After a few moments of contemplation, he said: “Do not think me impertinently curious. You have been well educated. You have not had to labor for a living. Are the persons to whom you’ve been indebted for support no longer your friends?”
“They are my worst enemies, and all that has been bestowed on me has been from hateful motives and calculations.”—“Now I’m going to ask a very delicate question. Are you provided with money?”—“O yes, sir, amply.”—“How much have you?”—“Twenty dollars.”—“Indeed! Are you so rich as that? What’s your name?”—“The name I’ve been brought up under is Ellen Murray; but I hate it.”—“Why so?”—“Because of a dream.”—“A dream! And what was it?”—“Shall I relate it?”—“By all means.”
“I dreamed that a beautiful lady led me by the hand into a spacious garden. On one side were fruits, and on the other side flowers, and in the middle a circle of brilliant verbenas from the centre of which rose a tall fountain, fed from a high hill in the neighborhood. And the lady said, ‘This is your garden, and your name is not Ellen Murray.’ Then she gave me a letter sealed with blue—no, gray—wax, and said, ‘Put this letter on your eyes, and you shall find it there when you wake. Some one will open it, and your name will be seen written there, though you may not understand it at first.’ ‘But am I not awake?’ I asked. ‘O no,’ said the lady. ‘This is all a dream. But we can sometimes impress those we love in this way.’ ‘And who are you?’ I asked. ‘That you will know when you interpret the letter,’ she said.”
“And what resulted from the dream?”—“The moment I waked I put my hand on my eyes. Of course I found no letter. The next night the lady came again, and said, ‘The seal cannot be broken by yourself. Your name is not Ellen Murray,—remember that.’ A third night this dream beset me, and so forcibly that I resolved to get rid of the name as far as I could. And so I made my friends call me Darling.”
“Well, Darling, as you—”—“O, but, sir! you must not call me Darling. That would never do!”—“What can I call you, then?”—“Call me Miss, or Mademoiselle.”—“Well, Miss.”—“No, I do not like the sibilation.”—“Will Ma’am do any better?”—“Not till I’m more venerable. Call me Perdita.”—“Perdita what?”—“Perdita Brown,—yes, I love the name of Brown.”
“Well, Perdita, as you’ve not quite made up your mind to seek the protection of Miss Tremaine, my advice is that you remain here till to-morrow. Here is a little case filled with books; and on the shelf of the closet is plenty of old music,—works of Handel, Mozart, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Schubert, and some of the Italian masters. Do you play Schubert’s Sacred Song?”—“I never heard it.”—“Learn it, then, by all means. ’T is in that book. Shall I tell Mrs. Bernard you’ll pass the night here?”—“Do, sir. I’m very grateful for your kindness.”—“Good by, Perdita! Should anything detain me to-morrow, wait till I come. Keep up your four hours’ practice. Madame Bernard is amiable, but a little talkative. I shall tell her to allow you five hours for your studies. Adieu, Perdita!”
He held out his hand, and Clara gave hers, and cast down her eyes. “You’ve told me a true story?” said he. “Yes! I will trust you.”
“Indeed, sir, I’ve told you nothing but the truth.”
Yes. She had told the truth, but unhappily not the whole truth. And yet how she longed to kneel at his feet and confess all! Various motives withheld her. She was not quite sure how he had received her antislavery confessions. He might be a friend of Mr. Ratcliff. There was dismay in the very possibility. And finally a certain pride or prudence restrained her from throwing herself on the protection of a stranger not of her own sex.
And so the golden opportunity was allowed to escape!