Most precious to her, however, were the letters which came from abolitionists all over the country with their words of praise, sympathy, encouragement and hope. Many of them were from men and women whose names will be found in the pages of American history as long as the conflict over slavery holds a place therein. Long afterward, when many years of peace had enabled all the people of the land to look back with calm philosophy upon those heated years of contention, and the impartial muse of history had given to the Underground Railroad a high place among the causes which brought on the Civil War and abolished servitude, Rhoda Ware held these letters among her most prized mementos of those stirring days of which she was a part.
CHAPTER XXIV
The lilac bushes were again in bud and Rhoda Ware was looking at them, pulling down here and there a tall one to see if it was not farther advanced than the rest, and reckoning how soon they would burst into flower, when she saw a tall, erect old man enter the gate. He came up the walk with a peculiar directness of manner, as of one accustomed to go forward with eyes and will upon a single aim. As he approached and asked for Dr. Ware, Rhoda saw in his face something of that same quality of underlying sternness, a sternness expressive rather of uncompromising moral sense than of severity of feeling or of judgment, that marked her father’s countenance. His silver-white beard, long and full, lent to this austereness a patriarchal dignity.
She took him to her father’s door, but Dr. Ware was engaged with a patient. The stranger asked if it were not she who had been concerned, the previous autumn, in the escape of the slave girl, Lear White, and they talked of that affair and of the consequences to which it led. She felt a magnetic quality in his grave and mellow tones, and in the steady gaze of his deep-set eyes, alert, luminous, penetrating, she was conscious of that compelling force that lies in the look of all men able to impress themselves upon others. Presently he told her who he was and she thrilled as she heard him speak the words, “Captain John Brown, of Kansas.”
“My father and I have spoken of you often, Captain Brown,” she said, her eyes and face lighting with the admiration which abolitionists felt for the man whom already they regarded as a hero.
“Yes. We have known each other for many years, and we have been agreed about slavery since a time when there were so few of us that we all felt as brothers.”
She had many questions to ask of matters in Kansas, where, she found, he knew the husband of her friend, Julia Hammerton. As they talked she saw presently that his eyes were fixed upon Bully Brooks, who, in full grown feline dignity, was sunning himself on the veranda. The cat’s air of complacent ease disappeared and, after some worried movements, it suddenly sprang up with arched back and swelling tail, spat its displeasure and ran away. Charlotte, coming in at the east gate, saw her pet’s performance and shot a questioning glance at Rhoda and the stranger as she passed them.
A little later, when her father had taken Captain Brown into his office, Rhoda found Charlotte with Bully Brooks in her lap, alternately soothing his ruffled dignity and stirring him to angry protest.
“Rhoda, who is that horrid old man?” she demanded.
“Why do you call him horrid? He is the finest, noblest-looking old man I’ve ever seen, and his character is as noble as his appearance.”