In less than twenty minutes afterwards, as Clara, lonely and anxious, sat in Tremaine’s drawing-room, a servant entered and told her that a colored woman was in Number 13, waiting to see her. Supposing it could be no other than Esha, she followed the servant to the room, and, on entering, recoiled at sight of a stranger. For a moment the quadroon was so absorbed in scanning the girl’s whole personal outline, that there was silence on both sides.
“What’s wanting?” asked Clara, half dreading some trick.
“Please close the door, and I’ll tell you,” was the reply. Clara did as she was requested. “Have you any objections to locking the door?” continued the quadroon.
“None whatever,” replied Clara, and she locked it.
“You fear I may be here as an agent of Mr. Ratcliff,” said Josephine.
“Ah! am I betrayed?” cried Clara, instinctively carrying her hand to her bosom, where lay the weapon she had bought. The quadroon noticed the gesture, and smiled. “Sit down,” she said, “and do not consider me an enemy until I have proved myself such. Listen to what I have to propose.” Clara took a seat where she could be within reach of the door, and then pointed to the sofa.
“Yes, I will sit here,” said the quadroon, complying with the tacit invitation. “Now, listen, dear young lady, to a proposition I am authorized to make. Mr. Ratcliff will very soon be a widower. His wife cannot survive three months. He has seen you, and likes you. He is willing to lift you from slavery to freedom,—from poverty to wealth,—from obscurity to grandeur,—on one very easy condition; this, namely: that, as soon after his wife’s death as propriety will allow, you will yourself become Mrs. Ratcliff.”
“Never!” exclaimed Clara, the blood flaming up like red auroras over neck, face, and brow.
“But consider, my dear. You will, in the first place, be forthwith treated with all the respect and consideration due to Mr. Ratcliff’s future bride. As soon as he has you secure as his wife, he will emancipate you,—make you a free woman. Think of that! Mr. Ratcliff is supposed to be worth at least five millions. You will at once have such a purse as no other young woman in the city can boast. Now why not be reasonable? Why not say yes to the proposition?”
“Never! never!” cried Clara, carrying her hand again to her breast with a gesture she thought significant only to herself.