University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
DELIGHT AND DUTY.

IT may seem strange that Onslow and Kenrick, differing
so widely, should renew the friendship of their boyhood.
We have seen that Onslow, allowing the æsthetic side of his
nature to outgrow the moral, had departed from the teachings
of his father on the subject of slavery. Kenrick, in whom the
moral and devotional faculty asserted its supremacy over all
inferior solicitings, also repudiated his paternal teachings; but
they were directly contrary to those of his friend, and, in abandoning
them, he gave up the prospect of a large inheritance.

To Onslow, these thick-lipped, woolly-headed negroes, —
what were they fit for but to be hewers of wood and drawers
of water to the gentle and refined? It was monstrous to suppose
that between such and him there could be equality of
any kind. The ethnological argument was conclusive. Had
not Professor Moleschott said that the brain of the negro contains
less phosphorus than that of the white man? Proof
sufficient that Cuffee was expressly created to pull off my
boots and hoe in my cotton-fields, while I make it a penal
offence to teach him to read!

Onslow, too, had been fortunate in his intercourse with
slaveholders. Young, handsome, and accomplished, he had
felt the charm of their affectionate hospitality. He had found
taste, culture, and piety in their abodes; all the graces and all
the amenities of life. What wonder that he should narcotize
his moral sense with the aroma of these social fascinations!
Even at the North, where the glamour they cast ought not to
distort the sight, and where men ought healthfully to look the

abstract abomination full in the face, and testify to its deformity,
— how many consciences were drugged, how many hearts
shut to justice and to mercy!

With Kenrick, brought up on a plantation where slavery
existed in its mildest form, meditation on God's law as written
in the enlightened human conscience, completely reversed the
views adopted from upholders of the institution. Thenceforth
the elegances of his home became hateful. He felt like a
robber in the midst of them.

The spectacle of some hideous, awkward, perhaps obscene
and depraved black woman, hoeing in the corn-field, instead
of awakening in his mind, as in Onslow's, the thought that she
was in her proper place, did but move him to tears of bitter
contrition and humiliation. How far there was sin or account-ability
on her part, or that of her progenitors, he could not
say; but that there was deep, immeasurable sin on the part
of those who, instead of helping that degraded nature to rise,
made laws to crush it all the deeper in the mire, he could not
fail to feel in anguish of spirit. Through all that there was in
her of ugliness and depravity, making her less tolerable than
the beast to his æsthetic sense, he could still detect those traits
and possibilities that allied her with immortal natures, and in
her he saw all her sex outraged, and universal womanhood
nailed to the cross of Christ, and mocked by unbelievers!

The evening of the day of Clara's arrival at the St. Charles,
Onslow and Kenrick met by agreement in the drawing-room
of the Tremaines. Clara had told Laura, that, in going out to
purchase a few hair-pins, she had been taken suddenly faint,
and that a gentleman, who proved to be Captain Onslow, had
escorted her home.

“Could anything be more apt for my little plot!” said
Laura. “But consider! Here it is eight o'clock, and you 're
not dressed! Do you know how long you 've been sleeping?
This will never do!”

A servant knocked at the door, with the information that
two gentlemen were in the drawing-room.

“Dear me! I must go in at once,” said Laura. “Now
tell me you 'll be quick and follow, Darling.”

Clara gave the required pledge, and proceeded to arrange

her hair. Laura looked on for a minute envying her those
thick brown tresses, and then darted into the next room where
the visitors were waiting. Greeting them with her usual animation
of manner, she asked Onslow for the news.

“The news is,” said Onslow, “my friend Charles is under-going
conversion. We shall have him an out-and-out Secessionist
before the Fourth of July.”

“On what do you base your calculations?” asked Kenrick.

“On the fact that for the last twelve hours I have n't heard
you call down maledictions on the Confederate cause.”

“Perhaps I conclude that the better part of valor is discretion.”

“No, Charles, yours is not the Falstaffian style of courage.”

“Well, construe my mood as you please. Miss Tremaine,
your piano stands open. Does it mean we 're to have music?”

“Yes. Has n't the Captain told you of his meeting a young
lady, — Miss Perdita Brown?”

“I 'll do him the justice to say he did tell me he had escorted
such a one.”

“What did he say of her?”

“Nothing, good or bad.”

“But that 's very suspicious.”

“So it is.”

“Pray who is Miss Perdita Brown?” asked Onslow.

“She 's a daughter of — of — why, of Mr. Brown, of course.
He lives in St. Louis.”

“Is she a good Secessionist?”

“On the contrary, she 's a desperate little Abolitionist.”

“Look at Charles!” said Onslow. “He 's enamored already.
I 'm sorry she is n't secesh.”

“Think of the triumph of converting her!” said Laura.

“That indeed! Of course,” said Onslow, “like all true women,
she 'll take her politics from the man she loves.”

And the Captain smoothed his moustache, and looked handsome
as Phœbus Apollo.

“O the conceit!” exclaimed Laura. “Look at him, Mr.
Kenrick! Is n't he charming? Where 's the woman who
would n't turn Mormon, or even Yankee, for his sake? Surely
one of us weak creatures could be content with one tenth or

even one twentieth of the affections of so superb an Ali. Come,
sir, promise me I shall be the fifteenth Mrs. Onslow when you
emigrate to Utah.”

Onslow was astounded at this fire of raillery. Could the
lady have heard of any disparaging expression he had dropped?

“Spare me, Miss Laura,” he said. “Don't deprive the
Confederacy of my services by slaying me before I 've smelt
powder.”

“Where 's Miss Brown all this while?” asked Kenrick.

Laura went to the door, and called “Perdita!”

“In five minutes!” was the reply.

Clara was dressing. When, that morning, she came in from
her walk, she thought intently on her situation, and at last
determined on a new line of policy. Instead of playing the
humble companion and shy recluse, she would now put forth
all her powers to dazzle and to strike. She would, if possible,
make friends, who should protest against any arbitrary claim
that Ratcliff might set up. She would vindicate her own right
to freedom by showing she was not born to be a slave. All
who had known her should feel their own honor wounded in
any attempt to injure hers.

Having once fixed before herself an object, she grew calm
and firm. When her dinner was sent up, she ate it with a good
appetite. Sleep, too, that had been a stranger to her so many
hours, now came to repair her strength and revive her spirits.

No sooner had Laura left to attend to her visitors, than
Clara plunged into the drawers containing the dresses for her
choice. With the rapidity of instinct she selected the most becoming;
then swiftly and deftly, with the hand of an adept
and the eye of an artist, she arranged her toilet. A dexterous
adaptation of pins speedily rectified any little defect in the fit.
Where were the collars? Locked up. No matter! There
was a frill of exquisite lace round the neck of the dress; and
this little narrow band of maroon velvet would serve to relieve
the bareness of the throat. What could she clasp it with?
Laura had not left the key of her jewel-box. A common pin
would hardly answer. Suddenly Clara bethought herself of the
little coral sleeve-button, wrapped up in the strip of bunting.
That would serve admirably. Yes. Nothing could be better.

It was her only article of jewelry; though round her right
wrist she wore a hair-bracelet of her own braiding, made from
that strand given her by Esha; and from a flower-vase she had
taken a small cape-jasmine, white as alabaster, and fragrant as
a garden of honeysuckles, and thrust it in her hair. A fan?
Yes, here is one.

And thus accoutred she entered the room where the three
expectants were seated.

On seeing her, Laura's first emotion was one of admiration,
as at sight of an imposing entrée at the opera. She was suddenly
made aware of the fact that Clara was the most beautiful
young woman of her acquaintance; nay, not only the most
beautiful, but the most stylish. So taken by surprise was she,
so lost in looking, that it was nearly a third of a minute before
she introduced the young gentlemen. Onslow claimed acquaintance,
presented a chair, and took a seat at Clara's side. Kenrick
stood mute and staring, as if a paradisic vision had dazed
his senses. When he threw off his bewilderment, he quieted
himself with the thought, “She can't be as beautiful as she
looks, — that 's one comfort. A shrew, perhaps, — or, what is
worse, a coquette!”

“When were you last in St. Louis, Miss Brown?” asked
Onslow.

“All questions for information must be addressed to Miss
Tremaine,” said Clara. “I shall be happy to talk with you on
things I know nothing about. Shall we discuss the Dahlgren
gun, or the Ericsson Monitor?”

“So! She sets up for an eccentric,” thought Onslow. “Perhaps
politics would suit you,” he added aloud. “I hear you 're
an Abolitionist.”

“Ask Miss Tremaine,” said Clara.

“O, she has betrayed you already,” replied Onslow.

“Then I 've nothing to say. I 'm in her hands.”

“Is it possible,” said Kenrick, who was irrepressible on the
one theme nearest his heart, “is it possible Miss Brown can't
see it, — can't see the loveliness of that divine cosmos which
we call slavery? Poor deluded Miss Brown! I know not what
other men may think, but as for me, give me slavery or give
me death! Do you object to woman-whipping, Miss Brown?”

“I confess I 've my prejudices against it,” replied Clara.
“But these charges of woman-whipping, you know, are Abolition
lies.”

“Yes, so Northern conservatives say; but we of the plantations
know that nearly one half the whippings are of women.”[1]

“Come! Sink the shop!” cried Laura. “Are we so dull
we can't find anything but our horrible bête noir for our
amusement? Let us have scandal, rather; nonsense, rather!
Tell us a story, Mr. Kenrick.”

“Well; once on a time — how would you like a ghost-story?”

“Above all things. Charming! Only ghosts have grown
so common, they no longer thrill us.”

“Yes,” said Kenrick, — whose trivial thoughts ever seemed
to call up his serious, — “yes; materialism has done a good
work in its day and generation. It has taught us that the
business of this world must go on just as if there were no
ghosts. The supernatural is no longer an incubus and an
oppression. Its phenomena no longer frighten and paralyze.
Let us, then, since we are now freed from their terrors, welcome
the great facts themselves as illumining and confirming all
that there is in the past to comfort us with the assurance of
continuous life issuing from seeming death.”

“Dear Mr. Kenrick, is this a time for a lecture?” expostulated
Laura. “Are n't you bored, Perdita?”

“On the contrary, I 'm interested.”

“What do you think of spiritualism, Miss Brown?”

“I 've witnessed none of the phenomena, but I don't see
why the testimony of these times, in regard to them, should n't
be taken as readily as that of centuries back.”

“My father is a believer,” said Onslow; “and I have certainly
seen some unaccountable things, — tables lifted into the
air, — instruments of music floated about, and played on
without visible touch, — human hands, palpable and warm,
coming out from impalpable air: — all very queer and very
inexplicable! But what do they prove? Cui bono? What
of it all?”

“`Nothing in it!' as Sir Charles Coldstream says of the
Vatican,” interposed Laura.

“You demand the use of it all, — the cui bono, — do
you?” retorted Kenrick. “Did it ever occur to you to make
your own existence the subject of that terrible inquiry, cui
bono?”

“Certainly,” replied Onslow, laughing; “my cui bono is to
fight for the independence of the new Confederacy.”

“And for the propagation of slavery, eh?” returned Kenrick.
“I don't see the cui bono. On the contrary, to my
fallible vision, the world would be better off without than with
you. But let us take a more extreme case. These youths
— Tom, Dick, and Harry — who give their days and nights,
not to the works of Addison, but to gambling, julep-drinking,
and cigar-smoking, — who hate and shun all useful work, —
and are no comfort to anybody, — only a shame and affliction
to somebody, — can you explain to me the cui bono of their
corrupt and unprofitable lives?”

“But how undignified in a spirit to push tables about and
play on accordions!”

“Well, what authority have you for the supposition that
there are no undignified spirits? We know there are weak
and wicked spirits in the flesh; why not out of the flesh? A
spirit, or an intelligence claiming to be one, writes an ungrammatical
sentence or a pompous commonplace, and signs Bacon
to it; and you forthwith exclaim, `Pooh! this can't come from
a spirit.' How do you know that? May n't lies be told in other

worlds than this? Will the ignoramus at once be made a
scholar, — the dullard a philosopher, — the blackguard a
gentleman, — the sinner a saint, — the liar truthful, — by the
simple process of elimination from this husk of flesh? Make
me at once altogether other than what I am, and you annihilate
me, and there is no immortality of the soul.”

“But what has the ghost contributed to our knowledge
during these fourteen years, since he appeared at Rochester?
Of all he has brought us, we may say, with Shakespeare,
`There needs no ghost come from the grave to tell us that.'”

“I 'll tell you what the ghost has contributed, not at Rochester
merely, but everywhere, through the ages. He has contributed
himself. You say, cui bono? And I might say of ten
thousand mysteries about us, cui bono? The lightning strikes
the church-steeple, — cui bono? An idiot is born into the
world, — cui bono? It is absurd to demand as a condition of
rational faith, that we should prove a cui bono. A good or a
use may exist, and we be unable to see it. And yet grave
men are continually thrusting into the faces of the investigators
of these phenomena this preposterous cui bono?”

“Enough, my dear Mr. Kenrick!” exclaimed Laura.

But he was not to be stopped. He rose and paced the
room, and continued: “The cui bono of phenomena must of
course be found in the mind that regards them. `I can't find
you both arguments and brains,' said Dr. Johnson to a noodle
who thought Milton trashy. One man sees an apple fall, and
straightway thinks of the price of cider. Newton sees it, and
it suggests gravitation. One man sees a table rise in the air,
and cries: `It can't be a spirit; 't is too undignified for a
spirit!' Mountford sees it, and the immortality of the soul is
thenceforth to him a fact as positive as any fact of science.”

“Your story, dear Mr. Kenrick, your story!” urged Laura.

“My story is ended. The ghost has come and vanished.”

“Is that all?” whined Laura. “Are n't we, then, to have a
story?”

“In mercy give us some music, Miss Brown,” said Onslow.

“Play Yankee Doodle, with variations,” interposed Kenrick.

“Not unless you 'd have the windows smashed in,” pleaded
Onslow; and, giving his arm, he waited on Clara to the piano.

“She dashed into a medley of brilliant airs from operas,
uniting them by extemporized links of melody to break the
abruptness of the transitions. The young men were both
connoisseurs; and they interchanged looks of gratified astonishment.

“And now for a song!” exclaimed Laura.

Clara paused a moment, and sat looking with clasped hands
at the keys. Then, after a delicate prelude, she gave that
song of Pestal, already quoted.[2] She gave it with her whole
soul, as if a personal wrong were adding intensity to the
defiance of her tones.

Kenrick, wrought to a state of sympathy which he could not
disguise, had taken a seat where he could watch her features
while she sang. When she had finished, she covered her face
with her hands, then, finding her emotion uncontrollable, rose
and passed out of the room.

“What do you think of that, Charles?” asked Onslow.

“It was terrible,” said Kenrick. “I wanted to kill a slaveholder
while she sang.”

“But she has the powers of a prima donna,” said Onslow,
turning to Laura.

“Yes, one would think she had practised for the stage.”

Clara now returned with a countenance placid and smiling.

“How long do you stay in New Orleans, Miss Brown?”
inquired Onslow.

“How long, Laura?” asked Clara.

“A week or two.”

“We shall have another opportunity, I hope, of hearing you
sing.”

“I hope so.”

“I have an appointment now at the armory. Charles, are
you ready to walk?”

“No, thank you. I prefer to remain.”

Onslow left, and, immediately afterwards, Laura's mother
being seized with a timely hemorrhage, Laura was called off
to attend to her. Kenrick was alone with Clara. Charming
opportunity! He drew from her still another and another
song. He conversed with her on her studies, — on the books

she had read, — the pictures she had seen. He was roused by
her intelligence and wit. He spoke of slavery. Deep as was
his own detestation of it, she helped him to make it deeper.
What delightful harmony of views! Kenrick felt that his
time had come. The hours slipped by like minutes, yet there
he sat chained by a fascination so new, so strange, so delightful,
he marvelled that life had in it so much of untasted joy.

Kenrick was not accustomed to be critical in details. He
looked at general effects. But the most trifling point in
Clara's accoutrements was now a thing to be marked and
remembered. The little sleeve-button dropped from the band
round her throat. Kenrick picked it up, — examined it, —
saw, in characters so fine as to be hardly legible, the letters
C. A. B. upon it. (“B. stands for Brown,” thought he.) And
then, as Clara put out her hand to receive it, he noticed the
bracelet she wore. “What beautiful hair!” he said. He
looked up at Clara's to trace a resemblance. But his glance
stopped midway at her eyes. “Blue and gray!” he murmured.

“Yes, can you read them?” asked Clara.

“What do you mean?”

“Only a dream I had. There 's a letter on them somebody
is to open and read.”

“O, that I were a Daniel to interpret!” said Kenrick.

At last Miss Tremaine returned. Her mother had been
dangerously ill. It was an hour after midnight. Sincerely
astounded at finding it so late, Kenrick took his leave. Heart
and brain were full. “Thou art the wine whose drunkenness
is all I can desire, O love!”

And how was it with Clara? Alas, the contrariety of the
affections! Clara simply thought Kenrick a very agreeable
young man: handsome, but not so handsome as Onslow;
clever, but not so clever as Vance!