Barbara slept little, but lay late, and Glenowen was away about business ere she appeared. By the time her caller arrived she was fairly herself, only subdued in spirit, sorrowful, and homesick. She had taken pains, however, that her morning toilet should be becoming; and Jerry Waite thought her pallor, the shadows about her great grave eyes, the wistfulness of her scarlet mouth, even more enchanting than her radiance and sparkle of the night before.
"This is most gracious of you, fair lady, to let me come so soon!" he murmured ecstatically, over the rosy brown tips of her slim fingers. "Did the other men but know of it, I should have feared for my life to come without a guard!"
Barbara smiled faintly, willing to appreciate his flatteries, but in no mood for badinage and quip.
"Nay, sir!" she answered, "do not lay it to my graciousness, which is scant to even so charming a gentleman as Mr. Waite, but to my curiosity, which I acknowledge to be great and insistent. Tell me this wonderful thing you promised to tell me!"
Jerry Waite assumed an air of mock supplication.
"I implore you, dear lady, suffer me for one moment to delude myself with the ravishing dream that 'twas for my company, no less than for my story, that you permitted me to come.— What, no, not for one moment the sweet delusion?"
Barbara shook her head resolutely.
"No, first deserve favour, before you presume to claim it, sir!" she retorted. "Earn my grace by a story as interesting as you have led me to expect. Then, perhaps, I may like you well enough to let you stay awhile, for the sake of your company!"
"So be it, if so the queen decrees!" said Waite. "My little story is about a duel, of which, as I gathered last night, the fairest but—pardon me—not always the most gracious of her sex knows a little, but not the most interesting details!"
"I have heard too much already of this duel!" interrupted Barbara. "I do not understand how it concerns me!"
"Oh, lady, this impatience of yours!" said Waite, watching her keenly. "How can you expect to understand the manner in which it concerns you, if you will not let any one tell you the story? I stand pledged to make the story interesting on pain of forfeiting your good will!"
"Well," agreed Barbara, with seeming reluctance. In very truth she was trembling with eagerness for him to go on. "But, I pray you, be as brief as is consistent with justice to your claim as a narrator!"
"I will be most brief!" said Waite. "For the merit lies in the story itself, not in the fashion of the telling. Yesterday, a little after the noon hour, some half-score gentlemen were gathered by chance in Pym's Ordinary, where many of us frequent for the latest bit of gossip. There was talk of this, that, and the other, but most of the charms of a lady whom we know and reverence—"
"Who was she?" asked Barbara.
But Waite, intent upon his story, paid no heed.
"The praises, the compliments, the eulogiums," he went on, "that were heaped upon this magical name seemed to show that every man was at her feet. All but Carberry. Captain Carberry is a chill-souled, carping, sarcastical fellow, and arrogant withal, by reason of the unmatched agility of his blade. It had pleased him to be displeased by certain sweet, if a trifle pungent, sprightlinesses of the lady in question; and now his comments ran sharply counter to those of the rest of the company. He did not admire her at all,—which was, of course, within his undoubted rights, however it discredited his taste. But presently his criticisms became a trifle harsher than was fitting; and there was a moment of uneasy silence. Then, clear upon the silence, Gault spoke,—Gault, who had hitherto been listening without a word.
"'Carberry,' said he, quietly, 'you have said just enough. One word more will be too much!'
"Every one held his breath. There was an ugly look about Gault's mouth, and we trembled for him. He is liked, you know; while Carberry, a man ten years older, is feared. Carberry looked Bob over, with a supercilious smile, which meant mischief, as we knew, and then drawled slowly:
"'I shall say whatever it may please me to say about that damned little—' But no one was to hear the sentence finished. We can never have our curiosity certainly satisfied as to that word, which just then got smashed beyond recognition behind Carberry's teeth. It was probably not so very bad a word, if the truth were known. Bob was taking no risks on that score. His blow was straight as a bullet; and Carberry went sprawling over two chairs and a table.
"When he picked himself up he was quite cool,—collected and businesslike. That we knew to be his deadly way, and we trembled for Bob. Bob, however, seemed as easy in his mind as Carberry. The two of them, indeed, were so deuced civil you might have thought they were arranging to marry each other's sisters. There was no time lost, you may be sure. Seconds were chosen, terms agreed upon, a doctor sent for, and we promptly made up a little pleasure party to the woods.
"As for the fight, dear lady, I spare your gentle soul the details. It lacked just one element of interest to the connoisseur,—both combatants fought in one fashion. There was no contrast, such as one might have expected between a boy of twenty-three and a veteran of thirty-six. At the very first Carberry had attacked with fury,—but when he felt the quality of Bob's wrist he saw it was not a case for bluster, and settled down to business. Both fought smiling, alike cool, wary, dangerous, sure of the result. Where and when Bob learned it, we none of us knew. He is a queer, reticent chap in some ways. But learned it he had,—and I, who like to study faces, saw the tinge of surprise in Carberry's face pass to admiration. His rage was forgotten in the exhilaration of his favourite game. I never again expect to see two blades so nicely matched. The excitement to us watchers grew intense, till our knees felt weak. But they two seemed as fresh as when they started.
"At last—'a touch!" said Carberry,—and then, by the slight hissing of the words between his teeth I realised the strain.
"'Not at all!' answered Robert,—and his words, too, came hissingly, for all the easy smile upon his lips. Then both grew white. And for a few minutes there was no change. And it seemed to us that our eyes could follow the blades no longer. And then—for the life of me I could not see how it happened—a red stain came on the shoulder of Bob's shirt; and in the next second Carberry, letting his sword fall, dropped in a heap.
"Before we could recover our astonishment, Robert and the doctor together were bending over the wounded man, and had his shirt ripped open. 'I've got it, eh?' said Carberry, faintly. 'A fair, clean thrust, an' served me damn well right!' And he held out his hand to Bob,—who grasped it with both his, and looked now, all of a sudden, like a boy ready to cry.
"'Stuff and nonsense, Captain!' exclaimed the doctor. 'You've not got your quietus withthisbare bodkin. You'll be all right, sound as ever, in a month, a fortnight maybe!'
"'Thank God!' cried Robert.
"'My sentiments exactly!' said Carberry, his voice stronger with the knowledge that he was not dying. 'Gault, my compliments, with my best apologies! Great sword, my boy, great—' and with that he swooned from the pain and loss of blood. And we, very happy that all had ended so happily, got him to the coach, and so home. And the rest, dear Mistress Ladd, you know!"
"A mighty interesting story, I admit!" said Barbara. "But still I ask, of what especial, immediate interest to me?"
Waite looked at her curiously. Was it possible she could be so blind? But her wide eyes were innocent of all comprehension. It suddenly occurred to him that, new come to town as she was, she found it impossible to imaginehername the theme of tongues. He began to understand.
"You know the lady," said he, and paused.
"Well, sir, 'tis possible. I have met many in the few days that I have been in New York. What is her name—since you seem to hold it an important matter."
"Her name, dear lady—her name is one that stirs a thrill of admiring homage in all our hearts. It is—Mistress Barbara Ladd!"
Barbara caught her breath, and her eyes dilated.
"What?" she cried, though she had heard quite clearly.
"Her name is Mistress Barbara Ladd!" repeated Jerry Waite.
"Oh, Mr. Waite. No! No! Don't tell me it was on my account that Robert fought. Impossible! He might have been killed! And I thought—" but she stopped herself in time, without saying what it was she had thought.
Jerry Waite became serious.
"It seems to me, dear lady, that your thought, whatever it was, did Gault an injustice," said he, gently. "And that is my explanation. Am I forgiven?"
Barbara conquered her distress. This was the easier—after the first pang of remorse—because the fact that Robert had not failed her soon overtopped in her mind the fact that she had failed Robert. That unknown woman—the hateful vision vanished in a burst of light. The ache of loss was healed in her heart. She was reinstated, too, in her self-esteem. New York grew bright again. Her conquests were once more worth while. Robert should behold them all,—and be one of them,—the most subjugated of them all. At last her face grew radiant,—her eyes dancing, her teeth flashing, her mouth the reddest rose, her clear brown cheeks softly aflush.
"Yes, indeed, Mr. Waite," she cried, holding out her hand. "It is a beautiful story, and wins you a very high place in my regard. You may stay and talk to me till dinner-time, if you like; and then my uncle will be glad to have you dine with us!"
The first part of the invitation Waite accepted with alacrity, and cursed himself bitterly that he had an engagement to prevent him staying for dinner. In the conversation that followed Barbara gained him and chained him fast, not as a mad, intoxicated lover, but as one of the best and most loyal of her friends. But the moment he was gone she rushed to her scrutoir and in fierce haste scribbled a note. It ran:
"DEAR ROBERT:—I did not understand at all. I thought something quite different from the truth. I have just found out about things. Please come and talk to me till dinner-time, if you like; and then let me tell you how perfectly horrid I think myself.
"BARBARA."
This she sealed with a care that contrasted curiously with the haste with which she had written it. Then she called her maid and sent it around to the stately-doorwayed office on Bowling Green.
The answer that came was merely a bunch of dark red roses, with never a written word; but Barbara found it quite satisfactory. To Robert it would have seemed superfluous to have said he would come. Barbara made her toilet with especial care, selecting everything with a view to making herself look as nearly as possible like the Barbara of the old Second Westings days. As she surveyed herself in the glass, she was astonished at the result. Had she really put the hands of time back five years? As she remembered, she had looked just so on the afternoon when Robert came, and found her in the apple-tree reading "Clarissa." It was three o'clock already,—and Robert had been waiting already half an hour in the drawing-room below,—but she took yet a few minutes more for a finishing touch. She basted up a deep tuck in her petticoat,—about half an inch off for each year blotted from her calendar,—and then, with flaming eyes and mouth wreathed in laughter, she ran down to receive her guest. It was the direct obverse of the meeting she had planned.
"Did you ride over, Robert? Or did you come in the canoe?" she asked, as if she had but that moment jumped down out of the apple-tree.
"Barbara!" he cried, and seized and kissed both hands.
"I was beginning to fear that you had forgotten the way to Second Westings!" she went on, in gay reproach. "Why, it isweekssince you were over; and the young catbirds in the currant bush have grown their wings and flown; and the goldenrod's in flower; and the 'Early Harvests' are beginning to turn red on the old apple-tree over by the gate; and how will you explain your long absence, sir, to Aunt Hitty, and Doctor John, and Doctor Jim, I'd like to know!"
Robert was devouring her with his eyes as she spoke. "Oh, you do indeed look just as you did that day I found you in the apple-tree!" he cried, at last. "So weary long ago,—yet now, sweet lady, it seems but now!"
"Let us play it is but now," laughed Barbara.
"Yes," said Robert,—"butpleasedon't send me right away to Doctor Jim, as you did that morning! I will try not to incur your displeasure. And don't be in such a hurry to get back to 'Clarissa' as you were then!"
So all the afternoon they talked the language and the themes of Second Westings, with the difference that Barbara was all graciousness, instead of her old mixture of acid and sweet. And when Glenowen came in to supper he was admitted to the game, and played it with a relish. And when, after supper, the three went riding, they took what they swore to be the Westings Landing Road,—though certain of the landmarks, as they could not but agree, looked unfamiliar. Almost they persuaded themselves that on their return they might entreat Mistress Mehitable to brew them a sack posset.
It was not till three days later, when Robert was begging more than his share of dances for a ball to be given that night at Government House, that Barbara explained—lightly and laughingly, but in a way that suffered Robert to understand—her quite inadequate reasons for having treated him so cavalierly on the evening after his duel.
For the next few weeks Barbara enjoyed herself without stint, and found New York quite all that she had painted it. To Robert she now vouchsafed sufficient favour to keep him fairly happy and good company,—or, at least, to enable him to make himself good company by an effort of will. Yet she held him on the chilly side of that frontier which separates the lover from the comrade. He was her favoured escort, but not so favoured that other admirers could fancy themselves warned from the field. And he was kept restless, tormented, jealous. He was made to feel—as others were allowed to think—that his primacy in privilege was based solely upon old friendship and familiar memories. But the moment he attempted to crowd aside the new friends,—among whom Cary Patten, Jerry Waite, and young Paget caused him especial worry,—Barbara would seem to forget all their intimacy and relegate him to a position somewhat more remote than that of the merest acquaintance. The utmost that he durst claim at any time was a certain slight precedence in her train of devoted cavaliers. She danced, rode, flirted, with something so near approaching impartiality that she let no moth quite feel itself a fool in scorching its wings at her eyes. Yet no one could presume upon her graciousness; and no one but Cary Patten had the temerity to push his suit to the point where she was put on the defensive. Cary Patten was promptly dismissed. But when he as promptly came back on the very first occasion, she had forgotten the matter, and remembered only how she liked his honest boyishness, his sanguine boldness. Cary, applying one of those general rules which were apt to be so inapplicable in the special case of Barbara, decided that not one, nor indeed a dozen, refusals need reduce him to despair! And Barbara, when afterward she came to think of it, liked Cary Patten the better because he had not sulked over his defeat.
Meanwhile Barbara was exercising a restraint upon one point, which was in flat contradiction to her wonted directness. She was carefully avoiding, in Robert's presence, a discussion of those political questions with which the whole country, from Maine to Georgia, was then seething. This was easier than it would have been even a few weeks before, for the reason that as the differences grew more deadly society grew more cautious about letting them intrude themselves among its smooth observances. Barbara, in fact, had come to fear the inevitable discussion with Robert. She knew he was identified with the Tory party, but she did not know how far. And she feared her own heat of partisanship not less than his resolution—which she called obstinacy. So, by tacit consent, she and Robert gave wide berth to the perilous theme; till at length their avoidance of it, when it was thrilling on the very air they breathed, made it begin to loom all the larger and darker between them. Presently the apprehension that it was an impending peril to their relation drove Robert to speak, precipitately, on the subject that was bursting his heart night and day.
They had just come in from an afternoon ride, and were alone in the drawing-room. Barbara was in high good humour; and Robert seized the moment to ask leave to return that same evening.
"I'm sorry, Robert! I'd love to have you come," she replied. "But I've promised the evening to Cary Patten. He wants to bring his fiddle and try over some new music with me."
Robert's face darkened.
"Cary Patten seems to be here all the time!" he exclaimed, with natural exaggeration.
"What nonsense! You know that's not true, Robert. He's not herehalfas much as you are. But if he were, what of it? He's very good-looking, and Uncle Bob and I both like him, and, indeed, he'smuchmoreentertainingthan you, Robert!"
Robert walked quickly across the room and back, then seized both her slim brown wrists in a grip whose severity she rather liked. She felt that something disturbing was at hand, however, and she braced her wits to manage it.
"Barbara,—my lady,—my lady,—I love you!" he said, very quietly.
"Of course, Robert! I know that," she answered, with composure, smiling up at him, and making no effort to free her wrists. Yet in some way her smile checked him, as he was about to crush her in his arms. His breast ached fiercely so to crush her, yet it was impossible.
"With all my heart and soul, my lady," he went on, his voice on the dead level of intense emotion, "with every drop of blood in my body, I love you, I have loved you, ever since the old child days in Second Westings!"
"That is very dear of you, Robert," she responded, her voice and eyes showing nothing but frank pleasure at his words. "But, of course, I have always known that," which was not quite true, though it seemed true to her at the moment.
He could not tell what there was in this answer to hold him back, or if it was the frankness of her eyes that daunted him, but he began to feel that, so far from clasping her to his heart and satisfying his lips upon her eyes, her hair, her mouth, he had no right even to be holding her wrists as he was. He flung them from him, drew back a step, and searched her face with a desperate look.
"And you—you do not love me at all!"
Barbara looked thoughtful, regretful.
"No, Robert, I don'tloveyou—not in the way you mean. I'm not in love with you, you know. But I do care a lot for you, more than foralmostany one else!"
They had both forgotten—for it was weeks away—how Barbara had felt about the imaginary unknown lady.
That "almost" was, to Robert, the end of all things. He thought at once of Cary Patten. Pain and jealous madness struggled together in his breast, strangling him.
"Good-bye!" he said at last, finding his voice, and turning to the door. "I shall leave to-night!"
"Robert!" cried Barbara, sharply. "Come back at once!"
He paused near the door, half turned, as if compelled by mere civility, but showed no sign of obeying.
"Come back to me!" she commanded. And he, being a courteous gentleman, obeyed.
"What is it, lady?"
"What on earth do you mean by being so crazy?" she demanded.
No answer occurred to him as necessary. He looked at her inquiringly, his face very white, his eyes deep sunken, his lips straight and hard. Barbara began to regret that she had not managed in some other way. She certainly could not let him go. Yet she certainly did not love him enough to give up her freedom for him,—to sacrifice all the enchanting experience of which she had not yet begun to tire, to dismiss all the interesting men, whose homage was so sweet to her young, unsatiated vanity.
"Don't you know, Robert," she went on, beguilingly, "that Icouldn't possiblyget along without you? I don't love you, but I do love you to love me, you know. I couldn't bear to have you go away and forget me, and love some other woman,—some kind, sweet, beautiful woman who could love you and make you happy. I need you to love me. Though I know there is no earthly reason why you should, and I think you are a crazy goose to do it, and I believe you only think you do, anyhow!"
Robert stood motionless. The storm raging up and down within him turned him to steel on the surface. From a dry throat he tried to speak clearly and with moderation.
"You said—'almost!' Who is it—you care more for?—Cary Patten?"
Barbara broke into a clear peal of laughter, and clapped her hands with a fine assumption of glee.
"Oh, you silly, silly child!" she exclaimed. "It was Uncle Bob, of course, that I was thinking of when I said that. I love Uncle Bob better than any one else in the world,—farbetter than I love you, Robert, I can tell you that. But I care for you almost as much as for Aunt Hitty. Cary Patten! Why, he and these other nice men who are making things so pleasant for me, they are justnewfriends. Ilikethem, that's all. You are altogether different, you know. But I'm just not in love with you,—and so you talk of going away and spoiling everything for me. I don't call that loving me, Robert,—not asIwould love a girl if I were a man. But it's not my fault if I'm not in love myself, is it? I'm sorry,—but I don't believe Icanlove, really, the way you mean! Cary Patten, indeed! Why, he's just a boy,—a nice, good-looking, saucy, conceited boy!"
"Can't you try to love me, Barbara?" pleaded Robert, his wrath all gone. He flung himself down at her feet, and wildly kissed them. All this she permitted smilingly, but the request seemed to her, as it was, a very foolish one.
"No, I can't!" she answered, with decision. "Trying wouldn't make me. And I don't think I want to, anyhow. I want to enjoy myself here while I can. And I want you to be nice, and help me enjoy myself, and not bother me. Love me just as much as you like, Robert, but don't tell me so—too often! And don't ask me to love you. Anddon'tgo and be lovely to the other girls, and make believe you are not in love with me, for that would displease me very much, though I should know it was making believe because you were cross at me. So, don't be horrid!"
This seemed to Robert a somewhat one-sided arrangement. He knew he would accept it, yet his honesty compelled him to express his sense of its injustice.
"I certainly would be lovely to the other girls if I wanted to, my lady," said he, doggedly. "The trouble is, Idon'twant to. And I sha'n't bore myself just for the sake of trying to make you think I don't care. I love you, that's all—better than anything else in heaven or earth. And I shall make you love me, my lady!"
This threat amused Barbara, but did not displease her.
"Very well, Robert," she answered, with a teasing, alluring look that made his heart jump. "I sha'n't try to prevent you. I'll even like you a little better now, at once, if you will go right away this minute and let me dress."
"Dress for Cary Patten!" muttered Robert, kissing her hand without enthusiasm, and retiring with sombre brow. That he should go in this temper did not please her ladyship at all.
"And, Robert!" she cried, when he had just reached the door.
"Yes, my lady!" and he came back once more.
"You said good-bye as if you were still in a nasty, black temper!" She held out her hand to him again. This time he kissed it with what she considered a more fitting warmth.
"And, Robert, don't forget that I amvery, verygood to you, far more so than you deserve. I don't think of telling Cary Patten, or any of the others, not to flirt with the other girls. Cary Patten may be as lovely to them as he likes, and I sha'n't mind one bit, so long as it does not interfere with his being as attentive as he ought to be to me! Now, it is a great honour I do you, Robert, in not letting you flirt."
"I appreciate it, my lady," he answered, permitting himself to smile. "A great honour, indeed,—though a superfluous one!"
"I have no objection to that word, 'superfluous,' in that connection," said Barbara, thoughtfully, to herself, as Robert disappeared.
After this Robert was careful, and so was permitted to be fairly happy when he could keep the fires of jealousy banked down in his heart. Once in awhile they would begin to get the better of him; and then, after letting Barbara see just a glimpse of the flame, that she might not forget it was there, he would leave before she could find him troublesome and work it under by hours of furious riding. He skilfully avoided giving her any further excuse for discipline; and was even so cunning, at times, as to pique her by his show of self-control. In this way he scored continually over the too confident Cary Patten, who, after a week or two of almost daily calls at the old Dutch house on State Street, would disappear and not be seen near Barbara for days. At such times Robert concluded that Cary had been tempting Providence and suffering the usual disaster of those who so presume. As for Jerry Waite, and young Paget, and the rest of the infatuated train, Robert thought that Barbara was quite too infernally nice to them all, and cursed them all hotly in his heart; but he could not refrain from admiring the neat manner in which she held them all in hand.
Early in the autumn, however, it became still more difficult for Barbara and Robert to keep silent on the great questions which they so dreaded to discuss. The First Continental Congress was in session at Philadelphia, and its deliberations formed a theme to blister men's tongues. Made up of Tories, Radical Patriots or potential rebels, and Moderates, in fairly even proportion, it satisfied neither Barbara nor Robert. The latter, in spite of the fact that its New York delegates were of his own party, viewed it with singularly clear eyes, and saw in it not merely an instrument for the constitutional redress of just grievances,—wherein it had his sympathy,—but a forerunner of revolt,—wherein it called forth his passionate reprobation. To Barbara, on the other hand, this Continental Congress, of which she had hoped so much, seemed a mean-spirited, paltering, blear-eyed thing, incapable of seeing what destiny had written large across the continent, or too timorous to acknowledge what it saw. The strain was further increased by matters which touched them both personally. With the news that Connecticut, stirred up by false rumours of a struggle with the royal troops in Boston, had thousands of her militia under arms, came a letter from Mistress Mehitable, saying that Doctor John was among them, in command of a regiment, and that Doctor Jim was looking after his patients. At this tidings Barbara's heart swelled with mingled pride and anxiety. She pictured the heroic figure Doctor John would make, in his uniform, about to fight for the cause which she held so splendid and so righteous. At the same time she saw him already in the fight, waving his sword amid the smoke and slaughter, and she shook with terror for him. Both Robert and Glenowen were with her when the letter came, and as she read it out her voice broke and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
"Good for John Pigeon!" cried Glenowen, his eyes aglow.
Then there was a heavy stillness on the air, such as that which sometimes portends an earthquake, and neither looked at Robert. Robert's face was very grave, but inspiration came to him, and he said exactly the right thing.
"How lonely Doctor Jim and Mistress Mehitable must be! Second Westings must be perfectly desolate!"
The danger was averted. He had dwelt, not upon the point of difference, but the point of sympathy; and the difference sank again out of sight.
"Oh," murmured Barbara, "I almost feel as if I ought to go back to Aunt Hitty!"
"I know! But you can't, very well, sweetheart! For which I am most thankful!" said Glenowen, promptly.
"And Mistress Mehitable has Doctor Jim," said Robert. "We need you more than she does, dearest lady!"
With all the country seething as it was, nowhere else, perhaps, save in New York, would it have been possible to keep up so long the pretence of harmony between opposing factions. New York was full of "Moderates," men no less determined to resist the tyranny of Parliament than to retain the supremacy of the Crown. Extremes were thus held in check; and men met in apparent social harmony whose opinions, once put in practice, would have hurled them at one another's throats. But to the little company resorting at the old Dutch house on State Street there entered now a new element of disruption.
At a dance Barbara had met a slender, dark youth, a student at King's College, who had made himself prominent by his radical eloquence at a great mass-meeting of the Continental party. His scholarly breadth of thought, combined with almost fanatical zeal, delighted her. And he had the uncommon merit of expressing unforgettably the very views she herself had long maintained. They became too interested in conversation to dance; and from that evening Mr. Alexander Hamilton came often to Glenowen's lodgings. He was a mere boy in years, but Glenowen felt his power at once,—and even Robert, who was not unnaturally prejudiced, was too honest not to admit that Barbara's young Mr. Hamilton was a very remarkable and accomplished youth.
Understanding the sharp divergence of opinion in the little circle, Hamilton kept a curb upon his tongue save at convenient seasons. But to his eager and convicted spirit this soon became too difficult. One evening, when there were none to hear him but Barbara, Robert, and Glenowen, the torrent of his boyish ardour overflowed. He depicted the momentous changes toward which each fateful hour was hurrying them. He declared it was no more than a matter of days ere all America would be in the throes of a righteous revolution. He prophesied the birth of a great republic, that should establish Liberty in her New World home, and scourge kings, thrones, and tyrannies into the sea. Glenowen had looked at him warningly, but in vain. Barbara, troubled at first, grew suddenly hot and resentful at the thought that Robert should be blind to the splendid dream. She applauded aggressively.
Robert's brows were knit, but he had no emotion save distress.
"I pray you pardon me, dear lady, and you, Mr. Glenowen, if I take my departure at once," said he, at the first pause. "Knowing my sentiments as you both do, fully, you will understand that I could not in honour stay and listen to such doctrines as these of Mr. Hamilton's and not oppose them with all my force."
He bent over Barbara's hand, but she petulantly snatched it away without letting him kiss it. Then, having shaken hands heartily with Glenowen, and bowed stiffly to Hamilton, he withdrew in great trouble of mind, feeling that now, in truth, had come to an end the truce between his honour and his love. He walked the streets half the night, and in the morning, white and dejected, but determined to know the worst at once, he went around to State Street at the earliest moment permissible after breakfast. Barbara received him coldly. But he made haste to face the issue.
"Surely, dearest lady, you see that I had no alternative but to go!" he pleaded. "I could not quarrel with him, seeing that he was your guest. Yet I could not sit and listen to his treason!"
"I think the same treason as he uttered, if treason it be! And utter it, too, when I see fit!" said Barbara.
"That's different!" said Robert, and paused.
It was on Barbara's lips to ask, "How?—Why?" but she refrained, lest she should complicate the discussion.
"That's different," he repeated, "because you are a woman, and because I love you. But indeed, my lady, I intended no discourtesy to Mr. Hamilton. If discourtesy there were, surely it was his. I would not have attacked what he holds sacred. Yet my sentiments are not less well known than his. He knew that I was pledged to the king's side."
Barbara bit her lips hard. This was just what she had taken such pains not to know. Her heart was bitter enough against him for his views themselves; it was still more bitter against him now for forcing her to confess knowledge of those views.
"A little discourtesy, one way or the other, what would that matter?" she asked, scornfully. "There's just one thing that matters to me now, Robert. War is coming. Have you chosen your side?"
"My side has chosen me, dear lady!" he answered, sorrowfully.
"Listen, Robert," she went on, "I have tried not to know that you hold opinions which I hate, and loathe, and despise. It means everything to me, when I say I love my country and hate the enemies of my country. I believe in patriotism."
"And I believe, also, in honour and loyalty, oh, my dearest lady!"
"Your own stupid ideas of honour and loyalty!" cried Barbara, with fierce impatience. "I tell you, Robert, the enemy of my country cannot be my friend."
"But if I am the enemy of your country, so is Doctor Jim!" protested Robert.
Barbara flushed with annoyance. She did not like an unanswerable argument.
"I love Doctor Jim!" she shot back at him, with cruel implication.
"And I love you, Barbara!" answered Robert, also with meaning. She tossed her head scornfully.
"A fig for such love!" she cried. "Years ago, when you were just a boy, and could not have your opinions fixed" ("About the age of your Mr. Hamilton!" he interjected, rashly), "I remember asking you, for my sake, to teach yourself the right things, Robert, and join our side, and be faithful to your own country. What do you do? It's not as if it were a mere difference of opinion,—butIamright! I am with all the great and wise of old, who have taught that patriotism is a man's highest duty. Yet what have you done, Robert? You vow you love me! Indeed! And you prefer a stupid, far-off, half-crazy tyrant, whom you call your king, and whom you have never seen, to your country, which has borne and cherished you—and to me!"
"Oh, Barbara!" cried Robert, desperately. "What are king or country, what are heaven and earth, to me, compared with you? But what would my love be worth to you if, for the sake of my own happiness, I could be a rebel and a traitor? Should I be worthy to love you, despising myself? What would you think of me, if I could sell my honour at your bidding!"
"I think our ideas of honour are different, Robert!" retorted Barbara. "But I am not going to quarrel with you now. I am disappointed in you, that's all. And you need not expect that after this we are going to be such friends as we have been. Remember that. But—you may come and see us sometimes, of course; and I will dance with you sometimes, of course—if you ask me! Only—it is all so different!" and she could not choke down a little weary sigh.
Robert was on his knees in an instant, kissing her hands; but she repulsed him resolutely.
"No, you have chosen for yourself," she said, not unkindly. "It hurts me, truly. But I mean what I say! Now, you must go, for I have much to do before dinner. Good-bye!"
Barbara was as good as her word. From this time forward through that portentous fall and disastrous winter, she never let Robert forget that the old footing of familiar friendship was no longer his. She began to make a difference, too,—slight but appreciable,—toward all the declared Tories among her followers. She was bound to show some consistency toward Robert. And moreover, her fiery and dissatisfied heart was growing restless for the breach that all saw coming but all strove to postpone. Oh, she thought, let the cruel line be drawn,—let the make-believe end,—let us know our friends and enemies apart,—let the suspense be done, be done! And—let me get back home to Second Westings!
Meanwhile the half-mad king went on fashioning the hooks that were to rend the race in twain,—and an insensate Parliament lent power to his fatal hands,—and men like Chatham and Burke, Shelburne and Rockingham, poured out impassioned eloquence in vain, pleading for justice to the colonies. By mid-winter (the winter of 1775) it was plain to every one that the king meant war, if that were the only way to bring the colonies to their knees. Ten thousand troops were ordered to Boston, and plans were laid for organising the Indians on the frontiers. In the colonies, though few dared say it, all were making ready for the struggle. On every hand there was drilling of militia and gathering of the munitions of war. Only in New York, as it seemed, things moved as usual, and the royal government remained in full force. As a matter of fact, there were practically two governments going on side by side; for the various "committees of safety" went about their ominous preparations, and the governor well knew it would be unsafe to interfere. The air became so tense with impending storm that people seemed to hold their breath, and when they met their eyes questioned, "Has it come?"
Then it came! And those who had longest and most preparedly waited were most shocked. The bolt that fell was the news of Lexington and Concord, of the king's troops,—disciplined, war-toughened, the bravest in the world,—driven in wild rout before the sharp-shooting colonial farmers. For five days of amazement men waited, expecting the bloody vengeance that would come. But, instead of vengeance, came the word that Boston was beleaguered, that Gage with his veteran regiments was shut up tight in the city by ill-armed and unorganised countryside militia. Straightway men drew breath again; and the undecided chose their side; and masks were thrown away. Even New York, the prudent, the divided, the long politic, proclaimed herself at last, threw off the last empty forms of royal authority, and seized all military supplies within her borders.
The glittering life, which had been to Barbara so gay an intoxication all these months, now burst like a bubble, leaving her to realise how hollow it had been. She had no regret for it, save as a help to forgetting regrets. She was dissatisfied, and wanted Second Westings. When, therefore, her uncle came to her, a few days after the news of Bunker Hill, with word that he had accepted a commission under General Washington, the newly appointed commander-in-chief of the Continental forces, she was not greatly surprised or shocked. She had known all along that Glenowen would be at the front. She had faced all the fear of it, and taught herself to think only of the honour. Now, she turned very pale, tried to smile encouragement, but sobbed instead, ran to him and held him and kissed him.
"Of course, Uncle Bob! You must, I know. I will be brave about it, I promise I will, and not worry you with any silliness!" she murmured at last, finding her voice. "I wishIwere a man, so I could go with you!"
"And a fiery little fighter you would make, sweetheart!" said Glenowen, cheerfully. "But the immediate point is, since you can't go a-soldiering with your old uncle, what shall we do with you? I leave within a week for the general's headquarters at Cambridge."
"You will take me with you, and leave me at Second Westings, Uncle Bob, with Aunt Hitty and Doctor Jim to keep me cheered up while you are fighting!"
"That's the best plan, decidedly, Barbe, for more reasons than one," he answered, suddenly grave. "But I don't think you can depend on Doctor Jim for very long!"
"Why, where is he going?" queried Barbara, anxiously.
"Well, you know, he'llchooseto go wherever the Royalist volunteers may be organising their forces; but if he did not choose, he'd probably have no choice. Our Connecticut folk left many dead on Breed's Hill, dear, and the Royalists are beginning to find their homes too hot for them. I'm afraid Doctor Jim will be in peril of rough handling, with his hot temper and his fearless tongue!"
"No one in Second Westings woulddareto be rude to Doctor Jim!" cried Barbara, indignantly.
"You don't know what they will do, sweetheart, when they are stirred out of their accustomed frame of mind. Besides, even if the Second Westings lads should be mindful of their manners, there are the rougher sort from the neighbouring villages to be thought of.Theyowe no allegiance to a Pigeon, or a Ladd either! It may be you will find yourself a very necessary shield to Mistress Mehitable, even!"
"I should like to see them try to interfere with Aunt Hitty!" flamed Barbara, setting her white teeth and flushing. "I'd shoot them, if theyarepatriots!"
Glenowen nodded approval, but counselled caution.
"You may need to be firm, girlie, but you'll need to be careful and tactful too, or you may find yourself fighting on the wrong side!" he laughed.
"Do you really mean to say that our people are beginning to attack the Tories, just because they think they ought to stick to old King George?" queried Barbara, her thought turning to Robert, whom she had not seen or heard of for more than a week.
"That's inevitable," said Glenowen. "If we are to fight England, we fight the Tories,—and the Tories with the more bitterness because we feel that they ought to be with us. I've heard ugly talk already of tar and feathers for some of our important men here. And they have heard it themselves, and found that business called them urgently elsewhere! Other of our Tory friends are getting up volunteer companies,—a sort of counterblast to our militia battalions. I hear talk, too, of forcibly disarming all our Tories,—especially on Long Island, where they are as thick as hornets!"
"I suppose that's what Robert is doing—getting up a company to fight against us! We've not seen him for a week!" said Barbara, with a bitterness which her affected indifference failed to disguise.
"Exactly that! He is one of our most dangerous antagonists here!" answered Glenowen, sadly. "He would have been seized days ago, to prevent him doing more mischief; but he's so liked, and respected for his fairness, by all of our party, that no one cares to take the necessary action. He's the sort of man we want on our side!"
"He's as pig-headed as King George himself!" cried Barbara, hotly.
"No, he's true to his colours!" said Glenowen. "Only he can't see that he has nailed them to the mast of the wrong ship!"
"I have no patience with him!" muttered Barbara, bitterly, after a moment's silence.
"Did you ever have, dearie?" inquired Glenowen.
"What do you mean, Uncle Bob?"
"Forgive me, Barbe, if I speak plainly, these being times for plain speaking!" said Glenowen. "Truly, I can't understand a man who loves you being other than wax in your hands, you witch,—if you took the trouble to manage him. That may sound cynical, but I hope not. It's true. You owe Robert to our cause! We want him!"
Barbara looked down, her face scarlet and her lips quivering. Then she faced her uncle bravely.
"I begin to fear I want him for myself, as much as for the cause, Uncle Bob!" she confessed.
"It's not Cary Patten, then?" asked Glenowen.
Barbara smiled enigmatically. "Cary Patten is extremely charming!" she answered. "But do you know, Uncle Bob, if Robert is still in town?"
"I think," said Glenowen, "I can say with confidence that he will get away from the city to-morrow or next day,—-for friends who love him, in our party, will let him know the danger of remaining! One must make such compromises sometimes, if one is a red-blooded human being and not a bloodless saint!"
"Uncle Bob, I'm afraid you will never be a Lucius Junius Brutus!" said Barbara.
"No, thank God!" cried Glenowen, with conviction.
"I'm so glad!" said Barbara, who was very human when she was not all woman. "Brutus was right, I think! But I've always hated him!"
Then she turned to her scrutoir and wrote a cool little note to Robert, asking him to come in and speak to her a moment the next morning.
At an hour almost unseemly Robert came, of course. And Barbara was gracious to him. As if there had been no estrangement, she talked frankly of Second Westings matters,—of Doctor John's service in the siege of Boston, of Doctor Jim's danger because of his opinions, of Mistress Mehitable's need of her presence at Westings House,—just as if they were Robert's concern as well as hers. The gladness came back to Robert's dark face, and for a moment he was forgetting the barrier between them.
"And what are you doing, Robert? Is it not becoming a little dangerous for you in New York now?" she asked, with gentle frankness.
"I am going away to-morrow, dearest lady," he answered, "lest your fiery Continentals tie me up!"
"And I go back to Second Westings next week! And you were going away without seeing me for good-bye?" asked Barbara, reproachfully. "Is this the Robert that used to say he loved me a little?"
Robert looked at her in silence. "I adore the very ground that your foot treads upon!" he said, presently, in a quiet voice.
"You love me just as much as you used to?" she inquired, almost wistfully.
"As much!" he exclaimed, with scorn. "More and more, every day I breathe. These months that you have treated me so cruelly have been hell on earth. I don't see how I have lived through them."
"I, too, have not been very happy, Robert!" she acknowledged, softly. "I believe I have needed you more than I thought. Do you know, I almost think I might learn to care a great deal—perhaps all that a woman can—if only, ifonly, dear Robert, there were not this dreadful barrier between us? Oh, if you knew how I long to have you in sympathy with the cause that all my heart is given to,—to talk it all over with you, to hope and plan and look forward with you, in comradeship and understanding! If you knew—but there, I see by your obstinate mouth it is no use. I might as well pour out my heart against a stone wall.Nothingwill soften you!Nothingwill convince you! Love me?Youlove me? You have no heart at all in your breast! Nothing but a priggish theory!"
She burst into passionate, disappointed tears, flung herself down on the sofa, and buried her face in the cushions.
Robert was in an anguish. His mouth was drawn and white. Why shouldhebe called upon to face so hideous an alternative? Why musthepay so appalling a price for loyalty, for fidelity, for honour? What was this bourgeois tyrant in England, that the price of loyalty to him should be the love of the woman who was dearer than heaven? Robert felt a fierce hatred of the man George of England, who was so unworthy of his kingship! He was mad to throw himself at Barbara's feet, and tell her all his life was hers to do as she would with, to offer his faith, loyalty, honour, a living sacrifice to her love, and bid her send him to fight under whatever flag she called hers! But—he held the madness in leash. The tough fibre of his will gave a little, but would not break. The drops stood out on his forehead. But all he said was:
"Beloved, beloved, I worship you. You are all I can dream of womanhood. You are all of life, all of love, all of wonder and beauty that the world can show. There is nothing my soul can ever desire but you, you, you, wonderful one!" And he tried to take her hands from under her wet face.
Through her sobs, Barbara had listened eagerly for one word that might show a yielding. But there was no such word,—no sign that he even realised that she had been offering her love as the incalculable price that should purchase him to the service of his country. This infinitely precious price,—he spurned it, then! Angry mortification surged over her, mixed with a pain that clutched at her heart. The humiliation of it—and the loss! She sat up suddenly.
"Go, go, go!" she cried, pointing to the door. "I don't want to ever see you again. I hate you. I hate you. Go—atonce!"
And then, as Robert made no move, and strove to plead once more, she sprang to her feet, darted from the room, and fled up-stairs. He heard her door close sharply,—like the cutting off of life, it seemed to him. And he went away, walking rather blindly, and fumbling for some moments at the hall door before he could find the latch. That same evening he left New York.
It was hours before Barbara was herself again, so Glenowen had to dine alone. Late in the afternoon, after having bathed her face back to presentability, she dressed to go out for a sharp walk. When her toilet was almost complete, word came up that Cary Patten was in the drawing-room.
Now it was at least six weeks since Cary had last attempted to make love to her, and in the meantime he had been altogether charming,—attentive, deferential, full of enthusiastic ambition, and vastly interesting in his large forecasts of what the thirteen colonies would do with independence when they got it. Barbara, therefore, had practically forgotten that he was ever in disgrace, and was unwilling to refuse him admittance, little though it suited her mood to see him. She went down at once and received him cordially.
Cary was in a mood of triumphant excitement, dashed with romantic melancholy. He looked even straighter, taller, more broad-shouldered and high-mettled than usual. His goldy-brown short hair had a crisper curl, his candid blue eyes sparkled with joy and importance.
"Oh, I know! You needn't tell me!" cried Barbara, with hearty sympathy. "Only one thing in the world could make your face shine as it does now, Cary! You are ordered to the front!"
"You've guessed it, sweet mistress!" he cried, in a voice whose boyish exultation would not be kept down. "My company is one of those chosen by the Committee of Safety to go north. We marchto-morrow! In a few days we will be in the field—we shall be in the thick of it!"
"Oh, you are so fortunate, Cary!" responded Barbara. "Think what it must be to be just a woman, and have to stay at home gnawing one's heart, while others have the glorious joy of fighting for freedom!"
"Only one thing I need to make me happy as I go, sweet lady!" said he, his voice tender, passionate, caressing. "It is bitter to leave you. But I should go thrilling with happiness, to win fame that would make you proud, or to die willingly for my country,—if I might go wearing your favour, if I might go as—" but here he paused. Barbara's face was cold and discouraging.
There was a moment of strained silence. Barbara felt a harsh resentment at his persistence, and an added anger that it should be thrust upon her on this day when her heart was so bitter sore. "Yet," she was arguing with herself, "the poor boy does love me. And, unlike some others, he is going to fight on the right side, to shed his blood, perhaps, for the land of his birth. Why should I not be a little kind to him,—if he does not ask too much!" On a sudden generous and pitying, if misleading, impulse, she took a ribbon from her throat and gave it to him.
"There, boy," she said, gently, "take that, and don't ever say I was not good to you! May it be a charm to ward off the bullet and the steel!"
A glad light flashed into the lad's face. He went down on one knee and kissed the hem of her skirt, crying something inarticulately. Then he sprang up and seized her in his arms, and would have kissed her but that she wrenched herself free with some violence.
"How dare you!" she cried, stamping her foot.
Cary looked crestfallen and bewildered.
"But, Barbara," he protested, blundering in his confusion, "don't you love me? I thought—why—this dear ribbon—" and he held it out to her appealingly.
Barbara's anger faded on the instant. She saw that in desiring to be kind she had misled him. She held out her hand to him, and smiled, as she said:
"Oh, truly, I'm sorry if I seemed rude, Cary. Forgive me. But, you know, Ihadto be rather hasty, or you would have kissed me. And I couldn't let you kiss me, Cary, even though you are going to the war!"
"Why not, dear heart?" persisted he. "Am I not going as your chosen cavalier? Have you not given me your favour?"
"Why, no—at least, not exactly that—" she stammered. "I thought youknew, Cary, that I don't love you one bit! I've told you so over and over again; and I've sent you away over and over again for bothering me about it when I had told you not to! But I do like you, ever so much. And I shall think of you, away fighting bravely—as I know you will—for our sacred cause. And so, I gave you the ribbon—because—because—you said it would make you a little happier if you had something of the sort to take with you! Oh, please do try to understand, Cary!" And she twisted her hands in distress.
Cary Patten was too much of a boy not to show all the bitterness of his overthrow. He had been lifted up to the crest of triumph, and hurled down disastrously. He had believed, when Barbara gave him her token, that the victory, which his confident spirit had never doubted would be his at last, had come at this high moment of his career. He was not only desperately hurt, but sorely humbled. His mind worked rapidly, seeking explanations. One passion after another chased itself over his transparent face; till at length Barbara saw his features grow harder and more mature than she had ever before seen them, and the poor little ribbon was crumpled ruthlessly in his grip.
"I understand!" he exclaimed, fiercely, a strident tone in his voice which was quite new to her. "It is that runaway Tory hound, that traitor Gault, that—" and here he choked. "If he has not already run away I shall settle the scoundrel to-night. I shall—"
"Silence, sir!" cut in Barbara. The tone, the look in her face, brought the mad boy to his senses like a drenching in cold water. He could have bitten off his tongue for the outburst.
"Mr. Gaultwasmy friend, and his name is entitled to respect in my presence!" she went on. "And heisagentleman! Of you I should have said the same thing—a few moments ago! Give me back my ribbon—what you have left of it, Mr. Patten!"
"Oh, no! no! Forgive me!" Cary was crying, in abject penitence, even while she spoke, at the same time thrusting the ribbon into his breast, as if he feared that Barbara would take it by force. "I was crazy mad, dear heart. I didn't know what I was saying. I take it all back. It was not so. I know he is a gentleman and a brave man, if heisa traitor Tory. Surely you will forgive me, when you have broken my heart—Barbara."
While he was speaking Barbara had moved away to the other side of the table; but now, so dejected did he look, so humble, so repentant, and withal so wholesomely boyish, that her heart softened once more, and she came back.
"Yes, Cary, I will overlook it, and make allowance, because I see you are sorry. And I am still truly your friend, and will think about you when you are away. And I am sorry I did anything to make you misunderstand me, so youmustgive me back the poor little ribbon that did the mischief."
"No, you surely can't be so cruel as that!" he pleaded. "I feel it would be unlucky to give it back. Don't kill me, dear. Let me keep the dear ribbon!"
Barbara hesitated. She wanted the ribbon back. The giving had been spoiled for her. Her impulse was to insist. But events of late had softened her, had given her more comprehension of feelings other than her own,—had made her, indeed, a little less self-centred. She crushed down her vexation.
"Well, keep it then, Cary,—and my friendship with it," she said, gravely. "And to the blessing with which I blessed it for you, I add many more,—that fame may come your way, and danger turn aside. Good-bye!"