When Onslow had gone, Ratcliff sat five minutes as if meditating on some plan. Then, drawing forth a pocket-book, he took out an envelope,—wrote on it,—reflected,—and wrote again. When he had finished, he ordered the carriage to be brought to the door. As he was passing through the hall, Madame Volney, from the stairs, asked where he was going.
“To the St. Charles, on political business.”
“Don’t be out late, dear,” said Madame. “Let me see how you look. Your neck-tie is out of place. Let me fix it. There! And your vest needs buttoning. So!” And as her delicate hands passed around his person, they slid unperceived into a side-pocket of his coat, and drew forth what he had just deposited there.
“Bother! That will do, Josephine,” grumbled Ratcliff. She released him with a kiss. He descended the marble steps of the house, entered a carriage, and drove off.
Madame passed into the dining-room, the brilliant gas-lights of which had not yet been lowered, and, opening the pocket-book, drew out several photographic cards, all containing one and the same likeness of a young and beautiful girl. As the quadroon scanned that fresh vernal countenance, that adorably innocent, but earnest and intelligent expression, those thick, wavy tresses, and that exquisitely moulded bust, her own handsome face grew grim and ugly by the transmuting power of anger and jealousy. “So, this is the game he’s pursuing, is it?” she muttered. “This is what makes him restive! Not politics, as he pretends, but this smoothed-faced decoy! Deep as you’ve kept it, Ratcliff, I’ve fathomed you at last!”
Searching further among his papers, she found an envelope, on which certain memoranda were pencilled, and among them these: “First see Tremaine. Arrange for seizure without scandal or noise. Early in morning call on Gentry,—have her prepared. Take Esha with us to help.”
Hardly had Madame time to read this, when a carriage stopped before the door. Laying the pocket-book with its contents, as if undisturbed, on the table, she ran half-way up-stairs. Ratcliff re-entered, and, after looking about the hall, passed into the dining-room. “Ah! here it is!” she heard him say to the attendant; “I could have sworn I put it in my pocket.” He then left the house, and the carriage again drove off,—drove to the St. Charles, where Ratcliff had a long private interview with the pliable Tremaine.
While it was going on, Laura and Clara sat in the drawing-room, waiting for company. Laura having disapproved of the costume in which Clara had first appeared, the latter now wore a plain robe of black silk; and around her too beautiful neck Laura had put a collar, large enough to be called a cape, fastening it in front with an old-fashioned cameo pin. But how provoking! This dress would insist on being more becoming even than the other!
Vance was the earliest of the visitors. On being introduced to Clara, he bowed as if they had never met before. Then, seating himself by Laura, he devoted himself assiduously to her entertainment. Clara turned over the leaves of a music-book, and took no part in the conversation. Yes! It was plain that Vance was deeply interested in the superficial, but showy Laura. Well, what better could be expected of a man?
Once more was Laura summoned to the bed-side of her mother. “How vexatious!” Regretfully she left the drawing-room. As soon as she had gone, Vance rose, and, taking a seat by Clara, offered her his hand. She returned its cordial pressure. “My dear young friend,” he said, “tell me everything. What can I do for you?”