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,