CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
Dorian stood knee-deep in the snow and watched the girl run back into the house. In his surprise, he forgot his immediate errand. He had found Carlia, found her well and strong; but why had she run from him with a cry of alarm? She surely had recognized him; she would not have acted thus toward a stranger. Apparently, she was not glad to see him. He stood looking at the closed door, and a feeling of resentment came to him. Here he had been searching for her all this time, only to be treated as if he were an unwelcome intruder. Well, he would not force himself on her. If she did not want to see him, why annoy her? He could go back, tell her father where she was, and let him come for her. He stood, hesitating.
The door opened again and a woman looked out inquiringly at the young man standing in the snow with an axe on his shoulder. Dorian would have to offer a word of explanation to the woman, at least, so he stepped into the path toward the house.
"Good morning," he said, lifting his hat. "I'm out to get a Christmas tree for the children over there, and it seems I have startled the young lady who just ran in."
"Yes," said the woman.
"I'm sorry to have frightened her, but I'm glad to have found her. You see, I've been searching for her."
The woman stood in the doorway, saying nothing, but looking with some suspicion at the young man.
"I should like to see her again," continued Dorian. "Tell her it's
Dorian Trent."
"I'll tell her," said the woman as she withdrew and closed the door.
The wait seemed long, but it was only a few minutes when the door opened and Dorian was invited to come in. They passed through the kitchen into the living room where a fire was burning in a grate. Dorian was given a chair. He could not fail to see that he was closely observed. The woman went into another room, but soon returned.
"She'll be in shortly," she announced.
"Thank you."
The woman retired to the kitchen, and presently Carlia came in. She had taken off her wraps and now appeared in a neat house dress. As she stood hesitatingly by the door. Dorian came with outstretched hands to greet her; but she was not eager to meet him, so he went back to his chair. Both were silent. He saw it was the same Carlia, with something added, something which must have taken much experience if not much time to bring to her. The old-time roses, somewhat modified, were in her cheeks, the old-time red tinted the full lips; but she was more mature, less of a girl and more of a woman; and to Dorian she was more beautiful than ever.
"Carlia," he again ventured, "I'm glad to see you; but you don't seem very pleased with your neighbor. Why did you run from me out there?"
"You startled me."
"Yes; I suppose I did. It was rather strange, this coming so suddenly on to you. I've been looking for you quite a while."
"I don't understand why you have been looking for me."
"You know why, Carlia."
"I don't."
"You're just talking to be talking—but here, this sounds like quarreling, and we don't want to do that so soon, do we?"
"No, I guess not."
"Won't you sit down."
The girl reached for a chair, then seated herself.
"The folks are anxious about you. When can you go home?"
"I'm not going home."
"Not going home? Why not? Who are these people, and what are you doing here?"
"These are good people, and they treat me fine. I'm going to stay—here."
"But I don't see why. Of course, it's none of my business; but for the sake of your father and mother, you ought to go home."
"How—how are they!"
"They are as well as can be expected. You've never written them, have you, nor ever told where you were. They do not know whether you are dead or alive. That isn't right."
The girl turned her bowed head slightly, but did not speak, so he continued: "The whole town has been terribly aroused about you. You disappeared so suddenly and completely. Your father has done everything he could think of to find you. When he gave up, I took up the task, and here you are in the hills not so far from Greenstreet."
Carlia's eyes swam with tears. The kitchen door opened, and the woman looked at Carlia and then at Dorian.
"Breakfast is ready," she announced. "Come, Miss Davis, and have your friend come too."
Dorian explained that he had already eaten.
"Please excuse me just now," pleaded Carlia, to the woman. "Go eat your breakfast without me. Mrs. Carlston, this is Mr. Trent, a neighbor of ours at my home. I was foolish to be so scared of him. He—he wouldn't hurt anyone." She tried bravely to smile.
Alone again, the two were ill at ease. A flood of memories, a confusion of thoughts and feelings swept over Dorian. The living Carlia in all her attractive beauty was before him, yet back of her stood the grim skeleton. Could he close his eyes to that? Could he let his love for her overcome the repulsion which would arise like a black cloud into his thoughts? Well, time alone would tell. Just now he must be kind to her, he must be strong and wise. Of what use is strength and wisdom if it is unfruitful at such times as these? Dorian arose to his feet and stood in the strength of his young manhood. He seemed to take Carlia with him, for she also stood looking at him with her shining eyes.
"Well, Carlia," he said, "go get your breakfast, and I'll finish my errand. You see, the storm stopped the mail carrier and me and we had to put up at your neighbour's last night. There I found three children greatly disappointed in not having their usual Christmas tree. I promised I would get them one this morning, and that's what I was out for when I saw you. You know, Carlia, it's Christmas Eve this morning, if you'll allow that contradiction."
"Yes, I know."
"I'll come back for you. And mind, you do not try to escape. I'll be watching the house closely. Anyway," he laughed lightly, "the snow's too deep for you to run very far."
"O, Dorian—"
"Yes."
He came toward her, but she with averted face, slipped toward the kitchen door.
"I can't go home, I can't go with you—really, I can't," she said. "You go back home and tell the folks I'm all right now, won't you, please."
"We'll talk about that after a while. I must get that tree now, or those kiddies will think I am a rank impostor." Dorian looked at his watch. "Why, it's getting on toward noon. So long, for the present."
Dorian found and cut a fairly good tree. The children were at the window when he appeared, and great was their joy when they saw him carry it to the woodshed and make a stand for it, then bring it in to them. The mail carrier was about ready to continue his journey, and he asked Dorian if he was also ready. But Dorian had no reason for going on further; he had many reasons for desiring to remain. And here was the Christmas tree, not dressed, nor the candy made. How could he disappoint these children?
"I wonder," he said to the mother, "if it would be asking too much to let me stay here until tomorrow. I'm in no hurry, and I would like to help the children with the tree, as I promised. I've been hindered some this morning, and—"
"Stay," shouted the children who had heard this. "Stay, do stay."
"You are more than welcome," replied Mrs. Hickson; "but I fear that the children are imposing on you."
Dorian assured her that the pleasure was his, and after the mail carrier had departed, he thought it wise to explain further.
"A very strange thing has happened," said Dorian. "As I was going after the tree for the children, I met the young lady who is staying at Mrs. Carlston."
"Miss Davis."
"Yes; she's a neighbor of mine. We grew up together as boy and girl.
Through some trouble, she left home, and—in fact, I have been searching
for her. I am going to try to get her to go home to her parents.
She—she could help us with our tree dressing this evening."
"We'd like to have both our neighbors visit with us," said Mrs. Hickson; "but the snow is rather deep for them."
By the middle of the afternoon Dorian cleared a path to the neighboring house, and then went stamping on to the porch. Carlia opened the door and gave him a smiling welcome. She had dressed up a bit, he could see, and he was pleased with the thought that it was for him. Dorian delivered the invitation to the two women. Carlia would go immediately to help, and Mrs. Carlston would come later. Carlia was greeted by the children as a real addition to their company.
"Did you bring an extra of stockings?" asked Mrs. Hickson of her. "An up-to-date Santa Claus is going to visit us tonight, I am sure." She glanced toward Dorian, who was busy with the children and the tree.
That was a Christmas Eve long to be remembered by all those present in that house amid solitude of snow, of mountain, and of pine forests. The tree, under the magic touches of Dorian and Carlia grew to be a thing of beauty, in the eyes of the children. The home-made candles and decorations were pronounced to be as good as the "boughten ones." And the candy—what a miracle worker this sober-laughing, ruddy-haired young fellow was!
Carlia could not resist the spirit of cheer. She smiled with the older people and laughed with the children. How good it was to laugh again, she thought. When the tree was fully ablaze, all, with the exception of Mr. Hickson joined hands and danced around it. Then they had to taste of the various and doubtful makings of candies, and ate a bread-pan of snow-white popcorn sprinkled with melted butter. Then Mr. Hickson told some stories, and his wife in a clear, sweet voice led the children in some Christmas songs. Oh, it was a real Christmas Eve, made doubly joyful by the simple helpfulness and kindness of all who took part.
At the close of the evening, Dorian escorted Mrs. Carlston and Carlia back to their house, and the older woman graciously retired, leaving the parlor and the glowing log to the young people.
They sat in the big armchairs facing the grate.
"We've had a real nice Christmas Eve, after all," said he.
"Yes."
"Our Christmas Eves at home are usually quiet. I'm the only kid there, and I don't make much noise. Frequently, just mother and Uncle Zed and I made up the company; and then when we could get Uncle Zed to talking about Jesus, and explain who He was, and tell his story before He came to this earth as the Babe of Bethlehem, there was a real Christmas spirit present. Yes; I believe you were with us on one of these occasions."
"Yes, I was."
Dorian adjusted the log in the grate. "Carlia, when shall we go home?" he asked.
"How can I go home?"
"A very simple matter. We ride on the stage to the railroad, and then—"
"O! I do not mean that. How can I face my folks, and everybody?"
"Of course, people will be inquisitive, and there will be a lot of speculation; but never mind that. Your father and mother will be mighty glad to get you back home, and I am sure your father will see to it that you—that you'll have no more cause to run away from home."
"What—what?"
"Why, he'll see that you do not have so much work—man's work, to do. Yes, regular downright drudgery it was. Why, I hardly blame you for running away, that is, taking a brief vacation." He went on talking, she looking silently into the fire. "But now," he said finally, "you have had a good rest, and you are ready to go home."
She sat rigidly looking at the glow in the grate. He kept on talking cheerfully, optimistically, as if he wished to prevent the gloom of night to overwhelm them. Then, presently, the girl seemed to shake herself free from some benumbing influence, as she turned to him and said:
"Dorian, why, really why have you gone to all this trouble to find me?"
"Why, we all wanted to know what had become of you. Your father is a changed man because of your disappearance, and your mother is nearly broken hearted."
"Yes, I suppose so; but is that all?"
"Isn't that enough?"
"No."
"Well, I—I—"
"Dorian, you're neither dull nor stupid, except in this. Why did not someone else do this hunting for a lost girl? Why should it be you?"
Dorian arose, walked to the window and looked out into the wintry night. He saw the shine of the everlasting stars in the deep blue. He sensed the girl's pleading eyes sinking into his soul as if to search him out. He glimpsed the shadowy specter lurking in her background. And yet, as he fixed his eyes on the heavens, his mind cleared, his purpose strengthened. As he turned, there was a grim smile on his face. He walked back to the fire-place and seated himself on the arm of Carlia's chair.
"Carlia," he said, "I may be stupid—I am stupid—I've always been stupid with you. I know it. I confess it to you. I have not always acted toward you as one who loves you. I don't know why—lay it to my stupidity. But, Carlia, I do love you. I have always loved you. Yes, ever since we were children playing in the fields and by the creek and the ditches. I know now what that feeling was. I loved you then, I love you now."
The girl arose mechanically from her chair, reached out as if for support to the mantle. "Why, Oh, why did you not tell me before—before"—she cried, then swayed as if to a fall. Dorian caught her and placed her back in the seat. He took her cold hands, but in a moment, she pulled them away.
"Dorian, please sit down in this other chair, won't you?"
Dorian did as she wanted him to do, but he turned the chair to face her.
"I want you to believe me, Carlia."
"I am trying to believe you."
"Is it so hard as all that?"
"What I fear is that you are doing all this for me out of the goodness of your heart. Listen, let me say what I want to say—I believe I can now…. You're the best man I know. I have never met anyone as good as you, no, not even my father—nobody. You're far above me. You always have been willing to sacrifice yourself for others; and now—what I fear is that you are just doing this, saying this, out of the goodness of your heart and not because you really—really love me."
"Carlia, stop—don't."
"I know you, Dorian. I've heard you and Uncle Zed talk, sometimes when you thought I was not listening. I know your high ideals of service, how you believe it is necessary for the higher to reach down to help and save the lower. Oh, I know, Dorian; and it is this that I think of. You cannot love poor me for my sake, but you are doing this for fear of not doing your duty. Hush—Listen! Not that I don't honor you for your high ideals—they are noble, and belong to just such as I believe you are. Yes, I have always, even as a child, looked up to you as someone big and strong and good—Yes, I have always worshiped you, loved you! There, you know it, but what's the use!"
Dorian moved his chair close to her, then said:
"You are mistaken, of course, in placing my goodness so high, though I've always tried to do the right by everybody. That I have failed with you is evidence that I am not so perfect as you say. But now, let's forget everything else but the fact that we love each other. Can't we be happy in that?"
The roses faded from Carlia's cheeks, though coaxed to stay by the firelight.
"My dear," he continued, "we'll go home, and I'll try to make up to you my failings. I think I can do that, Carlia, when you become my wife."
"I can't, Dorian, Oh, I can't be that."
"Why not Carlia?"
"I can't marry you. I'm not—No, Dorian."
"In time, Carlia. We will have to wait, of course; but some day"—he took her hands, and she did not seem to have power to resist—"some day" he said fervently, "you are going to be mine for time and for eternity."
They looked into each others faces without fear. Then: "Go now, Dorian" she said. "I can't stand any more tonight. Please go."
"Yes; I'll go. Tomorrow, the stage comes again this way, and we'll go with it. That's settled. Goodnight."
They both arose. He still held her hands.
"Goodnight," he repeated, and kissed her gently on the cheek.