Barbara Ladd

"Good for John Pigeon!" cried Glenowen, his eyes aglow.

Then there was a heavy stillness on the air, such as that which sometimes portends an earthquake, and neither looked at Robert. Robert's face was very grave, but inspiration came to him, and he said exactly the right thing.

"How lonely Doctor Jim and Mistress Mehitable must be! Second Westings must be perfectly desolate!"

The danger was averted. He had dwelt, not upon the point of difference, but the point of sympathy; and the difference sank again out of sight.

"Oh," murmured Barbara, "I almost feel as if I ought to go back to Aunt Hitty!"

"I know! But you can't, very well, sweetheart! For which I am most thankful!" said Glenowen, promptly.

"And Mistress Mehitable has Doctor Jim," said Robert. "We need you more than she does, dearest lady!"

With all the country seething as it was, nowhere else, perhaps, save in New York, would it have been possible to keep up so long the pretence of harmony between opposing factions. New York was full of "Moderates," men no less determined to resist the tyranny of Parliament than to retain the supremacy of the Crown. Extremes were thus held in check; and men met in apparent social harmony whose opinions, once put in practice, would have hurled them at one another's throats. But to the little company resorting at the old Dutch house on State Street there entered now a new element of disruption.

At a dance Barbara had met a slender, dark youth, a student at King's College, who had made himself prominent by his radical eloquence at a great mass-meeting of the Continental party. His scholarly breadth of thought, combined with almost fanatical zeal, delighted her. And he had the uncommon merit of expressing unforgettably the very views she herself had long maintained. They became too interested in conversation to dance; and from that evening Mr. Alexander Hamilton came often to Glenowen's lodgings. He was a mere boy in years, but Glenowen felt his power at once, – and even Robert, who was not unnaturally prejudiced, was too honest not to admit that Barbara's young Mr. Hamilton was a very remarkable and accomplished youth.

Understanding the sharp divergence of opinion in the little circle, Hamilton kept a curb upon his tongue save at convenient seasons. But to his eager and convicted spirit this soon became too difficult. One evening, when there were none to hear him but Barbara, Robert, and Glenowen, the torrent of his boyish ardour overflowed. He depicted the momentous changes toward which each fateful hour was hurrying them. He declared it was no more than a matter of days ere all America would be in the throes of a righteous revolution. He prophesied the birth of a great republic, that should establish Liberty in her New World home, and scourge kings, thrones, and tyrannies into the sea. Glenowen had looked at him warningly, but in vain. Barbara, troubled at first, grew suddenly hot and resentful at the thought that Robert should be blind to the splendid dream. She applauded aggressively.

Robert's brows were knit, but he had no emotion save distress.

"I pray you pardon me, dear lady, and you, Mr. Glenowen, if I take my departure at once," said he, at the first pause. "Knowing my sentiments as you both do, fully, you will understand that I could not in honour stay and listen to such doctrines as these of Mr. Hamilton's and not oppose them with all my force."

He bent over Barbara's hand, but she petulantly snatched it away without letting him kiss it. Then, having shaken hands heartily with Glenowen, and bowed stiffly to Hamilton, he withdrew in great trouble of mind, feeling that now, in truth, had come to an end the truce between his honour and his love. He walked the streets half the night, and in the morning, white and dejected, but determined to know the worst at once, he went around to State Street at the earliest moment permissible after breakfast. Barbara received him coldly. But he made haste to face the issue.

"Surely, dearest lady, you see that I had no alternative but to go!" he pleaded. "I could not quarrel with him, seeing that he was your guest. Yet I could not sit and listen to his treason!"

"I think the same treason as he uttered, if treason it be! And utter it, too, when I see fit!" said Barbara.

"That's different!" said Robert, and paused.

It was on Barbara's lips to ask, "How? – Why?" but she refrained, lest she should complicate the discussion.

"That's different," he repeated, "because you are a woman, and because I love you. But indeed, my lady, I intended no discourtesy to Mr. Hamilton. If discourtesy there were, surely it was his. I would not have attacked what he holds sacred. Yet my sentiments are not less well known than his. He knew that I was pledged to the king's side."

Barbara bit her lips hard. This was just what she had taken such pains not to know. Her heart was bitter enough against him for his views themselves; it was still more bitter against him now for forcing her to confess knowledge of those views.

"A little discourtesy, one way or the other, what would that matter?" she asked, scornfully. "There's just one thing that matters to me now, Robert. War is coming. Have you chosen your side?"

"My side has chosen me, dear lady!" he answered, sorrowfully.

"Listen, Robert," she went on, "I have tried not to know that you hold opinions which I hate, and loathe, and despise. It means everything to me, when I say I love my country and hate the enemies of my country. I believe in patriotism."

"And I believe, also, in honour and loyalty, oh, my dearest lady!"

"Your own stupid ideas of honour and loyalty!" cried Barbara, with fierce impatience. "I tell you, Robert, the enemy of my country cannot be my friend."

"But if I am the enemy of your country, so is Doctor Jim!" protested Robert.

Barbara flushed with annoyance. She did not like an unanswerable argument.

"I love Doctor Jim!" she shot back at him, with cruel implication.

"And I love you, Barbara!" answered Robert, also with meaning. She tossed her head scornfully.

"A fig for such love!" she cried. "Years ago, when you were just a boy, and could not have your opinions fixed" ("About the age of your Mr. Hamilton!" he interjected, rashly), "I remember asking you, for my sake, to teach yourself the right things, Robert, and join our side, and be faithful to your own country. What do you do? It's not as if it were a mere difference of opinion, – but I am right! I am with all the great and wise of old, who have taught that patriotism is a man's highest duty. Yet what have you done, Robert? You vow you love me! Indeed! And you prefer a stupid, far-off, half-crazy tyrant, whom you call your king, and whom you have never seen, to your country, which has borne and cherished you – and to me!"

"Oh, Barbara!" cried Robert, desperately. "What are king or country, what are heaven and earth, to me, compared with you? But what would my love be worth to you if, for the sake of my own happiness, I could be a rebel and a traitor? Should I be worthy to love you, despising myself? What would you think of me, if I could sell my honour at your bidding!"

"I think our ideas of honour are different, Robert!" retorted Barbara. "But I am not going to quarrel with you now. I am disappointed in you, that's all. And you need not expect that after this we are going to be such friends as we have been. Remember that. But – you may come and see us sometimes, of course; and I will dance with you sometimes, of course – if you ask me! Only – it is all so different!" and she could not choke down a little weary sigh.

Robert was on his knees in an instant, kissing her hands; but she repulsed him resolutely.

"No, you have chosen for yourself," she said, not unkindly. "It hurts me, truly. But I mean what I say! Now, you must go, for I have much to do before dinner. Good-bye!"

CHAPTER XXIX

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: