CHAPTER EIGHT.
"Hello, Carlia", greeted Dorian as he stopped at the yard and stood leaning against the fence.
Carlia was just finishing milking a cow. As she straightened, with a three-legged stool in one hand and a foaming milk pail in the other, she looked toward Dorian. "O, is that you? You scared me."
"Why?"
"A stranger coming so suddenly."
The young man laughed. "Nearly through?" he asked.
"Just one more—Brindle, the kickey one."
"Aren't you afraid of her?"
Carlia laughed scornfully. The girl had beautiful white teeth. Her red cheeks were redder than ever. Her dark hair coiled closely about her shapely head. And she had grown tall, too, the young man noticed, though she was still plump and round-limbed.
"My buckets are full, and I'll have to take them to the house before I can finish," she said. "You stay here until I come back—if you want to."
"I don't want to—here, let me carry them." He took the pails from her hand, and they went to the house together.
The milk was carried into the kitchen where Mrs. Duke was busy with pots and pans. Mr. Duke was before the mirror, giving the finishing touches to his hair. He was dressed for meeting. As he heard rather than saw his daughter enter, he asked:
"Carlia, have you swilled the pigs?"
"Not yet," she replied.
"Well, don't forget—and say, you'd better give a little new milk to the calf. It's not getting along as well as it should—and, if you have time before meetin', throw a little hay to the horses."
"All right, father, I'll see to all of it. As I'm not going to meeting,
I'll have plenty of time."
"Not goin'?" He turned, hair brush in hand, and saw Dorian. "Hello, Dorian," he greeted, "you're quite a stranger. You'll come along to meetin' with Carlia, I suppose. We will be late if we don't hurry."
"Father, I told you I'm not going. I—" she hesitated as if not quite certain of her words—"I had to chase all over the hills for the cows, and I'm not through milking yet. Then there are the pigs and the calves and the horses to feed. But I'll not keep Dorian. You had better go with father"—this to the young man who still stood by the kitchen door.
"Leave the rest of the chores until after meetin'," suggested the father, somewhat reluctantly, to be sure, but in concession to Dorian's presence.
"I can't go to meeting either," said Dorian. "I'm not dressed for it, so
I'll keep Carlia company, if you or she have no objections."
"Well, I've no objections, but I don't like you to miss your meetin's."
"We'll be good," laughed Dorian.
"But—"
"Come, father," the mother prompted, "you know I can't walk fast in this hot weather."
Carlia got another pail, and she and Dorian went back to the corral.
"Let me milk," offered Dorian.
"No; you're strange, and she'd kick you over the fence."
"O, I guess not," he remarked; but he let the girl finish her milking. He again carried the milk back; he also took the "slop" to the pigs and threw the hay to the horses, while the girl gave the new milk to the butting calf; then back to the house where they strained the milk. Then the young man was sent into the front room while the girl changed from work to Sunday attire.
The front room was very hot and uncomfortable. The young man looked about on the familiar scene. There were the same straight-backed chairs, the same homemade carpet, more faded and threadbare than ever, the same ugly enlarged photographs within their massive frames which the enterprising agent had sold to Mrs. Duke. There was the same lack of books or music or anything pretty or refined; and as Dorian stood and looked about, there came to him more forcibly than ever the barrenness of the room and of the house in general. True, his own home was very humble, and yet there was an air of comfort and refinement about it. The Duke home had always impressed him as being cold and cheerless and ugly. There were no protecting porches, no lawn, no flowers, and the barn yard had crept close up to the house. It was a place to work. The eating and the sleeping were provided, so that work could be done, farm and kitchen work with their dirt and litter. The father and the mother and the daughter were slaves to work. Only in work did the parents companion with the daughter. The visitors to the house were mostly those who came to talk about cattle and crops and irrigation.
As a child, Carlia was naturally cheerful and loving; but her sordid environment seemed to be crushing her. At times she struggled to get out from under; but there seemed no way, so she gradually gave in to the inevitable. She became resentful and sarcastic. Her black eyes frequently flashed in scorn and anger. As she grew in physical strength and beauty, these unfortunate traits of character became more pronounced. The budding womanhood which should have been carefully nurtured by the right kind of home and neighborhood was often left to develop in wild and undirected ways. Dorian Trent as he stood in that front room awaiting her had only a dim conception of all this.
Carlia came in while he was yet standing. She had on a white dress and had placed a red rose in her hair.
"O, say, Carlia!" exclaimed Dorian at sight of her.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Here you go dolling up, and look at me."
"You're all right. Open the door, it's terribly stuffy in here."
Dorian opened the tightly stuck door. Then he turned and stood looking at the girl before him. It seemed to him that he had never seen her so grown-up and so beautiful.
"Say, Carlia, when did you grow up?" he asked.
"While you have been away growing up too."
"It's the long dress, isn't it?"
"And milking cows and feeding pigs and pitching hay." She gave a toss to her head and held out her roughened red hands as proof of her assertion. He stepped closer to her as if to examine them more carefully, but she swiftly hid them behind her back. The rose, loosened from the tossing head, fell to the floor, and Dorian picked it up. He sniffed at it then handed it to her.
"Where did you get it?" he asked.
She reddened. "None of your—Say, sit down, can't you."
Dorian seated himself on the sofa and invited her to sit by him, but she took a chair by the table.
"You're not very neighborly," he said.
"As neighborly as you are," she retorted.
"What's the matter with you, Carlia?"
"Nothing the matter with me. I'm the same; only I must have grown up, as you say."
A sound as of someone driving up the road came to them through the open door. Carlia nervously arose and listened. She appeared to be frightened, as she looked out to the road without wanting to be seen. A light wagon rattled by, and the girl, somewhat relieved, went back to her chair.
"Isn't it warm in here?" she asked.
"It's warm everywhere."
"I can't stay here. Let's go out—for a walk."
"All right—come on."
They closed the door, and went out at the rear. He led the way around to the front, but Carlia objected.
"Let's go down by the field," she said. "The road is dusty."
The day was closing with a clear sky. A Sunday calm rested over meadow and field, as the two strolled down by the ripening wheat. The girl seemed uneasy until the house was well out of sight. Then she seated herself on a grassy bank by the willows.
"I'm tired," she said with a sigh of relief.
Dorian looked at her with curious eyes. Carlia, grown up, was more of a puzzle than ever.
"You are working too hard," he ventured.
"Hard work won't kill anybody—but it's the other things."
"What other things?"
"The grind, the eternal grind—the dreary sameness of every day."
"You did not finish the high school. Why did you quit?"
"I had to, to save mother. Mother was not only doing her usual house work, but nearly all the outside choring besides. Father was away most of the time on his dry farm too, and he's blind to the work at home. He seems to think that the only real work is the plowing and the watering and the harvesting, and he would have let mother go on killing herself. Gee, these men!" The girl viciously dug the heel of her shoe into the sod.
"I'm sorry you had to quit school, Carlia."
"Sorry? I wanted to keep on more than I ever wanted anything in my life; but—"
"But I admire you for coming to the rescue of your mother. That was fine of you."
"I'm glad I can do some fine thing."
Dorian had been standing. He now seated himself on the bank beside her. The world about them was very still as they sat for a few moments without speaking.
"Listen," said he, "I believe Uncle Zed is preaching. The meeting house windows are wide open, for a wonder.
"He can preach," she remarked.
"He told me you visit him frequently."
"I do. He's the grandest man, and I like to talk to him."
"So do I. I had quite a visit with him this afternoon. I rather fooled him, I guess."
"How?"
"He told me to go home and change my clothes, and then go to meeting; but I came here instead."
"Why did you do that?"
"To see you, of course."
"Pooh, as if I was anything to look at."
"Well, you are, Carlia," and his eyes rested steadily on her to prove his contention. "Why didn't you want to go to meeting this evening?"
"You heard me tell father."
"That wasn't the whole truth. I was not the reason because you had decided not to go before I came."
"Well—how do you know that? but, anyway, it's none of your business, where I go, is it?" She made an effort to stare him out of countenance, but it ended in lowered head and eyes.
"Carlia! No, of course, it isn't. Excuse me for asking."
There was another period of silence wherein Dorian again wondered at the girl's strange behavior. Was he annoying her? Perhaps she did not care to have him paying his crude attentions to her; and yet—
"Tell me about your dry farm," she said.
"I've already plowed eighty acres," he informed her. "The land is rich, and I expect to raise a big crop next year. I've quite a cosy house, up there, not far from the creek. The summer evenings are lovely and cool. I can't get mother to stay over night. I wish you would come and go with her, and stay a few days."
"How could I stay away from home that long? The heavens would fall."
"Well, that might help some. But, honestly, Carlia, you ought to get away from this grind a little. It's telling on you. Don't you ever get into the city?"
"Sometimes Saturday afternoons to deliver butter and eggs."
"Well, some Saturday we'll go to see that moving picture show that's recently started in town. They say it's wonderful. I've never been. We'll go together. What do you say?"
"I would like to."
"Let's move on. Meeting is out, and the folks are coming home."
They walked slowly back to the house. Mr. and Mrs. Duke soon arrived and told of the splendid meeting they had had.
"Uncle Zed spoke," said Mr. Duke, "and he did well, as usual. He's a regular Orson Pratt."
"The people do not know it," added Dorian; "perhaps their children or their children's children will."
"Well, what have you two been doing?" enquired the father of Carlia.
"We've just been taking a walk," answered Dorian. "Will it be alright if Carlia and I go to the new moving picture theatre in town some Saturday?"
Neither parent made any objection. They were, in fact, glad to have this neighbor boy show some interest in their daughter.
"Your mother was at meeting," said Mrs. Duke; "and she was asking about you."
"Yes; I've neglected her all afternoon; so I must be off. Good night folks."
Carlia went with him to the gate, slipping her arm into his and snuggling closely as if to get the protection of good comradship. The movement was not lost on Dorian, but he lingered only for a moment.
"Goodnight, Carlia; remember, some Saturday."
"I'll not forget. Goodnight" she looked furtively up and down the road, then sped back into the house.
Dorian walked on in the darkening evening. A block or so down the road he came on to an automobile. No one in Greenstreet owned one of these machines as yet, and there were but few in the city. As Dorian approached, he saw a young man working with the machinery under the lifted hood.
"Hello," greeted Dorian, "what's the trouble?"
"Damned if I know. Been stalled here for an hour." The speaker straightened from his work. His hands were grimy, and the sweat was running down his red and angry face. He held tightly the stump of a cigarette between his lips.
"I'm sorry I can't help you," said Dorian, "but I don't know the first thing about an automobile."
"Well, I thought I knew a lot, but this gets me." He swore again, as if to impress Dorian with the true condition of his feelings. Then he went at the machinery again with pliers and wrenches, after which he vigorously turned the crank. The engine started with a wheeze and then a roar. The driver leaped into the car and brought the racing engine to a smoother running. "The cursed thing" he remarked, "why couldn't it have done that an hour ago. O, say, excuse me, have you just been at the house up the road?"
"The Duke house? yes."
"Is the old man—is Mr. Duke at home?"
"Yes; he's at home."
"Thank you." The car moved slowly up the road until it reached the Duke gate where it stopped; but only for a moment, for it turned and sped with increasing hurry along the road leading to the city.
Dorian stood and watched it until its red light disappeared. He wondered why the stranger wanted to know why Mr. Duke was at home, then on learning that he was, why he turned about as if he had no business with him.
Later, Dorian learned the reason.