All the next morning Mistress Mehitable and Barbara were busy
overhauling Barbara's frocks. Such as would admit of it were let down
some three or four inches. Of the others, two of rich material were
laid away in Mistress Mehitable's huge carved oak chest lined with
cedar, a repository of varied treasures of the loom. The rest, three
in number and plain of weave, were set aside to be given to Mercy
Chapman. There was much important planning, much interesting
consultation; and in this feminine intimacy they grew ever closer to
each other, throwing off the watchful self-consciousness, the sense of
admiring and reciprocal discovery, which made them more happy than at
ease in each other's company.
Early in the afternoon Barbara decided she would go out to her
favourite apple-tree in the back garden and read. She openly took down
the second volume of "Clarissa Harlowe,"--having already got through
the first volume in surreptitious moments. Mistress Mehitable
discreetly, but with difficulty and some soul-questioning, refrained
from admonition. Barbara felt in her heart a faint quaver of
trepidation, as she thus frankly assumed her independence; but she had
the full courage of her convictions, and outwardly she was calm.
"Mr. Richardson does not seem to me a very strong writer," she remarked
at the door,--"especially after one has read those wonderful plays of
Mr. Shakespeare and Mr. Ben Jonson, as I did at home in Maryland! But
every one should know 'Clarissa,' shouldn't they, dear?"
Mistress Mehitable gasped. She, too, had read those wonderful plays of
Mr. Shakespeare and Mr. Ben Jonson. But she was thoroughbred, and gave
no sign of her dismay.
"I never liked the lady, myself, dear," she answered, casually. "She
always seemed to me rather silly."
This was Barbara's own judgment, and confirmed her new appreciation of
her aunt's intelligence. At the same time, this apparently easy
acceptance, on Mistress Mehitable's part, of Barbara's emancipation,
seemed almost too good to be true. Her heart swelled passionately
toward this blue-eyed, calm, patrician little woman, whom she had so
long misunderstood. She came back, put a caressing arm around Mistress
Mehitable's waist, kissed her fervently, and looked deep into her eyes.
Mistress Mehitable actually trembled in the recesses of her soul lest
that searching gaze should discover what she had nearly said about
young girls and novel-reading! But she kept the blue deeps of her eyes
clear and tranquil, and her lips smiled frank response.
"Oh, you are so good and wonderful and wise, honey," Barbara said, at
length. "What a foolish, foolish child I've been,--and you, my dear,
dear father's sister! Why, just to look at you ought to have brought
me to my senses. So _many_ ways you look like him!"
Then a thing very remarkable indeed took place. Mistress Mehitable's
fine poise wavered and vanished. She almost clutched Barbara to her
breast, then buried her head on the firm young shoulders and cried a
little quite unrestrainedly, feeling a great ache in her heart for her
dead brother Winthrop, and a great love in her heart for her dead
brother's child. Barbara was surprised, but greatly touched by this
outburst. She held her close, and patted her hair, and called her soft
names suddenly remembered from the soft-voiced endearments of
plantation days; till presently Mistress Mehitable recovered, and
laughed gently through her tears.
"Don't think me silly, dear," she pleaded, "but I've just realised for
the first time that you have your dear father's wonderful eyes. Your
colouring, and your hair, and your mouth, are all very different from
his. But your eyes,--they are his _exactly_. Such wonderful, deep,
clear, _true_ eyes, Barbara, sometimes sea-gray, sometimes sea-green.
Where have my eyes been all this time?"
Barbara sighed happily. "Isn't it lovely we have found each other at
last, Aunt Hitty? I don't think it will be so hard now for me to be
good!"
Then she picked up "Clarissa" again, and ran gaily out to the garden.
Barbara's apple-tree had three great limbs branching out at about five
feet from the ground, forming a most luxurious crotch in which to sit
and read. Smaller apple-trees, interspersed with tangled shrubbery and
some trellised vines, almost surrounded it, so that on three sides it
afforded perfect seclusion. Sweet airs breathed through it, from the
neighbouring thyme and mint beds; and sunshine sifted down through its
leaves in an intricate and exquisite pattern; and a pair of catbirds,
nesting in the shrubs close by, made it their haunt without regard to
Barbara's presence. As she looked at this dear nook, with all its
memories of intimate hours and dreams, Barbara thought to herself how
glad she was that she had not succeeded in running away from Second
Westings. She clambered cleverly into the tree, settled herself with a
long breath of satisfaction, swung her little scarlet-shod feet idly
too and fro, and made a long, absorbing survey of her green realm.
Then, locking her ankles lithely as only a slim girl can, she opened
her book, and was soon engrossed in the fortunes of Lovelace and
Clarissa.
About the time that Barbara was settling herself in the apple-tree,
Robert Gault was triumphantly pushing Barbara's canoe to land through
the gold-green sedges on the Second Westings shore of the little lake.
With pole and paddle he had made the ascent of the stream from Gault
House, having been seized that morning with a violent conviction that
it was his duty to return the canoe without delay. He had poled
through the rapids, and paddled eagerly through the silent solemnities
of the woods, too intent upon his purpose to be alive to their mystic
influences. The furtive eyes that watched him from pine-tree boll and
ironwood bush, from skyey branch or moss-veiled root, touched not his
consciousness. To his self-centred mood the peopled stillness was
empty as a desert. His eyes, at other times alert and not uninitiated,
were turned inward upon his own dreams. He emerged from the great
shadows, paddled through the meadowy windings with their iris-beds and
lilies, and passed at length old Debby's clamorous dooryard, giving
hardly a glance to the green slope with its ducks and fowls, the little
red-doored cabin against its trees, or old Debby herself, with the
cock-eared yellow pup beside her, sitting on the stoop. He was in a
hurry, and had caught glimpses of the open waters of the lake beyond;
and he knew from Barbara's description that Mistress Mehitable's
landing-place was straight across the lake.
But old Debby, sitting knitting in the sun with the cock-eared yellow
pup beside her, saw him, and chuckled at his haste. She had been over
to Second Westings the day before, and had got the whole story from
Doctor Jim. She had made up her mind to keep well out of the way, till
Barbara's indignation should have time to cool; but she was mightily
interested in the youth who had been so readily persuaded to the
backing of Barbara's mad venture. A moment later she made up her mind
that she must have a good look at him, a word with him if possible.
She got up and hobbled actively down to the shore; but Robert's haste
had carried him already beyond earshot.
Following the path up from the lake-shore, Robert crossed the
cow-pasture and climbed the bars back of the barn. Here he was met and
challenged by Keep, the mastiff, who, with the discernment of a
well-bred dog, appreciated Robert's good clothes, nosed his hand
cordially, and let him pass without protest. Keep knew a gentleman at
a glance, and was convinced that good manners meant good morals. He
had no fear of Robert setting fire to the barn.
Seeking a way to the front of the house, Robert passed through the
wicket leading into the back garden. Suddenly, between the tall clumps
of hollyhocks, he stopped short, and his heart gave a queer little
sliding leap. His breath came quick and light, in a way that greatly
perplexed him. What he saw to so disturb him was a pair of little
scarlet shoes, two small ankles, and a few inches of slim, shapely silk
stockings, lithely intertwined, and vividly in evidence beneath a
screen of apple-leaves.
Robert did not need any one to tell him that the rest of the
bewildering picture, hidden behind the screen of apple-leaves, was the
small, inspiring lady, Mistress Barbara Ladd. He hesitated, and was
almost on the point of slipping away,--he knew not why, for the life of
him. Then, recovering a part of his composure, he stepped forward in
trepidation, hat in hand, forgot the graceful speeches on which he was
wont to pride himself, and stammered--"Mistress Barbara!--I beg your
pardon!"
The slim ankles unlocked, "Clarissa" fell upon the grass, and lightly
as a bird Barbara sprang down from her perch, unconscious,
unembarrassed, gracious in her greetings. She smiled him radiant
welcome, frankly pleased, and held out her hand to be kissed.
"Why, how did you come?" she cried, gaily, "stealing in this way
through the back premises?"
"By water, dear lady," he answered, still stammering. "I brought back
the canoe, you know!"
"By my dear river, and through the great, still woods!" she exclaimed,
looking him over with clear eyes of approval. "How lovely! I wish I'd
been with you!"
"I wish you had!" said Robert, with devout conviction.
"But how tired you must be, all that journey against the current.
Really, Robert, it was _very_ nice of you to come so soon!"
Now Robert was in a sad state of bewilderment, dazzled by eyes and lips
and scarlet shoes. And he was further shaken from his customary poise
by his perception of Barbara's change in the arrangement of her hair,
and by what seemed a sudden increase in her stature through the
lengthening of her frocks. Otherwise he would not have been so stupid
as to imagine that the promptitude of his coming called for any apology
in Barbara's eyes, whatever might be the opinion of Doctor John, or
Doctor Jim, or Mistress Mehitable Ladd!
"I thought I ought to come at once, you know," he explained, "to bring
back the canoe! Otherwise I should have waited, as I ought, for Mr.
Glenowen's coming, and an invitation from him."
"Oh!" said Barbara, her face changing slightly, her voice growing a
little cooler. "That was very thoughtful of you. I couldn't sleep for
thinking of the canoe!"
Robert looked at her doubtfully, wondering if that were sarcasm in her
voice.
"It's a dear canoe. I love it!" said he.
"I wonder you did not want to keep it a little longer, then,--at least,
till Uncle Bob could come and send you a proper, formal invitation to
bring it back!" said Barbara.
"But I wanted to bring it back now,--I thought it was such a good
excuse for coming at once, though I knew I _ought_ to have waited for
the invitation, of course," persisted Robert, vaguely worried.
"Oh!" exclaimed Barbara, again, allowing herself to be mollified in
part, but still feeling a shade of disappointment. She was too
inexperienced to appreciate the tribute of Robert's confusion and
unexpected awkwardness. She liked him so much better in his grand,
elaborate, self-possessed manner, paying stately compliments, making
her feel important and grown-up by formal homage. However, he
certainly was very nice, and he certainly looked very distinguished;
and she realised that, for all his apparent solicitude about returning
the canoe, the canoe was not his reason for coming so soon. She would
forgive him,--but she would punish him! In fact, she was making
progress in the arts of the imperishable feminine.
"Well, we shall _all_ be glad to see you, Robert," she said. "And now
you must go straight to Doctor Jim, who did invite you, as you seem to
have forgotten! You go through that white gate, over there, and turn
to the left, and then the first turn to the right puts you right on the
main street. You're almost at Doctor Jim's then,--any one will point
it out to you."
"But,--I didn't come to see Doctor Jim," protested Robert, much taken
aback. "I came to bring back the canoe, you know!"
"Of course, I understand!" said Barbara, sweetly. "Tell Doctor Jim and
Doctor John that I want them to bring you back here presently, in an
hour or two, to present you to Aunt Hitty, and have tea with us!"
"But can't I stay a _little_ while _now_,--while no one knows I am here
at all?" pleaded Robert.
Ordinarily, this was just what would have seemed reasonable and
delightful to Barbara. But just now it pleased her to discipline the
boy.
"Decidedly _not_, Robert!" said she. "You know how careful you are
about etiquette,--so troubled over the idea of coming here at all on
the mere invitation of mere me! You shall not talk to me any more till
you have been properly presented to Aunt Hitty! Besides, I am just at
a _most_ interesting place in this lovely book,"--and she snatched
'Clarissa' up from the grass, where it had lain forgotten since
Robert's appearance,--"and I can't really take my mind off it till I
find out what is going to happen. I will see you in the house, with
Aunt Hitty, in--let me see--about an hour and a half! Now go right
away!"
Robert looked very miserable, but bowed submission, and backed off.
"How will Mistress Ladd receive me?" he asked, doubtfully.
"Oh," replied Barbara, one small brown hand on the apple-tree as she
waited for Robert to depart ere she climbed back to her nook, "Aunt
Hitty is just perfect. She will be very nice to you, and will quite
approve of you, I know. Since everything has turned out for the best,
she has already forgiven you for leading her young niece into mischief
the way you did!"
Robert stared at her in speechless amazement. But Barbara would not
let him ask any more questions. With a mocking little grimace at his
confusion, she pointed to the white gate.
"Go away immediately!" she commanded. "And be sure you come back in an
hour and a half!"
Robert turned and strode off with an aggrieved air, between the
hollyhock rows. When he was half way to the gate, Barbara, who had
stood looking after him with a smile on her lips, called imperiously:
"Robert!"
He turned quickly, and snatched off his hat.
"What is it, my lady?"
"You forgot to help me into my tree!" said Barbara.
He was beside her in an instant, his face brightening. He knelt on one
knee, and held out his two hands firmly locked, to form a sort of
stirrup. Setting one light foot into this support, Barbara sprang up
and in a flash was perched gracefully in her niche. It was done with
such swiftness that Robert had hardly time to realise her foot had
touched him. She laughed down upon him with gay commendation.
"That was very handsomely done, indeed, Robert!" she declared. "Now
hurry right away to Doctor Jim, or you'll never manage to get back in
one hour and a half!" And she buried her eyes in the first page at
which "Clarissa" chanced to open.
Robert hesitated, opened his lips as if to speak, and went without a
word. Barbara, watching him from the corner of her eye, was puzzled at
the look upon his face, but felt satisfied that it was not displeasure.
About half-way up the walk toward the gate, when he believed himself
unobserved, Robert gazed curiously at the palms wherein the little foot
had rested for that fraction of a heart-beat. Light as was the touch,
it had left a subtle tingling behind it. He pressed the place to his
lips. This action astonished Barbara, but greatly interested her, and
gave her, at the same time, an inexplicable thrill. Her heart
understood it, indeed, while it remained an enigma to her brain. And
purposeless, profitless, absurd though it seemed to her, that Robert
should kiss his own hand, she decided nevertheless that in some way the
action had expressed a more fervent homage to her than when the hand
that he kissed was hers. She forgot to go on reading the excellent Mr.
Richardson's romance.