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.