CHAPTER XIII.
Confidences.
The rôle of patient which was enforced upon both Lettice and Mr. Baldwin was not altogether disagreeable to the pair. A couple of days was all the time that Mr. Baldwin would consent to remain in bed, and by that Lettice, too, was downstairs, looking, it is true, very pale and with blue shadows under her eyes, but quite herself otherwise. The knowledge of her night’s doings was kept a profound secret from all but her immediate family, although Aunt Martha and Rhoda were considered sufficiently discreet to be intrusted with an account of her adventures.
It was James who told Rhoda about it, when he went over to make his farewells before going to join Barney’s flotilla, for he declared that he was in no mood for land service. “We can’t have every Tom, Dick, and Harry discussing Letty’s doings,” he said. “There are those just waiting for a chance to call her light and unmaidenly, travelling around alone inthese times; although we, who know her, can impute it to nothing but pity and bravery. Besides, Cockburn and his men have such a name, that but to mention the fact of her having fallen into their hands, would give rise to exaggerated reports.”
Rhoda nodded. “Yes, we who know her and love her would best say nothing about it. Lettice is a brave girl and a tender-hearted one, even if she is a bit too impulsive.”
Jamie’s eyes beamed at this praise of his dearly loved sister from one who was always chary of her compliments; and when Rhoda expressed her determination to go at once to see Lettice, he gladly offered to be her escort. “I wish you were well out of here and safe in Boston,” he said. “With that terrible beast of a Cockburn infesting our shores, and every man feeling it his duty to be off with the militia, our homes are illy protected. Your father should not allow you to remain here.”
Rhoda frowned, and half shut her eyes in a little haughty way that she had. “My father does what he thinks best. I do not dispute his judgment. He does not know, or is not willing to believe, the state of affairs down here.”
Jamie made no response although he thought,“Nothing to his credit that it is so.”
Lettice greeted Rhoda warmly. “It is good of you to come over to see this battered-up piece of humanity,” she said. “Am I not a decrepit?” She thrust out one bandaged foot as she stood holding to a chair.
“Are you then so lame?” Rhoda asked with concern.
“Yes, I am rather used up by sprains and bruises, but it is nothing serious, after all, and only demands that I keep quiet.”
“Tell me about it,” Rhoda said abruptly, as she motioned Lettice to her place on the couch. And Lettice gave her a detailed account of her adventures, ending with, “And it was my very prettiest scarf, the silk one with many colored stripes that Uncle Tom brought me from Paris.”
“How can you think of such slight things when it was all so serious?” Rhoda asked, in a puzzled tone.
Lettice laughed. “Because I am so shallow, I suppose. I remember being thankful that I had that particular piece of finery, because it was so strong, and not like some of my others made of a lighter and more gauzy material. You see how I could let my thoughts run on dress, even in that desperate hour. I tell you I am only a butterfly.”
“But you are not. You weep like a baby over the smallest thing, when it is weak and silly to do so, and you prink and coquet and parade your dress, but at heart you are brave and loyal, and have the greatest amount of endurance. I cannot make you out.”
“No more can I you. I am a piece of vanity, and when there is anything to be gained by showing a brave front I can do it well enough; at other times I simply let myself go, and if I feel like crying I cry, when there is anybody around to pet me and make much of me, even if it is only Mammy.” Then she suddenly became grave. “Did you know that the papers were found? Or rather, they have been returned.”
Rhoda started. “You don’t mean it!”
“I do.”
“Who returned them?”
“My maid, Lutie.”
“Was she the thief?”
“No, I think,—I am quite positive, she was not. She says they were given to her to deliver to my brother.”
“By whom?”
“She does not tell. By the way, I promised my brother William that I would try to fathom thematter. Rhoda, where is Mr. Clinton?”
Rhoda did not answer for a moment; then she said: “You still suspect him? Do you mean me to infer that you believe it was he who gave Lutie the papers?”
“I don’t know what to think. I would rather fasten my suspicions on some one else, for more reasons than one.”
“What reasons?”
“I would rather be sure the papers had not been copied.”
“You believe he would do such a thing as that? I do not. I have more faith in him than you, Lettice.”
“Yet you do not love him.”
“Have I said I do not?”
“No, but I know it. I know one cannot love two men at the same time.”
“Lettice, you presume.”
“Do I? I don’t mean to; but—Ah well, Rhoda, we are but girls, and we are on the lookout for signs that escape others whose thoughts are not on romances.”
“And you think you have read signs in me? Am I such a telltale, then?”
“Far from it. You are unusually wary. ButRhoda, do you know that Jamie leaves us to-day?”
The color mounted slowly to Rhoda’s face, tingeing even her ears with red.
Lettice leaned over and said mockingly, as she possessed herself of Rhoda’s hand, “A sign, Rhoda! A sign! What does that blush mean?”
Rhoda bit her lip, but did not raise her eyes.
“Our bonny Jamie,” sighed Lettice. “Ah me, I hope God will spare him. I hope, O I hope—Oh, Rhoda, what if he should be going, never to return.”
“Don’t!” cried Rhoda, in a sharp, quick voice. And then she snatched her hand from Lettice and, covering her face, sobbed in a convulsive, tearless way.
“Rhoda, dear Rhoda,” cried Lettice. “What a wicked girl I am! I did not mean to be cruel to you. I should have had more consideration for your feelings and have kept my fears to myself.” She essayed to rise, but Rhoda motioned her back. “Come here, then, and sit by me that I may know that you forgive me,” she begged, and Rhoda came. Lettice caressed and soothed her so that in a few minutes she had regained her composure.
“You asked about Robert,” she said. “He has gone to Washington and vows he will never return.He left his address, should any one wish to know of his whereabouts.”
“I am glad. I think that is best.”
Rhoda in her turn began to catechize. “Do you love him, Lettice?”
“No, I can say truthfully that I do not. I was beginning to, I think; but now, I am so racked by doubt and mistrust that I have no room for any other feeling. I do not want to love him. This cloud would ever be rising between us. I would grieve to have harm come to him, and yet—”
“You would denounce him to his enemies?”
“If it would serve my country, yes. I could not tell a lie for him.”
“Then you do not love him.”
“Could you tell an untruth for one you loved?”
Rhoda reflected. “I would not tell an untruth, but I would believe in him though no one else did, and I would not give up my belief while there was a shadow of a chance that he was innocent. And, in any event, I would be very sure before I declared a person guilty who might be proved innocent.”
“That is why I went to you the other night,”replied Lettice. “And I did not denounce him before any one but Mr. Baldwin, and that was in the heat of my surprise and anger.”
“I know that. But we have been over this subject before. He is gone and will not return. Let us talk of something else. Your Mr. Baldwin, where is he?”
“MyMr. Baldwin, as you are pleased to call him, is here in the room across the hall. Would you like to call on him?”
“Not I.”
“He is a brave young gentleman, and good to look at.”
“Ah, that is why you are not sure of your feeling for Robert.”
“No, it is not,” returned Lettice, quickly. “And that brings us back to the question we were discussing a few minutes ago. Could a girl love two men at once?”
Rhoda did not answer. She arose and said: “I am staying too long. I must go back to Aunt Martha. I promised her I would be back soon. Your brother William has returned to his company?”
“Yes; he was at home but one day and could remain no longer. With the British such near neighbors, the militia must not be caught napping.The plantations are suffering for lack of attention, but the men must fight though the crops fail in consequence. Will you send Lutie to me, if you see her on your way down? And do come soon again.”
Rhoda promised and took her leave. In a few minutes Lutie appeared. She had not shown her usual devotion to her mistress during the last day or two, and seemed anxious to efface herself, a proceeding strictly the opposite to her usual one.
“You want me, Miss Letty?” she said as she came in.
“Yes, I do. I don’t want to be left up here all alone. It seems to me, Lutie, you have a precious lot of work downstairs, for you try to slip out every chance you get.”
“Miss Rhoda, she hyar,” Lutie began protestingly.
“I know she was here, but she is not now. I never thought you would neglect your own Miss Letty, Lutie; especially when she is half sick, and cannot get around without some one’s help. Haven’t I always been good to you?”
“Yass, miss, yuh has indeed.”
“Then look here; tell me the truth. Now don’t look so scared; I am not going to have you whipped.You know you never had a whipping in your life, except from your own mammy. I want you to tell me who gave you those papers to give to your Marster William.”
Lutie began to sniffle. “’Deed, Miss Letty, I didn’t see him. He have a cloak over him, an’ he hide his face, an’ he a gre’t big man.”
“With fiery eyes like Napoleon Bonaparte that you’re so afraid of? Now look here, is it any one I know?”
“Yass, miss.” Lutie spoke in a tremulous voice.
“Was it—now speak the truth—was it—” Lettice looked cautiously around and lowered her voice—“Mr. Clinton?”
Lutie writhed, and twisted, and looked every way but at her mistress.
“Remember, you’ll be sorry if you don’t tell.”
“Miss Letty, what yuh gwine do ef I don’t tell?” at last Lutie inquired in desperation.
“What am I going to do? Don’t you know that old Aunt Hagar comes here every day to see me? You know she is a cunjure woman, she’ll do anything I ask her. You’d better look out.”
“’Deed an’ ’deed, Miss Letty,” wailed Lutie, dropping on her knees, and rocking back and forth,“I so skeered.”
“Of the Poly Bonypart man or the cunjure woman? Which?”
“Bofe of ’em. An’ I skeered o’ dat Cockbu’n. Jubal say he mos’ wuss’n Poly Bonypart.”
“Jubal does?”
“Yass’m. Oh, Miss Letty, don’ mek me tell.”
“Humph!” Lettice rested her chin in her hand and thoughtfully regarded the girl sobbing at her feet. “Lutie,” she said after a pause, “what did Jubal tell you about Cockburn and his men?”
“He say,” Lutie replied, weeping copiously, “he say ef I tells, ole Cockbu’n git me an’ mek me dance er breakdown on hot coals; an’ he t’ar out mah white teef an’ give ’em to he men to shoot out o’ dey guns lak bullets; and he snatch uvver scrap o’ wool off mah haid, fo’ to mek gun wads outen; an’ he brek uvver bone in mah body, an’ de Britishers rattle ’em when dey play dey chunes ter march by.” Jubal could display a delightfully vivid imagination when it served his purpose.
“That certainly would be something terrible,” Lettice commented gravely. “I don’t wonder you are scared; but you know it would be nearly asbad if you wasted away,—hungry, and couldn’t eat; thirsty, and couldn’t drink; and if your teeth were to drop out one by one, and if your eyes were to roll up into your head and never come down again; and if those you love wouldn’t love you, and if some one gave Jubal a charm so he’d hate you. You know what a cunjure woman can do.”
Lutie burst into loud wails. “Oh, Miss Letty! Spare me, Lawd! Spare me! I a po’ mizzible sinner. What shall I do? What shall I do? Oh, Miss Letty, don’ let Aunt Hagar chawm Jubal, please, miss. I die fo’ yuh. I serve yuh han’ an’ foot.”
“There, Lutie, there,” said Lettice, feeling that in her application of Jubal’s methods she had gone too far, “come here. Sit down there.” She put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You want to marry Jubal, I suppose. I knew he had been philandering about you for some time. Are you really fond of him?”
Lutie’s wails subsided into a sniffle. “Yass, miss,” she answered meekly.
“Well, then, I promise you that I will not let any harm come to him or you through anything you may tell me, if you tell the truth. And, moreover, I’ll get Aunt Hagar to make you a luck-ball, and I will not tell a living soul who it was thatgave you the papers, as long as there is any danger coming to either of you from it. But if you don’t tell me the truth—then—”
Lutie’s sobs were again on the increase. “Oh-h, Miss Letty, I sholy is hard pressed. I is skeert one way by ole Cockbu’n an’ turrer by de cunjurin’. I mos’ mo’ skeerter by de cunjurin’.”
“But you won’t tell your mistress, who has always been good and kind to you, when you know it would save her a great deal of trouble? You won’t tell unless she threatens to punish you? Ah, Lutie, think what I might do to make you tell, if I were a hard mistress.”
“Miss Letty, Miss Letty, ’deed, ma’am, I don’t want to do yuh so mean. Yuh won’t let Jubal come to no ha’m, will yuh, Miss Letty?”
“No, I promised you, so far as I have any voice in it, I will not. Don’t make me repeat it, you disrespectful girl.”
“Miss Letty, I so bothered in mah haid I fergits mah manners,” said Lutie, humbly. “I knows a lady lak yuh ain’ gwine tell me no story, an’ when yuh says nobody know, nobody ain’ gwine know. Miss Letty,—hit were Jubal hisse’f.” And again the girl lapsed into violent weeping, and the rocking back and forth continued.
Lettice was very quiet for a moment. “There, Lutie,” she then said, “you needn’t cry any more. You are as safe as can be, and so is Jubal. I will not tell on him, but I want you to tell me all you know about it. Did any one give him the papers to give to your Marster William?”
“No, ma’am, Miss Letty, he peepin’ froo de bushes when yuh puts de box in de groun’, an’ he say he think dey is gol’ an’ silver derein, an’ he want git me one o’ dem carneely rings, an’ he jes think he tek a little an’ nobody miss hit, an’ ef dey do, dey’ll think de Britishers done git hit; den when he open de box an’ fin’ nothin’ but dem papers in hit, he lay out fur to put hit back agin, but he ain’ had no chanst lak he mean ter do, an’ so he give hit ter me, an’ say I is ter give hit ter Mars William an’ do lak he say, an’ I so do; an’ he say ef I tells, de Britishers is sho’ to come after me, ’cause dey want dem papers.”
“How did he know that?”
“He heahs yuh-alls talkin’ ’bout hit dat night he waitin’ on de gin’ral in de gre’t hall. Yass, miss, he say all dat.” Lutie was very quiet now, and only her wet eyes showed recent weeping.
“Very good,” said Lettice. “Of course Jubal ought to be punished. He has caused more mischief than he knows, and he is not half good enough for you, Lutie; although, poor ignorant boy, it was a temptation,” she added, half to herself. “Now dry your eyes, Lutie, and go get that pink muslin out of the closet. I am going to give that to you because you told the truth. I’m sorry I haven’t a ‘carneely’ ring, but there is a string of blue beads in that box; you may have those.”
Lutie fell on her knees and kissed her mistress’s bandaged feet in her ecstasy at this deliverance from despair and this elevation to heights of bliss, and in a minute she was bearing off her treasures, every white tooth gleaming, as she viewed these darling possessions.
“I am bound to make no explanations,” said Lettice to herself. “What a complication it is, and how badly I have treated poor Robert. No wonder he was so hurt and angry and indignant. Alas, if I tell any one that he is innocent, I will have to prove it, and that I have promised not to do. I shall have to wait events, I suppose. Brother William is away, and there is no one else who will press inquiries. Yet, am I not bound to clear Robert to Mr. Baldwin, and I can do nothingelse than write to Washington to Robert himself. Dear, dear, what a scrape I am in!”
At this moment Lutie reappeared with the message: “Miss Letty, Miss Betty say is yuh able to come down to supper? Mr. Bald’in, he comin’, an’ she say she wisht yuo’d mek yose’f ready, is yuh able.”
“I am able, but some one will have to help me to hobble. Go tell Miss Betty, and then come back and dress me.” She felt a little flutter of excitement at again meeting the companion of her late adventures, and selected her dress with some care. Yet she sighed once or twice. She had been very unjust to Robert, and of course he could never forgive her. Yes, it was as he had said; that dream was over. Nevertheless, she had a little feeling of resentment toward him because he had not assured her of his innocence. “If he had not reproached me, but had told me, I would have believed him,” she told herself. She had been too hasty, she admitted, but like many other persons, she did not feel willing to exculpate the supposed offender from all blame and to acknowledge herself in the wrong, and her feeling of resentment in consequence almost overcame her regrets.