“Mother,” said he, solemnly, “I cannot guide you. Were he my brother, though it might break my heart to do it, I would never keep this wrong secret and silent. But my conscience cannot give the law to yours.”
“I cannot do it,” she sobbed. “You will despise me, but I cannot bear to think of the disgrace my consent would bring upon him.”
“Despise you?” he quickly answered. “Never. Your feeling is sacred to me. I appreciate it. I respect it.”
“At least,” she cried, “give me time to think. Let me first go to him—let me implore him to undo what he has done. He does not know that the man was sheltered here. Oh, perhaps I can prevail with him. Think of the shame it will be one day to his wife and children. When this slavery madness ends, as it may soon, think of the awful shame his family will feel if this act lives against him. How can I bear to have it brought on them! At least for their sake let me try every other effort, and then if I fail, perhaps”—
She faltered—her voice choked with emotion. She could not bring herself to say, that perhaps she would consent to publish her brother’s shame, and bring the fury of anti-slavery rebuke, and the scorn of the coming years of freedom upon him.
They sat in silence thinking with hopeless sadness of the terrible cloud that had rushed so suddenly upon their peaceful and happy day, and the twilight began to darken around them. Mrs. Eastman rose.
“I will go at once to see him,” she said.
“Let me attend you,” said Harrington, rising.
“No, John. Thank you. I will go alone,” she replied, and left the room.