CHAPTER V.
Some Coquetries.
While the long summer days lasted, Robert Clinton remained a guest at Mr. Tom Hopkins’s. It was a pet scheme of Rhoda’s father that she should marry the young New Yorker, and he trusted to his sister to further the scheme; yet, as is so often the case, neither of the two most concerned seemed to evince any great heartiness in the matter. Rhoda, as was proper, received from Mr. Clinton such attentions as he was bound to pay to the niece of his hostess, but there was scarcely a day that did not see him riding down the road toward the neighboring plantation of Mr. William Hopkins, with the excuse to Mr. Kendall that Will Hopkins had promised him a young hound, and he wanted to look after the training of the animal, or he and James were going crabbing or sailing.
On one of the days in the latter part of the summer, Lettice was sitting on a sunken gray slab in the old graveyard, with Lutie lying at her feetin the tall grass. Lettice was soberly setting neat stitches in a delicate bit of cambric. There were many things on her mind, and she had fled to this quiet spot for reflection. She was silent so long that at last Lutie raised a timid voice, “Huccome yuh so qui’t, Miss Letty?”
“Because I want to think,” returned Lettice.
Lutie raised herself on her elbow and peeped through the thicket of green; just beyond in the garden old Unc’ Eph’am was pottering about, watering the flowers, which he did, rain or shine. It was his only duty; and since the old man was fast losing his wits, but still retained his habits, he never failed to give the flowers their daily watering, whether they needed it or not. “Dey a gemp’an comin’ up de lane, Miss Letty,” drawled Lutie.
“Is there?” A faint little blush tinged Lettice’s cheek.
“Yass, miss. He dat dan’ified Mars Clinton, dat ain’t nuvver rid behin’ de houn’s, Jubal say.”
“Jubal is a goose.”
“Is yuh gwine to de house, Miss Letty? Shall I fetch yo book and yo wuck-bag?”
A smile flickered around Lettice’s lips. “No,”she answered, “I am going to stay here.”
Lutie sighed, and sank back again in the grass; she didn’t “y’arn fo’ de grabeyard” at any time, and hoped for an excuse which would set her free to go elsewhere. Lettice looked at her with an amused expression. “I believe you are scared to stay here, even in the daytime, Lutie,” she remarked.
“No, ma’am, Miss Letty, I ain’t ’zactly skeert, but I feels kin o’ creepy when I sees yuh a-settin’ on yo gre’t gran’daddy grabe.”
“I don’t see why.”
“Kase he de one dat ha’nt de place,” replied Lutie, in a whisper.
“Nonsense! I don’t believe it at all.”
“Yass, miss, he do so; he go on tur’ble, Jubal say, uvver since Mars Torm go ’way.”
“Hush, Lutie,” said Lettice, peremptorily. “I don’t like such talk.”
Lutie looked properly abashed and sought to change the subject. “Is yuh skeert o’ Poly Bonypart, Miss Letty?”
“No; why should I be?”
“’Cause he a—a—. He mos’ wuss an’ anybody. He got gre’t big eyes, an’ he tall as a tree, an’ he cuts off folkses haids if dey dar’s look at him,an’ he go rampagin’ roun’ an’ kills folks fo’ fun. Yuh reckon he uvver come dis way, Miss Letty? When Jubal tell me ’bout him, I so skeert I pulls up de kivers when I goes to baid, an’ I keeps mah haid un’er dem, an’ I jes’ shivers an’ shakes.”
“And let your feet stick out where he can see them; that’s what you always do,” Lettice observed.
“Law, Miss Letty!” Lutie sat up in alarm. “Yuh talks lak you ’spected him.”
Lettice’s peal of laughter discovered her whereabouts to a rather annoyed young man who had been sauntering up and down the porch while a couple of small negroes scudded upstairs and down in a vain search for the young lady, and before Lettice was aware of his presence, Robert Clinton looked over the hedge, exclaiming triumphantly: “Ah, here you are; and this is the graveyard that you would never show me. I might have known that you would be in hiding here.”
“I’m not in hiding,” Lettice replied, rising to her feet. “It is one of my favorite retreats, as I told you; and if you had paid the heed to my words that you pretend, you would have remembered.”
The young man looked rather disconcerted.“But, you know, you have always refused to come here with me, and how was I to know the way?”
“You could have asked.”
“May I come in now?” he inquired humbly.
“I don’t think my father would object,” Lettice returned demurely, and the young man vaulted the hedge instantly. “You should have gone around; at the other side there is an opening,” Lettice told him.
“I didn’t see it. This is an interesting spot, isn’t it?” he said, throwing himself down by her side. “What fair, sweet flowers grow here; but the fairest of all—”
“Lutie,” cried Lettice, “there’s that old turkey-hen now. I saw her run out from behind Theophilus Hopkins’s grave. Go head her off. Excuse me, Mr. Clinton, you were saying something about flowers.”
“I was saying,” he returned, a little put out, “that you have planted some very pretty flowers in here.”
“Oh, yes; we like to keep the place as pretty as we can. Come, we will go over there on the other side of the hedge by that big tree. I have been in here long enough. Was it warm ridingover?”
“Yes, more than warm, hot; but there’s a refreshing breeze from the creek just here; I’d like to take you out there.”
Lettice looked at him with a twinkle in her eye. “You mean you would like me to take you out there. You can’t sail a boat.”
“I can row.”
“On this hot afternoon? No, sir.”
“Am I never to see you alone for as much as half an hour?”
“Why should you?”
“Because I—Do you know what keeps me down here?”
“Politics, I suppose,” returned Lettice, suavely. “I suppose you are waiting to hear what Mr. Kendall will report when he next comes from Washington, and if it is news to your liking, you will start home, and Rhoda—By the way, how is Rhoda?”
“She is well. I left her with your brother on the porch.”
“Jamie is a dear lad. So that is why you came over, because your devoirs to Miss Rhoda were interrupted by my brother?”
“Now, Miss Lettice, you know my firmament contains but one ruling star, and that is—”
“Not there, Lutie,” Lettice cried. “I’ll come and help you, or she’ll get away. Excuse me, Mr. Clinton, but I must help Lutie with that turkey-hen; she is so wild, and has a brood in the bushes. If she once gets off in the woods, there’ll be no catching her again,” and off she started. Then, after many flappings of her sunbonnet to shoo the turkey-hen, and many beatings about the blackberry bushes, the creature was headed off, and Lutie was bidden to call Anstice Ann to come and help to drive her up. Then Lettice returned to her visitor. “You were saying something about stars, weren’t you, or was it meteors? Are you versed in astronomy? What is our evening star just now?”
“I know but one, and that is a lode-star which is both morning and evening star to me.”
“Gracious! you’re like those children of Israel, aren’t you? Oh, no, I mean—What do I mean? Did you ever go to camp-meeting?”
“No, I never had that experience.”
“Then you must go; your education has been sadly neglected, for you don’t know about lots of the things that we do. We always go over to Wye Camp.”
“Perhaps I shall not be here when it begins.”
“Oh, shall you not? I thought you were to stayto learn to ride after the hounds.”
“Learn to ride! Do you suppose I never mounted a horse?”
“No, indeed; but you’ve never been fox-hunting. I expect you will enjoy it.”
“If the fox is as elusive as—”
“As what?” Lettice looked up saucily.
The young man caught her hand. “You know who eludes me and defies me and makes miserable my days and nights, and makes me advance and retreat till I am driven to distraction.”
“No, does she? What a wicked girl Rhoda is. I never dreamed she could be so cruel. Thank you, I do not need your hand to assist me to rise.”
“You will not leave me yet? Just one moment more. I have not spoken to you alone for so long, and you are so good to give me this opportunity.”
“I give it? What do you mean, sir?” Lettice’s blue eyes grew dark with disapproval.
“You sent off your maid, you know,” he murmured deprecatingly.
“That you might speak to me alone? You are mistaken, sir; it was all on account of the turkey-hen; I had forgotten your existence.”
“Forgive me.”
“I will try to; but I am sorry I cannot listen to your confidences about Rhoda. I forgot entirelythat I promised Sister Betty that I would see to the syllabub.”
“You know it isn’t Rhoda,” persisted the young man.
“Oh, isn’t it? Well, never mind; it is Becky Lowe, probably. She told me you were there last week. No, another time. You will excuse me, I know, and I shall see you at tea time. There comes Brother William, if your call was upon him. He will be glad to see you. Adieu.” And Lettice, with work-bag dangling from her wrist, and Moore’s poems under her arm, ran swiftly up the garden walk to the house. She held her sunbonnet closely together, and her hands were covered with long sheepskin mittens, lest the sun should mar the whiteness of her skin. Her sister Betty met her by the grape arbor; she was similarly protected, and had a light basket on her arm.
“Law, Lettice, what makes you run in the sun?” she said. “Why didn’t you come around the other way?”
“I wanted the shortest way,” returned Lettice, panting a little, and letting go the strings of her bonnet.
Betty looked at her quizzically. “I don’t believe I ever ran from a young gentleman in my life,” she said, laughing. “You ought to be ashamed to be such a scare-cat, Letty.” Then she seized the sides of the girl’s bonnet and looked fixedly at her. “Lettice Hopkins, are you going ’way off to New York with that Tory? Do you mean to separate yourself from your family and become an English subject?”
“’Deed I’m not, Sister Betty.”
“Then go ’long into the house, and don’t make yourself look too bewitching at supper. I finished the syllabub myself. There comes Birk Dean. After all, perhaps you’d better not put on your least becoming frock.” And Lettice ran up to her room, pouting.
It was not long before Lutie followed, and, after much indecision and the turning over of many gowns, Lettice was finally arrayed in a blue tissue, made with a very short waist and a skimp skirt, and around her shoulders was thrown a scarf of India muslin. She descended the stairs demurely, and walked out upon the porch, where her two admirers sat looking daggers at each other.
“Since I leave the neighborhood to-morrow, perhaps you will honor me with your company for awalk,” said Mr. Clinton.
Lettice gave a quick side glance at Birket. “I came over to see if you’d ride to camp this evening, Miss Lettice,” said Birket, blushing to the roots of his hair.
“Has camp begun?” Lettice asked; then with a little laugh, “I can’t walk and ride both, can I?” She turned her smiling face to first one and then the other. “I will tell you what we will do: we’ll get Brother William to let us have the big wagon and the mules, and all go over in a party; that will be much the best way. Supper is ready, gentlemen. Mr. Clinton, will you escort Sister Betty? She is just here waiting for you to give her your hand.” And in the pretty old-fashioned way they were led out to supper.
“Mr. Clinton leaves us, Brother William. Did you say to-morrow?” said Lettice, turning to the young man.
“I am going up with Mr. Kendall to Washington,” he answered, without a smile.
“He will miss the fox-hunting, won’t he, Brother William? I thought that was what you came down here for.” She turned again to Mr. Clinton.
“Washington isn’t so far away but that hecan come back again,” said William. “That’s what you intend to do, of course.” He turned to his guest.
“Perhaps,” he replied, giving a meaning glance at Lettice, who hastened to say lightly, “Then it is not a long farewell.” And she turned her attention to young Birket Dean, who was mightily complacent in consequence.
During the entire evening Lettice chose to ignore Mr. Clinton, whom she relegated to a place by Rhoda’s side when the big wagon-load of young folks started to camp-meeting. It was no new experience to any of them except to Rhoda and to Robert Clinton, who viewed the proceedings with interest and with some wonder; they were not used to seeing such exhibitions of religious excitement at their own homes. But instead of camp-meeting hymns, on their way back, the young people started up such war-songs as:—
“Too long our tars have borne in peaceWith British domineering;But now they’ve shown that trade should cease,For vengeance they are steering.First gallant Hull, he was the ladWho sailed a tyrant hunting,And swaggering Dacres soon was gladTo strike to striped bunting.”
“Too long our tars have borne in peaceWith British domineering;But now they’ve shown that trade should cease,For vengeance they are steering.First gallant Hull, he was the ladWho sailed a tyrant hunting,And swaggering Dacres soon was gladTo strike to striped bunting.”
“Too long our tars have borne in peaceWith British domineering;But now they’ve shown that trade should cease,For vengeance they are steering.First gallant Hull, he was the ladWho sailed a tyrant hunting,And swaggering Dacres soon was gladTo strike to striped bunting.”
“Too long our tars have borne in peace
With British domineering;
But now they’ve shown that trade should cease,
For vengeance they are steering.
First gallant Hull, he was the lad
Who sailed a tyrant hunting,
And swaggering Dacres soon was glad
To strike to striped bunting.”
“Why don’t you sing?” Lettice asked Mr. Clinton, with fun in her eyes. “Rhoda says you have a right pretty voice. And you, Rhoda, are silent, too. What is the matter? One would suppose the same complaint had seized the two of you and given you husky throats.”
“Well, you see, I know Dacres,” Mr. Clinton began.
“He knows Dacres! Think of it, girls!” said Lettice, bent on teasing. “How proud he must be of the acquaintance.”
“I am proud. He is a gallant, brave fellow,” returned Mr. Clinton, in some heat.
“But that didn’t save him from getting whipped,” Lettice chanted in glee. “Let us make our manners, ladies and gentlemen, to a friend of Lieutenant Dacres, who is a friend of England, consequently no friend of ours.”
“Now, Lettice,” Rhoda interposed, “don’t stir every one up.”
“You called for a song,” cried Robert Clinton, springing to his feet. “We will give you one. Join in, Miss Rhoda.” And he began:—
“Huzza for our liberty, boys,These are the days of our glory;The days of true national joys,When terrapins gallop before ye.There’s Porter and Grundy and RheaIn Congress, who manfully vapor,Who draw their six dollars a day,And fight bloody battles on paper.Ah, this is true Terrapin war.”
“Huzza for our liberty, boys,These are the days of our glory;The days of true national joys,When terrapins gallop before ye.There’s Porter and Grundy and RheaIn Congress, who manfully vapor,Who draw their six dollars a day,And fight bloody battles on paper.Ah, this is true Terrapin war.”
“Huzza for our liberty, boys,These are the days of our glory;The days of true national joys,When terrapins gallop before ye.There’s Porter and Grundy and RheaIn Congress, who manfully vapor,Who draw their six dollars a day,And fight bloody battles on paper.Ah, this is true Terrapin war.”
“Huzza for our liberty, boys,
These are the days of our glory;
The days of true national joys,
When terrapins gallop before ye.
There’s Porter and Grundy and Rhea
In Congress, who manfully vapor,
Who draw their six dollars a day,
And fight bloody battles on paper.
Ah, this is true Terrapin war.”
But before they had proceeded very far with their song, every lad in the wagon was on his feet, and the Terrapin war was drowned out by the lusty singing of:—
“Firm as our native hills we stand,And should the lords of Europe land,We’ll meet them on the furthest strand;We’ll conquer, or we’ll die!”
“Firm as our native hills we stand,And should the lords of Europe land,We’ll meet them on the furthest strand;We’ll conquer, or we’ll die!”
“Firm as our native hills we stand,And should the lords of Europe land,We’ll meet them on the furthest strand;We’ll conquer, or we’ll die!”
“Firm as our native hills we stand,
And should the lords of Europe land,
We’ll meet them on the furthest strand;
We’ll conquer, or we’ll die!”
And the discord of the two different songs striking the quiet of the night, as they passed the farm-houses along the way, brought more than one person to the gate to see what was this noisy crowd.
Hospitable, polite, and ready as they were to offer their best to a guest, the young men of the party showed some coolness to Robert Clinton when they made their adieux; but Lettice, with a pricking of conscience at having brought about the condition of affairs which led to the situation, felt sorry for the young man, and, leaning down from the wagonas it stopped at her Uncle Tom’s gate, she said in a soft whisper, “You’ll be over to-morrow to say good-by, won’t you?”
The young man, with a sudden lifting of the gloom on his face, whispered back eagerly, “May I come?” But the noise of the wagon as it rumbled off drowned Lettice’s answer, if she made any.