CHAPTER XXIII.
That day of the news was a boundary day. It set sharp limit to Barbara's years of calm. From that day events came quickly, change pressed hard on change, and no day, for her, was quite like its predecessor. A veering of the current had snatched her from her shining eddy, and swept her forth into the tide of life.
On the morning following the dinner, while still alive to a sense of menace in the air, Barbara received a letter from her uncle. As she read it, her eyes sparkled, her heart bounded. Then, as she passed it to Mistress Mehitable, and Mistress Mehitable took it with cheerful interest, her heart sank. She felt a pang of self-reproach, because she found herself willing to go away and leave her aunt uncompanioned in the solitude of Westings House. Glenowen had undertaken certain business, in the way of searching records and examining titles, which was driving him at once to New York, and bade fair, he said, to keep him there for upwards of a year. He wanted Barbara to go with him. And Barbara's pulses bounded. There, she thought, were the lights and the dances, the maskings and the music, the crossing of swords and wits, the gallants and the compliments and the triumphs, which she was longing to taste. Mistress Mehitable's face grew grave as she read the letter. It grew pale as she looked up and saw by Barbara's face the hunger in her heart. Mistress Mehitable had a vision of what Westings House would be, emptied of the wilful, flashing, vivid, restless spirit which for the past few years had been its life. But she was unselfish. She would not say a word to lessen Barbara's delight.
"It will be lovely for you, dear!" said she, with hearty sympathy. "You are just at the age, too, when it will mean most to you, and be of most value to you. I am so glad, dear!"
But Barbara had seen the look in her face, and gave no heed to her brave words.
"I can't go, honey, and leave you here alone!" she cried, impetuously, jumping up and hugging the little lady with a vehemence born of the effort to convince herself that what she said was true. She felt that she could and must go; but that the joy of going would be more than damped—drenched, indeed, with tears—at the thought of how much Mistress Mehitable would miss her, of how empty Westings House would be without her, of the scar her absence would leave in their little world. With her intense individuality, her lively self-concentration, it almost seemed to her as if their little world could not even attempt to go on without her, but must sleep dully through her absence.
"Of course you will go, Barbara dear!" said Mistress Mehitable, decidedly. "It is only natural and right you should want to go, and go. I cannot pretend that it makes me very happy to think of doing without you for a whole year. No words can tell you how I shall miss you, dear child. But I should be a thousand times more unhappy if I were to feel myself standing in the way of your happiness. No, no, indeed, don't talk any nonsense about not going. Besides, your Uncle Bob has the right to have you with him for a while."
"Oh, I wish you could go, too!" sighed Barbara. "Can't you? Then it would be lovely!"
Mistress Mehitable laughed softly. "Not very well just now, child!" she answered, assuming a gaiety. "Perhaps some other time it might be managed. Now, we'll have to plan about getting you ready,—and your uncle has only left us a wretched little week to do it in!"
So it was settled, without any stress or argument whatever, that Barbara should go to New York with Uncle Bob just eight days from that day; and so was decreed, with such effort as it might take to order a breakfast, nothing less than a revolution in Barbara's life.
While the two women were discussing weighty problems of dressmaking, lingerie, and equipment various,—what should be made at Second Westings, and what should be left to New York shops and the tried taste of Uncle Bob,—Doctor Jim came in, less robustious and breezy than his wont, his eyes big with momentous tidings. He kissed the ladies' hands, and sat down thoughtfully opposite, scanning their faces from under bushy, drawn brows. They both looked at him with expectant inquiry.
"You were most intent on whatever you were talking about!" said he, presently. "I hope I don't interrupt! May I hear all about it? Or should I run away, eh, what?"
"You never interrupt,—or if you do, you are forgiven beforehand, Jim!" said Mistress Mehitable.
"What we were talking about will interest you, Doctor Jim, you naughty old thing!" cried Barbara, saucily. "It was petticoats, bodices, and silk stockings, and such like feminine frivolities! But what have you got to tell us? You are just bursting, you know you are. Tell us, and we'll tell you something!"
"John Pigeon's going away to-morrow!" said Doctor Jim, and then shut his mouth hard.
"What? Going away?" cried both women at once, scarce crediting their ears.
"Going away to Hartford, to-morrow, to take a hand in organising some of their rebellious militia!" continued Doctor Jim. "I'm ashamed to tell you. But he was ashamed to tell you himself, thinking you would not like it, so he sent me ahead to make his peace for him. It doesn't mean anything, you know. Just a sort of bragging counterblast to those four regiments of ours at Boston. I wouldn't be down on John for it, eh, what, Mehitable?"
"When will he return?" asked Mehitable, feeling that her world was being emptied.
"Down on him!" exclaimed Barbara. "Why, it's noble of him. Think how it will encourage all the patriots of our township!" Since she was going away herself, Doctor John's going was easy enough to bear.
"I wasn't talking to you, you saucy rebel!" retorted Doctor Jim. "We'll have that crazy little black head of yours chopped off for high treason, one of these days, if you don't mend your naughty manners. 'Patriots,' indeed! Addle-pated bumpkins! But"—and he turned to Mistress Mehitable, "you asked me, dear lady, when John Pigeon would return. Within a month, I think. He will tell you more precisely for himself!"
"Jim," said Mistress Mehitable, gravely, "we are going to be lonely for awhile, you and I."
"Lonely!" exclaimed Doctor Jim. "That's not what bothers me. It's the pestilent, low, vulgar business that's taking him!"
"Yes, of course," assented Mistress Mehitable, "but 'tis not Doctor John only that purposes to forsake us, Jim. Barbara is going to New York, to stay a year."
Doctor Jim's face fell. He glared at Barbara for half a minute, his shaggy eyebrows working.
"Nonsense, child!" he cried, wilfully incredulous. "What cock-and-bull story's this? I won't have my feelings worked upon!"
"It's true, Doctor Jim. I'm to go with Uncle Bob, next week!" said Barbara, very soberly.
"But you sha'n't go! We can't spare our bad little girl. You're too young, Barby, for that wicked city down there. We need you here, to keep us from getting too good. You sha'n't go, that's all! You see what John Pigeon'll have to say about it, eh, what?"
"I must, Doctor Jim!" answered Barbara. "Aunt Hitty and Uncle Bob have both decided on that. I feel homesick, sort of, already, at the thought of it. And I know I shall miss you all just horribly. But, oh, I do want to go, after all. It's all so gay and mysterious to me, and I know I'll have such fun. And it will be so lovely, when I'm tired of it, to come back and tell you all about it! Won't it?"
"Well! Well! I suppose we'll have to let her go," sighed Doctor Jim. "Thank Heaven, you're not going, Mehitable, dear lady!"
"I'm glad you're not going, Jim,—either to New York or to Hartford!" said Mistress Mehitable, with a little laugh. Then she held out her hand to him, flushing softly.
"It would be hard indeed for me to go anywhere, Mehitable, were you to bid me stay!" said Doctor Jim, kissing very reverently the hand she had held out. Then, without waiting for an answer to this, he hastily turned again to Barbara, saying:
"By the way, sweetheart, Bobby Gault is in New York, is he not,—eh, what? He will be glad to see you again, perhaps! It is possible he may help make things pleasant for you, eh, you baggage?"
But Barbara was not in a mood to repay his raillery in kind.
"I don't know that I'll make things pleasant for Robert," she answered, thoughtfully, "if he still clings to his ridiculous views about kings and things!"
"Tell that to the marines, you sly hussy!" exclaimed Doctor Jim, regaining mysteriously his wonted large good humour. "Don't tell me this isn't all made up between you and Robert!"
Barbara looked at him soberly for a moment. Then the old audacious light laughed over her face, her eyes danced perilously,—and Mistress Mehitable felt a tremor of apprehension. She always felt nervous when Doctor Jim had the hardihood to draw Barbara's fire.
"Do you know, Doctor Jim, I don't feel quite so badly as I did about leaving you and Aunt Hitty! I think, you know, you will be quite a comfort to each other, won't you, even if Doctor John should have to stay longer than he expects in Hartford!"
At this moment Doctor John himself came in, to Mistress Mehitable's infinite relief.