"Hello, Carlia", greeted Dorian as he stopped at the yard and stood
leaning against the fence.
Carlia was just finishing milking a cow. As she straightened, with a
three-legged stool in one hand and a foaming milk pail in the other, she
looked toward Dorian. "O, is that you? You scared me."
"Why?"
"A stranger coming so suddenly."
The young man laughed. "Nearly through?" he asked.
"Just one more--Brindle, the kickey one."
"Aren't you afraid of her?"
Carlia laughed scornfully. The girl had beautiful white teeth. Her red
cheeks were redder than ever. Her dark hair coiled closely about her
shapely head. And she had grown tall, too, the young man noticed, though
she was still plump and round-limbed.
"My buckets are full, and I'll have to take them to the house before I
can finish," she said. "You stay here until I come back--if you want
to."
"I don't want to--here, let me carry them." He took the pails from her
hand, and they went to the house together.
The milk was carried into the kitchen where Mrs. Duke was busy with pots
and pans. Mr. Duke was before the mirror, giving the finishing touches
to his hair. He was dressed for meeting. As he heard rather than saw his
daughter enter, he asked:
"Carlia, have you swilled the pigs?"
"Not yet," she replied.
"Well, don't forget--and say, you'd better give a little new milk to the
calf. It's not getting along as well as it should--and, if you have time
before meetin', throw a little hay to the horses."
"All right, father, I'll see to all of it. As I'm not going to meeting,
I'll have plenty of time."
"Not goin'?" He turned, hair brush in hand, and saw Dorian. "Hello,
Dorian," he greeted, "you're quite a stranger. You'll come along to
meetin' with Carlia, I suppose. We will be late if we don't hurry."
"Father, I told you I'm not going. I--" she hesitated as if not quite
certain of her words--"I had to chase all over the hills for the cows,
and I'm not through milking yet. Then there are the pigs and the calves
and the horses to feed. But I'll not keep Dorian. You had better go with
father"--this to the young man who still stood by the kitchen door.
"Leave the rest of the chores until after meetin'," suggested the
father, somewhat reluctantly, to be sure, but in concession to Dorian's
presence.
"I can't go to meeting either," said Dorian. "I'm not dressed for it, so
I'll keep Carlia company, if you or she have no objections."
"Well, I've no objections, but I don't like you to miss your meetin's."
"We'll be good," laughed Dorian.
"But--"
"Come, father," the mother prompted, "you know I can't walk fast in this
hot weather."
Carlia got another pail, and she and Dorian went back to the corral.
"Let me milk," offered Dorian.
"No; you're strange, and she'd kick you over the fence."
"O, I guess not," he remarked; but he let the girl finish her milking.
He again carried the milk back; he also took the "slop" to the pigs and
threw the hay to the horses, while the girl gave the new milk to the
butting calf; then back to the house where they strained the milk. Then
the young man was sent into the front room while the girl changed from
work to Sunday attire.
The front room was very hot and uncomfortable. The young man looked
about on the familiar scene. There were the same straight-backed chairs,
the same homemade carpet, more faded and threadbare than ever, the
same ugly enlarged photographs within their massive frames which the
enterprising agent had sold to Mrs. Duke. There was the same lack of
books or music or anything pretty or refined; and as Dorian stood and
looked about, there came to him more forcibly than ever the barrenness
of the room and of the house in general. True, his own home was very
humble, and yet there was an air of comfort and refinement about it. The
Duke home had always impressed him as being cold and cheerless and ugly.
There were no protecting porches, no lawn, no flowers, and the barn yard
had crept close up to the house. It was a place to work. The eating and
the sleeping were provided, so that work could be done, farm and kitchen
work with their dirt and litter. The father and the mother and the
daughter were slaves to work. Only in work did the parents companion
with the daughter. The visitors to the house were mostly those who came
to talk about cattle and crops and irrigation.
As a child, Carlia was naturally cheerful and loving; but her sordid
environment seemed to be crushing her. At times she struggled to get out
from under; but there seemed no way, so she gradually gave in to
the inevitable. She became resentful and sarcastic. Her black eyes
frequently flashed in scorn and anger. As she grew in physical
strength and beauty, these unfortunate traits of character became more
pronounced. The budding womanhood which should have been carefully
nurtured by the right kind of home and neighborhood was often left to
develop in wild and undirected ways. Dorian Trent as he stood in that
front room awaiting her had only a dim conception of all this.
Carlia came in while he was yet standing. She had on a white dress and
had placed a red rose in her hair.
"O, say, Carlia!" exclaimed Dorian at sight of her.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Here you go dolling up, and look at me."
"You're all right. Open the door, it's terribly stuffy in here."
Dorian opened the tightly stuck door. Then he turned and stood looking
at the girl before him. It seemed to him that he had never seen her so
grown-up and so beautiful.
"Say, Carlia, when did you grow up?" he asked.
"While you have been away growing up too."
"It's the long dress, isn't it?"
"And milking cows and feeding pigs and pitching hay." She gave a toss to
her head and held out her roughened red hands as proof of her assertion.
He stepped closer to her as if to examine them more carefully, but she
swiftly hid them behind her back. The rose, loosened from the tossing
head, fell to the floor, and Dorian picked it up. He sniffed at it then
handed it to her.
"Where did you get it?" he asked.