CHAPTER THIRTEEN.
It is no doubt a wise provision of nature that the cold of winter closes the activity in field and garden, thus allowing time for study by the home fire. Dorian Trent's library, having been greatly enlarged, now became to him a source of much pleasure and profit. Books which he never dreamed of possessing were now on his shelves. In some people's opinion, he was too well satisfied to remain in his cosy room and bury himself in his books; but his mother found no fault. She was always welcome to come and go; and in fact, much of the time he sat with her by the kitchen fire, reading aloud and discussing with her the contents of his book.
Dorian found, as Uncle Zed had, wonderful arguments for the truth of the gospel in Orson and Parley P. Pratt's works. In looking through the "Journal of Discourses," he found markings by many of the sermons, especially by those of Brigham Young. Dorian always read the passages thus indicated, for he liked to realize that he was following the former owner of the book even in his thinking. The early volumes of the "Millennial Star" contained some interesting reading. Very likely, the doctrinal articles of these first elders were no better than those of more recent writers, but their plain bluntness and their very age seemed to give them charm.
By his reading that winter Dorian obtained an enlarged view of his religion. It gave him vision to see and to comprehend better the whole and thus to more fully understand the details. Besides, he was laying a broad and firm foundation for his faith in God and the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, a faith which would stand him well in need when he came to delve into a faithless and a Godless science.
Not that Dorian became a hermit. He took an active part in the Greenstreet ward organizations. He was secretary of the Mutual, always attended Sunday School, and usually went to the ward dances. As he became older he overcame some of his shyness with girls; and as prosperity came to him, he could dress better and have his mass of rusty-red hair more frequently trimmed by the city barber. More than one of the discerning Greenstreet girls laid their caps for the big, handsome young fellow.
And Dorian's thoughts, we must know, were not all the time occupied with the philosophy of Orson Pratt. He was a very natural young man, and there were some very charming girls in Greenstreet. When, arrayed in their Sunday best, they sat in the ward choir, he, not being a member of the choir, could look at them to his heart's content, first at one and then at another along the double row. Carlia Duke usually sat on the front row where he could see her clearly and compare her with the others—and she did not suffer by the comparison.
Dorian now begin to realize that it was selfish, if not foolish, to think always of the dead Mildred to the exclusion of the very much alive Carlia. Mildred was safe in the world of spirits, where he would some day meet her again; but until that time, he had this life to live and those about him to think of. Carlia was a dear girl, beautiful, too, now in her maturing womanhood. None of the other girls touched his heart as Carlia. He had taken a number of them to dances, but he had always come back, in his thought, at least, to Carlia. But her actions lately had been much of a puzzle. Sometimes she seemed to welcome him eagerly when he called, at other times she tried to evade him. No doubt this Mr. Jack Lamont was the disturbing element. That winter he could be seen coming quite openly to the Duke home, and when the weather would permit, Carlia would be riding with him in his automobile. The neighbors talked, but the father could only shake his head and explain that Carlia was a willful girl.
Now when it seemed that Carlia was to be won by this very gallant stranger, Dorian began to realize what a loss she would be to him. He was sure he loved the girl, but what did that avail if she did not love him in return. He held to the opinion that such attractions should be mutual. He could see no sense in the old-time custom of the knight winning his lady love by force of arms or by the fleetness of horse's legs.
However, Dorian was not easy in his mind, and it came to the point when he suffered severe heartaches when he knew of Carlia's being with the stranger. The Christmas holidays that season were nearly spoiled for him. He had asked Carlia a number of times to go to the parties with him, but she had offered some excuse each time.
"Let her alone," someone had told him.
"No; do not let her alone," his mother had counseled; and he took his mother's advice.
Carlia had been absent from the Sunday meetings for a number of weeks, so when she appeared in her place in the choir on a Sunday late in January, Dorian noticed the unusual pallor of her face. He wondered if she had been ill. He resolved to make another effort, for in fact, his heart went out to her. At the close of the meeting he found his way to her side as she was walking home with her father and mother. Dorian never went through the formality of asking Carlia if he might accompany her home. He had always taken it for granted that he was welcome; and, at any rate, a man could always tell by the girl's actions whether or not he was wanted.
"I haven't seen you for a long time," began Dorian by way of greeting.
The girl did not reply.
"Been sick?" he asked.
"Yes—no, I'm all right."
The parents walked on ahead, leaving the two young people to follow. Evidently, Carlia was very much out of sorts, but the young man tried again.
"What's the matter, Carlia?"
"Nothing."
"Well, I hope I'm not annoying you by my company."
No answer. They walked on in silence, Carlia looking straight ahead, not so much at her parents, as at the distant snow-clad mountains. Dorian felt like turning about and going home, but he could not do that very well, so he went on to the gate, where he would have said goodnight had not Mrs. Duke urged him to come in. The father and mother went to bed early, leaving the two young people by the dining-room fire.
They managed to talk for some time on "wind and weather". Despite the paleness of cheek, Carlia was looking her best. Dorian was jealous.
"Carlia," he said, "why do you keep company with this Mr. Lamont?"
She was standing near the book-shelf with its meagre collection. She turned abruptly at his question.
"Why shouldn't I go with him?" she asked.
"You know why you shouldn't."
"I don't. Oh, I know the reasons usually given, but—what am I to do.
He's so nice, and a perfect gentleman. What harm is there?"
"Why do you say that to me, Carlia?"
"Why not to you?" She came and sat opposite him by the table. He was silent, and she repeated her question, slowly, carefully, and with emphasis. "Why not to you? Why should you care?"
"But I do care."
"I don't believe it. You have never shown that you do."
"I am showing it now."
"Tomorrow you will forget it—forget me for a month."
"Carlia!"
"You've done it before—many times—you'll do it again."
The girl's eyes flashed. She seemed keyed up to carry through something she had planned to do, something hard. She arose and stood by the table, facing him.
"I sometimes have thought that you cared for me—but I'm through with that now. Nobody really cares for me. I'm only a rough farm hand. I know how to milk and scrub and churn and clean the stable—an' that's what I do day in and day out. There's no change, no rest for me, save when he takes me away from it for a little while. He understands, he's the only one who does."
"But, Carlia!"
"You," she continued in the same hard voice, "you're altogether too good and too wise for such as I. You're so high up that I can't touch you. You live in the clouds, I among the clods. What have we two in common?"
"Much, Carlia—I—"
He arose and came to her, but she evaded him.
"Keep away, Dorian; don't touch me. You had better go home now."
"You're not yourself, Carlia. What is the matter? You have never acted like this before."
"It's not because I haven't felt like it, but it's because I haven't had the courage; but now it's come out, and I can't stop it. It's been pent up in me like a flood—now it's out. I hate this old farm—I hate everything and everybody—I—hate you!"
Dorian arose quickly as if he had been lifted to his feet. What was she saying? She was wild, crazy wild.
"What have I done that you should hate me?" he asked as quietly as his trembling voice would allow.
"Done? nothing. It's what you haven't done. What have you done to repay—my—Oh, God, I can't stand it—I can't stand it!"
She walked to the wall and turned her face to it. She did not cry. The room was silently tense for a few moments.
"I guess I'd better go," said Dorian.
She did not reply. He picked up his hat, lingered, then went to the door. She hated him. Then let him get out from her presence. She hated him. He had not thought that possible. Well, he would go. He would never annoy any girl who hated him, not if he knew it. How his heart ached, how his very soul seemed crushed! yet he could not appeal to her. She stood with her face to the wall, still as a statue, and as cold.
"Good night," he said at the door.
She said nothing, nor moved. He could see her body quiver, but he could not see her face. He perceived nothing clearly. The familiar room, poorly furnished, seemed strange to him. The big, ugly enlarged photographs on the wall blurred to his vision. Carlia, with head bowed now, appeared to stand in the midst of utter confusion. Dorian groped his way to the door, and stepped out into the wintry night. When he had reached the gate, Carlia rushed to the door.
"Dorian!" she cried in a heart-breaking voice, "O, Dorian, come back—come back!"
But Dorian opened the gate, closed it, then walked on down the road into the darkness, nor did he once look back.