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's
Dorian 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 searching
for 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.