A DOUBLE VICTORY.
“Whence it is manifest that the soul, speaking in a natural sense,
loseth nothing by Death, but is a very considerable gainer thereby. For
she does not only possess as much body as before, with as full and solid
dimensions, but has that accession cast in, of having this body more
invigorated with life and motion than it was formerly.”—_Henry More_, A.
D. 1659.
“No, sure, ’t is ever youth there! Time and Death
Follow our flesh no more; and that forced opinion,
That spirits have no sexes, I believe not.
There _must_ be love,—there _is_ love!”
_Beaumont and Fletcher._
“I shall be jealous of this little lady if you go on at this rate,” said
Madame Volney to Mrs. Ratcliff, a week after Clara had been established
in the house.
“Never fear that I shall love you less, my dear Josephine,” replied the
invalid. Then, pointing to her heart, she added: “I’ve a place here big
enough for both of you. I only wish ’ were in better repair.”
“Have you had those sharp throbbings to-day?”
“Not badly. You warn me against excitement. I sometimes think I’m better
under it. Certainly I’ve improved since Esha and Darling have been here.
What should I do now without Darling to play and read to me? What a
touch she has! And what a voice! And then her selection of music and of
books is so good. By the way, she promised to translate a story for me
from the German. I wonder if she has it finished. Go ask her.”
The answer was brought by Clara herself, and Josephine left the two
together. Yes, Clara had written out the story. It was called _Zu Spat_,
or “Too Late,” and was by an anonymous author. Clara read aloud from it.
She had read about ten minutes, when the following passage occurred:—
“Selfish and superstitious, the Baroness put out of her mind the
irksome thought of making her will; but now, struck speechless by
disease, and paralyzed in her hands, she was impotent to communicate
her wishes. Her agonized effort to say something in her last moments
undoubtedly related to a will. But she died intestate, and all her
large estate passed into the hands of a comparative stranger. And thus
the humble friends whose kindness had saved and prolonged her life
were left to struggle with the world for a meagre support. If in the
new condition to which she had passed through death she could look
back on her selfishness and its consequences, what poignant regrets
must have been hers!”
“Read that passage again,” said Mrs. Ratcliff; adding, after Clara had
complied, “You needn’t read any more now.”
That evening the wife summoned the husband to an interview. Somewhat
surprised at the unusual command, Ratcliff made his appearance and took
a seat at her side. His manner was that of a man who thinks no woman can
resist him, and that his transparent cajoleries are the proper pabulum
for her weak intellect,—poor thing!
“Well, my peerless one, what is it?” he asked.
“I wish to talk with you, Ratcliff, about this white slave of yours.
What do you think of her?”
“Think of her? Nothing! I’ve given no thought to the subject. I’ve
hardly looked at her.”
“Lie Number 1,” thought the invalid, looking him in the face, but
betraying no distrust in her expression.
The truth was, that Ratcliff, for the first time in his life, was under
the power of a sentiment which, if not love, was all that there was in
his nature akin to it. Even at political meetings his thoughts would
stray from the public business, from the fulminations of “last-ditch”
orators and curb-stone generals, and revert to that youthful and
enchanting figure. True, Josephine rigidly exacted conformity to the
conditions that kept him aloof from all communication with the girl. But
Ratcliff, through the window-blinds, would now and then see her, in the
pride of youth and beauty, walking with Esha in the garden. He would
hear her songs, too. And once,—when he thought no one knew it,—though
the quadroon had her eye on him,—he overheard Clara’s conversation. “She
has mind as well as beauty,” thought he.
And that brilliant and dainty creature was _his_,—_his!_ He could, if he
chose, marry her to the blackest of his slaves. Of course he could!
There was no indignity he could not put upon her, under the plea of
upholding his rights as a master. Had he not once proved it in another
case, on his own plantation? And who had ever dared raise a voice
against the just assertion of his rights? Truly, any such rash
malcontents, opening their lips, would have been in danger of being
ducked as Abolitionists!
Patience! Yes, Josephine was right in her scheme of keeping the young
girl secluded from his too fascinating society. Not a hint must the
maiden have of the favor with which he regarded her,—not an intimation,
until the present Mrs. Ratcliff should considerately “step out.”
Then—Well, what then? Why, then an end to hopes deferred and desires
unfulfilled! Then an immediate private marriage, to be followed by a
public one, after a decent interval.
Every secret device and cherished anticipation, meanwhile, of that
imperious nature was understood and analyzed by the quadroon. She felt a
vindictive satisfaction in seeing him riot in calculations which she
would task her best energies to baffle. Esha’s stories of his conduct to
Estelle had withered the last bloom of affection which Josephine’s heart
had cherished towards him.
“I’m glad you’re so indifferent to this white slave,” said Mrs. Ratcliff
to her husband.
“And why should you be glad, my pet?”
“Because, Ratcliff, I want you to give her to me.”
Staggered by the suddenness of the request, and puzzled for an answer,
he replied: “But she may prove a very valuable piece of property.
There’s many a man who would pay ten thousand dollars for her, two or
three years hence.”
“Well, if you don’t want to _give_ her, then _sell_ her to me. I’ll pay
you twenty thousand dollars for her.”
“You shall have her for nothing, my dear,” said Ratcliff, after
reflecting that the slave would still be virtually his, inasmuch as no
conveyance of her could be made by his wife without his consent.
Detecting the trap, the wife at once replied: “Thank you, dear husband.
This generosity is so like you! Can she be freed?”
“No. There are recent State laws against emancipation. It was found
there were too many weak-minded persons, who, in their last moments,
beginning to have scruples about slave-holding, would think to purchase
heaven by emancipating their slaves. The example was bad, and productive
of discontent among those left in bondage.”
“Well, then, Ratcliff, there’s one little form you must consent to. The
title-deed must be vested in Mr. Winslow.”
Ratcliff started as if recoiling from a pitfall. The remark brought home
to his mind the disagreeable consideration that there was nearly half a
million of dollars which ought to come to his wife, but which was
absolutely in the keeping and under the control of Simon Winslow. It
happened in this wise: The father of Mrs. Ratcliff, old Kittler, not
having that entire faith in his son-in-law which so distinguished a
member of the chivalry as the South Carolinian ought to have commanded,
gave into the hands of Winslow a large sum of money, relying solely upon
his honor to use it _in loco parentis_ for the benefit of the lady. But
there were no legal restrictions imposed upon Simon as to the
disposition of the property, and if he had chosen to give or throw it
away, or keep it himself, he might have done it with impunity.
Winslow acted much as he would have done if Mrs. Ratcliff had been his
own daughter. He invested the money solely for her ultimate benefit and
disposal, seeing that her husband already had millions which she had
brought him. Ratcliff, however, regarded as virtually his the money in
Winslow’s hands, and had several angry discussions with him on the
subject. But Simon was impracticable. The only concession he would make
was to say, that, in the event of Mrs. Ratcliff’s death, he should
respect any _requests_ she might have made. There had consequently been
an informal will, if _will_ it could be called, made by her a year
before, in Ratcliff’s favor.
Wanting money now to carry out his speculations in slaves, Ratcliff had
again applied to Winslow for this half a million,—had tried wheedlings
and threats, both in vain. He had even threatened to denounce Simon
before the Committee of Safety,—to denounce him as a “damned Yankee and
Abolitionist.” To which Simon had replied by taking a pinch of snuff.
Simon, though born somewhere in the vicinity of Plymouth Rock, was one
of the oldest residents of New Orleans. He had helped General Jackson
beat off Packenham. He had stood by him in his rough handling of the
_habeas corpus_ act. Simon had been a slaveholder, though rather as an
experiment than for profit; for, finding that the State Legislature were
going to pass a law against emancipation, he took time by the forelock,
and not only made all his slaves free, but placed them where they could
earn their living.
The invalid wife’s proposal to vest the title to the white slave in
Winslow caused in Ratcliff a visible embarrassment.
“You know, my dear,” he replied, “I would do anything for your
gratification; but there are particular reasons why—”
“Why what, husband?”
“Give me a few days to think the matter over. We’ll talk of it when I
haven’t so much on my mind. Meanwhile I’ll tell you what I _will_
consent to: Josephine shall be yours to do with just as you please.”
“Come, that’s something,” said the wife. “What I ask, then, is, that you
convey Josephine to Mr. Winslow to hold in trust for me. Will you do
this the first thing in the morning?”
“I certainly will,” replied Ratcliff, flattering himself that his ready
compliance with one of his wife’s morbid whims would more than content
her for his evasion of the other.
“Well, then, good night,” said she, pointing to the door.
She submitted, with a slight shudder, imperceptible to Ratcliff, to be
kissed by him, and he went down-stairs. Josephine issued from behind a
screen whither the wife had beckoned her to go on his first coming in.
If there had been any remnant of affection for him in the quadroon’s
heart, she was well cured of it by what she had heard.
The invalid called for writing materials, and penned a note. “Take this,
Josephine,” she said, “early to-morrow to Mr. Winslow. In it I simply
tell him of Ratcliff’s proposition in regard to yourself, and ask him,
the moment that affair is attended to, to come and see me.”
The clock was striking twelve the next day when Mr. Winslow came, and
Josephine ushered him into the invalid’s presence.
“You may leave us alone for a while, Josephine,” she said.
As soon as the quadroon had gone out and shut the door, the invalid
motioned to Winslow to draw near. He was upwards of seventy, tall and
erect, with venerable gray locks, and an expression of face at once
brisk and gentle, benevolent and keen.
“What’s the state of the property you still hold for me, Mr Winslow?”
“It is half invested in real estate in Northern cities, and half in
special deposits of gold in Northern banks.”
“Indeed! Then you must have sent it North long before these troubles
began.”
“Yes, more than four years ago,—soon after the Nashville Convention.”
“What’s the amount in your hands?”
“Half a million; probably it will be seven hundred thousand, if gold
should rise, as I think it will.”
“And how much, Mr. Winslow, of the property, my father left me has gone
to Mr. Ratcliff?”
“More than three millions.”
“Very well. I wish to revoke all previous requests I may have made as to
the disposition of the property in your hands. Now take your pen and
write as I shall dictate.”
“Let me first explain, Mrs. Ratcliff, that any conveyance of personalty
you might make would be null without your husband’s consent. But in this
case forms are of no account, and even witnesses are unnecessary.
Everything is left to my individual honor and discretion.”
“I’m aware of that, Mr. Winslow. It is not so much a will as a series of
requests I’ve to make.”
“I see you understand it, madam. The memoranda you give me I will embody
in the form of a will of my own. Proceed!”
“Put down,” said the invalid, “a hundred thousand for the Orphan
Asylum.”
“Excellent; but as the Secessionists are using that sacred fund for war
purposes, I shall take the liberty of withholding the bequest for the
present. Go on.”
“A hundred thousand to the Lying-in Hospital.”
“Nothing could be more proper. Proceed.”
“A hundred thousand to the fund for the Sisters of Charity.”
“Ah! those dear sisters! Bless you for remembering them, madam.”
“A hundred thousand to be distributed in sums of five thousand severally
to the persons whose names I have here written down.”
She handed him a sheet of paper containing the names, and he transcribed
them carefully.
“And now,” resumed the invalid, “the remainder of the fund in your
possession I wish paid over, when you can safely do it, one half to the
slave Josephine, the other half to the white slave, Ellen Murray, of
whom Josephine will tell you, and whom you must rescue from slavery.
Both must be free before the money can be of any service to them.”
“Of course. Their owner could at once appropriate any sum you might
leave to them, even though it were a million of dollars.”
“You have now heard all I have to say, Mr. Winslow.”
“Then, madam, you will please write under these memoranda with your own
hand something to this effect, and sign your name, with date, place, et
cetera: ‘_This I declare to be my own spontaneous, unbiassed request to
Mr. Winslow, to dispose of the property in his possession, in the manner
hereinabove stated._’ The autograph will have no legal force, but it may
serve to satisfy your husband.”
The lady wrote, and handed back the paper.
“Good!” said Winslow. “Before taking another meal, I will draw up and
sign a will by which your requests can be made effectual.”
“Your hand, Mr. Winslow! My father trusted you as he did no other man,
and I thank you for your loyalty to what you knew to be his wishes.”
“The task he put upon me has been a very simple one, madam. Good by. We
shall soon meet again, I hope.”
“Yes. I shall be quite well of my heart-complaint _then_. Good by.”
Hardly had Winslow left the house than Ratcliff drove up and entered. He
was in a jubilant mood. News had just been received of the Confederate
victory at Bull Run. He knocked at his wife’s door. “Come in!” He
entered. Josephine and Clara were present, trying to soothe the invalid.
One was bathing her forehead with _eau de Cologne_; the other was
kneeling, and rubbing her feet. She had been telling them what she had
done. She had kissed first one and then the other, lavishing on them
profuse tokens of affection. Her eyes gleamed with an unnatural
brightness, and her cheeks were flushed with the glow of a great
excitement.
As Ratcliff came in she rose, and, standing between Josephine and Clara,
put an arm round the shoulder of each, and looked her husband steadily
in the face. Her expression was that of one who cannot find words
adequate to the utterance of some absorbing emotion. The look was
compounded at once of defiance and of pity. Her lips moved, but no
articulation followed. Then suddenly, with a gasped “Ah!” she
convulsively bowed her body like a tree smitten by the tornado. The
pain, if sharp, was but for a moment.
The motion was her last. She sank into the faithful arms that encircled
her. The one attenuated chord that bound her to the mortal life had been
snapped.
Ratcliff started forward, and satisfied himself that his wife was really
dead. Then he looked up at Clara.
She caught the expression of his countenance, and instinctively
comprehended it, even as the little bird understands the hawk, or the
lamb the wolf. Josephine saw it too. What a triumph now to think that
she was no longer _his_ slave!
But Clara,—what of _her_? Mrs. Ratcliff’s sudden death seemed to shatter
the last barrier between her and danger.
Ratcliff did not affect to conceal his satisfaction. Here was a double
victory! The Federals and his wife both disposed of in one day! Youth
and beauty within his grasp! Truly, fortune seemed to be heaping her
good things upon him. That half a million too, in Winslow’s hands, would
come very opportunely; for slaves could be bought cheap, dog-cheap, now
that croakers were predicting ruin to the institution.
“Josephine,” said he, “I must go at once to see Winslow, the late”—how
readily he seized on that word!—“the late Mrs. Ratcliff’s man of
business. I may not be home to dinner. You’d better not take out the
carriage. The horses would be frightened; for the streets are all in
commotion with salvos for our great victory. Good by till I return.”
Once more he turned on Clara that look from which she had twice before
shrunk dismayed and exasperated.
After he had gone, “Help me to escape at once!” she exclaimed.
“No,” replied Josephine. “This is our safest place for the present. The
avenues of escape from the city are all closed; and we should find it
difficult to go where we would not be tracked. The danger is not
immediate. Do not look so wild, Darling. I swear to you that I will
protect you to the last. Whither thou goest I will go, and where thou
lodgest I will lodge.”