_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 in these 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 the matter. 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. But Rhoda, 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?”
“_My_ Mr. 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 as bad 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 that gave 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 nothing else 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.