DORIAN
By
Nephi Anderson
Author of "Added Upon," "Romance of A Missionary," etc.
"The Keys of the Holy Priesthood unlock the Door of Knowledge and
let you look into the Palace of Truth."
BRIGHAM YOUNG.
Salt Lake City, Utah
1921
Other books by Nephi Anderson.
"ADDED UPON" - A story of the past, the present, and the future stages of
existence.
"THE CASTLE BUILDER" - The scenes and incidents are from the "Land of the
Midnight Sun."
"PINEY RIDGE COTTAGE" - A love story of a Mormon country girl.
Illustrated.
"STORY OF CHESTER LAWRENCE" - Being the completed account of one who
played an important part in "Piney Ridge Cottage."
"A DAUGHTER OF THE NORTH" - A story of a Norwegian girl's trials and
triumphs. Illustrated.
"JOHN ST. JOHN" - The story of a young man who went through the
soul-trying scenes of Missouri and Illinois.
"ROMANCE OF A MISSIONARY" - A story of English life and missionary
experiences. Illustrated.
"MARCUS KING MORMON" - A story of early days in Utah.
"THE BOYS OF SPRINGTOWN" - A story about boys for boys and all interested
in boys. Illustrated.
CHAPTER ONE.
Dorian Trent was going to town to buy himself a pair of shoes. He had
some other errands to perform for himself and his mother, but the reason
for his going to town was the imperative need of shoes. It was Friday
afternoon. The coming Sunday he must appear decently shod, so his mother
had told him, at the same time hinting at some other than the Sunday
reason. He now had the money, three big, jingling silver dollars in his
pocket.
Dorian whistled cheerfully as he trudged along the road. It was a scant
three miles to town, and he would rather walk that short distance than
to be bothered with a horse. When he took Old Nig, he had to keep to the
main-traveled road straight into town, then tie him to a post - and worry
about him all the time; but afoot and alone, he could move along as
easily as he pleased, linger on the canal bank or cut cross-lots through
the fields to the river, cross it on the footbridge, then go on to town
by the lower meadows.
The road was dusty that afternoon, and the sun was hot. It would be
cooler under the willows by the river. At Cottonwood Corners, Dorian
left the road and took the cut-off path. The river sparkled cool and
clear under the overhanging willows. He saw a good-sized trout playing
in the pool, but as he had no fishing tackle with him, the boy could
only watch the fish in its graceful gliding in and out of sunshine and
shadow. A robin overhead was making a noisy demonstration as if in
alarm about a nest. Dorian sat on the bank to look and listen for a few
moments, then he got up again.
Crossing the river, he took the cool foot-path under the willows. He
cut down one of the smoothest, sappiest branches with which to make
whistles. Dorian was a great maker of whistles, which he freely gave
away to the smaller boys and girls whom he met. Just as it is more fun
to catch fish than to eat them, so Dorian found more pleasure in giving
away his whistles than to stuff them in his own pockets. However, that
afternoon, he had to hurry on to town, so he caught no fish, and made
only one whistle which he found no opportunity to give away. In the
city, he attended to his mother's errands first. He purchased the few
notions which the store in his home town of Greenstreet did not have,
checking each item off on a slip of paper with a stub of a pencil. Then,
there were his shoes.
Should he get lace or button, black or tan? Were there any bargains in
shoes that afternoon? He would look about to see. He found nothing in
the way of footwear on Main street which appealed to him. He lingered at
the window of the book store, looking with envious eyes at the display
of new books. He was well known by the bookseller, for he was a frequent
visitor, and, once in a while, he made a purchase; however, to day he
must not spend too much time "browsing" among books. He would, however,
just slip around to Twenty-fifth street and take a look at the
secondhand store there. Not to buy shoes, of course, but sometimes there
were other interesting things there, especially books.
Ah, look here! Spread out on a table on the sidewalk in front of this
second-hand store was a lot of books, a hundred or more - books of all
kind - school books, history, fiction, all of them in good condition,
some only a little shopworn, others just like new. Dorian Trent eagerly
looked them over. Here were books he had read about, but had not
read - and the prices! Dickens' "David Copperfield", "Tale of Two
Cities", "Dombey and Son", large well-printed books, only a little
shopworn, for thirty-five cents; Thackeray's "Vanity Fair", twenty-five
cents; books by Mrs. Humphrey Ward and Margaret Deland; "Robinson
Crusoe", a big book with fine pictures. Dorian had, of course, read
"Robinson Crusoe" but he had always wanted to own a copy. Ah, what's
this? Prescott's "Conquest of Peru", two volumes, new, fifty cents each!
Dorian turned the leaves. A man stepped up and also began handling the
books. Yes, here were bargains, surely. He stacked a number together as
if he desired to secure them. Dorian becoming fearful, slipped the other
volume of the Conquest under his arm and made as if to gather a number
of other books under his protection. He must have some of these before
they were all taken by others. The salesman now came up to him and
asked:
"Find something you want?"
"O, yes, a lot of things I like" replied Dorian.
"They're bargains."
Dorian needed not to be told that.
"They're going fast, too."
"Yes, I suppose so."
His heart fell as he said it, for he realized that he had no money to
buy books. He had come to town to buy shoes, which he badly needed. He
glanced down at his old shoes. They were nearly falling to pieces, but
they might last a little longer. If he bought the "Conquest of Peru" he
would still have two dollars left. Could he buy a pair of shoes for that
amount? Very likely but not the kind his mother had told him to get, the
kind that were not too heavy or "stogy" looking, but would be "nice"
for Sundays. He held tightly on to the two books, while Dickens and
Thackeray were still protectingly within his reach. What could he do?
Down there in Peru there had been a wonderful people whom Pizarro, the
bad, bold Spaniard had conquered and abused. Dorian knew about it all
vaguely as a dim fairy tale; and here was the whole story, beautifully
and minutely told. He must have these books. This bargain might never
come again to him. But what would his mother say? She herself had added
the last half dollar to his amount to make sure that he could get the
nicer kind.
"Well, sir, how many of these will you have?" asked the salesman.
"I'll - I'll take these two, anyway" - meaning Prescott's Conquest - "and
let me see", he looked hungrily over the titles - "And this one 'David
Copperfield'." It was hard to select from so many tempting ones. Here
was one he had missed: "Ben Hur" - , a fine new copy in blue and gold. He
had read the Chariot Race, and if the whole story was as interesting as
that, he must have it. He handed the volume to the salesman. Then his
hand touched lovingly a number of other books, but he resisted the
temptation, and said: "That's all - this time."
The clerk wrapped the purchase in a newspaper and handed the package to
Dorian who paid for them with his two silver dollars, receiving some
small silver in change. Then, with his package under his arm, the boy
walked on down the street.
Well, what now? He was a little afraid of what he had done. How could
he face his mother? How could he go home without shoes? Books might be
useful for the head, but they would not clothe the feet. He jingled the
coins in his pocket as he walked on down to the end of the business
section of the city. He could not buy any kind of shoes to fit his big
feet for a dollar and twenty cents. There was nothing more to do but to
go home, and "face the music", so he walked on in a sort of fearsome
elation. At a corner he discovered a new candy store. Next to books,
Dorian liked candy. He might as well buy some candy for the twenty
cents. He went into the store and took his time looking at the tempting
display, finally buying ten cents worth of chocolates for himself and
ten cents worth of peppermint lozenges for his mother.
You see, Dorian Trent, though sixteen years old, was very much a child;
he did many childish things, and yet in some ways, he was quite a man;
the child in him and the man in him did not seem to merge into the boy,
but were somewhat "separate and apart," as the people of Greenstreet
would say.
Dorian again took the less frequented road home. The sun was still high
when he reached the river. He was not expected home for some time yet,
so there was no need for hurry. He crossed the footbridge, noticing
neither birds nor fish. Instead of following the main path, he struck
off into a by-trail which led him to a tiny grass plat in the shade of a
tree by the river. He sat down here, took off his hat, and pushed back
from a freckled, sweating forehead a mop of wavy, rusty-colored hair.
Then he untied his package of books and spread his treasures before him
as a miser would his gold. He opened "David Copperfield", looked at the
frontispiece which depicted a fat man making a very emphatic speech
against someone by the name of Heep. It must all be very interesting,
but it was altogether too big a book for him to begin to read now. "Ben
Hur" looked solid and substantial; it would keep until next winter when
he would have more time to read. Then he picked up the "Conquest",
volume one. He backed up against the tree, settled himself into a
comfortable position, took from his paper bag a chocolate at which he
nibbled contentedly, and then away he went with Prescott to the land of
the Inca and the glories of a vanished race!
For an hour he read. Then, reluctantly, he closed his book, wrapped up
his package again, and went on his homeward way.
The new canal for which the farmers of Greenstreet had worked and waited
so long had just been completed. The big ditch, now full of running
water, was a source of delight to the children as well as to the more
practical adults. The boys and girls played on its banks, and waded and
sported in the cool stream. Near the village of Greenstreet was a big
headgate, from which the canal branched into two divisions. As Dorian
walked along the canal bank that afternoon, he saw a group of children
at play near the headgate. They were making a lot of robust noise, and
Dorian stopped to watch them. He was always interested in the children,
being more of a favorite among them than among the boys of his own age.
"There's Dorian," shouted one of the boys. "Who are you going to marry?"
What in the world were the youngsters talking about, thought the young
man, as the chattering children surrounded him.
"What's all this?" asked Dorian, "a party?"
"Yes; it's Carlia's birthday; we're just taking a walk by the canal to
see the water; my, but it's nice!"
"What, the party or the water?"
"Why, the water."
"Both" added another.
"We've all told who we're going to marry," remarked a little rosy-faced
miss, "all but Carlia, an' she won't tell."
"Well, but perhaps Carlia don't know. You wouldn't have her tell a fib,
would you?"
"Oh, shucks, she knows as well as us."
"She's just stubborn."
She who was receiving these criticisms seemed to be somewhat older
and larger than her companions. Just now, not deigning to notice the
accusation of her friends, she was throwing sticks into the running
water and watching them go over the falls at the headgate and dance on
the rapids below. Her white party dress was as yet spotless. She swung
her straw hat by the string. Her brown-black hair was crowned by an
unusually large bow of red ribbon. She was not the least discomposed by
the teasing of the other children, neither by Dorian's presence. This
was her party, and why should not she do and say what she pleased.
Carlia now led the way along the canal bank until she came to where a
pole spanned the stream. She stopped, looked at the somewhat insecure
footbridge, then turning to her companions, said:
"I can back you out."
"How? Doin' what?" they asked.
"Crossing the canal on the pole."
"Shucks, you can't back me out," declared one of the boys, at which he
darted across the swaying pole, and with a jump, landed safely across.
Another boy went at it gingerly, and with the antics of a tight-rope
walker, he managed to get to the other side. The other boys held back;
none of the girls ventured.
"All right, Carlia," shouted the boys on the other bank.
The girl stood looking at the frail pole.
"Come on, it's easy," they encouraged.
Carlia placed her foot on the pole as if testing it. The other girls
protested. She would fall in and drown.
"You dared us; now who's the coward," cried the boys.
Carlia took a step forward, balanced herself, and took another. The
children stood in spell-bound silence. The girl advanced slowly along
the frail bridge until she reached the middle where the pole swayed
dangerously.
"Balance yourself," suggested the second boy.
"Run," said the first.
But Carlia could neither balance nor run. She stood for a moment on the
oscillating span, then threw up her hands, and with a scream she plunged
into the waters of the canal.
No thought of danger had entered Dorian's mind as he stood watching the
capers of the children. If any of them fell in, he thought, they would
only get a good wetting. But as Carlia fell, he sprang forward. The
water at this point was quite deep and running swiftly. He saw that
Carlia fell on her side and went completely under. The children
screamed. Dorian, startled out of his apathy, suddenly ran to the canal
and jumped in. It was done so impulsively that he still held on to his
package of books. With one hand he lifted the girl out of the water, but
in her struggles, she knocked the bundle from his hand, and the precious
books splashed into the canal and floated down the stream. Dorian made
an effort to rescue them, but Carlia clung so to his arms that he could
do nothing but stand and see the package glide over the falls at the
headgate and then go dancing over the rapids, even as Carlia's sticks
had done. For a moment the young man's thoughts were with his books, and
it seemed that he stood there in the canal for quite a while in a sort
of daze, with the water rushing by his legs. Then mechanically he
carried the girl to the bank and would have set her down again with her
companions, but she clung to him so closely and with such terror in her
eyes that he lifted her into his arms and talked reassuringly to her:
"There, now," he said, "you're only a bit wet. Don't cry."
"Take me home. I - I want to go home," sobbed the girl.
"Sure," said Dorian. "Come on everybody."
He led the way, and the rest of the children followed.
"I suppose the party's about over, anyway," suggested he.
"I - I guess so."
They walked on in silence for a time; then Carlia said:
"I guess I'm heavy."
"Not at all", lied the young man bravely, for she was heavier than he
had supposed; but she made no offer to walk. By the time they reached
the gate, Carlia was herself again, and inclined to look upon her
wetting and escape as quite an adventure.
"There," said Dorian as he seated the girl on the broad top of the gate
post; "I'll leave you there to dry. It won't take long."
He looked at his own wet clothes, and then at his ragged, mud-laden
shoes. He might as well carry the girl up the path to her home, but
then, that was not necessary. The day was warm, there was no danger of
colds, and she could run up the path in a few minutes.
"Well, I'll go now. Goodby," he said.
"Wait a minute - Say, I'm glad you saved me, but I'm sorry you lost your
package. What was in it?"
"Only books."
"I'll get you some more, when I get the money, yes I will. Come here and
lift me down before you go."
He obeyed. She put a wet arm about his neck and cuddled her dark, damp
curls against his russet mop. He lifted her lightly down, and then he
slipped a chocolate secretly into her hand.
"Oh girls," exclaimed one of the party, "I know now."
"Know what?" asked Carlia.
"I know who you are going to marry."
"Who?"
"You're going to marry Dorian."
CHAPTER TWO.
The disposition to lie or evade never remained long with Dorian Trent;
but that evening as he turned into the lane which led up to the house,
he was sorely-tempted. Once or twice only, as nearly as he could
remember, had he told an untruth to his mother with results which he
would never forget. He must tell her the truth now.
But he would put off the ordeal as long as possible. There could be no
harm in that. Everything was quiet about the house, as his mother was
away. He hurriedly divested himself of his best clothes and put on
his overalls. He took the milk pail and hung it on the fence until he
brought the cows from the pasture. After milking, he did his other
chores. There were no signs of mother. The dusk turned to darkness, yet
no light appeared in the house. Dorian went in and lighted the lamp and
proceeded to get supper.
The mother came presently, carrying a bag of wool. "A big herd of sheep
went by this afternoon," she explained, "and they left a lot of fine
wool on the barbed-wire fences. See, I have gathered enough for a pair
of stockings." She seated herself.
"You're tired," said Dorian.
"Yes."
"Well, you sit and rest; I'll soon have the supper on the table." This
was no difficult task, as the evening meal was usually a very simple
one, and Dorian had frequently prepared it. This evening as the mother
sat there quietly she looked at her son with admiring eyes. What a big
boy he was getting to be! He had always been big, it seemed to her. He
had been a big baby and a big little boy, and now he was a big young
man. He had a big head and big feet, big hands. His nose and mouth were
big, and big freckles dotted his face - yes, and a big heart, as his
mother very well knew. Along with his bigness of limb and body there was
a certain awkwardness. He never could run as fast as the other boys,
and he always fumbled the ball in their games though he could beat them
swimming. So far in his youthful career he had not learned to dance. The
one time he had tried, his girl partner had made fun of his awkwardness,
so that ended his dancing. But Dorian was not clumsy about his mother's
home and table. He handled the dishes as daintily as a girl, and the
table was set and the food served in a very proper manner.
"Did you get your shoes, Dorian?"
Dorian burned his fingers on a dish which was not at all hot.
"Mother, sit up; supper is ready."
They both drew up their chairs. Dorian asked the blessing, then became
unusually solicitous in helping his mother, continually talking as he
did so.
"That little Duke girl was nearly drowned in the canal, this afternoon,"
he told her, going on with the details. "She's a plucky little thing.
Ten minutes after I had her out of the canal, she was as lively as
ever."
The mother liked to hear him talk, so she did not interrupt him. After
they had eaten, he forced her to take her rocking-chair while he cleared
the table and washed the few dishes. She asked no more questions about
shoes, but leaned back in her chair with half-closed eyes. Dorian
thought to give her the mint lozenges, but fearing that it might lead to
more questions, he did not.
Mrs. Trent was not old in years, but hard work had bent her back and
roughened her hands. Her face was pleasant to look upon, even if there
were some wrinkles now, and the hair was white at the temples. She
closed her eyes as if she were going to sleep.
"Now, mother, you're going to bed", said Dorian. "You have tired
yourself out with this wool picking. I thought I told you before that I
would gather what wool there was."
"But you weren't here, and I could not stand to see the wind blowing it
away. See, what a fine lot I got." She opened her bundle and displayed
her fleece.
"Well, put it away. You can't card and spin and knit it tonight."
"It will have to be washed first, you foolish boy."
Dorian got his mother to bed without further reference to shoes. He went
to his own room with a conscience not altogether easy. He lighted his
lamp, which was a good one, for he did a lot of reading by it. The
electric wires had not yet reached Greenstreet. Dorian stood looking
about his room. It was not a very large one, and somewhat sparsely
furnished. The bed seemed selfishly to take up most of the space.
Against one wall was set some home-made shelving containing books. He
had quite a library. There were books of various kinds, gathered with no
particular plan or purpose, but as means and opportunity afforded. In
one corner stood a scroll saw, now not very often used. Pictures of a
full-rigged sailing vessel and a big modern steamer hung on the wall
above his books. On another wall were three small prints, landscapes
where there were great distances with much light and warmth. Over his
bed hung an artist's conception of "Lorna Doone," a beautiful face,
framed in a mass of auburn hair, with smiling lips, and a dreamy look in
her eyes.
"That's my girl," Dorian sometimes said, pointing to this picture. "No
one can take her from me; we never quarrel; and she never scolds or
frowns."
On another wall hung a portrait of his father, who had been dead nine
years. His father had been a teacher with a longing to be a farmer.
Eventually, this longing had been realized in the purchase of the twenty
acres in Greenstreet, at that time a village with not one street which
could be called green, and without a sure water supply for irrigation,
at least on the land which would grow corn and potatoes and wheat. To
be sure, there was water enough of its kind down on the lower slopes,
besides saleratus and salt grass and cattails and the tang of marshlands
in the air. Schoolmaster Trent's operations in farming had not been very
successful, and when he died, the result of his failure was a part of
the legacy which descended to his wife and son.
Dorian took a book from the shelf as if to read; but visions intruded
of some beautiful volumes, now somewhere down the canal, a mass of
water-soaked paper. He could not read. He finished his last chocolate,
said his prayers, and went to bed.
Saturday was always a busy day with Dorian and his mother; but that
morning Mrs. Trent was up earlier than usual. The white muslin curtains
were already in the wash when Dorian looked at his mother in the summer
kitchen.
"What, washing today!" he asked in surprise. Monday was washday.
"The curtains were black; they must be clean for tomorrow."
"You can see dirt where I can't see it."
"I've been looking for it longer, my boy. And, say, fix up the line you
broke the other day."
"Sure, mother."
The morning was clear and cool. He did his chores, then went out to his
ten-acre field of wheat and lucerne. The grain was heading beautifully;
and there were prospects of three cuttings of hay; the potatoes were
doing fine, also the corn and the squash and the melons. The young
farmer's heart was made glad to see the coming harvest, all the work of
his own hands.
For this was the first real crop they had raised. For years they had
struggled and pinched. Sometimes Dorian was for giving up and moving
to the city; but the mother saw brighter prospects when the new canal
should be finished. And then her boy would be better off working for
himself on the farm than drudging for others in the town; besides, she
had a desire to remain on the spot made dear by her husband's work; and
so they struggled along, making their payments on the land and later on
the canal stock. The summit of their difficulties seemed now to have
passed, and better times were ahead. Dorian looked down at his ragged
shoes and laughed to himself good-naturedly. Shucks, in a few months he
would have plenty of money to buy shoes, perhaps also a Sunday suit for
himself, and everything his mother needed. And if there should happen to
be more book bargains, he might venture in that direction again.
Breakfast passed without the mention of shoes. What was his mother
thinking about! She seemed uncommonly busy with cleaning an uncommonly
clean house. When Dorian came home from irrigating at noon, he kicked
off his muddy shoes by the shanty door, so as not to soil her cleanly
scrubbed floor or to stain the neat home-made rug. There seemed to be
even more than the extra cooking in preparation for Sunday.
The mother looked at Dorian coming so noiselessly in his stocking feet.
"You didn't show me your new shoes last night," she said.
"Say, mother, what's all this extra cleaning and cooking about?"
"We're going to have company tomorrow."
"Company? Who?"
"I'll tell you about it at the table."
"Do you remember," began the mother when they were seated, "a lady and
her little girl who visited us some two years ago?"
Yes, he had some recollection of them. He remembered the girl,
specially, spindle-legged, with round eyes, pale cheeks, and an
uncommonly long braid of yellow hair hanging down her back.
"Well, they're coming to see us tomorrow. Mrs. Brown is an old-time
friend of mine, and Mildred is an only child. The girl is not strong,
and so I invited them to come here and get some good country air."
"To stay with us, mother?" asked the boy in alarm.
"Just to visit. It's terribly hot in the city. We have plenty of fresh
eggs and good milk, which, I am sure is just what the child needs. Mrs.
Brown cannot stay more than the day, so she says, but I am going to ask
that Mildred visits with us for a week anyway. I think I can bring some
color into her cheeks."
"Oh, gee, mother!" he remonstrated.
"Now, Dorian, be reasonable. She's such a simple, quiet girl. She will
not be in the way in the least. I want you to treat her nicely."
Dorian had finished his dinner and was gazing out of the window. There
was an odd look on his face. The idea of a girl living right here with
them in the same house startled and troubled him. His mother had called
her a little girl, but he remembered her as being only a year or two
younger than he. Gee!
"That's why I wanted you to get a pair of decent shoes for tomorrow,"
said the mother, "and I told you to get a nice pair. I have brushed and
pressed your clothes, but you must get a new suit as soon as possible.
Where are your shoes! I couldn't find them."
"I - didn't get any shoes, mother."
"Didn't get any! Why not?"
"Well, you see - I didn't know about these visitors coming, mother, and
so I - bought some books for most of my money, and so; but mother, don't
get mad - I - "
"Books? What books? Where are they?"
And then Dorian told her plainly the whole miserable story. At first the
mother was angry, but when she saw the troubled face of her boy, she
relented, not wishing to add to his misery. She even smiled at the
calamitous ending of those books.
"My boy, I see that you have been sorely tempted, and I am sorry that
you lost your books. The wetting that Carlia gave you did no harm ...
but you must have some shoes by tomorrow. Wait."
The mother went to the bureau drawer, opened the lid of a little box,
drew from the box a purse, and took from the purse two silver dollars.
She handed them to Dorian.
"Go to town again this afternoon and get some shoes."
"But, mother, I hate to take your money. I think I can black my old ones
so that they will not look so bad."
"Blacking will not fill the holes. Now, you do as I say. Jump on Nig and
go right away."
Dorian put the money in his pocket, then went out to the yard and
slipped a bridle on his horse, mounted, and was back to the house.
"Now, Dorian, remember what I say. Get you a nice pair, a nice Sunday
pair."
"All right, mother, I will."
He rode off at a gallop. He lingered not by creeks or byways, but went
directly to the best shoe store in the city, where he made his purchase.
He stopped neither at book store or candy shops. His horse was sweating
when he rode in at the home yard. His mother hearing him, came out.
"You made quick time," she said.
"Yes; just to buy a pair of shoes doesn't take long."
"You got the right kind?"
"Sure. Here, look at 'em." He handed her the package.
"I can't look at them now. Say, Dorian - " she came out nearer to
him - "They are here."
"Who, mother?"
"Mrs. Brown and her daughter. They got a chance to ride out this
afternoon, so they did not wait until tomorrow. Lucky I cleaned up this
morning. Mildred is not a bit well, and she is lying down now. Don't
make any more noise than you can help."
"Gee - but, mother, gosh!" He was very much disturbed.
"They are dear, good people. They know we are simple farmers. Just you
wash yourself and take off those dirty overalls before you come in. And
then you just behave yourself. We're going to have something nice for
supper. Now, don't be too long with your hoeing or with your chores,
for supper will be early this evening."
Dorian hoed only ten rows that afternoon for the reason that he sat down
to rest and to think at the end of each row. Then he dallied so with his
chores that his mother had to call him twice. At last he could find no
more excuses between him and the strange company. He went in with much
fear and some invisible trembling.
CHAPTER THREE.
About six o'clock in the afternoon, Mildred Brown went down through the
fields to the lower pasture. She wore a gingham apron which covered her
from neck to high-topped boots. She carried in one hand an easel and
stool and in the other hand a box of colors. Mildred came each day to a
particular spot in this lower pasture and set up her easel and stool in
the shade of a black willow bush to paint a particular scene. She did
her work as nearly as possible at the same time each afternoon to get
the same effect of light and shade and the same stretch of reflected
sunlight on the open water spaces in the marshland.
And the scene before her was worthy of a master hand, which, of course,
Mildred Brown was not as yet. From her position in the shade of the
willow, she looked out over the flat marshlands toward the west. Nearby,
at the edge of the firmer pasture lands, the rushes grew luxuriously,
now crowned with large, glossy-brown "cat-tails." The flats to the left
were spotted by beds of white and black saleratus and bunches of course
salt grass. Openings of sluggish water lay hot in the sun, winding in
and out among reeds, and at this hour every clear afternoon, shining
with the undimmed reflection of the burning sun. The air was laden
with salty odors of the marshes. A light afternoon haze hung over the
distance. Frogs were lazily croaking, and the killdeer's shrill cry came
plaintively to the ear. A number of cows stood knee-deep in mud and
water, round as barrels, and breathing hard, with tails unceasingly
switching away the flies.
Dorian was in the field turning the water on his lucerne patch when he
saw Mildred coming as usual down the path. He had not expected her that
afternoon as he thought the picture which she had been working on
was finished; but after adjusting the flow of water, he joined her,
relieving her of stool and easel. They then walked on together, the
big farm boy in overalls and the tall graceful girl in the enveloping
gingham.
Mildred's visit had now extended to ten days, by which time Dorian had
about gotten over his timidity in her presence. In fact, that had not
been difficult. The girl was not a bit "stuck up," and she entered
easily and naturally into the home life on the farm. She had changed
considerably since Dorian had last seen her, some two years ago. Her
face was still pale, although it seemed that a little pink was now
creeping into her cheeks; her eyes were still big and round and blue;
her hair was now done up in thick shining braids. She talked freely to
Dorian and his mother, and at last Dorian had to some extent been able
to find his tongue in the presence of a girl nearly his own age.
The two stopped in the shade of the willow. He set up the easel and
opened the stool, while she got out her colors and brushes.
"Thank you," she said to him. "Did you get through with your work in the
field?"
"I was just turning the water on the lucerne. I got through shocking the
wheat some time ago."
"Is there a good crop! I don't know much about such things, but I want
to learn." She smiled up into his ruddy face.
"The wheat is fine. The heads are well developed. I wouldn't be
surprised if it went fifty bushels to the acre."
"Fifty bushels?" She began to squeeze the tubes of colors on to the
palette.
Dorian explained; and as he talked, she seated herself, placed the
canvas on the easel, and began mixing the colors.
"I thought you finished that picture yesterday," he said.
"I was not satisfied with it, and so I thought I would put in another
hour on it. The setting sun promises to be unusually fine today, and I
want to put a little more of its beauty into my picture, if I can."
The young man seated himself on the grass well toward the rear where he
could see her at work. He thought it wonderful to be able thus to make a
beautiful picture out of such a commonplace thing as a saleratus swamp.
But then, he was beginning to think that this girl was capable of
endless wonders. He had met no other girl just like her, so young and so
beautiful, and yet so talented and so well-informed; so rich, and yet
so simple in manner of her life; so high born and bred, and yet so
companionable with those of humbler station.
The painter squeezed a daub of brilliant red on to her palette. She
gazed for a moment at the western sky, then turning to Dorian, she
asked:
"Do you think I dare put a little more red in my picture?"
"Dare?" he repeated.
The young man followed the pointing finger of the girl into the flaming
depths of the sky, then came and leaned carefully over the painting.
"Tell me which is redder, the real or the picture?" she asked.
Dorian looked critically back and forth. "The sky is redder," be
decided.
"And yet if I make my picture as red as the sky naturally is, many
people would say that it is too red to be true. I'll risk it anyway."
Then she carefully laid on a little more color.
"Nature itself, our teacher told us, is always more intense than any
representation of nature."
She worked on in silence for a few moments, then without looking from
her canvas, she asked: "Do you like being a farmer?"
"Oh, I guess so," he replied somewhat indefinitely. "I've lived on a
farm all my life, and I don't know anything else. I used to think I
would like to get away, but mother always wanted to stay. There's been a
lot of hard work for both of us, but now things are coming more our way,
and I like it better. Anyway, I couldn't live in the city now."
"Why?"
"Well, I don't seem able to breathe in the city, with its smoke and its
noise and its crowding together of houses and people."
"You ought to go to Chicago or New York or Boston," she replied. "Then
you would see some crowds and hear some noises."
"Have you been there?"
"I studied drawing and painting in Boston. Next to farming, what would
you like to do?"
He thought for a moment - "When I was a little fellow - "
"Which you are not," she interrupted as she changed brushes.
"I thought that if I ever could attain to the position of standing
behind a counter in a store where I could take a piece of candy whenever
I wanted it, I should have attained to the heights of happiness. But,
now, of course - "
"Well, and now?"
"I believe I'd like to be a school teacher."
"Why a teacher?"
"Because I'd then have the chance to read a lot of books."
"You like to read, don't you? and you like candy, and you like
pictures."
"Especially, when someone else paints them."
Mildred arose, stepped back to get the distance for examination. "I
don't think I had better use more color," she commented, "but those
cat-tails in the corner need touching up a bit."
"I suppose you have been to school a lot?" he asked.
"No; just completed the high school; then, not being very strong, mother
thought it best not to send me to the University; but she lets me dabble
a little in painting and in music."
Dorian could not keep his eyes off this girl who had already completed
the high school course which he had not yet begun; besides, she had
learned a lot of other things which would be beyond him to ever reach.
Even though he were an ignoramus, he could bask in the light of her
greater learning. She did not resent that.
"What do you study in High School!" he asked.
"Oh, a lot of things - don't you know?" She again looked up at him.
"Not exactly."
"We studied algebra and mathematics and English and English literature,
and French, and a lot of other things."
"What's algebra like?"
"Oh dear, do you want me to draw it?"
"Can you draw it?"
"About as well as I can tell it in words. Algebra is higher mathematics;
yes, that's it."
"And what's the difference between English and English literature?"
"English is grammar and how sentences are or should be made. English
literature is made up mostly of the reading of the great authors, such
as Milton and Shakespeare,"
"Gee!" exclaimed Dorian, "that would be great fun."
"Fun? just you try it. Nobody reads these writers now only in school,
where they have to. But say, Dorian" - she arose to inspect her work
again. "Have I too much purple in that bunch of salt-grass on the left?
What do you think?"
"I don't see any purple at all in the real grass," he said.
"There is purple there, however; but of course, you, not being an
artist, cannot see it." She laughed a little for fear he might think her
pronouncement harsh.
"What - what is an artist?"
"An artist is one who has learned to see more than other people can in
the common things about them."
The definition was not quite clear to him. He had proved that he
could see farther and clearer than she could when looking at trees or
chipmunks. He looked critically again at the picture.
"I mean, of course," she added, as she noted his puzzled look, "that an
artist is one who sees in nature the beauty in form, in light and shade,
and in color."
"You haven't put that tree in the right place," he objected! "and you
have left out that house altogether."
"This is not a photograph," she answered. "I put in my picture only that
which I want there. The tree isn't in the right place, so I moved it.
The house has no business in the picture because I want it to represent
a scene of wild, open lonesomeness. I want to make the people who look
at it feel so lonesome that they want to cry!"
She was an odd girl!
"Oh, don't you understand. I want them only to feel like it. When you
saw that charcoal drawing I made the other day, you laughed."
"Well, it was funny."
"That's just it. An artist wants to be able to make people feel like
laughing or crying, for then he knows he has reached their soul."
"I've got to look after the water for a few minutes, then I'll come back