_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 feet in 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 riding over?”
“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 stay to 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 entirely that 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 a walk,” 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 he can 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 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 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!”
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 wagon as 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.