Already had some of the traits, congenital with slavery, begun to develop themselves in Clara. Strategy now seemed to her as justifiable under the circumstances as it would be in escaping from a murderer, a lunatic, or a wild beast. Was not every pro-slavery man or woman her deadly foe,—to be cheated, circumvented, robbed, nay, if need be, slain, in defence of her own inalienable right of liberty? The thought that Laura was such a foe made Clara look on her with precisely the same feelings that the exposed sentinel might have toward the lurking picket-shooter.
An expression so strange flitted over Clara’s face, that Laura asked: “What’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?”
Checking the exasperation surging in her heart, Clara affected frivolity. “O, I feel well enough,” she replied. “A little tired,—that’s all. What if this Mr. Onslow should fall in love with me?”
“O, but that would be too good!” exclaimed Laura. Between you and me, I owe him a spite. I’ve just heard he once said, speaking of me, ‘Handsome,—but no depth!’ Hang the fellow! I’d like to punish him. He’s proud as Lucifer. Wouldn’t it be a joke to let him fall in love with a poor little slave?”
“So, you don’t mean to fall in love with him yourself?”
“O no! He’s good-looking, but poor. Can you keep a secret?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I mean to set my cap for Mr. Vance.”
“Possible?”
“Yes, Perdita. He’s fine-looking, of the right age, very rich, and so altogether fascinating! Father learnt yesterday that he pays an enormous tax on real estate.”