Chapter LXXXIII: Upon the Duelling Ground

Face to face upon the velvet turf where that party had danced only a short time before, Waldon and Fletcher stood ready for a fight of life or death.

The ground had been measured. A doctor was in waiting. One of the seconds held a white handkerchief in his hand. It dropped. That instant a female figure darted up from the spring, and laid her hand on Waldon’s left arm.

“Stop!” she said. “Stop! I charge you!”

Waldon did not lift his eyes from the pistol; but while she grasped his left arm, fired with cool deliberation. A man fell. He took no heed of that, but turned his white face upon Clara Anderson, whom he had believed dead, and a gleam of sarcastic light shone in his eyes.

“Ah! Miss Anderson, I am at your service now, but really you almost made me miss my aim.”

“I meant to save your soul from a murder!” she said, dropping her hand from his arm. “It is too late for that—for your victim there may be some hope.”

The girl left Waldon with a sneer on his lips, and walked toward the man who had fallen. Gathered around stood two or three persons, who regarded the man in dead silence, while one knelt down and tore back the garments from his bosom.

“Is it dangerous? Is it fatal?” whispered some person in the party, while the rest looked the question he alone had power to ask.

The doctor shook his head.

“There was formerly a house on the island,” said the doctor; “if it stands yet, we had better carry him there.”

“Up yonder, across the bridge—you will find a bed made up,” answered a female voice.

The doctor looked up in surprise. It was Lydia who spoke. The girl seemed capable of commanding an army.

Several persons present had seen the girl before; but, with her hair floating free, without shoes or stockings, and but half clad, they did not recognize her. Beside this, excitement had turned her eyes black, for the time, and all the quaint humor had left her face. To them she was only a barefooted girl, frightened by the firing, who had pointed out a shelter for the man whose life was so near spent that a removal to his home would be certain death.

“How shall we carry him?” inquired the doctor, looking around.

“On this,” said Lydia, dragging a wide board from under a tree, where it had answered for a table. “I will run for a pillow. Bring him to the house. Only, one thing”—here she pointed her finger at Waldon—“that man mustn’t come with him. We don’t want any murderers there, and won’t have ’em!”

With this Lydia darted away toward the bridge.

“Tell us! tell us!” cried the two death-white figures cowering there, as Lydia came toward them. “Which is it?”

“The one you would rather die than see as he is. The devil has taken care of his own!”

“My poor brother!”

“Now hush up, marm! This isn’t the place for wringing of hands or moaning. If his life can be saved, we have got to save it, and tears won’t be of any use in doing it. They’re going to bring him up to the house; I am going after a pillow. You and Miss Bertha will have a bed fixed by the time we get there.”

“He breathes! Then he is not dead!” cried Bertha, flinging her arms around the stricken woman by her side. “Oh, take comfort! If there is life, we will save it! Lydia is right; let us make haste to the house and get things ready.”

“Old pieces of linen; plenty of water; brandy—these are the things he spoke of,” said Lydia, darting away. “Ask Aunt Celia.”

“Oh, if I could but make sure that he still lives!” cried the wretched sister; “that would give me strength!”

“Go, then, and I will make ready for him!”

Bertha arose as she spoke, and went toward the house. Mrs. Forbes left the bridge also, shaking like a leaf, and faint with apprehension. She wandered toward the group of men, who seemed a great way off to her dizzy brain, and after toiling forward—it appeared to her hours and hours—she fell on her knees by her brother, and finding him senseless, lifted her face to that of Russell Waldon, and would have cursed him if her white lips had found power to syllable the words.

Directly Lydia came back with an umbrella and a pillow. The poor girl forgot nothing.

“The bed will be fixed. Lift him softly, and carry him along careful, while I hold the umbrella over his head, and she—poor, dear soul!—keeps his hand from falling down.”

Lydia gave these directions with a prompt energy that made the doctor smile.

Waldon, whose friend shrank away from that ghostly presence, came forward, and offered to lift the wounded man, but Lydia opened her umbrella with a sudden flare, and ordered him back with it, as she would have driven a wild animal from her path.

“Don’t you dare to touch him!” she said, fiercely.

Waldon grew angry, and attempted to put the girl aside with a disdainful sweep of his white hand; but she shut her umbrella with a jerk, and drawing close to him, whispered:

“This was more manly work than murdering a poor, helpless, blessed woman! But don’t come near him! I won’t stand it!”

Waldon started, and would have searched Lydia’s features to assure himself if he had ever seen her before; but she opened her umbrella, swung it over her shoulders, and kept it as a barrier between her face and his, until young Fletcher was lifted from the ground. Then she carefully shaded that death-white face, and moved from the spot, leaving Waldon standing there alone.

Bertha had prepared her own chamber for the wounded man. A bed, pure and white, waited for him. Upon a table near by was laid everything that Lydia had spoken of as necessary for the doctor’s use. She had torn her most choice and delicate handkerchiefs in strips, with fragments of lace clinging to them, that no substance which was not soft as down should touch his wound. She had uncorked her choicest cologne, and sprinkled the room with it. A flask of brandy stood on the table, and some of its ruddy liquid was poured into a glass, ready for instant use.

Old Celia stood by, in open-mouthed astonishment, while all this was done. Now and then she put in an active protest by seizing the broom, or snatching at the sheets which Bertha was spreading; but the girl put her gently away, and went on with her preparations. This man, who had for the third time perilled his life for her, should be cared for by no menial. If there was one breath left upon his lips, she would wear out her last strength in saving it. These men should not see her—no human being but those already in her secret should know that she was there. He would, perhaps, never be conscious of her voice or touch, but the sister who loved him so should in this give way to her.

Bertha looked through the window, and saw that mournful cavalcade coming across the log bridge. How white and still he lay! Was it a lifeless man they were bringing to the dainty whiteness of the bed she had made? They all looked ominously grave. Alice faltered in her walk, and sometimes bent her head drearily to kiss the limp hand which lay, so cold and still, between hers.

The doctor stopped on the bridge to feel the wounded man’s pulse. It was scarcely perceptible; and when the sister’s great, wild eyes questioned him, he gave her a desponding shake of the head, which turned Bertha faint. Poor, poor girl! She staggered off into another room, and fell upon her knees, praying God, with passionate vehemence, to spare that one precious life, and permit her to make some atonement for the sorrow she had brought into it.

Now she lifted her head and held her breath. They were carrying him up-stairs in dumb silence. How heavily their steps sounded! Some one spoke: they were inside the chamber, but the voice was low and muffled. Then came a long, wailing cry. Great Heavens! was he dead? Had her anguish of prayer won only that?

While she was on her knees a hand was gently laid upon her shoulder, and a face troubled like her own bent over her.

“Bertha, do not despair. He is not dead, and I think he will not die.”

Bertha looked up. She had thought Clara Anderson dead; but it seemed the most natural thing in the world that she should be there, in her great need, with words of hope on her lips.

“Oh, Clara!” she said, with piteous gratitude, “have you come from Heaven to comfort me?”

“I have come out of such affliction as you are suffering, Bertha. Heaven lies beyond that.”

Then Bertha began to realize that some great blessing, that was not a miracle, had brought her friend back into her life—when it was most dreary—and reaching up her arms, she fell upon her bosom, and in that close embrace found the relief of tears.