“But you do not mean,—surely you do not mean to—to—”
“To what, Laura? You seem gasping with horror at some frightful supposition. What is it?”
“You’d not think of running off, would you? You wouldn’t ask me to harbor a fugitive slave?”
Clara looked at the door. The color flew to her cheek,—flamed up to her forehead. Her bosom heaved. Emotions of unutterable detestation and disgust struggled for expression. But had she not learnt the slave’s first lesson, duplicity? Her secret had been confided to one who had forthwith showed herself untrustworthy. Bred in the heartless fanaticism which slavery engenders, Laura might give the alarm and have her stopped, should she rise suddenly to go. Farewell, then, white-robed Candor, and welcome Dissimulation!
After a pause, “What do you advise?” said Clara.
“Well, Darling, stay with me a week or two, then go quietly back to Mrs. Gentry’s, and play the penitent.”
“Hadn’t I better go at once?” asked Clara, simulating meekness.
“O no, Darling! I can’t possibly permit that. Now I’ve got you, I shall hold on till I’ve done with you. Then we’ll see if we can’t persuade Mr. Ratcliff to free you. Who’d have thought of this little Darling being a slave!”
“But hadn’t I better write to Mrs. Gentry and tell her where I am?”
“No, no. She’ll only be forcing you back. You shall do nothing but stay here till I tell you you may go. You shall play the lady for one week, at least. There’s a Mr. Vance in the house, to whom I’ve spoken of your singing. He’s wild to hear you. I’ve promised him he shall. I wouldn’t disappoint him on any account.”