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_!"