University of Virginia Library

41. CHAPTER XLI.
HOPES AND FEARS.

THREE days after his interview with the “remarkable
man,” Ratcliff was at Montgomery, Ala. There he telegraphed
to Semmes, and received these words in reply: “All
safe. On your arrival, go first to my office for directions.”
Ratcliff obeyed, and found a letter telling him not to go home,
but to meet Semmes immediately at the house to which the
latter had transferred the white slave. Half an hour did not
elapse before lawyer and client sat in the curtained drawing-room
of this house, discussing their affairs.

“I cannot believe,” said Ratcliff, “that Josephine intended
to have the girl escape. She was the first to plan this marriage.”

“I did not act on light grounds of suspicion,” replied
Semmes. “I had myself overheard remarks which convinced
me that Madame was playing a double game. Either she or
some one else has put it into the girl's head that she is not lawfully
a slave, but the kidnapped child of respectable parents.”

As he spoke these words Semmes looked narrowly at Ratcliff,
who blenched as if at an unexpected thrust. Following
up his advantage, Semmes continued: “And, by the way, there
is one awkward circumstance which, if known, might make
trouble. I see by examining the notary's books, that, in the
record of your proprietorship, you speak of the child as a
quadroon. Now plainly she has no sign of African blood in
her veins.”

Ratcliff gnawed his lips a moment, and then remarked:
“The fact that the record speaks of the child as a quadroon
does not amount to much. She may have been born of a
quadroon mother, and may have been tanned while an infant

so as to appear herself like a quadroon; and subsequently her
skin may have turned fair. All that will be of little account.
Half of the white slaves in the city would not be suspected of
having African blood in their veins, but for the record. Who
would think of disputing my claim to a slave, — one, too, that
had been held by me for some fifteen years?”

Well might Ratcliff ask the question. It is true that the
laws of Louisiana had some ameliorated features that seemed
to throw a sort of protection round the slave; and one of these
was the law preventing the separation of young children from
their mothers under the hammer; and making ownership in
slaves transferable, not by a mere bill of sale, like a bale of
goods, but by deed formally recorded by a notary. But it is
none the less true that such are the necessities of slavery that
the law was often a dead letter. There was always large room
for evasion and injustice; and the man who should look too
curiously into transactions, involving simply the rights of the
slave, would be pretty sure to have his usefulness cut short by
being denounced as an Abolitionist.

The ignominious expulsion of Mr. Hoar who went to South
Carolina, not to look after the rights of slaves, but of colored
freemen, was a standing warning against any philanthropy that
had in view the enforcement or testing of laws friendly to the
blacks.

“I should not be surprised,” remarked Semmes, “if this
young woman either has, or believes she has, some proofs
invalidating your claim to hold her as a chattel.”

“Bah! I 've no fear of that. Who, in the name of all the
fairies, does the little woman imagine she is?”

“She cherishes the notion that she is the daughter of that
same Henry Berwick who was lost in the Pontiac. Should
that be so, the house you live in is hers. That would be odd,
would n't it? You seem surprised. Is there any probability
in the tale?”

“None whatever!” exclaimed Ratcliff, affecting to laugh,
but evidently preoccupied in mind, and intent on following out
some vague reminiscence.

He remembered that the infant he had bought as a slave
and taken into his barouche wore a chemise on which were

initial letters marked in silk. He was struck at the time by
the fineness of the work and of the fabric. He now tried to
recall those initial letters. By their mnemonic association with
a certain word, he had fixed them in his mind. He strove to
recall that word. Suddenly he started up. The word had
come back to him. It was cab. The initials were C. A. B.
Semmes detected his emotion, and drew his own inferences
accordingly.

“By the way,” said he, “having a little leisure last night, I
looked back through an old file of the Bee newspaper, and
there hit upon a letter from the pen of a passenger, written a
few days after the explosion of the Pontiac.”

“Indeed! One would think, judging from the trouble you
take about it, you attached some degree of credence to this fanciful
story.”

“No. 'T is quite incredible. But a lawyer, you know,
ought to be prepared on all points, however trivial, affecting his
client's interests.”

“Did you find anything to repay you for your search?”

“I will read you a passage from the letter; which letter, by
the way, bears the initials A. L., undoubtedly, as I infer from
the context, those of Arthur Laborie, whose authority no one
in New Orleans will question. Here is the passage. The letter
is in French. I will translate as I read: —

“I don't see anything in all that,” said Ratcliff, impatiently.

“Perhaps not,” replied Semmes; “but an interested lawyer
would see a good deal to set him thinking and inquiring. The
letter, having been published in French, may not have met the
eyes of any one to whom the information would have been
suggestive.”

“Really, Semmes, you seem to be trying to make out a
case.”

“The force of habit. 'Tis second nature for a lawyer to revolve
such questions. Many big cases are built on narrower
foundations.”

“Psha! The incident might do very well in a romance,
but 'tis not one of a kind known to actual life.”

“Pardon me. Incidents resembling it are not infrequent.
There was the famous Burrows case, where a child stolen by
Indians was recovered and identified in time to prevent the
diversion of a large property. There was the case of Aubert,
where a quadroon concubine managed to substitute her own
child in the place of the legitimate heir. Indeed, I could mention
quite a number of cases, not at all dissimilar, and some of
them having much more of the quality of romance.”

“Damn it, Semmes, what are you driving at? Do you want
to take a chance in that lottery?”

“Have I ever deserted a client? We must not shrink —
we lawyers — from looking a case square in the face.”

“Nonsense! The art how not to see is that which the prudent
lawyer is most solicitous to learn. It is not by looking a
case square in the face, but by looking only at his side of it,
that he wins.”

“On the contrary, the man of nerve looks boldly at the danger,
and fends off accordingly. Should you marry this young
lady, it may be a very pleasant thing to know that she 's the
true heir to a million.”

“Curse me, but I did n't think of that!” cried Ratcliff, rubbing
his hands, and then patting the lawyer on the shoulder.
“Go on with your investigations, Semmes! Hunt up more information
about the Pontiac. Go and see Laborie. Question
Ripper, the auctioneer. I left him in Montgomery, but he will
be at the St. Charles to-morrow. Find out who Quattles was;

and who the Colonel was who acted as Quattles's friend, but
whose name I forget. 'T is barely possible there may have
been some little irregularities practised; and if so, so much
the better for me! What fat pickings for you, Semmes, if we
could make it out that this little girl is the rightful heir! All
this New Orleans property can be saved from Confederate confiscation.
And then, as soon as the war is ended, we can go
and establish her rights in New York.”

Semmes took a pinch of snuff, and replied: “You remember
Mrs. Glass's well-worn receipt for cooking a hare: `First,
catch your hare.' So I say, first make sure that the young girl
will say yes to your proposition.”

“What! do you entertain a doubt? A slave? One I could
send to the auction-block to-morrow? Do you imagine she
will decline an alliance with Carberry Ratcliff? Look you,
Semmes! I've set my heart on this marriage more than I
ever did on any other scheme in my whole life. The chance —
for 't is only a remote chance — that she is of gentle blood, —
well-born, the rightful heir to a million, — this enhances the
prize, and gives new piquancy to an acquisition already sufficiently
tempting to my eyes. There must be no such word as
fail in this business, Mr. Lawyer. You must help me to bring
it to a prosperous conclusion instantly.”

“No: do not say instantly. Beware being precipitate.
Remember what the poet says, — `A woman's No is but a
crooked path unto a woman's Yes.' Do not mind a first rebuff.
Do not play the master. Be distant and respectful. Attempt
no liberties. You will only shock and exasperate. By a gentle,
insinuating course, you may win.”

“May win? I must win, Semmes! There must be no if
about it.”

“I want to see you win, Ratcliff; but show her you assume
there 's no if in the case, and you repel and alienate her.”

“I don't know that. Most women like a man the better for
being truly, as well as nominally, the lord and master. The
more imperious he is, the more readily and tenaciously they
cling to him. I don't believe in letting a woman suppose that
she can seize the reins when she pleases.”

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders, then replied: “The

tyrant is hated by every person of sense, whether man or woman.
I grant you there are many women who have n't much
sense. But this little lady of yours is the last in the world on
whom you can safely try the experiment of compulsion. Take
my word for it, the true course is to let her suppose she is free
to act. You must rule her by not seeming to rule.”

“Well, let me see the girl, and I can judge better then as
to the fit policy. I 've encountered women before in my day.
You don't speak to a novice in woman-taming. I never met
but one yet who ventured to hold out against me, — and she
got the worst of it, I reckon.” And a grim smile passed over
Ratcliff's face as he thought of Estelle.

“You will find the young lady in the room corresponding
with this, on the third story,” said the lawyer. “The door is
locked, but the key is on the outside. Please consider that my
supervision ends here. I leave the servants in the house subject
to your command. The Sister Agatha in immediate
attendance is a pious fool, who believes her charge is insane.
She will obey you implicitly. Sam will attend to the marketing.
My own affairs now claim my attention. I 've suffered
largely from their neglect during your absence. Be careful
not to be seen coming in or going out of this house. I have
used extreme precautions, and have thus far baffled those who
would help the young woman to escape.”

“I shall not be less vigilant,” replied Ratcliff. “I accept
the keys and the responsibility. Good by. I go to let the
young woman know that her master has returned.”

Ratcliff seized his hat and passed out of the room up-stairs
as fast as his somewhat pursy habit of body would allow.

“There goes a man who puts his hat on the head of a fool,”
muttered the old lawyer. “Confound him! If he were n't so
deep in my books, I would leave him to his own destruction,
and join the enemy. I 'm not sure this would n't be the best
policy as it is.”

Thus venting his anger in soliloquy Mr. Semmes quitted the
house, and walked in meditative mood to his office.

Ratcliff paused at the uppermost stair on the third story.
From the room came the sound of a piano-forte, with a vocal

accompaniment. Clara was singing “While Thee I seek, protecting
Power,” — a hymn which, though written by Helen
Maria Williams when she thought herself a deist, is used by
thousands of Christian congregations to interpret their highest
mood of devout trust and pious resignation. As the clear,
out-swelling notes fell on Ratcliff's ears, he drew back as if a
flaming sword had been waved menacingly before his face.

He walked down into the room below and waited till the
music was over; then he boldly proceeded up-stairs again,
knocked at the door, unlocked it, and entered. Clara looked
round from turning the leaves of a music-book, rose, and bent
upon her visitor a penetrating glance as if she would fathom
the full depth of his intents. Ratcliff advanced and put out
his hand. She did not take it, but courtesied and motioned
him to a seat.

She was dressed in a flowing gauze-like robe of azure over
white, appropriate to the warmth of the season. Her hair was
combed back from her forehead and temples, showing the full
symmetry of her head. Her lips, of a delicate coral, parted
just enough to show the white perfection of her teeth. Rarely
had she looked so dangerously beautiful. Ratcliff was swift to
notice all these points.

Assuming that a compliment on her personal appearance
could never come amiss to a woman, young or old, he said:
“Upon my word, you are growing more beautiful every day,
Miss Murray. I had thought there was no room for improvement.
I find my mistake.”

Ratcliff looked narrowly to see if there were any expression
of pleasure on her face, but it did not relax from its impenetrability.

“Will you not be seated?” he asked.

She sat down, and he followed her example. There was
silence for a moment. The master felt almost embarrassed
before the young girl he had so long regarded as a slave.
Something like a genuine emotion began to stir in his heart as
he said: “Miss Murray, you are well aware that I am the
only person to whom you are entitled to look for protection and
support. From an infant you have been under my charge, and
I hope you will admit that I have not been ungenerous in providing
for you.”

“One word, sir, at the outset, on that point,” interposed
Clara. “All the expense you have been at for me shall be
repaid and overpaid at once with interest. You are aware I
have the means to reimburse you fully.”

“Excuse me, Miss Murray; without meaning to taunt you,
— simply to set you right in your notions, — let me remark,
that, being my slave, you can hold no property independent of
me. All you have is legally mine.”

“How can that be, sir, when what I have is entirely out of
your power; safely deposited in the vaults of Northern banks,
where your claim not only is not recognized, but where you
could not go to enforce it without being liable to be arrested as
a traitor?”

A dark, savage expression flitted over Ratcliff's face as he
thought of the turn which his wife, aided by Winslow, had
served him; but he checked the ire which was rising to his
lips, and replied: “Let me beg you not to cherish an unprofitable
delusion, my dear Miss Murray. When this war terminates,
as it inevitably will, in the triumph of the South, one of
the conditions of peace which we shall impose on the North
will be, that all claims resulting out of slavery, either through
the abduction of slaves or the transfer of property held as
theirs, shall be settled by the fullest indemnification to masters.
In that event your little property, which Mr. Winslow thinks
he has hid safely away beyond my recovery, will be surely
reached and returned to me, the lawful owner.”

“Well, sir,” replied Clara, forcing a calmness at which she
herself was surprised, “supposing, what I do not regard as
probable, that the South will have its own way in this war,
and that my title to all property will be set aside as superseded
by yours, let me inform you that I have a friend who
will come to my aid, and make you the fullest compensation
for all the expense you have been at on my account.”

“Indeed! Is there any objection to my knowing to what
friend you allude?”

“None at all, sir. Madame Volney is that friend.”

“Well, we will not discuss that point now,” said Ratcliff,
smiling incredulously as he thought how speedily a few blandishments
from him would overcome any resolution which the

lady referred to might form. “My plans for you, Miss Murray,
are all honorable, and such as neither you nor the world
can regard as other than generous. Consider what I might do
if I were so disposed! I could put you up at auction to-morrow
and sell you to some brute of a fellow who would degrade
and misuse you. Instead of that, what do I propose? First
let me speak a few words of myself. I am, it is true, considerably
your senior, but not old, and not ill-looking, if I may
believe my glass. My property, already large, will be enormous
the moment the war is over. I have bought within the
last six months, at prices almost nominal, over a thousand
slaves, whose value will be increased twenty-fold with the
return of peace. My position in the new Confederacy will be
among the foremost. Already President Davis has assured
me that whatever I may ask in the way of a new foreign mission
I can have. Thus the lady who may link her fate with
mine will be a welcome guest at all the courts of Europe. If
she is beautiful, her beauty will be admired by princes, kings,
and emperors. If she is intellectual, all the wits and great
men of London and Paris will be ambitious to make her acquaintance.
Now what do you think I propose for you?”

“Let me not disguise my knowledge,” replied Clara, looking
him in the face till he dropped his eyelids. “You propose that
I should be your wife.”

“Ah! Josephine has told you, then, has she? And what
did you say to it?”

“I said I could never say yes to such a proposition from a
man who claimed me as a slave.”

“But what if I forego my claim, and give you free papers?”

“Try it,” said Clara, sternly.

“Can you then give me any encouragement?”

The idea was so hideous to her, and so strong her disinclination
to deceive, or to allow him to deceive himself, that she
could not restrain the outburst of a hearty and emphatic
“No!”

Ratcliff's eyes swam a moment with their old glitter that
meant mischief; but the recollection of his lawyer's warning
restored him to good humor. He resolved to bear with her
waywardness at that first interview, and to let her say no as
much as she pleased.

“You say no now, but by and by you will say yes,” he
replied.

Clara had risen and was pacing the floor. Suddenly she
stopped and said: “My desire is to disabuse you wholly of
any expectation, even the most remote, that I can ever change
my mind on this point. Under no conceivable circumstances
could I depart from my determination.”

“Tell me one thing,” replied Ratcliff. “Do you speak thus
because your affections are pre-engaged?”

“I do not,” said Clara; “and for that reason I can make
my refusal all the more final and irrevocable; for it is not
biased by passion. I beg you seriously to dismiss all expectation
of ever being able to change my purpose; and I propose
you should receive for my release such a sum as may be a
complete compensation for what you have expended on me.”

Ratcliff had it in his heart to reply, “Slave! do your master's
bidding”; but he discreetly curbed his choler, and said,
“Can you give me any good reason for your refusal?”

“Yes,” answered Clara, “the best of reasons: one which no
gentleman would wish to contend against: my inclinations will
not let me accept your proposal.”

“Inclinations may change,” suggested Ratcliff.

“In this case mine can only grow more and more adverse,”
replied Clara.

Ratcliff found it difficult to restrain himself from assuming
the tone that chimes so well with the snap of the plantation
scourge; and so he resolved to withdraw from the field for the
present. He rose and said: “As we grow better acquainted,
my dear, I am persuaded your feelings will change. I have
no wish to force your affections. That would be unchivalrous
towards one I propose to place in the relation of a wife.”

He laid a significant emphasis on this last word, wife; and
Clara started as at some hideous object in her path. Was
there, then, another relation in which he might seek to place
her, if she persisted in her course? And then she recollected
Estelle; and the flush of an angry disgust mounted to her
brow. But she made no reply; and Ratcliff, with his hateful
gaze devouring her beauties to the last, passed out of the room.

On the whole he felicitated himself on the interview. He

thought he had kept his temper remarkably well, and had not
allowed this privileged beauty to irritate him beyond the prudent
point. He believed she could not resist so much suavity
and generosity on his part. She had confessed she was heart-free:
surely that was in his favor. It was rather provoking
to have a slave put on such airs; but then, by Jove, she was
worth enduring a little humiliation for. Possibly, too, it might
be high blood that told in her. Possibly she might be that
last scion of the Berwick stock which an untoward fate had
swept far from all signs of parentage.

These considerations, while they disposed Ratcliff to leniency
in judging of her waywardness, did but aggravate the importunity
of his desires for the proposed alliance. Although hitherto
his tastes had led him to admire the coarser types of feminine
beauty, there was that in the very difference of Clara from all
other women with whom he had been intimate, which gave
novelty and freshness and an absorbing fascination to his present
pursuit. The possession of her now was the prime necessity
of his nature. That prize hung uppermost. Even Confederate
victories were secondary. Politics were forgotten. He
did not ask to see the newspapers; he did not seek to go abroad
to confer with his political associates, and tell them all that he
had seen and heard at Richmond. Semmes's caution in regard
to the danger of his being tracked had something to do with
keeping him in the house; but apart from this motive, the mere
wish to be under the same roof with Clara, till he had secured
her his beyond all hazard, would have been sufficient to keep
him within doors.

Ratcliff went down into the dining-room. The table was
set for one. He thought it time to inquire into the arrangements
of the household. He rang the bell, and it was answered
by a slim, delicate looking mulatto man, having on the white
apron of a waiter.

“What 's your name, and whose boy are you?” asked Ratcliff.

“My name is Sam, sir, and I belong to lawyer Semmes,”
replied the man, smoothing the table-cloth, and removing a
pitcher from the sideboard.

“What directions did he leave for you?”

“He told me to stay and wait upon you, sir, just as I had
upon him, till you saw fit to dismiss me.”

“What other servants are there in the house?”

“One colored woman, sir, and one, a negro; Manda the
cook, and Agnes the chambermaid.”

“Any other persons?”

“Only the young woman that 's crazy, and the Sister of
Charity that attends her. They are on the third floor.”

Ratcliff looked sharply at the mulatto, but could detect in
his face no sign that he mistrusted the story of the insane
woman.

“Send up the chambermaid,” said Ratcliff.

“Yes, sir. When will you have your dinner, sir?”

“In half an hour. Have you any wines in the house?”

“Yes, sir; Sherry, Madeira, Port, Burgundy, Hock, Champagne.”

“Put on Port and Champagne.”

Sam's departure was followed by the chamber-maid's appearance.

“Are my rooms all ready, Agnes?”

“Yes, massa. Front room, second story, all ready. Sheets
fresh and aired. Floor swept dis mornin'. All clean an'
sweet, massa.”

There was something in the forward and assured air of this
negro woman that was satisfactory to Ratcliff. Some little
coquetries of dress suggested that she had a weakness through
which she might be won to be his unquestioning ally in any designs
he might adopt. He threw out a compliment on her good
looks, and this time he found his compliment was not thrown
away. He gave her money, telling her to buy a new dress
with it, and promised her a silk shawl if she would be a good
girl. To all of which she replied with simpers of delight.

“Now, Agnes,” said he, “tell me what you think of the
little crazy lady up-stairs?”

“I 'se of 'pinion, sar, dat gal am no more crazy nor I 'm
crazy.”

“I 'm glad to hear you say so, for I intend to make her my
wife; and want you to help me all you can in bringing it about.”

“Should n't tink massa would need no help, wid all his
money. Wheugh! What 's de matter? Am she offish?”

“A little obstinate, that 's all. But she 'll come round in
good time. Only you stand by me close, Agnes, and you shall
have a hundred dollars the day I 'm married.”

“I nebber 'fuse a good offer, massa. You may count on dis
chile, sure!”

“Now go and send up dinner,” said Ratcliff, confident he
had secured one confederate who would not stick at trifles.

The dinner was brought up hot and carefully served.

“Curse me but this does credit to old Semmes,” soliloquized
Ratcliff, as course after course came on. “The wines, too, are
not to be impeached. I wonder if his Burgundy is equal to his
Champagne.”

Ratcliff pressed his foot on the brass mushroom under the
table and rang the bell.

“A bottle of Burgundy, Sam.”

The mulatto brought on a bottle, and drew the cork gently
and skilfully, so as not to shake the precious contents.

“Ah! this will do,” said Ratcliff; “it must be of the famous
vintage of eighteen hundred and — confound the date! Sam,
you sly nigger, try a glass of this.”

“Thank you, sir, I never drink.”

“Nigger, you lie! Hand me that goblet.”

Sam did as he was bid. Ratcliff filled the glass with the
dark ruby liquid, and said, “Now toss it off, you rascal. Don't
pretend you don't like it.”

Sam meekly obeyed, and put down the emptied goblet. Ratcliff
skirmished feebly among the bottles a few minutes longer,
then rose, and made his way unsteadily to the sofa.

“Sam, you solemn nigger, what 's o'clock?” said he.

“The clock is just striking ten, sir.”

“Possible? Have I been three — hiccup — hours at the
table? Sam, see me up-stairs and put me to bed.”

Half an hour afterwards Ratcliff lay in the heavy, stertorous
slumber which wine, more than fatigue, had engendered.

He was habitually a late sleeper. It wanted but a few
minutes to eleven o'clock the next morning when Sam started
to answer his bell. Ratcliff called for soda-water. Sam had

taken the precaution to put a couple of bottles under his arm,
foreseeing that it would be needed.

It took a full hour for Ratcliff to accomplish the duties of his
toilet. Then he went down to breakfast. And still the one
thought that pursued him was how best to extort compliance
from that beautiful maiden up-stairs.

A brilliant idea occurred to him. He would go and exert
his powers of fascination. Without importunately urging his
suit, he would deal out his treasure of small-talk: he would
read poetry to her; he would try all the most approved means
of making love.

Again he knocked at her door. It was opened by Sister
Agatha, who at a sign from him withdrew into the adjoining
room. Clara was busy with her needle.

“Have you any objection to playing a tune for me?” he
asked, with the timid air of a Corydon.

Clara seated herself at the piano and began playing Beethoven's
Sonatas, commencing with the first. Ratcliff was horribly
bored. After he had listened for what seemed to him an
intolerable period, he interrupted the performance by saying,
“All that is very fine, but I fear it is fatiguing to you.”

“Not at all. I can go through the whole book without
fatigue.”

“Don't think of it! What have you here? `Willis's
Poems.' Are you fond of poetry, Miss Murray?”

“I am fond of poetry; but my name is not Murray.”

“Indeed! What may it then be?”

“My name is Berwick. I am no slave, though kidnapped
and sold as such while an infant. You bought me. But you
would not lend yourself to a fraud, would you? I must be
free. You shall be paid with interest for all your outlays in
my behalf. Is not that fair?”

“I am too much interested in your welfare, my dear young
lady, to consent to giving you up. You will find it impossible
to prove this fanciful story which some unfriendly person has
put into your head. Even if it were true, you could never
recover your rights. But it is all chimerical. Don't indulge
so illusory a hope. What I offer, on the other hand, is substantial,
solid, certain. As my wife you would be lifted at
once to a position second to that of no lady in the land.”

Clara inadvertently gave way to a shudder of dislike. Ratcliff
noticed it, and rising, drew nearer to her and asked,
“Have I ever given you any cause for aversion?”

“Yes,” she replied, starting up from the music-chair, — “the
cause which the master must always give the slave.”

“But if I were to remove that objection, could you not like
me?”

“Impossible!”

“Have I ever done anything to prevent it?”

“Yes, much.”

“Surely not toward you; and if not toward you, toward
whom?”

“Toward Estelle!” said Clara, roused to an intrepid scorn,
which carried her beyond the bounds at once of prudence and
of fear.

Had Ratcliff seen Estelle rise bodily before him, he could
not have been struck more to the heart with an emotion partaking
at once of awe and of rage. The habitually florid hue
of his cheeks faded to a pale purple. He swung his arms
awkwardly, as if at a loss what to do with them. He paced
the floor wildly, and finally gasping forth, “Young woman,
you shall — you shall repent this,” left the room.

He did not make his appearance in Clara's parlor again that
day. It was already late in the afternoon. Dinner was nearly
ready. The consideration that such serious excitement would
be bad for his appetite gradually calmed him down; and by
the time he was called to the table he had thrown off the
effects of the shock which a single word had given him. The
dinner was a repetition of that of the day before, varied by the
production of new dishes and wines. Sam was evidently doing
his best as a caterer. Again Ratcliff sat late, and again Sam
saw him safe up-stairs and helped him to undress. And again
the slave-lord slept late into the hours of the forenoon.

After breakfast on the third day of his return he paced the
back piazza for some two hours, smoking cigars. He had no
thought but for the one scheme before him. To be baffled in
that was to lose all. Public affairs sank into insignificance.
Sam handed him a newspaper, but without glancing at it he
threw it over the balustrade into the area. “She 's but a wayward

girl, after all! I must be patient with her,” thought he,
one moment. And the next his mood varied, and he muttered
to himself: “A slave! Damnation! To be treated so by a
slave, — one I could force to drudge instead of letting her play
the lady!”

Suddenly he went up-stairs and paid her a third visit. His
manner and speech were abrupt.

“I wish to deal with you gently and generously,” said he;
“and I beseech you not to compel me to resort to harshness.
You are legally my slave, whatever fancies you may entertain
as to your origin or as to a flaw in my title. You can prove
nothing, or if you could, it would avail you nothing, against
the power which I can exert in this community. I tell you I
could this very day, in the mere exercise of my legal rights,
consign you to the ownership of those who would look upon
your delicate nurture, your assured manners, and your airs of
a lady, merely as so many baits enhancing the wages of your
infamy; who would subject you to gross companionship with
the brutal and the merciless; who would scourge you into
compliance with any base uses to which they might choose to
put you. Fair-faced slaves are forced to such things every
day. Instead of surrendering yourself to liabilities like these,
you have it in your power to take the honorable position of
my wife, — a position where you could dispense good to others
while having every luxury that heart could covet for yourself.
Now decide, and decide quickly; for I can no longer endure
this torturing suspense in which you have kept me. Will you
accede to my wishes, or will you not?”

“I will not!” said Clara, in a firm and steady tone.

“Then remember,” replied Ratcliff, “it is your own hands
that have made the foul bed in which you prefer to lie.”

And with these terrible words he quitted the room.

Frightened at her own temerity, Clara at once sank upon
her knees, and called with earnest supplication on the Supreme
Father for protection. Blending with her own words those
immortal formulas which the inspired David wrote down for
the help and refreshing of devout souls throughout all time,
she exclaimed: “Thou art my hiding-place and my shield: I
hope in thy word. Seven times a day do I praise thee because

of thy righteous judgments. Wonderfully hast thou led me
heretofore: forsake me not in this extreme. Save now, I beseech
thee, O Lord; send now prosperity! Let thine hand
help me. Deliver my soul from death, mine eyes from tears,
and my feet from falling. Out of the depth I cry unto thee. O
Lord, hear my voice, and be attentive unto my supplications.”

As she remained with head bent and arms crossed upon her
bosom, motionless as some sculptured saint, she suddenly felt
the touch of a hand on her head, and started up. It was Sister
Agatha, who had come to bid her good by.

“But you 're not going to leave me!” cried Clara.

“Yes; I 've been told to go.”

“By whom have you been told to go?”

“By the gentleman who now takes charge of you, — Mr.
Ratcliff.”

“But he 's a bad man! Look at him, study him, and you 'll
be convinced.”

“O no! he has given me fifty dollars to distribute among
the poor. If you were in your senses, my child, you would
not call him bad. He is your best earthly friend. You must
heed all he says. Agnes will remain to wait on you.”

“Agnes? I 've no faith in that girl. I fear she is corrupt;
that money could tempt her to much that is wrong.”

“What fancies! Poor child! But this is one of the signs
of your disease, — this disposition to see enemies in those
around you. There! you must let me go. The Lord help
and cure you! Farewell!”

Sister Agatha withdrew herself from Clara's despairing
grasp and eager pleadings, and, passing into the sleeping-room,
opened the farther door which led into the billiard-room, of the
door of which, communicating with the entry, she had the key.

For the moment Hope seemed to vanish from Clara's heart
with the departing form of the Sister; for, simple as she was,
she was still a protection against outrage. No shame could
come while Sister Agatha was present.

Suddenly the idea occurred to Clara that she had not tested
all the possibilities of escape. She ran and tried the doors.
They were all locked. We have seen that she had the range
of a suite of three large rooms: a front room serving as a

parlor and connected by a corridor, having closets and doors at
either end, with the sleeping-room looking out on the garden
in the rear. This sleeping-room, as you looked from the windows,
communicated with the billiard-room on the left, and had
one door, also on the left, communicating with the entry on
which you came from the stairs. This door was locked on the
outside. The parlor also communicated with this entry or hall
by a door on the left, locked on the outside. The house was
built very much after the style of most modern city houses, so
that it is not difficult to form a clear idea of Clara's position.

Finding the doors were secure against any effort of hers to
force them, it occurred to her to throw into the street a letter
containing an appeal for succor to the person who might pick it
up. She hastily wrote a few lines describing her situation, the
room where she was confined, the fraud by which she was held
a slave, and giving the name of the street, the number of the
house, &c. This she signed Clara A. Berwick. Then rolling
it up in a handkerchief with a paper-weight she threw it out of
the window far into the street. Ah! It went beyond the opposite
sidewalk, over the fence, and into the tall grass of the
little ornamented park in front of the house!

She could have wept at the disappointment. Should she
write another letter and try again? While she was considering
the matter, she saw a well-dressed lady and gentleman promenading.
She cried out “Help!” But before she could repeat
the cry a hand was put upon her mouth, and the window was
shut down.

“No, Missis, can't 'low dat,” said the chuckling voice of
Agnes.

Clara took the girl by the hand, made her sit down, and then,
with all the persuasiveness she could summon, tried to reach her
better nature, and induce her to aid in her escape. Failing in
the effort to move the girl's heart, Clara appealed to her acquisitiveness,
promising a large reward in money for such help as
she could give. But the girl had been pre-persuaded by Ratcliff
that Clara's promises were not to be relied upon; and so,
disbelieving them utterly, she simply shook her head and simpered.
How could Agnes, a slave, presume to disobey a great
man like Massa Ratcliff? Besides, he meant the young missis

no harm. He only wanted to make her his wife. Why should
she be so obstinate about it? Agnes could n't see the sense
of it.

During the rest of the day, Clara felt for the first time that
her every movement was watched. If she went to the window,
Agnes was by her side. If she took up a bodkin, Agnes
seemed ready to spring upon her and snatch it from her hand.

Terrible reflections brought their gloom. Clara recalled the
case of a slave-girl which she had heard only the day before
her last walk with Esha. It was the case of a girl quite white
belonging to a Madame Coutreil, residing just below the city.
This girl, for attempting to run away, had been placed in a filthy
dungeon, and a thick, heavy iron ring or yoke, surmounted by
three prongs, fastened about her neck.[1] If a mistress could do

such things, what barbarity might not a master like Ratcliff
attempt?

And where was Ratcliff all this while?

Still keeping in the house, brooding on the one scheme on
which he had set his heart. He smoked cigars, stretched himself
on sofas, cursed the perversity of the sex, and theorized as
to the efficacy of extreme measures in taming certain feminine
tempers. Was not a woman, after all, something like a horse?
Had he not seen Rarey tame the most furious mare by a simple
process which did not involve beating or cruelty? The consideration
was curious, — a matter for philosophy to ruminate.

Ratcliff dined late that day. It was almost dark enough
for the gas to be lighted when he sat down to the table. The
viands were the choicest of the season, but he hardly did them
justice. All the best wines were on the sideboard. Sam
filled three glasses with hock, champagne, and burgundy; but,
to his surprise and secret disappointment, Ratcliff did not empty
one of them. “Mr. Semmes used to praise this Rudesheimer
very highly,” said Sam, insinuatingly. Ratcliff simply raised
his hand imperiously with a gesture imposing silence. He
sipped half a glass of the red wine, then drank a cup of coffee,
then lit a cigar, and resumed his walk on the piazza.

It was now nine o'clock in the evening. Without taking off
any of her clothes, Clara had lain down on the bed. Agnes
sat sewing at a table near by. The room was brilliantly
illuminated by two gas-burners. Light also came through
the corridor from a burner in the parlor. Every few minutes
the chambermaid would look round searchingly, as if to see
whether the young “missis” were asleep. In order to learn
what effect it would have, Clara shut her eyes and breathed as

if lost in slumber. Agnes put down her work, moved stealthily
to the bed, and gently felt around the maiden's waist and
bosom, as if to satisfy herself there was no weapon concealed
about her person.

While the negro woman was thus engaged, there was a sound
as if a key had dropped on the billiard-room floor, which was
of oak and uncarpeted. Agnes stopped and listened as if puzzled.
There was then a sound as if the outer door of the
billiard-room communicating with the entry were unlocked and
opened. Agnes went up to the mantel-piece and looked at the
clock, and then listened again intently.

There was now a low knock from the billiard-room at the
chamber-door, which was locked on the inside, and the key of
which was left in while Agnes was present, but which she was
accustomed to take out and leave on the billiard-room side
when she quitted the apartments to go down-stairs.

Before unlocking the door on this occasion she asked in a
whisper, “Who 's dar?”

The reply came, “Sam.”

“What 's de matter?”

“I want to speak with you a minute. Open the door.”

“Can't do it, Sam. It 's agin orders.”

“Well, no matter. I only thought you 'd like to tell me
what sort of a shawl to get.”

“What? — what 's dat you say 'bout a shawl?”

“The Massa has given me ten dollars to buy a silk shawl for
you. What color do you want?”

Clara heard every word of this little dialogue. It was followed
by the chambermaid's unlocking the door, taking out the
key and entering the billiard-room. Clara started from the
bed, and went and listened. The only words she could distinguish
were, “I 'll jes run up-stairs an' git a pattern fur yer.”
Clara tried the door, but found it locked. She listened yet
more intently. There was no further sound. She waited five
minutes, then went back to the bed and sat down.

A sense of something incommunicable and mysterious weighed
upon her brain and agitated her thoughts. It was as if she
were enclosed by an atmosphere impenetrable to intelligences
that were trying to reach her brain. For a week she had seen

no newspaper. What had happened during that time? Great
events were impending. What shape had they taken? The
terror of the Vague and the Unknown dilated her eyes and
thrilled her heart.

As she sat there breathless, she heard through the window,
open at the top, the distant beat of music. The tune was distinguishable
rather by the vibrations of the air than by audible
notes. But it seemed to Clara as if a full band were playing
the Star-Spangled Banner. What could it mean? Nothing.
The tune was claimed both by Rebels and Loyalists.

Hark! It had changed. What was it now? Surely that
must be the air of “Hail Columbia.” Never before, since the
breaking out of the Rebellion, had she heard that tune. As
the wind now and then capriciously favored the music, it came
more distinct to her ears. There could be no mistake.

And now the motion of the sounds was brisk, rapid, and lively.
Could it be? Yes! These rash serenaders, whoever they were,
had actually ventured to play “Yankee Doodle.” Was it possible
the authorities allowed such outrages on Rebel sensibilities?

And now the sounds ceased, but only for a moment. A
slower, a grand and majestic strain, succeeded. It arrested her
closest attention. What was it? What? She had heard it
before, but where? When? What association, strange yet
tender, did it have for her? Why did it thrill and rouse her
as none of the other tunes had done? Suddenly she remembered
it was that fearful “John Brown Hallelujah Chorus,”
which Vance had played and sung for her the first evening of
their acquaintance.

The music ceased; and she listened vainly for its renewal.
All at once a harsh sound, that chilled her heart, and seemed to
concentrate all her senses in one, smote on her ears. The key
of the parlor door was slowly turned. There was a step, and
it seemed to be the step of a man.

Clara started up and pressed both hands on her bosom, to
keep down the flutterings of her heart, which beat till a sense
of suffocation came over her.

The awe and suspense of that moment seemed to protract it
into a whole hour of suffering. “God help me!” was all she
could murmur. Her terror grew insupportable. The steps

came over the carpet, — they fell on the tessellated marble of
the little closet-passage, — they drew near the half-open door
which now alone intervened.

Then there was a knock on the wood-work. She wanted to
say, “Who's there?” but her tongue refused its office. The
strength seemed ebbing from every limb. Horror at the
thought of her helplessness came over her. Then a form —
the form of a man — stood before her. She uttered one cry,
— a simple “Oh!” — and sinking at his feet, put her arms
about his knees and pressed against them her head.

There are times when a brief, hardly articulate utterance, —
a simple intonation, — seems to carry in it whole volumes of
meaning. That single Oh! — how much of heart-history it
conveyed! In its expression of transition from mortal terror
to entire trustfulness and delight, it was almost childlike. It
spoke of unexpected relief, — of a joyful surprise, — of a gratitude
without bounds, — of an awful sense of angelic guardianship,
— of an inward faith vindicated and fulfilled against a tumultuous
crowd of selfish external fears and misgivings.

The man whose appearance had called forth this intensified
utterance wore the military cap and insignia of a Colonel in
the United States service. His figure seemed made for endurance,
though remarkable for neatness and symmetry. His face
was that of one past the middle stage, — one to whom life had
not been one unvaried holiday. The cheeks were bronzed; the
eyes mobile and penetrating, the mouth singularly sweet and
firm. Clara knew the face. It was that of Vance.

He lifted her flaccid form from the posture in which she had
thrown herself, — lifted and supported it against his breast as
if to give her the full assurance of safety and protection. She
opened her eyes upon him as thus they stood, — eyes now
beaming with reverential gratitude and transport. He looked
at them closely.

“Yes,” said he, “there they are! the blue and the gray!
Why did I not notice them before?”

“Ah!” she cried. “Here is my dream fulfilled. You have
at last taken from them that letter which lay there.”

There was the sound of footsteps on the landing in the upper
hall. Clara instinctively threw an arm over Vance's shoulder.

The key of the chamber-door was turned, and Ratcliff
entered.

He had been pacing the piazza and smoking uncounted
cigars. The distant music, which to Clara's aroused senses
had been so audible, had not been heard by him. He had not
dreamed of any interruption of his plans. Was he not dealing
with a slave in a house occupied by slaves? What possible
service was there he could not claim of a slave? Were not
slaves made every day to scourge slaves, even their own wives
and children, till the backs of the sufferers were seamed and
bloody? Besides, he had fortified the fidelity of one of them —
of Agnes — by presents and by flatteries. Even the revolver
he usually carried with him was laid aside in one of the drawers
of his dressing-room as not likely to be wanted.

On entering the chamber, Ratcliff, before perceiving that
there was an unexpected occupant, turned and relocked the
door on the inside.

Was it some vision, the product of an incantation, that now
rose before his eyes? For there stood the maiden on whose
compliance he had so wreaked all the energy of his tyrannical
will, — his own purchased slave and thrall, — creature bound
to serve either his brute desires or his most menial exactions,
— there she stood, in the attitude of entire trust and affection,
folded in the arms of a man!

Instantly Ratcliff reflected that he was unarmed, and he
turned and unlocked the door to rush down-stairs after his
revolver. But Vance was too swift for him. Placing Clara
in a chair, quick as the tiger-cat springs on his prey, he darted
upon Ratcliff, and before the latter could pass out on to the
landing, relocked the door and took the key. Then dragging
him into the middle of the room, he held him by a terrible grip
on the shoulders at arm's length, face to face.

“Now look at me well,” said Vance. “You have seen me
before. Do you recognize me now?”

Wild with a rage to which all other experiences of wrath
were as a zephyr to a tornado, Ratcliff yet had the curiosity to
look, and that look brought in a new emotion which made even
his wrath subordinate. For the first time in more than twenty
years he recognized the man who had once offended him at

the theatre, — who had once knocked him down on board a
steamboat in the eyes of neighbors and vassals, — who had
robbed him of one beautiful slave girl, and was now robbing
him of another. Yes, it never once occurred to Ratcliff that
he, a South Carolinian, a man born to command, was not the
aggrieved and injured party!

Vance stood with a look like that of St. George spearing the
dragon. The past, with all its horrors, surged up on his recollection.
He thought of that day of Estelle's abduction, — of
the escape and recapture, — of that scene at the whipping-post,
— of the celestial smile she bent on him through her agony, —
of the scourging he himself underwent, the scars of which he
yet bore, — of those dreadful hours when he clung to the loosened
raft in the river, — of the death-scene, the euthanasia of
Estelle, of his own despair and madness.

And here, before him, within his grasp, was the author of
all these barbarities and indignities! Here was the man who
had ordered and superintended the scourging of one in whom
all the goodness and grace that ever made womanhood lovely
and adorable had met! Here was the haughty scoundrel who
had thought to bind her in marriage with one of his own
slaves! Here was the insolent ruffian! Here the dastard
murderer! What punishment could be equal to his crimes?
Death? His life so worthless for hers so precious beyond all
reckoning? Oh! that would go but a small way toward paying
the enormous debt!

Vance carried in a secret pocket a pistol, and wore a small
sword at his side. This last weapon Ratcliff tried to grasp,
but failed. Vance looked inquiringly about the room. Ratcliff
felt his danger, and struggled with the energy of despair.
Vance, with the easy knack of an adroit wrestler, threw him
on the floor, then dragging him toward the closet, pulled from
a nail a thick leather strap which hung there, having been
detached from a trunk. Then hurling Ratcliff into the middle
of the room, he collared him before he could rise, and brought
down the blows, sharp, quick, vigorous, on face, back, shoulders,
till a shriek of “murder” was wrung from the proud lips
of the humbled adversary.

Suddenly, in the midst of these inflictions, Vance felt his

arm arrested by a firm grasp. He disengaged himself with a
start that was feline in its instant evasiveness, turned, and before
him stood Peek, interposing between him and the prostrate
Ratcliff.

“Stand aside, Peek,” said Vance; “I have hardly begun
yet. You are the last man to intercede for this wretch.”

“Not one more blow, Mr. Vance.”

“Stand aside, I say! Come not between me and my mortal
foe. Have I not for long years looked forward to this hour?
Have I not toiled for it, dreamed of it, hungered for it?”

“No, Mr. Vance, I 'll not think so poorly of you as to believe
you 've done any such thing. It was to right a great wrong
that you have toiled, — not to wreak a poor revenge on flesh
and blood.”

“No preaching, Peek! Stand out of the way! I 'd sooner
forego my hope of heaven than be balked now. Away!”

“Have I ever done that which entitles me to ask a favor of
you, Mr. Vance?”

“Yes; for that reason I will requite the scars you yourself
bear. The scourger shall be scourged.”

“Would you not do her bidding, could you hear it; and can
you doubt that she would say, Forgive?”

Vance recoiled for a moment, then replied: “You have used
the last appeal; but 't will not serve. My wrongs I can forgive.
Yours I can forgive. But hers, never! Once more I
say, Stand aside!”

“You shall not give him another blow,” said Peek.

“Shall not?”

And before he could offer any resistance Peek had been
thrown to the other side of the room so as to fall backward on
his hands.

Then, in a moment, Vance seemed to regret the act. He
jumped forward, helped the negro up, begged his pardon, saying:
“Forgive me, my dear, dear Peek! Have your own
way. Do with this man as you like. Have n't you the right?
Did n't you once save my life? Are you hurt? Do you forgive
me?” And the tears sprang to Vance's eyes.

“No harm done, Mr. Vance! But you are quick as lightning.”

“Look at me, Peek. Let me see from your face that I 'm
forgiven.”

And Peek turned on him such an expression, at once tender
and benignant, that Vance, seeing they understood each other,
was reassured.

Clara had sat all this time intently watching every movement,
but too weak from agitation to interfere, even if she had
been so disposed.

Ratcliff, recovering from the confusion of brain produced by
the rapid blows he had endured, looked to see to whom he had
been indebted for help. In all the whims of Fate, could it be
there was one like this in reserve? Yes! that negro was the
same he, Ratcliff, had once caused to be scourged till three
men were wearied out in the labor of lashing. The fellow's
back must be all furrowed and criss-crossed with the marks got
from him, Ratcliff. Yet here was the nigger, coming to the
succor of his old master! The instinct of servility was stronger
in him even than revenge. Who would deny, after this, what
he, Ratcliff, had often asserted, “Niggers will be niggers?”

And so, instead of recognizing a godlike generosity in the
act, the slave-driver saw in it only the habit of a base spirit,
and the wholesome effect, upon an inferior, of that imposing
quality in his, Ratcliff's, own nature and bearing, which showed
he was of the master race, and justified all his assumptions.

Watching his opportunity Ratcliff crawled toward the billiard-room
door, and, suddenly starting up, pulled it open,
thinking to escape. To his dismay he encountered a large
black dog of the bloodhound species, who growled and showed
his teeth so viciously that Ratcliff sprang back. Following
the dog appeared a young soldier, who, casting round his eyes,
saw Clara, and darting to her side, seized and warmly pressed
her extended hand. Overcome with amazement, Ratcliff reeled
backward and sank into an arm-chair, for in the soldier he recognized
Captain Onslow.

Voices were now heard on the stairs, and two men appeared.
One of them was of a compact, well-built figure, and apparently
about fifty years old. He was clad in a military dress, and his

aspect spoke courage and decision. The individual at his side,
and who seemed to be paying court to him, was a tall, gaunt
figure, in the coarse uniform of the prison. He carried his
cap in his hand, showing that half of his head was entirely
bald, while the other half was covered with a matted mass of
reddish-gray hair.

This last man, as he mounted the stairs and stood on the
landing, might have been heard to say: “Kunnle Blake, you 're
a high-tone gemmleman, ef you air a Yankee. You see in
me, Kunnle, a victim of the damdest ongratitood. These
Noo-Orleenz 'ristocrats could n't huv treated a nigger or an
abolitioner wuss nor they 've treated me. I told 'em I wuz
Virginia-born; told 'em what I 'd done fur thar damned Confed'racy;
told 'em what a blasted good friend I 'd been to the
institootion; but — will you believe it? — they tuk me up on
a low charge of 'propriatin' to private use the money they giv
me ter raise a company with; — they hahd me up afore a
committee of close-fisted old fogies, an' may I be shot ef they
did n't order me to be jugged, an' half of my head to be
shaved! An' 't was did. Damned ef it warnt! But I 'll
be even with 'em, damn 'em! Ef I don't, may I be kept ter
work in a rice-swamp the rest of my days. I 'll let 'em see
what it is to treat one of the Hyde blood in this 'ere way, as
if he war a low-lived corn-cracker. I 'll let 'em see what thar
rotten institootion 's wuth. Ef they kn afford ter make out of
a born gemmleman a scarecrow like I am now, with my half-shaved
scalp, jes fur 'propriatin' a few of thar damned rags,
well and good. They 'll hahv ter look round lively afore they
kn find sich another friend as Delancey Hyde has been ter
King Cotton, — damn him! They shall find Delancy Hyde
kn unmake as well as make.”

To these wrathful words, Blake replied: “Perhaps you don't
remember me, Colonel Hyde.”

“Cuss me ef I do. Ef ever I seed you afore, 't was so long
ago that it 's clean gone out of my head.”

“Don't you remember the policeman who made you give up
the fugitive slave, Peek, that day in the lawyer's office in New
York?”

“I don't remember nobody else!” exclaimed Hyde, jubilant

at the thought of claiming one respectable man as an old acquaintance,
and quite forgetting the fact that they had parted
as foes. “Kunnle Blake, we must liquor together the fust
chance we kn git. As for Peek, I don't want to see a higher-toned
gemmleman than Peek is, though he is blacker than my
boot. Will you believe it, Kunnle? That ar nigger, findin'
as how I wuz out of money, arter Kunnle Vance had tuk me
out of jail, what does he do but give me twenty dollars! In
good greenbacks, too! None of your sham Confed'rate trash!
Ef that ain't bein' a high-tone gemmleman, what is? He done
it too in the most-er delicate manner, — off-hand, like a born
prince.”

By this time the interlocutors had entered the billiard-room.
After them came a colored man and a negro. One of these
was Sam, the house-servant, the other Antoine, the owner of
the dog. Immediately after them came Esha and Madame
Josephine. They passed Ratcliff without noticing him, and
went to Clara, and almost devoured her with their kisses.

No sooner had these two moved away in this terrible procession
than an oldish lady, hanging coquettishly on the arm of a
man somewhat younger than herself, of a rather red face, and
highly dressed, entered the room, and, apparently too much absorbed
in each other to notice Ratcliff, walked on until the lady,
encountering Clara, rushed at her hysterically, and shrieking,
“My own precious child!” fell into her arms in the most approved
melodramatic style. This lady was Mrs. Gentry, who
had recently retired from school-keeping with “something handsome,”
which the Vigilance Committee had been trying to get
hold of for Confederate wants, but which she had managed to
withhold from their grasp, until that “blessed Butler” coming,
relieved her fears, and secured her in her own. The gentleman
attending her was Mr. Ripper, ex-auctioneer, who, in his
mellow days, finding that Jordan was a hard road to travel, had
concluded to sign the temperance pledge, reform, and take care
of himself. With this view, what could he do better than find
some staid, respectable woman, with “a little something of her
own,” with whom he could join hands on the downhill of life?
As luck would have it, he was introduced to Mrs. Gentry that
very evening, and he was now paying his first devoirs.

After the appearance of this couple, steps heavy and slow
were heard ascending the stairs into the billiard-room; and the
next moment Mr. Winslow appeared, followed by Lawyer
Semmes. And, bringing up the rear of the party, and presenting
in himself a fitting climax to these stunning surprises,
came a large and powerful negro in military rig, bearing a
musket with bayonet fixed, and displaying a small United
States flag. This man was Decazes, an escaped slave belonging
to Ratcliff, and for whom he had offered a reward of five
hundred dollars.

Ratcliff had half-risen from his chair, holding on to the arms
with both hands for support. His countenance, laced by the
leathern blows he had received, his left eye blue and swollen,
every feature distorted with consternation, rage, and astonishment,
he presented such a picture of baffled tyranny as photography
alone could do justice to. Was it delirium, — was it some
harrowing dream, — under which he was suffering? That flag!
What did it mean?

“Semmes!” he exclaimed, “what has happened? Where
do these Yankees come from?”

“Possible? Have n't you heard the news?” returned the
lawyer. “Farragut and Butler have possession of New
Orleans. What have you been doing with yourself the last
three days?”

“Butler?” exclaimed Ratcliff, astounded and incredulous, —
“Picayune Butler? — the contemptible swell-head, — the pettifogging
— ”

Semmes walked away, as if choosing not to be implicated in
any treasonable talk.

Suddenly recognizing Winslow, Ratcliff impotently shook his
fists and darted at him an expression of malignant and vindictive
hate.

Could it be? New Orleans in the hands of the Vandals, —
the “miserable miscreants,” — the “hyenas,” as President Davis
and Robert Toombs were wont to stigmatize the whole people
of the North? Where was the great ram that was to work
such wonders? Where were the Confederate gunboats? Were
not Forts Jackson and St. Philip impregnable? Could not the
Chalamette batteries sink any Yankee fleet that floated? Had

not the fire-eaters, — the last-ditch men, — resolved that New
Orleans should be laid in ashes before the detested flag, emblematic
of Yankee rule, should wave from the public buildings?
And here was a black rascal in uniform, flaunting that
flag in the very face of one of the foremost of the chivalry!
Let the universe slide after this! Let chaos return!

The company drifted in groups of two and three through the
suite of rooms. Sam disappeared suddenly. The women were
in the front room. Ratcliff, supposing that he was unnoticed,
rose to escape. But Victor the hound, was on hand. He had
been lying partly under the bed, with his muzzle out and resting
on his fore paws, affecting to be asleep, but really watching
the man whom his subtle instincts had told him was the game
for which he was responsible; and now the beast darted up
with an imperious bark, and Ratcliff, furious, but helpless, sank
back on his seat.

Colonel Delancy Hyde approached, with the view of making
himself agreeable.

“Squire Ratcliff,” said he, “you seem to be in a dam bad
way. Kin I do anything fur yer? Any niggers you want
kotched, Squire? Niggers is mighty onsartin property jes
now, Squire. Gen'ral Butler swars he 'll have a black regiment
all uniformed afore the Fourth of July comes round.
Would n't give much fer yer Red River gangs jes now,
Squire! Reckon they 'll be findin' thar way to Gen'ral Butler's
head-quarters, sure.”

Ratcliff cowered and groaned in spirit as he thought of the
immense sums which, in his confidence in the success of the
Rebellion, he had been investing in slaves. Unless he could
run his gangs off to Texas, he would be ruined.

“Look at me, Squire,” continued the Colonel; “I 'm Kunnle
Delancy Hyde, — Virginia born, be Gawd; but, fur all that, I
might jest as well been born in hell, fur any gratitude you
cust 'ristocrats would show me. Yes, you 're one on 'em.
Here I 've been drudgin' the last thirty years in the nigger-ketchin'
business, and see my reward, — a half-shaved scalp,
an' be damned to yer! But my time 's comin'. Now Kunnle
Delancy Hyde tries a new tack. Instead of ketchin' niggers,
he 's goin' to free 'em; and whar he kotched one he 'll free a

thousand. Lou'siana 's bound to be a free State. All Cottondom
's bound to be free. Uncle Sam shall have black regiments
afore Sumter soon. Only the freedom of every nigger
in the land kn wipe out the wrongs of Delancy Hyde, — kn
avenge his half-shaved scalp!”

Here the appearance of Sam, the house-servant, with a large
salver containing a pitcher, a sugar-bowl, a decanter, tumblers,
and several bottles, put a stop to the Colonel's eloquence, and
drew him away as the loadstone draws the needle.

Onslow came near to Ratcliff, looked him in the face contemptuously,
and turned away without acknowledging the
acquaintance. After him reappeared Ripper and Mrs. Gentry,
arm-in-arm, the lady with her hands clasped girlishly, and
her shoulder pressed closely up against that of the auctioneer.
It was evident she was going, going, if not already gone.
Ripper put up his eye-glass, and, carelessly nodding, remarked,
“Such is life, Ratcliff!” (Ratcliff! The beggar presumed to
call him Ratcliff!) The couple passed on, the lady exclaiming
so that the observation should not be lost on the ears for
which it was intended, — “I always said he would be come up
with!”

Semmes now happening to pass by, Ratcliff, deeply agitated,
but affecting equanimity, said: “How is it, Semmes? Are
you going to help me out of this miserable scrape?”

“Our relations must end here, Mr. Ratcliff,” replied the
lawyer.

“So much the better,” said Ratcliff; “it will spare my
standing the swindle you call professional charges on your
books.”

“Don't be under a misapprehension, my poor friend,” returned
Semmes. “I have laid an attachment on your deposits
in the Lafayette Bank. They will just satisfy my claim.”

And taking a pinch of snuff the lawyer walked unconcernedly
away. “O that I had my revolver here!” thought Ratcliff,
with an inward groan.

But here was Madame Josephine. Here was at least one
friend left to him. Of her attachment, under any change of
fortune, he felt assured. Her own means, not insignificant,
might now suffice for the rehabilitation of his affairs. She

drew near, her face radiant with the satisfaction she had felt in
the recovery of Clara. She drew near, and Ratcliff caught
her eye, and rising and putting out his hands, as if for an
embrace, murmured, in a confidential whisper, “Josephine,
dearest, come to me!”

She frowned indignantly, threw back her arm with one
scornful and repelling sweep, and simply ejaculating, “No
more!” moved away from him, and took the proffered arm of
the trustee of her funds, the venerable Winslow.

The party now passed away from Ratcliff, and out of the
two rooms; most of them going down-stairs to the carriages
that waited in the street to bear them to the St. Charles Hotel,
over whose cupola the Stars and Stripes were gloriously fluttering
in the starlight.

Ratcliff found himself alone with the ever-watchful bloodhound.
Suddenly a whistle was heard, and Victor started up
and trotted down-stairs. Ratcliff rose to quit the apartment.
All at once the stalwart negro, lately his slave, in uniform, and
bearing a musket, with the old flag, stood before him.

“Follow me,” said the man, with the dignity of a true soldier.

“Where to?”

“To the lock-up, to wait General Butler's orders.”

On a pallet of straw that night Ratcliff had an opportunity
of revolving in solitude the events of the day. In the miscarriage
of his schemes, in the downfall of his hopes, and in the
humbling of his pride, he experienced a hell worse than the
imagination of the theologian ever conceived. What pangs
can equal those of the merciless tyrant when he tumbles into
the place of his victims and has to endure, in unstinted measure,
the stripes and indignities he has been wont to inflict so
unsparingly on others!