“O, you dear little good-for-nothing Darling,” said Laura, after there had been a conflux of kisses. “Could anything be more apropos? What’s the meaning of all this? Have you really absconded? Is it a love affair? Tell me all about it. Rely on my secrecy. I’ll be close as bark to a tree.”
“Will you solemnly promise,” said Clara, “on your honor as a lady, not to reveal what I tell you?”
“As I hope to be saved, I promise,” replied Laura.
“Then I will tell you the cause of my leaving Mrs. Gentry’s. ’T was only day before yesterday she told me,—look at me, Laura, and say if I look like it!—she told me I was a slave.”
“A slave? Impossible! Why, Darling, you’ve a complexion whiter than mine.”
“So have many slaves. The hue of my skin will not invalidate a claim.”
“That’s true. But who presumes to claim you?”
“Mr. Carberry Ratcliff.”
“A friend of my father’s! He’s very rich. I’ll ask him to give you up. Let me go to him at once.”
“No, Laura, I’ve seen the man. ’T would be hopeless to try to melt him. You must help me to get away.”