“I wish to deal with you gently and generously,” said he; “and I beseech you not to compel me to resort to harshness. You are legally my slave, whatever fancies you may entertain as to your origin or as to a flaw in my title. You can prove nothing, or if you could, it would avail you nothing, against the power which I can exert in this community. I tell you I could this very day, in the mere exercise of my legal rights, consign you to the ownership of those who would look upon your delicate nurture, your assured manners, and your airs of a lady, merely as so many baits enhancing the wages of your infamy; who would subject you to gross companionship with the brutal and the merciless; who would scourge you into compliance with any base uses to which they might choose to put you. Fair-faced slaves are forced to such things every day. Instead of surrendering yourself to liabilities like these, you have it in your power to take the honorable position of my wife,—a position where you could dispense good to others while having every luxury that heart could covet for yourself. Now decide, and decide quickly; for I can no longer endure this torturing suspense in which you have kept me. Will you accede to my wishes, or will you not?”
“I will not!” said Clara, in a firm and steady tone.
“Then remember,” replied Ratcliff, “it is your own hands that have made the foul bed in which you prefer to lie.”
And with these terrible words he quitted the room.
Frightened at her own temerity, Clara at once sank upon her knees, and called with earnest supplication on the Supreme Father for protection. Blending with her own words those immortal formulas which the inspired David wrote down for the help and refreshing of devout souls throughout all time, she exclaimed: “Thou art my hiding-place and my shield: I hope in thy word. Seven times a day do I praise thee because of thy righteous judgments. Wonderfully hast thou led me heretofore: forsake me not in this extreme. Save now, I beseech thee, O Lord; send now prosperity! Let thine hand help me. Deliver my soul from death, mine eyes from tears, and my feet from falling. Out of the depth I cry unto thee. O Lord, hear my voice, and be attentive unto my supplications.”
As she remained with head bent and arms crossed upon her bosom, motionless as some sculptured saint, she suddenly felt the touch of a hand on her head, and started up. It was Sister Agatha, who had come to bid her good by.
“But you’re not going to leave me!” cried Clara.
“Yes; I’ve been told to go.”
“By whom have you been told to go?”
“By the gentleman who now takes charge of you,—Mr. Ratcliff.”