The life of the individual, within its limits, is apt to present a sort
of microcosmic image of the life of the nation. There comes a period
of stress, when the germs of change and growth are sown. Then,
apparently without reason, time drags. The seasons roll apathetically
in their rut, and all is done as it was done last year. But in the
deeps the great impulses are maturing, the great forces are gathering.
The hour comes that looses them. Then in an instant, it seems almost
without warning, the quiet heart is in an insurrection, the people of
ploughshares is become a people of swords. With a life, or with a
nation, the events of a day may crowd ten volumes, or the annals of ten
years leave a page but meanly filled. Significance is all. We live in
our great moments. The rest is a making ready.
That blue and yellow morning of sweet winds, when Robert rode away from
Second Westings, and Barbara, looking after him, felt three-fourths
regretful for his going and one-fourth for her dear copy of Sir Philip
Sidney's sonnets, was a morning in the late summer of 1769. He was to
have returned the following June. But neither that June nor the next,
nor the next following nor the one thereafter, did he return to the
quiet villages of Connecticut and the banks of the great river that had
given him birth. From year's end to year's end he found himself tied
to the desk in his mother's brother's office, the office with the coat
of arms over the door, and the diamond windows looking out on Bowling
Green. He worked faithfully; but, being of the king's party yet
sturdily American, a loyalist yet alive to the grievances of the
people, a Tory yet not intolerant of views hostile to his own, an
aristocrat, yet unfettered by the traditions of his clique and clan, he
had all the social diversion that the gay, extravagant, rich, and
foppish little city in the toe of Manhattan Island could afford.
Wealthy, well-born, courtly, and kindly, the garlanded snares of the
mammas of Manhattan were laid thickly but vainly for his feet. He was
squire to all the fair; but not one, unless by some of those thrilling
fictions with which maids triumph over their rivals, could claim aught
of him that was exclusive or committal. And he knew Sir Philip
Sidney's sonnets by heart.
About once in two months, or thereabouts, went a letter to Second
Westings, full of coloured comment on the doings of the city,--of
remarks sometimes stilted and sometimes illuminating on the latest
books from London,--of elaborate compliments that concealed rather than
revealed the emotion glowing behind them,--but of the questions of the
day, of Penal Acts, Port Bills, Tea Duties, Coercion, and Continental
Congresses, no word. Robert had fulfilled to the letter and the spirit
Barbara's demand that he study minutely the points at issue between the
colonies and the king. He had realised the blindness and folly of the
king, he had acknowledged that the colonies were right to resist, by
every constitutional means, taxation by a parliament in which they were
not represented. But his loyalty to the throne was unshaken by his
regret that the king should be unjust. He tried to believe that the
counsels of the great Englishmen whom he adored,--Pitt and Burke, the
friends of America,--would open the eyes of George III. in time to
prevent the cruel arbitrament of war. But--should it be war,--well,
his ancestors had bled cheerfully for Charles Stuart when they knew he
was in the wrong, and Robert felt that he would maintain, at whatever
cost, the tradition of his ancestors. To be loyal to a good king, a
king in the right, where was the distinguishing merit of that? But to
be loyal to king in the wrong, and at great cost,--that, to Robert,
seemed loyalty worth the name.
Meanwhile to Barbara, in her green world of Second Westings, life
seemed to have got caught in a drowsy eddy. The months went by in
uneventful circuit, for all the echoes of great doings that came up
from time to time and stirred the tranquil air. She rode, canoed,
read, studied spasmodically, bullied Amos, loved the animals, distilled
strange essences, repudiated the needle and the crochet-hook, as of
old. As of old, she had wild whims, repentances, indignations, dreams,
and ardours born of dreams. But all these things had grown paler, in a
way, had lost something of their bite and vividness. It was as if Fate
had turned a screw and changed the focus. Moreover, she could no
longer, as before, believe each mood eternal and all-important. She
had a consciousness that there were other interests lurking in life,
and this kept her in an attitude of waiting. But the love between her
and Doctor John and Doctor Jim lost nothing in this waiting time, but
grew as Barbara grew in stature and self-knowledge; and she lost
nothing of her delight in the friendship of Mrs. Debby Blue, to whose
cabin she would flee about once a month, when the vagrant blood,
growing riotous in her breast, would make her tolerant of no company
but that of the shrewd old outlaw dame. As for her aunt, Barbara's
love for the blue-eyed little Puritan spinster, born that crucial
morning of Mistress Mehitable's unexpected forbearance and seed-cakes,
flourished and ripened with not one serious setback. Of course, a
complete understanding between two such opposite tempers could not
spring up in a day; but Mistress Mehitable was nothing less than heroic
in the consistency with which she held herself to her new policy; and
Barbara, having been astonished into an incongruous devotion, was ready
enough to make sacrifices on the new altar. Whenever the atmosphere
began to feel overcharged between them, they would say the nicest
things they could think of to each other, and then, with much ingenuity
of chance, keep apart for two or three days. In this way new
misunderstandings were avoided; till gradually the natural love between
them set deep root into their hearts, and grew strong enough to dare
such tempestuous flurries of the mood as cannot but blow up once in
awhile when two women are living alone together.
But while her own life had seemed to have grown so tranquil that she
wondered if things had forgotten to happen, Barbara knew that in the
outside world it was different, so different as to make her stillness
seem like sleep. In the outside world she knew events were crowding
and clamouring upon one another's heels, under a sky of strange
portent. She kept herself informed. She wrangled lovingly with Doctor
Jim; she argued tactfully, though hopelessly, with Mistress Mehitable;
she debated academically with the Reverend Jonathan Sawyer; she ranted
joyously with Doctor John, and Squire Gillig, and Lawyer Perley, and
old Debby, all four patriots, and the last two frank rebels. For the
sake of finding out the drift of Second Westings sentiment, she once in
awhile emerged from her prickly exclusiveness to smile upon her fellows
of quality, and was surprised to find them mostly patriots in their
way, with souls that strove to rise above embroidery and tatting. As
for the common people, the workmen and apprentices and their kind, she
got at their hearts easily in her impulsive fashion, and found the
majority of them slowly heating to rebellion. In Amos, her devoted
Amos, however, she unearthed a fiery royalist, ready to out-thunder
Doctor Jim himself; so she ceased to do Amos the favour of bullying
him, and Amos grew at times too dejected to care much about King
George. The results of these observations she conveyed minutely in
frequent letters to her Uncle Bob, who was now committed to the
so-called 'Continental' side. To Robert Gault, also, in his office
looking out on Bowling Green, Barbara would write about once in three
months. But in these letters she wrote of the woods and the winds, of
what blooms were out in the river-meadows, of what birds were nesting
or winging,--and never a word of what was in all men's mouths. She was
waiting for Robert to declare himself converted to her views, after
digesting the course of study to which she had set him. And she
refused to admit the possibility of a clear-headed gentleman, as she
knew him to be, being so misguided as to cling to opinions different
from her own. To her mind Truth was a crystal of which but one facet
could be lighted at a time. One side of a question was apt to present
itself to her with such brilliancy that all the other sides were thrown
into obscurity together. As for the flamboyant Toryism of Doctor Jim,
she regarded it with an invincible indulgence, as one of those things
preordained from the first,--a thing which she could not even regret,
because without it Doctor Jim, who was in every way adorable, would be
so much the less himself. Who cared for an eccentricity or two in a
being so big of body and soul as Doctor Jim? But she could not help
being glad that Doctor John's eccentricity, to which she would have
been equally indulgent in case of need, took a different form from
Doctor Jim's. The Toryism of her Aunt Hitty she regarded as a part of
the lady's religion, and with that Barbara would never dream of
meddling. By an unspoken understanding, she and Mistress Mehitable had
agreed to leave each other's sanctuaries unprofaned.
By the time of the "Boston Tea-Party," a little before Christmas in
1773, Second Westings was so established in its stiff-necked, though
indolent, Whiggery, that Doctor Jim and Mistress Mehitable sat
enthroned, as it were, in the lonely isolation of their Toryism, with
Amos proudly humble at their feet. The Reverend Jonathan Sawyer, whose
interest in the controversy had been almost wholly academic from the
first, and who cultivated on all matters outside his creed a breadth of
mind to compensate for his narrowness within it, had judged it right to
follow his flock where he could not lead it, and had amused himself by
letting Barbara--of whose conquest he was genuinely proud--convert him
to her doctrines. He was now a constitutional patriot, a temperate and
conservative champion of colonial privilege, as opposed to kingly
prerogative. When came the soul-stirring news of how the valiant men
of Boston Town had confronted the dread tea-chests in their harbour,
and torn them piecemeal, and cast their fragrant contents into the
tide, then no soul in Second Westings but Doctor Jim, Mistress
Mehitable, and Amos, would drink a drop of tea--except in private.
Certain compromising spirits, anxious to be both patriotic and
comfortable, had laid in a supply betimes, and so without public
scandal could dally in secret with the uninebriating cup. But Barbara
despised the alien leaf at all times; and Doctor John preferred hard
cider or New England rum; and old Debby had a potent concoction of
"yarbs" which made the Chinese visitor insipid; so Mistress Mehitable
and Doctor Jim were free to victual their strongholds with nearly all
the tea in Second Westings. Over the achievement of the Boston heroes
Mistress Mehitable was gently sarcastic and Doctor Jim boisterously
derisive; while Doctor John exclaimed, "Tut! Tut! such child's play
does no good! Such mummery! Tut! Tut!" and Squire Gillig, ardent
"Continental" but cautious merchant, said, "Such wicked waste! There's
a lot of good money gone! They should have confiscated the stuff, an'
hid it, an' sold it by an' by cheap, along through the back townships!"
But to Barbara it seemed that the act was one shrewdly devised and
likely to bring matters to a head. Her reading of it seemed justified
a few months later, when the port of Boston was closed, as a punishment
for rebellious contumacy,--and the charter of Massachusetts
abrogated,---and a military governor, with four English regiments,
established in the haughty city by the Charles,--and the capital of the
province removed to its ancient rival, Salem.
The news of the billeting of the troops on Boston, and the removal of
the capital to Salem, came with a shock to Westings House. It came in
a copy of the _Connecticut Gazette_, delivered at Mistress Mehitable's
dinner-table while she and Barbara were entertaining Doctor John and
Doctor Jim, Squire Gillig, and the Reverend Jonathan and Mrs. Sawyer.
It had been a gay repast, but when Mistress Mehitable, craving
indulgence by reason of the times, read out the Boston news, a cloud
descended upon the company. Squire Gillig began to say something
bitter, forgetful of Mistress Mehitable's sentiments, but was stopped
by a level stare from the Reverend Jonathan Sawyer's authoritative
eyes. Then Doctor John spoke--no longer droll and jibing, but with the
gravity of prescience, and turning by instinct to his brother.
"Jim! Jim!" said he, "this is going to mean _war_. I see it! I see
it! The people will not stand much more,--and more is coming, as sure
as my name's John Pigeon. Your precious king's gone mad. He's going
to force it on us!"
Doctor Jim shook his great head sorrowfully. "I am sorry for this,
John. I think the king is not well advised in this--on my word I do.
It is too harsh, too sudden. But the people won't fight. They may
riot, and talk,--but they won't fight. We are too strong for you,
John. There will be no war. That would be absurd!"
"There will be war!" repeated Doctor John, still looking into his
brother's eyes. The two men had forgotten every one else. "There will
be war, if not this year, the next. The people will fight,--and that
soon!"
"Then the people will be beaten, and that soon, John!" retorted Doctor
Jim, firmly, but in a low voice.
"The king's armies will be beaten, Jim! You mark my words! But it is
going to be a terrible thing! A horrible and unrighteous thing! There
will be dividing of houses, Jim!"
There were several seconds of silence, a heavy, momentous silence, and
Barbara held her breath, a strange ache at her throat. Then Doctor Jim
brought down his fist upon the table, and cried in his full voice:
"A dividing of houses, maybe,--but not a dividing of hearts, John
Pigeon, never a dividing of hearts, eh, what? eh, what?"
He reached out his hand across the table, and Doctor John seized it in
a mighty grip. The long years of love and trust between them spoke
suddenly in their strong, large faces.
"No, never a dividing of hearts, Jim, in the days that are to come,
when our swords go different ways, and we see each other not for a
time!"
Then their hands dropped apart, and both laughed uneasily, as they
glanced with a shamefaced air about the table.
"Tut! Tut!" said Doctor John. "That precious king of yours bids fair
to make life damnably serious, Jim. Send him away from the table at
once!"
But the diversion came too late; for Barbara was weeping heedlessly,
and Mistress Mehitable, with her white chin quivering, was dabbing her
handkerchief to her eyes with an air of vexation at her own weakness;
while good Mrs. Sawyer gazed at them both in wide-eyed, uncomprehending
wonder.
"If there's a war," sobbed Barbara, "_you sha'nt_ go to it, either of
you! We need you, _here_. And--and--you'd both get killed, I know!
You're both so splendid and big and tall,--and you wouldn't--take care
of yourselves, and the bullets _couldn't_ miss you!"
At this picture Mistress Mehitable grew pale, where she had been red,
and cast a frightened look at Doctor Jim, then at Doctor John,--then
back at Doctor Jim.
"Barbara's right, I think," she said, with an air of having weighed the
question quite dispassionately. "You should not leave your patients,
on any account. There are so many men who can destroy life, so few who
can save it. Physicians have no right to go soldiering."
"That's just it, honey!" cried Barbara, flashing radiant eyes through
her tears. "Oh, what a wise little Aunt Hitty you are! What would we
ever do without you!" And her apprehensions laid themselves obediently
to rest.
"Well, well!" cried Doctor Jim. "What are two graceless old dogs like
us, that the dear eyes of the fairest of their sex should shed tears on
our account? We should go and kick each other up and down the length
of Second Westings for the rest of the afternoon, for causing such
precious tears,--eh, what, John Pigeon?"
"'Tis the least we can do, Jim!" said Doctor John. "But now I come to
think of it, we needn't arrange to go to the war before there's a war
to go to, after all."
"And when the war does come, you'll both stay right here, where you
belong!" decreed Barbara, holding the question well settled.
"Who knows what may happen?" cried Doctor Jim. "You stiff-necked
rebels may experience a change of heart, and then where's your war?"
"Barbara, sweet baggage," said Doctor John, wagging his forefinger at
her in the way that even now, at her nineteen years, seemed to her as
irresistibly funny as she had thought it when a child, "I cannot let
this anxiety oppress your tender young spirit. Set your heart at rest.
If there be war, Jim Pigeon may go a-soldiering and get shot as full of
holes as a colander, and I'll do my duty by staying at home and looking
after his patients. There'll be a chance of some of them getting well,
then! I've never yet had a fair chance to save Jim Pigeon's patients.
_I_ won't desert a lovely maiden in distress, to seek the bubble
reputation at the cannon's mouth!"
"How can you lie so shamelessly, John Pigeon?" demanded Doctor Jim.
"I'll lay you a barrel of Madeira you'll be leaning against the butt of
a musket before I am!"
"Done!" said Doctor John.
"I think you are both perfectly horrid!" cried Barbara.