Regarding poor little Clara Berwick (or Ellen Murray) as a slave, she could never be so far moved by the child’s winning presence and ways as to look on her as entitled to the same atmosphere and sun as herself. No infantile grace, no solicitation of affection, could ever melt the icy barrier with which the pride and self-seeking, fostered by slavery, had encircled the heart, not naturally bad, of the schoolmistress. And yet she did her duty by the child to the best of her ability. Though not a highly educated person, Mrs. Gentry was shrewd enough to employ for her pupils the most accomplished teachers; and in respect to Clara she faithfully carried out Mr. Ratcliff’s directions. True, she always exacted an obedience that was unquestioning and blind. She did not care to see that the child could have been led by a silken thread, only satisfy her reason or appeal to her affections. And so it was to Esha that Clara would always have to go for sympathy, both in her sorrows and her joys; and it was Esha whose influence was felt in the very depths of that fresh and sensitive nature.
From her third to her fourteenth year Clara gave little promise of beauty. Ratcliff, on receiving her photographs, used to throw them aside with a “Psha! After all, she’ll be fit only for a household drudge.”
But as she emerged into her sixteenth year, and features and form began to develop the full meaning of their outlines, she all at once appeared in the new and startling phase of a rare model of incipient womanhood. Her hair, thick and flowing, was of a softened brown tint, which yet was distinct from that cognate hue, abrun (a-brown) or auburn, a shade suggestive of red. Her complexion was clear and pure, though not of that brilliant pink and white often associated with delicacy of constitution. A profile, delicately cut as if to be the despair of sculptors; a forehead not high, but high enough to show Mind enthroned there; eyes—it was not till you drew quite near that you marked the peculiarity already described in the infant of the Pontiac. The mouth and lips were small and passionate, the chin bold, yet not protrusive, the nostrils having that indescribable curve which often makes this feature surpass all the others in giving a character of decision to a face. A man of the turf would have summed up his whole description of the girl in the one word “blood.”
Such a union of the sensuous nature with pure will and intellect might well have made a watchful parent tremble for her future.
Ratcliff had been for more than a year in South Carolina, helping to fire the Southern heart, and forward the secession movement. Early in January, 1861, he made a flying visit to New Orleans, and called on Mrs. Gentry.
After some conversation on public affairs, the lady asked, “Would you like to see my pupil?”
“Not if she resembles the photographs you’ve sent me,” replied Ratcliff. Then, looking at his watch, he added: “I leave for Charleston this afternoon, and haven’t time to see her now. Early in March I shall be back, and will call then.”
“You must see her a minute,” said Mrs. Gentry. “I think you’ll admit she does no discredit to my bringing up.” And she rang the bell.
“Tell Miss Murray, I desire her presence in the parlor.”
Clara entered. She was attired in a plain robe of slate-colored muslin, exquisitely fitted, and had a book in her hand, as if just interrupted in study. She stood inquiringly before the schoolmistress, and seemed unconscious of another’s presence.