"Well, keep it then, Cary,—and my friendship with it," she said, gravely. "And to the blessing with which I blessed it for you, I add many more,—that fame may come your way, and danger turn aside. Good-bye!"
CHAPTER XXX.
Barbara felt as if a strange great wind had blown upon New York, scattering and changing everything. Robert was gone,—when she was seeing little of him, and not desiring to see more, she had, nevertheless, had a satisfaction in knowing he was within reach. Now Cary Patten was gone, and Jerry Waite was gone, and young Paget was gone, and the student enthusiast, young Mr. Hamilton, came no more to the old Dutch house on State Street, being engrossed in matters of secrecy and import. And now she herself and Uncle Bob were going. She felt as if that separating wind would inexorably have lifted and borne her somewhere, even if the haven of Second Westings had not been open. Fate drove indifferently, but left her free to shape her course for Westings House and Aunt Hitty, and her own apple-tree down in the back garden.
A few days later she was at home. Glenowen, resting but an hour or two, had hastened on to his duties. Everything seemed to Barbara just as when she went away, save that Doctor Jim was graver than of old, seeming weighed down with care; and Doctor John's absence left a void that ached all the time. But her little room was just as she had left it,—fresh dusted, and with a few things lying about out of place, as she loved to have it. The dust upon the coverlet where "Mr. Grim" slept was there as of old. "He did not, in fact, sleep there once during all your absence, dear," declared Mistress Mehitable, "till the very night before your return, when he forsook me and stalked back to his old place. Then I knew that you'd be here the next day, and we were very happy together; and I gave him clear cream for his breakfast, and made him very sick!"
Within three days the old life had taken Barbara back at every point, and she felt as if she had awakened from a brilliant but oppressive dream. Of course it was interesting telling it all—or not quite all—to every one; to every one the truth, yet not to each the same story. There was one emphasis for Aunt Hitty and Doctor Jim, one for the Reverend Jonathan Sawyer, one for Mercy Chapman, and one much more vivid and enlightening for old Debby. But even as she told it, it began to seem unreal to herself. And soon she grew unwilling to talk of it at all.
As the bright Connecticut summer slipped by, Barbara could not but notice a change of temper among the villagers of Second Westings. To herself they were as civil, as deferential as ever, but, she thought, with a little difference. Half a dozen families had representatives in the army besieging Boston, and two of the village homes were in mourning. When she was walking with Doctor Jim she noticed the sullenness with which his hearty, kindly greetings were returned,—a sullenness which Doctor Jim never allowed himself to observe. Then there was difficulty in getting extra help when special needs arose at Westings House. The people were unwilling to work for Mistress Mehitable. They positively refused to work with Amos, who had to give up his innocently convivial evenings at the tavern and remain sulking in the kitchen, abused and scorned by Abby because he was always in her way. In September, when Congress despatched the army of the north to conquer Canada, seven more men went from Second Westings, and enthusiasm grew. With news of the capture of Montreal came word also that two of the Second Westings men had fallen in the battle. Then feelings grew hot.
One morning, when Barbara was visiting Mercy Chapman's mother,—now a bedridden invalid,—she looked out of the window and saw Mistress Mehitable coming down the street. As she passed his office, she was joined by Doctor Jim, and the two strolled together toward Squire Gillig's store. Suddenly she saw Doctor Jim leave Mistress Mehitable's side, and stride angrily toward the tavern. She ran out at once to see what was the matter. What she saw set her speeding after Doctor Jim in breathless indignation.
Amos, his arms tied behind him, was struggling and kicking in the hands of a dozen men and youths, several of whom had bloody noses to prove that Amos had stood to his colours. Now they were hurrying him to the cooper shop.—where they knew there was a barrel of pitch,—amid cries of "Ride the sneaking Tory on a rail," "Tar and feather him," "Duck him," "Hang him." All at once they were confronted by the tall bulk of Doctor Jim; and they stopped short. The old habit of deference was strong upon them, and several drew away, while others, though they doggedly maintained their grip on the furious and unterrified Amos, dropped their eyes and hung their heads when Doctor Jim's angry gaze fell upon them.
"Hands off! Drop that man! You cowardly bullies, a dozen against one! Drop him, do you hear?" And without waiting for the effect of his words he strode into the mob, flung the fringes of it to this side and that with no gentle hand, and reached those who had actual hold upon the prisoner.