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.