Dorian

"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 pa.s.sed 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 ma.n.u.scripts?"

"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 G.o.d 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_!"

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

It was a day in June--nearly a year from the time of the "understanding"--a day made more beautiful because of its being in the mountains and on a Sunday afternoon. Dorian and Carlia lived in the midst of its rarity, seated as they were on the gra.s.sy hill-side overlooking the dry-land farms near at hand and the valley below, through which tumbled the brook. The wild odor of hill plants mingled with the pungent fragrance of choke-cherry blossoms. The air was as clear as crystal. The mountains stood about them in silent, solemn watchfulness, strong and sure as the ages. The red glowed in Carlia"s lips again, and the roses in her cheeks. The careworn look was gone from her face. Peace had come into her heart, peace with herself, with the man she loved, and with G.o.d.

Dorian pointed out to her where the wild strawberries grew down in the valley, and where the best service berries could be found on the hills.

He told her how the singing creek had, when he was alone in the hills, echoed all his varied moods.

Then they were silent for a time, letting the contentment of their love suffice. For now all barriers between these two were down. There was no thought they could not share, no joy neither trouble they could not meet together. However, they were very careful of each other; their present peace and content had not easily been reached. They had come "up through great tribulation," even thus far in their young lives. The period of their purification seemed now to be drawing to a close, and they were entering upon a season of rest for the soul.