Dorian was not tardy to Sunday School, and, considering his mental condition, he gave a good account of himself in the class. He heard whispered comment on Carlia's disappearance.
After Sunday school Dorian went directly to Carlia's home. He found the mother tear-stained and haggard with care. The tears flowed again freely at the sight of Dorian, and she clung to him as if she had no other means of comfort.
"Do you know where Carlia is?" she wailed.
"No, Sister Duke, I haven't the last idea. I haven't seen her for some time."
"But what shall we do, Dorian, what shall we do! She may be dead, lying dead somewhere!"
"I hardly think that," he tried to comfort her. "She'll turn up again.Carlia's well able to take care of herself."
The father came in. He told what had been done to try to find the missing girl. Not a word had they heard, not a clue or a trace had been discovered. The father tried hard to control his emotions as he talked, but he could not keep the tears from slowly creeping down his face.
"And I suppose I'm greatly to blame" he said. "I have been told as much by some, who I suppose, are wiser than I am. The poor girl has been confined too much to the work here."
"Work doesn't hurt anybody," commented Dorian.
"No; but all work and no play, I was plainly reminded just the other day, doesn't always make Jack a dull boy: sometimes, it makes dissatisfaction and rebellion—and it seems it has done that here. Carlia, I'll admit had very little company, saw very little of society. I realize that now when it may be too late."
"Oh, I hope not," said Dorian.
"Carlia, naturally, was full of life. She wanted to go and see and learn. All these desires in her were suppressed so long that this is the way it has broken loose. Yes, I suppose that's true."
Dorian let the father give vent to his feelings in his talk. He could reply very little, for truth to say, he realized that the father was stating Carlia's case quite accurately. He recalled the girl when he and she had walked back and forth to and from the high school how she had rapidly developed her sunny nature in the warm, somewhat care-free environment of the school life, and how lately with the continual drudgery of her work, she had changed to a pessimism unnatural to one of her years. Yes, one continual round of work at the farm house is apt either to crush to dullness or to arouse to rebellion. Carlia was of the kind not easily crushed…. But what could they now do? What could he do? For, it came to him with great force that he himself was not altogether free from blame in this matter. He could have done more, vastly more for Carlia Duke.
"Well, Brother Duke," said Dorian. "Is there anything that I can do?"
"I don't think of anything," said he.
"Not now," added the mother in a tone which indicated that she did not wish the implied occasion to be too severe.
The father followed Dorian out in the yard. There Dorian asked:
"Brother Duke, has this Mr. Lamont been about lately?"
"He was here yesterday. He came, he said, as soon as he heard ofCarlia's disappearance. He seemed very much concerned about it."
"And he knew nothing about it until yesterday?"
"He said not—do you suspect—he—might—?"
"I'm not accusing anybody, but I never was favorably impressed with the man."
"He seemed so truly sorry, that I never thought he might have had something to do with it."
"Well, I'm not so sure; but I'll go and see him myself. I suppose I can find him in his office in the city?"
"I think so—Well, do what you can for us, my boy; and Dorian, don't take to heart too much what her mother implied just now."
"Not any more than I ought," replied Dorian. "If there is any blame to be placed on me—and I think there is—I want to bear it, and do what I can to correct my mistakes. I think a lot of Carlia, I like her more than any other girl I know, and I should have shown that to her both by word and deed more than I have done. I'm going to help you find her, and when I find her I'll not let her go so easily."
"Thank you. I'm glad to hear you say that."
Monday morning Dorian went to the city and readily found the man whom he was seeking. He was in his office.
"Good morning. Glad to see you," greeted Mr. Lamont, as he swung around on his chair. "Take a seat. What can I do for you?"
As the question was asked abruptly, the answer came in like manner.
"I want to know what you know about Carlia Duke."
Mr. Lamont reddened, but he soon regained his self-possession.
"What do you mean!" he asked.
"You have heard of her disappearance?"
"Yes; I was very sorry to hear of it."
"It seems her father has exhausted every known means of finding her, andI thought you might, at least, give him a clew."
"I should be most happy to do so, if I could; but I assure you I haven't the least idea where she has gone. I am indeed sorry, as I expressed to her father the other day."
"You were with her a good deal."
"Well, not a good deal, Mr. Trent—just a little," he smilingly corrected. "I will admit I'd liked to have seen more of her, but I soon learned that I had not the ghost of a chance with you in the field."
"You are making fun, Mr. Lamont."
"Not at all, my good fellow. You are the lucky dog when it comes to Miss Duke. A fine girl she is, a mighty fine girl—a diamond, just a little in the rough. As I'm apparently out of the race, go to it, Mr. Trent and win her. Good luck to you. I don't think you'll have much trouble."
Dorian was somewhat nonplused by this fulsome outburst. He could not for a moment find anything to say. The two men looked at each other for a moment as if each were measuring the other. Then Mr. Lamont said:
"If at any time I can help you, let me know—call on me. Now you'll have to excuse me as I have some business matters to attend to."
Dorian was dismissed.
The disappearance of Carlia Duke continued to be a profound mystery. The weeks went by, and then the months. The gossips found other and newer themes. Those directly affected began to think that all hopes of finding her were gone.
Dorian, however, did not give up. In the strenuous labors of closing summer and fall he had difficulty in keeping his mind on his work. His imagination ranged far and wide, and when it went into the evil places of the world, he suffered so that he had to throw off the suggestion by force. He talked freely with his mother and with Carlia's parents on all possible phases of the matter, until, seemingly, there was nothing more to be said. To others, he said nothing.
Ever since Dorian had been taught to lisp his simple prayers at his mother's knee, he had found strength and comfort in going to the Lord. With the growth of his knowledge of the gospel and his enlarged vision of God's providences, his prayers became a source of power. Uncle Zed had taught him that this trustful reliance on a higher power was essential to his progress. The higher must come to the help of the lower, but the lower must seek for that help and sincerely accept it when offered. As a child, his prayers had been very largely a set form, but as he had come in contact with life and its experiences, he had learned to suit his prayers to his needs. Just now, Carlia and her welfare was the burden of his petitions.
The University course must wait another year, so Dorian and his mother decided. They could plainly see that one more year would be needed, besides Dorian was not in a condition to concentrate his mind on study. So, when the long evenings came on again, he found solace in his books, and read again many of dear Uncle Zed's writings which had been addressed so purposely to him.
One evening in early December Dorian and his mother were cosily "at home" to any good visitors either of persons or ideas. Dorian was looking over some of his papers.
"Mother, listen to this," he said. "Here is a gem from Uncle Zed which I have not seen before." He read:
"'The acquisition of wealth brings with it the obligation of helping the poor; the acquisition of knowledge brings with it the obligation of teaching others; the acquisition of strength and power brings with it the obligation of helping the weak. This is what God does when He says that His work and His glory is to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man'."
"How true that is," said the mother.
"Yes," added Dorian after a thoughtful pause, "I am just wondering how and to what extent I am fulfilling any obligation which is resting on me by reason of blessings I am enjoying. Let's see—we are not rich, but we meet every call made on us by way of tithing and donations; we are not very wise, but we impart of what we have by service; we are not very strong—I fear, mother, that's where I lack. Am I giving of my strength as fully as I can to help the weak. I don't know—I don't know."
"You mean Carlia?"
"Yes; what am I doing besides thinking and praying for her?"
"What more can we do?"
"Well, I can try doing something more."
"What, for instance!"
"Trying to find her."
"But her father has done that."
"Yes; but he has given up too soon. I should continue the search. I've been thinking about that lately. I can't stay cosily and safely at home any longer, mother, when Carlia may be in want of protection."
"And what would you be liable to find if you found her?"
That question was not new to his own mind, although his mother had not asked it before. Perhaps, in this case, ignorance was more bliss than knowledge. Whatever had happened to her, would it not be best to have the pure image of her abide with him? But he know when he thought of it further that such a conclusion was not worthy of a strong man. He should not be afraid even of suffering if it came in the performance of duty.
That very night Dorian had a strange dream, one unusual to him because he remembered it so distinctly the day after. He dreamed that he saw Mildred in what might well be called the heavenly land. She seemed busy in sketching a beautiful landscape and as he approached her, she looked up to him and smiled. Then, as she still gazed at him, her countenance changed and with concern in her voice, she asked, "Where's Carlia?"
The scene vanished, and that was all of the dream. In the dim consciousness of waking he seemed to hear Carlia's voice calling to him as it did that winter night when he had left her, not heeding. The call thrilled his very heart again:
"Dorian, Dorian, come back—come back!"
The second week in December Dorian went into action in search of Carlia Duke. He acknowledged to himself that it was like searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack, but inaction was no longer possible.
Carlia very likely had no large amount of money with her, so she would have to seek employment. She could have hidden herself in the city, but Dorian reasoned that she would be fearful of being found, so would have gone to some nearby town; but which one, he had no way of knowing. He visited a number of adjacent towns and made diligent enquiries at hotels, stores, and some private houses. Nothing came of this first week's search.
A number of mining towns could easily be reached by train from the city. In these towns many people came and went without notice or comment. Dorian spent nearly a week in one of them, but he found no clue. He went to another. The girl would necessarily have to go to a hotel at first, so the searcher examined a number of hotel registers. She had been gone now about six months, so the search had to be in some books long since discarded, much to the annoyance of the clerks.
Dorian left the second town for the third which was situated well up in the mountains. The weather was cold, and the snow lay two feet deep over the hills and valleys. He became disheartened at times, but always he reasoned that he must try a little longer; and then one day in a hotel register dated nearly five months back, he found this entry:
"Carlia Davis."
Dorian's heart gave a bound when he saw the name. Carlia was not a common name, and the handwriting was familiar. But why Davis? He examined the signature closely. The girl, unexperienced in the art of subterfuge, had started to write her name, and had gotten to the D in Duke, when the thought of disguise had come to her. Yes; there was an unusual break between that first letter and the rest of the name. Carlia had been here. He was on the right track, thank the Lord!
Dorian enquired of the hotel clerk if he remembered the lady. Did he know anything about her? No; that was so long ago. His people came and went. That was all. But Carlia had been here. That much was certain. Here was at least a fixed point in the sea of nothingness from which he could work. His wearied and confused mind could at least come back to that name in the hotel register.
He began a systematic search of the town. First he visited the small business section, but without results. Then he took up the residential district, systematically, so that he would not miss any. One afternoon he knocked on the door of what appeared to be one of the best residences. After a short wait, the door was opened by a girl, highly painted but lightly clad, who smiled at the handsome young fellow and bade him come in. He stepped into the hall and was shown into what seemed to be a parlor, though the parlors he had known had not smelled so of stale tobacco smoke. He made his usual inquiry. No; no such girl was here, she was sorry, but—the words which came from the carmine lips of the girl so startled Dorian that he stood, hat in hand, staring at her, and shocked beyond expression. He know, of course, that evil houses existed especially in mining towns, inhabited by corrupt women, but this was the first time he had ever been in such a place. When he realized where he was, a real terror seized him, and with unceremonious haste he got out and away, the girl's laughter of derision ringing in his ears.
Dorian was unnerved. He went back to his room, his thoughts in a whirl, his apprehensions sinking to gloomy depths. What if Carlia should be in such a place? A cold sweat of suffering broke over him before he could drive away the thought. But at last he did get rid of it. His mind cleared again, and he set out determined to continued the search. However, he went no more into the houses by the invitation of inmates of doubtful character, but made his inquiries at the open door.
Then it occurred to Dorian that Carlia, being a country bred girl and accustomed to work about farm houses, might apply to some of the adjacent farms down in the valley below the town for work. The whole country lay under deep snow, but the roads were well broken. Dorian walked out to a number of the farms and made enquiries. At the third house he was met by a pleasant faced, elderly woman who listened attentively to what he said, and then invited him in. When they were both seated, she asked him his name. Dorian told her.
"And why are you interested in this girl?" she continued.
"Has she been here?" he asked eagerly.
"Never mind. You answer my question."
Dorian explained as much as he thought proper, but the woman still appeared suspicious.
"Are you her brother?"
"No."
"Her young man?"
"Not exactly; only a dear friend."
"Well, you look all right, but looks are deceivin'." The woman tried to be very severe with him, but somehow she did not succeed very well. She looked quite motherly as she sat with her folded hands in her ample lap and a shrewd look in her face. Dorian gained courage to say:
"I believe you know something about the girl I am seeking. Tell me."
"You haven't told me the name of the girl you are looking for."
"Her name is Carlia Duke."
"That isn't what she called herself."
"Oh, then you do know."
"This girl was Carlia Davis."
"Yes—is she here!"
"No."
"Do you know where she is?"
"No, I don't."
Dorian's hopes fell. "But tell me what you know about her—you know something."
"It was the latter part of August when she came to us. She had walked from town, an' she said she was wanting a place to work. As she was used to farm life, she preferred to work at a country home, she said."
"Was she a dark-haired, rosy-cheeked girl?"
"Her hair was dark, but there was no roses in her cheeks. There might have been once. I was glad to say yes to her for I needed help bad. Of course, it was strange, this girl comin' from the city a' wanting to work in the country. It's usually the other way."
"Yes; I suppose so."
"So I was a little suspicious."
"Of what?"
"That she hadn't come to work at all; though I'll say that she did her best. I tried to prevent her, but she worked right up to the last."
"To the last? I don't understand?"
"Don't you know that she was to be sick? That she came here to be sick?"
"To be sick?" Dorian was genuinely at loss to understand.
"At first I called her a cheat, and threatened to send her away; but the poor child pleaded so to stay that I hadn't the heart to turn her out. She had no where to go, she was a long way from home, an' so I let her stay, an' we did the best for her."
Dorian, in the simplicity of his mind, did not yet realize what the woman was talking about. He let her continue.
"We had one of the best doctors in the city 'tend her, an' I did the nursing myself which I consider was as good as any of the new-fangled trained nurses can do; but the poor girl had been under a strain so long that the baby died soon after it was born."
"The baby?" gasped Dorian.
"Yes," went on the woman, all unconsciously that the listener had not fully understood. "Yes, it didn't live long, which, I suppose, in such cases, is a blessing."
Dorian stared at the woman, then in a dazed way, he looked about the plain farm-house furnishings, some details of which strangely impressed him. The woman went on talking, which seemed easy for her, now she had fairly started; but Dorian did not hear all she said. One big fact was forcing itself into his brain, to the exclusion of all minor realities.
"She left a month ago," Dorian heard the woman say when again he was in a condition to listen. "We did our best to get her to stay, for we had become fond of her. Somehow, she got the notion that the scoundrel who had betrayed her had found her hiding place, an' she was afraid. So she left."
"Where did she go? Did she tell you?"
"No; she wouldn't say. The fact is, she didn't know herself. I'm sure of that. She just seemed anxious to hide herself again. Poor girl." The woman wiped a tear away with the corner of her apron.
Dorian arose, thanked her, and went out. He looked about the snow-covered earth and the clouds which threatened storm. He walked on up to the road back to the town. He was benumbed, but not with cold. He went into his room, and, although it was mid-afternoon, he did not go out any more that day. He sat supinely on his bed. He paced the floor. He looked without seeing out of the window at the passing crowds. He could not think at all clearly. His whole being was in an uproar of confusion. The hours passed. Night came on with its blaze of lights in the streets. What could he do now? What should he do now?
"Oh, God, help me," he prayed, "help me to order my thoughts, tell me what to do."
If ever in his life Dorian had need of help from higher power, it was now.
Dorian had not found Carlia Duke; instead, he had found something which appeared to him to be the end of all things. Had he found her dead, in her virginal purity, he could have placed her, with Mildred, safely away in his heart and his hopes; but this!… What more could he now do? That he did not take the first train home was because he was benumbed into inactivity.
The young man had never before experienced such suffering of spirit. The leaden weight on his heart seemed to be crushing, not only his physical being, but his spirit also into the depths of despair. As far back in his boyhood as he could remember, he had been taught the enormity of sexual sin, until it had become second nature for him to think of it as something very improbable, if not impossible, as pertaining to himself. And yet, here it was, right at the very door of his heart, casting its evil shadow into the most sacred precincts of his being. He had never imagined it coming to any of his near and dear ones, especially not to Carlia—Carlia, his neighbor, his chummy companion in fields and highways, his schoolmate. He pictured her in many of her wild adventures as a child, and in her softer moods as a grown-up girl. He saw again her dark eyes flash with anger, and then her pearly teeth gleam in laughter at him. He remembered how she used to run from him, and then at other times how she would cling to him as if she pleaded for a protection which he had not given. The weak had reached out to the strong, and the stronger one had failed. If 'remorse of conscience' is hell, Dorian tasted of its bitter depths, for it came to him now that perhaps because of his neglect, Carlia had been led to her fall.
But what could he now do? Find her. And then, what? Marry her? He refused to consider that for a moment. He drove the thought fiercely away. That would be impossible now. The horror of what had been would always stand as a repellent specter between them…. Yes, he had loved her—he knew that now more assuredly than ever; and he tried to place that love away from him by a play upon words in the past tense; but deep down in his heart he knew that he was merely trying to deceive himself. He loved her still; and the fact that he loved her but could not marry her added fuel to the flames of his torment.
That long night was mostly a hideous nightmare and even after he awoke from a fitful sleep next morning, he was in a stupor. After a while, he went out into the wintry air. It was Sunday, and the town was comparatively quiet. He found something to eat at a lunch counter, then he walked about briskly to try to get his blood into active circulation. Again he went to his room.
Presently, he heard the ringing of church bells. The folks would be going to Sunday school in Greenstreet. He saw in the vision of his mind Uncle Zed sitting with the boys about him in his class. He saw the teacher's lifted hand emphasize the warning against sin, and then he seemed to hear a voice read:
"For the Son of man is come to save that which is lost.
"How think ye if a man have an hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray?
"And if so be that he find it, verily, I say unto you, he rejoiceth more of that sheep than of the ninety and nine which went not astray."
Dorian seemed to awaken with a start. Donning coat and hat, he went out again, his steps being led down the country road toward the farmhouse. He wanted to visit again the house where Carlia had been. Her presence there and her suffering had hallowed it.
"Oh, how do you do?" greeted the woman, when she saw Dorian at the door."Come in."
Dorian entered, this time into the parlor which was warm, and where a man sat comfortably with his Sunday paper.
"Father," said the woman, "this is the young man who was here yesterday."
The man shook hands with Dorian and bade him draw up his chair to the stove.
"I hope you'll excuse me for coming again," said Dorian; "but the fact of the matter is I seemed unable to keep away. I left yesterday without properly thanking you for what you did for my friend, Miss Carlia. I also want to pay you a little for the expense you were put to. I haven't much money with me, but I will send it to you after I get home, if you will give me your name and address."
The farmer and his wife exchanged glances.
"Why, as to that," replied the man, "nothing is owing us. We liked the girl. We think she was a good girl and had been sinned against."
"I'm sure you are right," said Dorian. "As I said, I went away rather abruptly yesterday. I was so completely unprepared for that which I learned about her. But I'm going to find her if I can, and take her home to her parents."
"Where do you live!" asked the man.
Dorian told him.
"Are you a 'Mormon'?"
"Yes, sir."
"And not ashamed of it!"
"No; proud of it—grateful, rather."
"Well, young man, you look like a clean, honest chap. Tell me why you are proud to be a 'Mormon'."
Dorian did his best. He had had very little experience in presenting the principles of the gospel to an unbeliever, but Uncle Zed's teachings, together with his own studies, now stood him well in hand.
"Well," commented the farmer, "that's fine. You can't be a very bad man if you believe in and practice all what you have been telling us."
"I hope I am not a bad man. I have some light on the truth, and woe is me if I sin against that light."
The farmer turned to his wife. "Mother," he said, "I think you may safely tell him."
Dorian looked enquiringly at the woman.
"It's this," she said. "My husband brought home a postcard from the office last evening after you had left—a card from Miss Davis, asking us to send her an article of dress which she had forgotten. Here is the card. The address may help you to find her. I am sure you mean no harm to the girl."
Dorian made note of the address, as also that of the farmer's with whom he was visiting. Then he arose to go.
"Now, don't be in such a hurry," admonished the man. "We'll have dinner presently."
Dorian was glad to remain, as he felt quite at home with these people, Mr. and Mrs. Whitman. They had been good to Carlia. Perhaps he could learn a little more about her. The dinner was enjoyed very much. Afterward, Mrs. Whitman, encouraged by Dorian's attentiveness, poured into his willing ear all she had learned of the girl he was seeking; and before the woman ceased her freely-flowing talk, a most important item had been added to his knowledge of the case. Carlia, it seems, had gone literally helpless to her downfall. "Drugged" was the word Mrs. Whitman used. The villainy of the foul deed moved the young man's spirit to a fierce anger against the wretch who had planned it, and the same time his pity increased for the unfortunate victim. As Dorian sat there and listened to the story which the woman had with difficulty obtained from the girl, he again suffered the remorse of conscience which comes from a realization of neglected duty and disregarded opportunity. It was late in the afternoon before he got back to the town.
The next day Dorian made inquiries as to how he could reach the place indicated by the address, and he learned that it was a ranch house well up in the mountains. There was a daily mail in that direction, except when the roads and the weather hindered; and it seemed that these would now be hinderances. The threatened storm came, and with it high wind which piled the snow into deep, hard drifts, making the mountain road nearly impassible. Dorian found the mail-carrier who told him that it would be impossible to make a start until the storm had ceased. All day the snow fell, and all day Dorian fretted impatiently, and was tempted to once more go out to Mr. and Mrs. Whitman; but he did not. Christmas was only three days off. He could reach home and spend the day with his mother, but there would be considerable expense, and he felt as if he must be on the ground so that at the soonest possible moment he could continue on the trail which he had found. The pleasure of the home Christmas must this time be sacrificed, for was not he in very deed going into the mountains to seek that which was lost.
The storm ceased toward evening, but the postman would not make a start until next morning. Dorian joined him then, and mounted beside him. The sky was not clear, the clouds only breaking and drifting about as if in doubt whether to go or to stay. The road was heavy, and it was all the two horses could do to draw the light wagon with its small load. Dorian wondered how Carlia had ever come that way. Of course, it had been before the heavy snow, when traveling was not so bad.
"Who lives at this place?" asked Dorian of the driver, giving the box number Carlia had sent.
"That? Oh, that's John Hickson's place."
"A rancher?"
"No; not exactly. He's out here mostly for his health."
"Does he live here in the mountains the year around?"
"Usually he moves into town for the winter. Last year the winter was so mild that he decided to try to stick one through; but surely, he's got a dose this time. Pretty bad for a sick man, I reckon."
"Anybody with him?"
"Wife and three children—three of the cutest kiddies you ever saw. Oh, he's comfortable enough, for he's got a fine house. You know, it's great out here among the pine hills in the summer; but just now, excuse me."
"Is it far?"
"No." The driver looked with concern at the storm which was coming again down the mountain like a great white wave. "I think perhaps we'll have to stop at the Hickson's tonight," he said.
The travelers were soon enwrapped in a swirling mantle of snow. Slowly and carefully the dug-ways had to be traversed. The sky was dense and black. The storm became a blizzard, and the cold became intense. The men wrapped themselves in additional blankets. The horses went patiently on, the driver peering anxiously ahead; but it must have been well after noon before the outlines of a large building near at hand bulked out of the leaden sky.
"I'm glad we're here," exclaimed the driver.
"Where?" asked Dorian.
"At Hickson's."
They drove into the yard and under a shed where the horses were unhitched and taken into a stable. A light as if from a wood fire in a grate danced upon the white curtain of the unshaded windows. With his mail-bag, the driver shuffled his way through the snow to the kitchen door and knocked. The door opened immediately and Mrs. Hickson, recognizing the mail-driver, bade him come in. Two children peered curiously from the doorway of another room. Dorian a little nervously awaited the possibility of Carlia's appearing.
It was pleasant to get shelter and a warm welcome in such weather. After the travelers had warmed themselves by the kitchen stove, they were invited into another room to meet Mr. Hickson, who was reclining in a big arm chair before the grate. He welcomed them without rising, but pointed them to chairs by the fire. They talked of the weather, of course. Mr. Hickson reasoned that it was foolish to complain about something which they could not possible control. Dorian was introduced as a traveler, no explanation being asked or given as to his business. He was welcome. In fact, it was a pleasure, said the host, to have company even for an evening, as very few people ever stopped over night, especially in the winter. Dorian soon discovered that this man was not a rough mountaineer, but a man of culture, trying to prolong his earth-life by the aid of mountain air, laden with the aroma of the pines. The wife went freely in and out of the room, the children also; but somewhat to Dorian's surprise, no Carlia appeared. If she were there in the house, she surely would be helping with the meal which seemed to be in the way of preparation.
The storm continued all afternoon. There could be no thought of moving on that day. And indeed, it was pleasant sitting thus by the blazing log in the fireplace and listening, for the most part, to the intelligent talk of the host. The evening meal was served early, and the two guests ate with the family in the dining room. Still no Carlia.
When the driver went out to feed his horses and to smoke his pipe, and Mr. Hickson had retired, the children, having overcome some of their timidity, turned their attention to Dorian. The girl, the oldest, with dark hair and rosy cheeks, reminded him of another girl just then in his thoughts. The two small boys were chubby and light haired, after the mother. When Dorian managed to get the children close to him, they reminded him that Christmas was only one day distant. Did he live near by? Was he going home for Christmas? What was Santa Claus going to bring him?
Dorian warmed to their sociability and their clatter. He learned from them that their Christmas this year would likely be somewhat of a failure. Daddy was sick. There was no Christmas tree, and they doubted Santa Claus' ability to find his way up in the mountains in the storm. This was the first winter they had been here. Always they had been in town during the holidays, where it was easy for Santa to reach them; but now—the little girl plainly choked back the tears of disappointment.
"Why, if it's a Christmas tree you want," said Dorian, "that ought to be easy. There are plenty up on the nearby hills."
"Yes; but neither papa nor mama nor we can get them."
"But I can."
"Oh, will you? Tomorrow?"
"Yes; tomorrow is Christmas Eve. We'll have to have it then."
The children were dancing with glee as the mother came in and learned what had been going on. "You mustn't bother the gentleman," she admonished, but Dorian pleaded for the pleasure of doing something for them. The mother explained that because of unforeseen difficulties the children were doomed to disappointment this holiday season, and they would have to be satisfied with what scanty preparation could be made.
"I think I can help," suggested the young man, patting the littlest confiding fellow on the head. "We cannot go on until tomorrow, I understand, and I should very much like to be useful."
The big pleading eyes of the children won the day. They moved into the kitchen. All the corners were ransacked for colored paper and cloth, and with scissors and flour paste, many fantastic decorations were made to hang on the tree. Corn was popped and strung into long white chains. But what was to be done for candles? Could Dorian make candles? He could do most everything, couldn't he? He would try. Had they some parafine, used to seal preserve jars. Oh, yes, large pieces were found. And this with some string was soon made into some very possible candles. The children were intensely interested, and even the mail-driver wondered at the young man's cleverness. They had never seen anything like this before. The tree and its trimmings had always been bought ready for their use. Now they learned, which their parents should have known long ago, that there is greater joy in the making of a plaything than in the possession of it.
The question of candy seemed to bother them all. Their last hopes went when there was not a box of candy in the postman's bag. What should they do for candy and nuts and oranges and—
"Can you make candy?" asked the girl of Dorian as if she was aware she was asking the miraculous.
"Now children," warned the happy mother. "You have your hands full" she said to Dorian. "There's no limit to their demands."
Dorian assured her that the greater pleasure was his.
"Tomorrow," he told the clammering children, "we'll see what we can do about the candy."
"Chocolates?" asked one.
"Caramels," chose another.
"Fudge," suggested the third.
"All these?" laughed Dorian. "Well, we'll see-tomorrow," and with that the children went to bed tremulously happy.
The next morning the sun arose on a most beautiful scene. The snow lay deep on mountain and in valley. It ridged the fences and trees. Paths and roads were obliterated.
The children were awake early. As Dorian dressed, he heard them scampering down the stairs. Evidently, they were ready for him. He looked out of the window. He would have to make good about that tree.
As yet, Dorian had found no traces of the object of his search. He had not asked direct questions about her, but he would have to before he left. There seemed some mystery always just before him. The mail-driver would not be ready to go before noon, so Dorian would have time to get the tree and help the children decorate it. Then he would have to find out all there was to know about Carlia. Surely, she was somewhere in the locality.
After breakfast, Dorian found the axe in the wood-shed, and began to make his way through the deep snow up the hill toward a small grove of pine. Behind the shoulder of a hill, he discovered another house, not so large as Mr. Hickson's, but neat and comfortably looking. The blue smoke of a wood fire was rising from the chimney. A girl was vigorously shoveling a path from the house to the wood-pile. She was dressed in big boots, a sweater, and a red hood. She did not see Dorian until he came near the small clearing by the house. Straightening from her work, she stood for a moment looking intently at him. Then with a low, yet startled cry, she let the shovel fall, and sped swiftly back along the newly-made path and into the house.
It was Carlia.
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'sDorian 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 searchingfor 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.
The sudden return of Carlia Duke to her home created as much talk as her disappearance had done. Dorian was besieged with enquirers whom he smilingly told that he had just come across her taking a little vacation up in the hills. What, in the hills in the depths of winter? Why, yes; none but those who have tried it know the comfort and the real rest one may obtain shut out by the snow from the world, in the solitude of the hills. He told as little as possible of the details of his search, even to Carlia's parents. Any unpleasant disclosures would have to come from her to them, he reasoned. Not being able to get Dorian talking about the case, the good people of Greenstreet soon exhausted their own knowledge of the matter, so in a short time, the gossip resumed its every-day trend.
Hardly a day passed without Dorian spending some time with Carlia. She would not go to Sunday School or to Mutual, and it was some time before he could convince her that it was a matter of wisdom as well as of right that she should attend some of the public ward meetings. Frequently, he took his book to the Duke home and read aloud to Carlia. This she enjoyed very much. Sometimes the book was a first class novel, but oftener it was a scientific text or a religions treatise. Carlia listened attentively to his discussion of deep problems, and he was agreeably surprised to learn that she could readily follow him in the discussion of these themes; so that the long winter evenings spent with her either at her home or at his own became a source of great inspiration to the young man who had not lost sight or the mission assigned to him by the beloved Uncle Zed. Dorian talked freely to Carlia on how he might best fulfill the high destiny which seemed to lay before him; and Carlia entered enthusiastically into his plans.
"Fine, fine," she would say. "Carry it out. You can do it."
"With your help, Carlia."
"I'll gladly help you all I can; but that is so little; what can I do?"
"Trust me, have faith in me; and when the time comes, marry me."
This was usually the end of the conversation for Carlia; she became silent unless he changed the subject.
Dorian, naturally undemonstrative, was now more careful than ever in his love making. The intimacy between them never quite returned to the earlier state. Complete forgetfulness of what had been, was, of course, impossible, either for Carlia or for Dorian; but he tried manfully not to let the "specter" come too often between him and the girl he loved. He frequently told her that he loved her, but it was done by simple word or act. Dorian's greater knowledge gave him the advantage over her. He was bound by this greater knowledge to be the stronger, the wiser, the one who could keep all situations well in hand.
One evening, when Carlia was unusually sweet and tempting, he asked if he might kiss her goodnight. She set her face as if it were hard to deny him, but she finally said:
"No; you must not."
"Why not, Carlia?"
"We're not engaged yet."
"Carlia!"
"We are not. I have never promised to marry you, have I?" She smiled.
"No; I guess not; but that's understood."
"Don't be so sure."
"There are some things definitely fixed without the spoken word."
"Good night, Dorian." She was smiling still.
"Good night, Carlia." Their hands met and clasped, atoning the best they could for the forbidden kiss.
One evening when the feeling of spring was in the air, Dorian was going to call on Carlia, when he heard the approach of an automobile. As it turned into the bystreet, leading to the Duke home, Dorian saw the driver to be Mr. Jack Lamont. Dorian kept in the road, and set his face hard. As the machine had to stop to prevent running over him, Dorian turned, walked deliberately to the side of the car, and looking steadily into Mr. Lamont's face, said:
"I'm going to Mr. Duke's also. If I find you there, I'll thrash you within an inch of your life. Drive on."
For a moment, the two glared at each other, then the automobile went on—on past the Duke house toward town. When Dorian arrived at his destination, Carlia greeted him with:
"Dorian, what's the matter?"
"Nothing," he laughed.
"You're as pale as a ghost."
"Am I? Well, I haven't seen any ghosts—Say, mother wants you to come to supper. She has something you specially like. Can you?"
"Sure, she can," answered her mother, for she was glad to have Carlia out away from the work which she was determined to stick to closer than ever. Carlia was pleased to go, and kept up a merry chatter until she saw that Dorian was exceptionally sober-minded. She asked him what was the matter with him, but he evaded. His thoughts were on the man whom he had prevented from calling at her home that evening. What was his errand? What was in the scoundrel's mind? Dorian struggled to put away from him the dark thoughts which had arisen because of his recent encounter with Mr. Lamont. All the evening at home and during their walk back he was unusually silent, and Carlia could only look at him with questioning anxiety.
Spring, once started, came on with a rush. The melting snow filled the river with a muddy flood; the grass greened the slopes; the bursting willows perfumed the air; the swamp awakened to the warm touch of the sun. Dorian's busy season also began.
As soon as the roads were passible, Dorian drove up to his dry-farm. On one of these first trips he fell in with a company of his neighboring dry-farmers, and they traveled together. While they were stopping for noon at a small hotel in the canyon, a rain storm came up, which delayed them. They were not impatient, however, as the moisture was welcome; so the farmers rested easily, letting their horses eat a little longer than usual.
The conversation was such which should be expected of Bishop's counselors, president of Elders' quorums, and class leaders in the Mutual, which these men were. On this occasion some of the always-present moral problems were discussed. Dorian was so quiet that eventually some one called on him for an opinion.
"I don't think I can add anything to the discussion," replied Dorian. "Only this, however: One day in Sunday school Uncle Zed painted the terrors of sin to us boys in such colours that I shall never forget it. The result in my case is that I have a dreadful fear of moral wrong doing. I am literally scared, I—"
Dorian turned his eyes to the darkened doorway. Mr. Jack Lamont stood there with a cynical expression on his face. His hat was tilted back on his head, and a half-smoked cigarette sagged from his lips. The genial warmth of the room seemed chilled by the newcomer's presence.
"G'day, gentlemen," said Mr. Lamont. "Mr. Trent, here, is afraid, I understand."
The men arose. Outside the clouds were breaking. Dorian stepped forward, quite close to Jack Lamont.
"Yes, I am afraid," said Dorian, his face white with passion, "but not of what you think, not of what you would be afraid, you dirty, low, scoundrel!"
Lamont raised a riding whip he had in his hand, but the men interfered, and they all moved outside into the yard. Dorian, still tense with anger, permitted himself to be taken to the teams where they began hitching up. Dorian soon had himself under control, yet he was not satisfied with the matter ending thus. Quietly slipping back to where Mr. Lamont stood looking at the men preparing to drive on, he said, "I want a word with you."
The other tried to evade.
"Don't try to get away until I'm through with you. I want to tell you again what a contemptible cur you are. No one but a damned scoundrel would take advantage of a girl as you did, and then leave her to bear her shame alone."
"Do you mean Carlia—"
"Don't utter her name from your foul lips."
"For if you do, I might say, what have I got to do with that? You were her lover, were you not? you were out with her in the fields many times until midnight, you—"
The accusing mouth closed there, closed by the mighty impact of Dorian's fist. The blood spurted from a gashed lip, and Mr. Lamont tried to defend himself. Again Dorian's stinging blow fell upon the other's face. Lamont was lighter than Dorian, but he had some skill as a boxer which he tried to bring into service; but Dorian, mad in his desire to punish, with unskilled strength fought off all attacks. They grappled, struggled, and fell, to arise again and give blow for blow. It was all done so suddenly, and the fighting was so fierce, that Dorian's fellow travelers did not get to the scene before Jack Lamont lay prone on the ground from Dorian's finishing knockout blow.
"Damn him!" said Dorian, as he shook himself back into a somewhat normal condition and spat red on the ground. "He's got just a little of what's been coming to him for a long time. Let him alone. He's not seriously hurt. Let's go."