Rhoda colored. In the excitement and the unusual press of duties that followed the steamboat explosion there had been little time for private talk with her father and beyond the bare information that the three refugees had been there and that she had taken them on she had told him nothing of the incidents of that night. It had come about that she shrank from saying anything about Delavan’s being a slaveholder, especially to her father. It seemed to her a moral obliquity which her love instinctively yearned to hide from others. But there was only a moment’s hesitation before her earnest eyes met his frankly.
“She came from Jeff’s plantation, and she is the wife of the man, Andrew, to whom Jeff gave his freedom last summer—you remember? Mr. Wilson saw him in Canada and he sent word and some money to his wife for her to follow him. She said Mr. Wilson got eleven slaves together, from different plantations, and started them all off on the same night. The rest went by other routes,—mostly, I think, through Philadelphia. She wanted to come the same way her husband had taken. Wasn’t it brave of her, father, to start off alone with those two little children, without knowing a thing about how or where to go, except just as she is told, from one station to the next! She seemed so passive and so trustful! I haven’t felt so sorry for any of the others that we’ve helped as I did for her!”
In Dr. Ware’s heart some uneasiness had begun to make itself manifest lest the presence of the young man in that room upstairs might yet influence his daughter more than he wished. Perhaps he craved reassurance that she did not regret her decision. Perhaps also unspoken sympathy with the struggle between her conscience and her heart moved him as he asked:
“You do not regret, do you, Rhoda, that you went into this work?”
She looked at him in some surprise and met his gray, calm eyes bent upon her with something more like wistfulness in their expression than she had ever seen in them before.
“No, father, I do not. I am very glad.” There was no mistaking the truth of her quiet tones. But the next instant her lip began to tremble. By sheer force of will she held it firm, closely pressed against the other, and fought down the lump that was rising in her throat. That look in her father’s eyes had made her long to throw herself upon his breast, and sobbing her heart out there tell him how hard the struggle had become. Surely he would sympathize and give her comfort and strength. For an instant the vision came back of him and her mother, in their passionate youth, galloping, galloping, on that wild ride to their heart’s rest—oh, surely he would understand both sides of her trouble! But the habit of years was strong upon them both, and they sat in silence for a moment longer, while Rhoda battled down her emotion and her father looked through a bunch of letters he had taken from his breast pocket. It was she who spoke first.
“You said you had a letter from Mr. Wilson, father. Was it about that you wanted to see me?”
“Yes. Here it is. He writes from Vicksburg:
“‘Dear Friend Ware: On this same date I am forwarding to you six copies of “The Burning Question,” three bound in black and three in tan. If there have been any changes as to handlers and forwarders since I was in your neighborhood can you send some one to the south side of the river to watch out for them and see that they do not fall into too appreciative hands? They are billed to go in the usual way and ought to be on hand within a week after this letter reaches you.’”
He put the letter away and looked at her anxiously. “Can we take care of them, Rhoda?”