CHAPTER VI
“That’s just right, Rhoda.” Charlotte nodded at herself in the mirror and smiled with satisfaction as she turned this way and that, surveying her reflection at different angles. “I hope you won’t marry Jeff Delavan, for then I’d have to learn how to do this myself.”
“You ought to learn how to make your own clothes, anyway,” her mother commented reprovingly. The three of them were in an upstairs chamber used as a sewing-room, Rhoda fitting upon her sister the bodice of a white gown and Mrs. Ware, between stitches as she darned a three-cornered tear in the muslin window curtain which the kitten had just made, looking on and making suggestions.
Charlotte tossed her head and tilted her hoopskirts as she did some dancing steps in front of the mirror. “Oh, what’s the use, as long as Rhoda likes to sew and I don’t! You couldn’t, mother, when you were my age. I hope she won’t marry anybody as long as I’m at home. You’re an awful goose, Rhoda. Suppose Jeff Delavan is a slaveholder—what do you care about a pack of dirty niggers? They’re better off as slaves, anyway. Billy Saunders has lived in South Carolinaand he says you couldn’t find anybody anywhere more contented and happy than the nigger slaves down South and that they’re no more fit to be free and take care of themselves than so many babies.”
“Yes,” assented Mrs. Ware, “it has always seemed to me that they need white masters to provide for their welfare. They really are not competent to take care of themselves.”
Rhoda listened to their talk as she adjusted a ruffled fichu about her sister’s shoulders, but made no comment. Nobody but she knew how wistfully, during these days, she was hearkening to arguments in favor of slavery.
Charlotte surveyed herself critically in the glass once more and patted the fichu with approval. “It’s lovely, Rhoda, and I’m so glad you’re a Black Abolitionist! No good-looking young slaveholder would need to ask me more than once—that is, he wouldn’t need to if he knew it, but it’s more interesting to make them ask several times—didn’t you use to think so, mother? The more slaves he had the better I’d like him—and the more times I’d let him propose. Oh, la! How lovely it would be to have a dozen or so slaves ready to come the minute you call, and every time you look out of a window to see droves of them, all working for you! That would just suit us, wouldn’t it, Bully Brooks?” And she caught up the kittenfrom the floor in time to save the curtain, swaying in the breeze, from another attack.
“It’s perfectly silly of you, Rhoda,” she went on, as she tilted out of the room, the kitten on her shoulder, “to care any more about Jeff Delavan’s having a lot of slaves than you would if they were so many horses. Isn’t it, Bully Brooks?”
The kitten gave quick and loud response and Mrs. Ware, with a frown in her voice, called after her, “Charlotte!” But she heard in reply from down the hall only a merry laugh and the whistled strains of “Comin’ through the Rye.”
“Charlotte is not sympathetic,” said her mother fondly, putting an arm around Rhoda and pressing her cheek to her daughter’s, “but her ideas are certainly correct. And any one will tell you so, dear, who has lived in the South and knows what slavery really is. You’ve no right, Rhoda, as I’ve already told you, to set yourself up in judgment on a subject you know nothing about, and against those who know all about it. Why can’t you trust your mother, honey?”
She put her hands upon her daughter’s shoulders and looked up beseechingly into Rhoda’s troubled face. “I know all about slavery, dearie,” she went on, “for I lived in the heart of it until I was married, and I give you my word the niggers are far happier and better off under it than they would be if they were free. They don’t want freedom. And they are so grateful to their mastersand mistresses and so fond of them! Why, dear, my old mammy loved me almost as much, I do believe, as my mother did!”
Rhoda recalled what her father had told her of that “old mammy’s” fate and pressed her lips together in sudden fear lest, in spite of his injunction, she might tell what she knew.
“I know, mother,” she said falteringly, “at your home it seems to have been as near right as it could be; but, mother, dear, they’re human beings, and I can’t make it seem right, no matter how much I think about it and try to see it as you do, that they should be bought and sold!”
“That’s only because you don’t know much about niggers, dear child! They’re not really human beings, in the sense that we are. If you had grown up among them as I did you would understand that. Charlotte is quite right in saying they are no more to be considered than horses.”
They sat down on the black horsehair sofa and Mrs. Ware went on, her soft, southern tones full of pleading, one hand fluttering over the girl in little caressing touches: “If you knew them as I do, Rhoda, and knew how contented they are, you wouldn’t feel a moment’s hesitation. And everybody lives so happily down there! Such hospitality, such friendships, such enjoyment of life—everything so gracious and charming! There’s nothing like it in the North! How homesick it makes me, even yet, to think of it! Oh, honey!If I could only see you settled in the midst of it, you don’t know how happy it would make me! And Jeff—I don’t believe you realize, Rhoda, how much he loves you! You ought to have heard him talk to me about you! Jeff would do anything to make you happy!”
Rhoda’s head dropped to her mother’s shoulder. “Oh, mother!” she cried, “I wish—I wish you could convince me!”
When she carried her sewing down to the veranda a little later Mrs. Ware’s eyes followed her with a gaze of mingled longing and misgiving. “Now she will go and talk with her father,” was the mother’s thought, “and he will undo all that I’ve gained.”
Rhoda saw that her father’s carriage was at the east gate, waiting for him, and she had scarcely seated herself with her sewing when he came out from his door. “Oh, Rhoda,” he called, “will you come here a minute, please?
“I’d like you to do something for me this morning,” he went on as they stepped back into the office. “You know where the Mallard place is? The first one beyond Gilbertson’s. They have sent in for some more medicine for their sick child, but if there have been certain results I want to make a change in the treatment. The man who brought me the message didn’t know anything about it and I’ve got a hurry call that’s likely to keep me all day. I’ll give you two kinds of medicine,”and he began putting them up as he continued talking, “and if the child is sleeping well and has no fever you can leave this package—the directions are written here. But if not I want it to have this, until I go out there to-morrow. Don’t say anything about having the two kinds, but make your inquiries, and leave the package that the symptoms call for, and tell them I’ll call to-morrow.”
“All right, father. I can ride Dolly, I suppose? I’ll enjoy having a gallop this morning.”
“If she’d only been a boy,” he thought, as he hurried into the carriage and drove away, “I’d have made a doctor of her. It’s a pity she wasn’t—she’d make a first-class one, if she wasn’t a woman.” He held the thought regretfully for a moment. But, radical though he was upon many subjects, it did not occur to him that Rhoda could be a woman and a physician at the same time.
As he drove down the main street, past the law office of Horace Hardaker, that young man rushed out and signaled him to stop. “If you’ve got anything to tell me, Horace,” he said, reining up at the sidewalk, “jump in and come along for a few blocks. I’m in a hurry and can’t stop.”
“A piece of U. G. baggage came over the river last night,” Hardaker began as they drove on, his voice just above a whisper, “and went to Conners’ house, as he had been directed. You know they’ve been keeping a close watch on Conners lately, andthis morning Marshal Hanscomb swooped down while the baggage was still there. But Mrs. Conners got him into a bonnet and veil and dress of hers, while Conners kept the slave catchers at the front door a few minutes. She did a lot of talking and laughing in the kitchen, as if she was saying good-by to some neighbor woman, and hustled him out of the back door, just as Conners had to let them in at the front. He got away all right, with directions for going on to Gilbertson’s. If he gets there they’ll hide him in their hollow haystack until the immediate danger blows over. But the marshal and his catchers are after him to-day, and it’s a chance if he makes it.”
Dr. Ware’s face was serious. “No, Conners’ house won’t do any longer—it isn’t safe,” he commented, in low tones. “We’ve got to find some other place. My house is the best, if things turn out all right. But I don’t know yet how it’s going to be. You met that young man from Kentucky there last week, the evening of the meeting. He’s a slaveholder, but he wants to marry Rhoda.”
Hardaker made a sudden, nervous movement and the doctor, casting a sidewise glance, saw a flush overspread his face. “I know, Horace—that is, I guessed,” he said kindly, “and I wish, from the bottom of my heart, that she might have felt differently about it.”
“So do I, doctor,” the other answered grimly, “but—she didn’t. Is she—does she—” he wenton awkwardly and Dr. Ware took the burden of the question from him.
“She doesn’t know yet what she’ll do. If she decides to marry him that will put an end to my scheme. I’d have to have somebody in the house in sympathy with the work. Rhoda is so capable, she could take the thing right into her own hands and carry it on so quietly that nobody would know what she was about. I wish I’d got it started before Delavan appeared on the scene.”
“Delavan?” Hardaker repeated with sudden interest. “Is his name Jefferson Delavan?”
“Yes. He has a tobacco plantation down below Lexington.”
Horace slapped his knee. “The same one!” he exclaimed softly, and went on in reply to Dr. Ware’s look of inquiry: “He’s the owner of that slave they so nearly caught at Conners’ house this morning, and he’s out with Marshal Hanscomb following the fellow now!”
Dr. Ware pursed his lips in a subdued whistle. “Then he’s likely to come to my house again before he goes back. I’m sorry—he’s a taking sort of chap, and Rhoda likes him.”
The sun was hot and Rhoda, on her homeward way, slowed her horse to a walk and sought the shady side of the road. Her thoughts were busy with her mother’s recent pleadings and arguments. A little frown wrinkled the wide space betweenher level brows. “No,” she said to herself, “no, father’s right about slavery—and mother’s wrong—she doesn’t really know as much about it as he does, although she did live there so long.”
Her thoughts lingered over the stories her mother had told her of life on the southern plantations, its gaiety and refinement and gracious hospitality, and into her mind came the picture of the Delavan home as she had seen it on a spring afternoon of her childhood—the long, noble driveway, tree-arched, up which the carriage swept, the massive brick house with its wide verandas, half hidden among trees, the carriage circling the great lawn and drawing up at last at the steps, and Mrs. Delavan coming eagerly forward to receive them, her husband by her side and close behind her the two children, Jeff and Emily. And then, of a sudden, it was herself she saw in the mental picture, with Jeff Delavan at her side, standing on the wide veranda and welcoming their guests. A smile flashed across her face and a tender light shone in her eyes. “Oh, Jeff, Jeff!” she whispered. “I do want to be your wife!”
She looked about her, a sweet longing in her heart. Her horse was moving at a walk down a long, sloping hill. Her eyes followed the road up the opposite rise and she saw a man’s figure come across the top and start downward at a run. She wondered idly why any one should be running like that on so hot a day. As they neared each otherat the foot of the hill she saw that he was a mulatto, very light in color, but with negro blood nevertheless plainly manifest in skin and eyes. The thought flashed through her mind that perhaps he was a runaway slave and at once her heart warmed with compassion.
He was near enough to see the expression of pity that swept across her face and he came toward her with a half-wary, half-questioning look.
“What is it? Can I help you?” she asked impulsively.
“Can you tell me, Miss,—am I on the right road to Gilbertson’s—is it much farther?” he panted.
“About three miles, right on, along this road.”
“Three miles!” His face fell and despair leaped into his eyes. He glanced at the trees which thinly clothed the hillside. “Is there any place in there where I can hide? Are there any houses—safe ones?”
She bent toward him, looking straight into his eyes. “Are you just running away from slavery? Have you done anything wrong?”
He held her gaze unflinchingly as he answered: “I’ve done nothing wrong—nothing but try to get my freedom—but that’s the worst of crimes, south of the Ohio River.”
“Then I’ll help you. I know where you can hide.” He assisted her to dismount and she gathered up her long riding skirt and began toclimb the rail fence. “There’s a cave over here a little ways,” she went on. “I haven’t been there for years, but I think I can find it. Yes, here’s the path.”
“We must hurry,” he cautioned. “They’re coming after me, and they’re not far behind. If they turn off on that other road back there—I’ll be safe—this time.”
She led the way and they walked on rapidly through the straggling bushes and timber. The hill was steeper here and the path sidled and zigzagged toward its summit, for some distance in view of the road. Halfway up the hillside it made a sharp turn around a huge boulder and plunged into a thicker growth of shrubs and young trees. As the man, several paces in the rear, reached this point he cast a quick glance at the road and saw a horseman come into view across the top of the rise.
He sprang forward, exclaiming in a shrill whisper, “Hurry! My master is coming! I saw him cross the hill!”
She drew her skirts higher and broke into a run. “Did he see you?” she threw back at him, and her swift glance caught sight of a pistol in his hand.
“I don’t know. Show me the cave, and then you must get out of the way!”
“You won’t shoot him?” she demanded, turning sharply round.
“I will if I have to. I’m not going back into slavery!” was his answer in a dogged voice.
“‘You won’t shoot him?’ she demanded, turning sharply around.”
They heard the neigh of a horse, over in the road, and an answering call from Rhoda’s mare, which she had left tied to the fence. “Are we nearly there?” asked the mulatto.
The path sloped downward again and she sped onward, her thoughts flashing, lightning like, across her mind. If the slaves really did not want freedom, if they were happy and contented in slavery, why was this man taking such desperate chances? Perhaps he was fleeing from a master as cruel as Uncle Tom’s. She would ask him—at last she could find out the truth from one of those who alone knew what was the truth.
Rhoda stopped beside a thick tangle of hazel bushes that grew against the face of a sharp rise of the hill.
“Here it is,” she said. “Go around to the other side of this thicket and between the bushes and the hill just a little ways in, you’ll see the opening into the cave. It’s perfectly safe—only children ever go there.”
“Thank you, miss, thank you!” he breathed as he hurried past her. Then he paused an instant and half turned toward her again. “You’d better get out of harm’s way, quick! If Jeff Delavan did see me just now he won’t stop till he finds me, if he has to burn the woods down to do it! And I won’t be taken!”
He rushed on around the thicket and did not see how she suddenly stiffened and the color faded from her face, leaving it white to the lips.
“Jeff Delavan!” she repeated. “Is he your master?”
The runaway was peering into the mouth of the cave, making sure that the way was clear, but at the amazed tone of her question he straightened up, threw back his head and his voice was tense with bitterness:
“Yes, miss, he is my owner—and also my brother!”
“What!” Her horrified exclamation made him look at her again more sharply and he saw a scarlet flush mounting to her brow.
“You needn’t be surprised!” he went on hotly. “It’s common enough in slavery. We had the same father. Good-by, miss! God bless you!”
Still gripping his revolver he dropped behind the bushes. Rhoda, intently listening, heard him scrambling through the mouth of the cave. “Is it all right?” she asked softly.
“Yes,” came the muffled reply.
“You can put up your pistol,” she went on, and even the desperate fugitive huddled in the darkness of the cave, the blood pounding in his ears, was conscious of a sharp hardness in her repressed tones that had not been there before. “I promise he shall not find you!”
Rhoda sped back up the hill, at first consciousof little but a whirling in her head and a weight like stone in her breast. As she neared the highest point in the path she heard footsteps coming toward her. Instantly her nerves seemed to steady themselves and her mind grew clear. Holding her riding skirt with one hand she began breaking branches from the flowering viburnum that grew thickly beneath the trees. So Jefferson Delavan saw her as he hastily rounded the bend in the trail beside the boulder.
“Rhoda!” he exclaimed in joyful surprise, “you here!” In his sudden lover’s gladness he did not notice that there was no answering surprise in her face. He sprang toward her, but she moved back a step or two and shifted her handful of flowering branches from the curve of her arm, holding it between them.
“Yes, I’m here—I—I wanted some flowers.”
His glance darted anxiously beyond, but came back and rested upon her tenderly.
“Are you alone, dear? Is it safe? I thought I heard voices just now.”
“You did,” she replied calmly. Her brain was working clearly and rapidly now as her thoughts flashed over what she must accomplish.
“Rhoda, you ought not to be here alone,” he went on insistently. “You don’t know who may be wandering through these woods.” Again his glance left her face and swept the hillside. “I am looking for a runaway now,” he pursued. “Iwas sure I saw him on this path, just as he disappeared among these bushes. Did you see him? It was only a few minutes ago.”
“Yes, I saw him.” He stared at her, wondering what might mean the little thrill in her tones.
“You did? Where did he go?”
“I shall not tell you.”
“What do you mean, Rhoda?”
“I mean—I know where he is—I showed him where to hide—and—I shall not let you find him!” She had dropped her riding skirt and its long black folds fell closely around her slender figure. He stood a little below her on the hillside and as he looked up and saw the calm determination on her face, amazement overspread his own.
“Rhoda, you don’t realize what you are saying,” he expostulated. “The fellow belongs to me—he is my slave!”
Her face was white and stern and her eyes shining. Even so had stood one of her foremothers, generations agone, in Salem town, facing the charge that her daughter was a witch. She drew herself up and her lip, that short upper lip that he could not see part from its fellow without a thrill in his heart, curled scornfully. “He told me that he is your brother,” came her swift reply.
He looked at her a moment, his face flushing, before he answered, a touch of indulgent wonder in his tone: “And you believed him? You don’tunderstand how these niggers boast over—things they know nothing about.”
She made a little gesture, as if passing by an inconsequent matter. “It’s of no difference. You shall not have him.”
Intensely annoyed though he was his heart leaped toward her warmly, as she stood there among the white viburnums, so tall and pale and determined. That high and fearless spirit was akin to his own and challenged his admiration. But—this would never do—she must be made to understand. He drew a little toward her again and as she looked down into his face and read his heart in it she felt her own stir in response.
“But, Rhoda,” his voice was tender and lingered over her name, “you don’t realize what you are doing.” Unconsciously her figure relaxed into less rigid lines and within her breast she began to feel a soft, insidious longing. “In hiding a runaway slave you are disobeying the law—you are guilty of a criminal act. The marshal and his men were just behind me—they went down the other road, but are coming back. They’ll be here soon!”
“I shall not give him up—no matter what they do—I shall not let you find him.” At that moment she was seeing in her mind’s eye the pistol in the fugitive’s hands and hearing his desperate words, “I won’t be taken!” Her eyes fell anxiously upon her lover.
They heard the clatter of galloping horses on the road. “That’s the marshal!” he exclaimed. “Rhoda, you must not let them find you here, hiding a runaway nigger. I could not hinder your arrest. They will take you to prison!”
She bent toward him, smiling gently. “Jeff”—she began and an undertone of sweetness ran through her voice that made his pulses leap—“are you going to let them—find me here?”
For an instant he seemed about to leap forward and take her in his arms. Then his body sagged, he drew back and the protest of a strong man whose determination has been bewitched away from him was in his voice:
“Rhoda, you are taking advantage of my love!”
The smile that for him was always adorable broke like a sudden illumination over her face, shining even in her serious eyes and melting her mouth, just now stern and scornful, into tender, alluring curves. “Of course I am!” she agreed, and added, as she glanced down demurely and up again into his face, “And aren’t you going to let me?”
A shout came through the woods from the road: “Delavan! Are you there? Have you found him?”
Jefferson Delavan searched for an instant in his breast pocket as he called back: “No,—I’m coming—wait for me—I’ll be there in a minute!”
He took out an old envelope and hurriedlywrote a few lines on the back. “There,” he said as he handed it to Rhoda, “is proof of my love. I’ll send you the legal papers to-night.”
He lifted his hat, bowed, and sprang down the path. A moment later she heard him saying, rather loudly, to the men at the fence, “No, we’ve missed him somewhere. A lady is in there gathering flowers and if he had gone this way she would have seen him. Come, let’s hurry back.”
She listened to the sound of their horses’ hoofs clattering up the hill and as it died away in the distance she swayed against the tree beside her and dropped her head into her hands.