She stopped speaking, as long, nervous sobs shook her frame. The tears were streaming down Rhoda’s face and her bosom was heaving as with trembling hands she administered the draught her father had prepared. Dr. Ware noted her agitation and admonished her gently to calm herself. The old fear of displeasing him by showing too much emotion quickly steadied her nerves. To distract her thoughts from the fugitive’s harrowing experience he began to question the woman, as she grew quiet once more, about her life in slavery.
“You must have had a hard master to be willing to take such chances to gain your freedom.”
“It was the trader I run away from, ’cause I knew what he’d bought me for. Master was a kind man.”
“But he sold you.”
“It wasn’t master that sold us. He never does. It was Miss Emily, ’cause she married.”
A chill struck to Rhoda’s heart. Was her fate to be forever linked in this way with that of the slaves from Fairmount? She was glad her father did not even look at her as he passed, with apparent unconcern, to the logical next question:
“Who was your master?”
“Jefferson Delavan, of Fairmount, just beyond Lexington. He was a kind man and never sold any of the slaves. His mother, old mistress, was kind too, when she was alive, and she took pains with some of us. She was teaching me to be her maid. But Miss Emily’s different. She’s sold nearly all of us that fell to her share.”
Dr. Ware stole an anxious glance at Rhoda. She was sitting at the bedside, with the woman’s hand clasped in hers, her eyes straight in front, her lips pressed together and her face stern.
“It’s hardly fair to make the blame personal,” he ventured. She flashed up at him indignant eyes and her voice was bitter with scorn as she replied: