Langdon had mentioned thus casually a turn in the affairs of Eleanor which to the girl herself marked a crisis. It is no small matter when one awakes to the realization that one does not understand oneself. And this is especially true when one’s life hitherto has been as simple as the rule of three. Suddenly to discover that one is complex—to face in a flash the mystifying X in life’s equations—is to grow from a girl to a woman in a minute.
That eventful morning a week ago when Carl had appeared to her pale-faced and looking like a wounded soldier and had made his sharp, fervent plea, she had answered out of a full heart and as to an old friend, “Yes.” It came as a simple almost inevitable climax. It did not seem a momentous decision; it had involved no great fluttering of the heart. When she conveyed the news to Aunt Philomela, the latter had for a moment looked surprised, then thoughtful, and finally had solemnly patted her hand with the remark, “Well, my dear, you will be safe with him at any rate.”
For an hour after this she had lain prone upon the sofa pondering her aunt’s observation. Yes, she would feel safe. Already she felt safe. She felt again, as she did as a little girl, that she was living in a cup bounded by the horizon line. What lay beyond did not concern her. There would be no adventuring over that purple rim. Should they ever venture forth, Carl would precede her like a courier and at every station have things ready for her comfort. Her life would move forward as steadily, as calmly as it now did.
It was at this point that Barnes had come in with the news of his intended departure. He had broken in upon her lazy reflections with his usual disconcerting impetuosity. And as usual, too, he had seemed to dash from over the horizon line. He had made her feel less as though this boundary were a protection. He had a way of swooping down from unexpected angles which was discomforting to one whose habit was to watch only the main thoroughfare. When Aunt Philomela in a moment of fretfulness had sputtered out before him the news of her engagement it had come to her distinctly as more of a surprise than when Carl himself had proposed. It was as though it were for the first time announced to herself. It gave her a new sense of responsibility which left her feeling by no means so secure as before Barnes’ entrance.
Then before she had time to think, Barnes had gone. Aunt Philomela drew her chair nearer and stroked her hair.
“He’s a queer boy,” she murmured, “and somehow—I’m going to miss him.”
“He’s been very generous to us, Aunty,” she answered.
Aunt Philomela sighed.
“But he is utterly irresponsible,” she hedged.
Both women had a great deal with which to occupy themselves during the next few days but they moved always with a sense of insecurity. Carl came over often but there was not much he could do. In all little things he was thoughtful and he gave them both a great deal of good advice about not worrying and not overtaxing their strength.
So a week passed and Eleanor did not sleep well at night. Yet for the life of her she could not tell why. She had evil dreams about being stifled, about being tied hand and foot awaiting some awful doom. Once she called out so loudly in her sleep as to rouse Aunt Philomela. The latter crept in timidly with a frightened question on her lips,
“What is it, dearie?”
The girl reached out for her aunt’s hand.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she groaned, “there seemed to be something—”
“A Thing?” interrupted Aunt Philomela.
“An uncanny thing.”
Aunt Philomela recovered her spirit.
“You don’t mean to tell me that Mr. Barnes—”
“Barnes?” interrupted the girl as though the name offered some vague explanation.
“Has he been filling your head full of that nonsense as he did John’s?”
The girl smiled. The room seemed instantly as full of fresh air as though a window had been opened.
“No,” she answered, “it isn’t that. Get back into bed, Aunty, or you’ll catch cold.”
Aunt Philomela reluctantly obeyed and the girl fell into a deep sleep which remained uninterrupted until dawn. Then she crept to the window. It seemed more like a sunset than a sunrise she was watching.
For the next day or two she used Carl abominably. It was impossible for her to see him. Yet he was very patient—very sweet. He wrote her quiet, tender little notes and spent most of his time downstairs with Aunt Philomela. The latter came up one evening with her face set.
“Eleanor,” she snapped, “what I need is to get good and vexed once more.”
“What do you mean, Aunty?”
“I mean I almost ordered Mary to spill some hot tea on Carl.”
“You what?”
“I did,” she continued uncompromisingly.
“If Mr. Barnes—”
“I wish to goodness he’d drop in for an hour this very evening.”
Eleanor looked up brightly,
“It might clear the air,” she suggested.
Aunt Philomela was thoughtful a moment. Then she observed, “I think in the morning you had better see Carl.”
So the next morning she had received Carl. He was very solicitous as to what had caused her relapse and she, acting upon a sudden inspiration, tried to admit him into the secret of her thoughts.
“Carl,” she said frankly, “I don’t know what has come over me. Honestly I don’t. But ever since our—our engagement I’ve felt stifled. It may be just hysteria. But I’ve felt all hemmed in.”
He took her hand.
“I think I know what it is,” he said tenderly. “You feel as though you had been made a prisoner?”
“Is it that?” she questioned eagerly.
“Yes. That is it,” he decided. “Living here so much by yourself these last few years you’ve been very free. But I don’t want to feel that now I bind you in anyway.”
“You don’t. That’s what I can’t understand.” She frowned and then went on, “Why I’m just as free as ever I was. I can move about as I wish; I can do what I choose. There’s nothing I wish to do that I can’t do. I guess I’m just silly.”
Carl shook his head.
“When we’re gripped with an idea like yours, it isn’t silly no matter how inexplicable it is.”
“You know how I feel?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes,” he answered, “you feel caged.”
“Yes,” she answered, “it’s that.”
It was wonderful how fully he understood her. She felt even now when talking with him as though talking to herself.
“And you know how to cure me?” she asked with a little laugh.
He nodded.
“How?” she asked anxiously.
“By leaving the cage door open,” he answered quickly. She caught her breath.
“You mean—?”
“There is no need of our being formally engaged. We can go on just as we have until we decide to get married—”
She drew back a little. He put in quickly, “We needn’t even consider that now. We’ll be just friends until the whole matter solves itself.”
“And it will solve itself?” she asked eagerly.
“Yes,” he replied unhesitatingly.
She drew a deep breath. The cage door was even now open.
“Carl,” she whispered honestly, “already I feel less afraid.”
Thus what had appeared to her a very serious problem was settled in five minutes. And it left her not one whit more comfortable. As she thought of it during the day, the very fact of Carl’s acquiescence piqued her. If the matter had been settled after a hearty quarrel she would have felt twice as free. As it was she was under obligations to his good nature if nothing else.
It was at this point that Carl began to lose weight; it was at this point that Eleanor began to realize that in some way Carl had for once misunderstood her. The discontent which oppressed her was by no means based upon such girlish hysteria as they had both supposed. But once at this conclusion she was no better able to analyze her condition than before. Her fretful nights began again and once again she found herself straining towards something bigger and more intangible than had ever before come into her life. She still felt herself caged and this time it was by nothing less distant than the purple rim itself.
She did not discuss this with Carl. She did not mention it even to Aunt Philomela. Alone with herself in the dark she struggled to find meaning in it and as she struggled she discovered herself a wilder more irrational being than she had ever imagined existed.
For one thing her thoughts went back again and again to the saffron road. Until now this path had been significant only as furnishing a means of approach to the house or a convenient way of access to the green-grocer at the next village. But during the long nights which followed, it called to her in a more venturesome spirit. She saw it stretching mile upon mile beyond Chester, saw it winding through the valleys and up the hills and across mountain ranges to the sea. It did not stop even here. A big boat came down to meet her and carried her across the ocean where she again picked up the trail. She felt one with De Soto and Champlain; one with all those who press on through strange countries in their adventuring. And as she moved on she was upon wings and was unafraid.
Yet Barnes—Yes, it was Barnes who had shown her the way—had pointed out the dangers.
“My soul,” he had exclaimed, “the dangers are innumerable and terrifying.”
But now as she thought of them, she laughed back at him. He had spoken of chasms and glaciers and tangles and thorns and Indians. Well, what of them? She joyed at thought of pitting her strength of limb against them. She thrilled at prospect of scrambling over them and straight on. To what? It did not matter. She was in a state of primeval rebellion. She yearned to get beyond these flower-bordered paths, beyond these sheltered walls. Carl had left the cage open but in the meanwhile, even while beating her wings against the bars, she had found some new power. The cage door was open and she had no desire to hop back again among the flowers where before she had been content. She had seen the purple of the sky through the wires and now she hungered to soar.
Still it was all very vague. It was like a dream from which we awake with a distinct emotion of abstract horror or joy without being able to recall the details which cause the mood.
If, at times, Barnes intruded himself into the sacred mystery of these thoughts she then instantly regained control of herself. They were of too intimate stuff to share. He made her self-conscious. He made her uncomfortable.
Yet at other times she thought of him a great deal. She wondered about that tragedy in his eyes which Carl had pointed out to her. She had noticed it particularly the day Barnes had left. If ever a man’s eyes expressed a secret woe, his did then. He had seen a great deal of the world and it would be small wonder if during that time he had met someone—someone—
She found it difficult to be more concrete. There were a great many different kinds of women and it would be very hard to visualize her whom such a man might choose. She might be tall or slight or dark or brunette or—she doubted if her appearance would matter very much to such a man. She might be gay or shy, learned or untutored, rich or poor. She doubted if any of those things would matter much to such a man.
It was impossible to conceive just what would matter but she was quite sure that whatever did, would matter a great deal. Love would be with him a big emotion and if it went wrong, it would be a big tragedy. Carl had seen it and she herself had caught traces of it in the letters he had written to her father. This week, with its problems, left her strangely eager for his return.