“We shall have another opportunity, I hope, of hearing you sing.”
“I hope so.”
“I have an appointment now at the armory. Charles, are you ready to walk?”
“No, thank you. I prefer to remain.”
Onslow left, and, immediately afterwards, Laura’s mother being seized with a timely hemorrhage, Laura was called off to attend to her. Kenrick was alone with Clara. Charming opportunity! He drew from her still another and another song. He conversed with her on her studies,—on the books she had read,—the pictures she had seen. He was roused by her intelligence and wit. He spoke of slavery. Deep as was his own detestation of it, she helped him to make it deeper. What delightful harmony of views! Kenrick felt that his time had come. The hours slipped by like minutes, yet there he sat chained by a fascination so new, so strange, so delightful, he marvelled that life had in it so much of untasted joy.
Kenrick was not accustomed to be critical in details. He looked at general effects. But the most trifling point in Clara’s accoutrements was now a thing to be marked and remembered. The little sleeve-button dropped from the band round her throat. Kenrick picked it up,—examined it,—saw, in characters so fine as to be hardly legible, the letters C.A.B. upon it. (“B. stands for Brown,” thought he.) And then, as Clara put out her hand to receive it, he noticed the bracelet she wore. “What beautiful hair!” he said. He looked up at Clara’s to trace a resemblance. But his glance stopped midway at her eyes. “Blue and gray!” he murmured.
“Yes, can you read them?” asked Clara.
“What do you mean?”
“Only a dream I had. There’s a letter on them somebody is to open and read.”
“O, that I were a Daniel to interpret!” said Kenrick.