Dorian

CHAPTER TEN.

That good­night's kiss should have brought Do­ri­an back to Car­lia soon­er than it did; but it was near­ly a month be­fore he saw her again. The fact that it was the bus­iest time of the year was sure­ly no ad­equate ex­cuse for this ne­glect. Har­vest was on again, and the dry-​farm called for much of his at­ten­tion. Do­ri­an pros­pered, and he had no time to de­vote to the girls, so he thought, and so he said, when oc­ca­sion de­mand­ed ex­pres­sion.

One evening while driv­ing through the city and see­ing the lights of the mov­ing pic­ture the­atre, he was re­mind­ed of his promise to Car­lia. His con­science pricked him just a lit­tle, so the very next evening he drove up to Farmer Duke's. See­ing no one chor­ing about, he went in­to the house and in­quired af­ter Car­lia. Mrs. Duke told him that Car­lia had gone to the city that af­ter­noon. She was ex­pect­ed back any minute, but one could nev­er tell, late­ly, when she would get home. Since this Mr. La­mont had tak­en her to the city a num­ber of times, she had been late in get­ting home.

“Mr. La­mont?” he in­quired.

“Yes; haven't you met him? Don't you know him?”

“No; who is he?”

“Do­ri­an, I don't know. Fa­ther seems to think he's all right, but I don't like him. Oh, Do­ri­an, why don't you come around of­ten­er?”

Mrs. Duke sank in­to a chair and wiped away the tears from her eyes with the cor­ner of her apron. Do­ri­an ex­pe­ri­enced a strange sink­ing of the heart. Again he asked who this Mr. La­mont was.

“He's a sales­man of some kind, so he says. He drives about in one of those au­to­mo­biles. Sure­ly, you have seen him--a fine-​look­ing fel­low with nice man­ners and all that, but--”

“And does Car­lia go out with him?”

“He has tak­en her out rid­ing a num­ber of times. He meets her in the city some­times. I don't know what to make of it, Do­ri­an. I'm afraid.”

Do­ri­an seemed un­able to say any­thing which would calm the moth­er's fears. That Car­lia should be keep­ing com­pa­ny with some­one oth­er than him­self, had nev­er oc­curred to him. And yet, why not? she was aid enough to ac­cept at­ten­tion from young men. He had cer­tain­ly ne­glect­ed her, as the moth­er had im­plied. The girl had such few op­por­tu­ni­ties for go­ing out, why should she not ac­cept such as came to her. But this stranger, this out­sider! Do­ri­an soon took his de­par­ture.

He went home, un­hitched, and put up his horse; but in­stead of go­ing in­to the house, he walked down to the post of­fice. He found noth­ing in his box. He felt bet­ter in the open, so he con­tin­ued to walk. He had told his moth­er he was go­ing to the city, so he might as well walk that way. Soon the lights gleamed through the com­ing dark­ness. He went on with his con­fused thoughts, on in­to the city and to the mov­ing pic­ture show. He bought a tick­et and an at­ten­dant led him stum­bling in the dark room to a seat.

It was the first time he had been there. He and Car­lia were go­ing to­geth­er. It was quite won­der­ful to the young man to see the ac­tors mov­ing about life­like on the white screen. The sto­ry con­tained a num­ber of love-​mak­ing scenes, which, had they been en­act­ed in re­al life, in pub­lic as this was, they would cer­tain­ly have been stopped by the po­lice. Then there was a com­ic pic­ture where­in a young fel­low was play­ing pranks on an old man. The pre­sen­ta­tion could hard­ly be said to teach re­spect for old age, but the au­di­ence laughed up­roar­ious­ly at it.

When the pic­ture closed and the lights went on, Do­ri­an turned about to leave, and there stood Car­lia. A young man was as­sist­ing her in­to her light wraps. She saw him, so there was no es­cape, and they spoke to each oth­er. Car­lia in­tro­duced her es­cort, Mr. La­mont.

“Glad to know you,” said Mr. La­mont, in a hearty way. “I've known of you through Miss Duke. Go­ing home now?”

“Yes,” said Do­ri­an.

“Drive?”

“No; I'm walk­ing.”

“Then you'll ride with us. Plen­ty of room. Glad to have you.”

“Thank you, I--”

“Yes, come,” urged Car­lia.

Do­ri­an hes­itat­ed. He tried to car­ry an in­de­pen­dent man­ner, but Mr. La­mont linked his arm so­cia­bly with Do­ri­an's as he said:

“Of course you'll ride home with us; but first we'll have a lit­tle ice cream.”

“No thanks,” Do­ri­an man­aged to say. What more did this fel­low want of him?

How­ev­er, as Do­ri­an could give no good rea­son why he should not ride home with them, he found no way of re­fus­ing to ac­com­pa­ny them to a near­by ice-​cream par­lor. Mr. La­mont gave the or­der, and was very at­ten­tive to Car­lia and Do­ri­an. It was he who kept the flow of con­ver­sa­tion go­ing. The oth­er two, plain­ly, were not adept at this.

“What did you think of the show, Mr. Trent?”

“The mov­ing pic­tures are won­der­ful, but I did not like the sto­ry very much.”

“It was rot­ten,” ex­claimed the oth­er in seem­ing dis­gust. I did not know what was on, or I should not have gone. Last week they had a fine pic­ture, a reg­ular clas­sic. Did you see it?

“No; in fact, this is my first vis­it.”

“Oh, in­deed. This is Miss Duke's sec­ond vis­it on­ly.”

Un­der the bright lights Car­lia showed rouge on her cheeks, some­thing Do­ri­an had nev­er seen on her be­fore. Her lips seemed red­der than ev­er, and he eyes shone with a bright lus­ter. Mr. La­mont led them to his au­to­mo­bile, and then Do­ri­an re­mem­bered the night when this same young man with the same au­to­mo­bile had stopped near Car­lia's home. Car­lia seat­ed her­self with the driv­er, while Do­ri­an took the back seat. They were soon speed­ing along the road which led to Green­street. The cool night air fanned Do­ri­an's hot face. Con­ver­sa­tion ceased. Even Car­lia and the driv­er were silent. The moon peeped over the east­ern hills. The coun­try-​side was silent. Do­ri­an thought of the strange events of the evening. This Mr. La­mont had not on­ly cap­tured Car­lia but Do­ri­an al­so. “If I were out with a girl,” rea­soned Do­ri­an, “I cer­tain­ly wouldn't want a third per­son along if I could help it.” Why should this man be so ea­ger to have his com­pa­ny? Do­ri­an did not un­der­stand, not then.

In a short time they drove up to Car­lia's gate, and she and Do­ri­an alight­ed. The driv­er did not get out. The ma­chine purred as if im­pa­tient to be off again and the lamps threw their streams of light along the road.

“Well, I shall have to be get­ting back,” said Mr. La­mont. “Good­night, Miss Duke. Thanks for your com­pa­ny. Good­night, Mr. Trent; sure glad to have met you.”

The ma­chine glid­ed in­to the well-​worn road and was off. The two stood look­ing at it for a mo­ment. Then Car­lia moved to­ward the house.

“Come in” she said.

He me­chan­ical­ly fol­lowed. He might as well act the fool to the end of the chap­ter, he thought. It was eleven by the par­lor clock, but the moth­er seemed great­ly re­lieved when she saw Do­ri­an with her daugh­ter. Car­lia threw off her wraps. She ap­peared ill at ease. Her gai­ety was forced. She seemed to be act­ing a part, but she was do­ing it poor­ly. Do­ri­an was not on­ly ill at ease him­self, but he was be­wil­dered. He seat­ed him­self on the so­fa. Car­lia took a chair on the oth­er side of the room and gazed out of the win­dow in­to the night.

“Car­lia, why did you--why do you,” he stam­mered.

“Why shouldn't I?” she replied, some­what de­fi­ant­ly as if she un­der­stood his un­fin­ished ques­tion.

“You know you should not. It's wrong. Who is he any­way?”

“He at least thinks of me and wants to show me a good time, and that's more than any­body else does.”

“Car­lia!”

“Well, that's the truth.” She arose, walked to the ta­ble in the mid­dle of the room and stood chal­leng­ing­ly be­fore him. “Who are you to find fault? What have you done to--”

“I'll ad­mit I've done very lit­tle; but you, your­self.”

“Nev­er mind me. What do you care for me? What does any­body care?”

“Your moth­er, at least.”

“Yes, moth­er; poor, dear moth­er.... Oh, my God, I can't stand it, I can't stand it!” With a sob she broke and sank down by the ta­ble, hid­ing her face in her arms. Do­ri­an arose to go to her. The door opened, and the moth­er ap­peared.

“What is it, Car­lia,” she asked in alarm.

The girl raised her head, swift­ly dashed the tears from her eyes, then with a sad ef­fort to smile, said:

“Noth­ing, moth­er, noth­ing at all. I'm go­ing to bed. Where's fa­ther?”

“He was called out to Un­cle Zed's who is sick. Do­ri­an's moth­er is there with him too, I un­der­stand.”

“Then I'd bet­ter go for her,” said the young man. “I'll say good­night. Poor Un­cle Zed; he hasn't been well late­ly. Good­night Sis­ter Duke, good­night Car­lia.”

Car­lia stood in the door­way lead­ing to the stairs. “Good­night, Do­ri­an,” she said. “For­give me for be­ing so rude.”

He stepped to­ward her, but she mo­tioned him back, and than ran up the car­pet­less stairs to her room. Do­ri­an went out in the night. With a heavy heart he hur­ried down the road in the di­rec­tion of Un­cle Zed's home.