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.