“Ebry word ob it, missis! Tahnk de Lord fur sendin’ yer. Watch Massa Ratcliff sharp. Fix him sure, missis,—fix him sure!”
“Trust me, Esha! He seizes no young girl to-day, unless I let him. But be very prudent. You may need money.”
“No, missis. No pay fur tellin’ de troof.”
“But you may need it for the child’s sake.”
“O yis, missis. I’ll take it fur de chile, sure.”
Madame Volney placed in her hands thirty dollars in gold, then left the house, and, hailing a carriage at a neighboring stand, told the driver where to take her. “Double speed, double fare!” she added. In ten minutes she was at home.
Ratcliff had not yet come down. He had rung the bell, and given orders for an early breakfast. Madame went up to her dressing-room, and put on her most becoming morning attire. We have called her a quadroon; but her complexion was of that clear golden hue, mixed with olive and a dash of carnation, which so many Southern amateurs prefer to the pure red and white of a light-haired Anglo-Saxon.
When Ratcliff came down, he complimented her on her good looks, and kissed her.
“I’ve been to confession,” she said, as she touched the tap of a splendid silver urn, and let hot water into the cups.
“And what have you been confessing, Josy?”