A sudden memory came of the tale of courtship her mother had told to her and Jeff, on that June night so long ago, and across her mind’s eye there flitted the vision she had often called up, of the pretty, wilful girl and the resolute young man with his hand on her bridle, galloping, galloping— “And that was love—and this is love, and it is mine!” her heart sang. Quickly her brain flashed back the question, “Would I yield, as mother did, if—if—if—” And the Cavalier in her heart sang back, exulting, “I would! I would!”
On their way home they came to an old wood road and turned into it from the cross-country way upon which they had been galloping. Checking their horses they rode slowly down the brilliant avenue of gold and russet and crimson, talking, now earnestly, now gaily, upon one or another of the multitude of things, personal and impersonal, which to lovers can bourgeon instantly into matters of moment and interest by the mere fact of mention in the loved one’s voice. Gradually the road dwindled away and they came upon steeper hills and a rocky surface. But Rhoda knew where they were and said that by turning sharply to the eastward they could gain the high road. Dismounting they led their horses across the hills, the fallen autumnal glories billowing beneath their feet.
Already Rhoda’s mood had begun to sober. The Puritan was claiming his own again. Down that wood road she had driven her buggy, on a winter day, to bring out the fugitive negro lad whom she had sent flying to the cave for safety from the pursuing marshal. They passed the cave itself, where, more than three years previous, she had hidden the mulatto, running for the freedom dearer than life from this very man who was bending near her now with ardent looks of love. She shivered a little as she remembered the slave’s sullen resolution, the pistol in his hand, and the tone in which he had said, “I won’t go back.” As Jeff bent with loving solicitude to draw her wrap closer about her shoulders she was thinking, “And he said they were brothers.”
They struck a path which climbed a steep hill, and when they came to a jutting rock Delavan looked around him with sudden recollection. “Why, I’ve been here before!” he exclaimed. “It was here I met you, dear, that day—don’t you remember? What a long time you have made me wait, sweetheart, for your promise!” His lover’s longing, made a hundredfold more imperious by the allurement there had been all the afternoon in her laugh, her voice, her smile, her lips, her eyes, her manner, would be put aside no longer, and he turned upon her with an impetuosity that would brook no protest.
“Do you, remember, dearest, the proof of my love I gave you that day? I’m ready to give you, here on this same spot, another proof, a thousand times greater! It will sweep away everything that keeps us apart, Rhoda! Everything!”
She looked at him silently, sweet wonder parting her lips and shining starlike in her big gray eyes. Her cheeks were paler now, with the ebbing of the exultant tide that had kept her all the afternoon on its crest. But to him this soft, subdued mood bespoke the sweetheart ready to tremble into his embrace and made her all the more adorable. He seized her hand and she let it lie in his close, warm grasp as he went on:
“I have made up my mind to give up everything to our love. I will free all my niggers—for the sake of your dear conscience not one shall be sold—and see that they find places where they can earn their livings. Then I will sell my property and we will put this country and its accursed contentions behind us. We will go to England, dear heart, or France, and live where there will come hardly an echo of all this strife to disturb our blessed content and happiness!”
She dropped her eyes from his and for a long moment stood motionless while it seemed to her that her very heart stood still. With swift inner vision, like that of a drowning man, she saw those years of wedded life, long years of comradeship and love and deepest joy, with dear children growing up beside them, and her heart yearned toward its peace and happiness with such urgency that she dared not try to speak.
“Think, Rhoda, dear,” he was pleading, “think of the quiet, blissful years that are waiting for us! Our two hearts together, and nothing, nothing at all to come between them!”
Her very lips were pale with desire of it as she whispered: “I am thinking, and, oh, Jeff, the thought of it, the joy of it, almost makes my heart stop beating. But have you thought, dear, dear Jeff, what a sacrifice this will be for you? I know how much you love the South. Would you never regret it, never wish to come back and throw yourself into her service? If that should happen, it would be the end of happiness for us both, for I should know it—our hearts would be so close together—even if you didn’t say a word. Have you thought of that, dear Jeff?”