THE NEXT MORNING
Dorothea awoke next morning to find Harriot creeping into her bed.
“Good morning,” she murmured, opening one sleepy eye.
“I hoped I wouldn’t wake you,” said Harriot briskly, “but, now that you
are awake, we might just as well talk. I wanted to get you first to-day
before the others. You’re going to be mighty popular, I can see that,
and you’re my cousin just as much as you are April’s.”
She was under the covers by this time and snuggled down with a series of
comfortable wiggles.
The mention of April brought back to Dorothea’s mind the last glimpse
she had had of her beautiful cousin the night before, and the events
leading up to it.
“I wonder if they caught that poor man,” she said, all sleep gone from
her eyes by this time.
“Oh, I don’t know. I hope not, though you mustn’t say so to April,”
Harriot answered. “She’s so patriotic and loyal that it hurts her. I
hope I’ll never have any love affairs.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded Dorothea.
“I’m thinking of April,” Harriot went on. “She used to be the nicest,
sweetest girl you ever knew and now—she’s a perfect idiot. Yes, she
_is_, a perfect idiot. You just be warned by April and never have a love
affair if you can help it.”
“But perhaps you can’t help it,” Dorothea suggested with a smile.
“Well, I mean to,” Harriot insisted. “I shall never fall in love. I’ve
had my warning. It’s awful! And I like Lee Hendon, too; even if he is a
coward—though some people say he isn’t at all.”
“Who is he? Tell me about him, won’t you?” asked Dorothea, thinking
perhaps to find an explanation of April’s actions.
“There isn’t much to tell,” Harriot replied. “April’s so terribly pretty
that of course she’s had lots and lots of beaux, and I don’t think any
one noticed much about Lee Hendon—at least I didn’t, ’cause he’s been
like a brother to us all his life and—well, when all the fuss came,
there just couldn’t be any other explanation except that April liked him
better than the others.”
“What fuss?” asked Dorothea.
“Because he didn’t enlist when the war broke out,” Harriot explained.
“Is he an Abolitionist?” Dorothea questioned.
“Oh, my, no! It would be almost better if he were. That would be a good
reason for the way he’s acting—not just ’cause he’s afraid, as ’most
everybody says. No, it isn’t because he’s an Abolitionist. He and his
mother have three plantations and lots and lots of servants. At first,
you know, a man who had twenty slaves didn’t have to enlist—though of
course _gentlemen_ didn’t wait to be made. My father and Hal went, right
off; and so did ’most every one else. Then after a while the news went
’round that Lee Hendon hadn’t gone and wasn’t going. Oh, there was a lot
of talk, and he sort of kept away as much as he could, till finally the
girls sent him a Secession bonnet and a crinoline and skirt.”
“And then what did he do?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Harriot answered. “Nothing, I reckon. But Dr.
Hardesty told everybody that it was Lee’s mother who kept him at home.
That she was mighty sick and if he went away she’d surely die. The
doctor said we ought to admire Lee for not deserting his mother.”
“I should have thought that would have satisfied April,” Dorothea
suggested.
“Nothing would satisfy her except that he should go and fight,” answered
Harriot. “But he wouldn’t, and we heard he had paid a substitute three
hundred dollars. That was the last straw. It’s that sort of thing makes
people say this is a ‘Rich man’s war but a poor man’s fight,’ and April
cut him, on the steps of the church one Sunday morning, and she hasn’t
spoken of him since. All the same she keeps thinking about him, or else
why is she so queer?”
“I didn’t think she was queer,” Dorothea remarked after a moment’s
pause.
“That’s because you don’t know how she used to be,” Harriot replied.
“Before, she used to laugh all the time and—oh, I don’t know, but she
wasn’t so dreadfully grown-up and we had lots of fun together. Now she
acts just like she loved going to Mothers’ Meetings and sewing and all
that kind of thing. You wouldn’t understand, ’cause you didn’t know her
before, but I tell you she’s mighty changed.”
As if she had exhausted the topic of conversation Harriot snuggled down
further under the covers and the first thing Dorothea knew her young
cousin was fast asleep. Soon Dorothea herself drifted off into another
nap, to be aroused a little later by hearing a soft puffing sound and a
low-voiced humming in the room.
She lifted her head and there, before the fire, blowing it gently, was
Lucy, her maid, singing softly to herself.
“Mary and Marthy feed ma lambs,
Feed ma lambs, feed ma lambs.
Mary and Marthy feed ma lambs,
Sittin’ on the golden stair.”
The verse finished, the colored girl turned her head and met Dorothea’s
glance, whereupon she smiled broadly and getting to her feet came to the
side of the bed. Dorothea’s sleepy eyes opened wide as she caught sight
of a band of cheap red ribbon tying back Lucy’s frizzy hair.
“Does my little missy want I shall bring her she’s breakfus’ in baid?”
the smiling maid asked. “I’ve been wrastlin’ with that pesky fire,
tryin’ to kindle it without wakin’ you-all, but I ’spects that wood done
come from a tree what was lightnin’ struck, it ac’ so contrary.”
“Don’t wake Miss Harriot,” Dorothea cautioned in a whisper.
“Nothin’ don’t wake Miss Harry till she’s ready to be woked,” Lucy
assured her. “Her old mammy always done said she was the sleepin’est and
the eatin’est baby she ever set her two eyes on—and Miss Harry ain’t
outgrow it none.”
“But hadn’t I better go down to breakfast with my aunt?” Dorothea asked.
“Land sakes, honey,” Lucy replied with a wide grin. “Ol’ Miss had she’s
breakfus’ hours and hours ago. She don’t spressify what you must do. But
ev’ybody pleases they’ se’f heah, and that please Ol’ Miss.”
And then Harriot suddenly woke up. To Dorothea’s mind she did this, not
like a person rousing from a deep sleep, but rather like a wax doll
whose eyes come open with a snap and who is suddenly wide awake.
Something of this she expressed to Harriot, who seemed rather annoyed
thereby.
“I don’t see anything in that to make a fuss about,” she said, with a
pout. “When I’m done sleeping, I’m done, and so I stop. When you’ve done
eating no one expects you to go on chewing for an hour, do they? Now I
want breakfast right away. We’ve lots to do this morning.”
Lucy was at once dispatched for plenty of food for two, and then
Dorothea inquired what was the pressing business a-foot.
“First thing, I must show you to my Cousin Corinne,” Harriot explained.
“You’ll be a terrible disappointment to her. She thinks she’s the only
cousin I have handy, and she’s always bragging to me about the Polks and
the Morgans, who are kin to her but not to me. So I want you to put on a
very pretty dress and I’ll make Uncle Jastrow harness up and drive us
over there in style, just like you were too proud to walk.”
At this juncture the breakfast arrived and as Lucy set the tray upon the
bed she implored the girls to be careful and not spill the salt.
“Is it so precious?” asked Dorothea.
“No, missy, ’tain’t that,” Lucy explained, “but land sakes, honey, it’s
most powerful bad luck.”
Dorothea laughed.
“I don’t believe in bad luck,” she insisted, at which Lucy threw up her
hands in horror.
Even in this time of scarcity Aunt Decent had sent up food enough for
three or four girls, though Harriot grumbled because there were no
beaten biscuits, and brought the announcement from Lucy that white flour
was so scarce that they were saving what was left for sick folks.
“An’ youh ma she say if ever again she see the full of a bar’l of white
flour at one time she’s gwin’ to give a party. Youh ma’s mammy she took
mighty good care to open up she’s hands an put somepin’ in ’em when she
was a baby. So, nach’ly you ma she ain’t close-fisted, nohow. What she’s
got, she shares.”
Notwithstanding this lack of white biscuits the girls managed to make a
very satisfactory meal, after which Harriot slipped into her
dressing-gown to go back to her own room. But Dorothea stopped her.
“I’ve a lovely idea,” she cried suddenly. “Why don’t you wear one of my
dresses and hats when we go to call on Corinne?”
Harriot seized on this suggestion with avidity.
“She might think we were strangers and give us fruit cake,” she
suggested. “No one can make fruit cake like Aunt Dilsey, even now she
has nothing to make it of.”
Dorothea’s dress being long for Harriot gave her a more mature look,
which led naturally to rearranging her hair and she was very shortly a
quite grown-up Harriot who at once assumed airs to fit her fine raiment.
Lucy, vastly entertained by these plans, lent her quick fingers to the
task and when it was finished expressed herself satisfied.
“Foh de land’s sake, Miss Harry!” she cried, stepping back to view her
handiwork, “yoh sure is prettier than I eveh thought yoh could be. Lil’
Miss betteh look out for she’s beaux when you done come along dressed
up.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Harriot retorted, but she was pleased, nevertheless.
The fact was that her dress of green cashmere with a sacque and hat of
deeper hue were most becoming and she made a charming picture.
“Come,” said Dorothea, “I want to show you off to Aunt Parthenia.”
But at this Harriot demurred.
“Mother’s apt to be mighty busy,” she objected. “Wait till we come
back.”
She sent Lucy off with an order that Uncle Jastrow should harness up the
carriage and drive them himself to go calling in state. Then they went
down stairs to await their chariot. But when it came, Simeon was
handling the reins. He was quite embarrassed and very apologetic for his
lack of magnificence.
“Where is Uncle Jastrow?” demanded Harriot, bristling.
“Please, Miss Harry,” Simeon answered, “I knows I ain’t got no style,
but Uncle Jastrow done say I was ’bliged to drive.”
“But why?” Harriot insisted. “Is Uncle Jastrow sick?”
“No’m, he ain’t sick ezackly,” Simeon replied, “but he say, please, Miss
Harry, won’t you kindly be so good as not to blame him; but what with
the horses quality company has rid off with to-day, and the horses Ol’
Miss done sent on errants, not to speak of the horses General Wheeler’s
men pressed, they ain’t nothin’ lef’ in the stables ’ceptin ’tis ole
Mose; An’ Uncle Jastrow he say he done kep’ his moanin’s to hisself when
he come down f’om the granjure of four horses to drivin’ only two,
knowin’ the war was makin’ us all sort of equinomical; but he can’t no
way bemean hisself to one. He say yoh pa hisself wouldn’t ask him to
hol’ the reins over only ole Mose, an’ he ain’t gwine’ disgrace the
fambly that a-way.”
“Of course,” said Harriot, turning to Dorothea, “it does seem sort of
humiliating for Uncle Jastrow, seeing what he’s used to driving. And I
reckon he’s right about father. But he’s too proud of himself for all
that. You would think that if we’re not too grand to ride behind old
Mose he might be able to drive him. But come along. We’ll never get
there if we don’t start pretty soon. I haven’t time to argue with Uncle
Jastrow till we get back.”
The girls entered the carriage and Simeon, summoning all the style of
which he was possessed, whipped up old Mose and they drove off.
“Is Uncle Jastrow a slave?” asked Dorothea, considerably puzzled by what
she had seen and heard.
“I wish you wouldn’t say ‘slave’ as if you expected our people to walk
about loaded with chains,” Harriot remarked judicially. “That’s what
comes of reading ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin.’ Mother says the horrid Yankees
call their servants ‘help’ just to be different from us. Of course Uncle
Jastrow is one of our servants, but he’s so spoiled that he does just
exactly what he wants. He bosses me and he bosses mother, and father
just laughs at him. April’s the only one can manage him. You know it’s
difficult to be dignified with an old man who knew you when you were a
baby and can tell you just how fat you were.”
As they rolled along through the sunshine a more peaceful scene could
hardly be imagined. No one seeing these two pretty girls in fashionable
attire, driven along the quiet road by a neat black coachman, even
though it was behind the despised ‘Ole Mose,’ would ever have thought
they were living in a country engaged in a deadly war.
It was not a long journey, and soon they came to the home of Mr. Charles
Stewart, where Simeon, with his best imitation of Uncle Jastrow’s grand
manner, encouraged old Mose till he trotted up the driveway like a
skittish colt. A little darky, on the watch for just such arrivals,
sprang to the carriage and placed a cover over the wheel, and the two
girls descended in state, spreading their gowns and preening themselves
like peacocks.
But they had little chance to make an impression, for the front door was
thrown hastily open and Corinne appeared, much excited.
“What do you think, Harriot?” she cried, taking no notice of either
Dorothea or their finery; “Pa has just sent us word that the hateful
English have repudiated the South. Whatever do you suppose we are going
to do now?”