THE ROAD COMPLICATES MATTERS
With the breeze singing past her ears, Eleanor continued down the very
road along which she had walked with Mr. Barnes when she had gone with
him to the station for his bag. She smiled. She was quite sure that
had she been with Carl she would not have forgotten her mission. But
of course that was quite easy of explanation; Carl was, comparatively
speaking, an old friend now. With old friends one didn’t forget one’s
errands.
As she galloped along she seemed to hear Barnes talking to her again.
She recalled all that he had told her of his life, of his college
days, of his journey abroad, of his family at home, and the motive
which had prompted him to undertake his vagabond trip through these
hills. She had taken it as a pretty compliment that he told her these
things--especially after his confession that he had not intended to do
so. She smiled again. She could smile safely here alone on Aladdin’s
back. And there is nothing so worth smiling at as the woman power
which makes a man do something against his will.
She passed the apple-trees, the pines, and was well into the
maple-grove before she slackened her pace. Aladdin was in fine fettle
and resented the pull of the bit which slowed him down into a walk. He
tossed his head and jerked up his forelegs as though doing a quadrille.
But now her thoughts had come back to this morning and to the curious
emphasis which both men were placing upon Carl. Somehow Carl did not
seem a man who should be emphasized. He came as a pleasant part of a
summer day, and though at times when they had been playing together
he had been able to sweep her on into a more rarefied atmosphere, he
always brought her back again when he put down his bow. The thing she
had liked about him was that he had always been so unobtrusive and yet
by this very method he had made for himself a place in her life. If
Carl should go she would miss him. She would be almost homesick for
him. He was ever gentle, ever thoughtful, ever ready in his quiet way
to fill an hour that without him would be tedious. Then at intervals
came, too, those rare moments when he suggested to her a new life--when
he led her to the hill-top. In a word, Carl had taken her as he found
her, had blended himself with her, until now he was as important to
her in a way as Aunt Philomela, the old brick house, or Aladdin and the
Princess.
She had never quarreled with Carl. She could not imagine such a thing.
It would be as senseless as quarreling with herself. He understood
her perfectly and she understood him perfectly and each had too much
respect for the other ever to force an issue. Before a clash came
either he would surrender a point or she would surrender a point, and
so they would go on together harmoniously. She could always affect a
compromise with Carl. With a little glow of satisfaction she realized
that she could trust herself to him with this sure knowledge. If love
meant peace, then she and Carl were lovers.
With a little gasp of surprise she realized this was just what her
father had hinted at; with a burning of the cheeks and a tightening of
her throat she realized that this was what Barnes had tried to tell
her. With her father she accepted his concern with nothing more than
maidenly confusion at having it for the first time put so starkly; but
with Barnes she felt a touch of resentment.
From the first moment she had met Barnes he had a way, in spite of all
his well meaning, of making her uncomfortable. He had forced her into
a position which, however she might defend it to Aunt Philomela, which,
however much it justified itself, certainly had not been conducive
to peace in her own mind. Had she met Carl for the first time by the
letter-box that day, he would never have suggested such a disturbing
adventure as this upon which Barnes had embarked her. Carl would have
realized her position perfectly, would have sympathized with her fully,
and would have helped her to do that which out of her own conscience
she would have known must be done. In the end he might have taken his
violin and brought her solace for the inevitable consequences.
Again, in all the days she had known Carl he had never urged her to run
counter to any wish of Aunt Philomela’s. He would never have persuaded
her to walk to the station with him after his bag, and certainly would
never have forgotten the bag after starting. He would never have made
her go fishing; he would never have put her into an embarrassing
position before the cook or in the library; he would never have made
her so uncomfortable as she was this minute sitting upon Aladdin.
She touched her horse’s neck and he broke again into a gallop. Within
sight of the station, she turned and rode back again for fully two
miles without stopping. When she did stop it was at sight of Carl
swinging down a level stretch of road a full mile distant. Then, upon
the spur of the moment, she turned once more and galloped back towards
the station. But once well hidden by a turn in the road, she drew up
the horse and continued at a walk.
This unusual act was not so much inspired by Carl as by Barnes. Her
cheeks grew scarlet but she faced the fact squarely. She wished to
think a bit more about this man who had strode so soldier-like into her
life--even though it made her uncomfortable.
Carl had spoken of some great tragedy which he had seen in Barnes’
eyes. She herself had not seen it until this morning, when for a second
as he had stood with her by her father’s bedside she seemed to feel it;
and again later, when at breakfast, he had flashed a look at her which
suggested a pain which with difficulty he held in control. Yet, when
she had repeated Carl’s words to him, he had denied the tragedy, and he
was a man to tell the truth. Perhaps he himself did not yet recognize
it. Perhaps it was as yet something which he refused to admit even to
himself. The thought roused in her a queer little motherly concern.
He was doing so much for her that it seemed as though there must be
something she could do in return.
She laughed at herself. He was not a man to need any such slight help
as she might be able to give him. A man who talked so sturdily of
adventuring--a man who faced the purple rim of the sky with no other
emotion than eagerness to be over it--did not need her, who only drew
back from it in awe.
She had looked at a hundred sunsets with Carl. He had helped her to
see the beauties in them, had made her feel the song in them, had
brought home to her a sense of peace in them. But he had never left her
wondering; he had never sent her back through the little Dutch door
half in fear.
She caught herself with a start. She had drifted unconsciously into a
comparison of these two men. To say the least, this was presumptuous of
her. She turned Aladdin once more and gave him the bit. He sprang as
though at a hurdle and cut his feet into the hard road. She sat upon
his back with her thoughts so far away that she was scarcely conscious
of riding. So she took the first turn in the road more carelessly than
usual. She had just time to swerve one side from an automobile which
rounded the corner. She lost her balance, regained it, and, still
unsteady in her seat, knew that for the first time in his life Aladdin
had lost his head.
She was not frightened, but the unexpectedness of the emergency took
all the strength from her. When she pulled at the bit she found her
arms as weak as a child’s. She tried to speak, but found her tongue
dumb. As she swayed in the saddle she saw Carl. He was watching her
approach unable to make out whether it was a wild ride or a runaway.
Then she fell sideways, and her foot caught in the stirrup. She had
a vague memory of Carl’s white face as he stood in the middle of the
road; remembered seeing him spring, and then the dark closed in upon
her.
When again she came to herself, she was lying by the roadside and Carl
was bending over her. Her face was wet and he was moistening her lips
with a damp handkerchief. She couldn’t understand why he should be
doing this. He was covered with dust, his coat was torn, and his hand
was trembling.
“Carl,” she said, “what--what--in the world--have you been doing?”
“Eleanor,” he trembled.
She tried to raise herself to her elbow but the effort hurt her. As she
fell back again she remembered distinctly the vision of Carl standing
in the middle of the road and springing for the bit. Then she recalled
the whole incident. She looked anxiously at the dusty figure still
bending over her.
“You are hurt?” she asked quietly.
“My arm,” he answered.
She noticed that his left arm hung limply by his side. She tried again
to sit up but her bruised back forced her down again. She closed
her eyes. Through the dizzy turmoil in her brain one fact thrust
itself forward with acute clearness; Carl had saved her life. But for
him, Aladdin might have dragged her half a mile. The truth came as
something of a surprise. When she had seen him standing there, it had
not occurred to her that he would do this. She had only feared lest
he should be trampled down. Instead, he had stood his ground. She was
proud of him. It would be a pleasure to tell Barnes of this.
“If you’re more comfortable,” he said, “I’ll go back to the house and--”
“Where is Aladdin?”
“After I got you clear, he ran on.”
“He’ll return to the house,” she said, “I guess that’s all the word
they’ll need.”
Carl rose to his feet.
“I’d better make sure.”
He was unsteady. She was quick to perceive it.
“Sit down here by me, Carl,” she said, “they--they will come for us.”
He obeyed her. She noticed that his left arm hung like an empty sleeve.
“You were very brave, Carl,” she said.
The color returned to his cheeks. He looked down at her with an
expression that was quite boyish in its frank delight.
“Any man would be brave for you,” he said simply.
She wondered at this. It gave her a new sense of power and yet she did
not smile as she had when she learned that Barnes had told her things
he had not intended to tell her. Nor did the power seem so great,
though both incidents opened her eyes to a new personality within
her. And both gave her sense of responsibility which, while nursing
the pride which all responsibility gives, brought its burden too. In
mounting the throne which was her birthright, she was forced to assume
the duties of a ruler. A queen must take a sterner oath of allegiance
than the humblest of her subjects.
From the direction of the house, she heard the clattering hoof beats of
a racing horse.
“He is coming,” she said.
“Dr. Merriweather?”
“No,” she answered, “I don’t think it’s Dr. Merriweather.”
Carl stepped into the road. In a cloud of dust a horse and buggy was
approaching at a mad gallop.
“It’s Joe!” he exclaimed.
Eleanor smoothed back the hair from her brow and forced herself to sit
up. If a moment before her face had lacked color it did not now. With
Carl she watched the nearing carriage with an interest that almost made
her forget her pain.
Barnes drew up the horse with a suddenness that brought it to its hind
legs. Before it had fairly stopped he had leaped out, run across the
road, and knelt by her side.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed, as he met her smile. “You’re not badly hurt?”
“No, but Carl--”
He turned as though for the first time conscious that the other was
here.
“He has hurt his arm,” she said. “I guess he saved my life.”
“But _you_ are all whole? You aren’t cut or broken--”
“Only just bruised,” she answered, “but Carl--I’m afraid he’s broken
his arm.”
Carl had come nearer. Barnes rose and grasped his sound hand.
“You’ve earned the thanks of us all, old man,” he said.
Carl flushed.
“It was nothing. We--we’ve got to get her back to the house.”
“I’ve sent for the doctor,” said Barnes. “When I saw Aladdin come back
riderless I knew there was trouble.”
He returned to the girl.
“Think you can make your feet?”
“I--I’ll try.”
He placed his arm about her waist and she stood up. But she could not
rest her weight upon her left ankle.
“Put your arm around my neck,” he commanded.
She obeyed.
He placed one arm below her and lifting her clear of the ground bore
her to the carriage. Then with her right foot upon the step she easily
clambered in.
“Now you, Carl.”
The latter took his place by Eleanor’s side. Barnes swung the horse
about, touched him with the whip and they galloped back. He sat
between the two and did not speak again until they reached the house.
Then once more he took her in his arms and carried her into the house.
He carried her upstairs, though she protested at this, and lowered her
upon her little white bed.
Aunt Philomela neither shrieked nor fainted. In a business-like way she
ordered Barnes from the room and proceeded to disrobe the girl.
By the time Barnes was downstairs again Dr. Merriweather had arrived.
He admitted later that it was the only time in his life that his horse
had not gone fast enough for him. He went up the stairs two at a time.
Barnes found Carl, grown a bit faint, in the living-room. He got cold
water for him and then very gently removed his coat and slit his sleeve
to the shoulder.
“We’ll be ready for the doctor when he comes down,” he said. “Sure
you’re sound everywhere else?”
“Yes. But Eleanor--I’m afraid she’s hurt worse than she seemed.”
“She’s in the best of hands now. And Carl--it was bully of you.”
“Why--there wasn’t anything else to do!”
“No. But we don’t all do the only thing.”
“I guess anyone would--with her.”
“With her?” exclaimed Barnes. “Well, I don’t know but what you’re
right. Perhaps we all would--with her.”
He led him to a sofa and made him lie down.
From above came the imperious tinkle of the silver bell.
“There he goes!” exclaimed Barnes. “I wondered how long it would take
him to smell out this.”
He hurried upstairs where he found the old gentleman upon his elbow,
his eyes turned towards Eleanor’s room.