After the discovery of the hiding place in the woodshed, Dr. Ware
and his Underground co-workers thought it best for a little while to
receive no runaways in his house. For it was closely watched, not only
by the officers whose duty it was to enforce the Fugitive Slave law,
but also by the slave hunters who made it a business to trail and
capture northward-bound chattels for the sake of the rewards offered by
their owners. In order to divert suspicion Walter and Lewis Kimball and
several other young men who were in the habit of keeping a lookout for
the fugitives contrived to secrete them elsewhere until surveillance
upon the white house on the hilltop was relaxed.
In the meantime Dr. Ware made ready a new place of concealment. An end
of the cellar extending beneath the room occupied by the two black
servants was separated from the rest by a solid wall. A trap door was
cut in the floor and a flight of stairs set in. Carpet concealed the
door and over it was usually set a table, chairs, or other furniture.
The cellar room was dark and had little ventilation, but Dr. Ware and
Rhoda congratulated themselves that it would be perfectly safe.
“Why, father, it’s like a dungeon in a castle,” the girl exclaimed with
a laughing face as she came up after making it ready with pallets and
cots and a generous supply of old quilts and blankets. “While they are
shut up in there they can rest and sleep, and so can we, without the
least fear that they’ll be discovered!”
Dr. Ware cast an observant look at her alert and smiling countenance.
Not since the adventure with the marshal had she seemed so like her
usual self. Following those self-absorbed days, when she had seemed
to be going about in a happy dream, had come a period of depression.
His professional eye had noted that she did not eat as a healthy young
creature should and his fatherly solicitude had made him quickly
conscious of her lessened vivacity of spirit. The changes in her
demeanor cost him a good deal of anxious thought--much more, indeed,
than she supposed he ever bestowed upon her. He knew that Jefferson
Delavan had been there again, but Rhoda told him nothing of what
had passed between them. So he merely guessed that his daughter had
struggled once more with her heart and had paid dearly for the victory.
He watched her anxiously, but shrank from speaking to her about her
physical state because he felt sure of its emotional cause and could
foresee the trend the conversation would take. For the leading-strings
of habit were strong upon them both, and even stronger was the
constraint of self-consciousness in a middle-aged man who all his life
had cultivated the intellectual side of his nature at the expense of
the emotional. Only toward the wife who had woven so strong a mesh
about his heart in the days when the blood of young manhood was hot and
winey and, in different scope and color, toward the child who so much
resembled her, had he ever been able to express in words and actions
the inner warmth and tenderness of his heart.
Of Rhoda he made a companion much more than he did of either his wife
or Charlotte. When she settled down at home after the three years she
had spent, in her latter teens, at Dr. Scott’s Female Institute, he had
been much pleased to find that he could talk with her seriously upon
most subjects that interested him. And since then they had grown into a
deep and wide intellectual understanding and sympathy. But between them
there was no emotional expression of their mutual feeling.
During this last year he had watched with pride her rapid development
in character and intellect. Her Underground work had stimulated her
sympathies and trained her in self-reliance and her increased interest
in political affairs had broadened and developed her intellectually
until, from an attractive girl of rather more than average endowment
she had become a woman whose companionship her father enjoyed upon an
equal footing. Blind babies, if the windows of sense perception are not
opened into their minds, become imbecile. Perhaps--but everybody knows
that argument by analogy is the most deceptive of all the paths by
which human beings endeavor to find truth.
So, to go back to Rhoda and the new place of concealment in the cellar.
Dr. Ware was much gratified to see her more lively demeanor that
morning and began to hope that, with the renewal of their Underground
operations and the constant call they would make upon both heart and
head, she would soon forget the pain that had been benumbing her
energies. She told him she was going to a meeting of the sewing circle
that afternoon at which they were to consider the question of enlarging
its sphere and turning it into an anti-slavery society. He thought it a
good idea and encouraged her to do all she could toward that end.
She went early to Mrs. Hardaker’s house, where the meeting was to be
held, and proved to be the first arrival. Horace was there, not having
yet returned to his office after dinner, and as she entered he greeted
her with--
“Rhoda, here’s a grand thing! Just listen!”
She saw that he had the New York “Tribune” in his hands, and as he
began to read her attention was at once absorbed by the bitter and
mournful eloquence of Horace Greeley’s lament over the Dred Scott
decision--a bit of literature that ought to be among the classics of
American journalism and studied by every aspirant for its honors. But
it is buried too deep among the yellowing sheets of forgotten newspaper
files to be known, in these busy days of a later generation, to any
but an occasional investigator. It had its own brief day of vigorous
life, when it stirred profoundly the minds and hearts of tens upon
tens of thousands of earnest men and women. And then like a dead leaf
it fluttered down to earth, to become a part of that debris of the
centuries that makes a richer soil for the growth of human souls.
With quickening pulse Rhoda listened to the stately march of the
sentences, as Hardaker’s fluent, oratorical voice gave to each its full
significance. As he came to the closing lines his listener’s breath was
catching now and then and her eyes and cheeks were aflame:
“The star of freedom and the stripes of bondage are henceforth one.
American republicanism and American slavery are in the future to be
synonymous. This, then, is the final fruit. In this all the labors of
our statesmen, the blood of our heroes, the lifelong cares and toils of
our forefathers, the aspirations of our scholars, the prayers of good
men, have finally ended. America the slave breeder and slaveholder!”
As Hardaker looked up and saw her countenance aglow with the fires of
her soul it occurred to him that, after all, Rhoda Ware was beautiful.
Like the tuned strings of a musical instrument her emotional nature had
responded to the touch upon her convictions, and behind this mingled
glow of indignation and aspiring soul he felt all the forces of her
woman’s heart, her powers of loving, her wealth of compassion and
tenderness. As he left the house he muttered to himself:
“A girl like that--she ought to be a Joan of Arc!” For the first time
in his rather long and somewhat spasmodic suit for her heart hope of
final success almost fell away from him. If such a rare, fine creature
mated at all, he felt rather than put into definite thought, it surely
ought to be with some being of finer clay than the average man. And
then he jammed his hat down hard and said to himself, definitely and
savagely: “The idea of her marrying a damned slaveholder!” Horace
Hardaker was a church member in good standing, and it was only in the
intimacy of his soul and upon most infrequent occasions that he allowed
himself such lapses of speech. When he did it was a sure sign that his
indignation had a strong personal tang.
The band of women in Mrs. Hardaker’s parlor talked while they sewed,
discussing the proposition of turning themselves into a more ambitious
society. Some were averse, saying they already did as much as they
could and that, moreover, to venture outside the sphere of their homes
and attempt to do things that men could do better would not be a proper
and becoming course. Rhoda, stitching busily, now and then put in an
argument or answered an objection. Her ardor, pleasant demeanor, and
practical capacity had made her a favorite with all the members of the
society, old and young. Her unfortunate love affair, of which all of
them knew something, invested her with a romantic interest and set her
a little apart, because of her opportunity and her sacrifice.
Of a sudden Rhoda felt her heart swell with the desire for utterance.
She began speaking, at first with her needle still busy. But, after
the first two or three sentences, her work dropped from her hands
and she leaned forward, her face glowing, as she dwelt upon the
discouragement which had fallen upon all who hoped for either the
ending or the staying of the progress of slavery, and of the greater
need than ever before that every one who believed slavery to be an evil
should work against it with zeal. She spoke quietly and simply, with
the intense and moving earnestness of a strong personality in the grip
of a passionate conviction. One after another the women dropped their
needles and listened with rapt attention. For a few minutes she talked
and then she caught up the paper and read the article in the “Tribune.”
At its close the utter silence of the room was broken only by a
half-suppressed sob here and there. After a moment she said modestly:
“Well, friends, what are we going to do about this matter?”
A woman in the back of the room began clapping her hands softly, and
presently Rhoda was shrinking back, blushing and abashed, before the
storm of applause. Immediately and enthusiastically, and perhaps not in
strict accord with parliamentary rules, it was decided to change their
circle into a “Female Anti-Slavery Society,” to continue their present
work and to add to it whatever their hands might find to do, and to
make Rhoda Ware its president. Surprised and embarrassed, she tried to
decline the honor. But the women, crowding around her with praise and
caresses, would not let her refuse.
At home she said nothing of the affair to her mother or sister, to
neither of whom did she ever make mention of any of her anti-slavery
activities. All that portion of her life, which, indeed, had come to be
the major part, had as little community with them as if there had been
between them no bond of love and use and relationship. To her father
she related the bare facts of the occasion. But he soon heard from
Horace Hardaker, whose mother had told him all about it, a full and
enthusiastic account of what had taken place.
Rhoda grieved much over the growing alienation between herself and her
mother and sister. Charlotte held herself plainly aloof, and Rhoda was
puzzled by an evident resentment in her attitude. She did not know that
Charlotte held her responsible for her own failure to capture the fancy
of Jefferson Delavan.
“She’s no right to keep him dangling after her if she doesn’t intend to
marry him,” was the vexed young woman’s summing up of the situation,
having quite decided that if her sister would only move out of the way
she herself would soon be mistress of Fairmount.
As the spring and summer went by Mrs. Ware’s hope for a marriage
between Jeff and Rhoda dwindled into profound disappointment. A sadness
came into her face and voice that smote her daughter to the heart.
The sick-headaches, to which she had long been subject, became more
frequent, and other ailments began to manifest themselves. Fearing
remorsefully that her anti-slavery work and her refusal to marry
Delavan were at the bottom of her mother’s failing health, the girl
strove in all tender, care-taking ways of which she could think to make
amends for the double hurt and disappointment. In the conduct of the
house Mrs. Ware leaned upon her more than ever. But as the months wore
on Rhoda felt keenly that the old tenderness and intimacy between them
were disappearing.
The warm weather brought much increase of Underground traffic. At
that time and during the years immediately following the work of the
Road was at its height. For its operations there were friends, money,
workers in plenty, and slaves were gathered up even before they reached
the free-state border, and hurried on from hand to hand in such secrecy
and safety that they had hardly a care or a responsibility until they
found themselves secure on British soil.
To Rhoda her father gave over most of the care of the fugitives
upon their arrival and while they were secreted in the cellar. Not
infrequently also she drove them on to the next station, sometimes in
the night, sometimes by day, in a spring wagon with a false bottom
which he had bought for this purpose. Occasionally Chad Wallace
appeared in the neighborhood with his peddler’s wagon at their service,
if it did not already contain its complement of hidden chattels.
Now and then farmer Gilbertson, on a trip to town, hauled back some
“baggage” well concealed in his wagon bed, to be stowed away in his
hollow haystack until it could be sent on to the next station. A man
who had a market garden out on the same road and drove back and forth
a good deal with vegetables for the Hillside market and for steamboat
supplies, and another who traveled about ostensibly selling reeds often
carried black passengers.
With hands and head and heart all so full Rhoda found little time
to spend in thinking of her own unhappiness. Nevertheless, the day
never went by that had not a little space saved out from other things
and held apart for thought of her lover. Now and then a letter passed
between them. But from these missives was dropped all mention of both
slavery and love, although on both sides the correspondence breathed a
sense of mutual tenderness and understanding that amounted to a sort
of spiritual intimacy. To Rhoda these letters were the treasure of her
heart. They were read over and over again, held caressingly in her
hands during the brief minutes of each day when she gave herself up to
thought of him, and kept under her pillow or upon her breast while she
slept. Every night, when she knelt at her bedside, her petitions to the
Heavenly Father begged for His blessing upon her efforts in behalf of
the slaves, pleaded that He would soon put forth His hand and make an
end of slavery, and implored the safety and the happiness of her lover.
In the late summer there came a message from Fairmount. Emily Delavan,
Mrs. Ware’s namesake, was to be married in October and the Ware family
was bidden to the festivities. The news set Charlotte upon the borders
of ecstatic delight. The visit, which was to be prolonged through
several weeks, would not only be filled with no end of alluring
pleasures and amusements, but it should open, she decided at once,
the door of escape from her home into more congenial surroundings.
It would be just the sort of environment,--a gay crowd of people
with nothing to do but enjoy themselves--in which she knew she always
appeared to best advantage. Two or three uninterrupted weeks of it,
with Jefferson Delavan always there to feel the effects of her charms,
and she could be quite sure of the result. But--there was Rhoda.
“If she’s there,” Charlotte grumbled to herself, “she’ll just keep
on making Jeff think she’s going to marry him some day, and have him
dangling after her all the time.”
Why should Rhoda want to go at all, if she really meant to play fair
with Jeff? The girl soon came to the conclusion, with which she
promptly acquainted her sister, that the other ought not to attend the
wedding.
“It will be very unkind to me if you insist on going, Rhoda,” she
complained. “It will spoil all my pleasure.”
“Sister! Why do you say that?”
“Because you’ll keep Jeff hanging around you all the time, just as he
does when he’s here. Somehow you manage to make him think that you’re
going to marry him sometime when you know you don’t intend to at all.
It isn’t fair to me, Rhoda, you know it isn’t.”
Rhoda had already begun to plan ways and means by which her duties and
responsibilities could be cared for during her absence, for she wished
much to make the visit. Her youthful spirit, so much neglected and
denied of late, was asserting itself once more and eagerly anticipating
the new experience and the promised social gaieties. But above all she
wished to go in order that she might be with her lover in his own home,
and afterward be able to picture his daily life more vividly in her
thought.
“You’re not being fair to me now, Charlotte,” she replied. “I’ve told
Jeff over and over that I can’t marry him. And I’m sure I don’t want to
hinder him from marrying any one else, if he wants to.”
“Then be as good as your word, Rhoda, and stay away from where he is.
He’s attentive enough to me when you’re not around, and if you’ll just
give me a fair chance--you’ll see--I’ll come back engaged!”
Rhoda threw up her head and answered, with a calm intensity in her tone
that made Charlotte look at her curiously: “Very well. I’ll stay at
home. I’ve no claim on Jeff, and you can do whatever you like.”
Charlotte flew across the room, threw her arms around Rhoda’s neck,
kissed her and declared she was a “dear old thing.” And Rhoda, warming
in response and comforted a little for her own hurt, smiled with
pleasure at this outburst of affection, returned her caresses and
called her “silly little sister.”
“You can be an old maid if you want to and spend your life working for
niggers,” Charlotte exclaimed, dancing about the room, “but I mean
to have a good time and make the niggers work for me!” She stopped
suddenly and with head on one side regarded Rhoda anxiously. “Will you
promise,” she broke out, “that you won’t tell mother why you don’t go?”
“Of course I won’t tell her!”
“Nor anybody else?”
“No!”
“Good sister! Then I’ll love you more than ever!”
When Rhoda declared, and her mother could not induce her to change her
decision, that it would be impossible for her to go, the disappointment
was so keen that it sent Mrs. Ware to bed with one of her severest
headaches. Rhoda cared for her with all tenderness, and, in secret
bitterness and tears that her mother must now think more hardly of her
than she deserved, wished that Charlotte would offer to give back her
promise. But she would not ask it of her sister, and to that young
woman, in the height of girlish spirits, busy with the dressmaker and
her own plans, there never occurred the faintest idea of making the
offer.
Mrs. Ware knew, even before she tried, that she could not induce her
husband to accept the hospitality of a slave owner, and so, finally,
it was only herself and her younger daughter who made the journey. As
they were saying good-by Charlotte whispered to her sister:
“This time next year, Rhoda, I’ll be inviting you to Fairmount!”