“Yes, missis, I’se born a slabe,—hab libd a slabe, an’ ’spek to die a slabe.”
“I too am a slave, Esha. I belonged to old Etienne La Harpe, who died six years ago. Though I had had two children, one by him and one by his son, the old man’s widow sent me to the auction-block. I was sold to the highest bidder. I was bought by Mr. Carberry Ratcliff.”
“Ah! by him? by him?” muttered Esha.
“I was handsome. He made me his favorite. I’ve been faithful to him. Even his wife, poor thing, blesses the day I came into the house. She would have died long ago but for my care. The slaves, too, come to me with their sorrows. I do what I can for their relief. I am not, by nature, a bad woman. I would continue to serve this man and his household.”
“Do yer lub him,—dis Massa Ratcliff?”
“That’s a hard question, Esha. He has treated me like a lady. I am practically at the head of his house. I have a carriage at my command. He gives me all the money I ask for. He prizes me for my prudence and good temper. I love him so far as this: I should hate the woman who threatened to step between me and him. Now tell me who this girl is whose photograph he has.”
“She, missis? She am a slabe too.”
“She a slave? Whose slave?”
“She ’longs to Massa Ratcliff!”
“And he has kept it a secret from me!”