Barbara felt as if a strange great wind had blown upon New York, scattering and changing everything. Robert was gone,—when she was seeing little of him, and not desiring to see more, she had, nevertheless, had a satisfaction in knowing he was within reach. Now Cary Patten was gone, and Jerry Waite was gone, and young Paget was gone, and the student enthusiast, young Mr. Hamilton, came no more to the old Dutch house on State Street, being engrossed in matters of secrecy and import. And now she herself and Uncle Bob were going. She felt as if that separating wind would inexorably have lifted and borne her somewhere, even if the haven of Second Westings had not been open. Fate drove indifferently, but left her free to shape her course for Westings House and Aunt Hitty, and her own apple-tree down in the back garden.
A few days later she was at home. Glenowen, resting but an hour or two, had hastened on to his duties. Everything seemed to Barbara just as when she went away, save that Doctor Jim was graver than of old, seeming weighed down with care; and Doctor John's absence left a void that ached all the time. But her little room was just as she had left it,—fresh dusted, and with a few things lying about out of place, as she loved to have it. The dust upon the coverlet where "Mr. Grim" slept was there as of old. "He did not, in fact, sleep there once during all your absence, dear," declared Mistress Mehitable, "till the very night before your return, when he forsook me and stalked back to his old place. Then I knew that you'd be here the next day, and we were very happy together; and I gave him clear cream for his breakfast, and made him very sick!"
Within three days the old life had taken Barbara back at every point, and she felt as if she had awakened from a brilliant but oppressive dream. Of course it was interesting telling it all—or not quite all—to every one; to every one the truth, yet not to each the same story. There was one emphasis for Aunt Hitty and Doctor Jim, one for the Reverend Jonathan Sawyer, one for Mercy Chapman, and one much more vivid and enlightening for old Debby. But even as she told it, it began to seem unreal to herself. And soon she grew unwilling to talk of it at all.
As the bright Connecticut summer slipped by, Barbara could not but notice a change of temper among the villagers of Second Westings. To herself they were as civil, as deferential as ever, but, she thought, with a little difference. Half a dozen families had representatives in the army besieging Boston, and two of the village homes were in mourning. When she was walking with Doctor Jim she noticed the sullenness with which his hearty, kindly greetings were returned,—a sullenness which Doctor Jim never allowed himself to observe. Then there was difficulty in getting extra help when special needs arose at Westings House. The people were unwilling to work for Mistress Mehitable. They positively refused to work with Amos, who had to give up his innocently convivial evenings at the tavern and remain sulking in the kitchen, abused and scorned by Abby because he was always in her way. In September, when Congress despatched the army of the north to conquer Canada, seven more men went from Second Westings, and enthusiasm grew. With news of the capture of Montreal came word also that two of the Second Westings men had fallen in the battle. Then feelings grew hot.
One morning, when Barbara was visiting Mercy Chapman's mother,—now a bedridden invalid,—she looked out of the window and saw Mistress Mehitable coming down the street. As she passed his office, she was joined by Doctor Jim, and the two strolled together toward Squire Gillig's store. Suddenly she saw Doctor Jim leave Mistress Mehitable's side, and stride angrily toward the tavern. She ran out at once to see what was the matter. What she saw set her speeding after Doctor Jim in breathless indignation.
Amos, his arms tied behind him, was struggling and kicking in the hands of a dozen men and youths, several of whom had bloody noses to prove that Amos had stood to his colours. Now they were hurrying him to the cooper shop.—where they knew there was a barrel of pitch,—amid cries of "Ride the sneaking Tory on a rail," "Tar and feather him," "Duck him," "Hang him." All at once they were confronted by the tall bulk of Doctor Jim; and they stopped short. The old habit of deference was strong upon them, and several drew away, while others, though they doggedly maintained their grip on the furious and unterrified Amos, dropped their eyes and hung their heads when Doctor Jim's angry gaze fell upon them.
"Hands off! Drop that man! You cowardly bullies, a dozen against one! Drop him, do you hear?" And without waiting for the effect of his words he strode into the mob, flung the fringes of it to this side and that with no gentle hand, and reached those who had actual hold upon the prisoner.
When he found that they were standing their ground, daring to disobey his orders, his wrath was tremendous.
"You scoundrels! You dirty scum of the earth!" he roared. And with that he plucked the nearest fellow by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his breeches and flung him into the gutter. To the next he gave an open-handed buffet that sent him reeling from the mêlée. Ignoring the rest, he was proceeding to unpinion Amos, when the leader of the mob, a big blacksmith from Westings Centre, who was a famous demagogue, confronted him.
"Look a-here, Doctor Pigeon," he said, defiantly, "we're lettin'yoube, leastways for the present! You let us be, an' jest mind yer own business. Hands off yerself!"
Doctor Jim, apparently, never heard him.
The blacksmith therefore seized Amos by the waist and jerked him from Doctor Jim's grasp.
"Look a-here, you!" he shouted, squaring off. "You've got to fight me afore you untie that man!"
Fight him! Doctor Jim gave an inarticulate roar of scorn and fury at the idea. Then his great white hands shot out like lightning. One seized the champion's throat; the other laid terrible hold upon his waistband, with just so much of clothing and skin and flesh as those iron fingers could compass. One huge, dislocating shake and the champion had no more fight in him. Doctor Jim lifted his demoralised opponent bodily, carried him several paces, and dropped him over the horse trough into the dirty, deep-trodden mud. Then, seeing that Amos had got himself free, he strode back to where Mistress Mehitable was waiting, his heavy eyebrows still working with indignation.
Barbara, whom he had not seen, now had a word to say to the discomfited rabble, who one and all knew her views and admired her prodigiously. She eyed them for half a minute with slow, eviscerating scorn. Then she said: "Youcall yourselves patriots! You make me ashamed of the name. If all Americans were like you they'd deserve freedom, wouldn't they? And what is that ruffian doing here?" pointing to the bedraggled, discredited, foaming blacksmith. "Must you go to Westings Centre for a leader? You had better send him back where he belongs!"
"You'd better shet your mouth, miss," sputtered the champion, "or you may git—" but at this moment the men of Second Westings, recovering their manhood, fell upon him with great unanimity and completed the discipline which Doctor Jim had left unfinished. And Barbara walked away with her head in the air.
After this Mistress Mehitable, who was herself, and for herself, absolutely fearless behind her quiet blue eyes, yielded to Doctor Jim's persuasions and let it be known that Barbara, being her heir, was partly in authority at Westings House. Whenever extra help was needed, therefore, Amos was sent down to Doctor Jim's and Barbara hired her helpers in her own name. To her employ the Second Westings men came willingly enough, and showed themselves humourously tolerant of Abby's caustic tongue, which was given full run whenever they entered the kitchen. And the village settled back gradually into a hollow imitation of its ancient somnolence.
In the winter, however, not long after Christmas, there was another stirring of the hot embers. Word came of Montgomery's death and Arnold's repulse before the walls of Quebec. There were men of Connecticut among those who fell that night in the northern snow. Those at home required an outlet for their feelings. What were the Tories for, if not to afford them a chance of evening matters up? A rabble of the worser elements from the up-river villages, led by some noisy fanatics, descended upon Gault House by night, and set it on fire.
Finding old Lady Gault ill in bed, they somewhat regretted their haste, and carried her, bed and all, with as much of her clothing as they could conveniently save, to the house of one of the tenants on the grounds. The leaders apologised to her, indeed, assuring her that, had they known it would so inconvenience her to have her house burnt down just then, they would have turned their avenging attention elsewhere for that night and awaited her recovery. The fiery and arrogant old lady was so overwhelmed with helpless rage, less at the destruction of the home of the Gaults with all its treasures than at the desecration she had suffered, that she was seized next morning with an apoplexy and died in an hour.
This news brought consternation to Westings House. Doctor Jim came up to talk it over. He was too much enraged to find relief in one of his customary large ebullitions. It reduced him to a black silence, which Barbara found much more impressive than his wrath.
"I feel that you ought to go away, Jim," said Mistress Mehitable, with a tenderness that made Barbara eye them both sharply, and think of Doctor John. "These townships are no place for a reckless partisan like you!"
"There is just one reason why you might urge me to go, sweet mistress!" said he. "Lest I be prisoned here, and so lose the chance to fight for the king! But my place is here till John comes back. You and Barbara cannot be left alone. And the sick folks,—I cannot desert them. But when John comes—"
"If it be not then too late! Oh, think, Jim! Every hour now that you stay here carries the menace of some ignominious violence! How can I stand it?"
"My place is here, at present, most dear lady!" answered Doctor Jim, with a positiveness that left no room for argument. "But I think the men of Second Westings would not quite fail Jim Pigeon, even though they do curse him behind his back for a Tory!"
The destruction of Gault House and the death of Lady Gault filled Barbara's heart with pity and tenderness toward Robert. It oppressed her with a feeling that he was left desolate, a homeless and wandering outcast. She wondered where and when the news would reach him,—being such evil news she felt sure it would journey fast. No word or rumour had she heard of him since that day of their harsh parting in the old Dutch house on State Street.
A few days later she heard from Glenowen, who was now in command of one of the regiments besieging Boston, that Cary Patten, after covering himself with glory by his wild daring and desperate exploits, had fallen with Montgomery before the walls of Quebec. This news sent Barbara to her room for the afternoon. Besides her many tears for the gallant boy, who had loved her gallantly and truly, she could not for the moment rid herself of a vague remorse. Had she been quite fair to him? Had she encouraged him even while repelling him? At first she called herself guilty. But after some hours of this self-reproach she came to a clearer view, and saw that it was sentimental weakness to accuse herself. Her grief on his account, however, was deep and sincere. "Poor, beautiful, brave boy!" she sighed, at last. "How little good to him were my token and my blessings! I fear I am a curse, and not a blessing, to any one who greatly cares for me!" Then the thought flashed across her—"If it were Robert, instead of poor Cary! How do I know that Robert, too, has not been—" and at the thought her heart stood still. A sort of numbness came over her, and she found herself shaking violently. She had been lying with her face in the pillow, but now she sat up sharply, brushed the thick, dark locks back from her eyes, went over to the dressing-table, lit two candles, and looked at her white, frightened face in the glass.
"I didn't know I cared—like that!" she said to herself, at last.
In the spring, a little before the fall of Boston, Doctor John came home. Second Westings learned then for the first time what he had so studiously and considerately kept concealed,—the fact that he had been wounded in a skirmish two months before. As soon as he was well enough for the journey, he had been ordered home. He looked gaunt, and walked with some difficulty, but otherwise seemed fairly well; and he made haste to take back his old patients, with many expressions of amazement that they had not died off under Jim Pigeon's treatment.
His coming brought new cheer to Westings House; and to Barbara, reassured by his explicit accounts of her uncle's abounding health, it meant such stimulus and diversion as was to be had of endless, sympathetic talks. The little group of four were as close to one another as of old,—yet with a difference. The love and trust were as of old, but the dividing of hopes and aims threw Barbara more and more with Doctor John, Mistress Mehitable more and more with Doctor Jim. This seemed perfectly natural,—yet it soon began to cause a certain heaviness on Doctor John's part, which made his whimsical sallies grow infrequent. It caused, at the same time, a certain uneasiness on the part of Doctor Jim; and Mistress Mehitable was seen more than once with tears in her eyes, when, as it seemed to Barbara, there was no very definite reason for the phenomenon. And all these symptoms troubled Barbara. She grew more than commonly tender of Doctor John.
One day when she and Doctor John and Doctor Jim had strolled down to the tavern to see the Hartford coach come in, they found a knot of eager listeners gathered about two horsemen who were drinking a pot of ale. As the little party approached, its members were pointed out, and the horsemen turned to look at them with sharp interest. The two came from up the river, in the next county, and were on their way to join the Connecticut battalions under Putnam. They were bitter partisans, and one of them had lost a brother in the fighting at Quebec. To them it was of little account that Doctor John was a good rebel,—such, in their eyes, all good men were bound to be. And they did not appreciate the fact that he was an officer in the army they were about to join. What they saw was simply Doctor Jim, the declared Tory, shameless and unafraid. They eyed him with growing menace, uncertain, by reason of the fact that he was walking between Barbara and Doctor John, just what they wanted to do.
Presently Doctor Jim swung away by himself to speak to a lad whose mother he was treating. He was giving some little order, when the two horsemen, riding up to him, thrust him against the icy watering-trough so unexpectedly that he fell over it. Bewildered, and not understanding that he had been deliberately attacked, he was picking himself up in a sputter of vexation, when one of the riders, a fierce-eyed, burly fanatic, reached over the trough and cut at him viciously with his riding-whip, exclaiming, "Take that, you damned Tory dog!"
The blow missed Doctor Jim's head, but fell smartly across his shoulders. The next moment a great hand seized the rider, tore him from his seat, jammed him furiously against his horse's rump, and dashed him down upon the dirty snow. Then Doctor John turned to deal likewise with the second culprit. But he had forgotten his wound. He grew white, reeled, and would have fallen, but that two of the Second Westings men sprang to his aid and held him up.
When the stroke of the whip fell on his shoulders, Doctor Jim had understood. With one of his wordless explosive roars he had sprung right over the trough to take Homeric vengeance. But when he saw Doctor John he forgot all about vengeance, he forgot all about the attack.
"What is it, John?" he cried, picking him up as if the huge frame were a feather, and carrying him to the settee outside the inn door.
"Nothing, Jim, nothing! The old wound, you know, and the heart not yet just right," muttered Doctor John, recovering quickly, but leaning on his brother's shoulder. Barbara, meanwhile, had run to fetch brandy, which she now brought, along with the landlord.
The two horsemen had had their wrath for the moment diverted by the sudden turn of events. But now—the fellow who had been so mauled in Doctor John's grip having remounted, bursting with rage—they thought it time to return to the attack, and made an effort to push through the little crowd. Failing in this, they cursed Doctor Jim with varied vigour, and told him what they intended to do when they could get at him. In their righteous wrath they failed to notice that they were not making themselves popular with the crowd. Neither Doctor Jim nor Barbara paid the slightest attention to their curses, not seeming to hear them; but Doctor John attended.
"Lads!" he said, lifting his head with difficulty. "Lads of Second Westings! Shall we let these insolent scoundrels talk to us that way?"
"No, sir! No, sir! No, sir!" shouted a dozen voices,—whereupon Barbara turned and beamed upon them unutterable favour. The landlord, with several other stout fellows, seized the strangers' bridles and forced the horses back toward the road.
"Ye'd better be gettin' on!" admonished mine host, grinning but decisive. "Ye don't rightly understand us here, I calculate! Better get on now, for convenience!"
The horsemen seemed to have forgotten their wrath in their astonishment.
"Are you all Tories, too?" they found voice to demand.
"We're as good patriots as ever you be!" rejoined mine host, crisply. "But if we've got any Tories among us they're our own, and we'll see about 'em ourselves, our own way. Now clear out!" And he hit the nigh horse a smart slap on the rump, making him bound forward.
By this time the leader and spokesman of the twain had recovered his full head of anger. He had no quixotic notion of undertaking to discipline Second Westings village. But he conceived a very clear purpose. Reining his excited horse down violently, he shook his fist at the crowd, and shouted:
"If you choose to harbour a dirty Tory, there be men and patriots in the other townships who'll come right soon an' teach you yer duty!"
"Oh, you clear out!" jeered the Second Westings men.
That evening, at Westings House, while the beginnings of a bleak March wind storm blustered and whimpered outside, Mistress Mehitable brewed a hot posset of uncommonly cheering quality. The cheer was needed; for all felt that a crisis of some sort, or some grave change, was at hand. Doctor John, who had quite recovered, tried in vain to make his fooling sound spontaneous. The grave eyes of Destiny would persist in looking out through the jester's-mask. At length Doctor Jim exclaimed, abruptly:
"I must go, now! I must take Amos and slip away in the night, and go wherever men are gathering to fight for the king. I'm not needed here now, John, since you are back to take care of Mehitable and Barbara!"
It was what all had been waiting for, but it came with a shock—the shock of conviction, not of surprise—to all. Mistress Mehitable turned ghost pale, and unconsciously her hand went to her heart. Doctor John noticed the action, with sad eyes that belied the humour of his mouth. Barbara sprang up, rushed over to Doctor Jim, and flung her arms around his neck.
"Pleasedon't go, Doctor Jim!" she pleaded. "This is the place for you. And here we all love you so we don't carewhatside you're on. And as for going to fight for your side,—of course, you want to, we all know that,—but younevercan get through to the coast. You can never get through our people. No, you can't, Doctor Jim! You must stay here with us. Help me hold him, Aunt Hitty!"
"Jim," said Doctor John, his voice trembling with earnestness, "I appeal to you to stay. Don't break our hearts by going. Stay for our sakes. I know, brother, how you feel,—and believing as you do, I don't blame you,—I'll never blame you. ButBarbara is right.You can't get through. You can stay with a clear conscience!"
Mistress Mehitable, since becoming assured of the attitude of the Second Westings men, had lost all her dread of having him stay, and gained a quivering fear of having him go. Forgetful of all else, she now laid her slim hand on his, looked at him with her whole soul in her eyes, and said:
"Mustyou? Oh, Jim, are you so sure you ought to go?"
A faint spasm passed over Doctor John's face—Barbara alone observing it—and seemed to leave it older and sterner. He opened his mouth to speak, but Doctor Jim was ahead of him.
"Yes, I know my duty. If a man sees it, he's got to do it,—eh, what, dearest lady in the world? I wish I didn't see it so plain. Then I might stay here with you all, you whom I love. But I see my duty, to fight for the king, just as plain as you saw yours, John, to fight for your damned old Congress!"
"I'm not going to fight any more!" interrupted Doctor John, speciously.
Doctor Jim laughed, tenderly derisive.
"No, but you're sending, and equipping, and supporting two able-bodied substitutes, aren't you? But another point is, my Barbara,—by staying I should bring disaster on you all. The good folk of Second Westings—and theyaregood folk, though rebels, alas!—will never stand by and see the Ladds and Pigeons, whatever their views, molested by an outside world. When your fiery patriots from up the river come to ride me on a rail, Second Westings will stand in the way and get its honest head broken.Youwouldn't do it, John Pigeon! You'd cut off your head, before you'd let the poor souls get their heads broken for you in a cause that they believe all wrong. I'd be a coward to let them, John. Would you ask me to be a coward?"
"Wouldn't be much use asking," growled Doctor John. "But you're all wrong, as usual, Jim!" Then he turned suddenly to Mistress Mehitable, with a meaning look.
"You speak, Mehitable! Youmakehim stay. Demand it of him—as your right! Keep him!"
Doctor Jim searched his brother's face, first with terrible question, then with the growing light of a great joy. Barbara watched breathless, forgetful of the fate of dynasties. Here, she felt, were problems that had held long lives in doubt, now working to instant solution. Mistress Mehitable turned scarlet, and she, too, questioned the sombre, tender eyes of Doctor John. But she said, quite simply:
"I'm afraid, John, if he thinks he ought to go he'll go. But I do ask you to stay, Jim."
"Don't, Mehitable!" groaned Doctor Jim.
"There, what did I tell you, John?" she said.
But now certain things, uncertain all his life till now, were quite clear to Doctor John. Slowly, as if it hurt him, he got up. He went over to where Mehitable was sitting, quite close to Doctor Jim. He laid a hand on each, caressingly,—and to Mehitable that touch, suddenly grown bold and firm, was a renunciation. He had never touched her that way before.
"It is all right, Jim! It is all right, Mehitable!" said he, in a very low but quite steady voice. "I never was sure till now,—but I ought to have understood,—for I see now it was alwaysyours, Jim. Forgive me, brother. I ought not to have stood in the way."
"John!" cried Doctor Jim, catching the caressing hand in a fervent clasp. "God bless you! But—on my honour I have never said a word!"
"I know, Jim, I know. We've always played fair to each other. But now you can speak. And now,—you don't need to speak, either of you. Your faces speak plain enough, to the eyes of one who loves you both!"
"Is it true, Mehitable? After all these years that I've kept silence,—oh, is it true?" asked Doctor Jim, scarcely above a whisper, reaching out his hands to her longingly.
For one instant she laid hers in his. Then she withdrew them quickly, seized Doctor John's hand in both of hers, laid her cheek against it, and burst into tears.
"Oh, John, dear John," she sobbed. "How can I bear that you should be unhappy?"
Doctor John blinked, and made a little noise in his throat. Then, with a brave levity, he exclaimed:
"Tut! Tut! Don't you worry about me, either of you, now. As for you, Jim Pigeon, you Tory scoundrel, I'm getting the best of you, after all. For I stay right here and take care of her, Lord knows how long, while you go off, Lord knows where, and get yourself poked full of holes for your old King George— Eh, what, baggage? as Jim would say!" And he turned unexpectedly toward Barbara, who had been standing by the window, and peering diligently out into the blackness for the past ten minutes,—and surreptitiously wiping her eyes as well as her nose.
"Yes, indeed youdoget the best of the bargain," she cheerfully and mendaciously agreed.
Two days later, in the dark before moonrise, Doctor Jim and Amos slipped away on horseback by the road to Westings Landing. And Doctor John went with them as far as the Landing, to put them into trusty hands for their night voyage down the river.
A few days after Doctor Jim's going, came the news that Washington had entered Boston, the troops of the king having given up the defence and sailed away to Halifax. Soon afterward there was bustle in Second Westings, and camp talk, and military swagger; for a portion of the army was moving down to New York, and many men had leave to visit their homes in passing; and some, who had enlisted for a short service, had come home to get in the crops before reënlisting; and some, grudging souls, had come home to stay, saying that it was now the time for others to sweat and bleed for their country.
Amid all this excitement, which had some effect even upon Mistress Mehitable, antagonistic though she was to it, the palely brilliant Connecticut spring rushed over the land with promise. Never before, it seemed, did the vanguards of the song-sparrows and thrushes so crowd the blowing thickets with melody; never before the bright hordes of the dandelions so suddenly and so goldenly over-flood the meadows. But to Barbara the iridescent glory was somehow more sad than gloom. The fact that her cause was everywhere prospering, that success had fallen to the Continental arms beyond anything that she had dared to hope, brought her no elation. She felt the sorrow that had come into Doctor John's life in spite of the big, whimsical gaiety with which he kept it covered up. She felt the fierce tugging at Mistress Mehitable's heart-strings, though that thoroughbred little lady never revealed, save by the dark eye-shadows of sleepless nights, the pangs it cost her to be deprived in a day of the lover whom she had been half a lifetime in finding out. Barbara felt, too, the absence of Doctor Jim, who seemed to her so big and boyish and reckless and unfit to take care of himself that he could not fail to get into trouble if not kept at home and mothered by small women like herself and Aunt Hitty. And most of all she felt the crushing uncertainty as to Robert.
When summer was approaching high tide, Second Westings grew quiet again, the soldiers being all called back to their colours to make ready the defences of New York. Then, by hard-riding express messengers, the tidings flew over the country that Congress at Philadelphia, on the fourth day of July, had declared independence, and set up a republic to be known as the "United States of America." Second Westings went wild with enthusiasm, and that night there was a terrific consumption of old tar barrels and dry brush. And there was a select little dinner at Squire Gillig's, to which Barbara and Doctor John felt in duty bound to go,—and from which Mistress Mehitable, with an equal devotion to duty, stayed away. She had taken the news gracefully enough, however, merely suggesting to Barbara and Doctor John that possibly all the rejoicing might turn out to be a little premature.
Thereafter it seemed to Barbara that events moved furiously, one piece of vital news following close upon the heels of its predecessor. Early in August came word that a great English army for the capture of New York was landing at Staten Island. Then, the first tidings of Robert,—reaching Barbara in a letter from her uncle, whose regiment was holding Brooklyn. Glenowen wrote that from certain neutrals, country-folk of Long Island, who had no party but their cabbage-patch, he had learned of both Robert Gault and Doctor Jim. Doctor Jim, as representing one of the oldest and most distinguished families of Connecticut, and himself widely known, had been attached to the staff of the English general, Sir William Howe, while Robert Gault, with the rank of captain, was in command of a troop of irregular Loyalist Horse. With the unspeakable relief that these tidings brought her, Barbara regained for a few days her old vivacity, imperiousness, and daring. She tore about the country wildly as of old, on horseback,—no longer, as a rule, on Black Prince, who had grown too sedate to fully fall in with her caprices, but on a fiery young sorrel which she had bought for herself, choosing it partly for its own qualities, and partly for its resemblance to Robert's old Narragansett pacer. She resumed her canoeing on the lake. She sang again her old plantation songs, to Doctor John's accompaniment and Mistress Mehitable's diversion. She put a new and gayer ribbon on the neck of the furry "Mr. Grim." She even remembered that the bergamot was in flower, and set herself with interest to the distilling of her half-forgotten "Water of Maryland Memories," laughing indulgently the while at the girlishly sentimental name of it. Meantime she was conscious of a curiously divided interest in the war,—conscious that her interest was divided in a fashion that would, a year ago, have seemed to her wicked and impossible. Just as passionately as ever was her heart set upon the triumph of her cause. But she felt an irrational desire that Robert and Doctor Jim should win each a splendid victory on his own account. She was full of pity that they should be on what she held the surely losing side, and she wanted some measure of glory to be theirs.
But the next news that came dashed her spirits. It told of the battle of Long Island, and the defeat of the Continentals by the ordered British lines. It told of the panic flight of patriot regiments. It told of General Washington's retreat from Long Island and entrenching of the army at New York. A few days later came a letter to Barbara from Glenowen,—whose regiment had stood firm and suffered heavily,—in which he said that he did not think it would be possible to hold New York with the troops at Washington's command, and that there would doubtless soon be a further retreat to some position beyond the Harlem. The letter made no mention of Doctor Jim,—which caused Barbara to remind Mistress Mehitable that no news was good news,—but it spoke with somewhat bitter praise of Robert Gault. It said that Robert's little squadron of mad Tories had gone through the Continental ranks like flame, irresistible and deadly, and had done more than anything else to cause the breaking of Putnam's lines. Robert had had his horse shot under him, and his hat shot off, but had himself, as report said, escaped without a scratch, though with a much diminished troop. As she was reading this out to Mistress Mehitable, all at once and to her deep mortification her scrupulously matter-of-fact voice thrilled and broke. Mistress Mehitable shot her a glance of swift understanding and sympathy, and then pretended that she had noticed nothing unusual. Barbara coughed, and went on. But her voice had become unmanageable. With an impatient gesture and a toss of her head she handed over the letter.
"You'll have to read it yourself, honey! It upsets me to hear of our poor fellows beaten like this!" she cried, hypocritically.
"Of course, dear, I quite understand!" replied Mistress Mehitable, keeping her eyes strictly upon the letter, that she might the more easily seem deceived.
A few days later, Glenowen's prediction was fulfilled, and the news that came to Second Westings was of Washington's hasty retreat from New York to the Harlem Heights, leaving his artillery and heavy baggage behind. Then for a month there was expectancy, and to Barbara in her quiet green land it seemed marvellous that the two armies could lie facing each other in this way, day after day, and not be stirred to decisive action. She wondered how their nerves could bear the strain of such waiting.
The bright September dragged by in drowsy fashion, and October ran on in its blue and golden-brown; and then the word that came was of yet another retreat. The British had enlarged their narrow borders, and Washington had drawn back to the line of the Bronx, where he fortified himself strongly so as to hold the roads leading inland. Would he never stop retreating, questioned Barbara, anxiously, echoing the cry that went up all over the infant Union. "I think not, dear!" responded Mistress Mehitable, cheerfully. But Doctor John, who understood the conditions, declared that this Fabian policy was the only sound one, while the Continental troops were getting seasoned and learning the arts of war. Even while this teaching was being digested, came word of the fierce battle of White Plains, where the two armies, in numbers closely matched, long held each other by the throat without decisive advantage. When, two days later, the Continentals again withdrew, this time to hasty entrenchments at New Castle, Doctor John had hard work to convince Barbara that this long-drawn-out and bloody struggle was not an American defeat. For days thereafter word kept coming in, telling of the losses on both sides, and supplying vivid details; and the blinds of mourning were drawn down in more than one modest Second Westings home. A brief message came from Glenowen, saying that he was safe and well. But of Doctor Jim no word; of Robert not a word. And Barbara and Mistress Mehitable durst not meet each other's eyes lest either should read therein, and cry aloud, the fear in the other's heart.
With the coming in of this tumultuous November, there came to Second Westings a few days of Indian summer magic. The moveless air seemed a distillation of dreams. The faint azure haze hung everywhere, soft yet cool, with an elusive fragrance as of clean smoke and fading roses and fresh earth-mould and lofts of grain. And on one of these consecrated days Barbara set out early in the morning to paddle across the lake and see old Debby.
As on a morning long ago, but not so early, she ran down the back garden path, and behind the barn, and climbed the pasture bars. This time she called to Keep; and the big mastiff, who now slept later than of old, came somewhat stiffly gamboling from his manger bed in the horse stable. She tripped along the pasture path, between the hillocks. She trod rapidly the black earth of the old wood-road, where the shadows were lighter now, and no sound broke the stillness save the eerie sigh and footfall of the dropping leaves. She launched the canoe with easy vigour, motioned Keep to his place in the bow, and pushed out with strong, leisurely strokes across the enchanted mirror. That far-off morning of her flight came back to her with strange poignancy, and she wondered if the blue heron would be standing at the outlet to admonish her with his enigmatic gaze.
As she approached the outlet, the point was vacant. But suddenly a strange, dishevelled figure, hatless, and in a blood-stained British uniform, emerged from the trees near by, came down amid the tall yellow grasses, and stood staring across the lake. He stood thus with blank eyes for a moment, apparently not seeing the canoe, then pitched forward, and lay on his face close to the water's edge.
With one sharp cry of his name, Barbara surged upon the paddle and shot the canoe toward land, wasting no mare breath on words. She sprang ashore, turned the still form over, loosened the low vest and the throat of the shirt, and dashed water in the white, stained, deathlike face. At first she thought he was dead, and she felt things growing black before her eyes. Then she caught herself, and held herself steady for the need. If she could not be strong now, what right had she to call herself a woman, or to love a man. She felt at his heart and found that he was alive. She saw that he was sorely wounded. She told herself that he had swooned from loss of blood, weariness, hunger,—but that he had lived, would live, must live. Then she dragged him further back into the grass, where he was hidden.
Calling Keep from the canoe, she sat down for a moment with Robert's head in her lap, and planned what should be done. He must not be found in Second Westings, that she knew. For an English prisoner of war it would be all very well,—but for a Tory it might be different. She could take no risks. In a moment or two her mind was made up. She bent over, and kissed the unresponding mouth. Then she rose, and turned to Keep, who had stood sniffing at Robert's clothes with sympathetic interest. They were shocking clothes, but Keep dimly remembered the man within them. Barbara pointed to the helpless figure, saying:
"Lie down, Keep!"
And Keep lay down, with his muzzle on Robert's arm.
"Guard, sir!" commanded Barbara. And Keep rolled upon her a comprehending and obedient eye. Then she pushed off the canoe, and paddled hastily down the river to fetch old Debby.
During all these years since Barbara's interrupted flight, no one had really read her heart, or been the unacknowledged recipient of her confidences, so fully as Mrs. Debby Blue. Now, when Barbara arrived, breathless, with great, strained eyes, tears in her voice, but her red mouth sternly set, the old woman understood with few words. At another time, Barbara would have been amazed at this swift understanding. Now, she was only grateful for it. While she was explaining, Debby was rummaging on shelves and in boxes, looking for sundry simples of her cunning extraction. At last she said:
"Don't you be worried, my sweeting. If Mr. Robert kin be cured up, old Debby's the one that kin cure him up, well as any doctor in the land, not even exceptin' Doctor Jim. An' I've got the place where we kin hide him, too, an' keep him safe till he gits well. An' now, I'm after you, Miss Barby, sweetheart!"
"God bless your dear, true heart, Debby," cried Barbara, leading the way in hot haste to the canoe.
When they arrived at the point, Robert was just recovering consciousness, in a dazed fashion. They saw him make an effort to sit up; and they saw Keep, who was nothing if not literal in his interpretation of Barbara's commands, put his two huge fore paws on Robert's breast and firmly push him down again. The tears jumped to Barbara's eyes at this, and she gave a little hysterical laugh, exclaiming:
"Just look at that, Debby! Gooddearold Keep! Even he knows that Robert must be kept hidden!"
When they got to him, he sat up determinedly, and recognised Barbara with a look of utter content.
"You, my lady! I have come a very long way to look—" and then he sank off again, falling back into Barbara's supporting arms.
He sank off again, falling back into Barbara's supporting arms.He sank off again, falling back into Barbara's supporting arms.
He sank off again, falling back into Barbara's supporting arms.He sank off again, falling back into Barbara's supporting arms.
"Why, he'sstarved, that's what he is!" exclaimed Debby, examining him critically and feeling his pulse. "An' he's lost pretty nigh all the blood was ever in him. An' he's got two wounds here, either one enough to do for a man!"
She forced some fiery liquor down his throat, and then, as a faint colour came back to his lips, she gave him to drink from a bottle of milk. He drank eagerly, but automatically, without opening his eyes.
"He's been wounded at White Plains, poor dear!" murmured Barbara, leaning over him a face of brooding tenderness.
"An' he's wandered all the way up here, a-lookin' for you, Miss Barby!" responded the old woman.
"Do you really think so?" murmured Barbara.
"No manner of doubt!" said old Debby, positively, as she set about dressing and binding Robert's wounds.
In a little while Robert was able to sit up again; and then to be helped to his feet; and then to be half guided, half carried to the canoe. There he was placed on a bed of heaped armfuls of dry grass. Old Debby squatted precariously in the bow,—she was more at home in a punt than in a canoe,—and Barbara thrust out from shore, heading down the little river.
Robert was still too far gone in exhaustion to explain his strange appearance at Second Westings, or to ask any questions, or to care where he was going, so long as he was able to open his eyes every once in awhile and look at Barbara. When he did so, Barbara would smile back reassuringly, and lay a slim brown finger on her lips, as a sign that he was not to talk. And happily he would close his eyes again.
Barbara paddled down past Debby's landing, past the ducks and hens and turkeys, now too lazy to make more than casual comment. Keep, meanwhile, followed anxiously along the shore, close to the edge, and now and then splashing in belly deep.
"How far is it, Debby dear?" asked Barbara, presently.
"Jest a little mite furder," answered the old woman, who relished the situation immensely. "A matter of half a mile, maybe!"
And so they slipped noiselessly on, in that enchanted light, over that enchanted water with its reflections of amber and blue. Some crows, grown suddenly garrulous over private matters, cawed pleasantly in the pine-tops a little way off against the sky, and then subsided again into silence.
On both banks of the stream the trees held out their leaves, russet and gold, amethyst and bronze and scarlet, like so many little elfin hands attesting that all fair dreams come true at last for those who have the key to the inner mysteries.
Barbara was paddling in a dream herself, when suddenly old Debby said, "Turn in here, my sweeting! Here to your right!"
"But where?" asked Barbara, puzzled. "I don't see any place to turn in!"
"Straight through them dripping branches yonder by the water-logged stump!" directed the old woman. "Straight on through!"
As the prow of the canoe came up to what was seemingly the shore, old Debby parted the branches. As the canoe pushed onward, she continued this process,—and a few feet in from the main stream they entered a long, narrow deadwater, deep and clear, and perfectly hidden from the world. It was perhaps a hundred yards in length, slightly winding; and at its head, on a gentle rise, stood a little deserted log cabin.
"Oh,Debby!" cried Barbara. "How did you ever find such a place?"
"It's been empty this ten year!" answered Debby. "An' folks has forgotten, that ever knowed. An' I've been keepin' it to myself, when I wanted to get away from the ducks an' hens a mite. An' I've kep' it from fallin' to pieces. I'll nurse Master Robert here till he's able to get away, if it takes a year. An' I'll come back and forward in my punt. There's a bunk ready now, full of pine-needles; an' when we get him into it we'll go back to make it all right with Aunt Hitty.Ain'tI got a head on my old shoulders, now, Miss Barby?"
Even as Debby had so swiftly and fully planned, it was done. Robert was still so far gone in exhaustion, and so wandering in his mind, that Barbara would not let him talk; and before they left him—with Keep an incorruptible sentry at the door—he had fallen into a deep sleep. When they returned a couple hours later, he was awake and quite clear, and so determined to talk that Barbara could not but let him. He sat up in the bunk, but Barbara, bending shining eyes down close to his, laid him back upon the pillow.
"Debby says you must not sit up at all, Robert!" she said.
"And what do you say, my lady?" he asked, devouring her radiant dark face with his eyes.
"I say so, too!" she answered, laughing softly.
"Why, my lady?" he persisted.
"Because it will hinder you getting well, Silly!" she replied, touching his hair with cool fingers.
"What matter about a 'damned Tory' getting well?" he began, being very weak and foolish. But the slim hand sweetly closed his mouth.
"How did you get here—to me?" Barbara asked, changing the subject.
He smiled up at her.
"We charged through the rebels!" he explained, frankly. "We cut them down, and scattered them, and chased them till we were within the enemy's lines. Then we could not get back. They surrounded us. They overwhelmed us. We were annihilated. I escaped, I shall never know how, hatless and horseless, as you found me, my lady, I tried to get back to my regiment. It was no use. Then, somehow, a spirit in my feet led me back here, to you. I just escaped capture a score of times. I had nothing to eat for days, save roots and leaves. I remember coming to the shore of the dear lake, and straining my eyes across it, to see the chimneys of the house where my love lay. Then I saw no more, knew no more, till I saw my love herself in very truth, leaning her face over mine. And I thought I was in heaven, my lady."
"You still love me, Robert, after the hideous way I treated you?" questioned Barbara, her voice a little tremulous.
He started again to sit up; but being again suppressed, was fain to content himself with clutching both her hands to his lips.
"There is nothing in the world but you, Barbara," he said. "There is nothing I want but you, wonderful one!"
"Then—you may take me, Robert, I think!" she whispered, dropping her face, and brushing his lips with her hair.
"Me?" he cried, in a voice suddenly strong, glad, and incredulous. "Me? Sick near to death, hunted near to death, a beaten and fleeing enemy, a Tory? I may take you, my queen, my beloved?"
"Whatever you are, dear, I have found that you are my love," she answered. "I don't care much what you are, so long as you are mine. I find I am just a woman, Robert—and in my conceit I thought myself something more. I love my country, truly. But I love my lover more. I shall not ask you whether you bow to King or to Congress,—but only ask you to get well!"
He reached up both arms, and slowly pulled down her still averted face till it was close to his. Then she turned her face suddenly to him, and her lips met his. A moment later she untwined his arms, went to the door, and glanced unheeding down at old Debby, gathering wood. Then, her face and eyes still glowing, she came back, smoothed his hair, kissed him lightly on the forehead, and said, "Now you must be quiet, dear. Debby will scold me if I let you talk any more!"
But Robert was excited, drunk with new joy after long despair.
"Just one word, and I will obey, dear heart! Listen, my lady. I will draw sword no more in this quarrel. I have given my blood, my lands,—I have given, as I thought, my love,—for a cause already lost, for a cause that I felt to be wrong from the day of Lexington, But whichever side wins, I will stay in my own country, if my country, when it is all over, will let me stay. When I am well enough to go away—love, love, will you go with me, to return, when the fighting and the fury cease, to our own dear river and our own dear woods?"
"Yes, you know I will, Robert," answered Barbara, kneeling down and looking into his eyes. "You know that is what I am planning, dear one. Now go to sleep, and get well, and take me away when you will!" And holding her hand against his neck he forthwith went to sleep, like a child, tired and contented.
Barbara knelt for a long time unmoving, her hand warm in his weak clasp, and was grateful to old Debby for staying so long away. As she knelt, the side of her face to the door, she heard a softthud, thudon the threshold, and looked around out of the corners of her eyes without turning her head. She saw two wild rabbits, filled with curiosity at finding the cabin door open. They hopped in warily, and went bounding all about the room, sniffing with their sensitive, cleft nostrils; waving their ears back and forth at every faint whisper; and from time to time sitting up to ponder their discovery. One of them bounded over Barbara's little foot, turned to examine it, and nibbled tentatively at the heel of her shoe till she had to make the muscles tense to keep him from pulling it off. Then, standing up together for a moment, they seemed to take counsel and conclude that they had business elsewhere. As they hopped lazily away from the door, Barbara got up and followed to look after them. The wonderful day was drawing to its close; and long, straight beams of rosy gold, enmeshed with the haze, were streaming through the trees to her very feet. She laughed a little happy laugh under her breath. Those bright paths leading to the sun seemed a fair omen.