At an hour almost unseemly Robert came, of course. And Barbara was gracious to him. As if there had been no estrangement, she talked frankly of Second Westings matters,—of Doctor John's service in the siege of Boston, of Doctor Jim's danger because of his opinions, of Mistress Mehitable's need of her presence at Westings House,—just as if they were Robert's concern as well as hers. The gladness came back to Robert's dark face, and for a moment he was forgetting the barrier between them.
"And what are you doing, Robert? Is it not becoming a little dangerous for you in New York now?" she asked, with gentle frankness.
"I am going away to-morrow, dearest lady," he answered, "lest your fiery Continentals tie me up!"
"And I go back to Second Westings next week! And you were going away without seeing me for good-bye?" asked Barbara, reproachfully. "Is this the Robert that used to say he loved me a little?"
Robert looked at her in silence. "I adore the very ground that your foot treads upon!" he said, presently, in a quiet voice.
"You love me just as much as you used to?" she inquired, almost wistfully.
"As much!" he exclaimed, with scorn. "More and more, every day I breathe. These months that you have treated me so cruelly have been hell on earth. I don't see how I have lived through them."
"I, too, have not been very happy, Robert!" she acknowledged, softly. "I believe I have needed you more than I thought. Do you know, I almost think I might learn to care a great deal—perhaps all that a woman can—if only, if only, dear Robert, there were not this dreadful barrier between us? Oh, if you knew how I long to have you in sympathy with the cause that all my heart is given to,—to talk it all over with you, to hope and plan and look forward with you, in comradeship and understanding! If you knew—but there, I see by your obstinate mouth it is no use. I might as well pour out my heart against a stone wall. Nothing will soften you! Nothing will convince you! Love me? You love me? You have no heart at all in your breast! Nothing but a priggish theory!"
She burst into passionate, disappointed tears, flung herself down on the sofa, and buried her face in the cushions.
Robert was in an anguish. His mouth was drawn and white. Why should he be called upon to face so hideous an alternative? Why must he pay so appalling a price for loyalty, for fidelity, for honour? What was this bourgeois tyrant in England, that the price of loyalty to him should be the love of the woman who was dearer than heaven? Robert felt a fierce hatred of the man George of England, who was so unworthy of his kingship! He was mad to throw himself at Barbara's feet, and tell her all his life was hers to do as she would with, to offer his faith, loyalty, honour, a living sacrifice to her love, and bid her send him to fight under whatever flag she called hers! But—he held the madness in leash. The tough fibre of his will gave a little, but would not break. The drops stood out on his forehead. But all he said was: