CHAPTER XXVIII.
After this Robert was careful, and so was permitted to be fairly happy when he could keep the fires of jealousy banked down in his heart. Once in awhile they would begin to get the better of him; and then, after letting Barbara see just a glimpse of the flame, that she might not forget it was there, he would leave before she could find him troublesome and work it under by hours of furious riding. He skilfully avoided giving her any further excuse for discipline; and was even so cunning, at times, as to pique her by his show of self-control. In this way he scored continually over the too confident Cary Patten, who, after a week or two of almost daily calls at the old Dutch house on State Street, would disappear and not be seen near Barbara for days. At such times Robert concluded that Cary had been tempting Providence and suffering the usual disaster of those who so presume. As for Jerry Waite, and young Paget, and the rest of the infatuated train, Robert thought that Barbara was quite too infernally nice to them all, and cursed them all hotly in his heart; but he could not refrain from admiring the neat manner in which she held them all in hand.
Early in the autumn, however, it became still more difficult for Barbara and Robert to keep silent on the great questions which they so dreaded to discuss. The First Continental Congress was in session at Philadelphia, and its deliberations formed a theme to blister men's tongues. Made up of Tories, Radical Patriots or potential rebels, and Moderates, in fairly even proportion, it satisfied neither Barbara nor Robert. The latter, in spite of the fact that its New York delegates were of his own party, viewed it with singularly clear eyes, and saw in it not merely an instrument for the constitutional redress of just grievances,—wherein it had his sympathy,—but a forerunner of revolt,—wherein it called forth his passionate reprobation. To Barbara, on the other hand, this Continental Congress, of which she had hoped so much, seemed a mean-spirited, paltering, blear-eyed thing, incapable of seeing what destiny had written large across the continent, or too timorous to acknowledge what it saw. The strain was further increased by matters which touched them both personally. With the news that Connecticut, stirred up by false rumours of a struggle with the royal troops in Boston, had thousands of her militia under arms, came a letter from Mistress Mehitable, saying that Doctor John was among them, in command of a regiment, and that Doctor Jim was looking after his patients. At this tidings Barbara's heart swelled with mingled pride and anxiety. She pictured the heroic figure Doctor John would make, in his uniform, about to fight for the cause which she held so splendid and so righteous. At the same time she saw him already in the fight, waving his sword amid the smoke and slaughter, and she shook with terror for him. Both Robert and Glenowen were with her when the letter came, and as she read it out her voice broke and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
"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!"