They are Ellen Juvarna, Clotilda, and their children.
Socially, they are disowned; they are not allowed to join the
festivities with those in the dance, and their feelings revolt at
being compelled to associate with the negroes. They are as white as
many of the whitest, have the same outlines of interest upon their
faces; but their lives are sealed with the black seal of slavery.
Sensible of the injustice that has stripped them of their rights,
they value their whiteness; the blood of birth tinges their face,
and through it they find themselves mere dregs of human
kind,--objects of sensualism in its vilest associations.
Maxwell has taken a deep interest in Clotilda; and the solicitude
she manifests for her child has drawn him still further in her
favour; he is determined to solve the mystery that shrouds her
history. Drawing near to them, he seats himself upon the ground at
their side, inquires why they did not come into the house. "There's
no place there for us,--none for me," Clotilda modestly replies,
holding down her head, placing her arm around Annette's waist.
"You would enjoy it much better, and there is no restraint upon
anyone."
"We know not why the day was not for us to enjoy as well as others;
but it is ordained so. Where life is a dreary pain, pleasure is no
recompense for disgrace enforced upon us. They tell us we are not
what God made us to be; but it is the worst torture to be told so.
There is nothing in it-it is the curse only that remains to enforce
wrong.
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