Dorian

CHAPTER TWENTY.

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_!”