University of Virginia Library

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37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
COMPARING NOTES.

NOT many weeks after the conversation (not altogether
imaginary) at the White House, a young man in the
uniform of a captain lay on the sofa in a room at Willard's
Hotel in Washington. He lay reading a newspaper, but the
paleness of his face showed that he had been suffering either
from illness or a serious wound. This young man was Onslow.
In a cavalry skirmish at Winchester, in which the Rebels had
been handsomely routed, he had been shot through the lungs,
the ball coming out at his back. There was one chance in a
thousand that the direction taken by the ball would be such that
the wound should not prove fatal; and this thousandth chance
happened in his favor. Thanks to a naturally vigorous constitution,
he was rapidly convalescing. He began to be impatient
once more for action.

There was a knock at the door, and Vance entered.

“How is our cavalry captain to-day?” he asked cheerily.

“Better and better, my dear Mr. Vance.”

“Let me feel of his pulse. Excellent! Firm, regular!
Appetite?”

“Improving daily. He ate two boiled eggs and a lamb chop
for breakfast, not to speak of a slice of aerated bread.”

“Come now, — that will do. He will be ready soon for a
bullet through his other lung. But he must not get restless.
There 's plenty of fighting in store for him.”

“Mr. Vance, I 've been pondering the strange story of your
life; your interview with my father on board the Pontiac; the

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“Yes, by certain marks on her person. She at once recognized
the little sleeve-button I got from Quattles.”

“Please let me look at it.”

Vance took from his pocket a small circular box which he
unscrewed, and there, in the centre of a circle of hair, lay the
button. He handed the box to the wounded soldier. At this
moment Kenrick entered the room.

“Ha, Lieutenant! What 's the news?” exclaimed Vance.

“Ask any one but me,” returned Kenrick. “Have I not
been all the morning trying guns at the navy-yard? What
have you there, Robert! A lock of hair? Ah! I have seen
that hair before.”

“Impossible!” said Vance.

“Not at all!” replied Kenrick. “The color is too peculiar
to be confounded. Miss Perdita Brown wore a bracelet of that
hair the last evening we met her at the St. Charles.”

“Again I say, impossible,” quoth Vance. “Something like
it perhaps, but not this. How could she have come by it?”

“Cousin,” replied Kenrick, “I 'm quick to detect slight differences
of color, and in this case I 'm sure.”

Suddenly the Lieutenant noticed the little sleeve-button in
Onslow's hand, and, while the blood mounted to his forehead,
turning to him said, “How did you come by this, Robert?”

“Why do you ask with so much interest?” inquired Vance.

“Because that same button I 've seen worn by Perdita.”

“Now I know you 're raving,” said Vance; “for, till now, it
has n't been out of my pocket since Quattles gave it me.”

“Do you mean to say,” exclaimed Kenrick, “that this is the
jewel of which you told me; that which belonged to the lost
infant of the Pontiac?”

“Yes; her nurse identifies it. Undoubtedly it is one of a
pair worn by poor little Clara.”

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“Then,” said Kenrick, with the emphasis of sudden conviction,
“Clara and Perdita are one and the same!”

Startling as a severe blow was this declaration to Vance.
It forced upon his consideration a possibility so new, so strange,
so distressing, that he felt crushed by the thought that there
was even a chance of its truth. Such an opportunity, thrust,
as it were, by Fate under his eyes, had it been allowed to
escape him? His emotions were those of a blind man, who
being suddenly restored to sight, learns that he has passed by a
treasure which another has picked up. He paced the room.
He struck his arms out wildly. He pushed up the sleeves of
his coat with an objectless energy, and then pulled them down.

“O blind mole!” he groaned, “too intent on thy own little
burrow to see the stars out-shining! O beast with blinders!
looking neither on the right nor on the left, but only straight
before thy nose!”

And then, as if ashamed of his ranting, he sat down and said:
“How strange that this possibility should never have occurred
to me! I saw there was a mystery in the poor girl's fate, and
I tried to make her disclose it. Had I only seen her that last
day I called, I should have extorted her confidence. Once or
twice during our interviews she seemed on the point of telling
me something. Then she would check herself, as if from some
prompting of delicacy or of caution. To think that I should
have been so inconsiderate! To think, too, that I should have
been duped by that heartless lay-figure for dressmakers and
milliners, Miss Tremaine! Yes! I almost dread to look further
lest I should be convinced that Charles is right, and that Clara
Berwick and Perdita Brown are one and the same person. If
so, the poor girl we all so admired is a slave!”

“A slave!” gasped Kenrick, struck to the heart by the
cruel word, and turning pale.

“I 'd like to see the man who 'd venture to style himself her
master in my presence!” cried Onslow, forgetting his wound,
and half rising from the sofa.

“Soft!” said Vance. “We may be too hasty in our conclusion.
There may be sleeve-buttons by the gross, precisely of
this pattern, in the shops.”

“No!” replied Kenrick. “Coral of that color is what you

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“What letters?” exclaimed Vance, fiercely, arresting Kenrick's
hand so he could not examine the button.

“The letters C. A. B.,” replied Kenrick.

“Good heavens, yes!” ejaculated Vance, releasing him, and
sinking into an arm-chair. And then, after several seconds of
profound sighing, he drew forth from his pocket-book an envelope,
and said: “This contains the testimony of Hattie
Davy in regard to certain personal marks that would go far to
prove identity. One of these marks I distinctly remember as
striking my attention in Clara, the child, and yet I never
noticed it in the person we knew as Perdita. Could I have
failed to remark it, had it existed?”

“Why not?” answered Kenrick. “Your thoughts are too
intent on public business for you to apply them very closely to
an examination of the personal graces or defects of any young
woman, however charming.”

“Tell me, Captain,” said Vance to Onslow, “did you ever
notice in Perdita any physical peculiarity, in which she differed
from most other persons?”

“I merely noticed she was peculiarly beautiful,” replied
Onslow; “that she wore her own fine, rich, profuse hair exclusively,
instead of borrowing tresses from the wig-maker, as
nine tenths of our young ladies do now-a-days; that her features
were not only handsome in themselves by those laws
which a sculptor would acknowledge, but lovely from the expression
that made them luminous; that her form was the most
symmetrical; her —”

“Enough, Captain!” interrupted Vance. “I see you did
not detect the peculiarity to which I allude. Now tell me,
cousin, how was it with you? Were you more penetrating?”

“I think I know to what you refer,” replied Kenrick. “Her
eyes were of different colors; one a rich dark blue, the other
gray.”

“Fate! yes!” exclaimed Vance, dashing one hand against
the other. “Can you tell me which was blue?”

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“Yes, the left was blue.”

Vance took from the envelope a paper, and unfolding it
pointed to these lines which Onslow and Kenrick perused together:
—

“Rather a striking concurrence of testimony!” said Onslow.
“I wonder I should never have detected the oddity.”

“Let me remark,” replied Kenrick, “that it required a near
observation to note the difference in the hue of the eyes.
Three feet off you would hardly discriminate. The depth of
shade is nearly equal in both. You might be acquainted with
Perdita a twelvemonth and never heed the peculiarity. So do
not, cousin, take blame to yourself for inattention.”

“Do you remember, Charles,” said Vance, “our visit to the
hospital the day after our landing in New York?”

“Yes, I shall never forget the scene,” replied Kenrick.

“Do you remember,” continued Vance, “among the nurses
quite a young girl, who, while carrying a salver of food to a
wounded soldier, was asked by you if you should not relieve
her of the burden?”

“Yes; and her reply was, `Where are your shoulder-straps?'
And she eyed me from head to foot with provoking coolness.
`I 'm on my way to Washington for them,' answered I. `Then
you may take the slaver,' said the little woman, graciously
thrusting it into my hands.”

“Well, Charles, when I was in New York last week, I saw
that same little women again, and found out who she is. How
strangely, in this kaleidoscope of events which we call the
world, we are brought in conjunction with those persons between
whose fate and our own Chance or Providence seems to
tender a significance which it would have us heed and solve!

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“Would he be disposed to surrender it?” asked Onslow.

“Probably not. I took pains while in New York to make
inquiries. I learnt that his domestic status is far from enviable.
He himself, could be follow his heart's proclivities, would
be a miser. Then he could be happy and contented — in his
way. But this his wife will not allow. She forces him by
the power of a superior will into expenses at which his heart
revolts, although they do not absorb a fifth part of his income.
The daughter shrinks from him with an innate aversion which
she cannot overcome. And so, unloving and unloved, he finds
in his own base avarice the instrument that scourges him and
keeps him wretched.”

“I should not feel much compunction in compelling such a
man to unclutch his riches,” remarked Onslow.

“It will be very difficult to do that, I fear,” said Vance,
“even supposing we can find and identify the true heir.”

“We must find her, cost what it may!” cried Kenrick.
“Cousin, take me to New Orleans with you.”

“No, Charles. You are wanted here on the Potomac. Your
reputation in gunnery is already high. The country needs more
officers of your stamp. You cannot be spared. The Captain
here can go with me to the Gulf. He is wounded and entitled
to a furlough. A trip to New Orleans by sea will do him good.”

With a look of grave disappointment Kenrick took up a
newspaper and kept his face concealed by it for a moment.
Then putting it down, and turning to Vance, he said, with a
sweet sincerity in his tone: “Cousin, where my wishes are so
strongly enlisted, you can judge better than I of my duty. I
yield to your judgment, and, if you persist in it, will make no
effort to get from government the permission I covet.”

“Truly I think your place is here,” said Vance.

A servant entered with a letter. It was for Vance. He
opened it, and finding it was from Peek, read as follows: —

“New Orleans, February, 1862.

“Dear Mr. Vance: On leaving you at the Levee I drove
straight for the stable where my horses belonged. I passed

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the night with my friend Antoine, the coachman. The next
day I went to your house, where I have stayed with those kind
people, the Bernards, ever since.

“Please inform Mr. Winslow I duly attended to his commissions.
What will seem strange to you is the fact that in
attending to his affairs I am attending to yours. Two days
after your departure the newspapers contained flaming accounts
of the treacherous seizure of the Artful Dodger by
Messrs. Vance, Winslow, & Co., — their pursuit by the Rebel,
the encounter, the Rebel's discomfiture, the `abduction' of
Mr. Ratcliff, the funeral of his poor wife, etc. Seeing that
Mr. Ratcliff was absent, I thought the opportunity favorable
for me to call at his house on the quadroon lady, Madame
Volney, to whom Mr. Winslow had commended me. I went
and found in the servant who opened the door an old acquaintance,
Esha, whom years ago you sought for in vain. She was
here keeping watch over a white slave.

“And who is the white slave? you will ask. Ah! there 's
the mystery. Who is she indeed! In the first place, she is
claimed by Ratcliff; in the next, she and Madame Volney are
the residuary legatees of the late Mrs. Ratcliff; in the next,
she is the young lady who has been staying with Miss Tremaine
at the St. Charles.”

Here there was a cry of pain from Vance, so sharp and
sudden that Kenrick started forward to his relief.

“What 's the matter? Is it bad news?” inquired Onslow.

“I 'll finish reading the letter by myself,” replied Vance,
taking his departure without ceremony.

Seated in his own apartment, he continued the reading: —

“Do not think me fanciful, Mr. Vance, but the moment I
set eyes on this young woman the conviction struck me, She
is the lost Clara for whom we are seeking. The coincidence
of age and the fact that I have had the search of her on my
mind, may fully explain the impression. May. But you know
I believe in the phenomena of Spiritualism. Belief is not the
right word. Knowledge would be nearer the truth.

“There is here in New Orleans a young man named Bender
who calls himself a medium. He is a worthless fellow, and I
have several times caught him cheating. But he nevertheless
gives me glimpses of spiritual powers. There are some plain
cases in which cheating is impossible. For instance, if without
throwing out any previous hint, however remote, I think of

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twenty different persons in succession, my knowledge of whom
is a secret in my own brain, and if I say to a medium, `Of
what person am I thinking now?' and if the medium instantly,
without hesitation or inquiry, gives me the right reply twenty
times in succession, I may reasonably conclude — may I not? —
that the power is what it appears to be, and that the medium
gets his knowledge through a faculty which, if not preternatural,
is very rare, and is denied as possible by science. Well,
this test has been fulfilled, not once only, but more than fifty
different times.[1]

“I got Madame Volney's consent to bring Bender to the
house. After he had showed her his wonderful powers of
thought-reading, we put the hand of the white slave in his,
and bade him tell us her name. He wrote with great rapidity,
Clara Aylesford Berwick. We asked her father's name. In
a moment the medium's limbs twitched and writhed, his eyeballs
rolled up so that their natural expression was lost, and he
extended his arm as if in pain. Then suddenly dropping the
girl's hand he drew up the sleeve from his right arm, and
there, in crimson letters on the white skin were the words
Henry Berwick.[2]

“Now whether this is the right name or not I do not know.
I presume that it is; though it is rarely safe to trust a medium
in such cases. The child's name I have heard you say
was Clara Berwick. I have never spoken or written it except
to yourself. Still Bender may have got the father's name, —
the surname at least, — from my mind. But if the name
Henry is right, where did he get that? I am not aware of
ever having known the father's name. The check he once
gave you for me you never showed me, but cashed it yourself.
Still I shall not too positively claim that the name was communicated
preternaturally; for experience has convinced me it
may have been in my mind without my knowing it. Every
thought of our lives is probably photographed on our brains,
never to be obliterated. Let me study, then, to multiply my
good thoughts. But in whatever way Bender got the name,
whether from my mind or from a spirit, the fact is interesting
and important in either case.

“The effect upon Clara (for so we now all call her) of this
singular event was such as to convince her instantaneously that

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the name was right, and that she is the child of Henry Berwick.
As soon as the medium had gone, she asked me if I
could not find out who Mr. Berwick was. I then told her the
story of the Pontiac, down to the recent confession of Quattles,
and my own search for Colonel Delancy Hyde. All my little
group of hearers — Madame Volney, Esha, and Clara — were
deeply interested, as you may suppose, in the narrative. Clara
was much moved when she learnt that the same Mr. Vance,
whose acquaintance she had made, was the one who had known
the parents, and was now seeking for their daughter. She has
a serene conviction that she is the identical child. When I
read what you had written about different colored eyes, she
simply said, `Look, Peek!' And there they were, — blue and
gray!

“Mr. Ratcliff's house is in the charge of his lawyer, Mr.
Semmes, who keeps a very strict eye over all outgoings and
incomings. Esha has his confidence, but he distrusts both
Clara and Madame Volney. By pretending that I am her half-brother,
Esha enables me to come and go unsuspected. The
medium, Bender, was introduced as a chiropedist. Clara never
goes out without a driver and footman, who are agents and
spies of Semmes. It does not matter at present; for it would
be difficult in the existing state of affairs to remove Clara out
of the city without running great risk of detection and pursuit.
I have sometimes thought of putting her in a boat and rowing
down the river to Pass à l'Outre; but the hazard would be
serious.

“As it is important to collect all the proofs possible for Clara's
identification, it was at first agreed among the women that Esha
should call, as if in the interests of Mr. Ratcliff, on Mrs. Gentry,
the teacher, and get from that lady all the facts, dates, and
memorials that may have a bearing on Clara's history. But,
on reflection, I concluded it would be better to put the matter
in the hands of a lawyer who could take down in legal form,
with the proper attestation, all that Mrs. Gentry might have to
communicate. Mr. Winslow had given me a letter of introduction
to Mr. Jasper, his confidential adviser, and a loyal man.
To him I went and explained what I wanted. He at once
gave the business his attention. With two suitable witnesses
he called on Mrs. Gentry and took down her deposition. I
had told him to procure, if possible, some articles of dress that
belonged to the child when first brought to the house. This he
succeeded in doing. A little undershirt and frock, — a child's
petticoat and pocket-handkerchief, — were among the articles,

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and they were all marked in white silk, C. A. B. Mrs. Gentry
said that her own oath as to the clothes could be confirmed by
Esha's. Esha was accordingly sent for, and she came, and, being
duly sworn, identified the clothes as those the child had on
when first left at the house; which clothes Esha had washed,
and the child had subsequently worn. This testimony being
duly recorded, the clothes were done up carefully in a paper
package, to which the seals of all the gentlemen present were
attached; and then the package was placed in a small leather
trunk which was locked.

“I should mention one circumstance that adds fresh confirmation.
In telling Miss Clara what Quattles had confessed (the
details of which you give in that important letter you handed
me) I alluded to the pair of sleeve-buttons. `Was there any
mark upon them?' she asked. `Yes, the initials C. A. B.'
She instantly drew forth from her bosom another pair, the
counterpart probably of that described in your letter, and on
one of the buttons were the same characters! Can we resist
such evidences?

“Let me mention another extraordinary development. Madame
Volney does not scruple to resort to all the stratagems
justifiable in war to get information from the enemy. Mr.
Semmes is an old fox, but not so cunning as to guard against
an inspection of his papers by means of duplicate keys. In
one of the drawers of the library he deposits his letters. In
looking them over the other day, Madame V. found one from
Mr. Semmes's brother in New York, in which the fact is disclosed
that this house, hired by Mr. Ratcliff, belonged to Miss
Clara's father, and ought, if the inheritance had not been fraudulently
intercepted, to be now her property! Said Miss Clara
to me when she learnt the fact, `Peek, if I am ever rich, you
shall have a nice little cottage overlooking my garden.' Ah!
Mr. Vance, I thought of Naomi, and wondered if she would be
living to share the promised fortune.

“I have a vague fear of this Mr. Semmes. Under the affectation
of great frankness, he seems to me one of those men who
make it a rule to suspect everybody. I have warned the
women to take heed to their conversation; to remember that
walls have ears. I rely much on Esha. She has, thus far,
been too deep for him. He has several times tried to throw
her off her guard; but has not yet succeeded. He is evidently
distrustful and disposed to lay traps for us.

“It appears that Mr. Ratcliff's plan, at the time you intercepted
him in his career, and had him sent North, was to offer mar

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riage to this young girl he claims to hold as a slave. Marriage
with him would plainly be as hateful to her as any other species
of relation; and my present wish is to put her as soon as
possible beyond his reach, lest he should any time unexpectedly
return. Madame Volney is so confident in her power to save
her, that Clara's anxieties seem to be much allayed; and now
that she fully believes she is no slave, but the legitimate child
of honorable parents, she cultivates an assurance as to her
safety, which I hope is not the precursor of misfortune. The
money which Mr. Winslow left in my hands for her use would
be sufficient to enable us to carry out some effectual scheme of
escape; but Madame Volney does not agree with me as to the
importance of an immediate attempt. Will Ratcliff come
back? That is the question I now daily ask myself.

“I recognized on Clara's wrist the other day a bracelet of
your wife's hair. How did she come by it? The reply was
simple. Esha gave it to her. Clara is very fond of questioning
me about you. She has learnt from me all the particulars
of your wife's tragical fate, and of the debt you yourself owe
to the Slave Power. She takes the intensest interest in the
war. Learning from me that my friend Cailloux was forming
a secret league among the blacks in aid of the Union cause,
she made me take five hundred dollars of the money left by Mr.
Winslow for her in my possession, and this she sent to Cailloux
with a letter. He wrote her in reply, that he wished no better
end than to die fighting for the Union and for the elevation of
his race.[3]

“I have not forgotten the importance of getting hold of
Colonel Hyde. I have searched for him daily in the principal
drinking-saloons, but have found no trace of him as yet. I
have also kept up my search for my wife, having sent out two
agents, who, I trust, may be more fortunate than I myself have
been; for I sometimes think my own over-anxiety may have
defeated my purpose. In making these searches I have availed
myself of the means you have so generously placed at my
disposal.

“The few Union men who are here are looking hopefully to
the promised expedition of Farragut and Butler. But the
Rebels are defiant and even contemptuous in their incredulity.

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They say our fleet can never pass Forts Jackson and St.
Philip. And then they have an iron ram, on the efficacy of
which they largely count. Furthermore, they mean to welcome
us with bloody hands, &c.; die in the last ditch, &c. We
shall see. This prayer suffices for me: God help the right!
Adieu!

“Faithfully,

Peek.”

 

[1]

The writer has fully tested it in repeated instances; and there are probably
several hundred thousand persons at this moment in the United States
to whom the same species of test is a certainty, not merely a belief.

[2]

The parallel facts are too numerous and notorious to need specification.

[3]

Captain Andre Cailloux, a negro, was a well-educated and accomplished
gentleman. He belonged to the First Louisiana regiment, and perished
nobly at Port Hudson, May 17, 1863, leading on his men in the thickest of
the fight. His body was recovered the latter part of July, and interred with
great ceremony at New Orleans.

We have seen with what profound emotion Vance received
the information, that the man whose formidable power was enclosing
Clara in its folds was the same whose brutality had
killed Estelle. Vance could no longer doubt that Clara and
Perdita were identical. He looked in his memorandum-book
to assure himself of the name of Clara's father. Yes! Bender
was right. There were the words: Henry Berwick.

Then putting on his hat Vance hurried to the War Office.
Would the Secretary have the goodness to address a question
to the officer commanding at Fort Lafayette? Certainly: it
could be done instantly by telegraph. Have the goodness to
ask if Mr. Ratcliff, of New Orleans, is still under secure confinement.

The click of the telegraph apparatus in the War Office was
speedily heard, putting the desired interrogatory.

“Expect a reply in half an hour,” said the operator.

Vance looked at his watch, and then passed out into the
paved corridor and walked up and down. He thought of
Clara, — of the bracelet of his wife's hair on her wrist. It
moved him to tears. Was there not something in the identity
in the position of these two young and lovely women that
seemed to draw him by the subtle meshes of an overruling fate
to Clara's side? Could it be that Estelle herself, a guardian
angel, was favoring the conjunction?

For an instant that gracious image which had so long been
the light of his waking and his sleeping dreams, seemed to
retire, and another to take her place; another, different, yet
hardly less lovely.

For an instant, and for the second time, visions of a new
domestic paradise, — of beautiful children who should call him
father, — of a daughter whose name should be Estelle, — of life's
evening spent amid the amenities of a refined and happy home,

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Ah! it was so life-like, so real, so near and positive in its
presence, that no other could be its substitute! For no other
could his heart's chalice overflow with immortal love. Had she
not said, —

He looked again at his watch, and re-entered that inner
office of the War Department, to which none but those high in
government confidence were often admitted.

“We have just received a reply to your inquiry,” said the
clerk. “Mr. Ratcliff of New Orleans made his escape from
Fort Lafayette ten days ago. The Department has taken
active measures to have him rearrested.”