He took an immense amount of satisfaction in conveying this slight bit of news. But the next second his enthusiasm vanished.
“Is that so?” answered Langdon. “Why, then, I guess I’ll go down the road and meet her as she comes back.”
CHAPTER XVII
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.