On a Saturday afternoon in early July Dorian and a neighbor were coming home from a week's absence up in the hills. They were on horseback, and therefore they cut across by way of the new road in course of construction between Greenstreet and the city.
The river was high. The new bridge was not yet open for traffic, but horses could safely cross. As the two riders passed to the Greenstreet side, they saw near the bridge down on the rocks by the rushing river, an automobile, overturned and pretty well demolished. Evidently, someone had been trying to reach the bridge, had missed the road, and had gone over the bank, which at this point was quite steep.
The two men stopped, dismounted, and surveyed the wreck. Someone was under the car, dead or alive, they could not tell. Dorian unslung his rope from his saddle, and took off his coat. "I'll go down and see," he said.
"Be careful," admonished the other, "if you slip into the river, you'll be swept away."
Dorian climbed down to where the broken machine lay. Pinned under it with his body half covered by the water was Mr. Jack Lamont. He was talking deliriously, calling in broken sentences for help. Dorian's hesitancy for an instant was only to determine what was the best thing to do.
"Hold on a bit longer, Mr. Lamont," said Dorian; but it was doubtful whether the injured man understood. He glared at his rescuer with unseeing eyes. Part of the automobile was already being moved by the force of the stream, and there was danger that the whole car, together with the injured man, would be swept down the stream. Dorian, while clinging to the slippery rocks, tried to pull the man away, but he was so firmly pinned under the wreck that he could not be moved. Dorian then shouted to his companion on the bank to bring the rope and come to his assistance; but even while it was being done, a great rush of water lifted the broken car out into the stream. Lamont was released, but he was helpless to prevent the current from sweeping him along.
Dorian reached for the man, but missed him and stepped into a deep place. He went in to his arms, but he soon scrambled on to a shallower point where he regained his balance. The unconscious Lamont was beginning to drift into the current and Dorian knew that if he was to be saved he must be prevented from getting into the grasp of the mid-stream. Dorian took desperate chances himself, but his mind was clear and his nerves were steady as he waded out into the water. His companion shouted a warning to him from the bank, but he heeded it not. Lamont's body was moving more rapidly, so Dorian plunged after it, and by so doing got beyond wading depths. He did not mind that as he was a good swimmer, and apparently, Mr. Lamont was too far gone to give any dangerous death grip. Dorian got a good hold of the man's long hair and with the free arm he managed to direct them both to a stiller pool lower down where by the aid of his companion, he pulled Lamont out of the water and laid him on the bank. He appeared to be dead, but the two worked over him for some time. No other help appeared, so once more they tried all the means at their command to resuscitate the drowned.
"I think he's gone," said Dorian's companion.
"It seems so. He's received some internal injury. He was not drowned."
"Who is he, I wonder."
"His name is Jack Lamont."
"Do you know him?"
"I know him. Yes; let's carry him up the bank. We'll have to notify somebody."
The man was dead when he was laid on the soft warm grass. Dorian covered the lifeless form with his own coat.
"I'll stay here," suggested Dorian's companion, "while you go and telephone the police station in the city. Then you go right on home and get into some dry clothes."
Dorian did as he was told. After reaching the nearest telephone, and delivering his message, he went on home and explained to his mother what had happened. Then he changed his clothes.
"What a terrible thing!" exclaimed his mother. "And you also might have been drowned."
"Oh, no; I was all right. I knew just what I could do. But the poor fellow. I—I wish I could have saved him. It might have been a double salvation for him."
The mother did not press him for further explanations, for she also had news to tell. As soon as Dorian came from his room in his dry clothes, she asked him if he had seen Brother Duke on the way.
"No, mother; why?"
"Well, he was here not long ago, asking for you. Carlia, it seems, has had a nervous break down, and the father thinks you can help."
"I'll go immediately."
"You'll have some supper first. It will take me only a moment to place it on the table."
"No, mother, thank you; after I come back; or perhaps I'll eat over there. Don't wait for me." He was out of the house, and nearly running along the road.
Dorian found Carlia's father and mother under great mental strain."We're so glad you came," they said; "we're sure you can help her."
"What is the matter!"
"We hardly know. We don't understand. This afternoon—that Mr. Jack Lamont—you remember him—he used to come here. Well, he hasn't been around for over a year, for which we were very thankful, until this afternoon when he came in his automobile. Carlia was in the garden, and she saw him drive up to the gate. When he alighted and came toward her, she seemed frightened out of her wits, for she ran terror stricken into the house. She went up to her bedroom and would not come down."
"He did not see her, then, to talk to her?"
"No; he waited a few moments only, then drove off again."
"Where is Carlia now?"
"Still up in her room."
"May I go up to her?"
"Yes; but won't you have her come down?"
"No, I'd rather go up there, if you don't mind."
"Not at all. Dorian, you seem the only help we have."
He went through the living room to the stairway. He noticed that the bare boards of the stairs had been covered with a carpet, which made his ascending steps quite noiseless. Everything was still in Carlia's room. The door was slightly ajar, so he softly pushed it open. Carlia was lying on her bed asleep.
Dorian tiptoed in and stood looking about. The once bare, ugly room had been transformed into quite a pretty chamber, with carpet and curtains and wall-paper and some pretty furniture. The father had at last done a sensible thing for his daughter.
Carlia slept on peacefully. She had not even washed away the tear-stains from her cheeks, and her nut-brown hair lay in confusion about her head. Poor, dear girl! If there ever was a suffering penitent, here was one.
In a few moments, the girl stirred, then sensing that someone was in the room, she awoke with a start, and sprang to her feet.
"It's only Dorian," said he.
"Oh!" she put her hand to her head, brushing back her hair.
"Dorian, is it you?"
"Sure, in real flesh and blood and rusty-red hair." He tried to force cheerfulness into his words.
"I'm so glad, so glad it's you."
"And I'm glad that you're glad to see me."
"Has he gone? I'm afraid of him."
"Afraid of whom, Carlia?"
"Don't you know? Of course you don't know. I—"
"Sit down here, Carlia." He brought a chair; but she took it nearer the open window, and he pushed up the blind that the cool air might the more freely enter. The sun was nearing the western hills, and the evening sounds from the yard came to them. He drew a chair close to hers, and sat down by her, looking silently into the troubled face.
"I'm a sight," she said, coming back to the common, everyday cares as she tried to get her hair into order.
"No, you're not. Never mind a few stray locks of hair. Never mind that tear-stained face. I have something to tell you."
"Yes?"
"You said you were afraid, afraid of Mr. Jack Lamont."
"Yes," she whispered.
"Well, you never need be afraid of him again."
"I—I don't understand."
"Jack Lamont is dead."
She gave a startled cry.
"Dorian—you—?"
"No; I have not killed him. He was and is in the hands of the Lord."Then he told her what had happened that afternoon.
Carlia listened with staring eyes and bated breath. And Dorian had actually risked his life in an attempt to save Jack Lamont! If Dorian only had known! But he would never know, never now. She had heard of the fight between Dorian and Lamont, as that had been common gossip for a time; but Carlia had no way of connecting that event with herself or her secret, as no one had heard what words passed between them that day, and Dorian had said nothing. And now he had tried to save the life of the man whom he had so thoroughly trounced. "What a puzzle he was! And yet what a kind, open face was his, as he sat there in the reddening evening light telling her in his simple way what he had done. What did he know, anyway? For it would be just like him to do good to those who would harm him; and had she not proved in her own case that he had been more patient and kind to her after her return than before. What did he know?
"Shall I close the window?" he asked. "Is there too much draught?"
"No; I must have air or I shall stifle. Dorian, tell me, what do you know about this Mr. Lamont?"
"Why, not much, Carlia; not much good, at any rate. You know I met him only a few times." He tried to answer her questions and at the same time give her as little information as possible.
"But Dorian, why did you fight with him?"
"He insulted me. I've explained that to you before."
"That's not all the reason. Jack Lamont could not insult you. I mean, you would pay no attention to him if only yourself were involved."
"Now, Carlia, don't you begin to philosophize on my reasons for giving Jack Lamont a licking. He's dead, and let's let him rest in as much peace as the Lord will allow."
"All right."
"Now, my dear, you feel able to go down and have some supper. Your father and mother should be told the news, and perhaps I can do that better than anybody else. I'll go with you, and, if your mother has something good for supper, I'll stay."
But the girl did not respond to his light speech. She sat very still by the window. For a long, long time—ages it seemed to her, she had suffered in silent agony for her sin, feeling as if she were being smothered by her guilty secret. She could not bring herself to tell it even to her mother. How could she tell it to anyone eke, certainly not Dorian. And yet, as she sat there with him she felt as if she might confide in him. He would listen without anger or reproach. He would forgive. He—her heart soared, but her brain came back with a jolt to her daily thinking again. No, no, he must not know, he must never know; for if he knew, then all would surely be over between them, and then, she might as well die and be done with it!
"Come, Carlia."
She did not even hear him.
But Dorian must know, he must know the truth before he asked her again to marry him. But if he knew, he would never urge that again. That perhaps would be for the best, anyway. And yet she could not bear the thought of sending him away for good. If he deserted her, who else would she have? No; she must have him near her, at least. Clear thinking was not easy for her just then, but in time she managed to say:
"Dorian, sit down…. Do you remember that evening, not so long ago, when you let me 'browse', as you called it, among Uncle Zed's books and manuscripts?"
"Yes; you have done that a number of times."
"But there is one time which I shall remember. It was the time when I read what Uncle Zed had written about sin and death."
"O, I had not intended you to see that."
"But I did, and I read carefully every word of it. I understood most of it, too. 'The wages of sin is death'—That applies to me. I am a sinner. I shall die. I have already died, according to Uncle Zed."
"No, Carlia, you misapply that. We are all sinners, and we all die in proportion to our sinning. That's true enough; but there is also the blessed privilege of repentance to consider. Let me finish the quotation: 'The wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord'; also let me add what the Lord said about those who truly repent; 'Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool'. That is a great comfort to all of us, Carlia."
"Yes; thank you, Dorian…. but—but now I must tell you. The Lord may forgive me, but you cannot."
"Carlia, I have long since forgiven you."
"Oh, of my little foolish ways, of course; but, Dorian, you don't know—"
"But, Carlia, I do know. And I tell you that I have forgiven you."
"The terrible thing about me?"
"The unfortunate thing and the great sorrow which has come to you, and the suffering—yes, Carlia, I know."
"I can't understand your saying that."
"But I understand."
"Who told you?"
"Mrs. Whitman."
"Have you been there?"
"Yes."
"Dorian!" She stared past him through the open window into the western sky. The upper disk of the sun sank slowly behind the purple mountain. The flaming underlining of a cloud reflected on the open water of the marshland and faintly into the room and on to the pale face of the girl. Presently, she arose, swayed and held out her arms as if she was falling. Dorian caught her. Tears, long pent up, save in her own lonely hours, now broke as a torrent from her eyes, and her body shook in sobs. Gone was her reserve now, her holding him away, her power of resistance. She lay supinely in his arms, and he held her close. O, how good it was to cry thus! O, what a haven of rest! Would the tears and sobs never cease?… The sun was down, the color faded from the sky, a big shadow enveloped the earth.
Then when she became quieter, she freed her arms, reached up and clasped her hands behind his neck, clinging to him as if she never wanted to leave him. Neither could speak. He stroked her hair, kissed her cheeks, her eyes, wiped away her tears, unaware of those which ran unhindered down his own face….
"Carlia, my darling, Carlia," he breathed.
"Dorian, Oh, Dorian,how—good—you—are!"
It was a day in June—nearly a year from the time of the "understanding"—a day made more beautiful because of its being in the mountains and on a Sunday afternoon. Dorian and Carlia lived in the midst of its rarity, seated as they were on the grassy hill-side overlooking the dry-land farms near at hand and the valley below, through which tumbled the brook. The wild odor of hill plants mingled with the pungent fragrance of choke-cherry blossoms. The air was as clear as crystal. The mountains stood about them in silent, solemn watchfulness, strong and sure as the ages. The red glowed in Carlia's lips again, and the roses in her cheeks. The careworn look was gone from her face. Peace had come into her heart, peace with herself, with the man she loved, and with God.
Dorian pointed out to her where the wild strawberries grew down in the valley, and where the best service berries could be found on the hills. He told her how the singing creek had, when he was alone in the hills, echoed all his varied moods.
Then they were silent for a time, letting the contentment of their love suffice. For now all barriers between these two were down. There was no thought they could not share, no joy neither trouble they could not meet together. However, they were very careful of each other; their present peace and content had not easily been reached. They had come "up through great tribulation," even thus far in their young lives. The period of their purification seemed now to be drawing to a close, and they were entering upon a season of rest for the soul.
"Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." This promise is surely not limited to that hoped-for future time when we shall have laid aside mortality, but the pure in heart see much of God here and now—see Him in the beauty of hill and dale, in cloud and blue sky, in placid pool and running water, in flowers and insect, and in the wonderful workings of the human heart! And so Dorian Trent and Carlia Duke, being of the pure in heart, saw much of God and His glory that afternoon.
Then they talked again of the home folks, of Mildred Brown, and of UncleZed; and at length came to their own immediate affairs.
That fall Dorian was to enter the University. The farm at Greenstreet would have to be let to others, but he thought he could manage the dry-farm, as most of the work came in vacation season. Mrs. Trent did not want to leave her home in the country; but she would likely become lonesome living all by herself; so there would always be a room for her with Dorian and Carlia in the little house they would rent near the school. Then, after the University, there would be some Eastern College for a period of years, and after that, other work. The task Dorian had set before him was a big one, but it was a very important one, and no one seemed to be doing it as yet. He might fail in accomplishing what he and Uncle Zed and perhaps the Lord had in mind regarding him, but he would do his very best, anyway.
"You'll not fail," the girl at his side assured him.
"I hope not. But I know some men who have gone in for all the learning they could obtain, and in the process of getting the learning, they have lost their faith. With me, the very object of getting knowledge is to strengthen my faith. What would it profit if one gains the whole world of learning and loses his soul in the process. Knowledge is power, both for good and for ill. I have been thinking lately of the nature of faith, the forerunner of knowledge. I can realize somewhat the meaning of the scripture which says that the worlds were framed and all things in them made by the power of faith. As Uncle Zed used to say—"
"You always put it that way. Don't you know anything of your own?"
"No; no one does. There is no such thing as knowledge of one's own making. Knowledge has always existed from the time when there has been a mind to conceive it. The sum of truth is eternal. We can only discover truth, or be told it by someone who has already found it. God has done that. He comprehends all truth, and therefore all power and all glory is found in Him. It is the most natural thing in the world, then, that we should seek the truth from the fountain head or source to us, and that is God."
Although it was after the usual time of the Sunday sermon, Dorian felt free to go on.
"'When the Son of Man cometh, shall He find faith on the earth?' I hope to help a little to make the answer, Yes. I know of nothing which the world needs more than faith. Not many are specializing in that field. Edison is bringing forth some of the wonders of electricity; Burbank is doing marvelous things in the plant world; we have warriors and statesmen and philosophers and philanthropists and great financiers a-plenty; we have scientists too, and some of them are helping. Have you ever heard of Sir Oliver Lodge and Lord Kelvin?"
No; she never had.
"Well"—and Dorian laughed softly to himself at the apparent egotism of the proposition—"I must be greater than either of them. I must know all they know, and more; and that is possible, for I have the 'Key of Knowledge' which even the most learned scholar cannot get without obedience to the laws and ordinances of the gospel."
Carlia silently worshiped.
"Now," he continued in a somewhat lighter vein, "do you realize what you are doing when you say you will be my wife and put up with all the eccentricities of such a man as I am planning to be? Are you willing to be a poor man's wife, for I cannot get money and this knowledge I am after at the same time? Are you willing to go without the latest in dresses and shoes and hats—if necessary?"
"Haven't I heard you say that the larger part of love is in giving and not in getting?" replied she.
"Yes, I believe that's true."
"Well, then, that's my answer. Don't deny me the joy I can get by the little I can give."
The sun was nearing the western mountains, the sharpest peaks were already throwing shadows across the valley.
"Come," said Dorian. "We had better go down. Mother has come out of the cabin, and I think she is looking for us. Supper must be ready."
He took Carlia's hand and helped her up. Then they ran like care-free children down the gentler slopes.
"Wait a minute," cried Carlia, "I'm out of breath. I—I want to ask you another question."
"Ask a hundred."
"Well, in the midst of all this studying, kind of in between the great, serious subjects, we'll find time, will we not, to read 'David Copperfield'—together?"
He looked into her laughing eyes, and then kissed her.
"Why, yes, of course," he said.
Then they went on again, hand in hand, down into the valley of sunshine and shadow.