_An Interrupted Duel._
Pale and agitated, Lettice stood before the company now gathered
indoors. “It is gone!” she whispered. “Gone!”
“What do you mean?” asked her brother. “What is gone?”
“The box with the papers. I hid it by the footstone where Theophilus
Hopkins is buried, and just now, when Mr. Baldwin and I went to get it,
we found nothing there. Some one has taken it.”
“Have you any idea of who could have done it?”
Lettice twisted her fingers nervously, and gave a quick distressed look
toward Ellicott Baldwin, but she made no answer.
“Have you any idea of who could have taken the box?” General Benson
asked. “Speak up, my child. Remember that you are a loyal little
girl, and that it is for the good of your country that we discover
these papers. Beyond that, your brother’s honor is involved, and you
will place him in a most embarrassing position if the papers fail to
appear. Did any one see you secrete these papers?”
“Yes.” Lettice spoke so low that she could scarcely be heard. Mr.
Baldwin watched her silently, but with an expression of deep sympathy.
“Will you tell us whom you suspect?” said her brother, gently. “My
little sister is so tender-hearted, gentlemen, that she is loath to
divulge the name of the culprit, if indeed she knows it. Suppose we
talk it over by ourselves, little sister, if these gentlemen will
excuse us.” And putting his arm around her, he led her from the room.
When they were alone she put her head down on his shoulder and wept
silently. “I don’t want to tell, brother,” she said, when she had
become more composed. “I was very angry at first, but I don’t want
to get any one into trouble, and of course I have no proof; I only
suspect. But one person saw me as I was covering up the box, and--Oh,
if I could only get the papers back, would I need to tell?”
Her brother considered the question. “Perhaps not. It would depend upon
the person. If a dangerous enemy were working us harm, you would want
him to be put where he could do us no injury, wouldn’t you?”
“If that could be managed? If he should leave the country?” said
Lettice, eagerly.
“I cannot promise what leniency would be shown; but if you can recover
the papers and will tell whom you suspect, I will do my best to see
that nothing shall be done without full proof of treachery.”
“Then if I can get the papers, and I promise to tell you why they were
taken, will that do?”
“So far as you are concerned, yes, I think it will. Wait here and I
will confer with the general.”
But her brother had no sooner left the room than Lettice flew out by
the back way, ran to the stable, flung the saddle on her horse, and was
off like a shot. She would take no risks. Down the road she galloped,
and dashed up before the porch where Rhoda was sitting alone.
“Lettice!” cried Rhoda, coming hastily forward, “what are you doing
here? Is there no one with you? Have you brought bad news?”
Lettice slipped down from her horse, twisted the bridle through the
ring of the hitching-post, and ran up the steps. “Are you alone, I ask
in turn?”
“Yes. What is it? You are so agitated. Has anything happened
to--anybody?”
Lettice did not heed the eagerness of the question nor the sudden pause
before the last word. “I am alone, yes. And something has happened.
No, no one is hurt, but some valuable papers have been stolen. Do you
know anything about it?”
“I? What should I know?” Rhoda drew herself up, and held her head high.
“I overheard you talking one day to Mr. Robert Clinton, and you said
things which made me suspect that you might try to help the enemy, if
you had a chance. And----Oh, Rhoda, never mind if I do seem to accuse
you! it is to save Mr. Clinton. If you have any love for him or for me,
tell me truly, do you know anything about the papers?”
“I know nothing of any papers in which you could possibly be
concerned,” she replied coldly. “Tell me your story more clearly.”
Lettice tried to do so, ending with, “If you have not been concerned in
the matter, he must have done it entirely of his own accord.”
“Do you suppose that either of us would so degrade ourselves as to
stoop to theft?” returned Rhoda, frigidly.
“I don’t know; I can’t tell. I am so distracted that I hardly know what
I do think. I know you are not friendly to our cause, and that in war
it is not thought wrong to avail one’s self of all sorts of methods to
carry out an intention. Oh, Rhoda! if I do not recover the papers,
they will make me tell whom I suspect, and he will be arrested and
perhaps shot for a spy.”
“Sh! sh! Aunt Martha may hear.”
“Where is she?”
“Gone to bed with a sick headache. It was warm, and I did not care to
go so early.”
“What shall I do? What shall I do?”
“Do you care so much for Robert Clinton’s safety?”
“I care! Of course I do. I don’t know whether much or little. One would
rather one’s friends should be safe. I denounced him to his face for
a spy, and if it is true that he is one, I despise him, but I do not
want him taken and hung. Oh, Rhoda, will you warn him? And, oh, those
papers! What can I do? I don’t know which way to turn.”
“Robert will tell me the truth,” said Rhoda, after a moment’s thought;
“I am sure he will.”
“And will you try to get the papers back again?”
“Yes; but I am quite convinced that he did not take them.”
“Who, then? No one else saw me.”
“How do you know?”
“I know that he did see me.”
“But you cannot swear that another was not peeping, so I think you
should give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“I cannot help my suspicions, knowing his devotion to his party.”
“Yes, but he is not a traitor to his country, and does not love her
enemies any more than you do.”
“And I have given my word that I would tell the name of the one I
suspect. Please, Rhoda, get him away if you can, but do not tell him
that I begged it of you. Promise me that.”
“I will do my best. It is a great pity that you were not more cautious.
Are you going back to-night? Must you?”
“Yes, I must. I am not afraid.”
“No one knew of your coming?”
“No, I sneaked out, and shall probably be well scolded for it. And what
excuse can I make?”
“You are all well?”
“Yes. You have not seen Jamie yet, I suppose.”
“No.”
“He has just come from down the country, and to-night had to remain at
home to help entertain this array of soldiers I left there. You will
see him to-morrow, no doubt.”
“You volunteer the information as if you thought I had demanded it.”
“Well, don’t you demand it? There, Rhoda, I will not tease you. You
have been very sweet and forbearing, and I thank you, and will thank
you still more if you can help to get this dreadful matter righted.”
“One thing you have forgotten.”
“And what is that?”
“Your companion, Mr. Baldwin. You say you denounced Robert before him.
What is to prevent him from telling the whole thing?”
“True. I didn’t think of that; yet I don’t think he will until I
give him leave. But so much the more need of a speedy warning. When
Robert--Mr. Clinton comes in, you will see to it that he is on his
guard. They may come after him at any moment.”
“I will wait till he comes in. He should be here by now.”
“And I must get off at once. I would not encounter him for the world.
Kiss me, Rhoda. I never loved you half so well. You are a dear good
girl. I wish I were half so wise and discreet.”
Rhoda smiled, and gave her the asked-for kiss; then Lettice again
mounted her horse and turned down the level road.
She had not travelled very far before she heard the hoofs of horses
coming rapidly toward her. Suddenly there was a pause in the advancing
sound, and she drew in her horse. In the moonlight she could see the
forms of two horsemen ahead of her. She watched them for a few moments
as they carried on an excited conversation. Presently each led his
horse to one side and tied him to the fence; then they stood apart in
the middle of the road. Again there seemed to be a heated discussion.
Lettice wondered what it was all about. She longed, yet feared, to draw
nearer; but at last her curiosity overcame her fear, and she too led
her horse to the shadow of a tree, tied him, and crept along by the
fence till she came within hearing distance. At this point she gave a
quick exclamation which nearly betrayed her to the two young men, in
whom she recognized Robert Clinton and Ellicott Baldwin. She cowered
close to the fence, her heart beating very fast. She dreaded to advance
or retreat.
“I am at your service at any time and at any place,” Mr. Baldwin was
saying. “I will accept any challenge sent in the regular way.”
“Now! I insist upon it now. If you refuse, I shall deem you a coward
and a braggart,” cried Robert.
“Then,” returned the other, hastily, “choose your position.”
At that moment Lettice arose to her feet. This was a duel, she
comprehended, and perhaps one or the other would be killed. She ran
forward and held up her hand. “You should have witnesses,” she said.
“Here is one.” She stood between them, looking from one to the other.
The men were thunderstruck. “You, Miss Hopkins! What are you doing
here? I rode out to find you,” Mr. Baldwin said, but Robert spoke never
a word.
“I beg of you to desist,” Lettice went on. “I chanced to be coming this
way. I have been to the house of a sick relative and was on my way
home. This is our own ground, and I forbid you to make it a place of
bloodshed.”
“I bow to a lady’s decree,” Mr. Baldwin said, returning his pistol
to its place. “Why did you give us the slip, Miss Hopkins? And what
is your desire concerning yonder gentleman? You denounced him in my
presence, and yet when the moment came to declare his offence to your
brother, you ran away. As for me, my lips are sealed till you give me
permission to speak.”
“I do not give you permission to do anything but leave him and let his
conscience be his accuser.”
“But who is to be responsible for his appearance if we find he is
guilty of the act for which you denounced him?”
“I will be. We have been friends,” she said softly, as she half turned
to where Robert stood with arms folded and eyes cast down. For an
instant Lettice’s heart melted within her, and she took a step forward,
but she retreated again to Mr. Baldwin’s side.
“Take me home,” she said faintly, “and let this affair be settled
there. My horse is but a few steps back.”
“I will bring him to you,” Mr. Baldwin said, “and yes, I shall be glad
to defer this. You understand,” he said, turning to Robert, “I am at
your service when you will. This address will always find me.” He
handed out a card with an elaborate bow. He stood evidently thinking
deeply. “If you are innocent, sir,” he went on to say, “you will not be
afraid to answer a few questions should you be required to do so. If
you are guilty, you owe your escape from immediate arrest to the good
offices of this young lady. Whatever may be my own opinion, I owe you
no more of an apology than you do me, and in the interest of my country
I am bound to say that you are free only through extreme tolerance.”
And he turned away.
Lettice and Robert stood facing each other. “How could you? How could
you?” Lettice murmured. “This dark suspicion has blighted all the
memory of our happy hours.”
“This dark suspicion, indeed,” replied the young man.
“And you will not clear yourself, will not tell me?” she said eagerly.
“But give up the papers, and I will screen you and will think of you as
gently as I can.”
“I have said that I have no papers.”
Lettice wrung her hands. “O dear! O dear! if you would but be candid
and tell me, I could help you, I could indeed. For the sake of our past
friendship, will you not tell me?”
He came to her side. “Lettice,” he began; then dropping the hand he had
taken, he turned away. “’Twould be no use,” he said. “Farewell, the
dream is over. Tell your friend that I shall not run away either from
arrest or from him.” And he sprang on his horse and disappeared into
the woods, leaving Lettice with her face buried in her hands.
She brushed away her tears as Mr. Baldwin approached, and stood ready
to mount her horse again. They were fairly on their way when he spoke.
“This is a hard ordeal for a young lady to go through, Miss Hopkins,
but I cannot leave the subject just yet. You are very positive that my
late adversary, whose name, by the way, I do not know, is the one who
took the papers?”
“No, I am not certain. I only think so because he saw me secure them,
and because he is violently opposed to the war, and belongs to the
Peace party. I know he has been very energetic in working for his side.”
“It looks suspicious, certainly.”
“Yet it would be a shame to arrest a man, unless we were sure.”
“Yes, I think so, too.”
“I think he should be given the benefit of the doubt.”
“That is dangerous, sometimes.”
“Yes; but I would rather let a dozen guilty ones go free than to cause
an innocent person to suffer misfortune.”
“A very lovely way of thinking, but I fear few offenders would come to
justice if all agreed with you. However, in this case we shall have to
trust to chance. Your gentleman was very eager for a fight, which it
would perhaps have been as well to allow him. I do not feel comfortable
over that part of it.”
“Oh, but I think it would have been terrible! He has been a friend
of ours; has been received at our house on the most intimate terms.
Suppose he had fallen, or had caused your death; it would have been
dreadful! I should never have ceased to reproach myself for having been
the cause of it.”
“You are right. I should have remembered your part in the matter. But
this other affair of--What did you say the gentleman’s name is?”
“I didn’t say. He is Robert Clinton, a relative of our former
Vice-President of the same name. He is from New York, and is a great
friend of some connections of ours.”
“Well, we must settle this affair of his before we go home. They are
waiting for your return. You can imagine your brother is in something
of an awkward position; the papers gone, and you gone. It would
simplify matters if we could have returned with a prisoner. I fear Mr.
Clinton will be beyond our reach by to-morrow.”
“He bade me say to you that he would not run away from either you
or the authorities, but if he should, and if at last he is proved
innocent, we will both be glad.”
“In that case, yes. You do not seem to be so enraged against him as at
first.”
“No, I was truly angry. I always fly off like that and regret it
afterward. I have had time for reflection, and I needed it. I spoke too
impulsively. Think what a dreadful dreadful state of affairs I have
stirred up by my quick tongue!”
“It was natural that you should speak in the excitement of the moment.
Where does this turning take us?”
“Around by the bay.”
“Shall we take it?”
“Yes, if you like. It is not quite so near a way.”
She had hardly spoken the words before three men sprang out from a
fence corner. One snatched Lettice’s bridle; two more dragged Mr.
Baldwin down from his horse. “I’ll take the girl, pretty creature that
she is,” cried the first, “and you can have the Yankee.”
“Save me! Oh, save me! Let me go!” shrieked Lettice. But the captor
only laughed, and catching her around the waist, he pulled her down
beside him, while a terrible tussle went on between the other two men
and their prisoner, who fought like a tiger, and finally managed to
secure his pistol. A shot rang out on the air, and one man fell. The
one by Lattice’s side sprang forward. “Poor old Jerry, are you done
for?” he cried, as he leaned forward.
Like a flash Lettice sprang up. At her feet lay the man’s pistol which
he had dropped. The girl picked it up. Providence had come to her
rescue. She raised the pistol, but almost immediately her hand dropped
to her side. She noted that the man had lifted the head of his former
companion to a more comfortable position. To shoot him would be murder,
she reflected. She could not, no, she could not. Yet her own life and
Mr. Baldwin’s lay in the balance. Now her adversary was about to rise.
The horror of what might come next rushed over her, and she hesitated
no longer, but darted forward, and dealt the man a desperate blow on
the head with the butt of the pistol. He dropped heavily by the side of
his fallen comrade, and was very still. Had she killed or only stunned
him? She shuddered and turned aside.
Meanwhile Mr. Baldwin and his opponent fought for their lives.
Lettice’s friend had discharged the last load from his pistol, and now
it was a question of which would prove the best man in a hand-to-hand
fight? Lettice watched them breathlessly. The strength of one or the
other must at last give out. Suppose it should be her one dependence,
this desperate man who was giving his assailant no time for anything
but to attend to the matter in hand. Breathlessly Lettice put into
execution a plan. If Mr. Baldwin could only hold out long enough, she
might save both herself and him. She quickly undid the long silken
scarf she wore, tied one end tightly around the wrist of the man she
had sent to the ground, and then tied the other end to a little tree
under which they had been sitting. It was sufficiently small for her to
be able to make her tether quite secure.
The man began to move slightly, and Lettice realized that he was merely
stunned by her blow. Another moment and he might recover sufficiently
to add to the hopelessness of the situation. In the distance there was
a faint plash of oars; it might be that those who approached would
reënforce these assailants. Her wits were sharpened by despair. She
leaned over and extricated the pistol from the belt of the wounded man,
and rushed to a safe distance from her prisoner. If he had a knife it
would take him but a moment to cut his bonds as soon as he should be
aware of them. She must act quickly, for the regular plash of the oars
came nearer and more near.
Ellicott Baldwin, still struggling desperately, heard a cry, “Look
out!” A shot whizzed through the air, and his adversary loosened his
hold, and in a second was felled to the earth. Lettice’s pistol had
done good service. She had wounded the man in the ankle, for she had
purposely fired low. “Here, here,” she cried, thrusting the second
pistol into Mr. Baldwin’s hand, and he, with one dazed look, rushed to
where she stood.