University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
CLARA MAKES AN IMPORTANT PURCHASE.

LAURA TREMAINE had just come in from a drive with
her invalid mother, and stood in the drawing-room looking
out on a company of soldiers. There was a knock at the door.
A servant brought in a card. It said, “Will Laura see Darling?”
The arrival, concurring so directly with Laura's wishes,
caused a pleasurable shock. “Show her in,” she said; and the
next moment the maidens were locked in each other's embrace.

“O, you dear little good-for-nothing Darling,” said Laura,
after there had been a conflux of kisses. “Could anything be
more apropos? What 's the meaning of all this? Have you
really absconded? Is it a love affair? Tell me all about it.
Rely on my secrecy. I 'll be close as bark to a tree.”

“Will you solemnly promise,” said Clara, “on your honor as
a lady, not to reveal what I tell you?”

“As I hope to be saved, I promise,” replied Laura.

“Then I will tell you the cause of my leaving Mrs. Gentry's.
'T was only day before yesterday she told me, — look at me,
Laura, and say if I look like it! — she told me I was a slave.”

“A slave? Impossible! Why, Darling, you 've a complexion
whither than mine.”

“So have many slaves. The hue of my skin will not invalidate
a claim.”

“That 's true. But who presumes to claim you?”

“Mr. Carberry Ratcliff.”

“A friend of my father's! He 's very rich. I 'll ask him
to give you up. Let me go to him at once.”

“No, Laura, I 've seen the man. 'T would be hopeless to
try to melt him. You must help me to get away.”

“But you do not mean, — surely you do not mean to —
to —”

“To what, Laura? You seem gasping with horror at some
frightful supposition. What is it?”

“You 'd not think of running off, would you? You would n't
ask me to harbor a fugitive slave?”

Clara looked at the door. The color flew to her cheek, —
flamed up to her forehead. Her bosom heaved. Emotions of
unutterable detestation and disgust struggled for expression.
But had she not learnt the slave's first lesson, duplicity? Her
secret had been confided to one who had forthwith showed herself
untrustworthy. Bred in the heartless fanaticism which
slavery engenders, Laura might give the alarm and have her
stopped, should she rise suddenly to go. Farewell, then, white-robed
Candor, and welcome Dissimulation!

After a pause, “What do you advise?” said Clara.

“Well, Darling, stay with me a week or two, then go quietly
back to Mrs. Gentry's, and play the penitent.”

“Had n't I better go at once?” asked Clara, simulating
meekness.

“O no, Darling! I can't possibly permit that. Now I 've
got you, I shall hold on till I 've done with you. Then we 'll
see if we can't persuade Mr. Ratcliff to free you. Who 'd have
thought of this little Darling being a slave!”

“But had n't I better write to Mrs. Gentry and tell her
where I am?”

“No, no. She 'll only be forcing you back. You shall do
nothing but stay here till I tell you you may go. You shall
play the lady for one week, at least. There 's a Mr. Vance in
the house, to whom I 've spoken of your singing. He 's wild
to hear you. I 've promised him he shall. I would n't disappoint
him on any account.”

Clara saw that, could she but command courage to fall in
with Laura's selfish plans, it might, after all, be safer to come
thus into the very focus of the city's life, than to seek some
corner, penetrable to police-officers and slave-hunters.

“How will you manage?” asked Clara.

“What more simple?” replied Laura. “I 'll take you right
into my sleeping-room; you shall be my schoolmate, Miss

Brown, come to pass a few days with me before going to St.
Louis. Papa will never think of questioning my story.”

“But I 've no dresses with me.”

“No matter. I 've a plenty I 've outgrown. They 'll fit you
beautifully. Come here into my sleeping-room. It adjoins, you
see. There! We 're about of a height, though I 'm a little
stouter.”

“It will not be safe for me to appear at the public table.”

“Well, you shall be an invalid, and I 'll send your meals
from the table when I send mother's. Miss Brown from St.
Louis! Let me see. What shall be your first name?”

“Let it be Perdita.”

“Perdita? The lost one! Good. How quick you are!
Perdita Brown! It does not sound badly. Mr. Onslow, —
Miss Brown, — Miss Perdita Brown from St. Louis! Then
you 'll courtesy, and look so demure! Won't it be fun?”

Between grief and anger, Clara found disguise a terrible
effort. So! Her fate so dark, so tragic, was to be Laura's
pastime, not the subject of her grave and tender consideration!

Already had some of the traits, congenital with slavery,
begun to develop themselves in Clara. Strategy now seemed
to her as justifiable under the circumstances as it would be in
escaping from a murderer, a lunatic, or a wild beast. Was not
every pro-slavery man or woman her deadly foe, — to be cheated,
circumvented, robbed, nay, if need be, slain, in defence of
her own inalienable right of liberty? The thought that Laura
was such a foe made Clara look on her with precisely the same
feelings that the exposed sentinel might have toward the lurking
picket-shooter.

An expression so strange flitted over Clara's face, that Laura
asked: “What 's the matter? Don't you feel well?”

Checking the exasperation surging in her heart, Clara affected
frivolity. “O, I feel well enough,” she replied. “A little
tired, — that 's all. What if this Mr. Onslow should fall in
love with me?”

“O, but that would be too good!” exclaimed Laura. Between
you and me, I owe him a spite. I 've just heard he once
said, speaking of me, `Handsome, — but no depth!' Hang
the fellow! I 'd like to punish him. He 's proud as Lucifer.

Would n't it be a joke to let him fall in love with a poor little
slave?”

“So, you don't mean to fall in love with him yourself?”

“O no! He 's good-looking, but poor. Can you keep a
secret?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I mean to set my cap for Mr. Vance.”

“Possible?”

“Yes, Perdita. He 's fine-looking, of the right age, very
rich, and so altogether fascinating! Father learnt yesterday
that he pays an enormous tax on real estate.”

“And is he the only string to your bow?”

“O no. But our best young men are in the army. Onslow
is a captain. O, I must n't forget Charles Kenrick. Onslow
is to bring him here. Kenrick's father owns a whole brigade
of slaves. Hark! Dear me! That was two o'clock. Will
you have luncheon?”

“No, thank you. I 'm not hungry.”

“Then I must leave you. I've an appointment with my
dressmaker. In the lower drawers there you 'll find some of
my last year's dresses. I 've outgrown them. Amuse yourself
with choosing one for to-night. We shall have callers.”

Laura hurried off. Clara, terrified at the wrathfulness of
her own emotions, walked the room for a while, then dropped
upon her knees in prayer. She prayed to be delivered from
her own wild passions and from the toils of her enemies.

With softened heart, she rose and went to the window.

There, on the opposite sidewalk, stood Esha! Crumpling
up some paper, Clara threw it out so as to arrest her attention,
then beckoned to her to come up. Stifling a cry of surprise,
Esha crossed the street, and entered the hotel. The next minute
she and Clara had embraced.

“But how did you happen to be there, Esha?”

“Bress de chile, I 'ze been stahndin' dar de last hour, but
what for I knowed no more dan de stones. 'T warn't till I seed
de chile hersef it 'curred ter me what for I 'd been stahndin'
dar.”

“What happened after I left home?”

“Dar war all sort ob a fuss dat ebber you see, darlin'. Fust

de ole woman war all struck ob a heap, like. Den Massa Ratcliff,
he come, and he swar like de Debble hisself. He cuss'd
de ole woman and set her off cryin', and den he swar at her all
de more. Dar was a gen'ral break-down, darlin'. Massa Ratcliff
he 'b goin' ter gib yer fortygraf ter all de policemen, an'
pay five hundred dollar ter dat one as 'll find yer. He sends
us niggers all off — me an' Tarquin an' de rest — ter hunt yer
up. He swar he 'll hab yer, if it takes all he 's wuth. He
come agin ter-day an' trow de ole woman inter de highstrikes.
She say he 'll be come up wid, sure, an' you 'll be come up wid,
an' eberybody else as does n't do like she wants 'em ter, am
bound to be come up wid. Yah, yah, yah! Who 's afeard?”

“So the hounds are out in pursuit, are they?”

“Yes, darlin'. Look dar at dat man stahndin' at de corner.
He 'm one ob 'em.”

“He 's not dressed like a policeman.”

“Bress yer heart, dese 'tektivs go dressed like de best
gem'men about. Yer 'd nebber suspek dey was doin' de work
ob hounds.”

“Well, Esha, I 'm afraid to have you stay longer. I 'm
here with Miss Tremaine. She may be back any minute. I
can't trust her, and would n't for the world have her see
you here.”

“No more would I, darlin'! Nebber liked dat air gal.
She 'm all fur self. But good by, darlin'! It 's sich a comfort
ter hab seed you! Good by!”

Esha slipped into the corridor and out of the hotel. Clara
put on her bonnet, threw a thick veil over it, and hurried
through St. Charles Street to a well-known cutlery store.
“Show me some of your daggers,” said she; “one suitable
as a present to a young soldier.”

The shopkeeper displayed several varieties. She selected
one with a sheath, and almost took away the breath of the
man of iron by paying for it in gold. Dropping her veil, she
passed into the street. As she left the shop, she saw a man
affecting to look at some patent pistols in the window. He
was well dressed, and sported a small cane.

“Hound number one!” thought Clara to herself, and, having
walked slowly away in one direction, she suddenly turned,

retraced her steps, then took a narrow cross-street that debouched
into one of the principal business avenues. The
individual had followed her, swinging his cane, and looking in
at the shop-windows. But Clara did not let him see he was
an object of suspicion. She slackened her pace, and pretended
to be looking for an article of muslin, for she would stop and
examine the fabrics that hung at the doors.

Suddenly she saw Esha approaching. Moment of peril!
Should the old black woman recognize and accost her, she was
lost. On came the old slave, her eyes wide open and her
thoughts intent on detecting detectives. Suddenly, to her
consternation, she saw Clara stop before a “magasin” and take
up some muslin on the shelf outside the window; and almost
in the same glance, she saw the gentleman of the cane,
watching both her and Clara out of the corners of his eyes.
A sideway glance, quick as lightning from Clara, and delivered
without moving her head, was enough to enlighten Esha.
She passed on without a perceptible pause, and soon appeared
to stumble, as if by accident, almost into the arms of the
detective. He caught her by the shoulder, and said, “Don't
turn, but tell me if you noticed that woman there, — there by
Delmar's, with a green veil over her face?”

“Yes, massa, I seed a woman in a green veil.”

“Well, are you sure she may n't be the one?”

“Bress yer, massa, I owt to know de chile I 'ze seed grow
up from a bebby. Reckon I could tell her widout seein'
her face.”

“Go back and take a look at her. There! she steps into
the shop.”

Glad of the opportunity of giving Clara a word of caution,
Esha passed into Delmar's. Beckoning Clara into an alcove,
she said: “De veil, darlin'! De veil! Dat ole rat would
nebber hab suspek noting if't hahd n't been fur de veil. His
part ob de play am ter watch eb'ry woman in a veil.”

“I see my mistake, Esha. I 've been buying a dagger.
Look there!”

“De Lord save us!” said Esha, with a shudder, half of
horror and half of sympathy. “Don't be in de street oftener
dan yer kin help, darlin'? Remember de fotygrafs. Dar! I
mus go.”

Esha joined the detective. “Did you get a good sight of
her?” he asked.

“Went right up an' spoke ter her,” said Esha. “She 's jes
as much dat gal as she 's Madame Beauregard.”

The detective, his vision of a $ 500 douceur melting into
thin air, pensively walked off to try fortune on a new beat.

Clara, now that the danger was over, began to tremble.
Hitherto she had not quailed. Leaving the shop, she took the
nearest way to the hotel. For the last twenty-four hours
agitation and excitement had prevented her taking food.
Wretchedly faint, she stopped and took hold of an iron lamppost
for support.

An officer in the Confederate uniform, seeing she was ill,
said, “Mademoiselle, you need help. Allow me to escort
you home.”

Dreading lest she should fall, through feebleness, into worse
hands, Clara thanked him and took his proffered arm. “To
the St. Charles, sir, if you please.”

“I myself stop at the St. Charles. Allow me to introduce
myself: Robert Onslow, Captain in Company D, Wigman
Regiment. May I ask whom I have the pleasure of assisting?”

“Miss Brown. I 'm stopping a few days with my friend,
Miss Tremaine.”

“Indeed! I was to call on her this evening. We may
renew our acquaintance.”

“Perhaps.”

Clara suddenly put down her veil. Approaching slowly
like a fate, rolled on the splendid barouche of Mr. Ratcliff.
He sat with arms folded and was smoking a cigar. Clara
fancied she saw arrogance, hate, disappointment, rage, all
written in his countenance. Without moving his arms, he
bowed carelessly to Onslow.

“That 's one of the prime managers of the secession movement.”

“So I should think,” said Clara; but Onslow detected
nothing equivocal in the tone of the remark. Having escorted
her to the door of Miss Tremaine's parlor, he bowed his
farewell, and Clara went in. Laura had not yet returned.