Rhoda of the Underground

by Florence Finch Kelly

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?”