_On the Bay._
The curiously indented shore of the Chesapeake Bay presents a country
so full of little rivers and inlets that it is oftener easier to
cut across a narrow channel by boat than to drive from one place to
another. Especially is this true of the Eastern shore: in consequence,
the dwellers thereon are as much at home on the water as on the land,
and are famous sailors. This Rhoda soon discovered, and was filled with
amazement to find that Lettice could manage a sailing vessel nearly as
well as could her brothers.
It was much against Rhoda’s will that she finally made ready to
accompany her aunt and Lettice to the country. Her father informed her
that he must return to Washington, and though she begged to be allowed
to go with him, he said she would be better off in the hands of her
aunt, and he would join her at Sylvia’s Ramble a little later.
Mr. Tom Hopkins’s plantation lay next to his brother’s. The two formed
part of an original tract granted by Lord Baltimore to an ancestor of
the Hopkins family. Part of the land lay along the bay, and one or two
small creeks ran up from the larger body of water, so that when one
approached the houses, it seemed as if a vessel must be moored in the
back yard, for tall spars shot up behind the chimneys, seemingly out
of a mass of green. Rhoda’s puzzled look upon being told that their
destination was the next place made Lettice ask what was wrong.
“What in the world is it that looks so curious?” said Rhoda. “Aunt
Martha tells me that the house is the next one, and surely that is a
vessel behind it? Do you use ships for barns?”
Lettice laughed. “You will see when we get there. We don’t land in the
creek. Uncle Tom has a landing this side, on the bay shore. Just there
it is.”
Their little sailing vessel was gliding in, having passed Kent Island
on the left. The fresh breeze had brought them down in a comparatively
short time, and Lettice was soon scanning the small wharf to see who
stood to meet them. “There’s Brother James,” she cried; “and I do
believe it is Patsey Ringgold herself, Cousin Joe. Yes, there she sits
on her white horse.” And almost before the boat had touched the sands,
Lettice was ashore, crying: “Howdy, Brother James! Howdy, Patsey. Here
we are, safe and sound, and so glad to get here.”
A warm color came into the face of the girl sitting on her horse ready
to welcome them, and she slid down, before James could help her, to
be heartily kissed and embraced by Lettice, who said: “I am dying to
hear the neighborhood news, and, Patsey dear, there is so much to tell
you, and I have brought a new sleeve pattern, and oh, tell me, have the
gowns come home yet?”
“They are on the way,” Patsey told her. “Who is the young lady,
Lettice?”
“That is Rhoda Kendall, my Aunt Martha’s niece, from Boston. I see
Brother James is already making his manners to her.”
“Yes, I have heard of her,” returned Patsey; “but I wonder that she
should come down here just now.”
“Her father is obliged to be in Washington, and thought it safer that
she should come down here with us, since there are such troubles in the
city.”
“Troubles, yes; and there are like to be more of them, if what we hear
is true. Every one is talking of the war, and the planters are making
ready for defence.”
“And they are sending out vessels from Baltimore to chase the British
cruisers; Cousin Joe--” Lettice paused, for Patsey cast an apprehensive
look at the tall figure then stepping over the side of the vessel.
“Cousin Joe,” Lettice repeated, “will tell you all about it.”
Up toward a white house set in a grove of locust trees, they all took
their way, attended by an escort of negroes, big and little, who lugged
along whatever was portable. Lettice linked her arm in that of her
brother, when her Cousin Joe joined Patsey, and this youngest pair fell
behind the rest. “You’ll take me straight home, Jamie dear, won’t you?”
Lettice coaxed. “I do so want to see Sister Betty and the baby, and
Brother William, and oh, so many things! You don’t know how glad I am
to get back! Does Betty make a good housekeeper, and has she changed
the place much?”
“No, very little,” her brother made reply; “and, yes, she is a fair
housekeeper; perhaps not so good as our mother was, but Betty has some
years before she will need to have great things expected of her. How is
father? and what is this I hear of his going to join the troops? Joe
says Uncle Tom is talking of going, too.”
Lettice gave a little start. “I knew they talked of it, but I didn’t
know it meant that they would go soon. Do they really mean to join the
army at once?”
“So Joe says.”
“And will you go? and Brother William?” Lettice asked in visible
distress.
“If we are needed. They are getting up companies everywhere, to protect
the state.”
Lettice gave a deep sigh, and clung closer to him. He was a
pleasant-looking lad of eighteen, with curling, ruddy brown locks and
fearless blue eyes, and with such a winning, careless, happy nature as
caused many a little lass to give her smiles to him. “So you don’t want
to stay under Aunt Martha’s wing any longer,” he said, smiling.
“No, I’d rather be under Betty’s. Does she know I am coming?”
“She expects you, and is in a twitter of delight over having you back
again with us.”
“Then don’t let us tarry.” And, indeed, she cut her good-bys very
short, and with her brother was soon cutting across fields to her old
home, there to be welcomed joyously by Sister Betty and the servants.
“I declare, Letty, you grow like a weed!” was Betty’s greeting as,
with her baby in her arms, she came into her sister-in-law’s room that
evening, to watch her make her evening toilet. “Have you many pretty
things?”
“A few. Aunt Martha doesn’t encourage extravagance in dress.” Lettice
drew down the corners of her mouth and dropped her eyes in a little
prim way, while Betty laughed.
“Nonsense! she is an old Puritan. It is natural for girls to like
pretty things, just as it is for babies to want to catch at something
bright. Isn’t it, my pretty?” And Betty gave her cooing baby a hug,
as he vainly tried to clutch the shining chain his mother had been
dangling before him. Lettice smiled and surveyed her dainty little
figure complacently, then held out her hands for the baby.
“No, don’t take him now,” said Betty; “he’ll rumple your pretty frock.
He’d rather be with his mammy than either of us, anyhow.”
“Is dear old Dorcas his mammy?”
“Yes, of course; ‘she done nuss de whole mess o’ Hopkins, an’ she right
spry yet,’” replied Betty, laughing. “Come, let’s go find her. William
will be coming in pretty soon, and I must be ready to meet him, and
oh, Lettice, I remembered how fond you were of buttermilk, and I told
Randy to put a bucket of it down the well to keep cool for you.”
Lettice gave a sigh of content and followed her sister-in-law down the
broad stairway. It was so good to be at home again; to see the table
set with the familiar dishes, and Speery standing there with a green
branch beating away the flies. Speery giggled gleefully as she caught
sight of the figure which had paused before the door. “Law, Miss Letty,
yuh is a gran’ young lady, sho ’nough,” she said. “I mos’ skeered to
speak to yuh.”
“You needn’t be, Speery,” Lettice replied, her eyes wandering over the
dark mahogany furniture, and returning to take in the details of old
silver and India china upon the table. “Is that one of Miss Betty’s
wedding presents--that pitcher? How pretty it is.”
“Yass, miss, dat one o’ ’em. I done fergit who given it to ’er.”
“Don’t forget my buttermilk, Speery,” said Lettice, as she turned away.
“Naw, miss,” giggled Speery. And then Lettice went out on the porch to
be hugged and kissed by her big brother, she declaring that even though
she could no longer lay claim to being the baby of the family, she
meant to be as much of a pet as ever.
But at the table the talk became very serious, and a cloud settled on
Betty’s fair brow as her husband questioned minutely as to the trouble
in the city, and when, after supper, they all gathered on the porch to
get the cool breezes from the bay, Betty drew very close to William,
and, despite the gladness of her home-coming, Lettice felt that she
was not beyond an atmosphere of anxious dread, even here in this quiet
corner of the world.
Rhoda chafed at being obliged to remain in a community of fire-eaters,
as she called them, to James’s amusement. The lad loved to tease, and
more than once brought tears of rage to Rhoda’s eyes. She liked him,
too; perhaps that was the reason he could so easily annoy her. His
curly head was wont to appear very often over the railing of the porch
at Sylvia’s Ramble, and his greeting was usually, “Howdy, Miss Rhoda,
have you heard the news?”
“No,” Rhoda invariably returned, looking around sharply. And then James
would lean indolently against the porch and gaze up at her with a
beguiling expression in his eyes, and would make some such remark as,
“They say Massachusetts is getting ready to secede.”
Then Rhoda would turn away with a fling and say, “I don’t believe a
word of it!”
“If she does, you’ll stay down here with us, won’t you, Miss Rhoda?”
James would say, giving her one of his fetching glances. Then Rhoda
would look confused, and say that she would call her aunt.
Once or twice they quarrelled in good earnest, for Rhoda pretended to
despise everything which savored of the South, while James never failed
to sound Maryland’s praises. “You know,” he said one day, “Maryland is
mighty plucky. She stood out against you all in 1778, when the question
of setting a limit to Western lands came up. You know she wouldn’t
yield an inch, and was the only one of the states that stood up for the
public good against all odds. She just wouldn’t, and she wouldn’t join
the confederation of states unless they’d come around to her way of
thinking.”
“Pshaw!” returned Rhoda, but half convinced. “I never heard so much
talk about nothing. We never hear that discussed up our way.”
“Course not,” James answered. “Good reason why. Massachusetts was one
of the states that held Western lands. When did she ever want to give
up anything for the public good?”
“When did she? You are crazy to talk so! You forget Lexington and
Bunker Hill.”
“Humph!” James’s eyes twinkled. “That’s what you always say. One
would think you all up there had won the independence of the colonies
by your two or three little skirmishes. The real battles took place
farther south than New England. Precious little she suffered compared
to the Southern states! We’d never have won if the South hadn’t given
Washington, and hadn’t sent their troops and their supplies and their
help of all kinds to get you out of your scrape up there. I think you
are right-down ungrateful to us. Why, laws, child, you didn’t know
anything about fighting up there. They didn’t get at it hot and heavy
till the war left Massachusetts soil. You have no reason to be stuck up
over your little old Bunker Hill.”
“We began the war, anyhow,” retorted Rhoda.
“You flatter yourselves. The Regulators in North Carolina did the
starting.”
“That wasn’t till after our Stamp Act riot.”
“Sure enough; you score one there. At all events, you would still be
under England’s dominion if we hadn’t come to your aid; though from the
looks of it, that’s where you want to be, and your Bunker Hill will go
for nothing.”
Then Rhoda arose in a towering rage. “You are a detestable creature! I
wish I had never seen you. If I were a man, I’d--I’d fight a duel with
you, and--”
“Kill me?” said James, leaning toward her. “You can slay me now with
your killing glances if you will. ’Deed, Miss Rhoda, I do love to make
you mad. You are always running down Maryland, you know, and calling
us fire-eaters, and it just does me good to make the sparks fly. Look
around here--please look.”
But Rhoda persistently kept her head turned away, perhaps to hide the
tears of anger standing in her eyes. She was not to be mollified by any
soft speeches.
“What are you up to, James?” called his aunt. “How you do love to
tease. I don’t think you will give Rhoda a very good idea of Southern
gallantry.”
James looked properly repentant. “’Deed, Miss Rhoda,” he said softly,
“I’m sorry, I’m dreadfully sorry. You’re not crying?” in troubled
surprise.
“No, I’m not,” snapped Rhoda. And, getting up, she passed him swiftly,
with head up, to enter the house.
“Sho!” exclaimed James, looking after her, “I’ve been and gone and done
it this time, Aunt Martha. She’ll never forgive me, will she?”
“I am sure I don’t know; she oughtn’t to,” returned Mrs. Hopkins. “You
have no right to berate her native state in that way; it is very rude,
to say the least.”
“So it is, for a fact. It’s right-down mean of me. I’ll have to find
some way to make up for it.”
And find a way he did. First his special messenger, black Bounce, came
over that afternoon with a basket of the finest peaches that Rhoda
had ever seen, and next Lettice was seen galloping up the lane on her
bay mare. She stopped in front of the porch where Rhoda sat sedately
sewing. “Rhoda, Rhoda,” cried she, “put down your work; we are going
fishing, and will take supper with us, and Mr. Sam Osborne is going to
let us have a dance in his new barn this evening.”
Rhoda made no response, but sewed quietly on.
Lettice slipped down from her horse, and, still holding the bridle,
tapped on the step with her whip. “Don’t you hear, you sober sides?”
she cried. “We’re going fishing, and we’re going to Mr. Sam Osborne’s
new barn for a dance. Old Hank is going to bring his fiddle. How I do
love to dance! I assure you there are few things I like better. Hurry
up and get ready.”
“I?”
“‘I?’ Of course you. Jamie will be here in a minute for you. He begged
me to offer his excuses for sending so sudden an invitation--we only
had the message from Mr. Osborne a few minutes ago--and Jamie asks that
he may be your escort.”
“No, he may not,” Rhoda answered in a very dignified tone.
“And why, pray?”
“Because I don’t choose to give him the opportunity to abuse my state
and to mock me.”
“Did he do that? He didn’t mean it; he was only teasing. Law me, Rhoda,
he’s teased me nearly to death ever since I was born. There never was
such a tease, nor such a dear boy, so all the girls say. No one can
stay angry with him very long. He would be distressed to death if he
thought he had really hurt your feelings. I never can stay angry with
him.”
“I can.”
“Oh, well, I’ll ride back and tell him. Becky Lowe will be glad enough
that you are not going. I will stop by for Becky, and we can all go
together.”
She again mounted her horse, calling back as she rode off: “Better
change your mind. You’ll miss a lot of fun.” At the gate which a little
darkey scrambled to open for her, she stopped and called again, “Rhoda,
Rhoda, come to the steps.” Rhoda hesitated, but came slowly forward.
“Somebody said she’d bet a sixpence that you wouldn’t go with James,”
Lettice said.
“Who was it?”
“Becky Lowe.” And Lettice rode off, leaving Rhoda half angry, and
wholly uncertain as to whether she did not regret her decided refusal.
Within the next half-hour she was sure that she did regret it. There
was something very fascinating in this pleasure-seeking life of these
care-free Marylanders, who gave little thought for the morrow, and
gathered their delights without any compunctions, and never questioned
whether, for the sake of practising self-denial, it was a duty to stay
at home from any entertainment which might offer. “No one will care
whether I stay or not,” Rhoda told herself. “They will call me stiff
and unsociable, and will be glad they are rid of me, perhaps; but--I
needn’t have had much to say to James if I had gone, and indeed, I
might have found a way to punish him.” She sighed, and sat with rather
a melancholy expression, looking out upon the sparkling blue waters of
the bay.
Her revery was broken in upon by a voice saying cheerily, “Hurry up,
Miss Rhoda, I’m afraid I’m late, but I had to go around by the mill.”
Rhoda arose. “Didn’t Lettice tell you?” she asked in some confusion.
“That you didn’t mean to go? Yes, but I knew you wouldn’t be so
hard-hearted as to cheat me out of an evening’s pleasure, not but that
it would be a very great pleasure to stay here with you.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“If you don’t go, I shan’t, that’s all.”
“Oh!” Rhoda looked at him, to see determination written on every
feature, but withal a most tenderly pleading look in his eyes. “I’ll
go,” she said faintly.