“Think of the triumph of converting her!” said Laura.
“That indeed! Of course,” said Onslow, “like all true women, she’ll take her politics from the man she loves.”
And the Captain smoothed his moustache, and looked handsome as Phœbus Apollo.
“O the conceit!” exclaimed Laura. “Look at him, Mr. Kenrick! Isn’t he charming? Where’s the woman who wouldn’t turn Mormon, or even Yankee, for his sake? Surely one of us weak creatures could be content with one tenth or even one twentieth of the affections of so superb an Ali. Come, sir, promise me I shall be the fifteenth Mrs. Onslow when you emigrate to Utah.”
Onslow was astounded at this fire of raillery. Could the lady have heard of any disparaging expression he had dropped?
“Spare me, Miss Laura,” he said. “Don’t deprive the Confederacy of my services by slaying me before I’ve smelt powder.”
“Where’s Miss Brown all this while?” asked Kenrick.
Laura went to the door, and called “Perdita!”
“In five minutes!” was the reply.
Clara was dressing. When, that morning, she came in from her walk, she thought intently on her situation, and at last determined on a new line of policy. Instead of playing the humble companion and shy recluse, she would now put forth all her powers to dazzle and to strike. She would, if possible, make friends, who should protest against any arbitrary claim that Ratcliff might set up. She would vindicate her own right to freedom by showing she was not born to be a slave. All who had known her should feel their own honor wounded in any attempt to injure hers.