CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

Dorian had not found Carlia Duke; instead, he had found something which appeared to him to be the end of all things. Had he found her dead, in her virginal purity, he could have placed her, with Mildred, safely away in his heart and his hopes; but this!... What more could he now do? That he did not take the first train home was because he was benumbed into inactivity.

The young man had never before experienced such suffering of spirit. The leaden weight on his heart seemed to be crushing, not only his physical being, but his spirit also into the depths of despair. As far back in his boyhood as he could remember, he had been taught the enormity of s.e.xual sin, until it had become second nature for him to think of it as something very improbable, if not impossible, as pertaining to himself.

And yet, here it was, right at the very door of his heart, casting its evil shadow into the most sacred precincts of his being. He had never imagined it coming to any of his near and dear ones, especially not to Carlia--Carlia, his neighbor, his chummy companion in fields and highways, his schoolmate. He pictured her in many of her wild adventures as a child, and in her softer moods as a grown-up girl. He saw again her dark eyes flash with anger, and then her pearly teeth gleam in laughter at him. He remembered how she used to run from him, and then at other times how she would cling to him as if she pleaded for a protection which he had not given. The weak had reached out to the strong, and the stronger one had failed. If 'remorse of conscience' is h.e.l.l, Dorian tasted of its bitter depths, for it came to him now that perhaps because of his neglect, Carlia had been led to her fall.

But what could he now do? Find her. And then, what? Marry her? He refused to consider that for a moment. He drove the thought fiercely away. That would be impossible now. The horror of what had been would always stand as a repellent specter between them.... Yes, he had loved her--he knew that now more a.s.suredly than ever; and he tried to place that love away from him by a play upon words in the past tense; but deep down in his heart he knew that he was merely trying to deceive himself.

He loved her still; and the fact that he loved her but could not marry her added fuel to the flames of his torment.

That long night was mostly a hideous nightmare and even after he awoke from a fitful sleep next morning, he was in a stupor. After a while, he went out into the wintry air. It was Sunday, and the town was comparatively quiet. He found something to eat at a lunch counter, then he walked about briskly to try to get his blood into active circulation.

Again he went to his room.

Presently, he heard the ringing of church bells. The folks would be going to Sunday school in Greenstreet. He saw in the vision of his mind Uncle Zed sitting with the boys about him in his cla.s.s. He saw the teacher's lifted hand emphasize the warning against sin, and then he seemed to hear a voice read:

"For the Son of man is come to save that which is lost.

"How think ye if a man have an hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray?

"And if so be that he find it, verily, I say unto you, he rejoiceth more of that sheep than of the ninety and nine which went not astray."

Dorian seemed to awaken with a start. Donning coat and hat, he went out again, his steps being led down the country road toward the farmhouse.

He wanted to visit again the house where Carlia had been. Her presence there and her suffering had hallowed it.

"Oh, how do you do?" greeted the woman, when she saw Dorian at the door.

"Come in."

Dorian entered, this time into the parlor which was warm, and where a man sat comfortably with his Sunday paper.

"Father," said the woman, "this is the young man who was here yesterday."

The man shook hands with Dorian and bade him draw up his chair to the stove.

"I hope you'll excuse me for coming again," said Dorian; "but the fact of the matter is I seemed unable to keep away. I left yesterday without properly thanking you for what you did for my friend, Miss Carlia. I also want to pay you a little for the expense you were put to. I haven't much money with me, but I will send it to you after I get home, if you will give me your name and address."

The farmer and his wife exchanged glances.

"Why, as to that," replied the man, "nothing is owing us. We liked the girl. We think she was a good girl and had been sinned against."

"I'm sure you are right," said Dorian. "As I said, I went away rather abruptly yesterday. I was so completely unprepared for that which I learned about her. But I'm going to find her if I can, and take her home to her parents."

"Where do you live!" asked the man.

Dorian told him.

"Are you a 'Mormon'?"

"Yes, sir."

"And not ashamed of it!"

"No; proud of it--grateful, rather."

"Well, young man, you look like a clean, honest chap. Tell me why you are proud to be a 'Mormon'."

Dorian did his best. He had had very little experience in presenting the principles of the gospel to an unbeliever, but Uncle Zed's teachings, together with his own studies, now stood him well in hand.

"Well," commented the farmer, "that's fine. You can't be a very bad man if you believe in and practice all what you have been telling us."

"I hope I am not a bad man. I have some light on the truth, and woe is me if I sin against that light."

The farmer turned to his wife. "Mother," he said, "I think you may safely tell him."

Dorian looked enquiringly at the woman.

"It's this," she said. "My husband brought home a postcard from the office last evening after you had left--a card from Miss Davis, asking us to send her an article of dress which she had forgotten. Here is the card. The address may help you to find her. I am sure you mean no harm to the girl."

Dorian made note of the address, as also that of the farmer's with whom he was visiting. Then he arose to go.

"Now, don't be in such a hurry," admonished the man. "We'll have dinner presently."

Dorian was glad to remain, as he felt quite at home with these people, Mr. and Mrs. Whitman. They had been good to Carlia. Perhaps he could learn a little more about her. The dinner was enjoyed very much.

Afterward, Mrs. Whitman, encouraged by Dorian's attentiveness, poured into his willing ear all she had learned of the girl he was seeking; and before the woman ceased her freely-flowing talk, a most important item had been added to his knowledge of the case. Carlia, it seems, had gone literally helpless to her downfall. "Drugged" was the word Mrs. Whitman used. The villainy of the foul deed moved the young man's spirit to a fierce anger against the wretch who had planned it, and the same time his pity increased for the unfortunate victim. As Dorian sat there and listened to the story which the woman had with difficulty obtained from the girl, he again suffered the remorse of conscience which comes from a realization of neglected duty and disregarded opportunity. It was late in the afternoon before he got back to the town.

The next day Dorian made inquiries as to how he could reach the place indicated by the address, and he learned that it was a ranch house well up in the mountains. There was a daily mail in that direction, except when the roads and the weather hindered; and it seemed that these would now be hinderances. The threatened storm came, and with it high wind which piled the snow into deep, hard drifts, making the mountain road nearly impa.s.sible. Dorian found the mail-carrier who told him that it would be impossible to make a start until the storm had ceased. All day the snow fell, and all day Dorian fretted impatiently, and was tempted to once more go out to Mr. and Mrs. Whitman; but he did not. Christmas was only three days off. He could reach home and spend the day with his mother, but there would be considerable expense, and he felt as if he must be on the ground so that at the soonest possible moment he could continue on the trail which he had found. The pleasure of the home Christmas must this time be sacrificed, for was not he in very deed going into the mountains to seek that which was lost.

The storm ceased toward evening, but the postman would not make a start until next morning. Dorian joined him then, and mounted beside him. The sky was not clear, the clouds only breaking and drifting about as if in doubt whether to go or to stay. The road was heavy, and it was all the two horses could do to draw the light wagon with its small load. Dorian wondered how Carlia had ever come that way. Of course, it had been before the heavy snow, when traveling was not so bad.

"Who lives at this place?" asked Dorian of the driver, giving the box number Carlia had sent.

"That? Oh, that's John Hickson's place."

"A rancher?"

"No; not exactly. He's out here mostly for his health."

"Does he live here in the mountains the year around?"

"Usually he moves into town for the winter. Last year the winter was so mild that he decided to try to stick one through; but surely, he's got a dose this time. Pretty bad for a sick man, I reckon."

"Anybody with him?"

"Wife and three children--three of the cutest kiddies you ever saw. Oh, he's comfortable enough, for he's got a fine house. You know, it's great out here among the pine hills in the summer; but just now, excuse me."

"Is it far?"

"No." The driver looked with concern at the storm which was coming again down the mountain like a great white wave. "I think perhaps we'll have to stop at the Hickson's tonight," he said.