CHAPTER IV.
Little enough, indeed, would Second Westings ever have seen of theheartsore and rebellious child, but for this Uncle Bob. Searching hisown spirit, he understood hers; and maintaining a discreet silence asto the chief points of his discovery, he set himself the duty ofaccompanying Barbara on the long, complicated journey to Connecticut.Not content with delivering his charge into the hands of MistressMehitable,--whom he liked despite her uneasy half-disapproval ofhimself,--he stayed long summer weeks at Second Westings, thus bridgingover for Barbara the terrible chasm between the old life and the new,and by his tactful conciliation on every side making the new life looka little less hatefully alien to her. He took her riding all over thetownship; he took her canoeing on the lake, and down the outlet to itsjunction with the river; and so not only won her a freedom of movementhitherto unheard-of among the maidens of Second Westings, but alsoshowed her that the solace of wild woods and sweet waters was to befound no less in Connecticut than in her longed-for Maryland.Moreover, Uncle Bob had "a presence." Second Westings scrutinised himseverely, all ready to condemn the stranger folk to whom Winthrop Laddhad turned in his marrying. But Second Westings felt constrained toacknowledge at once that Winthrop Ladd had married within his class.To high and low alike--and the line between high and low was sharplydrawn at Second Westings--it was obvious that the sister of Mr. RobertGlenowen must have been gently born. Those who would not letthemselves be warmed by Uncle Bob's bright heartsomeness were unable towithhold acknowledgment of his good breeding. Mistress Mehitable,though antagonised by vague gossip as to his "wildness," neverthelessrecognised with serious relief that no common blood had been sufferedto obscure the clear blue stream whose purity the Ladds held precious."Light, I fear--if not, in other surroundings, ungodly; but beyond allcavil a gentleman!" pronounced the Reverend Jonathan Sawyer, flickingsnuff from his sleeve with white, scholarly fingers. He was not soinnocent as to attach too much importance to Uncle Bob's devoutattitude through those interminable services which made a weeklynightmare of the Connecticut Sabbath; but he had found a reservedsatisfaction in the young man's company over a seemly glass and a pipeof bright Virginia. He had a feeling that the visitor's charm was moreor less subversive of discipline, and that it would be, on the whole,for the spiritual welfare of Second Westings if the visit should bebrief; but meanwhile he took what he could of Uncle Bob's society.Class against creed, and a fair field, and it's long odds on class.
But in the minds of Doctor John and Doctor Jim Pigeon--physicians,brothers, comrades, fierce professional rivals, justices of the peace,and divinely self-appointed guardians of the sanctity of caste for allthe neighbourhood--there were no misgivings. Their instincts acceptedBob Glenowen at first glance. Their great, rugged faces and mightyshoulders towering over him,--and Uncle Bob himself was nowise scant ofstature,--they looked at him and then into each other's eyes; andagreed, as they did on most subjects outside the theory and practice ofmedicine.
"You are right welcome to Second Westings, Mr. Glenowen!" exclaimedDoctor Jim, in a big, impetuous voice, grasping his hand heartily.
"And we trust that you may be slow to leave us, Mr. Glenowen!" addedDoctor John, in a voice which any competent jury, blindfolded, wouldhave pronounced identical.
Recognising the true fibre and the fineness of these two big, gentleautocrats, Uncle Bob made a special point of commending Barbara totheir hearts--in which commending he so well sped, and indeed was sowell seconded by Barbara herself, who loved them from the moment whenher eyes first fell upon them, that they presently constitutedthemselves special guardians to the little maid, and indulgentmitigators of Mistress Mehitable's conscience. The manner in whichthey fulfilled the sometimes conflicting duties of these offices willappear pretty persistently in the sequel.
It was to Uncle Bob, also, that Barbara owed the somewhat disreputablefriendship of old Debby. The very first day that he and Barbara wentcanoeing on the lake, they explored the outlet, discovered old Debby'scabin, paid an uninvited call, and captivated the old dame's crustyheart. Glenowen knew human nature. He had the knack of going straightto the quintessential core of it, and pinning his faith to that inspite of all unpromising externals. He decided at once that Debbywould be a good diversion for Barbara after he was gone; and when,later in the day, he learned that the old woman was universally butvaguely reprobated by the prim folk of Second Westings, he was morethan ever assured that she would be a comfort to Barbara through many adark hour of strangerhood and virtuous misunderstanding.
But Uncle Bob's visit had to end. He went away with misgivings,leaving Barbara to pit her careless candour, her thoughtlessself-absorption, her scorn of all opinions that differed from her own,her caprices, her passionate enthusiasms, her fierce intolerance ofcriticism or control, against the granitic conventions of an old NewEngland village. The half guilty, half amused support of Doctor Johnand Doctor Jim gave importance to her revolt, and so lightened the rodof Aunt Kitty's discipline as to save Barbara from the more ignominiousof the penalties which her impetuous wilfulness would otherwise haveincurred. The complete, though forbidden, sympathy of old Debby,affording the one safe outlet to her tumultuous resentments andpassionate despairs, saved the child from brain-sickness; and once,indeed, on a particularly black day of humiliation, from suicide.Barbara had shaken the very foundations of law, order, and religion, byriding at a wild gallop, one Sunday afternoon, down the wide mainstreet of Second Westings just as the good folk were coming out ofmeeting. Her rebellious waves of dark hair streamed out behind herlittle head. Her white teeth flashed wickedly between her partedscarlet lips, her big eyes flamed with the intoxication of liberty andprotest--to these good folk it seemed an unholy light. Barbara oughtto have been at meeting, but had been left at home, reluctantly, byAunt Hitty, because she had seemed too sick to get out of bed. In verytruth she had been sick beyond all feigning. Then one of those violentreactions of recovery which sometimes cause the nervous temperament tobe miserably misunderstood had seized her at an inauspicious moment.As the tide of young vitality surged back to brain and vein and nerve,she had felt that she must let herself loose in wild action, or die.All unrealising the enormity of the offence, she had flung down her maddefiance to the sanctified and iron-bound repose of the New EnglandSabbath.
Such a sacrilege could not be overlooked or condoned. The congregationwas appalled. Long upper lips were drawn down ominously, as austereeyes followed the vision of the fleeing child on the great black horse.Could it be that she was possessed of a devil? Pitying eyes wereturned upon Aunt Hitty; and triumphant eyes of gratified grudge,moreover, for Aunt Hitty was proud, and had virtuous ill-wishers in thevillage. But Mistress Mehitable Ladd was equal to the occasion. Witha level stare of her blue eyes, a cold tranquillity upon her small,fine mouth, she froze comment and forestalled suggestion. The feelingwent abroad, in a subtle way, that the case would be dealt with and thepiety of Second Westings vindicated in the eyes of Heaven. Doctor Johnand Doctor Jim looked grave, and said not a word. This was a time whenMistress Mehitable, they well knew, would brook no interference.
Of course there could be no question of such correction as would havefallen to the lot of any ordinary offender. There could be no suchthing as putting a _Ladd_ in the stocks. The regular machinery ofvillage law rested quiescent. Equally of course, Mistress Mehitablewould do nothing in anger. She was humiliated before the wholevillage, in a manner that could never be forgotten or wiped out. Buther first feeling and her last feeling were alike of sorrow only. Shewould do her duty because Winthrop's child must be saved. But she hadno proud consciousness of virtue in doing it. First, she attempted toexplain to Barbara the depth, quality, and significance of her sin, itspossible influence upon the ethics of Second Westings if allowed to gounpunished, the special variety of inherited evil which it revealed inher nature, and her stupendous need of having this evil eradicated bydevotedly merciless correction. After the first few words of thisexhortation, Barbara hear
d no more. She was at all times fiercelyimpatient of criticism, and now, being determined not to fly into afury and further complicate her predicament, she shut her eyes,inwardly closed her ears, and concentrated her imagination on memoriesof the longed-for plantation by the Pawtuxet. This concentration gaveher vivid little face an air of quietude, subjection, and voicelesssorrow, which Aunt Hitty was glad to construe as repentance. But itearned no mitigation of punishment. For one whole week Barbara was aprisoner in her room, eating her heart out in hatred of the stupidityand injustice of life. Then came around, at last, another Sabbath.Barbara was taken to church. There her proud soul was affronted by apublic rebuke from the pastor, who exhorted her from the pulpit,contented the congregation by a rehearsal of her punishment, and heldher up as an example to the other children of the village. Barbaralistened with shut eyes and white lips, her heart bursting with rage.She ached to kill him, to kill her aunt, to annihilate SecondWestings--saving only the animals, old Debby, Mercy Chapman, DoctorJohn and Doctor Jim. But when the good divine went on to say that herdiscipline would be concluded with a wholesome chastisement on themorrow, in the privacy of the house to which her sinful conduct hadbrought grief,--then, indeed, her heart stood still. She felt a greatcalmness come over her. She made up her mind to escape by her windowthat very evening and drown herself in the lake. If life containedsuch horrors she would have done with it.
She did not go that night, however, because she feared the dark. Itwas gray dawn when she climbed from her window. Blind, resolved,swift-footed, she fled through the woods. Old Debby, resting in herpunt by the lake's edge, not far from the Ladd landing-place, waspulling some sweet-rooted water-plants of a virtue known only toherself, when she was startled by a heavy splash and a little gaspingcry which came from the other side of a steep point some four or fiverods distant. Her vigorous old arms drove the punt through the waterin mad haste--for there was something in the cry that wrenched at herheart. Rounding the point, she stood close in to the foot of a rockwhich jutted out into five or six feet of water. Peering down over theside of the punt, she saw lying on the bottom a slim, small body. Agroan burst from her lips, for Barbara's face was half visible; and theold woman understood at once. She had heard the village gossip, andshe had feared a tragedy. She knew that Barbara could swim,--but therewas her long scarf of red silk twisted about the little arms lestresolution should falter in the face of the last great demand.
For a second old Debby was at fault. She could not swim. Then herbrain worked. Reaching down with one of the oars, she twisted theblade tightly into the skirt of the child's gown, pulled her up, andsnatched her into the boat. Experienced and ready in emergency, theold woman thrust ashore, laid the moveless little figure down upon amossy hillock, and in a very few minutes succeeded in bringing it backto conscious life. She asked no questions, while Barbara clung to her,sobbing spasmodically at long intervals. She murmured pet names toher, caressed and soothed her, told her she was safe and no one shouldabuse her, and finally, lifting her into the punt and laying her gentlyon an armful of sweet bracken in the stern, rowed over the lake to hercabin. Throughout the journey Barbara lay with closed eyes, while theyoung life, slowly but obstinately reasserting itself, brought back thecolour to cheeks and lips. Only once did she speak. Lifting her lids,she gazed fixedly at the hard-lined old face that bent over the swayingoars.
"Oh, why did you do it, Debby dear?" she asked, weakly. "If you knewhow I hate to live!"
"Tut! tut! honey!" answered the old woman, with a cheerful positivenessthat made her despair suddenly seem to Barbara unreasonable and unreal."Ye don't want to die yet awhile. An' whatever ye want, ye cain't dieyet awhile, fer I've seen it in yer blessed little hands that ye've gota long life afore ye. Moresoever, I read it that life's got a heap ofhappiness in store fer ye. So you be brave, Miss Barby, an' think howUncle Bob would 'a' broke his poor heart if ye'd got yer own way an'drownded yerself."
"Yes," murmured Barbara, drowsily, sinking away into peace after herlong pain, "Uncle Bob would have been sorry!" Then, after a pause, sheadded softly under her breath: "I'll run away and go to Uncle Bob someday!"
Old Debby heard the words, but made no comment. She stored them in hermemory, and afterward kept crafty watch whenever she saw, by Barbara'smood, that a crisis was on at Aunt Kitty's. For the time, however, shefelt no great anxiety, it being very plain to her that this presentcrisis was past, and that Barbara was no longer strung up to the pitchof violent action or any course that would require initiative. Nerveand will alike relaxed, the child was submissive through exhaustion.At the cabin Debby first made her eat some breakfast, and then got herinterested in a brood of chickens just one day out of the shell. Themother hen ruffled her feathers, scolded in shrill protest, and peckedangrily, but Barbara reached under the brooding wings and drew out abead-eyed, golden-yellow, downy ball. Her face lightened tenderly asshe felt the tiny bill and fragile baby claws snuggling against herenclosing palms.
"She's all right now!" said old Debby to herself, nodding her head insatisfaction. Aloud she said,--as she got a clean white sunbonnet outof the chest, adjusted it on her sparse locks, and tied its stringsbeneath her grim chin,--"I'm goin' to leave ye a bit, honey, to mindthe chickens fer me an' look after the place while I go in to SecondWestings to hev a bit o' talk with Doctor Jim. Promise me not to quitthe place while I'm gone?"
"I'll take good care of everything till you get back, Debby," answeredBarbara, abstractedly, without turning her head. She had relinquishedthe downy chicken, and was busy conciliating the ruffled hen withcrumbs.
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