“We must not be seen together much,” resumed Vance. “And now good night, or rather, good morning, for there’s a glimmer in the east, premonitory of day. Ah, cousin, when I hear the braggarts around us, gassing about Confederate courage and Yankee cowardice, I can’t help recalling an old couplet I used to spout, when an actor, from a play by Southern,— ‘There is no courage but in innocence, No constancy but in an honest cause!’” CHAPTER XXVI. CLARA MAKES AN IMPORTANT PURCHASE. “Allow slavery to be ever so humane. Grant that the man who owns me is ever so kind. The wrong of him who presumes to talk of owning me is too unmeasured to be softened by kindness.” Laura Tremaine had just come in from a drive with her invalid mother, and stood in the drawing-room looking out on a company of soldiers. There was a knock at the door. A servant brought in a card. It said, “Will Laura see Darling?” The arrival, concurring so directly with Laura’s wishes, caused a pleasurable shock. “Show her in,” she said; and the next moment the maidens were locked in each other’s embrace. “O, you dear little good-for-nothing Darling,” said Laura, after there had been a conflux of kisses. “Could anything be more _apropos_? What’s the meaning of all this? Have you really absconded? Is it a love affair? Tell me all about it. Rely on my secrecy. I’ll be close as bark to a tree.” “Will you solemnly promise,” said Clara, “on your honor as a lady, not to reveal what I tell you?” “As I hope to be saved, I promise,” replied Laura. “Then I will tell you the cause of my leaving Mrs. Gentry’s. ’T was only day before yesterday she told me,—look at me, Laura, and say if I look like it!—she told me I was a slave.” “A slave? Impossible! Why, Darling, you’ve a complexion whiter than mine.” “So have many slaves. The hue of my skin will not invalidate a claim.” “That’s true. But who presumes to claim you?” “Mr. Carberry Ratcliff.” “A friend of my father’s! He’s very rich. I’ll ask him to give you up. Let me go to him at once.” “No, Laura, I’ve seen the man. ’T would be hopeless to try to melt him. You must help me to get away.” “But you do not mean,—surely you do not mean to—to—” “To what, Laura? You seem gasping with horror at some frightful supposition. What is it?” “You’d not think of running off, would you? You wouldn’t ask me to harbor a fugitive slave?” Clara looked at the door. The color flew to her cheek,—flamed up to her forehead. Her bosom heaved. Emotions of unutterable detestation and disgust struggled for expression. But had she not learnt the slave’s first lesson, duplicity? Her secret had been confided to one who had forthwith showed herself untrustworthy. Bred in the heartless fanaticism which slavery engenders, Laura might give the alarm and have her stopped, should she rise suddenly to go. Farewell, then, white-robed Candor, and welcome Dissimulation!