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.