Dorian

CHAPTER SIX.

Some days lat­er word came to Mrs. Trent that Mil­dred was very ill. “Call on them af­ter school,” she said to Do­ri­an, “to see just how she is, and ask Mrs. Brown if I can do any­thing for her.”

Do­ri­an did as he was di­rect­ed. He went around to the back door for fear he might dis­turb the sick girl. Mrs. Brown her­self, see­ing him com­ing, met him and let him in.

Yes, Mil­dred was very ill. Mrs. Brown was plain­ly wor­ried. Could he or his moth­er do any­thing to help? No; on­ly to lend their faith and prayers. Would he come in­to the sick room to see her for a few min­utes? Yes, if she de­sired it.

Do­ri­an fol­lowed the moth­er in­to the sick room. Mil­dred lay well propped up by pil­lows in a bed white as snow. She was thin­ner and paler than ev­er, eyes big­ger, hair heav­ier and more gold­en. When she saw Do­ri­an, she smiled and reached out her hand, let­ting it lie in the big strong one.

“How are you?” she said, very low.

“Well and fine, and how are you?”

She sim­ply shook her head gen­tly and closed her eyes, seem­ing con­tent to touch the strong young man­hood be­side her. The moth­er went qui­et­ly from the room, and all be­came quite still. Speech was dif­fi­cult for the sick girl, and equal­ly hard for the young man. But he looked freely at the an­gel-​like face on the pil­low with­out re­buke from the closed eyes. He glanced about the room, beau­ti­ful­ly clean and airy. All her books and her work­ing ma­te­ri­al had been car­ried away as if she were through with them for good. In a cor­ner on an easel stood an un­fin­ished copy of “Sun­set in Marsh­land.” Do­ri­an's eyes rest­ed for a mo­ment on the pic­ture, and as he again looked at the girl, he saw a smile pass over the mar­ble-​like face.

That was all. Present­ly, he left the room, and with­out many words, the house.

Each day af­ter that Do­ri­an man­aged to learn of the girl's con­di­tion, though he did not go in­to the sick cham­ber. On the sixth day word came to Do­ri­an at school that Mil­dred was dy­ing. He looked about for Car­lia to tell her, but she was nowhere to be found. Do­ri­an could not go home. Mil­dred was dy­ing! The one girl--yes, the on­ly one in all the world who had looked at him with her heart in the look, was leav­ing the world, and him. Why could she not live, if on­ly for his sake? He sat in the school room un­til all had gone, and he was alone with the jan­itor. His open book was still be­fore him, but he saw not the print­ed page. Then the short win­ter day closed. Dusk came on. The jan­itor had fin­ished sweep­ing the room and was ready to leave. Do­ri­an gath­ered up his books, put on his over­coat, and went out. Mil­dred was dy­ing! Per­haps she was about to be­gin that great jour­ney in­to the un­known. Would she be afraid? Would she not need a strong hand to help her? “Mil­dred,” he whis­pered.

He walked on slow­ly up the street to­ward the Brown's. Dark­ness came on. The light gleamed soft­ly through the closed blinds of the house. Ev­ery­thing was very still. He did not try to be ad­mit­ted, but paced back and forth on the oth­er side of the street. Back and forth he went for a long time, it seemed. Then the front door opened, and the doc­tor passed out. Mil­dred must ei­ther be bet­ter or be­yond all help. He want­ed to ask the doc­tor, but he could not bring him­self to in­ter­cept him. The house re­mained qui­et. Some of the lights were ex­tin­guished. Do­ri­an crossed the street. He must find out some­thing. He stood by the gate, not know­ing what to do. The door opened again, and a wom­an, ev­ident­ly a neigh­bor, came out. She saw the young man and stopped.

“Par­don me,” said Do­ri­an, “but tell me how Mil­dred--Miss Brown is?”

“She just died.”

“Thank you.”

The wom­an went in­to a near­by house. Do­ri­an moved away, be­numbed with the de­spair which sank in­to his heart at the fi­nal set­ting of his sun. Dead! Mil­dred was dead! He felt the night wind blow cold down the street, and he saw the storm clouds scud­ding along the dis­tant sky. In the deep blue di­rect­ly above him a star shone bright­ly, but it on­ly re­mind­ed him of what Un­cle Zed had said about hitch­ing to a star; yes, but what if the star had sud­den­ly been tak­en from the sky!

A form of a girl dart­ed across the street to­ward him. He stopped and saw that it was Car­lia.

“Do­ri­an” she cried, “how is she?”

“She has just died.”

“Dead! O, dear,” she wailed.

They stood there un­der the street light, the girl look­ing with great pity in­to the face of the young man. She was on­ly a girl, and not a very wise girl, but she saw how he suf­fered, and her heart went out to his heart. She took his hand and held it firm­ly with­in her warmer grasp; and by that sim­ple thing the young man seemed again to get with­in the reach of hu­man sym­pa­thy. Then they walked on with­out speak­ing, and she led him along the streets and on to the road which led to Green­street.

“Come on, Do­ri­an, let's go home,” she said.

“Yes; let's go home, Car­lia.”