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' _you_
be, 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: "_You_ call 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.