Dorian

by Nephi Anderson

CHAPTER TWELVE.

At the coming of winter, Uncle Zed was bedfast. He was failing rapidly. Neighbors helped him. Dorian remained with him as much as he could. The bond which had existed between these two grew stronger as the time of separation became nearer. The dying man was clear-minded, and he suffered very little pain. He seemed completely happy if he could have Dorian sitting by him and they could talk together. And these were wonderful days to the young man, days never to be forgotten.

Outside, the air was cold with gusts of wind and lowering clouds. Inside, the room was cosy and warm. A few of the old man's hardiest flowers were still in pots on the table where the failing eyes could see them. That evening Mrs. Trent had tidied up the room and had left Dorian to spend the night with the sick man. The tea-kettle hummed softly on the stove. The shaded lamp was turned down low.

"Dorian."

"Yes, Uncle Zed."

"Turn up the lamp a little. It's too dark in here."

"Doesn't the light hurt your eyes!"

"No; besides I want you to get me some papers out of that drawer in my desk."

Dorian fetched a large bundle of clippings and papers and asked if they were what he wanted.

"Not all of them just now; but take from the pile the few on top. I want you to read them to me. They are a few selections which I have culled and which have a bearing on the things we have lately been talking about."

The first note which Dorian read was as follows. "'The keys of the holy priesthood unlock the door of knowledge to let you look into the palace of truth'."

"That's by Brigham Young. You did not know that he was a poet as well as a prophet," commented the old man. "The next one is from him also."

"'There never was a time when there were not Gods and worlds, and when men were not passing through the same ordeals that we are now passing through. That course has been from all eternity and it is and will be to all eternity'."

"Now you know, Dorian, where I get my inspiration from. Read the next, also from President Young."

"'The idea that the religion of Christ is one thing, and science is another, is a mistaken idea, for there is no true science without religion. The fountain of knowledge dwells with God, and He dispenses it to His children as He pleases, and as they are prepared to receive it; consequently, it swallows up and circumscribes all'."

"Take these, Dorian; have them with you as inspirational mottoes for your life's work. Go on, there are a few more."

Dorian read again: "'The region of true religion and the region of a completer science are one.'—Oliver Lodge."

"You see one of the foremost scientists of the day agrees with Brigham Young," said Uncle Zed. "I think the next one corroborates some of our doctrine also."

Dorian read: "'We do not indeed remember our past, we are not aware of our future, but in common with everything else we must have had a past and must be going to have a future.'—Oliver Lodge."

Again he read: "'We must dare to extend the thought of growth and progress and development even up to the height of all that we can realize of the Supreme Being—In some part of the universe perhaps already the ideal conception has been attained; and the region of such attainment—the full blaze of self-conscious Deity—is too bright for mortal eyes, is utterly beyond our highest thoughts.'—Oliver Lodge."

Uncle Zed held out his hand and smiled. "There," he said in a whisper, "is a hesitating suggestion of the truth which we boldly proclaim."

"Now you are tired, Uncle Zed," said Dorian. "I had best not read more."

"Just one—the next one."

Dorian complied:

"'There are more lives yet, there are more worlds waiting,
For the way climbs up to the eldest sun,
Where the white ones go to their mystic mating,
And the holy will is done.
I'll find you there where our love life heightens—
Where the door of the wonder again unbars,
Where the old love lures and the old fire whitens,
In the stars behind the stars'."

Uncle Zed lay peacefully on his pillow, a wistful look on his face. The room became still again, and the clock ticked away the time. Dorian folded up the papers which he had been told to keep and put them in his pocket. The rest of the package he returned to the drawer. He lowered the lamp again. Then he sat down and watched. It seemed it would not be long for the end.

"Dorian."

"Yes, Uncle Zed, can I do anything for you?"

"No"—barely above a whisper—"nothing else matters—you're a good boy—God bless you."

The dying man lay very still. As Dorian looked at the face of his friend it seemed that the mortal flesh had become waxen white so that the immortal spirit shone unhindered through it. The young man's heart was deeply sorrowful, but it was a sanctified sorrow. Twice before had death come near to him. He had hardly realized that of his father's and he was not present when Mildred had passed away; but here he was again with death, and alone. It seemed strange that he was not terrified, but he was not—everything seemed so calm, peaceful, and even beautiful in its serene solemnity.

Dorian arose, went softly to the window and looked out. The wind had quieted, and the snow was falling slowly, steadily in big white flakes, When Dorian again went back to the bedside and looked on the stilled face of his friend, he gave a little start. He looked again closely, listening, and feeling of the cold hands. Uncle Zed was dead.

The Greenstreet meeting house was filled to overflowing at the funeral. Uncle Zed had gone about all his days in the village doing good. All could tell of some kind deed he had done, with the admonition that it should not be talked about. He always seemed humiliated when anyone spoke of these things in his hearing; but now, surely, there could be no objection to letting his good deeds shine before men.

Uncle Zed had left with the Bishop a written statement, not in the form of a will, wherein he told what disposition was to be made of his simple belongings. The house, with its few well tilled acres, was to go to the ward for the use of any worthy poor whom the Bishop might designate. Everything in the house should be at the disposal of Dorian Trent. The books, especially, should belong to him "to have and to hold and to study." Such books which Dorian did not wish to keep were to be given to the ward Mutual Improvement Library. This information the Bishop publicly imparted on the day of the funeral.

"These are the times," said the Bishop, "when the truth comes forcibly to us all that nothing in this world matters much or counts for much in the end but good deeds, kind words, and unselfish service to others. All else is now dross…. The mantle of Brother Zed seems to have fallen on Dorian Trent. May he wear it faithfully and well."

A few days after the funeral Dorian and his mother went to Uncle Zed's vacant home. Mrs. Trent examined the furnishings, while Dorian looked over the books.

"Is there anything here you want, mother? he asked.

"No; I think not; better leave everything, which isn't much, for those who are to live here. What about the books?'

"I'm going to take most of them home, for I am sure Uncle Zed would not want them to fall into unappreciating hands; but there's no hurry about that. We'll just leave everything as it is for a few days."

The next evening Dorian returned to look over again his newly-acquired treasures. The ground was covered with snow and the night was cold. He thought he might as well spend the evening, and be comfortable, so he made a fire in the stove.

On the small home-made desk which stood in the best-lighted corner, near to the student's hand were his well-worn Bible, his Book of Mormon, and Doctrine and Covenants. He opened the drawers and found them filled with papers and clippings, covering, as Dorian learned, a long period of search and collecting. He opened again the package which he had out the evening of Uncle Zed's death, and looked over some of the papers. These, evidently, had been selected for Dorian's special benefit, and so he settled himself comfortably to read them. The very first paper was in the old man's own hand, and was a dissertation on "Faith." and read thus: "Some people say that they can believe only what they can perceive with the senses. Let us see: The sun rises, we say. Does it? The earth is still. Is it? We hear music, we see beauty. Does the ear hear or the eye see? We burn our fingers. Is the pain in our fingers? I cut the nerves leading from the brain to these various organs, and then I neither hear nor see nor feel."

"How can God keep in touch with us?" was answered thus: "A ray of light coming through space from a star millions of miles away will act on a photographic plate, will eat into its sensitive surface and imprint the image of the star. This we know, and yet we doubt if God can keep in touch with us and answer our prayers."

Many people wondered why a man like Uncle Zed was content to live in the country. The answer seemed to be found in a number of slips:

"How peaceful comes the Sabbath, doubly blessed,
In giving hope to faith, to labor rest.
Most peaceful here:—no city's noise obtains,
And God seems reverenced more where silence reigns."

Once Dorian had been called a "Clod hopper." As he read the following, he wondered whether or not Uncle Zed had not also been so designated, and had written this in reply:

"Mother Earth, why should not I love you? Why should not I get close to you? Why should I plan to live always in the clouds above you, gazing at other far-distant worlds, and neglecting you? Why did I, with others, shout with joy when I learned that I was coming here from the world of spirits? I answer, because I knew that 'spirit and element inseparately connected receiveth a fullness of joy.' I was then to get in touch with 'element' as I had been with 'spirit.' This world which I see with my natural eyes is the 'natural' part of Mother Earth, even as the flesh and bones and blood of my body is the element of myself, to be inseparately connected with my spirit and to the end that I might receive a fullness of joy. The earth and all things on it known by the term nature is what I came here to know. Nature, wild or tamed, is my schoolroom—the earth with its hills and valleys and plains, with its clouds and rain, with its rivers and lakes and oceans, with its trees and fruits and flowers, its life—about all these I must learn what I can at first hand. Especially, should I learn of the growing things which clothe the earth with beauty and furnish sustenance to life. Some day I hope the Lord will give me a small part of this earth, when it is glorified. Ah, then, what a garden shall I have!"

No one in Greenstreet had ever known Uncle Zed as a married man. His wife had died long ago, and he seldom spoke of her. Dorian had wondered whether he had ever been a young man, with a young man's thoughts and feelings; but here was evidence which dispelled any doubt. On a slip of paper, somewhat yellow with age, were the following lines, written in Uncle Zed's best hand:

"In the enchanted air of spring,
I hear all Nature's voices sing,
'I love you'.

By bursting buds, by sprouting grass,
I hear the bees hum as I pass,
'I love you'.

The waking earth, the sunny sky
Are whispering the same as I,
'I love you'.

The song of birds in sweetest notes
Comes from their bursting hearts and throats,
'I love you'."

"Oh, Uncle Zed!" said Dorian, half aloud, "who would have thought it!"

Near the top of the pile of manuscript Dorian found an envelope with "To Dorian Trent," written on it. He opened it with keen interest and found that it was a somewhat newly written paper and dealt with a subject they had discussed in connection with the chapter on Death in Drummond's book. Uncle Zed had begun his epistle by addressing it, "Dear Dorian" and then continued as follows:

"You remember that some time ago we talked on the subject of sin and death. Since then I have had some further thought on the subject which I will here jot down for you. You asked me, you remember, what sin is, and I tried to explain. Here is another definition: Man belongs to an order of beings whose goal is perfection. The way to that perfection is long and hard, narrow and straight. Any deviation from that path is sin. God, our Father, has reached the goal. He has told us how we may follow Him. He has pointed out the way by teaching us the law of progress which led Him to His exalted state. Sin lies in not heeding that law, but in following laws of our own making. The Lord says this in the Doctrine and Covenants, Section 88:

'That which breaketh a law, and abideth not by law, but seeketh to become a law unto itself, and willeth to abide in sin, and altogether abideth in sin, cannot be sanctified by law, neither by mercy, justice, nor judgement. Therefore, they must remain filthy still.'

"Now, keeping in mind that sin is the straying from the one straight, progressive path, let us consider this expression: 'The wages of sin is death'. This leads us to the question: what is death? Do you remember what Drummond says? He first explains in a most interesting way what life is, using the scientist's phrasing. A human being, for instance, is in direct contact with all about him—earth, air, sun, other human beings, etc. In biological language he is said to be 'in correspondence with his environment,' and by virtue of this correspondence is said to be alive. To live, a human being must continue to adjust himself to his environment. When he fails to do this, he dies. Thus we have also a definition of death. 'Dying is that breakdown in an organization which throws it out of correspondence with some necessary part of the environment.'

"Of course, these reasonings and deductions pertain to what we term he physical death; but Drummond claims that the same law holds good in the spiritual world. Modern revelation seems to agree with him. We have an enlightening definition of death in the following quotation from the Doctrine and Covenants, Section 29: 'Wherefore I the Lord God caused that he (Adam) should be cast out from the Garden of Eden, from my presence, because of his transgression, wherein he became spiritually dead, which is the first death, even that same death, which is the last death, which is spiritual, which shall be pronounced upon the wicked when I shall say Depart ye cursed'.

"It seems to me that there is a most interesting agreement here. Banishment from the place where God lives is death. By the operations of a natural law, a person who fails to correspond with a celestial environment dies to that environment and must go or be placed in some other, where he can function with that which is about him. God's presence is exalted, holy, glorified. He who is not pure, holy, glorified cannot possibly live there, is dead to that higher world. A soul who cannot function in the celestial glory, may do so in the terrestrial glory; one who cannot function in the terrestrial, may in the telestial; and one who cannot 'abide the law' or function in the telestial must find a place of no glory. This is inevitable—it cannot be otherwise. Immutable law decrees it, and not simply the ruling of an all wise power. The soul who fails to attain to the celestial glory, fails to walk in the straight and narrow path which leads to it. Such a person wanders in the by-paths called sin, and no power in the universe can arbitrarily put him in an environment with which he cannot function. 'To be carnally minded is death', said Paul. 'The wages of sin is death', or in other words, he who persistently avoids the Celestial Highway will never arrive at the Celestial Gate. He who works evilly will obtain evil wages. Anyway, what would it profit a man with dim eyesight to be surrounded with ineffable glory? What would be the music of the spheres to one bereft of hearing? What gain would come to a man with a heart of stone to be in an environment of perfect and eternal love!"

Dorian finished the reading and laid the paper on the desk. For some time he sat very still, thinking of these beautiful words from his dear friend to him. Surely, Uncle Zed was very much alive in any environment which his beautiful life had placed him. Would that he, Dorian, could live so that he might always be alive to the good and be dead to sin.

The stillness of the night was about him. The lamplight grew dim, showing the oil to be gone, so he blew out the smoking wick. He opened the stove door, and by the light of the dying fire he gathered up some books to take home. He heard a noise as if someone were outside. He listened. The steps were muffled in the snow. They seemed to approach the house and then stop. There was silence for a few minutes, then plainly he heard sobbing close to the door.

What could it mean? who could it be? Doubtless, some poor soul to whom Uncle Zed had been a ministering angel, had been drawn to the vacant house, and could not now control her sorrow. Then the sobbing ceased, and Dorian realized he had best find out who was there and give what help he could. He opened the door, and a frightened scream rang out from the surprised Carlia Duke who stood in the faint light from the open doorway. She stood for a second, then as if terror stricken, she fled.

"Carlia," shouted Dorian. "Carlia!"

But the girl neither stopped nor looked back. Across the pathless, snow-covered fields she sped, and soon became only a dark-moving object on the white surface. When she had entirely disappeared, Dorian went back, gathered up his bundles, locked the door, and went wonderingly and meditatingly home.