_A Ball._
By the time the summer was over, many of Lettice’s friends had left
the neighborhood. Rhoda had gone to Washington to join her father, who
was still detained in the capital city. Mr. Clinton, too, was there.
In October both Mr. Tom Hopkins and Lettice’s father marched away to
the Canada border, and among the armed vessels which Baltimore sent out
to annoy the enemy was one commanded by Joe Hopkins; this had started
down the Chesapeake in August, and Patsey was wistfully looking for
news from her absent lover. Betty’s pleadings had kept her husband at
home, so far; and Jamie, although he threatened each day to follow his
father, still lingered.
“You’d better stay at home and protect us,” Betty and Lettice would
say. “Suppose the enemy should come up the Chesapeake, where would we
be? And if I were left a young widow, William, think how sad,” Betty
would say as a final argument.
“I think I will go to sea with Cousin Joe when he comes back,” James
at last concluded. “I tell you we’re licking the British on the water,
whatever we may be doing on land. Commodore Barney captured fifteen
vessels in the forty-five days he was running along the coast, and news
has come that the _Wasp_ has captured the _Frolic_, and the _United
States_ has the _Macedonian_, if last reports are correct.”
“Good!” cried Lettice. “I wonder how Rhoda likes that.”
James looked down, and with the toe of his boot rolled over one of the
hounds at his feet; then he looked up, saying, “And Robert Clinton, how
do you suppose he takes it?”
Lettice gave her head a little toss. “What do I care how he takes it!
Is there news from Canada, Brother William?”
“No good news. We must be content with our victories at sea, for the
present. Our little state has nothing to be ashamed of in her naval
exploits.”
Just then the smart rap of a whip-handle on the door announced a
visitor, and Birket Dean walked in. “I was coming this way, Miss
Lettice,” he said, after greeting them all, “and I brought along this
letter that came for you on one of the boats.”
“A letter?” Lettice eagerly held out her hand, and tore open the letter
fastened with seals, for as yet envelopes were unknown. She gave her
attention to the closely written pages, then looked up, and said
animatedly: “Oh, brother! oh, Sister Betty, Rhoda wants me to come to
Washington for a visit! I should so love to go to see the President and
Mrs. Madison, and oh, do say I may go!”
“Alone?” returned her brother William, smiling. “You wouldn’t expect me
to leave Betty and the baby to take you, would you?”
“Jamie could take me. You would like nothing better, would you, Jamie?”
“I’d like to, yes; but--”
“Oh, well, never mind; I can go as far as Baltimore with Aunt Martha,
and she can find some one in whose charge to place me. I will see Aunt
Martha this very evening.”
“Will you ride over with me?” Birket asked eagerly.
“Yes, if you will stay to supper. Here, Jamie, I know you are dying to
see this, and as there are no secrets in it, you may as well have the
pleasure of perusing it.” And Lettice tossed her letter to her brother
James.
It was a lovely ride down the road in the hush of an October evening;
the landscape, taking on an autumnal hue, showed a soft envelopment of
purple mist. To the right lay the blue bay, across which dimly appeared
the spires of the little town of Annapolis.
“It is truly a beautiful scene,” said Lettice, gazing around her. She
looked like a bit of autumn herself in her scarlet jacket, and with
the shining wing of a swamp blackbird in her hat. She had, it is true,
some compunctions in accepting the wing, being of a most tender heart.
Birket had given it to her, and quieted her protests by telling her how
the thieving birds had stolen the corn and must be shot, if the crops
must be protected. “Better that than to have them caught by a prowling
beast, for we shoot them and they die instantly, otherwise who knows
but that they may suffer tortures.”
Lettice had stroked the bright feathers thoughtfully, saying, “Since he
is dead, I may as well wear his feathers, but bring me no more, Birk;
it makes me sad to see them.”
“And how about the foxes?” Birket had said.
“Ah, the foxes, they are thieves, too; but I always shut my eyes when
the hounds pounce on them. ’Tis a pity the world is not big enough for
us and them, too.”
The conversation had taken place a day or two before, for Birket was a
frequent visitor. His father’s plantation lay on the other side of Mr.
William Hopkins’s, but on account of the wrigglings in and out of a
little creek, it was easier reached by water than by land.
“It is a truly lovely scene,” Lettice repeated.
“And yet you want to leave it,” Birket returned reproachfully.
“So I do, for I love new scenes, and Rhoda says there are many gay
doings at the capital.”
“It is not much of a place,” Birket remarked; “not near so fine as
Baltimore.”
“No, of course not. Baltimore is the third city in the Union.
Nevertheless, seeing that I have been to Baltimore and have never been
to Washington, I shall like to go to the least familiar place.”
“Mr. Clinton is there?” Birket asked hesitatingly.
Lettice gave her horse a gentle flick with her whip. “I don’t know,”
she said shortly, as the horse changed his walk to a canter.
A few weeks later saw the two girls, Lettice and Rhoda, together in
Washington, Aunt Martha having readily found an escort for Lettice
in the person of one Mr. Francis Key, whose affability and courtesy
lessened the tedium of the long trip, for it was a day’s journey by
coach from Baltimore to Washington.
Dark though it was when Lettice arrived, she could perceive that
Washington had little pretensions to being a fine place. After leaving
the busy city of Baltimore, with its forty thousand inhabitants, its
streets bright with lamps and full of the noise of rushing feet, of
singing sailors, and rumbling carts, Washington, where scarce more than
five thousand persons dwelt, seemed little more than a village, full of
mud-holes, and showing a small number of houses at scattered distances.
Lettice, however, was not to stay in Washington, for after the coach
had rattled over the newly laid pike, and she had dimly discerned the
white walls of the unfinished Capitol, she was helped down from her
seat and entered a hackney coach, which was driven up and down hill,
over Rock Creek, through mud and mire, until it arrived in Georgetown,
a more habitable place than that which they had just left. Comfortable,
spacious houses stood to the right and left of them--houses which
to-day, dingy and dilapidated, give small evidence of having witnessed
the brilliant scenes once of frequent occurrence within their walls.
Lettice was welcomed with more heartiness than she had expected from
the reserved Rhoda, and she parted with her kind escort, after many
thanks for his thoughtful attentions.
“You must be sadly weary, Lettice,” said Rhoda, as she led her friend
upstairs to a room overlooking the blue Potomac. “I well remember how
fatigued I was when I arrived; but I hope you will soon get over your
journey’s effects, for there are to be fine doings here next week, and
you must be in your best trim. Did you bring your prettiest gowns?”
“I did, indeed, and a new one is to be sent as soon as the mantua-maker
has it finished. Are you having a good time here, Rhoda?”
“Fairly pleasant, though the wretched war stirs up all sorts of ill
feeling, and one never knows what will happen, or what unpleasant
things one may hear; yet I have much less to stand than the President’s
wife, and should not complain.”
“The President’s wife, Mrs. Dolly Madison? Is any one so churlish as to
show ill-will toward her?”
“Indeed, yes. She is sometimes treated with much discourtesy, because
they impute all the woes of the country to her husband.”
“As if she could help that! What gumps some people be! And have you
seen Mrs. Madison, Rhoda? Do you know her?”
“I have met her several times, and she is a charming lady.”
“And your beaux, Rhoda? What of them?” The two girls looked at each
other, and both blushed faintly; then Lettice, summoning up courage,
asked, “Are you promised to Mr. Clinton, Rhoda?”
Rhoda looked down and answered faintly, “Not yet.”
Lettice gave her head a little toss, and a haughty look came into her
dark blue eyes. “You mean that you could be if you wanted?”
“My father wishes it very much.” Rhoda’s eyes were still downcast.
“Your father? And how about you and the gentleman himself?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, you don’t?” There was some consolation in this, Lettice thought,
and she determined to watch for herself.
The capital, raw and incomplete as it looked, still furnished more
gayeties than Lettice found at home. Here were gathered the statesmen
of the day, and the girl was all eagerness to have this or that
important personage pointed out to her. Henry Clay and John C. Calhoun,
John Randolph of Roanoke, a great friend of Lettice’s late travelling
companion, Mr. Frank Key, and many other distinguished men were to be
seen in the city during the session of Congress. The appearance of some
of these rather disappointed Lettice. She thought the President a very
insignificant person for so great an office, she wrote home to James,
and Mr. Randolph was the oddest looking man she had ever seen.
“There is to be a great ball at Tomlinson’s hotel,” was one of the
first pieces of news that Rhoda gave her friend.
“And shall we go?” Lettice asked.
“I am not sure. My father, you know, disapproves of the war, but--”
“Mine doesn’t,” Lettice interrupted triumphantly, “and perhaps I can
get some one to take me. Should you mind if I did, Rhoda?”
“I should like to go, too,” Rhoda returned, “for there will be a most
distinguished company present: the President and Mrs. Madison, the
Secretaries, and--oh, everybody. It is to be in honor of the capture of
the _Guerrière_ and the _Alert_.”
“We must go, if there is any way,” Lettice cried. “Rhoda, tell me, do
you really feel so incensed at the idea of a war as you pretend?”
Rhoda did not answer at once, and then she said slowly, “I think with
my father that it is unwise; but once in it, I think we should do our
best to win.”
“Good!” cried Lettice. “I’d like to tell Brother James that.”
“Your brother James?” Rhoda repeated a little unsteadily. “Has he gone
to the war?” She had not made any inquiry about him, and Lettice had
wickedly refrained from mentioning him.
“He hasn’t gone, exactly. He belongs to the militia, and so does
Brother William, but James says when Cousin Joe comes back he intends
to join him, for he prefers service at sea.”
“Your cousin Joe, then, has not come back yet? And his marriage, is it
postponed?”
“He has not returned, and the marriage has to be put off indefinitely.
Poor dear Patsey! All those pretty gowns waiting for her wedding day,
and she does not know when she can wear them! Cousin Joe made one short
trip, and then came back to Baltimore. He started out again, but not a
word has been heard from him.”
“Poor Patsey!” Rhoda looked very thoughtful for a moment; then she
jumped up from the stiff chair in which she was sitting. “I’ll write
a note, Lettice,” she said. “I don’t doubt we can go to the ball if
you so desire it. I have friends at court, even if my father does not
uphold the administration. I can write to Mrs. Paul Hamilton, who knew
my mother well, and has been most kind to me.”
“The wife of the Secretary of the Navy?”
“Yes, she has a son in the navy and a daughter here. No fear, Lettice,
but that we can go with them, and take Mr. Clinton as our escort.”
Lettice shrugged her shoulders, but made no comment, though when it
was known that they were to go to the ball, she was in a twitter of
excitement, and declared she meant to captivate the highest dignitary
there, if she could.
“That will not be difficult,” Mr. Clinton murmured, for her ear alone.
The girl turned, and gave him a little scornful look. Despite the young
man’s efforts at being polite and attentive, he had not met with much
encouragement, and never was allowed an opportunity for one of those
confidential talks he had found so pleasant during the summer.
Into a gay and brilliantly lighted room in Tomlinson’s hotel, on the
night of December 8, 1812, Rhoda and Lettice entered. The former looked
very fair and elegant in her India muslin, her delicate features and
fair skin set off by a scarf of pale blue. Lettice, with her brilliant
color, her dancing curls, and pretty figure, looked not less fair
in her gown of pink, with her floating scarf of white, skilfully
embroidered. They had scarcely come into the ball-room, the walls
of which were decorated with the captured flags of the _Alert_ and
the _Guerrière_, when there was heard a great cheering and noise of
excitement. “What is it?” whispered Lettice, half in alarm.
“Nothing to be terrified at, you may be sure,” returned Mr. Clinton,
“for every one is smiling and eager. See, Mrs. Madison is talking quite
gayly.”
Lettice stood on tiptoe the better to see, as into the room trooped a
crowd of young gentlemen all escorting a young man who bore aloft a
flag.
“’Tis young Mr. Hamilton,” cried Rhoda. “See, Captain Hull and Captain
Stewart receive the flag. They are taking it to Mrs. Madison. It must
be a captured flag.”
Lettice watched while, amid resounding cheers, the flag was placed by
the side of those taken from the _Alert_ and the _Guerrière_. “It is a
fine sight,” she exclaimed. “I am so glad I came!”
She was so full of enthusiasm that she did not notice that she spoke to
a stranger, but the young man addressed smiled down at her and replied:
“So am I. Have you heard what it is all about?”
“No, please tell me.”
“It is the flag of the _Macedonian_. She was captured on October 25,
by Captain Decatur of the frigate _United States_, and Mr. Hamilton has
just brought official notice of it to his father.”
“Oh, thank you.” Lettice’s lovely eyes were shining with delight. “I am
so glad.”
“Lettice,” came Rhoda’s voice severely. Then Lettice realized that she
did not know this young man, and blushing, she followed Rhoda’s lead.
The young man stood looking after them. “I wonder who the dear little
girl is,” he said to himself. “I must find out.”
“Who was that, Lettice?” Rhoda asked.
“I don’t know. Oh, Rhoda, I was so excited that I spoke to him without
realizing that he was a stranger. I am afraid it was a dreadful thing
to do. Don’t tell Aunt Martha nor Mrs. Hamilton.”
“No, I will not; but you must not do such things. I shall have to keep
a strict eye upon you.”
“I am afraid you will,” replied Lettice, meekly. However, after the
supper, when the manager of the ball proposed as a toast, “Decatur and
the officers and the crew of the frigate _United States_,” and after
the most exciting evening she had ever known, as Lettice was about to
leave the ball-room, she turned for one last, parting look, and from
across the room came a smile of recognition from the strange young
gentleman, and though Lettice was following Rhoda most decorously, she
could not resist an answering smile as she turned away.