Dorian

by Nephi Anderson

CHAPTER SEVEN.

The death of Mildred Brown affected Dorian Trent most profoundly. Not that he displayed any marked outward signs of his feelings, but his very soul was moved to its depths, sometimes as of despair, sometimes as of resentment. Why, he asked himself, should God send—he put it this way—send to him this beautiful creature who filled his heart so completely, why hold her out to him as if inviting him to take her, and then suddenly snatch her away out of his life—out of the life of the world!

For many days Dorian went about as if in a pained stupor. His mother, knowing her boy, tried in a wise way to comfort him; but it was not altogether a success. His studies were neglected, and he had thoughts of quitting school altogether; but he did not do this. He dragged through the few remaining days until spring, when he eagerly went to work on the open reaches of the farm, where he was more away from human beings and nearer to that something in his heart. He worked long and hard and faithfully that spring.

On the upper bank of the canal, where the sagebrush stood untouched, Dorian that summer found the first sego blossoms. He had never observed them so closely before nor seen their real beauty. How like Mildred they were! He gathered a bouquet of them that Saturday afternoon as he went home, placed them in a glass of water, and then Sunday afternoon he wrapped them in a damp newspaper and took the bouquet with him to town. His Sunday trips to the city were usually for the purpose of visiting Mildred's grave. The sun shone warm that day from a blue sky as Dorian came slowly and reverently to the plot where lay all that was earthly of one whom he loved so well. The new headstone gleamed in white marble and the young grass stood tender and green. Against the stone lay a bunch of withered wild roses. Someone had been there before him that day. Whom could it be? Her mother was not in the city, and who else would remember the visit of the angel-being who had returned to her eternal home? A pang shot through his heart, and he was half tempted to turn without placing his own tribute on the grave, then immediately he knew the thought was foolish. He took off the wrapping and placed his fresher flowers near the more withered ones. Later that summer, he learned only incidently that it had been Carlia who had been before him that afternoon.

During those days, Carlia kept out of Dorian's way as much as possible. She even avoided walking to and from school with him. He was so absentminded even with her that she in time came to resent it in her feelings. She could not understand that a big, very-much-alive boy should have his mind so fixed on a dead girl that he should altogether forget there were living ones about, especially one, Carlia Duke.

One evening Dorian met Uncle Zed driving his cow home from the pasture, and the old man invited the younger man to walk along with him. Dorian always found Uncle Zed's company acceptable.

"Why haven't you come to me with your trouble?" abruptly asked Uncle
Zed.

Dorian started, then hung his head.

"We never have any unshared secrets, you know, and I may have been able to help you."

"I couldn't talk to anybody."

"No; I suppose not."

The cow was placed in the corral, and then Uncle Zed and Dorian sat down on a grassy bank. The sun was painting just such a picture of the marshlands as Dorian knew so well.

"But I can talk to you" continued the old man as if there had been no break in his sentences. "Death, I know, is a strange and terrible thing, for youth; when you get as old as I, I hope you will look on death as nothing more than a release from mortality, a moving from one sphere to another, a step along the eternal line of progress. I suppose that it is just as necessary that we pass out of the world by death as that we enter it by birth; and I further suppose that the terror with which death is vested is for the purpose of helping us to cling to this earth-life until our mission here is completed."

Dorian did not speak; his eyes were on the marshlands.

"Imagine, Dorian, this world, just as it is, with all its sin and misery and without any death. What would happen? We would all, I fear, become so self-centered, so hardened in selfishness that it would be difficult for the gentle power of love to reach us; but now there is hardly a family that has not one or more of its members on the other side. And these absent loved ones are anchors to our souls, tied to us by the never-ending cords of love and affection. You, yourself, my boy, never have had until now many interests other than those of this life; now your interests are broadened to another world, and that's something worth while…. Now, come and see me often." They arose, each to go to his home.

"I will, Uncle Zed. Thank you for what you have said."

Dorian completed his four years high school. Going to the University might come later, but now he was moved by a spirit of activity to do bigger things with his farm, and to enlarge it, if possible.

About this time, dry-farming had taken the attention of the farmers in his locality, and many of them had procured lands on the sloping foothills. Dorian, with a number of other young men had gone up the nearby canyon to the low hills of the valley beyond and had taken up lands. That first summer Dorian spent much of his time in breaking up the land. As timber was not far away, he built himself a one-roomed log house and some corrals and outhouses. A mountain stream rushed by the lower corner of his farm, and its wild music sang him to sleep when he spent the night in the hills. He furnished his "summer residence" with a few simple necessities so that he could live there a number of days at a time. He minded not the solitude. The wild odorous verdure of the hills, the cool breezes, the song of the distant streams, the call of the birds, all seemed to harmonize with his own feelings at that time. He had a good kerosene lamp, and at nights when he was not too tired, he read. On his visits to the city he usually had an eye for book bargains, and thus his board shelving came to be quite a little library. He had no method in his collecting, no course of connected study. At one time he would leisurely read one of Howell's easy-going novels, at another time he would be kept wide-eyed until midnight with "Lorna Doone" or with "Ben Hur."

Dorian had heard of Darwin, of Huxley, of Ingersol and of Tom Payne, but he had never read anything but selections from these writers. Now he obtained a copy of the "Origin of Species" and a book by Ingersol. These he read carefully. Darwin's book was rather heavy, but by close application, the young student thought he learned what the scientist was "driving at." This book disturbed him somewhat. There seemed to be much truth in it, but also some things which did not agree with what he had been taught to be true. In this he realized his lack of knowledge. More knowledge must clear up any seeming contradiction, he reasoned. Ingersol was more readable, snappy, witty, hitting the Bible in a fearless way. Dorian had no doubt that all of Ingersol's points could be answered, as he himself could refute many of them.

One day as Dorian was browsing as usual in a book store he came across a cheap copy of Drummond's "Natural Law in the Spiritual World," the book which he had given Uncle Zed. As he wanted a copy himself, he purchased this one and took it with him to his cabin in the hills. Immediately he was interested in the book, and he filled its pages with copious notes and marks of emphasis.

It was Sunday afternoon in mid-summer at Greenstreet. The wheat again stood in the shock. The alfalfa waved in scented purple. Dorian and the old philosopher of Greenstreet sat in the shade of the cottonwood and looked out on the farm scene as they talked.

"I've also been reading 'Natural Law in the Spiritual World'" said
Dorian.

"Good," replied Uncle Zed. "I was going to lend you my copy, so we could talk about it intelligently. What message have you found in it for you?"

"Message?"

"Yes; every book should have a message and should deliver it to the reader. Drummond's book thundered a message to me, but it came too late. I am old, and past the time when I could heed any such call. If I were young, if I—if I were like you, Dorian, you who have life before you, what might not I do, with the help of the Lord!"

"What, Uncle Zed?"

"Drummond was a clergyman and a professor of natural history and science. As such, he was a student of the laws of God as revealed both through the written word of inspiration and in nature about him. In his book he aims to prove that the spiritual world is controlled by the same laws which operate in the natural wold; and as you perhaps discovered in your reading, he comes very nearly proving his claim. He presents some wonderfully interesting analogies. Of course, much of his theology is of the perverted sectarian kind, and therein lies the weakness of his argument. If he had had the clear truth of the restored gospel, how much brighter would his facts have been illumed, how much stronger would have been his deductions. Why, even I with my limited scientific knowledge can set him right in many places. So I say, if I were but a young man like you, do you know what I'd do?"

"What?" again questioned Dorian.

"I would devote all my mind, might and strength to the learning of truth, of scientific truth. I would cover every branch of science possible in the limits of one life, especially the natural sciences. Then with my knowledge of the gospel and the lamp of inspiration which the priesthood entitles me to, I could harmonize the great body of truth coming from any and every source. Dorian, what a life work that would be!"

The old man looked smilingly at his companion with a strange, knowing intimation. He spoke of himself, but he meant that Dorian should take the suggestion. Dorian could pick up his beautiful dream and make it come true. Dorian, with life and strength, and a desire for study and truth could accomplish this very desirable end. The old man placed his hand lovingly on the young man's shoulder, as he continued:

"You are the man to do this, Dorian—you, not I."

"I—Uncle Zed, do you believe that?"

"I do. Listen, my boy. I see you looking over the harvested field. It is a fine work you are doing; thousands can plant and harvest year after year; but few there are who can and will devote their lives to the planting of faith and the nourishing and the establishing of faith in the hearts of men; and that's what we need now to properly answer the Lord's cry that when He cometh shall He find faith on the earth?… Let the call come to you—but there, in the Lord's own good time. Come into the house. I have a new book to show you, also I have a very delicious cherry pie."

They went into the house together, where they inspected both book and pie. Dorian weakly objected to the generous portion which was cut for him, but Uncle Zed explained that the process of division not only increased the number of pieces of pie, but also added to its tastiness. Dorian led his companion to talk about himself.

"Yes," he said in reply to a question, "I was born in England and brought up in the Wesleyan Methodist church. I was a great reader ever since I can remember. I read not only history and some fiction, but even the dry-as-dust sermons were interesting to me. But I never seemed satisfied. The more I read, the deeper grew the mysteries of life. Nowhere did I find a clear, comprehendible statement of what I, an entity with countless other entities, was doing here. Where had I come from, where was I going? I visited the churches within my reach. I heard the preachers and read the philosophers to obtain, if possible, a clue to the mystery of life. I studied, and prayed, and went about seeking, but never finding."

"But you did find the truth at last?"

"Yes; thank the Lord. I found the opening in the darkness, and it came through the simple, humble, and not very learned elders of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints."

"What is the principle trouble with all this learning of the world that it does not lead to the truth?"

"The world's ignorance of God. Eternal life consists in knowing the only true God, and the world does not know Him; therefore, all their systems of religion are founded on a false basis. That is the reason there is so much uncertainty and floundering when philosophers and religionists try to make a known truth agree with their conceptions of God."

"Explain that a little more to me, Uncle Zed."

"Some claim that Nature is God, others that God only manifests Himself through nature. I read this latter idea many places. For instance, Pope says:

"'All are but parts of one stupendous whole
Whose body nature is, and God the soul.'

"Also Tennyson:

'The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and plains
Are not these, O soul, the vision of Him who reigns?
Speak to Him there, for He hears, and spirit with spirit can meet,
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.'

"This, no doubt, is beautiful poetry, but it tells only a part of the truth. God, by His Spirit is, and can be all the poet here describes. 'Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence?' exclaims the Psalmist. 'In him we live and move and have our being' declares Paul; but these statements alone are not enough for our proper understanding of the subject. We try to see God behind the veil of nature, in sun and wind and flower and fruit; but there is something lacking. Try now to formulate some distinct idea of what this universal and almighty force back of nature is. We are told that this force is God, whom we must love and worship and serve. We want the feeling of nearness to satisfy the craving for love and protection, but our intellect and our reason must also be somewhat satisfied. We must have some object on which to rest—we cannot always be floating about unsuspended in time and space.

"Then there is some further confusion: Christian philosophers have tried to personify this 'soul of the universe,' for God, they say, thinks and feels and knows. They try to get a personality without form or bounds or dimentions, but it all ends in vagueness and confusion. As for me, and I think I am not so different from other men,—for me to be able to think of God, I must have some image of Him. I cannot think of love or good, or power or glory in the abstract. These must be expressed to me by symbols at least as eminating from, or inherent in, or exercised by some person. Love cannot exist alone: there must be one who loves and one who is being loved. God is love. That means to me that a person, a beautiful, glorified, allwise, benevolent being exercises that divine principle which is shed forth on you and me.

"Now, if the world would only leave all this metaphysical meandering and come back to the simple truth, what a clearing of mists there would be! All their philosophies would have a solid basis if they would only accept the truth revealed anew to us through the Prophet Joseph Smith that God is one of a race, the foremost and first, if you wish it, but still one of a race of beings who inhabit the universe; that we humans are His children, begotten of Him in the pre-mortal world in His image; that we are on the upward path through eternity, following Him who has gone before and has marked out the way; that if we follow, we shall eventually arrive at the point where He now is. Ignorance of these things is what I understand to be ignorance of God."

"In England I lost my wife and two children. The gospel came to me shortly after, I am sure, to comfort me in the depths of my despair. Not one church on earth that I knew of, Catholic or Protestant, would hold out any hope of my ever being reunited with wife and children as such. There is no family life in heaven, they teach. At that time I went about listening to the preachers, and I delved into books. I made extensive copyings in my note books. I have them yet, and some day when you are interested I will show them to you."

"I am interested now," said Dorian.

"But I'm not going to talk to you longer on this theme, even though it is Sunday and time for sermonizing. I'm going to meeting, where you also ought to go. You are not attending as regularly as you should."

"No, but I've been very busy."

"No excuse that. There is danger in remaining away too long from the established sources of spiritual inspiration and uplift, especially when one is reading Ingersol and Tom Paine. I have no fault to find with your ambition to get ahead in the world, but with it 'remember thy creator in the days of thy youth.' Are you neglecting your mother?"

"No; I think not, Uncle Zed; but what do you mean about mother?"

"You are all she has. Are you making her days happy by your personal care and presence. Are you giving of yourself to her?"

"Well, perhaps I am not so considerate as I might be; I am away quite a lot; thank you for calling my attention to it."

"Are you neglecting anybody else?"

"Not that I know."

"Good. Now I must clear away my table and get ready for meeting. You'll go with me."

"I can't. I haven't my Sunday clothes."

"The Lord will not look at your clothes."

"No; but a lot of people will."

"We go to meeting to worship the Lord, not to be looked at by others. Go home and put on your Sunday best; there is time." The old man was busy between table and cupboard as he talked. "Have you seen Carlia lately?"

"No," replied Dorian.

"The last time she was here I thought she was a little peaked in the face, for you know she has such a rosy, roly-poly one."

"Is that so? She comes to see you, then?"

"Yes; oftener than you do."

"I never meet her here."

"No; she manages that, I surmise."

"What do you mean?"

"I tell you Carlia is a lovely girl," continued Uncle Zed, ignoring his direct question. "Have you ever eaten butter she has churned?"

"Not that I know."

"She used to bring me a nice pat when my cow was dry; and bread of her own baking too, about as good as I myself make." He chuckled as he wiped the last dish and placed it neatly in the rack.

Dorian arose to go. "Remember what I have told you this evening" said Uncle Zed. The old man from behind his window watched his young friend walk leisurely along the road until he reached the cross-lots path which led to the Duke home. Here he saw him pause, go on again, pause once more, then jump lightly over the fence and strike out across the field. Uncle Zed then went on finishing his preparations for meeting.

As Dorian walked across the field, he did think of what Uncle Zed had said to him. Dorian had built his castles, had dreamed his dreams; but never before had the ideas presented to him by Uncle Zed that afternoon ever entered in them. The good old man had seemed so eager to pass on to the young man an unfulfilled work, yes, a high, noble work. Dorian caught a glimpse of the greatness of it and the glory of it that afternoon, and his soul was thrilled. Was he equal to such a task?… He had wanted to become a successful farmer, then his vision had gone on to the teaching profession; but beyond that he had not ventured. He was already well on the way to make a success of his farms. He liked the work. He could with pleasure be a farmer all his life. But should a man's business be all of life? Dorian realized, not of course in its fuller meaning, that the accumulating of worldly riches was only a means to the accomplishing of other and greater ends of life; and here was before him something worthy of any man's best endeavors. Here was a life's work which at its close would mean something to him and to the world. With these thoughts in his mind he stepped up to the rear of the Duke place where he saw someone in the corral with the cows, busy with her milking.