Read the book: «Barbara Ladd», page 17
CHAPTER XXXII
A few days after Doctor Jim's going, came the news that Washington had entered Boston, the troops of the king having given up the defence and sailed away to Halifax. Soon afterward there was bustle in Second Westings, and camp talk, and military swagger; for a portion of the army was moving down to New York, and many men had leave to visit their homes in passing; and some, who had enlisted for a short service, had come home to get in the crops before reënlisting; and some, grudging souls, had come home to stay, saying that it was now the time for others to sweat and bleed for their country.
Amid all this excitement, which had some effect even upon Mistress Mehitable, antagonistic though she was to it, the palely brilliant Connecticut spring rushed over the land with promise. Never before, it seemed, did the vanguards of the song-sparrows and thrushes so crowd the blowing thickets with melody; never before the bright hordes of the dandelions so suddenly and so goldenly over-flood the meadows. But to Barbara the iridescent glory was somehow more sad than gloom. The fact that her cause was everywhere prospering, that success had fallen to the Continental arms beyond anything that she had dared to hope, brought her no elation. She felt the sorrow that had come into Doctor John's life in spite of the big, whimsical gaiety with which he kept it covered up. She felt the fierce tugging at Mistress Mehitable's heart-strings, though that thoroughbred little lady never revealed, save by the dark eye-shadows of sleepless nights, the pangs it cost her to be deprived in a day of the lover whom she had been half a lifetime in finding out. Barbara felt, too, the absence of Doctor Jim, who seemed to her so big and boyish and reckless and unfit to take care of himself that he could not fail to get into trouble if not kept at home and mothered by small women like herself and Aunt Hitty. And most of all she felt the crushing uncertainty as to Robert.
When summer was approaching high tide, Second Westings grew quiet again, the soldiers being all called back to their colours to make ready the defences of New York. Then, by hard-riding express messengers, the tidings flew over the country that Congress at Philadelphia, on the fourth day of July, had declared independence, and set up a republic to be known as the "United States of America." Second Westings went wild with enthusiasm, and that night there was a terrific consumption of old tar barrels and dry brush. And there was a select little dinner at Squire Gillig's, to which Barbara and Doctor John felt in duty bound to go, – and from which Mistress Mehitable, with an equal devotion to duty, stayed away. She had taken the news gracefully enough, however, merely suggesting to Barbara and Doctor John that possibly all the rejoicing might turn out to be a little premature.
Thereafter it seemed to Barbara that events moved furiously, one piece of vital news following close upon the heels of its predecessor. Early in August came word that a great English army for the capture of New York was landing at Staten Island. Then, the first tidings of Robert, – reaching Barbara in a letter from her uncle, whose regiment was holding Brooklyn. Glenowen wrote that from certain neutrals, country-folk of Long Island, who had no party but their cabbage-patch, he had learned of both Robert Gault and Doctor Jim. Doctor Jim, as representing one of the oldest and most distinguished families of Connecticut, and himself widely known, had been attached to the staff of the English general, Sir William Howe, while Robert Gault, with the rank of captain, was in command of a troop of irregular Loyalist Horse. With the unspeakable relief that these tidings brought her, Barbara regained for a few days her old vivacity, imperiousness, and daring. She tore about the country wildly as of old, on horseback, – no longer, as a rule, on Black Prince, who had grown too sedate to fully fall in with her caprices, but on a fiery young sorrel which she had bought for herself, choosing it partly for its own qualities, and partly for its resemblance to Robert's old Narragansett pacer. She resumed her canoeing on the lake. She sang again her old plantation songs, to Doctor John's accompaniment and Mistress Mehitable's diversion. She put a new and gayer ribbon on the neck of the furry "Mr. Grim." She even remembered that the bergamot was in flower, and set herself with interest to the distilling of her half-forgotten "Water of Maryland Memories," laughing indulgently the while at the girlishly sentimental name of it. Meantime she was conscious of a curiously divided interest in the war, – conscious that her interest was divided in a fashion that would, a year ago, have seemed to her wicked and impossible. Just as passionately as ever was her heart set upon the triumph of her cause. But she felt an irrational desire that Robert and Doctor Jim should win each a splendid victory on his own account. She was full of pity that they should be on what she held the surely losing side, and she wanted some measure of glory to be theirs.
But the next news that came dashed her spirits. It told of the battle of Long Island, and the defeat of the Continentals by the ordered British lines. It told of the panic flight of patriot regiments. It told of General Washington's retreat from Long Island and entrenching of the army at New York. A few days later came a letter to Barbara from Glenowen, – whose regiment had stood firm and suffered heavily, – in which he said that he did not think it would be possible to hold New York with the troops at Washington's command, and that there would doubtless soon be a further retreat to some position beyond the Harlem. The letter made no mention of Doctor Jim, – which caused Barbara to remind Mistress Mehitable that no news was good news, – but it spoke with somewhat bitter praise of Robert Gault. It said that Robert's little squadron of mad Tories had gone through the Continental ranks like flame, irresistible and deadly, and had done more than anything else to cause the breaking of Putnam's lines. Robert had had his horse shot under him, and his hat shot off, but had himself, as report said, escaped without a scratch, though with a much diminished troop. As she was reading this out to Mistress Mehitable, all at once and to her deep mortification her scrupulously matter-of-fact voice thrilled and broke. Mistress Mehitable shot her a glance of swift understanding and sympathy, and then pretended that she had noticed nothing unusual. Barbara coughed, and went on. But her voice had become unmanageable. With an impatient gesture and a toss of her head she handed over the letter.
"You'll have to read it yourself, honey! It upsets me to hear of our poor fellows beaten like this!" she cried, hypocritically.
"Of course, dear, I quite understand!" replied Mistress Mehitable, keeping her eyes strictly upon the letter, that she might the more easily seem deceived.
A few days later, Glenowen's prediction was fulfilled, and the news that came to Second Westings was of Washington's hasty retreat from New York to the Harlem Heights, leaving his artillery and heavy baggage behind. Then for a month there was expectancy, and to Barbara in her quiet green land it seemed marvellous that the two armies could lie facing each other in this way, day after day, and not be stirred to decisive action. She wondered how their nerves could bear the strain of such waiting.
The bright September dragged by in drowsy fashion, and October ran on in its blue and golden-brown; and then the word that came was of yet another retreat. The British had enlarged their narrow borders, and Washington had drawn back to the line of the Bronx, where he fortified himself strongly so as to hold the roads leading inland. Would he never stop retreating, questioned Barbara, anxiously, echoing the cry that went up all over the infant Union. "I think not, dear!" responded Mistress Mehitable, cheerfully. But Doctor John, who understood the conditions, declared that this Fabian policy was the only sound one, while the Continental troops were getting seasoned and learning the arts of war. Even while this teaching was being digested, came word of the fierce battle of White Plains, where the two armies, in numbers closely matched, long held each other by the throat without decisive advantage. When, two days later, the Continentals again withdrew, this time to hasty entrenchments at New Castle, Doctor John had hard work to convince Barbara that this long-drawn-out and bloody struggle was not an American defeat. For days thereafter word kept coming in, telling of the losses on both sides, and supplying vivid details; and the blinds of mourning were drawn down in more than one modest Second Westings home. A brief message came from Glenowen, saying that he was safe and well. But of Doctor Jim no word; of Robert not a word. And Barbara and Mistress Mehitable durst not meet each other's eyes lest either should read therein, and cry aloud, the fear in the other's heart.
CHAPTER XXXIII
With the coming in of this tumultuous November, there came to Second Westings a few days of Indian summer magic. The moveless air seemed a distillation of dreams. The faint azure haze hung everywhere, soft yet cool, with an elusive fragrance as of clean smoke and fading roses and fresh earth-mould and lofts of grain. And on one of these consecrated days Barbara set out early in the morning to paddle across the lake and see old Debby.
As on a morning long ago, but not so early, she ran down the back garden path, and behind the barn, and climbed the pasture bars. This time she called to Keep; and the big mastiff, who now slept later than of old, came somewhat stiffly gamboling from his manger bed in the horse stable. She tripped along the pasture path, between the hillocks. She trod rapidly the black earth of the old wood-road, where the shadows were lighter now, and no sound broke the stillness save the eerie sigh and footfall of the dropping leaves. She launched the canoe with easy vigour, motioned Keep to his place in the bow, and pushed out with strong, leisurely strokes across the enchanted mirror. That far-off morning of her flight came back to her with strange poignancy, and she wondered if the blue heron would be standing at the outlet to admonish her with his enigmatic gaze.
As she approached the outlet, the point was vacant. But suddenly a strange, dishevelled figure, hatless, and in a blood-stained British uniform, emerged from the trees near by, came down amid the tall yellow grasses, and stood staring across the lake. He stood thus with blank eyes for a moment, apparently not seeing the canoe, then pitched forward, and lay on his face close to the water's edge.
With one sharp cry of his name, Barbara surged upon the paddle and shot the canoe toward land, wasting no mare breath on words. She sprang ashore, turned the still form over, loosened the low vest and the throat of the shirt, and dashed water in the white, stained, deathlike face. At first she thought he was dead, and she felt things growing black before her eyes. Then she caught herself, and held herself steady for the need. If she could not be strong now, what right had she to call herself a woman, or to love a man. She felt at his heart and found that he was alive. She saw that he was sorely wounded. She told herself that he had swooned from loss of blood, weariness, hunger, – but that he had lived, would live, must live. Then she dragged him further back into the grass, where he was hidden.
Calling Keep from the canoe, she sat down for a moment with Robert's head in her lap, and planned what should be done. He must not be found in Second Westings, that she knew. For an English prisoner of war it would be all very well, – but for a Tory it might be different. She could take no risks. In a moment or two her mind was made up. She bent over, and kissed the unresponding mouth. Then she rose, and turned to Keep, who had stood sniffing at Robert's clothes with sympathetic interest. They were shocking clothes, but Keep dimly remembered the man within them. Barbara pointed to the helpless figure, saying:
"Lie down, Keep!"
And Keep lay down, with his muzzle on Robert's arm.
"Guard, sir!" commanded Barbara. And Keep rolled upon her a comprehending and obedient eye. Then she pushed off the canoe, and paddled hastily down the river to fetch old Debby.
During all these years since Barbara's interrupted flight, no one had really read her heart, or been the unacknowledged recipient of her confidences, so fully as Mrs. Debby Blue. Now, when Barbara arrived, breathless, with great, strained eyes, tears in her voice, but her red mouth sternly set, the old woman understood with few words. At another time, Barbara would have been amazed at this swift understanding. Now, she was only grateful for it. While she was explaining, Debby was rummaging on shelves and in boxes, looking for sundry simples of her cunning extraction. At last she said:
"Don't you be worried, my sweeting. If Mr. Robert kin be cured up, old Debby's the one that kin cure him up, well as any doctor in the land, not even exceptin' Doctor Jim. An' I've got the place where we kin hide him, too, an' keep him safe till he gits well. An' now, I'm after you, Miss Barby, sweetheart!"
"God bless your dear, true heart, Debby," cried Barbara, leading the way in hot haste to the canoe.
When they arrived at the point, Robert was just recovering consciousness, in a dazed fashion. They saw him make an effort to sit up; and they saw Keep, who was nothing if not literal in his interpretation of Barbara's commands, put his two huge fore paws on Robert's breast and firmly push him down again. The tears jumped to Barbara's eyes at this, and she gave a little hysterical laugh, exclaiming:
"Just look at that, Debby! Good dear old Keep! Even he knows that Robert must be kept hidden!"
When they got to him, he sat up determinedly, and recognised Barbara with a look of utter content.
"You, my lady! I have come a very long way to look – " and then he sank off again, falling back into Barbara's supporting arms.
"Why, he's starved, that's what he is!" exclaimed Debby, examining him critically and feeling his pulse. "An' he's lost pretty nigh all the blood was ever in him. An' he's got two wounds here, either one enough to do for a man!"
She forced some fiery liquor down his throat, and then, as a faint colour came back to his lips, she gave him to drink from a bottle of milk. He drank eagerly, but automatically, without opening his eyes.
"He's been wounded at White Plains, poor dear!" murmured Barbara, leaning over him a face of brooding tenderness.
"An' he's wandered all the way up here, a-lookin' for you, Miss Barby!" responded the old woman.
"Do you really think so?" murmured Barbara.
"No manner of doubt!" said old Debby, positively, as she set about dressing and binding Robert's wounds.
In a little while Robert was able to sit up again; and then to be helped to his feet; and then to be half guided, half carried to the canoe. There he was placed on a bed of heaped armfuls of dry grass. Old Debby squatted precariously in the bow, – she was more at home in a punt than in a canoe, – and Barbara thrust out from shore, heading down the little river.
Robert was still too far gone in exhaustion to explain his strange appearance at Second Westings, or to ask any questions, or to care where he was going, so long as he was able to open his eyes every once in awhile and look at Barbara. When he did so, Barbara would smile back reassuringly, and lay a slim brown finger on her lips, as a sign that he was not to talk. And happily he would close his eyes again.
Barbara paddled down past Debby's landing, past the ducks and hens and turkeys, now too lazy to make more than casual comment. Keep, meanwhile, followed anxiously along the shore, close to the edge, and now and then splashing in belly deep.
"How far is it, Debby dear?" asked Barbara, presently.
"Jest a little mite furder," answered the old woman, who relished the situation immensely. "A matter of half a mile, maybe!"
And so they slipped noiselessly on, in that enchanted light, over that enchanted water with its reflections of amber and blue. Some crows, grown suddenly garrulous over private matters, cawed pleasantly in the pine-tops a little way off against the sky, and then subsided again into silence.
On both banks of the stream the trees held out their leaves, russet and gold, amethyst and bronze and scarlet, like so many little elfin hands attesting that all fair dreams come true at last for those who have the key to the inner mysteries.
Barbara was paddling in a dream herself, when suddenly old Debby said, "Turn in here, my sweeting! Here to your right!"
"But where?" asked Barbara, puzzled. "I don't see any place to turn in!"
"Straight through them dripping branches yonder by the water-logged stump!" directed the old woman. "Straight on through!"
As the prow of the canoe came up to what was seemingly the shore, old Debby parted the branches. As the canoe pushed onward, she continued this process, – and a few feet in from the main stream they entered a long, narrow deadwater, deep and clear, and perfectly hidden from the world. It was perhaps a hundred yards in length, slightly winding; and at its head, on a gentle rise, stood a little deserted log cabin.
"Oh, Debby!" cried Barbara. "How did you ever find such a place?"
"It's been empty this ten year!" answered Debby. "An' folks has forgotten, that ever knowed. An' I've been keepin' it to myself, when I wanted to get away from the ducks an' hens a mite. An' I've kep' it from fallin' to pieces. I'll nurse Master Robert here till he's able to get away, if it takes a year. An' I'll come back and forward in my punt. There's a bunk ready now, full of pine-needles; an' when we get him into it we'll go back to make it all right with Aunt Hitty. Ain't I got a head on my old shoulders, now, Miss Barby?"
Even as Debby had so swiftly and fully planned, it was done. Robert was still so far gone in exhaustion, and so wandering in his mind, that Barbara would not let him talk; and before they left him – with Keep an incorruptible sentry at the door – he had fallen into a deep sleep. When they returned a couple hours later, he was awake and quite clear, and so determined to talk that Barbara could not but let him. He sat up in the bunk, but Barbara, bending shining eyes down close to his, laid him back upon the pillow.
"Debby says you must not sit up at all, Robert!" she said.
"And what do you say, my lady?" he asked, devouring her radiant dark face with his eyes.
"I say so, too!" she answered, laughing softly.
"Why, my lady?" he persisted.
"Because it will hinder you getting well, Silly!" she replied, touching his hair with cool fingers.
"What matter about a 'damned Tory' getting well?" he began, being very weak and foolish. But the slim hand sweetly closed his mouth.
"How did you get here – to me?" Barbara asked, changing the subject.
He smiled up at her.
"We charged through the rebels!" he explained, frankly. "We cut them down, and scattered them, and chased them till we were within the enemy's lines. Then we could not get back. They surrounded us. They overwhelmed us. We were annihilated. I escaped, I shall never know how, hatless and horseless, as you found me, my lady, I tried to get back to my regiment. It was no use. Then, somehow, a spirit in my feet led me back here, to you. I just escaped capture a score of times. I had nothing to eat for days, save roots and leaves. I remember coming to the shore of the dear lake, and straining my eyes across it, to see the chimneys of the house where my love lay. Then I saw no more, knew no more, till I saw my love herself in very truth, leaning her face over mine. And I thought I was in heaven, my lady."
"You still love me, Robert, after the hideous way I treated you?" questioned Barbara, her voice a little tremulous.
He started again to sit up; but being again suppressed, was fain to content himself with clutching both her hands to his lips.
"There is nothing in the world but you, Barbara," he said. "There is nothing I want but you, wonderful one!"
"Then – you may take me, Robert, I think!" she whispered, dropping her face, and brushing his lips with her hair.
"Me?" he cried, in a voice suddenly strong, glad, and incredulous. "Me? Sick near to death, hunted near to death, a beaten and fleeing enemy, a Tory? I may take you, my queen, my beloved?"
"Whatever you are, dear, I have found that you are my love," she answered. "I don't care much what you are, so long as you are mine. I find I am just a woman, Robert – and in my conceit I thought myself something more. I love my country, truly. But I love my lover more. I shall not ask you whether you bow to King or to Congress, – but only ask you to get well!"
He reached up both arms, and slowly pulled down her still averted face till it was close to his. Then she turned her face suddenly to him, and her lips met his. A moment later she untwined his arms, went to the door, and glanced unheeding down at old Debby, gathering wood. Then, her face and eyes still glowing, she came back, smoothed his hair, kissed him lightly on the forehead, and said, "Now you must be quiet, dear. Debby will scold me if I let you talk any more!"
But Robert was excited, drunk with new joy after long despair.
"Just one word, and I will obey, dear heart! Listen, my lady. I will draw sword no more in this quarrel. I have given my blood, my lands, – I have given, as I thought, my love, – for a cause already lost, for a cause that I felt to be wrong from the day of Lexington, But whichever side wins, I will stay in my own country, if my country, when it is all over, will let me stay. When I am well enough to go away – love, love, will you go with me, to return, when the fighting and the fury cease, to our own dear river and our own dear woods?"
"Yes, you know I will, Robert," answered Barbara, kneeling down and looking into his eyes. "You know that is what I am planning, dear one. Now go to sleep, and get well, and take me away when you will!" And holding her hand against his neck he forthwith went to sleep, like a child, tired and contented.
Barbara knelt for a long time unmoving, her hand warm in his weak clasp, and was grateful to old Debby for staying so long away. As she knelt, the side of her face to the door, she heard a soft thud, thud on the threshold, and looked around out of the corners of her eyes without turning her head. She saw two wild rabbits, filled with curiosity at finding the cabin door open. They hopped in warily, and went bounding all about the room, sniffing with their sensitive, cleft nostrils; waving their ears back and forth at every faint whisper; and from time to time sitting up to ponder their discovery. One of them bounded over Barbara's little foot, turned to examine it, and nibbled tentatively at the heel of her shoe till she had to make the muscles tense to keep him from pulling it off. Then, standing up together for a moment, they seemed to take counsel and conclude that they had business elsewhere. As they hopped lazily away from the door, Barbara got up and followed to look after them. The wonderful day was drawing to its close; and long, straight beams of rosy gold, enmeshed with the haze, were streaming through the trees to her very feet. She laughed a little happy laugh under her breath. Those bright paths leading to the sun seemed a fair omen.
