Barbara Ladd Part 29

The letter made no mention of Doctor Jim,--which caused Barbara to remind Mistress Mehitable that no news was good news,--but it spoke with somewhat bitter praise of Robert Gault. It said that Robert's little squadron of mad Tories had gone through the Continental ranks like flame, irresistible and deadly, and had done more than anything else to cause the breaking of Putnam's lines. Robert had had his horse shot under him, and his hat shot off, but had himself, as report said, escaped without a scratch, though with a much diminished troop. As she was reading this out to Mistress Mehitable, all at once and to her deep mortification her scrupulously matter-of-fact voice thrilled and broke.

Mistress Mehitable shot her a glance of swift understanding and sympathy, and then pretended that she had noticed nothing unusual.

Barbara coughed, and went on. But her voice had become unmanageable.

With an impatient gesture and a toss of her head she handed over the letter.

"You'll have to read it yourself, honey! It upsets me to hear of our poor fellows beaten like this!" she cried, hypocritically.

"Of course, dear, I quite understand!" replied Mistress Mehitable, keeping her eyes strictly upon the letter, that she might the more easily seem deceived.

A few days later, Glenowen's prediction was fulfilled, and the news that came to Second Westings was of Was.h.i.+ngton's hasty retreat from New York to the Harlem Heights, leaving his artillery and heavy baggage behind. Then for a month there was expectancy, and to Barbara in her quiet green land it seemed marvellous that the two armies could lie facing each other in this way, day after day, and not be stirred to decisive action. She wondered how their nerves could bear the strain of such waiting.

The bright September dragged by in drowsy fas.h.i.+on, and October ran on in its blue and golden-brown; and then the word that came was of yet another retreat. The British had enlarged their narrow borders, and Was.h.i.+ngton had drawn back to the line of the Bronx, where he fortified himself strongly so as to hold the roads leading inland. Would he never stop retreating, questioned Barbara, anxiously, echoing the cry that went up all over the infant Union. "I think not, dear!" responded Mistress Mehitable, cheerfully. But Doctor John, who understood the conditions, declared that this Fabian policy was the only sound one, while the Continental troops were getting seasoned and learning the arts of war. Even while this teaching was being digested, came word of the fierce battle of White Plains, where the two armies, in numbers closely matched, long held each other by the throat without decisive advantage. When, two days later, the Continentals again withdrew, this time to hasty entrenchments at New Castle, Doctor John had hard work to convince Barbara that this long-drawn-out and b.l.o.o.d.y struggle was not an American defeat. For days thereafter word kept coming in, telling of the losses on both sides, and supplying vivid details; and the blinds of mourning were drawn down in more than one modest Second Westings home. A brief message came from Glenowen, saying that he was safe and well. But of Doctor Jim no word; of Robert not a word. And Barbara and Mistress Mehitable durst not meet each other's eyes lest either should read therein, and cry aloud, the fear in the other's heart.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

With the coming in of this tumultuous November, there came to Second Westings a few days of Indian summer magic. The moveless air seemed a distillation of dreams. The faint azure haze hung everywhere, soft yet cool, with an elusive fragrance as of clean smoke and fading roses and fresh earth-mould and lofts of grain. And on one of these consecrated days Barbara set out early in the morning to paddle across the lake and see old Debby.

As on a morning long ago, but not so early, she ran down the back garden path, and behind the barn, and climbed the pasture bars. This time she called to Keep; and the big mastiff, who now slept later than of old, came somewhat stiffly gamboling from his manger bed in the horse stable. She tripped along the pasture path, between the hillocks. She trod rapidly the black earth of the old wood-road, where the shadows were lighter now, and no sound broke the stillness save the eerie sigh and footfall of the dropping leaves. She launched the canoe with easy vigour, motioned Keep to his place in the bow, and pushed out with strong, leisurely strokes across the enchanted mirror. That far-off morning of her flight came back to her with strange poignancy, and she wondered if the blue heron would be standing at the outlet to admonish her with his enigmatic gaze.

As she approached the outlet, the point was vacant. But suddenly a strange, dishevelled figure, hatless, and in a blood-stained British uniform, emerged from the trees near by, came down amid the tall yellow gra.s.ses, and stood staring across the lake. He stood thus with blank eyes for a moment, apparently not seeing the canoe, then pitched forward, and lay on his face close to the water's edge.

With one sharp cry of his name, Barbara surged upon the paddle and shot the canoe toward land, wasting no mare breath on words. She sprang ash.o.r.e, turned the still form over, loosened the low vest and the throat of the s.h.i.+rt, and dashed water in the white, stained, deathlike face. At first she thought he was dead, and she felt things growing black before her eyes. Then she caught herself, and held herself steady for the need. If she could not be strong now, what right had she to call herself a woman, or to love a man. She felt at his heart and found that he was alive. She saw that he was sorely wounded. She told herself that he had swooned from loss of blood, weariness, hunger,--but that he had lived, would live, must live. Then she dragged him further back into the gra.s.s, where he was hidden.

Calling Keep from the canoe, she sat down for a moment with Robert's head in her lap, and planned what should be done. He must not be found in Second Westings, that she knew. For an English prisoner of war it would be all very well,--but for a Tory it might be different. She could take no risks. In a moment or two her mind was made up. She bent over, and kissed the unresponding mouth. Then she rose, and turned to Keep, who had stood sniffing at Robert's clothes with sympathetic interest. They were shocking clothes, but Keep dimly remembered the man within them. Barbara pointed to the helpless figure, saying:

"Lie down, Keep!"

And Keep lay down, with his muzzle on Robert's arm.

"Guard, sir!" commanded Barbara. And Keep rolled upon her a comprehending and obedient eye. Then she pushed off the canoe, and paddled hastily down the river to fetch old Debby.

During all these years since Barbara's interrupted flight, no one had really read her heart, or been the unacknowledged recipient of her confidences, so fully as Mrs. Debby Blue. Now, when Barbara arrived, breathless, with great, strained eyes, tears in her voice, but her red mouth sternly set, the old woman understood with few words. At another time, Barbara would have been amazed at this swift understanding. Now, she was only grateful for it. While she was explaining, Debby was rummaging on shelves and in boxes, looking for sundry simples of her cunning extraction. At last she said:

"Don't you be worried, my sweeting. If Mr. Robert kin be cured up, old Debby's the one that kin cure him up, well as any doctor in the land, not even exceptin' Doctor Jim. An' I've got the place where we kin hide him, too, an' keep him safe till he gits well. An' now, I'm after you, Miss Barby, sweetheart!"

"G.o.d bless your dear, true heart, Debby," cried Barbara, leading the way in hot haste to the canoe.

When they arrived at the point, Robert was just recovering consciousness, in a dazed fas.h.i.+on. They saw him make an effort to sit up; and they saw Keep, who was nothing if not literal in his interpretation of Barbara's commands, put his two huge fore paws on Robert's breast and firmly push him down again. The tears jumped to Barbara's eyes at this, and she gave a little hysterical laugh, exclaiming:

"Just look at that, Debby! Good _dear_ old Keep! Even he knows that Robert must be kept hidden!"

When they got to him, he sat up determinedly, and recognised Barbara with a look of utter content.

"You, my lady! I have come a very long way to look--" and then he sank off again, falling back into Barbara's supporting arms.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _He sank off again, falling back into Barbara's supporting arms_.]

"Why, he's _starved_, that's what he is!" exclaimed Debby, examining him critically and feeling his pulse. "An' he's lost pretty nigh all the blood was ever in him. An' he's got two wounds here, either one enough to do for a man!"

She forced some fiery liquor down his throat, and then, as a faint colour came back to his lips, she gave him to drink from a bottle of milk. He drank eagerly, but automatically, without opening his eyes.

"He's been wounded at White Plains, poor dear!" murmured Barbara, leaning over him a face of brooding tenderness.

"An' he's wandered all the way up here, a-lookin' for you, Miss Barby!"

responded the old woman.

"Do you really think so?" murmured Barbara.

"No manner of doubt!" said old Debby, positively, as she set about dressing and binding Robert's wounds.

In a little while Robert was able to sit up again; and then to be helped to his feet; and then to be half guided, half carried to the canoe. There he was placed on a bed of heaped armfuls of dry gra.s.s.

Old Debby squatted precariously in the bow,--she was more at home in a punt than in a canoe,--and Barbara thrust out from sh.o.r.e, heading down the little river.

Robert was still too far gone in exhaustion to explain his strange appearance at Second Westings, or to ask any questions, or to care where he was going, so long as he was able to open his eyes every once in awhile and look at Barbara. When he did so, Barbara would smile back rea.s.suringly, and lay a slim brown finger on her lips, as a sign that he was not to talk. And happily he would close his eyes again.

Barbara paddled down past Debby's landing, past the ducks and hens and turkeys, now too lazy to make more than casual comment. Keep, meanwhile, followed anxiously along the sh.o.r.e, close to the edge, and now and then splas.h.i.+ng in belly deep.

"How far is it, Debby dear?" asked Barbara, presently.

"Jest a little mite furder," answered the old woman, who relished the situation immensely. "A matter of half a mile, maybe!"

And so they slipped noiselessly on, in that enchanted light, over that enchanted water with its reflections of amber and blue. Some crows, grown suddenly garrulous over private matters, cawed pleasantly in the pine-tops a little way off against the sky, and then subsided again into silence.

On both banks of the stream the trees held out their leaves, russet and gold, amethyst and bronze and scarlet, like so many little elfin hands attesting that all fair dreams come true at last for those who have the key to the inner mysteries.

Barbara was paddling in a dream herself, when suddenly old Debby said, "Turn in here, my sweeting! Here to your right!"

"But where?" asked Barbara, puzzled. "I don't see any place to turn in!"

"Straight through them dripping branches yonder by the water-logged stump!" directed the old woman. "Straight on through!"

As the prow of the canoe came up to what was seemingly the sh.o.r.e, old Debby parted the branches. As the canoe pushed onward, she continued this process,--and a few feet in from the main stream they entered a long, narrow deadwater, deep and clear, and perfectly hidden from the world. It was perhaps a hundred yards in length, slightly winding; and at its head, on a gentle rise, stood a little deserted log cabin.

"Oh, _Debby_!" cried Barbara. "How did you ever find such a place?"

"It's been empty this ten year!" answered Debby. "An' folks has forgotten, that ever knowed. An' I've been keepin' it to myself, when I wanted to get away from the ducks an' hens a mite. An' I've kep' it from fallin' to pieces. I'll nurse Master Robert here till he's able to get away, if it takes a year. An' I'll come back and forward in my punt. There's a bunk ready now, full of pine-needles; an' when we get him into it we'll go back to make it all right with Aunt Hitty.

_Ain't_ I got a head on my old shoulders, now, Miss Barby?"

Even as Debby had so swiftly and fully planned, it was done. Robert was still so far gone in exhaustion, and so wandering in his mind, that Barbara would not let him talk; and before they left him--with Keep an incorruptible sentry at the door--he had fallen into a deep sleep.

When they returned a couple hours later, he was awake and quite clear, and so determined to talk that Barbara could not but let him. He sat up in the bunk, but Barbara, bending s.h.i.+ning eyes down close to his, laid him back upon the pillow.

"Debby says you must not sit up at all, Robert!" she said.

"And what do you say, my lady?" he asked, devouring her radiant dark face with his eyes.

"I say so, too!" she answered, laughing softly.