Читать книгу Dorian - Nephi Anderson - Страница 4

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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.