Clara saw that, could she but command courage to fall in with Laura’s selfish plans, it might, after all, be safer to come thus into the very focus of the city’s life, than to seek some corner, penetrable to police-officers and slave-hunters.
“How will you manage?” asked Clara.
“What more simple?” replied Laura. “I’ll take you right into my sleeping-room; you shall be my schoolmate, Miss Brown, come to pass a few days with me before going to St. Louis. Papa will never think of questioning my story.”
“But I’ve no dresses with me.”
“No matter. I’ve a plenty I’ve outgrown. They’ll fit you beautifully. Come here into my sleeping-room. It adjoins, you see. There! We’re about of a height, though I’m a little stouter.”
“It will not be safe for me to appear at the public table.”
“Well, you shall be an invalid, and I’ll send your meals from the table when I send mother’s. Miss Brown from St. Louis! Let me see. What shall be your first name?”
“Let it be Perdita.”
“Perdita? The lost one! Good. How quick you are! Perdita Brown! It does not sound badly. Mr. Onslow,—Miss Brown,—Miss Perdita Brown from St. Louis! Then you’ll courtesy, and look so demure! Won’t it be fun?”
Between grief and anger, Clara found disguise a terrible effort. So! Her fate so dark, so tragic, was to be Laura’s pastime, not the subject of her grave and tender consideration!