confidence; but she said nothing, and
he left the room. Clara opened the music-book at Schubert's
piece, and commenced playing. Vance stopped on the stairs
and listened, keeping time approvingly. “Good!” he said.
Then telling the little landlady not to interrupt Miss Brown's
studies, he quitted the house, walking in the direction of the
hotel.

Clara practised till she could play from memory the charming
composition commended by Vance. Then she threw
herself on the bed and fell asleep. She had not remained
thus an hour when there was a knock. Dinner! Mr.
Bernard had come in; a dapper little man, so remarkably well
satisfied with himself, his wife, and his bill of fare, that he
repeatedly had to lay down knife and fork and rub his hands
in glee.

“Are you related to Mr. Vance?” he asked Clara.

“Not at all. He saw me in the street, weary and distressed.
The truth is, I had left my home for a good reason. I have
no parents, you must consider. He asked me in here. From
his looks I judged he was a man to trust. I gladly accepted
his invitation.”

“Truly he 's a friend in need, Mademoiselle. I saw him do
another kind thing to-day.”

“What was it?”

“It happened only an hour ago in Carondelet Street. A
ragged fellow was haranguing a crowd. He spoke on the
wrong side, — in short, in favor of the old flag. Some laughed,
some hissed, some applauded. Suddenly a party of men,
armed with swords and muskets, pushed through the crowd,

and seized the speaker. They formed a court, Judge Lynch
presiding, under a palmetto. They decided that the vagabond
should be hung. He had already been badly pricked in the
flank with a bayonet. And now a table was brought out, he
was placed on it, and a rope put round his neck and tied to a
bough. Decidedly they were going to string him up.”

“Good heavens!” cried Clara, who, as the story proceeded,
had turned pale and thrust away the plate of food from before
her. “Did you make no effort to save him?”

“What could I do? They would merely have got another
rope, and made me keep him company. Well, the mob were
expecting an entertainment. They were about to knock away
the table, when Monsieur Vance pushed through the crowd,
hauled off the hangman, and, jumping on the table, cut the
rope, and lifted the prisoner faint and bleeding to the ground.
What a yell from Judge Lynch and the court! Monsieur
Vance, his coat and vest all bloody from contact with —”

“What a shame!” interposed Mrs. Bernard. “A coat and
vest he must have put on clean this morning! So nicely
ironed and starched!”

“But my story agitates you, Mademoiselle,” said the type-setter.
“You look pale.” And the little man, not regarding
the inappropriateness of the act, rubbed his hands.

“Go on,” replied Clara; and she sipped from a tumbler of
cold water.

“There 's little more to say, Mademoiselle. Messieurs, the
bullies, drew their swords on Monsieur Vance. He showed a
revolver, and they fell back. Then he talked to them till they
cooled down, gave him three cheers, and went off. I and old
Mr. Winslow helped him to find a carriage. We put the
wounded man into it. He was driven to the hospital, and his
wound attended to. 'T is serious, I believe.”

And Bernard again rubbed his hands.

“And was that the last you saw of Mr. Vance?” asked Clara.

“The last. Shall I help you to some pine-apple, Mademoiselle?”

“No, thank you. I 've finished my dinner. You will excuse
me.”

And she returned to the little room assigned to her use.