University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
THE WOMAN WHO DELIBERATES IS LOST.

— Miss Muloch.

ON coming down to the breakfast-table one morning,
Kenrick was delighted to encounter Vance, and asked,
“What success?”

“I found in Natchez,” was the reply, “an old colored man
who knew Davy and his wife. They removed to New York,
it seems, some three years ago. I must push my inquiries
further. The clew must not be dropped. The old man, my
informant, was formerly a slave. He came into my room at
the hotel, and showed me the scars on his back. Ah! I, too,
could have showed scars, if I had deemed it prudent.”

“Cousin William,” said Kenrick, “I would n't take the testimony
of our own humane overseer as to slavery. I have
studied the usages on other plantations. Let me show you a
photograph which I look at when my antislavery rage wants
kindling, which is not often.”

He produced the photograph of a young female, apparently
a quarteroon, sitting with back exposed naked to the hips, —
her face so turned as to show an intelligent and rather handsome
profile. The flesh was all welted, seamed, furrowed, and scarred,
as if both by fire and the scourge.

“There!” resumed Kenrick, “that I saw taken myself, and
know it to be genuine. It is one out of many I have collected.
The photograph cannot lie. It will be terrible as the recording
angel in reflecting slavery as this civil war will unearth it.
What will the Carlyles and the Gladstones say to this? Will
it make them falter, think you, in their Sadducean hoot against

a noble people who are manfully fighting the great battle of
humanity against such infernalism as this?”

“They would probably fall back on the doubter's privilege.”

“Yes, that 's the most decent way of escape. But I would
pin them with the sharp fact. That woman (her name was
Margaret) belonged to the Widow Gillespie,[1] on the Black
River. Margaret had a nursing child, and, out of maternal
tenderness, had disobeyed Mrs. Gillespie's orders to wean
it. For this she was subjected to the punishment of the
hand-saw. She was laid on her face, her clothes stripped up to
around her neck, her hands and feet held down, and Mrs.
Gillespie, sitting by, then `paddled,' or stippled the exposed
body with the hand-saw. She then had Margaret turned over,
and, with heated tongs, attempted to grasp her nipples. The
writhings of the victim foiled her purpose; but between the
breasts the skin and flesh were horribly burned.”

“A favorite remark,” said Vance, “with our smug apologists
of slavery, is, that an owner's interests will make him treat a
slave well. Undoubtedly in many cases so it is. But I have
generally found that human malignity, anger, or revenge is
more than a match for human avarice. A man will often
gratify his spite even at the expense of his pocket.”

Kenrick showed the photograph of a man with his back
scarred as if by a shower of fire.

“This poor fellow,” said Kenrick, “shows the effects of the
corn-husk punishment; not an unusual one on some plantations.
The victim is stretched out on the ground, with hands and feet
held down. Dry corn-husks are then lighted, and the burning
embers are whipped off with a stick so as to fall in showers of
live sparks on the naked back. Such is the `patriarchal'
system! Such the tender mercies bestowed on `our man-servants
and our maid-servants,' as that artful dodger, Jeff Davis,
calls our plantation slaves.”

“And yet,” remarked Vance, “horrible as these things are,
how small a part of the wrong of slavery is in the mere physical
suffering inflicted!”

“Yes, the crowning outrage is mental and moral.”

“This war,” resumed Vance, “is not sectional, nor geographical,

nor, in a party sense, political: it is a war of eternally antagonistic
principles, — Belial against Gabriel.”

“I took up a Northern paper to-day,” said Kenrick, “in
which the writer pleads the necessity of slavery, because, he
says, `white men can't work in the rice-swamps.' Truly, a
staggering argument! The whole rice production of the United
States is only worth some four millions of dollars per
annum! A single factory in Lowell can beat that. And we
are asked to base a national policy on such considerations!”

Here the approach of guests led to a change of topic.

“And how have your affairs prospered?” asked Vance.

“Ah! cousin,” replied Kenrick, “I almost blush to tell you
what an experience I 've had.”

“Not fallen in love, I hope?”

“If it is n't that, 't is something very near it. The lady is
staying with Miss Tremaine. A Miss Perdita Brown. Onslow
took me to see her.”

“And which is the favored admirer?”

“Onslow, I fear. I 'm not a lady's man, you see. Indeed,
I never wished to be till now. Give me a few lessons, cousin.
Teach me a little small-talk.”

“I must know something of the lady first.”

“To begin at the beginning,” said Kenrick, “there can be
no dispute as to her beauty. But there is a something in her
manner that puzzles me. Is it lack of sincerity? Not that.
Is it preoccupation of thought? Sometimes it seems that.
And then some apt, flashing remark indicates that she has her
wits on the alert. You must see her and help me read her.
You visit Miss Laura?”

“Yes. I 'll do your bidding, Charles. How often have you
seen this enchantress?”

“Too often for my peace of mind: three times.”

“Is she a coquette?”

“If one, she has the art to conceal art. There seems to be
something on her mind more absorbing than the desire to fascinate.
She 's an unconscious beauty.”

“Say a deep one. Shall we meet at Miss Tremaine's
to-night?”

“Yes; the moth knows he 'll get singed, but flutter he must.”

“Take comfort, Charles, in that of thought of Tennyson's,
who tells us,

The cousins parted. They had no sooner quitted the breakfast-room
than Onslow entered. After a hasty meal, he took
his sword-belt and military-cap, and walked forth out of the
hotel. As he passed Wakeman's shop, near by, for the sale of
books and periodicals, he was attracted by a photograph in a
small walnut frame in the window. Stopping to examine it, he
uttered an exclamation of surprise, stepped into the shop, and
said to Wakeman, “Where did you get that photograph?”

“That was sent here with several others by the photographer.
You 'll find his name on the back.”

“I see. What shall I pay you for it?”

“A dollar.”

“There it is.”

Onslow took the picture and left the shop, but did not notice
that he was followed by a well-dressed gentleman with a cigar
in his mouth. This individual had been for several days watching
every passer-by who looked at that photograph. He now
followed Onslow to the head-quarters of his regiment; put an
inquiry to one of the members of the Captain's company, and
then strolled away as if he had more leisure than he knew
what to do with. But no sooner had he turned a corner, than
he entered a carriage which was driven off at great speed.

Not an hour had passed when a black man in livery put into
Onslow's hands this note: —

What can he want? thought Onslow, somewhat gratified by
such an attention from so important a leader. Presuming that
the object merely was to ask some questions concerning military
matters, the Captain turned to the man in livery, and said,
“Tell Mr. Ratcliff I will come.”

Punctually at the hour of five Onslow ascended the marble
steps of Ratcliff's stately house, rang the bell, and was ushered
into a large and elegantly furnished drawing-room, the windows

of which were heavily curtained so as to keep out the glare of
the too fervid sunlight. Pictures and statues were disposed
about the apartment, but Onslow, who had a genuine taste for
art, could find nothing that he would covet for a private gallery
of his own.

Ratcliff entered, habited in a cool suit of grass-cloth. The
light hues of his vest and neck-tie heightened the contrast of
his somewhat florid complexion, which had now lost all the
smoothness of youth. Self-indulgent habits had faithfully done
their work in moulding his exterior. Portly and puffy, he
looked much older than he really was. But in his manner of
greeting Onslow there was much of that charm which renders
the hospitality of a plantation lord so attractive. Throwing
aside all that arrogance which would have made his overseers
and tradespeople keep their distance, he welcomed Onslow
like an old friend and an equal.

“You 've a superb house here,” said the ingenuous Captain.

“'T will do, considering that I sometimes occupy it only a
month in the year,” replied Ratcliff. “I 'm glad to say I only
hire it. The house belonged to a Miss Aylesford, a Yankee
heiress; then passed into the possession of a New York man,
one Charlton; but I pay the rent into the coffers of the Confederate
government. The property is confiscate.”

“Won't the Yankees retaliate?”

“We sha'n't allow them to.”

“After we 've whipped Yankee-Doo-dle-dom, what then?”

“Then a strong military government. Having our slaves
to work for us, we shall become the greatest martial nation in
the world. Our poor whites, now a weakness and a burden,
we will convert into soldiers and Cossacks; excepting the artisan
and trading classes, and them we must disfranchise.”[2]

“Can we expect aid from England?” asked Onslow.

“Not open aid, but substantial aid nevertheless. Exeter
Hall may grumble. The doctrinaires, the Newmans, Brights,

Mills, and Cobdens may protest and agitate. The English
clodhoppers, mudsills, and workies of all kinds will sympathize
of course with the low-born Yankees. But the master race of
England, the non-producers, will favor the same class here.
The disintegration of North America into warring States is
what they long to see. Already the English government is
swift to hail us as belligerents. Already it refuses what it
once so eagerly proffered, — an international treaty making
privateering piracy. Soon it will let us fit out privateers
in English ports. Yes, England is all right.”

Here a slave-boy announced dinner, and they entered a
smaller but lofty apartment, looking out on a garden, and
having its two open windows pleasantly latticed with grape-vines.
A handsome, richly dressed quadroon lady sat at the
table. In introducing his young guest, Ratcliff addressed her
as Madame Volney.

Onslow, in his innocence, inquired after Mrs. Ratcliff.

“My wife is an invalid, and rarely quits her room,” said the
host.

The dinner was sumptuous, beginning with turtle-soup and
ending with ices and fruits. The costliest Burgundies and
Champagnes were uncorked, if only for a sip of their flavors.
Madame Volney, half French, was gracious and talkative,
occasionally checking Ratcliff in his eating, and warning him
to be prudent. At last cigars were brought on, and she left
the room. Ratcliff rose and listened at the door, as if to be
sure she had gone up-stairs. Then, walking on tiptoe, he
resumed his seat. He alluded to the opera, — to the ballet, —
to the subject of pretty women.

“And apropos of pretty women,” he exclaimed, “let me
show you a photograph of one I have in my pocket.”

As he spoke, there was a rustling in the grape-vines at a
window. He turned, but saw nothing.

Onslow took the photograph, and exclaimed: “But this is
astonishing! I 've a copy of the same in my pocket.”

“You surprise me, Captain. Do you know the original?”

“Quite well; and I grant you she 's beautiful.”

Onslow did not notice the expression of Ratcliff's face at
this confession, but another did. Lifting a glass of Burgundy

so as to help his affectation of indifference, “Confess now,
Captain,” said Ratcliff, “that you 're a favorite! That delicate
mouth has been pressed by your lips; those ivory shoulders
have known your touch.”

“O never! never!” returned Onslow, with the emphasis of
sincerity in his tone. “You misjudge the character of the
lady. She 's a friend of Miss Tremaine, — is now passing
a few days with her at the St. Charles. A lady wholly
respectable. Miss Perdita Brown of St. Louis! That rascally
photographer ought to be whipped for making money out
of her beautiful picture.”

“Has she admirers in her train?” asked Ratcliff.

“I know of but one beside myself.”

“Indeed! And who is he?”

“Charles Kenrick has called on her with me.”

“By the way, Wigman tells me that Charles insulted the
flag the other day.”

“Poh! Wigman was so drunk he could n't distinguish jest
from earnest.”

“So Robson told me. But touching this Miss Brown, — is
she as pretty as her photograph would declare?”

“It hardly does her justice. But her sweet face is the
least of her charms. She talks well, — sings well, — plays
well, — and, young as she is, has the bearing, the dignity, the
grace, of the consummate lady.”

Here there was another rustling, as if the grape-vine were
pulled. Ratcliff started, went to the window, looked out, but,
seeing nothing, remarked, “The wind must be rising,” and
returned to his seat. “I 've omitted,” said he, “to ask after
your family; are they well?”

“Yes; they were in Austin when I heard from them last.
My father, I grieve to say, goes with Hamilton and his set in
opposition to the Southern movement. My brother, William
Temple, is equally infatuated. My mother and sister of
course acquiesce. So I 'm the only faithful one of my family.”

“You deserve a colonelcy for that.”

“Thank you. Is your clock right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I must go. I 've an engagement.”

“Sorry for it. Beware of Miss Brown. This is the day
of Mars, not Venus. Good by.”

When Onslow had gone, Ratcliff sat five minutes as if meditating
on some plan. Then, drawing forth a pocket-book, he
took out an envelope, — wrote on it, — reflected, — and wrote
again. When he had finished, he ordered the carriage to
be brought to the door. As he was passing through the hall,
Madame Volney, from the stairs, asked where he was going.

“To the St. Charles, on political business.”

“Don't be out late, dear,” said Madame. “Let me see how
you look. Your neck-tie is out of place. Let me fix it. There!
And your vest needs buttoning. So!” And as her delicate
hands passed around his person, they slid unperceived into a
side-pocket of his coat, and drew forth what he had just deposited
there.

“Bother! That will do, Josephine,” grumbled Ratcliff. She
released him with a kiss. He descended the marble steps of
the house, entered a carriage, and drove off.

Madame passed into the dining-room, the brilliant gas-lights
of which had not yet been lowered, and, opening the pocket-book,
drew out several photographic cards, all containing one
and the same likeness of a young and beautiful girl. As the
quadroon scanned that fresh vernal countenance, that adorably
innocent, but earnest and intelligent expression, those thick,
wavy tresses, and that exquisitely moulded bust, her own handsome
face grew grim and ugly by the transmuting power of
anger and jealousy. “So, this is the game he 's pursuing, is
it?” she muttered. “This is what makes him restive! Not
politics, as he pretends, but this smoothed-faced decoy! Deep
as you 've kept it, Ratcliff, I 've fathomed you at last!”

Searching further among his papers, she found an envelope,
on which certain memoranda were pencilled, and among them
these: “First see Tremaine. Arrange for seizure without scandal
or noise. Early in morning call on Gentry, — have her
prepared. Take Esha with us to help.”

Hardly had Madame time to read this, when a carriage
stopped before the door. Laying the pocket-book with its contents,
as if undisturbed, on the table, she ran half-way up-stairs.
Ratcliff re-entered, and, after looking about the hall, passed into

the dining-room. “Ah! here it is!” she heard him say to the
attendant; “I could have sworn I put it in my pocket.” He
then left the house, and the carriage again drove off, — drove to
the St. Charles, where Ratcliff had a long private interview
with the pliable Tremaine.

While it was going on, Laura and Clara sat in the drawing-room,
waiting for company. Laura having disapproved of the
costume in which Clara had first appeared, the latter now wore
a plain robe of black silk; and around her too beautiful neck
Laura had put a collar, large enough to be called a cape, fastening
it in front with an old-fashioned cameo pin. But how
provoking! This dress would insist on being more becoming
even than the other!

Vance was the earliest of the visitors. On being introduced
to Clara, he bowed as if they had never met before. Then,
seating himself by Laura, he devoted himself assiduously to
her entertainment. Clara turned over the leaves of a music-book,
and took no part in the conversation. Yes! It was plain
that Vance was deeply interested in the superficial, but showy
Laura. Well, what better could be expected of a man?

Once more was Laura summoned to the bed-side of her
mother. “How vexatious!” Regretfully she left the drawing-room.
As soon as she had gone, Vance rose, and, taking a seat
by Clara, offered her his hand. She returned its cordial pressure.
“My dear young friend,” he said, “tell me everything.
What can I do for you?”

O, that she might fling herself on that strong arm and tender
heart! That she might disclose to him her whole situation!
Impulses, eager and tumultuous, urged her to do this. Then
there was a struggle as if to keep down the ready confession.
Pride battled with the feminine instinct that claimed a protector.

What! This man, on whom she had no more claim than on
the veriest stranger, — should she put upon him the burden of
her confidence? This man who in one minute had whispered
more flattering things in the ear of Laura than he had said to
Clara during the whole of their acquaintance, — should she ask
favors from him? O, if he would, by look or word, but betray
that he felt an interest in her beyond that of mere friendship!
But then came the frightful thought, “I am a slave!” And

Clara shuddered to think that no honorable attachment between
her and a gentleman could exist.

“What of that? Surely I may claim from him the help
which any true man ought to lend to a woman threatened with
outrage. Stop there! Does not the chivalry of the plantation
reverse the notions of the old knight-errants, and give heed to
no damsel in distress, unless she can show free papers? Nay,
will not the representative of the blood of all the cavaliers look
calmly on, and smoke his cigar, while a woman is bound naked
to a tree and scourged?”

And then her mind ran rapidly over certain stories which a
slave-girl, once temporarily hired by Mrs. Gentry, had told of
the punishments of female slaves: how, for claiming too long a
respite from work after childbirth, they had been “fastened up
by their wrists to a beam, or to a branch of a tree, their feet
barely touching the ground,” and in that position horribly
scourged with a leather thong; perhaps, the father, brother,
or husband of the victim being compelled to officiate as the
scourger![3]

“But surely this man, whose very glance seems shelter and
protection, — this true and generous gentleman, — must belong
to a very different order of chivalry from that of the Davises,
the Lees, and the Toombses. Yes! I 'll stake my life he 's
another kind of cavalier from those foul, obscene, and dastardly
woman-whipping miscreants and scoundrels. Yes! I 'll comply
with that gracious entreaty of his, `Tell me everything!'
I 'll confess all.”

Her heart throbbed. She was on the point of uttering that
one name, Ratcliff, — a sound that would have inspired Vance
with the power and wisdom of an archangel to rescue her, —
when there were voices at the door, and Laura entered, followed
by Onslow. They brought with them a noise of talking
and laughing. Soon Kenrick joined the party.

The golden opportunity seemed to have slipped by!

To Kenrick's gaze Clara never appeared so transcendent.
But there was an unwonted paleness on her cheeks; and what
meant that thoughtful and serious air? For a sensitive moral
barometer commend us to a lover's heart!

Of course there was music; and Clara sang.

“What do you think of her voice?” asked Laura of Vance.

“It justifies all your praises,” was the reply; and then, seeing
that Clara was not in the mood for display, he took her
place at the piano, and rattled away just as Laura requested.
Onslow tried to engage Clara in conversation; but a cloud, as
if from some impending ill, was palpably over her.

Kenrick sat by in silence, deaf to the brilliant music.
Clara's presence, with its subtle magnetism, had steeped his
own thoughts in the prevailing hue of hers. Suddenly he
turned to her, and whispered: “You want help. What is
it? Grant me the privilege of a brother. What can I do
for you?”

The glance Clara turned upon him was so full of thanks,
so radiant with gratitude, that hope sprang in his heart. But
before she could put her reply in words, Laura had come up,
and taken her away to the piano for a concluding song. Clara
gave them Longfellow's “Rainy Day” to Dempster's music.

The little gilt clock over the mantel tinkled eleven.

Vance rose to go, and said to Laura, “May I call on Miss
Brown to-morrow with some new music?”

“I 'll answer for her, yes,” replied Laura. “We shall be at
home any time after twelve.”

The gentlemen all took leave. Onslow made his exit the
last. A rose that had been fastened in Clara's waist dropped
on the floor. “May I have it?” he asked, picking it up.

“Why not? I wish it were fresher. Good night!” And
she put out her hand. Onslow eagerly pressed it; but Clara,
lifting his, said, “May this hand never strike except for justice
and human freedom!”

“Amen to that!” replied Onslow, before he well took in the
entire meaning of what she had said.

He hastened to rejoin his friends, following them through the
corridor. He seemed to tread on air. “I was the only one
she offered to shake hands with!” he exultingly soliloquized.

The three parted, after an interchange of good nights. Both
Onslow and Kenrick betook themselves to their rooms, each
with no desire for other companionship than his own rose-colored
dreams.