University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.
A DOUBLE VICTORY.

Beaumont and Fletcher.

“I SHALL be jealous of this little lady if you go on at this
rate,” said Madame Volney to Mrs. Ratcliff, a week after
Clara had been established in the house.

“Never fear that I shall love you less, my dear Josephine,”
replied the invalid. Then, pointing to her heart, she added:
“I 've a place here big enough for both of you. I only wish
't were in better repair.”

“Have you had those sharp throbbings to-day?”

“Not badly. You warn me against excitement. I sometimes
think I 'm better under it. Certainly I 've improved
since Esha and Darling have been here. What should I do
now without Darling to play and read to me? What a touch
she has! And what a voice! And then her selection of music
and of books is so good. By the way, she promised to translate
a story for me from the German. I wonder if she has it
finished. Go ask her.”

The answer was brought by Clara herself, and Josephine left
the two together. Yes, Clara had written out the story. It
was called Zu Spat, or “Too Late,” and was by an anonymous
author. Clara read aloud from it. She had read about
ten minutes, when the following passage occurred: —

“Read that passage again,” said Mrs. Ratcliff; adding, after
Clara had complied, “You need n't read any more now.”

That evening the wife summoned the husband to an interview.
Somewhat surprised at the unusual command, Ratcliff
made his appearance and took a seat at her side. His manner
was that of a man who thinks no woman can resist him, and
that his transparent cajoleries are the proper pabulum for her
weak intellect, — poor thing!

“Well, my peerless one, what is it?” he asked.

“I wish to talk with you, Ratcliff, about this white slave of
yours. What do you think of her?”

“Think of her? Nothing! I 've given no thought to the
subject. I 've hardly looked at her.”

“Lie Number 1,” thought the invalid, looking him in the
face, but betraying no distrust in her expression.

The truth was, that Ratcliff, for the first time in his life, was
under the power of a sentiment which, if not love, was all that
there was in his nature akin to it. Even at political meetings
his thoughts would stray from the public business, from the fulminations
of “last-ditch” orators and curb-stone generals, and
revert to that youthful and enchanting figure. True, Josephine
rigidly exacted conformity to the conditions that kept him aloof
from all communication with the girl. But Ratcliff, through
the window-blinds, would now and then see her, in the pride
of youth and beauty, walking with Esha in the garden. He
would hear her songs, too. And once, — when he thought no
one knew it, — though the quadroon had her eye on him, —
he overheard Clara's conversation. “She has mind as well
as beauty,” thought he.

And that brilliant and dainty creature was his, — his! He

could, if he chose, marry her to the blackest of his slaves. Of
course he could! There was no indignity he could not put
upon her, under the plea of upholding his rights as a master.
Had he not once proved it in another case, on his own plantation?
And who had ever dared raise a voice against the just
assertion of his rights? Truly, any such rash malcontents,
opening their lips, would have been in danger of being ducked
as Abolitionists!

Patience! Yes, Josephine was right in her scheme of keeping
the young girl secluded from his too fascinating society.
Not a hint must the maiden have of the favor with which he
regarded her, — not an intimation, until the present Mrs. Ratcliff
should considerately “step out.” Then — Well, what
then? Why, then an end to hopes deferred and desires unfulfilled!
Then an immediate private marriage, to be followed
by a public one, after a decent interval.

Every secret device and cherished anticipation, meanwhile,
of that imperious nature was understood and analyzed by the
quadroon. She felt a vindictive satisfaction in seeing him riot
in calculations which she would task her best energies to baffle.
Esha's stories of his conduct to Estelle had withered the last
bloom of affection which Josephine's heart had cherished towards
him.

“I 'm glad you 're so indifferent to this white slave,” said
Mrs. Ratcliff to her husband.

“And why should you be glad, my pet?”

“Because, Ratcliff, I want you to give her to me.”

Staggered by the suddenness of the request, and puzzled for
an answer, he replied: “But she may prove a very valuable
piece of property. There 's many a man who would pay ten
thousand dollars for her, two or three years hence.”

“Well, if you don't want to give her, then sell her to me.
I 'll pay you twenty thousand dollars for her.”

“You shall have her for nothing, my dear,” said Ratcliff,
after reflecting that the slave would still be virtually his, inasmuch
as no conveyance of her could be made by his wife without
his consent.

Detecting the trap, the wife at once replied: “Thank you,
dear husband. This generosity is so like you! Can she be
freed?”

“No. There are recent State laws against emancipation.
It was found there were too many weak-minded persons, who,
in their last moments, beginning to have scruples about slaveholding,
would think to purchase heaven by emancipating their
slaves. The example was bad, and productive of discontent
among those left in bondage.”

“Well, then, Ratcliff, there 's one little form you must consent
to. The title-deed must be vested in Mr. Winslow.”

Ratcliff started as if recoiling from a pitfall. The remark
brought home to his mind the disagreeable consideration that
there was nearly half a million of dollars which ought to come
to his wife, but which was absolutely in the keeping and under
the control of Simon Winslow. It happened in this wise:
The father of Mrs. Ratcliff, old Kittler, not having that entire
faith in his son-in-law which so distinguished a member of the
chivalry as the South Carolinian ought to have commanded,
gave into the hands of Winslow a large sum of money, relying
solely upon his honor to use it in loco parentis for the benefit
of the lady. But there were no legal restrictions imposed
upon Simon as to the disposition of the property, and if he had
chosen to give or throw it away, or keep it himself, he might
have done it with impunity.

Winslow acted much as he would have done if Mrs. Ratcliff
had been his own daughter. He invested the money solely for
her ultimate benefit and disposal, seeing that her husband already
had millions which she had brought him. Ratcliff, however,
regarded as virtually his the money in Winslow's hands,
and had several angry discussions with him on the subject.
But Simon was impracticable. The only concession he would
make was to say, that, in the event of Mrs. Ratcliff's death, he
should respect any requests she might have made. There had
consequently been an informal will, if will it could be called,
made by her a year before, in Ratcliff's favor.

Wanting money now to carry out his speculations in slaves,
Ratcliff had again applied to Winslow for this half a million, —
had tried wheedlings and threats, both in vain. He had even
threatened to denounce Simon before the Committee of Safety,
— to denounce him as a “damned Yankee and Abolitionist.”
To which Simon had replied by taking a pinch of snuff.

Simon, though born somewhere in the vicinity of Plymouth
Rock, was one of the oldest residents of New Orleans. He
had helped General Jackson beat off Packenham. He had
stood by him in his rough handling of the habeas corpus act.
Simon had been a slaveholder, though rather as an experiment
than for profit; for, finding that the State Legislature were
going to pass a law against emancipation, he took time by the
forelock, and not only made all his slaves free, but placed them
where they could earn their living.

The invalid wife's proposal to vest the title to the white slave
in Winslow caused in Ratcliff a visible embarrassment.

“You know, my dear,” he replied, “I would do anything for
your gratification; but there are particular reasons why —”

“Why what, husband?”

“Give me a few days to think the matter over. We 'll talk
of it when I have n't so much on my mind. Meanwhile I 'll
tell you what I will consent to: Josephine shall be yours to do
with just as you please.”

“Come, that 's something,” said the wife. “What I ask, then,
is, that you convey Josephine to Mr. Winslow to hold in trust
for me. Will you do this the first thing in the morning?”

“I certainly will,” replied Ratcliff, flattering himself that his
ready compliance with one of his wife's morbid whims would
more than content her for his evasion of the other.

“Well, then, good night,” said she, pointing to the door.

She submitted, with a slight shudder, imperceptible to Ratcliff,
to be kissed by him, and he went down-stairs. Josephine
issued from behind a screen whither the wife had beckoned her
to go on his first coming in. If there had been any remnant
of affection for him in the quadroon's heart, she was well cured
of it by what she had heard.

The invalid called for writing materials, and penned a note.
“Take this, Josephine,” she said, “early to-morrow to Mr.
Winslow. In it I simply tell him of Ratcliff's proposition in
regard to yourself, and ask him, the moment that affair is
attended to, to come and see me.”

The clock was striking twelve the next day when Mr.
Winslow came, and Josephine ushered him into the invalid's
presence.

“You may leave us alone for a while, Josephine,” she said.

As soon as the quadroon had gone out and shut the door,
the invalid motioned to Winslow to draw near. He was upwards
of seventy, tall and erect, with venerable gray locks,
and an expression of face at once brisk and gentle, benevolent
and keen.

“What 's the state of the property you still hold for me, Mr
Winslow?”

“It is half invested in real estate in Northern cities, and
half in special deposits of gold in Northern banks.”

“Indeed! Then you must have sent it North long before
these troubles began.”

“Yes, more than four years ago, — soon after the Nashville
Convention.”

“What 's the amount in your hands?”

“Half a million; probably it will be seven hundred thousand,
if gold should rise, as I think it will.”

“And how much, Mr. Winslow, of the property my father
left me has gone to Mr. Ratcliff?”

“More than three millions.”

“Very well. I wish to revoke all previous requests I may
have made as to the disposition of the property in your hands.
Now take your pen and write as I shall dictate.”

“Let me first explain, Mrs. Ratcliff, that any conveyance of
personalty you might make would be null without your husband's
consent. But in this case forms are of no account, and
even witnesses are unnecessary. Everything is left to my
individual honor and discretion.”

“I 'm aware of that, Mr. Winslow. It is not so much a
will as a series of requests I 've to make.”

“I see you understand it, madam. The memoranda you
give me I will embody in the form of a will of my own.
Proceed!”

“Put down,” said the invalid, “a hundred thousand for the
Orphan Asylum.”

“Excellent; but as the Secessionists are using that sacred
fund for war purposes, I shall take the liberty of withholding
the bequest for the present. Go on.”

“A hundred thousand to the Lying-in Hospital.”

“Nothing could be more proper. Proceed.”

“A hundred thousand to the fund for the Sisters of Charity.”

“Ah! those dear sisters! Bless you for remembering them,
madam.”

“A hundred thousand to be distributed in sums of five thousand
severally to the persons whose names I have here written
down.”

She handed him a sheet of paper containing the names, and
he transcribed them carefully.

“And now,” resumed the invalid, “the remainder of the
fund in your possession I wish paid over, when you can safely
do it, one half to the slave Josephine, the other half to the white
slave, Ellen Murray, of whom Josephine will tell you, and
whom you must rescue from slavery. Both must be free before
the money can be of any service to them.”

“Of course. Their owner could at once appropriate any
sum you might leave to them, even though it were a million
of dollars.”

“You have now heard all I have to say, Mr. Winslow.”

“Then, madam, you will please write under these memoranda
with your own hand something to this effect, and sign
your name, with date, place, et cetera: `This I declare to be
my own spontaneous, unbiassed request to Mr. Winslow, to dispose
of the property in his possession, in the manner hereinabove
stated.' The autograph will have no legal force, but it
may serve to satisfy your husband.”

The lady wrote, and handed back the paper.

“Good!” said Winslow. “Before taking another meal, I
will draw up and sign a will by which your requests can be
made effectual.”

“Your hand, Mr. Winslow! My father trusted you as he
did no other man, and I thank you for your loyalty to what you
knew to be his wishes.”

“The task he put upon me has been a very simple one,
madam. Good by. We shall soon meet again, I hope.”

“Yes. I shall be quite well of my heart-complaint then.
Good by.”

Hardly had Winslow left the house than Ratcliff drove up
and entered. He was in a jubilant mood. News had just been

received of the Confederate victory at Bull Run. He knocked
at his wife's door. “Come in!” He entered. Josephine and
Clara were present, trying to soothe the invalid. One was
bathing her forehead with eau de Cologne; the other was
kneeling, and rubbing her feet. She had been telling them
what she had done. She had kissed first one and then the
other, lavishing on them profuse tokens of affection. Her eyes
gleamed with an unnatural brightness, and her cheeks were
flushed with the glow of a great excitement.

As Ratcliff came in she rose, and, standing between Josephine
and Clara, put an arm round the shoulder of each, and looked
her husband steadily in the face. Her expression was that of
one who cannot find words adequate to the utterance of some
absorbing emotion. The look was compounded at once of defiance
and of pity. Her lips moved, but no articulation followed.
Then suddenly, with a gasped “Ah!” she convulsively bowed
her body like a tree smitten by the tornado. The pain, if
sharp, was but for a moment.

The motion was her last. She sank into the faithful arms
that encircled her. The one attenuated chord that bound her
to the mortal life had been snapped.

Ratcliff started forward, and satisfied himself that his wife
was really dead. Then he looked up at Clara.

She caught the expression of his countenance, and instinctively
comprehended it, even as the little bird understands the
hawk, or the lamb the wolf. Josephine saw it too. What a
triumph now to think that she was no longer his slave!

But Clara, — what of her? Mrs. Ratcliff's sudden death
seemed to shatter the last barrier between her and danger.

Ratcliff did not affect to conceal his satisfaction. Here was
a double victory! The Federals and his wife both disposed
of in one day! Youth and beauty within his grasp! Truly,
fortune seemed to be heaping her good things upon him. That
half a million too, in Winslow's hands, would come very opportunely;
for slaves could be bought cheap, dog-cheap, now that
croakers were predicting ruin to the institution.

“Josephine,” said he, “I must go at once to see Winslow,
the late” — how readily he seized on that word! — “the late
Mrs. Ratcliff's man of business. I may not be home to dinner.

You 'd better not take out the carriage. The horses would be
frightened; for the streets are all in commotion with salvos for
our great victory. Good by till I return.”

Once more he turned on Clara that look from which she had
twice before shrunk dismayed and exasperated.

After he had gone, “Help me to escape at once!” she exclaimed.

“No,” replied Josephine. “This is our safest place for the
present. The avenues of escape from the city are all closed;
and we should find it difficult to go where we would not be
tracked. The danger is not immediate. Do not look so wild,
Darling. I swear to you that I will protect you to the last.
Whither thou goest I will go, and where thou lodgest I will
lodge.”