Barbara was as good as her word. From this time forward through that
portentous fall and disastrous winter, she never let Robert forget that
the old footing of familiar friendship was no longer his. She began to
make a difference, too,--slight but appreciable,--toward all the
declared Tories among her followers. She was bound to show some
consistency toward Robert. And moreover, her fiery and dissatisfied
heart was growing restless for the breach that all saw coming but all
strove to postpone. Oh, she thought, let the cruel line be drawn,--let
the make-believe end,--let us know our friends and enemies apart,--let
the suspense be done, be done! And--let me get back home to Second
Westings!
Meanwhile the half-mad king went on fashioning the hooks that were to
rend the race in twain,--and an insensate Parliament lent power to his
fatal hands,--and men like Chatham and Burke, Shelburne and Rockingham,
poured out impassioned eloquence in vain, pleading for justice to the
colonies. By mid-winter (the winter of 1775) it was plain to every one
that the king meant war, if that were the only way to bring the
colonies to their knees. Ten thousand troops were ordered to Boston,
and plans were laid for organising the Indians on the frontiers. In
the colonies, though few dared say it, all were making ready for the
struggle. On every hand there was drilling of militia and gathering of
the munitions of war. Only in New York, as it seemed, things moved as
usual, and the royal government remained in full force. As a matter of
fact, there were practically two governments going on side by side; for
the various "committees of safety" went about their ominous
preparations, and the governor well knew it would be unsafe to
interfere. The air became so tense with impending storm that people
seemed to hold their breath, and when they met their eyes questioned,
"Has it come?"
Then it came! And those who had longest and most preparedly waited
were most shocked. The bolt that fell was the news of Lexington and
Concord, of the king's troops,--disciplined, war-toughened, the bravest
in the world,--driven in wild rout before the sharp-shooting colonial
farmers. For five days of amazement men waited, expecting the bloody
vengeance that would come. But, instead of vengeance, came the word
that Boston was beleaguered, that Gage with his veteran regiments was
shut up tight in the city by ill-armed and unorganised countryside
militia. Straightway men drew breath again; and the undecided chose
their side; and masks were thrown away. Even New York, the prudent,
the divided, the long politic, proclaimed herself at last, threw off
the last empty forms of royal authority, and seized all military
supplies within her borders.
The glittering life, which had been to Barbara so gay an intoxication
all these months, now burst like a bubble, leaving her to realise how
hollow it had been. She had no regret for it, save as a help to
forgetting regrets. She was dissatisfied, and wanted Second Westings.
When, therefore, her uncle came to her, a few days after the news of
Bunker Hill, with word that he had accepted a commission under General
Washington, the newly appointed commander-in-chief of the Continental
forces, she was not greatly surprised or shocked. She had known all
along that Glenowen would be at the front. She had faced all the fear
of it, and taught herself to think only of the honour. Now, she turned
very pale, tried to smile encouragement, but sobbed instead, ran to him
and held him and kissed him.
"Of course, Uncle Bob! You must, I know. I will be brave about it, I
promise I will, and not worry you with any silliness!" she murmured at
last, finding her voice. "I wish _I_ were a man, so I could go with
you!"
"And a fiery little fighter you would make, sweetheart!" said Glenowen,
cheerfully. "But the immediate point is, since you can't go
a-soldiering with your old uncle, what shall we do with you? I leave
within a week for the general's headquarters at Cambridge."
"You will take me with you, and leave me at Second Westings, Uncle Bob,
with Aunt Hitty and Doctor Jim to keep me cheered up while you are
fighting!"
"That's the best plan, decidedly, Barbe, for more reasons than one," he
answered, suddenly grave. "But I don't think you can depend on Doctor
Jim for very long!"
"Why, where is he going?" queried Barbara, anxiously.
"Well, you know, he'll _choose_ to go wherever the Royalist volunteers
may be organising their forces; but if he did not choose, he'd probably
have no choice. Our Connecticut folk left many dead on Breed's Hill,
dear, and the Royalists are beginning to find their homes too hot for
them. I'm afraid Doctor Jim will be in peril of rough handling, with
his hot temper and his fearless tongue!"
"No one in Second Westings would _dare_ to be rude to Doctor Jim!"
cried Barbara, indignantly.
"You don't know what they will do, sweetheart, when they are stirred
out of their accustomed frame of mind. Besides, even if the Second
Westings lads should be mindful of their manners, there are the rougher
sort from the neighbouring villages to be thought of. _They_ owe no
allegiance to a Pigeon, or a Ladd either! It may be you will find
yourself a very necessary shield to Mistress Mehitable, even!"
"I should like to see them try to interfere with Aunt Hitty!" flamed
Barbara, setting her white teeth and flushing. "I'd shoot them, if
they _are_ patriots!"
Glenowen nodded approval, but counselled caution.
"You may need to be firm, girlie, but you'll need to be careful and
tactful too, or you may find yourself fighting on the wrong side!" he
laughed.
"Do you really mean to say that our people are beginning to attack the
Tories, just because they think they ought to stick to old King
George?" queried Barbara, her thought turning to Robert, whom she had
not seen or heard of for more than a week.
"That's inevitable," said Glenowen. "If we are to fight England, we
fight the Tories,--and the Tories with the more bitterness because we
feel that they ought to be with us. I've heard ugly talk already of
tar and feathers for some of our important men here. And they have
heard it themselves, and found that business called them urgently
elsewhere! Other of our Tory friends are getting up volunteer
companies,--a sort of counterblast to our militia battalions. I hear
talk, too, of forcibly disarming all our Tories,--especially on Long
Island, where they are as thick as hornets!"
"I suppose that's what Robert is doing--getting up a company to fight
against us! We've not seen him for a week!" said Barbara, with a
bitterness which her affected indifference failed to disguise.
"Exactly that! He is one of our most dangerous antagonists here!"
answered Glenowen, sadly. "He would have been seized days ago, to
prevent him doing more mischief; but he's so liked, and respected for
his fairness, by all of our party, that no one cares to take the
necessary action. He's the sort of man we want on our side!"
"He's as pig-headed as King George himself!" cried Barbara, hotly.
"No, he's true to his colours!" said Glenowen. "Only he can't see that
he has nailed them to the mast of the wrong ship!"
"I have no patience with him!" muttered Barbara, bitterly, after a
moment's silence.
"Did you ever have, dearie?" inquired Glenowen.
"What do you mean, Uncle Bob?"
"Forgive me, Barbe, if I speak plainly, these being times for plain
speaking!" said Glenowen. "Truly, I can't understand a man who loves
you being other than wax in your hands, you witch,--if you took the
trouble to manage him. That may sound cynical, but I hope not. It's
true. You owe Robert to our cause! We want him!"
Barbara looked down, her face scarlet and her lips quivering. Then she
faced her uncle bravely.
"I begin to fear I want him for myself, as much as for the cause, Uncle
Bob!" she confessed.
"It's not Cary Patten, then?" asked Glenowen.
Barbara smiled enigmatically. "Cary Patten is extremely charming!" she
answered. "But do you know, Uncle Bob, if Robert is still in town?"
"I think," said Glenowen, "I can say with confidence that he will get
away from the city to-morrow or next day,---for friends who love him,
in our party, will let him know the danger of remaining! One must make
such compromises sometimes, if one is a red-blooded human being and not
a bloodless saint!"
"Uncle Bob, I'm afraid you will never be a Lucius Junius Brutus!" said
Barbara.
"No, thank God!" cried Glenowen, with conviction.
"I'm so glad!" said Barbara, who was very human when she was not all
woman. "Brutus was right, I think! But I've always hated him!"
Then she turned to her scrutoir and wrote a cool little note to Robert,
asking him to come in and speak to her a moment the next morning.
At an hour almost unseemly Robert came, of course. And Barbara was
gracious to him. As if there had been no estrangement, she talked
frankly of Second Westings matters,--of Doctor John's service in the
siege of Boston, of Doctor Jim's danger because of his opinions, of
Mistress Mehitable's need of her presence at Westings House,--just as
if they were Robert's concern as well as hers. The gladness came back
to Robert's dark face, and for a moment he was forgetting the barrier
between them.
"And what are you doing, Robert? Is it not becoming a little dangerous
for you in New York now?" she asked, with gentle frankness.
"I am going away to-morrow, dearest lady," he answered, "lest your
fiery Continentals tie me up!"
"And I go back to Second Westings next week! And you were going away
without seeing me for good-bye?" asked Barbara, reproachfully. "Is
this the Robert that used to say he loved me a little?"
Robert looked at her in silence. "I adore the very ground that your
foot treads upon!" he said, presently, in a quiet voice.
"You love me just as much as you used to?" she inquired, almost
wistfully.
"As much!" he exclaimed, with scorn. "More and more, every day I
breathe. These months that you have treated me so cruelly have been
hell on earth. I don't see how I have lived through them."
"I, too, have not been very happy, Robert!" she acknowledged, softly.
"I believe I have needed you more than I thought. Do you know, I
almost think I might learn to care a great deal--perhaps all that a
woman can--if only, if _only_, dear Robert, there were not this
dreadful barrier between us? Oh, if you knew how I long to have you in
sympathy with the cause that all my heart is given to,--to talk it all
over with you, to hope and plan and look forward with you, in
comradeship and understanding! If you knew--but there, I see by your
obstinate mouth it is no use. I might as well pour out my heart
against a stone wall. _Nothing_ will soften you! _Nothing_ will
convince you! Love me? _You_ love me? You have no heart at all in
your breast! Nothing but a priggish theory!"
She burst into passionate, disappointed tears, flung herself down on
the sofa, and buried her face in the cushions.
Robert was in an anguish. His mouth was drawn and white. Why should
_he_ be called upon to face so hideous an alternative? Why must _he_
pay so appalling a price for loyalty, for fidelity, for honour? What
was this bourgeois tyrant in England, that the price of loyalty to him
should be the love of the woman who was dearer than heaven? Robert
felt a fierce hatred of the man George of England, who was so unworthy
of his kingship! He was mad to throw himself at Barbara's feet, and
tell her all his life was hers to do as she would with, to offer his
faith, loyalty, honour, a living sacrifice to her love, and bid her
send him to fight under whatever flag she called hers! But--he held
the madness in leash. The tough fibre of his will gave a little, but
would not break. The drops stood out on his forehead. But all he said
was:
"Beloved, beloved, I worship you. You are all I can dream of
womanhood. You are all of life, all of love, all of wonder and beauty
that the world can show. There is nothing my soul can ever desire but
you, you, you, wonderful one!" And he tried to take her hands from
under her wet face.
Through her sobs, Barbara had listened eagerly for one word that might
show a yielding. But there was no such word,--no sign that he even
realised that she had been offering her love as the incalculable price
that should purchase him to the service of his country. This
infinitely precious price,--he spurned it, then! Angry mortification
surged over her, mixed with a pain that clutched at her heart. The
humiliation of it--and the loss! She sat up suddenly.
"Go, go, go!" she cried, pointing to the door. "I don't want to ever
see you again. I hate you. I hate you. Go--at _once_!"
And then, as Robert made no move, and strove to plead once more, she
sprang to her feet, darted from the room, and fled up-stairs. He heard
her door close sharply,--like the cutting off of life, it seemed to
him. And he went away, walking rather blindly, and fumbling for some
moments at the hall door before he could find the latch. That same
evening he left New York.
It was hours before Barbara was herself again, so Glenowen had to dine
alone. Late in the afternoon, after having bathed her face back to
presentability, she dressed to go out for a sharp walk. When her
toilet was almost complete, word came up that Cary Patten was in the
drawing-room.
Now it was at least six weeks since Cary had last attempted to make
love to her, and in the meantime he had been altogether
charming,--attentive, deferential, full of enthusiastic ambition, and
vastly interesting in his large forecasts of what the thirteen colonies
would do with independence when they got it. Barbara, therefore, had
practically forgotten that he was ever in disgrace, and was unwilling
to refuse him admittance, little though it suited her mood to see him.
She went down at once and received him cordially.
Cary was in a mood of triumphant excitement, dashed with romantic
melancholy. He looked even straighter, taller, more broad-shouldered
and high-mettled than usual. His goldy-brown short hair had a crisper
curl, his candid blue eyes sparkled with joy and importance.
"Oh, I know! You needn't tell me!" cried Barbara, with hearty
sympathy. "Only one thing in the world could make your face shine as
it does now, Cary! You are ordered to the front!"
"You've guessed it, sweet mistress!" he cried, in a voice whose boyish
exultation would not be kept down. "My company is one of those chosen
by the Committee of Safety to go north. We march _to-morrow_! In a
few days we will be in the field--we shall be in the thick of it!"
"Oh, you are so fortunate, Cary!" responded Barbara. "Think what it
must be to be just a woman, and have to stay at home gnawing one's
heart, while others have the glorious joy of fighting for freedom!"
"Only one thing I need to make me happy as I go, sweet lady!" said he,
his voice tender, passionate, caressing. "It is bitter to leave you.
But I should go thrilling with happiness, to win fame that would make
you proud, or to die willingly for my country,--if I might go wearing
your favour, if I might go as--" but here he paused. Barbara's face
was cold and discouraging.
There was a moment of strained silence. Barbara felt a harsh
resentment at his persistence, and an added anger that it should be
thrust upon her on this day when her heart was so bitter sore. "Yet,"
she was arguing with herself, "the poor boy does love me. And, unlike
some others, he is going to fight on the right side, to shed his blood,
perhaps, for the land of his birth. Why should I not be a little kind
to him,--if he does not ask too much!" On a sudden generous and
pitying, if misleading, impulse, she took a ribbon from her throat and
gave it to him.
"There, boy," she said, gently, "take that, and don't ever say I was
not good to you! May it be a charm to ward off the bullet and the
steel!"
A glad light flashed into the lad's face. He went down on one knee and
kissed the hem of her skirt, crying something inarticulately. Then he
sprang up and seized her in his arms, and would have kissed her but
that she wrenched herself free with some violence.
"How dare you!" she cried, stamping her foot.
Cary looked crestfallen and bewildered.
"But, Barbara," he protested, blundering in his confusion, "don't you
love me? I thought--why--this dear ribbon--" and he held it out to her
appealingly.
Barbara's anger faded on the instant. She saw that in desiring to be
kind she had misled him. She held out her hand to him, and smiled, as
she said:
"Oh, truly, I'm sorry if I seemed rude, Cary. Forgive me. But, you
know, I _had_ to be rather hasty, or you would have kissed me. And I
couldn't let you kiss me, Cary, even though you are going to the war!"
"Why not, dear heart?" persisted he. "Am I not going as your chosen
cavalier? Have you not given me your favour?"
"Why, no--at least, not exactly that--" she stammered. "I thought you
_knew_, Cary, that I don't love you one bit! I've told you so over and
over again; and I've sent you away over and over again for bothering me
about it when I had told you not to! But I do like you, ever so much.
And I shall think of you, away fighting bravely--as I know you
will--for our sacred cause. And so, I gave you the
ribbon--because--because--you said it would make you a little happier
if you had something of the sort to take with you! Oh, please do try
to understand, Cary!" And she twisted her hands in distress.
Cary Patten was too much of a boy not to show all the bitterness of his
overthrow. He had been lifted up to the crest of triumph, and hurled
down disastrously. He had believed, when Barbara gave him her token,
that the victory, which his confident spirit had never doubted would be
his at last, had come at this high moment of his career. He was not
only desperately hurt, but sorely humbled. His mind worked rapidly,
seeking explanations. One passion after another chased itself over his
transparent face; till at length Barbara saw his features grow harder
and more mature than she had ever before seen them, and the poor little
ribbon was crumpled ruthlessly in his grip.
"I understand!" he exclaimed, fiercely, a strident tone in his voice
which was quite new to her. "It is that runaway Tory hound, that
traitor Gault, that--" and here he choked. "If he has not already run
away I shall settle the scoundrel to-night. I shall--"
"Silence, sir!" cut in Barbara. The tone, the look in her face,
brought the mad boy to his senses like a drenching in cold water. He
could have bitten off his tongue for the outburst.
"Mr. Gault _was_ my friend, and his name is entitled to respect in my
presence!" she went on. "And he _is_ a _gentleman_! Of you I should
have said the same thing--a few moments ago! Give me back my
ribbon--what you have left of it, Mr. Patten!"
"Oh, no! no! Forgive me!" Cary was crying, in abject penitence, even
while she spoke, at the same time thrusting the ribbon into his breast,
as if he feared that Barbara would take it by force. "I was crazy mad,
dear heart. I didn't know what I was saying. I take it all back. It
was not so. I know he is a gentleman and a brave man, if he _is_ a
traitor Tory. Surely you will forgive me, when you have broken my
heart--Barbara."
While he was speaking Barbara had moved away to the other side of the
table; but now, so dejected did he look, so humble, so repentant, and
withal so wholesomely boyish, that her heart softened once more, and
she came back.
"Yes, Cary, I will overlook it, and make allowance, because I see you
are sorry. And I am still truly your friend, and will think about you
when you are away. And I am sorry I did anything to make you
misunderstand me, so you _must_ give me back the poor little ribbon
that did the mischief."
"No, you surely can't be so cruel as that!" he pleaded. "I feel it
would be unlucky to give it back. Don't kill me, dear. Let me keep
the dear ribbon!"
Barbara hesitated. She wanted the ribbon back. The giving had been
spoiled for her. Her impulse was to insist. But events of late had
softened her, had given her more comprehension of feelings other than
her own,--had made her, indeed, a little less self-centred. She
crushed down her vexation.
"Well, keep it then, Cary,--and my friendship with it," she said,
gravely. "And to the blessing with which I blessed it for you, I add
many more,--that fame may come your way, and danger turn aside.
Good-bye!"