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 of
Carlia'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, and
I 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!"