Rhoda of the Underground

by Florence Finch Kelly

“But it was all true,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to send it, and I’m sure I didn’t. But I—almost—wish I had.”

CHAPTER XVII

When Jefferson Delavan received the mail containing the three letters from Hillside his lover’s eye saw at once the envelope bearing the handwriting of Rhoda Ware. Everything else was pushed aside and this was hastily torn open. He turned the sheets over and swept them with a hungry look, as though he would devour all their contents at one glance. And so it happened that before he had read another line his eyes fell upon the page on which she had poured out her heart, which she thought she had burned—but almost wished she had not.

He had to read it twice before he could believe that his eyes were not playing him some trick. Then he sprang up joyously, with a great light in his face, and ordered his horse. The rest of his mail, even to Rhoda’s letter, was thrust into his pocket, while he made ready for immediate journey. Slaves went scurrying hither and thither, urged to unaccustomed speed by their master’s impetuous commands, and in less than half an hour he was in his saddle.

He struck across the country on the turnpike road straight for the Kentucky shore of the Ohio river opposite Hillside. Quicker time might have been possible by the more roundabout route by railroad to Cincinnati, but his only thought was that thus he was headed directly toward the white house on the hill.

He galloped his horse for an hour or two before he remembered that it would be the part of wisdom not to take too much out of it at the start, laughed aloud as he slowed down, slapped its neck in sheer joy, and sang lustily the tale of “Lord Lovell.” Then he remembered, that he had not read the whole of Rhoda’s letter. He drew it forth, and was reminded in so doing that he had other letters in his pocket. But they could wait. He plunged into hers and read it eagerly through, dropping the bridle and allowing his horse to take a slower pace. Now and then he smiled or gave a little, tender laugh, as he came upon a mirthful sally, or again he frowned thoughtfully and shook his head at her argument. And presently he was staring in bewilderment at the closing paragraph with its denial of his suit. His heart sank as he hastily searched out the other sheet for reassurance. Yes, there it was, and there could be no mistaking the longing call of her heart that spoke so piteously through its brief lines.

“This other, she wrote with her head,” he told himself, “and then her heart gave up and made her write this. Ah, the dear, dear girl! It’s like her to surrender like this, so completely, and even against herself when she lets her heart get the upper hand. Oh, my arms will be all the tying she’ll need, and there’ll be kisses enough to stop her mouth as long as we live!”

With a caressing touch he put the missive away in an inner pocket and urged his horse on again, smiling and humming softly. At last he recalled the other letters. Mrs. Ware’s he read first and found in it confirmation of the view he had already taken of Rhoda’s surprising message. The girl was evidently longing for sight of him once more, her mother said, and if he were to come soon perhaps he could storm her stubborn heart. He laughed again and exclaimed aloud, “Yes, indeed, I’m coming, and if there’s any more storming necessary—” and the sentence broke off into another exultant laugh.

Then he bethought him of the other letter. It was without date line or signature and with puzzled eyes he read its few lines, in the middle of the page: “When true hearts pine and gallants stay away, then what can ladies do? Alas the day, they can but pine when cruel gallants come no more!”

He looked the sheet all over and examined the envelope inside and out to find some clue to its authorship. But there was not the least sign, and the postmark was indistinct. It was written upon the same kind of paper and inclosed in the same kind of envelope as Rhoda always used, but the handwriting was not Rhoda’s, and it seemed so unlike her to send such an indirect, silly little message that he said at once, “No, it’s not from Rhoda.” But who could there be among his friends or acquaintance likely to take such interest in his courtship, of which so few of them knew, and send him this sort of romantic hint? Of course, it might be from some friend of Rhoda’s in whom she had confided.