Читать книгу Dorian - Nephi Anderson - Страница 6

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Indian summer lay drowsily over the land. It had come late that season, but its rare beauty compensated for its tardiness. Its golden mellowness permeating the hazy air, had also, it seems, crept into the heart of Dorian Trent. The light coating of frost which each morning lay on the grass, had by noon vanished, and now the earth was warm and dry.

Dorian was plowing, and he was in no great haste with his work. He did not urge his horses, for they also seemed imbued with the languidness of the season. He let them rest frequently, especially at the end of the furrow where there was a grassy bank on which the plowman could lie prone on his back and look into the dreamy distances of the hills or up into the veiling clouds.

Dorian could afford to take it a little easy that afternoon, so he thought. The summer's work was practically over: the wheat had been thrashed; the hay was in the stacks; the potatoes were in the pit; the corn stood in Indian wigwam bunches in the yard; the fruit and vegetables, mostly of the mother's raising, had been sufficient for their simple needs. They were well provided for the winter; and so Dorian was happy and contented as everyone in like condition should be on such an Indian summer afternoon.

Mildred Brown's visit to the farm had ended some weeks ago; but only yesterday his mother had received a note from Mrs. Brown, asking if her daughter might not come again. Her former visit had done her so much good, and now the beautiful weather was calling her out into the country. It was a shame, Mildred had said, that Indian summer should "waste its sweetness on the desert air of the city."

"What do you say?" Mrs. Trent had asked Dorian.

"Why—why—of course, mother, if she doesn't make too much work for you."

And so Mildred had received the invitation that she was very welcome to come to Greenstreet and stay as long as she desired. Very likely, she would be with them in a day or two, thought Dorian. She would draw and paint, and then in the soft evening dusk she would play some of those exquisite melodies on her violin. Mildred did not like people to speak of her beloved instrument as a fiddle, and he remembered how she had chastised him on one occasion for so doing. Yes, she would again enter into their daily life. Her ladylike ways, her sweet smile, her golden beauty would again glorify their humble home. Why, if she came often enough and remained long enough, she might yet learn how to milk a cow, as she had threatened to do. At the thought, the boy on the grass by the nodding horses, laughed up into the sky. Dorian was happy; but whether he preferred the somewhat nervous happiness of Mildred's presence or the quiet longing happiness of her absence, he could not tell.

The plain truth of the matter was, that Dorian had fallen deeply in love with Mildred. This statement may be scoffed at by some people whose eyes have been dimmed by age so that they cannot see back into that time of youth when they also were "trailing clouds of glory" from their heavenly home. There is nothing more wholesomely sweet than this first boy and girl affection. It is clean and pure and undefiled by the many worldly elements which often enter into the more mature lovemaking.

Perhaps Mildred Brown's entrance into Dorian's life did not differ from like incidents in many lives, but to him it was something holy. Dorian at this time never admitted to himself that he was in love with the girl. He sensed very well that she was far above him in every way. The thought that she might ever become his wife never obtained foothold in him more than for a fleeting moment: that was impossible, then why think of it. But there could be no harm in loving her as he loved his mother, or as he loved the flowers, the clear-flowing water, the warm sun and the blue sky. He could at least cast adoring eyes up to her as he did to the stars at night. He could also strive to rise to her level, if that were possible. He was going to the High school the coming winter, then perhaps to the University. He could get to know as much of school learning as she, anyway. He never would become a painter of pictures or a musician, but surely there were other things which he could learn which would be worth while.

There came to Dorian that afternoon as he still lay on the grass, his one-time effort to ask a girl to a dance. He recalled what care he had taken in washing and combing and dressing, how he had finally cut cross-lots to the girl's home for fear of being seen, for surely he had thought, everybody must know what he was up to!—how he had lingered about the back door, and had at last, when the door opened, scudded back home as fast as his legs could carry him! And now, the finest girl he had ever seen was chumming with him, and he was not afraid, that is, not very much afraid.

When Mildred had packed up to go home on the occasion of her former visit she had invited Mrs. Trent to take her pick of her drawings for her own.

"All but this," Mildred had said. "This which I call 'Sunset in the

Marshland' I am going to give to Dorian."

The mother had looked over the pile of sketches. There was a panel in crayon which the artist said was the big cottonwood down by the Corners. Mrs. Trent remarked that she never would have known it, but then, she added apologetically, she never had an eye for art. There was a winter scene where the houses were so sunk into the earth that only the roofs were visible. (Mrs. Trent had often wondered why the big slanting roofs were the only artistic thing about a house). Another picture showed a high, camel-backed bridge, impossible to cross by anything more real than the artist's fancy. Mrs. Trent had chosen the bridge because of its pretty colors.

"Where shall we hang Dorian's picture?" Mildred had asked.

They had gone into his room. Mildred had looked about.

"The only good light is on that wall." She had pointed to the space occupied by Dorian's "best girl."

And so Lorna Doone had come down and Mildred's study of the marshlands glowed with its warmer colors in its place.

The plowboy arose from the grass. "Get up there," he said to his horses.

"We must be going, or there'll be very little plowing today."

Carlia Duke was the first person to greet Mildred as she alighted at the Trent gate. Carlia knew of her coming and was waiting. Mildred put her arm about her friend and kissed her, somewhat to the younger girl's confused pleasure. The two girls went up the path to the house where Mrs. Trent met them.

"Where's your baggage?" asked the mother of the arrival, seeing she carried only a small bag and her violin case.

"This is all. I'm not going to paint this time—just going to rest, mother said, so I do not need a lot of baggage."

"Well, come in Honey; and you too, Carlia. Dinner is about ready, an' you'll stay."

By a little urging Carlia remained, and pretty soon, Dorian came stamping in to be surprised.

"Yes; we're all here," announced Carlia, as she tossed her black curls and laughed at his confusion.

"I see you are," he replied, as he shook hands with Mildred. After which ceremony, it did not just look right to slight the other girl, so he shook hands with her also, much to her amusement.

"How do you do, Mr. Trent" she said.

"Carlia is such a tease," explained the mother.

"For which I like her," added Mildred.

"We all do. Even Dorian here, who is usually afraid of girls, makes quite a chum of her."

"Well, we're neighbors," justified the girl.

After dinner Carlia took Mildred home with her. It was not far, just around the low ridge which hid the house from view. There Mildred met Pa Duke, Ma Duke and Will Duke, Carlia's older brother. Pa Duke was a hard-working farmer, Ma Duke was likewise a hard-working farmer's wife, and Will Duke should have been a hard-working farmer's boy, but he was somewhat a failure, especially regarding the hard work part. Carlia, though so young, was already a hardworking farmer girl, with no chance of escape, as far as she could see, from the hard-working part. The Duke house, though clean and roomy, lacked the dainty home touches which mean so much. There were no porch, no lawn, no trees. The home was bare inside and out.

In deference to the "company" Carlia was permitted to "visit" with her friend that afternoon. Apparently, these two girls had very little in common, but when left to themselves they found many mutual interests.

Toward the close of the afternoon, Dorian appeared. He found the girls out in the yard, Carlia seated on the topmost pole of the corral fence, and Mildred standing beside her.

"Hello girls," Dorian greeted. "I've come to give you an invitation."

"What, a party!" exclaimed Carlia, jumping down from her perch.

"Not a dancing party, you little goose—just a surprise party."

"On who?"

"On Uncle Zed."

"Uncle Zed. O, shucks!"

"Well, of course, you do not have to go," said Dorian.

"I think you're mean. I do want to go if Mildred is going."

"I don't know Uncle Zed," said Mildred, "but if Mrs. Trent and Dorian wish me to go, I shall be pleased; and of course, you will go with us."

"She's invited," repeated Dorian. "It's Uncle Zed's seventy-fifth birthday. Mother keeps track of them, the only one who does, I guess, for he doesn't do it himself. We're just going down to visit with him this evening. He's a very fine old man, is Uncle Zed," this last to Mildred.

"Is he your uncle?"

"Oh, no; he's just uncle to everybody and no one in particular. He's all by himself, and has no folks?"

Just before the dusk of the evening, the little party set out for the home of Zedekiah Manning, generally and lovingly known as Uncle Zed. He lived about half a mile down the road in a two-roomed log house which had a big adobe chimney on one side. His front yard was abloom with the autumn flowers. The path leading to his door was neatly edged by small cobble stones. Autumn tinted ivy embowered his front door and climbed over the wall nearly to the low roof.

Uncle Zed met the visitors at the door. "Well, well," he exclaimed, "come right in. I'll light the lamp." Then he assisted them to find seats.

Mildred looked keenly at Uncle Zed, whom she found to be a little frail old man with clean white hair and beard, and kindly, smiling face. He sat down with his company and rubbed his hands in a way which implied: "And what does all this mean?" Mildred noted that the wall, back of his own chair, was nearly covered with books, and a number of volumes lay on the table. The room was furnished for the simple needs of the lone occupant. A fire smouldered in the open grate.

"Now, Uncle Zed, have you forgotten again?" inquired Mrs. Trent.

"Forgotten what? I suppose I have, for my memory is not so good as it used to be."

"Your memory never was good regarding the day of the year you were born."

"Day when I was born? What, has my birthday come around again? Well, sure; but I had quite forgotten. How these birthdays do pile up on one."

"How old are you today?" asked Dorian.

"How old? Let me see. I declare, I must be seventy-five."

"Isn't he a funny man," whispered Carlia to Mildred, who appeared not to hear the comment, so interested was she in the old man.

"And so you've come to celebrate," went on Uncle Zed, "come to congratulate me that I am one year nearer the grave."

"Now, Uncle Zed, you know—"

"Yes; I know; forgive me for teasing; I know why you come to wish me well. It is that I have kept the faith one year more, and that I am twelve months nearer my heavenly reward. That's it, isn't it?"

Uncle Zed pushed his glasses up on his forehead to better see his company, especially Mildred. Mrs. Trent made the proper introduction, then lifted the picnic basket from the table to a corner.

"We're just going to spend an hour or so with you," explained Mrs. Trent. "We want you to talk, Mildred to play, and then we'll have a bite to eat. We'll just sit about your grate, and look into the glow of the fire while you talk." However, Dorian and Mildred were scanning the books.

"What's this set?" the young girl asked.

Dorian bent down to read the dim titles. "The Millennial Star" he said.

"And here's another set."

"The Journal of Discourses" he replied.

"My, all sermons? they must be dry reading."

Uncle Zed heard their conversation, and stepped over to them. "Are you also interested in books?" he asked. "Dorian and I are regular book-worms, you know."

Oh, yes, she was interested in books.

"But there are books and books, you know," went on Uncle Zed. "You like story books, no doubt. So do I. There's nothing better than a rattling good love story, eh, young lady?"

Mildred hardly knew just how to take this remark, so she did not reply.

"Here's the most wonderful love story ever written." He took from the shelf a very ordinary looking volume, called the "Doctrine and Covenants." Carlia and Mrs. Trent now joined the other three. They also were interested.

"You wouldn't be looking in the 'Doctrine and Covenants' for love stories, would you; but here in the revelation on the eternity of the marriage covenant we find that men and women, under the proper conditions and by the proper authority, may be united as husbands and wives, not only for time, but for eternity. Most love stories end when the lovers are married; but think of the endlessness of life and love under this new and everlasting covenant of marriage—but I mustn't preach so early in the evening."

"But we like to hear it, Uncle Zed," said Dorian.

"Indeed, we do," added Mildred. "Tell us more about your books."

"Here is one of my precious volumes—Orson Pratt's works. When I get hungry for the solid, soul-satisfying doctrines of the kingdom, I read Orson Pratt. Parley Pratt also is good. Here is a book which is nearly forgotten, but which contains beautiful presentations of the gospel, 'Spencer's Letters'. Dorian, look here." He handed the young man a small, ancient-looking, leather bound book. "I found it in a second-hand store and paid fifteen cents for it. Yes, it's a second edition of the 'Doctrine and Covenants,' printed by John Taylor in Nauvoo in 1844. The rest of my collection is familiar to you, I am sure. Here is a complete set of the 'Contributor' and this is my 'Era' shelf, and here are most of the more modern church works. Let us now go back to the fire."

After they were again seated, Mildred asked him if he had known Brigham

Young. She always liked to hear the pioneers talk of their experiences.

"No" replied Uncle Zed, "I never met President Young, but I believe I know him as well as many who had that pleasure. I have read everything that I could get in print which Brigham Young ever said. I have read all his discourses in those volumes. He was not a polished speaker, I understand, and he did not often follow a theme; but mixed with the more commonplace subjects of irrigation, Indian troubles, etc., which, in his particular day had to be spoken of, are some of the most profound gospel truths in any language. Gems of thought shine from every page of his discourses."

Carlia was nodding in a warm corner. Uncle Zed rambled on reminiscently until Mrs. Trent suddenly arose, spoke sharply to Carlia, and lifted the basket of picnic on to the table.

"We'll have our refreshments now," she said, "and then we must be going.

Uncle Zed goes early to bed, and so should we."

The table was spread: roast chicken, brought by Carlia; dainty sandwiches, made by Mildred; apple pie from Mrs. Trent's cupboard; a jar of apricot preserves, suggested by Dorian. Uncle Zed asked a blessing not only on the food, but on the kind hands which had provided it. Then they ate heartily, and yet leaving a generous part to be left in Uncle Zed's own cupboard.

Then Dorian had a presentation to make. He took from the basket a small package, unwrapped it, and handed a book to the man who was seventy-five years old.

"I couldn't do much by way of the eats," said Dorian, "so my present is this."

"'Drummond's Natural Law in the Spiritual World'" read Uncle Zed. "Why,

Dorian, this is fine of you. How could you guess my wishes so nicely.

For a long time, this is just the book I have wanted."

"I'm glad. I thought you'd like it."

"Fine, fine," said the old man, fondling the volume as he would some dear object, as indeed, every good book was to him.

Then Mildred got out her violin, and after the proper tuning of the strings, she placed it under her shapely chin. She played without music some of the simple heart melodies, and then some of the Sunday School songs which the company softly accompanied by words.