Barbara Ladd

Presently Doctor John felt hot tears streaming copiously down his fingers. Without a word, he snatched her up into his arms, carrying her as if she were a baby; and shaking with voiceless sobs, she buried her small, wet face in his comforting neck. She felt as if she wanted to cry wildly, deliciously, for hours and hours. But she managed to remember that even a very small girl may be heavy to carry over a rough road in the dusk, when the man who carries her has had a hard day's work chasing her. And, furthermore, she thought how very, very little, how poor and pitiful a heroine she would seem in Robert's eyes if he should chance to remember her existence and look back! She pulled herself together with a fierce effort, and choked down her sobs.

"Thank you so much, dear Doctor John!" she whispered in his ear. "I'm better now, and you must put me down. I'm too heavy."

"Tut, tut, sweetheart!" growled Doctor John, softly; "you bide where you are, and rest. You heavy!"

"But," – she persisted, with a little earthward wriggle to show she meant it, – "I want to get down now, please! I don't want to look like quite such a baby. Doctor John!"

"Tut, tut!" but he set her down, nevertheless, and kept comforting hold of one cold little hand. Doctor John was quick in his sympathetic comprehension of women and children, and tolerant of what most men would account mere whim. In a moment he leaned down close to her ear, and whispered:

"What are you but a baby, after all, – a tired out, bad baby, sweetheart? But we'll just keep that a secret between you and me, and not let Jim Pigeon or Master Robert even guess at it!" And Barbara squeezed his hand violently in both of hers by way of answer.

At this moment, Doctor Jim and Robert, reaching the corner of the street, turned and waited for them to come up. Doctor Jim had Barbara's precious basket of kittens on his arm, while Robert was carrying her little red bundle, which he now handed over to Doctor John. A certain reluctance with which he gave it up was quite lost upon Barbara in her unwonted humility and depression; and it was a very white, wistful little face which she turned glimmeringly upon him as he bowed over her hand.

"Why are you leaving us here, Robert?" she asked, in a small voice, most unlike the wilful tone with which she had talked to him in the canoe.

"My way lies down the street, sweet mistress," said the boy. "Your horses, Doctor Jim tells me, are waiting for you at the Blue Boar yonder. This has been a wonderful day for me. When you think of it, will you try to remember me kindly as one who would ever be your most devoted, humble servant?"

Delighted by this elaborate courtesy, so rehabilitating to her self-esteem, Barbara began to feel herself almost herself again. She thought, with a sudden prickling heat of shame, of how childish she had been during all the past year, – and she almost fifteen! And here was Robert, who was certainly very grown-up, treating her with a deference which he would never dream of paying to a mere little girl! She resolved to justify his deference, to conceal her pet childishnesses till time should mature them away; yet even as she registered this resolve, she registered a vague but deeper one, that she would cling for ever to every childish taste and pleasure in spite of the very utmost that time could do. But the feeling that came uppermost and found expression was a sharp little pang at something in his words which sounded as if he were bidding farewell for a long, indefinite time.

"But I shall see you again soon, sha'n't I, Robert?" she exclaimed, impulsively. "You'll come over to Second Westings right away, won't you, and meet Uncle Bob?"

"Yes," said the boy, bowing low again, and speaking with a mixture of hesitation and triumph, "I am promising myself that pleasure, Mistress Barbara, within a very few days. You see – Doctor Jim – he has been so kind – "

"To be sure," broke in Doctor Jim, with an emphasis to preclude any discussion of consistency, – "I've asked the lad over to visit us, John. Richard's son! – And his heart's in the right place, – and his head, too, – eh, what? We'll see that Mistress Mehitable is not too hard on him, – eh, what? You know you're not going to be too hard on the boy yourself, John Pigeon, for all you've been so uncommonly unpleasant to him!"

Doctor John chuckled softly, and squeezed Barbara's left hand, which he had retained while she was receiving Robert's adieux.

"Tut, tut, Jim! You know well enough we've got to pardon anything in breeches, young or old, that gets led into mischief by this little limb o' darkness here. It's a peck of trouble she's been getting you and me into, time and time again. You needn't make excuses for Robert to me, Jim Pigeon. At least, not yet!"

"Thank you, sir," said Robert, a little stiffly, not relishing a pleasantry at Barbara's expense, though Barbara herself had broken into a peal of gay laughter, flattered at Doctor John's implications, and comforted to know that Robert was not slipping beyond her reach. "Thank you, indeed, sir; but I have no excuse; I was fully committed to Mistress Barbara's venture, and I'm just as much to blame as she is!"

Barbara's heart glowed. This was the kind of unreasonable championship she adored. But truth compelled her to protest.

"Oh, no, no, Robert, not at all! It wasn't you that ran away from Aunt Hitty, and took the canoe, and persuaded a nice, civil gentleman whom you'd never seen before in your life to do a perfectly crazy thing like you read of in story-books – " But, as she paused for breath, Doctor Jim, too impatient to be amused, interrupted her:

"Well, well, Robert, you and Barbara can settle all that between you some other time. We must get away. Good night – good night. My best compliments to your honoured grandmother! And ride over the first day you can, lad!"

And Doctor John, shaking his head sorrowfully, exclaimed:

"Tut, tut, tut! How small a petticoat can turn how great a brain! I see trouble ahead for you, Bobby!"

"I shall be so glad to see you at my aunt's, Robert!" cried Barbara, over her shoulder, as they moved up the street toward the Blue Boar and the waiting horses. Robert, standing hat in hand, gazed after them till they were swallowed up in the shadows. Still he waited, till a pulse of light across the gloom and the sound of the inn door closing told him that he was alone under the night. Then, suddenly, he became conscious of the lonely, wonderful night sounds, and suddenly the night perfumes sank into his heart. The spicy breaths from the clover field and blossoming thicket, cooled with dew, gave him a strange intoxication as he drew them into the depths of his lungs. The pulsing rhythm of the whippoorwill seemed to time itself to the pulsing of his heart and translate it to the terms of an impassioned, inarticulate chant. The plucked harp-strings sounding from time to time in the hidden heights of the sky set all his nerves vibrating mystically. Walking as if in a dream, he came to the door of the cottage where he had planned to stay the night. Then he turned on a swift impulse, hurried back to the landing, launched Barbara's canoe, and, without consciousness of weariness or hunger, paddled all the way back to Gault House against the current.

CHAPTER XI

From Second Westings that morning, after old Debby's alarm, Doctor John and Doctor Jim had came posthaste on horseback to Westings Landing. Now, however, it was found that Barbara was quite too worn out by the fatigues of her long, strenuous day to sit a horse for a ten mile's ride over rough roads in the dark. Priding herself not less on her endurance than on her horsemanship, she vehemently repudiated the charge that she was done up, and was determined to ride back on the liveliest of the Blue Boar's horses. But Doctor John and Doctor Jim, scanning critically her white face and the dark rims coming about her eyes, for once agreed in a professional judgment. They ordered the horses hitched to the roomy old chaise, which was one of the landlord's most cherished possessions; and Barbara had to accept, rebelliously enough, the supineness of a cushioned seat for the free lift and swing of the saddle. Before the lighted doorway of the inn was out of sight, however, she was glad of the decision. Her overwrought nerves began to relax under the soothing of the wood scents and the tender summer dark. In a little while she was asleep in the strong curve of Doctor Jim's right arm, – so deep asleep that all the ruts and jolts and corduroy bridges of an old Connecticut back-country road were powerless to disturb her peace. When they woke her up, at her aunt's door, she was so drenched with sleep that she forgot to dread the reckoning. With drowsy, dark eyes, and red mouth softly trustful as a baby's, she bewildered Mistress Ladd by a warm kiss and "I'm sorry, Aunt Hitty!" and went stumbling off to bed with her basket of sleeping kittens, oblivious and irresponsible as they.

Mistress Mehitable looked after her with small, stern mouth, but troubled eyes. Then she turned half helplessly to her friends, as if to say, "What can I – what ought I to do?"

Doctor John threw up both big, white hands in mock despair, and his sympathetic laugh said, "What do you expect?" But Doctor Jim, more direct and positive, said, "Best leave her alone till to-morrow, Mehitable; and then talk to her with no talk of punishing. She's not the breed that punishing's good for."

Mistress Mehitable looked sorrowful, but resolute.

"I fear that would not be right, Jim!" she said. But there was a note of deep anxiety in her voice. "People who do wrong ought to be punished. Barbara has done very, very wrong!"

Doctor Jim was as near feeling impatient as he could dare to imagine himself with Mistress Mehitable.

"Nonsense – I mean, dear lady, punishment's not in itself one of our numerous unpleasant duties. It's a means to an end, that's all. In this case, it just defeats your end. It's the wrong means altogether. Therefore – pardon me for saying it to you, Mehitable – it's wrong. It's hard enough to manage Barbara, I know, but to punish her, or talk to her of punishing, makes it harder still, eh, what?"

"Don't let your conscience trouble you, Mehitable," said Doctor John. "I'm thinking the little maid will manage to get for herself, full measure and running over, all the punishment that's coming to her. She's not the kind that punishment overlooks."

Was there a suspicion of criticism in all this? Could it be that John Pigeon and Jim Pigeon, her lifelong cavaliers, in whose sight all she did was wont to seem perfection, whose unswerving homage had been her stay through many an hour of faintness and misgiving, were now, at last, beginning to admit doubts? Two large tears gathered slowly in the corners of Mistress Mehitable's blue eyes, the resolution fled from her mouth, and her fine lips quivered girlishly. She twisted her shapely little hands in her apron, then regained her self-control with an effort.

"Dear friends," said she, "I fear I have made a sad failure of the duty which I so confidently undertook. I thought I could surely do so much for her, – could so thoroughly understand Winthrop's child. But that foreign woman – that strange blood! There is the trouble. That is what baffles all my efforts. Oh, perhaps it is partly my fault, too. Perhaps the child was right in the very singular letter she left for me, saying – just as if she were a grown woman and had the same rights as I had – that the trouble was that we could not understand each other! Oh, I fear I am not the right woman to have the care of Barbara!"

"You are the rightest woman in the world, Mehitable!" thundered Doctor Jim, in explosive protest against this self-accusation. "The rightest woman in the world to have the care of any man, woman, or child that ever lived."

"Jim Pigeon's right, Mehitable, as he usually is, outside of medicine and politics," declared Doctor John. "The little maid will be ready enough some day, I'll warrant, to acknowledge how lucky she was in having her Aunt Hitty to care for her. But here in Second Westings we are not just at the centre of things exactly, and it may be we get into ruts, thinking our ways are the only ways. Shall we try new ways with this very difficult little maid, Hitty?"

Mistress Mehitable brushed off the tears which had overflowed, and held out a hand to each of the big brothers.

"You are the best friends a woman ever had," she averred with conviction; "and if you both disagree with me, I must be wrong. It shall be your way to the best of my power. After you've had the horses put up, come back here and I'll have a hot bite ready for you. But – oh, I do wish Winthrop had married among his own people!"

"It is late, dear lady, and you are tired after your anxieties," said Doctor Jim. "But, nevertheless, since you are so gracious, we will soon return, – eh, what, John? – for a bowl of that hot sangaree which Mehitable's fair hands know how to brew so delicately."

"Don't misunderstand Jim, Mehitable," said Doctor John, as the two withdrew. "The comfort of your punch is nothing to us as the comfort of your presence. Had you ever consented to make one man happy, how miserable would you have made others, Mehitable!"

There was deep meaning and an old reproach under Doctor John's tender raillery; and Mistress Ladd's cheeks flushed as she stood a few moments motionless, alone in her low-ceiled, wide parlour. She was convicted of failure at every point. Well she knew how happy she might have made either one of the big-limbed, big-hearted brothers, had she not shrunk from making the other miserable. And she had never been able to decide which was the dearer to her heart; for, though she was apt to turn first to Jim in any need, or any joy, the thought of pain for John was ever hard for her to endure. Her heart was very full as she set about preparing the brew which they both loved: and before they came she stole noiselessly up-stairs to the room over the porch, and softly kissed the dark, unrepentant waves of the sleeping Barbara's hair.

CHAPTER XII

It was late morning when Barbara awoke – so late that she saw, by the position of the square of sunshine on the wall beyond her bed, that the hour for breakfast was over. Her first vague waking sense was one of joy to come, which she presently caught and fixed as the knowledge that her Uncle Bob would soon be with her. Then a great flood of depression rolled over her, blotting out the joy, as she remembered that she had Aunt Hitty yet to reckon with. To make matters worse, she had slept past breakfast time, – which was almost an immorality in that punctual household. A lump came up in her throat, and tears ached behind her eyes, for she had meant to try so hard to make up, – and now she had gone and sinned again. She shut her eyes tight, and made a determined effort to regain hold of the sleepiness which still drenched and clouded her brain. This effort was too much, and on the instant the last vestige of her drowsiness cleared away, and her brain grew keen as flame. She sat up, determined to face the conflict and get it over.

As she sat up, her eyes fell upon the little table by her bedside, whereon she was wont to keep her candle, her filagreed bottle of lavender water, her much marked copy of Sir Philip Sidney's sonnets, and her Bible, which was thumbed chiefly at Isaiah, Ecclesiastes, and the Song of Solomon. Her eyes opened very wide as she saw there now, – event unprecedented and unbelievable, – a little tray with white linen napkin. On the tray were a glass and a jug of milk, a plate of the seed-cakes which she particularly loved, a big slice of barley bread, and a bowl of yellow raspberries. She stared for half a minute, and rubbed her eyes, and thought. Abby, certainly, could not have done it. She would neither have dared nor cared to. Then – it was Aunt Hitty, – and after the way she had treated her, – and after that cold, hateful letter! She reached out a doubtful hand and touched the bread and berries. She started to eat a seed-cake, but it stuck in her throat, quite unable to get past a certain strange, aching obstruction, which had gathered there all at once. Tears suddenly streamed down her face; and springing impulsively out of bed, she ran, barefooted and in her white nightgown, straight to the little bow-windowed sewing-room, where she knew that at this hour her aunt would be busy with the needle.

Mistress Mehitable had just time to thrust aside her needle and the fine fabric she was fashioning before Barbara flung herself into her arms, sobbing passionately. The good lady's heart warmed in response to this outburst, and she held Barbara close to her breast, whispering, "There, there, dearie, we just won't talk about it at all! We'll just try hard to understand each other better in the future!"

At the same moment, while her eyes were filling with tears, she could not help a whimsical thought of what Doctor John would say. "He would say," – she said to herself at the back of her brain, – "'Seed-cakes may save a soul quicker than switchings, Mehitable!'" Mistress Mehitable's earnest mind had no apprehension of humour save as it reached her by reflection from Doctor John or Doctor Jim.

Presently Barbara found her voice.

"Forgive me, Aunt Hitty, forgive me!" she sobbed.

Mistress Mehitable held her a little closer by way of reply.

"I'm not worth your while, Aunt Hitty – I'm not one bit worth all the trouble you take for me – I'm nothing but a wretched little reptile, Aunt Hitty, – and I just wonder you don't hate and despise me!"

"There, there, dear," murmured Mistress Mehitable, patting her hair. She was sure of her feelings, but could not be quite sure that words would rightly express them at this crisis. If she talked, she knew she might say the wrong thing. She'd leave it all to Barbara, and be safe at least for the moment.

"I knew how bad I was," continued Barbara, justifying the statement by remembrance of some brief and scattered moments of self-questioning. "I knew how bad I was, but I couldn't say so, and I never, never knew how lovely you could be, Aunt Hitty! I was so dreading to see you this morning, – and then, oh, you just brought me the seed-cakes, and the yellow raspberries, and never said one word!"

As she dwelt on this magnanimity, Barbara's sobs broke forth afresh.

"There, there, dear," murmured Mistress Mehitable again, and kissed her tenderly, still refusing to be drawn from her intrenchments, but deeply rejoicing in the triumph of her new strategy.

"To think – why, I never really knew you till now, Aunt Hitty!" and Barbara hugged her with swift vehemence. "When I saw the things by my bed, and thought of you stealing in and putting them there, and stealing out without waking me, – oh, Aunt Hitty, I thought such a lot all in one instant, and I knew you couldn't have done that, after me being so bad, unless you loved me, – could you?"

"Indeed I couldn't!" answered Mistress Ladd, with conviction.

"And you will really and truly forgive me?" persisted Barbara.

This was a direct challenge, and Mistress Mehitable was too honest not to come forth and meet it. She gently pushed Barbara off, and held her so she could look straight into her fearless young eyes.

"I really and truly forgive you – and love you, Barbara!" she said. "And" – she continued, with a slight hesitancy, in an instant's resolve achieving a resolution, – "I ask you to forgive me for my misunderstandings of you, and all my many mistakes."

"Why, Aunt Hitty!" exclaimed Barbara, too tender in her mood to agree with these self-accusations, but too honest to contradict.

"I have failed to realise how, being so different from other girls, you required different treatment from other girls," went on Mistress Mehitable, firmly abasing herself. "I thought there was only one right mould, and I must try to force you into it, however much the effort should hurt us both, dear. I have been blind, very blind, and wrong. In this remote little world of ours, Barbara, we get into ruts, and come to think that the only way is our way."

Barbara's eyes were glowing with enthusiasm. She had discovered Aunt Kitty's heart, – and now she was discovering a breadth and insight which she could never have believed possible in that competent but seemingly restricted brain. If Aunt Hitty could thus lift herself to look beyond the atmosphere of Second Westings, and to understand people different from those she had always been used to, she must be a very great woman. Barbara's eyes flamed with the ardour of her appreciation. She did not know what to say, but her expression was eloquent.

"That's a quotation from Doctor John," said the conscientious Mistress Mehitable, suddenly afraid from Barbara's glowing look that she was getting more credit than her due. "But I have become convinced of its truth."

"How wise and good you are, Aunt Hitty! I'll never, never misunderstand you again!" cried Barbara, rashly, breaking down Mistress Mehitable's guard, and once more hugging her with vehemence.

Mistress Mehitable smiled, gratified but doubtful. She was surprised at her own unexpected appreciation of Barbara's demonstrativeness and warmth, so unlike anything that had ever before invaded the cool sphere of her experience. She felt it her duty, however, to qualify Barbara's extravagant expectations, not realising that what the impetuous girl intended to express was rather a hope than a conviction.

"We hardly dare expect quite that, dear," she said, gently. "But at least we can agree to trust each other's good intentions. We can promise that, can't we?"

"Of course, I'll always trust you now, Aunt Hitty, since I've seen your lovely heart!" exclaimed Barbara, with flattering fervour.

"I have failed to realise," continued Mistress Mehitable, "that you are no longer a little girl, but very nearly a grown woman. Many girls are grown women at your age, Barbara, so that I have decided on something that will surprise you. From this time forward, I shift my responsibility for you largely to your own shoulders, and shall hope to be more your friend than your guardian. I hand you over to yourself, Barbara. You must learn to discipline yourself!"

Barbara slipped down to the floor, and leaned against her aunt's knee, her dark, small face grown very thoughtful.

"All I dare say, Aunt Hitty," she said, slowly, weighing her words with unwonted care, "is that I'll try with all my might. But I warn you that you are leaving me in very bad hands. I want to be good, but sometimes I can't help being bad!"

"Well," said Mistress Mehitable, with a curious reflex of Doctor John's humour, "you'll have to punish yourself after this. I warn you that you must not look to me for punishment after this!"

Barbara's eyes got very wide, and danced; and she gave a little shriek of delight, such as that with which she was wont to greet Doctor John's whimsical sallies.

"Why, Aunt Hitty," she cried, clapping her hands, "you said that just like Doctor John!"

Mistress Mehitable flushed faintly, and laughed like a girl. She stooped over and kissed Barbara fairly on the mouth. Then she arose rather hurriedly.

"I have often wished I could make myself in many ways more like those two great-hearted gentlemen!" she said.

Barbara remained sitting upon the floor. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she stared out of the window.

"They are perfectly dear," she agreed, without reservation, "Isn't it splendid that they love us so, Aunt Hitty?"

"I'm going to the still-room now," said Mistress Mehitable, moving toward the door. "I put in the bergamot just before breakfast."

"I'll come and help you in a little while, – dear!" said Barbara, suddenly realising the changed relations, and suddenly making practical application of it. That caressing, equal, half-protecting "dear" sounded strange to Mistress Mehitable. It gave her something of a shock, yet she was not sure she didn't like it. It made her feel less alone than of old. She appeared not to notice it, however, merely saying before she vanished:

"If I'm not in the still-room, I'll be down the back garden, gathering herbs. The lemon-thyme's in flower, if you're going to distill any more of your 'Maryland Memories.' Uncle Robert might like a flask of it."

"Lovely," said Barbara, dreamily. "We will make him some. I'll hurry."

But for a few minutes she did not hurry at all. Her rich, rebellious hair all down about her vivid face, her thin little shapely feet peeping out from under the frills of her white nightgown, she sat in the square of sunshine and pondered. Since she fled away yesterday morning, what a change had come about! She felt as if that wild and foolish adventure was years behind her. A certain vague sense of responsibility oppressed her, a responsibility to herself hitherto unacknowledged. She made the momentous resolve that she would learn to know herself a little, as a step to enabling other people, Robert Gault and Aunt Hitty in particular, to understand her. She got up and scrutinised herself keenly in the glass.