Rhoda of the Underground

by Florence Finch Kelly

She sat musing for a while upon what she had read, but her thoughts would wander to the grapevine arbor, and again and again across the ardent longings for the success of the Republican cause which filled her mind would come the image of Jefferson Delavan as he held her hand to his heart and declared, “I shall win you yet, Rhoda Ware!”

A deep flush dyed her cheeks and muttering, “Dear God, forgive me, that I cannot help thinking of him even at such a time!” she rose and folded the papers. Then she carefully put them away in her father’s office; for Charlotte did not hesitate, if she came across such publications in any other part of the house and happened to be in an audacious mood, to put them with laughing defiance into the fire.

In her room she moved about restlessly, going now and again toward her bureau, then turning away. At last she opened one of the drawers and from one corner hidden away under ribbons and handkerchiefs, took a small box tied with a white ribbon. For some moments she clasped it tenderly in both hands, her eyes fixed on the floor. Then, as she sank into a chair, the barriers of her will gave way and with trembling fingers she took off the cover.

Inside were a withered rose and a letter. She kissed the rose and caressed it in her palm and held it against her cheek—had not he held it to his lips that day in the arbor when she told him she would not marry him? Then she unfolded the letter and read again its brief sentences. Already she knew them, every word, for in the two days since she received it her traitor heart had sent her, against her will, to read it many times. It was dated in Cincinnati, where, he said, he was likely to remain several days more, but before returning home he intended to go on up the river to Hillside, where he hoped to have the pleasure of calling again upon Mrs. Ware and herself. It was written in courteous, formal phrase, and Rhoda’s eyes studied the lines as though searching for some hidden expression of the love that she knew was behind them.

“Ought I to write and tell him he’d better not come?” she asked herself, as she had done a dozen times already, but still unable to decide that she would request him not to make the visit. Her heart was longing to see him again, but what she said to herself was, “It would be a disappointment to mother if he should not come.”

Oh, traitor heart, that with its insidious desires undermines the defenses of the will and levels to the dust the walls of human determination! If wishfulness stand within the gate when temptation knocks outside it is only the sternest “no,” to both of them, over and over again, resolute and unchanging and giving way not so much as a hair’s breadth, that can save the day. If man’s desires always squared with his knowledge of the right perhaps the world would be a cleaner and a sweeter place to live in. But it would lack the inspiring savor of that grim struggle between them, as old as the race, by which humankind has mounted a few of the steps toward heaven. Man’s inability to say “no” to himself, stoutly and often, is responsible for more of his ills than is all “man’s inhumanity to man.” And to dally with desire, to argue with the traitor within the gates, to listen for a moment to his specious pleading, is to make it ever harder and harder to utter the one blunt word that alone brings peace.

Doubtless Rhoda did not know, for she was not much given to introspection, that if she did not come to quick and sharp conclusions with the insurgent within her own breast she was but lengthening the conflict and making it the more difficult to stand to the line she had set. She was quite sure of her determination that she would not marry Jefferson Delavan and she would have been amazed and incredulous had any one told her that even by this yielding to her love in the privacy of her own room and debating with herself as to whether or not she should see him again she was throwing doubt upon the issue.

So she sat there fondling the withered rose, which his lips had touched, and the letter, which his hand had written, and thinking that it would do no harm if he should come again, for they would meet hereafter merely as friends. Surely they were both strong enough to be just good friends, and to keep hidden whatever might be in their hearts. They were so congenial, they enjoyed each other’s society so much, why shouldn’t they have the pleasure of meeting now and then? And her mother was so fond of him, it really would not be fair to her to tell him that he must not visit them. Yes, it would surely be for the best, and to-morrow she would ask her mother to write and say they would be glad to see him whenever he should come. Her heart gave a little bound at this victory and her lips unconsciously formed themselves into the tenderest of smiling curves as she pressed them upon the withered rose. Then she put the box carefully away, blew out her candle and knelt beside the open window.

Her room was in the southeast corner of the house, and the moon, dwindling past its half, bounded up from behind the wooded hills and saw upon her face the same tender look of smiling happiness. Presently, upon the still night air came the faint sound of cautious footsteps. She turned her eyes, that had been brooding upon the star-filled sky while her spirit wandered in dream-filled Elysian fields, downward to the earth. She could dimly make out a woman’s figure coming up the middle of the street.

A lantern hung on one of the posts of the east gate, beside her father’s sign. But it had now a double purpose. Rhoda watched as the figure came slowly on, stopped at the gate, glanced warily about, and seemed to read the sign, “Dr. Amos M. Ware.” By the dim light she could see that the woman’s face was dark and that she held a child by the hand. Instantly the girl’s spirit was upon the earth again. With noiseless feet she rushed downstairs, through her father’s office, and out upon the veranda. The wanderer was climbing the steps and looking doubtfully about, as if uncertain what she ought to do next.