After supper, when Barbara came down dressed for riding and calmly told
Robert she was ready, Mistress Mehitable gasped, and looked at
Glenowen, expecting that he would meet the emergency by making a third.
As he seemed unconscious of the need of action, she shot an appealing
glance at Doctor Jim and Doctor John in turn. But they only grinned
inscrutably. Then she lifted her hands slightly and let them drop into
her lap, as if to say, "Bear witness, Heaven, that I am helpless!" and
thus she stifled the voice of protest in her bosom. She had given
Barbara freedom, and the responsibility that goes with freedom; and she
would not take back the gift. But it was one of the notable victories
of Mistress Mehitable's career, when she forced herself to sit in
smiling acquiescence while Barbara flew full in the face of all
convention. Amos, meanwhile, had brought the horses to the door; and
when the two young riders were gone, the hoof-beats sounding in slow
cadence down the drive, Glenowen said to her, with an understanding
smile, "You did right, sweet lady. 'Tis a filly, that, to be ridden
without the curb. Give her her head, and you'll have no great trouble!"
"I feel sure you are right, Mr. Glenowen," said Mistress Mehitable,
sweetly. "But you may well believe it was a hard lesson for me, a Ladd
of Connecticut, to learn. And I fear I have not more than half learned
it yet!"
"You can learn anything you have a mind to, Mehitable," said Doctor
Jim, with emphasis, "in the time it would take another woman to learn
the A, B, C of it!"
Neither Barbara nor Robert spoke till the horses emerged upon the
highway. Then Barbara cried:
"Quick! Quick! I want the wind in my face!"
With two miles of good road before them, they set their faces to the
night breeze and their horses to the run, and raced madly down the
moonlight, their shadows dancing long and black before them. The
saddle-leathers creaked a low, exhilarating music, and the galloping
swung like a pulse, and the roadside fence and shrubs fled by, and the
world was white in the moonlight. And still there was no speech, save
a soft word now and then to the rejoicing horses, whose ears turned
back for it sympathetically from time to time.
At length they came to rougher ground, and slowed to a gentle canter.
Then Robert noticed a narrow wood-road turning off to the right,
vaulted over with lofty trees, and mystical with moon-shadows.
"Where does that road go, my lady?" he inquired.
"Where we are going!" answered Barbara, turning into it at a walk.
Then, as if she thought the answer too whimsical, she continued, "It
will take us back to the village by a longer and more beautiful way!"
"Any longer way would be the more beautiful way!" said Robert.
The reply interested Barbara, and in musing over it she forgot to say
anything more.
The wood-road, thick-carpeted with turf and moss, muffled the horses'
hoofs, and an enchanted silence sank into the hearts of the young
riders. Here and there the woods gave back for a little clearing with
a lonely cabin; and the moonlight flooded in; and around the edges of
the clearing the thick-leaved branches seemed afloat, bubbles of glass
and silver on a sea of dream. Then, again, the fairy-lit glooms,
haunted but unterrifying! And Barbara began to think repentantly of
her harshness toward Robert. Soon the road dipped sharply, and crossed
a wide, shallow brook, upon whose pebbles the horses' hoofs splashed a
light music. Here they let the horses drink a mouthful, because
Barbara said the waters of that brook were especially sweet. When they
emerged on the other side, Barbara discovered she wanted a drink of it
herself, so sovereign were the virtues of that water.
"How shall I bring it to you?" asked Robert, instantly dismounting, and
casting a hasty glance about him in quest of a birch-tree, from whose
bark to make a cup.
"Make me a cup of your hands, of course!" said Barbara. "Give me your
reins. I must have the water, at once!"
Robert removed his leather gloves, rinsed his hands in the sliding
sand, and then, with mighty painstaking care, got at least two
mouthfuls of the crystal uplifted to Barbara's lips. As she sipped,
and light as a moth her lips touched his hands, his heart seemed to
turn over in his breast, and he could not find voice for a word.
Silently he remounted, and in silence they ascended the slope from the
brook. His apparent unresponsiveness puzzled Barbara; but an awakening
intuition suggested to her that it was perhaps not so uncomplimentary
as it might seem; and she was not displeased.
For half an hour they walked their horses thus, Robert sometimes laying
a light hand on Black Prince's shoulder or satiny flank, but never
daring to touch so much as Barbara's skirt. Then they saw the highway
opening ahead of them, a ribbon of moonlit road. Barbara reined up.
"I think my saddle is slipping a little," said she. "I don't believe
Amos can have girt it tight enough!"
"Why, I--" began Robert, about to remind her that, like a good
horseman, he had himself looked well to the girth before letting her
mount. But he cut the words short on his tongue, sprang from his
saddle, and busied himself intently with Black Prince's straps. When
he raised his head, Barbara smiled down upon him, and reached him her
left hand, saying sweetly:
"Thank you, Robert. You are really very nice, you know!"
Whereupon Robert bent abruptly, kissed the instep of the little
riding-boot which stuck out from under her skirt, and swung into his
saddle.
The action thrilled Barbara somewhat, but at the same time piqued her
interest; and the interest dominated.
"Why did you do that, Robert?" she asked, curiously, looking at him
with wide, frank eyes. "I didn't mind it a bit, you know! But it's
funny, to kiss my old shoe!"
Robert gave a little unsteady laugh.
"It was homage, my lady," said he. "Just my pledge of fealty, before I
go. You forget--I have the misfortune to displease you by being a
monarchist!"
Barbara was silent a moment. She was sorry he had reminded her of
their differences of opinion. But, on the other hand, homage was not
unpleasant; and her scorn of kings did not of necessity extend to
queens.
"_Why_ do you go?" she asked.
"My grandmother is sending me at a moment's notice, to represent her in
a law-scrape which some property of hers--of ours--in New York has
suddenly got into. You know that, now that I am through college, I
have to get down to work at once in New York, and fit myself to look
after our estates. But I didn't dream I should have to go so soon!"
"I am sorry!" said Barbara, simply. "We were having such a pleasant
time together!"
"Were we, dear lady?" asked Robert.
"_Weren't_ we?" demanded Barbara.
"I am broken-hearted at going. I dare not tell you how
broken-hearted!" replied Robert, gravely. "But until this ride I have
been rather unhappy to-day, for you have several times made me feel
that you were displeased at my coming!"
Now Barbara hated explanations, and she hated still more to be accused
justly. Urging Black Prince to a canter, she retorted:
"I have no patience with you, Robert. I have been an angel to you.
Didn't I ride almost half-way home with you, when you were here before?
And now, haven't I let you come this _perfect_ ride with me,--when I
know Aunt Hitty thought I oughtn't? And you don't _deserve_ that I
should even let you talk to me one minute, when you are such a stupid,
bigoted Tory."
Robert thought of many things to say in answer to this dashing flank
attack; but each answer seemed to carry unknown perils, so he kept a
prudent silence. After some time Barbara spoke again, mistaking his
silence for contrition.
"Robert," she began, in a voice of thrilling persuasion, "won't you do
something I very much want you to do?"
"I can think of no other pleasure to compare with the pleasure of
pleasing you, my lady!" he answered, ardently.
"Then, will you not _really study_, without prejudice, the things that
are at the bottom of the trouble between us and King George? You have
such a good brain, Robert, I cannot think you will be on the side of a
king against your own country, when you have fully informed yourself!"
Robert looked troubled.
"I can honestly promise," said he, "to study the question still more
carefully than I have already. But I fear you will still consider me
obstinate, even then. If I could imagine myself disloyal to the king,
I should not consider myself worthy to profess myself your ever loyal
and devoted servant, fair mistress!"
"To serve me, Robert, you must serve your country!"
"And to serve my country, most dear lady, I must serve the king!"
persisted Robert.
Barbara set her lips tight together, and galloped on.
"I wish you better wisdom as you grow older!" she said, coldly, after
some minutes.
"The best wisdom I may ever hope to attain will be all too little to
serve you with, my lady!" answered Robert, half gallantly, yet all in
earnest. And Barbara could not but vouchsafe a reluctant smile in
acknowledgment of so handsome a compliment. Thereafter there was
little more said. They rode through the village, past the lighted inn,
up the dim moonlit road to the porch of Westings House. But when
Robert, with a sort of bold deference, lifted her from her saddle,
holding her, perhaps, just a shade more closely than was requisite, she
felt in a forgiving mood. She knew that she liked him, she knew she
had been unpleasant to him, she was most sorry he was going away; and
what were old kings anyway that friends should be at loggerheads about
them? Answering her own thought, she impulsively pulled off her glove,
and gave Robert her bare hand.
"We will be friends, won't we, king or no king?"
And the radiance of the smile she lifted to him, as he held her thin
little hand in both his own, nearly turned the poor boy's head. He
bent over her--and just saved himself, with a gasp, from kissing the
ignorantly provocative mouth so rashly upraised. But he recovered his
balance, in part, and compensated himself by kissing the hand
passionately,--fingers and soft palm, and rosy oval nails, and
wrist,--in a fashion that seemed to Barbara very singular. At length
she withdrew the hand with a soft laugh, saying, composedly:
"There, don't you think that will do, Robert? You did not kiss Mrs.
Sawyer's hand like that, did you?"
"Of course I did!" declared Robert. "There was more of it to kiss, so
I kissed it more!"
"Now you are horrid!" she cried, and ran past him into the house.
But when he said good-bye to them all on the porch the next morning,
and set forth on his long ride back to Gault House, Robert carried with
him in the pocket over his heart what Barbara considered the highest
token of her favour, her well-studied, intimately marked,
oft-slept-with copy of Sir Philip Sidney's sonnets.